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Our third wedding anniversary was coming up, but my wife, a programmer at a major tech company, suddenly claimed she had to work overtime to meet deadlines. She said she couldn't go on the trip we'd planned. That very afternoon, however, her intern posted a video on social media. My wife—the same woman who normally wouldn't even open a door for fear of chipping her manicure—was holding a screwdriver, repairing an old flip phone. The caption read: [Having a programmer wife is the best. Even when Grandma's phone breaks, we don't need to pay for repairs.] I chuckled, liked the post, and commented: [Right up her alley.] Within minutes, the company group chat exploded. There were over ninety-nine unread messages speculating on when I'd finally snap. Not long after, my wife called. Her voice was ice-cold. "What was that comment supposed to mean? How is Shawn supposed to face anyone at work now? "His grandma's phone broke, so I fixed it. What's the problem? Your parents have always spoiled you. You can't possibly understand real hardship. "Delete the comment. I'll make it up to you over the New Year; we can take that trip then." The New Year? I'd already waited through two other major public holidays. I'd even taken special leave for this trip, and she still bailed. Now she was dangling empty promises again? I hung up on her. My leave ended around the same time as our divorce cooling-off period.

My ex-boyfriend’s first love insisted on dragging me onto the drop tower ride, which caused me to have severe bleeding from the trauma. When it happened, he used her fear of blood as an excuse to cover her eyes and hurry away, abandoning me in a pool of blood. In that critical moment, Steven Landers, the amusement park designer, rushed me to the hospital just in time. After losing the baby, I was completely devastated. Then to my surprise, he got down on one knee at the amusement park and proposed, promising me happiness for the rest of my life. After we got married, I became pregnant again. But I accidentally stumbled across his chat with a ride maintenance worker. "Mr. Landers, your wife already lost a child because of Miss Smith. You mentioned she has difficulty getting pregnant, so why are you pulling the same trick to get her on the drop tower again?" Steven casually touched his wedding ring and replied, "She's the reason Anne can never be a mother, so I absolutely won't let Myla give birth to a child that would upset her." "But that's your child too! How can you do this?" "So what? This is what she owes Anne. The drop tower is the perfect way to make it look like an accident. Tomorrow is Myla's birthday, and I'll personally take her on the ride. If she tries to run, I need all of you to help catch her!" So that was his plan all along—to use the drop tower to cause another "accident" and make me lose my baby!

Run, Run, RUN. Don’t stop. The night was falling and like the creatures of the day, I needed to hide. My heart is thundering in my chest, echoing the sounds of the war that rage from the fields of my once loved home. That was before the coven came. Surprising us and taking my home and pack. The attack happened so quickly that no one was ready. We had no warning and after hours of waiting I was found. I had to run. Don't stop running. “CRACK” the current of magic shoots by and hits the tree to my left, my bare feet crunching the earth hard and fast. My small heart fluttering faster than a hummingbird's wings, my once sparkling beautiful dress is no more. It’s tattered, dirty, and torn. The edges burnt to a crisp and coated in blood from bodies of the battlefield that I raced away from. “Come here little wolfie,” a harsh raspy voice calls out cutting through the trees I hide quickly behind a tree to take cover to breathe, “I just want a little chat!” He calls singsong like, taunting me. He wants to find me to kill me. Ducking further behind my tree I hold my breath, my young body shaking with so much force my bones ache. Holding my breath and closing my eyes hoping for safety that surely won’t come. At only 11 years of age, I can’t fight this grown warlock... he will surely kill me like he did my parents... “Wolfie princess, where are you?” He mimics the rhythm of a child’s tune, as if I’d listen. Closing my eyes tighter I don’t want to die. I’m too young. My mind is racing, and my hearts bound t....

[ NOW ONGOING. ] ‘I can’t wait to make you mine, Lorelei.’ I read the text with a naughty smile. That’s Leo. The man I fell in love with via chat. I thought it was dumb to love someone you’ve never met, but look at me now. ‘I can’t wait for you to rip off my underwear.’ I texted and sent. Shivers ran down my spine while waiting for his response. Sexting through casual texts has become a thing I enjoy with him now. I bit my lips as I stared at our chat, anticipating. Just then, someone barged into my room. I put my phone down like I was doing something wrong. It was my mother. She has a worried look on her face. My father and stepmother walked in holding an envelope. I stared at them confused. “Pack your things and leave. You will get married on Thursday.” My father said cruelly. My brows creased and I tried to object but he held out the papers. “You don’t have a say in this Lorelei. I already sold you out.” What is he talking about? How can he arrange my own wedding? I knew I wasn’t my father’s favourite child, but this is next level hate. “Go and live with your husband. He bought you. And darling, there’s no turning back.” My stepmom added with a smile and threw the document on my bed. I picked it up and read the first page. ‘This contract seals the marriage between Ace Salvatore and Lorelei Stanley.’ Ace Salvatore? The man rumoured to be the devil himself.... My phone made a gentle ding and I looked at it. It was Leo. Tears cascaded my eyelids. How can I marry someone when I’m in love withsomeoneelse?

"You called me a spoiled princess who wouldn't last five minutes in the real world." "You hacked my team's group chat and sent my rookie hazing photos to the entire athletic department." Ivy Chen and Nate Callahan have history. Bad history. So when a reality TV show, a brother's scholarship, and one NHL reputation crisis collapses them into the same luxury off-campus house, fake dating, shared bed, live cameras it should be simple. Pretend. Survive. Walk away. Except Ivy already knows something she can't unknow: her anonymous 2 a.m. best friend, the one she's been trading secrets and stupid hockey memes with for months, the one who feels like the safest person she's never met is him. Nate. Her brother's grumpy, broody, insufferable captain. The guy who stress-bakes at midnight after losses. Who has a hidden playlist of cheesy 2000s power ballads. Who looks at her sometimes like she's not a problem to solve anymore. "This isn't real," she reminds herself daily. The staged touches say otherwise. Because somewhere between sharp barbs softening into playful teasing, stolen kisses that linger way past necessary, and quiet unguarded moments the cameras never quite catch the list of reasons she can't stand him stops growing. Then comes the night after overtime, Nate still in his game-day suit, eyes warm in the low kitchen light. "So what happens when the cameras stop rolling?" His thumb brushes her jaw. Soft. Certain. "Who said we're stopping?" One semester. One championship run. One expiration date. Neither of them is counting down anymore.

My mom is terrified of being laughed at by others the most. Whenever the holidays are here, she will keep repeating one sentence to me—"Don't go around embarrassing me." When my relatives gather around and chat with each other, I accidentally knock a fruit platter over. Mom drags me over and slaps me on the spot. At the holiday feast, I grab extra pieces of steak for myself. Mom responds by kicking my chair over. When it's time for the holiday gifts to be distributed, my aunt, Gabriella Hall, has miscalculated the number of children present among the family. So, she has prepared one less gift for the occasion. Mom doesn't hesitate to kick me out of the apartment, leaving me shivering in the cold corridor in just my indoor clothes. The icy winds chill me to the bone. I keep slamming my palms on the front door while screaming and crying my apologies at Mom, and yet she remains unmoved and silent. Instead, she turns to face Aunt Gabriella with an apologetic smile on her face. "I'm really sorry. I didn't raise my daughter well. It's only fair that you ridicule me." What Mom doesn't know is that I get triggered whenever I hear the word "ridicule" thanks to her so-called parenting lessons. Whenever I hear that word, I want nothing more than to hurt myself uncontrollably. So when I hear the word "ridicule" coming out of Mom's mouth through the front door, I turn on my heel quietly and begin making my way toward the bridge next to the neighborhood that's plunged into darkness. The moment I jump from the bridge, the only thought I have is, "Mom, no one will ridicule you because of me this time."

My cousin, Myra Walsh, leaves a voice message in the family group chat in a mean and uncouth manner. "Mom, I'm not meeting that guy who drives a rundown car. One look at him tells me that he's a single pathetic loser." She then kicks my chair. "Hey Sam, that useless piece of shit is a good match for you. Why don't you take my place on the blind date?" I follow Myra's line of sight. There's an old-looking car parked outside, and the owner, Henry Quinton, is currently reclining against the car while smoking. My entire family thinks he's just an ex-convict who has just gotten released from prison and is unable to land a job yet. I'm the only one who knows that's not the truth. Last week, when I was carrying out my internship at a bank, I witnessed the bank manager inviting Henry into the vault. Apparently, the trail of numbers Henry has in his savings is as long as a phone number. After putting on some makeup on my face to make me pure and innocent, I put on an oversized shirt before heading out of the apartment. In the cold wind, I cower slightly from the cold as I hand a thermos flask over to Henry. "Sir, Maya said she's not a match for you, so I'm here in her place." Henry snuffs out his cigarette, his gaze fixing on my flapping hem for three seconds. "Lass, if you want to be with me, you'll have to suffer tremendously in life." "I'm willing to go through anything as long as I get to be with you." That night, Maya flaunts photos of the bag a rich scion has given her. As for me, I've gone over to Henry's apartment.

At the company team-building event, I got called out by my colleague Samantha Rowler for not removing my price tag—she accused me of being a "freebie chaser." "Oh wow, Carla, you drive a BMW 5 Series. Are you seriously planning to return your clothes within seven days too?" she sneered. I tucked the tag back in and ignored her snide remark. But after the event, as soon as I got home, my phone started blowing up. My chat apps were going insane. A friend had sent me a link: [Luxury-Car Executive Turns Out to Be a Return Addict!] Someone had filmed me leaving the price tag on and posted it to a short-video platform. I opened the comment section and was met with a barrage of insults. [Can't afford to live, huh? Tag warrior.] [Is this car a sugar-daddy gift? Those who know, know.] [OMG, does this woman have some kind of illness? Which brand is this so I can avoid it!] I immediately knew Samantha was behind it. I messaged her to delete the video. Instead, the next second, she blocked me—and pinned a comment to the top of the thread: [You can know a person's face but never their heart!] I was about to post a statement to clarify, my finger hovering over the send button, when I noticed the video's likes had already shot past ten thousand. I laughed. If they wanted a scene, fine—let's make it bigger. I quickly posted a new update: [The outfit is really nice. I'll wear it again next time.] The netizens erupted. The insults doubled, the heat skyrocketed, and the post shot straight to number one trending. I just put my phone down and went to sleep.

Throughout our seven-year marriage, my CEO wife, Ruby Irving, goes on yet another business trip on Memorial Day once again, so she can't travel back to my hometown with me. But soon, I saw the photos uploaded by her assistant, Wilbur Stork, on his social media feed that featured her sweeping the grave in his hometown instead. The caption writes, "Mom and Dad must be very satisfied with their daughter-in-law because the gloomy weather has cleared up in an instant." I chortle in amusement for a brief moment before liking the post calmly. Then, I comment, "I respect your relationship and wish you nothing but happiness." But my colleagues all go nuts over the latest bombshell. They are quick to form their chat groups and speculate as to how I'm going to cause my next ruckus in the company this time. Ruby soon calls me while sounding very stern. "I know Wilbur does things very brashly due to his young age, but you shouldn't have caused him trouble in the comment section! What will everyone else in the company think of him? How is Wilbur supposed to continue working in this company? "Moreover, Wilbur doesn't have anyone left in his family. What's wrong with me keeping him company just this once? People with happy families like you don't have empathy for others at all! "I want you to delete your comment and remove your like right now. Once the holidays are over, I'll free up some time in my schedule to go back to your hometown with you." As I listen to Ruby making yet another empty promise to me in such a casual way, I let out a soft chuckle. "It's fine." Once the holidays are over, we'll be able to obtain our divorce certificates.

While on vacation, I return to my hometown to help my parents harvest pears. After seeing my Instagram post, my son's homeroom teacher, Ernest Dugan, sends me a private message. "So you sell pears, Mr. Miller? The kindergarten hasn't finalized next month's fruit supplier yet, so we'll order from you. You won't suffer any loss from this deal. I'll pay five dollars per pound. You just need to arrange transportation and deliver them to the kindergarten." I almost laugh out loud. My family's pears are the famous Green Jewel variety; they are known as the "Hermes of pears". They sell for over 100 dollars per pound on average. Five dollars wouldn't even cover the cost of a single pear. Even though Ernest is being ridiculous, I still reply politely, "Sorry, all of our pears are reserved. You'll need to find another supplier." To my surprise, Ernest immediately posts photos of my family's pears in the parent group chat. He writes, "Next month's fruit selection for the kindergarten will be upgraded to Green Jewel pears. If anyone wishes to buy some for personal consumption, feel free to place orders below. The price is five dollars per pound." The chat group buzzes with activity as parents rush to place orders one after another. Three days later, they block the truck carrying my shipment to Windford. Determined to force the sale, they surround the vehicle and refuse to let it leave. Before they can ransack the truck, several military-plated vehicles arrive and seal off the road. A group of officials steps out with stern, angry expressions. One of them coldly demands, "These are pears specially ordered for this weekend's state banquet. Who said you could lay a finger on them?"