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Ran 0 days · stopped 7 Nov

2026 Must-Read Stories 🔞💥 Read Now👈

On my birthday, while I lay bleeding in the back of an ambulance, a new post popped up on my Instagram. It was my Mafia Don husband, setting off fireworks with his first love and her son.The boy reached up and called my husband Daddy.Dante held them both like they were the family he'd chosen.I froze. That same night, I drafted the divorce papers.What Dante didn't know was that I took my pain, my unborn child, and the last piece of my pride, and I disappeared.Later, the most dangerous man in New York panicked and searched for me all over the world.By the time he found me, I wasn't his anymore.——Blood ran down my face as I lay in the back of the ambulance.I called my husband again and again.He ignored every single one.Then an Instagram alert popped up.He was standing under fireworks with his first love and a little boy.The boy reached up and called him "Daddy."My husband held them close, like they were his real family.That night, I drafted the divorce papers.I was married to the most dangerous man, the mafia don in Chicago.I left him anyway.I took my secret pregnancy and the last of my pride, and I vanished.Later, he panicked.…Aria's POV"We're sorry. The number you've dialed isn't available right now."The recorded voice buzzed against my ear.The siren wailed above my head.A paramedic pressed a hand to my shoulder. "Ma'am, don't move! You're still bleeding!"I ignored him and hit call again.Voicemail.Again.Voicemail.The ambulance hit a pothole. Pain shot through my skull."Who are you trying to reach?" the paramedic asked. "I can call someone for you.""My husband." My voice cracked. "He'll pick up. He always picks up."My hand shook so hard I almost dropped the phone.Then the screen lit up.An Instagram alert. Someone had tagged my husband in a photo.Dante Moretti, the Mafia boss whom everyone fears never posted anything.But tonight, he'd let someone take one.I tapped it open.Fireworks burst over the Coney Island boardwalk.The caption said two words. [Happy birthday.]Whose birthday?I spread two fingers and zoomed in.A woman in a cream coat stood beside him. She was holding a little boy's hand.Dante's hand rested on the boy's shoulder.He was wearing the gray scarf I'd bought him last Christmas.I knew her.Bianca Ferrante.Dante's first love. The daughter of one of his late father's capos.She'd grown up running through the Moretti estate.Six years ago, she left.Now she was standing next to my husband."No," I whispered. My lips were shaking. "It's a mistake."The paramedic glanced at my screen, then looked away.I tapped through to her page.A video started playing.A kitchen. The boy stood on a stool, pouring chocolate chips into a bowl.Dante stood behind him with his sleeves pushed up, holding a whisk.He was smiling.I hadn't seen him smile like that in years.Bianca laughed behind the camera. "Okay, little prince. Tell everyone what you wished for."The boy tipped his face up and shouted at the lens."I wished Daddy could be with me every year on my birthday!"Daddy.He'd called my husband Daddy.My knuckles went white around the phone. The case dug into my palm.Dante, did you forget?Today's my birthday too.The paramedic was saying my name. His voice kept getting farther away.The phone slid out of my fingers.Everything went black.Aria’s POVThe first thing I smelled was disinfectant.I opened my eyes.A nurse leaned over me and checked the bandage on my forehead."You're awake. We stitched you up." She handed me my phone. "Is there someone you can call to come get you?"Dante's name sat on the screen above a long list of missed calls.Every one of them was mine.I stared at his name for a long time.Then I pressed it anyway.It rang three times. Someone picked up."Hello?"A woman.Bianca.I sat frozen on the hospital bed, the phone pressed to my ear.Before I could say a word, a child's laugh burst through the line."Daddy, the fireworks are starting again! Come look!"Then Dante's voice."Slow down, you'll trip. I'll watch as long as you want."So gentle.I opened my mouth.The line went dead.He hadn't even let me say one word.The nurse was still standing there. "Honey? Is someone coming?""No," I said. "Nobody's coming."I pushed the blanket off, signed the discharge forms, and took a cab home.The driver kept glancing at my bandage in the mirror. He didn't say anything.A young man stood on the front steps of our townhouse. One of Gallo's men. Someone was always posted there.He straightened up the second the cab stopped."Donna." His eyes dropped to the bandage. His hand was already reaching into his pocket. "I'll let the Don know.""Don't," I said. "He's busy."He looked at me for a second. Then he put the phone away.The clock in the hall said eleven.It was still my birthday.The living room lights were dimmed the way Dante liked them.The curtains I'd picked out hung neat and warm.Our wedding photo hung on the wall. In it, I was leaning into him, laughing so hard my eyes were half closed.His face had softened, just a little.I used to think that photo was the beginning of something happy.I looked away.In the bedroom, the bottle of wine still waited on the nightstand.The red silk nightgown I'd bought was folded on the bed.I'd planned this night for weeks.I opened the drawer and took out the scissors.The first cut was loud in the quiet room.Then another.Then another.Red strips of silk piled up around my feet.I picked up the wine and poured the whole bottle into the trash.Then I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark.Tears slid down my face without a sound.Headlights swept across the ceiling.Two cars. There were always two. His, and the one that followed his everywhere.The front door opened.Footsteps on the stairs.His tall shadow filled the bedroom doorway.His eyes moved over the shredded silk, the empty bottle, and finally my swollen face.He paused for one second."Sorry. Something came up. I'm back late."He loosened his tie like that settled it.I didn't answer.I just looked at him and waited for the rest.There wasn't any.Aria’s POVDante's apology sounded like a business report.He walked farther into the room and set his watch on the dresser."I'll have a sapphire necklace made for you tomorrow. To make up for your birthday."Jewelry again.He covered every wound with something expensive.He hadn't even noticed the bandage on my forehead.He crossed the room and slid an arm around my waist. He bent to kiss me.All I could see was his hand on that boy's shoulder.My stomach lurched. I shoved him away hard.He froze.I ran into the bathroom and gripped the sink. I gagged until my eyes watered.The woman in the mirror was shaking.We'd used protection last time. I was sure of it.But a thought crept in anyway, and my hands went cold.Dante stood in the bathroom doorway, his brows drawn low."What now? Another tantrum? I was late. I said I'd make it up to you."He folded his arms."Why are you being so unreasonable?"Unreasonable.The word scraped right through me.I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and turned around."Dante, I need to ask you something."His phone rang.The screen lit up between us.Bianca.He glanced down. The hard line of his mouth went soft.He answered right in front of me.I could hear her crying through the speaker."Don't be scared," he said. I barely recognized his voice. "I'm on my way. I'll handle everything."He hung up, and the softness was gone.He grabbed his watch off the dresser and walked past me."Something came up at the company. Get some rest."I'd stopped asking years ago what the company needed from him at midnight.The front door closed.The car started outside. Then the second one.I sat on the edge of the bed until midnight turned into dawn.I checked my phone every few minutes.Nothing.He didn't come back.Two years ago, it had been a night just like this.Dante took a waterfront contract in Red Hook away from the Caruso family.The Carusos didn't settle things like that in court.Three men with knives broke into this house.A cold blade pressed against my throat."Tell Moretti to back off," the man breathed in my ear. "Or she's dead."The bedroom door flew open.Dante threw himself in front of me.The knife opened up his back. Blood soaked through his shirt.He held on to me and didn't let go once."Ari, don't be scared. I won't let anything happen to you."Those three men were never seen in Chicago again.I never asked.After that night, Dante came home every single night.No matter how late. No matter what.I thought that was how he loved me.I thought it would last forever.The sky outside the window turned gray, then white.Tonight, he broke that rule for another woman.And I was the only one still sitting up waiting.

Derr Buczik Easterling

2026 Must-Read Stories 🔞💥 Read Now👈

Ran 0 days · stopped 7 Nov

2026 Must-Read Stories 🔞💥 Read Now👈

My Husband Called Me "The Zamboni." He Searched a Year for an Olympic Champion—Me. The skating moms call me "the Zamboni"—the mom in the gray parka who sits by the rink at 5 a.m. and never steps on the ice—and my husband laughs the loudest, because none of them know I'm Sasha Vale, the Olympic figure skating champion who vanished nineteen years ago, the same woman his family has spent a year begging to open their new ice arena. I tell him our daughter's skating boot is about to break. He promises to sit in the front row at her show, then tells his ex, where I can hear every word, that the two of them will be in Aspen that weekend. So I leave him—until opening night at his family's new rink, when my daughter's coach collapses before the championship final, my daughter freezes on the ice in front of three thousand people, and my husband tells me to take her home because I don't even know what a lutz is. I take off my parka and lace up my old white skates. My husband laughed loudest when the skating moms called me the Zamboni, and the champion on their poster was me. It was Thursday, September 24, seven o'clock, at our kitchen island in Greenwich. My husband's family was hosting a send-off dinner for the Cove Hill skating club. Six girls had made Eastern Sectionals, the big regional final. Grant was a VP at Whitlock Development, the family company. I cooked the salmon and the lemon potatoes. Five skating moms handed me their coats without looking at me. I hung them up and poured the wine. His mother took the head of the table. Then Celeste held up her iPad for the whole table. She was the club's board president. She was also Grant's girlfriend from high school through college. On the screen was a photo from 5 a.m. that morning. Me, in my long gray parka, holding a thermos by the boards. The boards are the low white walls around the ice. A coffee stain ran down the front of the parka. "Every morning by those boards," Celeste said. "Not one step on the ice. She just goes around and around, cleaning up after everybody." She tapped my face with one red nail. "She's the Zamboni." The table laughed. A Zamboni is the big, slow machine that cleans the ice. Nobody looks at it. Grant laughed too. He put his arm around me while I held the potatoes. "My Zamboni," he said, and kissed my hair. "Slow, but she keeps the ice smooth." "Some of us skate, sweetie," Celeste said over her glass. "Some of us drive the Zamboni." In the middle of the table lay a printed poster. Everyone in skating knows that photo. A girl in a white sequin dress, shot from behind. One leg lifted straight over her head. She glides on one blade across the whole ice, face turned away. People call it the Vale spiral. Across the top: BRING SASHA VALE HOME. The girl on that poster was me. My name was Sasha Vale. I won Olympic gold at eighteen. The next year, at Worlds, I fell on live TV. I broke my ankle, my cheekbone, and my nose on the ice. At nineteen, I disappeared. The papers called me "the girl who skated off the earth." That was nineteen years ago. Nobody in my kitchen knew. One of the moms leaned toward me. She spoke slowly, like I was a child. "A double axel is two and a half turns, hon. In the air." "Two and a half," I said. "Got it." His mother set down her fork. "Found Sasha Vale yet?" "A year of letters," Grant said. "Her lawyer sends every one back. Nobody's seen her in nineteen years. Get Sasha Vale on the ice opening night, and my mother makes me CEO." He grinned at the poster. Celeste ran the Sasha Vale file for the family. Grant only ever had the poster. Beside the poster lay drawings of the family's new rink, Whitlock Ice Center. The plan was written on them in blue ink. Opening night, the new rink would host the Sectionals final, live on national TV. Sasha Vale would skate for three minutes. She would cut the ribbon. Then she would take a new job there, Director of Skating. "I trained at Lake Placid the same summer she did," Celeste said. "I can get to her." She held out her empty glass to me without turning her head. "Fill it, Zamboni. To the top this time. You were stingy last round." I filled it to the top. Not one drop spilled. She set the full glass down on the poster. When she lifted it, a red ring sat on the girl's white back. There were nine girls in my group that summer. Celeste was not one of them. Nobody could find me, and that was on purpose. I was born Sasha Vale. After the ankle, a stalker started following me. A judge let me change my name to Nora Kemp and sealed the record. So their private investigator found nothing. My old lawyer just mailed the letters back. Surgeons rebuilt my face after Worlds. The face in the old ads is not my face anymore. Back then I weighed ninety-eight pounds. I wore heavy makeup and pulled my hair tight. Every poster showed my back. Now I was more than thirty pounds heavier, with short hair and glasses. I had no social media at all. The Whitlocks watched my daughter's scores, not old Olympic tapes. Grant had seen the scar on my ankle, the long line from the steel plate. I told him I broke it at fifteen, falling off a horse at summer camp. Before Worlds, my ankle had a stress fracture. That's a crack too small to see. My mother was also my coach. She died six years ago, and she never knew my new name. I told her three times, "It's breaking." She sent me out anyway. I broke it in front of the whole country. After that, I made myself a promise. No one would ever own my body on the ice again. And the plan on my table needed my body on the ice to win them a rink. I gave the medal money and the ad money to free kids' lessons at public rinks. I kept only a little. Before the wedding, his mother made me sign a prenup. "She's not even pretty from the front, I bet," Celeste said, and tapped the poster. "That's why she hides. Some girls peak at eighteen, ladies. Some girls never peak at all." She looked right at me when she said the last part. The moms laughed again. Grant poured himself more wine. At ten, the guests left. They took their coats off the hooks themselves this time, because I was at the sink. I did the dishes. Grant's iPad stood by the stove as my recipe stand. It was synced to his messages. It lit up while my hands were in the hot water. A group chat. Whitlocks + Celeste (no Nora) ⛸️ Celeste had posted the parka photo. "The Zamboni 💀" Grant had answered with one laughing face. 😂 The time said 7:52. I was serving the salmon then. He was sitting right next to me. Celeste again: "Should I teach her to stand on skates before opening night? I'm a coach, not a miracle worker." Grant: "lol." Soap ran down my wrist. I dried one finger on the dish towel. I took a screenshot and AirDropped it to my own phone. The towel left a wet print on the screen. Upstairs, the shower stopped. My daughter came down in her pajamas for a glass of water. She was twelve. She had a fresh blister bandage on her right heel. She looked at the poster, still on the table with its red ring. "Is Dad coming next Saturday?" she asked. "October 3? The Fall Showcase? I'm skating the new long program. Coach's old music." The long program is the big four-minute routine. Her coach's old music was "Clair de Lune." My daughter didn't know I had won gold to it. "He'll be there," I said. She padded back upstairs. I stood at the sink with my phone in my wet hand. The screenshot was still open. If he sat in the front row on Saturday, October 3, and stood on my side, I would tell him. I would tell him who was on that poster. If he didn't, I was done being the Zamboni. One chance. That was all he had left. …… Friday, 4:50 a.m. Cove Hill was the old rink, and it was always cold. Six metal chairs stood in a row by the boards. I took the third chair. I always took the third chair. I pushed my hands into my parka pockets. My right hand found a heat pack. It was already warm. Grant did that. Every rink morning, he got up at 4:30 in the dark. He started my car so the seats would be warm. He tore open a hand warmer and slipped it into my pocket. Then he went back to bed without a word. Four winters. More than five hundred mornings. I counted once, on the calendar in the laundry room. The paper on this one was crinkled from his fingers. I held it until my knuckles stopped aching. He kept something else, too. In his wallet, behind his license, there was a plastic tag with the number 38 on it. It came from the rental counter at the public rink in Central Park. Fourteen years ago, on our third date, he rented skates. I told him I didn't skate. I sat on the bench and held his coffee. He made it four feet. Then his blades went out from under him. He came down sideways, right at me. I didn't stand up. I put out one hand and caught his elbow. He hung there laughing, his skates scraping the rubber floor. He never turned in the tag. At parties he tells everyone the same line. "My wife can't skate, but she's never let me fall." He always laughs when he says it. Out on the ice, my daughter was working on her double axel. A double axel is a jump where you take off facing forward. You spin two and a half times in the air. It's the hardest jump most twelve-year-olds will ever try. She went up. She spun. She came down on her right foot. I heard it. A dull crack, low, like a wet branch. It came from her right boot. Nobody else looked up. The other moms were in the lobby with their lattes. The coach on duty was on his phone. I stood. "Come here a second." She skated to the boards, breathing hard. I looked at her right boot. The leather at the ankle had folded in. A deep crease ran across it, dark and soft, like a bent paper cup. The boot had broken down. That means the stiff leather that holds a skater's ankle has gone soft. It can't hold her anymore. One more hard landing, and it could fold the whole way. "No more double axels till the new boots come," I said. "Mom." "I mean it." I had already ordered them. Custom boots, $1,100, paid from my own savings. They wouldn't arrive until October 20. The club was supposed to pay for a sponsor kid's boots. I turned in the form a month ago. It was still sitting on Celeste's desk, unsigned. His mother ran our household money, and I had signed her prenup. So I paid. A pair from the store would take three weeks to break in. She couldn't jump in those either. "But the showcase—" my daughter said. I walked her to the lobby for water. Celeste stood in the middle of the skating moms. She held up her tablet. On the screen was the lineup for the Fall Showcase, next Saturday, October 3. "Every qualifier lands a double axel in front of the sponsors," Celeste said. "That's the rule this year." My daughter's name was at the very bottom. Last skater. The closing spot. "Whit's idea," Celeste said. Whit was what she had called Grant since high school. She smiled at me over the screen. "Sponsor's kid closes the show." "Her boot is broken down," I said. "I heard it go just now." Celeste looked at my parka. Then at my sneakers. "Boots are fine, sweetie. They've got a season left. I skated. You drive." Two moms laughed into their cups. "Where's her coach?" I asked. Her coach was seventy-three. She hadn't been on the ice all week. "Dizzy spell," Celeste said. "At her age." She tapped the screen, and the lineup went dark. That night I found Grant in his office. He was still in his work shirt. I stood in the doorway. "Come next Saturday," I said. "October 3, eleven o'clock. Sit where she can see you." "Of course." "And tell Celeste no double axel. Her boot won't hold. Tell her it comes from you. She'll listen to you." He got up. He came around the desk and kissed my forehead. His lips were warm. "Front row. Wouldn't miss it." He pulled out his wallet and tucked a dry-cleaning ticket inside. Behind his license, I saw the corner of the plastic tag. Number 38. The edges were worn smooth from fourteen years of his thumb. He promised. I wanted, so badly, to believe him.Sunday, September 27, noon. The show was still six days away. His mother's terrace looked out over the lawn and the water. The table wore white linen. There were silver bowls of berries and a tall pitcher of mimosas, already sweating. Celeste sat at his mother's right hand. Her daughter sat beside her in a cream sweater. My daughter sat at the far end next to me. She was eating a croissant in tiny pieces. His mother tapped her glass. Everyone went quiet. She opened a small velvet box. Inside lay a gold charm bracelet. I knew it. It had belonged to Grant's grandmother. Tiny gold charms hung from the chain: a horse, a heart, a little church. At the very end hung a tiny gold skate. "My mother wore this every day of her life," his mother said. She took Celeste's wrist and fastened the clasp. "For the girl who brings the champion home." The table clapped. Celeste turned her wrist so the skate charm caught the sun. Grant clapped too. He smiled at his mother, then at Celeste. I kept my hands in my lap. Fourteen years of Sunday brunch at this table. That box had never opened for me. "Refill the mimosas, dear," his mother said to me. She didn't look up. I lifted the pitcher. The handle was wet and cold. I went down the table, filling glasses. When I reached Grant, I stopped. "About next Saturday," I said. I said it loud enough for the table. "Her boot is broken down. Could she do a single axel instead? Just this once." Grant laughed and patted my arm. "Don't baby her, Nora. Celeste actually skated." Celeste lifted her glass for me to fill. "The Zamboni's worried," she said. Then she added, out loud, like a caption under a photo: "Skull emoji." The whole table laughed. Her daughter laughed. His mother laughed behind her napkin. My daughter set down her croissant. "Don't worry, sweetie," Celeste said. "If she falls, you can clean it up." Grant laughed with everyone else. He reached for a strawberry. I filled her glass to the top. Not a drop spilled. After brunch, his mother sent me for the coffee. The coffee cart stood at the far end of the terrace, under a striped awning. Grant and Celeste stood near it, by the stone wall. Grant had his back to me. Celeste faced my way. I set down my tray. I filled the first cup. Steam fogged my glasses. "Sasha Vale's old agent lives in Aspen," Celeste said. She kept her voice low. "I got us dinner with him next Saturday." "Saturday," Grant said. "He knows where she went. I'd bet my life on it." That agent had not heard my voice in nineteen years. Nobody had. Grant rubbed his jaw. Then he nodded. "Fly out Friday night. Back Sunday. She'll be at the rink all day. She won't even notice." Celeste looked over his shoulder, straight at me. She didn't blink. "More coffee, sweetie." He was flying across the country to find a woman. That woman was standing behind him, pouring his coffee. My hand did not shake. I filled his cup to the line. I walked around the wall and stood in front of him with the cup. He turned. "Hey, babe." "Next Saturday," I said. "Eleven a.m. You'll be there?" Celeste watched his face. She was smiling with her mouth closed. "You look tired, sweetie. All those early mornings, driving in circles." Grant took the cup from me. He didn't look at her. "Front row, babe." Celeste reached past me and picked up the pot from my tray. She filled the cup I was still holding. Her new bracelet clicked against the china. The little gold skate swung back and forth over my coffee. "There," she said. "Now you've got something to hold on Saturday." Across the terrace, my daughter was practicing her arms by the railing. She was counting the turns under her breath. Two and a half. He was going to miss her skate to find me.Tuesday night, my daughter's right boot sat on the kitchen island on a dish towel. The crease at the ankle had gotten deeper. I could fit a fingernail in it. Grant came in with his phone to his ear. He hung up and kept scrolling. I turned the boot toward him. I pressed my thumb on the fold. The leather gave like bread. "Look. Right here. One more double axel and it goes." He didn't look. His thumb kept moving on the screen. "I'll be there, okay? I said I'd be there." "That's not what I asked." He was already on the stairs. On Wednesday, I wrote to Celeste. She ran the Fall Showcase. I kept it polite. I asked to switch my daughter's double axel to a single axel. A single axel is one and a half turns. It's still hard. It's much easier on a boot. Her answer came in twenty minutes. She hit reply-all. Every skating mom at the club got it. "Zamboni wants to edit the program now 💀 Request denied. Sponsors expect a double." By lunch, three moms had answered with laughing faces. On Thursday, I drove to her coach's house. Coach was lying on her couch under a knitted blanket. Orange pill bottles stood in a row on the coffee table. A cup of tea had gone cold beside them, with a skin on top. "I'm fine," she said. "Just dizzy." She was seventy-three. She was also the only person alive who knew who I was. Twenty years ago, she built my Olympic long program. It was set to Clair de Lune. Every step of it was hers. Seven years ago, she saw my daughter at a public rink. My daughter was five, wobbling in rental skates. Afterward Coach found me on the bench. She hadn't seen me since I was nineteen. She knew me anyway. "She has your edges," she said that day. An edge is the side of the blade a skater rides on. Good skaters lean into it, like a bike in a turn. Most kids take years to learn it. My daughter did it at five without trying. So I let Coach teach her. On one condition. She would never tell anyone who I was. Now she pushed herself up on one elbow. "Tell them. Tell him." "No." "Nora." "No." She lay back down. "I called the club on Monday. I told them to cancel her double axel. Celeste picked up." "What did she say?" "Noted." Coach made a face. "That's all. Noted." She pulled a notepad from under the blanket. Her hand shook, but her writing was clear. No double axel for my skater until her new boots are broken in. Coach's orders. She signed her full name and tore off the page. I drove it straight to the club. Celeste was in the lobby by the trophy case. I held out the note. "This is from her coach," I said. "Give it to whoever runs the music on Saturday." She read it with one eyebrow up. Then she folded it in half. She folded it again. She opened her Hermès bag and tucked it inside, between her wallet and her lipstick. "I'll handle it, sweetie." She snapped the bag shut. That night, after the house went quiet, I carried the step stool into the closet. On the top shelf, behind the winter blankets, sat an old shoe box. The corners had gone soft with dust. I hadn't opened it since before my daughter was born. Inside lay a pair of white skates. The leather had yellowed a little at the toes. On the inside of the tongue, in silver marker, was my own handwriting. S.V. — for the last time. I touched one blade with my finger. It was still sharp. I put the lid back on and pushed the box behind the blankets. Friday evening, Grant came down the stairs with his carry-on. He had his good coat on. "Boston client dinner," he said. "Back for the show, babe. Front row." He kissed me. He smelled like the cologne I bought him last Christmas. Behind me, the iPad chimed. It still stood by the stove as my recipe stand. It still synced his messages. I didn't turn around until he reached the hall. The screen showed a travel plan. Friday, 6:40 p.m., company jet to Aspen. Back Sunday afternoon. Two passengers: Grant Whitlock, Celeste Ward. Under it sat a hotel confirmation. Two rooms. I took a screenshot. My thumb left a print on the glass. His suitcase rolled out the door at six.

Davis Kendall Lausren

2026 Must-Read Stories 🔞💥 Read Now👈

Ran 0 days · stopped 7 Nov

2026 Must-Read Stories 🔞💥 Read Now👈

My Husband Called Me "The Zamboni." He Searched a Year for an Olympic Champion—Me. The skating moms call me "the Zamboni"—the mom in the gray parka who sits by the rink at 5 a.m. and never steps on the ice—and my husband laughs the loudest, because none of them know I'm Sasha Vale, the Olympic figure skating champion who vanished nineteen years ago, the same woman his family has spent a year begging to open their new ice arena. I tell him our daughter's skating boot is about to break. He promises to sit in the front row at her show, then tells his ex, where I can hear every word, that the two of them will be in Aspen that weekend. So I leave him—until opening night at his family's new rink, when my daughter's coach collapses before the championship final, my daughter freezes on the ice in front of three thousand people, and my husband tells me to take her home because I don't even know what a lutz is. I take off my parka and lace up my old white skates. My husband laughed loudest when the skating moms called me the Zamboni, and the champion on their poster was me. It was Thursday, September 24, seven o'clock, at our kitchen island in Greenwich. My husband's family was hosting a send-off dinner for the Cove Hill skating club. Six girls had made Eastern Sectionals, the big regional final. Grant was a VP at Whitlock Development, the family company. I cooked the salmon and the lemon potatoes. Five skating moms handed me their coats without looking at me. I hung them up and poured the wine. His mother took the head of the table. Then Celeste held up her iPad for the whole table. She was the club's board president. She was also Grant's girlfriend from high school through college. On the screen was a photo from 5 a.m. that morning. Me, in my long gray parka, holding a thermos by the boards. The boards are the low white walls around the ice. A coffee stain ran down the front of the parka. "Every morning by those boards," Celeste said. "Not one step on the ice. She just goes around and around, cleaning up after everybody." She tapped my face with one red nail. "She's the Zamboni." The table laughed. A Zamboni is the big, slow machine that cleans the ice. Nobody looks at it. Grant laughed too. He put his arm around me while I held the potatoes. "My Zamboni," he said, and kissed my hair. "Slow, but she keeps the ice smooth." "Some of us skate, sweetie," Celeste said over her glass. "Some of us drive the Zamboni." In the middle of the table lay a printed poster. Everyone in skating knows that photo. A girl in a white sequin dress, shot from behind. One leg lifted straight over her head. She glides on one blade across the whole ice, face turned away. People call it the Vale spiral. Across the top: BRING SASHA VALE HOME. The girl on that poster was me. My name was Sasha Vale. I won Olympic gold at eighteen. The next year, at Worlds, I fell on live TV. I broke my ankle, my cheekbone, and my nose on the ice. At nineteen, I disappeared. The papers called me "the girl who skated off the earth." That was nineteen years ago. Nobody in my kitchen knew. One of the moms leaned toward me. She spoke slowly, like I was a child. "A double axel is two and a half turns, hon. In the air." "Two and a half," I said. "Got it." His mother set down her fork. "Found Sasha Vale yet?" "A year of letters," Grant said. "Her lawyer sends every one back. Nobody's seen her in nineteen years. Get Sasha Vale on the ice opening night, and my mother makes me CEO." He grinned at the poster. Celeste ran the Sasha Vale file for the family. Grant only ever had the poster. Beside the poster lay drawings of the family's new rink, Whitlock Ice Center. The plan was written on them in blue ink. Opening night, the new rink would host the Sectionals final, live on national TV. Sasha Vale would skate for three minutes. She would cut the ribbon. Then she would take a new job there, Director of Skating. "I trained at Lake Placid the same summer she did," Celeste said. "I can get to her." She held out her empty glass to me without turning her head. "Fill it, Zamboni. To the top this time. You were stingy last round." I filled it to the top. Not one drop spilled. She set the full glass down on the poster. When she lifted it, a red ring sat on the girl's white back. There were nine girls in my group that summer. Celeste was not one of them. Nobody could find me, and that was on purpose. I was born Sasha Vale. After the ankle, a stalker started following me. A judge let me change my name to Nora Kemp and sealed the record. So their private investigator found nothing. My old lawyer just mailed the letters back. Surgeons rebuilt my face after Worlds. The face in the old ads is not my face anymore. Back then I weighed ninety-eight pounds. I wore heavy makeup and pulled my hair tight. Every poster showed my back. Now I was more than thirty pounds heavier, with short hair and glasses. I had no social media at all. The Whitlocks watched my daughter's scores, not old Olympic tapes. Grant had seen the scar on my ankle, the long line from the steel plate. I told him I broke it at fifteen, falling off a horse at summer camp. Before Worlds, my ankle had a stress fracture. That's a crack too small to see. My mother was also my coach. She died six years ago, and she never knew my new name. I told her three times, "It's breaking." She sent me out anyway. I broke it in front of the whole country. After that, I made myself a promise. No one would ever own my body on the ice again. And the plan on my table needed my body on the ice to win them a rink. I gave the medal money and the ad money to free kids' lessons at public rinks. I kept only a little. Before the wedding, his mother made me sign a prenup. "She's not even pretty from the front, I bet," Celeste said, and tapped the poster. "That's why she hides. Some girls peak at eighteen, ladies. Some girls never peak at all." She looked right at me when she said the last part. The moms laughed again. Grant poured himself more wine. At ten, the guests left. They took their coats off the hooks themselves this time, because I was at the sink. I did the dishes. Grant's iPad stood by the stove as my recipe stand. It was synced to his messages. It lit up while my hands were in the hot water. A group chat. Whitlocks + Celeste (no Nora) ⛸️ Celeste had posted the parka photo. "The Zamboni 💀" Grant had answered with one laughing face. 😂 The time said 7:52. I was serving the salmon then. He was sitting right next to me. Celeste again: "Should I teach her to stand on skates before opening night? I'm a coach, not a miracle worker." Grant: "lol." Soap ran down my wrist. I dried one finger on the dish towel. I took a screenshot and AirDropped it to my own phone. The towel left a wet print on the screen. Upstairs, the shower stopped. My daughter came down in her pajamas for a glass of water. She was twelve. She had a fresh blister bandage on her right heel. She looked at the poster, still on the table with its red ring. "Is Dad coming next Saturday?" she asked. "October 3? The Fall Showcase? I'm skating the new long program. Coach's old music." The long program is the big four-minute routine. Her coach's old music was "Clair de Lune." My daughter didn't know I had won gold to it. "He'll be there," I said. She padded back upstairs. I stood at the sink with my phone in my wet hand. The screenshot was still open. If he sat in the front row on Saturday, October 3, and stood on my side, I would tell him. I would tell him who was on that poster. If he didn't, I was done being the Zamboni. One chance. That was all he had left. …… Friday, 4:50 a.m. Cove Hill was the old rink, and it was always cold. Six metal chairs stood in a row by the boards. I took the third chair. I always took the third chair. I pushed my hands into my parka pockets. My right hand found a heat pack. It was already warm. Grant did that. Every rink morning, he got up at 4:30 in the dark. He started my car so the seats would be warm. He tore open a hand warmer and slipped it into my pocket. Then he went back to bed without a word. Four winters. More than five hundred mornings. I counted once, on the calendar in the laundry room. The paper on this one was crinkled from his fingers. I held it until my knuckles stopped aching. He kept something else, too. In his wallet, behind his license, there was a plastic tag with the number 38 on it. It came from the rental counter at the public rink in Central Park. Fourteen years ago, on our third date, he rented skates. I told him I didn't skate. I sat on the bench and held his coffee. He made it four feet. Then his blades went out from under him. He came down sideways, right at me. I didn't stand up. I put out one hand and caught his elbow. He hung there laughing, his skates scraping the rubber floor. He never turned in the tag. At parties he tells everyone the same line. "My wife can't skate, but she's never let me fall." He always laughs when he says it. Out on the ice, my daughter was working on her double axel. A double axel is a jump where you take off facing forward. You spin two and a half times in the air. It's the hardest jump most twelve-year-olds will ever try. She went up. She spun. She came down on her right foot. I heard it. A dull crack, low, like a wet branch. It came from her right boot. Nobody else looked up. The other moms were in the lobby with their lattes. The coach on duty was on his phone. I stood. "Come here a second." She skated to the boards, breathing hard. I looked at her right boot. The leather at the ankle had folded in. A deep crease ran across it, dark and soft, like a bent paper cup. The boot had broken down. That means the stiff leather that holds a skater's ankle has gone soft. It can't hold her anymore. One more hard landing, and it could fold the whole way. "No more double axels till the new boots come," I said. "Mom." "I mean it." I had already ordered them. Custom boots, $1,100, paid from my own savings. They wouldn't arrive until October 20. The club was supposed to pay for a sponsor kid's boots. I turned in the form a month ago. It was still sitting on Celeste's desk, unsigned. His mother ran our household money, and I had signed her prenup. So I paid. A pair from the store would take three weeks to break in. She couldn't jump in those either. "But the showcase—" my daughter said. I walked her to the lobby for water. Celeste stood in the middle of the skating moms. She held up her tablet. On the screen was the lineup for the Fall Showcase, next Saturday, October 3. "Every qualifier lands a double axel in front of the sponsors," Celeste said. "That's the rule this year." My daughter's name was at the very bottom. Last skater. The closing spot. "Whit's idea," Celeste said. Whit was what she had called Grant since high school. She smiled at me over the screen. "Sponsor's kid closes the show." "Her boot is broken down," I said. "I heard it go just now." Celeste looked at my parka. Then at my sneakers. "Boots are fine, sweetie. They've got a season left. I skated. You drive." Two moms laughed into their cups. "Where's her coach?" I asked. Her coach was seventy-three. She hadn't been on the ice all week. "Dizzy spell," Celeste said. "At her age." She tapped the screen, and the lineup went dark. That night I found Grant in his office. He was still in his work shirt. I stood in the doorway. "Come next Saturday," I said. "October 3, eleven o'clock. Sit where she can see you." "Of course." "And tell Celeste no double axel. Her boot won't hold. Tell her it comes from you. She'll listen to you." He got up. He came around the desk and kissed my forehead. His lips were warm. "Front row. Wouldn't miss it." He pulled out his wallet and tucked a dry-cleaning ticket inside. Behind his license, I saw the corner of the plastic tag. Number 38. The edges were worn smooth from fourteen years of his thumb. He promised. I wanted, so badly, to believe him.Sunday, September 27, noon. The show was still six days away. His mother's terrace looked out over the lawn and the water. The table wore white linen. There were silver bowls of berries and a tall pitcher of mimosas, already sweating. Celeste sat at his mother's right hand. Her daughter sat beside her in a cream sweater. My daughter sat at the far end next to me. She was eating a croissant in tiny pieces. His mother tapped her glass. Everyone went quiet. She opened a small velvet box. Inside lay a gold charm bracelet. I knew it. It had belonged to Grant's grandmother. Tiny gold charms hung from the chain: a horse, a heart, a little church. At the very end hung a tiny gold skate. "My mother wore this every day of her life," his mother said. She took Celeste's wrist and fastened the clasp. "For the girl who brings the champion home." The table clapped. Celeste turned her wrist so the skate charm caught the sun. Grant clapped too. He smiled at his mother, then at Celeste. I kept my hands in my lap. Fourteen years of Sunday brunch at this table. That box had never opened for me. "Refill the mimosas, dear," his mother said to me. She didn't look up. I lifted the pitcher. The handle was wet and cold. I went down the table, filling glasses. When I reached Grant, I stopped. "About next Saturday," I said. I said it loud enough for the table. "Her boot is broken down. Could she do a single axel instead? Just this once." Grant laughed and patted my arm. "Don't baby her, Nora. Celeste actually skated." Celeste lifted her glass for me to fill. "The Zamboni's worried," she said. Then she added, out loud, like a caption under a photo: "Skull emoji." The whole table laughed. Her daughter laughed. His mother laughed behind her napkin. My daughter set down her croissant. "Don't worry, sweetie," Celeste said. "If she falls, you can clean it up." Grant laughed with everyone else. He reached for a strawberry. I filled her glass to the top. Not a drop spilled. After brunch, his mother sent me for the coffee. The coffee cart stood at the far end of the terrace, under a striped awning. Grant and Celeste stood near it, by the stone wall. Grant had his back to me. Celeste faced my way. I set down my tray. I filled the first cup. Steam fogged my glasses. "Sasha Vale's old agent lives in Aspen," Celeste said. She kept her voice low. "I got us dinner with him next Saturday." "Saturday," Grant said. "He knows where she went. I'd bet my life on it." That agent had not heard my voice in nineteen years. Nobody had. Grant rubbed his jaw. Then he nodded. "Fly out Friday night. Back Sunday. She'll be at the rink all day. She won't even notice." Celeste looked over his shoulder, straight at me. She didn't blink. "More coffee, sweetie." He was flying across the country to find a woman. That woman was standing behind him, pouring his coffee. My hand did not shake. I filled his cup to the line. I walked around the wall and stood in front of him with the cup. He turned. "Hey, babe." "Next Saturday," I said. "Eleven a.m. You'll be there?" Celeste watched his face. She was smiling with her mouth closed. "You look tired, sweetie. All those early mornings, driving in circles." Grant took the cup from me. He didn't look at her. "Front row, babe." Celeste reached past me and picked up the pot from my tray. She filled the cup I was still holding. Her new bracelet clicked against the china. The little gold skate swung back and forth over my coffee. "There," she said. "Now you've got something to hold on Saturday." Across the terrace, my daughter was practicing her arms by the railing. She was counting the turns under her breath. Two and a half. He was going to miss her skate to find me.Tuesday night, my daughter's right boot sat on the kitchen island on a dish towel. The crease at the ankle had gotten deeper. I could fit a fingernail in it. Grant came in with his phone to his ear. He hung up and kept scrolling. I turned the boot toward him. I pressed my thumb on the fold. The leather gave like bread. "Look. Right here. One more double axel and it goes." He didn't look. His thumb kept moving on the screen. "I'll be there, okay? I said I'd be there." "That's not what I asked." He was already on the stairs. On Wednesday, I wrote to Celeste. She ran the Fall Showcase. I kept it polite. I asked to switch my daughter's double axel to a single axel. A single axel is one and a half turns. It's still hard. It's much easier on a boot. Her answer came in twenty minutes. She hit reply-all. Every skating mom at the club got it. "Zamboni wants to edit the program now 💀 Request denied. Sponsors expect a double." By lunch, three moms had answered with laughing faces. On Thursday, I drove to her coach's house. Coach was lying on her couch under a knitted blanket. Orange pill bottles stood in a row on the coffee table. A cup of tea had gone cold beside them, with a skin on top. "I'm fine," she said. "Just dizzy." She was seventy-three. She was also the only person alive who knew who I was. Twenty years ago, she built my Olympic long program. It was set to Clair de Lune. Every step of it was hers. Seven years ago, she saw my daughter at a public rink. My daughter was five, wobbling in rental skates. Afterward Coach found me on the bench. She hadn't seen me since I was nineteen. She knew me anyway. "She has your edges," she said that day. An edge is the side of the blade a skater rides on. Good skaters lean into it, like a bike in a turn. Most kids take years to learn it. My daughter did it at five without trying. So I let Coach teach her. On one condition. She would never tell anyone who I was. Now she pushed herself up on one elbow. "Tell them. Tell him." "No." "Nora." "No." She lay back down. "I called the club on Monday. I told them to cancel her double axel. Celeste picked up." "What did she say?" "Noted." Coach made a face. "That's all. Noted." She pulled a notepad from under the blanket. Her hand shook, but her writing was clear. No double axel for my skater until her new boots are broken in. Coach's orders. She signed her full name and tore off the page. I drove it straight to the club. Celeste was in the lobby by the trophy case. I held out the note. "This is from her coach," I said. "Give it to whoever runs the music on Saturday." She read it with one eyebrow up. Then she folded it in half. She folded it again. She opened her Hermès bag and tucked it inside, between her wallet and her lipstick. "I'll handle it, sweetie." She snapped the bag shut. That night, after the house went quiet, I carried the step stool into the closet. On the top shelf, behind the winter blankets, sat an old shoe box. The corners had gone soft with dust. I hadn't opened it since before my daughter was born. Inside lay a pair of white skates. The leather had yellowed a little at the toes. On the inside of the tongue, in silver marker, was my own handwriting. S.V. — for the last time. I touched one blade with my finger. It was still sharp. I put the lid back on and pushed the box behind the blankets. Friday evening, Grant came down the stairs with his carry-on. He had his good coat on. "Boston client dinner," he said. "Back for the show, babe. Front row." He kissed me. He smelled like the cologne I bought him last Christmas. Behind me, the iPad chimed. It still stood by the stove as my recipe stand. It still synced his messages. I didn't turn around until he reached the hall. The screen showed a travel plan. Friday, 6:40 p.m., company jet to Aspen. Back Sunday afternoon. Two passengers: Grant Whitlock, Celeste Ward. Under it sat a hotel confirmation. Two rooms. I took a screenshot. My thumb left a print on the glass. His suitcase rolled out the door at six.

Davis Patrick McKelvey

2026 Must-Read Stories 🔞💥 Read Now👈

Ran 0 days · stopped 7 Nov

2026 Must-Read Stories 🔞💥 Read Now👈

My Husband Called Me "The Zamboni." He Searched a Year for an Olympic Champion—Me. The skating moms call me "the Zamboni"—the mom in the gray parka who sits by the rink at 5 a.m. and never steps on the ice—and my husband laughs the loudest, because none of them know I'm Sasha Vale, the Olympic figure skating champion who vanished nineteen years ago, the same woman his family has spent a year begging to open their new ice arena. I tell him our daughter's skating boot is about to break. He promises to sit in the front row at her show, then tells his ex, where I can hear every word, that the two of them will be in Aspen that weekend. So I leave him—until opening night at his family's new rink, when my daughter's coach collapses before the championship final, my daughter freezes on the ice in front of three thousand people, and my husband tells me to take her home because I don't even know what a lutz is. I take off my parka and lace up my old white skates. My husband laughed loudest when the skating moms called me the Zamboni, and the champion on their poster was me. It was Thursday, September 24, seven o'clock, at our kitchen island in Greenwich. My husband's family was hosting a send-off dinner for the Cove Hill skating club. Six girls had made Eastern Sectionals, the big regional final. Grant was a VP at Whitlock Development, the family company. I cooked the salmon and the lemon potatoes. Five skating moms handed me their coats without looking at me. I hung them up and poured the wine. His mother took the head of the table. Then Celeste held up her iPad for the whole table. She was the club's board president. She was also Grant's girlfriend from high school through college. On the screen was a photo from 5 a.m. that morning. Me, in my long gray parka, holding a thermos by the boards. The boards are the low white walls around the ice. A coffee stain ran down the front of the parka. "Every morning by those boards," Celeste said. "Not one step on the ice. She just goes around and around, cleaning up after everybody." She tapped my face with one red nail. "She's the Zamboni." The table laughed. A Zamboni is the big, slow machine that cleans the ice. Nobody looks at it. Grant laughed too. He put his arm around me while I held the potatoes. "My Zamboni," he said, and kissed my hair. "Slow, but she keeps the ice smooth." "Some of us skate, sweetie," Celeste said over her glass. "Some of us drive the Zamboni." In the middle of the table lay a printed poster. Everyone in skating knows that photo. A girl in a white sequin dress, shot from behind. One leg lifted straight over her head. She glides on one blade across the whole ice, face turned away. People call it the Vale spiral. Across the top: BRING SASHA VALE HOME. The girl on that poster was me. My name was Sasha Vale. I won Olympic gold at eighteen. The next year, at Worlds, I fell on live TV. I broke my ankle, my cheekbone, and my nose on the ice. At nineteen, I disappeared. The papers called me "the girl who skated off the earth." That was nineteen years ago. Nobody in my kitchen knew. One of the moms leaned toward me. She spoke slowly, like I was a child. "A double axel is two and a half turns, hon. In the air." "Two and a half," I said. "Got it." His mother set down her fork. "Found Sasha Vale yet?" "A year of letters," Grant said. "Her lawyer sends every one back. Nobody's seen her in nineteen years. Get Sasha Vale on the ice opening night, and my mother makes me CEO." He grinned at the poster. Celeste ran the Sasha Vale file for the family. Grant only ever had the poster. Beside the poster lay drawings of the family's new rink, Whitlock Ice Center. The plan was written on them in blue ink. Opening night, the new rink would host the Sectionals final, live on national TV. Sasha Vale would skate for three minutes. She would cut the ribbon. Then she would take a new job there, Director of Skating. "I trained at Lake Placid the same summer she did," Celeste said. "I can get to her." She held out her empty glass to me without turning her head. "Fill it, Zamboni. To the top this time. You were stingy last round." I filled it to the top. Not one drop spilled. She set the full glass down on the poster. When she lifted it, a red ring sat on the girl's white back. There were nine girls in my group that summer. Celeste was not one of them. Nobody could find me, and that was on purpose. I was born Sasha Vale. After the ankle, a stalker started following me. A judge let me change my name to Nora Kemp and sealed the record. So their private investigator found nothing. My old lawyer just mailed the letters back. Surgeons rebuilt my face after Worlds. The face in the old ads is not my face anymore. Back then I weighed ninety-eight pounds. I wore heavy makeup and pulled my hair tight. Every poster showed my back. Now I was more than thirty pounds heavier, with short hair and glasses. I had no social media at all. The Whitlocks watched my daughter's scores, not old Olympic tapes. Grant had seen the scar on my ankle, the long line from the steel plate. I told him I broke it at fifteen, falling off a horse at summer camp. Before Worlds, my ankle had a stress fracture. That's a crack too small to see. My mother was also my coach. She died six years ago, and she never knew my new name. I told her three times, "It's breaking." She sent me out anyway. I broke it in front of the whole country. After that, I made myself a promise. No one would ever own my body on the ice again. And the plan on my table needed my body on the ice to win them a rink. I gave the medal money and the ad money to free kids' lessons at public rinks. I kept only a little. Before the wedding, his mother made me sign a prenup. "She's not even pretty from the front, I bet," Celeste said, and tapped the poster. "That's why she hides. Some girls peak at eighteen, ladies. Some girls never peak at all." She looked right at me when she said the last part. The moms laughed again. Grant poured himself more wine. At ten, the guests left. They took their coats off the hooks themselves this time, because I was at the sink. I did the dishes. Grant's iPad stood by the stove as my recipe stand. It was synced to his messages. It lit up while my hands were in the hot water. A group chat. Whitlocks + Celeste (no Nora) ⛸️ Celeste had posted the parka photo. "The Zamboni 💀" Grant had answered with one laughing face. 😂 The time said 7:52. I was serving the salmon then. He was sitting right next to me. Celeste again: "Should I teach her to stand on skates before opening night? I'm a coach, not a miracle worker." Grant: "lol." Soap ran down my wrist. I dried one finger on the dish towel. I took a screenshot and AirDropped it to my own phone. The towel left a wet print on the screen. Upstairs, the shower stopped. My daughter came down in her pajamas for a glass of water. She was twelve. She had a fresh blister bandage on her right heel. She looked at the poster, still on the table with its red ring. "Is Dad coming next Saturday?" she asked. "October 3? The Fall Showcase? I'm skating the new long program. Coach's old music." The long program is the big four-minute routine. Her coach's old music was "Clair de Lune." My daughter didn't know I had won gold to it. "He'll be there," I said. She padded back upstairs. I stood at the sink with my phone in my wet hand. The screenshot was still open. If he sat in the front row on Saturday, October 3, and stood on my side, I would tell him. I would tell him who was on that poster. If he didn't, I was done being the Zamboni. One chance. That was all he had left. …… Friday, 4:50 a.m. Cove Hill was the old rink, and it was always cold. Six metal chairs stood in a row by the boards. I took the third chair. I always took the third chair. I pushed my hands into my parka pockets. My right hand found a heat pack. It was already warm. Grant did that. Every rink morning, he got up at 4:30 in the dark. He started my car so the seats would be warm. He tore open a hand warmer and slipped it into my pocket. Then he went back to bed without a word. Four winters. More than five hundred mornings. I counted once, on the calendar in the laundry room. The paper on this one was crinkled from his fingers. I held it until my knuckles stopped aching. He kept something else, too. In his wallet, behind his license, there was a plastic tag with the number 38 on it. It came from the rental counter at the public rink in Central Park. Fourteen years ago, on our third date, he rented skates. I told him I didn't skate. I sat on the bench and held his coffee. He made it four feet. Then his blades went out from under him. He came down sideways, right at me. I didn't stand up. I put out one hand and caught his elbow. He hung there laughing, his skates scraping the rubber floor. He never turned in the tag. At parties he tells everyone the same line. "My wife can't skate, but she's never let me fall." He always laughs when he says it. Out on the ice, my daughter was working on her double axel. A double axel is a jump where you take off facing forward. You spin two and a half times in the air. It's the hardest jump most twelve-year-olds will ever try. She went up. She spun. She came down on her right foot. I heard it. A dull crack, low, like a wet branch. It came from her right boot. Nobody else looked up. The other moms were in the lobby with their lattes. The coach on duty was on his phone. I stood. "Come here a second." She skated to the boards, breathing hard. I looked at her right boot. The leather at the ankle had folded in. A deep crease ran across it, dark and soft, like a bent paper cup. The boot had broken down. That means the stiff leather that holds a skater's ankle has gone soft. It can't hold her anymore. One more hard landing, and it could fold the whole way. "No more double axels till the new boots come," I said. "Mom." "I mean it." I had already ordered them. Custom boots, $1,100, paid from my own savings. They wouldn't arrive until October 20. The club was supposed to pay for a sponsor kid's boots. I turned in the form a month ago. It was still sitting on Celeste's desk, unsigned. His mother ran our household money, and I had signed her prenup. So I paid. A pair from the store would take three weeks to break in. She couldn't jump in those either. "But the showcase—" my daughter said. I walked her to the lobby for water. Celeste stood in the middle of the skating moms. She held up her tablet. On the screen was the lineup for the Fall Showcase, next Saturday, October 3. "Every qualifier lands a double axel in front of the sponsors," Celeste said. "That's the rule this year." My daughter's name was at the very bottom. Last skater. The closing spot. "Whit's idea," Celeste said. Whit was what she had called Grant since high school. She smiled at me over the screen. "Sponsor's kid closes the show." "Her boot is broken down," I said. "I heard it go just now." Celeste looked at my parka. Then at my sneakers. "Boots are fine, sweetie. They've got a season left. I skated. You drive." Two moms laughed into their cups. "Where's her coach?" I asked. Her coach was seventy-three. She hadn't been on the ice all week. "Dizzy spell," Celeste said. "At her age." She tapped the screen, and the lineup went dark. That night I found Grant in his office. He was still in his work shirt. I stood in the doorway. "Come next Saturday," I said. "October 3, eleven o'clock. Sit where she can see you." "Of course." "And tell Celeste no double axel. Her boot won't hold. Tell her it comes from you. She'll listen to you." He got up. He came around the desk and kissed my forehead. His lips were warm. "Front row. Wouldn't miss it." He pulled out his wallet and tucked a dry-cleaning ticket inside. Behind his license, I saw the corner of the plastic tag. Number 38. The edges were worn smooth from fourteen years of his thumb. He promised. I wanted, so badly, to believe him.Sunday, September 27, noon. The show was still six days away. His mother's terrace looked out over the lawn and the water. The table wore white linen. There were silver bowls of berries and a tall pitcher of mimosas, already sweating. Celeste sat at his mother's right hand. Her daughter sat beside her in a cream sweater. My daughter sat at the far end next to me. She was eating a croissant in tiny pieces. His mother tapped her glass. Everyone went quiet. She opened a small velvet box. Inside lay a gold charm bracelet. I knew it. It had belonged to Grant's grandmother. Tiny gold charms hung from the chain: a horse, a heart, a little church. At the very end hung a tiny gold skate. "My mother wore this every day of her life," his mother said. She took Celeste's wrist and fastened the clasp. "For the girl who brings the champion home." The table clapped. Celeste turned her wrist so the skate charm caught the sun. Grant clapped too. He smiled at his mother, then at Celeste. I kept my hands in my lap. Fourteen years of Sunday brunch at this table. That box had never opened for me. "Refill the mimosas, dear," his mother said to me. She didn't look up. I lifted the pitcher. The handle was wet and cold. I went down the table, filling glasses. When I reached Grant, I stopped. "About next Saturday," I said. I said it loud enough for the table. "Her boot is broken down. Could she do a single axel instead? Just this once." Grant laughed and patted my arm. "Don't baby her, Nora. Celeste actually skated." Celeste lifted her glass for me to fill. "The Zamboni's worried," she said. Then she added, out loud, like a caption under a photo: "Skull emoji." The whole table laughed. Her daughter laughed. His mother laughed behind her napkin. My daughter set down her croissant. "Don't worry, sweetie," Celeste said. "If she falls, you can clean it up." Grant laughed with everyone else. He reached for a strawberry. I filled her glass to the top. Not a drop spilled. After brunch, his mother sent me for the coffee. The coffee cart stood at the far end of the terrace, under a striped awning. Grant and Celeste stood near it, by the stone wall. Grant had his back to me. Celeste faced my way. I set down my tray. I filled the first cup. Steam fogged my glasses. "Sasha Vale's old agent lives in Aspen," Celeste said. She kept her voice low. "I got us dinner with him next Saturday." "Saturday," Grant said. "He knows where she went. I'd bet my life on it." That agent had not heard my voice in nineteen years. Nobody had. Grant rubbed his jaw. Then he nodded. "Fly out Friday night. Back Sunday. She'll be at the rink all day. She won't even notice." Celeste looked over his shoulder, straight at me. She didn't blink. "More coffee, sweetie." He was flying across the country to find a woman. That woman was standing behind him, pouring his coffee. My hand did not shake. I filled his cup to the line. I walked around the wall and stood in front of him with the cup. He turned. "Hey, babe." "Next Saturday," I said. "Eleven a.m. You'll be there?" Celeste watched his face. She was smiling with her mouth closed. "You look tired, sweetie. All those early mornings, driving in circles." Grant took the cup from me. He didn't look at her. "Front row, babe." Celeste reached past me and picked up the pot from my tray. She filled the cup I was still holding. Her new bracelet clicked against the china. The little gold skate swung back and forth over my coffee. "There," she said. "Now you've got something to hold on Saturday." Across the terrace, my daughter was practicing her arms by the railing. She was counting the turns under her breath. Two and a half. He was going to miss her skate to find me.Tuesday night, my daughter's right boot sat on the kitchen island on a dish towel. The crease at the ankle had gotten deeper. I could fit a fingernail in it. Grant came in with his phone to his ear. He hung up and kept scrolling. I turned the boot toward him. I pressed my thumb on the fold. The leather gave like bread. "Look. Right here. One more double axel and it goes." He didn't look. His thumb kept moving on the screen. "I'll be there, okay? I said I'd be there." "That's not what I asked." He was already on the stairs. On Wednesday, I wrote to Celeste. She ran the Fall Showcase. I kept it polite. I asked to switch my daughter's double axel to a single axel. A single axel is one and a half turns. It's still hard. It's much easier on a boot. Her answer came in twenty minutes. She hit reply-all. Every skating mom at the club got it. "Zamboni wants to edit the program now 💀 Request denied. Sponsors expect a double." By lunch, three moms had answered with laughing faces. On Thursday, I drove to her coach's house. Coach was lying on her couch under a knitted blanket. Orange pill bottles stood in a row on the coffee table. A cup of tea had gone cold beside them, with a skin on top. "I'm fine," she said. "Just dizzy." She was seventy-three. She was also the only person alive who knew who I was. Twenty years ago, she built my Olympic long program. It was set to Clair de Lune. Every step of it was hers. Seven years ago, she saw my daughter at a public rink. My daughter was five, wobbling in rental skates. Afterward Coach found me on the bench. She hadn't seen me since I was nineteen. She knew me anyway. "She has your edges," she said that day. An edge is the side of the blade a skater rides on. Good skaters lean into it, like a bike in a turn. Most kids take years to learn it. My daughter did it at five without trying. So I let Coach teach her. On one condition. She would never tell anyone who I was. Now she pushed herself up on one elbow. "Tell them. Tell him." "No." "Nora." "No." She lay back down. "I called the club on Monday. I told them to cancel her double axel. Celeste picked up." "What did she say?" "Noted." Coach made a face. "That's all. Noted." She pulled a notepad from under the blanket. Her hand shook, but her writing was clear. No double axel for my skater until her new boots are broken in. Coach's orders. She signed her full name and tore off the page. I drove it straight to the club. Celeste was in the lobby by the trophy case. I held out the note. "This is from her coach," I said. "Give it to whoever runs the music on Saturday." She read it with one eyebrow up. Then she folded it in half. She folded it again. She opened her Hermès bag and tucked it inside, between her wallet and her lipstick. "I'll handle it, sweetie." She snapped the bag shut. That night, after the house went quiet, I carried the step stool into the closet. On the top shelf, behind the winter blankets, sat an old shoe box. The corners had gone soft with dust. I hadn't opened it since before my daughter was born. Inside lay a pair of white skates. The leather had yellowed a little at the toes. On the inside of the tongue, in silver marker, was my own handwriting. S.V. — for the last time. I touched one blade with my finger. It was still sharp. I put the lid back on and pushed the box behind the blankets. Friday evening, Grant came down the stairs with his carry-on. He had his good coat on. "Boston client dinner," he said. "Back for the show, babe. Front row." He kissed me. He smelled like the cologne I bought him last Christmas. Behind me, the iPad chimed. It still stood by the stove as my recipe stand. It still synced his messages. I didn't turn around until he reached the hall. The screen showed a travel plan. Friday, 6:40 p.m., company jet to Aspen. Back Sunday afternoon. Two passengers: Grant Whitlock, Celeste Ward. Under it sat a hotel confirmation. Two rooms. I took a screenshot. My thumb left a print on the glass. His suitcase rolled out the door at six.

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This was the ninth year since Luca and I met, and the fourth time we had honored our ridiculous thirty-day break. Luca believed it was the secret to making our relationship last. Every year after our anniversary, we paused our relationship for thirty days. We did not call, ask questions, or interfere with whom the other person dated. If either of us found someone better, we would part gracefully. If not, we would return to each other at the end of the month. Tonight, the Westbridge University racing team had reserved the upstairs room of a bar just off campus. Around me, the guys shook bottles of champagne. "To another year of freedom! Congratulations to our captain on being single again!" "The betting pool is open! Bet left if you think Luca and Elena will marry after graduation. Bet right if you think they'll finally break up!" Champagne flew as laughter blended with the music. I sat alone in one corner, watching as though they were not gambling on my relationship. While everyone laughed, Luca entered the party with his arm around Sienna—the same woman he had chosen last year. He leaned close to me and smiled. “Don’t overthink it. You’re still the only woman in my future.” I rested one hand over the child he did not know I was carrying. Everyone was betting that I would forgive Luca on the thirty-first day. This time, they were all going to lose. Chapter 1 By the time the second bottle of champagne exploded, the party had become even louder. To everyone at Westbridge, Luca was the untamable racing captain who had escaped his girlfriend’s leash for another thirty days. To me, he was the man I had finally decided to stop waiting for. Luca had always resisted responsibility. Now that we were in our final year, his father wanted him to plan his career, while his professors expected him to quit dangerous racing and finish our senior design project. These thirty days were the only time each year he believed he owed nothing to anyone. Although he looked down on the racing team’s crude parties, he never missed their annual “Back on the Market” celebration. Luca and I met in New York when we were fifteen. He was the reckless boy who rode his motorcycle onto campus. I was the straight-A student who never lost a jewelry design competition. His wildness and my composure made us Westbridge’s most unlikely couple. We started dating at eighteen. At first, our love burned so fiercely that I could not imagine anything extinguishing it. Then, on our first anniversary, I had just blown out the candles when Luca spoke. “Elena, we’ve known each other for years, and now we’ve been together for an entire year. Doesn’t that scare you?” “Why would it?” “Because we’re choosing the next several decades of our lives before we’re even twenty.” He watched me across the candlelight, his dark eyes restless. Then he crossed the room and trapped me between his body and the table. His lips brushed my collarbone as he lowered his voice. “What if we take a thirty-day break every year?” I went still. “For those thirty days, we’ll both be single. No calls, no questions, and no interfering with anyone the other person dates. If either of us finds someone better, we let each other go. If we still come back after thirty days, we’ll know we’re together because we choose each other—not because we’re afraid to leave.” I stepped back so quickly that I knocked the cake onto the floor. Bright frosting splattered across the tiles. Luca’s arms fell empty. His jaw tightened, but anticipation shone in his eyes. “Say yes. Please.” I should have refused. But I was eighteen, proud, and terrified that admitting I was afraid to lose him would make him want his freedom even more. “All right.” The tension instantly left his shoulders. He pulled me into his arms and kissed my hair. “It’s only a game. I’ll come back.” His voice softened. “On the thirty-first day, I’ll still choose you.” That first break nearly destroyed me. I refused to contact him, but I obsessively checked his social media and searched every photograph his teammates posted. I tortured myself wondering whether he had held another woman’s hand, kissed her, or taken her to bed. Every suggestive picture and whispered rumor opened a new wound. During the day, I attended class and finished my assignments with my usual composure. At night, I woke alone in our cold bed, shaking. One night, I could no longer bear it and called him. Luca answered immediately. He did not complain that I had broken our agreement. When he heard something wrong in my breathing, he began telling me one of the childish bedtime stories he used to tell me in high school. He kept talking until I stopped trembling. “Elena,” he asked quietly, “is this month too hard for you?” The next day, with three days remaining, he came home early. I thought he had finally understood how much the arrangement hurt me. I believed we would never do it again. The following year, I booked a restaurant for our anniversary and deliberately avoided mentioning the agreement. After dinner, Luca placed his apartment key on the table. “Elena, rules are rules. If we cut it short, the agreement means nothing.” That was when I understood. He had come back early because he missed me, but he had never intended to give up his freedom. The same thing happened every year. Luca insisted on possessing every minute of those thirty days. If he lost even an hour, he acted as though something had been stolen from him. Over time, our private agreement became the most notorious annual scandal at Westbridge. Every year, the racing team opened an anonymous betting pool. The odds that we would reunite were even. The odds that we would finally break up were one hundred to one. A cloud of sweet perfume approached. Natalie dropped into the seat beside me and lifted her drink. “What did you bet on this year?” “I’m only here to watch.” It was a lie. Everyone in that room was betting that I would forgive Luca on the thirty-first day. This time, I had placed everything on us never getting back together. Chapter 2 Natalie was the woman Luca dated during our first break. She had been a fashion communications freshman who genuinely believed she had found a new relationship. When Luca returned to me after twenty-seven days, she learned that she had been a temporary part of our arrangement. He later secured her a publicity position with the racing team as compensation, and over the years, she unexpectedly became my friend. A drunk teammate stumbled past us. “Our future Mrs. Bellini must be praying no one steals Luca. He’ll come running back in thirty days, just like always. Right, Elena?” Natalie shoved him away. “Go finish your drink.” Then she leaned closer. “If Luca gets to play around, so should you. Why are you always the one waiting? There are millions of men in New York.” I swirled the ice in my glass. “If you want to win big, follow my bet.” Natalie turned sharply, but before she could question me, whistles erupted around the dance floor. Luca was dancing with a slender redhead in a black leather skirt. One hand rested on his shoulder while the other pressed against his chest. “It only took Luca five minutes to choose this year’s date,” someone shouted. Another voice followed. “Wait. Isn’t that Sienna?” It was. Sienna was the woman Luca had chosen during last year’s break—and the first woman he had ever chosen twice. She was everything I was not. I helped Luca revise proposals and reminded him about project meetings. Sienna took him diving, skydiving, and racing through the city after midnight. With me, Luca had to think about graduation and the future. With Sienna, he never had to think about tomorrow. During the final week of last year’s break, she invited him to an illegal midnight race on an unfinished overpass in Brooklyn. The road had sharp turns, incomplete barriers, and no medical crew. Luca had raced professionally, but he had never competed on the street. I called him more than a dozen times. He rejected every call. Finally, I abandoned my work, contacted the racing team’s adviser, and drove to Brooklyn alone. When I arrived, the Aston Martin’s engine was already roaring. I stepped in front of the car and forced Luca to stop. “This isn’t a regulated track. If the university finds out, you could lose your place on the team, your sponsors, and your degree.” Luca leaned against the car, turning the keys around one finger. “You’re crossing a line, Elena. We’re on a break. You don’t get to interfere.” “There are no safety measures here. You could be killed.” “Sienna knows this place. She’ll protect me.” Sienna sat in the passenger seat, chewing gum. “Is your girlfriend always this anxious?” Then she smiled. “Sorry. You two aren’t together right now.” Her gaze moved over me. “Elena, you can’t control him because you’re scared. He’s an adult.” She had turned my concern into jealousy. If I continued arguing, I would only prove her point. I looked at Luca, but he avoided my eyes. At last, I stepped aside. The Aston Martin swept past me. Sienna lowered the window and waved, her laughter cutting through the roar of the engine. As I drove away, I believed I had finally found the strength to leave him. Ten minutes later, Luca caught up with me. He pulled over and knocked on my window. “Elena, I dropped out of the race.” He rested his forehead against the glass. “Don’t be angry. I listened to you.” That one sentence weakened my resolve. I believed he had chosen me. Later that night, Sienna entered the race alone. She lost control at the second turn and crashed into a barrier. When Luca received the call, he looked at me. “Are you happy now?” He turned the car around before I could answer. By the time I reached the emergency room, Luca was pushing Sienna’s stretcher. Her broken leg had already been secured inside a brace. The moment she saw me, she grabbed my hand. “Elena, I don’t blame you. You only wanted Luca to leave with you. I know you didn’t expect me to race alone.” Her voice was weak but loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “But you’re on a break. For these thirty days, could you please stop chasing him? I really don’t want to come between you.” Contemptuous looks fell on me. Luca and I had known each other for nine years and dated for four, yet somehow, I had become the other woman. After Sienna was admitted, Luca found her the best orthopedic surgeon in New York and abandoned his classes and projects to stay beside her. The thirty-day break ended. He still did not come home. For three months, I handled the racing team’s sponsorships, our graduation project, and every responsibility he had left behind. I attended my own classes while answering questions from his professors, investors, and teammates. Eventually, exhaustion and sleepless nights caused severe gastrointestinal bleeding. Natalie called Luca from the hospital. He did not come. A mutual friend later repeated his response. “Since when did Elena start using illness to manipulate me? Besides, she has professors, classmates, and Natalie. Sienna only has me.” Sienna had Luca, the best doctors in New York, and the entire racing team around her. But because I had always survived without asking him to save me, my strength had become his excuse to neglect me. Soon, everyone at Westbridge was whispering that Sienna would replace me. I believed it too. Then Luca returned to my apartment one night. He and Sienna had fought. She had threatened to drop out and posted messages implying she might hurt herself, but this time, Luca had still come back to me. He wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Elena, I only stayed because I felt responsible for her accident. It was guilt, not love.” He kissed my hair. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever included in my future.” I noticed a fading scratch near his collarbone, and acid rose in my stomach. “Then let’s stop taking these breaks.” Luca stiffened. I turned to face him. “After graduation, we’ll move into the apartment we reserved and run the design studio together. We don’t have to marry immediately, but we can set a date.” I held his gaze. “If I’m truly the only woman in your future, stop suspending our relationship every year.” The tenderness disappeared from his face. He released me without answering, walked to the bar, and poured himself a whiskey. Ice struck the glass. In the silent apartment, the sound was deafening. Chapter 3 Back in the private room, the tango accelerated into a wild Latin rhythm. Luca and Sienna spun across the dance floor, their bodies nearly pressed together. Her red hair flew around her, and her short leather skirt climbed higher with every turn. The music stopped. They stared at each other, breathless, then burst into laughter. “You kept your promise,” Sienna said, still pressed against him. “You broke the rules for me again.” Luca gave her a crooked smile. “You said nothing felt exciting without me. I’m too softhearted to refuse.” Her hand slid down his chest and stopped over his old rib injury. Luca winced when she pressed it, but he did not move her hand. Even then, my first instinct was to worry about him. As Sienna’s fingers reached his open collar, Luca caught her wrist and dropped to one knee. The room fell silent. Sienna covered her mouth as he removed a black velvet box from his jacket. Inside was a rare royal-blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds. Delicate platinum chains streamed from either side like a meteor crossing the midnight sky. Students from the design school raised their phones. They recognized the most important piece of my graduating year—the necklace I had made entirely by myself. Luca looked up at Sienna. “You gave me a midnight race I’ll never forget.” He lifted the necklace. “So tonight, I asked Elena to turn that sky into something you could wear.” Several people turned toward me. Sienna’s eyes filled with tears. Without looking in my direction, she nodded eagerly. Luca stood and fastened the necklace around her neck. The sapphire settled against her skin. Pain pierced my chest, followed by a violent cramp in my stomach. The lights began to blur. Natalie caught my arm. “Elena, you look terrible.” I pulled away and stumbled toward the hallway. One month earlier, Luca had arrived at my studio carrying a locked case. Inside was the sapphire his grandmother had collected when she was young. The Bellini family had always intended it for their heir’s future wife. Luca placed the stone in my hand. “No matter what this becomes, it will only be worn by the woman I plan to spend my life with.” Then he asked me to design the necklace myself. I thought he was finally ending our annual breaks. I thought he was going to propose. The graduation exhibition was only a month away, but I practically lived in my studio to finish it. I drew every sketch, carved the wax model, supervised the casting, polished the platinum, and set every stone. My morning sickness was severe during those weeks. I wore loose sweaters to hide my changing body and locked myself in the restroom whenever the nausea became unbearable. Luca never noticed my exhaustion or that I had stopped drinking coffee and alcohol. He was too busy counting down the days until he was free again. I believed I was creating the necklace I would wear at our wedding. Instead, Luca took his family’s promise, our memories, and the work of my own hands, then placed all of it around Sienna’s neck. “Elena? Can you hear me?” I opened my eyes and found myself lying on the hallway carpet. A club employee crouched nearby while Natalie supported my shoulders. “Should we call an ambulance?” Anemia and exhaustion had finally caught up with me. “No.” I braced one hand against the wall and stood. “I’ll go to the hospital myself.” Natalie offered to come, but I refused. I could not bear for anyone to watch me fall apart. Outside, the New York night was cold and damp. My car had not arrived. The revolving door opened behind me. Luca came out carrying Sienna. His black coat was draped over her shoulders, and one of her arms rested around his neck. “I’m fine,” Sienna murmured. “You should stay with Elena. I don’t want her to think I’m coming between you.” “She knows what these thirty days mean,” Luca replied. Then he saw me by the curb and stopped. “Elena, her leg never fully recovered. I think she injured it again while we were dancing.” He hesitated, as though expecting me to argue. “I’m only taking her to the hospital.” Their thirty-day relationship might have ended on paper, but Sienna had never left his life. Luca was so focused on her injured leg that he did not notice my pale face, my shaking hands, or the scrape along my wrist from collapsing onto the floor. Sienna’s car arrived first. Luca carried her to the back seat, then looked back at me. “I’ll take her to the hospital and see you later.” The door closed between us. “You won’t.” My voice disappeared into the wind. Luca never heard me. Chapter 4 Luca did not return to the apartment after the party. I sat beside the floor-to-ceiling windows until dawn, watching the Manhattan lights fade. My chest still ached, but my thoughts had become strangely calm. During every previous break, I had waited for him. This time, I began removing him from my life. The following morning, I reopened an offer from the Milan Institute of Design. It had arrived three weeks earlier: a place in its one-year jewelry research program with a full scholarship. I had hesitated because the studio Luca and I planned to open had reached the final round of Westbridge’s graduate start-up program. We had rented a workspace, planned to renew our apartment lease, and convinced investors that we were building a future together in New York. I had arranged my entire future around Luca. That morning, I began taking it back. I clicked Accept. Then I emailed our project adviser and withdrew from the start-up proposal. She called within minutes. “Elena, you created the entire jewelry collection. Without it, Luca’s proposal may not pass the final review.” “I know.” “What happened?” “It’s personal. Please return the copyrights to my designs. Luca can keep his industrial prototypes.” After a long silence, she agreed. Within forty-eight hours, I withdrew from the project, closed my share of the studio account, and divided the equipment according to our original contributions. Luca could keep what belonged to him, but he would no longer build his future on my work. On the fifth day, he finally called. A sports car roared in the background, followed by Sienna’s laughter. “Elena, where did you put my racing helmet? The one you redesigned?” I was packing nine years of photographs into a box with the rest of his belongings. “Top shelf of the studio cabinet.” A moment later, I heard a door open. “Found it. See you when the month is over.” Sienna said something, and Luca laughed before ending the call. On the tenth day, he sent a teammate to collect the suits he needed for his graduation presentation. The student stopped inside the nearly empty living room. “Are you two moving?” “Only I am.” He took the garment bags and left. On the twentieth day, my birthday, Luca sent roses. The card contained two sentences. Happy birthday. Don’t overthink things. I’ll be home soon. He remembered my birthday, but he did not know I had withdrawn from our project or that the investors had suspended their review after losing the lead designer. Apparently, he had not opened a single email from Westbridge. That afternoon, I notified the landlord that I would not renew my share of the apartment lease and sent the furniture I had purchased to a consignment company. The last item they removed was the piano Luca and I used to play together. I watched it disappear into the elevator. I was not destroying our memories. I was removing myself from the future they represented. On the thirtieth day, I unlocked the guest room. Two months earlier, after learning I was pregnant, I had secretly turned it into a nursery. The walls were painted cream and gold. A crib stood beside the window, unopened baby clothes filled the wardrobe, and silver stars hung above the ceiling mobile. I had planned to show Luca the room after he proposed. Now the necklace I had created for our wedding rested around Sienna’s neck, and the nursery no longer belonged to any future I wanted. I hired workers to remove everything. They dismantled the crib, packed the clothes for donation, and repainted the walls. As they carried the final box toward the elevator, the apartment door opened. Luca had returned. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and Sienna’s perfume still clung to him. He glanced past the workers without concern, then smiled and opened his arms. “Elena, the break is over. I’m back.” When I did not move, he seemed to assume I was sulking. “Thank you for waiting. Did you miss me that much?” “No.” His smile faltered. Only then did he notice the empty apartment. “Where is everything?” His gaze settled on the guest room. “You finally unlocked it?” He walked over and pushed open the door. “You always said there was a secret in here.” He glanced back at me with a teasing smile. “What was it? A room filled with portraits of me?” A pale rectangle marked the place where the crib had stood. One silver star remained near the baseboard, overlooked by the workers. Luca’s smile slowly disappeared. “Why is it empty?” Because you came back too late. Before I could answer, his phone rang. Sienna’s frightened voice burst through the speaker. Engines, police sirens, and angry shouting filled the background. “Luca, help me! The police shut down the underground track in Red Hook. My car broke down inside the service yard, and the organizers chained the exit. Everyone’s fighting, and I’m trapped here alone.” Luca grabbed his coat and headed for the door without asking another question about the empty room. “The police are already there,” I said. “She can call a tow truck or anyone on the racing team.” “She called me.” That was all that mattered. Sienna had chosen him, and he liked being needed. “This isn’t the time to argue about rules. Give me one more night. July has thirty-one days, so it won’t matter.” For four years, Luca had treated every lost hour of his thirty-day freedom as something stolen from him. Now, for Sienna, he wanted the thirty-first day too. “Elena, wait until I get back. It’s just one more night.” He said it as though waiting were the only thing I knew how to do. The elevator doors closed behind him. My suitcase was already waiting beside the kitchen counter. I placed my apartment key next to the box containing Luca’s belongings and picked it up. The car to the airport was waiting downstairs. Luca had asked me to wait one more night. By the time he returned, I would be on a flight to Milan.

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Only because our son begged to go to the amusement park, my wife, Nyla Frost, a wealthy heiress, ended up in a car accident on the way there, leaving her permanently paralyzed from the waist down. To punish us, she slashed our daily allowance to a mere ten cents. For the past three years, my son and I had no choice but to survive by scavenging through trash every day, even fighting the dogs for scraps. One day, my son was so hungry that he lost all reason. He ate a few crumbs of a cookie that our family doctor had accidentally dropped on the floor. My wife flew into a rage, accusing him of having filthy, thieving hands. As punishment, she made him stand outside in the pouring rain for the whole day before he was allowed back inside. Furious, I marched over to her room to demand an explanation, only to freeze in my tracks. Despite supposedly being unable to walk, she was already standing. She was holding the family doctor's hand, dancing a romantic waltz with him. Her best friend gazed out the window, her heart aching with pity. "Nyla, back then, your kid threw a tantrum because he wanted to go to the amusement park. That's why you missed your first love's last chance to see you. But you've already punished your husband and son for three years. You even found a stand-in to stay by your side and pretend to be your doctor. Don't you think it's time to let it go?" Nyla scoffed, her voice cold. "Failure to teach the son falls on the father. They ruined my seven-year pact with my first love. This punishment is hardly enough. Don't bring it up again. There are still two years left. Once their punishment is over, I'll make it up to both of them." What she didn't know was that I'd been saving every decent meal for our son while going hungry myself. By then, I had terminal stomach cancer. I wouldn't live long enough to see those two years pass. I’d never let my son stay by her side and suffer any longer. Chapter 1 Zane's POV The rain poured heavily. My son, Asher Frost, collapsed on the pavement, his skin burning against my palms as his eyes rolled back into his head. I did not care about the rules anymore. I scooped his feverish body into my arms and bolted toward the front door. A bulky guard lunged forward to block the entrance. "Miss Nyla said the kid had to stay outside for ten hours. He has three hours left. You cannot take him inside." Panic spiked through my chest. I shoved past the guard with everything I had, my voice cracking into a raw scream, "Asher is burning up! If he stays out here for another three hours, he’ll die! Did Nyla order you to kill him?" Seeing my son limp and unconscious in my arms, the guard froze. He stepped aside, letting us burst through the doorway, but immediately pulled out his phone to call my wife. I ignored him. I wrapped Asher in a thick blanket, tore through the medicine cabinet, and pressed a cold compress onto his forehead. Just as I reached for a bottle of fever medicine, the front door swung open. Nyla glided into the foyer in her wheelchair, her face twisted with annoyance. "He’s just a kid. Are you trying to kill him by giving him some random medicine?" She turned toward the man beside her. "Kieran, check on him." Kieran Sullivan, our live-in private doctor, stepped forward. I hesitated but Asher was in bad shape. Kieran was a doctor, after all, so I forced myself to step back and let him examine my son. Kieran nodded, taking a thermometer out of his bag and placing it under Asher's tongue. Six minutes later, he pulled it out. I caught a glimpse of the digital display. Asher’s temperature was over 104 degrees. A dangerously severe fever. Kieran slid the thermometer back into his pocket and let out a light laugh. "His body temperature is completely normal. The kid doesn’t have a fever at all. Mr. Zane, you really shouldn’t spoil him like this." The worry on Nyla's face instantly dissolved into fury. "I caught Asher eating food off the floor and wanted to teach him a lesson before he made himself sick. Instead of backing me up, you’re teaching him to fake an illness to get out of trouble." She glared at me, her eyes cold. "Fine. Since you feel so sorry for him, you can take his place outside in the rain for ten hours." Eating off the floor was filthy, but was it any cleaner than the garbage can scraps Asher and I survived on every day? Her self-righteous speech was a pathetic excuse. She just wanted a reason to punish us because she was still bitter about missing her big reunion with her first love. When we started dating, I knew she had a high school sweetheart she never completely forgot. Before we got married, she swore to me over and over that she was completely over him. For a while, our marriage was good. She gave birth to our son, naming him Asher so he would be strong and safe. Then came the turning point three years ago. Asher was just a toddler, throwing a massive tantrum because he wanted Nyla to take him to the amusement park. She finally yielded, but that delay caused her to miss her seven-year reunion pact with her first love. She never forgave either of us for that day. Chapter 2 What none of us saw coming was that her high school sweetheart would choose to end his life that exact same day. Nyla was consumed by gut-wrenching regret. She convinced herself that Asher and I had colluded to mess everything up, deliberately ruining her reunion with him. She even pinned his death directly on us. Her grief turned into a poisonous hatred directed entirely at my son and me. To punish us, she staged a car crash, faked a permanent disability, and spent three agonizing years tormenting us. As if that wasn't enough, she hired a dead ringer for her ex to act as our live-in doctor just to keep him by her side. Now, solely because Kieran’s face looked ninety percent identical to her dead ex, Nyla bought every single word coming out of his mouth. She concluded that Asher wasn't running a high fever at all, but was just faking a sickness to trick her. Her orders? I had to go outside and stand in the torrential rain for another ten hours. A fury hotter than hell surged through my veins. Before I could hurl those words of hatred back in her face, Asher’s right hand suddenly jerked violently. His face turned a deep purple, his teeth clamped shut, and a thin trickle of blood spilled past his lips. My throat constricted in sheer panic. "It’s a febrile seizure! He’s in grave danger! We have to get him to an ER right now!" Nyla froze, panic flickering in her eyes as she reached for her phone to call an ambulance. Kieran let out a slow, dramatic sigh. "Man, you two really are a united front. Asher, you’re seriously pretending to be sick just like you saw on TV to get your dad out of his punishment? Fine. I’ll just pretend I didn’t notice." My son was barely conscious. Yet Nyla didn't even bother looking at him. Driven by a single tailored lie, she fell for Kieran’s cheap manipulation hook, line, and sinker. She shoved her phone back into her pocket, raised an eyebrow, and let out a cold, disgusted scoff. "Asher, you’re letting him ruin you. If you don't stand up right now, you're getting locked in the basement!" The only response she got was my son’s rapid, shallow, erratic gasps for air. Nyla lost her temper entirely. Without another word, she ordered the bodyguards to drag Asher away and throw him into the basement. Then they slammed me back onto the soaked pavement in the rain. She glared down at me with a lethal sneer. "This time, if he doesn't stand out here for the full ten hours, no one lets him in. Even if he dies." "Kieran is lying to you! Asher is really sick! He needs an emergency room!" I begged in the pouring rain, screaming until my voice rasped and broke into raw gravel, but the music blasting from Nyla’s second-floor bedroom only grew louder. The heavy rain blinded me, stinging my eyes. Extreme fatigue washed over me as the freezing wind bit into my skin, making me shiver uncontrollably. Yet none of that physical agony matched even a fraction of the agony ripping through my heart. She had never trusted me. Now, she didn't even care if our son lived or died. I thrashed against my restraints, but the bodyguards behind me pinned my arms down with brute, unyielding force. It wasn't until the punishment finally ended that they shoved me aside and released me. I stumbled blindly into the basement. My tiny little boy was tossed onto the cold hardwood floor like a discarded rag doll. His skin burned like an oven. He had lost consciousness completely. A desperate, broken scream ripped from my throat. Every person in the house just stared back at us with icy indifference. I knew begging them was useless. I gathered my limp son into my arms and sprinted out the front gates. This gated community sat far away from the city center, miles from the nearest hospital. Thankfully, a kind stranger stopped their car and drove us straight to the emergency room. The ER was a chaotic zoo of blaring monitors and shouting staff. My son fluttered his eyes open, his small, burning hand gripping mine tightly. "Daddy, I'm sorry... I'll never ask to go to the amusement park again. I'll never eat cookies off the floor again..." His voice drifted off, fading into a tiny whisper. My heart felt like it was being sliced into pieces. A nurse tapped my shoulder, reminding me to pay the deposit at the front desk. I checked my pockets. I didn't have a single cent to my name. To make her punishment absolute, Nyla had contacted every single one of my employers beforehand. Every penny I earned from my job and side hustles was wired directly into her bank account. As the nurse pressed me repeatedly for payment, I swallowed my pride and pulled off my gold wedding ring. Nyla had custom-made that ring herself for our wedding. I used to treasure it above my own life. Even when my son and I were starving and digging through trash cans for scrap, I couldn't bring myself to pawn it. At that point, I didn’t give a damn anymore. My own time was running out. My only remaining wish was for my son to live. … I managed to pay the deposit with the pawned ring. Yet only a nurse came over to set up an IV drip. The doctor on duty was nowhere to be found. When I anxiously pushed for answers, the nurse gave me a deeply apologetic look. "I'm so sorry. A VIP's friend was brought in with an injury, so all available doctors were pulled over to their room." Chapter 3 I was furious. "Their lives matter, but my son's doesn’t?!" I threw myself toward the crowd of bodyguards. That was when I caught sight of two all-too-familiar faces. Kieran was surrounded by doctors, a tiny, barely noticeable scratch marring his cheek. Beside him, Nyla wasn't even using her wheelchair. She stood tall, bellowing at the medical team, "If you can't erase every trace of that scar on his face, you're all fired!" Asher was literally dying, yet she pulled every life-saving doctor in the room to fix a microscopic scratch on Kieran's face. The rage nearly choked me. Before I could scream, a bodyguard clamped a heavy hand over my mouth, pinning me in place. I could only watch in terror as my son violently convulsed, frothing at the mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head. The nurse panicked, frantically dialing number after number for backup, but every call was met with cold, dismissive barked orders. Time blurred into a nightmare. When an emergency doctor finally sprinted over, he ran a quick check with his instruments and let out a heavy, solemn sigh. "I'm so sorry for your loss. We were too late. He's gone." The bodyguard dropped his hand in shock. Explosions echoed in my head. The freezing rain, the endless strain, and now this unbearable crush of grief ripped the remaining life from my body. My legs buckled. Everything faded into black. I woke up in a high-end private suite. Seeing me open my eyes, a nurse offered a quiet, pitying sigh. "The VIP said she deeply regrets what happened to your son. She paid for your hospital bill, and she left a pre-signed settlement agreement for you. Fill in whatever amount you want." I stared at the signature printed at the bottom: Nyla. I angrily tore it into pieces. My son was dead. My own body was failing. What use was her money to me? With bloodshot eyes, I asked, "Where’s my son?" The nurse opened her mouth, hesitated, and simply looked at me with deep sympathy. A sickening dread settled in the pit of my stomach. I yanked the IV out of my arm, swung my legs over the bed, and bolted out the door. The moment I rounded the corridor, I saw an orderly team wheeling my son’s body straight into the postmortem examination room. I charged forward to stop them, but security guards shoved me back. Moments later, Kieran walked up side by side with Nyla, a fresh bandage taped over his cheek. Nyla squeezed his arm, her eyes full of concern. "Your face is still healing. Are you sure you can handle performing the postmortem examination right now?" Kieran shook his head softly. "I have to. Your high school sweetheart always wanted to be a medical examiner, so I specialized in pathology to honor him. "Dr. Summers, the top forensic pathologist in the country, is choosing an assistant for a major residency program in two days," Kieran continued, "Leading the postmortem examination on this case is my only chance to demonstrate my skills and secure that spot." At the mention of her dead ex, Nyla’s expression softened. She gently adjusted his collar. "Thank you for doing this." My vision turned red. I screamed, "Nyla! That’s our son lying in there! You can't let him use his body as a practice dummy!" … Nyla flinched, sheer shock flashing across her face when she saw me. My words seemed to strike a chord, and she opened her mouth to speak. Kieran cut in with a heavy sigh. "Mr. Zane, Nyla and I have a strictly professional relationship. Nothing more. "You were jealous simply because I'm a man, so you targeted me at every turn," Kieran said, his voice heavy with restrained anguish, "You even coached your son to slash my face with a toy, and then you hid him away. I let all that go. But conducting this postmortem examination is critical for my career. Are you really going to ruin this for me too?" Before I could react, one of Kieran's medical residents pulled out a signed authorization form. "The patient suffered a severe congenital heart condition and passed away this morning despite emergency efforts. We received full legal authorization from his primary guardian for an immediate pathological study. "This review is standard procedure to determine the precise cause of death and assist medical research," the resident added, glaring at me, "Why are you trying to obstruct official medical procedure over a personal grudge?" Bystanders in the hallway began whispering and pointing fingers at me. Nyla's face darkened. Without another word to me, she raised a hand, signaling for Kieran and his team to proceed. Chapter 4 "No!" I lunged forward, desperate to break inside. Nyla snapped her fingers, summoning her bodyguards to tackle me back down to the floor. I fell to my knees, begging her through broken sobs, "Asher is already dead. Please, I’m begging you, don’t let them desecrate his body." Looking down at me in this pathetic state, a rare flash of pity softened Nyla’s cold eyes. She grabbed my hand, about to comfort me, when her gaze landed on my bare left hand. Shock instantly turned her face pale. "Where’s your wedding ring?" "I sold it to get..." Before I could explain that it was to pay for our son’s emergency care, Nyla raised her hand and slapped my face. "You're spoiling him again!" she shrieked, "The only reason I cut off your allowance was so you two wouldn't turn into lazy, spoiled degenerates! I can't believe you sold our wedding ring just to take him out to an amusement park! Unbelievable!" “Slap!” Slap after slap rained down on my face. I couldn't bring myself to say another word. She didn't believe me. Explaining anything to her was a waste of breath. I didn't fight back, taking every blow in silence. All I cared about was dragging myself toward the examination room door to reclaim my dead boy. Seeing my absolute desperation, the bodyguards hesitated, their grip on my arms slackening with pity. Nyla took their hesitation for incompetence and snapped in a fury, "Break his leg! Let's see him try to fight back after that!" With no choice, a bodyguard raised his boot and stomped down hard. A sickening snap echoed through the hall as my leg fractured. Yet I barely felt the agony. Tears blurred my vision completely as I dragged my ruined body forward across the floor, inch by painful inch. Nyla faltered, visibly shaken, and reached out to pull me up. Right then, the examination room door swung open. Kieran stepped out, covered in splatters of fresh blood. Nyla dropped her arms, abandoning me immediately as she rushed to his side. "He's acting totally insane, insisting that the kid in there is Asher! Kieran, you performed the procedure yourself. Tell him he's wrong." Kieran let out a soft chuckle and shook his head. "Of course it's not him. Asher is blessed. He's going to live a long, full life. How could he possibly be dead?" He paused, glancing at Nyla standing firmly on her own two feet, and put on a look of sudden realization. "Ah, I get it now, Nyla. He must’ve noticed your legs recovered. He's lying and using your son’s safety to scare you just to get your attention." It was only then that Nyla remembered she had rushed here in such a hurry that she forgot to use her wheelchair. She quickly scrambled to cook up an excuse for me. "My legs only healed two days ago," she blurted out, her tone defensive, "I kept it a secret from you guys just to make sure you learned your lesson. Besides, Kieran was top of his class, and he always said tough love builds real character. “Ever since I got sick, Asher's grades have been improving. Sure, he's having a tough time right now, but when he grows up to be someone successful, he'll understand why I had to do this." Asher had only studied hard because he wanted to make her happy. It was because he wanted his mom to love him a little more. It had nothing to do with her bullshit "tough love" philosophy. I opened my mouth to scream back at her, to tear her lies apart. Then a sudden wave of numbness hit me. My son was dead. He didn't have a future anymore. … Nyla frowned, caught off guard by my complete lack of reaction. She opened her mouth to keep rationalizing, but Kieran suddenly clutched his cheek, letting out a pained groan. "Nyla, I think my stitches pulled open," Kieran whimpered, looking down apologetically, "I'm sorry, I pushed myself too hard." Nyla panicked instantly, completely forgetting I was even standing there. "Your face can't get ruined! Where are the doctors?!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs. She pulled Kieran away, leaving me behind once again. I didn't care about them anymore. I forced myself off the floor and limped into the room, my ruined leg dragging behind me. I approached the operating table and stared down at the body. Tears poured uncontrollably down my face. This wasn't a postmortem examination. This was pure butcher's work! The face was mangled beyond recognition, but the distinct birthmark on the wrist screamed the unbearable truth at me over and over again. This butchered pile of flesh on the table was my son. I wailed in agony as darkness threatened to pull me under, but I bit my lip until it bled to stay conscious. I had to guard him. I couldn't let anyone hurt him ever again. Using the leftover deposit money refunded by the hospital, I had my son cremated. Holding the tiny, heavy urn close to my chest, I walked back to our empty home. Chapter 5 I had no money to buy my son a burial plot in the city, so I returned home only to grab his documents and bring his ashes back to my hometown for burial. I gathered the paperwork and turned to leave, only to find Kieran standing in my path. With Nyla nowhere in sight, he dropped his whole innocent act, a cruel smirk plastered across his face. "You really are pathetic. You could never measure up to her dead ex, and now you can't even hold a candle to a replacement like me. "Now that your son is dead, you've lost the absolute last leverage you had to beg for her love. "And you know what? I ruined your kid's face on purpose during the postmortem examination. He looked way too much like you, and I despise you." My hands clenched into tight, trembling fists, my breath ragged. Right as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hallway, Kieran suddenly reached out and slapped the urn straight out of my hands. The last thread of my sanity snapped. I lashed out with a vicious kick, sending him tumbling straight down the porch stairs. Nyla rounded the corner just in time to see him hit the ground, screaming in pain. It was only two shallow steps. Anyone could have cleared them in a single stride. However, Kieran acted as if he had been pushed off a ten-story building, rolling dramatically on the ground until his head slammed into the iron banister, blood seeping from his scalp. Nyla gasped, rushing forward to scoop him into her arms. Kieran grabbed her hand, immediately putting on a tearful performance. "It's my fault for exposing his lies over and over again. Mr. Zane just lost his temper and pushed me down the stairs. It's fine, Nyla, I don't blame him." Nyla cradled Kieran's bleeding face, her eyes flashing with pure fury. "I let so much of your garbage slide without punishing you! "And now you're resorting to physical violence?!" she screamed, "Don't you know pushing someone down the stairs can kill them?!" I dropped to the ground, carefully gathering the remains bit by bit, and glared at her through bloodshot eyes. "Do you have any idea what Kieran did? He killed Asher! He butchered his body, and now he just knocked his ashes all over the floor!" Nyla lost her temper completely. "Asher is alive and fine! Stop dragging our son into this over and over to cover up your own twisted crimes! "I don't care who begs for you today, you’re getting the punishment you deserve!" She turned to her security team. "Harness him up to the bottom of the helicopter! Since you're brave enough to commit murder, let's see if you're actually brave enough to face death!" I had already been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I wasn't afraid of dying. I just stared at her with cold, unwavering hatred. My silence only infuriated Nyla further. She raised her boot and kicked the pile of ashes I had painstakingly gathered, scattering them everywhere. A raw, primal roar tore from my throat, but the bodyguards held me in an iron grip. Nyla wrapped an industrial harness around my torso, securing me to the belly of the helicopter. She tightened the harness slightly, her harsh tone softening into a sigh. "Learn your lesson this time, okay? Stop throwing these dramatic tantrums, and let's just live our lives normally. "You should bring our son back home later too," she added, "It's not good for him to keep staying over at his classmate's house like a leech." She brushed a stray lock of hair from my forehead, then gave the pilot the sign to lift off. With a deafening roar, the helicopter took off into the sky. As my body was whipped around in the freezing high-altitude air, violent retching racked my chest, and mouthfuls of dark blood spewed from my lips. Nyla couldn't see that I was vomiting blood from up there. Thinking I was just motion sick, she let out another dramatic sigh and turned to her assistant. "Go pick Asher up early and bring him home. Let me give him a surprise." The assistant visibly trembled, his voice shaking uncontrollably. "Ma'am... Asher passed away from his illness days ago. You literally authorized Dr. Sullivan to perform the postmortem examination on his body. His ashes were in that urn, and they just got kicked across the driveway... Do you want me to sweep them up?" Nyla's eyes dilated in sheer horror, a scream catching in her throat. High above, the tether holding me snapped. Feeling myself plummeting toward the ground at terminal velocity, I felt no terror at all. A laugh actually broke past my cracked lips. Asher, Daddy's coming to be with you. In our next life, and the life after that, let's never cross paths with Nyla again. A sickening, thunderous crash echoed across the estate. My body slammed onto the pavement, mere feet away from where Nyla stood. Fresh, crimson blood splattered across her frozen, horror-stricken face.

Stopped earlyStarted 7 days ago

📖✨ It's amazing! Click to read now! 👉💖

Ran 2 days · stopped 5 Nov

Everyone with joint issues needs to see this ☝️

You can divorce a cheating husband. You can cut off a betraying sister. You can't take back a kidney. I need to tell this in order because if I skip ahead I'll lose my nerve. I met Nathan when I was 31. Married him at 33. Had Ella at 37, Max at 40. Normal life. Happy — or what I thought happy looked like. My knees had been bad since Max was born. The kind of thing you mention to a doctor once, get told to lose ten pounds, and then stop mentioning. Nathan was diagnosed with chronic kidney disease three years ago. Stage 4. His kidneys were failing and without a transplant, he was looking at dialysis for the rest of his life. I got tested. Perfect match. I didn't hesitate. Not for a second. That's what you do when you love someone. You don't weigh the risks. You don't calculate. You just say yes. The night before surgery, I lay next to him in our bed. He was already asleep. I ran my hand over my left side — over the skin that would be opened in twelve hours. The kidney underneath it had been filtering my blood since before I was born. It had been mine my entire life. And tomorrow I was giving it away. I wasn't scared. That's the part I keep coming back to. I wasn't scared at all. I was certain. The way you're certain about feeding your children or locking the door at night. It wasn't bravery. It was just what needed to happen. The surgery was eight hours. Recovery was something nobody prepares you for. Not the pain — I expected that. It was the helplessness. The absolute dependence on other people in your own home while your husband, the person you just gave an organ for, is recovering in his own bed ten feet away and can't help you either. Max was four. He didn't understand why I couldn't pick him up. He'd stand at the side of my bed with his arms raised, fingers opening and closing, making that sound — not crying exactly, more like a whimper that builds into a wail when you don't respond. I'd look at Nathan's mother and she'd scoop him up and carry him out of the room while I pressed my face into the pillow so he wouldn't hear me. Six weeks before I could lift my own son. Ella was seven. Old enough to understand that mommy had surgery, not old enough to understand why. She started bringing me glasses of water without being asked. Setting her stuffed animals on my nightstand. Standing in the doorway checking on me the way I used to check on her. My seven-year-old was mothering me because I'd chosen to save her father. Six weeks of barely moving did something to my knees I didn't understand at the time. When I finally stood up for good, they'd gone stiff in a way they'd never been before. I started taking ibuprofen to get through the day. Four in the morning. Four at night. Off the drugstore shelf, so it didn't count as medication. Then Nathan's body started showing rejection signs. Fever spikes at 2 AM. I'd hear the alarm on his medication timer — I'd set it myself, programmed into my phone because he'd sleep through his own — and I'd get up, still sore from the incision, still moving like my body was held together with tape. Walk to the kitchen. Count out the pills. Bring them to him with water. Check his temperature. Write it in the log the transplant team required. His body. My organ. My alarm. My log. For eleven months, I managed his recovery like a second job. His medication schedule. His dietary restrictions. His follow-up appointments — I drove him to every single one because the anesthesia had done something to his confidence behind the wheel and he wasn't ready. I reorganized my work schedule three times. My manager stopped asking why and started approving the requests with a look that said she felt sorry for me. I was taking four ibuprofen before I got out of bed so I could stand at the counter long enough to cook the renal diet the transplant team had written for him. I didn't notice when I stopped talking to my friends. Didn't notice when the last conversation I'd had about anything other than Nathan's kidney function was over two months old. My mother called one evening and asked how I was doing and I started reciting his creatinine levels before I realized she was asking about me. I didn't have an answer for that. I hadn't thought about me in months. For eleven months, my life was his body. I came home early on a Thursday. His follow-up had gone well — great, actually. GFR holding strong. The kidney was thriving. I'd stopped at the store on the way home. Picked up steaks, a bottle of wine. I was going to surprise him. Celebrate the fact that the worst was behind us. I heard them before I saw them. Not what you're imagining. No sounds from the bedroom. Just laughter. Coming from the kitchen. My sister Kara's laugh — I'd know it anywhere. That high, breathless sound she makes when she's being charmed. I stood in the hallway. Grocery bags in both hands. Kara was sitting on the counter. Nathan was standing between her knees. Her hand was on his arm — not his shoulder, not his back. His forearm. Her thumb making small circles on the inside of his wrist. Nobody touches someone's inner wrist like that unless — Nathan saw me first. His face didn't shift to guilt. It shifted to calculation. I watched him decide, in real time, what story to tell. That's the detail that destroyed me. Not the affair. The math he did on my face while the grocery bags were cutting into my fingers. "Sus—" I set the bags on the floor. Walked back to the car. Drove to the elementary school parking lot and sat there with the engine running and my hands shaking on the steering wheel until I could see straight. I didn't go home that night. I drove to a Holiday Inn off the highway. Paid for one night. Sat on the edge of the bed under fluorescent light that hummed. And I counted backward. Kara at the hospital the day after surgery. Sitting in the chair next to my bed. Holding my hand. Telling me I was the bravest woman she'd ever known. Was it already happening then? Kara at Thanksgiving, three months after the transplant. Offering to clean up the kitchen so Nathan could rest. Nathan staying behind to help her. The laughter I heard from the living room while I put the kids to bed. Kara offering to watch Ella and Max on Saturdays so I could drive Nathan to his follow-ups. How generous that seemed. How grateful I was. Kara texting Nathan recovery tips she'd "read online." I saw the texts and thought my sister is so thoughtful, she's researching for him. I sat on that Holiday Inn bed and rebuilt the timeline. Every visit. Every excuse. Every moment I'd been grateful for her support — rewritten. She held my hand in the recovery room. She already knew what she was doing. The divorce took seven months. Custody was vicious — not because Nathan fought for the kids, but because his lawyer fought for leverage. He wanted the house. He wanted reduced support. He wanted a narrative where the marriage failed mutually, where nobody was at fault, where the kidney donation was irrelevant to the settlement. His lawyer actually argued that the donation was a "voluntary gift" with no bearing on the division of assets. A voluntary gift. Kara was cut from the family. My parents, my brothers — everyone chose me. Not out of loyalty. Because what she did was indefensible. My mother still can't say her name without her voice going flat. But here's the thing nobody tells you about donating a kidney to your cheating husband. You can't get it back. It's inside him. Filtering his blood. Keeping him alive. The organ I grew, the recovery I endured, the weeks I couldn't hold my own children — it's his now. Permanently. I gave the most irreplaceable part of my body to a man who was sleeping with my sister while I was still managing his post-surgery medication schedule. There is no legal remedy for that. No divorce settlement that accounts for it. No amount of money that replaces a kidney. It is the most permanent consequence of a decision I made out of love, and it lives inside a person who didn't deserve it. It was a Tuesday custody exchange when I saw it. Nathan's apartment complex. I pulled up to the curb. He walked Max to the car. Something was wrong. His face was bloated. Not weight gain — the puffy, stretched look of fluid retention. A faint yellow tinge under his eyes that I recognized from his pre-transplant days. He was breathing harder than he should've been for a walk across a parking lot. Max climbed into the back seat. I reached over and pulled his door shut. Nathan leaned on the open car door. Not casually. For support. "He had a good weekend," he said. Slightly out of breath. I looked at him. At the face I'd woken up next to for twelve years. At the body I'd given an organ to save. And I could see it — the drinking, the missed medication, the late nights, the stress of a life he'd chosen over the one I'd built for him — it was all showing up in the kidney I'd given him. My kidney. He was destroying it the same way he destroyed our marriage. Through carelessness. Through neglect. Through the absolute certainty that what he's been given will always be there, so he doesn't need to take care of it. I said nothing. Closed the door. Drove away. That kidney loved him more than he deserved. So did I. What I didn't expect was my own body keeping a tab. It started small. Tiredness that sleep didn't fix. I blamed the divorce. I blamed single parenting. Two kids, full-time job, no help. Of course I was exhausted. Then the fog rolled in. I'd be at my desk at work and realize I'd read the same email three times without absorbing a word. I'd drive to pick up the kids and miss the turn I'd made a thousand times. I'd stand in the kitchen at 6 PM with a pan on the stove and forget what I'd planned to cook. Stress. Emotional trauma. Divorce brain. That's what I told myself. Then the mornings. My pain used to arrive around noon. Now it was waiting for me. The second my feet hit the floor — a 7 out of 10, both knees, and my hands wouldn't open. I'd stand at the kitchen sink running hot water over my fists until my fingers would close around a coffee cup. I went to my GP about it. She sent me for an X-ray, said the joint space was narrowing, said this happens, and moved me from the drugstore ibuprofen to a prescription anti-inflammatory. Every day, not just the bad days. She said it was the safest thing for the pain. Nobody in that room said the word kidney. Not once. And I didn't say it either, because I'd stopped thinking of myself as a person with a medical history. I was the one who managed everybody else's. Then the swelling. My ankles, mostly. By the end of the day they'd be puffy enough that the strap marks from my shoes stayed indented in my skin for an hour. I bought new flats a half size up. Told myself I'd been on my feet too much. My rings stopped fitting. I moved my wedding band to a box in the dresser — I thought the symbolism was almost funny. But my other rings didn't fit either. My college ring. The silver band my mother gave me. I kept them in a dish by the sink and told myself it was the weather. Humidity. Water retention. Then the stairs. My heart would pound going up to my own bedroom at night. Not a flutter. A pounding I could feel in my throat, standing on the landing with my hand on the rail, waiting for it to settle. I was fourty-seven years old and out of shape and that's what I told myself it was. One night — it was a Wednesday, the kids were at Nathan's — I sat down on the couch at 7:30 to watch something on TV. I woke up at 2 AM. The TV was still on. I'd slept through six hours on the couch without moving. No alarm. No awareness of time passing. I sat there in the blue light of the television and felt, for the first time, genuinely afraid. Not of the divorce. Not of Nathan or Kara or the custody schedule or the finances. Of my body. Of something wrong inside me that I'd been explaining away for months. I made an appointment with my transplant nephrologist. The morning of, I sat in the waiting room filling out the same forms I'd filled out a dozen times for Nathan. My phone buzzed. Max's name on the screen. "Mommy? When are you coming to get us?" He was at Nathan's. It wasn't my day. But Max doesn't understand the schedule — he just knows when he misses me. "Tomorrow, baby. I'll be there tomorrow morning." "Promise?" "Promise." I hung up. Pressed the phone against my chest. The nurse called my name. I followed her down the hallway. She took my blood pressure twice. Sat me on the exam table. The paper crinkled underneath me. I could still hear Max's voice in my ear. Dr. Navarro pulled up my labs and I watched her face change. "GFR 51. Down from 55 six months ago. Down from 62 the year before that." She turned the screen toward me. I could see the line on the chart — each dot lower than the last. A downward slope with no sign of leveling off. "Blood pressure 146 over 92. Resting pulse 88. And your inflammation markers are the highest I have ever seen in your chart." Then she looked up. "Susan. What are you taking for your knees?" I told her. The prescription, every morning, the way my GP had written it. And I told her about the mornings — the 7 out of 10 the second my feet hit the floor, the hot water over my hands at the sink. She didn't say anything for a moment. She set her pen down, which I'd never seen her do. "How long?" "Since about a month after the divorce was final." "And before that?" "Ibuprofen. Four in the morning, four at night. Since the surgery." She leaned forward. "Okay. I need to explain something to you, and I need you to hear all of it before you react. Because there are two things happening in your body and everybody has been treating them as if there's one." She picked the pen back up and drew a small circle on her notepad. "There are two things going on in that knee. The pain you feel. And the damage underneath it. They are not the same thing." She held up two fingers, separated. "Your pill works on the first one. The pain. The damage, it never touches. The pain is just the alarm. Underneath it, your joint is releasing enzymes that eat away the cartilage — the cushion that keeps bone from grinding on bone. The pill silences the alarm. It never stops the enzymes. They keep eating." "So the X-ray —" "The X-ray measures the cartilage you have already lost. It cannot measure what's eating it. Those are two different measurements and only one of them is ever taken." She drew a second circle beside the first. "Now here's the part nobody has told you. Those enzymes are not only in your knee. The same inflammation that makes them runs through your entire body. Your blood. Your arteries. Think of it as a fire that started in the joint and didn't stay there." She tapped the second circle. "Every part of you feels that fire. But one place pays the highest price. Your heart. The same inflammation softening the cartilage in your knees is stiffening the walls of your arteries. Year after year. Less flexible. Less able to do their job. That's where your blood pressure comes from. That's the pounding on the stairs." My chest tightened. I hadn't mentioned the stairs. "Those aren't two problems, Susan. It's one fire in two rooms." She drew a third circle. "And in your case there's a third room." She turned the notepad around so I could see it. "You have one kidney. It's already doing the work of two — that's called hyperfiltration, and it puts your remaining kidney under strain that a normal kidney never experiences. Now add systemic inflammation running through it every day. And then add the anti-inflammatory." "What does the anti-inflammatory do to it?" "That entire class of drug reduces blood flow to the kidneys. It's a known effect. In a person with two kidneys it's a trade-off we accept and monitor." She paused. "In a person with one, it's a bill. And you've been paying it every morning for over a year while I was watching your GFR fall and assuming it was hyperfiltration alone." I sat with that for a moment. "The tiredness. The fog. The swelling. Is that —" "Yes. Some of it is the inflammation itself. Some of it is your kidney struggling to filter properly, so the waste products that should be getting cleared efficiently are building up. Not at a dangerous level yet. But enough that you're feeling it." Everything I'd blamed on the divorce. The exhaustion. The fog. The ankles. My rings. It wasn't stress. It wasn't emotional. It was one fire in three rooms and I'd been medicating the smoke. "So what do we do?" She exhaled. "Here's my problem. The right move is to take you off that anti-inflammatory today. I'd do it in this room if I could." "But?" "But then you can't walk. You've got a 7 out of 10 the moment your feet hit the floor, you have a full-time job and two children and nobody else in the house. I can't take away the only thing standing between you and that and hand you nothing." "So what can you give me?" "I can manage your blood pressure with an ACE inhibitor. That reduces the workload on the kidney. I can monitor your GFR every six months. And I can send you to a rheumatologist who will offer you a cortisone shot, which quiets the alarm faster and doesn't stop the enzymes either." She closed the laptop halfway. "But I don't have anything in my toolkit that puts out the fire itself. Not the one in your joints, not the one in your arteries, not the one in that kidney. I can manage what it's causing. I can't reach the thing causing it." I sat in the car afterward. Engine off. Hands on the steering wheel. She'd told me exactly what was burning through me. Named it. Drawn me a picture. Explained why I'd been exhausted and foggy and swollen for months. And then told me she couldn't stop it. That night I sat at the kitchen table. The house was empty. The kids were still at Nathan's. The same table I'd sat across from Nathan for twelve years. The same table where I'd organized his medication schedule after the transplant. Where I'd spent hours researching kidney disease when it was HIS diagnosis. Where I'd printed out dietary protocols and post-surgery care plans and anti-rejection drug interactions — all for him. Now I was sitting there alone. With a napkin. Doing math. GFR dropping 4–5 points every six months. Stage 3b in a year. Stage 4 in two and a half. Dialysis in three. Max would be ten. Ella would be thirteen. I pressed my palms flat on the table and stared at those numbers until they blurred. I had given everything — my marriage, my organ, my trust, my sister — to a man who threw it away. And now the pill I was taking so I could keep standing was finishing what the donation started. The next morning I picked up the kids. Made dinner. Helped Ella with her homework while Max built something out of Legos on the living room floor. Normal evening. Normal sounds. That night, after they fell asleep, I stood in their doorway. Ella had kicked her covers off — she always does. Max was clutching that stuffed elephant he's had since he was two. Ears matted flat from being squeezed every night for five years. I didn't do any math this time. I already knew the numbers. I just looked at them. At the two people who needed me to be standing up, functional, present, alive. Who had already lost their family once. Who couldn't afford to lose what was left. I'm going to be here for you. Both of you. Whatever it takes. I started with what I could control. Cut my sodium in half. Drank more water. Cut the things every article said feed inflammation. Started a renal diet — the same kind I'd researched for Nathan three years earlier, pulling up the same bookmarks, the same meal-planning spreadsheets I'd built for him. Using them for myself this time. That felt like something. But I also needed to know what I was facing if the diet wasn't enough. I researched dialysis. Not the medical part — I already understood that. The logistics. The life. Three sessions a week. Four hours each. Monday, Wednesday, Friday — or Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Twelve hours a week strapped to a machine while your blood circulates outside your body and gets filtered by something that does the job your kidneys can't. I looked up the nearest dialysis center. Twenty-two minutes from my house. Forty minutes from the kids' school. I called my insurance. The coordinator was patient. She walked me through coverage, copays, out-of-pocket maximums. She asked if I had a support system. I told her I was a single mom. There was a pause on the line. "You may want to start thinking about care arrangements for your children during treatment sessions," she said. I hung up and sat there. Care arrangements. For my children. Because I would be hooked to a machine three days a week while they needed to eat dinner and do homework and get to school. For two weeks I did everything the standard playbook offered. The renal diet. The water intake. The ACE inhibitor Dr. Navarro prescribed. And none of it could touch what she'd drawn three circles around — the enzymes eating the cushion, the same burn stiffening my arteries and grinding down my one filter. I was managing the consequences. I wasn't stopping the cause. And I was still taking the anti-inflammatory every morning, because the alternative was not being able to carry a laundry basket down the stairs. One night I typed the name of it into a search bar. Not the brand — the whole drug class. I think I was looking for something that would tell me it wasn't as bad as she'd made it sound. I found a study in the BMJ instead. Women who take a daily anti-inflammatory for their joints are up to 50% more likely to have a heart attack than a woman the same age who doesn't. And the risk can start in the very first week. 50%. Not five percent. Not ten. Fifty. Eighteen months of every morning. On a heart the fire was already working on. Handed to me by a doctor who looked at my knee and never once asked what else was in the room. Nobody told me. Not in one appointment. So I did what I'd done for eleven months when it was Nathan's body failing. I researched. I joined three Facebook groups — two for chronic kidney disease and single-kidney donors, one for women with osteoarthritis. I scrolled through them late at night after the kids were asleep — hundreds of posts about GFR numbers, medication side effects, dialysis logistics, cortisone schedules, knee replacements at fifty. Most of it was people in the same situation I was in, asking the same questions nobody was answering. Then one night I saw a post that stopped me. A woman — fifty-four, osteoarthritis in both knees, eleven years on a daily anti-inflammatory, blood pressure her doctor had been "watching" for six of them — wrote that her inflammation markers had come back normal for the first time since her diagnosis. She posted her labs. Before and after. Her blood pressure had come down with them, and she'd come off the daily pill four months earlier. She said the only thing she'd added was a standardized curcumin supplement. I almost scrolled past it. I'd seen supplement claims in these groups before. Somebody's always pushing something — glucosamine, collagen powder, apple cider vinegar, a copper bracelet, kidney detox tea. None of it ever came with a mechanism that made sense. It was always just "this worked for me" with no explanation for why. But her numbers were specific. Her timeline was specific. And the two things that had come down together — the inflammation markers and the blood pressure — were the exact two things Dr. Navarro had drawn as circles on a notepad and told me were the same fire. I started reading. Not the wellness blogs. The actual studies. Research out of university labs in Michigan. A group in England. A hospital in Japan. Curcumin. That's the word. I had to look up how it worked. It's what gives turmeric that deep golden-yellow color. The stain that stays on your cutting board. The color isn't decoration. Curcumin is one of the compounds in the root. And what interested me wasn't another promise to quiet pain. It was the research into curcumin and inflammatory signaling — and the studies looking at stiffness and discomfort in arthritic knees. One thing. Both rooms of the house. And there was a third finding I read four times to make sure I hadn't misunderstood it. Curcumin isn't the same class of drug as my prescription anti-inflammatory. But that didn't mean it was automatically safe for a person with one kidney. It wasn't the same thing. It wasn't the same trade. The paper I kept coming back to made me ask what I'd been avoiding: what does my prescription do, what does a supplement actually do, and what would be safe with my kidney history? Those were questions for Dr. Navarro, not guesses I could make at my kitchen table. Curcumin had been studied for joint symptoms and inflammatory pathways. That didn't prove it could rebuild cartilage or repair blood vessels. But it gave me something specific to investigate. “This was what Dr. Navarro said didn't exist in her toolkit.” Then I went looking for the only question the studies had left me holding. Where do you get them. The answer came back so consistently that I kept searching for a second one and couldn't find it. Turmeric. Years of research and I kept finding the same compound. Curcumin. It was the one researchers kept examining for joint discomfort, over and over, in study after study. Some of the papers were older than I expected. Curcumin from turmeric has been studied for how it affects inflammatory signaling and joint symptoms. That wasn't proof it could reverse my kidney decline or lower my blood pressure. It was a reason to ask more questions. Not two treatments. One more thing to understand. I printed out four studies and brought them to my next appointment. Dr. Navarro read through them at her desk. Turned pages. Went back to the first one. Read a section again. I sat in the chair across from her and waited. She looked up. "Where did you find these?" "A support group. And then the journals." She was quiet for a moment. "There is research on curcumin and joint symptoms. But it isn't the same thing as proof it will protect your kidney." She turned a page back. "And there are no contraindications with anything you're taking. No interaction with the ACE inhibitor. Nothing here asks anything of your kidney." She set the papers on her desk. "I can't prescribe this. It's not a pharmaceutical. But the research is compelling, and I don't see a downside for you." "If I find the right product — what should I look for?" She picked her pen back up and wrote on a prescription pad, which I don't think is what prescription pads are for. "Four things, and don't compromise on any of them." "One. Standardized. Look for the curcuminoid percentage, not just the word turmeric. Ground root and standardized extract are not the same thing. “Two. It has to say extract on the label. Not a mystery blend. Not a big number with no explanation. Extract tells you what you’re looking at. Blend means whatever the marketing department needs it to mean.” “Three. A real dose. The extract amount and the curcuminoid percentage, per daily serving, printed on the label. If you have to guess how much curcumin you’re getting, you don’t have enough information to decide anything.” "Four. Third-party tested, with the results published. An outside lab checked what's actually in the bottle and showed you. If they won't show you, don't buy it." She tore the sheet off and handed it to me. "And one more thing, which isn't on the list. Don't buy it off the reviews. Buy it off the label." Then she said the thing I actually came for. "If you find something that matches those four, I want to see your labs in six weeks. And if the markers move, we're going to have a conversation about getting you off that anti-inflammatory." That night I had my laptop open at the kitchen table. The same thoroughness I'd once poured into saving Nathan's life, I was now pouring into saving my own. The same late nights. The same tabs open until 1 AM. The same obsessive need to understand every piece of the science before trusting it. Except this time, the body I was trying to protect was mine. The first product I found was on Amazon. Top-selling turmeric supplement. Over four thousand reviews. 4.6 stars. Clean white packaging. I added it to my cart. Then I turned Dr. Navarro's list on it, one line at a time. Standardized? The ingredients said turmeric root powder. No curcuminoid percentage. Failed. Extract? It didn't say it. Not on the bottle, not on the product page, not anywhere on the manufacturer's site. Just "1,000mg turmeric blend." Blend. A word that means whatever they need it to mean. Failed. Real dose? A thousand milligrams of a blend, with no standardized curcuminoids stated. Failed. Third-party tested? Nothing I could find. No lab results. No outside testing I could verify. Failed. Then I did what most people don't. I searched the brand name plus "independent lab test." Three pages into the results, I found a forum where someone had actually sent a sealed bottle to a third-party lab. What was in it was a fraction of what the label implied. Not even close. The reviews were real — people genuinely believed it was working. But they were taking a trace amount of the compound and attributing every good day to the capsule. Don't buy it off the reviews. Buy it off the label. I closed the tab. Removed it from my cart. I have one kidney, two knees, and arteries that are already stiffening. I was not going to pour a trace amount of anything at a fire that size and hope for the best. Then I looked at turmeric powders. The jars in the spice aisle, the kitchen-grade powders, the capsules sold by the bottle. The idea is simple: it's turmeric, so take turmeric. But the label often tells you little about the curcuminoid content. Ordinary turmeric powder has a different concentration from a standardized extract. That's the whole problem in one sentence. By the time I'd read all the product listings, I still couldn't tell how much curcumin some of them actually contained. You were buying something called turmeric. Not necessarily the same standardized extract. I eliminated that entire category. What the clinical studies actually clearly labeled turmeric extract with its curcuminoid percentage stated. Concentrated and standardized, so the amount was clear when you took it. I narrowed my search to standardized extracts. And found plenty of vague labels. Big numbers on the front. No percentage. No clear explanation of what those numbers meant. Low enough on detail that you couldn't tell what you were getting. Enough uncertainty to spend money, feel nothing, conclude it doesn't work, and move on. Just like the Amazon product with the four thousand reviews. Three weeks into the research, I found one that passed all four. Turmeric extract, standardized to 95% curcuminoids. The word EXTRACT across the front of the bottle instead of a mystery "blend." 1,000 milligrams per daily serving of 3 capsules — the exact dose in the studies. And unlike the Amazon product, this one published its third-party test results. Real numbers from a real lab. FineRoot. Pure Curcumin Turmeric. Three capsules a day with a meal. I ordered it that night. Same kitchen table where I'd done the math on the napkin. Same seat. Different math. The bottle arrived on a Tuesday. I took the first three capsules with dinner. The kids were asleep. The house was quiet. I sat at the kitchen table and waited. I didn't expect anything. I'd been disappointed too many times. By the marriage. By the justice system. By my own body. Expecting nothing was safer. About twenty minutes later, I felt something. A loosening. That's the only word I have for it. Like something that had been clenched behind both kneecaps and across the backs of my hands for years let go about half an inch. The low ache I carried all day, every day — the one I'd stopped noticing the way you stop noticing a fan running — I noticed it by noticing it wasn't there. I sat very still. Waiting for it to fade. It didn't. I went to bed that night and slept through until morning for the first time in weeks without waking at 3 AM to stare at the ceiling. The next morning I woke before my alarm. Not startled awake. Not dragging myself out of sleep. My eyes opened and my mind was already running. Clear. I made that the day I stopped waiting and started tracking. The first week, it was the mornings. I woke up and swung my feet out of bed and my hands opened. No hot water at the kitchen sink. No standing there waiting for my own fingers. I just got up and made coffee like a person. The 7 out of 10 was a 4. I kept checking, sure I was imagining it. I wasn't. Then it was the stairs. I went up to my bedroom one night and realized halfway up that my heart wasn't pounding. The same stairs that had been making me stop at the landing for months. I went up. Then back down. Then up again. Just to make sure. The exhaustion changed too. Not vanished — I was still a single mom with two kids and a full-time job. But the bone-deep, cellular tiredness, the kind that felt like my body was running on a dying battery, that was different. I was tired at the end of the day. Not drained at the beginning of it. The fog lifted gradually. I noticed it at work first — I read an email once and understood it. Drafted a response without rereading it three times. Small things. But I hadn't done that in months. The swelling took longer. About two weeks before I noticed my ankles looked normal at the end of the day. I put on the shoes — the ones I'd had before I bought the half-size-up pair. They fit. I stared at them for a long time. Three weeks in, I took my college ring out of the dish by the sink and it went on. But I didn't trust any of it. Not yet. I'd watched Nathan's numbers stabilize and then climb after the transplant. I knew that bodies can lie. That good days don't mean good trends. The numbers were what mattered. Everything else was anecdotal. Six weeks. Follow-up labs. I sat in Dr. Navarro's waiting room and counted the tiles on the floor. My hands were cold. I'd been here before — the waiting room, the anticipation, the fear of a number on a screen. Except before, it had been Nathan's number. Nathan's chart. Nathan's future. Now it was mine. The nurse called my name. Took my blood pressure. Drew blood. I went back to the waiting room. Forty minutes. Dr. Navarro came in with her laptop. Pulled up my chart. "GFR: 51." The same as my last reading. Not higher. But not lower. She scrolled back through my history. The downward slope. Each dot lower than the last. Eighteen months of steady decline. And then — a flat line. A hold. "For the first time since your donation, the decline has stopped." I nodded. My throat was too tight to speak. "Blood pressure 132 over 84. Down from 146 over 92 in that chair six weeks ago. Your inflammation markers are trending down. Meaningfully." She looked at me over the laptop. "And how are the knees?" "A four. It was a seven." She was quiet for a second. "Then we're having the conversation I told you we'd have. I want you off the daily anti-inflammatory. Not tapered over months — I want it out. We'll keep something for the bad days, and you'll call me if the pain goes back above a five." I stopped taking it that afternoon. I made it to the parking lot before I cried. Not relief. Not exactly. More like the feeling of setting down something unbearably heavy that you've been carrying so long you forgot it had weight. The number didn't go up. But it stopped going down. And after eighteen months of watching my future shrink with every test, a plateau felt like a miracle. The next six weeks were the hardest. Not physically — physically, I felt better than I had in two years. The energy was consistent. The fog was gone. I was present with the kids in a way I hadn't been in months. Actually hearing Max's stories about school instead of nodding while my mind ran calculations. Actually watching Ella's soccer practice instead of staring at my phone. The hardest part was the hope. Letting myself believe the plateau would hold. That the next test wouldn't show a drop. That my body wasn't just pausing before another decline. I kept taking it. Every evening. Three capsules with a meal. Twenty minutes later, the loosening. Consistent. Repeatable. Not placebo — you can't placebo away ankle swelling and morning stiffness and a ring that fits again for six straight weeks. Three months from my first dose. Follow-up labs. I sat in the waiting room and this time I didn't count tiles. I read a magazine. An actual magazine. My hands weren't shaking. Dr. Navarro pulled up the chart. Stared at it. Scrolled back through the eighteen months of decline. The plateau at six weeks. And then— GFR: 54. She blinked. Clicked something. Scrolled again. "That's a three-point increase." She ran the test again. Left the room. Came back twenty minutes later. "54. Confirmed." She sat down across from me and pulled the laptop onto her knee. I could see her scrolling through the full timeline — the post-donation baseline, the first signs of decline, the acceleration, the plateau, and now an upward turn that wasn't supposed to happen. Single kidneys don't reverse course. They compensate, they hold, they decline. They don't climb. "Blood pressure 124 over 80. Resting pulse 70. And your inflammation markers came back normal. Not improved. Normal." She looked up from the screen. "And the mornings?" "A two." She looked at me. Not with enthusiasm. With the careful, measured expression of a doctor who is seeing something she didn't predict and doesn't want to overstate. "No cortisone. No daily anti-inflammatory. Not with these numbers." She closed the laptop halfway. "Susan. Whatever you're doing — keep doing it." She didn't say "turmeric." She didn't endorse a supplement. She looked at my chart and she told me to keep going. That was enough. I'm not writing this because of Nathan. I'm not writing this because of Kara, or the affair, or the divorce, or the fact that an organ I can never replace is inside a man who didn't deserve it. I'm writing this because I spent two years giving everything I had to the wrong person. And then I spent eighteen months taking a pill every morning that was quietly finishing what the donation started — while every doctor I saw looked at one room of a house that was on fire in three. I sat at the kitchen table and calculated my dialysis date. I called my insurance company and a woman on the phone told me to start thinking about "care arrangements" for my kids. And then I found the thing that goes after the fire instead of the alarm. The same fierceness that made me say yes when Nathan needed a kidney — the love, the refusal to give up, the willingness to sacrifice anything for someone I cared about — I turned it inward. Toward myself. Toward Ella. Toward Max. I couldn't get my kidney back. But I could protect the one I have left. And the knees that get me up those stairs. And the heart that has to keep going for both of them. Last Saturday, Ella had a soccer game. Early morning. Cold. Six months ago, I would have watched from the car with the heater running. Too stiff to stand on a sideline for a whole game. Too foggy to follow the plays. Present in body. Absent in everything else. Last Saturday I stood on the sideline the entire game. Yelled when she made a breakaway. Clapped when she missed the shot. Picked up Max and held him on my hip so he could see over the other parents. Ella looked over at me after the final whistle. Smiled. Not the careful smile she gives me when she's checking if I'm okay. Just a smile. The kind a ten-year-old gives her mom when her mom is standing where she's supposed to be. That night I sat on Max's bed and read him three chapters of his book. Not one. Three. Because he asked, and because I wasn't too exhausted to say yes. He fell asleep with his head on my arm and I sat there in the dark for a long time, feeling his breath against my wrist. Max would be ten in three years. And I would be here. Not on a machine. Not making "care arrangements." Here. The woman he betrayed became the woman who survived. If you're reading this and you have arthritis — and a pill you take every morning for it — I need you to understand something. Your joints don't scream. They ache. And an ache is a thing you can medicate and call handled, which is exactly what everybody does, including me. But the ache is the alarm. It is not the damage. Underneath it, enzymes are eating the cushion in your joints, and the same fire that makes them is stiffening your arteries at the same time. Your X-ray measures what you've already lost. Nobody is measuring the fire. You blame the exhaustion on your age. The fog on your stress. The swelling on your shoes. The pounding on the stairs on being out of shape. I did the same thing for months. It wasn't any of those things. It was one fire in three rooms and I was medicating the smoke. And I need to say the uncomfortable part. I found out at fourty-seven because I only have one kidney. One filter means the bill arrives early and loud. My body couldn't absorb the damage quietly, so it told me. If you have two kidneys and you've been on a daily anti-inflammatory for ten or fifteen years, you don't have an advantage over me. You have a longer fuse. The same fire has been burning the whole time, in the same three rooms, and nothing has been loud enough to make anyone look. Ask for the test nobody has ordered. The inflammation markers. Find out what the fire is actually doing instead of measuring the damage it already did. You don't feel it until it's too late. I almost waited too long. — Susan Campbell 👉 https://www.fineroot.co/products/c95-1?sub_flow=1 P.S. — The one I chose while working through my nephrologist’s list is called FineRoot. Pure Curcumin Turmeric — three capsules with a meal, that’s it. 1,000 milligrams of turmeric extract standardized to 95% curcuminoids per daily serving, stated right on the label. Most of what I looked at during those three weeks at the kitchen table never told me how much curcumin was actually in the bottle — and when you have one kidney, you cannot afford to guess. So check four things. The word EXTRACT, not “blend.” The standardized curcuminoid percentage. A clear amount per daily serving. And third-party testing — ask what an outside lab actually checked. FineRoot is third-party tested, and it was the one I chose after comparing all four. Bring the full ingredient list to your doctor or pharmacist before you start. P.P.S. — They have a 60-day money-back guarantee. If your numbers don't improve, you get your money back. No questions. I gave away an organ for free to a man who didn't deserve it. Protecting what's left of me costs less than the steaks and wine I bought the day I came home early. If you want to try the 20-minute test — take three, set a timer, sit down — most people feel something let go within twenty minutes. In the hands. Behind the knees. Wherever you've been carrying it. I did. That's a real dose of turmeric reaching a fire that's been burning in you for years — something your anti-inflammatory was never designed to do, and something your glucosamine and your grocery-store juice can't do at all, because they never get near the thing doing the damage. Then go get your inflammation markers tested in 90 days and let the numbers decide. P.P.P.S. — I know this reads like a kidney donor's story. It isn't. I'm just the version where the damage showed up early enough to see. The enzymes eating cartilage, the same inflammation stiffening arteries, the X-ray that measures the loss and never the cause — none of that requires a transplant scar. It's happening to every person taking a daily anti-inflammatory for a joint, whether they have one kidney or two. And I know it reads like a woman's story. It isn't that either. Inflammation doesn't care whose body it's in. Men are at higher risk on the heart end of this, and statistically less likely to get tested until something is already failing. My ex-husband is proof of that. P.P.P.P.S. — I do something now that I never did before. Every morning I stand at the kitchen window and watch Max's school bus come around the corner. Ella walks now — she's old enough. But Max still waves from the bus window. Every single morning. Looking for me. I plan to be standing at that window for a very long time. 👉 https://www.fineroot.co/products/c95-1?sub_flow=1

Susan Campbell

Everyone with joint issues needs to see this ☝️

Stopped earlyStarted 9 days ago

Ran 4 days · stopped 5 Nov

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The day I got my terminal cancer diagnosis, I stumbled upon a hidden album on my mafia husband’s phone. One thousand eight hundred and twenty-six intimate photos. All of the same woman. None of me. Three years into our marriage, all of New York still feared Damian Moretti. Even as his only legal wife, I never dared ask about the blood on his cuffs—or the stranger’s perfume clinging to his skin late at night. I used to think he was simply born cold-blooded. Until I saw her on his screen, wearing his shirt in a secret penthouse I didn’t know existed, smiling freely in his arms. The cruelest part? The timestamp on the last photo was from two hours ago—the exact moment I was sitting alone at the hospital, signing my own Do-Not-Resuscitate form. When Damian walked out of the bathroom, he caught me staring at the screen. No guilt. No panic. He just walked over, took the phone from my frozen hand, and hit delete without a flicker of emotion. “Stay out of things that don’t concern you,” he said flatly. “Forget what you saw.” Before the screen could even go dark, it lit up again with a text message: Damian, you left your shirt in my bed again. Whatever was left inside me finally shattered. I pushed the prepared divorce papers toward him. “Sign them,” I said quietly. “I’m setting you free.” Damian’s gaze turned lethal. In one swift motion, he pinned my wrist against the headboard, the heavy Moretti signet ring on his right hand digging brutally into my bone. “Don’t test my limits, Vivian,” he murmured, leaning over me, his voice low and merciless. “Moretti marriages only end with a funeral.” I met his icy stare and didn’t say another word. He had no idea I only had three months left to live. The funeral he asked for was already on its way. Chapter 1 The day I got my terminal cancer diagnosis, I stumbled upon a hidden album on my mafia husband’s phone. One thousand eight hundred and twenty-six intimate photos. All of the same woman. None of me. Three years into our marriage, all of New York still feared Damian Moretti. Even as his only legal wife, I never dared ask about the blood on his cuffs—or the stranger’s perfume clinging to his skin late at night. I used to think he was simply born cold-blooded. Until I saw her on his screen, wearing his shirt in a secret penthouse I didn’t know existed, smiling freely in his arms. The cruelest part? The timestamp on the last photo was from two hours ago—the exact moment I was sitting alone at the hospital, signing my own Do-Not-Resuscitate form. When Damian walked out of the bathroom, he caught me staring at the screen. No guilt. No panic. He just walked over, took the phone from my frozen hand, and hit delete without a flicker of emotion. “Stay out of things that don’t concern you,” he said flatly. “Forget what you saw.” Before the screen could even go dark, it lit up again with a text message: Damian, you left your shirt in my bed again. Whatever was left inside me finally shattered. I pushed the prepared divorce papers toward him. “Sign them,” I said quietly. “I’m setting you free.” Damian’s gaze turned lethal. In one swift motion, he pinned my wrist against the headboard, the heavy Moretti signet ring on his right hand digging brutally into my bone. “Don’t test my limits, Vivian,” he murmured, leaning over me, his voice low and merciless. “Moretti marriages only end with a funeral.” I met his icy stare and didn’t say another word. He had no idea I only had three months left to live. The funeral he asked for was already on its way. *** That evening, I gave my security detail the slip. It wasn't the first time I'd gone out alone, but it was the first time I hadn't left a destination with the housekeeper. I went to a private cemetery in Brooklyn. A week ago, I'd thought I just had an ulcer. This afternoon, I'd paid for the plot and the headstone in full. The temporary black headstone had no name on it. Only my birth date. The space for the death date was blank. I sat down in front of the stone, propped my personal phone on the ledge, and opened Instagram Live. I used to have followers. Moretti Foundation charity galas, museum fundraising cocktails, wedding anniversary photos—Damian's PR team was very good at packaging me as a happy woman. Tonight, I wanted to speak for myself. The viewer count crawled up from zero. I didn't show my face. I just pointed the camera at the headstone. [Where is this?] [Mrs. Moretti? Was your account hacked?] [Wait, is that a gravestone?] I set my other phone on my knee. That was the number my family used to reach me, the one Damian required me to keep on at all times. For three years, I'd obeyed. "Good evening. I'm Vivan." The wind moved through the treetops. My voice sounded calmer than I'd expected. "I want to tell a story." A dull pain throbbed in my stomach. I waited for it to pass before continuing. "I have a friend. Let's call her A." The comments started picking up. "A married a very powerful man. He gave her an apartment overlooking Central Park, a card she never had to think twice about using, and two bodyguards who went everywhere with her." "Everyone said she was so lucky." I looked at the blank name column on the headstone. "She thought so too." Damian had once blocked a drink for me at a banquet. He'd drape his jacket over my knees in the car when it was cold. It was those pathetically few small things that kept me going for three years. "He was always busy. Anniversaries, birthdays, the day she had emergency surgery—he was always busy." "She couldn't ask. If she asked, she was being unreasonable. Some things weren't for her to know." The viewer count broke a thousand. Someone recognized my voice. [It's really her. The Vivan from the foundation gala last month.] [So you're talking about Damian Moretti?] [Don't talk about their family online. Seriously.] I saw that last comment and suddenly smiled. Even strangers knew I should keep my mouth shut. "Today, A got her test results." I gripped the water bottle on my knee. "Stomach cancer. Stage four. The doctor said she might have three months left." The comments froze for a moment. "Also today, she found a hidden album on her husband's phone." "One thousand eight hundred and twenty-six photos. All of the same woman." When I said that number, I still couldn't keep my voice steady. I remembered scrolling through them, one after another. Her in the car. Her in a bedroom. Her by the sea. She was smiling at the camera, and whoever was taking the photos clearly wasn't in a hurry to leave. Damian didn't even have the patience to look through our wedding photos. [Do you have someone with you right now?] [Tell me this isn't real.] [A is you, isn't it?] Tears fell onto the back of my hand. "She's sitting next to the grave she bought for herself." I wiped my face with my hand, but couldn't get it clean. "She wants to know—does a dying woman still need to keep her husband's secrets?" I looked at the camera. "Especially when that husband is named Damian Moretti." Chapter 2 After his name appeared, the viewer count started climbing fast. Someone shared the livestream to a local gossip account. Someone took screenshots. Someone kept warning me not to say any addresses. [The Moretti Shipping guy?] [My dad used to work for them. Vivan, find somewhere safe first.] [Over eighteen hundred photos? How long has this been going on?] [She said cancer. Can you people care about that first!] I looked at the comments and suddenly felt a little regret. Not regret saying his name. It was that I'd thought if someone heard me, I wouldn't feel so alone. But the people on the other end of the screen—some were worried about me, some were just waiting for the next act. I took a sip of water. "A went to ask her husband who the woman was." "She thought, at least he would explain." I stopped until my breathing steadied. "He said, 'Old stuff. Forget it.'" Saying it out loud hurt more than hearing it the first time. "Then he deleted the album, as if that could make her forget too." The phone on my knee suddenly buzzed. Damian. The moment the screen lit up, my back straightened involuntarily. I hated that reaction. He wasn't even here, hadn't said a word, and I was already afraid of upsetting him. I declined the call. A few seconds later, he called again. This time, I silenced it and turned the screen face-down on the stone ledge. For three years, I had answered every single call he made. In the hospital. In the bathroom. On the anniversary of my mother's death. It turned out not answering only took one press of a button. Then Matteo's number lit up. Damian's most trusted advisor. The man who, on our wedding day, had placed my hand in Damian's and told me, "We'll take care of you from now on." I answered and put it on speaker. "Vivan." His voice was low. There were people talking in the background. "Listen to me. Shut down the livestream first. PR is already handling it." "Handling what?" "Don't drag this outside. Whatever grievances you have, come back and we'll talk." I looked at the headstone in the dusk. "After I come back, will I be allowed to leave again?" The other end went quiet for a moment. "Don't say that. You're Damian's wife." "So I should keep my mouth shut?" "You know that's not what I mean." I didn't respond to that. "Matteo. That woman. You've known all along, haven't you?" Only faint breathing came through the phone. That was enough. I looked down at my wedding ring. So all those times I wore it, sat among those men, hosted their guests like a real family member—they all knew. "What's her name?" "Vivan—" "I'm not even worthy of knowing her name?" Matteo sighed. "Chloe. Chloe Bell. Her father's situation—you don't understand. Damian has a responsibility to her." Responsibility. I repeated the word in my mind. "What kind of responsibility requires hiding photos of her in his shirt?" "It's not as simple as you think." "Then explain it." He didn't. After a brief crackle, another voice came through the phone. "Vivan." Damian. Just two syllables, and my fingers had already clenched around my skirt. "Tell me where you are." Chapter 3 I closed my eyes. In the past, when I heard that tone, I would explain first. Explain why I hadn't answered his call in time, why I hadn't waited for the driver, why I'd said two extra words to someone he didn't like. Tonight, I didn't want to explain. "Did you arrange that woman's house too?" "That's not what you should be concerned about right now." "Then what should I be concerned about?" "You're putting our private business in front of all of New York." Our. He said it so easily. "Now you remember I'm your wife?" A door closed on the other end. Damian seemed to have walked somewhere quiet. "I'm sending someone to pick you up." "No need." "Vivan." His voice dropped. "Don't make me repeat myself." I looked at the comments scrolling on my private phone. The livestream was still going, and he probably thought the phone I was using to talk to Matteo was the one streaming. He didn't know every word was being heard. [She said no need. Did you hear that?] [That's not a discussion. That's an order.] [Don't tell him where you are. Find someone to be with you first.] I suddenly felt like crying. After three years of marriage, I was finally hearing from a stranger—he's wrong. "Damian, what am I to you?" "Don't throw a tantrum on the phone." "The person who smiles for you at charity galas? The wife who makes the newspapers believe the Morettis have gone legitimate?" "That's enough." "Or someone who should be content because you've arranged her house, her driver, her schedule?" My voice was getting shakier. "You put her up outside, and you put me beside you. You think that's fair?" "I never said—" "You never say anything." Tears fell, and I didn't wipe them. "You just tell me to be obedient." The other end was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was colder. "Send me your location. Don't make me send everyone in the city out to look for you." I looked down at the gravel by my feet. For the past three years, those people had carried my shopping bags, shielded me from reporters, waited for me outside restaurants. Only today did I admit it—they could also stop me. "It's quiet here." I said softly. "No one opens doors for me. No one asks where I'm going." "Vivan." "I bought myself a grave plot." The phone went completely silent. I picked up the call phone, took a photo of the headstone, and sent it to him. The name column was still blank. A few seconds later, I heard his rapid breathing. "You're in Brooklyn?" I didn't answer. "Look at me, Vivan—listen to me, don't move." It was the first time he'd said something wrong. How could I look at him through the phone? "I'm coming right now. Don't hang up—" He seemed to pull the phone away and snap an address at someone. Then the call ended. I sat for a while, then unscrewed my water bottle and swallowed the medication I'd brought. The livestream had over a hundred thousand viewers now. Some were saying to call the police, some were asking if they could come find me. Someone had even guessed the name of the cemetery. "Please don't come." I finally turned the camera on myself. The woman on the screen was pale, her eyes red and swollen. She looked nothing like the photos on the foundation's homepage. "There are other families here. Don't disturb them." I pulled my coat tighter and looked toward the iron gate in the distance. "I'm not going to hide from him anymore." Chapter 4 By the time Damian arrived, it was already dark. Two black sedans pulled up at the cemetery entrance. His men got out first. But Damian didn't wait for anyone to open his door. He pushed it open himself and strode down the stone path toward me. He wasn't wearing a tie. His shirt collar was open. His jacket looked like he'd grabbed it on the way out. Matteo followed a few steps behind. Another man started toward the phone on the stone ledge. Damian raised a hand. The man stopped. I watched that gesture. Three years of me talking, and it was worth less than one move of his finger. "Wait at the entrance," Damian said. No one argued. He walked up to me, blocking the light from the path. "Get up." I didn't move. His eyes swept over the headstone, then landed on my face. "Do you know how much trouble tonight is going to cause?" "I know." "Then come home with me." I looked up. "Let's get a divorce." His jaw tightened. I saw him finally notice the other phone on the stone ledge, notice the comments scrolling on the screen. He reached for it. I moved it behind me first. "They're all watching." Damian stared at me. I had never guarded against him like this before. "Turn it off." "No." That one word seemed to make him angrier than the divorce. He bent down, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me up from beside the headstone. Pain shot from my wrist up my arm. "I've let you make a scene all night." I stumbled and grabbed his sleeve to steady myself. "You're hurting me." His grip loosened, but he didn't let go. "We'll talk when we get home." "After we get home, you'll take my phone, have the people at the door watch me. Then you'll tell everyone I'm just not feeling well and need to rest." I saw his expression change. Not because I was wrong. Because I'd guessed right. "Vivan, don't push me." "Push you to sign?" I looked at him, my voice very soft. "If you don't want to, fine. You won't have to wait long anyway." He frowned. I took the folded diagnosis from my coat pocket and pressed it against his chest. "You said Moretti marriages only end with a funeral." The paper rustled softly between us. "Stomach cancer. Stage four." His hand stopped. "The doctor said I might have three months." Damian let go of my wrist. The diagnosis slid down his chest. He caught it hastily, and the corner of the paper crumpled as he unfolded it. It was the first time I'd seen him read something so slowly. His eyes stopped on the first line, then went back and read it again. The livestream comments were still scrolling. [He's only finding out now?] [Let go of her first, her wrist is red.] [Stop filming. Take her to the hospital.] I couldn't see his expression clearly. The light was behind him, making the paper very white. "When was this diagnosed?" His voice sounded scraped raw. "Today." "Why didn't you tell me?" I looked at him. He finally looked up from the paper. "I was going to tell you when you came back." The bedroom. The phone. That woman. He should remember. "Vivan—" "Then I saw the photos." His lips moved, but no sound came out. I was suddenly so tired I couldn't stand. I sat back down beside the headstone. Damian reached out immediately, as if to help me. I avoided him. His hand stopped in midair. "There are other hospitals," he said. "Other doctors. We'll get you re-examined." "Damian." "I'll arrange it." He held the report, speaking faster and faster. "Tonight. You come with me." "This isn't something you can make disappear with a few phone calls." He looked at me. That usual expression—the one that made everyone obey—finally faded from his face. What was left, I didn't dare recognize. Just then, his phone rang. I'd heard that ringtone countless times. Every time it rang, he would leave the dinner table, the study, or our bed. It was Chloe. Chapter 5 Damian glanced at the screen. His first instinct was to decline. But his thumb hovered next to the answer button. I watched him and said nothing. The ringing stopped, then started again quickly. This time, he answered. "Chloe." He turned and walked only two steps away. The cemetery was too quiet. Even though he didn't put it on speaker, I could still hear the broken sobbing on the other end. "Someone sent me the livestream... Damian, I didn't mean to. I didn't know she would—" "Don't look at that stuff." His tone changed. Lower. Slower. Like he was approaching a frightened animal. "Give the phone to whoever's with you." Something else was said on the other end. Damian closed his eyes. "I know. Don't be alone tonight." I watched his back and remembered the night I had emergency surgery. The nurse called him three times. The person who finally came to sign was the housekeeper. "It's not your fault," Damian said. My hands slowly clenched on my knees. "I'll come over after I finish up here." Here. Me and my cancer, the grave I'd bought, the three months I had left. All of it was "here." He hung up and turned back. By then, I didn't want to ask anymore. "Her father took a hit for the family once," he said. I looked up at him. "So what?" "I promised to take care of her." "You can hire bodyguards, give her a house, pay all her bills." I heard my own voice shaking. "You also promised to take care of me. In the church. In front of everyone." Damian gripped his phone tightly. "I'll find you a doctor." "I know you can afford it." "Don't talk to me like that." I laughed. Laughed until my stomach hurt. He crouched down, trying to meet my eyes. In the past, that gesture would have given me hope. Tonight, I just wanted him farther away. "Come home with me. We'll deal with the rest later." "Which home?" He didn't answer. "When something happens to her, you send the family bodyguards to her. When she can't sleep, you have the driver take you over in the middle of the night." "You always say she needs protection." I stared into his eyes. "Then who protects me?" Damian's face changed slowly. "What do you know?" "I know that three years ago, those texts testing me were sent by someone you arranged." He didn't move. "A strange man, saying he knew things about you, offering to take me away. I didn't reply." At the time, I'd even shown Damian the messages, thinking he'd appreciate my honesty. For a whole month after that, he didn't touch me. "Because I didn't tell you immediately, you decided I'd considered it." "Vivan—" "Two years ago, the man who drove for me just helped steady me when it was raining. The next day, he was transferred." Damian's eyes dropped to my reddened wrist. "Last year on your birthday, I waited at home until after midnight. The housekeeper said you had something important." I took a deep breath. "Chloe had a panic attack. She needed you." In the distance, Matteo stood at the other end of the stone path and never came closer. I didn't know how much he could hear. I hoped he heard every word. "You don't allow any man near me, but you expect me to learn to accept her." Tears fell again. "You call that loyalty." Damian reached out to touch my face. I turned away. He withdrew his hand, slowly. "She's not here to replace you." "She's already living in my marriage." I looked at him. "Are you waiting for her to take my seat before you call it replacement?" He didn't answer. The wind stirred the fallen leaves at my feet. I took a file folder from my bag. I'd taken it with me when I left the law firm that afternoon. "The shipping company shares you gave me, and the foundation position—I don't want them." I put the documents in front of him. "My lawyer will contact Matteo. The shares will be handled through proper procedure. My resignation letter will be delivered to the board tomorrow morning." He looked at the folder but didn't take it. "You think giving these back to me means you can leave?" The moment the words left his mouth, he stiffened. I looked down and pulled the black card from my wallet, placing it on the folder. Then the wedding ring. It took me two tries to get it off. My knuckles were a little swollen, and the band scraped my skin. Damian caught my hand. Gently, this time. "Don't take it off." I looked at his hand and waited. After a few seconds, he let go. The diamond landed on the card with a soft clink. No one applauded. No one said the marriage was over. His men were still at the entrance, the car keys were still in the driver's hand, and the divorce papers were still unsigned. But at least in this moment, I wasn't putting the ring back on. "I don't owe you anymore, Damian." He stared at the ring as if he hadn't heard. I leaned back against the headstone, my chest heaving. The camera was still on. Over two hundred thousand people were watching the man who never allowed anyone to refuse him, crouching in front of the grave his wife had bought for herself. "You can go now." I closed my eyes. "Didn't you promise to go see Chloe?" He didn't move. I heard his phone buzz again. Then a second time. Damian looked at me, still holding the diagnosis. This time, I wasn't going to make excuses for him. I waited for him to choose.

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Stopped earlyStarted 7 days ago

Ran 0 days · stopped 3 Nov

Haven't Gone in Days?

My father took Movicol every morning for twelve years. He died at 64 of complications from chronic constipation. Earlier this year I sat in the same consulting-room chair he sat in and my GP recommended the same white powder. I almost said yes, until my husband asked the one question no one ever asked my father. Every test my father ever took came back normal. He died of the thing they were managing. I'm 51. I'm not a doctor. I'm not selling anything. I'm the daughter of a man who scooped white powder into orange juice every morning for twelve years, and I need to tell you what I found out too late to tell him. My father was a bridge engineer for the Highways Agency for thirty-six years. Quiet man. Measured things for a living. The Movicol showed up on his kitchen counter the year I turned 30. His GP had a phrase for it. "This is your new best friend now." My father wrote it down on a Post-it inside the kitchen cabinet. His engineer's block letters. NEW BEST FRIEND. Underlined once. I found it years later clearing out the house. It's the one thing of his I kept. For twelve years he scooped white powder into orange juice at 6:15 in the morning. Same scoop. Same glass. "Regular as clockwork," he'd say. Like a small joke. Like a man reporting in from a bridge inspection. I believed him. The year before he died, his belly started feeling tight. He was 63. The GP said keep up the Movicol. Maybe add a little Fybogel. He did. He did exactly what they told him. The week he died, he didn't tell my mother how bad it had got. He didn't tell me. The death certificate said complications from chronic constipation, sepsis pathway. On the flight home from the funeral I made myself read the discharge summary, word by word, until I understood it. A stool impaction had blocked his bowel. It sat there long enough that the wall tore. The infection went into his blood. He was 64. My father measured bridges for a living, and he died on a bathroom floor of constipation. I know how that sounds. I didn't believe it either, until I read it in a hospital's own words. Twelve years of managed output. Every test he ever took came back normal. He died of the thing they were managing. I want to tell you what happened to me before I tell you what I found out. Because if you're a woman around my age reading this, some of it is going to sound like the inside of your own house. It started for me a few years after he was gone. I was 45, maybe 46. Every other day. Then every third. Then every fourth. By 48 it was every four or five days at best. And somewhere in there the urge itself went quiet. I don't know how to describe that to someone who hasn't lived it. I used to at least feel it coming. By 48 I felt nothing. No signal. No warning. Like my body had forgotten how to go on its own. I only went when I made myself go. The bloat showed up at 8pm like a guest who wouldn't leave. I stopped wearing the wrap dress because I looked six months pregnant by dinner. Stopped tucking shirts in. In every photo from those years I'm pulling a jumper around my waist. The strain hour at 6am. Door locked. Knees pulled up to my chest. Sixty minutes with my eyes closed while the rest of the house slept. Pebble stools when I did go. Rabbit pellets. One morning there was blood on the paper and I cried in the bathroom for two minutes and then I went to work. I dread thinking about when I'll next manage to go. I stopped saying that out loud around the time it got bad. I could hear my mother saying it about my father. The drawer. I stood in front of it one night, in the dark, and made myself list it out loud like naming the dead. Movicol. Fybogel. Magnesium citrate. Magnesium glycinate. Senokot. Dulcolax suppositories. Milk of Magnesia. Castor oil. Alflorex. Smooth Move tea. Prune juice. Triphala. Fibre gummies. Two brands. The squatty potty under the sink. A colonoscopy at 41. Nothing remarkable. A pelvic-floor referral I cancelled twice and never went to. I closed the drawer. Stood there. Half of those were in my father's cabinet too. I'd been buying them my whole life and not seeing it. And one night it landed on me. I have two kids. Someday one of them is going to clear out my kitchen. I did not want them finding my Post-it. This past January, around the anniversary of his death, I drove down to help my mother sort my father's old papers. We sat at the kitchen table I grew up at. In the back of the cabinet, behind the coffee mugs, I found an unopened Movicol packet. His. Nine years old. I held it. And I understood I was standing exactly where he'd stood. I drove home that night and booked an appointment with a new GP, my old one had retired the year before. I wasn't going for a refill. I wanted someone to look at me and tell me I wasn't turning into my father. I made a note in my phone: actually go this time. Three weeks later I was sitting in Consulting Room 4 of the same medical centre my father had used for fifteen years. I didn't realise it at first. Then I saw the framed lithograph of a covered bridge on the wall. The same lithograph my father used to make fun of. A bridge engineer, making fun of a bridge lithograph, for fifteen years. The chair. The vinyl consulting chair with the cracked armrest. The same chair. I sat down in it and I could feel my father sitting in it. My husband came with me because I'd been crying in the car for two weeks. He sat in the side chair with his hands on his knees. The GP was kind. He was thorough. He listened for six minutes. Then he pulled a notepad over and started writing it down for me. "Pick up a tub of Movicol on your way home. Daily. It'll be your new best friend." The same seven words. A different GP said them to my father in a different room in this same building, twelve years before. And my hand was already moving towards that pad. I want you to understand that. After the flight home. After the discharge summary. After nine years. My hand was reaching for the same powder that killed him. That is how strong the pull is. That is how they get you. My husband leaned forward in the side chair. Quiet. Not aggressive. The way he asks the mechanic about the car. "Before she starts that, can somebody actually find out why this keeps happening? Her dad was on that stuff for twelve years." The GP paused. Said he could refer me to a functional-medicine doctor if I wanted. Didn't push. Pulled a card out of a drawer and handed it to me. Dr Eleanor Hartley. Foundation Functional Medicine. On Maple Street. I took the card. Walked out without starting anything. Then sat in the car park for forty minutes before I could turn the key. I almost cancelled the appointment with Dr Hartley twice. A hundred and fifty pounds for an intake form that asks about my father felt like grief tourism. I drove there anyway. A converted Victorian cottage at the end of Maple Street. Wooden floors. A window seat with a wool throw on it. Used to be somebody's dining room. Smelled of bergamot tea. The receptionist offered me a cup. I drank it. Dr Hartley came out herself. Not an assistant. Mid-fifties, grey bob, reading glasses on a beaded chain. She books one patient an hour. I was the patient. The intake form was six pages. One whole page about my father. She read all of it before she said a word. Then she read my colonoscopy from 41, the bloodwork, the years of nothing remarkable. She put it down. "I'm not going to send you for another scan. You've had them. They're normal." I started to say that was the whole problem. That everything was always normal. She nodded before I finished. "That's the cruel part of this. What's actually wrong doesn't show up on any of them. It didn't show up on your father's either." Then she said something I did not see coming. She took her glasses off. "I want to tell you something before we go any further. I spent twenty years of my practice sending people home for that same powder your father was on. 'This is your new best friend.' I said those words too. To a lot of women who looked like you." "I sent them home with the powder and I told them we would monitor it." She set the glasses on the desk. "I did not understand what I was actually doing until I started looking at what the drug never touched. It took me a long time. I'm sorry it took me a long time. Your father's doctor was doing what he was trained to do. So was I." She let that sit. "I'm telling you this because I want you to know I know how that room felt today. I sat in a lot of those rooms." She had a little notepad. She drew a slow line across it. "A few times a day, your colon is supposed to squeeze. Hard. One strong contraction that sweeps everything down and out. That squeeze is what you feel as the urge. It's run by a little band of cells in the wall of the colon. Pacemaker cells. Same idea as the ones that keep a heart on beat." She tapped the line. "In someone like you, those cells have been wearing down. For years." I asked her how she could possibly know that. If no scan shows it. "Because I've watched it walk through that door a hundred times. Women exactly like you. Every test clean. A little worse every year. And when researchers look at colons like that under a microscope, the cells that fire the squeeze are worn down. What wears them down is oxidation." I asked her what that meant. She reached over and picked up an apple from a small dish beside her desk. "Let me show you." She cut it in half with a paring knife. Set one half on a small plate between us, cut side up. Left it there. "Watch it while we talk." She kept going. "Deep in the wall of your colon, right against the layer where the muscle sits, are these pacemaker cells. Nobody's told you about them because you weren't supposed to know about them. When they work, you don't think about it. You just go." She glanced at the apple. "They are being damaged. Worn down. By free radicals your own gut has been overproducing for years. Processed food. Stress. A round of antibiotics here and there. All the ordinary things. They wipe out the good bacteria and leave the lining raw. And a raw lining throws off far too many of these corrosive little molecules. Day and night. They don't switch off." She paused. "The cells barely grow back. So the damage stacks up. Year after year. The squeeze gets weaker. Then it comes less often. Then it stops coming on its own at all." Then she said the line. "And one day, you notice the urge is just gone." The urge. The thing I'd stopped feeling at 48. She nodded down at the plate. The cut side of the apple had gone soft brown while she talked. "Nothing touched it. That's oxidation. Free radicals, the same molecules, breaking the flesh down from the inside." She picked up a wedge of lemon from the dish and squeezed half of it over a fresh slice. Set it on the plate next to the brown one. "Watch this one. It won't turn. That's what an antioxidant does. It steps in and neutralises the free radicals before they can do the damage." She set the knife down. "It's the same chemistry that rusts a steel beam. It has been oxidising the cells in the wall of your colon that fire the contraction. You can't see it on any scan, which is why every test came back normal while you got worse." Then, quiet. "Your cells have never once got the lemon juice." She let that sit. "In my read, that's what's happening. Nobody can put a scan on it and prove it to you. Not yet. But it is the best explanation we have for why you are doing everything right and still getting worse." She looked at me. "It isn't your willpower. It isn't your fault. It's the modern gut, not you. The cells aren't dead. Take away what's corroding them and give the contraction a chance to come back." "You are not broken. You did not forget how. The cells that run it have been wearing down. Quietly. The whole time your tests were coming back normal." She let that sit too. "That is why your father's came back normal. For twelve years." I put my hand over my mouth. Nine years. A death certificate. A discharge summary I made myself read on a plane. And the thing that killed him had been sitting there under every clean test the whole time, and no one ever went looking for it. She handed me a tissue from a wooden box on her desk and waited. I said, "But they kept telling him more fibre. They told me more fibre too." "Fibre is a raw ingredient. Your bacteria are supposed to ferment it. But the same diet that started this wiped those bacteria out. So the fibre just sits there and turns to gas. That's why it made you more bloated, not less." She shrugged. "You can't out-eat a contraction that isn't firing." I started to say something about the laxatives. She got there first. "A stimulant laxative, your Senokot, your Dulcolax, doesn't fix anything. It lashes the muscle into one forced squeeze. That isn't your body doing the work. That's your body being whipped into it. It works once. Then it quits. Then it needs a bigger dose." She looked at me. "Your father proved his colon could be forced for twelve years. He never once got to find out if it could work on its own." I couldn't answer that. "And the Movicol," she said, "pulls water in so what's already sitting there slides out. You go, a little. Wet, full, and still no real urge, because the squeeze still isn't happening. It clears out today. It does nothing about why the squeeze stopped coming." She capped her pen. "You can't fix a contraction that isn't firing by softening or bulking what it's supposed to move. You have to go after what is damaging the cells that fire it." I looked at the wool throw on the window seat across the room and I didn't say anything for a while. She let me sit. Then she said the thing I typed into my phone in the car park afterwards, the one I've read a hundred times since. "You are not your father. You're sitting here. He never got this conversation. You are." Near the end of the hour I asked her the only question left. So what do I actually do. She uncapped the pen again. "That's the hard part. It isn't one job. To fix this, you have to do three things at the same time." She wrote them down the side of the page. "One. Stop the damage. That is an antioxidant's job, neutralise those free radicals so they quit wearing the cells down. Two. Calm the gut that's making them. Soothe that raw lining and put back the good bacteria the modern diet stripped out. Three. Get the contraction some help while you rebuild. Two strains with their own trials in people with what you have. One for going more often. One for getting through faster." She turned the page towards me. "Everything in that drawer of yours worked on what happens downstream. Not one of them stopped the damage, calmed the source, and helped the squeeze come back. All three, at once." She said it plainly. "The treatments failed you. You did not fail." Ten years I had been calling myself broken. A woman I'd met forty minutes earlier was the first person to say out loud that it wasn't me. I asked her what does all three. "Stopping the damage is the antioxidant. And the strongest one I keep coming back to for these cells, the one that actually gets to the free radicals doing the damage, is kombucha." She nodded at the plate between us. The slice that was still white. "The lemon juice." I must have made a face. She smiled. "Not the drink. The drink is the worst version of it. Heat kills the antioxidant. Every shelf-stable bottle has been heated. Every so-called live bottle is still fermenting in your fridge, making more alcohol and gas, not more of what you need. Half the bottles they test in this country don't have the acids on their own label. You'd drink four a day and your whole sugar quota with them and still not get close." She shook her head. "You did not fail at kombucha. The bottle destroyed the antioxidant before you drank it." "What works is a concentrated kombucha extract. Standardised. Antioxidants kept intact. Far stronger than anything you'd sip." She wrote the rest down as she went. Two strains, each with its own trial for people with chronic constipation. Lactobacillus plantarum, for more complete movements. Bacillus coagulans, for faster transit. Slippery elm. To settle the raw lining. Dandelion root. To feed the strains so they take hold. "That's the whole formula," she said. "Antioxidant to stop the damage. Bacteria and elm to calm the source. Dandelion to feed what you're putting back. All three jobs, at once. Not a drink. A formula." Then she said, "And there's one I've watched actually hold up. It puts all of it in one place. One gummy." She wrote the name on a Post-it and pushed it across the desk. "I've got no stake in it. I just keep seeing people start going on their own again. Some of them for the first time in years. You can look it up." Jevawell. I put the Post-it in my purse, between the credit cards. I drove home with it there. I didn't go to the kitchen. I went to my father's old desk in the spare room, the one my mother gave me when she sold the house. Opened the bottom drawer. Pulled out a manila folder of his last year of doctor's notes. I had kept them for nine years and never once opened them. I read them at the desk at 10:30 at night, with my husband asleep upstairs. Twelve years of "increase Movicol dose." Twelve years of "patient reports tightness, recommend stay the course." Twelve years of "bloods unremarkable." Not one of them ever asked what the normal tests were missing. I closed the folder. Sat with it on my lap. He didn't know. His doctor didn't know. I do know now. I pulled out my phone. Typed in Jevawell. Read the whole page twice. Everything she had drawn for me was on it. The concentrated kombucha extract. The two strains and their trials. The slippery elm. The dandelion root. All of it in one berry gummy. 90-day money-back guarantee. Then I almost closed the tab. I sat there after reading the page and I felt nothing. Not hope. Not excitement. I had been through too many rounds of that. I've fallen for Alflorex. I've fallen for Milk of Magnesia. I've fallen for castor oil. I've fallen for twelve years of Movicol through my father's kitchen window. I almost closed the tab. The 90-day guarantee was the only reason I didn't. If it didn't work, I'd send the pouch back. Then I pulled the Post-it out of my purse and looked at her handwriting. I went back to the page and ordered one pouch. Then I changed the quantity to two. One for now. One for when the first ran out. The pouch came on Thursday. Cream top. Deep forest green. A small gold raspberry on the side. I set it on the counter next to my father's old coffee scoop and looked at the two of them for a long minute. Then I took one. Berry. I sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. The first week I didn't expect much. I had stopped expecting much a long time ago. I took the one gummy every morning and waited for the letdown I knew by heart. Week two, on a Wednesday, I went. On my own. No powder. No pill. No bracing for it. I sat there afterwards trying to remember the last time that had happened without a fight. I couldn't. I didn't tell anyone. I wasn't sure it counted. Week three it happened more than once. And it wasn't the pebbles. Not the rabbit-pellet thing I'd lived with for years. It was soft. Whole. Like my body had finished the job instead of quitting halfway. Week four the urge came back. The real one. My body telling me instead of me telling my body. I had not felt that since I was 48. And I had not touched the drawer in two weeks. I told my husband over coffee on Saturday. He didn't say anything. He reached across the table and held my hand and I had to look at the window. Week five it was every morning. Easy. Twenty minutes, not sixty. I put on the wrap dress I hadn't worn in three years and stood in front of the mirror longer than I want to admit. Week twelve I went back to Dr Hartley. She didn't run a test. She asked how often I was going, and whether I was reaching for anything to make it happen. Every day, I told her. On my own. Nothing in the drawer touched since the car park. She wrote it down. "That's the only test that matters," she said. "You are not forcing it any more. You are going because your colon is doing the work again. That's the one thing the laxatives could never give you back." It's been four months now since the car park. The Fybogel tubs are in the recycling. My own Movicol is still in the drawer, just in case. The scoop dry. The box unopened since April. The squatty potty got donated. Last Tuesday I tucked a shirt in and wore it to work and did not think about my stomach once. The week of my father's anniversary I had a hard stretch. Three days. The old tightness. The old dread loop. I took one more gummy at lunch instead of reaching for the laxative. The body came back on its own by Wednesday. That Sunday I drove down to my mother's. I opened the cabinet behind the coffee mugs and I took the nine-year-old Movicol packet out from where I'd left it in January. I threw it away. Then I sat at my parents' old kitchen table with a cup of coffee. My mother makes it in my father's old pot. His orange juice glass is still on the counter where he left it. I drank the coffee. And I went, by myself, no powder, no help, nothing, sitting in that house, for the first time in longer than I can remember. I came back to the kitchen and sat down across from my mother. I didn't tell her about the gummy. I told her about Dr Hartley. I told her what every clean test had missed, the thing no one ever went looking for. She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "I wish your father had heard that." I had to put the coffee down. I sat at that table and cried the way I hadn't cried since the day we buried him. My mother didn't say anything. She just moved her chair round next to mine. My father managed his output for twelve years. He still died of the thing they were managing. I went after the cause instead. Four months. That's how long it's been. Long enough to know it isn't a fluke. If you're reading this, and your drawer looks like my drawer, and your doctor sounds like my father's doctor, and every test you've ever had came back normal while you only got worse, it isn't in your head, and it isn't your fault. It's the cause no test was ever looking for. Stop managing the surface. Go after the cause your father never got to. A concentrated kombucha antioxidant. One gummy a day. 90-day money-back guarantee. If it doesn't work, you send the pouch back. I'm not a doctor. I'm not selling anything. I'm the daughter of a man who took Movicol every morning for twelve years and died of the thing it was managing. He never got this conversation. You just did. https://www.tiffaness.com/s99vn/blog

Isabella

Haven't Gone in Days?

Stopped earlyStarted 10 days ago

Ran 0 days · stopped 31 Oct

Cat needs a dental clean? Read this ☝️

For a year and a half I've been trying to stop being angry at my vet, and I can't do it. I'm angry at myself. Some days I'm angrier at him. Some days angrier at me. It goes back and forth and I can't put it down. He said her bloods were perfect. He said it was routine. He even reassured me the morning I dropped her off. She went into cardiac arrest on the table. Emergency vet hospital. Seizures all night. By lunchtime the next day she was dead. I'm angry at him for pushing a clean she didn't need. And I'm angry at myself because I knew. I knew something wasn't right. I said it out loud — and I took her in anyway. Then I spoke to a dental specialist. She explained why my vet was so set on that clean. And what would have saved Penny if I'd found her six months earlier. My other cat Maggie is 11. She's never been under anaesthetic. Because of what that specialist told me. If your vet is pushing for a dental clean and your gut is saying no — read this before you do anything. My name is Rosemary, I'm 67. Penny followed me everywhere. Kitchen to living room. Living room to bedroom. If I sat down, she was on me within thirty seconds. She'd press her whole body against my side and just stay there. Some evenings I fell asleep with her on my chest and didn't move, because I didn't want to wake her. She'd already had her teeth cleaned the year before. £1,000. No extractions. The vet said everything looked good. The morning I took her in for the second clean, I nearly turned round in the car park. I told my vet again that I didn't think she needed it. He said the tartar would only get worse. He insisted. He said she was healthy and I didn't need to worry. Five hours went by. Nobody rang. Then my vet came on the phone and I could hear it in his voice. Penny had gone into cardiac arrest. They'd got her heart going again, but she didn't wake up. He said I had to take her to an emergency vet hospital. I held her for fifteen minutes the next morning. Her body was warm, but she wasn't there anymore. I told them she'd been through enough. We let her go over the rainbow bridge. That was 14th November. I rang his practice the week after. The receptionist said he was sorry for my loss. She said complications are rare, but they do happen. That's when I stopped being sad and started being angry. I wanted to sue them. I rang two solicitors. Neither of them would take the case. I couldn't go back to that vet. Never again. Four months later I found a new vet for Maggie. I took her in for her first check-up. He examined her, looked in her mouth and said the words that made my hands go numb. "There's a bit of tartar there. We should probably book her in for a clean." I couldn't answer. My friend Gail from church is the reason Maggie is still alive. I told her everything one Sunday after the service. She grabbed my arm and said: "Ring Dr. Sarah Bennett. She's a dental specialist. She knew things my normal vet didn't." I rang on Monday morning. I asked to speak to Dr. Bennett. She came to the phone and I told her everything. Then she asked me something I wasn't expecting. "Did your vet explain why he wanted to do the clean?" I said he'd told me there was tartar. "There's always tartar," she said. "In every cat over 8 or 9. What's really dangerous isn't the build-up on the surface. It's the bacteria that have grown below the gum line. When plaque irritates the gums for long enough, they swell and pockets form between tooth and gum. Bacteria get into those pockets and settle there. I call it subgingival bacterial growth. No treat, no water additive, no clean can reach it." My stomach dropped. "A clean does help," she said. "For about an hour. But as soon as your cat eats again, the bacteria start building up again straight away. The gums are inflamed again within weeks. The pockets open up again." "It turns the clock back. That's why vets keep recommending them. It's the only tool they have. The only thing they're trained for. And I'll be completely honest with you: dental cleans are one of the more profitable procedures in a general practice." "Your vet wasn't a bad vet," she said. "He just didn't have another option to offer you." "So what should I do?" "My practice recommends a powder called Novendo for every older cat," she said. "It has two ingredients. A natural mineral called zeolite, which mimics the enzymes in toothpaste. It breaks up the plaque and stops it sticking to the teeth. And zinc ascorbate. The strongest natural antibacterial. It kills the subgingival bacterial growth underneath." "How does it work?" "You sprinkle it on the food once a day. It's digested and released again through the cat's saliva. Saliva already reaches every surface in the mouth. Even below the gum line." "The bacterial growth builds up around the clock," she said. "Now something is fighting it around the clock. No anaesthetic. No stress." I showed it to Maggie's vet. She read the label and said: "There's nothing in there that would worry me." I sprinkled the first scoop on Maggie's food that evening. She cleared the whole bowl. She didn't even notice. The first two weeks — nothing. I checked her mouth every night. Same tartar. I nearly gave up. Around day 12 she yawned on my chest and I didn't turn my head away. The bad breath was gone. By week 5 her coat was softer. She'd started grooming herself again. She was back at the kitchen window in the mornings watching the birds — something she hadn't done in a long time. At the next check-up her vet looked at her teeth and didn't mention a clean. She said her teeth look great for her age. I think about Penny every day. Nobody told me there was something between "anaesthetic" and "doing nothing". My vet didn't know. That's why I'm telling you. I see the same posts in my cat groups every week. "My vet says my cat needs a clean, but she's 14 and I'm terrified." "His teeth keep getting worse, but I can't afford £1,000." "The vet says the bloods are fine, but something doesn't feel right." If that last one sounds like you — please listen to yourself. I didn't. And I have to live with that. Dr. Bennett has written an open letter that explains everything. What happens below the gum line. Why cleans don't solve it for good. And what helps instead. She explains it better than I can. If you decide to try what she recommends — make sure you order from the official website and not from Amazon. They don't sell on Amazon. Those are all fakes from random sellers. A woman in my cat group ordered from there and it was a completely different product. P.S. I paid £1,000 for the clean that killed Penny. Then £2,100 at the emergency vet hospital. A scoop of powder costs less than a pound a day. You don't need endless cleans. You don't have to keep putting your older cat under anaesthetic. I didn't know that. Now you do.

PulseDaily

Cat needs a dental clean? Read this ☝️

Stopped earlyStarted 10 days ago

Ran 0 days · stopped 31 Oct

📖✨ It's amazing! Click to read now! 👉💖

On the day of our graduation trip, my boyfriend Roman, a mafia heir, and his childhood friend Clara left me stranded on the side of a deserted highway. Their off-road vehicle had been driving for over half an hour before they even noticed the back seat was empty. When Roman called, there was no panic in his voice, only a hint of irritation. "Blair, why didn't you get back in the car?" "Stop messing around. We're rushing to the canyon to catch the sunset. We don't have time to go back and get you." "Figure out a way to hitch a ride here yourself." Through the receiver, Clara's amused voice came through loud and clear. "She's not a three-year-old girl. She can't expect you to wait on her hand and foot." In the past, I would have assumed it was my fault, apologizing to him with teary eyes. Then I would have tried everything in the blowing sand, even running, just to catch up with his car. But this time, looking up at the blinding sun in the desert, I suddenly didn't want to chase after him anymore. I took out my phone and canceled all the luxury suite reservations along the canyon route. I bought a bus ticket to a small coastal town. It was the place they said was totally boring. The coastline stretched on forever, and the world was wide open. I was no longer following anyone. Chapter 1 This graduation trip was something Roman and I had planned a long time ago. Over the past few years in college, I had followed my mafia boyfriend to so many places. Snowy mountain roads, deep canyons, private shooting ranges, and illegal street races. They were all playgrounds for his thrill-seeking nature. On the eve of our graduation, I leaned against his chest and brought it up once. "Roman, let's go to the beach to take some photos." "Let's find a coastal town where no one knows us. We can sleep until we wake up naturally, photograph the seagulls, and enjoy the ocean breeze without any bodyguards or rushing." That day, he kissed my hair and agreed readily. "No problem. You're the boss for the graduation trip." I had looked forward to it for a long time, even drafting three different versions of the photo-shoot itinerary. The hotel was booked right by the coastline, featuring an open-air balcony where we could capture the silhouette of the lighthouse at night. I even secretly bought a sexy set of lace lingerie, wanting to do something romantic with him to the sound of the ocean waves. But just a week before departure, Clara suddenly sent an off-road trail map of the Grand Canyon in our group chat. [A graduation trip should obviously be somewhere exciting.] [You can go to a boring beach anytime, but extreme off-roading in the canyon is a rare chance.] Roman replied to her almost instantly. [This route is intense.] I stared at the screen, my fingertips hovering over the keyboard for a long time without pressing down. In the end, I only typed out one sentence. [But didn't we agree to go to the beach?] Clara replied just as fast. [Blair, you don't actually want to turn our graduation trip into a retirement home, do you?] [We're all young here. Don't be such a nun.] Other guys from his crew joined the group chat to tease me. Some said the canyon was the only place fit for a real man. Some said the beach was just completely boring. Someone said it would be a total waste if born thrill-seekers like Roman and Clara didn't go racing in the canyon. Roman didn't say a single word in the group to defend me. He just sent me a private message. [Don't be a buzzkill.] [Clara is right. I can take you to a place like the beach anytime later.] Later. There was always a "later" with him. But every "later" he promised me always ended up being for someone else. I looked at that message, feeling as if something had tightly gripped my heart. In the end, I obediently replied with one word. [Okay.] So, I silently canceled all the beach itineraries. I stayed up late again to research canyon routes, rent an SUV, book campsites, check sandstorm warnings, make supply lists, and even prepare first aid kits. Clara threw out a casual remark in the group. [Blair is always so good at planning the logistics.] Followed by a thumbs-up emoji. Looking at that sentence, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the day of departure, Roman drove that modified black SUV to pick me up. Clara was already sitting in the passenger seat. She was wearing sunglasses. Her long legs in cutoff shorts were propped up on the dashboard, and she was swirling a glass of tequila on the rocks. Seeing me come out carrying a heavy equipment case, she lifted her chin at me. "Blair, you take the back seat." "I get carsick easily, so I need to sit in the front for some fresh air." I got carsick too, and Roman knew that better than anyone. Just as I was about to speak, he had already opened the back door for me. "Just make do with it. Clara was partying at the bar until three in the morning, and she has a headache now." "There's plenty of room in the back, so you can just lie down and take a nap." I watched him make arrangements for another woman so naturally, and I suddenly remembered the year we first got together in college. The first time I accompanied him out of state for a family event, I was so carsick that I turned pale. He gave up the passenger seat to me without hesitation. The big, bad mafia heir actually squeezed into the back seat, handing me water, tissues, and mints the entire way. At that time he said, "So what if my girlfriend is a little delicate? I like spoiling her." "I just love taking care of her." But now, he casually shoved my luggage into the trunk. He turned his head and whistled at Clara. "Buckle up. Get ready to enjoy the ride." I stood by the car and smiled quietly. It turned out that being his favorite had an expiration date. Chapter 2 Along the way, the two people in the front row chatted enthusiastically. They talked about camera angles, drone flight paths, and which stretch of the wilderness was best for shooting epic dirt bike shots. They talked about how if they posted this trip on social media, the title would be "One Last Wild Ride Before Graduation." I sat in the back row, a tablet resting on my lap showing the itinerary I had made. What time to set off, what time to arrive at the destination, which gas station to fill up at in advance, which section of the road had no signal, and which campground manager to call beforehand to confirm the reservations. I tried to interject several times. "The camp host for tonight said there are wild wolves wandering around, so it's best to get there before dark." But no one paid any attention to me at all. While we were resting by the desert highway at noon, I sent Roman the paved route I had mapped out. "This dirt road has too many potholes, and it could ruin the suspension. Let's take the highway next to it." Clara glanced at the GPS. "I just want to take this shortcut to find a good spot for the camera." "The rougher the road, the more thrilling it is. What's the fun in taking the main road?" Roman smiled. "No problem. Whatever you say." I frowned. "But the tires are already heavily worn." "Blair." His tone revealed obvious impatience. "Can you not be such a buzzkill when we're out having fun?" "I have a spare tire in the trunk. Why are you exaggerating so much?" "Besides, don't you trust my driving skills?" In the end, they insisted on driving the car onto a terrible road full of gravel. Roman hit the gas and loved every second of the wild ride. Half an hour later, the SUV got a flat tire. He changed the tire in frustration under the scorching sun, scraping the back of his hand. I dug out the first aid kit from my bag and used an alcohol swab to clean and bandage it for him. Clara leaned against the hood, shaking her flask and sneering. "Blair, it's just a tiny scratch. You sound exactly like his mother." Roman let me bandage him, but his movements paused for a second before he also chuckled, his tone obscure. "That's just how she is. Always fussing over me. I've been used to it for a long time." The fingers I used to pinch the gauze instantly stiffened. I loved him with all my heart. Even his minor scrapes hurt me. But coming out of their mouths, it became a cheap joke. In the afternoon, the SUV continued to speed through the wilderness. The weather suddenly turned. Sand swirled all around us, smacking against the windshield with a crackling sound. I couldn't help but remind Roman, "Slow down. The visibility ahead is too low." Clara was looking down, adjusting her camera settings, not even raising her head. "Blair, if you're scared, just close your eyes and sleep." "Don't distract the driver." Roman steered with one hand and chimed in with a laugh. "Did you hear that? Shut up and sleep." I gripped my seatbelt tightly and swallowed all my words. Later, the sandstorm grew more violent, and the bumpy cabin caused my motion sickness to flare up completely. My stomach cramped badly, and my forehead was covered in a cold sweat. I searched my backpack for my nausea meds. Then I suddenly remembered I had left the bottle on the hallway counter this morning. I called out weakly to Roman, "Can we stop at the gas station ahead? I want to buy some medicine." He gave a dismissive grunt. The heavy metal music in the cabin was deafening. He and Clara bobbed their heads to the beat, completely oblivious to my distress. Clara excitedly shoved her camera screen in front of his eyes. "Look at this candid shot. The tension is absolutely incredible." "If we edit these photos, they could definitely make it onto a magazine cover." Roman turned his head to admire it. "Great shot, Clara." "I have to admit, your photography style is really different from Blair's. The ones you take are sexier." "Blair, want to take a look later?" No one cared about my answer, and the two of them instantly burst into laughter together. I slumped weakly against the back seat, closed my eyes, and felt my stomach churning. Chapter 3 In that moment, a lot of old memories surfaced. Like the gallery opening during my sophomore year of college. I ran to every frame shop in the city for Roman, staying up for three days straight until my voice was hoarse. On opening night, however, it was Clara who stood in front of the exhibition wall, explaining the meaning of each photo to the curator with flawless charm. The curator praised them as a pair of natural-born partners. Roman smiled and raised his champagne. "We really do click." I shrank into a corner, holding a stack of empty frames that had just been taken down. From beginning to end, he never glanced my way once. Or the summer of my junior year, when Roman insisted on seeking thrills in cartel territory. I knew the underground world was chaotic and disorderly. Afraid he would get caught in a crossfire, I spent half a month in advance researching routes, putting together medical kits for him, and even trying to find reliable channels to buy Kevlar vests. But on the day of departure, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, he said the SUV was full and told me to be a good girl and stay in the safe zone. I dragged my suitcase and stood rigidly outside the iron gates of his family estate for an entire afternoon. Until that night, when I saw Clara's post on social media. [The wildest man needs a fearless woman to ride or die with him.] In the photo, she was sitting in the passenger seat, and Roman had one hand on the steering wheel. The glow of the setting sun spilled across the sharp angles of his face. He looked incredibly handsome, but he felt more like a stranger than ever before. And another time, at an internal family celebratory dinner. A capo from one of the branch crews teased Roman, "Why didn't your little girlfriend come?" Roman held his wine glass, his tone casual. "She's too soft and can't handle this kind of scene. Even if she came, she wouldn't know what to say." He said it very lightly, no different from his usual lazy demeanor. And I was standing right outside the door of the private room at the time, holding the hangover remedy I had made for him. That night, I ultimately didn't push open that door. I sent a text saying I wasn't feeling well and went to sleep early. He didn't reply with a single word of concern. Looking at these fragmented moments individually, they seemed like trivial, everyday matters. But as they piled up over time, they felt like a heavy weight pressing against my chest. Soft, not painful, but suffocating. The SUV finally pulled into a run-down gas station by the desert highway. I fought back the nausea and pushed the car door open, my legs feeling so weak the moment they touched the ground that I almost fell over. The heavy metal music in the cabin was deafening. Roman was leaning his head to look at the candid shots in the camera with Clara, laughing uncontrollably. I clung to the car door and spoke weakly, "I'm going to the convenience store to buy some motion sickness pills. I'll be quick." Roman stared at the screen without even turning his head, obviously not having heard a word. Only Clara in the passenger seat glanced at me through the rearview mirror, but she said nothing. The gas station was crowded with all sorts of travelers. The convenience store was all the way in the back. I waited in a long line to buy the motion sickness pills and grabbed a bottle of chilled soda water from the cooler while I was at it. By the time I paid and walked out, the sky over the desert had already started to dim. Clutching the box of pills and the cold drink in my hands, I walked quickly back to our parking spot. The spot where the black SUV was originally parked was now completely empty. I froze. My first reaction was that I was so dizzy I misremembered the spot. So I walked forward and looked around again. I walked past pickup trucks and bypassed RVs, but there was no sign of that black SUV. I stood alone in this run-down truck stop. It reeked of gasoline and was filled with strange, rough-looking men. That was when my phone rang, and Roman's voice came through the receiver. "Blair, where did you go?" My throat tightened, and my voice came out hoarse. "I'm at the gas station. There were too many people in the convenience store, and I just came out." He seemed to let out a breath on the other end of the line. "Why didn't you get in the car or look for me?" "I just turned around and the back seat was empty. It scared me to death." "Blair, you've graduated from college, and you still managed to get yourself lost?" I was stunned for a moment, then asked in return, "I got out of the car to buy medicine. Did you guys not notice?" Clara's voice, carrying a hint of mockery, immediately cut in. "I thought she fell asleep in the back seat." "Roman, we've already raced dozens of miles away. If we turn back now, that perfect sunset at the canyon will be ruined." Roman lowered his voice. "Blair, stop acting up." "We're in the middle of nowhere. If we turn around at the next exit and come back, it will delay us by at least two hours. It's too much of a hassle." "Just hitch a ride on the side of the road, or pay someone to drive you, and come find us at the next canyon exit." I stood alone in this wilderness truck stop, reeking of gasoline and filled with strange, burly men. A heavy-duty truck roared past me, kicking up dust that made my eyes sting. I spoke into the phone, asking, "Roman, are you sure you're not coming back to get me?" He was silent for a few seconds before his tone turned somewhat agitated. "Can you not make such a big deal out of this?" "It's not like we left you behind on purpose." "You're a mature adult. Can't you just hitch a ride over by yourself?" Chapter 4 Clara scoffed playfully in the background. "You spoil her too much." "It's like this every time. One little thing goes wrong, and the whole world has to revolve around her." Hearing this, I smiled bitterly. So leaving me stranded on a dangerous desert highway was just a trivial matter not worth mentioning in their eyes. So the sunset they were so eager to chase was far more important than me being left alone in the middle of nowhere. I lowered my eyes and glanced at the bottle of chilled soda water in my hand. The bottle was so freezing that it made my palm numb, but it was not even a fraction as cold as my heart felt right then. I spoke calmly, "Okay." Roman's tone visibly relaxed on the other end. "Send me your live location once you get a car." "Stay where you are and don't wander off." "And also, don't cry. Crying while we're out having fun just ruins the mood." I didn't answer again and simply hung up the call. The wind swept over from the other end of the highway, and my tears suddenly fell. I didn't squat down and cry out loud like I had done during so many arguments in the past. Instead, the tears just slid down my cheeks, drop by drop. My tears hit the cap of that soda water bottle in complete silence. My mother's worried questions before my departure floated into my mind. "Do you really have to follow that dangerous family to such a remote place?" "Every time you go out with him, you come back looking completely exhausted." I had even spoken up for Roman at the time. "This is our pre-graduation carnival. I promise this will be the last time I go crazy with him." It turned out that this time really was the last time. I opened the booking app and bought a bus ticket to a small coastal town down south. They had the old streets I had always wanted to walk down, the beautiful coastline I had longed for, and that clam chowder spot I had been thinking about for ages. There was also a boutique photo studio where I had secretly submitted my resume. The owner had sent me a formal interview invitation last week, but I had been too afraid to reply. Because Roman had once said, "I wouldn't feel safe letting you run off that far by yourself." "Come back to the family estate with me. I'll have someone arrange an easy job for you." I didn't refuse him at the time, not because I wanted to go, but because I had long grown accustomed to him controlling the trajectory of my life. But at this very moment, I suddenly wanted to smash this cage with my own hands. I quickly switched to the itinerary management app and canceled all the premium campsites and luxury suites along the upcoming canyon route, which I had paid for out of my own pocket. All these tedious reservations had been handled by me alone, and the exorbitant deposits had been deducted from my account. I had no obligation to maintain a trip that I wasn't even part of for a man who had abandoned me on the side of the road. Then I opened my messaging app, completely removed Roman from my favorites, and blocked Clara's number. Finally, I sent my mother a brief text message. [Mom, I'm not going to the Grand Canyon anymore.] [I want to go see the ocean.] My mother replied almost instantly. [Go ahead, my baby.] [Don't worry about anyone else this time. Just take good care of yourself.] Staring at those words, my tears fell again. Night had fully fallen over the wilderness. Carrying my bags, I walked along the highway toward the run-down bus stop nearby. Behind me, the headlights on the highway formed a long ribbon of light, just like the dead-end path I had walked down blindly following him all these years. But this time, I was done chasing.

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"Madam, are you sure you want to divorce Mr. Branson?" The lawyer asked it gently, the way doctors ask if you understand the diagnosis. "I'm certain," I said, and my voice only trembled a little. "I can't keep being a wife without dignity beside a husband who doesn't love me." Saying it out loud hurt more than I expected. I loved Kyle Branson. I had loved him since I was fifteen, from the back row of a party I wasn't welcome at, watching him laugh in his football jersey with his eyes fixed on someone else. I had loved him quietly through college, through the years as his secretary, through three years of a marriage that existed only on paper and in the darkness of our bedroom. The lawyer's pen scratched across the paper. Two weeks ago, I had been happy. For one whole afternoon, I had been happy. "Congratulations," Dr. Ray had said, "you're pregnant." I blinked rapidly, trying to focus. Her smile never wavered as she guided my attention to the screen, pointing to two tiny dots pulsing in sync. "Twins," she added. "You're having twins." I had been so careful — the pills Kyle insisted on, the contract with its cold black text. Clause 6: Regular contraception required. No pregnancies permitted. But staring at those two flickering lights, something warm and terrifying opened up in my chest, like a window I hadn't known was painted shut. Two lives. Two tiny beings growing inside me. Kyle's children. Our children. I cried in the hospital parking lot, my forehead against the steering wheel, and I couldn't have said whether it was fear or joy. Maybe there's no difference, when you've wanted something for as long as I had wanted a family. Would they look like me? Would they have my green eyes, or their father's dark, stormy gaze? The whole drive home, hope kept rising in me, impossible to ignore. Maybe this changes everything, it whispered. Maybe when he sees the picture. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I should have known. Hope had never once kept its promises to me. That evening, I stood outside his study with the ultrasound picture in my cardigan pocket. The door was ajar; lamplight spilled into the hallway in a thin gold line. I raised my hand to knock— "You've been married three years, Kyle." Marcus's voice, lazy with whiskey. "She should be pregnant by now, right?" I froze, knuckles an inch from the wood. "There won't be a child." Kyle's voice was flat. It's like standing in warm water and feeling it turn cold around you, inch by inch, while you're too stunned to move. Marcus laughed. "True. Taylor's back in the country now — I bet all your attention is on her." Ice clinked against glass. "How was last night? A whole night of sweetness, I'd guess." Last night, I was harassed by a stalker. After breaking free during the struggle, I had crouched behind a parked car in an empty garage while his footsteps circled closer, my ankle screaming, my palm bleeding, my phone pressed so hard against my ear it left a mark. I called Kyle times. He'll come. This time he'll come. I thought. An old security guard found me. He shouted the man off, walked me to my car, and stood in the rain until my hands stopped shaking enough to drive. Kyle's reply was waiting when I got home. One word, glowing in the dark bathroom while I wrapped my torn palm. Busy. Humiliation was a living thing crawled up my throat. "So tell me," Marcus pressed, grinning audibly. "Which is better — the wife, or Taylor?" Kyle didn't answer. "Look at me asking," Marcus laughed. "How could a contract wife ever compare to a first love?" I pressed both hands over my mouth so no one would hear me sob. This is a deal, he'd said once, sliding the contract across his mahogany desk. I hope you don't have any other ideas. But I did. So I'd signed, clinging to the hope that time would help him see me differently. Three years later, that hope had proven as substantial as morning mist. When there were no tears left, I took out the ultrasound picture and looked at my babies in the lamplight, two tiny dots, my two tiny dots. "It's okay," I whispered, my thumb tracing the edge of the photo. "Mommy sees clearly now. We don't need him." "All right, ma'am." The lawyer's voice drew me back. He capped his pen. "The divorce agreement will be sent to your email within five days." Five days. Outside, the rain had stopped. I stood on the courthouse steps and breathed, one hand resting lightly over my stomach. Five days. And I'll be leaving him. ###58781549### 2 Taylor had posted again. I knew better than to look. I looked anyway. Three posts since morning. The first: Kyle at the airport, taking her luggage, his head bent toward her in the rain. He was holding the umbrella entirely over her. His shoulder was dark with water. In ten years, I had never once seen him get wet for anyone. Then the two of them at Lumière, golden light, her hand resting on the tablecloth an inch from his. A velvet box. An emerald bracelet, glowing against the dark like something alive. He always knows what I love, the caption read. He didn't. I knew, because I was the one who had chosen it. Last week he'd dropped a catalogue on my desk without slowing his stride — pick something a woman would like — and I, fool that I was, had lingered over the pages. I chose the emeralds because they matched my mother's eyes. Because some starved little corner of me thought, maybe it's for me. I put the phone face-down on the vanity and looked at myself in the steam-blurred mirror. Of course it was Taylor. It had always been Taylor. Everyone who worked at K.T. Enterprises knew the legend — how Kyle Branson had built the most powerful company in the city in ten years and named it for himself and the woman he loved. Their initials, entwined. K.T. A monument, emblazoned across every building, every document, every paycheck I had ever earned. I had signed my name beneath their initials a thousand times. And I knew Taylor better than anyone. She was my stepsister. I was fifteen when my mother died. One week — one week — and my father brought home his new wife, and her daughter. That's when I learned the ugly truth: he'd been seeing them for years. He'd married my mother for her money. Within days, Mom's things were in the attic. Within weeks, the house wore another woman's taste. Everything you have will be mine, Taylor told me that time, thirteen years old and certain as a prophecy. My father. My home. And then, because fate has a sense of humor, the only man I ever loved. I heard the front door. My hands stilled on the towel. Kyle came into the bedroom loosening his tie, and his eyes found me — damp hair, bare shoulders, wrapped in silk — and darkened in that particular way I knew. He crossed the room without a word and kissed me, his hands sliding to my waist, and he smelled of rain and cologne and her, I was certain he smelled of her, and my mind, traitorous and vivid, showed me everything. The umbrella. The tablecloth. The emeralds against her wrist. Him, bent over her the way he was bending over me now, this exact mouth, these exact hands— My stomach heaved. I twisted away and gagged, one hand braced on the vanity, the room tilting. "What's wrong with you?" Kyle's voice behind me. "Something I ate," I whispered. A pause. Then, cooler: "You're still taking the pills?" The pills. Always the pills. No pregnancies permitted. "Every day," I lied, and was surprised how easily it came. He reached for me again — and stopped. His thumb had found the inside of my thigh, the bruise from the parking garage, ugly and yellow-edged. He went very still. "How did you get this?" "I fell." "You fell." His eyes came up to mine, narrowed. "Where? When? " "It's nothing," I said. What good was rain after the harvest had rotted in the field? He opened his mouth to press — and his phone rang. Taylor. "Hey," he said, and his voice, gentle and warm. He walked out into the hallway with it. "...Thursday works..." When he came back, he was already reaching for his coat. And I knew where he was going to. His sleeve caught my handbag on the chair; it tipped, spilled — lipstick, keys, and a crisp white card that slid across the floor and came to rest, face-up, at his feet. Harrison & Lowe. Specializing in Divorce Cases. Time stopped. He bent. Picked it up. Turned it over once in his fingers, and my heart slammed so hard I thought he must hear it. "Someone was handing out flyers by the office," I heard myself say. "I forgot to throw it away." Kyle looked at the card. Looked at me. Then he set it on the dresser and shrugged into his coat, and the something was gone. "Don't wait up," he said. The door closed. I let out the breath I was holding, and it broke apart on the way out, half laugh, half sob. I was still standing there when my phone buzzed. A message. Taylor. No words. Just a photo — a hotel suite in low amber light, sheets in ruins, her bare shoulder pressed to a man. Kyle. ###58781674### 3 The morning sickness hit me as soon as I woke up. I barely made it to the bathroom in time, and afterward I knelt on the cold tile with my forehead against the sink, one hand pressed to my stomach, breathing through it. "I know," I whispered to them. "I know. We only have to do this a little longer." The mirror was unkind. Dark circles. Pale skin. Three more days. I only had to be invisible for three more days, and being invisible was the one thing K.T. Enterprises had ever trained me to do. The elevator doors had barely opened before the whispers found me. "—came in at nine with him. In his car." Jenna from accounting had her back to me, coffee cup forgotten in her hand, holding court by the copier. "Marie saw them in the parking garage. He opened her door for her." "Mr. Branson opened a door?" Priya laughed, low and scandalized. "For a human woman?" "I'm telling you. And you should see her — she's upstairs right now. Red dress, legs for days. Gorgeous." "Who is she?" "Taylor Porter. Apparently they were high school sweethearts." Jenna's voice dropped into the reverent register people reserve for other people's romances. "First love, back after all these years. Isn't that the most romantic thing you've ever heard?" I stood three feet away, waiting for the copier, invisible. None of them lowered their voices. Why would they? I was Mia from HR — quiet, reliable, beneath notice. "They're saying fiancée," Priya said. "Dana heard it from his floor. The fiancée is visiting." The word went through me. "God, imagine," Jenna sighed. "Ten years building an empire, naming it after her — K.T., you know that's them, Kyle and Taylor — and now she comes home and it's like no time passed at all. Some women get everything." "And some of us get Steve from procurement," Priya said, and they laughed, and the copier finished its run, and I gathered my pages with steady hands. "Morning, Mia," Jenna added kindly, stepping aside for me. "You look pale — you should get some rest." "I will," I said. "Thank you." Linda was waiting at my desk, her expression neutral as ever, holding out two cups of coffee. "He asked for these," she murmured, her tone professional, yet I could sense a hint of pity. Linda knew. Linda had stood witness in a registry office while my husband checked his phone. Linda was the only person in this building who knew I existed. My stomach churned at the smell of the coffee, but I nodded. "Sure." When I pushed open Kyle's office door, Taylor was sitting next to him. Taylor rose in one fluid motion, smoothing her red dress, entirely unhurried. She wanted me to see. This was the performance, and I was the audience of one. "Oh, look who it is," her voice dripped honey. "How nice to see you, Mia." I set the cups down carefully, watching my own hands as if they belonged to someone steadier. "Your coffee, Mr. Branson." "That's not how I like my coffee," Taylor pouted, lifting the cup and taking a delicate sip. "Too much sugar. Be a dear and get me another one." "I didn't make the coffee, Miss Matthews. Perhaps you should specify your preferences to the coffee shop directly." Her eyes narrowed for a heartbeat before she laughed. "Oh, Kyle, isn't she adorable? So defensive over a cup of coffee." She turned to me, her smile never reaching her eyes. "Actually, Mia, wait — could you show me to the ladies' room? This building is so big, I always get lost." I knew it was a trap. I had known this woman since I was fifteen. But Kyle sat there behind his desk, not even looking up, and refusing her in front of him would cost more than walking into it. "Of course," I said. The moment the door swung shut behind us, the sweet facade dropped. She checked every stall, unhurried, heels clicking on the tile — and then she turned. "I know what you're doing," she hissed. "Playing the perfect employee, always so helpful, so eager to please. Everyone knows you've always been desperate for any scrap of attention. You're just like your mother — always trying to grab what doesn't belong to you." My hands trembled. "Don't talk about my mother." "Why not?" She stepped closer, her perfume thick in my throat. "Everyone knew what she was. And look at you — following in her footsteps. Do you think he'll ever see you as anything more than what you are? A convenient employee he can use?" She smiled. "You'll never be anything to him, Mia. But you should remember what your mother got in the end." Something in me snapped . The slap echoed off the tiles. Taylor's head whipped to the side. My palm burned, and I stood there shaking, breathless, alive to my fingertips. For a moment there was absolute silence. Then, slowly, she started to smile — and my blood ran cold, because I knew that smile. She grabbed her own arm and squeezed hard, leaving red marks. Messed her hair. Let the tears rise on cue, beautiful, brimming. The door burst open. Kyle stood there, his face dark with anger. "Kyle!" Taylor sobbed, running to him, burying her face in his chest. "I don't know what happened — I just wanted to talk to her, to try to be friends, I know our past is complicated, but she — she attacked me!" "She's lying," I said. "Kyle, she—" "I saw enough." His voice was ice. "Apologize, Mia." But I met his gaze, and my heart broke one final, quiet time — not like glass, like a fever. Breaking as in ending. "No," I whispered. "I won't apologize." His jaw tightened. "Fine," he said coldly. "You're suspended. Linda will handle your work until further notice." "No," I said. "I'm quitting." Taylor's sobbing hitched. And Kyle went very still. "What did you say?" "You heard me." My voice didn't shake. "I quit." I looked at the two of them. "I hope you both enjoy today." "Mia." Kyle's voice cracked out like a whip as I turned. "We are not done—" I walked out. Then I took out my phone and dialed. It rang twice before a gentle, deep voice answered, warm with surprise. "Mia?" I looked out the window at the city, at all that sky I'd forgotten was there. "I'm leaving him," I said. "Let's meet up." ###58781785### 4 Jeo was already there when I arrived at the quiet café downtown, and he stood when he saw me — dark hair stylishly messy, blue eyes as kind as I remembered — and pulled me into a gentle hug. I stiffened for half a second it had been long since anyone had held me like this. "Mia Williams," he said. "Still as beautiful as ever." "You look good too, Jeo." "I ordered you hot chocolate instead of coffee," he said as we sat down. "You never could stomach coffee in the morning." I stared at the cup. Steam rose from it in a thin ribbon, and my throat closed around nothing. "Hey." Jeo's voice softened. "You okay?" "It's the hot chocolate," I said, and laughed wetly. "It's very moving hot chocolate." He had the good grace not to press. Instead he spread the sketches across the table — the Havers project, a luxury boutique hotel, modern but organic, flowing lines and natural light — and somewhere in the second minute of talking, I forgot to be sad. My hands started moving on their own. "You could integrate the existing architecture with bio-mimetic design elements," I heard myself say. "Keep the old brick facade as a contrast to curved glass — and the central atrium could carry a sculptural staircase, with water features that throw light patterns through the whole space as the sun moves—" I stopped. Jeo was grinning at me. "What?" "There she is," he said quietly. "The girl who painted that mural in the university hall. I was starting to think K.T. Enterprises had filed her away somewhere." It had, I thought. "Jeo, it's been years since I've drawn anything—" "Mia." That voice. My spine knew it before my mind did — three years of training, the body snapping to attention. Kyle stood at our table in a crisp black suit, rain glittering on his shoulders, his expression carved from stone. How he'd found me, I didn't ask. Kyle Branson found whatever he wanted found. Jeo rose, extending his hand, easy and unbothered. "Kyle Branson? Jeo Parker. I went to college with Mia." Kyle ignored the hand. His eyes never left me. "A word, Mia." I had to breathe before I stood. Outside, the awning dripped rain between us and the street. His hand closed on my elbow, burning through my sleeve. "Who is he?" "An old friend." "Friends don't look at each other that way." His voice was low, dangerous. "You made a scene this morning. You slapped Taylor and you disappeared — and now I find you here, with him. What is this, Mia? What exactly do you think you're doing?" "Having hot chocolate," I said. "And discussing a job." "You have a job." "I quit that job. You were there. You were holding her at the time — perhaps it slipped your attention." His jaw tightened. "You signed a contract. No relationships with other men during our marriage—" "A job, Kyle." Something hot finally tore loose in my chest, and my voice rose to meet it. "The contract says nothing about a job. Or does it? Should I check?" I pulled my arm free, and the rain-cold air rushed into the space between us. "You suspended me. I saved you the paperwork. What I do now is none of your business." "You're my wife." "Your wife?" I met his gaze. "You don't get to control every aspect of my life, Kyle. Not anymore." "The contract—" "The contract says I can't have relationships with other men. It doesn't say anything about taking a job." I straightened my spine. "Unless you're jealous?" His laugh was harsh. "Jealous? Of him? Don't be ridiculous." "Then there's no problem, is there?" We stood there, staring at each other under the dripping awning. For a moment, I thought I saw something in his eyes. I walked back inside on legs that held. Behind me, through the glass, I felt him standing in the rain a long moment before his car door slammed. "The job," I said, sitting down. My hands were shaking now that it was over. I wrapped them around the cooling cup. "Tell me where to sign." Jeo's whole face lit, "Monday. Come Monday." It was dark when I got home. The porch light was off — I always left it on — and the wrongness of that small thing prickled at me even before I reached the stairs. The bedroom light was burning. Taylor was lying on my bed. In my pajamas. The ivory silk ones . She was scrolling her phone against my pillows, one leg crossed over the other, and when she saw me in the doorway she stretched, slow and luxurious, like a cat presenting its claws. "Oh, Mia." A smile bloomed, unhurried. "I hope you don't mind. I just got back to the country and haven't found a place yet — hotels are so impersonal, you know? Kyle worried." She let the word sit there, glowing. "So he said I should stay here." She plucked at the silk collar with two lacquered fingers. "These are darling, by the way. A little loose on me." Two more days. "Where is Kyle?" The smile has something anticipatory. She looked like a woman watching a fuse she herself had lit. "The study, probably." She turned back to her phone. "He found some very interesting reading." I should have heard the warning. I was too tired; the day had used everything. I walked down the dark hallway toward the line of lamplight under the study door, and I pushed it open. Kyle sat behind his desk, perfectly still. The lamp cast shadows across his face, and in his hand, held so tightly the paper had begun to crease, was a hospital report. My pregnancy report. His eyes lifted to mine, and they were nearly black. "When," he said, very quietly, "were you going to tell me?" ###58781857### 5 The study felt smaller somehow, the walls closing in as Kyle's presence loomed larger than life. The lamp on his desk cast shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable — and then he moved, and it wasn't unreadable at all. He slid a folder across the desk. I picked up the folder with hands that had gone strangely calm. The medical report swam before my eyes. My name. My hospital. And there — the dates. Estimated gestational age: 12 weeks. Three months. "My wife is pregnant," Kyle said, each word precise and deadly. "Three months pregnant." He rose slowly from behind the desk. "Because I distinctly remember being in Dubai three months ago. The entire month. Would you like to explain that, Mia?" Two months. I was two months pregnant; my real report was in my drawer, blue folder, second from the top. This paper was a forgery. And I opened my mouth to say all of it— —and then I saw his face, and the words died. Because he believed it. It was already finished in him. This is what I am to him, I thought. And close behind that thought, quiet as a hand slipping into mine: Two more days. Let him believe what he needs to believe. Soon there will be a different paper on this desk. "Well?" His voice cracked like a whip. "Believe whatever you want, Kyle." I set the folder down. He surged around the desk, his chair scraping back. "That's all? That's all you have to say?" His hand slammed into the wall beside my head, and I flinched. He was so close I could see the storm turning in his grey eyes. "You've been at his studio — you quit without a word — the lawyer's card in your bag — how long, Mia? How long has this been going on?" One question, something in me was crying, even now, even at the end. You could have asked me one question first. I have loved you since I was fifteen. The grief of it was enormous, and far away, like weather on another coast. "Are you finished?" I asked softly. "You're not keeping it." The words were like ice. "Do you hear me? Whatever this is, however far along — you will deal with it, or I will destroy you. You and your artist both." "Let me go, Kyle." I stepped past him. "We are done." He didn't follow. Taylor was waiting at the top of the stairs. She stood with her arms crossed, backlit by the hallway sconce, and she wasn't performing now — the honeyed voice, the trembling lip, all of it set aside like a coat indoors. What remained was the girl I'd known since I was fifteen, cold and bright with appetite. "You look pale," she observed. "Rough evening?" "Get out of my way, Taylor." "You figured it out yet?" She tilted her head, savoring it, and her voice dropped to the register of intimacy. "The report. I switched them. Your real one's ashes by now." She watched my face for the collapse and, not finding it, leaned closer, feeding me the rest. "You want to know the best part? How easily he believed it. One doctored paper, one little suggestion that his precious wife had been unfaithful — and he crumbled. He never trusted you at all. He was always mine, Mia. You were just a placeholder." "I know," I said quietly, and meant it, and watched the taste of victory curdle in her mouth. "You can have him." Her eyes narrowed. "You're just like your mother. All heart, no brains — clinging to things that don't belong to you. I told you when we were fifteen: everything you have will be mine. I keep my promises." Her gaze dropped, deliberate, to my stomach. "Everything, Mia." Cold walked up my spine. I moved to step past her — and her nails sank into my arm like talons. "Let go of me—" "Make me," she whispered. And then, with a strength I didn't expect, she shoved me. Hard. Time slowed. The stairs — I'd forgotten how close we were to the stairs. My body twisted in the air, arms wrapping around my stomach, everything I was contracting to a single instinct: protect them, protect them — and then the first impact tore the world apart. Each step was a fresh detonation of pain. The chandelier wheeled overhead. Shadow, edge, shadow. Somewhere above me, distinctly, I heard Taylor throw herself down onto the steps — the rustle of silk, a rehearsed cry. I hit the bottom, and everything went white. When sound returned, it came in pieces. The study door flying open. Footsteps. And Taylor's voice, cracked and breathless with flawless terror: "Kyle — Kyle, she grabbed me — she was screaming that she'd rather die than let you be happy, we struggled, I tried to get away — oh God, my arm, I think something's broken—" "No," I gasped. The word came out as almost nothing. There was warmth spreading beneath me, between my legs, too much warmth, and terror closed around my heart like a fist. "Kyle — she pushed — the babies—" My hands pressed against my stomach. "Please — the babies—" He stood over us. One endless second. I looked up at him through tears of pain — my husband, ten years of my one and only love — and I watched him choose. He bent down. And lifted Taylor into his arms. "It hurts," she whimpered against his chest, her eyes finding mine over his shoulder. They were shining. "I've heard enough about this, Mia," Kyle said, and his voice came from somewhere very far above me, cold and final as a closing door. "You've gone too far." He turned, her heels dangling, her arms around his neck. "Linda will be here soon. She'll take you to the hospital." "Kyle—" My voice broke apart. "Kyle, please, they're yours—" The front door closed. The car started. The sound of the engine faded down the drive, and then there was nothing — just the vast dark house, and the grandfather clock ticking, and me, spreading warmth on the cold hardwood floor. "No, no, no," I whispered, curling around my stomach, around them, as if my body could still be a wall. "Stay with me. Please stay with Mommy. You're all I have — you're all I have left, please—" The pain came in waves now, each one taller. Somewhere a phone was ringing, or maybe that was in my head. The darkness gathered at the edges of the room like water rising, and the last thing I knew was that I was praying — to God, to my mother, to anyone at all — Then the darkness took everything. ###58781946### 6 In the haze between consciousness and darkness, memories floated like scattered photographs, each one more painful than the last. The sedatives coursing through my veins turned my mind into a kaleidoscope of moments I'd tried so hard to forget. "Mr. Branson will see you now." The first time I saw Kyle in his office, tall and imposing behind that mahogany desk. I'd straightened my simple black dress, trying to look professional despite my racing heart. He hadn't recognized me from high school, of course. To him, I was just another candidate for the secretary position. The scene shifted, blurred, reformed. "The board needs me married. Someone quiet. Someone who won't cause problems." The contract sitting between us, stark black text on white paper. "I hope you don't have any other ideas." And then our wedding day. No white dress, no flowers. Just a registry office and Linda as our witness. Kyle checking his phone throughout the ceremony. I'd worn a pale blue dress I'd saved three months to buy, hoping he might notice. He hadn't. "The ring is just for appearances," he'd said, sliding the platinum band onto my finger. "Don't read too much into it." Then the dream turned cruel. I was standing in a sunlit room I'd never seen, and my stomach was round and full beneath my hands, and I was laughing — and two small voices were laughing somewhere just out of sight, in the next room, always in the next room, and I walked and walked through door after door trying to reach them, and every room was empty, and the laughter was getting fainter— "No," I begged the dream. "Please. Let me see them. Just once, let me see their faces—" The doors kept opening onto emptiness. And then even the laughter was gone, and there was only a white ceiling, and an antiseptic smell, and the steady beep of monitors. I was awake. And I knew. My hands moved to my stomach and found it flat . "Mia?" My friend Scarlett was rising from the chair beside my bed, red hair wild, eyes swollen from crying. "Oh, thank God. You've been out for hours—" "The babies," I said. My voice came out as a stranger's, rusted and small. "Scar. My babies." Her face crumpled. "I'm so sorry, Mia," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. "The doctors — they tried everything, but..." The room went very far away. I heard myself make a sound, and Scarlett climbed half onto the bed and held me while it tore its way out — all of it, ten years of it, grief upon grief upon grief, and at the bottom of everything, my two small lights, whose faces I would never see. I had promised them. I had covered them with my hand and promised: you are wanted, you are so wanted — "I never got to tell them," I sobbed into Scarlett's shoulder. "That I quit. That I got the job. I was going to draw again — I was going to show them the ocean—" "I know," she whispered, rocking me. "I know, honey. I know." I cried until the sedatives dragged me back under, and this time, mercifully, there were no dreams. When I woke again it was dusk, and Scarlett had gone for coffee, and the door stood half open onto the corridor. Two nurses paused outside it, their voices low, the way people talk past rooms they think are sleeping. "—no, the other one. Miss Porter, third floor. Discharged this morning. Nothing but a bruised wrist, if you ask me." "A bruised wrist? Mr. Branson called in three specialists. Dr. Osei flew in from Geneva. For a wrist." "I heard he stayed by her bed the whole night. Wouldn't leave. They had to bring a cot in." A pause; the squeak of a trolley wheel. "Devoted, isn't he." "Shh. Rich people," the other said, with a soft, disapproving click of the tongue, and the footsteps moved on down the corridor. I lay looking at the ceiling. Three specialists. Geneva. A cot by her bed. He was capable of it. The vigils, the flown-in doctors, the not-leaving. All of it. It just had simply never, not once in ten years, been for me. He came the next afternoon. Kyle was standing in the doorway, still in yesterday's suit, shadows under his eyes. He looked at the monitors. "The doctors say you'll recover fully," he said finally. Recover. As if what I'd lost was a thing that grew back. I said nothing. "How's Taylor?" I asked. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know if he spent the night with her while I was losing our children. His jaw tightened. "She's fine. Some bruising." Of course she was. Taylor always landed on her feet. While I lost everything. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. I picked it up. One new email, sitting at the top of the screen like a door standing open. Harrison & Lowe — Your divorce agreement is attached. Please review and sign at your convenience. Five days, the lawyer had said. He was right on time. I opened the attachment and read the first line — Dissolution of marriage between Kyle Branson and Mia Williams — clean, clinical, cold. For once, the coldness of a contract felt like mercy. "What is that?" Kyle asked. I turned the screen toward him and watched his face go white. "Sign the papers." I said. My voice didn't shake. It had done all its shaking; there was nothing left in it but the truth. "Let me go."

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I raised four abandoned boys as my own sons. I gave them my home, my money, my connections, and eventually enough power to run the four most important divisions of Leeds Group. For seventeen years, I believed they loved my biological daughter, Elena, like a real sister. Then she called me from a school bathroom. “Mom, help me.” By the time I arrived, her uniform had been torn open and bruises covered her body. My four sons had heard her screaming. They had done nothing. They were standing outside protecting Sabrina. According to them, Elena was spoiled. She had too much, while Sabrina had too little. So they decided to teach her how to give things up. First, it was a dress. Then they gave Sabrina the lake house meant for Elena’s eighteenth birthday and cleared out Elena’s private studio for her. Finally, they took the business proposal Elena had spent six months creating, erased her name, and submitted it under Sabrina’s. When Elena demanded it back, my sons called her selfish. “You already have everything.” “Sabrina needs it more.” That was when I understood. The four boys I had rescued no longer saw Elena as their sister. They saw her inheritance as something they had the right to distribute. And soon, they came for mine too. They sat in my boardroom and demanded control of my company, my family trust, and everything I had built. They thought Leeds Group existed because of them. They thought I was only an aging mother they could push aside. They had no idea that seventeen years ago, I had walked away from the Moretti criminal empire to give Elena a normal life. Leeds Group was only one legitimate company inside an empire they had never seen. And the power they were so proud of? I had given it to them. My sons wanted to teach Elena that nothing belonged to her simply because she carried my name. Fine. I was about to teach all four of them the same lesson. Chapter 1 “You said you only wanted to scare her?” I looked directly at Matteo. He frowned as if I were the one being unreasonable. “Mom, Elena has been protected her entire life. A little hardship will be good for her.” He glanced toward the bathroom. “We were right outside. We never would have let anything serious happen.” I followed his gaze. Elena was curled against the cold tiled wall, trembling so violently that her teeth were chattering. One side of her school blouse had been torn open, and dark bruises were already forming across her shoulders. She clutched what remained of her collar with both hands, desperately trying to cover herself. This was what they considered nothing serious. I had once lived in a world where men carried guns beneath their tailored jackets, and a single insult could cost someone far more than money. Yet even in that world, no one had ever dared to touch my daughter. I stepped toward Matteo. “When would it have become serious? After they tore off the rest of her clothes, or after someone posted the video online?” Matteo’s expression shifted. Before he could answer, Dante stepped between us. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and spoke in the same calm, measured voice he used in board meetings, the one that always made people believe he was the only reasonable person in the room. “Mom, you don’t know the whole story.” “I know what I’m looking at.” “But you don’t know what caused it.” Dante glanced at the girl hiding behind him. “Sabrina accidentally spilled coffee on Elena’s shoes. Elena humiliated her in front of everyone and told her she could never afford to replace them.” Sabrina clutched the back of Dante’s jacket. Her eyes were wet, and her voice was barely above a whisper. “Mrs. Leeds, I offered to have the shoes cleaned, but Elena said someone like me didn’t even deserve to touch them.” Elena’s head snapped up. “I never said that.” Sabrina bit her lip. “I know Elena doesn’t like me. I shouldn’t have asked to borrow the dress she planned to wear to the charity gala. I just thought—” “You didn’t ask me.” Elena’s voice was hoarse, but she forced out every word. “You told everyone Dante had already promised to give you my dress. When I said that wasn’t true, you poured coffee over my shoes on purpose.” Sabrina’s expression froze for a moment. “I didn’t—” “That’s enough.” Luca immediately moved in front of her. He removed his jacket and carefully draped it over Sabrina’s shoulders, even though she was fully dressed while my daughter sat half-exposed on the floor. “That isn’t what Sabrina told us when she came to us crying.” Luca turned to me, accusation in his eyes. “Mom, Elena made her feel worthless over one stupid dress. She thinks that because she was born into this family, everyone else should bow to her.” “So you let those girls drag her into the bathroom?” “We only asked them to talk to Elena,” Matteo said. “Things got a little out of control.” “You heard her begging for help.” The bathroom fell silent. They had heard her. While Elena cried and begged those girls to stop, all four of her brothers had been standing outside the door. Any one of them could have stepped inside and ended it. None of them had. Nico was leaning against the sinks, turning a silver lighter between his fingers. He looked completely unconcerned. “Elena needed to learn a lesson.” He snapped the lighter shut. “She can’t assume everything belongs to her just because she was born into this family.” I stared at him. Nico had been nine when I found him. His wrist was broken, and he had two dollars in his pocket. For months after I brought him home, he woke in the middle of the night screaming from nightmares. Back then, little Elena would carry her pillow into his room and sit beside his bed until morning. Now he spoke about her as if she were a stranger. “What exactly were you trying to teach her?” I asked. Dante answered. “To share.” His eyes settled on Elena without a trace of sympathy. “She already has more than she could ever need. Sabrina only wanted to borrow a dress. What possible reason did Elena have to refuse?” “It’s my dress,” Elena said quietly. Dante ignored her. “Sabrina has had to work for everything she has. Elena was born with every advantage. If we don’t correct her now, she’ll become exactly what everyone expects—a selfish, arrogant heiress who thinks the world owes her everything.” For seventeen years, I had given those four boys everything I could. I had taken them out of foster homes, shelters, and juvenile courtrooms. I had paid for the best education available and made sure they received years of therapy. When they grew older, I brought them into Leeds Group. Dante ran corporate operations. Luca oversaw public relations and outside partnerships. Matteo controlled finance, while Nico managed real estate development and security. The business press called them the Leeds brothers. People spoke of them as if they had been born into power. Perhaps that had been my greatest mistake. I had given them so much that they had forgotten none of it had originally belonged to them. I walked past Dante and crouched beside Elena. I removed my coat and wrapped it securely around her torn uniform and bruised body. Then I gathered her into my arms. “It’s over now. I’m taking you home.” Elena buried her face against my shoulder and clutched my dress with both hands. “I didn’t do what they said.” “I know.” Dante let out an impatient breath behind me. “Mom, blindly defending her will only make this worse.” I did not turn around. “Dante, stop talking.” He continued anyway. “If you make excuses for her again, she’ll never learn to take responsibility. Elena needs to stand up and apologize to Sabrina.” Elena went rigid in my arms. Dante came closer and reached for her arm. “Get up, Elena. Apologize, and we can put this behind us.” I rose and slapped him across the face. The sound cracked through the bathroom. Dante’s head snapped to the side. His gold-rimmed glasses fell to the floor and skidded beneath the sinks. All four men went silent. Luca reacted first. “What are you doing?” He stepped toward me, but Matteo caught his arm. Dante slowly turned back. A red handprint was spreading across his cheek. The calm, controlled mask he always wore had finally cracked, revealing the anger underneath. “If hitting me makes you feel better, fine.” He looked at me again. “But it doesn’t change the fact that Elena was wrong.” “You still think this is about a pair of shoes?” “It’s about the kind of person she’s becoming.” “No.” I held his gaze. “It’s about the kind of men you have become.” Sabrina moved behind Luca. “Luca, she’s frightening me.” He immediately shifted to shield her with his body. I looked at the way he protected Sabrina, then at my daughter, whom her four brothers had abandoned inside that bathroom while strangers tore at her clothes. The contrast was sickening. Nico gave a cold laugh. “You’ve really disappointed us today, Mom.” “We’re trying to stop Elena from becoming a spoiled bully. Apparently, the four of us are the only people in this family willing to tell her no.” “Elena has said no several times today.” I helped my daughter stand, keeping one arm securely around her waist. “She said no when Sabrina demanded her dress. She said no when those girls dragged her into this bathroom.” I looked at each of them in turn. “The people who refused to respect that word were you.” None of them answered. “If you believe Leeds money has made Elena arrogant, then none of you will be spending another dollar of it.” Matteo folded his arms, contempt lifting one corner of his mouth. “You’re threatening to cancel our credit cards?” “I’m informing you.” “We manage the four most important divisions of Leeds Group. Do you really think canceling a few cards will frighten us?” Luca laughed as well. “If we all walk away, who will run the Brooklyn development? Who will keep the board under control? You?” I studied him in silence. He genuinely believed I had spent the past seventeen years relaxing at my Westchester estate while the four of them built Leeds Group around me. He had no idea how many people were still waiting for a single order from Catherine Moretti, or that Leeds Group was only the part of my empire I had allowed the public to see. Dante bent down and retrieved his glasses. One lens was cracked, but he put them back on. “We’ve worked for this family for years, and we’re the reason Leeds Group is where it is today.” His voice had regained its composure. “Are you really going to tear this family apart because Elena refused to share one dress?” “You stopped protecting this family the moment you stood outside that door and listened to her beg for help.” I guided Elena toward the exit. As we passed Sabrina, I paused. She immediately lowered her eyes, but not before I caught the satisfaction she had failed to hide. She thought she had won. That was fine. I would deal with her later. Right now, my daughter needed me. I stopped beside Dante. “By tomorrow morning, your personal credit cards, vehicles, and access to every property held under the Leeds name will be suspended.” Nico scoffed. “You’ll reverse it within three days.” “Will I?” “The company can’t survive without us.” All four of them believed it. They had mistaken the authority I had loaned them for power they had earned. I looked at Dante one last time. “You wanted Elena to understand that being raised under the Leeds name doesn’t mean everything belongs to her.” He said nothing. “Starting tomorrow, all four of you are going to learn the same lesson.” Then I took my daughter home. Chapter 2 On the drive home, Elena stayed curled in the corner of the back seat, clutching the edge of my coat with both hands. “Mom, I didn’t bully Sabrina.” Her voice was faint and hoarse from crying and screaming for so long. “She wanted to borrow the dress I’m wearing to my eighteenth-birthday gala. I told her the alterations weren’t finished, so I couldn’t lend it to her. That was when she deliberately poured coffee over my shoes.” “All I did was tell her to stay away from me. Then Dante and the others showed up.” I pulled my daughter into my arms and gently rubbed her back. “I believe you.” Elena was silent for a moment before she looked up at me. “They heard me calling for help, didn’t they?” I couldn’t lie to her. “Yes.” The last trace of hope faded from her eyes. Seventeen years ago, I brought four boys home from different foster homes. Dante was already twelve. He trusted no adult, yet he would save part of his own meals for the younger children. Luca was used to solving problems with his fists. Matteo rarely spoke, but he remembered every weakness he observed. Nico was the youngest and the most impulsive. He had once allowed another boy to break his wrist rather than abandon a smaller child he was protecting. I gave them new identities, the best education money could buy, and eventually positions inside Leeds Group. I also told them that Elena was their sister. They did not need to worship her, and I never wanted them to hurt anyone in her name. I only asked them to protect one another the way a real family should. For many years, they did. Dante stayed beside Elena’s bed whenever she was sick. Luca once drove three hours to bring her a costume she had forgotten at home. Matteo reviewed every school application she submitted, while Nico confronted anyone who mocked her for being timid. That was why I had failed to notice when their protection turned into judgment. They had begun deciding what Elena should be allowed to keep, what she should surrender, and which parts of her life ought to be given to someone they considered more deserving. The following morning, I suspended their personal credit cards, reclaimed the vehicles registered under the Leeds family trust, and revoked their access to every family residence. At eight o’clock, Robert entered the dining room and placed several deactivated access cards in front of me. “Ma’am, Dante and the others didn’t return to the main estate last night.” “Where are they?” “At the lake house in Greenwich.” I set down my coffee. The house was intended as Elena’s eighteenth-birthday gift, although it was still legally held by the family trust. Over the past year, she had chosen every piece of furniture herself and converted the south-facing room on the first floor into a music studio. “How did they get inside?” Robert hesitated. “The staff received direct orders from Nico. Since he oversees corporate security and the Leeds properties, they assumed all four men had the authority to use any residence held under the Leeds name.” “What else?” “Dante ordered the staff to clear out Miss Elena’s music studio. They’re turning it into a room for Miss Sabrina.” Elena was sitting at the other end of the dining table. The moment she heard that, she stood up. “My cello is still there.” It was the instrument her grandmother had left her. “I’ll handle it,” I told her. “You need to stay home and rest.” “Mom—” “Trust me.” Elena studied my face for several seconds before she finally nodded. Forty minutes later, I arrived at the lake house. The front gates stood wide open, and a moving truck was parked in the driveway. Several workers were carrying out Elena’s art books, sheet music, and personal decorations. When I entered the living room, Sabrina was sitting on the sofa in Elena’s favorite silk robe, drinking coffee. Dante sat beside her, revising a project document on his laptop. When he saw me, he simply closed the computer. “You arrived earlier than I expected, Mom.” He sounded completely at ease, as though the house had always belonged to him. “Who gave you permission to move in?” “Sabrina is preparing her college applications and needs somewhere quiet to study.” Dante rose from the sofa. “This place has been sitting empty. We only intend to stay for a few weeks.” Sabrina immediately put down her coffee. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Leeds. I didn’t know you didn’t want me here.” She clutched the collar of Elena’s robe and looked at me uneasily. “If I’ve caused trouble, I’ll leave right now.” Luca came out of the kitchen and handed her a glass of warm milk. “You’re not going anywhere.” Then he turned to me. “We’re part of this family too. We shouldn’t need a board meeting every time we invite a friend to stay at a family property.” “This house belongs to Elena.” “She isn’t eighteen yet, and the property is still held by the family trust.” Matteo came downstairs carrying a set of architectural drawings. “Technically, she doesn’t own it.” I looked at him. “So you believe that gives you the right to decide how it’s used?” Matteo remained calm. “We’re making reasonable use of an empty property. Elena lives in Westchester and hardly visits this place. Sabrina needs it more than she does.” There it was again. Need. Whenever Sabrina wanted something, everything Elena owned suddenly became an unnecessary luxury. “Where is the music studio?” Dante adjusted his glasses. “Sabrina has nowhere to store her clothes and application materials, so I had the room cleared temporarily.” I walked directly toward the room at the end of the first-floor hallway. When I opened the door, two workers were installing new wardrobes. The rug Elena had chosen was rolled against one wall, while her sheet music and performance photographs had been thrown into cardboard boxes. Her cello lay on its side in the corner. Two strings had snapped, and a deep scratch cut across the body. I crossed the room and carefully lifted the instrument. “Who touched it?” Nico was leaning against the doorway, turning a set of car keys around one finger. “There was an accident while the workers were moving it.” “Who told them to move it?” “I did.” There was no apology in his voice. “It’s an old cello. I already had my assistant contact the best dealer in New York. They can deliver a new one tomorrow.” “This cello belonged to Elena’s grandmother.” “I know.” Nico shrugged. “But the damage has already happened. We should solve the problem instead of obsessing over an old object.” I stared at him. “You think money can solve everything?” “It can solve the problem of a damaged cello.” He glanced at me. “It would have been replaced even faster if you hadn’t frozen my cards.” Sabrina came to stand beside Dante, tears already running down her face. “This is all my fault. The cello never would have been damaged if I hadn’t come here.” She caught Dante by the sleeve. “I should go back to my school dorm. I don’t want to come between you and your family.” Dante patted her hand. “This isn’t your fault.” Then he turned to me. “Mom, what happened at the school is over. You froze our cards and reclaimed the vehicles, and we didn’t argue with you. Now you’ve followed us here. Do you intend to turn every minor disagreement into a war?” “A minor disagreement?” “The cello can be repaired, and the room can be restored.” Dante’s voice remained measured. “The Brooklyn development is at a critical stage, and we handle contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars every day. I don’t have time to keep arguing over who gets to use one room.” “Then there’s nothing to discuss.” I took out my phone and called Robert. “Tell the property staff to stop moving Elena’s belongings and restore her music studio immediately.” Robert was silent for several seconds. “Ma’am, the property manager is refusing to comply. He says Nico controls corporate security and the Leeds properties. Without his written authorization, the staff won’t alter the current arrangements.” A faint smile appeared on Nico’s face. He deliberately avoided looking at me and merely swung the car keys around his finger. This was no longer about using Elena’s house without permission. They were testing who truly controlled everything held under the Leeds name. Dante reopened his laptop, his confidence fully restored. “You should go home, Mom. We can discuss this again once you’ve calmed down.” I ended the call and sent a message to a number I had not contacted in more than a decade. The reply came three seconds later. [AT YOUR COMMAND, DONNA.] I put away my phone before anyone could see the screen. When I left that world, I placed the Leeds properties and security operations under Nico’s control. I entrusted the daily management of Leeds Group to Dante and gradually handed more authority to Luca and Matteo. They seemed to have forgotten that whatever power I gave them could also be taken back. I looked toward the front entrance. Three black SUVs without corporate markings were already turning into the driveway. “Robert.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Stop everyone in this house.” Then I looked at Dante as the confidence slowly disappeared from his face. “If your people no longer understand my orders, I’ll replace them with people who do.” Chapter 3 After the three black SUVs stopped in front of the lake house, twelve security officers in dark suits stepped out in orderly succession. Their leader, Anthony, entered the living room and handed the property manager a copy of the trust documents. “This property is held by the Leeds Family Trust. Catherine Leeds is its sole trustee, which means her instructions take priority over anyone else’s.” The property manager’s face changed as soon as he finished reading. He turned to Nico and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nico. Under the terms of the trust, we are required to follow Mrs. Leeds’s instructions.” The car keys stopped moving in Nico’s hand. Dante rose from the sofa. “Nico has always been in charge of security here. Who are you?” Anthony gave him a brief look. “The people authorized to carry out the property owner’s orders.” With that, he signaled his team to begin. The security officers damaged nothing. They packed the clothes, computers, and other personal belongings brought by the four brothers and Sabrina into separate boxes, labeled each one, and carried them neatly outside. The workers stopped installing the wardrobes and began restoring Elena’s music studio. When Luca saw his luggage being removed, his expression darkened. “Mom, do you really have to take this so far?” “This house belongs to Elena. You moved in without her permission and threw her belongings out of her room. All I’m doing is removing the things that do not belong here.” “We’re your sons too,” Luca said. “Are you saying we don’t even have the right to use a family property?” “I gave you that right. You mistook it for ownership.” When Sabrina saw her cosmetics being packed into a box, she hurried toward the front door. “Be careful! Those are expensive!” Anthony’s men ignored her and set the box carefully beside the front steps. Sabrina turned back to me with tears in her eyes. “Mrs. Leeds, you don’t have to humiliate me like this. I already said I could return to my school dorm.” “Then go.” She clearly had not expected me to agree. For several seconds, she could only stare at me. Luca immediately moved to her side. “You don’t have to beg her. We’ll arrange somewhere else for you to stay.” Dante walked toward me, and the gentleness disappeared from his voice. “If you throw us out today, don’t ask us to return to the company tomorrow and clean up the mess.” “I haven’t removed any of you from your positions.” “But you are challenging our authority,” Dante said. “The Brooklyn development involves more than forty suppliers. The four of us control the core contracts, payment approvals, and construction schedule. If we all stop working, the project won’t last a single day.” Matteo came downstairs carrying the architectural drawings. “The first construction payment is due next week. If our signatures are not submitted on time, Leeds Group will breach its contracts and the stock price will suffer.” They were not warning me out of concern. They were reminding me that, in their minds, Leeds Group could no longer survive without them. “Then continue doing your jobs,” I said. “That is what the company pays you to do.” Nico gave a cold laugh. “You still don’t understand. The company depends on us now, not the Leeds name.” “I understand perfectly.” I instructed Anthony to have Elena’s cello repaired, then looked at all four men. “Take your belongings and leave.” Dante held my gaze for several seconds before picking up his computer. “Fine.” He stopped once more before walking out of the house. “But I hope you remember what you said today. When the company begins falling apart, don’t claim we didn’t warn you.” The four brothers left with Sabrina. Although they had just been removed from the lake house, none of them looked particularly worried. As long as they still controlled the company’s most important projects, they believed I would eventually ask them to come back. I had no reason to correct that belief yet. That evening, I instructed Anthony to investigate every project the four brothers had handled over the past three years, focusing on related companies, personal expenses, and transfers of corporate resources that had never received board approval. The following morning, Elena entered my study carrying her laptop. Her face was pale, and her swollen eyes made it obvious that she had been crying. “Mom, they canceled my place in the competition.” I took the computer from her. Elena had entered the National Youth Entrepreneurship Summit. Each participating school could nominate only one student for the final round, and the Leeds Foundation was one of her school’s largest sponsors. Six months earlier, Elena had submitted a business plan for improving healthcare access in underserved communities. She had visited twelve neighborhood clinics, conducted her own research, and independently completed the financial projections and operating model. Her proposal had already passed the school’s final review. Now the registration system claimed that she had voluntarily withdrawn. The student replacing her was Sabrina Hayes. Even more disturbing, the project summary under Sabrina’s name was almost identical to Elena’s proposal. “I didn’t withdraw,” Elena said. “I called the competition committee. They told me Dante sent an official email as executive chairman of the Leeds Foundation and ordered the school to replace its nominee.” She opened the email. “He also claimed my proposal used confidential data from Leeds Group and could expose corporate information if I remained in the competition. But I collected all of that data myself. None of it came from the company.” I closed the laptop. “Get dressed. We’re going to the office.” An hour later, we arrived at the Manhattan headquarters of Leeds Group. The receptionist stood immediately when she saw me. “Mrs. Leeds.” I took Elena to the private elevator. When we reached the executive floor, several senior managers were standing outside the conference room, speaking quietly among themselves. No one had gone inside. “Has the meeting not started?” I asked. The deputy chief financial officer avoided my eyes. “Mr. Dante hasn’t arrived yet.” Two minutes later, the doors of another elevator opened. Dante emerged with Luca, Matteo, and Nico. Sabrina followed behind them, carrying Elena’s business proposal in her arms. The executives waiting in the corridor immediately stopped talking. Dante did not greet them. He simply opened the conference room doors and walked inside, and everyone else followed him. The entire sequence looked so natural that anyone watching might have assumed he was the true owner of Leeds Group. Elena and I entered last. Dante had already taken the seat at the head of the table. Sabrina sat to his right, with Elena’s proposal open on the computer screen in front of her. “You don’t need to memorize every figure in this section,” Dante told her. “If the judges ask about costs, tell them the Leeds Foundation will provide additional support during the next stage.” Luca added, “And don’t worry about the presentation. The foundation is a major sponsor. The judges understand what is expected of them.” Elena immediately stepped forward. “That is my proposal.” The conference room fell silent. Dante closed the laptop and looked at me. “Are you here to discuss what happened yesterday, or the Brooklyn development?” I placed Elena’s altered competition record in front of him. “Restore her place in the competition and notify the committee that you are withdrawing your email.” Dante glanced at the document. “The decision has already been made.” “By whom?” “The foundation’s management.” “In other words, the four of you.” “We have the authority to decide how our sponsored resources are allocated.” Dante leaned back in his chair. “Elena will have plenty of opportunities in the future, but this competition could change Sabrina’s life. Giving it to the person who needs it more is the more reasonable decision.” Elena clenched her hands. “You didn’t just take my place. You stole my proposal.” Matteo looked up. “Watch your language. The Leeds Foundation funds your school, and your project concerns a healthcare issue the foundation has supported for years. We simply reassigned an existing proposal.” “I created that proposal.” “Sabrina will develop it further,” Matteo said. “The value of the project does not change depending on who receives the recognition.” Nico lounged in his chair, his tone casual. “Besides, if you represented the Leeds family, everyone would assume your success came from money and connections. Sabrina has a different story. The judges are much more likely to respond to someone who overcame a difficult background.” Sabrina lowered her eyes. “Elena, if this matters so much to you, I can withdraw.” She began gathering the documents from the table. “It’s just that I already included this competition in my college applications. If I withdraw now, I may lose my only chance of being accepted.” Luca immediately pressed his hand over hers. “You’re not withdrawing.” Then he turned to Elena. “You already have the best school, a house of your own, and a trust fund. Sabrina has one opportunity. Why are you determined to take away her entire future?” “Because it belongs to me,” Elena said. “That is exactly the attitude we’ve been trying to correct,” Dante replied. “You divide everything into what is yours and what belongs to someone else, but you never stop to consider who needs it more.” Elena’s eyes turned red, but she refused to cry. “If you truly want to help her, give her your own projects and achievements. Why do you always have to take something from me?” No one answered. I looked at the executives seated along both sides of the conference table. “Do all of you believe that entering a competition with someone else’s proposal qualifies as reasonable resource allocation?” No one spoke. After several seconds, the deputy chief financial officer finally lowered his voice. “The foundation has always been under Mr. Dante’s authority. It would not be appropriate for us to interfere with his decision.” Dante was clearly satisfied by the answer. When he looked at me again, his manner had returned to its usual gentleness. “Mom, this is not a challenge to your authority. We simply don’t believe the company and the family’s resources should continue revolving around Elena.” “And if I insist that her place be restored?” Luca set down his pen. “Then the four of us will suspend every project under our control until the Leeds Foundation is granted independent decision-making authority.” Matteo pushed a document toward me. “The board will hold a special meeting tomorrow morning to redefine the authority of executive management and the family trust. We expect you to attend.” I opened the document. They wanted me to surrender direct control over the foundation, the appointment and dismissal of senior executives, and part of the family assets held under the Leeds name. This betrayal had not begun yesterday. They had prepared these documents long before the incident at the school. They had merely been waiting for an opportunity to force me to sign them. “Fine.” I closed the document. “I’ll be there.” A smile appeared on Dante’s face. “I’m glad you’re finally willing to be reasonable.” I took Elena’s hand and led her out of the conference room. Only after the elevator doors closed did she look at me. “What about the competition, Mom?” “Let them keep the place for now.” “But—” “The real proposal is still in your hands. No one can take away the knowledge and ability it took to create it.” I handed the notice of the special board meeting to Anthony, who had followed us into the elevator. “Send this to my attorney. Then notify the forensic audit team that they are to begin examining every account controlled by those four men tonight.” Anthony accepted the document. “Should I notify the other board members?” “No.” I watched the numbers above the elevator doors descend. “If they have already decided to take Leeds Group from me tomorrow, let them bring everyone they need.” After all, Leeds Group was only one of the legitimate companies under my control. I wanted to see how many people had forgotten who built it—and what name I carried before Catherine Leeds ever existed. Chapter 4 Elena did not go to school the following morning. She sat at the dining table, repeatedly refreshing the competition website as she waited for the committee to respond to the appeal she had submitted the night before. “Will they look at my evidence?” she asked. “They will, but they won’t reach a decision immediately.” I had already instructed my attorneys to send legal preservation notices to the school, the competition committee, and the Leeds Foundation. From that moment forward, any attempt to delete an email, alter a document, or change a system record would leave evidence behind. Elena was still uneasy. “What if Sabrina uses my proposal in the preliminary round today?” “Let her.” Elena looked up at me. “You created the entire plan. All she has is an edited file. The judges only need to ask a few questions before they realize who truly understands the project.” “But Dante and the others will help her.” “They can prepare answers for her. They cannot put your ability inside her head.” I walked to Elena and placed the documents supporting her appeal into a folder. “You don’t need to kneel to anyone today, and you don’t need to beg them to return what belongs to you. All you need to do is preserve the evidence.” Elena nodded. Before leaving the estate, I instructed Anthony to keep two members of his security team with her. At nine that morning, I arrived at the headquarters of Leeds Group. The special board meeting had been scheduled in the executive conference room on the top floor. When the elevator doors opened, more than a dozen directors and senior executives were already waiting in the corridor. No one had entered the room. Only when Dante emerged from another elevator with Luca, Matteo, and Nico did the conversation stop. The directors and executives followed the four brothers into the conference room. Dante did not slow as he passed me. “I’m glad you decided to come.” His tone was polite, but he spoke as if he were welcoming an ordinary shareholder. I gave him no response and followed them inside. Dante took the seat at the head of the long conference table. That chair had once belonged to me. My seat had been placed at the opposite end of the room. A glass of water and a document prepared for my signature were the only things waiting in front of it. Once the meeting began, Matteo activated the projector. The screen displayed Leeds Group’s financial performance over the previous three years. “Since the four of us assumed control of the company’s core divisions, revenue has increased by forty-two percent, and the Brooklyn development has entered its second phase.” Matteo advanced to the next slide. “Over the past two days, however, a private family dispute has seriously disrupted corporate operations. Sixteen company and trust-owned vehicles have been reclaimed without notice, the personal subsidiary accounts used by several senior executives have been suspended, and the security team at the Greenwich property has been forcibly replaced.” The directors turned toward me. One of them spoke first. “Catherine, the company cannot be used as a weapon in a family dispute.” “The vehicles belong to the Leeds Holding Trust, and the suspended accounts were personal subsidiary accounts. None of them are corporate assets.” “But the people using those assets are members of the company’s core leadership,” another director said. “If executives can lose the resources they depend on every time there is a disagreement at home, how can shareholders have confidence in the stability of this company?” Luca placed a stack of photographs on the table. They showed the boxes that had been removed from the lake house the previous day. “Sabrina only intended to stay for a few weeks. Because Elena refused to share one unused room, my mother brought in an outside security team and had us removed from the property.” “That house belongs to Elena,” I said. “It is still legally held by the Leeds Holding Trust,” Matteo corrected. “Elena has not yet become its legal owner.” “I am the trustee.” “That is precisely what we are here to discuss.” Dante finally spoke. He pushed a document toward the center of the table. “Allowing one person to control both the trust assets and the company’s executive management has created a serious conflict of interest. Whenever Elena dislikes a decision, you can reclaim the vehicles, residences, and other resources used by the company’s senior executives.” He rested one hand on the document. “That is why the Leeds Holding Trust needs an independent management committee. You should no longer have unilateral authority over the distribution of its assets.” I opened the document in front of me. They were not merely demanding the creation of a new trust committee. They wanted me to surrender my seat on the board, my authority to appoint and remove senior executives, and my oversight of the Leeds Foundation. My four adopted sons would divide control of Leeds Group, the foundation, the trust properties, and the remaining assets among themselves. Once I signed, they would have the legal power to decide what Elena was still permitted to own. “How long have you been preparing this?” I asked. Silence settled over the room for a moment. Dante did not answer directly. “This is not a personal attack. We are trying to establish a more professional management structure.” “You were contacting the directors before yesterday.” “We had a responsibility to prepare for possible risks.” I looked around the table. Not one person appeared surprised. They had all known what this meeting was truly about. Seventeen years earlier, I had walked away from the underworld and temporarily buried the Moretti name. Under the public identity of Catherine Leeds, I founded Leeds Group. It was the first company I placed fully in the light, and it represented the cleanest, most public-facing part of the vast empire built under the Moretti name. To separate Leeds Group from my past and attract employees and long-term institutional investors, I gradually diluted my personal ownership. I now held only two percent of its shares in my own name. The Leeds Holding Trust, however, still owned twenty-eight percent of the company, and I remained its sole trustee. Unless I signed the document in front of me, I retained the legal authority to vote those shares and determine what Elena would one day inherit. The four men sitting across from me were not merely trying to take my personal two percent. They wanted me to resign from the board, surrender the trust’s voting rights, and relinquish control over the foundation, executive appointments, and trust assets. If I signed, they would gain legal control of Leeds Group and the power to decide what Elena deserved to keep. What they did not understand was that even if they took the entire company, they would still be stealing only one public-facing business from me. They had mistaken the portion of my power I allowed them to see for everything I possessed. An older director cleared his throat. “Catherine, you stepped away from daily management years ago. Whatever else has happened, Dante and the others deserve credit for the company’s growth.” Another director spoke next. “This arrangement will not affect your lifestyle. You will remain the founder of Leeds Group and their mother. The company will preserve your honorary position and all of your personal benefits.” I looked from one man to the other. “So you intend to take the company I created and then use my own money to support me?” Chapter 5 “No one is taking your company away from you,” Dante said. “We simply need you to accept that Leeds Group is no longer your private kingdom.” I looked at him without arguing. Dante still believed Leeds Group was everything I owned. He had no idea that before Catherine Leeds ever existed, Catherine Moretti had already built an empire far greater than this one public-facing company. Luca opened another file. The logo of Valenti Holdings appeared on the screen, and the atmosphere in the conference room changed immediately. “The Valenti family is looking for a long-term partner in the United States,” Luca said. “They are prepared to invest two billion dollars in a joint venture with Leeds Group involving European logistics and private healthcare.” Several directors visibly straightened in their chairs. Valenti Holdings controlled ports, private hospitals, and transportation networks throughout Southern Europe. If the partnership succeeded, Leeds Group could establish a major presence in the European market within a few years. “The Valenti representatives will arrive in New York tonight,” Dante said. “They have made it clear that Leeds Group must have stable, unified leadership.” He pushed the agreement toward me again. “If you sign, the board will officially authorize the four of us to lead the negotiations.” I looked at the final page. A pen had already been placed beside the signature line. “And if I refuse?” Matteo brought up the financial records for the Brooklyn development. “The first construction payment must be approved by tomorrow afternoon. All four core divisions must sign off before the funds can be released.” Nico continued, “We have also suspended access to the family security network and our supplier relationships. If the project falls into breach, the responsibility will not be ours.” They had timed everything carefully. If I refused to sign, the Brooklyn development would come to a halt, and the shareholders would blame every loss on me. If I signed, they would use the two-billion-dollar partnership to seize complete control of Leeds Group. Dante leaned back in his chair. “You said yesterday that power could be taken back. But a company is not a house, and it is not a collection of credit cards.” He held my gaze, calm and certain of his victory. “The employees, suppliers, and directors in this building recognize the people who can actually keep this company running.” I picked up the pen. A smile finally appeared on Dante’s face. “You’re making the right choice.” “What happens to Elena’s competition?” I asked. Luca and Dante exchanged a glance. “Sabrina has already represented the school in the preliminary round, so replacing her now is impossible. However, we can ask her to thank Elena in her acceptance speech for contributing part of the original idea.” “You stole Elena’s proposal, and your solution is to give her one sentence of thanks?” “There’s no reason to describe it that way.” Matteo frowned. “This was a cooperative redistribution of resources.” Dante turned the agreement to the final page. “Once you sign, this conflict ends. As long as Elena stops targeting Sabrina, we will continue treating her as our sister.” I looked at the four boys I had raised. When they took Elena’s room, they called it the reasonable use of an empty resource. When they took her proposal, they claimed they were giving an opportunity to someone who needed it more. Now they were preparing to take Leeds Group from me, yet they still insisted this was not betrayal. It was merely more professional management. I placed the pen back on the table. “I’m not signing.” The smile disappeared from Dante’s face. A quiet murmur moved around the conference table. The oldest director spoke in a grave voice. “Catherine, I strongly suggest you consider the consequences. The board already has enough votes. If you refuse to cooperate, we will hold a formal vote to suspend your authority and remove you from control.” “Then vote.” Hands rose one after another. The secretary counted them quickly. “The motion passes. Effective immediately, Catherine Leeds is suspended from all board authority and removed from direct control over corporate security, the Leeds Foundation, and executive management.” Nico gestured toward the company guards standing near the door. “Escort Mrs. Leeds out. The rest of this meeting concerns confidential company business.” Two guards approached me, but neither dared to touch me. Dante calmly rearranged the partnership agreement. “Mom, I don’t want to make this uglier than it needs to be. Go home. Once the Valenti partnership is secured, we can discuss what role you’ll be allowed to keep.” I remained in my chair. “Anthony.” A response came immediately from the other side of the conference room doors. “Yes, Donna.” Nico’s expression changed. He turned sharply toward the company guards. “Who allowed an outsider onto the executive floor?” I took out my phone and reviewed the audit report that had just arrived. Over the past three years, seventeen related companies had appeared in projects controlled by my four adopted sons. More than eighty million dollars could not be properly accounted for. The ultimate beneficiary of one of those companies was Sabrina’s mother. I placed my phone on the conference table. “You only dismissed the security team employed by Leeds Group,” I said, turning toward the closed doors. “Now let my people in.” The doors opened, and Anthony entered with my private security team, the chief legal officer of Leeds Group, and the forensic investigators who had spent the night tracing every account my sons believed they had hidden. Four sealed evidence boxes were placed in front of me. Each one carried the name of a different Leeds brother, along with the division he controlled and the amount of money that had disappeared under his authority. The confidence vanished from their faces as they finally understood that while they had been preparing to force me out of my company, I had been preparing a case against all four of them. Anthony rested his hand on the first box and looked at me. “Where would you like us to begin, Donna Moretti?” The room went silent. My sons knew Catherine Leeds. I turned the box around until Dante’s name faced him. “Start with the son who thought he had taken my seat.”

