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Tenth Wedding Anniversary, I Received Intimate Photos of My Husband and My Sister

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 21:54:50 +0800

The day of our tenth wedding anniversary.

The gift I received was a set of photos of my husband, Nicholas Morton, in bed with my sister, Erica Simmons.

Ten years of marriage, and this wasn't the first time Nicholas had cheated. But it was the time that cut deepest.

Let's get divorced.

When I pulled out the divorce papers and asked him to sign, Nicholas was still on a video call with Erica.

"Be good, sweetheart. Wear that little outfit tonight and wait up for me."

He hung up, glanced at me with a contemptuous little smile, and signed his name on the divorce agreement like it was a dare.

"Wife, ten years in, you really should have learned to be smarter by now."

"You think if I set you free, you'll actually be able to leave?"

A black card came sliding toward me along with the divorce papers.

"Enough. Don't be difficult."

"This time's the same as always. Even if she is your sister, I'll play with her a month at most."

"After a month, I'll come back to the family."

"After all, you're the one I love most. And we have a son together."

What he didn't know:

This time, I wasn't going to wait anymore.

The black card got thrown back at Nicholas.

I took only that signed divorce agreement, turned, and walked away.

"Stop right there!"

There was a thread of panic in Nicholas's voice.

He stood, came around in front of me, gripped both my shoulders, and let out a soft sigh.

"Jealous?"

"Because I slept with Erica? Hm?"

I said nothing. I didn't cry either.

Every last tear had dried up the moment I received those lurid, obscene photos.

Erica was my own sister.

We were twins. From the time I was small, the poor kid who had to grow up early, I'd swallowed every bitterness life could serve.

But she'd always lived like a princess. Fine clothes, rich food, spoiled rotten.

Mom and Dad favored her, going so far as to say they regretted not strangling me at birth.

That way Erica would have been the only child, more precious still.

Teachers doted on her, saying such a fine girl had the misfortune of a worthless, ignorant sister, too shabby to deserve being their student.

Classmates and so-called friends bullied me for her, again and again.

They threw cold water on me.

Forced me to eat spoiled food.

Made me kneel on the concrete and kowtow to Erica.

I lived in her shadow for twenty years.

And then I finally met Nicholas, whose eyes held no one but me.

Now Nicholas liked her too.

"Wife."

Nicholas held me, patting my back gently, his voice warm.

"Didn't we agree on this? I give you my one and only love, my soul, for this whole life. But you can't keep demanding my body be faithful too."

That said.

He spread his hands, gesturing for me to take in the lavish, opulent office.

"Look. I'm the heir of the Morton family of Shengjing."

"I've got the looks, I've got the money. I can't spend every single day playing some Cinderella love game with you, can I?"

"You're a mother now. Be realistic."

"I swear, the position of Mrs. Morton is yours forever. Isn't that enough?"

I looked at Nicholas, and for a moment I found it genuinely funny.

"Nicholas, you don't actually think I care about being Mrs. Morton, do you?"

Nicholas's mother was vicious and cruel.

From the day I married into the Morton family, she'd looked at me like an enemy, never willing to grant me a shred of the dignity or the rights a Mrs. Morton should have.

That empty title was good for nothing, except giving her an excuse to mistreat and grind me down.

Nicholas's eyes narrowed, his tone turning cold all at once.

"But you need to stay Mrs. Morton, baby."

"Your father owes so much money. Without me paying it down every month, someone would have chopped his hands off a long time ago."

"Your mother's health is poor. It's the Morton family's medical team keeping her alive."

"Lindsay Simmons, isn't it precisely because you became Mrs. Morton that you're lucky enough to have your husband clean up your messes?"

Watching Nicholas say it without a shred of shame,

I couldn't stop myself from closing my eyes.

Right.

I was lucky.

I was so incredibly lucky.

If I hadn't overheard what he said to my parents that day, maybe I'd have gone on being this lucky for the rest of my life.

I walked out of the Morton Group building.

Standing on the sidewalk below, I turned and looked up at this landmark of Shengjing.

Ten years ago, before we were married, the Morton family wasn't yet the richest family in Shengjing.

Back then the richest man in the city was some nouveau riche developer.

He'd taken a fancy to me.

He named me by name and told the Simmonses he wanted to marry me.

My father was on the verge of agreeing.

It was Nicholas who knelt outside the Simmons house for three days and three nights before my father relented and gave him two more years.

Two years. Overtaking the richest man in the city was nearly impossible.

I thought about it all night, then sold the herbal formula I'd poured my heart into developing for fifty million dollars and handed every cent of it to Nicholas.

And he delivered.

In less than six months, he'd earned the right to marry me.

It drizzled on our wedding day.

The cold, damp weather made the knees he'd ruined kneeling ache unbearably.

But he lifted me into his arms, his pale face full of joy.

"Lindsay, from now on I'll protect you. No one will ever bully you again."

That was the first time in my life anyone had ever cherished me.

So this was what it felt like to be loved.

But...

Could a love carved that deep into the bone really change too?

Like dew.

Like a flash of lightning.

In the end, ten years passed, and I could rarely find any trace of the man who had once loved me in Nicholas.

There was only cheating, betrayal, and lies.

The first time Nicholas cheated, I asked for a divorce.

The next day, my father's creditors showed up at the Simmons house.

Thirty million dollars owed.

Pay it back, or they'd cut off his hand.

My father, who had never much liked me, knelt on the floor with his hair gone white, clutching my hand and weeping.

"Your dad's old. One hand's no great loss. Don't get involved, sweetheart. Just live a good life, and I'll rest easy."

Nicholas stepped in to help without being asked.

"Honey, your herbal formula gave me fifty million back then. This thirty million, I'll pay it gladly."

"But I can't come up with all of it at once. Don't file for divorce. Let me pay it off month by month. All right?"

Only thirty million.

With what Nicholas was worth now, there was no way he couldn't produce it.

It was nothing but a tactic to force me to stay married.

I agreed.

He was my father, after all.

Even if he'd treated me badly, when I was little he'd once let me ride on his shoulders to watch fireworks and reach for the stars.

The second time Nicholas cheated, I asked for a divorce again.

The next day, my mother fell ill.

The Morton family's medical team had her admitted for treatment that very day.

Erica was away on business overseas for work, so the entire responsibility of caring for my mother fell on my shoulders.

Nicholas sat up through the night at my mother's bedside for me, his eyes gone bloodshot, and still he held my hand and comforted me.

"Honey, let me take care of Mom. You're not well, you need your rest."

In the quiet hospital at midnight, he held me, his voice very soft.

"Lindsay, when you're old, I'll sit at your bedside just like this. And if you go first, I won't go on living."

"You suffered so much as a child. That's why heaven sent me to love you."

The divorce came to nothing.

For my parents, and for that laughable little hope for love still buried in my heart,

I swallowed his betrayals, one after another.

Until the thirtieth time.

When his mistress showed up at my door and ground my face beneath her heel, I truly couldn't bear it any longer.

Before I could even bring up the divorce, my son wrapped his arms around my leg.

He looked up at me, eyes brimming with tears.

"Mommy, please don't divorce Daddy, okay?"

"I don't want to be an orphan kid with no mom."

Nicholas had gotten one thing right.

Even if he set me free, I couldn't leave.

My parents depended on the Mortons.

And a boy couldn't be left without his mother.

But he'd miscalculated one thing.

That day, in my mother's hospital room, while they plotted out how to keep stringing me along, I was standing right outside the door.

Inside, my father was beaming, his face flushed with satisfaction.

"I kept up this fake debt for so long, of course she'll stay put and play the dutiful Morton daughter-in-law."

My mother chimed in. "And there's me too."

"I was never sick at all, forever camping out in a hospital bed. Have I ever complained?"

My son, sitting on Erica's lap, sounded downright resentful.

"I've always wanted Auntie to be my mom, obviously. Dad, why'd you make me pretend I couldn't bear to lose her?"

"Wouldn't it be better if you two just got divorced? Auntie's way better than Mom. She never nags me about anything."

"Grandma says so too. Mom's already a hen that can't lay eggs. Only Auntie can give me a little brother."

Outside the door, the pain in my chest was so sharp I could barely breathe.

Because of Nicholas cheating on me, again and again.

The Mortons had become a laughingstock in Shengjing's high society.

My mother-in-law blamed me for failing to hold onto my man, and made me kneel out in the snow one winter night in Shengjing.

An entire night.

I slipped into unconsciousness, and when I woke I had not only lost the baby just beginning to take shape inside me, I had lost the ability to ever bear a child again.

My parents nodded eagerly at his words and urged Nicholas on.

"Exactly. Son-in-law, why not make the switch? Lindsay was never as good as her sister growing up. She doesn't deserve the Mortons as they are now."

Nicholas said nothing.

He reached out, hooked his arm around Erica's neck, kissed her on the mouth, and drank her in greedily.

"Why would I switch?"

"Who else could ever be as spineless as Lindsay?"

"I give her a scrap of love, you put on your pitiful little act, and she swallows my cheating one time after another."

"A woman this stupid, you really couldn't find a second one."

I was pretty stupid, all right.

On the way back, I clutched the signed divorce papers, tears dripping down one after another.

But surely a person doesn't have to be stupid their whole life.

I picked up my phone and booked a flight out of the country three days from now.

And while I was at it, I posted the photos of Nicholas and Erica in bed online.

No fun keeping the joy to yourself.

Once that was done, I went and got my hair done and had a facial.

Everything at the mall I'd always liked but never let myself buy, I bought it all.

Only then did I go home to the Mortons, cheerful as could be.

The moment I stepped through the door, Hilda hurled a crystal cup straight at my face and split my forehead open.

The pain at my temple was so sharp it brought tears to my eyes.

Warm blood slid down and dripped onto the carpet beneath my feet.

She acted as if she hadn't seen a thing, holding Dean in her arms, glaring at me with pure venom.

"Look at what kind of mother you are. Dean went to school today without even a jacket. Are you trying to freeze my grandson to death?"

This was Dean's usual trick for framing me.

Faking a nightmare in the middle of the night, saying my daytime scolding had terrified him.

Refusing to eat on purpose, starving himself until he fainted, then telling Grandma I abused him.

Every time, it gave Hilda a reason to grind me down and teach me a lesson.

Whether it was a slap across the face or being forced to kneel.

Dean would just watch, grinning, and once in a while pipe up.

"Mommy, you're really so useless. Auntie would never be like this."

This time was nothing more than the same old trick.

When we left the house this morning, I'd put his jacket on him with my own two hands.

Dean looked at the blood on my forehead and took a photo with his phone.

I knew what he was doingsending it straight to Erica again.

Slap!

Without a word, I stepped forward, knocked the phone out of Dean's hand, pulled him over my knee, and gave him a hard spanking.

Before Hilda could lose it, I raised my hand and pointed at the security camera.

"This morning, I put his coat on him right under that camera. The boy lied, Mother. So tell medo I, his mother, have the right to discipline him?"

My fist clenched, and I looked ready to swing at Hilda any second.

Her lips moved, but in the end she said nothing.

Even so, my punishment came fast.

That night.

The bedroom door was kicked open with brutal force.

Four hulking men knocked me out cold before I could react.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in an unfamiliar hotel room.

Nicholas's face was black as coal. He grabbed my wrist and nearly hauled me off my feet.

"Lindsay, have you lost your mind? Who gave you the nerve to pull this?"

I fought against him with everything I had.

The harder I struggled, the tighter he gripped, until my wrist felt ready to snap.

Fighting through the pain, I looked at him and gave a cold laugh.

"Nicholas, funnyI never saw you care this much about Dean before."

Dean was eight this year.

Nicholas couldn't even tell you what day his birthday fell on.

And now, just because I disciplined the boy, he wanted to turn on me?

"Dean?"

Confusion crossed his face, then hardened again into something vicious.

"I'm asking how you dared to post Erica's photos online."

"What Dean? Lindsay, quit playing dumb!"

Hah.

So that was what this was about.

Made sense.

One afternoon was more than enough time for those photos to catch fire online.

Young billionaire cheats with rising young model.

That kind of story always went over well with people online.

"Oh, those photos?" I gave a small smile. "Not flattering enough?"

"You let Erica send me her bedroom pictures as an anniversary gift, just to taunt me. I figured the two of you had no shame left at all."

"Lindsay!"

His eyes went red. "She's your own sister, the most promising model in the countryyou've ruined her!"

I ruined Erica?

I twisted free of Nicholas, lifted the hem of my dress, and showed him the ugly scar down my thigh.

"Back then, the agency picked me."

"Erica was jealous. She dumped an entire brazier of coals over me. That's how she made her own opening."

Nicholas had known about this scar for years.

The first time I told him about it, he'd kissed every inch of the scar, aching for me.

"It must have hurt so much back then," he'd said, almost choking on the words.

"It doesn't hurt anymore." He'd held me and sworn it. "Lindsay, it'll never hurt again."

But now Nicholas just turned away, impatient to the bone.

"How many more times are you going to keep dredging up this ancient history?"

"Lindsay, you've been too disobedient. Looks like I'll have to teach you a lesson today."

He pinned me down and forced a full glass of drugged water down my throat.

He watched as the flush crept over my face, bit by bit.

Nicholas stroked my cheek, gentle now.

"Don't worry, Lindsay. I'm only going to take some photos."

"As long as you can be good like beforeno fighting, no grabbing, and just stay by my sideno one else will ever see these pictures."

My whole body had gone limp, and I looked up at him, my eyes begging.

But Nicholas acted as though he didn't see it, slowly changing me into a flame-red nightgown.

He arranged me into one pose after another.

The shutter clicked again and again, without pause.

When the last click ended, Nicholas dressed me, tucked the blanket over me, and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.

"Sleep now, wife. Goodnight."

The door closed, and Nicholas was gone.

Ten minutes later.

Erica walked in with the four hulking men who'd kidnapped me, and stood over me.

"Sister, since you made me suffer such a huge loss, I have to treat you to something nice too."

She waved the four of them forward. "Take her together. Do whatever you want."

My eyes went wide.

The strength I'd barely clawed back was only enough for one scream.

"Help!"

As the cry faded, a man rushed in, dragged the brute off me, and drove a fist into him.

His eyes turned cold, and he barked out low, "All of you, get out!"

This manI had seen him before.

After My Husband Rejected My Proposal, I Chose Divorce

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 11:25:37 +0800

Prologue:

My friends never liked coming over, all because of one rule my husband kept.

Nothing in the house could be moved from where it sat.

The teacups had to stay on the coffee table. The throw pillows had to sit at both ends of the couch.

Even the couch itself had to face a certain angle, the one that looked straight out at the mimosa tree past the window.

All because these were his late wife's habits.

I fought him over it more times than I could count. He'd soothe me every time, and then everything went right back to how it was.

There was nothing I could do, so I told myself to stop caring.

Until he rejected my city planning proposal, and I marched straight into his office.

"Professor Delgado, you're throwing out a proposal I stayed up all night on, over one tree standing in the middle of the road?"

"Did you forget I had a car accident because of that tree, and lost a baby over it?"

"It's just moving it somewhere else. Why is that impossible?"

Not a flicker of feeling on his face.

"Doreen planted that mimosa. She loved sitting on the couch watching the blossoms fall."

"Worst case, take a detour to work from now on. It's only an extra hour. I can drive you."

Looking at his face, I went cold all over.

If that tree had put down roots in his heart, then I'd be the one to leave.

Chapter One

That mimosa tree grew right in the middle of the road.

I wasn't a good driver. The very first time I got behind the wheel, I hit it.

I suggested we move then. Earl Delgado refused, said it was too much trouble.

A month later, swerving to dodge a delivery trike coming the wrong way, I slammed into it again.

I was barely over a month along. I lost the baby.

I cried and begged to move, but Earl held me with this pleading look on his face.

"Rita, I've lived here so long. I get attached to places."

"I know it's a lot to ask you to take the detour. Or I can drive you."

For three years after that, my daily commute cost me an extra hour each way.

Until one day I was late for work, and I couldn't take it anymore. I called in a crew to cut the tree down.

Earl threw himself in front of it like a man out of his mind.

"Doreen planted this. Nobody touches it!"

That was when it hit me. It wasn't just the couch and the trinkets in the house that couldn't be moved. Even this tree was a shadow of the dead wife he couldn't stop thinking about.

Three years. I swallowed it, and swallowed it again.

This time, with the city planning project, he'd handed it to me.

I thought it was a chance to say goodbye to the past.

But Earl only wanted to live in the past.

I squared my proposal and stacked the pages.

"This tree is blocking the middle of the road. It's a serious hazard to pedestrians. My plan is legal, it's up to code, and I refuse to change it."

Earl pinched the bridge of his nose, irritated. "Rita, why are you so determined to fight a tree?"

I pointed at my stomach and gave a bitter laugh. "Shouldn't that be my question for you? Just how long do you plan to guard this tree?"

"I lost my child. My uterus is damaged. I may never conceive again. Haven't I paid enough?"

He faltered, but his face stayed cold.

"Rita, don't drag your personal feelings into work. It makes you look very unprofessional."

"If you can't do this proposal, then I'll hand it to someone who can."

He was the lead on the city redevelopment. He held veto power.

Tears rolled down my face, but he never looked. He kept his eyes on the computer.

On the screen was his Proposal Rationale for Preserving Special Structures and Vegetation, thousands of words packed tight across the page.

And I understood, all at once, that more than three years of us caring for each other, side by side, still counted for less than a wife five years in the grave.

I didn't argue anymore. I slammed the door on my way out of his office.

On the drive home, only then did Earl text.

Rita, give me a little more time. I'll pick out a new place, and we'll move.

But the old house can't be touched. That's my line.

I didn't want to say a single word. I just shut off the phone.

Back in front of the building, I saw the mimosa tree again.

The railing around it had been carefully reinforced, the trunk painted white against insects.

Where I'd once split the bark, tiny stainless steel pins held the seam together, so it could knit itself whole again.

The weak light of the streetlamp fell over it, cold, like a silent sneer.

I laughed at myself.

Back home, Earl texted: Something came up tonight, I'll be back late. Be good and eat your dinner.

I glanced at the calendar. The seventh of July. His late wife's birthday.

Every year on this day, he took a cake to her grave and lingered a few hours, then went to catch up with her parents.

He didn't skip it even the time I was still in the hospital after the miscarriage. I'd long gotten used to it.

Staring at the nursery, sealed off for three years now, I suddenly wanted to go in and look.

After the miscarriage, Earl had locked the door and hidden the key, afraid it would upset me.

I pushed it open, and froze.

The whole room was portraits of the same woman, in white dresses of every style, each one signed in the bottom right corner with two words: Doreen Sullivan.

That was Earl's handwriting.

The moment I saw the portraits clearly, every drop of blood in me seemed to freeze.

She and I were half alike.

No wonder, at that first blind date years ago, a man as aloof as Earl had chosen me at a single glance.

No wonder his friends always looked at me with that strange pity.

No wonder he'd given me a whole closet of white dresses.

So I was nothing but a stand-in, kept in the dark from the very start.

I wiped the tears from my face and took the scissors to every last dress.

Earl, since your dead wife has taken root and grown inside your heart.

She won't leave, so I will.

The next morning Earl carried a bowl of congee out of the kitchen.

"It's pouring outside. Let me drive you in a bit, it won't take me out of my way."

After the car accident, after I lost the baby, he'd said the same thingthat he would drive me to work every day.

A week later he broke that promise.

Because Doreen's parents claimed she'd come to them in a dream, asking for a bouquet of mimosa flowers laid at her grave every morning.

I used to wait for him every single day. Now there was nothing left to wait for.

"No need."

"Earl, let's get a divorce."

His hand froze over the bowl, and he lowered his voice to soothe me. "Still angry about yesterday? We agreedwork and home stay separate."

I stirred the shrimp congee with the spoon, mechanically.

"Three years, and you still don't remember I'm allergic to shrimp."

"Shrimp was Doreen's favorite."

"Earl, I'm tired."

Before he could say anything else, I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

He came after me and pulled me into the car. "I don't agree to it!"

Then, ever thoughtful, he switched on the seat heater and pressed a hand warmer into my arms.

"You can't even take care of yourself. How would you manage without me?"

That one line nearly broke me.

The heart I'd just hardened went soft again, against my will.

But we'd been driving barely ten minutes when Cara called. "Earl, the rain's so heavy, our old place is leaking everywherecould you come take a look?"

He agreed without a moment's hesitation.

At the same time he hit the brake and gave me an apologetic look.

Before he could speak, I opened the door myself and got out.

He was always like this.

He remembered how I lived, remembered my cycle, and still kept room in his heart for another woman.

A wave of dizziness slammed into me. I hadn't eaten breakfast, and my blood sugar had crashed.

I'd gotten this condition in the first place from starving myself to slim down and fit into the dress Earl bought me.

Now that I thought about it, the dress must have been sized for his late wife.

The ride app showed fifty-three people still ahead of me in line.

So I texted my manager to take the day off and started inching home, bracing myself against the wall.

Rain poured down my collar, and the wet clothes clung to me.

The wind cut through me until my teeth chattered, and my vision kept blacking out in waves from the low blood sugar.

By the time I finally reached the gate of the complex, a dull ache dragged low in my belly.

Like an invisible hand stirring, over and over, until my abdomen seized up again in a violent cramp.

My legs gave out and I went down hard into the standing water.

When I opened my eyes again, my mother was keeping watch beside the bed.

She held my hand and comforted me. "Rita, take it easy."

"As long as we get you healthy again, there'll be another baby someday"

My mind went blank. "What baby?"

She pulled me into her arms, aching for me. "Silly girl. You were already a month along."

A month. A month, again.

Despair and regret flooded over me like the tide.

I held on to my mother and cried until I lost my voice, and told her everything from the last two days.

When she'd heard it all, she was shaking with rage. "That bastard Earl. How could he treat you like this."

"I came this time to buy back your father's last work, City in the Old Alley."

"Once I've got your father's belongings back in a week, I'm taking you away from here."

Earl never called, not once, the whole way home.

After I signed the discharge papers, I took my mother home to stay with me.

She had actually come to my place once, back in the first year of my marriage.

All she did was swap the wilted mimosa blossoms on the table for the roses I loved, and Earl flew into a rage.

He and I had a huge fight over it, and after that, no matter how much she missed me, she never came again.

She said as long as I was happy, that was enough.

Back then Earl filled my whole world, and I actually let it stand.

From now on, my mother comes first.

I opened the door and froze where I stood.

Doreen's parents were sitting in the living room watching TV, and Earl was beside them, peeling an apple.

He heard the door and stood up. "Your mother's here? Why didn't you say something first?"

I ignored him and led my mother toward the guest room.

Earl followed behind, explaining. "Rita, I didn't know she was coming."

"Doreen's parents' place has a leak. I thought I'd have them stay a few days."

I turned it back on him. "And now that you know, what changes? You going to send them off to a hotel?"

That shut him up.

In his mind, only Doreen's parents would ever count as his in-laws.

Three years married, and every holiday he handpicked gifts to send to the Sullivans.

For my mother, he never had so much as a word of good wishes.

Every New Year's Eve, he went to sit up through the night with the Sullivans.

And every New Year, I went back to my mother's alone.

The first year she still asked me, "How come your husband didn't come with you?"

Later she understood how humiliated I was, and she stopped asking.

Seeing the hard palm mat tossed carelessly out on the balcony, I clenched my fists.

It was from my mother's first visit. I'd told Earl she had a severe herniated disc, and he'd gone with me specially to pick it out.

He was just about to explain something when Cara Sullivan said, slow and unhurried, "Rita, dear, Earl agreed to let us stay a few days. There are plenty of hotels nearby. Have him find a nice one for your mother."

I was about to argue when my mother took my hand. "Rita, you're still weak. Don't waste your anger on people like this. We'll go stay elsewhere."

"But your back"

"It's just a few days. I'll be fine."

My mother and I went downstairs, Earl trailing behind.

"Rita, it's still thundering out there. Let me drive you to a hotel."

I kept walking without looking back.

As we passed the mimosa tree, a dull crack of thunder split open right above us.

A thick branch snapped and came straight down.

My mother pulled me into her arms in a flash.

The broken branch slammed onto her back. She gave a muffled grunt, and the color drained from her face.

"Mom!" I clawed at the branch on her back like a woman gone mad.

"Don't touch it!" Earl knocked my hands away and lifted the branch off as if it were something precious.

He scooped my mother up to take her to the hospital, but Cara caught his arm.

"Earl, Doreen planted that tree with her own hands. The split's so big. If the rain soaks into it any longer, it really might not survive."

Earl's outstretched arm froze in midair.

He paused two seconds, then, like a man making up his mind, "Rita, I'll call Henry to drive you two to the hospital."

"I'll stay behind first and get the tree grafted back."

I couldn't believe it, but I accepted it soon enough.

Right. That tree mattered more than anything.

Once we reached the hospital, a message from Earl came through:

Rita, the break on the trunk is pretty bad. I need to bring in a botanist, so I won't be able to get to the hospital these next few days. Take good care of Mom, and remember to eat on time.

Reading his tepid little show of concern, all I felt was hypocrisy.

A week later, the day of the auction finally came, and Mom and I went with every cent of our savings.

Lot number 12 was Shadows of the Old City Lanes, my father's final work before he died, the only original in existence.

Thankfully, not many people in the room cared about the set. After we bid five hundred thousand, no one else called out.

"Five hundred thousand, going for the third time." Just as the auctioneer was about to bring down the hammer, a voice called out from the back rows:

"Eight hundred thousand."

I whipped around and saw Earl in a black suit, walking into the room with a bidding paddle raised, Doreen's parents right behind him.

I stared at him, my voice cold: "Earl, this is my father's estate. You're taking this from me too?"

Before he could answer, Cara beside him dabbed at her eyes, sobbing. "Earl, you promised us. You said you'd let Doreen see this set of photos tomorrow, on her fifth memorial day."

Earl soothed her. "Mom, don't worry. This set has the last images of Doreen while she was alive. I'll bring the photos to her grave."

Hearing his answer, I couldn't stop shaking all over. "Earl, because of Doreen you killed my baby, you got my mother hurt. Isn't that enough?"

"And now, for her, you're taking the last thing my father left behind too?"

He stepped forward and reached for me. "Rita, I'm not trying to take it. I told the staff to put this set in your name. After it's shown at the memorial tomorrow, I'll give it to you."

"Don't touch me!" Looking at the hand he stretched toward me, all I felt was sick.

The staff had just placed the photos in my hands when Cara rushed over to grab them.

Earl, shielding Cara, knocked into me on the follow-through.

I lost my balance, my stomach slamming into the armrest of the chair, and the pain exploded through me.

The wound they'd stitched a week ago tore open again.

I curled up against the pain, cold sweat running down.

"Rita!" Earl's pupils shrank, and he lunged to come to me.

Mom got to me first, holding me up and taking me to the hospital.

As we passed Earl, I stopped and handed him the divorce papers.

"Earl, we're getting divorced."

Through the haze, I thought I heard him say, "No. Never."

When I woke, I saw a message from Earl: Rita, wait for me. I'll take Doreen's parents home, then come to the hospital to find you.

That same line again. I let out a scornful laugh and blocked every way he had to reach me.

After settling the Sullivan parents, Earl drove to the hospital to find me.

He pushed open the door to the ward and found it empty.

The bed was neatly made. The only thing on the nightstand was a medical chart.

He picked it up, and the color drained from his face.

It stated plainly: Patient Rita Pruitt, due to prolonged malnutrition combined with repeated injury to the uterus, has suffered severe and irreversible uterine damage, and has lost the ability to bear children.

No True Love Can Be Glimpsed Through Lies

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 11:06:42 +0800

After the company went under.

Ursula Summers fell into depression, and after she was saved from cutting her wrists a second time.

She sobbed until she broke and said to me, Tony, I'm the one dragging you down, making you carry all this debt with me! Please, just let me die!

I looked at Ursula, my chest aching so badly I could hardly breathe.

To help Ursula find her footing again.

I brought out a magic lamp and told her the lamp granted three wishes. Once a wish was made, it would come true.

Ursula half believed me. "First wish. I want the company back from the dead!"

And later, the company really did come back from the dead, its resources even greater than before.

Ursula's face lit up with delight. "Second wish. I want the old Summers mansion back!"

And later, the old mansion really did return to our hands.

Ursula held the lamp against her chest and said to me, "Tony, the third wish, I want to think it through carefully! I want to make sure I never regret it!"

I was glad to see the change in her, ready to tell Ursula the truth about the lamp.

But I walked in on Ursula on a video call with her first love.

"Tony James isn't worthy of who I am anymore."

"So," she smiled, "third wish. I want a rise in power and wealth, and I want to trade out my husband."

"Ursula."

On the screen.

Ursula's first love, Arthur Gray, leaned in close to the camera, lips curving into a smile.

"Isn't this a little wrong, though?"

He looked at Ursula.

"Your husband lived in a basement with you, stayed by your side through the whole climb back up. Yes, it was all your own luck, all your own ability, but your husband was still the one who walked through it with you. At a time like this, if you bring up divorce, won't it hurt your career?"

Every word of Arthur's seemingly innocent worry was framed as concern for Ursula, only making her more certain.

"I'll admit these past few years weren't easy for my husband. He carried tens of millions in debt with me, climbed back up with me. During the worst of my illness, he was the only one willing to care for me without ever taking off his clothes to rest. But that's exactly it. In my husband I only ever see my own weakness, my own worthlessness."

"Every time I get close to him, I remember how I used self-harm, how I hurt myself to find release, and I never imagined I wasn't meant to die at all, that I could get help from the divine, get the lamp."

"And now."

Ursula leaned back against her chair.

"I have wealth, name, and standing. I have only one wish left, my only wish, and it's that I don't want to open my eyes and see my husband. Seeing my husband is like seeing my own filthy self, seeing the coward, the failure I used to be."

Ursula sighed.

"Do you understand what I mean?"

In the study.

For a few seconds, silence.

I watched Arthur's eyes go red, as if he were fighting hard to hold it in and still couldn't stop the tears, and he called to her, "Sunny, you still have me."

His eyes were red.

"Back then, if I'd been at your side, I'd have been willing to walk through those days with you too. Sunny, you deserve the best."

Back then.

Ursula signed a wager agreement, lost until she had nothing left, lost until the debt collectors chased her to the end of an alley and she nearly lost her life. I was the one who charged into that alley with a kitchen knife, swinging at anyone in my way like a madman, using my own life to save Ursula's.

At the time.

Ursula looked at me, cut and bleeding all over, and cried as she held me tight.

"Tony James!"

"For the rest of my life! I will never wrong you!"

And later.

Ursula was diagnosed with depression, learned to hurt herself, learned to cut her wrists, learned to try to end her life, learned to beg me through her tears to let her die.

"Tony, I really can't take it anymore!"

"I can't take waking up every day only to be cursed at by debt collectors, treated like a rat everyone wants dead!"

"Please!"

"Please, let me go!"

"Just let me have some peace!"

My heart ached to the point of despair, and I finally reached out to Grandma Abbott, whom I hadn't seen in years, and begged her to give Ursula a chance.

Grandma always said feelings were all fake, that my mother had been deceived and lost her life over it, and yet Grandma still doted on me.

Grandma brought out that lamp and said to me, "This magic lamp grants three wishes. If she can pass the test, if she spends all three wishes on you, I'll accept her as my grandson's wife! I'll announce that you're the sole heir of the James family! I'll let you bring her home to the Jamess!"

"Before that," Grandma set the condition, "you are not to tell her your true identity!"

I swore I was certain.

Ursula was no traitor to my heart. She wouldn't let me down.

And now my cheek burned, and faster than any slap came the truth of my own heart being trampled by Ursula.

"I'll leave my husband a way out. I'll leave him enough wealth to live out the rest of his days, and I'll leave him the old mansion so he never wants for anything again," Ursula said, her voice calm. "That way I won't owe him anything either."

A chill went through me, and the way I'd been preparing to tell Ursula the truth felt like a joke. I found Grandma on my messages and told her.

[Grandma.]

[I lost.]

[I'm willing to take everything back from Ursula.]

I hadn't slept all night.

Ursula, on the other hand, was glowing.

"Honey."

I'd just come into the living room when I saw her walking out of the kitchen with breakfast.

"I made oatmeal today, and the veggie omelet you like."

Smiling, she poured me a glass of milk.

"The IPO date is set too."

"The consultant said," she settled easily into the seat across from me, "your birthday timing lines up perfectly, so we're locking it in for next month."

"Once the company goes public," she picked up a hash brown and set it in my bowl, "life's going to be even better."

All these years.

Ursula had taken over caring for me, right down to my meals, three a day, every day, all made by her.

Our friends joked that Ursula was the one on a tight leash, that I had her wrapped around my finger.

And Ursula wore it with pride.

"Getting to look after my husband is my good fortune."

And now.

The hash brown sat right in front of me.

It was from that place on the South Side I loved, and the oatmeal was slow-cooked until it was thick and smooth, hot enough to sting my eyes. I listened to her voice, watched the habits worn so deep into her, and I said her name.

"Ursula."

"What is it?"

She was looking down, playing with her phone.

"The third wish."

Her fingers froze.

"Have you decided?"

"Six months ago, I told you to use up your third wish," I watched something unnatural flicker across her face, "and you said you had to be careful, so careful, that the last wish carried too much meaning, that it had to be for the most important thing."

"Have you decided?"

"Ursula," and still, hope stirred in me, "what if we wished for an adorable little ba"

"Honey," she cut me off, "we're still young, still building our careers. It's not the time for a child."

Ursula always put her career first. That was how she'd put off the wedding I wanted, how she'd brushed aside how badly I actually wanted a child.

Even when it left me disappointed, hurt, aching.

Ursula would win an antique at auction for millions, or buy an LED billboard in Bayport just to cheer me up, willing to spend time and money to earn one smile from me, and then she'd tell me.

"Honey, you'll always be the one person I treasure most. Once things are stable, I'll make up for everything I owe you."

And I believed her.

So as I sat there listening to the exact same excuse, the last bit of warmth in my chest went out completely.

"Sure."

I listened to her phone buzzing again and again, a reminder.

"Maybe it's something important."

I pointed at the screen, still lighting up.

"Go ahead and take it."

Ursula grabbed the phone in a fluster and went out to the balcony. I watched her stand there frowning, and in just a few seconds she hung up.

"Something came up at the company."

She didn't even glance at me.

"I'm heading out first."

She picked up her car keys and walked to the entryway.

"Honey," and as if she'd finally remembered I was there, she looked back at me before opening the door, "don't overthink things. I love you."

"Sure."

The door closed.

I sat at the table and got Grandma's reply, a single short word: Good.

And then.

I opened the surveillance feed, tapped the balcony camera, and listened to Ursula's voice.

Once the company goes public and everything's stable, I'll bring you out into the open.

Don't rush me.

Ursula's voice was frantic.

Don't do anything stupid.

I'm coming right now.

I'm on my way this second.

I watched her through the feed. That panic on her face had never once shown up in front of me. And it struck me that whenever Ursula had mentioned Arthur, it was only ever in a few words.

Materialistic.

A realist.

Cared about money, not feeling.

She said Arthur had looked down on her for being poor and gone off with someone richer.

She said Arthur would get dumped sooner or later.

I opened my messages, found the assistant Grandma had assigned me, sent him the study and balcony surveillance, and told him.

Look into everything between Ursula and Arthur for me.

Especially anything to do with money.

And, I tapped my fingertip against the desk: what Arthur's been up to overseas these past few years.

The assistant worked fast. A file came through almost at once.

I opened it and watched Arthur go from sitting one desk over from Ursula in high school, to the day they graduated, when Ursula took half a year's saved-up wages and bought Arthur ninety-nine roses, bought fireworks, and confessed to him in front of every teacher and student there.

And in the middle of that grand, blazing confession, Arthur said yes.

Four years of college, and Ursula studied hard, saved money, planned surprises for Arthur, carved out time every day to be with him, played games with him, bought him gear, bought him luxury goods, took trips just to show it all off to anyone who'd look. Right up until her parents died in a car crash.

Then, out of nowhere, Arthur told her he wanted to break up.

It was all in the file.

Even the hospital surveillance from that day, captured clearly.

Ursula on her knees on the floor, crying, begging Arthur not to go, and Arthur not turning his head once, just tossing back a single line.

Ursula.

The way you are now, you're not good enough for me.

Arthur vanished.

Ursula spent her days drinking herself sick, all the way up to the night I saw her being mugged in an alley, pulled her out of it, met her, and everything from then until now.

Ursula had told me she'd stopped loving Arthur a long time ago.

Young Master James.

The assistant sent a video.

Back then, the sudden collapse of Summers Group, the wager agreement Ursula told you about, it wasn't because of you.

The assistant produced a document.

It was because of Arthur.

Arthur got mixed up in the underground gambling den and racked up debts, came to Ursula, and she shouldered it for him, put the company up as collateral in that wager. That's what set off the whole chain of events after.

My face went white. My nails dug hard into my own flesh, and I didn't even feel the blood seeping out. I thought back to what Ursula had said to me then.

Honey, they say you're an orphan, no father, no mother, that you only got where you are by selling yourself!

I couldn't stand it!

They can call me a sewer rat, call me a frog at the bottom of a well, but not one word against the person I love most!

I couldn't stand it!

Ursula had been shaking all over, as if I really mattered, mattered so much I could never be defiled by anyone, mattered so much that just looking at her made life feel worth it, and I'd held her tight.

I'll gamble with you!

We lost until we had nothing left, lost until we were living on tap water to keep our stomachs full, like rats with nowhere to hide.

But for Ursula, it was never about me.

Young Master James.

The assistant sent another video.

Ursula's at a private hospital the James family invested in, keeping Arthur company.

In the video.

Arthur was tucked against her chest, crying so pitifully it could break your heart.

I just don't want to keep hiding it. I know it's ugly of me to want us back together, I know I'm wrong, but I can't help it, I just love you

Ursula hugged him back, hard.

Wait a little longer.

Wait for Tony James's birthday.

Wait for the company to go public.

Then it'll all be settled.

Once the company goes public, I looked into the feed and matched Ursula's exact tone: it'll all be settled.

Tell Grandma.

There's no rush.

Since Ursula's so fond of her tragic love story with Arthur.

I smiled.

Then I'll play along with her little show.

Ursula sent me a message.

"Honey, work just dumped a rush project on me. I have to fly out on short notice."

To make me believe it, she followed up with the flight details.

"If you miss me, come find me."

Then she sent the hotel's location.

"For you, there's always time."

There was a time when Ursula would report everything to me. What she ate, what she drank, who she saw, every last detail spelled out. I used to laugh at her, saying she was like a kid who never grew up, already running the whole company and still this clingy.

Ursula never minded. She would only tell me,

"Making my husband feel secure is my job." She corrected me, serious about it. "Besides, getting to be a silly little kid in front of the person you love is its own kind of blessing."

Now she was certain I wouldn't come and disrupt her little getaway with Arthur.

But what she didn't know.

I was standing right at the hotel entrance, watching Arthur circle her waist with his arm as he teased, "Honey this, honey that. Why do you love your husband so much, hmm?"

"If you love him that much," Arthur's tone turned sour, "why come out here with me?"

Ursula hugged him tighter and laughed.

"The flower at home is never as sweet as the one in the wild."

"Plain white rice can't compare to the one who got away."

"So, do you like the fly on the wall," Ursula leaned in close to him, "or the mark you can't scrub off?"

The two of them flirting and squabbling, all of it caught on camera.

The assistant couldn't stand it.

"The evidence we have now is enough to send Ursula out with nothing."

"Not enough yet."

My voice was flat as I told him,

"Ursula still believes everything we have now came from the magic lamp. That heaven took pity on her, that this fortune was always fated to be hers. Not because of me."

"So," I thought of what Grandma had said, "people never remember the one who stayed and suffered beside them. They only remember the one who walked away when they were at rock bottom."

"People are wired that way. Base. Always chasing whatever they can't have."

Now.

I checked the time.

"Three days. That's all."

"I can wait."

For those three days, I trailed along while Ursula and Arthur played house. I watched Arthur drop tens of thousands on a bag without blinking, watched him put a million-dollar ring on hold, and then tell Ursula,

"This freebie, pass it off as a travel gift for your husband."

"And don't you go buying anything new."

Arthur wheedled.

"What's yours is mine."

Ursula only laughed.

"Fine, whatever you want."

Once, Ursula said she would be my umbrella, that she would never let me suffer a single slight.

Now she had torn that umbrella to shreds and left me to suffer all of it.

I called her. I listened as she stepped off to an empty patch of ground and lowered her voice.

"Honey."

"Ursula," I reminded her, "there's still an hour and a half."

"There's time."

Her tone went impatient.

"Stop rushing me."

"I already sent you my flight."

"I promise I'll be there."

I hung up and looked at the countdown to the IPO bell, and the birthday banquet Ursula had once arranged for me, and Grandma seated at the head of the table. Through the surveillance feed, I heard Ursula warn him.

"Don't say anything stupid."

Arthur followed after her, grudging.

"I know, I know."

Ursula laughed and pinched his cheek, then walked to the banquet hall doors, fixed her appearance one last time, and reached out to push them open. The moment she did, the color drained from her face.

After His Sister Gave the Bouquet, I Gave Her the Bride

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 10:48:10 +0800

Halfway through my wedding to my fianc, his old friends interrupted to come up and present gifts.

When it was his female buddy's turn, she pulled a bridal bouquet out of her bag, made from a used lace bra.

The crowd whooped, their eyes darting between the two of them with knowing looks.

The stuff on here is left over from when Rob was eighteen. I saved it all this time just to give it to you today.

My whole body went rigid. My fianc didn't explain a thing. He just gave a helpless little smile.

I made no move to take it, and she stood there, still holding it out.

Robert looked displeased.

"Maya, Stella Matthews and I have known each other for over twenty years. If there were really anything going on, would it even be your turn to worry? Have some sense."

I dropped my eyes and said nothing.

Back when his female buddy spread the rumor that I was the third wheel, he said she just liked to joke around, and told me to be sensible.

Later, when she clung to him every night to sleep beside him, he said it was just habit, and told me to be sensible.

Even when someone asked him why he liked me, all he said, flatly, was:

"She's sensible."

But today, I didn't want to be sensible anymore.

I tore off my veil and shoved it into his female buddy's arms.

"Consider it a gift in return. The bride's spot is yours."

...

Stella clutched the veil, a flicker of triumph in her eyes, then pretended to look troubled.

"Maya, Rob and I are just buddies. See, now you've misunderstood again."

"It's such a happy day, don't make a scene. Don't give everyone something to laugh at."

I ignored her. I slipped the ring off my finger and handed that over too.

"I'll get you the gown in a minute. If you'd rather, you can just wear the one you prepared yourself."

I gave a smile that wasn't a smile. The day I bought that dress, Stella had insisted on tagging along, saying she could help me pick.

But once we got there, she not only introduced herself as the bride, she fought me for the very style I liked.

And of course Robert took her side.

"She's anxious because no one will marry her. Maya, you're the sensible one, don't hold it against her."

At that, Stella started roughhousing with him in the shop, and as she leaned closer, the look between them turned into something else.

I just stood off to the side, watching Robert swallow, watching the color rise in Stella's cheeks.

They were clearly past the line of friendship, and yet I wasn't allowed to be angry.

Every time I lost my temper over Stella, Robert had the same line:

"We're just buddies. Aren't you the sensible one?"

...

Once I'd said my piece, I didn't bother watching how the guests reacted. I gathered up my skirt to head for the dressing room.

Robert realized I meant it and grabbed my arm in time.

"Maya, all these people are watching. Stop this, all right?"

His brows drew together, and before I could get a word out, Stella whined:

"Rob, don't be harsh with Maya."

"Maya, let me set him straight for you."

With that she swung a fist, only to trip on the step and pitch straight into Robert's arms, where he caught her neatly.

The next second, his friends clapped and cheered, ribbing them.

"There goes Stella with the same old trick. She doesn't want Rob getting married."

Stella didn't get up. She laughed and shot back:

"We're buddies. He promised he'd keep me company, so how can he go marrying first?"

My fingers curled in. I pulled my gaze away and took the chance to leave.

As the dressing room door shut behind me, all the fight drained out of me and I sank onto the couch.

Today wasn't the first wedding Robert and I had tried. We'd held nearly ten of them, and every time we reached the crucial moment, something went wrong.

Stella always found some reason or another to call Robert away.

And I had finally seen it clearly. What wasn't mine, I shouldn't go begging for.

I'd changed and was about to slip out first, but at the door I ran straight into Robert.

He looked me up and down, his face dark.

"Maya, when did you turn so unreasonable?"

"Stella's out there toasting your friends and family for you. She saved you a lot of embarrassment. You'd better thank her properly later."

I bit down hard on my lip, my eyes going red before I could stop them.

"Robert, if Stella's so wonderful, then go marry her. Haven't I already handed the spot over?"

"I really was a fool. It took until today for me to see the two of you for the pair of dogs you are."

Robert froze for a few seconds, whether because it was the first time I'd shouted at him, or because of the tears at the corners of my eyes.

Not that any of it mattered to me anymore.

I'd taken one step when he snapped out of it and had someone block my way.

"Maya, since you won't be sensible, then you can watch with your own eyes while Stella and I do the ceremony."

I couldn't break free, and had to be dragged along to the front hall.

Stella had already changed into her toasting dress and was leaning down to listen to Mrs. Sanchez.

To humiliate me, Robert had deliberately seated me at his family's table.

Mrs. Sanchez didn't spare me so much as a glance.

"I said all along this outsider wouldn't do. Nothing like Stella. I watched her grow up, and she's the daughter-in-law I'm happiest with."

A mocking smile tugged at my mouth. I turned my head away and pretended not to hear.

Stella was the picture of sweetness, throwing me a taunting look.

Robert led her over to stand in front of me.

"Stella went out of her way to help you. Hurry up and give her a toast."

Slowly, I stood with the glass in my hand, then threw it over Stella without a moment's hesitation.

"Thank you."

The scene dissolved into chaos. Her dress had been sheer to begin with, and now, soaked, her chest was on full display.

Robert scrambled out of his jacket and threw it over her.

"Maya Swanson, you've gone too far."

He rammed his shoulder into mine, hard, while everyone else looked ready to eat me alive.

I let out a breath and took the microphone.

"A word of advice, everyone. Stay away from cliques. As for this wedding, I'm the one calling it off. I'm not marrying Robert Sanchez."

I called a car home. As expected, the wedding fiasco was already all over town.

I stood in the doorway and looked around. The place was full of Stella, every corner marked with something that belonged to her.

When Robert and I first got together, I only knew he had a few childhood friends. I never expected one of them would be a woman.

Back then Stella showed up uninvited, and she settled onto Robert's lap like it was nothing.

"You must be Maya. I'm Rob's best friend."

A woman's instinct is rarely wrong. I could feel how much hostility Stella had toward me.

After that, wherever Robert and I went, she came along. Every outing for two turned into three.

"Maya, Stella and I grew up together, we've never been apart. It's just one more person. Don't mind it."

It took me a while to come back to myself.

We'd bought this place together, once. Because I loved Robert, I'd bitten my tongue again and again.

But now, I didn't want to anymore.

I called a renovation company to come remake the whole place. Once it was done, Robert came back with Stella and the rest of them.

"Rob, and the bride, we've got plenty of games lined up for the wedding night. Better be ready."

I stood across from them, meeting their eyes.

Robert noticed the change first. "Who told you to renovate?"

I turned around, my voice cold.

"I don't want any trace of anyone else in this house. And I don't need anyone's permission."

In front of Robert I'd always been gentle and easygoing. What he never knew was that I'd tamped down my real nature only because I loved him.

Robert started to say something, but Stella cut in.

"Maya, since I stood in for you at the wedding today, I'll take the wedding night for you too. No need to thank me."

The words were barely out before Stella hooked a finger in Robert's belt and pulled him toward the stairs.

Maybe to spite me on purpose, Robert didn't even shut the door.

The sounds got louder and louder. I meant to go out, but my feet were rooted to the floor, and I couldn't move.

When it was finally over and everyone had gone, Robert came down bare from the waist up, covered in red marks.

Seeing me stare straight at him, he looked a little smug.

"Maya, as long as you behave, I can throw you another wedding. But if you don't know your place, you're the only one who gets hurt."

Looking up at him standing there above me, I suddenly gagged, and ran into the bathroom and threw up.

Stella slept in our master bedroom. I watched Robert throw my things out of it with my own eyes.

I knew he was sulking at me. Any other day, I'd have gone right up and coaxed him, groveling. But today I just waited until he finished, then quietly picked everything up.

The gasping came from the room all night. I put in my earbuds to shut it out, but my heart still couldn't help stinging.

The next morning, Robert was taking Stella back to the Sanchez house.

As they were getting ready to leave, I'd already bought a ticket to France and was reading through a travel guide.

"You're going on a trip?"

I hadn't heard Robert come up behind me, and now he stood there, staring at my screen without blinking.

I shook my head. "I'm leaving."

Stella and I spoke at the same moment, and Robert's attention was pulled to her. He didn't catch what I said.

"What did you say?"

I stayed quiet. He went on.

"You're coming too. Stella may be my wife in name for now, but you still need to win my mother over. How else do you expect to marry into this family? Watch Stella and learn something."

I refused. It didn't matter. Robert forced me to come along anyway.

On the drive, Stella chattered nonstop, pointing at the trees and grass outside the window and reminiscing.

Robert answered every single line, even though he hated talking while he drove.

"Rob, do you remember that park? When we were kids we played house, and you insisted on being the dad and told me I had to be the mom. You said you'd marry me when we grew up. Who'd have thought it would actually come true."

I pressed my lips together, and happened to catch Robert watching my reaction in the rearview mirror.

Only when he saw my blank face did he chime in.

"Of course I remember. We were closest back then. You were my favorite."

When we reached the Sanchez house, I followed the two of them inside.

Mrs. Sanchez saw Stella and couldn't stop smiling. She slipped the jade bracelet off her wrist to put it on her.

"Stella, I've dreamed of Rob bringing you home as his bride. This is our family heirloom, passed only to a Sanchez daughter-in-law. Today it's yours."

Stella glanced at me as if by accident, took it, turned it over in her hand, then held it out to me.

"Maya, I'm just a stand-in. This was given to you. Go on, take it."

Mrs. Sanchez let out a cold snort and pulled Stella's arm toward her.

"Stella, I don't care who the bride was. You're the one who finished the ceremony with Rob. This bracelet belongs to you. Now be good and keep it."

Stella put on a reluctant show, pretending to resist while giving in, until Robert spoke up.

"If Mom's giving it to you, keep it. You've been walking off with my things your whole life and never once looked embarrassed about it."

Stella stuck out her tongue.

I lowered my eyes. What a cozy little family of three, if only I weren't in the picture.

At dinner, dish after dish came to the table, and one glance told me they were all Stella's favorites.

I'm from the North. I can't handle spicy food. She, on the other hand, can't eat anything without heat.

Robert came out last, carrying a plate of boiled spinach that he set down in front of me.

"I know you can't eat any of that. But after all these years we're all used to Stella's taste. I made this specially for you."

I gave a small laugh.

"Robert, do you think I'm supposed to be so touched that I throw my arms around you, tell you I was wrong, beg your forgiveness, amazed that you love me this much?"

He didn't say anything, but his face said it all.

"You seem to have forgotten. I don't eat vegetables."

The smile froze at the corner of his mouth.

Stella noticed. She patted Robert's shoulder, and the two of them sat down one after the other.

I barely touched my chopsticks the whole time. Robert was busy shelling shrimp for Stella, even though he's badly allergic. Red welts had already come up along his neck.

Afterward we didn't go home. We went to a bar instead, where Robert's friends had put together a party.

He clearly wanted me to squirm, so he forced me to come along too.

Robert and Stella took the couch. I found some corner and sat down.

"Rob, what's it like, marrying one of the guys?"

Robert smoked his cigar and said nothing. Stella grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it at him.

"Don't talk nonsense. Maya's right here. Ours is only pretend. If Maya gets upset, Rob's the one who'll have to smooth it over."

Hearing her bring me up, everyone wore a different expression. I was the only calm one.

Only today did I realize that letting go of someone takes just a moment.

Less than five days before I was set to leave, things between me and Robert eased up a little.

My change caught him off guard. He thought I'd finally come around.

"Maya, you've changed. If you'd been like this sooner, I'd never have had the heart to ignore you."

I gave him a small smile. "Then I'll be like this from now on. Would that be good?"

I hadn't smiled at him in a very long time. Robert went dizzy at the sight of it, and before he could stop himself he leaned in to kiss me.

Stella appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Rob, I think there's a bug in my room. I'm scared. Come help me catch it."

Robert stepped back and went up to her without a second thought.

Watching this, Stella walked slowly over to my side.

"Maya, I like Robert. You know that, don't you?"

"And he doesn't see me as just a friend either. Otherwise, on a day as important as his wedding to you, how could a few words from me pull him away?"

"I'll be honest with you. Mrs. Sanchez wants the two of us to turn the pretense into something real, and Rob hasn't refused. If you know what's good for you, you'll leave on your own."

I stared at her for several seconds, then couldn't help shaking my head and laughing.

"Stella, I really do feel sorry for you. You like him, but you don't dare say it, so all you can do is cling to him as one of the guys. But don't worry. He's trash. I have no interest in fighting you over him."

Stella shook all over with rage. She left me with a "We'll see about that."

At dinner she refused to come down. I sat at the table and ate like nothing was wrong.

Robert coaxed and pleaded, but she wouldn't budge. Finally, at his wit's end,

"Maya, Stella won't come to dinner because she thinks you don't like her. Go and apologize to her."

I stopped mid-motion, my eyes going wide, unable to believe what I'd just heard.

In the end, I gave in anyway.

Stella pouted again and asked Robert to take her out, on the condition that he not bring me.

To make her happy, Robert agreed to all of it.

"Maya, once I'm back this time I'll hold a new wedding for you. Just be good and wait for me at home."

I'd meant to leave with him, but then it occurred to me: wouldn't it be far more interesting if I ran out on the wedding instead?

I sneered inside, kept it off my face, and nodded sweetly. "Don't worry. I won't get jealous over Stella anymore. She's one of your buddies, after all."

Robert pulled me into his arms the way he always did. I choked down my disgust and didn't push him off.

Stella narrowed her eyes, her chest heaving fast.

I stayed home, watching the gloating photos Stella sent me every day.

Robert took her all over the place, filming plenty of cozy little videos.

After they got back, he threw himself into the wedding arrangements.

Mrs. Sanchez wasn't happy about it, but she couldn't talk him out of it.

Our friends were even more baffled.

"What is Rob even thinking? If he really likes Maya, why would he keep ditching her for Stella? And if you say he likes Stella, then why is he holding another wedding with Maya?"

This time Robert really did seem invested, handling everything himself, making it grand.

On the day, the familiar faces arrived one after another.

Once again I sat in the waiting room, and Stella looked at me coldly.

"Maya, do you think Rob will drop you for me all over again in a little while?"

I brushed a strand of hair back. This time, who dropped whom was anyone's guess.

When it was my turn to walk out, Stella went in a step ahead of me, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Rob, I like you. Please, don't marry Maya, all right?"

Robert's mouth fell open. And then the makeup artist came rushing in in a panic.

"This is bad. The bride is gone."

The Widow's Cloth Bundle on the Wedding Night

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 10:29:40 +0800

In the spring of 2002, I walked into the childless village with a woven sack on my back.

Behind me, the matchmaker said:

Go on in. You should count yourself lucky to get a wife at all.

I was twenty-six that year. No land, no money, no future.

Just a chill running down my spine.

What I didn't know that year was that I wasn't only walking into a woman's home.

I was walking into a game a dead man had left behind.

My family lived in a small village on the eastern Kansas plains.

There were four brothers, and I was the second.

We had only a few acres of land. My father was sickly, and my mother had worried her whole life.

Four sons, and the land couldn't feed four families.

My eldest brother married a girl from the neighboring town early on, the bride price borrowed.

The third and fourth were still young.

By the time it came to me, the family was already scraped bare.

The matchmaker had been at it for three years.

She'd worn through three pairs of cloth shoes and talked up six or seven girls.

Some thought my family too poor, some thought I wasn't tall enough, some took one look and walked off without even drinking a sip of water.

At the end of 2001, the matchmaker, Leona Chavez, came and sat in our house, set her teacup down hard on the table, and said:

"I'll be honest about your second boy no proper girl is willing to marry into this family."

My mother went white in the face on the spot.

Leona went on:

"There's one way left. You want to hear it or not?"

My father knocked out his pipe and said:

"Go ahead."

Leona said there was a village thirty miles to the east, one people called the childless village.

Not its real name, just a nickname outsiders had gotten used to.

For a few generations, the men in that village had died young. By this generation, only a handful of households were left, and every one of them was run by women.

There was a widow, surname Gray, called Carla Gray.

Her husband had died the year before last, of lung disease.

She was thirty-one, no children, alone tending three and a half acres and two rooms of a mud-brick house.

Leona pushed the teacup over in front of me and said:

"Either you go marry in as a live-in husband, or you stay a bachelor your whole life."

The room went quiet enough to hear the pipe tobacco burning.

I didn't say anything.

But I knew this wasn't me choosing.

It was life choosing for me.

The first time I went to that village with Leona was in the dead of winter.

The weather was cold, the ground hard as an iron plate.

At the entrance to the village stood an old locust tree, its bark cracked, its branches pointing at a gray sky.

We'd just come in past the village entrance when a few old men squatting by the road started staring at me.

Leona greeted them. They said nothing, only stared at me.

Halfway through the village, a woman recognized Leona and hollered toward the back:

"Here comes another one marrying in!"

Her voice was sharp and clear, like cloth being torn.

My step faltered.

Leona said under her breath:

"Ignore her. Keep walking."

A few more steps, and two old women by the road exchanged a look. One of them shook her head and sighed, and there was something in that sigh I couldn't put a name to, but it wasn't pity.

Right then I felt a wind cutting across my spine.

Not the wind that blew in from the cold.

The kind of wind that goes in through your back and straight into your heart.

Leona said:

"Once you're inside it'll be fine. Don't mind these village people. You live your own life."

I didn't answer.

What I was thinking was:

I hadn't even gone through the door yet, and I'd already shrunk three notches.

Carla Gray's yard was at the very end of the village.

Mud-brick walls, a wooden gate, the red paint on it worn down to a few flakes along the edges.

Leona Chavez pushed the gate open and called out. Something stirred inside.

I followed her in, and the first thing I saw was her back.

She was chopping firewood.

The axe swung up and came down, clean and sure.

Hearing us, she turned, rested the axe on the split log, and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand.

Then she looked at me.

Just one look.

"You're here. Come inside."

That was all. Six words.

No fidgeting, no fuss, none of the wariness I'd imagined a widow marrying again would have. None of that shrewd, calculating edge either.

None of it.

Just calm.

Like a pool of water. The wind blows over it, and even the ripples stay small.

I followed her inside. Behind me, Leona kept up her steady stream of the usual polite talk.

I didn't take much of it in.

I was busy looking the place over.

The bed was spread with indigo cloth, folded square and neat.

Farm tools hung on the wall. A hoe, a sickle, a spade, each one on its own nail, and the nails looked measured out on purpose, evenly spaced, all in line.

Beside the stove sat a row of jars, every one with a paper label brushed on in fine, close ink.

"Pickled radish." "Bean paste." "Peppered salt."

Standing there in that room, something rose up in me I couldn't put into words.

It didn't feel like a place one person lived.

It felt like a place a man had poured all his care into, and then the man was gone, and the care stayed behind.

It was a strange feeling.

Like I'd walked into someone else's territory.

And that was how the marriage was settled.

Simple, no proper banquet. The two families just sat down to a meal together, Leona stood as witness, I moved my registration over, and from that day on I belonged to the Gray household.

Our wedding night, we lay at opposite ends of the bed, a folded quilt between us.

The room was dark.

I couldn't sleep.

I didn't hear her drop off quickly either.

A long time passed before I heard her turn over, and then silence again.

I stared into the dark at the ceiling and thought:

He had slept on this bed.

The thought came out of nowhere, and it set my whole body on edge.

But it had worked its way in, and there was no driving it out.

The first few days after I moved in, I went around helping to tidy up, though really I was taking stock.

The woodpile in the yard was stacked with a system to it, not just thrown together. One layer standing, one layer lying flat, crossed over each other. That way it wouldn't slide apart, and when it rained only the surface got wet.

That wasn't how we stacked wood back home.

I asked her,

"Did you stack this yourself?"

Her hands didn't stop. She said,

"He used to stack it. I do it the way he did."

I didn't ask anything more.

In the northeast corner of the yard there was a wooden rack, the kind you'd use to dry things on, and the feet of it were set on stones to keep the legs from rotting.

That was the sort of detail a plain farmhand like me would never have thought of.

The more I looked, the more I felt it. This house, this yard, everywhere I turned there was the mind of a man who had lived here.

He was gone, but his mind was still working in this place.

I had moved into a place he'd arranged, was using the tools he'd hung up, was sleeping on the bed he'd slept on.

That strange, pressing feeling started in those days.

I couldn't put a name to it.

Maybe it was this. A dead man, in some sense, seemed more the master of this house than I did, and I was the one still alive.

On the fifth day I lived there, the village came calling.

Three women, and the one leading them was named Lawrence, the village women's affairs director, with two chatterers trailing behind her.

They said they'd come to visit, carrying a bit of homemade tofu.

The moment they were through the door they started sizing me up.

Athena Lawrence sat down, a teacup pinched in her hand, her eyes running over me once before she opened her mouth.

"Where's your hometown?"

"How many people in your family?"

"You got much land?"

She asked it all with a smile, but the smile was hollow. Her eyes were carrying something else.

I answered every question.

When I finished she nodded, then turned to Carla Gray and said,

"Carla, when your husband was alive he was such an honest man. Never said half a word too many."

She paused, then went on,

"This new one, you can tell at a glance he's no easy lamp to keep lit."

I was holding a bowl just then. My hand didn't move, and neither did the bowl.

But there was a ringing in my ears.

Carla sat beside me, nothing changing in her face.

She waited for Athena to finish, then stood and topped off everyone's water, and said,

"Athena, it's cold out and the road's slick. Best get home early."

It wasn't an invitation. It was showing them out.

The three women looked at one another, but she was already standing at the door.

They left.

The yard gate shut.

She came back, filled a bowl of rice from the pot, and set it down in front of me.

She didn't say anything.

I stared at that bowl of rice for a while.

I'd meant to say "thanks."

But by the time it reached my lips it came out as something else.

"They'll come again."

She sat down, picked up her chopsticks, and said,

"Let them. We live our own life."

Around that time, word came from back home too.

My mother had a man from the neighboring town who was going in for market day carry a message over. She said my third and fourth brothers were gossiping behind my back, saying the second son had married into the childless farm village as a live-in husband and brought shame on the family.

My father was so angry he smashed his rice bowl.

Only my sister, Lena Abbott, quietly asked around to find out where I was and walked over ten miles to come see me.

When I saw her come through the gate into the yard, my eyes went red.

I didn't cry, but my throat closed up tight.

Lena came in, looked around the yard, then looked at me, her eyes rimmed red, and opened her mouth.

"Second brother, are you all right?"

Just that one line, and I almost couldn't hold it together.

I said,

"I'm fine, doing fine. Go back and tell Mom and Dad not to worry about me."

After she left, I sat in the yard smoking my pipe, one bowl after another.

The sky went full dark, the moon climbed up, and I still didn't move.

Then I heard something behind me. She had come out.

She didn't ask what was wrong, and she didn't say anything to comfort me.

She just carried over a small stool and sat down next to me.

The two of us sat there, neither of us saying a word.

The moon slid slowly to the west, until at last it went down.

Only then did she stand and go inside.

I sat a while longer, tapped out the ash, and went in too.

That night I slept deeper than any night before it.

His First Love Bullied Me; He Refused Divorce

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 10:11:08 +0800

I dragged Solomon Delgado down from his pedestal with my own hands. With half the Fox family fortune, at the lowest, most humiliating point of his life, I forced him to marry me.

After the wedding, whenever the first love who'd fled the country came back, all it took was one blurry, suggestive photo from her, one honey-coated barb loaded with hidden meaning, and that same night I would push open the door to Solomon's study.

Under the excuse of punishing him, I would pour out every ounce of my humiliation and jealousy.

He never fought back. He only watched me with those fathomless black eyes, cold and distant, as if he were looking at a clown throwing a tantrum.

Until later, when I'd saved up enough disappointment and handed him the divorce papers I'd already signed.

He tore the pages to shreds right in front of me, his eyes bloodshot as he pinned me hard into the corner, his voice raw, like it had been ground out from the bone of his throat: "Dorothy Fox, who said you could leave?"

"Solomon, open the door."

I pressed my palm flat against the cold walnut door of the study. My voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough.

No answer came from inside. Only the faint, cold scratch of a fountain pen moving across paper.

I drew a breath, rapped my knuckles against the wood, and repeated, "I'll count to three. If you don't open this door, I'll cut the power to the whole house."

The scratching stopped.

A few seconds later the lock gave a soft click, and the door opened a crack from the inside.

Solomon stood there in a charcoal-gray silk robe, the collar loose and open, showing the clean line of his collarbone and a pale sliver of chest.

A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and behind the lenses his eyes watched me through the gap in the door, remote and cold.

"What is it?" His voice was like the man himself, without warmth, like snow on a mountaintop that never melts all year.

I didn't answer. I just shoved my phone screen up to his face.

On the screen was a mutual friend's feed. The newest post was from Meg Swanson, half an hour ago, a photo of a hand with well-defined knuckles gripping a pencil, sketching something on a sheet of drawing paper.

I knew that hand too well. Solomon had a tiny mole on his right wrist, usually hidden under his watch, showing only now and then when he lifted his arm.

Meg's caption was as suggestive as it got: "Keeping someone company while he works late. Snuck a photo. Turns out a man who's serious about his work really does glow. [starry eyes]"

Below it, a row of mutual friends had liked it and were egging her on, all asking who "someone" was.

Meg didn't reply. That kind of coy silence grated worse than a straight confession.

Solomon's gaze rested on the screen for less than a second before it slid away, back to my face, his tone flat. "Done looking? And?"

"And?" His unbothered coldness, so certain of itself, made me laugh out of sheer anger, and the temper I'd been swallowing the whole way over shot straight up. "Solomon, she's your first love, not mine.

You let her prance around like this in front of me. Who exactly are you two trying to disgust?

Or is this a little show the two of you are putting on for me, so I'll take the hint and clear out early, and make room for your precious Meg?"

At that, his brow drew together, barely perceptibly, as if he found me too loud.

"Dorothy, I'm tired today. I'm not in the mood to fight with you." He pushed his glasses up and moved to shut the door.

I jammed my foot into the gap before it closed. The pain shot straight through me and I sucked in a sharp breath, my eyes going red on the spot.

I wasn't faking it. It really hurt.

But I didn't pull my foot back. Instead I threw all my weight against the door, tipped my head up and glared at him, my voice shaking. "Solomon, don't forget the deal we made. I keep the Delgado cash flow steady, and you marry me. You're my husband for two years.

The agreement spells it out. During the marriage, you can't have any improper relationship with another woman. What, six months in and Mr. Delgado already wants to break the contract?"

At the word deal, the last trace of warmth in his eyes vanished.

It was a look laced with disgust and contempt, the way you'd look at something filthy.

Every single time I brought up what our marriage really was, he looked at me like that. As if I were the lowlife who'd seized on someone's misfortune and stopped at nothing.

But he forgot. If he hadn't been backed into a corner back then, how would I ever have found my opening?

If that shameful little feeling I had for him hadn't already rotted me down to the marrow, why would I have gambled everything my mother left me to fill that bottomless pit of his?

"What do you want?" He finally gave up on shutting the door, let go, and leaned against the frame, looking down at me with a note of tired resignation in his voice.

I knew he thought I was going to do what I'd done those other times: make a scene, use Meg to provoke him, force him into doing something with me.

Use the most intimate acts to take revenge for his emotional betrayal.

It was pathetic. It was laughable.

But it was the only way I had left to hold on to him.

Fighting through the pain in my foot, I limped into the study, my eyes sweeping over his wide desk.

There was no drawing paper, no pencil. Just a thick stack of documents and the Montblanc pen he'd just been writing with.

Clearly, that photo of Meg's hadn't been taken here at all.

Maybe it was an old one, maybe she'd dug it up from somewhere else, maybe it was even photoshopped.

But so what?

As long as it gave me an excuse to come at him right now, it was enough.

I circled around behind him, stretched out both arms, and hugged him around his lean waist from behind.

His body went rigid at once, his muscles pulled tight as stone.

I could smell him clearly. Not some expensive cologne, but something clean and cool, like moss and earth in a pine forest after rain, threaded with a faint trace of ink.

Clean. And good.

I buried my face against his broad back, greedily breathing him in, my voice coming out muffled. "Solomon, you smell so good."

He didn't move, didn't speak. Only his throat bobbed once.

"Stay tonight. With me." I tightened my arms and said it almost against his ear, one word at a time. "Otherwise, tomorrow, when that overseas loan of Delgado's comes due, I'm not sure the Fox finance department will remember to renew it on time."

A naked threat.

I felt his breath catch for a moment.

A few seconds later he lifted his hand and laid it over the back of mine where it circled his waist.

His hand was cold, the pads of his fingers rough with the thin calluses left from years of holding a pen.

He didn't push me away. Instead, with something almost like comfort, he stroked the back of my hand once, gently.

Then I heard him sigh, low and reluctant, breaking the silence of the study.

"...Fine."

Back in the bedroom, I sat at the vanity and pulled the clip from my hair, and a mass of long, seaweed-dark curls tumbled loose.

In the mirror, Solomon had already taken off his gold-rimmed glasses. He stood behind me, unfastening the ties of his robe one by one.

Without the lenses to hide behind, whatever moved in those peach-blossom eyes had nowhere left to go.

Restraint. Control. And something I couldn't name... exhaustion.

He was always like this, a well so deep you couldn't see the bottom of it, and no matter how large a stone I threw in, it never so much as rippled.

Only when Meg's name came up, or when I used the Fox family's power to force his hand, did that still water stir at all. And even then it settled again fast.

I looked at the two of us in the mirror, our reflections set apart, and suddenly I remembered the first time I ever saw him.

I was sixteen that year, just brought to the Fox house from the countryside by the man who was my father in name only, Sam Fox.

My mother was an unknown painter. She died of illness when I was ten. Only at the very end did she tell me that my real father was the famous chairman of Fox Group in Ashford City.

She told me to go find him. She said Sam owed her a great deal from when he was young, and that he would take good care of me.

But my mother died never knowing that a man's promise is the least reliable thing in the world.

Sam did bring me home. Not out of guilt, though. His precious son, my dear "brother" Herbert Fox, had been diagnosed with a rare blood disease and needed a bone-marrow transplant.

And I was the backup "marrow bank."

Life in the Fox house was hardly better than picking through trash with my grandmother back in the countryside.

My stepmother, Marion Chavez, was a smiling tiger. In front of Sam she fussed over me, cooing "Dot, Dot" as if I were her own flesh and blood.

But the moment his back was turned, her eyes went cold as ice picks, and every word out of her reminded me that I was nothing but a shameful illegitimate daughter, a stain on the Fox name.

Herbert was worse. He was the only heir to the Fox family, spoiled beyond all limits since childhood. He couldn't stand me, felt I'd stolen away some of his father's attention, and made a game of tormenting me.

He'd cut the power while I was in the shower. He'd pour soy sauce into my milk. He'd tear the homework I'd worked so hard on to shreds.

And all I could do was take it.

Because I knew I had nothing to fight back with.

The first time I saw Solomon Delgado was at Herbert's sixteenth birthday party.

The party that night was lavish beyond words, packed with guests. I wore an old dress washed pale with age, an ugly duckling wandered into Swan Lake, huddled awkwardly in a corner and trying to make myself invisible.

Herbert stood at the center of a crowd of rich kids like a king on his throne. He spotted me at once, took a glass of red wine, and came weaving over toward me.

"Well, if it isn't my little country-bred bastard sister. What's this, you actually dared show up to my birthday dressed like that? Come to beg for scraps?" He laughed, easy and cruel, and the other young men around him roared along with him.

I clenched my fists, nails digging deep into my palms, and kept my head down, saying nothing.

"What, gone mute?" When I didn't answer, Herbert felt he'd lost face, and he pushed it further, reaching out to yank at my dress. "Let's have a look at what treasure you've got hidden under this rag..."

Just as his hand was about to touch me, a long, strong hand closed firmly around his wrist.

"Herbert. That's enough."

The voice was cool and clean, like a scoop of clear spring water in high summer, and in an instant it drowned out all the noise around us.

I lifted my head and fell straight into a pair of deep, dark eyes.

The boy wore a well-cut white suit, standing tall and straight as a pine, striking in a way that set him apart. He was half a head taller than Herbert, and though they were about the same age, his presence was so powerful you didn't dare look at him directly.

He was Solomon Delgado, the only son of the Delgado family, and the dream man of every socialite and young woman in Ashford City.

Herbert was clearly afraid of him. He struggled a moment, then sheepishly drew his hand back. "Solomon, I... I was just messing with her."

"She's your sister." Solomon spoke lightly, his voice quiet but carrying an authority that left no room for argument. "That's not how you joke."

Then he took off his own suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

The jacket still held the warmth of his body and a faint scent of soap, and it wrapped around all of me.

In that moment, all the mockery and contempt around me seemed to vanish.

In my whole world there was only the look in his eyes as he lowered them to me, tender and full of pity.

From that day on, the name Solomon Delgado was like a seed. In the barren, desolate ground of my heart it took root and sprouted.

I began to gather everything about him I could, obsessively. I knew what he liked and what he hated.

I knew which cafe he liked to read in, which route he took home.

I chased my god like the most devout of believers.

I thought that if I only worked hard enough, made myself good enough, one day I could stand at his side out in the open.

But I forgot that gods have their own believers.

And I was never the one who got chosen.

He had Meg Swanson, the girl who matched his family, his childhood sweetheart. Standing together, they looked like the prince and princess from a fairy tale, made for each other.

And I was just a weed in a dark corner, without even the right to look up at them.

Later, the Delgado family collapsed overnight. Solomon's father, ruined by a failed investment and buried under enormous debt, jumped to his death. Delgado Group teetered on the edge of bankruptcy.

The friends who had once circled around Solomon all disappeared overnight.

Even Meg left him in his hardest hour, using study abroad as her excuse.

That was the first time I saw him brought so low.

He sat alone on the rooftop terrace at the top of the company, drunk out of his mind, eyes rimmed red, like a cornered animal abandoned by the whole world.

I walked over, sat down beside him, and handed him a bank card.

"That's everything my mother left me, plus what I've saved over the years. It isn't much, but it should keep you going for a while."

He lifted his bleary, drunken eyes and looked at me for a long time before he spoke, his voice rough. "Why?"

Why?

I looked at his handsome, worn-out face, and my heart felt as if an unseen hand had seized it and squeezed until I could barely breathe.

How I wanted to tell him: because I love you. I've loved you for my whole youth.

But I couldn't.

I knew that in that moment, any pity, any sympathy, would only make it worse for him.

So I did what I imagined a shrewd businesswoman would do. I pulled up the cleverest smile I could manage and said, "Because I want to take a gamble.

Solomon Delgado, you've always wondered why I clawed my way up so desperately. It's because I wanted you. And now the chance has come."

I paused, then laid out my terms one word at a time.

"I'll have Sam Fox pour capital into Delgado Group and get you through this. And youyou marry me."

I'll never forget the way he looked at me then.

Shock, disbelief, and then a cold that went to the bone. Disappointment.

As if I had shattered the image he'd held of a soft, kind Dorothy who needed protecting, and exposed the ugliest, most calculating core underneath.

"Dorothy," he said, laughing at himself, his voice broken and hoarse, "I really did underestimate you."

In that moment, I felt my own heart break along with his words.

The next day was the weekend, and for once I slept in.

When I woke, the space beside me was already empty, the sheets gone cool. Solomon had clearly left long ago.

On the nightstand sat a cup of warm water, and beside it a tube of ointment.

It took me a moment to remember the foot I'd hurt when the door caught it the night before.

I looked down. My ankle was mottled purple and a little swollen.

Something turned over in me, hard to name, like a sour green plum slowly dissolving on the tongue.

He clearly loathed me, yet he still remembered my injury.

That kind of contradictory tenderness is the most fatal of all.

As I rubbed in the ointment, I told myself, mocking myself, that it was probably just part of his duty as a contract husband, and I was reading too much into it.

My phone chimed. A message from my best friend, Kathryn James.

A screenshot, plus a row of furious stickers.

[Kathryn: Dot! Look at this! Meg Swanson's up to her tricks again! I'm furious! Does she literally have to make your life miserable to keep breathing?!]

I opened the screenshot. Another one of Meg's posts.

This time it was a selfie. She wore a plain, elegant white dress, seated in what looked like an upscale cafe, a latte with delicate foam art in front of her.

Her makeup was soft, her eyes wide with innocence and hurt. The caption read: "Some things aren't yours. Even if you scheme your way into having them, you'll lose them in the end. The string of a kite has to be held by the right hands to fly higher."

Below it, someone had commented: "Don't cry, Meg. We all know who the right one is."

Meg had replied with a hug emoji.

Anyone with eyes could see who she was talking about.

Me. The wicked woman who "schemed her way" into stealing her "kite."

Kathryn's call came through right after, her voice going a mile a minute. "Dot, did you see it? This little snake keeps leveling up! She's basically declaring war on you out in the open! What are you going to do?"

Kathryn is one of the few friends I have. We grew up together in the countryside, and later, after I was brought back to the Fox family, she worked her way into a university in Ashford City and stayed on here.

She's hot-tempered and fiercely loyal, and she can't stand to see anyone wrong me.

"It's fine," I said mildly, no real feeling in my voice. "She's just a fly buzzing around. Swatting her would only dirty my hand."

"But it's so disgusting! She's basically calling you a home-wrecker who schemed her way up! And that so-called husband of yours just stands there and lets her bully you? Is he blind?" Kathryn was livid.

I smiled but didn't answer.

Blind?

No. Solomon sees it more clearly than anyone.

He just doesn't care.

If anything, he probably enjoys the arrangement.

On one side, the first love he keeps in his heart, soft and innocent and pitiful. On the other, the contract wife he loathes, spiteful and jealous and repulsive.

Set side by side, the contrast only highlights his "devotion" to Meg and his "helplessness" with me.

What a fine tragic little melodrama.

"All right, stop stewing. I've got an appointment with my stylist today, going to get my hair done. Want to come?" I changed the subject.

"Get your hair done? You're in the mood for that?" Kathryn's voice climbed.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I said, swinging my legs off the bed as I spoke into the phone. "Even if the sky falls, I'll hold it up looking gorgeous. Besides, the sky hasn't fallen yet."

I hung up, changed, and did my makeup with care.

The woman in the mirror had bright eyes and clean teeth, lips red as fire, a champagne-colored slip dress tracing every curve of her figure just right.

Not a trace left of the hysterical madwoman from the night before.

I got into my red Porsche and drove straight to the Summit Club, Ashford City's most exclusive private club.

The place was members only, intensely private, the favorite haunt of the city's wealthy wives and socialites.

As it happened, Meg had also arranged to have afternoon tea there today.

When I arrived, she was sitting by the windows on the ground floor with a few socialites, deep in cheerful conversation.

When they saw me come in, the women's expressions turned awkward, and the air went quiet at once.

Meg, though, recovered fast. A gentle, gracious smile spread across her face, and she rose to come toward me.

"Dot, what a coincidence. Are you here for tea too?" She linked her arm through mine, warm as if we were sisters who went back years.

I didn't pull away. I just looked at her, the smile not quite reaching my eyes. "Not a coincidence. I came to see you."

Meg's smile stiffened, then smoothed over just as quickly. "See me? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing major." I took my phone out of my bag, pulled up that post of hers, and held it in front of her. "I just wanted to ask you, Miss Swansonwas this post of yours aimed at me?"

I didn't raise my voice, but it was enough for the nearby tables to hear.

Every gaze in the room snapped to us at once.

Meg's face went white in an instant. She glanced nervously around and tried hard to tug me aside, dropping her voice. "Dot, you've misunderstood, I didn't mean anything by it... Let's go talk over there, all right?"

"We'll talk right here." I didn't budge. I even raised my voice. "I'm not clever like you, Miss Swanson. I can't quote poetry and go on about kites and strings and all that. So just give me a straight answerdo you think I stole Solomon Delgado from you?"

"I didn't! Dot, you've really got it all wrong!" Meg was so frantic the tears were about to spill over. She clutched my hand and shook her head desperately. "Solomon and I... we're just ordinary friends, we always have been..."

"Ordinary friends?" I laughed as if I'd heard the greatest joke in the world. "Ordinary friends keep each other company working late into the night? Ordinary friends post the kind of photos that make people's minds wander? Meg, do you take me for a fool, or does everyone here look like a fool to you?"

Whispers began to ripple through the room.

The way those socialites looked at Meg turned subtle too.

In their circle, nothing was more despised than the kind of "sweet little schemer" who slept her way in and then wanted a medal for her virtue.

"I... I just happened to be passing by that day, I was only dropping off some documents for him... and that photo, I took it without thinking, I..." Meg stammered through her explanation, tears already welling in her eyes.

Just then, a cool voice came from behind us.

"What's going on here?"

I turned and saw Solomon standing in the doorway. When he'd arrived, I had no idea.

He wore a crisp black suit, his face hard, and he was striding straight toward us.

At the sight of him, Meg looked as if she'd found her savior, and her tears came pouring down in an instant.

She let go of my hand and stumbled back two steps, the very picture of someone who'd suffered a terrible wrong, and choked out, "Solomon... I... I don't know why Dot would say these things about me. I really didn't..."

Before she could finish, Solomon cut her off, his voice cold.

"I asked what's going on." His eyes weren't on Meg at all. They landed straight on me, with a trace of scrutiny and displeasure.

The few socialites who'd been enjoying the show fell silent, lowering their heads and pretending to sip their drinks.

The whole caf went so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

I met his gaze, and something in me went cold.

There it was. He'd come.

In his mind, I would always be the unreasonable, overbearing villain, and Meg would always be the fragile, gentle little flower who needed his protection.

Suddenly it all felt pointless.

Like an actor pouring everything into a one-woman show, only to find that the single person in the audience had long since stopped paying attention.

I put my phone away, and every sharp, cutting edge on my face fell away, leaving nothing but indifference.

"It's nothing," I said flatly. "Just a little joke with Miss Swanson. Since you're here, Mr. Delgado, I'll leave you two to it. I'm going."

With that, I turned to leave.

"Stop." Solomon's voice came from behind me, carrying a command that left no room for refusal.

My steps paused, but I didn't turn around.

He crossed to me in a few strides and blocked my way.

He stood more than a head taller than me, and at this distance I could almost feel the pressure coming off him.

"Dorothy," he said, looking down at me, his black eyes churning with emotions I couldn't read. "Are you done making a scene?"

"A scene?" I twitched my lips into a mocking smile. "You're joking, Mr. Delgado. How would I dare make a scene in front of you?

I only came to remind Miss Swanson that people should know their limits.

After all, I'm still your wife in name, at least. When she keeps flaunting things in front of me on her feed like this, over and over, anyone who didn't know better would think you were playing both sides, Mr. Delgado."

"You!" Solomon's face darkened at once, the pressure rolling off him dropping to something frightening.

Seeing it, Meg quickly stepped up and took hold of his arm, coaxing him gently.

"Solomon, don't be angry, it's all my fault, I'm the one who did wrong, I shouldn't have posted that and made Dot misunderstand. I'll delete it right away, so don't blame her, all right?"

Her words sounded like she was pleading on my behalf, but every one of them poured oil on the fire.

Sure enough, Solomon's face grew even uglier.

He drew a deep breath, as if forcing down his anger, then only gave me one cold glance, took Meg by the wrist, and turned to go.

"I'll take you home." He didn't spare me another look.

I stood where I was, watching the two of them walk off side by side, the man tall and upright, the woman small and delicate. They looked so well matched.

The socialites around me watched me with eyes full of pity and mockery.

I felt like a complete joke.

A pathetic, laughable failure who didn't know her own limits, who'd tried to hold on to a man who didn't love her with money and power.

In that moment, something that had held me up all these years seemed to collapse with a crash.

All these years, I'd been like a tireless moth chasing after Solomon, that flame forever out of reach.

I'd thought that as long as I was brave enough, stubborn enough, I could eventually warm that cold heart of his.

Only now did I understand. Some people are like ice that will never warm no matter what. The closer you get, the worse you're burned.

Back home, I shut myself in my room and, for the first time, didn't smash a single thing, didn't cry either.

I just sat quietly on the carpet, watching the daylight fade little by little outside the window, my mind a blank.

So it turned out that when disappointment piled up high enough, there was no more fighting, no more scenes.

There was only exhaustion.

That evening, Sam Fox called, a careful, ingratiating note in his voice.

"Dot, are you busy? Your father just wanted to ask how things are between you and Solomon lately."

Ever since I married Solomon, the Fox family had climbed aboard the Delgado ship, their standing in Ashford City rising with the tide, and Sam Fox's attitude toward me had done a complete one-eighty.

The old neglect and exploitation had turned into concern and dependence.

"If you've got something to say, just say it." My voice held no feeling.

"Ah, it's like this," Sam Fox said, rubbing his hands, a little sheepish. "Your brother's project has hit a snag lately, hasn't it?

The other company specifically wants to work with the Delgados before they'll budge. So your father was thinking... could you mention it to Solomon, ask him to help out?"

My brother. Herbert Fox.

The man who'd once seen me as a thorn in his side, who'd wanted nothing more than to grind me into the dirt.

And now he needed to turn around and beg me for help.

How ironic.

"On what grounds?" I gave a cold laugh. "Because he's my brother? Chairman Fox, have you forgotten what my mother's last name was?"

On the other end, Sam Fox was left speechless, unable to get a word out for a long moment.

"Dot, don't talk like that, we're all family..."

"I don't have family like you." I cut him off flatly. "You want my help? Fine. Send that precious son of yours to come beg me himself."

With that, I hung up.

Listening to the dial tone on the other end, I suddenly felt drained of all interest.

Taking revenge on the people who once humiliated me wasn't as satisfying as I'd imagined.

Because those wounds were already carved into my bones, and they wouldn't vanish just because the ones who'd inflicted them had fallen.

I leaned against the headboard and, for the first time, seriously asked myself whether there was any reason left to keep this marriage with Solomon Delgado alive.

I'd forced him to marry me. Was it really because I loved him?

Or was it just that I couldn't stand to lose?

Couldn't stand that all those years of chasing him, of looking up to him, had come to nothing.

It seemed I'd never truly known him.

Never truly stepped into his world.

Between us lay a gulf too wide to cross.

The name of that gulf was Meg Swanson.

And it was also simply this: he didn't love me.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Miss Fox, Saturday at seven, top-floor ballroom at the Grand Hyatt. There's a charity gala, and Solomon will be there. I think it's time the two of us met and talked properly.Meg Swanson

I looked at that message for a long time.

Then I replied with one word: Fine.

Maybe it was time to end this.

Saturday night, the Grand Hyatt.

The gala was a high-profile affair, drawing out half the upper crust of Ashford City.

Under the blazing lights of the ballroom, perfume and jewels glittered, and glasses clinked all around.

I wore a custom black mermaid gown, the hem scattered with tiny diamonds that caught the light and shimmered.

My hair was swept into an elegant knot, with only a few loose curls left to frame my cheeks. Paired with a bold red lip, the whole effect was cold, striking, and remote.

The moment I walked in, every eye turned to me.

Some awed, some probing, and some openly envious.

I crossed the crowd without looking left or right, picked up a glass of champagne, and made for a quieter corner.

I didn't go looking for Solomon, and I didn't go looking for Meg.

I only wanted, before I left, to take one more good look at this world I'd once fought so desperately to break into.

Everything I'd craved was here. Fame, status, respect.

And now that I had it all, I found it didn't make me happy in the slightest.

I saw Solomon.

He stood at the center of a cluster of business heavyweights, cool and untouchable as ever, as though no one could ever truly enter his world.

His gaze swept the room now and then, but it never rested on me, not even for a second.

Meg stood not far from his side, in a gown of pure white gauze, like a lily too fine for this earthly world. She was chatting with a woman she knew, a gentle smile on her face, though her eyes kept drifting toward Solomon with a faint, barely hidden infatuation.

I looked away and tipped my head back, draining the champagne in one swallow.

Then I turned to leave this suffocating place.

I'd draft the divorce papers the moment I got home.

Two years was long enough. I didn't want to wait another day.

The glass door to the terrace was pulled open from outside. I was about to step out for some air when I heard voices from within, deliberately lowered.

Meg's voice, edged with hurt and a coaxing lilt.

Solomon, Dorothy came after me again this afternoon. The things she said were so cruel, and she humiliated me in front of all those peopleI really can't take much more.

I stopped without thinking, my body going rigid, and slipped behind the huge decorative plant beside me.

My heart slammed against my ribs, as if it might leap out of my throat.

I heard a very soft, impatient sigh.

Solomon's voice, cold as ice.

Didn't I tell you to go provoke her?

My mind went blank with a single roaring hum.

Then Solomon's voice, cold and without a trace of warmth, drove into my ears clear and word for word, like a poisoned blade slicing me straight down the middle.

He said: Go provoke her one more time. I want her never to be able to leave me, not for the rest of her life.

Meg seemed startled by the chill in his words, and argued in a small voice: ButSolomon, the things you've had me do, I keep feelingshe looks like she's about to fall apart. What if she really

That's her problem. Solomon cut her off coldly. Just remember one thing. Our arrangement is only an act.

Whatever ideas you shouldn't be having, put them away now. There is only ever going to be one woman who's my wife, from start to finish.

A roar

The world blew apart in my ears.

So that was it.

So all of it had been a setup.

Meg's taunts, his coldness, his indulgence of herevery bit of it had been staged by his own hand.

In the name of love, he'd woven a vast net, using those sharp, bone-deep wounds as the bait.

The whole point was to make me suffer, to make me jealous, to drive me mad, to make me go begging to him again and again like some pathetic clown, leaning on him, until I was pinned in place and could never break free.

What he wanted wasn't my love.

What he wanted was sole possession of me.

A tide of rage and cold surged up from my feet and flooded through me in an instant.

I was shaking with fury, my nails digging so deep into my palms they nearly drew blood.

I couldn't hold back anymore and lunged out from behind the plant.

Crack!

A sharp, ringing slap landed hard across Solomon's face.

The whole terrace fell dead silent in an instant.

His head snapped aside from the force, and five clear finger marks bloomed at once across that handsome face.

He seemed to have had no idea I would appear like that. He froze for a few seconds before slowly turning his head back.

Youheard all of it?

Dot! Meg was the first to react. She cried out and rushed to plant herself in front of Solomon, shielding him with a stricken look on her face.

She turned and wailed at me, How could you hit him! This is all my fault, it has nothing to do with Solomon. If you want to blame someone, blame me!

Watching that phony, playacting face of hers, I was so furious I laughed, laughed until the tears came.

Blame you? As if you're worth it.

I wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes and looked at her coldly. Meg, do you really still think you're some spotless little lily?

Everything you did behind his back, did you really think I knew nothing about it?

Meg's face went white in a flash, and a flicker of barely hidden panic crossed her eyes, but she held herself together and kept up the wronged-victim act: :

II don't know what you're talking about

Don't know?

I let out a cold laugh and pulled a neatly folded sheet of paper from my bag.

Under their startled, uncertain stares, I unfolded it, then flung it hard into Meg's face.

Then take a good look at what this is!

The Adopted Daughter Was My Husband and Sister's, So I Raged

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 09:52:37 +0800

My husband ran through every cent we had, ignoring every warning I gave him, and the daughter we'd adopted was crying, begging me not to file for divorce.

My parents talked me down. The child is still little. Stop rattling her with all this divorce talk.

My sister blocked my way. Cel, if you divorce him, the new home Kay finally has falls apart all over again. It'll break her heart.

My best friend said, "Money can be earned back. But if you actually go through with the divorce, Kay is going to spiral into depression."

My husband, aching for our daughter too, promised me he'd settle down and live right from now on.

But the year our daughter graduated from college, the money we'd rebuilt was gone again, blown by my husband.

I couldn't take it anymore and asked for a divorce. He just told me, "No need. Our marriage certificate is fake."

Our daughter had known all of it for years. My sister leaned into my husband's arms.

"Thank you, Cel, for working yourself to the bone raising the daughter my love and I had together so beautifully!"

My parents laid out the truth. "The thing is, Kay is your and Dustin's child, Laura. We didn't tell you back then because we didn't want to hurt you."

My best friend pleaded with me, all patient reason. "At least you didn't have to give birth to her, and she's called you Mom for over twenty years. It's not like you came out behind."

Only later did I learn my husband never lost a dime. He'd simply transferred everything over to Laura.

All of it. Every person closest to me knew, and every one of them kept the truth from me under the excuse that it was for my own good.

Given the chance to do it again, I threw the paternity test in their faces and tore the ugly masks right off them.

"Mom, please, I'm begging you, don't divorce Dad, okay?"

"I finally have a dad and a mom. I don't want you two to split up. I don't want to be a kid with no parents again. Don't send me back to the group home."

Kay Simmons clung to my leg, sobbing like her heart was being ripped out.

She sniffled hard and kept wailing.

"The other kids at the group home bully me. They steal my food, and they lock me in a bathroom stall and throw water on me."

"Mom, I'm really scared. Please, Mom, don't divorce him. Don't throw me away."

"If you and Dad divorce and neither of you can look after me, I'll end up back in that place. I don't want to go back. I want a home of my own."

That pitiful little picture would tug at anyone's heart.

The old me would have ached for her too.

But now, looking at this face that carried a trace of my own sister Laura's, I didn't dare ache for her anymore.

Coldly, I pried Kay off my leg.

"There's no money left. We don't even have a place to live, and we can't afford to keep you. Sending you back is the best thing for you."

"You'll be far better off at the group home than staying with us. If you don't want to go back, you can go with your dad."

Kay dropped down onto the floor and cried louder.

"No, I won't go back, I want to stay with Mom and Dad!"

Dustin Simmons pulled her up, all tenderness.

Then he came over to me, head hanging, and owned up to his mistake.

"Celine Swanson, I really know I was wrong."

"I shouldn't have gone against your warnings and made that investment. I lost everything, even the house."

"For the child's sake, just give me one more chance. I won't ever do it again."

Very convincing acting. Who would ever guess the sincere apology he was handing me was all a performance?

At that exact moment, a rapid knocking sounded at the door.

Kay ran to open the door, still crying.

My father scooped up Kay, whose face was streaked with tears and snot, and frowned at me in reproach.

"Cel, you're a grown woman. What kind of person scares a little child like this?"

"Dustin made a bad call and lost some money. It's a small thing. Is there really any need to blow it up into a divorce?"

My mother scolded him. "Don't yell at her. She's going through something like this, of course she's upset."

Then she came over to me, all comfort.

"Cel, Mom understands how you feel. But have you thought about Kay? You only brought her home a little while ago. She's just started to feel a mother's and father's love."

"She finally has a happy family like this, and now it's all going to vanish overnight? She's still so young. How is she supposed to handle a shock like that?"

"You couldn't have children yourself, that's why you chose to adopt. Once you adopt, you should treat her well and give her a good life."

Laura Swanson nodded along in agreement. "Right, sis. This child has a bond with you. She even looks a little like you, and she loves clinging to you."

"Can you really bear to send her back to the group home? Let her grow up in a place that miserable?"

My best friend Sapphire Perry arrived on the scene, out of breath.

She stopped me at the top of her voice. "Divorce is absolutely out of the question!"

"Money's gone, you can earn it back! You just adopted a daughter as adorable as Kay. Can you really bear to send her back?"

"Do you have any idea what treating Kay like this will do to her? She'll get depressed! You can't abuse a fragile child!"

The people closest to me, sure enough. They were perfectly in sync.

In sync when they deceived me, in sync when they guilt-tripped me.

In sync even in this: not one of them would think of me, not one would speak up for me.

They knew I was kind. They knew I gave in easily. They knew I loved children.

They said all this because they were certain that, for the child's sake, I would stay in this marriage.

In my last life I gave them exactly what they wanted. I walked straight into the net they'd woven for me.

I suffered gladly at Dustin's side, stayed with him while he clawed his way back up, wore myself out raising Kay.

Until Kay grew up. Until Dustin made his name.

Then, behind my back, they seized the fruit I had planted and took it all for themselves.

Before that, Laura had already been trading looks with Dustin on the sly. The whole family had even married the two of them off, keeping it from me.

My dear best friend was one of the accomplices too, because she and Laura had long since become close as sisters.

Dustin lied to me about going bankrupt. In truth, he had already transferred every asset into the name of his lawful wife, Laura.

Kay would often reunite with her real parents in secret.

They used the money I had worked so hard to earn to buy a house for their family, and I was kept completely in the dark.

My parents had indulged everything Laura did, all her life, fobbing me off with the excuse that if I found out and got upset, I might hurt Laura.

Afraid I wouldn't accept Kay, they had even forged medical records saying I couldn't have children.

The moment I learned the truth, my mind went off like a bomb.

I honored my parents. I was a good daughter, a good sister, a good wife. And this was what it got me.

Cheated for decades, I stood there crying, asking my parents why they had done this to me.

Instead they turned it on me. "You've been jealous since you were little. You could never stand seeing your sister happier than you. Of course you'd never have handed your fianc over to her."

"But you knew the two of them were in love, so we had no choice but to keep it from you. What if you lost it again and shoved your sister off a balcony?"

"Kay's all grown up now. Things are what they are. It's time you gave your sister's daughter back. Stop clinging to people and things that were never yours."

Since when was I the one who stole Laura's child? They were the ones who favored her from the start.

From the day Laura was born, she got the best of everything, and I got whatever she didn't want.

I voiced one complaint to my parents, and in their eyes that made me jealous, made me the sister who couldn't stand seeing Laura do well.

And I never pushed Laura down any stairs. They'd all seen the video. She threw herself down to frame me.

Yet somehow, in the end, every last thing was my fault.

Dustin gripped my hand, gazing at me with all that tender feeling.

"Baby, the investment failed. That was my mistake. I promise you, I'll work hard and earn it back. I'll give you and our child a good life."

"From now on I'll do exactly what you say. You point east, I won't go west. You tell me no more investing, and I'll never touch it again."

"For Kay's sake, baby, forgive me this once. Give me one last chance, and let's build a good life together."

I looked into those eyes, so full of feeling.

Those same eyes had looked at me that way for decades in my last life.

I truly believed he loved me, that he was the one person who would never betray me.

Five years together. He knew my parents favored Laura, knew how hard my childhood had been.

So he promised me all his love would be mine, promised to be good to me for the rest of my life.

And in the end, before we ever married, he got tangled up with my own sister.

He hid it from me, went and got a real marriage certificate with her, and had a child.

And to make me raise their child, he teamed up with my parents to fake a medical record for me.

The whole thing was almost funny.

I thought it to myself, bitter.

The best friend I thought I had, and the husband who swore me a lifetime, were all in on it with my family.

Looking at it now, they were the ones who were family.

But I saw it clearly now.

Even if I stood in front of them and tore off their false faces, they would never admit it.

I'd only tip them off and put them on their guard.

I wanted my money back.

I wanted to throw the evidence in their faces and drag their dirty deeds into the open.

They didn't want me to have a good life. They didn't care about me.

So why should I keep thinking about them? Why go on being the fool they cheated?

Looking into Dustin's eyes, I said calmly,

"That money took us years of hard work to earn. A million and a half is not a small amount."

"This whole thing has shaken me badly. Give me time to think it over quietly."

Dustin relaxed considerably.

"Sweetheart, I know. I understand how you feel right now."

"Take your time and think it through. While you do, I'll prove with my actions that I'm serious about turning over a new leaf."

Mom and Dad let out a breath too.

"You two work things out and build a good life together. Dustin's a decent man. If you really divorce him, you'll regret it."

"That's right. Dustin's a wonderful son-in-law, and he's sure to change. And the two of you mustn't shortchange the child."

Of course they knew Dustin was a good son-in-law.

After all, Dustin had taken the money I'd worked so hard to earn and used it to give their beloved younger daughter a good life.

Laura shot Dustin a meaningful look.

"Dustin, Kay must have gotten quite a shock today. Keep a close eye on her feelings."

"She's sensitive and tends to overthink things. You should buy her a little gift to cheer her up."

Dustin nodded in agreement.

Before, I'd never thought there was anything between them.

Now it looked exactly like a mother reminding the father at home to take good care of their child.

Sapphire turned her head to remind me too.

"Cel, be angry all you want, but the child is still so young. Something like today can easily leave her with psychological problems."

"You should sit down and talk her through it later. I'm her godmother, after all. I'm really worried about her."

Kay jumped in to speak up for me.

"It's okay, I'm strong!"

"I know it's Daddy's fault. I won't blame Mommy."

"And I won't cause trouble for Daddy and Mommy. I'll be good."

Everyone's attention shifted to her, and they fell over each other praising what a sensible, good child she was.

They even said how lucky I was to have adopted a good, sensible child like Kay.

It was such an irony.

Laura had won the love of every one of them.

And even her daughter could win everyone's love just as easily.

I said nothing. I took the chance to collect hair samples from Kay, Dustin, and Laura for a paternity test.

Before the results came back, Dustin really did change, just like he'd said.

Kay was sweet and well-behaved, terrified of upsetting me.

Laura envied our happy, quiet life.

Seeing our family so harmonious, Mom and Dad were greatly relieved too.

Only I knew none of it was real.

They only wanted to squeeze every last drop of use out of me.

The day the paternity results came in, I called the whole family together for dinner.

Dustin wouldn't let me tire myself out and bustled around the kitchen, with Kay helping beside him.

My mom saw it and said with a smile, "Look at that father and daughter, getting along so well."

My dad nodded along beside her.

Laura hugged my arm. "Sis, you're so lucky, finding a husband like Dustin! And raising such a cute, sweet daughter!"

Sapphire teased, "If only he had a younger brother, then he could marry Laura, and the families would be doubly tied together!"

I let out a cold laugh.

And tossed the two paternity reports onto the table.

"Dustin doesn't even need a brother. He's already doubly tied to my sister! If he had a brother, would the two of them both have kids with her?"

Everyone in the room froze at my words.

Laura's smile vanished in an instant. Puzzled, she asked, "Sis, what's that supposed to mean?"

I looked at her coldly, and smiled faintly. "Exactly what it sounds like."

"You already have a child together, you're already married. What are you putting on this act for?"

Mom and Dad stared at the paternity reports, stunned. They'd never imagined I would find out.

My mom opened her mouth to explain, and a knock at the door cut her off.

I walked over and opened it. Police officers stood outside.

"Excuse me, who filed the report? Is the amount involved in the fraud one point six eight million? Are there any suspicious persons here?"

The Wind in Europe Is Warmer Than Your Embrace

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 09:34:06 +0800

My best friend had come home after her divorce and was staying with me for a while.

That day she suddenly got stomach cramps,

and lying weak in the hospital bed she said she wanted sweet almond cakes. I went to buy them without a second thought.

My car broke down on the way, so I had no choice but to turn back to the hospital.

I had just reached the door of her room when I heard my brother sighing.

Augusta Dickerson, I know it's hard for you to have no proper place for now. I'll talk Nora Fox into divorcing Dale Vance.

Through the gap in the door, I saw Dale, my husband of seven years,

kneeling at my best friend's bedside with red-rimmed eyes, his hand resting on her belly.

Augusta was crying her eyes out.

She's been so good to me, and here I am carrying your child. I should just get rid of the baby. I can't be the other woman.

Dale pulled her tight, his face twisted with pain.

Don't say stupid things! The baby is innocent.

You're the one I love. Back then, so you'd come back to me, I made the marriage license with Nora a fake.

Augusta, you're not the other woman!

Watching the two of them, so tender, so devoted, I felt the whole room spin.

Even my own brother, the person closest to me, was helping them deceive me.

I didn't even have the strength left to go in and confront them. I turned around and said yes to the company's Northgate project.

The Northgate project had landed in my inbox three days earlier, and I'd swiped it away without thinking.

For one thing, Augusta had just come home, and I was busy taking care of her.

For another, my anniversary with Dale was coming up,

and I'd been putting real effort into planning for it.

I meant to bring up having a baby while I was at it, too.

For seven years, I'd wanted a child.

Every time, Dale had an excuse.

Kids cry and fuss all the time. They wear you out.

Augusta hadn't been back a full month, and already he had a baby with her.

So it turned out he didn't dislike children after all.

He just didn't like me.

At least the Northgate transfer order hadn't expired yet.

The moment I accepted, the Director Whitfield messaged me.

That's wonderful, Nora. I honestly thought you'd turn it down again for Dale's sake.

Has the lovesick girl finally come to her senses?

I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then sent back a smiley face.

The Director had high hopes for me, and I'd turned her down so many times.

The chance to go to Berlin last year, the exchange in Singapore the year before,

every single time it came down to one line from Dale.

What am I supposed to do if you leave?

Back then it felt sweet. It felt like being needed, like giving up my career was worth it.

Now it just felt like a joke.

I opened the pinned chat.

Are you back from your work dinner?

Dale, who usually took forever to reply, answered in a second.

Not yet, still in Harborview.

Thinking of what I'd just overheard,

how many times, exactly, had he lied to me?

A delivery driver's voice came up the stairwell.

Mr. Fox? Your sweet almond cakes are here.

I turned to the side and saw my brother step out to take the order.

A moment later, Augusta sent a message.

Nora, I forgot my brother had ordered delivery for me.

You don't have to buy any. Come back soon.

After the driver left, I heard the three of them laughing together, easy and bright.

Eyes stinging, I walked over to the nurses' station

and asked about Augusta's condition.

There's no one in the VIP room with stomach cramps.

Your friend is

The young nurse had a loud voice.

Shhthe family said her condition is to be kept confidential, especially the pregnancy

The nurse beside her quickly cut in, keeping her voice low.

But I'd already heard.

I'm so sorry, she's new and doesn't know the rules yet.

Your friend is fine, nothing serious. There's no need to worry.

I nodded along and turned to go.

The next day, Dale came home with dark circles under his eyes.

The insurance company said your car broke down. You weren't hurt, were you?

I was so worried I didn't sleep all night.

He eased me into a chair and stroked my back with his broad palm.

Once he saw I was fine, he let out a breath.

For a second, it threw me.

He still cared about me the same way as before.

Except this man, who never bought regional treats, had come home with a pile of supplements.

He pulled a bouquet out from behind his back and smiled at me.

I bought these especially for you in Harborview.

The roses you love.

I caught sight of the tag on the bouquet.

It was identical to the one from the flower shop next to the hospital.

The flowers were in bright, full bloom, but the thorns dug into me until it hurt.

We hardly ever take supplements at home. What did you buy so many of them for?

Augusta's sick, isn't she? They're for her.

Dale said it as if it were nothing.

I'll take care of Augusta from now on.

You've been looking after her for days. Get some proper rest.

As he spoke, he carefully arranged the supplements on the table.

Premium collagen supplements, iron and prenatal supplements, and two boxes of ready-to-eat gourmet health supplements.

The boxes were stamped with gold lettering. One look told you they weren't cheap.

While Dale was packing up, two bottles of vitamins slipped out.

I looked down and saw the words on the label:

"For early pregnancy."

Dale caught me looking, and his hands stilled for a second

before he shoved the bottles into his pocket in a rush.

"Augusta's stomach's been bothering her. I meant to grab stomach medicine and picked up the wrong thing"

"Oh, right, weren't you wanting to celebrate our anniversary? I'll put in for the time off early."

Dale had a stomach condition. There was no way he'd mistake his own stomach medicine.

Wrong bottle was just an excuse,

a bet that I still didn't know a thing.

Watching him cover it up, I decided to test him.

"Well, if you grabbed them by mistake, give them to me."

"Dale, I've been thinking. I want a child."

The guilty look vanished, and he frowned.

"How many times do we have to go over this? Drop it."

"Besides, giving birth hurts. I can't stand the thought of you in that kind of pain."

Exactly the answer I expected.

Once everything was packed, Dale got ready to leave.

"Take the supplements over tomorrow," I said.

"You barely slept last night. Rest first."

"I'm fine."

"Augusta's stomach really hurts. I need to get these to her right away."

I stepped in front of him and blocked the door.

"Dale, if one day I left you, what would you do?"

He turned to look at me like he'd heard a joke.

"You? Leave?"

"You're the one who practically threw yourself at me to get married."

Right. How could I have been so stupid back then.

I'd married him against my parents' wishes, insisted on it even though his family had nothing.

My mother said we didn't match, that sooner or later his heart would wander.

And I'd laughed at her for not believing in what we had.

Now I was tasting the fruit of it. When he heard I might leave,

I saw the flicker of relief cross his eyes, the small joy of being let off the hook.

Not long after, my brother showed up too.

His eyes went back and forth between me and Dale.

"Nora, why do you look so awful?"

Dale spoke first.

"She's fine. Just worried about me."

"Nora, you didn't sleep well last night either. Go rest."

Dale had his shoes on already, itching to get out the door.

"That won't do. Nora still has to make the porridge in a bit," my brother said.

He pushed the groceries he'd bought into my hands.

"Augusta wants the healing porridge, the one Nora makes."

"Once it's done, let my wife get some proper rest, all right?"

"Don't worry, I will!"

The two of them played off each other like I wasn't standing there feeling anything at all.

Before I could react, Dale was already gone.

Dale talked about caring for me,

but Augusta always came first. Always.

"Augusta likes it thick, so put in a couple extra scoops of grain," my brother said.

The moment Dale left, he started pushing.

My feet felt like lead. I couldn't make them move.

"I'm tired. I don't want to cook."

He didn't even look up.

"Cook it first, then rest. Augusta's waiting for it."

I hated making that porridge.

The grain had to soak overnight, then simmer low in a clay pot, forty minutes of standing over the stove, stirring.

Not a minute less,

or Augusta would say it wasn't cooked through.

Back when I thought Augusta was my best friend, I'd made it no matter how much I hated it.

There was no reason to now.

"I'm not making it. If she wants it, she can order takeout."

My brother blinked.

"Nora, what's this tantrum about?"

I ignored him and headed for my room.

In the group chat, Augusta had sent a message:

"Never mind the healing porridge. Nora didn't rest well last night, I don't want to be too much trouble for her."

Before I could say a word, my brother typed back behind me.

"It's no trouble. Looking after you is the least she can do."

He grabbed my arm and ordered me,

"Nora, whether you want to make this porridge or not, you're making it!"

"Don't forget, if it weren't for you, Augusta would never have found out she was swapped at birth."

"You owe her this!"

My blood froze in an instant, and my whole body started to shake.

How many times my brother had said this to me, I'd lost count.

Augusta's real name was Augusta Dickerson. She was our neighbor, in the same complex as us.

The two families were close, and the three of us grew up together.

The year we were twelve, a new amusement park opened in the city.

I dragged Augusta along to go with me,

and on the way, crossing the street, we were in a car crash.

That was when the hospital discovered Augusta had been swapped at birth.

Her birth parents were farmers from a poor rural town far away.

Augusta hadn't been badly hurt in the crash, and she was discharged within days.

But the Dickersons couldn't take the blow. Once they had their real daughter back, they moved abroad.

The day Augusta's birth parents came to take her home,

my brother held on to her and cried like his heart was breaking.

"Augusta, you'll always be my sister! Come live with us."

In the end her parents took her away anyway.

After that, my brother changed toward me.

There was always resentment in the way he looked at me.

But if I hadn't shielded Augusta with everything I had that day, she would have been hurt far worse.

Later Augusta came back now and then.

Every winter and summer break, her birth parents would send her to the city to stay a few days.

And later still, Augusta and I got into the same high school.

My brother simply moved her into our house.

They came and went together every day, as if the two of them were the real siblings.

Augusta could see how much it hurt me. She'd come over and tell me,

"Nora, you'll always be my best friend."

Back then I even counted myself lucky, sure I'd picked the right friend.

Until last night, when I stumbled onto their lies.

My brother saw something wrong in my face and lowered his voice.

"Augusta's divorced now, and she's sick."

"You come make the porridge. I'll help you."

I rubbed my swollen legs and looked up at him.

"I don't owe her anything."

Even without that crash, someone would have found out Augusta had been swapped.

"I really don't have time for this."

"I guess I've spoiled you too much all this time."

With that, my brother slammed the door and left.

I looked around the empty room, and the past came back to me.

Right after we married, Dale used to bring a bunch of roses home every time he came back from a work dinner.

My brother would show up with groceries and mooch a meal off us.

We used to laugh so easily around that dinner table.

So it turned out the whole thing was a beautiful dream they'd stitched together for me out of lies.

The phone screen lit up again.

Augusta had posted a selfie holding a bowl of porridge, captioned:

"Thank you to my best friend Nora for making this healing porridge. It tastes just like it did when we were kids."

My brother called, his voice a little frantic.

"I ordered takeout. I told her you made it so she wouldn't feel bad."

"Don't let it slip!"

This dream was overdue to end.

I opened the group chat and didn't hesitate.

"You're welcome."

"But I forgot to mentionpregnant women shouldn't eat that porridge."

Then I left the group, powered off the phone, all in one clean motion.

I used the landline at home to call my lawyer

and ask about separating from Dale.

The marriage license was fake, but some of the properties had both our names on them.

Then I called the Director to ask if I could go to Northgate a little later.

Splitting the assets with Dale would take some time.

And I still had to let friends and family know.

Just as I was sorting all this out, I heard a noise outside the door.

Augusta stumbled into my home, Dale and my brother trailing behind her.

Her eyes were red, her voice hoarse.

"Nora, did I do something wrong?"

"You don't answer my messages, you don't pick up when I call."

She walked straight to me and threw her arms around me.

I pulled free.

"The baby's yours and Dale's, isn't it? I hope you two are happy."

Augusta's eyes went wide, and then the tears wouldn't stop.

"I can get rid of it."

"Nora, if that's what you want."

I was about to say something when Dale stepped in front of her.

"You and Nora grew up together. She'd never make you get rid of your baby."

Dale turned to me, his voice as gentle as ever.

"Nora, whatever happens, can we let Augusta have the baby first?"

"You wanted a child, didn't you? Augusta says you can be the baby's godmother."

"You're the father, I'm the godmother. What exactly does that make us?"

Dale froze, catching the slip too late.

I went inside, gathered a few of Dale's clothes, and threw them at his feet.

"I'll pack up the rest and send it later. My lawyer will be in touch."

"This house is mine. Now get out."

Nora, don't push this too far!

My brother had spoken.

Give Dale back to Augusta. Give them the house.

Call it settling what you owe her.

My hands clenched. I looked at Dale.

Dale kept his head down, letting the words stand.

I drew a slow breath. Something in me went cold all the way through.

And right then, Augusta's legs gave out.

She collapsed into Dale's arms.

Augusta, are you okay?

Dale panicked, his voice shaking to pieces.

What is this... what's wrong?

My brother panicked too.

Augusta drank the healing porridge.

She said Nora made it. I told her not to, and she went and finished it behind my back.

My brother rushed to make her throw it up.

Augusta pushed his hand away and said weakly,

Nora, don't blame Dale...

Dale looked like he was falling apart.

Nora, how much longer are you going to keep hounding Augusta?

She didn't want to waste the porridge you made. She knew a pregnant woman shouldn't drink it, and she drank it anyway.

I can't believe you can't even make room for one child!

He carried Augusta out without looking back.

There was a time when he'd been just that frantic over me.

The year I had acute appendicitis, I woke at three in the morning in agony.

Dale lifted me off the bed and ran me to the hospital.

When I woke from surgery, he was slumped at the bedside, holding my fingers, awake all night.

His stomach couldn't take late nights, but he smiled and said it was fine.

When my boss bullied me my first days on the job, he didn't hesitate, he wanted to go fight the man.

Nothing could budge him, and in the end he got transferred to another department.

He said he'd never let me suffer a single wrong in this life.

And now he'd gotten his mistress pregnant and expected me to swallow every wrong there was...

Are you satisfied now?

My brother rounded on me.

You think dragging it all out into the open feels good, don't you?

Let me tell you, what you owe Augusta, you'll never pay off, not ever!

My chest went tight, like I couldn't breathe.

A long while later, the shrill ring of a phone pulled me back.

It was Dale's voice.

Nora, how cruel can you be!

You brought Augusta's parents over just to force her into an abortion.

You know her birth parents are old-fashioned, that they'd never stand for her being pregnant before marriage.

I... I didn't!

The only people who know Augusta's background and have her birth parents' contact info are the three of us!

And to think Augusta still called you her best friend.

You make me sick!

Before I could finish, the line clicked dead in my ear.

My brother had guessed at something.

Yesterday you said your car broke down and you couldn't buy the sweet almond cakes.

I bet you did it on purpose, so you could sneak Augusta's parents over!

It wasn't me...

Because they knew it wasn't them, they'd decided it had to be me.

I went after them to explain, and my brother shoved me to the floor.

You stay away from Augusta!

Didn't you say this house was yours?

Then you can sit here and think long and hard about what you've done!

With that, my brother locked me inside and pulled the main breaker.

This was how he'd always punished me.

When we fought as kids, he'd shut me away like this.

He knew I was afraid of the dark.

I pounded on the door, but all I heard was the car pulling away downstairs.

In the dark, I shook all over.

I bit down on my lip and dragged my nails hard across my thigh, leaving red welts.

The pain kept me clear.

The worse it got, the less I could afford to lose.

I don't know how long passed before footsteps came from outside the door.

The moment it opened, I heard a familiar voice.

God, Nora, are you all right?

It was the Director.

I was going to get back to you about Northgate, but your phone was off.

I couldn't stop worrying, so I came to check on you.

The Director helped me up, and I turned my phone back on.

It was full of unread messages from Augusta,

and one intimate photo of her and Dale.

Nora, you lost.

You didn't actually think I drank that healing porridge, did you.

Dale was right about you. You're so easy to fool.

I froze where I stood, and the Director leaned in to see what had happened.

I set the phone down and thought for a few seconds.

Director, I want to leave for Northgate tomorrow.

A Beggar's Broken Bowl to the Rescue

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 09:15:35 +0800

Holding the hospital's payment notice, I stood at the foot of the inpatient ward and stared at the number, 680,000, my temples pounding.

That number was a mountain, and it came down straight on the crown of my head.

My husband, Timothy Chavez, had kidney failure. A transplant was his only way to live.

But 680,000 dollars. Where was I supposed to find that?

I gripped the paper so hard my nails nearly tore through it.

Just as the money was choking the breath out of me, a strange number called. On the other end was a hoarse man's voice, and out of nowhere he said,

Regina Fox, it's been thirty years. That bowl. It's time to sell it.

I froze. A ringing went through my head, like a thunderclap splitting the air.

Mom, what did the doctor say?

I'd barely stepped out of the payment office when my son, Stephen Chavez, and his wife, Lorna Lambert, hurried up to me.

The smell of disinfectant in the hospital corridor mixed with the anxiety of patients and their families, churning my insides.

I didn't speak. I just held out the payment slip.

Stephen's face went white in an instant, his lips trembling.

Six... 680,000? That much?

Lorna snatched the slip away, her eyes going round, and her voice pitched up sharp.

This is robbery! One surgery costs 680,000? Don't you both know what shape this family's in? We could cut the flesh off our own bones and sell it and still not scrape that together!

Her voice wasn't loud, wasn't quiet, just right so everyone in the hallway could hear.

A few glances came at us all at once, some pitying, some just there for the show, and they stuck in my back like needles.

My face went hot. I grabbed her arm and dropped my voice.

Lorna, keep it down! This is a hospital!

Mom, what good does keeping it down do? Is money going to fall out of the sky on its own?

Lorna shook off my hand, her eyes rimming red.

Stephen and I bring home a little over ten thousand a month between us. The mortgage alone is six thousand, the kid's preschool is three thousand, and the thousand that's left, the two of us have to think twice before we even buy a cup of milk tea. Where would we get that kind of money?

Stephen stood off to the side, head down, wringing his hands, saying the same thing over and over.

What do we do... what are we supposed to do

Watching my son stand there with no idea what to do, the anger in me flared right up.

But I knew now wasn't the time for it. I drew a deep breath and forced the tightness back down.

Don't panic, I said, looking at the two of them, though I was telling myself too.

The sky isn't falling. The money, I'll figure it out.

You'll figure it out? How? There was mistrust in Lorna's tone, and a meanness that came from being cornered. Your and Dad's little pensions put together don't even cover our mortgage. And your savings, didn't most of that go the last time Dad was in the hospital? What, are you going to go take out a loan shark loan?

Watch your mouth!

I shot her a look.

What else is there, then?

Lorna wouldn't let it go. She glanced at Stephen, hanging his head, then clenched her teeth like she was working herself up to something big.

Mom, I have an idea why don't we, why don't we sell the old house we're living in now.

A ringing went through my head, like I'd been hit with a hammer.

Sell the house?

My hand curled into a fist before I knew it.

That house was assigned to us by Old Tim's workplace when we married, six hundred square feet, old and small, but it was the home Old Tim and I had built brick by brick, bit by bit.

The pencil marks tracking Stephen's height as he grew up were there. The laughter of the three of us wrapping dumplings at New Year was there. The first meal Old Tim ever cooked for me was there

It wasn't just a house. It was our root.

No.

I refused, flat and final, my voice low, every word forced out from between my teeth.

Why not?

Lorna got worked up.

That house has to be worth well over a million by now, right? Sell it, and Dad's surgery is covered, and there's still money left over for us to work with, or for a down payment on a bigger place, so we won't have to be crammed into that little two-bedroom. Three birds with one stone!

Looking at Lorna's face, flushed red with excitement, a cold went straight to my bones.

Every sentence out of her was us, every sentence weighing what was best for her and Stephen's little household.

My husband's life, to her, had become a transaction, something to trade off, something she could even turn a profit on.

I turned my eyes to my son, Stephen.

I wanted him to say one fair word.

But he only dodged my gaze and mumbled,

Mom Lorna, she she's just worried too

My heart sank, bit by bit.

The son I'd raised with everything I had, and when it mattered most, he couldn't get out one firm word for his father, for this family.

The house is my line.

I said it one word at a time, my voice cold as ice.

As long as I'm alive, no one so much as thinks about that house. The money, I'll raise it. The two of you, just take good care of your father.

With that, I didn't look at them again. I turned and walked off.

Behind me, Lorna's complaints and Stephen's coaxing chased after me like flies, but I didn't stop, not for one step.

I was afraid that if I stayed one second longer, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from slapping them both across the face.

I dragged my legs home, heavy as if they'd been poured full of lead.

I pushed open the door and a thick smell of herbal medicine, mixed with stale, heavy air, hit me in the face.

Old Tim, Timothy Chavez, lay on the sofa bed in the living room.

To make it easier to care for him, and to keep the medicine smell out of the bedding, we'd been getting by like this for almost two months.

He'd wasted away past recognition. He used to be a big man, six feet tall, and now he curled up on the sofa like a leaf the wind had dried out.

His face was a waxy yellow, his lips pale, and the eyes that had once been so bright had gone cloudy and dull.

Hearing me open the door, his eyelids twitched, and he turned his head toward me with effort.

"You're back?"

His voice was as hoarse as a cracked gong.

"Mm."

I set my bag down, walked over, and out of habit reached out to feel his forehead.

"How do you feel today? Are your legs still swollen?"

He didn't answer my question. His cloudy eyes stared straight at me.

"What did the doctor say?"

My heart clenched.

I forced out a smile.

"Nothing new. Same as always. He just wants you to cooperate with the treatment."

"And the money?"

He pressed, and something I knew well flashed in his eyes, that stubbornness and shrewdness that was pure Timothy Chavez.

"How much is it?"

My throat closed up, and I couldn't get a word out.

He looked at the expression on my face and understood everything.

He gave a bitter smile, one that was uglier than crying.

"A lot, isn't it?"

He slowly pushed himself up, leaned back against the sofa, and drew a few ragged breaths.

The living room was terrifyingly quiet, only the ancient wall clock going tick, tock, tick, tock, each sound like a summons for the dying.

"Regina... Regina Fox..."

He suddenly said my name, his tone strangely calm.

"Let's stop the treatment."

"What are you talking about!"

Anger flared in me, and my voice rose all at once.

"I'm not talking nonsense."

He looked at me, and in his eyes was a clarity and resolve I'd never seen before.

"I know my own body. It's a bottomless pit. There's no filling it. Just now... I heard everything."

My heart lurched.

"Stephen and Lorna were on the phone downstairs just now. I heard them."

He spoke slowly.

"Selling the house... aren't they?"

I opened my mouth, but not a single word came out.

"I, Timothy Chavez, have been a useless coward my whole life, never gave you a good life. And now, at the very end, I can't burn through the last place you have to live too."

His eyes went red, and his voice began to tremble along with them.

"This house is our home. It's our root. When I'm dead, you'll still have something to hold on to, a place that keeps the wind and rain off. If you sell our home for a useless man like me, I won't be able to close my eyes even when I'm down below."

The more he talked the more worked up he got, gripping my hand, his withered fingers cold as ice, yet holding on with all the strength in the world.

"Listen to me, Regina. No more treatment. Let me go in peace. Stop putting yourself through this, all right? I'm begging you!"

"No!"

I threw off his hand, and the tears I couldn't hold back any longer came crashing down in great heavy drops.

"Timothy Chavez, you listen to me! As long as you live, this family lives! If you die, what good is that run-down house to me? Am I supposed to sit in it for the rest of my life? Don't you worry about the money. Even if I have to go out and beg, I will get every dollar of that surgery together for you! You say one word about dying, and I... I'll go right along with you!"

I cried myself hoarse, roaring out all the grievance, fear, and rage of these past days.

Old Tim cried too, a grown man in his fifties, weeping in front of me like a child, his face a mess of tears and snot.

And so the two of us wept, saying nothing, with only a coffee table between us.

Despair was an airtight net, and it had dropped down over the two of us and pulled tight.

Just then, the old landline in the living room went off with a shrill, jangling ring.

In an age when everyone used a cell phone, that phone had all but become a decoration, catching nothing but the odd sales call.

I wiped my face, walked over, and picked it up, my voice still thick and stuffy from crying.

"Hello?"

The other end was silent for a few seconds, and then a hoarse, unfamiliar man's voice, like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper, came through.

"Is this... Mrs. Fox?"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

I was a little impatient.

"Who I am doesn't matter."

The voice paused, as if choosing its words.

"I heard... your Tim's fallen sick, ma'am, and he needs a lot of money?"

My heart shot up into my throat, and I asked warily.

"Who are you? How do you know that?"

"Don't worry about how I know."

The voice didn't sound like it meant any harm. If anything, it carried a strange weariness, and... concern?

"Do you still remember, ma'am, the winter of '95, that heavy snow, when you were at the bus station and gave two hot steamed buns to a little beggar boy who was near freezing to death?"

Ninety-five, the heavy snow, the bus station, a little beggar boy...

A memory sealed away for almost thirty years split open like a gash cut by lightning and came flooding into my head all at once.

Before I could answer, the voice on the other end went on, with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

"Afterward he pushed a bowl into your hands. That bowl, you've still kept it, haven't you?"

I froze.

"Thirty years, ma'am."

The voice said, low and heavy.

"That bowl. It's time to sell it."

Click.

The line went dead.

I stood there holding the cold receiver, rooted to the spot, my mind gone blank.

Outside the window the sky had turned completely dark, with only scattered lights flickering in the distance.

I turned to look at Old Tim on the sofa. He was watching me, his face full of confusion.

That bowl...

That chipped, worn-out black ceramic bowl I'd shoved into the corner of the storeroom and all but forgotten existed.

Something drove me, half-stumbling, straight to the smallest room in the house, the storage room crammed with junk.

I yanked the creaking wooden door open, and a wave of stale dust hit me so hard I couldn't stop coughing.

I flicked on the light. Under the dim yellow bulb, old furniture, old newspapers, old clothes were piled up like a small mountain.

I started digging like a woman gone mad.

"Regina, what on earth are you doing? What are you looking for, kicking up all this dust?"

A thin, shrill voice came from the doorway.

I turned around. It was my sister-in-law, Timothy's sister, Annabel Chavez.

She stood in the doorway pinching her nose, her whole face twisted with disgust.

A mesh bag of fruit dangled from her hand. She'd come to visit the sick, by the look of it. She'd probably heard about the fight between me and Lorna at the hospital and rushed over to catch the show.

"Nothing."

I didn't want to deal with her. I kept my head down and kept digging.

"Oh, come on, at a time like this, and you've still got the heart to root around in this trash?"

She walked in and nudged an old cardboard box by her foot with her toe.

"Your husband's illness is what matters. And I heard it takes over six hundred thousand! Regina, you and my brother only have the one son, Stephen. If you can't count on him, who can you count on? That house... I think Lorna's got a point..."

"You shut your mouth!"

I shot up and spun around, glaring at her.

"Don't anybody bring up that house again! Or get out of here!"

Maybe it was the bloodshot rims of my eyes, or the wild look on my face, but Annabel shrank back and clamped her mouth shut, sulking. Still, those eyes of hers kept sliding back and forth over me and over that heap of junk, nothing kind in them.

At last my hand touched something hard, cold, and square.

It was a tin box, left over from mooncakes I'd bought years ago, rusted all over now.

I hauled it out, set it on the ground, and pried the lid open with shaking hands.

Inside, resting quietly, was a bowl.

A dull black coarse-clay bowl, with a few nicks the size of rice grains along the rim, the whole body covered in fine, irregular cracks, so that it looked like the face of an old person weathered by years of hardship.

She snorted.

Annabel couldn't hold it in and burst out laughing.

"And here I thought it was some treasure, the way you were acting all spooky. All this fuss, and it's just a beggar's bowl? Regina, you actually kept this thing? You can't eat off it, can't drink from it. Keeping it in the house only brings bad luck!"

My fingers brushed lightly over the cold cracks along its body, and that afternoon of falling snow rose up clear before me once again.

It was the winter of 1995. I'd just turned twenty-five, working at the textile mill.

It had snowed heavily that day. The ground lay under a thick layer, crunching underfoot with every step.

I'd just gotten paid, and with the money tucked away I headed to the bus station to catch a bus back to my parents' place.

Right there at the corner of the station wall, I saw that "beggar."

Though beggar wasn't quite right. He looked more like a boy who'd run away from home, only sixteen or seventeen, thin as a reed, in a ragged, threadbare cotton coat, huddled in the corner and shivering with cold.

His face and hands had gone purple from the cold, his lips cracked, and clutched to his chest was this one black bowl.

People were softer-hearted back then. Looking at him like that, I just couldn't bear it.

There happened to be a stall right beside me selling steamed buns, hot and steaming.

I went over and bought two, put them in a plastic bag, walked up to him, and held them out.

"Hey there, you must be hungry? Eat these while they're hot."

He lifted his head. Those eyes, black as two grapes, watched me with wariness.

He didn't take them.

"Go on, take them. I'm not a bad person."

I pushed the buns into his arms.

He stared at me, dazed, then looked down at the scalding buns against his chest, and all at once the rims of his eyes went red.

He wolfed them down like he hadn't eaten in three days and nights, so fast that he choked and his eyes rolled back.

It made my heart ache to watch, so I went and bought him a bottle of water too.

When he'd finished, I was about to leave, but he suddenly stood up and blocked my way.

He didn't say a word. He just took that grimy black bowl from his arms and, holding it in both hands in an almost reverent way, held it out to me.

"What are you doing?"

He startled me.

"I don't want your bowl."

He still said nothing, just held it up like that, his gaze as stubborn as an ox.

I tried to refuse, and he just kept holding it up, snowflakes settling on his thin shoulders until they were quickly covered in a layer of white.

The people around us started pointing and whispering.

"Kind-hearted girl, and now she's got a simpleton on her hands."

"Right, giving away the very thing he begs with. How's he supposed to live?"

Their stares made my face burn, and I was afraid of missing my bus, so I had no choice but to take it.

"All right, all right, I'll keep it. Now go find somewhere to get out of the snow, before you freeze."

The bowl felt cold and heavy in my hands.

When he saw me take it, only then did a stiff smile break across his face. Then he turned and limped away, vanishing into the sweeping snow.

Later I brought the bowl home. My mother-in-law took one look and frowned, saying it was something a beggar had used, that it was bad luck, and telling me to throw it out at once.

Timothy urged me too, said it wasn't worth quarreling with his mother over such a thing.

But whenever I looked at that bowl, I always thought of the boy's stubborn eyes.

I felt it wasn't an ordinary bowl. It was the most precious thing he had, the thing he'd traded away all his dignity to give.

I couldn't bring myself to throw it out, so I found a box, packed it away, and stuffed it into the storage room.

And there it had stayed, for close to thirty years.

"Regina? Regina!"

Annabel's voice pulled me back from the memory.

"What are you spacing out over a broken bowl for? Have you lost it? I'm asking, have the bills driven you crazy, thinking a piece of junk like this is going to turn into gold?"

I ignored her jeering, carefully put the bowl back into the tin box, and held it tight against my chest.

That strange phone call, that mysterious man...

He'd said this bowl, it was time to sell it.

Whether or not it was some absurd joke, in this dead-end of a situation, it was my only hope, however faint and far-off it might be.

Early the next morning, I slipped out of the house with the rusted tin box tucked against me.

I didn't dare tell Old Tim. I was afraid he'd call me a fool chasing pipe dreams, stirring up trouble for nothing.

So I just said I was going to see some old coworkers, to figure something out.

First I went to the old street nearest home, the one with several pawnshops and antique stores that had been open for decades.

If this bowl really was worth anything, I figured, they'd know it when they saw it.

I picked the one with the grandest storefront, a place called the Treasure Trove.

The moment I walked in, the owner was lying back in a rocking chair with his reading glasses on, listening to the radio. He didn't so much as lift an eyelid.

"Sir, could you take a look at this? What's it worth?"

I set the box on the rosewood counter and carefully opened it.

He gave it a lazy glance, and something flickered through his eyes, contempt too quick to catch.

He didn't even get up from the rocker. He just craned his neck and grunted.

"Where'd you pick that up?"

"I didn't pick it up. It's... it's been handed down in the family."

I lied.

"Handed down?"

He let out a scornful little laugh and finally rose, slow and easy, came to the counter, pinched the rim of the bowl between two fingers like it disgusted him, lifted it, and held it up to the light.

"It's just a coarse black folk-kiln bowl. The firing's not even, look at the glaze, dark in one spot, pale in another. And it's chipped. You couldn't give it to me. It'd just take up space."

My heart sank halfway, but I still asked, clinging to one last thread of hope.

"Then... then how much would you give?"

He dropped the bowl back into the box with a hard clack, hard enough to make my chest clench.

He stuck out one hand and waved it in front of my face.

"Five hundred?"

I ventured.

He turned the hand over and waved it again, impatient now.

"Fifty! Not a cent more! Seeing as you dragged yourself out here first thing in the morning, I'll take it off you like scrap. Go buy yourself some groceries."

Fifty dollars?

Blood shot straight to my head, and humiliation and disappointment swallowed me whole in an instant.

I felt like the biggest joke in the world.

The mysterious phone call, the buried good deed coming back around, all of it fake. It was a scam. A cruel

joke!

"I'm not selling!"

I snapped the box shut, hugged it to my chest, and turned to leave.

"Hey, don't go!"

The owner called after me.

"Thirty works too! Keep it around for the memory, why not!"

I rushed out of the Treasure Trove without looking back, and the sunlight outside stabbed at my eyes.

I went into two or three more antique shops after that, and it was more or less the same everywhere.

Some owners were at least polite, telling me not to waste my effort, that it was just a worthless common piece from the Republican era. Others were like the first one, every word dripping with mockery, as if I'd walked in holding a brick and kept insisting it was gold.

I walked down the street with no direction, the tin box in my arms.

Cars streaming past, the roar of the crowd, and yet it felt like I was the only person left in the whole world.

Like a clown, hugging a broken bowl, dreaming a daydream about getting rich.

Hope, gone.

That feeling of being flung from the clouds straight into the mud was more crushing than having had no hope at all.

I came to a small park in the middle of the street and found a bench to sit on.

I opened the box, looked at that grimy black bowl, and the tears fell before I could stop them.

I hated whoever had made that call. Why give me a false hope like this, only to make me smash it with my own hands?

I hated myself too, for being so naive, so stupid, for letting one absurd phone call run me in circles.

My phone rang at the worst possible moment. It was my son, Stephen.

I sniffled and picked up.

"Mom, where are you? Lorna and I talked it over. We don't think we can drag this out any longer. I've got a realtor lined up. They're coming to see the house this afternoon. You..."

"Don't you dare!"

I shouted into the phone, my voice raw.

"I told you, the house is not for sale! Anyone who brings people to that door, I'll break their legs!"

"Mom! Can you be reasonable? Is now the time to be stubborn? What matters more, Dad's life or the house?"

Stephen's voice was heating up too.

"Both matter!"

I shouted back.

"I'm going to save your dad, and I'm keeping the house too! You stay out of it!"

I slammed the phone down, shaking all over with rage.

Pressuring me, every single one of them pressuring me!

I looked at the bowl in my arms, and a wild anger caught fire deep inside me.

Throw it out! This wretched thing that had brought me nothing but humiliation and disappointment!

I raised the box, ready to hurl it into the trash can beside me.

But my hand hung there in midair and wouldn't come down.

And into my mind came that snowy day again, that boy's stubborn, clear eyes.

When he handed me this bowl, he'd done it so solemnly, so reverently.

This bowl had to mean something to him. Something important.

I slowly lowered my hand and let out a long breath.

No. I couldn't just give up like this.

Those shop owners, maybe they simply didn't know what they were looking at. Maybe they were lowballing me on purpose.

A proper place. I had to take it somewhere proper.

Wasn't there a cultural relics authentication center in the city?

Nothing left to lose, one last try!

If they told me too that it was worthless junk, then I'd accept it.

I'd smash the bowl, and then... then I'd do what Lorna said and sell the house.

I wiped my tears and packed the bowl away again.

I flagged down a cab and gave the address of the city's cultural relics authentication center straight off.

The city's cultural relics authentication center sat in a plain old building, but the moment you stepped inside, the atmosphere had nothing to do with the antique street outside.

No noisy haggling here. Just hush.

The staff all wore white coats, moving briskly, their faces set and serious.

The air carried the old, dry smell of paper and wood, and it made you soften your steps without meaning to, until even breathing felt like something you had to do carefully.

I took a number and sat down on a cold plastic chair to wait.

A few people sat around me. Some were in tailored suits, clearly people with money; others, like me, were dressed plainly, but every one of them held something wrapped in cloth or a box close to their chest, faces full of unease and hope.

My heart was pounding, my palms slick with sweat.

I held the tin box against my chest, and it felt as heavy as iron.

"Number A37, Ms. Regina Fox, please come to Appraisal Room 3."

The number came over the speaker.

I drew a deep breath, stood, and walked through the door with the "Ceramics Appraisal Department" sign hanging on it.

Inside sat an elderly expert with graying hair and gold-rimmed glasses, refined-looking. The tag on his chest read: Hubert Lambert.

"Hello, sir."

I greeted him nervously.

He gave a gentle nod and gestured to the chair across from him.

"Have a seat. Take it out and let me have a look."

I set the tin box on the table, which was covered with a thick layer of felt cloth. My hands trembled from nerves, and it took me several tries to work the rusted clasp open.

When the black bowl came into view, Mr. Lambert's eyes didn't fill with the contempt those shop owners had shown.

He simply looked at it calmly, then pulled on a pair of white gloves.

He didn't pick it up right away. First he took a soft-bristled little brush and, gently, bit by bit, swept away the dust and the traces of rust clinging to the bowl.

His movements were slow, light, as if he were handling a rare treasure.

And with every motion, my heart climbed higher into my throat.

Then he took out a high-powered magnifier, bent close to the rim, and examined it inch by inch.

He studied the base first, then the body, and last the few tiny chips along the mouth.

The minutes crawled by. The room was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.

Mr. Lambert's brow slowly drew together.

He set the magnifier down, picked the bowl back up, and tapped its body lightly with a knuckle, tilting his head to listen to the sound. It was dull, not crisp.

He put the bowl down, took off his glasses, wiped them with the felt cloth, and put them back on.

He didn't look at me. He stared hard at that bowl, his eyes full of shock, confusion, and a light I couldn't read, something close to fervor.

He murmured to himself.

"Impossible... this clay body, this glaze... could it really be..."

Suddenly he lifted his head, his gaze burning as he looked at me, his voice shaking a little from excitement.

"Ma'am, this bowl of yours... where did you get it?"

His intensity startled me, and I stammered.

"It was... a friend gave it to me, many years ago."

"A friend?" he pressed.

"What kind of friend?"

"Just a... a friend I lost touch with a long time ago."

I didn't dare tell the truth.

Mr. Lambert seemed to see my discomfort, and he didn't push any further.

He only lowered his head, picked up the magnifier again, and stared over and over at one utterly unremarkable spot on the bottom of the bowl.

His breathing grew faster and faster.

Then all at once he jerked his head up, yanked off his glasses, his eyes flung wide from sheer shock.

He looked at me, then at the bowl, then back at me, his expression more complicated than anything I'd ever seen.

"Ma'am..."

His voice came out hoarse and dry.

"Are you... planning to sell this?"

I nodded hard, and asked nervously,

"Mr. Lambert, is it... is it worth something?"

He didn't answer me directly.

He only drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as if trying to steady the storm churning inside him.

He adjusted his glasses and looked at me with a gaze that was gravely serious, even touched with a trace of pity, and said, one word at a time:

"Ma'am, you have to promise me you won't get too excited!"

In that instant my heart seemed to stop.

Then, in a voice only the two of us could hear, he said one sentence.

I looked at his face, serious to the very limit, and felt all the blood in my body rush to my head. My ears filled with a ringing hum, the room spun, my legs went weak, and I nearly crumpled to the floor.

The Cousin Who Insisted on Saving Our Uncle Regrets It Madly

Mon, 24 Aug 2026 08:57:04 +0800

Great-Uncle Roland had no children of his own. Now he was gravely ill in the hospital, and the surgery would cost eight hundred thousand.

Even the doctor was telling us to give up.

But when I called my cousin Sandra Gilbert, a thousand miles away, she turned on my sister and me with real venom:

Great-Uncle was so good to us when we were little. Now, when he needs us most, how can the two of you be so heartless?

I tried to explain. "But the doctor says the surgery's high-risk. And even if it works, there's a strong chance he ends up in a coma."

Sandra shouted back, "Then he gets treated anyway! We can't fail Great-Uncle. We can't be that kind of people!"

I said, "Then, the money."

She let out a cold laugh. "The three of us split it evenly, obviously. You and your sister can't be doing so badly you can't even scrape together that much, can you?"

After the surgery, Great-Uncle really did end up comatose.

Sandra looked after him for a while, then tried to slip away home in the middle of the night.

I gripped her luggage and wouldn't let go. "Sandra, this is when Great-Uncle needs you most. You wouldn't be that heartless, would you?"

She begged me through her tears. "Marcus Gilbert, just let me go. I can't stay chained to this place forever. I have to go home, or my whole family falls apart!"

When the doctor laid out Great-Uncle's condition,

my sister and I could barely take it in.

Marcia Gilbert's face was full of worry.

"Doctor, is there really no cure?"

The doctor sighed.

"He's terminal now."

I asked, "Even if there's just a sliver of hope?"

He shook his head.

"Let me put it plainly. Even in the small chance the surgery succeeds, he'll come out of it in a coma."

"Of course, if you as the family insist on treatment, what kind of doctor refuses to treat a patient?"

"I think I've made myself clear."

"My advice is that you talk it over as a family first, then make the final call."

Hearing that, Marcia squeezed my hand.

She couldn't accept an ending like this.

I walked her out of the doctor's office, one hand supporting her.

After thinking about it for a long time, I said,

"Sis, we shouldn't decide this on our own. We should call Uncle Howard and Sandra."

"Great-Uncle has no children, after all, and when we were young, Sandra was always his favorite."

Marcia nodded.

I called Uncle Howard first.

Once he'd heard me out, he brushed it straight off.

"Marcus, you're his nephew. A nephew is half a son, and since your great-uncle has no son of his own, that makes you his son."

"So you handle this however you see fit."

I said, "Uncle Howard, you're his brother. Great-Uncle really wants to see family right now. I think you should come to the hospital."

He snapped, irritated, "That sickly man, how long has he been ill now?"

"Every single time, I'm the one who has to come to the hospital. Where am I supposed to find all that time?"

"Am I not allowed to work? To have a life?"

"You're his nephew. You handle it!"

His attitude left a bad taste in my mouth.

Great-Uncle was barely hanging on.

How could his own brother act like this?

I frowned. "Uncle Howard, I'm not asking you for money. I just want you to come see him once. This might be the last time you ever do."

He barked right back, "I don't care what your angle is. Either way, you're his nephew, so it's your call what you do."

"When I've got the time on my end, I'll come. That's it. Goodbye."

He hung up without a shred of mercy.

I let out a breath.

Then I called Sandra.

Part of me wondered if she'd take the same line.

But the moment Sandra heard what was going on, she shrieked at me,

"Marcus, I think the real story is you're too cheap to pay for Great-Uncle's surgery, so you cooked up this excuse."

Her words sat badly with me.

Holding it back, I asked,

"What do you mean by that?"

"Are you playing dumb when you know full well?"

My cousin shot the accusation at me, vicious.

"Great-Uncle Roland was so good to you two your whole lives, and now, when he needs you, this is what you do."

"How can you be this heartless? How can you just give up on treatment?"

I explained,

"It's not giving up, it's"

"Don't feed me that garbage." Sandra shouted,

"I don't care how much it costs, Great-Uncle Roland gets treated."

Sandra had always been even tighter with money than Uncle Howard.

Hearing her say that caught me off guard.

"It's not that we don't want him to have the surgery. The doctor said the risk is high, and even if it works, there's a strong chance he ends up in a coma."

Sandra roared,

"Then he gets treated anyway!"

"We can't fail Great-Uncle Roland. We can't have no conscience!"

Listening to how righteous she sounded, I asked,

"But the surgery costs eight hundred thousand. Who's paying for it?"

Sandra scoffed,

"So it really is about the money."

"You heartless little thing."

"After everything Great-Uncle Roland did for you, now you're worried about the money? Are you even human?"

The way she said it, you'd think I was some kind of monster.

But the truth was, when we were kids, it was Sandra he treated best of all.

Take the holiday cash gifts.

Sandra always got a thousand from him. My sister and I got five hundred.

If she hadn't bragged about her holiday money the year she turned sixteen,

my sister and I probably never would have known.

Or take that investment insurance policy Sandra bought as a kid.

Over eight thousand a year, paid for twenty straight years, with annual dividends once it matured.

My sister and I both envied her for it.

At first I assumed Uncle Howard had bought it because he doted on his daughter.

But later, drunk one night, he said it himself,

"Me? Buy something like that? Not a chance."

"That was all your cousin's idea. I only paid the first year."

"After that, every time a payment came due, she'd go crying to Great-Uncle Roland and get him to cover it."

"I'll give her this, the girl's got a knack for it. She actually got him to pay twenty years of premiums."

"Now she collects money every year. Clever girl."

And that wasn't all.

After she graduated, Sandra borrowed fifty thousand from him to buy a car.

Later, when she bought a place out of town, she borrowed another hundred thousand from him.

Borrowed, supposedly. She never paid back a cent.

So if you actually tallied it up,

Sandra was the one he'd looked after most, and the one who owed him the most.

But she'd moved away after graduation.

Whenever he got sick or something came up, it was my sister and me who took care of him.

She never lifted a finger.

Every time it came up, she'd say,

"Isn't that exactly what you younger ones are supposed to do?"

"You want to brag about doing that little?"

"What's your real angle here?"

But now Great-Uncle Roland was already like this, and a lot of the accounts couldn't be settled.

There was no point saying any of it.

I thought for a moment, then said,

"Sandra, you'd better think this through."

"Set the eight hundred thousand aside for a second."

"If Great-Uncle Roland ends up in a coma, who's going to take care of him?"

Sandra snapped,

"You, obviously. You're his nephew. If you don't, who will?"

I laughed.

"Sandra, if that's how you want to play it, that's pretty heartless, don't you think?"

"He treated you the best. You're the one who spent the most of his money."

Sandra seemed to have seen it coming. Her voice went cold.

"I knew you were an ungrateful little brat who can't stand to see anyone else do well."

"Fine. You, me, and your sister. The three of us take turns caring for him. That work for you?"

Before I could answer, she pressed on, firm again,

"Bottom line, Great-Uncle Roland gets treated."

"I'm flying back right now. The family-signature line, all three of us sign it together."

The call ended.

I looked at my sister.

She was quiet for a moment, then said,

"She's doing it on purpose. She came to flaunt how much better she is. Just watch. She'll make her move soon."

And she did.

Less than ten minutes later.

Sandra spoke up in the family group chat.

Everyone, all my relatives and elders, I want to give a quick update about Great-Uncle Roland's condition.

The doctors say it's very serious. Marcus wants to stop treatment.

But how can we just give up? That's my Great-Uncle Roland. No matter what he thinks, I believe his illness has to be treated.

Even if Marcus won't pay for it, I, Sandra Gilbert, will cover all of it myself.

The moment she posted it, the relatives showered her with praise.

Yes, Sandra's right about this.

This girl really is devoted.

You can't be too practical in life. Money or family, which one really matters? At least Sandra sees it clearly.

Good girl. Really something.

Every single voice was praising her.

I read the chatter and gave a bitter laugh, then said to my sister,

"Great-Uncle Roland has been sick for over two years now."

"Every single time, I'm the one who takes him to the hospital. I'm the one running around for him."

"I've even had to take time off work to look after him."

"Sandra never lifted a finger, and now look at this. She gets to be the good one."

"And I've turned into the villain who wants to abandon him."

My sister glanced at the chat and said,

"I knew she'd pull something like this. Ever since we were kids, she's always been more scheming than us."

I nodded flatly.

"Yeah. She's scheming, all right."

"She knows I'm about to get married and need the money."

"She knows money's tight for me right now, and she times a demand like this just to kick me while I'm down."

"But she's standing on the moral high ground, so I can't even argue back."

That evening.

The relatives all came to the hospital to see Great-Uncle Roland.

Sandra flew in too.

The second she walked into the room, she crouched down in front of him, gripped his hand, and cried.

"Great-Uncle Roland. Oh, Great-Uncle Roland."

"Marcus said he wanted to give up on you, but I won't allow it. I came all the way back just to make sure of it."

"Great-Uncle Roland, don't you worry. Your illness will be treated."

"No matter how much it costs, I'm getting you cured!"

Her words moved the relatives right along with her.

And she got in a kick at me while she was at it.

Even Great-Uncle Roland was moved to tears. He clutched her hand.

"Forget it. I'm already like this. Don't waste your money."

"How could money matter more than family!" she protested. "Great-Uncle Roland, just relax. Never mind eight hundred thousand, if it were eight million I'd still get you cured!"

There was no room for argument in her voice.

How could any of the relatives object after that.

They all praised her for being so devoted.

For being such a good one.

After the visit, Sandra insisted on treating the relatives to a meal.

She threw money around like it was nothing, like she'd been doing very well for herself out of town all these years.

At dinner, she even called me out by name in front of everyone.

"Marcus, I hear you're getting married soon. Is that it? You're short on cash, so you don't want to pay for Great-Uncle Roland's treatment?"

I knew she was doing it on purpose.

I was seething inside, but on the surface I stayed firm.

"What are you talking about, Sandra? However much it costs, the two of us split it, that's all."

She frowned.

"What do you mean, the two of us? Isn't your sister his niece too? She has to pay her share as well!"

I smiled calmly.

"Sandra, that's not right. My sister isn't married yet. She and I are one household."

"By your math, wouldn't your family only pay a third, while mine pays two-thirds?"

"Marcus, don't play word games with me. All I know is she's his niece too. Married or not, she pays."

My sister was about to lose it.

But I held her back, signaling her not to speak.

I looked at Sandra.

"So by your math, my sister counts as her own separate share, right?"

"Of course!" she said, like it was obvious.

I nodded.

"Then in that case, after Great-Uncle Roland dies, his house gets split evenly into three shares too, and my sister gets one of them. Right?"

Her frown deepened, her eyes darting around, and then she jabbed a finger at me.

"Marcus, I always knew you were an ungrateful little snake, the worst kind."

"Great-Uncle Roland isn't even dead yet and you're already scheming for his estate. Are you even human!"

Once again my cousin planted herself on the moral high ground to lecture.

I'd already seen it coming. I smiled and said,

"All the relatives and elders are here today, so it's better to get everything straight."

"You can't have my sister put in the money and the work, and then get no share of the property afterward. Where's the sense in that?"

The relatives all started murmuring among themselves.

Grandpa Walter nodded then and said,

"Marcus has a point. A lot of things are better spelled out now."

"I've seen plenty of families torn apart fighting over exactly this kind of thing."

"Settle it clearly now, and you save yourselves a world of trouble later."

Grandpa Vincent and Grandpa Nathan nodded along too.

With the elders directing things,

Grandpa Vincent's granddaughter, who's a lawyer, began drawing up a charter, and then Sandra and I signed it.

After that, the elders signed as witnesses.

Finally it went to Great-Uncle Roland to sign.

By the time it was all arranged, it was past ten at night.

The relatives who were going to leave left.

Sandra was getting ready to leave too.

But I blocked her.

"Sandra, now that everyone's roles are clear, we split all of it fifty-fifty."

"I've already been at the hospital caring for him half a month, and that's not even counting the two-plus years before that."

"So now, no matter how you look at it, you've got to stay and take care of Uncle Roland, right?"

Sandra shrieked,

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I came all this way from a thousand miles off, and you won't even let me get some rest?"

I laughed.

"You want to rest?"

"My sister and I both have jobs, and we still had to stay and take care of Uncle Roland, worked half to death, every one of us."

"We didn't get to rest, so what makes you think you get to?"

My sister didn't hold back either.

"You've built up the whole saintly act. Don't tell me you're ready to drop the good-person routine this fast?"

Sandra glared viciously at my sister.

"Marcia Gilbert, what did you just say?"

My sister gave it right back.

"My meaning couldn't be clearer."

"If you don't want to stay and take care of Uncle Roland, then go say so in the group chat yourself."

"Say all you can do is run your mouth, and you won't lift a finger to actually care for him!"

I added,

"She couldn't back out even if she wanted to."

"Everyone signed."

"Not unless she gives up her share of Uncle Roland's apartment."

Sandra's face went ugly with rage.

My sister and I didn't bother with her anymore.

We just left.

Three days went by like that.

Sandra slowly started getting agitated.

On the fourth day, the surgery was a success.

But Uncle Roland was left in a coma.

Facing that outcome, the relatives all said how sad it was.

Sandra's face grew darker and darker.

A few days later, Uncle Roland was discharged and came home.

That very night, Sandra wanted to pack up and go home.

"Sandra, where do you think you're going?"

Sandra glared at me, annoyed.

"Move. Where I go is none of your business."

I said flatly,

"Where you go isn't my business, but you're the one who insisted on the surgery. Now that Uncle Roland's in a coma, you have to stay and look after him."

Sandra froze for a second, then snapped at me,

"I've already taken care of Uncle Roland for a whole week. The rest is on you!"

I gave her a faint smile.

"Sandra, don't forget you signed. One week is only the beginning."