Chapter 1His Fake Depression Cost Him Everything

Mark claimed to have severe clinical depression, frequently shutting down and disappearing into ice-cold silent treatment without warning.

Every time he vanished, my heart lived in my throat. Yet I never dared blow up his phone with calls or frantic texts, terrified that the slightest pressure would push him over the edge.

Until I picked up his tablet by accident and saw his message thread with his childhood best friend, Trista.

Mark: "In five days, let's just say Cassidy passed this round of the test."

Trista: "Hold the line, okay? You're the heir to a massive family fortune. What if all of Cassidy’s patience and devotion is an act because she's angling for your money?"

Trista: "Trust me on this. Keep faking the crippling depression. Put her through the wringer."

Trista: "Don't go soft! If you do, our friendship is over!"

Mark: "Alright, alright, whatever you say. And stop talking about ending our friendship—we made a pact, remember? You and me, for life."

The tablet slipped from my palms.

Two years. Two agonizing years of scrimping, surviving on pocket change, and walking on eggshells around his fragile psyche—all of it had been a staged performance.

My body trembled uncontrollably, my heart thudding violently against my ribs until it ached.

A chime echoed from my phone.

A text from Mark.

"Living feels so pointless. I just want to see blood—red, warm blood. Why don't you bleed for me?"

"Cassidy, you say you love me. Prove it."

In the past, I would have broken down in tears, begging him not to hurt himself, yielding to whatever impossible demand he made just to keep him safe.

This time, I stared at the glowing screen, pressed the power button, and shut the phone down.

I was done passing his tests.

* * *

The second the screen went black, silence rushed in to claim my world.

Inside my head, the taut wire—the one strung so tight with constant terror, worry, and sleepless vigil—finally snapped.

I no longer had to wonder if Mark had enough money to eat today.

Where he was sleeping tonight. If someone on the street had hurt him.

Whether he remembered his medication, or if he was huddled in some dark, desolate corner of the city, drowning in despair.

The truth had ripped him out of my heart by the roots.

I drew a long, warm bath, sank into the softness of my bed, stretched my aching limbs, and let my eyes close.

In two years, this was the first night I didn't hold my breath.

I slept deeply, peacefully, without a single dream.

When I woke and powered my phone back on, Mark’s call tore through the stillness almost instantly.

I took a steadying breath and answered.

Before I could part my lips, his fury crashed over me.

"Cassidy! Do you have any idea your mother collapsed at the train station? What kind of daughter are you, keeping your damn phone off all day? If a good Samaritan hadn't used her phone to call me and I hadn't rushed over, she could have died! You’d be living with regret for the rest of your life!"

"In this blistering heat, she hauled heavy baskets of home-cooked food and fresh groceries, standing on a crowded train for hours just to bring you a taste of home. And you? What were you doing? Your phone was off the entire time."