Parallel Call Chapter 1

New Year’s Eve. A video call, unexpected, from my past self, eight years ago, in a parallel timeline.

Her eyes on the screen sparkled.

“Harry just confessed his feelings for me today! He said he’d plant a whole yard full of my favorite flowers, spend every New Year’s Eve with me, and spoil me rotten forever!”

She chattered on, painting vivid pictures of a future brimming with joy.

I listened, quietly, a small smile playing on my lips.

Then, she paused, her gaze shifting to the empty room behind me.

“Hey? Where’s Harry? We must be so happy eight years from now, right?”

I said nothing.

Instead, I slowly turned the camera, aiming it at the other end of the living room.

There, Harry was pinning a stranger against the floor-to-ceiling window, kissing her with an intensity that bordered on desperation.

* * *

The woman was pressed against him, body arched, her hand leaving a steamy, damp print on the fogged glass.

Harry let out a low growl, his hand straying, giving her backside an impertinent squeeze.

She shifted, uncomfortable, then looked up. Her eyes, through the glass, found mine.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but then she melted into Harry, her body swaying against him as if boneless.

“Harry, darling, is someone else home?”

He seemed unfazed, even using her upward tilt to deepen their kiss. His eyes, open, met mine—cold, almost playful.

“Ignore her. She won’t mind, will she?”

Mind?

That word had long grown stale on my tongue.

From screaming fits to numb acceptance, eventually, the desire to even speak had withered away.

But on the screen, my eight-year-younger self had gone utterly pale, her hand trembling as she disconnected the call.

The performance by the window, however, escalated.

I lowered my head, sending a New Year’s greeting to my brother, who had vanished years ago, just to distract myself.

The woman laughed, a giddy sound, her hands bolder now, roaming over Harry’s body.

“Where did you find a wife so…understanding?”

Then, they tangled, clothes scattering—a jacket, a tie, stockings—a trail leading up the stairs.

Such scenes had become a regular, sordid film in this cold, sterile villa.

I couldn’t even summon the energy to lift an eyelid.

As the awkward New Year’s Eve comedy special on TV threatened to lull me to sleep on the sofa, a maid roused me.

She spoke, her voice laced with discomfort.

“Mr. Miller wants you to go out and buy…lubricant.”

New Year’s Eve. The streets were deserted, only a handful of adult stores open.

I walked for over half an hour against the biting wind. When I returned, I faintly heard two maids gossiping about me.

“Poor Luna. These past eight years, she’s lived worse than a servant.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have resorted to such underhanded tactics to marry Mr. Miller. It’s a miracle he even gave her a title.”

Memories clawed their way back.

Harry had been on a trip to Silver Creek, a mountain village, when we met. We fell in love.

Pure, fierce, like the winds of the peaks.

I left everything behind, following him to his city.

But his mother vehemently opposed it, dismissing me as a “mountain girl.”

Harry, though, had held my hand tightly back then, saying,

“Don’t worry. I’ll make my mom agree.”

Then, my brother, who had never gambled in his life, suddenly racked up a colossal debt.

Desperate, he listened to someone’s dark suggestion.

If he could just get me into Harry’s bed, force the issue, the Miller family, to save face, would surely marry me, and his debts would be cleared.

My brother drugged both me and Harry.

After a night of chaotic confusion, Harry’s gaze, once filled with tenderness, turned icy and hateful.

He married me, then threw a check at me.

“Remember, this money, you owe me.”

Our marriage, a dream meant to be born of mutual affection, had twisted into a nightmare. He believed it was a conspiracy, orchestrated by my brother and me.

I had tried to suggest divorce more than once.

Each time, he would sneer, “You want a divorce? Fine. Return that fifty million, interest included. Otherwise, I’ll find your brother and make sure he rots in a cell.”

My brother had vanished without a trace.

This debt, it was shackled to me.

Harry flung open the bedroom door. The red marks all over his torso were a jarring sight.

“What took you so long?”

He snatched the box from my hand, its plastic edge scraping my cheek, a sharp sting.

“She’s too tight, couldn’t wait.”

My peripheral vision caught a glimpse of the naked figure on the large bed inside the room.

My stomach churned.

I turned to escape.

But his voice, playful, followed me.

“Or maybe you want to join us?”

I finally broke, clutching the toilet bowl, emptying my guts until I was dizzy.

I called my past self again, video on. I asked,

“Do you think he still loves me?”

She cried, but disbelief still clung to her words.

“How could he become like this? He clearly said he’d only love me!”

I knew that without having lived through these years of despair, words alone couldn’t convey the depth of it.

Perhaps she would, like my past self, make excuses for him, believing it was just a temporary misunderstanding.

I didn’t blame her. Instead, I invited her to keep watching.