Author: Momo Chan

Eight boyfriends. Eight sudden, panicked exits. Every single time a relationship crept toward something real, my cousin Courtney would quietly slip them a single text: “Just a heads-up about my cousin—she has a history of severe mental instability. Be careful.” I was completely in the dark. Until the ninth guy didn’t run. He sat me down and told me himself. I still had all eight of my exes on my contact list. After calling each one to confirm the devastating truth, I demanded they send me screenshots of the message Courtney had sent them. Now, at Courtney’s engagement party, she was gliding through the room, her arm looped tightly through Dustin’s—my eighth ex. Our relatives were practically swooning over him. My aunt Sharon patted Courtney’s hand, then turned her sharp eyes on me. “Quanna, you really need to start taking notes. Look at your cousin. She actually knows how to choose a man.” I forced a tight, empty smile. “You’re right, Aunt Sharon. I should definitely learn a thing or two.” I stood up, picked up my champagne glass, and walked straight toward Courtney. “Hey, Courtney,” I said, my voice cutting through the chatter. “There’s something I’ve been dying to ask. When you sent them that text, what exactly was going through your head?” 1 “Quanna, what on earth are you talking about?” Courtney’s perfect smile faltered, her eyes darting to my hands. I turned my phone screen toward the crowd, displaying the screenshots. “You really have a gift, Courtney,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the roar in my ears. “Sifting through my boyfriends to find the best of the bunch. Dustin is a great guy. Congratulations.” Whispers erupted around the table. Courtney squinted at the screen, her expression instantly shifting from surprise to deep, solemn concern. “Quanna, we tolerated your outbursts when we were kids, but this is my engagement party. How could you try to ruin this for us?” She turned to the rest of the family, her voice dripping with pity. “Honestly, AI deepfakes are getting so realistic these days. If you don’t look closely, you’d actually think this was real.” Aunt Sharon’s face darkened instantly. She turned a glare toward my mother. “Helen, look at what you’ve raised. Is this a joke? How could she pull a stunt like this on today of all days?” The room turned on me in a heartbeat. “She’s just bitter because Dustin chose Courtney over her.” “So petty.” “It’s not just petty. It’s a character flaw.” I ignored them and looked directly at Dustin, my chest tightening. “Dustin. Tell them. Is that screenshot fake?” Before Dustin could open his mouth, Courtney leaned in close to him, her voice a stage whisper. “Dustin, just say whatever keeps her calm. We don’t want her to relapse.” Dustin looked at me, then took a distinct step backward, closer to Courtney. “Quanna… look, if you say it’s real, then it’s real. Just… please don’t get upset.” A cold rage washed over me. “Dustin, what is that supposed to mean? Tell them the truth!” “Quanna,” Courtney interrupted, stepping in front of him. “Dustin just realized the two of you weren’t a match. He didn’t want to force it. Why are you doing this?” She turned back to the family, sighs of exasperation rippling through the room. “You all know how she is. Ever since we were little, if she couldn’t win, she’d find a way to tear everything down. It’s happening again.” She looked back at me, her tone gently patronizing. “You can’t keep acting out like this, Quanna. I’m only letting this go because you’re my sister. Anyone else would have thrown you out by now.” The relatives shook their heads, murmuring in agreement. “So immature.” “Thank goodness Courtney is the bigger person.” “I don’t know how Helen puts up with her.” My mother’s face was pale, her hands trembling. Seeing her like that made my head spin with anger. Without another word, I pulled up the other seven screenshots and forwarded them directly to the family group chat. “It wasn’t just Dustin!” I cried, my voice cracking. “Courtney sent the exact same message to every single one of them!” Courtney’s eyes widened slightly as her phone buzzed. But as she scrolled through the images, a slow, mocking smile crept onto her lips. “Quanna, if you’re going to forge evidence, at least try to make it believable. Look at this. Every single message is identical. Not a single word changed, not even a punctuation mark.” My heart sank. She was incredibly calculating. She must have anticipated a day like this and used a standardized template for every single one of them, knowing the identical texts would make them look like a repetitive, poorly made copy. She let out a soft laugh, her eyes glinting with malice. “Honestly, Quanna… eight men, and you couldn’t keep a single one of them. Maybe it’s time to stop blaming me and look at yourself.” She patted my arm. “Don’t lose hope, though. Work on your personality, and I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually.” I had never been good with quick comebacks, and under the weight of her systematic gaslighting, the words choked in my throat. I stood there, mute and shaking. Within minutes, several older uncles escorted me out of the private dining room. Behind the heavy double doors, the sounds of laughter and warm toasts started up again. Outside, in the dimly lit hallway of the restaurant, I stood alone, shivering. My mother walked out a moment later, her eyes red. “Quanna,” she whispered, pulling me into a hug. “You’re my daughter. I know you’d never do something like that. Your cousin has always had a hundred different schemes running at once. Just stay away from her.” “Mom, I can’t just let this go,” I said, tears finally spilling over. “If I let her walk all over me, she wins. And you and Dad will never be able to hold your heads up around the family again.” “But what can you do?” “I’ll find a way.” The next morning, I began reaching out to my exes one by one. If I could get just one of them to stand up and tell the truth, Courtney’s entire facade would crumble. But to my horror, my messages wouldn’t go through. One by one, they had blocked me. The last ex, right before he blocked me, sent a single image. It was a photo of me at the engagement party, standing wildly on top of one of the banquet tables, my arms flailing, looking like a literal madwoman. My blood ran cold. Courtney had beaten me to it. She was a master of manipulation; in the photo, the surrounding relatives had expressions of sheer horror and alarm painted on their faces. To anyone looking at it, the narrative was clear: the unstable cousin had finally snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my keys, intending to drive straight to my aunt’s house to confront Courtney, but my mother caught me at the door. “I know my sister, Quanna,” she said, her voice tight with worry. “And Courtney is just like her. You can’t beat her at this game.” “She’s destroying my life, Mom! I can’t just sit here!” A dark shadow fell over my mother’s face. “Do you know what Courtney whispered to me right before we left the restaurant yesterday? She said she and Dustin are meant to be, and she won’t let anyone ruin her happiness. The look in her eyes… it terrified me. I’m scared of what she’ll do next.” I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “I’m the one who should be doing something to her! What else can she possibly do?” The answer came much faster than I expected. When I walked into the office the next morning, my department manager called me into his room. “Quanna, we’re going to have to let you go.” I stared at him, stunned. “What? Why?” “Your role is client-facing, Quanna,” he said, his tone entirely devoid of empathy. “We can’t risk you frightening our accounts. You shouldn’t have hidden your medical history from us.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve already found a replacement.” Before I could even process the words, the door opened. Courtney stepped into the room, wearing a sleek, professional blazer. “Don’t worry, Quanna. I’ll take good care of your accounts.” The room spun. My hands clenched into fists, and for a split second, I wanted nothing more than to lung across the desk and tear her apart. But I forced myself to freeze. If I lost control now, a new photo would emerge. One far worse than the table incident. She wanted me to go crazy. She was baiting me. I turned on my heel and walked out, feeling like a bomb ticking down to zero. When I got back to my apartment building, the nightmare followed me. My neighbors—people I had exchanged pleasantries with for years—guiltily avoided my gaze, stepping back into their apartments when they saw me coming. Then I saw the local community forum online. The photo of me on the table had been uploaded, alongside a thread that was rapidly gaining traction. Look at this girl. Dumped so many times she finally lost her mind at her cousin’s engagement party. Her name is Quanna Lin. Apparently, every guy she dates runs for the hills. Why? Word is she has a history of severe psychiatric issues. Well, that explains it. Who’d want to deal with that? I immediately went to the local precinct. “Officer, my cousin Courtney is defaming me online. I want to press charges.” But Courtney had covered her tracks perfectly. After a brief, superficial investigation, the police informed me that there was no digital paper trail linking the upload to her. They closed the case due to lack of evidence. Just as the walls felt like they were completely closing in, Courtney came to find me. She stood on my doorstep with a mysterious, satisfied smirk. “Quanna, I’m giving Dustin back to you. He’s all yours now.” I stared at her, immediately on guard. “What kind of game are you playing now?” “Honestly, I only got close to Dustin to test him for you,” she said, her voice smooth and dripping with mock sisterly love. “You’ve always been so naive about men. Now that the test is over, I’m returning him. You don’t have to thank me. That’s just what family does.” I was speechless. I looked at the woman standing in front of me, wondering how someone could be so utterly devoid of a soul. “Dustin will call you soon. Don’t let him slip away this time.” With that, Courtney turned and walked down the hall. As I watched her retreating back, trying to figure out what her real angle was, my phone buzzed. It was Jared. My ninth boyfriend. “Quanna,” he said, walking up the apartment stairs toward me, his phone in hand. “Look at what your cousin just sent me.” I took the phone. On the screen was a fresh message from Courtney: [You’re incredibly brave. I already told you my cousin is unstable, and yet you’re still seeing her?]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499014”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I moved everything ourselves from our damp basement studio to the new place—a cramped, run-down sixth-floor walk-up I’d just bought. To save a hundred dollars on movers, I made seventeen round trips, hauling heavy boxes up those narrow, creaking stairs. Darren just stood by the door, watching me silently. It wasn’t until I dragged the final mini-fridge over the threshold and shoved it into the kitchen that my knees finally gave out. I collapsed onto a packing crate, reaching for a bottle of water, ready to take a sip. That was when he spoke. “Actually, I’ve been lying to you. I’m not some broke guy from out of town. I’m the only heir to Shaw Enterprises.” “I lied because the constant scheming in my circle got exhausting. I needed a simple environment to heal myself.” “I’m telling you the truth now because I don’t want you pressure-testing me about marriage now that you’ve bought a place.” I froze, a half-smile on my face, telling him not to play stupid jokes on a day like today. Then he unlocked his phone and held it in front of my face. It was a bank transfer receipt. To a girl named Charlotte Shaw. A single transaction of five million dollars. The memo read: “Birthday gift for my baby.” He told me he never took me to high-end restaurants not because they were too expensive, but because he thought my shabby, dust-covered appearance would embarrass him. The clumsy, hand-made anniversary card he’d given me? He’d bought it off Craigslist for five bucks. And that week-long trip back to his “hometown” for a cousin’s wedding? He had actually chartered an entire private island in the Caribbean to throw a million-dollar fireworks show for Charlotte. The plastic cup in my hand slipped, clattering against the bare floorboards. Water pooled around my worn sneakers. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even argue. I just stood up, grabbed my duffel bag, and started packing my clothes. Darren blocked the doorway, his brow slightly furrowed. “You’re just leaving?” I looked him dead in the eye, my voice entirely flat. “I put fifty thousand dollars down on this place. I want it back in cash. Every single cent.” 1 “Do you think I’m completely pathetic?” When I asked him that, Darren was leaning against the cheap shoe rack by the door, idly tapping the moving contract against his thigh. He glanced down at the paper, remaining silent. So I asked again, my voice rising just a fraction. “Five years, Darren. Five years of working until midnight, spending my weekends haggling with contractors over a five-dollar difference in floor tiles. What were you doing? You were wiring five million dollars to someone else?” He finally looked up at me. “That’s enough,” he said. “What’s enough?” “Are you done throwing a fit?” I stared at him. Over the past five years, he had spoken to me in a thousand different ways—with warmth, with mild irritation, with gentle coaxing. But he had never used this voice. He sounded like he was talking to a stranger. Darren set the contract down on the entryway table. He adjusted his cuffs. I noticed the cufflinks for the first time—deep blue sapphire, heavy and undeniably real. “About the apartment,” he said quietly. “You did put fifty thousand down. I’ll have someone wire it to you.” “I want to know what you were thinking,” I demanded, my hands shaking inside my pockets. “All these years. What was the point?” He paused for a few seconds. “I wasn’t really thinking anything.” “Darren!” He let out a soft sigh. He slipped his hands into his pockets, leaning back against the wall, entirely relaxed. The contrast between his effortless posture and my trembling frame was nauseating. “You really want the truth?” he asked. I nodded. “Fine,” he said, his voice level. “The truth is, I never planned on a forever with you.” “What does that even mean?” “It means I was with you because you made life easy,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You’re sensible, you don’t ask for much, and living with you meant I didn’t have to deal with any of the high-society drama. But if you’re asking if I love you…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “No. I never did.” I waited for the turn. I waited for him to say “but things changed” or “we built something real”. He didn’t. “Then why did you agree to save up for this place with me?” I asked, my voice cracking. “This place?” he replied smoothly. “Do you honestly think I needed to save up?” Right. Of course he didn’t. The amount of pocket change he threw around could buy ten of these run-down apartments. All those nights we spent in our damp basement, sharing stale sandwiches and walking an extra mile in the freezing rain to save three dollars on delivery fees—it wasn’t because he was broke. It was because he didn’t think I was worth the luxury. “You were playing with me,” I whispered. He didn’t deny it. “From the very first day you asked for my number at the subway station, telling me you were just another struggling transplant trying to make it in this city, all the way to today… you were just playing a game.” He shrugged. “If that’s how you want to see it, then sure.” “And Charlotte?” At the mention of her name, his expression shifted. Just a flicker of something real. “She has nothing to do with this,” he said defensively. “You gave her five million dollars for her birthday.” “It’s my money.” “So what you have with her is real, and everything with me was a lie.” He didn’t answer. But silence is its own kind of confession. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself to ask one last question. “Over these five years… was there ever a single day where you actually envisioned a life with me?” Darren looked at me. The coldness in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I pulled it open. A woman stood in the hallway. She wore a pristine cream-colored cashmere coat, her hair pinned up in an effortless, elegant twist. Tiny solitaire diamond studs caught the dim hallway light. She looked entirely too clean, too perfect, like a photograph. She smiled when she saw me. “Hi,” she said, her voice dripping with easy confidence. “I’m Charlotte.” I couldn’t speak. She peeked over my shoulder into the apartment, her eyes lingering on something behind me before turning back to me. She scanned me from head to toe, then back up. “So, you’re the one he bought the place with?” She smiled a little wider. “Do you know what the first thing he said to me when he came home was?” She paused, waiting for dramatic effect. “He said, “Her hands are always covered in dust.”” She excelled at sounding polite while cutting deep. My hands “were” covered in dust. I’d been moving heavy boxes all day. My nails were dirty, and there was a small, raw scratch across my knuckle that I hadn’t even noticed until now. She glanced down at my hands, just for a second, then met my eyes again. “Thank you for your service,” she said softly. “It must have been exhausting playing house with a fake pauper for five years.” I heard footsteps behind me. Darren stepped up, stopping half a pace behind me. Charlotte’s expression softened, turning playful and flirtatious as she looked at him. “You didn’t tell me it would be like this. If I knew you were living in a dump like this, I would’ve just had the driver wait downstairs.” Darren said nothing. Charlotte turned back to me, leaning in slightly. Her voice was low, but every syllable cut through the quiet corridor. “You didn’t actually think he loved you, did you?” I gripped the doorknob so hard my knuckles turned white. “He told me about you,” she whispered. “He said you were so naive, you believed absolutely everything. He couldn’t believe you never figured it out. Every time he talked about his ‘frugal life’ with you, we laughed so hard.” She tilted her head, watching for my breaking point. And then, Darren laughed. In all the years I’d known him, I had never heard him laugh like that. It was a light, careless sound, shared only with her. They laughed together, and I stood between them, a ghost in my own home. Charlotte wrapped her coat tighter around herself, glancing at Darren. “How much longer? The driver is waiting.” “Five minutes,” Darren said. He was still standing behind me, but his voice was already directed outward, toward her world. I stepped aside. Charlotte didn’t even bother to step inside. She turned on her designer heels and walked toward the elevator. The sharp click-clack of her heels echoed down the tiled hallway, steady and self-assured. She paused at the elevator doors and looked back once. The elevator chimed. The doors slid shut, swallowing her up. The hallway fell silent again. Darren remained behind me. I waited for him to say something, but the silence stretched on. Finally, I turned around to face him. The smile had vanished from his face. “What was so funny?” I asked. He didn’t answer. He just stared toward the end of the hallway where the elevator had been. I kept my eyes locked on him. Darren reached down, picked up the crumpled moving contract, folded it neatly, and slipped it into his coat pocket. “Take care of yourself,” he said. He brushed past me to leave. “Darren.” He paused. I leaned against the doorframe, wiping the dust from my hands onto my jeans, and forced a smile. It felt tight and ugly on my face, but I didn’t care. “I don’t ever want to see either of you again,” I said. “Ever.” He looked at me for a long beat. “Fine.” He walked away. I didn’t watch him get into the elevator.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499013”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had spent a whole year looking forward to it—the one day my father would take the train down to Boston to see me. But it was barely two in the afternoon when Leona looked up from her phone and said, “Your dad should probably get going.” We had been married for seven years, and every single year, my father made this trip. And every single year, he was ushered out the door before sunset. I wanted to ask him to stay the night, to tell him I’d already made up the guest bed. But before I could even open my mouth, Leona added, “He can keep those slippers if he wants.” He had been wearing them for less than three hours. She didn’t hand them to him. She just gave them a careless flick with the toe of her shoe, sending them sliding across the hardwood floor until they clattered to a stop near his feet. My dad flinched. Then, a slow, tight smile squeezed onto his weathered face. He bent down, his joints popping slightly, and scooped them up. “Thank you, Leona,” he muttered. He was so small, so desperate to avoid being a burden. I knew exactly what he was doing—he was shrinking himself so he wouldn’t cause trouble for me. Before my dad could even straighten up, Frank walked out of the guest bedroom. He was holding a can of Lysol, spraying the air with aggressive, systematic puffs. “God, it’s filthy in here,” Frank muttered, coughing dramatically. “I think my allergies are acting up. Honestly, Leona, you can’t just let anyone track dirt into the house.” Frank had been living in our guest room for three months. Leona had driven two hours to pick him up and bring him to our home herself. My dad’s face flushed a deep, painful crimson. Mortified, he clutched his cheap plastic bag of belongings and hurried toward the door. My tongue felt completely numb. I looked at Leona, waiting for her to say something, anything. But she didn’t even look up. She just turned around and helped Frank spray the entryway. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my coat and ran out after him. “Dad, wait! I’m coming with you.” … He ended up forcing me to go back. He stood there on the platform, stubbornly pushing my shoulder, trying to smile even though his eyes were raw and red. I stood there for a long time, watching his heavy, slightly hunched back disappear into the crowd. I felt hollowed out. It wasn’t until a sharp, persistent ringing broke the silence that I snapped out of it. It was Leona. “When did you go out?” I looked down at my watch. Almost two hours had passed. It had taken her two hours to notice I wasn’t in the apartment. Before I could even answer, she continued: “Frank wants those roasted nuts from the shop down the street. Grab some on your way back up.” The words I wanted to say died in my throat. “Okay,” I said, and hung up. When I walked back into the apartment, Frank was in the middle of throwing my dad’s favorite mug into the trash can. I reached out and caught his wrist, pulling the mug back. “What’s wrong with this?” I asked. Frank looked a bit embarrassed, but he quickly recovered, offering a smooth, plastic smile. “Oh, it’s just old. Corey bought a brand-new ceramic set for the kitchen, so I was just clearing out the clutter.” “Don’t throw it away,” I said, my voice tight. “I’ll use it.” He shut his mouth, looking sheepish, and took the grocery bag from my hand. As he turned to walk away, I said, “Frank, here’s the receipt.” He froze, not reaching for it, and turned his head toward Leona. She had just stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her wet hair. Her voice was incredibly casual. “Don’t worry about it, Dan. It’s just a few dollars. Let Frank have them.” One hundred and seventy-eight dollars. It wasn’t a fortune. But this was the ninth time this month. In total, I had spent over two thousand dollars on Frank’s errands and cravings. He had never offered to pay me back once. Yet, just this morning, Leona had refused to let me buy my dad a seventy-dollar train ticket. “Your dad has a pension,” she had said, not even looking up from her tablet. “He can pay for his own ticket. Besides, the money you’re spending is marital property.” My dad’s train ticket was “marital property.” But Frank’s snacks were “just a few dollars” of our shared money. Before I could say a word, Frank smiled triumphantly and retreated into his bedroom, leaving me standing in the hallway, my hand still holding the crumpled receipt in midair. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my heart. “When is Frank moving out?” I asked. “Corey is still looking for a place,” Leona replied. She had been giving me that exact answer for three months. “He’s been looking for a long time,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Can’t he just find a temporary studio, or stay with other relatives?” Leona’s hand stopped mid-stroke as she dried her hair. Her expression turned cold, slightly defensive. “Why are you in such a rush? Is someone else planning to move in?” Before I could speak, she sighed, a heavy, performative sound. “Even if someone is, isn’t there another spare room in this place anyway?” Yes. There was a spare room. But she couldn’t find it in her heart to let my father stay in it for even one night. My fingers clenched, crushing the paper receipt into a tiny, sharp ball in my palm. Outside, the sky had turned a bruising shade of purple, and then the rain started. A sudden crack of thunder rattled the windowpanes, and my ears began to ring. When my dad was a boy, he had slipped down a muddy ravine during a flash flood, trapping his leg for hours. Ever since, he had been terrified of heavy storms. During bad rainstorms, his anxiety would spike so violently he would sometimes bite his own tongue until it bled. My temples throbbed. I immediately dialed his number. It rang twice before someone answered—but it wasn’t my dad. “Hello? Are you related to the owner of this phone? He just collapsed in the waiting area of the transit station. We’re loading him into an ambulance right now.” A cold sweat broke out across my back. I thanked the stranger with a trembling voice, hung up, and bolted into the bedroom. As I threw on a dry shirt, I called out to the living room: “Leona, my dad collapsed. My car is still at the mechanic. I need you to drive me to the hospital to get him.” But when I walked out of the bedroom, the living room was empty. Leona was gone. Panic clawed at my chest. I called her three times in a row, but each call went straight to voicemail. Frank walked out of his room then. With Leona gone, he didn’t bother hiding his irritation. He looked at me with open disgust. “Dan, for God’s sake, you’re not a child. Leona went to pick up Corey. If you have some family emergency, go handle it yourself and stop breathing down her neck.” The proprietary tone in his voice, the casual way he spoke as if Leona belonged to his family and not mine, made my stomach turn. I pointed a shaking finger at the front door. “Get out of my house. Now.” Frank let out a condescending laugh, then sat down heavily on our leather sofa, stretching his legs out. “I’m not going anywhere. If you want to leave, then leave. This is Leona’s apartment. You don’t have the right to tell me what to do.” The notification for my rideshare flashed on my phone. I didn’t waste another second looking at him. I turned and ran into the storm. At the hospital, I found my dad sitting on a gurney. He had fainted from panic, and when he fell, he had cut his forehead. When he saw me walk through the sliding doors, he immediately hung his head, looking like a little boy who had broken a vase. There was dried, dark blood flaking near his hairline. He looked so small, so devastatingly fragile in that bright, sterile room. My eyes burned. I walked over and took his rough, calloused hand in mine. “We’re going home, Dad.” “No, no,” he said, his voice quiet as he tried to pull his hand back. “You go on home. I can just stay here in the waiting room tonight. It’s fine.” He tried to smile, his fingers twitching in my grasp. “Don’t worry about me, Dan. I’m a grown man. I can take care of—” He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened, and his face crumbled with worry. “Oh, kiddo… please don’t cry. Don’t cry.” But I couldn’t stop the tears. They ran hot and fast down my face, dripping onto his hand. My dad stared at me, helpless and heartbroken. Finally, he let out a long, defeated sigh. “Okay. I’ll come back with you.” In the back of the cab, he held my hand so tightly his knuckles turned white, as if he were being marched into a lion’s den. When we reached the front door of the apartment, I gently brushed a stray lock of gray hair from his forehead. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “Just stay right beside me.” I pushed the door open. Corey was already there, sitting on the sofa. The three of them—Leona, Corey, and Frank—were laughing, sharing some inside joke. The moment they saw us, the laughter died instantly. The room went dead silent. Leona blinked, her brow furrowing into a deep, immediate frown. “Why is your dad back?” She didn’t see the dried blood on his forehead. She didn’t see his damp, dirty coat. Her very first instinct was to ask why he was back. My dad shrank back slightly, his dry, chapped lips parting as if to apologize. I didn’t give him the chance. “This is his home too,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “He’s staying the night.” Under the heavy, suffocating weight of their stares, I led my father down the hallway and into the guest room. “Wait a minute.” Leona followed us, slamming the guest room door shut behind her. Her face was tight with anger. “You can’t just bring people over without letting me know first, Dan.” “Did you let me know before you brought your people here?” She gasped slightly, her eyes widening. “That is completely different!” I shook my head. “You’re right. It is different. One is my father. The others are strangers.” The words fell like lead weights into the room. Outside the door, the apartment went utterly silent. I could feel my dad trembling beside me, practically on the verge of tears. I squeezed his hand, trying to ground him. Suddenly, the door clicked open. Corey stood there, his eyes rimmed with red, looking incredibly fragile. “Dan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble between you two. I’ll leave. I’ll pack my things right now.” But Leona was faster. She grabbed Corey’s wrist, holding him back, before turning a furious glare on me. “Dan, stop being so childish!” I just stared at her. I watched her stand in my home, protecting another man, using me as a scapegoat to keep him comfortable. Seven years of marriage, and in that single, quiet moment, I realized it was over. The marriage was entirely, irreparably empty. Without saying another word, I pulled my father into the room and closed the door, turning the lock. When the latch clicked, I felt a warm tear fall onto the back of my hand. My dad was crying silently, his face pale with guilt. “It’s my fault,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I ruined everything. I made you two fight.” My dad had raised me all on his own, working twelve-hour shifts in a factory just to put food on our table. And now, in his old age, he had to suffer this kind of humiliation because of me. I wrapped my arms around his shaking shoulders, a deep, bitter wave of self-loathing washing over me because I hadn’t protected him. “Tomorrow, when I leave, you talk to Leona,” my dad murmured into my shoulder. “Couples shouldn’t sleep angry. You’ll make it right.” But he didn’t understand. There was nothing left to make right. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an email from my divorce attorney, attaching the drafted settlement agreement and asking if I wanted to make any revisions. I didn’t open it. I just wanted to focus on my dad. I found him a pair of clean pajamas. “Go take a warm shower, Dad. And make sure you lock the bathroom door.” He nodded quietly and walked down the hall. I went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. As I walked past the master bedroom, I heard muffled laughter coming from inside—both male and female. My stomach dropped. I reached out and tried the doorknob. It was locked. The laughter stopped instantly. There was a sudden, frantic rustling sound from inside. A few moments later, the lock clicked, and Leona opened the door. Corey was standing just behind her. His face was flushed, his collar slightly askew, and his eyes had a bright, heavy look to them. “Hey, Dan,” Corey said, his voice soft, almost timid, though his eyes never left mine. He was watching me, waiting to see my reaction. “I didn’t have any clean clothes left, so I was just trying on one of your shirts to see if it fit.” I didn’t understand. Why did he need to try on my clothes in our bedroom? Why did the door need to be locked? It was a flimsy excuse, wrapped in a thin layer of provocation. Leona cleared her throat, not looking me in the eye, and told Corey to go get some rest. Once he was gone, Leona pulled me into the bedroom and closed the door. She picked up her phone, acting as if nothing had happened, and held it out to me. “Here, Dan. I bought your dad’s return ticket. Does this time work?” I looked at the screen. 