I was born with an aggressive lack of social inhibition. Because I had never met a stranger in my life, my psychiatrist mother took one look at my five-year-old self and realized I was a natural weapon. By the time I was ten, she was regularly dragging me into her inpatient psychiatric facility to serve as a designated companion for catatonic and treatment-resistant depressive patients. Over the past twenty years, I have personally cornered, chatted up, and line-danced with at least eight hundred people who claimed they were too fragile for this world. Which is to say: when it comes to the performative theatrics of weaponized emotional instability, I know the playbook backward, forward, and in my sleep. Two months into my strategic society marriage to Damon, he brought home Brielle—his fragile, supposedly severely depressed ex-girlfriend, the undisputed tragic muse of his past. He stood in our grand marble foyer, his expression carved from pure ice, and leveled a finger at my face. "Brielle cannot handle stress, Sloane. Drop your crude, brassy attitude. If anything happens to her, I will dismantle your family piece by piece." That very night, Brielle positioned herself on our second-floor balcony in a sheer silk slip, sobbing into the chilly night air. "Sloane," she wailed, leaning precariously over the railing, "just looking at you triggers my deepest darkness. I can’t control myself. Can’t you just move out?" Damon was practically on his knees on the flagstones below, white as a sheet, pleading with the heavens and begging her to step down. Me? My eyes lit up. My chaotic, battle-tested instincts surged to life. Without a second thought, I yanked open the front doors, grabbed an industrial-grade megaphone from the coat closet, and let loose a blast from an emergency air horn. "Attention, neighbors!" my voice echoed across the manicured lawns of our gated community. "My husband's ex is threatening a swan dive off the terrace!" I keyed the siren sound effect on the megaphone. "Let’s give her some encouragement, folks! Say it with me: "Brielle, take flight, own your plight!" I pointed the speaker directly up at her. "Would you like me to queue up Celine Dion on the Bluetooth for ambiance, sweetie?" Brielle looked down, horrified, as headlights flickered in driveways and half a dozen retired hedge-fund managers stepped onto their porches in bathrobes. Her knees buckled in pure humiliation. She slipped on the wet terrace step, tumbled sideways, and landed headfirst into the large recycling bin next to the patio door. … Brielle dragged herself out of the recycling bin with a bruised banana peel stuck to her blow-dried hair, reeking of sour seltzer and compost. Damon didn't care about the grime. He lunged forward, gathering her into his arms as if she were a wounded dove, and glared at me with pure venom. "Are you insane? She’s clinically depressed! Why the hell are you terrorizing her with a megaphone?" I hoisted the megaphone onto my shoulder like a boombox. "A proper performance requires stage setting, darling. It’s embarrassing to jump without an audience." Brielle buried her face in Damon’s designer lapel, shuddering with practiced fragility. "Damon... she hates me. She can’t stand me being near you." With trembling fingers, she fished a blunt piece of decorative glass out of her pocket and pressed it against her wrist. "If I’m such a burden to her, I’ll just end it right now!" Damon turned ghostly pale and reached out to wrestle it from her grip. I stepped in, shoved his shoulder aside, and wedged myself between them. "Move, Damon. You’re blocking her big scene." I tapped the flat of my fingernail against her radial vein. "That edge is dull, Brielle. You have to push harder. Go ahead, slice deep. I’ve got iodine in the bathroom—the visual contrast will be stunning. Once you’ve bled enough for a good photo, I’ll bandage you up." Brielle froze, the glass hovering uselessly against her unblemished skin. She forgot to keep crying. Damon’s jaw twitched violently. "You vicious sociopath! You’re coaching her to kill herself!" I ignored him, pulled out my phone, flipped the front-facing camera on, and raised my voice. "Hey, live viewers! We’re live from the villa with a high-stakes dramatic exit! Send your digital gifts now!" I shoved the lens right into Brielle’s tear-stained face. "Come on, give us a smile. Five thousand people are waiting for the drop." Brielle stared at the blinking red recording light. With a sharp gasp, she dropped the glass and burrowed frantically into Damon’s chest. "Damon, make her stop! She’s a lunatic!" Damon smacked the phone out of my hand. It clattered against the hardwood, the screen shattering into a web of cracks. "Enough! Get out of this house! It’s either you or her!" I glanced down at the ruined screen, then pulled out a dining chair and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "Did you take a blow to the head?" I asked pleasantly. "The deed to this estate is in my name, paid in full before the wedding. If anyone is leaving, it’s the two of you." His jaw worked, the muscle ticking. "Fine! You think I care about your damn house? Brielle, we’re leaving." He reached down to pull her up, but Brielle’s fingers clamped onto the velvet upholstery of the sofa like iron talons. Leave? Leave a ten-million-dollar modern mansion to go back to a studio apartment? Not on her life. "Damon, my head..." she whispered, rolling her eyes back and going completely limp on the cushions. "I feel so dizzy... I can’t breathe..." Damon scrambled for his phone to dial 911. I pulled out my backup phone from my blazer. "Hey, Mom. Pull up a case file on factitious disorders, will you? I need to review the latest treatments for chronic malingering." Damon whipped his head around. "Who are you calling?" I switched the call to his parents’ landline and hit speakerphone. "Your mother and father. I thought they’d appreciate the midnight cabaret." A bead of cold sweat broke on Damon’s forehead. His family had despised Brielle from day one; if they found out he had dragged her back into our home, they would skin him alive. "Don't you dare!" he hissed. The crisp, formidable voice of his mother came through the speaker. "Hello? Sloane? What’s happening?" Brielle instantly stopped rolling her eyes and stared at the phone in sheer terror. I cleared my throat. "Good evening, Eleanor. Damon brought Brielle back here. She’s claiming her depression flared up and is currently giving us a private performance on the sofa with a piece of broken glass. Would you like me to send a car so you can watch the second act with some popcorn?" Three seconds of dead, arctic silence followed. Then Eleanor’s voice erupted through the speaker with enough force to rattle the chandelier. "Damon Hastings! Get your pathetic self over to the family estate this instant!" I waved cheerfully at Damon’s bloodless face. "Safe travels, boys and girls." Brielle lay on the sofa, trembling with suppressed rage. I strolled over and looked down at her. "Faking a crisis is exhausting work, isn't it? Next time, pick a sharper piece of glass. It saves everyone time." I clapped my hands and headed into the kitchen. After a long evening of managing amateurs, I needed comfort food. I threw together a bowl of spicy garlic ramen with two soft-boiled eggs. When I carried the steaming bowl back out, Damon was practically dragging a dead-weight Brielle toward the front foyer. "Leaving already?" I slurped a noodle. "Sure you don't want a snack for the road?" Damon threw me a look of unadulterated hatred. "Don’t get cocky. One of these days, you’ll be on your knees begging for my forgiveness." "Sure, sure. Put it on my calendar. Just hurry up, my patience is thin." The heavy oak door slammed shut with a satisfying thud. I settled comfortably into the deep cushions, slurping my soup in glorious, uninterrupted peace. The next morning, the front door was nearly beaten off its hinges. I opened it to find Damon’s parents standing on the porch, their expressions dark as thunderclouds. Behind them stood Brielle, dressed in an angelic white linen frock with red-rimmed eyes, huddled closely against Damon’s protective arm. I leaned against the doorframe and smothered a yawn. "Good morning, Eleanor. Richard. If you haven't had breakfast, the espresso machine is on the counter." Eleanor brushed past me, her designer heels clicking sharply against the tile. "How can you sleep at a time like this? Look at what you’ve done to Brielle!" I glanced at Brielle. White dress. Pale makeup. And around her left wrist was a layer of sterile gauze so thick it looked like an orthopedic cast. Last night, the glass hadn’t even scratched the surface of her skin, yet today she looked like a walking casualty from a battlefield. I opened my palms. "What exactly did I do to her?" Brielle’s tears spilled over right on cue. "Mrs. Hastings, please don't be angry with Sloane. It’s my fault... I just can’t control my episodes." She pressed a hand to her sternum and swayed dramatically backward. Damon caught her instantly. "You see this, Mom?" he snarled. "Brielle almost lost her life last night, and instead of helping, Sloane humiliated her and tried to broadcast it online!" Richard brought his palm down hard on the marble island. "Disgraceful! We did not welcome you into this family to watch you behave like an unhinged brute!" I dragged out a stool and sat down. "Let’s hold off on the righteous indignation for a second. If she’s suffering from severe, intractable depression, where’s the clinical evaluation?" Brielle’s eyes flickered. "The... the records are with my private specialist." "How convenient," I said. I reached into my tote bag, pulled out a crisp sheet of paper, and slid it across the island. "Because I had my contact at the Metropolitan Psychiatric Institute pull your public intake history this morning." Brielle’s face drained of color. I read directly from the page: "Brielle Evans. Chief complaint: mild situational restlessness and occasional insomnia following a social dispute. Diagnostic assessment: Mild generalized anxiety." I flicked the paper with a manicured finger. "Mild situational anxiety. And somehow, overnight, it magically evolved into a catastrophic psychiatric emergency requiring her to hijack my home?" Damon blinked, momentarily derailed. "Brielle?" Brielle clutched Damon’s sleeve with white knuckles. "No, Damon, that was months ago! It’s gotten worse recently, so much worse!" "Well, lucky for you, my mother runs the Department of Behavioral Health," I said, tapping my phone. "I can have two board-certified evaluators here within twenty minutes to conduct an emergency involuntary assessment. How does that sound?" "No!" Brielle stumbled backward. "I don't need doctors! Damon, my head is spinning..." Her eyelids fluttered, and her knees gave out in another graceful, slow-motion descent. Damon scooped her up before she hit the floor and roared at me, "Are you satisfied now? You pushed her into a syncopal episode!" "If she’s faking a blackout, a hard pinch to the philtrum usually brings them right back," I said, stepping forward. "My grip strength is exceptional." Brielle’s eyelids twitched violently. Damon slapped my hand away. "Don’t you touch her! If anything happens to her, I swear I’ll ruin you!" With that, he hoisted her in his arms and bolted out the front door toward his car. The foyer was left in strained silence. Eleanor and Richard stood frozen, their expressions pinched. I looked at them calmly. "You see? Her psychological stamina is remarkably fragile for someone who loves drama so much." Eleanor glared at me, her voice trembling with cold fury. "Don't you think you’ve won, Sloane. Damon is cutting off your authorized corporate cards today. Let’s see how bold you are when your funding dries up." She grabbed her husband’s arm and stormed out, slamming the door behind them. I listened to the echo of the heavy latch and let out a dry laugh. Cut off my cards? Damon’s tech startup was currently surviving on the fifty-million-dollar liquidity injection from my family’s trust fund, and he thought he was going to discipline me with an Amex limit? After washing up, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from my mother. "I ran the background," my mom said without preamble. "Aside from her falsified intake records, there’s something else." I patted my face dry with a towel. "What do we have?" "Our little tragic heroine has a side piece. A twenty-two-year-old fitness instructor she’s been stashing in a downtown condo while Damon pays the rent." I raised an eyebrow in the mirror. Well, well. Damon was wearing a custom-fitted cuckold crown and didn't even know it. I changed into a tailored track set and walked down to the community park, where the neighborhood morning walking club was doing their low-impact aerobics by the fountain. As I joined the back of the group to stretch, my peripheral vision caught a figure lurking behind the stone planters. It was Damon’s personal assistant, holding up an iPhone and trying desperately to film me looking unhinged. I circled around the hedge, walked up behind him, and snatched the phone from his hands. "What are we capturing today?" Before he could react, I wrapped an arm tightly around his neck in a friendly headlock, switched the phone to selfie mode, and dragged him directly into the center of the aerobics circle. "Smile for the boss!" "Click." The assistant’s face turned gray. He broke free from my grip, scrambled over the flowerbed, and sprinted for his sedan like he was being hunted by a bear. I stood by the fountain, admiring the crisp, unflattering snapshot on my screen. By mid-afternoon, Damon called. His voice was raw with hostility. "Get down to St. Jude’s VIP suite right now. Brielle is on a hunger strike because of you. She refuses to take a single bite until you apologize in person." I was relaxing on the lounger with a collagen face mask, and I nearly choked on my tea. "A hunger strike? That’s fantastic. It’ll do wonders for her jawline—she was starting to look a little puffy around the chin anyway." The sound of shattering ceramic echoed through the line. "Shut your mouth! You have thirty minutes! If you aren’t here, I’ll have my security team bring you in!" I peeled off the mask. "Deal. But visiting a patient alone is so impersonal. I’ll bring some mutual friends." I hung up, opened my mother’s outpatient community group chat on my phone, and dropped a voice memo: "Attention, alumni. We have a field trip. St. Jude’s VIP Suite 402. A fellow soul claims she’s suffering from severe, untreatable depression and needs some peer support. Bring your therapy tools. Let’s go show some love." The chat instantly exploded. "‘On my way! I’m bringing my Tibetan singing bowl!’" "‘I’ll bring the portable gospel boombox!’" "‘I have my ten-year collection of empty prescription bottles. I’ll go share some hard-earned coping mechanisms!’" Thirty minutes later, I led my eccentric strike team through the quiet corridors of the private healthcare wing. I pushed open the door to Suite 402. Brielle was leaning back against a sea of silk pillows, looking delicately exhausted. Damon was seated by the bedside, holding a bowl of warm organic broth, coaxing her like an anxious parent. "Please, Brielle. Just one spoonful. You haven’t eaten all day." Brielle turned her face away, letting a single tear track down her cheek. "If Sloane won’t forgive me for existing, I’d rather just waste away." I walked in and clapped twice. "Cheer up, sister! Not only did I come, but I also brought an entire support system of like-minded souls." With a wave of my hand, half a dozen seasoned veterans from my mother’s clinic filed into the room, packing the private suite wall-to-wall. An older gentleman with a long silver beard stepped up to the edge of the bed, struck a brass singing bowl with a wooden mallet—"GONG"—and closed his eyes. "Breathe through the void, child. Depression is merely the spirit resisting universal alignment." A woman in a vibrant floral caftan fired up an ancient boombox, blasting a high-volume Gregorian chant that rattled the IV stand. "Listen to the frequency, darling! Ten hours of this a day will cleanse any lingering psychic parasites!" A wiry young man with a shaved head leaned over Brielle’s bed and whispered conspiratorially, "You want tips on how to actually look sick? I’ve got recipes for fake bile that’ll fool any attending physician." Brielle’s eyes went wide. She clamped her hands over her ears and shrieked, "Who are these people? Damon, get them out! Get them out of here!" Damon was frozen in sheer disbelief. He jumped up, waving his arms. "What is wrong with you? What is this circus?" I caught his arm in an iron grip. "Why are you upset? These are all distinguished alumni from my mother’s therapeutic retreats. They heard Brielle was struggling with severe depression, so they volunteered their afternoon to share their survival strategies." The veins on Damon’s neck bulged. "You’re mocking her! You’re intentionally triggering her!" "Triggering her? Look at the enthusiasm in this room." The singing bowl went "GONG" again, louder this time. The woman turned the chant volume to maximum. The wiry young man casually rolled up his sleeves, displaying a series of faded burn marks. "Look, sister. These are from my nihilist phase in Berlin. Very grounding. Want to try sensory shock therapy? It really cuts through the numbness." "Aaaaaah!" Brielle kicked off the duvet, vaulted out of the hospital bed, and sprinted through the doorway in her bare feet faster than a varsity track star. "Crazy! You’re all completely crazy!" There wasn't a trace of lethargy or malnutrition in that sprint. Damon stood there for half a second before tearing after her. The room settled into a peaceful quiet. The wiry young man looked around, disappointed. "She’s gone already? I didn't even get to show her my breathwork routine." I pulled out my phone and dropped a generous stack of digital gift cards into the group chat. "Thank you, everyone. Dinner is on me tonight." After seeing off the support squad, I took my time walking down the hallway. As I rounded the corner near the stairwell, a furious figure lunged at me. Damon grabbed my lapels, slamming me back against the corridor wall with enough force to knock the breath from an ordinary person. "Do you won't stop until you drive her to suicide?!" The amusement drained from my face. I reached up, seized his wrists with both hands, and wrenched them outward with precise, mechanical leverage. Damon gasped as his joints buckled. Before he could recover his balance, I pivoted on my heel, caught him by the shoulder, and executed a textbook judo shoulder throw. "THUD." His back met the linoleum floor with a hollow, sickening crunch. He curled into a tight ball, clutching his ribs, gasping for air like a landed fish. I dusted off my blazer and looked down at him from under half-lidded eyes. "Let’s get one thing crystal clear, Damon. I entered this marriage as an equal partner and an investor, not your punching bag. The next time you put your hands on me, I won't just bruise your ribs—I’ll snap your collarbone." The corridor fell dead silent. Two passing nurses froze in their tracks, covering their mouths in shock. A few yards away, Brielle huddled behind a water cooler, trembling so hard her teeth were chattering, terrified to breathe. I didn't give them a second glance. I adjusted my cuffs, turned around, and walked toward the elevator. That evening, as I was reviewing market analyses in my home study, my father called. "Sloane, how are the preparations for tomorrow’s investor showcase?" "Everything is locked in, Dad. The new software architecture will blow them away." He sighed softly over the line. "The Hastings family has been making erratic moves in the secondary market lately. Watch your flanks." "I always do." I ended the call and looked out through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the dark skyline of the city. The next morning, the grand ballroom of the downtown convention center was packed. This product launch was my flagship initiative since taking over the family’s venture arm, and the media riser was bristling with telephoto lenses and broadcast cameras. The presentation went flawlessly. Just as the floor opened for the Q&A session, the heavy double doors at the back of the hall were shoved open with dramatic force. Damon walked in, supporting a visibly trembling Brielle. She was wrapped in an oversized trench coat, her face chalk-white, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. The moment she entered, every camera in the room swung away from the stage and locked onto them. Damon kept one arm wrapped around her waist, marched straight down the center aisle, pointed an accusatory finger at my face, and projected his voice across the room: "Members of the press! Today, I am going to expose the monstrous reality behind this corporate facade!" "This woman used her family’s wealth to force an engagement, tear Brielle and me apart, and systematically abuse her behind closed doors until her severe clinical depression relapsed!" A collective gasp rippled through the room. Camera flashes erupted in an blinding storm. Amidst the chaos, Brielle suddenly broke free from Damon’s grip and scrambled onto the two-meter-high glass exhibition platform beside the main stage. She stood on the narrow edge, swaying precariously, and let out a piercing scream: "Stop asking questions!" "She stole my fiancé! She destroyed my entire life! What reason do I have left to live?" "I’ll end it right here, right now, so the whole world can see what kind of monster you truly are!" The room went cold. Reporters shouted for building security, someone yelled to call the police, and dozens of lenses pointed back at me, heavy with silent condemnation. Damon stared at me from the foot of the stage, unable to hide the gleam of triumph in his eyes. "Now," he demanded through clenched teeth, "get down on your knees and apologize to Brielle! Otherwise, your reputation in this city is finished by tomorrow morning!" He thought he had me cornered. A suicide at a multi-million-dollar corporate launch would destroy any executive's career. The entire hall held its breath, waiting for my collapse. I looked at Brielle teetering on the edge of the platform, looked at her theatrical tears, and then, completely unable to help myself, I burst out laughing. I picked up the wireless microphone from the podium and walked slowly to the edge of the stage, looking up at her. Damon’s brow furrowed. Brielle hesitated, her dramatic sob caught in her throat. I lifted the mic to my lips. "Jump." The single word echoed through the surround sound system. "Go on. Jump. Because if you don't jump today, Brielle, I’m going to be profoundly disappointed in your commitment to the craft." The room fell into stunned, horrified silence. Damon turned crimson, pointing at me in rage. "Are you out of your mind? You’re literally pushing her to die!" I didn't spare him a glance. I simply snapped my fingers toward the technical booth. "Switch the main display." The massive, high-definition LED backdrop flickered. The corporate promotional reel vanished, replaced instantly by an array of high-resolution, full-screen documents and photographs. I clicked the remote, sending a sharp red laser dot directly onto the center of the display. "Allow me to introduce our guest of honor," my voice carried smoothly over the speakers. "Miss Brielle Evans is indeed an acquaintance of my family's clinical network. However, her condition is not depression. It’s Factitious Disorder—or, in layman’s terms, pathological attention-seeking." I clicked to the first slide. "Here is the wire transfer receipt showing she paid fifty thousand dollars to an online reputation-smearing agency to target my personal social channels. Quite an investment for someone on the brink of despair." I clicked to the second slide. "Here are the encrypted chat logs between Miss Evans and an unlicensed clinic, negotiating the price for a falsified psychiatric evaluation." Murmurs of shock rippled through the press corps. I didn't stop. I clicked to the final slide. It was a crystal-clear, high-resolution photograph taken in the VIP lounge of an exclusive downtown nightclub. Brielle was draped over a handsome young man in a leather jacket, locked in an aggressive, passionate kiss. The digital timestamp in the upper corner was illuminated in crisp white numbers: "Yesterday, 11:42 PM." I clicked off the laser pointer and smiled pleasantly up at the girl on the platform. "Making out in a nightclub booth until midnight, and suddenly suicidal by noon the next day." I tilted my head. "Tell me, Brielle—does your clinical depression come with an on-off switch, or do you just schedule your breakdowns around happy hour?"
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