Author: Momo Chan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For eight years, Kellan tore up the asphalt, clawing his way from dusty local go-kart tracks to the glittering podium of the Apex Rally Championship. He became the living embodiment of speed, adrenaline, and reckless glory. And for eight years, I sat in the background, eating microwave ramen so he could afford new tires. On the night his funding completely dried up—the night he stood on a rooftop, dangerously close to the edge, ready to end it all—I sold the little bungalow my grandmother had left me. I took every cent I had in the world and poured it into his dying racing team. Once, after his first major victory, I leaned against his car and half-joked, “So, when do I get to ride shotgun and see what this thing can really do?” He didn’t even look at me. He just peeled off his Nomex driving gloves and clinically dismantled my fantasy. “The passenger seat is for my co-driver and telemetry data,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s not an amusement park ride. If you get in, all you’d do is scream, distract me, and create a hazard. You’d be completely useless.” I nodded. After that day, I rarely even went to his races. Until today. While his team was out on their championship victory parade, I swung by the team headquarters to grab a sponsorship deck for him. While waiting for the files to transfer on his office computer, I accidentally clicked into the cloud backup of his car’s dashcam. I found a video that definitely wasn’t shot on a sanctioned track. It was the dead of night on a winding canyon road. Sitting in the passenger seat was a young woman, laughing with total, uninhibited abandon. Kellan was driving one-handed. The look in his eyes—a cocktail of wild indulgence and reckless thrill—was a look he had never, not once, given me. The girl reached over to mess with his gear shift. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t tell her she was a hazard. Instead, he caught her hand, his lips curving into a smirk. “Hold on tight,” he murmured. “Let me show you what it really feels like to fly.” I checked the metadata. The video was recorded on the exact same day I was in the hospital, undergoing a painful endoscopy. The day he told me he couldn’t come because of a “strict closed-door training session” at the base. I closed the media player. I neatly stacked the sponsorship contracts on the edge of his mahogany desk. I pulled out my phone and quietly exited every single team Slack channel and group text. When I got home that evening, I spent an hour mapping out a solo cross-country road trip. If his passenger seat didn’t belong to me, then I would simply step out of his vehicle entirely. I would drive my own car, on my own terms, and see the world for myself. … Morning sunlight sliced through the window blinds, casting fractured shadows across the dining table. I was already dressed in a crisp pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater, sitting quietly at the table, stirring a bowl of oatmeal. Kellan walked out of the bedroom, shirtless, rubbing a hand through his perpetually messy hair. He stopped, his brows knitting together as he stared at me. “Where are you going so early?” I didn’t answer. I just took a bite of my breakfast. “Don’t tell me you’re going out to mess around with your toxic friends again,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite me. His tone dripped with that familiar, paternal condescension. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Cleo is a bad influence. You need to cut her off before she ruins you.” From the moment we started dating, he had looked down on everyone in my life. If this were yesterday, I would have fought him tooth and nail to defend my best friend. The argument would have derailed our entire morning. But today, I just lifted my eyes, looked at him for a second, and said evenly, “Got it.” My reaction unsettled him. He stared at me for a long time, long enough for me to nearly finish my bowl. He shifted his posture, adopting a forced, casual drawl. “I’ve got the Continental Championship coming up in a couple of days.” I said nothing. Thinking I hadn’t heard him, he repeated it. This time, his voice carried an expectant, almost charitable edge—waiting for me to do what I had done a thousand times before. Waiting for me to drop whatever I was doing, rush over, and meticulously pack his helmet, his fireproof suit, his HANS device, and his stomach medication. Waiting for me to beg him to be safe out there. Instead, I swallowed my last bite of oatmeal and offered a flat, “Okay.” Nothing more. The air in the kitchen went rigid. He finally lost his patience. “Aren’t you going to pack my gear?” “I have to head out,” I said, carrying my bowl to the sink. “You can pack it yourself.” His face completely froze. Right at that moment, his phone buzzed. He picked it up without a second thought. From the receiver leaked a voice so sweet it practically dripped with syrup. “Hey, Kellan! I just wanted to let you know I’ve compiled all the pace notes and checklists for the Continental race and sent them over. You have to promise me you’ll be super, super safe out there, okay?” The harsh, impatient frost on Kellan’s face melted in an instant, replaced by a devastatingly gentle smile. “Yeah. Thanks for the hard work.” He hung up, caught my eye, and immediately offered an unprompted, overly casual explanation. “That’s our new team coordinator.” I dried my hands on a towel, turned my back to him, and walked to the entryway to put on my shoes. I couldn’t have cared less. My lack of interrogation seemed to make his skin crawl. He took a few quick strides and blocked my path to the door. “Why aren’t you asking me who she is?” he demanded. “Normally, if the team hires a new janitor, you interrogate me about it.” I looked up at him. “Haven’t you always told me I’m annoying when I do that?” The words choked him. His chest heaved as he scrambled to justify himself anyway. “She’s the new coordinator. Her name is Lexi. She handles logistics and…” He rambled on, listing her qualifications. When he finally ran out of breath, I just gave a lukewarm, “Mm.” That sent him over the edge. “What the hell is ‘mm’ supposed to mean?” I thought about the dashcam footage. I thought about the dark canyon road, and the way he looked at her—like he wanted to devour the world and hand it to her on a silver platter. I let out a soft, breathy laugh and finally looked him dead in the eye. “Kellan. Do you have any idea what today is?” He blinked. For a fraction of a second, blank confusion washed over his features. He had forgotten. Today was my twenty-eighth birthday. It was also the exact date, eight years ago, when he asked me to be his girlfriend. The day he swore to me that he was going to be the best driver in the world, and that after every championship win, his victory lap would belong to me. Now, his passenger seat was occupied, and my birthday was entirely erased from his memory. I was suddenly exhausted by the sight of his face. I pushed past him toward the door. “Be home early!” he barked from behind me, the guilt masking itself as frustration. For the first time in eight years, I didn’t say yes. … At the coffee shop, Cleo slammed her ceramic mug onto the table. “Trash! I always told you he was a piece of trash!” she hissed, her eyes blazing. But as she took in my hollow expression, her voice softened. “Are you… are you really sure? Eight years, Brynn. You’re just walking away?” I stirred my latte, watching the foam swirl. “Cleo, have you ever seen him smile?” She froze. In her mind, Kellan was the brooding, arrogant prodigy who constantly looked like the world owed him blood. He never gave anyone the time of day, and even with me—his actual girlfriend—he rarely bothered to show any warmth in public. “No,” she admitted. “He always looks like he’s chewing on glass.” “I saw it,” I said quietly. “He smiled at Lexi.” Cleo fell utterly silent. I put my spoon down and leaned back against the plush velvet booth. “So, there’s no point anymore. At least he didn’t waste my next eight years. This is where it ends.” Cleo didn’t say a word. She just looked at me, her beautiful almond eyes shimmering with an agonizing pity. I knew exactly what she was thinking. She was mourning the youth I had immolated to keep him warm, grieving the absolute devastation of my unconditional surrender. I forced a smile, trying to lift the suffocating weight in the air. “Hey, stop looking at me like that. You’re making me feel like some tragic, abandoned housewife. It’s my birthday. We’re not talking about him anymore.” I grabbed my purse and stood up. “Come on. I’m taking you to my favorite spot for lunch. It’s on me.” Cleo didn’t argue. She just stood up and nodded. Her compliance actually hurt worse. Cleo was a firecracker; on a normal day, she would have cursed Kellan’s name to the heavens, dragged me to a dive bar, and forced me to take tequila shots until I forgot my own name. But today, she just walked quietly beside me. The gentler she was, the more my throat burned with unshed tears. I linked my arm through hers, faking a bright, airy step as we headed toward the restaurant. Fate, however, has a notoriously cruel sense of humor. The moment we stepped into the foyer of the upscale seafood bistro, I saw them. Sitting at the best table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathed in the soft, golden afternoon light, were Kellan and Lexi. Soft jazz played overhead, scoring a scene that made my retinas burn. Kellan’s head was bowed in deep concentration. He was meticulously cracking open a king crab leg, using a small silver fork to pull the pristine white meat out in one perfect piece, and gently placing it onto the small porcelain plate in front of Lexi. Lexi was beaming, her eyes crinkling into crescents as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Seeing that her hair was in her way, Kellan didn’t even hesitate. He casually lifted his wrist, slid off a plain black hair tie, and handed it to her. In that singular moment, it felt like a cold, iron grip had clamped down on my heart. I couldn’t breathe. In our eight years together, I had begged him countless times to keep a spare hair tie on his wrist for me. Every single time, he had recoiled in disgust. “I’m a grown man. I’m not walking around with a scrunchie on my arm. It’s humiliating.” But now, for a girl he had known for less than three months, he was wearing one. Cleo’s temper ignited like gasoline. Her hands balled into fists, and she hissed venomously, “Those absolute pieces of shit.” She took a step toward their table, ready to detonate. I grabbed her arm. Hard. “Don’t.” “Why the hell not, Brynn?! I’m going to rip them apart!” I shook my head. My voice was dangerously quiet, but absolute. “There is no point. I am already gone. I refuse to waste one more drop of emotion on him.” Cleo stared at me, searching my face for any hesitation, before finally backing down. This restaurant used to be my favorite place in the city, but today, the food tasted like ash. I couldn’t control my eyes; they kept drifting to the window table. Every glance was a fresh, twisting knife in my ribs. Without warning, the tears spilled over, blurring my vision. Cleo noticed instantly. She slid out of her booth, moved over to my side, and wrapped her arms tightly around me, pressing my head to her shoulder. “It’s your birthday, B,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “Don’t cry. They aren’t worth your tears.” She meant well, but the words only broke the dam entirely. “You’re right. It’s my birthday,” I choked out, burying my face in her shoulder. “You remembered. We’ve been together for eight years, and he forgot.” I don’t know how long I sat there, crying into Cleo’s shoulder. It felt like I was weeping for every overlooked sacrifice, every cold dinner, every lonely night of the last decade. By the time I finally pulled myself together and wiped my face, the table by the window was empty. Only dirty plates and crumpled napkins remained, the aftermath of a terrible joke. I looked at Cleo, my chest heavy with guilt. “I’m so sorry. I promised to treat you to a nice lunch, and instead I forced you to sit here and watch me break down.” Cleo just reached out and pinched my cheek affectionately. “Birthday girl makes the rules. You get a free pass.” A fragile smile finally broke through. “What’s the plan for this afternoon?” she asked. “I’m going home. I need to pack.” She paused. “Do you want me to come with you?” I shook my head. Some bridges you have to burn by yourself. “Okay,” she said softly. “But if it gets too heavy, you call me. Instantly.” I nodded. … When I walked back into the house I had shared with Kellan for eight years, it was empty. Everything was sickeningly familiar. The leather sofa, the glass coffee table, the abstract art on the walls—every square inch was saturated with the ghost of us. But for the very first time, I felt like a trespasser. I walked into the living room and picked up a silver picture frame. It was a photo from our first year together. We were so young, our faces glowing with a naive, unbruised kind of happiness. I traced his sharp jawline through the cold glass. Then I traced my own bright, stupidly hopeful eyes. I let go. With a dull thud, the heavy frame landed at the bottom of the trash can. I didn’t pack a single designer bag, diamond necklace, or silk dress he had bought me with his prize money. I took my essential documents, my own clothes, and my toiletries. I was just zipping up my well-worn canvas suitcase when the front door clicked open. Kellan was back. He walked into the bedroom, bringing with him a faint, alien scent of something sticky and sweet—Lexi’s perfume. He stopped dead, his eyes locking onto the suitcase by my feet. A deep crease formed between his brows, and irritation bled into his voice. “Where are you going now?” “On a trip.” He let out a sharp, incredulous scoff, as if I had just told him a hilarious joke. “Let me guess. Cleo put you up to this? You are my girlfriend, Brynn, not hers! Running around with her all day acting like you don’t have responsibilities… it’s pathetic.” I stood up straight and looked at him. “You run around all day too, don’t you?” His face darkened. “I do it for my career! For my racing! Do you think we’re the same? All you do is play around!” Play around. The words were two red-hot spikes driven straight through my sternum. When I sat on the floor of a freezing garage eating cup noodles so he could eat hot meals, where was he? When his investors pulled out and he stood on a literal ledge, who wept while signing away the deed to her grandmother’s house—the only family legacy I had left—just to buy his failing team one more season? Now he was a champion, dripping in sponsorships, and my life was reduced to playing around. My hands shook with a rage so profound it robbed me of speech. Seeing my silence, he assumed he had won. He stepped forward, grabbed the handle of my suitcase, and yanked it out of my grip, slamming it onto the hardwood floor. “You’re not going anywhere!” he roared. He stepped into my space, reaching out to pull me into his chest—planning to kiss me into submission, to end the argument the way he always did, through sheer physical dominance. I twisted my body, stepped back, and shoved him away with both hands. He stumbled back a half-step, utterly shocked. His face hardened into a mask of pure indignation. I stared him down and said, clearly and coldly, “You reek of cheap perfume. It’s making me nauseous.” He froze. The color drained from his face. Slowly, the hands that had reached for me dropped to his sides. The fiery arrogance evaporated, replaced by a sudden, nervous silence. After a long pause, he softened his voice, adopting the tone of a weary parent indulging a petulant child. “Alright. Let’s stop fighting. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the track. The guys have missed you. And… I can introduce you to the new team members.” I looked at him. “Fine.” He exhaled a massive sigh of relief, clearly convinced he had successfully extinguished the fire. He grabbed a change of clothes and headed for the master bathroom. The sound of the shower started running. I stood alone in the bedroom, staring at my overturned suitcase on the floor. … The next day, I went to the team’s compound. Kellan was in the garage, deep in a conversation with his head mechanic. The roar of a tuned engine was deafening. The midday sun was brutal, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Out of sheer muscle memory, I unscrewed a bottle of water and handed it to him, then grabbed the microfiber towel from around my neck to wipe the smudges off his helmet visor. A chorus of wolf-whistles erupted from the crew. “Look who it is! Damn, Brynn, we thought you forgot about us!” “For real! Kellan hasn’t shut up about you, our ears are bleeding.” I didn’t smile. I didn’t say a word. I just handed him the clean helmet, my movements as mechanical as a robot running a script. Kellan put the helmet down, his expression unreadable, but the crew’s teasing only escalated. “Hey, B, you’re definitely coming to the Continental next week, right?” “Yeah, you guys are the golden couple! Gotta be there to kiss the champ!” The trap was sprung. I looked up at Kellan, waiting for his move. He cleared his throat and slung a heavy arm over my shoulders, his grip tight enough to feel like a warning. “Of course she’s going,” he announced to the room, his voice brokering no argument. “The Continental is going to be packed with media and high-tier sponsors. As my girlfriend of eight years, it’s time she made an official appearance. She needs to hold the fort down for me.” My stomach plummeted. So this was why he had compromised yesterday. This was why he swallowed his pride and brought me here. Not because the crew missed me. Not because he missed me. He was setting me up. He was using the peer pressure of his team and the weight of our eight-year history to force me into the VIP box. He needed me to play the role of the devoted, long-term partner in front of the cameras to solidify his brand’s “loyal family man” image. I didn’t nod. I didn’t shake my head. I just stood there, dead silent. The atmosphere in the garage shifted, growing incredibly awkward. Right on cue, Lexi strolled in. She was wearing a team polo that matched Kellan’s, her hair pulled back into a bouncy, high ponytail. She wore a perfectly calibrated expression of breathless apology. “Sorry, sorry, guys! I was up so late analyzing the telemetry data from the pace notes, I totally slept through my alarm.” The mechanics, eager to escape my heavy silence, immediately swarmed her. “You’re a lifesaver, Lexi! Seriously, you understand the data, you read the notes, and you can handle riding shotgun on the test runs. You’re insane.” “For real. Finally, a partner who actually keeps up with Kellan.” Those casual, offhand remarks slid under my skin like splinters. Kellan didn’t shut them down. He didn’t offer a single word of defense for me. He just cast a lazy glance at his crew and said, “Alright, settle down. Don’t take the jokes too far.” It didn’t sound like a reprimand. It sounded like permission. At lunch, we ate in the team cafeteria. Lexi carried her plastic tray over and slid into the empty seat on Kellan’s other side, completing the triangle. She poked at a salad, then casually, almost innocently, dropped a bomb. “Hey Kellan, that canyon night-run last week seriously terrified me. When we took that hairpin turn, I swore the car was going to launch off the cliff. I was so scared I grabbed your hand. You aren’t mad about that, are you?” The cafeteria went dead silent. You could hear a pin drop. Every single pair of eyes in the room ping-ponged between me, Kellan, and Lexi. Kellan didn’t even shoot a panicked glance my way. He just frowned at Lexi and said, “You’re new. You just have to get used to the speed. Next time, hold the grab handle.” Only then did he turn to me. His eyes held a flicker of annoyance. “It was just work. Don’t start making up scenarios in your head.” I looked down at my tray and set my chopsticks down. I reached into my tote bag, pulled out the manila envelope containing the sponsorship contracts I had retrieved yesterday, and slid it across the table to him. “You forgot this yesterday.” Kellan’s eyes widened. A flash of genuine shock crossed his face—he hadn’t expected me to actually do the errand after everything that happened. He opened the envelope, verified the signatures, and the hard lines of his face noticeably softened. “Look, if you still care enough about the team to do this,” he muttered, lowering his voice into a sharp, commanding whisper, “then stop acting like I’m holding a gun to your head.” He tossed the envelope onto the table. “You are coming to the Continental. Non-negotiable.” … I went. The atmosphere at the Continental Championship was electric. The air was thick with the scorching scent of high-octane fuel and burning rubber. Kellan, the heavy favorite to win, was swarmed by a barricade of flashing cameras and shouting reporters. But when it was time for the official press photos, he pulled Lexi to his side. I was shuffled backward, corralled by security to the very outer edges of the media scrum. I looked like a nameless assistant who had wandered into the frame. A broadcaster thrust a microphone into Kellan’s face, flashing a million-dollar smile. “Kellan! Every legendary driver relies on an incredible co-pilot to keep them grounded. Who’s yours?” Lexi looked up at him, her cheeks flushed with a perfect, bashful anticipation. Kellan didn’t miss a beat. “Lexi, of course.” The camera panned, and for a split second, I was caught in the background of the live feed—standing entirely alone, my face completely blank, an obsolete piece of furniture. During the pre-race interviews, Lexi played the camera like a fiddle. “Kellan’s biggest pet peeve is people who drag him down,” she chirped. “I’m just working as hard as I can to keep up with his speed, so I can prove I deserve to sit in his passenger seat.” A few of the crew members standing nearby nodded vigorously. “Yeah, Lexi is a beast. Not like Brynn. Brynn doesn’t know the first thing about cars.” “Hey, it’s normal for a WAG not to get it. Honestly, her staying out of the garage and out of our way is the biggest help she could give us.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532336”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother was the textbook definition of a hopelessly romantic heiress in a high-society melodrama. She was systematically ruined by my gold-digging, toxic excuse of a father, suffering seven consecutive miscarriages, all while genuinely believing her own body was simply too weak. As for me? I was the ultimate unlucky soul who failed to be born seven times in a row. By my eighth attempt at reincarnation, even the Lord of the Underworld lost his patience. He had the Keeper of Souls personally escort me to the mortal realm to ensure my safe arrival. And right before we left, they gifted my mother a maxed-out, supernatural ability to understand “baby talk”—the power to hear my silent infant thoughts. I thought this time, I’d finally get to kick back, relax, and live the pampered life of a princess in a trillion-dollar family dynasty. But the exact second I was born, I opened my eyes to see my toxic father, Laurence, cradling a strange baby boy. He walked right up to my mother’s hospital bed. “Sweetheart, you worked so hard,” he crooned. “Look at our son. The future heir to the Caldwell empire.” Meanwhile, I was stuffed into a hazardous medical waste bin, about to be wheeled away and incinerated. Desperate, I began screaming at the top of my lungs inside my dark, plastic prison: [You hopelessly romantic fool of a mother! That baby belongs to his secret first love, the girl of his dreams! Your real daughter is right here! Help me, Mom!] My mother, who had been gazing at him with teary, infatuated eyes, suddenly froze. … “Victoria, what’s wrong?” Laurence’s voice dripped with practiced worry. “Are you too exhausted?” My mother, Victoria Caldwell, stared at him with eyes wide with shock and confusion. Laurence cradled the boy, carefully leaning closer to the bed. “Look at his eyes, his nose. He looks just like you.” I kicked my tiny, fragile legs inside the sealed bin, which smelled suffocatingly of bleach and blood. But as a newborn, my muscles were like mush, and my frantic struggles only translated to the faintest rustle. [Mom! Don’t look at him! Look at the red waste container! I’m in here!] My mother’s face went entirely bloodless. She could actually hear me! The supernatural gift from the Keeper of Souls worked. My mother’s body shuddered violently. [Mom, that boy isn’t yours! He belongs to Sasha, his first love! If you check behind his left ear, he’s got the crescent-moon birthmark that runs in her family!] My mother’s gaze snapped to the boy. Seeing her stare at the child, the warmth in Laurence’s eyes deepened. He leaned down, gently stroking the infant’s cheek. “Victoria, you always wanted our own flesh and blood. Now that we have a son, my place in the Caldwell family is finally secure.” My mother’s fingers trembled as she parted the baby’s fine hair behind his left ear. There it was. A crescent-moon birthmark. During her first pregnancy, Sasha Mercer had visited their villa as Laurence’s “old friend.” She had accidentally exposed the exact same mark. At the time, Victoria had smiled and said, “What a unique birthmark, Sasha.” Sasha had blushed, replying, “It’s a family trait. All of us Mercers have it.” Now, that very trait was stamped on this supposed “Caldwell heir.” My mother’s breathing fractured. [Yes! See? Now do you believe I’m your real daughter? The nurse is about to throw me out like medical trash! Help!] I twisted my body inside the bin with everything I had. But because I had been deprived of oxygen from the moment of my birth, I couldn’t even muster a cry. Only a faint, pathetic whimper escaped my throat. She turned her head with sudden, terrifying speed. “Stop right there!” my mother commanded, her voice slicing through the room. The head nurse, who was slipping toward the exit, flinched. The biohazard container in her hands wobbled. “Mrs… Mrs. Croft, is there something you need?” A flicker of panic crossed Laurence’s face. He stepped forward quickly, pressing a firm hand onto my mother’s shoulder. “Darling, why are you so agitated? You just gave birth. You’re weak. You shouldn’t be moving.” My mother slowly pulled her hand back, her gaze turning freezing cold. “What is in that container?” Laurence shot a subtle, warning glance at the nurse. “Just the placenta and surgical waste. It’s dirty, blood-stained, and crawling with bacteria. We don’t want you or our son getting infected. Wheel it out for biohazard disposal, now.” “Yes, sir. Right away…” The head nurse turned to bolt. [Don’t let her leave! Mom, I’m suffocating! There are no air holes in here! If you don’t stop her, you’re going to lose me again! He’s swapping us so he can use this fake heir to steal the Caldwell inheritance!] I slammed my tiny fists against the plastic walls. But my strength was negligible, producing nothing more than a faint, dry scraping sound. My mother violently threw back her blankets, struggling to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. “I told you to stop! Are you deaf?” The head nurse froze. Laurence’s expression finally darkened. “Victoria, stop this nonsense. The delivery room has strict sterile protocols. Why on earth do you want to look at medical waste?” My mother gripped the bedrail, tears welling in her eyes. Yet, for the first time in ten years, she did not soften under his gaze. “I am the Executive Director of Caldwell Holdings. In this hospital—which is entirely owned by my family—my rules are the only rules!” The gentle facade on Laurence’s face began to peel away. “Are you throwing your family’s power in my face again?” He had used that line countless times before. Every single time, my mother would panic, immediately coddling him, terrified of wounding his fragile, working-class ego. But this time, she merely said flatly, “I just want to look.” Laurence stared at her, utterly baffled by how his usually submissive, doting wife had suddenly become so unyielding. After a heavy silence, he sighed. “Fine. If you are truly that paranoid, let Lydia check.” Lydia was my mother’s most trusted personal assistant. Laurence gestured to the quiet, unassuming woman standing by the bedside. “Go on. Inspect it.” Lydia looked up, her eyes darting away for a split second. The lid of the container was pried open just a crack, letting a thin sliver of light pierce the darkness. I forced my eyes open, trying to draw enough air to scream. If I could make even the slightest sound, my mother would hear me. I would be saved. But the severe lack of oxygen left my limbs heavy and useless. I couldn’t even open my mouth. Lydia blocked the container with her body, shielding it from my mother’s line of sight. She reached in, her hand brushing against my blood-slicked skin. “Mrs. Croft.” Lydia closed the lid without a single flicker of emotion. She turned back to the bed. “I checked. It’s just medical waste and bloody fluids. It’s filthy. There’s nothing unusual. Please, preserve your health and don’t look.” My heart plummeted into a bottomless abyss. The moment her hand had reached into the bin, I had seen it—a distinct, crimson mole on her left wrist. I had seen that mole seven times in my previous seven lives. Before my mother lost each of those pregnancies, it was always that hand with the red mole that handed her herbal tonic, adjusted the bedside humidifier, or steadied her arm on the freshly waxed stairs. It was her. I wanted to scream until my lungs burst. [Mom! Don’t trust her! Lydia was bought off by Laurence a long time ago! Look at her left wrist—there’s a red mole! She was the one behind your previous seven miscarriages!] I poured every ounce of my fading consciousness into that silent scream. My mother stared at Lydia, her voice trembling. “Lydia… did you look closely? Are you absolutely sure?” Lydia squeezed out a perfectly timed tear. “Mrs. Croft, I’ve been with you since I graduated college. My loyalty is entirely yours. How could I ever lie to you? It’s just waste. Mr. Croft is only trying to protect you from seeing something so grotesque.” Laurence chimed in, his tone carrying a wounded, weary sigh. “Victoria, do you not even trust Lydia now?” My mother’s eyes flickered with doubt. I knew how hard this was for her to believe. Over the years, under the guise of wanting an independent life, Laurence had coaxed her into moving out of the Caldwell estate, gradually estranging her from her doting father and her eight adoptive brothers. Lydia was the only confidante she had left. I had to push harder. [Mom! Wake up! During your third pregnancy, she ‘guided’ you to the yoga studio and spilled the slick oil that made you fall! During your fifth, she swapped your calming incense! During your seventh, she laced your imported prenatal vitamins with banned substances!] My mother’s gaze snapped to Lydia. Her lips trembled violently, unable to form a coherent sentence. Seven miscarriages. Seven agonizing, blood-soaked procedures. Each time, she had wept in the dark, blaming her own weak womb, apologizing to Laurence while he held her and whispered that having her was enough. It had all been a lie. “Victoria, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?” Sensing her shift in expression, Laurence stepped forward to restrain her. “Bring that container to me! I want to see it myself!” my mother rasped, struggling to rise. Yet, not a single medical professional in the room moved. This hospital bore the Caldwell name, but over the years, Laurence had systematically replaced the executive staff with his own people. Laurence forced her back onto the pillows with a heavy, unyielding grip. “Victoria Croft! Enough is enough!” His voice sharpened into a harsh, lecturing reprimand. “You just delivered the Caldwell family’s heir. Instead of resting, you are obsessing over biohazards! What is wrong with you?” Lydia joined in, sobbing. “Mrs. Croft, please listen to Mr. Croft! He has worked himself to the bone for you. You are breaking his heart!” The surrounding doctors and nurses chimed in like a rehearsed choir. “Mrs. Croft, postpartum trauma can trigger severe psychological distress.” “Please, prioritize your health. Do not look.” One heavy layer of guilt-tripping after another. Looking at this united front of conspirators, my mother shook with rage, a metallic taste of blood rising in her throat. Meanwhile, my breathing grew shallower by the second. [Mom… save me… I can’t breathe… it’s so cold…] “Get off me!” Hearing my fading voice, a fierce, primal maternal instinct erupted within her. She shoved Laurence back with enough force to send him stumbling. Barefoot, her hospital gown stained with blood, she lunged toward the container. “Give it to me!” Laurence’s face turned livid, a murderous glint flashing in his eyes. “Mrs. Croft is suffering from postpartum psychosis and having severe delusions! What are you all standing around for? Restrain her!” The VIP delivery room descended into absolute chaos. Lydia rushed forward to block her, only for my mother to strike her across the face with a resounding slap. The head nurse clutched the biohazard container, backing away toward the door. Suddenly, I felt the container shake violently. A pair of rough, rubber-gloved hands reached inside in the confusion, squeezing me tight, dragging me out of the plastic bin, and stuffing me into the deep, sweaty inner pocket of a bulky hazmat suit. My head spun from the impact. [Mom! I’m not in the container anymore! She’s hiding me inside her suit! She’s squeezing me!] My mother threw open the lid of the bin. But when she looked inside, there was nothing but a few blood-soaked medical sponges. It was completely empty. My mother froze, utterly bewildered. Laurence adjusted the lapels of his tailored suit, his face contorting into an expression of deep, wounded disappointment. “Do you see now, Victoria? What is in there besides medical gauze?” “Your wild accusations have not only endangered your recovery but shattered my heart. I’m having the chief of psychiatry come in to evaluate you immediately.” His talent for turning the tables was flawless. My mother stared at the empty bin, tears spilling down her cheeks. For a terrifying second, she began to wonder if her desperate longing for a child had finally driven her to hallucinate. No! She couldn’t give up now! Using the absolute last of my strength, I sent one final, desperate cry through our bond: [Mom… I’m not dead… I’m still in this room… I really don’t… have any strength left…] My mother’s head snapped up. The despair in her eyes hardened into a freezing, razor-sharp resolve. “Search this room. Call security. Search every inch!” The medical staff stood frozen, exchanging glances, waiting for Laurence’s command. Laurence cast a dark, threatening look at the head nurse, who shrank back. “Nobody moves!” Laurence barked. “Mrs. Croft is highly unstable and experiencing a psychotic break! Prepare a sedative. Hold her down and administer it immediately!” He was going to force her into silence. Two burly nurses approached her, holding a thick syringe. “We’re sorry, Mrs. Croft. This is for your own good.” My mother fought like a cornered animal, seizing ceramic mugs and metal trays, hurling them at anyone who came near. “Get away! Touch me and see what happens! I am the heir to the Caldwell empire!” But the nurses kept advancing. Laurence, losing all patience, lunged forward and pinned her shoulders down. “Stop resisting! Inject her!” Just as the cold steel of the needle hovered centimeters from her skin— With a deafening crash, the heavy double doors of the delivery room were kicked completely off their hinges. “I dare any of you to lay a single finger on my sister.” The room fell into a suffocating silence as the sheer gravity of his presence took over. Charles Caldwell strode in, bringing the chill of the winter night with him. Behind him marched two rows of heavily armed, black-suited Caldwell security operatives. His sharp, hawk-like eyes swept over the wreckage of the room, finally resting on the bruised, red grip-marks on my mother’s wrists. My eldest uncle’s expression turned instantly lethal. “Laurence Croft. Is this how you care for my sister?” The malice in Laurence’s eyes vanished in an instant, replaced by his usual gentle, submissive demeanor. “Charles, you’ve misunderstood. Victoria just gave birth, and her postpartum depression has triggered severe hallucinations. We were only trying to calm her down.” “I am not hallucinating!” My mother violently wrenched herself from Laurence’s grip, stumbling toward Charles and clutching his bespoke lapels. “Charles, that baby boy isn’t mine! They swapped my baby!” “She’s still in this room! I can hear her begging me to save her!” Charles’s eyes narrowed. Laurence let out a weary, practiced sigh. “Charles, you know the trauma Victoria carries from her seven miscarriages. Now that she finally has a son, she’s paranoid. If you don’t believe me, we can run a DNA test right now.” Charles glanced at the baby boy cradled in the nurse’s arms, sleeping peacefully. Tears streamed down my mother’s face. “The boy has Sasha Mercer’s family birthmark behind his ear! Charles, look!” Charles strode over and parted the infant’s hair. A moment later, his expression hardened. But Laurence was prepared, stepping in smoothly. “It’s just a common birthmark!” “Are you going to accuse me of infidelity and swapping heirs based on a speck of pigmentation, Charles? I respect you as Victoria’s brother, but at the end of the day, you aren’t even a blood Caldwell.” It was an open secret in high society: the patriarch of the Caldwell family had adopted eight orphaned boys. None of them carried the Caldwell bloodline. Charles did not immediately reply. My mother gripped his arm, her nails digging deep into his sleeve. “No! Charles, she is in here! I can hear her!” “Search the room! Just search it once!” Looking down at his sister’s pale, desperate face, Charles raised a single hand. “Search.” This time, no one dared to protest. The elite Caldwell guards immediately sealed the room. They tore apart the cabinets, checked under the bed, dismantled the ceiling vents, and searched the private bathroom. They left no stone unturned. They even overturned the medical waste bin again. I heard the heavy thud of combat boots pass by me once, then twice. They were so close I wanted to cry. But I didn’t know where I was, trapped in the dark. [Uncle! I’m right here!] But no one could hear me except my mother. As the guards shook their heads in defeat, the last spark of hope in my mother’s eyes began to die. Laurence knelt before her, his voice dripping with gentle condescension. “Are you satisfied, Victoria?” “Even Charles’s men found nothing.” “There is no stolen daughter. This boy is our son.” Charles remained silent. He gently patted my mother’s shoulder, his voice softening. “Victoria, you are exhausted. Perhaps the stress has gotten to you. Let’s get you some rest.” When even her strongest ally doubted her, my mother’s world collapsed. “Am I… am I truly losing my mind?” She fell back onto the bed, weeping hysterically. “I’m sorry… Laurence, I’m sorry. Maybe I really am sick.” A smug, triumphant smirk played at the corner of Laurence’s mouth. He squeezed her hand. “It’s alright. Just sleep.” Lydia stepped forward again with the sedative. Inside my dark pocket, I panicked. [No! Mom, don’t give up!] [I’m really here… but I’m fading…] The lingering resentment of seven unborn souls, combined with the sheer despair of being discarded like trash by my own father, boiled up inside my tiny chest. I refused to let it end like this. I hadn’t even looked at my mother yet. My trillion-dollar heiress life hadn’t even begun. I wasn’t going to die in a hazmat suit. Gathering every last ounce of life force left in my newborn body, I kicked out with all my might. A sharp, agonized shriek pierced the silence. “Ah!” The head nurse doubled over in pain, clutching her abdomen. The poorly tied sash of her medical pants snapped under the sudden impact. Thud. A tiny baby girl slid down her pant leg, tumbling onto the sterile floor.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532335”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother made five million dollars a month running her real estate empire overseas. My monthly allowance was exactly ten dollars. My father fought for me, throwing plates and screaming until the word “divorce” hung over our home like a threat. My older brother, Pierce, once slipped me a crumpled fifty-dollar bill under my pillow with red, swollen eyes. He was caught and took fifty lashes with my father’s heavy leather belt as punishment. So, whenever the hunger pangs hit—sharp, twisting claws in my stomach—I directed all my hatred toward my mother. I hated her cold, arbitrary cruelty. I hated that she had brought me into this world only to abandon me to starve. But then came the FaceTime call from a number that didn’t exist. A call from myself, ten years in the future. When the connection went through, I gasped, my voice trembling with desperate hope. “How am I doing in ten years? Have I finally cut ties with that selfish monster of a mother?” But the future me on the screen only stared back with bloodshot, hollow eyes. She didn’t look victorious; she looked utterly destroyed. “You idiot,” she hissed, her voice cracked and furious. “That ‘monster’ you hate? When your own father and brother neglected you into complete kidney failure, she didn’t hesitate for a single second. She gave you her own kidney! “And to keep them from exploiting you further, she used every cent of her liquid net worth to buy out your custody and severance from them. She couldn’t even afford a ten-dollar bottle of antibiotics after the transplant. She died in agonizing pain in a sterile charity ward, clutching a cheap plastic cup, because she had nothing left.” As I stared at her, my mind spinning into a dark void of disbelief, the future version of myself let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh that sounded more like a sob. “The hundred thousand dollars she wired for you every single month? They pocketed ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety of it. Every dime went to his secret daughter. “If you don’t believe me, go to the Crestmont Estates on the west side. Go see what our ‘loving’ family has been building behind your back.” … I ended up at Crestmont Estates. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, baking the asphalt, as the security guard blocked my path at the iron gates. His eyes swept over my faded t-shirt and worn-out sneakers with immediate suspicion. “You can’t just wander in here,” he said, hand resting on his belt. “Who are you looking for?” Clutching the last shred of desperate hope in my chest, I spoke softly. “I’m looking for Richard Harvey. I’m his daughter.” The guard let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Mr. Harvey only has two kids—a son, and a daughter named Mandy. He just took Miss Mandy out yesterday to a private trunk show to buy her a custom designer gown. Who the hell are you, some charity case trying to scam your way in?” To prove his point, the guard pulled out a local society print layout from his desk and tossed it onto the counter. When I saw the three faces smiling back from the glossy paper, the ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet. My chest tightened until I couldn’t breathe. There they were. My father and my brother, Pierce, standing on either side of a beautiful young girl, their smiles warm, radiant, and intensely familiar. The girl was Mandy Harvey. I knew her. She was the golden girl in my class. Two months ago, she had casually braged to her friends at school about how her family had just bought her a five-million-dollar townhouse, paid in full. When someone asked her about the price, she had simply shrugged, her lip curling into an effortless smile. “It wasn’t much. Just pocket change, really.” My ten-dollar allowance had started when I entered high school. Three years of high school. Over a million dollars a year. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the paper. I memorized every detail of their happy, perfect faces before turning back toward the bus stop. When I finally walked through the front door of our house, my father and Pierce were sitting in the living room. Neither of them noticed the ghostly pale color of my face or the hollow look in my eyes. My father stood up, offering a gentle, pitying smile as he held out a crisp ten-dollar bill. “Maren, sweetie, here’s your allowance for the month. Your mother just sent the wire. You’ll have to make it stretch.” I looked down at the single bill in my palm. Then I looked up, staring directly into his eyes. His face was a masterpiece of fatherly devotion and sorrow. I felt a cold, bitter laugh bubble up in my throat. My eyes burned, but I forced my voice to stay steady. “Ten dollars a month. Do you both just want to watch me starve to death?” Sensing the sharp edge in my tone, my father’s brow furrowed into a deep, disappointed line. “You know what your mother’s temper is like,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “If I dare to bring up your expenses to her, she’ll have her lawyers draft the divorce papers by morning. I’m trying to protect us, Maren.” I tilted my head, the sarcasm dripping from my words before I could stop them. “Really? Maybe I should just call her next time and ask her myself.” Pierce immediately stepped in, crossing the room to place a comforting hand on my head. He reached into his pocket and slipped a fifty-dollar bill into my palm, squeezing my fingers shut over it. “I’ll take responsibility for this,” he whispered, casting a nervous glance toward the hallway. “If Dad and I have to pretend we didn’t see you turn on your bedroom AC tonight, so be it. Just keep it on low, okay?” Ever since my mother had relocated her headquarters to Australia, my father had instituted strict “household rules.” All utilities, appliances, and even the Wi-Fi carried a rental fee that I was expected to pay out of my pocket. Since I had no money, I was only permitted to use electricity on the first and last days of the month. I lost count of the nights I had sat in the suffocating summer heat, trying to write my essays by the weak light of the streetlamp outside my window. During my period, when the cramps were so bad I felt sick, I would lie on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, rinsing myself with cold tap water just to keep from fainting. If Pierce had given me fifty dollars yesterday, I would have wept with gratitude. But today, all I could think about was Mandy. I remembered her telling the class how her family had installed a state-of-the-art climate control system in her townhouse because her sinuses were sensitive to temperature shifts. The system ran twenty-four hours a day, keeping her world perfectly comfortable. Her easy, beautiful smile burned in my mind like acid. I pushed the fifty-dollar bill back into Pierce’s hand, keeping only the ten. “No, thank you,” I said, my voice quiet but hard as flint. “I only want what actually belongs to me.” Without waiting for their response, I went into my bedroom, grabbed my ID, and walked to the nearest bank. I approached the teller, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Hi. I need to print the last three years of transaction history for all accounts under my name.” The printout was massive, thick enough to require a heavy binder. I took the stack of paper to a small table in the corner of the lobby and began to read. Every single month, on the first day at midnight, a wire transfer of one hundred thousand dollars had landed in my account from my mother. On holidays and birthdays, there were bonuses. Two hundred thousand. Three hundred thousand. Each transfer had a memo attached. “Happy birthday to my beautiful girl.” “Good luck on finals, sweetie. Buy yourself something nice to eat.” “Happy International Children’s Day. You’ll always be my baby.” And every single time, within five minutes of the funds clearing, the entire balance—minus ten dollars—was swept out via an automatic transfer into an account owned by Richard Harvey. By the time I reached the end of the pages, my breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps. My father had married into my mother’s family. Pierce had taken my father’s last name, while I had taken my mother’s maiden name, Albright. Yet, despite that, my father had always played the part of the doting protector, constantly telling Pierce to let me have the best of everything because “girls need extra care.” I remembered when I was six and fell gravely ill. My father had spent seven days on his knees at a mountain retreat, praying for my recovery. Pierce had clung to my doctor’s coat, sobbing, begging to give me his own organs if it would make me better. I had loved them because of those memories. I had believed every single lie because of those memories. A heavy tear splashed onto the white paper, blurring the printed numbers. I bit my lip until it bled, refusing to let myself cry out in the crowded bank lobby. With trembling fingers, I packed the statements neatly into my bag. The next morning at school, a crowd of students had gathered around Mandy’s desk. She was glowing, holding her wrist up to show off a glittering diamond tennis bracelet. “It’s a limited edition,” she boasted, her voice sweet and light. “I casually mentioned to my dad that I loved it, and he said a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar project bonus had just cleared in his account. He bought it for me right then.” The crowd erupted into murmurs of envy. I sat at my desk, quietly chewing on a dry piece of bread. On ten dollars a month, the only meal I could guarantee myself was the cheap breakfast roll I bought at the corner bodega. Mandy caught my eye and deliberately walked over, extending her wrist so the diamonds caught the fluorescent light. “Do you like it, Maren?” she asked, her smile dripping with sweet malice. I didn’t miss the triumph dancing in her eyes. I took a slow bite of my bread, swallowed, and smiled back. “Of course it’s beautiful,” I said softly. “It’s always easier to appreciate things when they’re bought with someone else’s money.” A girl sitting near her scoffed, giving me a dirty look. “Don’t pay attention to her, Mandy. She’s just bitter because her family is broke and your parents actually adore you.” “Yeah, exactly. Who cares whose money it is? Her family actually values her.” Mandy didn’t get angry. She put on a show of gentle, patronizing pity. “It’s fine, guys. I heard Maren only gets ten dollars a month for lunch. I’d probably be bitter too if I were in her shoes.” The classroom erupted into snickers. “Ten dollars? My dog’s organic food costs more than that.” “Are we sure she isn’t adopted?” I didn’t let their laughter reach me. I finished the last crumb of my dry bread, stood up, and looked Mandy dead in the eye. “You know, yesterday was the first of the month,” I said, my voice carrying clearly over the giggles. “That’s the day my mother always wires my support. And yesterday, your dad suddenly got a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar ‘bonus.’ What an incredible coincidence.” Mandy’s perfect, glossy smile froze on her face. Before she could recover, I turned and walked out of the classroom. In the hallway, I ran straight into our homeroom teacher. She looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she avoided my gaze. “Maren… about the merit scholarship you applied for. The results came in.” Looking at her expression, my heart sank. I followed her to the principal’s office. The five-hundred-dollar academic scholarship that I had earned through sleepless nights and perfect grades had been reassigned. To Mandy Harvey. The principal gave me a canned, rehearsed speech. He claimed my mother had personally called the administration to request that my financial aid be revoked and given to someone more “deserving.” I didn’t bother to argue against the absurd lie. I just stared at the scholarship certificate on the desk. Five hundred dollars. To Mandy, it was the price of a designer silk scarf. But when I had submitted my application a month ago, I had stayed awake at night dreaming of what that money could buy. I could have eaten hot meals for months. I could have paid for a motel room just to sleep in an air-conditioned room for a week. Without a word, I reached across the principal’s desk and picked up his landline phone. The principal blinked in surprise. “Maren, what do you think you’re doing?” I dialed three digits, my face entirely devoid of emotion. “I’m calling the police. Even if they are my family, they have no legal right to intercept my academic funds or sign financial waivers on my behalf without my consent.” The principal’s face drained of color. He scrambled for his personal cell phone, his fingers shaking as he hurriedly dialed a number. The police officers arrived within fifteen minutes, and right behind them came my father and Pierce, both sweating and looking frantic. My father rushed into the office, reaching out to grab my arm. “Maren, stop this nonsense. Let’s go home and discuss this as a family.” I stepped back, evading his touch, and turned to the lead officer. My voice was chillingly calm. “Officer, I have been subjected to severe domestic neglect for the past three years. My father and brother have restricted my access to basic food and utilities, leaving me with only ten dollars a month, and now they have fraudulently signed off on my academic scholarship to divert the funds to another student.” The officer’s expression hardened instantly. He turned a stern glare on my father. “Are you the legal guardians? Is what she’s saying true?” Pierce stepped forward, his voice smooth and persuasive. “Officer, there’s been a massive misunderstanding. My sister is going through a difficult phase. Our mother set these strict boundaries as a form of behavioral modification. We’re just trying to respect her wishes.” I cut in before he could spin the lie further. “Officer, they claim this is my mother’s decision. If that’s true, you should verify it with her directly.” The lead officer turned to his partner. “Get the mother’s contact information and verify this immediately.” At those words, the blood left my father’s face. He shot a desperate, warning look at the principal. The principal immediately cleared his throat, stepping forward with a nervous chuckle. “Officers, actually, it seems we had a clerical error on our end! The scholarship belongs to Maren Albright, and we will update the roster immediately. It was just a minor administrative oversight. No harm done!” Pierce reached out, his hand wrapping around my wrist as he lowered his voice to a gentle, pleading whisper. “Maren, please. Mom’s parenting methods might be extreme, but we’re a family. We can fix this at home. You don’t need to make a scene.” My father nodded quickly, pulling out his phone. “Yes, absolutely. I’ll adjust your allowance to a normal level right now.” A chime sounded in my pocket. He had just transferred a thousand dollars to my account. Seeing the immediate financial transfer and the school’s quick correction, the officers’ suspicion softened slightly. Still, they gave my father a stern lecture about parental neglect and emotional abuse before finally taking their leave. The drive back to the house was dead silent. My father’s grip on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles were white. The moment we pulled into our driveway, he slammed the car into park and spun around in his seat, his eyes boring into mine with a cold, venomous glare. “You found out,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Pierce let out a sharp, mocking sneer from the passenger seat. He reached into his leather bag and pulled out a stack of papers, tossing them into the back seat. They were the printed bank statements I had hidden under my mattress. Pierce looked at me, the warmth and affection he had performed for years completely vanished from his face. “Did you really think your little field trip to the bank went unnoticed, Maren?” I kept my jaw clenched, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me tremble. But the coldness in my chest was absolute. Now that their secret was out, they didn’t look remorseful at all. They looked amused. My father pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke. “Your mother sent that money, yes. But you’re a child. You don’t need that kind of cash. We kept it safe for you so you wouldn’t ruin your life. Besides, she’s thousands of miles away. She doesn’t care about you. Pierce and I are the only ones who actually put up with you.” Pierce leaned back against his headrest, a smug smile playing on his lips. “If you think we’re so terrible, go find your mother. See if she even remembers your name.” A wave of profound disgust swept through me. But I remembered the warnings from my future self. The trap had already been set years ago; my father and brother had systematically cut off every avenue of communication between my mother and me. I lowered my eyes, letting my shoulders slump. I made my voice sound small, broken, and defeated. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry, Pierce. I was wrong.” Seeing my submission, the tension in my father’s shoulders dissipated. He gave a satisfied grunt and unlocked the car doors. The moment I got to my room, I locked the door behind me. I crawled under my bed, reaching into the deepest corner of the floorboards until my fingers brushed against a cracked, wooden bracelet. It was the only gift my mother had given me before she left for Australia. My future self had told me that inside the wooden core was a cellular distress beacon. If the bracelet was broken, it would send an emergency alert directly to my mother’s private line. I had smashed the wood the very night I received that strange FaceTime call. Now, looking closely at the fracture line, I saw a tiny green light pulsing steadily. The signal had been sent. She was coming. The next morning, I walked down the stairs and froze. Sitting on our living room sofa was Georgia—our former housekeeper—and her daughter, Mandy. Georgia was draped in my mother’s expensive cashmere shawl, sipping tea with the practiced air of a wealthy matriarch. When she saw me, her gaze swept over me with cold dismissal. She gestured to a couple of movers standing by the door. “Go ahead and pack up her things,” Georgia said. Then she turned to me with a sharp, artificial smile. “My daughter needs a room with decent natural light. Your bedroom is hers now. You can either find a dorm at school or sleep in the attic storage room. I don’t care which.” I gripped the wooden banister, my knuckles turning white. “This house is registered under my mother’s name.” Georgia didn’t flinch. Her smile turned mocking. “Your father told me I make the decisions in this house now. If you have a problem with that, take it up with him.” Right on cue, my father and Pierce walked down the stairs. They walked straight over to Georgia and Mandy. My father slid a hand around Georgia’s waist, while Pierce greeted her with a warm, familiar hug. My father looked up at me, his face wearing a mask of false sympathy. “Maren, don’t be difficult. Your aunt is just trying to help you become more independent now that you’re older. In fact, since today is your eighteenth birthday, I’ve prepared a special gift for you.” He nodded to Pierce, who stepped forward and handed me a thick legal document. I flipped open the first page, and the words danced mockingly before my eyes. My father’s eighteenth birthday present to me was a itemized bill of debt totaling fifteen million dollars. My throat went dry. “What is this?” “An invoice for your upbringing over the last eighteen years,” Pierce said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “Your last name is Albright, not Harvey. It’s only fair that you reimburse our family for the cost of keeping you alive.” Mandy peered over my father’s shoulder, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the document. She squealed and threw her arms around my father’s neck. “Oh, Daddy! Is this the fifteen-million-dollar trust fund you promised to set up for my future?” My father stroked her hair, his eyes filled with genuine adoration. “Yes, sweetie. Exactly. You’re a smart girl.” He looked back at me, his voice dripping with condescension. “I know you can’t pay it all back at once. We’ll set up a payment plan. I’ll even keep the interest rate low for you.” Mandy giggled, tilting her chin up in triumph. “You were right, Maren. Things really do taste sweeter when they’re bought with someone else’s money.” The sheer, sickening absurdity of the moment washed over me. I looked at the three of them, then slowly, deliberately, ripped the contract in half, and then in half again, letting the white scraps flutter to the floor. “I’m not signing this.” The living room went dead silent. Georgia was the first to react. She let out a sharp gasp and tapped Mandy’s wrist. Mandy instantly caught on, letting out a dramatic, horrified shriek. “My diamond bracelet! It’s gone!” She pointed a trembling finger at me, tearswelling in her eyes. “Daddy, she stole it! She was jealous of me, so she took it!” My father didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his phone and made a single call. In less than ten minutes, three large, rough-looking men in dark uniforms walked through the front door. They wore badges from a notorious “behavioral correction academy”—one of those unregulated facilities designed to break troubled teens. The leader of the group looked me up and down with an unsettling, predatory grin. “Don’t worry, Mr. Harvey. We know exactly how to handle girls with attitude problems like this.” My father nodded, his expression as cold as ice. “Take her. I don’t care what methods you use to make her agreeable, just keep her alive.” I glared at him, my vision blurring with rage. “You will regret this,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I promise you, both of you will regret this.” The guards stepped forward, their heavy hands grabbing my arms and dragging me toward the door. Just as they pulled me past the threshold, the heavy oak double doors of the villa were violently kicked open from the outside. A sharp, commanding voice cut through the air like a blade. “Richard Harvey! Who gave you the authority to touch my daughter?!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532334”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When my family finally paid the ransom to bring me home, I was nothing but a bag of bones. Months of forced starvation had shrunk my stomach to the size of a fist, leaving me with a severe, crippling aversion to food. At my welcome dinner, when I couldn’t bring myself to pick up my fork, my sister, Bella, immediately welled up with tears. “Sophie, you won’t even touch your food. Are you still blaming me? I didn’t mean to leak your location to those kidnappers…” My older brother, Tayler, protectively wrapped an arm around her shoulders, shooting me a cold, disgusted look. “Stop being so dramatic, Sophie. You were gone for a few months, and you came back in one piece. No broken bones. Who are you putting on this victim act for?” He nudged the plate closer. “Bella spent all afternoon making this for you. Even if you have to choke it down, you’re going to eat it.” My parents joined in, their faces hardening. “You just get back and you’re already throwing a tantrum!” my father barked. “Eat the meat, Sophie. Now.” Looking at the three of them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in their united defense of Bella, a profound numbness washed over me. I slowly picked up a slice of the greasy pork and forced it past my lips. The reaction was instantaneous. A violent spasm seized my abdomen. I collapsed from my chair, hitting the hardwood floor, dry-heaving desperately. There was nothing in my stomach to bring up, but the dry-heaves tore at my throat until I coughed up a pool of dark, brilliant red blood. Tayler immediately pulled Bella back a step, shielding her from the splatter. “Are you seriously biting your tongue to fake spitting blood now? You’re unbelievable, Sophie. Unforgivable.” Looking up at them from the floor, a hollow laugh died in my throat. “It’s fine,” I thought. “Go ahead. Keep coddling her. Keep hating me. It doesn’t matter anymore. After all, I don’t have many days left anyway.” … I lay there in my own blood, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Tayler stepped forward, his brow furrowed in irritation. He nudged my shoulder with the toe of his shoe, then scraped his sole against the floor as if he’d stepped in something foul. “Go clean yourself up in the bathroom. Don’t ruin the rug.” This was my brother. The same brother who once fought three older boys until his knuckles broke just to protect me. I tried to smile at the irony, but the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through my stomach, silencing me. My mother walked over, carrying a bowl of warm broth. Her eyes were rimmed with red; she looked like she had just been crying. “Sophie, you starved out there. I made this broth myself to help settle your stomach.” She knelt beside me, pushing the spoon directly against my lips. The heavy smell of grease hit my nostrils, triggering another violent spasm. Shaking with pain, cold sweat drenching my collar, I instinctively pushed her hand away. The bowl shattered against the floor. “Fine! Don’t eat then!” she cried, wiping a tear as she stood up. “I’ve been sick with worry, thinking you were starving, and this is how you treat me? If you’re going to be like this, don’t eat anything at all! Starve yourself for all I care!” Tayler’s gaze grew colder. “Mom spent hours on that. What is wrong with you?” As they comforted each other, cocooned in their warm family dynamic, the fire in my gut flared. Trembling, I reached into my pocket for my bottle of painkillers. “Oh my god, Sophie!” Bella shrieked. She lunged forward and kicked the bottle right out of my hand. The white pills scattered across the floor. “Those pills… you didn’t get hooked on “something” while you were gone, did you?” Her eyes went wide, a perfect picture of horror and concern. “Don’t worry, we’re going to get you clean. We’re a family. We won’t give up on you.” “They’re just… painkillers…” I croaked, dragging my body across the floor. But just as my fingers brushed the plastic bottle, Tayler stepped down hard, crushing it beneath his heel. “If you need medicine, we have doctors,” he said coldly. “We aren’t keeping street drugs in this house.” I stared at the white powder ground into the floorboards. My heart felt like it had been crushed right along with those pills. The medication was cheap, probably toxic, but it was the only thing strong enough to dull the screaming agony in my stomach. Now, I had nothing. Bella tucked herself behind Tayler, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. She let out a small, breathless laugh. “Sophie, can we please stop the drama? I only accidentally mentioned where you were. Mom and Dad paid the ransom, and you don’t even have any scars. Why are you still so mad at me?” She sighed. “I’m your sister. Playing the martyr to get attention is so childish.” My father, sitting on the leather sofa, spoke up in a flat, indifferent tone. “Exactly. Bella shouldn’t have said anything, but if you hadn’t been running around looking for trouble, those men wouldn’t have targeted you in the first place. You’ve always been spoiled. Go have some chilled melon in the kitchen to cool your temper, and let’s put this behind us.” “Put this behind us?” A dry chuckle escaped my lips. For three agonizing months, I was locked in a damp cellar. The only things my captors threw at me were moldy scraps, rotting bread, and putrid water. If I refused to eat, they pinched my nose shut and shoved the filth down my throat. Any resistance was met with a spiked leather whip and endless, dark torment. And now, a slice of chilled melon was supposed to make everything okay? I closed my eyes, letting my tears fall silently onto the blood-smeared floor. “She’s still acting!” my mother snapped, her face twisted in disgust. “Getting her to eat is like asking for her life. Your father had the kitchen prepare this fresh for you. It used to be your favorite.” My father slammed his hand on the dining table. “If she won’t eat, force it down her throat!” Two maids stepped forward. They pinned my arms, and one of them pinched my jaw, forcing my mouth open. Two cold, dripping slices of melon were shoved brutally past my teeth. The icy juice hit my raw stomach, triggering a spasm so violent I began to shake. I couldn’t hold it back. I threw up right there—a mixture of melon, stomach acid, and dark, thick blood. “Sophie, how could you…” Bella gasped, taking a dramatic step back. “Just to keep up this act, you’d waste Dad’s kindness…” I collapsed next to the mess, panting heavily, too exhausted to defend myself. “Slap!” A sharp, stinging blow caught me across the cheek, throwing my head back. My father stood over me, his hand still raised, eyes blazing with fury. “You ungrateful brat! Your sister didn’t even eat breakfast this morning because she was so anxious about your return!” he roared. “She has a weak stomach, yet she was still thinking of you. And you put on this deathbed performance to spite us?” I looked up at him, finding the sheer absurdity of it almost funny. Bella skipping breakfast meant she had a “delicate stomach.” Me, starved for three months and unable to keep food down, was “putting on a deathbed performance.” “Since you clearly need to cool down,” my father sneered, “get out. Go run ten laps around the estate. Don’t come back inside until you’ve cleared that attitude.” Run? In my condition, even standing was a monument of effort. Forcing me to run laps in the sweltering heat was a death sentence. “Didn’t you hear Dad? Get out!” Tayler grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and shoved me out the front door. My knees and palms scraped against the gravel driveway, drawing fresh blood. “Bella didn’t eat because she was genuinely sick. You’re doing this out of pure malice. Don’t even think about coming back inside until those ten laps are done!” The heavy oak doors slammed shut. From inside, the faint, warm murmur of my family comforting Bella drifted through the glass. Outside, I was left alone under the blazing sun, fighting to breathe. I curled into a ball on the scorching pavement, clutching my abdomen. The heat radiated from the concrete, yet cold sweat poured off my body in waves. My vision blurred. Then, the familiar sound of a car engine broke the silence. The family doctor’s sedan pulled into the driveway, stopping a few feet away. Dr. Evans stepped out, carrying his black medical bag, his pace hurried. With the last of my strength, I dragged myself toward him. “Help me…” I gasped, clawing at the hem of his trousers. “My stomach… please…” Dr. Evans frowned, looking down at me. “Sophie? What happened?” He started to kneel, but Tayler marched out of the house, his face contorted in anger. He kicked my hand away from the doctor’s leg. “Sophie! What the hell is wrong with you?” I let out a weak whimper, my hand falling limp. “You’re so desperate for attention that you’re trying to steal Bella’s doctor now? She’s inside with a severe stomach ache!” “Tayler… please… it hurts so much…” “Save the tears. Dad said ten laps, or you stay outside.” Dr. Evans hesitated, looking at my ghostly pale face. “Tayler, she looks extremely ill. Maybe I should just take a quick—” “Dr. Evans, don’t waste your time!” my mother’s voice called out from the doorway. “She’s just trying to ruin Bella’s day. Come inside, please. Bella’s been complaining of cramps all morning, and my heart is just breaking for her.” Tayler guided the doctor toward the entrance. Dr. Evans cast one final, doubtful look over his shoulder, but ultimately shook his head and followed them inside. The afternoon faded into twilight, and the temperature plummeted. A sudden downpour began, soaking my thin clothes in seconds. I dragged myself to the edge of the porch, curling up under the small overhang, shivering violently. Inside, the house was alive with warmth and laughter. I could hear my mother gently coaxing Bella to drink some warm soup. And there I lay, listening to their joy, waiting to die in the freezing rain. Through the sheet of water, a black umbrella appeared. Tayler stood before me, holding a plate. “Tayler…” I croaked, trying to push myself up. He had come to bring me inside. He had to. But his face remained cold as stone. He tilted his wrist. “Splat.” The cold leftovers slid off the plate, landing in a muddy puddle by my feet. The white rice scattered instantly, melting into the dirty water. “Bella was worried you’d starve,” Tayler said, his voice flat. “She told me to bring you this. Eat.” I stared at the sodden heap of food. When I was trapped in that dark cellar, choking down rotten scraps, I had kept myself alive by dreaming of the day my family would rescue me. I never imagined that my own brother would be the one dumping scraps into the mud for me. As I stared at the puddle, the sharp pain in my stomach suddenly vanished. Instead, an overwhelming, primal hunger took its place. My stomach began to growl, loud and desperate. Hearing the sound, Tayler let out a cynical laugh. “See? I knew you were faking. A little tough love and suddenly you’re cured.” My hand moved on its own, reaching toward the muddy puddle. “I’ll eat…” I whispered, my fingers trembling as I scooped up a handful of wet, gritty rice and shoved it into my mouth. “Tayler… I’m eating…” The gravel cut into my throat as I swallowed, but I felt nothing. I just gulped it down, desperate and hollow. I had lost all dignity, all pride. In that moment, the mud-soaked rice tasted sweeter than anything my captors had ever thrown at me. I stayed on my knees, scooping up the dirty water and rice with both hands. A flash of discomfort crossed Tayler’s face. He tightened his grip on the umbrella handle, taking a step back in disgust. “Have you no shame? Eating like an animal.” He turned on his heel. “We are hosting a welcome-back gala for you tomorrow. There will be important guests. If you embarrass us, you’ll regret it.” The next day, I sat in front of the vanity for a long time. My lips were completely bloodless. I grabbed the brightest red lipstick I owned and applied layer after layer, trying to paint over the deathly pallor on my face. I barely had the strength to stand. Clinging to the banister, I crept down the stairs step by agonizing step, my legs shaking so hard they felt like jelly. The grand foyer was filled with music and laughter. My father, beaming with pride, was chatting with his business associates. My mother was showing Bella off to a group of high-society women. No one noticed me. Not until my foot slipped on the final step, and I crashed against the railing. “Sophie! You’re finally down!” Bella squealed, walking over with a glass of dark, heavy liquor. The sharp, alcoholic sting reached my nose, and my stomach clutched in protest. “I had the bartender make this just for you. Your favorite!” “I can’t drink that,” I whispered, backing away. “It will kill me.” “Kill you?” Bella’s eyes welled with tears, her lower lip trembling. “Sophie, why do you have to say such horrible things? I already apologized to you! What more do you want?” She sniffled, looking around at the gathering crowd. “It’s not my fault you were out late that night. If you hadn’t been wandering around alone, those men wouldn’t have targeted you…” My father’s face darkened as he marched over. He snatched the glass from Bella and shoved it into my hand. “The city’s elite are watching us,” he hissed. “Do you intend to make a laughingstock of this family? Whatever grudge you’re holding, swallow it. Drink.” I clutched the glass, looking desperately at Tayler, who had just joined them. I wanted him to step in, just once, the way he did when we were kids. Instead, Tayler placed a heavy, warning hand on my shoulder. “Bella brought this to welcome you back. Don’t be ungrateful. Even if you don’t like it, you are going to drink it.” I looked up at the three people who shared my blood. Suddenly, the fight drained out of me. It was all so utterly pointless. “Fine,” I whispered, a ghostly smile touching my lips. “If this is what you want.” I threw my head back and swallowed the liquor in one long gulp. It burned down my throat like liquid fire, hitting my raw, empty stomach like a red-hot coal. My insides violently seized. I clutched my abdomen, trying to suppress the wave of agony, but it was impossible. Right there, in front of the entire high-society crowd, a massive torrent of thick, dark blood erupted from my mouth. Within the dark pool, there were distinct, shredded pieces of tissue. A collective gasp echoed through the room as panic erupted. But to me, the world simply grew quiet. The heavy burden of my body felt lighter. I smiled softly as the floor rose to meet me, and everything faded to black.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532333”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The seventh time Nydia missed my birthday, she promised she’d make it up to me. So, I waited. I sat at the peak of Echo Ridge for over three hours as the sky opened up, pouring down a freezing, relentless rain. She never showed. Instead, her young assistant posted a photo of the two of them on social media, captioned from a hotel room. “Thanks to Boss Nydia for the limited-edition watch.” “Someone who loves you never makes you wait; I always get what I want right away~” In the photo, they were tangled together on a plush, red velvet bed, their fingers tightly intertwined, their shirts off. The diamond wedding band Nydia usually wore was nowhere to be seen. In its place were dark purple hickeys and “I love you” scribbled across her collarbone in permanent marker. I stood there in the dark, swallowing the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat. I blocked the number, deleted the contact, and made a silent vow to scrub Nydia—and everything she brought with her—out of my life for good. 1 Less than five minutes after I blocked him, my phone buzzed. It was Nydia. “Did you delete Chase?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Add him back right now.” I didn’t say anything, listening to her breathe on the other end. “He’s new to the corporate world, Duke. He didn’t know any better. He thinks he did something to upset you and he’s been crying in the room for an hour. Add him back, explain yourself, apologize, and I’ll let this slide.” He took what was mine, and she wanted me to apologize. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “In your dreams.” The line went quiet for a beat. When Nydia spoke again, her tone had shifted from anger to a weary, practiced exasperation. “Are you really throwing a tantrum over Chase again? How many times do I have to tell you? We grew up together. He’s like family to me. Now that he’s working at my company, of course I’m going to look out for him. Besides, look at the weather. It’s pouring, and his health has always been fragile. I couldn’t just leave him stranded in the storm.” The more she rationalized, the hollower her voice sounded. She seemed to have completely forgotten that I was the one with chronic health issues—the very reason I had stepped back from my own career to hand the reins of the business over to her. Tired of the noise, I cut her off. “I’m still at Echo Ridge.” I had waited three hours. I’d been sitting in the freezing rain for the last sixty minutes. There was no shelter up here, and the winding mountain paths were too slick to navigate in the dark during a storm. For a split second, a crack of panic leaked into her voice. “Stay there. Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.” I waited another hour. By the time the rain finally stopped, Nydia still hadn’t arrived. The trail down was slick with mud. Within a few steps, my boots were ruined, my jeans splattered with cold sludge. I sneezed, shivering violently, feeling my heart sink straight into the dirt. It felt cold, heavy, and utterly numb. When I finally got back to my apartment, I took a scorching hot shower to stop the shaking. As I was drying off, my phone buzzed. It was a video call from an unknown number. I answered. Chase’s face filled the screen. “Hey, Duke,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “Are you mad at Nydia because she bought me this watch? I can ask her to buy you one too, if you want. You don’t have to be so petty over a little birthday gift, do you?” The malice in his eyes was unmistakable. The watch was a limited-edition piece—only a handful existed in the world. He knew I’d been eyeing it for months, hoping it would be my birthday present. Yet he had taken it, parading it in front of me like a trophy. My head throbbed. I didn’t have the energy to fight. I popped a couple of sinus pills and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. I don’t know how long I was out before the blankets were violently ripped off me. “Why didn’t you wait for me? Do you have any idea how long I spent looking for you?” Nydia stood over the bed, looking exhausted and annoyed. “I’m starving. Get up and make some dinner. And brew some ginger tea while you’re at it—Chase got caught in the rain, and I need to drop some off for him.” The sudden shock made my headache flare. I looked up at her, my voice laced with pure disgust. “Did Chase not feed you enough tonight?” Nydia stiffened, her eyes flashing with rage. “Duke! Are you seriously starting this again? I explained everything to you. Meeting Chase tonight was a complete coincidence. Do you have to make a federal case out of every little thing? And to think I actually brought you a surprise.” She threw a small velvet box at me. It caught me right on the corner of my eye. The sharp edge sliced the skin, and a sharp, stinging pain made my eyes water instantly. She blinked, startled by her own violence, and stepped closer to inspect the cut. But as she bent over me, a heavy wave of cologne hit my nose. It was Chase’s signature scent—cloyingly sweet and expensive. Disgusted, I shoved her away. My gaze fell to the floor where the velvet box had landed. The watch had slipped out. On its pristine sapphire glass was a dried, sticky smear of fluid. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they had been doing while wearing it. A wave of nausea hit me. I kicked the watch back toward her feet. “Save your pathetic gestures, Nydia,” I said, my voice cold and flat. “I don’t want a watch another man has worn. And I certainly don’t want a woman another man has used.” 2 “Stop talking nonsense. I’m taking you to the ER.” Nydia looked at the bead of blood swelling at the corner of my eye, a flicker of genuine worry crossing her face. Ignoring my weak protests, she hauled me out of bed. She was so determined to play the part of the doting, concerned wife that she didn’t even let me grab a jacket. Shaking and feverish, I climbed into the passenger seat. The air conditioning was blasting, so I reached into the back seat for the wool throw blanket. When I pulled it, my finger caught in a massive, ragged tear. As the fabric unraveled, a pair of worn men’s boxer briefs tumbled onto my lap. Nydia caught my expression in the rearview mirror. She cleared her throat, brushing it off. “It’s probably just Chase playing a prank. He’s always had a childish sense of humor. Don’t look at me like that.” She sighed, stepping on the gas. “Honestly, Duke, I work myself to the bone every single day to provide for this lifestyle, and you’re giving me attitude over a ruined blanket? You don’t have half the grace or understanding that Chase does.” The wool blanket was the last thing my grandmother had made for me before she passed. She had spent weeks hand-stitching it as a wedding gift for us, knowing she wouldn’t live to see our first anniversary. I quietly folded it and tucked it into my bag. I didn’t say a word. Then, the car console lit up. It was Courtney, one of Nydia’s close friends. “Hey, Nydia! We’re all waiting for you to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of you and Chase’s first hand-hold. Where are you?” She forgot my birthday, but she remembered the exact date she first held Chase’s hand. In the background, I heard Chase’s voice filter through the speaker, dripping with condescension. “Why do you think? She’s probably dealing with her trophy husband. Honestly, marrying a guy like that must be a living nightmare.” Nydia shot a guilty look in my direction, muttering a quick “behave yourself” into the phone, before spinning the steering wheel to head toward the GPS coordinates Courtney had sent. Panic flared in my chest. “I don’t want to go. Take me home.” Every time I was forced to hang out with Chase and her friends, it ended in humiliation. The first time, Chase and his buddies took turns pressure-drinking me until I ended up in the emergency room with acute gastritis. The second time, Chase—fully aware of my severe peanut allergy—deliberately slipped peanut butter into my dessert, then took photos of my swollen, hives-covered face and posted them to the company’s Slack channel. I had been the butt of their jokes too many times. I wasn’t going to play their toy tonight. But Nydia had already wiped those memories clean. To her, I was just being difficult. “Duke, don’t be so selfish. Am I supposed to alienate all my friends just to appease your insecurity?” “Then go by yourself. Let me out.” My head was pounding, the fever cooking my brain. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. But her stubborn streak kicked in. “No. Insulting my friends is insulting me. You’re coming.” She softened her voice slightly, attempting a patronizing stroke of my hair. “Just come say hello, and we’ll leave. Don’t ruin my night.” By the time we arrived at the lounge, it was past two in the morning. The moment we walked through the VIP booth doors, a bucket of ice water was splashed directly onto my face. As I stood there, shivering, my wet shirt clinging to my chest, Chase laughed. “Welcome to the party! Do you like the initiation?” Seeing my pale, trembling frame, a couple of people tried to smooth things over, pulling Nydia into the booth. There were four seats around the low table. Nydia, Chase, Courtney, and Kyle sat down. I was left standing. Chase’s grin widened. “Oh, looks like we’re out of seats… Maybe you should just head home, Duke. It’s not like you’d understand what we’re talking about anyway.” Kyle, Nydia’s cousin, chimed in. “Yeah, bro-in-law, don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Nydia for you.” Years ago, when Kyle was starting her business, she begged me for a hundred-thousand-dollar loan. She called me her favorite brother-in-law and promised she’d always have my back. Yet later, she was the one who whispered to Nydia, “How did you end up with Duke anyway? Chase is ten times the man he is.” And Courtney. She was always sweet to my face when she needed a favor, but behind my back, she and Chase mocked me as a tasteless lottery-winner, gladly helping Nydia cover up her trysts. They were a pack of hyenas. I stared at the empty space between them, letting out a long, quiet sigh. “You don’t need to worry about the seating arrangement,” I said. “We’re getting a divorce. That should free up plenty of space.” 3 Nydia froze, her face slack with disbelief. In all our years together, I had never embarrassed her in front of her inner circle. No matter how late she stayed out drinking, one call and I would drive across the city to bring her home, asking for nothing in return. But I was done sacrificing my dignity at her altar. The booth fell dead silent. Courtney and Kyle began stammering, trying to diffuse the tension, while Chase rolled his eyes. “Divorce? Again? Is this what, the fifth time you’ve threatened that?” Chase sneered. “Nydia, your kept man really has a flare for drama, doesn’t he?” Embarrassed and angry, Nydia stood up, her voice dropping an octave. “Duke, have I spoiled you so much that you think you can talk to me like this? Have you forgotten how you literally begged me on your knees not to leave you?” Without another word, I turned and walked out into the cool night air. When Chase first returned from abroad, I had fought with Nydia constantly over their inappropriately close “friendship.” Every time, her answer was the same: “If you don’t like it, get a divorce.” Back then, I was still desperately in love with her. I would apologize, take the blame, and beg for her forgiveness. I had knelt on our hardwood floor, weeping in the dead of night, while she used my devotion as a doormat. Not this time. I went back to our house, packed my bags, and moved into the small downtown studio apartment I had bought before we got married. I had purchased it with my own savings. Nydia had thrown a fit when she found out. “Only an idiot buys a tiny studio in the city. It’s embarrassing. You should have put that money toward a sports car for me so I look good driving to meetings.” My parents eventually bought her a luxury SUV as part of our wedding arrangements, which seemed to pacify her. I was deeply relieved I hadn’t listened to her back then. This studio was my sanctuary now. And that luxury SUV? It had essentially become Chase’s personal ride. By the time I finished unpacking, the sun was rising. Exhausted but unable to sleep, I went down to the local copy shop and printed out a standard divorce agreement. When I got back to the studio building, Nydia was waiting outside my door. I blinked in surprise. This was the first time she had ever sought me out first. “Look, about last night—I went too far,” she said, though her tone was still laced with condescension. “But you shouldn’t have embarrassed me in front of my friends. Go apologize to Chase, and we’ll put this behind us.” I remembered what Chase had told her as I walked out the night before: “Duke behaves this way because you tolerate it. You need to train him. If you won’t do it, I will.” He had listed a whole playbook of manipulation tactics: financial withholding, silent treatment, emotional gaslighting. Listening to him, I realized Nydia had already been using every single one of them on me. She body-shamed me, comparing me unfavorably to Chase. She told me I was useless, destined to be nothing more than a glorified housekeeper. If I protested, she would snap: “Chase helps me run a multi-million dollar company. What do you do? He has an Ivy League degree. You have no right to compare yourself to him.” She forgot that I had abandoned my own career path and family connections to support her because I loved her. If she couldn’t respect that sacrifice, there was nothing left to say. I thrust the divorce papers into her hands and unlocked my door. Panic finally cracked through her cool exterior. She pushed past the threshold, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist from behind. “Stop being like this. I’ll apologize, okay? I’m sorry.” Her hands began to slide under my shirt, tracing my skin. “I know I’ve been distant lately. You’re angry, I get it. What if we start trying for a baby? I promise we can do it now.” Disgusted, I ripped myself from her grip and shoved her away with everything I had. “Don’t touch me. You make my skin crawl.” Nydia stumbled back, hitting the drywall, her eyes flashing with sudden anger. But before she could speak, my vision went black, and my knees buckled beneath me. 4 When I opened my eyes, the smell of antiseptic told me I was in a hospital room. My head was heavy, and my eyelids felt like lead. But before I could even pull myself up, a low, muffled moan drifted from the other side of the privacy curtain. “Nydia… this is so risky. What if Duke wakes up and catches us?” Nydia’s voice was breathless, heavy with exertion. “He won’t. I had the doctor slip some sedatives into his IV. He’s out cold. We have plenty of time.” The rhythmic squeak of a hospital bed and the wet, heavy sounds of their intimacy filtered through the thin fabric. I could see the distorted shadows of their bodies tangled together. Bile surged in my throat. I tried to pull myself up to escape, but my sedated muscles failed me, and I rolled off the mattress, crashing hard onto the linoleum floor. The noise cut the sounds short. The curtain was shoved aside. Nydia stood there, frantically buttoning her blouse, looking down at me. “Duke? You’re awake?” She tried to smooth her disheveled hair. “Chase was so worried about you. He actually brought you something to eat.” She pointed to the bedside table, where a plastic container of leftover seafood porridge sat. Right in the center was a thick dollop of peanut butter. Just as toxic and sickening as the two of them. Nydia, entirely oblivious to her own cruelty, sighed. “Duke, look, we can fight, but don’t play games with your health. You passed out from a massive fever. You scared me to death.” “And whose fault is that?” I rasped, my throat raw. “Who left me in the rain? Who dragged me out of bed and took me to a bar instead of an ER?” Nydia looked away, a brief flicker of guilt crossing her face. “Let’s not talk about that right now. Just eat something. Chase made this especially for you.” My eyes fixed on the peanut butter. Nydia’s gaze followed mine, and she suddenly paled. “Oh… I forgot. It’s fine, I’ll order you some takeout.” Before she could unlock her phone, Chase wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Nydia, the smell of bleach in here is giving me a headache. Let’s go grab a coffee downstairs.” Nydia looked at me, torn. “Go,” I said quietly, turning my back to them. I swept the container of porridge into the trash and cracked the window open to let the fresh air in. After a moment of hesitation, Chase pulled her out the door. “I’ll be right back,” she called out over her shoulder. She didn’t come back. An hour later, I ordered my own food, finished my IV drip, and went to the front desk to get my discharge paperwork. The doctor, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, looked at my chart and then up at me. “The woman who brought you in… is she your wife?” “Soon-to-be ex-wife,” I replied. “Ah. That explains it.” The doctor sighed, handing me my prescriptions. “The young man she was with… he’s a frequent flyer here. Your wife brought him in for an abortion last year. They listed her as the mother and him as the father.” She scribbled her personal cell number on the back of the discharge slip. “Keep this. If you feel dizzy or need anything else, call me directly.” I took the slip, my chest tightening, and gave her a tight, grateful nod. When I got back to my studio, a text from Nydia popped up. An emergency came up at the office. I had to run. Let me know if you need anything, I’ll come straight over. At the exact same time, a notification popped up on Instagram. An anonymous account had posted a photo: Office play. Best Tuesday ever! In the photo, Nydia was draped over her office desk, her blouse half-unbuttoned, while Chase grinned at the camera. In the background, on the corner of her desk, lay an empty condom wrapper. My skin crawled. I felt physically dirty just looking at it. I immediately booked an appointment at a private clinic for a full panel of STD tests. The physician there was incredibly kind, offering me a warm cup of coffee while I waited for the blood draw. It was the first time in days I felt like a human being. But the peace didn’t last. When I unlocked my apartment door that evening, my heart stopped. The tiny studio was packed. My parents, Nydia’s parents, Nydia, and Chase were all standing in the cramped space. Nydia’s eyes were red, staring at the divorce agreement on the counter. Chase stood beside her, arms crossed, looking smug. “I’ve never met anyone as shameless as you,” Chase spat the moment I walked in. “Nydia treats you like a king, and you’re out here sleeping around with other women.” My mother stepped forward, holding a printout of a photo—it was me and the clinic doctor having coffee. “Duke, what is this? Nydia says you’re having an affair and demanding a divorce. We thought you two were happy.” Nydia’s mother slammed her hand on my small dining table. “Divorce him, Nydia! We don’t need a cheating, deceitful man in our family.” “No wonder you couldn’t give Nydia a child all these years,” she sneered, looking me up and down. “You’ve probably been running around with cheap girls, ruining your own body.” A barrage of vile, disgusting accusations filled the room. I looked at Nydia, my chest heaving with silent rage. “Nydia, you really love spinning a victim narrative, don’t you?” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Do you honestly think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?” “I was going to let you walk away with some dignity. But since you want to drag my name through the mud, let’s lay it all out.” I walked into my closet and pulled out a heavy metal lockbox. The day I packed my things, I had stumbled upon a secret far worse than her infidelity. I had kept it to myself, waiting for the right moment to lay my cards on the table. That moment had arrived.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532332”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel