My passions burn out in minutes. The only flame I tended for a decade was my love for the rogue, Ross Croft.
For him, I dyed my hair a respectable brown, had my tattoos lasered off, and learned to be the perfect good girl. Everyone, even his parents, assumed we were destined to be together.
Then, at his own birthday party, he proposed to another woman and told me to stop clinging to him.
In that instant, the good girl died. I kicked over the five-tier cake Iād made for him and gave him a lazy, chilling smile.
“Ross,” I said, my voice dripping with boredom. “Turns out, you’re nothing like him.”
“And since you’re not, I don’t want you anymore.”
Only then did they all understand. Ten years of devotion wasn’t a love story. It was a game of stand-ins.
And Ross? He simply broke.
1
I placed the last diamond chip into the frosting and let out a long breath. This was the birthday gift Iād been planning for Ross for months.
He hated sweets, so Iād spent weeks adjusting the sugar content in the batter until it was just to his liking. He collected supercars, so Iād flown to France six months ago to study under a master fondant artist. Iād practiced endlessly, my hands riddled with tiny cuts from the modeling tools, all to craft this one-of-a-kind cake in the shape of his favorite Ferrari.
My instructor, watching my obsessive dedication, had sighed with envy.
“Tu l’aimes beaucoup!” (You love him so much!)
Iād only smiled, not saying a word, and turned to look at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger in a prim, pink Chanel-style suit. Her long, dark hair was pin-straight, her eyes soft and slightly pink at the corners, like a startled rabbitās.
She looked sweet. Compliant. Easily broken.
I was satisfied. This was the version of me Ross liked.
No one could believe it. Audrey Hawthorne, the wild heiress who used to live in tattoo parlors and smoky clubs, had tamed herself for a man like Ross. Iād grown out my hair, scrubbed the ink from my skin, and willingly played the part of the devoted girlfriend.
Iād been playing it for ten years.
Even Rossās parents would marvel, “That Audreyā¦ her loyalty is truly something special.” Everyone was certain we would end up together. For a while, I think even Ross believed it.
ā¦
As I watched the staff carefully load the cake into the delivery van, a familiar restlessness clawed at my chest. I clenched my fists, forcing it down, and turned to the head caterer with a serene smile plastered on my face.
I, who had the attention span of a goldfish, had managed to love him for a decade.
I must, I thought, I must love him very, very much.
2
Ross’s party wasn’t until the evening, so I had time to go home and get ready. A text from him came through.
[Something came up at the office. See you at the party.]
I rubbed the textured pattern on my phone case and typed back a simple [Ok].
But for the past nine birthdays, no matter how busy he was, Ross had always come to get ready with me. Today was the first time heād ever bailed.
As my makeup artist was working, my phone buzzed. It was a picture from a friend. The setting looked like a parking garage. In the photo, Ross was leaning against a Ferrari, one hand in the pocket of his bespoke embroidered suit. He was a contradiction in tailored silkāall discipline and sin.
His head was slightly bowed, a look of indulgent fondness in his eyes as he spoke with a woman in a simple white dress. She was gazing up at him, her profile soft and unassuming.
I recognized her. His new assistant, Mia. She wasā¦ plain. Not a showstopper. But for some reason, Ross valued her immensely. I didn’t know when it started, but her name was constantly on his lips. He was even texting her during our anniversary dinner a few months back.
“Everything okay?” I had asked, feigning nonchalance.
Heād looked up, a flicker of panic in his eyes that vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Oh, just a work thing. It’s handled.”
He thought he’d hidden it so well, but he couldn’t hide the triumphant little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. I lost my appetite after that and made an excuse to leave early. He didnāt seem to notice my mood. In fact, he looked relieved.
“Miss Hawthorne,” the stylist said softly, seeing me staring into space. “It’s time for the dress.”
I blinked, coming back to the present. The dress laid out for me was a pale white, almost gothic gown with layers of lace. Proper. Demure.
I thought for a moment, then raised a hand and pointed to a different dress hanging in the cornerāa fiery red, low-cut mermaid gown, tailored to accentuate every curve.
“That one.”
The stylist froze.
I looked at the perfectly sweet, gentle face in the mirror and sneered.
“Change the makeup, too,” I said. “This faceā¦ it feels like a lie.”
3
When I arrived, the party was in full swing. Ross was the center of it all, holding court by the towering cake Iād made. When he saw me, a flash of stunned admiration crossed his face before he beckoned me over.
The crowd whistled and parted, creating a path for me. I walked slowly toward him, coming to a stop on one side of him while Mia stood on the other. Red and white. Fire and ice. It was quite a picture.
Someone laughed. “Look at Ross, flanked by beauties! Especially you, Audrey. You’re absolutely lethal tonight.”
I gave him a polite smile in return. My stylist had given me bombshell waves and a bold, red lipāa look I hadn’t worn in ten years. Their surprise was understandable. If the old Audrey Hawthorne was a wildfire, the woman I’d been for the last decade was a stagnant pond.
A waiter passed by, and I snagged a glass of champagne. Just then, Miaās soft, airy voice cut in.
“You lookā¦ different tonight, Miss Hawthorne.”
I nodded, my expression cool. I saw her bite her lip, a flicker of raw jealousy in her eyes. It was almost funny.
I raised my glass to her. “And you, Miss Mia, look as charmingly provincial as ever.”
Her face, already pale under a thick layer of foundation, went a shade whiter.
While we exchanged pleasantries sharp as daggers, Rossās gaze was fixed on my back. The red dress had a daring designāit was completely backless, showcasing the sharp lines of my shoulder blades. Sexy. Languid.
But I knew what he was really looking at. The ghost of a tattoo.
The first time Ross saw that tattoo, heād been consumed with a wild, possessive jealousy. He begged me to add his name to it. I neither agreed nor refused. Instead, I went and had the whole thing lasered off. When he saw the raw, red skin, his expression was unreadable, but he never mentioned it again.
4
The party Iād thrown for Ross was lavish. Champagne flowed freely, and a DJ was spinning by the poolside. Just as the gift-giving portion of the evening wound down, Ross leaped onto a table and tapped a silver fork against his glass.
The sharp, clear sound silenced the buzzing crowd. All eyes turned to him, expectant. Under the glittering lights, his features seemed even sharper, more defined. So much like the face etched into my memory, and yet, completely, utterly wrong.
The photo from the parking garage flashed in my mind, and I frowned. That look on his faceā¦ it wasn’t right.
Why isn’t it right?
My thoughts were drifting when his voice pulled me back.
“Tonight,” he announced, his voice ringing with confidence, “I have a decision to make.” He paused, his eyes finding mine across the room. “I want to make it official with someone. I want her to stand by my side, out in the open.”
His tone was absolute, his gaze filled with a deep, performative affection. I squeezed my hands together, suppressing a wave of irritation, and returned his look with a placid smile. Deep down, a primal scream was building, an urge to flee.
After a moment of stunned silence, the crowd erupted in cheers. One of Rossās louder friends yelled out, “Congratulations, Audrey! You finally tamed the beast! The infamous Ross Croft is officially off the market!”
Ross shot him a look so sharp it could cut glass, and the man immediately shut his mouth. The celebratory mood curdled, the air growing thick and heavy.
I felt a shift before it happened. Rossās voice changed as he turned away from me and knelt on one knee before Mia.
“Mia,” he said, his voice ringing with manufactured sincerity. “Will you marry me?”
I wasnāt shocked. It was just another scene in a long-running farce. I even had the presence of mind to watch Mia’s reaction. As expected, it was a masterclass in theatrics: first, wide-eyed surprise, then tears of joy, followed by a flash of smug triumph that she quickly masked with a look of feigned horror.
She covered her mouth, her voice a trembling whisper. “Ross, please don’t joke like this. Audrey is right here.”
One of my loyal friends, unable to stomach the scene, finally spoke up. “Ross, what the hell are you doing? What about Audrey? This is Audrey Hawthorne you’re humiliating!”
I waited, curious to see how he would respond.
He set his champagne glass down with a heavy thud, his tone dripping with casual indifference. “I never promised you anything, did I, Audrey?”
He was a master at this, at turning the tables and making me the bad guy. He was counting on me to be the same obedient girl Iād always been, to quietly accept the humiliation and smooth things over for him.
I smiled, a slow, sweet curve of my lips. My voice was impossibly gentle. “Ross, what are you trying to say?”
He seemed surprised by my question. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, followed by a secret, thrilling pleasure. He leaned in, his voice a low warning.
“Audrey, don’t cling. It’s pathetic.”
5
His words were still hanging in the air when my fingers went slack. The champagne flute dropped, shattering on the marble floor and forcing Ross to halt his advance.
Every eye in the room was on me.
A hot, furious energy surged through me. I glanced down at the restrictive mermaid tail of my gown. That was the last straw. I was done pretending.
I languidly brushed a stray curl from my forehead. Then, with a theatrical slowness, I gathered the hem of the skirt in my hand. With a single, sharp tug, the sound of tearing silk filled the silent room. The designer gown ripped apart, exposing my legs.
A collective gasp went through the crowd.
But I wasn’t finished. I tossed the shredded fabric aside and, with a swift, fluid motion, kicked the base of the five-tiered cake stand.
To hell with being the good girl.
The cake toppled, crashing to the ground in a grotesque explosion of fondant and buttercream.
Standing amidst the sugary ruin, I gave Ross a lazy, devastating smile. My words were slow, deliberate, each one a perfectly polished stone aimed at his heart.
“Ross, turns out, you’re nothing like him.”
“And since you’re not, I don’t want you anymore.”
š Continue the story here
šš» š² Download the “MotoNovel” app
š search for “385362”, and watch the full series āØ!
#MotoNovel
The real estate agent was showing me the house when a line of text suddenly floated before my eyes:
[The male lead will eventually buy this house back for ten times the price. I wonder which lucky girl is going to get rich off this place.]
I stared blankly for three seconds, then decisively signed the contract.
That night, calculating the mortgage payments, I fell into a pit of despair. I started to suspect Iād gotten food poisoning from some cheap takeout to be hallucinating a live comment feed in my reality.
But then, the comments exploded again:
[Did the female lead just throw out all the luxury gifts the male lead gave her?]
[OMG, can someone transport me there?! I want to go pick them up!]
I shot out of bed, hopped on my little food trike, and sped toward the main coupleās address.
Whether it was real or not, my time for a windfall had finally come!
1
“Miss Vance, you’ve looked at this place five times already. It’s an older house, but for the price, it’s a steal. You really shouldn’t hesitate.”
I clutched the crumpled flyer in my hand, trailing behind the real estate agent as I surveyed the house for the fifth time. I knew it was a good deal, but the down payment would drain my entire life savings and bury me in debt.
I was just about to give up when words materialized in the air in front of me.
[I can’t believe she’s actually selling this house. This was the love nest she shared with the male lead back when they were poor!]
[Well, Landon was a total jerk. I don’t blame Claire for giving up on him.]
I rubbed my eyes. It wasn’t a hallucination.
Just then, another comment drifted by:
[I wonder who the lucky buyer will be. Landon is going to buy this back for ten times the price later on.]
Ten times the price? Iād be rich!
Barely containing my excitement, I casually asked the agent, “So, uh, what’s the owner’s name again?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Claire Sterling. Her boyfriend is loaded, not in our league at all. Thatās probably why the house is priced so cheap.”
Oh my god. It all matched the comments.
The agent was getting impatient. “Miss Vance, maybe I should show you some more affordable options.”
“No!” I grabbed his arm. “I’ll take it.”
2
The deal was done in a flash. We finished the paperwork by noon, and I moved in that afternoon.
Thanks to the comments, I figured it out: I was living inside a “make him grovel” romance novel. The main couple was currently on the rocks, and by buying their house, I was basically profiting from their relationship drama.
That night, lying in my new bed, I stared at my zeroed-out bank account and felt like I was in a dream. Thinking back on the floating textā¦ had I eaten too much cheap takeout and started seeing things? Who in their right mind sees a live comment feed in real life?
The thought made me sit bolt upright. I had poured my entire savings of ten thousand dollars into this house and was now saddled with a massive mortgage. What if there was no “male lead” coming to the rescue? On my meager income from selling crepes from a cart, how many lifetimes would it take to pay this off?
I smacked my forehead in frustration.
A white glow flickered in my vision again. For a second, I thought I’d hit myself so hard I was seeing stars, but a closer look revealed more comments.
[Claire is really furious this time. She’s throwing out everything Landon ever gave her.]
[And today is their fifth anniversary! Landon actually spent the night at the other woman’s place!]
[Landon is the worst. And I actually thought he wasn’t all bad deep down.]
Amidst the chorus of outrage directed at the male lead, one comment caught my eye.
[Don’t throw them away, honey! Sell them! You could get so much money for all that!]
Throwing things away? That could be sold for cash?
Was this really happening?
I scrambled out of bed and dialed the agent’s number, my voice trembling with excitement. “Hey, so the previous owner left some things behind. Could you give me her current address? I want to return them to her.”
The agent was clearly half-asleep. “It’s the middle of the night. For this? Her boyfriend is the CEO of the King Corporation. They live in the most exclusive condo complex in the city. You think she cares about a few forgotten items? She told me specifically she didn’t want anything left behind. Just toss whatever you find.”
He didn’t give me the address. I was sweating with anxiety. Opportunity waits for no one! If I was late, someone else might scoop up all the good stuff.
Just before he hung up, I blurted out, “It’s their sentimental keepsakes!”
“Huh? What keepsakes?”
“You know, from Mr. King! I saw their names engraved on something. What if this causes a huge misunderstanding between them? You have to give me the address!”
The agent was silent for a long moment, then his voice turned grim. “Then I especially can’t tell you. You think I have a death wish, giving out Landon King’s home address?”
He hung up.
I threw my phone onto the bed in frustration. The live feed was still giving a play-by-play of the drama at Claire’s.
[Holy crap, she’s throwing away a Patek Philippe? Is she insane?]
[OMG, can someone transport me there?! I want to go pick it up!]
I paced around in a panic, and then it hit me. The agent had told me the address.
I threw on a jacket and hopped onto my trusty crepe trike.
Half an hour later, I pulled up to the most luxurious residential complex in the city: The Grandview Estates.
The complex was huge, but at two in the morning, someone repeatedly hauling boxes to the curb was as obvious as a lighthouse in a storm.
Claire Sterling, carrying a heavy-looking cardboard box, walked to the dumpster and dumped its contents without a second glance.
Sweet mother of fortune!
The moment she went back inside, I pedaled over to the dumpster, pulled out a large burlap sack, and started stuffing it with treasures. One eye on the goods, the other on the villa’s front door.
A few minutes later, Claire emerged with another big box. I quickly hid. As soon as she was gone, I rushed back and continued my haul.
Just as my sack was about to burst, she came out with a third box.
I tried to drag my full sack away to hide again, but it was incredibly heavy. She was almost at the door. In a panic, I gave it one last desperate tug.
Riiiiipā
The bottom of the sack tore open, spilling its contents all over the pavement.
I froze.
My eyes met Claire’s from across the driveway.
The comment feed went wild.
[HOLY SHIT SOMEONE IS ACTUALLY PICKING IT UP!!]
[This is literally like winning the lottery!]
[Isn’t that the girl who bought the house today? She’s struck gold twice in one day. How can one person be this lucky?!]
[Honey, get your stuff back! It’s not too late! Take it back and sell it yourself!]
3
Before I could even think, Iād thrown myself over the pile of luxury goods like a mother hen protecting her chicks. I’d pedaled all the way here in the dead of night for this. If she took it all back, my efforts would be for nothing.
Butā¦ I felt a pang of guilt.
Claire’s eyes were red and swollen, and her slender frame looked impossibly fragile in the cold wind. The box in her hands was filled with expensive things, but the contrast between their value and her heartbreak was palpable.
[Honey, you need money to have the freedom to leave that bastard!]
[Love is gone, but you can’t let the money be gone too!]
Looking at the comments, then back at Claire, my heart softened.
As much as it pained me, I slowly straightened up, forcing the words out through a tight throat. “Um, if you want itā¦”
“I would have just given it to you if I’d known you were here.” Claire managed a strained smile and placed the box gently at my feet. “If you like it, just take it all.” Her gaze fell on my torn sack. After a moment, she said, “Wait here a second.”
She turned and jogged back into the house, returning a moment later with three large, plaid-patterned tote bags.
I marveled. Rich people used these kinds of bags too.
But a comment quickly corrected my ignorance.
[Those are the limited edition Louis Vuitton woven totes!]
LV? Limited edition?
“Your sack is broken. Use these.” Claire knelt and started helping me pack the scattered luxury goods into the LV totes.
Oh, my god. Was this the legendary kindness of a female lead?
I stared at her for a long moment, then finally managed to ask, “This stuffā¦ it could sell for a lot of money. Are you sure you’re just giving it to me?”
She paused, then spoke after a long silence, her voice thick with emotion. “I never needed that much money anyway.”
She even helped me load the three overflowing LV totes onto my crepe trike, seeing I couldn’t manage it alone.
She was an angel. I could cry.
“You know how to make crepes?” she asked, looking at my setup.
I carefully arranged the three massive totes in the back of my trike, then puffed out my chest with pride. “You bet! All the neighbors say my crepes are the best. Business is great!”
Claire reached out and touched my little trike, a hint of envy in her eyes. “It must be nice, being able to support yourself.”
Her words sent the comment feed into another frenzy.
[My baby is too delicate to be selling crepes out in the elements.]
[Are you serious? Selling crepes is a thousand times better than being miserable with Landon!]
[It’s the middle of the night and now I’m craving a crepe. drooling.jpg]
It was almost three in the morning. I wondered if Claire was hungry. After a fight like that with Landon, she probably hadn’t eaten dinner.
I expertly fired up my stove and pulled out my tools. “Miss Sterling, you’ve been so kind to me. As a humble crepe vendor, I have nothing to offer in return but this ‘fully loaded’ supreme crepe!”
I may have only been twenty, but I already had a decade of crepe-making experience. I wasn’t bragging, but no one who’d eaten my crepes had ever had a bad word to say.
Claire initially tried to refuse, but the aroma of food in the dead of night was too tempting. She fell silent, her eyes fixed on my griddle.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a comment mention that Landon couldn’t see Claire on the security cameras, couldn’t reach her by phone, and was now on his way back.
With a final flick of my wrist, I folded a crepe bigger than my head and placed the deluxe masterpiece in Claire’s hands.
“Here you go! It was nice meeting you. Thank you for the gifts! I will be grateful for the rest of my life!”
Before Claire could respond, I was already pedaling away like a madwoman. If Landon saw me, not only would I lose all my treasures, but I’d probably face some kind of retaliation. The thought made me pedal so fast I felt like I was about to break the sound barrier.
4
It took a monumental effort, but I finally got everything home. I didn’t even stop to catch my breath before I started using my phone’s image search to identify each item.
HermĆØs, Chanel, Patek Philippe, Bvlgariā¦
With every price I looked up, I had to press a hand to my chest, afraid I might pass out from sheer excitement.
The very next day, I picked out one of the less expensive-looking bags and took it to a luxury consignment shop. When twenty thousand dollars landed in my bank account, the reality of it all finally hit me.
Good heavens. Me, Lucy Vance, had finally made it!
The old saying was true: you don’t get rich without a little luck. And my lucky break had finally arrived.
I used some of the money to buy a decent outfit and a pair of shoes. Back home, I followed a fashion blogger’s tutorial, styling myself with some of the items from the totes. The comments had said Landon would be coming to buy the house back soon, so I had to sell everything quickly. But first, I needed to look the part of a wealthy person. Otherwise, I might get arrested just for walking into a high-end store.
I looked in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction. Not bad. Clothes really do make the woman. I looked quite convincing.
But something still felt off.
I studied my reflection for a long time before I realized what it was: my hair and my hands. The clothes were expensive, and I could use foundation to touch up my face, but my hands and hair were dead giveaways. I’d been working outside since I was ten, and my hands were rough and chapped, not like those of a young woman. When I was shopping for the clothes earlier, I hadn’t even dared to touch the silk items, afraid I’d snag the fabric and have to pay for it.
For years, I’d scrimped and saved to buy a proper burial plot for my grandpa. After I finally managed that, I started saving for a house. I always bought the cheapest food. As a result, my hair was dull and brittle from a lack of nutrition, like a bundle of dead straw.
I ruffled my hair in frustration. I never thought I’d be stressing about how to look rich.
A moment later, an idea struck me. I rushed out and bought a pair of nice gloves and a wig.
Looking in the mirror this timeā¦ perfect!
I blew myself a kiss. Absolutely gorgeous.
The next day, I hauled a massive load of luxury goods to the consignment shop. I held my chin high, trying to channel the energy of a proud swan, refusing to let my confidence waver. I was genuinely terrified the police would be called on me.
Luckily, my acting skills were decent. The shop staff not only didn’t suspect a thing, but they were incredibly enthusiastic, telling me to come back anytime.
A week later, I had sold everything. That included the clothes, shoes, gloves, and wig Iād bought to play the part of a rich woman. They were completely impractical and had a terrible cost-performance ratio. They were not worthy of being my possessions.
Lying on my bed again, I checked my bank balance. The feeling was completely different from the first time. Back then, I wanted to die. This time, I was scared to death.
Twenty million dollars!!
And according to the comments, that was just a fraction of the gifts Landon had given her. The world of the rich was truly unimaginable.
Being suddenly wealthy was an incredible feeling. For the first few days, I would wake up in the middle of the night, laughing in my sleep. The moment my eyes opened, Iād order the most expensive takeout and pair it with the fanciest cheese-foam tea from the cheapest boba place in town.
Life was looking up.
š Continue the story here
šš» š² Download the “MotoNovel” app
š search for “385361”, and watch the full series āØ!
#MotoNovel
On my son’s fifth birthday, I discovered the texts between my husband Fred and his best friend’s widow.
[Fred, the baby misses his daddy. When are you coming?]
[Tom liked a matching family outfit. I ordered it for us to wear this weekend.]
[Tom starts school tomorrow. I put you down as the father. Okay?]
Fredās replies were just as warm.
[Sophiaās asleep. On my way.]
[My size is 3XL.]
[Of course. You two are my responsibility now.]
Stunned, I called Fred from our sonās party to confront him.
He didnāt deny it, just held me tightly. “Claire is my best friendās widow. I promised to take care of them.”
“I crossed a line, but it wonāt happen again.”
After ten years together, it felt absurd to end it over texts. I chose to believe him, and we returned to the party.
Then his phone buzzed. Another message from the widow:
[Fred, the baby is crying for you. I canāt calm him down.]
A chair screeched. Without a word, Fred stood and walked out.
I looked at my sonās pale, shocked face, and my expression hardened.
Suddenly, divorce didnāt seem so absurd after all.
1
I hung up the phone with the divorce lawyer and glanced at my phone.
It was two in the morning.
Eight hours had passed since Fred had vanished from our son’s birthday party.
Five hours had passed since the other woman had posted a picture of Fred putting her child to sleep.
My son was asleep. The birthday cake on the table had melted, a sticky river of cream dripping onto the floor. It was disgusting, just like Fred’s promises.
He still wasn’t home.
Thinking of my son, who had been asking for his daddy even in his sleep, I sighed and closed the chat with the lawyer, getting ready for bed.
The sound of a car pulled up outside. Someone hurried out, ran up the stairs, and knocked on my son’s door.
“Noah? Are you asleep? Daddy’s home. Let’s finish celebrating your birthday, okay?”
Fred, finally home, leaned against the doorframe, knocking gently, his voice a soft coo.
This used to be just another unremarkable moment in our happy family life. But now, all I could think of was Claire’s social media post.
[The baby was crying for his daddy, and what a good daddy he is, dropping everything to come right over. So touched.]
Was he this gentle when he was comforting Claire’s child?
I didn’t know.
All I knew was that if this continued, Noah would wake up.
After a few moments of silence, I opened the study door. “Stop knocking. He’s asleep.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Fred’s face. “Asleep? But he told me he wouldn’t go to sleep unless I was here to celebrate with him.”
“Honey, you didn’t teach him to be jealous too, did you?” He laughed, completely unconcerned, his eyes filled with a patronizing understanding. “Honey, you don’t need to overthink it. There’s nothing going on between Claire and me. It’s just for the child’s sake. He’s so young, and losing his father is hardā¦”
“But our son is only five years old,” I cut him off coldly, looking at him as if he were a stranger.
After eight years of marriage, how was I only now realizing that there was something seriously wrong with Fred’s eyes and his brain?
Claire’s child was young, so he could cry and scream for a father figure. Our son had just turned five today. He was a few months younger.
So, when Fred had pushed back his chair and run out, had he for a single second remembered that it was his own son’s birthday?
When he was lying in Claire’s bed, gently reading a story to that other child, did he spare a single thought for the wife and child he had abandoned? Did he ever worry that our Noah might be crying too, wanting his daddy to be there to blow out his candles?
But it didn’t matter anymore. We were getting a divorce anyway.
I walked past him into Noah’s room and turned to close the door.
Fred blocked it with his hand, his expression conflicted. “Honey, I know I was wrong. I swear it will never happen again. Please don’t be mad at me, okay?”
“I promise, this is the last time!”
I smiled and reminded him, “Nine hours ago, you also told me it was the last time.”
The air went still. So quiet you could almost hear our heartbeats.
For the first time, a visible flicker of panic crossed Fred’s face. “Honey, you know Mark and I grew up together. As his brother, I just can’tā¦” He sighed, his gaze firming with resolve. “Honey, give me three more chances.”
“After three chances, I promise I’ll sort things out with Claire and her son, and I’ll be there for you and Noah.”
“Just trust me one more time, please?”
A rustling sound came from the bed. I heard my son’s soft, choked sobs. He must have been awake for a while.
The refusal died on my lips. I looked at my son, his eyes red as he pretended to be asleep, and silently agreed.
Let’s just call it three more chances for my son to say goodbye.
After three chances, there would be no place for Fred in this marriage, in this home.
2
The next morning, I overslept.
Fred, instead of rushing off to work as usual, had made a huge breakfast for me and Noah.
It had been a long time since we’d had a meal cooked by him. Three years ago, he used to wake up early every day to make breakfast for us, worried we weren’t eating enough. That habit disappeared after Claire became a widow. He started leaving earlier and earlier, and breakfast became more and more perfunctory. From handmade noodles to takeout from the corner store, to the freezer now overflowing with frozen food.
The first time I threw a still-frozen bun into the trash, I told myself, “It’s no big deal. It’s just breakfast. What does it matter?”
But now I realized it was all these “no big deal” things that had pushed Fred further and further away from this family.
I shook my head, clearing the thoughts, and took Noah’s hand to head to school.
Fred, stunned, grabbed a carton of milk and some eggs from the table, blocking our path. “You haven’t had breakfast yet! I got up at five to make this.”
“Just eat a little before you go.”
“Daddy, I haven’t eaten eggs since I was two,” Noah said quietly, his lip trembling with sadness.
When he was two, Noah had choked on an egg yolk. It wasn’t serious, but it had left him with a lasting fear.
The man froze, as if just remembering. He then tried to placate Noah, pushing the carton of milk into his hands. “Then drink some milk. I warmed it up for you.”
“The doctor said I have a weak stomach and can’t drink milk,” my son said, looking up, his eyes filled with disappointment. “Daddy, you’re the one who told me all this.”
Fred was stunned, looking to me for help, but I avoided his gaze. Noah was right. These were the little things Fred used to care about most. He used to say, “Honey, you and the kids just have to enjoy being taken care of by me. Don’t worry about anything else.” And “For my son, I have to be the perfect dad.”
But now, he had even forgotten that his own son didn’t eat eggs.
Fred seemed to feel a pang of guilt. He grabbed his keys from the table. “Alright, no breakfast then. Noah, Daddy will take you to school.”
I did a quick mental calculation. It had been three months since either of us had been in his car.
I opened the door and instinctively put Noah in his car seat. As I reached for the seatbelt, Fred suddenly grabbed Noah’s arm and yanked him out. Noah stumbled and fell right out of the car, hitting his head hard. A large gash opened on his forehead, and blood started to pour out.
I stared at him in shock. “What are you doing?!”
Fred hadn’t expected that to happen either. A flash of concern crossed his face, but there was no regret. “This is Tom’s special seat. He doesn’t like other people touching his things.”
“Noah, Daddy didn’t mean it. You’re such a good boy, you understand, right?”
My eyes burned with rage. I raised my hand to slap him, but Noah, sniffling, grabbed my hand. “Mommy, it’s okay. Don’t fight with Daddy.”
“I’m a good boy. I don’t want Tom’s things.” He tried to sound brave, but his eyes were red.
It had been the same last week. Fred had bought Noah a new toy. Claire had posted on social media that Tom wanted one too. So Fred had gone behind my back, convinced Noah to give up the toy, and delivered it to Claire’s house that same night. I had only found out about it yesterday.
And what about the things I didn’t know? How many more were there?
Looking at my son’s pale, weak face, I knew I couldn’t delay. I scooped him up and urged Fred, “What are you waiting for? Let’s go to the hospital!”
The driver’s door opened. The man hurriedly buckled his seatbelt. Just as he was about to start the car, his phone rang.
“I’ve got a great daddy, a great daddyā¦”
On the other end, a little boy was sobbing hysterically. [Daddy, why aren’t you here to take me to school yet? Tom is going to be late!]
[Daddy, you promised you would take Tom to school every day from now on! You broke your promise!]
Claire’s helpless, gentle voice came through the car’s speakers. [Fred, Tom knows you didn’t stay with him last night, and he’s been throwing a tantrum all morning. I don’t know what to do.]
[Can you please come over now?]
Without a moment’s hesitation, Fred agreed and then kicked us out of the car. “Honey, you heard. I have to go calm Tom down. You and Noah can just take a cab.”
And with that, the black Maybach sped away.
I held my son, staring blankly at the disappearing exhaust fumes, and finally let out a cold, bitter laugh.
“Noah, you see? That was the first time.”
š Continue the story here
šš» š² Download the “MotoNovel” app
š search for “385360”, and watch the full series āØ!
#MotoNovel
Four years. Four years Iād spent trying to save her, and in a single, careless moment, Elara discovered how I truly felt.
She had me pinned against the wall, her fingers digging into my neck, her eyes burning with a dark, furious storm.
āIāve sunk so low that a stutterer like you has a crush on me?ā she spat, her voice dripping with venom. āDo you even think youāre worthy?ā
Pure rage contorted her beautiful features. She became crueler than ever before, a hurricane of spite. She trashed her immaculate room, a whirlwind of destruction aimed at anything and everything I found beautiful.
But whenever he was aroundāthe story’s heroāshe would sheath her claws, transforming into the very picture of gentle grace.
That night, after she threw me out, I cried until my eyes were swollen shut. I found the System and gave up.
āIā¦ I canāt save her anymore.ā
The Systemās voice was laced with sympathy. ćThe mission isnāt over, but we can change the target. Would you like to save someone else?ć
I nodded, a wave of relief washing over me.
ćAs is standard protocol, I will erase your memories of this mission. Please prepare for the final transition.ć
A breath I didn’t know I was holding escaped my lips.
Let it be over.
1
Elara had locked herself in her room again.
I could hear the sickening symphony from the hallwayāthe crash and shatter of furniture, the thud of objects hitting the walls. I curled up into a ball outside her door, hands clamped over my ears, trying to block out the sounds of her self-destruction.
After what felt like an eternity, the chaos subsided into a dead silence.
My legs, numb from crouching, tingled as I unsteadily rose. I eased the door open, my heart pounding against my ribs.
The room was a cavern of shadows, the air thick with the scent of ozone and dust. Shards of a shattered vase littered the floor like fallen stars. Elara was slumped against the far wall, a broken silhouette in the gloom. Her head was bowed, and from one limp hand, blood dripped rhythmically onto the polished floor.
My chest tightened. I scrambled to grab the first-aid kit and knelt beside her.
āL-let meā¦ bandage that for you.ā I gestured toward her hand.
She didnāt move, didnāt even seem to register my presence. I took that as my cue, my hands moving with practiced efficiency as I cleaned the wound and applied antiseptic.
A deep, angry gash ran across her slender palm. Her knuckles were raw and scraped. A familiar ache of sympathy bloomed in my chest, and a few hot tears escaped, tracing paths down my cheeks.
A faint, cool breeze drifted in from the shattered window. Elaraās fingers twitched, the tense line of her brow slowly relaxing.
Encouraged, I cupped her hand in mine and began to blow gently on the wound, my warm breath a soft caress against her skin.
Suddenly, her other hand shot out, her fingers digging cruelly into my cheek. āDisgusting. What the hell do you think youāre doing?ā
Her eyes, now sharp and lucid, glared into mine. I managed a weak, foolish grin.
She yanked her hand back and shoved me away, stumbling to her feet. āGet lost.ā
āL-let me help you,ā I offered, scrambling to follow.
āI said, get lost!ā she roared, pushing me hard. I lost my balance and fell backward, my hand landing squarely on a shard of broken glass. A sharp pain shot up my arm.
Elaraās face paled. Her lips parted as if to say something, but in the end, she just clamped her jaw shut, turned, and stormed out of the room.
I sniffled, pulling the glass from my palm and wrapping it with a bandage from the kit.
Itās okay, I told myself. Itās always been like this.
Elara wasnāt a bad person. She just couldnāt control the storm inside her.
Later that evening, I cooked a proper mealāthree dishes and a soup. The sprawling apartment felt empty with just the two of us. After setting the table, I went back to the thankless task of cleaning up the wreckage of her room.
By the time she emerged from her shower, I was wiping sweat from my brow. I pointed to the dining table.
āD-dinner isāā
āJust shut up,ā she snapped, tossing a damp towel onto the floor. āI canāt stand listening to you stutter.ā
She sat down at the table, her expression a mask of cold indifference.
I clamped my mouth shut and returned to my cleaning.
Itās okay.
I was here for her. As long as she was okay, nothing else mattered.
2
When I first received the redemption mission, I fought it tooth and nail.
My twenty years in the real world had been a landscape of misery. An orphan, a punching bag for bullies, a shadow living on the fringes. I was a pathetic coward who finally ended it all with a blade to my own throat. Someone like me had no business saving anyone.
But the System told me Elaraās story. It said her temper was so volatile, so destructive, that no one else was willing to take on the mission to pull her back from the brink.
Elara had been an heiress, born into a world of luxury cars, handsome men, and endless privilege. Then a raging fire consumed her life, taking her parents with it. Pinned beneath a collapsed beam, she was forced to watch as they burned to charred remains.
That suffocating despair, that crushing sense of helplessness, became the seed of her bipolar disorder.
Her family’s empire crumbled overnight, leaving her with nothing but this apartment and a dwindling trust fund. She attempted suicide several times, each failure twisting her personality further, making her more erratic, more broken.
In the original story, her fate was sealed on an overpass. As she prepared to jump, a young manāthe story’s heroārushed forward and pulled her back from the edge. From that moment on, he became her sole reason for living, her anchor in a world of chaos. But her love was a cage. She forbade him from seeing friends, controlled his every move, and effectively imprisoned him. His life became a gilded hell.
Then, the true heroine appeared and rescued him.
A woman of immense power and influence, she was horrified by how her beloved had been treated. As retribution, she had Elaraās eyes gouged out, her face disfigured, and then, in a final act of cruel irony, had her thrown from the very same overpass where her obsession began.
The System asked me to change her tragic destiny. To save her lonely soul.
This time, my heart softened. I agreed. It wasnāt her fault she became this way. If someone as broken as me could salvage even one soul, then I was willing to try.
So, on that fateful day, I became the one who desperately clung to her arm on that overpass.
To my relief, Elara didn’t transfer her obsessive affections to me. She despised my presence, recoiled from my touch, and loathed my stutter. For the first year, when the rage took her, she would hit me.
But I was resilient. A weed that refused to be uprooted.
After every outburst, I would be the first to comfort her, to soothe her rage until the storm passed. I learned to cook her favorite meals, hoping to give her a taste of the warmth sheād lost. During her moments of calm, I would tell her, in my halting, clumsy way, that she wasn’t alone in this world anymore.
This is my fourth year by her side.
The frequency of her episodes has dwindled. Now, itās only the violent thunderstorms or the nightmares that threaten to pull her under.
And in the quiet rhythm of our days, in the constant tending to her fragile soul, my sympathy has slowly, imperceptibly, morphed into something else.
Her pain became my pain. Her moods, the bars of my cage. And I, the willing prisoner.
3
By the time I finished cleaning, Elara was already asleep in her bedroom.
I gently tucked the blanket around her and then sat on the floor, content to just watch her in the soft moonlight.
Honestly, Elara was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, in this life or the last. Delicate, sculpted features and a tall, willowy frame. A permanent shadow of melancholy haunted her eyes, giving her a look that was both cold and somber. But it was all disrupted by a tiny crimson mole on the tip of her nose, a single point of warmth that transformed her from merely beautiful to utterly captivating.
If I hadn’t taken this mission, I would never have even breathed the same air as someone so radiant.
She was just so, so beautiful.
I wondered what kind of brilliant life she would have led if tragedy hadnāt stolen it from her.
Unable to resist, I reached out, my fingers tracing the air just above her face, outlining the arch of her brow, the line of her nose. My touch ghosted over her skin, finally coming to rest on her soft, thin lips.
Suddenly, her hand shot out and clamped around my wrist like a vice.
Her eyes snapped open, clear and sharp. They were filled with a fierce, almost wounded, disbelief.
“You have feelings for me?”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I instinctively dropped my gaze, unable to meet hers.
My silence was all the confirmation she needed. Her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. She lunged, her other hand closing around my throat.
“I’ve sunk so low that a stutterer like you has a crush on me?” she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous growl. “For fuck’s sake, do you even think you’re worthy?”
The storm was back. She grabbed the lamp from her bedside table and hurled it at me. Then a book. Then anything else she could reach.
“Get out! Get the hell out of my sight, you disgusting thing! Get out!”
I just stood there, frozen, as the objects rained down on me.
A sour ache filled my chest, making each breath a painful struggle.
Why was she saying this? I knew my place. I knew I was nothing. Other than the secret feelings I held in my heart, I had never once crossed the line.
āIā¦ I onlyā¦ I only like youā¦ in s-secret. Isā¦ is that not allowed either?ā
āNO!ā she screamed, her face flushed with fury. She clenched her fists, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Get out of here right now, or I swear to God I will smash your face in.”
Numbly, I turned and stumbled out of the apartment, for the first time completely and utterly lost.
4
Iāve always considered myself to have thick skin.
Elara had put me through hell over the years, but nothing had ever hurt like this.
My face burned with shame and humiliation. I buried my head in my hands, a wave of regret washing over me.
Why did I let her see? Why?
The plan had always been simple: stay with her, help her heal, and then, once she was whole again, quietly disappear from her life.
Just as I was sinking into my misery, the System appeared, its familiar blue interface glowing in the dark.
It paused. ćWhy are you crying?ć
It ran a quick scan of Elaraās vitals and then chirped in surprise.
ćWow! Elaraās psychological state is almost back to healthy levels! Her manic episodes have been much less frequent lately. Youāre amazing!ć
When I didnāt respond, the System went quiet for a moment, its light flickering as it processed the recent events. Then, it burst out in a string of angry code.
ćBut that Elara is too much! Yes, she has an illness, but does she even have a heart? For over a thousand days, youāve been there, taking care of her every single need! How could she say something like that to you?!ć
I finally looked up, wiping my swollen eyes. “It’s… it’s not her fault.”
“My feelings for her… helping her… that was my choice. She doesn’t have to… to accept me.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe… no matter where I am… I’m just not worthy of being loved.”
The System processed my raw emotions and fell silent, unable to offer any comfort.
ćWell, if you canāt take it anymore, just let me know,ć it finally said, its voice soft.
I nodded, grateful for the small kindness.
Itās okay, I told myself one more time.
Once Elaraās mental health score reached a stable, healthy level, I would leave.
And I would never bother her again.
5
I spent the night on a park bench.
The next morning, as always, I went back to the apartment to make Elara breakfast. As I stepped inside, I was greeted by the familiar sight of chaos. The living room was a disaster zone.
I swallowed hard and placed the groceries Iād bought on the one clear spot on the counter. Just as I was about to start cleaning, Elaraās voice cut through the silence from behind me.
āWhere were you? Why didnāt you come home last night?ā
I jumped, startled. I turned to see her looming over me, her face a dark thundercloud. Fresh blood was seeping from the bandages on her knuckles, dripping onto the floor.
I frowned, instinctively reaching for her hand, but she slapped my hand away.
āI asked you a question. Why didnāt you come home?ā
āY-youā¦ you told me toā¦ to get out.ā
Elara sneered. āSo I tell you to get out and you actually leave? Where did you sleep? Whose house were you at? Who were you with?ā
Her rapid-fire questions left me bewildered. āThe p-park. By myself.ā
She stared at me for a few seconds, and the fire in her eyes seemed to flicker and die down. āFine. From now on, you donāt stay out all night. Understood?ā
She held out her hand. āBandage it.ā
I nodded obediently and quickly redressed her wounds.
That morning, Elara ate two more bowls of oatmeal than usual. And for the next few days, she was unnervingly calm.
Just as I was starting to think things might settle into a new, fragile peace, something shifted.
One morning, Elara emerged from her room wearing a tailored suit, looking determined.
āGet changed. Youāre coming with me.ā
ā…Where are we going?ā
āWe canāt just live off my savings forever. An old family friend of my parents is hosting a gala tonight. He invited me.ā
A genuine smile spread across my face. āOkay.ā
Elara was taking the first step back into the world.
She was getting better.
š Continue the story here
šš» š² Download the “MotoNovel” app
š search for “385359”, and watch the full series āØ!
#MotoNovel
Only after they conspired to kill me did I learn that Stella Randell hated me to her core.
It didn’t matter that I had funded her for years, throwing money and resources at her, giving her the best life imaginable. In her mind, I had used my wealth and power to blackmail her, to tear her away from her first love.
When I opened my eyes again, Stella was throwing my credit card on the ground, her gaze cold and proud.
This time, I simply said, my voice flat and detached:
“If that’s how you feel, then the sponsorship ends now.”
1
The credit card landed with a sharp clatter at my feet.
“Why are you here again?” The girl’s voice was laced with pure annoyance.
I followed the sound, my gaze locking onto Stella across from me. Her face was a delicate, porcelain mask, but there was an undisguised chill in her eyes.
Seeing my silence, Stellaās friends grew bolder, their teasing loud and unrestrained.
“Come on, Stella, Louis is head over heels for you. Just give the guy a chance!”
“I heard he gives her a six-figure monthly allowance. What a show-offā”
“But Stella’s gorgeous and a top student. She has tons of guys after her. Money isn’t everything.”
“Exactly. Besides, Stella doesn’t care about materialistic things like that.”
ā¦
In the center of the group, Stella tilted her chin up arrogantly.
“Louis, can you please stop with your condescending charity? I’m busy. I don’t have time to entertain a rich kid like you. Besides, I have my own two hands. I don’t need to depend on anyone!”
The girl before me was defiant, speaking the exact same lines I remembered from my past life.
Only now did I finally believe it. I was reborn.
2
In my previous life, I didn’t just pay for Stellaās college education; I sent her abroad for her post-grad, helping her achieve her dream of becoming a research scientist.
Even though she was always cold toward me, I brushed it off as her being fiercely independent, a byproduct of her strong pride.
It wasn’t until she returned, famous and successful, that she got me drunk and tricked me into signing a fraudulent contract. The vast Croft family fortune vanished overnight.
Not long after I went bankrupt, I had a car accident.
In my final moments, she leaned close, her voice a venomous whisper in my ear.
“Louis, the doctors say you won’t make it through the night. Good. Leo made sure to have your brakes tampered with.
“And don’t you dare call me cruel. If you hadn’t used my future to threaten me, Leo and I wouldn’t have wasted all these years apart. What could you ever give me besides money? Only Leo could give me real love.
“You can die in peace now. Without you, Leo and I will be perfectly happy together.”
Her gaze grew colder, and my breath hitched in my chest.
As my consciousness faded, I could vaguely see her smiling, wrapped in Leo’s arms, a tenderness in her eyes I had never once seen directed at me.
I closed my eyes for the last time, my heart filled with rage and bitter regret.
3
My thoughts snapped back to the present.
I lowered my gaze and bent down to pick up the credit card.
“Louis, just give it up,” a clear male voice cut in. “No matter how much money you throw at her, it doesn’t mean she’ll ever want you.”
I looked at the young man standing next to Stella. He was tall and lean, a taunting smile playing on his lips.
Leo. Stellaās classmate. The two of them were always “studying” together at the library. I had warned Stella about him multiple times, but she just sneered that I was possessive and had a dirty mind.
In my past life, after I sent Stella overseas, I thought they had finally lost contact. Now I realized they had probably been in touch the entire time.
But I never forced them apart. If she had just been honest with me back then, there’s no way in hell I, Louis Croft, would have willingly been played for a fool.
Stella let out a cold scoff.
“Did you hear that? Stop wasting your time. I’m never going to take your money!”
A smirk touched my lips.
The next moment, under the shocked gazes of everyone present, I snapped the credit card in half and tossed the pieces into a nearby trash can.
When I turned back, jaws were hanging open all around me.
I looked at Stella, my voice devoid of emotion.
“There was twenty thousand dollars on that card. It was for that overseas exchange program you wanted to join. But since you’re so high and mighty, I guess you don’t need it.
“I’d rather throw it away than give it to you.”
4
Stella froze for a few seconds, her face flushing a deep crimson before she managed to compose herself.
“What kind of game are you playing now? I never asked you for anything! This was all your own idea! And I hate your filthy rich attitude more than anything. You think just because you have some money, you can run my life? You’re pathetic!”
Her best friend quickly chimed in, finding her voice.
“Yeah! Stella can’t stand guys who reek of money.”
“Money isn’t everything, Louis. Maybe you should try reading a book sometime. How else are you going to have anything in common with someone like Stella?”
“She’s brilliant and beautiful. I heard she’s going to study at a top university abroad. One day, you really won’t be good enough for her!”
Watching Stella stand there, her expression growing more conceited by the second, I suddenly remembered the first time we met.
Back then, she was sallow and painfully thin, dressed in a wrinkled shirt, looking lost and helpless. She came from a single-parent home, and her mother was gravely ill. She was about to drop out of school to work and pay the medical bills.
At that critical moment, she heard that Croft Industries sponsored gifted students from low-income families and came to us for help. She stood before my parents with a ramrod straight spine, vowing to repay our kindness tenfold.
She was pretty, and the way her eyes reddened as she spoke not only won my parents’ sympathy but also stirred something in me.
In just a few short years, she had transformed from a malnourished, impoverished student into a little princess draped in luxury brands. Not only that, but she had become arrogant and condescending, constantly belittling me.
Thinking of how it all ended, my gaze turned to ice.
“If you despise it so much, then consider the sponsorship terminated. The Croft family has done more than enough for you.”
5
Before Stella could speak, her friend jumped in.
“Hey! Are you really going to hold a grudge just because we said a few things? How petty can a guy be?”
I used to have a crush on Stella, and by extension, I was generous with her friends, often giving them expensive little gifts. Over time, I had bred a pack of greedy, ungrateful vultures who had lost all respect for me.
The thought filled me with disgust, and I regretted being their fool for so long.
“Get lost.”
My cold stare made her flinch and shrink back.
Stella’s face was a mask of humiliation, but she forced herself to speak.
“Louis, why are you taking it out on my friend? Don’t think you can threaten me with money. I don’t care! And you’d better keep your word and never bother me again!”
She glared at me with such loathing you’d think I had committed some unforgivable crime against her.
Seeing her so agitated, Leo gently rubbed her back, shooting a smug, challenging look over her shoulder at me.
In my last life, Stella would deny her relationship with Leo while keeping me at arm’s length, knowing it would make me jealous and insecure.
Now, I couldn’t wait for them to be chained together, as long as they stayed the hell away from me.
“Fine. I’m a man of my word.”
With that cold parting shot, I turned and walked away.
6
That afternoon, I called my assistant, Hayes.
“Starting today, stop all payments to Stella Randell’s accounts. The sponsorship is over.”
Hayes, who was usually the picture of calm professionalism, looked utterly shocked. Before he could respond, I continued.
“Change the locks on the villa in the Hills. She is not to be permitted entry. Also, she’s no longer allowed to run a tab at any Croft-owned businesses. If she can’t pay, have her thrown out. Oh, and cut off her mother’s medical expense coverage.”
The look on Hayes’s face shifted from shock to profound relief. He nodded eagerly. “Right away, sir.”
In the past, no matter how many times he had warned me about Stella, I had never listened, even finding him bothersome. Now, I couldn’t get her away from me fast enough. Experience is a brutal teacher, but you only need to learn its lessons once.
He was about to leave when I stopped him.
“Hayes, wait.”
He paused, a questioning look in his eyes. I opened the drawer of my desk. Just as I expected, a beautiful jewelry box was sitting inside. It held a diamond necklace. In my last life, I gave it to Stella for her birthday. She’d called my taste tacky before reluctantly accepting it.
At the memory, I simply handed the box to Hayes.
“This is for you.”
He was stunned for a moment, then immediately tried to refuse.
“If you don’t want it, I’m just going to throw it away.” I dangled the box over the trash can.
After a moment of hesitation, Hayes took the necklace, his face filled with genuine gratitude.
Now that I thought about it, Stella’s birthday was coming up soon.
Her good life was officially over.
7
After confirming the cancellation of the sponsorship, I had dinner with my parents and told them everything.
My mother paused, a bit taken aback. “Louis, you used to talk about her constantly. Are you sure about this?”
I nodded firmly. “An ungrateful person doesn’t deserve the Croft family’s support. Since she feels like our money is an insult to her, let her learn to stand on her own two feet.”
My father considered this for a moment, then spoke slowly. “Alright. It’s your decision. I’ll have Hayes draw up a new list of candidates for the sponsorship.”
With that settled, the mood at the table lightened considerably.
In my past life, Stella constantly complained to me, convincing me that my parents looked down on her because she was poor, and she actively drove a wedge between us. After I went bankrupt, it was my aging parents who ran themselves ragged trying to bail me out. The stress caused my father’s heart condition to relapse, and my mother lived in a constant state of anxiety.
In the end, there was no miracle. There was only the news of their son’s death.
But this time, I would protect my family.
As for the debts Stella owed, I would collect them, one by one.
8
On the way home, my restaurant manager sent me a security video from the downtown steakhouse, one of my father’s properties.
In the video, Stella stood surrounded by a group of classmates, speaking condescendingly to a waiter.
“My name is Stella Randell. I know your manager, Mr. Reed.”
Her friends chimed in.
“Stella never has to pay when she comes here. It’s basically her family’s restaurant.”
“Why would you pay for your own birthday party at your own place?”
“Exactly. Even Mr. Reed listens to her. You’d better think carefully before you answer.”
Leo scoffed. “You must be new here if you don’t even know that.”
The waiter wavered but held his ground. “I’m sorry, I am new, but our restaurant policy doesn’t allow for running a tab. Mr. Reed is out of town and didn’t mention any exceptions.”
Stella frowned, clearly annoyed. “You’re ruining the mood. I’m going to have you fired for this.”
She let out a huff and started texting Mr. Reed, holding her phone up for everyone to see as if she owned the place. But the moment she sent the message, a glaring red exclamation mark appeared on the screen.
Visible. Undeniable.
I looked at my driver, who had undoubtedly heard the entire video. “Change of plans. Take me to the downtown steakhouse.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, his voice calm.
As the city lights blurred past the window, my expression darkened.
This was going to be a birthday Stella Randell would never forget.
š Continue the story here
šš» š² Download the “MotoNovel” app
š search for “385356”, and watch the full series āØ!
#MotoNovel
I was in the art studio when the heavy lamp directly above me came crashing down. I threw my right hand up to block it.
My boyfriend, claiming he had no money, took me to a back-alley clinic. The delayed treatment cost me my right hand.
Because of that, I missed the finals of the national art competition and the once-in-a-lifetime chance to study under a grandmaster. I had no choice but to go back to working three jobs a day just to survive.
Six months later, while delivering food, I stumbled upon the truth about his family’s wealth and overheard a conversation he was having with a friend.
“Liam, that girlāAriaāonly had a minor fracture. You actually had them amputate her hand.”
“Hmph. It should have been crippled long ago. Since she survived, of course, her hand had to pay the price. After all, I promised Emily I’d help her win the national competition, that I’d clear any obstacle in her path. I won’t allow anyone to threaten her.”
Hearing those words, I finally understood. The enviable love I thought I had was nothing but a cruel joke.
My boyfriend was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
And if that’s the case, I don’t want him anymore.
1
His friend teased, “It’s not like Emily Weasley is short on good teachers. And Aria is your girlfriend. She was counting on that apprenticeship as her only shot. If she ever finds out the truth, you’re going to have a real mess on your hands.”
“If you don’t say anything, no one will ever know. Besides, the only reason I got close to Aria in the first place was for Emily.” He then raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and give Aria that new healing ointment your family developed.”
His friend hesitated. “But that formula hasn’t gone through clinical trials yet. If she uses it and something goes wrong, it could affect her nerves. Her hand might ache or tremble for the rest of her life.”
Standing outside the door, my heart clenched. Tears welled in my eyes. The next words out of his mouth were even more heartless, invisible blades plunging deep into my soul.
“You’re always complaining you don’t have data. Well, here’s your clinical trial right here. And if there are problems? Even better. It’ll guarantee she can never pick up a brush again, not even with an assistive device. She can’t be a threat to Emily anymore.”
“Damn, Liam. You’re ruthless. Still not letting her go after all this time. Such a waste of talent. What are you going to do if Emily runs into more geniuses in the future? Eliminate them all one by one?”
Liam cut him off, annoyed. “It can’t be helped. Aria’s just unlucky. She’s Emily’s personal demon. Since she was lucky enough to survive the accident, as long as she can’t paint anymore, Emily’s obsession will fade, and she’ll achieve even greater things.”
After a pause, he added, “I’ll compensate Aria, of course. She only lost a hand. I can make sure she never has to worry about money again.”
At that, the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free. I struggled to compose myself, placed the delivery bag by the door, and numbly wheeled my scooter away.
I stared at the empty space where my right hand used to be and bit my lip until I tasted blood. For six months, the memory of painting with that hand felt like a distant dream.
I never imagined the falling lamp was a premeditated attack, an “accident” designed by my own boyfriend to eliminate a rival for his childhood sweetheart. My hand could have been saved, but he had it amputated.
To Liam, I was never his girlfriend. I was just an obstacle, Emily’s demon, that needed to be exorcised.
I remember waking up in the clinic, Liam holding me in a tight, worried embrace, as if trying to merge our bodies into one.
“You scared me to death,” he’d whispered. “I was so afraid something would happen to you. Thank god you were quick and blocked it with your hand. If it had hit your head… I can’t even imagine.” He held me tighter. “Thank god you’re still here. Thank god you’re okay.”
I thought it was love. Now, knowing the truth, a chilling coldness spread through me. What an actor.
That lamp was meant to kill me. My survival was an unwelcome miracle. Since I didn’t die as he’d wished, he had my hand severed, ensuring I could never hold a brush again.
The man was truly heartless.
I wiped my tears and, without another moment’s hesitation, booked a flight to the capital.
That night, after my last delivery, I returned to the cramped basement apartment I rented for fifty dollars a month.
“Aria, you’re back. You must be exhausted,” he said, handing me a glass of water. After I drank it, he produced a vial of medicine. “This is a new wonder drug from the hospital for healing.”
Remembering his conversation, I refused. “I don’t want it. I’m still going to paint.”
Liam smiled gently. “Don’t be scared, Aria. This is a special medicine designed to help you hold a brush again.”
His smile sent a wave of goosebumps over my skin. Designed to make sure I can never hold a brush again, I thought.
I shook my head. Liam’s expression darkened. “Aria, don’t be difficult.”
My head started to spin, and I collapsed onto the bed. Through a hazy fog, I felt the prick of a needle in my arm. A searing pain shot through my right arm, and I curled into a ball, whimpering.
Liam panicked, grabbing his phone. “What’s happening? Why is she in so much pain?”
His friend’s voice on the other end was calm. “Liam, I told you there would be side effects.”
Liam wasn’t listening, just raging into the phone.
Through my blurry vision, I let out a cold, silent laugh. He was still acting, even now. This was all his idea. He was determined to erase any possibility of my hand healing. Taking my hand wasn’t enough. When he saw me practicing with an assistive device, he grew worried again, rushing to destroy my nerves, to take away even that last sliver of hope.
2
I woke up in that same back-alley clinic.
The “doctor” saw I was awake. “You’re up. I’ve given you a painkiller. Does your right arm still hurt?”
I shook my head. “Not as much. But I can’t seem to lift it.”
I tried to demonstrate, straining with all my might, but my right arm remained limp and unresponsive.
Liam seemed to let out a breath of relief. Then, his voice choked with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Aria. This is all my fault.”
His eyes were bloodshot, and he truly looked distressed. He leaned down and hugged me, his tears tracing a path down my neck.
I kept my head down, my own eyes clear and cold. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it, Liam? Destroy me to elevate Emily.
Concerned for my “recovery,” Liam insisted on carrying me home.
Lying in bed, I opened my long-neglected social media account. A flood of hateful messages appeared. Someone had even doxxed me in the comments.
ćThis basement-dwelling rat loves to steal other people’s work and pretend it’s her own.ć
ćLooks like she’s missing a hand. Serves her right. A plagiarist gets what she deserves.ć
I steadied myself and traced the source. A popular art blogger had called me out on behalf of a friend. I clicked on the friend’s profile.
My heart sank as I saw the familiar artwork. Those were my paintings.
I stumbled out of bed and started rummaging through my things. The folder where I kept my original sketches was empty.
Just then, Liam walked in from the bathroom.
“My paintings,” I demanded. “Did you take them?”
Caught off guard, he stammered, “Aria, I was just worried they would upset you, so I moved them somewhere safe.”
I held up my phone, showing him the post. “Then what is this? Why does someone else have my work? Or did you sell it?”
“Aria, there must be some misunderstanding,” he insisted. “I didn’t sell your paintings.”
“If it’s a misunderstanding and you didn’t sell them, then she must have stolen them and posted them herself?”
“Aria, that’s enough!” Liam cut me off, his voice self-righteous. “You have no proof. How can you accuse someone of theft? What are you trying to do?”
I sneered. “My work is in her possession, and she’s online accusing me of plagiarism. I’m not allowed to clear my name?”
He frowned, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “It’s late. Stop making a scene. So what if they say you stole it? You can’t paint anymore. You’re not part of that world. A few words online won’t hurt you.”
His hypocrisy was breathtaking. It was clear he was protecting her.
I lowered my head, my eyes filling with tears, and pretended to sob.
Liam, thinking he’d been too harsh, came over and put his arm around me. “Aria, forget about what’s online. We’ll focus on making a good life for ourselves.”
His cold hand roamed my waist, and then he swept me into his arms, laying me gently on the bed. The moment his lips met mine, I held up my right arm, the stump of my wrist between our faces.
I didn’t miss the flicker of disgust in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “My arm… it still hurts. It’s not a good time.”
He forced a smile and buried his face in my neck, taking a deep breath before kissing me one last time. “Alright. I’ll let you off the hook for today.”
The truth was, in the six months since my injury, he hadn’t touched me. Every time he accidentally brushed against my right arm, he would recoil as if burned before pretending everything was normal.
I turned my back to him, violently scrubbing his scent from my skin. The nausea and hatred were overwhelming.
Later that night, while he was asleep, I scrolled through the blogger’s friend’s feed. The more I saw, the more my blood ran cold.
3
The account had to be Emily’s. She made no effort to hide it, posting picture after picture of gifts from her “childhood friend,” many of which were identical to the ones Liam had given me.
Except mine were fakes. Hers were the real deal.
I remembered Liam telling me, “Aria, I can only afford knock-offs for now, but I promise one day I’ll be able to give you the real thing.” I had swallowed his lies, but the truth was, he had always had the money.
The gifts I had saved up for, working multiple jobs to buy him, he never used. They were too cheap.
And all those Valentine’s Days he’d missed, claiming he had to work? He was with her.
She had even posted a photo from the national art competition six months ago, holding her first-place trophy. The caption read: “Half the credit for this award goes to my dearest Liam! I’ll be sure to reward him well tonight!”
The day she won her trophy was the day I lost my hand. That night, I was alone in that filthy clinic. Liam had told me he was investigating the falling lamp. In reality, he was celebrating Emily’s victory. When he came back the next day, he said it was just a freak accident. Of course it was. He was the one who arranged it.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the faint, phantom ache in my right arm.
The next morning, Liam acted as if nothing had happened, leaning in to kiss me. I turned my head away.
He frowned slightly, then sighed. “Aria, are you still mad? Don’t be. I know you’re not that petty. Be good, okay?”
And then he left.
I knew where he was going. Today was Emily’s birthday. For the past three years, Liam had always thrown her a huge party. He would come back the next day with a piece of cake she had supposedly made. I never ate it, telling him I was allergic to nuts. He would just laugh and say, “Aria, you’re poor, but you’re so picky,” before eating the whole thing himself.
Around noon, I received another text from the same anonymous number: ć22 Riverfront Villa. Come and see the difference between you and a real person, you pathetic charity case.ć
Before, I would have been too busy working to bother with such childish games. But now, with my right arm useless, I had time. So I went.
As I approached the door, I heard Liam’s voice.
“Let’s give a warm welcome to our queen, the rising star of the art world, the goddess Emily Weasley!”
I remembered all the empty promises he’d made, how he was going to treat me like a princess once he had money.
I pushed the door open. When Liam saw me, he instinctively pushed Emily away.
She pouted. “Liam, I heard you’re keeping some secret girl on the side. Is it true?”
Liam had never “kept” me. I was the one working three jobs to support us both. His support only existed in his fantasies.
A flash of annoyance crossed his face. “Don’t listen to them. It’s not true.”
“No secret girl, or no girlfriend?” Emily pressed.
Liam hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Neither. I told you, I just want to watch over you as you grow up.”
Emily beamed, then pretended to just notice me. “Oh! This… incomplete delivery person… doesn’t seem to belong here. You weren’t invited, were you?”
Everyone in the room knew what was going on, but they all played dumb, just as Liam had played me for a fool for so long.
I gave a cold laugh, my eyes locked on Liam. “I worked hard at my art, hoping my talent would lead to a better life. I worked three jobs a day so we could have a home of our own one day. I trusted my boyfriend because I loved him.”
Liam’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white.
4
My voice trembled as I continued, “But some people don’t deserve it. Liars don’t deserve anyone’s honesty.”
A snicker came from the side. “The things you’re talking about, sweetie, Liam already has in spades. He has plenty of houses. Art is just a little game he plays to keep his goddess happy. And as for love? We can get that whenever we want.”
A wave of laughter filled the room.
“That’s enough! Shut up!” Liam’s face was dark. “This is Emily’s birthday party. Don’t let some irrelevant person ruin it.”
The moment he finished speaking, I turned and walked out. A burst of cheerful music started up behind me.
My presence, like my entire existence to them, was nothing more than an ant to be crushed, not worthy of a second glance.
But was that really true? If I was so insignificant, why did beating Emily just once turn me into her “personal demon”?
I looked at my perfectly intact left hand. A demon isn’t so easily exorcised.
Liam didn’t know I was ambidextrous. In the three years we were together, he could barely remember my birthday without a reminder. How could he know anything else about me? For the past six months, I had been secretly practicing, training my left hand to paint. He was always so “disappointed” that I couldn’t paint anymore. I used to think he was sincere, so I kept my left-handed ability a secret, planning to surprise him one day.
Thank god I did. Otherwise, he probably would have taken my left hand too. He was certainly capable of it.
Five days ago, I had sent a letter, along with one of my mother’s keepsakes and some of my new work, to her former art mentor. I received a reply almost immediately. I had wanted to tell Liam, but just a single drawing left out on the table had made him so paranoid that he’d moved to destroy me completely, to ensure my right arm could never be used again.
I packed what little I owned, threw all of Liam’s things in the trashāthey were all probably trash to him anywayācontacted the landlord, cancelled my phone plan, and left the city.
Six months later, the National Art Competition was held in the capital.
Last year’s provincial champions from all over the country were competing. Rumor had it that several reclusive grandmasters were planning to take on apprentices from this year’s finalists. Emily was determined to win.
Liam was there with her, of course. He never missed one of her competitions.
So when he saw me, the girl he had been searching for, in the convention hall, he froze. He thought he was seeing things. But Emily saw me too and marched right over.
Her voice was sharp. “What are you doing here?” She glanced at my right arm with contempt. “You can’t even paint anymore. Are you working as a janitor?”
Liam stood beside her, his lips pressed into a thin line, saying nothing.
I was there on behalf of my new mentor, so I had arrived early to prepare and had thankfully avoided them until now. I pretended not to hear and turned to leave.
Liam suddenly grabbed my arm. “Aria, where have you been for the past six months?”
I shook him off. “Sir, do I know you?”
He frowned, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. “Aria, it’s been six months. Haven’t you thrown enough of a tantrum? Stop this.” His voice softened. “Now that you know who I am, I’ll give you whatever you want. Just leave Emily alone.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Let’s be clear. I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. I just don’t want you anymore.”
I turned and walked away, ignoring the icy fury that instantly clouded his face.
The competition was being live-streamed, and thousands of followers of popular art bloggers were tuning in. When Emily and Liam saw me sitting in the judge’s panel, their jaws dropped.
“She’s an amateur! A cripple!” Emily shrieked, her voice echoing through the hall. “How can she be a judge? She’s a thief who steals other people’s work!”
š Continue the story here
šš» š² Download the “MotoNovel” app
š search for “385355”, and watch the full series āØ!
#MotoNovel
As the nationās top animal behaviorist, I was conducting a final evaluation of Caesar, our prideās alpha lion.
The moment I entered the isolation corridor, the heavy alloy gate slammed shut behind me.
But instead of an alarm, the PA system blared the voice of the park directorās wifeāmy wife, Jessica.
āWelcome back to the stream, everyone! Todayās ultimate challenge: weāve locked our ātop animal trainerā in with the king of the jungle. Will he wet his pants in ten minutes? Place your bets!ā
Caesar, the lion Iād raised since he was a cub, was crouched low, growling. I reached for my tranquilizer gun, then froze. The liquid inside wasnāt pale yellowāit was a murky, angry red.
The vet Markās smug voice came over the speaker. āLeo, forgot to mentionāI swapped your tranquilizer for pepper spray. Wouldnāt want you hurting Caesar. You two are best buds, right? Use the power of love!ā
Caesarās bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils told me heād been drugged with agitants. Mark was getting back at me for stopping him from petting a tiger bare-handed last week.
I tuned out the speakers, focused only on the 500-pound predator before me.
My hand slipped into my pocket and closed around a small remote. I pressed the buttonāthe master override for every electric fence in the predator enclosures.
āIf you wonāt let me live,ā I shouted at the nearest camera, āthen youāll all die with me!ā
“Jessica! This is the master switch for the entire zoo’s predator enclosures!”
“The second I press this button, it won’t just be Caesar. Every single big cat, bear, and wolf will be out!”
“This zoo is in the heart of downtown! Think about the body count! How many death sentences is that worth for you two?” My voice trembled with fury, but every word was a steel-tipped dart.
The PA system went dead silent for a heartbeat before Markās terrified shriek pierced the air. “Leo! Dude, don’t do it! Just calm down, man! Be cool!”
But then, Jessica let out a sharp, derisive laugh. “Mark, what are you afraid of? He’s bluffing!”
“Only the zoo’s owner has access to a switch like that. He’s just a glorified zookeeper. Where would he get something like that?”
“Alright, folks!” she announced to her audience, her voice bright again. “Want to see me really get Caesar worked up? Start dropping those Golden Lions in the chat, and I’ll give you a show!”
I almost laughed out of sheer, blistering rage.
Keeping my eyes locked on Caesar’s every twitch, I yelled back, “Jessica, did it never once occur to you to ask why someone with zero qualifications, like you, was hired as the director of a major zoological park?”
I threw myself to the left, dirt and gravel spraying as Caesar lunged, his claws swiping through the air where my head had been a second before.
“It’s because I’m the secret owner of this zoo,” I bellowed, my lungs burning.
Silence from the other end.
Gasping for breath, I started shouting the secret clauses from the employment contract weād signedāclauses only the two of us and my lawyer knew.
Jessicaās breathing on the other end became heavy and ragged, as if a hand were clamped around her throat.
Panic finally set in. “Leo, honey, don’t! I was just kidding! It was a prank for the stream!” she pleaded, her voice a desperate whine. “Don’t take it seriously! I’m opening the gate right now! I’m letting you out!”
“Just please, don’t press that button!”
But Caesar wasn’t giving me a break.
I couldn’t dodge in time. His claws, sharp as scalpels, raked across my arm. My heavy work uniform tore like paper, peeling back flesh and sending a gush of hot blood spilling out.
The rich, coppery scent of it filled the air. Caesar let out a thunderous, triumphant roar.
I stared at the alloy gate. It remained stubbornly, fatally shut. My hope turned to ice in my veins.
“You have ten seconds, Jessica! Open this gate NOW!”
Her dream, sheād once told me, was to run her own zoo. So Iād poured my life savings into secretly buying this one. To spare her any sense of obligation, Iād set up a shell corporation to hire her, making it all seem like a lucky break.
I was going to tell her everything tomorrow, on our wedding anniversary, and sign the whole thing over to her. A surprise.
Instead, here she was, trying to impress her sleazy boy-toy by feeding me to a drugged-up lion on a live stream.
“Ten!”
“Nine!”
I began the countdown, each number torn from my throat.
In the adjacent enclosure, the scent of my blood had agitated the Bengal tiger. It began slamming its massive body against the fence connecting our two habitats, the impacts echoing like drumbeats of doom.
“Jessica! Jessica, do something! I’m freaking out here!” Markās voice was a high-pitched squeal.
Jessica was completely unraveling. “Honey! Leo, stop counting! Please stop! The gateā¦ it must be malfunctioning! I’ll call maintenance! I’m calling them right now!”
I stopped counting.
The gash on my arm burned like fire. Using the precious seconds while Caesar regrouped, I scrambled up the rockwork of the lion’s den, clawing my way into the branches of a decorative tree.
Before I could even catch my breath, Jessica’s voice, now laced with an unrestrained mockery, echoed from the speakers.
“Oh, no, honey. What a shame.”
“The maintenance guy says he’s already clocked out for the day. He can come in tomorrow, though.”
“Why don’t you just hang out in there for the night?”
Below me, Caesar was ramming the tree trunk with his colossal body. The entire tree shuddered violently, groaning as if it might snap at any moment.
In my condition, I wouldn’t last an hour, let alone the whole night. Waves of dizziness from the blood loss washed over me, but they were nothing compared to the bone-deep chill of betrayal that had settled in my heart.
“You’re insane, Jessica. You actually want me to die, don’t you?”
The speakers erupted with their unrestrained, dual laughter.
“Took you long enough to figure that out, Leo?” Jessica said. She cleared her throat, and I could just picture her aiming her phone’s camera right at my pathetic, blood-soaked form.
“But hey, thanks for that little escape performance just now. The viewer count is through the roof! I guess you’re not completely worthless after all.” A rock whizzed past my head, smacking hard against the trunk.
Mark was on the other side of the fence, picking up stones and hurling them at me. “What are you doing all the way up there? Get down here!” he taunted. “Our top donor just said if you fall out of that tree, he’ll drop twenty Supernova gifts!”
Jessica squealed with delight, her voice twisted with manic glee. “Did you hear that, Leo? Get down here, now!”
“If you don’t start earning your keep, I’m not even buying you an urn when you’re dead!”
My life or death had become just another gimmick to farm engagement on their goddamn live stream.
I raised the remote again, trying to say something, anything, but another violent slam from Caesar shook the tree so hard I nearly lost my grip. I could only cling to the rough bark, splinters digging into my palms.
Watching my desperate struggle, Jessica walked right up to the gate’s bulletproof glass, her face alight with amusement. “Oh, stop the act, Leo.”
“The owner’s personal assistant just called me a few days ago,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “Told me the big boss is overseas scouting new locations and won’t be back for a while. Did you really think I’d believe a lie that stupid?”
My heart clenched. Iād forgotten. To maintain the surprise, all official communication had been routed through my personal assistant, Lynn.
Jessica paused, her tone shifting to a syrupy, false gentleness. “Besides, you’re Mr. Morality, aren’t you, Leo? The park hasn’t even closed yet. There are still visitors outside. If you let all the predators out and people get hurtā¦ you couldn’t live with yourself, could you?”
“Be a good boy. Climb down and have a little playtime with Caesar. It’s what everyone wants to see.”
Her words hit me like a physical blow. My heart plummeted.
I had thought the remote was my trump card, the one line she wouldn’t dare cross. But she had already factored my conscience into her sick equation. She knew my decency was her weapon.
Seeing my silence, she smiled, satisfied. “You have no parents, Leo. No one to even mourn you.”
“And for an animal trainer to be killed by one of his own animalsā¦ well, that’s just a workplace accident, isn’t it? Perfectly understandable.”
“So just rest in peace. I’ll use the money from this stream to take good care of our child.”
Our child?
My mind went blank, a deafening roar drowning out everything else. Before I could even process the bombshell, Mark sidled up behind her, placing a hand on her stomach with an air of intimate ownership.
“Don’t you worry, Leo,” he said, his voice slick with slime. “I’ll take good care of Jessica and the baby for you.”
“After all,” he grinned, “they’re both mine now.”
“Oh, and by the way, there should be a pretty hefty life insurance payout from the zoo after you die, right? It’s a big number, but I guess I can do you a favor and spend it for you.”
The two of them, a perfect pair, their shamelessness so profound it made my stomach churn with bile. I swore to myself, if I survived this, I would tear them limb from limb.
On their stream, the soap-opera-level drama must have triggered a new wave of donations. To please their audience, Mark found a long bamboo pole and began jabbing it at me through the fence.
“Get down! Come on, Leo! Get down here!”
The pole stabbed into my open wound. The agony was so intense I almost let go of the trunk. I was a broken, bleeding mess, trying to dodge the pole while keeping an eye on the increasingly frantic lion below.
Just as Caesar gathered his powerful legs for a soaring leap, I launched myself sideways, landing heavily in the branches of a smaller, neighboring tree.
Caesar’s lunge missed, and he crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, letting out a roar so powerful it felt like it would rupture my eardrums. The world was spinning from the blood loss.
He was completely feral now. No matter what calming sounds I tried to make, he ignored them, his blood-red eyes fixated on me.
I was filled with utter despair.
Then, a crackle of static came from the walkie-talkie clipped to my collar. “Ksshtā¦ Leo? Leo, you there? How’s it going? Are you done with the assessment?” It was my colleague, Dave!
Like a drowning man spotting a lifeline, I fumbled for the talk button. “Dave! Helpā”
“Dave, please don’t bother my husband while he’s working.” Jessica’s crisp voice cut through the channel, easily overpowering my weak cry. “He’s in a critical phase of calming Caesar down. He can’t have any distractions.”
She had a walkie-talkie, too.
She had locked me out of the channel. All I could do was listen as Dave’s apologetic voice came through. “Oh! Oh, my bad, my bad! I thought he’d be finished by now. That Leo, what a pro! Alright, I’ll leave you guys to it!”
With a final crackle, the radio went silent.
š Continue the story here
šš» š² Download the “MotoNovel” app
š search for “385354”, and watch the full series āØ!
#MotoNovel
In Veridia City, the most pitiful and the most vicious heiress shared my last name.
The day my stepsister Morgan tried to shove my head in a toilet, Sebastian Thorneāthe young prince, bleeding and huntedāshot her through both hands.
āShe is this cityās future queen!ā he snarled. āLetās see who dares touch her now.ā
That rescue only deepened Morganās hate. She tortured me creatively while undermining Sebastianās bloody rise to power.
A decade later, the day he seized his familyās empire, Sebastian booked the cityās finest suite to propose.
But when I opened the door, he lay tangled in silk sheets with Morgan, both naked.
The room fell silent. Everyone knew she was our sworn enemy.
Morgan smirked, flaunting the marks on her skin. āDonāt give me that āI mistook you for your sisterā excuse, Sebastian. You knew it was me. You let me win the East Side project, didnāt you?ā
āFace itāyou want a queen, not a weakling like her.ā
Sebastian smiled faintly. He didnāt deny it.
As guests gasped, he picked up the ring and reached for my hand as if nothing happened.
I stood still.
āYou once said,ā I asked quietly, āthat when you took power, I could do anything in this city.ā
āDoes that still hold true?ā
He paused, surprised I hadnāt collapsed as usual, then nodded confidently. āOf course.ā
1
I smiled back.
The next second, I grabbed a fistful of Morganās hair and dragged her from the bed into the adjoining bathroom. I snatched the toilet plunger from its stand and brought it down on her with all my strength.
Foul water and flecks of blood splattered everywhere.
The guests screamed and scrambled back, their looks of pity curdling into disgust.
Morgan, who had spent her life grinding me under her heel, shrieked in disbelief, her hand flying to her face. “Stella, are you insane?! Your mother had no class, and she raised a goddamn lunatic!”
“You think this was my idea? It was Dad! He was ashamed of you! He told me to ‘discipline’ you properly!”
My vision turned red. I swung the plunger harder, a decade of torment erupting in a single, violent burst.
The calm smile on Sebastian’s face shattered.
Crack.
The sound of a gunshot echoed in the small space, and the plunger fell from my nerveless fingers. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. I only realized what had happened when a warm drop of blood trickled down my cheek.
He had fired at me.
The scene superimposed itself over the memory from ten years ago, when he had risked everything to protect me from Morgan.
Only this time, I was the one on the other side of the gun.
A wave of bitter grief washed over me, hot and sharp. “Sebastianā¦”
“Stella! How could you do something so vicious to your own sister? I don’t even recognize you anymore!”
I stared at his moving lips, unable to process the words. Morgan? My family? Her mother was the mistress who had destroyed mine. After Morgan was born, my own mother had a mysterious “fall” that broke her leg and left her partially paralyzed. From that day on, our lives became a living hell. After my mother died in a fire, I, the true heiress, was left to scavenge for moldy scraps in garbage cans.
It was Sebastian who, at great personal risk, had climbed the walls of our estate again and again, bringing me bags of food. I still remembered the feeling of my hot tears mixing with the warmth of the food bags on my cold hands. Those years were filled with hard, tasteless survival biscuits, but to me, they were the sweetest things in the world.
Sebastian had walked with me through that darkness. And yet, he could still stand here and call Morgan my family.
I couldn’t hear the rest of what he said. I only caught the words, “The only Mrs. Thorne will be you.”
2
But his eyes never left Morganās trembling shoulders. He didn’t see the web of my hand, split open by the bullet’s shockwave, blood welling up from the wound.
I heard my own voice, terrifyingly cold. “Don’t bother. No one’s forcing you to play out this twisted soap opera.”
“Sebastian, we’re done.”
He froze, the words seeming to hang in the air between us as he stared, uncomprehending. After all, we had nearly died together in the trunk of a kidnapper’s car, and even then, I hadn’t left his side.
Just as he reached out, a flicker of hesitation on his face, Morgan let out a sharp laugh. “Done? Stella, who are you trying to fool?”
“You have nowhere to go! This is just another one of your pathetic games, trying to guilt-trip him with that time you saved his life!”
Sebastian’s expression turned to ice. He hated being manipulated.
Morganās voice turned sickly sweet. “They always say the thing we have in common is our dimples. Why don’t we just carve yours out? Then Sebastian will never get us mixed up again.”
Sebastian hesitated for a split second. It was all the opening Morgan needed. She clutched her stomach. “Owā¦ I’ve never been hit like that in my life. Weā¦ we weren’t careful. What ifā¦ what if she just hurt our baby?”
He shot her a weary glance, then gave a final, fatal nod.
Her bodyguards seized me instantly, twisting my arms behind my back. My eyes widened in disbelief, but before a word could escape my lips, Sebastian cut me off, his voice deceptively gentle. “Stella, you always said you hated your dimples.”
“Thorne Medical has the best cosmetic surgeons in the world. Don’t worry, there won’t be a scar.”
The tip of a blade pressed against each of my cheeks, and a starburst of agony erupted. The bodyguard, loyal to Morgan, maliciously twisted the blade. Tears streamed down my face, hot and involuntary.
I used to despise every feature I shared with her.
On my eighteenth birthday, Iād waited all night for him to celebrate with me. His phone was off. When I finally dragged my heartbroken self back to the tiny safe house we shared, I found him tangled in our narrow bed with her. The world dissolved into a deafening roar. I remember stumbling to the wall, my body shaking as I threw up until there was nothing left.
He knelt before me, swearing heād been drunk, that he thought it was me. Iād sobbed, shaking uncontrollably, asking him why, why, why?
At thirteen, he was a bloody, bruised mess, but heād still kicked the teeth out of the thugs who followed me home from school. At fifteen, he was a fugitive who couldn’t afford a decent coat, but heād saved for months to buy me a necklace Iād glanced at once in a shop window. On my seventeenth birthday, Iād hidden under the covers, whispering into the phone. “Are you crying? Because I said I love you, are you crying?” His choked voice came back, “I haven’t even given you flowers yet, I haven’t officially asked youā¦ you can’t be the first one to say it.”
And nowā¦ now there was a second time he “mistook” her for me. And a third.
By the tenth time, Morgan had ripped the covers off and sneered, “How could anyone make the same mistake ten times? Even if you can’t see, can’t you feel? My sister is built like a twig. Just admit it, you want me!”
And he had just stood there, silent.
With two bleeding holes carved into my face, I was thrown to the floor like a broken doll as the crowd dispersed.
3
The engagement party I had dreamed of for months was ruined.
A love forged over a decade of shared survival was shattered.
I lay on the cold floor until the wounds on my face went numb, then propped myself up with my left hand. I dialed a number I hadn’t touched in years.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I rasped. “I know you can help me. I want them to pay.”
I spent seven days in the hospital. Sebastian arranged for the top cosmetic team, but he never showed his face. My bedside table was piled high with financial magazines, each one heralding the new, powerful alliance between the Thorne and Vance empires. The latest issue’s headline blared: “A New Bride for the Thorne Prince?”
My phone buzzed. An anonymous video.
On the screen, Morgan was losing her composure. “Fine! I give up! I admit it! At first, I was just using you to torture my sister, but thenā¦ then I fell for you! I love you, Sebastian, how could I not?”
“You designed my villa yourself, you stocked the cabinets with my medication, arranged by date. Every time I worked late, you were downstairs, chain-smoking in your car, just waiting for meā¦ Even that fire at the old manorā¦ you took the blame for me, let my sister stab you over and overā¦ You have feelings for me too, don’t you?”
“Answer me!” she screamed, her voice raw.
Her assistant tried to intervene, and Morgan slapped her across the face. “Get out!”
In the dead silence that followed, I heard Sebastian let out a weary sigh.
Then, one clear word: “Yes.”
4
A roar filled my head, and the blood in my veins turned to ice.
My mother died in that fire. The firefighters found a small wooden carving of me clutched in her charred hand. I had been so consumed by grief I nearly followed her. Instead, I took a pair of scissors and carved ninety-nine cuts into Sebastian’s arms as he held me, weeping and apologizing, saying it was his enemies who had killed her.
He never flinched, just held me tighter. “It’s okay, Stella, it’s okay. I’ll stay with you for the rest of your life. You have me. I only have you. Just like when we were sevenā¦ don’t let go of my hand, okay?”
All the things that had anchored me, all the promises that had saved meā¦ they were all lies.
Staring at a headline predicting the soaring stock prices of the new Thorne-Vance joint venture, I scheduled the video to be sent to thirty major media outlets.
You love a power couple? Then let’s watch you crash and burn at the height of your glory.
That evening, Sebastian appeared at my bedside, calmly reviewing my medical charts. When he saw I was awake and not throwing a hysterical fit, he looked surprised, then pleased. He reached for my hand.
But I slapped it away, hard.
His face fell. “Stella! It was a misunderstanding! How long are you going to drag this out?”
“My mother,” I whispered, tears finally breaking free. “Did you cover for Morgan?”
I expected shame, denial, anything. But his expression only grew colder. “So it was you. You leaked the stories. Morgan was right.”
As if on cue, Morgan burst through the door, tears streaming down her face. “Everyone is slandering my mother, calling her a homewreckerā¦ She was a devout woman, and your mother dragged her name through the mud!”
My own father, who had been sitting quietly in a chair, stood up and pointed a finger at me. “You ungrateful brat!”
The world began to warp and twist around me.
5
I tried to lunge at them, to tear them apart, but my body gave out. As my vision went black, I fell into a familiar embrace, and a voice, gentle and cruel, whispered in my ear.
“I have the wooden carving your mother made.”
“Stella, go to the press. Tell them it was all a lie. Please?”
Through a blur of tears, I almost laughed. The sound died in my throat, replaced by two words hissed through clenched teeth. “You’reā¦ pathetic.”
“I should have let you die in that gutter all those years ago.”
His smile didn’t falter. He took my hand and turned on the live feed on his phone.
Dozens of his men surrounded my mother’s grave, shovels held high.
My breath caught. My heart stopped. “You can’t.”
Before the words were even out, there was a loud crash on the video feed.
The glass on my mother’s portrait on the headstone shattered, the cracks like tears streaming down her face.
The pain in my chest was unbearable. I collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
A flash of anguish crossed his face, a flicker of the boy he used to be, the one who hid in my house for a decade, the boy my mother fed and protected even as her own body was covered in bruises. He tilted his head back, exhaling a heavy breath.
But he didn’t stop them.
The grave cracked under the blows.
And so did my heart.
“I’ll do it!” I begged, my face a mess of tears and snot. “I’ll do anything! Just make them stop!”
The tension in his face eased. He pulled me into his arms, holding me tight. “I can forgive you this time. But you are not to cause any more trouble for Morgan. Do you understand?”
“Good girl,” he murmured into my hair. “We’re the ones who are going to grow old together.”
His embrace was as warm as ever, but I was shivering, frozen from the inside out.
The plane is about to land, Sebastian. There is no ‘we’ anymore.
At the press conference, I was a puppet on a string, surrounded by flashing lights. “My parents’ marriage was already over,” I recited from the script. “Morgan’s mother was not a third partyā¦”
From the front row, Sebastian watched me, his brow furrowed. He didn’t look happy.
Suddenly, Morgan gave me a sly, triumphant smile.
The next second, thousands of photos rained down from the ceiling.
Photos of my mother being dragged away by homeless men.
“No! Don’t look!” I screamed, lunging to grab them, but it was too late.
Morgan snatched the microphone. “I always respected the late Mrs. Vance! But it turns out she was the one cheating on my father! And with suchā¦ gutter trash!”
The room erupted. I flew at her, my hand raised to strike, but before it could land, her theatrical sobs echoed through the speakers. The scene devolved into chaos.
“Stella!” Sebastian’s hand clamped around my wrist like a steel trap. His eyes were hard, filled with a crushing disappointment. “You faked this apology just to set a trap and ruin her?”
“Is the kind, gentle Stella I knew really dead?”
I couldn’t hear him. “Sebastianā¦ please, call the policeā¦ don’t let them do this to my mother’s memoryā¦” I begged incoherently.
A flicker of pity crossed his eyes, but then Morgan leaned against his shoulder, her soft sobs undoing any mercy I might have been shown. “I really thought she loved you,” she whispered. “But the day you became head of the family, she threw filth on my mother’s name and told everyone you were just her pathetic lapdog.”
Sebastian let out a series of cold, harsh laughs. He swept her up into his arms and turned to leave.
His butler glanced nervously at the frenzied crowd. “Sir, shouldn’t we leave some security for Madam?”
Sebastian paused. Just as he was about to speak, Morgan suddenly went limp and collapsed backward in his arms.
6
He caught her, his face etched with alarm. She held up her phone, sobbing. “Someone desecrated my mother’s graveā¦ they poured feces all over itā¦” On the other end of the line, the cemetery groundskeeper stammered, “The personā¦ they also left a bouquet of white chrysanthemums at the first Madam’s grave. They saidā¦ they said it was on the young miss’s orders.”
Morgan clutched at her heart, and her assistant wailed at Sebastian, “Mr. Thorne, her mother is her pride, her only weakness!”
Sebastian’s eyes were bloodshot with rage. He whirled on me. “Do you have any idea that the next part of this press conference was to announce our wedding date? I wanted to marry you properly, and you pull this stunt!”
My mother loved baby’s breath, never chrysanthemums. He knew that. He used to go with me to her grave every year. But now, he had forgotten.
Tears of bitter laughter streamed down my face. “I wish I had done it.”
The reporters swarmed me. Seeing my lack of remorse, Sebastian trembled with fury. He grabbed my arm and dragged me to his car. When I saw the familiar gates of the cemetery, a cold dread filled me.
“No!”
At his command, men with shovels brought them down on my mother’s headstone. It shattered. He held me fast as I struggled, his voice cold and hard in my ear. “Stella, when you make a mistake, you face the consequences.”
“Besides, Morgan has already promised me. Once this business with her mother is settled, she will treat me as nothing more than a brother-in-law.”
“I am giving you the dignity of being Mrs. Thorne. I won’t touch you. But you need to learn your place.”
I watched, screaming, as they dug up my mother’s urn. “I’m not marrying you! The wedding is off! Leave my mother alone!”
š Continue the story here
šš» š² Download the “MotoNovel” app
š search for “385353”, and watch the full series āØ!
#MotoNovel
