Love Lost to First Love
On the day of the swimming competition finals, Vivian Jordan didn’t show up to capture the moment. Instead, after I won the championship, she sent me a photo she found online, claiming a friend had taken it for her. The message read: “My husband is the best!”
In a dramatic twist, her first love posted a collage of nine flawless shots, highlighting every muscle, alongside a bank transfer screenshot of $131,420, captioned: “My one true love.” I didn’t confront her; I just walked away. When I left, she posted a cryptic message on Facebook: “Not taking his picture, just avoiding the embarrassment of who’s the real eyesore. Is that worth making a fuss over?”
Six months later, I broke a world record and landed the cover of a major magazine. The photographer was Vivian herself, but I turned my back on the shoot. Despite her tearful cries behind me, “I’ll only photograph you for the rest of my life. I’ll give you all the royalties; just come back, please?”
After that, she took over ten thousand photos of me, but I never glanced at a single one. She never understood that what I wanted was never about the pictures. Under Rory Castillo’s photo collage, there was an outpouring of admiration, including comments from employees at Vivian's photography studio whom I had met during a group dinner.
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Chapter 2
I picked up my phone and snapped a selfie, playfully biting the medal, without typing a single word. As soon as I posted it on Instagram, Vivian Jordan called, demanding, “Didn’t I take photos for you? Why haven’t you posted those?”
“Aren’t you still upset with me? I carved out time from my hectic schedule to watch your competition. It was too long, too crowded, and it made me anxious. I asked a friend to take your photos; aren’t they good enough?”
Looking at the photo she claimed was specially taken for me, I couldn’t help but notice the uncropped corner watermark, clearly grabbed from a news broadcast. Yet she insisted it was a friend's effort.
I chuckled to myself, said nothing, and hung up the phone. When Vivian switched from landscape to portrait photography, I was the one who paid thousands for her classes. Even the money to hire models for her artistic projects was hard-earned through my side gigs, risking expulsion from the swimming club.
Now she has her own studio and is a renowned photographer. All I wanted was for her to take a photo during the most important competition of my life, but she couldn’t manage that.
She even bought me the cheapest set of gear I asked for; halfway through the course, the goggles cracked under pressure. I pushed through and finished the competition, blaming myself for trusting her with something so crucial that was beyond her understanding.
Looking at those seemingly affectionate numbers, 143, it’s clear that it’s not about her not understanding—it's just that I'm not a priority to her.
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7.8
The morning sun slanted through the glass tower of Archer Design, casting the interview room in honeyed light that felt too warm, too exposing. I smoothed my navy pencil skirt for the third time and tried to steady my breathing. Four months of unemployment had taught me the taste of desperation, and I wouldn't let it show today. 'Your portfolio is impressive, Ms. Carroll,' said the hiring manager, a woman with kind eyes and a stack of my work spread before her. 'The layout work for Vantage Media was particularly strong.'
'Thank you,' I replied, keeping my voice level. 'I believe in letting the design speak for itself, but not letting it scream.'
She smiled, and I felt a flutter of hope. The final round interview had gone better than I'd dared to expect. As I gathered my portfolio, she extended her hand. 'We'll be in touch by tomorrow morning.'
Outside, Manhattan bustled with the particular energy of a Tuesday afternoon.
9.3
The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the bridal suite, casting a golden glow over the ivory lace of my wedding gown. I ran my fingers along the intricate train, admiring how the delicate patterns caught the light. After three years of planning, tomorrow I would finally become Mrs. Christopher Zhou. "Perfect," I whispered, a smile playing on my lips as I snapped a photo of the dress for my final pre-wedding social media update. The luxury venue in downtown Seattle had exceeded all my expectations—crystal chandeliers suspended from vaulted ceilings, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Elliott Bay. I reached for my phone, quickly typing a message to my florist. *Can we add more rose petals for the aisle? I'm thinking a denser scatter near the altar.*
The response came almost immediately: *Absolutely, Stella! We'll make sure it's perfect.*
Perfect.
7.9
I gently touched my stomach, feeling a wave of sadness wash over me. The emotional weight of the pregnancy test was something only I could truly comprehend. It was my own flesh and blood, making it hard to let go. Since I became pregnant, he hadn’t bothered to stay by my side. Instead, he let his assistant, Anastasia, flaunt herself in front of me repeatedly. Every time I asked him to stay with me, to give me a little motivation, he’d cite being busy as an excuse while gallivanting around with her. Meetings turned into spa hotel getaways with Anastasia; business trips became bikini holidays in the Caribbean. Incidents like this happened more times than I could count. I cried and fought, but he never took it seriously. He’d dismiss me with, “She’s just an assistant, what could we possibly have?
8.6
The antiseptic smell of the hospice room clung to my clothes, a constant reminder of where I'd been spending most of my days. I stared at the stack of medical bills spread across the small wooden table, the numbers blurring together as my eyes watered. Each page represented another month of my father's life, another round of treatments that insurance wouldn't cover. "Dahlia?" My father's voice, thin and reedy, pulled me from my calculations. "Just checking some things, Dad." I quickly wiped my eyes and turned toward him. Ronald Gardner looked smaller than I remembered, his once-broad shoulders now barely making a bump beneath the hospital blanket. The cancer had eaten away at him, leaving behind a shell of the man who'd raised me alone after Mom died. "The tea," he whispered, gesturing weakly toward the kettle. "Could you?"
I nodded, rising to fill the kettle. As I waited for it to boil, my phone buzzed with a notification.
8.2
My son Leo had just died, and the silence in our cramped apartment felt like a physical weight crushing my chest.
Before I could even process the grief, my husband, Preston, kicked the door open and threw divorce papers onto the table.
Behind him stood Gloria, wearing a pristine cashmere coat and the diamond pendant Preston swore he had pawned to pay for Leo's hospital bills.
"Sign it," Preston said coldly. "You get nothing."
Gloria smirked, mocking me for failing to keep my sick child alive. When I tore up the papers in a blinding rage, Preston slapped me to the floor.
Then, my biological mother, Jerilyn, walked in. Instead of helping me, she pulled a serrated kitchen knife from her bag and plunged it deep into my stomach.
As I lay dying in a pool of my own blood, Jerilyn leaned in and whispered the devastating truth.
"I swapped you in the nursery. Gloria is my blood, and you belong in a Manhattan mansion. I can't let you ruin her life."
Until my lungs stopped working, I was consumed by a roaring, violent hatred. My own mother had traded my life of privilege for poverty, let my son die, and then murdered me to protect the fake.
Opening my eyes again, the dingy ceiling and the agonizing pain were gone.
I was sitting at a wooden desk, surrounded by the chatter of teenagers.
I was back in high school. And this time, I was going to make them pay.
8.3
SAVING ANGEL
8.3
What do you want in return for saving my daughter?" Japheth Williams asked blankly.
Gilda quickly sprang up, "No. I didn't save her because I wanted a prize, Angel is just too...."
"Then have a nice time," Japheth cuts in and leaves without looking back.
Gilda was taken aback; she saved the billionaire's daughter because she happened to be locked in the same storeroom.
Now her father thought she did it because she wanted something in return.
Getting back home, a wedding proposal was waiting. Her stepmom handed her the proposal, "You either marry him or stop acting."
Stop acting? Acting was her biggest passion and dream. Asking her to quit or get married was too much, and so she left home.
While roaming on the street, another proposal met her again, and this time it was from Seth Williams, Japheth's brother.
"My niece can't get enough of you. Be her nanny, and I'll sponsor your acting career".
Frustrated and desperate, she agreed.
If taking care of Angel alone was the real job, it would be easier, but she was forced to deal with her crippled father, too.
Japheth Williams. The head honcho of the biggest film industry in the country.
It started as a business deal, but how did it end? And who is Angel's real Mum?.