Author: Momo Chan

1 I spent three years chasing my arranged fiancé. But after he moved to London, his attitude toward me suddenly did an about-face. During our online relationship, his messages grew increasingly bold. “Baby… let me hear you. Just a little whisper.” “I want to show you what you do to me.” I’d bury my face in the pillows, blushing furiously, letting out soft, quiet whimpers into the receiver. Then came his welcome-back party. I was stuck in traffic and running late. Just as I was about to push the door open, Josh’s cold, mocking voice drifted through the heavy oak doors of the private club. “Oh, Rachel? She’s way too clingy. I can barely breathe around her.” “Good thing I had my best bro handle the online stuff for me while I was away. She didn’t suspect a thing.” “She’s chased me since we were kids. Way too easy. There’s zero thrill in it.” “Besides, I’m not ready to settle down yet.” I froze, my hand tightening on the brass door handle. Inside the private suite, the guys burst into laughter. “Damn, Josh, you’re savage.” “But handing Rachel over to Dave? You’ve got some nerve. She’s a sweet girl, she’s no match for a guy like Dave.” Josh flicked his lighter, puffing lazily on a cigarette. “Relax. You know Dave. Good girls aren’t his type anyway.” Someone scoffed. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” “With a face like Rachel’s, who wouldn’t want a taste?” “She looks so pure, but her body is insane. Most guys wouldn’t be able to hold back.” “If she were my girl, I’d be grinning from ear to ear.” “Remember back in high school? When those guys harassed her, you chased them off. What if, and I’m just saying what if, Dave can’t resist?” Josh’s brow furrowed slightly. Sensing the shift in the room, another guy quickly laughed and cut in. “What are you even thinking? Hands off Rachel. Besides, her whole world revolves around Josh. Even if Dave stripped naked in front of her, she wouldn’t even blink.” Josh’s tense expression softened. “By the way, Josh,” a friend asked, “you had plenty of fun in Europe. What about Rachel? She is your fiancée.” “When you were kids, you spoiled her so much. You wouldn’t let anyone else date her, and you took her everywhere. Why the sudden shift?” Josh looked down, ashes falling from his cigarette. “Treating her like a little sister was fine. But thinking about her as my wife… I don’t know, it just feels suffocating.” “She was always so controlling. No dating, no getting too close to other girls. I’m a man, not a monk.” “And Rachel is always there, trailing after me. It’s too easy. There’s no challenge. If I marry her now, I’ll feel like my life is already over. I need to see what else is out there.” Someone chuckled. “No wonder you slept your way through London. You were starved.” “If Rachel finds out, she’ll cry her eyes out.” Josh shot him a cold look, his voice dropping. “No need to hurt her. Just keep my wild days quiet.” 2 It took every ounce of my willpower not to slam that door open and scream at Josh. Josh and I grew up together. Our families were from the same wealthy gated community, and our parents were incredibly close. I had realized my feelings for him early on. Ever since I was a little girl, I spent my days trailing after him like a shadow. Josh never seemed to mind. He always looked out for me like an older brother. When my parents told me we were arranged to marry, my first reaction wasn’t embarrassment. It was pure, unadulterated joy. Finally, he was going to be mine. But Josh’s reaction was the exact opposite. He started avoiding me. His texts grew shorter, and whenever I asked to meet up, he was always too busy. Sometimes I would wait outside his house. I knew he was home, but he’d have the housekeeper come down and tell me he was out. Eventually, he fled the country to study abroad. I cried myself to sleep for days. But shortly after he landed in London, his attitude changed. He became warm and attentive, texting me constantly. Sometimes, it felt like he was actively trying to seduce me. As time went on, our chats became incredibly bold. “Baby, just got out of the shower. Only wearing a towel.” “Want to see my abs?” “Do you like it here?” “Want me to drop the towel a little lower?” Unable to resist, my mouth dry, I would type back: “Yes, I want to see. Lower. Drop it a bit.” Staring at those highly charged, sensual photos, I was completely breathless. I never knew Josh’s body was so hot, so incredibly well-built. And even his… well, he was exceptionally gifted. He coaxed me into becoming bolder. I started calling him baby and saying dirty things I never would have dared to utter before. Occasionally, the person behind the screen would ask: “Baby, do you know Dave?” I was always a little confused. “Who? Not really. Why bring him up, baby?” He would stay silent for a long time before replying: “Nothing.” Once, I had a severe asthma attack and collapsed in my apartment. After graduation, I had moved out to live alone. Before losing consciousness, I managed to send a desperate text to Josh’s account. Not long after, I felt strong arms lifting me up. Someone was whispering in my ear, his voice frantic and shaking, but I couldn’t make out the words. When I finally woke up in the hospital, a man was sitting by my bedside. His features were so strikingly handsome he barely looked real. Compared to the men I knew, Josh was attractive, but this man was in a league of his own. I stared at him, dazed. Seeing me open my eyes, his tense shoulders relaxed. “How are you feeling? Any pain?” “Who… are you?” I rasped. He paused, then replied quietly, “Dave. My name is Dave.” I asked how he knew I was in trouble. He explained that Josh had called him and asked him to check on me. I believed him. I didn’t pry any further and sincerely thanked him. From that day on, Dave showed up constantly under the guise of Josh’s concern. He cooked my meals and cleaned my place. He was an incredible cook. Every time I tried to politely ask him to leave, he would stuff my mouth with delicious food. Eventually, I gathered enough resolve to say, “You don’t need to keep coming over. I can take care of myself.” Dave only smiled. “Josh is terrified you’ll get hurt. He asked me to look after you.” I felt a blush creep up my neck. “He really said that?” “Yeah. Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.” I immediately texted Josh’s account to double-check. The reply came instantly: “Yes, I asked him to. You live alone and have asthma. I can’t rest easy, so let him watch over you.” I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I had intended to keep things strictly platonic and distant with Dave. Until last night. A massive storm was raging outside. Worried about him driving back in the torrential rain, I insisted he stay the night in my guest room. Late that night, I got up to get a glass of water. As I walked past Dave’s room, I noticed the door wasn’t fully closed. I went to shut it quietly, but the sight inside pinned me to the spot. He was holding a pair of my white lace panties. They were the ones I had lost a week ago and couldn’t find anywhere. Dave’s eyes were tightly shut, his head tilted back. His throat bobbed as he let out low, repressed whimpers. He was holding the lace as if it were my hand, using it to touch himself, doing the very things he was too afraid to ask of me. I stood frozen behind the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. That was the moment I realized Dave had feelings for me. But since he was Josh’s best friend, I didn’t want to cause a scene. In the end, I pretended I hadn’t seen anything. Today, at the welcome-back dinner, I had planned to pull Josh aside, tell him about Dave’s behavior, and ask him to keep Dave away from me. I never expected to hear the truth standing outside that door. My eyes stung. I thought Josh had changed for the better while he was away. I had no idea he found me so annoying that he threw his account to Dave, letting another man play with my feelings. From start to finish, the two of them had conspired to make a fool out of me. 3 I wiped my tears, refusing to let them fall, and walked back to my empty apartment. When I opened the door, I saw Dave in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, hand-washing my underwear. The memory of last night flashed in my mind. My head throbbed. I marched over and snatched the lace panties out of his hands. “I told you to just throw them in the washing machine.” Dave looked at me, his gaze gentle and persuasive. “The machine doesn’t clean them properly. Let me do it.” “I can wash my own clothes.” “Be good, Rachel. I do a better job.” The words, I have a fiancé, this isn’t right, hovered on the tip of my tongue. But I swallowed them down. A fiancé? Did Josh even count anymore? He had practically handed me over to Dave to play with. A bitter wave washed over me. Because of my engagement, I had spent years being incredibly careful. I kept a strict distance from any other man. Even when Dave came to look after me, I never crossed the line. I never wore my revealing silk slips around him. I timed my showers so he wouldn’t be near the bathroom. I maintained a careful three-foot bubble around myself. And yet, Josh thought I was too easy. Boring. He wanted to sleep around with all kinds of women to figure out what he liked. If he could play, why couldn’t I? To be fair, Dave was gorgeous and attentive. His family’s influence was even greater than Josh’s. Playing with him wasn’t a loss at all. I tossed the panties back into the basin. “Fine, wash them.” “Since you love doing this so much, you can handle them from now on.” Dave paused, looking up at me in pleasant surprise, as if he had just received a massive reward. “Are you serious?” I smiled. “Of course. You’re doing me a favor, I should be thanking you.” “I’m going upstairs to change into a nightgown. Wash whatever I leave behind, okay?” Dave’s throat bobbed. He let out a low, breathless laugh. “With pleasure.” 4 I peeled off my restrictive clothes and slipped into a loose, comfortable nightgown. In the past, whenever Dave was over, I’d wear conservative, stifling outfits, making sure everything was properly buttoned up. Now, I didn’t care anymore. At dinner, Dave laid out a feast of my favorite dishes. I kept my head down, eating quietly. Dave reached over with a napkin, naturally wiping a smudge of sauce from the corner of my mouth. “Rachel, can I stay here tonight?” I looked up, meeting his eyes. He quickly explained, “You’ve had two asthma attacks this month. I’m really worried about you being alone.” Before today, I would have rejected him without a second thought. But today was different. I swallowed my food and said, “They have been happening more often lately. I’ve been a bit anxious too.” “It would make me feel a lot better if you stayed.” Dave smiled, a dark, possessive spark flaring in his eyes. Later that night, while he was in the shower, I took the opportunity to unlock his phone. I found his chat history with Josh. Josh: “Where are you?” Dave: “At Rachel’s house.” Josh: “What the hell are you doing there?” Dave: “Her asthma’s been acting up. I don’t feel safe leaving her alone.” Josh: “Fine. But let me remind you, I asked you to watch her, not cross the line.” Dave: “You don’t want to marry her anyway. What’s the matter? Had your fun abroad, and now you want to come back to your old toy?” Dave: “Aren’t you afraid she’ll find out?” Josh: “My business with her is none of your concern.” Josh: “Besides, Rachel is so clingy she can’t survive without me. Even if she finds out, a few sweet words and she’ll be wagging her tail right back to me. I can’t shake her off even if I try.” I stared at those words for a long time. My chest ached, but I forced the tears back. He wasn’t worth a single tear. Ten minutes later, the bathroom door opened. I took a deep breath, locked the screen, and placed his phone exactly where I found it. That night, I took a shower and changed into a sultry, deep red silk slip dress. It was short, barely covering the curve of my thighs, with a plunging neckline. My friend had bought it for me, teasing that my body was too good to waste on flannel pajamas. I had left it in the back of my closet with the tags still on. Tonight, I tore the tags off. I didn’t dry my hair. Water droplets slid down my collarbone, dampening the silk over my chest. The wet fabric clung to my curves. I walked out barefoot. Dave was sitting on the couch, drying his hair. When he looked up and saw me, his movements froze. It was only for a split second before he looked away, but I caught the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His throat convulsed. Pretending not to notice, I walked into my bedroom, leaving the door open, and curled up in the armchair. The hem of my dress rode up, exposing the smooth length of my thighs. I snapped a photo of myself and sent it to Josh’s, no, Dave’s account. “Baby, just got out of the shower. Only wearing this slip.” “Nothing underneath.” “Want to see me pull it up?” The reply came instantly. “Since when did my girl learn to be such a tease?” I smiled, typing back: “You’re the bad influence here. I learned from the best.” We texted back and forth until the early hours of the morning. The next day, when Dave came in with breakfast to wake me up, he saw me still wearing the red slip. His ears turned bright red instantly. 5 Since I had missed Josh’s first welcome-back party, our mutual friends organized another dinner to make up for it. At the restaurant, I sat right between Josh and Dave. The moment I sat down, Josh turned to look at me, his eyes lingering on my face. “You look much better than before.” “Do I?” I asked casually. “Yeah. You used to look so fragile.” He paused, adding, “Looks like Dave has been taking good care of you.” I smiled. “He really has. I have you to thank for sending him to me.” One of our friends, clearly looking for drama, grinned and asked, “Hey Rachel, notice any changes in Josh since he came back?” Josh shot him a warning glare. I set my fork down. “Actually, yes. A huge change.” Both Josh and Dave stiffened. I looked down, playing shy. “He’s been so much sweeter to me. I think I’ve fallen even harder for him. I look forward to our late-night chats every single night.” Josh blinked, looking slightly bewildered, while Dave’s expression turned incredibly dark. Soon, the food was served. Josh started boasting about his wild adventures in Europe. I didn’t care to listen, reaching instead for the spicy shrimp. But I ran into a problem. My freshly manicured nails made it impossible to peel them. Without thinking, I pouted. “Baby, my nails are too long. Can you peel them for me?” Josh frowned, about to reach over. But Dave, sitting closer, naturally pulled the plate toward himself. He picked up a shrimp, his voice dripping with affection. “Of course. I’ve got you. You’re so spoiled.” The table went dead silent. Everyone froze. Sensing the heavy tension, someone laughed nervously. “Rachel was asking Josh, Dave. You must have misheard.” Dave’s fingers stilled. He looked up, his voice cool and even. “Ah. Must have.” But he didn’t put the shrimp down. Josh’s face darkened significantly. His eyes darted between Dave and me, his tone dropping to sub-zero temperatures. “If he wants to do it, let him.” Dave smirked. “If you say so.” He went right back to peeling. For the rest of the dinner, I didn’t have to lift a finger. He peeled the shrimp, dipped them in sauce, and lined them up on my plate. He picked out the bones from the fish before placing it in my bowl. He even blew on the soup to cool it down before sliding it over. Dave did all of this with an ease that suggested it was the most natural thing in the world. And I accepted his pampering without a shred of guilt. I took a bite of the shrimp and smiled at him. “Dave, you’re amazing at this. It tastes great.” To my left, Josh was gripping his silverware so hard his knuckles turned white. He tried to start a conversation with me several times, but I ignored him, keeping my focus entirely on Dave. Dave placed a piece of fish in my bowl. “Try this one. I ordered it specifically for you.” “How did you know I liked this?” Dave’s lips curved into a soft smile. “You ate a lot of it when I made it at your place last week. I remembered.” Josh slammed his chopsticks onto the table. I acted as if I hadn’t heard a thing, quietly sipping my soup. By the end of the meal, I hadn’t spoken a single word to Josh. His face looked like a thunderstorm, dark and suffocating. Finally, as the waiter cleared the plates and brought out the dessert, Josh spoke up. “Rachel, we need to talk about our engagement.” I finally looked at him. “Go ahead.” Seeing my attention on him, Josh’s expression softened slightly, his tone gentler. “I don’t think we should rush into marriage right away.” “We should give each other some space and time. What do you think?” I nodded easily. “Sure. I agree.” He assumed I was just being difficult. “Don’t be childish, Rachel. I always saw you as a sister, so adjusting to the idea of you as my wife is going to take time. It’s only normal…” Then, my words finally registered. He froze. “Wait. You agree?” His face fell completely. “Rachel, what is that supposed to mean?” I tilted my head, looking innocent. “Exactly what I said. You’re right. We need space and time. I agree. Is there a problem?” Josh opened his mouth, but no words came out. He had clearly never expected me to let him off the hook so easily. 6 After dinner, the few glasses of wine I drank began to catch up to me. I felt lightheaded. Dave supported me by my waist. “I didn’t drink. I’ll drive you home.” Josh stepped in front of us, blocking our path. “And why are you the one driving her home?” I blinked at him sleepily. “Josh, you’re being so weird.” “Didn’t you ask Dave to take care of me?” “We’re living together now anyway. Didn’t you agree to that too?” Josh snapped, “I never agreed to—” He cut himself off, swallowing the rest of his sentence. After all, he was the one who had handed his account to Dave. He was the one with the guilty conscience. He had no choice but to watch us walk away, leaving him standing under the neon lights of the club. When we got back to the apartment, I slumped onto the couch. Dave immediately went to the kitchen to pour me some warm water. I curled up against the cushions, a small smirk playing on my lips. I pulled out my phone and sent a text. “Baby, I want to wear a catgirl outfit for you.” “Here are a few styles I like. Help me choose one.” Dave walked back into the living room, holding the glass. Just as he set it down, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and opened the chat. The sheer visual impact of the photos made his eyes widen. The model in the pictures wore a strapless, tight black dress, complete with a cat tail, black ears, and a delicate gold bell around her neck. Beneath the photos was my text: “Baby, do you want to see me in this?” He looked from the screen to me, his ears turning a furious shade of crimson. His imagination was clearly running wild. He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. “I’m going to use the restroom.” I smiled. “Go ahead.” Dave stayed in the bathroom for an exceptionally long time. When he finally walked out, his eyes were slightly rimmed with red, and his breathing was shallow and uneven. He looked like a man who had just committed a very delicious crime. I grinned, typing out one last message. “Baby, let’s do a video call. We can choose together.” He froze, panic flashing across his face. He quickly typed back: “Wait.” But I didn’t wait. I hit the video call button. In the quiet living room, Dave’s phone suddenly blared with the incoming call ringtone. He slowly turned his head to look at me, his eyes wide. I waved my phone at him, tilting my head. “Dave, you were in the bathroom for so long. Did your hand do a good job? Why aren’t you answering?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513572”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My roommate was a self-proclaimed eco-savior. In the dead of a sweltering hundred-degree summer, she locked the thermostat cover and hid the key. “Everyone sweats in July. Just suck it up and consider it your contribution to saving the planet.” That night, not a single breeze cut through the stifling air. Our dorm room was a literal oven. My head throbbed, sweat pouring off me in waves. When I tried to find the key, she climbed onto a chair and snipped the power cord to the AC unit. “Can’t you see Mother Nature is burning up? You selfish brat, constantly spewing greenhouse gases.” In my past life, that night was the beginning of an endless nightmare. The entire campus hounded and vilified me. They claimed I was pampered, unable to empathize with the environment, while praising her noble sense of mission. In the end, I suffered a fatal cardiogenic shock, dying before I could even dial 911. She wept bitterly in front of the cameras, telling the media my heart gave out because I consumed too much processed junk food. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very first day of the semester. She was sliding the key to the thermostat cover into her drawer, looking at me with tear-brimmed eyes. “Gloria, a little heat won’t kill you, right?” I grabbed my phone and my medical records, heading straight for the resident dean’s office. “I’d like to request a single room, please.” If anyone wanted to play the martyr, they were welcome to it. I was busy keeping myself alive. 1 Dean Gable looked up, only halfway through the freshman roster. “Gloria? You just checked in and you’re already asking for a single?” I placed my acceptance letter, ID copy, triple-A hospital diagnostic report, and the housing transfer form neatly on her desk. “Dean, I have a history of severe myocardial ischemia. Extreme heat triggers cardiogenic shock almost instantly.” “Right now, my roommate, Sienna, is refusing to let us turn on the AC or even use box fans.” The office fell dead silent. The student assistant sorting papers nearby paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, looking completely bewildered. “It’s nearly a hundred degrees out there today. No AC?” Gable frowned. “Gloria, roommate conflicts should be resolved through communication first. Single room approvals don’t just go through in a single day.” A soft, sorrowful voice echoed from the doorway. “Dean, it isn’t a conflict. It’s a spiritual discipline.” Sienna stood by the door, clutching our dorm’s thermostat key tightly to her chest. She wore a faded, scratchy linen dress, her forehead dripping with sweat, her eyes red and puffy as if she were the victim of some unspeakable cruelty. “She wants to bleed the planet dry.” The student assistant’s hand froze mid-wipe. Gable eyed the key in Sienna’s hand. “Why do you have the thermostat key?” Sienna instantly pressed it closer to her heart, guarding it like a sacred relic. “This machine is monstrous. Every breath of artificial cold it spews drafts a death warrant for our rivers and forests.” “Mother Nature is crying.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I know everyone thinks I’m crazy. But I just want to stop our world from being poisoned by modern industrialism.” A few passing freshmen had gathered outside the doorway. Someone whispered, “It’s a bit extreme, but her intentions are good.” Others glanced at me, their gazes shifting. That familiar, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. It was the exact same script from my previous life. The moment Sienna cried and invoked her grand eco-narrative, everyone lined up to pity her. When I mentioned my heart condition, they called me high-maintenance. When she unplugged the fans, they claimed natural air was healthier anyway. When she turned our room into a sauna, they praised her boundless empathy. In the end, as I lay on a hospital bed hooked up to a ventilator, unable to speak, they were still debating whether I lacked social responsibility. This time, I didn’t waste my breath explaining. I looked straight at Gable. “Dean, I have no interest in debating her beliefs.” “I just refuse to live with her.” Sienna’s sobbing faltered. She looked up, tears clinging to her lashes. “Gloria, are you really that addicted to material comfort?” “I have a heart condition,” I replied flatly. She looked thoroughly devastated by my lack of enlightenment, taking a step back with deep sorrow in her eyes. “But children in impoverished regions don’t even have electricity, and they survive. Why can’t you try?” I flipped my medical folder open, pointing to the bolded doctor’s orders: Avoid extreme heat and high-stress situations. “Because I’d like to survive too.” The room went completely quiet. Gable scanned the medical report, her brow furrowing as her expression grew serious. “A single room requires checking vacancies, and we need approval from both the department head and housing services.” Sienna quickly sniffled, stepping forward. “Dean, there’s no need to go to all that trouble.” “I will do my best to guide Gloria with love. Once she experiences the joy of detoxifying through sweat, nature will heal her heart.” I looked at her cold. “I don’t need nature to heal me.” “And I certainly don’t need your guidance.” 2 The request wasn’t approved on the spot. Gable said she had to contact housing to verify empty beds and submit the paperwork. Hearing the word “paperwork,” Sienna wept even harder. “Please don’t involve the university board. They’ll just think I’m making trouble again.” A student outside softened. “Dean, maybe they should just go back and talk it out.” “Yeah, it’s just a few days. They’ll figure it out once they settle in.” Gable looked at me. It wasn’t a look of bias, but of sheer exhaustion with the bureaucratic process. University administration was slow, but moral lynching was lightning-fast. Sienna knew exactly how to play this. She held the key, her voice carrying perfectly down the hallway. “Gloria, I just want you to shed your materialistic greed.” “The glaciers are melting, and polar bears have nowhere to stand.” “If we can’t even endure a little heat, how much longer can the earth survive?” In my past life, those words made me back down. I had thought it was bad form to start the semester with a massive scene, so I followed her back to the room. That night, she locked up the thermostat, unplugged the fans, and told us to listen to the summer cicadas. I was suffocating by 4:00 AM, my heart hammering like a trapped bird, my breathing sounding like a broken bellows. When I reached for my emergency beta-blockers, she cried that Western medicine was full of synthetic toxins that would disrupt my body’s natural aura. In the end, I was on my knees, gasping for air, clutching the bedframe as my vision faded into black. This time, I laid my phone on the desk and tapped record. “Dean, I’m happy to wait for the system.” “But until the single room is approved, I am not sleeping in that dorm. If the school cannot provide temporary lodging, I require a written statement.” “A statement acknowledging that I submitted severe cardiac medical records, and that the university is forcing me to stay in a room where someone has illegally cut the power and refused basic ventilation.” The office went dead silent again. Sienna stopped crying. The way she looked at me was no longer sorrowful; it was the look of a judge condemning a hopeless sinner. Gable remained silent for a few seconds before picking up her desk phone to call the dorm warden. “Davenport Hall, Suite 503. Send someone up immediately.” “A student is reporting that a roommate has restricted AC and fan usage.” A pause as the voice on the other end replied. Gable’s face darkened. “No, I am not joking. One of the residents has a severe heart condition. She cannot be exposed to extreme heat.” Sienna lunged toward me. “Why do you have to make such a big deal out of this?” she hissed, her voice dripping with self-righteous misery. “We could have walked this path of discipline together!” Outside the door, several students raised their phones, recording us. I took a step back. “Get away from me. The smell of your sweat is making me nauseous.” Sienna bit her lip, fresh tears spilling over instantly. “This is the scent of nature! How can you insult me like that?” Weeping loudly, she turned and bolted back toward the dorms. Gable closed her eyes, rubbing her temples, before grabbing her keys. “Let’s go. Davenport 503.” When we reached the suite, the door was half-open. The sound of our other roommate, Tess, sobbing hysterically echoed down the corridor. Gable pushed the door open. A blast of stifling, suffocating air hit us, carrying a bizarre, sour stench. Sienna stood beneath the AC unit, holding a pair of heavy-duty scissors. On the floor lay the cleanly severed power cord of the AC unit. She held her head high, looking like a martyr standing before the flames. “Since the key wasn’t enough to make you understand, I’ve removed the temptation of luxury entirely.” Tess was collapsed on the floor, clutching a small, dead portable mini-fridge to her chest. Inside were several vials of imported insulin, already turning cloudy and useless from the rapid heat. Tess shook with pure rage, pointing a trembling finger at Sienna. “Are you insane?! You unplugged my medical fridge! That was my entire semester’s worth of insulin!” Sienna looked at the ruined medicine with nothing but serene pity. “Tess, such expensive synthetic drugs are a luxury.” “The elderly in remote villages survive diseases through sheer willpower. Material goods cannot bring true health. Why won’t you let your body heal itself naturally?” Tess’s face drained of color. “I have Type 1 diabetes! I will literally die without insulin!” Sienna sighed, shaking her head. “That’s only because you’re coddled by modern medicine. Mother Nature will grant us…” “Mother Nature can go screw herself!” Tess scrambled to her feet, grabbed a heavy textbook from her desk, and hurled it straight at Sienna’s head. Sienna shrieked, ducking behind Gable. “Dean! She’s getting violent! The synthetic poisons have warped her mind!” 3 The dorm warden and the maintenance technician arrived shortly after. The moment the door opened, the heat forced them to take a step back. It was 2:00 PM. The outside temperature was pushing a hundred degrees. The windows were wide open, letting in waves of scorching air. Worse, the dorm floor was slick with dirty, stagnant water. The combination of extreme heat and standing water turned the room into a literal steam bath. The warden’s face twisted in disgust. “Where did all this water come from? Did a pipe burst?” Sienna peeked out from behind Gable, looking entirely innocent. “No, ma’am. I brought that water up from the campus lake.” “I read online that splashing water on the floor cools a room through evaporation. It’s ancient ecological wisdom. Plus, natural water carries natural energy.” The technician stared at the foul-smelling lake water, holding back his temper with visible effort. “Kid, the ancients lived in open-air stone pavilions. This is a sealed brick dormitory!” “Pouring stagnant pond water in this heat just sends the humidity through the roof. Anyone staying in here is going to get heatstroke!” Sienna pouted. “Sir, don’t let modern science blind you. Ancient wisdom is never wrong.” Some students in the hall murmured. Seeing her standing there with such righteous conviction, someone whispered, “It’s bizarre… but she really did it to try and cool the room down.” “Yeah, she’s clearly not playing with a full deck, but her heart’s in the right place.” “She was just trying to help.” Just then, our fourth roommate, Brooke, walked in from the balcony. Her neck was covered in angry red heat rashes, her energy entirely sapped by the humidity. She looked at the ruined insulin, then at the sweat-drenched Sienna, and sighed. “Tess, Gloria, let’s just drop it.” “Sienna came from a really remote rural town; maybe she just doesn’t understand. She was just trying to help us unplug from materialism. She spent all morning dripping sweat writing out environmental quotes for us.” “Let’s all just take a step back, do a good deed, and bear with it.” There it was. She was just trying to help. In my past life, that single, casual phrase had served as a shield for every bit of fatal damage she inflicted. Sienna’s eyes welled with tears of gratitude as she looked at Brooke. “Thank you, Brooke. Thank you for understanding. I just want to rescue everyone from the abyss of consumerism.” I locked eyes with Brooke. “She cut the AC cord, destroyed Tess’s life-saving medicine, and locked someone with a heart condition in a hundred-degree steam room.” “And you call that trying to help?” Brooke flinched under my gaze, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But look at her… do you want to push her over the edge?” Before I could respond, Sienna stepped forward, pulling a dirty rag pouch from her pocket and opening it with trembling hands. Inside was a small pile of crumpled ones and quarters. “Tess, Gloria, I know you’re used to luxury.” “This is thirty dollars I saved from recycling plastic bottles. I’m giving it to you. Go buy some processed ice pops to cool down, just please stop hating me.” She held the money out with both hands, tears dropping onto the dirty bills. With her faded dress and tearful eyes, she looked like a helpless orphan being bullied by wealthy aristocrats. The tide in the hallway turned instantly. “Oh, come on. She gave them her recycling money. Is it really that deep?” “It’s just a little warm. College girls these days are way too fragile.” “Forgive and forget. No need to crucify her.” Tess stared at the thirty dollars, shaking with silent fury, tears of humiliation spilling over as the weight of the crowd’s judgment choked out any words she had. Gable barked at the crowd to disperse, then turned to Sienna. “Sienna, destroying university property and damaging a peer’s critical medical supplies cannot be resolved with thirty dollars. My office. Now.” Sienna clutched her thirty dollars like a martyr carrying her cross, looking back at me with a mix of pity and a bizarre, fanatical zeal as she followed Gable out. 4 Predictably, by that evening, the university’s anonymous confession board was on fire. A post titled Pure-hearted scholarship student bullied by materialistic roommates for trying to save electricity was pinned to the top. It featured three strategically cropped photos. The first showed Sienna writing environmental slogans under the dim glow of a single desk lamp, drenched in sweat. The second was a profile shot of her crying in the hallway, holding out her crumpled bills. The third was of me, standing with my arms crossed, looking cold and unyielding—the perfect portrait of a wealthy, arrogant bully. The caption was pure bait: What is wrong with this world? Someone tries to practice eco-discipline during a heatwave, and her spoiled roommates force her to her knees to pay them back. Do poor people with principles not deserve to go to college? The comment section was a feeding frenzy. The girl with her arms crossed looks like a massive snob. It’s literally just AC. I grew up without fans and I’m fine. Kids today are brainwashed by corporate comfort. My heart breaks for this girl. The way she held out those crumpled bills made me tear up. Expose these spoiled brats. Let’s make sure everyone avoids them. Brooke handed me her phone, looking uncomfortable. “Gloria, look… things are getting out of hand. Maybe you and Tess should just forgive her. Just post a statement on the board, otherwise how are we going to face our classmates?” I stared at the misleading photo. My chest tightened, and my heart rate began to climb erratically. In my past life, this online harassment had destroyed me. I had posted my medical reports, the severed cord, Tess’s ruined insulin. Nobody cared. They only wanted to believe the narrative of the pure, impoverished eco-martyr. I took a deep breath, pushing the phone back. “She posted lies to ruin my reputation. Why should I be the one to apologize?” Gable had arranged for me to sleep temporarily on a spare cot in the warden’s ground-floor office. “Maintenance can’t fix the wiring until tomorrow. Sleep here tonight; there’s a fan. I’ll push the single room paperwork first thing in the morning.” The office only had an old ceiling fan that creaked rhythmically, blowing warm air, but it was paradise compared to the steam room upstairs. At 2:00 AM, just as I was drifting into a light sleep, a sharp, chemical stench assaulted my nose. It smelled like cheap, synthetic temple incense mixed with thick, dirty smoke. I choked, coughing violently as my heart rate spiked to 120. I couldn’t draw a breath. I struggled to open my eyes. Under the faint glow of the hallway light, I saw a figure standing by my cot. It was Sienna. She was holding a metal mug, packed with seven or eight smoldering incense coils, fanning the thick, grey smoke directly into my face. “What… what are you doing?” I gasped, clutching my chest. Sienna looked down at me, her expression terrifyingly serene. “Gloria, Brooke told me your heart was acting up. Your heart is racing because your mind is cluttered with modern anxiety and industrial poison.” “This is sacred meditation incense. Breathe it in. Let the primal smoke cleanse you. Once your mind is still, your heart will heal.” The thick smoke trapped in the unventilated office was suffocating. The sweltering heat, the toxic chemical fragrance, and the rapid loss of oxygen squeezed my chest like a vice. “Get… get out…” I reached out to knock the mug away. Sienna grabbed my wrist with surprising strength, her eyes wide and manic. “Don’t reject the earth’s medicine, Gloria! Breathe! Expel the industrial toxins!” My vision went black, a tearing pain ripping through my chest. With the last ounce of my strength, I grabbed my phone from under the pillow and squeezed the emergency SOS side buttons. The mug shattered on the floor as I collapsed onto the cot. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Sienna’s panicked, self-righteous shriek. “Gloria! Why would you rather faint than accept nature’s baptism?!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513571”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Just out of the clinic, my body still trembling from anesthesia, my phone buzzed. Someone tagged my husband Hugo in our main group chat. “Congratulations, Hugo! You’re finally a dad!” I froze, my mind struggling to process the words. Another notification popped up from Nora, my supposed best friend. “Thank you, everyone! We’ll have you over for drinks once we’re settled.” The chat flooded with messages from mutual friends congratulating them. “She got her happy ending.” “Five years in the shadows couldn’t have been easy.” “Hugo finally gave you his name.” I scrolled down, my eyes burning as I read each message. Then Vivian, my mother-in-law, posted a family portrait of Hugo, Nora, herself, and a newborn. I was completely missing. Sitting in the sterile hospital corridor, my lower abdomen throbbed with heavy pain. My fingers shook so hard I could barely hold the phone. Hugo and I had been married for eight years. He always said he didn’t want children, so I endured procedure after procedure to respect his wishes. But he didn’t refuse fatherhood. He refused it with me. His mother knew. Our friends knew. They kept the secret while celebrating behind my back. I looked at my crumpled discharge papers, then tapped the photo. I zoomed in on Hugo’s smiling face, then out, then in again. A suffocating weight pressed on my chest. Finally, I typed a single message. “Congratulations. Consider my eight years of marriage my gift to your child.” … The moment my message sent, the chat went dead silent. Then, one by one, the messages started disappearing. Deleted. Unsent. Someone quickly muttered something about posting in the wrong group. Others started chiming in with soft lectures, telling me that today was a celebration for the baby and that I shouldn’t ruin the mood. They told me to handle my private drama later, rather than making a scene. I stared at the screen, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. I had just walked out of surgery. The baby in my womb had been gone for barely a few hours. Yet here they were, teaching me how to be polite and telling me not to rain on another child’s parade. It turned out that in my eight years of marriage, even my grief had to wait for a convenient time. Before long, a notification flashed on the screen. I had been removed from the group. A second later, Hugo’s name lit up my phone. “Is the procedure over? How are you feeling?” His voice was steady and calm, wrapping me in that same familiar warmth he always used. Just like every other time. If I hadn’t seen that portrait just minutes ago, I probably would have believed he actually cared. “I’m fine,” I said. “Don’t take what they said in the chat seriously. They were just messing around.” He sighed, his voice smooth. “Nora did have a baby, but it has nothing to do with me. My mom just went over to help, and they forced us into that photo.” I leaned my head back against the cold plastic chair, listening to him spin his lies, thread by thread. My heart was too tired to even break. “Allie? Are you there?” “I’m tired,” I whispered. “I just got out of surgery. I don’t want to talk.” He let out a breath, a sound of pure relief. “Go home and rest, okay? Don’t overthink things. I have a dinner meeting tonight, so I might be late. There’s soup on the stove, make sure you heat it up.” He had done this after every single miscarriage and procedure. He would remind me to take my pills, tell me to stay away from cold water, and tuck me into bed, playing the part of the perfect, doting husband. After the call ended, I sat in the quiet hallway for a long time. The cramping in my abdomen grew sharper, a dull, heavy ache dragging me down. I looked down at the crumpled discharge paper in my hand. The first time I got pregnant, I was ecstatic. I ran to Hugo with the positive test, but he only stared at it in silence. Then he held me tight and said his startup was still too fragile, and we couldn’t afford a distraction. The second time, he said it was a critical year for his career. The third time, his mother held my hand, pleading with me. She said I was young, that there would be other babies, but right now, Hugo needed a stable home so he could build his business. After that, whenever Hugo frowned, I would quietly book the appointment myself. I honestly believed we were making those sacrifices together. But we weren’t. He just didn’t want a child with me. I opened Instagram and scrolled through my feed. Someone had posted a story from the baby shower, complete with a location tag. Cove Haven. Our house. Last year, for our eighth anniversary, he had pressed the keys into my palm and promised me this house would be our fresh start, a sanctuary just for the two of us. I had stayed awake all night, giddy with joy, secretly planning the colors for a nursery. And now, another woman and her baby were living in that sanctuary. While I sat like a ghost in a hospital hallway, watching everyone celebrate their perfect life, I stared at the address and ordered a ride. “Cove Haven, please.” Outside, the city lights blurred into long, distorted streaks, but all I could see was Nora’s face. She had helped me choose my wedding dress. She had helped me pick out my rings. She had driven me to the clinic, holding my hand after every procedure, always the first one waiting for me outside the recovery room. How could she be the one to plunge the knife into my back? When the car pulled up, the house was glowing with light. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the soft cooing of a baby drifted through the windows. It felt like a mockery of my entire life. I pushed the door open. The living room was a sea of pastel pink. A massive backdrop for the baby shower blocked half the wall, pushing our wedding portrait to the very edge, hidden behind a stack of presents. Only a tiny corner of our smiling faces was visible. Just like me, squeezed out of my own life until only a pathetic trace remained. The room was packed. In the center of the crowd stood Nora, cradling a baby. She was wearing the brand-new silk dress I had bought last week, the one that was supposed to be sitting in my closet. Hugo stood right beside her, looking down at the baby with a smile so tender it burned my eyes. The truth hit me like a physical blow. No one had intruded on my marriage. They had all simply agreed that I was already gone. The laughter died instantly when they saw me. His mother, Vivian, was the first to scowl. “What are you doing here?” I almost laughed. This was my house, and my presence was treated as an intrusion. A mutual friend tried to play peacemaker, murmuring that they were just visiting the baby and that I shouldn’t overthink things. Don’t overthink things. I pulled the clinic papers from my bag, walked over to the gift table, and set them down. The white medical sheet stood out like a shroud among the pink gift boxes. “Keep going,” I said, looking around the room. “Why did everyone stop talking?” Hugo’s face darkened. He stepped in front of me, his voice a low, warning hiss. “Allie, don’t do this here.” I looked at him, wondering where he found the nerve to say those words. “I just lost a baby today,” I said softly, my voice carrying in the quiet room. “I walked out of the clinic to find a group chat congratulating you on becoming a father. And you’re telling me I’m the one making a scene?” The air turned ice-cold. I looked at the bundle in Nora’s arms. “That’s yours, isn’t it?” Nora clutched the baby tighter, her eyes immediately welling with tears. But before she could speak, someone else spoke up for her, claiming the baby was innocent, and that bringing medical papers to a baby shower was bad luck. Someone even muttered that after so many years of marriage, it was natural for things to fade, and that Nora had had a hard time raising the baby alone. A numb sensation spread through my chest. They all knew. They knew about Nora and Hugo. They knew whose baby it was. They knew about every single surgery I had endured, yet not a single person had warned me. They had just stood on the sidelines, watching me clear the path for someone else. Nora looked at me, her chin trembling. “Allie, I know you hate me. But I swear, I never wanted to take anything from you.” I stared at her. “You never wanted to?” “I just… I loved him too much,” she sobbed, a tear slipping down her cheek. “When I got pregnant, I couldn’t bring myself to end it. I’ve never asked him for anything. I just wanted my baby to have a peaceful life.” I looked at the baby, then at her. It was absurd. She was living in my house, wearing my clothes, hosting a party in my living room, and she claimed she had never asked for anything. Vivian stepped forward, her face twisted in annoyance. “That’s enough, Allie. You couldn’t even keep a pregnancy. Are we supposed to let the family line die out because of you?” I froze, the cruelty of her words sinking deep. But she was just getting started. “Nora gave this family an heir. She’s the one who deserves respect. You’re still the legal wife. If you play your cards right, you can keep your title.” Standing in that room, I felt a bone-deep chill. To them, I wasn’t a wife, a daughter-in-law, or a friend. I was just a piece of furniture that was expected to be quiet, accommodating, and blind. I looked down at the wedding band on my left hand. Eight years, and the metal was scratched and worn. I had always believed that as long as this ring was on my finger, my marriage was real. But I had been clinging to a useless piece of scrap metal. I slowly slid the ring off and placed it next to the clinic papers. “Hugo,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I’m done.” Silence fell over the room. A flicker of panic finally crossed his face, his jaw tightening. “Do you even know what you’re saying?” “I do.” Nora took a frantic step forward. “Allie, please. Blame me, hate me, but don’t divorce him. He’s had it so hard. He’s been caught in the middle for years…” “Shut up.” She gasped, freezing in her tracks. I looked at her, my voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. “You knew exactly how much pain I was in. But you still crawled into my husband’s bed and had his child. Now you stand here playing the victim, acting so delicate and wronged. Nora, doesn’t it make you sick?” Her face drained of color, and she took a step back. Hugo instantly stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. “That’s enough, Allie.” Watching him protect her, the last lingering ember of warmth in my heart died out. He did know how to protect someone. He had just never done it for me. I turned and walked toward the door. “If you leave him, what do you think you’ll have left?” Vivian’s cold voice threw itself at my back. I didn’t stop. “At least I won’t be covered in your filth.” I had barely reached the elevator when Hugo caught up to me. He grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the empty stairwell. “Allie, does everything have to be a scene with you?” I looked down at his hand on my skin and felt a wave of nausea. “Let go of me.” He didn’t. Instead, his brow furrowed with irritation, as if I were a child throwing a tantrum. “I admit, I lied to you. But it’s not what you think.” The classic excuse. I didn’t even bother to ask. He started babbling about how it was a mistake, how they had both had too much to drink after a corporate dinner, and how he was just trying to get her home safely. A mistake. Men always used that word as if it could wash away the dirt. “Then she got pregnant,” he continued, his voice softer now. “I wanted her to get an abortion, but she refused. The baby was innocent, Allie. I couldn’t force her to do it.” I listened, my heart sinking further into the dark. So when I got pregnant, he could let me go through with it. But when it came to Nora, he couldn’t bear the thought. “And what about me?” I looked at him. “When I begged you to let us keep our babies, how could you bear it then?” His frown deepened. “Your health was always fragile. Getting pregnant over and over would have destroyed you. I did it for your own good, Allie.” For my own good. A hysterical laugh threatened to tear through my throat. “And her?” “She was willing to carry the baby, and she didn’t ask for a marriage,” he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “I was only trying to minimize the damage.” “I’m not divorcing you,” he added, his voice turning firm. “I’ll give you the house, the money, the status. I’ll keep the baby elsewhere. She won’t interfere with your life. You just need to look the other way, and we can go back to normal.” I stared at him, completely speechless. How hollow did a man have to be to say something like that and think it was a generous offer? “What do you take me for?” I smiled, though my eyes burned with tears. His perfect solution was for me to sit quietly as his wife while he played family with another woman down the road. “You disgust me, Hugo.” His expression darkened, and his tone shifted, colder this time. “Don’t forget your grandmother is still in that care facility.” My chest tightened. “I’ve been paying the bills there for years,” he said, his eyes drilling into mine. “She needs constant care, and she can’t handle any stress. If you really want a divorce, Allie, make sure you can actually afford it first.” I stood there, frozen. My parents had passed away when I was young, and my grandmother was the only family I had left. She was frail, her mind slipping, completely dependent on that specialized facility. And I, to support Hugo, to build our life, to recover from those endless surgeries, had depleted my own savings long ago. He knew that. He was using the only person I loved to break me. “Are you threatening me?” “I’m reminding you of reality,” he said smoothly. “Once you calm down, you’ll see that divorce isn’t your best option.” Just then, the faint cry of a baby drifted from the apartment. Hugo’s head turned instantly, a purely instinctive reaction. I ripped my wrist from his grip, turned, and walked away. When I got back to my apartment, I didn’t even turn on the lights. I curled up on the sofa in the dark. The pain in my abdomen flared up again, sharp and twisting, and the tears finally came. I wasn’t crying for him. I was crying for the sheer waste of it all. Eight years of marriage, reducing myself to a ghost, only to find out I was the punchline of a joke everyone else had been laughing at for years. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next morning, the care facility called. The payment had been declined. I held the phone to my ear, unable to make a sound. He had threatened me yesterday, and today he cut off her care. By the time I reached the care home, my body was aching. But as I approached her room, I froze. Nora was sitting beside my grandmother, cradling her baby and humming softly. Vivian stood nearby, a warm, genuine smile on her face, a smile she had never once given me. And my grandmother, with her faded eyes, was reaching out to touch the baby’s cheek, a gentle smile on her face. My stomach dropped. “What are you doing here?” They all turned to look at me. Vivian spoke first, her tone dripping with irritation. “We came to visit. Is that a crime?” Nora gave me a soft, apologetic smile. “Allie, please don’t be upset. I just thought it would be nice for your grandmother to see the baby. Old people love babies.” I ignored her, walking straight to my grandmother’s side. I knelt down and took her hand. “Gran, I’m here.” It took her a moment to recognize me, but then her face lit up. She pointed a trembling finger at the baby in Nora’s arms. “Whose lovely little girl is that?” “She’s a family baby,” Vivian chimed in quickly. My muscles tensed. My grandmother looked at me, confused. “Do you and Hugo have a baby now, sweetie?” “No, Gran,” I said immediately. “Don’t listen to them.” Nora stepped closer, holding the baby out. “Her name is Sophie, Grandma. The house is going to be so much livelier now.” I looked up at her, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Get away from her.” She ignored me, taking another step forward. My grandmother smiled at the baby, her eyes softening. She didn’t know that I had been pregnant too. That I had carried life, only for those lives to be quietly erased. Vivian folded her arms, letting out a heavy sigh. “The family finally has an heir. A man works himself to the bone out there to build a legacy for his children, after all.” I stood up abruptly. “Get out.” My grandmother gasped, her hand trembling in mine. “Allie, what’s wrong? What’s happening?” I tried to soothe her, but Nora wouldn’t stop. She stood there with her red eyes, looking fragile and generous. “A woman without children has nothing to hold onto in the end, Allie. I was only trying to help you see that.” I turned to face her. “Say another word.” Her eyes welled with tears, looking as if she might collapse. “Did I say something wrong?” Vivian sneered. “She didn’t say a single lie. You couldn’t produce an heir, so you have no right to stop someone else from doing it.” My grandmother’s memory was failing, but she could sense the hostility. Her breathing grew rapid, her grip tightening on my fingers. “Allie, tell me what’s going on. Who are these people?” I reached out to calm her, but Nora pulled out her phone, tapping on the family portrait and holding it in front of my grandmother’s face. “Grandma, we just want you to know that Hugo is happy now. We aren’t trying to hide.” My grandmother stared at the photo, and the color drained from her face. Her hands shook violently, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked gasps. “This… you… how could you!” A warning alarm went off in my head. I spun around to hit the emergency call button, but Vivian stepped in front of me, blocking the wall. “What are you panicking for? She had to find out eventually!” “Move!” I shoved her aside. “Can’t you see she can’t breathe!” In the chaos, Nora stood back, clutching the baby and whimpering that she shouldn’t have to hide. My vision blurred as I scrambled to reach the call button. Just then, the baby began to cry. Nora screamed, “Allie, don’t touch my baby!” In that exact second, Hugo burst through the door. He walked in to see Nora cowering with a crying baby, his mother struggling with me, and my grandmother gasping for air in her wheelchair. He didn’t ask a single question. His first instinct was to pull Nora and the baby behind him, while I threw myself over my grandmother. The medical staff rushed in, wheeling her straight into the ICU. I stood outside the doors, my entire body shaking. But when Hugo walked up to me, the first words out of his mouth were: “Allie, when is this drama going to end?” I stared at him, numb. Nora stood behind him, tears streaming down her face. “I just wanted to bring the baby to see her… but she lost her temper and almost hit Sophie…” Vivian backed her up, claiming I had lost my mind and tried to hurt the child. I couldn’t even find the words to argue. Soon, the doctor came out. He said they had stabilized her, but the stress had taken a severe toll on her heart. She was fragile, and any further shock could be fatal. My knees buckled, and I barely caught myself against the wall. That evening, I went back to the house to pack up my documents. When I opened the bedroom door, I froze. My room had been completely dismantled, turned into a nursery. And in the corner of the balcony, tossed aside like trash, was an old wooden chest. It was the only thing my mother had left me. Inside were her old photographs, her letters, and the tiny baby clothes I had secretly bought over the years. After every miscarriage, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, so I had locked them inside that chest. But now, the lock was broken, and my memories were scattered across the concrete. I knelt down, my hands shaking as I gathered the papers and the tiny clothes. Nora stood at the balcony door, holding her baby, looking down at me. “Those dead things shouldn’t be taking up space anyway,” she said softly. The world went completely quiet. I stood up, holding the chest, and walked toward her. “Say that again.” She took a step back, but her voice remained sweet. “We all have to move on…” I lunged at her. But she saw something over my shoulder, screamed, and shoved the baby into the nearby stroller.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513570”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend was drowning in depression. Between his prescription meds and private specialists, his treatment was costing thousands of dollars a month. To keep him afloat, I practically lived on caffeine, taking on endless freelance art commissions and delivering food day and night. My friends begged me to slow down, constantly warning me that I was going to work myself into an early grave. Then came the afternoon I accepted a high-end delivery heading to an exclusive, gated neighborhood. I stood at the entrance of a massive, sprawling estate, politely holding out a three-thousand-dollar luxury sushi order with both hands. But when I looked up, my heart stopped. Standing right there in the grand doorway, looking back at me in absolute shock, was my boyfriend. The exact same man who was supposed to be in a critical therapy session at that very moment. 1 “Aren’t you supposed to be at the clinic, Stephen?” I stared at the sprawling, ultra-modern mansion. The cardboard box of high-end sushi in my hands felt like ice, my fingers aching from how hard I gripped it. Even though the summer heat was pushing a brutal hundred degrees, I shivered as if I had been dropped into an arctic winter. A place like this was something I had only ever seen in movies. “Audrey, I’m sorry. Let me explain. Dr. Lewis had an emergency this afternoon…” “I just came over to hang out with a friend.” Caught red-handed, Stephen lost his usual composure. He reached out, frantically grabbing my sleeve. It was his signature move whenever he apologized, a gesture that had worked a thousand times before. But today, the magic was gone. I coldly slapped his hand away. The designer shirt he wore bore a logo I couldn’t even name, but the irony was loud and clear. It fit him perfectly, highlighting the wealthy heir he actually was, far better than the cheap, faded hoodies he wore around me. I looked down, opening the Silveridge Hospital portal on my phone to check Dr. Lewis’s schedule. When I saw that the psychiatrist still had plenty of open slots for the day, I didn’t even have the energy to call out his lie. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I forced my voice to stay level and cold. “Is this fun for you, Stephen?” “Playing the tragic, broke boy who couldn’t even afford a five-dollar coffee… when in reality, you’re a trust-fund prince who spends three thousand dollars on a single lunch?” My lips trembled. I stared at him, barely realizing that my eyes were already swimming with tears. “You really… you treated me like a complete idiot.” “Three thousand dollars. Do you have any idea how many deliveries that is? That is six hundred deliveries. That’s two months of sleepless nights for me.” The ultimate joke was my lock screen. The last text I had sent him, barely thirty minutes ago, was still open. I had told him I was going to make his favorite potato soup tonight to celebrate, because the customer in the wealthy gated community had been incredibly generous, leaving a fifteen-dollar tip. I never could have guessed that the generous tipper was my own boyfriend. 2 Stephen used to hold me close in the middle of the night, whispering that I was the only person in the world whose love he never doubted. He said even his own parents didn’t love him as purely as I did. Back then, those whispered sweet nothings made me feel like the luckiest girl alive, happy to have found something real in a world full of superficiality. But looking back, it was just pathetic. Of course nobody else would be stupid enough to ride a bicycle through a blinding heatwave for a measly two-dollar high-temperature bonus, desperately trying to scrape together enough cash for his monthly therapy bills. “I haven’t slept more than five hours a night in months. Every single day, I prayed for you to get better.” “You knew all of this, didn’t you?” My voice cracked, thick with tears. The calm, apologetic mask on Stephen’s face began to fracture. His eyes reddened, and he gave a slow, painful nod. In that cramped, moldy studio apartment we shared, where we had to walk thirty minutes just to reach the nearest subway station, he had watched me struggle. He watched me pinch pennies, skipping meals to save a dollar. He watched me drown in exhaustion, working myself to the bone to pay for his imaginary treatment, all while he watched from above like a god playing a simulation. “I’ll transfer some money to your account,” he muttered, looking down. “As compensation.” “I really am sorry, Audrey.” He stood there, head bowed, a mix of guilt and helplessness in his eyes. Realizing there was no lie left to save him, he gave up. My fingers stiffened around the crumpled receipt in my pocket. It was nearly a foot long, detailing the rarest, most expensive cuts of wagyu and sashimi. I rolled it into a tight ball and threw it at his face with every ounce of strength I had left. Stephen didn’t flinch. His expression was a heavy, suffocating mix of sorrow and regret. The cool draft from the air-conditioned mansion drifted out into the summer air. Under the loud hum of the cicadas, light footsteps approached the grand entrance. Then, a girl’s whiny, pampered voice cut through the silence. “Stephen? Where’s the food? I’m literally starving in here!” 3 The silence between Stephen and me shattered. His expression tightened. We both turned toward the door just as a young girl in a silk slip dress walked out. Stephen panicked, stepping in front of her to block her path. “Why did you come out? Go back inside. I’ll be right in, babe.” But the girl had no intention of going back. She sidestepped him, her gaze landing on me. Her eyes, beautiful but sharp, carried a chillingly familiar look of condescension. “Who is this?” she asked. Neither of us answered. Seeing our silence, a slow, malicious smile spread across her lips. She casually wrapped her arm around Stephen’s, pulling her low-cut pastel slip dress slightly lower, exposing the faint red marks on her collarbone and the soft curves beneath the silk. She leaned her entire weight against him, completely relaxed. Stephen’s anxious gaze darted to me, terrified of my reaction. I turned my head away, closing my eyes. My sweat-soaked hair clung to my cheeks, and a sharp, throbbing headache pulsed behind my temples. I didn’t need to be a genius to know exactly what had happened in that house. I had thought I was just the unlucky victim of a rich boy’s poverty simulation. But it turned out I was also the entertainment in a wealthy couple’s twisted love story. It was sickening. I didn’t want to waste another second here. I turned around to grab my delivery bag, ready to leave. But the girl called out to me, her voice dripping with amusement. “Wait. Are you that charity-case girlfriend Stephen’s been playing with off-campus?” “I didn’t recognize you in that delivery uniform. You’re Audrey from the literature department, aren’t you?” 4 I stopped and turned back to look at her. After a long, agonizing thirty seconds, the pieces clicked. Sienna. She was a senior, a wealthy, popular girl who was always surrounded by a crowd of sycophants. But we had history. The year before, she had used her family’s influence to steal my financial aid scholarship and give it to one of her friends. Because of that, I had never bowed down to her like everyone else did. Seeing the dark, silent anger in my eyes, Sienna tightened her grip on Stephen’s arm. She let out a delighted, high-pitched giggle. “Stephen, I can’t believe you actually did it. Last year, I casually complained to you about how much I hated this self-righteous girl in my department.” “You asked a few questions, and then you actually went out and broke her. I have to hand it to you, babe. This is brilliant.” Sienna looked up at me, her eyes gleaming with malice. “You managed to turn the department’s star student into a literal dog, running around at your beck and call.” I slowly clenched my fists. The cold air from the doorway washed over my sweaty skin, but it brought no relief. To people like them, the dreams, the sweat, the tears, and the very lives of ordinary people were just weeds on the side of the road. Not only did they ignore us, but they also took pleasure in stepping on us and spitting on our misery. Sienna leaned in and kissed Stephen’s cheek, treating me like the punchline of a joke, her eyes flashing with pure triumph. Then, as if remembering something even more delicious, her expression turned manic. “Audrey, sweetie, let me guess. Did Stephen tell you he had severe depression?” My brow furrowed, but I couldn’t deny it. Sienna burst into a fit of laughter, clutching her stomach. But the words that tumbled from her mouth next made my entire world shatter. “That’s because I told him your little brother took his own life because of depression.” “We knew that if Stephen pretended to be depressed, you’d fall for it hook, line, and sinker.” “And look at you. You actually did.” 5 The air went entirely still, the heavy silence broken only by the deafening buzz of the cicadas. My mind snapped. All logic and restraint evaporated. I bit my lower lip until it bled, ripped off my heavy delivery helmet, and swung it with everything I had straight at Stephen’s face. If I let this slide, I might as well give up on living. My chest heaved violently as I screamed at him. “Depression, right? Playing poor, right? You like using my dead brother as a joke?” “You absolute piece of trash! No wonder your parents don’t love you! No wonder your father beats your mother right in front of you! Why didn’t he just beat you to death instead?” “I’ll do him a favor and kill you myself today!” During our year together, whether it was a game to him or a real connection to me, we had shared our deepest vulnerabilities. I knew his darkest secret: the cold neglect of his parents, the abuse he had witnessed, and the hollow ache of never knowing what a real family felt like. And now, those secrets became the weapons I used to rip him apart. Before either of them could react, I swung the helmet again, heavy plastic slamming into his face over and over. I was hyperventilating, my head spinning from weeks of sleep deprivation and pure, unadulterated rage. The second Sienna mentioned my brother, Felix, the fragile wall of sanity I had built shattered into dust. He was the one person in this world no one was allowed to touch. Stephen didn’t even try to defend himself. He just stood there, taking the blows, until Sienna finally screamed and tried to pull me off him. He stumbled back, his hands covered in the blood pouring from his nose and mouth. “Are you okay, Stephen? I’m calling the police!” Sienna cried, her voice shaking with panic. “This crazy bitch is out of her mind! I’ll have my dad destroy her…” Stephen grabbed her wrist, shaking his head weakly. “No. Don’t.” “I… I owe her this.” He wiped the blood from his lip, smoothed back his messy hair, and stepped back toward me. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek gold credit card, and held it out to me. “The PIN is your birthday. I know there’s no fixing this, but… just take it. I’m sorry.” I let out a cold, hollow laugh, staring at him with nothing but pure hatred. “Go die.” I snatched the card from his fingers, turned on my heel, and walked away. 6 There was over a hundred thousand dollars on the card. I called my delivery manager, demanded my final paycheck, and quit on the spot. My tiny, cheap studio apartment felt smaller than ever, easily taken in with a single glance. I had moved out of the dorms with Stephen because he claimed his physical symptoms of depression were getting worse, and he needed me by his side every day. I hadn’t been entirely defenseless when he first entered my life, but seeing him suffer from the exact same illness that had taken my brother made my heart soft. It made me foolish. In my desperation to save him, the lines between my love for him and my crippling guilt over my brother had blurred. I had thrown myself into saving Stephen as if it could somehow rewrite the past and cure my nightmares. I spent hours packing. We had accumulated a lot of things over the year, but looking at the matching mugs, the couple’s watches, and the cheap souvenirs we bought, they only felt like acid in my eyes. I threw them all into the trash. I lay down on the mattress, listening to the loud, rattling hum of the old air conditioner. Free from the endless cycle of delivery shifts, I finally fell into a deep, heavy sleep. In my dreams, I was back in that bathroom. Felix lay in the bathtub, completely pale, surrounded by water stained dark red. He looked like a fragile porcelain doll, cold and silent. An empty pill bottle lay near his limp fingers. His long eyelashes were closed, looking exactly the way they did when he used to doze off while waiting for me to finish studying. Only this time, he would never wake up. He would never open his eyes and ask me when we were going to bed. On his phone, he had deleted every single message and chat history, leaving only a final text to me: “I’m sorry, sis,” along with a bank transfer of five hundred dollars. Everything he had to his name. He had left during the peak of spring, a brilliant boy taken in his prime. And I had been trapped in that spring ever since. 7 The rustling of a plastic trash bag by the door woke me up. A figure in a black shirt was crouching by my garbage can, frantically digging through the trash. “Who’s there?” The figure froze, then slowly turned around. It was Stephen. He was wearing a black face mask, with several white bandages taped over his face where I had hit him. I rubbed my aching temples, realizing I had forgotten he still had a spare key. He had pulled out all the matching rings, cups, and mementos I had thrown away, neatly lining them up on the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked, my voice flat. Stephen looked down, hiding his eyes. “I just came to pack up some of my things.” “They’re just cheap trash, Stephen. I didn’t think a billionaire would care.” I sat up on the bed, scanning the room to see if I had left anything important. Once I was done packing, I was planning to move back into the dorms and cancel the lease on this apartment. Stephen held the cheap silver matching ring in his palm, his thumb gently rubbing the band. His voice sounded hollow and distant. “I know you don’t believe me, Audrey. But I really did love you. You were the only person in the world I trusted.” “Nobody has ever loved me the way you did. I didn’t want to lose you.” I let out a soft, mocking chuckle, the scene at the mansion flashing through my mind like a cruel joke. “Love? Is that what you call it? Was it love when you had me deliver a three-thousand-dollar meal to the house where you had just slept with another girl? Should I thank you for the tip?” “Sienna is a mistake! I can explain! Nothing happened between us. I only agreed to date her in the past because she wouldn’t stop asking.” “I wanted to break up with her a long time ago. I finally realized that the only person I truly love is…” “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I cut him off, my voice ice-cold. The bathroom faucet dripped loudly into the plastic bucket below. The plumbing had been leaking for months, and to save on the water bill, I had kept a bucket there to catch the drops. Every penny had mattered to me, and to hear him talk about love now was simply insulting. The moment his lie was exposed, a chasm opened between us, one that no amount of explanations could ever bridge. “Stephen, when you used my dead brother to get close to me, did you ever consider that karma would find you?” “What do you mean?” I didn’t answer. I simply stood up, walked to the door, and opened it, signaling for him to leave. He saw the finality in my eyes, his face falling as he gathered the cheap trinkets into his bag and stood up. “Stop pretending to be depressed,” I said as he reached the door. “Because every time someone like you uses it as a game, the stigma gets worse, and the people who are actually suffering are left in the dark.” People like Felix. Stephen stood silent for a long moment, then slowly nodded. Before he stepped out, he pulled a bag of groceries from behind his back, containing pork ribs and lotus root. He had seen the message I sent him about making his favorite soup. “Can you make me the soup one last time?” “No. Your family’s chef can make it much better.” “I only like yours.” He looked at me, his eyes rimmed with red. “Audrey, why won’t you give me one more chance?” His voice cracked, thick with tears. I never expected the arrogant heir of Silveridge’s wealthiest family to look so pathetic, begging for my forgiveness. The simulation was over, yet he was still playing the part. I met his gaze with absolute silence. He knew it was over. The hand he had reached out to grab mine slowly fell to his side. At the doorway, he looked back at me, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. “Do you still love me?” “No.” “Could you ever love me again?” “Never.” 8 After Stephen left, I spent the rest of the night packing the remaining boxes. I was scheduled to move back to the campus dorms next week. Around three in the morning, I sat on the sofa, exhausted. My eyes fell on a small, locked metal box in the corner of the closet. My brother’s things. Felix and I were twins. Our parents had divorced when we were young, and both had quickly started new families. We were treated like a costly mistake of their youth, an inconvenience they both wanted to forget. So, from middle school onward, Felix and I survived on the bare minimum child support they sent, keeping each other alive. My heart ached at the memory. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small jewelry box. It was the last birthday gift Felix had given me, a delicate silver necklace with a star pendant. He had been smiling so brightly when he placed it around my neck. “I saved up to buy this for you, Audrey. Do you like it? It looks so beautiful on you, better than on the model!” “I know it’s not expensive, but I’m going to work hard. One day, I’ll buy you the most beautiful gems in the world.” I had smiled, poking the single dimple on his cheek. “I believe you, Felix. I’ll be waiting.” As I held the jewelry box, I felt something rattling beneath the velvet padding. I pulled it back and found a small key hidden inside. Felix hadn’t given me this key when he first gave me the necklace. He must have slipped it in later. I took the key, walked over to the locked box in the closet, and turned the lock. It clicked open. Inside, there were only four things. A canvas painting of withered sunflowers, a vinyl record from his favorite indie band, a black notebook, and a small slip of paper with a username and password written on it. I picked up the black notebook, resting it on my lap. I turned the pages. The early entries were just ordinary things, complaining about exams or mentioning a girl who had tried to hand him a love letter. It made sense. Felix had always been handsome, with soft features and a quiet, mysterious charm that drew people in. But because we had grown up abandoned, he had always been deeply sensitive and guarded, which was why he kept a journal. When he started college at Silveridge University, his incredible vocals quickly made him the lead singer of the campus band, and he was always surrounded by fans. My heart ached as I read through his memories, but my fingers froze on a page halfway through. Sienna’s name had appeared in the journal. And as I turned the pages, her name appeared more and more frequently.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513569”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Locked in a psychiatric hospital for four years after my husband diagnosed me, I returned home to changed locks. I buzzed for ten minutes before a strange woman answered, wearing my silk robe and diamond necklace. She smirked, calling Victor. “Babe, a crazy woman’s here.” Victor approached, eyeing me like a stray dog. “Out? I’ll have the driver take you to a motel.” I ignored him, searching for my daughter. Four-year-old Lucy read in the living room. At my call, she flinched, hiding behind the woman. “Mommy, she’s scary,” she whispered. Victor stepped between us, voice hardening. “Don’t frighten her. Lawyers tomorrow.” Numb, I walked into freezing rain. A nearby billboard flashed a movie trailer. The poster showed me, hair wild, strapped to a bed, screaming. The film, Madwoman, had grossed millions with rave reviews. The director’s credit revealed Victor’s name. Shaking, I dialed a number saved for four years. It rang twice. “You finally called,” a voice said. … “Dominic.” The name tasted like ash and blood as it forced its way past my lips. The line went dead silent for a fraction of a second. Then came the sharp screech of a chair dragging across a floor, followed by hushed whispers in the background. “Kathy?” His voice was deep, thick with sudden tension, traveling across thousands of miles of ocean to strike my eardrums. “It’s me.” I stared blankly at the massive billboard of Madwoman. The woman on the screen looked like a raving lunatic, and Victor’s name underneath felt like a rusted nail driven straight into my skull. “Are you out?” Dominic’s voice wavered, carrying a trace of a tremor. “Yes.” I closed my eyes, letting the freezing rain wash over my face. “Wait for me,” he said, his tone instantly shifting to cold authority. “Three days. I’ll tie up my business here in London and catch the first flight back.” “Okay.” I hung up, and the screen went black. Through the downpour, a black Maybach beeped its horn. It was our driver, Frank. Four years ago, he had treated me with absolute deference. Now, he didn’t even bother to roll his window down all the way, leaving only a tiny crack. “Ma’am, Mr. Creston ordered me to pick you up. He booked a room for you at the budget motel on the south side of town.” A cheap motel. I looked down at my bare ankles, purple from the biting cold, and let out a dry, hollow laugh. I, Kathy Barrett, had brought a massive family fortune into my marriage with Victor. He had used my inheritance to build his entire empire, only to throw me into an asylum for four long years. And now, on my first night of freedom, he expected me to sleep in a fifty-dollar-a-night motel. “No need.” I turned my back on the Maybach and stepped into the rain, hailing a passing taxi. “Take me to the Crestview estate.” Frank kept honking behind me, but I didn’t look back. Thirty minutes later, I stood outside the iron gates of what used to be my home. The main digital lock had been reprogrammed, but I knew that inside the ventilation shaft near the garage lay a physical spare key. It was a failsafe I had hidden during the renovation because I was notoriously forgetful. The lock turned with a heavy click. The heavy wooden door swung open. The living room was dark, save for the flickering orange glow of the fireplace. Sienna’s sweet, high-pitched laughter floated over the back of the sofa. “Victor, is that crazy bitch really gone? What if she comes back with a knife to slit my throat?” Victor’s deep, smooth voice followed, laced with lazy arrogance. “She wouldn’t dare. After all the electroshock therapy she endured at Havenwood, her spine is completely broken.” “But Lucy looked so frightened. I should take her to a child psychologist tomorrow. What if she inherited that crazy woman’s genes?” “Thank you, Sienna. Honestly, I don’t know what I would have done without you raising Lucy as your own these past four years.” I stood in the shadows of the foyer, looking at the high heels and men’s leather belts discarded carelessly on the floor. My stomach turned. Four years ago, Victor had knelt in the pouring rain, begging me to save his failing company. Eight months pregnant, I sold the last piece of land my mother had left me to clear his debts. In return, he bribed a team of doctors, pumped me full of hallucinogens, and had me dragged into an unmarked van. “If you’re so terrified of my genes, why are you still living in my house?” I stepped out of the shadows, my voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. The two on the sofa bolted upright. Sienna frantically pulled up the slipping silk robe, which happened to be mine. Victor’s face instantly darkened. He grabbed a throw blanket and tossed it over Sienna’s bare legs. “Kathy! Who the hell let you in?” He marched toward me, his eyes filled with the viciousness he would reserve for an armed intruder. “This is my house,” I said, staring him down. “My name is on the deed. Why shouldn’t I be here?” Sienna shrunk behind Victor, her eyes red, trembling like a frightened rabbit. “Kathy, please don’t start acting up. Victor did this for your own good. You just got discharged, and you need a quiet place to heal…” “Shut up.” I reached out and grabbed a porcelain vase resting on the foyer cabinet. It was a rare piece Victor had bid three hundred thousand dollars on at an auction, presenting it to me as a birthday gift. A loud crash echoed through the room. The vase shattered into a million pieces right at Victor’s feet. Shards flew, slicing through the fabric of his trousers. “Who gave you permission to speak to me?” Sienna shrieked, wrapping her arms tightly around Victor’s waist. “Victor! She’s trying to kill us! She’s having another episode!” The door to the second-floor bedroom suddenly opened. Lucy, wearing a pink nightgown, rubbed her eyes and stepped onto the landing. Seeing the chaos below, she burst into tears. “Mommy! I’m scared!” Hearing her call out “Mommy” shattered whatever resolve I had left. “Lucy, come to Mommy.” I dropped the remaining shards and moved toward the stairs. But Lucy stumbled down the steps, bypassing my outstretched arms entirely, and threw herself into Sienna’s embrace. “Mama Sienna, the bad lady is breaking things again! She’s crazy! Get her out of here!” I froze. My hands hovered in the air, my fingertips trembling uncontrollably. Mama Sienna. The bad lady. Crazy. Sienna pulled Lucy close, stroking her back with maternal tenderness. “It’s okay, sweetie. Mama Sienna is here. No one’s going to hurt you.” Victor turned back to me, the disgust in his eyes practically overflowing. “Kathy, have you had enough? Is this your idea of motherly love? You come back and immediately start terrorizing our child!” “I’m terrorizing her?” I pointed at Sienna, my voice cracking with hysteria. “You brainwashed my daughter to love this woman, you stole my home, and you made a fortune selling videos of my torture! Are you even human, Victor?” I lunged forward, desperate to pry Lucy from Sienna’s arms. “Give me my daughter!” The moment my fingers brushed Lucy’s arm, Victor grabbed my wrist and twisted it with brutal force. A sickening crack echoed, followed by a blinding wave of agony. I gasped, and Victor threw me hard onto the hardwood floor. I landed amid the broken porcelain. Shards sliced deep into my palms and knees, and blood immediately began to seep through my thin hospital uniform. “Daddy is beating the bad guy! Kill the crazy lady!” Lucy cheered, clapping her hands from the safety of Sienna’s arms. My tears mingled with the blood pooling beneath me. Victor looked down at me, pulling a tissue from his pocket to wipe his hands, as if he had touched something vile. “Frank, get in here.” The front door pushed open, and the driver entered with two burly security guards. “Sir.” Victor pointed at my bleeding form on the floor. “Throw this lunatic out. If she ever sets foot on this property again, break her legs and ship her straight back to Havenwood.” 2 The storm raged on. I was dumped like a sack of trash onto the wet asphalt outside the gated community. My wrist hung at a sickening, twisted angle. Blood from my knees mingled with the rain, creating a crimson stream on the pavement. “You should face reality, ma’am.” Frank stood over me, holding a black umbrella, his eyes filled with cold pity. “Mr. Creston is worth billions now, and Ms. Sienna is pregnant with their second child. A certified lunatic like you stands no chance against them.” Their second child. Those words hit me like a physical blow. They were having another child. I lay in the puddle, watching the Maybach’s taillights disappear into the dark. The pain was overwhelming, and my vision began to blur. During my four years at Havenwood, they had injected me with heavy doses of chlorpromazine every week just to make me look like a real psycho. The drugs had wrecked my nervous system, leaving me barely able to stand. I lay in the rain all night. At dawn, a street sweeper found me. The kind woman helped me to a nearby bus shelter and called an ambulance. In the emergency room, the doctor reset my dislocated wrist and picked the porcelain shards out of my knees. “Where is your family? How did you end up like this?” the doctor asked, frowning. “They’re dead,” I whispered, staring at the sterile white ceiling. After my wounds were bandaged, I checked my bank account. I still had the emergency fund Dominic had forced me to take four years ago. I checked into a quiet, low-key hotel, changed into clean clothes, and bought a baseball cap and a face mask. Today was the parent-child sports day at St. Mary’s Prep, the prestigious academy Lucy attended. For four years, the memory of my daughter’s face was the only thing that kept me sane in that hellhole. I couldn’t leave her with those monsters. Outside St. Mary’s, luxury cars lined the streets. I blended into the crowd of parents, peering through the iron gates. I spotted Victor and Sienna instantly. They were wearing matching custom designer outfits, and Sienna was smiling brightly, holding Lucy’s hand. A group of wealthy mothers surrounded Sienna, showering her with compliments. “Sienna, you look absolutely radiant! This baby must be a boy.” “And Lucy is so well-behaved. You’ve done a wonderful job raising her, unlike her previous…” “Shh, keep it down. I heard that woman was eating filth in Havenwood. How disgusting.” Sienna giggled, patting Lucy’s head. “Please, don’t say that. Kathy is a tragic soul. But for Lucy’s sake, Victor and I had to make the hard choice.” I stood behind a tree, my nails digging deep into my palms. Sienna was living in my house, sleeping in my bed, raising my daughter, and basking in the glory built on my suffering. The events began. The first was the three-legged race. Victor stepped aside to take a call. Sienna pulled Lucy to the starting line and knelt to tie the ribbon around their ankles. Thinking no one was watching, Sienna suddenly pinched the inside of Lucy’s thigh with brutal force. “Ow!” Lucy cried out, tears instantly welling in her eyes. “Stop crying! Hold it in!” Sienna’s sweet expression vanished, replaced by a snarling whisper. “If it weren’t for playing the perfect mother in front of your father, do you think I’d touch a useless brat like you? Run fast. If we lose, you’re sleeping in the dark closet tonight!” Lucy trembled, biting her lip to keep from crying out. Something inside me snapped. To hell with waiting. To hell with being cautious. I shoved through the crowd, kicked open the side gate, and charged onto the field. “Sienna, I will kill you!” I tackled her to the ground, grabbing a handful of her hair, and began raining slaps down on her face. Slap! Slap! Slap! Her lip split, blood smearing her face. “You dare hurt my daughter! You wretched snake!” The teachers and parents were too stunned to react. “Help! The crazy woman is killing me! Victor, save me!” Sienna screamed, trying to protect her stomach. “Kathy! Stop!” Victor’s roar echoed across the field. Before I could strike again, a powerful grip yanked me back by my collar and slammed me onto the track. My head hit the ground hard, and black spots danced across my eyes. Victor rushed to Sienna, checking her frantically. “Sienna, are you okay? The baby?” Sienna clung to him, weeping. “Victor, I’m so scared. She wanted to kill me and our baby…” Victor turned to me, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “Kathy, you psychotic bitch! How dare you lay a hand on her!” I struggled to sit up, pointing a trembling finger at Lucy. “Ask her! Ask your precious wife what she did to Lucy! She pinched her! She abuses her when you aren’t looking!” Victor frowned, looking at Lucy. Lucy shrank back, her hand covering her thigh. Sienna immediately pulled Lucy into her arms. “Lucy, sweetheart, Mama Sienna was just tying your shoes, right? Tell Daddy, did Mama Sienna hurt you?” Lucy looked at Sienna’s threatening glare, then at me, covered in dirt and blood. She burst into tears. “No! Mama Sienna didn’t hurt me! It’s the bad lady! She’s crazy, she beat Mama Sienna! Daddy, make her go away!” My heart stopped. It felt as though someone had ripped it from my chest and crushed it underfoot. “Lucy… I’m your mommy…” Victor kicked my hand away. “You heard her. Even a child knows you’re insane.” He pulled out his phone and dialed. “Yes, police? We have an emergency at St. Mary’s Prep. A mentally unstable woman just assaulted a pregnant woman. Yes, she was recently discharged from Havenwood. She’s highly violent. Send officers immediately.” He hung up and looked down at me with a cruel smirk. “I gave you a chance, Kathy. Since you love being crazy so much, you can rot in Havenwood for the rest of your life.” 3 Siren wails sliced through the schoolyard air. Two uniformed officers pushed through the crowd. “Who reported the incident?” Victor stepped forward, his face a mask of weary distress. “Officer, I did. This is my ex-wife. She suffers from severe schizophrenia and was recently released from Havenwood. She just assaulted my pregnant fiancée and almost harmed our child.” Sienna whimpered, leaning heavily on Victor. “My stomach hurts so much… She kept kicking me…” The other parents chimed in. “Yes, we saw it! She attacked like a rabid dog! Lock her up before she hurts our kids!” The officer turned to me. I struggled to my feet, my dislocated wrist throbbing with fresh agony. I pulled a crumpled, blood-stained paper from my pocket. “I am not sick. This is my discharge paper from Havenwood. I attacked her because she was abusing my daughter! Check the school’s security cameras!” The officer took the paper. Victor stepped close and whispered a few words. The officer’s expression shifted to one of deference. “Mr. Creston, we’ll handle this according to protocol.” He turned back to me, his tone icy. “We need to verify the authenticity of this document. Right now, you’re being detained for assault and disturbing the peace. Come with us.” He clicked a pair of handcuffs around my functional wrist. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” I screamed, but the other officer shoved me toward the police cruiser. “Save it. Even crazy people have to face the law.” As the doors slammed shut, I looked through the tinted glass. Victor was kissing Sienna’s forehead, and Sienna peeked over his shoulder, flashing me a triumphant, mocking smile. Her lips formed the words: You lose. In the interrogation room, there were no windows, just a blinding overhead light. It triggered memories of the isolation rooms at Havenwood, and panic gripped me. “Name.” “Kathy Barrett.” “Why did you assault Sienna?” “I told you, she was abusing my daughter! Did you check the cameras?” The detective flipped a page. “We checked. It was a blind spot. Nothing was recorded. Meanwhile, the victim’s medical report shows a concussion and soft tissue damage. Mr. Creston’s lawyer is prepared to file charges of felony assault. If you don’t sign this settlement agreement and promise to stay away from them forever, they will prosecute. Given your psychiatric history, you’ll likely be committed to a high-security asylum indefinitely.” Indefinitely. The word crushed me. I looked at the photos of Sienna’s bruised face and laughed until tears ran down my cheeks. Of course. Victor was practically untouchable in Riverford now. Erasing a security tape was child’s play for him. I spent forty-eight hours in a holding cell. No food, only cold tap water. My untreated wrist swelled to twice its size. Just when I thought they were going to cart me off to a state asylum, the heavy steel door opened. A lawyer in an expensive suit walked in. “Ms. Barrett, Mr. Creston has decided to drop the charges. You’re free to go.” I was stunned. Victor, showing mercy? When I stepped outside the station, a black Rolls-Royce was idling at the curb. The window rolled down to reveal Victor smoking a cigar. “Get in.” I hesitated, wary. “Don’t worry, I’m not taking you back to the asylum,” he said, flicking the ash. “But if you don’t get in, I guarantee you will never see your father alive again.” My blood ran cold. “My father? You told me he died in the ICU four years ago!” “If you want the truth, get in.” I gritted my teeth and got in. The car smelled of Sienna’s perfume. We drove to a private hospital’s VIP wing. Victor led me to a sterile room. Through the glass, I saw a frail, skeletal man hooked up to a ventilator. My father. Once a prominent real estate mogul, now reduced to a living corpse. “He’s alive?” Tears spilled over. “You lied to me!” “If you knew he was alive, you wouldn’t have lost all hope and stayed quiet in Havenwood for four years,” Victor said coldly. “I’ve spent hundreds of thousands keeping him alive on experimental drugs. But the family company’s remaining shares are now in Sienna’s name. Except for the last five percent of original shares. Sign them over to me, or I pull his plug today.” 4 I gripped the pen so hard my knuckles turned white. “Victor, you stripped my father of everything he built. Must you steal his very last breath?” I grabbed his lapels, wanting to tear him apart. He merely adjusted his cuffs with supreme arrogance. “Kathy, remember who holds the cards here. Sienna’s baby is coming, and I need these shares to finalize the restructuring of the company as a gift to my new wife.” He grabbed my jaw, his grip agonizingly tight. “Sign, and the old man breathes a little longer. Refuse, and I stop his medication right now.” The heart monitor’s steady beeps sounded like a countdown. Looking at my dying father, I sobbed. For four years, he had kept me in the dark, and now he wanted me to humiliate myself for his mistress. “I’ll sign.” But as I reached for the paper, Victor pulled it away. “Not so fast. Sienna is hosting a yacht party tonight to celebrate the success of Madwoman and her birthday. She’s been having nightmares since you showed up. Look at yourself. Go there, kneel, and beg for her forgiveness. If she’s happy, I’ll take the shares. If not, no deal.” The humiliation was overwhelming. “You want me to kneel to her?” “Is the great Kathy Barrett too proud?” he mocked, reaching for his phone. “Then let’s see how long your father survives.” “Fine! I’ll do it!” Two hours later, dressed in a cheap, revealing slip dress provided by Victor’s men, I was forced onto the deck of The Empress, a luxury yacht anchored in international waters. The thumping bass and bright lights of the party hit me instantly. The city’s elite were all there. On the massive screens, scenes from Madwoman played on a loop. It was me, screaming, strapped to an asylum bed, being electrocuted until I soiled myself. My real, living nightmare, turned into public entertainment. “Look who’s here!” someone jeered. Every eye turned to me. Sienna, wearing a white haute couture gown and my anniversary necklace, stepped forward on Victor’s arm. “Kathy, you made it! I bought that dress from a thrift store for ten dollars. It fits you perfectly!” Laughter erupted around us. “Is that the crazy ex-wife? She looks pathetic.” Victor stared at me coldly. “Well? Kneel and apologize to Sienna.” I clenched my fists and walked toward her. As I began to bend my knees, Sienna took a step back. She was holding a pink stuffed rabbit, Lucy’s favorite comfort toy. “Oops, my hand slipped,” Sienna squealed as the toy plummeted into the dark, freezing ocean. “Oh dear, Lucy can’t sleep without that. You love her so much, Kathy. Go get it. Do that, and Victor will pay for your father’s medical bills.” The November sea was freezing. Jumping in was suicide. “Sienna, don’t push me!” I snarled. Victor stepped between us. “Take it or leave it, Kathy.” The crowd chanted, “Jump! Jump!” I looked at the black water, then thought of my father and my daughter. I had no choice. I climbed over the railing. “Remember what you look like right now, Kathy. Like a dog begging for a bone,” Victor sneered. Splash! I plunged into the icy water. The cold stole my breath instantly. I swam frantically until my fingers snagged the soggy toy. But as I swam back and reached for the yacht’s ladder, a high heel slammed down onto my fingers. Sienna looked down at me, her face twisted in malice. “Die, you crazy bitch. Once you’re gone, everything is mine.” She kicked my hand. I lost my grip and slipped back into the dark depths. Cold water filled my lungs, and my consciousness began to fade. Just as darkness claimed me, a deafening roar shook the air. Searchlights illuminated the sea like daylight. A black military helicopter hovered overhead, and heavy speedboats surrounded the yacht. A tall, imposing figure descended from the chopper, his black trench coat whipping in the wind. Without a second thought, he dove into the freezing water. A powerful arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me back to the surface.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513568”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Michael’s girlfriend was chronically online. She loved testing out every new TikTok trend she scrolled past, and tonight was no exception. “Michael, you’re a year older than me. Why didn’t you visit me in the hospital the day I was born? Do you even love me at all?” Michael let out a helpless laugh, entirely used to her antics. He played along with the joke, but then his eyes caught his famously stoic, buttoned-up uncle sitting nearby. A mischievous glint crossed Michael’s face. “Uncle Declan, what about you? How would you answer that?” The man, who rarely cracked a smile, swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I did visit.” He took a slow sip. “Not only did I visit, but I held her when she was just a baby.” As the words left his mouth, his dark, heavy gaze drifted across the room, landing squarely on me. 1 Michael Prescott and I grew up together. For the first twenty years of my life, we were inseparable. It wasn’t just me who thought we were endgame. Our parents, our entire social circle, everyone practically had our wedding invitations drafted in their heads. We were the quintessential high-society match, perfectly suited in background and temperament. When I turned eighteen, my parents officially brought up the idea of a merger between the Astor and Prescott families through marriage. They asked how I felt about it. Honestly, I adored Michael. If our families joined, it would be a beautiful story. But we were still young, so the engagement talks were gently shelved, and we headed off to the same Ivy League university instead. For the next two years, we lingered in that agonizingly sweet gray area. More than friends, not quite lovers. Everyone around us treated it as an inevitability. Swept up in the expectations, I let myself fall a little deeper for him with every passing day. Then came the winter of our sophomore year. Michael found me, his eyes bright with an excitement I had never seen before. “Sharon, I met someone. I think I’m really falling for her!” It wasn’t me. Seeing him so ecstatic was a brutal wake-up call. The last two decades of our lives had never sparked real romantic love in him. The lingering hugs, the intertwined hands, to Michael, they were just the perks of having a best friend. You cannot force a heart to feel something it doesn’t. And I refused to humiliate myself by begging. So, I gathered up my feelings and locked them away. To the absolute shock of our social circle, Michael started dating a girl from a very ordinary, middle-class suburb. She was undeniably pretty, with a spoiled, slightly demanding streak that proved she was her parents’ pampered princess. He paraded her around, introducing her to every single person in our elite bubble. My presence suddenly became a very awkward elephant in the room. Our mutual friends didn’t buy it. They placed bets on when the novelty would wear off, convinced that once Michael got bored of playing tourist in a normal life, he would realize I was the one he belonged with. “Don’t stress it, Sharon,” a friend whispered to me over martinis. “He’s just fascinated by the naive, girl-next-door routine. Give it a few months. He’ll get sick of it.” He didn’t. Michael stayed with her for two solid years. He flashed his new relationship all over town, making sure everyone knew, including my parents and his. My father was furious enough to march over to the Prescott estate and give them a piece of his mind. My mother had to physically block the door. “If they don’t want the match, we walk away gracefully. Why make a scene? Do you honestly think our daughter is going to lack suitors?” “That is not the point!” my father thundered. When the families had first discussed the marriage, Michael wasn’t a child. He knew about it. He had, at the very least, offered silent consent. Even if we hadn’t made it official, we were a hair’s breadth away from an engagement. It was only because my mother thought we were too young that she gave us time to date properly. By flaunting this new girl, he wasn’t just breaking my heart. He was publicly slapping the Astor family in the face. Still, on the surface, Michael and I remained friends. Our families had hundreds of millions tied up in joint ventures. We had to keep up appearances. But friends were all we would ever be. Which brings us to tonight. Michael booked a massive VIP lounge at an exclusive club downtown for his birthday, inviting half the city’s young elite. I was on the guest list. And naturally, so was his girlfriend, Sophie. 2 Once Michael started dating, my texts to him slowed to a trickle. But we had a messy digital footprint. Before Sophie came into the picture, our Instagram comments and late-night chat histories blurred the lines of platonic friendship. Once they were official, Sophie demanded total access to his phone. They fought about it a few times. I only found out when Michael pulled me aside to apologize, sheepishly admitting Sophie had blocked and deleted my number from his contacts. Since I hadn’t reached out to him in weeks anyway, I hadn’t even noticed. Sophie was desperately trying to claw her way into Michael’s inner circle. Old money circles are notoriously cliquey, and someone had definitely whispered in her ear about my history with her boyfriend. I understood her insecurity. So, I took a step back and gave them space. Tonight, I had planned to drop off his birthday gift and ghost. But as I walked through the heavy velvet curtains of the lounge, my eyes snagged on a figure sitting in the corner. I froze. Just then, my phone lit up with a text. After reading it, I quietly found a seat at the edge of the room. “Sharon, you made it!” Michael looked genuinely thrilled. “I heard you’ve been shadowing your dad at the firm. I figured you’d be too busy closing deals.” I smiled smoothly, handing over the sleek wrapped box. “Happy birthday, Michael.” “Sharon!” Sophie’s sugary voice chimed in. “It feels like forever. Are you trying a new mature look? It’s giving… pushing thirty.” Sophie was draped in a custom pink couture gown that cost more than a sports car, her hair curled into playful, bouncy waves. She wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what she was saying. I looked down at my impeccably tailored, razor-sharp designer suit and let out a soft laugh. “Is it? Good. I am aiming for ruthless corporate executive, after all.” Michael immediately jumped in to keep the peace. “Sharon, you know Sophie. She’s just playing around. Don’t take it to heart.” I didn’t take it to heart. I didn’t let just anyone into my heart anymore. I sat a fair distance from the main action, but the acoustics in the room were crisp. That was when Sophie pulled out the viral internet joke. “Michael, you’re a year older than me. Why didn’t you visit me in the hospital…” The crowd erupted in affectionate laughter. The guys ribbed him. “Yeah, Michael! Why weren’t you rolling up with a baby bottle for your girl?” It was harmless teasing. Sophie was beautiful in an innocent, doe-eyed way, and over the past two years, she had managed to charm a few of the guys in our group. Michael grinned, tossing his arm over the back of the sofa. “I was probably throwing a tantrum and getting grounded by my mom for spitting out my apple juice.” The room dissolved into more laughter. Michael turned his head, spotting his notoriously strict uncle who had surprisingly shown up to the party. Wanting to test the ice, he threw the question his way. “Uncle Declan, what about you? How would you answer that?” Declan Prescott was five years older than Michael and me. He was the unexpected miracle child of the Prescott grandparents, born late in their lives. From the day he drew breath, he was the golden standard. Despite the small age gap, the generational hierarchy was absolute. Factor in Declan’s Ivy League degrees, his ruthless ascension in the corporate world, and his devastatingly cold charisma, and every trust fund kid in our circle was secretly terrified of him. Growing up, I called him Uncle Declan too. Michael was probably hoping to get a dry, pragmatic business answer out of the man. One of Michael’s friends chuckled nervously. “Come on, man, don’t drag Declan into this. The guy runs an empire. When does he have time for romance?” Then, Declan spoke. “I did visit.” The room went dead silent. “Huh?” The man who treated boardrooms like war zones added softly, “Not only did I visit, but I held her when she was just a baby.” No one noticed his eyes. They were locked dead onto me, dark and consuming. “…” The tension broke as the room burst into roaring laughter. “Holy shit, Declan! I didn’t know you had a sense of humor!” No one took him seriously. Except me. Declan didn’t look away. Even though I actively avoided meeting his gaze, the sheer weight of his stare felt reckless and entirely too loud. When the party started winding down, I slipped out and found my car in the underground valet garage. I opened the door and froze. Someone was already in the backseat. My driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, clearly unsure of what to do. From the shadows of the backseat, Declan’s low, gravelly chuckle filled the space. “Mind giving me a lift? I didn’t bring my driver tonight.” I slid in, and the heavy door thudded shut. The man beside me leaned his head back against the leather and murmured, “I seem to have forgotten my address. Miss Astor, care to let me crash at your place?” 3 Declan feigned being completely wasted, letting his head rest heavily against my shoulder. His breath, warm and laced with expensive bourbon, ghosted over the sensitive skin of my neck. It was impossible to ignore. I stared out the tinted window at the blurred city lights, my mind drifting back to two years ago, the night Michael made it Instagram official. I would be lying if I said it didn’t shatter me. Less than a month after telling me he liked someone else, Michael blasted her picture to the world. I was still sitting in my bedroom, trying to figure out how to untangle our families’ massive expectations without causing a corporate war. Worse, Michael paraded her through our friend group immediately. Maybe he just wanted to show her off, but there were plenty of girls in our circle who hated my guts. The petty, thinly veiled insults came pouring in. If I acted like I cared, I was pathetic. If I acted completely unfazed, I was bitter and in denial. That was exactly when Declan returned from London. He had been overseeing a massive real estate acquisition in the UK, a project that wasn’t even finished yet. I was in a place where I didn’t want to look at anyone with the last name Prescott. But Declan bypassed all the social red tape and walked straight into my life. It was winter break. Declan found me and asked, completely out of the blue, if I wanted to go to London with him to clear my head. I stared at him, utterly lost. For most of my childhood, Michael and I were intimidated by him. He was only five years older, but Declan didn’t play in the dirt with us. The genetic lottery had favored him in cruel, unfair ways. He was brilliant to the point of intimidation. As we grew older, he morphed into this untouchable figure, possessing a quiet, lethal authority and striking, sharp-edged good looks. Women practically threw themselves at his feet. I had barely held a real conversation with him. Any interaction we had was strictly by proxy because I was glued to Michael. So, an invitation to London made zero sense. Declan stood in the snow, hands in his cashmere coat pockets. “Do you still love Michael?” I swallowed hard, the silence stretching out between us. “It’s fine if you do. He’s just a man,” Declan said smoothly. “He won’t be the only one you meet in this life.” I couldn’t tell if he was trying to comfort me or mock me. “Michael likes someone else. Would you consider liking someone else?” Declan looked at me, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Consider me?” Absolute shock bulldozed right over my heartbreak. The tears that had been swimming in my eyes finally spilled over, but my expression was one of pure, speechless horror. Declan pulled a pristine linen handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed the tear from my cheek. “Don’t waste tears on people who aren’t worth it,” he murmured. He paused, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Though, I suppose you can look at it as detoxing.” “…” I had zero clue Declan Prescott possessed a sense of humor. He dropped his hand. “If your original reason for choosing Michael was to secure the corporate merger between our families, my portfolio is vastly superior to his.” Vastly was the understatement of the century. Declan was the undisputed heir to the Prescott empire. Michael lacked the ambition and the sheer, ruthless intellect his uncle possessed. “If you purely loved Michael for who he is, well, he forfeited his right to your heart when he chose someone else. Stepping in now hardly makes me the villain.” 4 I didn’t go to London because of his romantic pitch. I went because he asked, “Are you planning to take over your family’s firm after graduation? I have negotiations in London. Want to sit in and watch?” Declan’s reputation in the business world was legendary. Like anyone with half a brain, I idolized his work ethic. It was basic ambition. I wanted to see a master at work. So, even knowing he had essentially offered himself up as my new fiancé, I boarded his private jet. For two weeks in London, he kept me by his side. There was absolutely nothing inappropriate between us. He treated me like a protege, guiding me through the brutal realities of corporate takeovers. I watched him dismantle CEOs with a calm, terrifying grace. If we took emotions out of the equation, choosing Declan was a thousand times better than choosing Michael. The ROI was astronomical. “But, Declan, Michael is your nephew.” It was my last night in London. We were sitting in a dimly lit, velvet-lined speakeasy tucked inside our hotel. Soft jazz drifted through the air, the yellow ambient light wrapping around us in a warm, intimate haze. Declan didn’t even blink. Those deep, unreadable eyes held mine over the rim of his scotch glass. “Yes. He played a foolish game. Marry me, become his aunt, and you can boss him around at family dinners for the rest of his life.” “…” Become Michael’s aunt? I had to admit, the level of petty revenge in that statement was deeply appealing. But I had my own life to map out. Michael broke my heart, but I refused to let him dictate my future. “I have one more question.” “You can ask as many as you want,” Declan replied. “And you don’t have to keep a formal distance. Just use my name.” Since I was a toddler, I had lumped him in with the adults. Michael called him uncle, so I did too. But now, as the energy between us shifted into something dark and charged, using his first name felt dangerously taboo. “What exactly…” I hesitated, searching for the words. “How do you view me?” “Are you asking if this is a business acquisition for me, or something else?” he countered. Before I could stutter out a response, he leaned forward. “Sharon, five years is nothing. Besides Michael, you and I grew up together too, didn’t we?” I froze. “When you started kindergarten, you were always running over to our estate. The adults were busy. You and Michael followed me around like ducklings. Do you remember?” His voice was a low rumble. The memories flashed in my mind. Kids always want to play with the older kids. We used to shadow him everywhere. But as he grew up, he was swallowed by boarding schools, university, and eventually the boardroom. The gap widened until he was a god and we were just kids. “When you two graduated high school, my brother and sister-in-law were thrilled. They wanted to lock down the engagement. You two were practically joined at the hip,” Declan said, his tone sharpening. “But Sharon, he walked away. Even if I am technically his elder, pursuing a brilliant, single woman is hardly a crime.” Declan brought me back to the States. For the entire half-month in London, he never crossed a line. That Christmas, Michael and his parents were too embarrassed to attend our family’s holiday gala because of the girlfriend drama. The Prescott family sent Declan in their place. The house was packed with guests. No one noticed when Declan slipped into my bedroom, closed the door behind him, and asked, “Sharon, have you made your decision?” 5 “Declan, did you really come to the hospital the day I was born?” I asked suddenly, pulled back to the present moment in my apartment. His face was buried in the curve of my neck, pressing soft, biting kisses against my skin. He let out a raspy laugh, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. “Did you think I was joking in front of that crowd?” “Michael was barely two months old. My brother was swamped at the firm, and his wife was recovering. My parents dragged me to the maternity ward to see you,” he murmured against my collarbone. “Though, I was the only one who actually wanted to see you. My parents were just there for the PR.” “As for whether I held you, surely you remember how you used to act?” “…” When Michael and I were at our clingiest phase, I was constantly demanding Declan pick me up and carry me. Relationships mutate with time. At five, I clung to him. At fifteen, I kept a respectful distance. At twenty, I treated him as an elder. And now, hidden away in the dead of night, we were tearing each other’s clothes off. That Christmas in my bedroom, I didn’t give him a verbal yes. But I didn’t push him away either. He took the opening and executed a flawless, relentless pursuit right under everyone’s noses. The moment Michael fell for someone else, his ghost began to fade from my heart. I wasn’t the type of woman to pine over a man who belonged to another girl. And Declan was impossible to resist. He knew exactly when to push and when to give me space. The void in my chest was meticulously filled by someone else. The summer before last, Declan and I made it official. It was about six months into Michael’s new relationship. He planned a group getaway to the Hamptons and actually sent me an invite. I turned it down flat. That sparked a massive rumor mill. Sophie and the rest of our friends whispered that I was too brokenhearted to watch them be in love. The reality? I had zero desire to ditch my brand-new, spectacular boyfriend to play third wheel to my ex-crush. We kept our relationship completely underground. Like any normal couple, we navigated the exhilarating slide from holding hands to breathless kisses, to tangled sheets and late nights. Before tonight, we hadn’t seen each other in over two weeks due to his business trip. I straddled his lap, pulling him into a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of the longing I’d felt into it. Declan’s hands were anything but polite, lighting fires wherever they traced, dragging me down into the intoxicating haze of him. The night was thick and heavy. A vase of fresh pink bellflowers sat on my glass coffee table. A sudden breeze drifted through a cracked window, and the delicate petals trembled, over and over again, in the dark. 6 With graduation looming, my life became a blur of corporate strategy. My father was eager to hand over the reins. He had thrown me into the deep end of the family business the previous year. Between defending my thesis and closing deals, I barely had time to breathe. After a wild, reckless night, my internal alarm woke me at dawn. I opened my eyes, tried to slip out of bed, and was instantly yanked back by a heavy arm wrapping around my waist. “Why are you up so early?” Declan’s voice was thick with sleep and rough like sandpaper. “Come back to sleep.” “I have to go to the office, Mr. Prescott,” I coaxed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’m spearheading a massive acquisition this week. Behave.” Declan chuckled into the pillows. “Want me to review the contracts for you?” “Absolutely not. Corporate espionage. I don’t care if you’re my boyfriend.” I rejected him with practiced authority. Since we started dating, Declan had secretly tutored me in high-level corporate warfare. But this was the first project my father had completely entrusted to me. I had to win it on my own. Declan propped himself up against the headboard, watching in silence as I showered, flipped on the vanity lights, and applied my makeup. I told him to go back to sleep, but ten minutes later, he was out of bed. By the time I stepped into the kitchen in my stilettos, Declan was plating breakfast. He was incredibly skilled with his hands. In every possible context. Even rushing on a weekday morning, the eggs benedict he set on the marble island looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Sometimes, I caught myself wondering why a man like Declan chose me. It wasn’t an inferiority complex. It was just statistics. He had the world at his fingertips. Heiresses and supermodels had practically thrown themselves at his feet for years. Declan caught me staring and didn’t miss a beat. “It’s the same reason you were entirely blind to everyone except Michael growing up. I only ever had eyes for you. Then. And now.” “…” He was still holding a petty grudge against his own nephew. The kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and expensive, territorial jealousy. Falling in love with Declan had been the easiest thing in the world. Just like I always believed—love had to go both ways. I gave him a lingering kiss before grabbing my briefcase. “My schedule is clear for the next few days,” Declan murmured against my lips. “I’ll be staying here.” Technically, he had a guest room at my place. He used it once, last year, when I had a fever and he drove through a torrential downpour to take care of me. Slowly, his tailored suits started taking over my closet. His expensive watches ended up on my nightstand. And then one night, I just wanted him next to me. He hadn’t slept in the guest room since. I was slammed at work right now. Forget dinner dates—I was squeezing in university meetings between board calls. The only place we actually saw each other was in my bed. Thankfully, he didn’t complain. By the time I finalized the acquisition, June rolled around, and I officially graduated. My father had zero intention of starting me in the mailroom. I was the heir apparent. He needed me in the shark tank. When the Prescott Matriarch’s birthday gala arrived, I attended with my parents. Despite the awkward tension from two years ago, the Astor and Prescott empires were still deeply entangled. We all operated on the unspoken elite rule: smile, drink the champagne, and pretend the arranged marriage talks had never happened. The ballroom was packed. I followed my parents to the VIP tables to offer our rehearsed, elegant congratulations. When I smiled and said, “Happy Birthday, Grandma Prescott,” the words caught in my throat. I had called her that my entire life. But considering exactly what I did to her youngest son last night, the title felt distinctly blasphemous. Declan materialized out of the crowd. He was wearing a deep burgundy dress shirt. Uncharacteristically, he hadn’t worn a tie, and the top two buttons were undone. He had literally crawled out of my bed that morning. Underneath the expensive silk, his skin was marked with evidence of our night together. Just like mine was. The moment our eyes met, a faint, devastating smirk touched his lips. There was nothing more lethal than a notoriously rigid, cold man showing a sliver of unadulterated sin. 7 In public, we played the role of distant family acquaintances flawlessly. I looked right at him and nodded. “Uncle Declan.” Behind closed doors, I hadn’t called him that in ages. Except, occasionally, when my back was arched against the headboard and he demanded it. Saying it here, in the middle of a glittering ballroom, felt like a filthy inside joke. He offered a curt, utterly professional nod, his face an ice-cold mask. “Sharon.” Fake. The gala was lavish, but knowing the Prescott family as well as I did, it took me exactly three seconds to read the room. The tension at their main table was thick enough to cut with a knife. I pulled out my phone under the table and texted Declan. What’s the drama? He texted back immediately. Michael tried to bring his girl. Got ripped to shreds. The translation: Michael wanted to officially introduce Sophie to the family. His parents already despised her, and realizing he was serious about marrying her sent them into a tailspin. So, Sophie was banned from the gala. Michael’s parents looked at me with open regret. They offered polite, socially perfect small talk, and I parried it with equal grace. Declan hovered nearby, pretending to casually listen. “Declan, you aren’t getting any younger,” the Matriarch suddenly announced, turning her attention to her youngest son. “With all these brilliant girls in the city, has no one caught your eye?” It was a loaded statement. Half the debutantes in the room had been vetted by her as potential daughters-in-law. Declan, who usually shut down these conversations with brutal efficiency, actually smiled. “Mom, I have a girlfriend.” “Are you serious?” Michael, walking by with a glass of champagne, stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes lit up with gossip. “Uncle Declan, I have an aunt? Who is she? Do I know her?” “…” I shot Declan a covert, withering glare. Ignoring his parents, his older brother, and his sister-in-law, Declan stared directly at his nephew. “Focus on fixing your own mess first.” Michael shut his mouth. “Well, if you’re serious about her, bring the girl around,” Declan’s older brother—Michael’s dad—chimed in. Michael looked ready to scream. His dad had just banished his girlfriend from the premises but was practically rolling out the red carpet for Declan’s mystery woman. “She’s here tonight,” Declan said smoothly. The entire Prescott family gasped. Heads immediately swiveled, eyes darting across the ballroom, aggressively scanning the crowd for suspects. My heart slammed against my ribs. I had no idea what game he was playing. “Declan, which one is she?” his sister-in-law pressed. Given the exclusive guest list, whoever Declan was dating had to be a high-society heiress. The family’s tone instantly shifted to pure excitement. “She’s young. We aren’t in a rush to marry. Let’s give it a couple of years,” Declan deflected smoothly. “…” “Uncle Declan, don’t tell me you’re dating someone younger than me?” Michael joked. Declan went completely silent. ? “Wait, actually younger than me?” Michael looked horrified. Declan’s father finally cleared his throat, looking deeply concerned. “Declan, this girl… she is of legal age, correct?” “Obviously,” Declan shot his father a look of pure disgust. “What kind of monster do you think I am?” Within an hour, the rumor that Declan Prescott had a secret girlfriend tore through the ballroom. Thanks to Michael’s loud mouth, everyone had the clues: She’s in the room, and she’s younger than Michael. The gossip mill went into overdrive. Not a single person guessed it was me. 8 Michael even cornered me by the champagne tower to spill the tea. “Sharon, have you noticed my uncle talking to any girls tonight?” I stared at him blankly, then shook my head. “I hardly know your uncle.” “Fair point,” Michael accepted the lie instantly. “You see him like, twice a year. Makes sense you wouldn’t know.” He swirled his drink, looking miserable. “I’m booking a trip to Europe for the summer to get away from my parents. I’m taking Sophie. Do you want to come? I feel like we haven’t gone on a trip together since high school.” I looked at him like he had lost his mind, fighting to keep my polite smile in place. “No thanks. Work is swamped.” “Are you sure? Sophie specifically asked me to invite you.” “?” Both of you are actually insane. “Pass,” I said coldly. I didn’t have time to be a pawn in whatever insecure power play his girlfriend was running. When I got home that night, Declan was already there. He was standing on my balcony, the warm summer night air rustling his burgundy shirt. He held a crystal tumbler of scotch, watching me walk into the living room. It was a ridiculously cinematic sight. “What’s this?” I asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the glass door, amused. “I left the gala after you. How did you beat me here?” Declan didn’t miss a beat. “I paid my driver double to run the red lights.” He closed the distance between us, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of oakwood and expensive alcohol. “You were staring at me all night. Do you like me in red?” So he had noticed. “Is it a crime to look?” He laughed, a low, rumbling sound. “I wore it specifically for you to look.” I leaned in and took a sip of the scotch right from his glass. “You’re raiding my liquor cabinet again.” Declan threw back the rest of the amber liquid, setting the glass on a side table. “Come by my penthouse tomorrow. Pick out whatever bottles you want. Take the whole cellar.” The city breeze tangled with the taste of alcohol as he pulled me in. The kiss was slow, deep, and intoxicating. Beneath the burgundy silk, the scratches I left on his back the night before were still fresh. He backed me against the wall, murmuring against my jaw, “What were you and Michael whispering about for so long?” “Why are you so obsessed with him?” I huffed, annoyed. “Are you trying to pick a fight?” In the two years we’d been together, we argued like any normal couple. But Declan was the kind of man who refused to sleep in a different bed, even when he was furious. The fights never lasted until morning. “My brother and sister-in-law are still mourning the fact that you aren’t their daughter-in-law,” he growled playfully. “Am I not allowed to be a little territorial?” “Go pick a fight with them, then.” I pushed lightly at his chest. Instead of letting go, Declan hooked his hands under my thighs and lifted me effortlessly. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his waist, my vision blurring for a second as the world spun. “I’m not fighting them. They lost their chance at a daughter-in-law,” he kissed the corner of my mouth, his eyes glinting. “But a sister-in-law is still on the table.” I bit down lightly on his lower lip. “I never agreed to marry you.” Declan wasn’t phased. He lowered his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses down my neck, doing exactly what he did best until I was entirely at his mercy. Then, he looked up, his eyes dark and voice hoarse. “Then what am I supposed to do, Sharon? I’m hitting thirty soon. No one else will have me. Are you going to abandon your Uncle Declan?” Hearing him call himself Uncle Declan in that tone was like a cursed spell. It was a poisoned apple, dripping with pure, unadulterated sin. The man was a menace.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513567”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Six years into my secret crush on my adoptive brother, I slipped a sedative into his drink on the night of his birthday. Ever since our parents died in a car crash, he had micromanaged every single corner of my existence. He controlled what I ate, the clothes I wore, the brand of socks in my drawer, the people I spoke to, and the entire trajectory of my future. If he did not love me, why would he go to such suffocating lengths? Yet every time I tried to confess my feelings, he retreated into dead silence and looked the other way. The drug hit his system fast. His eyes flushed a violent, bloodshot red, and the veins throbbed against his temples. Still, he summoned his remaining strength to shove me away and locked himself inside the bathroom. Through the thick wood, I listened to his ragged, suppressed breathing mixed with the roar of freezing water from the shower head. My fingernails dug hard into the narrow gap of the door frame. “Jason, open the door… please.” My pleading was so quiet it practically scraped against the dust on the floorboards. The only answer I got was the muffled, agonizing groan of a man gritting his teeth to bear the torment. I spent that entire night slumped against the freezing bathroom door, finally understanding the bitter truth. When your heart truly dies, it makes no sound at all. 1 The sharp click of the deadbolt sliding into place felt like a physical blade plunging straight into my eardrum. “Jason!” Refusing to give up, I hammered my palms against the solid wood until my skin burned bright red. “Jason, come out! We need to talk about this!” Only the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing answered me, drowned out by the relentless cascade of running water. Cold water. He was standing under a freezing shower. He would rather stand under bone-chilling ice water than let me touch him. Why? My mind spun in exhausting circles, desperately searching for a logical reason. Had I completely misread every single sign over the years, or was I just hopelessly delusional? I slid down the flat surface of the door until I hit the floor, the biting chill of the ceramic tiles seeping straight through the thin fabric of my skirt. You are pathetic, Winter. You threw every ounce of your self-respect away, and he still refuses to want you. Around four in the morning, the rushing water finally stopped. His voice bled through the heavy wooden door, raw and abrasive, like coarse sandpaper grinding against rusted iron. “Go back to your bedroom.” “No, I won’t.” “Go back right now!” I curled into a tight ball on the living room sofa and waited for the morning sun to spill through the blinds. At some point, exhaustion dragged me under. In my dream, I was standing back at our parents’ funeral. Jason was ten years old when our parents adopted him, long before I was even born. When I turned eight, he left for boarding school on the East Coast and stayed away for seven long years. By the time I turned fifteen, our parents were killed in a sudden pile-up on the interstate. Twenty-four-year-old Jason, already making a prestigious name for himself in academic circles, dropped everything and rushed home to pull my trembling body into his chest. Standing beside the fresh graves, he held me tight and swore an oath. He promised that from that moment forward, he would take our parents’ place and shelter me from the world. He swore he would stay by my side forever, that my happiness was his only mission, and that unless I gave him permission, he would never marry. He promised to stay with me until his dying breath. He was the one who made that promise. And for years, he executed it with terrifying perfection. He gave me everything I could ever ask for, except the one thing I actually wanted. When I woke up, the apartment was empty. A bowl of warm oatmeal sat on the dining table next to a sticky note written in his signature, immaculate script: “Eat breakfast before you head to class.” It was as if the humiliating disaster of last night had been nothing more than a fever dream. I swallowed the oatmeal mechanically, grabbed my bag, and stumbled out of the building in a numb daze. Passing the campus quad at Crestwood University, my foot caught on the raised concrete ledge of a flower bed, sending me sprawling across the dirt. My palms scraped hard against the rough concrete, and dark beads of blood welled up instantly. I hissed at the sharp sting, about to curse my miserable luck, when a glint of dark glass caught my eye inside the bushes. It was a sleek black smartphone. The model looked at least three or four years out of date, but the casing was surprisingly pristine. I debated handing it over to campus security, but before I could pick it up, the screen illuminated the shaded grass. An incoming call. Thinking it might be the frantic owner or a close friend trying to track it down, I hesitated for a split second before pressing answer. A bright, energetic male voice immediately echoed through the speaker. “Oh, thank god! It actually rang!” The guy sounded breathless and deeply relieved. “That is my brand-new phone! I accidentally dropped it yesterday and panicked when I realized it was missing. Could you tell me where you are right now? Just drop me a location and I will sprint right over. Seriously, I will make it worth your while!” I glanced down at my bleeding hand, then checked the time on the phone’s lock screen. I gave him the nearest landmark. “South gate flower bed, Crestwood University.” The line went dead silent for a heartbeat at the mention of Crestwood, followed by a sudden burst of excitement. “Crestwood? No way, I go to Crestwood too! Hang tight, please! Give me twenty minutes tops!” Before I could get another word in, the line disconnected. I crouched on the concrete curb by the flower bed and waited. The morning minutes ticked away mercilessly. The digital clock rolled past eight and slowly crept toward nine. Still, there was no sign of anyone rushing down the sidewalk. Realizing I was about to miss my organic chemistry lecture entirely, I shoved the phone into my tote bag and sprinted toward the science building. By the time I slipped through the heavy lecture hall doors, I was over thirty minutes late. The professor gave me a sharp, disapproving stare from the podium but simply gestured for me to find a seat. When the agonizing class finally wrapped up, the lost phone remained totally silent. I tapped the side power button, only to discover the battery had completely died. I packed my notebook and got ready to head back to the apartment, but a tall guy from my class stepped into the aisle, blocking my exit. “Hey, let’s trade numbers or drop your Insta handle?” 2 He opened his phone, ready to take my digits with an expectant, confident grin. I stared at the glowing screen, froze for a second, and instinctively took a nervous step backward. My throat tightened as familiar restrictions flashed through my mind, and I murmured timidly, “Sorry, I don’t use social media.” Without waiting to see the stunned look on his face, I clutched my strap and hurried toward the exit. As I reached the doorway, his voice carried across the emptying room, dripping with loud sarcasm. “It is 2026! Who on earth doesn’t have an account anywhere? If you want to blow someone off, at least come up with a realistic excuse! Stop acting so superior!” My steps faltered slightly, but I kept my eyes fixed ahead and kept walking. What would be the point of secretly adding anyone? Jason would just find it and delete them anyway. He conducted a thorough, methodical audit of my phone and laptop every single weekend, inspecting my digital life like a federal warden auditing a high-risk inmate. Before college, he had restricted me to a basic flip phone, which made me the ultimate laughingstock among my high school peers. No matter how many times I cried or complained about the isolation, he refused to budge. He insisted it was for my own protection, claiming smart devices would ruin my focus during crucial academic years. In those dark, suffocating years immediately following our parents’ funeral, he had sealed me inside an airtight glass jar. Jason treated me like a fragile porcelain doll on the verge of shattering, and in my grief-stricken state, I clung to him as my sole surviving anchor. By the time the fog of mourning finally lifted, my psychological dependency had solidified. I had fully adapted to a solitary existence where he was my entire universe. Having friends outside our apartment didn’t even feel necessary anymore. When exactly did I become completely alone, without a single person I could confide in? After my morning classes concluded, I walked back to the apartment and immediately plugged the dead phone into a charging cable. Once the screen lit up, I tried to dial the owner back, only to hit a passcode lock screen. I couldn’t get past the four-digit PIN. My only option was to leave the device on the nightstand and wait for him to call again. I tossed my bag onto the desk and stared up at the blank ceiling tiles. A few minutes later, the distinct click of the front door echoing from the hallway told me Jason was home. I hopped off the mattress, my body automatically preparing to run out and greet him the way I always did. Then the humiliating memory of last night crashed over me, and I sank right back onto the edge of the bed. I hadn’t turned on the overhead lamp. I toyed with the idea of pretending I wasn’t home at all, but the bedroom door swung inward before I could hide. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” Bright light from the hallway flooded the dim room. Jason stood in the doorway wearing a tailored light gray dress shirt, looking completely composed, as if the midnight disaster had never happened. “Come eat dinner. I picked up your favorite sweet and sour takeout from the dining hall.” Always like this. A wave of crushing exhaustion washed through my bones. Every single time I tried to tear down the invisible barrier between us, he simply plastered over the wreckage with suffocating kindness the very next morning. The man I was deeply in love with stood right in front of me. I knew in my soul that he felt something profound for me too, yet he dodged the truth with relentless precision. Part of me wished he would just turn cruel and banish me from his life completely, rather than keeping me suspended in this endless, torturous loop of gentle indulgence. Sometimes the urge to scream at him, to grab his shirt and demand to know why he was torturing us both, felt almost impossible to contain. But the words never made it past my throat. I was caught in a miserable contradiction. Half of me prayed he would finally reject me with enough brutality to shatter my obsession, while the other half lived in mortal terror that he might actually walk away for good. We sat at the dining table eating the food he had brought back from campus. Jason taught advanced courses in the humanities department at Crestwood University. Or rather, after accepting a prestigious tenure-track offer from the university, he had gently steered my college applications until I enrolled at the exact same school. “Your art appreciation professor mentioned you walked in late today.” “I checked the security feeds at the front gate and saw you left the building on schedule. Did something happen on your way across campus?” He placed a tender piece of glazed pork into my bowl. The words were phrased like a casual observation, but the underlying interrogation was unmistakably clear. “I found a lost phone by the flower beds and waited around to return it to whoever dropped it.” “Did you give it back?” “Yes.” My hand tightened around my fork for a fraction of a second. I forced my posture to remain relaxed, hiding the sudden surge of panic sparked by the lie, and kept my eyes glued to my plate. He offered a soft, approving smile and dropped the interrogation, shifting smoothly to academic planning. “By the way, there is a major symposium for your department next Thursday. I already registered your name on the attendee list, and I will be accompanying you.” “After the keynote concludes, I will introduce you directly to Professor Vance. Try to make a solid impression so you can secure a research assistant spot in his new laboratory. You are heading into your junior year, and strengthening your academic portfolio now will guarantee your graduate school fellowship.” I gave a vague, noncommittal nod, keeping my mouth shut. I hurried through the rest of my meal in silence, cleared my plate, and retreated to my bedroom. The lost phone on the nightstand had charged past the fifty percent mark. I stretched out across my duvet, scrolling absentmindedly through my desolate contact list, assuming the owner wouldn’t bother reaching out again until the morning. Right as I was drifting into a light doze, the device began to buzz violently against the wood. 3 I hit the green icon, and that same energetic voice filled my ear. “Hey, I ran over to the south gate right after my lab, but you were already gone.” “Yeah,” I replied plainly. “I waited as long as I could, but class was starting, so I had to leave.” He offered a quick apology and asked to confirm if I was actually enrolled at Crestwood. When I said yes, his tone instantly elevated with genuine relief. “Oh, awesome!” “Look, here is the deal. I have a massive, mandatory dress rehearsal tomorrow morning that I cannot miss for anything.” “I literally saved up three months of my part-time tutoring cash to buy this phone, and I am tied up at the performing arts center all day. Could you do me a massive favor and drop it off at the conservatory building tomorrow?” Excuse me? My brow furrowed in immediate irritation. “Why is it my job to play courier for you?” “Can’t you just find a free block in your schedule and swing by my building to grab it yourself?” His pushiness was starting to grate on my nerves, and I found myself regretting my decision not to drop the device with campus security the second I picked it up. He didn’t back down, immediately launching into a charming offensive. “Please, seriously, I am begging you! My name is Cole Shen, acoustic guitar performance major!” “Just bring it over to the practice halls, please. Once I get it back in my hands, I will take you out for the best lunch on campus, my treat.” I had always been terrible at turning down persistent requests. Realizing my Friday course load was light, and knowing the chemistry complex sat just a short walk from the music conservatory, I sighed heavily and agreed to the detour. The second the call ended, two sharp raps sounded on my bedroom door. I scrambled to shove the black smartphone deep beneath my pillows just as the door swung open. Jason walked in carrying a warm mug of milk. “Were you just on the phone with someone?” Admitting the truth was out of the question. I forced my expression into blank innocence and shook my head firmly. “No, you must have heard the television from next door.” Jason stood by the edge of my desk, studying my face with unblinking intensity. After a long, agonizing pause, a faint smile touched his lips, and he extended an open palm toward me. “It has been a few days since our last digital check. Hand your phone over, please.” I let out a controlled, quiet breath and gestured toward the nightstand with my chin. He picked up my smartphone and sat down on the edge of my mattress, beginning his routine inspection while I took slow, deliberate sips from the warm mug. True to form, his audit was meticulously thorough. He scrolled through my text logs, checked my email outbox, inspected my browser history, and even checked the recently deleted folder in my photo gallery. Once he satisfied himself that my digital footprint remained entirely sterile, he set the device back down, took the empty ceramic mug from my hands, gently smoothed my hair, and told me to get a good night’s sleep before stepping out into the hall. Later that night, I tossed and turned beneath my blankets, entirely unable to drift off. Realizing I had looked Jason straight in the eye and lied twice in a single afternoon sent an unexpected, thrilling jolt of defiance racing through my veins. Lying turned out to be remarkably simple. Why had I spent so many years terrified to speak anything less than absolute truth around him? I couldn’t fully explain the shift. All I knew was that once you drop the first lie, you have to build a labyrinth of new ones to keep the walls from caving in. As the semester raced toward finals week, scholarship evaluation periods opened up across the university. My name had sat comfortably at the top of the dean’s list for consecutive years, and this semester was no exception. My academic advisor called me into her office to sign the official grant documentation. While I was scribbling my signature across the bottom line, she leaned back and chatted casually. “So, I hear your brother is seeing the humanities dean’s daughter now?” The tip of my pen caught sharply against the paper, nearly tearing a hole right through the document. “Apparently, the dean set them up during the faculty mixer last weekend, and they hit it off immediately.” “Honestly, you should see them together. They look like a picture-perfect power couple. A couple of professors spotted them walking together across the botanical gardens just yesterday afternoon.” I couldn’t recall walking out of the administration building. My body moved on autopilot until I reached the stairwell of the humanities wing, where a brutal scene played out right in front of my eyes. Jason was descending the staircase side by side with a stunning woman with long, chestnut hair. He tilted his head slightly to catch her words, his lips curving into a genuine, relaxed smile that reached his eyes. It was an expression of effortless equality that he had never once directed at me. My chest felt as if an iron vise had slammed shut around my ribs. Terrified he might look down and spot me standing there, I shrank back into the deep shadow of the concrete pillar as tears spilled over my eyelashes without warning. Right at that exact second, the stolen device in my pocket vibrated against my hip. The screen flashed with the stranger’s number. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, cleared my throat, and answered. “Hello?” “Hey! Did you make it over to the conservatory building yet? I am up on the seventh floor, room 713!” “I am heading over right now.” That interruption dragged me out of my downward emotional spiral just in time. Desperate to hand the device off and escape my own head, I practically sprinted across campus toward the performing arts complex. The conservatory required keycard access at the security turnstiles. Blocked at the glass doors, I flagged down a male student walking out with a cello case, giving him Cole Shen’s name and room number in hopes he could run the phone up to the seventh floor. The moment the name left my mouth, the guy’s casual smile vanished, replaced by sheer shock. “Cole Shen? Are you messing with me right now?” I stared at him, entirely bewildered by his intense reaction. Before I could explain, he stepped closer, his brow furrowed deeply. “Are you sure you have the right name?” “Cole Shen passed away over three years ago.” My boots felt glued to the concrete steps. The warmth drained out of my extremities in an instant. “That is impossible… I literally just spoke to him on—” “He was a absolute legend in our department,” the cellist interrupted, shaking his head with a grim, somber expression. “Incredible talent, top of his class, super popular guy.” “It was a massive tragedy. He was lined up for a direct doctoral fellowship, and then suddenly he was just gone.” “Half the conservatory was in absolute mourning for months.” My fingers clamped around the metal phone casing so tightly my joints locked up. “How did he… die?” 4 “No idea.” The student shrugged helplessly. “The university administration clamped down on the details immediately. Everyone who knew what happened had to sign strict non-disclosure agreements.” “If you really want the backstory, your best bet would be tracking down the guys who lived in his dorm suite back then.” “Good luck finding them, though. None of those three are on campus anymore. One moved to Europe for grad school, one took a tech job out of state, and the third guy went off to teach in some remote mountain village.” He gave me an apologetic nod and walked off down the concrete steps. I stood completely paralyzed outside the glass entrance of the conservatory. The afternoon sun was blazing overhead, yet violent shivers raced up and down my spine. I had no memory of navigating the bus ride back to our apartment. I skipped my afternoon lab entirely. My personal phone sat on the desk surface, buzzing in a continuous, frantic rhythm as Jason’s contact photo illuminated the screen repeatedly. I lay flat on my mattress staring up at the white ceiling tiles, trapped in a recurring loop of Jason smiling at the dean’s daughter on the staircase, feeling completely hollow inside. By the time the deadbolt turned in the front door, darkness had swallowed the living room. Jason hurried inside, letting out an audible sigh of relief the second he saw my boots by the hallway mat. “Why did you skip your afternoon classes?” His voice was soft and careful, using the soothing inflection reserved for calming a frightened child. “Exhausted.” “That is fine. If you are exhausted, you rest.” He walked over to the edge of the sofa, kneeling on the rug to reach out and brush the bangs from my forehead. “I will email your lab instructor and handle the absence—” “Stop micromanaging my existence!” Watching his practiced, condescending gentleness snapped something deep inside my psyche. I swung my arm and slapped his wrist away with jarring force. He froze completely, his comforting smile hardening into disbelief. “What is wrong with you? Why are you speaking to me like this all of a sudden?” “You are the only family I have left in this world, Winter. I stood over our parents’ graves and made a sacred vow that I would protect you—” “I am twenty-one years old!” My voice cracked as I yelled over his monologue. “You are not my father! We do not even share a single drop of blood!” “You are going to build your own career, marry your own wife, and raise your own children! I cannot spend the rest of my life acting as your helpless dependent!” “Why can’t you?!” he shouted back, his voice booming through the small living room. The sheer ferocity of his outburst shocked me into temporary silence. Catching himself, he immediately dropped his gaze, grasping both of my wrists tightly as his voice dropped into an urgent, desperate rasp. “Did someone say something to upset you today?” “Whatever rumors are floating around campus, listen to me. There is nothing romantic going on between me and the dean’s daughter. We were simply discussing departmental funding.” “Winter, I gave you my word. I will never marry anyone. I am going to stay right here with you forever.” “I don’t want your promise anymore.” “What?” Jason stared at me, genuinely bewildered. “I said I don’t want your suffocating promises anymore!” For the first time in my entire life, I felt a desperate, burning need to banish him from my sight completely. The atmosphere in the apartment felt poisonous. I needed fresh air. I needed distance. I needed to escape his orbit! I couldn’t survive another day trapped inside this psychological greenhouse! Realizing that this wasn’t a temporary temper tantrum, the color drained steadily out of Jason’s face until his skin looked like parchment. “You don’t want my promise?” he whispered, his dark eyes turning a terrifying shade of crimson. “Then tell me what you actually want! What are you asking for?” “Do you want me to stop supervising your schedule, or do you want me out of your life entirely? Or…” His voice trembled visibly. “Are you trying to abandon me?” Years of suppressed bitterness detonated all at once. “I want out!” I screamed through hot tears. “I want to be left alone!” Those four words hit him like a physical blow. His eyes flashed blood red as a violent shudder wracked his tall frame. Before I could react, his hands clamped onto my shoulders with terrifying strength, driving my upper back into the sofa cushions as his face lunged downward until our noses were practically touching. His dark pupils dilated wildly, reflecting my terrified, tear-streaked face. His breath burned against my skin, his mouth hovering barely an inch above my lips. Just as his mouth lowered toward mine, he aborted the movement violently, recoiling backward as if he had brushed against red-hot iron. “You are overstressed from your academic workload.” He turned his back to me immediately, his voice hoarse and unstable. “I will submit medical leave paperwork for your classes tomorrow. You are staying inside the apartment to rest.” Without turning around, he grabbed his keys and strode out the front door, slamming it behind him. Once the deadbolt clicked shut, I curled up into a ball on the couch and wept until the decorative pillows were soaked through. A sharp buzz interrupted the silence. The lost phone was vibrating on the coffee table. Same unknown number. “I have been standing outside the rehearsal halls for an hour! Where are you?” Cole’s voice crackled through the speaker, sounding deeply annoyed. Hearing his voice acted as the ultimate trigger for my fractured emotional state. I screamed directly into the microphone. “Do you get a sick thrill out of playing twisted pranks on strangers?!” “I walked all the way to the music conservatory today! People in your own department told me the truth! Cole Shen died in an accident three years ago!” “Using a dead student’s identity to run some elaborate psychological game makes you a complete psychopath! I am throwing this phone in the nearest dumpster! Call this number again and I am contacting the police!” I jabbed the end button with shaking fingers and raised my arm to hurl the device against the hardwood floor. Before the phone left my hand, the screen illuminated again. Once. Twice. Three times. You really want to push my buttons right now? Fine! I needed a target for my rage, and whoever was on the other end had picked the wrong night to test my patience! I swiped the green icon and screamed at the top of my lungs. “Are you completely out of your mind?!” “You—” “Who told you I was dead?!” “What kind of twisted, jealous psycho goes around spreading rumors that I died?!” Before I could launch my next string of insults, he shouted over me with equal fury. “You just want to steal my brand-new phone! Coming up with a morbid lie like that just to keep a piece of electronics makes you a terrible person!” “Me? Terrible?!” I fired back. “You are impersonating a dead kid to mess with my head!” Neither of us backed down an inch. He sounded genuinely outraged, his voice escalating into frustrated disbelief. “I am standing right outside the conservatory practice rooms right this second, entirely alive! Go ahead and call campus security! I will call the real cops on you for theft first!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513566”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

By the ninety-ninth time a meal made me want to vomit, translucent text suddenly floated across my vision. [The heiress is so pathetic. She wants to throw up every time she eats.] [She still doesn’t know her sense of taste was stolen by the scholarship student, Hazel, using a System.] [All those Michelin star meals she eats? The System transfers them right into Hazel’s mouth.] I dropped my silver fork. My stomach cramped, hollow and burning with acid. Across the dining hall, Hazel sat by the window. Her cracked plastic bowl held stale dinner rolls and cheap canned beans from days ago. She tore off a piece of the dry bread, put it in her mouth, and chewed with a blissful smile. She looked like she was savoring world-class caviar. Another line of text drifted past. [It is not just the taste. All the nutritional value is transferred too. The heiress is going to keep wasting away until she literally starves to death…] I pinched my own hollow, sunken cheek. The sharp sting of pain made me inhale sharply. The floating text was real. Well, if Hazel wanted my sense of taste so desperately, I was going to put my mouth to very good use. 1 My stomach churned with acidic hunger. I rested my head on the mahogany table, staring at Hazel across the room. My mind drifted back to the first time I met her three years ago. It was early September. Hazel stood at the front of the classroom wearing a faded, hand-me-down t-shirt. “Hi, I am Hazel. I come from a really bad neighborhood on the south side. I have to take three different buses and walk two miles just to get to school…” The classroom fell completely silent. Then someone whispered. “Three buses? What time does she even wake up?” Another muttered, looking at her clothes. “They are practically falling apart.” The voices were low but painfully loud in the quiet room. The girl sitting in front of me turned to her desk mate. “She is amazing. Coming from that kind of poverty and still ranking first in the entrance exams.” Hearing those words pull at my heartstrings, I genuinely wanted to help her. The very next day, I went to our homeroom teacher and offered to fully sponsor Hazel’s tuition and living expenses. But Hazel stood up in front of the entire class and flat-out rejected me. “I appreciate Sloane’s charity, but my parents taught me to rely on my own two hands. I refuse to live off someone else’s pity just because I am poor.” “I might not know what a five-star meal tastes like. I do not even know what a proper braised short rib tastes like. But I love my stale bread and cheap beans because I bought them with my own hard-earned money.” She bowed. The class sat in stunned silence for two seconds before erupting into thunderous applause. From that day on, I became the villain. Everyone whispered behind my back. They said the spoiled capitalist heiress tried to humiliate the poor girl with her dirty money. Even my own desk mate moved her things away, sneering at me. “Do not think you can do whatever you want just because you are rich.” That was the day the entire senior class isolated me. And it was the exact same day I lost my sense of taste. Steak tasted like rubber. Fresh greens tasted like bitter ash. Swallowing premium rice felt like chewing sand. I saw countless specialists. They all agreed my tongue was perfectly fine. They diagnosed it as psychosomatic. For three years, I forced down food that tasted like literal dirt. In those three years, my weight plummeted from one hundred and ten pounds to barely eighty. My cheekbones jutted out. My wrists were so thin you could count the bones. Nobody felt sorry for me. Whenever people looked at me, they just muttered the word “Karma.” Looking at the floating text above my head, the horrifying truth finally clicked into place. But I had never done anything to Hazel. Why would she do this to me? [If everything goes according to the plot, Sloane will drop dead in the middle of her final exams. Hazel will score perfectly and get a full ride to Harvard.] [The school board will even recommend that Sloane’s billionaire parents adopt the brilliant, hardworking Hazel to cope with their grief.] I stared at the word “adopt.” My nails dug so hard into my palms they almost drew blood. She had been plotting to steal my entire life from the very beginning. But I could not just confront her. I needed hard evidence. I skipped my afternoon classes, called my driver, and headed straight to the hospital. 2 Our elite academy did all its annual physical exams at this specific private hospital. Conveniently, my family happened to be the hospital’s largest shareholder. It took exactly three minutes for the chief of medicine to hand over my class’s medical records. The director reviewed my charts and sighed. “Miss Sloane, your vitals are dangerously low. Your body is showing signs of severe, prolonged malnutrition. But…” I knew exactly what confused him. I was the daughter of a billionaire. My three daily meals were prepared by private chefs and delivered straight to the academy. How could I possibly be malnourished? He shook his head. “We have run every scan available. We simply cannot find the medical cause.” I did not reply. Instead, I pulled Hazel’s medical file from the stack. Her vitals were absolutely perfect. Under the physical fitness assessment, the doctor had actually written “Excellent.” I pulled up her intake records from freshman year to compare. The difference was staggering. After three years of supposedly eating nothing but stale bread and cheap canned food, she had grown two inches and gained a very healthy thirty pounds. Unless she was tapping into some supernatural force, that was biologically impossible. Armed with the files, I took a sleek black car straight back to the academy. I walked into the classroom and stopped right in front of Hazel’s desk. “Did you do this to me? Did you steal my sense of taste?” The classroom went dead silent. Hazel looked up, her eyes wide and innocent. “What do you mean?” I slammed my hand on her desk. “You stole my taste. Every single thing I eat gets transferred straight into your mouth.” Hazel’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second before her eyes welled up with tears. Her voice trembled. “Sloane… I really do not know what you are talking about. I eat dry bread and cheap beans every single day. I buy them from the discount rack…” The rest of the class immediately stood up to defend her. “Are you psychotic, Sloane? Hazel literally eats scraps. She has it hard enough without you making up crazy conspiracy theories!” “You cannot blame other people just because your own body is failing!” Hazel wiped her eyes, reaching into her worn-out backpack to pull out a crinkled plastic bag. Inside was half a dry roll and some unappetizing pickled vegetables. “Look. I really do not eat anything good…” Her voice trailed off, making her sound like a heavily wronged martyr. “Really?” I let out a cold, sharp laugh and threw both medical reports onto her desk. “Then explain to me how a girl who survives on dry bread and pickles managed to get perfectly healthy, grow taller, and gain thirty pounds?” Hazel froze. She stared at the papers, completely lost for words. Right on cue, a familiar voice rang out from the back of the room. “Sloane, leave her alone! Just because Hazel refused your charity does not mean she cannot accept help from someone else.” Preston walked down the aisle, acting like a knight in shining armor. He placed a carton of premium organic milk gently onto Hazel’s desk. “Here is your daily milk, Hazel.” He looked so incredibly smug, as if Hazel’s perfect health was entirely his doing. Looking at the carton of milk, a wave of disgust washed over me. “Preston, did you forget who you actually grew up with?” The moment those words left my mouth, Hazel frantically shoved the milk carton back toward him. “Sloane, I am so sorry. I should not have accepted Preston’s kindness. I did not mean to make you jealous.” She looked down, her voice trembling. “I promise I will never accept anything from him ever again. Just please stop bullying me.” In one breath, she completely twisted my legitimate accusation into a petty, jealous catfight over a boy. Preston instantly stepped in front of her. “Are you serious right now, Sloane? I literally scoured the city for rare delicacies to help cure your taste loss. Are you seriously going to throw a tantrum over a single carton of plain milk?” My blood boiled. I pointed directly at Hazel. “I cannot taste anything because of her! She has some sort of system. No matter what I eat, the taste and the nutrients get transferred directly to her. She did this to me!” He did not even hesitate. He looked at me like I belonged in an asylum. “Do you even hear yourself right now, Sloane? A scholarship student from the slums used a ‘system’ to magically steal your taste?” “You are absolutely insane.” “You are malnourished because you refuse to eat your food! Stop projecting your eating disorder onto her!” I stared at him. I had looked at that face for over a decade, but right now, all I felt was profound disappointment. 3 I did not wait for Preston after school. I went straight back to my family’s estate alone. Staring at the massive, floor-to-ceiling wine cellar, an overwhelming wave of grief hit me. I popped the cork on a bottle of premium whiskey and poured glass after glass. I cried while I drank. Growing up in a strict, aristocratic household, I was never allowed to touch alcohol. I had absolutely zero alcohol tolerance. But with my taste gone, the whiskey did not burn. It did not sting my throat. I drank it like it was tap water, desperately trying to drown out the suffocating sadness. I drank until I felt physically full. Then my phone lit up with a video call from Preston. The second I answered, he started screaming at me. “Sloane, what the hell did you do to Hazel?!” “Why is she acting like this?!” I stared at the screen. Hazel’s face was flushed bright red. She was slumped over a trash can, violently throwing up. It was the most hilarious thing I had seen all day. “How would I know what is wrong with her?” I asked coldly. “And why is it automatically my fault?” “Who else would sabotage her?!” Preston yelled, his face contorted in anger. “Did you poison her? We were sitting here eating a perfectly normal dinner, and suddenly she started complaining about being dizzy and nauseous. Now she is completely delirious!” Hearing his blind accusations, my rage hit its absolute peak. “When my body started failing, I told you Hazel was behind it, and you called me crazy!” “Now Hazel has a stomachache, and without a single shred of evidence, you immediately accuse me of poisoning her?!” “We grew up together. Does a decade of trust mean absolutely nothing compared to her?” He held Hazel tightly against his chest, glaring at the camera with total disgust. “Hazel is not capable of something like that. You, on the other hand, are a spoiled, vindictive brat. I would not put it past you to try and ruin her.” Hearing those words, the very last trace of affection I held for Preston evaporated into thin air. “Believe whatever you want.” I hung up the phone. I was so furious I reached for another glass, but halfway there, reality crashed into me. I was drinking straight whiskey. Because I had no sense of taste, I was not getting drunk. But the physiological effects of the alcohol were being transferred to Hazel through her precious system! That was why she was dizzy and vomiting. She was experiencing severe alcohol poisoning. This meant that whatever I consumed, good or bad, healthy or toxic, went straight to her. I was a billionaire’s daughter. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. The formula I drank as a baby was the most expensive in the world. The water I drank was flown in from private mineral springs in Europe. My sprawling mansion housed a team of elite private chefs. In eighteen years, I had never consumed a single piece of garbage. Even my cold medicine was custom-flavored to taste like candy. That was exactly why Hazel chose to bind her system to me. For three years, she reaped the benefits of my luxurious diet. She never realized her system had a fatal flaw because I never ate anything remotely bad. Tonight was the very first time she suffered the consequences of stealing from my mouth. But it was definitely not going to be the last. A thrill of pure excitement rushed through me. I pulled out her medical report. Right under the allergy section, it was written in bold black ink. Allergic to Mangoes. I opened a premium grocery delivery app and immediately ordered fifty pounds of fresh mangoes. The very next day, fifty pounds of mangoes were delivered straight to the lobby of my private academy dorm. I hauled the massive boxes into my room and ripped them open. Dozens of bright yellow mangoes were neatly packed inside. I picked one up. It was smooth and cold against my palm. I hated mangoes. I had not touched one in three years. I locked my dorm room door and set up my phone on a tripod. I typed out a livestream title. “Eating One Hundred Mangoes Challenge.” I hit the go-live button. The viewer count started trickling in. I peeled the first mango and took a massive bite. I could not taste the sweetness. I could only feel the mushy, fibrous texture mashing against my tongue. I chewed twice and swallowed. Then came the second. Then the third. By the time I finished the tenth mango, the chat was blowing up, praising me for being a competitive eating god. Since the system was transferring the actual fullness and digestion to Hazel, I did not feel bloated at all. Quantity was completely irrelevant to me. Honestly, I was just dying to know what the physical limit was for someone with a severe mango allergy. The answer was fifteen. Right as I swallowed the last bite of the fifteenth mango, someone started violently pounding on my door. “Sloane! Open the damn door! What did you do?!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513565”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day I was reincarnated, it was the exact day of my adoption at the orphanage. I stood there and watched as Mason dragged his adoptive mother by the hand, pointing frantically toward the girl singing on the swing set, Harah. “Mom! Can we adopt this sister, please?!” In my past life, the adoptive parents had taken me home instead. Mason had resented me for being quiet, for not knowing how to act cute, and for never being as charming as the girl who loved the swings. I organized his study notes, took care of his aging parents, and when the family went bankrupt, I dropped out of school to work and keep the family afloat. His attitude toward me softened, just a tiny bit. But every single time I was in competition with Harah, he still demanded that I step aside. The university recommendation, the scholarship, the overseas training program—every single time. The final time was when the plane went down. As the flames engulfed the cabin, he looked at me and murmured: “If there is a next life… I wish Harah could be my sister.” I heard him. When I opened my eyes again. I was back on Adoption Day. This time, I smiled before Mason could even open his mouth: “Mr. and Mrs. Evans, I think Harah is a much better fit for your family.” Then I turned around and walked straight toward the Miller couple, the people who had adopted Harah in my past life. “I want to go home with you.” 1 Mr. Miller froze for a second. He crouched down to meet me at eye level. His hands were rough, covered in thick calluses, and he held his palm out toward me. “What is your name, little girl?” “…Hazel. Like the tree.” “Hazel,” he repeated. His voice was incredibly gentle, like he was afraid of startling a wild bird. “We want a daughter. Do not worry about being quiet. Our house is very peaceful, and you do not need to perform or entertain anyone to stay with us.” Behind him, Mrs. Miller’s eyes grew slightly red, though she didn’t speak. Instead, she pulled a carefully folded handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it into my hand. “Wipe your hands,” she whispered. “Why are they so cold?” I looked down at my hands. I had been pinching my palms so hard out of anxiety that a row of pale, crescent-shaped indentations marked my skin. A sudden, sharp ache hit the back of my nose. In my twenty-two years with the Evans family in my past life, not a single person had ever asked me why my hands were cold. Laughter drifted over from the swing set. It was Harah. Mason gave me a complicated look but said nothing more. He pulled Mrs. Evans toward the swings, turning back to yell: “Mom! Hurry up! Look how high she is swinging!” Mrs. Evans cast one final glance at me. There was a fleeting flash of regret in her eyes, but it vanished instantly. She turned and walked toward the swing set. Mr. Miller was still crouched in front of me, his hand outstretched. His palm was rough, warm, and waiting quietly. I placed my hand in his. “Okay,” I said. “I will go home with you.” When we walked out of the orphanage gates, the sunlight was so bright it made me squint. Mrs. Miller walked on my left, Mr. Miller on my right. I was wedged in the middle, each of my hands held securely in theirs. I turned my head and looked back one last time. Mason was lifting Harah off the swing, smiling so widely his eyes turned into crescent moons. That was the absolute last time in this life I ever turned around to look at them. 2 The Millers lived in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment tucked away in an old, working-class neighborhood on the east side of the city. The living room held a faded, aggressively patterned fabric sofa. Mrs. Miller dug through the shoe cabinet for a solid minute before pulling out a pair of brand-new, fluffy pink slippers. The tags were still on them. “Bought these ages ago,” she murmured, crouching down to snip the plastic tag. Her ears were flushed. “Just never knew when we would actually get a daughter. They have been sitting there for two years.” Mr. Miller leaned out from the tiny kitchen. “Hazel! I am making fried fish. Do you eat fish?” “I do.” “Great!” He popped back into the kitchen, the loud clang of a spatula hitting a wok echoing through the apartment. I stood in the living room wearing those fuzzy pink slippers, the soles so soft it felt like I was stepping on clouds. That first night, I slept in the spare bedroom. The sheets were freshly changed, smelling deeply of clean cotton baked in the sun. A small nightlight glowed on the nightstand, casting a warm, amber light across the room. Mrs. Miller hovered in the doorway for a long time. She opened her mouth, closed it, and finally just said: “I will leave the door open. Call me if you need anything.” After she left, I buried my face in the pillow. The pillow had been sun-dried too. It was plush, crisp, and radiated an indescribable warmth. For the first time in two lifetimes, I fell asleep in a strange place without curling myself into a tight, defensive ball. Things over at the Evans household, however, were loud. Mr. Miller ran a phone repair stall at the night market. He dealt with every kind of person imaginable, which meant he heard the neighborhood gossip faster than anyone. On the third day, he came home, dropped his toolbox by the door, stripped off his jacket, and turned to Mrs. Miller. “Guess what. The Evans family threw a massive party. Booked seven or eight tables. Said it was a welcome banquet for their new daughter.” Mrs. Miller, who was scooping rice into bowls, paused. “They threw a banquet?” “Yup. Booked a private hall at the Grand Plaza.” Mr. Miller took off his apron, hung it behind the door, and glanced over at me, deliberately lowering his voice. “Word on the street is the son demanded it. Said he wanted to officially and grandly welcome his new sister to the family.” “Do you think we should…” Mrs. Miller trailed off, checking my expression. She didn’t finish the thought, merely placing a bowl of rice in front of me and adding a generous portion of greens to the top. “Hazel, time to eat.” “Okay,” I replied. In my past life, on my third day in the Evans house, Mason locked himself in his room and refused to come out. Mrs. Evans cooked an entire feast, but he wouldn’t even crack the door open. Later, I stood outside his room for thirty minutes holding a plate of food. A piece of paper was shoved out from under the door gap. It read: “Leave me alone.” There was no banquet. There was no Grand Plaza. There was no “grandly welcoming his new sister.” He didn’t even call me “sister” a single time. I had no idea what was going through Mason’s head when he demanded a banquet for Harah. But that was his problem. It had absolutely nothing to do with me. Bits and pieces of the Grand Plaza banquet still trickled down to me. Mrs. Miller ran into the Evans’ housekeeper at the vegetable market. The two stood by a produce stand and chatted. The housekeeper loved to gossip and spilled everything. She said Mason wore a crisp new dress shirt, his hair styled perfectly. He held Harah’s hand the entire night, walking her from table to table to introduce her to the extended family. She said Harah was incredibly sweet, addressing everyone perfectly—”Uncle,” “Auntie,” “Cousin”—making the whole room laugh in delight. She said Mason even tapped his glass with a fork, stood up, and gave a speech. “Thank you all for coming. This is my sister. From now on, anyone who messes with her is messing with me.” The entire hall erupted in applause. Mrs. Miller sighed, quietly snapping the ends off green beans at the kitchen table. Only after the housekeeper had walked away did Mrs. Miller look at me, her voice hesitant. “Hazel… do you regret it? Choosing our family that day?” “Of course not. I cannot thank you enough. Truly.” I meant every word. In my past life, I waited twenty-two years in the Evans house. I waited for him to call me his sister. I waited for him to treat me like actual family. I waited until the plane caught fire and he said, “I wish Harah was my sister.” I had done enough waiting for one lifetime. 3 A few days later, Mrs. Miller came back from the market holding a large bag of premium apples. She explained that the Evans’ housekeeper had forced them onto her and refused to take them back. “She said Mason asked her to pass them along. He said to say… thank you.” Mrs. Miller placed the apples on the table and watched me carefully. I picked one up, rubbed it on my sleeve, and took a bite. It was crisp, sweet, and incredibly juicy. “Then tell him you are welcome.” I said. Mrs. Miller gave me a long look, said nothing, and turned back to the kitchen. I tossed the apple core into the trash and walked out to the balcony to check on the jasmine plant. The leaves looked a bit more lively than a few days ago, and a tiny, pale green bud was sprouting from one of the branches. I had no desire to decode what Mason’s “thank you” meant. Maybe he was thanking me for stepping aside so he could have Harah. Maybe he was thanking me for leaving quietly without making a scene. Or maybe he was thanking me for not exposing his desperate maneuvering on Adoption Day. He chose Harah, and then comfortably accepted my quiet exit. Fine by me. He got the sister he wanted. And whatever debt he felt he owed me, I wasn’t going to collect. On the first day of middle school, I ran into Harah in the hallway. She was wearing a brand-new designer backpack, her hair tied up with a silk bow. She froze when she saw me, then broke into a bright smile. “Hazel! You go to school here too?” “Yeah.” “I am in Class Three! What about you?” “Class Seven.” “What a coincidence!” She beamed. “We are schoolmates now!” I just gave a curt nod and walked away. So, Harah and I attended the same school. She was in Class Three, I was in Class Seven. Every single day after school, I saw Mason waiting at the gates to pick her up. Even from across a crowded hallway, I could feel his gaze burning into the side of my head. I ignored it entirely. A month later, the midterm rankings were posted. I ranked seventh in the entire grade. Harah ranked ninety-third. The massive red bulletin board was plastered right outside the cafeteria, impossible to miss. That afternoon, Mason was standing in the corridor between the classrooms, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. As I walked out, he called my name. His tone was different from before. It was flatter, slower, like he had rehearsed a speech but swallowed half the words at the last second. “Hazel… Miller.” I stopped and looked at him. He rubbed his hands together nervously, shoved them back into his pockets, and shifted his gaze from my face, to the bulletin board, and back again. “My parents brought you up at dinner a few days ago. They heard your grades are excellent.” I said nothing. “They said… back at the orphanage, you were always so well-behaved.” “Yeah.” He paused again. A yellow ginkgo leaf drifted down and landed on his shoulder. He didn’t brush it off. “They said you are doing really well.” “Thank you,” I replied. “Tell your parents I said thanks.” Then I walked away. That night at dinner, Mrs. Miller asked how I did on the midterms. I told her I ranked seventh in the grade. She was so ecstatic she dropped her spatula, ran out of the kitchen, and hugged me tight. The grease from her apron smeared right onto my sleeve. Mr. Miller rushed out of the living room in a panic. “What happened? What happened?!” “Your daughter got seventh! Seventh in the whole grade!” Mr. Miller blinked, then a massive grin split his face. “Well, does that mean we need a celebratory dish?” “Yes! What does Hazel want to eat?” “Fried fish, please.” “Fish again? We just had that two days ago!” “Then I will make extra crispy fried fish!” Mrs. Miller shot me a playful glare, marching back into the kitchen, muttering under her breath, though the oil was already sizzling in the pan. Mr. Miller sat back down on the sofa, picking up his screwdriver to tinker with an old radio, humming a song horribly off-key. I sat at the dining table, looking at my adoptive mother bustling in the kitchen and my adoptive father humming in the living room. I suddenly realized I didn’t care at all about that ginkgo leaf on Mason’s shoulder. 4 The second semester of eighth grade, Mason approached me voluntarily for the second time. I was waiting at the bus stop after school. He spotted me from the shadow of a billboard three meters away. I pretended not to see him. He walked over and stopped beside me, leaving a half-step of distance between us. Close, but not too close. “Hazel.” “Yeah.” “You are in eighth grade now?” “Yeah.” “How were the midterms?” “Fine.” He ran out of things to say. I didn’t offer anything else. The bus arrived. I swiped my card, walked to the back, and took a window seat. As the bus pulled away, I glanced out the window. He was still standing beneath the billboard, his gray silhouette dissolving into the evening dusk. That night, while I was doing homework, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Mason. “Harah bombed her midterms. My dad completely lost it and screamed at her. Could you lend her your study notes so she can copy them?” I stared at the message for a long time. A second text popped up. “Just this once. She will return them the second she is done.” Then a third. “Just consider it a favor.” I put my phone face down on the desk. I finished my math homework. Then my English homework. Then physics. When I was completely done, it was past eleven at night. I picked up the phone and typed a single word: “Sure.” I hit send and turned the phone off. The next day at noon, Harah came to find me. She stood outside Class Seven holding a bubble tea, smiling her trademark sugary smile. “Hazel, thank you so much! I finished copying everything. Here are your notes back!” She handed the notebook over. Stuck to the cover was a sticky note with a crooked, hand-drawn heart. I flipped the notebook open. In the margins of one of the pages, written in tiny, deliberate handwriting, was a sentence. “Your brother told you to let me win, and you did. You are such a good person.” I dog-eared that page and closed the notebook. Harah skipped away, her ponytail bouncing behind her. I stood in the hallway, watching her back. In my past life, she had said almost the exact same thing to me. Right after I gave up the university recommendation, withdrew my scholarship application, and declined the overseas training. She had smiled and said, “Hazel, you are so nice.” Back then, I thought it was a genuine compliment. Now, I finally understood what she really meant. Her translation was: “You handed what was yours over to me, which makes you a pushover. And I am going to keep taking.” A month later, the school announced they were hosting a New Year’s Gala. Each class had to nominate one candidate to host the event, and the faculty would select one boy and one girl from the entire grade. Class Three nominated Harah. She was outgoing, sweet-talking, and loved being on stage. Her homeroom teacher picked her instantly. The homeroom teacher for Class Seven hesitated for days before finally calling my name. I had ranked in the top five on the midterms, and the teacher claimed, “Top students have a stable stage presence.” I didn’t decline. I just nodded. The day the candidate list was posted on the bulletin board, Harah walked past Class Seven and peeked through the window. I was doing homework. Feeling eyes on me, I looked up. She flashed me a sweet smile, spun on her heel, and walked away, her ponytail swishing behind her. After school, Mason was waiting at the gates. As I walked out, he stood up straight. “Hazel.” “Yeah.” “That gala host audition,” he said, his voice tight. “Can you drop out?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513564”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the first day of high school, Chloe sprang from behind and threw her arms around my neck, hugging me tight. Suddenly, a flood of red text exploded across my vision— [Oh my god, this is the 387th time. She still doesn’t realize her best friend is the problem!] [Duck! Get away from her! Just one hug and her beauty stat drops another three points. She was such a pretty, fair-skinned girl in middle school, and now she is being drained dry.] [Exactly. She had straight A’s in middle school and then her grades just vanished. I could literally cry for her.] The text crowded my vision, line after dense line. My entire body went rigid. How did they know? In middle school, I was consistently at the top of my class. Over the last two years of high school, I plummeted straight to the bottom. My skin had become rough and dull, my brain felt sluggish, and I hated even looking in the mirror. Everyone whispered the same thing: Maya peaked in middle school. High school ruined her. She just stopped trying. But I was trying. I never stopped trying. Chloe rested her chin on my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts. “Maya, you have to promise to be my best friend this semester too, okay?” The floating text said it was because I hugged her. So… what if I got everyone else to touch her instead? 1 I instinctively bent down, pretending to tie my shoelace, forcing her to let go. “Whoa.” She stumbled slightly. “Why did you randomly crouch down?” “Shoelace came undone,” I muttered, keeping my head down. The text was still scrolling furiously above me. [Wait, did she dodge that? Did she figure it out?] [No way. She has been clueless for two years. She is not going to suddenly have an epiphany.] My nails dug into my palms. In that single instant, it felt like a bomb went off in my head. Everything that hadn’t made sense over the last two years suddenly snapped into place. If what this text was saying was true… I didn’t just ‘lose my touch’. I was being robbed. When I stood back up, Chloe grabbed my sleeve and pulled me toward the cafeteria kiosk. Walking beside her, I stared at her profile. Her skin was practically glowing, porcelain white, and her eyes were huge and brilliant. In middle school, I used to look exactly like that. More text drifted past. [Look at her. Half of Chloe’s face was literally stolen from Maya.] [Right?! Chloe used to have yellowish, uneven skin. Suddenly she is Snow White? Who actually buys that?] We reached the kiosk. Chloe bought a strawberry yogurt, pierced the foil with a straw, and pushed it right to my lips. “Take a sip. It’s your favorite.” The text went absolutely ballistic. [Do not drink it! Sharing a straw counts as intimate contact!] [Indirect mouth-to-mouth transfers stats just the same! Dodge it, quick!] I took a half-step back and waved my hand. “I am not thirsty.” Chloe froze. A flash of something unrecognizable darted through her bright, pretty eyes. “What is wrong with you today?” She pushed the straw closer. “Just one sip.” “My throat is sore. The doctor said no cold drinks.” She stared at me for two solid seconds before her bright smile returned. “Okay, fine. Next time I will get you a hot cocoa.” I nodded. Right now, the only thing I could do was play dumb. I had to act like I was still the slow, ugly, clueless Maya. I mentally etched every single phrase the text had revealed into a draft paper tucked in my mind. 387th time. Beauty dropped by three. Intimate contact. Indirect counts too. I stared at the words I wrote on the corner of my notebook during class. If this was how my life had been slowly siphoned away over the past two years— Then what I lost wasn’t just good grades and clear skin. It was two entire years of my life. I folded the paper tight and shoved it into the deepest zipper of my pencil case. Watching Chloe’s back from a few desks away, a crystal-clear thought formed in my mind. I had to figure out exactly how the mechanics of this theft worked. The text seemed to hear my thoughts. A final line floated past. [Ooh, look at those eyes. That is a dangerous look.] [Is Maya… finally going to do something about this?] I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do yet. But I knew one thing for certain: starting today, everything changes. 2 To play my part convincingly, I had to sift through the last two years of my life, frame by frame. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Who was I in middle school? A regular in the top ten of the entire grade. I had skin so pale and flawless the kids nicknamed me ‘Vanilla Bean’. I could run the 800-meter dash and place in the top three. I could memorize vocabulary lists just by glancing at them. Back then, my mom bragged to anyone who would listen that I was a natural-born scholar. But then came the first midterms of freshman year in high school. I dropped from the elite tier straight to dead average. My mom’s first reaction was to scream at me. “Are you dating someone?! Are you playing on your phone all night?!” I told her I wasn’t. She didn’t believe me. By sophomore year, my grades had stabilized at the absolute bottom of the class. The girl in the mirror became a stranger. My skin turned sallow and broke out in cystic acne. My eyes lost their spark, and my face bloated. During P.E., I couldn’t even run half a lap without gasping for air. My homeroom teacher pulled me aside for a serious talk. “Maya, you had such a phenomenal foundation in middle school. Why are you regressing? Have you gotten lazy?” The school nurse prescribed me multivitamins, claiming it was just normal teenage hormonal imbalance. Everyone found a convenient excuse for my downfall. Lazy. Gluttonous. Undisciplined. Puberty. Not a single person considered that my life was being stolen. Chloe transferred to our school on the first day of freshman year. When she arrived, she was utterly average. Middle-of-the-pack grades, plain features. We sat next to each other, and she clung to me. She was constantly holding my hand, throwing her arm around my shoulders, pressing her cheek against mine for selfies. Back then, I was thrilled. I thought I had made a best friend for life. But somewhere along the line, she transformed. Her skin turned luminous. Her eyes widened. Her grades skyrocketed with every exam. By the second semester of sophomore year, she was ranked number one in the grade. The teachers worshipped her. The students idolized her. That was when the title of ‘Genius Beauty Queen’ started circulating. And I? I became the ugly, slow sidekick who hovered in her shadow. As I lay there remembering, the text popped back up to join the pity party. [All that light she shines with? It is yours.] [The most toxic part is, the harder she leeches off you, the nicer she pretends to be.] No wonder every time I bombed a test, she was the first to comfort me. “It is okay, Maya. Just study harder next time.” Then, right in front of the whole class, she would generously lend me her perfect study notes. The teachers would praise her: “Chloe is such a supportive classmate.” The other students would say: “Maya, you must have saved a nation in your past life to get a best friend like her.” I would take her notes, feeling a mix of warmth and deep, crushing guilt. Looking back, it was a sick, twisted joke. The memory that hurt the most was from last month. My mom found a photo of me from middle school and let out a long, heavy sigh. “Maya, look at how beautiful you used to be.” She tapped the photo angrily. “Look at yourself now. Are you not embarrassed?” I stood in front of the mirror, completely unable to speak. I cried until the sun came up that night. I genuinely believed I had ruined my own life. I believed I wasn’t trying hard enough, that I lacked discipline, that I deserved to fail. Now I understood why the text appeared exactly when I was at my lowest. Because I was at rock bottom. If someone hadn’t told me the truth, I would have fully accepted the identity of the ‘ruined, worthless Maya’. Since the truth was finally out, I wasn’t going to hold back. I rolled out of bed and pulled the folded paper from my backpack. Under the desk lamp, I re-read the rules I had noted down. 387th time. Beauty -3. Intimate contact. Indirect counts. I grabbed a pen and added a new line: She transferred here freshman year. My downfall started exactly then. To steal it all back, I need to find the fatal flaw in her system. I folded the paper into an even tinier square and shoved it back into the secret lining of my pencil case. For the first time, I felt a deep, unwavering certainty. The ugly, slow Maya wasn’t the real me. The real me was just waiting to come back. 3 To find the system’s fatal flaw, I had to rely on the floating text. It leaked info, complained, and insulted people on my behalf. If I watched it closely and recorded every anomaly, I could piece the puzzle together. For the next few weeks, I became extremely ‘cooperative’ with Chloe. If she wanted to hold my hand, I gave it to her—but I pulled my sleeve down so the fabric separated our skin. If she wanted a cheek-to-cheek selfie, I tilted my head so my hair created a barrier between our faces. If she threw her arm around me, I conveniently shifted my backpack to act as a shield. Every single time, the text tallied the score. [Ooh, skin-to-fabric contact. She only lost a fraction of a point. Interesting.] [Smart! She is secretly minimizing her own damage.] Now I knew for sure. The more direct the physical contact, the harsher the theft. If there was a barrier, the transfer was drastically reduced. That was the first thread I untangled. The second clue arrived purely by accident. During the school sports festival, Chloe signed up for multiple events. After finishing the 100-meter dash, she was swarmed by a massive crowd of students. Someone threw an arm around her shoulder, another patted her back, and half a dozen others pushed in to high-five her. In that exact moment, the text hovering in my vision glitched aggressively. The words overlapped, flashed violently, and spat out a string of garbled code. [L… Lagging?] [Too many people touching her at once! Is the system bottlenecking?] [Holy crap, the screen is tearing! It is going to crash!] I stood up straight, my heart hammering in my chest. When the crowd finally dispersed and Chloe walked out alone, the text slowly stabilized. I stared at the smooth red letters, my pulse racing. It couldn’t handle crowds. I immediately wrote it down in my notes. Multiple simultaneous contacts → System lag. I drew a heavy, dark circle around it. From that day on, I started testing the theory. When the photography club took a group picture, twenty or thirty people squished together around Chloe. The text stuttered, but recovered quickly. [Not too many people this time. It held up.] During a surprise birthday party the class threw for her, over twenty people took turns giving her a hug. The text merely shivered. It didn’t break. This proved that simultaneous contact and rapid consecutive contact had the exact same effect on the system’s bandwidth. A number slowly began to take shape in my head. Twenty or thirty people? It could handle that. But what if there were more? What was the absolute limit? Did it crash the second it hit the ceiling, or did it need a massive overflow to completely break? The text seemed to read my mind, drifting by at a leisurely pace. [This girl’s observation skills are getting terrifying.] [Is she… counting the crowd?] [Shh—do not spoil it. Let her figure it out.] I ignored them. I just added one more line to my notes. It has a hard cap. If the crowd exceeds a specific number, it will crash. To find that exact number, I had to bide my time. The perfect opportunity arose during the midterm awards assembly. Chloe was called to the stage as the top student in the grade. The crowd went wild, and students rushed the stage, demanding group selfies with her. A massive mob of about forty students swarmed her at once. The text began vibrating violently, the words blurring into an illegible, pixelated mess. I stared at it intensely. At peak density, I counted roughly forty-five or forty-six people touching her in some capacity. The text was so distorted it was practically unreadable, but the screen never went completely white. When the crowd cleared, it slowly stitched itself back together. I let out a long breath. Forty-five or forty-six. It could barely endure it. The breaking point had to be hovering right around fifty. I scribbled the number down. As I wrote it, my hand was shaking. I had finally found the door. All I had to do was get more than fifty people to physically touch Chloe at the exact same time— And the system that had leeched off my life for two years would gorge itself until it exploded. A final line of text drifted quietly by. [Maya, you are not stupid at all, are you?] I smiled. Now that I knew the fatal flaw, I just needed a completely justifiable, public event where everyone would willingly swarm her. 4 And most importantly, I could not be anywhere near her when it happened. If the stolen talents snapped back to me, I needed to be in proximity, but far enough away that she wouldn’t immediately suspect me. I flipped through the school calendar. The Annual Arts Gala. It was the most prestigious event of the year. Awards, performances, bouquets of flowers, absolute chaos on and off the stage. And Chloe was essentially guaranteed to win this year’s ‘Campus Star’ award. It was a title voted on by the entire female student body. Beauty, academics, popularity—she ranked first in all three. I stared at the date on the calendar, a slow smile spreading across my face. Over the next two months, I executed three specific tasks. First, I kept playing the fool. I was clingier with Chloe than ever before. If she wanted to hold hands, I held them. If she wanted a hug, I gave it to her. Except every single time, I sneakily ensured there was a layer of clothing between us, keeping the stolen stats to an absolute minimum. The text scrolled by, laughing at my sabotage. Second, I built her hype. I actively pushed Chloe’s campaign for ‘Campus Star’. I praised her in the class group chats and canvassed for votes on the school forums. “Chloe is beautiful inside and out. She deserves this.” “She is the pride of our class! Everyone vote for her!” My classmates constantly talked about how fiercely loyal I was to my best friend. Chloe was so moved she teared up, pulling me into a tight hug. “You understand me better than anyone, Maya.” I hugged her back, making sure my thick winter coat was wedged between us. The text drifted by: [The higher you build the pedestal, the harder the fall. Fatten the pig before the slaughter.] Third, and most importantly, I executed the final move. I tracked down the student council member in charge of the Gala’s itinerary. I pitched an idea. “For the Campus Star award this year, why don’t we add an interactive segment?” “Let the winner stand center stage, and have the entire grade line up to hand her flowers, give her a hug, or shake her hand.” “We can film it as one massive, continuous panoramic shot. It would be an unforgettable memory for the yearbook.” The council member’s eyes lit up. “That is brilliant! It is engaging and super wholesome.” And just like that, the segment was officially added to the schedule. I stared at the printed itinerary, my heartbeat slow and steady. Campus Star Interactive Congratulatory Segment — Entire Grade Participation. The entire grade. That was a hell of a lot more than fifty people. The night before the Gala, Chloe came to my room. She was holding a bouquet she had prepared, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Maya, if I actually win tomorrow, you are the very first person I am going to hug.” I smiled warmly. “I will be waiting.” She leaned in, arms open to embrace me. I twisted sideways, letting my backpack take the brunt of the impact, allowing her to graze only the fabric of my sleeve. The text cheerfully reported a microscopic decimal of a stat loss. [No biggie, just a drop in the ocean.] Chloe didn’t notice a thing and skipped away happily. I stood there, watching her bounce down the hallway. Tomorrow was going to be the absolute peak of her life. I went back to my desk and opened my notebook. Hard cap is highly likely 50 people. Exceeding the cap guarantees a crash. I took my pen and pressed hard into the paper, writing the final line. Tomorrow, the entire grade will line up to hug her. We will see exactly which number blows the system to pieces. I closed the notebook. The text drifted slowly across my vision. [Is tomorrow the season finale?] [I am literally rubbing my hands together in excitement.] [Good luck, Maya.] 5 The auditorium was packed on the day of the Gala. Chloe had applied a flawless, light layer of makeup. Under the stage lights, her skin looked translucent and radiant. The text mocked her: [Tsk, that entire foundation was robbed straight from the girl sitting in the back row.] I kept my expression perfectly blank. The performances cycled through, one after another. I only cared about one thing: when the award ceremony was going to start. Finally, the host stepped up to the mic and called her name. The auditorium erupted in thunderous applause. Chloe covered her mouth, acting utterly shocked, and gracefully walked up the stairs to the stage. The spotlight hit her, and she smiled like a blooming flower. The girls cheered, the boys whistled. She took the trophy and leaned into the microphone, delivering a perfectly humble, rehearsed speech. “Thank you all so much… I am just lucky to be surrounded by people who constantly help and support me…” The text fired up again. [People who help you? You mean the host you drained dry?] [Keep acting, sweetheart. The curtains are about to close.] I smiled gently at her from the crowd. The host took the mic back. “And now, for a very special segment this year—” “We invite the entire grade to come up to the stage, present a flower, give our Campus Star a hug, and capture the most beautiful group photo in school history!” The crowd roared in approval. The hospitality team, already prepped, took their places on both sides of the stage holding baskets of individual roses. The student council began directing the traffic, forming a massive, winding line. The crowd surged forward. Chloe stood center stage, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it, but her radiant smile quickly returned. She probably thought this was her absolute coronation. The first student walked up, handed her a flower, and hugged her. A number popped up on my screen. [1.] The second, the third. [2, 3…] The line stretched longer and longer. Some handed her flowers, some hugged her, some shook her hand, others slung an arm around her shoulder for a quick selfie. The text started ticking upward, digit by digit. [15, 16, 17…] [Ooh, we are cooking now.] When it hit the twenties, the font on the text began to vibrate slightly. I stared unblinking at Chloe on the stage. She was still smiling, hugging person after person, completely oblivious. No one in that auditorium knew that every single embrace was dragging my stolen life back to me. The numbers ticked faster and faster. [35! Incoming visual glitches!] [Look at the text! It is getting pixelated!] The crowd kept pushing forward. The student council members were shouting into megaphones, “Do not push! Single file! One at a time!” But the excitement was completely out of control. Everyone wanted to touch the ‘Campus Star’ and get some of her good luck. [42! 43!] [It is gonna blow! It is actually gonna blow!] Chloe’s smile began to stiffen. She probably felt something was wrong—a heavy, suffocating weight, like something anchored deep inside her was violently rattling loose. She instinctively took a half-step back. But the center of the stage was mobbed. She was trapped. [48! 49!] I shot up from my seat. The fiftieth student handed her a flower and stepped away. The entire wall of text in my vision began flashing blinding white, like a television losing its signal. [50! Max capacity reached!] [One more and it—] The fifty-first student, grinning ear to ear, threw her arms wide open and tackled Chloe in a massive bear hug. In that exact fraction of a second. The entire wall of text shattered with a deafening, silent SNAP and went completely, blindingly white.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “513563”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel