My cousin was born without a uterus and with a sealed vaginal canal. Medically speaking, she was intersex. But that didn’t stop her from spending nearly every night out with a different boyfriend, flaunting her supposed sex life like it was some kind of trophy.

One day, she leaned in close with a conspiratorial grin and whispered to me, “You know, Fran, there’s more than one way to make a guy happy.”

I tried to talk some sense into her, warned her about the infections, the risks, the sheer lack of hygiene and honestly, she’s just asking for an STD. But she just laughed it off.

Then she fell for some rich boy—second-generation money, the kind that came with an estate and a last name that mattered. And suddenly, she wasn’t so cocky anymore. She asked me whether she should get surgery to “fix” herself, to make everything work the way a man like that would expect.

I warned her—surgery comes with risks. A woman’s body isn’t some tool made to satisfy a man. If she wanted to be with someone, she had to put her own health and dignity first.

But she wasn’t interested in being careful. She believed her tricks in bed—or whatever version of it she could manage—would be enough to keep him around.

On their wedding night, no matter what tricks she pulled out of her twisted little playbook, he still turned on her. Said she disgusted him.

Word spread like wildfire. The guy’s family kicked her out like yesterday’s garbage. The engagement was called off before the wedding cake had even been cut. Her dream of marrying into wealth? Dead in the water.

She lost everything—her pride, her place in high society and the engagement.

Her dream of marrying into wealth? Dead in the water.

And then she blamed me for it all.

She poured gasoline on me and set me on fire.

“You bitch! If it weren’t for you talking me out of the surgery, I wouldn’t be a laughingstock right now!”

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that exam room—the very day she told me her secret.

——

“Seriously, Fran, it’s the 21st century. You really gotta stop thinking like a nun,” she giggled, twisting her waist like she was auditioning for a music video.

“There are so many ways I can make a guy happy—way more than just that one,” she purred, licking her lips seductively.

“Last night, my boyfriend and I went at it again. He was so wild. We went through eight condoms. Strawberry flavor.”

She actually looked proud of herself. Beaming. Glowing, like she’d won some kind of trophy.

Meanwhile, I just sat there, trembling. Every word from her mouth hit like a knife, dredging up memories from the life I’d already lived—and died for.

I took a long, shaky breath and forced myself to stay calm. My hands clenched into fists under the table, but I smiled.

“Impressive,” I said flatly.

She mistook the sarcasm for praise and lit up even more. “Of course I’m impressive.”

Then she leaned in, that fake smile slipping into something sharper. “Anyway… you’ve been with Owen for what—two years? And you still haven’t done it?” She clicked her tongue. “Aren’t you afraid someone else is gonna swoop in and steal him while you’re out here playing the Virgin Mary?”

I didn’t answer.

“You know, guys don’t care about whether you’re a virgin. What they do care about is whether you can please them. Keep ‘em happy and they’ll never leave.”

Of course she brought Owen into this.

The “boyfriend” she claimed to have had a wild night with? That was Owen Pollard—my boyfriend.

In my past life, I didn’t find out until after I died that she’d been seducing him behind my back. They were already tangled up in each other long before I realized it—right up to the night I was supposed to get married to him.

And even after she burned me alive, Owen still sided with her. He signed an official statement asking the court for leniency on her behalf.

Watching her fake innocence and twisted pride now, I nearly crushed my fists under the table.

“Owen respects my choices,” I said tightly. “That’s why I love him.”

For just a second, something flickered across her face—envy. But it disappeared quickly, replaced with her usual smirk.

“I don’t get it,” she scoffed. “You’re totally healthy, but you treat your body like some priceless relic in a museum. What a waste.”

She leaned in even closer, voice like poison-laced honey. “But hey, if you’re so set on staying a virgin, maybe try taking a few lessons from me.”

I pulled off my gloves and gestured toward her clothes. “Aren’t you worried your mom’s gonna find out?”

That wiped the smirk clean off her face. Her hand froze mid-button and her eyes narrowed.

“She won’t find out,” she said sharply. “Not unless someone tells her. And you’re not stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds you, are you, Cousin?”

Back in college, when I lost both my parents in a car accident, it was Aunt Hannah who stepped in and paid my tuition. She made sure I graduated from med school.

But that generosity came at a price.

Aunt Hannah wasn’t a saint. She used to be the mistress of a powerful businessman, hoping to lock down her place in the elite by giving him a son. But life played a cruel joke on her: she gave birth to Alison—intersex, sterile and entirely useless to her dreams of marrying up.

So, she took the hush money, raised Alison alone and never gave up on the fantasy of trading her daughter for a shot at high society.

When I became a doctor—an OBGYN, no less—she saw her chance.

She wanted me to operate. Clear the canal. Stitch on a fake hymen. Make Alison look like a blushing virgin so some rich man would never know the difference. And since post-op care would be an ongoing thing—hormones, maintenance, therapy—I’d be the perfect built-in solution.

But she didn’t know was that her daughter’s been actively destroying herself.

Of all the wild things my cousin had bragged about, two of her "tricks" left me horrified.

As a gynecologist, I knew the dangers better than anyone. We’re not just talking about STDs—this stuff could tear muscle, leave long-term damage, even cause internal scarring. When I warned her about the risks, she just laughed at me like I was some prude.

“Relax. We used protection,” she said with a roll of her eyes, like that magically made it safe.

Not long after she and Owen got involved, Aunt Hannah introduced her to some rich heir she’d been grooming her for.

He had one requirement—his future wife had to be a “pure” woman. In other words, untouched.

Aunt Hannah practically begged me to perform the surgery. She wanted me to “fix” Alison. Create the illusion of virginity. I tried to explain the risks—loss of sensation, scarring, complications—but she didn’t care. She saw a golden ticket and I was the tool to get it.

I pulled Alison aside and told her the truth. Every detail.

Surprisingly, she backed off. She was convinced her seduction skills alone could land her the guy. Said rich people didn’t care about natural births anyway—most of them hired surrogates. This way, she could keep her figure and still lock down the bag. A win-win.

Or so she thought.

Turns out, the wedding night didn’t go as planned. No matter how much she tried to please him, the guy lost it. The moment he realized something was off, he called off the marriage—right there, in bed.

Humiliated. Rejected. Shamed in front of an entire dynasty.

And somehow, she decided I was the one to blame.

That night, she lit the fire that killed me.

Thinking about it now, I knew what I had to do.

If I couldn’t stop her, I’d at least make sure she and Owen were locked together. That way, the cheating scumbag and the manipulative vixen would be too busy wrecking each other to ruin anyone else’s life.

“Don’t worry, Alison,” I said sweetly. “Your secret’s safe with me. Aunt Hannah will never hear it from me.”

Once the door shut, I pulled out my phone and texted my darling boyfriend.

[Miss you, babe.]

Along with it, I sent a few choice photos—lingerie, props, the whole nine yards.

Owen took the bait instantly, replying with drooling emoji like some desperate teenager. I didn’t answer. I let him stew.

By the time I got off work, I had dozens of unread messages waiting for me. Owen was clearly on fire, thinking I’d finally changed my mind.

That night, I went all in—copying every flirtatious line I could find online and sending them one by one, building up the heat until he was begging.

[Babe, can we video chat? Please?]

His voice was thick with lust.

I turned him down with a laugh, claiming I had to take a shower.

Not long after, I heard Alison’s bedroom door click open. She slipped out in the middle of the night like a teenager sneaking to a secret hookup.

She came back at dawn, legs wobbling.

Over the next few days, I checked Owen’s online shopping cart.

Sure enough, he’d ordered a bunch of sex toys. Fancy ones.

Every time he wanted to hook up with her, he used the excuse of being “out of town.” This latest “business trip” had lasted a whole month—and my cousin’s gait had gotten noticeably… strange. She was taking forever in the bathroom too.

Aunt Hannah finally noticed something was off. She pounded on the bathroom door, yelling like a banshee.

But Alison brushed it off with a casual, “Just an upset stomach.”

Then one day, she showed up at the hospital, pale as a ghost.

“S-something’s wrong,” she muttered.

I had her lie down on the exam table and did a quick check.

The results weren’t good. Her muscles were showing early signs of fatigue and loss of tone—classic wear and tear. Things were not holding up well.

“You and your boyfriend really need to stop. Or at least tone it down, or it’s going to get you—”

Before I could finish the sentence, she snapped.

“You’re just jealous because I actually know how to enjoy life, while you’re trapped in your miserable little bubble!”

She wasn’t going to let go of Owen. That much was clear. She never could stand the idea of me being happy. Over the years, anytime a guy showed the slightest interest in me, she’d swoop in like a hawk, flaunting her charm until he forgot I even existed. It wasn’t about love—not for her. It was about winning. Always proving she was somehow better.

I gave her a sweet little smile. “Suit yourself. I’ll prescribe you something to help with the pain.”

She left with a tube of medicated ointment and sure enough, after a few applications, she said things felt much better. Which only made her bolder. She doubled down, sneaking out more often, chasing that high like it was oxygen.

But the party didn’t last long.

Aunt Hannah eventually caught on. Maybe it was the way Alison kept vanishing in the middle of the night. Maybe it was the increasingly suspicious excuses. Either way, one night, the jig was up. Aunt Hannah laid down the law and put her on lockdown.

With his playmate suddenly under house arrest, Owen had no choice but to come crawling back to me.

He texted me that he was “back from his business trip.”

What a shame.

I replied with a breezy, “Oh no, what a coincidence! I just booked a trip for work—beachside retreat this time!”

And every single day on that beach, I kept the game going. Flirty messages. Double-meaning photos. And just for fun, I signed him up on every mailing list and dating site I could find.

Just as I expected, once he couldn’t get his hands on my cousin anymore, Owen came crawling right back—only this time, he wasn’t looking for love. He was looking for release.

He spiraled fast. Late-night parties, sketchy hookups, wild purchases—his online cart turned into a parade of increasingly bizarre toys. I took screenshots of everything, documenting it like a case file— using it as ammo.

Then I broke up with him.

No drama, no long texts. I just told him it was over. At first, Owen kept showing up at the hospital, trying to talk to me, win me back. But when his attempt result for nothing, he gave up.

My cousin, of course, was thrilled when she found out. Thought she’d “won.” Thought her irresistible charm had finally done the trick.

And Owen? He wasn’t just licking his wounds—he was hell-bent on payback. The two of them dove headfirst into something even more reckless than before. The toys got darker, the stunts even more unhinged.

It wasn’t long before the consequences caught up.

She started smelling… off. Like something rotting underneath all that designer perfume. And instead of fixing the problem, she just sprayed more on—trying to mask it, trying to pretend nothing was wrong.

Then came the big day.

Aunt Hannah had found her next target—a rich heir named Soren Armitage. She’d pulled out all the stops: luxury dress, fine jewelry, salon appointment booked. The whole nine yards.

“Alison, this is your big chance,” she gushed as the tailor adjusted the hem. “Soren Armitage is the real deal. He’s been raised on manners and money. And he likes innocent, wholesome girls like you.”

I caught the way my cousin flinched—just barely, but it was there. The panic. The guilt.

“I already have a boyfriend,” she muttered, eyebrows drawn tight.

“Then break up with him,” Aunt Hannah snapped. “You think your little boyfriend can hold a candle to someone like Soren Armitage?”

She waved it off like it was nothing. “Besides, you’re not even sleeping with him. Break it off, have Fran give you the surgery and you’ll be good as new. Clean as a whistle.”

That was the plan. One surgery away from being a virgin again. One lie away from landing a fortune.

But for once, Alison hesitated. She faked a stomach ache, refused to go to the event no matter what Aunt Hannah said.

Aunt Hannah wasn’t about to let a golden opportunity slip away. So instead, she turned to me.

“You’ll go in her place,” she said, like it was a simple favor. Like I owed her.

I refused, of course.

That’s when she pulled out her favorite line. The one she’d used for years, the one that always made my blood run cold:

“Don’t forget who gave you everything you have, Fran. I worked so hard to raise you and this is how you repay me? With disobedience?”

I ended up in Alison’s designer gown, sitting next to her at a swanky hotel ballroom, pretending to be her.

In my past life, I hadn’t paid much attention to Soren Armitage. All I remembered was that he had a strong sense of principles. But meeting him again this time… there was a strange sense of fate in the air.

He was handsome, well-mannered and refreshingly down-to-earth—not at all like the typical spoiled heir. Like me, he’d only been in one serious relationship before and he carried himself with quiet integrity.

When I told him I believed in a lifelong, exclusive kind of love, he lit up. Said he’d been pursued by plenty of women over the years, but all he really wanted was someone who shared his ideals. His “one and only.”

That night, we talked for hours. Everything just clicked.

We went on a few more dates after that and he seemed to like me more and more. Soon enough, Aunt Hannah’s doorstep was flooded with designer gifts and lavish bouquets.

The moment Alison saw him—polished in a sharp suit, leaning against his Cullinan—her entire attitude flipped. That very night, she dumped Owen and called me up, claiming that Soren had always been meant for her.

But I wasn’t about to roll over this time. I met her words with a smile full of barbs.

“Poor, Alison. Are you addicted to stealing my boyfriends?”

She scoffed.

“I let you have Owen because he was trash. But Soren? Soren has standards—and you don’t meet any of them.”

Her mask slipped just for a second, but then she put it right back on, her voice laced with smug confidence.

“Think you’re so great?” she hissed. “Believe it or not, Soren Armitage is going to be mine. And when that day comes, I’ll savor the moment you finally realize you’re nothing but a failure—never able to keep a man.”

Rage boiled up inside me and I slammed my glass down so hard the rim cracked.

I slammed my glass down so hard it cracked.

Aunt Hannah came storming in and when she heard my cousin had finally “come to her senses,” she was thrilled.

“Well, looks like Alison’s finally come to her senses,” she said, like we were all part of some sick game show.

Then she turned to me and dropped the hammer. Then she turned to me with that frosty, commanding tone.

“Fran, let’s not forget you were only standing in for Alison at that event to begin with. It’s only right you give Soren back to her.”

My hands shook. My jaw was clenched so tightly I could feel my molars grinding. I couldn’t believe I was hearing this.

And just when I thought she couldn’t cut deeper, she delivered the line she knew would paralyze me.

My hands trembled. My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might break. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

And then she hit me with the line she knew would shut me up.

“Don’t forget who gave you the life you have, Fran. Don’t you dare repay kindness with betrayal.”

The words lodged in my throat like a shard of glass. My vision blurred as tears poured down, silent and relentless.

If Mom and Dad were still here, they would’ve never let this happen. They wouldn’t have just stood there and watched me get humiliated like this.

No—I wasn’t going to crumble. I still have Soren. He said he liked me. He promised that he wanted to spend forever with me.