Owen always claimed he despised complications. Yet, without a word of prompting from me, he volunteered to tutor my cousin, Carlin, for her graduate school entrance exams—a girl who had flunked nearly every standardized test she had ever taken. Every time he stepped out the door to meet her, his jaw was set, his expression cold as slate. "If I weren't trying to keep peace in your family, I wouldn't waste five seconds on that hopeless deadweight." Carlin, too, constantly whined to me over the phone. "Corinne, Owen just calls me stupid. He doesn't actually want to help me." Whenever they were in the same room, the air crackled with barbed remarks and venomous bickering. Until, gradually, the fighting softened into something else entirely. He noticed that whenever she was stumped by a problem, she chewed on the end of her pencil. So he went out of his way to order specialty non-toxic, edible-grade pencils. And when I discovered a breast mass that required an urgent outpatient lumpectomy—a procedure requiring a partner's signature—he never showed up. His voice over the phone was breathless with panic. "Carlin bombed her mock exam. She locked herself on the balcony, Corinne. I think she's going to jump." I signed the consent forms myself. I lay on the operating table alone. I held my tongue and endured the throbbing ache in my chest. On the day I was discharged, I sat in the sterile hospital lobby and waited for him for four hours. When he didn't answer his phone, I caught a rideshare straight to the underground garage of Carlin’s apartment building. Owen’s sedan was parked in its usual stall, the engine idling in the dim concrete cavern. The oversized infotainment screen on the dashboard glowed softly in the dark. It was tethered via CarPlay to a sleek black iPhone I had never seen before. Open on the screen was a Notes file, recently edited. The title read: "A Field Guide to Caring for My Little Idiot." Over a hundred bullet points spilled down the screen: "1. She cries whenever she gets a problem wrong. Don't raise your voice—pull her into your arms right away." "2. She doesn't know how to peel shellfish. Whenever we're out with other people, never order shrimp or crab so she doesn't feel self-conscious." At the very bottom was the latest entry, time-stamped an hour ago: "108. To fake a panic attack and throw her sister off the scent, the little idiot skipped dinner entirely. It broke my heart seeing her like that. As soon as she wakes up, I'm getting those warm roasted chestnuts she loves." My hands trembled so violently that I could barely hold my breath. He didn't hate complications at all. He just didn't love me. … Footsteps echoed against the concrete behind me. Owen approached, carrying a brown paper bag that radiated the sweet, smoky warmth of fresh roasted chestnuts. When he saw me standing by the open driver’s door, his gaze snapped to the illuminated dashboard. His stride lengthened instantly. He lunged forward and yanked the lightning cable from the phone with a sharp snap. "You just had surgery. Instead of resting in bed, you come down to a parking garage to play detective?" Owen’s voice was clipped, coated in defensive irritation. "Corinne, do you really have that little trust left in me?" I looked down at the steaming paper bag in his grip. "Entry 108. Did you get the chestnuts?" "Are you seriously picking a fight right now?" He lowered his voice, the veins in his temple tightening. "I told you, Carlin was on the verge of a breakdown. When her mock scores came back, she nearly went over the railing. I was saving a life." Before I could answer, the passenger door clicked open. Carlin stepped out, her oversized knit sweater slipping off one frail shoulder. When her eyes met mine, she flinched violently. "Corinne? What are you doing here?" Her gaze dropped to the thick gauze taped over the back of my hand, where the IV bruise had darkened to purple. "Oh god, are you bleeding? I'm so sorry... It's my fault Owen couldn't be there for your surgery. Owen, please, take her home. I can manage on my own. I swear I won't go near the balcony tonight." "You haven't eaten a single bite all day—how can you promise anything?" Owen snapped, cutting her off, before rounding on me. "Corinne, can you please learn how to prioritize? The doctor told you that nodule was a low-risk, routine procedure. Even if I wasn't there, you were perfectly capable of signing the paperwork yourself. But Carlin stood on that ledge for thirty minutes! If I hadn't gotten here in time, she'd be dead!" "Owen," I said quietly, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "Last year, when my depression was at its worst, do you remember what you said?" He blinked, thrown off. "I couldn't sleep for weeks. I sat on the edge of our bed and told you I felt broken inside, that I was drowning. Do you remember your exact words?" I met his eyes. "You said you had an eight o'clock executive meeting, and you told me to go cry in the guest room so I wouldn't keep you awake." Carlin leaned into Owen’s side, her delicate fingers tugging at his sleeve. "Owen, don't worry about me. Corinne is always so strong... she really needs you right now." "Strong?" A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my chest. It turned out suffering only mattered when it was performative. Owen stared at my pale, drawn face, a flicker of guilt crossing his features. "Corinne, I was careless back then. I admit it. But get in the car. It’s freezing down here. Let me drive you back to the clinic to get that bandage checked." He stepped away from Carlin, reaching out to take my elbow. "Don't touch me." I stepped back, avoiding his hand entirely. "Corinne, please, don't take this out on Owen!" Carlin burst into tears, wrapping both arms around Owen’s bicep from behind. "I'll leave! I'll pack my bags and move out tomorrow!" Owen spun to face me, his guilt instantly replaced by righteous anger. "Corinne, she's practically a kid. You're her older cousin—why do you have to be so venomous, so relentlessly cruel?" I stood under the harsh fluorescent lights, looking at the two of them. "I'm not pushing anyone," I said, drawing a slow, agonizing breath. "Go ahead. Keep saving her." "Corinne!" he shouted as I turned away. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" I didn't look back. If they were so determined to stage their grand, tragic rescue fantasy, I refused to be their audience. I took a cab home and collapsed onto the bed in the guest room, curling into a tight ball. Hours blurred together until the front door clicked open, followed by muffled voices in the entryway. "Watch the step," Owen said, his tone deliberately tender. "You sleep in the master bedroom tonight. I'll keep an eye on you." "Owen, Corinne is going to hate me," Carlin whimpered softly. "I really should just go." "She isn't even here," he murmured. "And even if she were, I'm not leaving you alone in a place where you might do something reckless." I pulled the blanket tighter, a silent, mocking smirk touching my lips. I didn't get up. I didn't shout. But when you try to step out of the line of fire, the crosshairs simply follow you. The guest room door was kicked open with a violent thud. Owen stormed in, hurling an old iPad onto the edge of my mattress. "Corinne, have you completely lost your mind?!" I pushed myself up, my ribs aching. On the screen was a message from my secondary messaging account, sent to Carlin ten minutes ago: [If you want to die so badly, why didn't you just throw yourself under a car in the garage? Who are you trying to guilt-trip with this pathetic act?] I stared at it for a second, then looked up at him. "I didn't send this." "There's nobody in this apartment except you and her!" Owen barked, a sneer twisting his mouth. "This tablet has been sitting on the living room coffee table all evening. She stepped out of the shower and saw this notification. You're going to sit there and tell me it wasn't you?" "I said, it wasn't me." I looked straight into his furious eyes. "Use your brain, Owen. If I wanted to tear her apart, I’d say it straight to her face. Why would I use a burner account to leave a paper trail like an amateur?" Owen’s brow furrowed, a flicker of hesitation flashing through his gaze. Before he could speak, a sickening shatter echoed from the living room, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. "Carlin!" Owen went white. He spun on his heel and sprinted into the hallway. I pressed a hand against my surgical dressing and forced myself out of bed. In the living room, Carlin was huddled against the sofa, clutching a jagged shard of a broken glass mug. A shallow, bleeding scratch marred her left wrist. "Stay back!" she sobbed, trembling hysterically. "Corinne is right... I'm just a burden. I should've died a long time ago!" "Put the glass down, Carlin! Put it down!" Owen’s voice cracked with raw panic. He didn't dare take another step forward for fear of triggering her. Instead, he whipped his head around, glaring at me with pure hatred. "Corinne! Are you satisfied now?! What did she ever do to you that makes you want to drive her off a cliff?! She's barely twenty! She is severely clinically depressed! Do you need to see her corpse on the floor before you're happy?!" "Owen," I leaned against the doorframe, my voice weak and hollow. "She sent that message to herself." "Shut up!" Owen lunged across the room, his hand clamping down viciously on my right forearm. "Apologize to her. Right now. Tell her you were talking out of your ass, move!" He yanked me violently toward the sofa. "Let go of me!" The sudden, brutal pull wrenched my shoulder and tore through the healing tissue beneath my right breast. A white-hot spike of agony ripped through my chest. My vision went black at the edges. My knees gave out, and I crashed hard onto the cold hardwood floor. "Stop playing the victim!" Owen gritted his teeth, tugging upward again. "I said let go!" Gathering every ounce of strength I had left, I tore my arm from his grip. The violent twist finished what he had started. The internal sutures gave way. A rush of warm, sticky fluid soaked rapidly through the thick white dressing, seeping through my cotton shirt and dripping, drop by crimson drop, onto the floor. Owen froze. His eyes locked onto the widening circle of scarlet spreading across my chest. "Corinne..." he stammered, his face draining of color. "Your... the doctor said it was an uncomplicated, minor incision. Why is there so much blood?" Panic took over. He dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he reached to lift me. "Let me see—" "Don't touch me," I gasped, dragging myself an inch backward, shuddering from the pain. "Owen..." Behind him, Carlin’s voice trailed off. With theatrical precision, her eyes rolled back, and her body collapsed backward, her head striking the edge of the coffee table with a sharp crack. "Carlin!" Owen’s outstretched hands halted in midair. Without a second glance at the blood pooling beneath me, he withdrew his hands and scrambled toward the couch. "Carlin! Wake up!" He scooped her limp form into his arms, rushing past me toward the front door without pausing for a fraction of a second. "Corinne, call 911 and get yourself bandaged!" he threw over his shoulder as he bolted down the hallway. "Carlin hit her head! I have to get her to the emergency room right now!" The heavy oak door slammed shut with a deafening bang. "That was who you chose to save, Owen." "You saved her." "While I bled out on the floor." I called the ambulance myself that night. I spent three days in the surgical recovery ward, dealing with an infected wound and secondary sutures. During those seventy-two hours, Owen didn't make a single phone call. He didn't send a single text. On the afternoon I was discharged, a cold, torrential rain battered the city. When I pushed open the front door of our apartment, a manila envelope was hurled violently at my feet. Stiff white pages spilled across the entryway rug. They were my psychological evaluations, therapy worksheets, and private journal entries from my severe depressive episode the year before. "Corinne, have you thrown away every shred of human decency just to feed your petty jealousy?" Owen sat on the living room sofa, his arms crossed, his eyes dark with contempt. I looked down at the scattered papers, my voice raspy. "You went through my desk drawers?" "If I hadn't, how would I have ever known that you’ve been secretly, maliciously mimicking Carlin’s exact symptoms?!" Owen stood up, stalking toward me. "Do you know that yesterday in therapy, Carlin broke down sobbing? She said rainy days terrify her because she feels like she's trapped inside a suffocating, soundproof glass box." He pointed a shaking finger at the papers on the floor. "And you—you took the deepest, most vulnerable pain she confided in you, and copied it word-for-word into your so-called personal confessions to pretend you were suffering too? You copied her exact metaphors!" "Owen," I said, a suffocating tightness squeezing my lungs as I fought for composure. "I wrote those last year. She read my private files." "Enough!" he roared. "Carlin told me you were snooping through her personal journal two days ago, and I didn't want to believe her. Corinne, you are a grown, professional woman. If you want my attention, couldn't you find a way that isn't so utterly pathetic?" "Corinne, I'm so sorry..." Carlin emerged from the master bedroom, wrapped in one of Owen’s oversized flannel shirts. "Is it because of what I told Owen yesterday? Did it make you angry, so you went and forged these records?" She reached out, her hands shaking as she touched Owen’s arm. "If it makes you happy, you can have my diagnosis. You can tell everyone you're the one who's depressed. Just please don't fight with Owen because of me. It's all my fault... I talk too much." I looked at the two of them, and suddenly, a strange, hysterical urge to laugh welled up in my throat. "Owen, look at the clinic date stamps on those intake forms," I said quietly. "November of last year. Carlin hadn't even moved to this city yet." "Dates can be altered," he snapped, his voice heavy with profound disgust. "Ink can be aged. First you use a burner account to tell her to kill herself, and now you pull this stunt. Corinne, you genuinely terrify me. Clinical depression kills people. How could you weaponize something so serious just to compete for affection?" "Compete for affection?" I echoed the words, feeling a profound, icy detachment settle into my bones. "When I couldn't sleep for weeks on end last year... when my hair was falling out in clumps and I was terrified to take a shower... were you beside me?" He didn't answer. "No, you weren't," I said evenly. "You didn't even know I was going to St. Jude’s Psychiatric Clinic every single Tuesday morning to pick up my prescription." "So what?" Owen sneered dismissively. "Because I was busy with work and overlooked your mood swings, that gives you the right to steal someone else's agony now? What does this pathetic charade prove, other than how deeply consumed by jealousy you are?" "Corinne..." Carlin cowered behind his broad shoulders, her voice a fragile squeak. "If you're really hurting, I can introduce you to my therapist. Just please stop plagiarizing my diary. Seeing my exact words claimed by someone else... it's triggering an attack..." She clutched her chest, gasping for air in shallow, ragged pants. "Carlin! Deep breaths, look at me!" Owen instantly panicked, wrapping his arms around her and rubbing her back frantically. "Where are her meds? Corinne, are you trying to kill her?! Go get her pills from the coffee table, now!" "She isn't sick," I said. Owen’s head snapped up, his eyes bloodshot with rage. He released Carlin and marched toward me, scooping up the therapy worksheets from the floor. "Since you love faking it so much, let's see how much you like this!" Right in front of my face, he gripped the thick stack of my clinical history, my private grief, my deepest vulnerabilities—and ripped them down the middle. Again. And again. "Garbage fabricated out of spite doesn't belong in this apartment." He tossed the shredded confetti into the air. I looked down at the torn fragments of my real, bleeding soul scattered over my shoes. "Okay," I whispered. I stepped across the torn paper. When my fingers wrapped around the brass handle of the front door, I didn't glance back. "Owen," I said softly into the quiet room. "I hope, for your sake, that you never, ever find out the truth." I sat in a twenty-four-hour diner down the street through the entire night, watching the rain streak the neon-lit windows until dawn. At seven in the morning, the downpour finally ceased. When I unlocked the apartment door, the living room lights were still blazing. Owen was sitting on the sofa, looking haggard and sleepless. On the coffee table in front of him sat my open work laptop. Hearing the door, he looked up, his voice frosted with ice. "You're back." "Yes." I walked straight toward the master bedroom. "Packing your bags? Or destroying evidence?" he called out coldly. I stopped, turning around. "What evidence?" Owen stood up, grabbed a freshly printed ream of paper from the table, and slammed it against my chest. "You truly are something else, Corinne." He glared at me with pure venom. "Using your alumni network to send a formal ethics complaint to the Hudson University Graduate Admissions Board? Claiming Carlin has severe antisocial personality traits and self-destructive tendencies, making her unfit for academic research?" He stepped closer, his breath hot against my face. "You knew Hudson was her dream school, that she spent an entire year preparing for this. Did you really have to drive her into a corner and destroy her entire future?!" I looked down at the top sheet. "Sender: Corinne Wright." "Timestamp: 2:00 AM last night." I looked up at him, my pulse flat, my voice utterly calm. "At two in the morning, I was sitting in the diner down the block. That is my laptop, but I didn't send that email." "Still lying?" Owen let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "I checked the client logs. You used the scheduled-send feature! Set it ten minutes before you walked out the door last night!" The master bedroom door creaked open an inch. Through the crack, I saw Carlin standing there, a chilling, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She pushed the door wide and stumbled out, tears already welling in her eyes. "Corinne... I know you hate me. You think I stole Owen’s attention. But why would you ruin my career? I'm begging you, please call the admissions office and tell them it was a mistake..." Owen rushed over, catching her before she could drop to her knees, shielding her behind his broad frame. "Look at what you’ve reduced her to! Does your pathetic, insecure jealousy require someone else's life as a sacrifice?!" "Owen," I said softly. "What if I told you that the email sitting in my drafts was a formal letter of recommendation to Department Chair Aldridge at Hudson?" I looked directly into his eyes. "You kept complaining about how stressed you were because she failed every mock exam. So I called in every favor I had with my former mentor to secure her a special provisional interview." Owen’s face contorted into a sneer of utter disbelief. "A recommendation letter? You couldn't even stand her breathing the same air in this apartment, and you expect me to believe you pulled strings for her? Do you think I'm blind, or just stupid?" He shoved the printed complaint in my face. "I checked the revision history in the draft folder! It was a hit piece from the very first sentence. There was never a recommendation letter!" "Fine," I said, nodding slowly. The last lingering ember of warmth in my chest went completely cold. "Believe whatever you want." "If you email the board right now to retract the complaint and apologize to Carlin, I'll pretend this never happened," Owen said, his tone dripping with magnanimous impatience. "That won't be necessary." I reached down, slid the two-carat diamond engagement ring off my left ring finger, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table with a clear, sharp "clink". Owen’s arrogant mask cracked. "Corinne... what the hell is this supposed to mean?" "It means the game is over," I said evenly. "This apartment is titled solely in my name, purchased well before we ever discussed marriage. You have seventy-two hours to get your belongings out of here. If you aren't gone by then, I'll have the police remove you for unlawful trespassing."
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