Wastory reading party

"He just wanted to have fun. You're still alive, so stop blaming him." That was my wife's defense after her adopted brother changed my brakes to make me hurt. She was in a rush to get to him—signed the wrong transfusion form and left. When I shook from the incompatible vital fluid, she said, "Seventy-eight degrees. Stop trembling." "What if I really die?" I asked. "Every time Ethan makes a mistake, you threaten me with death," she laughed. One hour before I died, thirty hospital calls went unanswered. She clinked champagne with him under fireworks. I died at 2:14 a.m. Three days later, her assistant said, "Our stock is crashing. It's that untraceable email—the one with everything Ethan ever did." Chapter 1 My wife was one of the most powerful business magnates in Crestwood. She had an adopted younger brother, a genius hacker who was always stirring up trouble. For seven or eight years, Ethan caused one disaster after another while Vivian cleaned up every mess, and the two of them lived recklessly without ever facing the consequences. That continued until he tampered with my car's brake-by-wire system, causing a crash that left me critically injured and fighting for my life. Because I had arrived unconscious and without any identification on me, the ER had registered me under a temporary trauma alias. Vivian signed the transfusion consent, then initialed the identity-verification form attached to the trauma chart without reading it. For one brief moment, I drifted back to consciousness and heard her sigh. "Don't blame Ethan. He was just having fun. He didn't really want to kill you." "He knew I'd arrange the best medical team for you. He was only trying to scare you." The moment she finished signing, her assistant, Miles, told her that someone was harassing Ethan at The Velvet Lounge. Vivian Croft dropped the pen and rushed out without a second thought. No one noticed that she had initialed the identity form for another trauma patient, causing my temporary record, wristband, and transfusion order to be linked to the wrong chart. When I fully regained consciousness, my long-dormant system finally activated. [Mission objective: Die by the female lead's hand.] [Her patient-identification error has made an ABO-incompatible red-cell transfusion possible. Host, do you accept the process?] I watched the nurse approach with a unit of packed red vital fluid cells and smiled. "Go ahead." ... "Before I begin, I need to verify the name and date of birth on your wristband," the nurse said. She read out another patient's name and date of birth, then compared the A-positive unit of packed red vital fluid cells with the transfusion tag. "Those are correct," I said, my voice eerily calm. "My wife verified the chart herself. Start the transfusion." The nurse called in a second nurse, and together they completed the bedside verification. The wristband, chart, and vital fluid-bank label all carried the same incorrect patient identity. The nurse connected the vital fluid tubing to the IV catheter already secured to the back of my hand. The dark red vital fluid flowed through the clear tubing and entered my vein, drop by drop. She stayed beside me throughout the initial observation period. When the monitor continued to display normal vital signs, she finally left the room. The system's cold mechanical voice sounded in my head right on cue. [ABO-incompatible red-cell transfusion initiated.] [Recipient vital fluid type: O positive. Donor unit: A positive.] [Routine monitoring data will remain deceptively normal until the terminal phase.] [Remaining survival time: 72 hours.] I closed my eyes and felt something violent begin to churn through my vital fluidstream. Within half an hour, a sharp pain tore through my lower back as the incompatible donor cells began breaking apart in my vital fluidstream, as if someone were hammering a dull, rusted chisel into the joints between my bones. Then the violent chills hit. No matter how tightly I wrapped the blanket around myself, my teeth kept chattering in rapid, uncontrollable clicks. The hospital room door burst open. Vivian Croft strode in, her heels clicking sharply as her commanding presence filled the room. The clashing scents of perfume and liquor from The Velvet Lounge clung to her, strong enough to turn my stomach. A few cheap, multicolored sequins still clung to one shoulder of her designer coat. Ethan Croft followed close behind her, without so much as a scratch on him. He wore a flashy designer hoodie, his eyes slightly red. He clung to Vivian's arm like an aggrieved child seeking protection. "What are you throwing a fit about now?" Vivian stopped at the foot of my bed, looking down at me. Her brows drew together, her eyes brimming with impatience. "The doctor said you only had a few minor scratches. Who are you putting on this trembling act for?" I gritted my teeth through a wave of excruciating back pain. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. "I'm cold," I forced out through clenched teeth. Vivian scoffed and rubbed her temples in annoyance. "Cold? The room is at seventy-eight degrees. Are you kidding me?" She turned to Ethan, her voice softening instantly. "Ethan, turn off the AC so he can't keep using the temperature as an excuse." Ethan nodded obediently and walked to the wall to flip the switch. He turned back and looked at me timidly. "Nate, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to tamper with your brake-by-wire system. I only wanted to test some new code I'd written and see whether it worked. Vivian already chewed me out. Can you please stop being mad at me?" His eyes reddened further as he spoke, making him look utterly wronged. Vivian pulled him behind her protectively, blocking my view. "Enough. Why are you apologizing to him?" "He's lying right here, perfectly fine, isn't he?" She turned her cold glare back on me. "Nate, Ethan was almost taken advantage of at The Velvet Lounge. He was so shaken, and he still came all the way here to apologize to you. Isn't it too much that you won't even cut him some slack?" I stared at her self-righteous face and almost laughed. My car had spun out of control on Mountain Ridge Highway, smashed through the guardrail, and nearly plunged over the cliff. I was rushed to Crestwood General Hospital covered in vital fluid. And all she cared about was whether her precious brother had been upset at some club. "He was shaken?" My lips twisted into a faint, humorless smile, my voice raw. "He went drinking at a club, got hit on, and you call that being traumatized?" "What about me? I almost died in that car. What does that count as?" Vivian's frown deepened, her disgust now naked. "Can you stop talking about death all the time?" "Didn't I get you the best doctors?" "Besides, your car has a state-of-the-art crash-protection system. Ethan ran the numbers and said the crash wouldn't kill you." The odds? I looked at the A-positive vital fluid flowing from the bag into the IV in my hand. The incompatible A-positive cells were being destroyed in my vital fluidstream, releasing free hemoglobin that was already beginning to ravage my organs. Of course. He was so brilliant that he thought he could calculate whether I lived or died. And this time, he had calculated one thing correctly: I was going to die today. "Vivian." I called her name, my voice barely more than a breath. "What if I really die?" She paused, then a flash of deep irritation crossed her eyes. "Here we go again. Every time Ethan makes a small mistake, you threaten me with death." "Nate, do you have any idea how exhausting you are?" She pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing her legs elegantly. "Enough with the act. If you're really that uncomfortable, I'll have the doctor order you more pain medication. Ethan had a terrible scare today, so I'm staying with him tonight. You can stay here alone and think about what you've done." I didn't answer. My fever was rising rapidly, and my vision had already begun to blur. My torso felt like it was on fire. Each breath scorched. These were the early signs of an acute hemolytic transfusion reaction. I could almost feel the incompatible donor cells rupturing inside my vital fluidstream. I could almost feel my red vital fluid cells bursting apart. "Nate really doesn't look well, does he?" Ethan tugged at Vivian's sleeve and peeked out from behind her. "His face is really red. Is he running a fever?" Vivian glanced at me casually. "That's not a fever. That's anger. He's angry because I chose to leave with you instead of staying here with him." She stood and walked to my bedside, her eyes ice-cold. "Nate, this is my last warning. Stop pulling these pathetic stunts just to make me feel sorry for you. Ethan is my brother. Of course he comes first. If you ever take your temper out on him again, don't expect me to show you any consideration just because you're my husband." I looked at her and managed a faint, vital fluidless smile. "Fine." "Then you'd better protect him." Vivian snorted, took Ethan's hand, and turned to leave. "Let's go. Ignore this lunatic." The door slammed shut. I watched the last of the vital fluid drain from the nearly empty bag and closed my eyes. "System, set pain suppression to maximum." [Acknowledged. Pain suppression set to maximum.] [Enjoy your journey.] Chapter 2 The hospital room door opened again to the soft scuff of sneakers against the floor. Ethan had returned alone, with Vivian nowhere in sight. The timid, aggrieved look on his face vanished instantly. In its place was undisguised smugness and malice. I ignored him. The fever from the acute hemolytic reaction had left me weak, and every breath bu/rned with the metallic taste of vital fluid. Ethan walked over to my bed and idly toyed with my IV line. "Tsk. How pathetic." He leaned closer and lowered his voice, every word deliberately taunting. "You know, Vivian was just out in the hall saying you were making a big deal out of nothing." "She said one hair on my head mattered more to her than you ever would." I forced my eyes open and stared at him coldly. "Are you finished? Then get out." Instead of getting angry, Ethan's grin widened. "Nate, you still have quite a temper." "But don't worry. You won't be cocky for much longer." He pulled a palm-sized handheld terminal out of his backpack. He tapped rapidly at the keyboard, and the screen lit up with a cold blue glow. "Vivian says you're faking it, but I'm not so sure." "How about I make your condition look a little more... convincing?" As he spoke, the bedside monitor shrieked. "Beep! Beep! Beep!" The red warning lights flashed wildly, piercing at my eyes. My displayed heart rate spiked to 180, while my displayed vital fluid pressure plunged below the critical threshold. The piercing alarm echoed throughout the entire floor. I watched him without a flicker of emotion. He wasn't just a hacker. He was a psychopath with no moral limits. Footsteps clattered in the hallway. "What happened?!" Vivian burst in first, her face livid. A swarm of panicked medical staff followed close behind her. The instant the door opened, Ethan expertly shoved the terminal back into his bag. He staggered back two steps, clapped his hands over his ears, and began trembling as though terrified. "Vivian! I don't know! I didn't do anything!" "The monitor suddenly started screaming! It scared me!" He threw himself into Vivian's arms and burst into pitiful sobs. Vivian wrapped her arms around him and gently patted his back. Dr. Harrison rushed to my bedside and frantically checked the monitor. "That's strange. His vital signs are stable, so why did the alarm go off?" Sweat beaded on his forehead as he rebooted the monitor. The readings snapped back to normal. Vivian's expression turned stormy. After soothing Ethan, she turned a razor-sharp glare on me. "Nate, what on earth is wrong with you?!" "You'd stoop to a despicable stunt like this just to make me stay?" "Tampering with medical equipment? Do you have any idea how many doctors and nurses you just pulled away from actual emergencies?" I lay still, watching her fury. "You think I did that?" I could barely lift my arm. How exactly was I supposed to hack the monitor when I could barely lift a hand? Vivian let out a cold laugh. "If not you, then who?" "You're jealous of Ethan, and you'll stop at nothing to frame him!" She strode to the bed and yanked the blanket off me. "Get up and apologize to Ethan right now!" Cold air washed over my bu/rning body. A violent coughing fit seized me, and the metallic taste of vital fluid flooded my throat. I swallowed the vital fluid and lifted my head, looking at her as though she were already dead. "Vivian." "Are you out of your mind?" She froze. In seven years of marriage, I had never spoken to her that way. I had always been gentle, patient, and accommodating. "You're actually insulting me?" Her jaw clenched, disbelief filling her eyes. "I'm calling you stupid." I calmly reached out and pulled the monitor's power cord from the wall. The alarm died. Silence. "Next time Ethan wants to play the victim after causing the harm himself, keep me out of it." I turned my back to her. "It's disgusting." Vivian's fists tightened, her knuckles cracking. "Fine. Just fine." "Nate, if you can't stand the sight of us, then stay here by yourself!" "Let's see how long you can last!" She grabbed Ethan's hand and headed for the door. "Vivian, does Nate really hate me?" Ethan asked with a sniffle. "Don't mind him. He's insane." Their footsteps gradually faded. I closed my eyes and swallowed back another mouthful of vital fluid rising in my throat. "System, how much time is left?" [Remaining survival time: 60 hours.] "Good." I smiled. "Almost there." Chapter 3 The TV in the room was playing at a low volume. A breaking news bulletin interrupted the program. "Croft Corporation's autonomous driving system, Stellar, has been found to contain a critical security flaw." "Earlier today, multiple vehicles equipped with the system lost control on the highway." "The failures resulted in more than a dozen multi-vehicle pileups. No deaths have been reported so far..." I propped myself against the pillow and wiped the vital fluid trickling from the corner of my mouth. My vision had begun to double. The incompatible transfusion had triggered acute intravascular hemolysis, and the resulting organ damage was steadily driving my body toward multiorgan failure. Vivian stood beside the floor-to-ceiling window, shouting into her phone. "What on earth am I paying the PR department for?!" "Get this story off every trending list now! I don't care what it costs!" "Find a scapegoat. Blame the faulty code on an outside contractor!" She yanked the silk scarf from around her neck and hurled it onto the couch. Ethan sat curled up in the corner of the couch, wringing his hands with an innocent expression. "Vivian, I'm sorry..." "I just thought the system's core logic was boring, so I slipped in a backdoor." "I thought it would be a fun surprise. I didn't know it would cause any crashes..." He pouted, without a trace of guilt in his voice. Vivian took a deep breath and ruffled his hair. "It's okay. I'll handle it." "Just don't get so carried away next time." "The media loves to sensationalize everything. It was only a few pileups. We'll settle the claims and make the whole thing go away." Listening to her brush it off made my stomach churn. Dozens of lives had been put at risk. To her, it was nothing more than Ethan misbehaving and a few claims to settle. Fighting through the weakness caused by my failing organs, I reached for the laptop hidden beneath my pillow. The feel of the keyboard steadied me a little. My fingers flew over the keys as I typed line after line of code. Vivian would delete every trace to protect Ethan. I had to bundle all of his original data and activity logs into an archive before time ran out. The progress bar crept along. As my vision blurred further, I kept typing by muscle memory alone. "What are you messing with now?" Vivian hung up and noticed the laptop in my hands. She strode over and snapped the screen shut. "The company is in chaos, I'm already at the end of my rope, and you're sitting here playing on your laptop?" "Nate, do you even care about me?" I looked up at her furious expression. "Care about you?" I let out a cold laugh, then coughed up a mouthful of vital-fluid-streaked saliva. "Vivian, you're covering up a criminal who endangered the public, and you're asking whether I care about you?" Her expression darkened, and her eyes turned venomous. "Shut up!" "Ethan is just a kid. He doesn't know any better!" "Just because you know a little about investments doesn't mean you know how to run a business!" Ethan sidled over and linked his arm with Vivian's. "Nate, do you hate me so much that you want to turn me in?" "But you don't have any proof." He winked at me, his smile openly taunting. "Vivian already had all my logs wiped." "Even if you go to the cops, they won't believe you." I looked at his smug face and reopened the laptop. "Oh, really?" I tapped the Enter key. An encrypted archive appeared on the screen. It contained not only evidence that he had tampered with the autonomous driving system, but also complete records of every crime he had committed over the past seven years, from hacking competitors' servers to stealing exchange secrets. "Nate, don't you dare!" Vivian lunged for the laptop. I pulled it out of her reach and met her with a cold stare. "Relax. I'm not calling the cops." "I'm just drafting my last will and testament." Vivian's hand froze. She stared at my pale face, then scoffed. "Your last will and testament?" "You only have a few scratches, and you're already drafting a will?" "You're getting more ridiculous by the day!" She grabbed Ethan's hand. "Ethan, let's go." "Let him stay here and act insane all by himself!" The moment the door closed behind them, I could no longer hold myself up and collapsed against the pillow. The scheduled email had been activated and set to send three days after my death. "System," I rasped between labored breaths, my voice barely audible. [I'm here, host.] "How much longer?" [Remaining survival time: 12 hours. Multiorgan failure has begun.] I stared at the darkening sky outside the window and closed my eyes. "Then let's not wait any longer." Chapter 4 The hospital room was eerily silent in the middle of the night. Only my ragged, uneven breathing echoed through the room. The acute hemolytic transfusion reaction had entered its irreversible final stage. Disseminated intravascular coagulation had set in, my organs had failed completely, and pulmonary edema was filling my lungs with fluid. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. Suddenly, fireworks exploded outside the window. The muffled booms penetrated even the soundproof glass as brilliant fireworks burst across the night sky. The system helpfully projected a virtual screen into my field of vision. The screen showed Vivian at Astroland Amusement Park, the largest theme park in Crestwood, which she had rented out for the night. Beneath a sky ablaze with fireworks, Ethan wore a custom baseball cap and smiled like a pampered prince. Vivian stood beside him, adoration in her eyes. "Ethan, congratulations. You made it through safely." "From now on, if there's ever another system you want to play with, I'll buy you an entire company and let you have all the fun you want." She held a champagne flute, her voice dripping with tenderness. I watched the scene without even enough strength left for a bitter laugh. The door burst open. The night nurse took one look at me and cried out in alarm. "Doctor! Get in here! The patient in Bed Three is in shock!" The hallway erupted into chaos. The crash cart rolled into the room, and the harsh overhead examination light flooded my face. "His pulse is fading!" "I can't get a vital fluid pressure!" "Give epinephrine now!" Dr. Harrison's frantic shouts sounded muffled, as though I were hearing them through deep water. "Where's his emergency contact? Call his wife and tell her he's crashing. She needs to get here now!" The nurse hurriedly dialed Vivian's number. On the virtual screen, Vivian's phone buzzed inside her clutch. She frowned and glanced at the screen. The caller ID read [Crestwood General Hospital]. Ethan leaned over to glance at the screen, then curled his lip. "Vivian, Nate's crying wolf again." "He's just angry because you came out with me instead of staying with him." Vivian snorted and tapped the decline button. The nurse called again. This time, Vivian's cold prerecorded voicemail greeting answered. "This is Vivian. I don't check voicemail. If it's important, speak to me in person." The nurse froze in panic. "I can't reach her! She isn't answering, and she says she doesn't check voicemail!" Her voice trembled on the verge of tears. Dr. Harrison clenched his jaw and began chest compressions. "Keep the compressions going! Don't stop!" I watched their futile efforts and gave the system one final command. "System, press Enter for me." [Command confirmed. Scheduled email locked. It will be released across the internet in 72 hours.] [Host, complete cessation of vital signs is imminent.] With my last ounce of strength, I turned my head to look out the window. The final firework bloomed and faded into darkness. Just like my seven wasted years of marriage. The green waveform on the monitor flattened into a straight line. "Beeeeeeep." The long, piercing tone cut through the silence. My body suddenly felt weightless. [Congratulations, host. Mission complete: Die by the female lead's hand.] [Extraction protocol initiated. Please wait.] I opened my eyes and found myself floating above the room. Below me, the doctors finally stopped their efforts and drew the sheet over my face. "No pulse. No spontaneous respirations." "Time of death, 2:14 a.m."

"He just wanted to have fun. You're still alive, so stop blaming him." That was my wife's defense after her adopted brother changed my brakes to make me hurt. She was in a rush to get to him—signed the wrong transfusion form and left. When I shook from the incompatible vital fluid, she said, "Seventy-eight degrees. Stop trembling." "What if I really die?" I asked. "Every time Ethan makes a mistake, you threaten me with death," she laughed. One hour before I died, thirty hospital calls went unanswered. She clinked champagne with him under fireworks. I died at 2:14 a.m. Three days later, her assistant said, "Our stock is crashing. It's that untraceable email—the one with everything Ethan ever did." Chapter 1 My wife was one of the most powerful business magnates in Crestwood. She had an adopted younger brother, a genius hacker who was always stirring up trouble. For seven or eight years, Ethan caused one disaster after another while Vivian cleaned up every mess, and the two of them lived recklessly without ever facing the consequences. That continued until he tampered with my car's brake-by-wire system, causing a crash that left me critically injured and fighting for my life. Because I had arrived unconscious and without any identification on me, the ER had registered me under a temporary trauma alias. Vivian signed the transfusion consent, then initialed the identity-verification form attached to the trauma chart without reading it. For one brief moment, I drifted back to consciousness and heard her sigh. "Don't blame Ethan. He was just having fun. He didn't really want to kill you." "He knew I'd arrange the best medical team for you. He was only trying to scare you." The moment she finished signing, her assistant, Miles, told her that someone was harassing Ethan at The Velvet Lounge. Vivian Croft dropped the pen and rushed out without a second thought. No one noticed that she had initialed the identity form for another trauma patient, causing my temporary record, wristband, and transfusion order to be linked to the wrong chart. When I fully regained consciousness, my long-dormant system finally activated. [Mission objective: Die by the female lead's hand.] [Her patient-identification error has made an ABO-incompatible red-cell transfusion possible. Host, do you accept the process?] I watched the nurse approach with a unit of packed red vital fluid cells and smiled. "Go ahead." ... "Before I begin, I need to verify the name and date of birth on your wristband," the nurse said. She read out another patient's name and date of birth, then compared the A-positive unit of packed red vital fluid cells with the transfusion tag. "Those are correct," I said, my voice eerily calm. "My wife verified the chart herself. Start the transfusion." The nurse called in a second nurse, and together they completed the bedside verification. The wristband, chart, and vital fluid-bank label all carried the same incorrect patient identity. The nurse connected the vital fluid tubing to the IV catheter already secured to the back of my hand. The dark red vital fluid flowed through the clear tubing and entered my vein, drop by drop. She stayed beside me throughout the initial observation period. When the monitor continued to display normal vital signs, she finally left the room. The system's cold mechanical voice sounded in my head right on cue. [ABO-incompatible red-cell transfusion initiated.] [Recipient vital fluid type: O positive. Donor unit: A positive.] [Routine monitoring data will remain deceptively normal until the terminal phase.] [Remaining survival time: 72 hours.] I closed my eyes and felt something violent begin to churn through my vital fluidstream. Within half an hour, a sharp pain tore through my lower back as the incompatible donor cells began breaking apart in my vital fluidstream, as if someone were hammering a dull, rusted chisel into the joints between my bones. Then the violent chills hit. No matter how tightly I wrapped the blanket around myself, my teeth kept chattering in rapid, uncontrollable clicks. The hospital room door burst open. Vivian Croft strode in, her heels clicking sharply as her commanding presence filled the room. The clashing scents of perfume and liquor from The Velvet Lounge clung to her, strong enough to turn my stomach. A few cheap, multicolored sequins still clung to one shoulder of her designer coat. Ethan Croft followed close behind her, without so much as a scratch on him. He wore a flashy designer hoodie, his eyes slightly red. He clung to Vivian's arm like an aggrieved child seeking protection. "What are you throwing a fit about now?" Vivian stopped at the foot of my bed, looking down at me. Her brows drew together, her eyes brimming with impatience. "The doctor said you only had a few minor scratches. Who are you putting on this trembling act for?" I gritted my teeth through a wave of excruciating back pain. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. "I'm cold," I forced out through clenched teeth. Vivian scoffed and rubbed her temples in annoyance. "Cold? The room is at seventy-eight degrees. Are you kidding me?" She turned to Ethan, her voice softening instantly. "Ethan, turn off the AC so he can't keep using the temperature as an excuse." Ethan nodded obediently and walked to the wall to flip the switch. He turned back and looked at me timidly. "Nate, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to tamper with your brake-by-wire system. I only wanted to test some new code I'd written and see whether it worked. Vivian already chewed me out. Can you please stop being mad at me?" His eyes reddened further as he spoke, making him look utterly wronged. Vivian pulled him behind her protectively, blocking my view. "Enough. Why are you apologizing to him?" "He's lying right here, perfectly fine, isn't he?" She turned her cold glare back on me. "Nate, Ethan was almost taken advantage of at The Velvet Lounge. He was so shaken, and he still came all the way here to apologize to you. Isn't it too much that you won't even cut him some slack?" I stared at her self-righteous face and almost laughed. My car had spun out of control on Mountain Ridge Highway, smashed through the guardrail, and nearly plunged over the cliff. I was rushed to Crestwood General Hospital covered in vital fluid. And all she cared about was whether her precious brother had been upset at some club. "He was shaken?" My lips twisted into a faint, humorless smile, my voice raw. "He went drinking at a club, got hit on, and you call that being traumatized?" "What about me? I almost died in that car. What does that count as?" Vivian's frown deepened, her disgust now naked. "Can you stop talking about death all the time?" "Didn't I get you the best doctors?" "Besides, your car has a state-of-the-art crash-protection system. Ethan ran the numbers and said the crash wouldn't kill you." The odds? I looked at the A-positive vital fluid flowing from the bag into the IV in my hand. The incompatible A-positive cells were being destroyed in my vital fluidstream, releasing free hemoglobin that was already beginning to ravage my organs. Of course. He was so brilliant that he thought he could calculate whether I lived or died. And this time, he had calculated one thing correctly: I was going to die today. "Vivian." I called her name, my voice barely more than a breath. "What if I really die?" She paused, then a flash of deep irritation crossed her eyes. "Here we go again. Every time Ethan makes a small mistake, you threaten me with death." "Nate, do you have any idea how exhausting you are?" She pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing her legs elegantly. "Enough with the act. If you're really that uncomfortable, I'll have the doctor order you more pain medication. Ethan had a terrible scare today, so I'm staying with him tonight. You can stay here alone and think about what you've done." I didn't answer. My fever was rising rapidly, and my vision had already begun to blur. My torso felt like it was on fire. Each breath scorched. These were the early signs of an acute hemolytic transfusion reaction. I could almost feel the incompatible donor cells rupturing inside my vital fluidstream. I could almost feel my red vital fluid cells bursting apart. "Nate really doesn't look well, does he?" Ethan tugged at Vivian's sleeve and peeked out from behind her. "His face is really red. Is he running a fever?" Vivian glanced at me casually. "That's not a fever. That's anger. He's angry because I chose to leave with you instead of staying here with him." She stood and walked to my bedside, her eyes ice-cold. "Nate, this is my last warning. Stop pulling these pathetic stunts just to make me feel sorry for you. Ethan is my brother. Of course he comes first. If you ever take your temper out on him again, don't expect me to show you any consideration just because you're my husband." I looked at her and managed a faint, vital fluidless smile. "Fine." "Then you'd better protect him." Vivian snorted, took Ethan's hand, and turned to leave. "Let's go. Ignore this lunatic." The door slammed shut. I watched the last of the vital fluid drain from the nearly empty bag and closed my eyes. "System, set pain suppression to maximum." [Acknowledged. Pain suppression set to maximum.] [Enjoy your journey.] Chapter 2 The hospital room door opened again to the soft scuff of sneakers against the floor. Ethan had returned alone, with Vivian nowhere in sight. The timid, aggrieved look on his face vanished instantly. In its place was undisguised smugness and malice. I ignored him. The fever from the acute hemolytic reaction had left me weak, and every breath bu/rned with the metallic taste of vital fluid. Ethan walked over to my bed and idly toyed with my IV line. "Tsk. How pathetic." He leaned closer and lowered his voice, every word deliberately taunting. "You know, Vivian was just out in the hall saying you were making a big deal out of nothing." "She said one hair on my head mattered more to her than you ever would." I forced my eyes open and stared at him coldly. "Are you finished? Then get out." Instead of getting angry, Ethan's grin widened. "Nate, you still have quite a temper." "But don't worry. You won't be cocky for much longer." He pulled a palm-sized handheld terminal out of his backpack. He tapped rapidly at the keyboard, and the screen lit up with a cold blue glow. "Vivian says you're faking it, but I'm not so sure." "How about I make your condition look a little more... convincing?" As he spoke, the bedside monitor shrieked. "Beep! Beep! Beep!" The red warning lights flashed wildly, piercing at my eyes. My displayed heart rate spiked to 180, while my displayed vital fluid pressure plunged below the critical threshold. The piercing alarm echoed throughout the entire floor. I watched him without a flicker of emotion. He wasn't just a hacker. He was a psychopath with no moral limits. Footsteps clattered in the hallway. "What happened?!" Vivian burst in first, her face livid. A swarm of panicked medical staff followed close behind her. The instant the door opened, Ethan expertly shoved the terminal back into his bag. He staggered back two steps, clapped his hands over his ears, and began trembling as though terrified. "Vivian! I don't know! I didn't do anything!" "The monitor suddenly started screaming! It scared me!" He threw himself into Vivian's arms and burst into pitiful sobs. Vivian wrapped her arms around him and gently patted his back. Dr. Harrison rushed to my bedside and frantically checked the monitor. "That's strange. His vital signs are stable, so why did the alarm go off?" Sweat beaded on his forehead as he rebooted the monitor. The readings snapped back to normal. Vivian's expression turned stormy. After soothing Ethan, she turned a razor-sharp glare on me. "Nate, what on earth is wrong with you?!" "You'd stoop to a despicable stunt like this just to make me stay?" "Tampering with medical equipment? Do you have any idea how many doctors and nurses you just pulled away from actual emergencies?" I lay still, watching her fury. "You think I did that?" I could barely lift my arm. How exactly was I supposed to hack the monitor when I could barely lift a hand? Vivian let out a cold laugh. "If not you, then who?" "You're jealous of Ethan, and you'll stop at nothing to frame him!" She strode to the bed and yanked the blanket off me. "Get up and apologize to Ethan right now!" Cold air washed over my bu/rning body. A violent coughing fit seized me, and the metallic taste of vital fluid flooded my throat. I swallowed the vital fluid and lifted my head, looking at her as though she were already dead. "Vivian." "Are you out of your mind?" She froze. In seven years of marriage, I had never spoken to her that way. I had always been gentle, patient, and accommodating. "You're actually insulting me?" Her jaw clenched, disbelief filling her eyes. "I'm calling you stupid." I calmly reached out and pulled the monitor's power cord from the wall. The alarm died. Silence. "Next time Ethan wants to play the victim after causing the harm himself, keep me out of it." I turned my back to her. "It's disgusting." Vivian's fists tightened, her knuckles cracking. "Fine. Just fine." "Nate, if you can't stand the sight of us, then stay here by yourself!" "Let's see how long you can last!" She grabbed Ethan's hand and headed for the door. "Vivian, does Nate really hate me?" Ethan asked with a sniffle. "Don't mind him. He's insane." Their footsteps gradually faded. I closed my eyes and swallowed back another mouthful of vital fluid rising in my throat. "System, how much time is left?" [Remaining survival time: 60 hours.] "Good." I smiled. "Almost there." Chapter 3 The TV in the room was playing at a low volume. A breaking news bulletin interrupted the program. "Croft Corporation's autonomous driving system, Stellar, has been found to contain a critical security flaw." "Earlier today, multiple vehicles equipped with the system lost control on the highway." "The failures resulted in more than a dozen multi-vehicle pileups. No deaths have been reported so far..." I propped myself against the pillow and wiped the vital fluid trickling from the corner of my mouth. My vision had begun to double. The incompatible transfusion had triggered acute intravascular hemolysis, and the resulting organ damage was steadily driving my body toward multiorgan failure. Vivian stood beside the floor-to-ceiling window, shouting into her phone. "What on earth am I paying the PR department for?!" "Get this story off every trending list now! I don't care what it costs!" "Find a scapegoat. Blame the faulty code on an outside contractor!" She yanked the silk scarf from around her neck and hurled it onto the couch. Ethan sat curled up in the corner of the couch, wringing his hands with an innocent expression. "Vivian, I'm sorry..." "I just thought the system's core logic was boring, so I slipped in a backdoor." "I thought it would be a fun surprise. I didn't know it would cause any crashes..." He pouted, without a trace of guilt in his voice. Vivian took a deep breath and ruffled his hair. "It's okay. I'll handle it." "Just don't get so carried away next time." "The media loves to sensationalize everything. It was only a few pileups. We'll settle the claims and make the whole thing go away." Listening to her brush it off made my stomach churn. Dozens of lives had been put at risk. To her, it was nothing more than Ethan misbehaving and a few claims to settle. Fighting through the weakness caused by my failing organs, I reached for the laptop hidden beneath my pillow. The feel of the keyboard steadied me a little. My fingers flew over the keys as I typed line after line of code. Vivian would delete every trace to protect Ethan. I had to bundle all of his original data and activity logs into an archive before time ran out. The progress bar crept along. As my vision blurred further, I kept typing by muscle memory alone. "What are you messing with now?" Vivian hung up and noticed the laptop in my hands. She strode over and snapped the screen shut. "The company is in chaos, I'm already at the end of my rope, and you're sitting here playing on your laptop?" "Nate, do you even care about me?" I looked up at her furious expression. "Care about you?" I let out a cold laugh, then coughed up a mouthful of vital-fluid-streaked saliva. "Vivian, you're covering up a criminal who endangered the public, and you're asking whether I care about you?" Her expression darkened, and her eyes turned venomous. "Shut up!" "Ethan is just a kid. He doesn't know any better!" "Just because you know a little about investments doesn't mean you know how to run a business!" Ethan sidled over and linked his arm with Vivian's. "Nate, do you hate me so much that you want to turn me in?" "But you don't have any proof." He winked at me, his smile openly taunting. "Vivian already had all my logs wiped." "Even if you go to the cops, they won't believe you." I looked at his smug face and reopened the laptop. "Oh, really?" I tapped the Enter key. An encrypted archive appeared on the screen. It contained not only evidence that he had tampered with the autonomous driving system, but also complete records of every crime he had committed over the past seven years, from hacking competitors' servers to stealing exchange secrets. "Nate, don't you dare!" Vivian lunged for the laptop. I pulled it out of her reach and met her with a cold stare. "Relax. I'm not calling the cops." "I'm just drafting my last will and testament." Vivian's hand froze. She stared at my pale face, then scoffed. "Your last will and testament?" "You only have a few scratches, and you're already drafting a will?" "You're getting more ridiculous by the day!" She grabbed Ethan's hand. "Ethan, let's go." "Let him stay here and act insane all by himself!" The moment the door closed behind them, I could no longer hold myself up and collapsed against the pillow. The scheduled email had been activated and set to send three days after my death. "System," I rasped between labored breaths, my voice barely audible. [I'm here, host.] "How much longer?" [Remaining survival time: 12 hours. Multiorgan failure has begun.] I stared at the darkening sky outside the window and closed my eyes. "Then let's not wait any longer." Chapter 4 The hospital room was eerily silent in the middle of the night. Only my ragged, uneven breathing echoed through the room. The acute hemolytic transfusion reaction had entered its irreversible final stage. Disseminated intravascular coagulation had set in, my organs had failed completely, and pulmonary edema was filling my lungs with fluid. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. Suddenly, fireworks exploded outside the window. The muffled booms penetrated even the soundproof glass as brilliant fireworks burst across the night sky. The system helpfully projected a virtual screen into my field of vision. The screen showed Vivian at Astroland Amusement Park, the largest theme park in Crestwood, which she had rented out for the night. Beneath a sky ablaze with fireworks, Ethan wore a custom baseball cap and smiled like a pampered prince. Vivian stood beside him, adoration in her eyes. "Ethan, congratulations. You made it through safely." "From now on, if there's ever another system you want to play with, I'll buy you an entire company and let you have all the fun you want." She held a champagne flute, her voice dripping with tenderness. I watched the scene without even enough strength left for a bitter laugh. The door burst open. The night nurse took one look at me and cried out in alarm. "Doctor! Get in here! The patient in Bed Three is in shock!" The hallway erupted into chaos. The crash cart rolled into the room, and the harsh overhead examination light flooded my face. "His pulse is fading!" "I can't get a vital fluid pressure!" "Give epinephrine now!" Dr. Harrison's frantic shouts sounded muffled, as though I were hearing them through deep water. "Where's his emergency contact? Call his wife and tell her he's crashing. She needs to get here now!" The nurse hurriedly dialed Vivian's number. On the virtual screen, Vivian's phone buzzed inside her clutch. She frowned and glanced at the screen. The caller ID read [Crestwood General Hospital]. Ethan leaned over to glance at the screen, then curled his lip. "Vivian, Nate's crying wolf again." "He's just angry because you came out with me instead of staying with him." Vivian snorted and tapped the decline button. The nurse called again. This time, Vivian's cold prerecorded voicemail greeting answered. "This is Vivian. I don't check voicemail. If it's important, speak to me in person." The nurse froze in panic. "I can't reach her! She isn't answering, and she says she doesn't check voicemail!" Her voice trembled on the verge of tears. Dr. Harrison clenched his jaw and began chest compressions. "Keep the compressions going! Don't stop!" I watched their futile efforts and gave the system one final command. "System, press Enter for me." [Command confirmed. Scheduled email locked. It will be released across the internet in 72 hours.] [Host, complete cessation of vital signs is imminent.] With my last ounce of strength, I turned my head to look out the window. The final firework bloomed and faded into darkness. Just like my seven wasted years of marriage. The green waveform on the monitor flattened into a straight line. "Beeeeeeep." The long, piercing tone cut through the silence. My body suddenly felt weightless. [Congratulations, host. Mission complete: Die by the female lead's hand.] [Extraction protocol initiated. Please wait.] I opened my eyes and found myself floating above the room. Below me, the doctors finally stopped their efforts and drew the sheet over my face. "No pulse. No spontaneous respirations." "Time of death, 2:14 a.m."

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.

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.

“Fat and weak, she’ll never be a Luna,” they whispered. I believed it once. But tomorrow night, everything changes. At the stroke of 11:12, I’ll shift into the legendary Wolf—the Moon Goddess’s chosen. No longer the ugly duckling, I’ll shine with bronze fur and fierce power. The same pack that mocked me will bow before the beautiful wolf I’ve become. And Cassian Mercer, the Alpha who rejected me at first sight? He’ll regret ever doubting me. Skyla’s POV “Skyla, Selene, Sebastian—get down here now!” our mom, Luna Camilla, shouted from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready, and we still need to go over the final details for your birthday party.” Oh, right! I probably should’ve mentioned this earlier—we’re triplets, and tomorrow we turn 18! It’s a huge deal in our world. Tomorrow, we’ll not only discover who our fated mates are, but we’ll also shift for the first time at exactly 11:12 p.m.—the minute we were all born. “Triple S, move it or you’ll be late for school!” That’s what Dad calls us when we’re dragging our feet. It’s his way of rounding us up all at once. While I’m getting ready, let me give you a quick intro to Triple S. First up: Sebastian, the oldest of us three. He’s a towering 6'8 with warm almond-toned skin like Mom’s, and he’s just as muscular and athletic as Dad. His piercing blue eyes are bound to make his mate melt the moment she meets him. He keeps his long dreadlocks meticulously groomed, and even though half the girls in school can’t stop f1irting with him, Sebastian’s saving himself for his mate. He’s not just my brother—he’s my best friend and the future Alpha of our pack. Then there’s me. I’m the middle triplet. I’ve got a golden-beige complexion and hazel eyes like Dad. Physically, I’m in great shape because I’ve been secretly training extra hours with Dad. You see, the Moon Goddess gave my parents a vision—my wolf is supposed to be something special once I shift. But no one really knows what I look like underneath my baggy hoodies and loose joggers. I wear oversized clothes on purpose—I’d rather avoid the stares. And I always wear glasses, which doesn’t help. People call me names—“homely,” “fat,” “four-eyes.” If only they knew the truth. And then, sigh, there’s Selene. She’s got radiant bronze skin, chestnut eyes, and long hair she always keeps sleek and straight. She’s undeniably gorgeous—but she’s a walking flirt. Lately, she’s been shamelessly chasing the future Alpha of the neighboring pack. Since their school burned down, we’ve been sharing a campus with their pack, and Selene treats it like her own personal runway. We finally make our way downstairs. Sebastian’s dressed in slim-fit jeans, a V-neck tee, and the brand-new Jordans that just dropped. I’m layered up in my usual oversized hoodie and loose joggers, rocking my trusty Vapormax sneakers—even though it’s blazing hot outside in Arkansas. Selene, true to form, is dressed like she’s headed to a nightclub—miniskirt, skintight low-cut top, and five-inch red heels. Time to head to school. I’m not a fan, but at least it’s our last year, and I’ve kept a perfect GPA. “Mom, Dad, I don’t want to ride with Skyla. She’s so embarrassing,” Selene complained. “Yes, you are riding with her,” Dad said firmly. “Your brother’s already gone and you’ve totaled three cars this year.” “STAY AWAY FROM ME AT SCHOOL, NERD!” she screeched at me as we walked out. Great. This is going to be a long day. But thank the Moon Goddess it's Friday! We finally make it to school, though Selene didn’t stop complaining the entire ride. I pulled into my usual parking spot—one of the designated spaces for Alpha family members—behind the wheel of my sleek black 2023 Dodge Durango SRT. Right beside me, Sebastian’s glossy black 2023 Jeep Grand Cherokee Trackhawk was already parked. Yeah, our parents are loaded. In the human world, Dad’s a wildly successful entrepreneur with more businesses than I can count. On the other side of Sebastian’s car sat a deep navy Tesla Model S, and the moment Selene squealed like she’d won the lottery, I knew exactly who it belonged to—Cassian Mercer, the future Alpha of the Bloodmoon Pack. I do my best to avoid Cassian. For some reason, he absolutely hates me. He leads the pack when it comes to name-calling and insults. It doesn’t help that our birthdays fall on the same day—tomorrow. His twin sister Alexia and I share the date too. Since our families are so close and Selene’s convinced Cassian is her mate, our dads decided to throw one massive birthday bash for all of us. Even though Cassian treats me like garbage, I won’t lie—he’s ridiculously good-looking. He stands about 6'8, just like Sebastian. He’s got these intense green eyes—yes, this smooth-skinned, bronze-toned man has emerald green eyes that could make you forget your name. His hair is always laid in tight waves, the kind you want to run your fingers through. And don’t get me started on those abs—always visible under those fitted tees he wears like a second skin. Wait. No. Snap out of it, Skyla. I hate him just as much as he hates me. Period. The moment I get to my locker, the usual chorus of insults begins. “Hey fatso, nerd, loser, four-eyes,” they snicker from down the hallway. They always wait until Sebastian isn’t around to start. Selene, her flock of mean-girl clones, and Cassian are always front and center in the cruelty parade. I never say a word. The unspoken rule around here? “Snitches get stitches.” But I’m not scared of them. Not one bit. My dad says I’m strong enough to take down anyone—even an Alpha. I’ve already learned how to make him submit when we spar, and that’s saying something. Cassian might hate me, but his twin sister Alexia? She’s my best friend. She’s always trying to get me to dress a little less… baggy. She wants me to ditch my oversized hoodies and definitely those chunky glasses. We’re werewolves, after all—I don’t actually need them. Alexia strolls up, slings an arm around my shoulder, and sighs. “Skyla, why do you let them treat you like that? You know you could wipe the floor with them. So why are you holding back?” I don’t answer her. Instead, I pull my books from my locker and say with a tired breath, “Let’s just go to class.” At least Alexia and I have every class together. That’s a win. My brother’s best friend Tristan—soon to be Beta—and his future Gamma Paxton are in my first few periods too. They always keep a close eye out for trouble and report back to Sebastian if anything happens, which keeps things fairly uneventful. It’s the only part of my day I can actually breathe without having to be on guard. Then the bell rings—lunchtime. Oh joy. Time to reunite with all my beloved peers at Blue Moon High. (Can you hear the sarcasm?) Right on cue, the fat jokes start rolling in. I brace myself. “Just ignore it, Skyla. You know none of it’s true,” I remind myself. And I do know it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. What cuts deepest isn’t the cruelty from strangers—it’s the betrayal from my own sister. She laughs with them. Every. Single. Time. Alexia and I walk into the lunch room. "Alexia, why are you hanging with that l0ser?" "Hey biggie, you should skip lunch." "Alexia, sit over here with us and let the loser eat alone." Everyone is pointing and laughing. My eyes tear up but I won't give them the satisfaction of letting one fall. Suddenly, I'm no longer hungry and turn and run out only to run straight into someone landing straight on my ass. "Watch where you're going, frog!" Cassian shouts as he kicks me in the side. "I feel sorry for whoever will be tied to you as a mate. He's probably going to reject your pathetic ass as soon as he lays eyes on you. After all, who would want a weak, pathetic, fat four eyed frog as a mate. I bet you will be alone for the rest of your miserable life. Look at how you dress. Who would want to be seen with you?" Cassian continued to shout at me and then finally, he walked off after kicking me in the face. I know that will leave a nasty bruise. I stayed there for a moment wondering why people could be so cruel. Sebastian walks in and sees me lying in the hallway floor crying. He sits beside me and wraps his arm around me screaming, "Who did this to you Skyla?" Tristan and Paxton walk up and they are just as mad as Sebastian because they see me as their little sister as well. I don't answer. I just lean into Sebastian and cry. "Skyla, answer me, darn it! Who did this to you?" I cry even harder. He kisses me on my forehead and said, "I will leave it alone for now but if I find out who it is, they have a beat down coming!" I just mind linked my Mom and told her I didn't feel well and wanted to come home. My Dad is at the school in a meeting with the Superintendent about some rogue sightings at the edge of the woods closest to the school but I didn't want him to see me like this because it would be a lot to pay and I much as I hate Cassian, I didn't want him to die today if my Sebastian or my Dad found out. My Dad, is an Alpha that you don't want to mess with. Get your neck twisted if you tried. My Dad does not play about his princess. Yes, I'm a Daddy's girl in case you haven't figured that out yet. Mom told me I can come home; so, I'm out of this nightmare. Maybe she will let me skip the shifting night tomorrow night. Alpha Orion, Luna Jocelyn, Cassian, Alexia, his future Beta, Yale and future Gamma, Beckett will all be staying in our pack to help prepare for the shifting night. FML.....Why can't they have their own shifting night at the Bloodmoon Pack? Selene’s POV I’m sitting on Cassian’s lap in the middle of the cafeteria, my tongue halfway down his throat, when I spot my sister walking in—with his twin, Alexia. Without thinking, I start hurling insults at her. The whole table bursts into laughter. I know it’s cruel. I know she’s my sister. But I don’t care. Honestly, she deserves it. Dad treats her like she hung the moon. His little perfect princess. Sure, Skyla’s got the straight A’s, she follows all the rules, and does exactly what he asks—but still. I’m his daughter too. And what do I get? They handed Sebastian and Skyla brand-new cars as early birthday gifts. And me? I’ve wrecked four, and now I have to ride to school with her—just because Dad refuses to buy me another one. We’re rich. He could buy me one with zero effort. But no. He said if I want a new car, I can work part-time at his company like they do and earn the money myself. Absolutely not. Why should I slave away like some lowly pack pup when I know exactly what my future holds? I’m going to be the Luna of the Bloodmoon Pack—Cassian’s Luna. Their family’s just as wealthy as ours, and once we’re mated, I’ll never have to lift a finger. Skyla ran out of the lunchroom crying, just like I knew she would. She won’t say a word. I made sure she knows what’ll happen if she does. If she even thinks about telling anyone, I’ll make her life a living nightmare. More than it already is. Tonight’s the shift. Our eighteenth birthday. According to legend, one of us is destined to become the Golden Wolf—a powerful being blessed by the Moon Goddess herself. And I know it’s me. It has to be. Once I shift and it's revealed, everyone will see that I’m meant for greatness. Cassian and I will be unstoppable. The ultimate power couple. Skyla? Please. She’s weak. Soft. Pathetic. She couldn’t handle power if it begged her. Sebastian? He’s too gentle. Always fussing over Skyla, checking in on her like she’s some fragile little bird. Maybe that softness will make him a decent Alpha someday. He is a good big brother, I’ll give him that. Still... I can’t pretend I don’t feel the sting when I see how close he and Mom and Dad are with Skyla. But none of that will matter. Not after tonight. Not when I shift and the truth comes out. They’ll all see. They’ll finally see me. Just wait until they see me as the Golden Wolf. Luna Camilla’s POV It’s hard to believe the triplets are turning eighteen tomorrow. Feels like just yesterday when my mate and his father—who was still Alpha at the time—came to my old pack, the Silvermoon Pack, to formalize an alliance. Back then, I was just the Beta’s 19-year-old daughter, and Dorian Bellamy was a striking 21-year-old future Alpha. The moment our eyes met, we knew—we were mates. I couldn’t believe this tall, gorgeous, caramel-skinned man was mine. That night, while the rest of the pack slept, he snuck into my room. We kept doing it until sunrise. But the next morning, he shattered everything. He stood in front of me and said, "I, Dorian Bellamy, future Alpha of the Bluemoon Pack, reject you, Camilla Monroe, to be my mate and future Luna." I accepted his rejection with my head held high, refusing to let him see how deeply he’d broken me. What neither of us knew then was that he wasn’t just walking away from me… He was walking away from three lives growing inside me. Halfway through my pregnancy, the Bluemoon Pack held a ceremony to celebrate Dorian’s ascension as Alpha. My family was expected to attend. Though my parents already knew I was carrying a child, I begged them to let me handle things on my own. I told them if they didn’t, I’d run away. They respected my wishes and stood by me. As I was unpacking in one of the guest rooms at Bluemoon, Dorian barged in, fury in his eyes. He grabbed my arm roughly and growled, "You let another man touch what’s mine?" I yanked my arm away. “You don’t get to say that,” I snapped. “You gave up your claim on me the day you rejected me.” His voice dropped, and the golden hue overtook his eyes—his wolf had taken over. "Whose child is that, Camilla?" he growled. But I wasn’t scared—I was just as furious. Locking eyes with him, I said, “You’re the only man I’ve ever been with—if I can even call you that. You’re the sperm d0nor of my three babies. You rejected me, and that means you rejected them too. And you’ll stay far away from us.” Something in him snapped at those words. A single tear slid down his cheek before he leapt out the window, shifting mid-air into his powerful jet-black wolf, and vanished into the woods. As I prepare for my former pack to arrive for the party, all those memories come flooding back. It wasn’t easy for Dorian to win me back after what he did. But over time, I forgave him. We married before the babies were born—something not required in the wolf world, but Dorian wanted everyone to know I was his chosen mate, both in our realm and in the human one. And so, eighteen years ago, I officially became Luna of the Bluemoon Pack. And even after everything... I still love that fine Alpha of mine. Skyla’s POV The Night of the Shift It was 4 a.m., and I was wide awake. I still couldn’t believe we were finally eighteen. Even though we wouldn’t shift until 11:12 p.m., I knew I’d be able to sense my mate before then. Maybe—just maybe—it would be someone from my mom’s old pack. Someone who could take me away from this place. I had everything lined up to graduate early. I’d miss my mom, dad, Breck, and Alexia, but definitely not the rest of the scumbags around here. Since there was no way I’d fall back asleep, I decided to head down to the kitchen for a snack. Oreos dipped in milk were my favorite. I threw on my oversized hoodie and matching sweats and headed downstairs. But the moment my foot hit the bottom step, I was engulfed by the most intoxicating scent I’d ever smelled. It was a blend of musk and Savage—my favorite cologne. I recognized that cologne because my brother wore it sometimes, but this scent… this wasn’t Sebastian. This was something else. Something more. I stood there, completely mesmerized, drawn in by the mouthwatering scent, wondering who it could be. Was this love at first smell? Just as I was lost in the sensation, a sharp s1ap to my face snapped me back to reality. Before I could react, a hand wrapped tightly around my throat. Sparks shot through me—just like in the stories. Then came the words I think, deep down, I’d always feared were coming. “You of all people! You're nothing but trash to me. How could the Moon Goddess screw up this badly by pairing me with someone like you? You're weak. Fat. You have no class. You're a nerd. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a pathetic she-wolf like you! I, Cassian Mercer, future Alpha of the Bloodmoon Pack, reject you, Skyla Selene, as my mate and future Luna.” And that was it. Mates are supposed to be loving—gentle. What happened to the stories of love at first sight? I remembered my mom once told me how my dad had rejected her at first, but later asked for forgiveness, and he’d treated her like royalty ever since. But I would never forgive this guy. Ever. Even if he somehow did come crawling back—not that someone like him would. He’d been with Selene. I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. Oddly, it didn’t hurt the way everyone said rejection does. What I felt wasn’t heartbreak. It was pure, burning rage. I tore his hand off my throat, locked eyes with him, and said, “Do you honestly think I’d want to be mated to you? The guy who spent the night with my skanky sister? The guy who’s treated me like garbage from the very beginning? I, Skyla Bellamy, accept your rejection!” Then I turned and walked back up the stairs, completely satisfied with the stunned expression frozen on his face. I’d forgotten all about my snack.

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.

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.

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."