Author: Momo Chan

The day the army came for my husband, the road into Crow’s Hollow was choked with olive-drab tactical vehicles and elite soldiers who looked like they’d been carved from stone. When they called him Major General Hawthorne, Grant didn’t flinch. It was as if he’d been expecting this all along. But when it came time to decide who was leaving with them, he took our son’s hand and cast an apologetic glance my way. “I’ll take Ryan back with me first. I’ll send for you later.” He paused, his gaze shifting slightly. “As for Lydia… my mother has taken a real liking to her, so I…” He trailed off, waiting for my response. But I didn’t need one. I already knew who was sitting in the back of that military SUV. I knew his ghost was already in the passenger seat. In the years since I’d found Grant, broken and nameless, he’d often complained that I didn’t understand him. His ideals, his sense of duty to a country he couldn’t remember—it was all a world away from me. Yet, when I’d place a plate of the freshest garden greens or the most tender pieces of chicken from the stewpot in front of him, he would nod reluctantly, put down the pen he was always scribbling with, and mutter about the mosquitoes in the house or the mud Ryan had tracked across the floor. I would just nod, my silence a placid lake over a chasm of knowing. He never realized that I could read. I saw the letters he wrote, the ones addressed to “My Dearest.” The name on those letters wasn’t mine. It was Lydia’s. So when he spoke, all I did was give him a simple, clean nod and turn to hoist the foraging basket onto my back. “Who you take with you is your decision, Grant.” My voice was flat. “I’m heading up the mountain to hunt for morels. We can talk later.” 1 The neighborhood kids had come tearing up to our porch with the news while Grant was teaching our son, Ryan, how to practice his cursive script. Ryan’s pen had stuttered, leaving a dark blot of ink blooming on the paper. Grant’s focus hadn’t wavered. “Ryan,” he’d said, his voice calm and steady. “What have I taught you? Penmanship is discipline. A quiet hand comes from a quiet mind.” I knew then what was coming. Grant was about to be reunited with his family. He was going home. Even after his family had gone, leaving us to the sudden quiet, Grant remained impossibly composed. This was the man the Hawthornes had poured everything into shaping—their eldest son. Even with his memory gone, after years of languishing in this forgotten mountain town, the polish of his upbringing, the command in his bearing, had never dulled. And I, somehow, was even calmer than he was. Just like any other day, I went up the mountain. Martha, from down the road, saw me and couldn’t resist a little jab. “Audrey! You’re about to be a general’s wife, living the high life in the city. What are you still doing grubbing around in the woods for mushrooms?” Grant had told his family he needed a day to pack, that they should come back for him tomorrow. He mentioned he’d be bringing two people with him. The whole town was buzzing, saying my ancestors must have done something truly spectacular to bless me with this kind of luck. They’d all forgotten. They’d forgotten when Grant first washed up here, his memory wiped clean, useless at any kind of farm work. They’d forgotten that I was the only one willing to care for him, tending to him like a child. He lived in my house, and the whispers started, staining my name until marriage was the only option left. Even then, it was nothing more than a potluck with a few neighbors and store-bought cupcakes to mark the occasion. After that, for a time, we were happy. He was my husband, mine alone. Now he was leaving, and by all rights, he should be taking his wife and child with him. But I knew better. In my first life, Grant did take two people back to the Hawthorne estate. I wasn’t one of them. I just smiled at Martha. “The morels are especially good this season.” The money from a good haul would be enough. Enough for me to leave this place and find a new life somewhere else. 2 When I got home, Lydia was teaching Ryan French phrases. “You have to practice,” she was saying, her voice a soft melody. “At the academy, boys your age can already hold a simple conversation.” Ryan was hanging on her every word. Lydia smiled and stroked his hair. “You’re such a quick study, Ryan. Not like…” He reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist. “It’s all thanks to you, Aunt Lydia. If I sounded like Mom, everyone would laugh at me. She talks like such a hick.” Grant, who had been reading a book in the armchair, looked up. A slow, gentle smile spread across his face. What a picture of domestic bliss. I’ve seen this scene twice now. Two lifetimes of it. Lydia was a local girl, too. Her father was a drunk who used his fists, and her mother died young. Eventually, some relatives from out of state found her and took her away to the city for school. I never understood why she came back. At first, I was grateful to her. Ryan had been playing too close to the creek, and he’d fallen in. Lydia saw him and pulled him out. I owed her his life. But after that, things began to shift in ways I couldn’t quite grasp. She came to our house and saw Grant. He was in the yard, splitting firewood. He moved with an easy, powerful grace, his back straight, the axe swinging in a clean, perfect arc. The rhythm was like a heartbeat. She’d walked right up to him. “Grant, you have such a commanding presence. Audrey is a lucky woman.” I never understood the things Grant talked about—honor, patriotism, the grand sweep of history. Our conversations were about the summer mosquitoes and the winter chill. But the barb in Lydia’s words, the subtle mockery aimed at me—that, I understood perfectly. I just stood there, my hands feeling clumsy and empty. Soon, Lydia was at our house every other day. She even convinced Grant to volunteer as a substitute teacher at the small schoolhouse. From then on, it was always “Grant this” and “Grant that.” After that, whenever I’d bring him his lunch, I’d find Lydia sitting right beside his desk. I’d watch as he’d take the chicken soup I’d simmered all night and carefully ladle it into her bowl. Ryan would be there, laughing. “Mom, Miss Lydia says your cooking is the best!” Yes. I was the one raising them, waking before dawn to forage, trading my best finds with neighbors for an old hen. I was the one who tilled that stubborn patch of earth behind the house until my back screamed, just to coax the most tender greens from the soil. I wouldn’t even let myself eat the best parts. And now, my husband and my son were using my labor to court someone else. In my first life, I screamed those words out loud. Grant’s jaw had tightened, his lips a thin, hard line. He turned to Lydia and gave a slight, formal bow. “Miss Raines, I apologize. My wife is not herself.” He looked at me as if I were the most profound embarrassment he had ever endured. Ryan was even more direct. “If you won’t let Miss Lydia have any, then I don’t want it either!” Lydia, acting every bit the lady of the house, wrapped an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “Ryan, what have I told you? That’s no way to speak to your mother.” Ryan just pouted, burying his face in her side. “I’m sorry, Miss Lydia.” She held him close, her eyes meeting mine over his head. There wasn’t a trace of shame in them. In that moment, with my son and my husband arrayed against me, I was utterly and completely alone. An outcast. A bitter sorrow filled my chest. Lydia was soft and pale, with delicate hands. I spent my days on the mountain and in the dirt; my strength was a wild, unkempt thing. After giving birth to Ryan, the slender shape of my youth was a distant memory. The three of them together—they looked right. They looked like a family. Just like in the first life. She went back with them, and no one ever questioned that she was Ryan’s mother. At first, he called her Lydia, but she’d just smile and correct him gently. “Why don’t you call me Aunt Lydia, sweetie?” It took me far too long to understand the quiet cunning in that suggestion. 3 When I walked in with my basket, the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves clinging to me, Grant stood up and took a half-step back. The smell probably offended his refined senses. He glanced at the basket, overflowing with mushrooms, and a flicker of guilt crossed his face. “Why are you still doing such hard labor?” he asked. “We… we don’t need the money anymore.” He said the last part so softly, it was almost a whisper. In my first life, after he left, he sent money. A check arrived every month, just enough to keep me from starving in this town. Just enough to ensure I could never afford to leave it. I didn’t bother explaining. “I’m used to it. Better than sitting around.” I picked up the needle and thread I’d left on the table and started stitching a small sachet. The herbs I used to repel mosquitoes lost their potency after a week, and Ryan’s legs were already covered in angry red welts. Strangely, the sight didn’t twist my heart the way it used to. Ryan watched me for a moment, his expression disdainful. “Mom, there aren’t any bugs in the city. You don’t have to make those things for us anymore.” No. They never had any use for the things I made. In my first life, just before that military SUV drove away, I’d tearfully stuffed Ryan’s arms with everything I could give him—sachets, a hand-knitted sweater, his favorite carved wooden bird. They didn’t even make it to the end of the road. The items were tossed out, scattered along the dirt track. Martha, recognizing my stitchwork, had gathered them up and brought them back to me. The look in her eyes was a nauseating mix of pity and amusement. At the time, I thought it was Grant’s mother’s doing. I saved up and bought a cheap cellphone from the county seat, just so I could stay in touch. But every time I called, Ryan was impatient. “I have to go, my riding lesson is starting.” “Aunt Lydia is calling me.” I scrimped and saved again, enduring a long, rattling bus ride to visit his boarding school in secret. He saw me from across the manicured lawn. And he ran. He sprinted to a waiting black car, desperate that I might call out his name and reveal his connection to me. Watching his retreating back, I finally understood. It wasn’t the scent of the herbs that had faded. It was his heart. After that, I never tried to see him again. Not until he was a man. By then, years of hard labor had caught up with me. The doctor said I didn’t have much time. I called Grant. After a long silence, all he said was, “I can arrange for a hospital for you.” But I didn’t want treatment. I just wanted to see my son one last time. So I put on my best dress, spent my last savings on getting my hair done, and went to his lavish eighteenth birthday party. “Ryan,” I’d whispered, my voice trembling. “Don’t you remember me? It’s Mom.” He had Lydia on his arm, looking at me with pure disgust. “Who are you? Why are you here, trying to ruin my family’s celebration?” Grant stood nearby, saying nothing. The cold, calculating cruelty of the wealthy was on full display. In that glittering ballroom, I was a rat scurrying from the sewer. Security guards escorted me out, leaving me on the curb. A speeding truck’s headlights blinded me. Lying on the pavement, staring up at the indifferent night sky, a single tear traced a path through the grime on my cheek. What a cruel joke my life had been. And then I blinked. And I was back. Back on the very day his family came to find him. This time, I would not be that pitiful, pathetic fool. 4 So I didn’t plead with them to take the sachets, didn’t try to force my care on them as I had before. I just spoke calmly. “I know you don’t want it. This is for Daisy.” Ryan was clearly thrown. I could be strict with him, but I had always doted on him, always offered him the best of everything first. He pouted. “Daisy’s not a good kid. She’s disrespectful to Miss Lydia! Why would you make something for her?” Daisy was one of the few children in the village who wasn’t completely enchanted by Lydia. As a result, she was often an outcast at school. The truth was, she’d never done anything to disrespect Lydia. She just liked me more. She said I smelled nice. Like growing things. Grant used to say that, too. He’d bury his face in my neck and murmur that I smelled like “life itself.” But in the end, it was Lydia’s perfume he chose. A few days ago, I’d seen the welts on Daisy’s pale little arms and promised her I’d make some sachets. If my own family didn’t want what I had to offer, someone else would. I continued my steady stitching. “I’ll make things for whomever I please.” Ryan’s face clouded over. “You’re mean! I’m going to go find Aunt Lydia! She’s taking me into town to eat at a real restaurant. She’s going to teach me how to use all the different forks.” His eyes darted toward me, a flash of childish malice in them. “You’ve never had a fancy dinner like that, have you, Mom?” I didn’t look up from my work. “No, I haven’t. You go have fun.” His jab had landed on empty air, and he didn’t know what to do. Before, I would have been consumed with jealousy. I would have insisted on tagging along, desperate not to be left out of my own son’s life. I had nearly died giving birth to him. In the haze of pain, I’d gripped Grant’s hand and gasped, “Save… save the baby.” For all the years that followed, I truly believed my child was more important than my husband. But in the end, it was Ryan who delivered the killing blow. 5 After Ryan stormed out, a petulant thundercloud, Grant moved closer. “Audrey. Are you angry with me?” His voice was low, reasonable. “If you are, take it out on me. Don’t involve Ryan.” He sighed, a sound of put-upon patience. “We leave first thing in the morning. Let’s not make this unpleasant for everyone.” Unpleasant? The word struck me, and for a moment, the world felt distant. After they left in my first life, my existence had been scrubbed clean of all joy. And now he had the audacity to stand there and tell me not to make things unpleasant. That day, just like the last time, Grant’s mother had arrived, her body frail from illness, having traveled a thousand miles to see the son she’d lost. But the moment she saw me standing beside him, her face contorted into a mask of pure revulsion. She let out a shrill cry. “Monster! Get that monster away from him!” I froze, stunned. I knew I wasn’t a beauty queen, that a family like the Hawthornes would likely look down on me. But I had never expected this. One of their entourage sighed and explained to Grant, “She hasn’t been right in the head since you disappeared.” Though Grant’s memory hadn’t returned, the primal bond of mother and son was there. A look of profound pain crossed his face. But then the unthinkable happened. His mother’s gaze fell on Lydia, and her entire demeanor softened. She reached for Lydia’s hand, her voice trembling with affection. “Sophie,” she whispered. “You’ve come back.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385412”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day the Blackwood empire crumbled, the staff scattered like roaches in the light. The maids, the gardeners, the chef—all gone. They left nothing behind but dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun and Ethan Blackwood, the heir, silent in his bed. A living ghost in a house suddenly dead. And me? I was Sadie, his caregiver, and I was just about to join the exodus. My last sweater was folded in my worn-out suitcase. My hand was on the zipper. That’s when the words appeared, shimmering in the air right in front of my face. A cascade of ghostly text messages, like a live-stream chat for my life. [THE MOST CRITICAL PLOT POINT IS HERE! The Blackwoods faking bankruptcy is a genius move. Best way to smoke out the traitor in the company!] [My heart breaks for the male lead. Pretending to be in a coma to fly under the radar is tough enough, but now he’s completely alone. ] [Where the hell is his fiancée? Isn’t she supposed to show up now? I’m here for the romance between the main characters!] My brain screeched to a halt. Then, a different kind of plan clicked into place. I zipped my suitcase, spun around, and sprinted back up the grand staircase. I found Ethan lying still, as always, and eased his limp body into his wheelchair. With my suitcase handle in one hand and the wheelchair in the other, I made my escape. As I pushed him down the long, gravel driveway, I made sure to produce a few fat, theatrical tears. “Don’t you worry, Ethan,” I wailed, my voice cracking just so. “Even if the Blackwood name is mud, even if we’re broke and have nothing, I will never, ever leave you!” 1 My name is Sadie, and my mouth has always run a mile a minute. It’s a habit I picked up at the group home where I grew up. When I was eight, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood came to the home looking for a “companion” for their son. As the director pushed me forward, she hissed in my ear, “Try to keep it down, Sadie. Don’t scare them off.” The moment I saw Ethan Blackwood, I forgot every word she said. It was my first time inside a real mansion. Ethan was lying in a small bed in a room filled with more toys than I had ever seen. He wore pajamas patterned with little white bears, his skin as pale as porcelain, every strand of his soft brown hair perfectly in place. Mrs. Blackwood knelt down and smoothed my messy ponytail. “Sadie, our Ethan is sick,” she said, her voice soft and sad. “Would you be willing to come here and just… talk to him? For an hour every day? We’ll enroll you in a good school. We’ll buy you new dresses.” I stared at Ethan’s still, beautiful face and nodded so hard my neck hurt. I moved in that same day. That night, they set up a little cot for me in the corner of Ethan’s room. I crept over to his bed, my small hand hovering before gently touching the back of his. “Hi, Ethan,” I whispered. “I’m Sadie. I’m going to be your friend now. The director says I talk too much, but I don’t think so. Oh, and guess what? The stray cat at the home, Daisy, had her kittens today. There are three of them, and one is orange, like a little puffball. I’ll bring you a picture next time, okay?” He didn’t move, but I wasn’t discouraged. Every night became our ritual. I’d lean against his bed and tell him everything: how I got a C on my math quiz because I swore 3+5 was 10; how my drawing of a sunflower got taped to the classroom door for everyone to see; how the boy from the next class over tried to pick a rose for a girl and got stung by a bee. Sometimes, I’d take the old, worn-out barrette my mom left me and gently clip it behind his ear, just to see how it looked in his hair. I’d stare at his perfect features and sigh. “If you were awake,” I’d mumble, “you’d be the most popular boy in school. A hundred times more handsome than Mark from social studies.” One time, a wild idea took hold of me. I pulled out the frilly pink dress Mrs. Blackwood had bought me, convinced it would look hilarious on him. I’d just undone the top two buttons of his pajama shirt when Mrs. Blackwood rushed in, her face a mask of gentle panic. She put a hand over mine. “Oh, Sadie, honey! We don’t put dresses on boys!” I blinked up at her. “Why not?” She fumbled for words. “Because… because dresses are for girls. Ethan wouldn’t be happy about it.” I sort of understood. I never tried the dress again, but I would often tuck my favorite worn teddy bear into the crook of his arm. “Here,” I’d whisper. “He can keep you company when I’m not here. You can talk to him, okay?” When I started middle school, I was finally tall enough to pivot him from the bed to his wheelchair by myself. Every sunny weekend, I’d push him out to the rose garden. I figured if sunlight helped flowers grow, it had to be good for Ethan, too. I’d spread a blanket on the grass at his feet, my textbooks scattered around me, and stumble through my French vocabulary. “Pomme… apple,” I’d recite. “Banane… banana… Ethan, do you think I have any chance of passing my next exam?” The wind would carry my voice away. Sometimes, I’d see his finger twitch and dismiss it as a trick of the light. But once, I fell asleep while trying to memorize a history chapter, my head pillowed on my textbook. When I woke up, his hand was resting on my hair, the tips of his fingers radiating a faint, surprising warmth. My heart hammered against my ribs. I held my breath, afraid to move, until Mrs. Blackwood called us in for dinner. His hand slowly slid away. When I left for college, I moved into a dorm near campus, and my time with Ethan dwindled. But I still came back to the Blackwood mansion once a week. I’d bring him those warm, cinnamon-dusted nuts they sell from a cart near campus and sit by his bed, telling him all about the drama in my creative writing club. I always believed he would wake up. That one day, he’d open his eyes, and we’d be able to talk for real. We could go get those cinnamon nuts together. Today’s visit was just a whim, a sudden urge to see him. I hadn’t expected to walk into the final act of the Blackwoods’ financial ruin. If it weren’t for those impossible, shimmering words that appeared in the air, I would have been long gone with the rest of them. But now… being the caregiver to the Blackwood heir was one thing. Being his savior? That was a promotion I was willing to work for. The wheels of his chair crunched over the gravel, leaving two thin tracks behind us. And I knew, in that moment, that the real story of Ethan Blackwood and me was just beginning. 2 As I pushed Ethan toward my tiny rental apartment, the ghostly comments kept scrolling past my eyes. [No way. Is this side character seriously kidnapping the male lead? Where’s the heroine? She’s supposed to be the one to save him!] [OMG the plot is going off the rails! The fiancée was supposed to rescue him, not some random caregiver!] [Anyone notice his hands? The fingers on his lap… I think they just moved! Did this girl’s terrible acting make him cringe? LOL] [Hey, be nice! I think he’s secretly relieved. At least this caregiver is more reliable than his runaway fiancée. She didn’t abandon him!] I froze on that last comment and glanced down at Ethan’s hands. His fingers had indeed curled slightly, a movement as subtle as a feather stirring in a breeze. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I would have missed it completely. So the comments were right. He was faking it. My apartment was on the second floor of a walk-up. There was no elevator. I wrapped an arm around Ethan’s waist, letting him lean his weight against me as we shuffled up the narrow staircase, one grueling step at a time. He still smelled of the Blackwood mansion—cedar and old money—a scent that mingled strangely with the smell of fried onions from the hot dog cart downstairs. It was a surreal combination. I gritted my teeth and whispered a threat into his ear, giving his side a little pinch. “Ethan Blackwood, if you’re playing dead on me and not pulling your own weight, I swear I’ll leave you in this hallway for the mosquitos to feast on.” This time, his reaction was undeniable. Though his eyes stayed shut, the hand gripping my arm tightened, taking a fraction of the burden off me. The comments exploded. [He responded! He actually responded! I ship it! This is way cuter than anything with the actual heroine!] [Can we not break up the OTP, please? I’m holding out for the main couple!] [This girl has guts, pinching the male lead like that. Isn’t she afraid he’ll get revenge later?] Revenge? I wasn’t scared. I knew his secret now. If he tried anything, I’d expose his little charade to the world. Of course, I was just bluffing. If I did that, I’d lose my leverage as his “savior.” When we finally stumbled into my apartment, I collapsed onto the bench by the door, gasping for breath. My place was barely five hundred square feet, a simple one-bedroom with a living room window that faced south. The sun warmed the cheap laminate flooring. Ethan sat in his wheelchair, eyes still closed, but I knew he was taking in the cramped space. He was used to a sprawling mansion with manicured gardens. This shoebox must have been a shock. The next morning, a harsh reality hit me: I was unemployed. The Blackwood “bankruptcy” meant my caregiver job was gone. To cover rent and food for two, I needed to find work, fast. I landed a part-time gig at the convenience store down the street. Eight in the morning to four in the afternoon, fifteen bucks an hour. It would barely cover our expenses. My life became a frantic loop. I’d wake up at six to make breakfast for Ethan and give him a sponge bath. Dash off to work at eight. Clock out at four, grab groceries, cook dinner, feed him, and change his clothes. At night, I’d massage his arms and legs, terrified his muscles would atrophy from the act. One night, while I was rubbing his ankles, exhaustion hit me like a tidal wave. I slumped forward and fell asleep with my head resting on his legs. In the hazy space between dreams and waking, I felt a hand gently stroke my hair. The touch was familiar, warm. A moment later, a jacket was draped over my shoulders. My eyes flew open. Ethan was exactly as I’d left him, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious. But the jacket on my back was definitely the one he’d been wearing that morning. The comments flared to life again. [He covered her with his jacket! He totally feels bad for her!] [Awww, he’s so gentle! I wish she had woken up a second sooner!] [Can the fiancée please show up already? This plot is moving so slowly.] Half a month crept by with no news from the Blackwoods. Online gossip about their bankruptcy intensified, with tabloids publishing photos of Mr. Blackwood meeting with shady-looking men in coffee shops, speculating he was “liquidating assets.” I watched my bank balance dwindle and felt a cold knot of panic tighten in my stomach. Were the comments real? Was this truly a ruse? What if I was the one being played? What if the Blackwoods were actually ruined, and Ethan really was in a coma? How could a recent college grad like me, buried in student loans, afford to care for him? We’d be on the street in a month. Just as despair began to set in, the comments surged. [They got the mole! It was Vice President Miller! He always seemed so loyal, but he was feeding info to a rival company the whole time!] [YES! The mole is caught! The Blackwoods are about to make their comeback, and the side character’s hard times are almost over!] [Am I the only one still waiting for the fiancée?] [Who cares about the fiancée? The ride-or-die loyalty between these two is way more compelling!] A wave of relief washed over me, so potent it almost buckled my knees. My days of counting pennies were numbered. 3 I was stocking shelves at the convenience store when the comments exploded in front of my eyes, blazing in a bright, warning red that made my heart seize. [RED ALERT! Miller, the mole, knows he was set up! He’s hired thugs to kidnap the male lead to use as leverage against Mr. Blackwood!] [T-MINUS 10 MINUTES! Their unmarked black van is already at the entrance to her apartment complex! Side character, get back there NOW!] [This is bad. She’s at work! The male lead is still in his “coma” persona; he can’t fight back!] I dropped the box of cereal and scrambled for my phone, my voice trembling as I burst into my manager’s office. “Mark! I have a family emergency, can I please take a half-day? I swear I’ll make up the hours!” Seeing the genuine panic in my eyes, he just nodded. I grabbed my jacket and bolted out the door. The store was only a few blocks from my apartment, a five-minute walk I now covered in under three, my lungs burning as if I were inhaling fire. Just as the comments said, a black van was parked under a flickering streetlight at the complex entrance. It was covered in a film of grime, the windows tinted so dark they looked like voids. Most alarmingly, it had no license plates. I didn’t dare stare. I ducked my head and ran for my building. The stairwell light was still broken, and I nearly tripped twice racing up the shadowy steps. My hands were shaking so violently it took me three tries to get the key into the lock. I threw the door open. The apartment was silent. Ethan was still in his wheelchair, his head tilted slightly, the picture of a sleeping invalid. The ten-minute warning from the comments was now down to two. I flew to the entryway closet, yanked open a drawer, and found the pepper spray Mrs. Blackwood had given me years ago. My fingers closed around the cool metal canister. Next, I ran to the balcony and grabbed the wooden baseball bat I kept for my half-hearted attempts at exercise. It was solid, heavy, and holding it settled a tiny bit of the frantic terror inside me. Just then, a loud, aggressive BANG-BANG-BANG echoed from the front door. A gruff voice yelled, “Open up! Property management, checking the meters!” My blood ran cold. The property managers here were sweet old ladies, not… this. It had to be them. “We just had our meter checked last month!” I shouted, trying to sound firm. “You don’t need to come in!” “Less talk, more opening!” the voice snarled back. “Open this damn door now, or we’re kicking it in!” I scrambled to push Ethan’s wheelchair toward the bedroom, desperate to hide him. But just as I reached the doorway, the front door splintered inward. The deadbolt flew across the room, and wood chips sprayed across the floor. Three men in black bomber jackets stormed in. The leader was broad-shouldered with a buzz cut and a nasty scar bisecting his eyebrow. In his hand, he held a gleaming switchblade. “Where’s Ethan Blackwood?” the man with the scar demanded, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on the bedroom behind me. “Hand him over!” I planted myself between them and Ethan, holding the baseball bat across my chest like a shield. “There’s no one here by that name. You have the wrong place!” “Wrong place?” Scarface sneered, taking two steps forward until the tip of his knife was inches from my throat. “I watched you wheel him in here myself. Now be a good girl and hand him over, or things are going to get messy.” His two goons fanned out, cornering me. I tightened my grip on the bat and took a half-step back, shielding Ethan more completely. Suddenly, the man lunged, grabbing my wrist in a grip so tight I felt the bones grind together. With his other hand, he slashed the switchblade toward my arm. I squeezed my eyes shut, a strangled yelp caught in my throat. I braced for the sharp, searing pain. But it never came. I opened my eyes to see Ethan Blackwood standing in front of me. His hand was clamped around the thug’s wrist, stopping the blade a mere inch from my skin. And his other arm was wrapped firmly around me, pulling me safely behind him.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385411”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The interview was a train wreck. Ten minutes in, and I knew I’d blown it. I wasn’t the right fit for the position, plain and simple. I was just sitting there, staring at my hands, waiting for them to deliver the final blow and end this awkward ordeal. But then, the HR manager, a woman named Sarah, leaned forward with a strange question. “Do you really love to read?” I looked up, meeting her eyes. She didn’t seem to be messing with me. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s pretty much all I do in my free time.” “Oh, that’s great.” Sarah put down her pen. “Look, I think you’ve probably figured this out already, but your professional experience isn’t quite what we’re looking for with this role.” She paused for a beat. “But I couldn’t help but notice on your resume, under hobbies, you just wrote ‘Reading.’ We happen to have a position that’s… well, it’s related to reading. I don’t suppose you’d be interested?” My curiosity piqued. “What, are you looking to hire someone to just sit in an office and read all day?” “Yes,” she said, her expression perfectly straight. “That’s exactly it.” I shifted in my chair, trying to get comfortable. “You’ve got to be kidding me. A gig like that doesn’t exist.” “I’m not kidding. And we’ll pay you a salary. Ninety thousand a year.” “You’re going to tell me it comes with a full benefits package next,” I scoffed, trying to figure out her angle. “Health, dental, 401(k). The works. Nine-to-five, Monday through Friday.” Even as I signed the contract—which explicitly stated my only duty was to read books, and more specifically, that I was *only allowed* to read books—it all felt like a fever dream. Walking out of that gleaming corporate headquarters with the stamped paperwork in my hand, I still wasn’t convinced I wasn’t dreaming. But whatever. This company was a major player in the tech scene, this was their main campus. I figured I’d just roll with it and see what the catch was. My first day, after finishing the onboarding paperwork, an admin named Jess led me to the company library. The door opened into a bright, white room, probably a thousand square feet, lined with a dozen or so rows of bookshelves, all perfectly organized. Jess led me past the shelves to the left, into a reading room furnished with a large, comfortable-looking desk. There was a water cooler and a fancy coffee machine. They’d thought of everything. “I’m Jess. This is your new office,” she said with a smile. “I assume you’re clear on your job description?” “Yeah, just read. But I have to ask, are you sure there are no book reports? No summaries?” “Not that I’m aware of,” she said. “But it’s reading only. To make sure of that, I’ll need to take your phone.” “What? My phone? That wasn’t in the contract!” “Don’t worry, we’re not confiscating it. We just store it in a locker by the entrance. You can grab it the second you clock out. We won’t touch it, it’s just to make sure you’re focused.” It was my first day, so I didn’t want to make waves. A locker by the door seemed harmless enough. I handed it over. “Great,” Jess said, taking the phone. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Happy reading!” After her footsteps faded away, I walked over to the entrance and checked. Sure enough, my phone was in a small, unlocked cubby. Feeling relieved, I went back into the reading room and started browsing the shelves. The books were all brand new, many still in their plastic wrap. The smell of fresh ink was heavy in the air. They were sorted by genre: history, economics, military strategy, even a section on medical texts. But the biggest section, by far, was fiction—my favorite. Since they didn’t give me a reading list, I decided to start with something familiar and fun. I found the *A Song of Ice and Fire* series and started my third re-read of *A Game of Thrones*. Time flew. Before I knew it, Jess popped her head in to tell me it was time for lunch. “I was starting to think I was supposed to be a prisoner in this room,” I joked. “Not at all. Besides the no-phone rule, you’re just like any other employee,” she laughed. Walking from the dead silence of the library into the bustling company cafe was a bit of a shock. Jess pointed out the different food stations—salad bar, grill, pizza—and then went to find her own friends. I grabbed a chicken and rice bowl. As I swiped my employee badge to pay, the guy at the register looked at me and asked, “You’re the new guy, right?” I nodded. Did this guy know every single person on campus? That was impressive. Before I could ask, the person behind me cleared their throat, so I moved on. The cafe was packed. I found an empty seat opposite a guy who was shoveling food into his mouth. “This spot taken?” I asked. “All yours, man,” he grunted, not even looking up. No wonder he was on the heavy side. I sat down and dug in. When the guy across from me finished, he stood up, then leaned back down. “You’re the new guy, huh?” I looked at him, confused. “Your lanyard,” he said, then gave me a weird, knowing smile and walked away. That’s when I noticed it. My ID lanyard was different from everyone else’s. I’d assumed they were color-coded by department, but now I saw that every other employee had a blue one. Mine was bright red. I tried striking up conversations with other people nearby. But as soon as they saw my red lanyard, they’d get that same mysterious smile, and then clam up. They’d talk about the weather, about last night’s game, about anything—but the second I asked about my lanyard, they’d change the subject like their life depended on it. It was weird, but since nothing bad had happened, I decided to let it go. A month passed quickly. After the first week of novelty and slight paranoia, life settled into a comfortable, peaceful routine. I figured my ancestors must be smiling down on me to have landed a job this good. In that month, I’d blazed through a dozen novels and noticed something odd. Most of the book sets on the shelves were complete. But there was a beautiful, leather-bound collection of American classics—Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald—that was missing one volume: *Moby Dick*. I figured someone had just checked it out, but in the entire month I’d been there, not a single other person had ever set foot in the library. And there was a perfect, book-sized gap right between the others. It was definitely gone. I eventually asked Kevin—the guy from the cafeteria on my first day—about the library. He told me it was built specifically for me. Or rather, for my position. The company never had a library before. Most people were grinding until 10 PM, and if they didn’t finish their work, they had to come in on Saturdays, unpaid. Who had time to read? Kevin’s biggest act of rebellion against the corporate grind was timing his lunch break to the exact second, refusing to give the company a single extra moment of his time. It was his small psychological victory. My library was on the first floor, which was mostly a public-facing showroom. Besides the receptionist, I never saw anyone. Kevin’s office was on the twelfth floor, and he always managed to be the first one to the elevator at noon. I usually left my room around 12:05. We often ended up at the cafe at the same time and became lunch buddies. Every time I beat him there, he’d shake his head. “They say all roads lead to Rome, but you, my friend, were born in it.” Once we got to know each other, I tried to ask him why the company created a job for a professional reader. He held up a hand, cutting me off, and gestured for me to eat. I got the hint and dropped it. After we’d cleared our trays, Kevin turned to me. “You smoke?” I was about to say no, but I remembered he already knew I didn’t. The way he was staring at me felt like a test. I took the cigarette he offered, and we walked out of the cafe, through the main doors, and over to the edge of the parking lot. Kevin lit his and took a long drag, then glanced back nervously toward the building. “Alright, look,” he started, his voice low. “I don’t know the whole story. Just rumors. Something about a bet between the top brass.” “A bet?” “Yeah. The details are fuzzy, but it has to do with the two founders, Mr. Thompson and Mr. Hayes.” “Okay, give me the short version.” “So, Thompson, the CEO, and Hayes, the CTO, started this place together with like, ten people. They hit the market at the right time, made all the right moves, and blew up into this giant corporation. You know the story: it’s easy to struggle together, hard to get rich together. If you follow the stock market, you know Hayes has been dumping his shares like crazy lately. Sent the stock on a rollercoaster. And word is, he did it all without talking to Thompson first. Just made the public filings. It’s legal, but it put Thompson in a really tight spot with the other shareholders.” “Why would he do that?” “That’s what Thompson wants to know. Hayes’s official story is that after all these years in R&D, he’s just burned out. Wants to cash out and retire. Nobody here buys that for a second. The company’s still growing, the dividends are huge. There’s no reason to cash out now.” Kevin took another drag, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Guys like me, been here almost a decade, busted my ass, hit my targets… not a single damn stock option.” He shook his head and refocused. “So where do you fit in? Well, Thompson obviously didn’t buy the ‘burnout’ excuse. Hayes was a tech prodigy back in college, won national awards, lived and breathed this stuff. So Hayes says, ‘Even a passion becomes a job, and eventually, everyone gets sick of their job.’ And that led to the bet.” “What’s the bet?” “They’re betting on you. Hayes bet that even if you love reading, if you’re forced to do it as a job every single day, you won’t last a year. If you stick it out for one full year, Hayes loses. Thompson gets to buy out all his remaining shares at half price. If you quit… Thompson has to buy them at double the market rate.” “So these billionaires settle their disputes like a couple of frat boys? Aren’t they worried about the shareholders freaking out and dumping the stock?” “Who knows how their minds work. Honestly, I don’t get it either. But that’s the rumor. Officially, the stock volatility is because of a ‘major strategic realignment.’ Keeps the retail investors from panicking.” “Okay, but is that bet really worth all the secrecy? Everyone acts like I’m part of some covert operation.” “The day before you started, every department manager held a meeting. They told us a new hire was coming, red lanyard, and that we were not to get too close to you or talk too much about company business. An order from the CEO’s office. Violators would face consequences.” “Then… aren’t you worried about talking to me?” A wave of guilt washed over me. I shouldn’t have pushed him. “Man, I’m so burned out here, I’ve been looking for a new job for months. If they fire me and give me a decent severance package, you’d actually be doing me a favor.” He saw the look on my face and chuckled. “Hey, if I do get canned, and you feel bad, just buy me a pack of Marlboros, okay? The reds.” As he spoke, I saw his gaze flicker over my shoulder. I turned and saw Sarah, the HR manager, walking toward us from the main building. Kevin quickly dropped his voice. “Listen, this is all just office gossip. Don’t take it as gospel. Something about this whole thing feels… off. We’ll talk more later.” He dropped the half-finished cigarette, crushed it with his shoe, and started walking back, pulling me along with him. As we passed Sarah, we exchanged hellos. But just as we were about to enter the building, she called out my name. “Hey! How are you settling in after your first month?” Kevin gave me a look and kept walking. “Everything’s been great,” I said. “Good to hear,” Sarah said, her eyes following Kevin’s retreating back. “What were you two talking about?” “Oh, nothing. Kevin just needed a smoke buddy.” “A smoke buddy?” She murmured it, almost to herself, a strange look on her face. “I don’t recall you being a smoker.” Before I could come up with a defense, she smiled brightly. “Well, lunch break’s almost over. Better get back to it.” I nodded and practically ran away. As I glanced back, I saw her pull out her phone and dial a number. Back at the library entrance, just before putting my phone in its cubby, I decided I should message Kevin. Tell him we should probably keep our distance for a while. This job was too good to lose, and I couldn’t risk getting him in serious trouble just because of my stupid curiosity. I opened the company’s messaging app and searched for his name. When I clicked on his profile, a chat window didn’t pop up. Instead, a small, gray box appeared on my screen: “This user has been deactivated.” My mind went blank. The next thing I knew, I was slumped in my chair in the reading room, with no memory of how I got there. *Fired? That fast? This is seriously messed up.* I stared blankly at the ceiling, at the security camera pointing down at me, and Sarah’s words echoed in my head. *I’d only met her once, during the interview. How did she know I didn’t smoke?* My eyes scanned the ceiling. I started counting the cameras. One, two, three… there were the obvious ones in the corners. But then I looked closer. The small, black, circular fixtures in the ceiling between the bookshelves, the ones I thought were just screw covers for the track lighting… they were cameras. Tiny, discreet, black-domed cameras. Fifteen of them. There were fifteen cameras in this room. These were just regular books. What in the world were they so afraid of? My entire world in this room, every page I turned, every sigh, every stretch—it was all being watched from every possible angle.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385410”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day we filed for divorce, Evan brought his stepsister with him. I didn’t argue with him like I usually would have. I was silent through the whole process—handing over documents, signing my name on the line. As I was leaving, I heard him comforting her. “Alana, don’t blame yourself. She won’t actually go through with it. I’ve let her get away with too much these last few years. This will be good for her. A little time to cool off, get some perspective. Otherwise, you and Leo will never have any peace here.” His stepsister sighed. “Evan, maybe I should just take Leo and find another place. What if she’s still angry in a month? What if you two actually get divorced? I’d feel like the villain.” Evan let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Impossible. She’s just using the thirty-day waiting period to threaten me. You just wait. When the time comes, Clara won’t even show up.” “Well, if you’re sure…” 1 The wind was vicious that day. When Alana got out of the car, a gust knocked her off balance. She stumbled, falling right into Evan’s chest. He caught her instinctively, his hand steadying her shoulder. He smiled down at her, about to say something, when he saw me walking around the corner. In an instant, his expression turned cold. His voice was laced with ice. “Clara, don’t get the wrong idea. I was just catching Alana. We’re at the county courthouse, try to have some class…” “Let’s go inside,” I said, cutting him off and walking straight past them. He seemed to freeze for a second. I guess he was expecting a fight. In the past, a scene like this would have sent me into a spiral of accusations and fury. Then, he must have decided I was playing some new game. As I walked into the main hall, I heard his familiar, long-suffering sigh behind me. We sat in the waiting area, Evan across from me, Alana beside him. He frowned, his voice low and flat. “I had to take Leo for his entrance interview at the new private school. They were on my way. It’s not some ridiculous power play, Alana isn’t trying to provoke you.” Alana shot him a chiding look. “Evan, you’re always so gentle when you talk to me. Why are you being so harsh with Clara? Stop it.” Evan pressed his lips together and said nothing more. “Clara,” Alana began, her voice soft and earnest. “I came because I wanted to talk you out of this. We’re family. I don’t hold any of your past misunderstandings against you. Marriage is hard work. Please don’t do something this impulsive.” She finished, watching me with a placid smile. She had one of those faces—poised and dignified. When she spoke in that calm, measured way, it was easy to believe she was the most reasonable person in the room. I didn’t answer. I just looked past her, at the digital queue screen on the wall. They were on number 9. I was number 12. Three more to go. At about fifteen minutes each, that meant I had forty-five minutes left. I started a silent countdown in my head. 2 “Clara, can you please stop being so childish? Alana is my sister. The least you could do is show her some basic respect. Your attitude is making everyone uncomfortable.” My eyes drifted from the screen back to them. Evan was staring at me, his expression a familiar mix of frustration and exhaustion. Beside him, Alana gave a sad little smile and turned her head away slightly. She was a master of wordless performance art. “Then you should probably comfort your sister,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. A flash of anger crossed Evan’s face. He spoke through gritted teeth. “There you go again. Always attacking Alana. You know, Clara, there are consequences for acting like a brat. If you push things too far, you might not get a chance to take it all back.” The last part was a clear threat. I just watched him. He was handsome, tall, with a deep, resonant voice. Objectively, he was flawless. I used to joke during our arguments, “Fine, fine, you win. I’ll let it go, but only because you’re so damn pretty.” At night, when my crazy hospital shifts left me too wired to sleep, I’d make him talk to me, his voice the only thing that could lull me into rest. Now, I raised a single finger to my lips. “Shhh. We’re in a public place. You shouldn’t raise your voice.” His voice hadn’t been loud. But I wanted the quiet. … The filing process was smooth. I barely spoke, just calmly handed over the papers, signed where I was told, and pressed my thumb into the ink pad. The separation agreement was simple. Four years of marriage, no children. His family’s company had nothing to do with me. The house, cars, and investments we acquired after the wedding would be split fifty-fifty. I remembered the day I handed him the printed agreement. He was on his way out with Alana and Leo to visit his father, who had Alzheimer’s. He’d glanced at it for a second, scrawled his name, and slammed the door behind him. Today was the same. He didn’t read a word. He just signed and walked away, as if it were all a game he couldn’t be bothered to play. Outside the courthouse, the wind was still howling. My car was covered in a blanket of dead leaves. As I patiently brushed them off, I heard Evan’s voice carried on the wind. He was comforting Alana. “Alana, don’t blame yourself. She won’t actually go through with it. This thirty-day wait will give her time to get over this tantrum. Otherwise, you and Leo will never have any peace here.” Alana’s voice was heavy with regret. “Evan, maybe I should just take Leo and find another place. What if she’s still angry in a month? What if you two actually get divorced? I’d feel like the villain.” Evan scoffed. “Impossible. She’s just using the waiting period to threaten me. You just wait. When the time comes to finalize this, Clara won’t even show up.” A huge gust of wind ripped through, swallowing the rest of his words. It scoured my car clean, sweeping away every last leaf, every speck of dust. “Nice,” I murmured, looking up at the sky. Then I got in my car and drove away. 3 When I got back to the house, our housekeeper, Rosa, was directing a team of movers. “Ma’am,” she said, pointing. “I didn’t dare touch this wall. I think you’ll need a specialist. It would be a shame to damage any of it.” It was an entire wall covered in photos. A timeline of my four years with Evan. I’d spent years curating the frames, arranging the layout, and I always insisted on cleaning the glass myself every weekend. “Throw it all out,” I said without looking up, heading for the stairs. Rosa’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Ma’am, forgive me for saying so, but all couples fight. Mr. Knight is so good to you. You can scare him with the moving boxes, that’s enough. They’re just brother and sister, after all. A woman can’t be too—” I stopped on the second-floor landing and looked down at her. “Rosa, after you’re done here today, you’re free to go.” She froze. “What do you mean? It’s so late, where would I go?” “I mean you’re fired. As for where to go, Alana is staying with Evan at his condo downtown. You can go to her.” “Why would I go to her?” Rosa asked, genuinely confused. “Aren’t you two close?” I asked, my voice cool. “Didn’t you bring her that expensive single-origin coffee from your trip home? It seems only right that she’d take you in.” Rosa’s face went pale. “I… I just felt sorry for her and her son. I brought her a little coffee, that’s all.” “You felt sorry for her, so you brought her coffee that costs two hundred dollars a pound?” I was expressionless. “I gave you two thousand dollars to buy that coffee for our house. The bag you brought back for me costs ten bucks at the grocery store. Before you leave, make sure you return the difference.” Panic flooded her face. She started rambling, her voice rising. “Ma’am, I spent the whole two thousand on coffee, I swear! I just figured, you’re all family, it doesn’t matter who gets the expensive stuff and who gets the cheap stuff, and Mr. Knight said to treat her like one of the owners—” I turned and walked into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I opened Instagram. Sure enough, Alana had just posted a new story. It was a photo from an upscale restaurant. Three hands clinking glasses. Two adult, one child. No caption. It didn’t need one. Someone had already replied to it: “Does Leo have a new dad? Congrats!” Alana’s response was coy: “Don’t be silly! We’re celebrating him getting into his new school.” I stared at the man’s hand in the photo. Though his cuff covered most of his wrist, a small, pale scar was visible just below his watch. It was from the night we first met. He got it shielding me from a knife. Six years ago, I was a resident doctor on a late shift in the ER. A patient’s distraught family member went berserk. He pulled a knife and lunged at me. In that split second, a man’s arm shot out to protect my throat. Evan was slashed several times. His arm was slick with blood. After security subdued the attacker, I helped Evan, my hands shaking as I disinfected and bandaged his wounds. He leaned back in the chair, watching me for a long moment before he smiled. “Hey, Doc,” he said softly. “If you keep shaking like that, I’m going to bleed out before you’re done.” I was mortified and grateful all at once. “Thank you! I’m so sorry!” As he was about to leave, I summoned my courage and called out, “If you’re so worried about bleeding out, maybe you should stop trying to kill yourself.” Next to the deep gashes from the attack were several smaller, cleaner cuts. They were fresh, but neat and parallel—clearly self-inflicted. He’d been at the hospital that night to get those treated. He stared at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. After a few seconds, he gave a careless shrug. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not suicidal. It’s just… pressure. You know? Sometimes one kind of pain helps you forget another.” It was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard, and I didn’t believe a word of it. I frowned, staring him down, trying to use my best “doctor’s authority” voice to make him see sense. He looked at my serious expression and, for some reason, laughed again. “Okay, Doc. Thanks for the warning.” 4 After we started dating, I found out that Evan wasn’t just handsome; he was successful, wealthy, the whole package. But I didn’t care about that. I just loved him. His assistant once asked me, “Ms. Reed, how did you stay so calm when you first started seeing Mr. Knight? Weren’t you intimidated?” I was confused. “He’s always smiling. He’s kind, he’s a hero. Why would I be intimidated?” The assistant looked at me like I’d just claimed the sky was green. “Mr. Knight? Smiles? Is *kind*?” Evan eventually told me the full story about that night in the ER. “After my dad got Alzheimer’s, his so-called friends and business partners turned on him. Vultures. One guy even used a blank sheet of paper my dad had signed to forge a massive debt. The company went bankrupt. His second wife left. I was nineteen. I had to handle everything. For years, I felt like I was suffocating under the pressure. I had to find… extreme ways to cope. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it.” My heart ached for him. “So that’s what you meant? Using one pain to mask another? Evan, you can’t ever do that again! Promise me. Or I’ll… I’ll never speak to you again!” He held me so tight then, his eyes shining. “Never again. I promise. When I’m with you, it’s like all the pressure just melts away. The moment I see you, I can’t help but smile. Clara, you were sent to me as a reward for surviving all that, weren’t you?” Imagine a man like that comes into your life. A man who fought against impossible odds and won. Who loves you, spoils you, and treats you like you’re the only person in the world. Who looks like every fantasy you ever had as a teenager. And who saved your life. Would you be able to resist falling in love with him? I fell, hard and fast. After we got married, he was even better. My erratic work schedule ruined my sleep, so he sold his downtown penthouse and bought a beautiful, quiet house in the suburbs. It was less than a mile from the hospital. His commute to the city became a three-hour round trip every day. When I worked a night shift, if he was in town, his car would be waiting for me at the hospital entrance no matter the hour. Once, I was sent to a two-month training program in Boston. In those two months, Evan flew back and forth twenty-eight times, sometimes just to have lunch with me. The only shadow was that I never got pregnant. I knew that on the surface he said, “It’ll happen when it happens,” but deep down, he desperately wanted a child. His father had forgotten everything and everyone, but when he saw a picture of Evan as a little boy, he could still say his name. “If Dad could see a little version of me running around,” Evan had told me, “maybe he’d remember me, too. All these years, I’ve felt so alone, like I have no family. But now I have you. And soon, we’ll have our kids. I’ll finally have more family.” I grew up in a small, quiet town in the South. My parents were loving, middle-class people. I was a good kid, got good grades, and life had always been pretty easy for me. I understood that life wasn’t perfect. It had joy and boredom, surprises and disappointments. The pregnancy issue was just a test. I accepted it peacefully and threw myself into living a good, optimistic life. At the hospital, I was gentle and patient with my patients. At home, I loved my husband and the life we were building with everything I had. I thought I could be this happy forever. Until six months ago. When his stepsister, Alana, came back. 5 It was a night of torrential rain. I got off a late shift, and for the first time ever, Evan’s car wasn’t there. I called him, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Worried something had happened, I didn’t even bother with a rideshare. I just ran home through the downpour. When I burst through the front door, soaked and shivering, I found him sitting perfectly fine on the living room sofa. In the armchair across from him sat a beautiful, unfamiliar woman, smiling at me. That was the first time I saw Alana. Evan saw me, dripping all over the floor, and jumped up. “Clara! Why didn’t you call me to pick you up?” he asked, helping me out of my wet coat. I glanced at the phone on the coffee table. “I did. You didn’t answer.” He looked away, his expression tight. “Ah, I must have forgotten to turn the ringer back on after my afternoon meeting.” From the armchair, Alana’s smile widened just a fraction. When Evan introduced her as his stepsister, I was shocked. He’d mentioned his father’s second wife briefly once. His stepmother had a daughter two years older than him. They lived together for four years, and after the company went bankrupt, they both left. He’d been so casual about it, he’d never even mentioned her name. I figured they weren’t close and would probably never see each other again. When Alana left that night, Evan didn’t get up. He just sat on the sofa, looking distant and cold. She didn’t seem to mind. She gave me a warm hug and said, “You’re lovely. My little brother is a lucky man.” After she was gone, Evan apologized sincerely. I pouted and grumbled for a minute, then asked why she was suddenly back in his life. He explained that her mother had passed away, her husband had died, and her son was sick. She’d come back to the States for a new treatment. I felt a pang of sympathy. “She seems so elegant, despite everything she’s been through. But you were pretty cold to her tonight.” He was silent for a moment, then scoffed. “The second my dad got sick, her mom divorced him and took every last cent from their accounts. They left me with nothing. The fact that I can even sit in the same room with her now is me being polite.” I didn’t push it. It was his past, his pain. He had the right to feel how he felt. That night in bed, Evan was rough, almost violent. It was nothing like his usual tender, careful lovemaking. At one point, I cried out, “Evan, that hurts!” He froze. In the darkness, he stared down at me for a few seconds, then said in a raw voice, “Call me Ev.” 6 The next time I saw Alana, I was coming home from a two-week medical conference. I’d come back a day early, hoping to surprise Evan. I walked in the door and heard a woman’s laughter coming from the kitchen. I followed the sound and saw Alana at the stove, with Rosa helping her. In the living room, Evan was on the floor, playing chess with a little boy around five or six. The table was set with steaming dishes, the TV was murmuring in the background. It was a perfect, cozy family scene. Alana saw me first. “Clara!” she said, surprised. “You’re back!” Evan turned, his eyes widening. He got up and walked toward me, echoing her question. “Clara, what are you doing home?” I swallowed the discomfort in my throat, said hello, and muttered something about being tired before heading upstairs. Evan followed me. He told me Alana and her son, Leo, were moving in for a while. I stared at him. “Moving in? Here?” He hesitated, a look of weary resignation on his face. “Leo has a rare genetic disorder—he can’t feel pain. There’s a specialist at your hospital who’s pioneering a new gene therapy, and Alana brought him here for the trial. She begged me, Clara. The house is close to the hospital, and with Rosa here and you being a doctor… if Leo gets hurt, someone will be around to help.” “But I thought you hated her,” I said, confused. His expression darkened. “There’s no point in holding onto the past. She’s the only other family my dad has left besides me. I was thinking, if she visits him more, maybe it will help his condition… Look, it’s just for a few months. I just agreed to it today, I was going to tell you. I hope you don’t mind.” I didn’t say anything else. As much as I hated it, his reasoning was sound. Evan had so little family. If I made a fuss, I’d be the heartless one. Seeing his apologetic face, I reached out and gently tapped his nose. “Honestly? I did mind, for a second. But it’s okay now.” He smiled at me, relieved. At dinner, Alana thanked me profusely. I told her that if she needed any help navigating the hospital system for Leo, she could always ask me. At the time, I thought it was a small thing. A few months. That’s all. I was so naive. When did things start to change? It was gradual. The collection of designer art toys I kept in the glass cabinet were shoved into a corner, replaced by a squad of broken Transformers. Women’s clothes, including lacy underwear, started appearing on the back of the living room sofa. The cream-colored rug I loved was now a canvas of crayon marks, spilled juice, and shredded tissues. Alana began acting more and more like the lady of the house. My schedule got crazier—clinic hours, surgeries, endless rounds. One day, after being on my feet for twelve hours straight in the OR, I was exhausted and craving the comfort of Rosa’s chicken soup. I called her ahead of time to ask her to make it for dinner. But when I got home that night, there was a large pot of fish soup on the table. “Where’s the chicken soup?” I asked. Rosa shrugged. “Alana said Leo wanted fish soup. I figured since Mr. Knight was eating out, it was just us, and one soup is enough.” I was quiet for a moment. “Rosa, you know I’m allergic to fish, right?” She remembered then, her face flushing with embarrassment. Alana just laughed and patted her shoulder. “It’s my fault, not Rosa’s. Clara, if you’re really set on chicken soup, I can order some for you.” Just then, Leo pointed at me and started shouting. “I hate her! She doesn’t want me to have fish soup! She’s mean! Make her leave!” I just stood there. *She’s Evan’s sister,* I told myself. *Leo is a sick child. They’ll be gone soon.* *I’m doing this for Evan.*

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385409”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 I was on my balcony hanging up a duvet to air out when a bucket of piss rained down on my head. Before I could even process what had happened, my upstairs neighbor started screaming. “Hey, new girl! Don’t you have any common decency? Your stupid duvet is blocking all the positive energy from my apartment!” “I have a delicate constitution!” she shrieked. “I have to do my morning tai chi in the sun to align my chakras! Blocking my light is like stealing my life force! You’re trying to kill me, you evil bitch!” Excuse me? She was on the sixth floor, and I was on the fifth. How was my duvet blocking her sun? Was Isaac Newton aware of this development in physics? Infuriated, I stormed into my kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife, but as I got to the door, she doused my welcome mat with what smelled suspiciously like acid. Then, at four in the morning, she started hammering on my door, demanding I let her in for an “inspection.” “What are you hiding in there?” she yelled through the door. “Are you sucking the life out of men in there? You tramp!” Just when I was about to lose my mind, I saw a post on a local community forum: 【My next-door neighbor is an actual demon! She hangs red lanterns outside her door, keeps a coffin in her living room, and tries to force-feed people ‘blessed’ water she makes with burnt paper.】 【Dear God, please, someone come and get this witch!】 A wicked smile spread across my face. I immediately sent a private message. A physical attacker versus a magical one? This was going to be fun. 2 The hammering on my door was deafening. It was a Saturday morning, and all I could think was, *Is she having a psychotic break?* I was soaked, and the acrid smell of urine was making my eyes water. My brand-new, five-hundred-dollar down comforter was ruined. Even if I washed it, I’d never be able to sleep under it again. And the screaming continued. “Hey, 502! Are you dead in there? If not, open this damn door!” “You’re a streetwalker, a filthy whore! You’re not just dirty yourself, you’re messing up the feng shui of the entire building!” “My husband’s stocks are tanking, and my son has no appetite! This is all your fault!” “If you want to suck out people’s life force, go live under someone else’s apartment! Stop trying to seduce my family!” She was just spewing vile, baseless accusations. How did I, a night-shift surgeon, suddenly become a prostitute? So I was supposed to work like a dog all night and then deal with this in the morning? I’ve been on the internet since the dawn of time. I don’t lose flame wars. I grabbed a kitchen knife, planning to give the old hag a good scare. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was my next-door neighbor, a girl named Chloe. I’d only moved in a week ago after finishing renovations, and she was the only person I’d met. We were around the same age, both grinders at nearby companies, so we’d exchanged numbers. I didn’t have time for a chat. I declined the call and opened my screen door. My phone rang again. It was her. A second later, a text popped up. [OMG DUDE, DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR!!!] [I just saw that crazy old bat! She’s holding a bottle of something! I think it’s acid!] 3 Chloe’s text made me snatch my hand back from the door. Was this woman insane? I hung up a comforter, and she curses me out and tries to throw acid on me? I slammed the inner door shut and furiously typed back. [I don’t even know her! How is hanging a duvet a capital offense?] [And how could I possibly block her sun from the floor below? That makes no sense!] The “typing…” bubble on her end appeared and disappeared several times. A minute later, a sixty-second voice memo came through. I hit play. Chloe’s voice was practically a snarl. “You’re new, so you don’t know,” she said. “The woman upstairs, her name is Karen, with a capital K. She’s the legendary lunatic of this building. She’s obsessed with ‘wellness’ to the point of psychosis. She has meltdowns in the lobby all the time. Seriously, do not engage. If she screams at you, just ignore her. If she fixates on you, your life will be hell.” “Ugh, I can’t explain it all over text. I’m adding you to the group chat.” The next thing I knew, I was in a group called “What fresh hell is the hag brewing today?” There were over fifty people in it. Before I could even say hi, the group admin dropped a bunch of PDF files into the chat. Chloe tagged me: [@Clara you need to read these. I’d print them out and tape them to your wall. Read them every day so you don’t forget.] Confused, I opened one of the files. My eyes went wide. It was a meticulously compiled list of “rules” for living in the building, nearly a hundred of them. 1. *Do not hang anything on your balcony. Clothes, bedding, even cured meats are forbidden. Karen says it disrupts the energy flow to her apartment.* 2. *If you’re not home by 7 PM, get a hotel. Karen claims latecomers bring “damp, negative energy” into the building, and she has been known to attack doors with an axe.* 3. *If you have a partner, all… intimate activities… must be conducted during daylight hours. Otherwise, Karen will stand outside your door and perform a mourning ritual, wailing about the “deathly yin energy” you’re creating.* 4. *Park your car outside the complex. Karen believes cars are “metal coffins” and refuses to have them within a three-mile radius of her home.* And so on. I took a long, hot shower, threw my clothes in the trash, and scrolled through the rest of the insane list. [Seriously? There are fifty of you, and you just let her do this? Has no one called the cops?] I typed. Chloe replied instantly: [The cops know her by name. She has a documented history of mental illness. What can they do? It’s the world we live in. The crazy ones have all the power. She has nothing to lose, and we have our lives and jobs to protect. Just lie low, Clara. Eventually, she’ll find a new target.] What? My brand-new condo, my expensive comforter, my precious sleep. I was supposed to just take it? I deal with enough stress at work; I wasn’t going to tolerate an ounce of it in my personal life. I called the police. I refused to believe they couldn’t do anything. 4 The cops arrived in ten minutes. When I opened the door, I was met by two officers who looked utterly exhausted. Before I could speak, my upstairs neighbor came charging down the stairs. I finally got a good look at her. A severe buzz cut on a face twisted with rage, like the whole world owed her something. She pushed past the officers and lunged for my hair. “Officers, it’s this slut! She hung her duvet out and sucked up all the positive energy from my apartment! She’s trying to murder me!” I dodged her, almost laughing in disbelief. I called the cops, and she was the one filing a complaint? I addressed the officers directly. “She poured a bucket of urine on me from her balcony, ruining my five-hundred-dollar comforter. She’s been banging on my door and threatened me with acid. I have security camera footage.” The woman, Karen, just sneered. “Well, you stole my life force. What did you expect?” The officers sighed. I could tell from their weary expressions this wasn’t their first rodeo with 602. The younger cop tried to reason with her. “Ma’am, with all due respect, it’s physically impossible for her to block your sunlight from the floor below. That’s just basic science.” Karen snorted. “Don’t talk to me about science. We wellness practitioners deal with energy fields and feng shui! There’s only so much sunlight to go around. If she takes some, I get less! It’s simple logic! I can’t believe a police officer doesn’t understand that!” The older officer clearly had no patience for this. “Karen, we’re asking you nicely. Stop harassing your neighbor, or we’re taking you downtown.” That was her cue. She threw herself on the ground, ripped open the collar of her shirt, and started wailing. “Go ahead! Arrest me! I have a doctor’s note for my condition! I’m a respectable woman! I’ll sue you for assault!” She then proceeded to grab the officers’ legs and rub her chest against them. They recoiled in horror. I stood there, mouth agape, finally understanding why Chloe said calling the cops was useless. Karen shot me a venomous look. “I did my research on you! You’re a surgeon! Your hands are covered in blood and death! You come home from the morgue every night trailing ghosts and negative energy! You’ve completely corrupted the magnetic field of my home! My family is in danger! You owe me ten thousand dollars in damages! Pay up, or I’ll make your life a living hell!” In the end, the police did manage to haul her away. They made her pay me for the comforter and charged her with obstruction. I knew a little about the law; that meant she’d be held for at least a few days. Finally, some peace and quiet. I texted Chloe: [See? You just have to trust the system. If she starts up again, we’ll just call the cops.] Her reply was a single, crying emoji. [Clara, why didn’t you listen? You’re so, so screwed now.] 5 I dismissed her text as overly dramatic. I had dinner plans with a friend and didn’t think about it again until I got home around 10 PM. I stopped dead in my tracks. My front door was gone. Not just unlocked, but completely removed from its hinges. The entire doorframe was smashed, leaving a gaping hole where my entryway used to be. My living room was exposed to the entire hallway. My underwear was scattered on the sofa, my personal documents were strewn across the coffee table, and my collection of art figures had been thrown to the floor. “What… what happened to my door?” I rushed into the apartment to find Karen sprawled on my sofa, her dirty feet propped up on the armrest, spitting sunflower seed shells onto my rug. Seeing my expression, she grinned. “Not so tough now, are you, little girl?” She stood up, her belly protruding. “I’m pregnant. The cops aren’t going to touch a pregnant woman, are they?” she sneered. “And let me tell you something else. I have connections. I can get your door taken down today, and I can get you fired tomorrow. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of my way. Or maybe I’ll just ‘trip and fall’ outside your apartment and have a ‘miscarriage.’ How would that look for you at work?” Her husband sat silently on the other couch, staring at the floor. Her son, a carbon copy of his mother’s brutish features, was flipping through my channels like he owned the place. I knew I couldn’t fight a pack of rabid animals, especially not at this hour. I forced myself to apologize. Karen spat on my floor, and the three of them swaggered out, leaving me trembling with a mixture of rage and fear. I couldn’t believe that in a civilized society, there was no way to deal with someone like this. I understood the police were in a tough spot, but a pregnant woman? Chloe heard the commotion and pulled me into her apartment, handing me a warm mug of tea. “I told you,” she sighed. “You think I didn’t try calling the cops? I’m a content creator. I didn’t just call the cops, I posted a whole exposé on TikTok.” She sighed and rolled up her sleeve. A long, ugly scar, like a centipede, ran down her forearm. “This psycho gets ‘pregnant’ every year. She claims condoms are ‘unnatural and full of toxins,’ but somehow she always ‘miscarries’ and extorts money from someone in the building. She’s untouchable because her uncle is some big shot in construction, the kind with shady connections. We’re just normal people, Clara. We can’t win. My lease is up next month, and I’m out of here. Seriously, don’t try to fight her. It’s not worth it.” I looked at her, at the fear in her eyes, and realized that her constant warnings weren’t a sign of weakness, but the bravest act of kindness she could offer. A dog will bite you, but you can’t bite it back. Unless, of course, the other party is also a dog… An idea sparked. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my browser history until I found it: a post from a local forum titled, “How do you deal with a neighbor from the underworld?” The original poster had been ranting for weeks: [HELP ME. MY NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR IS LITERALLY A GHOUL.] [She’s some rich kid who’s obsessed with death. She cosplays as a corpse and spends her days asking people if she ‘looks dead yet.’ She terrifies people in the elevator late at night.] [She turned her apartment into a mausoleum. She has a real coffin in the living room and knocked a hole in her wall to install a shrine to Hades. It’s so creepy, I swear I can feel a cold draft coming from her place.] [Her decorating style is ‘demonic chic.’ Red lanterns in the hallway, green lighting inside. She chants spells and tries to get people to drink ‘blessed water’ she makes by burning sigils. She claims she has connections in the underworld and can ‘escort us to the other side’ whenever she wants.] [I’m losing my mind. Please, someone, come get this girl!] 6 I got in touch with the poster. The girl next door to him was a trust-fund kid, back from studying abroad where she got really into “Goth culture.” Now, she was obsessed with Chinese mythology, specifically the concept of *Diyu*, the eighteen levels of hell. She called it “Asiabyss” culture and insisted the entire building adopt her lifestyle. She was caught injecting her “blessed water” into neighbors’ milk deliveries and taping gruesome, bloody talismans to their doors. She demanded absolute darkness, keeping her AC at a frigid 60 degrees year-round. When a sliver of sunlight reflecting off a neighbor’s window hit her curtains, she showed up at their door with a scythe, screaming about being “burned by the light of the living.” To top it all off, she was only fifteen. A minor. Whenever anyone tried to reason with her, she’d threaten to murder them, claiming her “friends on the other side” would protect her. She also claimed to have severe depression, and everyone knew that with a minor who was also a mental health case, you couldn’t risk a confrontation. The more I heard, the more excited I got. As the saying goes, it takes a villain to catch a villain. Or, if there isn’t one, you create one. Karen was using her pregnancy as a shield. Let’s see how she’d handle a teenage death cultist. I contacted “Asiabyss Girl” directly. I told her I had a place for rent and sent her pictures of my smashed-in doorway. “The price is negotiable,” I wrote. “The main thing is, the feng shui in my place is incredibly negative. Very dark, very heavy energy.” I laid it on thick. “It’s a real problem. Most people are too scared to even step inside.” It was classic reverse psychology for a teenager. Sure enough, she replied instantly. [Others may be scared. I am not.] [The damage is… acceptable. The open-air concept will be perfect for raising my children.] *Raising her children?* Before I could ask, she sent another message. [I am bored of my current residence. They call this a luxury high-rise, but it is filled with conformist fools who are resistant to new culture. Pathetic mortals. Your building seems suitably decrepit. The residents are likely half-dead husks, much like the denizens of the underworld. It will suffice.] The sheer density of cringe left me speechless. She wasn’t wrong about the half-dead husks part, though. [Yes, yes,] I typed back. [All soul-crushed corporate drones here.] Then, a notification popped up. She’d transferred a huge sum of money to my account. [I am buying the property. Vacate the premises immediately. I must begin the renovations.] I accepted the deposit before she could change her mind. I drafted a contract so fast my fingers were a blur. I’d planned to rent, but selling was even better. She didn’t even negotiate the price; I ended up making a tidy profit. I told Chloe the news, advising her to move out as planned. But she looked more excited than I was. “Are you kidding? I’m not going anywhere! I’ve never seen two real-life anime villains in one place before! The content potential is off the charts! Clara, if my channel blows up because of this, I’m taking you out for the best dinner of your life!” Kids these days. I really don’t get them.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385408”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The notification popped up on my phone with a cheerful *ding* that felt like a slap in the face. A $900 debit from the Venmo Shared Pot Liam and I were funding. My heart did a little lurch. I clicked open the transaction details. *Sent by Liam Hale.* *Note: New phone.* What kind of phone costs $900 for a college student? More importantly, that money was our sacred pact—the “Escape Fund” we were building for a post-graduation backpacking trip through Europe. Liam’s family wasn’t exactly struggling; if he needed something, he wouldn’t have to touch our shared savings. My first thought, ever the optimist, was that it had to be a glitch. A bug in the app. I called him immediately. He picked up on the third ring. “Liam? Did you just pull nine hundred bucks from our Shared Pot?” There was a beat of silence, then the sound of a sharp inhale. “You… you saw that already?” I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yeah. I thought we agreed that money was off-limits until graduation? For our trip?” His tone, which had been laced with panic, suddenly softened. It was a practiced shift I was all too familiar with. He let out a little sigh, as if he was the one who was burdened. “Babe, I’m so sorry. My phone totally bricked on me, and my allowance for the month is already gone.” He dropped his voice into that whiny, little-boy cadence he used when he wanted something. “I was just gonna borrow it. You don’t mind, do you? I’ll put it back the second my parents send next month’s cash. You’ll be my sugar mama for a little while, right?” And just like that, with his smooth reassurances, I let it go and hung up, feeling more confused than angry. * That night, I was doom-scrolling on Reddit when a post in r/relationship_advice caught my eye. The title was a classic: *“AITA for using money from the travel fund I share with my rich girlfriend without telling her first?”* The comments were brutal, just as you’d expect. > *“YTA. How do you ‘accidentally’ type in an exact amount and transfer it? You’re not ‘borrowing,’ you’re stealing.”* > *“Sounds less like you want to delete the record and more like you want a sugar mama.”* > *“The audacity is just… wow.”* But it was the original poster’s defensive replies that made my blood run cold. > *“You guys don’t get it. Her parents give her like 3k a month just for fun. What’s a few hundred bucks to her?”* > *“Besides, she’s got a younger brother. You know who’s getting the family business when her dad retires. I’m just helping her use her money now before it all goes to him. You’re all just jealous.”* > *“And for the record, I’m 6’2”, my family owns a chain of successful car dealerships, and I’ve got a trust fund waiting for me. If anyone’s settling here, it’s her, not me.”* I stared at the screen. My allowance is three thousand dollars a month. I have a younger brother. Liam is 6’2” and his dad owns three major car dealerships back in Ohio. It was him. I felt a bitter taste in my mouth and typed a quick reply: *“Spoken like a true leech with a superiority complex. Getting a girlfriend to pay your bills isn’t a personality trait.”* A minute later, my comment was deleted. I tried to shake it off, but the incident planted a seed of doubt. The next few weeks, it was like a switch had been flipped. Liam’s mooching went from subtle to shameless. “Babe, can you spot me for this new PS5 controller?” “Hey, can you order the DoorDash? I’ll totally get you back.” “My Queen, your loyal subject is thirsty. Starbucks run?” “C’mon, my little ATM, just this one thing.” Anytime I hesitated, he’d deploy his full arsenal of emotional manipulation. “You wouldn’t let your boyfriend starve, would you, baby?” “All my friends are so jealous, they say I have the best girlfriend in the world.” “My mom already loves you. She said I hit the jackpot. I’ll be good to you forever, I promise.” The breaking point came when he called me in a panic from a bar where he was out with his frat brothers. I thought it was an emergency, so I threw on sweatpants and rushed over. When I got there, he just grinned, wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and nudged me toward the bar. “Babe, can you cover this round? I’m a little short.” * His friends started cheering. “Hale, you dog! You trained her well!” “Damn, Maya, you’re a keeper! Taking care of our boy.” It hit me like a ton of bricks. He didn’t call me because he was in trouble; he called me to be his wallet. My good mood evaporated. The fact that I’d been woken up from a nap didn’t help. “If you didn’t have money,” I said, my voice dangerously low, “why did you offer to buy everyone drinks?” The cheerful noise died down instantly. A dozen pairs of eyes swiveled between me and Liam, whose smile was frozen on his face. He looked at me, a flash of genuine anger in his eyes, as if I’d just broken some unspoken rule. One of his friends, a guy named Chad, stepped in. “Whoa, Maya, take it easy. We all know Liam puts his entire allowance into that Shared Pot for your big Europe trip. He’s doing it for you!” Liam’s expression immediately softened, melting back into that familiar, pathetic look. “Yeah, babe. All my money is your money, remember?” Something about that sentence felt deeply wrong. I hadn’t spent a dime of his money. Our shared pot was for *our* trip. On dates, we either went Dutch or I ended up paying. I’d never taken anything from him. “You’re lucky, Maya,” Chad added, slinging an arm around Liam. “A guy like this? He’s one of a kind. You better lock that down.” As Liam nodded in smug agreement, a wave of unease washed over me. I’m new to relationships, but I’m not an idiot. My mom always told me that if a relationship starts to feel like a transaction, you need to check the balance sheet. And right now, I felt like I was deep in the red. While I was lost in thought, Liam took my phone right out of my hand, used Face ID to unlock it, and paid the tab with my Apple Pay. It was so smooth, so practiced. His friends gave him impressed nods. He shot me a triumphant little smirk that screamed, *See? I’ve got her wrapped around my finger.* I was fuming, but I decided to wait until we were alone to deal with it. Except, I never got the chance. Before the end of the month, my own bank account was empty. I tried to order a pizza and my card was declined. * On a whim, I opened the Venmo Shared Pot again. I hadn’t looked at the balance since the $900 incident. We’d been saving for over a year. Between my leftover allowance and his contributions, there should have been a lot in there. The balance displayed on the screen was $1,500. I felt the air leave my lungs. Impossible. I alone put more than that in every few months. My hands trembling, I opened the full transaction history. And there it was, a horrifying, endless scroll of deceit. *Liam Hale spent $200.* *Liam Hale spent $600.* *Liam Hale spent $1,200.* …all the way down to the latest, *Liam Hale spent $900.* Tiny and massive withdrawals, all from him. I did a quick, shaky calculation in my head. He had bled the account dry of at least five or six thousand dollars. All the money I had diligently saved was gone. Then, the Reddit post flashed in my mind. I went back to his profile. He’d updated it. *“Update: Put the down payment on my Tesla! Is it wrong to use my GF’s allowance to help with the monthly payments?”* I nearly shattered my phone screen with how hard I was gripping it. So that’s what this was all about. It all clicked into place: his constant digs about my brother, the articles he’d send me about how family businesses always go to the son, his warnings that I needed to “protect my assets” from my own family. “You have to look out for yourself, babe,” he’d say, his face a mask of fake concern. “Your parents will set your brother up for life. What about you?” What a joke. What he didn’t know was that my parents had set up a trust fund for me the day I turned eighteen. My brother and I were inheriting everything, 50/50. I felt like the world’s biggest fool. All this time I thought I’d found love, but I’d just found a parasite with a plan. My mom’s voice echoed in my head: *“Trusting the wrong man will cost you more than just money.”* A white-hot rage burned through me, clearing away all the sadness and confusion. Without a second thought, I opened the app and transferred the remaining $1,500 to my personal account. The second the transfer went through, my phone lit up with an incoming video call from Liam. * I answered. His face, twisted in rage, filled the screen. “Maya! Did you touch the Pot?” he yelled, his voice cracking. “Did you fucking move the money from the Pot?” Spittle practically flew from the screen. “That was our down payment for the car! That was for *our future*! Put it back, now! Every single cent!” He looked like a man who’d just discovered his life savings had vanished. I almost laughed. The sheer hypocrisy was breathtaking. I tilted my head, letting the silence hang for a moment before speaking, my voice as cold as ice. “Oh? So it’s okay for you to use it, but not me? Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t most of that money mine to begin with?” “That’s not the same thing!” he roared, completely serious. “I needed it for emergencies!” I let a slow, humorless smile spread across my face and adopted his sweet, pleading tone. “Well, isn’t that a coincidence,” I said, dragging out the last words. “Because I have an emergency, too.” On screen, Liam’s tirade stopped short. The anger in his eyes morphed into pure panic as the gears in his head finally started turning. He swallowed hard. “You… you looked at the transaction history, didn’t you?” he stammered. I just stared at him, giving him a small, knowing smile and a simple “Mm-hmm.” The change was instantaneous. The raging monster vanished, replaced by the calculating manipulator. “Baby, listen, you have to let me explain,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was doing it for us. For our future.” He still didn’t know I knew about the Reddit post. I was morbidly curious to see what new lie he’d spin. I gestured for him to continue. Seeing my apparent willingness to listen, a flicker of his old arrogance returned. “Think about it, Maya. With your brother in the picture, you’re not going to see a cent of the family business. A daughter who marries out is… well, you know. I was just moving our money somewhere safe! I was protecting you!” “Oh, really? How so?” I asked, lowering my eyes to hide the contempt I knew was blazing in them. My feigned interest emboldened him. “Every dollar is accounted for, baby. It’s seed money for our life together. When I’m successful, you’re successful, right? Once we’re married, the only person you’ll be able to rely on is me.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. The audacity. The sheer, misogynistic, self-serving bullshit. As if I’d shrivel up and die without a man to “rely on.” He was still talking, not once mentioning where the money actually went, just rambling about how he was doing this *for me*. “So,” I interrupted, my voice flat, “all the money you took out… you were just saving it for me. Is that right?” “Exactly!” he said, beaming. While he launched into a new self-aggrandizing speech about how men are supposed to manage the finances, my fingers were flying across my phone’s calculator. I came up with a final number. “Okay, great,” I said, cutting him off mid-sentence. “In that case, you’ve been ‘saving’ a total of six thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars for me. I need it back. All of it.” His smile cracked. “Wh-what?” I repeated the number, enunciating every syllable. He immediately reverted to victim mode. “Baby, don’t you trust me?” I put on my most innocent expression. “Of course I do. But like I said, I have an emergency.” His face soured. “You’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?” “No.” He looked like a cornered animal. “But… How could you have an emergency? You just got your allowance!” “Funny story,” I said, my voice dripping with false sadness. “My dad saw my last credit card bill and decided to cut me off for the month. So I’m broke. I guess I’ll have to use our ‘future fund’ to get by.” The relief that flooded his face was disgusting, but also exactly what I wanted to see. In his mind, this was just a temporary setback. “Oh! Okay, baby, of course,” he said, magnanimous now that he thought he was still in control. “You can use that money for now. But you have to promise to put it all back the second you get your next allowance!” I smiled, a real smile this time, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “I promise.” Because he had no idea what my real plan was. And it was going to cost him a whole lot more than six thousand dollars.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385407”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My parents have a contract, not a marriage. My older brother, Ethan, has my dad’s last name: Miller. My older sister, Olivia, has my mom’s maiden name: Baker. They each only ever looked out for the child who carried their family name. And they never dared to be too kind to me, Chloe, the third kid, the accident. They flipped a coin to decide my last name. And they’d always tell me, “Ethan and Olivia were supposed to have everything. If we give them even a little bit less, it feels like they’ve lost something.” So, when Ethan bombed his SATs, my dad cancelled my tutoring classes to pay for his. When Olivia got called “chunky” by some kid at school, my mom cut my weekly allowance to buy her a new wardrobe. They expressed their devotion to their chosen heir by chipping away at me. But twenty-six years later, Olivia was diagnosed with infertility. Ethan found out he was sterile. Of the three of us, I was the only one who could have children. The day my baby was born, my parents scrambled over each other to get to the hospital. Knowing exactly what they wanted, I held my child close and whispered, just loud enough for them to hear. “Hey, little one. Whoever buys you the bigger house and the nicer car, that’s whose last name you’ll get. How does that sound?” 1 My brother is Ethan Miller. My sister is Olivia Baker. My name is Chloe Miller. But I wasn’t born a Miller in the way my brother was. And I certainly had nothing to do with the Bakers. My last name was the result of a fifty-fifty chance, decided by the flip of a quarter in a sterile hospital hallway. Decades ago, my parents were pioneers of a sort in our small suburban town. They had what they called a “dual-headed marriage.” No dowry, no grand wedding paid for by one side. Everything was split 50/50. Before they even said “I do,” they signed a prenup that would make a corporate lawyer blush. Two kids, it stipulated. One for the Miller legacy, one for the Baker bloodline. Each would inherit from their respective side. No crossover. They saw themselves as a model for modern marriage: fair, independent. Ethan and Olivia were the products of this “fair” agreement. I was the variable they hadn’t planned for. The weight that tipped their perfectly balanced, selfish scales. My arrival was like a rock thrown into a still pond, shattering the fragile “fairness” they had built. The day I was born, there was no joy. Outside the delivery room, my parents argued, their voices sharp and angry, about who would get stuck with me. “Dammit, Sarah,” my dad hissed. “We agreed, one each! Don’t you dare try to palm this extra expense off on me!” “I’m already raising Ethan! Do you have any idea how much it costs to raise a boy? College funds, helping with a car, a down payment on a house one day? I can’t afford a second one. Besides, I promised him he’d be my sole heir!” My mom’s voice was just as fierce. “Don’t you pin this on me, Tom! Why should I take on another kid? I have Olivia! That’s all I wanted. I’m not going to let her feel like her mother’s love is being split in half!” They weren’t fighting for custody of me. They were fighting to get rid of me. In the end, it was my grandma, my mom’s mom, who came up with the solution. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop it, both of you! Just flip a coin. Let fate decide.” And so, on a cold vinyl bench in the hospital corridor, in front of God and everyone, my parents held the most important lottery of my life. My dad pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Heads, she’s a Miller,” he said, his jaw tight. “Tails, a Baker,” my mom shot back, her arms crossed, face a mask of anxiety and disgust. She stared at that quarter like it was a loaded gun. “You call it,” she snapped at my dad. “You’re the man.” My dad’s face was pale. He flicked the coin high into the air. The small silver disc seemed to hang there for an eternity, catching the fluorescent light. He caught it, slapped it onto the back of his hand, and held it there, his knuckles white. He was terrified of seeing a president’s head. Terrified that I would take a slice of the pie that belonged entirely to Ethan. Terrified that he was about to lose this long, transactional game he called a marriage. Finally, he lifted his hand. Heads. A long, slow sigh of relief escaped my mother’s lips. Her face broke into a smile that was pure, undisguised triumph. She patted my dad’s shoulder, her voice light and cruel. “Congratulations, Tom. You’ve got another heir for the Miller dynasty. She’s all yours now. Nothing to do with me, or my Olivia.” My father’s face turned to stone. He stared at George Washington’s profile, then his icy gaze slowly drifted toward the nursery window, toward me. There was no fatherly love in that look. Only the bottomless resentment of a gambler who had just lost a major hand. I wasn’t his daughter. I was a bad bet. A debt he was now forced to carry. 2 I never had a real Thanksgiving dinner. Because of their arrangement, my parents always went their separate ways for the holidays. Dad would take Ethan to the Miller family gathering across town, a loud affair full of football and beer. Mom would take Olivia to the Baker family home in the next county, a quieter gathering with fine china and polite conversation. And I was always the one left behind in the empty, silent house. “Chloe, be a good girl. We’ll bring you back a plate,” Mom would say dismissively, grabbing Olivia’s hand and walking out the door without a backward glance. Dad was even more direct. He wouldn’t even speak to me, just give me a cold look before leading Ethan out to the car. I’d sit by the window, watching the warm lights flick on in the neighbors’ houses, listening to the distant sounds of laughter and the Macy’s parade on TV. My stomach would grumble. The canned laughter from the TV sitcoms felt like it was mocking my loneliness. When they returned, it was always late at night. What they brought back were the scraps, the leftovers from the leftovers. The dry end pieces of the turkey, the gelatinous cranberry sauce nobody wanted, a spoonful of cold, soggy stuffing. “Chloe, come and eat!” Mom would call out, her voice devoid of any real warmth. I’d walk to the table and look at the sad, congealed food. A familiar ache would rise in my chest. “Mom, why can’t I ever go with you to Thanksgiving?” I finally asked one year, when I was seven. Her hand paused. She looked at me, her face blank. “Because your last name is Miller. You’re not a Baker. The Baker’s Thanksgiving is for family.” “Can I go with Dad to the Miller’s house, then?” I asked, turning to him with a flicker of hope. He didn’t even look up from the newspaper. “We don’t need another one. Ethan is enough.” In that moment, I understood. It didn’t matter what my last name was. In this house, I was always going to be the extra one. I thought if I could just endure it, things would get better when I grew up. I thought if I worked hard enough, was smart enough, they’d eventually see my worth. I studied relentlessly, always getting better grades than Ethan and Olivia. I did all the chores—dishes, laundry, vacuuming—without being asked. I walked on eggshells, desperate to please them. But in my junior year of high school, fate slapped me across the face again, harder than ever. 3 My dad threw the refund receipt from the SAT prep center on the kitchen table like it was a piece of trash. In the living room, my brother Ethan was rage-quitting a video game, venting his frustration over yet another abysmal practice test score. Next to the cold, official receipt was my notebook, filled with advanced calculus problems I’d spent three all-nighters solving. The neat, intricate equations suddenly felt like a joke. My dad’s anger was never aimed directly at Ethan. It was always ricocheted, with perfect accuracy, straight at me. He pointed at my notebook, his voice dripping with resentment. “What’s the point of all this? Girls don’t need to be geniuses in math!” he seethed. “If your brother doesn’t get into a decent college, are you going to take responsibility for that?” “We’re cancelling your prep class. We’ll use the money to get Ethan a private tutor!” Ethan didn’t even look up, just grunted in annoyance when his character died again. “God, you guys are so loud! You’re messing up my game!” he yelled. His casual entitlement was more suffocating than my dad’s rage. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the humiliation. It felt like my only purpose was to pay for their failures. Just then, my mom walked in with a plate of sliced fruit, carefully navigating around me to place it next to my sister, Olivia. The apple slices were carved into little swans. As a girl, Olivia’s life was much easier. Her biggest problem was the number on the scale. The other day, she’d come home from school with red, puffy eyes, sobbing in my mom’s arms because a boy had laughed at her “thunder thighs.” My mom’s heart shattered. She held Olivia, comforting her and cursing the “rude, un-raised” boys at school. Then, she found me in the kitchen, eating a piece of dry toast. “Chloe,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m cutting your allowance in half this month. I’m taking your sister shopping to cheer her up.” “And you could stand to eat fewer snacks yourself. It’s better for girls to be thin.” I looked at her, the toast turning to sand in my mouth. My “snacks” were pieces of dry toast. The faded hoodie I was wearing was a hand-me-down from Ethan. For three years of high school, I hadn’t owned a single new piece of clothing. My closet was a recycling bin for my siblings’ cast-offs. Sensing my resentment, my mom sighed. “Your sister is sensitive, Chloe. She’s not tough like you are. When she’s upset, the whole house feels it. Just be understanding. If she’s happy, we’re all happy, right?” From then on, I became a human piggy bank. When Ethan needed money for a tutor, they smashed a piece of me. When Olivia needed money for new clothes, they took a piece of me. They did it without a second thought, and my parents saw it as the natural order of things. 4 The more they took, the harder I studied. If they wouldn’t give me resources, I’d steal them. I used the lunch money I saved to buy used textbooks and AP prep books from the second-hand store. At night, when everyone was asleep, I’d read under my covers, the weak glow of my cheap smartphone illuminating the pages. My world shrank to the small space under my blanket, that single beam of light, and the formulas and vocabulary words that were my ticket out. I craved escape like a dying man in the desert craves water. College was the only lifeboat I could see. My grades quietly skyrocketed. I went from the middle of the pack to the top ten in my class. I hid every report card under a loose floorboard in my closet. They were my secret weapons. I thought I could make it, just quietly survive until graduation, then disappear and cut this toxic family out of my life for good. But a month before finals, my dad lost a major account at work and came home completely drunk. He stumbled into my room in the middle of the night, probably looking for someone to yell at, and kicked over the cardboard box by my bed. With a soft rustle, hundreds of pages of notes, practice tests, and my treasured honor roll certificates spilled across the floor like a flock of startled birds. The air froze. The shock seemed to sober my dad up. He stared at the “Rank: 3” on my latest report card, then looked up at me. There was no pride in his eyes, no joy. Only a cold, stunned fury, as if he’d just discovered a spy in his own home. He looked at me like I was the enemy. “You…” he slurred, pointing a trembling finger at my work, as if it were criminal evidence. “You’ve been lying to us this whole time?” There was no lie. They just never cared enough to ask. But I didn’t answer. I just knelt, trying to gather up the pieces of my shattered hope. My mom, drawn by the noise, rushed in. She got to the papers before I did, snatching a handful of them. Her eyes were red with rage. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieked at me. “Trying to fly away from us? I won’t let you!” “Your brother is the one who’s supposed to go out and make a name for himself,” my dad added, his voice low and menacing. “He’s the Miller heir. You’re supposed to stay here and take care of us.” My mom nodded in furious agreement. “Yes! We’ve invested so much in Olivia, she deserves to have the best opportunities. How dare you think you can just leapfrog over them and leave?” My dad even raised his hand, ready to strike down my only chance of escape. I stared at him. For the first time, my eyes weren’t filled with tears, but with ice. The hand never fell. Not out of love, but because of the look in my eyes. It wasn’t pleading or fear. It was the dead, hollow look of someone who had burned through every last ounce of hope. He was shaken by it, frozen in place. The papers fluttered from his hand, a silent funeral for the last shred of my delusion that he was my father. I spoke, my voice barely a whisper. “If you don’t let me study, I’ll go to the school counselor. I’ll tell them everything about the neglect, the emotional abuse.” I looked from his face to my mom’s. “You both have respectable jobs in the community. You wouldn’t want people to know what you’re really like, would you? Without your incomes, how would your precious heirs maintain their lifestyles?” They stared at me, stunned into silence by my audacity. My dad took a step back, pointing at me, his finger trembling. “Fine,” he finally choked out. “Just fine. You think you’re so tough, Chloe. You think you can fly. Let’s see how far you get without this family.” 5 After that night, a strange, tense silence fell over the house. They stopped yelling at me, but they watched me like a prisoner planning a jailbreak. I became a ghost in my own home, a silent, breathing shadow. I got what I wanted. I finished my exams, filled out my applications, and waited. The acceptance letter from a state university all the way across the country was the key that unlocked my cage. The day I left, nobody saw me off. I dragged a single, beaten-up suitcase to the bus station by myself. Inside were a few old clothes and my life savings—three thousand dollars I’d scraped together from part-time jobs and skipping lunches for years. When the bus pulled away from the curb, I didn’t look back. The town, the house, and the people inside it blurred into an insignificant smudge on the dirty window, a bad memory I was finally leaving behind. College was the first time in my life I could breathe. I took out student loans and earned every scholarship I could get my hands on. I worked constantly: tutoring, waiting tables, delivering pizzas. I was exhausted, but I was free. I never called home, and I never asked for a dime. When they called, it was a perfunctory check-in, with the sound of the TV or Ethan yelling at a video game always buzzing in the background. After graduation, I stayed in that city. I got a good job, an apartment of my own, and a loving boyfriend, Jake. My life was finally on track. But the family was like an invisible cord, always trying to pull me back just when I thought I was free. I’d go back for major holidays, a joyless obligation. The dinner table conversation was always about Ethan and Olivia. I’d just listen, my heart a placid lake. My dad would boast about Ethan’s “potential,” dropping names of his “connections” who could get him a job. Ethan would be glued to his phone, grunting in response. My sister, Olivia, would be taking selfies with her new Louis Vuitton bag. “Mom, doesn’t this bag just complete my outfit?” she’d ask, pouting for the camera. “All my friends are, like, so jealous.” “It’s perfect, sweetie. You look beautiful in anything,” my mom would coo, beaming with pride. The four of them existed in their own perfect bubble. The father invested in the son’s future, the mother in the daughter’s vanity. The children soaked it all up. I sat in the corner, a spectator at a bizarre play called “Family.” Finally, there was a lull, and the spotlight swung to me. “So, Chloe, how’s the job? You off probation yet?” my dad asked, as if just remembering I existed. “I am,” I said. “Good, good.” He nodded, and that was it. Duty done. 6 Then, Olivia, finished with her photoshoot, suddenly clapped her hands. “Oh my god, I almost forgot! Your birthdays are next month!” She looked at my parents, her smile wide. “They’re only a few days apart, we should celebrate together. What do you guys want for gifts?” My parents waved their hands dismissively. “Oh, it’s the thought that counts. You don’t need to get us anything.” But their eyes shone with expectation. Ethan finally looked up from his phone, suddenly animated. “I already know what I’m getting Dad. The new iPhone Pro Max. He deserves the best.” Not to be outdone, Olivia added, “And I’m getting Mom that super-expensive La Mer skincare set. To keep her looking young and beautiful!” My parents swelled with pride. Then, all at once, their gazes shifted to me. It was an unspoken demand. Olivia nudged me with her elbow. “Chloe? What are you getting them? It’s their first birthday since you got your ‘real job.’ You’ve gotta do something good.” Four pairs of eyes, all locked on me. It felt like a tribunal. My answer would determine if I even deserved a seat at this table. I put down my fork, wiped my mouth with a napkin, and met their stares. “I can’t afford anything.” It was the truth. My salary, after rent and bills, left very little. I was trying to save, to build a future that was actually my own. The air didn’t just freeze; it shattered. “What did you just say?” my dad roared, slamming his hand on the table. The dishes jumped. “You have a job and you have the nerve to say you have no money for your parents’ birthday?” My mom’s eyes instantly welled up with tears of profound disappointment. “Chloe, how could you be so heartless? It’s not about the money, it’s the gesture! How can you be so cold?” Ethan scoffed, tossing his phone down. “Classic. Total freeloader. We pay to put her through college and this is the thanks we get. Ungrateful.” Olivia was the most vicious. She pointed a finger at me, her voice sharp. “I always knew you were selfish, Chloe! You only care about yourself! Mom and Dad raised you, and you can’t even spare a few bucks for a gift? Where does all your money go? You’re pathetic!” It was the same script I’d heard my whole life. But this time, I didn’t stay silent. I didn’t try to defend myself. I just let them finish, let them hurl every insult they could think of. Then, very calmly, I pointed to the Apple Watch on Ethan’s wrist. “How much was that watch, Ethan?” I asked. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise. He blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, like, a thousand bucks. Why?” My finger then moved to the designer bag sitting on the chair next to Olivia. “And your bag, Liv?” She looked confused, but her instinct to show off was stronger. “It’s Gucci. It was five thousand. It’s a classic.” They still didn’t get it. They looked proud, even. Then my hand dropped, and I gestured to my own simple, unbranded t-shirt and jeans. “This whole outfit,” I said, looking at each of them in turn, watching their expressions shift from confusion to dawning, horrified realization. “Forty bucks. From the Target clearance rack.” I let the silence hang for a moment. “So, if you want to call me ungrateful, go ahead.” My eyes moved from my dad to my mom, to my brother and sister, landing on each of them like a physical blow. “But you two spent thousands of Mom and Dad’s money on yourselves, and now you’re planning to use more of their money to buy them gifts and perform this little show of ‘gratitude’.” I leaned forward slightly. “The difference is, I didn’t.” “Every single cent I have,” I said, my voice soft but clear as a bell, “I earned it myself.” That statement was a slap in the face to every single person at that table. The meal, needless to say, was over. I stood up and grabbed my purse. “I’m finished. Enjoy the rest of your dinner.” No one said a word. I walked out of the restaurant and didn’t look back. The bright lights of the parking lot felt cleansing. The heavy door swinging shut behind me felt like it was sealing off a tomb. I never went back to that house again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385406”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the third year of my hopeless crush on Julian Hayes, he got “truth” in a game of Truth or Dare. Someone asked him his type. “Smart,” he said. My grades were good, so naturally, my name came up. He tightened his grip on his red Solo cup and scoffed. “I’d have to be certifiably insane to like her.” I froze in the doorway, then quietly turned around. I walked home in the pouring rain and spiked a high fever. When I woke up, I was in a place I didn’t recognize. Standing by the bed were two adorable twin boys, their eyes wide and blinking as they stared at me nervously. I sat up, wary. “Who… who are you?” “That’s enough!” A familiar figure strode in from the hallway. “You can pull this crap with me, but now you’re going to pretend you don’t know your own sons?” I stared at Julian Hayes, dressed in a sharp business suit, my mind a complete blank. 1 I just graduated high school. How could I possibly have sons? “A nightmare. This has to be a nightmare,” I muttered. Under the baffled gazes of one adult and two small children, I lay back down and tried to will myself back to my own reality. “Clara, what’s the game now?” Julian’s voice was tight with anger as he hauled me out of bed. I rubbed my wrist where his grip had been too tight. “This jerk,” I mumbled to myself. “Bad enough he’s got a mean streak, but he’s not even a gentleman in my dreams.” The pain felt surprisingly real, though. This didn’t feel like a dream. After a moment of hesitation, I reached out a trembling hand and poked Julian’s stoic face. It was warm. The texture of his skin felt real. My eyes darted around the room again, finally landing on a large, framed wedding photo on the wall. It was him and me. My heart hammering, I fumbled for the phone on the nightstand and checked the date. My brain short-circuited. Overnight, I had somehow jumped eight years into the future. And I was married to Julian Hayes. “What are you doing with the suitcases? Running away again?” The man’s cold voice pulled me back to the present. I followed his gaze. Two large suitcases were packed and standing neatly by the door. This wasn’t just running away; this looked like moving out. My eyes met his, and the sheer pressure in his stare made me flinch. “Why are you looking at me? I didn’t do this,” I said in a small voice. “I…” “Can you just stop for one second?” he cut me off, but his tone had softened, laced with a deep exhaustion. After a few seconds of silence, I tugged on his sleeve. “If I told you I’m from eight years in the past,” I asked tentatively, “would you believe me?” “Clara, that’s enough,” Julian growled. His eyes were burning with anger, a vein throbbing at his temple. I let go of his sleeve and pouted. “Fine, don’t believe me. You don’t have to yell.” The standoff was broken by his phone ringing. He shot me one last glare before stepping into the hall to take the call. When he came back, he grabbed a set of car keys from the dresser. “Something came up at the office. I have to go.” He walked to the door, then paused and looked back, his expression complicated. “Pretend you have amnesia, hate me, do whatever you want. But the boys are innocent. It’ll crush them if you won’t even acknowledge them.” 2 I didn’t know if his sons would be crushed, but I knew I would be if I couldn’t get back. I tried everything I could think of. Nothing worked. Frustrated, I heard a rustling sound from under the dining table. I looked over and caught a glimpse of two chubby little cheeks. Sensing my gaze, they turned. Two pairs of big, grape-like eyes lit up as they looked at me, full of shyness. I forced a weak smile. “Playing hide-and-seek?” I asked. “Don’t mind me, you guys carry on.” I had just turned to leave when one of the little guys scrambled out from under the table and blocked my path. He twisted his little hands together and looked at the floor. “Is Mommy going to leave us again?” he whispered. The word “Mommy” hit me like a ton of bricks. I quickly knelt and covered his mouth. “You can’t call me that, sweetie. Call me… Clara.” A child’s emotions are impossible to hide. He blinked, confused for a second, then his little mouth crumpled, and he burst into tears. “But you *are* Mommy!” he wailed, trying to bury his face in my shirt. No amount of shushing could calm him down. As his cries grew louder, I started patting his back gently. “Okay, okay, fine. You can call me whatever you want.” The crying stopped instantly. His little shoulders hitched as he sniffled, his eyes as red as a rabbit’s. “And Mommy can’t leave,” he mumbled. I figured I’d humor him for now. “Okay,” I agreed. But that wasn’t enough. He pointed to his cheek, his head still bowed. “And… a kiss,” he whispered. He looked so much like a miniature Julian. I wanted to say no, but he started whimpering again. For the sake of peace and quiet, I closed my eyes and quickly pecked his cheek. He touched his face, and his stormy expression immediately cleared. “Mommy’s not leaving!” he cheered. “Mommy kissed me!” As I stood up, I felt a tug on my shirt. “Hmph!” Oh, right. There was another one. I looked down and gently stroked his puffed-out cheek. “Hm? What’s wrong?” His little face was a mask of stoicism. He pointed at his twin, who was now happily running in circles. Then he hooked one of my fingers with his own and gave it a tiny shake. He tilted his head back. “…Kiss!” This one seemed more serious, probably harder to please. I knelt again and gave him a quick kiss too. “Is that better?” He stared at me blankly for a second, then a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, and he nodded. He wrapped his arms around my neck and whispered in my ear, “Love… Mommy.” Then he turned bright red and ran off. Honestly, these two little guys were way more likable than their father. I kind of wanted to take them with me and let Julian die alone. 3 After a busy afternoon of trying and failing to get back to my own time, I decided to go outside and see if I could find any clues. I changed my clothes and came out of the bedroom, only to stop short. The two little boys were dressed in pajamas, sitting side-by-side on the sofa, each holding a storybook, looking like they were waiting for something. I wanted to ask, but I realized I didn’t know their names. “The one on the left is Caleb, and on the right is Cody,” the nanny whispered to me as she passed by. “Caleb has autism, and Cody… well, he’s not as carefree as other kids his age.” “Daddy always comes home to read us a story, no matter how busy he is,” Cody explained, carefully placing his book in my hands. “Mr. Hayes has it tough,” the nanny started to say. “After putting the boys to bed, he still has to…” She caught my eye and trailed off. I glanced back at the sofa. Their little heads were drooping with disappointment. Clearly, Julian was late today. I clenched my fists and forced myself to walk to the door. I paused. Took a deep breath. And walked back. I knelt and stroked their faces. “How about I read to you guys tonight?” 4 Two drooping heads shot up, their round eyes shining like stars. They nodded excitedly. They scrambled into bed, pulled the covers up themselves, and obediently closed their eyes. They begged me to read story after story. I was getting sleepy, but they seemed to be getting more and more awake. My eyelids started to feel heavy. The words on the page blurred. My brain started to malfunction. After nonsensically narrating how “the Big Bad Wolf and the three little pigs all went to college together,” I couldn’t fight it anymore and passed out. … In a groggy haze, I felt myself being lifted. Thinking it was just a sleep twitch, I subconsciously rolled over, burying my face into something warm and comfortable. Then I smelled a familiar, clean scent. My mind went blank for a second, then snapped into focus. I opened my eyes and found myself looking up into a pair of dark, smiling ones. Julian. The heat from his hand was seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt, right at the small of my back. I yelped as if electrocuted and scrambled out of his arms. “Who said you could hold me?” I demanded. His suit jacket was gone, leaving him in just a dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of his collarbone. He looked tired, but his features were sharper, more mature than the boy I remembered from eight years ago. “Then who should?” Julian’s smile vanished. He shoved his hands in his pockets and sneered. “Leo?” That night at the party, after Julian had so cruelly dismissed the idea of liking me, I had run into Leo, our class president, as I was leaving. He’d confessed his feelings for me, his face beet red. Just then, some other friends came out, overheard, and dragged us back inside, teasingly demanding he say it again for everyone. So he wouldn’t be embarrassed, I’d tentatively agreed to go on a date with him. … My failure to deny it back then was, in Julian’s eyes, a confirmation. He grabbed my chin, his gaze dark, his voice turning colder. “You’d better not forget who you are.” I slapped his hand away and laughed coldly. “Who I am? Do I have an identity here? Did I ever have a choice?” I shot back. “Julian, I never did anything to you. If you hate me so much, why did you marry me?” 5 The air went still. Julian frowned. “What are you even talking about? Who said I hate you? I…” “Daddy~” Cody emerged from the bedroom, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He glanced nervously at me, then at Julian. “Are you and Mommy fighting?” Our eyes met. In a flash, Julian’s arm snaked around my waist, pulling me against him. He instantly switched into doting-husband-and-father mode. “Of course not,” he said smoothly. “Mommy and Daddy always get along. Your mom has a big debate at work tomorrow, and we were just practicing.” Cody tilted his head, thinking. Then he shook it. “Liar. If you got along, why does Mommy always try to run away?” “That’s nonsense. She’s not running away.” Julian shot me a wounded look. “Your mommy just likes playing hide-and-seek, just like you guys.” His hand on my waist tightened. “Right, honey?” I looked away, refusing to answer. But my eyes accidentally met Caleb’s. He was staring at us, his brow furrowed, picking at his fingers so hard they were turning red. He was on the verge of an episode. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. “That’s right. Your dad is right.” I watched as Caleb stopped picking at his hands, his brow slowly smoothing out. I let out a sigh of relief. “I don’t believe you,” Cody said, looking up at us skeptically. “Michael’s parents are always kissing. You guys never do. Unless… unless Mommy kisses Daddy. Then I’ll believe you.” I was completely cornered. Kids these days were too smart. There was no way I could fulfill that request. After a long, awkward silence, I elbowed the man beside me who was pretending to be a statue. “Well? Say something helpful.” Julian glanced at me, then grunted reluctantly. To my complete shock, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. He straightened up and looked at his son matter-of-factly. “There. Now get back to bed. Don’t bother your mom, she’s shy.” 6 I was still in a daze long after the boys had gone back to their room. “I helped,” Julian stated calmly. I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. “I said, ‘Say something helpful,’ not ‘do something helpful’.” He just shrugged. “What’s the difference? Same result.” Furious, I slapped him across the face. “You took advantage of the situation! You’re shameless!” Before the words were even out, he grabbed my hand, his grip like steel. I struggled, but couldn’t break free. “What?” I said, trying to sound brave. “Am I wrong? Let go of me.” Our eyes locked. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Can you… say more?” he asked, his voice strangely quiet. “Yell at me. Hit me again. Anything.” I just blinked at him. “Are you sick?” Catching him off guard, I yanked my hand free and fled back to my room. 7 The next morning at the breakfast table, Julian was sporting dark circles under his eyes and kept glancing at me. As soon as the boys went to get their backpacks, he spoke, his voice full of complaint. “You have to let me back in the bedroom tonight. I can’t sleep well in the guest room.” I nodded. “Okay. Then I’ll move to the guest room.” His face fell. “Clara, what is that supposed to mean? Are you just taking advantage of the fact that I let you get away with everything?” I met his gaze. “If that’s what you want to call it, I can’t stop you.” His face was thunderous. He didn’t even finish his breakfast before storming out of the dining room. He met the boys coming out of their room and took their hands. He shot me one last cold look. “Come on. Dad’s taking you to school.” Caleb and Cody didn’t move. They both looked at me. “We want Mommy to take us,” Cody said in a small voice. “Mommy… take us,” Caleb echoed. Julian looked like he’d been hit by a truck for the second time that morning. His glare in my direction was even more resentful than before.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385405”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Julian’s jaw twitched. Even the perfectly styled strands of his dark hair seemed to stand on end. He was speechless. “Fine,” he finally ground out. “…In installments.” He pushed the divorce papers towards me. “Can you sign now?” I stretched languidly, not even glancing at the papers, and stood up to walk towards the bedroom. “Blood first, then signature.” [Tonight’s a major plot point! The main couple clears up their misunderstanding, and the female lead is flying back to the States!] [Hah, let’s see how long this bitch can stay smug! Her death clock starts ticking the second the female lead lands!] I paused at the door. Without turning back, I said, “My new Agent Provocateur set arrived. Wanna see?” “Yes—” Julian started automatically, then caught himself. “Not interested.” From the sound of it, he was grinding his teeth down to the roots. As I reached the bedroom door, I glanced back at him one last time before closing it. “I got a collar and a whip, too.” The door clicked shut. It immediately flew back open. Julian ran a hand through his hair, trying to mask the awkward flush on his face. His hands, hanging at his sides, were clenched tightly around the fabric of his trousers. Even in the dim light, I could see the tips of his ears were bright red. “Fine, I’ll take a look…” I smiled. Wrapping him around my finger was just too easy. 2 “No phone tonight. No contacting anyone,” I ordered, staring into his deep, turbulent eyes. My hands weren’t idle; I tightened the rope. “You belong to me.” The distance between us was just enough for him to enter, but not enough for him to take control. Julian was forced to tilt his head back, a choked, muffled sound escaping his throat. “Understand?” He nodded. [What is this, dog training? LMAO] [Come on, Male Lead, have some dignity! Your marriage was just a business arrangement! The female lead is your true love!] [Whatever, I’m here for the spice. Go on, Chloe, give the people what they want.] Only then did I loosen my grip. Like a beast that had tasted blood, Julian immediately flipped me over, pinning my arms. Our sex life had always been… explosive. If there was one thing I was satisfied with over the years, it was his inexhaustible stamina in bed. A real shame. Where else would I find someone so perfectly in sync with me? I pulled the silk sheets over myself, covering the view. The live chat in my vision exploded. [I paid for the premium subscription! Let me see!] [Chloe, I’m begging you, I’ll be your dog! Woof woof woof!] [Get in line, pal! Woof! I was here first!] You guys called me a bitch. You get nothing. After he was satisfied, Julian fell into a deep sleep. I reached for his phone, tentatively typing in the passcode—my birthday. It unlocked. “Dumb mutt,” I whispered, lightly slapping his cheek. Forgetting a detail like this? If his precious “one that got away” ever found out, it would be another week of drama. I did him a favor and changed the passcode to her birthday before opening his messages. Sera: Julian, I’m divorced. Do you still love me? I glanced at the sleeping Julian. One of his hands was tangled in the strap of my lingerie, the other resting on his slapped cheek as he mumbled something about a nice scent. “Do you still love her?” I asked the empty room. “You must. Desperately.” “Willing to agree to my ridiculous demand just to divorce me and run back to her.” I casually blocked and deleted Sera’s contact. Sorry, Sera. It’s nothing personal. I’m not trying to stand in the way of true love, but my life is just a little more important. 3 When I woke up, Julian was lying next to me, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, fiddling with his phone. His brow was deeply furrowed. He must have seen the blocked contact. “Something’s wrong,” he said, his tone grave. “I think we had a break-in.” I shot out of bed. The safe? Secure. My jewelry? Secure. My collection of limited-edition Birkins? All there. What would a thief take, a pair of Julian’s worn-out boxers? “What did they steal?” I asked, returning to the bedside. Julian had lit the cigarette now. He took a long drag, his expression complicated through the haze of smoke. “They didn’t steal anything.” “They changed my phone’s passcode.” I froze for a second. The chat went blank, too. Julian tossed the phone aside. The screen lit up: iPhone is disabled. Try again in one year. “I tried every passcode I could think of. Nothing works,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “It must be someone from Vanguard Corp. Trying to cut me off from my clients to steal the Sterling account. They won’t get away with this.” He was brilliant, sure, but his one-track mind made him an idiot. “Just get a new phone,” I said calmly. “And a new number. The old one has bad juju.” Julian was used to listening to me. He nodded, grabbed his car keys, and bolted out the door. [That vicious woman! I can’t believe she’d stoop so low!] [I kinda… ship it? Don’t @ me.] When he got home that evening, he was sitting on the couch, looking troubled again. I sat down next to him with a blood-drawing kit, pulling a slip of paper from my pocket and waving it. It was Sera’s new contact info. “Looking for this?” I cooed. “Give me some blood, and it’s yours.” [Useless Male Lead can’t even remember his true love’s number!] [Yeah, can’t remember her number, but he remembered every one of her sensitive spots last night, huh?] I put the full blood bag away and casually tossed the note at his feet. Julian snatched it up and immediately dialed. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is…” [The female lead is already on a plane! She’s coming back to crush the competition!] [Tomorrow, he’s going to pick her up from the airport, they’ll clear the air, I can’t wait!] [And she’s gonna stay at his place, which is when the bitchy wife storms out and gets herself kidnapped! Yes!] 4 It was the dead of winter, frost feathering the windowpanes. I deliberately left the window open, letting the frigid New York air pour in, then cranked up the AC, aimed it right at Julian, and stole the only duvet on the bed. “C-cold…” he shivered. I lifted his pajama top, exposing his eight-pack to the cold. “I asked the doctor. You need to stay cold for your blood to replenish faster. Don’t you dare pull your shirt down.” Julian just nodded. The next day, he had a raging fever and could barely stand. The pile of used tissues next to him was mountainous. “I… I have to go get Sera…” I snatched his car keys. “I’ll drive you.” JFK was a swirling mass of people. Sera stood by the curb in a stylish cape, her eyes red and swollen. The moment she saw Julian, she threw herself at him. “How could you do this to me!” she cried, pounding on his chest. “Julian, if you don’t love me, just say it! Why block me? Why change your number? Were you planning on never speaking to me again?!” Her tears flowed freely. It was a heart-wrenching sight. Julian, delirious with fever, just blinked. He didn’t seem to process a single word. Instead, he pushed Sera away and stumbled into my arms. “Honey, I feel sick… I wanna go home…” I nodded at Sera, gesturing for her to open the car door. Sera was trembling with rage, her eyes shooting daggers that could kill. I sighed. “Miss Sera, you don’t want to stand out here in the cold, do you?” She shot me one last venomous glare before yanking the driver’s side door open. I helped Julian into the back seat. Shut the door. After a moment, I rolled down the window. “He won’t let go of me. Guess you’ll have to drive.” [There she goes, provoking the female lead again. Enjoy it while it lasts, your days are numbered.] [Yup, the moment she’s alone, it’s curtains for her!] I instantly caught the key word. Alone. Fine. From now on, I was sticking to Julian like superglue. “Thanks for the ride home,” I said, pressing a few hundred-dollar bills into Sera’s hand. “This should cover your Uber. Keep the change.” I hauled the semi-conscious Julian out of the car. A six-foot-three tower of muscle, and he felt as heavy as a sack of bricks. Getting him into bed was an ordeal. “No… don’t…” Julian mumbled in his sleep, looking terrified. Tears welled in his eyes as his hands grasped at the air. “I’ll complete the mission… System, please… don’t hurt her…” I had no idea what he was talking about. I gently took his hand. “No one is going to hurt Sera.” Thinking about my own impending doom, I couldn’t help but sigh. “Julian, if I died… what would you do? Would you be scared? Would you miss me? Or would you just forget me?” He squeezed my hand back, still muttering nonsense. But the last thing he said, I heard with perfect clarity. “I love her. So, so much. If the ending is bad, please… take my life in exchange for her safety and health.” A bitter pang went through my chest. So that’s how much he loved Sera. Lost in thought, a tear escaped my eye and landed on his face, trickling into the corner of his eye as if it were his own. “Sorry,” I whispered, and quickly left the room. 5 I became Julian’s shadow. I went with him to work, on business trips, hell, I even held his hand when he went to the restroom. I was terrified that a single moment apart would be my last. Soon, the gossip columns in New York were buzzing. Julian Vance and his wife were inseparable, attached at the hip. [That’s a savage move. Our poor female lead is probably crying her eyes out at home.] [Tonight, she’s gonna go get wasted. He’ll drive to find her, and on the way back, they’ll run over his wife who has conveniently run away from home. Finally, her exit!] A chill went down my spine. I looked at Julian, who was currently inhaling a steak, and an inexplicable rage boiled up inside me. I shoved his face straight into his plate. “Eat, eat, eat! Is that all you know how to do?!” You’re about to kill your wife, you idiot! Julian was stunned. He shakily picked a piece of arugula off his nose, looked at the messy plate, then at my thunderous expression. “I was hungry…” he mumbled. I snatched his phone, unlocked it, and went to his messages. Just as I thought. Sera: I don’t believe you have no feelings for me, Julian. I’m giving you one last chance. Sera: I’ll be at Midnight tonight. If you don’t show up, we’re over for good. Julian: I’ll be there. “You’re not going,” I said, my voice flat. For the first time, Julian’s expression turned serious. He took the phone back. “I have to.” He pressed his lips into a thin line, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table. A profound, unshakable sadness filled his eyes. “Someone will die if I don’t.” Thinking of his sleep-talking that night, my anger mixed with a sense of hurt. How could I tell him? If you go tonight, I’m the one who dies. But the only person he cared about was Sera. Julian turned his face to the window, his eyes getting a little red. “Wow, this steak sauce is really spicy…” I ignored him. After a long silence, I clutched my stomach and collapsed onto the floor, pinching my thigh hard to make the pain look real. “Julian… my stomach… it hurts so much…” He swept me into his arms and sprinted out of the restaurant. He floored it, running who knows how many red lights. In the passenger seat, I was secretly calculating. Once we were far enough away, I’d sit up and tell him the pain was gone. “I have a couple of things to take care of, you can head home first.” I turned around and got into a police car. Once at the station, I went straight to the officer in charge. “I’d like to report a reckless driver.” The NYPD worked fast. He ran the lights at noon; his license was suspended by the afternoon. If Julian was supposed to hit me with a car, I’d make sure he couldn’t drive one. [Damn, that’s cold-blooded.] [Hah, he’ll just take a taxi. And she’ll still end up getting stabbed by a burglar at home. The end is near!] [The System makes its appearance tonight! The puppet master of the whole story! Kinda excited to see it in human form.] The System again. What the hell was it? If it controlled destiny, maybe it could change my fate. I pulled my hat down low and slipped into the club, Midnight.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385404”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Julian Wilson was unlike any other titan in New York. When the paparazzi caught him in a fender-bender with his latest lover in the passenger seat, he didn’t get angry. Instead, he flashed a grin and gave the photographers a friendly tip. “Remember, for stuff like this, you call my wife. She handles the checks.” The tabloid reporters would share a knowing smile. “Mrs. Wilson has the patience of a saint. A hundred of them, and she doesn’t bat an eye.” But they also remembered the day Julian Wilson married me in a wedding that was the talk of the decade. They remembered how he’d spoken to them in a low, almost hushed tone, shielding me from the flashbulbs. “My wife… she’s a little shy. Please don’t frighten her.” That was only seven years ago. In that time, the shy Mrs. Wilson had learned to claw and fight with his mistresses, to sign one check after another. Scandal containment: a million. A discarded lover: five million. A life-ending secret, an abortion: ten million. And so, as the world held its breath, waiting for the check that would accompany mistress number one hundred, I pushed open the heavy oak door to the Wilson matriarch’s private study. “We had a deal,” I said. “When he reached number one hundred, I would walk.” 1 When the reporter slid the glossy photo of Julian kissing another woman across the table, I didn’t even flinch. I simply stood, went upstairs, and opened the door. Matilda Wilson turned in her chair as if she’d been expecting me. She watched me with the calm, assessing gaze of a woman who had won this war a generation ago. My feelings for her were… complicated. “Have you made up your mind?” she asked. “Yes.” I pushed the signed separation agreement across her desk, my eyes lowered. “Thank you, Mother, for taking care of me all these years.” She let out a long sigh and shook her head. “Leave whenever you’re ready.” I can still hear her words from seven years ago, the day I first stepped into the Wilson mansion as its new mistress. She had looked at me with an expression that was half-pity, half-knowing. “Loving him is easy, Vivian. Keeping him is the hard part.” I was too young, too in love to understand then. It was only after Julian’s scandals began piling up at my door, one after another, that I finally understood her warning. It wasn’t a prophecy; it was a history lesson. Leaving her study, I took a deep breath. The butler was directing staff to bring in a new delivery of gift boxes. The latest Parisian couture, the ‘Heart of Eternity’ diamond from a Christie’s auction, and a pair of crystal slippers Julian had spent six months commissioning for me. On the sole, etched in his own handwriting, were the words: J, for my only love, V. My only love? What a bitter joke. Every woman in Manhattan envied me the penthouse apartment I used just to store these tokens of his affection. To me, they were nothing but trophies of his infidelity. Each gift marked another betrayal. In the beginning, I believed him every time he apologized. I believed he would change, that he hadn’t inherited his father’s insatiable appetite for women. But the gifts kept coming, and I felt myself withering, petal by petal, until I was nothing but rot pressed into the mud. “Do you like them?” Julian’s arms wrapped around me from behind. I smelled an unfamiliar scent of orchid on his collar. It was the signature fragrance of mistress number one hundred, Isabella Rossi. She fancied herself a rare flower, a stark contrast to me, who, in her words, reeked of the vulgar smell of money and checks. I shifted away from his touch. He stumbled slightly, the smile on his face faltering for a second before he caught my hands, his fingers lacing through mine. “Still not used to it after all this time?” he murmured. “Alright, let me change. We’ll have dinner together.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek, completely missing the small object I held clenched in my palm. I was about to say something. But he had already turned. His polished leather shoe came down, stepping directly on the plastic pregnancy test I’d dropped. The two faint lines on its screen were a secret he would never know. He kicked it aside like a piece of trash. His brow furrowed in disgust. “What is this filth doing in the house? Someone, get in here!” In that moment, I couldn’t tell if he was talking about the test, or about me and the child in my womb. A heavy, crushing pain settled in my chest. I couldn’t even make a fist. Julian noticed nothing. When he sat down again, he brought up an old topic. “Let’s put Isabella on your team. If you’re managing her, I won’t have to worry.” Isabella was the daughter of one of their maids. He’d personally mentored her, brought her into the company, and had been pushing for weeks to place her on my project team. I’d refused every time, not wanting a daily reminder of his affair. But this time, I simply smiled. “Alright.” 2 He looked surprised, but his surprise was quickly replaced by delight. He lifted my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. “Darling, I knew you’d be understanding.” The happy curve of his lips should have been familiar, but it felt like I was looking at a stranger. During my four years at Columbia, whenever people whispered that I was the bastard daughter of a showgirl, that I was dirty and cheap, he had always been the one to stand in front of me. He was the one who took me to see the stars from a Brooklyn rooftop, the one who carried me through the streets in the dead of night when my appendix burst, his shirt soaked with sweat and his feet bleeding by the time we reached the hospital. As I lay in the hospital bed, I had asked him, my eyes red, “How can I ever repay you?” He just smiled. “I don’t want repayment. Just be my partner. Just be understanding.” Later, when I was held up at knifepoint during a shopping trip, he’d talked the mugger into taking him as a hostage instead of me. I was unharmed. He took three stab wounds to the arm and chest, yet he was the one wiping away my tears. “Don’t cry. I don’t want your tears. Just marry me. Just be my understanding wife.” I never could have imagined what “understanding” truly meant to him. It wasn’t about being a good partner in business or a supportive wife at home. It was about accepting and cleaning up the endless messes from his affairs. Julian’s initial joy was followed by a flicker of suspicion. “You’ve always said no before. Why the sudden change of heart?” My gaze drifted to the corner where the broken pregnancy test lay in the dust. I gave a faint, empty laugh. “I’m tired,” I said. “I don’t want to fight anymore.” Not for him, not for this family. Whoever wanted the title of Mrs. Wilson could have it. “If only you’d realized that sooner! Which of my friends doesn’t have a girl in every borough? Your own father played the field back in the day, didn’t he? And your mother never said a word!” It was true. My mother never said a word. She and my father met on the mainland. After I was born, he came to New York to make his fortune. When he had enough, he brought us over. For a while, he was the perfect husband, the perfect father. Until my fifteenth birthday. That was the day my mother discovered his other family, his other son who was exactly my age. She had screamed, a raw, hysterical sound, and grabbed my father by his collar. “Why? How could you do this to us?” He shoved her away and pointed a finger in her face. “A cheap showgirl has no right to question me! If you hadn’t given me a useless girl, do you think I would have needed to find other women?” He turned and kicked me hard, spitting in my face. “Useless. What a waste of space.” Later that night, my mother stabbed my father twenty-three times. Then, she killed herself. She died at my feet. The blood was still warm. It has been my nightmare ever since. There was a time when Julian would have threatened to kill anyone who even dared to bring it up. Now, he could toss my trauma out like a casual joke to shut me up. I wondered how many times he’d shared this story with his lovers, with his friends, all of them laughing at my expense. Seeing the look on my face, he finally had the decency to back down, offering a weak apology. “Sorry. My mistake. Slipped out.” The pain came in waves, so intense it made me tremble. I said nothing. I didn’t even look at him. Just as he started to move toward me, his phone rang. He picked it up and walked out of the room. I heard him murmur the word “baby” with a tenderness that used to be reserved only for me. I once thought it was my special name. I later learned he called every one of them “baby.” The sound of their flirting, muffled through the wall, was like a thousand tiny needles in my ears. I remembered my first year at Wilson Industries. I couldn’t make sense of the financial reports. He’d pull me onto his lap and go through them with me, giving me a playful bite on the shoulder for every mistake I made. Back then, we were the golden couple of the New York elite. Then came the first mistress. I fought. I screamed. I threatened divorce. He would promise it would never happen again, but his nights were still filled with parties and other women. I cried until I was empty, and he would stand there, refusing to sign the papers, yelling, “My father was like this! My uncles are like this! Every man I know is like this! What did I do that’s so wrong?” I, a Columbia graduate, became a shrieking harpy, turning our home into a warzone. Finally, his mother summoned me to her study. “It’s useless,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “Infidelity is in the Wilson blood.” “But I will give you a choice. Wait until he’s had his one-hundredth affair. After that, whatever you decide to do, I will support you.” She thought I would become like her: numb, resigned, and eventually, accepting. But I became Mrs. Wilson because I loved Julian. I didn’t love Julian because I wanted to be Mrs. Wilson. Without love, I didn’t want the man. I should have been numb by now. But as my eyes fell on the two-meter-long portrait of me in my wedding dress hanging over our bed—a mosaic he’d spent three months piecing together, his eyes red with exhaustion—and I heard him on the phone, patiently coaching his new lover on how to handle tomorrow’s investors’ briefing, the absurdity of it all was overwhelming. I wiped a tear from my eye, pulled a suitcase from the closet, and began to pack. Julian walked back in, a smile on his face. The smile vanished. “Where are you going?” 3 “I was thinking of a trip. Europe, maybe.” He looked me over and nodded to himself. “Good idea. Let Isabella handle things here. You go and relax.” The next day, the annual investors’ briefing was packed. Every partner of Wilson Industries was there. Isabella, dressed in a sharp power suit, commanded the stage, all traces of the timid girl who used to call me “ma’am” gone. Julian sat beside me, beaming with pride. Suddenly, the massive screen behind Isabella went black. A moment later, it flickered back to life, not with charts and figures, but with the unmistakable sounds of a couple in the throes of passion. An image appeared—Isabella, entangled in bed with a man. Although their faces were blurred, everyone in the room knew exactly who that man was. Isabella covered her face and ran from the stage, pushing through the stunned crowd to throw herself into Julian’s arms. She looked at me, her face streaked with tears. “Mrs. Wilson… Vivian… I know you’re angry, I know you look down on me, but how could you risk the Wilson legacy for your own petty jealousy?” With one sentence, she made me the villain. I looked directly at Julian. “Do you also believe I did this?” He didn’t answer me. He just held Isabella, murmuring words of comfort. After a long moment, he finally looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of disgust and disappointment. “So that’s why you agreed so easily yesterday! You had this planned all along!” he hissed. “You came from nothing, Vivian. How can you be so cruel to her? We’re all selling something in this world. What makes you so much better than her?” He let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Don’t you forget, I made one Vivian Thorne. I can just as easily make another Isabella Rossi!” The air was thick with whispers and mocking laughter. I thought after seven years, I was immune. I thought I had cried all my tears and felt all the pain there was to feel. But his words… they churned something toxic inside me. I opened my hand, wanting to show him I didn’t have the remote, that it wasn’t me. The moment my hand moved, Isabella shrieked and recoiled. “Vivian, no! Don’t hit me! I’m sorry! I’ll never see Julian again, I promise, just please don’t hit me!” Julian’s face darkened. He grabbed her arm and yanked up her sleeve. The crowd gasped. Isabella’s arm was a canvas of ugly bruises and what looked like whip marks. In an instant, Julian’s eyes went red. He pulled the trembling woman into a fierce embrace and barked an order at his bodyguards. “Make her kneel.” I struggled, screaming, “Julian, calm down! It wasn’t me!” He sneered. “I’ve been too calm. I’ve given you too much respect, and it’s turned you into a monster. Today, I’m going to teach you how to be a proper Wilson wife.” As he finished speaking, a bodyguard stepped forward with a riding crop. The whip cracked through the air. The people around us just watched, some of them even starting to count. “One… two… three…” My face and limbs were pinned to the floor. Blood, mixed with tiny flecks of skin, splattered in front of my eyes. The pain on my back was a fire, burning its way straight into my soul. The man who once rode a bicycle with me through Central Park at dawn, the man who once whispered “don’t be afraid” as he shielded me with his own body, the man who knelt outside the library at Columbia and swore he would love me for a lifetime… that man was finally, irrevocably shattered. Tears streamed down my face. When Julian saw my tears, he flinched as if he’d been burned and took a step back. “Mr. Wilson, that’s one hundred,” a guard said quietly. “Any more and you might kill her.” He waved a dismissive hand, his brow furrowed. “Enough! Get her to a hospital.” As they loaded me onto a stretcher, I saw Isabella, still nestled in Julian’s arms, flash me a triumphant smile.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385403”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel