Author: Momo Chan

The night my fiancé, Carter, signed the deployment order, my adoptive father handed me a classified dossier. “Pick one,” General Morgan said, his voice a low gravel. “They’ll get you inside Ryker’s inner circle.” I stared at the two names, both achingly familiar. The past, ugly and relentless, crashed over me like a tidal wave. The first time I lived this moment, I chose Mia. She seemed so innocent, so pure. But she ran straight to her brother, Marcus, my adoptive brother, and wept about how I was forcing her into the bed of our enemy. I had no defense. They threw me in the brig, and I died on the cold concrete floor after barbed hooks tore my flesh and jolts of electricity erased my name. The second time, I chose Zoe, the sister I trusted most in the world. She stole my credentials and presented them to Ryker as a sign of her loyalty. I only learned the truth as I was dying: she was the woman Carter had spent years searching for, the one who had supposedly saved his life long ago. That night, hunted as a traitor, I drowned in the suffocating darkness of a cargo ship’s bilge, my body left to the river’s cold embrace. Now, I stood in the same sterile office again. Under their expectant, calculating gazes, I tore the deployment order to shreds. “There’s no need to choose,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m going myself.” 1 “Are you insane? I’ve spent years training you, Ava, not so you could throw your life away!” General Morgan slammed his palm on the desk, his hand shooting out to grip my wrist. The bones ground together, but I refused to flinch. I met his gaze, and for a fleeting second, I saw a flicker of something dark and predatory in his eyes. “Ava, please, don’t do this just to make a point.” Mia stepped forward, her hand gently rubbing my back in a gesture of feigned comfort. Her voice was soft, but pitched to carry through the room. “Your injuries from the last mission haven’t even fully healed. You still wake up screaming from the nightmares. We all understand. You don’t have to prove anything.” A sudden, sharp silence fell over the office. Everyone here knew. They knew that during our last op, I’d shielded her from an explosion, taking the blast that shattered both my legs and nearly left me for dead in the fire. And now, here she was, carving open that wound in front of everyone and pouring salt into it with a sweet, concerned smile. “Is this some kind of martyrdom play?” Zoe sneered from the side, her voice deliberately loud, guiding the room’s suspicions. “You know the General would never risk you, so you volunteer for the suicide mission to look brave. You’ve always been the master manipulator, Ava.” Whispers erupted around me. The gazes of the other officers felt like needles, pricking my skin. Disdain. Contempt. A sickening hint of satisfaction. I bit down on my lip, the coppery taste of blood blooming on my tongue, but it couldn’t quell the rage churning in my gut. The door was abruptly pushed open. Carter stood there, his dress uniform crisp and imposing. He ignored the confetti of the shredded order on the floor, his eyes locking directly onto mine. “I approved that order, Ava. Are you going to be insubordinate again?” A knot tightened in my chest, a phantom hand squeezing the air from my lungs. Every breath was a sour, aching thing. It was always like this. No questions, no chance to explain. Just the immediate assumption of my guilt. In my last life, it was this reflexive distrust that had pushed me, step by agonizing step, into the abyss. I wrenched my arm from the General’s grasp. “There’s a problem with the order. Mia, she—” “Enough!” Carter’s voice was a whip crack. He closed the distance between us in a single stride, leaning in close, his voice a venomous whisper in my ear. “You’ll spin any lie, won’t you? You’re that desperate to get to Ryker.” His words turned my blood to ice. My hands began to tremble uncontrollably. I snapped my head up to look at him, and the raw hatred in his eyes was a physical blow. He remembered. He had lived it all, too. Mia returned from the adjoining kitchenette, holding a mug. “Carter, don’t be angry with her. Ava is just…” She didn’t finish. Her foot “slipped,” and the scalding hot coffee cascaded over my hand and forearm. The searing pain was immediate, a visceral echo of being burned alive. A choked gasp escaped my lips as cold sweat drenched my shirt. Mia snatched her hand back, her voice breaking into a theatrical sob. “Oh, Ava, I’m so sorry! I’m so clumsy. Are you okay?” Her performance was flawless. The picture of innocent distress, painting me as the volatile one, the source of the chaos. The sight of her duplicitous face made my stomach heave with revulsion. I couldn’t take it anymore. I snatched the empty mug from her hand, smashed it on the floor, and slapped her hard across the face. “Cut the crap, Mia. I’m done with your pathetic act!” Carter’s expression hardened, his features twisting into a mask of undisguised disgust, as if he were looking at something truly unhinged. He barked an order to the guards at the door. “Lieutenant Reed is mentally unstable. She assaulted a fellow officer and is disrupting military order. Take her to the brig. Immediately.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the silent room, his voice radiating absolute authority. “No one is to visit her without my direct command. Anyone who disobeys will be court-martialed.” The guards seized me, their grip so tight I thought my bones would splinter. As they dragged me away, I looked back at Carter. His posture was ramrod straight, his attention already elsewhere. He didn’t grant me a single glance. Only Mia, standing beside him, had a triumphant little smile hiding in the corners of her eyes. The brig was dark and damp, the air thick with the stench of mildew and old blood that made me cough. A guard shoved me violently, and I crumpled to the floor. An explosion of pain shot through my unhealed legs, nearly making me pass out. I don’t know how long I lay there before the cell door creaked open. It was Marcus. He squatted down, his eyes sharp, his tone hostile. “Alright, Ava. Spit it out. Tell me what you’re really plotting, and maybe I’ll consider letting you live.” I tried to speak, but my throat was painfully dry. A high fever was clouding my mind, and all I could manage was a weak, broken sound. He asked again and again, his patience fraying into anger, then hardening into cruelty. “The Lieutenant is uncooperative and refuses to cooperate with this investigation,” he finally declared to the guards outside. “Her confinement is extended indefinitely.” Through the small window in the door, my vision blurred, I saw Carter’s complex expression. Mia was beside him, her fingers toying with the sleeve of his uniform. “Carter,” she murmured, “she’s like this and still won’t give in. Ryker must have offered her something incredible.” Carter said nothing, but his thumb was unconsciously rubbing a button on his greatcoat. I knew that gesture. It was what he did outside the asylum in our first life. It was what he did on the docks in our second life, debating whether to save me. It was the tell for his internal war. But now, his patience was gone. His voice, when he finally spoke, was cold and resolute. “She’s always been good at playing the victim, at faking madness.” “Let’s see just how long her ‘unbreakable will’ lasts.” The next day, the door was kicked open with a deafening bang. Mia strode in, flanked by several guards. “Ava,” she cooed, “I was worried you weren’t comfortable. I came to help you get settled in.” Her eyes fell to my shoulders. She reached out, her fingers tracing the silver bars of my Lieutenant’s insignia. Before I could react, she ripped it from my uniform, the metal edge slicing my cheek and drawing a bead of blood. She held the insignia between her thumb and forefinger, her tone dripping with contempt. “I pull all-nighters studying tactics, I drill until my hands bleed, and I can’t even get a promotion. But you… you just had to sleep with Carter to get everything you wanted. If I’d known selling my body was that effective, I wouldn’t have wasted all that effort.” The guards stood by, heads bowed, silent. I stared at the insignia, my fingernails digging into my palms. I earned that. I earned it on a battlefield with a bullet in my shoulder, pushing through enemy fire to complete a recon mission. In her hand, she held it like a piece of trash. I opened my mouth to retort, but a sharp pain in my throat choked the words back. Mia’s gaze shifted to my neck, her fingers hooking the thin chain I wore. It was a necklace Carter had made for me years ago, a polished bullet casing from one of his first missions on the border. Engraved on it was the date we met. It was the only piece of our past I hadn’t thrown away. She yanked it. The chain snapped, the casing falling into her palm. “This worthless piece of junk isn’t doing you any good.” With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it out the small, barred window. I watched it disappear, a hollow ache spreading through my chest. Mia turned to leave. “Watch her,” she commanded the guards. The door hadn’t even fully closed when I heard the voices outside. Zoe’s was the loudest. “That bitch Ava has been one of Ryker’s spies for years! If Carter hadn’t found out when he did, she would have destroyed this entire battalion!” The lie spread like a virus. Every time the guards escorted me to the water pump, I heard the whispers. Soldiers I had trained with now turned their faces away or deliberately slammed into me, dousing me with foul water. The food changed. The porridge came crawling with maggots, the greens laced with grit. I stopped eating. On the fifth day, I was so weak I could barely lift my hand as I leaned against the wall. That evening, Mia returned with Carter’s personal medic. “You really are something else, Ava,” she said, almost admiringly. “Even now, Carter sends a doctor to keep you alive.” I had no energy to argue. I let the needle slide into my vein. My eyes drifted to a photograph in her hand, and my entire body went rigid. It was the only picture I had of my parents. I kept it hidden at the very bottom of my trunk. Only I knew it was there. “You want it back, Ava?” In the photo, my parents’ smiles were so warm, so loving. I struggled to my feet, my fingertips brushing against the photograph before a guard slammed me back to the ground. Mia laughed, a sound of smug charity. “Just sign a confession, swear you’ll never set foot in a military compound again, and I’ll give it back to you.” My eyes were bloodshot. “The only thing I’m guilty of,” I rasped, “is not killing you myself.” Her smile vanished. She casually dropped the photograph into an open drainage grate. The current was strong; it was gone in an instant. The world went black for a moment, and I nearly collapsed. But I didn’t give up. I timed the changing of the guards. I hid a small, desperate note in my sleeve and slipped it to a passing communications officer on my way back from the pump. It wasn’t long before he was detained. The note was delivered directly to Carter. He entered my cell, looking down at me from his great height. He squatted, seizing my chin, his grip so tight a pained grunt escaped me. His voice was dangerously low. “Tell me everything about your deal with Ryker. Be honest, and I’ll let you out of here. We can forget any of this ever happened.” I closed my eyes, refusing to waste another breath on him. Seeing my defiance, he leaned closer, his voice a casual, devastating blow. “You’re pathetic, you know that? To think you actually believed their car crash was an accident. You ran for help to the very man who killed your parents.” He continued, his words twisting the knife. “Your mourning period wasn’t even over before General Morgan rushed to adopt you. Didn’t you ever find that suspicious?” My eyes flew open. I stared at him, unable to process it. The image of my parents’ gravestones blurred with the memory of my adoptive father’s welcoming smile. It was a dull blade, churning my insides. Carter seemed pleased with my reaction. He stood, straightened his uniform, and walked out without another word. I collapsed onto the floor, tears streaming down my face. My entire life had been a lie. The sisterhood, the love, the loyalty—all of it fake. Even the truth of how my parents died. I stared up at the dark, blurry ceiling, and for the first time, I felt a chilling certainty. This life, this third and final chance, was a trap I was never meant to escape. Three more days passed. Carter’s patience was gone. “Start the interrogation,” he ordered, his voice devoid of any warmth as he leaned back in a chair just outside my cell. “Don’t stop until she tells the truth.” Two guards hauled me to my feet and strapped me to a restraint frame. The first lash of the whip landed directly on the old scars on my back. The pain was a searing, tearing agony. Blood instantly soaked through my shirt. I bit down on my lip, refusing to scream. Suddenly, Mia’s voice drifted in from the hallway, laced with practiced distress. “Carter, stop! Please, don’t hurt her anymore! She’s not strong enough for this. You’ll kill her…” I tried to laugh, but no sound came out. It was just like the last time. She had begged them to stop the electrocution then, too, only to turn around and tell the doctor to increase the voltage. The next thing I knew, a guard was approaching with a syringe. I tried to fight, but he pinned my arm down. The drug was fast-acting. Every wound on my body felt like it was being devoured by a million fire ants. My consciousness began to fray. Fragments of the past flashed before my eyes. Carter, standing outside the asylum, his expression cold and distant. Then, the crushing weight of seawater filling my lungs, the suffocating embrace of the deep. And him, on the docks, holding Mia’s hand, waiting for me to die. I don’t know how much time passed. Carter entered the interrogation room, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He frowned, a flicker of panic in his eyes that was quickly masked by irritation. “You brought this on yourself.” I was about to black out. Just as my vision faded, a bucket of ice-cold water shocked me back, my body wracked with shivers. Carter stood over me, holding a stack of papers. “Confess,” he said, “and I’ll consider telling you the whole truth about your parents’ deaths.” I lifted my head, my heart pounding. He was so confident, so sure he was still dealing with the old Ava. But I already knew. I had pieced it together from details he’d let slip, from the old grievances I’d uncovered myself. My plan to “defect” to Ryker wasn’t an impulse. It was a calculated strategy to expose them all. My parents’ murder, the General’s hypocrisy, and the truth Carter so deliberately concealed. I steadied my breathing, my voice clear and even. “It was just a mission.” The warmth in his eyes vanished. He pressed the glowing tip of his cigarette into my arm. He spat two words at the guards. “Keep going.” I don’t remember the rest of the torture. There was only pain. Late that night, the brig was terrifyingly silent. Curled in a corner, I thought I saw a familiar shadow in the darkness. Carter knelt beside me. His movements were cautious, almost gentle, as he applied ointment to my burns and wounds. When he finished, he left without a word, as if that moment of tenderness was nothing more than a hallucination born from agony. He was barely gone when Zoe pushed the door open. She carried an oil lamp, and her voice was a sickly sweet poison. “You just had to learn the hard way, didn’t you? You should never have tried to compete with my sister.” Her smile was chilling. “Now, once you’re dead, no one will be left to get between her and Carter. And that Lieutenant’s commission you were so proud of? It’ll be hers, as it always should have been.” My body went rigid. I forced my eyes open. In the flickering lamplight, the triumphant curve of her lips was identical to Mia’s. A memory flashed in my mind: my parents’ funeral. A strange girl standing next to Mia, wearing a bracelet identical to the one Zoe always wore. It was never just one of them. It had been both of them, from the very beginning. A perfectly constructed trap. And I, like a fool, had fallen for it, time and time again, never even realizing who my real enemies were. The next morning, guards hauled me to Carter’s office. The wounds from the night before were still weeping, every movement a fresh wave of agony. Carter glanced at the bloodstains on my uniform. A flicker of something—guilt, maybe—crossed his face, so fast I thought I imagined it. His expression quickly settled back into a neutral mask. He tossed a document onto the desk in front of me. “Sign this. You’re being reassigned to inventory management in the logistics department. Try to stay out of trouble and stop embarrassing yourself.” I used the desk to pull myself to my feet. Meeting his gaze, I couldn’t help but find the situation darkly amusing. “Why the sudden transfer, Commander? Are you afraid I might uncover some of your dirty little secrets if I stay?” Before he could answer, his adjutant took a step forward, ready to reprimand me for my insolence, but Carter stopped him with a single look. Mia, ever-present, tightened her arm around his. “Ava, he’s doing this for your own good,” she said softly. “It’s a desk job. You’ll be safe there, away from the fighting.” My eyes ignored her, focusing instead on the document. The document Zoe had swapped. It wasn’t a transfer to logistics. It was an application for immediate frontline deployment. My calculated gamble had paid off. I had provoked her into overplaying her hand. Without another moment’s hesitation, I took the pen and signed my name. The scratch of the nib on paper felt like a blade scoring across my already shattered heart. Carter glanced at the signature, and his tense shoulders seemed to relax. He stepped toward me, raising his hand as if to wipe a smudge of blood from my cheek. I flinched away instinctively. His hand froze in mid-air, and his eyes darkened. “You’re finally learning your place, Ava,” he said, his tone unreadable. He retracted his hand. He personally escorted me back to my quarters. Before he left, he turned. “Get some rest. Heal. And stop causing trouble.” The moment his footsteps faded down the hall, I slid down the door, my back pressed against the wood. My heart felt like a gaping cavern, a cold wind howling through it. I couldn’t cry. I just sat there, numbly wiping at the dried blood on my face. After a long while, I reached under my cot and pulled out the small dagger I had hidden there. I knew Mia wouldn’t give me time to breathe. Sure enough, in the dead of night, my door was kicked off its hinges. Several guards dragged me from my bed and shoved me into the back of a vehicle. The movement tore my wounds open, and the world swam in a haze of black-edged pain. I was dumped, unceremoniously, at the most dangerous sector on the front: Outpost Niner. It was the closest position to Ryker’s main stronghold. The air constantly hummed with the whistle of incoming artillery. I huddled behind a crumbling barricade. In the next instant, a masked man was on me, a knife blade pressed cold against my throat. So Mia couldn’t even wait a single night. She’d already paid an assassin to kill me on Ryker’s doorstep, a perfect way to frame her rival. My chest heaved with a mixture of terror and pain, but I forced myself to remain calm. As he leaned in to whisper a threat, I moved. My hand closed around the dagger hidden in my boot. I used the very same combat techniques Carter had taught me to defend myself from the danger he had sent me into. With every last ounce of my strength, I drove the blade deep into a vital point. Warm blood splattered across my face, the smell thick and metallic. Fighting back nausea, I crawled to a battered, barely-functional telegraph machine and tapped out a short, coded message: “Outpost Niner overrun. Lieutenant Reed, KIA.” Then, I transmitted the message directly to Carter’s command frequency.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386458”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I saw the headline—Vegas Chapel Opens Drive-Thru in Nightclub, Dare Option Unlocked—I laughed along with the rest of the internet, sharing the spicy comments about it being a new punishment for losing a round of dares. I was still laughing about it yesterday. Today, when I went to the courthouse with my fiancé to get our marriage license, I found out he was already married. He’d registered last night. His “best friend,” a woman I’d only ever heard described as “one of the guys,” gasped with theatrical surprise. “Oh my god, Ryan! I think… I think we lost a dare at the club last night. They made us go get married as a penalty.” Ryan, with his arm still wrapped around my waist, just shrugged it off. “We thought it was just a joke, a gimmick. We didn’t think it was real. But hey, no big deal. We’ll just get it annulled.” He gave my side a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll take a month for the paperwork to go through, and then we can get our license. Simple.” I gently pushed his hand away. A smile played on my lips. “Okay,” I said, my voice sweet. “I’ll wait.” I’ll wait for you to get on your knees and beg me. 1 As I turned to leave, Ryan grabbed my wrist, his relaxed expression tightening with annoyance. “What’s the big deal, Audrey? It’s not like it can’t be undone. You can’t wait one month?” Alex, the “female friend,” draped her arms around Ryan’s neck without a shred of shame, pulling his head toward her chest. “Don’t worry, ‘sis’,” she purred, the title dripping with condescension. “It’s only a month. I can test-drive the marriage for you. Test-drive him too, if you want.” She winked at me. “If he’s no good, you can kick him to the curb. Save you from a passionless marriage.” The rest of their friends burst out laughing, a chorus of bros who saw absolutely nothing wrong with this. Including Ryan himself. He gave Alex a helpless push, pulling at the collar of her low-cut top to peek inside. “With that flat chest of yours? I’ll pass on the test drive.” Alex didn’t even flinch. She just puffed out what little she had. “They say these can be grown with the right pair of hands. Want to give it a try, Ryan? Experience the joy of a home-grown project?” Rage, hot and sharp, surged through me. Until this very moment, I had never known that Alex, the person he always called his best buddy, was a woman. A completely shameless one at that. Someone in the group must have noticed the murder in my eyes and tried to play peacemaker. “Hey, Audrey, don’t be mad. It’s our fault. We were all wasted and egging them on.” “Yeah, none of us knew you could actually get a real license at a nightclub. It’s crazy, right?” another one chimed in. Someone else popped the trunk of Ryan’s car. “Ryan was so excited about today. He even had a surprise for you.” The moment the trunk opened, a wave of awkward silence fell over the group. The back of the car, which was supposed to be filled with flowers, was a wreck. Dozens of roses were crushed and flattened, and lying right on top of the floral carnage was a single piece of black lace underwear. “Oh!” Alex chirped, stepping forward to snatch the panties. “I was wondering why I felt a draft this morning. Turns out I forgot something.” She shot a pouty look at Ryan. “You could have told me.” My mind went blank, a white-hot static where my future used to be. My hand moved on its own, the crack of my palm against Ryan’s cheek echoing in the sudden silence. “You disgust me.” He stared at me, stunned for a second, before grabbing my wrist. “It’s not what you think!” “She… she was drunk last night and insisted on sleeping in the car.” He shot Alex a desperate look, begging her to play along. She rolled her eyes before sighing dramatically. “Right, right. All my fault. I insisted on sleeping in the trunk alone and accidentally ruined your big surprise. But hey, you guys didn’t get your license today anyway, so no harm, no foul.” She emphasized the word “alone,” her tone a perfect blend of apology and taunt. I yanked my hand from Ryan’s grip, my face a cold mask. “Since you two are already married, there’s nothing left to say. I wish you both the best. A bitch and a dog, a match made in heaven.” A man this filthy was no longer my problem. Ryan blocked my path, his face dark. “I told you, marrying Alex was an accident. Do you have to be so cruel with your words?” he snapped. “These are all my friends. They came all this way to celebrate with us. The least you could do is buy them dinner.” He puffed out his chest. “Let’s do Aura.” I stared at him, truly baffled. I never realized the depths of his shamelessness. Aura, a restaurant with a six-thousand-dollar tasting menu per person, was so exclusive it didn’t even take reservations from the general public. Even Ryan Walker couldn’t get a table there on his own. And now, standing here on the day he was supposed to marry me, already married to another woman, he had the audacity to ask me to use my connections to save his face? I was so furious I could barely breathe. I kicked him hard in the shin. “Get lost,” I seethed. “Take whoever you married and buy them your own damn dinner.” I got in my car and drove straight to my office. I had barely sat down at my desk when my phone rang. It was the concierge from Aura. “Ms. Pearce? A Mr. Walker has just charged an eighty-eight-thousand-dollar VIP package to your account. I was calling to confirm when you might be available to settle the bill?” I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. The absolute nerve of Ryan. “He’s the one who spent the money,” I told the concierge, my voice ice cold. “He can be the one to pay for it. If he doesn’t, I suggest you call the police. He and I are no longer associated in any way.” A few minutes later, Ryan’s name flashed on my screen. I answered, and his furious roar filled my ear. “Audrey! Are you trying to humiliate me in front of my friends? Get over here and pay this bill right now!” I let out another cold laugh. “Why, exactly, would I do that?” “When have you ever not paid when we’ve come here?” he shot back, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. My voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh. Why don’t you take a moment and remember why I ever paid for you in the first place?” There was a pause. He remembered. He remembered showing up at my door with nothing but his good looks and a sob story, begging me to support him, promising he’d be the perfect, devoted husband who wouldn’t interfere with my career. Back then, he was sweet, attentive, and gorgeous. And I, facing the pressure of inheriting my family’s company, thought that having a handsome, uncomplicated man by my side was a perfect solution. So I said yes. His tone softened, shifting to the gentle, pleading voice he always used to get his way. “Audrey, baby, don’t be angry. I promise I’ll book an appointment to start the annulment with Alex tomorrow. Next month, it’ll be you and me. Even if her name is on that paper, you’re the only one in my heart. A tomboy like Alex could never compare to you.” A few days ago, those sweet words would have melted me. Now, they just made my stomach turn. I could hear Alex’s voice in the background. “Is Audrey still giving you a hard time? I told you, you’re too good to her. Just because she has a little money, she thinks she can throw these tantrums whenever she wants.” “Yeah, man,” another voice chimed in. “She’s almost thirty. Who else is going to marry an old maid like that besides you?” “Exactly. Alex is way better. She can be your bro in the streets and in the sheets.” “I say, since the license is already signed, why not just roll with it? Otherwise, your life is basically over, dude.” “Hey, speaking of last night in the car… weren’t those rose thorns a little prickly?” A wave of raucous laughter followed. The sound was so incredibly mocking. Now I understood why he never wanted me to meet his “friends.” He was afraid I’d see them for who they really were. The background noise muffled as Ryan presumably covered the phone, but his own voice grew bolder. “Look, just get over here. Weren’t you always dying to meet my friends? Stop playing hard to get.” “Fine,” I said. “Tell them to wait for me.” Just before I hung up, I heard Ryan’s triumphant voice, loud and clear. “See? I’ve been giving her way too much credit. I tell her to come, and she comes running.” The sound of it was so pathetic, it was almost funny. Ryan was clearly flying high on his own delusion. I watched the call recording save automatically to my phone, then blocked his number and got back to work. The anger fueled me. I worked straight through the night and didn’t head home until the next morning. But the moment I opened my front door, I saw it. A trail of discarded clothing—his jeans, her dress—snaked from the entryway to my bedroom door. The rage I had managed to suppress came roaring back. I walked to the kitchen, filled a stainless-steel ice bucket with water, marched into the bedroom, and dumped the whole thing onto the bed. Two figures, tangled together, shot up with panicked screams. They were both completely naked. When Alex saw it was me, she shrieked, “Are you crazy? Can’t you see we’re sleeping?” I tossed the bucket onto the floor with a loud clang. “Oh, I see,” I said, my smile venomous. “I see everything perfectly.” Ryan scrambled to pull on his boxers. “Audrey! Don’t misunderstand! Nothing happened between us! We’re innocent!” There are moments when you’re so utterly speechless that all you can do is laugh. “Do you take me for an idiot, Ryan?” Naked, in my bed together, and he was trying to sell me on ‘innocence’? Alex, completely unbothered by her own nudity, stood up to defend him. “Do you have any idea how much face Ryan lost last night because you didn’t show up?” she yelled. “And you have the nerve to be angry at him? Besides, Ryan and I are legally married now. Even if we did sleep together, it’s nobody’s business but ours!” Ryan grabbed her dress from the floor and expertly helped her pull it on, his movements practiced and familiar. Then he turned to me, his eyes full of disappointment. “Can’t you just trust me for once, Audrey? Why do you always have to be so suspicious? And about last night… those are my best friends! You completely humiliated me in front of them.” He took a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a royal decree. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to wire each of my friends a hundred thousand dollars as an apology for the eighty-eight-thousand-dollar dinner you refused to pay for. Then, maybe, I’ll consider putting in a good word for you with them.” I stared at him, incredulous. How could one person possess such an astounding level of arrogance? Did he actually believe what his friends said, that I was so desperate I couldn’t live without him? He seemed to take my silence as a sign that his threats were working. His tone became even more condescending. “Consider this one-month annulment period a trial. For you. A chance for you to prove you’re worthy of marrying me. We’ll see how you behave.” He then added, “Oh, and Alex is craving the caviar and chocolate pudding from Aura. Have a serving delivered.” Alex stepped forward and gave me a hard shove, a triumphant smirk on her face. “Ryan and I are the married couple here. That means this is my house now. You can get out.” She leaned in closer. “And you’d better spend the next month figuring out how to get on my good side. Because if I’m not happy, I might just decide not to sign those annulment papers. Then where would you be?” I stumbled backward, the corner of a dresser digging painfully into my lower back. For a split second, I saw Ryan’s hand start to reach for me, but he pulled it back, his expression hardening. “Your attitude really has gotten out of control lately, Audrey. You need to fix it.” Fix this, I thought. I steadied myself, stood up straight, and slapped them both, one after the other. Alex screamed and lunged at me, grabbing a handful of my hair, her other hand raised to strike back. I could have dodged it, I could have fought back, but Ryan grabbed my arms, holding me in place for her. “Audrey, don’t you dare go too far!” he yelled. Alex’s slaps landed hard across my face, stinging and sharp. I could taste blood in my mouth. When she was done, Ryan looked at me, a flicker of guilt in his eyes before he quickly looked away. “You hit her first,” he mumbled. “You can’t blame Alex. Maybe you should stay somewhere else for a while. Alex doesn’t really like living with other women.” I thought Ryan had a limit, a line he wouldn’t cross. I thought wrong. He wasn’t just a spineless user; he was an animal. “Really?” I spat, the blood making my words taste metallic. “Is her mother not a woman? Or did she crawl out from under a rock?” Any lingering shred of affection I had for him vanished in that instant. I pushed myself off the floor, walked to my desk, pulled open a drawer, and threw the deed to the condo right at his face. “Read it and weep. This is my property. The only two who should be getting out are you and your whore.” I pointed a trembling finger at him. “And you, Ryan. Your clothes, your car, your entire existence for the past three years—I paid for it all. Get naked before you leave. And that pathetic little startup I funded for you? Get ready to watch it file for bankruptcy.” Alex stepped in front of him, her arms crossed defiantly. “You were going to marry him anyway. It’s not just the condo; your company was going to be his too. You should be handing it all over willingly, and instead, you’re trying to kick him out?” She sneered. “What, are you trying to be some kind of online girlboss now? Just wait. Once Ryan dumps you for good, you’ll come crawling back.” I found it fascinating that Alex, a woman, could be so contemptuous of other women. She seemed to identify so strongly with men, she’d practically become one herself. She would learn soon enough what happens when you put all your faith in them. “I’m done talking,” I said flatly. “Are you leaving, or do I have someone make you leave?” I pulled out my phone and dialed three numbers: 9-1-1. Seeing me actually do it, Ryan hesitated. But Alex grabbed his arm. “Who do you think you’re threatening?” she snarled at me. “You don’t want me living in your precious condo? Fine. Then nobody gets to live in it!” With that, she stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of olive oil, and ran back into the bedroom. She started splashing it all over the curtains and my clothes in the open closet. My eyes widened in horror. I moved to stop her. “Ryan, what are you waiting for? Stop her!” Alex screamed at him. “If you don’t teach her a lesson now, do you really think she won’t hold this over your head every single day after you’re married?” That was all it took. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ryan wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, pinning me in place. I could only watch in helpless horror as Alex finished emptying the bottle, pulled a lighter from her pocket, and set the curtains ablaze. The oil acted as an accelerant. Flames erupted, climbing the fabric in seconds. Choking on the smoke, Alex pushed past me, grabbed Ryan, and dragged him out of the room. I heard the click of the lock just as I lunged for the door. The fire was already consuming half the room. The heat was a physical force, searing my skin. I pounded on the door in a panic. “Ryan! Open this door right now!” I think he might have considered it, but I heard Alex’s sharp voice from the other side. “Ryan, I’m doing this for you. Have some goddamn backbone. Wait until she begs you. Then we’ll talk.” A moment of silence, then Ryan’s voice, muffled but clear. “Alex is right, Audrey. You should have signed the condo and the company over to me a long time ago. All you ever needed was me, right? If you promise to sign everything over to me right now, I’ll open the door and let you out.” The flames grew higher. The ends of my hair began to singe and curl. The thick, acrid smoke clawed at my lungs, and every attempt to breathe was like swallowing knives. I heard Alex again, her voice laced with cruel excitement. “See? She’s still got fight in her. That means the fire isn’t big enough yet. Let’s wait a little longer.” Ryan’s reply was a single word that sent my heart plummeting into an icy abyss. “Okay.” I stopped hoping they would save me. Stumbling and choking, I made my way into the en-suite bathroom. I turned on the shower, drenching myself in cold water, and curled into a ball on the wet tile floor. Through the haze of smoke and fear, I heard Alex’s panicked shriek. “The fire’s spreading out here!” Ryan’s voice was filled with alarm. “What about Audrey?” “Who cares about her right now?” Alex screamed back. “Do you want to die?” Then, the sound of frantic footsteps fading down the hall. They had left me there. Smoke seeped under the bathroom door, making the small space a death trap. My breathing became shallow, my vision started to swim in black spots. Just as I thought this was it, that I was going to burn to death in my own home, the bathroom door splintered open. “Ma’am, are you okay?” A firefighter. The first thing I did, the very first conscious act after being saved, was to grab his arm. My voice was a raw, broken rasp. “Call the police,” I choked out. “This was arson. They tried to murder me.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386457”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On our wedding anniversary, my wife bought me a cheap, fifteen-dollar drugstore watch. Because of that simple gift, her first love flew into a jealous rage and had his dog attack me, leaving me blind in my right eye. When my mother, infuriated, kicked the dog away, he ran crying to my wife, claiming my mom had abused his precious pet. My wife, Audrey, refused to listen to a word I said. As a “lesson,” she had my mother locked in the kennels with our five Cane Corsos. I fell to my knees, begging her, pleading with her that the dogs were dangerous, that they would kill her. She was busy online, ordering an apology gift for the man’s dog. She shoved me away with her foot, her voice sharp with annoyance. “They’re professionally trained, Ethan. They’re just for show. Stop being so dramatic.” To keep me from “making a scene,” she locked me in my room. I broke down the door. I raced to the kennels and rushed my mother’s broken body to the hospital, but I didn’t have the money to pay for the emergency surgery. I had no choice but to call my wife. She was in the middle of a candlelit dinner with him. The moment I mentioned money, she hung up. By the time she came home, my mother was dead. Seeing my tears, she tossed a platinum credit card onto the floor, her voice dripping with impatience. “What’s all this melodrama? Your mother is tougher than she looks. You really think a few overgrown puppies could get the best of her?” She sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. “Look, because she’s an elder, I’ll let it slide this time. Take this money, buy her some vitamins to calm her nerves. And tell her I’ll give her a grandchild next year. That should cheer her up.” She didn’t know. She didn’t know my mother was gone, and that as for my wife… I didn’t want her anymore either. 1 Audrey watched me, her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched, as I ignored the credit card on the marble floor. “I gave you the money you wanted,” she said, her tone clipped. “Now go tell your mother to stop hiding and come out here to apologize to Milo.” Milo. That was the name of the poodle mix that had mauled my eye and started this entire nightmare. I lifted my head, my vision swimming, and stared at her. I truly stared at the woman I had been married to for five years. I couldn’t comprehend it. How could she so easily believe the lies of another man over me, over the evidence of her own eyes? How could she condemn my frail, elderly mother on the word of her high school flame? My mom had spent half her life in a hospital bed. She’d finally, miraculously, gotten better. She hadn’t even had a handful of good days before being torn to shreds by dogs. And now, even in death, Audrey expected her to apologize. To a dog. The image of my mother’s mangled body flashed behind my eyes. A wave of grief and fury so strong it nearly buckled my knees washed over me. I pointed a trembling finger to the thick gauze bandage covering my right eye socket. “That animal blinded me,” I choked out, my voice raw. “My mother gave him one little kick. Just to get him away from me. And that was wrong?” My anguish, my hoarse questions, didn’t move her in the slightest. Her gaze was as cold and hard as the floor beneath my feet. “Milo nipped you by accident. And I already punished him—he got three fewer kibbles for dinner. Your mother, on the other hand, took it upon herself to physically assault him.” She crossed her arms. “If I hadn’t gotten there when I did, she would have killed him!” Across the cavernous living room, Spencer—her “one that got away”—cradled the dog, a smug, triumphant smirk on his face. Then, in a blink, his expression shifted to one of pained compromise. “Audrey, maybe we should let it go,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “I mean, technically Milo only bit him because he was yelling… but Ethan is badly hurt. We shouldn’t force his mother to apologize.” He stroked the dog’s fur. “Besides, you were too lenient with Milo. Of course, she was upset. I’ll tell you what.” He feigned a grimace. “I’ll poke Milo’s eye out right now, just to make it even.” He spoke with such theatrical brutality, but his hand never stopped its gentle, soothing motion. The performance was so obvious, so transparent, yet Audrey was completely blind to it. She panicked. “No, Spencer, don’t!” The cool, aloof Audrey Hale I knew, the titan of industry, was suddenly flustered, practically begging him not to harm a fly on that dog’s head. She wouldn’t even consider a punishment as light as putting him in another room for an hour. The irony was a bitter pill in my throat. This was all because Spencer couldn’t stand seeing Audrey show me the slightest kindness. The fact that she had, on a whim, bought me a cheap fifteen-dollar watch from a drugstore had been enough to send him into a jealous frenzy. He’d called his friends over, men who held me down while he sicced his dog on me, all as a “punishment.” The security cameras in the mansion had recorded everything. But Audrey couldn’t be bothered to look. Spencer’s tearful, twisted version of the story was all the proof she needed. It was my fault. All of it. I had to admit, the power of a first love was something to behold. His dog was more important than her husband and her mother-in-law combined. I tuned them out as they continued their dramatic debate. I hadn’t come back for this. My mother’s body was at the funeral home. I was only here to gather a few of her belongings. In a daze, I walked to her room and picked up a bright, floral-print dress. It was the one I’d bought for her the day she was discharged from the hospital. She had adored it, wearing it every chance she got, preening for her friends. “My son bought it for me. Isn’t it beautiful? He’s so smart, so thoughtful. My Ethan.” Her voice, her smiling face, flickered in my mind for a second before vanishing into the grief. My eyes burned and my throat tightened. Before I could even process the fresh wave of pain, a hand shot out and snatched the bag from my grasp. “You’re not leaving until your mother comes out here and says she’s sorry!” Audrey yelled, yanking on the strap. There was a sharp, tearing sound. The bag ripped open. Its contents scattered across the floor. The poodle mix, Milo, trotted over gleefully, snatching the floral dress in his teeth. Something inside me snapped. I lunged forward, kicking the dog away and scrambling to grab the dress. Milo yelped dramatically. That was it. Audrey exploded. “Guards!” she screamed, and two of her security detail materialized, grabbing my arms and pinning me. “It’s a stupid piece of clothing! The fact that Milo wanted to play with it is a compliment, and you attack him? You’re just like your mother—completely out of control! Since you won’t let her apologize, you can do it for her!” I watched, helpless, as the dog shredded my mother’s most treasured possession. Strong hands forced my head down, slamming it against the hard floor. Once. Twice. The sharp pain radiating from my forehead was nothing, not even a fraction of the agony in my chest. Tears I could no longer hold back streamed down my face. A dark, wet patch of red began to seep through the white gauze over my eye. The sight of the blood seemed to startle Audrey. She paused, then waved the guards off. “It’s just a dress, Ethan, my God. I’ll buy you a hundred more. A grown man crying over something so trivial. It’s embarrassing.” Free, I ignored her. I wiped my face, found another bag, and silently, carefully, folded the other pieces of my mother’s clothing and placed them inside. The blood was spreading on the bandage. Audrey’s brow furrowed in something that almost looked like concern. “Your stitches have opened. I’m taking you to the doctor.” She reached for me, but at that exact moment, Spencer gave Milo a sharp kick. The dog yelped again and scampered away, immediately drawing Audrey’s attention. Spencer shrugged, a picture of helpless frustration. “He’s too smart for his own good. He sees you paying attention to Ethan and gets jealous.” Audrey was instantly consumed with guilt. “Oh, my poor baby. It’s my fault. I’ll go find him right now.” She started to leave, then hesitated, her gaze flickering back to me. “If he runs off, someone could steal him. He could be killed. You go on to the hospital. I’ll meet you there after I’ve calmed Milo down.” She turned fully, her voice hardening again. “And I’m letting you both off the hook for today. But this is the last time. You can tell your mother that as long as she lives under my roof and eats my food, she will follow my rules.” She still didn’t know. I watched her run after the dog, too tired to say another word. I finished packing and left for the funeral home. 2 The air in the crematorium was thick with the sound of weeping. But my tears had run dry. I just stood there, silently feeding my mother’s clothes into the incinerator. My father died when I was young. My mother had raised me alone, working herself to the bone, only to be diagnosed with a terminal illness. I’d dropped out of college to work, to pay for her treatments, only to have my wages stolen by a crooked boss. I was desperate, with nowhere to turn, when a sleek black town car pulled up beside me on the street. The window rolled down, and there was Audrey Hale. She looked down at me from the leather-upholstered fortress of her car. “Ethan Cole, right?” she’d said. “I have a proposition for you. Marry me. Move into my family’s estate. In return, I will cover all of your mother’s medical expenses, and I’ll pay for you to finish your degree, even graduate school.” “Okay,” I’d said, without a moment’s hesitation. She thought I’d agreed for the money. She had no idea that I’d been in love with her for years, ever since we were in the same class in high school. Back then, I was the one who made an extra breakfast sandwich every morning and left it on her desk before anyone else arrived. When the other girls, jealous of her family’s wealth and her effortless beauty, started to bully her, I was the one who anonymously reported them for cheating on tests, getting them suspended. When I saw them about to pour dirty mop water into her bottle, I switched it with one of their own, letting them drink their own poison. Slowly, the bullying stopped. A rumor went around that Audrey, the untouchable princess, had a secret knight protecting her. I never dared to step forward. The chasm between our worlds was too vast. We could never have been together. And sure enough, after graduation, she went to study abroad and cut off all contact. When we met again, all those years later, she didn’t recognize me as her old classmate. It didn’t matter. Just being with her was enough. After the wedding, our life was one of polite distance. We were like roommates, two strangers sharing a roof but never crossing into each other’s lives. I knew she had no feelings for me, but I wasn’t discouraged. Life is long, I told myself. Eventually, I could win her over. I poured myself into my studies, managed the household, and tried to be the perfect, supportive husband. Then, a month ago, Spencer returned from Europe. And I learned that she had a great, unrequited love. The one that got away. Years ago, when Audrey’s parents had pressured her to marry, Spencer, unwilling to marry into her powerful family and live in her shadow, broke up with her and left the country to pursue his own ambitions. In a fit of pique, she found me—a poor student who happened to bear a striking resemblance to him—and married me instead. I was just a replacement. A pathetic stand-in. Even knowing the truth, I didn’t feel I had the right to be angry. After all, Audrey had been generous. She had saved my mother’s life. So I stood by as she moved Spencer into our home. I held my tongue, treated him with respect, and yielded at every turn. But living with him, I saw the man he really was. He was nothing like the kind, noble person Audrey described. He would “accidentally” spill hot coffee on himself and blame me. He would stage a fall on the stairs and claim I’d pushed him out of jealousy. His petty cruelties were endless, chipping away at the fragile trust Audrey and I had begun to build. And now, with a spoiled little dog, he had taken my mother’s life. I watched the box of my mother’s ashes be lowered into the ground. Kneeling by the fresh grave, my heart felt like a hollow, cavernous ruin. Her true love was back. So I would leave. I would give them the life they wanted. Audrey had promised to meet me at the hospital, but the sun had set and my phone remained silent. I knew she’d forgotten. I wasn’t surprised. After the funeral, I went to a print shop. I returned to that cold, empty mansion with a single document. I knocked on her study door. “Come in.” She was at her desk, immersed in her work. I placed the divorce papers in front of her. “Sign this.” Without even glancing at it, she picked up her pen and scrawled her signature. “Don’t you want to see what you’re signing?” I asked, my voice tight. She didn’t look up. “What could you possibly want from me, Ethan? It’s your greedy mother again, isn’t it? Putting you up to asking for more money.” My fists clenched at my sides. I opened my mouth to tell her, to finally tell her everything. Bang! The door flew open, slamming against the wall. Audrey hated loud noises. Anyone entering her study, including me, was required to knock softly and wait for permission. But this person, this intruder, was met not with anger, but with a delighted smile. “Spencer! You have to tell me what that paper you gave me means,” she said, rising to greet him. “I’ve been staring at it for five hours, I’ve cross-referenced everything online, and I still can’t decode it.” Spencer laughed. “Decode what? It was a flyer for a pizza place I picked up on the street. I was just using it to fan myself. You’re too much.” The powerful CEO, my wife, stuck her tongue out at him playfully. She wasn’t angry about the wasted time. She carefully placed the junk-mail flyer into a silver picture frame and set it on her desk, admiring it like a piece of fine art. The legal document I’d brought her didn’t warrant a single glance. A greasy flyer from his hand was a treasure. The difference between being loved and not being loved was a stark, brutal thing. They began to chat, completely forgetting I was in the room. I quietly picked up the signed divorce papers and walked out. 3 The next morning, I was at my lawyer’s office first thing. “Everything is filed, Mr. Cole,” he said. “We’ll have her served by the end of the day.” I thanked him and stepped outside to call a cab. As I did, a message popped up on my phone from the home health aide who had looked after my mother at the hospital. Mr. Cole, your mother left a few things here with me. Are you free to come pick them up? I am, I typed back. I headed for the address she sent—a private room at an upscale restaurant. As I approached the door, I was about to text her that I’d arrived when I heard familiar voices from within. Instinctively, I peered through the crack in the slightly ajar door. Inside, Audrey and Spencer were linking arms, about to drink from each other’s glasses. A group of their friends were cheering them on. “Audrey, you’re too young and vibrant to waste your life with someone you don’t love!” one woman shouted. “That Ethan guy was never good enough for you,” another added. “Just divorce him and get back together with Spencer already! It’s destiny!” All eyes turned to Audrey. She just smiled, holding up her glass. “Marriage is what it is,” she said, deflecting. “Life is never perfect.” I had heard enough. I started to back away, but Spencer suddenly looked up and shouted. “Ethan? What are you doing here?” His voice was laced with theatrical panic. “Audrey and I were just playing a game! It doesn’t mean anything, I swear! Don’t get the wrong idea. Here, I’ll… I’ll do three shots as punishment.” He dramatically threw back three glasses of whiskey. The confused party guests instantly understood. Their faces hardened as they turned on me. “He’s just the stand-in, and he has the nerve to get jealous of the real thing? The arrogance!” Audrey shot me a look of pure annoyance. “Get out,” she said, her voice like ice. I didn’t need to be told twice. I turned to leave. But this time, Spencer followed me out. “Leaving so soon? Don’t you want your mother’s things?” I stopped and turned to face him. I should have known. He had paid the aide to lure me here, to make sure I saw that scene. He was a vicious man; this was a trap, and I was walking right into it. I was about to ignore him and keep walking. But then he pulled something from his pocket. A small, delicate gold locket. He dangled it from his fingers. “Look familiar? Just dug it up yesterday.” My blood ran cold. I recognized it instantly. It was the locket my father gave my mother. She had cherished it her entire life. Yesterday, at the burial, I had placed it inside the urn with her ashes. How did he have it? Had he… had he actually dug up my mother’s grave? Before I could even form the question, his fingers opened. The locket fell to the marble floor and shattered. “Oops,” he said with a smirk. “Clumsy me.” A roar filled my ears. Spencer saw my reaction and his smile widened into a triumphant sneer. He leaned in close, his voice a low, venomous whisper. “You know, those Cane Corsos? I raised them myself. They’re bred to be vicious. I did it all on purpose, Ethan. I had Milo bite you. I suggested to Audrey how she should ‘teach your mother a lesson’…” He paused, savoring the moment. “How does it feel, Ethan? To watch your own mother get torn apart, and be completely powerless to stop it?” “This is what you get for trying to take what’s mine.” “Audrey belongs to me,” he hissed. “Stay away from her. Or next time, it’ll be you in the ground.” My vision turned red. I didn’t think. I just swung. My fist connected with his face. Then again. The world dissolved into a cacophony of shouts and screams. I heard none of it. There was only one thought in my head. Kill him. Avenge my mother. “Stop it!” Audrey’s shriek cut through the haze. Her bodyguards swarmed me, pulling me off him. Spencer knelt on the floor, coughing up blood. “Audrey… don’t blame him,” he gasped. “He asked me to get the locket for him… and I dropped it. It’s my fault. He has every right to kill me.” Audrey rushed to his side, dabbing the blood from his lips with a napkin. She glared at me, her voice filled with disgust. “It was a stupid locket! How much could it possibly be worth that you’d do this to him?” “That’s not—” I started to explain. But she cut me off, her rage boiling over. She grabbed her handbag and swung it, the heavy metal corner catching me squarely on the forehead. “Not what?” she screamed. “I saw it with my own eyes! Are you going to stand there and tell me Spencer is framing you?” The blow split my skin open. Warm blood trickled down my face. I let out a short, bitter laugh and said nothing more. What was the point? She wouldn’t believe anything I said. I shook off the guards’ lingering grip and knelt, carefully picking up the shattered pieces of the locket. The sharp edges sliced my fingertips, but I didn’t feel it. Seeing this, Audrey seemed to hesitate, her anger momentarily flickering. She opened her mouth as if to stop me. But then Spencer let out a series of wracking coughs. “Audrey,” he wheezed, “he’s your husband. And his injuries are worse than mine. You should take him to the hospital.” Audrey sighed, her brief moment of concern vanishing. She turned her full attention back to him. “You’re too kind, Spencer. That’s why people always take advantage of you.” Her voice softened. “What does it matter if he’s my husband? You were the one who protected me in high school when I was at my lowest. You saved me. He hurt my savior. I should be making him pay, not taking him to the hospital. He can dream on.” She helped Spencer to his feet. “Come on. I’m taking you to a doctor. We can’t have a scar ruining that handsome face.” And with that, she led him away without a backward glance. The world around me faded away. All I could see were the broken pieces of my mother’s locket. When I had gathered every last one, I stood up and walked out, ignoring the pointing fingers and whispered condemnations of the crowd. I went back to my mother’s grave. The earth was disturbed. The urn was gone. There was no time for grief. I found it tossed aside in the bushes, cracked open. I fell to my knees and began scooping up the ashes, now mixed with dirt and mud. I held the filthy, broken container in my arms, checked into a cheap motel, and booked the first flight I could find. This place was no longer safe. I would take her home, to the town where we were born, and bury her there. That evening, a message from Audrey appeared on my phone. As cold as ever. Did you get that cut on your head looked at? A second message followed. It’s Spencer’s birthday tomorrow. You will come and bring a gift to apologize. If you do, I will forget about what happened today, and we can try to make this work. And a third. Tell your mother she can come back, too. It’s more comfortable here than wherever she’s hiding. She sent the messages, assuming, as always, that I would bend to her will. I didn’t bother replying. Instead, I forwarded the evidence of Spencer’s illegal ownership of dangerous animals to the police, along with a formal statement about my mother’s death. The next morning, my lawyer confirmed the divorce was final. I put Audrey’s copy of the decree in a courier envelope and had it sent to her. Then, clutching my mother’s ashes, I boarded a flight home, leaving that city and its ghosts behind me forever. I would never see Audrey Hale again. … In the private room at the restaurant, Audrey was still waiting, a hopeful look on her face. Knock, knock, knock. A smile touched her lips. “That must be Ethan, here to apologize.” Spencer, his face artfully bruised, waved a dismissive hand. “Well, I was partly to blame. It doesn’t seem right for him to be the only one apologizing, does it?” Audrey was resolute. “When you do something wrong, you apologize. Stop making excuses for him.” She walked over and opened the door. It wasn’t me. It was a courier. “Audrey Hale? This is for you.” She assumed it was a gift from me, a peace offering. She tore open the corner of the envelope, but before she could look inside, two uniformed police officers walked past her and stopped at their table. “Spencer Croft?” one of them said, looking at the man who had come out to see what the commotion was. “We have a report, filed by an Ethan Cole, that you illegally housed five dangerous animals, resulting in the death of his mother. You need to come with us.” Audrey stared, utterly bewildered. “Ethan’s mother is dead? That’s impossible. There has to be a mistake. I’ll call him right now and clear this up!” She fumbled for her phone, and in her haste, the contents of the envelope slid out and fell to the floor. It was a single, folded document. A certificate of divorce.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386456”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My daughter was mowed down on the campus promenade by a drunk, speeding trust-fund brat. Her femur was shattered. Multiple ribs were broken. She was, and still is, in a coma. His parents requested a meeting to settle things. Her tone was a blade of arrogance, sharp and self-assured. “Ava,” she said, “just sign the liability waiver. Let’s not drag this out and ruin my son’s future.” A wildfire of rage consumed what little reason I had left. I snatched the papers and threw them back in her face. “You can go to hell.” A smirk played on her lips as she looked up at me from her seat. “The law is quite clear. Even in a wrongful death suit, the payout is rarely more than a couple of million. Your daughter isn’t even dead. How about we cover the medical bills and add two million on top of that?” She slid a black credit card from her wallet, flashing it like a trophy. “I’m sure you’ve never seen one of these. It’s an Amex Centurion. Invitation only.” My eyes locked on the card. On the unique, custom filigree pattern in the corner. A pattern I knew intimately. It was the birthday gift I had given my husband. For a sickening moment, I tasted blood in the back of my throat. I swallowed it down, my gaze turning lethal. “Name a price for your son’s life,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “I’m buying.” 1 When I first arrived at the hospital, my legs nearly gave out. My daughter, Maya, was a fragile doll wrapped in white, lying still and silent in the ICU. The machines breathed for her. The police officer showed me photos from the scene. Maya and two other girls, their limbs bent at unnatural angles like broken marionettes. Their white university sweatshirts were stained a horrifying, deep crimson. The doctor’s words echoed in my head. She walked right up to death’s door. A fraction of an inch closer… After three days of holding vigil by Maya’s bedside, I got a call from the academy. The parents of the boy who did this wanted to meet. I found her in the headmaster’s office, a woman dripping in jewels, scrolling idly on her phone. She glanced up, her expression one of utter boredom. “You must be Ava, Maya’s mother. Sit.” She slid a document across the polished mahogany table. A liability waiver. “Let’s not waste time. Sign this. My son has a bright future, and I don’t want this… incident… to interfere with it.” The arrogance was suffocating. The entitlement, absolute. The image of my daughter, blood-soaked and broken, flashed behind my eyes. An inferno of rage burned away the edges of my sanity. My hands trembled, not from fear, but from a fury so profound it threatened to tear me apart. I gripped the papers, and with a guttural scream, ripped them to shreds, throwing the pieces in her face. “Your son is a monster. You’re dreaming if you think I’ll let this go!” I lunged at her, a primal urge to claw that smirk off her face, to make her feel a fraction of my pain. Why should the one who caused all this suffering sit there so high and mighty, so utterly untouched? The headmaster and another teacher, who had been standing by like useless statues, finally sprang into action, grabbing my arms. “Mrs. Harrison, please, calm down,” one of them pleaded, as if I were the one out of line. “Mrs. Vance is here in good faith, to find a resolution.” Audrey Vance calmly brushed the paper scraps from her silk blouse, her eyes glittering with derisive pity. “I’ve already had my people look into you,” she said, her voice smooth as venom. “Your daughter wears clothes from Zara and Gap. Non-designer. I’d wager you’re a typical working-class family.” “The law is quite clear,” she repeated, as if lecturing a child. “Even in a wrongful death suit, the payout is rarely more than a couple of million. Your daughter isn’t even dead. How about we cover the medical bills and add two million on top of that?” She leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. “Two million dollars… that must seem like a lottery ticket for a family like yours. Think about it. If you save a hundred thousand a year, it would take you twenty years to earn that. One little accident, and you get it all at once. You should see this as a blessing, our little act of charity. Don’t be greedy. It’s unbecoming.” I stared at her, the hatred in my soul so potent I could feel it radiating from my skin. My whole body shook. “Your son was drunk, street racing on a campus promenade. He critically injured three people and hurt dozens more. The only place his future belongs is in a prison cell for the rest of his life!” Audrey feigned a theatrical arch of her brow, then let a chilling smile spread across her face. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘Money makes the world go ‘round’?” she purred. “And I have more than just money. I have influence. Why do you think this story hasn’t blown up on the news or social media? Because I…” She flattened her palm and pressed it down, a gesture of absolute power. “…had it suppressed.” As if for emphasis, she produced the black card again, her eyes shining with smug triumph. “Do you know what this is? The Amex Centurion card. You need a net worth in the hundreds of millions to even qualify. A number you can’t even fathom.” My gaze fell again on the familiar, custom filigree in the corner. The world tilted on its axis. My heart, already shattered, plunged into an abyss. That was the supplementary card I had given my husband, Mark. His mistress was trying to use my own money to buy my daughter’s life. The last few weeks clicked into place with horrifying clarity. A month ago, Mark asked for a birthday present. A new luxury sports car. I’d said yes. The model he described matched the one that hit my daughter. Three days ago, the head of my company’s PR department mentioned Mark had requested a full-court press to contain a “negative social media narrative.” Lost in my grief over Maya, I’d approved it without a second thought. A metallic tang of blood filled my throat again. I swallowed it down. My voice, when it came out, was glacial. “Then what’s the price for your son’s life? Name a number. I’m buying.” 2 For a split second, a flicker of genuine shock crossed her face. Then, she let out a short, sharp laugh. “Heh.” “I know you’re upset about your daughter, but tantrums won’t solve your financial problems. And really, what kind of money could you possibly have?” My gaze was unblinking, heavy as stone. “Name a price.” The surprise returned, quickly replaced by a dawning, greedy comprehension. “Oh, I see. You think two million is too low. Fine. Three million. Any more than that, and frankly, your daughter just isn’t worth it.” I repeated myself, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. “I said, I want to buy your son’s life. Give me a number.” She sized me up, from my simple black dress to my worn-out shoes, and then burst into full-throated laughter. It was a cruel, mocking sound. “Ten million,” she finally gasped, as if it were the funniest joke she’d ever heard. “If you can produce ten million dollars, you can have my son’s life. Ha! But people like you… you couldn’t save that much in a hundred lifetimes.” I nodded slowly. “Ten million. It’s a bit steep for a piece of trash, but fine. His life is mine.” I pulled out my phone and sent a single text to my assistant. Audrey scoffed. Even one of the teachers felt the need to intervene. “Mrs. Harrison, please, be reasonable,” he said, his tone placating. “The Vances are not people you can afford to provoke. You could lose everything—your daughter’s medical coverage, even your job.” I’ve always taught Maya to be modest, to be humble. The teachers at this elite academy, however, were masters of kissing up and kicking down. No one here knew that I was the chairman of the board of Apex Innovations. That my husband, Mark, the company’s CEO, was merely its public face. “I’ve recorded our entire conversation,” I said calmly, looking at Audrey. “And I’d like the teachers present to act as witnesses to our agreement.” That finally seemed to get under her skin. Her face hardened. “Fine. You want to play hardball? You won’t get a single penny. And let me tell you something else. My husband has already dispatched Apex Innovations’ chief legal counsel, David Klein, to handle this. The man has never lost a case in his life.” I nodded again. “Perfect.” The teachers were now looking at me as if I’d completely lost my mind. “The poor woman’s cracked from the trauma,” one whispered to another. “It’s a shame. A real tragedy. But to go up against the wife of Apex’s CEO? In this city, everyone knows they can move mountains.” Just as Audrey’s smugness reached its peak, the parents of another victim arrived. Audrey repeated her offer to them, the same cold speech, the same dismissive tone. The father’s face was a mask of anguish and indecision. “We can’t sign it, honey,” the mother sobbed. “We can’t. Our little girl… there isn’t a single part of her that isn’t broken. How can we just let that monster walk away? I can’t live with it!” The father sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “But the treatments… we need the money. And how can we possibly fight a family like that? If we don’t sign, we’ll probably get nothing at all!” The mother’s cries intensified. “My baby… why did this have to happen to her?” As the father reached for the pen, his hand trembling, I stood up and blocked his path. “Don’t sign it,” I said, my voice firm. “She has no money to give you. I will personally cover all of your child’s medical expenses—every treatment, every surgery, for as long as it takes.” The couple stared at me, bewildered. Audrey shot me a furious glare. “What nonsense are you spouting? This card,” she brandished the Amex, “can handle two million, ten million, whatever I want, in an instant.” A teacher grabbed my arm, frowning. “You’re not just refusing the money for yourself, now you’re interfering with others. They’re being much more sensible than you.” My eyes were like ice, but a slow, cold smile touched my lips. “So confident, are we?” I turned and took the other parents’ hands in mine. Looking at their grief-stricken faces, my own tears finally fell. We are all just parents, wanting to protect our children. “Ask her to run the card right now,” I whispered to them. “If she can’t, it means she’s lying.” The couple squeezed my hands back, their sorrow momentarily replaced by a flicker of resolve. They nodded. The academy’s finance officer was quickly summoned with a POS terminal. “We can process the payment now, and the school will transfer the funds directly to the parents’ accounts.” Audrey held her head high, swiping the black card with a flourish. A mechanical female voice announced, “CARD DISABLED.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386455”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend hired my husband. For a long time, I was a master of compartmentalization, a fortress of carefully constructed walls. Then came the disaster of Valentine’s Day. Two bouquets on my desk, two gifts, and two hotel key cards. When Grant found out I was married, the explosion was nuclear. He left for a month-long “business trip,” a punishment of pure, unadulterated silence. The day he came back, he refused to see me. I found him after three too many glasses of wine. He held himself rigid, reining in a rage that vibrated in the air between us. “Lena,” he said, pushing me away with a devastating gentleness. “I don’t do leftovers.” His voice was low, each word a carefully placed stone. “I want all of you. That includes your heart, your past, everything. It all has to be mine.” He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me. “Divorce him. And I’ll still want you.” “Do you understand?” 1 I woke up in Grant’s bed to the insistent buzz of my phone. The name flashing on the screen—Husband—was a cattle prod to my system. I shot upright, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. Beside me, Grant shifted, a frown creasing his brow. His hand moved blindly, a possessive, sleepy gesture that found my hip. I lifted his arm, its dead weight a familiar anchor, and slipped out of bed as quietly as I could. I padded out to the balcony, the cool morning air a shock against my skin, and answered the call. “Hello, Arthur?” “I start at your company today,” he said. “Director of Strategic Planning.” His voice was steady, methodical. He delivered the news like a weather report—calm, factual, devoid of any emotional inflection. But the words were a grenade detonating in the quiet of my mind. “You… what?” “Who hired you?” A slight pause. “Someone in upper management,” he said, as if considering the technical accuracy of his statement. Then he added, “Your direct supervisor, I believe. Grant.” Arthur was the new head of my department. And Grant was my boss. And Arthur’s boss. The biggest boss. My boyfriend hired my husband. And parked him right under his own nose. I raked a hand through my hair, my thoughts scattering like birds. “Lena, don’t feel pressured,” Arthur continued, his tone unreadable. “I intend to keep things strictly professional.” Was that what he thought I was worried about? “You were doing just fine on the West Coast,” I said, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice. “Why did you suddenly come back?” “There were a few things I needed to handle,” he said simply. “And coincidentally, there was something I needed to discuss with you.” “What is it?” I couldn’t imagine what business he could possibly have with our company, let alone me. “We can talk about it tomorrow in person,” he said. “Do you need me to bring you breakfast?” “No,” I said, a little too quickly. “I’m fine.” The line went dead. I walked back into the bedroom and sank onto the edge of the bed. My bare feet sank into the plush gray carpet, but my insides were a tangled mess. Grant was still mostly asleep, his arm searching the empty space where I’d been. After a moment, his eyes fluttered open, locating me in the dim light. A long arm shot out, hooking around my waist and pulling me back down into the warmth of the sheets. “Heard you talking in your sleep,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly remnant of the night. His breath was warm against my ear, laced with an attachment he’d never admit to when he was fully awake. “Kept saying ‘husband’.” He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “Getting sentimental on me, Lena?” I was about to fire back a retort, but he cut me off, pressing a fierce, possessive kiss to the side of my face. His hand tightened on my waist. “Say it again,” he commanded, his voice dropping an octave. “I want to hear it.” “Grant!” I yelped, squirming away. “I don’t want to go to work!” It came out as a petulant wail, a last-ditch effort to postpone the inevitable. A day at the office was not on my agenda. He laughed, a genuine, startled sound, and propped himself up on an elbow to look at me. “Lena, I asked you to be sweet,” he said, an eyebrow arching in amusement. “Not to challenge me.” 2 I hid in the bathroom for thirty minutes, hoping the world might rearrange itself while I stalled. It didn’t. When I finally emerged, Grant was leaning against the kitchen doorway, a mug of coffee in one hand. He’d made me a plate with a single fried egg and a glass of warm milk. Our eyes met in the vanity mirror. “Lena,” he said, his voice deceptively casual. “Don’t even think about telling me you’re calling in sick. You’ve already burned through your next three months of PTO this week.” I wiped my face, feeling the heat of a blush, and sat down at the small dining table. “I told you I don’t like cold milk.” “It’s warm,” he replied without missing a beat. “Well, I like my eggs fully cooked. This part right here is still runny.” “Fine,” he said, his voice flat. “Next time I’ll char it for you.” Grant’s comebacks were always swift and merciless. I took a bite of the toast. “I’ve told you a million times, I like peanut butter on my toast.” “It’s on there. You just haven’t gotten to that part yet.” I searched for another flaw, my protest growing weaker. “You didn’t put peanut butter on it last week.” He finally looked up from his phone, his gaze sharp. “Lena. Stop picking fights. Eat your breakfast. I’m driving you to work.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Of course, if you don’t want to eat, there’s a good chance breakfast will cease to be a service I provide.” The chef was threatening a strike. That was a non-starter. He could survive on black coffee and sheer willpower. I, a mere corporate drone, required actual sustenance. I would perish. “Grant,” I said, changing tactics. “I heard you hired someone new?” He was scrolling through emails. “Your sources are surprisingly quick,” he said, not looking up. “Hey, I’ve been with the company for five years. I have my ways.” “Five years and you’re still in the same position. I could have trained a monkey to do your job and it would have been promoted by now.” I bristled. He was the one who had personally mentored me for the last three years. If I hadn’t progressed, wasn’t that a reflection on him? I took another bite of toast. This time, I hit the peanut butter. My mood instantly improved. “I don’t need the money, so why kill myself climbing the corporate ladder?” To compensate for our arrangement, Arthur wired a substantial amount of money into my account every month. For the sake of appearances, he’d also send transfers on holidays and buy me things. I had more money than I knew what to do with. The burden of the secretly wealthy. I circled back to my original question. Grant still didn’t look up. “He’s the new director. Good temperament. If you screw up, he won’t yell at you. He’ll probably just lecture you like you’re one of his students.” I nodded slowly. That sounded exactly like Arthur. He was the kind of man who could watch me attempt to cook—an event not dissimilar to a controlled demolition—without so much as a frown. I should mention, my culinary skills are legendary. A former colleague of mine, Rick, once managed to set his entire apartment building on fire because he couldn’t get the gas stove to light and decided a Bic lighter was the next logical step. He ended up in a holding cell for the night. When he called Grant to explain why he needed a day off, Grant was stunned into silence before finally muttering, “You’re a special kind of talent, Rick.” Rick thought it was a compliment. He was fired a week later. … I finished my breakfast. Grant glanced at what I was wearing and, without a word, grabbed a handbag from my closet that actually matched. His aesthetic sense was one of his few undeniable virtues. He was rarely wrong. 3 When we got to the office building, I had him pull over a block away. I jumped out of the car like a fugitive. Grant leaned over the passenger seat, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why so jumpy, Lena? It’s not like I have a policy against office romance.” Please. The main issue was that I was about to be late. I hurried to the elevator bank and jabbed the ‘up’ button. Grant followed at a leisurely pace, the crisp sound of his leather-soled shoes echoing on the marble floor. He wasn’t in any rush. It was like he was deliberately trying to fray my last nerve. I breathed deeply and stepped into the elevator first. Just as Grant reached the doors, I decisively hit the ‘close’ button. “Sorry, Mr. Crawford,” I said sweetly. “You’ll have to catch the next one.” Grant’s eyebrows shot up. He watched as I, clad in low-rise jeans that revealed a sliver of my waist, gave him a cheeky wave. The smile on my face was pure sugar, but my intentions were anything but. The little rebel. She was getting more brazen by the day. He’d deal with her later. For now, he waited for the next elevator. The new guy was starting today. 4 I spent the morning at my desk feeling like a spy in my own life, jumping at every shadow. At ten o’clock, I saw him. Arthur stepped out of the elevator. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second before I snapped my head down, pretending to be utterly absorbed in my monitor. From inside his glass-walled office, Grant watched the whole exchange. He saw Lena straighten up in her chair as if she’d been zapped with a taser. It was almost comical. She didn’t need eyes in the front of her head; she clearly had them in the back. He was smiling to himself when he saw an elegant, scholarly-looking man walk past her desk. Lena’s body went rigid. Grant’s smile vanished. His brow furrowed. The man was now at his office door. His voice was calm, his face handsome in a clean-cut, formal way. “Mr. Crawford? I’m Arthur Thorne, the new Director of Strategic Planning.” Grant tore his gaze away from Lena. “Come in,” he said coolly. “Have a seat.” I couldn’t sit still, my head swiveling back toward Grant’s office every few seconds. On one of these turns, my eyes locked with his. I quickly forced a smile and pretended to be fascinated by the contract in front of me. At eleven-thirty, Grant emerged with Arthur, leading him over to our department. “This is your new boss,” Grant announced to the team. “I’ve done my research for you. The workload is manageable, the pay is good, and he’s known for being generous. You work hard for him, and he’ll take care of you.” A wave of cheers went through the department. I was the only one who remained silent. I looked up, and Arthur was looking directly at me. I quickly averted my gaze. Grant stood off to the side, observing, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. But he quickly masked it, turning to leave and handing the floor over to Arthur. Just before he walked away, Grant shot one last glance at me. I was still staring at Arthur, damn it. Grant decided then and there. They needed to talk. A long, thorough talk. 5 After Grant left, Arthur held a brief introductory meeting. When it was over, just as everyone was getting up, he called out. “Lena, could you stay behind for a moment? We need to sync up.” To the others, he said, “The rest of you can head to lunch.” He didn’t specify what we needed to discuss. I stood by his new desk, clutching my laptop. “What’s up, Arthur?” His serious face betrayed no emotion. His eyes, behind their gold-rimmed glasses, studied me with a quiet intensity. “I may need you to accompany me to a gala in the near future,” he said, his tone formal. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “That’s it?” “Yes.” For a second, I thought it was going to be something much more complicated. “Oh. Okay, sure. I’ve got plenty of time.” As I turned to leave, Arthur closed his laptop and fell into step behind me. “Would you like to have lunch together? We can discuss the details.” And so, I found myself heading upstairs with him to the executive dining room. I only dared to do this because I knew for a fact that Grant never ate the company cafeteria food. He was too picky, surviving on a strict diet of kale salads and black Americanos. Which is why my heart stopped when I walked in and saw him sitting at a table by the window, deep in conversation with another executive. I immediately fell back, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and Arthur. From the moment they entered, Grant’s eyes had been fixed on me. He took in the form-fitting black top, the company ID hanging from a lanyard around my neck. The dark-wash, low-rise jeans. The sliver of pale, smooth skin at my waist. The way I trailed behind Arthur, my high heels clicking on the floor. My chestnut-brown waves bounced with every step, a sight that was starting to seriously irritate him. “The new director in Strategic Planning?” the man across from him asked with a knowing smirk. Grant just gave a cold “Mm.” “That Lena girl certainly has a way with people, doesn’t she?” The man’s laugh was laced with insinuation. Grant’s gaze turned glacial. He looked like he wanted to strangle someone. I felt the prickle of his stare from across the room and sat stiffly in my chair opposite Arthur, my appetite gone. Arthur noticed my discomfort almost immediately. He followed my gaze and saw Grant. He gave a slight, formal nod in his direction. “Does this company have a policy against office relationships?” Arthur asked me in a low voice. “Or should I inform management of our marital status?” My head snapped up. “Don’t you dare!” I whispered fiercely. I hadn’t figured out how to explain any of this to Grant. A man with his pride… if he found out I’d played him for a fool, he would destroy me. I grasped for an excuse. “Just… don’t. I don’t want people gossiping.” Arthur looked down, saying nothing. After a long moment, he pushed a small plate of sweet and sour pork ribs toward me. “Lena,” he said, his voice even. “If this marriage is making you uncomfortable, we can file for a separation.” I looked at him, really looked at him. His dark eyes were sincere, holding no trace of accusation. “But I hope you’ll give me a chance,” he continued earnestly. “I came back to make things right. A divorce isn’t the best solution for us right now. If that’s what you’re thinking, please, just give me a little more time.” A lump formed in my throat. It took me a moment to find my voice. “Okay,” I said, my voice muffled. “I understand.” Before my father passed away, his greatest wish was to see me settled. Around the same time, Arthur’s parents were pressuring him to get married. So, through a mutual acquaintance, we were introduced and bound together in a loveless arrangement. He had always been decent to me. Before we signed the papers, he gave me a prenuptial agreement. It stipulated a generous monthly allowance for me to stay in the city and take care of his parents. It also stated that if I ever started a new relationship, I could terminate the marriage at any time. I had tried. But he was always too busy, constantly traveling, unable to come back. He lived abroad for years. In five years, I could count the number of times we’d seen each other on one hand. But he had never mistreated me. In the last two years, his parents’ health had declined. Just recently, his mother was diagnosed with cancer. Filing for divorce now felt inhuman. So I agreed. “Have you been to see your mother yet?” I asked. “I just got back yesterday. I haven’t told them I’m here.” “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go with you to see her tonight.” And just like that, our dinner plans were set. I finished my food as quickly as possible and left. 6 That evening, as I was packing up my desk, a text from Grant came through. Downstairs. Parking garage, B level. I looked up and saw Arthur just stepping out of his office. “Ready? My mom’s already made dinner.” “I just need to run to the restroom,” I said, making a quick escape. I ducked into the women’s room, deliberately taking my time. Finally, I sent a reply to Grant: Sorry, have plans with Olivia tonight! You don’t have to wait for me. xoxo Grant sat in the darkness of his car and read the message. He then calmly picked up his phone and sent a text to Olivia, a junior analyst on my team. Are you free right now? I need some adjustments made to this morning’s contract. Olivia replied almost instantly: Yes, Mr. Crawford! I’m home now, but I can get on it right away. Grant added two minor clauses. Thank you for your hard work. He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. He sat there in the silence, his face a thundercloud. A few minutes later, Arthur appeared at the elevator bank. The sound of high heels echoed in the empty garage. Then, Lena’s silhouette emerged. A short, black puffer jacket was draped over her arm. “It’s freezing out here,” she complained. Arthur took her bag, freeing her hands to put on the jacket. He clicked the unlock button on his key fob. “I have the heat on in the car.” Lena spotted his car and made a beeline for it, diving into the passenger seat. Grant let out a cold, humorless laugh. Looked like she was pretty used to hopping into his car. He reached over and shut off the heat he’d had running just for her. Let her freeze to death. His temples were throbbing with a rage so hot he felt like he could breathe fire. If Lena were standing in front of him right now, she’d be incinerated. Who needed a damn heater? He slammed his hand on the horn. The blare ripped through the quiet garage, startling the occupants of the car ahead. “That’s Mr. Crawford,” Arthur said, glancing in the rearview mirror. I immediately ducked my head down. “Go, go, go!” I urged. “The company doesn’t allow office romance. He’s the strictest one about it.” The car sped out of the garage, a hasty retreat that felt suspiciously like a guilty escape. Grant had seen her duck down to hide from him. A knot of fury lodged itself in his chest, a heavy, unmovable weight. He ended up at a bar on the corner. He took a seat by the window and waited. He waited until eleven-thirty. That’s when he finally saw her, the damn woman, getting out of another man’s car across the street. She was laughing, her whole body swaying with the motion. And Arthur wasn’t exactly a saint, either. He looked so prim and proper, but he was lingering, clearly reluctant to leave. What, was he hoping for an invitation to come inside? Fine. Let’s see if she had the guts to bring another man home. With that thought, Grant downed the rest of his drink, grabbed his coat, and stormed out of the bar. He stood a short distance away, watching them. His brow was knitted, his posture radiating an aggressive energy. He looked like a man on the edge, someone you didn’t want to cross. He was impossible to miss. Arthur saw him instantly. He looked at Lena. “I see Mr. Crawford again.” I quickly turned my back to the street, not daring to look. “It’s late,” I said, my voice rushed. “You should get going.” “My mom packed you some dumplings. Make sure you put them in the freezer.” I took the container from him. Arthur then pulled a case of cherries and a durian from his trunk. “Go on inside,” he said. I didn’t dare turn around yet. “You go first.” Arthur nodded. His eyes met Grant’s across the street. He could feel the murderous intent radiating from the other man, but he simply gave another polite, almost imperceptible nod. Then he got in his car and drove away. 7 Grant’s eyes were locked on me, predatory, like a hawk circling its prey. My legs were starting to go numb from standing in one spot. The moment Grant looked down to light a cigarette, I made a dash for the entrance to my apartment building. We were on the same street, just a few yards apart. “Well, well,” Grant’s voice cut through the night as he looked up and saw me. “Look who decided to bring home groceries.” I turned, feigning surprise. “Oh, you’re still here? So late.” I slowly walked over to him. A faint smell of whiskey clung to him. I leaned in closer, sniffing. Grant held his cigarette away from me, his other hand coming up to press against my shoulder, keeping me at a distance. “Do I know you?” I frowned. “What do you mean, ‘do you know me?’ Wasn’t it me who woke up in your bed this morning?” “Ha.” Grant tapped the ash from his cigarette, his expression utterly frigid. “So you do remember waking up in my bed, Lena.” He emphasized the word ‘bed’, his dark eyes glinting with a cold light. “You know what I’m like, Lena. Explain. Before I lose my temper.” “Who is he?” I bit my lip, gathering the courage to speak. “He… he is…” Just then, Grant’s phone rang. His face was a mask of thunder as he answered it. I sidled up to him, tugging gently on the sleeve of his coat. He shot me a warning glance. I took his hand. His knuckles were ice-cold, but his palm was burning hot. When he didn’t pull away, I dared to lace my fingers through his. The call ended. Grant stubbed out his cigarette. He looked down at our intertwined hands. “There’s an issue with one of the new interns. I have to go.” Which intern? Why was he so concerned? “You’ve been drinking. I’ll drive you.” I reached for the car keys in his pocket. He didn’t stop me. But as I urged him toward the car, he stood his ground. “You go home. I’ll get a cab.” Oh. I turned and walked toward my building. The moment his taxi pulled away, I found his car parked down the street, got in, and followed him. 8 The main avenue was a river of light, lined with upscale restaurants where executives entertained clients. When I arrived, I saw Grant emerging from one of them with someone. It was the new intern, a girl named Lauren. I’d heard she was a nepotism hire, someone with connections. Grant had assigned her to me for training. Lauren was wearing Grant’s suit jacket. She was trembling, clearly distraught. She buried her face in Grant’s chest, and he, with a deep frown, didn’t push her away. He even patted her shoulder comfortingly. Hugging another woman in the middle of the night. So this was his “issue.” I hit the hazard lights and leaned against the side of my car, my arms crossed. I watched them like I was watching a movie. I watched for a long time. And then, Grant saw me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386454”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Seven years of marriage. Seven years of trust. And for the first time, I reached into my husband Roman’s suit pocket and pulled out a diamond stud earring that wasn’t mine. Me? I hadn’t worn real jewelry in years. My ears had probably healed over by now. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a vase. I just placed the diamond on the dining room table, the cold stone clicking against the wood, and waited for Roman to bring our son home from soccer practice. The front door swung open, letting in a gust of autumn air and the chaotic energy of a six-year-old. Leo spotted the sparkle immediately. “Mom, did you buy more junk?” Leo wrinkled his nose, dropping his cleats on the floor I’d just vacuumed. “Dad says you spend too much money.” I fought the urge to ground him until college. Ignoring him, I locked eyes with Roman, who was closing the door behind them. “Care to explain whose this is?” Roman froze. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, his tailored coat hanging heavy on his shoulders, that handsome, sculpted face of his draining of color. Leo looked between us, eyes widening. Then, he let out a cruel, high-pitched laugh. “Daddy! Did you get me a new mom? Finally!” A six-year-old shouldn’t sound like a mean girl from a teen movie, but thanks to TikTok and too much screen time, mine did. He turned to me, his face twisted in a sneer. “You’re so cringe, Mom. You look like a homeless person. I’m so embarrassed by you. Just leave!” He bounced on his toes, pointing at the diamond. “That looks like Ms. Summers’ earring! Yes! I want Ms. Summers to be my mom. She’s pretty and she smells like vanilla, and she likes Daddy so much.” Every word was a serrated blade, sawing specifically at the parts of me I’d been trying to hide. Hearing this, Roman’s hand, which had been clenched at his side, relaxed. The panic in his eyes shifted instantly to a dark, terrifying calm. He walked to the mudroom closet. He didn’t grab a shoehorn—we aren’t in the 1950s—but he came back holding the two things Leo feared most in this world: the charging cable for his iPad, and the wooden spoon I used for stirring pasta sauce—a relic of Roman’s Italian grandmother’s style of discipline. He slapped the spoon against his own palm. Thwack. “Leo,” Roman’s voice was a low rumble, vibrating with a danger I rarely heard. He held out both items. “Son, do you want the Spoon, or do you want to lose the iPad for a month? Pick one.” 1 I looked at Roman’s offering. The spoon was mostly for show—a threat of old-school justice. The charging cable represented modern death for a digital native. The simmering rage of the “Seven Year Itch” was suddenly doused by the ice-cold bucket of my son’s betrayal. It was so absurd, so brutal, that I actually wanted to laugh. Before I could even weigh in, Leo wailed. It was a nuclear siren of a cry, the sound of a privileged child facing consequences for the first time. “Daddy, no! You’re gonna punish me? For her? For the ugly cleaning lady?” He stamped his little feet, shaking with indignation. “I hate you! I hate her! I want Ms. Summers!” Roman’s face went dark as a thunderhead. He didn’t hesitate. He dropped the cable, grabbed Leo by the back of his jersey, and—thwack—one solid, stinging swat to the backside with his hand, not the spoon. It wasn’t abusive, but it was shocking. Leo’s wail cut off instantly, replaced by a stunned silence, followed immediately by a scream that could shatter glass. “I’m calling the police! This is abuse! I’m telling TikTok!” I watched coldly. I didn’t move a muscle to save him. Roman hauled the screaming child to the “Naughty Corner” facing the wall, pointed a finger that meant stay, and then turned to me. The exhaustion in his dark eyes was bottomless. “Renée,” he said, his voice cracking. “I am so sorry. I have failed as a father.” He picked up the diamond stud from the table, frowning at it like it was radioactive waste. “This… I think this does belong to that teacher, Ms. Summers. But I swear to God, Renée, I have no idea how it ended up in my pocket.” I stared him down. Roman had beautiful eyes. They used to be the kind of bedroom eyes that made college girls stop in their tracks. Now, lines of stress fanned out from the corners, but they were still honest. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar. I knew that. But that earring was a thorn, and it was buried deep. “Ms. Summers,” I said, testing the name. “The one who teaches first-grade English? The blonde? The ‘hot’ one?” “Yeah,” Roman nodded, then quickly added, “I mean, I don’t think she’s hot.” His survival instinct was kicking in, but it wasn’t enough to put out the fire. “So explain the physics of this,” I pointed at the jewelry. Before Roman could speak, Leo, sniffling from the corner, yelled out his defense. “It is hers! I saw her wearing it! She lost it today and was crying! She said… she said she hoped a handsome prince would find it so she could marry him!” “She also said Daddy looks like a movie star…” Roman and I exchanged a look. The pieces clicked into place. Roman marched over to the corner, spun Leo around, and crouched down. His voice was deadly serious. “Leo. Look at me. Did you pick up Ms. Summers’ earring and put it in my pocket?” Leo’s eyes darted around the room. He poked out his bottom lip. Silence. “Answer me!” Roman barked. Leo broke. He dissolved into tears again. “I just wanted her to be in our family! She’s so nice! Not like Mom! Mom wears gross pajamas all day and her hair is messy and she looks like a zombie! The kids at school say my mom looks like the nanny!” 2 Kids say the darndest things. They also say the things that destroy you. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant, cold hand. I couldn’t breathe. Seven years. I went from being Renée, the rising star in graphic design, the woman who wore structured blazers and commanded boardrooms, to this. A domestic engineer. A chauffeur. A cook. I gave up the dream. I gave up the gloss. All for this house. All for them. And to my own flesh and blood, I was just “gross,” “old,” and “the nanny.” Roman looked stricken. He saw the color drain from my face, saw the light go out in my eyes. He let go of Leo and crossed the room in two strides, pulling me into his chest. “Shut up!” he roared at our son, true anger vibrating in his chest. “Leo, apologize to your mother. Now!” “No!” Leo jutted his chin out, doubling down on his bratty defiance. “I’m right! Look at her! What is she wearing? She never brushes her hair! At the PTA meeting, all the other moms had makeup and dresses. She wore sweatpants. Toby’s mom laughed at me!” I stiffened in Roman’s arms. The PTA meeting. I remembered that day. I’d spent three hours making the organic bento box Leo demanded, then scrubbed the master bath. By the time I looked at the clock, I had twenty minutes. I threw on my Lululemons—the expensive ones, I thought that counted—and ran out the door. I didn’t even check a mirror. I didn’t realize that in my son’s world, my devotion was his humiliation. Roman hugged me tighter, turning his head to glare at his son with eyes like ice. “Leo. Your mother wakes up before the sun to make your breakfast. She cleans this house while you sleep. She doesn’t have time to ‘dress up’ because every second of her time is spent serving you.” “I don’t care!” Leo screamed. “I want a pretty mom! Ms. Summers is pretty!” “Okay. That’s enough.” I gently pushed Roman away. I took a deep breath, willing my voice not to shake. I walked over to Leo. I knelt down so I was eye-level with him. I looked into eyes that were shaped exactly like mine, but filled with a stranger’s contempt. “Leo. You think I’m not good enough. You want to trade me in. Is that it?” He flinched at the dead calm in my voice, but he nodded. “Okay,” I stood up. The sharp pain in my chest had faded, replaced by a numb, cold wasteland. I looked at Roman. I spoke clearly, enunciating every syllable. “Roman. I want a divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386453”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It started with a joke. A cruel, offhand comment by the team’s shiny new recruit about my “senior citizen” reflexes. He said I should be put out to pasture. My wife, Sloane—who I thought loved me more than life itself—responded by spiking my pre-game smoothie with enough laxatives to kill a horse. I spent the championship match humiliated, sick, and destroying my reputation on live stream. Afterward, she benched me. She claimed it was strategy. She called it “The Icarus Gambit.” She said she was giving the rookie, Jax, everything—the captain’s armband, the millions in sponsorship, the penthouse in downtown L.A.—just to inflate his ego until he popped. She claimed she was building him up to tear him down, all to avenge me. She bought him state-of-the-art gear while I sat on the sidelines. She poured money into him like water. “It’s a long con, Wes,” she’d whisper. “I’m making him think he’s a god so he falls harder.” I believed her. Until the car accident. My arm was crushed under the wheel. I needed emergency surgery to save the nerves in my hand—my career. I applied to the company for a loan. Sloane approved it instantly. But when the billing department called me for the ninety-ninth time to say the transfer hadn’t gone through, I checked our team’s internal Slack channel. Jax had reposted my medical request. He tagged me, then asked the group: “Some people think the boss is a charity case. Just because you’ve been here forever doesn’t mean you get to milk the company account. What do you guys think? Should I approve this?” My teammates—boys I’d trained, boys I’d protected—reacted with “laugh” emojis. They voted No. I felt my heart turn to ash. I voted No, too. That was when Sloane finally called, her voice dripping with that manipulative sweetness. “Wes, honey, don’t be mad. I let Jax block it to feed his arrogance. Just rest your hand. Wait for Worlds. When he chokes on the global stage, you’ll step in and save the day. You’ll be the undeniable GOAT.” “The day you lift that trophy,” she promised, “we’ll finally go public with our marriage. Okay?” She didn’t know that because of the delay, the nerves in my wrist had severed completely. I would never play again. And she didn’t know I was already drafting the divorce papers. 1 I didn’t get a chance to respond before Sloane hung up. The ER doctor looked at the blood soaking the trash can beside me, his expression tight with pity. “Mr. Carver, are you telling me you can’t scrape together three thousand dollars? If we don’t operate in the next hour, the damage is permanent.” My chest felt like it was in a vice. Instinctively, my right hand went to my left wrist, fingers brushing the cold steel of my watch. It was a vintage Patek Philippe. Years ago, when Sloane was cut off by her wealthy family for dating a ‘gamer,’ she had worked double shifts at a call center and sold plasma twice just to buy it for my birthday. “To us against the world,” she had said. That watch held the weight of every struggle we’d survived. I never thought I’d take it off. But here I was. The legendary Wes Carver, captain of Team Zenith, sitting in a fluorescent-lit hallway, unable to find a single friend who would lend me a dime. My fingertips were going numb. Sloane, I really have no other choice. I opened a resale app on my phone, snapped a photo, and listed the watch. Because I priced it desperately low, my phone buzzed within minutes. A collector was nearby; he came to the hospital lobby with a wad of cash. I stared at the stack of bills in my hand, then at my bare wrist. I felt a phantom weight there, a ghost of a promise. My eyes burned, but I finally exhaled. When I woke up from anesthesia, the surgeon looked grim. “We saved the hand, Wes. But we only restored about fifty percent of the function. Fine motor skills are gone.” In plain English: My career as an e-sports athlete was over. My stomach dropped. The World Championship was a month away. Jax was flashy, but he had no discipline. Without me anchoring the mid-lane, Zenith wouldn’t make it past the group stage. For five years, Sloane and I had bled for this team. She handled the investors; I handled the game. I managed the egos, the strategies, the 16-hour scrims. When we qualified for Worlds this year, she had cried in my arms, saying it was all worth it. I ignored the throbbing in my arm and grabbed my phone. I needed to text her. She knew specialists in Switzerland; maybe there was still a chance for reconstruction. But before I could type, a notification from Jax popped up on my feed. The caption read: “Boss Lady treating me to a five-star feast as a reward for being the team’s new shot-caller!” The photo showed Sloane, who is deathly allergic to shellfish, peeling a shrimp with a gentle, adoring smile. A bottle of antihistamines sat by her elbow. In the corner of the frame, the receipt was visible. Total: $33,000. A bottle of Romanee-Conti alone was thirty grand. My surgery—the one that could have saved my career—cost three thousand. To Sloane, three grand was a rounding error. She used to tell me the team’s burn rate was too high. She made me, the captain, lead by example. She took my salary, “invested” it for me, and gave me a $500 monthly allowance. Every expense needed a receipt and a memo. I thought she was just scarred from her family cutting her off. I thought she was being prudent. I indulged her because I loved her. It wasn’t about budgeting. It was about value. And I just wasn’t worth it. I screenshotted the post, my thumb hovering over the send button to Sloane. But I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of the answer. I thought I was her world. But did she really need me at all? “Sir, the patient needs rest, you can’t—” The door banged open. Sloane burst in, pushing past the nurse, her chest heaving. “Why the hell did you sell the watch? The one I gave you?” I looked at her, exhausted. “Surgery fees.” Sloane paused, blinking. “Wes, you scraped your arm. You needed a Band-Aid and some Neosporin. You spent three grand on surgery? Are you insane?” She paced the room. “I get it. You’re doing this to punish me. You’re mad I let Jax block your loan request. But Wes, you have to see the big picture! I need Jax to think he’s untouchable. I need him to think he’s crushed you so he gets sloppy. The higher he flies, the harder he falls. Worlds is in a month. Can’t you just suck it up for the team?” Her voice was hypnotic. The old Wes would have folded. But she didn’t notice that when she said Jax’s name, her eyes shined. She didn’t look at me; she looked through me. A year ago, Jax mocked me on stream. “Old man,” “slow hands,” “waste of a roster spot.” He didn’t know my hands were slow because five years ago, I took a falling wardrobe to the wrist to save Sloane during an earthquake. I fractured my scaphoid so she wouldn’t get a scratch. Back then, if a rookie disrespected me, they were gone by morning. Now? Sloane claimed she was “playing 4D chess.” At first, we played the part. She’d scream at me in front of the team, then slip a candy bar into my pocket later. I’d act depressed, secretly laughing at Jax’s ego. But the game changed. Sloane stopped slipping me candy. She started talking about Jax’s “potential,” his “mechanics,” his “star power.” She forgot to ask if I was okay after the car crash. She forgot that when she demoted me, she also cut my allowance to fifty bucks a month. “To sell the lie,” she had said. I stayed silent. Sloane frowned, her tone softening just a fraction. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to give you money. But Jax checks the accounts. If he sees a transfer to you, he gets jealous. He stops eating. You have to understand, Wes. I’m doing this for you.” So, Jax skipping a meal was a crisis. But my five years of sacrifice? My hand? That was nothing. My voice rasped when I finally spoke. “Sloane. Do you realize I can never play again? My tendons—” She cut me off, digging into her Hermes bag. She pulled out a toy model of a Bentley and shoved it onto the bedsheet. “Stop being dramatic, Wes. I know you’re feeling insecure.” “You were eyeing this car the other day. I know you like it. The team is cash-poor right now, but listen—once we win Worlds, I’ll take the prize money and buy you the real thing. Okay?” She forced the toy into my bandaged hand. “Jax is almost ruined. I’ve made him lazy and entitled. Just wait one month. He’ll humiliate himself on the world stage, and then you’ll sub in and look like a savior. You’ll be the hero. I’m going to make him regret ever insulting you.” Bang. The door was kicked open again. Sloane whipped around, annoyed. But when she saw who it was, the color drained from her face. Pure panic. Her fear told me everything. The “strategy” was a lie. Jax stood in the doorway, fists clenched, looking like a tragic hero in a teen drama. “Sloane. I knew it. I saw you ask the dealer for the extra model car. You bought it for him!” “If Wes hadn’t texted me to come watch this show, I would have been the idiot forever. It’s all a conspiracy? I’m just a pawn?” “Forget Worlds. I quit. Let him carry you!” He dramatically stripped off his team jacket—custom-made by Sloane—and threw it at me. Then came the Rolex I knew cost a hundred grand. Then the keys to the penthouse. I couldn’t dodge. The heavy keys struck my ear, hard. It swelled instantly, ringing with a high-pitched whine. I saw the smirk in Jax’s eyes. He wasn’t hurt; he was calculating. As he turned, his jacket snagged my IV line. The needle ripped out of the back of my hand. Blood sprayed across the white sheets. Sloane didn’t look at me. Not once. She was staring at Jax, frozen, terrified he would leave. Jax stormed out, “accidentally” bumping a nurse’s cart and falling to the floor with a theatrical groan. Sloane gasped. She rushed to him. I grabbed her sleeve with my good hand. “Sloane, wait. I didn’t text him. I didn’t invite him—” “Wes!” She slapped my hand away. Hard. Her eyes were blazing. She looked at me like I was a stranger. An enemy. “Who else would it be?” “Worlds is in three days. If anything happens to Jax, I will never forgive you.” I went mute. She trusted a kid she’d known for a year over the man she’d slept beside for five. Five years of marriage. Reduced to this. Sloane grabbed the toy car and ran after Jax without looking back. The nurse came in to find a disaster zone. My hand was purple, the IV site gushing blood, my ear throbbing. She gasped. “Some people… I swear. That guy bumped me on purpose. And that woman—she’s a CEO? Her husband is in here bleeding out, and she’s on her knees in the hallway crying over a guy with a scraped palm? She literally called the whole medical team to attend to him.” I glanced at the nurse’s iPad. She had the hallway security feed up. On the screen, Sloane—the icy, untouchable Sloane Evelyn—was kneeling on the linoleum, cradling Jax’s hand, weeping. I stared at the image. Years ago, when the wardrobe crushed my wrist, she had knelt just like that. Begging the doctors to save me. Crying hot tears onto my skin. I knew how she loved. And looking at that screen, I knew with absolute certainty: She loved Jax. I thought she was acting. I finally realized the only person she was acting for was me. “Wes, you are my anchor. Nothing matters more than you.” I remembered her vow when she started this “pummeling” scheme. Well, Sloane. It seems anchors are replaceable. Good thing I wasn’t planning on waiting anymore. I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in five years. 2 “Wes Carver? Are you serious? You’re actually willing to coach for Vanguard?” The voice on the other end was incredulous, then ecstatic. Margot Vane. Sloane’s sworn rival. She had been trying to poach me since the day she started her team. This was the first time I’d ever replied. “I am,” I said. I hung up and sent my resignation email to Zenith’s HR portal. It was approved instantly. My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. She wanted me gone that badly. To please Jax. … I spent the next few days in the hospital. Sloane didn’t call. She didn’t text. I saw her on the news, though. At auctions, buying rare memorabilia, gifting it to Jax publicly. “The Duchess courting her Duke,” the headlines read. The industry mocked Jax for being a “kept man,” but they were envious. Jax posted on Instagram constantly. A photo of a bonfire. In the flames, the twisted metal of a toy Bentley and two other models were melting. Jax held up a keychain with ten real supercar keys. Caption: “Burned the trash. Feels bad to like the same stuff as a has-been. Luckily, Sloane bought me the real deal.” I didn’t comment. I just liked the post. On the day of my discharge, Sloane finally texted. She said she was coming to pick me up. We needed to have dinner. I knew the signs. This was the olive branch. She wanted to smooth things over. I didn’t refuse. I wanted to end this face-to-face. I waited in the lobby from noon until the sun went down. She never came. Just as I was about to call a cab, a notification from Jax popped up. “Wes, seems like a broken hand didn’t teach you a lesson. Still trying to cling to Sloane? Time for another reality check.” Before I could process that, the general e-sports group chat—with every pro, manager, and owner in the league—lit up. Jax dumped a folder of photos. “Guess who wrote these?” The chat exploded. “Whoa, love letters to Sloane Evelyn?” “‘I want to grow old with you’… cringe. Sounds like a stalker.” “That handwriting… isn’t that Wes?” Jax tagged me. “Bingo. Didn’t know ‘The General’ was such a sap. Care to explain, Wes?” I froze. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Those were the 99 love letters I wrote Sloane during our first year. On our wedding day, we buried them in a time capsule under a sapling in a private park we bought. We planted a “Marriage Tree.” Sloane said it was our sanctuary. Holy ground. No one else was ever allowed there. Jax sent a voice memo to the group. “Sloane, babe, interview time. How do you feel reading these old letters?” Sloane’s voice, cold and dismissive, cut through the speaker. “Disgusting.” It felt like a physical blow. I dialed Sloane, my hands shaking. “You took Jax to the sanctuary? Tell him to delete the photos. Now.” Sloane sounded bored. “Jax was in a bad mood today. I needed to cheer him up. It’s just a laugh, Wes. Don’t be so sensitive.” “You almost ruined the plan the other day. I’ve had to work so hard to get his ego back up. Consider this your penance. He’s coming back to the car. I have to go.” For Jax’s amusement, she fed him my heart. I dropped the phone. I hailed a cab to the sanctuary. The moment I stepped out, I saw the tree. Our tree. It was covered in red ribbons. But the ribbons with “Wes & Sloane” were gone. Every single one now read: “Jax & Sloane Forever.” “Jax & Sloane – To The Moon.” The dirt around the roots was fresh. Scattered in the mud were damp clumps of paper. Some charred, some soaked. My letters. “These are my treasures, Wes,” she had told me once. “Even when I’m old and gray, I’ll read these and feel young again.” I stood there for a long time. The wind dried the tears on my face until my skin felt tight. Then I remembered. Sloane had buried something else in the capsule. A “guarantee,” she called it. “If I ever break your heart, dig this up.” I fell to my knees and started digging. I didn’t have a shovel; I used my hands. Memories flashed—our wedding, the earthquake, the late nights planning strategies. They morphed into the image of her kneeling over Jax in the hospital hallway. My fingernails tore. Blood mixed with the soil. Finally, I hit metal. I pulled out the capsule. Inside, there was a single document. A divorce agreement.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386452”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day I announced my retirement, the internet threw a party. Twitter threads unraveled my career, Reddit celebrated my demise, and the industry breathed a collective sigh of relief. Only one person defended me publicly. Sophie. My boyfriend’s childhood best friend. “Maya is a brilliant voice in our industry. Losing her is a tragedy for cinema,” she posted, adorned with a heartbroken emoji. I was a top-tier screenwriter. My scripts didn’t just get made; they started bidding wars. But in my past life, Sophie had turned in a script identical to mine at the prestigious Horizon Screenwriting Lab. On the day of the awards, my boyfriend, Adrian—the golden boy of indie film—produced “evidence” that I was the thief. He claimed he was protecting the true talent: Sophie. I was buried under an avalanche of cancel culture. Lawsuits piled up. The debt collectors banged on my door at all hours. And on the day Adrian and Sophie went public with their romance, I drowned in the bathtub of my foreclosed apartment. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. The Horizon Awards. The moment before the fall. 1 “This is it, Maya. This is the one. We’re talking Oscars.” The voice belonged to Silas Grant, a director with a Midas touch and a shark’s smile. I jolted, the phantom sensation of water filling my lungs making me gasp. I blinked, the harsh studio lights stinging my eyes. I wasn’t in the tub. I was in the conference room at Paradigm Studios. My assistant and the legal team were staring at me. “Maya? The pen,” Silas urged, sliding the thick contract across the mahogany table. “Sign it so we can pop the champagne.” I didn’t reach for it. This script, The Unraveling, was my magnum opus. It had taken two years of bloodletting to write. In my previous life, I signed this contract with a shaking, happy hand. Thirty minutes later, Sophie was announced as the winner of the Horizon Grant with a script that mirrored mine scene for scene. Later, I wrote a short film to try and save my career. When I submitted it, I was told it was a 90% match to a script Sophie had registered the day before. She had mailed the drafts to herself to establish a timeline. I couldn’t prove a thing. Overnight, I went from “Genius” to “Hack.” I looked up at Silas. My throat felt like it was full of broken glass. “I’m sorry, Silas. I can’t sign this.” Silas’s smile didn’t drop, but his eyes went cold. “Excuse me? We agreed on terms. Walking away at the eleventh hour is suicide in this town.” “I can’t explain right now,” I said, my voice steadying. “I will give you a result, I promise. But I cannot put my signature on this document today.” He slammed a hand on the table. “Do you know how much prep we’ve done? You think you can toy with us because you have a couple of hits? You’re nobody without a director, Maya.” Silas could blacklist me with a phone call. He was the gatekeeper. But before I could speak, a junior exec checked her phone and gasped. “Sophie just started trending. She sold a script to Apex… the logline sounds exactly like The Unraveling.” Silas snatched the phone, read the tweet, and glared at me. “What is this?” I frowned, feigning confusion. “Silas, I swear, I didn’t plagiarize.” “You didn’t?” He laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “So what, she plagiarized you? The girl who’s been locked in a wifi-free writer’s colony for a month?” That was the trap. The Horizon Lab was a black box. No internet, monitored devices. If I claimed the script was mine now, everyone would assume I was the one who stole it from the “sequestered genius.” I stood up, smoothing my blazer. “Give me one week. I will write you something new. Something better. I won’t delay production.” Silas stared at me, calculating. My track record bought me a sliver of grace. “One week,” he hissed. “If you don’t have a script that blows my mind, you’re finished in Los Angeles.” 2 On the drive home, my phone buzzed. Adrian: Babe, Sophie won the grant! Taking her out for drinks to celebrate. Don’t wait up. Adrian and Sophie. They shared a history I couldn’t touch—sandbox friends, secrets, a bond forged in their quaint hometown. I used to edit Sophie’s work at Adrian’s request. It was amateurish, derivative. When I gave notes, she’d cry, and Adrian would accuse me of being threatened by her “raw potential.” I eventually stopped trying. In my last life, Adrian had been the one to twist the knife. He went on Good Morning America with timestamps and metadata, claiming I had access to Sophie’s cloud. It was all premeditated. Adrian had been funneling my work to her. But right now, rage was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I needed a new script. I packed a bag—just sweats and my laptop—and drove three hours to my cabin in Idyllwild. I bought this place last year as a sanctuary. In the other timeline, the bank seized it before I ever spent a night. I locked the doors. I unplugged the router. For seven days, I wrote like a woman possessed. I poured the grief of my death, the cold water, the betrayal, and the burning desire for rebirth into the pages. Adrian didn’t call once. He was probably too busy toasting to their victory. When I typed FADE OUT, I felt lightheaded. It was dark, gritty, and real. I drove to the local library to use their secure connection and emailed the PDF to Silas. Ten minutes later, he called. “Maya,” he breathed, the aggression gone. “This is… visceral. You’re a witch. Come to the office tomorrow. We’re fast-tracking this.” “I’ll be there.” I drove back to the cabin and collapsed onto the bed, sleeping for fourteen hours straight. I woke up to my ringtone screaming. It was Silas. He sounded apoplectic. “What kind of game are you playing? Sophie just signed a deal with Apex for a script that is virtually identical to what you sent me!” I sat up, the room spinning. “That’s impossible.” “Check Twitter,” he spat. “And lose my number. We’re done.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386451”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There is a specific kind of intimacy in sharing a bathroom, a forced vulnerability that I have never gotten used to. But there are boundaries. And then, there is the violation of my prescription pH-balancing wash. It kept disappearing. When I asked my roommates, they feigned ignorance. Becca and Chloe just shrugged, eyes glued to their phones. But Sienna? Sienna laughed. “Maybe you just use a lot of it,” she sneered, applying a layer of gloss. “Or maybe you just have a lot of… problems down there that need fixing. You know, from being loose.” She implied I was dirty. That I carried something contagious. I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. I just felt a cold, hard knot tighten in my stomach. I took the bottle, emptied the expensive medicinal liquid down the sink, and filled it with industrial-strength adhesive. That night, the dormitory was awakened not by a nightmare, but by a scream so raw it sounded like fabric tearing. 1 Let me back up. My luck had been rotting for weeks. First, the infection. A persistent, burning itch that kept me awake until the sun bled through the blinds. The campus clinic doctor prescribed a specialized, expensive wash. “Use sparingly,” she said. “This stuff isn’t covered by basic insurance.” I treated that bottle like liquid gold. But a month’s supply vanished in a week. At first, I thought I was crazy. I bought another one—seventy dollars I didn’t have—and marked the level with a Sharpie. Two days later, the line had dropped by three inches. Getting to the specialist required three bus transfers and a half-day missed of classes. The copay alone was half my grocery budget for the month. I felt every penny leaving my account like a physical blow. But it wasn’t just the money. It was the thought of someone else’s hands—someone else’s body—touching the nozzle that touched me. It made my skin crawl. I confronted them again. “Not me,” Becca said. “Gross, no,” Chloe added. Sienna was at her vanity, perfecting her eyebrows. She saw the bottle in my hand, snatched it, and held it up like a trophy. “Oh, look. It’s the coochie medicine,” she announced, her voice pitching up so the girls in the hallway could hear. “Maybe if someone wasn’t sleeping around with randoms, she wouldn’t need prescription-grade disinfectant. Careful, girls, don’t breathe too deep. You might catch whatever she has.” Becca and Chloe actually recoiled, pressing their backs against their bunks, looking at me like I was a biohazard. 02 “It’s just a bacterial imbalance,” I stammered, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I have the lab results from the Medical Center. Look…” Sienna didn’t look. She just crossed her arms and smirked. “Save the act. I saw you last Sunday,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Getting out of that black Mercedes G-Wagon. That guy was old enough to be your dad. Disgusting.” “That is the father of the kid I tutor!” My voice cracked. “It was pouring rain. He offered me a ride back to the dorms—” “Bullshit.” Sienna cut me off, her gaze dropping pointedly to my chest. “You smell like desperation. You’re hopping into old men’s cars and then coming back here acting like a saint?” I was shaking. Not from fear, but from a rage so pure it felt electric. Before I could speak, Sienna tossed the bottle. Clatter. It hit the trash can rim and fell in amongst the used makeup wipes. “Who knows what kind of diseases are on that plastic?” She grabbed a can of Lysol and began spraying the air around me aggressively. “So unlucky. I heard you can catch that stuff just from breathing the same air.” The panic was contagious. “Sienna, spray my side too!” Becca squealed. “I think I touched her curtain earlier, oh my god,” Chloe whined. “And she picked up my Uber Eats order today… I feel sick.” Sienna smiled, a predatory baring of teeth, and linked arms with them. “Come on, babes. We’re going to Target. We need bleach. Tonight, we scrub this room. Anything she touched gets boiled or trashed.” They left in a cloud of performative giggles. A second later, the door flew open. Sienna marched back in, aimed the Lysol directly at my face, and held the trigger. “The thing that needs sanitizing most is you,” she hissed. “Do us a favor and drop out. Stop infecting our lives.” I coughed, my eyes stinging from the chemical mist, tears streaming down my face. She slammed the door, leaving me in the silence. 03 I stood there, my chest heaving. Why? I was the one being stolen from. I was the victim. And now I was the pariah? My grandmother used to say, Swallow your anger and you’ll swallow poison. If I let this go, if I just bought a lockbox and hid my things, I would be admitting defeat. I would be accepting that I deserved this treatment. No. Fuck that. They didn’t deserve my grace. I pulled out my phone and opened Amazon. Industrial strength cyanoacrylate adhesive. Add to cart. Miniature wireless nanny cam. Add to cart. Overnight shipping. Two days later, the package arrived. When the room was empty, I tucked the camera onto the top shelf of my bookcase, hidden between two textbooks. Then, I poured the remaining medicinal wash into a travel bottle for myself. I filled the original prescription bottle with the glue. It was clear, odorless, and had the viscosity of gel. It looked exactly like the soap. But the reviews said it could bond steel to concrete. Finally, I took a label maker and printed a single word in bold, red letters: GLUE. I stuck it clearly on the bottle. I placed it at the very back of my desk, behind my laptop and a stack of notebooks. Hidden. Private. 04 That night. The scream tore through the darkness like a physical weapon. I bolted upright, heart hammering. Becca and Chloe were sitting up, silhouettes of confusion in the dim streetlights filtering through the window. We looked at Sienna’s bed. It was empty. My stomach dropped. No way. She didn’t actually… I scrambled down the ladder. The bottle on my desk was gone. From the bathroom down the hall, the screaming shifted into a guttural, animalistic sobbing. “It’s Sienna!” Becca realized, sprinting into the hallway. I followed, barefoot on the cold tile. Becca pounded on the bathroom door. “Sienna! What’s wrong? Open the door!” The only answer was a shriek of pure agony and the sound of something heavy thumping against the stall wall. The handle jiggled, but the lock held. The commotion summoned the Resident Advisor, a tired senior named Jessica, followed by a growing crowd of students in pajamas holding up their phones. “Move! Everyone back!” Jessica yelled, key in hand. She shoved the door open. The collective gasp sucked the air out of the hallway.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386450”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I was seven years old, the neighbor’s kid accused me of stealing a candy bar. It was a lie, but the way the adults looked at me—like I was already a criminal—broke something inside me. That was the day I was diagnosed, by my own internal logic, with a severe case of persecution mania. When colleagues posted brunch photos on Instagram, I didn’t just like them. I created five different burner accounts to monitor their stories, convinced they were badmouthing me in the background. When we went out for happy hour and the team started getting deep, I didn’t drink. I mastered the art of tossing shots into potted plants and studied counter-surveillance techniques to ensure I wasn’t being followed home. But the irony? For three years at Sterling & Finch, I was a model employee. I was the top biller. No one tried to sabotage me. No one tried to freeze me out. My manager was fair. My coworkers were painfully nice. The clients were docile. The CEO even gave us wellness stipends for burnout. I was just starting to feel like a lunatic—like my trauma was a vestigial organ with no purpose—when she arrived. The Intern. It happened in the breakroom. The air smelled of stale roast and expensive espresso. She deliberately tipped the scalding latte onto her own blouse, then shoved the empty mug into my hands. She turned to the Director, who had just walked in, tears already streaming down her face. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed, her voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have upset Sloane…” In the doorway, the CEO looked disappointed. My colleagues looked horrified. But me? As I watched their judgment form, I didn’t feel fear. I felt a rush of adrenaline so potent it was almost sexual. I unbuttoned my silk blazer, letting it drop to the floor. Revealed underneath, clipped neatly to my blouse, was a high-end body cam. “Who wants to see the instant replay?” I asked, my voice trembling with excitement. “It’s in 4K.” 1 The entire Project Management team froze. Ivy—our new, fragile intern—bit her lip so hard it went white. She stared at the lens like it was the eye of God. “What… what is that?” “I’ve been recording since day one, sweetie,” I said, pulling out my phone to sync the footage. “Don’t worry. It has a wide-angle lens. It caught every micro-expression.” The color drained from Ivy’s face. Before I could hit play, Roman, our Department Director, stepped forward. His brow was furrowed in that way that usually made the female staff swoon. “Enough!” Roman barked. “Sloane, the coffee is spilled. Are you seriously going to stand there and argue that Ivy did this to herself?” “I personally hired Ivy,” he continued, his voice dripping with righteous indignation. “I know what kind of person she is.” Ah. Textbook gaslighting. Beautiful. I looked at him with genuine admiration. He was playing his part perfectly. My fingers danced across the screen, scrubbing the timeline back to the exact moment of impact. On screen: Ivy sneering at me, her face twisted in arrogance. “Sloane, don’t think just because you’re the top salesperson you actually matter. Roman cares about me. I have a million ways to make you disappear from this company.” “Right there!” I paused the video. In the freeze-frame, Ivy’s wrist was clearly cocked, the brown liquid suspended in mid-air, splashing onto her own chest while she thrust the mug at me. I zoomed in. I shoved the phone screen into the faces of every stunned colleague. “Step right up, folks! Does this look like an accident? Or does it look like a performance?” The silence in the room was heavy. Eyes darted between me and the sobbing girl. Roman stared at the screen, his jaw unhinged. “Cat got everyone’s tongue?” I broke the silence, my voice bright. “Come on, weigh in. Is this irrefutable proof or what? Ivy, honey, since everyone is shy, why don’t you share your creative process? What was the emotional arc you were going for with this frame job?” Ivy turned distinct shade of grey. “I… I didn’t…” She didn’t finish. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed backward in a faint so graceful it belonged in a Victorian novel. Roman, previously frozen, surged forward. “Ivy! Ivy!” He cradled her head. “Call 911! Now!” I leaned over, peering down at her fluttering eyelids. “Hey, don’t pass out yet. You haven’t finished your workshop on victimization.” Roman looked up at me, his eyes burning with fury. “Sloane! Do you have to be so aggressive? You literally terrified her into unconsciousness. Is your heart made of stone?” I rolled my eyes. “Digging up video evidence is hard work, Roman. I haven’t even gotten an apology yet. Whose heart is really the problem here?” But he wasn’t listening. He scooped Ivy up in his arms—bridal style—and sprinted for the elevators. Whatever. I stretched my arms, feeling a satisfying pop in my shoulders, and tucked my phone away. Ivy stayed in the hospital for a day. Roman stayed by her side, canceling million-dollar client meetings to hold her hand. I, the falsely accused top performer, didn’t even get a text. I didn’t care. I was busy. I ordered twenty more micro-cameras. I directed the delivery guy to strategic locations: the printer room, the conference hall, the supply closet—anywhere high-drama plot twists were likely to occur. The Office Manager caught me taping a lens under a fern. “Sloane, what are you doing? It’s an ad agency, not the Pentagon.” I just smiled at her. I didn’t explain. I had work to do. That afternoon, Ivy returned. She looked pale, fragile, sitting on the leather sofa in Roman’s glass-walled office. I was summoned immediately. Roman sat behind his desk, fingers steeped. “Sloane. Ivy knows she made a mistake.” “She’s just a kid, fresh out of college. She’s sensitive. She doesn’t handle pressure well. You scared the life out of her yesterday.” Ivy looked up at me, her eyes rimmed with red. “Sloane… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so sensitive. I misunderstood the situation. Can you forgive me?” Before I could answer, Roman cut in. “This ends now. We never speak of it again. Sloane, you’re a veteran here. You need to have a bigger perspective. Mentor the new blood. Don’t focus on these petty grievances.” I looked between them—the Good Cop and the Sad Cop—and almost laughed out loud. “So, let me get this straight. Being framed for assault is a ‘petty grievance’? And me nearly being labeled a workplace bully is just… a detail?” Roman’s expression darkened. “That’s not what I meant. I just expect you to be more mature.” “Oh!” I clapped my hands. “By mature, you mean I should smile while being framed, slap myself for good measure, and apologize to her? Is that the corporate policy?” Ivy sobbed louder, her shoulders shaking. Roman rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. “Why do you have to twist my words? I brought you in here to solve a problem, not start a war.” “Fine. Let’s solve it.” I reached into my tote bag and slammed a thick binder onto his desk. “This is a little something I wrote last night. * The Junior Employee Code of Conduct.* It details thirty-six common office traps, including The Breakroom Frame-Job, The Meeting Minutes Scapegoat, and The Intellectual Property Theft. I think we should roll it out company-wide. Mandatory reading. Pass/Fail exam.” Roman and Ivy stared at the binder. “Especially for Ivy,” I added, beaming at her. “As the case study for this incident, I think she should write a 3,000-word essay on what she learned, to be read aloud at the Monday morning all-hands meeting.” Ivy looked like she might faint again. “Sloane,” Roman hissed. “What is your endgame here?” “Risk management, Roman.” I widened my eyes innocently. “I’d hate for my 4K cameras to catch any more… negative energy. It’s bad for company culture, don’t you think?” The Code of Conduct was never published. But the atmosphere shifted. The cafeteria went quiet when I walked in. Colleagues who used to grab sushi with me now avoided eye contact. During project meetings, the air was thick with silence. So, during lunch, I pulled out my next weapon: The USB Drives. They contained three years of my work. Every design draft, every client acquisition strategy, every timestamped overtime log. I walked desk to desk, handing them out like party favors. “Sarah, here’s the raw data for the Q3 pitch you asked for.” “Mike, here are my annotated notes for the account you just took over. Thought they might help.” “Dave, this is…” They took them with trembling hands. I sat back down, serene. “Oh, and if anyone is curious about the provenance of my numbers, feel free to check the metadata. It’s all backed up. Transparency is key!” The next day, Ivy approached my desk, flanked by two minions—girls from HR who loved drama more than their actual jobs. “Sloane,” Ivy said, her voice dripping with performative pity. “I know you’re still mad. But everyone is scared of you. It’s my fault.” “Please,” she continued, “don’t be so extreme. You’re isolating yourself.” Her minions chimed in on cue. “Ivy, you’re too nice! She’s clearly unstable.” “Yeah, walking around like a porcupine. Who would want to work with her?” “Sloane, you need to apologize to Ivy. Or we’ll make sure you can’t stay here.” They waited for the applause. But the office remained deathly silent. The usual gossipmongers were staring at the trio like they were radioactive. Ivy sensed the shift. “Sloane… I know you’re talented, but you can’t take it out on everyone…” “Apologize!” the minions screeched. Suddenly, the Project Manager—a man who hadn’t spoken up in days—stood up. He held up the USB drive I’d given him. “Maybe you guys should look at this before you demand apologies.” He plugged it into the nearest monitor. It wasn’t just my work. It was proof—timestamps, email chains, edit histories—that Ivy had been copy-pasting my strategies and leaking them to a competitor to curry favor. “You stole Sloane’s proposal,” the manager said, his voice flat. “And you blamed her for the leak.” Ivy burst into tears and ran. That night, Roman called me. “Come to the office. Now.” “It’s 8:00 PM, Roman. I bill triple for emergency overtime. Send an email.” Silence stretched for ten seconds. “Ivy… she tried to kill herself.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386449”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel