In the corner of the bay window, a pair of decorative pillows lay tossed aside.

My mom had embroidered those by hand.

She'd sat under the lamp with her reading glasses on, stitching for two straight nights.

She'd pricked her fingers three times.

Now the pillows were buried under Felicia's torn-open delivery boxes.

She hadn't even glanced at them.

On the nightstand sat a Polaroid.

Fabian and Felicia in matching pajamas, leaning into each other.

On the back, a line of handwriting：

“After all this time, it was always you.”

I picked up the photo.

Fabian followed me in.

The second he saw what was in my hand, his face changed.

“Joy, don't go through other people's things.”

I turned to look at him.

“Other people's things?”

“Sitting on the nightstand in the master bedroom of MY apartment?”

He had nothing to say to that.

I threw the photo at his chest.

“Fabian, the wedding invitations have already been sent out.”

“My mom has been calling relatives every single day this week to confirm who's coming.”

“And you?”

“You were in my wedding apartment, taking couple photos with your dream girl.”

He bent down and picked up the photo.

His first instinct wasn't to throw it away.

He wiped it off. Carefully.

I watched him do it, and whatever warmth was left inside me went cold.

“Joy.”

He said.

“I admit what I did was wrong.”

“But you're not innocent either.”

I stared at him, caught off guard.

He lifted his head and met my eyes.

And there it was. Righteous indignation. Like he actually believed what he was about to say.

“You always bring up the apartment.”

“The deed is in your name. Your parents paid for it. Your family covered most of the renovation.”

“Do you have any idea how much pressure that puts on me?”

“Every time your mom says this place is your safety net, it feels like a slap in the face.”

“I was supposed to be marrying you, but I felt like a stranger living in your house.”

“Felicia's different.”

“She'd never hold any of that over my head.”

I looked at him.

“So you went ahead and became one.”

“A stranger. And you brought someone else in to take my place.”

His expression froze.

From outside, Felicia called for him.

“Babe, come help me pack my stuff!”

Fabian turned to leave.

I stopped him.

“Keys.”

He looked back.

I held out my hand.

“And the smart lock code.”

Fabian frowned.

“You really have to be this cold about it?”

I didn't answer. Just looked at him.

He dug a set of keys out of his pocket and slammed them onto the bed.

“Fine.”

“Don't come crying to me later.”

I picked up the keys.

“I won't be the one crying.”

I didn't go back to my rental that day.

I went straight to my parents' place.

The moment my mom opened the door and saw my face, she forgot to put down the spatula in her hand.

“Sweetheart, what happened?”

I opened my mouth.

Not a single word came out.

My dad walked over from the living room.

“Did Fabian do something to you?”

I handed them my phone.

The photos I'd taken at the apartment were still on the screen.

The wine glasses.

The matching pajamas.

Felicia's delivery boxes.

The Polaroid on the nightstand.

And the wedding pillows, crushed underneath it all.

My mom's face drained of color.

She gripped the edge of the dining table and didn't speak for a long time.

My dad swiped through them one by one.

When he reached the last photo, he set the phone down.

For a long, long time, he said only one thing：

“The wedding is off.”

My mom finally snapped out of it.

Her eyes were red.

“How dare he?”

“That's the apartment we bought for you.”

My nose stung with the threat of tears.

That apartment wasn't just a home to our family. It was everything.

My dad hurt his back in a factory accident when he was young. These past few years, he couldn't even stand up straight on rainy days.

My mom, trying to scrape together the down payment for me, took early retirement and went to work as a cashier at a grocery store.

Standing on her feet all day, her legs would swell so badly she couldn't get her shoes off.

The day we bought the couch, she quietly checked the price tag three times.

She thought I didn't see.

When she swiped her card, she told the saleswoman：

“This one. My daughter likes it.”

I never said I liked it.

She just wanted to pack every good thing she could into my future.

The day we closed on the apartment, my mom cried in secret.

She said：

“Sweetheart, your dad and I aren't rich. We can't give you much.”

“But this apartment is your safety net.”

“If anyone ever wrongs you, at least you'll have somewhere to go.”

Fabian knew all of this.

Every bit of it.

And he still moved Felicia in.

My mom sat on the couch, her hands trembling the whole time.

“Do his parents know?”

I shook my head.

“I don't think so.”

My dad let out a cold laugh.

“Don't be so sure.”

I looked at him.

He picked up his phone.

“I'm calling Arnold Chavez right now.”

“They don't get to touch that apartment again.”

“And every dollar you lent Fabian, we're getting it back. Every last cent.”

I froze for a second.

“Dad……”

He looked at me.

His eyes were red too.

“Sweetheart.”

“It's not about the money.”

“It's about you.”

“He treated you like dirt today because he thinks you'll cave.”

“You can't let him believe your kindness is worthless.”

That night, I slept in my old childhood bedroom.

Sticky notes from SAT prep were still on the headboard.

I stared at the ceiling and didn't sleep at all.

At four in the morning, my phone buzzed.

A message from Fabian.

“Babe, today was my fault.”

“But Felicia really has nowhere else to go.”

“Stop making a scene. Once we're married, I'll make it up to you.”

I stared at the words “make it up to you” for a long time.

Then I typed back：

“The wedding is off.”

His reply came instantly.

“You wouldn't dare.”

Then another message, right on its heels.

“Joy, don't forget, the invitations are already out.”

“You cancel now, your family's the one who looks pathetic.”

I stared at that line.

And laughed.

So it wasn't that he didn't know this would humiliate me.

He was just using my humiliation as leverage.

I didn't reply.

When morning came, I called the wedding planner.

“Hi, I'm the bride for next Saturday's ceremony.”

“The wedding is off.”

Silence on the other end.

“Are you sure? The deposit is probably non-refundable.”

“I'm sure.”

I hung up and started calling every friend and relative, one by one.

I kept it simple.

“The wedding is off.”

“Fabian cheated.”

“He moved his ex into my apartment.”

Some were stunned.

Some offered comfort.

A few tried to talk me out of it.

“Men make mistakes before the wedding. If he can change, just let it go.”

I looked at that message and deleted it.

Change?

A man who sneaks into someone else's home doesn't get called a man who made a mistake.

He gets called a thief.

The next morning, my lawyer and I went to the property management office.

The manager's face went stiff the moment he saw me.

“Ms. Fox, this was an oversight on our part.”

“But Mr. Dickerson came in with an authorization document and a copy of your ID.”

“We assumed……”

I cut him off.

“Where's the authorization document?”

The property manager pulled up the records.

One glance, and my hands went cold.

The signature on the authorization document wasn't mine.

But in the bottom right corner was a red thumbprint.

My thumbprint.

Last month, Fabian said there were extra forms to fill out for our premarital medical check.

He'd brought home a stack of papers and asked me to sign and stamp each one.

I'd even teased him about it.

“Since when does a medical check need this many thumbprints?”

He said：

“New regulations. They're cracking down on people sending proxies.”

I believed him.

Now, that thumbprint was on an authorization document.

Granting him permission to change the locks on my apartment.

Arnold's expression hardened.

“This is no longer a simple relationship dispute.”

“This is forgery of a legal authorization document.”

I stared at the screen.

“Can you pull up the security footage?”

The property manager nodded immediately.

On the footage, three days ago, two in the afternoon.

Fabian walked into the elevator lobby with Felicia.

And with them was a middle-aged woman.

My breath caught.

That was Fabian's mother.

Emma Lambert.

She was carrying a bag of apples, her face creased with a wide smile.

While the locksmith swapped out the smart lock, she stood right beside him, giving directions.

“Set the passcode to my son's birthday.”

“This is the young couple's place now. A mother-in-law needs to be able to get in.”

I watched that woman on the screen, and a chill crawled through every part of me.

So she knew.

She didn't just know. She was part of it.

Right then, Arnold's phone rang.

He stepped aside to take the call.

When he came back, his face looked worse than before.

“Ms. Fox.”

“Your apartment wasn't just re-keyed.”

I looked up.

“What do you mean?”

He handed me his phone.

On the screen was a listing page on a resale property platform.

The photos were of my unit at Bayview Towers.

The headline read：

“Owner selling urgently. Wedding-ready renovation, designer furniture throughout. $30,000 below market.”

Contact： Ms. Lambert.

The last four digits of the phone number. I recognized them.

It was Emma Lambert.

I kept scrolling.

The page showed：

Earnest deposit received: $20,000.

My finger froze on the screen.

“She's selling my apartment?”

Arnold's voice dropped low.

“There's more.”

He opened another document.

A title transfer appointment confirmation.

Scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten.

Property address: Bayview Towers, Building 12, Unit 2701.

My apartment.

I stared at that line, the cold spreading up my fingers one knuckle at a time.

“The deed is in my hands. How can they close?”

Arnold said：

“The agent claims they have a notarized power of attorney from the owner herself.”

“The closing appointment is really just a placeholder filed with preliminary documents. It hasn't passed review yet.”

“But if we don't stop it now, things will get very complicated.”

My head buzzed white.

“That's impossible.”

“I've never set foot in a notary office.”

Arnold said nothing.

He pulled up another screenshot from a security camera.

In the image, Emma Lambert had her arm linked with a woman.

The woman was wearing a mask, my white button-down shirt, and a low ponytail.

From behind, she could have been me.

She was sitting at the service window.

Stroke by careful stroke, she signed my name.

In that instant, something absurd flickered through my mind.

As if the world had actually produced another “me.”

She opened my door.

Signed my name.

Sold the one safety net my parents had ever given me.

Arnold kept his voice barely above a whisper.

“Ms. Fox.”

“Someone impersonated you.”

“Tomorrow at ten, they're closing the deal.”

“If that closing goes through, this won't be a relationship dispute anymore.”

“It'll be property theft.”

I stared at the screenshot.

The blood drained from my body, inch by inch, turning cold.

Fabian.

Felicia.

Emma.

This wasn't impulsive.

They'd planned it from the start.

The safety net my parents had spent half their lives saving for was, in their eyes, just something to live in, con away, sell off, and cash out.

I took my phone back.

Dialed Fabian.

He picked up fast.

His tone was hostile.

“So you finally decided to call?”

I kept my voice even：

“Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock. The closing?”

Silence on the other end.

I continued：

“Fabian.”

“You'd better come explain yourself. Now.”

“Because in ten minutes, I'm calling the police.”