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I used to ask every new dialysis patient the same thing — "What was your A1C before your kidneys failed?" After 11,000 patients and the same answer every single time, I stopped asking. It was always "managed." It was always between 6.5 and 7.5. It was always someone who did everything their doctor told them to do. The chairs aren't full of people who ignored their blood sugar. They're full of people who trusted the wrong number. I need to tell you something I've been carrying for a long time. And I'm telling you now because last month I got my own prediabetes diagnosis — and I refuse to end up in one of my own chairs. I'm Sandra Keller. I've been a dialysis nurse for 14 years. Roughly 11,000 patients connected to machines. Let me tell you what that actually looks like — because most people only know the word. They don't know the room. Three days a week. Four hours a session. A needle goes into a fistula — a surgically created access point in the arm that leaves a scar most patients hide under long sleeves even in summer. The machine pulls their blood out, cleans it — does what their kidneys cannot anymore — and pushes it back in. For four hours. While they sit there. I've watched people cry during sessions — not from pain but from the weight of what their life became. I've watched a 61-year-old man read the same magazine in the waiting room every Tuesday and Thursday for three years while his wife was connected. I've watched patients stop traveling because they cannot miss a session. I've watched marriages buckle under the schedule. I've watched grandchildren learn to plan around Grandma's dialysis days — "we can't do Saturday, Grandma has her treatment." I've watched patients stop coming. And I know what that means. One of my long-term patients — a woman named Ruth, 63, three years in my unit — told me something I think about every single day. She said: "This isn't living. This is just not dying yet." And you know what every single one of them says when I ask how they got here? "I did everything right. My blood sugar was managed. Nobody told me my kidneys were dying." Every. Single. One. Last month I sat in my own doctor's office and heard the word "prediabetes" attached to my name. A1C: 6.4. Fasting glucose running 135 to 145. And here's the part that made my hands go cold — my creatinine had crept from 0.8 to 1.0 over ten months. My GFR — the number that tells you how well your kidneys are actually filtering — had dropped from 98 to 86. On paper, none of that is alarming. My doctor said "we'll keep an eye on it." But I've heard those exact words before. I've heard them from the charts of people who are now sitting in my chairs. I know what "keeping an eye on it" looks like from the other end. It looks like quarterly labs that document the decline in neat little rows while the kidneys quietly fall apart between appointments. I know what a creatinine of 1.0 looks like at the beginning. Because I've held the hands of people whose creatinine started at 1.0. And I felt something I'd never felt in 14 years of nursing — real, bone-deep terror. Not for my patients. For myself. Two weeks later, something happened that changed the direction of everything. A patient came into my unit for his session. Type 2 for twelve years. On dialysis for nineteen months. I'd known him the whole time. He pulled a bag out of his jacket and set it on the table next to his chair. "Sandra. Tell your people about this." I picked it up. Ceylon cinnamon. Concentrated extract. 7,200mg equivalent in MCT oil. Called Metabolae. "My brother-in-law started taking it four months ago. A1C was 7.2. Now it's 5.9. His kidneys haven't gone further down. He was headed where I am. Not anymore." He looked at me. "My brother-in-law is not sitting in one of these chairs. And he was supposed to be." I took the bag home that night. I did what I've done my whole career when something doesn't add up. I opened my laptop at 11:30 PM and started reading. Here is what I found. And here is the thing I should have learned years earlier. Your A1C measures one thing: the percentage of your red blood cells coated in glucose. It's a rolling 90-day average of how much sugar is floating in your blood. That is all it measures. It does not see what that sugar is doing while it circulates. It does not see the tiny capillaries threading through your kidney tissue. It does not see the small vessels feeding the nerves in your feet. It does not see the delicate blood supply behind your eyes. It sees the level of the flood. Not where the flood is going. A 6.4 can be called prediabetic and your kidney filters can still be quietly wearing down behind it. A 6.8 can be called "managed" and the decline keeps moving. Both things are completely true at the same time. Because the A1C is tracking the water level. Your kidneys are paying the price of the current underneath. This is what produces foam in your toilet. The tiny filters inside your kidneys — glomeruli — have been under sustained pressure from glucose circulating through their walls for years. They start to fail. Protein leaks out. It shows up in your urine as foam that sits there after you flush. That foam is not a warning sign that something might happen. It is evidence that something is already happening. Let me explain the mechanism underneath — because once you see it, you'll understand why "managed" doesn't mean "safe." Every cell in your body has tiny doors on its surface — protein transporters called GLUT4. Their job is to open up, grab glucose from the blood, and pull it inside the cell where it gets converted to energy. In a healthy body, insulin gives the signal, the doors open, glucose moves from blood into cell, and blood sugar comes down. In insulin resistance — the thing underneath type 2 diabetes — those doors stop responding. They're still there. They just stopped coming to the surface. Insulin gives the signal. Nothing happens. Your pancreas sends more insulin. Still nothing. The glucose has nowhere to go, so it stays in your blood and keeps circulating. Your cells are starving. Your blood is flooded. And the sugar floating through your bloodstream keeps passing through every small blood vessel in your body, hour after hour, year after year, wearing the walls down from the inside. Think of your kidneys like the finest mesh screen you've ever seen — millions of tiny filters. That excess sugar is like fine sand being forced through the mesh under pressure. Hour after hour. Day after day. Month after month. The mesh starts to tear. First it leaks a little protein — that foam. Then the tears get bigger. Then the filtration rate drops. Then the whole system starts to fail. Metformin slows the flow of sand a little. But the sand is still coming. And the mesh is still tearing. And the monitoring? The monitoring just measures how torn the mesh is getting. Nobody is stopping the sand. And it is not just the kidneys. That same sugar pileup strips the insulation off your nerves — that's why your feet burn and your hands tingle. It starves your brain of fuel — that's why the fog rolls in by 2pm and the words get lost. It wrecks the tiny blood vessels behind your eyes — that's why the floaters showed up. It locks your body in fat-storage mode — that's why the belly won't budge. It shatters your sleep — that's why you're up three times a night with a racing heart. And it damages the blood vessels responsible for intimacy — that's why that part of your life quietly disappeared and nobody connected it to blood sugar. All of it — kidneys, nerves, brain, eyes, sleep, weight, intimacy — traces back to the same closed doors. Your doctor monitors the headline number. The story underneath it is your organs falling apart. Now — your medications. Metformin works on the input side of this problem. It tells your liver to produce less glucose. It reduces the flood. That is a real, useful thing and your doctor is not wrong to prescribe it. But it does not touch the doors. The GLUT4 transporters are still not responding. The glucose that remains in your blood — even at a "managed" level — keeps circulating. Keeps passing through your kidney capillaries. Keeps grinding the mesh. Because the drug that reduced the flood did not open the drain. And here is what stopped me cold at 2 AM in my kitchen with 14 years of dialysis nursing behind me: The research on how to open those doors exists. It has been published. Peer-reviewed. Cited by the ADA's own journals. Sitting in databases that a 15-minute appointment leaves no time to read. There is a specific compound that triggers GLUT4 transporters directly. It bypasses the broken insulin signal entirely. It goes to the cell, speaks to the machinery inside it, and wakes the doors back up. A 2003 study in Diabetes Care — the ADA's own flagship journal — showed these compounds produced a 29% drop in fasting blood glucose. A study published in the Journal of the American College of Nutrition found that MHCP triggers the same internal chemical cascade that insulin is supposed to trigger, and was 20 times more effective at activating this pathway than any other natural compound tested. Twenty times. A second study in the Archives of Biochemistry and Biophysics confirmed that Ceylon extract physically increases the number of GLUT4 transporters at the cell surface. The doors do not just crack open. They multiply. A 2012 review in the Journal of Medicinal Food analyzed eight randomized controlled trials and found meaningful drops in both fasting glucose and A1C. Published. Replicated. Real. And in 14 years of working at the end of the road — watching thousands of patients get pulled into those chairs — not once had anyone put this in my hand. Not because doctors are hiding it. Because the pipeline that moves research from a journal into a treatment room runs on patent money. You cannot patent a plant. So no pharmaceutical company funds the trials that would land it on a sales representative's desk. No sales rep walks it into a primary care office. The studies stay in databases. The patients keep coming in with foam in their toilets and GFRs that drop another point each quarter. That is not your fault. You took the pills. You tracked the number. You kept every appointment. You were not failing the system. The system was only giving you half the answer and never telling you the other half existed. Now. You have probably tried cinnamon before. You sprinkled it on oatmeal. You found a bottle at the grocery store or on Amazon and took it faithfully for three months and watched your meter not move. I've watched patients bring supplement bottles to their dialysis sessions and ask me if they should keep taking them. I need you to understand exactly why most of them fail. They use the wrong plant. The cinnamon in your spice cabinet and in most capsules is Cassia. It looks the same. It smells similar. It is a completely different species with a completely different chemical makeup. At the doses required to move blood sugar, Cassia silently burdens your liver. The European Food Safety Authority documented that as little as a quarter teaspoon per day pushes daily coumarin intake past safe limits — and coumarin damages liver tissue at therapeutic doses. You were not taking the wrong amount. You were taking the wrong plant. True Ceylon cinnamon contains 250 times less coumarin. It is the only species appearing in the clinical research showing real metabolic results. They are catastrophically underdosed. Clinical trials used concentrated extract equivalent to 6,000 to 7,200mg daily. Most capsules contain 500 to 1,500mg of raw powder. That is not a small gap. That is the difference between a therapeutic dose and a decorative amount. They use the wrong delivery format. The active compounds in Ceylon — the ones that wake up GLUT4 transporters — are fat-soluble. Your cell walls are a double layer of fat molecules. Fat-soluble compounds need fat to pass through them. A dry powder capsule has no fat. So the compounds reach your gut, look for a fat carrier to cross the cell wall, find none, and pass straight through without ever reaching the cells that need them. Your cinnamon did not fail because cinnamon does not work. It failed because it was never delivered. The bag that my patient set down on the table next to his chair? He was taking Metabolae. True Ceylon cinnamon. Cinnamomum verum, sourced from a single estate in Sri Lanka's Central Province — the original home of true cinnamon, where the tree has been cultivated for over two thousand years. DNA-verified at the species level. An actual Certificate of Analysis, not a label claim. Dosed at 7,200mg equivalent per softgel. A 12:1 concentrated extract. The dosing range that corresponds directly to the published clinical trials. Suspended in MCT oil from coconuts. Not as a filler. As the delivery system — the fat bridge that carries the active compounds through your cell wall and into the cells where the GLUT4 transporters have been waiting for years to be told to surface. Third-party tested. GMP-certified. Every batch verified for purity, potency, and coumarin levels. Made in an FDA-registered facility. Zero fillers. I ordered a bag that night. Week 1, the fog lifted. Not managed — lifted. I finished a twelve-hour shift and still had thoughts left. My feet stopped aching after long days on the floor. I slept through the night for the first time in months. Week 2, my fasting readings — which had been running 135 to 145 — started showing up in the 110s. I checked three times the first morning I saw 108 because I didn't believe it. Week 4, the readings stabilized in the low 90s. Stable. Consistent. The kind of numbers I had not seen since before any of this started. Week 8, I pulled my own labs. Creatinine back to 0.8. GFR climbed from 86 to 91. Week 10, my doctor pulled up my full panel. A1C down from 6.4 to 5.4. Creatinine holding at 0.8. GFR at 94. Seven pounds gone without changing what I ate. She looked at the numbers. Looked at me. "What did you change?" I handed her the research I'd been reading at 11:30 PM for three weeks. She read for ten minutes. Closed the folder. "Your kidney function improved." I nodded. "Keep doing whatever you're doing." That patient who set the bag on the table? He's still on dialysis. That door closed for him a long time ago. But his brother-in-law — the one he told me about — came in with him to a follow-up visit two months later. I met him in the waiting room. A1C 5.9. Creatinine stable. GFR climbing. Not in a chair. Not going to be. He looked at me and said: "The drain opened." I've recommended Metabolae to eight patients now. Or to their family members in the monitoring window — the ones who still have a chance. Every single one has come back and reported the same pattern. Better sleep within the first week. Steady energy through the day. Lower fasting glucose within the first month. One woman — 58, A1C 6.9, protein spillage climbing for three years — came back at her 90-day follow-up with spillage down 45 percent. She cried when she told me the foam in her toilet was gone. Another patient's GFR went from 53 to 59 in four months. His nephrologist, who had been preparing him for the dialysis conversation, told him the trajectory had changed and asked what he had added. But the one I think about most is Ruth. I told her what I'd found. She looked at me with tears running down her face and said: "Tell everyone. Don't let them end up like me." That's why I'm writing this. If you are sitting in the monitoring window right now — if your A1C is between 6.0 and 7.5, if your doctor keeps saying "we'll keep an eye on it," if your creatinine is creeping up a tenth at a time, if your GFR is dropping a point or two each quarter, if there is foam in your toilet, if your feet tingle — try Metabolae risk-free. Ninety-day money-back guarantee. No questions asked. If your fasting glucose does not come down, if your kidney markers do not move, if you see no difference in 90 days, you pay nothing. The patients who see real movement in their kidney function are the ones who committed to at least three months. That is how long it takes to give your GFR a real chance to stabilize and shift. That is how long it takes to move A1C meaningfully. The 90-day guarantee means those three months cost you nothing if the numbers do not move. Here is what happens if they do. Your fasting glucose starts dropping between weeks 2 and 4. Your sleep improves within the first week — most people stop waking multiple times within 5 to 7 days. Your energy levels out through the day. And at your next lab draw — the one where your doctor has been saying "let's keep an eye on it" — she pauses. Looks at the numbers. Looks at you. Asks what you changed. You tell her. She uses a word you have not heard in years of appointments. "Improving." Not managed. Improving. The window stays open. The chair stays empty. One softgel daily with breakfast. That is the whole protocol. Metabolae is a small company sourcing verified Ceylon from a single estate in Sri Lanka's Central Province, testing every batch, using a fat-based delivery system that costs more to produce. When a batch sells out it waits on the next harvest. If you click and see out of stock, sign up for the notification. If it is available, order now. There is a promotion running currently. Three bottles at a significant discount — which is exactly the window for the kidney markers to actually move. If you are dealing with: Foam in the toilet that will not go away no matter how many times you flush. Tingling or burning in your feet that your doctor calls neuropathy. Fasting glucose that will not come below 130 no matter what you cut out. Creatinine climbing a tenth at a time every quarter. GFR dropping while your doctor "keeps an eye on it." An A1C your doctor calls "managed" or "prediabetic" while your body keeps sending signals that something is wrong. Give it 90 days. Track your fasting glucose every morning. Note your sleep, your energy, your feet. Go back for your next labs. If the numbers do not move, you get your money back. But if they do — if your kidney markers hold or climb, if the foam stops, if your doctor pauses over your labs and says the word you have been waiting to hear for years — you will understand why I now have a standing conversation with every patient who still has a chance to avoid my chairs. The doors are closed. The sand is still coming. But the window is still open. Don't let someone else tell your story with the words "I wish someone had told me sooner." I just did. Click below and get Metabolae while it is still available. ~ Sandra Keller, RN, Dialysis Unit, 14 years 👉 https://metabolae.com/products/ceylon-cinnamon-7200mg

I tricked my mafia husband into signing our divorce papers—right in front of his mistress. For eight years, I was the Maynard family's ghost. Decoding enemy intel. Forging untraceable documents. Keeping their heir alive from the shadows. Then one bloody night turned me into Orion Maynard's wife. He called it a "strategic alliance." I was naive enough to call it destiny. Destiny, it turns out, has a cruel sense of humor. For four years, I warmed his bed, bled for his empire, and waited for a man who once pinned me against walls whispering, "You're mine, tesoro." Then Sabrina DeLuca waltzed back from London—and I stopped existing. The night he held me close, drunk and desperate, he moaned her name against my lips. I finally understood: I was never his wife. Just a placeholder. So I did what shadows do best. I vanished on my own terms. First, I let sunflowers swallow the crescent moon on my collarbone—a foolish tribute to his promise that I was his eternal light. Then I tucked divorce papers between routine forms and handed him a pen. He scrawled his name without a second glance. Orion Maynard can keep his throne and his precious Sabrina. But when the most dangerous man in New York realizes his ghost is gone for good, he'll learn something new:Some women don't come back. …… Erasing the past is satisfying, but it always comes at a price. I sat in the leather chair at the tattoo parlor, the mirror directly in front of me. I could see myself—knuckles white from gripping the armrests, jaw clenched tight, and that crescent moon below my collarbone being devoured inch by inch by the needle. Four years ago, I got this moon tattooed in this exact spot. A foolish tribute to a reckless young godfather who once whispered that I was his eternal light. Always be my moon. You're the only light I need. I believed him. Believed him so completely that I carved his words into my flesh, then willingly lived as the shadow behind his empire. Now, golden petals were swallowing that moon, one bite at a time. Sunflowers. I chose them deliberately—flowers that chase the sun, that refuse to stay in darkness. If the moon was him, then the sun was me. I was choosing to turn toward my own light. The tattoo artist offered me a bite guard. I shook my head. I needed this pain. Needed every searing stroke to remind me of the price of blind faith—the cost of trusting a man who never intended to keep his promises. When the needle ground over the deepest curve of the crescent, the pain shot through my skin like red-hot wire. My nails dug into my palms. Sweat beaded along my hairline. My jaw ached from clenching, temples throbbing. But I didn't make a sound. I kept my eyes fixed on the mirror, watching the old design disappear beneath the gold. When it was done, my collarbone burned and throbbed, the skin red and swollen. But beneath the new design, that crescent moon was completely gone. I had no regrets. That promise no longer existed on my body. I was erasing Orion Maynard from my world, piece by piece. My phone buzzed. A text from my lawyer: Divorce papers finalized. Signatures needed. I replied: Proceed as planned. When I returned to the Maynard estate, the security at the gate didn't even make eye contact. Four years, and within these walls, my presence still hovered somewhere between furniture and hired help. I walked straight to his study. The mahogany door stood half-open, and from inside came the sound of a woman's laughter. Then the scent hit me. Orion despised strong fragrances—that was his rule. No perfume in his private spaces, no lingering scents of any kind. He liked his territory clean and controlled. But tonight, the air was cloyingly sweet. A woman's perfume, rich and unapologetic in its possessiveness. Sabrina DeLuca's scent. I pushed open the door. Orion sat behind his desk, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, radiating that cold authority that made powerful men nervous. Sabrina was perched on the arm of his chair, leaning close, her lips nearly brushing his jaw as she murmured something. Orion's hand rested on her knee, his thumb tracing slow circles, inching toward the hem of her skirt. She laughed—seductive, suggestive. Orion reached up to brush a strand of golden hair from her face, his eyes darkening. Just like those nights when he had me pinned beneath him. My stomach turned to ice. His gaze landed on me, his voice still carrying a trace of roughness. "You're here." Sabrina turned, her wine-red lips curving. "Helia! We were just discussing some family matters." Her fingers still lingered on his collar, stroking lazily. "But I'm sure you understand, don't you?" I understood perfectly. "I need a signature." I crossed the threshold and set the folder on the mahogany desktop. Orion's brow furrowed slightly, his gaze assessing. "What is it?" "Lab authorization forms. The emergency contact field—you insisted on having your name there." He reached to flip through the documents. "Let me see—" My heart rate spiked. He never looked. In four years, every document I'd handed him, his pen had touched paper while his eyes stayed elsewhere. Why now, of all times. "Oh, Orion." Sabrina laughed, her fingertip grazing his arm. "Since when do you care about these little things? Just sign it so she can get back to her little experiments." Little experiments. Eight years. I had synthesized compounds that federal labs couldn't trace, built half his arsenal, forged documents that fooled customs in three different countries. And she called them little experiments. Orion hesitated for a moment, then picked up the pen. He didn't look at the documents again. The tip touched paper, his signature flowing out in one swift stroke—clean and decisive, exactly like when he signed execution orders. Sabrina tilted her head, studying me like an outdated ornament. "You know, Orion, sometimes I forget she's your wife. The way you two interact is more like... employer and employee." Orion said nothing. The silence was answer enough. I took the documents and turned to leave before they could see my composure crack. The door clicked shut behind me. I let out a long breath. The divorce papers in my hand were light as a feather, but this marriage had collapsed under its own weight long ago. It wasn't always like this. He used to corner me at family gatherings—one hand braced on the wall beside my head, the other tilting my chin up, his lips pressing down with urgent hunger. "You're mine, tesoro. Don't forget it." Now his gaze swept past me like I was wallpaper. When I was sixteen, an ambush targeting the Maynard family killed my parents. The old godfather, Don Maynard, took me in—repaying an old debt. My father had once taken a bullet meant for him. In the years that followed, I hid in this family's shadows, making myself into the most useful tool—quiet, efficient, unobtrusive. Until that night on the docks four years ago. A bullet came from the flank, aimed at the back of Orion's head. I threw myself in front of him, and it tore through the flesh below my ribs. I woke in the estate's medical wing with him sitting beside the bed, still wearing the shirt stained with my blood. He leaned in to check the wound, lifting the gauze, his fingertips brushing the skin along my ribs—slow, too slow to be just examining an injury. I held my breath. He looked up at me—his gaze deep, scorching, like something was coiling to strike. I should have looked away. But my fingers clutched the front of his shirt and pulled him down. When his lips crashed into mine, they tasted of blood and gunpowder, rough, burning, like something held back too long finally breaking free. Two weeks later, we stood before a priest. His official explanation was "strategic arrangement"—protection for me, legitimacy for him. I swallowed that lie, naive enough to think I could make him love me. After Sabrina DeLuca returned from London, my delusions shattered piece by piece. Her marriage in England had fallen apart, and she wound herself around Orion's life like a vine—on his arm at charity galas, at his right hand during closed-door negotiations, present at every smoke-filled transfer of power. Wherever the godfather was, she was beside him. I kept telling myself it was just business, until our anniversary last month. I waited seven hours on the rooftop terrace of The Peninsula Hotel, watching candles burn down stub by stub, watching the carefully prepared dinner grow cold in the night wind. He never called. Not once. The next morning, I saw the photos on social media: Orion and Sabrina at a private charity auction. She wore a backless gown, and his palm pressed against her bare lower back. They were both laughing. That was when I started planning my exit. I looked at the document in my hand—the one he'd just signed without a second glance. In fourteen days, this paper would become my one-way ticket out. I was about to pursue what he had never given me. A life of my own.

My fiancé's adopted sister was a well-known tarot reader across the countryside. Before any wedding in the village, couples would always ask her to read the tarot. A favorable draw meant a blessed union; an unfavorable draw meant disaster. Only those who drew favorable cards were permitted to register their marriage—a custom handed down in the village for centuries. In my ninth year with Jason, our ninety-ninth tarot reading came up as an unfavorable omen yet again. Before our hundredth attempt, I caught the sound of hushed voices through a crack in the door. "Jason, truth be told, every reading has actually been favorable. Angela is honestly quite pitiful, being kept completely in the dark like this." "Exactly. Angela is naive and strictly follows the rules. Aren't you afraid she'll run away heartbroken if she ever finds out?" Jason's voice carried no warmth whatsoever, "Eve has been spoiled rotten. She's terrified that Angela will steal away her special treatment once she marries into the family. Since I can't give Eve a marriage of her own... this is the only way I can make it up to her. "Besides, Angela drifted here after losing her memory. Even if she learned the truth, where could she possibly run to? "What's more, she is utterly miserable in love with me. A few sweet words and she'll forget all about it..." Every single word Jason uttered was like a thorn driving straight into my heart. It was never a matter of us being incompatible. He simply didn't want to marry me. My entire body went numb. Trembling, I pulled out my phone and typed out a reply to my mother. Angela: Mom, I'm not waiting for him anymore. I agree to the arranged marriage. ******************* I never told you to hide this from her. Don't go putting all the blame on me! Eve Lawrence's sweet, girlish voice rang out, and everyone burst into laughter. Jason Lawrence dotingly tapped her cheek, "That's right. This was all my idea. I can't bear to let you go." Through the crack in the door, I watched Eve climb onto Jason's lap, and the two of them kissed passionately, completely lost in the moment. The heated scene burned my eyes, but the other people inside looked on as if they had long grown accustomed to it, completely unsurprised. So this was it—everyone here already knew about the secret relationship between these two. I was the only one kept completely in the dark. It felt as if something inside my chest had shattered softly into pieces. They were right. I really was a fool. A complete, utter fool. I should have realized it long ago. Jason's feelings for his adopted sister, who he'd watched grow up since she was little, had long crossed the line between siblings. He brought her with him to every important event. On every holiday, there was always a gift for her, along with the one he gave me. He never let Eve go without, even if it meant denying my gift. Even the wedding I had anticipated for so many years was postponed indefinitely, all to make up for her regrets. Suddenly, someone spoke up, "How can she even compare to Eve? Jason only took her in back then because she was hurt and had amnesia. Who would have thought she'd just leech onto him and never leave? She played so hard to get at the start, insisting on waiting until marriage. But look at her now—she's let Jason have his way with her plenty of times. She's got no curves and is completely stiff in bed. She's the only one who thinks she's anything special… Jason furrowed his brows and shot the crowd a warning look. "Angela Pearson's shy. Don't say this kind of thing in front of her, or else…" Everyone quickly agreed that they would stop. My head went off like a thunderclap, and my lips turned white instantly. It was a bright, sunny day, but I felt like I had been thrown into an ice cave, and cold seeped through every inch of my body. He only prohibited them to say these things to my face—wasn't that just proof that he agreed with every word? I couldn't stand to listen anymore. I turned, and stumbled out of the courtyard and all the way home. After crying myself out under the covers, I fell into a heavy, groggy sleep. When I opened my eyes again, Jason had his arms wrapped all the way around me. He was asleep, and there was a glaring red stain smudged on his white shirt. I immediately thought of the scene I had just witnessed, and my stomach churned violently. I pushed him away, got out of bed, and clutched the trash can, retching my guts out. Jason woke up to my movement. Seeing how I looked, he frowned and got out of bed, his voice laced with concern, "What's wrong, honey? Are you not feeling well?" As he spoke, he lifted his hand and reached to pat the top of my head, like he always did. I stepped back, and his hand landed on thin air. Perhaps it was the first time he had felt this distance from me, Jason froze for a moment. My face was deathly pale, but I still shook my head, "I'm fine." Jason got up and poured me a glass of water. I took the glass and tilted my head back to drink it, when I suddenly heard him speak again, "The tarot was a bad omen again this time. We'll have to put our wedding off a little longer." I lowered my head and let out a bleak smile. On the first time, it was a bad omen, so he told me to wait. Then there was a second time, a third time… I had waited for him for nine full years. Even after I recovered my memory and reconnected with my mother, I still clung to him, too attached to leave for home. In the end, I found this whole thing was nothing but a complete scam. Jason, how much longer do you want me to wait? I asked with a hoarse voice. A notification ping popped up for his favorite contact. He lowered his head, and his mind was already somewhere else. Next time for sure. His tone was light, evasive and perfunctory. I closed my eyes, my nose stinging with tears. I can't wait for that day any longer. I Chapter 2 Jason waved his phone in front of my face. "We can't get a marriage certificate, but I'll throw you a proper wedding to make up for it. This is what the venue looks like after setup." My gaze fell to the photo on his phone—The entire venue was filled with all kinds of flowers, looking lavish and grand. However, just one small thing—I am allergic to pollen. It's Eve who loves flowers more than anything. Once, I reacted so severely that I went into shock and had to be hospitalized. When I opened my eyes again, the always-strong Jason was crying like a mess in front of me. He said he would protect me from then on, and this would never happen again. But now he acts like he doesn't care at all. An elegantly arranged wedding venue, but the bride is allergic to pollen. So who exactly is this make-up wedding for? I lost all interest, quietly went back to bed and closed my eyes. Early the next morning, he drove me to the bridal shop to pick out a wedding dress. Just as I was about to get in the car, someone looped their arm through mine. Eve poked her head out in front of me and said, "Angela, I want to sit in the passenger seat." Before I could answer, Jason made the decision for me, "Honey, Eve gets carsick, switch seats with her." Eve immediately opened the passenger door with a big smile on her face. Sitting in the back seat, I watched them feed each other snacks openly and affectionately. I suddenly remembered that Jason once solemnly swore that only his future wife could sit in his passenger seat. I already get carsick, and now I felt even sicker to my stomach. When we arrived at our destination, the shop assistant led us into the store. I immediately spotted a pure white wedding dress encrusted entirely with diamonds, displayed front and center. I walked toward it involuntarily, reaching up to brush my hand over the fabric. This is exactly the wedding dress I have told Jason I dreamed of, countless times. Tears fell before I could stop them. The next second, Jason pulled my hand away. "Babe, you got the wrong one. That's Eve's bridesmaid dress. This one is yours." He led me to a plain, grayish-tinged wedding dress. A chunk was torn out of the hem, which had also yellowed, and we had no idea what had damaged it. I froze, staring at Jason in disbelief, "You call this a wedding dress?" Jason nodded as a matter of course, "I had this vintage-style wedding dress specially designed for you. Isn't it so unique?" I tried to speak, but I couldn't get a single word out. The whole situation just felt utterly absurd. Eve lowered her head, acting like she had been wronged, "If Angela doesn't like this one, we can switch..." Before she could finish her sentence, Jason pulled her into his arms, "You don't have to wrong yourself like this. No one will steal your spotlight in this dress." Then he fixed his gaze on me, "Angela, you'll already be the center of attention that day, you don't need to wear something so flashy." While we were stuck in this deadlock, the shop assistant must have heard our argument and walked over. She glanced over the three of us, then put on a professional smile. This wedding dress of ours is the best-selling style in the whole shop, she said, pointing at the diamond-encrusted gown. And it matches your temperament perfectly. When you and your fiancé stand in the center of the stage, everyone will comment on what a perfect couple you two are. " She was giving Eve an enthusiastic sales pitch. I curled my lips in a mocking smile, because she'd gotten the bride wrong. After all, anyone could see who Jason was closest to. It was really an easy mistake to make. Jason's face suddenly darkened. He enunciated each word clearly, "This is my sister. My girlfriend is over there." The atmosphere fell suddenly silent. The shop assistant glanced at me, her expression a mix of awkwardness and pity. I waved her off, then turned to look at Jason. "Since you've already decided Eve will wear that one, that's fine by me." A look of faint satisfaction crossed Jason's face. He'd expected I'd compromise for him, just like always. After all, I had compromised countless times for him before. When Eve and I wanted to eat at different places, I gave in; When we both happened to like the same item, I gave in again. Jason smiled, and raised his hand, trying to stroke my hair. I stepped back. His hand froze mid-air, and a flash of surprise crossed his face. I sighed, swallowing back the ache of tears before I forced the words out, "Jason, let's break up." II Chapter 3 Jason's expression shifted, and he spoke in disbelief, "Just because of this trivial thing about the wedding dress?" Trivial? Everything related to me is trivial, but if the same thing happened to Eve, it would be a major issue. That's right, it's exactly because of the wedding dress. Eve suddenly rushed up to me. "Angela, please don't fight with Jason because of me, this is all my fault..." As she spoke, she grabbed my hand and forced it to hit herself over and over. I tried to pull away several times, but I was completely no match for her strength. Jason wanted to step forward to stop her, when all of a sudden, Eve let go of my hand and fell backwards. I hadn't used any strength at all. The next second, Jason shoved me hard. I stumbled and fell to the ground, and my head hit the table dead-on. I gasped in shock, but Jason didn't even glance at me; He rushed straight to Eve. I raised my hand to touch my head, and my hand came away covered in blood. I called out for help instinctively, "Jason, my head..." He was holding Eve in his arms, and he looked at me with disdain. "Stop pretending! You started it! You've been in the village for almost ten years now, do you still think you're the same little princess you used to be? You're not that delicate." If anything happens to Eve, you will pay for it. With that, he carried Eve and left in a hurry. Watching his fading back, I closed my eyes weakly. When I first came here, I was injured and had lost my memory, so I was terrified of everything around me. It was Jason who helped me. He taught me the customs and ways of life here, helped me build my confidence step by step, and then he pursued me, saying he would take care of me for the rest of his life. I didn't believe him at first, but during a sudden flood, I was swept away and almost lost my life. It was he who risked his own life to save me. After I survived that disaster, he knelt on one knee in front of me and swore he'd treat me well for the rest of my life, and that if he ever broke his promise, may heaven strike him dead. And I believed him. But now, time has changed, and I am no longer the one he favors above all else. I thought of my childhood days at home. Back then, I never had to compromise for anyone. Even though my family had other siblings, my needs were always prioritized, and I was never anyone's second choice. I started to miss home. Not long after I woke up in the hospital, Jason called, "Good thing that Eve is fine. She's been big enough to forgive you, but you still have to come back and apologize to her." Then he hung up the phone. I thought it over. Even if I was leaving, I still needed to go back and get what belonged to me. Once I made up my mind, I checked out of the hospital. Back in the village, I had just stepped through the gate when I saw a whole crowd of people sitting in the yard—all of Jason's relatives and kinsfolk. I forced myself to go in and said hello to everyone. His mother glanced at me sideways, speaking in a harsh tone, "I heard your tarot reading is unfavorable again this time. How can you be so useless? It's been nine years and you still haven't married into our family." Hearing this, everyone began chattering their opinions. Isn't she some kind of bringer of bad luck… If you ask me, a hundred readings all turned out bad, there's no use forcing it. We still have Eve, don't we? I've watched that girl grow up, I'd rest easy knowing she marries Jason… Jason's family never took a liking to me, an outsider, right from the start. But for Jason's sake, I bit my tongue and backed down countless times. Now, I don't have to endure it any longer. My gaze swept over the crowd, "That's right, I've also been wondering why they kept doing the reading after getting 100 bad omens..." A flicker of guilt crossed everyone's faces. I finally understood. All these years, everyone else knew the truth about the tarot readijng. That was why, even after 100 bad omens, no one stepped forward to drive me out. Only I was kept completely in the dark from start to finish. Your family's door is too hard for me to get through. I won't force it any longer from now on, I said calmly. Only then did Jason walk up to me. "What nonsense are you talking about?" I retorted sharply, "Now you come out to play the peacemaker? Why didn't you show up when your whole family was attacking me just now?" Jason was stung by my harsh attitude, and he softened his tone, "Come on, don't say things in anger. We'll hold a grand wedding tomorrow. After that, no one will ever say you don't deserve to be my bride..." I wrenched my hand out of his grip and walked straight into the house. Suddenly, my phone chimed. I looked down to see a friend request from an unknown account popping up on the screen. III Chapter 4 After the crowd dispersed, Eve carried a bowl of rice in and set it on the table. "Angela, don't be upset. Have something to eat." I lifted my gaze, and I froze. My eyes fell on the jade bracelet on her wrist, and all the blood in my body turned cold. That was the coming-of-age gift my mother gave me. I had worn it ever since I first came to this village; even the year I was almost swept away by the flood, I clutched it tight in my hand the whole time. Later, Jason offered to keep it safe for me. He said he would put it on my wrist himself during our wedding. Why was it on her wrist now? I jumped to my feet, stepped forward and grabbed Eve's hand, "This is mine. Give it back to me." Eve stepped back. "Jason gave it to me!" Jason heard the commotion and came in. He glanced at the bracelet on Eve's wrist and immediately understood what had happened, and said offhandedly, "Eve saw it the other day and thought it was pretty, so I gave it to her." I glared at Jason furiously, "You knew exactly how much this means to me!" But he just shrugged it off, "It's just a bracelet. Eve, give it back to her." Eve pouted sulkily, pulled the bracelet roughly off her wrist, and held it out to me. I reached out to take it, and the next second, Eve let go of it. The bracelet fell to the floor and shattered into pieces. I crouched down like a madwoman to pick up the pieces. Eve hid behind Jason, her voice trembling with tears, "I didn't do it on purpose, Jason…" Jason shot me a glare. "It's your fault for being so harsh, and that scared Eve, that's why she dropped it. Are you happy now?" With that, he wrapped his arm around Eve in a protective posture and walked out the door, as if he was terrified I would hurt her. As they passed me, Eve's stepped on my hand with her small leather shoes and ground hard into it. Once the two of them were gone, a wave of belated pain came surging up. I lowered my head and saw that my hand had been lacerated by the jade bracelet fragments, bleeding non-stop. But somehow, I felt that the physical pain didn't even amount to a fraction of the ache in my heart. When Jason came back, his attitude shifted, "What are you doing packing your things?" I paused in silence for a moment, "I want to…" Before I could finish my sentence, Jason's phone rang. He held up a hand to cut me off mid-sentence and answered the call. A moment later he hung up, quickly throwing on his clothes, "Eve has a stomachache, I'm going over to check on her. We can talk about whatever this is later." With that, he turned and left without the slightest hesitation. I wanted to say, "I want to go home and get married," but the words died in my throat. I stared blankly at Jason's fading silhouette, when a car horn blared and pulled me out of my trance. I dragged my suitcase out of the house and stopped in front of a black sedan. A man I didn't know got out of the car and took the luggage from my hand. "Get in. I'll take you home." I nodded and got in the car. The familiar scenery outside the window blurred past as we drove. For the first time, I could actually feel that I was really leaving this place for good. Oddly enough, I did not feel even a shred of reluctance.