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I asked to stay over 4 times in 4 years. He said no every time. "We're not married yet. I want to respect your space." Then I saw the photo. My intern—the one who stole my work—posted a picture of her feet in my slippers. Standing in his living room. He gave her the spare key. Made her instant ramen—the same late-night snack he always made for me. Drank wine with her—and he never drinks. When I confronted him, he called me petty. "She's just a tenant," he said. "Show some empathy." Two days later, he posted a video in our company Slack. Apologizing for me. Telling everyone I bullied her. Destroying my reputation—for her. I called him. He didn't answer. She did. "Julian's asleep," she purred. "He's been with me all night." Four years I gave him. Four years of waiting, of respecting his boundaries. And he threw me away the second someone new smiled at him. I packed one bag, deleted every photo, and blocked his number. A man not worth waiting for—good riddance. I complained when Julian Brooks rejected my request to stay over—for the fourth time. "Julian, you're so rigid." My apartment's AC had died in the middle of a hun//dred-degree heatwave. Yet he insisted on being old-fashioned about it. Throughout our four years together, no matter how late it got, he always insisted on driving me home. Julian sighed and tried to soothe me. "Be sweet, Chloe. We aren't married yet, and I want us to respect each other's space. I don't want anyone at the office gossiping about us living together." My heart warmed at his words, so I fell right back into our usual routine, venting to him about the recent drama at my office just like I always did. But he kept checking his watch, clearly distracted, and urged me to head back. Fortunately, the HVAC technician found a sudden opening and rushed over to my place. While waiting for him to finish the repairs, I happened to scroll through my Instagram feed and saw a post from our company's new marketing intern, Savannah Cross. [My landlord suddenly canceled my lease, but thank god someone stepped up to help. Otherwise, I'd be sleeping on the streets.] I recognized the background of her photo immediately. It was Julian's apartment. I stared at my phone screen, completely frozen. I stood there so long the technician finished fixing the unit and carefully lowered the thermostat. "Too hot for you, kiddo?" He looked at me with a sympathetic sigh. "Tell you what, I'll knock twenty bucks off the bill. Take it from an old man—there's no rough patch in life you can't get through." Only then did I realize tears were streaming down my face. I forced a smile. "Thank you. You're absolutely right." Julian was a rough patch I was finally moving past. ****** Savannah's photo only showed her legs and her luggage. She was wearing my slippers, standing right inside Julian's living room. The moment I stepped out of his apartment, she stepped right in. Before leaving, I had playfully begged Julian to let me stay. He refused without a second thought. "Chloe, you need to go home. I have urgent work to finish in a bit." As it turned out, there was no urgent work. The only urgency was Savannah. She was the new intern in my department, and we hadn't been getting along. I mentioned this to Julian before. But he never seemed to care, let alone listen. I had no idea Julian even knew Savannah. He'd never mentioned her. Yet it was glaringly obvious that she was spending the night at his place. Another red notification popped up on my screen as Savannah updated her feed again. [Meeting a soft-hearted god at my absolute worst. Blessed.] This time, Julian was in the photo. He was looking down at her with a helpless, fond smile. Two bowls of instant ramen with Spam sat on the table. On weekends, when Julian and I curled up together, that was the exact late-night snack he always made for me. Now, he was making it for Savannah. Savannah's comment sat right beneath the post, smug and flaunting. [Rent is two hun//dred, utilities are free, and no deposit. Best landlord ever.] Landlord. He had let Savannah move in. A sharp, suffocating pain flared in my chest, stealing my breath. To make his commute easier, Julian had rented a two-bedroom apartment near the office. It was a great place—twenty-five hun//dred a month. It used to be a shared rental, but his old roommate had moved out, and they hadn't found a suitable replacement. Worried the rent would be too much, I suggested moving in to split the cost. He flatly refused. "Chloe, I won't take your note, and I don't think it's right to move in together before marriage." It wasn't right for me, but it was perfectly fine for Savannah. I remembered those boundaries so clearly. The first time I asked to stay over was during our honeymoon phase, and Julian strictly turned me down. The second time, I came down with a sudden high fever. Julian still drove me back to my place, watched me take my medicine, and left the moment I fell asleep. The third time was the worst—someone had left a strange mark on my apartment door. I was losing my mind with fear, but Julian still wouldn't let me stay at his place. Instead, he booked me a hotel room. He spent the next day contacting landlords, agents, and movers, ensuring I relocated to a new apartment within twenty-four hours. Four years, and I couldn't get into Julian's place. Savannah managed it without lifting a finger. I had to admit his "traditional" boundaries were reserved exclusively for me. My phone buzzed with a text from Julian. [Goodnight.] No explanation. No mention of her. [By the way, I found a new roommate. She's moving in tomorrow under an emergency circumstance.] [Chloe, make sure to let me know in advance before you come over from now on.] Staring at the text, I wanted to laugh. But my tears hit the screen first. I wiped my eyes and didn't reply. Savannah posted a third update. One photo showed her clinking wine glasses with Julian, and the other was a selfie where their cheeks were practically pressed together. [Celebrating the new place. Here's to the future, Mr. Brooks.] Late at night. An unmarried man and woman. Living together. Julian never touched a drop of alcohol. Yet he was drinking with her tonight. In an instant, all the determination holding my heart together vanished. It was all so pathetic. I didn't text Julian for the next two days. He didn't seem to notice. It wasn't until later that week, when a sudden torrential downpour hit right at the end of the workday, that our paths crossed. I was waiting for an Uber under the office awning. Savannah was standing right next to me. She was holding her phone, whining cutely to whoever was on the other end. "Can you pull up a little closer? Hurry, the wind is freezing..." A car pulled up right in front of us. Entirely too familiar. Sure enough, the window rolled down to reveal Julian in the driver's seat. He hadn't sent a single text to check on me during this storm, yet he'd rushed over to pick up Savannah. Julian froze when he caught sight of me. "Chloe, you..." Savannah closed her umbrella, opened the door, and hopped straight into the passenger seat. "Julian, you actually know Chloe?" She looked out at me from the dry comfort of the car, her smile radiating sweetness. "Chloe, why don't you get in? Let Julian give you a ride. It's impossible to get an Uber in this weather." My own boyfriend was offering me a ride, and only because she'd graciously granted him permission. Julian remained silent, merely looking at me. I shook my head expressionlessly. "No need." My ride was already confirmed and only three minutes away. No reason to get in that car just to make myself sick. Savannah nodded and rolled up the window. The car lingered for a few seconds before driving off into the rain. When I finally got home and stepped out of the shower, I found Julian waiting in my living room. He still had the code to my smart lock. "Chloe, are you throwing a tantrum?" "When you refused to get in the car, I thought you were just busy, but the more I thought about it, the more off it felt." Julian reached out to grab my hand, but I stepped aside, dodging him. "Is this about me picking up Savannah today?" "Or because I didn't let you stay over the other night and didn't drive you home?" He let out a helpless chuckle. "Don't be so petty. Savannah's an old classmate. I only picked her up because I was passing by—and it's hard to say no when she asks." "Not letting you stay over was for your own good. I promise I'll drive you home next time..." "Julian, let's break up." Julian stiffened, his face instantly darkening. "Chloe, over something this minor?" "Yes." My eyes were entirely dead. "I can't stay at your place, but Savannah can. Don't you find that hilarious?" He'd never intended to tell me about her because he knew exactly how I'd react. "You... let me explain." Julian's eyes widened in shock, clearly not expecting me to already know. "Savannah moved to the city all by herself from a small town, and I'm the only person she knows here." "It's tough for a young girl, and her landlord suddenly kicked her out. If I hadn't stepped in, she'd be on the streets." "Chloe, you're a woman too—show some empathy." Seeing my silence, he let out a heavy sigh. "It's just an emergency temporary stay. Besides, there's nothing going on between us, so we don't need to overcomplicate things." "She's different from you. She's just a tenant." "Just a tenant?" I laughed. "Julian, I told you before that Savannah is the new intern in my department." "During her first week, she spent every single lunch break on the phone in the breakroom. When people teased her about it, she claimed it wasn't a boyfriend, just an old classmate." "That old classmate was you, wasn't it?" Julian's eyes flickered with guilt for a fraction of a second, but he didn't deny it. I used to love sharing things with him, flooding his phone with texts whenever I had a free moment. But his replies were always agonizingly slow, if they came at all. We'd fought about it a few times. Back then, Julian would just look exhausted and say, "Chloe, we're adults. Work is busy, and I need to rest during lunch. Can you stop making things difficult for me?" But when it came to Savannah, it was never difficult. "For the past two days, Savannah started bringing homemade lunches to work. You made those for her too, didn't you?" "And you're still trying to tell me she's just a tenant?" Those lunchboxes were a matching couple's set I'd bought, left behind at Julian's apartment. Now, Savannah was using them. Julian knitted his brows, completely unable to comprehend my anger. "Chloe, aren't you reading way too much into this?" "Don't be prejudiced against Savannah. She told me there was just a misunderstanding between you two at work..." He didn't listen to a single word I said, but he took everything Savannah said as gospel. I had nothing left to say. The silence in the room grew suffocating until the doorbell suddenly rang. Julian turned to open it. A second later, Savannah poked her head in, smiling warmly at me. "Hi, Chloe. Sorry to drop by unannounced." My gaze pierced right through Savannah and landed coldly on Julian. "You brought her here?" Savannah couldn't have found my address on her own. Julian stood beside her, deliberately avoiding my eyes. "Chloe, Savannah isn't the kind of person you think she is." "Since there's a misunderstanding, you two should just talk it out..." I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "I spent two weeks pulling all-nighters for our latest marketing campaign, and she intentionally deleted my name from the pitch deck. You call that a misunderstanding?" I was the lead on that project, and Savannah was only supposed to assist me. After all my hard work, she secretly wiped my version from the shared drive history and submitted the campaign under her own name. I'd confronted her directly, but I couldn't recover the deleted file history in time to prove it to management. The drama had caused a massive stir in the office. "Chloe, you shouldn't bully me just because I'm the new intern." "That campaign was clearly my..." Savannah's eyes welled with tears, her voice trailing off vulnerably. "Forget it. You're Julian's girlfriend, and I don't want things to be tense between us. I definitely don't want you two fighting because of me." "Let's just say it was my fault. I apologize." Heartache flashed across Julian's face. "Savannah, I know what kind of person you are. Right is right." He turned to me, his tone hardening. "You shouldn't have to compromise yourself just for my sake." Then he looked straight at me. "Chloe, just apologize to Savannah, and we can all move past this." The final trace of agonizing heartache vanished from my chest. I felt entirely, completely numb. "Julian, let me make this incredibly clear. We are broken up." "Now, take your little friend and get the he11 out of my apartment." Savannah flinched, tears cascading down her face as she clutched the edge of Julian's jacket, shrinking behind him. Julian's expression turned vicious and mocking. "Chloe, are you seriously trying to threaten me with a breakup? You honestly think I'll just bow down to that?" "You are completely unhinged." He grabbed Savannah's hand and pulled her out the door. The door slammed shut with a deafening thud. I collapsed onto the sofa, completely drained of energy. Right then, my phone rang. It was my mom. "Chloe, are you really moving back home? Did something happen out there?" "No, Mom. I already turned in my resignation. I'm just wrapping up my files over the next two days before heading back." "Did you and Julian have a fight?" "No fight. We broke up." I'd already been thinking about changing companies anyway. And after the nightmare with Savannah, I immediately submitted my two weeks' notice. Our director thought he'd struck gold with Savannah, so he approved my departure without a single complaint. My mom went quiet for a few seconds. "Broken up... well, as long as you've thought it through." "It's good that you're coming back. Your dad and I won't have to constantly worry about you getting mistreated out there." My throat tightened, and my eyes stung. "Mom, don't worry about me." "I've already been looking at job openings, and there are plenty of great marketing agencies back home..." "I'm not worried about the job, sweetie. Just don't push yourself too hard." A lump formed in my throat, leaving me completely speechless. I'd hoped to spend my last two days in the city in peace. But Savannah had no intention of letting me go quietly. Just as the workday ended, the company Slack workspace absolutely exploded. Savannah had dropped a video into the main public channel. The person in the video was Julian. His face was dead serious, completely devoid of any playfulness. "Regarding the recent campaign pitch, I am formally apologizing to Savannah Cross on behalf of my girlfriend, Chloe Vance."

On the night of his biggest award ceremony, I faced the worst betrayal of my life. My own mate, the Alpha I'd sacrificed my dreams for and served faithfully for five years, chose his new Omega assistant over me. He broke his sacred iron rule of "zero light pollution" just to let her light sparklers in the snow. Then, he publicly crowned her his "muse," leaving me to rot in the absolute dark. I nearly lost my soul waiting in the shadows outside his lens. So I severed our mate bond, packed my camera, and fled to the polar ice fields to reclaim my throne as a Chief Astrophotographer. He thinks he can chase me across the world to Iceland and beg for forgiveness? Poor Alpha... he has no idea the nightmare he's about to wake up to. Chapter 1 My mate, Alpha Callan Vale, was Silvercrest Pack's most gifted lunar astrophotographer. I had been his Luna for five years. But I had never once asked to go to his shooting sites. All because of the things he used to say. "The rule of lunar photography is zero light pollution. Even a single phone screen flash can ruin an entire long exposure night." So, for five years, I never dared to send even a simple text asking if he had arrived safely. I was afraid the screen light would ruin his masterpiece. I just waited at home. And every time he went into the snowy mountains or barren wilderness, I folded a star. Each note held thoughts I never dared say out loud, "Are you hurt?" "Waiting for you to come back." Five years. 1,096 stars. They filled three glass jars. But he never opened them. Last week, he was shortlisted for the International Lunar Sky Photography Awards. I was proud of him and opened the official site to view his entry. The photo was titled Light. In the center, his omega assistant wore a red expedition jacket, holding a sparkler, smiling brightly. The judges' commentary read: [The photographer willingly gave up a once-in-seventy-years rare comet to preserve full exposure for his muse.] So... his world wasn't without light. It was just that I wasn't allowed to shine. That night, I poured all 1,096 stars out of the jars. I lit them on fire and reduced them to ash. Listening to the flames swallow the paper, my inner wolf let out a painful whimper. At dawn, I placed the three empty glass jars neatly on top of his camera case. The universe always had room for countless stars to shine. I shouldn't have spent my life waiting for a glimmer outside someone else's lens. This time, I would capture my own galaxy. ... The next day, Callan's interview was scheduled for the afternoon. In the morning, he laid out the backdrop and neatly arranged his expensive lenses on the wall. "The Meridian Review is coming for a home interview. Clear out the clutter in the living room." Clutter—my books, and those three empty jars. I carried the books back into the bedroom. When I returned, he had already shoved the three jars into a corner with clear disgust. "What are these cheap jars for? They're hideous. Keep them out of the frame." "Just leave them there for now," I said softly. He didn't care enough to ask. At exactly three, the journalist arrived. Callan changed into the black shirt I had ironed for him last week and sat at his desk. I stayed in the kitchen, holding a cup of cold coffee. "Alpha Callan, Light stunned everyone. Can you talk about the story behind it?" Callan relaxed in his chair and spoke slowly. "That night's best viewing window was set for a once-in-seventy-years comet." "But the summit was freezing past midnight—sub-zero temperatures. My assistant, Nessa Snow, was shivering so badly that she lit a sparkler to stay warm." "The moment that flame sparked, I suddenly felt that those dead, cold rocks countless light-years away couldn't compare to the living warmth in front of me." The journalist asked in surprise, "But everyone in the industry knows you follow a strict rule of absolute zero light pollution." Callan smiled, a rare, soft smile that went all the way to his bones. An expression he had never once given me. "Rules are just rules. The moment that light lit up her face, I was willing to overturn every rule I had." Five years. I had waited through more than 1,000 nights in darkness. But for someone else's warmth, he personally lit the most blinding spark. The journalist flipped through the notes and turned to look at me. "Alpha Callan, what role does your Luna play in your career? Being the mate of a genius must require a lot of tolerance and sacrifice, right?" Callan followed her gaze toward me, his expression instantly flattening. "She doesn't understand lunar photography, and she doesn't understand the hardships of our field. But she's quiet and sensible, never causes trouble." My right hand slowly curled into a fist. The sense of betrayal made my inner wolf ache in agony. He forgot. He had completely forgotten. Five years ago, my starfield photo series had also won an international gold award. I had once been the most stunning, most gifted lunar astrophotographer of the Greyhaven Pack. Until I formed a mate bond with Callan. At first, we were aligned. But later he said Silvercrest didn't need two photographers. He needed a Luna to stabilize the Silvercrest Pack. To fulfill his pursuit of pure art, I locked my camera in a cabinet and shrank into the "ignorant" housekeeper he now described. Had he forgotten it all? After sending off the journalist, Callan stopped at the study door. "Upload the photos from my external hard drive to the shared cloud folder tonight. Nessa needs them for the upcoming art book." He closed the door behind him. I opened the laptop and plugged in the drive. Then my phone suddenly vibrated. Sender: Arctic Sky Journal. [Miss Voss, we reviewed your early photography portfolio again a few days ago. Your sharp perception of the universe is the exact soul we have been searching for.] [The position of chief lunar sky photographer remains open for you. Have you considered our offer?] I stared at the email, emotions flooding through me. It had been a very long time since anyone praised my talent. Someone on the other side of the world could still recognize the light in me. While the man sleeping beside me only saw me as a convenient servant. I opened the email. [Thank you for the offer. I look forward to working with you.] Callan, I was no longer waiting for your moon. This time, I'm going to capture my own galaxy. Chapter 2 The next morning, Callan threw an envelope onto the dining table. "The publisher needs twenty selected photos for a special feature in the art book. Pick them from the hard drive for me." "Me?" "Didn't you study photography a bit back then? You know a thing or two about composition and lighting. I have to coordinate with the award organizers over the next couple of days, so I don't have time." Great. Not just a housekeeper, now a free assistant too. I opened the hard drive. Inside the selection folder were over 300 photos. All Nessa. No auroras. No rare star maps. Only Nessa. Nessa wrapped in a sleeping bag at the entrance of a tent, watching the sunrise. Nessa crouching by a stream, washing her hands, her profile carved elegantly by the morning light. Every single image was carefully color-graded. I studied photography, so I knew. These 300-plus photos could only have been taken by someone deeply in love. I had been with Callan for five years, and he had never once pointed his lens at me. His excuse had always sounded righteous. "My lens is only for sacred, pure skies. I don't shoot the mundane." A lie. He simply didn't shoot me. As he headed out, Callan gave me another order. "Oh, and each photo in the book needs a short caption. Write them. Nessa isn't a good writer." He wanted me to personally pen romantic prose for twenty stunning, private photos of another she-wolf. "Okay," I said calmly. He left and closed the door. I opened the first photo. A frozen expanse of snow stretched out in every direction, and Nessa was standing there, alone in that bone-chilling cold. Callan slipped his heated gloves onto her hands, and she lit up like a child on Christmas morning. I stared at those hands and slowly looked down at my own right hand. My index and middle finger joints were swollen and deformed, marked with two patches of permanent dark purple frostbite scars. Four winters ago, in Lofoten. A blizzard so brutal it felt like the world had frozen over. To keep him from missing a rare meteor shower, I dug through knee-deep snow with my bare hands to retrieve a buried backup battery. The storm was too violent, and I slipped, instinctively lighting up my phone screen as I fell. That faint light lasted only one second. Just one second. Callan had rushed over from a dozen yards away, crushing me with his terrifying Alpha pressure, roaring at me. "Do you even understand what zero light pollution means? I waited four hours for this composition, and you ruined all of it!" I sat in the snow, my hands completely numb, suffering permanent nerve damage. I placed my hands back on the keyboard. Looking at Nessa's smiling face on the screen, I typed the first caption. [In the dead silence of the snowy wilderness, she is the only color more precious than the stars.] Typing those words, I felt no grievance, only a sense of the absurd. The man who once treated absolute darkness as his lifelong faith. Now, he wanted to use such blunt, cliché words to announce to the world that he had succumbed to the pollution of a cheap light. I would give him exactly what he wanted. I would make sure this humiliating caption was permanently printed in his photo book. These twenty lines of text were my annotation, as someone who truly understood photography, for his ridiculous faith. That night, after I sent all twenty captions to Callan, he replied with only one word: [Good.] I let out a mocking laugh, closed the document, and opened my email. [I'll arrive in Reykjavík in seven days for reporting.] Seven-day left. Chapter 3 There were three days left until the awards ceremony. In the afternoon, the doorbell rang. It was an international express delivery. The package wasn't sealed, so I saw the contents at a glance—an embossed certificate. Global Star Registry. It listed coordinates: [longitude 18°36′56″, latitude 38°47′01″.] Lyra constellation. Beneath the exact coordinates was a cursive name: [Nessa] Registration date—the same night he gave up the comet to shoot Light. At the bottom of the certificate was a small handwritten card from Callan. [Stars live for countless ages. This star is my permanent exposure, dedicated to you alone.] I stared at the card quietly. My inner wolf let out a self-mocking whimper. He had spent a fortune to buy a real star in the universe and named it after Nessa. It hung in the galaxy, beside Vega. I had folded 1,096 paper stars, and he had never opened a single one. Paper and the cosmos never carried the same weight. I closed the frame as it was and placed it calmly in the center of his desk. In the evening, Callan came back. When he saw the frame, his expression stiffened slightly. He quickly placed a photography book on top of it and forced a topic change. "The organizers want me to prepare a five-minute acceptance speech. Since you're just idling at home, write it for me." "What do you want to say?" "Write about a photographer's devotion to the absolute dark. Write about how I overcame every obstacle to banish light pollution." I picked up the pen and wrote smoothly. Because for the past five years, I had been the one staying in that absolute darkness with him, the one he pushed every trace of light away from. The next day, Callan posted his printed Iceland itinerary on the whiteboard. "After the ceremony, I'm flying to Iceland. It's the final window of the aurora season." "I've been planning this with Nessa for three months. There's an ideal observation spot there. Zero light pollution." What a coincidence. That was also my destination. "How long will you be there?" "Ten days." I looked at the red note on the last day of the itinerary: [Portrait shoot of Nessa under the aurora, continuation of the 'Light' series.] "Callan," I said without turning around, my voice completely flat, "you once said we would go to Iceland together to see the aurora." His hands stopped moving for a moment. His brows furrowed tightly. "Maren, why are you bringing up the past? Iceland drops below zero at night. Your hands ache the moment they freeze. Going there would just be pure misery for you." "And Nessa? She isn't afraid of the cold?" "She's a professional assistant! How is that the same? Can you please stop causing trouble for me right now?" "Got it." I suddenly didn't want to say another word. I turned away and stopped looking at him. I pulled out a small suitcase from under the bed. Inside were my passport, my visa, and a few heavy sweaters. This house was huge, but everything I could take fit into less than half a suitcase. Iceland... I was definitely going. Chapter 4 That night was the awards ceremony. I didn't go to the family section. I took a staff pass and stood in the shadows at the back of the hall. On the giant screen, Light played—Nessa smiling radiantly amidst the fireworks. Callan, in a perfectly tailored suit, walked to the microphone with the trophy. He pulled out the script I had written and read the first line. "Astrophotography is an ascetic pursuit of darkness. We spend our entire lives capturing absolute zero light pollution..." He stopped there. After a silence that stretched on for what felt like an eternity, Callan folded the cue card I had written in half and slipped it back into his pocket. "This script feels too formal. Right now, I want to speak from my real thoughts." He lifted his head and locked his gaze directly onto Nessa in the second row. "Those who know me know I have an uncompromising rule—zero light pollution." "To maintain this standard, I demanded that the people around me shouldn't even let their breathing disrupt the exposure." It felt like a public execution of me, his rightful Luna. "Many people asked me today why I gave up a comet that only appears once every seventy years." He paused, the tenderness overflowing from his eyes. "Because comets return. Even if it takes seventy years, they will pass through the sky again." "But some people are not comets. She is a meteor. You don't know when she will light up, or whether she will ever light up again." "So in that moment she appeared, I turned off every device, abandoned every plan, and aimed my camera, my entire night, my entire sky, at her." His voice dropped a fraction lower. "In that moment, I suddenly realized that the stars in the sky are dead things. They travel ages to reach Earth with absolutely no warmth. But real light is the warmth you can feel the moment you turn your head in the wilderness." He looked at Nessa, who was already in tears. "So I willingly broke my five-year rule. Because what people call light pollution is only because the light was in the wrong place." "Nessa, thank you for lighting up my universe." Thunderous applause shook the hall. The entire audience cheered for the Alpha's declaration of "true love." He used my five years of absolute darkness as a sacrifice to prove his rule. Then used Nessa's single sparkler to prove his love. How ironic. I didn't wait for their embrace. Amid the deafening cheers, I turned and left the hall. I took a taxi back to the apartment I had lived in for five years. I pushed my only suitcase to the door. Then I walked to the shelf and took down the three glass jars—clean, transparent, without a single speck of dust. I lined the three empty jars neatly next to his premium camera. No note. No hesitation. 1,096 silent nights—my love had been completely emptied out. I dragged my suitcase, closed the door, and left. My phone vibrated. Callan: [Nessa drank too much at the afterparty. I'll be back late. Go to sleep, don't wait for me.] I stared at the screen and let out a cold laugh. I pulled out the SIM card I had used for five years, snapped it in half, and threw it away. At the same time, I gave my inner wolf a command: sever every link to him. The taxi sped along the elevated highway. The neon lights flashed past, a blinding display of light pollution everywhere. He used to say that the city sky hid the stars, which was why he had to travel so far away. But he had no idea that the lunar sky photographer who had once hidden her own brilliance in the dark for him had completely erased her existence tonight. Callan, your world no longer has to worry about light pollution. And me? I'm going out to claim my own galaxy. But I had no idea I'd be met with a frantic Callan the moment I landed...

He ripped my only family photo apart—right in front of my face. I watched the pieces float down like snow. "That's all I had left." He didn't flinch. "Good," he said. "I hate you, Silas." He yanked my hair. "Funny. I hate you too." Then he leaned in close to my right ear. "But I'm still in love with you." He didn't know my left ear was already dead. I didn't hear a thing. They made me drink. Bottle after bottle. I puked b10od. He watched. "Stop faking," he said. Then the truth came out. "She's been in a juveni1e correct!0nal school for three years," Celia smiled. The video showed my sister ju.mping. Off a ro0ftop. Br.u!ses covering her tiny b0dy. "She said she didn't want to be your weakness anymore." I grabbed a rock. I swung. But his arms caught me. "Still haven't learned?" he snarled. He threw me to a blind begg@r. "Stay here. Never come back." I crawled to the pavement. V0mited b10od into the gutter. And smiled. Because I'm dying anyway. St@ge IV. Six months left. Let him think he won. Let him believe he broke me. But here's what he'll never know— My sister didn't jump alone. And I have proof. That video Celia showed me? It's already saved. To twenty different emails. Set to send. The moment my he@rt st0ps. Margaret Voss, the matriarch of the prestigious Voss family, had been in a vegetative state for ten years after being pushed down the stairs by an unidentified attacker. Now, she'd woken at last. Every prominent figure within Havenbrook Elite Circle flocked to the private medical wing of Havenbrook Premier Private Medical Center to pay their respects. They lined up to heap praise on Silas Voss, gushing over his unwavering devotion to his mother, and the ten years of relentless punishment he'd inflicted on the girl responsible for her fall. No one cared that the perpetrator had once been Silas's high school sweetheart. He'd shown zero mercy from day one. But once the crowd fell silent, Margaret stared blankly at all of them. "What culprit?" she murmured. "No one pushed me. I slipped and fell all on my own." A sharp clatter cv#t through the room. Silas's fruit knife slipped from his grasp and clattered against the marble tile. He stared at his mother, stunned rigid. "What did you just say, M0m?" The woman who'd left his mother bedridden wasn't Elowen? Panic crashed over Silas in a brutal, suffocating wave. He'd spent every single year of her coma hunting Elowen down, torturing her without pause. And now he was being told she'd never done a single thing wrong? "Where's Elowen?" Margaret asked, voice sharp with urgency. "I disapproved of you dating her back then, she came from a single-parent household, after all. I never imagined she'd dive straight into the lake to save my life when I fell in. Are you two still together? Married? Do you have kids yet?" Three simple questions hit Silas like three heavy sledgehammers to the ch3#&st. His throat bv/rned dry, and he couldn't force a single word out. Because three years prior, he'd forced Elowen to move in and live with a blind beggar out in Westside Slum Flats. *** Three years earlier. The Siren Lounge. Elowen scrubbed a grimy toilet, her oversized staff uniform swallowing her thin frame whole. When she finished, she sank to the cold tile floor, exhausted, and pulled a crumpled vintage Polaroid portrait from her pocket. The photo held Dr. Elias Hale, herself, and Lila, her little sister. "Elowen, one of the private booths has a mess of vomit. Go clean it up at once." Elowen tucked the Polaroid away carefully and stood fast. She'd been released on full parole three months prior. Her first plan had been to head straight to the State Youth Foster Facility to collect Lila. Staff there required proof of steady employment before releasing minors to former felons, though. Jobs were nearly impossible for her to land. She only held a high school diploma, paired with a felony record. Even diners refused to hire her as a line server. The Siren Lounge asked no questions about past mistakes, so she'd taken the janitor position without hesitation. A dozen young socialites laughed and shouted inside the private booth, playing cards and singing along to loud music. None spared the janitor a glance. Elowen dropped to her knees and mopped up the thick puddle of regurgitation. A male voice sneered out of nowhere. "Well look who it is—Havenbrook Private Preparatory's valedictorian, our campus sweetheart. Remember how she'd wipe any pen someone borrowed off her desk with rubbing alc0#&h0l? Now she's on her knees mopping up other people's puke without a word of complaint." Elowen recognized him instantly. Jasper Cole had once begged her to date him. When she'd turned him down, he'd smiled and claimed they could still be friends. After the incident with Margaret, he'd become her cruelest tormentor of all. The mess reeked, and Elowen quickened her scrubbing without a sound. Jasper kicked her hard square into the puddle of slop from behind. "Are you deaf when people talk to you?" "Ah!" Elowen bit back screams of pain and disgust, a bitter taste flooding her mouth. Deaf, wasn't she? Silas had locked her away on false charges, and within her first month in prison, a "workplace accident" orchestrated by his men had blown out her left eardrum entirely. Jasper raised his fist to strike again, but another old classmate pulled him back. "Quit wasting your energy on tr4#&sh like her." "Elowen used to be untouchable. Her mother passed young, but Dr. Hale was the most renowned cardiac surgeon in the whole city. She was gorgeous, top of every class, and Silas's whole world." "Now look at her—she takes every beating and insult without fighting back." He spat straight onto the top of Elowen's head. Once upon a time, she would've fought back without hesitation. Three years of relentless bullying at prep school, three more years of torment after graduation, and three full years locked behind bars had crushed every ounce of her pride to dust. If she'd had no one left to live for, she would've died fighting long ago. But she had Lila. Every time she dared stand up for herself, Silas sent word that Lila would pay the price instead. "Serves her right!" another voice shouted. "Silas nearly died rushing into the School Athletic Storage Wing fire to save her. He barely escaped with his life, and ran straight back in the second he heard she was still trapped inside. He's left a massive, raised scar across his entire back, and lost half his voice for six months after the sm0#&k3 inhalation." "And how did she repay him? Held a grudge over Mrs. Voss disapproving their relationship, and shoved her down the stairs while Silas recovered from surgery!" The group seethed with righteous anger as they recounted the story. Hv#&nd=r3ds of harsh stares bore into Elowen, dragging her back to the nightmare of her senior year. Everyone had pointed their fingers and screamed that she'd hurt Margaret Voss. Silas had believed every word, and hated her with every fiber of his being. With one single command, he'd destroyed Dr. Hale's reputation overnight, branding him a violent criminal until he took his own life behind prison walls. He'd turned Havenbrook Private Preparatory into a living h3#&11 for her, orchestrating daily beatings and harassment. She'd fought back at first, even tried to transfer schools to escape. Every time she resisted, news arrived from the prison that her father had been assaulted. The day she'd attempted to switch campuses, word came that he was dead. Silas had shown up to Elias's funeral with a single white larkspur bouquet, bowing respectfully to the casket. His polite gesture clashed violently with his ice-cold tone. "Behave yourself inside the cage I've built for you, and Lila stays safe. Do you want to watch her end up in a casket too?" She'd aced the SAT, scoring in the nation's top fifty students. Silas had erased every Ivy League Acceptance Letter sent to her address, blocking all avenues to higher education. He'd banned her from every respectable career path, forcing her to wander the streets busking, scavenging tr4#&sh, begging for spare change. He'd stripped every chance of a dignified life away from her, turning her into a pariah everyone spat on. One small, fabricated charge later, and she'd spent three years locked up. Elowen finished cleaning the booth as fast as she could, rushing to flee the room. She rounded the corner straight into another woman's body. "I'm so sorry," Elowen babbled, bowing low. "Get off me!" the woman shrieked. "You've ruined my Vianne Designer Handbag! Get away from me, you filthy thing!" Elowen's b1#00&d ran cold. She knew this woman—Celia Mercer, Silas's college girlfriend. Elowen had waited tables at their university café once, and watched Silas kiss Celia over and over, soft and tender. He'd truly loved Celia. So much so that when Elowen accidentally scuffed one of her leather heels, Silas had thrown her in prison just to cheer Celia up. "I'll leave right now," Elowen whispered. If Celia was here, Silas couldn't be far behind. She couldn't let him spot her. She hunched low, trying to slip past Celia unnoticed. A voice that sent ice crawling down her spine stopped her dead. "Elowen." A cold, mocking laugh followed the single name. "Long time no see." The man's voice sounded like a snarl rising straight out of h3#&11, leaving Elowen trembling from head to toe. She turned to run. A warm, firm hand clamped tight around her neck before she could take a single step. "Can't hear me, huh? Deaf now?" His breath fanned over her skin, suffocating her like a demon clinging close. Elowen's h34rt split open. The prison accident that blew out her left ear hadn't been random at all—Silas had arranged it himself. He felt her body shaking against his grip, and his tone turned sickly sweet, layered with malice. "Why are you trembling? We're former prep school peers. Can't even greet me? This job's mine to offer, after all. Aren't you going to thank me?" Elowen's lips parted, overwhelmed by crushing despair. She'd busted her back to earn early parole, found a quiet, obscure lounge to work at, convinced she could live hidden from his gaze forever. She'd walked out of prison straight into his trap. She lifted her head, eyes wide with terror. Three years had carved away all boyish softness from Silas, leaving him sharp, aristocratic, towering over her. She stared at the boy she'd once loved more than anything. "I served three years in prison, Silas. Let me go." "I've lost my father, gone to jail, lost hearing in one ear. Whatever d3#&bt you think I owe you is paid ten times over." Silas ignored every word she spoke, looping an arm around Celia's waist. He stared down at Elowen, every line of his face twisted with cruelty. "I went out of my way to get you steady work, and this is how you repay me? How about a transfer to the cabaret stage instead of janitorial duty? Sounds far more fitting." Elowen's mouth opened and closed, unable to find a single word to reply. "Not interested?" No. Never. Elowen spun on her heel. "I quit. I'm leaving right now." Two large security guards blocked the exit the second she reached the doorway. Her mind reeled at all the new horrors Silas would dream up if she stayed. Then Silas spoke, sharp and unconcerned. "Let her walk." Elowen's relief crashed over her. Before she crossed the threshold, his low murmur drifted to her ears. "Don't come crawling back when you regret this." She stepped outside without hesitation. If it meant escaping him, she'd find another job no matter how hard it got. But even without Silas meddling behind the scenes, employment proved impossible to track down. She picked up odd jobs for two weeks straight, lowering her standards more each day, until she landed work at the Downtown Salvage Yard hauling scrap metal. The foreman was gruff and unpolished. "These metal scraps get sold for cash. Don't crack or damage a single piece, or you pay full restitution. Wages get weighed out and paid cash daily once your shift's done." The metal chunks were heavy, and Elowen's frame slight. She hauled back and forth nonstop, careful with every load. The pile she'd carried sat perfectly intact on the transport truck when her shift ended. She called the foreman over to weigh her haul, only to find every piece shattered across the asphalt. "You broke the whole load, you convict!" he roared, kicking her hard to the ground. "I never should've hired a felon like you." "Pay me back every cent this wreck's worth!" Elowen froze, numb with shock. The scrap had been whole minutes prior—she had no idea how it'd broken so suddenly. A tall, broad silhouette stepped between them before she could beg for mercy. Silas tossed a thick stack of hv#&nd=r3d-d0%11#ar bills at the foreman's feet. "Ten grand. Disappear." The foreman grabbed the cash instantly and hurried off, grinning from ear to ear. Elowen collapsed on the pavement, staring blankly up at Silas, drowning in hopelessness. "You did this." He still wouldn't leave her alone. Silas knelt beside her, a cruel, lazy smile tugging his lips. I'm not wasting my time sabotaging scrap metal foremen. That man wrecked the load himself to scam you out of m0&n3#y." Silly Elowen. That nickname pulled her back to their teenage years. He'd tap the tip of her nose, grinning. "Silly, stop staring at the guys on the basketball court. I'll get jealous as your boyfriend." She'd giggled back then, bright and carefree. "You're the silly one. Beat my SAT score first if you wanna talk." After Margaret's fall, when the other students locked her in a bathroom to beat her, he'd purred the same nickname with poison in his voice. "Silly, enjoying the h3#&11 I built just for you? The law can't touch you, so I will." Elowen's mind snapped back to the salvage yard. "Look around you. No one else will give you a single d0%11#ar to feed yourself besides me." His tone dripped with condescension, contrasting sharply with Elowen's broken despair. "Head back to The Siren Lounge. If scrubbing toilets's all you're good for, that's what you'll do. Don't try running again—you know exactly what I'm capable of." Silas turned and walked away without another glance. Elowen watched his broad retreating back, and a bitter laugh bubbled up from her ch3#&st. She laughed until her face crumpled, and a mouthful of dark b1#00&d welled up at her lips. Tears mixed with the crimson liquid streaming down her chin. She tilted her head back, hollow laughter echoing out. You're so powerful, Silas. How can you not see I'm already dying? Elowen was dying. Doctors had diagnosed Stage IV Gastric Carcinoma while she was still locked in prison. She had less than six months left to live. She'd chased steady employment solely to earn proof for the foster facility—not to build a new life for herself, just to see Lila one last time. She planned to save every penny she could leave behind for Lila before her time ran out. Elowen returned to The Siren Lounge without argument, accepting every filthiest, most exhausting chore the manager assigned her. She never complained, never fought for better hours. st4#&bbing abdominal pain flared constantly, and she popped over-the-counter generic pain capsules to numb the agony when it grew unbearable. She bowed her head and took every harsh word tossed her way without pushing back. Even the manager began to pity her. When she begged once more for official employment paperwork, he shook his head sadly. "I can't stamp that for you without the owner's approval, Elowen. It's out of my hands." Elowen nodded silently and wandered toward the stairwell for a moment of peace. She pushed open the emergency exit door, and froze on the spot. Silas stood half-undressed, holding Celia tight in his arms. Celia curled against his ch3#&st like a tiny, fragile bird. Silas's hands glided gently across her skin, every touch soft and tender. "Darling, I need the new limited-edition Vianne handbag. It's only available overseas, and you have to drop a m!11&#ion-d0%11#ar purchase minimum to reserve one." "It'll be delivered to your penthouse tomorrow morning." Celia shivered against him, voice breathy. "What if someone walks in and sees us?" Silas's cold gaze locked straight onto Elowen hiding on the stairs. "If anyone dares peek, I'll dig their eyes out for you." The glare sent a sharp jolt of terror through Elowen. She spun to run. "Stop." Her feet froze mid-step. Her h34rt hammered against her ribs, dreading whatever new t0#&rtur3 Silas would dream up next. "Grab two boxes of protection supplies and bring them to the private booth upstairs." Elowen's shoulders sagged in quiet relief. Only a trivial errand, for now. She dropped the supplies off and fled the room as fast as she could. It wasn't long before the manager tracked her down again. "Head up to The Siren's VIP booth and scrub it spotless." Elowen set down the half-eaten sourdough roll she'd been eating and hurried upstairs. The booth was wrecked, covered in lingerie and adult toys, stained with proof of their night together. Elowen's cheeks bv/rned hot. Back when she'd dated Silas, the furthest they'd gone was soft, chaste kissing. The mess around her filled her with shame and sorrow alike. She knelt to start cleaning, carefully gathering Celia's expensive jewelry set to set it aside safely. Silas's voice cv#t through the quiet without warning. "Do you regret it?" Elowen yelped, nearly slipping on the w3t floor. He caught her by the waist before she crashed down. She pulled away instantly, brushing messy hair out of her face in a panic. "Regret what?" "All of this could've been yours, if you hadn't ruined everything." Silas's Adam's apple bobbed thickly. "If you hadn't hurt my mother, we'd have a toddler running around our estate by now." Silas's father had approved their romance once, but Margaret had never approved of Elowen's background. Everyone had sworn Elowen sought revenge for Margaret's disapproval, attacking her while still too young to face full criminal charges. "You destroyed me. Destroyed the life we were supposed to share." Elowen stayed silent, kneeling to keep wiping the floor. Silas lit a c!#g4&r3=tte, watching her cough violently at the thick sm0#&k3 without a flicker of sympathy. "You don't have to suffer like this. All you need's that employment paper you crave so badly—beg me for it, and I'll hand it over." The sm0#&k3 worsened her stomach cramps, dragging painful memories crashing back. She'd begged him once before. After they'd locked her father away on fabricated charges, she'd knelt on the Voss Manor front steps for three full days and nights. She'd confessed to crimes she never committed, banging her forehead raw against the stone pavement, lowering herself to complete humiliation. It had earned her zero mercy from Silas. Her father, the surgeon who'd saved hv#&nd=r3ds of lives, had died disgraced behind prison bars regardless. Silas finally stubbed the c!#g4&r3=tte out when he noticed how violently she trembled in agony. He'd assumed she'd never stoop to begging, and only meant to taunt her with the offer. As he turned to leave, Elowen's thin hand wrapped tight around the hem of his slacks. He glanced down in shock. She'd dropped to her knees at his feet, every line of her frame screaming submission. "Mr. Voss, I'm begging you. Let me see Lila just once." Her stomach screamed in unrelenting agony. She didn't have much time left. She couldn't hold on any longer.

Second I got assaulted, I called the cops. But the lawyer defending that piece of sh!t? My husband, Sullivan Evans. Trial started and he played a video of me. "So, Ms. Croft—no bra that night, red dress slit up to here. You telling me you weren't trying to get my client's attention?" "You know you can't handle your liquor. But you knocked back ten shots anyway. That sound right to you?" "You slept around so much you can't even have kids now. So what is this—you're gonna frame some innocent twenty-year-old kid to feel better about yourself?" The whole courtroom lost it. In the gallery, Sullivan's first love— Celine Whitmore—was sobbing. "Vivian, Eden's my baby brother! I know you hate me. But you stripped down, threw yourself at him, then screamed violate? That's disgusting." Sullivan's hand went to her shoulder. Soft. Protective. I sat in that witness stand. Couldn't feel my hands. Seven years ago he stood in a courtroom and said: "SO A WOMAN DRINKS, WEARS A DRESS, STAYS OUT LATE—AND SHE DESERVES TO GET RAPED?" He was defending me then. Now? He used those same words to destroy me. I called the cops immediately after I was assaulted. Yet on the day of the trial, the man standing in court to defend my assailant was my husband, Sullivan Evans. He was the most feared criminal defense lawyer in the state. The moment court opened, he played a video. The footage was vile and deeply humiliating. Every gaze in the courtroom pierced me like a sharp needle. He didn't even look at me when he spoke. "Ms. Croft, on the night in question, did you intentionally wear an unlined crimson slip dress with a plunging neckline and a high thigh slit, with the sole intent of seducing my client?" "Did you knowingly drink ten shots of top-shelf whiskey, despite knowing your own tolerance?" "And is it true that your infertility stemming from a history of indiscriminate relationships has left you emotionally unhinged—so much so that you decided to ruin a twenty-year-old college boy's future with a false rape accusation?" A storm of uproar swept through the gallery. In the front row, Sullivan's first love, Celine Whitmore, sat crying. Her eyes were rimmed red, glistening with delicate, fragile tears. Like I was the one who'd hurt her. "Vivian, Eden is my brother! I know you're jealous of me, but you cannot throw yourself at him out of spite, then falsely claim you were raped!" Sullivan pressed a hand to her trembling shoulder. I sat in the witness box, ice-cold. Seven years ago, he'd asked the same kind of question, but for my sake. "Does a woman deserve to be assaulted merely for drinking alcohol, wearing a dress, and walking alone at night?" He once spoke those words to defend me; now he has honed them into a sharp blade, pointed straight at my throat. ... The courtroom monitor flared to life, and a cold dread saturated my veins. It’s the hotel hallway footage. Frozen frame. There I was. Crimson dress, skin bare, stumbling. Half my weight slumped against Eden Whitmore's body. From that angle, my hand looked like it was clinging to his shoulder. A collective gasp rippled across the audience gallery. Sullivan pointed to the screen. "Notice, ladies and gentlemen. Ms. Croft never screamed. Her body moved with my client's." "This is not resistance. This is a deliberate performance." My throat tightened shut, a metallic taste of blood flooding my tongue from grinding my teeth in agony. "I wasn't! I was dru//gged. I was completely incapacitated and unable to speak a word!" "I said no." Sullivan finally looked at me, then quickly looked away. His voice went arctic, like he was choking something back. "dru//gged?" "Ms. Croft, a woman who wears a provocative midnight slip dress, gets heavily inebriated, and enters a hotel with a strange young man..." "What makes you think anyone should believe you were forced?" The room spun. I felt nak//ed in front of everyone. Sullivan's body went rigid for a split second. His eyes caught my pale face. I saw his throat move. Like he'd just heard himself. But then he looked away. Back to being the coldest knife in the courtroom. I sank my teeth harshly into my lower lip until the sharp metallic tang of blood bloomed in my mouth. That da//mning red dress had been a gift from Celine all along. "Vivian, you always dress so plain. Tonight's Sullivan's big celebration. You should make him look." I didn't want to wear it. Sullivan zipped it up for me. Smiled low against my ear. "My wife in red... you’re the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." "Don't be scared of people staring, Vivi." "You're not shameless. You're stunning." Now he called me a streetwalker. I stared at him and felt the world tilt. Like someone had shoved me back into the nightmare from seven years ago. Back then I was a junior associate. My boss nearly raped me. Everyone asked if I'd "slept my way up." Sullivan was the one who told me: you didn't do anything wrong. The opposing counsel had once pointed directly at me in court, sneering, "Why did you not scream? Why did you not run? Were you not partially willing?” He stood up. "Objection! You cannot deny my client's trauma simply because she didn't fight the way you imagine she should have." I broke down in court that day. Because someone finally said it out loud. I wasn't guilty. I was just terrified. But today, the monster was his first love's little brother. And Sullivan jammed those words straight into my ches//t: You had brought this ruin upon yourself. I lifted my eyes to meet his, my voice thinning to a fragile, breathless whisper. "Sullivan. You didn't used to say things like that." His fingers stilled abruptly against the case file. For a single heartbeat, there was silence. Then he pulled out another document. [Psychiatric Intervention Records] My heart stopped. My therapy notes. From seven years ago. The one wound I'd never wanted anyone to see. I remembered those endless nights: trembling and screaming through panic attacks, scrubbing my skin raw until it bled in a compulsive urge to cleanse myself. I couldn't let men near me. Couldn't walk into a closed room. Sullivan took me to every session. After each one, he'd hold me. Kiss my forehead over and over. "Don't be scared, Vivi. I'll protect you for the rest of my life." I had handed him every broken, bleeding fragment of my shattered self back then. Now he was ripping open every scar, for the whole world to watch. He flipped the file open flat on the counsel table, his tone deadly calm and unyielding, "Your Honor, Ms. Croft underwent long-term psychiatric intervention seven years ago." "Including documented stress responses to male contact, and severe persecutory ideation." My veins turned to ice. "Liar..." My voice cracked. "That's private. How could you..." He didn't look at me. "Ms. Croft’s medical records document a consistent pattern of misinterpreting ordinary male interactions as violent assaults, even in the absence of any genuine threat." "We therefore submit that on the night in question. Under the influence of alcohol, old trauma, and marital strain, she experienced a cognitive distortion." The gallery exploded. "Cognitive distortion? So she's crazy?" "Oh my God, she's done this before!" "Textbook victim complex." I started shaking. Sullivan glanced at me then. His knuckles went white around the file. But Celine let out a tiny sob. He turned back to the judge. "Furthermore, the defense has evidence of a long-standing conflict between Ms. Croft and Ms. Whitmore." He pulled out more exhibits. "Ms. Whitmore has been subjected to repeated verbal attacks from Ms. Croft, who believes Ms. Whitmore is destroying her marriage." "Especially after learning of Ms. Whitmore's pregnancy, Ms. Croft's emotional state deteriorated sharply." On the big screen, there were screenshots of my texts with Celine. They were deliberately cropped, stripped of all context, curated to display only my sharpest, most confrontational lines. [Stay away from Sullivan.] [You know he's married.] [What do you actually want, Celine?] Sullivan read them aloud and flat. "These clearly establish Ms. Croft's deep hostility toward Ms. Whitmore." I stared at the screen, freezing from the inside out. "That's not..." "She sent me photos of them watching fireworks at midnight." "She told me her baby needed a father." "She said Sullivan would leave me eventually." Celine burst into tears, shaking her head frantically in feigned grievance. "I never! Vivian, why are you lying about me?" She clutched her pregnan//t belly tightly, hot tears streaming down her cheeks in a carefully crafted display of vulnerability. "I only said the baby was innocent. I never wanted to take Sullivan from you!" "Eden and I lost our parents young. He's all I have. And now I'm pregnan//t and alone and I was just scared..." Sullivan kept going. "Did you, in the hospital maternity wing, publicly curse Ms. Whitmore's unborn child?" My hands clenched. That day, Celine called saying Sullivan was in trouble. I rushed to the hospital, and found him holding her hand during her ultrasound. She leaned into his shoulder. Touched her stomach. "Sullivan, do you think the baby will look more like you, or me?" I stood there like a punchline. All I said was, "Celine. Is this fun for you?" Now that was "proof" of my jealousy. I looked at the gallery. My mother, Eleanor, sat there. Her face drained of all color, her eyes blazing red with suppressed tears and fury. She was the toughest woman I knew. After my first case, she held me and sobbed so hard she couldn't stand. Then Sullivan came. He swore to God in front of her. "Mrs. Croft, I'll protect Vivian. No one will ever hurt her again." Today she watched that same man strip me nak//ed for everyone. She stood up suddenly. "Sullivan Evans! Have you lost every ounce of your humanity??" "Seven years ago, what did you promise me?" "Now you're using her medical records, her wounds, her pain about not having children, to get a rapist off?" "How dare you. How dare you!" Sullivan went pale. He stood there, unable to utter a single word in his defense. I watched my mother's back and felt something crack in my ches//t. After the first hearing, my mother held me tight and walked me out. Reporters swarmed the stone courthouse steps in a chaotic mob.Blinding flashbulbs burst relentlessly in my eyes, and microphones were thrust rudely inches from my face, one after another. "Ms. Croft, were you jealous that Celine was carrying Sullivan's baby, so you threw yourself at her brother?" "Word is you went commando that night. Do you suffer from sexual addiction?" "You pulled this stunt seven years ago. Now you're shaking down a twenty-year-old young man. A classic honey trap?" "Is that your mother? Does she know about your reckless lifestyle?" I stumbled. Someone grabbed my sleeve in the crush. The fabric tore. My shoulder and half my ches//t hit the air. Cameras flashed wildly, capturing every exposed inch. Male onlookers laughed and whistled, "da//mn, no wonder the kid couldn't keep his hands off!" My stomach turned inside out. Mom lunged in front of me. Covered me with her own body. "Back off! You animals! Have you no shame?" In the chaos, someone shoved her hard. Her forehead cracked against the courthouse pillar's sharp edge. Blood poured down her face. It took bailiffs to clear the way. That night, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Sullivan and Celine standing on our porch. Mom's face went murderous. "What do you want?" Celine looked at me, wet-eyed. "Vivian, I came to apologize for my brother. But he is only twenty. He's never even had a girlfriend. He genuinely thought you were lonely and seeking attention in that dress..." "He said the second he touched you, you responded. You didn't fight him at all. So why call the police after and try to destroy his whole life?" My brain detonated. I locked eyes on her. "Say that again. I was dru//gged. Convulsing. And you're telling me I wanted it?" Celine flinched into Sullivan's ches//t. "Vivian, please... Is she having another breakdown?" Mom's palm cracked across Celine's cheek. "SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Sullivan pulled Celine behind him, his jaw tightening into a hard, unforgiving line. "She's pregnan//t. You had no right to do so." Then he turned to me. "Vivian. Drop the charges." Every word sliced into me like a fresh blade. "I can make this go away. Sign the withdrawal. We won't pursue the false-report angle." "If you keep pushing, you'll lose. You can't handle what's coming." I stared fixedly at the man standing in my doorway—a complete stranger. "Are you warning me because you care, Sullivan?" "Or threatening me that if I don't fold, you'll bury me in the press?" His face flickered. "That's not what I meant." Mom pointed at the door with her shaking hands. "Get out. Both of you!" She suddenly clutched tightly at her ches//t, her body staggering weakly to the side. I screamed and caught her. Sullivan stepped forward instinctively to help. I shoved him back. "Don't touch her!" He froze. Mom slumped against me. Pale. Sweating. I fumbled for my phone. Dialed 911. Sullivan stood at the threshold. For the first time, he looked lost. "Vivi, I..." I held my mother. My whole body trembling so violently I could barely form words. "Take Celine and get out of my house! If something happens to my mom, I will never forgive you." His lips moved. Nothing came out. Mom's hand went cold in mine. And I realized Sullivan hadn't come to talk me into dropping charges. He'd come to finish off the last person who still stood between me and the edge.

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