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Ever since we were kids, I'd always known how to make use of my gentle childhood friend for things like sending him on errands, and borrowing his allowance. He never complained. Just silently indulged me. Things continued the same way until the day we got engaged. That's when everything snapped into place. That was the day we both woke up. I was just a throwaway character in a novel. He was the male lead—fated to fall in love and end up with the novel's heroine. I was stunned. Ready to walk away. But he was furious. Jaw clenched, eyes wild. He grabbed my hand and dragged me straight to City Hall. "Screw the novel. Screw the plot. The only thing I know is that I love you, and I want forever with you." After we got married, he treated me like I was made of glass. Gentle. Meticulous. We worked side by side, building a reputation as a power couple in the business world. The events of the novel faded into the background. I fell deeper in love with him. Three years later, the youngest daughter of a real estate tycoon started her internship at our company. That day, there was a fire in the office. In the chaos, the girl stumbled into a shelving unit. It came crashing down, headed straight for my husband. I didn't hesitate. I threw myself in front of him. Pain exploded in my skull. Blood poured down my face. The girl, in her panic, had fallen to the ground, crying out, "Aaron, help me!" My husband's face went pale. His expression—pure terror—as he ran toward her without a second thought. "Grace!" he cried. Lightning split through me. My face drained of color. The heroine in the novel—her name was Grace.

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Before we submitted our college applications, the popular girl in our class, the billionaire’s daughter, suddenly said she could get all of us into Harvard or Yale. “My parents donated several buildings to those schools. Getting you all admitted is nothing.” Most of my classmates’ college entrance exam scores were still a long way from those schools, but they believed her. They gave up submitting their own applications and counted on her to pull strings so they could get into college. In my last life, I realized her promise was unreliable. I immediately urged them not to give up on their applications, to keep a backup plan, and I called their parents one by one. But that infuriated the popular girl. She mocked me for being poor and said I did not understand how the upper class worked. She claimed I had ruined everyone’s future. My boyfriend also snapped at me for being jealous. “You’re just jealous that Lissy’s family is rich. You can’t stand the thought of all of us going to Harvard or Yale. So what if you have good grades? You could work your whole life and still never catch up to what her family built over three generations.” For the sake of our three years as classmates, I did not argue with them. But before the deadline, when I found out they still had not submitted their applications, I called the police and exposed the popular girl’s fake identity. The popular girl was condemned by everyone. In despair, she jumped into a river and killed herself. My classmates all said she deserved it and thanked me for saving their futures. But at our class farewell dinner, my boyfriend poisoned my drink, and the entire class watched coldly as I writhed in pain. “At worst, we would have lost our chance at college. Lissy lost her life!” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day the popular girl claimed she could pull strings for us.

Taylor Crewman has always been considered as the lowest of the low in the social hierarchy of LittleWood High.She is constantly reminded of where she belongs by a certain best-friend-turned-worst-enemy. Desperate to do something about it she embarks on her biggest project yet.

At the end of the year, I went to the spa and discovered a stranger had been using my VIP card. When I logged into my personal profile, the last three treatment records were not under my name. The preference section listed specific details about someone else. She was allergic to rose essential oil, preferred lavender, and her heating pad temperature could not exceed 108 degrees Fahrenheit. Her menstrual cycle fell around the 15th of each month, so no waist or abdomen treatments during that time. I stared at the screen, my palms turning cold. Only my husband, Zachary White, knew this password. At the time, he said he needed it to check the balance and renew my membership. I scrolled down and found a system note at the bottom: [Birthday treatment reserved for December 30, prepared according to Ms. Anderson's preferences.] Today was December 30. My phone vibrated. Zachary had sent a message: [Working late tonight. Won't be home.] Familiar laughter drifted from the hallway. Through the glass door, I watched Zachary walk into the adjacent room with his arm around a woman, the beautician hurrying forward to greet them. "Mr. White, we have Ms. Anderson's birthday treatment ready, just as you requested."

My boyfriend goes viral after uploading a video of him being lovey-dovey with a woman. Everyone praises him for being handsome and a good boyfriend, but I don't even have the courage to like the video. Why? Because the woman in the video isn't me.