New Year’s Day dinner was always an exercise in endurance, but this year, my sister-in-law decided to skip the pleasantries and go straight for the jugular. She looked across the table, a smug, cat-like grin spreading across her face. “Oh, Morgan, I almost forgot,” Cynthia said, swirling her Pinot Noir. “About those twenty workstations your firm ordered? I’m going to have to pass. I’m not filling the order.” I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?” “I landed a contract with a massive tech corp the other day. Fifty high-end units, top-of-the-line specs. Real money,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “To be honest, I’ve been handling your office supplies for ten years, and I haven’t made as much from you in a decade as I’ll make from this one deal.” She leaned back, looking at her husband—my brother, Brad—who just kept chewing his steak, eyes fixed on his plate. “Especially those printers, fax machines, and shipping supplies you always need,” Cynthia continued, waving a dismissive hand. “The paperwork is a nightmare and the margins are pathetic. It’s just not worth my time anymore.” Cynthia had opened her tech boutique a decade ago and had spent years begging me for business. For ten years, my company had been her lifeline. Every laptop, every ream of paper, every toner cartridge was bought from her. My business had literally kept her shop afloat through the lean years. Now, with forty-eight hours’ notice, she was ghosting me. I spent the rest of the holiday in a blind panic, cold-calling vendors until I found a local supplier who could deliver on short notice. That was when I got the real shock: for the exact same twenty workstations, the new quote was five thousand dollars cheaper than what Cynthia had been charging me. A month later, my phone buzzed. It was Cynthia. “Morgan! Hey, honey. Do you still need those computers?” Her voice was frantic, the smugness replaced by a shaky desperation. “I can knock two hundred bucks off the total, but you have to wire me the full payment today. Right now.” “What? No, Cynthia. I already bought them. I signed a long-term contract with a new vendor.” “You can’t do that!” she shrieked. “I need the cash today. Just return the ones you bought and buy mine instead. We’re family, Morgan!” I hung up. 1 The New Year’s dinner had started like any other: with me being the invisible ghost at the feast of my own bank account. “Yes, we did quite well last year!” Cynthia’s voice boomed the moment I walked through the door. She was flaunting a diamond-encrusted bracelet. “Brad bought me this to reward me for all my hard work. And we just landed a huge new client. It’s going to be a golden year.” She caught my eye and smirked. “Once the check clears, I’m finally trading in the SUV for a Porsche.” My mother beamed, her eyes shining with pride. “You’re so talented, Cynthia. Having you in this family is such a blessing. Brad is a lucky man.” My aunt and uncle chimed in from the couch. “Cynthia really knows how to run a household. Don’t forget us when you get that Porsche, dear. I’ve never even sat in a car that expensive!” Cynthia tilted her chin up, the picture of arrogance. When she saw the bags in my hands, she stood up with a fake, theatrical warmth, immediately reaching out—not to hug me, but to rummage through the gifts I’d brought. She frowned, looking at the high-end skincare sets and the premium cashmere throw I’d picked out for my mother. “Morgan, really?” she sighed, sounding disappointed. “You only come home a few times a year. You couldn’t have put a little more effort into this? It’s a bit stingy, don’t you think?” I looked at the gifts. I’d spent nearly eight hundred dollars on things I knew my mother needed. “And what would you suggest I bring, Cynthia?” She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to teach you everything? Your mother worked hard all her life. She deserves something substantial. Jewelry. Or honestly, just a check. You’ve always been a bit socially stunted, Morgan. You should really learn a thing or two from your brother.” She adjusted her bracelet so it caught the light. I looked at my mother, hoping for a word of defense. She immediately looked away, shifting her gaze to the kitchen. “Oh, it’s not about the money,” Mom murmured. “I just want my children to be happy. That’s all your father wanted before he passed.” I felt a familiar, hollow ache in my chest. This was why I hated coming home. My mother lived by a different set of rules for her son. She didn’t exploit me—not exactly. She seemed to love me in a vague, non-committal way that kept me on a leash of “maybe.” Every time I thought about cutting them off, she’d do something small and sweet, making me feel guilty for my own resentment. She could have said, ‘Morgan sends me a check every month, she doesn’t need to bring gifts.’ But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t risk offending Cynthia. Instead, she’d wait until Cynthia was out of the room to pull me aside and say, ‘I made your favorite pot roast because I know you don’t eat well in the city,’ with those watery, pitying eyes. It was exhausting. “So, what did you bring, Cynthia?” I asked, my voice flat. “I brought eight hundred dollars’ worth of gifts. That’s eight hundred more than the nothing you’re holding.” Cynthia’s face turned a blotchy red. “How dare you? We’re here all the time! We take care of her! Even if we didn’t bring something today, our presence throughout the year is worth more than your guilt-money.” I let out a short, dry laugh. “You’re right. I should learn from you. I’ll start coming by twice a month, bring a ten-dollar bag of grapes, and then leave with three bags of groceries from Mom’s pantry. I’d save a fortune on my grocery bill.” “Morgan!” Cynthia slammed her hand on the table. “Stop acting so superior. Don’t you realize what she needs is companionship? Brad is her only son. If she wants to give us things, that’s her right as a mother!” “I hear you,” I replied calmly. “So, starting next month, I’ll stop the wire transfers. I’ll just ‘be here’ more. That’s what’s important, right?” Cynthia froze, her mouth agape. My mother finally stepped in, her voice trembling. “Stop it, both of you. You’re both good kids. I’m the lucky one. I have money, I have family… everyone envies me.” 2 The silence that followed was heavy. My heart felt like lead. Cynthia let out a sharp huff and shifted gears. “Fine. Since we’re being so ‘honest,’ Morgan, I should tell you: I’m not doing that computer order for your office. I’m too busy.” She went into her speech about the “big tech corp” and the fifty units. “I’ve been wanting to drop your account for a while. The margins are tiny. Ten years of your ‘charity’ hasn’t made me as much as this one contract will.” I frowned. “Cynthia, why are you telling me this now? The holiday ends the day after tomorrow. That’s when you were supposed to deliver. We’ve already cleared out the old hardware. How is my staff supposed to work on Monday?” She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, please. Just find someone else. It’s not like you’re ordering custom rigs; any big-box store has that stuff in stock. Besides, how much work does your little firm actually do? A few days of downtime won’t kill you.” Looking at her, so smug and self-assured, I realized there was no point in arguing. For a decade, I had fed her business. During the 2008 crash, when everyone else was closing their doors, my steady stream of orders kept her lights on. Back then, Brad would hold my hand and tell me, “Morgan, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be able to pay for our son’s tuition, let alone the mortgage. I owe you everything.” And now? “Does Brad know about this?” I asked. Cynthia smirked. “Of course he does. To be honest, he’s the one who’s most sick of your orders. All those tiny line items—staples, paperclips, ink. It’s a mess to track and a headache to invoice. We’re done with the ‘pity’ business.” I nodded. I didn’t say another word. In that moment, I realized I didn’t have a brother anymore. I left and spent the next six hours on the phone. By a stroke of luck, I remembered the woman who ran the shop right next to Cynthia’s in the tech district. Cynthia hated her. She used to gossip about her constantly. “She’s a predator,” Cynthia would say. “Every time Brad walks by, she’s fixing her hair. She’s a single mom looking for a handout.” I’d met the woman, Tess, once in the building’s stairwell. She’d been having a dizzy spell from low blood sugar, and I’d bought her a soda and a candy bar. Since then, she always made a point to bring me a coffee whenever she saw me in the district. I called her. “Tess, it’s Morgan. I need twenty workstations by Monday morning. Is there any way you can make that happen?” Tess didn’t ask why I wasn’t calling my sister-in-law. She was a professional. “Give me the specs. I’ll call you back in thirty minutes with a quote.” When I stepped back into the living room to grab my coat, Cynthia was watching me with a mocking grin. “Having trouble, Morgan? I told you, nobody wants those low-margin scraps. Tell you what—if you add twenty thousand to the price, I might be able to find someone to help you out.” My phone buzzed. A text from Tess: I have them. Twenty units, $12,000 total. Delivery and setup included. I looked at the number and felt a cold chill run down my spine. 3 Cynthia’s price for the exact same setup was $18,000. I knew she wasn’t giving me a “family discount,” but I’d assumed her prices were at least fair. I’d looked at it as a way to support my family. I never imagined she was overcharging me by fifty percent. She wasn’t just doing business; she was harvesting me. If she wanted to play dirty, she was about to find out how well I could play, too. Monday morning, Tess arrived at the office with a crew of three. She was a whirlwind of efficiency, helping the cleaning staff clear away the packing materials once the setup was done. My head of IT checked the specs and looked up, impressed. “Morgan, these are perfect. Actually, the monitors are a grade higher than what we asked for.” I looked at Tess. She smiled, wiping a smudge of dust from her jeans. “You were in a rush. I couldn’t source the base models in time, so I gave you the premium ones for the same price.” “I should pay you the difference,” I insisted. Tess shook her head. “No way. A contract like this is huge for a shop like mine. We don’t get twenty-unit orders every day. In my world, five computers is a ‘big’ day. I’m making a fair profit, trust me. I’m just happy for the business.” I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the kind of partner I should have had years ago. “Tess, we go through a lot of supplies. If you’re up for it, I’d like to move all our procurement to you. I’ll have my legal team draft a long-term agreement this afternoon.” Tess’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas. Later that day, my CFO walked into my office, looking hesitant. “Morgan? You might want to see Cynthia’s latest post.” Because of our long history, Cynthia was Facebook friends with half my staff. I opened the app. Cynthia had posted a selfie, grinning ear to ear. New year, new levels! Just closed a massive contract. Say goodbye to small-time hustle and hello to the Porsche life! #Blessed #BusinessMogul Brad had commented: So proud of my wife. We finally made it, baby! Cynthia replied publicly: Yes! Finally done with those annoying little orders from tiny companies. So much work for so little money, and having to act grateful for the ‘favor’ was the worst part! It was a blatant, public slap in the face. I thought about it for a minute, then I typed out a post of my own. I wondered if Cynthia would still be smiling by tomorrow morning.

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The town I grew up in had the best water, the freshest air, and the most jagged mountain views you could imagine. The only problem was the people. In my village, “conflict resolution” was a fancy term for a fistfight. Logic was a luxury; power was the only currency. If you had a problem, you threw hands until the problem went away. By eighteen, I wasn’t just a participant—I was the undisputed heavy-weight champion of a town full of brawlers. The day my final exams ended, I had a score to settle with the local heartthrob behind the old creek. I was just about to teach him a lesson when my old man’s roar echoed across the valley, summoning me home. He told me my biological parents had finally found me. When the wealthy couple saw me—decked out in my dirt-stained boots, smelling of adrenaline and mountain air—they looked like they’d swallowed glass. They promised to take me back to their mansion, to give me the “life I deserved.” But it was a lie. From the very beginning, they didn’t want a daughter. They wanted a sacrificial lamb. Too bad for them. I’m not a lamb. I’m a wolf. 1 The second I stepped into the foyer of the Montgomery estate, the sound of sobbing hit me like a physical wall. I paused, looking at the man I was supposed to call my father—Harrison Montgomery. He adjusted his silk tie, his eyes avoiding mine. “Don’t tell me,” I said, my voice dry. “There’s a ‘replacement daughter’ already in the picture, isn’t there?” As if on cue, the sobbing in the living room escalated into a full-blown wail. Harrison’s face tightened with a flicker of embarrassment. “When you were lost, your mother… she couldn’t handle the grief. That’s why we adopted Serena. She isn’t a ‘replacement.’ She’s been our daughter for eighteen years. She’s the one who stayed. You should be grateful to her.” My biological mother, Victoria, emerged then. She had been clutching a weeping girl in her arms, but she pulled away to stand in front of me. Her eyes were red, but they held no warmth for me. “This is your sister, Serena,” she said, her voice trembling. “Serena was supposed to be your name, you know. But she’s lived with it for so long that changing it now would be… inconvenient. From now on, your name will be June.” I let my gaze drift over the three of them. The “loving” father, the “heartbroken” mother, and the “fragile” daughter. They looked like a portrait of a perfect family. I was just the smudge on the canvas. I took a step back, creating a deliberate gap between us. “Why would I change my name?” I asked. “I already have one. You can call me The Boss.” Harrison’s forced smile vanished. His brow furrowed into a deep, jagged line. “What kind of ridiculous, low-class name is that? We’ve already updated your paperwork. You are June Montgomery.” Before I could retort, Serena was suddenly at my side, her fingers trembling as she reached for my sleeve. “Is… is June mad at me for taking her name?” she whimpered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. If you hate the name June that much, I can give it back. I’ll do anything, I—” She broke off into another sob, tears fat and heavy rolling down her cheeks. I pulled my arm away, feeling a surge of genuine disgust. “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’ll give me the name back, but you’re keeping the parents?” I turned back to Harrison and Victoria. “You brought me back here. Are you planning on sending her away?” Serena stumbled back as if I’d struck her. Victoria immediately rushed to steady her, throwing me a look of pure vitriol. “You’ve been in this house for five minutes and you’re already trying to kick her out? Did you hear a word your father said? If it weren’t for Serena, we wouldn’t have survived these eighteen years. You should be thanking her, but instead, you’re being a bully. I am deeply disappointed in you.” Harrison shot her a sharp look, a silent command to stop. I pretended not to see the exchange and started wandering through the living room, appraising the place like a landlord. “Fine. As long as she stays out of my way, I’ll let her keep her seat at the table,” I said. “Nice place you’ve got here. Five thousand square feet? You guys must have been busy making money while I was gone. It’s better than the mountains, I guess. So, where’s my room?” Victoria looked ready to explode, but Harrison cut her off. “June, your room is on the second floor. We had the staff prepare it specifically for you. I’m sure you’ll love it. But listen, since you’ve been living in… less than ideal conditions, we’re worried about your health. Your mother is going to take you to the clinic tomorrow for a full physical. We just want to make sure you’re okay.” “June—” he started again. I held up a finger, silencing him. His face went pale with the perceived insult. I smiled, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “The clinic is fine. But with all this ‘June’ and ‘Serena’ stuff, things are going to get confusing. I told you what to call me.” “The Boss.” 2 Harrison’s face turned the color of spoiled milk. But because I’d agreed to the medical exam, he swallowed his pride and hurried Victoria to get me out the door the next morning. The “physical” was exhaustive. They ran every test in the book, taking enough blood to fuel a small army. By the time we got home, I was drained. I collapsed into bed and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night, my throat parched. As I crept downstairs for water, I passed the study on the second floor. The door was ajar, and the muffled voices of the Montgomerys drifted out. “Is it handled?” Victoria’s voice was sharp, devoid of the maternal softness she feigned in public. “No loose ends?” “What could go wrong?” Harrison replied, his tone dismissive. “She’s an eighteen-year-old girl from the middle of nowhere. No matter how sharp her tongue is, she has no idea what’s happening. I’ve already established the medical records in her name. As far as the world is concerned, it was June who had the procedure. Serena’s reputation remains spotless.” I heard the rhythmic tapping of a pen against a mahogany desk. “Good,” Harrison continued. “The only reason to bring that girl here was to have her take the fall for Serena. And if the other matter comes to light… well, we’ll just send the mountain girl to prison. Serena is our jewel; I won’t have her life ruined by one mistake.” I felt the corners of my mouth twitch into a smirk. I turned and walked silently down to the kitchen. They thought I was just a “mountain girl.” They thought they could play me because I was young. This was going to be fun. The next morning, the house was quiet. Harrison and Victoria were out, leaving Serena in the living room with a guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. As I came down the stairs, I caught the tail end of their conversation. “Serena, have you decided on a college yet? Do you think your scores are high enough for the Ivy League?” the guy asked. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter. My dad said we could just go abroad together. Italy, maybe? What do you think?” Serena looked down, playing the part of the modest debutante. “If we go abroad together, what will people say? Besides, I think I did okay. I should be around a 1200 on my SATs.” I was sipping a glass of milk, and at that, I couldn’t help it. I snorted. I’d heard from the housekeeper that these two had spent a fortune on Serena’s education over the last eighteen years. Private tutors, elite prep schools, equestrian camps, golf lessons—the works. And she was proud of a 1200? The guy stood up, his face flushing with anger. “You must be the sister. Do you even know what the word ‘respect’ means? Serena and I are having a private conversation. What’s so funny?” I set my milk down and looked him over. He was handsome in that boring, cookie-cutter way. “Oh, you’re big on respect, are you?” I asked. “Did your parents forget to teach you to introduce yourself before demanding things from people?” Serena rose gracefully, her hand fluttering to the guy’s sleeve. “Parker, please. I’m sure she didn’t mean it that way. Don’t let it bother you.” She turned to me, her smile a masterpiece of fake sweetness. “June, this is Parker. His father is a close associate of Dad’s. Parker and I grew up together.” The childhood sweetheart. Of course. It was practically a cliché. I nodded, bored already. But Serena wasn’t done. “June, Mom and Dad mentioned you took your finals this year too. Have you checked your results? How do you think you did? I know the schools out in the country aren’t… great. If the results are bad, don’t worry. You can always redo the year.” I leaned back against the counter, casual. “I did alright. Probably around a 1590 on the SATs. Might even be the top of the state.” 3 The silence that followed was absolute. You could have heard a pin drop on the marble floor. Serena managed a tight, brittle laugh. “You… you certainly have a sense of humor.” Parker just laughed openly. “A 1590? Do you even know what you’re saying? You’re delusional. What, did you dream that while you were milking cows?” Victoria chose that moment to come downstairs, draped in a cashmere shawl. “I told you she’s been corrupted by that life. Lying through her teeth the moment she opens her mouth. It’s embarrassing. Why can’t you learn from your sister? This is how a lady behaves.” I looked at Victoria. The disdain in her eyes was no longer hidden. I smiled inwardly. It was only my second day back, and they were already done pretending. Now that the medical records were swapped, they figured I was no longer a threat. I walked past Victoria, heading back upstairs. “To be a lady of the house, you actually have to be a daughter of the house, don’t you?” I said over my shoulder. “I’ve never heard of an orphan from a dumpster being called a ‘lady.’ As for my scores… the official results come out in a week. We’ll see who’s lying then, won’t we?” For the next week, Parker was a permanent fixture at the Montgomery house. He and Serena took every opportunity to needle me, and Victoria was always there to back them up. But they didn’t realize who they were dealing with. I wasn’t just a brawler; I had a tongue like a razor. Every time they tried to corner me, they ended up leaving the room frustrated and red-faced. They were the perfect entertainment for a boring week. On the day the results were released, the whole family was gathered. Even Harrison stayed home from the office. When the clock struck the hour, Harrison reached for the laptop to check Serena’s scores, but Serena caught his hand. “Dad, check June’s first,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a malice she couldn’t quite hide. “If she really got a 1590, we should celebrate her success, shouldn’t we?” I didn’t argue. I pulled out my phone, logged into the portal, and typed in my ID. A second later, I turned the screen toward them. Reading: 790. Math: 800. Total: 1590. The living room went silent. They stared at the screen as if it were a bomb about to go off. I pulled the phone back with a sigh of mock disappointment. “A 1590? I guess I’m getting rusty. I really thought I’d hit the 1600. Lucky guess on the estimate, I suppose.” I looked at them. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I thought we were celebrating?” Serena’s “fragile” act finally cracked. She let out a sharp, ugly shriek. “That’s impossible!” She lunged forward and snatched the phone from my hand. “You forged this! You’re a hillbilly from a town that probably doesn’t even have electricity! How could you possibly get this score?” Victoria rushed to her side, pulling her into a protective embrace. “It’s okay, Serena. It’s fake. It has to be fake. Don’t get upset.” She looked at me, her face contorted with rage. “I did my research. That village you’re from? It’s a dead end. They don’t even have a proper high school. You’ve never stepped foot in a real classroom. You’re a fraud.” Harrison finally found his voice. “June, it’s alright. We don’t expect you to be a genius, but we won’t tolerate liars in this house. You’re our flesh and blood; we wouldn’t have looked down on you for being uneducated. Why did you feel the need to invent this?” “Look at how much you’ve upset your sister,” Harrison continued. “Apologize to her, right now.” Before he could finish, his phone rang. He glanced at the ID and froze. “It’s… it’s the Dean of Admissions from Harvard?” At the same moment, Victoria’s phone buzzed. “Stanford?” she whispered, staring at the screen. “They’re asking for… The Boss?” 4 The four of them stood there, staring at each other in a daze. I broke the silence. “Nothing to say? I thought I hadn’t been to school? Did I hire the Ivy League to act in a play for you guys? And I thought you said you loved me regardless of my education? Why don’t you look happy for me?” It was true that I didn’t go to the local county school. But my “uncles” and “aunts” back in the village were some of the most brilliant, albeit eccentric, minds in the country who had retired from the grid. If I didn’t study, Uncle Silas would chase me across three hills with a switch. If Silas found out I missed a perfect 1600, he’d probably still give me a lecture. Serena’s eyes were filled with a loathing so deep it looked like venom. Harrison was the first to snap out of it. “Happy? Of course, we’re happy! We had no idea you were so… talented.” I turned to Serena. “Well, little sister. My turn is over. Let’s see yours.” Serena hissed at me, tears of frustration welling up, and bolted from the room. Parker pointed a trembling finger at me, sputtered for a few seconds, and then chased after her. I turned back to the “parents.” Victoria was glaring at me, speechless. Harrison cleared his throat, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder and steering her toward the stairs. “Right. Your mother and I need to go to the study. We have calls to make. This is… big news.” I waved them off, smiling. Ten minutes after they went upstairs, I crept up and stood outside the study door. Victoria was nearly hysterical. “You have to fix this! A score like that, a school like that—it belongs to Serena. We can’t let that brat have it. Look at Serena! She’s been crying since the moment that girl arrived. Doesn’t that break your heart?” Harrison sounded conflicted. “But she’s our biological daughter. Serena… as much as we love her, she isn’t. If the girl were just some country bumpkin, fine. But she’s smart. She could be an asset to the Montgomery name—” The sound of shattering porcelain cut him off. “Stop acting like a devoted father!” Victoria screamed. “Have you forgotten who has been by our side for eighteen years? Blood means nothing! If anything happens to Serena, you’ll regret it. And that other matter… it’s only a matter of time before the truth comes out. Do you really want Serena to be the one they take away?” There was a long, heavy silence. Finally, Harrison spoke. “I know. I’ll handle it.” The next morning, the house was empty except for Parker, who was sitting on the sofa. The moment he saw me, he stood up. “Don’t think you’re special, June. You think a high score makes you better than us? Typical. You people from the mud think a little book-learning makes you king of the world. But so what? You get a degree, you get a job… so what? You’ll spend your whole life working just to reach the starting line where people like us begin.” “The Montgomerys will only ever recognize Serena. My family will only ever recognize Serena. You’re nothing.” I picked at my ear, looking bored. “Stop, stop. Did I mention my name isn’t June? It’s The Boss.” Parker blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer absurdity of it. I laughed at his confusion. “Oh, I get it. You’re here because you’re afraid I’m going to steal Serena’s ‘prize’—which is you, I assume? Sorry, honey. You should visit my village sometime. Even our local farmhands have more personality than you. To me, you’re just a generic Ken doll with a bad attitude.” Parker’s face twisted. “Keep telling yourself that. You’re the outcast here. Even if you are their biological child, you’re just a country girl with the right DNA. Nobody in our circle will ever accept you. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last woman on Earth.” I held up a hand. “Shut up. Seriously. I might actually throw up. Parker, let me tell you something. Not only do I not want the Montgomerys, but your family is nothing to me either.” I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Pop? Someone’s bothering me.” “Can you send him to East Africa? Permanently?” On the other end, Pop’s voice was as loud and boisterous as ever. “Sure thing, kiddo! I’ll get Butch on it right away!” Then, his voice softened. “If you’re not having fun there, just come home. I’ve got enough tucked away to keep you in silk and steak for three lifetimes. But if you want the city life, I’ve got you covered there too. Houses, cars, a couple of tech firms—I’ve had them ready for you since you were ten!”

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Ten years into our marriage, Madeline developed what she called a “sanctuary protocol.” It started with the small things—a performance of boundaries. If I accidentally took a sip from her water glass, she’d watch me with a look of quiet localized horror before taking the glass to the kitchen and running the dishwasher. My touch was banned from her silk sleepwear; they had to be handled only by the staff at a specific organic dry cleaner. Even our bed was a demilitarized zone. We had separate duvets, separate pillows, and an invisible line drawn down the center of the mattress that I was forbidden to cross, even in my sleep. This morning, she didn’t touch the breakfast I’d spent forty minutes preparing. The sourdough was toasted to a perfect golden brown, the eggs were poached exactly how she liked them—whites firm, yolks liquid gold—and the coffee was precisely 120 degrees. She didn’t even glance at the plate. She just grabbed her briefcase and walked out. … I noticed the merger filing she’d left on the console and chased after her, catching up just as she reached the executive parking level. I stopped dead. Jude, her new assistant—a boy barely out of college with a smile that hadn’t yet been crushed by corporate life—was waiting for her by her car. He was laughing, holding a half-eaten artisan donut, and without a second thought, he broke off a piece and pressed it against her lips. Madeline didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She leaned in, a soft, indulgent smile playing on her lips, and ate it. The realization hit me like a physical blow. Child psychologists talk about “order sensitivity” in toddlers—a phase where everything must be just so. But in adults, there’s a much more devastating term for it. Biological repulsion. The parking garage was cavernous and silent, save for the boy’s chirping voice. He had that enviable, bright-eyed vitality that only comes from never having been broken by the person you love. Madeline didn’t say much, but the way she swallowed that bite of food—the way she allowed his DNA to mingle with hers—was the most intimate thing I’d seen her do in years. It was a beautiful, cozy tableau. I’ve always been quite skilled at destroying those. “I thought you gave up carbs, Madeline.” My voice was steadier than I expected. Madeline’s smile vanished instantly. Before she could even process a response, the boy stepped forward, his expression shifting into something performatively mischievous. “Oh, it’s my fault! I grabbed the wrong box this morning, so I was just—” “I wasn’t talking to you.” My voice was a whisper, but it carried enough edge to make the boy’s eyes well up instantly. Madeline’s protective instincts flared. She stepped in front of him, shielding him from my gaze. “Oliver, it’s not what you think.” She sighed, reaching out as if to touch my arm, then thought better of it. She pulled her hand back, smoothing her blazer. “Jude lives nearby. He’s been carpooling with me to save on the commute. You remember what it was like back in the day, how soul-crushing the public transit run can be.” I remembered. I remembered the year we had nothing but a beat-up Honda with a broken AC. In the summer, the black upholstery would sear our skin. In the winter, the heater blew nothing but ice, and we’d see our breath in the cabin. I remembered her voice, muffled by a thick wool scarf: “Oliver, I swear, one day we’re going to have a car with heated seats and a driver. We’ll never have to feel the wind again.” Back then, she used to lean across the center console just to be closer to me. She was always colder than I was. I’d take her frozen hands and tuck them inside my coat, against my chest. “It’s not hard,” she’d whispered back then. “Nothing is hard as long as I have you.” She got the car. She got the heated seats. And I hadn’t been invited for a ride in over a year. A sharp ache flared in my chest. I blinked rapidly, trying to maintain my composure. “Don’t be dramatic. I just came to drop off your filing.” Madeline’s shoulders relaxed slightly when she saw the folder in my hand. “Thank you. And Oliver, really… he’s just my assistant.” She looked at me with that familiar, rehearsed sincerity. But I knew better. The “protocol” was gone when it came to him. I dug my nails into my palms, a bitter smile tugging at my mouth. “I didn’t realize the CEO role now included a morning shuttle service for the junior staff.” Behind her, the boy looked down, his face flushed with embarrassment. Madeline’s patience snapped. She toyed with her key fob, her tone shifting to one of cold irritation. “Oliver, there is absolutely no need to be this cruel to a kid.” Cruel? The word felt like a bucket of ice water over my head. The list of questions I wanted to scream at her—about the separate beds, the dry-cleaned pajamas, the “don’t touch me” aura she carried like a shroud—all died in my throat. “Just a joke,” I said, my voice hollow. “It’s only a joke if the other person is laughing,” she countered, her gaze steely. “Apologize to him.” I stared at her. I looked for a flicker of the woman who used to declare war on anyone who so much as looked at me sideways. I looked for a hint of the girl who shared a single taco with me in a park because we only had five dollars left in our bank account. I found nothing. Just a stranger in a designer suit demanding I play nice with her favorite toy. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, the words tasting like ash. Madeline nodded, satisfied with my compliance. She was always happy when I stayed within the lines she drew for me. “Good. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be home for dinner tonight.” She said it like a reward, like a queen granting an audience to a lowly subject. A year ago, I would have been pathetic enough to feel a surge of gratitude. Now, I just shrugged. “Whatever works.” She didn’t notice the shift. She checked her watch, turned on her heel, and walked to the passenger side of her car. The boy followed her, trailing like a golden retriever. She slid into the driver’s seat—her seat—and he hopped in beside her. I stood in the shadows of the concrete pillars, watching the taillights fade as they drove toward the light of the exit. The garage was silent again. I touched my face, surprised to find it dry. I think I’d finally run out of tears. The rot in our marriage hadn’t happened all at once. It was a slow, agonizing erosion. It started a few years ago, after an evening of intimacy that felt… mechanical. Afterward, she didn’t hold me. She just stared at the ceiling and said, “I don’t know why, Oliver, but I feel like the spark is just… gone. It feels like a chore.” I panicked. I tried to fix it. I bought expensive cologne, I worked out until my muscles screamed, I even bought a silk robe I thought she’d like. For a week, it worked. She was surprised, she was engaged, she was there. But then, the next time I tried to initiate, she looked at me with a mix of pity and annoyance. “Are you really that desperate? It feels like we’re just checking off a box on a to-do list.” I didn’t argue. I just went to the bathroom and changed back into my sweats. I looked at myself in the mirror and felt a profound sense of shame I couldn’t name. After that, we stopped. She seemed relieved. I told myself it was normal—the “ten-year itch,” the natural cooling of a long-term flame. But the cooling turned into a deep freeze. She started needing “space.” She started telling me she viewed me as “family” rather than a lover. She said she still loved me, and I believed her, so I accepted the new rules. I stopped touching her sleepwear. I learned to sleep on my side of the line. But when I used her fork to taste the pasta a month ago and she dropped the utensil as if it were contaminated with plague… that was the first time I really broke. I hadn’t cried much since our wedding day. Back then, I’d blubbered like a baby when she said her vows. She had kissed the tears off my cheeks and whispered, “Oliver, I love every single part of you.” Now, she found my saliva repulsive. I had sobbed that night until my chest burned. Madeline had just stood in the doorway, watching me with a clinical, detached expression. When I finally went quiet, she asked, “Are you done? Go to sleep, Oliver. You’re being hysterical.” She made me feel like a madman for wanting to be loved. I started searching for answers online. When I found the term “Order Sensitivity,” I clung to it like a life raft. It’s a phase, I told myself. She’s stressed. She’s overwhelmed. She’s just trying to control her environment. I thought if I followed the rules perfectly, I could win her back. But I forgot one thing: order sensitivity is for children. For adults, it’s a polite way to describe the fact that you can no longer stand the skin of the person lying next to you. Madeline could share a donut with a stranger. Her “order” was a cage designed specifically for me. Madeline didn’t make it home for dinner. The sandwich I’d made for breakfast was still sitting on the table, the bread stale and the eggs congealed. I picked it up and forced a bite into my mouth. The cold yolk was oily and smelled of iron. I barely made it to the bathroom before I retched, my stomach heaving until I was gasping for air on the tile floor. I don’t know how long I stayed there before I heard the front door open. “Sorry, Oliver. Things got crazy at the office.” Madeline walked into the kitchen, carrying a white box from Boulangerie L’Avenue. It was the place that made the almond croissants we used to live on when we were broke. She hadn’t bought them in years, not since she decided gluten was the enemy. She saw me staring at the box. A faint, performative smile touched her lips. “I stood in line for twenty minutes. Eat them while they’re fresh.” The scent of toasted almonds and butter filled the room, a ghost of our early twenties. I remembered our first apartment—a studio with a leaking radiator. We couldn’t afford the rent, and I was bedridden with a brutal flu. Madeline was working two jobs and doing gig delivery on the side just to keep us afloat. Our landlord, a kind old man, had brought us a box of those croissants one night. That was the same night Madeline got into the accident. She’d been rushing a delivery and clipped an elderly woman on a bicycle. I’d dragged myself out of bed, gathered every cent we had—exactly $836—and met her at the hospital. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. I watched Madeline crumble into a heap of pure terror. I did the only thing I could do: I knelt before the woman’s family in the waiting room. I begged. I told them we’d pay every cent, that we’d sign whatever they wanted, just please don’t call the police. They saw how pathetic we were and let us go with a payment plan. We sat in the hospital parking lot afterward and cried until our lungs ached. We had no money left for food. Those croissants were all we ate for three days. Without that little bit of sugar, I don’t think we would have made it. Seeing the box now, a tiny, foolish spark of hope flickered in my chest. Was this an apology? Was she trying to find her way back to me? I reached for the box, but then my eyes caught something. There was a smudge of gray ash on the white cardboard. A cigarette ash. Madeline didn’t smoke. But Jude did. I’d seen the pack in his pocket this morning. I opened the box. There were only three croissants left. A full order was four. “What happened to the fourth one?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. Madeline’s expression shifted, a flicker of guilt crossing her eyes before she smoothed it over. “It smelled so good, I couldn’t resist. I had a bite.” When I didn’t respond, she took a step closer, trying to use her old “playful” tone. “What, are we back in the studio apartment? We’re rich now, Oliver. I can buy you a thousand boxes.” She kept her distance perfectly. Not even the hem of her coat brushed my jeans. “You’re allergic to almonds, Madeline,” I said quietly. “You break out in hives if you even smell them.” During those three days in the hospital, her neck had been covered in a red, angry rash. She’d eaten them anyway because we were starving. The silence that followed was suffocating. I reached out and flicked the ash off the box. “He ate it, didn’t he? He sat in the car with you, and you let him eat our history.” Madeline’s face went pale, then hardened into a mask of cold fury. “Jude had never tried them. I gave him one. You’ve been complaining for months that you’re watching your sugar anyway, so I figured—” Watching her scramble for excuses was more painful than the betrayal itself. “Give the rest to him tomorrow,” I said, closing the box. “Oh, for God’s sake, Oliver!” She threw her hands up, her voice sharp with irritation. “What is wrong with you? It’s a pastry. One. Pastry.” She didn’t get it. She never would. It wasn’t about the food. It was about the fact that she was giving away the “sweetness” that belonged only to us. I closed my eyes. I was done. “I don’t want them. I don’t want any of it.” “I am asking you one last time,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low octave. “Are you going to eat them or not?” “No.” Before the word was fully out of my mouth, Madeline grabbed the box and slammed it into the trash can. “Fine. If you want to be a martyr, do it on an empty stomach.” The kitchen still smelled of almonds, but all I could feel was an overwhelming, soul-crushing exhaustion. “I worked fourteen hours today,” she snapped, kicking the trash can for good measure. “I am tired. If you want to keep this marriage going, stop looking for reasons to blow it up.” I looked into her eyes. The revulsion was there, clear as day. “Am I the one blowing it up?” My voice was raspy. “You’ve been gone for years, Madeline. You just forgot to move your body out of the house.” “I told you I love you!” she shouted. “I haven’t slept with anyone else. I am faithful to this house and this life. Stop being so damn paranoid!” She looked so genuinely indignant that for a second, I almost doubted my own sanity. “Infidelity isn’t just about whose bed you’re in,” I said softly. She let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “Right. This is about sex. It’s always about sex with you, isn’t it? You’re mad because I won’t let you touch me.” She stepped forward and grabbed my wrist, her grip tight and bruising. “Fine. You want it? Let’s go. Let’s get it over with so you’ll shut up for a week.” She started dragging me toward the bedroom. Slap. The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged kitchen. Madeline’s head jerked to the side, her hand flying to her cheek. She looked at me with pure, unadulterated shock. The last of my delusions crumbled. “Do you really think you’re the only one who feels disgusted?” I asked, my voice trembling with a decade’s worth of repressed grief. “I am so incredibly tired of being tolerated by you.” I took a breath, the air finally reaching the bottom of my lungs. “I’m done, Madeline. I want a divorce.” I’d spent hours imagining this moment. I thought she’d scream. I thought she’d cry or beg or maybe even laugh in my face. Instead, she just got quiet. A deep, abyssal silence that made me feel like I was falling. “We aren’t getting a divorce,” she said. Not I don’t want to. But We aren’t. I looked at her, searching for a spark of the woman I loved. I saw a CEO calculating the PR fallout and the asset division. After fifteen years together, we weren’t a couple; we were a conglomerate. “I’m leaving you!” I raised my voice, desperate for her to acknowledge my agency. She just checked her watch. “It’s late, Oliver. You’re emotional. We’ll talk when you’re rational.” She turned and walked out the front door. She didn’t even take her keys. She just left, as if I’d told her the weather was slightly overcast. She didn’t care about me. She didn’t even care enough to be angry. She went to him. I knew it in my marrow. The algorithm is a cruel thing. I opened a social media app and there he was—Jude. His profile was a shrine to his own youth: selfies at the gym, close-ups of expensive cocktails, the effortless arrogance of a boy who hasn’t been hit by life yet. I looked at my own reflection in the darkened phone screen. The fine lines around my eyes, the weary set of my mouth. No amount of skincare could replicate the “life” he had. I was a vintage car that had been driven into the ground; he was a shiny new lease. A red dot appeared on my feed. A new post. “The boss-lady took me to see the skyline. Best night ever.” There was a video of fireworks over the harbor. I’d been on those harbor cruises. I remembered walking along the pier with Madeline after dinner, back when we were poor. We’d buy two cheap hot dogs from a street cart and walk for miles, looking at the lights of the penthouses we hoped to own one day. “Oliver,” she’d said back then, watching a display of fireworks. “One day, I’m going to buy out the whole harbor for you. A whole night of just us and the sky.” She’d done it for our seventh anniversary. It had been spectacular. She’d stood under the exploding light in a gown that cost more than our first car and whispered, “Oliver, without love, a life this long would be unbearable.” Boom. The fireworks in Jude’s video exploded with the same rhythm as the ones in my memory. But the person standing next to her had changed. In that moment, a voice in my head—clear and cold—finally spoke up. Stop drowning in the past, Oliver. The water is gone. You’re just lying in the mud. I was thirty-five. I wasn’t dead. I had a whole life left to live, and I refused to spend it eating the scraps of a woman who looked at me like a chore. If this was going to end, it wasn’t going to be quiet. I tracked her phone. They were at a boutique hotel downtown. At 1:00 AM, I used the emergency override on the room door. I found them. Not in the middle of anything scandalous—just lying there, Jude’s head on her shoulder as they watched the city lights. Madeline’s face went through a flicker of panic, then rage, but never regret. She sat up, pulling the sheet over herself with a practiced, icy calm. “Men in my position have to network, Oliver. You should try to be more understanding of the pressure I’m under.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just held up my phone, showing her the photos I’d taken of them entering the hotel together. “I told you,” I said, my voice as cold as hers. “I want a divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391518”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My younger sister, Tiffany, moved to the city to “find herself,” but all she’s found so far is reasons to complain about my apartment. To her, my cozy one-bedroom in a decent zip code is a “cramped, pathetic dump.” I tried to be the good sister. I cleared out my guest closet and bought an expandable room divider to give her some privacy. Her gratitude? She went straight to the family group chat and started a wildfire of lies, telling everyone I was being kept by a “sugar daddy” and that I only lived in this “shithole” because he’d dumped me. This afternoon, I was out on the balcony taking down my laundry. In the penthouse unit of the adjacent building—a glass-and-steel monolith that housed the city’s elite—Dominic Thorne was finishing a workout on his private terrace. He’s the crown prince of the Thorne Group, a man worth eleven figures, and as he wiped sweat from his brow, his gaze drifted momentarily toward our building. Tiffany leaned against the doorframe, watching him, then rolled her eyes at me with a sneer. “With those wrinkles and that tired look, you aren’t even fit to shine his shoes,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “Don’t tell me you actually think a man like that would look at someone like you.” She got louder, feeding off her own cruelty, pointing a manicured finger toward the penthouse. “What, are you going to tell me he’s here for you? That the city’s most eligible bachelor is your secret husband?” She laughed, a shrill, mocking sound. “If you have the guts to walk over there and call him ‘husband,’ I’ll get down on my knees and bow to you right now. But we both know the truth—his security would toss you out like the trash you are. You’re just a smudge on his view.” She didn’t know about the Rumor-Manifestation System. It was a strange, silent pulse in the back of my mind. If a rumor is repeated ninety-nine times, I can choose to make it reality. I listened as the mechanical chime echoed in my head: [Rumor count reached: 99. Activation ready.] I turned my head and looked at the man across the way—the man whose net worth could buy my entire life a thousand times over. Since you insist he’s my husband, Tiffany, I think I’ll take you up on that fortune. … I stared at Dominic as he draped a towel over his neck. “What are you gawking at? Put those thirsty eyes away,” Tiffany snapped. She was holding my favorite silk blouse—the one I’d painstakingly steamed for my interview tomorrow. Before I could stop her, she crumpled it into a ball and used it to wipe the dust off the balcony railing. “Look at yourself,” she scoffed, tossing the ruined silk onto the floor and grinding her heel into it. “You’re thirty, single, and pathetic. You aren’t in his league. You aren’t even in the same universe.” I clenched my fists. “Tiffany, that was for my interview.” “Oh, please. It’s a cheap rag.” She pulled out her phone, the camera lens glowing red. “Hey guys, look at this! Here’s my ‘successful’ big sister in the city. Living in a thirty-square-meter shoebox, thirsting after the billionaire next door while she won’t even buy her own sister a decent outfit!” She made a face at the screen, her eyes sparkling with malice. “You should have seen the way she looked at him just now. Like she wanted to eat him alive. Honestly, Claire, you’re an embarrassment to the family.” The comments began scrolling wildly on her livestream. A second later, my phone buzzed. It was a voice note from our mother in the family chat. “Claire! Have you no shame? I told you to take care of your sister, and this is how you treat her? Tiffany just graduated! You have her living in a kennel while you spend your time chasing rich men? Don’t you dare ruin her reputation with your filth!” Then came another, longer message. “I heard from Tiffany that a big-shot CEO lives next door. Don’t you start getting ideas, you hear me? I know your type. Last month, Mrs. Gable said she saw you getting out of a luxury car. I knew you were up to no good! You clear out of that apartment and make room. Tiffany’s boyfriend is coming to visit in two days. He’s from a real wealthy family, a proper heir—he can’t stay in that dump. Give them the master bedroom. You can sleep on the balcony or go live in your office for all I care!” A familiar ache tightened in my chest. Since we were kids, I only got what Tiffany didn’t want. I worked my way to the city, built a life, and yet, they still followed me like a shadow, ready to dim my light. “You hear that?” Tiffany smirked, waving her phone. “Mom wants you out. My boyfriend, Rico, is actually a close friend of Dominic Thorne. He’s used to the best. If you’re smart, you’ll pack your bags before I throw them out the window.” I stared at her, my nails digging into my palms. “I pay the rent here, Tiffany. Every cent.” “So? Your money is Mom and Dad’s money. You’re just a liability. They should have sold you off for a dowry years ago.” Tiffany’s eyes darted back to the penthouse terrace. “What? You still thinking he’s coming for you? Your ‘secret husband’?” She shouted it toward the open air. “If you go over there and he actually knows your name, I’ll kiss your feet! But let’s be real—you’re nothing but a stain on his sidewalk!” [Ding! Detection: The rumor ‘The Billionaire is my husband’ has reached 99 counts.] [System fully charged. Host may manifest this rumor at any time.] The tension in my shoulders suddenly evaporated. I looked at the neighboring balcony. Dominic was frowning now, looking toward the noise. If they wanted him to be my husband so badly, I was happy to oblige. But not yet. I wanted them to feel the full weight of their own trap before I sprung it. I felt a ghost of a smile touch my lips. “Go ahead and post whatever you want, Tiffany,” I said quietly, turning back toward the living room. “Just make sure you’re ready for the consequences.” “What’s that supposed to mean? You think you’re a threat?” Tiffany followed me in, her voice rising. “I’m warning you, Claire. If you aren’t out by tomorrow, I’m taking those pathetic diaries I found—the ones where you obsess over the CEO—and I’m posting them all over the neighborhood. I’ll make sure you can never show your face in this city again!” The diaries were fakes she’d mocked up yesterday. “Post them,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “I dare you.” The next morning, my suitcases were sitting in the hallway. A piece of paper was taped to my own front door, written in thick, black marker: BEWARE OF THE SOCIAL CLIMBER. HER NAME IS CLAIRE. The door code had been changed. Inside, I could hear music playing and the smell of expensive takeout. I stood there for a moment, remarkably calm. Then, I pressed the doorbell. It took a long time for the door to crack open. A cloud of cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap grease hit me. A man stood there, wearing my brand-new silk robe—the one I hadn’t even taken the tags off yet. There were stains on the collar, and he was picking his teeth with a distracted air. “Who’s this?” He blew a whistle, his eyes roaming over me. “Oh, the big sister? You’re a lot cuter than Tiffany described.” “Move,” I said. “Hey, don’t be like that.” He reached out to grab my arm. “Tiffany’s inside making lunch. Why don’t you come in and have a drink with Rico? I can introduce you to some real players, way better than that stiff in the penthouse.” I stepped around him and walked into my own living room. It looked like a crime scene. Cigarette butts were crushed into my white rug. Red wine was splashed on the cushions. Tiffany was sitting on the coffee table, scrolling through her phone. “Claire? You actually came back?” Tiffany laughed, gesturing to the man. “Meet Rico. He’s a big deal in the city’s inner circle. Best friends with Thorne next door.” Rico puffed out his chest, adjusting the robe that was two sizes too small for him. “Stay humble, babe. I mean, yeah, Dominic and I grab drinks, play some golf. It’s whatever.” I almost laughed. “This is why you broke into my home? To turn it into a frat house?” I pointed at the door. “Get out. Both of you.” Smash. Tiffany dropped a wine bottle. “Who are you telling to get out? Mom said this place is my dowry. If you don’t like it, call the cops! See if they care about a ‘family matter’!” She wrapped her arms around Rico’s neck. “Babe, look at her. She’s just jealous that I found a real man. She’s bitter because she’s alone.” Rico glared at me. “Listen, lady. Tiffany’s carrying my kid. You stress her out, and you’re dealing with me.” I looked at Tiffany’s stomach and felt a cold, sharp satisfaction. “Fine,” I said, pulling out my phone and snapping a photo of the mess. Before I could dial, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Claire! You ungrateful brat!” her voice wailed through the speaker. “If you report your sister to the police, I’ll come down there and hang myself in front of your office! I’ll tell the whole world you’re a monster who tried to kill her own mother!” “Mom, he’s a thug. He’s trashing my home.” “Shut up! He’s an heir! Rico said he’s buying Tiffany a villa! You’re just jealous! If you ruin this for her, I will never forgive you!” The line went dead. I looked at the two of them. The last thread of familial obligation finally snapped. “Fine,” I said, putting my phone away. “Stay here then.” I turned to leave. “Wait! Where do you think you’re going?” Tiffany called out. “Go to the drugstore and get me some vitamins. And Rico’s hungry—get some lobster and peel it for him. Don’t let him get his hands dirty.” Rico laughed, sliding his hand under her shirt. I picked up my bag. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.” Downstairs in the lobby, I saw Dominic’s concierge. He looked at me for a moment, recognizing me from the building next door, but I kept my head down and walked out. A group of neighborhood women were whispering as I passed. “Is that her? The one Tiffany posted about?” “Yeah, the one who’s obsessed with the billionaire. Apparently, she knocks on his door every night.” “I saw the photos in the residents’ chat. She looks so normal, but I guess you never know who the real crazies are.” I stopped and opened my phone. The neighborhood WhatsApp group was blowing up. Tiffany had used a burner account to post photos of me in my pajamas, taken from behind. The lonely spinster in Building 8 was at it again last night, rubbing up against the CEO’s door handle. So pathetic! The comments were brutal. My hands shook, but not from fear. From the sheer, icy heat of my rage. Tiffany, you want to play a high-stakes game? Let’s play. I spent the night in a cheap motel and went to the office the next morning. The atmosphere was different the moment I walked in. The receptionist looked away. The laughter in the breakroom died down as soon as I entered. I’d barely sat down when the HR assistant appeared. “Claire, the CEO wants to see you.” Her eyes were full of disgust. In the office, a stack of photos was thrown onto the desk. “Explain this,” my boss barked. I picked them up. They were poorly photoshopped, but effective—my face spliced onto bodies in compromising positions, in clubs, and in scenes meant to suggest I was an escort. The anonymous email sent to the company had a familiar tone: Your executive, Claire, is a high-end call girl by night. Here’s the price list… “Sir, this is a smear campaign. I can prove—” “I don’t care!” he snapped. “The board is already breathing down my neck. You’re on administrative leave, effective immediately. If this turns out to be true, don’t bother coming back.” I packed my desk into a single box. As I walked out into the plaza, a bucket of red paint splashed across my front. “Look! There she is! The gold-digger!” Tiffany was standing there with a megaphone. Rico was beside her, livestreaming. “This is my sister! She tried to steal my boyfriend, she owes thousands to loan sharks, and now she’s trying to sell me off to pay her debts! Help me!” Tiffany wailed for the camera. A crowd gathered. Phones were everywhere. “She’d do that to her own sister?” “She looks so professional, what a snake.” “Trash!” Someone threw a water bottle at me. I wiped the stinging paint from my eyes. Rico shoved his phone in my face. “Look at her, guys! This is what happens when you get fired for being a slut! Follow Tiffany for more updates. Let’s make this bitch famous!” The comments were a sea of death threats. Tiffany looked at me over the megaphone. For a split second, the “victim” mask slipped, and she gave me a sharp, triumphant grin. “Claire, just admit you were wrong! Tell everyone you’re sorry, and maybe Mom will take you back!” I looked at her. I looked at the mob. [Detection: Social rumor threshold almost reached.] [Current count: 98/99.] One more. I took out my own phone, snapped a photo of Tiffany and Rico in their moment of glory, and walked away without a word. “Yeah, run away! Coward!” Tiffany screamed. The price for this, Tiffany, is higher than you can afford. Three days later, my mother called. “Get over here, you brat! Rico got us VIP passes to a gala hosted by that Dominic Thorne fellow. We’re going to the penthouse tonight to see how the other half lives! You’re coming along to wait on us. Don’t embarrass us!” A gala? At Dominic’s? I looked at myself in the mirror. “I’ll be there,” I whispered. At 7:00 PM, I arrived at the gates of the Thorne Estate. The driveway was a parade of Ferraris and Rolls-Royces. Tiffany, Rico, and my parents were arguing with the security guards at the entrance. “Don’t you know who I am?” Rico was shouting, his rented suit bunching at the shoulders. “I’m Dominic’s best friend! These are my in-laws!” The guard was unmoved. “Invitation, please.” “I told you, I forgot it! Just look at my face!” Tiffany saw me and ran over, grabbing my arm. “Tell the guard you’re the cleaning lady! Get us inside or I’ll tell everyone you’ve got a disease!” I looked at the wealthy guests staring at the scene, and I smiled. “Sure.” I walked up to the guard. Before I could speak, a man in a sharp tuxedo—Dominic’s personal butler—stepped forward. He looked at me, then at the loud, tacky group behind me. He stepped aside and bowed. Tiffany, assuming it was Rico’s influence, grabbed Rico’s arm and strutted inside. “See? That’s what I’m talking about! Status!” Once inside the ballroom, my family was a disaster. My mother was stuffing lobster tails into her handbag. My father was trying to toast people with empty glasses. Tiffany was frantic, taking selfies against the gold-leaf pillars. “Wait, isn’t that the escort who got fired?” a voice called out. It was one of Tiffany’s “influencer” friends. The room went quiet. Tiffany, sensing the shift, suddenly shoved me into the center of the floor. “I’m so sorry, everyone! My sister forced us to come! She told us she was Mr. Thorne’s secret mistress! She said she owned this place and told us to come in!” Tiffany shouted, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “I knew she was lying! A piece of trash like her doesn’t even know a man like Dominic!” The whispers turned into an ugly roar. “Is she the one from the news?” “How dare she use Mr. Thorne’s name?” “Where’s security?” Rico jumped in, pointing a finger at me. “Yeah! This crazy woman lured us here! Dominic, man, come down here and deal with this stalker!” On the grand staircase, Dominic Thorne appeared. He was the picture of cold, distant power. Tiffany ran to the foot of the stairs. “Mr. Thorne! This woman has been obsessing over you for months! She’s been telling everyone she’s your fiancée! It’s disgusting! Throw her out!” Everyone was looking at me. My mother stepped forward and slapped me across the face. The sound rang through the hall. “You shameless girl! Kneel down and apologize! Do you want to ruin us all?” She then turned to Dominic with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Mr. Thorne, please don’t be angry. She’s nothing to us. We disown her! Do whatever you want with her!” I touched my cheek, tasting blood. I looked at the greed in their eyes, the malice in Tiffany’s, and the cold stillness of the man on the stairs. “Here he comes,” Tiffany hissed. “He’s going to personally crush you, Claire. You’re dead.” Dominic descended the stairs, his handmade oxfords clicking on the marble. I waited. [Ding! Detection: The rumor count has reached 100.] [Activation condition met. Manifest the rumor: ‘The Billionaire is my fiancé’?] In the silence of my heart, I whispered: Yes. Dominic stopped in front of me. “Mr. Thorne, give the word and I’ll toss her out myself—” Rico started. Dominic ignored him. He reached out, his hand gentle as he wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. A look of profound, aching tenderness crossed his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

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“How much is one plus one?” On the darkened interstate, my brother’s voice cut through the hum of the tires. It was a sudden, sharp test. I hesitated, my small voice trembling. “It’s… it’s…” Before I could find the answer, my mother’s hand flew across the seat. The slap cracked against my cheek, stinging like fire. “I have a Master’s from Stanford,” she hissed, her eyes wild with a cold, academic fury. “Your father has a PhD from MIT. Your brother is a certified math prodigy, a straight-A student. And you? You have to think about one plus one? You’re a defect, Chloe. A total failure.” My face burned, but the terror in my chest hurt worse. I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. “Mom, please, don’t be mad. I’m not a failure. It’s just… Sebastian told me—” She didn’t want to hear it. She slammed on the brakes, pulling the SUV onto the narrow, gravelly shoulder of the highway. “Get out,” she commanded. “A child who only carries inferior genes doesn’t belong in this car with us. You want to be slow? Fine. Walk the rest of the way. Maybe the cold will wake up your brain.” I begged. I screamed. I tried to grab the door handle as they pulled away, but they were gone. Then came the blinding glare of high beams from behind. A massive shadow loomed, and suddenly, my body felt weightless. Like a dandelion seed caught in a gale. I found myself floating, moving faster than I ever could on my feet. I caught up to my parents’ car in an instant. “Mom! Dad! I’m not a failure!” I cried out, though they couldn’t hear me. “My teacher says I’m an artist! She says everyone has their own light!” 1 “A child’s average stride is between twelve and twenty inches,” my mother had said before she pushed me out. “I’ve calculated it for you. It’s exactly three thousand steps from here to the next rest area. Consider this your penance. It’s meant to trigger your survival instinct, to force that dull brain of yours to finally integrate with this family.” She had turned then, stepping back into the warmth of the leather interior without a second glance. I had chased after the car, sobbing. “Mom, please! Don’t leave me here!” The window rolled down just an inch. She tossed a small, high-end vlogging camera—the latest 4K model—onto the asphalt. “This has a built-in tracker and a lens that doesn’t lie,” she said coldly. “It’ll record everything. Don’t you dare stop counting. Stay in the emergency lane and watch for traffic.” That was her final instruction. The glass slid up, sealing them away in their climate-controlled world. I watched the red glow of the taillights shrink into the freezing mist of the December night until they vanished entirely. “Mom, it’s so cold,” I whispered. The weather app on her phone had warned of a cold front—ten degrees below zero. She had been so focused on my “lesson” that she forgot to give me my coat. I picked up the small camera, holding it like a lifeline. I looked into the lens, my breath coming in ragged white clouds. “Mom, I’m not a failure,” I told the unblinking eye. “I’m the best painter in my class. Mrs. Gable says everyone is good at different things.” But the camera didn’t talk back. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, trying to be brave. I started to walk. I started to count. “One, two, three…” The air felt like it was turning to glass in my lungs. My steps grew shorter, my legs heavier. By the time I reached one thousand, they felt like pillars of salt. My foot caught on a piece of shredded tire, and I went down hard. My knees hit the gravel with a sickening crunch. The pain was a white-hot spike through my body. I looked into the lens, sobbing. “I’m sorry, Mom. It hurts so much. I just need to rest for ten seconds. Just ten.” In our house, everything was a game of numbers. Success brought rewards; failure brought “intervals.” Sebastian always won the rewards. I always got the intervals. Ten seconds of being ignored. Ten seconds of the “thinking corner.” Ten seconds of being told how much of a disappointment I was. Back then, ten seconds felt like an eternity. Now, it felt like a heartbeat. When the time was up, I forced myself to crawl, then stand. My leggings were soaked through with blood at the knees, and every step felt like walking on broken glass. I bit my lip. Just 1,970 more steps and I’d be at the rest stop. Grandma and Grandpa were waiting for us at the cabin with Christmas dinner. But the cold was winning. My vision began to swim with white, feathery shapes—ghostly flowers blooming in the dark. “Mom,” I whimpered to the camera. “I don’t think I can walk anymore.” She didn’t answer. Behind me, a wall of artificial suns erupted. I hadn’t realized I’d drifted away from the shoulder and into the center lane. When I “woke up,” the world was quiet. And I was as light as air. 2 Being weightless meant I caught up to them easily. They were at a roadside Starbucks inside the rest area. The table was covered in warm paninis and steaming lattes. My mother was hovering over Sebastian, pressing a thermos into his hands. “It’s freezing out there, Seb. You have to drink this tea. Stay hydrated.” Sebastian took a reluctant sip. My throat felt like it was made of sandpaper. I reached out, my ghostly hand hovering over the steam. “Mom, I’m thirsty too,” I whispered. She didn’t look up. She was peeling an orange for my brother, her movements precise and elegant. It was as if I didn’t exist. My father checked his Rolex, his brow furrowing slightly. “We’ve been here an hour, Madeline. Chloe should have been here by now. Maybe we should… I don’t know, check on her?” Hope flared in my chest. Dad. You remembered. “Dad! I’m right here! There was a big truck, and I was so tired, and then everything went quiet…” I shouted at the top of my lungs, but he just Adjusted his glasses. My mother sighed, her voice laced with irritation. “Christopher, it’s barely two miles. It’s nothing.” “If it were Sebastian, he’d have run it in fifteen minutes,” she continued. “Chloe has been manipulative since she was a toddler. She’s probably dawdling just to make us feel guilty. She needs to build some grit, or she’ll never survive in the real world.” Sebastian nodded, his face smug. He wasn’t just a math genius; he was a star on the junior soccer team. “She’s basic,” he muttered. “If she doesn’t toughen up, she’s going to be a burden on the family forever.” He looked down at his phone. He was the one who started it in the car—asking me those math questions just to watch me squirm. I used to let him. I used to smile and try to play along because he was my big brother. But now, a cold spark of anger flickered in my spirit. “I’m not a burden! You’re mean, Sebastian! You’re the reason I had to get out!” My father hesitated, looking out the window at the thick, swirling fog. His worry seemed to evaporate as quickly as it had appeared. “You’re right. Two miles… an adult does that in twenty minutes. Factor in her age and the conditions, she’s just being slow. We’ll give her another thirty minutes.” My heart sank. I’d always been a “sickly” child. I got winded easily. They knew that. But they had decided to wait. Another hour passed. Sebastian started complaining about being bored. Just then, a couple walked into the shop, shivering and breathless. Their conversation cut through the quiet. “I’m glad we left at midnight, but the traffic is backed up for miles now,” the man said. “Did you see that wreck?” the woman added, her voice trembling. “It was horrific. A semi-truck… they said it was a kid. There was… god, there was nothing left.” My father flinched. The color drained from my mother’s face. She fumbled for her phone, opening the tracking app for the camera. She saw the little blue dot on the map. It was moving. Fast. Relief washed over her, instantly replaced by a sharp, jagged anger. “That little brat,” she hissed, showing the screen to my father. “Look. The camera is moving at sixty miles an hour. She must have hitched a ride with a stranger to play the victim. She didn’t walk a single step of her punishment!” “We’re leaving,” she snapped, grabbing her coat. “If she’s brave enough to get into a stranger’s car, she can find her own way to the cabin. We aren’t waiting another second for a liar.” I panicked. I threw myself in front of her. “Mom, no! It’s not a stranger! That’s an ambulance! I’m in the ambulance!” But she walked right through me. She bundled Sebastian up in his designer parka, gripped my father’s arm, and marched out to the car. I cried as I followed them. The sirens of the ambulance were getting closer in the distance, but my father hit the gas, merging onto the highway and heading toward the mountains. We reached the cabin soon after. I tried to run to my grandparents, to feel their hug, but I just drifted through them like smoke. 3 Christmas at the cabin was usually my favorite time of year. But now, I couldn’t stop crying. My grandmother ran out to the driveway, pulling Sebastian into a hug before peering into the back seat. “Where’s Chloe? Where’s my girl?” “Grandma, I’m right here,” I sobbed, reaching for her sleeve. My mother brushed past her, hauling a suitcase. “She’s coming with a friend. She’ll be here later.” “It’s freezing out, Eleanor,” she added sharply. “Sebastian has been in the car for six hours. He’s exhausted and hungry. Focus on your grandson for once.” My grandmother’s mouth snapped shut. She looked at my father, who simply gave a curt nod. She sighed, her eyes searching the dark road one last time. “Alright, alright. I’ve got the pot roast in the oven and homemade cinnamon rolls. Come in, get warm.” The cabin smelled like pine and sugar. They all sat down to eat, laughing and talking. I sat on the floor, clutching my stomach. I was so hungry. I wanted a cinnamon roll so badly. “Chloe loves these,” Grandma said, her voice soft as she looked at the empty chair. “I saved a special batch for her. I’ll warm them up the minute she walks through that door.” I sniffed, the tears starting again. After dinner, the house grew quiet. Grandma finished the dishes and looked at the clock again. It had been hours. “Christopher, Madeline… enough,” she said, her voice stern. “Where is she? Whose car is she in? Call them. Now. A six-year-old shouldn’t be out this late on New Year’s Eve.” The room went silent. My father shifted in his seat. “She should be here soon. Any minute.” His vague answer didn’t satisfy them. “Whose car?” Grandpa demanded. “If you don’t know, call the police. How can you be so calm?” My father looked at my mother. She sighed, pulled out her phone, and opened the app. Grandma and Grandpa leaned in, and I hovered over them, too. She frowned. The dot was stationary now. It was at a building only five minutes away from the cabin. “See? She’s five minutes out. She’ll be here in a heartbeat.” Grandma tried to look closer, but my mother locked the screen and tucked the phone away. “Before she gets here, we need to have a serious talk,” my mother said, her voice taking on that “academic” authority. “Chloe is starting first grade soon. You two have to stop coddling her. It’s stuntin her development.” I hid behind Grandma’s chair, trembling. My mother loved “gifted” children. She spoke to Sebastian like he was a colleague. But me? I was a project that kept failing. Once, I got a 59 on a math quiz. She had looked at me with such pure disgust. “Are you even mine?” she’d asked. “How can you be this dense? What is wrong with your brain?” She had put me on a grueling “acceleration” schedule. Hours of extra math. Sebastian’s old workbooks. Every mistake was a mark on my hand with a ruler. Grandma tried to intervene. “Madeline, she’s just a little girl. You can’t force a flower to bloom by pulling on the petals…” “She couldn’t even tell me what one plus one was today!” my mother shouted, cutting her off. “Sebastian was doing third-grade multiplication at her age!” Grandma went pale. In the corner, Sebastian gave a little smirk. I flew toward my mother, screaming. “It wasn’t me! It was Sebastian! He told me one plus one didn’t equal two anymore! He told me it was a trick!” But she couldn’t hear my truth. “Wait,” Grandpa said, standing up. “Is that Chloe’s coat?” 4 My father and Grandpa had gone to the SUV to get the rest of the bags. Grandpa was holding my pink puffer jacket, his face a mask of confusion. “I thought she was in someone else’s car? Why is her coat in your trunk?” My father froze. He looked at my mother, his eyes wide. “Madeline… when you kicked her out… did you make sure she had her coat?” My mother’s eyes darted around the room. “I… I thought she was wearing it. She’s six, Christopher! She should know how to dress herself!” The unfairness of it hit me like a physical blow. She had pushed me out so fast. I didn’t have a chance to grab anything. Even in this warm cabin, I began to shiver. The memory of that bone-deep cold was more real than the fire in the hearth. “What?” Grandma’s voice was a whisper of horror. “On the interstate? You kicked her out on the interstate?” “You’re insane!” Grandpa roared. “It’s ten below! You left a child alone on a highway? What is wrong with you?” “Nothing happened!” my mother yelled back, her voice cracking. “I told her to stay in the emergency lane! Look at the GPS! She’s moving! She’s fine!” Grandma and Grandpa grabbed their keys, heading for the door to find me. “Grandma, Grandpa, don’t go!” I cried. “I’m here! Please, don’t fight!” Sebastian ran out of the den then, holding something he’d found in my mother’s bag. “Mom, look what was in the side pocket!” It was a drawing. I tried to snatch it away, terrified. My mother grabbed it, her face twisting as she looked at it. She held it up like a piece of evidence. “You see this? This is why she’s failing! This is what you’re encouraging!” It was a drawing of us. A family portrait. Me and Sebastian holding hands, flanked by Mom and Dad. We all had giant, messy smiles. I had titled it The Happy Family. “Drawing won’t get her into the Ivy League!” my mother screamed. “I want her to have a future! I want her to be someone!” And then, she tore it. “No!” I shrieked. “Mom, please! I’ll be good! I’ll study! I’ll never pick up a crayon again!” But the paper fluttered to the floor in jagged white pieces. “Do you have any idea how competitive the world is now?” she spat at my grandparents. “Degrees are devaluing. If she isn’t the best, she’s nothing! And you’re turning her into a loser!” Grandma and Grandpa looked like they had been struck. They turned to my father. He just pushed his glasses up his nose. “I agree that Chloe needs to focus. Art is a hobby, not a career path. We can’t have her wasting her potential on useless things.” His words were the final weight. My spirit felt heavy, drifting toward the ceiling. Mom, Dad… I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. Don’t be mad anymore. Sebastian will make you proud… The doorbell rang. My mother marched toward it, her face set in a mask of triumph. “There. That’ll be her. Three thousand steps later, and I bet she didn’t walk even ten of them.” But when she opened the door, it wasn’t me. It was two State Troopers. One of them was holding a shattered, blood-stained vlogging camera. The other held a photo. “Are you the parents of the child in this picture?”

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At my own wedding reception, the interloper—the man who had stolen my life—leaned in close under the guise of a celebratory toast. Felix offered me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a sharp, predatory glint in the candlelight. “Happy wedding day, Miles,” he whispered, his voice oily. “Just so you know, I’ve already had a taste of the bride. She’s… quite enthusiastic.” The red haze took me instantly. I didn’t think; I just swung. My fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling into the tiered wedding cake. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sharp crack of Madeline’s hand against my face. Then another. And another. She slapped me six times in front of the cream of society, her eyes burning with a cold, righteous fury. “Felix never asked for anything!” she hissed, her voice trembling. “He gave up everything for you, and you still can’t stand to see him happy!” “I’d rather have married a stray dog than a man as classless as you,” she spat. With a flick of her wrist, she signaled the security team. They dragged me down to the sub-basement of the Holloway estate, throwing me into a concrete pit filled with venomous snakes—a “meditation chamber” designed to break my spirit. For seven days, I was left in that dark, slithering hell. Then, my three biological sisters arrived, not to rescue me, but to settle the score. Katherine, the CEO who ran our family empire with an iron fist, kicked me hard enough to shatter my shin. “Felix cried all night because of your stunt,” she said, her voice like ice. “I’ve already signed over every cent of your trust fund to him. You don’t deserve it.” Margot, the Academy Award-winning darling of the silver screen, grabbed my arm and twisted until the bone snapped. “I’m scrubbing you from the family archives, Miles. Felix is the only brother this family acknowledges. You’re nothing but a mistake we should have left in the gutter.” But Beatrice, the world-renowned surgeon, was the most clinical in her cruelty. She knelt beside me, a scalpel glinting in her hand. “Felix has suffered from kidney issues since he was a child. To make up for what you’ve done, you’re going to give him one of yours. A healthy one.” Before I could even scream, she opened me up. No anesthesia. No sterile field. Just the raw, visceral agony of my organs being harvested while I was still conscious. As the pain reached a crescendo that threatened to shatter my mind, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in my head. Ding. [Congratulations, Host. You have completed the ‘Discarded Side Character’ storyline!] [Upon the death of this physical vessel, you will be transported back to your original world to claim your $10 billion prize!] … 1 The moment I heard those words, my screaming stopped. The despair that had been suffocating me for years suddenly evaporated, replaced by a crystalline sense of relief. I was almost out. Katherine and Margot had already left, carrying my kidney in a chilled container like a trophy. Only Beatrice remained in the filth of the basement, her brow furrowed as she worked. Blood continued to seep from the incision. She grumbled as she began to stitch me up, her movements hurried and careless. “If you had just cooperated and donated the kidney like a man, we wouldn’t have had to do the surgery in these conditions,” she said, her voice dripping with annoyance. “This is such a hassle.” I remembered last week. Felix had gotten a papercut while looking through some files—a tiny, microscopic nick. Beatrice had reacted as if the world were ending. She’d summoned a team of specialists, performed an emergency bandaging, and checked on him every three hours. But for me, as she literally sewed up a hole where my organ used to be, I was just a “hassle.” Perhaps sensing my silence, she leaned down and patted my cheek, then jabbed an antibiotic into my arm. “Stop acting,” she said. “I know you’re fine. A little scratch like this won’t kill you. You’re just trying to play the victim so I’ll feel guilty and stop favoring Felix. It’s pathetic, Miles. Now that you’re a Holloway, lose the gutter mentality.” In the past, I would have begged for her to see me. I would have cried, pleading for a shred of sisterly love. Now, I felt nothing but a numb, hollow peace. I closed my eyes and whispered, “Just go. Leave me here to die.” To me, death was the finish line. But to Beatrice, it was another provocation. “What is that supposed to mean, Miles? You’re trying to guilt-trip me now?” She intentionally yanked the suture thread hard. The raw edges of the wound bunched together, and a fresh surge of blood soaked through the makeshift bandages. The pain was astronomical, the kind that makes your vision go white. She watched me gasp for air, sweat pouring down my face. For a fleeting second, a shadow of something—pity? regret?—crossed her face, and her tone softened slightly. “You’re my brother, Miles. Do you have any idea how much money and effort we spent looking for you? We would never let you die.” “Honestly, if you weren’t so small-minded—if you hadn’t attacked Felix—you wouldn’t be in this position.” She sighed and injected a local anesthetic into the site. “Promise me that when we go back, you won’t harass Felix anymore. Apologize to him. If you do that, I’ll move you to a real hospital wing and give you the best care. You won’t have to suffer anymore.” Listening to her “mercy” felt like a joke. I was a transmigrator. I’d entered the body of Miles Holloway when he was six years old. Three years ago, after a lifetime of hardship, the three Holloway sisters found me, weeping as they claimed I was their long-lost brother. But when I got to the estate, I found Felix. He was the boy they had adopted to fill the void I left behind. I recognized him the moment I saw him. Back at the orphanage, he was the one who locked me in a cellar so he could steal my identity when the Holloways came to visit. He’d spent twenty years living my life, enjoying the love that belonged to me, while I suffered in his place. Yet, every time he squeezed out a fake tear, my sisters turned on me. Even Madeline, my arranged fiancée, looked at me with nothing but contempt while she beamed at him. I was done. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to explain. I just wanted to go home. I reached down, my fingers trembling, and gripped the edge of the fresh stitches. With one violent motion, I ripped the wound wide open. Blood and viscera spilled out onto the cold floor. Beatrice screamed, a high-pitched, jagged sound. “Miles! Stop! You’re going to kill yourself!” I looked at the tears streaming down her face and felt a ghost of a smile touch my lips. “Good,” I rasped. “That’s the point.” “Living another second in this world… with you people… it makes me sick.” My eyelids grew heavy. The darkness surged up to meet me, and I finally let go. 2 I don’t know how much time passed before I woke up. I expected to be back in my own world, but when I opened my eyes, I saw the familiar, stern face of my eldest sister, Katherine. “You’re finally awake.” There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked haggard, but her voice was still laced with that habitual impatience. “You’re a grown man, Miles. Why are you being so impulsive?” “Trying to kill yourself over a little disagreement… it’s not very ‘Holloway’ of you.” The exhaustion hit me like a physical weight. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. I just stared at the ceiling, my voice hollow. “You’re right. I’m an embarrassment. I’m not fit for this family.” “So just let me die.” Katherine’s face went pale. Her hand twitched as if she wanted to slap me again, but when she saw how ghost-white I was, her hand fell limp at her side. “Miles! I am warning you, stop talking like that!” Her voice was shaking. The irritation was still there, but beneath it was a flicker of something she didn’t want to admit: terror. “I spent a fortune and moved heaven and earth to get you out of that basement. I didn’t do it so you could talk nonsense!” I let out a dry, mirthless laugh. A fortune? She probably just didn’t want her “backup organ donor” to expire. She didn’t want her favorite pet, Felix, to lose his favorite punching bag. The door pushed open and Beatrice walked in with a tray of medication. When she saw I was awake, a flash of joy crossed her eyes, but she quickly masked it with a scowl. “Drink this. Don’t make me force it down your throat.” She held out a cup of dark, bitter liquid. I turned my head away. “Don’t waste it.” “Miles!” Beatrice’s hands shook with rage, but she didn’t force the cup. Instead, she set it on the nightstand and reached out to check my bandages. Her touch was surprisingly gentle—the kind of tenderness she usually reserved only for Felix. “The recovery is going well. We used the best regenerative treatments…” She glanced at me, her expression fierce. “Stay still. If you rip these stitches again, I won’t fix them.” She sounded tough, but I could see the burst capillaries in her eyes and the slight tremor in her fingers. She hadn’t slept. In the past, this tiny crumb of affection would have made me weep with gratitude. I would have clung to her and begged for forgiveness. Now, it was just offensive. I shoved her hand away and threw back the covers, my fingers clawing at the bandages. If I could just finish what I started, I’d be free. “Stop it!” Katherine grabbed my wrists, her grip tight enough to bruise, but she flinched when I groaned in pain. She let go slightly, her voice breaking into a sob. “Miles, what are you doing? What do you want from us?” “I want to die,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Letting me go is better for everyone. You won’t have to deal with me, and Felix can be the perfect son you always wanted.” “So please. Just let me go.” 3 My words hit Katherine like a physical blow. She raised her hand and struck me—but it wasn’t the bone-shattering slap from the wedding. It was light, desperate, the act of someone who didn’t know how else to communicate. “I won’t let you! You are a Holloway! I won’t let you die!” Beatrice rushed forward, pinning my shoulders to the bed. Her voice was thick with a rare, pleading tone. “Miles, stop it. I know it hurts. Just… just get better. I’ll take care of you. I’ll be better to you, okay?” I looked into her eyes and felt a wave of nausea. Where was this sisterly concern when she was carving me open? Where was this tenderness when she was obsessing over Felix’s papercut? I closed my eyes and tuned them out. I wouldn’t eat. I wouldn’t speak. I wouldn’t breathe if I didn’t have to. The door opened again, and my second sister, Margot, stepped in. Following close behind her was Madeline, her face pale and drawn. Margot’s eyes turned red the moment she saw me. She rushed to the bedside. “Miles, thank God you’re awake. You scared me to death.” When I first returned to the family, Margot had been the “kind” one. She took me on trips, told me stories of how they never stopped looking for me. But as soon as Felix whispered a few lies into her ear, she turned into my harshest critic, calling me a “snake in the grass” who didn’t appreciate the family’s love. I pulled my face away from her hand. Margot’s fingers froze in mid-air, her expression wounded. Madeline stepped forward, taking the medicine from Beatrice. “Let me try,” she said softly. “He might listen to me.” She was confident, and why wouldn’t she be? For years, I had worshipped the ground she walked on. I had endured her coldness with a smile, loving her with a desperation that was frankly embarrassing. Just as she sat down, the door opened one more time. “Miles? I came to see you.” Felix entered, wearing silk pajamas and looking fragile. Katherine immediately went to his side to support him. “Felix, you just had surgery. You should be resting. Why are you up?” Felix shook his head, looking at me with a perfectly curated expression of guilt. “It’s my fault. If I had stopped Miles at the wedding, none of this would have happened. I couldn’t sleep. I had to apologize.” He took the medicine from Madeline and sat on the edge of my bed. “Miles, please. Don’t be angry with yourself. Just take the medicine. Everyone is so worried.” “I know you still blame me, but I never wanted to take anything from you. Everything the Holloways have… it belongs to you.” It was the same old routine. He was painting me as the bitter, jealous brother who was throwing a tantrum, while he played the saint. Before the spoon could touch my lips, I slapped the bowl out of his hand. The ceramic shattered against the floor. The hot liquid splashed across Felix’s chest and arms. He let out a sharp cry, his skin reddening instantly. His eyes welled with tears. “Miles… why? I only wanted to help…” “Miles! You’ve lost your mind!” 4 Katherine was livid. She shoved me back and pulled Felix behind her. “He came here out of the goodness of his heart, and this is how you treat him?” Beatrice was already hovering over Felix, checking his “burns” with frantic energy. “Is it bad? Someone call a nurse!” Margot shook her head, her face a mask of disappointment. “Miles, this is too much. Felix apologized. When are you going to stop this childish behavior?” Madeline was already dabbing Felix’s shirt with a tissue, her voice sharp with rebuke. “Can’t you be sensible for once? He was trying to be kind. Even if you don’t appreciate it, you don’t have to be violent.” They swarmed around him, a protective cocoon of love and concern. Not one of them looked at the man who had just had a major organ removed, the man whose stitches were still weeping blood. Felix leaned into Katherine’s shoulder, catching my eye for a split second. He gave me a tiny, triumphant smirk before dissolving back into “sobs.” “It’s okay… don’t be mad at him. He’s just in a bad mood…” In the past, this would have sent me into a blind rage. Now, it was just pathetic. They were all so smart—the CEO, the Surgeon, the Actress—and yet they were all puppets for a second-rate manipulator. “If you want to coddle that parasite, do it outside,” I said, my voice flat. “Get out of my room. You’re polluting the air.” They froze. “Miles, it’s clear you haven’t learned your lesson,” Beatrice said, her voice shaking with cold fury. “Fine. As of this moment, I am cutting off your morphine. No pain management.” “When you’re ready to apologize to Felix, you can have it back.” Katherine nodded. “Exactly. Let him feel what it’s like to actually hurt. Maybe then he’ll stop being so entitled.” Margot sighed, and Madeline just looked away. They filed out, following Felix like ducklings. The door slammed shut. I didn’t care about the pain. Compared to the last twenty years, a hole in my side was nothing. In fact, the pain was good. it kept me sharp. It reminded me that I was almost at the exit. I reached under my pillow and pulled out a sharp shard of the broken ceramic bowl I’d hidden earlier. Without a second thought, I pressed it to my throat and dragged it across. As the world began to dim, I felt the strength leaving my limbs. The agonizing throb in my side faded. My heart slowed to a rhythmic, peaceful crawl. As the darkness finally took me, I actually smiled. Finally. It’s over. … In the hallway, Katherine stopped walking. “You guys take Felix to the clinic,” she said, her voice tight. “I feel… uneasy. I’m going back to check on Miles.” “I’ll go too,” Margot said quickly. “He was really upset. Maybe he’ll listen to me.” “He needs a doctor, not an actress,” Beatrice snapped. “I’m going.” Madeline looked at Felix, then at the sisters. “I’m his wife. I should be there.” She offered Felix a quick, apologetic smile. “You’ll be okay, right? It’s just a little burn. I’ll check on you later.” Before Felix could protest, the four women turned back. But when they pushed open the door to my room, they weren’t met with silence or a brooding brother. They were met with the metallic, cloying scent of fresh blood.

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New Year’s Eve was supposed to be the coronation of my new life. I’d just landed an associate offer at a Magic Circle law firm—the kind of place that doesn’t just pay a salary; they buy your soul and give you a golden pedestal in return. To celebrate, I’d splurged on a limited-edition Osetra caviar and white truffle tasting menu from a Michelin-starred pop-up. When I went to the lobby’s delivery rack, the bag was gone. In my previous life, I lost my head. I hunted down the girl who took it—a “struggling” scholarship student—and tore into her in the middle of the quad. That one moment of justified rage was my undoing. The university branded me a “privileged male bully,” my offer was rescinded, and I was expelled. Meanwhile, the girl played the victim so well she became the internet’s favorite “Fragile Wildflower.” I died in obscurity while she flourished on the back of my ruined reputation. But this time? This time, I watched the security footage with a calm, cold clarity. I saw her face—smug, entitled, tucked behind a mask of faux-innocence. I didn’t scream. I didn’t hunt her down. I dialed 911. By the time my advisor, Mrs. Gable, arrived at the campus security office, she looked more annoyed with me than the thief. “Cade, really? It’s a food delivery,” she sighed, checking her watch. “It’s New Year’s Eve. Why are we involving the police over a fifty-dollar bag of takeout? You’re a man; show some chivalry. This is an embarrassment to the law school. Have her write an apology letter and let’s move on.” I didn’t say a word. I reached into my coat, pulled out the digital receipt, and slid my phone across the desk. “Take a look at the itemized list, Mrs. Gable. That wasn’t a burger. It was a bespoke ‘Imperial Selection’ set with rare vintages. Total value: twenty-five thousand dollars. In this state, that’s Grand Larceny. We’re looking at a mandatory minimum of three to five years.” I turned to look at the girl, Layla, who was sitting in the corner. Her face went from “poor me” to ghostly white in a heartbeat. I smiled. “An apology letter? Save your writing skills for your parole board.” … Layla’s legs gave out. She collapsed onto the linoleum floor, the mask of the misunderstood waif shattering into shards of pure terror. “Twenty-five thousand? That’s… that’s impossible! Nobody spends that much on a delivery!” she shrieked, her voice like a cat with its tail caught in a door. “You’re framing me! Cade, you’re trying to ruin me! Are you even a man?” “Whether it’s a frame-up or a felony is for the District Attorney to decide,” I said, adjusting my cufflinks. I didn’t even grant her a second glance. Mrs. Gable finally found her voice. She lunged for my phone, trying to snatch it. “Cade! Are you insane? Cancel the call! If this gets out, the law school’s reputation is finished. A student arrested for grand theft? Do you want the Dean to have a heart attack?” I stepped back, letting her hand swipe through empty air. My eyes were ice. “Mrs. Gable, are you familiar with ‘Accessory After the Fact’?” She froze. “You’re an advisor at a top-tier law school. You know exactly what happens when you knowingly shield a criminal from the consequences of a felony.” The office door swung open before she could respond. My fiancée, Madison, walked in. One look at Layla on the floor and me standing over them, and her brow furrowed in that practiced, “disappointed socialite” way of hers. “Cade, what is this? I could hear the shouting from the parking lot.” Layla saw Madison and crawled toward her like a drowning woman reaching for a buoy. She grabbed Madison’s designer slacks with trembling hands. “Madison! Please! He’s trying to send me to prison! I just… I took the wrong bag by mistake! He says it’s twenty-five thousand dollars! He’s trying to kill my future!” Madison looked down at the sobbing girl, then at me. Her voice was layered with that performative moral superiority she loved so much. “Twenty-five thousand for dinner, Cade? Since when did you become so pathologically wasteful?” I almost laughed. This was my “loving” fiancée. Her first instinct wasn’t to question the thief; it was to indict the victim for his lifestyle. “It’s my money, Madison. I didn’t realize I needed to submit an expense report for my own celebrations.” “Don’t be glib,” she snapped. “This is about justice.” “Justice? You haven’t even asked what happened, yet you’ve already decided who’s at fault. Is that your version of justice?” Madison blinked, stunned. I usually spent our relationship bending over backward to stay in her good graces. I never raised my voice. She helped Layla up and sighed with the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Cade, have some grace. You know Layla’s background. She’s a sophomore on a full-ride scholarship. Twenty-five thousand is an astronomical sum to her; to you, it’s the price of a watch. You’re a Whitaker. You’re going to be my husband. Can’t you find it in yourself to be the bigger person? Why are you bullying a girl over a meal?” “To destroy a young woman’s entire future over money… don’t you think that’s a bit monstrous? Where is your masculinity?” In my last life, she said the exact same thing. While the internet was calling me a “misogynistic pig,” she was the one whispering in my ear to apologize, to step down, to “be a man” and take the hit. And I did. And my reward was a life in the gutter while she moved on to the next “gentleman.” “Madison,” I said, savoring every syllable of her name. “First: theft is theft. The law doesn’t have a gender, and it doesn’t have a sliding scale for ‘intent’ when the value hits five figures. Second: if I walked into your family’s estate and walked out with your heirloom diamonds, then called it ‘just a few rocks,’ would you be ‘the bigger person’?” I stepped into her personal space, looking down into her eyes. “And third—the most important part. My money doesn’t grow on trees. Why should I subsidize her ‘poverty’ with my hard work? Just because I’m a man and she’s a girl?” I pointed at the receipt on the desk. “If you’re so overcome with saintly compassion, Madison, you pay for it. Twenty-five thousand. Wire or check?” Madison’s face turned a blotchy, humiliated red. The campus security guards and the few students lingering in the hall were staring at her now. She was the “woke” heiress, always ready to spend other people’s moral capital, but never her own. “Cade, you’re being ridiculous! This isn’t about the money. It’s about your attitude! It’s about being a gentleman!” she shrieked, her voice rising to cover her lack of an argument. “If you aren’t writing a check, shut up.” I turned away from her as the police officers finally entered the room. “Officers, I’m the complainant. Here is the receipt, the order log, and I’ve already backed up the hallway surveillance footage on this thumb drive.” The lead officer looked at the amount on the screen and his posture sharpened. “This is a serious amount of property. Miss, you’re going to need to come with us.” As the handcuffs clicked into place, Layla finally snapped. “I won’t go! I’m not a thief! Madison, help me! Mrs. Gable!” She gripped the edge of the desk, her screams echoing through the hall. “Cade, you’re evil! You hate poor people! You’re just a bully who preys on women! I hope you rot!” Mrs. Gable paced nervously, but with the police there, she didn’t dare interfere further. She just glared at me. “Cade, you’ve made a massive mistake. This isn’t over.” As they led Layla away, she looked back at me. Her eyes weren’t crying anymore; they were filled with a venomous, serpentine hatred that promised a reckoning. Madison stood there, looking at me as if I were a stranger. “You won, Cade. But you lost the only thing that mattered: your character. You aren’t the man I thought you were.” She turned and swept out of the room. I stood in the silence of the office, feeling absolutely nothing but peace. Character? Chivalry? In my last life, I gave those things to the world, and they fed them to the dogs. This time, I had a new North Star: An eye for an eye. The firestorm started faster than I expected. By the next morning, a post was trending on the university’s “Confessions” page and Twitter. It didn’t mention theft. It spoke of a “terrified scholarship student” being “humiliated and threatened with prison” over a “food mistake.” It painted me as a corporate monster using my wealth to crush a girl’s spirit. The video had been edited. It only showed the moment I coldly said “twenty-five thousand” and Madison’s “brave” stand against my “cruelty.” The captions were pure bait: [A single dinner costs more than a poor student’s entire tuition. Is this the face of the Whitaker Group?] [Another privileged ‘Trust Fund Bro’ throwing a tantrum. Hide your daughters, ladies.] My phone started vibrating. Hundreds of messages from burner accounts. Death threats. Slurs. Someone even leaked my dorm number. By noon, my door had been spray-painted with “DIE TRASH” and a bloody tampon was hung on the handle. I sat in my room, watching the comments roll in. It was a mirror of my past life, but with one difference: I wasn’t drinking myself into a stupor this time. My phone rang. It was the Matriarch. My mother, CEO of the Whitaker Group. “Cade, explain this. Our stock dropped two points this morning because of your little stunt.” “It’s a legal matter, Mother.” “I don’t care if she stole the Crown Jewels,” her voice was a whip. “You will issue a statement immediately. You will say the delivery was a gift for a student event and there was a ‘misunderstanding.’ Then you will go to the precinct and drop the charges. If you don’t, I will freeze every account in your name and strip you of your inheritance. Do you understand me?” In the face of the Whitaker brand, my dignity was less than dust. In my first life, I worshipped her approval. I folded. I apologized. And she threw me away anyway once I was no longer “useful.” “Did you hear me, Cade? Are you mute?” I gripped the phone, a slow smile spreading across my face. “I hear you, Mother. I’ll hold a live-streamed press conference tomorrow morning at ten to ‘clear the air.’” “Good. Madison’s family has been briefed. She’ll be there by your side to show a united front. Don’t mess this up.” I hung up and looked out at the city lights. A statement? Oh, I was going to give them a statement. But it wasn’t going to be an apology. The campus auditorium was packed the next morning. My mother’s PR team had already seeded the “apology” narrative online. Madison was there in an elegant white suit, looking like a modern saint. She caught me backstage. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, Cade,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “Layla has suffered enough. Just be a man, apologize gracefully, and we can move past this. Our engagement stands, provided you play your part.” She reached out to straighten my tie. I caught her wrist and shoved it away. “Don’t touch me. You’re getting your ‘Saint’ suit dirty.” Her face hardened. “Cade, what is wrong with you? I’m trying to save you!” “You’re trying to save your social standing,” I retorted. I walked out onto the stage. The flashes were blinding. The livestream viewer count hit a million within seconds. The chat was a waterfall of hate: [KILLER CADE!] [ABUSIVE RICH BOY!] I sat at the mic, calm as a dead sea. The PR director was frantically signaling me to read the teleprompter. I acted out of impulse… I misunderstood Miss Layla’s intentions… the delivery was a gift… I picked up the printed script. The room went silent. “Everyone wants the truth,” I said into the camera. “And I think it’s time we get it all out in the open.” I took the script and ripped it in half. Then I ripped it again, letting the pieces flutter to the floor like snow. I pulled a thumb drive from my pocket and plugged it into the podium’s laptop. “An apology? Not in this lifetime.” “Instead, let’s watch a short film.” The PR director turned ghost-white and lunged for the power cord, but I’d hired my own security—three massive guys who blocked the stage like a wall. “Sit down,” I barked. The authority in my voice stopped the room cold. The screen flickered to life. The chat, which had been a torrent of abuse, suddenly stuttered into silence. The screen didn’t show Layla crying over a bowl of ramen. It showed a high-resolution spreadsheet of bank statements and social media screenshots. “This is Layla,” I said, using a laser pointer. “Last month, she claimed she couldn’t afford feminine hygiene products. That same week, she sold a limited-edition designer bag on a luxury resale site for four thousand dollars.” I clicked to the next slide. “And here she is at an underground ‘Elite Club’ in the city. That’s an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of Cristal in her hand. She’s not a starving student. She’s a lifestyle influencer who ‘sources’ her luxury from ‘stupid rich boys’ like me.” The video changed. It was a clear, high-definition clip from a hidden camera in the dining hall kitchen. Layla was there, unpacking a stolen delivery bag, taking photos for her Instagram. “This sushi looks expensive,” her voice rang out clearly through the speakers. “I’ll post it and say I bought it. The simps will eat it up.” She dumped a tray of expensive sashimi into the trash after taking the photo. “God, raw fish is gross. But as long as I look like a ‘rich girl’ on TikTok, who cares? These men are so easy to play. If they catch me, I’ll just cry. They always fall for the tears.”

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Seven years. That’s how long we’d been doing the long-distance dance between Seattle and San Francisco. I finally decided to end the miles. I quit my job, packed my life into a few suitcases, and caught a flight south without telling her. I wanted to surprise her. I wanted to give her a ring. I wanted to finally start the life we’d been dreaming of since our sophomore year of college. But when I stood in the glass-and-steel lobby of her office building, the receptionist’s gaze was… complicated. “You’re here to see Madeline?” she asked, her eyes tracing the worn straps of my backpack. “Ms. Vance—sorry, Ms. Starling—is in a board meeting. You’ll have to wait.” I frowned. Madeline had never mentioned a promotion, let alone a title change. Last week, over FaceTime, she’d been complaining about the glass ceiling and how her boss was making her life a living hell. I turned toward the seating area, but the hushed whispers of the receptionists followed me like a cold draft. “Is that him? The one she keeps on the side?” “God, he’s bold, showing up at the office like this.” “Does she really think she can keep a side piece in Seattle while she’s married to a guy like Harrison? If he finds out, he’ll burn this whole city down.” My heart did a slow, sickening roll in my chest. I wanted to turn around and tell them they had it wrong. Madeline wasn’t married. I was her boyfriend of ten years. We were the real deal. But before I could speak, the revolving doors hissed open. A man stepped in, wearing a suit that cost more than my car. The receptionists snapped their mouths shut, their spines straightening. “Mr. Starling,” they said in unison, their voices dripping with practiced respect. The man was on his phone, his voice a deep, commanding rumble. “Sweetheart, I’m downstairs. You’re not getting out of the prenatal appointment today. I don’t care how long the meeting goes.” There was a pause, and then a voice crackled through his speaker—sweet, melodic, and unmistakable. “I know, honey. I’m almost done. Go up to the VIP lounge and wait for me.” I’d listened to that voice every night for a decade. It was the voice that told me she loved me, the voice that promised me forever. It was Madeline. … 1 My backpack hit the marble floor with a dull thud. As I bent down to retrieve it, a slip of paper fluttered out from the side pocket of a folder the man—Harrison—was carrying. I reflexively grabbed it. It was a lab report. Twelve weeks pregnant. Patient Name: Madeline Starling. Twelve weeks. Three months ago, Madeline told me she was too exhausted to fly up for our anniversary. She’d said she was buried in paperwork, barely sleeping. When we finally did a video call, I saw a faint, dark mark on the curve of her neck. “A bug bite,” she’d laughed, pulling her hair forward. “Silas, babe, after all these years, do you really think there’s anyone else? You’re my only one.” I’d believed her. I’d actually apologized for being paranoid. And now, I was standing in the shadow of her husband. Harrison took the lab report from my hand, offering a polite, distracted smile. “Thanks, man.” He paused, looking at me properly for the first time. “You here for Madeline, too?” I managed a stiff nod. “Come on up, then. My wife tends to lose track of time when she’s running meetings. Might as well wait in the comfort of the lounge.” The word wife felt like a jagged piece of glass twisting in my heart. In the lounge, Harrison introduced himself. Harrison Starling. The CEO of Starling Holdings. One of the most powerful names in the Bay Area. “Maddy is stubborn,” he said, looking down at the sonogram tucked into the report with a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. “She says she wants to earn enough for the ‘baby fund’—as if she doesn’t own half this company. She just loves the grind.” I gripped the strap of my bag until my knuckles turned white. Madeline had told me she was a junior analyst. She told me she was being bullied by her superiors. She told me the distance was the only thing keeping us from getting a marriage license. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. A group of executives walked past, nodding to Harrison. “Waiting for the boss lady again, Mr. Starling?” Then, she walked in. The room seemed to shrink. One of her colleagues nudged her, teasing, “Madeline, your husband is here to check up on you again!” Harrison stepped forward, sliding his arm around her waist with the ease of long-standing possession. “You’re late, Mrs. Starling.” “Just a few minutes, honey. I’m all yours now.” She leaned up and kissed his jaw. Then, her eyes shifted. She saw me. For a fraction of a second, her mask crumbled. Her face went deathly pale. But before I could even draw a breath, she regained her composure. Her expression turned into something cool, professional, and entirely detached. “Silas?” she said, her voice flat. “What are you doing here?” Harrison looked between us. “Sweetheart, who’s this?” The colleagues exchanged knowing looks. “Oh, you know Madeline,” one laughed. “She’s always helping out old school friends. This must be one of them.” Madeline stepped forward, physically placing herself between me and Harrison. “He’s an old classmate from college. A long time ago.” She turned to her assistant, her voice turning sharp. “Sarah, please show this gentleman out. We have a private appointment.” I stared at her, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for her to tell them it was all a joke. But her eyes were already back on Harrison. “Let’s go, honey,” she whispered, taking his hand. “We have to see the doctor.” Harrison leaned down to kiss her forehead. “You’re so obedient today.” As they walked past me, he glanced back over his shoulder. “Maddy, it’s a bit rude to leave your friend standing there, isn’t it?” Madeline didn’t turn around. “He’s just an old acquaintance, Harrison. Nowhere near as important as you.” The tears started then, hot and humiliating. The employees watched me with a mix of pity and mockery as I stood there, broken in the middle of her empire. Ten years of history. Seven years of distance. A thousand miles traveled. All reduced to “an old acquaintance.” I pulled out my phone. Three days ago, she’d texted me: Silas, just give me a little more time. Once my career stabilizes, we’ll get married. I promise. I’d quit my life for that promise. I had no idea I was just a character in a story she’d already finished writing. 2 My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Madeline. Go back with the assistant. I’ll explain everything later. I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. I couldn’t stop myself. I typed back: Why did you lie to me? Her reply was instantaneous and cold: Just go. Be smart, Silas. Don’t make a scene in front of the building and embarrass yourself. I looked up. People were whispering, pointing their phones at me. “Look at him. Does he really think he can just show up and claim her?” “Pathetic. Some guys will do anything for a payout from a woman like her.” I pulled my jacket hood over my head, my voice thick with a sob. “I’m not a payout. She lied to me… we were together for ten years…” Their response was a wave of cynical laughter. The assistant guided me toward a waiting town car. She wasn’t gentle. She practically shoved me into the backseat and threw my luggage into the trunk. Thirty minutes later, the car pulled up to a sprawling estate in Pacific Heights. Madeline had told me she lived in a cramped, one-bedroom apartment with three roommates to save money. I’d been sending her half my paycheck every month for three years, terrified she wasn’t eating well. The assistant pushed me into the house and I heard the heavy thud of the door locking behind me. “Wait here for Ms. Starling.” The air in the house smelled like expensive sandalwood and masculine cologne. I turned around and froze. Dominating the living room wall was a massive, framed wedding portrait. Harrison in a tuxedo, holding a radiant Madeline in a custom Vera Wang. The date in the corner of the plaque felt like a physical blow to the stomach. They had married on my birthday. That was the first birthday she’d ever missed. She’d told me she was stuck in an airport due to a blizzard, crying over the phone about how much she missed me. I lost it. I ran through the house, throwing open doors. Photos of them were everywhere. In the bedroom, her silk slips hung next to his tailored shirts. On the vanity, thousands of dollars worth of skincare products sat where I thought she was using drugstore brands. The final thread of hope snapped when I saw the box of condoms on the nightstand, nearly empty. “Busy.” She was always “busy.” She was busy building a life with a king while keeping a peasant on a leash in Seattle. I collapsed onto the cold hardwood floor, buried my face in my hands, and screamed. I grew up with nothing. My parents were farmers in a small town who put every cent they had into my education. I worked three jobs in college just to keep up. That’s how I met Madeline. I was the scholarship kid from the middle of nowhere. She was the “rebellious” daughter of a fallen dynasty—or so she told me. We were the “starving artist” couple of the year. We were so poor back then. But every birthday, Madeline would scrimp and save to buy me something special. She’d skip meals for a week just to get me a pair of limited-edition sneakers because “every guy should feel like a king sometimes.” She’d promised me that no matter how hard life got, she’d never let me down. After graduation, I stayed in Seattle. She moved to San Francisco. I lived in a $900-a-month studio that smelled like damp wood. She’d visit every other weekend. We’d tangle ourselves in the sheets of my cheap bed, the springs creaking under the weight of our promises. She’d kiss my eyes and whisper, “Silas, just wait for me. Once I’m stable, we’re getting married.” I worked myself to the bone for that dream. I pulled eighteen-hour shifts, ending up in the ER once from sheer exhaustion and dehydration. When Madeline found out, she flew to Seattle immediately. She yelled at me for being stupid, then held my hand and cried until her eyes were swollen. She stayed for a week, taking the heat from her “boss” over the phone, groveling just to stay by my side. I watched her swallow her pride for me, her eyes filled with a desperate, fierce love. In that moment, I would have died for her. I believed in us. That belief carried me through seven years of silence and distance. 3 When Madeline finally walked through the door, I was a ghost of myself. She rushed to me, trying to pull me into her arms, her eyes shimmering with what looked like genuine guilt. “Silas, I’m so sorry.” “Sorry?” I pushed her away, the strength of my anger surprising both of us. “You’re sorry you got caught? Or sorry you’ve been living a double life for seven years?” She stood up, smoothing her skirt, her face returning to that polished, marble-calm. “Silas, look at where I am. When my father died, the estate was in shambles. I had to come back. I had to take over. My family would never have let me marry a guy from a farm in Washington.” “So you married a billionaire instead? What was I, Madeline? A hobby? A souvenir from your ‘poor’ years?” She looked down at me, her gaze steady. “I am a Starling now. I have responsibilities. My marriage to Harrison is a merger—it’s good for both families. Harrison knows about you. He said as long as you stay quiet and stay in your place, he’ll look the other way. You can stay here. I’ll take care of you.” I stared at her, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. She reached out, wiping a tear from my cheek. “Silas, we’ve been together for a decade. I’m not going to throw that away. I’ll make you my executive assistant. You’ll have a salary, a life here. We don’t have to be long-distance anymore.” I didn’t say a word. I stood up, grabbed my suitcase, and slapped her across the face. The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Before she could recover from the shock, I was out the door. As the Uber pulled away, my phone chimed. A voice memo from Madeline. Silas, don’t be a child. You won’t find a better offer than this. I’m giving you three days to think about it before I stop being nice. Then, a notification: Madeline Starling has sent you $15,000. She used to send me $50 for “coffee” to maintain the lie. Now, she was throwing thousands at me to buy my silence. I didn’t reply. I sent the money back. I checked into a cheap motel and opened my phone. The internet had already exploded. Someone had filmed the encounter at the office. The video was everywhere. The headlines were brutal: Socialite Madeline Starling’s Secret ‘Boyfriend’ Causes Scene at Corporate HQ. I was the villain. I was the “homewrecker,” the “gold-digger,” the “delusional ex.” I tried to fight back. I posted our old photos, our chat logs, the timestamps of our ten-year history. I wanted the world to see that I was the one who was betrayed. The tide started to turn. People began calling her out. But then, Harrison Starling fought back. He posted their marriage license on Instagram with a caption about “unshakable love” and “obsessive fans who can’t let go.” The Starling PR team released a statement claiming my “evidence” was digitally altered and threatened a multi-million dollar defamation suit. The trolls descended. Look at this loser trying to clout-chase off a pregnant woman. Get a job, you pathetic leach. Within an hour, my post was deleted. My account was banned. I realized then that truth has no currency when you’re fighting a dynasty. My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway. It wasn’t Madeline. “Mr. Thorne,” the voice said—smooth, mocking, and dangerous. It was Harrison. “Let’s have a chat.” 4 We met at a secluded coffee shop the next morning. Harrison looked at me without a shred of surprise. “Silas. I knew about you the day I proposed to Madeline. In our world, a wife having a little something on the side isn’t a scandal—it’s a Tuesday. Madeline was actually quite disciplined; she only had you.” “I wasn’t ‘something on the side,’” I spat. “What you were is irrelevant,” Harrison said, sliding a new medical report across the table. Twelve weeks had become thirteen. “Madeline is carrying the Starling heir. I won’t have your little temper tantrums staining my child’s name. I had to clean up your mess on social media.” He pushed a non-disclosure agreement and a blank check toward me. “Sign this. Film a video admitting you fabricated the whole thing for clout. Leave the city in forty-eight hours. Fill in whatever number makes you feel like a man again.” I pushed the check back and stood up to leave. “Silas,” Harrison called out, his voice chillingly calm. “You won’t survive in this city. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He was right. By noon, I’d been rejected by four different firms. The HR managers looked at my resume, then at their screens, and shook their heads. “Character issues,” one said. “We can’t have our brand associated with… well, your situation.” Someone took a photo of me leaving an interview and tagged Madeline. Seconds later, she called. “How much more of a fool are you going to make of yourself, Silas? I offered you a job, and you’d rather go out and be a laughingstock? Stop this. Now.” “Is that all I am to you, Madeline? A joke?” The wind in the city was biting, cutting through my thin jacket. Madeline was silent for a long beat. “Silas, I—” I hung up. Minutes later, my phone vibrated again. This time, it was my mother. Her voice was a ragged, sobbing mess. “Silas! What have you done? People are saying you’ve been someone’s kept man for seven years! Your father… he saw it on the news. He had a heart attack, Silas. The surgery is fifty thousand dollars… we don’t have it…” A snowball hit the side of my head, thrown by a couple of teenagers across the street. “Hey, look! It’s the gold-digger!” they yelled, laughing as they ran off. I fell to my knees in the slush, my tears hot against the cold screen of my phone. I took a breath and dialed the number I had vowed to forget. Harrison answered on the first ring, his voice dripping with amusement. “Decided to be a realist?” “I’ll do it,” I whispered. 5 The apology was broadcast live on a local digital network. I sat under the harsh studio lights, reading from a script like a lobotomized doll. “My name is Silas Thorne. I am here to clarify the recent rumors. The photos and messages I shared were fabrications intended to gain followers… Madeline Starling and I were nothing more than casual acquaintances from years ago…” The live comments were a bloodbath. I watched the words Loser, Snake, and Scum scroll by until my eyes blurred. When the cameras cut, Harrison walked over. He took several stacks of cash out of an envelope and tossed them onto the floor. “Oops,” he said, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “My hand slipped. Pick it up, Silas.” The red-banded bills fluttered like falling leaves. “Harrison, don’t do this,” I whispered. I moved to stand up, but his security guards shoved me back down. A boot hit the back of my knee, forcing me to the floor. Someone grabbed the back of my head and slammed my face into the carpet. In front of the entire crew, I was forced to bow at Harrison’s feet. Laughter erupted around me. Phone cameras flashed. Harrison gripped my hair, pulling my face up to his. “Take the money and vanish, Silas. Don’t ever think you can play in my league again.” He turned away and dialed his phone. “Hey, babe. All handled. Tell me I’m your hero.” I could hear Madeline’s voice over the line, playful and warm. “You’re the best, honey. Hurry home.” I stayed on the floor, picking up the bills one by one. This was my father’s life. This was the price of my dignity. When the room finally emptied, a pair of red Louboutins appeared in my field of vision. “Are you that desperate, Silas? You’d really crawl on the floor for cash?” Madeline grabbed my arm, hauling me toward the exit. She shoved a credit card into my hand. “If you need money, ask me. Don’t humiliate yourself like this.” She drove me back to my motel herself. Her tone had softened, now that I had been sufficiently broken. “I bought you a penthouse overlooking the Bay. You’re moving in tomorrow.” “No more long distance, Silas. Once the baby is born and things settle down, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” I didn’t answer. I just sat there, counting the cash in my lap. When she pulled over, she leaned in and kissed my cheek. “I know these last few years have been hard. I promise, I’ll give you everything you ever wanted.” “Harrison’s a bit of a prick,” she added with a shrug. “Just ignore him.” Two hours later, I was at San Francisco International. A news alert popped up on my phone: The Starling Power Couple Attends Charity Gala; A Model of Modern Romance. And I was still the “kept man” the world loved to hate. Just as I reached the gate, Madeline texted me the address of the penthouse. I typed back four words: We’re done, Madeline. Goodbye. I blocked her number before she could reply. No more questions. No more screaming matches. As the plane lifted off, I looked out at the glittering lights of the city below. Somewhere down there, Madeline was playing her part. But I was finally stepping out of the script.

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Every time I asked Vanessa to head downstairs, I’d add a casual reminder: “Don’t forget to take the trash out.” She’d always nod, and she’d always forget. Later, I noticed something. Whenever she went down, the trash outside our neighbor Sebastian’s door would miraculously vanish by the next morning. Once, I purposefully didn’t say a word. Predictably, our trash sat right where it was, while the hallway across from us was spotless. I stood at the door for a few seconds, breathing in the faint, sour stench of overnight fermentation. I didn’t say a word. I simply picked up the bag and walked it down myself. From day on, I stopped reminding her of anything. I stopped asking what time she’d be home. I stopped asking her for “quick favors.” Until one night, she suddenly looked at me and asked, “Are you being a little cold to me lately?” I looked at the empty trash can in the foyer, thought about it for a second, and shook my head. “Not at all.” I had simply realized that some people don’t “forget” what they’re supposed to do; they’ve just already decided who is worth remembering. And I had decided it was time to move her from my “must-have” list to the “disposable” one. … Vanessa didn’t get home until two in the morning. I wasn’t asleep. I was sitting on the living room rug, organizing the past few years of our household expenses and bank statements. When I heard the door, I didn’t look up. A faint scent of perfume, mingled with the sharp tang of gin and cigarette smoke, drifted over. “Honey, you’re still up?” Her voice held that guilty, over-compensated sweetness. She knelt in front of me, clutching a polished thermal bag. “I passed by The Gilded Oyster on the way back. I waited in line forever to get you their signature seafood bisque. It’s still hot.” She kicked off her heels, looking at me with the expression of a golden retriever begging for a pat on the head. I looked up from my papers, my gaze landing on the container. The Gilded Oyster was famous—rich, heavy, loaded with crab and lobster. But because it was so rich, the briny, cloying scent of shellfish seeped through the lid. My stomach churned. A tiny, involuntary frown creased my brow. “Thanks. Just put it over there,” I said flatly. Vanessa seemed annoyed by my lack of enthusiasm. She set the soup on the coffee table and reached out to rest her hand on my shoulder, but I leaned forward to turn a page, subtly slipping out of her reach. Her hand hung in the air for a second before she pulled it back awkwardly. She started unbuttoning her cuffs, pulling off her silk blouse. “By the way, I need this shirt for a meeting tomorrow. It’s a bit wrinkled. Can you steam it for me? Remember to hand-wash it first—this fabric is temperamental, it can’t go in the machine.” The tone was so matter-of-fact, as if I were a high-end concierge she’d put on retainer. I glanced at the shirt. It was a gift I’d bought her for our anniversary—custom Italian silk blend. Delicate. Expensive. In the past, I would have hand-washed it in cool water and meticulously steamed out every microscopic crease, terrified of snagging a single thread. I looked at her, and a sudden, sharp laugh bubbled up in my chest. “Vanessa,” I said, pointing at the soup. “Did you seriously forget that I have a life-threatening shellfish allergy?” Her hand froze on her tie. A flash of confusion crossed her face, followed quickly by embarrassment and guilt. “Oh. Right… wait, really? I thought you loved fish…” “Freshwater fish,” I said, setting the bills down. “The last time I accidentally ate shellfish, I spent two days in the ER on an IV drip. You were the one who signed the admission papers.” That was only last year. I remembered her sitting by the hospital bed, scrolling through her phone and complaining about how hard the chairs were, grumbling that I was “careless” for making her take a day off work to watch me. Clearly, it hadn’t made much of an impression. Vanessa’s face flushed. Her eyes darted around the room. “I… I must have mixed it up. I was just trying to do something nice for you, bring you a treat. I’ll get you something else next time.” She reached for the container, but I was already standing. I picked up the expensive bag of soup, walked into the kitchen, and dropped the whole thing—bag and all—directly into the trash. Thump. Vanessa’s expression shifted instantly. “Grant, what the hell? That was an eighty-dollar soup! I haven’t even eaten yet!” “It’s an allergen. I don’t want it in my house. It feels like bad luck,” I said, turning on the faucet to wash my hands. My voice was as calm as if I were commenting on the weather. She stood there, stifled by my indifference. She took a deep breath, clearly suppressing her temper, and pointed at the silk shirt. “Fine. I messed up the soup. Just fix the shirt for me. I’m starving, I’m going to go make some pasta.” She turned toward the kitchen, familiar and comfortable in our space. I dried my hands, picked up the silk shirt, and walked into the laundry room. I didn’t reach for the basin of lukewarm water. Instead, I yanked open the heavy door of the washing machine, balled the silk into a tight knot, and tossed it in. I poured in the generic detergent, selected the “Heavy Duty” cycle, and hit start. As the drum began to roar and tumble, I knew that delicate Italian silk was as good as dead. When Vanessa emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of noodles, she heard the high-speed spin cycle. She froze, then sprinted to the laundry room. She stared at the spinning glass door, her eyes nearly bulging out of her head. “Grant! Are you insane? That’s a five-hundred-dollar shirt! I told you it had to be hand-washed!” She frantically hit the stop button and yanked out the wet, mangled, shrunken wad of fabric. The collar was twisted, the silk dull and ruined. Her face contorted with physical pain for the garment. I leaned against the doorframe, watching her meltdown with a terrifying sense of peace. “I used to hand-wash them because I loved you,” I said, meeting her furious gaze with a slight, mocking tilt of my head. “I thought you were worth the effort.” I paused, letting the silence stretch. “Now? The machine works fine. It’s going to get wrinkled eventually anyway. Why waste the time?” Vanessa looked at me like she was seeing a stranger. “You were never like this. Grant, what is wrong with you lately? Is this still about the trash? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum because I helped Sebastian with his bins a few times?” Oh. So she knew exactly what she was doing. She knew what was bothering me, but she chose to play dumb, even turning it around to frame me as the one “throwing a tantrum.” I looked at the wet rag in her hands and spoke softly. “Vanessa, you can buy a new shirt. But when some things break, there is no fixing them.” After the soup incident, Vanessa didn’t say a word to me for two days. Her social media, however, was thriving. She had blocked my main account, but she forgot about my burner. Yesterday, she posted a photo of herself in the hallway, leaning over a shoe rack. The caption read: Good neighbors are better than distant relatives. Kindness is its own reward. 🕊️ In the corner of the frame, I could see a pair of blue-grey slippers. Sebastian’s slippers. I scrolled down to Sebastian’s profile. Same angle. He’d posted a shot of Vanessa’s back as she knelt on the floor with a screwdriver. There was a cute, animated heart-shaped band-aid on her knuckle. His caption: Some people use their hands to rule the world, but she uses hers to fix my cabinets. My hero. It was a choreographed duet. A public flirtation disguised as “neighborly help.” I gave the post a “Like.” Then I turned off my phone and finished peeling the last shrimp on the table, putting it in my own bowl. Vanessa sat across from me, her face darkening. “Grant, when did you become so selfish? You used to peel the shrimp for me.” I sipped my barley tea, saying nothing, just watching her with a blank expression. She dropped her fork, leaving a half-peeled shrimp on her plate, and scowled. “Why aren’t you answering me? You aren’t even going to help? You used to give me the whole bowl.” Used to. Yeah. Vanessa used to say she was clumsy, that the shells pricked her fingers. She said she was an architect—her hands were her livelihood; she couldn’t risk a scratch. So every time we had seafood, I was the one wearing the gloves, enduring the sting of the spices on my skin, peeling them one by one. Seeing her eat happily felt like a reward back then. Even when my fingers grew red and raw from the salt and heat, she’d just say, “Maybe don’t peel so many next time,” before waiting for me to serve her again. “Vanessa,” I said, setting down my tea and looking at her long, manicured fingers. “Your hands really are precious, aren’t they?” She thought I was complimenting her and gave a smug little shrug. “Of course. These hands draw the skylines of this city.” “Right. Drawing hands,” I sneered. “Funnily enough, I didn’t hear you complaining about your ‘precious hands’ two nights ago when you were fixing Sebastian’s shoe rack in the hall.” “That… Sebastian’s cabinet broke. I happened to be walking by. I couldn’t just stand there and watch him struggle. It was just a quick favor.” “A quick favor? You brought your entire professional toolkit out there.” I let out a short, dry laugh. “Vanessa, you used to wait for me to get home to change a lightbulb because you ‘didn’t know how.’ But for the guy across the hall, you’re a master carpenter? Or is it that your hands are only ‘precious’ when it comes to me, but they’re perfectly fine for manual labor when it’s for him?” Vanessa’s face turned a deep, blotchy red. “Stop being so passive-aggressive! It’s just being a good neighbor! Look at you—you’re not even acting like a gentleman anymore.” “A gentleman?” I put down my chopsticks and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Vanessa, I’m a gentleman to my wife. I’m not a servant to a tenant. And since you’re so handy, don’t worry about calling a repairman next time something breaks in this house. Save the money. You’re such an ‘active neighbor,’ you can just handle it yourself.” I stood up and cleared the table. Vanessa sat there, watching my back. I think it was the first time she realized that the Grant who used to smile and nod at everything she said was gone. Good. It was about time someone faced reality. Vanessa wasn’t going to reflect on her behavior, of course. In her head, I was just “going through a phase.” She figured if she ignored me, I’d eventually crawl back and apologize. She kept up the act. Every morning before she left, she’d make a point to go to the passenger side of her car and adjust the lumbar pillow. I didn’t understand why. Until one day, I reached into the gap of the passenger seat and pulled out a fountain pen that didn’t belong to me. Black and gold. Heavy. It smelled like a men’s cologne—something spicy and expensive. Completely different from the pens I used. That night, when Vanessa walked in, I laid the pen on the coffee table. “Whose is this?” Vanessa glanced at it. Her eyes flickered with a split-second of panic before she smoothed her expression. “Oh. Probably Sebastian’s. I saw him on his way to work this morning and he was running late—couldn’t get an Uber. I just gave him a lift.” “A lift?” I arched an eyebrow. Sebastian’s office was in the East District. Vanessa’s was in the West. That “lift” was essentially a tour of the entire city. “Yeah, it was on the way,” she said, her voice sharp with impatience. “Stop being so paranoid. The kid is trying to make it on his own; it’s just a carpool.” “Is that so?” I didn’t push it. I just opened my phone and scrolled to Sebastian’s Instagram. Posted ten minutes ago. A photo from the passenger seat of Vanessa’s car. It showed her hand on the steering wheel and the perfectly adjusted lumbar pillow. The caption: Best private chauffeur ever. Not only is she a pro behind the wheel, she even sets up the back support for me. Total VIP treatment. Never taking the subway again! Vanessa had already “liked” it. That passenger seat used to be mine. Vanessa used to say it was the “Husband Seat”—that everyone else had to sit in the back. Apparently, “everyone else” didn’t include Sebastian. I liked the photo too, then shoved the screen in front of her face. “Private chauffeur? Vanessa, is this what you meant by ‘on the way’? You’re carpooling to and from work now? Did you guys get hired at the same company overnight?” Vanessa’s face went pale. She lunged for the phone. “He’s just joking! That’s how Gen Z talks! Can you stop making a federal case out of everything?” I stepped back, dodging her hand. I laughed, but there was no heat in it—just ice. “Fine. If we’re joking, I’ve got a funny one for you.” I pulled up my contacts and hit dial on speakerphone. “Hey, Marcus? It’s Grant. Yeah, that downtown condo. I want to list it. Today. High floor, great views. Yeah, let’s move fast. Price is negotiable for a quick sale.” This apartment was mine. I’d bought it in full before we ever got married. Even though Vanessa lived here and acted like the queen of the castle, only my name was on the deed. Vanessa officially lost it. “Grant, are you crazy?! This is our home! Where are we supposed to live?” I hung up and looked at her. Her desperation was the first thing that had made me feel good in weeks. “It’s my house. I can sell it whenever I want. As for where you’re going to live…” I looked her up and down, a mocking smile tugging at my lips. “Since you love being a private chauffeur so much, why don’t you ask your ‘passenger’ if he’s got a spare room?” “You are being completely unreasonable!” She slammed the door on her way out. Going to Sebastian’s, no doubt. I didn’t care. The air in this place had been dirty for a long time. The silent treatment began. She thought she could freeze me out, wait for me to break. But she miscalculated. I didn’t break; I thrived. Without her weighing me down like an anchor, I felt like I could finally breathe. Until my birthday. Customarily, I invited a few of my closest friends over for a small dinner. We were having a great time until the doorbell rang. Vanessa went to answer it. Standing in the hallway was Sebastian, wearing a silk robe. He was holding a plate of haphazardly sliced fruit. “Vanessa? I heard things getting lively over here. I was feeling so lonely by myself… mind if I crash for a bit?” His voice was soft, performatively vulnerable. He looked straight at Vanessa, completely ignoring the room full of guests. The robe wasn’t indecent, but in a room full of people, it was wildly suggestive and inappropriate. Vanessa clearly hadn’t expected him, but she looked at his “vulnerable” expression, bit her lip, and stepped aside to let him in. “Of course. The more the merrier.” My friends’ faces turned into a gallery of disbelief. Vanessa tried to play it off. “Everyone, this is our neighbor, Sebastian. He wanted to wish Grant a happy birthday.” Hearing her call me “Grant” in that fake-sweet tone made my skin crawl. Sebastian didn’t care about the cold stares. He squeezed onto the sofa right next to Vanessa, sliding the fruit plate toward her. “I cut this specifically for you, Vanessa. Is it sweet?” Vanessa glanced at me nervously. When I didn’t say anything, she took a piece of apple. “Yeah. It’s good.” “Hehe, I knew you’d like it.” He smiled, leaning his body into hers. “Gosh, the AC is so high in here. I’m actually kind of chilly. Vanessa, could I borrow a blanket?” Without a second thought, Vanessa got up, went into our bedroom, and brought out my favorite cashmere throw to wrap around him. I heard one of my buddies mutter under his breath, “Unbelievable. Look at these two.” The hand I was using to cut the cake faltered for a second, then steadied. “Here, let’s eat,” I said, handing the first slice to my friend, completely ignoring the “star-crossed lovers” on the sofa. Suddenly, Sebastian’s phone buzzed. He answered, and his face went white. He started trembling. “What? Really? That’s terrifying! … Vanessa, I think my power just went out. It’s pitch black, and I’m hearing these weird scratching noises… I’m scared.” He hung up and looked at her with misty eyes, his hand gripping her sleeve. “Can you come check it out with me? I really don’t want to go back in there alone.” Vanessa stood up instantly, her face full of concern. “Don’t worry, I’m coming. It’s probably just a blown fuse. It’s an easy fix.” She turned to me, her tone completely dismissive. “Grant, Sebastian has an electrical emergency. I’m going to go help him. Keep eating, don’t wait for me.” I looked at her. I was still holding the cake knife. The blade was smeared with red strawberry filling. It looked like blood. “Vanessa,” I said calmly. “It’s my birthday.” “I know, I know! But I can’t just leave him in the dark! Neighbors help each other! I’ll be right back. Be a good boy.” She didn’t even wait for a response. She grabbed Sebastian’s hand and pulled him out the door. Sebastian looked back at me over his shoulder as they left. The look in his eyes wasn’t fear. It was triumph. Bam. The door closed. The silence in the room was deafening. My best friend slammed his fork onto the table. “Grant! How are you taking this? He’s a total snake, and she’s blind!” I put the knife down and wiped the cream off my hand. “What am I supposed to do? If a dog wants to eat trash, you can’t stop it.” I walked to the door, turned the deadbolt, and slid the security chain into place. “Let’s finish the cake. We shouldn’t let irrelevant people ruin a good night.” Vanessa didn’t come back that night. My phone was flooded with her texts: Grant, the wiring is complicated. Still working on it. Sebastian is having a panic attack, he’s crying. I have to stay to calm him down. I probably won’t make it back tonight. Get some sleep. I didn’t reply to a single one. I tossed my phone aside and drank with my friends until the sun came up. The next morning, I was woken by the buzzing of the neighborhood association group chat. I opened it to find a wall of praise for Vanessa. Sebastian had posted a photo. It was Vanessa, exhausted, asleep on his sofa, covered by my cashmere throw. The caption: So lucky to have a neighbor I can count on. The power outage was terrifying, but Vanessa fixed the circuits and stayed up all night talking me through my anxiety. Total angel! A bunch of clueless neighbors were chiming in: Vanessa is such a sweetheart! We need more people like her in the building. Grant is so lucky to have such a caring wife! I looked at the “thumbs up” emojis and felt a wave of cold, sharp irony. Caring? She abandoned her husband on his birthday to spend the night with a man in his bathrobe. That was it. I was done. I pulled up a file on my laptop—the divorce papers I’d drafted weeks ago. I converted it to a PDF and dropped it directly into the group chat of three hundred neighbors. I tagged both Sebastian and Vanessa. @Sebastian @Vanessa: Since you two are so deeply in love that “fixing a fuse” requires an overnight stay, I’ve decided to make it official. I’m big on recycling, and it’s time to take the trash out. You two deserve each other. May you stay together forever so you don’t ruin anyone else’s life.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391512”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I tried to win the male lead’s heart ten times, and every single time, I failed because of his best friend, Ethan Vance. On my eleventh attempt, the male lead and I were finally married. All I needed to do was get pregnant and have a child, and I would succeed. But then Ethan showed up again. He told my husband that I was a manipulative schemer who had orchestrated everything. My husband immediately moved out and hired a lawyer to draft divorce papers. That very night, I hired someone to kidnap the root of all my misery: Ethan Vance. He knelt before me, his hands bound tightly behind his back. Even though he was bruised and battered, his gaze remained as arrogant and condescending as ever. I let out a cold laugh, used the tip of my shoe to tilt his chin up, and then stomped my foot down hard onto his face. I’ve been terrified of you ten times. This time, it’s your turn to be terrified of me. 01 Even while kneeling, Ethan’s back was ramrod straight. His clothes were torn into ribbons from the whipping, and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. The moment the tip of my shoe lifted his chin, his chest heaved violently, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “What’s with that look?” I sneered, stepping on his shoulder and shoving him backward. The old wooden floorboards groaned loudly as he crashed heavily onto his back, completely defenseless. The next second, I stood up and planted my foot firmly on his lower abdomen. “Who gave you permission to look at me?” He stared straight back at me, his face devoid of expression, but the mockery in his eyes was unmistakable. I slid my foot down a couple of inches, stopping abruptly, and looked at him with a playful smirk. “Stop!” The face that had been completely stoic for an eternity finally cracked. His voice was strained, carrying a barely detectable trace of suppressed agony. “Stop?” I dragged the word out, feigning innocence, and pressed my foot down hard. “But you didn’t say the magic word.” Ethan’s face turned serious, his voice trembled slightly, and his breathing grew heavy. “Let me go. I won’t press charges.” “Let you go?” I removed my foot, watching him curl up slightly. “Do you really think you can walk out of here like this?” “How about I give you a bath before sending you on your way?” His eyes were bloodshot. His bound hands struggled fiercely behind his back, but before he could move his legs, I sat down heavily on his thighs. “You have to take your clothes off for a bath.” I tapped his belt buckle with my finger. “So, should we take the pants off first,” I moved my hand up to brush against his shirt buttons, “or the shirt?” The pauses between his gasps lengthened. His eyes grew hazy, as if his brain had short-circuited. I let my guard down. Suddenly, he jerked his legs up violently. I lost my balance and tumbled hard to the floor. Seizing the opportunity, Ethan shimmied toward the door, trying to use the wall to stand up. But I was faster. I grabbed a bucket of saltwater I had prepared and splashed the entire thing over his battered body. He didn’t even let out a whimper. Tough guy. But so what? Watching Ethan writhe on the floor like a drowned rat, I grabbed him by the hair and delivered a sharp karate chop to the back of his neck. He quickly lost consciousness. Wrestling a guy his size was exhausting; tying him to the bed cost me half my energy. Once I double-checked that all the doors and windows were securely locked, I finally felt safe enough to drive away. Now, it was time to go win back my male lead. 02 Ethan and I were naturally parallel lines with zero intersection. But ten times. Ten times I had tried to conquer the male lead’s heart, and every single time I was on the verge of success, Ethan ruined it, sending my progress plummeting. The first time, Ethan invited the male lead to dinner. The male lead met his “destined” female lead there and dumped me. The second time, I was driving the male lead to Ethan’s place. We got into a car crash on the way back, and I died on the spot. The third time, before I even officially started dating the male lead, I accidentally offended Ethan. He had me shipped off to a foreign country to do hard labor. And in the subsequent attempts, all my strategies failed because of him, no matter how hard I tried to avoid him. Ethan was the type of person I feared the most: wealthy background, ridiculously good looks, incredibly competent, and worst of all—he had no weaknesses and couldn’t be threatened. Whenever the male lead was around him, he turned into a loyal lapdog. If Ethan said walk in a straight line, he would never dare to turn around. During my fifth attempt, the male lead brought me to meet Ethan. Ethan looked at me like I was a piece of trash, warning the male lead not to bring just any random stray dog around him. I knew he looked down on me, so I always took detours to avoid him and never willingly crossed his path. I never imagined that this time, after Liam and I were already married, Ethan would actually demand that Liam divorce me. And Liam, stupid as a pig, actually believed the so-called “evidence” Ethan provided, accused me of having ulterior motives, and sent a lawyer to negotiate our divorce. I admit, winning him over was my mission, but my love for him wasn’t fake. Every single time I restarted this loop, my eyes were only on him. I racked my brain to plan the perfect “accidental” first meeting, worked tirelessly to fit his exact ideal type, never wore the same date outfit twice, and even did all his group projects for him in college. After finally enduring all the hardships, he wants a divorce? Impossible. My informant texted me that Liam was currently at home packing his bags. I didn’t waste a second and sped home. “Liam, what exactly do I have to do to make you believe my feelings are real?” Opening the door and seeing Liam dragging his suitcase toward the exit, I threw caution to the wind and wrapped my arms tightly around his waist. “Chloe, don’t be unreasonable.” He didn’t stroke my hair like he used to. His voice carried a distinct note of warning. “You’re sentencing me to death over a few pieces of paper from Ethan?” I buried my face in his chest. “I love you. Even if I schemed and calculated, it was only because I wanted to be with you.” “Chloe, when feelings are mixed with calculation, they turn sour.” He mercilessly pried my fingers apart. “And I don’t like it when you talk about Ethan that way.” Then, he strode out the door. When he loved me, he was so afraid I’d be lonely that he kept a video call on even while we slept. When he didn’t love me, he left me all alone in a massive, empty house. It was all Ethan’s fault! If it weren’t for Ethan, I would have succeeded a long time ago. Checking the time, it had been three hours. Ethan should be waking up right about now. 03 Thankfully, I arrived just in time. Ethan had almost freed one of his feet. I sneered and delivered a sharp slap across his face. “You broke my bed.” Ethan really did have delicate skin; half his face swelled up immediately. I grabbed his foot, tied it securely again, and then viciously slapped the other side of his face. “There. Now it’s symmetrical.” He remained silent, his mouth shut tight like a clam. “Speak.” I squatted by the edge of the bed. “Doesn’t it hurt?” I poked at the bleeding corner of his mouth. He still didn’t make a sound. “That’s fine.” I didn’t care. I leaned in closer, letting my dark hair brush against his ear, cheek, and neck. “Ethan, you are going to beg me.” He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look at me. I shrugged, pulled up a chair to sit beside him, started playing on my phone, and placed a water-drop hourglass on the nightstand. I watched a movie for two hours. My back was getting stiff, so I stood up to stretch. Glancing over, I saw the man on the bed resting with his eyes closed. I smiled. Let’s see how long you can hold out. Another movie, another two hours. The man on the bed was starting to lose his composure. I hadn’t played the movie audio out loud, so the rhythmic dripping of the water hourglass was exceptionally clear. Ethan’s brow furrowed slightly, and his breathing became erratic. I glanced at him again, the corners of my lips curling up. Half an hour later, the expected voice finally sounded. “Chloe, untie me.” “What was that?” I stood by the bed. “I didn’t hear you.” “Untie me.” His body was contorting involuntarily, though he couldn’t see it himself. “Untie you to do what?” I asked again. “You know what.” The veins on his forehead popped, and the sound of him struggling against his bonds grew louder and more desperate. “I have no idea.” I continued playing dumb. “Chloe!” His voice grew stern. “Untie me, and we’ll pretend this never happened.” “Beg me.” I felt a thrill of excitement coursing through me. “Chloe!” His calm facade shattered completely. He looked like an irrational beast. I watched his frantic state with cold detachment. He looked exactly like he did during my third loop, when he looked down at me like I was an ant. “Please.” He finally surrendered. “What did you say?” I asked. “I’m begging you.” He closed his eyes in defeat. I knew not to push him too far. I smiled brightly. “Alright, since you asked so nicely.” I turned to leave the room. “Chloe!” He panicked. “Why aren’t you untying me?” “Untying what?” I looked completely innocent. “You promised me.” “Yeah, I promised you.” I said nonchalantly. “What did I promise you?” He froze, not knowing how to respond. I laughed. “Like I promised… “I won’t look. “Help yourself.” 04 I had only intended to scare Ethan. I never expected his psychological defenses to crumble so easily. He lay on the bed like a corpse, his breathing barely perceptible. Just now, when I changed his clothes, he hadn’t struggled at all. “Ethan?” I called his name. His eyes were vacant. He didn’t seem to hear me. “Should I untie you?” I asked again. He continued to stare blankly at the ceiling, his eyes totally devoid of life. Oh my god, did I break his brain? I untied one of his hands. No reaction. So I untied the other. His feet were still tied, so I wasn’t afraid of him attacking me. But he still lay there, completely motionless. I started to panic. My first instinct was to run. As long as there’s life, there’s hope. The worst-case scenario was that I’d just have to restart the loop. I still had chances. I didn’t even have time to lock the doors or windows. I sped away, rushed home, packed my bags, bought a ticket for the earliest flight out of the city, and went into hiding in a remote border town. For a whole month, nothing happened—except for Liam constantly calling me to come back and finalize the divorce. I contacted my informant and asked if there was any major news in the city. My informant replied with a question mark. Before I could prompt further, the informant sent another message, saying the only big news was that the Vance family was increasing their overseas investments, and the head of the family was personally overseeing it abroad. Wasn’t the head of the Vance family Ethan? It seemed he hadn’t gone crazy. I breathed a sigh of relief, but then my heart leaped into my throat—he was definitely going to come after me for revenge. The system urged me to speed up my progress. The progress bar had been stagnant for a month. It also delivered a piece of devastating news: if I failed this loop, my ultimate reward—returning to the real world and resurrecting my grandmother—would be permanently revoked. I asked my informant if they could find out how long Ethan would be abroad. The reply was a year at minimum, maybe three to five years. Without Ethan interfering, I could finish my mission in six months tops. Then I could negotiate with the system. By the time Ethan returned, I might already be back in the real world. High risk, high reward. I immediately booked a flight back to the city to continue my mission. I never expected to be grabbed by a group of men the moment I stepped off the plane. And the man who was supposedly “abroad” was now sitting right in front of me. Except this time, I was the one kneeling. 05 His subordinates all left, leaving just me and Ethan in the massive room. He toyed with a lighter in his hand. The flame flickered to life, died, and sparked again, perfectly mirroring the erratic spikes of my heart rate. Then it hit me—he was just a fictional character in a novel. What did I have to be afraid of? My fear vanished instantly. I raised my head, looking down my nose at him, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on my lips. “What are you smiling at?” He stopped spinning the lighter. His eyes held a mix of confusion and a hint of madness. “Who gave you permission to sit?” I demanded. In an instant, his chest rose and fell rapidly, and the sound of him swallowing was loud in the quiet room. “Kneel,” I commanded. The very next second, Ethan dropped to his knees like a robot. His face was flushed crimson, and he was shaking like a leaf in the wind. Even if I hadn’t eaten pork, I’d seen pigs run. I felt like I was doing something terribly forbidden. “Untie me,” I continued. His eyes grew icy, holding a mixture of pain and deep reluctance. “Be a good boy,” I said, my voice dropping to a husky whisper. With just a few words, the power dynamic between me and Ethan had completely shifted again. 06 I was overjoyed. Liam was Ethan’s loyal lapdog. If Ethan was now completely obedient to me, completing the mission would be a piece of cake. Running my fingers through Ethan’s fine, dark hair, I didn’t hesitate to slap him twice across the face. “Who told you to tie me up?” He suddenly acted like a wronged golden retriever, grabbing my hand and trying to blow on it to soothe the sting. I immediately yanked it away. “Don’t touch me.” He knelt there, lost and unsure of what to do. His lips parted and closed several times before he finally spoke: “I didn’t tell them to tie you.” “Ethan.” I leaned in closer. He became visibly happier, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. “I don’t like it when you talk back.” His face paled, and he lowered his head in silence. “I don’t like it when you give me the silent treatment, either,” I added. At those words, Ethan’s head snapped up. Tears were actually welling in his eyes. “Please don’t dislike me.” “Then you have to be good.” I gently touched his swollen cheek. “Does it hurt, Ethan?” He took the opportunity to grab my hand, then quickly released it under my warning glare. “It doesn’t hurt.” I knew the art of the carrot and the stick perfectly. “But my heart aches for you.” “Don’t ache for me.” He struggled, unsure of what to call me. I cupped his cheek. “Call me Chloe.” He shyly looked down, then quickly looked back up. Like a child who had just sneaked a taste of honey, his eyes couldn’t hide his delight. “Chloe.” “Good boy.” I took his hand. “What reward do you want?” “Can Chloe kiss me?” He squeezed his eyes shut nervously, his eyelashes fluttering. I pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, not missing the flash of disappointment in his eyes. “Chloe, don’t leave.” I stood up, preparing to go. My main quest for today was finding Liam; I had already wasted too much time here. Ethan looked frantic, but I didn’t let him get up. He had to stay kneeling. “Count to one hundred and eighty before you stand up.” Looking into his desperate eyes, I smiled and said, “I like it when Ethan listens to me.” 07 The system informed me that Liam would meet the female lead, who was working as a part-time waitress, at a cocktail party tonight and enact a classic “hero saves the beauty” scene. I had to intervene and save the female lead before he did, severing the red thread of fate between them. Sure enough, when I arrived, the female lead was already surrounded by a group of rich playboys. Luckily, no one else had noticed yet. I thoroughly chewed out the little brats, then comforted the female lead and told her that her dorm RA was doing a surprise room check, urging her to hurry back to campus. The female lead had always been a stellar student. She completely believed me but was worried no one would cover her shift. Right on cue, the replacement waitress I had hired in advance showed up, and the female lead successfully left the party. Having disposed of that ticking time bomb, I scanned the room for Liam, ready to pounce. At exactly 8:00 PM, Liam made his entrance. He wasn’t as powerful as Ethan, but he was still a young, successful CEO that everyone wanted to network with. People swarmed him to hand out business cards. I found an opening and appeared in front of him. I hadn’t seen him in a month. A wave of grievance washed over me, and my nose stung. After spending ten loops with him, our emotional connection couldn’t be summed up in a few simple words. When things were good between us, I genuinely intended to have a child with him before I left this world. The people around us tactfully dispersed, leaving Liam and me standing face-to-face. “You didn’t even come looking for me?” I pouted, acting petulant like I always did, waiting for him to coax me. “I called you,” his voice was distant. “Since you’re back, let’s finalize the paperwork. The mandatory cooling-off period is over.” “Liam, you weren’t like this before.” I raised my hand, the wedding ring on my ring finger sparkling under the lights. “Did you forget what you said?” Liam had custom-made the ring himself, setting a circle of tiny, crushed diamonds into the band. I had told him that setting all those tiny stones was too hard on his eyes, and that a single diamond or a plain band would be fine. But Liam had said that setting every single diamond felt like kissing my eyes. “Don’t forget to return the ring,” he said, his eyes completely dead, as if he were discussing the weather. “Liam, look me in the eyes.” I grabbed the lapels of his suit. “I refuse to believe you have absolutely no feelings left for me.” “You know me.” He gently but firmly removed my hands. “I’ve always despised being lied to.” “What are you two doing?” Ethan’s voice suddenly rang in my ear. Looking at the architect of my misery, I started trembling with rage. Liam used the distraction to push me away. I tried to chase after him, but Ethan grabbed my arm. “Chloe, didn’t you two get divorced?” I slapped Ethan across the face. The entire ballroom fell dead silent. “No, we didn’t,” I enunciated clearly. He wasn’t angry. He just pulled me into his arms. I struggled violently but couldn’t break free, and he half-carried, half-dragged me out of the venue.

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