I was selling old books on an app, but I messed up the price and accidentally added a few extra zeros. A second later, a notification popped up. “Your item has been sold for $1.8 million.” Stunned, I contacted the buyer to ask him to request a refund. Then I realized who he was: Thomas Thorne, the heir to a Manhattan empire. His message back was filled with grief. “Do you have anything else of hers? Of Zoe’s? I’ll pay any price.” “She was my late wife.” 1 While moving, I was cleaning out my bookshelf and found a huge stack of old college textbooks. On the principle of not letting a single penny go to waste, I snapped a photo and listed them on a second-hand app for $180. My boyfriend, Alan, laughed, telling me I was desperate for cash. “They’ve updated the curriculum a dozen times since we graduated. Those are basically just recycling. You’d be lucky to get $18, let alone $180. Who’s gonna buy that?” “My youth is priceless,” I shot back. “I’m not selling it cheap.” Truthfully, I didn't have high hopes. I’d been out of college for seven years, which meant these books were from a decade ago. He was right; they were probably only good for scrap paper. But then, less than three minutes later, my phone buzzed with a notification. The item had been sold. I was ecstatic. I opened the app, my heart pounding. The next thing I saw made me rub my eyes so hard I thought they’d pop out. “Sold for $1.8 million?” What the hell? Did I accidentally set the currency to yen or something? I frantically checked my other listings. The dollar sign was right there, mocking me. Then I remembered. When I was typing in the price, my hand had slipped, and I must have hit the zero key a few too many times without noticing. And the buyer… he must not have looked at the price either. A wave of nausea washed over me. I mean, who buys something without even glancing at the price? He couldn't tell the difference between $180 and $1.8 million. And how does someone that clueless still have $1.8 million sitting in their bank account? This was just too much. I clenched my fists, took a couple of deep breaths to calm my racing heart, and opened the chat window. I sent the buyer a polite smiley face. “Hi, so sorry, I made a mistake with the price. Could you please request a refund?” He replied instantly. “A mistake? What do you mean? You think it’s too little? Name your price.” I stared at the message. “?” Had the world gone insane? Or had the dollar suddenly become worthless? How could I possibly think $1.8 million was too little? Was this guy even speaking English? I clicked on his profile. The avatar was blank, but his username was three words that made my heart stop: Thomas Thorne. My pulse immediately went into overdrive. 2 Thomas Thorne. The infamous heir to a Manhattan empire. A man so wealthy and handsome he was practically a national treasure. It wasn't just family money, either. He was brilliant in his own right, having founded a tech company a few years back that went public within a year. At the product launch, he’d stood on stage in a sharp black suit, all long legs and chiseled, icy features, driving the audience wild. People were screaming for him to ditch business and become a movie star. If it was him, then the crazy price suddenly made a twisted kind of sense. Moguls like him operate on a different financial plane. I typed back, my fingers trembling with reverence. “Mr. Thorne, I genuinely listed the price incorrectly.” Thomas: “What was the original price? And do you have anything else that belonged to Zoe?” “I’ll buy everything of hers. You can name whatever price you want.” I stared at the screen, reading his words over and over for three solid minutes. Zoe is me. I am Zoe. But how did that make sense? How could the Thomas Thorne possibly know me? He was a titan of industry, a prince of New York. I was just a nobody from Boston, grinding away at a 9-to-5. Our worlds couldn't be further apart. When I didn't reply, a voice message came through. “I’m sorry. I got a little carried away. I hope I didn’t frighten you.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was heavy with a sorrow that felt gut-wrenchingly real. “Zoe was my late wife. Anything that was hers… it means everything to me. If you have more of her things, I beg you, please sell them to me.” His voice was distinctive—a deep, magnetic baritone with a slight, almost imperceptible East Coast drawl. It was the exact same voice from the news clips. My mind went numb. My heart hammered against my ribs, and my brain felt like it was short-circuiting. My breath hitched, and black spots danced in my vision. Oh my God. What kind of cosmic lottery had I just won? I shared the same name as Thomas Thorne’s deceased wife. 3 Thomas Thorne’s love life was the stuff of legends. He was constantly surrounded by a flock of beautiful women—A-list actresses, heiresses, social media stars—all fighting for his attention. The one everyone thought he’d marry was his childhood friend, Seraphina Vance. She was his equal in every way, from a family just as powerful as his own. Their companies were deeply intertwined, and rumors of an impending merger through marriage were always swirling, causing their stock prices to jump. But then, the unexpected happened. The girl-next-door lost to a complete unknown. Thomas went on a vacation abroad and came back married to a local girl he’d met there. He announced the marriage but refused to name his bride. For months, reporters camped out, trying to get a picture, a name, a shred of background information, but came up with nothing. She was a ghost. Frustrated, they turned to Seraphina. In front of the cameras, she first confirmed that all their friends had, in fact, met Mrs. Thorne. Then, with a sly, pitying smile, she posed a question to the reporters. “Do you hide something you’re proud of?” The media went into a frenzy. The narrative was set: Thomas was hiding his wife because she was an ordinary woman, an embarrassment he couldn’t possibly show off in his glittering world. But that raised the biggest question of all: why did he marry her in the first place? It became the mystery of the year. Theories ran wild. Some said she’d saved his life and was blackmailing him. Others claimed it was a honey trap, that she’d gotten pregnant to force his hand. The most popular theory was that just before his trip, he’d had a massive fight with Seraphina. She had apparently done something unforgivable, and in a fit of rage and spite, Thomas had married the first woman he met. Everything that followed seemed to confirm this. He clearly despised his new wife. He never brought her to public events and refused to even mention her name to the press. At his own birthday gala, when asked to name the most important woman in his life, he’d said Seraphina’s name. Everyone concluded the marriage was a sham. Until three years ago, when Mrs. Thorne died in a car accident. And Thomas Thorne completely lost his mind. 4 His wife’s car had plunged off a bridge into a freezing river. They never even found a body. The police and rescue teams deployed massive resources, but it wasn't enough for Thomas. In the dead of winter, he ripped off his suit jacket and dove into the icy water himself, searching for her for an entire day. He only stopped when he collapsed from exhaustion and had to be rescued. The moment he woke up in the hospital, he tore out his IV and tried to run back to the river, his eyes bloodshot and wild. His father had to order bodyguards to hold him down. The media swarmed the hospital. The man who had always been the picture of cool, arrogant control was now on camera, struggling against his restraints, his voice raw with anguish, like a cornered, desperate animal. “I have to save her! She’s afraid of the dark! It’s so cold in there… Let me go! LET ME GO!” They had to sedate him. Rumor has it his family kept him under strict watch, and he didn't appear in public for six months. When he finally re-emerged, he was a different man. The charming, devil-may-care playboy was gone. In his place was a stone-faced, silent figure, his eyes holding nothing but the ashes of a fire long extinguished. People said he had matured. He was now brooding and profound, a tragic figure that was, impossibly, even more captivating. And now, that same captivating voice was filling my phone, laced with an urgent plea. “Please, trust me. I’m not a scammer.” “How did you get her things? Are there more? Can you send me pictures?” To prove his sincerity, he clicked “confirm receipt” on the app. And just like that, I watched as my account balance jumped by $1.8 million. One, eight, and five zeroes. I counted them again and again, then leaped into the air with a shriek of pure joy. Alan was at the door, pulling on his shoes. He raised an eyebrow, surprised by my outburst. “You actually sold them? Look at you, you’re glowing.” He smiled, a wide, happy grin that softened the sharp lines of his handsome face. A few strands of his dark hair danced in the breeze from the open window. My heart melted. “Alan, I’m rich! Listen to me, we’re rich!” I launched myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He grunted, stumbling back against the doorframe, his hands instinctively finding my thighs to steady me. I clung to him like a koala, tilting my head back to kiss his chin. “Alan—” “Zee,” he murmured, his breath a warm sigh against my ear. He bent his head, placing a gentle, restrained kiss on my earlobe. “I have a long day of surgeries. Don’t make me late, okay?” Feeling a certain… reaction against my leg, I blushed and hopped down. “Right, right. Go on, get out of here. I’ll tell you everything when you get back.” “Be good.” He ruffled my hair. “I’ll be home late tonight. I’ll bring you takeout.” Then he grabbed his bag and hurried out the door. 5 My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. It was Thomas, sending a stream of voice messages, desperate to get his hands on my things. From what he was saying, his late wife and I didn't just share a name—our handwriting was nearly identical. And what did that mean? A windfall. A life-changing, earth-shattering fortune. I shot up from the couch and bolted into my room, pulling out every notebook and piece of paper that had my writing on it. “This page has song lyrics I copied down. Is this okay?” I messaged him. “Yes. What’s your number? I’ll add you directly.” I accepted his friend request on a secure messaging app, and he immediately transferred me $500,000. He wanted the lyric book. My college class notes: $1 million. A handwritten recipe book: $600,000. A journal of quotes from books I’d read: $800,000. … The pile of notebooks on my desk grew taller and taller. I was a whirlwind of frantic energy, tearing through my apartment with a wild, crazed look on my face. I was on the verge of a complete breakdown. In the span of an hour, I had made millions. Thomas Thorne was spending money like it was fake. And he wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, either. My handwriting was similar to his wife’s, sure, but I was selling him my high school yearbooks, for God's sake. They were filled with messages that clearly stated my school, my class—all proof that I couldn't possibly be the same person. He didn't care. Seeing my handwriting was like finding a lifeline. Was he really that desperate to cling to the past, to find comfort in these random objects? No wonder they say true romantics are only found among the ultra-rich. Only someone with his kind of money could afford to be this sentimental. I stared at the long string of numbers in my digital wallet, my mind starting to spin. 6 To be honest, I was broke. Utterly and completely. I’d been in the hospital recently, and it had cost Alan a fortune. He kept telling me not to worry about paying him back, but we were just boyfriend and girlfriend. I couldn’t stand the thought of being a burden. Everyone said I was lucky to be with him. He was a Ph.D. from a top university, the youngest attending cardiac surgeon at a prestigious hospital—brilliant, successful, and devastatingly handsome. After a long day, he’d come straight home and cook my favorite meals. He’d spent years saving up to buy a beautiful condo in a great neighborhood and insisted on putting my name on the deed. The better he was to me, the more I wanted to give him something back in return. With this money, I could buy him everything he ever wanted. But… was this money really mine? Was Thomas drunk? What if he sobered up and demanded it all back? My anxiety spiked. I sent him a nervous message. “Mr. Thorne, I’ll have these shipped to you right away. You… you won’t change your mind, will you?” Thomas: “You’re in Boston?” “I happen to be in Boston for a conference this week. No need to ship them. Just give me an address, and I’ll send someone to pick them up.” “No, no, that’s okay! Are you at your company’s Boston office? I know the address for Thorne Industries. I can just drop them off myself.” After making that much money off him, the least I could do was offer good customer service. He didn’t object. “I’ll be at the office until 10 PM.” “Perfect!” After counting my balance one more time, I excitedly found a cardboard box, packed up all the notebooks, and went downstairs to catch a cab. In the car, my phone rang. It was Mark, Alan’s best friend. “Zoe, my God, you are something else.” He launched into a dramatic tirade, accusing me of being blinded by greed. “A few beat-up books for $1.8 million? Change the price back right now, or I’m going to be in deep trouble.” I knew it instantly. Alan had asked Mark to buy my old books for me, without telling me. Mark’s voice was dripping with mock envy. “He spoils you rotten. You’re so pampered you can’t even type in a price correctly.” “Don’t you dare tell him about this,” he added quickly. “He made me promise not to let you find out.” I burst out laughing. “Well, you might want to take another look. It’s already sold! For the full $1.8 million!” 7 Thorne Industries wasn’t far from my place. The cab ride was short, and I spent it joking with Mark, telling him the whole story. I was careful, though—I only told him about the first $1.8 million, not the millions that came after. Mark came from a wealthy family himself; he wouldn't get jealous over that amount. But instead of laughing, a shriek came from the other end of the line. “Thomas Thorne?!” Mark’s voice was suddenly tight with panic. “Zoe, go home! Right now!” “You can’t see him!” “Why not? This is $1.8 million! Are you jealous? Don’t worry, I’ll treat you to a nice dinner.” I cradled the box in my arms as I walked into the grand lobby of the Thorne Industries building. The security was tight, and since I didn’t have an employee badge, the receptionist stopped me. Juggling the box, I quickly ended the call with Mark. “I’ll call you back.” After I explained the situation, the receptionist’s eyes widened. She told me to take the express elevator to the top floor, saying Mr. Thorne had already left instructions for me to go directly to his office. She handed me a key card, her voice a mix of awe and curiosity. “Which company are you with? Not just anyone gets to go up to Mr. Thorne’s private floor.” I gave her an awkward smile. She seemed to have a sudden realization. “Oh, you must be with Miss Vance, right?” She waved me towards the elevators. “You’d better hurry up, then. Miss Vance doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Miss Vance… Seraphina Vance? So the tabloids were right. She and Thomas were still incredibly close. I’d heard rumors they were finally getting married, but who knew if it was true. Whatever. None of that had anything to do with me. I just needed to drop off my books and get out. 8 I shook my head, clearing it of gossip, and followed the signs to the restroom first. To be honest, as just a regular person, the thought of meeting the Thomas Thorne was making me a little nervous. I took a few deep breaths and set the heavy box down on the marble countertop. I slipped into a stall and had just closed the door when the sharp click-clack of high heels echoed on the tile floor. A young woman’s impatient voice cut through the silence. “Is he still looking for her? It’s been three years. There’s nothing left but bones by now. What is he even doing?” Another voice, softer and calmer, replied. “Just let him be.” “Seraphina, I just feel so bad for you! You and Thomas have been through so much. For him to keep stringing you along like this… what’s the point?” “That’s enough!” Seraphina’s voice was sharp, cutting off the other woman. “Cassie, this is between us. Stay out of it.” Cassie stomped her foot in frustration. “I just can’t stand him.” “What is wrong with him? When that Zoe was alive, he couldn’t have cared less. Remember that party? When we played that prank on her, he took our side. He even forced her to get on her knees and apologize to you.” “So why, the second she’s dead, does he suddenly decide she was the love of his life? Playing the grieving widower for everyone to see. It’s pathetic.” This Cassie was a real firecracker, rattling off complaints like a machine gun. I listened, completely engrossed. Five years ago, Thomas and Zoe had met in a romantic little town in France. At the time, Thomas’s career was in shambles. He’d made a catastrophic mistake on a major project and had been suspended from all his duties at the company. The project was a collaboration with Seraphina, and when things went south, she’d thrown him under the bus to save herself. Disillusioned and betrayed, Thomas had escaped to France to clear his head. And there, he met the warm, kind-hearted Zoe. It was a whirlwind romance. They fell hard and fast. Fueled by a desire for revenge against Seraphina and his family, and swept up in the intoxicating romance of a foreign land, Thomas proposed. They held a small, private wedding in a beautiful French manor. Cinderella had found her Prince Charming. It was a perfect fairy tale. Until they returned home. The moment her feet touched American soil, Zoe discovered that glass slippers shatter at the stroke of midnight. The sweet promises whispered under rose trellises crumbled into dust in the harsh light of reality. 9 Thomas grew tired of the simple, ordinary Zoe very quickly. She didn't have a prestigious family name or an Ivy League degree. She didn't know the first thing about fine jewelry or vintage wines. She was exactly what Seraphina had called her: a pretty, empty-headed doll, completely unfit for his world. He started to resent her. Her very presence was a constant reminder of the foolish mistake he’d made. So he let Seraphina and her friends torment Zoe. At a party, he watched as Cassie deliberately bumped into Zoe, spilling a full glass of red wine down the front of her own dress. Cassie had done it on purpose, but she shrieked and grabbed Zoe, demanding she pay for the ruined couture gown. Zoe’s face was beet red, her eyes wide with panic as she looked to him for help. Thomas turned his head and pretended not to see. Cassie smirked triumphantly. “This dress cost over a hundred thousand dollars! You couldn’t afford it if you sold your soul!” “Pay up now, or I’m calling the police.” Seraphina stepped in, playing the role of the gracious peacemaker. “Now, now, let’s not make a scene. We’re all friends here.” She turned to Zoe, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “How about this, Zoe? You get on your knees and apologize to Cassie, and we’ll call it even. Okay?” Zoe stood frozen, silent as a statue. Cassie kicked the back of her knee. “What are you so proud of? You think your apology is worth that much? If it wasn’t for Seraphina, no one would even bother listening to you.” Zoe stumbled and fell to her knees. Thomas calmly stood up and walked out of the room. Trapped in a world of wealth and power she didn’t understand, the naive young woman was completely defenseless. Reality is not a fairy tale. Cinderella gets her happy ending because she was a count’s daughter to begin with. But Zoe had nothing but a heart full of desperate, misplaced love. Seraphina could humiliate her with the slightest effort. A ruined designer dress, a slashed exotic-skin handbag, a snapped stiletto heel. All so expensive, yet so fragile. Just like Thomas’s love. Zoe could never measure up. 10 Cassie was still ranting. “Some piece of trash anyone could step on, and he’s up there mooning over her memory? What is he, brain-damaged?” “A bitch like that is better off dead. If she were still alive, I’d slap her silly. Doesn’t she know her place?” Lady, what you’re describing is called bullying. I was so angry I couldn’t help but shift my weight. WHOOSH. The automatic toilet flushed loudly. The conversation outside stopped dead. Cassie stormed over to my stall and started banging on the door. “Who’s in there? Spying on me? Get your ass out here right now!” Oh, crap. I hesitated for a second, then plastered a smile on my face and opened the door. “So sorry, I was just using the restroom. I didn't mean to listen in on your—” “Zoe!” Cassie screamed. She stumbled back, her finger pointing shakily at my face as she turned to Seraphina. “Is that her? Am I seeing things? Seraphina, it’s Zoe!” The color drained from Seraphina’s face, leaving it a ghostly white. She grabbed Cassie’s arm for support, her body swaying as huge tears began to roll down her cheeks. “I knew it… I should have known. Thomas has been acting so strangely all day. So he… you two…” She was babbling, her words dissolving into sobs. Cassie, however, flew into a rage. She swung her heavy designer handbag at my head. “You just won’t die, will you? You damn leech, go to hell!” A primal wave of fear washed over me, so powerful it felt like being plunged into deep water. The world around me blurred, filled with the ghostly images of a mocking crowd. Their whispers and jeers crashed over me like a tidal wave, pulling me under. I couldn’t breathe. Then, a hand reached for me in the darkness. Alan’s gentle smile appeared in my mind. “Zee, don’t be scared. I’m here. No one can hurt you.” “Don’t hide in the closet. Please come out.” 11 When I first woke up in the hospital, for reasons I couldn’t understand, I had a severe stress response. I was terrified of crowds, of loud noises, even of light. I developed a habit of hiding in the closet, curled up in a tight ball. It was Alan who gently took my hand and led me out of the darkness. He told me I wasn’t weak or useless; I was just kind. And kind people, he said, would rather turn the knife on themselves than hurt someone else. Deep down, it was because I felt worthless, unloved—like I was the one who could always be sacrificed. Alan held me and told me, over and over, how much I meant to him. “Zee, you are the most important person in the world to me. When people hurt you, it hurts me, too.” “If your kindness isn’t respected, you have to let it grow thorns. Can you do that for me?” He took me to farmers’ markets and taught me how to haggle, how to argue with vendors. He taught me how to fight back. Sometimes, when we’d have a small disagreement, he would lean in close, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Go on, hit me.” “If you hit me, I’ll do whatever you want.” The first time he provoked me enough that I actually slapped him, he was so thrilled he picked me up and spun me around, promising me a huge reward. I had been trapped in an abyss. It was Alan who, step by step, pulled me out of the mud, nurturing me back to life with his love and encouragement. The Zoe of today was not someone you could just push around. A surge of courage flooded through me, and the suffocating despair vanished like ice in the sun. I let out a yell and threw a hard punch right at Cassie’s face. “Bring it on! Two years of Muay Thai weren’t for nothing, bitch!” Cassie shrieked, blindly swinging her purse. I switched my stance, bobbing and weaving, using her as a human punching bag, just like in the movies. Seraphina stared, stunned. It took her a moment to snap out of it. Her gentle facade crumbled, and she grabbed a broom from a supply closet and charged at me. I used the books from my box as projectiles, launching them at her. Two against one, and I was winning. 12 By the time building security arrived, alerted by the commotion, the scene was chaotic. I had Cassie in a headlock with my left hand, while my right foot was planted firmly on Seraphina’s back. Their perfect makeup was a smeared mess of tears and mascara, their designer dresses were ripped to shreds, and their underwear was showing. One of the guards gasped. “This is… Call the police! No, wait, call Mr. Thorne first. Didn’t he ask for this person to come up?” With security present, I figured I should probably stop fighting. I sheepishly let them go and started picking up the scattered books. “They started it,” I muttered. Seraphina lay on the floor, weeping dramatically. “I knew you were always faking it! I’m going to tell Thomas and expose you for who you really are!” Cassie clutched her bleeding nose and sobbed. “You broke my nose, you bitch! I’ll kill you for this! I’ll kill you!” Over their endless stream of curses, a tall figure appeared, silhouetted against the light at the end of the hall. He was incredibly tall. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, and his sharp, buzz-cut hair complemented his piercing eyes and strong, sculpted features. He radiated an aura of command, an effortless authority that made you want to look away. My whole body tensed as I lowered my head. He walked right up to me, his shadow falling over me. I tried to explain. “Mr. Thorne, it’s not my fault, she—” The words died in my throat. Because Thomas Thorne bent down and wrapped his arms around me. He held me so tightly I thought my bones would fuse with his. I felt a dampness spreading on my shoulder, soaking through my shirt. My mind went completely blank. Was he… was he crying? “Zoe.” “Zoe.” “Zoe—” His voice was a choked whisper, repeating my name over and over as his entire body trembled.
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