7:30 AM. She truly couldn’t stand the thought of him being in her space for a single extra minute. I didn’t take the phone. I just looked at her. “Who said he’s leaving tomorrow?” Leona’s face tightened, a look of pure, cold resentment washing over her features. It was a look I knew intimately. For seven years, every time my father visited, that same look of disgust would creep into the corners of her eyes. I used to tell myself she just wasn’t used to sharing space with older people. But now, the truth was glaringly obvious. She looked down on him. She despised him because he was a retired blue-collar worker from a small town, and because he wasn’t Corey’s father. “Dan, there are already too many people living in this apartment,” she said, her voice dripping with irritation. I nodded slowly. “Then tell Corey’s father to move out.” “That’s different,” Leona snapped immediately, looking at me as if I were a petulant child. “They are our guests.” They were honored guests. My father was an eyesore. In that moment, a strange sense of relief washed over me. I was so incredibly glad we had never succeeded in having a child. It made what I had to do so much simpler. “Fine,” Leona muttered, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Let him stay as long as he wants. I don’t care anymore.” She slammed the door and walked out. When I went back to the living room, my dad had finished his shower. I sat him down on the sofa and went into the kitchen to start dinner. But the moment I turned my back, I heard Frank’s voice boom from the living room. “Hey! Get up. I bought that orthopedic cushion. Go sit somewhere else.” I heard my dad scramble to his feet, his voice small and apologetic. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” But Frank didn’t let it go. His voice grew sharper, louder. “If you don’t know, then ask! Honestly, where are your manners?” My dad went stiff, his head bowing under the weight of the scolding. He looked toward Leona, hoping for some kind of intervention, but she just kept her head down, staring at her phone as if she were completely deaf. My chest tightened. I turned off the stove exhaust fan. Frank’s voice carried clearly into the kitchen now, dripping with venom as he continued to berate my father. “First you show up uninvited, and then you refuse to leave. I’ve never seen anyone so shameless. At your age, don’t you have any dignity?” Something inside my brain snapped. I walked out of the kitchen. My dad was standing frozen by the sofa, looking completely hollowed out, as if he had dissociated from his own body to escape the shame. But Frank wouldn’t stop. “You should pack up and leave tomorrow. You’re just a farmer anyway, don’t you have crops to harvest? I mean, honestly, a man your age behaving like a parasite—” Before he could finish the sentence, I stepped forward and slapped him across the face. The crack of my hand against his cheek echoed through the room. “Dan!” Leona, who had been completely oblivious a second ago, flew off the couch and shoved me backward. “How could you hit him!” Corey ran over, throwing his arms around his father, sobbing loudly. “Dad! Oh my god, Dad! They’re treating us like animals. Let’s go, we can’t stay here!” Frank started wailing, clutching his cheek. “At my age, to be struck in the face like a dog… I don’t want to live anymore!” He lunged toward the dining table, grabbing a silver fruit knife. My dad, terrified that Frank was going to hurt me, immediately threw his frail body in front of mine. His lips were trembling with fear, but he didn’t move an inch. Leona panicked, rushing forward to wrench the knife from Frank’s hand. When she turned back to me, her eyes were burning with a hatred I had never seen before. “Dan, apologize to him. Now.” I didn’t even look at her. I gently took my dad by the arm and led him back into the guest room, closing the door behind him. When I stepped back into the living room, Leona grabbed my wrist, squeezing so hard her knuckles turned white. “I said, apologize!” Behind her, Corey was watching me over his father’s shoulder. The crying had stopped; there was a small, triumphant smirk on his lips. It made my stomach turn. A cold, heavy anger settled deep into my bones. I looked Leona dead in the eyes. “I am not apologizing. And both of them are going to pack their bags and get the hell out of my home.” Leona stepped in front of them, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. “Think very carefully about what you’re saying, Dan. If they leave, I leave too.” She looked at me with absolute certainty. In seven years of marriage, we had barely fought, and every time we did, I was always the one to crawl back, begging for forgiveness. I had fallen in love with her first, pursued her for a year, and everyone in our social circle knew I worshipped the ground she walked on. She was entirely confident that she held all the power. “Then go,” I said. Her face froze. She stared at me, her mouth parting slightly in sheer disbelief. When she realized I wasn’t bluffing, a mask of cold fury settled over her face. She packed a small bag, grabbed Frank and Corey, and stormed out, slamming the heavy front door so hard the walls vibrated. For the first time in years, I felt like I could finally breathe. Over the next week, Leona didn’t come home. Instead, she posted photos on her social media accounts—showing Corey and Frank around Boston, taking them to expensive restaurants. She knew I would see them. It was a calculated move, a gamble. She was waiting for me to break, to call her and beg for her to come home. But I spent those days packing. My dad didn’t ask any questions this time. He didn’t try to convince me to make up with her. He just silently helped me wrap my dishes in newspaper and pack my books into cardboard boxes. When we were done, I called a moving service to transport everything to a small condo I had purchased before we got married. My car was finally back from the mechanic. On the day we left, the sky was a clear, brilliant blue. I laid the printed divorce agreement on the dining table, walked out, and closed the door on that life forever.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499012”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had just finished slaving away at my late-night food cart, scrubbing grease off the flat-top, when I finally hit the milestone: fifty thousand dollars. It was every cent Hannah needed for her startup capital. Then, my phone buzzed. It was a FaceTime call from an unknown number. When I picked up, the face staring back at me was my own—only ten years older. Exhaustion forgotten, my heart leapt with a sudden, naive hope. I leaned into the screen and asked him, “Did she do it? Did Hannah’s business take off? Did she buy us that house with the big yard she always talked about?” I held my breath, waiting for the payoff of all those sleepless nights. “She promised me a beautiful wedding. Tell me, did I cry like a baby when she walked down the aisle?” The older version of me didn’t smile. He just shook his head, his voice dead and flat. “Hannah’s startup took off during her senior year,” he said. “In your timeline, she’s already a millionaire. She bought the house, Sean. But you’re not the one living in it. It’s Devon—the scholarship student you spent your own rent money to help.” My breath caught. “And that wedding?” he continued, a cruel edge slicing through his quiet tone. “You cried, alright. But only because you had to watch her marry Devon.” I stared at the screen, a nervous laugh bubbling up in my throat. “This is a joke. Who is this?” Instead of answering, he reached up and slowly pulled down his black face mask. The face beneath was mine, but ruined. A web of thick, jagged burn scars puckered across his skin, distorting his jaw and cheek. Before I could even scream, he tilted the camera downward. He lifted his pant legs to reveal a pair of cold, metallic prosthetic limbs. “This is what loving Hannah Kelly gets you,” he said, his eyes hollow. “This is your future.” “If you don’t believe me,” he added, “go to the Sapphire Lounge right now. The private room in the back. She’s there with him.” 1 The call disconnected. The silence in my cramped, dark apartment was so thick I could hear the erratic rush of my own breath. I tried to tell myself it was a prank, a deepfake, some elaborate hallucination brought on by sheer exhaustion. But the image of that ruined face, those metal legs, was burned into my retinas. It was too vivid, too terrifyingly real to ignore. Driven by a desperate, sickening panic, I grabbed my keys and drove to the Sapphire Lounge. The club was loud, a low bass vibrating through the floorboards, but the VIP hallway was quiet, smelling of expensive cologne and leather. When I found the door to Hannah’s private booth, my fingers hovered over the brass handle. Before I could push it open, a burst of laughter drifted through the gap. “Come on, Hannah,” a voice teased. “You bought Devon such a gorgeous birthday present. The least you can do is put it on him.” I leaned in, peering through the narrow crack in the door. There she was. Hannah. She was holding a sleek, heavy wristwatch, her fingers gently threading the leather strap around Devon’s wrist. She looked up at him, her eyes soft, glowing with an intimacy I hadn’t seen in years. My heart stopped. I recognized that watch. I’d seen it in a luxury magazine last month. It was a Patek Philippe. A hundred thousand dollars. Instinctively, my left hand went to my right. My fingers brushed against the cheap, lightweight band on my ring finger. She had put it there just yesterday. We were sitting on our sagging secondhand sofa when I asked her to marry me. No flowers. No grand gestures. Just us in our tiny kitchen. She’d slipped the ring onto my finger, her eyes filled with a sudden, tearful guilt. “I’m so sorry, Sean,” she’d whispered, kissing my cheek. “I don’t have the money for anything better right now. But once my business takes off, I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you the world.” I had squeezed her tight, telling her I didn’t care about rings or money. As long as I had her, I had everything. When Devon had come over to congratulate us later that night, he’d looked at the ring and made a passing joke about how it looked like something bought off a cheap wholesale site. At the time, I’d brushed it off as him just being his usual blunt self. But standing in that hallway, a cold, sharp pain bloomed in my chest. He hadn’t been joking. My ring really was a cheap piece of online junk. But his watch—his watch was something she had spent months planning for. I stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, my hands trembling as I pulled out my phone. I typed a message to the number from the video call. When did they start? I wrote. If they love each other so much, why keep up this agonizing lie? Why not just break up with me? My future self replied almost instantly. Hannah told me they’ve been together since graduation, the text read. She didn’t break up with you because she couldn’t bear the thought of Devon being labeled a traitor or a gold digger. She pitied him. She hated that he had to stay in the shadows while she built her empire. So, she gave him the money, and she gave you the title. A bitter laugh escaped my throat, tasting like ash. Hannah and I had grown up together. When she was ten, her parents died in a tragic car accident. I remember her sitting on our porch, looking so small and broken, that I begged my parents to adopt her. We became family. The very first night she slept under our roof, she looked at me with tear-streaked eyes and promised, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you’re happy, Sean.” And Devon. He was my high school classmate. His family lived below the poverty line, struggling to keep food on the table. Back then, my father’s business hadn’t collapsed yet. I used my own allowance to buy Devon lunch, to pay for his study prep books, to make sure he didn’t fall through the cracks. On his sixteenth birthday, he sat in my room and told me I was the first person who had ever made him feel like he mattered. The two people who had promised to protect me were the ones holding the knives. Inside the room, Hannah’s voice cut through the laughter, sharp and authoritative. “Nobody breathes a word about me and Devon to Sean. I mean it. I don’t want him starting drama or making Devon’s life difficult.” It felt like someone had shoved a handful of dry sand down my throat. Even when she was warning people about me, she was doing it to shield Devon. I stumbled away from the door, running blindly out of the lounge and into the cold night air. The city lights blurred before my eyes as cars rushed past on the wet asphalt. I pulled out my phone again, typing with numb fingers. Is this the night? I asked my future self. Is this the night you lost your legs? His reply took a long time to load. No. It’s in three days. You’ll come home early from your food truck shift and find them in our bed. You’ll lose your mind. You’ll scream, you’ll demand answers, until Hannah finally snaps and tells you the truth. You won’t be able to breathe. You’ll run out into the pouring rain, blind with grief, and step right in front of a speeding truck. My lungs seized up. By the time I dragged myself back to the apartment, my body felt like lead. I lay on the mattress in the dark, staring at the peeling wallpaper, unable to quiet the screaming in my head. It was nearly two in the morning when Hannah finally came home. By the time she crept into the bedroom, she had already changed out of her designer clothes and back into her old, faded grey t-shirt and worn-out jeans—the uniform of the struggling entrepreneur she pretended to be. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep as she slipped beneath the covers. But when she settled in, turning her back to me, the quiet became unbearable. I reached out and gently took her hand, squeezing her fingers. “Hannah?” I whispered into the dark. “Are you marrying me because you love me?” The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Finally, she gave my hand a weak, reassuring squeeze. “Of course, Sean,” she murmured, her voice soft but distant. “I told you. We’re going to build a home together.” I pulled my hand back, a cold, bitter smile settling on my face. A home. She was doing this out of a sense of obligation, out of a childhood promise. Not love. And because there was no love left, my future self had ended up in ruins. The next morning, Hannah was already gone when I woke up. It was the perfect opportunity. My mother’s medical bills at the care facility were mounting, and every decision I made was ruled by tight budgets and cheap alternatives. As I walked around the apartment packing my things, I realized with a sudden, aching clarity how little I actually owned. Aside from my legal documents and a few changes of clothes, there was nothing of value. Nothing worth keeping. I had just zipped up my battered suitcase when the front door swung open. Devon walked in, a heavy silver key fob swinging from his index finger. He gave me a smug, bright grin. “Hey, Sean. Look what my girl just bought me.” He tossed the keys in the air and caught them. “I swear, she’s crazy. She already bought me a townhouse last year, and today she wanted to buy me a Porsche. I told her it was too flashy for a daily driver, so I compromised on a fifty-thousand-dollar BMW instead. Oh, by the way, I ran into Hannah downstairs. We rode the elevator up together.” If this had been yesterday, I would have smiled and congratulated him on finding someone who treated him like royalty. But today, hearing the words “fifty thousand dollars” and “Hannah” in the same breath made my blood run cold. I turned toward the doorway. Hannah walked in right behind him, her eyes lingering on Devon’s face before she finally looked at me. “The fifty thousand dollars in our joint savings account,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You… you transferred it?” Hannah nodded casually, tossing her purse onto the kitchen counter. “Yeah. My startup needed some quick liquidity for a new inventory shipment. I took it this morning.” She noticed the raw, red rim of my eyes and paused, looking slightly puzzled. “What’s that look for? Didn’t you tell me two days ago that you finally hit the fifty-thousand mark? You were sleeping so peacefully this morning, I didn’t want to wake you.” A jagged, burning pain sliced through my chest. I remembered the night she cried about not being able to afford a decent wedding ring. I had held her close, telling her I only needed another hundred dollars to hit our fifty-thousand-dollar goal. I told her we would use it to launch her dream. She had taken those words, waited until I was asleep, and used my sweat and blood to buy Devon a car. Images flashed through my mind: evading the city inspectors in the freezing rain, arguing with angry customers, collapsing on the curb over a five-dollar discrepancy because my bones ached so badly. My throat felt parched. “Hannah… do you have any idea how hard it was for me to save that money?” I had no intention of letting her keep it. I needed that money to move my mother to a better, safer care home, far away from this city. Hannah stared at me, a brief flicker of guilt crossing her face before she brushed it off with a quick, dismissive smile. “Sean, I know you work hard. But don’t worry, once my business starts bringing in real revenue, everything I make is yours anyway. Besides, between your regular job and the food cart, it’s not like you have time to spend money anyway.” She knew how hard I worked. She knew the physical toll of those late-night shifts. But when it came to Devon, my pain was a sacrifice she was entirely willing to make. Before I could say another word, she grabbed Devon’s sleeve, pulling him toward the door. “This idiot managed to scrape the bumper against a concrete pillar on the way here,” she said over her shoulder, giving me a bright, artificial smile. “I’m going to go with him to the auto shop to get it sorted out.” Devon rolled his eyes, nudging her playfully. “Who are you calling an idiot?” They bickered softly, their voices fading down the hall as the elevator doors slid shut. It was a scene I had witnessed dozens of times before, but today, the scales had fallen from my eyes. It was sickeningly clear. I walked over to the window, looking down at the street below. I watched Hannah walk Devon to his brand-new car, naturally reaching out to open the driver’s side door for him. As my eyes lingered on the scraped front bumper of his car, my mind flashed back to last week. I had been rushing from my day job to get the food cart set up in time. I was driving too fast, took a corner too sharply, and my old truck flipped over. The impact had shattered the windshield, glass slicing into my forehead. I lay on the asphalt, blood pooling around my head, fading in and out of consciousness. With trembling fingers, I had dialed Hannah’s number. Her voice had been soft, but unyielding. “Sean, sweetheart, I’m in the middle of a pitch meeting. Can you call an ambulance and head to the ER? I’ll be there as soon as this wraps up.” I sat in the emergency room for six hours, getting fifteen stitches in my brow. She never showed up. Later, she told me the client had dragged the meeting out until midnight. That same night, lying alone in my hospital bed, I saw Devon post a picture on social media. It was a shot of two hands holding drinks, captioned: “Finally found my forever.” I had stared at the delicate, slender hand resting in his, feeling a strange, nagging sense of familiarity. Only now, after seeing my future self, did I realize those were Hannah’s fingers. I dialed my future self on FaceTime again. “If I leave her right now,” I pleaded, staring at his scarred face, “if I just pack up and disappear, can I stop all of this? Can I save us?” He looked back at me, his eyes dark with a heavy, sorrowful pity. “It’s too late to stop the first tragedy, Sean. It’s already happened.” He took a slow, jagged breath. “Dad’s death? That was Devon.” A wave of pure, icy dread washed over me, starting from my chest and freezing my limbs. The memory of my father’s body lying broken on the pavement outside his office building rushed back into my mind, sharp and agonizing. I clenched my fists, forcing my voice to remain steady. “What did Devon do?” A tear slipped down my future self’s scarred cheek. “He stole our family company’s proprietary designs and sold them to our biggest competitor. That’s why Dad went bankrupt. That’s why the debts were so overwhelming he felt he had no choice but to jump.” My hands began to shake violently. I had been the one who got Devon that internship at my dad’s firm. I had begged my father to give him a chance. I never imagined that a boy who looked so sweet and harmless could harbor such venom. “The competitor paid Devon a fortune,” my future self continued. “And he turned around and used every single dollar of that blood money to fund Hannah’s first startup. That was her seed capital.” My voice shook. “Did… did Hannah know?” The older Sean closed his eyes, tilting his head back to keep from sobbing. “She claimed she didn’t. I didn’t believe her. I lost my mind, grabbed a knife, and tried to stab her. She blocked it, and I ended up slicing her arm. But even after she found out exactly what Devon did to my father, she stayed with him.” I squeezed my eyes shut, a sob catching in my throat. “What do you want me to do?” He opened his eyes, burning with a desperate intensity. “Take Mom and run. Get her out of that care facility immediately.” He swallowed hard. “After they confessed their affair to me, Devon went straight to the facility to find Mom. He mocked her, taunted her about Dad’s death, until she had a psychotic break and tried to attack him. Devon stabbed her right through the heart.” The room felt like it was spinning. “I went to the police,” my future self whispered, his voice cracking. “I wanted him executed. But Hannah used her money, her lawyers, and her influence to spin the story. They made it look like self-defense. She told me… she actually looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Sean, your mother is already gone. There’s no point in ruining Devon’s life over an accident.’” My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the dusty floor of my apartment. I hated myself. I had welcomed the wolf into our home. I wanted to scream, to tear my own hair out, but looking at the ruined man on the screen, a profound, hollow exhaustion settled over me. I wanted to ask him about the fire. I wanted to ask how his face had been destroyed, what other horrors were waiting for him. But in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to say a word. After we hung up, I drove straight to my mother’s facility. Seeing her sitting quietly by the window, her mind fragile but peaceful, I knew I had to act. I called a trusted friend from college, someone outside Hannah’s circle, and arranged to have Mom transferred to a specialized private clinic in another state. My friend worked quickly. By that afternoon, Mom was safely checked out and on her way. On my drive back, I passed through the market district where I usually set up my food cart. Through the crowded sidewalk, I spotted them. Hannah and Devon. They were walking hand-in-hand, their fingers laced together. He said something that made her laugh—that beautiful, genuine laugh I used to love—and she looked up at him with a gaze so full of pure devotion it made me physically sick. I covered my mouth, leaning against the steering wheel as a sob finally broke through. This was the girl who had held onto my hands for dear life when we were children, refusing to let go when I slipped into a storm drain. This was the woman who, after my father died, held me in the dark and swore we would rebuild our lives together. She had become an absolute stranger. A sharp, burning pain flared in my abdomen. It had been lingering for weeks, but today it was unbearable. For peace of mind, I drove myself to the local clinic. After running some blood tests and an ultrasound, the doctor sat me down with a grim look. “Mr. Collins, you have severe gastric ulcers. You need immediate treatment and rest. You cannot keep pushing your body like this.” I stared at the medical report, feeling a strange, dark echo. I picked up my phone and called the older Sean once more. “What happened today?” I asked. “In your timeline, on the day you got your diagnosis.” He let out a ragged, trembling sigh. “The exact same day I found out about my stomach, Hannah took a pregnancy test. It was positive. They hid the truth from me. They let me believe the child was mine.” My chest tightened as his voice broke into a full sob. “I loved that boy, Sean. I loved him with every fiber of my being. I raised him for ten years, wiped his tears, took him to baseball games… and then, on the day Hannah and Devon finally had their public wedding, Devon cornered me. He laughed in my face. He told me the boy was his. And the worst part? The kid already knew. They had taught him to treat me like a foolish servant.” The sheer cruelty of it left me numb. I reached my hand toward the screen, wishing I could reach through the glass and comfort him. “So… you couldn’t take it anymore. You set the fire?” He nodded slowly, a look of profound regret passing over his scarred features. “I wanted to end it. But Hannah dragged me out of the flames. She wouldn’t even let me die in peace. Now I’m stuck like this. Half-human, half-monster. And the hatred… it eats me alive every single day.” A heavy weight settled over my chest. I took a deep, steadying breath. “I understand,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.” I hung up the phone and walked back into my empty apartment. Just as I crossed the threshold, my phone buzzed with a text from Hannah. Working late at the office tonight, babe. Won’t make it home. Don’t wait up! I stared at the screen for a moment, then locked my phone without replying. I slept for what felt like days, drifting in a dreamless, heavy fog. When I finally opened my eyes, I was surprised to find Hannah sitting at our small kitchen table. She was wearing her favorite faded grey hoodie, looking like the same girl I’d loved for a decade. “Morning, Sean,” she said softly, offering a warm smile. “I brought breakfast.” I sat down across from her, my expression entirely neutral. She slid a beautifully wrapped box toward me. “Your support meant everything. We secured the new account, and I wanted to get you a little something to say thank you.” I opened it. Inside was a high-end electric razor. I looked at it, then gently closed the lid. Hannah’s eyes searched mine, a trace of anxiety in her voice. “You don’t like it?” No, I didn’t. Last night, Devon had posted a picture of this exact razor on his social media, mocking it as “grandpa gear” before quickly deleting the post. I realized she must have bought it for Devon first, and when he rejected it, she decided to pass it off to me as a romantic gesture. I looked up, forced a small smile, and said, “It’s nice. I’ll try it out after breakfast.” She seemed to relax, letting out a soft sigh. “Sean… there’s something I need to tell you.” Before she could finish her sentence, her phone blared on the tabletop. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who was calling. She answered quickly, her tone instantly shifting to panic. “What? I’m on my way. Hold on!” She hung up and scrambled to grab her purse. “Sean, I’m so sorry. Something came up. I have to go.” I remained silent, taking a slow sip of my coffee. She made it to the doorway, but then she froze. She slowly turned back to look at me, her expression thick with an odd, lingering anxiety. “Sean?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly. “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’m going?” She was waiting for me to play my usual role—the doting, slightly worried fiancé who would tell her to drive safely. I offered her a polite, empty smile. “If I ask, will you stay?” She flinched, the words hanging heavy in the air. She stared at me for a long moment before speaking with intense solemnity. “Wait for me here. Please. I have something really important to tell you when I get back.” “Okay,” I replied softly. “I have a gift for you, too.” A soft, hopeful smile touched her lips, and she turned and left. The moment the front door clicked shut, I stood up. I placed the cheap engagement ring she had given me on the center of the kitchen table. Beside it, I laid the electric razor. Then, I grabbed my packed suitcase and walked out of the apartment without looking back. Stepping into the bright morning sunshine, I pulled out my phone and sent a final text to my future self. Don’t hate anymore. Your nightmare is over. Meanwhile, after rushing to the hospital to check on Devon, Hannah’s anxiety only deepened. Unable to shake the cold dread in her stomach, she ignored his pleas for her to stay and drove back to the apartment like a madwoman. When she pushed open the door and found the place unlocked and dead quiet, her heart sank. She saw the empty closet. She saw the ring on the table. Panic clawed at her throat. She realized she had to find me, to explain everything, to fix this before it was too late. But as she spun around to run back to the stairs, she collided with a woman standing in the hallway—a woman who looked older, exhausted, but wore her exact same face.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499011”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three years after our “paper” divorce, my six-year-old daughter, Lily, walked for two hours through the cold streets just to find me. She gently tugged at the edge of my coat. “Mommy, I’m so hungry.” My heart dropped. On the way to get her food, a post on my Snapchat suddenly flashed through my mind. It was a photo Julian had posted just a few hours ago. It was a picture of a beautifully prepared, organic kid’s meal. His caption read: Nothing is too good for the kids. Always homemade with love. “Didn’t your daddy make you dinner?” I asked, my voice trembling. Lily shook her head. “No. That was for Leo.” I froze in my tracks. Leo was Celeste’s son. Celeste, his first love. In that instant, the cold truth washed over me. There was never a “paper” divorce. He had left me for real. 0 I pushed the menu in front of Lily. But my eyes kept drifting downward. I saw the worn-out, scuffed edges of her little sneakers. I couldn’t bear to think about how she had walked such a long distance all by herself. Lily flipped to the very back of the menu and pointed to the simplest thing on the page—a small bowl of Mac and Cheese. My chest tightened. It physically ached. “Why only that, sweetheart? You can have whatever you want with Mommy!” I thought she was just feeling distant because we hadn’t seen each other in a month. Forcing a smile, I took the menu back and ordered three more of her favorite dishes. But Lily shook her head fearfully. “Daddy doesn’t let me eat that much.” “He says girls need to stay skinny to look pretty.” “Mommy, I was just so hungry… that’s why I came to find you. Please don’t tell Daddy.” She looked up at me, her eyes filled with an anxiety that no six-year-old should ever have. We had only been apart for a month. How did she become like this? My heart was bleeding. Tears blurred my vision, and I quickly began piling food into her plate to hide them. “You’re only six, baby. You need to eat to grow.” “Didn’t Mommy send you those bags of pecans last week? If you were hungry, you should have eaten some of those.” Regret hit me like a tidal wave. I should have packed her more snacks. Even some crackers would have saved her from this misery. The last time I saw her, her cheeks were chubby and rosy. Now, she looked like a shadow of herself. Lily looked up and saw a tear slip down my cheek. She stood up on her chair, reaching out her tiny hand to wipe my tears away. But the moment her fingers touched my face, a cold sweat broke out across my back. I grabbed her wrist. Her tiny, delicate hands were covered in raw, healing cuts and bruises. “What happened to your hands?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but I was crumbling inside. My voice shook violently. But Lily just gave me a small, innocent smile. “I got them from shelling the pecans.” “Daddy said the dog would choke on the shells, so he made me shell them all and grind them into powder for the dog’s food.” “I shelled two whole bags, Mommy! Aren’t I strong?” She tilted her head up, waiting for my praise. But the words caught in my throat. It felt like swallowing glass. I excused myself, walked out of the restaurant, and dialed Julian’s number. It rang three times before he finally picked up. “What is wrong with you?” I screamed. “You starve Lily, and then you make her shell the pecans I sent her just to feed your damn dog?” “Julian, do you even deserve to be a father?” The rage I had kept locked in my chest exploded. Julian’s voice on the other end was cold, indifferent. “She eats less now so she won’t have to suffer through diets when she’s older. I’m saving her from ending up like you, obsessing over weight every other week.” “And stop sending those cheap organic snacks. Who knows where they’re sourced? You can’t even guarantee they’re clean.” Before I could speak, the line went dead. He was right about one thing. Julian was a billionaire’s son. He grew up in absolute luxury. Even his kid’s meals were topped with caviar. But Lily didn’t get caviar. She didn’t even get her pecans. She had nothing. I stood there, listening to the heavy thud of my own heartbeat. I wiped my face, refusing to let my daughter see me break down. But Lily was too smart. She noticed the moment I walked back in. She lowered her fork, not daring to look me in the eye. “Mommy… is Daddy mad at me?” I forced a warm smile and stroked her hair. “No, sweetie. Daddy wants you to eat up.” “After this, Mommy will take you to your piano class, okay?” She was too young. I didn’t want her to carry the weight of our broken family. But Lily just looked at me blankly. “The piano class?” “Daddy said Leo needed it more. He gave my spot to him.” 0

For a second, I couldn’t process her words. That piano class was taught by a world-renowned pianist. I had pulled dozens of favors and spent months on a waiting list to get Lily in. And Julian just gave it away to Celeste’s son? What kind of sick joke was this? Without wasting another second, I took Lily and drove straight to the prep school. After settling Lily in the waiting room, I stormed into the director’s office. “Why wasn’t I notified that my daughter’s spot was transferred?” “I signed the contract. I paid the fees. Did anyone think to ask for my consent?” The administrator looked incredibly uncomfortable. Her face flushed red as she spoke softly. “Mr. Sterling arranged it personally. He specifically instructed us not to tell you.” All the air left my lungs. Classic Julian. When he wanted to cover his tracks, not a single whisper would escape. I had paid thousands in tuition, only for Celeste’s kid to reap the benefits. I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. The administrator was just doing her job. But as I turned to leave, she called out to me. “Mrs. Vance… I highly suggest you pay closer attention to Lily’s mental health.” “She’s been… isolated by her classmates lately.” The hesitation in her voice sent a chill straight down my spine. Lily was a sweet, gentle girl. How could she be isolated? My mind was a chaotic mess as I walked out into the hallway. And then, I saw him. Julian was walking out of a classroom, holding Leo’s hand. He naturally reached down to take the boy’s backpack, carrying it for him. I stared, dazed. I wondered if he ever smiled like that when he was with Lily. “Daddy!” Lily saw him too. She ran toward Julian, her little arms outstretched, desperately wanting a hug. But Julian flinched. He stepped back, avoiding her completely. An expression of pure disgust flashed across his face, as if she were a stranger. “You have the wrong person,” he said coldly. Lily froze. Her hands fell to her sides, her tiny fingernails digging deep into her palms. Class had just ended, and several kids gathered around, watching the scene. “Look, Lily has no daddy!” “Even my dog has parents. Lily is unwanted!” The kids’ laughter echoed down the hallway. It pierced my ears. Without thinking, I rushed forward and pulled Lily tightly into my arms. “Go away! All of you!” “I am Lily’s mother! She is not unwanted!” My entire body was shaking. It felt like someone had ripped a piece of my heart out. My sweet Lily. What kind of hell had she been living in? Three years ago, to protect Julian’s family assets during a massive corporate restructuring, we agreed to a legal divorce. Back then, he had held my hands and cried like a child. He promised it was just on paper. He promised that once things settled, we would remarry. He promised Lily would never suffer. Because of those promises, I waited. Year after year. But it was all a lie. Julian heard those kids mocking Lily. He heard her crying. But he turned around and walked away without a single backward glance. As Julian got into his car, I ran out and blocked his path, standing right in front of the hood. “You owe me an explanation!” 0

Julian looked surprised to see me. Before rolling down his window, he carefully put noise-canceling headphones on Leo. “Today isn’t your scheduled visitation day, Elena.” “Have you forgotten how to follow rules?” He didn’t even look me in the eye. He leaned against his steering wheel and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted between us, blurring his face. It felt like I was looking at a complete stranger. “You’re the one who broke our agreement first!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Julian, you promised you would take care of Lily! What the hell are you doing to her?” “You starve her, you take away her classes, and you pretend she doesn’t exist!” “She is your own daughter!” I lost all control. I screamed at the top of my lungs, demanding justice for my little girl. But Julian’s brow didn’t even twitch. “Leo has real musical talent. Letting Lily take those classes is just a waste of money.” “Lily’s custody belongs to me. I raise her my way, and you have no right to interfere.” “Besides, she’s alive and well, isn’t she?” I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. Was survival the only bare minimum he thought his daughter deserved? “Do you have any idea that her arms are covered in bruises? That boy, Leo…” When I had pulled Lily into my arms earlier, she had whimpered in pain. That was when I noticed the dark purple bruises on her tiny arms. Leo was the one doing this to her, right under Julian’s nose. But before I could finish, Julian cut me off. “Enough.” “Don’t try to throw dirt on him. Leo would never do something like that.” “No wonder Lily has started lying lately. She clearly learned it from you.” With that, Julian started the engine, forcing me to step aside. “I have things to do.” He stepped on the gas and sped away. Leaving me standing alone in the cold wind. He knew. Lily must have cried to him for help. But Julian chose not to believe her. He would rather believe Celeste’s son than his own blood. The strength drained from my legs, and I collapsed onto the pavement. So this was what it meant to love someone else’s child. Because he loved Celeste, he loved her son. And because he was done with me, Lily had to pay the price. That evening, I saw Julian again at a high-end restaurant. It turned out his “important business” was celebrating Leo’s birthday. But he had completely forgotten. Today was Lily’s birthday too. Through the glass of the private dining room, I saw Julian, Celeste, and Leo sitting together, looking like a perfect, happy family. Three years ago, Julian had celebrated Lily’s birthday just like that. He bought every single flavor of cake because he didn’t know which one she’d like best. He imported limited-edition dolls and custom-made princess dresses. He had even placed a diamond necklace around my neck, whispering how grateful he was that I gave him such a beautiful daughter. Those memories felt like they happened yesterday. But in the blink of an eye, everything had changed. I was holding a takeout box of Lily’s favorite food, getting ready to leave, when a cheer erupted from the private room. I turned around. Julian was presenting Leo with his birthday gifts. The boxes piled up, overflowing from the table. Then, Julian pulled a black platinum card from his wallet. “There’s fifty thousand dollars on this. Buy whatever you want, buddy.” My breath hitched. Leo gasped in excitement, but I felt like I had been doused in ice water. That card… was the savings account I had set up for Lily’s college fund! I could barely breathe. Celeste leaned over and kissed Julian’s cheek. “Julian, this is too much.” “It’s nothing. Just pocket change.” Yes, to Julian Sterling, fifty thousand dollars was pocket change. One of his custom suits cost more than that. But that was money I had saved, dollar by dollar, working late-night shifts. I knew the Sterlings were incredibly wealthy, but I wanted to contribute to Lily’s future. When I handed Julian that card a year ago, he had kissed my forehead and told me to rest, promising that the Sterling family would always provide for Lily. It was all a lie. My ears buzzed. I was about to storm in there and demand my card back. But suddenly, a pair of strong hands grabbed me from behind. Before I could scream, I was pinned to the floor. The bright lights of the restaurant hallway faded, and darkness took over. 0

When I opened my eyes, I was in the backseat of Julian’s SUV. He was sitting next to me. He was looking in the vanity mirror, wiping a bit of frosting from his nose. The warmth from the party hadn’t fully faded from his face, and a soft smile lingered on his lips. Seeing me stir, he spoke in a casual tone. “Celeste has had a hard time raising Leo alone. I just wanted to help them out a bit.” “Elena, don’t overthink it.” His tone was so indifferent. Like he had just done a minor good deed. I knew we were divorced. I had no right to care who he helped. But he had no right to touch Lily’s money! I ripped the restraint cloth off my arms and threw it right at his face. “Give me back the money, and give me back Lily!” There was no longer any reason to leave Lily with him. If he didn’t want to raise her, I would do it myself. I expected him to agree easily, but instead, Julian reached out and gently took my hand. His eyes softened. “Lily is my daughter. How could I not love her?” “I’ve actually made arrangements to send her to a traditional boarding school upstate. They’ll teach her discipline and domestic skills. When she’s older, she can marry Leo. They’ll keep it in the family.” My heart stopped beating for a second. I stared at Julian, desperately searching his face for any sign of a joke. There was none. He was completely serious. “Are you insane? That place is a prison! You want to throw your own daughter into a house of submission?” Without thinking, I slapped him across the face. The slap echoed in the quiet car. I only regretted that I hadn’t hit him harder. Julian froze. When he turned back to look at me, his eyes were dark with malice. “Elena, I am not asking for your permission.” “Lily is lazy. She doesn’t even know how to clean up after herself. How is she going to take care of Leo in the future?” “Sending her to that school is for her own good. She needs to learn her place early so she doesn’t suffer later.” His tone left no room for argument. Before I could scream at him again, his phone buzzed. The name Celeste popped up on the screen, accompanied by a red heart emoji. His harsh expression melted instantly. He gave the driver a quick nod. The door was opened, and I was shoved out of the car like a piece of trash. I fell hard onto the gravel road. Sharp stones sliced into my palms and arms. But as the blood began to seep through my skin, I felt no pain. I pressed my hand against the wound and walked toward my apartment. Lily was still waiting for me. Thankfully, I made it back before midnight to celebrate her birthday. After she blew out the single candle on her small cake, she looked at the clock anxiously. “Mommy… can I sleep here tonight?” she whispered. That broke me. I pulled her into a tight hug. “You’re staying here tonight.” “And we are never going back.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “434493”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

The moment the first session of the SATs ended, everyone in our class headed to a nearby diner for lunch. Amber, the most popular girl in our grade, walked in holding a greasy brown paper bag she bought from some cheap roadside food truck. “Hey guys! I got these smoked turkey legs for everyone!” she announced with a sweet, angelic smile. Having grown up in a family that ran a famous three-generation Texas-style BBQ Smokehouse, my eyes instantly locked onto the meat. One look, and I knew. These weren’t turkey legs. They were expired, heavily chemically-treated pork and duck meat, loaded with food coloring and toxic artificial smoke flavors to mask the rot. Without hesitation, I slapped the tray out of her hand, stopping everyone from taking a bite. But Amber couldn’t handle the public embarrassment. She felt I was targeting her. She burst into tears, ran out of the diner, and was immediately crushed to death by a speeding semi-truck. My boyfriend, Tyler, grabbed me by the neck, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “This is on you! If you hadn’t humiliated her, Amber would still be alive!” “She’s dead! Now you pay!” Even the classmates I had just saved turned on me. “They were just some turkey legs! Did you have to be so malicious?” “Look what you did! You literally killed her!” In the end, Tyler and the others locked me in a room and force-fed me ninety-nine of those rotten, toxic turkey legs until I choked and died from severe food poisoning and ruptured stomach. Meanwhile, because I had stopped them from eating the rotten meat, they remained perfectly healthy, aced their exams the next day, and all got into Ivy League universities. When I opened my eyes again, the smell of woodsmoke and cheap grease filled my nose. I was back on the day of the lunch.

The private dining room door was pushed open. Amber walked in, carrying a greasy paper bag, her face glowing with a sweet smile. “Sorry I’m late, guys! I brought a peace offering!” She placed the bag in the center of the table and opened it carefully. “I stood in line forever to get these smoked turkey legs for us!” Instantly, she became the center of attention. “Oh my god, Amber! You’re literally the best!” “My mouth is watering just looking at them!” I sat in the corner, a wave of nausea hitting me. My family has run a BBQ smokehouse for three generations. I grew up in the kitchen watching my grandfather smoke meats. I could tell with a single glance what was real and what was fake. This garbage wasn’t turkey. It was expired duck legs wrapped in heavy artificial spices and chemical red dye, double-baked to look edible. In my past life, this very tray of meat had ruined my entire existence. I had warned them loudly that the meat was rotten, that it would put them in the hospital and ruin their exams the next day. But Amber had burst into tears right there, covering her face. “Chloe, I know your family runs a famous BBQ joint… but you don’t have to humiliate me like this…” Tyler, my boyfriend, had immediately jumped to her defense and slapped me hard across the face. “Chloe, are you out of your mind?!” he had yelled. “We all know you’ve been jealous of Amber, but did you have to ruin her moment like this?” Amber had run out of the restaurant crying, only to be hit by a semi-truck and die instantly. “Chloe? Earth to Chloe. What are you staring at?” Tyler’s voice snapped me back to reality. He was sitting right next to me, looking at me with a soft, affectionate expression. He reached toward the table. “You must be exhausted after the test. Let me grab the biggest one for you.” “No, thanks,” I said coldly. “What’s wrong?” Tyler asked, confused. Amber looked over too. She picked up a turkey leg and offered it to me with a sugary sweet smile. “Come on, Chloe. Your family is the expert here. Try it first and tell me if it’s authentic!” I leaned back slightly, my voice flat. “No. I’m watching what I eat.” “Watching what you eat?” Amber froze, then laughed softly. “But Chloe, you’re already so skinny! Don’t be like this. I bought these for everyone to share. If you’re the only one who won’t eat, it feels like you’re rejecting me.” The moment she said that, Tyler’s brows furrowed. “Chloe, Amber is just being nice. Don’t start drama.” I kept my eyes down. “I said, I’m not eating it.” I repeated, clear and firm. Tyler’s face darkened completely. “Chloe, what is your problem?” Tyler’s voice rose, drawing everyone’s attention to our corner. “No problem. I just don’t want to eat it.” I leaned back against my chair, not even bothering to look at him. He slammed his hands on the table and stood up, glaring at me. “Chloe, do you think you’re better than everyone else just because your family owns a famous smokehouse? Are you seriously looking down on street food bought by Amber?”

“Dude, that’s so uncalled for!” “Yeah, Amber stood in line for this. If you don’t want it, fine, but lose the attitude!” “She’s totally doing this on purpose. She’s just jealous that everyone loves Amber.” The classmates around us immediately started taking sides. Just like my past life. No matter what I did, I was always the villain. Amber’s eyes welled up with tears instantly. She grabbed Tyler’s sleeve, her voice trembling. “Tyler, please don’t yell at Chloe. Maybe the food really isn’t good. Chloe is the expert, so it’s normal she doesn’t like it… It’s all my fault…” Her playing the victim immediately turned the whole room against me. “Amber, don’t cry! This has nothing to do with you!” “Yeah, forget her! More for us. It’s her loss anyway!” A guy named Hunter took the lead, grabbing a leg and taking a massive bite to show his support for Amber. “Oh my god! This is amazing! So flavorful!” he mumbled through a full mouth. “Better than any five-star restaurant!” With the first follower, the rest quickly joined in. “Let me try!” “Give me one! Amber, you’re a lifesaver!” Within seconds, the tray was nearly empty. They stuffed their faces while throwing dirty looks at me. Tyler sneered, picked up a piece, and held it to Amber’s lips with a tender smile. “Here, Amber. You eat too. Don’t let irrelevant people ruin your day.” Amber smiled through her tears, took a bite from his hand, and closed her eyes happily. “Mm, so good!” The surrounding classmates started chanting and cheering. “Oh! Get a room, you two!” “Tyler, you’re so biased, only feeding Amber!” I sneered inwardly. *Since you all love it so much, eat up. Eat all of it.* I pulled out my phone, checked the time for the afternoon exams, and started reviewing my study guides. “Chloe, are you really not going to eat?” My desk mate, Sarah, leaned in and whispered to me. She was the only person in the room who hadn’t joined the mob. In my past life, she was also the only one who had secretly handed me a tissue when everyone was screaming at me. I glanced at her and kept my voice barely audible. “Don’t eat it either.” Sarah blinked, looking at my dead-serious expression, and then at our classmates who were happily devouring the meat. She looked incredibly confused. “Why?” “If you want to be able to sit through the exam this afternoon, trust me just this once.” I didn’t explain further. Sarah hesitated for a few seconds, but looking at my eyes, she finally nodded and slowly put down the turkey leg she had just picked up. Just then, Tyler stormed over, ripped my phone out of my hands, and slammed it onto the table. “Chloe! I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?!” The phone hit the wooden table with a loud, violent crack.

The room went dead silent. Everyone stopped chewing and stared at us. “What is your deal today?” Tyler roared. “Amber brought this out of the goodness of her heart, and not only are you ungrateful, but you’re also acting like a total bitch! Everyone is watching. You will stand up and apologize to Amber. Right. Now.” His voice was dripping with venom. Amber quickly ran over, grabbing Tyler’s arm, her eyes swimming with tears. “Tyler, please stop… It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have bought them… Chloe, please don’t be mad. I’ll apologize for Tyler, okay? Just don’t let this ruin your afternoon exam.” She claimed she was apologizing, but she leaned her body heavily against Tyler’s chest. The classmates chimed in again. “Seriously, Chloe, you’re crossing the line today.” “Tyler is just defending Amber. Just apologize and let it go.” “We’re all classmates. Don’t make it weird.” Apologize? I looked at them, finding the entire situation hysterical. In my past life, I saved all of them. Yet Tyler hit me, verbally abused me, and watched me die. In this life, I did absolutely nothing, and I was still the bad guy. I realized then that no matter what choice I made, the outcome for them didn’t matter. Because in Tyler’s heart, I would never be as important as Amber. I slowly stood up, meeting his furious gaze calmly. “Tyler,” I said softly. “We’re done.” The rage on Tyler’s face instantly froze. “What… what did you say?” “I said, we are breaking up.” I repeated, enunciating every single word. “From this moment on, you, Amber, and whatever drama you guys have are none of my business.” “Chloe!” Tyler raised his hand, the exact same scene from my past life flashing before my eyes. I didn’t flinch. I just stared at him coldly. “Hit me,” I whispered. “Do it, and we are completely through.” His hand froze in mid-air. It shook violently, but he couldn’t bring himself to swing it down. “Fine! Great!” He pulled his hand back, trembling with pure rage. “Chloe, don’t you dare regret this! Breaking up over something so petty? Who do you think you are? Trust me, I will do just fine without you!” “I wish you the best of luck with that.” I picked up my phone from the table. Thank god, the screen wasn’t cracked. I slid it into my bag, checked my test permit, and turned to leave. “Stop right there!” Tyler yelled. “Did I say you could leave? You haven’t apologized, and a breakup is a two-way street. I don’t agree to it!” Hunter and a few other guys immediately stood up, blocking the door. “Chloe, don’t just run away. Talk it out.” “Yeah, nobody leaves until you apologize to Amber.” I took a deep breath, the last ounce of warmth in my heart completely evaporating. “Move.” “No way! Not unless you get on your knees and apologize to Amber!” Hunter barked. On my knees? I almost laughed. Just then, Amber’s voice trembled from behind. “Oh… wait…” She suddenly clutched her stomach, her face turning pale. “My stomach… it hurts so bad…” Tyler immediately spun around, panicked. “Amber, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine…” Amber forced a weak smile, but cold sweat was already beads on her forehead. “Maybe… maybe it’s just the iced soda I drank earlier. My stomach is just acting up. I’ll be fine after using the restroom.” Clutching her stomach, she hurried out of the dining room. “Hurry back!” Tyler called out anxiously. Once she left, he turned his glare back to me, his frustration peaking. “Chloe, are you happy now? You literally stressed Amber out so much she has a stomachache!” “If she messes up her exam this afternoon, I swear I will make you pay!” I was so amused I almost laughed out loud. Stressed into a stomachache? Or did she just eat rotten meat? “What are you looking at? Apologize!” With Amber gone, Hunter got even more aggressive, reaching out to shove my shoulder. I took a step back. “If I were you, I wouldn’t touch me,” I said calmly. “And I’d stop eating that garbage on the table. In fact, you should all go to the ER to get your stomachs pumped right now. Maybe then you’ll make it to your exams tomorrow.” Hunter froze, and then burst into hysterical laughter as if he had just heard the funniest joke in the world. “Did you guys hear her? She wants us to get our stomachs pumped! Chloe, did studying dry your brain out? Do you think you’re some kind of psychic doctor?” “She literally wants us to fail! She’s so toxic!” “Exactly! She didn’t eat, so now she’s cursing us!” They mocked me as they picked up the remaining meat and stuffed it into their mouths. “So delicious! Too bad some people don’t have the taste buds for it!” “Right? How could something this good be bad? What a joke.” Tyler looked at me with pure disgust in his eyes. “Chloe, I never realized how vile you could be. Just because I defended Amber, you’re resorting to this pathetic way to curse us?” He shoved me into the corner, his arms pinning me against the wall. “I’m saying this for the last time. Get on your knees and apologize to Amber. Otherwise, this isn’t over.” He whispered threateningly. I looked up at his face, so close to mine. This was the boy I had loved for three years, the one who had brought me nothing but agony across two lifetimes. I spoke, my voice chillingly calm. “Tyler, aren’t you even a little curious? Why didn’t I take a single bite, yet I knew something was wrong with it?” He blinked, taken aback. “Because my family does this for a living,” I said, holding his gaze. “I know meat better than any of you. That is not turkey. It’s spoiled duck meat masked with industrial chemical dye. If you eat it, you’ll end up with severe food poisoning. At best, you’ll be vomiting blood. At worst…” “Shut up! Amber literally said she bought it from a popular street vendor!” “So?” I countered. “Just because she said it, it’s true? You’d rather believe a pathological liar than me?” “Shut your mouth! Don’t you dare talk about Amber like that!” “Then why isn’t your precious Amber back yet?” I asked. I glanced at my watch. There was only one hour left before the afternoon SAT session. The incubation period for that bacteria was about thirty minutes to an hour. It was about time. Tyler froze. Suddenly, the door to the dining room was kicked open. A guy ran in, clutching his mouth. Before he could even reach the trash can, he threw up violently all over the floor. Immediately after, classmate after classmate turned ghostly pale, clutching their stomachs. Like rockets launching, they scrambled and fought to get out the door to the bathrooms. “My stomach… oh god, it feels like I’m being stabbed!” “Me too… I can’t… I think I’m gonna throw up!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “434491”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

The night the flower shop closed for good, I signed a contract. By the end of it, I had a new identity. Ethan Gray’s wife. He was waiting for me in a wheelchair, deep inside the Gray estate. Rain hammered against the roof of the black Maybach, dull and relentless, like war drums. I wore a white dress. The fabric was cheap, damp against my skin, and thin enough to make me shiver. It wasn’t a wedding dress. It looked more like something you buried people in. The air conditioner blasted cold through the car. My fingertips were numb, but the chill inside me cut deeper. Three hours ago, I was still wondering how I was going to make next month’s rent. Now my parents had stuffed me into this car and sent me to the Gray estate. “Ava Blake, don’t blame us for being cruel.” Before I got in, my mother, Susan Blake, forced a few tears into her eyes. Her voice sounded staged. “Blake Holdings is out of cash. Mrs. Gray made it clear. If we send someone with the right background to marry Ethan Gray and keep the family image intact, she’ll inject five million dollars into the company.” My father, Richard Blake, stood beside her with a dark face. “Your sister Isabella is supposed to marry into real power. Her future can’t be ruined by a dying man. You’ve done nothing with your life. You’ve eaten off this family for years. It’s time you paid the Blakes back.” Everyone in the city knew Ethan Gray’s name. He had once run Gray Group. Two weeks ago, he had been in a brutal car crash. The rumor was that his spine and brain had both been badly injured. That he was lying in intensive care, alive only because machines kept him breathing. Mrs. Gray, desperate and terrified of another scandal, had even listened to a private family adviser who claimed the estate needed a proper marriage to steady the Gray name. That woman was me. They put a price on my life. Five million dollars. Paid in full. The car rolled through the gates of the Gray estate. Behind me, the iron gates closed with a harsh metallic groan, like the last escape route locking shut. A middle-aged butler with no expression held a black umbrella and led me through a dim hallway. It seemed endless. At last, he stopped in front of a heavy redwood door. “Mrs. Gray. Mr. Gray is waiting inside.” The title sounded almost mocking. He stepped away. His footsteps faded into the dark. I took a breath. My palms were slick with sweat. I had already prepared myself for the worst. The stench of disinfectant. The beeping of monitors. A shriveled half-dead man. I pushed the door open. And froze. There was no glaring white light. No medical equipment. The room smelled faintly of cedar and bitter medicine. The main lights were off. Lightning flashed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, briefly illuminating the wide bedroom. In that sickly white light, I saw a man. He wasn’t in bed. He sat in a wheelchair with his back to me, facing the storm outside. “Do people from the Blake family not know how to knock?” The voice was low and cold, edged with absolute authority. There was no weakness in it. It sounded like a blade at my throat. My whole body went rigid. A vegetable? Dying? The rumors. My parents’ certainty. In that instant, they turned into a joke. The wheelchair slowly turned. Another flash of lightning cut across the sky, and I finally saw his face. He was devastatingly handsome, and just as terrifying. A sharp jaw. A high nose. But what you couldn’t ignore were his eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. Dark. Deep. Cruel. Amused. He looked at me as if he had already seen every desperate thought in my head. Ethan Gray. He wasn’t just awake. He was terrifyingly alert. “You were forced to come here. I can tell.” He leaned back in the wheelchair and folded his long fingers over his knee. His tone was calm, almost casual. I stood three yards away, cold from head to toe, unable to speak. “Did the Blakes send you here to test whether I’m dead yet? Or do they really think offering up a woman will get them five million from the Gray family?” His mouth curved in a merciless smile. “Either way, you’re a discarded piece now.” He said it too clearly. Too brutally. Like he had ripped the last shred of dignity off me with one hand. Humiliation. Fear. Rage. They slammed into my chest at once. “If you want to run, the door is behind you.” He watched me, almost lazily. “I’ll have someone take you out. We can pretend the Blakes never sent anyone tonight.” Run? To where? Back to the house that sold me like trash? Back to my parents’ fury when they realized they weren’t getting paid? Or onto the street, broke and alone, to freeze in the middle of a storm? I stared at my soaked canvas sneakers. All the despair I had swallowed down all day hit bottom at once and came back up as something meaner. To hell with the Blakes. I looked up and met his eyes. I gritted out the most ridiculous question I had ever asked in my life. “If I don’t run. If I stay…” My voice shook with the force it took to say it. “How much will you pay me?” The room went still. Even the thunder seemed to pause. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. I was done for. He would think I was insane. A gold-digger. He’d have the butler drag me out like garbage. One second. Two. Three. Then he laughed. Low and real, from deep in his chest. He leaned forward slightly, and something dangerous lit up behind his glasses. “Interesting.” For the first time, there was a trace of amusement in his voice. “If you dare stay, name your price.”

The next morning, I sat at the far end of a dining table big enough for twenty. Actually, “morning” wasn’t accurate. I had never fallen asleep. After that absurd transaction, the butler had taken me to a guest room three times the size of my old apartment. I had sat on the bed all night, staring into space until dawn. Breakfast covered the table, but my stomach felt like stone. The staff at the Gray estate moved like flawless machinery, silent and efficient. Still, every time one of them passed with a tray, I could feel their eyes slide over me. Like they were looking at something cheap that had been shoved into an expensive display window. “So that’s the Blake girl they sent to curry favor with the Grays? I expected someone prettier.” “Keep your voice down. Mr. Gray hasn’t said anything yet. Looking at her, she’ll be gone in a week.” The whispers drifted out from the kitchen. My fingers whitened around the fork, but I sat up straighter. Don’t flinch, Ava Blake. You’re here to work. They’re just coworkers. Then I heard the soft hum of a motor at the dining room entrance. The servants instantly fell silent and stepped aside. Ethan Gray was wheeled in. He wore a dark gray cashmere lounge set. His face was pale, but the pressure he carried filled the entire room. He didn’t even look at me. He was pushed to the head of the table. The butler laid his napkin in place. Ethan began to eat with elegant precision, knife and fork barely making a sound. The whole room stopped breathing. My spoon suddenly felt impossibly heavy. “There aren’t many rules in this house,” he said after touching a napkin to his lips. His voice was as cold as a sentence being handed down. “Actually, there are none. Do as you like.” I looked up, startled. His eyes settled on me from across the long table. “Your movements, your spending, your social life. I won’t interfere. As long as you don’t use the title Mrs. Gray to drag me into some public scandal, you’re free to do whatever you want.” The butler stepped forward and held out a black card edged in gold. “Your advance,” Ethan said flatly. “And your salary.” Salary. The word felt unreal. “Starting today,” he went on, “your job is to play Mrs. Gray well. Attend the family events that matter. Help me deal with the business rivals waiting to laugh at me. Keep this marriage looking normal. Until the performance ends. Or until I no longer need you.” At last, I understood. I wasn’t really his wife. I wasn’t even a decorative tool. I was a highly paid actress. He had hired me to hold the outside world in place and distract his enemies. Strangely, the realization calmed me. Being an employee was safer than being a disposable wife. As long as I had value, I could survive. I tightened my grip on the card and gave him a polite, professional smile. “Understood, Mr. Gray.” The change in title came naturally. Something approving flickered in his eyes. He set down the napkin and signaled the butler to wheel him out. Just before he reached the door, he tossed one last bomb over his shoulder. “Nine tomorrow morning. Be at Gray Group headquarters. Human Resources will process your onboarding.” My hand jerked so hard I nearly dropped the spoon. “For what position?” The wheelchair stopped. His answer came from the doorway, cool and final. “My personal assistant.”

At 8:50 the next morning, I stood in front of the revolving doors of Gray Group’s headquarters. The glass tower rose eighty-eight stories into the financial district skyline like a blade. It was the kind of building that didn’t just show power. It enforced it. I stepped inside. And instantly became the rare animal everyone wanted to stare at. Executives in custom suits. Security guards with radios. Junior staff with coffee cups in their hands. Every single one of them looked me up and down with the same feverish curiosity. Pity. Disdain. Glee. And above all, gossip. “That’s her. The Blake girl they sent to please the Gray family.” “She looks so cheap. The whole outfit probably costs less than two hundred bucks.” “Didn’t you hear? After the accident, Mr. Gray couldn’t walk and got violent. The Blakes sent her in as a sacrifice.” “Why is she even here? To fight for inheritance?” “Who knows? Maybe she’s here to show off. She’s technically Mrs. Gray, after all.” Their voices swarmed around me like flies. I lowered my head and gripped the worn strap of my canvas bag so tightly my nails dug into my palm. I regretted coming. I’d rather deal with the icy servants at the estate than stand here and get stared at like a sideshow. “Excuse me. Are you Miss Ava Blake?” A bright voice cut through the whispers. I looked up and saw a young receptionist with a round face, big eyes, and a neat little bun. Her name tag read Maya Riley. She was the only person in the lobby who wasn’t looking at me for entertainment. “I am.” “Mr. Gray left instructions. Please wait in the VIP lounge. Serena Holt will be down shortly to get you.” She pointed toward a quiet, luxurious seating area half hidden by tall plants. I nodded and hurried over, grateful for the chance to disappear. A few minutes later, Maya brought me a steaming cup of tea and set it on the table in front of me. She glanced around to make sure no one was near enough to hear, then leaned closer. “Miss Blake…” she whispered. “Were you really forced into this? Everyone says you’re the family’s scapegoat.” My fingers tightened around the tea cup. Something in me softened at the concern in her eyes. In this steel-and-glass jungle, she was the first warm thing I had seen. I didn’t answer directly. I only smiled at her in thanks. But from that moment on, I filed Maya Riley away under one category in my head. Safe. Then the private elevator chimed. The first thing to step out was a pair of custom high heels covered in crystals and easily four inches tall. Their sharp clicks on marble were elegant and aggressive at once. Then came the woman wearing them. Tall. Stunning. Flawlessly made up. Wrapped in a perfectly fitted Armani suit that looked less like clothing and more like armor. I recognized her immediately. Serena Holt. Ethan Gray’s chief secretary. The real power behind his executive office. I had searched the core leadership team the night before. Serena Holt was widely known as Ethan’s right hand. She walked toward me in a cloud of expensive perfume and stopped just in front of my chair. “Mrs. Gray,” she said with a polished smile that held no warmth at all. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She put deliberate pressure on the title. I rose to my feet and met her gaze. “Not long, Ms. Holt.” “No need to be formal.” Her smile only sharpened. Her eyes skimmed over my cheap clothes like a knife. “Mr. Gray has decided you’ll be joining the executive office. That makes us coworkers now. Come on. I’ll take you upstairs. And along the way…” She paused. “I’ll teach you the rules.” I followed her into the private elevator. In that tight space, the perfume almost suffocated me. As the elevator climbed, Serena looked at my reflection in the mirrored doors. “That position as Mrs. Gray was never really meant for you.” My stomach dropped. She turned to look at me directly. “When your sister Isabella Blake used to come to the office, Mr. Gray spoiled her. He let her near major projects. Too bad she had standards. She had no interest in a man in a wheelchair. Lucky for you, I guess. You ended up with what she threw away.” The pity in her voice was pure poison. The elevator doors opened on the top floor. Under the bright lights, I could see the contempt in Serena Holt’s eyes perfectly clearly. That wasn’t just a warning. It was a declaration of war.

Ethan Gray’s office took up half the top floor. His side of the space was all authority and glass. The city spread out behind his desk. The black ebony surface looked like a throne disguised as furniture. My side was a joke. In a cramped corner near the entrance, someone had shoved a narrow white desk against the wall. No window. No plant. No view. Not even a decent chair. It looked like a station for temporary help. The hierarchy was obvious. Ethan sat at his desk with a file open in front of him. He wore a black shirt with the collar loose at the throat. Even in the wheelchair, he gave off enough controlled pressure to make breathing difficult. Serena marched me over to my little desk and dropped a stack of files so hard the wood shook. “Miss Blake, this is Mr. Gray’s schedule for the next two weeks and the files for several key projects currently in progress.” She spoke fast, like she was trying to drown me in information on purpose. “Your task this morning is to memorize all of it.” Before I could even respond, she glided to Ethan’s desk and transformed. The sharpness she used on me vanished. Her voice turned sweet and soft. “Mr. Gray, I’ve revised the South District development proposal based on your notes.” She bent down slightly as she handed him a file. “Would you like me to change anything else?” He didn’t even look up. “Leave it. Go.” Four words. Ice cold. The smile on her face froze. But she recovered almost instantly. “Of course, Mr. Gray. I won’t disturb you and… Mrs. Gray.” She emphasized the title again before leaving. When the doors shut behind her, the office went silent except for the rustle of paper and the faint hum of the air system. I stood there awkwardly, not even sure where to put my hands. “Bring me the blue file.” His voice cut through the stillness. Relieved to finally have something to do, I pulled the blue folder from the stack and brought it over. He took it and tossed it back onto the desk in front of me without opening it. “By three this afternoon, I want a risk assessment report I can actually read.” I opened the file. It was a contract renewal for an overseas supplier Gray Group had worked with for years. My degree was technically in business administration, but my college had been mediocre, and I had spent most of those years working side jobs just to survive. Still, after reading the first few pages, even I could see something was wrong. The figures contradicted each other. Important liability clauses were worded vaguely enough to hide almost anything. Worst of all, the financial statements in the appendix showed an obvious hole in the cash flow. Someone was cooking the books. This wasn’t a normal file. It was a trap. A carefully prepared one. Serena had dug it, covered it with fake numbers, and left it there for the clueless new girl to fall into. I looked up at Ethan. He was already reading another set of documents, calm and detached, as if none of this concerned him. Anger rushed up so fast it made my vision blur. Of course he knew. He was Ethan Gray. He had seen right through this file the moment it touched his desk. Which meant he had let it happen. He had let Serena set me up because he wanted to watch me fail. He wanted me humiliated. He wanted me sent packing. My fingers tightened around the file until the edges bent. I was seconds away from throwing it back on his desk and walking out. Then something else rose up inside me. That old, stubborn thing I had built in the Blake household just to survive. Fine. If he was paying me, then I was going to make him regret underestimating me. I said nothing. I went back to the tiny desk, turned on the computer, and got to work. I dug through industry data. Pulled legal references. Rebuilt the cash flow line by line on scratch paper. Highlighted every suspicious clause in red. Made notes beside every contradiction. I forgot to drink water. Forgot to breathe normally. Forgot everything except the numbers in front of me. At 2:59 p.m., I dropped a marked-up report on Ethan’s desk. It was color-coded, blunt, and attached to three core questions and two alternative solutions. It was probably crude by professional standards. But it was everything I had. I stood there, chest heaving from exhaustion and nerves, and waited for judgment. He didn’t even glance at the report. He looked straight at my face instead. At my bloodshot eyes. At my trembling mouth. And then, in a tone that had nothing to do with the file in front of him, he asked: “What exactly did you major in?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “434490”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

Five years ago, he left me with a single text: “Let’s take some time apart.” Now he’s back—billion-dollar tycoon, empty-handed, begging me to open the door. But I’m no longer the girl who waited. I built my own empire. And this time, the only thing he can offer me is the truth. My name is Summer Blake. I’m thirty-two, single, and I run a crisis PR firm on the top floors of the financial district. If you want the flattering version, I’m a public relations strategist. If you want the truth, I clean up the messes rich people and powerful companies leave behind. That day, I was sitting in a glass conference room high above the city. My client was a fast-rising new energy startup. Their cash chain had snapped. A hostile acquisition was closing in. My job was to keep the public narrative from collapsing and squeeze out the last scraps of leverage they had left. The atmosphere in the room was suffocating. The acquisition team across from us acted like a pack of sharks. They tossed one clause after another onto the table, sharp and merciless. I sat beside my client, flipping through the documents in my hand with an impeccable professional smile. That was part of the job. No matter how badly I wanted to curse every person on the other side of the table, my face still had to look calm and refined. “Our boss will be here shortly. He’ll make the final call himself.” The man across from me checked his watch, every bit as arrogant as his money allowed him to be. That’s how the capital world works. Whoever has the money gets to control the room. The heavy double doors opened. A man walked in surrounded by assistants and senior executives. My hand stopped over the page for half a second. No longer. I turned the page as if nothing had happened and lifted my eyes. My heart, however, had already been seized by an invisible hand. Marcus Holt. What was he doing here? Five years. He looked older now. More composed. Colder. His suit fit him perfectly. He looked like everything he had always been built to become—untouchable, immaculate, high above everyone else. Only now there was something sharper in him. The hard authority of a man used to being obeyed. He was thirty-four now. No longer the young man who had once held me beneath a streetlamp and said in a hoarse voice, “Let’s give each other some space.” Now he was the man in charge of Apex Capital. The man behind this hostile takeover. The one my client had to bow to. The irony was almost funny. He took the main seat and flipped open the file in front of him. Then his gaze moved across the room and collided with mine. I didn’t look away. I met his stare, gave him a polite nod, and smiled at him with the same distant professionalism I would have used on any cold-blooded capitalist I’d never met before. His hand froze over the page. Real shock flashed in his dark eyes. Good. I wanted him shocked. I spent the entire negotiation cornering his team. I used reputation risk as a bargaining chip and forced them to give us three points on the acquisition price. Marcus said almost nothing. He only sat back and watched me. There was too much in his eyes for me to name. Curiosity. Disbelief. Something else I didn’t care to understand. I just wanted the meeting over. At last, the first round of agreement was reached. My client and I stood to shake hands. When it was Marcus’s turn, my client nervously stretched out a hand. “Mr. Holt, thank you for showing mercy.” Marcus didn’t look at him. He looked at me. Then he held out his hand. “Summer,” he said, his voice lower than it had been five years ago, roughened by something that sounded dangerously close to memory. “Long time no see.” I lowered my gaze to his hand. Then I gave him the smallest smile, touched his fingertips for the briefest second, and withdrew. “Mr. Holt, you’re being too polite. Have we met before?” All the blood drained from his face. The rush of satisfaction that hit me was ugly and immediate. Then I turned and walked out without looking back. By the time I got into the elevator, my palms were drenched in sweat. That night, I soaked in the bathtub for an hour and still couldn’t calm down. A financial news push alert popped up on my phone. **Marcus Holt of Apex Capital: the ruthless investor with five scandal-free years and no room for romance?** I laughed coldly and tossed the phone aside. Ruthless investor, my ass. If he had understood any of that five years ago, I wouldn’t have had to claw my own life together from the ground up. Just as I was thinking it, my phone vibrated. An unknown number. I didn’t answer. A text came through instead. Only two words. **I’m sorry.** I stared at the message for a long time. Then deleted it. Blocked the number. Reported it as spam for good measure. That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and found myself dragged back to another stormy night five years earlier. He had texted me then too. **Let’s take some time apart.** And after that, there had been nothing. I had just closed my eyes when my phone buzzed again. This time it was my client. They had sent over a document and a message. **Summer, this is the post-acquisition PR integration checklist Mr. Holt’s side just sent. It’s unbelievably strict, and they insisted you handle it personally. Let’s start prepping tonight.** I opened the file. It was packed with over a hundred detailed, impossible PR demands. Professional. Precise. And nasty in all the right places. At the very bottom, the file metadata listed the creator’s name. Marcus Holt. I scrolled to the final page. In the notes section, there was one line that didn’t belong in any formal business document. **The oat latte at that café nearby is still worth ordering. You used to like it with less sugar. I don’t know if you still do.**

The next morning I showed up at the office looking like I hadn’t slept, because I hadn’t. My company wasn’t large. It occupied half a floor in a sleek building near the fashion district. Every inch of it had been paid for one ugly project at a time. By me and Sophie Bennett. My college roommate. My only real friend. My business partner. Beautiful, viciously sharp, impossible to fool. Back in college, she had been the one person who never believed Marcus and I would last. She had told me, “That man has too much buried behind his eyes. The water around him is deep, and you don’t know how to swim in deep water.” I hadn’t listened. Eventually, I nearly drowned. That morning, I threw my bag onto my desk and collapsed into my chair. “You look awful,” Sophie said from the break room, handing me a cup of coffee. “So. Which capitalist drained the life out of you this time?” “Don’t ask,” I muttered. “I saw a ghost.” “Male ghost or female ghost?” “Male.” “Hot?” “Hot enough to make me want to twist his head off and kick it down the street.” Sophie sat across from me and looked me over. “Marcus Holt?” I drank my coffee in silence. That was answer enough. “Unbelievable,” she said flatly. “Five years later and he climbs out of your graveyard like this?” I told her about the negotiation. About the way I looked him in the eye and asked if we’d ever met. Sophie slapped her thigh and grinned. “Good. He deserved it.” Then she sobered. “But this isn’t random. He sends you a file, insists you handle the account personally, and starts acting sentimental? He’s after something.” “I don’t care what he’s after,” I said. “It’s a project. I’ll handle it like any other.” Sophie leaned forward. “Summer. Stay away from him.” “I know.” “No, you don’t.” Her tone sharpened. “Don’t let some expired version of your past blow up everything you built over the last five years.” I didn’t answer. Because I remembered those five years too clearly. The days spent cleaning up other people’s disasters. The nights crying into my pillow until I threw up. The months when I could barely pay staff on time. The long, humiliating climb back to a life that belonged to me. By then, my company had a name. I had a home, a car, a reputation. I had built a life so solid I no longer needed anyone. Especially not him. That afternoon, while we were in a team meeting going through the integration checklist, the receptionist knocked and leaned in nervously. “Miss Blake? Mr. Holt from Apex Capital is downstairs. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says he’ll wait.” The marker slipped in my hand and left a black streak across the whiteboard. I stared at it for a second. Then I said, “Tell him I’m busy.” “He said–” “I said I’m busy.” Her expression tightened. She nodded and left. The entire meeting room went quiet. I took a breath and forced my voice flat. “Why are you all staring? Keep going.” The meeting ended near seven. On my way past reception, I asked casually, “Did he leave?” “About two hours ago,” the receptionist said. I nodded as if it meant nothing. Then I went back into my office, stood by the window, and stared down at the street where his black Maybach was no longer parked. I felt relief. And then, against my will, something colder and hollower right behind it. I told myself to stop being pathetic. Then sent my assistant a message. **Push every meeting next week related to Apex Capital onto the deputy director. Make up whatever reason you want.** I put the phone down facedown and told myself that was the end of it. The next morning, the receptionist texted me before nine. **Something was dropped off for you. No name.** She attached a photo. Two oat lattes. Less sugar. A sticky note. **You still take it light, right?**

For the next few days, Marcus seemed to disappear. The silence should have made things easier. Instead, it only sharpened my temper. I buried myself in a luxury jewelry rebranding project for the North American market. It was high-budget, brutally competitive, and exactly the kind of account that changed a firm’s standing for years. Then one afternoon, in the middle of preparing our final proposal, Sophie walked into my office with a tablet and a look I didn’t like. “Check your email.” There was an anonymous message in the inbox. No subject line. Just an encrypted archive. Inside was a PDF. And inside the PDF was everything. The decision-making preferences of each board member overseeing the bid. Their professional histories. Their favored strategies. Even notes on personal habits and personality weaknesses. On top of that, it contained the rival bidder’s internal pricing floor. It was a cheat sheet. With something like that, our odds of winning would jump by half. At the bottom right corner of the file was a watermark from one of the top commercial intelligence firms in the country. I already knew what my gut was going to tell me. But I called an old contact at that firm anyway. After a little money and pressure, he finally admitted it. “A major client commissioned it directly from the top,” he said. “Who?” “Apex Capital. Marcus Holt.” For a second, all I could hear was blood rushing in my ears. Of course it was him. I felt sick. What did he think I was? Someone who needed him to rig the playing field because I wasn’t capable of winning on my own? Hadn’t he humiliated me enough with that same logic five years ago? Back then, he had called it protecting me. Now he was trying again. I looked at the PDF, then dragged both it and the email into the trash. Then deleted them permanently. Still not enough. Ignoring him felt too generous. So I called my lawyer. “I need a cease-and-desist sent,” I said. “Today.” The next morning, my law firm sent a sharply worded letter to the intelligence company, accusing them of obtaining non-public competitive information by improper means and attempting commercial bribery. I copied nearly every major PR head in the industry on it. Then, before anyone else could frame the story for me, I called Diana, the British executive leading the North American division of the jewelry brand. “Diana, I need to disclose something,” I told her plainly. “We received an anonymous document containing material that could compromise the fairness of the bidding process.” “I can’t verify who sent it or whether every detail inside is accurate. But I can tell you this: my firm will not use non-public material to win your business.” “To make that clear, we’re scrapping every previous version of our pitch and resubmitting a new proposal next week.” She was silent for a long time. Then she laughed softly. “That was the right decision, darling. Brave too. I’m looking forward to your new proposal.” We won the account two weeks later. And I won it clean.

By then, the gossip around what had happened with the anonymous file had already spread through the industry. The intelligence company tried to send its boss to my office to apologize. I didn’t see him. Their panic wasn’t my problem. Later, a friend from inside that same firm called me, nearly in tears. “You have no idea what kind of mess you made. Marcus Holt’s side is trying to pay anything to make this disappear.” “Then let him come talk to me himself.” Not through assistants. Not through money. Him. He sent his executive assistant in the end. The message was polished, professional, and empty. Marcus hoped to speak with me in person and explain the misunderstanding. I replied with two words. **Not available.** When they tried again the following week, I had my own assistant respond. **Miss Blake hopes Mr. Holt can learn to respect both commercial rules and her boundaries.** After that, everything finally went quiet. Too quiet, really. I told myself I had won. I had used his own methods against him and pinned him to the board. So why did it feel like throwing a punch into cotton? Like nothing had landed at all.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “434489”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

My best friend had been sleeping with my ex-husband for three years. Together, they spread anonymous rumors, ruined my reputation, and pushed me to the edge. That was when Ethan Grant appeared. He stepped in front of the knife, protected my son Luca, and treated us with a kind of gentleness that almost felt unreal. And just when I was about to fall for him, he tore off the mask. That was when I realized I had only fallen from one trap into another. I slammed the door and tried to leave. He caught my wrist and dropped the truth that shattered what was left of me. “That child you gave birth to six years ago? He’s mine.” 00 At two-thirty in the morning, the underground parking garage of Harbor Grand Hotel felt like a walk-in freezer. The ventilation system rumbled overhead like some dying beast dragging out its last breath. My name is Evie Lane. I am thirty-five years old, and I am the deputy lobby manager of this luxury hotel. By day, I wear tailored suits, eight-centimeter heels, and a smile polished enough to survive the worst guests money can buy. By night, I drag my exhausted body through a custody war over my son, Luca. Life had become a grinder, and I could feel it stripping me down piece by piece. My calves throbbed. My stomach burned from a day lived on black coffee. When I hit my key fob, my battered used car flashed twice in the dark. The second I touched the handle, a rough hand reeking of cigarettes and cheap liquor slammed against the door. “Evie Lane, how much longer are you going to hide from me?” I knew that voice even before I looked up. Derek Cole. My ex-husband. Gambler. Liar. Human ruin. Every drop of blood in my body seemed to rush backward. I turned and saw the bloated, sleepless face I hated more than anything. “What are you doing here?” I took a step back until my spine hit the cold window. “This is my workplace. Leave now, or I call security.” “Go ahead. Call them.” He moved closer instead. “Let everyone at your precious hotel see what kind of woman Evie Lane really is. A bitch who won’t even let the father see his own son.” We had been divorced for two years, and still he clung to my life like rot that would not wash off. “Custody will be decided in family court,” I said, forcing my voice steady while my hand slid toward my bag for my phone. “We have nothing to discuss.” “Don’t hide behind family court.” He grabbed my wrist so hard I almost cried out. My bag hit the floor. My phone skidded away and stopped by his shoe. “Listen carefully, Evie. If you want me to give up custody of Luca, you pay me. Thirty grand. No, fifty. If you don’t, I go to his preschool tomorrow and take him myself.” Spit hit my cheek. The smell of alcohol made my stomach twist. “You’re insane. That’s your son. You can’t use him like this.” “I can’t eat. I don’t care about a kid.” His other hand caught my collar. “If you don’t pay, you’re not leaving this garage tonight.” Fear flooded through me. At this hour, no one came down here. “Let go of me! Help!” His answer was a brutal slap. My ears rang. The taste of blood bloomed in my mouth. I lost my footing and hit the concrete hard, skin ripping across my palm. “Ungrateful bitch.” He lifted his foot to kick me. I shut my eyes. “If you do that,” a cold male voice cut through the garage, “I can promise you’ll spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.” Derek froze. I looked up. A man stepped out from the shadow of a support column. Tall. Immaculate dark gray suit. Black briefcase in one hand. Even in that dim, filthy garage, he carried himself with an ease that felt almost cruel. His dress shoes struck the concrete in slow, measured steps, like a countdown. “Who the hell are you?” Derek barked, though he had already retreated half a step. The man ignored him and stopped in front of me. He looked down once, taking in my swollen cheek and bleeding palm with a glance so brief it barely seemed human. “Ms. Lane,” he said evenly. “I am Ethan Grant. Your attorney.” 00

Ethan Grant. The name took a second to land. The Ethan Grant. Senior partner at Grant & White. Expensive, ruthless, undefeated. I had emptied almost everything I had to hire him, because Luca was the only thing in this world I refused to lose. I just had not imagined our first real meeting would happen with me on the garage floor, bleeding and humiliated. I looked up at him. He stood against the light, face unreadable, all cold authority and absolute control. “Mr. Grant…” My voice came out hoarse. He did not help me up. He simply shifted, putting his body between me and Derek. “So you’re the pretty-boy lawyer she hired?” Derek sneered, trying and failing to recover his swagger. “This is family business. Stay out of it. I can do whatever I want to my wife.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Dangerous. Without raising his voice, he took out his phone and turned on the recorder. “First, Ms. Lane divorced you two years ago. This is not family business.” “Second, your demand for fifty thousand dollars, accompanied by threats, constitutes extortion.” “Third, you physically assaulted her. I have just recorded your own statement. Depending on the extent of injury, that can carry criminal penalties as well.” Each point came down like a blade. Clean. Precise. Final. Derek’s face paled by degrees. “You’re bluffing,” he snapped, but his voice had already thinned. “I don’t know anything about law. Stop trying to scare me.” “Then test me.” Ethan stepped closer, and the difference in height suddenly mattered. “I can call the police right now. Extortion. Assault. Add your debt problems to that, and prison may be the least of your concerns.” He had found the pressure point. Derek was terrified of losing his freedom, even more terrified that his creditors would reach him where he could not run. His bravado collapsed. He shot me one poisonous look, then backed away. “Fine. You win this round. Just wait, Evie.” He turned and fled toward the exit like a dog kicked off a porch. Only after his footsteps disappeared did the tension leave my body. My knees gave out. I leaned against the wheel well, drenched in cold sweat and fighting for breath. Ethan turned back to me. Still no sympathy. Still no outstretched hand. He opened his briefcase, removed a thick file, and held it out. “These are the financial records and concealed assets we have gathered on your ex-husband. I need your signature.” I stared at him. Now? With my face on fire and my hand bleeding, he wanted paperwork? For one absurd second, I almost laughed. To him, I was not a woman in crisis. I was a case file. I forced myself up, dusted off my skirt, and took the papers. My hand shook badly enough that the pen nearly slipped. Blood from my scraped palm streaked the edge of the white folder. His gaze dropped to the red mark and paused. He said nothing. I signed anyway. “Done.” I handed it back. “And… thank you.” “Part of the job.” He slipped the folder away, then started to leave. After one step, he stopped, turned, and offered me a plain white business card. No title. No office address. Just his name and a number. “This is my private line,” he said. I took it and felt a trace of warmth still clinging to the card. “If that kind of man shows up again, don’t reason with him. Don’t try to carry it alone. Call this number.” His eyes held mine for one beat too long. “The law is a weapon, Ms. Lane. Not a shield. Protect yourself first. Then fight back.” 00

The next morning, I put my armor back on. At Harbor Grand, I became Evie Lane again. Efficient. Composed. Impossible to crack. “Why is the air-conditioning in the A-wing suites still not fixed? I want engineering there in five minutes.” “Guest breakfast complaints are up two points. Send the executive chef to my office.” “Those lobby flowers are dying. Replace the vendor.” Department calls flooded my radio. My heels snapped sharply against the marble. This was my battlefield, and here, at least, I knew how to survive. Only in the restroom mirror did I let myself look at the faint red mark still on my cheek. I covered it carefully. “You look awful,” Maya Reed said from the doorway. She carried a latte, wore flawless makeup, and looked exactly like the friend who had stood beside me for seven years. She was our front office manager, and once upon a time, I trusted her with everything. “Didn’t sleep well,” I said lightly. She crossed her arms. “Derek again?” My lipstick paused midair. “I knew it.” Maya clicked her tongue. “What about that lawyer? Ethan Grant, right? You paid a fortune for him. Is he doing anything?” At the sound of Ethan’s name, I saw him again in that garage, calm as winter, handing Derek’s threats back to him as legal charges. “He’s handling it,” I said. “We’re close to court.” “Good. Men like Derek only understand someone meaner than they are.” She patted my shoulder. “Still, I’ve heard Ethan Grant is cold and expensive and only loyal to money. Don’t trust him too easily.” “We’re strictly professional.” That should have been the end of it. Except later that morning, after I finished calming down a furious VIP over a delayed flight, a trainee at the front desk called out, “Ms. Lane, you have a delivery.” I frowned. I had not ordered anything. It was a thermal lunch bag with my name on it and no sender. Inside were three neatly packed containers: mushroom chicken soup still steaming, light side dishes, soft pumpkin porridge, a box of imported stomach medicine, and a tube of bruise cream. I went still. In this city, very few people knew about my stomach problems. Only one person knew I had been hurt the night before. Ethan Grant. Wasn’t he supposed to be cold? Didn’t people say he only cared about money? Why did he send this? The ointment had a small note attached in a sharp, disciplined hand. Eat on time. Take care of the bruise yourself. No signature. No wasted words. I stared at it longer than I should have. I was too old and too tired to mistake one warm meal for love. Men were rarely generous without motive. But what did Ethan Grant want from me? My legal fees had already been paid. And my heart? Surely a man like him had seen women far more polished, younger, easier, safer. I pushed those thoughts aside and lifted the soup. It was hot. Savory. Real. The warmth spread through my empty stomach and eased the pain in a way that felt almost indecent. While I ate, I pulled out the white card I had tucked at the bottom of my holder and searched the number on my phone. I sent a friend request with two words. Thank you. He approved it in under a minute. Black profile picture. Empty feed. No reply. We sat there in each other’s contact lists like a wire stretched in the dark, quiet for now, waiting. 00

On Thursday afternoon, I took half a day off and went to Grant & White. The firm occupied two full floors in the financial district. The lobby was all glass, steel, and severe black-and-white restraint. Even the sign on the reception wall looked expensive. After checking my appointment, the receptionist led me to a large corner conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows over half the city. The view was stunning. I could not enjoy it. There was something about that room that made me feel examined before anyone even walked in. A few minutes later, the door opened. Ethan came in wearing a dark blue shirt with the tie removed and the collar slightly open. He looked less lethal than he had in the parking garage, but only slightly. The eyes were still sharp enough to cut. “Ms. Lane.” He sat across from me and pushed over a heavy file. “This is everything we currently have.” I opened it. Hotel receipts. Gambling ledgers. Loan contracts. Evidence of hidden assets. Evidence of debt. Evidence of cheating. Evidence of a life built on rot. “Your ex-husband’s finances are worse than expected,” Ethan said calmly. “He is effectively broke and carrying close to three hundred thousand dollars in debt. His interest in custody is entirely strategic. He wants leverage. He wants money.” My fingers tightened around the papers. “Once the judge sees this, Luca stays with me. Right?” “Legally, yes.” His gaze did not soften. “But you are being naive, Evie.” The use of my first name hit harder than it should have. “You think a favorable ruling ends this? Men like Derek do not respond to court orders the way reasonable people do. The more frightened and accommodating you are, the more they feed on it.” “Then what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “I still have a job. I still have a child. I can’t spend every day waiting for him to come after us.” “Fight back.” Two words. Hard as stone. “Stop carrying yourself like prey. The law is useful, but not if you won’t pick up the sword.” The rebuke landed deep because part of me believed it. I had been enduring for so long that I had forgotten endurance and surrender were not the same thing. Before I could answer, my stomach seized violently. Pain shot through me so sharply that I bent over before I could hide it. Cold sweat broke over my back. Ethan frowned, stood, and walked out without a word. For a painful second, I thought he was irritated by the inconvenience I represented. He returned less than two minutes later with warm water and a prescription stomach medication packet from the firm’s emergency cabinet. “Take this.” I looked up. “Now,” he said. I obeyed. Once the pain dulled enough for me to breathe, he remained standing beside the table, one hand braced against the edge, watching me with an intensity that made me look away first. “You’re very good at functioning while falling apart,” he said quietly. I let out a brittle laugh. “Occupational skill.” “That isn’t a compliment.” Something in his tone stripped away my automatic defenses. “No,” I admitted. “It isn’t.” He stayed with me until the cramping passed. When I finally gathered the file to leave, he took it from my hands. “I’ll walk you out.” In the elevator, neither of us spoke. At street level, just before the doors opened, he said, “Strength is not pretending you feel nothing. Strength is deciding what happens next.” The words followed me all the way back to the hotel.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “434488”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I was stalked by a creep for two straight weeks. He wore a black trench coat, haunting me like a ghost that refused to disappear. To protect myself, I set a trap in the underground parking garage, blasted him in the face with high-concentration pepper spray, and called the police. I thought the nightmare was over — until a woman moved in next door. She told me with red-rimmed eyes that the creep was actually her cheating husband. I believed her. We formed an alliance and installed a hidden camera in the hallway to catch his mistress. But when the footage came out, I was horrified to discover that the “mistress” in the video — the one acting strangely, talking to thin air — was me. And the man I’d been treating like a stalker, the one I’d hurt over and over again, looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and said, “Abby… I’m your husband…” The lights in the underground parking garage always flickered. Click. Click. Click. There was another sound beneath my footsteps. Soft. Heavy. Keeping a steady distance of about thirty feet behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know — the creep was back. This was the fifth time this month. He always wore a long black trench coat and a baseball cap pulled low, half his face swallowed by shadow. Every time I came home after a late shift, he’d appear like a ghost on the only path back to my apartment. I tightened my grip on the pepper spray in my pocket. My palm was slick with sweat. The elevator bay was just ahead. If I could make it inside and hit the close button, I’d be safe. I took a deep breath and broke into a run. The footsteps behind me sped up too. I practically threw myself into the elevator bay, jabbing the up button over and over. The elevator doors slid open. I stepped in, spun around, and reached for the close button. Just as the doors were about to shut, a large hand shoved through the gap. The sensors caught it. The doors bounced back open. The man in the black trench coat stood in the doorway, his chest heaving. He lifted his head. Beneath the brim of his cap were a pair of eyes shot through with red. “Abby…” His voice was hoarse, edged with a desperation that made my skin crawl. He knew my name. My scalp went cold. Every ounce of fear I’d been holding back exploded into raw, instinctive rage. “Stay away from me, you freak!” I yanked out the pepper spray and drove my thumb down on the trigger, aiming straight at his face. A concentrated blast hit him dead-on. “Ahhh—” He let out a cry of pain, both hands flying to his eyes. He stumbled backward and slammed hard into the wall behind him. I hammered the close button. The doors finally shut, cutting off the sight of him writhing in the hallway. I pressed my back against the elevator wall, gasping, my whole body shaking. The moment I got home, I deadbolted the door and called 911. The police arrived quickly. Two young officers swept through the garage and came up empty. “Ma’am, we pulled the garage footage,” the taller one told me, “but that spot is a blind zone for the cameras. Don’t worry though — we’ll increase patrols in the area. If you see him again, call us right away.” I nodded, but the unease didn’t leave me. The way that man had looked at me was strange. Not leering. Not predatory. It was something else entirely — complicated, pained, almost desperate. Like he was suffering. I wasn’t buying it. A creep is a creep. I poured myself a cup of hot tea and forced myself to breathe. Then the doorbell rang. I flinched so hard I nearly dropped the mug. Through the peephole, I saw a woman standing in the hallway.

She was wearing a wine-red silk slip dress with a thin cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders. Her long, wavy hair fell loosely around her face. Beautiful. And exhausted. I hesitated, then cracked the door open — just enough, the chain still on. “Hi. I just moved in next door.” The woman gave me a strained smile. Her eyes were red. “I’m Zoe.” “Can I help you?” I kept my guard up. “I… could I come in for a minute?” Zoe bit her lip. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t know who else to turn to. I’m scared.” Something in me softened at the sight of her. We were both women. Both living alone in a city that didn’t care. Everyone falls apart sometimes. I unlatched the chain and let her in. Zoe sank onto the couch, cradling the mug of hot tea I handed her, her body still trembling faintly. “What happened?” I passed her a few tissues. Zoe wiped her eyes and looked up at me, her gaze full of desperation. “Abby, women need to stick together — can you help me out?” I blinked. “Help you with what?” “Help me catch my husband’s mistress.” I nearly choked on my own saliva. In the middle of the night, she’d come to her neighbor’s door for this? “Your husband… is cheating on you?” I asked carefully. Zoe nodded, and the tears started falling again. “He’s been coming home really late lately, and he smells like another woman’s perfume. And I found out he’s been secretly following someone.” “Following someone?” I latched onto that word immediately, and a wave of unease washed over me. “Yeah. He was wearing a black trench coat and a baseball cap…” My head started buzzing. Black trench coat? Baseball cap? Following someone? “Your husband — is he really tall? Around six foot one or so?” I asked urgently. Zoe stared at me. “How did you know?” That confirmed it. The creep I’d pepper-sprayed in the parking garage was my next-door neighbor’s husband. I was so angry I could grind my teeth. No wonder he knew my name — he must have checked the building’s resident registry, or overheard it somewhere. He had a gorgeous wife right next door, and instead he was out there stalking me. What an absolute creep and a scumbag, through and through. Fueled by shared outrage, I immediately told Zoe everything that had happened in the parking garage. “What? You pepper-sprayed him?” Zoe’s eyes went wide — and then, to my surprise, a look of deep satisfaction crossed her face. “Good. Serves him right. Men like that need to be taught a lesson.” Just like that, we were on the same side. Zoe sipped her water and glanced around my apartment. “You live alone?” I nodded. “Yeah, just moved in not too long ago.” Her gaze drifted to the front door. She frowned slightly, like something was turning over in her mind. “Abby,” she said, turning to look at me with a new resolve in her eyes, “I want solid evidence before I take him for everything he’s got. Would it be okay if I… installed a hidden camera outside your door?” I froze. “If I put it outside my door, he’ll get suspicious. But if it’s on your side, it’ll catch the blind spot in the hallway — he’d never think to look there.” Zoe took my hand, her voice soft and earnest. “Please, Abby. I’m begging you.” Looking at her red, swollen eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. And honestly — if it could capture evidence of that creep’s behavior, it would protect me too. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

The next day was the weekend, and Zoe wasted no time. She came back with a tiny camera disguised as a small motion-sensor night light and mounted it on the wall just outside my door. The lens pointed straight down the hallway toward the elevator — the only way in — and it had a clear view of her front door too. “Done!” Zoe dusted off her hands, a gleam of revenge flickering in her eyes. “If he ever dares bring that woman back here, or comes near you again, I’ll make sure he regrets every second of it.” The next few days were surprisingly quiet. The man in the black trench coat didn’t show up again. Every evening when I got home from work, I’d glance at the little night light on the wall out of habit, and it made me feel just a little bit safer. Zoe started coming over a lot too. We’d order takeout together, vent about our insufferable bosses, and go on long rants about terrible men in general. I was amazed by how well we clicked. We both loved extra-cheese pizza, we were both allergic to mango, and we even had the exact same taste in movies — we were both obsessed with twisty, mind-bending psychological thrillers. “Abby, I feel like we’re long-lost sisters,” Zoe said one evening, a little tipsy on red wine, sinking back into the couch with a dreamy look on her face. I smiled. “Yeah. Me too.” In a city where I barely knew anyone, finding a friend who just got me — that felt like real luck. But the quiet didn’t last. On the fifth night, I worked late and didn’t get home until ten. The moment I stepped off the elevator, something felt off about the hallway. It was too still. Even the faint sound of a TV from next door — something I’d gotten used to hearing — was gone. I slowed my steps and tightened my grip on the pepper spray in my bag. As I reached my door, I glanced instinctively at Zoe’s place. No light coming from under the door. Was she out? Already asleep? I pulled out my keys — and then I heard it. A sound. Coming from inside my apartment. A soft rustling. Like someone moving things around. Every drop of blood in my body went cold. Someone was in there. The first face that flashed through my mind was his — the creep in the black trench coat. How did he get in? Does he have a key to my apartment? I didn’t rush to open the door. Instead, I tiptoed back to the elevator lobby and dialed 911. “Hello? I think someone broke into my apartment. Yes, I’m outside right now. I’m too scared to go in…” I hung up and stood there, eyes locked on my front door, heart hammering in my chest. About ten minutes later, the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Two officers stepped out — the same two from last time. “Madam, what’s going on?” the tall one asked. “I heard noises coming from inside. Someone’s in there, I know it!” I pointed at the door, my voice shaking. The officers exchanged a glance and motioned for me to step aside. The tall officer drew his baton and approached the door carefully, reaching out to try the handle. It wasn’t locked. My stomach dropped. I was sure I’d deadbolted it when I left this morning. I was absolutely sure. The officer shoved the door open and rushed in. “Police! Don’t move!” I followed behind them, peering in from the doorway. The living room was empty. The bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom — they swept every corner. Nothing. “Madam, are you certain you heard something?” The tall officer put his baton away and looked at me with a furrowed brow. “Yes, I’m certain! There was definitely a sound!” I was getting frantic. I pointed at the coffee table, which was clearly out of order. “Look — it wasn’t like this when I left. Someone moved these magazines.” The officers walked over to check, then examined the windows. “Windows are locked from the inside. No sign of forced entry on the door either.” The tall officer let out a slow breath. “Madam, have you been under a lot of stress lately? Sometimes when people are exhausted, they—” “No. I heard it. I know what I heard.” There was nothing I could say to make them believe me. After they left, I sat alone on the couch, staring at the empty apartment, a cold unease creeping under my skin. Someone had been in here. I was sure of it. The air still carried a faint trace of cigarette smoke — and something else. Something sharp and clean that I couldn’t quite name. It was him. That creep. It had to be. Then it hit me — the security camera outside my door. Of course. The camera must have caught something. I grabbed my phone and called Zoe. “Sorry, the number you have dialed is unavailable…” What? Why was her phone off? I went next door and knocked hard. No answer. A wave of unease washed over me, deep and unsettling.

That night, I left every light in the apartment on and sat on the couch until morning. I showed up to work the next day with dark circles under both eyes. I couldn’t focus on anything. My mind kept drifting back to the night before. The moment the workday finally ended, I rushed home and went straight to Zoe’s door. It opened. Zoe was wearing an oversized white button-down, her hair messy, her face drained of all color. “Zoe, what happened? Where were you last night?” I grabbed her hand — it was ice cold. “Abby…” The moment she saw me, her eyes filled with tears. “He came back. That bastard came back last night.” My chest tightened. “Did he hurt you?” Zoe shook her head, her jaw clenched. “No. He just came to get his things. He wants a divorce — and he wants me to walk away with nothing.” “Are you serious?!” I was furious. “He’s the one who cheated. He’s the one who’s been stalking someone. And he has the nerve to kick you out with nothing?” “That’s exactly why we need proof.” Zoe grabbed my hand, her eyes burning with intensity. “Abby — the camera. Whatever happened last night, the camera caught it.” Right. The camera. I pulled her into my apartment and locked the door behind us. Zoe took out her phone, pulled up the app connected to the hidden camera, and scrolled back to last night’s footage. We sat side by side on the couch, eyes glued to the screen. The image was sharp and clear. The hallway was empty, the motion-sensor light flickering on and off every now and then. Time ticked by, second by second. We dragged the progress bar to 9:30 PM. Then a figure appeared in the frame. My heart leapt into my throat. But when the figure stepped fully into view, I froze. It wasn’t the man in the black trench coat. It was a woman. Wearing the same beige coat I’d had on yesterday. Carrying my bag. It was me. The woman on screen didn’t do what I remembered. She didn’t stop at the door, hear a noise, back away, and call the police. She walked straight to my door, pulled out her keys, unlocked it, and went inside. Then the door closed. No hesitation. No panic. No retreat to the elevator lobby. I stared at the screen, my mind completely blank. “What… what is this?” I stammered. “I could have sworn I…” “You could have sworn what?” Zoe turned to look at me, her expression cold. The look in her eyes sent a chill straight through me. I stared at her now — not with that pitiful, helpless look she’d worn before. This was different. This was scrutiny. Cold, mocking scrutiny. “I heard something inside, so I didn’t go in — I stepped back and called the police!” I said desperately. “The cops came! They actually showed up!” “The police?” Zoe let out a cold laugh. “Abby, look at the footage carefully. Did any cops show up last night?” I snatched the phone out of her hand and frantically dragged the progress bar forward. 9:40. 10:00. 11:00… The hallway was empty. No police. No one had come at all. According to the security footage, I walked through the door at 9:30 — and never came back out. “That’s impossible… this is absolutely impossible!” I threw the phone onto the couch and grabbed my head with both hands. “I called the police. I talked to them. The footage is fake. Someone tampered with it!” “Abby, calm down.” Zoe’s voice dropped suddenly, soft and drifting, like it was floating. “The footage wasn’t tampered with. It’s you… you’re not well.” “I’m perfectly fine!” I shot to my feet and pointed straight at her. “It’s you! You did this, didn’t you? You and that psycho husband of yours cooked this whole thing up to mess with me!” Zoe looked at me, and something flickered in her eyes — a flash of sadness. “Abby, really look at me.” She stood up and moved toward me, one slow step at a time. “Don’t you think… we look alike?” I froze. I stared hard at Zoe’s face. Before, I’d just thought we clicked — that we had some natural chemistry. But now, looking closely… Her brows. Her nose. That tiny mole on her chin. Aside from the heavy makeup and the way she carried herself — more mature, more striking — her features were identical to mine. Every single one. “Who… who are you?” I backed away, step by step, until my back hit the cold wall behind me. “Who am I?” Zoe smiled — and tears spilled down her face. “Abby, I’m the coward inside you. The part of you that’s too scared to face the truth.” “You’re out of your mind!” I pressed my hands over my ears and shook my head frantically. “Am I? Then tell me — why are we both allergic to mango? Why do we both always order extra cheese? And why is there a wine-red silk slip in your closet that’s exactly like mine?” Each word Zoe spoke hit like a blade driving straight through my skull. And then I remembered. That wine-red silk slip — I’d bought it last month. Never worn it, because I thought it was too revealing. But the night Zoe first knocked on my door, that was exactly what she had on. “You lied to me… you lied to me!” I screamed, completely falling apart. “I’m calling the police! I’m going to find that officer from last night!” I fumbled with my phone, frantically scrolling through last night’s call history. Nothing. There was no record of calling 911. Not a single one. Just one outgoing call to an unsaved number I didn’t recognize. Duration: two minutes. I stared at the digits on the screen — and felt a strange, unsettling sense of familiarity wash over me. “Go ahead.” Zoe stood over me, looking down. “Call it. See who picks up.” My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. I pressed dial and switched it to speaker. Ring… ring… Two rings. Then someone answered. “Hello?” A low, hoarse voice came through — heavy with exhaustion. It was him. The man I’d pepper-sprayed by the elevator. “Who… who are you?” I heard my own voice trembling. Silence on the other end. It stretched so long I thought he’d hung up. Then the voice came back — cracked, broken, like something inside him was shattering. “Abby, have you forgotten me again?” he said. “It’s Eric. I’m your husband.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “434487”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster