Author: Momo Chan

Before my best friend, Jackie, died of cancer, the only thing he couldn’t let go of was the girl he’d been dating online—a girl he had never actually met in person. He grabbed my hand, tears streaming down his face, begging me: “Theo, she has severe clinical depression. I’m terrified this will push her over the edge. Please, log into my account. Keep talking to her, but start pulling away slowly. When enough time has passed, break it off. Please?” With bloodshot eyes, I promised him I would. I kept that promise. Using Jackie’s voice, I stayed by her side through the screen for three whole years. I was there when her depression flared up again, and I was there when she climbed back to the top of her career. And then, I slowly began to pull away, just like he asked. Today, I decided three years was long enough. Long enough for her to let go of a dying flame. So, I pressed send: “We shouldn’t see each other anymore. It’s over.” The very second I hit send, Verna’s personal phone on the coffee table lit up. There, glaring on her screen, was the exact breakup text I had just sent. … “Theo, the water’s perfect. Go ahead and get in. I’ll join you as soon as I dry my hair.” Verna’s voice drifted from the bathroom, warm and tender through the steam. I froze. I stared at the avatar on her screen. That account—I’d been using it for three years. “We shouldn’t see each other anymore. It’s over.” Word for word. Exactly what I had just typed. The bathroom door swung open. Verna stepped out, wrapping her robe around herself and towel-drying her hair. When she saw me standing rigid in front of the coffee table, she paused. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She walked over, her hand instinctively reaching out to adjust the collar of my pajamas. I flinched back, my lower back hitting the armrest of the sofa. A sharp pain shot through my spine. Her hand hung in midair. “Theo?” Her eyes followed mine, landing on the glowing screen of her phone. Her face went completely blank. The phone buzzed. It was the custom notification sound she’d set only for him. She lunged forward, grabbing the phone. Her fingers shook violently as she unlocked it, staring at the screen. She read those seven words over and over, three times. “No…” her voice was barely a whisper. “He wouldn’t…” She began typing, deleting, typing again, unable to send a single message. Then she dialed. Once. Twice. Three times. In my pocket, Jackie’s old phone remained completely silent. I had kept it on silent for years, terrified she would find out I was posing as her online boyfriend and misunderstand. “Pick up… please, pick up…” her voice trembled, sweat breaking out on her forehead. I had never seen her like this. No, that wasn’t true. I had seen her like this. In my chat history with her as “Jackie.” During her worst depressive episodes, she had begged me just like this, pleading for “him” not to leave. But in real life, the face she showed me was always perfectly composed, flawless, and distant. “Verna,” I said. She didn’t hear me. She kept dialing. “Verna!” She snapped her head up. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face twisted in sudden rage. “Shut up!” The words hit me like a slap. I froze for a second, and then, a dry laugh escaped my throat. She seemed to snap out of it, quickly softening her expression. She slipped right back into that polished, polite mask of hers. “I’m sorry. I just… I have something urgent to handle.” She turned and marched toward the bedroom, immediately pulling clothes from the closet. “What’s so urgent?” She was moving so fast she missed a button on her blouse, not even caring. “It’s an emergency.” She didn’t look at me. “What kind of emergency? We’re supposed to go try on our wedding outfits tomorrow.” Her hands paused. Finally, she spared a glance in my direction. There was no guilt in her eyes. Only irritation at being held back. “Go try your suit on alone. Choose whatever wedding dress you like, I don’t care. Just put it on my card.” “Put it on your card?” I repeated, the words tasting bitter. “Verna, what could possibly be more important than our wedding?” Her face went cold. She looked at me the way she would look at an annoying stranger. “Theo, you’ve always been the sensible one.” “Why are you acting so childish all of a sudden?” Before I could say another word, she grabbed her car keys and slammed the door behind her. “Mr. Hawthorne, is your fiancée still unavailable today?” The consultant at the bridal shop wore a practiced, professional smile, but her tone carried a pity she didn’t bother to hide. I sat alone in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. This was the second time she had stood me up. Around me, the whispers of the shop assistants drifted over. “Is that him? The illustrator? I have no idea how he managed to bag Verna.” “She hasn’t shown up once. Didn’t even try on her dress. This wedding is as good as off.” I ignored them. In the dressing room, I pulled out Jackie’s old phone. The screen was flooded with hundreds of unread messages from Verna. [Jackie, why are you ignoring me?] [Did I do something wrong? Tell me, I’ll change.] [Please call me. Just for a second.] [Jackie, are you leaving me?] [Please, don’t leave me.] Then, a sixty-second voice memo. I hesitated for a long time before tapping play. Her voice was choked with tears, the low hum of her car engine rumbling in the background. “Jackie… I’m sorry… please give me another chance… I can’t survive without you… I’ll literally die… I will…” The woman who had just told me to “shut up” and called me “childish” last night was currently sobbing so hard she could barely breathe on my other screen. There was a knock on the dressing room door. “Mr. Hawthorne, Miss Natalie is here.” Natalie. Verna’s childhood friend. I wiped my face quickly, changed out of the suit, and walked out. Natalie was sitting on the plush sofa, legs crossed. When she saw me, she pulled a black card from her designer handbag and tossed it onto the table with a sharp slap. “This is for the remaining balance. Verna is busy. She doesn’t have time to waste on stuff like this.” She stood up, walking over to me, her voice dropping to a low, mocking hum. “Let’s be honest for a second, Theo.” “You know exactly why Verna chose you. You’re quiet. You’re easy. You don’t cause trouble.” “She’s giving you the title of husband. Just sit there, be grateful, and play the part. Don’t start demanding things like ‘love.’ That’s not for people like you.” My hand twitched, wanting to slap the smug look off her face. She caught my wrist before I could. “Angry?” She tightened her grip. “Just a friendly warning: Verna is in a terrible mood lately. Don’t push her. If you don’t want this spot, there’s a line of men waiting to take your place.” She shoved my hand back, making me stumble a couple of steps. “The PIN is her birthday. Pick whatever suit and dress you want. You’re only wearing them once anyway.” With a dismissive pat to her skirt, she turned and walked out. I stood alone in the empty, silent boutique. In my hand, a phone filled with my fiancée’s desperate cries for another man. On the table, a black card thrown down by her best friend. “Mr. Hawthorne, are you happy with this suit?” “No,” I whispered. “I don’t want it.” When I got back from the shop, I felt feverish and dizzy, so I went straight to bed. In the middle of the night, a sharp, white-hot pain suddenly ripped through my abdomen. Cold sweat drenched my shirt, and my vision swam. Shaking, I reached for my phone and called Verna. It rang for what felt like an eternity before she finally picked up. “Yeah?” The background noise was filled with airport announcements. My heart sank into my stomach. “Verna… my stomach hurts so bad I can’t get up… Can you come home and take me to the hospital?” Silence stretched over the line for a few agonizing seconds. “Theo, I have an actual emergency right now. You’re a grown man. Can’t you just call an Uber?” An emergency. Of course. Your precious “Jackie” wanted to break up with you. What could be bigger than that? I lay on the cold hardwood floor, my limbs freezing. And then, driven by some dark, masochistic urge, I reached for Jackie’s phone and typed out a single line: [I want to see you.] Send. Almost instantly, I heard Verna scream at someone next to her through the line. “Rebook it! Rebook it right now! Put me on the next flight to Seattle! I don’t care how much it costs!” Seattle. That was the city I had randomly chosen as “Jackie’s” home to make the lie feel real. She was at the airport. She was abandoning me, flying across the country for a ghost. “Verna,” I whispered into the receiver. “What if I die tonight?” Her voice came back, cold and entirely hollow. “Stop using death to manipulate me. This desperate act of yours is suffocating.” She hung up. I stared up at the ceiling, the floor freezing beneath me. The pain in my abdomen flared again, more violent than before. I curled into a ball, my consciousness slipping away. Using the absolute last ounce of my strength, I dialed 911. “Acute ruptured appendicitis! If he’d gotten here any later, he would’ve developed severe peritonitis!” “Where’s his family? We don’t even have anyone to sign the consent forms!” The surgery took three hours. I spent three days in the hospital. Verna didn’t call once. Not a single text. Jackie’s phone, however, was bombarded with hundreds of frantic notifications every single day. [Jackie, I’m in Seattle. Where are you?] [I’ve checked every coffee shop, every park you ever mentioned. Why won’t you see me?] [I’m waiting at the café we talked about. I’ll stay here until you show up.] I turned the phone off without feeling a single thing. The day I was discharged, it was pouring. I handled the paperwork myself, walked out into the rain, and took a cab back to the apartment we had shared for three years. When I pushed the door open, everything was exactly as I had left it. I began to pack. No tears, no screaming. Just quiet, deliberate motions. I folded the clothes she’d bought me and placed them neatly back in the wardrobe. My own clothes went into my suitcase. In the study, I pulled the dust covers over the expensive art supplies she’d gifted me. Piece by piece, I erased every trace of my existence from her living room. That was the scene Verna walked into. She had spent three days waiting at an airport and a coffee shop in Seattle, waiting for a ghost that never came. She looked hollowed out—her makeup was smudged, her hair was a mess, and her eyes were webbed with broken red vessels. When she saw me zipping up my suitcase, she froze. “What are you doing?” her voice was raspy. I didn’t answer. I reached down, moved the potted monstera from the coffee table to the floor, and slid the engagement ring off my finger. It was a simple platinum band. Nothing flashy. She had placed it on my finger herself the night she proposed. I remembered her words: “Theo, marry me. Let me take care of you forever.” I set the ring down on the center of the coffee table, right next to my house keys. “Theo, I’m talking to you!” Her tone sharpened. She strode over and grabbed my wrist. “What kind of tantrum is this?” I looked up, meeting her eyes. “Verna, I’m not throwing a tantrum.” She blinked, her grip loosening. She rubbed her temples, letting out a heavy sigh as her voice softened into a patronizing tone. “Fine. I admit I was harsh the other night.” She pulled her wallet out and slid a credit card into my hand. “I’ll double your allowance this month. Put the ring back on. Stop making a scene.” Always money. “That night, my appendix ruptured,” I said, my voice completely flat. “I almost died.” Her hand dropped. A flash of panic crossed her face, but she quickly masked it. “…Was it bad?” “The surgeon said another hour and I wouldn’t have made it.” Her lips parted slightly. “I’m sor—” “Don’t,” I interrupted, pushing the card, the ring, and the keys back toward her. “You don’t need to apologize, and I don’t plan on forgiving you.” I took my suitcase and headed for the door. She lunged from behind, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist. She was holding on with everything she had. “Theo… please let me explain. I really, truly had something crucial to handle that night…” “I know,” I said quietly. “Your Jackie wanted to break up with you.” She went entirely rigid. “How… how do you know about that?” I pried her fingers off me, one by one, and turned around to face her. I gave her a small, empty smile. “Verna, I’ve always known.” She stumbled back half a step, the color draining from her skin until she looked like plaster. Then, the panic vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating look she used to crush her competitors in boardrooms. “You went through my things? You spied on me?” “It doesn’t matter.” I picked up my suitcase. “We’re done. The wedding is off.” “Theo,” her voice cut through the quiet apartment. “Have you actually thought this through?” I didn’t stop. “What are you going to do on your own? Paint? Does your little freelance work even cover rent in the city?” My grip tightened on the suitcase handle. “Once you walk out that door, there’s no safety net. No one to catch you.” I opened the door. “You’ll regret this.” The hallway was dead silent. I dragged my suitcase toward the elevator, never looking back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536338”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The ultra-wealthy Dwight family had been plagued by male-line infertility for generations. After a decade of grueling IVF cycles and cutting-edge fertility treatments, they finally welcomed a baby girl. At her first-month welcoming gala, I stood in my crisp uniform as the newly hired newborn care specialist. I was about to witness this tiny girl officially become the sole heiress to a multi-billion-dollar empire. But just as the senior nanny, Beatrice Kemp, cradled the baby to take her to the nursery for a diaper change, a soft, whimpering voice echoed directly in my mind. It was a sweet, lisping baby voice, yet the panic in it was unmistakable: [Oh no, oh no! Don’t let this bad nanny take me! She’s going to swap me with her own daughter!] [If anyone can save me from this, I’ll make her my godmother and give her fifty million dollars!] My entire body went rigid. I stared in absolute terror at Beatrice. Before I could even process what was happening, another baby’s voice—this one dripping with a strange, calculating malice—echoed from a quiet corner of the room: [Once my mommy finishes the swap, all the Dwight fortune will belong to me!] [It’s a good thing the real heiress and I look so much alike. No one will ever notice. And even if they do, we can just pin it on that new nanny!] I didn’t hesitate for more than a fraction of a second. I lunged forward, throwing myself at Beatrice, and snatched the real baby right out of her arms. … “You can’t let Beatrice take her! She’s planning to swap the baby!” Desperate to protect the newborn, my heart hammered against my ribs, my voice cracking with panic. “Beatrice brought her own daughter here. She has her hidden somewhere, just waiting for the perfect moment to make the switch. You have to believe me! Do not let her near the baby!” The Dwight family and the high-society guests froze. The room went dead silent. George Dwight, the patriarch, clenched his fists, his face flushing a dangerous crimson. “Isabel Ward, have you lost your mind?” he roared. “Stop this lunatic performance and hand over my daughter!” Catherine Dwight looked at me as if I were a wild animal that had wandered into her gilded ballroom. “Beatrice has worked for our family for five years. Her character is impeccable. How dare you stand there and throw such baseless, disgusting accusations at her?” Seeing that no one believed a single word, Beatrice maintained her composure, looking at me with a mixture of pity and offense. “Isabel, I know you’re insecure because I have more experience than you,” Beatrice said, her voice smooth and maternal. “You’re afraid I’ll make you look bad. But this is between us. We can discuss this privately. Please, don’t frighten the baby.” She took a step forward, her hands reaching out to grab the infant. “She has a dirty diaper. It needs to be changed immediately, or she’s going to get a rash!” George’s eyes narrowed, gesturing for his security detail to move in. The real baby, who had been perfectly quiet until now, suddenly burst into a piercing, frantic wail. [I knew this was coming the moment I was born, but is this really how it ends? Why won’t Daddy believe this smart lady? Isabel is the only one who can protect me now…] The baby’s sharp cries cut through the room. Catherine’s eyes welled with tears. “Isabel, you’re terrifying my baby! What on earth do you want?” Beatrice kept creeping closer, a smug, barely perceptible smirk playing on her lips. I clutched the baby tighter and backed away. “The baby only cries when Beatrice gets close! Look at her—she stops the moment Beatrice steps back. She’s terrified of her! Babies are intuitive. They can sense who is safe and who isn’t. Just watch!” The tiny girl was incredibly cooperative. The moment I backed up three yards, her crying ceased, and she let out a soft, shuddering sigh. But the second I stepped back toward Beatrice, she shrieked in terror. Catherine, a fiercely observant mother, paused. Her brow furrowed. “Beatrice, why is my daughter reacting to you like that? And why is she so calm with Isabel?” Beatrice’s face twitched for a split second, but she quickly redirected the blame, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Isabel must have drugged her! She’s putting on this ridiculous show to kidnap the baby! Mr. Dwight, you can’t let her keep doing this. The baby is going to choke if she keeps crying like this!” George’s expression darkened to a terrifying pitch. Within seconds, three burly security guards and Beatrice had cornered me against the wall. My legs shook violently. I was trapped. Just as I thought all was lost, the elderly matriarch of the family, Grandmama Josephine, slammed her heavy cane against the marble floor. She stood up slowly, her gaze piercing. “Isabel,” the old woman said, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. “You claim Beatrice is trying to swap my granddaughter.” She paused, looking directly into my eyes. “Then tell me. Where is this other baby you claim she brought?” The moment she finished speaking, the real baby let out a series of soft, urgent babbles: [Grandmama is right! Find Beatrice’s baby, and the truth will come out. Come on, Isabel, keep going! My fifty-million-dollar trust fund is waiting for you!] Josephine was giving me a lifeline. I took a deep breath, forcing my racing mind to quiet down. I strained my ears, desperate to catch any telepathic trace of Beatrice’s baby. But Beatrice’s daughter seemed to be actively working against me. At this crucial moment, her mind was completely silent. Seeing my hesitation, Beatrice lunged forward to grab the baby. In a rush of adrenaline, I bolted toward Josephine. But I only managed two steps before Beatrice reached out, grabbing a fistful of my hair and pulling backward with brutal force. My feet slipped on the polished floor. I went down hard. To keep the baby from taking the impact, I twisted my body mid-air, forcing my own shoulder, back, and the back of my head to absorb the full, bone-shattering collision with the marble. Stars exploded in my vision. The pain was blinding, but I forced myself to scramble up, pushing through the dizziness. I desperately thrust the baby into Josephine’s arms. “Grandmama, please,” I gasped, blood trickling down my neck. “Do not let her out of your sight. And do not, under any circumstances, let Beatrice touch her!” I locked eyes with Beatrice. The sheer, murderous hatred in her gaze made my blood run cold. Josephine had been skeptical before, but as she looked down, the baby let out a tiny, gummy smile, reaching her miniature hands up toward my face. Something clicked in the old woman’s eyes. “When you fell,” Josephine said softly, her eyes shifting slowly to Beatrice, “you risked your own life to shield my granddaughter. Yet some people, who claim to care so much, didn’t seem to care if the baby was crushed in the scuffle.” Beatrice’s face flushed. “I was only thinking of the baby’s safety! I lost my temper. Mr. Dwight, you know me. I’ve served this family faithfully for five years. I would never hurt her!” George, still shaken, stepped forward, his veins bulging on his forehead. “Isabel almost got our daughter killed! She cannot go unpunished!” I wished more than anything that the baby could speak to save me, but no matter how hard she tried, she could only emit sweet, unintelligible coos. To everyone else, it was just baby noise. Catherine looked at my bleeding head, her heart softening. “The baby really seems to like Isabel. I don’t think she’s a bad person. Since no harm was done, perhaps we should just let it go.” With Catherine intervening, George managed to suppress his rage, though his face remained tense. “Today is my daughter’s celebration. I will let you go this once. Get out of my sight. If you cause another scene, I’ll make sure you regret it.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Josephine holding the baby tightly, with Catherine guarding them closely. Relieved that the baby was safe for now, I slipped away to search for Beatrice’s actual child. I had to find that second infant to put an end to this nightmare once and for all. But for some reason, the other baby remained completely silent. I wandered through the massive estate like a headless chicken, searching the coatrooms, the pantries, the empty lounges. Nothing. Where could she have hidden a newborn? After searching every corner of the main level, I came up empty-handed. I grit my teeth, realizing I had to change tactics. Since I couldn’t find the fake baby, I would simply stick to Josephine like glue and watch Beatrice’s every move. But the moment I turned back toward the ballroom, a faint, suffocating whimper echoed in my mind. [Help me… it’s so dark… so hot… I can’t breathe…] [Isabel, please help me… I don’t want to die…] My heart stopped. I had only been gone for fifteen minutes, and somehow, Beatrice had already succeeded. Ignoring George’s warning, I threw open the double doors of the ballroom and charged back inside. “Stop! The baby has been swapped!” The room froze again. Everyone stared at me as if I were a lunatic who had escaped an asylum. In Josephine’s arms, the fake baby’s thoughts flared up in a panic: [How does this nanny know? It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t have proof. I’ll just cry to distract them!] Immediately, the infant in Josephine’s arms let out a shrill, ear-splitting cry, turning red and thrashing about. Catherine panicked, her maternal instincts overriding everything else. “Isabel, shut up! We only lost sight of her for a few minutes when we went to the restroom. How could she possibly be swapped?” To the parents, it was the sound of a distressed child. To me, it was a cold, calculated confession: [I just have to cry harder. Make them pity me. This nanny is finished.] George’s eyes were like daggers, but I couldn’t back down. If the real baby was trapped in a suffocating space, she had minutes left to live. And if she died, Beatrice would make sure I took the fall. “Beatrice, where did you put her?” I screamed, stepping toward her. “Tell us now, and you might avoid a life sentence. If anything happens to that baby, you are finished!” Beatrice flinched, a flicker of panic crossing her features. I turned to Josephine, raising my voice to carry over the baby’s crying. “Grandmama, look at her closely! No two babies are identical. You are sharp. Look at her features—I know you can tell the difference!” Josephine’s brow furrowed. She lifted the baby, trying to examine her face. The fake baby thrashed violently in her arms. [I won’t let them look! Mommy, don’t back down. Just hold out for a few more minutes, and that real brat will stifle to death!] Beatrice fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face in a masterful display of victimhood. “Isabel, I don’t know what I did to make you hate me so much. We can settle this outside, but please, stop terrorizing this family!” The elegant gala had devolved into utter chaos. Losing his remaining patience, George snatched a crystal glass from a passing waiter’s tray and hurled it at me. “Isabel, enough! Nobody touches my daughter in my house!” I couldn’t dodge in time. The heavy crystal struck my temple. A sharp ringing filled my ears as warm blood poured down the side of my face, blurring my vision. Security guards swarmed me, ready to drag me out. I retreated, my hands raised, shaking as I screamed through the pain: “She is not your daughter! Do a DNA test if you don’t believe me! Your real daughter is trapped in a dark, airtight space. We have to find her now! A few more minutes and she will suffocate!” Through the dizzying fog in my head, the real baby’s voice grew fainter, drifting into a whisper: [It’s so hot… it feels like fire… my head is so heavy…] [Is anyone coming…?] I caught the detail. “Fire. Hot.” If I just ran off now, they would think I was fleeing and tackle me. To force them to follow, I made a desperate split-second decision. I lunged forward, ripped the fake baby out of George’s arms, and bolted toward the service corridors leading to the kitchens. “If you want her back, follow me!” I screamed. Catherine shrieked, sprinting after me. George’s roar echoed behind her, vibrating through the tiled hallway: “Protect the baby! Get her!” I ran through the winding corridors, my blood dripping onto the clean tile floor. The fake baby in my arms screamed bloody murder: [Don’t let her find her! Don’t let her ruin this!] The guards were close, their heavy footsteps loud behind me. I pushed through the double swinging doors of the main kitchen, ignoring the startled gasps of the culinary staff. With one arm holding the fake baby, I used my free hand to tear open the stainless-steel cabinets. “Heat… smoke… it has to be the kitchen…” I muttered, my voice cracking. “Sweetheart, please cry. Just make a sound so I can find you…” But my mind was met with silence. The real baby had stopped projecting. My chest burned. “Please, just hang on. I’m almost there.” George burst into the kitchen, flanked by guards and a breathless Josephine. “If you drop my child, I will end you,” he hissed. “She’s not your child!” I sobbed, my hands trembling as I ripped open another set of metal doors. “Your daughter is in one of these units! She’s dying! Help me search!” Catherine fell to her knees by the prep tables, weeping hysterically. “Isabel, please… we’ll give you whatever you want. Just give me my baby back…” I ignored them, frantically throwing open pantry doors, storage bins, warming drawers. Nothing but dry goods and clean linen. Then, a tiny, fading sigh brushed against my consciousness: [Isabel… I hear you… I’m right… here…] I spun around, my eyes locking onto the massive, commercial-grade sanitizing dishwasher at the far end of the line. “She’s in there! Open the dishwasher!” I lunged toward it, but before I could reach the handle, two guards tackled me from behind. One wrested the fake baby from my arms, while the other pinned my shoulders to the floor, my joints popping under his weight. “Mrs. Dwight!” I screamed into the tile floor. “Look at the baby in your husband’s arms! Look at her face! You know your own daughter’s eyes!” Catherine, clutching her chest, instinctively looked at the baby George was holding. She stared at the crying infant, her expression faltering. Beatrice rushed into the kitchen, trying to shield the baby from view. “Mrs. Dwight, don’t listen to this madwoman. It’s too hot in here for the baby. Let’s get her back to the nursery.” Catherine hesitated, but looking at the crying child, she let Beatrice guide her toward the exit. My strength was entirely spent. The room spun, and my vision began to darken. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grandmama Josephine. She was standing still, her gaze fixed on the industrial dishwasher. She walked slowly toward it, her cane clicking against the floor. I mustered the absolute last of my strength to cry out: “Grandmama, please… just look. Your granddaughter is in there. Her life is in your hands…” George sneered. “Still babbling your nonsense? My daughter is right here!” Beatrice smirked from the doorway, while the fake baby let out a smug mental laugh: [He bought it. Goodbye, sister. The Dwight fortune is mine.] Josephine’s hand hovered over the heavy metal handle of the dishwasher. Then, she paused, her hand dropping back to her side. Despair washed over me. Tears mingled with the blood on my face. “I’m sorry, little one. I tried.” “Throw Isabel in the cold storage until the police arrive,” George ordered. But just as the guard began to drag me backward, Josephine leaned closer to the rubber seal of the industrial dishwasher door. Her eyes widened in sudden, absolute horror. “Stop!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “Nobody move! There… there is a baby in here!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536337”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boss, Weston Perry, ran a fever of 107.6 degrees last month. Once his temperature finally broke, he woke up convinced I was a cockatiel. He bought an entire bookshelf’s worth of parrot care manuals. One of the highlighted rules read: “Cockatiels require at least two hours of daily vocal interaction with their owners to prevent depression.” So, this ruthless titan of the Chicago business world, universally feared in every corporate boardroom, sat in front of me every single day reading quarterly financial reports. When he finished, he’d ask me in this incredibly gentle, nurturing voice: “What do you want to learn today, sweetheart? Come on, say it with me—”quarterly revenue is up thirteen percent year-over-year”.” His executive assistant stood outside the glass door, looking like he was walking the green mile. I endured this for a month before I finally snapped, told him I wasn’t a bird, and declared I was quitting. He was so thrilled. He picked me up, spun me around, his eyes shining with a pure, ridiculous joy. “You spoke a whole sentence! Say it again. I need to record it and set it as my ringtone.” … Weston gripped me right under the arms, lifting me into the air and spinning me around in a circle. The look in his eyes right now was a mix of paternal pride and absolute, manic ecstasy. I was so dizzy the room was tilting. I just hung there in his strong grip like a discarded rag doll, completely resigned to my fate. My name is Mona. I’m the executive assistant to Weston Perry, CEO of the Perry Group. A month ago, in our desperate bid to lock down the European market, Weston had the entire team pulling eighty-hour weeks. We practically lived in the office. The night of the launch party, our iron-willed boss finally collapsed. His temperature spiked to 107.6. I ended up speeding him to the ER in the middle of the night. The doctor told me if we’d arrived ten minutes later, his brain would have literally cooked. Three days later, Weston finally woke up. I was wearing a bright, grass-green knit sweater, standing by his hospital bed peeling an apple. He opened his eyes, staring at me for a solid five minutes. I honestly thought he was about to promise me a massive bonus. Instead, he reached out, grabbed my wrist with a tight, concerned frown, and turned to the chief resident who had just rushed in. He asked, deadly serious: “Why is there a cockatiel in my recovery room?” “Who authorized putting this green-feathered bird in here?” The silence in the room was absolute. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the space. The medical team ordered an emergency brain scan, eventually concluding that the fever had temporarily fried a very specific cognitive pathway. In Weston’s mind, I was no longer the tireless assistant who had worked herself to the bone for him for three years. I was a rare, highly delicate, vibrant green cockatiel. The day he was discharged, Weston had his security detail pack up my things and bring me straight to his Gold Coast penthouse. His logic was simple: “She’s a clever little thing. I’m keeping her.” My first instinct was to run. But then he deposited a fifty-thousand-dollar “nutritional stipend” directly into my bank account. As a corporate wage slave, I sold my dignity. Shamelessly. I figured playing along meant eating gourmet food and doing nothing. But I severely underestimated how meticulous Weston could be. He installed an entire wall of shelves dedicated to “The Complete Guide to Avian Care”. One page read: “Cockatiels are incredibly fragile and prone to escape.” So, that very night, he hired contractors to replace every single floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse with bulletproof glass. He didn’t even leave a gap in the vents. Furthermore, the manuals claimed birds love shiny objects and mirrors. He hung delicate sterling silver bells all over the living room and commissioned a massive, custom-built vanity mirror just for me. My meals were prepared by a private, Michelin-starred chef—curated “premium bird food” consisting of shelled macadamia nuts and perfectly cubed organic fruit. He even insisted my drinking water be kept at a precise ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit. I endured this suffocating, gilded-cage life for a month. Finally, I broke. I gathered my courage to tell him I was leaving. Instead of getting angry, he looked ecstatic. He whipped out his phone, opened the voice memo app, and shoved it toward my face. “Sweetheart, that was beautiful. Your pronunciation of ‘I’m not a bird’ was absolutely perfect. Say it again.” I smacked the phone out of his hand, utterly exasperated. “Weston! You are out of your mind! I want to eat greasy burgers, I want to go outside, and I am sick of chewing on raw almonds and apple slices!” The smile on his face froze. He caught my hands, his expression darkening into something deeply earnest, almost reprimanding. “Absolutely not.” “The manuals are very clear. Birds cannot have heavy, oily, or spicy foods. It ruins their plumage.” “I saw how many feathers you lost in the shower drain when you washed your hair last night. I’m already incredibly worried.” Looking at his deadpan, utterly serious face, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Burn it down. Let the whole world just burn. The next day, Weston insisted on taking me to the office. His reasoning: “Birds cannot be left alone. They develop severe separation anxiety. She must stay with me.” And so, a bizarre spectacle unfolded in the executive suites of Perry Group. Right next to the mahogany executive desk, a massive, hand-woven rattan swing nest hung from the ceiling. It was lined with the softest, plush white cashmere blankets. A ring of glittering crystal wind chimes hung around it, chiming at the slightest touch. “Go play in your swing for a bit. I have a meeting.” Weston, immaculate in his bespoke Tom Ford suit, flicked one of the crystal chimes with a long, elegant finger. The room filled with a soft “ting”. He was gesturing for me to “go back to my nest.” I gripped the doorframe for dear life. “I’m not getting in there! What self-respecting executive assistant works from a suspended swing?” “You aren’t an assistant. You’re Kiwi.” He corrected me with infinite patience, stepping closer. Ignoring my struggles, he scooped me up by the waist and deposited me gently into the pillowy rattan nest. Forced to sit cross-legged in the swing, surrounded by sparkling crystal chimes, I wished for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. When Toby, his assistant, walked in with a stack of documents, he took one look at me. His face looked like he was fighting for his life in purgatory. His shoulders shook violently as he tried to swallow his laughter. “M-Mr. Perry, here are the quarterly financial reports…” Toby stammered, handing over the folder. Weston gave him a freezing look. “Keep your voice down. You’re startling my bird.” Toby shut up instantly, threw me a look of profound pity, and practically scrambled out of the office. Once the door clicked shut, Weston picked up the reports. According to that damn “Avian Care Manual”, parrots need two hours of daily conversation. You have to teach them to mimic words, otherwise they feel neglected and sink into depression. So, Weston dragged a chair over, sitting right beside my swing. He opened the folder and looked up at me, his eyes incredibly tender, filled with the kind of patience you’d reserve for a toddler. “Kiwi, what do you want to learn today?” “Come on, repeat after me: “Quarterly revenue grew by thirteen percent year-over-year”.” I rolled my eyes, grabbed a macadamia nut from the silver tray beside me, popped it into my mouth, and mumbled around it: “No. Screw off.” Instead of getting angry, Weston pulled a sleek leather-bound notebook from his desk drawer and made a meticulous entry: “[Slightly aggressive behavior today. Potentially entering a hormonal phase. Requires additional companionship.]” I nearly fell out of the swing. “Weston, I am begging you to snap out of it!” I groaned, utterly defeated. “I am Mona! Mona! The person who pulled three consecutive all-nighters to help you rewrite the acquisition draft!” He stopped writing, raising his head to stare at me in silence. For a fleeting, hopeful second, I thought the fog had cleared. But then he sighed, reached out, and gently took my wrist. He pulled a small blue velvet box from his pocket. He clicked it open to reveal a custom-made diamond tennis bracelet, dazzling under the office lights. “The books say once a bird is bonded, you should band them to prevent them from flying away.” He slipped the diamond bracelet onto my wrist with exquisite care. “It’s a little loose, but it’s shiny. It complements your feathers nicely.” “Now that it’s on, you’re my bird. No flying away, understood?” Looking at the blinding diamonds resting on my skin, I chose shameful, quiet submission. You know what? Being a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-month “cockatiel” with a custom diamond leg band actually wasn’t the worst gig in the world. For the first month, I tried every trick in the book to jog his memory. But eventually, I just got used to it. Because mental delusion aside, Weston was a flawlessly attentive caretaker. The demanding, hyper-critical boss who would dock your bonus over a misplaced comma was gone. In his place was a man who personally tested the temperature of my drinking water against the back of his hand. It was the weekend. I had just taken a shower and was towel-drying my hair as I walked into the living room. Weston was sitting on the sofa, reviewing some legal documents. Seeing me come out, he naturally set the papers aside and patted the cushion next to him. “Come here. Let’s dry this, or your feathers will get damp and you’ll catch a cold.” I walked over and sat down, turning my back to him with practiced ease. He turned the hair dryer to its lowest, gentlest setting. His long fingers slid through my damp hair, incredibly light, brushing through the strands. The warm air on my scalp was so soothing I could feel myself drifting off. Suddenly, the gentle movement stopped. The hum of the dryer died with a sharp click. I turned around, confused. Weston was deathly pale, his pupils blown wide. He was staring, transfixed, at a small clump of loose hair in his palm—just the normal shedding that happens when you wash your hair. “Did you pull out your feathers?” His voice was actually trembling, laced with an undercurrent of pure terror. I blinked. “What? No, it’s just normal shedding…” “This is the first stage of depression!” Weston didn’t hear a word of my explanation. He stood up abruptly, pacing the hardwood floor of the living room like a caged animal. “Have I not been talking to you enough these past two days?” “Or did you not like the nuts I ordered?” “Why would you hurt yourself?” “Weston, calm down. Seriously, this isn’t feather-plucking…” Before I could even finish the sentence, he had his phone out. He dialed the number for the most exclusive exotic veterinary specialist in the city. Half an hour later, a sweating veterinarian burst into the penthouse, medical bag in hand, flanked by two bewildered assistants. When the vet saw me sitting on the sofa, wrapped comfortably in a plush bathrobe, completely unharmed, he froze. “Mr. Perry… where is the cockatiel?” the vet stammered. Weston immediately shielded me behind him, his expression grim. “Her mood has been highly unstable lately. She’s started self-harming, plucking her own feathers. Check if she’s under too much stress.” The vet looked at me, then at Weston, his face turning an exquisite shade of pale. He looked like he’d swallowed a toad. But under Weston’s unyielding, icy glare, the doctor had no choice but to play along. He stepped forward, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh… hello there, Miss Kiwi.” “Have you been feeling… out of sorts lately? Any… urge to fly away?” I was mortified. I could have dug a hole in the floor and crawled into it. Grit my teeth, I looked at the vet. “I am not depressed. I just want to go shopping for some clothes.” The vet looked like he’d just been granted a royal pardon. He turned to Weston with absolute gravity. “Mr. Perry, your bird is physically fine. She is simply in her molting phase.” “I highly recommend taking her out for… retail therapy. A little shopping always improves their mood.” The tension in Weston’s jaw finally dissolved. He let out a long, ragged breath. He stepped closer, cup-shaping my face with both hands. His eyes held the fragile relief of someone who had just saved a life. “You scared me to death,” he whispered. “If you want pretty things, just tell me. No more pulling out your feathers, okay?” Staring into his handsome face, so close I could feel his breath, and seeing the absolute, unadulterated worry in his eyes, my heart skipped a beat. I suddenly remembered the man Weston was before he got sick. He was demanding, yes, but fiercely protective. Once, at a high-stakes corporate dinner, a client had had too much to drink and tried to put his hands on me. Weston had calmly thrown a cup of scalding tea right at the man’s feet, his voice dropping to a deadly chill: “Do not touch my people. Ever.” The memory of him that night bled into the man standing in front of me now, whose eyes were rimmed with red just because I’d lost a few strands of hair. I sighed, my hand reaching out to gently tug at the hem of his shirt. “Okay. Understood, caretaker.” After that incident, Weston’s protective instincts flared to a borderline pathological degree. Not only did he hand me a black Amex card for “retail therapy,” but he also insisted on personally approving every outfit I wore. Nothing too thin—he was terrified the wind would damage my “feathers.” One Tuesday afternoon, Weston had a massive bidding war to attend for a prime piece of real estate downtown. Before leaving, he insisted on ushering me into the back of his SUV. “The bidding venue will be chaotic. I won’t have peace of mind leaving you at home,” he said, wrapping a thick, oversized wool coat around my shoulders as he buckled my seatbelt. “Besides, you’re my lucky charm today. Having you there will bring me good fortune.” I smiled, helpless. “Sure, whatever you say.” The SUV glided smoothly along the elevated highway. Weston sat beside me, keeping his head down as he reviewed the bid documents. His profile was striking, the sharp lines of his face softening only when he looked my way. Every so often, he’d reach out, his fingers gently brushing the top of my head. But just as we approached the exit ramp, everything went wrong. A massive dump truck, completely out of control, tore through the median barrier from the opposite lane, barreling straight toward our passenger side. “Mr. Perry! Watch out!” Frank, our driver, shrieked, wrenching the steering wheel violently. The tires screeched against the asphalt, a high-pitched wail of friction. The violent turn threw me hard against the door. In the split second before impact, Weston threw his files aside. His arm shot out, pulling me hard against him, shielding my body with his own. He tucked me tightly into his chest, using his back to block the side window where the shattered glass was about to blow. The collision was deafening. The airbags deployed with a violent pop. Glass exploded inward, raining down in a million glittering shards. Our vehicle spun, slamming hard against the concrete barrier. In the final, brutal shudder of the crash, I felt Weston’s body go rigid. His head collided heavily with the window frame—a sickening, muffled thud. “Weston!” I struggled out of his arms, my head ringing with a high-pitched buzz. Weston’s eyes were shut tight, his face bloodless. A dark stream of crimson crept down his temple, dripping onto the back of my hand. It felt searingly hot. He was completely unconscious. … Two hours later, in the hallway of the ICU. I sat on the plastic chairs, shivering. My white sweater was ruined, stained with his blood. My mind kept replaying the image of him throwing himself over me without a moment’s hesitation. The red light above the operating room finally flicked off. The doctor stepped out, pulling off his surgical mask with a tired sigh. “He’s going to be fine, Miss. Just a mild concussion and some bruising.” “And… the impact of the crash actually seems to have dissolved the old hematoma that was putting pressure on his cognitive nerves.” The doctor looked at me and nodded. “His cognitive impairment has been completely resolved.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536336”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My friends always told me I was dating a girl with “main character syndrome”—someone who was a master of the silent treatment and petty tantrums. On the morning of our courthouse wedding, the photographer I’d hired was already waiting downstairs. I finished getting dressed and urged Zoey, “Come on, turn off the game. We need to go.” She only threw me a cold, dismissive look, deliberately queued up for another match right in front of me, and locked the bedroom door from the inside. She was always like this. I never knew what triggered her, or how long her mood would last. I was always expected to knock on her door, dissect my own behavior, apologize, and buy her some expensive luxury item she had casually mentioned weeks ago just to make peace. But this time, my hand hovered over the wood, unable to knock. The “I’m sorry” that usually slipped so easily from my tongue felt like a dry bone caught in my throat. I had been coddling her for five years. Five years of bending myself backward until I felt completely numb and hollow. The sudden realization that this would be my life forever—this endless cycle—terrified me. “Zoey!” I called out. The room went quiet for a moment. I could picture her perfectly: putting down her controller, reclining in her gaming chair, waiting to hear my voice break as I begged for forgiveness. She loved the chase. She loved watching me crawl back. But today, I used the last shred of my energy just to speak evenly. “Please come out. We planned this months ago. The photographer is waiting outside.” My only answer was the sudden blast of the game’s volume. I hadn’t given her the right answer. I hadn’t apologized. I stood there in the quiet hallway. After a long moment, I reached up, untied my tie, and began taking off my suit. I washed my face with cold water, rinsing away the exhaustion and the quiet tears I didn’t even realize were falling. Looking at the man in the mirror, all I saw was a ghost. I was so tired. I didn’t want to play the savior anymore. … I walked to the entryway to put away my newly polished dress shoes. Zoey’s sneakers were kicked carelessly into the corner, as always. They were a new pair of platform sneakers, bought specifically for today so she’d look taller in the photos. But the moment she got them, she wore them out to a greasy taco truck down the street, leaving deep oil stains on the white canvas that wouldn’t come out. We had argued so late last night that I hadn’t had the energy to clean them for her. I stared at them for a second, then stepped right over them, my pace quickening as I headed out the door. The photographer had been waiting by his car. The first thing I said to him was, “I’m so sorry, man. You can go. We’re not doing this today.” I paid him the 50% cancellation fee. Since he still got paid for his time, he wasn’t angry. Instead, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Hey, man… to be honest, when you guys came in to choose props last week, I wanted to say something. Your girlfriend… she acts like a giant toddler.” “Remember when she wanted water? She wouldn’t get up. She made you walk three blocks to get it. Then, when you came back, she drank both bottles—yours too—without even looking at you.” “Honestly, Chase, off the record? I don’t think she deserves you.” My instinct was still to defend her. “She really wanted sparkling water, but the bodega’s fridge was broken, so I only got flat. She was just frustrated.” But seeing the pity in the young photographer’s eyes, my words died in my throat. I could only manage a bitter smile. Yeah. Just because the water wasn’t cold, she felt entitled to ruin my day, and to punish me by drinking my bottle too. She didn’t care that I had worked a ten-hour shift, walked blocks in stiff leather shoes, or that in ninety-degree heat, I was suffocatingly thirsty too. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A Venmo notification. Zoey had just sent money to Ryan, her favorite male coworker, with a note: “For stomach meds and warm soup. Feel better!” He had a chronic stomach issue. She remembered his pain, went out of her way to send him care, and wanted him to know she was thinking of him. She knew how to care for people. She just didn’t want to waste it on me. My mind drifted back to last night’s fight over a plate of pork chops. Well, it wasn’t a fight. It was just her screaming. “You know I like spicy food!” she had yelled, throwing her fork down. “Why are these so bland? Did you even try, or do you just not give a shit?” My doctor’s report and prescription for my gastritis were sitting right there on the coffee table. She had been lounging on the couch playing games next to them for hours, never once glancing at them. “My stomach has been acting up,” I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady. “The doctor told me to avoid spicy food for a while.” “If you didn’t want to cook for me, just say so. Don’t make up pathetic excuses.” She pushed the plate away, refusing to eat another bite. I looked at her. “Zoey, do you even know what day it is?” She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “What? Is your birthday supposed to be a national holiday or something?” “…No.” It wasn’t. Our birthdays were only a few days apart, so we usually lumped them together. I bought the cake; she blew out the candles. But yesterday, I had walked past a bakery after a long call with my mother. Since her remarriage, we only spoke around the holidays. Hearing her say “Happy Birthday, sweetie” had made me feel strangely sentimental. So, I bought a small chocolate cake. Zoey had stared at that cake on the counter for a long time. For a foolish second, I let myself hope. Maybe she would say something nice. Maybe she had secretly bought me a card, or a small gift. But she said nothing. Her eyes were hard, almost accusatory. “You think you’re special because it’s your birthday?” she sneered. “Special enough to throw away the gift I bought you?” I remembered the giant plush bear sitting on the hallway table when I came home. It was huge, cheap, and shed fibers everywhere. I had moved it out to the balcony. “That was for me?” “Duh. Do you think I’d buy that garbage for myself?” “Zoey, I’m highly allergic to synthetic plush fibers. I’ve told you this a hundred times.” Every time I brought it up, she would just roll her eyes. “You’re so dramatic,” she’d say. “Next time, you get nothing.” But there always was a next time, and it was always another plush toy. I rubbed my palms, which were already starting to itch just from thinking about it. “I literally break out in hives. Please, just don’t buy them anymore.” “Will hives kill you?” “What?” “I asked if it would kill you. I went out of my way to buy you something. Is it really that hard to hold it, take a photo, and say thank you? You’re so ungrateful.” I sat there, utterly silenced by the sheer absurdity of her anger. And, like always, I folded. “I’m sorry.” “My bad.” “I won’t do it again.” But she wasn’t done. “Chase,” she said, leaning in, her voice dripping with venom. “Do you want to know why your parents didn’t want you when they split? Why they passed you around like hot garbage?” “Because you’re impossible to love.” She knew exactly where to twist the knife. Every time she brought up my childhood, it brought back the paralyzing memory of standing in that courtroom, listening to my parents argue over who “had” to take me, while the lawyers looked on with cold, professional pity. The only way to stop the roaring in my ears was to let the anger take over. So, I picked up the birthday cake I had bought and threw it against the wall. It shattered into a sticky, ugly mess. Zoey just whistled, turned on her heel, and went back to her video game. I spent the rest of my birthday night on my knees, scrubbing chocolate frosting off the baseboards, crying silently into the rag. “Am I really ready to marry her tomorrow?” I had asked myself over and over. One voice whispered: “She just has a temper. She’s not a bad person. And you’ve wanted a family your whole life. Don’t throw this away.” But another, quieter voice asked: “Can you really survive a lifetime of nights like this?” I must have been lost in my thoughts for too long, because the photographer was looking at me with genuine concern. “Hey, man. You okay?” I shook my head slightly. “Just… a little lost.” “Look, I know it’s none of my business,” he said gently. “But marriage is a long haul. If you’re having doubts, maybe take some time to think about it.” “Yeah,” I breathed. “I think I need to do that.” When I walked back upstairs, Zoey was leaning against the doorframe, fully dressed. She looked away the moment our eyes met, her jaw tight. This was her version of an olive branch. A tiny, grudging peace offering. She knew she had pushed me to the absolute edge last night, so she was giving me just enough space to calm down so I wouldn’t “ruin” her day. “I sent the photographer home,” I said. She stiffened. “Whatever. I told you hiring a photographer for a courthouse wedding was a waste of money anyway.” The living room was a disaster—laundry piled high on the sofa, mixed with mail and empty takeout containers. I sighed and began folding the clothes, one by one. When I picked up her purse to move it, a cascade of colorful wedding mints spilled out onto the floor. She lunged forward, snatching them up. “Who told you to go through my stuff?” she snapped. But she didn’t close the bag. She left it wide open, letting me see the rest of the mints inside. Last month, while walking through Target, I had mentioned that we should buy some nice mints and candies to hand out to the clerk and the photographer at the courthouse. “It’s just a nice gesture,” I had said. Zoey had scoffed. “God, Chase, are you really that desperate? You want everyone to know some lonely, aging bachelor finally managed to trick a girl like me into marrying him?” The words had stung so badly I couldn’t even force a laugh. I just walked away. And because I didn’t play along, she had thrown a fit, stormed out of the store, and driven off, leaving me standing in the parking lot with a cart full of half-scanned items. There had been no apology then. But now, she was standing here, waiting for me to fall to my knees in gratitude because she had remembered and bought the mints. This was her grand gesture, and I was supposed to feel honored. I had always been so good at reading her mind, but she had never once bothered to look at mine. If she had, she would have seen the quiet terror taking root. I was done playing my part in this exhausting, toxic play where we scream, freeze each other out, and then pretend everything is perfect again. I didn’t say a word. I just kept cleaning the couch. After a minute of tense silence, she slammed her purse onto the floor. “Chase!” she yelled, looking around the room until her eyes landed on her shoes. “Why haven’t you cleaned my sneakers yet?” “I swear, you do nothing all day. They’re filthy. Look at them!” “I’m telling you right now, if those shoes aren’t spotless, I’m not getting married today.” I looked at the sneakers, lying crookedly by the door. Then I looked at the rest of my life, stretching out ahead of me like a long, grey highway of endless chores and eggshells. No matter how hard I worked to keep her happy, it would never be enough. I looked at Zoey, who had already thrown herself back onto the couch, her eyes darting to me to see if I would run for the shoe cleaner. In that exact moment, without a single shred of hesitation, I said, “Zoey, let’s not get married. Not today. Not ever.” Right as the words left my mouth, her game found a match, and the loading screen music started up. I didn’t know if she had actually heard me. But as I spoke those words, a crushing weight lifted off my chest. I felt light. I walked to the door, picked up the trash bag, and stepped out into the hallway. As I passed her dirty sneakers, I “accidentally” stepped right on the white canvas, leaving a dark, dusty footprint. When I turned back around, she wasn’t looking at her phone. She was staring at me, her eyes dark and incredibly sharp. “What do you mean, ‘not ever’?” “Chase, my youth is valuable. I don’t have time to play games with you.” “If we aren’t getting married, we’re breaking up.” Breaking up? I had lived with her for so long I couldn’t even remember what a quiet apartment felt like. I’d have to find a new place, sure, but… maybe I could find something closer to my office. I could sleep in an extra thirty minutes every morning. The thought of it felt like a warm breeze. “Give me a week to move out,” I said.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536335”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My husband is a world-class actuary. His time is valued at five thousand dollars an hour. Every single thing I ever asked of him had to be paid for in “equal labor exchange.” Even when we were intimate, the second the timer went off, he would pull away without a shred of hesitation. Our social circle used to joke about it. They said a million dollars couldn’t buy you time, but it could buy my marriage to Declan. Until this morning. I was trapped in another state by a sudden, violent storm. My mother suffered a massive heart attack, and I called him, sobbing, begging him to go to the hospital and sign the emergency consent form. Declan’s voice was as cold and methodical as a recorded line. “You didn’t submit the financial reports you promised. The labor exchange failed. Actuary Household Rule Number Two: We do not accept post-payment under any circumstances.” Then he hung up. I nearly lost my mind. I drove through the blinding rain, risking my life to get back to the hospital, only to run into him in the emergency room. Declan—a man who treated minutes like diamonds—was sitting beside his young assistant’s bed. He was holding a pair of tiny tweezers, patiently helping her assemble a Hello Kitty perler-bead craft. The freezing rain on my clothes mixed with the tears on my face. My voice shook as I looked at him. “You told me your time was never free.” Declan frowned slightly, letting out a soft, exasperated sigh. “Daisy was just bored during her IV drip. Do you really have to be this petty right now, Giselle?” I stood there, clutching my mother’s critical condition notice in my hand, a bitter ache spreading through my entire chest. I realized then: when there is no love left, even a human life has to step aside for his favoritism. This meticulously calculated relationship? I suddenly didn’t want it anymore. … Daisy huddled under the hospital blankets, timidly tugging at the edge of his sleeve. “Giselle, please don’t blame Mr. Ward. I was just so scared being sick all by myself in the city.” She looked up with wide, watery eyes. “He only sees me as a promising junior he’s investing in. Please don’t be mad at him.” I stared at the delicate tweezers in his hand. A self-deprecating laugh escaped my throat. At home, Declan used a stopwatch to calculate the exact extraction time for his morning espresso. Yet here he was, happily wasting his afternoon sitting by her side, putting together a childish plastic toy. I used to think he was just naturally detached, purely rational, and genuinely too busy. Now I knew better. It wasn’t that he lacked time. He just didn’t want to spend it on me. Seeing how pale I was, Declan stood up and walked over, pulling my rain-drenched coat tighter around my shoulders. “Giselle, you’re thirty years old. Why do you still let your emotions run wild like a little girl?” My eyes burned. I tried to reach for his wrist, my hand trembling as cold water dripped from my hair onto my skin. “Declan, please. I am begging you. My mom doesn’t have time.” My voice cracked. “I need the money from your account for the surgery, and I need you to sign the consent form.” But Declan turned his head away, his expression neutral. “I ran the numbers on your mother’s health data and cardiac metrics over the last two years,” he said, his tone flat. “I built a survival probability model. This is just a standard acute ischemic episode. According to my projections, she is at least seventy-two hours and forty-eight minutes away from entering any true danger zone.” Looking into his calm, unbothered eyes, the blood in my veins turned to ice. “Besides, I moved that capital into a high-yield short-term account yesterday. It won’t reach its peak interest yield for another two days.” He reached out, gently tucking a wet strand of hair behind my ear. His breath was warm against my face, but I shivered. “Giselle, you breached our agreement first. Refusing to sign the form is simply a small consequence for your failure to follow the rules. Once the interest posts in two days, I will personally arrange for the best cardiologists in the city.” I took a step back, flinching away from his warm touch. “What if your model is wrong?” I whispered, my throat raw. Declan let out a soft, confident chuckle. “Giselle, in this field, I don’t make mistakes. Go home and get some rest.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream. I just started making calls, desperately trying to borrow money from anyone I knew, stumbling blindly toward the ICU. But by the time I reached the doors, the bright red light above them had already flickered off. The lead surgeon walked out, pulling off his mask, and gave me a tired, sorrowful shake of his head. “The family arrived too late. It was a massive myocardial infarction. She missed the golden window for resuscitation.” “We’ve officially lost her vital signs. I’m so sorry. You should begin preparing for the funeral.” In an instant, the world went silent, save for the dull hum of the hospital’s ventilation system. The doctor handed me the death certificate. With a shaking hand, I wrote my name. Four years ago, when Declan’s first startup collapsed, he was buried under a mountain of debt. He was so depressed he could barely get out of bed. It was my mother who sold her retirement home, handing him every single dollar of her life savings to pull him out of the abyss. Back then, he had fallen to his knees in front of her, tears streaming down his face, swearing that he would treat her like his own mother and never let her suffer a single day. Yet today, he calculated his interest down to the last penny, completely ignoring the unpredictable margin of human error in medicine. My phone vibrated. It was a text from Declan. “Daisy’s IV is finished. I’m taking her out for some light sushi.” “Go down to the billing department later and pay the basic emergency room fee. Consider this a secondary penalty for your attitude today.” “I have it scheduled. I’ll go sign the release forms on Wednesday morning. Stop throwing tantrums.” Looking at the screen, a profound exhaustion settled over me. I typed back a few simple words. “No need.” “Declan, I want a divorce.” I followed the gurney alone as they wheeled my mother down to the cold basement of the morgue. As the heavy steel drawer slid shut, a blast of freezing air hit my face. I sat on the plastic bench outside, staring blankly at my phone. I opened social media and saw a post Declan had uploaded thirty minutes earlier. It was a photo of the completed, colorful Hello Kitty perler-bead design. The caption read: “Sometimes, slowing down to do silly things with a kid is the best kind of rest.” I bit my lip so hard the taste of blood filled my mouth, mixing with the hot, bitter tears sliding down my throat. With trembling fingers, I sent a message to my personal assistant. “Check Declan’s offshore trust funds. Let me know if there have been any recent changes.” Within minutes, an encrypted PDF arrived. I opened it, the harsh white glare of the screen burning my eyes. Three days ago, a new secondary beneficiary had been added to the trust. Daisy. That trust held our first pot of gold. It was the money we made after I spent countless sleepless nights working alongside him, drinking with clients until my stomach bled. When he rebuilt his empire, he had set up that trust. I remembered how he had held me, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Giselle, love is just a temporary chemical reaction. It can’t offer long-term financial security. But with this trust, even if I go bankrupt again, you will always be taken care of. My ultimate goal will always align with your happiness.” That was the only time in his life he had laid all his cards on the table for me. Now, he had quietly carved out a piece of that promise and handed it to another woman. I texted him: “Why is Daisy’s name on the trust?” He replied almost instantly. “Her family is underprivileged. I’m grooming her to be a core member of my team. Consider this a loyalty retainer paid in advance.” “Your share hasn’t decreased; it’s just slightly diluted the surplus yield. Giselle, you are already Mrs. Ward. You have so much. Stop looking at my business strategies through such a petty, narrow-minded lens.” I stared at his words. My tears splashed silently onto the steering wheel. What did I have? Did I have a husband who calculated the depreciation value of his marital loyalty? That evening, I dragged my exhausted body back to our villa. The house was massive, beautifully decorated, but cold and utterly lifeless. I pulled out a suitcase and began quietly packing my things. Ten minutes later, the front door clicked open. Declan walked in, bringing the chill of the night with him. He was carrying a small, elegant bakery box. Daisy skipped in right behind him, wearing a pair of sparkly Disneyland ears and clutching a pile of plush toys. Seeing her bright, carefree smile, a memory pierced through me. Today was our anniversary. Three days ago, I had excitedly planned a trip for us. Declan had rejected it, claiming the “return on investment” of a vacation didn’t justify the time lost. For eight years, I had begged him to take me to Disneyland. He had always refused. Yet he had happily gone with someone else. Declan’s brow furrowed when he saw the suitcase on the living room floor. “What are you doing now? We agreed on the rules before we even got married. You were the one who broke the contract this time.” He set the bakery box on the coffee table and walked over, placing a firm hand on my suitcase. I glanced at the box. It was a chestnut tart from my favorite boutique bakery. “I already explained the trust fund,” Declan said, his voice dropping to a softer, placating tone. “It’s just a retention strategy for a valuable employee. I’ve calculated your penalty period. It ends tomorrow morning at eight. Your mother’s surgery is scheduled for nine.” “I will be at the hospital on time tomorrow morning to secure the best surgical team for her.” I looked up, staring into the handsome face of the man I had loved for nearly a decade, but his features seemed to blur before my eyes. I used to think his calculated, strategic mind was his most attractive quality. Now, I realized with sickening clarity that even a human life was just a bargaining chip to him. My mind flashed back to five years ago. I had been in a terrible car accident due to exhaustion and ended up in the ICU. Declan had walked away from an acquisition deal worth over a hundred million dollars just to sit by my bedside. Back then, he had told me it was a massive financial loss, but because it was for me, it was a trade he would make every single time. Now, saving my mother was just a bad deal. I didn’t bother explaining. I simply reached out and pulled his hand off my suitcase. “There’s no need to wait until tomorrow. My mother doesn’t need your surgical team anymore.” Declan froze, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes. “Did you transfer her to another hospital? Giselle, according to Actuary Household Rule Number Nine, any major decision made without consulting me incurs a five percent interest penalty based on your daily income.” “If you insist on doing this, you’re only increasing your own sunk costs.” I watched his lips move, but the words ceased to carry any meaning. I wiped my tears, grabbed my suitcase, and walked past him toward the door. He grabbed my wrist, his grip tightening in annoyance. “Giselle, that’s enough.” “I have a business trip with Daisy tomorrow morning. I don’t have time to play these runaway-wife games with you.” “You’ve broken eight household rules in the last three days. Do you really expect me to apologize to you?” I pulled my hand back, peeling his fingers off my wrist one by one. “You don’t need to apologize, Declan. And you don’t need to waste any more of your precious time.” “We’re done. I’ll have the divorce papers sent to your office.” Without waiting to see the shock register on his face, I wheeled my suitcase out into the rainy night. In the back of the cab, I scrolled through photos of my mother on my phone. The grief in my chest was so suffocating I felt like I was breaking apart. The boy who would have given up the world to save me had vanished, replaced by a man who calculated the cost of my mother’s survival and found it too expensive. I returned to the hospital morgue and sat with my mother all night. The next day, I contacted a local crematorium and quietly arranged everything. Because I had so little money left, I couldn’t afford a proper burial plot. I had to place her ashes in a simple, cold urn. My phone lit up. It was a text containing Declan’s itinerary. “Daisy was shaken up by a client on our trip today, so I’m staying back to help her unwind. Use the next two days to calm down. I will meet you at the hospital’s cardiology wing on Wednesday at eight-thirty AM.” “Don’t be late. My time is expensive.” I read the message, blocked his number, and bought a one-way ticket to a quiet coastal town in the South. It was a place my mother had always wanted to visit. Before leaving, I mailed the signed divorce papers to his firm. I left behind every piece of jewelry, every designer bag, and every expensive gift he had ever bought me. I took absolutely nothing, including my rights to that offshore trust. As the ferry horn blew, heading out into the deep blue sea, I closed my eyes. Eight years of love, five years of marriage. In the end, it was just a bad debt that had finally been settled. “Declan, let’s end this transaction.” On Wednesday morning at exactly eight o’clock, Declan arrived at the hospital. He was carrying a container of savory pork and egg congee—my mother’s favorite. He walked up to the nurse’s station and spoke to the young nurse on duty. “Hi, could you page the patient in bed three, Giselle Ward? I’m here to settle the surgery fees and sign the consent forms.” The nurse looked up, giving him a strange, cold look. “You’re the family member for bed three? You’re too late.” Declan checked his watch, looking thoroughly confused. “I’m not late. The doctor said as long as I signed before nine AM today, we could proceed.” The nurse stood up, double-checking her monitor. “Yes, you are. The patient in bed three suffered a massive cardiac arrest on Monday afternoon. We couldn’t resuscitate her.” “The death certificate was issued that night. The family has already taken the body to the crematorium.” The polite smile on Declan’s face froze. The thermos in his hand slipped, clattering against the counter. “What nonsense are you talking about? My predictive model clearly showed she wouldn’t reach the critical threshold until today…” The nurse sighed, sliding a photocopy of the death certificate across the desk. “The daughter signed the papers herself. The body was cremated yesterday.” “A human life doesn’t wait around for your schedule, sir. Did you think you could negotiate with death like a business deal?” Black ink on white paper. The evidence was irrefutable. Panic flashed in his eyes. He lunged for his phone, dialing my number, only to be met with the cold, automated operator. “Where did Giselle go? How could she not tell you that her mother passed away…” Daisy murmured from behind him. Declan whipped around, his gaze so sharp and terrifying that she immediately took a step back, silencing herself. For the first time in his life, sheer terror washed over him. He frantically called his personal assistant. “Find Giselle’s flight records, train tickets, anything! Now!” Just then, his phone rang with an unknown number. He swiped it open instantly, his voice trembling. “Giselle? Is that you…” But a deep, formal male voice answered. “Hello, is this the family of Giselle Ward? This is the Coast Guard.” Declan stopped breathing, his fingers clawing at the edge of the desk. “I am her husband. What’s wrong?” “An hour ago, the passenger ferry Mrs. Ward was on struck a reef and sank in the eastern waters.” “So far, we have only recovered her backpack and a set of signed divorce papers.” “The chances of survival are extremely low. We need you to come down to the station to identify her personal effects.” Declan stood frozen, the hospital corridor spinning violently around him.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536334”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was born with a nose that didn’t just smell the world; it smelled the heart. I could map the landscape of a person’s soul through the scents of their emotions—the sharp sting of resentment, the cloying sweetness of joy, the dusty bitterness of grief. But after Dad had his affair, the air in our house changed forever. My mother began brewing a bitter, boiling-hot cleansing tea every single night, mixing it with the ashes of burnt prayer papers. She would force it down my father’s throat, pressing the scalding ceramic mug against his lips until they blistered and turned white. “Drink it, Jared,” she would whisper, her voice a dead, flat thing. “Drink it and wash her out of you.” The air would swell with the suffocating stench of burnt paper, ash, and the sour, metallic tang of their mutual misery. Despite the blisters blooming on his lips, my father never fought back. He sat there, frozen under her hand, his eyes shining with a sickening, heavy guilt. He would look at me—little, quiet Una, watching from the corner—and whisper, “I did a bad thing, sweetie. Mommy is just fixing me.” Then came their anniversary. I remember running to the door to greet him when he came home, wrapping my arms around his legs. “Daddy,” I said, tilting my head back. “You smell so pretty.” The gentle, fragile smile on my mother’s face instantly froze. The mug of ash tea slipped from her hands, shattering on the hardwood floor, dark liquid splattering across the pristine wood. “You went back to her,” she breathed. Then, the dam broke. “You were with Christine again, weren’t you? Is she really that desperate? Can’t she breathe without another woman’s husband?” Years of suppressed humiliation and poison erupted all at once. She dropped to her knees, not to clean up the mess, but to snatch a jagged shard of ceramic. Clutching it so hard her own palms bled, she lunged at him, slashing at his chest. My father finally snapped. He caught her by the wrists and threw her backward with a violence that shocked us both. “At least Christine was pure when I met her!” he screamed, his face contorted. “At least she gave me her first time! Not like you—some bruised, discarded thing who let a rapist ruin her, and then dragged your little bastard child along to leach off of me!” My mother crashed onto the floor, stunned into a horrific silence. The tears rolled down her cheeks, but the light in her eyes—the tiny, flickering spark she had kept alive for years—went completely cold. Standing in the hallway, my nose caught the scent blooming from her. It wasn’t the sour sting of anger anymore. It was a deep, thick, suffocating bitterness. Like rotting roots. Like a house burning to the ground. That was the moment I knew: my mother was finally, truly, leaving. … My father was the first to snap back to reality. The anger drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, panicked horror at his own words. He scrambled forward, reaching out to pull her up, but she threw his hand off with a quiet, lethal strength. “I didn’t mean that,” he stammered, desperately trying to rewrite the air. “I was just angry, Summer. I lost my head. Una, baby, Daddy was just talking crazy. Don’t listen to me.” He looked so sincere. But my nose didn’t lie. I smelled the heavy, stagnant odor of rancid grease rising from him. Fear, wrapped in deceit. He was lying. My mother didn’t say a word. She simply stood up, smoothed her skirt, and walked toward the bedroom. As she passed, Dad looked down, caught a stray draft of air, and froze. He realized what I had smelled: the faint, powdery trace of Christine’s expensive floral perfume clinging to his collar. It was the scent of a year-old ghost. It had started exactly a year ago, on their last anniversary. Dad claimed he had a mandatory out-of-town conference and couldn’t make it home. Wanting to surprise him, Mom packed a small bag, took my hand, and drove four hours to his hotel. But when she pushed the door open with the spare key the front desk gave her, the room was thick with a heavy, musk-laden air. Christine—his “innocent” assistant—was curled under the sheets, her clothes scattered across the floor. They both scrambled, eyes darting, faces flushed with a panicked sweat. I had clung to my mother’s neck, my small nose twitching. “Mommy,” I whispered innocently, “Daddy smells so pretty. Just like Auntie Christine.” My mother had stood frozen in the doorway for what felt like an eternity. Then, without a tear, she closed the door and carried me away. When he crawled back home, Mom laid the divorce papers on the kitchen island. He begged, swore it was a one-time mistake, but when he saw the absolute stone in her eyes, his pleading curdled into rage. “Don’t you dare act so high and mighty!” he had shrieked. “Have you forgotten what you are? You were violated in the middle of nowhere, pregnant with some faceless criminal’s spawn! If I hadn’t married you, saved you from the shame and the whispering, you’d be a ruined outcast or dead at the bottom of a river! What right do you have to judge me?” Those cruel, jagged words had carved themselves into my childhood memory. That night, Mom held me so tight her ribs shook, curled up at the head of the bed. I smelled it then—the sharp, piercing vinegar of her silent despair. I was too young to fully grasp the biology of it, but my chest ached, and my nose burned. I understood, in the quiet way children understand tragedies, that I did not belong to the man who called himself my father. I smelled the truth, Dad. I always had. Back in the present, Mom stood by the bedroom door, her back to him, as still as a statue. Seeing her like that, a flicker of genuine remorse seemed to cross Dad’s face. Desperate to soften the blow, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. “Look, Summer,” he said, his voice dropping to a gentle plea. “I bought you the ring you wanted. The one from the boutique downtown.” But before he could even open it, his phone buzzed. It was a loud, intrusive ring. He answered, and even from where I stood, I could hear Christine’s soft, trembling sob through the receiver: “Jared… my apartment keys fell out of my purse and into your briefcase. I’m locked out in the cold, and I’m so scared… Can you please come?” My father didn’t hesitate. He stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. The velvet box slipped from his fingers, and the diamond ring rolled across the hardwood, making a sharp, mocking clinking sound as it hit the baseboard. But this time, Mom didn’t cry out. She didn’t chase him. She didn’t even look at the ring. She just knelt down, stroked my hair, and whispered in a voice that sounded like falling autumn leaves: “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’m sorry you had to see this. But Mommy is so tired. I can’t keep carrying this alone.” I breathed in, and my heart sank. Underneath her usual scent of lavender, there was a new, frightening smell. The dry, brittle scent of dry rot. Like a tree dying from the inside out. Dad didn’t come home that night. In the early hours of the morning, a metallic, iron-heavy scent woke me from my sleep. Blood. I ran into her room. Mom was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands cupped over her face, but thick, dark blood was pouring through her fingers, staining her nightgown. Panicked, I threw my arms around her and begged her to let me call an ambulance, pulling her toward the door. In the emergency room, the doctor looked at her charts with a grim, heavy expression. “Are you sure you don’t want to admit yourself, Mrs. Warren?” he asked. “If we start treatment now, there might still be a chance.” Mom gently shook her head. “No, thank you, Doctor.” I clung to her side, my nose twitching. That dry, decaying smell on her was growing stronger by the minute, filling the sterile hospital air. “Mommy,” I whispered, staring at her pale, hollow cheeks, “does it hurt bad?” She looked down at me, forcing a fragile smile. “Don’t be scared, Una. Mommy is just a little tired, that’s all.” After they stopped the bleeding, we walked down the corridor to settle the bill. But as we passed the maternity ward, a familiar silhouette caught my eye. It was Christine. She was holding a hand over her slightly rounded belly, looking up at the man standing beside her with soft, adoring eyes. That man was my father. An OB-GYN was reviewing a clipboard. “She needs to be admitted for fetal monitoring,” the doctor said. “Do you want to proceed?” Dad didn’t hesitate for a second. “Yes, absolutely. Give her the best room, the best specialist. Whatever it takes.” As the words left his mouth, he turned his head and caught sight of us. He froze, his face losing all color. Beside me, Mom stiffened, her grip on my shoulders tightening so hard it bruised. Christine was the first to react. A mask of fragile innocence instantly washed over her face. She stood up, looking flustered and sweet. “Summer, please don’t misunderstand,” she stammered, her voice dripping with mock-remorse. “Jared was just worried because I have no one else to take care of me during the pregnancy. He’s just being kind, I swear.” Mom didn’t offer a reply. She gripped my hand and turned to leave, but Dad stepped into our path. He stared at Mom’s paper-thin complexion, and for a second, a flicker of concern broke through his defensiveness. “What are you doing here? Are you sick?” Mom looked away, her voice ice-cold. “None of your business.” Christine pressed a hand to her cheek, tears spilling beautifully. “I knew she’d think the worst… Summer, if Jared and I wanted to be together, we could have years ago. He only married you out of pity.” My mother’s eyes snapped up, a rare, burning fire igniting in them. “Christine, is there ever a moment where you aren’t playing the victim? You’re parading around with some stranger’s bastard, pretending it’s his, just to steal my life. Have you no shame?” Christine gasped, her eyes brimming with fresh, theatrical tears. “How can you say something so horrible…” Her crying sent Dad over the edge. His face darkened into pure, protective rage. He stepped forward and slapped my mother across the face. “Summer!” he barked. “Christine is pregnant and vulnerable! Can’t you show some basic decency instead of throwing these hysterical tantrums?” The blow forced her head to the side, a bright red mark blooming on her pale cheek. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even touch the bruise. Christine buried her face in his chest, sobbing. “Jared, haven’t you told her yet? Your marriage isn’t even legal. You only did it to protect her reputation. She actually thought it was real.” Mom went completely rigid. “What did you say?” Dad wrapped a protective arm around Christine’s shoulders, looking at Mom with cold detachment. “She’s right, Summer. Christine is carrying my child. The Warren family needs an heir. I can’t let your little mistake keep occupying the spot that belongs to my real family.” My nose flared. In that instant, I smelled something rancid and rotten radiating from Christine. I pointed my small finger directly at her belly. “You’re lying!” I screamed at my father. “That baby isn’t yours! She smells bad!” Dad’s face went purple with fury. He raised his hand, aiming a blow straight at my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the sting, but it never came. Mom threw herself over me, shielding me with her own body. Around us, nurses and patients were stopping to stare, murmurs rippling through the hallway. Sensing the eyes on him, Dad lowered his hand, his pride too fragile to handle a public scene. “Get out,” he hissed, through gritted teeth. “Go home and stop making a fool of yourself.” Mom didn’t look at him. She gathered me in her arms and walked out of the noisy, suffocating hospital into the cold rain. The next morning, Mom took me to the county clerk’s office. She clutched their marriage certificate, her knuckles white, staring blankly at the clerk behind the desk. “What do you mean it’s fake? We’ve been married for six years.” The clerk gave her a look of profound pity and sighed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no record of a marriage license for you and Jared Warren in the state database. On paper, he was registered as single.” The clerk paused, her eyes flickering over the computer screen. She hit refresh. “Actually… that just updated. He filed a marriage license this morning. He’s married to a Christine Ward.” My mother’s hand tightened around mine so hard I could feel her bones vibrating. Right then, the glass doors of the adjacent office opened. Dad walked out, holding Christine’s hand. The moment his eyes landed on Mom, he dropped Christine’s hand like it was a hot coal. “Summer… what are you doing here?” Mom met his gaze. Her eyes were completely empty. She spoke only two words: “Congratulations.” “Summer, wait!” Dad called out, chasing us down the steps and cornering us in the narrow alley beside the municipal building. Mom stopped, refusing to look at him, her lips pressed into a tight line. Dad’s expression softened into something heavy and pleading. “We need to talk.” Mom stayed silent. He sighed, adjusting his collar, trying to adopt a reasonable, patient tone. “I want to keep Christine’s baby, Summer.” He glanced down at me, his eyes cool and dismissive, before looking back at her. “Your body was damaged… when you were attacked. The doctors said you could never carry another child. This baby is the only chance I have to pass on my name. I’ve been good to you all these years. You can’t be this selfish and deny me a legacy.” Mom stood in the damp alley, her spine rigid, her small hands clenched so tightly her fingernails bit into her skin. “The marriage to Christine is just a formality,” he continued, his voice rising with a bizarre, sick excitement. “It’s the only way the school board will allocate us that subsidized townhouse in the prime district. Once the baby is born, I’ll quietly divorce her. The townhouse will stay in my name, and we can go back to how things were. Una will get into the best school district. Nothing has to change. It’s just… you’ll have to stay at our cottage upstate for a few months while this blows over. For appearances.” His eyes actually shone as he explained this twisted blueprint. It was as if he believed he was a genius benefactor. Mom let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Alright.” Dad blinked, stunned. “You… you agree?” Mom looked down at the cobblestones, her voice a flat murmur. “Yes. I will take Una upstate.” A broad, relieved smile broke across his face. He reached out and patted my head. “Good girl, Una. Daddy will come over tonight to help you pack.” I didn’t say a word. I just watched his shadow stretch and vanish as he walked away. The moment he was gone, Mom’s knees buckled. She slid down the brick wall, collapsing onto the damp pavement. She reached out with trembling arms. “Una… come here.” I stepped into her embrace, and she held me so tight I could hear her heart hammering like a trapped bird. “Mommy is going to take you somewhere new, okay? Just you and me.” I smelled the crushing, agonizing wave of bitter ash pouring from her, and I nodded against her shoulder, tears stinging my eyes. Early the next morning, Mom packed our suitcases and we got ready to head to the train station. But the moment she opened the front door, Dad was standing there. His face was distorted with a wild, feral rage. Before she could even speak, he struck her across the face. “Summer! How can you be so utterly wicked?” he roared, his chest heaving. “Christine was carrying my child, and you spread those malicious lies to destroy her!” Mom fell backward against the coat rack, clutching her bruised cheek, her eyes wide with shock. “What are you talking about? What lies?” “Don’t play innocent! You reported her to the school board, accusing her of leaking the state standardized exams! You stressed her out so badly she miscarried!” He lunged forward, grabbing my arm with a crushing grip, dragging me and Mom out of the house. I stumbled, my feet barely touching the ground as he hauled us all the way to the hospital, throwing open the door to Christine’s room. The second the door swung open, a thick, sour stench of copper and sweat hit my nose. Christine was curled up on the hospital bed, her face pale as a ghost. When she saw Dad, she squeezed out a weak, martyr-like smile. “Don’t blame Summer, Jared… I stole her life, so she had every right to hate me. I accept my punishment… But my baby… he was only three months old. A little boy…” Dad glared at Mom, his teeth grinding. “Are you happy now, Summer? Did you have to destroy her to feel good?” Christine sobbed into her hands, her shoulders shaking. The acrid smell of her lies and his blind fury was so intense it made my eyes water. Dad’s voice boomed through the room: “I was the one who married her! If you wanted to punish someone, punish me! What did an innocent child do to you? Are you really so vindictive just because Christine gave me her first time, and you couldn’t?” He stared at Mom, his words dripping with pure disgust. “I always knew you were physically ruined, Summer. I didn’t realize your soul was this dirty, too.” Mom’s lips trembled violently. She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t do it… I swear, I didn’t…” Dad let out a long, heavy sigh, placing his hands on her shoulders in a terrifying mimicry of comfort. “The baby is gone, Summer. We can’t change that. But someone has to take the blame. The school board is investigating the leaked exam papers. You’re going to go to the police and confess that you stole them to frame Christine.” Mom froze, looking as if she had been struck by lightning. “You want me… to take the fall for her?” Dad frowned, his tone completely matter-of-fact. “You’re the one who caused this mess. Christine is an educator, and she’s my wife now. If her record is tarnished, her career is over. You’re already… well, your reputation doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll still support you. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” Mom’s tears flowed freely. “And what about Una? She can’t have a mother who’s a felon.” Dad reached out, gently wiping a tear from her cheek, his voice dropping to a chill whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ll have Christine legally adopt Una. Her record will remain perfectly clean.” The sheer horror of his words seemed to finally break through Mom’s shock. She lunged forward, grabbing me and wrapping her arms around me like a shield. “Never.” Christine’s weak voice drifted from the bed: “Summer… I’ve lost my boy. If you take the blame, I promise I’ll raise Una as my own. I’ll love her, I swear.” My nose twitched violently. A wave of rotten, sour deceit filled the air. I broke free from Mom’s grip and jumped in front of her. “You’re a liar!” I screamed at Christine. “Your breath smells sour when you speak! My mommy didn’t do anything wrong!” Dad’s face contorted into something monstrous. “Summer, you’ve even taught the child to lie! It’s obvious you stole those papers!” Christine feigned weakness, raising a hand. “Jared, stop… maybe it really wasn’t Summer… let it go…” Mom was shaking so hard she could barely stand. She looked at the two of them, her eyes flat and empty, filled only with a quiet, terrifying peace. She backed toward the window, her voice barely a whisper. “I won’t take the fall for her lies. But since you both insist I took her child’s life… an eye for an eye. I’ll pay you back with mine.” Before anyone could react, Mom spun around, threw open the window, and climbed onto the ledge. In the split second before she let go, she looked back at me. There was no anger in her eyes—only a devastating, heartbreaking sorrow. Then, she stepped into the air. A sickening, heavy thud echoed from the pavement below. The chaotic hospital hallway went dead silent.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536333”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I found my girlfriend’s account on a viral social media thread where people were confessing their deepest regrets about “the one that got away.” Her comment was near the top, heavily upvoted. “Walking away so you could build the life you deserved is my only peace. I don’t regret it.” Followed by: “I’m getting married to someone else soon. I hope you find the happiness I won’t have.” A verified lifestyle influencer—a man with hundreds of thousands of followers—had replied directly to her. “I’ll never be happy without you.” I spent the next hour scrolling through the replies, piecing together the history she had kept hidden from me. It didn’t take long to find the details. They had been college sweethearts, deeply in love, but had parted ways over conflicting ambitions. Ruby hadn’t wanted him to struggle, so she had emptied her entire savings account to fund his early days as a creator, choosing to carry the financial burden alone just so he could have a shot at his dreams. The back-and-forth between them in the comment section was still active. Chase—the influencer—had posted a voice note, his tone thick with performance-level agony. “If you don’t love him, why are you marrying him?” When Ruby mentioned me, her tone was entirely detached. “He loves me.” “Since I can’t have you, I might as well marry someone who worships the ground I walk on. He takes care of the house, he makes life easy, and I don’t have to worry about him.” I sat in the dark, staring at the screen. All those years of quiet devotion, of waiting for her, of building what I thought was a partnership, reduced to a convenient domestic arrangement. I was just a safe bet. A live-in housekeeper who kept her bed warm. I quietly closed the app. I called our wedding coordinator and told her to put a hold on the venue and the caterers. There was no point in planning a wedding for a woman who was still living in a past I had no part in. … After I hung up, I stood in the living room of our Seattle townhouse, looking around at the space we shared. It was pristine, minimalist, and entirely curated by her. Every corner bore the marks of our life together, yet it felt completely hollow. Our bedrooms were side by side. Ruby had always told me she was traditional, that she wanted to wait until marriage before we shared a bed. For five years, I slept in the guest room, respecting her boundaries, believing her restraint was a sign of how deeply she valued herself and our future. But the comment thread had revealed a different truth. During their peak, Ruby and Chase had conceived a child. They had chosen to terminate the pregnancy so it wouldn’t derail his rising career. All of her passion, her physical vulnerability, and her capacity for sacrifice had been spent on Chase. What she brought to me was a sterile, walled-off version of herself. We lived under the same roof, but the wall between our bedrooms was a boundary she never intended to tear down. The front door chimed as the lock disengaged. Ruby was home. She kicked off her heels, washed her hands, and walked over to give me her usual, brief hug. It was a mechanical gesture, over before it even began. She immediately started unbuttoning her blazer as she walked toward her bedroom. “Babe, I’m exhausted. Can you get dinner started?” It was the tone she used with her assistants at her marketing agency. I watched her back and said nothing. For years, that evening arrival had been the highlight of my day. That brief, dry hug had been enough to sustain me, making me feel like we were building a home. I had lived in that delusion for five years, so desperate to believe she loved me that I had ignored the obvious. Now, the veil was gone. Her affection was just a chore she checked off her list the moment she walked through the door. “Ruby,” I said, my voice quiet in the still room. “What do you actually think about when you hug me?” She stopped in her tracks. She turned around, studying my face for a few seconds, before offering a soft, polite smile. “Why would you ask something like that?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. Ruby probably didn’t realize that she used that exact same smile whenever she was losing her patience. She smiled like that when I asked her to watch a movie with me, when I dragged her to the grocery store, and even when she occasionally muttered that she loved me. It was a mask for her annoyance. I used to make excuses for her, telling myself she was just stressed from running her business. But after reading her confessions to Chase, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. In one of her replies, she had written: “Being with him is so incredibly dull. Every time he touches me, my mind just drifts back to you.” The questions I had carried for years finally had their answers. I had been stubborn, clinging to the hope that I could win her over if I just gave her enough time. But now, the hope was dead. Ruby watched me, her eyebrows drawing together in a slight frown. “I saw the thread,” I said quietly. “I canceled the wedding venue this afternoon. We’re done.” Before she could process my words, her phone began to ring. It was a specific, high-pitched ringtone she reserved for only one person. Her expression changed instantly. It was a complex flash of emotion—a sudden spark of hope mixed with hesitation. It was a look she had never given me, not even when she accepted my proposal. “It’s a client,” she said quickly, her voice tight. “I need to take this. Just get dinner ready, okay? I’m starving.” The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, cutting me off. I stood there for a moment, staring at the painted wood. Then, instead of heading to the kitchen, I went into the guest room and pulled my suitcases out of the closet. It took me less than thirty minutes to pack five years of my life into two bags. As I wheeled my luggage toward the front door, the master bedroom remained closed. She was still on the phone. I knew that my departure would ultimately be a relief to her. With me out of the picture, she was finally free to go back to the man she actually wanted. I pulled the door shut behind me and didn’t look back. It was past midnight by the time I checked into a hotel downtown. When I finally turned my phone back on, there was a single text from Ruby. “?” I looked at the question mark and felt a cold, empty laugh bubble up in my chest. In my presence, she had always been a woman of few words, constantly finding ways to avoid real conversation. I remembered the night I had an emergency appendectomy. I was groggy and disoriented from the anesthesia, drifting in and out of sleep in the recovery room. Sometime in the middle of the night, I was startled awake by a nurse’s sharp gasp. I looked up to see that my IV bag had run completely dry, and my own blood was backing up into the long plastic tube. The nurse had looked at Ruby, who was sitting in the corner armchair scrolling through her laptop, with clear disapproval. “Why didn’t you call us? Or at least wake him up to press the call button?” I had curled my sore, bruised hand, waiting for Ruby to say something. But she had just closed her laptop, her face entirely blank. “I forgot. A little backflow isn’t going to kill him anyway. I have an early meeting tomorrow, so I’m going to head home.” She didn’t offer an apology. She didn’t even look at me as she gathered her things and walked out of the room, leaving me alone in the sterile, fluorescent light of the ward. Later, I saw a text exchange on her iPad that she had forgotten to log out of. Her friend had asked her why she left me alone at the hospital. Ruby’s response had been chillingly honest: “Honestly, the thought of having to talk to him when he woke up just exhausted me. I didn’t want to deal with it, so I figured I’d just leave and let the nurses handle him.” Even then, I hadn’t left her. I had convinced myself that she was just emotionally guarded, that marriage would soften her, that we would find our rhythm once the commitment was official. But seeing her write paragraph after paragraph to Chase, answering his every whim with vulnerability, I finally understood. She wasn’t incapable of warmth; she was just incapable of giving it to me. I looked at the single character on my screen and typed out a reply. “We’re over, Ruby. Don’t contact me again.” I saw the status change to typing… Half a minute later, she sent: “…” When I tried to reply, the message failed to deliver. She had blocked me. It was her favorite tactic—the silent treatment, designed to make me feel small until I eventually crawled back to apologize for whatever boundary I had dared to cross. But this time, I wasn’t coming back. Three days later, the wedding coordinator called and asked me to stop by their office to sign the paperwork for the deposit refund. As I pulled into the parking lot, I ran straight into Ruby and Chase. The moment she saw me, the smile vanished from her face. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice instantly defensive. She didn’t seem to realize that she had instinctively stepped slightly in front of Chase, shielding him from me. I didn’t bother answering. I tried to walk past them toward the glass doors of the office, but Ruby grabbed my forearm, her grip tight. “Don’t bother going inside,” she said, her voice dropping. “I already canceled the contracts and had the refund processed. I transferred the entire amount to Chase.” She looked at me, her eyes cold. “From now on, Chase is taking over our booking. He’s using the venue and the styling package for his brand’s summer launch.” She had taken my half of the non-refundable deposit and handed it to her ex-boyfriend without even consulting me. Chase stepped out from behind her, offering me a hand. “Hey there, big guy,” he said, his smile dripping with quiet satisfaction. People were walking past us on the sidewalk, glancing at the tension radiating between the three of us. I kept my hands in my pockets, my eyes locked on Ruby. “And what capacity is he working under to take over my contract? Is he registered as the home-wrecker?” Chase’s expression crumbled into immediate, dramatic hurt. “That’s not fair… I’m not a home-wrecker,” he muttered, taking a step toward me as if to explain himself. But as he reached out, his foot caught on the edge of the concrete planter. He stumbled forward, directly toward me. Before he could even make contact, Ruby shoved me backward with surprising force, lunging to catch Chase by his waist. Unprepared for the blow, I lost my footing and fell hard onto the rough asphalt. The gravel tore through the skin of my forearm, leaving a jagged, bloody scrape from my wrist to my elbow. Ruby blinked, looking at my arm for a split second before her expression hardened into familiar impatience. “Stop causing a scene,” she snapped. “Just go home, Wright. I need to take Chase to urgent care to make sure he didn’t twist his ankle.” “Ruby,” I said, my voice dangerously calm as I pushed myself up from the ground. She paused, looking back over her shoulder. I stood up, brushing the dirt off my jeans, ignoring the stinging pain in my arm. “There is no wedding. And you don’t have the right to hand my money over to your boyfriend. You have forty-eight hours to return my share of that deposit, or I’m filing a police report for grand theft.” I went to a nearby clinic, got my arm cleaned and bandaged, and walked out into the cool afternoon air. I was heading toward my car when Ruby suddenly appeared from the shadows of the parking garage, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the darker, quieter lower level. I yanked my arm out of her grasp, disgusted by her touch. “What is wrong with you?” I demanded. Ruby stared at me, a bitter sneer curling her lip. “Oh, cut the act, Wright. Did you really think I wouldn’t figure out it was you? You hired someone to post that video online, didn’t you?” “What are you talking about?” Instead of answering, she snatched her phone out of her bag and threw it violently at my chest. It hit my collarbone, sending a sharp, blooming pain through my shoulder. I ignored it, catching the phone before it hit the ground, and looked down at the screen. It was a TikTok video. Someone had filmed our argument outside the wedding planner’s office. Chase’s face was highly recognizable, and the video had already amassed millions of views. To make matters worse, internet sleuths had already linked the video to the confession thread from a few days prior. My voice on the video, clearly calling him a “home-wrecker,” had given the internet all the context they needed. The comment section was brutal. “I thought this was some epic star-crossed romance, but he’s just a cheap home-wrecker.” “The fiancé looks devastated. Chase is trash.” Almost every comment was tearing Chase’s brand apart. His follower count was dropping in real-time. Ruby took a step closer to me, her voice softening into a plea that felt entirely performative. “Chase worked so hard to build his platform, Wright. He finally got to a place where he could support himself. Do you really have to destroy his entire life just because you’re angry at me?” “He did this to himself,” I said, meeting her gaze. “I didn’t post that video, and I don’t care about his career.” The mock-softness vanished from her face, replaced by pure disgust. “How can you be so incredibly malicious?” For five years, Ruby had been the epitome of composure. She had never raised her voice at me, never shown any real passion, positive or negative. Yet here she was, vibrating with rage, all because someone had threatened Chase’s reputation. I looked at her—at the face I had loved for so long—and realized I felt absolutely nothing. No anger, no longing, just a profound sense of exhaustion. “You really love him, don’t you?” I asked quietly. Ruby opened her mouth, then hesitated for a fraction of a second before finding her voice. “He’s my ex, Wright, not my enemy. Why shouldn’t I protect him when he’s being publicly lynched because of your petty jealousy?” I nodded slowly. “Then the comments are right. You two deserve each other. Two miserable, selfish people.” I handed her phone back to her. “I didn’t leak that video, and I don’t care what happens to either of you. Get my money back to me, and stay the hell away from me.” Her eyes narrowed, dark and threatening. “Who else would have done it if not you? I’m giving you twenty-four hours to put out a public statement saying the video was staged. If you don’t, I will make sure you regret it.” She had already decided I was the villain. There was no point in arguing. “Do whatever you want,” I said, turning my back on her and walking away. Over the weekend, the online backlash against Chase only grew. Ruby didn’t contact me again, and I spent the time trying to find a temporary apartment. By Monday morning, I walked into our creative agency, ready to put my head down and focus on work. But the moment I stepped onto the floor, the atmosphere was suffocating. “We have a serious issue,” Ruby said, stepping out of the main conference room. Chase was standing right behind her, looking smug. “A major campaign strategy for our biggest client was leaked to a competitor last night. After a quick audit of the server logs, your credentials were the ones used to access the files.” She was using our company to back me into a corner. Chase looked at me with a pathetic, wide-eyed innocence. “Wright, I never wanted things to get this ugly. I just wanted us to find a way to move past this, but I can’t let you ruin my livelihood and then sabotage Ruby’s agency.” Around us, our employees were whispering, their eyes darting between me and the boss. “I knew he was sketchy,” one of the junior designers murmured loud enough for me to hear. “He’s probably just bitter because Ruby finally realized she could do better.” Another chuckled. “Look at him. He’s desperately trying to hold onto her, but she won’t even look him in the eye.” Ruby stood before me, letting the whispers wash over us. “I’m giving you two choices, Wright. You sign a public retraction admitting you fabricated the cheating allegations and leaked the files, or I terminate you with cause and let our legal team handle the rest.” I stared at her, a bitter taste in my mouth. This agency was something we had built together from her kitchen table when she had nothing but a laptop and a mountain of debt after her breakup with Chase. I had worked eighty-hour weeks, secured our first five major clients, and kept her stable when she wanted to quit. I remembered the night we signed our first major retainer. She had wrapped her arms around my neck, whispering, “We’re going to build an empire, Wright. Just you and me. Promise me we’ll never let anything break us.” It had been a beautiful lie. “Well?” Ruby prompted, holding out a printed sheet of paper. “I already drafted the apology for you. You just need to sign it.” She was entirely confident that I would back down. She thought my love for her, or my fear of losing my career, would make me compliant. I looked at the paper. It claimed that Ruby and I had never been in a serious relationship, that I was an obsessed employee who had let a brief crush turn into a campaign of harassment against her and her partner, Chase. I looked up at her and smiled. “I’ll take my severance and my equity payout. I resign.” Ruby’s confidence faltered, her eyes widening slightly in genuine shock. I didn’t wait for her to recover. “I’ll have my formal resignation on your desk in ten minutes.” Chase shifted uncomfortably behind her, his voice dropping into a whiny tone. “Babe, it’s fine… I don’t want to ruin his life over a few mean comments online. Let him stay.” Ruby’s face darkened, her eyes burning with frustration as she looked at me. “Are you really going to burn your entire career down over a tantrum? Is this how you want to play it?” “I’m not the one playing games, Ruby. You two are running a cheap, desperate scam because you can’t handle the consequences of your own choices.” I tossed my access badge onto the conference table, turned around, and walked out of the office for the last time. “You’re going to regret this, Wright!” she called out after me, her voice echoing in the open-plan office. But before I even made it back to my hotel, my phone began to vibrate violently in my pocket. It was a barrage of text messages and calls from unknown numbers. “You pathetic piece of trash, trying to ruin a real couple because you got rejected.” “Hope you lose everything, you miserable stalker.” My personal number and the address of the hotel I was staying at had been leaked online. My chest tightened as I scrolled through the threats. With shaking hands, I opened Instagram and saw the statement Ruby had posted on the agency’s official account. It featured a photo of her and Chase, looking united and professional. “To our clients and partners: We have officially terminated Wright Darren following a breach of trust and the unauthorized leak of proprietary agency files. The false narratives circulating regarding my personal life were a malicious attempt by a former employee to damage our reputation. We are cooperating fully with law enforcement.” A minute later, a text from Ruby popped up. “I told you what would happen if you didn’t cooperate. Since you wouldn’t clear Chase, I had to protect him. I’ve already filed the police report. Don’t worry—once the press dies down, I’ll drop the charges and make sure you’re taken care of.” She was willing to brand me a criminal just to save her ex-boyfriend’s online brand. As I stepped out of the elevator into the hotel lobby, a man in a dark hoodie suddenly lunged toward me from the seating area. His eyes were wild, fixed on me with terrifying intensity. “You ruined Chase’s life, you piece of trash!” In his hand, he was clutching a small, clear glass bottle. My heart seized. I turned to run, but he caught the sleeve of my jacket, dragging me backward as he unscrewed the cap. A sharp, chemical smell hit the air. I struggled against his grip, screaming for help as the bottle tilted toward my face. “Stop right there!” a sharp, authoritative voice yelled from across the lobby.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536332”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I spent three brutal years in the underground fight rings before I finally made my way back to the Hayden estate, a fragile child clinging to my chest. But the homecoming I had pictured didn’t exist. Instead, I walked straight into the engagement party of my fiancée, Amelia, and my adoptive brother, Eric. My eyes were bloodshot, my chest heaving as I limped forward. But before a single word could escape my cracked lips, Amelia stepped forward, shielding Eric behind her like he was the one who needed protection. “Jude, what is that look in your eyes?” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “Are you here to threaten Eric again?” “Three years ago, you hired a hitman on the black market. You caused the crash that forced me into premature labor and killed our baby.” “Sending you to the underground rings to reflect on your sins was a mercy. We let you keep your life. That was more than you deserved.” My mother stood nearby, her brow furrowed in deep, familiar disappointment. “We let you get away with so much because you grew up away from us, Jude. We felt guilty. We tolerated your wildness.” “But you crossed the line when you tried to destroy Eric. And we will never forgive what you did to Amelia and her child.” My father threw a printed confession at my feet. It fluttered against my worn boots. “Kneel,” he commanded. “And sign it.” Just then, a small, trembling voice whimpered from behind my coat. “Daddy… why are they being so mean to you?” Amelia’s face hardened, turning stone-cold as she stared down at the boy. “Jude, three years in those filthy gutters, and you actually have the nerve to drag your street trash into this house.” I instinctively pulled Toby tighter against my chest, the copper taste of old blood rising in my throat. “Amelia,” I whispered, my voice cracked and desperate. “Three years ago… the baby you delivered early. He didn’t die.” “He’s right here. He is—” “Shut up!” Amelia cut me off with a sharp, cruel shout. She glared down at Toby as if he were a diseased stray dog. I stared at her, and a strange, hollow sensation bloomed in my chest. All the bones I’d had broken in the rings over the last three years didn’t hurt half as bad as this single moment. In my head, a cold, mechanical voice chimed: [All emotional and biological ties with key characters have been severed.] [Do you wish to confirm extraction from this world?] I closed my eyes, letting the darkness wash over me. “Confirm,” I thought. … I looked at Amelia. Her face, which I had once memorized in every detail, now felt entirely foreign. “Amelia, please. Just look at him,” I begged, my voice breaking. “Look at Toby. He’s your boy. He’s the baby from the crash.” Her expression turned glacial. “If you dare use my dead child as a prop for your lies one more time, I will have them tear you apart.” Eric took a step forward, sliding a comforting, possessive hand around Amelia’s waist. “Jude, stop this,” Eric said, his tone dripping with gentle pity. “You need help. Three years ago, when I pulled Amelia from that wreckage, the baby was already gone. Your hitman made sure of that.” Amelia’s cold gaze remained fixed on me. “Eric nearly went over the cliff trying to pull me out of that burning car. And you? You paid for the hit. Who do you think I’m going to believe, Jude? A monster, or my savior?” The truth tore from my throat. “I was the one who pulled you out! Eric was the one who paid for the crash!” Before I could finish, my father stepped forward and delivered a stinging slap across my face. “You classless, ungrateful street rat!” he snarled. “Still spewing garbage.” “You’ve done nothing but try to ruin Eric since the day you got here, yet he has never held a grudge against you.” “Three years in the rings to reflect, and you’re still the same unrepentant degenerate.” I looked at the three of them—my biological parents, my fiancée. The people who were supposed to love me. A dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. “Fine,” I whispered. “If that’s what you want, I’ll go.” I dragged myself up, putting weight on my ruined right leg. The knee joint groaned under the pressure. I gathered Toby into my arms and turned toward the door. I had explained the truth three years ago. No one believed me then. Why would they start now? As I hobbled down the first step of the grand staircase, Eric’s soft voice drifted from behind. “Dad, Mom, Amelia… I think Jude is still angry with us.” “Maybe it’s best if he leaves. It would be… awkward if our guests saw him like this at the engagement party tomorrow.” My boots froze on the marble. Right on cue, Amelia spoke. “Stop him.” Instantly, three heavy-set security guards closed in. I couldn’t fight back; my arms were locked around Toby, protecting him, and my bad leg gave out under the sudden pressure. Within seconds, I was pinned to the cold stone floor. My shattered knee slammed against the edge of the step. White-hot agony flared behind my eyelids, threatening to pull me into unconsciousness. Hands grabbed Toby, tearing him from my grip. “Don’t touch him!” I screamed, thrashing wildly. I clawed at the air, desperate to reach him, but a heavy boot pressed down on my spine, crushing me into the floor. My forehead struck the marble, and warm, sticky blood ran down into my eyes, blurring my vision with red. Amelia walked over, her designer heels clicking softly until they stopped inches from my face. “You murdered my baby, Jude. And now you drag some gutter rat here, thinking you can use him to replace the son I lost?” She delivered a sharp kick to my ribs. The force rolled me onto my side, and the copper taste of bile and blood filled my mouth. Eric stepped up beside her, gently taking her arm. “Amelia, sweetheart, don’t upset yourself.” “Jude’s been in the fight rings too long. I think his mind is just… broken. All he knows now is violence and lies.” My father stared down at me, his lip curled in absolute disgust. “Take that boy away,” he told the guards. “Find out who his real mother is.” My mother chimed in, adjusting her pearls. “And make sure he’s tested for diseases. We can’t have him contaminating the house right before the party.” I thrashed against the hands pinning me down, panic clawing at my chest. “No! Don’t take him!” I screamed. “Toby was born premature! He’s weak—his heart can’t take the stress! You can’t draw his blood like that!” But they weren’t listening. A guard hauled Toby up by his collar as if he were a bag of trash. His tiny, breathless wails echoed down the long hallway, growing fainter. “Daddy! Daddy, save me!” I clawed at the polished marble floor, my fingernails splitting and leaving bloody streaks on the stone. Amelia watched my desperate struggle, her eyes entirely devoid of pity. “I felt this exact pain three years ago, Jude,” she whispered. “How does karma taste?” I looked up at her through the blood dripping from my brow. And suddenly, the anger drained out of me. I just felt so incredibly, profoundly tired. “Amelia,” I said softly. “You are going to regret this.” Inside my mind, the quiet countdown began: [Extraction countdown: 72 hours. Please prepare for departure.] They threw me into the damp cellar. My ruined right leg was entirely numb, cold, throbbing with a dull, sickening ache. Before returning to the Hayden mansion, I had dragged this broken limb through dozens of underground matches. I couldn’t afford to lose. If I lost, Toby didn’t get his heart medication. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, I expected to see Amelia. Instead, Eric walked in. The frail, victimized mask he wore upstairs had completely vanished. “Hey, big bro,” he murmured, his voice light and taunting. “How did those three years in the blood pits treat you?” I looked up at him. He was wearing a pristine white suit. He looked clean, elegant, like a beloved prince raised in luxury, while I lay on the dirty floor, covered in dried blood and old scars, looking like something dragged out of a sewer. Eric strolled over and knelt down in front of me, careful not to get his trousers dirty. “Honestly, I thought you’d die down there,” he whispered. “You’ve got a stubborn soul, Jude. I’ll give you that.” My fingers curled into tight, trembling fists. “Where is Toby?” I hissed. Eric tilted his head, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “You mean that little bastard?” Before he could react, I lunged forward, grabbing him by his crisp collar. “Eric!” He didn’t even flinch. He just leaned in close, his whisper like a snake’s hiss. “Why so impatient? You were this desperate three years ago, too. And what did it get you?” “You still couldn’t protect the boy. Back then, when Amelia went into labor at the crash site… the baby hadn’t even taken his first breath before I had my guys smuggle him out the back door of the clinic. He never even got to cry. It was so easy.” I stared at him, my vision blurring with absolute, murderous rage. “Why?” I croaked. “Why would you do that?” Eric laughed, a soft, chilling sound. “Because if that kid lived, Amelia would never let you go. Because the second you showed up, Mom and Dad started drowning in guilt for giving you away. Because you’re the one with their blood in your veins, Jude. Not me.” The polished facade cracked, revealing the raw, ugly jealousy bubbling underneath. “You grew up in some backwater trailer park. You’re uneducated, dirty, and classless. Why should someone like you get to walk in and take everything I built?” I held his gaze, my heart hammering against my ribs. “So… you were the one who put Toby in that underground ring? You set us up?” “Of course,” he admitted freely. “If I didn’t hold him over your head, how else was I going to make you fight like a rabid dog?” “It’s a shame your trashy life is so resilient. Three years of torture, and all I got was you losing a knee. Pathetic.” Heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor outside. Eric’s eyes darted to the door. In a split second, he grabbed my hand, forced it against his collar, and violently threw himself sideways into the sharp edge of the wooden desk. There was a sickening crack. His forehead struck the corner, and blood immediately pooled from the cut. The cellar door burst open. Amelia was the first through. “Eric!” she screamed. Eric lay curled on the floor, looking impossibly small, tears instantly welling in his wide eyes. “Amelia…” he sobbed, his voice trembling. “I… I just wanted to ask Jude to stop this madness. To sign the paper so we could be a family again…” “I told him I don’t care about the family fortune. I don’t care that he hates me… But why… why did he have to hurt me again?” Amelia snapped her head up, glaring at me. My knuckles were stained red with Eric’s fresh blood. “He did it to himself,” I muttered, knowing how futile it was. “He set me up.” My mother stood behind Amelia, her face pale with sorrow and disgust. “Jude… even now, you continue to lie?” My father’s expression was dark as thunder. “Three years in the fighting pits, and you’ve truly become nothing but a violent brute.” Amelia cradled Eric in her arms, gently wiping the blood from his brow. When she looked back up at me, there was nothing left in her eyes but absolute, freezing hatred. “You haven’t changed at all, Jude. You’re still a monster.” Tucked against her shoulder, Eric glanced over at me through the shadows. His lips moved silently, forming a chilling sentence: That brat won’t survive the night. My mind shattered. A loud, high-pitched ringing filled my ears. The next second, I lunged forward like a rabid animal, trying to rip him away from her. But I never reached him. The guards tackled me, and a heavy blow struck the back of my neck. Darkness claimed me instantly. When I woke up, my arms and torso were bound tightly to a wooden chair. The coarse ropes had cut off the circulation, leaving my wrists completely numb. Outside the small high window, the sky had bruised into a deep, midnight black. The cold whisper echoed in my ear once more: [Extraction countdown: 24 hours.] I closed my eyes. One day left. I had twenty-four hours to pull Toby out of this viper’s nest. The heavy door creaked open. My parents, Amelia, and Eric walked in. A single sheet of paper lay on the wooden table before me. My father tossed a heavy pen onto the table. “Sign it,” he commanded. I lowered my gaze to read the crisp, typed letters. It was all laid out in black and white: I admit to orchestrating the three-year-old car crash that forced Amelia into premature labor. I admit that Eric was entirely innocent, and that he spent the last three years carrying the blame to protect the Hayden family name. I admit that the boy, Toby, is my illegitimate child born from a surrogate in the underground slums, having no biological relation to Amelia. Every single word felt like a physical blow, crushing whatever pride I had left. I looked up at Eric. He was standing quietly by my mother’s side like a dutiful, victimized son. The picture of a sweet, saintly brother who had suffered so much but was still willing to forgive. A sudden, hollow laugh escaped my lips. “Eric,” I said, my voice raspy. “Did you forget? You don’t even carry the Hayden blood.” Tears instantly spilled over Eric’s cheeks. “Jude… why do you hate me so much?” he whispered. He fell to his knees in front of my mother, his shoulders shaking. “Mom… if my presence is what’s making him like this, I’ll leave. I’ll pack my things tonight. I was never supposed to be here anyway.” “If it makes Jude happy, I will give up everything. Just please, don’t let him keep hurting everyone.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears, and she wrapped her arms tightly around him. “Don’t say that!” she cried. “You are my son. You will always be my son.” She glared up at me, her gaze thick with disappointment and pure disgust. “Jude, sharing our blood does not give you the right to torture this sweet boy.” My father added, his voice cold and final. “Eric has been by our side for over twenty years. He is respectful, loyal, and kind. He knows his place.” “And you? You might carry our name, but you are filled with nothing but malice and street violence. You aren’t fit to lace his shoes.” I stared at them, completely detached. That tiny, lingering spark of hope in my chest finally went cold and died. Amelia stepped up, shielding Eric. “You’re still just jealous of him, Jude,” she said. “What do I have to be jealous of?” I muttered. “The fact that he stole the life that belonged to me? Or the fact that he destroyed our actual child?” Amelia’s expression darkened instantly. She stepped forward and delivered a hard, resounding slap across my face. “You have no right to speak of my baby!” she screamed. My head snapped to the side. The taste of fresh blood filled my mouth once more. I slowly turned my head back and looked into her eyes. “Amelia… what if you find out, one day, that the boy upstairs is actually yours?” Her pupils dilated for a fraction of a second, but then her anger returned, hotter than before. “You’ve lost your mind, Jude.” She leaned down, grabbing my jaw in a tight, painful grip. “Tomorrow, at our engagement party, you will stand in front of everyone and apologize to Eric. You will confess to everything you did three years ago.” “And then, I’ll make sure the Haydens write you a check large enough to take that stray child and disappear forever.” I looked at her, and she felt like a stranger from another life. Three years ago, she used to rest her head on my shoulder, gently rubbing her swollen belly. “Do you think he’ll have your eyes, Jude?” she’d ask. And I’d smile and say, “I hope he looks exactly like you.” She’d laugh, swatting my arm playfully. Now, she was standing here, forcing me to confess to murdering that very boy. A wet, bitter chuckle escaped my throat. “Amelia… you make me sick.” Eric sighed softly from the back. “Jude, don’t be stubborn. If you just apologize, we can all move past this.” I ignored him. He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “By the way… your adoptive parents just arrived. They’ve missed you so much.” Eric waved his hand, and the guards untied me from the chair, only to drag me down into an even deeper, darker sub-cellar. My bad knee hit the cold concrete with a sickening thud, and my vision blurred. But a second later, a voice I’d know anywhere pierced through the dark. “Jude! Oh god, Jude!” I forced my eyes open. Walter and Helen were tied to two wooden chairs in the center of the room. Both of them were covered in bruises. Walter’s temple was split open, blood running down the side of his weathered face. Helen’s lip was swollen and purple, her graying hair a tangled mess, but the moment she saw me, she began shaking her head frantically. “Jude, don’t look,” she gasped, her voice raw and breaking. “Mom is here. Don’t worry about us. We’re okay, sweetheart.” Hot, angry tears flooded my eyes. I was only six years old when I got lost. They had found me shivering behind a train station and took me in. Walter ran a tiny, dusty auto shop; his hands were always stained with grease he could never quite scrub off. Helen sold breakfast biscuits, waking up at three every morning to knead dough. They were never rich. But throughout my entire childhood, there was always a warm carton of milk in my backpack. On rainy days, one of them would always be waiting at the school gate with an umbrella. They didn’t share my DNA, but they were more of a family than any Hayden could ever hope to be. Eric walked down the steps, holding the confession paper like a trophy. “Just sign it, Jude,” he said smoothly. “Once you sign, I’ll let them go home.” I glared at him, my teeth grinding so hard they felt ready to shatter. “This is between us, Eric! Leave them out of this!” Eric excelled at looking pleasant while delivering poison. “But you’re not behaving, big brother. Amelia is tired of your lies, and Mom and Dad are exhausted. I’m just doing them a favor. Teaching you a little discipline.” Walter looked at Eric, then yelled at me. “Don’t you dare sign that, Jude! If you didn’t do it, don’t you dare write your name!” A guard stepped forward and slammed a fist into Walter’s stomach. Walter doubled over, gasping for air, unable to speak. I screamed and tried to lunge forward, but two guards caught my shoulders and threw me back down. Eric stepped close, forcing the pen into my trembling fingers. “Sign.” I looked at Walter and Helen. They were shaking their heads, tears streaming down Helen’s bruised cheeks. But Toby was still upstairs. I didn’t know what they were doing to him. I didn’t know if he was crying, or if he was cold. My hands shook so violently the pen slipped from my grip. Eric smiled, reading my thoughts. “Oh, by the way… the kid’s heart rate is dropping. The doctor said whether they keep him on life support depends entirely on Amelia’s mood.” My breath hitched. The air left my lungs entirely. “I’ll sign,” I gasped out. “Just please, let them go.” Walter suddenly began thrashing against his ropes. “No! Don’t do it! Jude, I never taught you any fancy words or how to be a gentleman. But I taught you one thing—a man keeps his spine straight! You don’t bow to lies!” With a sudden, desperate surge of strength, Walter threw his entire weight sideways, knocking the guard next to him off balance. “Dad!” I screamed. I tried to break free, but the world seemed to move in slow motion. Walter’s head struck the sharp metal corner of the heavy work table. Blood burst from his temple, and he collapsed instantly into a silent, unmoving heap on the floor. Helen let out a raw, blood-curdling shriek, trying to throw herself toward him. “Walter!” She struggled so violently that her chair tipped over, sending her crashing onto the concrete. She gasped, clutching her chest, her face draining of all color in a matter of seconds. I fell to my knees, my mind going entirely blank. “Dad…” “Mom…” I crawled forward like a madman, dragging my useless leg, but the guards grabbed my ankles, pinning me to the floor. “Let me go! Let me go to them!” Just then, frantic footsteps pounded down the cellar stairs. A young doctor in a white lab coat burst into the room, his face pale with panic. “Mr. Hayden… the child. He’s going into cardiac arrest.” The last thread holding my sanity together snapped. I don’t know where the strength came from, but I violently kicked off the guards and began dragging myself up the stairs, clawing at the wooden steps. Every movement sent shards of agony through my shattered knee, as if the bone were being ground into dust. But I couldn’t feel it anymore. The pain didn’t matter. In the medical wing, Toby lay on a cold steel table, his tiny face translucent and white. When his eyes found me, a faint, beautiful spark flickered in them. “Daddy…” he whispered. I collapsed over the table, scooping his fragile, freezing body into my arms. His tiny fingers clutched weak folds of my blood-stained shirt. “Daddy… I want to go home.” My tears fell hot and heavy onto his pale cheeks. “Okay, baby,” I sobbed, kissing his forehead. “Daddy is going to take you home.” In my mind, the mechanical voice counted down: [Extraction countdown: 10 seconds.] I held him tighter, tucking his head under my chin. “Don’t be scared, Toby. Daddy is right here. I’m going with you.” His little fingers slowly lost their grip on my shirt, sliding down. I watched his eyes close for the last time. My chest felt as if it had been hollowed out, leaving nothing but empty space. I didn’t have to fight anymore. [3… 2… 1…] [Extraction complete.] As my body went limp and tumbled to the floor, the pain vanished. Floating in the quiet air above, I looked down and saw my own body, still clutching Toby close, lying on the sterile linoleum. We looked so peaceful. Like we were finally just asleep. The next day, the Hayden engagement gala went ahead as planned. Amelia stood under the crystal chandeliers in a stunning ivory gown, looking like a beautiful, distant dream. Eric stood beside her, a gentle smile on his face as he adjusted her delicate lace veil. My biological parents sat in the front row, looking proud. When a guest leaned in and asked about my absence, my mother’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she smoothed it over. “Oh, Jude isn’t feeling well. He decided to rest today.” Amelia heard her, and a flicker of annoyance crossed her features. “Good,” she murmured to Eric. “It’s better this way. Less drama.” As the officiant called for the rings, the heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom slammed open. “My apologies! I hope I didn’t miss the vows.” A man in a dark trench coat stood in the doorway, looking windblown and serious. He glanced at Amelia, then fixed a cold stare on Eric. “Amelia,” he called out, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “I think you’re marrying the wrong man.” The velvet ring box in Eric’s hand trembled. The man stepped forward, speaking with slow, deliberate precision. “The man who dragged you out of that burning car three years ago… wasn’t him.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536331”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For four years, Harry was the kind of cheapskate who made every single penny scream. Then, on the eve of graduation, he threw a black card with half a million dollars on it directly at my face. Harry held Cherry close, his smile sharp, mocking, and entirely unfamiliar. “Renata, let me tell you the truth: I’m not poor. Not even close. The empty bank accounts, the fake illnesses—it was all an experiment. I just wanted to see exactly how pathetic you would be for me.” “Now? I’m bored. And I have Cherry.” He flicked the card against my cheek, laughing. “Half a million. For four years of your life. That’s more than enough, right?” Laughter erupted around us in the crowded bar. “Oh my god, Harry played broke for four years and she actually fell for it?” “Well, look at her. When Harry said he didn’t have money for dinner, she lived on stale bread just to buy him medicine. When he said he was sick, she literally sold plasma to pay for his doctor bills.” “The funniest part? Just last week, she was working four separate shifts a day to buy him some ridiculous birthday present. She almost passed out in a convenience store.” “A charity case actually thought her cheap little ‘true love’ could bag a billionaire heir.” They all knew. They had all been in on it. They were waiting for me to shatter. Waiting for me to cry, to beg like a dog at his feet, pleading with him not to leave me. Instead, I simply bent down, picked up the card, and looked up at him with a small, calm smile. “Half a million dollars for four years. That’s a hundred and twenty-five thousand a year. Honestly? Worth it.” Because the truth was, during those four years… My actual feelings for Harry Kingsley weren’t even worth a dime. 1 “If we’re done here, I’ll be on my way,” I said, slipping the card into my bag and turning to leave. But before I could take a single step, Harry’s friends blocked my path. “Come on, Renata, cut the act,” Jared said, stepping in front of me with a smirk. “You snatched that card so fast it’s embarrassing. Who are you trying to fool with this stoic routine? We know your type. You play tough during the breakup, then cry yourself to sleep in some dingy apartment.” Jared leaned in, his eyes full of condescension. “If you’re really that desperate, just bow your head. Apologize to Harry in front of everyone. Who knows? If he’s in a good mood, he might still keep you around.” “Though, don’t go dreaming about a title,” another guy added, shooting a look at Cherry. His grin was greasy. “Cherry is the official girlfriend now. You? You’re just a toy he’s done playing with.” Cherry clung to Harry’s arm, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Stop it, guys. Don’t tease Renata like that. She’s sensitive. She can’t handle this kind of pressure.” The bar erupted into louder laughter. I looked at them, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Are you done?” “If you are, get out of my way.” The air in the room suddenly went cold. Harry finally looked up at me, his eyes dark with a heavy, patronizing intensity. “Renata, who are you putting this show on for?” “You think taking the money and pretending you don’t care is going to make me respect you?” “I know you better than anyone. You love me so much it’s pathetic. Without me, you won’t even last three days.” I met his gaze, my expression flat. “Really?” “Then maybe you don’t realize just how cheap you actually are.” Harry’s face immediately darkened. The room fell deathly silent for a fraction of a second before exploding. “Is she insane? She actually talked back to Harry?” “She’s broke, dumped, and still trying to act proud?” “Perfect,” Jared said, clapping his hands to stoke the flames. “Let’s place a bet. How long before Renata comes crawling back to beg Harry to take her back?” “I bet three days.” “Two days.” “I say tonight. Girls like her have no backbone. She won’t survive the night.” “Yeah, she’ll be crying into her phone by midnight, writing him a ten-page essay about how sorry she is.” “Or maybe she’ll crawl to Cherry, begging her to share him! Haha!” Uproarious laughter. Jared turned to Harry. “What about you, man? How long do you give her?” Harry stared at me, his eyes filled with absolute certainty. To him, I was a stray dog—no matter how much I struggled, I would eventually crawl back to my master. After a tense silence, he let out a sharp, mocking chuckle. “By tomorrow night.” “She’ll be begging me.” It was as if my four years of obedience, of quiet endurance, had merely been trophies he had collected to display. Jared let out a sharp whistle, jerking his chin toward me. “Hear that, Renata? The man has spoken.” “So, when are you planning on bowing down?” Every eye in the room was on me—mocking, cruel, waiting for the punchline of a joke. I remained quiet for a moment. My fingers brushed against the folded approval letter for my study abroad program inside my purse. A sudden, genuine smile touched my lips. “Actually, let’s make a real bet.” “On what?” Jared asked, caught off guard. I looked up, letting my gaze sweep over every single one of them before settling on Harry’s rigid face. “I bet that for the rest of my life, I will never look back at him again.” 2 Four years ago, when I got accepted into Easton University, I couldn’t even afford the deposit, let alone tuition. When every door had slammed in my face, Mrs. Kingsley—Harry’s mother—approached me. She had only one condition: get close to Harry, keep him in line, and ensure he finished his four years of college without causing a scandal. Now, the four years were up. The $600,000 Mrs. Kingsley had promised was sitting safely in my bank account. Combined with Harry’s parting “severance pay,” I finally had enough to leave the country and build the life I had actually wanted. When my words settled, the room fell quiet again. Then, Jared broke the silence with a loud snort. “Listen to her. ‘For the rest of my life.’ Renata, you sure talk a big game.” Harry glared at me, his eyes dangerously dark. He let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Fine.” “Renata, you said it. Not me.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “I hope you don’t come crawling back on your knees.” I met his gaze, smiling faintly. “Don’t worry. Even if you were the one on your knees, I wouldn’t look back.” Harry’s face contorted, his anger barely contained. “Get out.” Without another word, I turned and walked away. But I knew this wouldn’t be the end of it. A guy like Harry, raised on a silver platter, couldn’t handle being publicly humiliated—especially by someone he believed was entirely beneath him. Sure enough, the retaliation began the very next morning. The owner of the convenience store where I had just resigned called me, his voice dripping with venom as he accused me of stealing from the register, refusing to pay my last two weeks of wages. Then, rumors started spreading around campus. Whispers that I had been using Harry while secretly hunting for other wealthy targets—that I was nothing but a high-end escort with a price tag. Someone even dug up old photos of me—selling plasma at the clinic, working late night shifts at the store, handing out flyers in the freezing cold outside a bar—and spliced them together into a post on the university forum. The title was vicious: [The Campus “Broke Girl” Secret Guide to Hooking a Sugar Daddy: Faking Innocence, Playing Victim, and Sleeping Her Way to the Top] The post went viral overnight. The comments section was a wasteland of mockery and slurs. “No wonder Harry dumped her when he got bored. He saw right through her.” “Why is she acting so pure? She’s basically a call girl anyway.” “I heard she’s trying to go abroad? Lol, probably found a new target to bleed dry.” My phone buzzed. I looked down. It was a text from Harry. [Seen the forum yet?] I didn’t reply. A second later, another message popped up. [Turns out Cherry’s ideas are pretty effective.] [How does it feel? Having everyone call you a gold-digger and a whore? Hurts, doesn’t it?] My eyes lingered on the words “Cherry’s ideas.” A dull, cold ache flared in my chest. Before I could even think of a reply, more texts flooded in. [All you have to do is apologize. Kneel down in front of my friends, say you’re sorry, and tell them you’re willing to be my side-chick.] [Do that, and I might consider having the post taken down.] I stared at the screen, and then, slowly, a laugh escaped my throat. I took a screenshot of the messages. Harry wanted me to regret. He wanted to corner me until I had nowhere left to turn, forcing me to crawl back to him. But he had severely miscalculated. I closed the browser, opened my contacts, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in months. “Mrs. Kingsley, our deal was for me to manage Harry for four years. It didn’t include clean-up duty for your son’s tantrums.” “Now, he’s coming after me.” “How do you plan to handle this?” 3 On the other end of the line, Mrs. Kingsley’s voice was utterly detached. “I don’t.” I froze. “Renata, your money has been transferred. Our arrangement is officially over.” “The forum, the rumors—they are nothing but temporary noise.” “For the last four years, you were at Harry’s side. To put it nicely, it was a transaction. To put it bluntly, I paid for a well-behaved guard dog.” I kept quiet. She didn’t seem to care, adding one final, icy remark: “A stray is still a stray, even if you pave her road with gold.” “Renata, you of all people should know that.” Then, the line went dead. The dial tone buzzed sharply in my ear. I stood there for a long time before slowly lowering the phone. For the next two days, I barely left my apartment. I spent my time organizing documents, tracking my passport and visa applications, and transferring my funds into an overseas account in installments. I also finalized my personal statement with Megan, an older student who had been mentoring me. On the third night, I went to a quiet bar near campus as planned. Megan was stuck in traffic and texted me to head inside first. The moment I walked through the door, I ran straight into Harry and his crowd. Jared saw me first and immediately let out a loud laugh. “Well, well, look who’s here. Renata. Didn’t you say you’d never look back? Changed your mind already?” The entire booth turned to look at me. Harry was sitting in the center of the leather sofa, Cherry draped over his arm. When his eyes met mine, a flicker of smug satisfaction crossed his face. “Come here,” he said, jerking his chin. He pushed a row of shot glasses across the table toward me. “Drink them.” “Do that, and we can get back together. I’ll even have the forum posts taken down.” My voice was flat. “I’m not here for you.” Laughter erupted from the booth again. “Not here for Harry? What, did you just happen to wander in?” “Renata, who are you trying to kid?” Cherry snuggled closer to Harry, her tone faux-sympathetic. “Renata, if you want to apologize, just say it. Harry is all bark and no bite. If you just soften up a bit, he won’t keep holding a grudge.” Jared sneered from the side. “Harry is throwing you a lifeline, and you’re still acting proud? Do you really think you have options?” “Look at the forum,” someone else chimed in. “Your reputation is trash. Who else is going to touch you?” Cherry sighed softly. “Renata, Harry is being incredibly generous. With your name ruined like this, who else would ever want to help you?” Tired of the back-and-forth, I turned to leave. But before I could move, a hand gripped my wrist like a vice. Harry stood up, looming over me, his face twisted in a dark, terrifying scowl. “Renata, have you forgotten where you came from?” “Selling plasma, working double shifts, begging for scraps because you couldn’t even afford tuition.” He leaned down, his breath hot and smelling of alcohol. “Someone like you would sell her own soul for a dollar. Now suddenly you’re too good for a few drinks?” A roar of laughter went up around the table. “Those drinks probably cost more than her life is worth!” “Maybe just one shot is enough!” I stared at him, finding the entire spectacle pathetic. “Are you finished?” I whispered. “If so, let go.” That was the breaking point. The last shred of Harry’s control snapped. He grabbed a glass from the table and poured the amber liquid straight over my head. 4 The cold alcohol dripped down my hair and neck, instantly soaking into my collar. Then came a second glass, and a third. The sharp, burning liquid seeped into my eyes, stinging fiercely. Cherry put on a shocked expression, murmuring, “Harry, stop, she can’t take this…” Yet, even as she spoke, she handed him another glass, her smugness barely hidden. “Renata, why do you have to be so stubborn? Just apologize, and it’s over.” Jared was practically buzzing with excitement. “Pouring it is too boring! Since she won’t drink, just hold her down and force it!” The next thing I knew, someone grabbed my wrists, while heavy hands slammed down on my shoulders, forcing me to the ground. My knees hit the hardwood floor with a sickening crack, and the pain made my vision go white. “Let go of me—!” Before I could finish, my hair was violently yanked back, forcing my head up. Harry pinched my jaw, his grip so tight I thought my bones would shatter. “You won’t drink?” He stared down at me, his voice trembling with a terrifying chill. “Let’s see how strong you really are.” I clenched my teeth, refusing to make a sound. In the struggle, my bag was ripped open, and its contents scattered across the floor. A damp piece of paper slid right next to Harry’s shoe. The alcohol had soaked through its edge, but the English header at the top was unmistakable: International Research Program Application Harry’s eyes caught the paper, and his brow furrowed as he stared at it. But before he could read further, Cherry quickly bent down, picking up the paper and sliding it under a nearby glass. “Oh, look at Renata. Even at a bar, she’s still carrying her homework around.” With one casual comment, she diverted everyone’s attention. Jared laughed. “Typical. She always loved putting on a show.” A strange, uneasy feeling flickered in Harry’s chest. But it was quickly swallowed by his anger. Jared handed him a freshly opened bottle of hard liquor, his eyes gleaming. “Harry, you’re not getting soft on us, are you?” Harry’s hand moved to my neck, squeezing just tight enough to cut off my air. “Soft? For a charity case? She’s not worth it.” His expression hardened. He forced my jaw open and began pouring the burning liquor down my throat. The harsh alcohol choked me, burning a path down to my stomach. Tears welled in my eyes. But he didn’t stop. His hand on my neck tightened, his voice shaking with a cold, manic energy. “Keep going.” “I want to see when she finally breaks.” As the liquor kept flowing, my vision began to fade to black, and my strength ebbed away. All around me, there was nothing but laughter, cheering, and Cherry’s soft, mocking sighs. To them, I was just a stray dog they could kick into the dirt whenever they pleased. Then, the door to the private room was slammed open. “Stop it!” Megan rushed in, her face pale with shock. She immediately threw herself over me, shielding me from them. “Are you all insane? This is a felony!” Harry’s hand froze. Taking advantage of the distraction, Megan pulled me up from the floor. I could barely stand. My wet hair clung to my face, and I was trembling, struggling to draw breath. “I’ve recorded everything tonight,” Megan spat, her voice fierce. “If anyone touches her again, I’m calling the police.” The room finally fell silent. Harry stood there, his face incredibly dark, but he didn’t try to stop us. Megan supported my weight as we walked out, step by agonizing step. As we passed him, I didn’t look at him once. The next afternoon, once the alcohol had worn off, Harry found himself haunted by the memory of my pale, empty face from the night before. Agitated, he ran a hand through his hair and finally dialed my number. When the call connected, his voice was still cold and arrogant, as if he were granting me a favor. “I can overlook what happened last night. Come back, and I’ll make sure those forum posts disappear.” But there was only silence on the other end for a few seconds. The voice that answered wasn’t mine. It was the dorm manager. “Renata? Oh, she checked out yesterday morning. Her room is completely empty.” Harry froze, his voice dropping. “What did you say?” “Didn’t she tell you?” the manager asked, confused. “She caught an early flight this morning. She moved abroad.” Harry gripped his phone, the absolute certainty on his face shattering for the very first time.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536330”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At two in the morning, the living room downstairs erupted again with my husband’s booming laughter as he played online games with his friends. I suffer from severe nervous exhaustion, and waking up abruptly like this always leaves me with a splitting headache. Clutching my temples, I threw a cardigan over my shoulders and walked downstairs to ask him to keep it down. Gary just waved me off impatiently, calling me dramatic before turning right back to his microphone to shout at his teammates. But the very next morning, Lindsay—his college junior who was temporarily crashing at our house—slept in late after pulling an all-nighter. Gary didn’t just shut off every gaming console; he practically tiptoed around the house. When Martha, our housekeeper, accidentally dropped a glass, his face immediately darkened. “Be quiet,” he hissed. “She’s a light sleeper. If you wake her up, are you going to deal with it?” He even turned to me as I was about to head out for work, warning me coldly: “Close the door gently. Don’t startle her.” In that moment, standing in the entryway, watching his tiptoeing silhouette, I suddenly let out a quiet, bitter laugh. We’d been married for three years, and not once had he ever remembered my sleepless nights. He wasn’t naturally careless or oblivious. His tenderness was real; it just never belonged to me. I set my keys down, deciding to leave this house—and this life—completely behind. 1 I turned around and went back upstairs to the bedroom. I dragged my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet, the harsh rasp of the zipper cutting through the quiet house. From the living room, Gary immediately hissed, “I told you to be quiet! Are you doing this on purpose?” I didn’t bother replying. The closet was filled with clothes I’d bought around our wedding three years ago. Most were worn and dated, but still functional. I folded them one by one. Reaching the very bottom drawer, my fingers brushed against a soft, crushed cardboard box. Inside was a dusty-blue cashmere scarf—Gary’s birthday gift to me last year. Lindsay had been there that day. After opening her own presents, she had tossed this scarf onto the sofa, complaining that the color looked too old-fashioned. Gary had casually slid it over to me, saying, “You have pale skin, Faith. It’ll look good on you.” And back then, I actually believed him. Looking back, I realized he hadn’t even erred on the side of making his lies convincing. I dropped the scarf onto the floor and kept digging through the drawers. My ID, bank cards, insurance documents, medical records, and the antique gold pocket watch my mother had left me. Its casing was worn smooth and bright from the decades she had carried it. Our wedding photo sat on the nightstand. I stared at it for two seconds, then left it where it was. Once my suitcase was packed, I dragged it down the stairs. The wheels rattled loudly against the hardwood steps in the silent house. Gary finally stood up from the sofa. He pulled off his headphones, his brow furrowed in deep irritation. “What are you doing clattering around this early?” he muttered, his voice hushed but sharp. “Lindsay is still asleep.” Last night, when my head throbbed so intensely I could barely stand without holding onto the wall, he had told me I was overreacting. Now, for Lindsay’s sake, he was practically holding his breath. “I’m leaving,” I said quietly. “That way, I won’t disturb her.” He blinked, startled, before his lips curled into a mocking smirk. “And where exactly do you think you’re going? Stop threatening to walk out every time you don’t get your way.” He sank back into the sofa, sighing heavily. “How many times are we going to play this game, Faith? Aren’t you tired of it?” “Gary?” The guest room door creaked open. Lindsay stepped out, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing the silk robe my late mother had bought for me. Her hair was slightly messy, her eyes red, the picture of an innocent, startled child. “Faith, did I do something wrong by staying here?” Her voice trembled, sounding as though she was on the verge of tears. “I can leave. I’ll pack my things and find a place today.” Yet, even as the words left her mouth, she swayed, clutching the banister before leaning heavily to the side. Gary bolted up the stairs to catch her. When he looked back down at me, his eyes were filled with the kind of disgust you’d reserve for an abusive partner. I stared at the robe Lindsay was wearing. It was a delicate ivory silk, bought by my mother a month before she passed. She had dragged herself to the boutique, insisting that a woman should always have one beautiful piece that made her feel valued—that I shouldn’t always settle. Pinned to the collar was a small silver butterfly brooch, the very one I had searched for in vain last night. “That robe belongs to me,” I said, my voice flat and empty. Lindsay’s face went pale. She immediately reached for the buttons, but before her fingers could undo the first one, Gary caught her hand. Pulling her behind him, he glared down at me. “It’s just a robe, Faith. Do you really have to humiliate her over a piece of fabric?” “Just a robe.” I met his gaze. “If someone else were wearing your late mother’s belongings, would you still say it’s just a piece of fabric?” Gary’s expression froze. He opened his mouth, but no apology came. Instead, he looked away, muttering, “Go back to your room, Lindsay. I’ll handle this.” “Handle what?” I asked him. “Are you going to handle me, or the robe?” “Faith!” he barked, his voice hushed but sharp. “That’s enough.” I didn’t argue. As I dragged my suitcase to the front door, Gary suddenly reached past me and pressed his hand against the brass handle, blocking my way. “My mother’s birthday dinner is tonight,” he said, staring at my luggage. His tone wasn’t a plea; it was a directive. “Don’t embarrass our family.” I laughed quietly. “Do you actually need a wife, Gary, or do you just want an accessory for your family photos?” He went quiet for a beat before letting go of the door. “Stop being dramatic,” he muttered coldly. “I’ll pick you up tonight.” Behind him, Lindsay’s timid voice floated down: “Gary… maybe I should go with you instead. It really seems like Faith doesn’t want to deal with this anymore.” I didn’t turn around. I pulled the door shut behind me. 2 I checked into a boutique hotel near my office. I had just stepped out of the shower, my hair still dripping wet, when my phone rang. It was Gary’s mother, Donna. “Faith, what on earth is wrong with you?” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the speaker. “Gary tells me you’re playing your moving-out games again. He’s under so much pressure at work, and he has to come home to this? Can’t you be a little more mature?” The towel froze in my hands. “So what if he’s helping out his college junior? Men work hard to build a career, and they deserve a peaceful home. Stop being so petty about every little thing.” Before I could answer, Donna shifted to her social voice. “Be early for the dinner tonight. Don’t make us wait. I had my personal shopper pick out a dress for you; come try it on.” After the line went dead, I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the floor. On our wedding day three years ago, Donna had taken my hands and told me that Gary was emotionally distant, and that he needed someone gentle like me to warm him up. She said she would treat me like her own daughter. I guess this was what daughters were for. I still went to the birthday dinner. Not for Gary, but for his father, Charles. When my mother was in the oncology ward, Charles had pulled strings to get her into a specialized clinical trial. I owed him that debt of gratitude. When I walked into the private dining room at the restaurant, I saw Lindsay already seated beside Gary. She was adjusting his tie, her fingers hovering near his collar, laughing at something he said. The extended family watched them, exchanging knowing glances. I caught the low murmur of an aunt nearby: “Honestly, Lindsay looks like a much better fit for Gary. Faith has always been so cold, hasn’t she?” The glass of water in my hand trembled slightly. Donna spoke up, her voice smooth but carrying the weight of a command. “Faith, Lindsay is struggling to find her footing since returning from her study abroad. Your firm has an opening in marketing, right? Put her there. You’re family now; you should look out for her.” “Our hiring process is strict,” I replied. “I can’t just bypass HR.” Lindsay’s eyes immediately downcast, her voice dropping to a soft whisper. “Are you still angry with me, Faith? I don’t mind starting from the bottom. I’m not afraid of hard work.” Gary placed his fork down, the silver clinking sharply against the porcelain plate. “Faith, don’t bring your domestic grievances to a family dinner.” “Everyone is watching,” Donna added, offering a polished smile to the table. “Just give her a chance.” I was pinned under their collective gaze, cast once again as the petty, jealous wife. Suddenly, Charles set his glass down. He looked at Lindsay, his tone casual but discerning. “Lindsay, didn’t you mention last week that you had a recommendation from Oxford’s prestigious research group? If you’re that qualified, why are you looking to start at the bottom at Faith’s firm?” Lindsay’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She quickly recovered, though, offering a sweet, deferential nod. “Mr. Caldwell, I just want to learn the practical side of things. Working under Faith would teach me so much more than any academic program.” Gary jumped in to smooth things over. “She’s young. She’s still finding her footing.” Watching Gary defend her so smoothly, so instinctively, felt like a slow, dull blade carving into my chest. Before the dinner ended, Donna pulled me into the ladies’ lounge. She reached into her Chanel bag and slid a folded document across the vanity toward me. “This is your health assessment from the family clinic,” she said, her voice dry and matter-of-fact. “You and Gary have been married for three years. It’s time for a child. You can’t keep using your insomnia as an excuse to avoid it.” I stared at the medical report. My doctor had explicitly warned me that with my level of nervous exhaustion and the heavy dosage of sleep aids I was taking, my body was in no condition to carry a pregnancy. But Gary had never accompanied me to a single follow-up. He didn’t even know what prescriptions sat in our medicine cabinet. I crumpled the paper in my fist and remained silent. Donna let out a long, disappointed sigh. “Stop acting out, Faith. Go home and set up that position for Lindsay. A woman’s most important asset is her dignity. You surely don’t think you can survive without the Caldwell name, do you?” When I walked out of the lounge, I saw Lindsay trip near the end of the corridor, collapsing onto the carpet. She clutched her ankle, tears already pooling in her eyes. Gary bypassed me entirely to get to her. His elbow slammed hard into my lower back as he rushed past, throwing me against the sharp edge of a console table. Pain flared up my spine, blacking out my vision for a second, leaving me breathless. He scooped Lindsay up into his arms, heading straight for the exit without a single backward glance. I leaned against the wall, trying to steady myself through the blinding ache in my back. From down the hall, Lindsay’s muffled sob echoed: “Gary, does Faith hate me? I only wanted to apologize to her…” 3 I didn’t go back to the house for two days. Gary didn’t call. He only sent a single text: “When you’re done throwing your tantrum, come home and get Lindsay’s onboarding paperwork ready.” I stared at the screen for a long time before letting out a soft, hollow laugh. To him, my packing up, my injury, and the agonizing nights I spent staring at the ceiling were completely insignificant compared to Lindsay’s onboarding file. At our next quarterly project meeting, Lindsay showed up unannounced. She slid into the seat directly opposite me, offering a sweet, eager smile. “Gary suggested I shadow you today to learn the ropes. You don’t mind, do you, Faith?” I kept my eyes on my laptop screen, ignoring her. The presentation started smoothly enough. But as I flipped to the key financial projection slide to explain our risk model, Lindsay spoke up, cutting me off. “Faith,” she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence, “isn’t that model incredibly risky? Gary mentioned last night that your mental state hasn’t been stable lately. Are you sure these numbers are safe?” The entire conference room fell into a dead silence. Every eye pivoted to me. She wasn’t just being naive. She was deliberately linking my professional competence to my personal struggles, attempting to tear down my credibility in front of my peers. I took a slow, deep breath, forcing myself to finish the pitch. The project had been on the verge of approval, but by that afternoon, the board sent it back for “re-evaluation.” My assistant, Becca, closed my office door and lowered her voice. “Someone leaked anonymous files to the board. They claim your heavy medication makes you mentally unstable.” My fingers froze over my keyboard. “There’s also this,” she added, placing a manila folder on my desk. I opened it. Inside were clear, high-resolution photographs of my medical records. The prescriptions for my sleeping pills and the doctor’s recommendation to “reduce high-stress activities” stood out in sharp focus. The angle of the photos was unmistakable. They had been taken from directly above the drawer in our home study. Staring at those pages, a cold shiver ran down my spine. I packed my things and took an Uber back to the house. The lock on the study door showed clear signs of tampering—two fresh, jagged gouges in the wood from a screwdriver. I pushed the door open to find my desk drawers completely disarrayed. The velvet box holding my mother’s pocket watch was missing. Laughter drifted up from the living room. Downstairs, Lindsay was curled on the velvet sofa, looping the gold chain of my mother’s pocket watch around her neck. The watch face caught the light, clicking open and shut between her manicured fingers. “Faith! Look at this, it’s so vintage,” she smiled, looking up at me. “Gary said you never wear it anyway, so I thought I’d borrow it. You don’t mind, right?” I walked toward her, my pace quickening. She gasped and suddenly let go. The heavy gold watch slammed onto the marble floor. The casing popped open, the glass face shattering into a web of fine cracks. Underneath, the black-and-white portrait of my mother as a young woman fractured into pieces. Gary rushed down the stairs. His eyes went straight to Lindsay first. Seeing her welling eyes, his tone dropped into immediate accusation. “Faith, what the hell are you doing now?” I knelt down, trying to pick up the broken pieces. A shard of glass sliced into my index finger, and a drop of dark blood fell onto my mother’s picture, seeping into the cracks. Gary frowned. It wasn’t out of concern for me. “You’re getting blood on the rug,” he said. He reached down, grabbing my arm to pull me up. “It’s just an old watch. I’ll buy you a new one.” I looked up at him. “Gary,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet holding every ounce of weight I had left, “there are some things you can never afford to replace.” Something in my eyes seemed to pierce through him, but only for a second. He looked away, guiding Lindsay toward the kitchen to find an ice pack for her wrist. He left me kneeling on the floor alone. The blood dripped steadily from my finger, staining the dusty-blue cashmere scarf that still lay discarded on the floor. I pulled out my phone, desperately wanting to talk to someone. I scrolled through my contacts twice, found no one, and locked the screen again. Later that night, Gary’s name flashed on my screen. I picked up, only to hear his exhausted voice. “Lindsay is hysterical because of what happened. You need to come home and apologize to her.” There was a brief pause on his end. Then, I heard Lindsay’s soft, fragile voice in the background: “Gary… do you think Faith is never coming back because of me?” 4 The hospital waiting room smelled of antiseptic and ozone. My physician, Dr. Choi, a woman in her mid-forties, stared at my test results with a deepening frown. She set the folder down and remained quiet for a long moment before speaking. “Your nervous exhaustion has progressed to the point where it’s severely affecting your heart rate and sleep patterns,” she said, tapping her pen on my charts. “The palpitations, the migraines, the memory lapses—these are serious somatic responses to prolonged trauma. I strongly recommend checking yourself in for observation.” I held the papers tight. My first reaction wasn’t fear; it was a profound sense of absurdity. I had endured three years of this, pushing through until my physical body began to fail. And in that house, all they ever called me was dramatic. I didn’t check in. I couldn’t. The situation at my firm was spiraling. The proprietary project models that Lindsay had shadowed were leaked to our main competitor. Every trace of the upload pointed to my IP address, with timestamps linking directly to my user account. The competitor used our data to undercut us, stealing our two largest clients. When Gary arrived at the office, he bypassed security and barged into the boardroom without knocking. The entire executive team was present. Standing at the head of the table, he looked at me in front of all my colleagues and said, “Faith, given your current emotional instability, we are placing you on administrative leave immediately.” There was no “is there an explanation?” No “I trust you.” Only those clinical, damning words: “your emotional instability.” I stood in the center of the room, my colleagues’ eyes scanning me like searchlights, as if seeing me for the very first time. I didn’t say a single word. I unclipped my ID badge, set it on the mahogany table, and walked out. But the truth came out sooner than expected. Our IT department retrieved the external access logs and discovered that the IP address used to upload the proprietary data was located inside our home. I thought that maybe, just once, Gary would suspect her. Instead, his expression remained closed off. “There are multiple devices on that network. We can’t convict someone just based on an IP address.” Lindsay stood right behind him, her eyes red, looking like a wronged martyr. “I only borrowed Faith’s laptop that evening to look up some research articles. I don’t know anything about corporate databases.” Gary turned to me instantly. “You knew she was unfamiliar with the company systems, and yet you’re trying to shift the blame to her?” Without waiting for my reply, he took her arm and guided her away. On the day my suspension became official, Donna came to see me. She asked to meet at the cafe downstairs. She didn’t order anything; she simply slid a bank check across the table. “A public scandal isn’t good for anyone. Gary is at a critical juncture in his career. You need to be understanding.” She pushed the check closer to my hand. “A woman’s priority should be her reputation, Faith. Don’t make things so difficult that you end up losing your place in the Caldwell family.” I stared at the check. On my wedding day, she had held me close, promising I was her daughter now. It turned out that daughters had a very specific price tag. That evening, I returned to the house to pack my final suitcase. When I opened our bedroom door, I found the sheets had been replaced, the diffusers swapped out, and the vanity cleared. Lindsay’s belongings had been moved in from the guest room. Her bags were laid out, her designer coats hung in our master closet, pressing against the few things I had left. Gary stood by the doorframe, offering an indifferent explanation. “She’s been terrified since the incident. It’s easier to look after her if she’s close.” I stared at the bed I had slept in for three years. A sliver of lace from Lindsay’s nightgown peeked out from under the duvet. Her hand cream sat on the nightstand. When I remained silent, his annoyance flared up. “If you had just come home earlier instead of playing games, no one would have touched your things.” I turned around and headed down the stairs. Suddenly, my chest tightened. My heart skipped a beat, then began to race frantically. Darkness crept into the edges of my vision, and my ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton, drowning out all sound. My foot slipped, and I fell down the hardwood steps. My back collided heavily with the stairs, a dull numbness spreading through my limbs. Before I lost consciousness, I heard Gary shouting my name. His voice sounded frantic, terrified. But then, Lindsay’s fragile voice cut through like a needle: “Gary… my chest feels so tight, I can’t breathe—” The frantic footsteps turned and moved away from me. Lying on the cold marble of the foyer, the distant, wailing siren of an ambulance was the last thing I heard. The final trace of warmth inside my chest turned to ice.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “536329”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel