Year two of our secret marriage, and I somehow ended up infiltrating a private Telegram group dedicated to stalking my husband. The chat was currently scrolling at breakneck speed: [$1,000 bounty for Wesley Kallan’s private flight itinerary tomorrow! Who has a plug?] I lurked in the digital shadows for a good half hour, watching the frantic messages pile up. It was a hive of obsessive, borderline-feral fans whose sole purpose in life was tracking, photographing, and cornering the man I was married to. Leaning back against the velvet cushions of my empty living room, I toggled over to my iMessage and held down the microphone button. [Mr. A-List, which flight are you taking to New York tomorrow morning again?] His reply came a minute later. [Delta 9527. Why? Finally willing to come to LAX and see your actual husband off?] I copied the flight number and dropped it into the Telegram chat. Sixty seconds later, a thousand dollars hit my Venmo. 1 [Bounty paid. Don’t ghost us on the gate and seating area, you coward.] The notification that popped up on my screen dripped with entitlement. The sender’s handle was StardustWes. She was the admin of this two-hundred-member stalker syndicate. I stared at her profile picture—a girl in a bright red jacket—my thumb hovering over the glass. [Guess our ‘insider’ is a one-trick pony. The nerve to charge for scraps.] When I didn’t reply immediately, the admin’s texts turned venomous. The rest of the group swarmed like sharks smelling blood. [Seriously. Take our money and run, hope you get hit by a bus.] [Watch this be a burner account run by Wesley’s pathetic, secret hag of a wife.] [Ugh, don’t make me puke. That old, washed-up bitch taking up space probably doesn’t even get to see Wes’s face. She’s just a placeholder.] [I heard she’s some ugly corporate suit who trapped him into marriage with Hollywood studio money. Wes is just enduring it for his career.] [Honestly, I pray she gets in a car crash so the spot opens up.] I watched the words scroll past, a sharp, twisting ache taking root in my stomach. Two years of marriage. Outside these walls, Wesley Kallan was a blindingly bright superstar, a cinematic darling. Inside, I was a ghost. A woman who didn’t even deserve a name. For the sake of his flawless trajectory, we had never taken a single public photo together. And now, his deranged fans were casually wishing for my death in a group chat, and I couldn’t even defend myself. If I fired back, my carefully constructed persona as an airport insider would shatter. I took a slow, rattling breath, pressing down the tremor in my fingertips, and typed. [Keep your hair on. Verifying the layout now.] Switching apps, I opened Wesley’s pinned contact. A black square for a profile picture. Two years. He flew to every corner of the earth while I guarded a sprawling, echoing mansion in the Hollywood Hills. He genuinely believed that sending a daily “landed” text and depositing an exorbitant allowance into my account constituted a marriage. But I was starting to forget the physical temperature of his skin. I copied the rest of the flight data and flipped back to Telegram. [DL9527. First Class, Seat 2A.] A new Venmo notification pinged. [Good girl.] The admin sent another thousand. I clicked ‘Accept’ with a blank face. The digital chime of the deposit sounded impossibly loud in the hollow silence of the house. [Who’s going to LAX tomorrow? Remember to get tight shots of his face.] The admin began delegating. [Me! Me! I’m gonna try to rip off that cursed protection amulet that old witch gave him.] [Yes! Shred it. Wes should only wear the jewelry we buy him.] I stared at that sentence until the words blurred, a cold numbness seeping into my chest. That amulet was a hand-carved grounding stone I had driven ten hours into the Arizona desert to get for him from a Navajo artisan, praying for his safety after a stunt went wrong on set. Wesley had worn it flush against his collarbone ever since. Now, these girls were crowdsourcing a plan to destroy it. My phone vibrated in my palm. A text from Wesley. [Wheels up at 6:30 AM. If you can actually wake up that early, I’ll have the driver swing by the house to get you.] I stared at the glowing blue bubble for a long time. Then, very slowly, I typed: [Too tired. Can’t make it. Be safe.] After it delivered, I placed the phone face down on the sofa and closed my eyes. In the suffocating dark, I could already picture the absolute chaos of the airport ambush waiting for him tomorrow. I lost track of time, drifting in a numb haze, until the sudden chime of the front gate intercom shattered the silence. I snapped my eyes open, looking at the digital clock on the mantle. 5:00 AM. I walked over to the security monitor. “Who is it?” The screen was pitch black. No visual. But the voice that filtered through the speaker made my blood freeze in my veins. “It’s me.” 2 The voice was rough, laced with a heavy, gravelly exhaustion. “Open the gate, Camille.” I stood paralyzed for two agonizing seconds before slamming my palm onto the release button. The heavy iron locks clicked open. He walked in bringing the chill of the California dawn with him. He was hidden beneath a black baseball cap and a face mask, a grease-stained brown paper bag dangling from his fingers. “Aren’t you supposed to be flying to New York this morning? Why are you back here?” He pulled off the mask and tossed the cap onto the marble entryway console. “Changed my flight.” He walked the distance between us and held the paper bag out to me. “Those almond croissants from that tiny French place in Venice Beach. Still warm.” I didn’t take it. My eyes were fixed on the heavy, bruised shadows beneath his eyes. “Are you out of your mind? You drove all the way back up the hills at five in the morning just to drop off a pastry?” A faint, tired smile touched his lips. He reached out, his hand brushing through my hair. “It was on the way.” Venice Beach to the Hollywood Hills, while he was supposed to be at LAX. In no universe was that on the way. I stepped back, dodging his touch, and took the bag. My fingers accidentally grazed the back of his hand. It was ice cold. “Eat them before they get cold,” he murmured, turning on his heel and heading toward the master bath. I stood rooted to the spot, watching the broad line of his shoulders disappear behind the frosted glass door. The water turned on. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened Telegram. The chat was an absolute war zone. [What the hell is going on?! The VIP terminal is completely empty!] [Where is the insider?! Get out here and explain! How dare you sell us fake intel!] The admin, StardustWes, dropped a barrage of furious emojis. [Refund us right now, or I swear to God I’ll hire someone to track your IP and dox you to the whole internet!] [You messed with the wrong crowd, bitch. You’re dead.] I scrolled through the manic tags and death threats, a dark, cynical smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. Wesley changed his flight without telling a single soul—not even me. His stalkers caught nothing but air, and naturally, my head was on the chopping block. I didn’t refund the money. I didn’t type a single word. The shower shut off. Wesley walked out in sweatpants and a faded vintage tee, vigorously drying his dripping hair with a towel. He stopped, his gaze falling on the untouched paper bag sitting on the kitchen island. “Why aren’t you eating?” “Lost my appetite,” I said, my voice deadpan. He paused, lowering the towel, and walked slowly toward me. He studied my face, his brow furrowing. “Are you in a bad mood?” I tilted my head up, meeting his gaze head-on. “Wesley, we’ve been married for almost two years. Do you honestly think we still look like husband and wife?” His jaw tightened. He tossed the damp towel onto a barstool. “I’ve been slammed with production lately, Camille. Once we wrap this shoot, I promise, I’ll take you to Iceland. We’ll go see the Northern Lights.” Another empty check. Another hollow promise. Every single time I tried to breach the wall between us, he used a vacation as a band-aid to push the conversation down the road. I pushed off the counter. “Don’t bother. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.” I turned toward the hallway. A hand locked around my wrist, stopping me dead. His voice dropped an octave, heavy with a sudden, suffocating pressure. “What is actually going on with you?” I ripped my arm out of his grip. “Nothing. I just feel like you’re a million miles away. You’re so far away that I don’t even know what city you’re going to wake up in tomorrow.” A flicker of something—guilt? frustration?—passed through his eyes. “I thought you understood the nature of my work.” I stared at him, enunciating every single word. “I do understand. Which is exactly why I never ask. Because when I do, all I get is a perfectly curated PR lie.” I turned, walked into the guest bedroom, and locked the door behind me. I was violently jolted awake by the machine-gun vibration of my phone against the nightstand. I squinted at the screen. Telegram. The notifications read 999+. [Found him! The insider wasn’t lying about the flight, Wesley just changed his schedule last minute!] [A paparazzi account just posted pictures of him landing at O’Hare in Chicago last night!] The admin’s tone did a complete 180. [Omg Insider babes, I’m so sorry we doubted you! Do you have Wes’s itinerary for Chicago?!] [Paying $5,000 right now for the name of his hotel in Chicago!] I stared at the bounty. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Landing in Chicago last night? He had walked through my front door at five o’clock this morning. It was physically impossible. I minimized Telegram and opened Twitter. #WesleyChicago was trending at number eight. I clicked the hashtag. The blurry paparazzi shots showed a man in a black baseball cap and a face mask. The height, the build, the posture—it was a flawless imitation. But I knew my husband’s shoulders. I knew the way he walked. It wasn’t him. Wesley Kallan was deploying body doubles as decoys to shake his stalkers. And the real Wesley? He was currently asleep in the master bedroom, thirty feet away from me. A cold, bitter laugh escaped my throat. I switched back to the stalker chat. [$5,000 is insulting. Make it $10,000.] The admin replied instantly. [Deal. Send the location!] I leaned back against the headboard, listening to the muffled sounds of footsteps in the hallway. He was up. I opened Wesley’s text thread. [Mr. A-List, which hotel are you resting your head at in Chicago right now?] 3 I stared at the screen, my pulse thrumming a slow, heavy beat against my ribs. Through the drywall, the footsteps paused. A heavy, breathless minute ticked by before the typing bubble appeared. [The one the studio booked. Why the sudden interrogation? Checking up on me?] His tone was perfectly engineered—that familiar, indulgent tease he used to deflect. I didn’t take the bait. My thumbs flew across the glass. [Which hotel did the studio book, Wesley?] This time, the reply was immediate. [The Park Hyatt. Why are you asking? Thinking of flying out to surprise me on set?] I stared at the words Park Hyatt. A venomous spike of pure resentment shot through me. He lied with such breathtaking ease. He was in the next room, breathing the same air as me, and he could still fabricate a location two thousand miles away without missing a beat. To protect his untouchable brand, he kept his armor on, even against the woman he married. I didn’t call him out. Instead, I copied the words Park Hyatt Chicago and dropped them straight into the Telegram chat. [$10,000. Pleasure doing business.]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532346”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After Willie’s affair came to light, I spent months screaming, crying, and exhausting every ounce of my soul before I finally found the strength to walk away. But as I was packing up my life, I found a letter tucked away in the back of a drawer. It was a love letter, written in his familiar, sharp cursive. “Nancy, I’ve been planning this proposal for three whole years. I wanted to keep it a secret until the very last second to give you the ultimate surprise. But I know my girl loves to look beautiful, so please, wear your favorite dress tonight. Run to me with a heart full of joy.” My fingers trembled violently as I held the paper. Memories of our old sweetness rushed back, blurring my vision. Even knowing he had let someone else into his heart, even knowing the betrayal was an absolute, cold hard fact, I still couldn’t let go of the phantom of what we used to be. I wanted to give myself one last piece of closure. But the moment I stepped into the venue, the ambient noise of the lounge suddenly drifted away. Time, in an impossible, dizzying shift, had wound back three years. It was the exact night he proposed. “Nancy! There you are!” Willie’s best friend patted his shoulder, laughing. “Willie’s been a nervous wreck all afternoon. He hasn’t even touched a drop of water!” Our friends cheered and whistled. Standing in the center of the room was a younger Willie. His eyes burned with a raw, intense devotion as he walked toward me, holding a massive bundle of deep red roses. Just as I stood there frozen, a waitress rushed past. In her haste, she collided with him, spilling a glass of red wine all over Willie’s pristine custom suit. The girl’s face went dead pale. She stammered out apologies, looking incredibly small, fragile, and utterly innocent. She looked exactly the same as she did three years later, kneeling on my living room floor, sobbing and begging for my forgiveness after I caught them. Mallory. This time, I didn’t step forward to comfort the terrified girl. I simply turned around and walked out. … I had barely taken three steps when Willie’s hand clamped around my wrist. “Nancy, where are you going?” I looked down at his fingers squeezing my skin, a wave of old bitterness rising in my throat. In my past life, I had been so terrified of ruining his big moment. I was worried he’d look foolish in front of his friends, so I immediately stepped in to defuse the situation. I comforted Mallory, arranged for Willie to borrow a spare jacket, and smiled through the mess, telling him it didn’t matter. But now, I wrenched my wrist out of his grip. “Handle your own business first.” The sudden coldness in my voice left Willie paralyzed. Before he could speak, Mallory reached out and timidly touched his sleeve. “Sir, I am so, so sorry. Please, let me help you clean it.” She pulled out some cheap napkins, frantically dabbing at his chest. Willie looked annoyed, but he didn’t push her away. “It’s fine. Don’t touch me.” “Sir, please! It was entirely my fault. At least give me a chance to make it right,” Mallory begged, her eyes brimming with tears, completely ignoring his rejection. One of Willie’s friends, losing patience, stepped in and pulled her back. “Alright, that’s enough. Do you have any idea how much this suit costs? It was custom-made specifically for his proposal tonight. You can’t afford to replace this.” Mallory stumbled back, her tears finally spilling over. “I can pay for it in installments. However long it takes. Please, just don’t report me to my manager.” Hearing her choked-up plea, Willie sighed and glanced back. “It’s just a suit. Let it go. Don’t make things hard for her.” Back then, I had admired his kindness. I thought he was just a generous, gentle soul who didn’t want to ruin a working girl’s life. Only later did I realize Willie wasn’t generous to everyone. He had simply carved out a special, soft place for Mallory from the very beginning. I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. They were destined to entangle themselves anyway; this time, I wouldn’t stand in their way. I turned to leave again, but Willie chased after me, grabbing my hand once more. “Nancy, please. I haven’t even said what I wanted to say tonight.” I shook him off, harder this time. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear it.” Willie’s brow furrowed. To him, this was just me throwing a tantrum. “Are you really going to make a scene just because a clumsy waitress ruined the atmosphere? Is it that big of a deal?” Looking at his impatient expression, I wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. I decided to give him exactly what he wanted. “Yes. It is because of her.” Instead of getting angry, Willie let out a soft chuckle, his tone turning casual. “So you’re jealous? That’s what this is. We can just do it again another night. If it’s a proposal you want, I’ll propose to you as many times as you need to feel secure.” Just then, Mallory came running out of the lounge, breathless. “Sir, you’re incredibly kind not to hold a grudge, but my conscience won’t let me sleep. Could I… could I get your number? I want to transfer the money to you slowly.” Willie looked at me, shifting the responsibility with a lazy smile. “Ask Nancy. She makes the decisions.” In my past life, I was the one who blocked her. I told her she didn’t need to pay, and I absolute refused to let her have his contact info. But they still ended up exchanging numbers anyway—during some “accidental” run-in I didn’t know about, facilitated by Willie’s endless loop of “just helping her out.” They went from strangers to friends, and finally to a messy, lingering affair. This time, looking at Mallory’s carefully crafted display of vulnerability, I didn’t feel angry. I felt amused. “You really want to pay? No matter how expensive?” I asked. Mallory’s eyes lit up with sudden hope, and she nodded quickly. “Yes! Absolutely!” I smiled, pulling out my phone. “Great. In that case, add me.” I opened my contact card and held it out. The eager look on Mallory’s face froze instantly. She reflexively looked at Willie, her eyes wide with a silent plea for help. Willie was stunned too. He never expected me to bypass the jealousy routine and actually demand payment. “Nancy, I gave you the choice so you could reject her as my girlfriend,” Willie murmured, his brow tightening with dissatisfaction. “I already said she doesn’t need to pay. It’s just a jacket. When did you become so petty?” Listening to his baseless accusations, I let out a sharp laugh. “She’s the one insisting on paying, Willie. How is that my fault?” Seeing the tension rise, Mallory immediately stepped into her role as the martyr. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. Please, don’t fight because of me.” Her trembling voice made me look like the cruel oppressor. I already knew exactly what Willie was going to say next. Sure enough, his expression softened as he looked at her, then turned a cool gaze back to me. “Since you’re so desperate to pay, just add my number.” He unlocked his phone and opened his screen, but his eyes stayed glued to my face. I knew what he was doing. Willie was testing me. He was entirely convinced I was just acting out of jealousy, fully expecting me to snap, grab his phone, and forbid them from ever speaking. But I didn’t move. I actually took a step back to give them space. “Go ahead. Don’t let her sincere apology go to waste.” A flicker of genuine panic finally crossed his eyes. “Nancy, what are you doing?” “Exactly what it looks like.” I raised my hand, hailing a yellow cab that was cruising down the street. I pulled open the door and stepped inside without a single backward glance. As the car pulled away, I saw Willie’s cocky testing face crumble into sheer panic. He ran a few steps after the cab, but he was already too late. The bumpy ride home drained the last of my energy. The moment I closed my eyes in bed, I was pulled back into a nightmare—the day before Willie’s birthday. I had pulled all-nighters for a week straight just to finish my corporate projects early, taking the red-eye flight back to surprise him. But when I unlocked our apartment door, the place was a disaster of discarded clothes, and he was holding Mallory tightly in his arms. Mallory had scrambled to pull her shirt together, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “I’m sorry, Nancy. I made a terrible mistake. Please, just forgive me this once.” She kept bowing, her knees bending as if she were about to kneel right there on the hardwood floor. Willie, consumed by protective instinct, shielded her behind his back. “Mallory, you don’t have to bow to her. Don’t degrade yourself.” Then he turned to me, his eyes filled with nothing but cold exhaustion. “Since you saw us, let’s just call it over. We’re done.” In that single second, every ounce of my dignity was ground into the dirt. I screamed, demanding to know why, asking him what our three years meant, what all those promises were for. But Willie didn’t offer a single word of explanation. He just watched my breakdown with freezing, detached eyes. Blind with rage, I lunged forward and slapped Mallory across the face. The next second, Willie’s hand flew out, striking me so hard my head spun. “Nancy! Have you lost your mind? I’m the one who did this. What right do you have to lay a hand on Mallory!” The physical pain and the crushing despair of that memory were so vivid that I began to shiver in my sleep. Suddenly, something warm touched my forehead, and a gentle hand brushed the tears from the corners of my eyes. I gasped, waking up instantly. Willie was sitting on the edge of my mattress, his face painted with deep worry. “What are you doing here?” I snapped, my voice laced with defensive panic. We were still three years in the past. He shouldn’t be in my apartment. Sensing my hostility, Willie looked slightly embarrassed. “The last time you went out of town, you gave me a spare key so I could feed your cat. Don’t you remember?” He softened his voice, stepping closer. “You weren’t picking up your phone. No one could get ahold of you. I was terrified something happened, so I came to check.” I looked at the key glinting in his hand. The last shred of hesitation in my heart dissolved. This was exactly how I had lost my boundaries in the past. I let him have my keys, let him run my life, let him drift in and out of my personal space until it felt completely normal. And in the end, when he brought another woman into my sanctuary, he had the audacity to tell me I was the one being ungraceful. “Give me the key,” I said, extending my hand. Willie blinked. “What?” “Give me my key back. And don’t come back here.” Willie’s face went pale. He seemed to finally realize this wasn’t just a lover’s spat. “Nancy, I’m sorry. I know the proposal was important to you. I was careless and dismissive earlier, and that’s entirely on me.” He scrambled to pull out his phone, opening his contacts to prove himself. “Look, I didn’t add her. I swear. See for yourself.” Right then, his phone vibrated. An unsaved, ten-digit number flashed across the screen. I didn’t need a name to know who it was. It was Mallory. It was always like this. Willie would swear up and down that they had no contact, only to make exception after exception for her behind my back. I didn’t say a word. I just watched him quietly as he answered the call. “Willie…” Mallory’s voice sobbed through the speaker, loud enough to echo in the quiet room. “Some guys at the lounge… they think I wanted your number for… for sex work. They won’t listen to me. They’re trying to force me into a car. I don’t know what to do. Please…” Willie’s entire body tensed. He looked at me, torn, desperate to leave but terrified of how I would react. I actually felt a small smile touch my lips. “Go on. What are you waiting for?” His shoulders visibly relaxed, a look of profound relief washing over him. “Nancy, you are so incredibly understanding. This is why you’re the perfect girlfriend.” “I’m not,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “Willie, I never accepted your proposal.” His face froze mid-breath. I kept my hand out. “Leave the key, and get out.” Willie hesitated, his eyes darting between me and the crying coming from his phone. But Mallory’s frantic sobs won out. With a tense silence, he dropped the key into my palm and bolted out the door. I sat by the window until the sky turned gray, suddenly remembering that today was the day of our firm’s massive investor presentation. In my past life, because I was so wrapped up in the joy of his proposal, I had backed out of being the lead presenter. I turned down the promotion to our Chicago branch, choosing to stay behind and halt my career for love. Now, with my feelings dead and gone, all I wanted was to get as far away from him as possible. I dressed quickly, but as I was checking my bag, I realized my printed pitch deck and financial models were still at Willie’s apartment. I had left them there the night before for him to review. I called his phone repeatedly, but it went straight to voicemail. Out of options, I drove straight to his corporate office. He was sitting at his desk, rubbing his temples, dark circles under his eyes. He clearly hadn’t slept a wink. When he saw me walk in, his exhaustion seemed to vanish, replaced by a hopeful smile. “Nancy, you actually came to find me at work? Aren’t you worried about office gossip anymore?” Before, I was always so self-conscious about what our colleagues would say. Even after we started dating, I insisted on keeping it quiet, going out of my way to avoid him in the hallways. But it wasn’t until after I resigned that I discovered Mallory, who frequently waited for him at the lobby, had long been accepted by everyone as the future Mrs. Jennings. “Have you decided on the lead presenter for the pitch?” I asked, ignoring his question. “We haven’t changed the schedule,” Willie said, leaning forward. “We talked about this…” “We don’t need to change it,” I cut him off, my voice ice. “I’m presenting. My physical files are still at your place. Have your assistant fetch them immediately.” Willie stared at my cold demeanor, realizing I wasn’t going to play along. He picked up his desk phone and dialed his housekeeper. But as the clock ticked closer to the meeting, the door didn’t open to his housekeeper. It opened to Mallory, looking incredibly flustered and small. My chest tightened. “What are you doing here?” Mallory bowed her head, clutching a folder to her chest. “I… I was let go from the lounge last night. Mr. Jennings was kind enough to hire me as a temporary house cleaner to help with my living expenses.” She hurriedly held out the folder. The documents, which should have been neatly bound and pristine, were crumpled, torn, and smeared with dark mud. “I was riding my bike to get here quickly, and I fell,” Mallory whispered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to ruin your files. I swear.” Looking at the ruined pitch deck, my anger boiled over. “Are you completely incompetent? You knew these were critical corporate documents, and you couldn’t even put them in a plastic sleeve?” Mallory’s eyes instantly turned red. She grabbed the hem of my blazer, sobbing. “Nancy, please don’t get me fired. This is the only job I have left. If I lose this, I won’t even have a place to sleep.” “What are you talking about? You work for Willie. What does your employment have to do with me?” Just as the words left my mouth, the door swung open. Willie walked in, his face darkening the second he saw the scene. He immediately stepped between us, shoving Mallory behind him. “It’s just a folder. Can’t you see she’s hurt?” He glared at me, his voice sharp. “I’m the one who told her to bring it. If you want to yell at someone, yell at me.” He glanced at the ruined papers on his desk. “If you didn’t prepare backup copies, Nancy, we can just cancel the presentation. I’ll take full responsibility for the lost deal.” Without waiting for my response, he guided Mallory out of the room, heading toward his car to take her to the clinic. Before she left, Mallory kept looking back at me, whispering apologies over her shoulder, looking like a battered saint. The colleagues passing by in the hallway took in the entire scene, their whispers starting before the elevator doors even closed. Diane, my senior director, came rushing over to drag me into the conference room. Fortunately, I had a habit of keeping digital backups on a secure drive. After a frantic fifteen minutes of printing and prep, I walked into the ballroom with Diane. The pitch was a massive success. But by the time I walked out, the rumors had already mutated. People were whispering that I was desperately clawing my way up, using Willie to secure my projects, and that my sudden bid for the Chicago promotion was just a desperate power move. The gossip grew so loud that Diane called me into her office before the end of the day. “Nancy,” she said gently, pouring me a cup of tea. “Be honest with me. What is going on between you and Willie?” I took a slow breath. “We were… involved. But it’s completely over now.” Diane sighed, shaking her head. “I brought you into this firm, and I believe in your talent. But the noise around this project is getting out of hand. The board is sensitive to these things. I think it might be best if you lay low for a bit.” She gave my hand a sympathetic squeeze. “The Chicago opportunity is great, but there will be other promotions. Let’s let this storm pass first.” I walked back to my cubicle, a profound sense of exhaustion settling deep in my bones. No matter how hard I tried to extricate myself, I was still being dragged down by the gravity of Willie’s mess. Before the clock hit five, Willie returned to the office. He marched straight to my desk, grabbed my wrist in front of everyone, and dragged me out to his car. He drove like a maniac, ignoring my silence, until we pulled up to a high-end country club. “I heard you’re trying to run away to Chicago,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion as he dragged me through the private entrance. “What did I do that was so terrible? Why are you trying to leave me?” He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the grand hall. Inside was another proposal setup—twice as grand as the night before, filled with white roses and fairy lights. “Do you honestly think I spent all night worrying about Mallory?” Willie breathed, pointing at the elaborate display. “I was fixing this. Can you finally believe me now? There is nothing between her and me.” Looking at the beautiful, hollow display, the dam in my chest finally broke. Tears slipped down my cheeks. Willie stepped forward, his eyes softening as he reached out to pull me into his arms, but I shoved him back with everything I had. In our brief struggle, the old love letter slipped out of my pocket, fluttering onto the polished floor. Willie bent down to pick it up. The moment his eyes registered the handwriting, his entire body went rigid. He slowly reached into his own breast pocket, pulling out an identical, sealed envelope. His voice was laced with pure, unadulterated confusion. “I haven’t even given you this letter yet. Nancy… where did you get this?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532345”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I’ve always had a terrible sense of direction. It took Jackie six years to teach me how to navigate the world. Every summer, he’d drag me through the winding streets of Boston, making me memorize every brick and cobblestone of Beacon Hill and the North End. When I got lost, he’d laugh, affectionately rapping his knuckles against my forehead. “If you can’t even find your way home, what am I going to do with you later in life?” Eventually, I memorized every turn. My sense of direction became flawless. Then came junior year of high school. A transfer student, Candice, joined our class. She was a quiet scholarship kid who was constantly getting lost, which made her an easy target for the meaner kids at school. It was Jackie who stepped in, standing between her and the whispers. After that, he started driving her home every single day, going miles out of his way. That detour lasted all the way until graduation. And I was left walking alone. Today is our joint birthday—mine and Jackie’s. By tradition, our families always celebrate together. Standing outside the restaurant, the rain pouring down, he took a call. When he hung up, his face was tight with anxiety. “Candice got turned around in the city,” he said, not looking at me. “She’s lost. I have to go get her.” And for the hundredth time, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the rain. I took a slow breath, pulled out my phone, and logged into the college enrollment portal. I changed my decision. Jackie spent years teaching me how to find my way. But looking back over these last two years, of all the roads we traveled, not a single one led back to him. If that’s the case, I’m done walking. … He hung up, his face full of raw worry for Candice. I squeezed the gift box in my coat pocket, the cardboard bowing under my grip. The words I’d spent all week preparing withered in my throat. I only managed a quiet, “Go ahead.” When I walked into the restaurant, the rain was still drumming against the glass. Jackie’s mother, Mrs. Landry, waved me over with a warm smile. “There’s my girl! Come sit. Where’s Jackie?” “He had to go pick up a classmate,” I said softly. “Who?” “Candice. Candice Wells.” A shadow of disapproval crossed Mrs. Landry’s face. She patted the back of my hand consolingly. “That boy… he doesn’t know what’s important.” I forced a smile and let it drop. A while later, the door swung open. Jackie was soaked through, water dripping from his jacket. But Candice, standing beside him, was completely dry. A dull, cold knot tightened in my chest. Jackie always hated the feeling of wet clothes sticking to his skin. He was the type to complain for hours about a damp collar. But right now, there wasn’t a trace of annoyance on his face. He smiled, introducing her. “This is Candice. She’s a close friend of mine and Chelsea’s. I thought she should join us for our birthday dinner.” The private dining room went dead silent. Thankfully, the waiter came in to take our orders, breaking the tension. Midway through the meal, Jackie reached across the table and placed a prime piece of ribeye onto Candice’s plate. Mrs. Landry cleared her throat pointedly. “Jackie, since when do you stop serving Chelsea first?” He offered a quick, easy grin. “Mom, come on. Of course I’m going to take care of Chelsea. I’m just being a good host.” A tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest. But a moment later, he cracked open a lobster tail and dropped it onto my plate. I stared at it, then gently pushed the plate back. “What’s wrong?” he asked, genuinely confused. “I’m allergic to shellfish, Jackie,” I said, my voice flat. “I have been my whole life.” He froze, his expression blanking. “Right. God, I’m sorry. I forgot.” Sensing the sudden chill, Candice tried to smooth things over. “You guys are so lucky. Sharing a birthday, having your families celebrate together like this. It’s beautiful.” “We’ve done it since we were kids,” Jackie said, his voice warming up again. He ladled some butternut squash soup into a bowl for me. “Here, Chelsea. Don’t be mad. Try this.” After dinner, he drove us home. Candice sat in the passenger seat; I sat in the back. As we drove past the Prudential Center, Jackie let out a soft laugh. “Remember this place?” I looked out the window, answering automatically, “Not really.” But he didn’t even hear me. I looked at the front seats. Candice was playfully swatting his shoulder. “Why do you keep bringing that up? We said we wouldn’t talk about it!” My breath caught. He hadn’t been asking me. He was talking to her. It felt like a physical blow, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. I sat there, wondering what I was doing in the backseat of this car. It was humiliating. “Seriously, Candice, you have the worst sense of direction. How do you get lost in a mall with only three exits?” “It’s not my fault! That place is a maze!” Jackie’s laugh was loud, easy. “Okay, okay, I won’t tease. But really, what are you going to do in the future with a sense of direction like that?” Candice’s voice dropped to a soft, teasing murmur. “Well… I have you, don’t I?” They kept talking, trading inside jokes and references I didn’t understand. The back of my throat burned. To hide how completely out of place I was, I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the cold glass, pretending to sleep. Once we dropped Candice off, the car plunged into silence. “Chelsea,” Jackie said quietly, “how long are you going to pretend to be asleep?” “I’m not pretending.” He smirked, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. “Come on. I know you too well to fall for that.” When he pulled up to my driveway, he turned around. “Did you say something to my mom? She was giving me looks all through dinner.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Good.” He paused, reaching over to touch my arm. “Chelsea, don’t be jealous. You know we’re getting engaged after college. That’s a given. Everyone knows it.” “Candice just gets so easily turned around, and I worry about her. That’s all.” “Tomorrow, let’s hit the grocery store. I’ll cook you something special. Deal?” I nodded slowly. “Sure.” He smiled, satisfied, and ruffled my hair. “That’s my girl.” I looked away, staring out the window. I had seen it. The matching woven leather bracelet on his wrist—the exact same one Candice was wearing. The next morning, his car was already idling outside my house. When he saw me, his smile was bright. “Ready, Chelsea?” At the grocery store, he pushed the cart, stopping in the produce aisle to pick up a carton of sour plums. “Try these. They’re great for you.” I stared at the carton. I’ve hated sour food since I was a child. But they were Candice’s favorite. Without a word, I picked up a small container of sliced mangoes instead—something I actually liked—and walked toward the register. He frowned. “You want that? The smell is a bit much, isn’t it?” My voice was even. “I’ve always loved mangoes, Jackie.” He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Then, he pulled out his phone and swiped to his notes app. It was a note he’d kept since we were kids—a digital log of everything I liked and disliked, from my favorite coffee roast to my allergies. Except, when I glanced at the screen, I saw the last edit date. Two years ago. Since Candice had entered the picture, the note had sat abandoned, a relic of a past he’d forgotten to keep up with. His face paled slightly. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “I’m sorry. I’ll update it later.” “Don’t worry about it.” I dropped the mangoes into the cart. “Let’s go.” After we checked out, he carried the bags to the car. “I’m making roasted lamb chops tonight. You said you wanted them last time, right?” “Last time” was a year ago. But I just smiled. “Sounds great. Just don’t overseason them like last time.” “I know, I know. I’ve got it down,” he said, taking my hand as we walked toward the exit. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He glanced at me, hesitating before answering. “Hey. What’s wrong?” The voice on the other end was frantic, high-pitched. I couldn’t make out the words, but Jackie’s brow furrowed instantly. “Where are you? What’s around you?” He looked at me, his voice dropping. “Candice’s lost again.” Maybe I wanted to test him. Maybe I wanted to see if there was any part of him left that chose me. For the first time in my life, I didn’t step back. “Call an Uber for her, Jackie,” I said quietly. He shook his head, his hand already slipping from mine. “I can’t. It’s not safe. What if the driver takes the wrong route? She won’t even realize she’s in the wrong place.” I stared at him, feeling the familiar, cold ache settle deep into my chest. It was exactly what I expected. “I’ll drop her home first and come straight back to you. I promise.” And there it was. The moment he finished teaching me how to navigate the world, his very next move was to leave me behind in it. I walked home alone. My throat felt tight, dry. I unscrewed a bottle of water and took a sip, but it tasted salty. I couldn’t tell if it was the water or my tears. I waited from noon until dinner, and then past midnight. He never showed up. I was about to go to bed when I opened Instagram. Candice had posted a photo. It was a shot from behind: Jackie, holding an umbrella, tilting it completely over her shoulder to keep her dry while his own back was soaked. The caption read: “Finally, I know what it feels like to feel safe.” In the comments, classmates had already chimed in: “Oh my god, is that Jackie? Aren’t he and Chelsea practically engaged?” “Out with the old, in with the new, I guess. Looks like Candice won this one!” Candice had replied with a shy monkey emoji: “Don’t say things like that.” I stared at the screen for a long time. Then my phone buzzed. A text from Jackie: “Just got her settled. Sorry for the late reply.” “Those comments on her post are just people joking around. Don’t take them seriously.” “I’ll pick you up for driving school tomorrow morning. Sleep well.” I typed out two letters: “Ok.” He said he was late replying. But the truth was, he was two years late. And some things can’t be fixed. I opened my laptop and stared at the digital acceptance letter from Boston College. Going to BC together had been our pact since we were kids. But since Candice arrived, even our dreams had been crowded out. Without hesitating, I logged into the portal, clicked to decline my spot, and officially accepted the offer from the University of Chicago. If there was no room for me in his life, I would step out of it entirely. The next morning, his car was waiting at the curb. Candice was already in the passenger seat, beaming. “Morning, Chelsea!” Jackie had promised our families he’d help me prep for my driving test. But of course, Candice was here too. By now, I was used to our duo being turned into a trio. I opened the back door and climbed in. Jackie frowned, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Chelsea, why don’t you sit up front? You haven’t sat next to me in forever.” I shook my head. “It’s fine. More legroom back here.” He started the engine, offering a quick explanation. “Candice wanted to start practicing for her license too, so I figured I’d sign her up at the same school.” “I’m working on getting my motorcycle permit, so I can hang out while you guys practice.” “That’s nice,” I said. Though we were in the same graduating class, Jackie was a year older, having taken his test the previous winter. Hearing me agree so easily, he seemed to relax. “You really need to focus, Chelsea. Don’t be as stubborn as you were when we were kids. You were a nightmare to teach.” Candice chuckled. “Was Chelsea really that bad?” “Terrible,” Jackie said, his voice lifting with fond memory. “I had to show her the same turn eight times before it stuck. In the end, I had to walk her through the neighborhood every day for three months just to give her a basic sense of direction.” He was smiling, lost in the warmth of the memory. Candice watched his expression, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before she fell silent. When we arrived at the training lot, the summer sun was brutal. As we got out of the car, Candice gasped, shielding her arms. “Oh, it’s so hot. My skin breaks out in hives when I’m in the sun too long.” Jackie’s brow furrowed. He immediately went to the glove box, rummaged around, and pulled out a pair of UV protective arm sleeves. “Here,” he said, handing them to her. “Put these on.” That glove box was where he kept things specifically for me. I used to burn easily, and he had bought those exact sleeves for me last summer, promising he’d never let me get sunburned. Now, he handed them over to someone else without a second thought. Candice slipped them on, her fingers lightly brushing against his sleeve as she smiled up at him. “Thanks, Jackie.” “Of course. Don’t worry about it.” I watched them, waiting for the familiar pang of jealousy, but nothing came. Maybe I was numb, or maybe I had simply stopped caring. After thirty minutes of driving practice, Jackie brought over two iced lattes from the nearby cafe. “Take a break, girls. Have a drink.” I looked at the cups. Candice’s was lukewarm, no ice. Mine was sweating with condensation, packed with ice cubes. I didn’t say anything. He had memorized Candice’s cycle and knew she shouldn’t have cold drinks during her period. But today was the start of mine, too. “What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing my silence. I wanted to tell him I couldn’t drink cold liquids today. But then I saw him reach out to gently wipe a speck of dust from the corner of Candice’s mouth. The words dissolved. “Nothing,” I said quietly. Our instructor, a middle-aged man leaning against the fence, chuckled. “You’re a sweet kid. Real attentive to your girlfriend’s needs, getting her the room-temperature one.” Candice blushed, lowering her eyes. Jackie froze, glancing at me before quickly correcting the man. “Oh, no, sir. Candice isn’t my girlfriend.” The instructor pointed between them, then back at me. “Come on, son. The way you look at her versus the way you look at your sister over there? It’s night and day. Anyone can see Miss Candice is the one.” The air turned heavy, thick with awkwardness. Even a stranger could see it. To Jackie, she was the girl he loved; I was just the sister he was obligated to care for. Candice, wanting to break the tension, quickly changed the subject. “Jackie, did you submit your final college decision yet?” “Yeah. Boston College, like we planned.” Candice’s eyes lit up. “My scores are good enough! I can go there too.” “We can all stay together.” Jackie reached out, affectionately rubbing the top of her head. “Look how excited you are.” He turned to me. “What about you, Chelsea? Did you lock it in?” “I took care of it,” I said. He frowned. “Make sure you do. The portal closes in two days. Don’t leave it to the last minute.” “I know.” He studied my face for a moment, but didn’t press further. On graduation night, our class gathered for an after-party on the football field. Someone in the crowd started chanting: “Jackie! When are you finally going to ask Chelsea out? You two have been acting like a married couple since middle school!” “Yeah, come on, Landry! We’re waiting!” The cheering grew louder, drawing the attention of students from other classes. “Say something, Jackie!” As the eyes of our entire graduating class fell on us, I felt my heart rate spike. With nowhere to hide, Jackie offered a stiff smile and opened his mouth to speak. Beside him, Candice lowered her head. She tugged at his sleeve, her shoulders trembling slightly. “Jackie… I think I want to go home.” Jackie looked at her, his smile vanishing instantly. He turned back to the crowd, his voice cold. “Alright, guys. Stop it.” Hearing those words, a sudden lightness washed over me. There was no bitterness, no crushing disappointment. Just a clean, quiet release. The crowd went quiet, people trading confused glances. I turned and walked away from the field. “Chelsea!” he called, jogging to catch up. I stopped but didn’t turn around. “Why are you leaving? Everyone’s watching,” he said, his breath hitching. “I wanted to leave. Is that a crime?” He went quiet for a second. “She was crying, Chelsea. How was I supposed to answer them?” “She’s fragile. What did you want me to say to her? You have to be understanding.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Understanding?” He grabbed my wrist. “Yes. Our relationship is between the two of us. Do we really need to put on a show for everyone else?” “You’re right,” I said softly, pulling my hand away. So he did understand that relationships were supposed to be between two people. He just chose to ignore it. “In a few days, we’re going to Lake Tahoe to unwind,” he continued, trying to soften his tone. “I booked three tickets. Candice’s coming too. She’s never seen the lake.” When we were kids, we promised each other we’d spend the summer after graduation in Lake Tahoe. Just the two of us, renting a cabin, doing nothing but walking along the shore. He had promised that even if I got lost, he would always find me. Now, he was talking about three tickets. “Chelsea?” “Yeah.” “What do you think?” “We’ll see,” I said, and walked away. The next afternoon was the practical portion of our driving school. Candice and I were paired up for a long-distance drive to a test site in the suburbs. Once we cleared the city limits, the roads became a tangled web of highway exits and unmarked turnoffs. I was completely lost. But Candice drove with absolute confidence, navigating the twists and turns without even opening her GPS. I watched her, a small doubt creeping in. Wasn’t she supposed to have no sense of direction? But I kept the question to myself. We took a sharp turn down a secluded, tree-lined service road. Suddenly, the engine sputtered and died. My phone showed zero bars of service. With the sun setting fast, panic began to rise in my chest. But Candice calmly tapped the screen of her smart band. “What’s that?” I asked. “Jackie got it for my birthday,” she said, showing me her wrist. “It has a built-in GPS tracker. He was worried I’d get lost.” I stared at the woven leather band on her wrist—the perfect match to the one Jackie wore. My heart missed a beat. So that was it. A small light on her band flickered, indicating that the signal had been sent and help was on the way. In that moment, the last remaining spark inside me went cold and dark. An hour later, Jackie arrived with a highway patrol car. He sprinted toward us, his face pale with terror. He threw his arms around me, checking my arms and face. “Chelsea, are you okay? Are you hurt?” “I’m fine,” I said. Once he was sure I was intact, he turned to Candice, his voice dropping to a low, soothing murmur as he talked to her. I leaned against the hood of the broken-down car, looking out at the dark trees. I thought I would feel a rush of emotion seeing him run to me first. But the truth was bitter. If it hadn’t been for the tracker he bought her, we would still be sitting in the dark. Jackie, I thought, I am so tired of being an extra in your movie. For once, he didn’t drive Candice home. He arranged for her to ride back with the patrol officer, insisting that he needed to drive me home himself because I must have been shaken up. When we got back to my house, I went straight to my room to change. Jackie sat on the sofa in the living room, waiting. My laptop was open on the coffee table. When I walked back out, he was staring at the screen, his face completely pale. He looked up at me, his voice trembling. “Chelsea… why does your portal say you accepted the offer from UChicago?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532344”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At the college reunion, I stepped out to run an errand for my girlfriend. By the time I returned, my seat had already been taken by my best friend. My wine glass and plate had been cleared away, replaced by a fresh, untouched setting. It was as if I had never been there at all. Seeing me walk back into the room, Derek made a move to stand up, but Valerie lightly pressed her hand onto his shoulder, keeping him in his seat. “Don’t worry about it,” she said smoothly. “We’re talking about our latest case anyway. He wouldn’t understand a word of it. He’d just be sitting here smiling politely.” The rest of the table fell silent, no one daring to chime in. Everyone in that room knew about the sudden tragedy that had struck my family years ago, forcing me to drop out of law school halfway through. Back in college, Valerie and Derek had been the law school’s “golden pair,” a formidable duo who had cracked countless complex mock trials together. After graduation, they had climbed straight into the ranks of a prestigious Big Law firm, while I became the “paralegal assistant”—a pity hire who only got a foot in the door because of my girlfriend. I stood there, feeling incredibly foolish. Valerie took the pack of cigarettes I had just bought for her, sliding them into her purse before giving me another casual instruction. “Derek wants some wine. Go down to the cellar and pick up a bottle, will you?” She didn’t even look up at me as she spoke, already turning her head back to continue her conversation with him. Standing on the periphery of their shared warmth and lively laughter, a sudden, heavy exhaustion washed over me. The girl I had spent years running after, exhausting every ounce of my energy just to keep in sight—I didn’t want to chase her anymore. … It had been half an hour since I returned with her cigarettes. Aside from her brief command to buy wine, Valerie hadn’t spared me a single glance. She was entirely engrossed in Derek, discussing the high-profile case they had won last week and mapping out the future expansion of their firm. I had lost count of how many times I had been reduced to nothing more than a background prop in their lives. It wasn’t until Derek checked a notification on his phone that Valerie finally seemed to remember my existence. She turned around, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “Why are you still here? I thought you went to get the wine.” Since the reunion started, I had already run three separate errands for them. The torrential rain outside had soaked through my clothes, leaving me shivering and wet to the bone. Valerie’s eyes lingered on the damp hair clinging to my forehead and the water dripping down my face. For a fraction of a second, she fell silent. Derek, ever the diplomat, quickly tried to smooth things over. “Oh, come on, I just mentioned the wine in passing. It’s pouring out there, Tyler doesn’t need to go.” As he spoke, he reached into his leather bag and pulled out a soft, monogrammed handkerchief. It was an exact match to the one Valerie kept in her purse. Ever since I returned to the city six months after dropping out of school, the boundaries of our relationship had begun to blur. Initially, the breakfasts Valerie bought in the mornings went from two portions to three. After graduation, it wasn’t just breakfast anymore—even our movie tickets were bought in sets of three. But eventually, that delicate balance shattered. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment Valerie stopped buying three portions and started buying only enough for herself and Derek. “Stop smoking, Derek. You know Tyler hates the smell of smoke,” Derek said, gently reaching over to pluck the lit cigarette from Valerie’s fingers and stubbing it out in the ashtray. Valerie let out a soft laugh, shaking her head with a look of helpless indulgence. Having loved her for seven years, I knew that look better than anyone. It was the face she made when she chose to unconditionally spoil someone. Over our years together, I had begged her countless times to quit smoking because of my asthma. But she had always dismissed my concerns, telling me I didn’t understand the immense pressure she was under, accusing me of trying to strip away her only sense of freedom. Yet, for someone who despised being controlled above all else, she had grown incredibly comfortable letting Derek dictate her habits. The chatter at the table resumed, the laughter swelling once more. Without saying a word, I turned and walked out of the private dining room. Stepping into the quiet hallway, I took a deep, steadying breath and called Diane, the head of HR. I told her I wanted to submit my resignation. She was visibly taken awake. “Tyler, you handle almost all the daily operations and logistics for the senior partners. If you leave, the administrative side of the firm is going to fall into complete chaos.” She paused, lowering her voice. “How about I talk to Valerie? Maybe we can transfer you to a different department?” “No, thank you,” I replied quietly. Since my first year at the firm, I had requested a transfer to a legal track multiple times. When I assisted a senior associate in winning a major corporate lawsuit, Valerie had shrugged it off, calling it a stroke of sheer luck. When I applied to be promoted to a full-time associate, she rejected it, claiming my credentials weren’t up to par. During the annual review, she calculated my performance metrics down to six decimal places. She had told me, “You’re my boyfriend, Tyler. I have to be completely impartial so people don’t accuse me of favoritism.” Yet, when Derek was promoted twice in a single year, she praised his “extraordinary talent.” When he swept almost every award at the annual gala, she dismissed it as “just looking out for an old classmate.” Seven years of tireless, quiet dedication, and I was still nothing but a ghost in the hallway. I looked through the glass pane of the dining room door. Neither of them had turned their heads to see where I had gone. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Diane,” I said into the receiver, “please just help me process the paperwork. And… don’t tell Valerie.” Diane didn’t push further. She gave a quiet sigh and agreed to start the process. I was just about to leave the venue when the heavy doors swung open. Valerie stepped out, her eyes searching the hallway until they landed on me. “Who are you not telling?” she asked, her voice sharp with curiosity. “Nothing,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly flat. Valerie didn’t press the issue. Instead, she handed me a heavy, charcoal-gray paper bag. “What do you think of this suit?” It was a tailored Italian piece I had circled in a magazine just last week. I remembered showing it to her, asking if she thought it would look good on me. At the time, she had been too busy replying to a thread of emails to even glance at the page. I hadn’t realized she had actually registered it. A faint, stupid warmth began to bloom in my chest, but before I could speak, she continued: “Do you think Derek will like it?” My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the sharp lines of the collar inside the bag, then slowly nodded. “Yeah. It’s beautiful. It’s definitely his style.” Perhaps sensing my unusual quietness, Valerie offered a rare explanation. “The only reason we won the litigation last week was because of Derek’s closing arguments. I can’t let him walk away empty-handed. As the managing partner, I have to show my appreciation.” She reached out, lightly pinching my cheek in a gesture that felt entirely patronizing. “If you like it that much, you can always borrow it from him once he’s worn it a few times. He hates matching outfits anyway, and since you two are basically brothers, it won’t go to waste.” I was her boyfriend—the man who was supposed to stand by her side—yet I was being asked to wait for another man’s hand-me-downs. When the reunion finally wrapped up, the guests began to disperse to their cars. Naturally, Derek opened the passenger door of Valerie’s sedan and slid inside. Valerie had bought that car with the very first bonus she earned after starting the firm. I remembered the way she had beamed at me, holding up the keys and promising that she would drive me to and from work every single day. But on the very first day she brought it to the office, Derek claimed he had missed the last train and asked if he could hitch a ride. Valerie had looked at me with pleading eyes, asking if I could make space for him just this once. That “just this once” had stretched into five long years. Before I could even reach for the rear door handle, the engine roared to life, and a cloud of exhaust fumes blew into my face. The car pulled out of the parking lot and sped away, disappearing into the curtain of rain. They were so wrapped up in their post-victory debrief that neither of them had realized I hadn’t even gotten into the vehicle. To make matters worse, the storm was worsening. I stood under the awning, trying to hail a ride on my phone, but after thirty minutes of watching the screen search for drivers, no one accepted the fare. Left with no choice, I stepped out into the freezing, relentless downpour. The sidewalk was slick with rain and grease. Halfway down the block, my foot slipped, and I fell hard into a pool of muddy water. I struggled to get up, my palms scraped raw against the wet concrete, the cold mud soaking through my clothes. In that quiet, dark street, a wave of profound bitterness finally broke over me. By the time I dragged myself back to our apartment, shivering and dripping wet, the sound of laughter was already drifting from the living room. Derek was sitting on the sofa, his leg resting comfortably across Valerie’s lap. She was leaning over him, carefully dabbing antiseptic onto a small scrape on his knee. Seeing me stand in the doorway, Valerie’s brow furrowed in immediate annoyance. “Where on earth have you been?” she demanded. “Do you have any idea how worried Derek and I were? We looked everywhere for you. Derek even scraped his knee trying to search the venue.” “Please, Tyler, try to be a little more reliable. If you can’t help us with the workload, the least you can do is not make us worry about you.” She didn’t see that my skin was pale from the cold. She didn’t notice the muddy water dripping onto the hardwood floor. All she cared about was the tiny scrape on Derek’s knee. I slowly looked down at my phone. There wasn’t a single missed call. Not a single text message asking where I was. Had they really searched for me? Derek quickly pulled his leg back, looking incredibly flustered as he tried to explain. “Tyler, please don’t be mad at us. I’m so sorry, really…” Seeing the silent, hollow expression on my face, Derek got up, limping slightly as he made a show of rushing toward the door. Valerie made a move to chase after him, but paused at the threshold, turning back to glare at me. “Derek and I have a business trip out of town tomorrow morning. Pack both of our bags tonight.” Without waiting for a response, she grabbed an umbrella and ran out the door to chase him down. There was no apology, no real explanation—just the same old demands, delivered with the easy authority of someone talking to a servant. Over the years, they had slowly chipped away at the ambitious, passionate boy I used to be, turning me into a glorified housekeeper they could order around at their convenience. And even then, they truly believed they were doing me a favor by letting me occupy a desk at their firm. But this time, I didn’t touch her suitcases. Instead, I pulled out my own bags and began packing everything that belonged to me. Under the pretext of “budget cuts,” Valerie had told me to stay behind while she and Derek went on their business trip. But judging by Derek’s social media updates, the trip looked less like business and more like a romantic getaway. He posted photos of them strolling through historic coastal towns, sharing tea in quiet, sunlit cafes, and visiting local artisan shops. Valerie, who had always detested hands-on activities, had spent three hours at a pottery studio with him, molding clay side-by-side. Then, a junior associate traveling with them accidentally sent a message to the main office group chat: “Breaking news! The resort messed up our reservations and they’re completely booked. Valerie and Derek are sharing the master suite tonight!” The message was unsent a few seconds later, and almost immediately, Valerie’s name flashed on my screen. “Tyler, the hotel had a massive system error and gave away our rooms,” she said, her voice tight with defensive exhaustion. “I only agreed to share the suite because I didn’t want you accusing me of neglecting your best friend’s comfort again. It’s strictly professional.” In the background, I could hear Derek’s voice whining playfully. “Valerie, where did you put my face wash?” Before she could answer, Derek took the phone from her hand. “Hey, Tyler! Man, I wish you were here. Traveling with Valerie is so boring, she refuses to talk any gossip. Don’t worry, though—I’ll keep a close eye on her tonight so she doesn’t run off with any handsome locals!” They had crossed so many lines in the name of “friendship” and “looking out for each other.” Valerie had once played the role of Derek’s “girlfriend” at a corporate gala to help him ward off unwanted attention. Derek, supposedly worried about Valerie’s safety, had stayed on the phone with her for eight consecutive hours during a solo business trip—completely blocking the line when I was trying to call her after getting into a minor car accident. And now, under the guise of saving me from worry, they were sharing a room. I pressed my fingernails into my palms, the physical pain grounding me. The words I had rehearsed a thousand times in my head finally slipped past my lips. “Valerie. Let’s break up.” The line went dead silent. A moment later, I heard Valerie let out a cold, irritated laugh. “Tyler, you’re not eighteen anymore. Can you stop being so incredibly childish?” “Derek and I have put up with your insecurities for years. You should be grateful for what you have instead of throwing these pathetic tantrums.” Derek’s voice cut back in, laced with sweet concern. “Tyler, please don’t be mad at us. I’m so sorry, really…” “You don’t owe him an apology!” Valerie snapped, her voice echoing clearly near the receiver. “If you keep coddling him, he’s just going to keep acting like a spoiled brat. It’s not like he’s some high-society prince.” With a sharp click, the line went dead. I remembered when we first started dating in college. During our very first argument, she had spent three months buying me small gifts and writing letters just to make me smile again. Now, she couldn’t even offer a simple, cost-free apology. I stared at the black screen for a long moment, then dialed the real estate broker. I told him I wanted to list the condo for a quick sale, even if it meant taking a loss. There was a long, awkward silence on the other end of the line. “Mr. Evans,” the broker said hesitantly. “I’m looking at the title deed right now. Along with your name, there’s another co-owner registered on the property—a Mr. Derek Shepherd. You can’t legally sell this property without his signature.” The blood drained from my face, leaving me completely cold. A year ago, when Valerie and I were planning our future, we had agreed to save up for a down payment on our dream home. I had worked double shifts at the firm and taken on three freelance document-review gigs at night, pouring every cent of my savings into that deposit. Valerie had handled the legal paperwork, assuring me that she would register it in my name and take care of the notarization. And now, Derek’s name was on the deed of the home I had bled for, without him having contributed a single dollar. The day before I was set to leave the city, I walked into the law firm with my formal resignation letter in hand. As I approached Valerie’s office, I noticed a crowd of colleagues gathered near the glass doors, whispering among themselves. Seeing me approach, they fell silent, parting to let me through while casting looks of deep disdain in my direction. I pushed open the door. Derek was sitting on the leather sofa, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Valerie stood beside him. When she saw me walk in, her face hardened into an expression of sheer disappointment. “How much do you have to hate Derek to do something this malicious?” I stopped in my tracks. “What are you talking about?” Derek lifted his tear-stained face, holding up a thick manila folder so everyone in the hallway could see. “The evidence I spent months gathering for our client… it was all tampered with overnight. The court dismissed our case this morning and ruled against us. They’re talking about launching an ethics investigation… I might lose my license, Tyler.” In our office, my primary responsibility was managing the physical and digital filing systems. I was the only person with unrestricted access to the archives. To everyone else, the culprit was obvious. “I didn’t touch those files,” I said, looking straight into Valerie’s eyes. “Do you honestly think I did this?” Valerie looked at me with an expression of pure disgust. “I was wondering why you were so quiet yesterday—no calls, no complaints. I thought you were finally growing up. It turns out you were just busy planning this?” “You knew how hard Derek worked to pass his bar exam. You wanted to ruin his life.” In that moment, everything became painfully clear. She didn’t care about the truth. She only cared about protecting Derek’s career, and she needed a scapegoat to take the fall so the firm’s reputation wouldn’t be dragged through the mud. Even if it meant ruining me. My chest felt hollow, like a gaping wound letting in the freezing winter wind. Valerie personally drafted the formal complaint against me. She accused me of gross negligence, destroying proprietary evidence, and malicious sabotage that had resulted in millions of dollars in losses for our corporate client. Under the weight of her legal team, I didn’t stand a chance. After a swift administrative hearing, my newly minted law license—the one I had spent three grueling years of sleepless nights studying for—was officially suspended. The profession I had ruined my health to enter had shut its doors on me forever. The day the ruling came down, I walked out of the courthouse alone. Later that evening, I saw Derek’s social media update. To help him “recover from the stress of the trial,” Valerie had taken him on a week-long trip to Paris. Every landmark they tagged, every bistro they visited, were the exact places Valerie and I had once promised to see together. I went back to the office over the weekend to clear out my desk. The building was mostly empty, but the few interns working weekend shifts looked at me like I was a criminal. Only Derek, who had returned early to pick up some files, stood near the breakroom, watching me pack with a quiet, triumphant smirk on his face. Valerie walked into my cubicle, holding my official termination letter. There was a faint flicker of guilt in her eyes as she looked at the cardboard box in my hands. “Maybe it’s for the best, Tyler,” she said softly. “Working at a firm was always too stressful for you anyway.” “If you still want to work, a close friend of mine is looking for a receptionist at his real estate agency. The hours are easy, and with your presentation, I can easily get you the job.” She reached out, intending to help me lift the heavy box. I stepped back, cold and hollow, pulling the box out of her reach. Without saying a word, I turned my back on her and walked out of the office for the last time. In the back of the taxi heading to the airport, my phone vibrated repeatedly with her incoming calls. I let them ring out, one by one. Just as the flight attendant announced that the cabin doors were closing, I sent her one final text message: [Valerie, we are over.] Then, I blocked her number, deleted her social media accounts, and turned off my phone.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532343”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I filed the paperwork to dissolve the gallery I had spent three years building for Alex. My business partner, Mitch, stared at me in sheer disbelief. “The renovations are practically finished,” he said, his hands trembling as he held the drafts. “We’re just waiting on the final walkthrough. You’re not even going to wait for Alex to get back so you can cut the ribbon together?” I calmly pushed the set of keys across the mahogany table. “No. He’s too busy chasing the Northern Lights with his muse.” We had been together for seven years. Every November, without fail, Alex would vanish for two weeks. He always called it his annual pilgrimage to the Arctic—a trip to find his creative spark, to let the frozen wilderness breathe life into his paintings. I believed him. Until yesterday, when I found a hidden folder on his old iPad, the one he had tossed into the study drawer and forgotten. Seven years of photos. Same coordinates. Same snow-swept landscape. And in every single shot, the same woman. She was wearing a custom-tailored polar parka he had personally designed for her, her smile bright and unbothered. Yet, when I asked him—begged him, just once—to come with me to the hospital for my post-op tumor screening, he told me he was too busy. “You’ve always been the strong one, Nancy,” he had said, his voice flat and dismissive. “Don’t start acting like one of those fragile, high-maintenance women now.” I had swallowed my fear and gone alone. I had believed him. But I was done. I didn’t want him anymore. … The ink was barely dry on the dissolution agreement, and Mitch’s hand was still shaking. “Nancy, are you out of your mind?” he pleaded. “You pulled all-nighters for three months straight for this place. You went through twenty drafts of the floor plans. You don’t just walk away from this.” I smiled faintly, capping my pen. “I do.” Mitch stared at me, searching my face for some sign of hysteria, but found only a quiet, chilling resolve. He let out a long, defeated sigh. “Does Alex know?” “He’s in Iceland.” “For inspiration again?” I didn’t answer. I had heard the word “inspiration” for seven years, and frankly, I was exhausted on his behalf. “Did you two fight?” Mitch probed gently. “No.” “Then what is this? This gallery was supposed to be his thirtieth birthday present!” “I just realized,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “he doesn’t deserve it.” Mitch froze, the words dying in his throat. I picked up my coat, stepped out of the conference room, and walked out into the Chicago winter. It was the first snow of the year. I stood on the curb, pulling my collar tight against the wind, and pulled out my phone. My text thread with Alex had been dead for three days. His last message was brief: “Landed. Reception is terrible out here. Don’t blow up my phone.” I had replied with a simple, “Okay.” For three days, he had been completely silent, as if he had vanished off the face of the earth. But his old iPad was very much alive. I had dug it out of the drawer to look up an old design file, plugging it in to charge. When it booted up, the iCloud library had automatically synced, revealing a hidden album. It was titled: “The Lights and Her.” Four hundred and twelve photos. Every single one of them was composed beautifully—the lighting, the shadow, the framing. They looked like cinematic stills. The woman in the photos was Talia. She was Alex’s junior from college, the girl he had always described to me as “a sweet, talentless kid who just tries really hard.” In the photos, Talia was wearing a vibrant red parka, standing on the black sand beach in Vik. Talia was cradling a steaming mug of coffee inside a luxury glass-domed cabin. Talia was closing her eyes, her hands clasped in prayer beneath a brilliant neon-green sky. In the bottom right corner of every single image was Alex’s professional watermark. Seven years. Every November. I had asked him once why he always chose November. He told me the aurora was at its purest then. I asked him when he would finally take me with him. He told me to wait—just until he had his first major solo exhibition. I had poured my soul into making that happen. I worked eighty-hour weeks, drained my personal savings, and pitched to stubborn investors, all to give him his dream gallery. I thought I was building our future. In reality, I was just funding his romantic getaway with another woman. My phone buzzed, shattering the cold silence. It was my best friend, Rachel. “Nancy, tell me Mitch is lying,” she demanded the moment I answered. “Did you really shut down the gallery?” “Yes.” “That was half a million dollars in startup capital and lease penalties! You didn’t even hesitate?” “I paid the termination fees,” I said, watching my breath cloud in the freezing air. “The remaining funds are back in my account.” Rachel was silent for a long moment. “Are you really okay with this?” “There’s nothing to be upset about. It’s just cutting my losses.” “And what about that miserable bastard? Have you confronted him?” “He’s in Iceland with Talia. The signal is bad, remember?” Rachel let out a sharp, venomous curse. “Are you kidding me? He actually took her? She posted an aurora photo on Instagram yesterday with some caption about ‘Our seventh-year promise.’ I thought she’d just stolen a stock photo!” “Our seventh-year promise.” So they had a promise. Meanwhile, my seven years with Alex had yielded nothing but a lecture on how “independent” I was. “Nancy, what are you going to do?” “I quit my job. I listed the condo this morning.” “You’re leaving?” “Yeah. I need a change of scenery.” “Where are you going?” “I don’t know yet. Just somewhere he isn’t.” I hung up and hailed a cab. On the ride back to the apartment, a notification popped up. It was a WhatsApp message from Alex. It was a single photo of an icy Icelandic mountain, beautiful and desolate. Underneath, he wrote: “Freezing to death, but the lights are beautiful.” I pinched the screen to zoom in on the lower-left corner, where the black ice acted like a mirror. There, clearly reflected in the dark surface, was a figure in a bright red parka. Talia. Even his half-hearted attempts to keep me placated carried the shadow of another woman. I didn’t bother to reply. When I got to the apartment, I began to pack. I didn’t own much; everything of value fit into two large suitcases. The closet was suddenly half-empty, and the bathroom counter looked barren without my things, leaving only his expensive cologne and skincare products. As I walked toward the front door, my gaze fell on a pair of red designer heels sitting on the shoe rack. He had given them to me for my birthday last year. They were a size six. I wear a seven. When I had pointed out the mistake, he merely rubbed his temples and said, “I must have mixed it up. I’ll exchange them next time.” There was never a next time. The shoes had sat there for a year, gathering dust. Yet, Talia’s custom parka had been ordered from a high-end technical brand, tailored precisely to her measurements. I picked up the red heels and tossed them directly into the hallway trash chute. Then, I sat on the living room sofa and watched the city lights flicker through the window, waiting for the sun to rise. This was my last night in Chicago. “Alex, enjoy the lights,” I thought. “Enjoy them while they last. Because after today, you don’t have me anymore.” Alex arrived home the following afternoon, bringing a gust of freezing air with him as he pushed the door open. “Nancy, I’m back,” he called out, kick-starting his boots off. He placed a small glossy bag on the entryway table. “Brought you something.” I remained seated on the couch, watching him. He had lost a bit of weight, but his eyes were bright, carrying the residual glow of someone who had just experienced something profound. It was the look he got only when he was deeply satisfied with his work. “What is it?” I asked, my voice flat. “A snow globe.” He pulled it from the bag and set it on the coffee table. Inside was a miniature snow-capped mountain. If you shook it, plastic white flakes drifted lazily to the bottom. It was the kind of cheap, twenty-dollar trinket you buy at a gas station gift shop. “Thanks,” I said, leaving it untouched. He shed his heavy coat and slid onto the sofa beside me, stretching his arms. “God, I’m exhausted. Three layovers.” He leaned in, preparing to rest his head on my shoulder, but I casually shifted away. He blinked, caught off guard. “What’s wrong? Bad day?” “No.” He frowned, sensing the shift in temperature, but shook it off. “How’s the gallery coming along? Mitch told me you haven’t been by the site all week.” “I dissolved the company. I cancelled the lease.” “What?” Alex sat up straight, his face instantly hardening. “What do you mean you dissolved it? What kind of joke is this?” “It’s not a joke. The papers are filed. I paid the penalties.” “Nancy, have you lost your mind?” his voice cracked, rising an octave. “That was my thirtieth birthday present! You spent three years planning it, and you just threw it away?” “Yes. Because I decided I didn’t want to give it to you.” Alex stared at me, his chest heaving. “What is this really about? You’re throwing a tantrum because I went to Iceland? I told you, it was a business trip! I needed inspiration!” “Does finding inspiration require bringing Talia along?” Alex froze. A flicker of sheer panic crossed his eyes, quickly masked by defensive anger. “You’re spying on me?” “I don’t have the time or the energy,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “Your old iPad synced to the cloud. Four hundred photos, Alex. You really captured her best angles.” He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Nancy, it’s not what you think. She happened to be traveling in Iceland at the same time. We ran into each other, and since I had my gear, I took a few shots for her. It was professional courtesy.” “For seven years?” I asked, my voice incredibly calm. “You just happened to run into her in the middle of a frozen wasteland every single November?” The lie lay between us, pathetic and shattered. Alex’s expression turned ugly. “Fine! If you already knew, why are you interrogating me?” He threw himself back against the sofa cushions, defensive and petulant. “Talia has severe clinical depression. The only time she feels any peace is when she’s watching the aurora. It’s not safe for her to travel to places like that alone. I’m her mentor, Nancy. What was I supposed to do? Leave her to spiral?” “What was I supposed to do?” I almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of his righteousness. “Alex, last year, when my doctor found a mass on my ovary and said there was a strong chance it was malignant, they wanted a family member there for the biopsy. I called you, crying. You told me you were at an art retreat. You told me I was independent, that I shouldn’t be so dramatic.” I looked at him, my eyes dry. The tears had burned away long ago, leaving only a cold, hollow space. “And while I lay on that sterile table alone, terrified I was going to die, you were in Iceland, curing Talia’s depression with the Northern Lights.” “Her illness required your presence under the aurora, but my potential cancer was something I had to face by myself. Do you think that’s fair, Alex?” Alex opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He ran a frantic hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at me. “But… the mass was benign,” he muttered, defensive to the very end. “Your final biopsy came back clear.” “Yes, it was benign,” I nodded. “I suppose if I had actually died, you would have complained that my funeral interfered with your travel plans.” “Nancy! That’s out of line!” He stood up abruptly, towering over me, his face flushed with anger. “Talia and I are platonically clean. Nothing happened between us! Do you have to make everything so toxic?” “Platonic?” I stood up to meet his gaze. “You custom-order her high-end gear, but you buy me shoes that don’t fit. You’ve been to Iceland with her seven times, but you haven’t sat through a weekend movie with me in three years. She is your muse, and I am your unpaid business manager. You call that platonic?” Alex stepped back, momentarily stunned by the sheer weight of my words. He had never seen me like this. I had always been the quiet supporter, the one who handled the logistics while he played the tortured artist. “Fine,” he spat, grabbing his jacket off the chair. “You’re completely hysterical right now. Cool down. I’m sleeping at the studio tonight.” The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him. I looked around the empty living room and smiled. It was always the same. Whenever he was cornered, he ran. He would stay away for a few days, wait for my anger to cool, and then come back with some cheap token, expecting me to have swept everything under the rug. But he didn’t realize that this time, there was no rug left. I went into the bedroom, zipped up my final suitcase, and felt a profound, beautiful sense of relief. On Saturday, our mutual friend Tyler hosted a welcome-back dinner for Alex at a upscale Italian restaurant downtown. I had planned to skip it, but Rachel dragged me along. “You are not hiding,” she insisted as she did my makeup. “If you’re leaving this city, you’re doing it looking like a queen. We aren’t letting them think you ran away with your tail between your legs.” She was right. I wore a sleek, black velvet slip dress that hugged my curves, did a bold red lip, and slipped into a pair of brand-new, perfectly fitting size-seven heels. When we walked into the private dining room, the atmosphere was loud and warm. Alex was sitting at the head of the table. Talia was seated right next to him. She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere turtleneck, and pinned to her chest was an intricate, custom-designed meteorite brooch. I recognized it instantly. Alex had bid on it at an estate auction a month ago, spending a significant portion of his quarterly art sales. I had assumed it was an early anniversary gift for me. It turned out it was for his muse. “Nancy! You’re here!” Talia squeaked, standing up with a fragile, innocent smile. “Come sit! Alex was just saying he didn’t know if you’d make it.” She called him “Alex” with a quiet, domestic intimacy, as if she were the hostess of the evening. I ignored her completely and took a seat next to Rachel. Alex looked at me, his eyes dark and conflicted, but he didn’t say a word. After a few rounds of drinks, Tyler started raising his glass. “So, Alex, did you bring back anything good from the frozen north?” Alex smiled faintly. “Just a few keepsakes.” “Like that gorgeous brooch on Talia?” another friend chimed in. “That doesn’t look like a standard souvenir.” Talia touched the metal delicately, her cheeks flushing. “It’s a birthday gift from Alex. It’s actual meteorite. He said the cosmic energy helps ground my anxiety.” The table went quiet. Everyone in our social circle knew Alex and I were engaged. Watching him present another woman with a piece of jewelry that cost thousands of dollars was a bridge too far, even for them. Tyler, sensing the thick tension, scrambled to save the night. “Hey, let’s play a game to liven things up. A classic couple’s trivia. Alex, you’re up. What is Nancy’s absolute favorite meal?” Alex hesitated, his brow furrowing. “She… well, she’s not picky. She’ll eat anything.” “Wrong!” Tyler laughed nervously. “She’s obsessed with sweet and sour ribs. She orders them every time we go out. Come on, man.” Alex rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “Okay, next one,” Tyler continued. “What is Nancy allergic to?” This time, Alex answered instantly. “Seafood.” “Really?” Rachel let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Nancy is severely allergic to peanuts, Alex. She nearly went into anaphylactic shock last year because of a peanut sauce. Did that slip your mind?” Alex’s face drained of color. He had forgotten. Because the afternoon she was in the emergency room, he had been rushing to O’Hare to pick up Talia, leaving his phone on silent. “Well, what about Talia?” Rachel pressed, her voice dripping with venom. “What is she allergic to?” Without a second thought, Alex blurted out, “Mangoes. It triggers her hives.” A suffocating silence descended upon the room. He couldn’t remember his fiancée’s life-threatening allergy, but his junior’s dietary restrictions were permanently etched into his brain. Talia kept her head down, but I saw the faint, triumphant curve of her lips. “Oh, Alex just has a terrible memory for these things,” Talia said softly, raising her glass of water. “Nancy, please don’t be upset. I wanted to toast you, actually. Thank you for taking care of Alex all these years so he could focus entirely on his masterpiece.” The sheer condescension of it was breathtaking. She was speaking to me as if she were the wife and I were the hired help. I looked at her glass, then met her eyes. “Talia, in what capacity are you toasting me?” Talia’s hand froze mid-air. Her eyes instantly filled with tears. “Nancy, I… did I say something wrong? Alex and I are just friends…” “Friends?” I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. “Do friends require a man to abandon his fiancée every single winter? Do friends accept jewelry that costs half his yearly income? Do friends make him memorize their minor allergies while his fiancée almost dies in an ER alone?” With every word, Talia shrank back, her face turning pale. Alex slammed his hand on the table and stood up, pulling Talia behind his shoulder. “Nancy, that is enough! If you have an issue, deal with me. Don’t take your insecurities out on her!” “Bullying her?” I looked at him, at the protective stance he took over her, and felt the final, lingering thread of my affection snap. “Alex, look at yourselves. You’re the ones who have been humiliating me for years.” I reached down, picked up my glass of Cabernet, and threw it directly into his face. The dark red liquid dripped down his nose, staining his crisp white shirt like fresh blood. “We are done, Alex.” I turned on my heel and walked out. “Nancy!” he yelled, but I didn’t stop. The moment I hit the street, the Chicago rain began to pour. Rachel ran out after me, holding a large umbrella over my head. “That was spectacular,” she breathed, her eyes shining. “The look on his face was worth every penny.” I took a deep breath, letting the icy air fill my lungs. I had never felt lighter. “Rachel, I’m leaving tomorrow.” “I’ll help you load the car.” The last seven years had been a beautiful, foolish dream. But the fever had finally broken. On Sunday morning, I made a quiet breakfast in the apartment. Two pour-over coffees, two plates of toast. When Alex walked out of the bedroom, his hair was a mess and his eyes were heavily bloodshot. He had crept in very late the night before, and we hadn’t exchanged a single word. He looked at the breakfast, surprised, and slowly took a seat across from me. “Nancy, about last night…” “Let’s just eat,” I interrupted gently. He watched me, cautious, and took a sip of his coffee. “Do you have plans today?” I asked. “No. Why?” “Can you just stay here and spend the day with me?” Alex looked down, his eyes shifting away. “Today… today isn’t great.” “Why?” “There’s something urgent at the studio. A few collectors are coming by to view the new series.” It was a clumsy lie. He didn’t even have the energy to make it believable. Right then, his phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with the name: “Talia.” He grabbed it immediately, turning his shoulder to hide the screen as he answered. “Hey. What’s wrong? Don’t cry, tell me.” “What? He’s throwing up? Okay, okay, calm down. I’m coming right now.” He hung up and turned to me, his face frantic. “Nancy, Talia’s cat is severely sick. She’s having a panic attack and can’t drive him to the clinic. I have to go.” “If a cat is sick, she can call an animal ambulance,” I said, my voice entirely level. “She has depression, Nancy! That cat is her entire support system. If anything happens to him, she’ll spiral! I have to go.” He grabbed his coat, rushing toward the door. He was already slipping on his boots, not even bothering to look back at me. “Alex.” My voice stopped him. He turned, his face tight with impatience. “What now, Nancy? I’m in a hurry.” “If you walk out of that door today, we are completely over.” Alex stared at me. He seemed to be weighing whether I was bluffing. Then, he let out a harsh, irritated laugh. “Don’t do this. Don’t use ultimatums to control me. Talia actually needs me right now. You’ve always been so cold, Nancy. Do you really have no empathy for a living thing?” With that, he pushed the door open and left. The moment the lock clicked, I took my cold coffee and poured it down the drain. “Cold.” Yes, I was cold. I was the one who kept him warm when he had nothing, who cooked his meals, washed his clothes, and managed his career so he could remain a pure artist. I had given him the best seven years of my life. And my reward was being called cold-blooded. I walked into the bedroom and rolled my two suitcases into the living room. I slipped my engagement ring off my finger and set it on the glass coffee table. Beside it, I lined up the seven cheap snow globes he had brought back from Iceland over the years. Seven years of thoughtless, low-effort guilt offerings. I pulled out a sticky note and wrote: “Alex, the gallery is gone. The ring is yours, along with seven years of your guilt. Go be Talia’s savior. You are no longer mine.” I pressed the note under the heavy platinum band. I took one last look around the apartment. Every corner held my touch. I had chosen the mid-century sofa, selected the linen curtains, and planted the succulents on the balcony. But none of it mattered anymore. I grabbed my suitcases and walked out. Downstairs, Rachel’s SUV was idling at the curb. “All packed?” she asked, helping me lift the bags into the trunk. “Yes.” “No looking back?” “There’s nothing left to look at.” I climbed into the passenger seat and watched the brick townhomes of our neighborhood fade into the distance. I switched my phone to airplane mode. From this moment on, Alex was dead to me. Two hours later, the plane tore through the gray Chicago clouds. As we reached cruising altitude, I looked out at the endless white expanse below, and the tears finally came. I wasn’t crying because I missed him. I was crying for the girl who had spent seven years believing she was loved.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532342”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had been married to Derek for seven years, and it took me begging him for two weeks straight just to get him to agree to spend our daughter’s birthday with us. But when the day arrived, he didn’t come home. I slipped out onto the balcony, out of Hazel’s sight, and called him a dozen times. Every single one went straight to voicemail. Hazel stood by the front door, her eyes fixed on the driveway, yet she still turned to comfort me. “Don’t worry, Mommy. Daddy’s probably just picking up my present.” She knew her father didn’t love her. But she desperately hoped he loved me. So she didn’t cry, she didn’t throw tantrums, she didn’t complain. She was so heartbreakingly good. It was almost midnight when my phone finally buzzed with Derek’s name. “I’m going to be late,” he said, his voice clipped. “Don’t wait up.” Before I could speak, a massive explosion of fireworks erupted outside the window. The deafening booms drowned out the background noise on his end. Hazel and I both froze. Just yesterday, he had mentioned preparing a birthday surprise. My heart skipped a beat. But in the next second, a little girl’s ecstatic voice echoed through the receiver. “Whoa! My very own fireworks! Thank you, Daddy Derek!” The line went dead. The light in Hazel’s eyes vanished. Her head drooped, and her tears began to fall, hot and heavy, straight onto her untouched birthday cake. A sharp ache flared in my chest. I knelt in front of her, gently cupping her tear-stained face. “Hazel,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “What if we don’t want Daddy anymore?” … Hazel wiped her eyes quickly, forcing a brave, fragile smile. “Mommy, let’s give Daddy one more chance. Maybe he really had something important to do.” But as she spoke, the tears spilled over again. My heart felt like it was being shredded. I pulled her into my arms and held her tight. At 2:00 AM, the front door clicked open. Derek slipped in, trying to keep his footsteps quiet as he flicked on the light. He gasped, startled to see me sitting on the dark sofa. Bright, colorful confetti was still tangled in his hair. There was a smear of frosting on his collar. And he was covered in the heavy scent of Chanel No. 5—Amber’s signature perfume. Before I could say a word, he looked at the half-eaten cake on the table and frowned. “You guys really didn’t wait for me?” I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms. “Hazel and I waited from six o’clock. Eight hours, Derek.” He hesitated, then shifted the subject with practiced ease. “Well, today is Zoe’s birthday too. Amber is a single mom, and she doesn’t have anyone else. I couldn’t just leave them.” As he pulled off his coat, a small, plush velvet box rolled out of his pocket. A jewelry box from Tiffany’s. I knew the brand; a simple necklace there cost thousands. I thought, for a fleeting second, it was Hazel’s birthday gift. But when it hit the floor, the lid popped open. It was empty. He had already given the piece away. Suddenly, I remembered the dress Hazel had insisted on wearing tonight. It was a size too small, tight across her chest, but she had squeezed into it because it was the only thing Derek had ever bought her. A month ago, Hazel had tugged on my sleeve in the hospital hallway. “Mommy, will Daddy really be here for this birthday? The nurse said if I don’t wake up after my surgery, I might never see you guys again.” I had held her small, fragile face and promised her through gritted teeth: “You will wake up, baby. And I promise, Daddy will be there this time.” I hadn’t been sure myself, which was why I spent the last two weeks reminding him daily. When he finally nodded last night, I had been so happy I couldn’t sleep. I never imagined he would break his promise again for Amber and her daughter. Years ago, Amber had been forced by her family to marry someone else and move abroad. Derek had been utterly devastated. Soon after, he married me—the girl who had loved him in silence for years. On our wedding night, he survived a horrific car crash. I was the neurosurgeon who performed his emergency craniotomy. While he was comatose, fighting for his life, the only name he muttered was Amber’s. That was the moment I realized I had never truly entered his heart. When Amber’s husband died, she returned to the states with Zoe. Derek started running over to her place every chance he got. I used to think my tolerance was a sign of maturity, of understanding. But it was just a weapon I handed him to hurt me and our daughter. Derek loosened his tie and walked toward the bathroom. “Alright, it’s just a birthday. We can celebrate it anytime. Next week, when I’m free, I’ll make it up to her.” Looking at his aloof, careless silhouette, a profound exhaustion washed over me. I took a deep breath and said quietly, “No need.” Because while Hazel was crying herself to sleep, I had already submitted my transfer request to the hospital in my hometown. It was approved instantly. Sensing something different in my tone, Derek paused and turned back. “Nicola, are you seriously picking a fight over something this trivial?” I stood up, holding my phone out to show him the screen. “Trivial?” It was a video Amber had posted. Derek was holding Amber’s hand with one arm and cradling Zoe with the other. Zoe planted a loud kiss on his cheek, squealing, “Thank you for spending my birthday with me, Daddy!” Derek’s face paled slightly. “She’s just a kid. She doesn’t know any better. Why do you let things like this get to you?” I gripped my phone tighter. “Yes, she’s a kid. But what about you? Are you a kid too? Or do you just forget you have a daughter of your own?” My confrontation hit a nerve. His voice flared. “Nicola, stop being so paranoid! Amber is raising a child alone, it’s exhausting. What’s wrong with me helping out? Besides, didn’t I order food delivery for Hazel tonight?” In the video, Zoe fed Derek a bite of her cake. He—a man with extreme germaphobia—ate it without a second thought. Yet, when Hazel had accidentally used his water glass months ago, he had thrown the glass directly into the trash in front of her, claiming she hadn’t brushed her teeth. Hazel had been so terrified she wouldn’t touch his things for months. I had given him the cold shoulder for two weeks over that, only forgiving him when he bought her that dress. But now I knew the truth. The dress was just something Zoe had thrown away because she thought it was ugly. Without this video, I would have never known that my otherwise frugal husband had spent thousands on a lavish party for his ex’s daughter at a five-star hotel. Derek’s raised voice pulled me back to the present. “And I have a million things to handle at work. How am I supposed to remember every kid’s birthday?” My throat felt tight, as if someone were choking me. For years, he couldn’t remember his daughter’s birthday or our anniversary. But he never forgot to boil ginger tea and drive it over to Amber whenever she had menstrual cramps. I swallowed the bitterness. “Tomorrow is Hazel’s school field day. You promised to go with her.” He hesitated, his brow furrowing deeper. “Zoe has a talent show tomorrow. I promised Amber I’d video it.” “There’s a father-daughter piggyback race. If you don’t go, is Hazel supposed to run alone? In her condition…” He cut me off. “Fine. I’ll go. Just stop accusing me of being biased.” As the bathroom door slammed shut, Hazel crept out of her room, clutching her stuffed bunny, Barnaby. She ran into my arms. “Mommy, see? Daddy still loves us.” I forced a smile, trying to feel relieved, but my chest only felt heavier. The next morning, Hazel happily climbed into the backseat of Derek’s car, her tiny backpack secured. Three hours later, my phone rang. It was the state highway patrol. “Is this Nicola? Your daughter was found on the shoulder of the I-95. She’s fainted from panic. You need to get here immediately…” My hand shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. I drove to the station like a madwoman. The moment Hazel saw me, she broke down. I ran to her, wrapping her in a tight embrace. She clung to my shirt, still trembling. An officer watching the highway camera feed shook her head in disgust. “Who is this man to her? Leaving a child alone on a highway shoulder? Unbelievable.” I looked at the screen. The man who had abandoned my daughter on the interstate was Derek. The footage showed Zoe throwing Hazel’s backpack out of the window, screaming. Instead of reprimanding Zoe, Derek stopped the car, forced Hazel out onto the side of the road, and drove off. With cars rushing past her at eighty miles an hour, my little girl had clung to the guardrail, so terrified she had wet her pants. The last string of sanity in my mind snapped. With shaking hands, I dialed Derek’s number. He answered before I could speak, his voice frantic. “Nicola, Hazel might be in trouble. She snuck some wild flowers into her backpack, and it triggered Zoe’s asthma. I made her step out onto the shoulder for five minutes to cool down, but when I came back, she was gone.” Five minutes? It had been five hours. “Nicola, are you listening? She’s lost. Go look for her. Zoe’s on an IV right now, I can’t leave her…” So he was still at the hospital. He was just calling to delegate the search to me. Looking at my daughter’s pale, traumatized face, I hung up on him for the first time in my life. Then, I texted my mother: “Mom, Hazel and I are coming home tomorrow.” My mother replied instantly: “Really? I was just thinking about you guys! How long are you staying? What does Hazel want to eat? I’ll send your dad to the market right now…” Hazel reached up, her small hand wiping my cheeks. “Mommy, I’m okay. Don’t cry.” Only then did I realize my face was soaked with tears. I wiped them away and replied to my mother: “Mom, this time, we aren’t leaving.” There was a brief pause. My mother understood. “Okay, sweetie. Whatever you decide, your dad and I are behind you.” When we got back to our apartment to pack, the air was filled with the distinct, custardy aroma of durian. Hazel looked at me, terrified. It was her favorite fruit. But because Derek couldn’t stand the smell, I had stopped buying it years ago. Hazel stared at the freshly peeled plate of durian on the kitchen counter, swallowing hard. With my nod of approval, she reached for a piece, but Derek—who had just walked through the door—slapped her hand away violently. “You run off on the highway and the first thing you think about is stuffing your face?” Hazel shrunk back, hiding behind my legs. I glared at him. “I bought that for her.” Derek ignored me, pulling a mango from a bag and handing it to Hazel. “This is for you. You caused Zoe’s allergic reaction today. Consider the durian a peace offering for her.” He began packing the durian into a container. But he had forgotten—Hazel was severely allergic to mangoes. Three years ago, because of his carelessness, she had ended up in the ICU. He had sworn back then he would never let her suffer like that again. My hands began to shake. I couldn’t take it anymore. Before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed the mango and threw it hard against his chest. The sticky juice splattered all over his shirt. Derek stared at me, dumbfounded. “Nicola, what the hell is wrong with you?” Hazel clutched my jeans, tears streaming down her face. “Mommy, don’t fight. I’m not hungry anymore. I won’t eat anything.” Derek softened his tone slightly as he looked at her. “Daddy didn’t want to fight. Your mom is just being unreasonable.” Before he could finish, his phone rang. It was Zoe’s voice, sweet and demanding. “Daddy Derek, where are you? Zoe already finished her durian cake and candies!” Derek’s voice turned incredibly gentle. “I’m on my way, sweetie.” Once the door clicked shut behind him, I knelt down and hugged Hazel. “Hazel, if Mommy and Daddy get a divorce… will you be scared?” She wrapped her arms around my neck, her voice quiet. “I’m not scared, Mommy. I’m just scared that if I’m not here anymore, you’ll be lonely.” My heart broke. She loved her father so much, always wishing for a sliver of his affection. But this was the absolute last time. I had just finished packing our suitcases when Derek returned, with Amber and Zoe trailing closely behind him. Amber stood in the entryway, her eyes scanning our luggage before resting on me. I had been working back-to-back shifts at the hospital; my dark circles were heavy, and my hair was tied in a messy bun. She, on the other hand, had perfectly styled hair and soft, fresh makeup. At the exact same age, I looked ten years older than her. Amber smirked slightly, then looked at Derek. “Oh, Nicola already packed? That was fast.” Meeting my cold stare, Derek finally spoke. “Amber’s pipes burst, and they aren’t comfortable staying at a hotel. I was thinking… maybe you and Hazel could make a small sacrifice…” “A sacrifice?” I repeated. Derek nodded, trying to sound casual. “Just for a couple of weeks, maybe a month. Hazel is going to be admitted to the hospital next month anyway, so her room will be free. Amber is struggling on her own. We should help out where we can.” I let out a harsh laugh. “Why should we? I don’t even know her.” Derek’s face darkened. “Nicola, you’re becoming incredibly difficult. I try to talk to you, and all you do is give me attitude. If you’re going to be like this, fine—I’ll move out with them!” I marched into our bedroom, grabbed his clothes from the closet, and threw them into the hallway. “Perfect. Get out. And don’t forget to sign the divorce papers!” Derek froze. He stayed silent for a long moment, then, for the first time in months, he stepped closer to placate me. “Do you really have to embarrass me in front of guests? I know I’ve been distant lately, but Amber and I are just friends. Stop overreacting, okay?” In the past, if he had used that tone with me, I would have folded. But now, I was just tired. Suddenly, a sharp, piercing cry echoed from Hazel’s bedroom. We rushed in. Hazel was on the floor, her hands covered in blood, sobbing as she clutched a pile of broken glass. I panicked, lifting her up. “Hazel! What happened?” She gasped through her tears. “Zoe… Zoe broke my jar. She said she was going to burn all the paper cranes I folded for Daddy…” Zoe was standing nearby, clutching one of her fingers and crying even louder. “She’s lying! I just wanted to see them, and she threw the jar at me! Mommy, my finger is bleeding! Am I going to die?” Amber’s face went white. She yelled at Derek, “Derek! Zoe has a bleeding disorder! A tiny cut could be fatal!” Derek panicked, turning on Hazel with fury. “Is this how I raised you? How can you be so vicious at your age?” He threw a glare at me. “This is what happens when you spoil her! Look what she’s become!” He didn’t know that Hazel never lied. He didn’t believe her. But I did. Ignoring the blood dripping from Hazel’s small hands, Derek scooped Zoe up and rushed out the door with Amber. Looking at the crushed paper cranes scattered on the floor, Hazel wiped her tears. “Mommy, I don’t like Daddy anymore. Take me away. Please.” Half an hour later, after I bandaged Hazel’s hands, I called a moving company. By the next morning, the apartment was completely empty. I received a text from Derek: “Let’s stay apart for a bit to cool down. I’m not divorcing you. Nicola, I’ll say it again: Amber and I are clean. When you’ve cleared your head, bring Hazel to the hospital to apologize to Zoe.” I looked at the message, scrolling up through our chat history. It was a sea of blue bubbles from me, met with occasional one-letter responses from him. “K. Busy.” On a whim, I opened Amber’s Instagram. As I scrolled down, my chest grew cold. He had liked every single photo of her new manicures. On her selfies on rainy days, he commented: “Make sure you stay warm.” When she complained about Zoe not sleeping, he replied instantly: “It’s hard on you. Get some rest.” On a photo of her IV drip, he had left multiple likes and comments asking which hospital she was at. Even a random photo of a wildflower by the road had a heart from him. But when I looked at my own profile? The video of Hazel speaking her first words had gone completely unnoticed by him. A selfie I took during a grueling 3:00 AM hospital shift only had comments from my colleagues. When Hazel had a 104-degree fever and I posted a prayer for her recovery, a dozen friends checked in. His icon was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t avoiding his phone. He was just filtering me out. At that moment, I finally understood. Seven years of quiet endurance had bought me absolutely nothing. I smiled bitterly and texted back two words: “Suit yourself.” As I dragged our suitcases out the door, I left the signed divorce papers on the kitchen counter. Hazel held my hand, whispering, “Mommy, I promise I’ll wake up after my surgery. I won’t leave you alone.” I kissed her forehead. “I know, baby.” On the train, the city skyline blurred past the window. My phone began to vibrate wildly. Derek was calling, over and over—more times than he had in the last seven years combined. I didn’t answer. Ten minutes later, an unknown number popped up. I picked up, and Derek’s voice came through, raw and panicked. “Nicola! Where are you? Get to the hospital right now for emergency surgery! Zoe is in critical condition!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532341”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

With less than forty-eight hours left before we were supposed to register our marriage, Natalie and I still hadn’t settled on our honeymoon. I brought it up casually over dinner after work. “How about Florida?” Her fork didn’t stop moving. “Been there. I don’t do repeat trips.” “What about Lake Tahoe?” “I haven’t been,” she said, her voice completely detached. “But Brody asked me to go with him next year.” My grip tightened on my fork. I knew exactly what she meant. Because she was going with Brody, she wouldn’t go with me. Natalie was the kind of person who loathed repetition; she never visited the same place twice. And over the last few years, she and Brody had already traveled to almost every corner of the country. The sub-zero sunrises in Alaska, the dizzying climb up Angels Landing in Zion, the quiet peaks of Banff—she had experienced every single one of them at Brody’s side. My phone buzzed on the table. It was a text from my dad. “Ty, have you and Natalie picked a honeymoon spot yet? Want me to book a cabin for you guys?” “Dad, don’t worry about it,” I typed back. “I’m actually not planning on getting married anymore.” I booked a one-way ticket to Lake Tahoe. Since there was no room for me in her travel plans, I would go to the place I wanted to see, by myself. … I set my phone down and forced a bite of food into my mouth, letting the silence stretch between us. Natalie put her fork down and stared at me for a long time. “Why’d you quiet down all of a sudden?” she asked, her voice light. “It’s not like I said I wouldn’t go with you.” “Then tell me. Where are we going?” I challenged, unable to keep the exhaustion out of my voice. She frowned. “Let me think about it.” “Let me think about it.” She had said those words so many times before. During our first year of dating, my childhood friend gifted us a weekend getaway package to New York. I asked Natalie to go with me. She said she’d think about it, then turned around and gave the plane tickets to Brody. During our third year, I told her it was time to meet my parents. She said she’d think about it, and then she stood them up on the night of the dinner. My dad was furious, telling me to break it off. I made excuses for her, claiming she had a last-minute business crisis. Only to see her later that night in a travel vlog Brody posted. I didn’t know how much longer she needed to think. But I was done waiting. I offered a flat, dismissive “Sure” and kept my head down, eating in silence. Then, her phone chimed. It was the custom ringtone she kept only for him. Natalie unlocked her screen, a soft smile immediately tugging at the corners of her lips. “Natalie, my followers in the comments are saying your video editing is absolutely incredible,” Brody’s voice drifted from a voice note. “Work?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. “It’s Brody. He wants me to help him edit his new travel vlog.” She stood up, heading toward the home office. Watching her retreat, I suddenly remembered that trip from our first year that never happened. The plane tickets to Colorado. My friend had told me about a scenic trail at Loveland Pass where couples hung love locks, and that I should take Natalie. I never got to go. Brody did. He shot his very first travel video there, which launched his career as a viral influencer. “Natalie,” I called out, stopping her in her tracks. “Have you figured out where you want to go?” She paused. “Not yet,” she muttered carelessly, pushing open the office door. “How much longer are you going to think? I only have a week of vacation approved.” My pushing seemed to irritate her. Her tone sharpened. “Fine, Oregon. Neither of us has been there.” “I can’t do Oregon. The altitude and steep hikes are too much for me.” When Natalie and Brody had gone hiking in the Hoh Rain Forest, they got separated from their group. I had organized a search party, looking for them for seven straight days and nights. I pushed myself to the point of acute myocarditis and collapsed. When I woke up in the hospital, the doctors told me high-altitude, strenuous environments were permanently off-limits. She forgot. “Then Nashville. Don’t you love spicy food?” “My stomach can’t handle it anymore.” I had stopped eating spicy food two years ago. To save up enough money for a down payment on our house, I had transitioned into sales—a grueling corporate job I despised. The endless networking dinners and heavy drinking sessions had completely wrecked my stomach. Spicy food hadn’t been on our dining table in ages. She hadn’t noticed. “Then where “can” you go?” she snapped, her voice rising in frustration. “You decide. Just book the tickets and let me know.” She slammed the office door shut. The living room fell dead silent. I pulled out my phone and texted my boss, changing my time-off request from “wedding leave” to “paid vacation.” My flight confirmation and a text from my dad arrived at the exact same time. “Ty, are you really calling off the wedding?” “Yeah, Dad. I’m not doing it.” The three dots indicating he was typing appeared and disappeared for a long time. I sat at the table, staring into space, trying to figure out what I would say if he pushed for answers. What could I say? Should I tell him about the honeymoons that never happened? Or about Natalie, who spent every evening locked in her office, editing another man’s videos? The dinner on the table had gone cold, barely touched. I picked up the plates and scraped the food into the trash. Finally, my dad’s reply came. Just a single sentence. “Ty, whatever you decide to do, I’m behind you.” I turned off my screen, folded my arms on the table, and buried my face in them, letting the tears fall. The next morning, I woke up alone. I reached out to the other side of the bed. It was freezing. Natalie hadn’t slept in the master bedroom last night. When I opened the bedroom door, there was a paper bag on the kitchen counter. The breakfast wraps inside were ice-cold. Whoever bought them had been gone for hours. I put one in the microwave to heat it up. I took a bite—chorizo and jalapeños. Painfully spicy. It burned my throat, making my eyes water. Brody’s little preferences—she remembered every single one of them. No onions, no garlic. Whenever they went out, she always made sure to remind the servers. Yet, despite me telling her just yesterday that my stomach was ruined, she had already forgotten. “Busy day at work, might be home late,” read a sticky note next to the bag. It was written on a stylized notepad she’d bought during one of her trips with Brody. I crumpled the note and threw it in the trash. I unlocked my phone and opened Instagram. Right at the top of my feed was Brody’s newly uploaded travel video, the one Natalie had stayed up all night editing. He had also posted a teaser on his story—a photo of an airport terminal. Looking at the reflection of the glass in the background, I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. Natalie hadn’t gone to work early. She had gone to the airport to see Brody off. The comments section of his post was flooded with fans. One comment read: “Are we sure the photographer and the editor aren’t dating? The chemistry is insane.” Brody hadn’t denied it. He had simply replied with a single emoji—the monkey covering its eyes. I grabbed my wallet and walked out, finding a quiet local diner down the street. “Just a plain bagel with light cream cheese, please,” I told the woman behind the counter. She gave me an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. We just sold out of plain. It’ll be about ten minutes for the next batch.” Sitting there, it suddenly clicked. It wasn’t that Natalie had forgotten my stomach was ruined. She just didn’t care enough to wait. When I got back to the apartment, a massive cardboard box was sitting by the door. It was our finalized wedding album, shot a month ago. I cut the tape and flipped through the pages one by one. In every shot, her face was devoid of warmth, wearing her signature detached look. Since our college days, Natalie had been the untouchable ice queen of our department. I spent four years chasing her before she finally agreed to be with me. Once we were together, she rarely smiled. I had convinced myself that was just who she was—reserved, aloof. Until I saw her editing Brody’s videos. In one clip, Brody stood in front of a rock shaped like a giant peach, pretending to take a massive bite out of it. She had been so captured by his silly, playful energy that she was laughing behind the camera—a bright, genuine sound. I tossed the album back into the box and carried it out, leaving the cardboard for the building’s handyman. Back inside, I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Natalie. “We don’t need to go to the clerk’s office tomorrow. Let’s call it off. We’re done.” The status changed to “Read,” and my phone immediately began to ring. “What kind of tantrum are you throwing now?” was the first thing she demanded when I picked up. “You’re calling off our marriage over a honeymoon destination?” She sounded furious. “Yes,” I said, my voice entirely flat. “Over a honeymoon destination.” “You’re being impulsive,” she said, her tone suddenly shifting into a cold, analytical register. I almost laughed. A heart doesn’t break all at once; it happens in quiet, agonizing increments. There was nothing impulsive about my decision. “Look, just find a place I haven’t been to yet,” she negotiated, still clinging to her ridiculous rule. “We’ll go there.” Even now, she didn’t get it. “No need,” I said, and hung up. She immediately flooded my messages with a dozen itinerary options. I didn’t open them. I only saw the preview of her final text: “This is the itinerary Brody put together for one of his trips. Take a look and draft something similar for us.” It read like a manager assigning a project to an assistant. Even when she was trying to make amends, she spoke down to me. I pulled my suitcase out of the closet and began to pack. I remembered how meticulously I had decorated this place when we first moved in. Our lives were supposed to be woven together in every corner. But as I packed, I realized most of those shared pieces were already gone. Our matching keychains had been lost during one of her spontaneous trips with Brody. My favorite mug had been shattered on a night she stayed up late editing Brody’s footage. When I finished clearing out my things, everything I owned fit into just two suitcases. “Are you done being mad?” Natalie texted that afternoon. “Let’s get dinner. I made a reservation.” It was rare for Natalie to suggest eating out with me. She was always willing to hit the trendiest spots across the country with Brody. But whenever I suggested a nice dinner for our anniversary, she would shut me down without a second thought. “Brody and I already ate there. It’s overrated,” she’d say. Or, “Brody actually wants to try that place next week.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time. I deleted the angry refusal I wanted to send. I typed a simple “Okay” and hit send. She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “Great. I’ll pick you up at seven.” To her, this dinner was a reconciliation. To me, it was a funeral. At seven, she drove me to an upscale restaurant downtown. “Brody and I came here a while ago. He loved it,” she said, leaning in to share the menu with me. I quietly shifted my weight, leaning away from her. The air in the private booth went cold. The waiter, sensing the tension, quickly slipped another menu into my hands. As we ordered, she spoke up. “No onions or garlic, please.” My hand clutched around my menu, then slowly let go. I didn’t bother correcting her. I didn’t tell her she had confused her dining partner’s preferences once again. “This is a dish Brody and I had when we were in Charleston,” she said, sliding a plate of seafood toward me. “Very authentic Southern style.” Charleston. I remembered that city, and I remembered the day she went there. Brody had sprained his ankle while exploring the historic district. Instead of calling an ambulance or his crew, he called Natalie. That was the exact afternoon I was wheeled into the operating room for an emergency appendectomy. She had walked me to the doors of the OR, but the moment the doors closed, she bought a ticket and hopped on the next flight to South Carolina. When the nurses wheeled me out of surgery, I was left lying in a cold hallway for hours because there was no family member to sign my release. I had spent months believing she was called away by an urgent corporate emergency. It wasn’t until I saw Brody’s vlog months later that I realized the truth. She had been in Charleston. I chewed a piece of the fish. It tasted like cardboard. A deep, hollow ache settled in my chest. “Natalie, tonight—” I started to speak, wanting to end this cleanly, but her phone lit up. A breaking news notification flashed across her screen: “Severe rainstorms trigger massive landslide in the Cascade Mountains; multiple hikers stranded.” I remembered Brody’s Instagram story about “conquering the Timberline Trail.” The Timberline Trail was right in the heart of the Cascades. Natalie bolted upright, her chair scraping violently against the hardwood floor. “I need to drop you home.” She grabbed her purse and dragged me out of the restaurant before I could say a word, shoving me into the passenger seat of her car. “Brody is out there. He’s in the Cascades right now,” she muttered, her hands shaking on the steering wheel as she tore down the road, pushing the speed limit. I sat beside her, my voice entirely calm. “They have professional search and rescue teams, Natalie. You aren’t trained for this. Going out there won’t change anything.” She slammed on the brakes, pulling over to the curb. “Get out,” she commanded, her voice icy. “I have wilderness survival training. I’ll be fine. I’ll go get him, and I’ll be back in time for us to get our license tomorrow.” I stepped out of the car. Before my feet even settled on the pavement, she hit the gas. The edge of the car door caught my sleeve, pulling me off balance. I crashed hard onto the concrete. I stared at my scraped elbows and bleeding knees, slowly pushing myself up. “There is no tomorrow, Natalie,” I thought, watching her taillights vanish into the night. The iodine stung fiercely as the nurse cleaned my scrapes at the urgent care clinic. The male nurse frowned, looking at my bruised limbs. “Rough fall, man. Looks pretty bad. Where’s your girlfriend? Why didn’t she bring you in?” I let out a tired, empty laugh. “She had someone more important to look after.” The nurse paused, then sighed. “No matter how important someone is, they shouldn’t come before the person standing right next to you. Don’t let yourself get treated like second best, kid.” By now, she was probably already on a flight to Oregon. When I got back to the empty apartment, I crawled into bed and slept heavily. I didn’t let myself worry about whether she would survive the mountains, or what she and Brody were doing. When I woke up, it was already eight in the morning. I made breakfast, sat down, and opened my phone. My inbox was full of texts from Natalie. “2:00 AM: Just landed near the Cascades. The storm washed out the roads, cell reception is terrible.” “4:00 AM: Found Brody. He’s okay, just shaken up with a few minor scrapes.” “7:00 AM: I’m sorry I had to rush off last night. Please don’t be mad.” “7:30 AM: Don’t forget our appointment at the city clerk’s office today. I’m wrapping things up here and catching the next flight. I’ll make it in time.” Four messages. Every single one of them centered around Brody. She hadn’t even chemical-tested her conscience to ask if I made it home safely after she kicked me out of the car. She hadn’t noticed me fall. My flight to Lake Tahoe was at two in the afternoon. I called an Uber and headed to the airport. The driver had the local news playing on the radio, reporting that all stranded hikers in the Cascades had been safely evacuated. After passing through security, I walked toward my gate. A crowd of arriving passengers rushed past me. And there she was. She was still wearing her clothes from last night, her jeans splattered with dried mud, a button missing from her jacket. She was dragging two large suitcases. Walking right beside her was Brody, looking perfectly put together, his hair styled, wearing fresh clothes. “We have just enough time to make it to the clerk’s office before they close,” Natalie was saying as they walked. It was a two-hour drive from the airport to downtown, and it was already past one. “Are you seriously going to register your marriage looking like that?” Brody teased softly. “Won’t Tyler be pissed?” “He won’t care,” Natalie replied confidently. “Marrying me has been his dream for years. He won’t care about the details.” “As for you, don’t go doing anything that dangerous again…” Their voices faded into the hum of the terminal. I didn’t try to hear the rest. The PA system announced the boarding call for my flight to Lake Tahoe. I pulled my carry-on toward the gate, ignoring the persistent buzzing of my phone.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532340”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was on a video call with my online boyfriend when my roommates crowded around, clamoring for a look. Staring at his handsome face on the screen, I felt a blush creep up my neck as I shyly handed over my phone. But the moment my roommate and my boyfriend locked eyes, the playful atmosphere vanished. Their faces dropped in unison. “You?” Lexie yelled, her voice dripping with sudden, venomous rage. “You think you’re actually good enough to be with Willie? Does Cora know you used to worship my body? That you’d do anything, even lick my toes, just to stay in my bed?” Willie leaned back, a lazy, shameless smirk spreading across his face. “What’s the matter, babe? You acting like you didn’t love every second of it?” They went back and forth, trading sharp, familiar jabs, entirely oblivious to the fact that my own face had gone completely pale. 1 Nobody noticed the quiet breaking inside me. Hearing Willie’s crass, dismissive words, Lexie’s face flushed a deeper, angrier red. She bit her lip, her voice trembling with embarrassment and fury. “Keep talking like that, Willie, and see if I don’t ruin you.” Willie didn’t even blink. He leaned against the back of his chair, arching an eyebrow. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. Are we really playing the cold-hearted ex card now? You used to love what this mouth could do.” The words felt like a physical weight on my chest. My fingernails dug hard into my palms. We had been dating online for six months. I knew Willie was rough around the edges—he had that wealthy, reckless bad-boy charm—but this was different. This crossed a line. Perhaps sensing my silence, Willie finally shifted his gaze back to me. But before he could speak, Lexie snatched my phone and slammed it onto the hardwood floor. “Crack.” “God, he makes me so sick! Still the exact same arrogant prick!” She was practically hyperventilating, her chest heaving as she turned her frustration onto me. “Cora, seriously, how is your taste this bad?” She stepped closer, her voice laced with a strange, frantic need to assert herself. “Do you have any idea what he was like when we were together? He was completely obsessed with me. Foot massages, rubbing my shoulders… honestly, I had to dump him because he was just too high-maintenance in bed. Insatiable, really.” I didn’t miss the flash of smug superiority in her eyes. It was a look I had seen too many times over the four months since college started. Lexie looked at me that way when she realized my monthly earnings from my part-time jobs didn’t even cover half of her weekly allowance. She looked at me that way when she saw my off-brand, ten-dollar shirts hanging in the closet. And she was looking at me that way now, realizing the boy I loved was just her discarded hand-me-down. I kept my head down, swallowing the bitter taste in my throat, and knelt to pick up my phone. The screen was spider-webbed with fresh, jagged cracks. Lexie glanced down and shrugged, entirely unbothered. “It’s just a cheap piece of junk anyway. You’re welcome for the excuse to upgrade.” But to me, that “cheap piece of junk” represented a month’s worth of groceries. I took a slow, deep breath, forcing the chaos in my mind to quiet down. “Give me fifty dollars. For the screen repair.” Lexie sneered, muttering something offensive under her breath, but I ignored her. I held the power button down until the screen flickered back to life. A notification popped up immediately. It was from Willie. “Hey babe. Let’s meet up this weekend. In person.” 2 During our six months of online dating, Willie and I had shared endless late-night texts, filled with the kind of heavy, suggestive banter that made my heart race. But he had never once suggested meeting in person. I didn’t want to examine the timing of this sudden urge to see me. But lying in bed that night, his photos kept flashing behind my closed eyelids—the sharp angle of his jaw, his lean, athletic build. He carried himself like a man who got exactly what he wanted. He looked, just as Lexie had said, like someone with an insatiable appetite. My mind betrayingly pictured him with her. A dull ache bloomed behind my eyes. Lexie was beautiful, vibrant, and effortlessly spoiled. Since the first day of freshman year, boys had trailed after her like gravity. I, on the other hand, was quiet, plain, and entirely forgettable. I closed my eyes tighter, forcing the thoughts away. It didn’t matter. The past was the past. Still, when the weekend arrived, I couldn’t help but hope. I put on my best outfit—a simple, delicate white sundress that made me feel small and pretty. Lexie let out a sharp, mocking laugh when she saw me. “Seriously, Cora? You’re playing dress-up for him? Don’t be so desperate. It’s pathetic. When he wanted me, he spent a year begging for a single date.” Her words stung, leaving a lingering sense of humiliation that followed me all the way to our meeting spot. But when I finally saw Willie, the way his eyes widened with genuine appreciation made the tightness in my chest loosen, if only a little. “You’re even prettier than you are on screen,” he murmured, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as he offered a rakish smile. But Lexie, who had insisted on tagging along under the guise of “protecting” me, chose that exact moment to stumble. With a dramatic gasp, she twisted her ankle on the curb. The smile wiped clean from Willie’s face. He swore under his breath, stepping past me without a second thought to scoop Lexie up into his arms. “Jesus, Lexie! Are you still this clumsy? You can’t even walk on flat ground? Did you put all your skill points into your face?” Lexie wrapped her arms around his neck, pouting with effortless familiarity. “It’s your fault, asshole. Hurry up and take me to the clinic!” Willie carried her over to his motorcycle, throwing a rushed, muffled apology over his shoulder as he started the engine. The roar of the bike drowned out his words. I stood on the sidewalk, watching them speed away. Just before they rounded the corner, Lexie looked back at me. The triumph in her eyes was impossible to hide. I looked down at my carefully chosen dress, suddenly feeling very cold, and very foolish. 3 The next day, Willie texted me, promising to make it up to me. He booked a table at one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. But when I arrived, I wasn’t surprised to find Lexie already sitting there. Before I could even take my seat, Lexie’s eyes locked onto Willie’s wrist. She reached out, unbuckling his watch with a look of pure disgust. “Willie, seriously? Since when do you wear this cheap garbage?” Without waiting for an answer, she tossed it casually into the nearby trash can. My entire body went rigid. That watch was my birthday gift to him. I had survived on instant ramen for three solid months just to afford it. Lexie knew that. And Willie knew it too. Willie froze for a fraction of a second. But then he simply flicked Lexie’s forehead, his tone mild and teasing. “Hey, princess, don’t do that. My girlfriend bought me that.” Lexie just stuck her tongue out, completely unfazed. For the rest of the meal, the two of them dominated the table. They bickered, laughed, and fell into the easy, exclusive rhythm of people who shared a history. I sat there in silence, my eyes fixed on the trash can where my three months of sacrifice lay buried under food scraps. My throat felt so tight I could barely breathe. Finally, I stood up, fighting with every ounce of my strength to keep my voice steady. “You guys enjoy. I have to get to work.” “Work?” Willie frowned, looking up. But before he could say more, Lexie’s high-pitched laugh cut in. “Oh, let her go, Willie. Cora’s a straight-A student, working her way through college. She’s not like us. She actually washes my clothes and shoes for fifty bucks a week. It’s a great little side hustle for her.” “She’s that broke?” Willie murmured. His voice held a trace of pity that felt like a slap to my face. I turned and walked away, my pace quickening until I was almost running. Going to work wasn’t an excuse. My mother’s upcoming surgery required fifty thousand dollars. Ever since I started college, my life had been a relentless cycle of scraping together every penny I could find. I took every odd job, every cleaning shift, living on less than ten dollars a week. The watch had been the only luxury I had ever allowed myself. Lexie was right. We were not the same. I didn’t even have the luxury of stopping to cry. 4 When I finally dragged my exhausted body back to the dorm after a double shift, the room was cluttered with glossy shopping bags. Lexie was parading around, showing off designer jewelry Willie had bought her. “Cora, guess how much this is?” she beamed, holding up a sparkling diamond bracelet. “Forty thousand dollars. Willie said my skin is too pale to go without diamonds. God, the asshole is still so rich.” I stood in the doorway, staring at her, unable to move. Forty thousand dollars. That was almost enough to save my mother’s life. I looked down at my own hands, rough and calloused from hours of scrubbing dishes. The bitterness in my chest finally boiled over. Later that night, I called Willie. My pride was screaming, but I couldn’t stop the question from escaping my lips. “Why are you buying things like that for Lexie?” Willie let out a low, amused exhale through his teeth. “What, babe? Jealous?” “Yes,” I said quietly, refusing to hide it. The amusement left his voice, replaced by a sigh. “Look, she’s incredibly vain, Cora. When we broke up, she lost everything, and I saw her wrist was completely bare. We have history. I can’t just stand by and watch her struggle. Besides, it’s just a bracelet. Are you really going to be this petty?” “Petty.” I looked down at my worn-out sneakers, the canvas faded to a dull gray. Willie could notice a bare wrist on his ex-girlfriend, but he had never once noticed that his actual girlfriend didn’t even own a decent pair of shoes. In that quiet moment, the truth settled over me with absolute clarity. 5 In the beginning, before we met, I hadn’t let myself fall too deep. Willie was charming and wildly handsome, but he was just a boy on a screen. I wasn’t the type to lose my head over a fantasy. Until the night I couldn’t pay my mother’s hospital deposit. I had been sitting on the cold floor of the hospital corridor, weeping in absolute despair, when his FaceTime call came through. Seeing my tears, Willie had panicked. He paced his room, frantically transferring money to my account, ordering delivery flowers to my dorm—doing anything and everything to make me smile. Watching his genuine worry that night, I believed, for the first time, that there was someone in this world who actually cared about me. I had forced a smile, telling him I was only crying because my dinner tasted bad. He had let out a breath, looking relieved but exhausted. “Babe, next time you want to give me a heart attack, just tell me, okay?” I used his transfer to clear the hospital deposit. But unlike Lexie, I had never been pampered. I couldn’t accept such a large sum of money without feeling the crushing weight of obligation. I was too sensitive, too terrified of him looking down on me. So, I worked day and night to pay him back every single cent. Now, at least, there was comfort in that. Because I owed him nothing, I could walk away without carrying his weight. 6 For the next two days, my schedule was packed with back-to-back shifts. I had no time to process my grief, let alone figure out how to officially end things with Willie. But I hadn’t expected my confrontation with him to get back to Lexie. The moment I stepped into the dorm room, Lexie blocked my path. Without warning, she hurled the heavy designer boxes Willie had bought her straight at my head. A sharp corner clipped my temple. The sting of broken skin was immediate, followed by the warm trickle of blood. “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to embarrass me to Willie?!” Lexie screamed, her face contorted with rage. “If I wanted to get back with him, do you honestly think you’d even have a chance?!” Our other two roommates stood solidly behind her, casting icy, judgmental glares at me. “You’re just jealous because her boyfriend actually buys her nice things and treats you like charity,” one of them sneered. “Exactly. She’s just mad she couldn’t leech off his money.” I bit my lip, my voice shaking but cold as I looked at Lexie. “I have never asked him for a dime, and I am not jealous. Lexie, you know exactly what you’re doing.” I couldn’t stay there another second. I turned on my heel and walked out. Some of us don’t even have the luxury of a breakdown. I couldn’t afford a hotel, so I spent the night curled up on a makeshift bed of tablecloths in the back room of the restaurant where I worked. But when I returned to the dorm the next morning, my heart stopped. Lexie had poured a bucket of dirty water over my bed. And hidden beneath my pillow was the one thousand dollars in cash I had painstakingly saved for my mother’s next round of medication. The bills were soaked, torn, and completely ruined. The room blurred. Without hesitation, I turned and walked toward the campus police station. But as I reached the university gates, Willie’s motorcycle roared to a halt, blocking my path. He leaned against the handlebars, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “It’s just a grand, Cora. Don’t blow this out of proportion.” Behind him, Lexie stood with her arms crossed, offering me a smug, triumphant smirk. 7 The last thread of my restraint snapped. “Blow this out of proportion?!” My voice broke, tears finally spilling over. “Do you have any idea how many sleepless nights I worked to save that thousand dollars? Do you have any idea that my mother is waiting on that money to stay alive?!” Willie merely extinguished his cigarette, his expression flat and defensive. “So what? You’re going to ruin Lexie’s life over some wet cash?” My breath hitched. The last lingering warmth I held for him died in that exact moment. “Willie, we’re done.” I took a deep, steadying breath, forcing my voice to lose its tremor. “You are not my boyfriend anymore. And you have absolutely no right to tell me what to do.” Willie stiffened, a flicker of irritation crossing his handsome face. “Are you serious right now? If you need the money, I’ll write you a check. You’re really going to throw a tantrum and dump me over a grand?” I didn’t answer. I wiped the tears from my face, held my head high, and walked past them. Once I got on the bus, the tears came in earnest. I cried until my chest ached, letting the grief wash out of me. By the time the bus reached my stop, I felt surprisingly light. I opened my phone. There were several texts from Willie. “Where the hell did you go?” “Don’t be childish. You know you don’t actually want to break up with me.” Without an ounce of regret, I blocked his number and deleted him from every app. “I do,” I thought. And just like that, the six months of my life I had given him were gone.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532339”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At Adam’s touring exhibition, someone made a passing joke that I was the only woman who had ever managed to stay by his side for so long. He was a man of silence, fiercely protective of his boundaries. I, on the other hand, was gentle, compliant, and knew my place. For seven years, I genuinely believed we were soulmates, perfectly in sync. Until Piper, his vibrant, free-spirited childhood friend, returned from London. She knocked over his palettes and barged into his studio whenever she pleased. Every single thing she did directly violated Adam’s strict, unspoken rules. Yet, instead of getting angry, he only let out a soft chuckle. “Piper’s always been a hurricane,” he’d say. “I guess I’m the only one who knows how to handle her.” But I remembered the time I had accidentally misplaced a single one of his sable brushes. He had iced me out, punishing me with a silent treatment that lasted a whole month. And then, there was the night Piper “accidentally” tossed the portrait Adam had painted for my birthday straight into the fireplace. His immediate, instinctual reaction was to pull her back, soothing her panic. He didn’t even notice my hand, blistered and scorched from trying to pull the burning canvas out of the embers. One of our mutual friends couldn’t watch any longer and pulled him aside. “Aren’t you worried Cora’s going to be devastated by this?” Adam had waved it off with an effortless, arrogant certainty. “Cora’s sensible. She doesn’t sweat the small stuff.” My chest tightened. I unlocked my phone and opened a travel app, staring at the flight booking screen. For seven years, I had been the sensible one. But this time, I wanted to be selfish. … The burns on my hand were still throbbing with a dull, white-hot heat. On the other end of the line, Adam’s voice was clipped, his patience already wearing thin. “Whatever it is, Cora, it’ll have to wait. I need to be here for Piper right now.” He sighed. “She’s incredibly shaken up. She’s still crying.” Diana, sitting next to me in the ER, snatched my phone, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Adam, Cora literally burned her hand trying to save your painting. She is in the hospital right now, and you can’t even bother to show up?” Adam remained completely unfazed. “With the way she was yelling at Piper earlier, I highly doubt it’s that serious.” The nurse pressed an iodine-soaked cotton swab against my raw skin. The sharp, searing sting made my vision blur, but the physical pain paled in comparison to the cold weight settling in my chest. I couldn’t even bring myself to gasp. My mind was entirely consumed by Adam’s detached, icy words. Piper had watched the flames catch the edges of the canvas with a strange, satisfied glint in her eyes. When I demanded to know why she did it, Adam had immediately stepped between us, shielding her like a protective barrier. He had frowned at me, his voice sharp with irritation: “Enough, Cora! It’s just a painting. Do you really have to scream at her like that?” The words had died in my throat. Piper didn’t understand what that painting meant to me. But Adam? He was the one who painted it. How could he not understand? Adam was a celebrated landscape artist. His brushstrokes were legendary for their control, capturing light and shadow with a breathtaking, lifelike vitality. For years, critics and collectors had wondered what his immense talent could produce if he ever turned his attention to portraiture. I was no exception. In our seven years together, I had asked him countless times to paint me. Just a simple portrait. Every single time, he had declined. “I don’t have the time, Cora.” “Portraits aren’t my strength.” I believed him. I stopped asking, locking that quiet desire away. Until a few months ago, when I was tidying his studio. There was a locked room at the end of the hall that he usually kept closed. That afternoon, the door was slightly ajar, and a stray draft from an open window caught the heavy white sheets draped over a row of easels. The fabric slipped, murmuring as it pooled on the floor, exposing what lay beneath. The broom slipped from my hand, clattering against the floorboards and sending up a small cloud of dust. Every single canvas in that hidden sanctuary featured the same subject. A girl with a bright, radiant laugh. I recognized her immediately from the old photos in Adam’s scrapbooks. It was Piper. It was never a matter of time, or skill. He simply didn’t want to paint me. His muse had always belonged to someone else. When we first started dating, I had casually scrolled through his phone one evening. His camera roll was packed with nearly a thousand photos of Piper—easily two-thirds of his storage. There were barely a dozen of me. The rest were just reference photos of landscapes. Adam had wrapped his arms around me then, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Piper and I grew up together, Cora. We have over a decade of history, of course there are more photos. Besides, she’s like a sister to me. She’s in London now anyway; we barely even talk.” But when Piper returned last month, the illusion shattered. I finally saw what it looked like when Adam was truly captivated by someone. Adam was a creature of absolute discipline. He lived by rigid schedules and ironclad boundaries, never allowing anything to disrupt his carefully curated routine. Except for Piper. I had to ask permission weeks in advance just to step into his studio. Piper barged in whenever she pleased, leaving the door wide open. Adam was highly allergic to cat dander, so despite how much I adored cats, I never kept one. Yet, when Piper posted a casual photo of a kitten on Instagram with the caption, “So cute, I need one,” Adam went out of his way to source a rare, pedigree Persian kitten for her. Now, Piper and her kitten played freely in the very studio where I used to stand at the threshold, carefully checking his mood before taking a single step inside. The line went dead, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. Diana set the phone down, her eyes swimming with sympathy. “Cora, don’t let it get to you. Adam’s just… he’s overwhelmed right now. He still cares about you, I know he does.” I quietly tapped my screen, closing the flight booking app. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter what he thinks anymore.” I looked at her, offering a weak smile. “I’m so sorry for dragging you out this late.” Diana squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t be silly. I’ve watched you two from the very beginning. I just don’t want to see you guys fall apart over something like this.” She didn’t understand. It wasn’t just “this”. An avalanche is never caused by a single snowflake; it’s the slow, silent accumulation of weight until the entire mountain gives way. I stayed at the clinic until midnight. Adam never called. Not a single text, not a single check-in. Diana insisted on calling an Uber to make sure I got home safely. By the time the car pulled up to our suburban home, the world was blanketed in a heavy, late-night silence. I dragged my exhausted body through the front door, heading toward the stairs. As I passed the kitchen, a faint rustle caught my attention. Adam was standing by the counter, holding a steaming mug of milk. He froze when he saw me walk in. His eyes drifted down to the thick white gauze wrapping my hand, and his expression faltered. “Your hand… you’re actually hurt?” “Minor second-degree burns,” I said quietly, keeping my voice flat. “But earlier… I didn’t see any burns on you,” he stammered. He hadn’t seen it because his eyes had never once settled on me. They were too busy scanning Piper for scratches. I didn’t have the energy to argue. “Why are you still up?” I asked, looking at the warm mug in his hands. The rising steam from the milk briefly warmed the cold air between us, and for a fleeting, foolish second, I thought it was for me. Then Adam spoke. “Piper said she couldn’t sleep. I wanted to bring her some warm milk.” He offered a small, apologetic shrug. “You know how she is. She’s got that childish temperament—if I don’t soothe her now, she’ll be up all night tossing and turning.” She had tantrums that required coddling. I had maturity, which meant my pain could be ignored. It was always the squeaky wheel that got the grease. But I was too exhausted, both in body and soul, to care about who Adam chose to comfort anymore. That night, I slept in the guest room. Adam never came to knock on the door. The next morning, the dining room was lively. I changed my clothes and stepped out, my eyes instantly catching the two figures seated at the kitchen island. Adam was leaning over, his thumb gently brushing away a smudge of cream from the corner of Piper’s mouth. It was an incredibly intimate, natural gesture. Piper rested her elbows on the table, her eyes crinkling with delight. She looked up at him like a cherished child. “Adam, this mango panna cotta is literally heaven. You’re amazing.” A soft, indulgent smile played on Adam’s lips—a look of tender devotion I had never received. “Eat up then, if you like it so much.” Piper caught sight of me and her face lit up. “Cora! You’re awake! Come have breakfast with us. Adam made his signature mango panna cotta, it’s incredible. You have to try some!” Adam froze, his eyes snapping to mine. “No, she can’t. Cora’s allergic to mangoes.” He cleared his throat, his tone suddenly tense. “I can whip up something else for you. What do you want?” “Don’t bother,” I said quietly. “I have to head back to the clinic to get my dressing changed.” Adam’s gaze fell to the thick white bandage on my hand. His voice softened slightly. “Let me drive you.” Before I could answer, Piper set her spoon down with a clatter. “I’ll come too.” Her eyes welled with sudden tears as she looked at me, her voice thick with remorse. “Cora, I feel so terrible about yesterday. It’s my fault you got hurt. Let me come with you to the hospital. It’s the least I can do to make it up to you.” Before I could even open my mouth, Adam reached out and gently patted her head. “Hey, stop crying. It was an accident. Cora is sensible; she’s not the type to hold a grudge over something like this.” Piper sniffled, a quick smile returning to her lips. “Okay, good.” And just like that, my compliance was weaponized against me once more, dismissing my pain entirely. I offered a dry, humorless smile and said nothing. At the clinic, Adam sat beside me in the waiting room. “If it hurts when they change the dressing, just squeeze my hand,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “It’ll be over before you know it.” I simply nodded. But while we were waiting for my name to be called, Piper suddenly doubled over, clutching her stomach in pain. Adam turned to me, his face a mask of torn, agonizing conflict. Before he could even formulate the excuse, I spoke up first. “Go with her.” A flicker of surprise—and perhaps relief—flashed through his eyes. After a moment of hesitation, he scooped Piper into his arms. “I’m just going to get her checked in at triage,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” But by the time I was called in, had the old bandages peeled off, the ointment reapplied, and the fresh dressing secured, an entire hour had passed. Adam was nowhere to be seen. After the doctor finished giving me my post-care instructions, I walked out of the exam room. I walked down the sterile corridor, following the signs to the gastroenterology wing. Through the glass window of a private room, I saw them. Adam was gently tucking a blanket around Piper’s shoulders. Then, he sat down, picked up an apple, and began to carefully peel it in one long, unbroken spiral. They looked like a picture-perfect couple. Standing out in the hallway, I felt like an intruder, a shadow trespassing on someone else’s love story. I didn’t knock. I just turned around and left the hospital alone. When I got home, I opened my nightstand drawer and pulled out the charred remains of the sketch. Most of the paper had turned to ash, but I had managed to salvage one torn corner. It was a sketch of my eye. It looked rushed, completely devoid of color, just a few quick charcoal lines. Yet, when he first gave it to me, those simple lines had moved me to tears. It was the first time in seven years Adam had ever painted me of his own accord. Looking at it now, under the harsh light of reality, it was nothing but a cruel joke. I have a small beauty mark just beneath my right eye. But the sketch was entirely clean—no mark, no blemish. I wasn’t being overly sensitive. The truth was, Piper had a beauty mark in that exact spot, and in every single one of the dozens of portraits Adam had painted of her, that tiny mark was captured with meticulous, loving detail. He never missed it. But on mine, it was blank. He hadn’t forgotten to draw it on me. He had simply never looked at my face long enough to actually see me. I took a deep breath, forcing down the hot sting in my eyes. I unlocked my phone and pulled up the booking app again. My gaze lingered on the destination: “Charleston”. Years ago, someone had told me that if the world ever became too heavy to bear, I could always come home to him. My thumb hovered over the “Confirm Purchase” button for a long moment before I finally pressed down. The flight was next Wednesday. It gave me exactly one week to pack my life away. Adam’s text came in the middle of the night. “Did you make it home?” “Piper’s condition is worse than we thought. I have to stay at the hospital with her tonight.” “She’s terrified of being alone in hospitals. Go ahead and get some sleep if you’re tired.” She couldn’t survive without Adam. But I was strong, sensible Cora—I could manage just fine on my own. I switched my phone off and didn’t bother to reply. The next morning, I went into the office and handed in my resignation. The HR manager looked up at me, completely caught off guard. “Cora, does Adam know about this?” I shook my head quietly. “He’s very busy right now. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to him for a few days.” Though confused, she nodded and accepted the papers. Seven years. I had spent seven years of my life locked in a career I despised, all to accommodate Adam. When I first arrived in Boston, I was entirely alone. I had no safety net, and my days were a desperate, exhausting struggle to survive. Adam had been my savior. He dragged me out of that cold, lonely existence and welcomed me into his world, a world filled with soft light, oil paints, and beautiful canvases. For the first time, in a massive, indifferent city, I felt like I belonged somewhere. I still remembered the awe I felt watching him paint. Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I told him I wanted to learn. I wanted to understand his world, but more than that, I wanted to pursue my own dormant passion. He had shut me down almost instantly. “I don’t have the time or the patience to teach a beginner, Cora,” he had said coldly. “And honestly, you don’t have the raw talent for this. It’s not your path.” Instead, he arranged a “sensible” path for me. He placed me in his firm’s finance department, working as an accountant. Day after day, year after year, I buried myself in sterile spreadsheets, managing his bank accounts, tax filings, and corporate expenses. I surrendered my own dreams to keep his life running smoothly, quietly standing in his shadow. For seven years, I foolishly believed that devotion could melt even the coldest heart. I thought that if I was patient enough, I would eventually earn my own place of privilege in his life. But I finally understood: love is not a transaction. You cannot earn it through sheer endurance. Piper didn’t have to sacrifice anything; she merely had to exist for Adam to love her unconditionally. When Adam finally came home from the hospital, he slipped into the bedroom with quiet steps. I wasn’t actually asleep, but I kept my eyes closed, unwilling to face him. He leaned over, his fingertips gently brushing my shoulder. “Cora,” he whispered. “Wake up. I brought you something to eat.” He held a plain white plate with a single piece of toasted bread on it. “Just to hold you over,” he said, handing it to me before turning back to the kitchen. For the next half hour, the sound of pots and pans clinking drifted from downstairs. I wandered down and sat quietly at the dining table, listening to the commotion. When he finally emerged, he was carrying tray after tray. The table was suddenly overflowing with food: a delicate, slow-simmered bone broth porridge, a fragrant pot of roasted chicken soup, and four beautifully prepared side dishes, vibrant with color. He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, offering a faint, preoccupied smile. “I made these for Piper. I’m going to drop them off at the hospital in a bit. Her stomach is still so delicate, and she can’t handle the heavy, greasy takeout from nearby restaurants.” I took a bite of the dry, barely-toasted bread in my hand. It felt like cardboard, scraping against my throat, impossible to swallow and too humiliating to spit out. A piece of dry toast for me. A gourmet, life-restoring feast for her. I kept my eyes lowered, refusing to say a word. The silence stretching between us was heavy and suffocating. It didn’t take long for Adam to notice my coldness. He walked over, standing directly in front of me, sighing with a familiar, weary patience. When he reached out to cup my cheek, I subtly tilted my head away, avoiding his touch. His brow furrowed slightly, though his voice remained soft. “Still upset?” He sighed. “Cora, don’t be childish. Yesterday was an emergency. Piper was in agony, sweating from the pain. I didn’t have a choice; I had to prioritize her. I know it wasn’t fair to you, but I came back to make it up to you, didn’t I?” He spoke with such casual, effortless justification. Yet, not once did he ask how much my hand hurt when the nurse scrubbed the raw flesh. Not once did he ask how it felt to sit in that sterile hallway for an hour, waiting for a man who was never coming back. He had always been this way. Everyone and everything else took precedence, because he knew I was sensible. He knew I would understand. And because I always understood, my suffering was treated as nonexistent. Adam packed the containers into an insulated bag. Before heading out the door, he turned to look at me, his eyes lingering. “Your birthday is next Wednesday, right? I’ll make time over the next few days to paint you a proper portrait. A new one.” It was the very first time he had ever bent his pride to offer me a compromise. But it came long after I had already decided to walk away. Over the next couple of days, Adam spent almost all his time at the hospital with Piper. I used those quiet hours to pack the remaining fragments of my life. When he did come home late at night, he would collapse into bed beside me, immediately falling asleep. He never noticed that my toothbrush was gone from the bathroom vanity. He never noticed that the closet was half-empty, stripped of my winter coats and favorite sweaters. He didn’t even notice that one of our matching promise rings was missing from the jewelry box. Then again, Adam had stopped wearing his years ago, so it made sense he wouldn’t look. Before I knew it, Wednesday arrived. A notification popped up on my phone, reminding me that my flight to Charleston was scheduled to depart at exactly two o’clock that afternoon. Adam had left early in the morning, which saved me the pain of a face-to-face confrontation. I zipped up my last suitcase, took a deep breath, and rolled it toward the front door. Just as my hand touched the brass doorknob, my phone rang. It was Adam. “Happy birthday, Cora,” his voice came through the receiver, background noise of wind and rustling trees filtering in. “Piper suddenly decided she wants to learn how to paint landscapes, so I’m out with her doing some plein air work. I probably won’t be back until late tonight. But don’t worry—I ordered a cake to be delivered to the house, and I finished your portrait. Just stay home and wait for me, okay?” “Okay,” I said quietly. I hung up, pulled open the door, and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, the wheels of my suitcase clicking against the driveway. At the departure gate, I turned back to look at the skyline of the city one last time. This place had held seven years of my life, my hopes, and my quiet heartbreaks. I knew I would never return. I unlocked my phone, opened our chat, and typed out a final message: “I’m leaving. You don’t need to give me the painting. I don’t want it anymore.” He had always been so certain of my love, so confident that quiet, sensible Cora would never have the courage to leave. But for once in my life, I chose to be reckless. I switched my phone to airplane mode, stepped onto the jet bridge, and didn’t look back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532338”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I could see my wife Corinne’s “Lie Quota.” On our fifth wedding anniversary, the glowing digital readout hovering just above her head read [0/1000]. She was the perfect wife, a woman who had never told me a single lie. That is, until last month, when Kieran—the financially struggling college student her company had been sponsoring—moved into the apartment right next door to ours. Earlier this evening, she walked out the front door holding a heavy thermos of slow-braised short rib stew, telling me she was going down to feed a stray dog. I looked up. The numbers above her head instantly ticked up to [500/1000]. Half of her entire lifetime quota. Gone, just like that, on a single bowl of stew. Over the past month, the number had only climbed higher. Until today. She stood in front of me, her eyes rimmed with red, and said, “Declan, Kieran suffers from severe clinical depression. I’m just going over there to keep him company. There is absolutely nothing going on between us.” A soft, phantom “ding” echoed in my mind. Her Lie Quota had just maxed out. … “Are you really taking that short rib stew down to feed a stray dog?” I sat on the living room sofa, watching Corinne slip into her designer loafers by the entryway. The insulated thermos she held was radiating heat; she shifted it uncomfortably from her right hand to her left. “Of course I am.” “That little golden retriever mix by the dumpsters has been looking so sick lately. It breaks my heart.” She turned her head and gave me a perfectly natural, effortless smile. My eyes were locked onto the space just above her hair. Hovering there was a line of glowing crimson text that only I could see: [Lie Quota: 500/1000]. The exact second the words left her mouth, the digits flickered. [650/1000]. Another hundred and fifty points. “It’s pouring down rain out there. Any stray dog would have found shelter hours ago.” I stood up, closing the distance between us. “Where exactly are you feeding it?” Corinne’s brow furrowed, a faint edge of impatience sharpening her tone. “Down in the parking garage, obviously.” “Declan, why the interrogation tonight?” The numbers flickered again. [800/1000]. I closed my eyes and took a slow, jagged breath. “Alright. Go ahead.” The front door clicked shut. I picked up my spare keys from the entryway console, pushed the door open, and followed her out. The hallway was dead silent, the motion-sensor lights flickering to life one by one as I walked. Corinne hadn’t gone toward the elevators. She had walked straight to the end of the hall and pressed the buzzer for Apartment 302. Kieran’s place. A month ago, the twenty-two-year-old undergrad that Corinne’s corporate philanthropy program had taken under its wing had boldly moved into our building, on our exact floor. The door swung open. Kieran stood there in an oversized, slouchy knit sweater. His eyes were red and watery, looking for all the world like a startled, trembling rabbit. “Corinne… you really came.” “I thought you’d given up on me.” Corinne reached out, her hand tenderly smoothing his messy hair. Her voice was drenched in a sickening amount of pity. “How could I ever do that?” “I brought you some hot stew. Eat it while it’s warm.” That stew was made from prime, bone-in short ribs I had driven to the artisanal butcher at six in the morning to buy. I bought them because Corinne had complained of a stomachache last night and said she was craving my cooking. I had stood over the Dutch oven, tending to that broth for three exhausting hours. And here she was, taking my time, my effort, my love, and using it to coddle another man. I stepped forward and shoved the half-open door hard. “I’d love to see what this sick little stray dog looks like myself.” The heavy door slammed against the interior wall with a deafening thud. Corinne whipped around, the color draining entirely from her face. “Declan?” “Why did you follow me?” Kieran flinched backward, nearly dropping the thermos onto the hardwood floor. “Declan, please, it’s not what you think.” “Corinne just felt sorry for me. She brought me some leftovers.” He bit his lower lip, his voice laced with a pathetic, manufactured tremble. Looking at his fragile, victimized act, a wave of sheer nausea rolled through my stomach. “Did I ask you?” I snapped, my eyes drilling into Kieran. Corinne immediately stepped between us, shielding him with her body. “Declan, what the hell are you doing?” “Why are you screaming at a kid?” The crimson numbers above her head flashed violently in the dim light. [850/1000]. “A kid?” I let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “He’s twenty-two years old. Is he incapable of ordering UberEats?” “He just absolutely had to have the stew I spent three hours cooking for “you”?” Corinne froze. A flash of genuine panic darted through her eyes. “I… I just grabbed it on my way out.” “Kieran is battling severe clinical depression. He hasn’t eaten a real meal in days.” “You’re a grown man, Declan. Are you seriously going to throw a tantrum over a bowl of soup?” [900/1000]. She wasn’t even trying to make her lies sound convincing anymore, all for the sake of an outsider. “I don’t give a damn about the soup.” I held her gaze, refusing to let her look away. “I care about what you said before you walked out the door.” “You looked me in the eye and said you were going to feed a dog.” Corinne ground her teeth. “I only said that because I knew you’d overreact!” “You’ve always been biased against Kieran. If I told you the truth, you would have started a fight.” “Started a fight?” The absurdity of it knocked the breath out of me. “In the five years we’ve been married, when have I ever picked a fight over something like this?” Suddenly, Kieran tugged weakly at the sleeve of Corinne’s blouse. “Corinne, please don’t fight with your husband because of me.” “I won’t eat the stew. I don’t want to make him angry.” He held the thermos out toward me, tears literally welling in his oversized eyes. “It doesn’t matter if I starve. As long as you two are okay.” Corinne aggressively shoved his hand back. “Eat it.” “I brought this for you, and I’d like to see anyone try to stop you from eating it.” She turned her furious glare onto me. “Declan, you are going to apologize to Kieran right now.” I thought the blood rushing in my ears was making me mishear things. “Excuse me?” “You terrified him. Look at him, he’s physically shaking!” Corinne pointed a rigid finger at the boy. “He’s sick. He can’t handle this kind of hostility.” I looked at her self-righteous expression. Then I looked at the glaring red numbers hovering above her. [950/1000]. Fifty points away. Her capacity for deception was about to shatter completely. “Corinne, have you lost your damn mind?” I took a slow step backward. “You took the food I cooked, used it to play Florence Nightingale, and now you want “me” to apologize to “him”?” “Yes, you cooked it.” Corinne took a deep, patronizing breath. “But I’m the one who transferred you the grocery money this month.” “I am the one financially supporting this family. Do I not even have the right to distribute a single bowl of food in my own life?” A suffocating, deathly silence fell over the hallway. The only sound was Kieran’s quiet, performative sniffling. I looked at the woman standing in front of me—the woman I had built a life with, struggled with, loved for five years. Suddenly, she looked like a terrifying stranger. “Fine.” I nodded slowly. “Distribute it however you like.” I turned on my heel and walked out of Apartment 302. Corinne’s voice chased me down the hall. “Declan, if you walk back into our apartment right now, don’t even think about sleeping in my bed tonight.” I stopped. I didn’t turn around. “Keep your bed. Let your stray dog sleep in it.” Back inside our apartment, I left the entryway lights off. I sat alone in the pitch-black living room. Outside, the thunderstorm had intensified, heavy raindrops hammering against the floor-to-ceiling windows with a hollow, rhythmic thud. I pressed the back of my hand against my forehead. I was burning up. Since six this morning, standing over that stove, my head had felt like it was packed with cotton, my limbs heavy and aching. I had originally planned to wait until Corinne finished her dinner, then ask her to drive me to urgent care. Clearly, that wasn’t happening anymore. I fumbled through the kitchen drawer in the dark, found some ibuprofen, and dry-swallowed it. The chalky, bitter taste lingered on the back of my tongue. Five years ago, I had quit my cushy job at a major tech firm to help Corinne launch her startup. Back then, we were so broke we couldn’t even afford to turn on the heating in the dead of winter. One night, I spiked a fever of a hundred and three. Corinne had sobbed from sheer panic. She ran through a blinding snowstorm, trekking three miles just to find a 24-hour pharmacy that was still open. When she came back, her coat was soaked through, her hair frozen to her cheeks. She forced the pills past my lips and held me tightly against her chest, crying into my neck. ““Declan, you have to be okay. If anything happens to you, I won’t survive it.”” Back then, I was the only thing in her world. Now, separated by a thin wall of drywall, she was probably blow-drying another man’s hair. At 2:00 AM, the front door lock clicked. Corinne was back. She flicked on the living room lights and jumped when she saw me sitting rigidly on the sofa. “Why the hell are you sitting in the dark like a ghost?” Her tone was dripping with irritation. I looked up. The numbers above her remained stagnant at [950/1000]. “Did you finish drying his hair?” I asked. Corinne paused halfway through kicking off her shoes. “Are you spying on me?” “The walls in this luxury building are a lot thinner than you think.” I leaned my head back against the cushion, my voice raspy and exhausted. She walked over, standing over me with her arms crossed. “Since you were eavesdropping, I have nothing to hide.” “Kieran slipped in the shower and sprained his wrist.” “So I helped him dry his hair. Is that a crime?” “He’s all alone in this city. He doesn’t have anyone else.” I looked up into her eyes. “I have a fever, too.” Corinne blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Instinctively, she reached her hand out to feel my forehead. But halfway there, she pulled it back. “Did you take something for it?” “Yes.” “Then you’ll be fine.” She turned her back to me and headed toward the master bedroom. “You’re a grown man, Declan. Do you really need to be babied over a slight temperature?” “Kieran is twenty-two. He’s practically still a child.” A child. Always a child. I pushed myself off the sofa, a violent wave of vertigo washing over me. I had to grip the armrest just to stay upright. “Corinne.” I called out to her back. “Did you forget what day it is today?” She stopped in the hallway and slowly turned around. A flicker of genuine confusion passed over her features. “What day?” I pointed a shaking finger toward the dining table, where an unopened, custom-ordered cake sat in the dark. “Today is our fifth wedding anniversary.” The blood finally drained from Corinne’s face. She stared at the bakery box, her lips parting in horror. “Oh, God. Declan, I’m so sorry, I… work has just been so overwhelming lately, it completely slipped my mind.” She hurried back over, reaching out to grab my hands. “Declan, let me make it up to you tomorrow, okay?” “I’ll go buy you that vintage watch you’ve been eyeing.” I stepped back, dodging her touch. “Don’t bother.” “An anniversary isn’t something you can just backdate. Once it’s gone, the meaning is gone.” Right at that moment, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a FaceTime request from Kieran. Corinne answered it almost reflexively. On the screen, Kieran was sitting on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, his eyes shimmering with fresh tears. “Corinne… it’s thundering outside. I’m really scared.” “Can you come back and stay with me?” Corinne’s voice instantly melted into a puddle of sickening sweetness. “Don’t be scared. I’ll be right there.” She hung up, spun around, and headed for the door. I reached out and grabbed her arm hard. “If you walk out that door tonight, I swear to God.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it possessed a cold, undeniable gravity. Corinne wrenched her arm out of my grip with shocking force. “Declan, stop being so goddamn unreasonable!” “Kieran is clinically depressed. What if he does something drastic while he’s having a panic attack?” “And if he does, how is that your responsibility?” I glared down at her. “Are you his mother, or are you his wife?” “Smack.” A sharp, stinging slap landed squarely on my left cheek. Corinne stood frozen, her own hand hovering in the air, looking just as shocked as I was. She stared at her reddened palm, stumbling backward a step. “You forced me to do that. You’re being disgusting,” she hissed through gritted teeth, desperate to maintain the upper hand. As she backed away, her elbow clipped the edge of the floating display shelf behind her. A small, mahogany box tumbled over the edge. “Crack.” The sound was sharp, final, and devastating. The box burst open on the hardwood floor. Inside, the antique emerald heirloom bracelet—the only thing my grandmother had left me on her deathbed, meant for the woman I would spend my life with—lay shattered into three jagged pieces. I stood paralyzed, staring at the ruined jewels. Outside, another clap of thunder rattled the glass. Corinne glanced at the broken pieces on the floor, her brow pinching in irritation. “It’s just an old bracelet.” “I’ll wire you ten grand tomorrow. Go buy a new one.” She snatched her trench coat off the sofa. “I’m going next door. You need to calm down.” At the door, she paused, her hand on the knob. “Declan, look at yourself. You’re acting like a hysterical, jealous housewife.” The door slammed shut. I crouched down in the dark, slowly picking up the shattered pieces of emerald. The fractured edges were razor-sharp. They sliced into my thumb. Dark red blood dripped onto the vibrant green stone, a stark, violent contrast. I didn’t feel the pain. I only felt that the last five years of my life had been one long, humiliating joke. “A jealous housewife?” I stared at the blood on the antique stones in my palm. “Not for much longer.” By the next morning, my fever had broken. I placed the shattered emerald pieces into a velvet pouch, sealed it in a plastic bag, and shoved it into the deepest corner of my suitcase. At 10:00 AM, I walked into Corinne’s office building. Corinne AI. I was the one who built this company from the ground up. The core algorithmic model—the beating heart of our product—was something I wrote during countless sleepless, caffeine-fueled nights. But to give Corinne more leverage and authority in front of venture capitalists, I put the company and the vast majority of the equity entirely in her name. I took on the hollow title of Chief Technology Officer. As soon as I walked onto the R&D floor, a cheer erupted from the bullpen. “Kieran, you are a genius!” “This new algorithmic structure is a masterpiece. The client just signed off on the spot!” I frowned and pushed through the glass doors. Kieran was standing at the front of the conference room, wearing a sharply tailored suit that looked entirely too expensive for an intern, holding a laser pointer against the whiteboard. He was walking the team through a code architecture. “My” code architecture. The finalized version I had submitted directly to Corinne just last week. Only now, the author’s name at the top of the deck read “Kieran Walsh.” When they saw me walk in, the room fell into a dead silence. A few of the senior engineers exchanged guilty, awkward glances. Kieran lowered the laser pointer and walked over to me, a smug, saccharine smile playing on his lips. “Declan! You’re feeling better?” “Corinne told me you were too sick to come in, so she asked me to present this proposal on your behalf.” He emphasized the words “on your behalf” with deliberate, theatrical innocence. I ignored him entirely and walked straight toward Corinne’s corner office. I pushed the heavy glass door open. Corinne was reviewing financial reports. Seeing me, she looked up, her eyes immediately darting away. “What are you doing here? You should be resting.” I tossed my iPad onto her mahogany desk with a loud clatter. “Care to explain why my algorithm is being presented out there under Kieran’s name?” Corinne slowly closed the folder and let out a long, put-upon sigh. “Declan, lower your voice. Sit down, let’s talk about this.” “I can hear you just fine standing up.” She massaged her temples. “Kieran’s probation period is ending. He needs a major win under his belt to justify a full-time offer to the board.” “You’re already the CTO. Having your name on this project is just icing on the cake for you.” “But for Kieran, this is a lifeline.” I stared at the face of the woman I used to know so intimately. “So, you took three months of my blood, sweat, and tears, and slapped his name on it?” “That is theft, Corinne.” Corinne stood up abruptly, her chair rolling back. “Theft? Don’t be so dramatic.” “We are married. What’s yours is mine, isn’t it?” “As the CEO of this company, am I not allowed to allocate internal resources where they are needed most?” The glowing digital readout above her head flared to life again. [980/1000]. “Besides, Kieran worked incredibly hard on this.” “He stayed up until 3:00 AM last night just trying to comprehend your code.” “As a senior executive, shouldn’t you be mentoring the younger generation?” A sharp bark of laughter escaped my throat. I was so furious I couldn’t even feel the anger anymore. “Mentoring?” “My version of mentoring is letting him steal my intellectual property to kiss ass with the clients?” The office door suddenly cracked open. Kieran slipped inside, carrying two artisan lattes. “Corinne, Declan, please don’t fight.” He set the coffees down delicately on the desk, his eyes instantly welling up again. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have been so greedy.” “Declan, I’ll give it back to you. I’ll go tell the clients right now that it was all your brilliant work.” He turned toward the door, taking a slow, dramatic step. Corinne reached out and grabbed his arm. “Stop right there.” She whipped her head around, glaring at me with absolute venom. “Declan, are you determined to drive him over the edge?” “The client is already sold on Kieran being the lead. If you go out there and throw a fit now, do you want us to lose a multi-million-dollar contract?” Outside the glass walls, several employees were blatantly rubbernecking, trying to catch the drama. I could hear the muffled whispers. ““Declan is so petty, fighting with an intern over a credit.”” ““Right? It’s his wife’s company anyway. Who cares whose name is on the slide?”” I stood rooted to the spot, watching Corinne physically position herself as a shield between me and Kieran. The very last ember of love I had for her finally, quietly, burned out. “Fine.” I looked dead into Corinne’s eyes. “The architecture is his.” Corinne exhaled a massive sigh of relief, a triumphant, relaxed smile spreading across her face. “See? I knew you’d understand.” “I knew you’d look at the big picture.” She stepped around the desk, reaching out to straighten my collar. “I’ll clear my schedule this weekend. We’ll have a proper do-over for our anniversary, okay?” “You’ve been dying to try that new French place downtown. I’ll get us a reservation right now.” I looked up at the numbers above her head. [999/1000]. One point away. “Do whatever you want.” I brushed her hand away from my chest, turned around, and walked out of the office. Behind me, I heard Kieran’s sickeningly sweet voice. “Thank you, Corinne. And thank you, Declan.” I didn’t look back. I walked straight to my desk and booted up my workstation. I opened a hidden, encrypted folder. Inside was the foundational logic matrix for the company’s core algorithm. My fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in a single command line. “Since it’s my property, I reserve the right to recall it at any time.” I whispered it to the glowing screen. Friday night. I sat alone in the living room, staring at the two manila envelopes on the coffee table. One contained a formal “Revocation of Intellectual Property Licensing”. The other contained a “Divorce Petition”. I neatly stacked them together and slid them into a sleek leather portfolio. The clock on the wall struck eight. Corinne had promised to take me out for that French dinner tonight. My phone screen lit up. A text from Corinne. “Declan, I am so, so sorry, but Kieran is having a massive panic attack.” “The psychiatrist says he shouldn’t be left alone right now. I have to stay at the hospital with him tonight.” “Can we do the French place next week?” I stared at the pixels on the screen. I didn’t reply. Five minutes later, I received a text from an unsaved number. It was Kieran. It was a photo. In the picture, Corinne was sitting dutifully beside a hospital bed, peeling an apple with total concentration. The angle was perfectly staged to capture the soft, tender curve of her profile. The caption read: ““Some people are just destined to be the ones who are truly loved.”” I let out a soft chuckle. My thumbs tapped out three words. “She’s all yours.” The message delivered. I instantly blocked the number. The next morning, I packed two suitcases and walked out of the apartment we had shared for five years. I signed a lease on a minimalist one-bedroom on the opposite side of the city. For the entirety of the weekend, I turned my phone off and slept for forty-eight uninterrupted hours. Monday morning. I put on a crisp, charcoal suit, grabbed the leather portfolio, and walked into the lobby of Corinne AI. The young receptionist at the front desk looked at me, her eyes darting nervously. “Mr. Declan… you’re here.” “Corinne is in Conference Room A with the executives.” “I know.” I bypassed the desk and walked straight toward the glass walls of Conference Room A. Through the glass, I saw Kieran standing at the head of the table, talking passionately, confidently walking our biggest clients through my proprietary system. Corinne sat at the head of the table, looking up at him with unbridled admiration. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room instantly fell silent. Corinne’s brow pulled into a sharp frown. “Declan, what are you doing in here?” “Can’t you see we are in the middle of a major client pitch?” I walked calmly to the conference table and tossed the leather portfolio directly in front of her. “Just handling some personal administrative work.” Kieran gripped the edges of the podium, feigning a look of polite concern. “Declan, are you upset with me?” “If you think my presentation is lacking, you’re more than welcome to come up and add your thoughts.” He played the humble, eager-to-learn junior perfectly. I looked at him. “Your presentation is fantastic.” “It’s just a shame you completely botched the third-tier logic parameters.” “If they run that architecture the way you’ve mapped it out, their entire cloud server will suffer a catastrophic meltdown within seventy-two hours.” The moment the words left my mouth, the client representatives blanched. “Mr. Declan, that is a very serious allegation to make,” one of the clients said, his voice hard. Corinne leaped out of her chair, her face flushed with absolute rage. “Declan, have you lost your goddamn mind?!” “Are you so desperate to undermine Kieran that you would destroy this company’s reputation to do it?” She marched over to me, dropping her voice to a vicious whisper. “Get the hell out of this room. Right now.” I looked at her furious, distorted face. “I’m here to formally tender my resignation.” I tapped a finger against the leather portfolio on the table. “Inside is my notice, along with the legal revocation of the IP license.” Corinne froze. “Resignation?” She let out a scoffing, incredulous laugh. “Declan, what kind of manipulative game are you playing?” “Do you honestly think threatening to quit is going to force me to give the project back to you?” She snatched up the portfolio, refusing to even open it. “You want to leave? Fine.” “Resignation accepted.” “I’d love to see where you think you’re going to go without Corinne Tech backing you up.” “Corinne, please, don’t be mad at Declan!” Kieran scrambled away from the podium and grabbed Corinne’s arm. “Declan just cares about this project too much. I’ll give the credit back to him, I promise!” “Keep it.” I looked evenly at the two of them. “Consider it a parting gift.” “But just a fair warning: I am the sole holder of the encryption keys for the root codebase.” “Without my authorization, that beautiful system you’re selling is nothing but a multi-million-dollar brick.” Corinne’s expression finally shattered. “What are you talking about?” “You coded a backdoor into our servers?!” “It’s my legally registered patent, created before this company even existed. Why wouldn’t I secure it?” I turned my attention to the pale client representatives. “Gentlemen, unless your firm is comfortable assuming the liability of a catastrophic system failure, I highly recommend you pause this contract.” With that, I turned around, pushed open the glass doors, and strode out. Corinne’s frantic scream echoed down the hallway. “Declan! Get back here!” I didn’t stop. When I reached the elevator bank, I pulled my phone from my pocket. At that exact second. The Lie Quota hovering above Corinne’s head in my mind’s eye violently ticked over to [1000/1000]. “Ding.” A cold, mechanical voice echoed in my head. [Lie Quota maximized. Emotional tether severed.] I smiled. From this day forward, I would never believe another word she said.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532337”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel