Hypocrisy

Years after graduation, someone suddenly tags me in the class group chat. "Mr. Warren is gravely ill, Mira. Aren't you going to do anything? You really are heartless!" I only realize what's going on when I click on the fundraising link in the chat. Our high school homeroom teacher, Joseph Warren, has late-stage cancer. Thus, Lyra Fairfield, the class belle, is leading a fundraiser and patient-donor matching process. "I'll donate ten thousand dollars. My husband is the director of Waverly General Hospital, and I've already asked him to arrange a VIP ward for Mr. Warren." Right after I send that message, the group pounces on me. "Mira, you contracted an STD back then and tried to pin it on Lyra. She didn't even hold it against you, and now you're trying to steal her thunder? You're unbelievable!" "I can't believe you're still lying through your teeth during such a serious situation. You never change, do you?" Lyra immediately defuses the tension. "Mira, I don't blame you for what happened in the past, but you really shouldn't impersonate the director's wife. I've already arranged the ward and surgery, and I'm donating another 100 thousand dollars to Mr. Warren!" I'm this close to laughing out of sheer anger. She's the one who scratched her name off the diagnosis report and framed me for having an STD all those years ago. I never even confronted her about it, and now she's playing the victim? Lyra soon posts a photo in the group chat, showing off her husband's car. Yet, when I see the man in the passenger seat, I guffaw. Isn't that my husband's driver? When did he start running a hospital?

I had been managing the company’s warehouse software for five years. Then the new manager came to me out of the blue, saying I didn’t understand frontline operations and that I was being fired. Looking at the five-thousand-dollar severance, I just nodded. “Fine.” He patted my shoulder after seeing me so compliant and started lecturing. “Young people should be out on the line, moving boxes! What’s the use of sitting in the office staring at data every day? “We’re a logistics company. Strength is what matters, not a tech geek like you!” I glanced at the high-end gaming computer in his office and obediently replied, “Yes, Mr. Fuller. Lesson received.” Maybe I had been too comfortable these past few years, and he thought I was dispensable. So, I handed over my ID badge and casually deleted all my personal login keys from my computer. Little did he know that the entire warehouse logistics, inventory management, and route planning software had been coded by me. I had let the company use it for free simply because the place was close to home and the work was easy. Now that I was gone, the system running on my personal cloud server was naturally inaccessible. Tens of thousands of items in the warehouse ground to a halt. As for any commercial software that could replace my system, a year’s subscription would cost exactly one thousand times my severance.

After my father died, my mother remarried and took my younger sister and me with her. But her new husband had one condition—she could only bring one child. From people who used to hang around my dad, I later learned that my grandfather was actually a wealthy antique collector. My sister clung to him for her own future, refusing to let go. But in his eyes, her only job was to get straight A's; everything else—her clothes, her meals, her allowance—was kept to the bare minimum. I went with my stepfather instead. His business took off, and we eventually moved into a huge mansion. He even set me up with an engagement to the heir of a powerful, wealthy family. My sister was eaten up with jealousy. One day, she doused me in gasoline and dragged us both back in time to that day we had to choose our futures. This time, she lunged for my stepfather's hand and held on tight. "I want to stay with Mom and Dad," she announced. I didn't miss a beat. I immediately ducked behind my grandfather. 'Fine, Phoebe. You're the one who chose a life as a bargaining chip. Don't blame me for it. You can have it.'

The night before her wedding, Morgan Hayes was hit by a car while trying to save Sebastian Cole. She was thrown into the air, suffering multiple fractures, and her face was severely disfigured from the impact. Despite her injuries, Sebastian didn’t turn away from her. He still married her and continued to cherish and protect her as he always had. Everyone said Sebastian loved her more than life itself, that his love for her went beyond superficial appearances. She once believed that too until half a month ago when she discovered he was having an affair with their housemaid.

My husband secretly swapped the transplant recipient, giving the kidney that was meant for our daughter to the daughter of the woman he had always loved. Not long after, our daughter's condition worsened. The doctors tried to save her, but it was no use. She didn't make it. At the same time, the other girl's surgery was a success. My husband was so overjoyed that he handed out little gifts to the entire hospital in celebration. Rage and grief overwhelmed me, and I collapsed. When I came to, the doctors told me I had cancer. Late-stage. My time was running out. With nothing left to hold on to, I walked out of the hospital, clutching the urn that held my daughter's ashes. In the cold, empty house, I sat alone and drafted the divorce papers.

I was in the office bathroom stall when I heard them trash-talking me. The intern I'd trained for three months whined, "She's a heartless witch—like a robot with zero brain cells." I was about to swing the door open when another voice jumped in, laughing. "Documents incomplete." "Receipts don't match." "No signature? Denied." "Seriously, we've all memorized the freaking rulebot's script!" Once they were gone, I headed back to my desk. The intern stormed in and slammed a fat stack of reimbursement forms in front of me. "Don't go on another power trip and block everyone's claims." I skimmed the obviously fake receipts. Normally, I'd tear into her. But this time, I just smiled. "My head's killing me. Can't read the fine print."

On the day Shane Jackson and I registered our marriage, his infatuated secretary pushed me off a building. I fractured two ribs, lost my baby instantly, and slipped into a coma. Shane stayed by my side and told everyone I was his only wife, never leaving my bedside. But when no one was watching, he pressed that secretary against the hospital bed and murmured, "If it weren't for you, Lily and I would already have a three-year-old child. You owe us a baby. This is what you must repay her." Joanna Rogers trembled in his arms, eyes full of tears. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson. I loved you too much. I'll accept whatever punishment you give me." A moment later, I heard their heavy breathing. My eyes, which had been shut for three years, suddenly opened. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

My sister-in-law, Esmerelda Black, hates that her mother, Ruth Jennings, favors me. To make things worse, she has the ability to hear Ruth's thoughts. And she uses that gift against me. When I tell Ruth to have more vegetables to stay healthy, Esmerelda says, "Clara is such a cheapskate not to buy you meat. She doesn't ask her own mom to eat more vegetables." When I encourage Ruth to exercise more to build strength, she says, "Mom, you're already old. You should be taking it easy. Clara wants you to work yourself to death." Slowly, Ruth grows to hate me. In the end, Esmerelda acquires the family business, seizes the fortune, and trafficks me to North Maldia to die. However, when I open my eyes again, I have her gift too—I can also hear Ruth's thoughts.

My husband woke me at 2 AM, demanding I come to the hospital to operate on Ava Foster— his first love. When I arrived, Ava was lying ghostly pale in the hospital bed. The chart showed end-stage uremia; she desperately needed a kidney transplant. I explained that her condition was critical, and without a matching donor, there was nothing I could do. My husband mistook my professional assessment for jealousy. He slapped me hard across the face. "What kind of doctor are you?" he snarled. "Are you just going to let her die? Test more people until you find a match!" I rubbed my cheek and nodded calmly. "Actually, we already found one." "Your kidney is compatible with hers. You'll be the donor."

During the mandatory freshman orientation camp, my skin had flared up with a severe allergic reaction, so I didn't use the plastic washbasin the school handed out. Instead, I opened my suitcase and took out the custom silver basin I had brought from home. My roommate, Louisa Carter, immediately made a snide remark, drawling, "You're really something, huh? Kids from broke families like us are lucky to have any basin at all." I didn't bother responding. I simply pulled out my facial essence to do a cold compress, but she immediately rushed over, slapped the bottle out of my hand, and jabbed a finger at my face. "Bet you get tens of thousands a month for living expenses. You have a sugar daddy, don't you? Don't you feel guilty making your folks work their fingers to the bone back on the farm? People like you don't deserve to be at our school. I'm reporting you to the student counselor." I laughed in disbelief and slapped her. … The next morning, the family photo I'd left on my desk had been slashed to ribbons. Across the back, carved in ink, were the words: 'Daughter of a homewrecker. Go to hell.' I went straight to the police. While officers pulled the dorm security footage, our student counselor and the university president rushed in. The moment the president saw the man whose face had been cut apart in my photo, his legs nearly buckled. He almost dropped to his knees.