📖✨ It's amazing! Click to read now! 👉💖

Ran 6 days · stopped 15 Sept

📖✨ It's amazing! Click to read now! 👉💖

"Ahhhhh, Catherine, you're so amazing..." Vance gently kissed the woman beneath him as he reached climax, completely oblivious to how Rebecca's flushed face had turned pale. Five years of marriage, and this was the first time Vance had ever touched her. Turned out it was only because he had drunkenly mistaken Rebecca for his first love. Tears slipped from the corner of Rebecca's eyes. She loved him, but she could no longer love him blindly. So she vanished without a trace. Nine months later, when she was giving birth in a small-town hospital, she got a call from her friend: "You know what? Your husband has gone crazy looking for you..." ** It was three in the morning. Rebecca Perry stood at the bathroom door and heard that Vance Bradford was pleasuring himself. The heavy breaths and muffled gr0ans struck her like hammers, pounding relentlessly at her chest. Bitterness surged through her like a tidal wave, leaving her gasping for air, drowning in agony. Today marked their fifth wedding anniversary, yet they had never consummated their marriage. So, this was why. He'd rather take care of himself than touch her. His breathing grew more frantic, and suddenly, in a moment of intense release, he gr0aned lowly, "Catherine..." That name delivered the final, crushing blow. Something inside her shattered into dust. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs and turned to flee, but in her haste, she stumbled, crashing into the sink and tumbling to the floor. "Rebecca, is that you?" Vance's voice, still ragged from exertion, carried a note of forced composure, though his breathing remained heavy. "I-I needed the bathroom. I didn't know you were showering," she stammered, desperately grabbing the sink to pull herself up. But in her panic, she made things worse. Water slicked the floor and countertop, making it impossible to find her footing. She finally managed to stand just as Vance emerged. His white bathrobe was hastily thrown on, the belt cinched tightly around his waist. "Did you fall? Let me help you," he said, reaching out to lift her. Tears brimmed in her eyes from the pain, but she pushed his hand away, stubborn and resolute. "No need. I can manage myself." She steadied herself but nearly slipped again. Limping awkwardly, she fled back to the bedroom—a hasty escape from the awkward scene. For five years, she had been hiding from the outside world, from the judgmental stares, and from Vance's sympathy. She was ashamed of her condition, though she used to have strong, beautiful legs before the accident. She always felt inferior. A cripple like her didn't deserve someone as accomplished and luminous as Vance Bradford. Vance followed her, his tone gentle and concerned. "Does it hurt? Let me check." "It's nothing." She burrowed under the covers, hiding her embarrassment along with her body. "Are you sure?" His worry seemed genuine. "Yeah." She nodded, showing her back to him. "Then get some sleep. Don't you want to use the bathroom anymore?" "Nope, let's just rest." "Alright. Oh, it's our anniversary today. I got you a gift. Open it tomorrow and see if you like it." "Okay." The gift sat on the nightstand; she had already spotted it. She didn't need to unwrap it to know what was inside. Every year, it was the same-sized box containing an identical watch. Her drawer already held nine of them, including birthday gifts. This would be the tenth. The conversation ended. Vance switched off the light and lay down. The air was filled with the damp, fresh scent of his shower gel, but she barely felt the mattress dip under his weight. The bed was giant, but they lay far apart, each on one edge. The space between them could fit three more people. As if by tacit understanding, neither of them mentioned Catherine Welch or what had transpired in the bathroom. Rebecca lay rigid on her back, her eyes stinging fiercely. Catherine was Vance's college classmate, his first love, and his goddess. After graduation, she had gone abroad, leading to their breakup and his depression. He had spiraled into despair, drinking heavily every day. Rebecca and Vance, however, were classmates in high school. She had harbored a secret crush on him back then. He was the campus heartthrob and an aloof, top student, while she spent most of her time in a dance studio far from the spotlight. She was pretty enough, but she was quiet, never one to stand at the center of things, and in a school full of confident, outspoken girls, she was easy to overlook. So, her feelings had remained her private secret; she never dreamed of approaching him. That changed after she graduated from the dance academy and returned home for summer break, encountering him in his broken state. He was heavily drunk that night, weaving erratically down the street. As he crossed the road without checking the lights, a car barreled toward him, unable to brake in time. She had been trailing him out of concern and shoved him aside—just in time for the car to strike her instead. At that time, she had secured a spot in graduate school, but the accident left her crippled. She could never dance again. Afterward, he quit drinking and married her. He remained forever indebted, forever grateful, soft-spoken and distant. He showered her with gifts and money, but never with love. She had believed time could heal everything and soften the edges of her pain. Yet after five years, he still clung to Catherine so deeply that even in his most private moments, it was her name he uttered. She had been fool and naïve. She lay awake all night, checking an email on her phone over a hundred times. It was an offer from a foreign university for graduate studies—the very thing she had planned to discuss with him that evening. But now, there was no need to consult him. Their five-year marriage, filled with countless sleepless nights, could finally begin its countdown. When he rose in the morning, she feigned sleep, overhearing him speak to the housekeeper, Nancy. "I have a business dinner tonight. Tell Rebecca not to wait up; she should rest early." After his instructions, he returned to the bedroom to check on her. She hid under the covers, her pillow soaked with tears. Normally, she would prepare his outfit for work, laying it out neatly. But not today. He dressed himself in the walk-in closet and left for the office. Only then did she open her eyes, feeling them swollen and sore. Her phone alarm buzzed—the daily reminder she had set for herself to study. Since the marriage, her leg had confined her to the house most of the time. To pass the endless hours, she divided her days into segments, filling each with small tasks. She silenced the alarm and mindlessly scrolled through apps. Her mind was a jumble, unable to focus on anything, until she saw a familiar face in a video. It was posted just the night before, and the account name was Cathy W. The algorithm was really uncanny, delivering this right before her eyes. Rebecca tapped on the video, and lively music played, followed by voices shouting, "Three, two, one! Welcome back, Catherine! Cheers!" One voice stood out—Vance's. Chapter 2 Vance had broken his no-drinking rule. He was obviously drunk, or else he wouldn't have shouted like that. In Rebecca's memories, Vance in high school was the aloof genius, always focused on his studies. Once, a girl who admired him had offered him water on the sports field, but he had ignored her. As her husband, he was polite and emotionally steady, never laughing heartily or showing anger. He was so calm, so detached that even brushing his fingers felt cool. The video panned across faces, capturing a flushed Vance. His eyes were sparkling as he raised his glass with a broad smile. "Welcome home, Cathy." So, he could laugh, be passionate, and use intimate nicknames. He just didn't do that to Rebecca. He never smiled at her, never showed passion, and never called her by her nickname. Nancy's voice came from outside, interrupting her thoughts. "Madam, are you up yet?" Rebecca's daily routine was predictable. When there was no response, Nancy worried she might need help, especially considering her leg injury. Rebecca set her phone aside, her voice hoarse. "Coming out soon." Nancy made sandwiches for breakfast, but Rebecca managed only one bite before losing her appetite. Nancy handed her a glass of milk. "Madam, what would you like for lunch and dinner?" "Anything, I guess," Rebecca started, then swallowed her usual response of making whatever Vance liked. But Nancy understood the implication. That was just the same daily conversation. "Mr. Bradford said he won't be home for dinner. He has a commitment." Rebecca nodded, having seen the list in that post. Catherine had scheduled a week's worth of dinners, listing who was treating and what she craved. [The most genuine friendships from the student days. I'm so lucky to have so many boys pampering me.] Normally, Rebecca's day involved two hours of French study and several more on art theory. Without something to occupy her, how could she endure the endless waiting for Vance to come home? She had waited before... The ache of it was unbearable. Now her plans were different. This offer was likely the university's final round of admissions; she needed to confirm quickly. Her first task was to pay the confirmation fee. When the bank notification popped up, she exhaled in relief. It was another step closer to leaving Vance. That evening, she changed her clothes and prepared to go out. Nancy asked wonderingly, "Madam, where are you going?" Without Vance, Rebecca hardly ever left the house. "Oh, a college friend is performing nearby and invited me to meet," she lied. In truth, she was heading to a hotel near the exam center. She'd have the French Proficiency test tomorrow, and it was scheduled for the morning. Rushing there risked traffic delays. Her previous attempt months ago hadn't met her target score, but with application deadlines looming, she had submitted anyway. Surprisingly admitted, she could now supplement her scores. That was thanks to the school allowing post-admission updates. "But..." Nancy hesitated, eyeing her leg. "Should I accompany you?" Rebecca kept her expression neutral. "No need. It's a girls' night; an extra person would be awkward." Nancy fretted over potential mishaps. "Then I'll let Mr. Bradford know." "No, let him focus on his evening. I'll call him after and have him pick me up." Rebecca grabbed her bag and left. Considering her mobility, Vance had chosen a spacious flat for their home. She took the elevator down and stepped outside. The sunlight made her instinctively lower her head, hunch her shoulders, and pull on a hat, raising her collar. Since her injury, the once-confident dancer who thrived on stage had vanished. Crippled, she had lost the courage to face the public eye. Nancy often advised outings only with Vance, and the man always suggested Rebecca stay at home. They didn't understand. Outings with Vance terrified her more. It was even worse than going out alone. Every glance screamed, "Why does such an outstanding man have a cripple as his wife?" Rebecca hailed a cab to the hotel. En route, gazing at the passing scenery, she spotted Vance's car parked on the roadside. "Could you stop here, please?" she said to the driver. His car was outside a restaurant, which reminded her of Catherine's post. Yesterday, one of his friends had hosted that gathering, and today it was his turn. On impulse, she got out and entered the restaurant. At the reception desk, she said, "I'm here to join Mr. Vance Bradford." She gave his phone number, and a waiter led her to the private room. "This is the one." "Thank you," she said, though she didn't really know why she had come. Earlier, impulse had driven her; now, at the door, her courage faltered. She didn't even dare to open it. Lively chatter emanated from inside. "I can't stay late or drink tonight. Got chewed out by my wife last night," said a guy. "Come on. You said friends come first, even over the king. Now you're henpecked? Guess Vance is the real man here," Catherine protested, her voice soft and coquettish. So, that was her personality. Vance liked that type. Too bad Rebecca was nothing like that, not even close. She couldn't even fake it. The guy whined, "Vance is different. Rebecca wouldn't dare to complain." "By the way," Catherine chimed in, looking at Vance, "I heard your wife is crippled? What happened?" There was no answer, but Rebecca felt a pang in her heart. The conversation continued inside. "Vance, we feel bad for you. With your money, looks, and success, you could have anyone. Why marry a cripple?" "Honestly, you're the best of us. Now with Rebecca, you can't bring her to meetings, events, or press—anywhere a wife should appear. What a loss!" So, that was why. Vance always kept her away from business affairs, telling her to just wait at home for him to bring back money. Her family praised him endlessly, saying she was blessed to live a life of luxury. But now she realized he couldn't bear to show her off in public. Inside the room, Vance laughed bitterly. "She saved my life. I owe her." "You've repaid her with all that money. Isn't that enough to settle it?" "Exactly! Should have just paid her off and moved on. Why sacrifice your happiness?" "Think it through, man. It's better to enshrine a statue and pray for wealth. What's the point of keeping her?" "What can she help you with? She can't attend events, and at home all she does is pour tea. Vance, do you seriously want this?" Laughter erupted, Catherine's peals among them. "Really, Vance? Is that how she walks?" Eavesdropping at the door, Rebecca felt blood rush to her head. Fury and humiliation knocked her off balance, causing her to push open the door. Everyone was laughing loudly as Vance's childhood friend, Aiden Hodge, dramatically limped while holding a glass of water, speaking in a falsetto voice. "Vance, have some water. Ah, I slipped. Vance, help me up." Rebecca stared at Vance, hoping that the man she loved more than anything would stand up for her. Chapter 3 The exaggerated performance fueled even more laughter. Catherine, seated beside Vance, collapsed onto his shoulder in hysterics. The man remained silent. Aiden turned, still grinning. "Vance, is it like..." His words died as he caught sight of Rebecca standing in the doorway. His smile faltered, and his tongue twisted. "R-Rebecca?" The others followed him to look over, all freezing. Catherine got up from Vance's shoulder, grinning. "Oh, this must be the legendary Mrs. Bradford. Come on in. I'm Catherine Welch, Vance's friend." Rebecca scanned the room, her blood running cold. Finally, Vance stood up and walked over to her. "Rebecca? What are you doing here? They were just joking. Don't take it to heart." She stared at him, feeling utterly alienated. For the first time, he seemed a stranger. In the face of mockery toward his wife, he sided with them. Aiden put down his glass, apologizing, "Y-Yeah, it was a joke. I'm sorry, Rebecca. Please don't be mad." Vance moved closer, attempting to embrace her. "Rebecca." But Rebecca recalled Catherine leaning on him earlier, his mas-tur-ba-tion in the bathroom, and the name he uttered in the climax. That hand, the one reaching for her now, felt utterly filthy. She quickly stepped back, avoiding him. "Rebecca?" Vance stared at his empty hand in confusion, then sighed. "I apologize on their behalf. Don't be upset, okay? I'll get a gift to make up for you. Anything you want." Catherine shot Aiden a playful glare. "This is your fault, Aiden. Apologize properly. Not everyone's like me, clumsy and thick-skinned, laughing off your jokes." Rebecca sneered at her cheeky speech, but these men didn't even sense the manipulation. Aiden grumbled, "I already did! Didn't know she'd show up. It was just a joke." "A joke is only funny if the target laughs," Rebecca retorted, her voice shaking with newfound courage. For five years, this curse of her unworthiness of Vance had confined her. Mocking glances made her shrink, retreating like a quail to lick her wounds alone. Aiden winced, "But I already apologized." "I-I don't accept it!" Rebecca trembled harder, defying mockery for the first time. Aiden mumbled, "Then what do you want?" Rebecca shook her head, having no answer. She just rejected their ridicule and Vance's alignment with them. "Enough, everyone." Vance intervened, positioning himself between her and Aiden. He was the leader of the group, his words carrying authority. After graduation, his business savvy had built their empire. The room fell silent, and he nodded, turning back to Rebecca. "Hey," he said evenly, his gaze as detached as ever, unlike the warmth in Catherine's video. "These are my longtime friends. They didn't mean to hurt your feelings. No malice, just banter. Forgive them this once. I'll have the driver take you home." "Rebecca," Catherine pouted, sidling up to Vance. "If you have to blame someone, blame me. This gathering is for my return. Vance, invite her to stay. I'll toast her with an apology." Her phony tone only disgusted Rebecca further and drove her to squint at Vance with resentment. It was his very indulgence that fed Catherine's boldness. "I'm fine," she said, holding back her bitterness. "I don't drink, especially not sour alc0-h0l." "Vance, is she insulting me? I..." Catherine wrinkled her nose, choking back her tears. "She misunderstood me, but it's fine. Don't blame her." Vance's jaw tightened. "Catherine meant well. Why are you being sarcastic?" "Meant well?" Rebecca snorted. Only a fool would think those words were spoken with good intentions, but Vance wasn't fool. He simply showed bias, siding with whom he favored rather than who was right. That side was always the one closest to his heart. Rebecca eyed the pair and their friends, feeling as though an insurmountable chasm lay between them. They formed a solid unit, while she was an intruder in their world. She was forever extraneous. Even lingering on the periphery felt out of place. She swallowed her bitterness, gave a cold laugh, and turned to leave. Behind her, Catherine's voice rang out. "Vance, she..." "It's fine. I'll talk to her when I get back," Vance said, waving it off. "Let's continue." Secretly, he glanced at the retreating figure, texting the driver to esc0rt her. Rebecca yearned to walk gracefully, but every step she took felt more unstable. Agitation only worsened her limp, her frantic exit mirroring Aiden's mockery. That would definitely make them laugh even harder. She wiped her tears with a trembling hand, hastening and wobbling more. The driver chased after her, but she was nowhere to be found outside the restaurant. The driver reported it to Vance, who frowned and called her. Rebecca rejected it and turned off her phone at the next one. Aiden was irked. "Her temper is just too short. You spoil her too much, man. With your status and looks, any wife would worship you. Yet she sulks? You're too soft." Vance stayed silent, but the others piled on. "Aiden is right. You sacrifice too much for her and the family, working tirelessly. She doesn't appreciate or support you. Throwing a tantrum over the smallest things. Worth it?" "Marrying her was charity. Who else wants a cripple? Without you, she'd wed another disabled person." Chapter 4 Catherine, reading the room, interjected timely, "Don't mind their harsh words, but as your long-time friends, we're truly concerned about you. We're blunt, but it's nothing personal. Don't take it to heart." "I'm not upset," Vance replied, pocketing his phone. "Doesn't matter. She won't stray far. Let's go on." In five years, home was her only refuge. He was not worried because she had nowhere else to go. Aiden eyed Catherine, muttering, "Catherine is the bigger person here. If you two hadn't split..." "Don't talk nonsense." Catherine glared. "Keep your mouth shut for one night. Vance is married now. That's inappropriate." Her gaze turned wistful toward Vance. "I don't want much. Just want to be accepted by you guys and stay by your side. That's enough." "Silly talk." Aiden thumped his chest loyally. "You're forever our princess, and we will never let anyone bully you. Vance, right?" Vance swirled his wine, the scene evocative of old times. He'd sit back, watching his crew banter with Catherine, not intervening unless things got out of hand. Now queried, he smiled faintly. "Of course." ... Rebecca didn't go home. Instead, she settled into her booked hotel. All the pent-up grievances and pain were unleashed the moment she closed the door behind her. Aiden's limp-mocking replayed endlessly in her mind, and their laughter haunted her like a curse. She had known all along their whispers behind her back, but she had never told Vance. She understood his work's toll, so she avoided conflicts, unwilling to add to his burdens or strain his bonds with his friends. Now, she saw her folly. He'd never clash with them over her; their friendship trumped everything. To him, she was nothing more than a debt—a burden that dragged him down. Without her, his life would be so much easier. "She is a cripple. Who else would want her?" "Yet she still expects so much from Vance?" "I'd rather be the crippled one than wed one and face ridicule." "Other CEOs flaunt elegant partners; Vance? He doesn't even have someone he can take out in public." ... The gossip and ridicule that Rebecca had heard over the past five years came rushing back like a tidal wave. She felt like she was being dragged under, drowning in it all. She couldn't breathe, the pain so intense it felt as if her chest and lungs were being torn apart. Trembling, she accessed a locked album on her phone—something untouched for five years. It contained photos and videos from her school days, documenting her dance practices and shows. Post-injury, she sealed these relics, set a password, and forced herself not to open it. Now her shaky finger tapped on a random video. The music played; she spun, flipped, and performed a mid-air split. She was vibrant, agile, and applauded thunderously. Was saving Vance wrong? But even then, marriage wasn't her aim. He insisted, orchestrating a grand proposal and kneeling before her with a huge diamond ring that sparked hope. She turned off her phone and collapsed in sobs. It was the first unbridled cry in five years. She wept until her tears ran out, but pain remained burning in her chest, licking at her from the inside like fire. But it was that very pain that brought her a moment of clarity in the suffocating whirlpool of emotions. The more it hurt, the more lucid she became. She rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face to calm down. The mirror reflected her dulled self, and she bit her lip. "Rebecca, one good cry is enough. No more. Now, eat well, rest well, and tomorrow, focus on your exam." The one thing she could be thankful for was that, during those long five years, she had spent her time studying to ki11 the boredom. Not because she had grand ambitions. She just had so much time and had nothing to do. Waiting for Vance to come home had been her whole life, but he always came home late. At first, she thought it was because of work. Later, she realized that he just didn't want to face her too soon. She had overheard it herself. Back then, she understood how hard he worked. She even gathered the courage to show concern for him, making him special meals and delivering them to his office, only to overhear the hard truth. He was talking with a friend who asked why he hadn't gone home yet. There was hardly anyone left in the office, and yet he, the CEO, was still working overtime. Vance had replied, "I don't know how to face my wife's enthusiasm." Simple-minded back then, Rebecca didn't understand the implication, but that friend did. He gasped, "No way! Don't tell me you haven't slept together yet." Vance fell silent because that was the truth. He never touched her, even though she had hinted or taken the initiative. Every time, he found excuses like her condition or his tiredness to reject her. She wasn't fool. Gradually, she realized he simply didn't love her, and that was why he didn't want to touch her. But hearing it from his mouth hurt her deeply, the pain almost suffocating. His friend, half-jokingly, half-seriously, asked him, "You don't mean to tell me you have no physical reaction at all, do you? Anyway, she's pretty." Vance's reply was the needle that pierced deep into her heart, and for the following years, it continually wounded her. Every time she thought about it, the pain would gnaw at her. "I've tried," Vance replied. "I wanted to have a normal married life with her, but every time I look at her leg, I lose all interest." So, that was how it was. Her leg, the one scarred and atrophied from saving him, in his eyes was disgusting, revolting. It was something that turned him off and ki11ed his desire. She never knocked on the office door that day. The meal she had prepared with such care was thrown into the trash can. From then on, she never set foot in his company again. Chapter 5 After that incident, Rebecca turned to books. She hadn't planned far ahead; she simply wanted to infuse her empty life with quiet pursuits. Keeping busy might dull the sting of those words. She never expected these small, personal distractions would, in the end, become her lifeline. She needed to ace tomorrow's exam. She had to leave this place, as far away as possible. The thought still brought intense pain to her heart. She couldn't distinguish if the ache stemmed from Vance or from her five wasted years. But it no longer mattered. What counted was refusing to wallow in the pain any longer. Even if it lingered for ages before fading, she was committed to saving herself. She ordered a light meal and a set of disposable clothes. Then she phoned the front desk for a morning wake-up call, and at last, she compelled herself to sleep. Perhaps due to the previous night's insomnia, she slept soundly. The next day, she woke up on time and turned on her phone. Messages poured in, the device vibrating incessantly, all from Vance. She skipped reading them, fearing they'd disrupt her focus on the exam. After breakfast, she left for the exam center, which was a mere five-minute walk away. As soon as she stepped out of the hotel, her phone buzzed with a call from Vance. In a panic, she nearly dropped it, swiftly rejecting the call before shutting it off again. Emerging from the exam hall, her heart pounded with exhilaration. She felt satisfied with her performance. The oral examiner smiled throughout their conversation. She understood most of what she heard, and the written parts felt steady and controlled. She dared not predict her score, but at least she had completed everything. She wasn't useless after all. Walking alone on the sidewalk, she kept her head down, mentally reviewing every detail of the exam until a pair of leather shoes appeared in her path. Expecting no deliberate block, she couldn't retract her step in time and bumped into the person. Without his steadying grip, she would have fallen. And that person was the last one she wanted to see. "Rebecca," Vance muttered, his voice strained. She remained silent, sensing his barely contained anger. He grasped her shoulders and softened his tone, asking in his usual gentle, warm manner, "Why didn't you come home?" He asked that question while knowing the answer, but it wasn't the time to argue with him. Her bag had just been knocked to the ground, the flap open, and her exam pen peeked out, which could give away her participation in the exam. She quickly wrenched free, squatted down, shoved the pen inside, and secured the bag. "What's that?" he asked, looking at her bag. "Nothing. Just a pen," she replied, trying to sound natural, though her fingers gripped the bag so tightly they blanched. "Let me see it," he said. She clutched it closer. "What do you need a pen for?" "Give me your phone," he demanded. After a brief standoff, she extracted it from the bag and handed it over. He glanced at the dead phone, then handed it back. "I called you so many times and sent countless messages. Why didn't you respond? Still angry?" She held the phone, relieved he hadn't delved into her emails or discovered the exam-related messages. If that was his only concern... She had no desire to argue with him or explain anything. She simply wanted to flee far away, and that urge intensified in his presence. Mistaking her silence for lingering resentment, he sighed, "You're usually so understanding. Why run off over this?" Rebecca swore she intended to stay calm, but his words would pr0v0ke even a saint. "Was it my fault? Was I being unreasonable?" she shot back. "Should I have joined in and complimented Aiden on his spot-on imitation?" Vance's face flushed with awkwardness. "That's not what I meant. You can't control what others say. There is no need to take their words to heart." "I can't control them, but you could!" she retorted, staring at him. "What were you doing? Laughing with Catherine pressed against you?" "Rebecca!" His expression darkened, revealing anger for the first time. She understood that Catherine was his sore spot. What more was there to say? She hugged her bag, trying to walk past him. His arm extended, wrapping around her waist and pulling her close. "I'm sorry for yelling at you," he murmured. "I just don't want you to misunderstand Catherine. She is a friend, just like the others. I only see her as a sister. She's unmarried, so speaking ill of her isn't fair." Rebecca couldn't grasp his reasoning. Hadn't they brought this on themselves? Catherine had leaned on him shamelessly, yet they feared commentary? She managed only a faint "Oh." "Rebecca..." he paused, detected her detachment. "Why still upset? You stayed at a hotel alone and didn't return home. I haven't even reproached you much, yet your anger persists?" That was his typical line. In his mind, it was her fault for everything. "Come on, let's drop it," he cooed. "Lunch first. Then I'll accompany you to the mall, alright?" Rebecca considered it. That was fine. She had something to tell him anyway. Vance led her to a nearby restaurant. As they entered, Rebecca instinctively lowered her head, raised her collar, and shuffled behind him to downplay her limp. It was a habit, though she soon relaxed. If she didn't measure up, so be it. She wasn't planning to match him anymore. Once seated, Vance placed the order, passing her the utensils, when the food arrived. "Dig in. These are all your favorites," he said, his voice as soft as ever. Rebecca eyed the spicy dishes and smiled bitterly. He had no idea she couldn't handle spice; home dinners were always spicy because he preferred them. "I'm not hungry," she said, not touching the food. "I have something to tell you." "What is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Wherever you want to go, I'll join you. I have the whole afternoon free. We can hang out, and then we'll go to your parents' house for dinner." She stared at his barely perceptible smile, her heart flooding with profound bitterness as she contemplated the words she was about to utter. Chapter 6 "Vance..." Rebecca choked back her tears, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay composed. "What's wrong?" Vance reached for her hand. "If you feel like crying, then cry. Don't hold back." His voice was truly so soft and gentle. It brought her back to the day years ago when she had come out of the operating room after the surgery. He and the nurse had wheeled her back to the ward, and he had stayed by her bedside, speaking to her in that same tender tone, as if his words could drip with compassion. "Does it hurt? Cry it out. Don't hold back." At that time, she had believed that such gentle care was the best medicine to ease her pain. Then it took her years to fully understand that a man's tenderness and concern could never truly evolve into love. "Vance, let's get a divorce," she said in a low voice, withdrawing her hand as the stinging pain gradually blurred her eyes with tears. He furrowed his brow, clearly not expecting her to say something like that. After a brief silence, he called over the waiter to bring a clean small dish, then picked up a piece of fish with his fork and carefully began removing the bones. At the same time, he spoke in a soft, soothing voice. "I know you're still angry, but mentioning divorce isn't a rational response. If we divorced, what would you do? How would you manage to live on your own?" Rebecca's breathing became rapid and uneven. For five years, in the eyes of everyone around her, she had been seen as nothing more than his appendage. If separated from him, she would become a pitiful, unwanted soul incapable of surviving independently. And now, it was clear that he thought the same way. "I can do it," she replied firmly. For the first time, she stood her ground with determination, eager to prove her strength and fight for her dignity. Yet he merely smiled, as if dismissing her words as nothing more than a momentary fit of pique. He placed the carefully deboned fish in front of her and said, "Eat up. I'll permit you to stay upset for a little while longer, but once the meal is over, you can't be angry anymore." "I'm not angry. I want a divorce," she insisted, unsure how to make him see that her request wasn't just an impulsive outburst born from frustration. "You see," he set down his fork, "today, I pushed back two meetings and a business discussion specifically to spend time with you and make you happy. Tomorrow and the day after, I might not have nearly as much availability. Let me repeat this. Catherine is a good friend to all of us. She's part of our crew. I treat her the same as I do Aiden and the others. She really likes you and has always wanted to become friends with you. With this attitude of yours, how am I supposed to introduce her to you properly?" "Then there's no need to introduce her at all," Rebecca replied, not believing for a second that Catherine truly wanted to be friends with her. Vance's voice sharpened. "Rebecca!" She had known that, whenever the topic involved Catherine, his patience wore thin, and his temper wasn't as controlled. "Eat up. Afterward, we'll go to the mall, buy whatever you like, and then head over to your parents' house for dinner. It's been quite a while since you've gone back to see them, hasn't it?" he said, adding more food to her plate. Unwilling to deprive herself, she picked up her fork and began eating what she could. Regardless of the situation, she needed to ensure she maintained her health first and foremost. There was no point in taking out her frustrations on her stomach. "That's the right approach," Vance said, his voice returning to its gentle tone. "But from now on, don't bring up that word again." She paused for a moment, then lowered her head and continued eating in silence. After finishing the meal, she had no desire to go shopping, but Vance insisted on it, driving them directly to the mall without further discussion. Over the course of their five-year marriage, the number of times Vance had accompanied her on a shopping trip could be counted on one hand. In fact, the occasions when they had appeared together in public at all were exceedingly rare. The mall's lighting was intensely bright, even during the daytime, creating a glaring atmosphere that she found uncomfortable. Clutching her purse, she walked cautiously in his shadow. The first floor was lined with counters displaying luxury bags, watches, and jewelry. "Anything you like?" he asked, turning around. She didn't want to buy anything at all. She just wanted to go home. But before she could respond, someone called out from a distance, "Mr. Bradford!" "It's a new business partner I've recently connected with. I'll go over and greet them quickly," Vance explained. "You can browse around on your own for a bit. I'll come find you shortly." Vance's clients were all people she didn't know. She watched as he walked over and shook hands with a gentleman not far away, then stood there awkwardly. Amid all this opulent luxury, there was nothing that caught her interest or that she wanted to purchase. Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a sales associate. "Miss, it's your turn." She turned around, realizing that she had inadvertently positioned herself in the queue at one of the luxury brand stores. "Oh, no, thank you," she said hastily, quickly stepping away from the line. She wandered through the mall until, at a certain high-end watch counter, she caught sight of a familiar figure—Catherine. As she looked at the brand of watches on display, something heavy seemed to sink deep within her chest, and without fully realizing it, she found herself walking toward the counter. Accompanying Catherine in browsing the watches was Aiden. As Rebecca approached closer, the conversation between the two became increasingly audible. "If you like it, just go ahead and buy it," Aiden said. Catherine hesitated. "But this doesn't seem right. Even though Vance gave me his supplementary card and told me to use it freely, I can't bring myself to buy something this pricey." Rebecca stopped in her tracks, unable to take another step. Her heart felt as heavy as her feet. "The supplementary card... Vance's supplementary card..." "Since he gave it to you, he obviously meant for you to use it. When has Vance ever been the type to say one thing but mean another?" Aiden reassured her. "We've been friends for so many years. You know his character better than anyone. If he gives something, it's with full sincerity." "I guess you're right." Catherine nodded, beginning to turn her wrist this way and that to show Aiden the watch from various angles. Rebecca saw it, too. "How does it look?" Catherine asked. "I really love this model. I've wanted it since college. Vance promised me he'd buy it for me upon graduation, but then..." A wave of mocking yet bitter amusement welled up in Rebecca's heart. But then, every year on her birthday and their wedding anniversary, Vance had given her watches of this same model. Originally, she had thought that even if Vance didn't put much heart into it, at least he remembered her important dates and their anniversaries. The gifts might have been repetitive and lacking in thoughtfulness, but they were at least valuable. Now she realized that he did care. It was just that none of it had ever been directed toward her. "Well, Vance is fulfilling that promise now, isn't he?" Aiden laughed. "You can buy whatever you want these days. He can afford it all." "Then I'll go ahead and charge it?" Catherine said, her excitement visibly growing by the second. Meanwhile, in another part of the mall, Vance had finished exchanging pleasantries with his business contact. The man, who was there to pick up his wife from shopping, learned that Vance was accompanying his wife as well and suggested they go over to say hello. As Vance walked in her direction, Rebecca quickly ducked out of sight, hiding behind a Roman column. Catherine spotted him and waved her hand enthusiastically. "Vance, over here!" Peering out from behind the column, Rebecca saw Vance and his business contact making their way toward Catherine. She immediately linked her arm through Vance's and began swaying it playfully. "I want to buy this watch. Is that okay?" "Sure," Vance replied, his gaze softening. The sparkle in his eyes brought his entire face to life, a stark contrast to the bland, emotionless demeanor he always wore at home when he was with Rebecca. "Thank you. I'm going to swipe the card now," Catherine chirped, waving the supplementary card. The business contact smiled warmly. "You guys have such a deep bond. It's so touching, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford." The pair blinked at the appellation, but neither of them attempted to correct the misunderstanding. Chapter 7 After a moment of awkwardness, Vance and Catherine quickly adjusted to the mistaken roles. They began chatting and laughing effortlessly with the business contact. Standing together, they looked like a well-matched couple. Rebecca watched silently, taking a photo with her phone. As she turned to leave, the sharp "needle" buried deep in her heart pricked her once more. A sharp, intricate pain that rapidly spread through her chest, even causing a sour ache at the tip of her nose. Just as she was about to exit the mall, a voice called out, "Rebecca?" She turned to see someone waving vigorously from the descending escalator. To her surprise, it was her instructor from the dance academy. "Mrs. Lemke?" she exclaimed, her heart lifting with joy. Lauren Lemke quickly descended the escalator and approached, taking hold of Rebecca's hands with evident joy. "It's really you, Rebecca! It's been five years since we last saw each other. How have you been?" A wave of sadness washed over her. Five years had passed, and she had lived like a useless invalid. Facing Lauren now, she felt embarrassed. Still holding Rebecca's hand, Lauren asked, "Are you busy? If not, let's find a place to have some afternoon tea." Rebecca wasn't busy at all. In the past, her deep-seated insecurity might have led her to shut herself off further, politely declining any connection to her old dance world and its people. But ever since she had opened that album of dance photos and videos on her phone, it felt as though a fissure had cracked open in her darkened sky. Suddenly, she yearned for light to pour in. She nodded, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Sounds good." Lauren led her to a cozy teahouse located in the center of the first floor, and she asked, "How are the others? What have they been up to?" She had distanced herself from that world so completely and for so long that she had withdrawn from every single group chat with her former peers. "Do you really want to know?" Lauren gave her a perceptive look, aware of her situation. The promising student who had been guaranteed a spot in graduate school suddenly gave it up. Naturally, questions had arisen, and Lauren had even made a special trip to Soliaridge to visit her once. Rebecca nodded emphatically, and Lauren proceeded to fill her in. Five years was indeed enough time to transform a person's life entirely. Her classmates had all moved forward in remarkable ways. Some had joined dance troupes and risen to become principal dancers. Others had pursued advanced studies abroad and now held doctoral degrees. A few had stayed on at the academy as instructors, nurturing the next generation of talent. Everyone had taken a big step forward in their respective paths. Only she had remained stagnant. But starting from today, she vowed to make a change. She would strive to catch up, even if she could no longer dance. She would find her place in other fields. "I-I'm ready to give you an update on my progress too," she said, her eyes feeling hot and prickly. She felt she owed Lauren more than just a promise. "That would be wonderful," Lauren replied with a smile as warm and encouraging as ever. Rebecca leaned in close to Lauren's ear and whispered about her plans to study abroad. "This is fantastic! I knew it! None of my students are quitters!" Lauren exclaimed, gripping her hand tightly in excitement. "And it couldn't be better timing. Our troupe has a European tour coming up. You should come along to get a sense of things and start adapting to life over there." "I..." Rebecca hesitated, not sure if her legs could handle the trip. She could no longer dance; even walking was a pain for her. And the graduate program she had applied for was in a theoretical field. "Nothing's impossible," Lauren encouraged her. "If that accident hadn't happened, you would have been a member of the youth dance troupe by now. You can join us in a support role—as a runner, stage manager, or even helping with makeup." Lauren spoke with such firm conviction, treating Rebecca not as a cripple but as someone fully capable. Rebecca couldn't help but smile; she loved this feeling of not being defined or pitied because of her disability. Even if she couldn't dance, she could still contribute in other ways. She wasn't just a useless invalid. Lauren's phone vibrated with an incoming message. After reading it, she looked up and said, "It's my husband. Would you mind if he joins us?" "Of course not," Rebecca replied with a smile, though she felt a bit timid about it. After five years of seclusion, she had grown unaccustomed to meeting new people, but she knew she had to start somewhere. This was her first step. "Then I'll have him come over," Lauren said, replying to the message. However, what Rebecca never could have anticipated was that Lauren's husband turned out to be the very same business contact Vance had met earlier. "Pascal is here on business, and I came along for a few days of leisure, not expecting to run into you. It's fate," Lauren explained. Rebecca noticed that Vance, Catherine, and Pascal were walking together toward the teahouse. When the trio finally arrived at their table, Rebecca remained seated, observing the fascinating shifts in color on Vance's and Catherine's faces. "Come take a seat. This is my wife, Lauren. She is a dance teacher," Pascal said warmly. "And this is the gentleman I'm collaborating with on this trip, Mr. Vance Bradford, along with his wife." Vance's hand trembled slightly, and Catherine fidgeted restlessly. They both stared at Rebecca with tense anxiety. Rebecca simply looked back at them, offering a faint, composed smile. Lauren also made introductions for Rebecca's benefit. "This is my husband, Pascal." Then, pointing to Rebecca, she added, "And this is one of my students—the one who had the greatest potential to win the National Dance Championship back in the day." Vance stiffened at the mention of the contest, and his gaze shifted downward, as if he were attempting to look at Rebecca's leg. Rebecca detected unmistakable pain in his eyes. Of course, he was in pain. If it hadn't been for her injury, he would never have married her. In that case, the woman by his side now could have rightfully been his wife. Rebecca chuckled, "Actually, I am..." "Ah!" Catherine let out a sharp yelp at just the right moment, interrupting Rebecca mid-sentence. Rebecca paused, looking over. Catherine had spilled the tea, the hot liquid splashing all over her hand and clothes. "I'm so sorry. How embarrassing. This is really rude of me," she stammered, hurriedly grabbing napkins to wipe it up. "It's alright," Lauren said, not understanding the underlying tension, and even helped by passing more tissues. The episode prevented Rebecca from revealing the truth. But if Rebecca had truly wanted to continue, no one could have stopped her. From across the table, Vance cast her a pleading glance, subtly shaking his head and mouthing, "Don't say it." Truth be told, she hadn't intended to say it in the first place. She had deliberately spoken only half the sentence, just to watch the two of them scramble in panic. Throughout this afternoon tea session, some sat as if on pins and needles, while others remained perfectly at ease. As Rebecca reached for her teacup, Lauren suddenly noticed something in her hand. "Is that a wedding ring? You're married? To whom?" The question landed like a bolt from the blue, causing Vance and Catherine to pale dramatically. Rebecca glanced at Vance's hand resting beside his teacup, a mocking smile curling at the corner of her lips. He had never once worn a wedding ring; the pair from their ceremony had been removed immediately after the wedding and left to gather dust somewhere unknown. "Yes, I've been married for five years now," she replied calmly. "My husband's last name is Bradford."

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📖✨ It's amazing! Click to read now! 👉💖

Ran 2 days · stopped 19 Aug

📖✨ It's amazing! Click to read now! 👉💖

"Ahhhhh, Catherine, you're so amazing..." Vance gently kissed the woman beneath him as he reached climax, completely oblivious to how Rebecca's flushed face had turned pale. Five years of marriage, and this was the first time Vance had ever touched her. Turned out it was only because he had drunkenly mistaken Rebecca for his first love. Tears slipped from the corner of Rebecca's eyes. She loved him, but she could no longer love him blindly. So she vanished without a trace. Nine months later, when she was giving birth in a small-town hospital, she got a call from her friend: "You know what? Your husband has gone crazy looking for you..." ** It was three in the morning. Rebecca Perry stood at the bathroom door and heard that Vance Bradford was pleasuring himself. The heavy breaths and muffled gr0ans struck her like hammers, pounding relentlessly at her chest. Bitterness surged through her like a tidal wave, leaving her gasping for air, drowning in agony. Today marked their fifth wedding anniversary, yet they had never consummated their marriage. So, this was why. He'd rather take care of himself than touch her. His breathing grew more frantic, and suddenly, in a moment of intense release, he gr0aned lowly, "Catherine..." That name delivered the final, crushing blow. Something inside her shattered into dust. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs and turned to flee, but in her haste, she stumbled, crashing into the sink and tumbling to the floor. "Rebecca, is that you?" Vance's voice, still ragged from exertion, carried a note of forced composure, though his breathing remained heavy. "I-I needed the bathroom. I didn't know you were showering," she stammered, desperately grabbing the sink to pull herself up. But in her panic, she made things worse. Water slicked the floor and countertop, making it impossible to find her footing. She finally managed to stand just as Vance emerged. His white bathrobe was hastily thrown on, the belt cinched tightly around his waist. "Did you fall? Let me help you," he said, reaching out to lift her. Tears brimmed in her eyes from the pain, but she pushed his hand away, stubborn and resolute. "No need. I can manage myself." She steadied herself but nearly slipped again. Limping awkwardly, she fled back to the bedroom—a hasty escape from the awkward scene. For five years, she had been hiding from the outside world, from the judgmental stares, and from Vance's sympathy. She was ashamed of her condition, though she used to have strong, beautiful legs before the accident. She always felt inferior. A cripple like her didn't deserve someone as accomplished and luminous as Vance Bradford. Vance followed her, his tone gentle and concerned. "Does it hurt? Let me check." "It's nothing." She burrowed under the covers, hiding her embarrassment along with her body. "Are you sure?" His worry seemed genuine. "Yeah." She nodded, showing her back to him. "Then get some sleep. Don't you want to use the bathroom anymore?" "Nope, let's just rest." "Alright. Oh, it's our anniversary today. I got you a gift. Open it tomorrow and see if you like it." "Okay." The gift sat on the nightstand; she had already spotted it. She didn't need to unwrap it to know what was inside. Every year, it was the same-sized box containing an identical watch. Her drawer already held nine of them, including birthday gifts. This would be the tenth. The conversation ended. Vance switched off the light and lay down. The air was filled with the damp, fresh scent of his shower gel, but she barely felt the mattress dip under his weight. The bed was giant, but they lay far apart, each on one edge. The space between them could fit three more people. As if by tacit understanding, neither of them mentioned Catherine Welch or what had transpired in the bathroom. Rebecca lay rigid on her back, her eyes stinging fiercely. Catherine was Vance's college classmate, his first love, and his goddess. After graduation, she had gone abroad, leading to their breakup and his depression. He had spiraled into despair, drinking heavily every day. Rebecca and Vance, however, were classmates in high school. She had harbored a secret crush on him back then. He was the campus heartthrob and an aloof, top student, while she spent most of her time in a dance studio far from the spotlight. She was pretty enough, but she was quiet, never one to stand at the center of things, and in a school full of confident, outspoken girls, she was easy to overlook. So, her feelings had remained her private secret; she never dreamed of approaching him. That changed after she graduated from the dance academy and returned home for summer break, encountering him in his broken state. He was heavily drunk that night, weaving erratically down the street. As he crossed the road without checking the lights, a car barreled toward him, unable to brake in time. She had been trailing him out of concern and shoved him aside—just in time for the car to strike her instead. At that time, she had secured a spot in graduate school, but the accident left her crippled. She could never dance again. Afterward, he quit drinking and married her. He remained forever indebted, forever grateful, soft-spoken and distant. He showered her with gifts and money, but never with love. She had believed time could heal everything and soften the edges of her pain. Yet after five years, he still clung to Catherine so deeply that even in his most private moments, it was her name he uttered. She had been fool and naïve. She lay awake all night, checking an email on her phone over a hundred times. It was an offer from a foreign university for graduate studies—the very thing she had planned to discuss with him that evening. But now, there was no need to consult him. Their five-year marriage, filled with countless sleepless nights, could finally begin its countdown. When he rose in the morning, she feigned sleep, overhearing him speak to the housekeeper, Nancy. "I have a business dinner tonight. Tell Rebecca not to wait up; she should rest early." After his instructions, he returned to the bedroom to check on her. She hid under the covers, her pillow soaked with tears. Normally, she would prepare his outfit for work, laying it out neatly. But not today. He dressed himself in the walk-in closet and left for the office. Only then did she open her eyes, feeling them swollen and sore. Her phone alarm buzzed—the daily reminder she had set for herself to study. Since the marriage, her leg had confined her to the house most of the time. To pass the endless hours, she divided her days into segments, filling each with small tasks. She silenced the alarm and mindlessly scrolled through apps. Her mind was a jumble, unable to focus on anything, until she saw a familiar face in a video. It was posted just the night before, and the account name was Cathy W. The algorithm was really uncanny, delivering this right before her eyes. Rebecca tapped on the video, and lively music played, followed by voices shouting, "Three, two, one! Welcome back, Catherine! Cheers!" One voice stood out—Vance's. Chapter 2 Vance had broken his no-drinking rule. He was obviously drunk, or else he wouldn't have shouted like that. In Rebecca's memories, Vance in high school was the aloof genius, always focused on his studies. Once, a girl who admired him had offered him water on the sports field, but he had ignored her. As her husband, he was polite and emotionally steady, never laughing heartily or showing anger. He was so calm, so detached that even brushing his fingers felt cool. The video panned across faces, capturing a flushed Vance. His eyes were sparkling as he raised his glass with a broad smile. "Welcome home, Cathy." So, he could laugh, be passionate, and use intimate nicknames. He just didn't do that to Rebecca. He never smiled at her, never showed passion, and never called her by her nickname. Nancy's voice came from outside, interrupting her thoughts. "Madam, are you up yet?" Rebecca's daily routine was predictable. When there was no response, Nancy worried she might need help, especially considering her leg injury. Rebecca set her phone aside, her voice hoarse. "Coming out soon." Nancy made sandwiches for breakfast, but Rebecca managed only one bite before losing her appetite. Nancy handed her a glass of milk. "Madam, what would you like for lunch and dinner?" "Anything, I guess," Rebecca started, then swallowed her usual response of making whatever Vance liked. But Nancy understood the implication. That was just the same daily conversation. "Mr. Bradford said he won't be home for dinner. He has a commitment." Rebecca nodded, having seen the list in that post. Catherine had scheduled a week's worth of dinners, listing who was treating and what she craved. [The most genuine friendships from the student days. I'm so lucky to have so many boys pampering me.] Normally, Rebecca's day involved two hours of French study and several more on art theory. Without something to occupy her, how could she endure the endless waiting for Vance to come home? She had waited before... The ache of it was unbearable. Now her plans were different. This offer was likely the university's final round of admissions; she needed to confirm quickly. Her first task was to pay the confirmation fee. When the bank notification popped up, she exhaled in relief. It was another step closer to leaving Vance. That evening, she changed her clothes and prepared to go out. Nancy asked wonderingly, "Madam, where are you going?" Without Vance, Rebecca hardly ever left the house. "Oh, a college friend is performing nearby and invited me to meet," she lied. In truth, she was heading to a hotel near the exam center. She'd have the French Proficiency test tomorrow, and it was scheduled for the morning. Rushing there risked traffic delays. Her previous attempt months ago hadn't met her target score, but with application deadlines looming, she had submitted anyway. Surprisingly admitted, she could now supplement her scores. That was thanks to the school allowing post-admission updates. "But..." Nancy hesitated, eyeing her leg. "Should I accompany you?" Rebecca kept her expression neutral. "No need. It's a girls' night; an extra person would be awkward." Nancy fretted over potential mishaps. "Then I'll let Mr. Bradford know." "No, let him focus on his evening. I'll call him after and have him pick me up." Rebecca grabbed her bag and left. Considering her mobility, Vance had chosen a spacious flat for their home. She took the elevator down and stepped outside. The sunlight made her instinctively lower her head, hunch her shoulders, and pull on a hat, raising her collar. Since her injury, the once-confident dancer who thrived on stage had vanished. Crippled, she had lost the courage to face the public eye. Nancy often advised outings only with Vance, and the man always suggested Rebecca stay at home. They didn't understand. Outings with Vance terrified her more. It was even worse than going out alone. Every glance screamed, "Why does such an outstanding man have a cripple as his wife?" Rebecca hailed a cab to the hotel. En route, gazing at the passing scenery, she spotted Vance's car parked on the roadside. "Could you stop here, please?" she said to the driver. His car was outside a restaurant, which reminded her of Catherine's post. Yesterday, one of his friends had hosted that gathering, and today it was his turn. On impulse, she got out and entered the restaurant. At the reception desk, she said, "I'm here to join Mr. Vance Bradford." She gave his phone number, and a waiter led her to the private room. "This is the one." "Thank you," she said, though she didn't really know why she had come. Earlier, impulse had driven her; now, at the door, her courage faltered. She didn't even dare to open it. Lively chatter emanated from inside. "I can't stay late or drink tonight. Got chewed out by my wife last night," said a guy. "Come on. You said friends come first, even over the king. Now you're henpecked? Guess Vance is the real man here," Catherine protested, her voice soft and coquettish. So, that was her personality. Vance liked that type. Too bad Rebecca was nothing like that, not even close. She couldn't even fake it. The guy whined, "Vance is different. Rebecca wouldn't dare to complain." "By the way," Catherine chimed in, looking at Vance, "I heard your wife is crippled? What happened?" There was no answer, but Rebecca felt a pang in her heart. The conversation continued inside. "Vance, we feel bad for you. With your money, looks, and success, you could have anyone. Why marry a cripple?" "Honestly, you're the best of us. Now with Rebecca, you can't bring her to meetings, events, or press—anywhere a wife should appear. What a loss!" So, that was why. Vance always kept her away from business affairs, telling her to just wait at home for him to bring back money. Her family praised him endlessly, saying she was blessed to live a life of luxury. But now she realized he couldn't bear to show her off in public. Inside the room, Vance laughed bitterly. "She saved my life. I owe her." "You've repaid her with all that money. Isn't that enough to settle it?" "Exactly! Should have just paid her off and moved on. Why sacrifice your happiness?" "Think it through, man. It's better to enshrine a statue and pray for wealth. What's the point of keeping her?" "What can she help you with? She can't attend events, and at home all she does is pour tea. Vance, do you seriously want this?" Laughter erupted, Catherine's peals among them. "Really, Vance? Is that how she walks?" Eavesdropping at the door, Rebecca felt blood rush to her head. Fury and humiliation knocked her off balance, causing her to push open the door. Everyone was laughing loudly as Vance's childhood friend, Aiden Hodge, dramatically limped while holding a glass of water, speaking in a falsetto voice. "Vance, have some water. Ah, I slipped. Vance, help me up." Rebecca stared at Vance, hoping that the man she loved more than anything would stand up for her. Chapter 3 The exaggerated performance fueled even more laughter. Catherine, seated beside Vance, collapsed onto his shoulder in hysterics. The man remained silent. Aiden turned, still grinning. "Vance, is it like..." His words died as he caught sight of Rebecca standing in the doorway. His smile faltered, and his tongue twisted. "R-Rebecca?" The others followed him to look over, all freezing. Catherine got up from Vance's shoulder, grinning. "Oh, this must be the legendary Mrs. Bradford. Come on in. I'm Catherine Welch, Vance's friend." Rebecca scanned the room, her blood running cold. Finally, Vance stood up and walked over to her. "Rebecca? What are you doing here? They were just joking. Don't take it to heart." She stared at him, feeling utterly alienated. For the first time, he seemed a stranger. In the face of mockery toward his wife, he sided with them. Aiden put down his glass, apologizing, "Y-Yeah, it was a joke. I'm sorry, Rebecca. Please don't be mad." Vance moved closer, attempting to embrace her. "Rebecca." But Rebecca recalled Catherine leaning on him earlier, his mas-tur-ba-tion in the bathroom, and the name he uttered in the climax. That hand, the one reaching for her now, felt utterly filthy. She quickly stepped back, avoiding him. "Rebecca?" Vance stared at his empty hand in confusion, then sighed. "I apologize on their behalf. Don't be upset, okay? I'll get a gift to make up for you. Anything you want." Catherine shot Aiden a playful glare. "This is your fault, Aiden. Apologize properly. Not everyone's like me, clumsy and thick-skinned, laughing off your jokes." Rebecca sneered at her cheeky speech, but these men didn't even sense the manipulation. Aiden grumbled, "I already did! Didn't know she'd show up. It was just a joke." "A joke is only funny if the target laughs," Rebecca retorted, her voice shaking with newfound courage. For five years, this curse of her unworthiness of Vance had confined her. Mocking glances made her shrink, retreating like a quail to lick her wounds alone. Aiden winced, "But I already apologized." "I-I don't accept it!" Rebecca trembled harder, defying mockery for the first time. Aiden mumbled, "Then what do you want?" Rebecca shook her head, having no answer. She just rejected their ridicule and Vance's alignment with them. "Enough, everyone." Vance intervened, positioning himself between her and Aiden. He was the leader of the group, his words carrying authority. After graduation, his business savvy had built their empire. The room fell silent, and he nodded, turning back to Rebecca. "Hey," he said evenly, his gaze as detached as ever, unlike the warmth in Catherine's video. "These are my longtime friends. They didn't mean to hurt your feelings. No malice, just banter. Forgive them this once. I'll have the driver take you home." "Rebecca," Catherine pouted, sidling up to Vance. "If you have to blame someone, blame me. This gathering is for my return. Vance, invite her to stay. I'll toast her with an apology." Her phony tone only disgusted Rebecca further and drove her to squint at Vance with resentment. It was his very indulgence that fed Catherine's boldness. "I'm fine," she said, holding back her bitterness. "I don't drink, especially not sour alc0-h0l." "Vance, is she insulting me? I..." Catherine wrinkled her nose, choking back her tears. "She misunderstood me, but it's fine. Don't blame her." Vance's jaw tightened. "Catherine meant well. Why are you being sarcastic?" "Meant well?" Rebecca snorted. Only a fool would think those words were spoken with good intentions, but Vance wasn't fool. He simply showed bias, siding with whom he favored rather than who was right. That side was always the one closest to his heart. Rebecca eyed the pair and their friends, feeling as though an insurmountable chasm lay between them. They formed a solid unit, while she was an intruder in their world. She was forever extraneous. Even lingering on the periphery felt out of place. She swallowed her bitterness, gave a cold laugh, and turned to leave. Behind her, Catherine's voice rang out. "Vance, she..." "It's fine. I'll talk to her when I get back," Vance said, waving it off. "Let's continue." Secretly, he glanced at the retreating figure, texting the driver to esc0rt her. Rebecca yearned to walk gracefully, but every step she took felt more unstable. Agitation only worsened her limp, her frantic exit mirroring Aiden's mockery. That would definitely make them laugh even harder. She wiped her tears with a trembling hand, hastening and wobbling more. The driver chased after her, but she was nowhere to be found outside the restaurant. The driver reported it to Vance, who frowned and called her. Rebecca rejected it and turned off her phone at the next one. Aiden was irked. "Her temper is just too short. You spoil her too much, man. With your status and looks, any wife would worship you. Yet she sulks? You're too soft." Vance stayed silent, but the others piled on. "Aiden is right. You sacrifice too much for her and the family, working tirelessly. She doesn't appreciate or support you. Throwing a tantrum over the smallest things. Worth it?" "Marrying her was charity. Who else wants a cripple? Without you, she'd wed another disabled person." Chapter 4 Catherine, reading the room, interjected timely, "Don't mind their harsh words, but as your long-time friends, we're truly concerned about you. We're blunt, but it's nothing personal. Don't take it to heart." "I'm not upset," Vance replied, pocketing his phone. "Doesn't matter. She won't stray far. Let's go on." In five years, home was her only refuge. He was not worried because she had nowhere else to go. Aiden eyed Catherine, muttering, "Catherine is the bigger person here. If you two hadn't split..." "Don't talk nonsense." Catherine glared. "Keep your mouth shut for one night. Vance is married now. That's inappropriate." Her gaze turned wistful toward Vance. "I don't want much. Just want to be accepted by you guys and stay by your side. That's enough." "Silly talk." Aiden thumped his chest loyally. "You're forever our princess, and we will never let anyone bully you. Vance, right?" Vance swirled his wine, the scene evocative of old times. He'd sit back, watching his crew banter with Catherine, not intervening unless things got out of hand. Now queried, he smiled faintly. "Of course." ... Rebecca didn't go home. Instead, she settled into her booked hotel. All the pent-up grievances and pain were unleashed the moment she closed the door behind her. Aiden's limp-mocking replayed endlessly in her mind, and their laughter haunted her like a curse. She had known all along their whispers behind her back, but she had never told Vance. She understood his work's toll, so she avoided conflicts, unwilling to add to his burdens or strain his bonds with his friends. Now, she saw her folly. He'd never clash with them over her; their friendship trumped everything. To him, she was nothing more than a debt—a burden that dragged him down. Without her, his life would be so much easier. "She is a cripple. Who else would want her?" "Yet she still expects so much from Vance?" "I'd rather be the crippled one than wed one and face ridicule." "Other CEOs flaunt elegant partners; Vance? He doesn't even have someone he can take out in public." ... The gossip and ridicule that Rebecca had heard over the past five years came rushing back like a tidal wave. She felt like she was being dragged under, drowning in it all. She couldn't breathe, the pain so intense it felt as if her chest and lungs were being torn apart. Trembling, she accessed a locked album on her phone—something untouched for five years. It contained photos and videos from her school days, documenting her dance practices and shows. Post-injury, she sealed these relics, set a password, and forced herself not to open it. Now her shaky finger tapped on a random video. The music played; she spun, flipped, and performed a mid-air split. She was vibrant, agile, and applauded thunderously. Was saving Vance wrong? But even then, marriage wasn't her aim. He insisted, orchestrating a grand proposal and kneeling before her with a huge diamond ring that sparked hope. She turned off her phone and collapsed in sobs. It was the first unbridled cry in five years. She wept until her tears ran out, but pain remained burning in her chest, licking at her from the inside like fire. But it was that very pain that brought her a moment of clarity in the suffocating whirlpool of emotions. The more it hurt, the more lucid she became. She rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face to calm down. The mirror reflected her dulled self, and she bit her lip. "Rebecca, one good cry is enough. No more. Now, eat well, rest well, and tomorrow, focus on your exam." The one thing she could be thankful for was that, during those long five years, she had spent her time studying to ki11 the boredom. Not because she had grand ambitions. She just had so much time and had nothing to do. Waiting for Vance to come home had been her whole life, but he always came home late. At first, she thought it was because of work. Later, she realized that he just didn't want to face her too soon. She had overheard it herself. Back then, she understood how hard he worked. She even gathered the courage to show concern for him, making him special meals and delivering them to his office, only to overhear the hard truth. He was talking with a friend who asked why he hadn't gone home yet. There was hardly anyone left in the office, and yet he, the CEO, was still working overtime. Vance had replied, "I don't know how to face my wife's enthusiasm." Simple-minded back then, Rebecca didn't understand the implication, but that friend did. He gasped, "No way! Don't tell me you haven't slept together yet." Vance fell silent because that was the truth. He never touched her, even though she had hinted or taken the initiative. Every time, he found excuses like her condition or his tiredness to reject her. She wasn't fool. Gradually, she realized he simply didn't love her, and that was why he didn't want to touch her. But hearing it from his mouth hurt her deeply, the pain almost suffocating. His friend, half-jokingly, half-seriously, asked him, "You don't mean to tell me you have no physical reaction at all, do you? Anyway, she's pretty." Vance's reply was the needle that pierced deep into her heart, and for the following years, it continually wounded her. Every time she thought about it, the pain would gnaw at her. "I've tried," Vance replied. "I wanted to have a normal married life with her, but every time I look at her leg, I lose all interest." So, that was how it was. Her leg, the one scarred and atrophied from saving him, in his eyes was disgusting, revolting. It was something that turned him off and ki11ed his desire. She never knocked on the office door that day. The meal she had prepared with such care was thrown into the trash can. From then on, she never set foot in his company again. Chapter 5 After that incident, Rebecca turned to books. She hadn't planned far ahead; she simply wanted to infuse her empty life with quiet pursuits. Keeping busy might dull the sting of those words. She never expected these small, personal distractions would, in the end, become her lifeline. She needed to ace tomorrow's exam. She had to leave this place, as far away as possible. The thought still brought intense pain to her heart. She couldn't distinguish if the ache stemmed from Vance or from her five wasted years. But it no longer mattered. What counted was refusing to wallow in the pain any longer. Even if it lingered for ages before fading, she was committed to saving herself. She ordered a light meal and a set of disposable clothes. Then she phoned the front desk for a morning wake-up call, and at last, she compelled herself to sleep. Perhaps due to the previous night's insomnia, she slept soundly. The next day, she woke up on time and turned on her phone. Messages poured in, the device vibrating incessantly, all from Vance. She skipped reading them, fearing they'd disrupt her focus on the exam. After breakfast, she left for the exam center, which was a mere five-minute walk away. As soon as she stepped out of the hotel, her phone buzzed with a call from Vance. In a panic, she nearly dropped it, swiftly rejecting the call before shutting it off again. Emerging from the exam hall, her heart pounded with exhilaration. She felt satisfied with her performance. The oral examiner smiled throughout their conversation. She understood most of what she heard, and the written parts felt steady and controlled. She dared not predict her score, but at least she had completed everything. She wasn't useless after all. Walking alone on the sidewalk, she kept her head down, mentally reviewing every detail of the exam until a pair of leather shoes appeared in her path. Expecting no deliberate block, she couldn't retract her step in time and bumped into the person. Without his steadying grip, she would have fallen. And that person was the last one she wanted to see. "Rebecca," Vance muttered, his voice strained. She remained silent, sensing his barely contained anger. He grasped her shoulders and softened his tone, asking in his usual gentle, warm manner, "Why didn't you come home?" He asked that question while knowing the answer, but it wasn't the time to argue with him. Her bag had just been knocked to the ground, the flap open, and her exam pen peeked out, which could give away her participation in the exam. She quickly wrenched free, squatted down, shoved the pen inside, and secured the bag. "What's that?" he asked, looking at her bag. "Nothing. Just a pen," she replied, trying to sound natural, though her fingers gripped the bag so tightly they blanched. "Let me see it," he said. She clutched it closer. "What do you need a pen for?" "Give me your phone," he demanded. After a brief standoff, she extracted it from the bag and handed it over. He glanced at the dead phone, then handed it back. "I called you so many times and sent countless messages. Why didn't you respond? Still angry?" She held the phone, relieved he hadn't delved into her emails or discovered the exam-related messages. If that was his only concern... She had no desire to argue with him or explain anything. She simply wanted to flee far away, and that urge intensified in his presence. Mistaking her silence for lingering resentment, he sighed, "You're usually so understanding. Why run off over this?" Rebecca swore she intended to stay calm, but his words would pr0v0ke even a saint. "Was it my fault? Was I being unreasonable?" she shot back. "Should I have joined in and complimented Aiden on his spot-on imitation?" Vance's face flushed with awkwardness. "That's not what I meant. You can't control what others say. There is no need to take their words to heart." "I can't control them, but you could!" she retorted, staring at him. "What were you doing? Laughing with Catherine pressed against you?" "Rebecca!" His expression darkened, revealing anger for the first time. She understood that Catherine was his sore spot. What more was there to say? She hugged her bag, trying to walk past him. His arm extended, wrapping around her waist and pulling her close. "I'm sorry for yelling at you," he murmured. "I just don't want you to misunderstand Catherine. She is a friend, just like the others. I only see her as a sister. She's unmarried, so speaking ill of her isn't fair." Rebecca couldn't grasp his reasoning. Hadn't they brought this on themselves? Catherine had leaned on him shamelessly, yet they feared commentary? She managed only a faint "Oh." "Rebecca..." he paused, detected her detachment. "Why still upset? You stayed at a hotel alone and didn't return home. I haven't even reproached you much, yet your anger persists?" That was his typical line. In his mind, it was her fault for everything. "Come on, let's drop it," he cooed. "Lunch first. Then I'll accompany you to the mall, alright?" Rebecca considered it. That was fine. She had something to tell him anyway. Vance led her to a nearby restaurant. As they entered, Rebecca instinctively lowered her head, raised her collar, and shuffled behind him to downplay her limp. It was a habit, though she soon relaxed. If she didn't measure up, so be it. She wasn't planning to match him anymore. Once seated, Vance placed the order, passing her the utensils, when the food arrived. "Dig in. These are all your favorites," he said, his voice as soft as ever. Rebecca eyed the spicy dishes and smiled bitterly. He had no idea she couldn't handle spice; home dinners were always spicy because he preferred them. "I'm not hungry," she said, not touching the food. "I have something to tell you." "What is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Wherever you want to go, I'll join you. I have the whole afternoon free. We can hang out, and then we'll go to your parents' house for dinner." She stared at his barely perceptible smile, her heart flooding with profound bitterness as she contemplated the words she was about to utter. Chapter 6 "Vance..." Rebecca choked back her tears, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay composed. "What's wrong?" Vance reached for her hand. "If you feel like crying, then cry. Don't hold back." His voice was truly so soft and gentle. It brought her back to the day years ago when she had come out of the operating room after the surgery. He and the nurse had wheeled her back to the ward, and he had stayed by her bedside, speaking to her in that same tender tone, as if his words could drip with compassion. "Does it hurt? Cry it out. Don't hold back." At that time, she had believed that such gentle care was the best medicine to ease her pain. Then it took her years to fully understand that a man's tenderness and concern could never truly evolve into love. "Vance, let's get a divorce," she said in a low voice, withdrawing her hand as the stinging pain gradually blurred her eyes with tears. He furrowed his brow, clearly not expecting her to say something like that. After a brief silence, he called over the waiter to bring a clean small dish, then picked up a piece of fish with his fork and carefully began removing the bones. At the same time, he spoke in a soft, soothing voice. "I know you're still angry, but mentioning divorce isn't a rational response. If we divorced, what would you do? How would you manage to live on your own?" Rebecca's breathing became rapid and uneven. For five years, in the eyes of everyone around her, she had been seen as nothing more than his appendage. If separated from him, she would become a pitiful, unwanted soul incapable of surviving independently. And now, it was clear that he thought the same way. "I can do it," she replied firmly. For the first time, she stood her ground with determination, eager to prove her strength and fight for her dignity. Yet he merely smiled, as if dismissing her words as nothing more than a momentary fit of pique. He placed the carefully deboned fish in front of her and said, "Eat up. I'll permit you to stay upset for a little while longer, but once the meal is over, you can't be angry anymore." "I'm not angry. I want a divorce," she insisted, unsure how to make him see that her request wasn't just an impulsive outburst born from frustration. "You see," he set down his fork, "today, I pushed back two meetings and a business discussion specifically to spend time with you and make you happy. Tomorrow and the day after, I might not have nearly as much availability. Let me repeat this. Catherine is a good friend to all of us. She's part of our crew. I treat her the same as I do Aiden and the others. She really likes you and has always wanted to become friends with you. With this attitude of yours, how am I supposed to introduce her to you properly?" "Then there's no need to introduce her at all," Rebecca replied, not believing for a second that Catherine truly wanted to be friends with her. Vance's voice sharpened. "Rebecca!" She had known that, whenever the topic involved Catherine, his patience wore thin, and his temper wasn't as controlled. "Eat up. Afterward, we'll go to the mall, buy whatever you like, and then head over to your parents' house for dinner. It's been quite a while since you've gone back to see them, hasn't it?" he said, adding more food to her plate. Unwilling to deprive herself, she picked up her fork and began eating what she could. Regardless of the situation, she needed to ensure she maintained her health first and foremost. There was no point in taking out her frustrations on her stomach. "That's the right approach," Vance said, his voice returning to its gentle tone. "But from now on, don't bring up that word again." She paused for a moment, then lowered her head and continued eating in silence. After finishing the meal, she had no desire to go shopping, but Vance insisted on it, driving them directly to the mall without further discussion. Over the course of their five-year marriage, the number of times Vance had accompanied her on a shopping trip could be counted on one hand. In fact, the occasions when they had appeared together in public at all were exceedingly rare. The mall's lighting was intensely bright, even during the daytime, creating a glaring atmosphere that she found uncomfortable. Clutching her purse, she walked cautiously in his shadow. The first floor was lined with counters displaying luxury bags, watches, and jewelry. "Anything you like?" he asked, turning around. She didn't want to buy anything at all. She just wanted to go home. But before she could respond, someone called out from a distance, "Mr. Bradford!" "It's a new business partner I've recently connected with. I'll go over and greet them quickly," Vance explained. "You can browse around on your own for a bit. I'll come find you shortly." Vance's clients were all people she didn't know. She watched as he walked over and shook hands with a gentleman not far away, then stood there awkwardly. Amid all this opulent luxury, there was nothing that caught her interest or that she wanted to purchase. Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a sales associate. "Miss, it's your turn." She turned around, realizing that she had inadvertently positioned herself in the queue at one of the luxury brand stores. "Oh, no, thank you," she said hastily, quickly stepping away from the line. She wandered through the mall until, at a certain high-end watch counter, she caught sight of a familiar figure—Catherine. As she looked at the brand of watches on display, something heavy seemed to sink deep within her chest, and without fully realizing it, she found herself walking toward the counter. Accompanying Catherine in browsing the watches was Aiden. As Rebecca approached closer, the conversation between the two became increasingly audible. "If you like it, just go ahead and buy it," Aiden said. Catherine hesitated. "But this doesn't seem right. Even though Vance gave me his supplementary card and told me to use it freely, I can't bring myself to buy something this pricey." Rebecca stopped in her tracks, unable to take another step. Her heart felt as heavy as her feet. "The supplementary card... Vance's supplementary card..." "Since he gave it to you, he obviously meant for you to use it. When has Vance ever been the type to say one thing but mean another?" Aiden reassured her. "We've been friends for so many years. You know his character better than anyone. If he gives something, it's with full sincerity." "I guess you're right." Catherine nodded, beginning to turn her wrist this way and that to show Aiden the watch from various angles. Rebecca saw it, too. "How does it look?" Catherine asked. "I really love this model. I've wanted it since college. Vance promised me he'd buy it for me upon graduation, but then..." A wave of mocking yet bitter amusement welled up in Rebecca's heart. But then, every year on her birthday and their wedding anniversary, Vance had given her watches of this same model. Originally, she had thought that even if Vance didn't put much heart into it, at least he remembered her important dates and their anniversaries. The gifts might have been repetitive and lacking in thoughtfulness, but they were at least valuable. Now she realized that he did care. It was just that none of it had ever been directed toward her. "Well, Vance is fulfilling that promise now, isn't he?" Aiden laughed. "You can buy whatever you want these days. He can afford it all." "Then I'll go ahead and charge it?" Catherine said, her excitement visibly growing by the second. Meanwhile, in another part of the mall, Vance had finished exchanging pleasantries with his business contact. The man, who was there to pick up his wife from shopping, learned that Vance was accompanying his wife as well and suggested they go over to say hello. As Vance walked in her direction, Rebecca quickly ducked out of sight, hiding behind a Roman column. Catherine spotted him and waved her hand enthusiastically. "Vance, over here!" Peering out from behind the column, Rebecca saw Vance and his business contact making their way toward Catherine. She immediately linked her arm through Vance's and began swaying it playfully. "I want to buy this watch. Is that okay?" "Sure," Vance replied, his gaze softening. The sparkle in his eyes brought his entire face to life, a stark contrast to the bland, emotionless demeanor he always wore at home when he was with Rebecca. "Thank you. I'm going to swipe the card now," Catherine chirped, waving the supplementary card. The business contact smiled warmly. "You guys have such a deep bond. It's so touching, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford." The pair blinked at the appellation, but neither of them attempted to correct the misunderstanding. Chapter 7 After a moment of awkwardness, Vance and Catherine quickly adjusted to the mistaken roles. They began chatting and laughing effortlessly with the business contact. Standing together, they looked like a well-matched couple. Rebecca watched silently, taking a photo with her phone. As she turned to leave, the sharp "needle" buried deep in her heart pricked her once more. A sharp, intricate pain that rapidly spread through her chest, even causing a sour ache at the tip of her nose. Just as she was about to exit the mall, a voice called out, "Rebecca?" She turned to see someone waving vigorously from the descending escalator. To her surprise, it was her instructor from the dance academy. "Mrs. Lemke?" she exclaimed, her heart lifting with joy. Lauren Lemke quickly descended the escalator and approached, taking hold of Rebecca's hands with evident joy. "It's really you, Rebecca! It's been five years since we last saw each other. How have you been?" A wave of sadness washed over her. Five years had passed, and she had lived like a useless invalid. Facing Lauren now, she felt embarrassed. Still holding Rebecca's hand, Lauren asked, "Are you busy? If not, let's find a place to have some afternoon tea." Rebecca wasn't busy at all. In the past, her deep-seated insecurity might have led her to shut herself off further, politely declining any connection to her old dance world and its people. But ever since she had opened that album of dance photos and videos on her phone, it felt as though a fissure had cracked open in her darkened sky. Suddenly, she yearned for light to pour in. She nodded, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Sounds good." Lauren led her to a cozy teahouse located in the center of the first floor, and she asked, "How are the others? What have they been up to?" She had distanced herself from that world so completely and for so long that she had withdrawn from every single group chat with her former peers. "Do you really want to know?" Lauren gave her a perceptive look, aware of her situation. The promising student who had been guaranteed a spot in graduate school suddenly gave it up. Naturally, questions had arisen, and Lauren had even made a special trip to Soliaridge to visit her once. Rebecca nodded emphatically, and Lauren proceeded to fill her in. Five years was indeed enough time to transform a person's life entirely. Her classmates had all moved forward in remarkable ways. Some had joined dance troupes and risen to become principal dancers. Others had pursued advanced studies abroad and now held doctoral degrees. A few had stayed on at the academy as instructors, nurturing the next generation of talent. Everyone had taken a big step forward in their respective paths. Only she had remained stagnant. But starting from today, she vowed to make a change. She would strive to catch up, even if she could no longer dance. She would find her place in other fields. "I-I'm ready to give you an update on my progress too," she said, her eyes feeling hot and prickly. She felt she owed Lauren more than just a promise. "That would be wonderful," Lauren replied with a smile as warm and encouraging as ever. Rebecca leaned in close to Lauren's ear and whispered about her plans to study abroad. "This is fantastic! I knew it! None of my students are quitters!" Lauren exclaimed, gripping her hand tightly in excitement. "And it couldn't be better timing. Our troupe has a European tour coming up. You should come along to get a sense of things and start adapting to life over there." "I..." Rebecca hesitated, not sure if her legs could handle the trip. She could no longer dance; even walking was a pain for her. And the graduate program she had applied for was in a theoretical field. "Nothing's impossible," Lauren encouraged her. "If that accident hadn't happened, you would have been a member of the youth dance troupe by now. You can join us in a support role—as a runner, stage manager, or even helping with makeup." Lauren spoke with such firm conviction, treating Rebecca not as a cripple but as someone fully capable. Rebecca couldn't help but smile; she loved this feeling of not being defined or pitied because of her disability. Even if she couldn't dance, she could still contribute in other ways. She wasn't just a useless invalid. Lauren's phone vibrated with an incoming message. After reading it, she looked up and said, "It's my husband. Would you mind if he joins us?" "Of course not," Rebecca replied with a smile, though she felt a bit timid about it. After five years of seclusion, she had grown unaccustomed to meeting new people, but she knew she had to start somewhere. This was her first step. "Then I'll have him come over," Lauren said, replying to the message. However, what Rebecca never could have anticipated was that Lauren's husband turned out to be the very same business contact Vance had met earlier. "Pascal is here on business, and I came along for a few days of leisure, not expecting to run into you. It's fate," Lauren explained. Rebecca noticed that Vance, Catherine, and Pascal were walking together toward the teahouse. When the trio finally arrived at their table, Rebecca remained seated, observing the fascinating shifts in color on Vance's and Catherine's faces. "Come take a seat. This is my wife, Lauren. She is a dance teacher," Pascal said warmly. "And this is the gentleman I'm collaborating with on this trip, Mr. Vance Bradford, along with his wife." Vance's hand trembled slightly, and Catherine fidgeted restlessly. They both stared at Rebecca with tense anxiety. Rebecca simply looked back at them, offering a faint, composed smile. Lauren also made introductions for Rebecca's benefit. "This is my husband, Pascal." Then, pointing to Rebecca, she added, "And this is one of my students—the one who had the greatest potential to win the National Dance Championship back in the day." Vance stiffened at the mention of the contest, and his gaze shifted downward, as if he were attempting to look at Rebecca's leg. Rebecca detected unmistakable pain in his eyes. Of course, he was in pain. If it hadn't been for her injury, he would never have married her. In that case, the woman by his side now could have rightfully been his wife. Rebecca chuckled, "Actually, I am..." "Ah!" Catherine let out a sharp yelp at just the right moment, interrupting Rebecca mid-sentence. Rebecca paused, looking over. Catherine had spilled the tea, the hot liquid splashing all over her hand and clothes. "I'm so sorry. How embarrassing. This is really rude of me," she stammered, hurriedly grabbing napkins to wipe it up. "It's alright," Lauren said, not understanding the underlying tension, and even helped by passing more tissues. The episode prevented Rebecca from revealing the truth. But if Rebecca had truly wanted to continue, no one could have stopped her. From across the table, Vance cast her a pleading glance, subtly shaking his head and mouthing, "Don't say it." Truth be told, she hadn't intended to say it in the first place. She had deliberately spoken only half the sentence, just to watch the two of them scramble in panic. Throughout this afternoon tea session, some sat as if on pins and needles, while others remained perfectly at ease. As Rebecca reached for her teacup, Lauren suddenly noticed something in her hand. "Is that a wedding ring? You're married? To whom?" The question landed like a bolt from the blue, causing Vance and Catherine to pale dramatically. Rebecca glanced at Vance's hand resting beside his teacup, a mocking smile curling at the corner of her lips. He had never once worn a wedding ring; the pair from their ceremony had been removed immediately after the wedding and left to gather dust somewhere unknown. "Yes, I've been married for five years now," she replied calmly. "My husband's last name is Bradford."

Night Story

📖✨ It's amazing! Click to read now! 👉💖

Ran 2 days · stopped 19 Aug

📖✨ It's amazing! Click to read now! 👉💖

"Ahhhhh, Catherine, you're so amazing..." Vance gently kissed the woman beneath him as he reached climax, completely oblivious to how Rebecca's flushed face had turned pale. Five years of marriage, and this was the first time Vance had ever touched her. Turned out it was only because he had drunkenly mistaken Rebecca for his first love. Tears slipped from the corner of Rebecca's eyes. She loved him, but she could no longer love him blindly. So she vanished without a trace. Nine months later, when she was giving birth in a small-town hospital, she got a call from her friend: "You know what? Your husband has gone crazy looking for you..." ** It was three in the morning. Rebecca Perry stood at the bathroom door and heard that Vance Bradford was pleasuring himself. The heavy breaths and muffled gr0ans struck her like hammers, pounding relentlessly at her chest. Bitterness surged through her like a tidal wave, leaving her gasping for air, drowning in agony. Today marked their fifth wedding anniversary, yet they had never consummated their marriage. So, this was why. He'd rather take care of himself than touch her. His breathing grew more frantic, and suddenly, in a moment of intense release, he gr0aned lowly, "Catherine..." That name delivered the final, crushing blow. Something inside her shattered into dust. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs and turned to flee, but in her haste, she stumbled, crashing into the sink and tumbling to the floor. "Rebecca, is that you?" Vance's voice, still ragged from exertion, carried a note of forced composure, though his breathing remained heavy. "I-I needed the bathroom. I didn't know you were showering," she stammered, desperately grabbing the sink to pull herself up. But in her panic, she made things worse. Water slicked the floor and countertop, making it impossible to find her footing. She finally managed to stand just as Vance emerged. His white bathrobe was hastily thrown on, the belt cinched tightly around his waist. "Did you fall? Let me help you," he said, reaching out to lift her. Tears brimmed in her eyes from the pain, but she pushed his hand away, stubborn and resolute. "No need. I can manage myself." She steadied herself but nearly slipped again. Limping awkwardly, she fled back to the bedroom—a hasty escape from the awkward scene. For five years, she had been hiding from the outside world, from the judgmental stares, and from Vance's sympathy. She was ashamed of her condition, though she used to have strong, beautiful legs before the accident. She always felt inferior. A cripple like her didn't deserve someone as accomplished and luminous as Vance Bradford. Vance followed her, his tone gentle and concerned. "Does it hurt? Let me check." "It's nothing." She burrowed under the covers, hiding her embarrassment along with her body. "Are you sure?" His worry seemed genuine. "Yeah." She nodded, showing her back to him. "Then get some sleep. Don't you want to use the bathroom anymore?" "Nope, let's just rest." "Alright. Oh, it's our anniversary today. I got you a gift. Open it tomorrow and see if you like it." "Okay." The gift sat on the nightstand; she had already spotted it. She didn't need to unwrap it to know what was inside. Every year, it was the same-sized box containing an identical watch. Her drawer already held nine of them, including birthday gifts. This would be the tenth. The conversation ended. Vance switched off the light and lay down. The air was filled with the damp, fresh scent of his shower gel, but she barely felt the mattress dip under his weight. The bed was giant, but they lay far apart, each on one edge. The space between them could fit three more people. As if by tacit understanding, neither of them mentioned Catherine Welch or what had transpired in the bathroom. Rebecca lay rigid on her back, her eyes stinging fiercely. Catherine was Vance's college classmate, his first love, and his goddess. After graduation, she had gone abroad, leading to their breakup and his depression. He had spiraled into despair, drinking heavily every day. Rebecca and Vance, however, were classmates in high school. She had harbored a secret crush on him back then. He was the campus heartthrob and an aloof, top student, while she spent most of her time in a dance studio far from the spotlight. She was pretty enough, but she was quiet, never one to stand at the center of things, and in a school full of confident, outspoken girls, she was easy to overlook. So, her feelings had remained her private secret; she never dreamed of approaching him. That changed after she graduated from the dance academy and returned home for summer break, encountering him in his broken state. He was heavily drunk that night, weaving erratically down the street. As he crossed the road without checking the lights, a car barreled toward him, unable to brake in time. She had been trailing him out of concern and shoved him aside—just in time for the car to strike her instead. At that time, she had secured a spot in graduate school, but the accident left her crippled. She could never dance again. Afterward, he quit drinking and married her. He remained forever indebted, forever grateful, soft-spoken and distant. He showered her with gifts and money, but never with love. She had believed time could heal everything and soften the edges of her pain. Yet after five years, he still clung to Catherine so deeply that even in his most private moments, it was her name he uttered. She had been fool and naïve. She lay awake all night, checking an email on her phone over a hundred times. It was an offer from a foreign university for graduate studies—the very thing she had planned to discuss with him that evening. But now, there was no need to consult him. Their five-year marriage, filled with countless sleepless nights, could finally begin its countdown. When he rose in the morning, she feigned sleep, overhearing him speak to the housekeeper, Nancy. "I have a business dinner tonight. Tell Rebecca not to wait up; she should rest early." After his instructions, he returned to the bedroom to check on her. She hid under the covers, her pillow soaked with tears. Normally, she would prepare his outfit for work, laying it out neatly. But not today. He dressed himself in the walk-in closet and left for the office. Only then did she open her eyes, feeling them swollen and sore. Her phone alarm buzzed—the daily reminder she had set for herself to study. Since the marriage, her leg had confined her to the house most of the time. To pass the endless hours, she divided her days into segments, filling each with small tasks. She silenced the alarm and mindlessly scrolled through apps. Her mind was a jumble, unable to focus on anything, until she saw a familiar face in a video. It was posted just the night before, and the account name was Cathy W. The algorithm was really uncanny, delivering this right before her eyes. Rebecca tapped on the video, and lively music played, followed by voices shouting, "Three, two, one! Welcome back, Catherine! Cheers!" One voice stood out—Vance's. Chapter 2 Vance had broken his no-drinking rule. He was obviously drunk, or else he wouldn't have shouted like that. In Rebecca's memories, Vance in high school was the aloof genius, always focused on his studies. Once, a girl who admired him had offered him water on the sports field, but he had ignored her. As her husband, he was polite and emotionally steady, never laughing heartily or showing anger. He was so calm, so detached that even brushing his fingers felt cool. The video panned across faces, capturing a flushed Vance. His eyes were sparkling as he raised his glass with a broad smile. "Welcome home, Cathy." So, he could laugh, be passionate, and use intimate nicknames. He just didn't do that to Rebecca. He never smiled at her, never showed passion, and never called her by her nickname. Nancy's voice came from outside, interrupting her thoughts. "Madam, are you up yet?" Rebecca's daily routine was predictable. When there was no response, Nancy worried she might need help, especially considering her leg injury. Rebecca set her phone aside, her voice hoarse. "Coming out soon." Nancy made sandwiches for breakfast, but Rebecca managed only one bite before losing her appetite. Nancy handed her a glass of milk. "Madam, what would you like for lunch and dinner?" "Anything, I guess," Rebecca started, then swallowed her usual response of making whatever Vance liked. But Nancy understood the implication. That was just the same daily conversation. "Mr. Bradford said he won't be home for dinner. He has a commitment." Rebecca nodded, having seen the list in that post. Catherine had scheduled a week's worth of dinners, listing who was treating and what she craved. [The most genuine friendships from the student days. I'm so lucky to have so many boys pampering me.] Normally, Rebecca's day involved two hours of French study and several more on art theory. Without something to occupy her, how could she endure the endless waiting for Vance to come home? She had waited before... The ache of it was unbearable. Now her plans were different. This offer was likely the university's final round of admissions; she needed to confirm quickly. Her first task was to pay the confirmation fee. When the bank notification popped up, she exhaled in relief. It was another step closer to leaving Vance. That evening, she changed her clothes and prepared to go out. Nancy asked wonderingly, "Madam, where are you going?" Without Vance, Rebecca hardly ever left the house. "Oh, a college friend is performing nearby and invited me to meet," she lied. In truth, she was heading to a hotel near the exam center. She'd have the French Proficiency test tomorrow, and it was scheduled for the morning. Rushing there risked traffic delays. Her previous attempt months ago hadn't met her target score, but with application deadlines looming, she had submitted anyway. Surprisingly admitted, she could now supplement her scores. That was thanks to the school allowing post-admission updates. "But..." Nancy hesitated, eyeing her leg. "Should I accompany you?" Rebecca kept her expression neutral. "No need. It's a girls' night; an extra person would be awkward." Nancy fretted over potential mishaps. "Then I'll let Mr. Bradford know." "No, let him focus on his evening. I'll call him after and have him pick me up." Rebecca grabbed her bag and left. Considering her mobility, Vance had chosen a spacious flat for their home. She took the elevator down and stepped outside. The sunlight made her instinctively lower her head, hunch her shoulders, and pull on a hat, raising her collar. Since her injury, the once-confident dancer who thrived on stage had vanished. Crippled, she had lost the courage to face the public eye. Nancy often advised outings only with Vance, and the man always suggested Rebecca stay at home. They didn't understand. Outings with Vance terrified her more. It was even worse than going out alone. Every glance screamed, "Why does such an outstanding man have a cripple as his wife?" Rebecca hailed a cab to the hotel. En route, gazing at the passing scenery, she spotted Vance's car parked on the roadside. "Could you stop here, please?" she said to the driver. His car was outside a restaurant, which reminded her of Catherine's post. Yesterday, one of his friends had hosted that gathering, and today it was his turn. On impulse, she got out and entered the restaurant. At the reception desk, she said, "I'm here to join Mr. Vance Bradford." She gave his phone number, and a waiter led her to the private room. "This is the one." "Thank you," she said, though she didn't really know why she had come. Earlier, impulse had driven her; now, at the door, her courage faltered. She didn't even dare to open it. Lively chatter emanated from inside. "I can't stay late or drink tonight. Got chewed out by my wife last night," said a guy. "Come on. You said friends come first, even over the king. Now you're henpecked? Guess Vance is the real man here," Catherine protested, her voice soft and coquettish. So, that was her personality. Vance liked that type. Too bad Rebecca was nothing like that, not even close. She couldn't even fake it. The guy whined, "Vance is different. Rebecca wouldn't dare to complain." "By the way," Catherine chimed in, looking at Vance, "I heard your wife is crippled? What happened?" There was no answer, but Rebecca felt a pang in her heart. The conversation continued inside. "Vance, we feel bad for you. With your money, looks, and success, you could have anyone. Why marry a cripple?" "Honestly, you're the best of us. Now with Rebecca, you can't bring her to meetings, events, or press—anywhere a wife should appear. What a loss!" So, that was why. Vance always kept her away from business affairs, telling her to just wait at home for him to bring back money. Her family praised him endlessly, saying she was blessed to live a life of luxury. But now she realized he couldn't bear to show her off in public. Inside the room, Vance laughed bitterly. "She saved my life. I owe her." "You've repaid her with all that money. Isn't that enough to settle it?" "Exactly! Should have just paid her off and moved on. Why sacrifice your happiness?" "Think it through, man. It's better to enshrine a statue and pray for wealth. What's the point of keeping her?" "What can she help you with? She can't attend events, and at home all she does is pour tea. Vance, do you seriously want this?" Laughter erupted, Catherine's peals among them. "Really, Vance? Is that how she walks?" Eavesdropping at the door, Rebecca felt blood rush to her head. Fury and humiliation knocked her off balance, causing her to push open the door. Everyone was laughing loudly as Vance's childhood friend, Aiden Hodge, dramatically limped while holding a glass of water, speaking in a falsetto voice. "Vance, have some water. Ah, I slipped. Vance, help me up." Rebecca stared at Vance, hoping that the man she loved more than anything would stand up for her. Chapter 3 The exaggerated performance fueled even more laughter. Catherine, seated beside Vance, collapsed onto his shoulder in hysterics. The man remained silent. Aiden turned, still grinning. "Vance, is it like..." His words died as he caught sight of Rebecca standing in the doorway. His smile faltered, and his tongue twisted. "R-Rebecca?" The others followed him to look over, all freezing. Catherine got up from Vance's shoulder, grinning. "Oh, this must be the legendary Mrs. Bradford. Come on in. I'm Catherine Welch, Vance's friend." Rebecca scanned the room, her blood running cold. Finally, Vance stood up and walked over to her. "Rebecca? What are you doing here? They were just joking. Don't take it to heart." She stared at him, feeling utterly alienated. For the first time, he seemed a stranger. In the face of mockery toward his wife, he sided with them. Aiden put down his glass, apologizing, "Y-Yeah, it was a joke. I'm sorry, Rebecca. Please don't be mad." Vance moved closer, attempting to embrace her. "Rebecca." But Rebecca recalled Catherine leaning on him earlier, his mas-tur-ba-tion in the bathroom, and the name he uttered in the climax. That hand, the one reaching for her now, felt utterly filthy. She quickly stepped back, avoiding him. "Rebecca?" Vance stared at his empty hand in confusion, then sighed. "I apologize on their behalf. Don't be upset, okay? I'll get a gift to make up for you. Anything you want." Catherine shot Aiden a playful glare. "This is your fault, Aiden. Apologize properly. Not everyone's like me, clumsy and thick-skinned, laughing off your jokes." Rebecca sneered at her cheeky speech, but these men didn't even sense the manipulation. Aiden grumbled, "I already did! Didn't know she'd show up. It was just a joke." "A joke is only funny if the target laughs," Rebecca retorted, her voice shaking with newfound courage. For five years, this curse of her unworthiness of Vance had confined her. Mocking glances made her shrink, retreating like a quail to lick her wounds alone. Aiden winced, "But I already apologized." "I-I don't accept it!" Rebecca trembled harder, defying mockery for the first time. Aiden mumbled, "Then what do you want?" Rebecca shook her head, having no answer. She just rejected their ridicule and Vance's alignment with them. "Enough, everyone." Vance intervened, positioning himself between her and Aiden. He was the leader of the group, his words carrying authority. After graduation, his business savvy had built their empire. The room fell silent, and he nodded, turning back to Rebecca. "Hey," he said evenly, his gaze as detached as ever, unlike the warmth in Catherine's video. "These are my longtime friends. They didn't mean to hurt your feelings. No malice, just banter. Forgive them this once. I'll have the driver take you home." "Rebecca," Catherine pouted, sidling up to Vance. "If you have to blame someone, blame me. This gathering is for my return. Vance, invite her to stay. I'll toast her with an apology." Her phony tone only disgusted Rebecca further and drove her to squint at Vance with resentment. It was his very indulgence that fed Catherine's boldness. "I'm fine," she said, holding back her bitterness. "I don't drink, especially not sour alc0-h0l." "Vance, is she insulting me? I..." Catherine wrinkled her nose, choking back her tears. "She misunderstood me, but it's fine. Don't blame her." Vance's jaw tightened. "Catherine meant well. Why are you being sarcastic?" "Meant well?" Rebecca snorted. Only a fool would think those words were spoken with good intentions, but Vance wasn't fool. He simply showed bias, siding with whom he favored rather than who was right. That side was always the one closest to his heart. Rebecca eyed the pair and their friends, feeling as though an insurmountable chasm lay between them. They formed a solid unit, while she was an intruder in their world. She was forever extraneous. Even lingering on the periphery felt out of place. She swallowed her bitterness, gave a cold laugh, and turned to leave. Behind her, Catherine's voice rang out. "Vance, she..." "It's fine. I'll talk to her when I get back," Vance said, waving it off. "Let's continue." Secretly, he glanced at the retreating figure, texting the driver to esc0rt her. Rebecca yearned to walk gracefully, but every step she took felt more unstable. Agitation only worsened her limp, her frantic exit mirroring Aiden's mockery. That would definitely make them laugh even harder. She wiped her tears with a trembling hand, hastening and wobbling more. The driver chased after her, but she was nowhere to be found outside the restaurant. The driver reported it to Vance, who frowned and called her. Rebecca rejected it and turned off her phone at the next one. Aiden was irked. "Her temper is just too short. You spoil her too much, man. With your status and looks, any wife would worship you. Yet she sulks? You're too soft." Vance stayed silent, but the others piled on. "Aiden is right. You sacrifice too much for her and the family, working tirelessly. She doesn't appreciate or support you. Throwing a tantrum over the smallest things. Worth it?" "Marrying her was charity. Who else wants a cripple? Without you, she'd wed another disabled person." Chapter 4 Catherine, reading the room, interjected timely, "Don't mind their harsh words, but as your long-time friends, we're truly concerned about you. We're blunt, but it's nothing personal. Don't take it to heart." "I'm not upset," Vance replied, pocketing his phone. "Doesn't matter. She won't stray far. Let's go on." In five years, home was her only refuge. He was not worried because she had nowhere else to go. Aiden eyed Catherine, muttering, "Catherine is the bigger person here. If you two hadn't split..." "Don't talk nonsense." Catherine glared. "Keep your mouth shut for one night. Vance is married now. That's inappropriate." Her gaze turned wistful toward Vance. "I don't want much. Just want to be accepted by you guys and stay by your side. That's enough." "Silly talk." Aiden thumped his chest loyally. "You're forever our princess, and we will never let anyone bully you. Vance, right?" Vance swirled his wine, the scene evocative of old times. He'd sit back, watching his crew banter with Catherine, not intervening unless things got out of hand. Now queried, he smiled faintly. "Of course." ... Rebecca didn't go home. Instead, she settled into her booked hotel. All the pent-up grievances and pain were unleashed the moment she closed the door behind her. Aiden's limp-mocking replayed endlessly in her mind, and their laughter haunted her like a curse. She had known all along their whispers behind her back, but she had never told Vance. She understood his work's toll, so she avoided conflicts, unwilling to add to his burdens or strain his bonds with his friends. Now, she saw her folly. He'd never clash with them over her; their friendship trumped everything. To him, she was nothing more than a debt—a burden that dragged him down. Without her, his life would be so much easier. "She is a cripple. Who else would want her?" "Yet she still expects so much from Vance?" "I'd rather be the crippled one than wed one and face ridicule." "Other CEOs flaunt elegant partners; Vance? He doesn't even have someone he can take out in public." ... The gossip and ridicule that Rebecca had heard over the past five years came rushing back like a tidal wave. She felt like she was being dragged under, drowning in it all. She couldn't breathe, the pain so intense it felt as if her chest and lungs were being torn apart. Trembling, she accessed a locked album on her phone—something untouched for five years. It contained photos and videos from her school days, documenting her dance practices and shows. Post-injury, she sealed these relics, set a password, and forced herself not to open it. Now her shaky finger tapped on a random video. The music played; she spun, flipped, and performed a mid-air split. She was vibrant, agile, and applauded thunderously. Was saving Vance wrong? But even then, marriage wasn't her aim. He insisted, orchestrating a grand proposal and kneeling before her with a huge diamond ring that sparked hope. She turned off her phone and collapsed in sobs. It was the first unbridled cry in five years. She wept until her tears ran out, but pain remained burning in her chest, licking at her from the inside like fire. But it was that very pain that brought her a moment of clarity in the suffocating whirlpool of emotions. The more it hurt, the more lucid she became. She rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face to calm down. The mirror reflected her dulled self, and she bit her lip. "Rebecca, one good cry is enough. No more. Now, eat well, rest well, and tomorrow, focus on your exam." The one thing she could be thankful for was that, during those long five years, she had spent her time studying to ki11 the boredom. Not because she had grand ambitions. She just had so much time and had nothing to do. Waiting for Vance to come home had been her whole life, but he always came home late. At first, she thought it was because of work. Later, she realized that he just didn't want to face her too soon. She had overheard it herself. Back then, she understood how hard he worked. She even gathered the courage to show concern for him, making him special meals and delivering them to his office, only to overhear the hard truth. He was talking with a friend who asked why he hadn't gone home yet. There was hardly anyone left in the office, and yet he, the CEO, was still working overtime. Vance had replied, "I don't know how to face my wife's enthusiasm." Simple-minded back then, Rebecca didn't understand the implication, but that friend did. He gasped, "No way! Don't tell me you haven't slept together yet." Vance fell silent because that was the truth. He never touched her, even though she had hinted or taken the initiative. Every time, he found excuses like her condition or his tiredness to reject her. She wasn't fool. Gradually, she realized he simply didn't love her, and that was why he didn't want to touch her. But hearing it from his mouth hurt her deeply, the pain almost suffocating. His friend, half-jokingly, half-seriously, asked him, "You don't mean to tell me you have no physical reaction at all, do you? Anyway, she's pretty." Vance's reply was the needle that pierced deep into her heart, and for the following years, it continually wounded her. Every time she thought about it, the pain would gnaw at her. "I've tried," Vance replied. "I wanted to have a normal married life with her, but every time I look at her leg, I lose all interest." So, that was how it was. Her leg, the one scarred and atrophied from saving him, in his eyes was disgusting, revolting. It was something that turned him off and ki11ed his desire. She never knocked on the office door that day. The meal she had prepared with such care was thrown into the trash can. From then on, she never set foot in his company again. Chapter 5 After that incident, Rebecca turned to books. She hadn't planned far ahead; she simply wanted to infuse her empty life with quiet pursuits. Keeping busy might dull the sting of those words. She never expected these small, personal distractions would, in the end, become her lifeline. She needed to ace tomorrow's exam. She had to leave this place, as far away as possible. The thought still brought intense pain to her heart. She couldn't distinguish if the ache stemmed from Vance or from her five wasted years. But it no longer mattered. What counted was refusing to wallow in the pain any longer. Even if it lingered for ages before fading, she was committed to saving herself. She ordered a light meal and a set of disposable clothes. Then she phoned the front desk for a morning wake-up call, and at last, she compelled herself to sleep. Perhaps due to the previous night's insomnia, she slept soundly. The next day, she woke up on time and turned on her phone. Messages poured in, the device vibrating incessantly, all from Vance. She skipped reading them, fearing they'd disrupt her focus on the exam. After breakfast, she left for the exam center, which was a mere five-minute walk away. As soon as she stepped out of the hotel, her phone buzzed with a call from Vance. In a panic, she nearly dropped it, swiftly rejecting the call before shutting it off again. Emerging from the exam hall, her heart pounded with exhilaration. She felt satisfied with her performance. The oral examiner smiled throughout their conversation. She understood most of what she heard, and the written parts felt steady and controlled. She dared not predict her score, but at least she had completed everything. She wasn't useless after all. Walking alone on the sidewalk, she kept her head down, mentally reviewing every detail of the exam until a pair of leather shoes appeared in her path. Expecting no deliberate block, she couldn't retract her step in time and bumped into the person. Without his steadying grip, she would have fallen. And that person was the last one she wanted to see. "Rebecca," Vance muttered, his voice strained. She remained silent, sensing his barely contained anger. He grasped her shoulders and softened his tone, asking in his usual gentle, warm manner, "Why didn't you come home?" He asked that question while knowing the answer, but it wasn't the time to argue with him. Her bag had just been knocked to the ground, the flap open, and her exam pen peeked out, which could give away her participation in the exam. She quickly wrenched free, squatted down, shoved the pen inside, and secured the bag. "What's that?" he asked, looking at her bag. "Nothing. Just a pen," she replied, trying to sound natural, though her fingers gripped the bag so tightly they blanched. "Let me see it," he said. She clutched it closer. "What do you need a pen for?" "Give me your phone," he demanded. After a brief standoff, she extracted it from the bag and handed it over. He glanced at the dead phone, then handed it back. "I called you so many times and sent countless messages. Why didn't you respond? Still angry?" She held the phone, relieved he hadn't delved into her emails or discovered the exam-related messages. If that was his only concern... She had no desire to argue with him or explain anything. She simply wanted to flee far away, and that urge intensified in his presence. Mistaking her silence for lingering resentment, he sighed, "You're usually so understanding. Why run off over this?" Rebecca swore she intended to stay calm, but his words would pr0v0ke even a saint. "Was it my fault? Was I being unreasonable?" she shot back. "Should I have joined in and complimented Aiden on his spot-on imitation?" Vance's face flushed with awkwardness. "That's not what I meant. You can't control what others say. There is no need to take their words to heart." "I can't control them, but you could!" she retorted, staring at him. "What were you doing? Laughing with Catherine pressed against you?" "Rebecca!" His expression darkened, revealing anger for the first time. She understood that Catherine was his sore spot. What more was there to say? She hugged her bag, trying to walk past him. His arm extended, wrapping around her waist and pulling her close. "I'm sorry for yelling at you," he murmured. "I just don't want you to misunderstand Catherine. She is a friend, just like the others. I only see her as a sister. She's unmarried, so speaking ill of her isn't fair." Rebecca couldn't grasp his reasoning. Hadn't they brought this on themselves? Catherine had leaned on him shamelessly, yet they feared commentary? She managed only a faint "Oh." "Rebecca..." he paused, detected her detachment. "Why still upset? You stayed at a hotel alone and didn't return home. I haven't even reproached you much, yet your anger persists?" That was his typical line. In his mind, it was her fault for everything. "Come on, let's drop it," he cooed. "Lunch first. Then I'll accompany you to the mall, alright?" Rebecca considered it. That was fine. She had something to tell him anyway. Vance led her to a nearby restaurant. As they entered, Rebecca instinctively lowered her head, raised her collar, and shuffled behind him to downplay her limp. It was a habit, though she soon relaxed. If she didn't measure up, so be it. She wasn't planning to match him anymore. Once seated, Vance placed the order, passing her the utensils, when the food arrived. "Dig in. These are all your favorites," he said, his voice as soft as ever. Rebecca eyed the spicy dishes and smiled bitterly. He had no idea she couldn't handle spice; home dinners were always spicy because he preferred them. "I'm not hungry," she said, not touching the food. "I have something to tell you." "What is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Wherever you want to go, I'll join you. I have the whole afternoon free. We can hang out, and then we'll go to your parents' house for dinner." She stared at his barely perceptible smile, her heart flooding with profound bitterness as she contemplated the words she was about to utter. Chapter 6 "Vance..." Rebecca choked back her tears, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay composed. "What's wrong?" Vance reached for her hand. "If you feel like crying, then cry. Don't hold back." His voice was truly so soft and gentle. It brought her back to the day years ago when she had come out of the operating room after the surgery. He and the nurse had wheeled her back to the ward, and he had stayed by her bedside, speaking to her in that same tender tone, as if his words could drip with compassion. "Does it hurt? Cry it out. Don't hold back." At that time, she had believed that such gentle care was the best medicine to ease her pain. Then it took her years to fully understand that a man's tenderness and concern could never truly evolve into love. "Vance, let's get a divorce," she said in a low voice, withdrawing her hand as the stinging pain gradually blurred her eyes with tears. He furrowed his brow, clearly not expecting her to say something like that. After a brief silence, he called over the waiter to bring a clean small dish, then picked up a piece of fish with his fork and carefully began removing the bones. At the same time, he spoke in a soft, soothing voice. "I know you're still angry, but mentioning divorce isn't a rational response. If we divorced, what would you do? How would you manage to live on your own?" Rebecca's breathing became rapid and uneven. For five years, in the eyes of everyone around her, she had been seen as nothing more than his appendage. If separated from him, she would become a pitiful, unwanted soul incapable of surviving independently. And now, it was clear that he thought the same way. "I can do it," she replied firmly. For the first time, she stood her ground with determination, eager to prove her strength and fight for her dignity. Yet he merely smiled, as if dismissing her words as nothing more than a momentary fit of pique. He placed the carefully deboned fish in front of her and said, "Eat up. I'll permit you to stay upset for a little while longer, but once the meal is over, you can't be angry anymore." "I'm not angry. I want a divorce," she insisted, unsure how to make him see that her request wasn't just an impulsive outburst born from frustration. "You see," he set down his fork, "today, I pushed back two meetings and a business discussion specifically to spend time with you and make you happy. Tomorrow and the day after, I might not have nearly as much availability. Let me repeat this. Catherine is a good friend to all of us. She's part of our crew. I treat her the same as I do Aiden and the others. She really likes you and has always wanted to become friends with you. With this attitude of yours, how am I supposed to introduce her to you properly?" "Then there's no need to introduce her at all," Rebecca replied, not believing for a second that Catherine truly wanted to be friends with her. Vance's voice sharpened. "Rebecca!" She had known that, whenever the topic involved Catherine, his patience wore thin, and his temper wasn't as controlled. "Eat up. Afterward, we'll go to the mall, buy whatever you like, and then head over to your parents' house for dinner. It's been quite a while since you've gone back to see them, hasn't it?" he said, adding more food to her plate. Unwilling to deprive herself, she picked up her fork and began eating what she could. Regardless of the situation, she needed to ensure she maintained her health first and foremost. There was no point in taking out her frustrations on her stomach. "That's the right approach," Vance said, his voice returning to its gentle tone. "But from now on, don't bring up that word again." She paused for a moment, then lowered her head and continued eating in silence. After finishing the meal, she had no desire to go shopping, but Vance insisted on it, driving them directly to the mall without further discussion. Over the course of their five-year marriage, the number of times Vance had accompanied her on a shopping trip could be counted on one hand. In fact, the occasions when they had appeared together in public at all were exceedingly rare. The mall's lighting was intensely bright, even during the daytime, creating a glaring atmosphere that she found uncomfortable. Clutching her purse, she walked cautiously in his shadow. The first floor was lined with counters displaying luxury bags, watches, and jewelry. "Anything you like?" he asked, turning around. She didn't want to buy anything at all. She just wanted to go home. But before she could respond, someone called out from a distance, "Mr. Bradford!" "It's a new business partner I've recently connected with. I'll go over and greet them quickly," Vance explained. "You can browse around on your own for a bit. I'll come find you shortly." Vance's clients were all people she didn't know. She watched as he walked over and shook hands with a gentleman not far away, then stood there awkwardly. Amid all this opulent luxury, there was nothing that caught her interest or that she wanted to purchase. Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a sales associate. "Miss, it's your turn." She turned around, realizing that she had inadvertently positioned herself in the queue at one of the luxury brand stores. "Oh, no, thank you," she said hastily, quickly stepping away from the line. She wandered through the mall until, at a certain high-end watch counter, she caught sight of a familiar figure—Catherine. As she looked at the brand of watches on display, something heavy seemed to sink deep within her chest, and without fully realizing it, she found herself walking toward the counter. Accompanying Catherine in browsing the watches was Aiden. As Rebecca approached closer, the conversation between the two became increasingly audible. "If you like it, just go ahead and buy it," Aiden said. Catherine hesitated. "But this doesn't seem right. Even though Vance gave me his supplementary card and told me to use it freely, I can't bring myself to buy something this pricey." Rebecca stopped in her tracks, unable to take another step. Her heart felt as heavy as her feet. "The supplementary card... Vance's supplementary card..." "Since he gave it to you, he obviously meant for you to use it. When has Vance ever been the type to say one thing but mean another?" Aiden reassured her. "We've been friends for so many years. You know his character better than anyone. If he gives something, it's with full sincerity." "I guess you're right." Catherine nodded, beginning to turn her wrist this way and that to show Aiden the watch from various angles. Rebecca saw it, too. "How does it look?" Catherine asked. "I really love this model. I've wanted it since college. Vance promised me he'd buy it for me upon graduation, but then..." A wave of mocking yet bitter amusement welled up in Rebecca's heart. But then, every year on her birthday and their wedding anniversary, Vance had given her watches of this same model. Originally, she had thought that even if Vance didn't put much heart into it, at least he remembered her important dates and their anniversaries. The gifts might have been repetitive and lacking in thoughtfulness, but they were at least valuable. Now she realized that he did care. It was just that none of it had ever been directed toward her. "Well, Vance is fulfilling that promise now, isn't he?" Aiden laughed. "You can buy whatever you want these days. He can afford it all." "Then I'll go ahead and charge it?" Catherine said, her excitement visibly growing by the second. Meanwhile, in another part of the mall, Vance had finished exchanging pleasantries with his business contact. The man, who was there to pick up his wife from shopping, learned that Vance was accompanying his wife as well and suggested they go over to say hello. As Vance walked in her direction, Rebecca quickly ducked out of sight, hiding behind a Roman column. Catherine spotted him and waved her hand enthusiastically. "Vance, over here!" Peering out from behind the column, Rebecca saw Vance and his business contact making their way toward Catherine. She immediately linked her arm through Vance's and began swaying it playfully. "I want to buy this watch. Is that okay?" "Sure," Vance replied, his gaze softening. The sparkle in his eyes brought his entire face to life, a stark contrast to the bland, emotionless demeanor he always wore at home when he was with Rebecca. "Thank you. I'm going to swipe the card now," Catherine chirped, waving the supplementary card. The business contact smiled warmly. "You guys have such a deep bond. It's so touching, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford." The pair blinked at the appellation, but neither of them attempted to correct the misunderstanding. Chapter 7 After a moment of awkwardness, Vance and Catherine quickly adjusted to the mistaken roles. They began chatting and laughing effortlessly with the business contact. Standing together, they looked like a well-matched couple. Rebecca watched silently, taking a photo with her phone. As she turned to leave, the sharp "needle" buried deep in her heart pricked her once more. A sharp, intricate pain that rapidly spread through her chest, even causing a sour ache at the tip of her nose. Just as she was about to exit the mall, a voice called out, "Rebecca?" She turned to see someone waving vigorously from the descending escalator. To her surprise, it was her instructor from the dance academy. "Mrs. Lemke?" she exclaimed, her heart lifting with joy. Lauren Lemke quickly descended the escalator and approached, taking hold of Rebecca's hands with evident joy. "It's really you, Rebecca! It's been five years since we last saw each other. How have you been?" A wave of sadness washed over her. Five years had passed, and she had lived like a useless invalid. Facing Lauren now, she felt embarrassed. Still holding Rebecca's hand, Lauren asked, "Are you busy? If not, let's find a place to have some afternoon tea." Rebecca wasn't busy at all. In the past, her deep-seated insecurity might have led her to shut herself off further, politely declining any connection to her old dance world and its people. But ever since she had opened that album of dance photos and videos on her phone, it felt as though a fissure had cracked open in her darkened sky. Suddenly, she yearned for light to pour in. She nodded, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Sounds good." Lauren led her to a cozy teahouse located in the center of the first floor, and she asked, "How are the others? What have they been up to?" She had distanced herself from that world so completely and for so long that she had withdrawn from every single group chat with her former peers. "Do you really want to know?" Lauren gave her a perceptive look, aware of her situation. The promising student who had been guaranteed a spot in graduate school suddenly gave it up. Naturally, questions had arisen, and Lauren had even made a special trip to Soliaridge to visit her once. Rebecca nodded emphatically, and Lauren proceeded to fill her in. Five years was indeed enough time to transform a person's life entirely. Her classmates had all moved forward in remarkable ways. Some had joined dance troupes and risen to become principal dancers. Others had pursued advanced studies abroad and now held doctoral degrees. A few had stayed on at the academy as instructors, nurturing the next generation of talent. Everyone had taken a big step forward in their respective paths. Only she had remained stagnant. But starting from today, she vowed to make a change. She would strive to catch up, even if she could no longer dance. She would find her place in other fields. "I-I'm ready to give you an update on my progress too," she said, her eyes feeling hot and prickly. She felt she owed Lauren more than just a promise. "That would be wonderful," Lauren replied with a smile as warm and encouraging as ever. Rebecca leaned in close to Lauren's ear and whispered about her plans to study abroad. "This is fantastic! I knew it! None of my students are quitters!" Lauren exclaimed, gripping her hand tightly in excitement. "And it couldn't be better timing. Our troupe has a European tour coming up. You should come along to get a sense of things and start adapting to life over there." "I..." Rebecca hesitated, not sure if her legs could handle the trip. She could no longer dance; even walking was a pain for her. And the graduate program she had applied for was in a theoretical field. "Nothing's impossible," Lauren encouraged her. "If that accident hadn't happened, you would have been a member of the youth dance troupe by now. You can join us in a support role—as a runner, stage manager, or even helping with makeup." Lauren spoke with such firm conviction, treating Rebecca not as a cripple but as someone fully capable. Rebecca couldn't help but smile; she loved this feeling of not being defined or pitied because of her disability. Even if she couldn't dance, she could still contribute in other ways. She wasn't just a useless invalid. Lauren's phone vibrated with an incoming message. After reading it, she looked up and said, "It's my husband. Would you mind if he joins us?" "Of course not," Rebecca replied with a smile, though she felt a bit timid about it. After five years of seclusion, she had grown unaccustomed to meeting new people, but she knew she had to start somewhere. This was her first step. "Then I'll have him come over," Lauren said, replying to the message. However, what Rebecca never could have anticipated was that Lauren's husband turned out to be the very same business contact Vance had met earlier. "Pascal is here on business, and I came along for a few days of leisure, not expecting to run into you. It's fate," Lauren explained. Rebecca noticed that Vance, Catherine, and Pascal were walking together toward the teahouse. When the trio finally arrived at their table, Rebecca remained seated, observing the fascinating shifts in color on Vance's and Catherine's faces. "Come take a seat. This is my wife, Lauren. She is a dance teacher," Pascal said warmly. "And this is the gentleman I'm collaborating with on this trip, Mr. Vance Bradford, along with his wife." Vance's hand trembled slightly, and Catherine fidgeted restlessly. They both stared at Rebecca with tense anxiety. Rebecca simply looked back at them, offering a faint, composed smile. Lauren also made introductions for Rebecca's benefit. "This is my husband, Pascal." Then, pointing to Rebecca, she added, "And this is one of my students—the one who had the greatest potential to win the National Dance Championship back in the day." Vance stiffened at the mention of the contest, and his gaze shifted downward, as if he were attempting to look at Rebecca's leg. Rebecca detected unmistakable pain in his eyes. Of course, he was in pain. If it hadn't been for her injury, he would never have married her. In that case, the woman by his side now could have rightfully been his wife. Rebecca chuckled, "Actually, I am..." "Ah!" Catherine let out a sharp yelp at just the right moment, interrupting Rebecca mid-sentence. Rebecca paused, looking over. Catherine had spilled the tea, the hot liquid splashing all over her hand and clothes. "I'm so sorry. How embarrassing. This is really rude of me," she stammered, hurriedly grabbing napkins to wipe it up. "It's alright," Lauren said, not understanding the underlying tension, and even helped by passing more tissues. The episode prevented Rebecca from revealing the truth. But if Rebecca had truly wanted to continue, no one could have stopped her. From across the table, Vance cast her a pleading glance, subtly shaking his head and mouthing, "Don't say it." Truth be told, she hadn't intended to say it in the first place. She had deliberately spoken only half the sentence, just to watch the two of them scramble in panic. Throughout this afternoon tea session, some sat as if on pins and needles, while others remained perfectly at ease. As Rebecca reached for her teacup, Lauren suddenly noticed something in her hand. "Is that a wedding ring? You're married? To whom?" The question landed like a bolt from the blue, causing Vance and Catherine to pale dramatically. Rebecca glanced at Vance's hand resting beside his teacup, a mocking smile curling at the corner of her lips. He had never once worn a wedding ring; the pair from their ceremony had been removed immediately after the wedding and left to gather dust somewhere unknown. "Yes, I've been married for five years now," she replied calmly. "My husband's last name is Bradford."

Novels Lover

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Ran 3 days · stopped 17 Aug

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It was one in the morning. Sharon McKinzie found herself unable to sleep and started scrolling through her phone. She suddenly came across a new post on Kelly Walt's Facebook. [Thank you to Carter and little Theo for the lovely gifts. The cup was even handmade by Theo himself.] Sharon tapped on the photo. A necklace and a DIY mug appeared on her screen. Faintly, she could make out the words etched onto the cup: Happy Birthday, Mom. Her eyes drifted to the cold dishes still sitting on the dining table, untouched. The birthday cake, too, remained unlit. A faint, self-mocking smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She remembered seeing a news notification earlier that day. [Confirmed! The famously aloof figure from Amstern City, Carter Biggs, is secretly married—with a five-year-old son!] In the photo, a tall, handsome man and a slender, beautiful woman were walking hand in hand with a five-year-old boy through an amusement park. Kelly gently touched Theo's head, while Carter gazed at her with a softness Sharon had never seen before. The three of them looked picture-perfect—a beautiful couple and a child who looked just like Carter. They truly looked like a happy family. Today was Sharon's birthday. It was also her fifth wedding anniversary with Carter. And yet, the one being celebrated wasn't her—it was Kelly. Carter and Theo had spent the entire day with Kelly, gifting her what should have belonged to Sharon. Sharon wasn't surprised. Not anymore. She was used to this. Kelly was Carter's first love. She was terminally ill, with only a year left to live. Her dying wish was simply to see him one last time. Carter had told her he just wanted to do a few things for Kelly before the end, and hoped Sharon would understand. Sharon didn't want to understand. But she knew—she couldn't stop him. It was the first time Carter had spoken to her with such gravity. It felt like something had been carved out of her chest—leaving behind a hollow, aching space. She didn't know how long she sat there in the dark before the sound of the front door broke the silence. Carter walked in with Theo. He paused when he saw her sitting at the dining table, clearly surprised, as if he'd forgotten what day it was. "You're still up?" he asked. "I want to talk," Sharon replied calmly. Carter frowned slightly, then looked down at Theo. "Go on upstairs, Theo." Theo rubbed his eyes and yawned as he walked past Sharon. He suddenly paused. "Happy birthday, Mommy." He tilted his head up to look at her—those eyes, so much like Carter's, stared into hers. "Daddy and I didn't mean to forget your birthday. It's just… we still have so much time together. But Kelly only has six months left. You're not mad at us over something so small… right, Mommy?" Sharon didn't know what hurt more—being forgotten completely, or being remembered, only to be pushed aside anyway. Once Theo left, the room fell into silence again. Carter was the one to break it. "What did you want to talk about?" He was dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, his features refined, his presence cool and composed like the pale, untouchable moon hanging in a winter night sky. Detached. Remote. Sharon took a deep breath. "Carter, let's get a divorce." A flicker passed through his eyes—like a breeze rippling across a still lake. But just as quickly, it vanished. "I didn't forget your birthday," he said. "I already prepared your gift." "My gift?" Sharon gave a low laugh. "You mean the necklace that used to belong to my mother? The one you gave to Kelly?" That necklace was the only thing Sharon's mother had left her before she passed. Sharon had lost it the day she gave birth to Theo. Carter had promised to help her find it. He did find it—only to give it away. Carter's face remained composed, without a trace of embarrassment. Only his eyes darkened, just slightly. "It's only on loan to Kelly. I'll return it to you later." "How much later?" Sharon asked quietly. "The day she death?" "Sharon! That's enough!" His voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. His usually distant expression gave way to rare anger. It was enough. She had had enough of being married to a man who gave his heart to someone else, enough of raising a child who never felt like hers, enough of being belittled by her in-laws. "Kelly only has half a year left," Carter said. "Even Theo knows to be kind. Why can't you show the same generosity?" In that moment, Sharon felt something in her snap. "What does her time left have to do with me?" she said. "She's not my family. Why should I be the one to tolerate her?" Carter looked genuinely taken aback. Sharon had always been gentle, mild. He hadn't expected words like that to come from her mouth. A cold glint flashed across his gaze. "I thought we had an understanding." Sharon let out a soft laugh. "She wants to relive her first love, so I have to watch the two of you fall in love all over again. She wants to experience a wedding, so you hand her the one I spent half a year planning. I get to watch you and her walk Theo down the aisle like a real family. She wants to see the world before she dies, so you take her traveling across it. If she wanted the moon, I bet you'd try to pluck it from the sky." She and Carter had been secretly married for five years. They'd never held a ceremony. It wasn't until Theo once asked her what she looked like in a wedding dress that Carter decided they should hold one. He promised she could plan it all—down to the last detail. She had. Then Kelly spoke a single sentence, and everything changed. Carter's expression turned to ice. "You've crossed a line." Crossed a line. Something tightened in her chest. She closed her eyes, the weight of disappointment pressing down on her. All these years, she had tried to be the perfect wife and mother. No matter how hard she tried, Carter remained distant. She had assumed it was simply his nature—detached and reserved. But then Kelly came back, and Sharon realized, even an aloof guy like Carter had fire in him. She reached for the divorce papers already prepared and placed on the table. "I've signed them. You should too. If she can officially become Mrs. Biggs before she dies, I imagine it would make her very happy." Carter's lips pressed into a tight line. His handsome face seemed to frost over. It was a clear sign of his displeasure. "And Theo?" "He'll stay with you," she replied softly. He looked like he was about to speak, but then his phone rang. He picked it up. "Carter! Kelly collapsed—she's in the emergency room!" Chapter 2 Carter's brows drew tightly together. He said quickly, "I'll be right there," then turned and strode off without so much as a glance back at Sharon. Sharon stood still, expressionless, watching his retreating figure disappear into the darkness. She'd lost count of how many times, in the middle of the night, he had left like this—rushing to Kelly's side at the news of another so-called "critical condition." … The next morning, Sharon wheeled out her neatly packed suitcase, ready to leave. As she passed by Theo's room, her steps faltered. After a moment of hesitation, she decided to go in and see him one last time. He had been born prematurely. Ever since then, Theo had been frail and prone to illness. Because of that, she had always cared for him personally, never trusting anyone else to take her place. He looked a lot like Carter—right down to the cool, distant temperament. It was a weekend. Theo wasn't at school and was seated at his desk, working on his homework. When she entered, he greeted her out of habit, "Morning, Mommy," and went right back to writing without looking up. Sharon gazed at the profile of his face—so much like Carter's—and finally said, "Theo, I'm leaving. Take care of yourself." He responded with a flat "Oh," eyes still glued to his paper. Ever since Kelly had appeared in their lives, he had grown more and more distant from her. She still remembered that video Kelly once posted on social media. In it, Theo was munching on cotton candy as he mumbled through sticky lips, "I just like being with Kelly. I get to eat all kinds of yummy things." Then Kelly said, "Theo, is your mommy not good to you?" "She just nags all the time. Tells me what I can and can't do, won't let me eat this or that." "Then between me and your mommy, who's better?" "Of course, you! If my mommy treated me half as well as you do, I'd be so happy." Sharon understood. Compared to a strict mother, Kelly indulged him, spoiled him, and let him do whatever he pleased—of course she'd win his heart. To manage his condition, she made sure he went to bed on time every night. With his weak digestive system, she never let him touch outside junk food. It had taken years of meticulous care before he finally became stronger and no longer fell ill so easily. But in the process, he'd grown more and more distant from her. She was almost out the door when Theo's voice suddenly called after her. "Mommy." Sharon turned around. He said, "You once said… the people Theo likes, Mommy will like too. I really like Kelly. So Mommy will like her too, right?" Sharon froze for a split second. Then, something quietly snapped inside her. She closed her eyes and smiled faintly—without a sound. "You've always wanted to protect Kelly, haven't you? From now on, you can protect her together with your daddy." A flicker of confusion passed through Theo's eyes. He didn't understand what she meant. Sharon didn't explain. She simply turned and walked out of the villa. … Wendy Cohen's car was already waiting outside. After loading the suitcase into the trunk, Wendy looked at her. "Sharon… you've really decided to go through with the divorce?" Sharon gave a small nod. "Mm. I have." "And… what about Theo?" "Even if I fought for custody, I couldn't win against Carter." Sharon gave a bitter smile. "And besides… Theo might not even want to come with me. To him, Kelly is the best." Wendy frowned in disapproval. "You almost death giving birth to him—labored through an entire day and night. You've been by his side ever since, doing everything for him. How could he think some homewrecker is better than his own mother?" Sharon said calmly, "That just proves they're father and son. Even their taste in women is the same." Wendy hesitated. "And Carter… does he know you're leaving?" She shook her head. "He's probably still with his precious Kelly." Before she got married, Sharon had owned a small apartment of her own. It had been a long time since she'd lived there. After cleaning up the space, Wendy suggested they go out. "Sharon, we haven't gone shopping together since you had Theo. Want to hit the streets for a bit?" It was true. Ever since Theo's birth, Sharon's life had revolved solely around home and Theo. She'd lost herself, her time, her freedom—everything. Looking at the spark in Wendy's eyes, Sharon was suddenly reminded of who she used to be. She had once been just like her—full of light, full of life. Five years of marriage had turned her into someone prematurely aged, spiritless, and worn. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Okay." Just then, Wendy's phone rang. Whatever was said on the other end made her brow furrow. After a moment, she said into the phone, "Alright, we'll be there soon." Hanging up, she turned to Sharon. "Someone wants to offer a high price to buy the violin you authorized Demusica Harmony to sell—Shaluna. The manager says the buyer seems like a big deal. He didn't dare refuse. Since you're free today, we should go take a look." Shaluna… It had been five years since Sharon had touched her violin. She'd been so caught up in caring for Theo that everything related to music had been left in Wendy's hands. Hearing that name again now—it felt like a lifetime ago. … As soon as they stepped into the music shop, Sharon's steps halted. A tall, handsome man and a delicate, graceful woman stood together in front of a showcase labeled "Not For Sale." The woman's soft, gentle voice floated through the air. "The legendary Shaluna… it's even more beautiful than I imagined." "Carter, didn't you say you loved hearing me play the violin most? I want to hold one final concert before the end… I want to use this violin. What do you think?" The man's voice was low and clear. "Okay." The store manager followed nervously behind them, wiping sweat from his brow. When he saw Sharon and Wendy walk in, his eyes lit up like he'd just seen his saviors. "Wendy! You're finally here. Mr. Biggs would like to purchase Shaluna. You can set any price you like—what do you think?" Chapter 3 When Wendy saw Carter and Kelly, her brows drew together instinctively, and a flicker of deep disgust surfaced in her eyes. Her voice was cold. "Shaluna is not for sale." Kelly's brow twitched ever so slightly, her gaze quickly shifting to the woman standing beside Wendy—Sharon. Compared to Kelly's delicate charm, the kind you'd find in a dainty porcelain figure, Sharon had a quiet grace, a poised elegance. Her face was a perfect oval, her features soft yet defined. Her eyes, limpid and calm, seemed to hold a ripple of water. She looked just like a classical beauty walking straight out of an ancient painting. The moment Kelly laid eyes on her, something flickered in her gaze. She walked quickly toward Sharon and stopped in front of her, her expression tinged with a pleading softness. "Sharon," she said gently, "is this violin your friend's? Could you ask your friend to lend it to me for a little while? Back then, Carter and I met because of the violin. I was practicing in the garden, and he was drawn to my music. That's how he found me… and how we got together. He always loved hearing me play. "Sharon, I don't know how much time I have left. I don't even know if I can still hold a successful concert. But no matter what, I want to try—just one more time." Whether intentional or not, Kelly lowered her head slightly, revealing the familiar necklace on her neck. The overhead lights caught the pendant, scattering soft brilliance. The gleam stabbed into Sharon's eyes. Her voice was emotionless. "People death every day in this world. So what—just because someone with a terminal illness appears in front of me, I'm supposed to accommodate them?" Kelly had clearly never heard such words before. Her eyes reddened instantly, tears pooling, trembling on the edge. Carter's expression turned cold. "Sharon, it's just a violin. Must you be so aggressive? If you like it that much, I'll buy you another." Sharon looked at him. "Exactly. It's just a violin. If she wants one, buy her another. Why does it have to be mine?" Kelly pleaded softly beside them. "Sharon, what would it take for you to let me borrow it? Whatever conditions you have, just name them." Name her price? As if the bill wouldn't end up on Carter's desk in the end? Sharon let out a soundless laugh. "Kelly, you seem quite fond of things left behind by my mother. First the necklace, now the violin." Kelly blinked, confused. "I don't quite understand what you mean." Watching her feign innocence, Sharon sneered inwardly. "This violin—Shaluna—was my mother's. And that necklace around your neck, that too was hers." Kelly's face turned pale. "I'm sorry. I really didn't know it belonged to your mother… Last night, Theo gave me a gift box with the necklace inside. I thought it was a gift from Carter, so I wore it. I didn't realize it was your mother's…" Sharon gave a light, cool laugh. "Well, now that you do—can you give it back?" Kelly touched the necklace at her collarbone, bit her lip, and looked up at Carter, eyes shimmering. "Carter, since Sharon is asking… why not just let her have the necklace? We shouldn't upset her over something so trivial—it's not worth it." Let her have it? Not return it—let her have it. As if even if the necklace was originally her mother's, it wasn't hers to begin with. As if Kelly were magnanimously granting her a favor, not returning what never belonged to her in the first place. Carter already believed that Sharon's talk of divorce was just a ploy to threaten him. He hadn't liked that. Now, as he heard Kelly's words, his expression grew colder. "No need," he said. "Since I gave it to you, it's yours." "But…" Kelly started. He cut her off. "Once something's given away, there's no reason to take it back." A trace of emotion stirred on Kelly's face—touched, grateful. Sharon instinctively curled her fingers into a fist. Then, as if shaking something off, she smiled faintly. "Kelly, didn't you want to borrow the violin? Sure. If Mr. Biggs begs me for it, I'll consider it." Kelly's pupils widened. She looked stunned. Carter's expression darkened to something almost dangerous. "Sharon," he said coldly, "that's enough." Her tone turned mocking. "And here I thought Mr. Biggs would do anything for you, Kelly. But now… seems that isn't quite true." She had once believed Carter would sacrifice anything for Kelly. Now she realized: the things he sacrificed were always the ones that didn't matter. Like her. Once she understood that, Sharon felt nothing anymore. Not disappointment. Not anger. Just… nothing. She turned to the shop manager, who'd been frozen at the side. "If I'm not mistaken," she said, "the authorization for this violin expires today. Please remove it from display—I'm taking it home." The manager glanced cautiously at Carter. Sharon raised a brow. "What? As the owner, do I not even have the right to take my own violin?" "N-no, of course not," the manager stammered. "I'll arrange the paperwork right away." Once the handover was complete, Sharon took the violin and walked out without looking back. She didn't spare Carter or Kelly so much as a glance. Carter's brows knit tightly as he watched her leave. Kelly lowered her head slightly, voice tinged with guilt. "It must be because you forgot her birthday yesterday. That's why she's angry… It's my fault, I've been a burden." "It has nothing to do with you," Carter replied, voice flat as he looked away. "Go ahead and prepare for the concert. I'll have someone send the Shaluna to you later." A bright smile spread across Kelly's face. "Okay." … That night, Carter returned home on time for once. But Sharon wasn't around to greet him with a warm meal like she always did. When dinner time came around, Theo came downstairs as usual. But the dining room was empty, the table bare. He looked puzzled. "Daddy, didn't Mommy cook dinner today?" Sharon had always been the perfect wife and mother. She never argued, never made a fuss. She played her role flawlessly. Carter had never loved her, but overall, he'd been quite satisfied. Especially with Theo's weak stomach and picky eating habits—Sharon never left meals to the staff. She always cooked everything herself, including dinner and late-night snacks. Thinking of what had happened during the day, Carter pressed his lips into a line, his face darkening slightly. If this was her way of retaliating, of throwing a tantrum, then she was overestimating herself. "Don't worry about her," he said coolly. "Let's go eat out." Theo clapped happily. "Yay! Can Kelly come along too? I want cotton candy again!" "Cotton candy?" Carter blinked. "Didn't your mom say you can't eat it because you're lactose intolerant?" Chapter 4 Theo curled his lip. "My lactose intolerance is much better now. The doctor said it's fine if I eat a little now and then. But Mom always wants to control me—make me do what she says." That word—control—coming from a five-year-old's mouth, felt too heavy, too strange. Carter was just about to respond when his phone rang. He answered, and Kelly's voice came through from the other end. "Carter, are you home now?" "Yes." "Sharon hasn't come back yet, has she?" He paused for a moment. "Why?" "I think I just saw her…" Kelly's voice hesitated. "She was having dinner with a young man. They seemed… close." She fell silent for a beat, then carefully asked, "Is it because of what happened earlier today? Did something upset her again? Carter, maybe you should explain things to her properly." A chill slipped into Carter's eyes. Sharon didn't come home to cook—because she was out on a date? His voice turned colder without him realizing it. "Where is she?" Kelly gave him an address. "I got it," he said, and hung up. … In the restaurant, John Westin looked at Sharon steadily. "Have you really made up your mind?" She nodded. "Shaluna was something my mother custom made just for me… and I gave it up for my family, for five whole years." Her voice trailed off as she let out a quiet sigh. A hint of wistfulness flickered across her face. "And now?" John's voice was low. "If you return, you'll have to perform regularly. It'll be exhausting. You won't have much time left—for your husband, for your son." "Theo's health is fine now." A trace of irony flashed in her eyes. "Besides, he doesn't need me anymore." "And what about Carter?" John asked. "Will he agree?" At the mention of Carter, her gaze turned icy. "I don't need his permission. This is my life." John looked at her for a long moment. "But he won't allow you to be around me." "I don't need his approval." Her voice was steady, but guilt surfaced on her face as she recalled how she'd once distanced herself from John—just because of something Carter had said. "John," she murmured, "I'm sorry." But John shook his head. "Sharon, you don't need to apologize to me. It's me who should be sorry. I promised your mother I'd protect you. But I didn't have the strength to keep that promise. I let you suffer so much." John was her senior. The two had studied violin together under her mother since childhood. Now, John was one of the most celebrated violinists in the field. His striking features and melancholic temperament had propelled him beyond the classical music world, turning him into a heartthrob with fan followings rivaling top-tier celebrities. Fame, fortune—he had it all. But he still couldn't compare to someone like Carter, a man with real capital behind him. "It's not your fault," Sharon said softly. "It's mine—" She didn't get to finish. A soft voice cut in from behind. "Sharon, what a surprise to see you here." Sharon turned to see Kelly, dressed in a pristine white dress. Running into someone she disliked—twice in one day—what rotten luck. Her voice turned cold. "What's it to you?" Kelly smiled sweetly. "Don't be upset, Sharon. I just found it strange—Carter rarely goes home, and yet you're not there cooking dinner?" Her tone was light, face gentle—an image of innocence and grace. By contrast, Sharon suddenly seemed sharp, callous, and unkind. But Sharon could hear the taunt beneath Kelly's gentle voice. She lifted her eyes—and saw the flicker of smugness in Kelly's gaze that hadn't quite been tucked away. She shot back, "And why is it rare for Carter to go home? Isn't it because his time is all taken up by you, Kelly? Are you really that clueless, or just pretending to be?" Shock spread across Kelly's face. She grabbed Sharon's hand, anxious to explain. "Sharon, wait, I didn't mean it like that—" Before she could finish, Sharon yanked her hand away. "If you're not pretending, then you really don't know your place. And women with no self-awareness? They're very annoying." "Ah!" Suddenly, Kelly let out a shriek and stumbled backward. Before Sharon could even react, a tall figure caught her just in time. "Kelly, are you okay?" Kelly's face had gone pale. When she looked up and saw who it was, her eyes immediately brimmed with tears, as if she had suffered some great injustice. "Carter… I'm fine. Sharon didn't mean to. Please don't be mad at her, okay?" Carter's gaze flicked, finally locking on Sharon nearby. His brows drew together, voice low and cold. "Sharon, apologize to Kelly." It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. In the past, Sharon would've hurried to explain. "It wasn't me," "Please hear me out," "I didn't do it," "Can't you believe me?" But Carter never took her side. He always made her apologize to Kelly. If she refused, he'd punish her with silence. He wouldn't answer her calls. Wouldn't reply to her messages. He would treat her like air—not a single word, not even a glance. Later, even Theo joined in the silent treatment. In the end, she had no choice but to lower her head and give in. The memory made her laugh bitterly. "Why should I listen to you? Who do you think you are?" Carter froze for a second, wondering if he'd misheard her. "What did you say?" Sharon met his gaze, calm and cold. "When I cared about you, everything you said mattered. But now? Tell me—what are you to me?" He finally understood what she meant. In all the time he'd known her, she had never spoken to him like this. She had always been gentle. Always considerate. She'd leave the lights on when he worked late. She'd make him midnight snacks when he stayed in his study for hours. She'd bring him tea to sober up when he came home drunk. Even after Kelly reappeared and Sharon changed, she'd never defied him so directly. So why now… why did his chest feel so tight? And then, a young voice cut through the tension. "Mommy, you taught me that when someone does something wrong, they should apologize. So… now that you've done something wrong, shouldn't you say sorry to Kelly?" Chapter 5 Sharon turned her head and saw Theo standing behind Carter. Though he was speaking to her, his gaze remained fixed on Kelly, worry written plainly across his face. Since forever, even the slightest sign of trouble from Kelly would send both Carter and Theo into a frenzy of concern. There was a time when the four of them went to a park together. No one could tell if it was a heatstroke or some sudden onset of illness, but Kelly suddenly looked as if she were about to collapse. Both Carter and Theo rushed toward her at once. In his panic, Carter even pushed Sharon to the ground. And yet, no one noticed. The cruelest part? Later, when Carter saw her injured and bandaged hand, he actually asked her how she'd gotten hurt. The memory shattered as Kelly's fragile voice broke into her thoughts. "Theo, I just lost my balance. It had nothing to do with your mother." Kelly shook her head at Theo, tears sliding down her cheeks in pitiful silence. "It's my body… it's just too weak…" Theo pouted, lips pushing forward. "But I saw it. I saw Mommy push you." He turned to Sharon then, his little face serious. "Mommy, you always told me that when someone makes a mistake, they should admit it and fix it. You're a grown-up… you wouldn't go back on your word, would you?" Sharon had put everything into caring for Theo's health. But when it came to his studies, she had hardly needed to lift a finger. At only five years old, Theo was already fluent in three languages and possessed an extraordinary gift for speech. More than once, he had left grown adults speechless. Carter's mother often said the boy's brilliance reminded her of Carter when he was young. And now, this little boy was using that sharp mind… against her, for Kelly's sake. As his mother, as an adult, she knew she had to set the right example. If she couldn't live by her own words, how could she ask a child to? Sharon looked at her husband and son, both standing beside Kelly. In that moment, she felt that they looked more like a family than she ever had with them. She had long since stopped hoping for anything from this father and son, but still, Theo's words pricked at her heart. Lowering her gaze to meet his eyes, Sharon said softly, "You're right. I did tell you that if we do something wrong, we should apologize. But—" She paused, her voice calm and deliberate. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why should I apologize?" In the past, she would've yielded. She always did when it came to Theo. But today, she didn't. Theo spoke without thinking, "But I saw you push Kelly." Sharon didn't argue. Instead, she smiled faintly. "Just because I pushed her… does that mean I was wrong?" "But Mom, you said hitting people is wrong…" Her tone was light, even serene. "And I also told you that we shouldn't bully others. But that doesn't mean we should let others bully us. If someone keeps crossing the line, then—you shouldn't hold back." For all his cleverness, Theo was still only five. He hadn't expected her to say something like that. For a moment, he was stunned into silence. Just then, John's voice came from the side. "Theo, that's not how you speak to your mother." Both Carter and Theo turned toward the sound, surprised. As if they had only now noticed John standing nearby. Theo blinked. "Mr. Westin?" Carter's expression darkened. "Why are you here?" John — Sharon's childhood friend and senior schoolmate — was someone Carter had met many times. He'd heard about him from Sharon, too. She once told him that John had grown up without parents, raised by his grandparents. By middle school, he had lost even them, and was left completely alone in the world. It was around that time Sharon's mother discovered his musical talent and took him under her wing. But John had been a withdrawn, melancholy child who ignored everyone around him. It took Sharon three years to get through to him, for him to accept her as a friend and fellow student. And yet, for reasons Carter couldn't explain, he'd disliked this man from the very first moment they met. "You can meet your ex-girlfriend, but it's strange that Sharon has a meal with someone who's like family to her?" John's tone was flat, but every word carried weight, each one slicing through the pretense like a blade. He stripped away Carter and Kelly's carefully constructed facade with chilling precision. Carter's eyes darkened, and his face hardened. "Sharon, come home with me." She answered without emotion, "No. I'm still eating with John." His voice grew cold, laced with threat. "Sharon, I'll say it one last time. Come home with me." She knew this tone well — it meant he was furious. If she didn't yield now, it wouldn't end with a simple fight. He would take action. He always did. She could never forget that night, when thunder rolled through the sky and rain soaked her from head to toe. She had knelt at his feet, soaked and shivering, begging him with tears streaming down her face to return Theo to her. He had looked down at her, cold and arrogant, and asked, "Do you admit your mistake?" The sound of her tears had echoed against the ground like rain, and in the end, she could only agree to apologize for Kelly's fall into the water. He always had a way of forcing her hand. The thought made Sharon smile. Then, calmly, she said, "No." Carter's eyes turned icy, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Sharon, think carefully about the consequences." She met his gaze without fear. "Mr. Biggs, whatever tricks you've got, go ahead and use them." Her only weakness had ever been Theo. But now, she didn't even want him anymore. Carter had nothing left to threaten her with. Turning to John, she said, "John, the vibes here aren't great. Let's find another place to eat." He paused for a beat, then nodded. "Alright." Without sparing the three behind her another glance, Sharon picked up her bag and prepared to leave. Behind her, Theo called out stubbornly, "Mommy, are you really not going to apologize to Kelly?" She paused, just for a second — then walked away without looking back. Carter stood where he was, watching her retreating figure. His gaze grew colder and darker by the second. Beside him, Theo stared after her too, a flicker of confusion crossing his delicate little face. Something about his Mommy felt different. Noticing both of their gazes locked on Sharon, Kelly's eyes gleamed with something sharp and cold. Then, all at once, she let out a weak gasp. "Ah…" In an instant, both Carter and Theo snapped their attention back to her. Kelly's face was pale. Her body swayed unsteadily, as if she might collapse at any moment. Carter's expression shifted, and without hesitation, he swept her up into his arms. Chapter 6 Carter turned to Theo, who stood quietly to the side. "Theo, wait here for me," he said. Theo gave a small nod, obedient and aware. He knew Carter needed to tend to Kelly first. As soon as Carter stepped away, a murmur of conversation rose from a nearby table. "Dennis, look," a woman whispered. "That little boy over there looks even younger than you, but he stood up for his mom and drove away the mistress. Impressive, isn't he? When you see that awful woman again, you need to learn from him. Don't be scared, alright?" Theo heard them and turned his head toward the voices. A woman in her thirties was sitting at the next table, dining with a little boy who looked around seven or eight. The boy—Dennis—nodded earnestly. Noticing Theo looking their way, Dennis jumped off his chair and walked up to him. "You're amazing. Can you teach me how to get rid of a mistress?" Theo blinked, a little thrown off. "Mistress?" Dennis thought Theo didn't know what that meant and proceeded to explain with grave seriousness. "A mistress is someone who comes between a mom and dad. The third person. She ruins everything. She makes your mom sad, and she makes your parents get divorced. Women like that are bad!" Dennis's face twisted in anger. "Lately there's been this bad woman who keeps clinging to my dad. But…" His voice faltered, replaced by a look of helplessness. "But I don't know how to make her leave. I don't know how to protect my mom." He looked up at Theo again, his eyes filled with admiration. "You were so cool just now. Just a few words, and that woman ran away. Your mom and dad got back together, right? Can you teach me how you did it?" Theo was still struggling to process it all. "Got back together…?" But… wasn't it Mom who left first? Dennis tilted his head, confused. "Didn't that woman just get scared off by what you said? And didn't your dad carry your mom away right after?" Mom? So Dennis had mistaken Kelly for his mother? At that moment, Dennis's mom walked over too. She reached out and gently patted Theo's head. "You're such a good boy," she said warmly. "You didn't hesitate at all to take your mother's side. Not like my Dennis—he once said the bad lady was nice just because she gave him candy." Dennis scratched his head sheepishly. "Mom wouldn't let me eat candy. I couldn't resist…" "I don't let you eat it because I don't want your teeth to rot. When you're older, you can eat as much as you want." Dennis hugged his mother's arm and whined softly, "I know now, Mom. You're just looking out for me. Don't stay mad, okay?" "That woman almost sold you off. Took that for you to realize your mom's not so bad after all." Dennis let out a goofy laugh. "Hehe… better late than never!" Though the woman kept chiding her son, her eyes betrayed nothing but affection and tenderness. … More than half an hour passed before Carter and Kelly returned. "I'm really fine, Carter," Kelly said helplessly. "It's just low blood sugar… no need to go to the hospital." Carter's tone was firm, his face stern. "You're fainting more often lately. We should get you checked, just in case it's something more serious." Something flickered across Kelly's face—barely perceptible. Lately, in an effort to keep Sharon on edge, she had indeed asked Carter to come over more than she used to. "I'll be alright," she said. "It's getting late, and Theo hasn't eaten yet. Let's let him eat first. I can go to the hospital tomorrow—it's the same." They spoke as they walked, making their way back to Theo. He sat alone at the table, staring blankly out the window, a faraway look in his eyes—lost in a way he had never been before. Carter didn't notice. He simply stepped in front of him. "Kelly's not feeling well. I'm going to take her to the hospital. We'll eat dinner after." His voice was calm, but there was no room for argument in his words. For all his outward coolness, Carter was inherently domineering. Once he made a decision, it was rarely overturned. On any other day, Theo would've agreed without hesitation. But today, something felt different. Sharon's face floated into his mind. Until today, she had always prepared his meals on time. He had a weak stomach—he needed to eat regularly. Even when they were out with Kelly and it got late, Sharon would insist he eat something light to tide him over. She'd even customized those snacks just for him. Her cooking was excellent, though after a while, eating the same things did get old. Outside food always looked more exciting, more tempting. Gradually, he'd stopped enjoying the things she made. Kelly's soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Carter, Theo's body is weak. Let's let him eat a little first." Carter's voice was cool. "Your health is more important." Kelly's cheeks flushed slightly. She didn't argue, only looked down and smiled gently at Theo. "How about we get you a slice of strawberry cake to eat on the way?" Strawberry cake—Theo's favorite. On any other day, he'd have jumped for joy. But now, he only gave a quiet nod. "Okay." Kelly noticed something odd about him today, but didn't dwell on it. After asking the server to pack up a slice of cake, she took his hand, and they walked out of the restaurant together. … On the way to the hospital, Kelly sat in the passenger seat, turning back every now and then to remind Theo to be careful while eating. "If I didn't get carsick, I'd sit in the back with you," she said with a sigh. "Then I could take better care of you." Even when Sharon was around, Kelly had insisted on sitting in the front. Her reason was always the same: she got motion sickness, and sitting in front made it easier. Theo looked at the cake in his hands. Suddenly, he remembered what Dennis's mom had said—that she didn't let her son eat candy because it was for his own good. He looked up. "Ms. Walt, are you a mistress?"

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During my three-year secretive relationship with my boss, Zane Bender, we used 999 condoms. Before Zane dated me, he'd go through 20 partners per month. After he started dating me, he only bedded me and me only. He promised me that he'd give me a surprise on my birthday. I thought it was going to be a grand proposal. But the moment the clock struck 12, Zane called me. ""Cassidy, buy a pack of condoms and deliver it to the 31st floor of Mavelon Hotel right now. Remember, I want the extra thin ones."" At that moment, I couldn't believe my ears. Before I could react, Zane completely lost his patience. He urged, ""Stop standing around! Hurry up and get over here! Lily and I are in the mood right now!"" Lily Hubbard was the charming secretary who recently joined the company. My complexion turned pale instantly. ""You're sleeping with her, Zane? Then… Then who am I to you?"" Zane fell silent for a while. Then, he let out a soft chuckle. ""You? You're just a bedwarmer who can help alleviate my urges. That's all."" It turned out that the so-called surprise wasn't a proposal. It was just me fantasizing about a relationship that never existed in the first place. The pink bubbles of love and romance finally popped on my 25th birthday. After that, a car accident completely changed everything in my life. When I meet Zane again, he realizes that he can no longer win back the heart of his ""pet"". Chapter 1 Cassidy's POV In that moment, all the color drained from my face. My eyes burned red as words failed me. On the other end of the line, the amusement in the man's voice became unmistakable. He sounded like he was teasing his pet as he said, ""Did you think we were a couple who were madly in love or something?"" That mocking tone pushed me over the edge. I hung up without another word. The room fell back into a deathly silence, the stillness so stifling I could hardly breathe. Then, my phone lit up again. Zane Bender sent me a message. It was the location of a hotel. I stared blankly at the address for a long time, feeling as if a piece of my heart had been ripped out. That night, I didn't get a wink of sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, Zane's degrading remarks echoed in my mind. I'd met him three years ago. He was the CEO of Cosmo Group, while I had been just an intern back then. To be honest, it never even crossed my mind that I'd get into Cosmo Group, as it was one of the top companies in the industry. Everyone there graduated from elite universities. With my average educational background, I'd practically exhausted myself just to secure that one and only job offer from the company. At the time, I'd thought I was the luckiest person in the world, never imagining that something even better would come after I entered the company. The man every woman in the company dreamed about asked me out to lunch, right in front of everyone. After that, we left work together, went on dates, and spent one passionate night after another tangled in bed. By day, he was the picture of a refined boss. By night, he would be rough and unrestrained, pinning me down in bed and doing whatever he desired with reckless abandon. At the most intense moment of each night, he would lean close to my ear and whisper that he loved me over and over again. Once we were done, he'd gently clean me up before kissing the marks he'd left behind. I had always thought these were the kind of things only truly intimate couples did, but now Zane was telling me I was nothing more than a bedwarmer? A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I gave my thigh a hard pinch, the sting making it painfully clear this wasn't a dream. I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time that night. It wasn't until the first ray of sunlight touched me and my alarm went off that I snapped back to reality and walked into the bathroom like a zombie. When I came out, I realized Zane had come in at some point and was on the couch. He looked at me, who was wrapped in a towel, raised an eyebrow, and asked calmly, ""Why didn't you come last night?"" I froze, suddenly finding this whole thing absurd. He came all the way here this early in the morning just to question me? Before I could answer, he stood up, took a USB drive out of his briefcase, and set it on the table. ""But it's fine that you didn't come. I tried it without protection last night, and honestly, it felt way better. ""We went at it so many times that Lily was so exhausted that she could barely get out of bed today. You should help her take care of these files."" For a second, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was casually talking about sleeping with another woman to me, and was asking me to help his new lover with her work? My eyes misted over. Staring at the man I'd loved for three years, I asked, ""Zane, have you really fallen for her?"" He paused, then laughed, looking utterly nonchalant. ""Love? I'm not a fan of words that are vague and abstract. Still, Lily is undeniably alluring."" He propped his chin on his hand, looking like he was reminiscing. ""She has a great figure, a sweet voice, and those light brown curls… When we do it, she teases my chest like a little kitten. Also—"" ""That's enough!"" I interrupted, unable to take it anymore. I grabbed the USB drive and shoved Zane toward the door. ""Mr. Bender, I'm already aware of my assignments, so you can leave now."" Hearing the cold way I addressed him, Zane froze for a brief moment. Instead of getting angry, he grabbed my wrist and asked with a slight smile, ""Cassidy Hartman, are you upset?"" Pushing hard against his chest, I stiffly denied it, only to be pinned against the wall the next second. His finger brushed against my lips, then traced the corner of my eye. When he felt my tears, he let out a soft chuckle. ""Are you still going to deny it? You're clearly so upset that you're already tearing up,"" he murmured. ""Cassidy, you look like I just abandoned you or something. I like seeing you smile more than seeing you looking hurt."" He lifted my chin with his eyes locked on my lips. He then leaned closer. I closed my eyes without thinking, but the kiss I expected never came. Instead, he spoke in a cold voice beside my ear. ""Behave yourself. That way, I'll still keep you around. But pull something like last night again, and neither Cosmo Group nor I will need you anymore."" There wasn't a single playful note in his tone. That was how I knew he meant it. After saying that, he walked out. Stopping at the door, he added, ""Oh, and I won't be picking you up for work anymore. Lily lives far from the office."" The moment the door clicked shut, I slid down the wall and collapsed on the floor, burying my face in my hands as I sobbed uncontrollably. I'd thought Zane had feelings for me, but it turned out that I was just someone he could discard at any time. So the past three years of love and shared time meant nothing? I looked down at the USB drive in my palm, feeling as if I'd just been slapped hard across the face. After what felt like a long time of crying, I finally pulled myself together and changed into my work clothes. But when I reached the door, I stopped in my tracks. I realized I didn't even know how to take public transport to work because Zane had been picking me up every single day ever since I joined Cosmo Group. In a daze, I flagged down a cab. The moment I got out in front of the building, it started pouring. With a hand over my head, I ran into the rain, only to unexpectedly see Zane standing across from me. He was holding an umbrella and walking my way. At that moment, a wave of conflicting emotions surged through me, and I found myself calling out, ""Zane…"" Zane smiled, but not at me. He walked right past me before stopping in front of another woman, holding the umbrella over her head. He wrapped an arm around Lily Hubbard, his tone scolding but affectionate. ""I told you to take the day off. Why did you still come?"" She shyly tapped his chest. ""Because I wanted to see you, Mr. Bender."" Watching them act so intimately, I felt like my moment of hope just now was a complete joke. Lowering my arm, I slowly walked toward the building, letting the rain soak me completely. Zane shot me a hesitant glance but didn't say anything. As soon as I entered the office, my coworkers stared at me in shock, drenched as I was. Ignoring them, I silently sat down at my desk. After a long while, I looked up and tapped the coworker next to me. ""Kayla, didn't you say you could recommend people to Vertex Group before?"" She nodded. ""Yeah, but only for their overseas branch. Their management is pretty strict, so most people don't make it in. Why?"" ""I want to go."" Hearing that, Kayla Hutchins jumped to her feet, exclaiming, ""Cassidy, are you serious? You want to leave even though Mr. Bender treats you so well?"" Putting a finger in front of my lips, I quickly shushed her. ""My decision to resign has nothing to do with him. It's for my career. Please help me out with this, Kayla."" Kayla wanted to ask more questions, but seeing that I didn't want to talk about it, she eventually agreed. She contacted Vertex Group's Brudivia branch. After hanging up, she wrote down an email address for me. ""I'd already made the arrangements. Contact them at this email address, and you can handle things from there."" As I took the piece of paper from her, I finally felt a sense of relief. What I'd said earlier wasn't entirely a lie. Although Zane had indeed broken my heart, that wasn't the only reason I wanted to leave. In my three years at Cosmo Group, I was never truly happy. Zane often said he felt bad for me, so a lot of my work was just going through the motions. Rather than an employee, I was more like a pet that accompanied him to work. A pet? That word and the thought of Zane's recent cold attitude made my chest tighten. Since my owner no longer wanted me, I wasn't going to force myself to stay. I decided that after my 25th birthday, it would be time for me to go and reclaim my freedom. Chapter 2 After I sat back down at my desk, I immediately saved that email address. Just then, someone knocked on my desk. I looked up and saw Zane. Instinctively, I snapped my laptop shut. Taken aback, he frowned. ""Why are you so jumpy? Is there something I'm not supposed to see?"" I shook my head, my tone distant. ""You just startled me, Mr. Bender. What can I do for you?"" My cold attitude clearly irritated him. But with other coworkers around, he held his anger back and said in a noticeably colder tone. ""I wanted to ask you if you have the files ready."" ""I'm still working on them. I'll send everything to your email before I leave later."" ""Alright. Try to be quick. I'm having dinner with Lily tonight. I can't be late."" With that, Zane said nothing more and headed back to his office. The moment the door closed, Kayla let out a long breath. ""That scared the crap out of me. Mr. Bender looked terrifying just now. I'd never seen him act that way before."" I gave a light chuckle. ""What way?"" ""That authoritative attitude!"" she whispered. ""It's one thing when he treats us like that, but he's always been gentle with you, no? And I've never even seen him assign you work before. Weren't your tasks always—"" ""Always done by us instead?"" another coworker suddenly cut her off, staring at me with open mockery. ""In the past, we ended up taking on most of your work because Mr. Bender liked you. ""Now that he has a new favorite, you've become just another corporate slave, huh? Do you still remember how to use office software after not working for so long, Cassidy? If you don't, you can always beg me for help."" ""Why you—"" Kayla glared at him angrily, but I stopped her. I gave the group of people trying to provoke me a piercing look and slowly said, ""If you're unhappy with the work assignments, you can take it up with Mr. Bender. But if you're too scared to do so, I can pass the message along for you."" At that, they exchanged looks and finally shut up. I knew they didn't dare gamble on whether Zane was truly indifferent to me. After all, if I really told Zane about this, they might even lose their jobs, given how he had spoiled me before. Once, an ex-coworker had deliberately spilled scalding hot coffee on me because she was jealous of my promotion. Zane had fired her on the spot and even blacklisted her from working in the entire industry. But now… Picking up the USB drive, I felt my confidence leave me. I took a deep breath and began organizing the meeting materials. In less than an hour, I sent the files to Zane's email. Seemingly surprised by my efficiency, he messaged me. ""That was quick. Did you get someone to help you?"" In that instant, all the pent-up bitterness in my chest overflowed. Even if everyone else thought I'd gotten in through connections, Zane knew better than anyone that I'd earned my place with my own ability. I stormed toward his office, ready to confront him face-to-face, but stopped short when I heard him talking to Lily. ""Mr. Bender, I can see why Ms. Hartman is a director. These materials are really well done."" Zane snorted. ""Director? If it weren't for me, she wouldn't even be qualified to enter Cosmo Group, let alone reach that position. Cosmo Group has never been short of talent. It's only short of talent I care for. She probably got someone to help her come up with these materials."" At that moment, it felt like lightning had hit me, and I almost lost my balance. So from the very beginning, I never truly belonged here. I remembered how, after being mocked by my coworkers and feeling discouraged, Zane had comforted me. He'd said I would prove myself through my own abilities someday. Because of those words, even when I had no assignments, I kept pushing myself to improve in secret. And it wasn't just for my reputation, but also so I wouldn't disappoint the ""faith"" he had in me. I never imagined it was nothing but a lie. I smoked on the balcony for a long time. When I finally stubbed the cigarette out and went back to the office, I saw Zane and Lily coming out of his office together. Right in front of everyone, he draped his coat over her shoulders. My coworkers all lifted their heads to watch them before shooting me snide looks. I wanted to pretend I couldn't care less, but I couldn't move. My legs felt like they had turned into lead, and I couldn't even lift my head. Lily, however, had no intention of letting me be. She suddenly walked up to me with a faint smile. ""Cassidy, the materials you put together were pretty decent. I'll have to learn more from you in the future."" I couldn't be bothered to respond. Zane frowned at my silence. ""Ms. Hartman, didn't you hear Ms. Hubbard speaking to you?"" At that, Kayla looked at me in shock, clearly not expecting him to talk to me like that. Suppressing the bitterness in my chest, I looked at Lily. ""Thank you for the compliment."" Lily nodded, then warmly took my hand, her smile growing even more exaggerated. ""Then can I leave all my future work to you? After all…"" She turned to Zane, her voice soft. ""I've been feeling pretty weak lately. I really can't handle work."" Every word she said felt like it was a slap to my face, fueling the raging fire in my chest. Just as I was about to refuse, Zane's firm voice rang out. ""Of course. Looking out for members of staff is expected of anyone managing a team."" In that moment, I lost all desire to argue. I simply felt utterly ridiculous. After they left, I ignored the snickers around me, shoved my laptop into my bag, and hurried out of the office. The moment I stepped outside, the tight knot in my chest finally loosened a little. I kept telling myself that it was fine, that all I lost was a man, and that it was no big deal. Just as I was finally calming down, I caught sight of a familiar car not far away. Inside, a man and a woman were kissing. With his eyes closed, Zane cupped Lily's face, looking both tender and lost in the moment. I was rooted to the spot, unable to move. In the three years I'd been with Zane, he'd kissed every part of me except my lips. Even when I stood on my toes and tried to kiss him, he'd deliberately turn his head away, saying he didn't like kissing. So it wasn't that he didn't like kissing. He just didn't like kissing me. Suddenly, I felt disoriented. Was I less than a lover to him, or was Lily more than that to him? Either answer was unbearable. Rain suddenly started pouring from the sky again, and Zane finally pulled back from the kiss. He slowly lifted his head. Just before our eyes could meet, I stumbled backward and ran into the rain. On the way home, I bought myself a birthday cake and held it tightly against my chest. As soon as I got through my front door, I didn't even have the strength to open the box before collapsing to the floor with a thud. The delicate cake was smashed on impact, and with my body burning up and my head dizzy, I couldn't even crawl to my bed. That was when I suddenly recalled how, months ago, Zane had promised to give me an unforgettable 25th birthday. He might have already forgotten all about my birthday, but there was no doubt in my mind that this birthday would be an unforgettable one. A bitter smile tugged at my lips. Time passed unnoticed as I lay on the floor until a sudden notification appeared on my phone. It was an email from Vertex Group. ""Congratulations on passing the preliminary review, Ms. Cassidy Hartman. Your interview is scheduled for three days from now."" When I read the message, I felt a little better. In any case, at least there was one piece of good news. I forced a faint smile as I lay on the cold floor. Soon, I drifted into a deep sleep. When I woke up the next morning, I was lying in bed. Zane, who had been gone the entire night last night, was sitting at the edge of the bed, gently wiping the sweat from my forehead. Chapter 3 ""Why didn't you call me when you got your fever?"" Zane picked up a cup of warm water and handed it to me as he spoke with a tone of resignation. ""Stop being upset. Take the medicine first."" I turned my head away, not wanting to look at him. Zane frowned at my distant attitude. ""Cassidy, have you forgotten what I told you?"" I knew exactly what he was referring to. If I refused to behave, I'd be discarded by both him and Cosmo Group. Even as his expression darkened, I stuck to my stance, refusing to look at him. A scoff sounded by my ear. ""Well, well. The kitten that has been cared for so long is starting to scratch people."" He set the cup down on the table with a loud thud. ""You refuse to reply to my messages, you ignore me, and now you won't even take your medicine. You hate me that much? Fine. If you don't take it, I won't leave."" After saying that, he took off his coat and leaned back in the chair, looking prepared to wait me out. I couldn't understand him. If he didn't love me and if I was nothing but a plaything to him, why go through all this trouble? In the end, I turned to look at him. ""Does it matter if I take my medicine when I'm just your bedwarmer?"" ""Of course it does,"" Zane answered without hesitation, his gaze settling on me. ""If you're sick and we get intimate, I might get infected."" Before, his lingering gaze would make my heart race, but now, it only made me feel sick to the stomach. I pulled the blanket over my head, refusing to talk to him anymore. As for him, he didn't say anything else and just sat quietly beside me. In the meantime, he answered several work calls, and every reply was the same. ""I have something more important to handle today. Postpone all meetings."" He deliberately spoke in a louder voice, as if afraid I wouldn't hear him. After who knew how long, just as I was getting annoyed and ready to give in and take the medicine, Lily called. One sentence was all it took for Zane to immediately stand up, throw on his coat, and hurry out. It was as if his earlier threat of not leaving until I took my medicine had never been spoken. At the door, he glanced back at me. ""Oh, right. I was so busy with my date yesterday that I forgot to give you your present. Don't throw it away in a fit of anger. If you ever decide to leave me, you could probably sell it for some cash. ""The money you can get from that necklace alone should be enough for you to live on for the rest of your life."" There was nothing but disdain in his flippant tone, and hearing him say that made my heart sink. This whole time, Zane had never believed I would actually walk away. That made sense. After all, I was just an ordinary person who joined Cosmo Group through his ""connections"" and lived in a luxury apartment he bought. In his eyes, I would lose everything if I were to leave him. I would have to work at a small company doing a low-level job, rent a shared apartment with strangers, and use crowded public transport. That was why he was so confident that I wouldn't leave him and so reckless in hurting me. But he was wrong. I didn't want a life where someone else decided my fate. Even if I obediently complied now, I'd still end up with nothing the moment he got completely tired of me. At that thought, I sighed and reached for the water on my nightstand. However, it had gone cold. As I didn't have the strength to hold the cup steady, it hit the floor and shattered into pieces. Just then, my phone buzzed nonstop with messages from the work group chat. ""Quick, check social media. Did Mr. Bender just announce he's dating Ms. Hubbard?"" The word ""dating"" hit me like a knife to the heart. With trembling hands, I clicked into Lily's profile. She'd posted a photo of a gemstone necklace with the caption, ""First month with my boyfriend and I'm already getting such an expensive present! I'm so happy!"" I froze at the sight of the necklace. It was almost identical to the one Zane had given me, except the gemstones on her necklace sparkled more brilliantly. So my birthday gift was just something he bought along with Lily's? Even though I had already accepted reality, my chest still ached. But the cruelest part wasn't even the gift. It was Zane's reply beneath the post. ""As long as you like it, I'll give you even more."" He didn't correct her wording, which meant that they really were together. My phone slipped from my hand, falling to the floor. I stood there for a long time before finally taking the necklace from its box and listing it on a secondhand site. It was a limited edition, so it sold quickly. When the transfer notification for three million dollars came through, I forced a smile and wiped the tears from my eyes. ""What are you crying for, Cassidy?"" I muttered. ""If three years were worth three million dollars, I'd already come out ahead, hadn't I?"" Just when my mood had sunk to its lowest, Zane called. His tone was flat as he asked, ""Did you take your medicine? Lily said she was in a bad mood just now, so I—"" ""I took it,"" I cut him off. There was a brief pause on the other end. Then, his contented voice came through. ""Oh, good. See? You should've just behaved from the start. Don't act up next time, Cassidy. I don't like comforting people."" ""I got it."" Zane hung up, clearly pleased. What he didn't know was that once the call ended, I collapsed onto the floor, tears streaming down my face, my eyes hollow and my heart utterly empty. I no longer expected anything from him. And there would never be a next time. Chapter 4 There were still two days left before my interview at Vertex Group. I pushed all thoughts of Zane aside and concentrated on getting ready for the interview. After all, the interview would be conducted personally by Desmond Archer, the CEO of Vertex Group. I'd asked Kayla about him and found out that he was notoriously strict. Apparently, quite a few people had even come out of their interviews in tears. Nevertheless, I didn't have much time to prepare since Lily had dumped all her work on me. To avoid unnecessary conflict, I simply gritted my teeth and put up with it. I only needed to do it for two more days anyway. I quickly put together the slides she needed and sent them over, then barely paid attention during the meeting itself. Cosmo Group's affairs had long stopped being my concern. That was, until Lily started her presentation, and everyone in the room abruptly gasped. ""What… That's ridiculous! How could someone show this in a serious meeting?"" ""Oh my gosh! I've really seen it all now!"" Only then did I lift my head to look at the big screen. My eyes went wide in shock. What was supposed to be a dozen pages of slides had turned into a collection of Lily's private photos, all of them highly inappropriate. Panicking, Lily tried to close it, but nervous fumbling made it impossible. Unable to take it any longer, Zane slammed the table. ""If anyone so much as breathes a word about this, don't bother coming to Cosmo Group again!"" Everyone immediately stopped smirking and lowered their heads, not daring to look anymore. Lily gave me a pointed look, and Zane's gaze followed hers straight to me. His eyes were full of disappointment and anger. Sure enough, he thought it was my doing. After the meeting, Zane stopped me from leaving. Lily sat nearby, covering her face and sobbing. ""What do I do, Zane? Everyone saw everything. How can I stay at the company after this? Something this humiliating… Maybe I should just quit!"" She tried to get up, but Zane pulled her into his arms. ""Relax. With me around, no one will say a word."" That stopped her crying. She pointed an accusatory finger at me and yelled, ""Ms. Hartman, if you didn't want to help me, just say so! Why sabotage me like this? This is what you wanted, right? Are you happy now?"" Zane patted her back soothingly, then coldly turned to me. ""Cassidy, I never thought you could do something this vicious, using your position to settle a personal grudge out of jealousy!"" Hearing him accuse me blindly, I felt incredibly wronged, but I forced myself to stay rational. ""Mr. Bender, the editing process is traceable in the software, and chat records show I sent the slides properly. I guarantee my version had no issues. As for how this happened, you should ask Ms. Hubbard."" Lily panicked upon hearing my words. She turned to Zane with a pitiful look. ""Mr. Bender, I didn't do it! She sent the file right before the meeting was about to start. I didn't even have time to open it! How could I have altered it? Besides, who would show their own private photos…"" Between Lily and me, Zane would always choose to believe her without hesitation. He stared at me coldly. ""Don't try to argue, Cassidy. No woman would make her private photos public, especially someone as pure as Lily. There's just no way she would do this. ""Since you have no regard for what we once had, I see no reason to show leniency. I'll announce disciplinary action, strip you of your director position, and cut your salary by half. If you have a problem with it, there's the door."" I looked him straight in the eye and asked slowly, ""Mr. Bender, if you think I'm wrong, then what do you call employees who keep dumping their work on others?"" My icy tone thoroughly enraged him. He scoffed in anger. ""Cassidy, have you forgotten? You used to do the same thing."" Then he headed out of the meeting room with Lily in his arms. As he walked past me, he coldly added, ""From today onward, you're responsible for all of Lily's work. Refuse, and you're fired."" As the door shut, I didn't cry, nor did my eyes turn red. I merely felt incredibly exhausted. Zane was right. I had enjoyed his special treatment before, but unlike Lily, I'd never pushed my work onto others, nor played dirty tricks like this. I stayed in the meeting room for a long time, until the disciplinary notice that was sent to everyone in the company popped up in the work group chat. When I walked out, my coworkers looked at me mockingly. ""Tsk-tsk, looks like someone's fallen out of favor. From now on, you're just like the rest of us. Ms. Hartman, I'm curious. Do you think you can stomach instant coffee when you're already used to hand-brewed coffee? ""Oh, wait. I don't have to call you Ms. Hartman anymore. Maybe I should call you Cassidy now."" ""Cassidy, can you also help with my work? According to Ms. Hubbard, you're the office workhorse, and anyone who's tired can just use you."" Soon, stacks of files piled up on my desk. I expressionlessly pushed them aside, trying to focus on preparing for the interview. But when I opened my laptop, I found myself unable to concentrate at all. I remained in that daze until noon, when Kayla dragged me to the cafeteria. Across the room, Zane and Lily were sitting together. Lily daintily fed Zane cake, looking just like a couple in love. Setting down my fork and knife, I said with my head down, ""I'm full. I'm leaving first."" As I walked past their table, Zane picked up a spoon and fed Lily a bite, almost as if he was deliberately provoking me. I kept my eyes down, put on my earphones, and quickly walked out of the cafeteria. Back at my desk, I began clearing up my workspace, mostly old work files and little gifts from Zane. I had already sold all the valuable jewelry he had given me and gotten a fair amount of money in exchange. Most of what remained were handmade keepsakes, such as the ceramic mug we'd made together, a scrapbook we put together, and a few small, unremarkable trinkets. I couldn't help but feel a pang of emotion upon seeing them. I could still remember the day we made the ceramic mugs. Zane took off his multi-million-dollar watch to touch the wet clay with me. He obviously had never done anything like that before because he had frowned as soon as he touched it, but he stuck it out. I had to admit, he had talent. His mug turned out better than mine, even though it was his first time making one. As I recalled how I had smeared clay on his nose and he had dodged in mock annoyance but ended up laughing, my eyes grew red again. We had been so in love… Exhaling deeply, I looked up and blinked back the tears. In the end, I placed the mug into a cardboard box and sealed it with tape, thinking, ""Zane, this is my resignation gift to you."" Not long after, my coworkers started coming back. Lily tapped on my desk as she passed, acting like she was already Zane's wife. ""Get that file done and sent over as soon as possible. Try not to make a fool of yourself this time."" Her voice dripped with provocation, but I didn't react. I merely gave a faint hum in reply. Not wanting her to cause more trouble, I hastily dealt with the file she had sent before sending it straight to Zane's email. As I got ready to leave for the day, one of my coworkers swaggered over and tossed me 200 dollars. ""Ms. Hubbard wants you to buy her a coffee and bring it to her desk before you leave."" Staring at the money, I finally snapped. I stormed into Zane's office. The moment I entered, I saw Lily straddling Zane, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. Upon noticing me, Lily jumped up like a startled rabbit, clutching her blouse where a few buttons were undone. Zane looked at me impatiently. ""Don't you know how to knock before entering?"" Clenching my fists at his words, I tried to keep my voice calm as I said, ""Mr. Bender, I can tolerate work matters, but please handle your personal matters yourselves."" Then I turned to Lily, my tone icy. ""Ms. Hubbard, last I checked, you have legs. Get your coffee yourself."" Lily froze, clearly not expecting me to call her out in front of Zane. Biting her lip, she looked at me with an aggrieved expression. ""I'm sorry, Ms. Hartman… I just wasn't feeling well, so I asked for your help. I didn't expect you to mind this much… It's fine. I'll just go myself."" She started walking toward me stiffly with her hand on her waist, but before she could take two steps, Zane pulled her into his arms. ""If it hurts, just stay put."" He fondly ruffled her hair, then turned to me, his eyes cold. ""Cassidy, it's just a cup of coffee. Do you have to humiliate Lily over it? Or is it that you only dare to bully her?"" Zane sneered. ""To be fair, I was probably too rough last night and hurt her. So? Do you dare speak to me that way?"" I thought I had already grown numb, but his words cut me painfully nonetheless. I let out a slow breath, looking at him calmly. ""I've said what I needed to. Ms. Hubbard, I hope you stick to your word."" Then I turned and walked toward the door. ""Stop."" Zane's cold voice came from behind me. ""She might have said she would go, but I didn't. If I don't see that coffee in 30 minutes, you can forget coming to Cosmo Group tomorrow."" I paused briefly, then kept walking. ""Do whatever you want."" When I got back to my desk, Kayla looked at me in disbelief. ""I heard everything. You actually dared talk back to Mr. Bender? Aren't you afraid he'll really fire you? ""Cassidy, I know you're prepping for the Vertex Group in"

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It was one in the morning. Sharon McKinzie found herself unable to sleep and started scrolling through her phone. She suddenly came across a new post on Kelly Walt's Facebook. [Thank you to Carter and little Theo for the lovely gifts. The cup was even handmade by Theo himself.] Sharon tapped on the photo. A necklace and a DIY mug appeared on her screen. Faintly, she could make out the words etched onto the cup: Happy Birthday, Mom. Her eyes drifted to the cold dishes still sitting on the dining table, untouched. The birthday cake, too, remained unlit. A faint, self-mocking smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She remembered seeing a news notification earlier that day. [Confirmed! The famously aloof figure from Amstern City, Carter Biggs, is secretly married—with a five-year-old son!] In the photo, a tall, handsome man and a slender, beautiful woman were walking hand in hand with a five-year-old boy through an amusement park. Kelly gently touched Theo's head, while Carter gazed at her with a softness Sharon had never seen before. The three of them looked picture-perfect—a beautiful couple and a child who looked just like Carter. They truly looked like a happy family. Today was Sharon's birthday. It was also her fifth wedding anniversary with Carter. And yet, the one being celebrated wasn't her—it was Kelly. Carter and Theo had spent the entire day with Kelly, gifting her what should have belonged to Sharon. Sharon wasn't surprised. Not anymore. She was used to this. Kelly was Carter's first love. She was terminally ill, with only a year left to live. Her dying wish was simply to see him one last time. Carter had told her he just wanted to do a few things for Kelly before the end, and hoped Sharon would understand. Sharon didn't want to understand. But she knew—she couldn't stop him. It was the first time Carter had spoken to her with such gravity. It felt like something had been carved out of her chest—leaving behind a hollow, aching space. She didn't know how long she sat there in the dark before the sound of the front door broke the silence. Carter walked in with Theo. He paused when he saw her sitting at the dining table, clearly surprised, as if he'd forgotten what day it was. "You're still up?" he asked. "I want to talk," Sharon replied calmly. Carter frowned slightly, then looked down at Theo. "Go on upstairs, Theo." Theo rubbed his eyes and yawned as he walked past Sharon. He suddenly paused. "Happy birthday, Mommy." He tilted his head up to look at her—those eyes, so much like Carter's, stared into hers. "Daddy and I didn't mean to forget your birthday. It's just… we still have so much time together. But Kelly only has six months left. You're not mad at us over something so small… right, Mommy?" Sharon didn't know what hurt more—being forgotten completely, or being remembered, only to be pushed aside anyway. Once Theo left, the room fell into silence again. Carter was the one to break it. "What did you want to talk about?" He was dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, his features refined, his presence cool and composed like the pale, untouchable moon hanging in a winter night sky. Detached. Remote. Sharon took a deep breath. "Carter, let's get a divorce." A flicker passed through his eyes—like a breeze rippling across a still lake. But just as quickly, it vanished. "I didn't forget your birthday," he said. "I already prepared your gift." "My gift?" Sharon gave a low laugh. "You mean the necklace that used to belong to my mother? The one you gave to Kelly?" That necklace was the only thing Sharon's mother had left her before she passed. Sharon had lost it the day she gave birth to Theo. Carter had promised to help her find it. He did find it—only to give it away. Carter's face remained composed, without a trace of embarrassment. Only his eyes darkened, just slightly. "It's only on loan to Kelly. I'll return it to you later." "How much later?" Sharon asked quietly. "The day she death?" "Sharon! That's enough!" His voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. His usually distant expression gave way to rare anger. It was enough. She had had enough of being married to a man who gave his heart to someone else, enough of raising a child who never felt like hers, enough of being belittled by her in-laws. "Kelly only has half a year left," Carter said. "Even Theo knows to be kind. Why can't you show the same generosity?" In that moment, Sharon felt something in her snap. "What does her time left have to do with me?" she said. "She's not my family. Why should I be the one to tolerate her?" Carter looked genuinely taken aback. Sharon had always been gentle, mild. He hadn't expected words like that to come from her mouth. A cold glint flashed across his gaze. "I thought we had an understanding." Sharon let out a soft laugh. "She wants to relive her first love, so I have to watch the two of you fall in love all over again. She wants to experience a wedding, so you hand her the one I spent half a year planning. I get to watch you and her walk Theo down the aisle like a real family. She wants to see the world before she dies, so you take her traveling across it. If she wanted the moon, I bet you'd try to pluck it from the sky." She and Carter had been secretly married for five years. They'd never held a ceremony. It wasn't until Theo once asked her what she looked like in a wedding dress that Carter decided they should hold one. He promised she could plan it all—down to the last detail. She had. Then Kelly spoke a single sentence, and everything changed. Carter's expression turned to ice. "You've crossed a line." Crossed a line. Something tightened in her chest. She closed her eyes, the weight of disappointment pressing down on her. All these years, she had tried to be the perfect wife and mother. No matter how hard she tried, Carter remained distant. She had assumed it was simply his nature—detached and reserved. But then Kelly came back, and Sharon realized, even an aloof guy like Carter had fire in him. She reached for the divorce papers already prepared and placed on the table. "I've signed them. You should too. If she can officially become Mrs. Biggs before she dies, I imagine it would make her very happy." Carter's lips pressed into a tight line. His handsome face seemed to frost over. It was a clear sign of his displeasure. "And Theo?" "He'll stay with you," she replied softly. He looked like he was about to speak, but then his phone rang. He picked it up. "Carter! Kelly collapsed—she's in the emergency room!" Chapter 2 Carter's brows drew tightly together. He said quickly, "I'll be right there," then turned and strode off without so much as a glance back at Sharon. Sharon stood still, expressionless, watching his retreating figure disappear into the darkness. She'd lost count of how many times, in the middle of the night, he had left like this—rushing to Kelly's side at the news of another so-called "critical condition." … The next morning, Sharon wheeled out her neatly packed suitcase, ready to leave. As she passed by Theo's room, her steps faltered. After a moment of hesitation, she decided to go in and see him one last time. He had been born prematurely. Ever since then, Theo had been frail and prone to illness. Because of that, she had always cared for him personally, never trusting anyone else to take her place. He looked a lot like Carter—right down to the cool, distant temperament. It was a weekend. Theo wasn't at school and was seated at his desk, working on his homework. When she entered, he greeted her out of habit, "Morning, Mommy," and went right back to writing without looking up. Sharon gazed at the profile of his face—so much like Carter's—and finally said, "Theo, I'm leaving. Take care of yourself." He responded with a flat "Oh," eyes still glued to his paper. Ever since Kelly had appeared in their lives, he had grown more and more distant from her. She still remembered that video Kelly once posted on social media. In it, Theo was munching on cotton candy as he mumbled through sticky lips, "I just like being with Kelly. I get to eat all kinds of yummy things." Then Kelly said, "Theo, is your mommy not good to you?" "She just nags all the time. Tells me what I can and can't do, won't let me eat this or that." "Then between me and your mommy, who's better?" "Of course, you! If my mommy treated me half as well as you do, I'd be so happy." Sharon understood. Compared to a strict mother, Kelly indulged him, spoiled him, and let him do whatever he pleased—of course she'd win his heart. To manage his condition, she made sure he went to bed on time every night. With his weak digestive system, she never let him touch outside junk food. It had taken years of meticulous care before he finally became stronger and no longer fell ill so easily. But in the process, he'd grown more and more distant from her. She was almost out the door when Theo's voice suddenly called after her. "Mommy." Sharon turned around. He said, "You once said… the people Theo likes, Mommy will like too. I really like Kelly. So Mommy will like her too, right?" Sharon froze for a split second. Then, something quietly snapped inside her. She closed her eyes and smiled faintly—without a sound. "You've always wanted to protect Kelly, haven't you? From now on, you can protect her together with your daddy." A flicker of confusion passed through Theo's eyes. He didn't understand what she meant. Sharon didn't explain. She simply turned and walked out of the villa. … Wendy Cohen's car was already waiting outside. After loading the suitcase into the trunk, Wendy looked at her. "Sharon… you've really decided to go through with the divorce?" Sharon gave a small nod. "Mm. I have." "And… what about Theo?" "Even if I fought for custody, I couldn't win against Carter." Sharon gave a bitter smile. "And besides… Theo might not even want to come with me. To him, Kelly is the best." Wendy frowned in disapproval. "You almost death giving birth to him—labored through an entire day and night. You've been by his side ever since, doing everything for him. How could he think some homewrecker is better than his own mother?" Sharon said calmly, "That just proves they're father and son. Even their taste in women is the same." Wendy hesitated. "And Carter… does he know you're leaving?" She shook her head. "He's probably still with his precious Kelly." Before she got married, Sharon had owned a small apartment of her own. It had been a long time since she'd lived there. After cleaning up the space, Wendy suggested they go out. "Sharon, we haven't gone shopping together since you had Theo. Want to hit the streets for a bit?" It was true. Ever since Theo's birth, Sharon's life had revolved solely around home and Theo. She'd lost herself, her time, her freedom—everything. Looking at the spark in Wendy's eyes, Sharon was suddenly reminded of who she used to be. She had once been just like her—full of light, full of life. Five years of marriage had turned her into someone prematurely aged, spiritless, and worn. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Okay." Just then, Wendy's phone rang. Whatever was said on the other end made her brow furrow. After a moment, she said into the phone, "Alright, we'll be there soon." Hanging up, she turned to Sharon. "Someone wants to offer a high price to buy the violin you authorized Demusica Harmony to sell—Shaluna. The manager says the buyer seems like a big deal. He didn't dare refuse. Since you're free today, we should go take a look." Shaluna… It had been five years since Sharon had touched her violin. She'd been so caught up in caring for Theo that everything related to music had been left in Wendy's hands. Hearing that name again now—it felt like a lifetime ago. … As soon as they stepped into the music shop, Sharon's steps halted. A tall, handsome man and a delicate, graceful woman stood together in front of a showcase labeled "Not For Sale." The woman's soft, gentle voice floated through the air. "The legendary Shaluna… it's even more beautiful than I imagined." "Carter, didn't you say you loved hearing me play the violin most? I want to hold one final concert before the end… I want to use this violin. What do you think?" The man's voice was low and clear. "Okay." The store manager followed nervously behind them, wiping sweat from his brow. When he saw Sharon and Wendy walk in, his eyes lit up like he'd just seen his saviors. "Wendy! You're finally here. Mr. Biggs would like to purchase Shaluna. You can set any price you like—what do you think?" Chapter 3 When Wendy saw Carter and Kelly, her brows drew together instinctively, and a flicker of deep disgust surfaced in her eyes. Her voice was cold. "Shaluna is not for sale." Kelly's brow twitched ever so slightly, her gaze quickly shifting to the woman standing beside Wendy—Sharon. Compared to Kelly's delicate charm, the kind you'd find in a dainty porcelain figure, Sharon had a quiet grace, a poised elegance. Her face was a perfect oval, her features soft yet defined. Her eyes, limpid and calm, seemed to hold a ripple of water. She looked just like a classical beauty walking straight out of an ancient painting. The moment Kelly laid eyes on her, something flickered in her gaze. She walked quickly toward Sharon and stopped in front of her, her expression tinged with a pleading softness. "Sharon," she said gently, "is this violin your friend's? Could you ask your friend to lend it to me for a little while? Back then, Carter and I met because of the violin. I was practicing in the garden, and he was drawn to my music. That's how he found me… and how we got together. He always loved hearing me play. "Sharon, I don't know how much time I have left. I don't even know if I can still hold a successful concert. But no matter what, I want to try—just one more time." Whether intentional or not, Kelly lowered her head slightly, revealing the familiar necklace on her neck. The overhead lights caught the pendant, scattering soft brilliance. The gleam stabbed into Sharon's eyes. Her voice was emotionless. "People death every day in this world. So what—just because someone with a terminal illness appears in front of me, I'm supposed to accommodate them?" Kelly had clearly never heard such words before. Her eyes reddened instantly, tears pooling, trembling on the edge. Carter's expression turned cold. "Sharon, it's just a violin. Must you be so aggressive? If you like it that much, I'll buy you another." Sharon looked at him. "Exactly. It's just a violin. If she wants one, buy her another. Why does it have to be mine?" Kelly pleaded softly beside them. "Sharon, what would it take for you to let me borrow it? Whatever conditions you have, just name them." Name her price? As if the bill wouldn't end up on Carter's desk in the end? Sharon let out a soundless laugh. "Kelly, you seem quite fond of things left behind by my mother. First the necklace, now the violin." Kelly blinked, confused. "I don't quite understand what you mean." Watching her feign innocence, Sharon sneered inwardly. "This violin—Shaluna—was my mother's. And that necklace around your neck, that too was hers." Kelly's face turned pale. "I'm sorry. I really didn't know it belonged to your mother… Last night, Theo gave me a gift box with the necklace inside. I thought it was a gift from Carter, so I wore it. I didn't realize it was your mother's…" Sharon gave a light, cool laugh. "Well, now that you do—can you give it back?" Kelly touched the necklace at her collarbone, bit her lip, and looked up at Carter, eyes shimmering. "Carter, since Sharon is asking… why not just let her have the necklace? We shouldn't upset her over something so trivial—it's not worth it." Let her have it? Not return it—let her have it. As if even if the necklace was originally her mother's, it wasn't hers to begin with. As if Kelly were magnanimously granting her a favor, not returning what never belonged to her in the first place. Carter already believed that Sharon's talk of divorce was just a ploy to threaten him. He hadn't liked that. Now, as he heard Kelly's words, his expression grew colder. "No need," he said. "Since I gave it to you, it's yours." "But…" Kelly started. He cut her off. "Once something's given away, there's no reason to take it back." A trace of emotion stirred on Kelly's face—touched, grateful. Sharon instinctively curled her fingers into a fist. Then, as if shaking something off, she smiled faintly. "Kelly, didn't you want to borrow the violin? Sure. If Mr. Biggs begs me for it, I'll consider it." Kelly's pupils widened. She looked stunned. Carter's expression darkened to something almost dangerous. "Sharon," he said coldly, "that's enough." Her tone turned mocking. "And here I thought Mr. Biggs would do anything for you, Kelly. But now… seems that isn't quite true." She had once believed Carter would sacrifice anything for Kelly. Now she realized: the things he sacrificed were always the ones that didn't matter. Like her. Once she understood that, Sharon felt nothing anymore. Not disappointment. Not anger. Just… nothing. She turned to the shop manager, who'd been frozen at the side. "If I'm not mistaken," she said, "the authorization for this violin expires today. Please remove it from display—I'm taking it home." The manager glanced cautiously at Carter. Sharon raised a brow. "What? As the owner, do I not even have the right to take my own violin?" "N-no, of course not," the manager stammered. "I'll arrange the paperwork right away." Once the handover was complete, Sharon took the violin and walked out without looking back. She didn't spare Carter or Kelly so much as a glance. Carter's brows knit tightly as he watched her leave. Kelly lowered her head slightly, voice tinged with guilt. "It must be because you forgot her birthday yesterday. That's why she's angry… It's my fault, I've been a burden." "It has nothing to do with you," Carter replied, voice flat as he looked away. "Go ahead and prepare for the concert. I'll have someone send the Shaluna to you later." A bright smile spread across Kelly's face. "Okay." … That night, Carter returned home on time for once. But Sharon wasn't around to greet him with a warm meal like she always did. When dinner time came around, Theo came downstairs as usual. But the dining room was empty, the table bare. He looked puzzled. "Daddy, didn't Mommy cook dinner today?" Sharon had always been the perfect wife and mother. She never argued, never made a fuss. She played her role flawlessly. Carter had never loved her, but overall, he'd been quite satisfied. Especially with Theo's weak stomach and picky eating habits—Sharon never left meals to the staff. She always cooked everything herself, including dinner and late-night snacks. Thinking of what had happened during the day, Carter pressed his lips into a line, his face darkening slightly. If this was her way of retaliating, of throwing a tantrum, then she was overestimating herself. "Don't worry about her," he said coolly. "Let's go eat out." Theo clapped happily. "Yay! Can Kelly come along too? I want cotton candy again!" "Cotton candy?" Carter blinked. "Didn't your mom say you can't eat it because you're lactose intolerant?" Chapter 4 Theo curled his lip. "My lactose intolerance is much better now. The doctor said it's fine if I eat a little now and then. But Mom always wants to control me—make me do what she says." That word—control—coming from a five-year-old's mouth, felt too heavy, too strange. Carter was just about to respond when his phone rang. He answered, and Kelly's voice came through from the other end. "Carter, are you home now?" "Yes." "Sharon hasn't come back yet, has she?" He paused for a moment. "Why?" "I think I just saw her…" Kelly's voice hesitated. "She was having dinner with a young man. They seemed… close." She fell silent for a beat, then carefully asked, "Is it because of what happened earlier today? Did something upset her again? Carter, maybe you should explain things to her properly." A chill slipped into Carter's eyes. Sharon didn't come home to cook—because she was out on a date? His voice turned colder without him realizing it. "Where is she?" Kelly gave him an address. "I got it," he said, and hung up. … In the restaurant, John Westin looked at Sharon steadily. "Have you really made up your mind?" She nodded. "Shaluna was something my mother custom made just for me… and I gave it up for my family, for five whole years." Her voice trailed off as she let out a quiet sigh. A hint of wistfulness flickered across her face. "And now?" John's voice was low. "If you return, you'll have to perform regularly. It'll be exhausting. You won't have much time left—for your husband, for your son." "Theo's health is fine now." A trace of irony flashed in her eyes. "Besides, he doesn't need me anymore." "And what about Carter?" John asked. "Will he agree?" At the mention of Carter, her gaze turned icy. "I don't need his permission. This is my life." John looked at her for a long moment. "But he won't allow you to be around me." "I don't need his approval." Her voice was steady, but guilt surfaced on her face as she recalled how she'd once distanced herself from John—just because of something Carter had said. "John," she murmured, "I'm sorry." But John shook his head. "Sharon, you don't need to apologize to me. It's me who should be sorry. I promised your mother I'd protect you. But I didn't have the strength to keep that promise. I let you suffer so much." John was her senior. The two had studied violin together under her mother since childhood. Now, John was one of the most celebrated violinists in the field. His striking features and melancholic temperament had propelled him beyond the classical music world, turning him into a heartthrob with fan followings rivaling top-tier celebrities. Fame, fortune—he had it all. But he still couldn't compare to someone like Carter, a man with real capital behind him. "It's not your fault," Sharon said softly. "It's mine—" She didn't get to finish. A soft voice cut in from behind. "Sharon, what a surprise to see you here." Sharon turned to see Kelly, dressed in a pristine white dress. Running into someone she disliked—twice in one day—what rotten luck. Her voice turned cold. "What's it to you?" Kelly smiled sweetly. "Don't be upset, Sharon. I just found it strange—Carter rarely goes home, and yet you're not there cooking dinner?" Her tone was light, face gentle—an image of innocence and grace. By contrast, Sharon suddenly seemed sharp, callous, and unkind. But Sharon could hear the taunt beneath Kelly's gentle voice. She lifted her eyes—and saw the flicker of smugness in Kelly's gaze that hadn't quite been tucked away. She shot back, "And why is it rare for Carter to go home? Isn't it because his time is all taken up by you, Kelly? Are you really that clueless, or just pretending to be?" Shock spread across Kelly's face. She grabbed Sharon's hand, anxious to explain. "Sharon, wait, I didn't mean it like that—" Before she could finish, Sharon yanked her hand away. "If you're not pretending, then you really don't know your place. And women with no self-awareness? They're very annoying." "Ah!" Suddenly, Kelly let out a shriek and stumbled backward. Before Sharon could even react, a tall figure caught her just in time. "Kelly, are you okay?" Kelly's face had gone pale. When she looked up and saw who it was, her eyes immediately brimmed with tears, as if she had suffered some great injustice. "Carter… I'm fine. Sharon didn't mean to. Please don't be mad at her, okay?" Carter's gaze flicked, finally locking on Sharon nearby. His brows drew together, voice low and cold. "Sharon, apologize to Kelly." It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. In the past, Sharon would've hurried to explain. "It wasn't me," "Please hear me out," "I didn't do it," "Can't you believe me?" But Carter never took her side. He always made her apologize to Kelly. If she refused, he'd punish her with silence. He wouldn't answer her calls. Wouldn't reply to her messages. He would treat her like air—not a single word, not even a glance. Later, even Theo joined in the silent treatment. In the end, she had no choice but to lower her head and give in. The memory made her laugh bitterly. "Why should I listen to you? Who do you think you are?" Carter froze for a second, wondering if he'd misheard her. "What did you say?" Sharon met his gaze, calm and cold. "When I cared about you, everything you said mattered. But now? Tell me—what are you to me?" He finally understood what she meant. In all the time he'd known her, she had never spoken to him like this. She had always been gentle. Always considerate. She'd leave the lights on when he worked late. She'd make him midnight snacks when he stayed in his study for hours. She'd bring him tea to sober up when he came home drunk. Even after Kelly reappeared and Sharon changed, she'd never defied him so directly. So why now… why did his chest feel so tight? And then, a young voice cut through the tension. "Mommy, you taught me that when someone does something wrong, they should apologize. So… now that you've done something wrong, shouldn't you say sorry to Kelly?" Chapter 5 Sharon turned her head and saw Theo standing behind Carter. Though he was speaking to her, his gaze remained fixed on Kelly, worry written plainly across his face. Since forever, even the slightest sign of trouble from Kelly would send both Carter and Theo into a frenzy of concern. There was a time when the four of them went to a park together. No one could tell if it was a heatstroke or some sudden onset of illness, but Kelly suddenly looked as if she were about to collapse. Both Carter and Theo rushed toward her at once. In his panic, Carter even pushed Sharon to the ground. And yet, no one noticed. The cruelest part? Later, when Carter saw her injured and bandaged hand, he actually asked her how she'd gotten hurt. The memory shattered as Kelly's fragile voice broke into her thoughts. "Theo, I just lost my balance. It had nothing to do with your mother." Kelly shook her head at Theo, tears sliding down her cheeks in pitiful silence. "It's my body… it's just too weak…" Theo pouted, lips pushing forward. "But I saw it. I saw Mommy push you." He turned to Sharon then, his little face serious. "Mommy, you always told me that when someone makes a mistake, they should admit it and fix it. You're a grown-up… you wouldn't go back on your word, would you?" Sharon had put everything into caring for Theo's health. But when it came to his studies, she had hardly needed to lift a finger. At only five years old, Theo was already fluent in three languages and possessed an extraordinary gift for speech. More than once, he had left grown adults speechless. Carter's mother often said the boy's brilliance reminded her of Carter when he was young. And now, this little boy was using that sharp mind… against her, for Kelly's sake. As his mother, as an adult, she knew she had to set the right example. If she couldn't live by her own words, how could she ask a child to? Sharon looked at her husband and son, both standing beside Kelly. In that moment, she felt that they looked more like a family than she ever had with them. She had long since stopped hoping for anything from this father and son, but still, Theo's words pricked at her heart. Lowering her gaze to meet his eyes, Sharon said softly, "You're right. I did tell you that if we do something wrong, we should apologize. But—" She paused, her voice calm and deliberate. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why should I apologize?" In the past, she would've yielded. She always did when it came to Theo. But today, she didn't. Theo spoke without thinking, "But I saw you push Kelly." Sharon didn't argue. Instead, she smiled faintly. "Just because I pushed her… does that mean I was wrong?" "But Mom, you said hitting people is wrong…" Her tone was light, even serene. "And I also told you that we shouldn't bully others. But that doesn't mean we should let others bully us. If someone keeps crossing the line, then—you shouldn't hold back." For all his cleverness, Theo was still only five. He hadn't expected her to say something like that. For a moment, he was stunned into silence. Just then, John's voice came from the side. "Theo, that's not how you speak to your mother." Both Carter and Theo turned toward the sound, surprised. As if they had only now noticed John standing nearby. Theo blinked. "Mr. Westin?" Carter's expression darkened. "Why are you here?" John — Sharon's childhood friend and senior schoolmate — was someone Carter had met many times. He'd heard about him from Sharon, too. She once told him that John had grown up without parents, raised by his grandparents. By middle school, he had lost even them, and was left completely alone in the world. It was around that time Sharon's mother discovered his musical talent and took him under her wing. But John had been a withdrawn, melancholy child who ignored everyone around him. It took Sharon three years to get through to him, for him to accept her as a friend and fellow student. And yet, for reasons Carter couldn't explain, he'd disliked this man from the very first moment they met. "You can meet your ex-girlfriend, but it's strange that Sharon has a meal with someone who's like family to her?" John's tone was flat, but every word carried weight, each one slicing through the pretense like a blade. He stripped away Carter and Kelly's carefully constructed facade with chilling precision. Carter's eyes darkened, and his face hardened. "Sharon, come home with me." She answered without emotion, "No. I'm still eating with John." His voice grew cold, laced with threat. "Sharon, I'll say it one last time. Come home with me." She knew this tone well — it meant he was furious. If she didn't yield now, it wouldn't end with a simple fight. He would take action. He always did. She could never forget that night, when thunder rolled through the sky and rain soaked her from head to toe. She had knelt at his feet, soaked and shivering, begging him with tears streaming down her face to return Theo to her. He had looked down at her, cold and arrogant, and asked, "Do you admit your mistake?" The sound of her tears had echoed against the ground like rain, and in the end, she could only agree to apologize for Kelly's fall into the water. He always had a way of forcing her hand. The thought made Sharon smile. Then, calmly, she said, "No." Carter's eyes turned icy, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Sharon, think carefully about the consequences." She met his gaze without fear. "Mr. Biggs, whatever tricks you've got, go ahead and use them." Her only weakness had ever been Theo. But now, she didn't even want him anymore. Carter had nothing left to threaten her with. Turning to John, she said, "John, the vibes here aren't great. Let's find another place to eat." He paused for a beat, then nodded. "Alright." Without sparing the three behind her another glance, Sharon picked up her bag and prepared to leave. Behind her, Theo called out stubbornly, "Mommy, are you really not going to apologize to Kelly?" She paused, just for a second — then walked away without looking back. Carter stood where he was, watching her retreating figure. His gaze grew colder and darker by the second. Beside him, Theo stared after her too, a flicker of confusion crossing his delicate little face. Something about his Mommy felt different. Noticing both of their gazes locked on Sharon, Kelly's eyes gleamed with something sharp and cold. Then, all at once, she let out a weak gasp. "Ah…" In an instant, both Carter and Theo snapped their attention back to her. Kelly's face was pale. Her body swayed unsteadily, as if she might collapse at any moment. Carter's expression shifted, and without hesitation, he swept her up into his arms. Chapter 6 Carter turned to Theo, who stood quietly to the side. "Theo, wait here for me," he said. Theo gave a small nod, obedient and aware. He knew Carter needed to tend to Kelly first. As soon as Carter stepped away, a murmur of conversation rose from a nearby table. "Dennis, look," a woman whispered. "That little boy over there looks even younger than you, but he stood up for his mom and drove away the mistress. Impressive, isn't he? When you see that awful woman again, you need to learn from him. Don't be scared, alright?" Theo heard them and turned his head toward the voices. A woman in her thirties was sitting at the next table, dining with a little boy who looked around seven or eight. The boy—Dennis—nodded earnestly. Noticing Theo looking their way, Dennis jumped off his chair and walked up to him. "You're amazing. Can you teach me how to get rid of a mistress?" Theo blinked, a little thrown off. "Mistress?" Dennis thought Theo didn't know what that meant and proceeded to explain with grave seriousness. "A mistress is someone who comes between a mom and dad. The third person. She ruins everything. She makes your mom sad, and she makes your parents get divorced. Women like that are bad!" Dennis's face twisted in anger. "Lately there's been this bad woman who keeps clinging to my dad. But…" His voice faltered, replaced by a look of helplessness. "But I don't know how to make her leave. I don't know how to protect my mom." He looked up at Theo again, his eyes filled with admiration. "You were so cool just now. Just a few words, and that woman ran away. Your mom and dad got back together, right? Can you teach me how you did it?" Theo was still struggling to process it all. "Got back together…?" But… wasn't it Mom who left first? Dennis tilted his head, confused. "Didn't that woman just get scared off by what you said? And didn't your dad carry your mom away right after?" Mom? So Dennis had mistaken Kelly for his mother? At that moment, Dennis's mom walked over too. She reached out and gently patted Theo's head. "You're such a good boy," she said warmly. "You didn't hesitate at all to take your mother's side. Not like my Dennis—he once said the bad lady was nice just because she gave him candy." Dennis scratched his head sheepishly. "Mom wouldn't let me eat candy. I couldn't resist…" "I don't let you eat it because I don't want your teeth to rot. When you're older, you can eat as much as you want." Dennis hugged his mother's arm and whined softly, "I know now, Mom. You're just looking out for me. Don't stay mad, okay?" "That woman almost sold you off. Took that for you to realize your mom's not so bad after all." Dennis let out a goofy laugh. "Hehe… better late than never!" Though the woman kept chiding her son, her eyes betrayed nothing but affection and tenderness. … More than half an hour passed before Carter and Kelly returned. "I'm really fine, Carter," Kelly said helplessly. "It's just low blood sugar… no need to go to the hospital." Carter's tone was firm, his face stern. "You're fainting more often lately. We should get you checked, just in case it's something more serious." Something flickered across Kelly's face—barely perceptible. Lately, in an effort to keep Sharon on edge, she had indeed asked Carter to come over more than she used to. "I'll be alright," she said. "It's getting late, and Theo hasn't eaten yet. Let's let him eat first. I can go to the hospital tomorrow—it's the same." They spoke as they walked, making their way back to Theo. He sat alone at the table, staring blankly out the window, a faraway look in his eyes—lost in a way he had never been before. Carter didn't notice. He simply stepped in front of him. "Kelly's not feeling well. I'm going to take her to the hospital. We'll eat dinner after." His voice was calm, but there was no room for argument in his words. For all his outward coolness, Carter was inherently domineering. Once he made a decision, it was rarely overturned. On any other day, Theo would've agreed without hesitation. But today, something felt different. Sharon's face floated into his mind. Until today, she had always prepared his meals on time. He had a weak stomach—he needed to eat regularly. Even when they were out with Kelly and it got late, Sharon would insist he eat something light to tide him over. She'd even customized those snacks just for him. Her cooking was excellent, though after a while, eating the same things did get old. Outside food always looked more exciting, more tempting. Gradually, he'd stopped enjoying the things she made. Kelly's soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Carter, Theo's body is weak. Let's let him eat a little first." Carter's voice was cool. "Your health is more important." Kelly's cheeks flushed slightly. She didn't argue, only looked down and smiled gently at Theo. "How about we get you a slice of strawberry cake to eat on the way?" Strawberry cake—Theo's favorite. On any other day, he'd have jumped for joy. But now, he only gave a quiet nod. "Okay." Kelly noticed something odd about him today, but didn't dwell on it. After asking the server to pack up a slice of cake, she took his hand, and they walked out of the restaurant together. … On the way to the hospital, Kelly sat in the passenger seat, turning back every now and then to remind Theo to be careful while eating. "If I didn't get carsick, I'd sit in the back with you," she said with a sigh. "Then I could take better care of you." Even when Sharon was around, Kelly had insisted on sitting in the front. Her reason was always the same: she got motion sickness, and sitting in front made it easier. Theo looked at the cake in his hands. Suddenly, he remembered what Dennis's mom had said—that she didn't let her son eat candy because it was for his own good. He looked up. "Ms. Walt, are you a mistress?"

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It was one in the morning. Sharon McKinzie found herself unable to sleep and started scrolling through her phone. She suddenly came across a new post on Kelly Walt's Facebook. [Thank you to Carter and little Theo for the lovely gifts. The cup was even handmade by Theo himself.] Sharon tapped on the photo. A necklace and a DIY mug appeared on her screen. Faintly, she could make out the words etched onto the cup: Happy Birthday, Mom. Her eyes drifted to the cold dishes still sitting on the dining table, untouched. The birthday cake, too, remained unlit. A faint, self-mocking smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She remembered seeing a news notification earlier that day. [Confirmed! The famously aloof figure from Amstern City, Carter Biggs, is secretly married—with a five-year-old son!] In the photo, a tall, handsome man and a slender, beautiful woman were walking hand in hand with a five-year-old boy through an amusement park. Kelly gently touched Theo's head, while Carter gazed at her with a softness Sharon had never seen before. The three of them looked picture-perfect—a beautiful couple and a child who looked just like Carter. They truly looked like a happy family. Today was Sharon's birthday. It was also her fifth wedding anniversary with Carter. And yet, the one being celebrated wasn't her—it was Kelly. Carter and Theo had spent the entire day with Kelly, gifting her what should have belonged to Sharon. Sharon wasn't surprised. Not anymore. She was used to this. Kelly was Carter's first love. She was terminally ill, with only a year left to live. Her dying wish was simply to see him one last time. Carter had told her he just wanted to do a few things for Kelly before the end, and hoped Sharon would understand. Sharon didn't want to understand. But she knew—she couldn't stop him. It was the first time Carter had spoken to her with such gravity. It felt like something had been carved out of her chest—leaving behind a hollow, aching space. She didn't know how long she sat there in the dark before the sound of the front door broke the silence. Carter walked in with Theo. He paused when he saw her sitting at the dining table, clearly surprised, as if he'd forgotten what day it was. "You're still up?" he asked. "I want to talk," Sharon replied calmly. Carter frowned slightly, then looked down at Theo. "Go on upstairs, Theo." Theo rubbed his eyes and yawned as he walked past Sharon. He suddenly paused. "Happy birthday, Mommy." He tilted his head up to look at her—those eyes, so much like Carter's, stared into hers. "Daddy and I didn't mean to forget your birthday. It's just… we still have so much time together. But Kelly only has six months left. You're not mad at us over something so small… right, Mommy?" Sharon didn't know what hurt more—being forgotten completely, or being remembered, only to be pushed aside anyway. Once Theo left, the room fell into silence again. Carter was the one to break it. "What did you want to talk about?" He was dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, his features refined, his presence cool and composed like the pale, untouchable moon hanging in a winter night sky. Detached. Remote. Sharon took a deep breath. "Carter, let's get a divorce." A flicker passed through his eyes—like a breeze rippling across a still lake. But just as quickly, it vanished. "I didn't forget your birthday," he said. "I already prepared your gift." "My gift?" Sharon gave a low laugh. "You mean the necklace that used to belong to my mother? The one you gave to Kelly?" That necklace was the only thing Sharon's mother had left her before she passed. Sharon had lost it the day she gave birth to Theo. Carter had promised to help her find it. He did find it—only to give it away. Carter's face remained composed, without a trace of embarrassment. Only his eyes darkened, just slightly. "It's only on loan to Kelly. I'll return it to you later." "How much later?" Sharon asked quietly. "The day she death?" "Sharon! That's enough!" His voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. His usually distant expression gave way to rare anger. It was enough. She had had enough of being married to a man who gave his heart to someone else, enough of raising a child who never felt like hers, enough of being belittled by her in-laws. "Kelly only has half a year left," Carter said. "Even Theo knows to be kind. Why can't you show the same generosity?" In that moment, Sharon felt something in her snap. "What does her time left have to do with me?" she said. "She's not my family. Why should I be the one to tolerate her?" Carter looked genuinely taken aback. Sharon had always been gentle, mild. He hadn't expected words like that to come from her mouth. A cold glint flashed across his gaze. "I thought we had an understanding." Sharon let out a soft laugh. "She wants to relive her first love, so I have to watch the two of you fall in love all over again. She wants to experience a wedding, so you hand her the one I spent half a year planning. I get to watch you and her walk Theo down the aisle like a real family. She wants to see the world before she dies, so you take her traveling across it. If she wanted the moon, I bet you'd try to pluck it from the sky." She and Carter had been secretly married for five years. They'd never held a ceremony. It wasn't until Theo once asked her what she looked like in a wedding dress that Carter decided they should hold one. He promised she could plan it all—down to the last detail. She had. Then Kelly spoke a single sentence, and everything changed. Carter's expression turned to ice. "You've crossed a line." Crossed a line. Something tightened in her chest. She closed her eyes, the weight of disappointment pressing down on her. All these years, she had tried to be the perfect wife and mother. No matter how hard she tried, Carter remained distant. She had assumed it was simply his nature—detached and reserved. But then Kelly came back, and Sharon realized, even an aloof guy like Carter had fire in him. She reached for the divorce papers already prepared and placed on the table. "I've signed them. You should too. If she can officially become Mrs. Biggs before she dies, I imagine it would make her very happy." Carter's lips pressed into a tight line. His handsome face seemed to frost over. It was a clear sign of his displeasure. "And Theo?" "He'll stay with you," she replied softly. He looked like he was about to speak, but then his phone rang. He picked it up. "Carter! Kelly collapsed—she's in the emergency room!" Chapter 2 Carter's brows drew tightly together. He said quickly, "I'll be right there," then turned and strode off without so much as a glance back at Sharon. Sharon stood still, expressionless, watching his retreating figure disappear into the darkness. She'd lost count of how many times, in the middle of the night, he had left like this—rushing to Kelly's side at the news of another so-called "critical condition." … The next morning, Sharon wheeled out her neatly packed suitcase, ready to leave. As she passed by Theo's room, her steps faltered. After a moment of hesitation, she decided to go in and see him one last time. He had been born prematurely. Ever since then, Theo had been frail and prone to illness. Because of that, she had always cared for him personally, never trusting anyone else to take her place. He looked a lot like Carter—right down to the cool, distant temperament. It was a weekend. Theo wasn't at school and was seated at his desk, working on his homework. When she entered, he greeted her out of habit, "Morning, Mommy," and went right back to writing without looking up. Sharon gazed at the profile of his face—so much like Carter's—and finally said, "Theo, I'm leaving. Take care of yourself." He responded with a flat "Oh," eyes still glued to his paper. Ever since Kelly had appeared in their lives, he had grown more and more distant from her. She still remembered that video Kelly once posted on social media. In it, Theo was munching on cotton candy as he mumbled through sticky lips, "I just like being with Kelly. I get to eat all kinds of yummy things." Then Kelly said, "Theo, is your mommy not good to you?" "She just nags all the time. Tells me what I can and can't do, won't let me eat this or that." "Then between me and your mommy, who's better?" "Of course, you! If my mommy treated me half as well as you do, I'd be so happy." Sharon understood. Compared to a strict mother, Kelly indulged him, spoiled him, and let him do whatever he pleased—of course she'd win his heart. To manage his condition, she made sure he went to bed on time every night. With his weak digestive system, she never let him touch outside junk food. It had taken years of meticulous care before he finally became stronger and no longer fell ill so easily. But in the process, he'd grown more and more distant from her. She was almost out the door when Theo's voice suddenly called after her. "Mommy." Sharon turned around. He said, "You once said… the people Theo likes, Mommy will like too. I really like Kelly. So Mommy will like her too, right?" Sharon froze for a split second. Then, something quietly snapped inside her. She closed her eyes and smiled faintly—without a sound. "You've always wanted to protect Kelly, haven't you? From now on, you can protect her together with your daddy." A flicker of confusion passed through Theo's eyes. He didn't understand what she meant. Sharon didn't explain. She simply turned and walked out of the villa. … Wendy Cohen's car was already waiting outside. After loading the suitcase into the trunk, Wendy looked at her. "Sharon… you've really decided to go through with the divorce?" Sharon gave a small nod. "Mm. I have." "And… what about Theo?" "Even if I fought for custody, I couldn't win against Carter." Sharon gave a bitter smile. "And besides… Theo might not even want to come with me. To him, Kelly is the best." Wendy frowned in disapproval. "You almost death giving birth to him—labored through an entire day and night. You've been by his side ever since, doing everything for him. How could he think some homewrecker is better than his own mother?" Sharon said calmly, "That just proves they're father and son. Even their taste in women is the same." Wendy hesitated. "And Carter… does he know you're leaving?" She shook her head. "He's probably still with his precious Kelly." Before she got married, Sharon had owned a small apartment of her own. It had been a long time since she'd lived there. After cleaning up the space, Wendy suggested they go out. "Sharon, we haven't gone shopping together since you had Theo. Want to hit the streets for a bit?" It was true. Ever since Theo's birth, Sharon's life had revolved solely around home and Theo. She'd lost herself, her time, her freedom—everything. Looking at the spark in Wendy's eyes, Sharon was suddenly reminded of who she used to be. She had once been just like her—full of light, full of life. Five years of marriage had turned her into someone prematurely aged, spiritless, and worn. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Okay." Just then, Wendy's phone rang. Whatever was said on the other end made her brow furrow. After a moment, she said into the phone, "Alright, we'll be there soon." Hanging up, she turned to Sharon. "Someone wants to offer a high price to buy the violin you authorized Demusica Harmony to sell—Shaluna. The manager says the buyer seems like a big deal. He didn't dare refuse. Since you're free today, we should go take a look." Shaluna… It had been five years since Sharon had touched her violin. She'd been so caught up in caring for Theo that everything related to music had been left in Wendy's hands. Hearing that name again now—it felt like a lifetime ago. … As soon as they stepped into the music shop, Sharon's steps halted. A tall, handsome man and a delicate, graceful woman stood together in front of a showcase labeled "Not For Sale." The woman's soft, gentle voice floated through the air. "The legendary Shaluna… it's even more beautiful than I imagined." "Carter, didn't you say you loved hearing me play the violin most? I want to hold one final concert before the end… I want to use this violin. What do you think?" The man's voice was low and clear. "Okay." The store manager followed nervously behind them, wiping sweat from his brow. When he saw Sharon and Wendy walk in, his eyes lit up like he'd just seen his saviors. "Wendy! You're finally here. Mr. Biggs would like to purchase Shaluna. You can set any price you like—what do you think?" Chapter 3 When Wendy saw Carter and Kelly, her brows drew together instinctively, and a flicker of deep disgust surfaced in her eyes. Her voice was cold. "Shaluna is not for sale." Kelly's brow twitched ever so slightly, her gaze quickly shifting to the woman standing beside Wendy—Sharon. Compared to Kelly's delicate charm, the kind you'd find in a dainty porcelain figure, Sharon had a quiet grace, a poised elegance. Her face was a perfect oval, her features soft yet defined. Her eyes, limpid and calm, seemed to hold a ripple of water. She looked just like a classical beauty walking straight out of an ancient painting. The moment Kelly laid eyes on her, something flickered in her gaze. She walked quickly toward Sharon and stopped in front of her, her expression tinged with a pleading softness. "Sharon," she said gently, "is this violin your friend's? Could you ask your friend to lend it to me for a little while? Back then, Carter and I met because of the violin. I was practicing in the garden, and he was drawn to my music. That's how he found me… and how we got together. He always loved hearing me play. "Sharon, I don't know how much time I have left. I don't even know if I can still hold a successful concert. But no matter what, I want to try—just one more time." Whether intentional or not, Kelly lowered her head slightly, revealing the familiar necklace on her neck. The overhead lights caught the pendant, scattering soft brilliance. The gleam stabbed into Sharon's eyes. Her voice was emotionless. "People death every day in this world. So what—just because someone with a terminal illness appears in front of me, I'm supposed to accommodate them?" Kelly had clearly never heard such words before. Her eyes reddened instantly, tears pooling, trembling on the edge. Carter's expression turned cold. "Sharon, it's just a violin. Must you be so aggressive? If you like it that much, I'll buy you another." Sharon looked at him. "Exactly. It's just a violin. If she wants one, buy her another. Why does it have to be mine?" Kelly pleaded softly beside them. "Sharon, what would it take for you to let me borrow it? Whatever conditions you have, just name them." Name her price? As if the bill wouldn't end up on Carter's desk in the end? Sharon let out a soundless laugh. "Kelly, you seem quite fond of things left behind by my mother. First the necklace, now the violin." Kelly blinked, confused. "I don't quite understand what you mean." Watching her feign innocence, Sharon sneered inwardly. "This violin—Shaluna—was my mother's. And that necklace around your neck, that too was hers." Kelly's face turned pale. "I'm sorry. I really didn't know it belonged to your mother… Last night, Theo gave me a gift box with the necklace inside. I thought it was a gift from Carter, so I wore it. I didn't realize it was your mother's…" Sharon gave a light, cool laugh. "Well, now that you do—can you give it back?" Kelly touched the necklace at her collarbone, bit her lip, and looked up at Carter, eyes shimmering. "Carter, since Sharon is asking… why not just let her have the necklace? We shouldn't upset her over something so trivial—it's not worth it." Let her have it? Not return it—let her have it. As if even if the necklace was originally her mother's, it wasn't hers to begin with. As if Kelly were magnanimously granting her a favor, not returning what never belonged to her in the first place. Carter already believed that Sharon's talk of divorce was just a ploy to threaten him. He hadn't liked that. Now, as he heard Kelly's words, his expression grew colder. "No need," he said. "Since I gave it to you, it's yours." "But…" Kelly started. He cut her off. "Once something's given away, there's no reason to take it back." A trace of emotion stirred on Kelly's face—touched, grateful. Sharon instinctively curled her fingers into a fist. Then, as if shaking something off, she smiled faintly. "Kelly, didn't you want to borrow the violin? Sure. If Mr. Biggs begs me for it, I'll consider it." Kelly's pupils widened. She looked stunned. Carter's expression darkened to something almost dangerous. "Sharon," he said coldly, "that's enough." Her tone turned mocking. "And here I thought Mr. Biggs would do anything for you, Kelly. But now… seems that isn't quite true." She had once believed Carter would sacrifice anything for Kelly. Now she realized: the things he sacrificed were always the ones that didn't matter. Like her. Once she understood that, Sharon felt nothing anymore. Not disappointment. Not anger. Just… nothing. She turned to the shop manager, who'd been frozen at the side. "If I'm not mistaken," she said, "the authorization for this violin expires today. Please remove it from display—I'm taking it home." The manager glanced cautiously at Carter. Sharon raised a brow. "What? As the owner, do I not even have the right to take my own violin?" "N-no, of course not," the manager stammered. "I'll arrange the paperwork right away." Once the handover was complete, Sharon took the violin and walked out without looking back. She didn't spare Carter or Kelly so much as a glance. Carter's brows knit tightly as he watched her leave. Kelly lowered her head slightly, voice tinged with guilt. "It must be because you forgot her birthday yesterday. That's why she's angry… It's my fault, I've been a burden." "It has nothing to do with you," Carter replied, voice flat as he looked away. "Go ahead and prepare for the concert. I'll have someone send the Shaluna to you later." A bright smile spread across Kelly's face. "Okay." … That night, Carter returned home on time for once. But Sharon wasn't around to greet him with a warm meal like she always did. When dinner time came around, Theo came downstairs as usual. But the dining room was empty, the table bare. He looked puzzled. "Daddy, didn't Mommy cook dinner today?" Sharon had always been the perfect wife and mother. She never argued, never made a fuss. She played her role flawlessly. Carter had never loved her, but overall, he'd been quite satisfied. Especially with Theo's weak stomach and picky eating habits—Sharon never left meals to the staff. She always cooked everything herself, including dinner and late-night snacks. Thinking of what had happened during the day, Carter pressed his lips into a line, his face darkening slightly. If this was her way of retaliating, of throwing a tantrum, then she was overestimating herself. "Don't worry about her," he said coolly. "Let's go eat out." Theo clapped happily. "Yay! Can Kelly come along too? I want cotton candy again!" "Cotton candy?" Carter blinked. "Didn't your mom say you can't eat it because you're lactose intolerant?" Chapter 4 Theo curled his lip. "My lactose intolerance is much better now. The doctor said it's fine if I eat a little now and then. But Mom always wants to control me—make me do what she says." That word—control—coming from a five-year-old's mouth, felt too heavy, too strange. Carter was just about to respond when his phone rang. He answered, and Kelly's voice came through from the other end. "Carter, are you home now?" "Yes." "Sharon hasn't come back yet, has she?" He paused for a moment. "Why?" "I think I just saw her…" Kelly's voice hesitated. "She was having dinner with a young man. They seemed… close." She fell silent for a beat, then carefully asked, "Is it because of what happened earlier today? Did something upset her again? Carter, maybe you should explain things to her properly." A chill slipped into Carter's eyes. Sharon didn't come home to cook—because she was out on a date? His voice turned colder without him realizing it. "Where is she?" Kelly gave him an address. "I got it," he said, and hung up. … In the restaurant, John Westin looked at Sharon steadily. "Have you really made up your mind?" She nodded. "Shaluna was something my mother custom made just for me… and I gave it up for my family, for five whole years." Her voice trailed off as she let out a quiet sigh. A hint of wistfulness flickered across her face. "And now?" John's voice was low. "If you return, you'll have to perform regularly. It'll be exhausting. You won't have much time left—for your husband, for your son." "Theo's health is fine now." A trace of irony flashed in her eyes. "Besides, he doesn't need me anymore." "And what about Carter?" John asked. "Will he agree?" At the mention of Carter, her gaze turned icy. "I don't need his permission. This is my life." John looked at her for a long moment. "But he won't allow you to be around me." "I don't need his approval." Her voice was steady, but guilt surfaced on her face as she recalled how she'd once distanced herself from John—just because of something Carter had said. "John," she murmured, "I'm sorry." But John shook his head. "Sharon, you don't need to apologize to me. It's me who should be sorry. I promised your mother I'd protect you. But I didn't have the strength to keep that promise. I let you suffer so much." John was her senior. The two had studied violin together under her mother since childhood. Now, John was one of the most celebrated violinists in the field. His striking features and melancholic temperament had propelled him beyond the classical music world, turning him into a heartthrob with fan followings rivaling top-tier celebrities. Fame, fortune—he had it all. But he still couldn't compare to someone like Carter, a man with real capital behind him. "It's not your fault," Sharon said softly. "It's mine—" She didn't get to finish. A soft voice cut in from behind. "Sharon, what a surprise to see you here." Sharon turned to see Kelly, dressed in a pristine white dress. Running into someone she disliked—twice in one day—what rotten luck. Her voice turned cold. "What's it to you?" Kelly smiled sweetly. "Don't be upset, Sharon. I just found it strange—Carter rarely goes home, and yet you're not there cooking dinner?" Her tone was light, face gentle—an image of innocence and grace. By contrast, Sharon suddenly seemed sharp, callous, and unkind. But Sharon could hear the taunt beneath Kelly's gentle voice. She lifted her eyes—and saw the flicker of smugness in Kelly's gaze that hadn't quite been tucked away. She shot back, "And why is it rare for Carter to go home? Isn't it because his time is all taken up by you, Kelly? Are you really that clueless, or just pretending to be?" Shock spread across Kelly's face. She grabbed Sharon's hand, anxious to explain. "Sharon, wait, I didn't mean it like that—" Before she could finish, Sharon yanked her hand away. "If you're not pretending, then you really don't know your place. And women with no self-awareness? They're very annoying." "Ah!" Suddenly, Kelly let out a shriek and stumbled backward. Before Sharon could even react, a tall figure caught her just in time. "Kelly, are you okay?" Kelly's face had gone pale. When she looked up and saw who it was, her eyes immediately brimmed with tears, as if she had suffered some great injustice. "Carter… I'm fine. Sharon didn't mean to. Please don't be mad at her, okay?" Carter's gaze flicked, finally locking on Sharon nearby. His brows drew together, voice low and cold. "Sharon, apologize to Kelly." It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. In the past, Sharon would've hurried to explain. "It wasn't me," "Please hear me out," "I didn't do it," "Can't you believe me?" But Carter never took her side. He always made her apologize to Kelly. If she refused, he'd punish her with silence. He wouldn't answer her calls. Wouldn't reply to her messages. He would treat her like air—not a single word, not even a glance. Later, even Theo joined in the silent treatment. In the end, she had no choice but to lower her head and give in. The memory made her laugh bitterly. "Why should I listen to you? Who do you think you are?" Carter froze for a second, wondering if he'd misheard her. "What did you say?" Sharon met his gaze, calm and cold. "When I cared about you, everything you said mattered. But now? Tell me—what are you to me?" He finally understood what she meant. In all the time he'd known her, she had never spoken to him like this. She had always been gentle. Always considerate. She'd leave the lights on when he worked late. She'd make him midnight snacks when he stayed in his study for hours. She'd bring him tea to sober up when he came home drunk. Even after Kelly reappeared and Sharon changed, she'd never defied him so directly. So why now… why did his chest feel so tight? And then, a young voice cut through the tension. "Mommy, you taught me that when someone does something wrong, they should apologize. So… now that you've done something wrong, shouldn't you say sorry to Kelly?" Chapter 5 Sharon turned her head and saw Theo standing behind Carter. Though he was speaking to her, his gaze remained fixed on Kelly, worry written plainly across his face. Since forever, even the slightest sign of trouble from Kelly would send both Carter and Theo into a frenzy of concern. There was a time when the four of them went to a park together. No one could tell if it was a heatstroke or some sudden onset of illness, but Kelly suddenly looked as if she were about to collapse. Both Carter and Theo rushed toward her at once. In his panic, Carter even pushed Sharon to the ground. And yet, no one noticed. The cruelest part? Later, when Carter saw her injured and bandaged hand, he actually asked her how she'd gotten hurt. The memory shattered as Kelly's fragile voice broke into her thoughts. "Theo, I just lost my balance. It had nothing to do with your mother." Kelly shook her head at Theo, tears sliding down her cheeks in pitiful silence. "It's my body… it's just too weak…" Theo pouted, lips pushing forward. "But I saw it. I saw Mommy push you." He turned to Sharon then, his little face serious. "Mommy, you always told me that when someone makes a mistake, they should admit it and fix it. You're a grown-up… you wouldn't go back on your word, would you?" Sharon had put everything into caring for Theo's health. But when it came to his studies, she had hardly needed to lift a finger. At only five years old, Theo was already fluent in three languages and possessed an extraordinary gift for speech. More than once, he had left grown adults speechless. Carter's mother often said the boy's brilliance reminded her of Carter when he was young. And now, this little boy was using that sharp mind… against her, for Kelly's sake. As his mother, as an adult, she knew she had to set the right example. If she couldn't live by her own words, how could she ask a child to? Sharon looked at her husband and son, both standing beside Kelly. In that moment, she felt that they looked more like a family than she ever had with them. She had long since stopped hoping for anything from this father and son, but still, Theo's words pricked at her heart. Lowering her gaze to meet his eyes, Sharon said softly, "You're right. I did tell you that if we do something wrong, we should apologize. But—" She paused, her voice calm and deliberate. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why should I apologize?" In the past, she would've yielded. She always did when it came to Theo. But today, she didn't. Theo spoke without thinking, "But I saw you push Kelly." Sharon didn't argue. Instead, she smiled faintly. "Just because I pushed her… does that mean I was wrong?" "But Mom, you said hitting people is wrong…" Her tone was light, even serene. "And I also told you that we shouldn't bully others. But that doesn't mean we should let others bully us. If someone keeps crossing the line, then—you shouldn't hold back." For all his cleverness, Theo was still only five. He hadn't expected her to say something like that. For a moment, he was stunned into silence. Just then, John's voice came from the side. "Theo, that's not how you speak to your mother." Both Carter and Theo turned toward the sound, surprised. As if they had only now noticed John standing nearby. Theo blinked. "Mr. Westin?" Carter's expression darkened. "Why are you here?" John — Sharon's childhood friend and senior schoolmate — was someone Carter had met many times. He'd heard about him from Sharon, too. She once told him that John had grown up without parents, raised by his grandparents. By middle school, he had lost even them, and was left completely alone in the world. It was around that time Sharon's mother discovered his musical talent and took him under her wing. But John had been a withdrawn, melancholy child who ignored everyone around him. It took Sharon three years to get through to him, for him to accept her as a friend and fellow student. And yet, for reasons Carter couldn't explain, he'd disliked this man from the very first moment they met. "You can meet your ex-girlfriend, but it's strange that Sharon has a meal with someone who's like family to her?" John's tone was flat, but every word carried weight, each one slicing through the pretense like a blade. He stripped away Carter and Kelly's carefully constructed facade with chilling precision. Carter's eyes darkened, and his face hardened. "Sharon, come home with me." She answered without emotion, "No. I'm still eating with John." His voice grew cold, laced with threat. "Sharon, I'll say it one last time. Come home with me." She knew this tone well — it meant he was furious. If she didn't yield now, it wouldn't end with a simple fight. He would take action. He always did. She could never forget that night, when thunder rolled through the sky and rain soaked her from head to toe. She had knelt at his feet, soaked and shivering, begging him with tears streaming down her face to return Theo to her. He had looked down at her, cold and arrogant, and asked, "Do you admit your mistake?" The sound of her tears had echoed against the ground like rain, and in the end, she could only agree to apologize for Kelly's fall into the water. He always had a way of forcing her hand. The thought made Sharon smile. Then, calmly, she said, "No." Carter's eyes turned icy, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Sharon, think carefully about the consequences." She met his gaze without fear. "Mr. Biggs, whatever tricks you've got, go ahead and use them." Her only weakness had ever been Theo. But now, she didn't even want him anymore. Carter had nothing left to threaten her with. Turning to John, she said, "John, the vibes here aren't great. Let's find another place to eat." He paused for a beat, then nodded. "Alright." Without sparing the three behind her another glance, Sharon picked up her bag and prepared to leave. Behind her, Theo called out stubbornly, "Mommy, are you really not going to apologize to Kelly?" She paused, just for a second — then walked away without looking back. Carter stood where he was, watching her retreating figure. His gaze grew colder and darker by the second. Beside him, Theo stared after her too, a flicker of confusion crossing his delicate little face. Something about his Mommy felt different. Noticing both of their gazes locked on Sharon, Kelly's eyes gleamed with something sharp and cold. Then, all at once, she let out a weak gasp. "Ah…" In an instant, both Carter and Theo snapped their attention back to her. Kelly's face was pale. Her body swayed unsteadily, as if she might collapse at any moment. Carter's expression shifted, and without hesitation, he swept her up into his arms. Chapter 6 Carter turned to Theo, who stood quietly to the side. "Theo, wait here for me," he said. Theo gave a small nod, obedient and aware. He knew Carter needed to tend to Kelly first. As soon as Carter stepped away, a murmur of conversation rose from a nearby table. "Dennis, look," a woman whispered. "That little boy over there looks even younger than you, but he stood up for his mom and drove away the mistress. Impressive, isn't he? When you see that awful woman again, you need to learn from him. Don't be scared, alright?" Theo heard them and turned his head toward the voices. A woman in her thirties was sitting at the next table, dining with a little boy who looked around seven or eight. The boy—Dennis—nodded earnestly. Noticing Theo looking their way, Dennis jumped off his chair and walked up to him. "You're amazing. Can you teach me how to get rid of a mistress?" Theo blinked, a little thrown off. "Mistress?" Dennis thought Theo didn't know what that meant and proceeded to explain with grave seriousness. "A mistress is someone who comes between a mom and dad. The third person. She ruins everything. She makes your mom sad, and she makes your parents get divorced. Women like that are bad!" Dennis's face twisted in anger. "Lately there's been this bad woman who keeps clinging to my dad. But…" His voice faltered, replaced by a look of helplessness. "But I don't know how to make her leave. I don't know how to protect my mom." He looked up at Theo again, his eyes filled with admiration. "You were so cool just now. Just a few words, and that woman ran away. Your mom and dad got back together, right? Can you teach me how you did it?" Theo was still struggling to process it all. "Got back together…?" But… wasn't it Mom who left first? Dennis tilted his head, confused. "Didn't that woman just get scared off by what you said? And didn't your dad carry your mom away right after?" Mom? So Dennis had mistaken Kelly for his mother? At that moment, Dennis's mom walked over too. She reached out and gently patted Theo's head. "You're such a good boy," she said warmly. "You didn't hesitate at all to take your mother's side. Not like my Dennis—he once said the bad lady was nice just because she gave him candy." Dennis scratched his head sheepishly. "Mom wouldn't let me eat candy. I couldn't resist…" "I don't let you eat it because I don't want your teeth to rot. When you're older, you can eat as much as you want." Dennis hugged his mother's arm and whined softly, "I know now, Mom. You're just looking out for me. Don't stay mad, okay?" "That woman almost sold you off. Took that for you to realize your mom's not so bad after all." Dennis let out a goofy laugh. "Hehe… better late than never!" Though the woman kept chiding her son, her eyes betrayed nothing but affection and tenderness. … More than half an hour passed before Carter and Kelly returned. "I'm really fine, Carter," Kelly said helplessly. "It's just low blood sugar… no need to go to the hospital." Carter's tone was firm, his face stern. "You're fainting more often lately. We should get you checked, just in case it's something more serious." Something flickered across Kelly's face—barely perceptible. Lately, in an effort to keep Sharon on edge, she had indeed asked Carter to come over more than she used to. "I'll be alright," she said. "It's getting late, and Theo hasn't eaten yet. Let's let him eat first. I can go to the hospital tomorrow—it's the same." They spoke as they walked, making their way back to Theo. He sat alone at the table, staring blankly out the window, a faraway look in his eyes—lost in a way he had never been before. Carter didn't notice. He simply stepped in front of him. "Kelly's not feeling well. I'm going to take her to the hospital. We'll eat dinner after." His voice was calm, but there was no room for argument in his words. For all his outward coolness, Carter was inherently domineering. Once he made a decision, it was rarely overturned. On any other day, Theo would've agreed without hesitation. But today, something felt different. Sharon's face floated into his mind. Until today, she had always prepared his meals on time. He had a weak stomach—he needed to eat regularly. Even when they were out with Kelly and it got late, Sharon would insist he eat something light to tide him over. She'd even customized those snacks just for him. Her cooking was excellent, though after a while, eating the same things did get old. Outside food always looked more exciting, more tempting. Gradually, he'd stopped enjoying the things she made. Kelly's soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Carter, Theo's body is weak. Let's let him eat a little first." Carter's voice was cool. "Your health is more important." Kelly's cheeks flushed slightly. She didn't argue, only looked down and smiled gently at Theo. "How about we get you a slice of strawberry cake to eat on the way?" Strawberry cake—Theo's favorite. On any other day, he'd have jumped for joy. But now, he only gave a quiet nod. "Okay." Kelly noticed something odd about him today, but didn't dwell on it. After asking the server to pack up a slice of cake, she took his hand, and they walked out of the restaurant together. … On the way to the hospital, Kelly sat in the passenger seat, turning back every now and then to remind Theo to be careful while eating. "If I didn't get carsick, I'd sit in the back with you," she said with a sigh. "Then I could take better care of you." Even when Sharon was around, Kelly had insisted on sitting in the front. Her reason was always the same: she got motion sickness, and sitting in front made it easier. Theo looked at the cake in his hands. Suddenly, he remembered what Dennis's mom had said—that she didn't let her son eat candy because it was for his own good. He looked up. "Ms. Walt, are you a mistress?"

Dark Romance Fiction

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