My mother used to say that the one with the winning cards always plays fair. But what about the rest of us? We bluff our way to the top.

My name is Adam Manson. I was born in 1994, on the frostiest Valentine’s Day Elmville, Ridgeport had ever seen. My parents were a pair of small-town actors who loved applause more than they loved staying home. That suited me just fine. I was a popular kid—polite, helpful, the kind mothers felt sorry for. Sunday lunch invitations and sleepovers came easily, and I learned early that being likable gets you far.

By sixteen, I realized likability or pity wasn’t all I could inspire, especially with the girls. They were thrilled by the way I looked at them, as though I couldn’t tear my eyes away. My voice, deep and lazy, hooked them. A casual touch—adjusting a collar or brushing an invisible speck from their hair—and they fell for me, ready to be picked.

At seventeen, I had my first serious relationship with Jacintha, a 35-year-old widow who lived next door. She insisted we keep our relationship secret, wary of wagging tongues, and I obliged, visiting her only at night. I didn’t mind. She was tall and slender, with covetous black eyes and waist-length hair, and, above all, she knew how to keep me satisfied in bed.

Jacintha loved me—desperately—but she didn’t trust me. Any mention of other girls, real or imagined, sent her into a spiral. She kept accusing me of cheating on her with my classmates. One day, she saw them coming to my house, and from that moment on, she watched me like a hawk. Of course, none of it was true. Those girls came to me because we were assigned some project! None of them could offer me what she did, and on top of that, they all lived with their parents. I flirted, sure, but never seriously. The last thing I wanted was a furious father banging on my door.

I couldn’t explain that to Jacintha, so I repeated the same line: I didn’t know a more desirable woman. She never believed me. Instead, her accusations grew sharper, her paranoia more consuming. In time, her jealousy festered into full-blown hysteria.

One day in late October, I couldn’t take it anymore and suggested we break it off. Then she went completely wild, screaming like a wild beast. We were sitting in bed, and I don’t know what came over me. Her voice—shrill, relentless—filled my head, and I just wanted it to stop. I grabbed a pillow and pressed it over her face. Just to quiet her down. Just for a minute.

She thrashed, clawed at my arms. But I didn’t care. I was stronger. 

And really pissed. Then she stopped moving.

For a moment, I didn’t register it. I stayed there, breathing hard, the weight of the pillow still in my hands. Then the silence pressed in, heavier than anything. I pulled the pillow away. Her eyes were open, but I knew: they didn’t see me anymore.

So, what could I do?

I went to the kitchen and put on rubber gloves. Jacintha was not house-proud, and her apartment was always a mess. I decided to clean it up a bit—washed and dried the dishes, even polished the furniture in the living room. I took my time and scrubbed with care. By the time I was done, the flat was as clean as a new pin.

I didn’t touch Jacintha again. I just covered her with a white sheet. Then I stuffed the rubber gloves in my pocket, turned off all the lights, and snuck out. It was late. The street was empty.

At home, I took a pair of scissors and cut the gloves into tiny pieces. Then I threw them in the trash and went to bed.

The next day, I went to school as usual. I felt off, however. My stomach churned, my head spun. Teachers gave me strange looks. Or maybe I imagined it. By fourth period—History: Henry VIII—I was called up. I stood, shaking all over. Then, nothing. Later, they told me I’d collapsed. An ambulance was called because my fever was dangerously high.

I was hospitalized, unconscious for days. When I finally came home, thinner and weaker, Jacintha was already interred. Detectives hovered around our street for a while, then vanished. No one ever questioned me.

From that day, I changed. Something in me shifted. For a time, I lost interest in women and threw myself into my studies. My grades improved, and I graduated with good results, which secured my enrollment at the Faculty of Letters at the East West University of Ridgechester.

There, I rediscovered my charm. I flirted, partied, drank. Smoked marijuana with friends. Exams weren’t a problem. I always turned in serious work and, as expected, the female professors liked me: young and old.

By third year, I’d secured a new girlfriend—my thesis advisor.

Monique was a stylish middle-aged woman—smart, supportive, and, best of all, never demanding. She had common sense, dry humor, and a predictability I could always rely on, at least, this is what I thought. This relationship was not only pleasant but also very rewarding careerwise. She didn’t just advise me—she practically rewrote my BA thesis. And two years later, my MA. The board was impressed. I walked away with a special distinction. In return, I was offered a temporary teaching assistant position, which I happily accepted.

With Monique’s help, I moved up the faculty’s pecking order quickly. We were already working on the second half of my PhD dissertation — The Rational Monster: Madness and Morality in Edgar Allan Poe’s Narrators —when the thunderbolt struck: she got an invitation to teach Gothic Literature in Toronto. The offer was too good to refuse. There was no question of turning it down.

I was screwed.

“It’s only two years, honey,” she told me. “You’ll finish your thesis in no time. I’ll be back for your defense.” I didn’t ask how I’d finish without her. I already knew the answer. Instead, I helped her pack. She left the keys to her apartment with me. I promised to keep her flowers watered, to pay her taxes and bills until she came home.

Then the day of separation came. I took her to the airport. I kissed her goodbye. Then she was gone.

In the weeks following her departure, I tried desperately to keep writing, but I couldn’t. Without Monique, the books made less sense. The words blurred together in front of my eyes. Without her, I couldn’t write. My sentences tripped over themselves, rambling and empty. Even I could see how bad they were.

One gloomy evening in early December, I was moping in the library when one of the librarians, Angela, sat down next to me. I knew her from my undergraduate days.

“What’s the matter, Adam?” she asked. 

“Can’t work?” I admitted I couldn’t.

“It’s almost closing time. If you wait a bit, we can go together. I’ll buy you a glass of mulled wine. I’m sure it’ll brighten you up.”

I had no other plans that night, so, to my own surprise, I agreed. I gave her a once-over. Mousey. Lame. Sexless. I felt sorry for her.

Three glasses of mulled wine later, I walked her home. She invited me in. One thing led to another. I spent the night at her place, and then the next night, and the next. Two weeks later, I moved in. She cooked well, kept the place tidy, and ironed my shirts to perfection. I’d never lived so comfortably.

Life would have been peaceful if not for that damn dissertation hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. I sent desperate emails to Monique, begging her to help me, trying to make her understand that I couldn’t manage without her. But she was too busy in Canada.

“You’ll be fine,” she wrote. “Just trust yourself.”

I panicked. I knew I couldn’t write it by myself. I was good at speaking in public, but writing was my weak point. By then, I’d grown comfortable with Angela and told her what my problem was. I didn’t expect anything but a little sympathy. Her response surprised me.

“Will you let me read what you’ve done so far?” she asked. “Maybe I can help a little.”

I hesitated, then handed it over. What did I have to lose? How could this crippled, mouse-faced little librarian possibly help me? Although I was grateful for all she had done for me, I certainly didn’t consider her my intellectual equal.

She smiled mysteriously and sent me to the movies. “Take a walk after,” she suggested. “Pick up something nice for dinner,” she added. “I won’t be cooking tonight.”

I left her alone. I didn’t go to the cinema or for a walk, I went to a bar and ordered a whisky, I can’t remember how many shots. Then I picked up a doxy and went up to her flat. I didn’t go home for three days. It was spring break at the university, so I didn’t have classes.

Angela was frantic. She thought I’d had an accident, phoned local hospitals, was about to go to the police when I walked in the door. She was so glad I was all right that she didn’t even think of reproaching me. She threw herself at me, and showered me with kisses.

“You need a bath,” she said gently, running a hand over my face. “And a shave.”

While I showered, she prepared a feast. Eggs, bacon, toast, fresh orange juice. I sat at the table, letting the steam from my coffee rise into my face. Then, sheepishly, she handed me a stack of papers.

“Here. I tried to draft a section of your dissertation.”

I skimmed it. It was surprisingly good. I was very impressed, but I didn’t show it. Letting her think she’d done something capital would only make her presumptuous.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, eyes bright. “Your style is… uncertain.”

“Yes, I have little experience,” she admitted. “But if you’d let me help you, I’d be happy to.” I pretended to consider it. Let her wait. Finally, I sighed.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s a big job. Takes a lot of perseverance and hard work.” “I’m hard-working. I learn fast. Let me try.”

I nodded, then tilted my head.

“And what about the cooking—the cleaning?” I asked. “We can’t let the house fall apart.” “We’ll hire a maid to clean. I’ll still do the cooking, of course.”

I graciously agreed. She was ecstatic. Grateful. I’d given her purpose.

The next day, I wrote a work schedule for her. Deadlines. Targets. A roadmap to keep her on track. She was meticulous. Methodical. The perfect assistant. I was very pleased with myself.

In the following months, Angela worked tirelessly. But as time passed cracks in her devotion began to show. One night, she finally snapped.

“You’re using me.”

Her words stung. No one talks to me like that. Under any other circumstance, I would have broken off with her then and there. But I needed her. No dissertation, no promotion. Maybe no job at all. I had to endure this ogress.

So I cupped her chin, whispered that she was exhausted, overworked. That’s all it was. I kissed her forehead, sent her to bed. She could not resist me. She was still under my spell.

We argued often that summer, but we always patched things up. By the time the new academic year began, Angela was already working on the final chapter of my dissertation.

I sent Monique the chapters Angela had written. She barely had a critique.

”I told you you could do it, ” she wrote appreciatively. ”Your style has improved a lot.”

That year, the faculty was enriched by the arrival of a new colleague, an exchange professor from the Big Apple. She intended to spend two semesters with us.

“Dr. Melanie Roth.”

We shook hands. A jolt ran through me, sharp as a blade. I shivered.

I’d never seen such a woman. She didn’t belong in this world of textbooks and lecture halls. She should have been on a fashion runway, in the pages of a magazine. Wasted here.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She noticed, her gaze flicking downward, a flicker of embarrassment. Encouraging.

“Coffee?” I asked. She accepted.

In the café, I kept things neutral—her work, her move from New York. I didn’t rush things. Rushing would ruin it. She wasn’t like other women. She required patience. Precision. The whole café was watching her. Even the women. Even the ones who pretended not to.

I’m afraid I have to go,” she said suddenly, standing up. “I promised to visit my godparents in Ridgechester. See you tomorrow!” She was gone. Just like that. I had nothing left to do, so I went home.

I completely forgot about Angela. I poured myself a brandy, lit a Kent, and let the smoke curl around me. I pictured Melanie—her hair, the way she smiled, the way she looked away when she caught me staring. She knew the effect she had. She had to know.

At some point, I dozed off. I don’t know how long I slept, probably a few hours. It was dark when Angela woke me.

“I have good news,” she announced cheerfully. “I’ve finished your dissertation.” Sleep vanished. I sat up fast.

“Let me see!” I exclaimed.

She handed me the paper. I barely skimmed it, but that was enough—I could tell she’d done a first-rate job. A wave of relief hit me. I was pleased. But I didn’t show it.

“Read it all at your leisure,” she said. “I’m going out to buy some things for dinner. We have to celebrate.”

“All right,” I nodded graciously, taking the paper from her hands.

She left. I sat back, scanning the pages. When she returned, I smiled, kissed her cheek, told her it was brilliant. Then I helped her with dinner. It was the least I could do. She was touched.

The first thing I did the following day was go to the post office to send in my dissertation. Then I went to the university to see Melanie. We chatted, and I invited her to lunch. She accepted, but with one condition—we go Dutch.

“All right,” I said. “We’ll see.”

I knew what this was. She liked me—she just wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

At the restaurant, I kept things light. Her home, her family. She told me she lived alone, had just broken up with her fiancé two months ago, and wasn’t looking for a new relationship. I nodded, said I understood. Then I offered to show her around town that weekend. She agreed.

Back home, Angela had another surprise for me, but this one was not as pleasant as the day before.

“I booked us a wellness weekend,” she said, beaming. “The Hunsicham VIP Spa. Just the two of us.”

My stomach tightened. She had planned without asking me. This was unacceptable, but I didn’t want a scene. So I sighed, slow and heavy, like I hated to disappoint her.

“I wish I could,” I said. “But the head of the department personally asked me to show our new colleague around this weekend. There’s no way I can refuse.”

Angela’s smile faltered. She hesitated, then said,

“I saw her in the library,” she murmured. “She’s very pretty.”

“Is she?” I frowned, pretending to think it over. “I hadn’t noticed. I don’t like her type. She’s very uppity, like New Yorkers usually are.”

Angela exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. My words had the desired effect— she brightened a little.

“Why don’t you call one of your girlfriends?” I suggested. “It would be a pity to let the reservation go to waste. It’s just a weekend,” I reminded her. “We’ll make up for it afterward.”

She looked at me strangely for a moment, as if weighing something, but then nodded.

Angela went away, and I spent the weekend showing Melanie around the city. I could tell she liked me. She just didn’t know it yet.

So I started to flirt a little. Light touches, lingering eye contact, a subtle shift in my tone. She didn’t reject me. Not outright. But she didn’t quite reciprocate either. It was frustrating. I was patient, though.

In the evening, I suggested we go to a bar for a drink. A glass of wine, a cocktail—just something to take the edge off. I thought it might help her relax. To my surprise, she declined, citing fatigue.

A flicker of heat passed through me, but I smothered it with a smile. “We could have lunch tomorrow,” I said.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. Professor Eccleston invited me to spend Sunday with him and his family. His daughter was a classmate of mine. See you on Monday!”

Professor Eccleston. Vice-rector. Respected. Influential. Melanie wasn’t just beautiful. She was well-connected. Valuable.

I went home convinced I’d found the perfect woman for me.

On Sunday evening, Angela came home. The wellness weekend had done her good—she was glowing, chatty, almost carefree. I listened, nodding at the right moments, thinking only one thing: I had to get rid of her. If I wanted Melanie, Angela had to go. But I didn’t want to ruin her good mood. She’d been useful. Let her enjoy herself a little longer. So I said nothing.

Over the next few weeks, I spent more and more time with Melanie. Angela noticed, of course. I fed her excuses—lame, flimsy things. For a while, she accepted them. Then, one afternoon, she saw me grab Melanie’s hand in the hallway and kiss it.

That night, the storm broke. She was crying like a rainstorm and threw harsh words at me. From her words, I took it that in her mind, for helping me finish my dissertation, she imagined I would marry her! Me and her! The thought of it!

“After everything I’ve done for you,” she sobbed, “you betray me like this?” I shrugged. I was done with this desperate, deluded fool. It was time.

I started packing my things.

She panicked. First threats—she’d expose me, report my dissertation. Then pleading— promises to do anything if I stayed.

I paused. Calculated.

Finally, I stopped packing and promised we’d talk later.

That night, I dreamed of Jacintha for the first time in years. It didn’t unsettle me. If anything, it confirmed what I already knew. Angela had to leave my life. She had served her purpose. If she wouldn’t leave on her own, I’d take care of it.

As I stood in the shower, the water running over me, I thought of the pillow. How easily it had silenced Jacintha. How perfectly it had worked.

I dried off and went to breakfast. Angela sat across from me, her eyes red from crying. She smiled weakly.

I smiled back.

“Let’s talk tonight,” I murmured. “We’ll sort everything out.”

I stirred sugar into my coffee and watched her across the rim of my cup. She clung to the lie, just like I knew she would.