Chapter 1

On New Year's Eve, my mom kicked me out of the family group chat. My cousin texted me privately with a screenshot as proof.

Everyone in the group was trashing me, calling me an "old maid" who couldn't find a husband. They said if I stayed home for the holiday, I'd ruin the whole family's luck for the next year.

My mom even texted straight out: [If anyone lets her come back, I'll lose it on them.]

I looked out the window at the glittering river view, then at the key to that million‑dollar luxury apartment on the table. It all felt so ironic.

Fine. I made a call right away. "List my house for sale. I've decided to use the money to take a long vacation and travel around the world."

You keep your good luck. Enjoy it.

*****

The real estate agent's voice had that cheerful, professional tone. He went through every detail on the phone. "Ms. Lane, are you sure you want to list your house for sale?

"You just paid for it in full and haven't stayed there a single day. If you sell it now, we'll have to..."

I cut him off without hesitation. "I'm sure. Get it done as fast as you can. You can go a little lower on the price. I only ask for a full payment. And I need it quick."

"Okay, Ms. Lane. I'll take care of it right away," he replied.

I hung up. Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights looked like a sparkling galaxy, mirrored on the dark river below.

This penthouse with a river view, right in the city center, was my thirtieth birthday present to myself. I'd been grinding for nearly ten years for it.

I'd pictured it so many times, bringing my family there, showing them the home I'd fought so hard to create.

Now this empty place had just me and my dream, shattered.

On my phone screen, a group chat screenshot from my cousin Flora Lane still glowed. Every word cut deep like a razor-sharp blade.

The people I thought were closest to me were using the oldest, most poisonous superstition to nail me to the wall of shame.

Memories came flooding back, drowning me in a tide I couldn't control.

In college, to buy my brother, Ethan Lane, the latest phone, I worked three part-time jobs a day. I only got the cheapest food in the cafeteria.

I cut my living costs down to almost nothing. In the end, all that money just turned into something for him to show off.

When I got my first paycheck, 2,000 dollars, my hands were shaking with excitement.

I kept 400 dollars for myself and sent the other 1,600 dollars to my mother, Linda Warren.

Then I lived on that 400 dollars and a bunch of instant mac and cheese for my first month in a new city.

Later, Ethan said he wanted to start a business. He painted this big, fancy picture. His eyes had that hungry look lit up by desire.

I gave him everything I'd saved in three years of work. 30,000 dollars. I put it right in his hands.

And what did he do? He went and bought a used sports car with it. Then he took different girls for rides every single day, just showing off.

That money went down the drain. I didn't even hear a splash.

Before I could even confront him about it, Linda's call came first.

Her voice was full of blame. "Claire, Ethan's business failed. He's feeling down right now. If you can't even comfort him, fine. But why do you have to give him attitude?

"You're his big sister. Can't you just cut him some slack?"

I held the phone. My throat tightened. I couldn't get a word out.

Last year, I got promoted to planning director after an outstanding project.

Overjoyed, I shared the news in the family group chat. I was hoping for even a throwaway compliment.

But all I got was a cold splash from Linda. She wrote: [So what if you're that capable? No matter how good you are, if you can't get married, it's all for nothing.]

[Look at Flora. She married a good husband. Look how comfortable her life is now.]

Those memories used to feel like a thousand tiny needles stabbing at my heart, always leaving a dull ache.

Now they'd merged into one huge black hole. It swallowed up whatever little warmth I had left for my family.

The sadness in my eyes faded, little by little. What was left was dead, solid ice.

Good. Since you care so much about luck, I'll cut off the source of this "bad luck" for good.

I opened my laptop. The cold screen light lit up my face.

I typed, searching for flights and travel guides for the first stop of my world tour.

My phone lit up again. It was Flora.

She wrote: [Claire, don't be mad at your mom. She has a sharp tongue but a soft heart. She really means well. It's the New Year. Family doesn't hold grudges overnight.]

Fake concern was even more disgusting than any curse.

I stared at the message. My face blank, I held down on her name and deleted the contact. The world went quiet just like that.