Author: Momo Chan

1 After a grueling ten-hour shift, I bought a lottery ticket on impulse and won ten million. Heart racing, I ran home and kissed my husband Luke, breathless with the news. He dropped his phone. “What?” I handed him the ticket, his fingers trembling. “Let’s put it in our shared safe,” I suggested. He agreed. We locked it inside together. The next morning, I said, “Come on, let’s claim the prize.” I entered the six-digit code and opened the safe. Empty. Only our birth certificates and apartment deed remained. The ticket was gone. I turned to Luke. “Did you move it?” His face went pale. “I haven’t touched it since last night.” “Only we know the code, Luke. If not you, then who?” He yanked the safe from its shelf and slammed it onto the floor. “I told you, it wasn’t me! Are you accusing me of stealing our own ticket?” His reaction was far too intense for an innocent man. Yet the smart access log showed no one had entered the code between last night and this morning. How could a physical ticket simply vanish from a locked safe? … “Look at the log again,” Luke muttered, crouching on the floor. He flipped the dented safe over and pointed at the small digital screen on the back. I leaned in closer. The screen showed the access history in clear, bright text. The most recent opening was recorded at 8:07 AM today, marked as a passcode entry. That was the opening I had just performed. Scroll up. The entry before that was at 10:41 PM last night, also marked as a passcode entry. That was when we had locked the ticket away. There was absolutely nothing recorded in between. “See?” his voice sounded raw and dry. “It was opened exactly twice. Once to put the ticket in, and once when you opened it just now.” I stared at the screen, a loud ringing starting in my ears. “Then where is the ticket?” “How should I know?” “Luke, stop playing games with me.” He bolted upright, a thick vein throbbing on his temple. “Janice, what exactly are you accusing me of? Do you think I crept out of bed while you were sleeping, opened the safe, and took it? Why would I steal from my own household?” I stayed silent, my mind racing. He drew a sharp breath and thrust his phone in front of my face. “Look at my screen-time records. The screen locked at 11:02 PM last night and didn’t light up again until this morning. I didn’t even touch my phone, let alone get up.” The digital log confirmed his words. His phone had been completely inactive through the night. “So just because we can’t explain it, we’re supposed to pretend it didn’t happen?” I clenched my fists, my voice rising. “It’s ten million dollars, Luke. Not ten dollars.” He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, as if something were choking him. After a long, heavy silence, he finally spoke. “Maybe we should call the police.” “And tell them what? That our lottery ticket grew legs and walked out of a locked safe?” He fell silent again. I knelt on the floor, systematically pulling everything out of the safe. Passports, the deed, our marriage certificate, and a small savings book. No false bottom, no hidden compartments. I even turned the heavy metal box upside down and shook it with all my might. Nothing fell out. “Is it possible…” he hesitated, looking at me with a strange expression, “that you made a mistake?” I looked up at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean, is there any chance the ticket didn’t actually win? You were so incredibly excited last night. What if you misread the numbers?” I stared at his face, trying to detect a lie, but his expression was entirely earnest. “Luke, you looked at the ticket too.” “I did, but I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t verify the numbers carefully.” “Six numbers, matching perfectly. I checked them three times.” “Then…” He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots. “Then I honestly don’t know what to tell you.” I stood up, my knees feeling weak. Ten million dollars. Only last night, I was planning to send fifty thousand to my parents and pay off our remaining mortgage. Now, those bright dreams had popped like soap bubbles. “I’m going to check the building’s security cameras,” I said. While our apartment didn’t have cameras inside, the building corridors did. The property management’s footage would show if anyone had entered our floor. Luke didn’t try to stop me, but he didn’t follow me either. When I looked back, he was sitting on the floor of the study, his face buried in his hands. It was a posture of absolute defeat, though I couldn’t tell if it was from guilt or despair. I turned and walked out, my hand trembling as I pulled the door shut. The mirror in the elevator reflected a face that was ghostly pale. In the lobby, the security guard, Roy, was scrolling through his phone. “Roy, could you help me check the corridor cameras for the seventeenth floor from last night?” He raised his head. “Did something happen, Janice?” “I lost something valuable.” “How valuable? Should we call the police?” “Let’s look at the footage first.” He led me into the security room and pulled up the feed for our floor. We fast-forwarded through the footage, watching the time stamp fly by. From 10:30 PM last night when we came home, to 8:00 AM this morning when I walked out of the study. Near ten hours of footage. The hallway remained completely silent. Not a single soul had approached our door. “No one came near your apartment, Janice,” Roy said, gesturing to the screen. I stood there, completely numb. No one had walked down our corridor. The safe had not been opened. The ticket had simply vanished into thin air, as if it had never existed in the first place. As I walked out of the management office, my phone buzzed with a text from Luke. “Janice, have you considered the possibility that we never actually put the ticket in the safe?” 2 “What on earth do you mean by that?” I stood near the entrance of our building, clutching my phone, my voice sounding much sharper than I intended. Luke remained silent on the other end for a few seconds. “I just mean, is it possible you were holding a different piece of paper? Or maybe you set it down somewhere else in the apartment and forgot about it?” “Luke, you stood right beside me and watched me put it in.” “I know, but I wasn’t looking at your hands that closely.” “You held that ticket yourself for at least half a minute. You even commented on how much your hands were shaking. Have you forgotten that?” “…No, I haven’t.” “Then why are you trying to tell me we never put it in?” His heavy, strained breathing came through the speaker. “Janice, I’m just trying to explore every possibility. Don’t lose your temper.” I hung up on him. When I got back to the apartment, Luke had already tidied up the study. The safe was back in its corner, its cracked plastic casing held together with a neat layer of duct tape. He sat on the sofa, looking up at me as I entered, but he didn’t speak. “The security cameras didn’t show anyone,” I said, breaking the silence. He nodded slowly, as if he had already expected that result. “I’ve been playing the whole night back in my head,” he said quietly. “Last night, you showed me the ticket. We went into the study. You entered the passcode, opened the safe, and put the ticket inside.” “Yes.” “Then you closed the door, and I watched you do it.” “Yes.” “Is there any chance the door didn’t latch completely? Maybe the ticket slid out of the gap?” I went back into the study and searched every inch of the room. I checked behind the bookshelves, under the desk, along the edges of the carpet, and within the folds of the curtains. Nothing. “There’s nothing there,” I said, walking back out and staring directly at him. “Luke, I am asking you one last time. Did you take it?” His tired expression hardened into a cold, defensive mask. “Janice, I already told you I didn’t. How many times are you going to ask me that?” “Then give me a reasonable explanation!” “I don’t have one!” He stood up, towering over me, his gaze fierce. “I want to know what happened to it just as much as you do! But you keep questioning me over and over, as if I’m some common thief in my own home!” “Only the two of us know that passcode.” “What about you then? You know the passcode too. Maybe you sleepwalked in the middle of the night and threw it away?” The accusation felt like a slap to my face. I stood frozen. Realizing he had crossed a line, he looked away, his tone softening slightly. “Just try to remember,” he muttered. “Did you dream about anything last night?” I had indeed dreamed. I dreamed of bank vaults, of money, and of my mother calling to ask why I hadn’t sent her any funds. But those were just dreams. I had never sleepwalked in my life. “I don’t sleepwalk, Luke.” “How would you know? You’re asleep when it happens.” I wanted to argue, but a part of me wondered if there was some terrifying truth to his words. No, that made no sense. “The safe logs,” I pointed out. “Even if I had sleepwalked, I would have had to enter the passcode, and the logs would have recorded an entry.” He had no answer for that. We were back in the same impossible loop: the safe had never been opened, yet the ticket was gone. For the rest of the day, neither of us brought it up again. But the atmosphere in the apartment had shifted, a sharp, invisible tension settling between us. I made dinner, but he only took a few bites before putting his fork down. I had no appetite either, moving the food around my plate until it went cold. When we went to bed, we stayed on opposite sides, separated by a wide, silent gulf. At three in the morning, I woke up suddenly. It wasn’t a sound that woke me, but a sudden, heavy wave of anxiety that pulled me from my sleep. I lay in the dark, listening to Luke’s steady breathing, when a memory suddenly sparked in my mind. When I bought the ticket last night, the clerk had stared at me for a long time. The lottery kiosk was right by our neighborhood entrance, and I occasionally stopped by to buy a scratch-off. The owner, a man in his early forties named Gavin, always wore a baseball cap and offered a friendly, wide smile. When I had scratched the ticket in the shop, he had been standing right next to me. I distinctly remembered him saying: “Well, look at that. You’ve got some serious luck, lady.” At the time, I had been too dizzy with excitement to pay attention to his tone. But thinking back on it now, his voice hadn’t sounded casual at all. He had seen the winning numbers. But even if he knew, what difference did it make? He couldn’t possibly get into our apartment. I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow. Perhaps Luke was right. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me. Perhaps the ticket hadn’t won ten million dollars at all, but some minor prize, and my eyes had deceived me in my excitement. Perhaps the ten million dollars had never existed. The thought brought a dry, bitter chuckle to my throat. The only thing more terrifying than losing a fortune was starting to doubt your own sanity. 3 “You look awful lately.” During lunch the next day, my coworker Phoebe nudged my shoulder. I had been staring blankly at my computer screen for an hour without typing a single digit. “I’m fine.” “Sure you are. Those dark circles under your eyes look like they were painted on with charcoal,” she said, pulling her chair closer. “Did you and Luke have a fight?” I hesitated for a moment. “Phoebe, do you believe that a physical object can just… vanish into thin air?” “What kind of object?” “Like a piece of paper. Say you lock it inside a secure safe yourself, and the next morning you open it, and it’s gone.” Phoebe raised an eyebrow. “Then obviously, someone took it.” “But only two people know the passcode. The security cameras show no one entered the apartment, and the safe’s digital log shows no access during the night.” She gasped, lowering her voice. “Did you get robbed?” “No one could have gotten inside.” “Then it has to be your husband.” “The logs prove the safe wasn’t opened.” “What on earth…” She leaned back, looking spooked. “That sounds like a ghost story.” “So now I’m starting to think my memory is playing tricks on me. Maybe I never actually put it in the safe.” Phoebe stared at me for a long moment. “Janice, you are the most organized person I know. You don’t just lose things like that.” I offered a bitter smile. When I got home from work, Luke had surprisingly prepared a full dinner: roasted chicken, garlic broccoli, and a warm soup. “I got off early today, so I thought I’d cook,” he said, setting the table with an artificial, forced cheerfulness. I sat down and took a piece of chicken. He watched me from across the table, clearly wanting to say something. “What is it?” I asked. “Janice, about that ticket… maybe we should just let it go.” My fork hovered in the air. “Let it go?” “Let’s just pretend we never won. We can go back to living our lives exactly as we did before. Maybe that ten million dollars was never meant for us anyway.” I set my fork down. “Are you asking me to just forget this ever happened?” “That’s not what I mean.” “That is exactly what you mean. You want me to accept that a fortune vanished into thin air and act like everything is perfectly fine.” He let out a long sigh. “Then what do you want to do? How long are you going to let this consume you? You haven’t been yourself for days.” “How can I be fine when we lost ten million dollars?” “Here we go again.” He slammed his fork onto the table. “Ever since that ticket went missing, you’ve been looking at me differently. Do you think I don’t notice?” I couldn’t find the words to argue, because he was right. For the past two days, every time I looked at him, the same dark question flashed through my mind: Did he take it? “Luke, if you didn’t take it, why aren’t you helping me figure out what happened? Why are you so desperate to make me give up?” He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve thought about it. I’ve spent two days trying to find an explanation, but I can’t.” “So your solution is to just accept the loss.” “What else can we do? Call the police? Send the safe to a forensics lab? Hire a psychic?” His voice rose, tinged with a sharp anger. I refused to back down. “You haven’t seemed worried at all. Ten million dollars is gone, and you are far too calm.” “Calm?” He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You think I was calm when I threw that safe onto the floor yesterday?” “You threw it because you felt guilty.” The words left my mouth before I could stop them. His face went entirely rigid. The room fell into an icy, suffocating silence. “Fine,” he said quietly, his voice dangerously low. “You’ve already decided I’m a thief.” “I didn’t say that.” “Janice, let me make one thing clear. If you are going to keep treating me like this, I can’t stay in this house.” He turned and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I sat alone at the dinner table, the food growing cold before me. My phone buzzed. It was a message from Phoebe. “I just thought of something. Is your safe one of those models with both a fingerprint scanner and a keypad?” “Yes. It has a six-digit code.” “Is there any chance the design itself has a flaw? Like a physical gap, or maybe a manufacturer override code that came with it?” I stared at the screen. An override code? I opened a browser and began searching for the specific model of our safe. After scrolling through dozens of forums, I found nothing about override codes. But then, I spotted a customer review from seven months ago. “The gap between the door and the frame is far too wide. You can easily slide a thin wire through the side and hook small papers out. Terrible design. One star.” I stared at the review, my heart suddenly leaping into my throat. You wouldn’t need a passcode. You wouldn’t even need to open the safe. You could simply slide a wire through the gap and fish the ticket out. 4 “Take a look at this review.” The next morning, I handed my phone to Luke. He took it and stared at the screen, his expression shifting from confusion to quiet realization. “Fish it out through the gap?” “Do you think it’s possible?” He immediately walked into the study and knelt in front of the safe, examining it closely. I knelt beside him. The gap between the door and the frame was indeed quite wide. It was narrow, but with a thin, flexible tool, it was certainly possible to reach the interior. “But even if that’s true,” he said, turning to look at me, “who could have done it?” We were back to the same problem. The security cameras showed no one entering our floor, and our doors and windows were completely locked. “Unless they didn’t enter through the front door,” I murmured. “If they didn’t use the door, how did they get in? Did they fly?” I ignored his sarcasm, walking over to the window. We lived on the seventeenth floor. There was nothing outside the balcony but open air. No one could climb up there. What about the study window? It faced north, overlooking a quiet alleyway and the flat roof of the unit’s shared garages below. I pushed the window open and looked down. The garage roof was only about three or four meters below our window. If someone were to climb up from the roof along the external drainage pipes… No, we were on the seventeenth floor. That was far too high to be realistic. “Janice,” Luke said, leaning against the doorframe. “Are you suggesting someone scaled the building like Spider-Man?” “I am simply exploring every physical possibility.” “Have you considered the most likely explanation?” “What?” “The ticket might have slipped into the internal mechanism of the safe and got shredded when we locked it.” I took a flashlight and thoroughly examined the inside of the safe, peering into every dark corner and shining the light through the gaps. There was absolutely nothing. “No paper fragments,” I reported. He leaned his head against the doorframe, his face lined with an exhausting sense of helplessness. “Janice, I really don’t know what to do anymore.” Neither did I. That afternoon, I took a half-day off from work. I spent the hours pacing the apartment, replaying every single detail of that night in my head. Buying the ticket, scratching it, finding out I won, running home, showing Luke, and locking it away. Every single step was crystal clear. I remembered the slight tremor in Luke’s hands. I remembered the texture of the ticket, the thick paper, and the slightly rough edges. I remembered entering the passcode, my fingers slipping because of my excitement. I remembered the distinct click of the safe door locking. Those memories were too vivid to be a trick of my mind. The ticket had been in that safe. Someone had taken it. But who? And how? As I sat on the study floor, my back resting against the safe, my phone rang. It was an unknown number. “Hello?” “Hello, is this Janice?” “Yes, who is this?” “I’m Gavin, from the lottery kiosk near your building entrance.” I sat up straight. The lotto clerk. “You left something at my shop. A keychain with your building access card. I figured it belonged to you, since I saw it hanging from your bag when you bought that ticket.” I reached into my bag and felt around. My keys and access card were right there. “Gavin, I have my keys with me. Are you sure you have the right person?” “Oh,” the voice on the other end paused. “My mistake then. Sorry to bother you.” The line went dead. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the call log. How did he get my phone number? I had never registered my personal details at his kiosk. The realization felt like a cold needle piercing through the fog of the past two days. I finally knew who had stolen my ticket.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “599280”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My husband has a lean waist, long legs, pale skin, and a face that could launch a thousand ships. His only flaw? He is completely impotent. Our sex life consists entirely of me waging a solo battle. Tonight, I was planning to spice things up a bit when I suddenly saw floating text drifting across the bedroom like live chat comments: [Lmao, this supporting female character is jumping around like a total clown.] [The male lead is a pure Platonic romance guy. He only has eyes for his soulmate.] [Just wait until the female lead shows up. Those two pure-love warriors will fly off into the sunset together.] [In the original story, she clings to him, refuses to sign the divorce papers, and gets kicked out with absolutely nothing. She ends up dying alone in some cheap rental apartment, and nobody even claims her body.] As I stared in a daze, my husband pushed open the bedroom door. Catching sight of me in sheer black lace, his ears turned a faint crimson, and he quickly looked away. “My hands are a bit tired today… Can I use my mouth instead?” 01 “Never mind. Let’s just go to sleep.” I pulled the duvet over myself, wrapping it tight, and turned my back to him. Larry’s hand, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, froze in midair. Thinking I was upset because he got home late, he sat on the edge of the mattress and gently brushed my shoulder. “Did I come home too late? I’ll be earlier next time.” I didn’t say a word. He leaned in closer, his ears flushed so deep they looked ready to bleed. “If you want… you can sit on my face instead.” I admit I hesitated. My lust almost won. But then, another wave of comments floated past. [Ugh, such a pure and elegant guy being ruined like this.] [Well, he’s a live-in husband relying on her family. What choice does he have?] [If her family hadn’t used their influence to force him into this marriage, would a guy like him ever stoop to her level?] [While he was winning awards in Paris, she was busy blowing money on designer bags.] [The first thing he does when his company goes public is divorce her. She won’t get a single penny.] [Even after the divorce, she won’t stop making a scene, and the whole internet mocks her for going crazy. She literally dies in a tiny, dingy apartment, and it takes days for anyone to find her body.] “I’m really not in the mood. Just go to sleep.” Larry stared at me, utterly bewildered. Usually, I would have pounced on him like a starving predator. But now, my heart was as still as dead water. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at him. It took him a long moment to offer a quiet, slow, “Oh.” He stood up and headed to the bathroom. I pulled out my phone and texted a doctor friend: I’m seeing floating words in the air. They’re insulting me. My friend replied instantly: Could be mushroom poisoning. Get to an ER. Me: But I had that wild mushroom hotpot last week. My friend went silent for a moment. I’m on duty Monday. Let me book you an appointment in psychiatry. I put my phone down. The words on the ceiling hadn’t vanished. Piece by piece, I reconstructed the entire story from the comments. I was the villainous supporting female character in a PG-rated romance novel on some web platform. My husband was destined for a purely Platonic romance, and the female lead was his true soulmate. As for me, my ending was nothing short of tragic. Wait. This is a female-targeted web novel, and they couldn’t even keep the male lead a virgin for the female lead? What kind of messed-up world is this? I let out a heavy sigh. Suddenly, a bright red comment pinned itself right in front of my eyes. [The male lead actually developed sexual trauma as a kid when he walked in on his dad messing around with his aunt right in his mom’s funeral home.] [The female lead (supporting character) forces herself on him every day, and he’s too scared to say anything. He’s been secretly seeing a therapist.] [That’s literally how he meets the female lead! The female lead is his therapist!] I stared blankly at the words, my mind going completely numb. Did intimacy actually cause him pain? 02 Before Larry married into my family, he warned me that he was impotent. We tried it once on our wedding night. I lay on top of him for ages, coaxing and whispering sweet things. In the end, he closed his eyes and whispered in a raw, tight voice, “I’m sorry. I… I can’t.” I froze for a solid thirty seconds. What an absolute waste of god-tier genetics. Having a face like that just to keep it on display? But he was just too beautiful. His skin was so pale it seemed translucent, his eyes slightly rimmed with red, and his long lashes were damp. He looked so vulnerable, so quietly desperate to please. I stared at him for a long time and finally let it go. Keeping a gorgeous centerpiece in my house wasn’t a bad deal, after all. The next day, I had someone consult a traditional specialist, bringing home dozens of natural herbal remedies to boost his performance. He drank every bitter cup without a single complaint, but nature refused to cooperate. Eventually, I gave up on the hardware. If the hardware didn’t work, there was always the software. He was incredibly talented with his hands, and his mouth was magic. He never rejected a single request I made. But he was never enthusiastic about it. At first, I assumed it was just his physical limitation. Later, I realized something was off. He always took perfect care of me, yet he remained completely detached. When we were done, he would hide in the bathroom for hours. When I asked, he simply said he was washing up. I hadn’t thought much of it. Nobody is perfect. With a face like that, how could I demand blazing passion too? Not until tonight, when I saw the comments. Only then did I realize that for all these years, he had been swallowing his disgust just to please me. 03 The bathroom door creaked open slightly. Larry’s voice drifted out through the warm steam. “…Catherine, I forgot my pajamas. Could you pass them to me?” I blinked. There were towels in the bathroom. Since when was he so modest? I rolled out of bed and grabbed a silk robe. The door opened a fraction wider. He hadn’t wrapped a towel around himself. He stood entirely bare in the swirling mist. Damp hair clung to his forehead, and his pale skin was flushed a delicate pink from the heat. His waist was impossibly lean, droplets of water tracing the curve of his hips. My pulse quickened. My gaze drifted downward, but I forced myself to snap back. “Here,” I said, shoving the robe through the gap. He took it but didn’t close the door. As the steam poured out, he stood half-cloaked in the light, murmuring, “Thank you, sweetheart.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. The corners of his eyes were flushed, and he looked at me as if there was something he desperately wanted to say but couldn’t. That look was different from before. My heart skipped a beat. A comment floated above my head: [The male lead is terrified. He’s so scared she’s going to force herself on him.] [Then why did he ask her to bring him pajamas?] [Because walking out naked would guarantee she’d eat him alive! A towel can slip off easily, but a robe at least has a belt.] Me: “…” Larry waited for a few seconds, only to hear me say, “Dry your hair before you come out.” He seemed momentarily dazed, looking down at himself. He lingered, waiting for something more, but nothing came. Finally, he lowered his lashes and quietly pulled the door shut. [Lmao, look at his face! He is so confused!] [Safe for another day.jpg] I slid back under the covers. Ten minutes later, he emerged. Carrying the cool, damp scent of the bath, he carefully lifted the duvet and slid in beside me. The faint scent of the rose body wash, the exact same one I used, drifted off him. I kept my back turned, pretending to be fast asleep. Behind me, the space fell quiet. [The male lead must be laughing in relief right now, celebrating silently.] [Oh my god, his silent joy is sending me.] I didn’t turn around. I only heard the rustle of the sheets as he rolled over, facing my back. After a long while, a tiny whisper broke the quiet. “…Catherine?” I didn’t move. A gentle tug pulled at the edge of the blanket, tucking the cold draft away from my exposed back. 04 The next morning, by the time I finished getting ready, Larry was already at the door, briefcase in hand, slipping on his shoes. On the dining table sat a bowl of warm oatmeal, some fresh fruit, and a perfectly peeled egg. “Morning,” he said, his eyes curving into a gentle smile. “Your breakfast is ready.” “Thanks,” I murmured. Having finished putting on his shoes, he lingered by the door. He adjusted his cuffs, his gaze flicking up to meet mine. [What is he waiting for? Buddy, you’re going to be late for work.] [He’s waiting for her to let him go. Usually, she wraps her arms around him and kisses him for ten minutes before he can leave.] [He’s forced to do this routine every morning like a punch-card at a job. He’s probably sick to death of it.] I sat at the table, clutching my spoon, frozen. Larry stood there a moment longer, then slowly walked back to me. He leaned down slightly, turning his cheek toward me. He was waiting for his morning kiss. I tilted my head away. His lips brushed past my cheek, finding only empty air. Larry’s eyelashes fluttered. He stood frozen, unable to process what had just happened. Straightening up, his voice dropped a fraction lower. “…I’m leaving then.” The front door clicked shut. My spoon tapped against the side of the bowl with a sharp clink. He really must hate being physically close to me. All these years, I had been the one forcing it. The morning kiss was a chore, bedtime was an obligation. Now that I was pulling away, he could finally breathe easy. [Whoa, did she actually change her tune today? She avoided the kiss?] [Look at his face… that does not look like relief.] [Duh. When you’ve been treated like a puppet for years, a sudden change in routine just makes you wonder if you’re about to get chopped.] I stared at my breakfast, my stomach tying itself into a painful knot. 05 At nine sharp, I arrived at the office. My secretary followed me in, arms loaded with files. I didn’t hear a single word she said. My eyes were locked on the empty air in front of me. [The male lead is meeting his therapist after his meeting today. Is the female lead about to make her entrance?] [Isn’t he supposed to divorce her the second his company goes public? If you look at the timeline, it’s coming up fast.] My pen slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the mahogany desk. I snapped back to reality. My secretary jumped. “Is everything alright, ma’am?” “Carry on,” I murmured. Once she left, I stared at the business proposals on my monitor, my mind drifting for hours. Around noon, the secretary knocked, announcing that my husband had arrived. He was standing at the door holding a pastry box. He wore a light gray button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The sunlight flooded in from behind him, turning his long eyelashes a soft, spun gold. “I was passing by that bakery you like,” he said softly, “so I picked something up.” His office was all the way uptown; that bakery was miles downtown. “Have you had lunch?” he asked. “Not yet.” “Let’s eat this then.” He sat across from me and began opening the box. [He just saw the female lead. She validated all his childhood trauma, so now he’s bringing the supporting female character some cake out of guilt.] I stared at the slice of Black Forest cake in front of me, my fork hovering in the air. “Aren’t you going to eat?” He looked up, his eyes bright and hopeful. I wanted to ask him if he hated touch. If he did, we could just have a Platonic marriage. I wouldn’t mind. But then, another line of text drifted overhead. [Ah, I get it! His company’s latest project is short on cash flow. He’s here to ask her for money.] [Wait, doesn’t he hate using her money?] [He used to, but now he’s desperate to build his own empire so he can run away with the therapist.] I froze. After staring at him for three agonizing seconds, I set my fork down and forced a faint smile. “Larry, you didn’t just come here to bring me cake, did you? Is something on your mind?” His lashes fluttered nervously. “…I just… wanted to bring you this.” “And?” “Our latest project hit a bit of a funding bottleneck,” he murmured, keeping his head down. “Catherine… do you think you could transfer me two million?” I couldn’t quite describe the sensation in my chest. It felt hollow, bitter. After a quiet pause, I nodded. “Sure. I’ll give you your salary card back when we get home.” He looked up, completely blank. “…What salary card?” “The one you gave me when we married. You need money, right? The savings from the past few years should be more than enough. Take it back and use it however you need.” His brow furrowed. “Why are you giving me that card? If I need a transfer, you could just send it to me.” [Wait, if he’s desperate for money, shouldn’t he gladly take his card back?] [Maybe he’s just embarrassed?] [Stop making excuses. He’s desperate to start over with the female lead, why would he refuse his own money?] Me: “You said you were short on cash. The money in that account will cover it.” “If I’m short, you can just wire it,” he said, his voice tightening with a sudden edge of panic. “Why are you trying to hand it back to me?” He stared at me, his dark eyes searchingly deep. “Are you hiding something from me?” I went quiet for a second. “…No.” “Then why are you suddenly returning my card?” “It’s just easier if you have it. You won’t have to keep asking me.” “…Oh. Fine. I’ll give it back once the project is settled.” [Lmao, the male lead is so good at acting dumb. His own tiny salary is nothing; her family’s money is the real prize.] [Honestly, I think he just genuinely loves her. Is it just me?] [Shut up.] [Is there a chance he’s actually head over heels for her?] [Did you write the book? No? Then sit down.] 06 That night, I slid the card across the bedside table to him. Larry was leaning against the headboard reading. He didn’t pick up the card. He just looked up at me. “Do you really want to give this to me?” “Yes. You need it,” I said, placing it firmly on the nightstand. “The PIN is still your birthday.” He stared at the plastic card for a few seconds. Suddenly, his fingers wrapped around my wrist, pulling me toward him. Caught off guard, I lost my balance and ended up leaning against his chest. He tilted his chin up, his lips brushing the corner of my mouth with feather-light pressure. Every time I gave him an allowance, he would kiss me like this. But tonight, the kiss lingered. The moment I felt the warm slip of his tongue, I jerked my head aside. His lips brushed past my cheek again, left kissing the empty air. Larry froze. He remained frozen in that slightly upturned posture. After several long seconds, he slowly let go of my wrist and sat up straight. His voice was barely a whisper, thick with some suppressed emotion. “…Are you avoiding me?” I said nothing. He bit his lower lip. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? You shrank away from me last night, too.” What was I supposed to say? That I could see floating insults in the air? That I knew he felt nothing but disgust every time he had to touch me? That our marriage was a mistake from the start? I closed my eyes, feeling as though the thin thread holding my sanity together was about to snap. “Larry, let’s just make this a Platonic marriage.” “I know you’ve never really been into the physical side of things. I was too demanding in the past. From now on, we don’t have to do any of that. It’s better this way.” I watched the color drain from his face as if he’d been hit with a bucket of ice water. His throat bobbed, then went still. He didn’t say a single word. [The male lead must be thrilled inside. She’s proposing a platonic marriage, saving him the trouble of faking it.] [Finally, he doesn’t have to treat sex like a chore. Victory lap!] [Does he look happy to you?] [Silence is consent, sweetie. With his upbringing, did you expect him to throw a party and applaud?] A dull ache flared in my chest, but I pushed it down. I leaned forward, placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Get some sleep.” I stood up, pulled a spare blanket from the closet, and turned toward the door. His voice drifted from behind. “…Where are you going?” “The guest room. We should sleep in separate rooms tonight.” There was no response. As I reached the doorway, I looked back. He sat with his head bowed, his face cast in shadow. Right as the door clicked shut, I caught him raising his head. The overhead light shattered into tiny, glistening fragments in his eyes. His lips parted, moving silently, but no sound came out. 07 I slumped against the guest room door, my heart hammering so hard it rattled my eardrums. That silent movement of his lips, it looked like he was saying, Don’t go. [The male lead is definitely celebrating in there.] [Probably trying not to laugh out loud.] [The villainess finally did one good thing, even if it’s late.] [He’s going to tell the therapist the good news tomorrow, mark my words.] I took a deep breath and threw the blanket onto the bed. Slowly, the stream of comments began to thin. One, then another, drifting past after long intervals, their color fading. [Actually, when are they getting divorced…] Once the last comment vanished, the ceiling returned to a pristine white. I stared at the blank space, entirely stunned. From the moment these comments appeared, they would multiply exponentially whenever I interacted with Larry. The more there were, the more my emotions were hijacked. No. I shouldn’t let these bizarre floating letters dictate how I felt about my husband. I closed my eyes and replayed the events of the last forty-eight hours. I needed to go back and talk to him. But the second my feet touched the floor, my knees gave out. It felt as though an invisible, heavy hand was pinning me down. Slow drops of crimson text began to bleed into the air before my eyes. [Please adhere to the main storyline. No deviations allowed.] I blinked. Unlike the comments, this message stayed locked in place. I tried to lift my foot, but my soles felt welded to the floorboards. I couldn’t budge. [Warning: Character attempting to alter the plot. Forced Correction Mode activated.] Cold sweat broke out across my back. From down the hall, a soft rustle broke the silence. Footsteps were approaching. Larry knocked softly. “…Catherine? Can we talk?” I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. A new prompt flashed: [Initiate divorce with the male lead.] The doorknob turned. Seeing me standing frozen in the middle of the dark room, Larry paused. “Why are you in the dark?” He strode over, his thumb gently catching a stray tear on my cheek. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Only then did I realize my face was wet. Larry, I’ve been seeing these terrible words for days. They say you hate me, that I’ll end up dying alone in some slum. Larry, there’s something in my head controlling me. But the words that actually tore past my lips were, “Larry, let’s get a divorce.” His hand froze against my cheek. “You’ve been acting so strange lately. Are you sick? If something is wrong, we can fix it together. Please.” [Character deviating from the plot! Correcting!] I heard my own voice, cold and mocking, say, “Are you deaf? I said I want a divorce. I’m bored of you.” “You’ve been a total bore all these years. You’re useless in bed, and you’re useless out of it.” “If it weren’t for your pretty face, do you think I would have ever looked at you twice? I’m tired of looking at you.” He stood entirely still, looking as if the skeleton had been ripped right out of him. My mouth kept churning out poison, each sentence sharper than the last. He stared at me for a very long time. Long enough that I thought he might never speak again. Then, slowly, he let go and took a half-step back. His knees bent, and he sank to the floor, kneeling at my feet. He looked up at me. “Are you finished?” “…Yes.” “Then it’s my turn.” He reached up, taking my limp hand in his. “Catherine, what are you so afraid of?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “599279”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Everyone called me the luckiest in our blended family, the only child shared by both parents. No one saw behind closed doors. Missing kitchen money meant Mother’s slap across my face while my step-siblings went unquestioned. Father “forgot” my allowance, leaving me with their discarded hand-me-downs. Their fights made me the punching bag. “Too young for depression. Stop dramatizing,” Mother sneered at the scars on my arm. I did the chores, endured the abuse, then cut my wrist one Tuesday night. That finally rattled them. For the first time in seventeen years, I got a room, a cramped study with a mattress. Privacy, however small. Until Logan and Amber fought. Next day, my room was stripped, my things dumped in the living room. Mother’s tone was flat. “Their rooms are too close. Logan’s gaming keeps Amber awake. Be reasonable, Jesse. We humored your suicide act long enough. Don’t make things difficult.” This time, numbness settled over me. I didn’t scream or cry. I couldn’t hear them anymore. I wanted nothing from them. … As I turned toward the study, my mother lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. The moment her fingers brushed the thick, raised scars on my skin, she recoiled as if she’d touched a live wire. “Did you not hear me? That room belongs to your brother now! He needs his gaming space!” With a sharp click, she slammed the door shut, as if even my gaze would defile the space. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my throat. “Then where am I supposed to sleep?” My mother froze, her face flushing with anger. She gestured wildly around the living room as if I were an idiot. “Are you blind? We have a couch! We have rugs! Sleep wherever you want. Stop playing the victim!” Sleep anywhere. Like a stray dog. “Don’t I deserve a room of my own?” My voice was barely a whisper, but it triggered my father. He stormed over, looking like he’d reached his absolute limit. “You have everything in this house! You have both your biological parents under one roof! Why do you always have to fight your brother and sister for every little thing?” “Logan’s dad walked out on him. Amber lost her mother. You have us both, and yet you are the one acting like a spoiled brat!” “They manage to be happy, while you walk around with that miserable, depressing face all day!” A mountain of guilt crashed down on me, crushing the air from my lungs. The words I wanted to scream died in my throat. I had heard variations of this lecture for seventeen years. If I ever stood up for myself, I was labeled selfish, ungrateful, and toxic. I was terrified of that label. Amber walked in after her shift, her heel catching on my pile of luggage. She stumbled, her brow furrowing instantly as she spotted me. “What is it now?” My mother sneered, her voice dripping with mock-exhaustion. “He is throwing another tantrum because he wants his own room. Never lets us have a moment of peace.” Amber let out a dry chuckle, her lips curling into the exact same condescending smirk my mother wore. “Kids these days and their privacy.” She said it so casually. She completely forgot that when she moved in at six years old, she was immediately given the master guest room, a brand-new computer, and a weekly allowance. Back then, everyone had to knock three times before entering her room, or she would scream the house down. Yet here she was, mocking my despair. “That’s enough of this nonsense,” my mother declared, shoving a heavy hamper of dirty laundry into my chest. “Go wash these.” “My college placement exams are next week…” “Don’t use exams as an excuse! Your brother and sister both graduated, and they never whined like this!” Of course they didn’t. They never had to touch a dirty dish, sweep a floor, or scrub endless piles of clothes. My mother wouldn’t dare ask Amber because she didn’t want my father to think she was being a cruel stepmother. My father wouldn’t dare ask Logan because he didn’t want to upset my mother. I was the only safe target. Hurting or exploiting me cost them nothing because no one would ever take my side. My silence only fueled my mother’s rage. She shoved me into the bathroom. Before I could steady myself, her palm connected with my face. The force of the blow spun my head to the side. Under the harsh, buzzing fluorescent light, her face twisted into something monstrous. “Hurry up and wash them. Your brother needs that shirt tomorrow. Do you think my life is easy? I run myself ragged for this family of five, and you, the luckiest one of all, do nothing but work against me!” “How am I lucky?” “What did you say?” Her voice pitched so high it practically rattled my eardrums. I blinked back my tears, staring at her through the throbbing heat on my cheek. “Does getting beaten every day make me lucky?” “You wouldn’t get hit if you weren’t constantly defying me! You bring this on yourself!” But the old, submissive Jesse was gone. I looked her dead in the eye. “Maybe I don’t bring it on myself. Maybe you are just a coward who only picks on the weak.” She froze, the color draining from her face before rushing back in a wave of hysterical fury. “I might as well just die!” she screamed, clawing at her own chest. The bathroom door burst open. My father stormed in, his face darkened with rage. I couldn’t stop the primal shudder that racked my body. He stared at me for a fraction of a second before his boot slammed into my ribs. A sharp cry tore from my throat as I was launched against the cold tiles. My face reflected in the glossy wall, distorted in agony. Then came the slipper. He whipped it off and began striking my face, over and over. “How dare you talk back to your mother! We raised you, fed you, and this is how you repay us? You are nothing but trouble!” Behind him, my mother crossed her arms, a look of smug satisfaction washing over her features. “Hit him harder. I’ve had it with his attitude these past few months, acting like he owns the place just because he spent a night in the ER.” The corner of my mouth split open. Dizzy spells washed over me, and the muffled sound of laughter echoed from the other side of the wall. Logan and Amber were chatting in the living room. They knew exactly what was happening. They just didn’t care. It didn’t affect them. I curled into a ball on the cold floor, closing my eyes as the world faded away. My mother called me out of school for five days. My face was too bruised for me to be seen in public. On the third day, my friends came to check on me. When I opened the door, they froze. The swelling had gone down, but the mottled purple and yellow bruises were still painfully obvious. Humiliation washed over me, but before I could explain, my mother pushed past me to usher them in. “Don’t just stand there, Jesse. Go get some sodas for your friends.” “Mom, let them just…” “Oh, so now you care about looking bad?” My mother laughed, eager to expose my shame to my peers. “Since you are Jesse’s friends, I won’t hide it. He didn’t take sick leave. His father had to teach him a lesson. If I hadn’t stepped in, his father would have beaten him to a pulp.” My friends stared at me, their eyes shifting between pity, confusion, and horror. At school, I was the quiet, straight-A student. At home, I lived worse than a stray dog. “He brought it on himself,” she continued, warming up to her audience. “We give him everything, yet he treats us like trash. He even screams at his own parents.” “Mom, please stop…” My head hung low, my voice cracking with unshed tears. But my plea only made her louder. “He thinks he is a prince. We ask him to do a little housework and he throws a tantrum. What’s the point of raising such an ungrateful brat?” My father took the sodas from my hands, setting them down with a warm, deceptive smile. “We are the only ones who could ever tolerate him. Even his brother and sister walk on eggshells around him. Does he act like this at school too?” He smiled, trying to bait them into validating his narrative. I stood frozen, trembling from head to toe. My friends looked at me helplessly, unsure of what to say. One of them looked like she was about to cry. My desk-mate, Mason, gathered his courage and stepped closer to me, grabbing my hand. “Come out with us to get some fresh air. It’s Dylan’s birthday today. We are going to celebrate.” “He’s not going anywhere. He has to make dinner,” my mother snapped, her face darkening. Seeing that she wasn’t getting the agreement she wanted, her patience evaporated. “Actually, it’s getting late. You all should leave.” “Ma’am, can’t Jesse just come out to relax for a bit?” Mason asked, taking a deep breath. My mother stared at him as if he had spoken in tongues. “Relax? From what? We are the ones who need to relax!” Her anger boiled over, and she whipped around to glare at me. “What did you tell your friends? What lies have you been spreading about us?” “We didn’t mean that, we just…” my friends stammered, terrified. But my father cut them off with a cold wave of his hand. “That’s enough. Get out.” He shook his head with mock sorrow. “Jesse has already corrupted you. Stay away from him, or you’ll turn into ungrateful brats just like him.” The tears finally spilled over. I snapped, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Why do you have to do this to me in front of my classmates? What did I ever do to deserve this?!” “Oh, look at him! He is showing his true colors now!” My mother shrieked with glee, pointing a finger at me. “See? I told you he is insane!” She looked so thrilled, so vindicated. It was as if driving me to madness was her greatest achievement. Unable to bear the tension, my friends bolted for the door. My mother watched them run, turning to me with a triumphant smirk. “See? Even your friends can’t stand your crazy behavior. That shows you how messed up you are.” “It’s you they can’t stand!” I screamed, shoving past her and running out the front door. I barely made it to the hallway before her heavy footsteps caught up to me. She grabbed me by the collar, pulling me back. “You stop right there! What did you just say to me?” Her lips trembled with rage. She raised her hand to strike me, but out of the corner of her eye, she spotted our neighbor stepping out of the elevator. Her hand froze in mid-air. Instead of hitting me, she brought her hand down hard across her own face. “What did I do to deserve this? Why is God punishing me like this?” she wailed, collapsing to the floor. The neighbors rushed over to intervene. “Calm down, Susan! Don’t hurt yourself!” Susan wept hysterically, playing the martyr. “He tortures us at home, and now he brings his friends over to join in. He makes his father and me look like monsters. I don’t want to live anymore. I’ve sacrificed everything for him. If it weren’t for him, I would have divorced years ago!” My father wrapped his arms around her, glaring at me with disappointment. “He is driving us to our graves. We only want him to be happy and healthy. Why is that so hard?” The world went quiet. The murmurs of the neighbors lecturing me, the dramatic wailing of my parents, it all faded into static. I felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in my chest. I started sobbing, slapping my own face repeatedly. My parents watched cold-eyed, showing no concern. To them, it was just another act. Suddenly, a sharp ringing filled my ears, and the ground rushed up to meet me. When I opened the eyes, the smell of antiseptic filled my nose. I was in a hospital bed. Through the glass window of the door, I could see my mother on her phone. “I know, he is throwing another fit. I’ve suffered so much because of him… But what can I do? He is still my son… Yes, thank you for caring about me.” She hung up, a look of profound satisfaction on her face. Seconds later, she dialed another number, my Aunt Sarah. “Sarah, you have no idea. I just want to end it all… I did everything for him. He is the only one with both biological parents in that house, and yet he is never satisfied… My heart is breaking.” She went on and on, soaking up the sympathy pouring from the receiver. Finally, she exhaled deeply and hung up. When she turned and saw me staring at her, the warmth vanished from her face. She walked in, her movements slow and cold. Under the harsh hospital lights, she looked like a stranger. “Jesse, acting crazy isn’t going to work anymore.” I kept quiet. She looked down at me. “Since your mental state is so unstable, you won’t be taking your college placement exams this year.” My eyes widened, horror gripping my chest. A cruel smile played on her lips. “I’m doing this for your own good. If you go to college in this state, you might hurt someone.” With that, she turned on her heel and locked the door from the outside. I cried until my throat was raw. But somewhere in the darkness of that night, a cold clarity washed over me. I figured out a way to escape. Completely. Starting the next morning, I became the perfect, obedient son. I did everything without a word of protest. A week later, she brought me home. The moment we walked through the door, I was greeted by a mountain of dirty dishes. “Go wash those. No one’s helped me since you left, and I’m exhausted,” she muttered. I didn’t say a word. I just walked over and started washing them. Next was a basket of laundry, filled with delicate fabrics that had to be hand-washed. As I scrubbed, Amber opened the door and tossed two more shirts into the tub. “Jesse, thank God you are back,” she said, her smile genuine. But it wasn’t because she missed me. It was because she finally had her servant back. Once she stepped out, I heard my mother’s smug voice in the hall. “People like him just need to be put in their place. See? He is much better now.” She didn’t even bother to lower her voice. I remained quiet, playing the part of the meek lamb. But my mother had no intention of letting me return to school. She wanted to teach me a lesson I’d never forget. Three days before the exams, Mason secretly slipped me my admission ticket. I hid it in the absolute bottom of my backpack. That evening, while we were watching TV, my mother cast a calculating look my way. “Everyone else is preparing for the exams. Are you jealous?” “Yes,” I murmured. She smiled, thoroughly pleased with herself. “Well, you’ll just have to deal with it. You brought this on yourself.” I said nothing. On the morning of the exams, I kept my eyes on the clock. The second they left for work, I grabbed my bag, called a cab, and headed straight for the testing center. I had already booked a cheap motel nearby for my luggage. By the end of the first day, my phone was ringing off the hook with fifty missed calls from my parents. “Where are you? Did you seriously go to the exams?” “When will you ever learn to obey?” “I told you that you aren’t mentally fit for this! Get back here right now before I come find you myself!” I ignored the messages and spent every second cramming for the next day’s subjects. But the next morning, as I approached the testing center, my parents were waiting. Their eyes locked onto me like predators spotting prey. But I was faster. I slipped past the security gates just in time. My mother looked ready to explode, glaring at me through the barrier. “Jesse! You just wait!” My heart hammered against my ribs, but I didn’t look back. I ran toward the examination hall, toward the only escape route I had left. I poured everything into the papers. I felt like I was flying. But by the afternoon of the final day, my luck ran out. I thought I might actually make it. But they caught me right outside the exit. My father clamped a hand over my mouth, twisting my arm behind my back to drag me toward their car. My mother struggled to keep her anger in check, whispering fiercely, “When will you stop causing trouble?” The other parents waiting outside watched us, hesitating to interfere. Seizing the moment, I bit down hard on my father’s hand. He yelled, releasing his grip, and I screamed with every ounce of air in my lungs: “Please let me take my exams, Dad! I don’t want to drop out and work in a factory! Mom, I promise I’ll make money and take care of you! Please just let me finish my exams!” Within seconds, a dozen parents closed in, their faces tight with fury. “He is just a kid! What is wrong with you people?” “This is his future! Whatever problems you have, let the kid finish his exams first!” “Let him go right now, or I’m calling the police!” My mother’s face turned white, then red. “Don’t listen to him! He is mentally unstable!” But no one bought it. “You look like the unstable one,” an older man barked. “What kind of parents try to ruin their own kid’s future?” Intimidated by the crowd, my father let go of my arm. “Run!” a woman in the crowd yelled. I bolted back inside the school gates. My parents could only watch helplessly as my figure disappeared into the building. For the remaining exams, they didn’t dare show their faces. But the moment the final bell rang, the real nightmare began. My parents, accompanied by Logan and Amber, showed up at my motel. My father slammed his hand onto the front desk, holding a thick coil of rope. “Which room is my son, Jesse, in?” They had come prepared to tie me up and drag me home. The exams were over; there would be no crowd of angry parents to protect me this time. They thought they had won. But the receptionist’s next words made their faces turn pale.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “599278”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My father dominated New York documentary circles, his shelves bowed under industry awards. When my sister turned sixteen, he flew her to New Mexico for a month to film Native folklore. He pinned her campfire photo holding a boom mic to his studio’s corkboard. Later, I asked him to be DP for my graduation film. Eyes glued to monitors, he scrubbed footage my sister shot. “Just use your iPhone,” he muttered. I pressed for better cinematography. He finally spun his chair. “Artistry isn’t about gear.” Yet in New Mexico, my sister had used his borrowed ARRI Alexa kit. After my screening, Mother shared my film in the family chat. Half a day later, Father replied: “It’s coherent.” Scroll up two screens to his review of my sister’s desert short: “Born for this. Just like me.” His Instagram bio read “Proud father of two.” But in thirty years of filming, thousands of hours of raw footage held not one frame of me. … “Aurora, pass the orange juice to Jennifer. You know she can’t drink cold water.” My mother’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. We had booked a private dining room at a high-end Manhattan bistro on the night of my graduation screening. But this dinner wasn’t to celebrate me graduating top of my class at NYU. It was to celebrate Jennifer landing the Network’s “Emerging Filmmaker Grant.” Twenty grand. I pushed the room-temperature pitcher of juice across the table. Jennifer flashed me a sweet smile. “Thanks, Rory.” Next to her glass of juice sat a black velvet box. My father had handed it to her personally just moments ago. Inside was a master-class Zeiss prime lens. It retailed for over six thousand dollars. Jennifer played with the lens cap. The plastic clicked sharply in the quiet room. “Dad, can this aperture really get that starburst effect you have in your photos?” “Absolutely.” My father took a sip of his sparkling water to clear his throat. “This focal length really tests your fundamentals. You have a great foundation. Keep practicing, and you’re a lock for the Tribeca Emerging Filmmakers Showcase this fall.” He looked at her with a gaze overflowing with undisguised pride. That was a look I only ever experienced when I was staring at his back. This afternoon, my graduation film premiered in Theater One on campus. I had emailed them digital invitations half a month in advance and double-checked their availability via text three days prior. My father had replied, “Got it. Three o’clock. I’ll try my best.” At three o’clock, the theater lights dimmed. I sat in the director’s row and stared at the screen. The two seats to my left were empty. They remained empty through the fifty-minute runtime, right up until the lights came back on and the applause erupted. Walking out of the theater, I called my mother. “Mom, you guys didn’t show.” “There was an emergency review at the Network today. Jennifer’s piece needed a few shots re-edited, and we couldn’t just leave.” “It was just a preliminary review. My premiere…” “Aurora.” My mother cut me off. “You’ve always been low-maintenance. Jennifer lacks experience, so your father and I have to keep a close eye on her. We’re taking you out to dinner tonight to make it up to you.” To make it up to me. Their version of making it up to me was gifting my younger sister a six-thousand-dollar piece of glass at my graduation dinner. “Earth to Rory. What are you spacing out for?” Jennifer waved a hand in front of my face. “Do you want to check it out? Dad says the coating on this glass is super clean.” “No thanks.” I looked away. “I don’t really shoot at that focal length.” My father set his glass down and turned his attention to me. “Your mother sent your graduation short to the group chat. I skimmed through it.” I instinctively sat up straighter. My knuckles turned white under the table. “What did you think?” “The narrative is coherent.” Those same words again. “And?” “That’s it.” His tone was flat, dripping with the authority of an industry veteran lecturing a subordinate. “Your visual language is incredibly stiff. You’re too obsessed with technique. It lacks effortless grace and soul.” I couldn’t speak. I had spent two months crouching in a decaying rust-belt neighborhood in Queens with a dying Sony mirrorless camera to shoot that documentary. No lighting crew. No lavalier mics. I had to color-grade it frame by grueling frame, pulling curves and masking noise just to make the footage usable. He said I was obsessed with technique. What he didn’t see was that without technique, there wouldn’t have been a picture at all. “Dad.” I took a deep breath. “If I had access to the Network’s ARRI cameras, my footage would look effortless too.” The private room went dead silent. My mother paused with her fork halfway to her mouth and frowned. “Aurora, is that how you speak to your father?” My father looked at me, a flicker of reprimand in his eyes. “Artistry isn’t built on a mountain of gear. If your fundamentals are solid, you can shoot a masterpiece on an iPhone. If you’re full of excuses, you won’t survive in this industry.” I stared right back at him. “Then why did Jennifer need a full ARRI cinema rig for a trip to New Mexico?” Jennifer set the lens cap down and lowered her head, looking exactly like a child who had just been scolded. “Are you mad at me, Rory? Dad, maybe I should return the gear to the Network tomorrow. If Rory needs it…” “Return what?” My mother’s voice was ice-cold. “Your pitch was approved for a budget by the Network. Drawing equipment is standard procedure. Aurora, your sister earned those resources on her own merit. Why are you being so petty?” Why was I being petty. When Jennifer was sixteen, she didn’t even know what white balance was. My father personally flew her out to the desert and held her hand to teach her framing. Every single piece of gear was secured because my father cashed in his favors with the network executives. It was the first time in thirty years he had abused his industry connections. Back then, he had told me: “Jennifer is timid. She needs encouragement. You’re different. You need to hit a few brick walls on your own to build character.” Their twisted version of independence was nothing more than a convenient cover for blatant favoritism. I didn’t say another word. I picked up my water glass and took a sip. It was completely lukewarm. “Aurora.” Seeing that I wasn’t fighting back, my father’s tone softened a fraction. He pulled a hardcover book from his leather briefcase and slid it across the table. “This is the new anthology on film theory your Uncle Harrison just published. I got him to sign it. Read it thoroughly, it’ll help broaden your perspective. Consider it a graduation gift from me.” I stared at the book. It was bound in grey. The shrink wrap hadn’t even been fully removed. I opened the front cover. Scrawled across the title page in bold ink were the words: For your critique, Arthur. It was a complimentary copy meant for him. He hadn’t even bothered asking Uncle Harrison to change the name. My name wasn’t anywhere on it. “Thanks, Dad.” I casually shoved the book into the side pocket of my tote bag. Jennifer looked at my book, then down at the expensive lens in her hands. She spoke up in a soft, sweet voice. “Don’t worry, Rory. Once I start making real money, I’ll buy you a red-ring lens.” My father chuckled. “Hear that? Look how thoughtful your sister is. You’re the older sibling, Aurora. Try to look at the bigger picture.” I stared at the steamed fish sitting in the center of the table. It was stone cold. I had ordered it. But from the moment we sat down, not a single person had touched it. Because Jennifer had casually mentioned her stomach was acting up and she wasn’t in the mood for seafood. “Got it, Dad.” I answered quietly. My voice was incredibly steady, devoid of any ripples. Because I finally understood that no matter how hard I thrashed, the ending was already written. In this feature-length film about family, I wasn’t just an extra. I didn’t even deserve a name in the rolling credits. 2 I went to my father’s studio the next morning. When I pushed the door open, only Marty, his assistant, was calibrating the monitors. “Hey, Rory. Early start.” “Morning, Marty. Is my dad around?” “Arthur went into the Network for a pitch meeting. He’ll be back later. You need him for something?” “Just came to grab a flash drive,” I said. I walked over to my father’s editing bay. The desk was cluttered with tape drives and SD cards. And there was that photo of Jennifer holding the boom mic in New Mexico, pinned down securely at the edges. She was smiling so brightly. I pulled open the bottom drawer and dug around for my silver thumb drive. It contained a documentary script I had been developing for over a year about fading rural traditions. I called it The Turning Seasons. The Tribeca pitch deadline was next week, and today was the day I needed to finalize the draft. Finding the drive tucked in the back, I plugged it into a spare iMac to print a hard copy. The moment the document opened, I froze. The file’s last modified timestamp was 11:00 PM last night. I clicked into the properties. The title had been changed to: First Light: The Wheel of Seasons. The author line, where the name “Aurora Gallagher” used to sit, had been wiped clean. Replaced by a different name. “Jennifer Gallagher.” My fingertips went numb. I gripped the mouse and scrolled down. Eighty pages of scripting, from shot lists to voiceover narrations. Even the specific camera angles I had meticulously noted in the margins were identical. The only thing that had changed was the name on the cover. The studio door swung open. My father and mother walked in. Jennifer followed close behind, clutching a freshly printed, spiral-bound booklet. Emblazoned across the cover was First Light: The Wheel of Seasons, by Jennifer Gallagher. Seeing me standing by the computer, my father’s footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second. “Aurora, what are you doing at the studio so early?” I pulled the flash drive from the port and turned to face them. “Dad, that script is mine.” My tote bag was still stuffed with library index cards from the countless all-nighters I pulled. The folklore of every single changing season was something I had documented by driving out to a dozen remote farm towns alone. My father’s expression didn’t shift. He walked over to his desk, pulled out his chair, and sat down. “I know you wrote it. Your mother and I discussed it last night. We feel the subject matter is a perfect fit for Jennifer’s pitch this year.” “A perfect fit for her?” I stared at his unapologetic face. “That’s my submission piece.” “Your draft is too academic,” my mother said, setting her designer handbag down. “It reads like a textbook. It’s dry. Your sister might lack your technical experience, but she has charisma. Having her step in as the first-person narrator will inject some much-needed warmth into the project.” “She doesn’t even know the history behind those traditions. She couldn’t tell the difference between the harvest equinox and the spring solstice if her life depended on it. How is she supposed to narrate?” “Which is exactly why she needs your script to anchor her.” My father frowned, rapping his knuckles against the desk. “Do you not understand how teamwork operates? You have a strong script, Jennifer has strong screen presence. It’s a win-win.” A win-win. Cannibalizing my blood, sweat, and tears to build up her name. That was their definition of a win-win. Jennifer stood to the side, biting her lower lip. Her eyes welled up with practiced tears. “Rory, please don’t be mad at Mom and Dad. If you really think this is unfair, I’ll give the script back. I just won’t enter the pitch fest. I’m useless anyway. I only ever cause problems for this family.” She placed the bound booklet on the edge of the desk and took a step back, her shoulders trembling slightly. My mother instantly rushed forward, grabbing Jennifer’s hand with fierce protectiveness. “Don’t talk nonsense. Your father made the call on this script. Is your older sister really so devoid of grace?” She whipped her head around to glare at me. Her eyes were razor-sharp. “Aurora, you two are sisters. Maximizing the family’s resources is the logical play here. Why do you always have to nickel-and-dime everything? If your sister makes it big, do you honestly think she’d forget you?” I stared at my mother. My own flesh and blood. She was an incredibly ruthless producer, accustomed to measuring human connection through the lens of leverage and the “big picture.” “If your big picture requires erasing my name from my own work, then I want no part of it.” I reached out to grab the bound script off the desk. “I’m not giving this up.” My father slammed his hand onto the desk. The sound wasn’t deafening, but it carried a suffocating weight. “Aurora, are you done throwing a tantrum?” He stood up, locking eyes with me. “Do you have any idea how many favors I called in at the Network to pave the way for this project? The equipment is rented. The crew is booked. You want to pull the rug out now and make us look like fools?” I knew. Because just two weeks ago, I had begged him to help me secure a drone operator. He told me funds were tight and he couldn’t justify the expense. Yet he turned right around and blew thousands renting cinema-grade gear to bring First Light to life. “You’re using my work to pave her way.” “You are the older sibling.” My father enunciated every word with cold precision. “You have thick skin. Even if you have to start from scratch today, you’ll get it done.” That same old excuse. “Jennifer can’t. She hasn’t faced adversity. She’ll crack under the pressure.” I let out a laugh. The corners of my mouth twitched. The sheer absurdity of it all was suffocating. “So, because I can take the hit, I deserve to be robbed?” “It’s not robbery, it’s resource management!” my mother snapped, cutting me off. “What is wrong with your attitude? How did we raise you? To be independent. To be strong. Are you seriously going to rip the food right out of your little sister’s mouth?” I stopped looking at them. I looked down and tightened my grip on the flash drive. The silver metal casing dug into my palm, biting into the skin. “It’s fine,” I said softly. “Since it’s just resource management, I wish her a great shoot.” I knew better than anyone. Arguing was utterly pointless. In their eyes, my self-defense was petty jealousy. My boundaries were just a sign of a narrow mind. It didn’t matter that I had spent over a hundred days drafting those pages. As long as they decided “Jennifer needs it more,” they could strip it from me without a second thought. Jennifer peeked at me through her eyelashes. “Rory… do you want me to buy you a coffee later?” “No.” I hiked my tote bag higher onto my shoulder and turned toward the door. The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I heard my father speak to Marty inside. “Dig that ancient camcorder out of the storage closet this afternoon and send it over to Aurora. She can make do with it for her new script.” That ancient camcorder. The relic the Network had phased out when I was in middle school. It didn’t even shoot in HD. That was his version of “resource management.” I stepped out of the building into blinding sunlight. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from my college professor. “Rory, the state pitch deadline is closing soon. The Turning Seasons passed the preliminary review. Just make sure you get your dad’s studio stamp of approval on the forms by next Wednesday and hand it in.” I stared at the glowing screen for a long, quiet moment. Without that studio stamp, I wouldn’t even qualify for the exhibition. And that stamp was locked inside my father’s desk drawer. I deleted the long, rambling explanation I had typed out in the text box. I replied with three words. “Got it, Professor.” 3 Monday morning. Two days before the pitch portal closed. I went back to the family house. My father was sitting on the living room sofa, reading the Wall Street Journal. A steaming bowl of soup sat untouched on the coffee table in front of him. “Dad.” I walked over. “The pitch deadline is tomorrow afternoon. Professor needs the endorsement forms. I need to borrow the studio stamp.” He didn’t stop turning the pages of his paper. “Stamp for what?” “For Concrete Folds.” After losing The Turning Seasons, I spent four sleepless days and nights rushing out a gritty, raw documentary about the demolition of a rust-belt neighborhood. It was rough around the edges, but it was the only piece I had left to show. My father finally lowered his newspaper. He took a sip of his black coffee, his brow furrowing. “I watched the cut of Concrete Folds. The editing is too chaotic. The emotion is too heavy-handed. If I stamp that paperwork, I’m putting the studio’s reputation behind it. It reflects poorly on my brand.” “It’s just a standard youth exhibition. Nobody is going to scrutinize your studio’s reputation over a student film.” “Absolutely not.” His tone was dismissive. “Filmmaking is an unforgiving art. I’m doing this for your own good. You need to understand where the standard lies.” For my own good. The standard. I stood there, looking at the man who never dropped his pretentious facade. “But last week, when Jennifer submitted that behind-the-scenes desert footage where half the shots weren’t even in focus, you didn’t just stamp it. You pulled strings to get her a twenty-thousand-dollar grant.” The air in the living room froze instantly. The newspaper was slapped violently onto the coffee table. “Are you interrogating me?” My father’s face darkened. “I’m just stating facts.” “Jennifer is a rookie, they look at her potential and her raw talent!” he raised his voice. “Why are you comparing yourself to her? You were top of your class, your work is expected to be mature! Do you honestly think I should hold you to the same standard I hold her?” What an airtight, bulletproof double standard. Because I was strong, I was required to be flawless. Because she was weak, every catastrophic failure was glossed over as “potential.” My mother walked out of the kitchen holding a plate of sliced fruit. “What is all this yelling about so early in the morning?” She set the fruit down and shot me a dark look. “Aurora, your sister is already stressed out of her mind trying to prep The Turning Seasons. Not only are you refusing to help her, but you keep coming back demanding things. Can you not be a little more considerate of this family?” “All I want is the stamp that was supposed to be mine in the first place.” “The stamp is right there, but your father has his professional integrity as a director.” My mother sighed heavily. “He can’t lower his standards just because you’re his daughter. That would ruin you.” Ruin me. Right. I nodded slowly. “Okay. I understand.” Without the stamp, I couldn’t enter as an independent producer. I would lose my only ticket into the premier production houses. But I didn’t have the time or the energy to bleed out on their living room floor. I turned to leave, but my father called out to me. “Friday afternoon. I’ll let you borrow the DJI grading monitor I use for my own work. You can do a final color pass on your film. Marty will drop it off. Consider this me bending the rules for you because you’re rushing. I’ll give you a chance to fix those hideous colors.” I stopped in my tracks. That monitor was the absolute top of the line on the market. The color accuracy was flawless. If I could run my footage through it, the visual quality of my rushed film would jump an entire letter grade. “Friday at 3 PM?” I asked. “Yes.” He picked his newspaper back up. “Don’t ever say I don’t give you opportunities.” “Thanks, Dad.” I walked out the door. For the next three days, I gambled everything on that monitor. I even cancelled the editing bay timeslot my professor had scrambled to book for me on campus. With the DJI gear, even without the stamp, I could polish the film enough to throw it into the general submission pool two hours before the deadline. Friday afternoon. I cleared off the hard drives in my tiny, cramped Brooklyn apartment and ran the extension cords. Every single raw clip was lined up on the timeline. I had pre-marked every frame that needed tweaking. Three o’clock hit. The hallway outside was dead silent. At three-thirty, I called Marty. “Hey Marty, it’s Rory. Did you head out with the monitor yet?” The line was staticky. Wind whipped loudly in the background. Marty’s voice sounded strained. “Ah, Rory… I don’t actually have the rig.” My grip on the phone tightened instantly. “You don’t have it? My dad said you were dropping it off at three.” “Arthur took the gear with him.” “Took it where?” “To… out to the Hamptons. Jennifer said she wanted to get some backlit shots of the sunset on the beach. She said the colors were tricky and she needed the best monitor to check the live feed. Arthur flew out with her at noon.” The wind howled through the speaker, punctuated by Jennifer’s bright, giggling voice in the background. “I’m so dumb, I can’t even find the focus ring!” she was joking with the crew. I stood motionless in front of the folding table in my apartment. Staring at the muddy, pixelated footage on my laptop screen. Three hours until the portal closed forever. All my late nights, all my desperation. In their eyes, it couldn’t even compete with Jennifer’s sudden whim to go look at a pretty sunset. “Marty, put my dad on the phone.” I said, my voice eerily calm. A dozen seconds passed. My father’s irritated voice crackled through the speaker. “What is it? We’re on the beach, the wind is bad.” “Dad, you took the DJI monitor.” “Oh, right.” He didn’t sound even remotely apologetic. “The light wasn’t waiting for us, Jennifer only has a fifteen-minute window for this sunset. Just tweak your little project on your laptop, it’ll be fine. Stop being so stubborn about needing high-end gear.” “You promised it to me for three o’clock today. Today is the final deadline.” “So what?” His tone dropped, turning icy. “You want me to make an entire professional crew stand around on a freezing beach just so you can polish a mediocre student project? Aurora, can you not prioritize for once in your life?” Click. He hung up. Prioritize. On their set of scales, they had weighed it all out. On one side: a fleeting sunset Jennifer decided she wanted to see on a whim. On the other side: the culmination of four years of my life, the one project that could decide the entire trajectory of my career. I stared at the blacked-out screen of my phone. Suddenly, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. It wasn’t rage. It was a heavy, suffocating tiredness, the kind that drags you straight to the bottom of the ocean. This exhaustion filled the space in my chest where a thing called “hope” used to live. It filled it to the brim, and then it overflowed. They didn’t ignore how important this monitor was to me. They just didn’t care. Deadline: 6:00 PM. I reached for the mouse, dragged the project file for Concrete Folds into the trash bin. I clicked “Empty.” The icon shattered into pixelated paper scraps and vanished completely. 4 Two hours left until the portal closed. I didn’t run out to beg for a campus computer. I didn’t try calling anyone else. I just sat in my cheap desk chair, watching the daylight bleed out of the sky beyond my window. Five years ago, on my first day of film school, my father had told me: “A documentary filmmaker cannot afford to be sentimental. You must be exactly like your lens: absolutely objective and relentlessly cold.” For five years, I had executed that flawless detachment. When I faced injustice, I backed down. When I saw blatant favoritism, I kept my mouth shut. When my opportunities were hijacked, I started over from scratch. I had almost forgotten that even lenses need UV filters. Even sensors blow out when exposed to too much blinding light. My phone buzzed against the desk. My mother had uploaded a photo grid to the family group chat. Nine photos. A gorgeous Montauk sunset, the ocean burning with tangerine fire. Jennifer stood on the rocks in a flowing white dress, holding up the heavy, top-tier DJI monitor I had spent three hours waiting for. The caption read: Our little muse directing her first location scout for ‘The Turning Seasons’. The lighting is absolutely flawless. Thanks to Director Arthur for personally supervising! A cascade of likes from the extended family poured in. Uncle Robert sent a voice memo: “Jennifer looks like a movie star. So much better than that block of wood personality her sister has.” My mother replied with a smiling emoji. My father dropped a two-hundred-dollar digital gift card into the chat. The memo attached to the money read: Drinks are on Jennifer tonight. I tapped on the photo of Jennifer smiling at the camera, holding the heavy monitor. The screen of the monitor in her hands was pitch black. She hadn’t even turned the power on. It was just a prop for a photoshoot. And for the sake of a dead prop, my father had effortlessly murdered my very last chance at a career. I put the phone down and stood up. I pulled the scuffed grey suitcase I had bought freshman year out from under my bed. Unzipping it, I began packing. I didn’t own much to begin with. It was actually pathetic. My closet held a few black hoodies and some faded jeans. Most of the textbooks on my shelf were second-hand copies I bought off street vendors. I stacked four years of lecture notes and storyboard sketches into the bottom of the suitcase. My eyes landed on the corner of the desk. There was a small glass display box. Inside was a fountain pen. My father had bought it for me when I won a city-wide essay contest at ten years old. It was the only time in my entire life he had bought me a gift without Jennifer tagging along. Tucked under the pen was a faded card from my mother. It read: Aurora, stay independent. You never need to be jealous of anyone. Stay independent. Never be jealous. Because I would never be given anything to begin with. It was easier to just kill the envy at the root. I opened the glass box, took out the dried-up pen, and tossed it straight into the garbage can. The yellowing card followed right behind it. The room emptied out incredibly fast. Besides the mattress and the desk, you wouldn’t even know someone had lived here for four years. Zipping up the suitcase, I walked to the door and paused. I dug a spare key out of my pocket, along with a green debit card. My mother had given me this card two years ago. She said it was my emergency fund, promising to wire me two thousand dollars a month. But she only ever remembered to send money when it suited her. Most of the time, I survived by cutting highlight reels for corporate events. I set the key and the debit card side by side on the shoe rack by the door. I found a scrap of blank paper. I wrote one sentence: I dropped out of the exhibition. The $800 left on this card is the final payment from my last editing gig. Keep it so Jennifer can buy some filters. No greeting. No signature. I picked up my phone and opened the family group chat. I pressed and held my father’s icon. [Delete Contact.] I pressed and held my mother’s icon. [Delete Contact.] I pressed and held Jennifer’s icon. [Block Contact.] Then, I backed out of every single group chat labeled “Family” or “Gallagher Relatives.” I popped the SIM card tray out of my phone. With a sharp snap, I broke the plastic chip in half and dropped it into the trash. The entire world went violently silent. No notification chimes. No studio demands. No more sermons whispering in my ear about “the big picture.” I pushed open the door to the apartment. The motion-sensor lights in the hallway flickered on, illuminating the worn steps leading down to the street. The cold city wind hit my face, and for the first time in my life, my head felt utterly clear. I didn’t have to burn my life away waiting for someone to call me “coherent” ever again. The wheels of my suitcase rolled over the concrete, a dull, rhythmic thud echoing into the night. Fading away. There were no stars in the New York sky that night, but for the first time, I could see the road ahead of me with perfect clarity.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “588004”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Derek and I had been living together for three years when our apartment gained a permanent squatter. My best friend, Giselle. It started with the occasional sleepover. Before long, her slippers sat permanently by the front door, her plush bathrobe hung in our bathroom, and her oat milk took over the entire middle shelf of the fridge. Our couple’s mug set turned into a set of three. The accent pillows on the sofa multiplied. Even our vacation photos started featuring her in the background. I told myself to let it slide. She was going through a rough patch, after all. Then my mother was diagnosed with a tumor. After her surgery, she needed a quiet place to recover, so I planned to set her up in our guest bedroom. Derek blocked me at the hallway, his eyebrows pulled tight. “That’s Giselle’s room,” he said, sounding exasperated. “All her stuff is in there. Where is she supposed to go?” I stood there, stunned. “Derek, that’s my mother. And I’m the owner of this house.” He spoke with complete conviction. “Your mom can stay at a hotel nearby. Why do you have to kick Giselle out?” Standing in the hallway, staring at the guest room door covered in Giselle’s favorite cartoon stickers, a cold realization washed over me. In this home, I was the guest. … “I’ll cover your mom’s hotel bills,” Derek sighed, his tone overly soft, like he was pacifying a throw-a-fit child. He reached out to grab my wrist. I stepped back, dodging his grip. His hand froze in midair, his brow furrowing deeper. “Nora, Giselle is a light sleeper. If she switches beds, she won’t sleep a wink. Your mom needs peace and quiet after her discharge. A hotel has daily maid service and twenty-four-hour room service. Isn’t that better for her?” He looked at me as if his logic were unassailable. The guest room door creaked open. Giselle poked her head out, wearing the pink silk bathrobe that was supposed to be mine. Her eyes were red, her voice trembling. “Nora, please don’t be mad at Derek. It’s all my fault. I’ll pack my things and leave right now. Your mom’s health comes first. I can just rent a basement room somewhere.” Tears streamed down her cheeks right on cue. Derek’s face darkened. He stormed over and stepped right in front of her, shielding her with his body. “What are you talking about? A girl like you, living in a basement?” He turned back to glare at me, his voice sharp with disapproval. “Nora, can you grow up? Giselle just got laid off. She’s under massive pressure. Do you really have to push her into a corner right now?” I watched the two of them. I watched how Derek reflexively put her behind him. A wave of nausea hit me. “I’m pushing her?” My voice was barely a whisper. “I pay half the mortgage on this place every single month. I want my mother, who just had a tumor removed, to rest in my own guest bedroom. And you call that pushing her?” Derek blinked, caught off guard by the mention of the mortgage. He lowered his voice. “We can discuss money later. Right now, we’re figuring out where your mother stays.” “No need to figure it out.” I turned toward the entryway to grab my bag. “I’ll take my mother to a hotel.” Giselle took a quick step forward. “Nora, let me help you take your mom’s luggage downstairs.” “Don’t touch my mother’s things,” I said, eyeing her coldly. She flinched and retreated closer to Derek’s side. A flash of annoyance crossed Derek’s eyes. “Nora, what is wrong with you? She’s just trying to help. What’s with the attitude?” I ignored him, opened the front door, and walked out. 2 The hospital hallway reeked of disinfectant. I finished checking my mother out, picked up her bag, and hailed a cab to the nearby Grand Hyatt. The lobby was gleaming and quiet. The receptionist checked my ID. “Ms. Vance, I have you down for an executive suite at two hundred and fifty dollars a night.” I handed over my credit card. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Derek. I booked the hotel. It’ll charge directly to our joint household account. Don’t pay out of pocket. I glanced at the screen and didn’t bother replying. I took the key card, went upstairs, and helped my mother get settled in bed. She looked around the spacious room, clearly uncomfortable. “Nora, sweetie, this is way too expensive. I should just go back home to rest.” “Mom, the doctor said you need a follow-up checkup in a week. The clinics back home don’t have the right equipment.” I poured her a glass of warm water. “Just relax and stay here. Don’t worry about the money.” Once she fell asleep, I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out at the streaming traffic below. My chest felt heavy, like a soaked sponge pressing against my ribs. I suddenly remembered that in my rush this morning, I had left my mother’s health insurance card on the console table in our hallway. I pulled out my phone and launched our smart home management app, intending to check the hallway camera to see if the card was actually there. The screen buffered for two seconds before a pop-up window appeared. Access Denied. Please contact the administrator “CutieGiselle” to request access. I stared at those words for a full minute. My mind went completely blank. I had spent three thousand dollars out of my own pocket to custom-install that smart home system. The primary administrator account had always been mine. I clicked on the device settings. System records showed that just an hour ago, the master admin rights had been transferred to “CutieGiselle.” My account had been demoted to “Temporary Guest.” I didn’t even have permission to view the security feed. I dialed Derek’s number immediately. It rang five times before he picked up. The background noise was filled with video game sound effects and Giselle’s light giggles. “What’s up?” Derek sounded completely relaxed. “Why were the admin permissions changed on our smart home app?” My voice was devoid of emotion. The line went quiet for a second. The game sound was muted. Derek spoke nonchalantly. “Oh, that. After you left this morning, Giselle wanted to set a smart alarm, but she didn’t have access. I just handed the admin rights over to her. It doesn’t matter who holds the account as long as you can still unlock the door.” Handed it over. Doesn’t matter. A cold smile tugged at the corner of my lips. “Derek, I paid for that system.” “Yeah, I know you paid for it,” he said, his tone turning irritable. “Nora, it’s just an app account. Do you really have to be so petty? Giselle is at home all day looking for a job. She uses the system way more than you do. What’s the harm in letting her manage it?” Giselle’s soft, sweet voice drifted over from his end. “Derek, is Nora upset? You should give the permissions back to her. I don’t need a smart alarm anyway, I can just use my phone.” Derek let out a heavy sigh. “Listen to how understanding Giselle is. Why do you always have to assume the worst of people? Fine, I’ll add you back later tonight.” “Don’t bother.” I hung up the phone. I stared at the grey “Temporary Guest” badge in the app. Then I tapped the top right corner and unlinked my account entirely. Since I was just a guest, there was no reason to stay in the system. 3 The next morning, my mother mentioned she craved soup from a famous diner down the street. I went downstairs to pick it up. While I was waiting in line, my phone rang. It was Derek. “How’s your mom feeling today?” He sounded warm and familiar, as if nothing unpleasant had happened yesterday. “She’s fine,” I replied coolly. “I have a meeting at noon, but I’ll pick you two up at the hotel tonight for dinner. A new place opened nearby with light, healthy dishes. Perfect for her.” I looked at the long line in front of me and thought it over. “Sure. What time?” “Let’s say six-thirty. I’ll drive straight over after work.” After hanging up, I brought the soup back to the hotel. At five in the afternoon, I helped my mother change her clothes. She looked in the mirror, smoothing down her hair nervously. “Nora, Derek is so busy with work. It feels wrong to make him drive all the way here.” “It’s fine. He offered.” I sat on the sofa, watching the clock on the wall. Six o’clock. Six-thirty. Seven o’clock. Derek didn’t show up. He didn’t call, either. My mother sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hands together anxiously. “Maybe he’s stuck in traffic? Why don’t you call him?” I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. No answer. I tried three times in a row. Every call went straight to voicemail. My mother’s face paled slightly. “Nora, let’s forget about going out. I’m not really hungry anyway. We can just order room service.” Seeing the cautious, timid look in her eyes made my heart ache. “Wait for me a moment.” I walked into the bathroom and closed the door. Opening Instagram, I tapped on Giselle’s profile. She had posted an update just one minute ago. The photo showed a ginger cat hiding under a bed, and a man’s long-fingered hand holding a toy wand to lure it out. On his wrist was the Cartier watch I had bought him for his birthday. The caption read: The little rascal ran under the bed and refused to come out. Thank goodness my superhero came to save the day! [Heart] I stared at the picture. The background was the master bedroom of our apartment. The twenty-five-hundred-dollar silk sheets were crumpled into a mess, marked by several obvious claw snags. Those were the sheets Derek had promised we would save for our wedding night. I shoved the bathroom door open. “Mom, put your coat on. We’re going to that restaurant.” “Is Derek here?” “He’s not coming. Something came up at work,” I lied without batting an eye. After dinner, I brought my mother back to the hotel. It was already nine in the evening. Standing in the hotel lobby, I dialed Derek’s phone again. This time, he picked up almost instantly. “Hey, Nora.” He was breathing somewhat heavily. “Where are you?” “Still working overtime at the office. I was in a back-to-back meeting and couldn’t check my phone. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to your mom another day.” His tone was seamless, devoid of any flaw. I took a deep breath. “Derek, how do you plan on getting the cat claw marks out of our master bed?” The line went dead quiet. Several seconds passed before he finally spoke, his voice laced with the irritation of being caught. “You’re stalking Giselle’s posts?” I let out a bitter laugh. “She posted it for the whole world to see. You call that stalking? So, this was your ‘meeting’?” He let out an annoyed noise. “Nora, can you be reasonable for once?” “I was literally on my way to pick you up when Giselle called. The neighbor’s cat climbed through her balcony window. She’s deathly afraid of cats. She was crying hysterically on the phone. Was I supposed to just leave her like that?” I gripped my phone tightly, my fingernails digging into my palm. “She’s afraid of a cat, so you went into our master bedroom to play with it on our bed? Derek, I bought those sheets! We agreed to use them when we got married!” “It’s just a set of sheets!” His voice spiked. “The cat was stuck under the bed, so I had to lure it out! It got a little messy, we can just wash it! Do you really have to make a huge scene over a pair of bedsheets?” I stood by the revolving doors, watching the endless stream of headlights outside. Suddenly, all the energy drained out of me. “Derek.” My voice was so steady it surprised even me. “Do you remember my mom’s follow-up checkup today? The doctor said her blood markers looked abnormal.” He paused on the other end. “You… you didn’t tell me that…” “Right. I didn’t.” “Because when I called you, you didn’t answer.” I paused for a beat. “You were busy saving Giselle.” “All because she was scared of a cat.” Derek’s breathing hitched. “Nora, I didn’t know… Is your mom okay?” “She’s not dead yet.” I didn’t want to hear another word. “I’m stopping by the apartment tomorrow at noon to pick up some things. And I’m throwing those sheets in the trash.” “Don’t you dare!” His tone turned cold. “Nora, don’t push it. I told you I’d wash them.” “They’re filthy.” I dropped those two words and hung up immediately. Back in the room, my mother was already asleep. I sat by her bed, watching her pale face. Three years ago, when Derek bought that apartment, he could only afford a partial down payment. Forty thousand dollars of that money came from my mother selling her old home back in her hometown. Back then, Derek held my mother’s hand and swore up and down. Auntie, the guest bedroom has the best sunlight. I’m keeping it for you. You can move in with us later, and I’ll take care of you forever. Now, that sunny bedroom door was covered in Giselle’s cartoon stickers. 4 At noon the next day, I took a break during lunch to head back to the apartment. The moment I pushed the door open, I thought I had walked into the wrong place. Seven or eight pairs of shoes were piled chaotically in the entryway, both men’s and women’s. The coffee table in the living room was littered with empty takeout cups and half-eaten pizza boxes. On the couch, Giselle and two girls I didn’t recognize were lounging in face masks, laughing out loud at a reality show on TV. At the sound of the door, they all turned around. The room fell silent for a moment. Giselle reacted first. She peeled off her face mask, offering a sweet smile. “Nora, you’re back!” She pointed to the girls on the sofa. “These are my former coworkers. They had the day off today, so I invited them over to hang out.” I looked at the two girls. One of them was holding my newly opened jar of La Mer cream. She was scooping out a generous blob and smearing it onto her neck. Seeing me stare, she didn’t look embarrassed at all. Instead, she giggled. “Giselle, your roommate’s moisturizer is amazing. Mind if I borrow a bit?” Roommate. In my own home, I had been demoted to Giselle’s roommate. I walked straight over and snatched the cream out of her hand. “Yes, I do mind.” The girl froze, her face flushing bright red. “What’s your problem? It’s just a little lotion, don’t be so stingy.” Giselle quickly stood up, grabbing my arm. “Nora, don’t be mad. She didn’t know it was yours. I thought anything on the counter was open for everyone to use…” I shoved her hand off me. “My electric toothbrush is on the counter too. Do you want to share that as well?” “Nora!” The master bedroom door swung open. Derek walked out in loungewear, his face twisted into a deep frown. “What kind of crazy fit are you throwing the second you walk through the door?” I looked at him, surprised to see him home on a weekday. “I’m crazy?” I gestured to the messy floor and pointed at the girl holding my cream. “Derek, this is my home. It’s not Giselle’s homeless shelter, and it’s certainly not her lounge for playing hostess.” Derek strode over, pulling Giselle behind him. “It’s just a bit of face cream! I’ll buy you ten jars, alright?” He glared at me with pure disgust. “Giselle finally had a good day and invited friends over. Who are you trying to intimidate with this ‘lady of the house’ routine?” Lady of the house. Coming from his mouth, those words felt like a slap in the face. Looking at Derek’s familiar features, he suddenly felt like a complete stranger. Seeing Derek back her up, the guest chimed in with a sarcastic sneer. “Seriously. Giselle always says her bro is the sweetest guy, turns out he’s henpecked by a girl who throws a fit over a jar of lotion. I don’t know how Derek puts up with you.” Derek didn’t dispute it. He accepted her framing as a badge of honor. He pulled a credit card out of his wallet and tossed it onto the coffee table. “Take it. Go to the mall and buy a new one yourself. Stop embarrassing me.” That card was the one I used to pay the household utilities and condo fees. Every single dollar in that account came from my monthly transfers. I stared at the card and let out a dry laugh. “Derek, you’re using my money to play the big man?” Derek blinked, realizing which card he had thrown down. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by defensive anger. “We share everything anyway, why are you splitting hairs? Have I ever kept money from you?” I didn’t answer. I turned and walked into the guest room. The room that should have been kept empty for my mother was now cluttered with Giselle’s clothes and handbags. Unopened delivery boxes were stacked right on the bed. I walked over to the desk, intending to retrieve a few important documents I kept there. I pulled open the drawer. It was completely empty. Frowning, my eyes scanned the desk. I noticed a thick stack of papers jammed under one of the desk legs to level it. Those were my personal health reports, along with copies of my mother’s medical charts from her initial diagnosis. They were crumpled, creased, and stained with dried coffee, serving as a makeshift shim for a wobbly desk. My heart plunged straight into ice water. I yanked the papers out from under the leg and marched back into the living room. Slap. I slammed the stained documents onto the coffee table. “Who did this?” Giselle jumped. When she saw what the papers were, her face drained of color. “Nora, I’m so sorry… I spilled coffee the other day and just grabbed some scrap paper to level the desk. I didn’t know those were your mom’s medical records…” “Scrap paper?” I stared at her coldly. “My name and my mother’s name are printed right on top. Are you blind?” “Nora!” Derek snapped, completely losing his temper. He shoved me back hard. “Have you had enough?! She already apologized! It’s just a copy, you can print another one!” The force of his shove made me stumble back. My lower back slammed hard against the sharp corner of the dining table. A sharp, agonizing pain shot through me. I held my waist, refusing to make a sound. I just looked at Derek with dead eyes. “Derek.” “Do you even know that my mother has a biopsy scheduled for tomorrow?” Derek’s aggressive expression froze. “A biopsy? You didn’t tell me…” “I tried,” I interrupted. “Last night, I called to tell you. But you were busy catching a cat for Giselle, and you complained that I was bothering you.” Silence swallowed the entire living room. The two visiting girls realized things were spiraling out of control. They grabbed their purses and slipped out the door like mice. Giselle, eyes brimming with tears, tugged at Derek’s sleeve. “Derek… it’s my fault… You should go check on Auntie…” Derek looked at me in a panic. “Nora, I’m sorry, I really didn’t know. Tomorrow I’ll go to the hospital with you. I’ll take the day off.” I stared at him for a long, quiet moment. Then I packed the dirty documents into my bag. “No need.” “Tomorrow at two in the afternoon. If you still consider yourself a human being, show up.” Without another word, I turned and left the apartment. 5 The next afternoon at one-thirty. I sat on a plastic chair outside the hospital operating room, staring at the digital clock on the wall. One-forty. Derek hadn’t shown up. My mother, dressed in a thin hospital gown, sat beside me, clutching my hand tightly. “Nora, is Derek too busy with work?” Her voice carried a heartbreaking disappointment. “It’s fine, sweetie. I’m not scared to go in alone. You just wait for me out here.” I squeezed her rough hand, offering her a reassuring smile. “Even if he doesn’t come, I’m here. Don’t worry.” A nurse walked over holding a clipboard. “Family member, sign the consent form.” Just as I reached for the pen, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Derek. I picked up. “Where are you?” “Nora, I’m so sorry.” Derek’s voice was drowned out by the roar of highway wind and frantic car horns. “Something came up on my end. I can’t make it right now.” I watched the nurse’s pen hovering in the air. “What came up?” “Giselle went out to the suburbs for a job interview, and her car broke down on the interstate. She’s stranded on the shoulder, crying and terrified. I have to go pick her up. Your mom’s procedure is just a minor thing, right? You can just sign the form yourself. I’ll drop by her room later tonight.” Over the line, I could hear Giselle’s tearful voice in the background. “Derek, am I ruining your important plans? I’m so scared, big trucks keep driving past…” Derek’s voice softened instantly to comfort her. “Don’t be scared, I’m almost there.” A wave of ridiculous irony washed over me. My mother was going in for a tumor biopsy, with life-or-death stakes. To him, it was a “minor thing.” Giselle’s car was safely parked on the shoulder of a highway, and to him, it was a life-threatening crisis. “Derek.” I spoke his name softly, my voice as flat as a stagnant pond. “Do you have any idea that a tumor biopsy comes with a severe risk of internal hemorrhaging?” The line went silent for a beat. Then Derek’s voice returned, laced with irritation. “Nora, stop catastrophizing everything!” “We live in a modern world, people don’t just bleed to death from a quick needle test! You’re doing this on purpose to guilt-trip me. I’m taking the highway exit now, I have to go.” Click. The call disconnected. I stared at the home screen of my phone, slowly closed my eyes, and opened them again. “Nurse, I’ll sign.” I took the pen and steadily wrote my name on the family signature line. In that exact moment, a string that had been pulled taut inside my heart for three years snapped without a sound. There was no screaming. No heartbreak. Only absolute, overwhelming relief. The procedure took an hour and a half. Fortunately, everything went smoothly. My mother was wheeled back to the recovery room and fell fast asleep. I hired a private duty nurse to watch her, then took a cab straight back to the apartment. At four in the afternoon, the place was empty. Sunbeams streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the trash left on the coffee table. I walked into the master bedroom and pulled my suitcase from under the bed. I didn’t take much. A few outfits, my vital documents, and the bank card linked to our joint household account. I swept my personal skincare products off the vanity into my tote bag. Opening the drawer, I saw the pair of matching Bvlgari rings. Derek had bought them for our anniversary last year. Back then, he had hugged me from behind and promised, Nora, give me two more years. Once the mortgage is cleared, we’ll get married. I picked up his ring, stared at it for a second, and tossed it into the trash can. I slipped my own ring into my pocket. I had paid for half of it anyway; I could always pawn it later. At the front door, I put on my shoes. My gaze landed on the pink slippers Giselle always wore. I walked over and kicked them straight into the garbage bin. At six-thirty, Derek sent a text message with a photo of a strawberry shortcake. Passed by your favorite bakery and waited thirty minutes in line for this. I’ll bring it to the hospital later to apologize to your mom. Giselle’s car got towed, and she says she’s really sorry too. Staring at the notification, I could practically picture the condescending grace on his face. A slap on the cheek, followed by a piece of candy. He honestly thought I would cave like I always did over the past three years, sacrificing my dignity for his crumbs of affection. My fingers tapped against the screen. Eat the cake yourself. Derek, we’re done. You’re free now. Go save your precious Giselle. Send. Then: Block. Delete. Done in one smooth motion. I pushed the door open and took one last look at the place I had poured my heart into for three years. No lingering regret. Only pure disgust. Click. The door locked behind me as I rolled my suitcase toward the elevator.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “587997”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Seven days before our wedding, my fiancé vanished into thin air. His car was found abandoned by the river, his wallet, phone, and wedding band left sitting on the driver’s seat. I didn’t sleep a wink for three days and three nights. My future mother-in-law fainted twice from grief, and my best friend walked the streets with me, plastering missing person fliers on every lamp post in the city. Until my best friend went to take a shower, and her phone lit up with a notification from a group chat named “Operation Dream Come True.” I unlocked her phone. The latest message was from my missing fiancé. Is she still searching by the river? My best friend’s reply was right below it: Don’t worry, she can barely stand up right now. She’d never guess you’re watching the sunrise on the mountain with your first love. 1 Seven days before the wedding, Jonah disappeared. At two in the morning, the police called to tell me his car had been found along Coastal Highway. The driver’s side door was wide open. His wallet, phone, and platinum wedding band were resting neatly on the driver’s seat. Near the guardrail by the riverbank, a set of chaotic footprints trailed off into the mud. By the time I rushed to the scene, yellow police tape had already been strung up around the perimeter. It was pouring rain. The black river churned in the dark, roaring like a gaping maw ready to swallow everything whole. Jonah’s younger brother, Seth, hurried over to catch me as I stumbled. “Mindy, don’t panic! My brother probably just got stressed out and stepped down to catch some fresh air.” I stared at the wedding band resting on the leather seat, my legs giving out beneath me. Just seven hours ago, Jonah had called me on the phone, asking whether I wanted white roses or champagne roses for the bridal bouquet. I had teased him for asking so many little details and told him to pick whatever he liked. He had laughed softly. “Then I’ll go with white roses. Mindy, I’m going to make sure you’re the most beautiful bride in the world.” Those were the last words he ever spoke to me. The officers asked if Jonah had been acting unusually before his disappearance. I shook my head violently. We had been together for six years. We were getting married in seven days. Lately, he had been busy handing out invitations, refining the reception schedule, and practicing his wedding vows in secret. Just last night, he had warmed up a glass of milk for me before stepping out. How could a man like that suddenly abandon his phone and his wedding ring beside a dark river? When Jonah’s mother arrived, she was so distraught she had put her shoes on backward. The moment she saw her son’s car, she collapsed onto the muddy ground. “Jonah! My boy!” I forced myself to pull her into my arms. She clutched my arm with hysterical strength, her fingernails digging deep into my skin. “Mindy, you have to find him! He loves you more than anything, he would never abandon you!” My throat felt choked with ash, but I nodded repeatedly to reassure her. “We’ll find him, Mom. He’ll be back in time for the wedding, I know he will.” She shook violently against me, weeping tears of agony. My best friend, Tori, pulled off her raincoat and draped it over my shivering shoulders, giving me a tight squeeze. “Mindy, go sit in the car for a minute. We’re all here. You can’t break down first.” I shook my head. Jonah was missing. How could I possibly sit still? 2 The search and rescue team dragged their nets along the riverbanks. Seth and a few mutual friends split up to search the nearby pine woods, abandoned industrial lots, and surrounding countryside. Tori stayed glued to my side. As dawn began to break, a text notification lit up her screen. Her face turned pale in an instant. I grabbed her wrist immediately. “Is there news about Jonah?” She reflexively slammed her screen off before forcing a strained, reassuring smile. “Someone said they saw a guy who looked just like him near the East Pier. I already sent Mark over to check it out.” I turned to go there right away, but Tori pulled me back. “You haven’t eaten a bite all night, Mindy. Going there in this state will just slow things down. Mark knows Jonah well, he’ll call us the second he confirms it.” I refused to sit around waiting. In the end, Tori had no choice but to drive me to East Pier herself. We searched the docks for three excruciating hours. The so-called eyewitness was long gone, and the security footage nearby only picked up a grainy figure in a black jacket walking away from the camera. You couldn’t make out his face at all. I stood in the security room, staring at the blurry screen, playing the clip over and over. The gait was wrong. The height was off by an inch or two. It wasn’t Jonah. Tori let out a heavy, sympathetic sigh and guided me out by the arm. “Don’t lose heart, Mindy. At least it proves someone fitting his description is out there. Maybe Jonah really is safe.” I gave a numb nod. By the time we returned to the riverbank, my future mother-in-law had woken up from her dizzy spell. With bloodshot eyes, she handed me a thermos cup of warm water. “Mindy, Jonah is so blessed to have you. Don’t you worry, when he gets back, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind for putting you through this.” I took the warm cup, and tears spilled over my eyelashes without warning. 3 By the second day of Jonah’s disappearance, the rain showed no signs of stopping. The river swelled, forcing the rescue team to expand their search radius downstream. The police pulled traffic camera footage from the highway. At one-seventeen in the morning, Jonah’s car had entered Coastal Highway alone. However, the spot where he parked was right next to a construction barrier, where a dirt path led down toward an abandoned freight dock. That path had been decommissioned years ago and had zero security cameras. The footage showed his car pulling in, but nobody ever saw how or where he left the vehicle. Later that afternoon, the search team pulled a wet black leather shoe out of the muddy water downstream. The moment Jonah’s mother caught a glimpse of it, she wailed and threw herself toward it, crying that it belonged to Jonah. I held that soaked, heavy shoe, my heart practically stopping in my chest. Jonah had bought a brand-new pair of formal shoes just like this for our wedding. I tried to break through the crowd to reach the water’s edge, but Tori and Seth held me back in a vice grip. “Mindy, calm down!” Tori yelled over the wind. “The shoe hasn’t even been identified yet! What good does rushing into the mud do?” I struggled until my arms throbbed with pain. “Let go of me! I have to look for him! He’s terrified of deep water! If he fell in, he’s scared out of his mind right now!” Seth shouted at me with red, angry eyes, “Mindy, stop making a scene! The rescue crew is doing everything they can, going down there just gives them one more person to save!” All the strength drained out of my limbs. I collapsed into the mud, sobbing until I couldn’t catch my breath. Tori dropped to her knees and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Mindy, look at me. Jonah promised to marry you, he wouldn’t just leave you behind.” I clutched at her jacket, asking her over and over, “Why did he take off his wedding ring? Did he regret marrying me?” Tori denied it fiercely. “How could he? Everyone knows how much he adores you! Maybe the ring just slipped off his finger when he opened the door.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the ring hadn’t slipped off. It had been placed upright, perfectly aligned right next to his phone. It didn’t look like an accident. It looked like a goodbye. Over the past forty-eight hours, moments from the night before Jonah vanished kept flashing through my mind. Before he left the house, he had hugged me for a very long time. He had asked me, Mindy, if something unexpected happens on our wedding day, will you wait for me? I had been buried in guest lists at the time, answering casually, Depends on what kind of unexpected thing. Jonah had fallen silent for a moment, then leaned down to press a soft kiss against my hair. You’ll wait. I know you will. Thinking back on it now, those words felt like a jagged needle thrust into my chest, leaving me icy cold. By evening, the shoe was officially confirmed not to belong to Jonah. Everyone let out a collective breath of relief. However, the emotional roller coaster proved too much for my future mother-in-law, and she fainted once again. I had to leave the riverbank to accompany her to the hospital. The doctor informed us it was severe physical and emotional exhaustion and advised plenty of rest. Sitting by her hospital bed, she gripped my hand tightly. “Mindy, if anything terrible really happened to Jonah… I don’t think I could go on living.” My nose stung with tears. “Mom, don’t say that. You still have Seth.” She blinked, surprised for a second, before bursting into even heavier tears. “How could Seth be the same? Jonah has always been the most dutiful, caring son. You two were about to start a life together, how could fate be so cruel to us?” I leaned down to tuck her blanket in securely. “Get some rest, Mom. I’ll step out to buy you some warm soup.” Just as I pulled the door shut behind me, a loud text chime echoed from inside the room. Her weeping stopped dead instantly. Through the thin door panel, I caught her low, hushed voice saying something softly. I couldn’t hear the full sentence, but I distinctly caught a single name: Serena. 4 I pushed the door open and stepped back inside. She frantically shoved her phone beneath her pillow, her face instantly morphing back into a mask of pure tragedy. “Why are you back so soon, dear?” “I forgot to ask what kind of soup you wanted.” Her eyes darted around nervously. “Anything is fine. Mindy, go on ahead, I just want to be alone for a bit.” I stood by the door, watching her for a few silent seconds. A strange, inexplicable knot tightened in my gut. A second later, fresh tears spilled from her eyes once more. “Do you think… do you think Jonah is already…” “No.” I cut her off sharply, burying the flicker of suspicion deep down. She was a mother sick with worry over her missing son. How could I entertain dark doubts over a misheard name? Leaving the hospital, I received a pin location from Seth. He claimed someone had spotted a man matching Jonah’s description along the North Outskirts highway. I couldn’t hail a cab in the downpour. I ran through two flooded streets in the freezing rain before Tori managed to pick me up in her car. Throughout the drive, her phone rang repeatedly. Every time I glanced over, she immediately tapped the decline button. “Who keeps calling?” “The wedding coordinator,” she explained under her breath. “They were asking if they should halt the preparations. I told them to keep everything moving according to plan.” My heart squeezed with dull pain. In just five days, our wedding was supposed to take place. Was Jonah still alive? Would he come back to me? Was there any chance our wedding would still happen? I had no answers. But I didn’t dare cancel it. I was terrified that canceling the venue would mean admitting he was never coming home. When we arrived at the North Outskirts, we found a blood-stained jacket inside an abandoned gas station. It was Jonah’s. I recognized it instantly. On the left pocket was a tiny, custom cross-stitch I had sewn by hand to fix a snag. The blood on the sleeve was dried and crusty, mixed with dark mud. I clutched the jacket to my chest, the world spinning black around me. Seth rushed deep into the abandoned station, shouting his brother’s name. Tori held me up, her voice trembling with tears. “Mindy, stay strong! Jonah might be injured, he’s waiting for us to find him!” I nodded, holding his coat tight as I sprinted toward the overgrown hill behind the gas station. The muddy trail was slick. I fell three times, scraping my knees and palms raw against sharp rocks. Blood mingled with rainwater, dripping down my hands. Tori ran behind me, calling my name, but I couldn’t hear a word. Only one thought consumed my mind: Jonah was hurt. He was bleeding out in some dark corner, waiting for me. By nightfall, the rescue team had combed every inch of the hill. Still nothing. The officers examined the jacket and informed me that the blood spatter was minimal, suggesting a minor surface wound rather than a fatal injury. That meant Jonah was likely still alive. I hugged that jacket tightly, refusing to let go of it all night. I didn’t find out until much later. Before setting off, Jonah had personally sliced his own forearm with a razor, smearing his blood onto the sleeve. He had even pressed it against the fabric several times, terrified it wouldn’t look convincing enough. Then he had handed the jacket to his brother, Seth, instructing him to plant it at the abandoned gas station the following day. That very night, Serena dropped a digital cash gift into their private group chat. Her memo read: Thank you, everyone. Jonah says thanks for keeping her occupied for another day. The person who claimed the highest amount in that cash transfer was my best friend, Tori, who had spent ten hours standing beside me in the pouring rain. 5 By the morning of the third day, I ran a burning fever of a hundred and two degrees. Tori practically dragged me back to her apartment. She fetched fever reducers, sat by my bedside, and patiently fed me porridge spoonful by spoonful. My throat was so swollen and raw I couldn’t speak. She gently touched my burning forehead, her eyes bloodshot. “If you keep destroying yourself like this, Jonah will be heartbroken when he comes back.” I stared at her, my voice raspy. “Do you really think he’s coming back?” Tori’s hand holding the spoon paused for a fraction of a second. “Of course he is. You two love each other so much, how could he bear not to?” I closed my eyes. Ever since Jonah went missing, every single person had been repeating the exact same script to me. He loves you. He can’t bear to lose you. He will definitely come back to marry you. Yet for three whole days, search and rescue hadn’t found a single trace of him. His phone GPS, transit records, and bank transactions were completely frozen on the night he vanished. It was as if he had evaporated into thin air. I forced myself to sit up against the headboard. “I need to go back to the river.” Tori pressed me down by the shoulders. “You have a fever of a hundred and two! Will you please stop pushing yourself? The search team hasn’t stopped, you waiting at home makes no difference!” “It makes all the difference,” I rasped, shoving her hands away. “That was the last place he was seen. If he comes back and doesn’t see me there, what will he do?” Tori stared at me, her lips parting slightly. In that fleeting second, a deeply complex emotion flickered across her eyes. It looked like guilt, mixed with a trace of pity. Ultimately, she helped me lie back down. “Mindy, take a quick nap first. I’ll take you there in two hours, okay?” Overpowered by the medicine, I drifted into a heavy, fitful sleep. When I woke up, the sky outside the window had turned dark. Tori was in the bathroom, the sound of the shower running echoing through the apartment. Her phone sat on the nightstand. The screen suddenly lit up. I hadn’t intended to pry. But the pop-up notification displayed my name clearly. How is Mindy holding up today? The sender contact was saved as Aunt Jennings. I froze. Mrs. Jennings was supposed to be lying in a hospital bed, claiming she didn’t even have the strength to touch her phone. I reached out and picked up Tori’s phone. On instinct, I typed in the four-digit passcode she had used for twelve years, the date we signed the lease on our first shared apartment. The device unlocked instantly. The message had come from an active group chat. The group name was: Operation Dream Come True. There were eleven members in total. Seth, Mrs. Jennings, Tori, Serena, and all of our mutual closest friends. At the very top of the list was a profile picture I knew by heart, Jonah’s secondary account. And the administrator at the top of the member list was a woman I recognized instantly. Serena. Jonah’s first love, the woman he had dated for four years before me. 6 The most recent update had been posted three minutes ago: a photo sent by Jonah. A sprawling, majestic snow-capped mountain peak was bathed in the golden light of the morning sun. Serena, wearing a bright red wool scarf, was leaning her head gently against Jonah’s shoulder, her eyes shimmering with faint tears. Tied to the fringe of that red scarf was a delicate, hand-woven red silk cord. It looked hauntingly familiar, but before I could process where I had seen it, my eyes moved down to the text. Jonah was looking down at her in the photo with an expression of tender devotion, a look I had once believed belonged exclusively to me. Below the photo, Serena had sent a message first. Jonah, maybe we should head back early. Mindy has been looking for you for three days, she must be going out of her mind. Jonah’s reply came swiftly: We’re already at the summit. We leave after watching the sunrise. Serena sent a crying emoji. But I feel so guilty inside. She’s about to become your wife. I don’t want her to get hurt because of me. A few seconds later, she added: I just wanted to say a proper goodbye to the man I loved most before I get married abroad. Once the sun rises, I’ll give you back to her. The group chat went quiet for a moment. Mrs. Jennings was the first to chime in with words of comfort. Silly child, you’re just fulfilling a final wish. Don’t go blaming yourself for everything. Seth chimed in right after: My future sister-in-law has a gentle temper. Once my brother gets back and sweet-talks her a bit, she’ll be fine. Serena didn’t refuse their comfort. She posted another photo of herself snuggled deep into Jonah’s chest. Thank you, everyone. Without you, I would have carried this regret for the rest of my life. Right after that, Jonah typed: Is Mindy still searching by the river? Tori replied: Don’t worry, she came down with a heavy fever, she can barely stand. I locked her up at home. She won’t interrupt your sunrise view. Seth dropped a laughing emoji. She’s so dense. She literally cried all night holding that bloody jacket. Bro, you better sweet-talk her real good when you get back. Jonah replied: She’s easygoing. A few sweet words and it’ll blow over. Serena leaves tomorrow, I can’t leave her with regrets at the end. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my hands shaking so violently I could barely hold the phone. The chat kept scrolling with incoming messages. Mrs. Jennings typed: My head aches from pretending to faint all day! You guys better wrap it up. If the search party keeps dragging the river, this is going to turn into a massive public scene. A mutual friend added: Tomorrow, according to plan, Jonah will magically show up at the abandoned cabin on Shadow Ridge. Tear his shirt up a bit, smear some blood on his forehead, and say he fell down a slope and passed out. Seth asked: Will Mindy buy it? Tori replied: She lost her damn mind these past three days. As long as Jonah walks back alive, she’ll believe whatever comes out of his mouth. Tears flooded my eyes, blurring the harsh white text on the screen. I scrolled up through the chat history. Three days ago, Serena had dropped a long voice message into the group. Her voice had been trembling with soft, fragile restraint. Jonah, I’m moving abroad to get married next week. All these years, I keep dreaming about that snow mountain trail we never got to finish. But you’re getting married soon, I shouldn’t disrupt your life. Forget it, pretend I never mentioned it. Directly beneath that voice note, Jonah had typed: I’ll take you. Serena took a long time to reply: What about Mindy? Jonah said: She won’t agree, so she can’t know. What followed was a step-by-step masterclass in deception, as everyone in that chat helped them engineer the perfect lie. Mrs. Jennings was the first to give her blessing. Go ahead. Mindy is sensible, she won’t break up with you over a small thing like this. Seth had asked: What about Mindy though? You two are getting married in seven days. Jonah replied: As long as she thinks I met with an accident, she won’t have the time or energy to track my whereabouts. Tori had paused for a long time before sending her message: Isn’t this a bit too cruel? My heart squeezed tight in my chest. I stared at the screen, a pathetic, foolish spark of hope still lingering in my soul. A second later, Tori added another line: Mindy is hyper-perceptive. A simple disappearance won’t trick her. You have to park the car by the riverbank. Leave the phone, wallet, and wedding ring behind to make it look real. Serena had immediately chimed in: Won’t that terrify Mindy? Jonah, maybe we shouldn’t go. I’m not worth putting her through all this. Right after typing those words, she had posted a picture of herself sitting in a hospital corridor, looking pale with an IV band on her wrist. The doctor says my anxiety has been acting up again. But don’t worry, I’ll pull through on my own. The group chat exploded with concern. Everyone scrambled to comfort her. Not a single person mentioned whether I would be driven out of my mind with terror. The eyewitness at East Pier was arranged by Tori. The bloody jacket in the North Outskirts was planted by Seth. Mrs. Jennings was tasked with using fainting spells and hysterics to tie me down. Our closest friends took turns driving me to dead-end locations to keep me running in circles. Even the wet leather shoe dragged out of the river had been purchased in advance by them and tossed downstream on purpose. They had outlined every single detail in cold, meticulous prose. And they had taken my complete mental breakdown as proof that their “Operation Dream Come True” was proceeding with wild success. In the group media gallery, there was a short video clip. In the video, Serena stood beneath the snow-capped peak, asking softly, “Jonah, lying to Mindy like this… is it really okay?” Jonah adjusted her red scarf, pulling it snug around her neck. “She won’t find out. Everyone is on our side.” Serena lowered her eyes, a single tear falling right on cue. “I still envy her. No matter what you do, she’s the one you’re going to marry in the end.” Jonah stayed silent for a few seconds before wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close. “Don’t bring her up today.” Leaning against his chest, a subtle, triumphant smile flickered across the corner of Serena’s lips. The video cut off. The shower in the bathroom shut off with a metallic click. I swiftly forwarded the chat logs, photos, and video files to my own phone, cleared the transfer history, and placed Tori’s device back onto the nightstand. The bathroom door swung open. Tori walked out drying her wet hair with a towel. Seeing me sitting upright on the edge of the mattress, she froze. “When did you wake up, Mindy?” 7 I raised my head and looked at her. This woman had been my best friend for twelve years. When her stepfather used to beat her, I was the one who snuck her out of her house in the middle of the night. When her mother needed emergency surgery, I lent her the money I had saved for my housing down payment without a second thought. During the darkest six months of her unemployment, she lived under my roof, eating my food and wearing my clothes, without paying a dime. When Jonah vanished, she had held me while I cried, walked the freezing streets pasting fliers, and wiped the blood off my scraped palms. Yet she was also the very first person to suggest leaving Jonah’s car by the river. She knew precisely how to break me because she knew me better than anyone alive. Tori shuffled uncomfortably under my gaze. “Mindy, what’s wrong? Why are you staring at me like that?” I shook my head slowly. “Nothing.” She walked over and pressed her palm against my forehead. “Your fever dropped a bit. Seth just texted saying there might be a new lead near Shadow Ridge. Get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll head over tomorrow morning.” Looking at her face, which was painted with such convincing concern, I suddenly wanted to ask her a question. Tori, during those three days, when you held me in your arms, did you feel even a single second of disgust at yourself? In the end, I asked nothing. I pulled the blanket back over myself and closed my eyes. “Okay. Tomorrow, we’ll go together and bring Jonah home.” Tori let out a quiet sigh of relief. She had no idea. When I said “bring him home,” I meant bringing him back to watch this sickening play crash down around his ears.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “587995”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After a car crash, I faked amnesia to tease my notoriously stiff husband, asking him who he was. Mark froze for a second before offering a tender smile. “I’m your brother.” I reached out playfully, running my hand over his rock-hard abs. “Like… a naughty lover kind of brother?” Mark dodged my touch, his tone laced with restrained distance. “Stop messing around. I mean your biological brother.” That got me even more excited. “Wild taboo romance! Gotta love it!” Later, when I was diagnosed with a pregnancy, Mark was beside himself with joy. Yet I stubbornly insisted on getting an abortion. He nearly went out of his mind, gripping my shoulders and begging to know why. I looked at him calmly and replied: “Forbidden sibling tropes are fun to joke about online, but in real life, who actually dates their own brother?” 01 I have always been someone who cared way too much about saving face. When other kids tripped and fell, they would cry and pick themselves up. When I fell, I would lie flat on the pavement and pretend I had simply decided it was time for a nap. Naturally, getting courted and married by Mark was the proudest achievement of my life. As the youngest associate professor at the university, Mark was ridiculously attractive in a cool, distant way. Whenever he stood behind the lecture podium, the quiet clicking of student phone cameras sounded like a flock of cicadas. After we got married, Mark treated me like a precious glass doll, taking care of my every need. Everyone who saw us couldn’t help but gush about how lucky I was to score an older, refined man. When it came to romance, however, Mark was painfully vanilla. Even if I took the initiative and begged for a kiss, he would only peck my cheek or forehead before giving my head an affectionate little pat. So when he called himself my brother after my accident, I felt a surge of relief. My stiff, uptight husband is finally learning how to roleplay. To be fair, the car crash was minor. I only ended up with a few bruises and a mild concussion. But when I woke up from my stupor and saw Mark sitting by my bed, the dark circles under his eyes heavy with exhaustion, my heart melted. I wanted to play a little prank to lighten the mood. Who knew Mark wouldn’t follow the script and would go straight for a forbidden blood-relation drama? Since he wanted to act, I couldn’t let the ball drop. Where would my dignity go if I broke character first? And so, I kept up the act for a full week. Every single day, I had to exert all my willpower to keep my hands off Mark’s broad chest, which looked like it was actively threatening his shirt buttons. Finally, Mark seemed convinced that I had genuinely lost my memory. He reached out and gently ruffled my hair. “Sweetheart, there’s something I need to tell you.” “My wife, your brother’s wife, is actually staying in this same hospital.” “Since you have amnesia, you probably don’t remember her. If you’re feeling up to it, I can take you to see her.” I giggled silently in my head. I was already picturing the scene where Mark would lead me to a full-length mirror, point at my reflection, and say, Look, this is my wife. Instead, Mark walked me down the long hospital corridor and stopped in front of a private room. He pushed the door open. Lying on the crisp white hospital bed was a complete stranger. “Is that you, Sienna?” The woman looked up, her voice gentle and soft. “Mark told me you were in a car accident and lost your memory. I was so worried about you. Come here and let me look at you. Thank goodness your pretty face didn’t get scratched.” Mark gave me a soft nudge from behind. “Sweetheart, this is my wife, Giselle.” My mind went instantly blank. Who? For a split second, I actually questioned if I really had amnesia. But I knew down to the exact drawer where our red marriage certificates were stored at home. Seeing me frozen in place, Giselle looked at me with tender concern. “Sienna, I know your head is foggy right now. It’s completely normal that you don’t remember me.” She offered a timid, embarrassed smile. “Mark and I have known each other since we were kids. We were childhood sweethearts. When he came over to my house back then, my dad told me to call him big brother, but I refused. I didn’t understand it then, but when I grew up, I realized it was love. So getting married later just felt like the natural step.” What was she talking about? If she was married to my husband, then what was I? “Where’s your marriage license?” I heard my own voice come out hard and sharp. “You say you two are married. Where’s the license?” Giselle blinked, startled, then let out a soft laugh. “We have it, of course. But it’s at home. Once I get discharged…” “I don’t want to wait until you get discharged,” I cut her off. “I want to see it right now.” Giselle instinctively glanced past me toward Mark, her eyes filled with a helpless plea. “Well… maybe Mark can run home and grab it?” “No, I need to see proof right now!” My voice hit a high, jagged note. “If you two are really married, you must have photos on your phone, right? Wedding pictures, album posts, social media updates! Show me right now. If you can’t, you’re a liar!” Giselle’s already pale face drained of all color. “Stop it, Sienna.” Mark frowned, his tone heavy and stern, just like an older brother scolding a bratty younger sister. “Giselle isn’t like you. Her health is fragile. Don’t push her like this.” As if on cue to prove his point, Giselle suddenly clutched her chest and began coughing violently, gasping for air. “Giselle!” Mark rushed to the bedside, wrapping one arm around her shoulder while using his other hand to gently pat her back in a practiced, fluid motion. I stood all alone by the doorway, a band-aid stuck to my forehead, my eyes stinging as tears welled up uncontrollably. 02 I turned around and walked away. Roleplay or not, I didn’t want to play this sick game anymore. All I wanted was to go home, open our bedroom door, and look at the framed wedding photo hanging above our bed. In that photo, I was wearing a white veil, my eyes crinkling with joy, while Mark stood beside me in his tailored suit, his gentle eyes looking only at me. Then, I would grab my documents from the nightstand and figure out how to get a clean, dignified divorce. When I got back to my hospital room and grabbed my coat, I looked up to find Mark standing at the door. “Where are you going?” “Home.” “Do you even remember where home is?” I choked on my words. “Sweetheart…” Mark stepped closer, staring at me intently. “Did you remember something? Or… did you never lose your memory at all?” I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to yell that I never lost my memory, that I was his wife, not his sister. I wanted to ask him if he realized what he was doing. If I hadn’t been pretending, was he really planning to let another woman claim to be his wife right in front of my face for the rest of my life? I wanted to ask him if we had really been married for three years, or if I had been living with a complete stranger. But the words gathered in my throat and dissolved into a bitter lump. Why should I tell him the truth? If I admitted to faking my amnesia now, I would be admitting that I lied to him first. He would turn it back on me, blaming my little trick for his grand deception. When I first started this joke, all I wanted was to see his flustered reaction. The moment he panicked, I was going to throw my arms around his neck and laugh, Fooled you! How could I ever forget a husband as handsome as you? Then I would watch him smile that helpless, indulgent smile of his, the kind where the corners of his eyes crinkled softly, making me feel utterly safe. It was supposed to be a sweet, silly moment between husband and wife. I never imagined it would open the door for another woman to step into my life. And why was Mark teaming up with her to deceive me? Fine. If he wanted to act, I would play the part until the very end. When the lie finally unraveled, I would see his real answer. “…I wish I had never forgotten,” I murmured, lowering my head to hide the wetness in my eyes. “I don’t remember you, and I definitely don’t remember having a sister-in-law like her. Neither of you can even produce a single wedding photo. How do I know you aren’t human traffickers trying to kidnap me?” Mark stared at me for a long time. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. He walked over, pulled his phone from his suit pocket, unlocked it, and opened his photo album. The first picture was of me, grinning foolishly at the camera while making bunny ears behind Mark’s head. He swiped right. It was a photo of Mark standing in front of his alma mater alongside a handsome young man with bleached blonde hair. Mark swiped past it quickly. The next photo showed only his hand holding a cozy blanket, covering me while I was fast asleep on the couch, drooling slightly. “See? This is you, and this is me,” Mark said, his voice softening as he looked at the screen. “We are family.” He looked down at me, pausing for a moment. “As for Giselle… she’s sick. Stage four lung cancer.” My head snapped up, meeting his gaze. “Giselle’s father was my benefactor,” Mark explained softly. “My grandmother and I used to live in a crumbling mud hut in the mountains. She washed clothes for extra cash just to raise me. When she was diagnosed with kidney failure, the dialysis bills were astronomical.” “It was Giselle’s father who paid for everything. After my grandmother passed away, he brought me into his home, put me through school, and taught me how to be a proper man. He told me, Mark, study hard and get out of these mountains. You don’t belong in the dirt.” “Without him, I would have starved to death in that hut. I wouldn’t be the man I am today.” Mark’s eyes filled with exhaustion and deep guilt. “But good people don’t always get good endings. He fell ill suddenly. On his deathbed, he held my hand and said the only thing he worried about was his daughter. He asked me to take care of her.” Mark had promised him. “I owe her father my life,” Mark whispered. “I can’t just abandon her. She doesn’t have much time left. I just want to stay by her side through this final stretch. It’s the only way I can repay my debt to her father.” Listening to him, everything finally clicked into place. We had dated for two years and been married for three. Mark was a popular professor, and bold female students often asked for his contact information. He always handled those situations gracefully and reported them to me right away, completely transparent. Yet, in all those years, he had never once mentioned the name Giselle. He had kept her hidden so very well. Then I thought about the car crash. After we married, Mark insisted that I didn’t need to work, promising to provide for me so I could live comfortably. But sitting around at home for too long made me feel useless, so I recently started sending out resumes. On the afternoon of my crash, I had just finished an interview. Mark was supposed to pick me up, but he called at the last minute, claiming a male graduate student of his was having a mental health crisis and he had to rush to the hospital. Mark had mentioned that student multiple times before. He said the guy couldn’t get over his ex-girlfriend, constantly sending her desperate texts and calls. Later, he fell into severe depression and stood on the roof several times. Mark was always the one called in to pull him back. I used to think Mark was just an exceptionally responsible professor, listening to his stories like dramatic campus gossip. That day was no exception. “What happened to him this time?” I had asked over the phone. “He swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. They’re pumping his stomach right now,” Mark had sounded utterly drained. “Sweetheart, can you take a cab home by yourself? I’ll make your favorite pork rib and yam soup when I get back tonight.” So, I happily booked a taxi. And then my taxi got rear-ended. Looking back now, that troubled male student never existed. The person Mark rushed to see that afternoon was Giselle. And those dramatic stories were just gender-swapped versions of reality. Giselle was his ex. After they broke up, she couldn’t let go. Even after Mark married me, she kept clinging to him, using her failing health and mental state to keep him tethered. How long had Mark been living this double life behind my back? Perhaps even back when we were dating, he was already playing both sides. Benefactor’s daughter on one side, girlfriend turned wife on the other. Trying to care for both, weighed down by guilt for both, maintaining a fragile, suffocating balance. So when I woke up and randomly pretended to have amnesia… what did Mark feel in that exact moment? I knew the answer now. It was relief. He had finally found a loophole, a perfect solution handed to him on a silver platter. He could stay by Giselle’s side openly, fulfilling her final wishes without technically committing adultery. Because his wife didn’t even know she was his wife anymore. How brilliant of you, Professor Mark. You pushed me away with your own hands, thinking I would just stay right where you left me. I raised my head, my eyes dry and burning, but not a single tear fell. “That’s so moving,” I said, forcing a bright smile. “I believe you guys are real husband and wife now. You’re so good to your wife, big brother! When I look for a boyfriend, I definitely want someone just like you!” I even let out a small laugh, reaching out to swipe through his phone screen. I swiped back to the photo of the young man with bleached blonde hair and bedroom eyes. “By the way, brother, who’s this friend of yours? What’s his name? He looks super handsome. Why don’t you introduce us?” Mark’s breathing hitched. 03 Mark’s face went rigid, his tone turning cold and clinical. “His name is Rowan. He was the last student Giselle’s father funded. I heard he recently started a successful tech company.” Mark kept his eyes fixed on my face as he spoke. The moment I nodded, he abruptly changed his tune. “But his private life is a complete mess. He’s been wild and unmanageable since he was a kid. The first time Giselle’s father went to visit him with gifts, Rowan thought he was a kidnapper and shoved him straight into a muddy ditch, standing on the bank laughing his head off.” Mark locked his phone screen and slid it back into his pocket, his voice turning into a low, persuasive coo. “Trust me, sweetheart. A guy like him isn’t right for you.” Mark glanced out the window. It was the rainy season, and heavy gray clouds hung thick over the city skyline. “You’re not in good shape right now, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving you home alone. I talked to Hank and Lily. You can stay at their place while I’m away, okay?” Hank was an old colleague of Mark’s, and Lily was his wife. The two of them were constantly bickering, so they always envied Mark and me, talking about how in three years of marriage, they had never seen us raise our voices. Mark was always patient and gentle, and I cared too much about keeping up appearances to throw a tantrum. We simply never had a reason to fight. I got into Mark’s car. We barely made it past the second intersection before his phone rang, automatically routing through the car’s Bluetooth speakers. “Hubby?” Giselle’s sweet, affectionate voice echoed clearly through the car. Mark pressed his lips into a tight line, but he still let out a quiet, “Yeah?” My nails dug deep into the flesh of my palms. Giselle called out to him a second time. “Hubby, did you catch up to Sienna? Why did she leave so suddenly?” “Did I say something that upset her? It’s all my fault. Hubby, you should really spend more time with Sienna.” “I might have to do the lung biopsy later today. I looked it up, they insert a long needle through the chest wall under CT guidance. It’s local anesthesia, so I’ll be awake the whole time.” “But it’s fine. I can handle it alone.” Her voice was soft, fragile, and selfless. “Hubby, you don’t need to rush back to be with me. I’m okay. Anyway, I won’t disturb you two anymore.” The call disconnected. The car happened to reach a busy crossroads. Turning left led to Hank’s house, at least an hour’s drive away. Turning right meant circling back to the hospital. I turned my head to look at Mark. His face was completely devoid of emotion. I opened my mouth, intending to tell him to just turn back to the hospital since medical care was more important and I wasn’t that petty. Before I could speak, Mark flipped his right turn signal on and merged into the right lane. The first heavy raindrop slammed against the windshield. Within seconds, downpour sheets of rain battered the glass. I slowly closed my mouth and stared out the passenger window. Mark finally spoke. “Sweetheart, I’ll drop you off somewhere nearby first. I bought a place near the hospital. I’ll come pick you up as soon as I’m done staying with Giselle.” I turned back to him. “What kind of place?” Mark hesitated for a moment, his eyes fixed on the rain-drenched road ahead, looking thoroughly exhausted. “Giselle used to… spend a lot of time in the hospital. To make it easier to take care of her, I bought a small apartment nearby.” I didn’t even know how to describe the feeling rising in my chest. My husband had bought a private sanctuary near the hospital for another woman, spending countless nights caring for her there. And I only found out because I was pretending to have amnesia. The rain outside grew heavier, pounding against the window like a frantic heartbeat. My mind, curiously, went entirely quiet. When we pulled up to the apartment complex, he unlocked the door and led me inside. The place was dripping with signs of daily life. In the shoe rack at the entryway, there were only two pairs of slippers, a matching couple’s set in pale pink and sky blue. There were no spare guest slippers. Mark bent down, pulled out the pink pair, and handed them to me. “Wear these for now. I’ll buy a new pair on my way back.” Before leaving, Mark ruffled my hair again, offering careful instructions. “It’s slick out there, so don’t wander around. I’ll be right back after I check on Giselle. Be a good girl, okay?” The second Mark walked out the door, I began tearing the apartment apart. After digging up four hundred-dollar bills from a drawer, I grabbed an umbrella from the hallway and headed straight out into the storm. Mark had taken my phone after the accident, and he had likely left it back at our real home. I needed to get my phone back, along with my official documents. The storm had turned ferocious. The moment I popped the umbrella open, the wind nearly blew it inside out, soaking my shoes and socks instantly. I caught a cab back to our house and used the keypad to unlock the front door. Sure enough, my phone was sitting on the console table in the foyer, its battery drained down to a single percent. I plugged it into a charger right away and hurried into the bedroom to retrieve my documents. My gaze brushed past the large wedding portrait hanging above the bed, a wave of sour irony washing over me. Just as I pulled my suitcase out from the closet, my phone chimed. I picked it up. It was the HR manager from the company I had interviewed with the previous week. “Hi, Sienna! Our team lead really loved your presentation from the first round. We tried reaching out earlier and were worried when we couldn’t get through. We have a final interview scheduled for two-thirty this afternoon. Are you available? If it goes well, you can start onboarding today!” I gripped the phone, stunned, feeling the suffocating pressure in my chest finally ease up just a fraction. “Yes! Yes, absolutely! I can be there right away!” I agreed eagerly. I checked the time. It was already 1:15 PM. I opened a rideshare app, booked a car, grabbed my purse, and dashed back out into the rain. The driver was a middle-aged guy who started cursing about traffic the moment I got in. I stayed silent, staring blankly out the window. Up ahead, I noticed a huge puddle on the side of the road, right next to a pedestrian walking with an umbrella. I narrowed my eyes. Just as the person started looking strangely familiar, the driver suddenly slammed on the gas. “Excuse me, there’s a huge puddle over there, watch out for—” Before I could finish my warning, the car sped right past, splashing a wall of muddy water straight over the pedestrian. I instinctively turned around to look through the rear window. The man was standing there soaked, slowly lowering his umbrella. His bleached blonde hair shone shockingly bright against the gray, dreary sky. He raised a hand, looking like he was trying to hail a cab. I turned back around. At the next intersection, there was another puddle with several pedestrians waiting for a ride. The driver pulled the exact same trick, swerving toward the curb and stomping on the accelerator. Except this time, as soon as the car got close, one of the pedestrians pulled a concrete brick from behind his back. A loud, violent THUD echoed from the back of the car. The driver slammed on the brakes, pulled over, and jumped out cursing up a storm to confront the pedestrian. Anxiety surged through me. I checked my phone inside the car. It was 2:13 PM, and my battery was down to 5%. I quickly sent a text to the HR manager: [I am so sorry, I ran into an emergency on the way. I might be a little late.] The HR manager took a moment to reply: [We have other candidates lined up today. The latest we can stretch it for you is 3:00 PM. Please hurry.] I texted back a quick thank-you. Without even bother opening my umbrella, I opened the door and stepped out, desperate to hail another cab. The moment I raised my hand, the bald driver grabbed my arm with a vice-like grip. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going? You’re my passenger! You have to testify for me! I didn’t see that puddle! Make him pay for the damage!” He pulled with so much force on the slick, rain-soaked pavement that my feet slipped right out from under me. I crashed heavily onto the ground, landing hard in a deep puddle of muddy water. Both arguing men went dead silent. At that exact moment, thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain poured down harder. I sat there, completely dazed. My thighs and palms throbbed with a sharp, burning pain from hitting the asphalt. Wet strands of hair stuck to my face as muddy water dripped down my chin. In that moment, I wanted Mark to be by my side so badly. I wanted to break down and sob. But he wasn’t there. He was at the hospital, holding Giselle’s hand like a loving husband. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t cry right now. If I cried, I would lose the last shred of dignity I had left. Just then, the sound of screeching tires cut through the rain. A bright yellow taxi pulled up to the curb, and Rowan pushed the back door open and stepped out. He was covered in mud spots too, his designer shirt soaked through, looking like a drowned cat. Yet, he had a grin on his face as he walked straight up to the bald driver. Rowan delivered a brutal, solid punch right to the driver’s gut. The driver let out a pathetic groan, doubling over as his knees gave out, his face falling straight into the muddy puddle. Rowan shook out his fist, his grin widening. “Revenge is a dish best served instantly.” He turned around and caught sight of me sitting on the ground. “What’s going on here? Bullying a woman? Guess one punch wasn’t enough.” He bent down slightly and extended a hand toward me. “Can you stand up?” I didn’t look at him. I pushed myself up off the wet ground, grabbed my soaked purse, and sprinted straight for the taxi he had just stepped out of. Rowan yelled from behind me, “Hey! That’s my cab!” I pulled the door open, slid inside, and handed two hundred-dollar bills to the driver. “I’m paying for his ride too! Double! Please take me to this address as fast as you can!” The driver slammed his foot on the gas. At 2:27 PM, I finally stumbled into the office building for my interview. The HR manager took one look at my drenched, muddy appearance and froze, an awkward expression washing over her face. “Um… Sienna, I am so sorry…” “We actually just selected a candidate a few minutes ago. It was the director’s call, our hands are tied…” I took a deep, shaky breath and closed my eyes. It was fine. If this job didn’t work out, I would find another one. I was never a woman with only one path forward. I had simply spent too long inside the cozy shelter Mark built for me. I was just out of practice when it came to facing the cold, hard world alone. Sitting in the freezing, air-conditioned waiting room, my legs felt completely numb. I opened my purse to check my things. My documents were soaked into a clump of paper pulp, and my phone screen was shattered, completely unresponsive no matter how many times I pressed the power button. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay. By the time I made it back to the apartment near the hospital, night had fallen, and the rain was still coming down. When I unlocked the door, a wave of cozy, warm yellow light greeted me. The rich aroma of home-cooked food filled the air. A white ceramic pot sat on the counter, filled with steaming pork rib and yam soup. Mark walked out of the kitchen, wearing an apron printed with little teddy bears, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It looked almost ridiculously cute on him. The moment his eyes landed on me standing by the entrance, his pupils contracted sharply. “Sweetheart?!” Mark rushed over, wrapping a soft throw blanket from the couch around my shoulders, his hand immediately checking the temperature of my forehead. “Where did you go? Did you try to find your way home by yourself? Why are you covered in mud? You’re freezing… Wait here, I’ll go run a hot bath for you right now.” He turned to leave, but I reached out and snagged the strap of his apron. My heart, which had been frozen solid all afternoon, completely melted under a wave of overwhelming grief and betrayal. “Mark…” My vision blurred, and tears began falling uncontrollably. I buried my face directly into his chest and sobbed out loud. Mark froze for a split second before pulling me tightly into his arms, his voice laced with suffocating pain and self-reproach. “It’s okay, it’s okay now. I’m right here. Your brother is right here.” You’re not my brother. You’re my husband. You’re the man who stood beside me at the altar and swore to love and cherish me in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do us part. Why do I have to share you with someone else? In that moment, regardless of what he had done, I was ready to forgive him. I lifted my head, looking up at him through a haze of tears. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to say that I had never lost my memory, and that I had missed him so much today. “Mark, I actually—” “Oh, Sienna? What happened to you? Why are you covered in mud?” A voice cut through the air. I turned toward the hallway and saw Giselle stepping out of the master bedroom. She was wearing a pair of plush bear pajamas, her long hair draped casually over her shoulders. She stood in the warm light, looking relaxed, settled, and completely at home. She looked far more like the mistress of this house than I did. “Giselle,” Mark frowned instinctively, loosening his arms around me just a fraction. “Dinner isn’t ready yet. You should rest a bit longer.” Giselle playfully stuck her tongue out. “You always tell me to sleep. If I sleep any longer, I’ll turn into a mummy.” She turned to me with an apologetic smile. “I was supposed to get that lung biopsy done this afternoon, but I was just too terrified… So Mark comforted me and said we could push it to tomorrow. He told me to come stay here tonight so I could relax.” She offered a soft smile. “So Mark came back to cook for me. Sienna, why don’t you join us? There’s plenty of soup.” I stood there, frozen solid, feeling the cold seep right back into my bones. Noticing me shivering, Mark looked down at me, his eyes filled with worry and unease. “Sweetheart, what were you trying to say just now? What did you mean by ‘actually’?” “…Nothing.” I stepped backward, pulling myself entirely out of his warm embrace. “I already ate outside. I’ll go take a shower. You two go ahead.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “587994”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My father-in-law drove a city bus his entire adult life. Years ago, to save a destitute college girl having a violent seizure in the back of his bus, he blew through three red lights to get her to the emergency room. He saved her life. In return, she filed a formal complaint against him using her real name. He had only wanted to save a life, but the transit authority fired him for a severe traffic violation, stripping away his pension in the process. The girl who reported him was named Harper. Thanks to that very report, she was awarded the “Civic Compliance Scholarship” by her university. When I took his termination papers to demand an explanation from her, she just stared at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Rules are rules. A driver running red lights is gambling with the passengers’ lives. Even if it’s to save someone, it’s strictly forbidden.” Years later, she fought her way through rounds of brutal interviews, and her final onboarding contract for our tech conglomerate landed right on my desk. I was the VP of Human Resources. Right in front of her face, I fed that contract into the shredder. “Rules are rules. Your background check revealed a severe lack of moral integrity, and your immediate family has a history of defaulted debt. I cannot sign this.” 1 “Mr. Cross, you didn’t just shred my contract. You shredded your own career.” Harper didn’t even flinch or try to fish the paper scraps out of the bin. She calmly reached up to her collar, unclipped a button-shaped hidden camera, and placed it on my desk. The recording light was still blinking red. The glass doors to the conference room weren’t fully closed. Outside, the hallway was packed with candidates waiting for their final interviews. Every word I just said had echoed out into the corridor. Harper turned her phone around to face me. On the screen, the live stream counter had already crossed eighty thousand viewers. The stream title was a single, glaring sentence. “Corporate HR VP Abuses Power to Blacklist Whistleblower Over Family Grudge.” The comments were scrolling by in a blur, but a few jumped out at me. “Just because she reported his father-in-law?” “Since when does an HR VP have executioner powers?” “This isn’t a job interview. This is a corporate lynching.” Harper placed her hand flat over her printed background check report. “Mr. Cross, the defaulted debt under my father’s name was exactly two thousand seven hundred dollars, and the court has already issued a clearance certificate proving it was paid.” “According to your company’s own hiring guidelines, a resolved civil debt does not constitute grounds for rejection.” “As for my supposed lack of moral integrity, I’d love to know what criteria you are using.” I stared at her. “You filed a formal complaint against the man who saved your life. Does that count?” “Reporting an illegal act counts as a lack of moral integrity?” Her eyes slowly grew red, but her voice didn’t waver a single decibel. “By that logic, shouldn’t this company cancel its annual Compliance Awareness Month?” “Shouldn’t the whistleblower email hotline be shut down?” “If an employee discovers financial fraud tomorrow, should they first check to see if the fraudster ever did them a favor before reporting it?” Outside the door, people started raising their phones to record. Harper turned her face slightly toward the camera lens, exposing a pale scar behind her ear. “This is from the craniotomy I had to undergo back then.” “I lost consciousness on that bus. I had no idea where the driver was taking me, and I had no ability to consent.” “When I woke up, I found out an entire bus full of passengers had been forced to run three red lights with him.” “I didn’t report him for saving my life.” “I reported him for gambling with forty other lives to save mine without their consent.” She spoke with terrifying stability. It was the stability of a script rehearsed hundreds of times. Vern, our Legal Manager, burst into the conference room. “Declan, shut the stream down.” Harper took a step back. “Mr. Vern. Your company policy strictly dictates that a candidate’s personal devices cannot be forcibly confiscated during the interview process.” Vern went pale. “How do you know my name?” “It’s on the executive roster on your website.” She pulled a stack of papers from her folder. “Section Seventeen of your Recruitment Management Regulations states that once a candidate passes the final interview and approvals are completed, the offer cannot be rescinded due to an interviewer’s personal reasons unless there is a severe material omission.” “My final approvals cleared last night.” “Your job today, Mr. Cross, was merely to sign on the dotted line.” Vern whipped his head toward me. “Her approvals cleared?” I picked up the routing slip from my desk. The VP of Operations, the Finance Director, and the Compliance Department had all signed off. My signature block was at the very bottom. The onboarding window expired exactly at noon today. We had twenty-seven minutes left. Harper stared at the clock on the wall. “Mr. Cross, you have twenty-seven minutes.” “If you don’t sign by noon, the company will be guilty of rescinding an offer without just cause.” “Based on the competing offer I declined to be here, the compensation penalty will not be less than sixty thousand dollars.” “Of course, I’d much prefer it if your company gave the public a formal explanation instead.” Vern lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Just turn off the stream. We can reprint the contract.” “Why should I turn it off?” Harper looked directly into the lens. “If Mr. Cross has the guts to do this, why shouldn’t I let people watch?” Whispers erupted in the hallway outside. Someone had already dug up my father-in-law’s old case. “I found it. The driver from the Route 9 bus.” “The transit authority’s public notice back then said he was emotionally unstable and refused to follow dispatch orders.” “So his son-in-law is using his corporate position to take revenge on the whistleblower?” The corner of Harper’s mouth twitched upward for a fraction of a second before she suppressed it. It was the exact same micro-expression she had years ago. When she won that scholarship, a reporter asked if she felt bad that the driver lost his job. She had pursed her lips the exact same way. Then she said, “Adults need to take responsibility for breaking the law.” Vern grabbed my arm. “Declan, sign it.” I didn’t move. “Her background check still has red flags.” “What red flags?” “During her four years in college, she filed seventeen formal complaints under her real name. People were disciplined or fired at all three of her previous internships because of her.” Harper smiled. “Is it a crime to speak up when I see a violation?” “You reported the cafeteria worker for giving an extra scoop of meat to a broke student.” “The cafeteria operates on strict quota accounting. Extra portions are a violation of policy.” “You reported the dorm RA for opening the doors after hours for a student with a fever.” “The security protocol mandates the doors lock at midnight.” “You reported your internship supervisor for using his personal account to cover a refund for a client.” “The company strictly prohibits private financial transactions with clients.” With every answer she gave, the army of compliance defenders in her live stream grew stronger. For the first time, I realized she wasn’t just deaf to human decency. She actively translated human decency into policy violations she could weaponize. Harper pushed a pen across the desk toward me. “Mr. Cross, nineteen minutes left.” “You have every right to dislike me.” “But your personal grudges are not written in the company handbook.” I picked up the pen. Suddenly, someone in the hall shouted, “The CEO is here.” The crowd parted. Richard Bancroft, our CEO, walked briskly into the room with the PR Director and two cameramen trailing behind him. He didn’t ask for context. He just snatched the background check report from my hands. “Declan, you are suspended from duty effective immediately.” “Richard, her background check carries massive risks.” “Right now, you are the biggest risk to this company.” Richard placed a fresh copy of the contract in front of Vern. “Initiate the proxy signature protocol.” Vern took the pen, his hand hovering over the paper. Harper finally let her smile show. “You see, Mr. Cross? Rules don’t suddenly stop working just because you have a fancy title.” I stared at the blinking red light on her chest. Over a hundred thousand people were watching me get stripped of my badge. Before the clock struck twelve, she was going to step right over my father-in-law’s termination papers and walk into the HR department I built. Richard’s voice was heavy with impatience. “Sign it, Vern.” 2 “You can’t sign that contract. She concealed the fact that she was live-streaming.” I slammed my hand down on the signature page. Vern instantly pulled his hand back. But Harper just turned the camera to face herself. “I am under no obligation to inform my abuser of how I choose to collect evidence.” “The company visitor policy clearly states that unauthorized recording is prohibited in the office areas.” “I am in the candidate interview zone.” She pulled out her phone and opened the visitor confirmation text. “There is no recording ban attached to this notification.” “The front desk didn’t ask me to check my devices either.” “Your management loopholes do not constitute concealment on my part.” Richard glanced at the rapidly climbing viewer count on her stream. “Declan, let go of the paper.” I kept my hand pinned to the desk. “She manufactured this PR crisis on purpose. Her motives for joining are compromised.” Harper took a step forward. “My motive is to get a job.” “From the written exams to the final round, I scored first place across the board.” “You are the one who dragged a personal vendetta into the office and ruined a standard hiring process.” She reached out and yanked the contract. The thick paper pulled taut between us, and the sharp edge sliced clean through my fingertip. A drop of blood fell onto the offer letter. The chat instantly exploded with people accusing me of flying into a violent rage. Richard pried my hand off the desk. “Security.” Two guards stepped in and shoved me to the side. Harper took the contract back and gently smoothed out the wrinkles. “Mr. Cross, was your father-in-law like this too?” “Knowing full well the steering wheel wasn’t his to control alone, but refusing to let go anyway?” That sentence twisted the knife in my gut so hard I couldn’t even feel the cut on my hand anymore. Years ago, when I rushed to the transit depot, George was standing in the lobby clutching his folded uniform. Thirty-seven years of service, shoved into a single cardboard box. The management demanded he sign the disciplinary notice. He refused. The investigator told him that if he just admitted to driving recklessly out of impulse, they would downgrade the termination to a forced resignation and let him keep part of his benefits. George sat in that chair for an entire afternoon. Before he left, he only asked one question. “Next time someone is dying on a bus, are we supposed to just watch them die?” Nobody answered him. Harper was still in the hospital at the time. I went to her room to beg her to withdraw the complaint, but she was in the middle of a media interview. The reporter was handing her the Civic Compliance Scholarship certificate. She looked at the cameras and said her family was poor, her father was in debt, and the rules were the only thing she could trust to protect her. I asked her if the rules were what saved her life. She looked at me, clutching her framed certificate. “Your father-in-law could have pulled over and called an ambulance.” “He had no right to risk the lives of everyone else on board.” “Just because he didn’t crash this time doesn’t make his choice right.” Later, George had to sell the small house he bought for his retirement. The transit company sued him for the operational losses caused by the suspended route and formally severed his employment for gross negligence. My wife, Sarah, spent two years running around trying to appeal his case. The last time she walked out of the transportation authority building, she sat on the concrete steps and looked at me. “Let it go. He can’t take this anymore.” George developed severe insomnia. Whenever he heard an ambulance siren, his hands would instinctively reach for a steering wheel that was no longer there. Last winter, his kidneys started failing. The doctors said he needed regular dialysis and absolutely could not handle any more emotional shock. Harper didn’t know any of this. Or maybe she did, but figured it fell outside the scope of her beloved policy clauses. Richard finished signing the proxy approval and handed the contract to her right in front of the live stream. “Ms. Harper, this company does not tolerate management abusing their authority.” “Your employment is officially active.” Applause broke out in the hallway. I stood shoved into the crowd, my confiscated ID badge sitting abandoned on the corner of the desk. Harper took the contract with both hands. “Thank you, Richard.” “I trust that a company with such respect for the rules will deal with Mr. Cross’s behavior impartially.” Richard’s smile froze slightly. She had no intention of stopping. The PR Director stepped in. “Ms. Harper, since the misunderstanding has been resolved, would you mind ending the stream?” “This isn’t a misunderstanding.” Harper turned the lens directly onto me. “Mr. Cross explicitly admitted that he rejected me because I reported his father-in-law.” “If I hadn’t been streaming today, I would have lost my job.” “The absolute minimum he owes me is a public apology.” Vern muttered under his breath, “You already got the contract.” “I got the contract through my own merit. It wasn’t a trade.” “The apology is the penalty he has to pay for abusing his power.” The crowd around us swelled. Employees on their lunch break clogged the corridor, a sea of glowing phone screens raised in the air. Harper walked up to me and handed me a freshly printed apology statement. “It’s not long.” “You just need to admit that you interfered with the hiring process due to a personal grudge, and apologize to me and the company.” I skimmed the paper. The very last line made my blood run cold. I further acknowledge that my father-in-law’s reckless driving lacked any commendable life-saving merit, and bears no moral conflict with Ms. Harper’s lawful decision to report him. She didn’t just want me to bow my head. She wanted me to convict George with my own mouth. Richard crossed his arms. “Read it.” “I won’t.” “If you refuse to cooperate during your suspension investigation, the company has the right to terminate your contract.” Harper raised the paper higher. “Mr. Cross. Rules are rules.” I smacked the paper out of her hand. She instantly threw her weight backward, slamming her shoulder into the glass door. The camera slipped from her hand and hit the floor. The crowd gasped. Harper clutched her shoulder, tears springing to her eyes on command. “Everyone saw that.” “He put his hands on me.” Richard pointed a trembling finger at me. “Get him out of here.” The security guards grabbed my arms. In the chaos, Harper crouched down to pick up the camera. I saw her thumb deliberately press down hard on the edge of the lens housing. The plastic casing cracked. She looked up, her voice pitched perfectly to reach every phone in the room. “Mr. Cross. Destroying evidence gathering equipment means you’ll be paying damages too.” 3 “Dad, give him the oxygen tube back!” When Sarah sprinted into the hospital lounge, Harper was standing behind George’s wheelchair, gripping his portable oxygen tank. Flanking her were two internet influencers holding gimbals. Their lenses were shoved practically into George’s face. Harper yanked the oxygen tank closer to her chest. “I just want Mr. Mitchell to answer a few simple questions.” George was gasping for air. “I have nothing… to say to you.” “Your son-in-law attacked me at work to get revenge for what happened. Don’t you owe the public an explanation?” “I’m the one who ran the lights. It had nothing to do with him.” “So you admit you broke the law?” George forced his head up. “I admit I ran the red lights.” “But I will never admit I was wrong to save your life.” Harper looked straight into the camera. “You hear that, everyone?” “To this day, he still refuses to acknowledge the catastrophic consequences his reckless driving could have caused.” Sarah lunged for the oxygen tank. “Give that back to my father.” Harper pivoted smoothly, dodging her grasp. “Ma’am, your father is in the middle of an interview.” “Who gave you permission to interview him?” “We are in a public space. Recording is perfectly legal.” “That oxygen tank belongs to him!” “It struck my equipment earlier. I need to hold onto it to verify if the damage was intentional.” She then held the tank up, making sure the hospital asset tag was clearly visible in the shot. “This is evidence.” George’s lips were starting to turn a bruised, terrifying shade of purple. Sarah’s voice cracked with raw panic. “Harper, he needs oxygen!” “The ER is right down the hall. The medical staff can intervene at any moment.” “Give it to him!” “Please stop trying to tamper with evidence.” I arrived just as an influencer shoved Sarah back. George was slumped over the armrest of his wheelchair, his chest heaving like a broken bellows. I tore through the crowd and ripped the oxygen tank out of Harper’s hands. She clung to the strap, refusing to let go. “Mr. Cross, are you resorting to violence again?” “Let go.” “Not unless you promise not to destroy the evidence.” I violently threw her hands off. The momentum sent her stumbling forward, her manicured nails dragging across my neck. A sharp burn flared across my skin. I didn’t stop. I jammed the tube onto George’s face and twisted the valve open. George took three ragged, desperate breaths before the terrifying purple hue slowly began to fade from his face. Harper held up her wrist. The skin was slightly red. “Make sure you get this on camera.” “Mr. Cross has assaulted me for the second time.” Sarah spun around and slapped her across the face. The sound was sharp as a gunshot. Every single camera in the room jolted. Harper’s head whipped to the side. She stood frozen for a long time. Sarah’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. “That slap was for pulling an oxygen tank away from a dying man.” Harper slowly turned her head back around. Five distinct red welts were already blooming on her cheek. She didn’t retaliate. Instead, she held the cracked button camera up to the influencers’ lenses. “Now everyone knows why I have to record everything.” “When this family encounters someone who refuses to bow to them, they resort to physical violence.” Sarah lunged at her again. I grabbed Sarah and pulled her back against my chest. “Stop. Don’t hit her.” “She was going to kill my father!” “I did no such thing.” Harper dabbed a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth. “The tank was out of Mr. Mitchell’s possession for less than two minutes.” “We are standing fifty feet from the Emergency Room.” “Basic medical science dictates that a two-minute delay is insufficient to cause death.” Hearing that, George gripped the armrests and tried to push himself up. “Is that… how you calculated it back then too?” “Calculating exactly how many minutes I had left before you died? Calculating how many people on the bus would vote against saving you?” Harper looked down at him. “I was unconscious. I couldn’t make any decisions.” “So the moment you woke up, you reported him?” Sarah was crying now. “My dad paid your emergency room deposit out of his own pocket.” “You walked out of that hospital without so much as a thank you.” “When you deposited that scholarship money, did you know he had to borrow cash from relatives to cover your hospital bill?” Harper was silent for two seconds. “Medical expenses are classified as a civil debt.” “If he kept the receipts, he has every right to file a legal claim against me for reimbursement.” George suddenly laughed. He laughed until he bent over, coughing violently. “I don’t want it.” “Dad.” “Sarah, I don’t want a dime from her.” George pulled the oxygen mask down and stared at Harper. “I used to lie awake wondering if maybe you were just young and terrified.” “I was actually worried that you were living with the guilt of what you did to me.” “Seeing you today, I feel so much better.” For the first time, Harper’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?” “It means you’ll never feel guilty.” Hospital security finally showed up and ordered everyone to stop filming. Harper didn’t put up a fight. She packed up her gear, then pulled a crisp legal document from her bag. “Mr. Cross, this is the official injury assessment notice from your earlier attack.” “And as for your wife’s slap, I will be filing a police report for battery.” Sarah stepped in front of George’s wheelchair. “Come at me then.” “I only follow procedural law.” Harper turned to me. “Also, the company has officially initiated your termination process.” “There is an all-hands compliance assembly tomorrow morning at 10 AM. You are required to stand on stage and explain your actions.” I stared at her. “Who told you that?” “I am an official employee now.” She held up the contract, the ink still fresh. “Richard just promoted me to the Corporate Compliance Evangelist.” In three short hours, she went from a candidate I rejected to the investigator holding my execution orders. Harper walked to the door, then paused. “Mr. Mitchell, tomorrow’s assembly will be live-streamed company-wide.” “If you’d like to attend, I can give you five minutes on stage.” George gripped his oxygen mask. “What would I do with five minutes?” Harper flashed that sickeningly familiar smile. “You can apologize to the passengers whose lives you put at risk.” 4 “If you don’t apologize, I’ll cut off his dialysis funding.” Right before the all-hands assembly, Richard slid a legal agreement across the table to me. The corporate charity fund had been covering half of George’s dialysis costs for the past year. Buried in the fine print was a clause: Family members of the beneficiary are strictly prohibited from engaging in acts that damage the company’s reputation. Richard tapped his manicured finger against that exact line. “You publicly shredded a candidate’s contract on a live stream. That is a breach of contract.” “His medical funding is an employee assistance program. It’s not hush money.” “The rules say what they say.” “Did Harper teach you that line?” Richard’s face darkened. “Drop the attitude.” “Sign this apology by 9:50 AM, and the fund keeps dispensing.” “If you don’t, Finance freezes his account at 10:00.” I had ten minutes. George just had his blood work done last night. The hospital required the next phase of treatment to be paid in full within three days, or his bed would be given to someone else. Sarah grabbed my hand, her fingers trembling. “Sign it.” “You know what that statement says, Sarah.” “I know.” Her voice was raw. “But I can’t gamble with my dad’s life.” Outside the conference room, Harper was giving another interview. The red marks from the slap had already faded. Yet she had deliberately taped a square of white gauze over the spot. A reporter asked if she was willing to accept my apology. “I am always willing to give people a chance to correct their mistakes.” “But he shouldn’t just be apologizing to me.” “Mr. Cross needs to explain to every hardworking employee why an HR VP feels entitled to hijack corporate fairness to settle a family vendetta.” Someone brought up George. Harper looked at the camera with perfectly rehearsed empathy. “I completely understand an old man’s desire to save a life.” “But good intentions cannot be used as a free pass to break the law.” Applause bled through the walls. Sarah picked up the pen and pressed it into my palm. “Declan, save Dad first.” Richard checked his watch. “Seven minutes.” I signed my name. The pen felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. The moment the ink dried, Richard snatched the paper away. “Get on stage. Read it exactly as written. Do not improvise.” “And after I read it?” “Suspended for six months, demoted to Recruiting Manager.” “I reject the demotion.” “Then we terminate your employment immediately.” “My investigation hasn’t even concluded.” Richard straightened his cuffs. “The stream peaked at over two million viewers yesterday.” “The company’s stock dropped four percent this morning.” “That is the conclusion.” At exactly 10 AM, I was escorted onto the stage. Nearly a thousand employees sat in the auditorium. The back rows were lined with media cameras, and the live stream numbers were climbing rapidly. Harper sat dead center in the front row, wearing her shiny new badge. Compliance Evangelist. After Richard’s opening speech, he handed me the microphone. “Declan, you will now issue a formal apology to Ms. Harper and the entire staff.” My signed statement flashed onto the massive LED screen behind me. I read through the second paragraph, my voice hollow. Suddenly, the side doors to the auditorium swung open. George wheeled himself into the room. Sarah’s face drained of color. “Dad, what are you doing here?” “Ms. Harper sent a car for me.” George stared up at the stage. “She told me Declan was apologizing on my behalf, and I needed to hear it.” Harper stood up smoothly. “Mr. Mitchell, you have a right to know the truth.” I squeezed the microphone until the plastic creaked. “Who gave you the right to drag a sick man out of the hospital?” “Mr. Mitchell is of sound mind and attended voluntarily.” But George shook his head. “She told me if I didn’t show up, Declan’s apology wouldn’t be considered sincere, and they’d cut my funding.” A heavy silence swept through the auditorium. The collective gaze of a thousand people bore down on Harper. Harper just smiled. “I merely explained the consequences of the situation to you.” “You call that voluntary?” “Mr. Cross, please continue reading.” The text on the massive screen flipped to the final page. I also formally acknowledge that George Mitchell’s reckless driving lacked any commendable life-saving merit. George read those words. His frail body swayed in the wheelchair. “Don’t read it.” I lowered the microphone. Richard bolted up from his seat. “Declan!” George pushed himself up, gripping the armrests. “I ran those lights. I admit it.” “The company fired me. I took the punishment.” “But you don’t get to stand there and say saving her life meant nothing.” Harper turned around to face him. “Mr. Mitchell, you are avoiding the core issue again.” “If you had run over a pedestrian that day, who would have taken responsibility?” “I would have.” “With what? You don’t have the money or the power to bring someone back to life.” George opened his mouth, but no words came out. Harper pulled a thick document from her pristine folder. “This is a joint petition signed by twenty-seven passengers who were on your bus that day.” “They unanimously agreed that your actions put their lives in severe danger against their will.” “Twelve of them are sitting in this room right now.” The cameras aggressively swung to the right side of the hall. A row of people stood up on cue. One woman said, “He wouldn’t listen to reason at all.” “He was driving like a maniac.” “My kid had nightmares for six months after that.” “If you want to save someone, call an ambulance! Why did you drag us to the hospital with you?” George’s hands slid off the armrests. He slumped back into the chair. I jumped off the stage and sprinted toward him. Before I made it three steps, security guards blocked my path. Richard cut off my microphone from the control booth. “Declan, finish the apology, or you will be terminated for insubordination.” George stared blankly at the passengers. “That day… that’s not what you said.” No one answered. Harper thrust the signed petition right in front of his face. “It’s right here in black and white. Are you still going to deny it?” George stared at the final page. Suddenly, he reached out. “They didn’t sign this.” Harper yanked the paper back defensively. “Please do not damage the evidence.” “The third signature. Gary Thorne.” George’s voice trembled violently. “Gary got in the ambulance with the paramedics that day. He died of a heart attack three days later.” “How could he sign this petition a month after the incident?” The auditorium went dead silent. The triumphant smile on Harper’s face vanished for a fraction of a second. Richard grabbed his microphone. “Irrelevant details do not change the fact that Declan violated company policy.” Suddenly, the massive LED screen went pitch black. A second later, a gritty, static-laced audio recording echoed through the speakers, flooding the entire auditorium. It was a young girl crying hysterically. “Driver, please don’t pull over for the ambulance!” “I have a brain tumor. I’m going to die!” “Please, just run the lights! I beg you!” “If anything happens, I’ll take all the responsibility! Please!” It was Harper’s voice. Every single camera whipped back to her. Harper shot up from her chair, her eyes wide with genuine panic. “Turn that off!” On the recording, George’s voice echoed back. “You’re awake?” The girl sobbed uncontrollably. “I’ve been awake the whole time!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “587993”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Seven months pregnant, I threw myself down the second-floor staircase. I didn’t want to die. I just needed to trigger a premature birth and deliver a useless, ruined source of medicine. In my past life, Harrison carved a full-term baby from my womb and extracted her bone marrow right on the operating table, all to extend the life of his precious childhood sweetheart. My baby died. I died, too. In this life, I won’t give him a single drop of my child’s blood. He wants to save Angela? She can wait for death. 01 As I stepped off the top stair, a single thought consumed my mind. Fast. Faster. My spine slammed against the sharp edges of the steps, and my head cracked against the hard marble, turning my vision black for a terrifying second. Pain. An agonizing, white-hot tear ripped from my tailbone all the way to the crown of my head. I didn’t stop. My body tumbled down the flight, and the baby inside my belly kicked violently. I’m sorry, baby. I know it hurts, but you cannot be born full-term. If you reach full term, they will drain every last drop of your marrow. Before I could roll down the final three steps, two harsh hands clamped onto my arms. “Ma’am!” The bodyguard’s voice panicked. Two men lunged forward, pinning me down on the middle landing. My back pressed against the freezing stone steps as a fierce contraction clawed through my abdomen. It was too late to stop it. I had swallowed labor-inducing drugs right before throwing myself down. Warm amniotic fluid was already leaking down my thighs. “Get her to the operating room, now!” the lead guard roared into his walkie-talkie. From the far end of the hallway, Dr. Keller came sprinting over, his white coat fluttering wildly. The moment he caught sight of the blood between my legs, his face turned deathly pale. “Stop! Her water broke! Moving her right now could kill both mother and child!” He reached out to examine my belly. A bodyguard kicked him square in the chest. Dr. Keller flew backward, crashing into the porcelain flowerpots in the corner. Shards shattered everywhere. “Mr. Harrison gave strict orders. The child must survive.” The bodyguard bent down, supporting the back of my neck with one hand and hooking his other arm under my knees, scooping me up from the cold floor. Blood dripped down my legs, dragging a sickening red smear across the pristine white marble. I bit my lower lip hard, refusing to let out a sound. The pain drove my fingernails deep into my palms, but I couldn’t scream. If I screamed, they would inject me with a sedative. That was what happened in my past life. I had screamed in agony, so they plunged a needle into my arm. I passed out, and when I woke up, my child was already gone. In this life, I would stay conscious. I wanted to watch everything with my own eyes. The guards carried me into the third-floor operating suite. The overhead lights snapped on, blinding me with a harsh, sterile glare. Under the shadowless lamp sat a delivery bed. It wasn’t a delivery bed. It was a surgical table. Equipped with heavy leather restraint straps. When they laid me down, I didn’t struggle. Because I caught sight of the man standing in the shadows. Harrison. Dressed in a tailored suit, his tie perfectly straight without a single crease. He stood six feet away from the operating table, watching the guards lift me up, watching my blood soak into the white sheets. His eyes were completely void of emotion. No heartbreak. No panic. Not even disgust. He was merely verifying one thing: whether the child was still alive. “Seven months,” Dr. Keller gasped as he was dragged into the room, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Mr. Harrison, it’s only seven months! The marrow isn’t fully developed! Extracting it now—” “Is it usable?” Harrison cut him off. Three cold words. Not a shred of hesitation. Dr. Keller swallowed hard. “Theoretically… if the match is compatible, we can extract a tiny amount, but—” “Then that’s enough.” Harrison turned around and looked down at me on the table. I lay flat on my back, sweat-soaked hair sticking to my forehead, staring blankly up at the surgical lights. He took a step closer. His polished leather shoes stepped onto the fresh blood dripping from the table, making a faint, sickening squelch. “Stella.” He called my name. His tone was completely flat, as if calling out an inventory serial number. “If you cooperate, I’ll give you a sum of money afterward. Enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your life.” I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling as a slow, bitter smile spread across my face. In my past life, he had spoken those exact same words. And then what? He handed me a death certificate. “Harrison,” my voice was horribly raspy. “Do you really think a seven-month-old preemie’s marrow can match Angela?” His brow furrowed slightly. I continued softly, “I took iron-blockers every single day for three months.” His frown deepened into a harsh glare. “What does that mean?” I turned my head and finally met his gaze. As blood poured from my body and pain wracked me with violent shivers, I laughed. “It means this child’s blood is completely ruined.” Harrison’s pupils contracted sharply. For the first time since my rebirth, I saw a crack in his icy mask. “What did you say?” His voice dropped into a dangerous murmur, like the suffocating air right before a storm. Dr. Keller froze before lunging wildly toward the diagnostic equipment, pulling a lab report. “Quick! Draw her blood and run a test!” I closed my eyes. Run all the tests you want. I had spent three months crushing those pills into powder and mixing them into my meals. I threw up every single day. I used the crudest, most agonizing method to turn my own blood into toxic waste. Angela wanted my child’s bone marrow? Take it. Not a single drop of it would ever save her life. The baby was born forty minutes later. She was tiny. Her skin was a faint purplish-blue, her cries as weak and fragile as a newborn kitten. When the nurse placed her onto the scale, I gathered the very last thread of my strength to turn my head. Three pounds, four ounces. So impossibly small. But she was alive. As long as she was breathing, that was enough. Harrison didn’t offer the baby a single glance. He stared at the lab report in Dr. Keller’s trembling hands, his knuckles turning white as he crumpled the paper in his grip. “Hemoglobin abnormal… iron levels extremely low… marrow activity evaluation… fails to meet transplant standards.” Dr. Keller’s voice grew smaller and smaller until he pulled his neck back, terrified to speak another word. The operating room fell dead silent for three agonizing seconds. Then Harrison slammed the report onto the floor. The paper fluttered to the edge of my bed, soaking up my blood. “Stella.” He turned toward me, his eyes burning with a rage I had never seen before. Yet, it was merely rage. Not a shred of heartbreak. He was furious simply because his precious white lotus was out of options. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He strode over, his fingers clamping down on my jaw with enough force to crush my cheekbones. I was forced to tilt my head up and face his eyes. In those dark eyes, I couldn’t find a single trace of emotion belonging to a husband. I let out a weak laugh. “I’m… saving my child’s life.” His grip tightened violently. “Angela only has two months left!” “Then let her die.” The moment I uttered those words, Harrison’s hand suddenly loosened. Not out of mercy. He was completely stunned by my coldness. He took a step back, staring at me as if looking at a complete stranger. Yes. I was a stranger now. The weak Stella who had begged on her knees for her baby’s life in my past life was already dead. She died right on that very same operating table. 02 They carried the baby away. I knew they would. I wasn’t afraid, because her blood was useless to them right now. Once they realized no usable marrow could be harvested, they would bring her back to me. In my past life, I hadn’t understood any of this. I had been foolishly naive, eating every strict nutritional meal they provided from day one of my pregnancy. Every single dish had been precisely calculated, not for my health, but to ensure the fetus’s bone marrow reached prime condition for harvesting. I was fattened up for nine months. Like livestock raised for slaughter. On the day of the forced C-section, before the anesthesia had even fully taken effect, I heard my baby cry once. Just once. She never made another sound. Later, when I went into severe hemorrhaging, Harrison stood outside the operating suite and signed the DNR without a second thought. Dr. Keller later confessed to me in secret, back when I was already a ghost, that Harrison’s hand hadn’t trembled for a fraction of a second when he signed my death warrant. Angela had sat in her wheelchair nearby, wrapped in a cozy blanket, smiling sweetly. She had said, “Harrison, maybe it’s better that Stella passed away. She was always so unhappy. Staying alive was just suffering for her.” Harrison had simply nodded. “Yes. I’ll arrange a dignified funeral for her.” Dignified. He had summed up my entire agonizing life with that single word. When I heard those words in the depths of hell, I didn’t even have the energy to hate him anymore. I only thought, If there is a next life, I will never marry this man again. God must have thought I was pathetic enough to grant me a second chance. When I opened my eyes, I was back at four months pregnant. The baby was still safe in my belly. Angela’s condition hadn’t rapidly deteriorated yet. Harrison hadn’t made his move against me. That day, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for an entire hour. Then I turned over, opened my phone, and searched: Iron-blockers side effects pregnant women. Now, it was three days after the birth. I was locked inside the third-floor bedroom. The windows were nailed shut, and two guards stood outside the door. In name, I was “recuperating.” In reality, Harrison was waiting for a new medical plan. He was waiting for Dr. Keller to tell him whether there was a way to fix my baby’s blood. Dr. Keller came to check on me once today. His hands shook as he changed my dressings. “Mrs. Harrison… how many of those pills did you take?” “Three months’ worth.” His hands trembled harder, nearly spilling the iodine across my wound. “Her hematological system will take at least six months to naturally recover!” “I know.” “Six months… Miss Angela can’t survive six months!” “I know.” Dr. Keller looked up at me. I stared back at him with a completely emotionless expression. He suddenly set the iodine bottle down, lowering his voice into a whisper. “Mrs. Harrison, you did this on purpose.” “What do you think?” He opened his mouth, but no words came out. As a family doctor who had served the family for a decade, he had witnessed far too many dark secrets. He knew exactly why I had done it, but he didn’t dare say it out loud. Because speaking the truth meant taking a side. And taking my side against Harrison was equivalent to seeking a death sentence. “Dr. Keller,” I called out to him as he turned away. He paused. “When will they give my child back to me?” He avoided my gaze. “That… depends on Mr. Harrison.” A cold smile touched my lips. As expected. Even though he knew the child’s bone marrow was currently useless, he wouldn’t let her go. Because he needed a backup plan. What if another medical trick worked? What if they could artificially rush her recovery? In Harrison’s world, my baby and I had never been human beings. We were medicine. We were disposable resources meant to extend Angela’s life. In my past life, I hadn’t understood this truth, begging him from pregnancy until my death. In this life, I wouldn’t waste another second pleading with him. On the fourth night, Harrison finally arrived. I heard the heavy turn of the door lock and sat up in bed. When he pushed the door open, he brought a draft of cold air with him, carrying the faint scent of hospital disinfectant. He had come straight from the hospital. From Angela’s bedside. “Stella.” He stood at the threshold, keeping his hands jammed in his trousers pockets, staring at me. Only the small lamp beside my bed was turned on, its warm yellow glow splitting his face in two. One side lit up, the other buried in darkness. I sat on the bed and waited for him to speak. “What do you want?” he asked. Four simple words, straight to the point. No accusations about me ruining the baby’s blood. No interrogation about why I threw myself down the stairs. He simply asked what I wanted. Because in his eyes, everything I had done was merely a desperate tactic to negotiate terms. In my past life, I would have broken down crying. I would have thrown myself at his feet, hugging his legs, begging him not to take my baby away. In this life, I leaned calmly against the headboard, resting my hands neatly over my lap. “A divorce.” He remained silent. “I’ll walk away with nothing. I don’t want a single penny. Just let me take my baby and leave.” He still didn’t say a word. Three seconds later, a faint smile touched his lips. It wasn’t a smile of mockery. It was the kind of patronizing smile that said, I knew you were going to say that. “And then what? You take a premature infant, with no money, no job, and nowhere to live. How long do you think you’ll survive?” “That’s my business.” “Stella,” he walked over slowly, crouching beside my bed so his eyes were level with mine. “Don’t you think you’re making a foolish decision?” His tone was remarkably gentle. Like an adult patiently reasoning with a stubborn child. Looking into his deep, dark eyes, a chill ran straight down my spine. Because I saw patience in them. He was being patient enough to negotiate with me. Patience meant he had an underlying motive. An underlying motive meant he still hadn’t given up on using my child. “Harrison,” I leaned back an inch, my spine pressing against the cold wooden headboard. “If you don’t agree to a divorce, I will expose your plan to harvest a baby’s bone marrow to the public.” His composure finally cracked. It was a tiny, subtle shift, a slight twitch between his brows as the gentle facade vanished, revealing the ice beneath. “Are you threatening me?” “What do you think?” He stood up, looking down at me. It was the third day after my forced delivery. My face was as pale as paper, my lips devoid of color, and tubes were still attached to my body. I must have looked utterly pathetic. Yet, I didn’t flinch from his glare. In my past life, he had always used this exact patronizing stance to force me to bow my head and apologize. Silence stretched between us for a long time. Then he spoke. “Stella, I can agree to a divorce.” My chest tightened. Too fast. He agreed far too quickly. “But not right now,” he added calmly. “Angela’s treatment still needs time. Once she stabilizes, I will sign the papers.” “You’re stalling.” “I’m offering you a dignified exit.” Dignified again. He truly loved that word. “And what if I refuse?” He didn’t answer my question. He turned around, walked to the door, and pulled it open. The bodyguard standing outside stepped aside to make way. “The child is in the newborn room downstairs,” he said without turning back. “You can visit her if you want. But you cannot take her.” The door shut behind him. The heavy lock clicked back into place. I sat on the bed, my fingers gripping the bedsheet tightly. He had agreed so easily because he was absolute certain that I couldn’t escape. I had no money, no identification documents, and even my phone had been confiscated. Outside the newborn room downstairs stood nurses, bodyguards, and security cameras. He was keeping my baby and me trapped inside the exact same building. Close enough to see, but impossible to touch. This was far more twisted than his cruelty in my past life. What he didn’t know was that during those three months I spent taking those pills, I wasn’t just destroying my child’s blood. I had set another plan in motion. During one of my prenatal checkups, I had quietly stolen a business card from Dr. Keller’s coat pocket. It belonged to his former classmate, Dr. Bennett, the head of hematology at the State University Hospital. That man had no ties to Harrison. Three months ago, Dr. Bennett had publicly raised ethical concerns regarding the harvesting of bone marrow from infant donors during a medical conference. I needed an outside ally. Someone Harrison couldn’t buy off. Now, all I needed was an opportunity to get the message out. 03 The opportunity came sooner than I expected. On the afternoon of the fifth day, the bodyguards made a minor slip-up during their shift change. A guard had been on duty for eight hours straight, leaving his post only once for a quick restroom break. The guard supposed to replace him at 3:00 PM was ten minutes late, rumor had it he had been called downstairs by Harrison to move some heavy equipment. Ten minutes was all I had. Peering through the crack in the bedroom door, I saw the hallway was completely empty. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t sprint out. Instead, I pushed the door open, slipped into the storage room at the end of the hall, and picked up the extension landline phone. The landlines in this mansion operated on an internal network. It could make outside calls, but every single call log was automatically recorded and synced to the master server in Harrison’s study. I was fully aware of this. Which meant I only had one single chance. The moment I dialed out, whether the call connected or not, a record would be created. I was gambling on Harrison not returning home today. Because this afternoon, Angela had a crucial medical consultation with a specialist team. Dr. Keller had let it slip during morning rounds, mentioning that Harrison would be attending Angela’s expert panel meeting all afternoon. Squatting inside the storage room, my fingers dialed the phone number I had memorized over the past three months. Ring… ring… ring… After three rings, a voice answered. “Hello, who is this?” A middle-aged male voice with a slight regional accent. My throat went so dry I could barely squeeze out a sound. “…Hello, is this Dr. Bennett?” “Speaking. Who’s calling?” “I’m… a friend of Dr. Keller’s.” Dr. Keller’s real name was Arthur Keller. I used his name as my golden ticket. “Oh? Arthur’s friend? What can I do for you?” “Dr. Bennett, I need to consult you on a matter,” I kept my voice down to a whisper, my eyes darting frantically toward the hallway outside. “If a newborn under a week old is being forcibly subjected to bone marrow extraction for an adult transplant… what authority should I report this to?” Silence stretched over the line for two long seconds. “What did you say?” “A seven-month premature infant. Under a week old. Someone is trying to harvest her bone marrow.” “…Is this an active situation?” “Yes.” “Where is this happening? Which hospital?” “It’s not a hospital. It’s a private residence. Please tell me—” Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. My blood turned ice-cold. “Dr. Bennett, I’m out of time. I’ll find a way to contact you again. Can you please check if non-consensual marrow extraction from a newborn constitutes a criminal offense?” “Listen to me, you need to—” I slammed the receiver back onto the base. My hands were drenched in cold sweat. The footsteps grew closer. I darted out of the storage room, hurried back into my bedroom, pulled the door shut, sat back on the bed, and picked up a pregnancy care book I had read a hundred times. The door was pushed open. It was the new bodyguard on the shift. He swept his eyes across the room. I kept my head down, flipping through the pages with an utterly calm expression. He stared at me for a few seconds before stepping back and shutting the door. Only then did I realize that I was holding the book upside down. Where my fingers gripped the spine, the paper was soaked through with sweat. Yet, I didn’t regret it for a second. That call had lasted less than forty seconds. It was enough. Dr. Bennett was famous in the medical community for being a uncompromising crusader. I had researched his character thoroughly. In my past life, after Angela’s transplant made academic news, he had publicly questioned the ethics approval process online, only to be silenced by Harrison’s political pull. In this life, I would light the fire before Harrison had the chance to smother it. That evening, Harrison didn’t return home. When Dr. Keller came to change my dressings, he looked visibly distracted, his movements rushed and clumsy. As he removed the gauze, he accidentally tugged on my wound. I let out a sharp gasp. He snapped out of his daze. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” “How did the specialist consultation go today?” I asked quietly. His hand froze. “…Not well. Miss Angela’s rejection markers are spiking, and the banked cord blood is running out.” “So they’re still targeting my baby’s marrow.” Dr. Keller didn’t answer, but his silence said everything. I stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Dr. Keller, your former classmate, Dr. Bennett…” The hand holding the medical tape stopped dead in its tracks. He looked up at me as if he had just seen a ghost. “How do you know…” “A business card fell out of your pocket last week.” His face drained of color. “Mrs. Harrison, did you—” “I called him this afternoon.” Dr. Keller went completely numb. Then he grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it hurt. “Are you insane?! Do you have any idea that every call from this mansion—” “I know.” “Then why—” “Which is why I need you to do something for me.” I locked eyes with him. His face was ghostly white, his lips trembling. I knew he was terrified. He had worked for Harrison for a decade and knew exactly how Harrison destroyed anyone who betrayed him. I also knew that Dr. Keller had a six-year-old daughter. In my past life, three months after my death, he had abruptly resigned. Rumor had it he suffered a severe mental breakdown, tormented by insomnia, living on heavy sleep medication for half a year. He wasn’t a monster. He was just a coward trapped inside a gilded cage. “Dr. Keller,” I gently pried his fingers off my wrist and whispered, “I only need you to do one thing. Tomorrow when you change my dressings, ‘forget’ your phone under my pillow. Come back for it thirty minutes later.” He stared at me, swallowing hard. “Mrs. Harrison… Mr. Harrison will kill me.” “He won’t find out.” “He finds out about everything!” “Then consider this an act of redemption for your conscience.” I lowered my head and looked down at my heavily bandaged abdomen. The incision was still seeping blood. In my past life, he had stood by and watched as they harvested marrow from my living child. He had done nothing to stop it. I didn’t hate him. I just needed him to act like a human being for once in his life. Dr. Keller sat in his chair, falling into a long, suffocating silence. It dragged on so long that I thought he was going to walk away. Then he finally spoke. “…Thirty minutes.” His voice was barely audible, squeezed through his teeth. “Not a single second more.” I nodded. “That’s plenty.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “587992”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Word on campus was that breaking up with the bad boy, Ryder, came with a massive payout. All four girls in our dorm took turns dating him. I was the last one in line, but Ryder caught on to our little scheme. Suddenly, he flipped the rules on us: “You want my money? Marry me, and every last cent is yours.” 1 It all started when my roommate Sierra picked up a wild piece of gossip. Word was, every girl who dated Ryder and got dumped ended up with a gorgeous golden parachute. Ryder usually ignored girls from our university. He preferred micro influencers and aspiring starlets, the ridiculously glamorous type. After the breakup, those girls would suddenly upgrade their cars, move into luxury apartments, and sport designer bags. Sierra was easily the hottest girl in our dorm. At a campus event, she casually struck up a conversation with Ryder and somehow bagged him. Their relationship lasted less than a month before he cut her loose. True to the rumors, Ryder wired her fifteen thousand dollars on the spot and told her to keep all the designer clothes and handbags he had bought her. Faced with such an absurdly generous guy, Sierra did what any good friend would do. She handed us her battle strategy on a silver platter. “Keep it in the family, girls,” Sierra declared. “Ryder is actually easy if you just stay persistent. He loves girls in white sundresses with long black hair, ideally smelling like fresh roses.” She paused, adjusting her gloss. “He loves mint scent. Sprays mint cologne on himself every single day.” I winced slightly. I absolutely hated mint. “Whatever you do, do not wear mint perfume,” Sierra warned. “That is literally why he dumped me today. Oh, and he is a total germaphobe. Anyone within three feet of him basically needs to be sanitized first. Plus, his favorite hobby is spending money. If he does not buy something for a day, he gets restless.” Sierra rambled on about his likes and dislikes. My other two roommates, Paige and Fiona, took notes like they were studying for finals. Sierra glanced up and caught me staring. “Brooke, why aren’t you writing this down?” “Go ahead,” I said softly. “I will just copy your notes later.” 2 Armed with Sierra’s playbook, my other two roommates moved fast. Paige went next, though she lasted even shorter than Sierra. When Paige returned, she added a crucial update to our rulebook. “Do not touch his shoes. Especially his slippers.” Sierra gasped. “You were only together for two weeks and you got close enough to see his slippers?” Sierra had barely gotten within three feet of him in a whole month. “No, he was driving me back to the dorm today, and his shoes were uncomfortable, so he wanted to change in the car,” Paige explained. “His assistant handed a pair of slippers through the window. I casually reached out to take them, and Ryder immediately wired me fifteen grand and told me to get out.” Paige shook her head in disbelief. “He seems obsessed with those slippers. They were bright pink, too. Probably a souvenir from some ex.” A slipper obsession? I owned a dozen pairs of adorable slippers back home. Buying cute footwear was my secret addiction. If Ryder saw my collection, would he try to snatch them from me? 3 Next up was Fiona. She lasted exactly seven days. “Never drink the bottled water in his car,” Fiona warned us, dropping her designer bag on her bed. “I twisted the cap off today and took one tiny sip. He transferred the breakup fee on the spot and pulled over.” I shuddered. I drank water like a fish. I was doomed. I would probably get dumped in less than five minutes. “Maybe I should just pass,” I muttered. My three roommates were currently sitting on their beds, counting the zeroes in their bank accounts. Ryder had filled our shared wardrobe with luxury clothes and bags. We always shared our accessories, but my corner of the closet was looking painfully empty. Fiona was more anxious than I was. “If you do not go, another girl will snatch him up. The day he kicked me out of his car, three girls were literally pretending to get hit by his ride just to talk to him!” She had a point. Ryder was practically a walking ATM. If he was handing out cash anyway, why shouldn’t I get a cut? Encouraged by my roommates, I waited at the campus gates after class and blocked Ryder’s motorcycle. 4 I gathered every ounce of courage I had and asked Ryder for his contact info. He flipped open his visor, took off a spare helmet, and tossed it to me. “Get on. One lap around the block, and you get my number.” I had seen him ride before. He rode fast. Terrifyingly fast. Remembering Sierra’s warning about his germaphobia, I asked timidly, “Can I hold onto you?” Ryder slid his visor down. “Suit yourself.” I strapped on the helmet and climbed onto the back seat. The moment he pulled away, the engine roared, and the wind whipped past us. I panicked, gripping his jacket tightly, terrified of falling off. The bike eventually pulled up outside an amusement park. Ryder took off his helmet and looked back at me. “Want to ride the pirate ship?” I shook my head rapidly. “No way. I am terrified of heights.” My roommates made it sound so easy. A simple confession and he said yes. Why was getting his contact info feeling like an obstacle course? “Ferris wheel, then,” Ryder said flatly. It was not a question. He pulled out his phone and bought two tickets on the spot. The local Ferris wheel was famously nicknamed the Relationship Killer. Supposedly, every couple who rode it ended up breaking up. We were not a couple yet, but a breakup was my ultimate goal anyway. Breakup meant money. We sat opposite each other inside the glass cabin as it slowly ascended. Neither of us said a word until the cabin reached the very peak. Ryder leaned back, dark eyes locking onto mine. “Brooke, what exactly does your dorm take me for?” 5 Oh, no. He knew. No wonder he was pushing my buttons today. The terrifying height combined with his stern voice made my heart drop. “I… I am sorry.” He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and displayed his QR code. “Add me.” My hands shook as I reached into my purse. “Too slow,” he grumbled, snatching my phone out of my hand. He scanned the code himself, typed something, and handed it back. I looked at the screen. He had saved his contact name as Hubby. “Isn’t this nickname a bit much?” I asked carefully. “The other girls from your dorm saved me the exact same way,” he said smoothly. Wait. The girls definitely never mentioned that. When we got down from the Ferris wheel, Ryder tossed the helmet back to me, mounted his bike, and rode me back to the dorm. Maybe it was just my imagination, but the wind felt much gentler on the way back. He was riding significantly slower. I handed the helmet back and practically bolted up the stairs. At least I hated mint. He was wearing his slippers on his bike, and there was no bottled water in sight, so at least I had survived day one. The moment I stepped inside, my three roommates swarmed me. “Brooke! How did it go? Did you pull it off?” I opened my phone and showed them his contact card. Paige gasped in disbelief. “Hubby? Brooke, you are bolder than all of us combined!” “Didn’t you guys save him like this too?” “Of course not!” They shoved their phones in front of my face. Their saved contacts read: Dumb ATM Oddball Moody Rich Kid None of them were even close to Hubby. That liar. 6 Early the next morning, my phone buzzed repeatedly with messages from Ryder. “Come downstairs. Breakfast.” “My favorite date activity is eating. Breakfast counts. Get down here.” “Eat up before class.” “Brooke, are you awake yet? Are you ditching your boyfriend already?” I rubbed my sleepy eyes and turned to my roommates. “Did you guys find him this needy when you dated him?” All three of them gave me bewildered looks. “Needy? He barely spoke two words to me!” Sierra exclaimed. “If he were needy, I would have extracted way more intel from him!” “Our chat history was literally just adding each other and transferring money,” Paige added. “He never replied to a single text I sent!” “I must still be dreaming,” Fiona mumbled, rolling over in her bed. “Going back to sleep.” Ryder’s messages kept flooding in. Reluctantly, I sent back a sticker of a running puppy. Bad news: he had zero patience. Good news: he had zero patience. My roommates had all been dumped within a month, two weeks, or a single week. Watching them count their money every night made my mouth water. I deeply regretted not paying closer attention when Sierra shared her advice. I put on a simple white sundress and headed downstairs. When I reached the main entrance, I saw Ryder standing with his back to the building, talking on the phone. As I walked closer, I accidentally overheard his low voice. “It is Brooke. She is the only girl I actually want to date, okay?” He was remarkably sharp. Hearing footsteps behind him, he cut the call immediately and turned around. “You did not hear anything, right?” he asked, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Nope! Heard nothing!” I squeaked. A faint smile touched his lips as he slid his phone into his pocket. “Let’s go. Breakfast is on me.” He pulled a bicycle out from the rack. Odd. My roommates insisted he rode around in luxury sports cars with a personal driver. Why was I getting motorbikes and bicycles? I sat sideways on the back seat and instinctively reached out to grab his waist, then remembered Sierra’s warning about his germaphobia and pulled my hand back. We hit a speed bump. Ryder didn’t slow down, and I bounced right off the seat. “Could you ride a little slower?” I yelped. “Hold on tight then, or you will get thrown off!” I reached out with one hand to grab his jacket. We hit another bump, Ryder tapped the brakes, and I slammed right into his back. My hand slipped forward, sliding from his spine around to his ribs, resting flat against his stomach. Solid, defined ridges. Abs! 7 I pulled my hand back immediately, my cheeks burning hot. I didn’t mean to touch him! I still wanted to keep my hand! Ryder tapped the brakes again. “Another bump coming up. Hold on to me.” The hand I had just pulled away went right back around his waist. When we arrived at the campus cafe, the university forum was already exploding with a fresh picture of Ryder. Everyone was asking what had put him in such a good mood. The photo was taken from the front. Ryder had a subtle, lingering smirk on his face. I was sitting behind him, my hair blowing wildly in the wind, completely hiding my face. Our dorm group chat went wild. “Why was he always scowling or sighing when he was with me? Since when does he smile like that?” “Brooke, what did you do to him? Did you turn him into some smirking simp?” Ryder walked back to our table carrying a tray of food, and I quickly locked my screen. In front of me sat a hot bowl of pork porridge, a salted egg yolk pastry, juicy steamed buns, and warm black sesame milk. All my absolute favorites. For a second, I could not tell who was investigating whom. “You are too thin. Eat more,” Ryder said, placing the dishes in front of me one by one. Back in high school, the stress had caused me to put on twenty pounds. Once I got to college, I relaxed a bit and started dieting. Long term dieting had left me with a mild aversion to food, and I had even fainted twice from under eating. I had not seen a breakfast this delicious in months. After we ate, I met Sierra near the campus gate while saying goodbye to Ryder. He went to drop off our tray, and the forum comment section was already obsessively trying to identify the girl on his bike. If they figured out it was me, I was dead meat. 8 “Why wasn’t he this high profile when he was with you guys?” I groaned, rubbing my temples. Sierra browsed a shopping app on her phone, casually comforting me. “People change, Brooke. Besides, he used to refuse to date anyone on campus altogether.” She flipped her phone toward me. “It is getting chilly with all this rain lately. What do you think of this jacket?” A denim jacket. Five hundred dollars. Damn rich people. Damn Ryder. I needed to break up with him immediately. I opened my chat with Ryder. A new notification popped up instantly: Transfer received: $5,200. “I have stuff to handle at lunch. Get yourself something nice to eat. I will come find you tonight.” Sierra, who was standing right next to me, saw the unlocked screen. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “He sent you cash? Fifty two hundred dollars?” I stared at the screen, equally shocked. “Didn’t he send you money too?” Sierra shook her head vigorously. “Never! He only bought gifts. The first couple of times, he invited me along to shop, asking what girls liked and what my dorm mates were into. He claimed he was doing market research and needed multiple opinions.” She shrugged. “Later on, he would just leave random items in his car whenever we met. Sometimes designer bags, sometimes jewelry. Free stuff is free stuff, so I never complained.” Sierra kept typing rapidly on her phone, chatting with someone unknown. When class ended, she waved at me. “Bye sweetie, I have a date!” “A date? You just broke up!” Sierra flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. “Darling, a girl like me is never short on options.” Right. I forgot. Sierra was that girl. Gorgeous, smart, confident, and outgoing. Every guy she ever approached ended up falling for her. That was precisely why she had been brave enough to hit on Ryder in the first place. Before leaving, Sierra leaned in and whispered mysteriously, “By the way, my new guy has incredible abs. So nice to touch. Not like your master Ryder, who won’t even let anyone lay a finger on him.” Actually, Ryder had abs too. I had just touched them this morning.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “587991”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel