Author: Momo Chan

My mother’s OCD was a physical weight in our house. Once, when I was ten, I walked barefoot across the hardwood floor. She took the green motherboard of a broken computer and whipped the soles of my feet until they bled. “Do you have any idea how many germs are on that floor? Are you trying to track them into every single room?” So when Thanksgiving came around, and my little sister Naomi was walking around the kitchen, eating a slice of the greasy meat pie Mom had spent hours baking, and dropped it face down on the hardwood, my heart leaped straight into my throat. Panic-stricken, I ran to the cabinet and grabbed the heavy-duty industrial disinfectant. But just as I sprayed the harsh chemical directly onto the pie to neutralize the grease and bacteria, the front door clicked open. Mom walked in. The moment her eyes fell on the greasy smudge on her pristine floor, her face contorted in absolute fury. “Maeve! What did I tell you before I left? Why is this floor filthy?!” I held up my hands, desperate to explain, but Naomi beat me to it. “Maeve said your pie tasted like cardboard, Mom! She threw it on the floor on purpose!” I stared at my sister, my stomach dropping in sheer disbelief. But Mom didn’t hesitate. She believed her instantly. Her hand clamped down on my forearm like a steel vice. I thrashed wildly, trying to break free. “It wasn’t me! Naomi dropped it—” But Mom wasn’t listening. Slipping on a rubber cleaning glove, she scooped up the grease-soaked, chemically drenched pie slice from the floor and shoved it violently into my mouth. “You’ve learned how to lie now, have you? How dare you throw dirt on your little sister!” But Mom… that pie was dripping with concentrated disinfectant. Were you trying to sanitize the germs inside my stomach, too? 1 I collapsed onto the floor, coughing violently, dry-heaving as I tried to purge the toxic pie from my throat. Beside me, Mom’s voice was chillingly calm. “Go ahead. Throw it up. See what happens.” My entire body froze. I didn’t dare move an inch. “Mom…” I choked out, my throat already starting to sear. “There was… there was disinfectant on it…” Mom’s expression flickered slightly. “Disinfectant?” A tiny spark of hope flared in my chest, and I nodded frantically, tears streaming down my face. She turned her head toward Naomi. “Naomi, is that true?” Naomi put on a look of wide-eyed, innocent confusion. My heart hammered against my ribs. Please, not this time. Don’t lie this time. “I don’t think so,” Naomi mumbled softly. “I thought Maeve just grabbed the spray bottle and hadn’t even used it yet.” My heart plunged into a bottomless abyss. A violent shudder ran through my entire body—whether from pure terror or the agonizing heat already blooming in my stomach, I couldn’t tell. The irritation on Mom’s face hardened into cold disgust. “Maeve, how many times have I told you? Honesty is the only thing that matters. How did you turn out like this? I have worked myself to the bone raising the two of you alone, and you can’t even maintain a shred of basic decency? You are a profound disappointment.” It felt as though my chest were packed with hot cotton. The concentrated chemical was burning its way down my esophagus; I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. All I could do was shake my head frantically. Mom, please. I’m not lying. But once Mom made up her mind, nothing on earth could change it. She stared down at me with deep pity and shook her head. “I thought that when confronted with the truth, you’d at least have the grace to admit your mistake. Instead, you double down. You don’t possess a single fraction of your sister’s character.” Tears blurred my vision, spilling over my cheeks. But Naomi was the one lying. She always did. Since we were kids, Mom had always favored Naomi, harboring some stubborn belief that the younger child was inherently more innocent, more truthful. Last year, when Naomi stole a chocolate bar from the grocery store and blamed it on me, Mom cornered me in the parking lot, demanding I empty my pockets. I sobbed, begging her to believe me. But she only looked at Naomi. “Your sister saw you do it. Why are you still lying?” It was only after the store manager checked the security footage that my name was cleared. I had felt a brief surge of triumph, expecting Mom to force Naomi to apologize and finally stand up for me. Instead, she had merely brushed it off. “Naomi is younger. She didn’t know any better. You’re the older sister—you should be more accommodating. Demanding an apology like that only damages her self-esteem.” My world had dimmed in that moment. It damages her self-esteem? But Mom, what about mine? Did you ever consider how much it hurt to be publicly humiliated in front of a crowded store? Mom’s sharp voice snapped me back to the present. “Maeve. Since you refuse to apologize, I’m done dealing with you. I was planning on taking both of you to the Winter Wonderland resort tonight. But now? Naomi and I are leaving without you. Go to your room. I don’t want to look at your face.” Winter Wonderland. The one place I had begged Mom to take me a thousand times, always to be met with excuses. I wanted so desperately to go. But my throat was screaming, my stomach was a pit of acid, and Mom would never let me join them anyway. From behind Mom’s back, Naomi poked her tongue out at me, a silent, mocking smirk plastered across her face. I kept my head down, swallowing the rising tide of heat in my chest, and limped back to my bedroom. After all, in Mom’s eyes, I was nothing but a nuisance. As I closed the door, I heard her scoff. “Look at her, still playing the victim. Naomi, sweetie, promise me you’ll never end up like your sister. A liar through and through.” “Don’t worry, Mom,” Naomi replied, her voice sweet and compliant. “I’ll never be as bad as Maeve.” 2 By 2:00 AM, the fire inside me had grown into an absolute inferno. It felt as though someone had poured hot coals down my throat. Drenched in a cold sweat, I struggled to reach for my smartwatch charging on the nightstand. Mom. I have to call Mom. She won’t ignore me if she knows I’m really sick. With trembling fingers, I tapped her contact. It rang once, twice… seven times before a groggy, hushed voice finally answered. “Hello? What do you want at this hour?” Hearing her voice, a sob tore from my throat. I thought I was saved. “Mom… the disinfectant… it burns so bad… Mom, please help me…” I waited for her to panic, to tell me she was calling 911. But her voice only hardened. “Are you still playing this game? We literally just boarded the sleeper train. Stop throwing a tantrum, Maeve! You’re going to wake up your sister. I know you’re upset about being left behind, but this is the consequence of your own lies and making a mess of my kitchen!” “No… Mom, please…” I rasped, my vocal cords raw and failing. But before I could finish, the line went dead. I stared at the dark screen of my watch, tears slipping silently into my hair. Mom, why couldn’t you just love me a little bit more? Why did you have so much warmth for Naomi, but only cold suspicion for me? I hate you. I really do. Why couldn’t you just love me? The wave of raw emotion triggered a violent spasm in my chest. I sat up, choking, and vomited a thick, dark pool of blood onto the floor. Panic set in. No, no, no. I have to clean it. If Mom comes back and sees this, she’ll hate me forever. I dragged myself out of bed, grabbing a handful of tissues, frantically dabbing at the dark stain. But the moment my knees hit the hardwood, another wave hit me. I threw up again. More blood. Dark and hot. No matter how much I wiped, the smear only spread. Terror seized me. My hands shook so violently I could barely navigate the screen of my watch. I dialed her again. It rang and rang, eventually shifting to voicemail. Mom, why? Why have you abandoned me? Do you really hate me that much? I coughed, a wet, rattling sound, tears of pain and betrayal leaking from my eyes. I don’t know how many hours passed, but eventually, the coughing stopped. The fiery pain in my gut began to fade, replaced by a deep, hollow coldness that crept up from my toes. 3 When awareness finally returned to me, I was standing in front of the glittering neon gates of Winter Wonderland. I looked around, confused. How had I gotten here? And then panic flared—Mom hadn’t bought me a ticket. I wouldn’t be allowed in. I reached out to tap her shoulder, but my fingers passed straight through her wool coat, meeting only empty air. I stared at my hands. They were translucent, shimmering like frost. Am I… dead? Strangely, my first instinct wasn’t fear, but a profound sense of relief. At least now I won’t burden Mom by asking for a ticket. But then, a cold dread settled over me. The floor. I didn’t finish cleaning the blood off the floor. She’s going to be so angry. She’s going to hate me even more. Mom was holding Naomi’s hand, looking slightly distracted as they stood in the ticket line. “Naomi,” she murmured, a faint crease forming between her brows. “When Maeve called last night… her voice sounded so raspy. You don’t think something is actually wrong, do you?” Hearing the worry in her voice, a tiny spark of warmth bloomed in my spectral chest. She does care. She was thinking about me. 4 Naomi kicked a loose pebble with her boot, her tone entirely dismissive. “Oh, come on, Mom. You know what she’s like. Maeve is a drama queen. She’s just trying to ruin our trip.” Mom’s tense shoulders relaxed, and she nodded in agreement. “You’re right. That girl always knows exactly how to manipulate me. She’s probably just throwing a fit because I didn’t bring her along. Heaven knows what she did to make herself sound like that just to get attention.” Naomi wrapped her arms around Mom’s waist, looking up with a sweet smile. “Let’s not talk about her, Mom. It’ll spoil our trip. We’re here to have fun!” Mom’s expression softened completely, and she pinched Naomi’s nose affectionately. “You’re right, sweetie. You always know how to make me feel better.” I hovered a few feet away, nervously twisting the hem of my shirt. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to be a dark cloud over your day. I really didn’t. It’s just… I was hurting so badly. They spent the entire day riding rollercoasters and drinking hot cocoa. It wasn’t until nine that evening, while waiting in the hotel lobby, that Mom finally remembered me. “Oh, I forgot to arrange any grocery delivery for your sister. Let me call and see if she’s eaten.” She pulled out her phone and dialed my number. It rang out. She tried again. Still nothing. Of course it wouldn’t connect. I was dead. There was no one left to answer. “Why isn’t she picking up?” Mom muttered, frustrated. Naomi snatched the phone from her hand and opened YouTube to watch My Little Pony. “She’s obviously throwing a silent treatment, Mom. She does this every time she doesn’t get her way.” Instantly, the worry vanished from Mom’s face, replaced by a familiar flare of anger. “Maeve is getting entirely out of hand. How dare she ignore my calls? This was a minor punishment—she committed a wrong, and she was disciplined for it! I haven’t even begun to lecture her, and she has the audacity to go cold on me? I was trying to check on her, and she treats me like this? Ungrateful brat. Just wait until I get home. She’s going to get a piece of my mind.” I hovered around her, desperate to explain, trying to grab her hand only to pass right through her arm again and again. No, Mom! I’m not ignoring you! I want to answer, I really do… but I can’t anymore. By noon the next day, Mom and Naomi arrived back at our suburban house. The moment Mom unlocked the front door, she slammed her keys on the console and shouted into the quiet house. “Maeve! Get out here right now! Why did you ignore my calls yesterday?” Her voice carried the weight of a storm that had been brewing all morning. Even as a spirit, I flinched, instinctively retreating a step. My bedroom door remained tightly shut, yielding nothing but silence. Mom dropped her bags and marched down the hallway. “Are you deaf? I told you to come out here!” Silence. How could there be anything else? She grabbed the brass doorknob and twisted. My breath hitched—or rather, the memory of my breath did. If she opens it, she’ll see the blood. She’ll see the mess. But the knob resisted. It was locked. I felt a strange wave of relief. Thank god I had remembered to lock it before the dark crept in. But the locked door only fueled Mom’s rage. Her chest rose and fell sharply. “Oh, locking me out now, are we? Fine! If you want to play that game, you can stay in there for the rest of your life for all I care!” Standing beside her, I let out a soft, bitter laugh. The rest of my life… I guess that’s exactly what I’m doing. Mom turned on her heel and went to the kitchen to prepare lunch. But when she pulled open the refrigerator door, she froze. The shelves were practically bare. “Wait… there’s nothing in here? Then how did Maeve…” Naomi quickly hid a box of cookies behind her back and pointed an accusing finger at the empty fridge. “Mom! The fridge is totally empty! I left so many snacks in here before we left. Maeve must have eaten everything while we were gone!” The faint flicker of concern on Mom’s face vanished instantly, replaced by irritation and a sense of vindicated relief. “Of course,” Mom muttered, letting out a sharp breath. “I should have known. Maeve would never let herself starve. She probably pigged out on junk food just to spite us. I was foolish to even worry about her.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. No, Mom! Naomi packed almost all of those snacks in her backpack before you left! And she just ate the rest of them right now! Mom, please stop misunderstanding me. During lunch, there was a knock at the front door. It was our next-door neighbor, Evelyn. “Hey, Diane!” Evelyn smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “Where have you guys been? I’ve been stopping by to see if you wanted to sit on the porch and catch up, but the house was dark.” Mom smiled back, her demeanor shifting instantly to polite warmth. “Oh, Naomi and I took a quick trip up to Winter Wonderland. We just got back.” Evelyn’s smile widened. “Oh, you’re such a wonderful mother to Naomi! But wait, did Maeve not go with you?” The moment my name was mentioned, Mom’s face darkened, and she sighed heavily, eager to unload her grievances. “Don’t even get me started on Maeve. She’s getting more difficult by the day—nothing like Naomi. She lied to my face a couple of days ago, so as a lesson, I left her behind. Now she’s throwing a massive tantrum. Refusing to answer my calls, and now she’s locked herself in her room and won’t even come out to eat.” I stood in the corner of the entryway, keeping my eyes on the floor. To her, I will always be the broken child. Evelyn’s brow furrowed, her expression turning puzzled. “That’s strange… I knocked on the door several times over the weekend, but no one ever answered. If Maeve was home, she surely would have heard me.” Mom waved her hand dismissively. “She’s probably in her rebellious phase. Just trying to ignore everyone.” Evelyn didn’t look convinced. She slowly backed out of the doorway, murmuring to herself, “That doesn’t sound like Maeve at all. She’s always been such a sweet, polite girl…” Warmth pricked my eyes. Even if it was just our neighbor, someone remembered who I actually was. Someone didn’t think I was a monster. That was enough. After finishing her lunch, Mom marched back to my door. This time, she held the spare key in her hand, her eyes flashing with determination. “Alright, young lady. You’ve had your little tantrum. Now let’s see what kind of mess you’re hiding in there!” She shoved the key into the lock, turned it, and threw the door open. A second later, the anger drained from her face, and she collapsed hard onto her knees.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463654”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At the annual Bestseller of the Year Awards, the host playfully teased Beatrice, the author of the latest blockbuster novel. “I heard the villainous female lead in your book is actually based on your former high school best friend?” Beatrice’s eyes welled with tears as she offered a helpless sigh to the camera. “Yes. And the male lead is based on our class president—the one person in this world who cared about her the most.” “Years ago, he faced prison time trying to protect her. Not only did she refuse to testify in his defense, but she also stole the money his mother had scraped together for his legal fees—money meant to save his mother’s life.” “She vanished without a trace for seven years. Poor Luke lost his early admission to Harvard because of her. His entire life was ruined.” Following Beatrice’s tearful accusation, the live chat exploded. Millions of vitriolic comments calling her a gold-digging monster scrolled across the screen in a blur. Just as the public outrage reached its peak, the live broadcast suddenly cut out. The screen flickered, replaced by a newly released police bulletin on a national human trafficking crackdown—specifically, a victim identification notice. On the studio’s giant screen, the video play was grainy and low-resolution. In the footage, an eighteen-year-old girl, unrecognizable from starvation and abuse, huddled shivering in the corner of a decaying barn. Me. A wave of shock swept across the internet. But at the very center of this storm, Luke was standing in a high-end bridal boutique, watching his fiancée try on a million-dollar wedding dress. …… Chelsea twirled, the train of her gown sweeping the floor. The diamonds stitched into the fabric caught the light, casting a brilliant reflection over Luke’s cold, distant face. “Luke, don’t I look beautiful?” Luke pulled himself from his thoughts, stepping forward to gently adjust her train. “My wife is always the most beautiful.” Chelsea leaned into his chest, her fingers playfully tugging at his tie in a seemingly casual test. “I’m glad you think so. I was worried I wouldn’t measure up to that childhood sweetheart everyone whispers about.” Luke’s hands froze on the silk train. The warmth in his eyes instantly turned to ice. “I don’t have a childhood sweetheart. She was just a thief who ran off with a richer man.” “Even if she died in some ditch out there, it has nothing to do with me.” I stood by the vanity mirror as a lingering spirit, quietly watching the disgust hardening in his eyes. Oh, Luke. Just as you wished. I really am dead. Youthful love fades with time. But hatred? Hatred is immortal. I didn’t blame Luke for hating me. He had every right to. Back then, he went too far trying to protect me, crossing the line into what the law deemed excessive force. And I never showed up to testify. He was barred from taking his exams for three years. His mother begged on her knees for legal fees, only to die of a broken heart in utter despair. The golden boy of Oakhaven Prep had his spine snapped overnight. If I were in his shoes, I would hate me too. On the drive back, his assistant handed him a folder. “Mr. Mercer, the redevelopment permit for the old district was approved. We finally bought back your family’s ancestral home—the one your mother mortgaged for the legal fees.” The assistant hesitated, then muttered with lingering resentment, “Your mother went through hell back then, begging for loans. Meanwhile, that ungrateful girl just took the cash and ran…” Luke’s pen tore through the paper, leaving a jagged trail of black ink. “Watch your mouth,” he said, his voice freezing the air in the car. The assistant shuddered and quickly shifted gears. “Right, sorry. We’re heading to the old neighborhood for a site visit. The old neighbors heard you took over the project and want to thank you in person.” Luke leaned back against the leather seat, eyes closed, silent for a long moment before giving a cold, brief nod. The alleys of the old neighborhood were still as narrow as they were seven years ago. As soon as he stepped out of the car, Mrs. Gable, an old neighbor, rushed over. She grabbed Luke’s hand, tears filling her clouded eyes. “Luke, sweetheart. If your mother could see how successful you are now, she could finally rest in peace.” “When she passed, her only wish was for that heartless girl to come back, just to ask her… why?” Luke’s knuckles turned white, veins bulging on the back of his hand. But he quickly relaxed, gently patting her hand. “Mrs. Gable, today is a good day. Let’s not bring up the past.” “If Nicole Collins ever dares to show her face in front of me again, I’ll destroy her myself.” Behind him, the final load-bearing wall of the old Mercer house collapsed with a deafening roar, kicking up a massive cloud of dust. Luke stood before the ruins, his posture straight and unyielding. I drifted behind him, watching him erase the only home we had ever shared. Back then, we were just stepsiblings, brought together by our parents’ marriage. He was quiet, always keeping a respectful distance. But during thunderstorms, he would cover my ears, pulling my shivering body into his chest. When street thugs whistled at me, he would silently shift his weight to block me from their sight. Now, he stands so high, owning the wealth of the entire city. And the girl who once promised to follow him forever has long since turned to ash on a barren, unnamed mountain. Our downfall began with the whispers in those very alleys. The neighbors gossiped, claiming they saw the step-siblings holding each other at the mouth of the alley late at night. In reality, Luke was only drawing a four-leaf clover on my school jacket, a good-luck charm for my upcoming exams. He had smiled and told me he was giving me half his luck, so I would be safe and happy, year after year. But rumors are lethal. My adoptive mother slapped me so hard my ears rang. “Disgusting! Shameless!” “I took you in out of pity, and you’re just as cheap as your biological mother!” That very night, I was sent back to my biological family in the mountains. I didn’t survive my first night there. My biological mother’s creditors kicked the door open. Reeking of alcohol, a man pinned me to the concrete floor, tearing at my clothes. In my despair, Luke, who was supposed to be studying for his exams, burst through the door, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Usually the most stoic, controlled boy, that night he fought like a rabid dog. He gripped a heavy brick and struck the monster’s head, over and over, until the skull gave way. Hot blood splattered across the four-leaf clover on my school jacket. His trembling hand covered my eyes, his voice cracked and raw: “Don’t look. Nicole, I’m taking you home.” But we never went back to school. Two young shoulders couldn’t bear the crushing weight of the world. Luke was arrested for excessive force. I collapsed from sheer trauma and was rushed to the hospital, missing the crucial court date where I was supposed to testify in his defense. When I woke up in the hospital, desperate to pay for my adoptive mother’s sudden medical bills, I pulled out my IV and dragged myself back to my biological family. I knelt on the floor, begging my biological mother to lend me the money to save my adoptive mother’s life. She sighed, handing me a glass of warm water. “Drink this, and I’ll give you the money.” The water was sweet. But after I swallowed it, I never saw Luke again. When I next opened my eyes, I was stuffed into the back of a black van heading deep into the Appalachian mountains. Only later did I learn that my biological mother had sold me to traffickers for three thousand dollars. She even made a trip to the prison. Looking at Luke through the visitor glass, she lied with a face full of disgust: “That selfish brat didn’t want to ruin her own college prospects, so she refused to testify.” “She stole the money your mother scraped together for your defense and ran off with some rich older man.” And Luke believed her. So when he got out, he climbed his way to the top fueled by pure hatred, becoming the powerful mogul he is today. To build good press for his wealthy fiancée, Chelsea, he made a high-profile donation to build thirty elementary schools in impoverished mountain communities. That day, the rusted loudspeaker at the entrance of our remote mountain village crackled to life. Then, Luke’s voice echoed through the speaker. Elegant, composed, and so agonizingly familiar it drove me mad. I was chained in a pitch-black cellar, my right leg broken for three years, the rotting flesh clinging to the bone. For seven years, I had survived the traffickers’ brutality on a single thread of hope—the belief that Luke was still waiting for me to save him. The moment I heard his voice, I thought he had finally come for me. I dragged myself toward the iron door with every ounce of strength I had left. The chains clattered against the damp concrete. “Luke! I’m here! Luke!” Just as my strength failed me, the interviewer’s flattering laugh came through the speaker: “Mr. Mercer, this massive charitable donation… it’s an engagement gift for Miss Harrington, isn’t it?” After a brief silence, Luke’s gentle chuckle drifted down: “Yes. I want to buy my wife a lifetime of peace and safety.” His laugh filtered through the dirt ceiling of my cellar, pure and untainted by any sorrow. My filthy, scarred hands froze in the air. He didn’t come to save me. Slowly, I crawled backward, curling back into my dark corner. It was fine. Luke was out of prison. He was wealthy. He was getting married. The chains fell silent. I rested my head against the cold stone wall and quietly took my last breath. That evening, Luke attended the redevelopment appreciation dinner in the old neighborhood. My biological mother, who should have been hiding from debt collectors in her hometown, had wormed her way in under the guise of an “old neighbor.” Holding a champagne glass, she fawned over Luke. “Mr. Mercer, that girl was so cold-hearted! You were so good to her, yet she wouldn’t even step into the courtroom. She just ran off with some wealthy businessman!” “Your poor mother was worried to death because of her. And when I tried to speak up for you, she blocked my number and vanished.” She smiled obsequiously, trying to worm her way into his favor. “You two were practically siblings. If you’d like, you can treat me like your own mother from now on…” Luke swirled his red wine, his eyes devoid of warmth. “We were never siblings. And I don’t need a mother.” But he tilted his head slightly, gesturing for his assistant to hand over a credit card. “However, since you didn’t try to cover up her lies to the police back then…” “I’ll have my assistant transfer a monthly allowance to this card. It will be enough for you to live comfortably.” Her eyes gleamed with greed as she took the card, bowing repeatedly in gratitude. I stood just two paces away from them. Staring at the woman who had sold me into a living hell for three thousand dollars. My body lies broken, my youth stolen, buried forever in those mountains. Yet my tormentor stands here, smiling, accepting Luke’s charity as if she deserves it. The irony in this world is truly a sick joke. As she tucked the card into her purse, I suddenly remembered three years ago. I had managed to slip my chains once. I risked my life to steal the village chief’s phone and dialed Luke’s number. The second the call connected, I was shaking so hard I couldn’t even form words through my tears. “Luke… please. Help me. My mother…” But before I could finish, a brutal hand grabbed my hair, slamming my head against the brick wall. The trafficker’s coarse, angry voice boomed through the receiver: “You little bitch! Trying to run? I’ll kill you today!” As I screamed in terror, I heard a heavy silence on the other end of the line. Then, Luke let out a contemptuous laugh. “What’s the matter? Does your rich older man have some sick kinks? You have to call me for foreplay?” The line went dead. He blocked my number. He thought it was some depraved prank from a kept woman. He never knew that was my final cry for help before they shattered my legs. My thoughts were pulled back by the sharp vibration of a phone. Luke answered with a frown. It was Beatrice, the author who had just finished her TV interview. The moment the call connected, her frantic, tearful voice filled the quiet private dining room. “Luke! The police report is out. They found Nicole!” “She was trafficked into the mountains. But… she’s gone. She’s dead, Luke!” The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. At the news, my biological mother dropped her wine glass, her face turning instantly pale. She scrambled to her feet, her voice shrill with panic. “Mr. Mercer, don’t listen to her! That brat texted me asking for money just a few days ago!” “She’s struggling out there, and now that she knows you’re rich, she’s teaming up with outsiders to scam you!” Luke’s hand holding his cigarette froze for a fraction of a second. Then, he let out a quiet, mocking laugh. “Did you hear that, Beatrice? Her own mother says she’s alive.” He took a slow drag, his tone smooth and detached. “Tell that woman that if she wants my money, faking her death won’t work.” He pulled the phone away, ready to hang up. But Beatrice’s choked sob echoed through the speaker: “Luke! You’ve been agonizing over her for seven years, just like me. Stop lying to yourself.” “Nicole is dead. She is really, truly dead.” “I’m standing in the county morgue right now. If you don’t believe me, come see for yourself.” The County Medical Examiner’s Office. Luke pushed open the heavy door to the morgue, his brow furrowed. On the steel table sat a clear evidence bag. Inside was a faded, dirt-caked Oakhaven Prep school jacket. Beatrice was already a weeping mess, clinging to the edge of the desk, pointing at the jacket with a trembling finger. “The examiner said… she had multiple compound fractures before she died. She was always so terrified of pain, Luke. How much did she suffer…” I drifted beside Luke, staring at my old school jacket. Seven years ago, I thought my life was just beginning, that I would go to the same college as Luke. Seven years later, our reunion is divided by the boundary of life and death. Luke’s eyes flickered with a violent tremor when he saw the faded four-leaf clover drawn on the fabric. But he forced his jaw tight, masking his sudden panic with a cold, stubborn facade. The detective on duty stepped forward, presenting the victim identification and release form. Without even looking at it, Luke pushed the clipboard back. “Detective, I don’t have a sister.” “She stole my mother’s life savings and ran. Even if this is Nicole Collins, it’s just the price she paid for her greed. It has nothing to do with me.” Even the young officer nearby winced at his coldness. The detailed autopsy report, which outlined years of unspeakable abuse, was dismissed by Luke as mere “karma.” The veteran detective in charge of the trafficking task force can no longer stand his arrogant, self-righteous attitude. With a grim expression, he pressed play on his body camera’s recorded audio. The voice of an old man from the mountain village filled the room. “That girl was stubborn as a mule when they first brought her in. Kept screaming that her mother tricked her, that she had to get back to save a boy.” “Three years back, she managed to steal my phone to make a call. The buyer caught her and broke her legs for it.” “But the strange thing was… the man on the other end didn’t call the police. He just laughed at her, said some cruel things, and hung up. After that day, the light went out in her eyes. She never tried to run again…” Luke’s breath hitched. His tall frame swayed violently, as if struck by a physical blow. He remembered. Three years ago. The call he blocked without a second thought. I had begged him. If he had believed me just once, I would have lived. All color drained from Luke’s lips. His fingers twitched uncontrollably at his sides. Just then, another detective burst into the room, tossing a file onto the table. “The buyer confessed! The victim’s biological mother took three thousand dollars from the traffickers. She drugged her daughter’s water with sleeping pills and sold her into the mountains!” Luke stared at the detective, his eyes turning a horrific, bloodshot red. The fortress of hatred and self-preservation he built over seven years crumbled to dust in a single second. But the sheer, clawing terror inside him forced him to make one desperate, final stand. He glared at Beatrice, his voice a ragged, guttural growl: “Even if she was sold… what about the trial? If she didn’t have a guilty conscience, why did she run back to her biological family? Why did she skip the court date and let my mother die?!” Beatrice looked at him, her tears finally spilling over. She pulled a sealed evidence bag from her coat and slid it across the table. “The medical examiner found this stitched into the lining of Nicole’s jacket.” “Luke, if you still think she betrayed you, open your eyes and look at what she was carrying.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463653”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I used every trick in the book to marry above my station, to wed Conrad Whitman. Because of that, I bled myself dry trying to become the exact shape of the woman he wanted, bending over backward to please his aristocratic family. But in our tenth year of marriage, he found his true love. … I took a hundred million dollars and walked away without a backward glance. Yet, I keep getting these delayed, desperate phone calls from him: “Jocelyn, why didn’t you ever tell me about all the indignities you suffered?” “You were such a fool.” How do I make him understand? True love alone would never have been enough to make me play the foolish, devoted wife for a decade. What kept me going was something far more potent: the raw, undeniable ambition of a dirt-poor girl desperate to claw her way across class lines. 01 The air in the private dining room was heavy with the scent of shaved truffles and aged Bordeaux. Conrad was drunk. He was sitting in a three-Michelin-starred French restaurant, stubbornly demanding the kitchen make him a greasy, off-menu diner-style cheeseburger. The soft, ambient lighting traced the handsome angles of his face. He looked elegant, untouchable. Like a masterfully restored Renaissance painting. He rambled on and on. Remember to wear a coat when the wind off the Hudson gets sharp. Remember to take your vitamins when you feel a cold coming on. He kept adding more and more zeroes to the severance package outside of our divorce settlement. Until the waiter, looking thoroughly bewildered, placed a makeshift cheeseburger on the pristine white tablecloth. Conrad suddenly stopped talking. He looked at me, his eyes swimming with a sickening blend of sorrow and pity. “I tried to convince myself to just accept this ordinary marriage, to settle for the rest of my life,” he whispered. “But when Camilla appeared… my heartbeat told me I loved her.” “You can’t compromise on love. I’m sorry I wasted the best ten years of your life.” “Don’t live just to please me anymore. Go back to being you. Be the girl who eats a messy burger in a high-end restaurant, the girl who finds joy in a twenty-dollar sundress.” “Go chase the dreams you had at eighteen. Travel the world. And find someone…” His voice broke. “Find someone who actually loves you.” Conrad pushed the plate toward me. The emerald dial of his Rolex trembled against his wrist. Perhaps in his eyes, I was a tragic fool who had given ten years of my youth, received not an ounce of genuine affection, and swallowed an ocean of grievances. But I thought those ten years were fantastic. I was draped in designer silk, untouchable and respected. I knew the sheer thrill of walking through the top floor of a Manhattan skyscraper in a bespoke suit, knowing a single decision I made would impact fifty thousand employees globally. When your average Tuesday lunch is Brittany blue lobster and A5 Wagyu, who the hell misses the taste of a cheap diner burger? The man who, just hours ago, had ripped off his mask and ruthlessly pushed me to sign the divorce papers didn’t need to fake this teary-eyed devotion now. If you don’t love me, just give me the money and let me go. After all, when I sank my claws into him ten years ago, I was only ever after his wealth. 02 I have been a ruthless, self-serving creature since the day I was born. Growing up in a rusting Appalachian trailer park, my grandmother used to tell me that girls didn’t need to eat meat—that I should save the scraps for my little brother. I refused. I would fight tooth and nail, risking a cracked rib from my father’s backhand, just to snatch a piece of protein off the plate. When my parents said they had no money for my education, I stole the cash meant for my brother’s trade school. I drank tap water to kill the hunger pangs, lived off expired canned beans, and dragged myself through high school by sheer force of will. Years later, I was scammed into working at a shady, high-end escort club under the guise of a waitressing gig. That was where Conrad saved me. He had just inherited the Whitman empire and was in town closing a merger. He wore a sharply tailored, three-piece Savile Row suit, his chestnut hair swept back without a single strand out of place. He didn’t look like a man looking for a cheap thrill; he looked like a prince who had wandered into the slums to conduct an academic study. He used a pristine linen handkerchief to wipe my tears, the tips of his ears flushing pink. He told me that if I ever needed help, I could come to him. And so, I did. I clung to him like a parasite. I crawled into his bed. I pushed a well-mannered gentleman to the absolute edge of his sanity until, exasperated and cornered, he agreed to marry me. In those early days, even the housekeeper’s daughter spat at my feet, calling me a manipulative, gold-digging bitch who bit the hand that fed her. But beauty and cunning were the only resources I had. I simply seized every single opportunity to climb upward. I fought, scratched, and bled for my own interests. Was I wrong? As long as the Whitman family didn’t physically kill me, I was willing to play Mrs. Whitman and rewrite my destiny. 03 The day after the divorce was finalized, Beatrice called me to go shopping. She swept into the boutique, the strand of South Sea pearls at her throat swaying gently with her measured steps. “I heard you and my son finalized the papers. After all the scheming it took to marry into the Whitmans, after all the dirt you ate, you’re actually willing to walk away?” She was immediately swarmed by a flock of eager sales associates. When a long moment passed without my reply, she turned and shot me a sharp, disapproving glare. “Is this just because he fancies that Ph.D. girl? Because he’s letting her play at your Vice President desk? You’re just throwing a tantrum.” “This is the perfect excuse for you to step down and just be Mrs. Whitman. Drink tea with me, go shopping. Isn’t this better than reading endless financial reports? As long as you don’t sign that final decree, any woman on the outside is just a motel. You are the home.” She leisurely tried on several cashmere coats. When she stepped out of the fitting room and I still hadn’t spoken, her patience snapped. She tossed a silk scarf aside and lifted her chin, the picture of East Coast arrogance. “I’ll be brutally honest. I despised you at first. You were Appalachian trash. But you turned out to be obedient, clever, and quite comfortable to have around. Frankly, I’m too lazy to break in a new daughter-in-law.” “Say the word, and I will make sure he doesn’t go through with the split.” “My son has lived in an ivory tower his entire life. He doesn’t understand how malicious the world is, and after you married him, you shielded him from all the ugly business. He is completely defenseless against the coy, manipulative games of that little scholar. Once he sees her true colors, once he realizes who really has his back, he’ll come begging for your forgiveness. Ten years of marriage doesn’t just vanish. You already have his heart. Why can’t you just be patient and wait?” I remained utterly silent. Thoroughly irritated, Beatrice spun on her heel, marched out, and slammed the door of her chauffeured Bentley. I followed her out and tapped gently on the tinted glass. The window slid down. “I was just thinking,” I said, my voice smooth and calm, “exactly how valuable is a man’s heart, Beatrice?” “Is it more valuable than the ruthless business acumen, the impenetrable network, and the leverage I’ve built over the last ten years?” “Is it more valuable than the hundred million dollars sitting in my offshore accounts right now?” “Of course I could wait for him.” “But if I wait another ten years, the only things I’ll love will still be money, and myself.” The Bentley’s engine purred to life. Beatrice’s knuckles turned a stark, bony white as she gripped her Birkin bag. 04 The divorce was a clean break on paper, but detaching myself from the corporation required a month-long transition period. I still had to attend board meetings, oversee supplier bids, and show up at corporate galas. Only this time, I attended solely as the outgoing VP. Not as Conrad’s wife. There was someone else standing by his side now. Camilla was the intellectual darling of a family of academics, educated at Oxford since she was a teenager. Even the slight, upward tilt of her eyes when she looked at people carried an air of effortless grace. The Whitman empire spanned the globe, and no matter what topic the guests breached or what language they spoke, Camilla conversed with flawless ease. Whenever a shark-like investor came over to press a drink on her, Conrad instinctively stepped in front of her, shielding her. They were perfectly in sync. It was pouring rain when the gala ended. I stood under the awning of a secluded courtyard, waiting for my car, when a sudden burst of silver, bell-like laughter cut through the dark. Conrad was holding an umbrella for Camilla as they cut across the hotel’s manicured gardens. She wore a flowing white gown; he was in a sharp black tuxedo. The misty, rain-slicked scene was so beautiful it looked like a still from a classic romantic film. Camilla, her cheeks flushed with champagne, playfully shoved Conrad out from under the umbrella. Conrad, a man notoriously obsessed with cleanliness and control, froze for a fraction of a second. Then, he simply reached out, pulled Camilla into the downpour, and wrapped her in his arms. The wet cobblestones caught the dim courtyard lights. She rested her head on his shoulder, and they swayed slowly to the faint jazz drifting from the ballroom, as if the rest of the world had completely ceased to exist. When you’re with the right person, the rain isn’t bad weather. It’s scenery. It’s romance. … I was suddenly pulled back to my second year of marriage. It was the first time I attended a gala as Mrs. Whitman. I understood nothing of the conversations. I just clung to Conrad’s arm and smiled until my jaw ached. I felt so inadequate. I wanted to prove my worth. I remembered my father, groveling and drinking himself sick to please his bosses. So, I started intercepting drinks meant for Conrad. I took every shot, every glass of whiskey. My tolerance was pathetic, and by the end of the night, my eyes were red and my head was spinning. I thought that’s what a good corporate wife was supposed to do. Later, as we left, I ran ahead to open his umbrella. But my hands were clumsy from the alcohol, and I fumbled, letting the icy rain soak his tailored shoulder. He violently shoved me away and got into the town car alone. I can still see the raw disgust in his eyes. You’re so cheap, Jo, he had spat at me. Throwing yourself at those men for a drink—cheap. Panting after me like a stray dog—cheap. … I had been lost in the memory for so long I didn’t notice Conrad had approached. He was standing near the edge of the awning, smoking. The curling gray smoke blurred his sharp profile in the damp night air. He looked weighed down by something. He chose the most trivial opening possible. “Jocelyn. What did you say to my mother the day after we signed the papers? She’s furious with you.” The damp air settled into a heavy silence. Conrad’s Adam’s apple bobbed sharply. “Why do you look so hollowed out? Why are you hiding in the dark watching us, acting like the wounded party?” “If I treated you poorly in the past, it was only because I truly didn’t love you.” “We’re divorced now. I’ve compensated you beyond what’s fair!” This man, usually the epitome of composure, was anxiously rolling the cigarette filter between his fingers, waiting for a forgiveness that was never going to come. I smiled and shook my head. “You’re overthinking it, Conrad.” “I chose my path, and I never complained about the cuts and bruises I got walking it.” “I was just looking at the two of you and feeling a bit nostalgic. You wasted ten years of my life, but I wasted ten of yours, too. If we had never crossed paths, you’d probably be very happy with Camilla right now.” He was raising the cigarette to his lips, but his hand froze in mid-air. The burning ash quietly broke off and fell onto the back of his hand. It seared the skin red before he finally snapped out of his trance. He called out to me. “Jocelyn. The rain is too heavy. Let me drive you back.” I pointed to the sleek Maybach idling at the curb. “We’re divorced. You don’t need to spare me a single ounce of your attention anymore.” “Just remember to approve my expense report tomorrow. I booked the premium executive car, and the surge pricing is steep.” “After all, tonight still counts as a business trip.” 05 Beatrice Whitman was still holding a grudge against me. Yet, she sent Conrad to pass along a message: she wanted the slow-simmered, 48-hour clarified bone consommé I used to make. I casually told him it would cost a hundred thousand dollars a bowl. The next morning, a clean million had been wired into my account. Money talks. I had no choice but to show up at the Connecticut estate to cook. I just didn’t expect to run into Camilla by the front gates. Conrad was dead serious about Camilla. But Beatrice despised her new daughter-in-law. She found her tastes pedestrian and her domestic skills non-existent. I heard that Camilla had hired a team of Michelin-starred caterers to handle the annual Founders’ Eve Dinner—a deeply sacred Whitman tradition. Beatrice was so enraged she threw Camilla out of the house. Hearing this, I chuckled and called out to Camilla as she lingered by her car. “Come back inside. I’ll teach you how to placate her.” Camilla crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. “Why would you be so kind?” I simply carried my bags of premium ingredients into the massive kitchen. The Whitman family had old colonial roots, and Beatrice despised the modern, deconstructed plates Camilla favored. She liked her ancestral soups. To make it, you had to wake up before dawn to source the marrow bones, soaking them in ice water for hours to draw out the impurities. The root vegetables had to be a specific heirloom variety, or the broth would taste like dishwater. It required constant skimming, adjusting the simmer by fractions of a degree over two days, to achieve that crystal-clear, liquid-gold perfection. “Are you insane?” Camilla gasped. “You expect me to personally go to a butcher at five in the morning? Can’t this family afford a chef?” Ah. Because the Whitman men preferred modern steaks and French dining, the estate didn’t employ a chef specialized in these obscure, archaic family recipes. The men made the money; the men were gods. No one cared about Beatrice’s seemingly trivial, nostalgic preferences. “Then what is wrong with me hiring a professional team?” Camilla demanded. Because to old-money traditionalists, the Founders’ Eve Dinner wasn’t just a meal. It was a test of the matriarch’s devotion, an exhibition of the wife’s domestic endurance. Outsourcing it to strangers was tantamount to spitting on the family crest. Honestly, it wasn’t that hard once you got used to it. Wake up at four, hand-roll the pastries, clarify the broth, arrange the silver… you were usually done by dusk. Before Conrad married, Beatrice did it all herself. Then I arrived. And I did it alone, quietly. By the tenth year, my hands knew the motions by heart. … Beatrice was an incredibly simple woman to please, if you knew how. She was the easiest target in the Whitman hierarchy. Camilla stood there stunned for a long time, until a senior maid gently tugged at her sleeve. “Don’t worry, Miss Camilla. Mr. Conrad has finally found a woman he truly loves. Everyone in this house wants to help you. We will make sure Mrs. Whitman accepts you.” “Exactly! My mom and I will secretly watch the stove and prep the pastries for you. You don’t have to worry about a thing!” a younger maid chimed in. A slow, triumphant smile spread across Camilla’s face, blooming into the smugness of absolute victory. “Jocelyn, you just made it sound exhausting to scare me off, didn’t you? I’m not an idiot. The Whitmans have a small army of staff to do the heavy lifting!” I slowly washed my hands at the copper sink, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. They’re willing to help you. Because a pure, educated, high-born woman like you is worthy of being Mrs. Whitman. I wasn’t. … I got the broth perfectly settled into a simmer and left the rest to Camilla’s “supervision.” I packed my things and left the estate. I had just walked halfway down the long, winding driveway to get cell service for an Uber when I looked up. The senior maid was driving her beat-up Honda down the hill, her daughter in the passenger seat. The trunk was overflowing with trash bags full of their belongings. “Mom, you’ve worked for the Whitmans for forty years! You were here before Madam Beatrice even married into the family! Why would Mr. Conrad fire you? What did you even do wrong?!” the daughter wailed. “Hush, just stop talking…” the older woman wept. The wind carried their voices right to my ears, making my steps slow to a halt. A second later, my phone vibrated. It was Conrad. After a long, suffocating silence, his raspy voice came through the speaker. “Jocelyn. They’ve been bullying you this whole time. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463652”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend accidentally added me to her group chat with her best friends. The group was named “The War Room.” She had no idea who I was. When I joined, they were in the middle of debating Strategy Three for “Reclaiming Glenn.” Glenn is my boyfriend. I dimmed my phone screen, leaned back against the sofa, and began scrolling through the chat history. Strategy One: Orchestrate a “spontaneous” run-in. Strategy Two: Muscle in on his company’s new project. I scrolled to Strategy Three, and my finger stopped. “Make his current girlfriend look like an idiot in public. He’ll come crawling back to me. Glenn is fiercely protective, but he cares about his reputation even more. When those two forces clash, you all know which one he’ll choose.” I stared at those words for a long time. I thought back to three months ago, at a party with his friends. I had misspoke—just a minor slip—and he had gone completely silent in front of everyone. It was a heavy, suffocating silence that lasted for what felt like hours. I had assumed it was just his personality. That he was just a quiet man. I changed my profile picture to a simple daisy and typed a message into the group chat: “Hey girls, I actually know someone at Glenn’s current girlfriend’s company. Do you guys need some inside info?” The ex replied almost instantly: “Yes, please! Where have you been all our lives, you absolute gem?” I didn’t reply right away. I was thinking: if Glenn really is the kind of man who values his pride over his partner… I needed to figure out exactly who these people were before deciding how to end this relationship. … 1 I’d been with Glenn for two years. Not a lifetime, but long enough to think I knew him. He was a hard man to summarize. In business, he was decisive and cutthroat; in private, he was quiet, but his loyalty ran deep. The first time I met him was at a crowded dinner party. Someone had cracked a tasteless, boundary-crossing joke at my expense. Before the silence could stretch into humiliation, Glenn smoothly cut in, steering the conversation away so effortlessly that nobody else realized what he’d done. He didn’t even look at me. I remember thinking, Now, he’s interesting. Once we started dating, that protective streak remained. He wasn’t a man of sweet talk or grand declarations, but he showed up. He did the work. I truly believed we were happy. Until that notification popped up on my phone. It was an invite to an unfamiliar group chat. I blinked, trying to recall if I’d joined a new thread or if a friend had added me to a bachelorette party planning group. I hadn’t. There were already over twenty women in the chat, and the messages were flying fast. I scrolled up to the pinned announcement. Commander: Alright girls, the target has been acquired. Code name: G. We have a three-phase strategy. We’re initiating Phase Three today. Slide into my DMs if you have questions. I dimmed my screen a fraction and kept reading. Phase One: Spontaneous run-in. Staking out his favorite coffee shop downtown. Phase Two: Muscling in on his firm’s latest venture, positioning ourselves as potential partners. But it was Phase Three—screencapped and pinned at the top—that made my chest tighten. It was a message from the “Commander” herself: Make his current girlfriend look like an idiot in public. He’ll come crawling back to me. Glenn is protective, but he cares about his reputation even more. When those two forces clash, you all know which one he’ll choose. I stared at the screen, motionless. A thin sliver of late afternoon sunlight sliced through the gap in the curtains, slowly shifting across the hardwood floor. From the study down the hall, Glenn’s low, resonant voice drifted out. He was on a conference call, calmly dissecting quarterly projections. And all I could think about was that dinner party three months ago. I’d had a glass of wine too many and made a casual remark about his previous project. It wasn’t a state secret—just a minor mix-up, a misplaced decimal point in a conversation with his colleagues. But then I saw Glenn’s face. He didn’t get angry. Instead, a wall just… shut down behind his eyes. He went completely, utterly silent. He barely spoke a word on the drive home. I’d written it off as his temperament. He was a man of few words, after all. But reading that text on my screen, a cold knot of doubt began to untangle in my stomach. “He’ll choose his pride. You all know which one he’ll choose.” The woman who wrote that knew Glenn. Or, at least, she believed she did. I tapped my profile settings, replacing my photo with a picture of a single, delicate daisy—a soft, unassuming aesthetic that revealed absolutely nothing about me. Then, I typed: I know someone at his current girlfriend’s company. Do you guys need some info? The chat paused for a heartbeat. Then the Commander replied. OMG yes! Where did you come from? Spill! The rest of the chat erupted. Are you an angel sent from above? Please please please! DM me right now! I didn’t reply. I rested the phone on my lap and looked toward the study. Glenn was still talking, his voice steady, measured, completely in control. I took a quiet breath. If he was indeed the fragile, image-obsessed man his ex claimed he was, I needed to gather my evidence, map out their moves, and plan my exit. But if she was wrong… If she was wrong, I needed to find out who this “Commander” was and why she was so terrifyingly sure of herself. I wanted answers. Both of them. 2 I didn’t rush into the conversation that night. Instead, I muted the notifications, leaned back against my pillows, and read through the entire chat history from the very beginning. Most of the girls in the group were just background noise, chiming in with reaction GIFs or asking for updates. Only two were truly driving the plot: “Commander,” and another user named “UnsweetenedLemon.” Commander’s avatar was a highly edited side-profile shot—chic, aloof, carefully curated to project an air of effortless sophistication. UnsweetenedLemon was the talkative hype-woman, always using overly familiar slang, acting like the loyal lieutenant. I scrolled back to a message from two weeks prior. Commander had written: Girls, I was with him for three years. I know him better than anyone. He acts cold and detached, but he’s obsessed with his image. He cares deeply about how he’s perceived. His current girl is just… average. A nobody. She doesn’t belong in his world. He just hasn’t realized it yet. My finger hovered over the screen. Average. A nobody. I let the words settle in my chest, feeling their dull weight. Then I kept scrolling. UnsweetenedLemon had replied: Don’t worry, Commander. You guys are meant to be. He’ll come back to his senses! Commander: I don’t believe in fate. I believe in strategy. A faint, dry smile touched my lips. You had to admire the sheer confidence. The next morning, Commander tagged me in the main chat: Hey, @Daisy, are you around? You said you have an in at his current’s company. What’s the scoop? As the notification lit up my screen, Glenn walked out of the kitchen holding two cups of coffee. He set one down on the side table next to me without a word. I flipped my phone face down on the sofa cushions and looked up. “Thanks.” “Sure,” he murmured, sitting on the other end of the couch and opening his laptop. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was wearing a dark blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his brow slightly furrowed as he scanned a document. I picked my phone back up, unlocked it, and typed: I’m here. But I don’t just hand out info for free. What exactly are you looking for? Commander replied almost instantly. What projects is his firm bidding on? Are there any weak points in their current vendor negotiations? I paused, then looked over at Glenn. “Hey, how’s that new municipal project coming along? Just curious.” Glenn looked up from his screen, his dark eyes resting on me for a long beat. “We’re pushing through. We should have a decision by next month.” “Is the bidding competitive?” “A few major players are in the mix,” he said, his voice flat. “Why do you ask?” “Just wondering,” I said, offering a light smile. “You’ve been working so hard lately. I wanted to understand what’s keeping you so busy.” He stared at me a moment longer, then looked back at his laptop. “It’s nothing exciting. Just tedious logistics.” I withdrew my gaze, raised my phone, and translated what I had just learned into a vague, tantalizing hint for the chat. The group went wild. This is gold! How do we use this? Commander, look! This is our window! Then a private message notification slid down from Commander: Daisy, can I ask you something? Do you actually work at his firm? I replied: No. But I have my sources. Good, she wrote back. I don’t want this tracing back to him. You understand. I stared at the screen and silently rolled my eyes. Oh, I understand. Better than you think. I set the phone down and picked up the mug Glenn had brought me. I took a sip. It was warm, slightly bitter, but at the exact temperature I liked. Not scalding. Just right. He always made it exactly like this. Looking down into the dark liquid, a sudden, intrusive thought crossed my mind. Did he make her coffee at this exact temperature, too? 3 Over the next week, I played the long game, slowly establishing myself as the most valuable asset in the group. I didn’t rush. I didn’t offer information too eagerly. I waited for them to ask, letting them set the value. Commander soon realized my intel was far more accurate than anything else they had. She started DMing me directly. We talked often. She never asked for my real name, and I never volunteered it. But I learned everything about her. Her name was Victoria. She and Glenn had been classmates in college, dated for three years, and broke up two years ago. According to her, the breakup was merely a matter of “bad timing, but the underlying feelings never changed.” She said it with such casual certainty, as if she were stating an undeniable law of physics. I kept my responses neutral. UnsweetenedLemon, however, lacked Victoria’s discipline. One afternoon, she slid into my DMs: Daisy! Quick question! Have you ever seen his current girlfriend? What does she even look like? I replied: I’ve seen her. Plain. Nothing special. UnsweetenedLemon: Hahaha, I knew it! Total downgrade. What about her job? Is she a nobody too? I typed: Pretty average. And her family background? I: Even more ordinary. UnsweetenedLemon sent back a string of laughing emojis. No wonder Victoria is so confident. Glenn’s just having a phase. He’ll get bored of her soon enough. I stared at the text, my jaw tightening slightly. Plain. Ordinary. I chewed on those words, feeling a quiet, familiar prickle of irritation. I knew I wasn’t some high-society heiress. I came from a comfortable, middle-class family, worked a stable corporate job, and didn’t possess Victoria’s polished, high-society charm. But I had never once felt “less than.” Both truths coexisted in my mind without contradiction. I locked my phone, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water. I stood by the sink, watching the tap run, lost in thought. I was under no illusions about who I was, but I also knew my worth. I turned off the faucet, walked back to the sofa, and opened the chat. Victoria had posted a new message in the main thread. Phase Three was officially in motion. Girls, I’ve found our opening. His current girlfriend is attending an industry gala next week. I need someone to help me confirm the exact panel schedule and her RSVP details. I’ll be there in person. Leave the rest to me. The chat erupted in cheers. I stared at the screen, my fingers freezing. The industry gala next week. I knew exactly which event she was talking about. Glenn had mentioned it a few days ago. His firm was hosting a table, and he’d asked if I wanted to accompany him. Which meant… I was already on the guest list. I leaned back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. Victoria was betting that by making me look foolish in public, Glenn would abandon me to save face. She was gambling on his vanity. And the only thing I didn’t know was whether she was going to win. The memory of Glenn’s cold, defensive silence from three months ago flashed in my mind. I closed my eyes, thinking through the angles. Then I sat up, opened my private chat with Victoria, and typed: I can get you the schedule and the seating chart. But I need to know exactly what you plan to do. Victoria’s reply was swift: Don’t worry, I’m not looking to start a scene. I just want to embarrass her slightly in front of his peers. A little public awkwardness goes a long way. You know how he is—he absolutely cannot stand when his people make him look bad. He cannot stand when his people make him look bad. My hand tightened around the phone. I didn’t reply. I needed to answer one question first. If Glenn truly was the superficial man Victoria described, then this relationship was a house of cards anyway, and I needed to know before I wasted another day. But if he wasn’t… Then I couldn’t let Victoria humiliate me. Either way, I needed the truth. And there was only one way to get it quickly. I switched to my personal account, opened my chat with Glenn, and typed: Are you still planning on going to the gala next Friday? He replied almost instantly: Yes. Why? I took a breath and typed: I was thinking we should go together. Let’s make a night of it. A long pause. Three dots appeared, vanished, and then: Okay. Just one word. I stared at it, a strange, hollow feeling settling in my stomach. Then I switched back to my burner account and messaged Victoria: Confirmed. She’ll be at the main keynote at 2 PM. As I pressed send, the noise in my head went quiet. The decision was made. Next Friday, I would see with my own eyes exactly what kind of man Glenn really was. 4 Friday afternoon arrived. The convention center was a sea of dark suits, sharp blazers, and high-stakes networking. Glenn and I had agreed to meet at the entrance. He was already there when I arrived, standing near the registration desk in a charcoal-gray suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. He was looking down at his phone. When he saw me, he tucked his phone away and smiled. “Hey.” As we checked in, he reached over and gently straightened my name tag, his fingers brushing my lapel. It was a quick, instinctual gesture—he probably didn’t even realize he’d done it. The keynote ended, and a thirty-minute coffee break was announced. Glenn asked if I wanted anything to drink. I told him a bottle of water was fine, and he nodded, heading toward the beverage stations. I stayed behind, letting him go. I pulled out my phone and opened the secret chat. Commander: I’m in. Second-floor mezzanine by the coffee carts. I see him. UnsweetenedLemon: Where’s the girlfriend? Commander: Right next to him. Honestly, she looks so basic. I don’t get what he sees in her. I dimmed my screen, turned, and walked toward the stairs leading to the mezzanine. The coffee area was packed, people standing in loose clusters, talking shop. I lingered near the edge of the crowd and easily spotted Victoria. She was wearing a tailored cream blazer, her hair swept up in a polished twist that looked even sharper than her profile picture. She was holding a cup of coffee, her eyes scanning the room. Searching for Glenn. What happened next was meticulously choreographed. She began walking in Glenn’s direction, only to be “accidentally” bumped by a passing attendee. The coffee splashed out of her cup, blooming across her cream blazer. She let out a soft, delicate gasp, looking up just as Glenn turned toward the noise. Their eyes met. The timing was perfect. Glenn, holding a bottle of water and a coffee cup, didn’t react. He looked at her—just a cold, brief glance—and then immediately turned his head, searching the crowd until he found me. He walked right past her, straight to where I was standing, and handed me the water. “Why did you come up here? It’s crowded.” “Just wanted to stretch my legs,” I said, taking the bottle. He nodded, accepting the answer. I glanced over his shoulder. Victoria was still standing there, holding her half-empty cup, staring at Glenn’s back. The expression on her face was hard to read. It was a mix of hurt, disbelief, and underneath it all, a deep, simmering frustration that looked like it had been building for years. The gala wrapped up around five. The crowd began filtering toward the exits. Glenn stepped away to use the restroom, telling me to wait by the main doors. I stood by the glass entrance, pulled out my phone, and logged into the burner account. Commander: He ignored me. UnsweetenedLemon: Did he even recognize you? Commander: Yes. He looked right at me, then walked straight to her. UnsweetenedLemon: Does she know who you are? Commander: No. She’s completely oblivious. She has no idea I even exist— “You’re Daisy.” The voice was quiet, steady, and very close. I looked up. Victoria was standing right in front of me, less than two feet away. She was still holding her coffee cup, the brown stain on her blazer now dry and dark. She was looking down at my phone. I instinctively tried to turn the screen away, but I was too late. She had seen it. The layout of the group chat, the messages, and the small daisy sticker on the back of my phone case—the exact image I used for my avatar. Victoria looked up, her gaze locked onto mine. The lobby was bustling around us, but in our small corner, the air felt frozen. “You’re the one who leaked the schedule,” she said. It wasn’t a question. I gripped my phone, neither denying it nor speaking. I just watched her. She stared at me for what felt like an eternity. Then, she said something I never expected to hear. “I know who added me to that group chat.” She paused, letting the words hang between us. “And they’re the same person who added you.” A cool draft swept through the open doors, loosening a strand of hair from her updo. And in that moment, the frustration I had seen in her eyes earlier finally made sense. It wasn’t malice directed at me. It was the realization that she, too, had been a pawn in someone else’s game. My heart skipped a beat. “What are you saying?” I asked, my voice much steadier than I felt. Victoria looked toward the hallway. “I want to talk,” she said. “About Glenn.” “And about the person neither of us saw coming.” Footsteps echoed behind me. Glenn was walking back. Victoria and I both looked toward him at the same time. As he approached, his eyes darted between us, his brow furrowing into a tight line. The three of us stood there at the entrance of the convention center, swallowed by a heavy silence. The setting sun cast our long shadows across the concrete. I tightened my grip on my phone, taking a slow, deep breath. Some things couldn’t be avoided.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463651”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the avalanche hit, the rescue helicopter only had room for two more people. My husband, Elliott, guided Bella onto the rope ladder. He didn’t even look back when he tossed the words over his shoulder: “Bella is fragile. You’ve always been strong, Norah. Wait for the next lift.” I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that my leg, ruined three years ago when I searched for him in a freezing blizzard, couldn’t handle the cold. Not anymore. But he was already gone, ascending into the gray winter sky without a backward glance. Before my consciousness faded in the biting cold, a desperate, foolish thought clung to me: If he comes back for me, I’ll reject the transfer to Charleston. I’ll stay by his side. I waited all night. Nobody came. When I finally opened my eyes in a sterile hospital room, my first instinct was to check my phone. It was a pathetic habit—every time he let me down, I’d still hope to find a missed call, a message, some proof that I mattered. Naturally, there was nothing. Instead, my feed refreshed to show Bella’s latest Instagram post. The photo showed a tiny, superficial scratch on the back of her hand, framed by a very familiar wool sleeve. Her caption read: Someone was making a mountain out of a molehill. He refused to close his eyes all night. Looking at that sleeve, the last lingering ache of hope inside me withered away. She had a paper-cut-sized scratch, and he kept vigil. I spent the night buried in a freezing snowdrift, and he couldn’t even send a text. In the past, this would have made my chest ache, and I would have made excuses for him, telling myself to hold on a little longer. Not this time. Like someone who had been out in the frost too long, I had simply gone numb. The nurse walked in and asked if she should notify my family. I quietly locked my screen. “No,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “There’s no one to call.” Looking out at the stubborn snow on the hospital window sill, I messaged my lawyer: Don’t hold onto the divorce papers anymore. Let’s start the process. Then, I logged into my company portal and hit the button to confirm my transfer to Charleston. 1 I dragged my left leg, encased in a heavy medical brace, out of the cab. The driver handed me my crutches, taking in my pale, drawn face. “You need help getting upstairs, miss?” “No, thank you. I’ve got it.” Leaning against the elevator wall, I sent Elliott a text. I’m out of the hospital. My leg is in bad shape. The doctor said I absolutely cannot expose it to the cold. I stared at the screen, counting thirty seconds. He replied with a single letter: K. I let out a dry laugh and slipped the phone into my pocket. As I unlocked the front door of our apartment, soft laughter drifted from the living room. Sitting in the entryway was a pair of cream-colored leather flats. I limped in on my crutches. Elliott was kneeling in front of the sofa, a cotton swab in hand, meticulously dabbing ointment onto the faint pink scratch on Bella’s hand. The coffee table was cluttered with antiseptic, gauze, sterile pads, and adhesive bandages. An entire medical kit, as if he were treating a life-threatening wound. Bella flinched, letting out a soft whimper. “Ow, it hurts…” “Just bear with it for a second. Don’t move,” he said, his voice dropping into that gentle, soothing register he reserved only for her. “I’ll be quick.” I stood by the doorway, gripping my crutches, my braced leg stiff, still wearing the oversized grey hospital fleece. Neither of them even looked up. He hadn’t asked a single question about the leg I had nearly lost in the avalanche. Yet here he was, treating her minor scrape like a tragedy. “All done,” Elliott murmured, smoothing down the bandage. He finally raised his head and saw me. He froze for a fraction of a second. His gaze flicked from my face down to the heavy brace, and then to the crutches. I saw his throat bob as he swallowed. But he didn’t get up. “You’re back?” his tone was flat. “What happened to your leg?” “Frostbite,” I replied. “The doctor said I need three months of bed rest.” “Right.” He looked back down, packing away the ointments. “Bella’s scratch is a little inflamed, so I wanted to get it cleaned up first. Go on and get some rest yourself.” Once again. Bella always came first. Bella finally acknowledged me, her face shifting into a perfectly practiced mask of concern. “Norah! Oh my gosh, are you okay? Your leg looks terrible! Last night was so scary…” She paused, biting her lip. “Elliott stayed by my side all night. I kept telling him that you were in a much worse spot, but he said you’ve always been tough. He was sure you’d be fine…” Always tough. Sure to be fine. In the past, those words would have pierced me. I would have felt the sting of hot tears, crying privately where he couldn’t see. This time, I felt nothing but a hollow, cool breeze passing through my chest. “Right. Thanks for looking out,” I said. Then, turning on my crutches, I made my way toward the bedroom. Behind me, the room fell dead silent. I knew Elliott was staring at my back. He was waiting. Waiting for me to slam the door, to demand answers with tear-stained cheeks, to scream, Why do you always do this to me? But I didn’t. I closed the door quietly, sat on the edge of the mattress, and pulled out my phone. The transfer status read: In Review. Estimated processing time: 3 business days. I opened my calendar app and marked a countdown. Three days left. Bella left around nine. The apartment fell into a heavy quiet, and the pain in my leg flared up. The frostbite, combined with the old fracture, had turned my knee into a swollen, throbbing mess. The pain shot deep into the marrow of my bones. I bit my lower lip to keep from making a sound. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Elliott paused right outside my door. My heart skipped a beat. If he opens the door now, if he just asks if I need to go to the hospital… The silence lingered for a beat or two. Then, his footsteps moved away. Soon, the muffled sound of his voice floated through the thin drywall. He was on the phone, his words perfectly clear: “Bella? Did you make it home okay? Is it cold out? I’ll drive you to your follow-up tomorrow. Make sure you don’t get that hand wet…” I closed my eyes. My phone screen lit up with a message from my attorney: The divorce agreement is ready. Shall I mail it over? I typed back: Send it. 2 The next morning, I began to pack. It wasn’t a dramatic, noisy clean-out; I did it in quiet, deliberate increments. My passport and ID went into my shoulder bag. A few favorite novels were tucked into the bottom of my suitcase. I took our framed photos off the bookshelf and slid them between layers of sweaters. Before heading out, Elliott passed the study and caught me. “What are you doing?” “Just putting away some winter clothes,” I said. He muttered an “okay,” completely incurious, grabbed his keys, and left. Once the front door clicked shut, I went to the living room and took down our wedding portrait. In the photo, we were laughing, radiant. That was before Hannah’s accident. Back when his eyes still lit up when he looked at me. Hannah—Bella’s older sister, and Elliott’s childhood sweetheart. Three years ago, she died instantly in a car crash. I was the last person to see her alive. I had been right there when the car swerved. I reached out, tried to grab her coat, but she slipped right through my fingers. And Elliott had decided, from that moment on, that her death was my fault. I tried to explain. Dozens of times. He never believed me. Eventually, I stopped trying to argue and chose to prove my devotion through silence and presence instead. That winter, when he went on a self-destructive bender after the funeral, I searched the freezing city streets for him all night. I slipped on a patch of black ice, shattering my kneecap—an injury that would plague me for the rest of my life. But to Elliott, it was nothing. In his mind, I owed Hannah a life, and no amount of sacrifice would ever balance the scale. … Around noon, my lawyer called. “Norah, I want to confirm the division of assets. The condo, the cars, the savings accounts—you’re legally entitled to half of everything.” “I don’t want any of it,” I said. “I just want it clean and fast.” The lawyer paused. “Are you absolutely sure?” “Yes.” I hung up and slid my packed suitcase into the deepest corner of the closet, draping a few heavy winter coats over it. When Elliott came home that evening, I was sitting on the couch with the TV on. He seemed to be in a good mood. He kicked off his shoes, walked over, and sat down right next to me. Then, right in front of me, he pulled out his phone and sent Bella a voice note. “Hey, Bella, I’ll take you to your appointment tomorrow. Don’t bother calling an Uber.” His voice was soft, the tone you’d use with a fragile child. He was waiting for my reaction. I knew him too well. Before, every time he flaunted his tenderness for Bella, my eyes would well up. I’d ask him, voice trembling, Why do you have to do this? And he’d give me that cold, dismissive look and say, Bella is Hannah’s sister. It’s my responsibility to look after her. If you didn’t have a guilty conscience, why would it bother you so much? It was his ultimate weapon. Using Hannah’s ghost to silence me. But this time, I didn’t even look up from the screen. He waited a few seconds, put his phone away, and eyed me from the side. “You’re awfully quiet today.” “Just tired,” I said. He let out a dry chuckle, leaning back and crossing his legs. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He thought I was playing a game, building up to a dramatic explosion. He thought I would bring up divorce again, throw a tantrum, and then, after a couple of days of his cold shoulder, break down and beg him to stay. That was how it always went. He was confident. He thought if he ignored me long enough, I’d fall back into line. In the long stretch of silence, I spoke up. “Elliott.” “Yeah?” “If I actually left one day… would you miss me?” He turned to look at me, a confident, almost mocking smile playing on his lips. “Could you actually bring yourself to?” Those five words, tossed out so casually, as if the very idea of me leaving was a joke. He was so sure of his hold on me. Sure that every threat of divorce was just a desperate plea for attention. I glanced down at my phone. A notification was waiting on the screen: Your transfer request has reached final review. Expected processing time: 1-2 business days. I locked the screen and gave him a soft smile. “Right. How could I ever leave?” Satisfied, he turned back to the TV and flipped the channel, looking like a man who had easily won a battle he didn’t even have to fight. I stared at his profile and thought: Two days left. 3 The night of our company’s annual gala, I was awarded Project Manager of the Year. It was my final moment of recognition in this city. Before I went up, Jess, a younger colleague, helped smooth down the hem of my dress. “This is your night, Norah. Enjoy it.” I smiled, keeping the secret that in seventy-two hours, I’d be gone. The event was held at a high-end hotel downtown. When my name was called, the ballroom erupted into applause. Standing under the warm spotlight with the heavy glass trophy in my hands, my eyes caught a familiar figure in the far corner of the room. Elliott was here. Bella was holding his arm, the two of them seated at a table near the back. He had come, but not for me. I looked away and focused on delivering my speech. Afterward, colleagues swarmed me with congratulations. As I was clinking glasses with my director, a sweet, familiar voice sounded from behind. “Norah! Congratulations!” Bella walked up, holding a glass of juice, her smile bright. Elliott stood a step behind her, his face a cool, unreadable mask. “Thank you,” I said, offering a polite nod. Bella stepped closer, leaning in to lower her voice so only I could hear. “You’re so successful, Norah. I’m honestly jealous. I’m so useless at everything, I have to rely on Elliott for literally everything.” She paused, her eyes crinkling. “Hannah used to say the same thing—that you were the most fiercely independent woman she’d ever met.” Hannah again. Every time she invoked her sister’s name, Elliott’s demeanor changed. Sure enough, his jaw tightened instantly. In the past, I would have swallowed my pride and stayed silent. But tonight was my last night in this room. “Bella,” I said, my voice quiet but perfectly clear. “Do you honestly believe you can replace your sister?” Her smile froze. “To Elliott, Hannah is an untouched memory. But you?” I took a slow sip of my wine. “You’re just a convenient shadow he keeps around so he doesn’t have to let her go.” Bella’s face drained of color. Her eyes welled with tears as she turned to Elliott. “Elliott…” Elliott’s expression turned incredibly dark. He glared at me, his eyes cold as ice. “Norah, what did you just say?” “I’m just speaking the truth.” He let out a harsh laugh, turned on his heel, and walked straight toward the podium at the front. I didn’t realize what he was planning until he picked up the microphone. The room fell into a hush. “Excuse me, everyone,” his voice carried through the speakers, quiet but loud enough for every ear in the room. “Regarding the project that was just awarded, I’d like to clarify something. The sustainable research station project that Norah managed actually relied heavily on Bella’s data modeling in the early stages. The credit shouldn’t go to just one person.” A collective murmur swept through the crowd. Dozens of eyes shifted to me. My fingers went white around the glass of my trophy. It was a lie. I had spent eight grueling months working on that project entirely on my own. Bella had merely handled basic logistics; she had never even touched the database. But Elliott had said it. In front of my entire company. At the peak of my professional achievement, he had personally dragged me down from the pedestal and thrown me into the dirt. The whispers rose like a tide. “So she didn’t even do it herself?” “That explains why Bella was so quiet about it…” “How humiliating…” Bella stood behind Elliott, her head bowed, her shoulders trembling slightly as if she were crying. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. I stood frozen, a crushing pain squeezing my chest. Not because of the lost credit. Because of him. He could ignore me, he could withhold his love, he could treat Bella like royalty. But he had no right to take away the one thing I had left—my dignity, my hard work—and ruin it in front of everyone. I quietly set my glass down and walked out. I didn’t explain, and I didn’t argue. As I pushed open the exit doors, my phone buzzed. A text from my lawyer: The petition has been filed. His refusal to sign won’t halt the proceedings. Right beneath it was a system notification: Your transfer paperwork is complete. Please report to the Charleston branch within 72 hours. Seventy-two hours. Three days. Leaning against the cold corridor wall, my leg shook with pain, and my eyes burned. In three days, none of this would matter anymore. 4 It was nearly eleven when I got back. I pulled the suitcase out from the back of the closet and began packing the last of my things. My passport, some documents, a few changes of clothes. The suitcase was small, but I didn’t have much I wanted to take with me anyway. Midway through packing, the front door opened. Elliott was back. I quickly slid the suitcase back into the closet and pulled the coats over it. He pushed the bedroom door open and leaned against the frame, watching me. “Are you still mad?” I didn’t turn around. “No.” “Norah,” he said, walking into the room, his voice tinged with irritation. “I only said those things because you crossed a line with Bella. You know what happened to her sister, yet you still go out of your way to hurt her—” “I understand,” I interrupted him. “I shouldn’t have said it.” He paused, clearly taken aback by how easily I conceded. Usually, after an argument, I’d cry, throw questions at him, and let it drag out. Tonight, I was entirely placid. He studied me for a long moment, his eyes scanning the bedroom. The bookshelf was lighter. The vanity table looked sparser. “What are you packing up?” My heart fluttered. “Just rotating my wardrobe for the season. Putting away the heavy things.” He didn’t press further, turning on his heel toward the bathroom. I let out a slow breath and slipped my passport deep into my purse. The next day, I went to the office to finalize my departure. When I returned, Elliott wasn’t home, so I decided to cook one last dinner. Braised ribs, sautéed greens, and melon soup. He arrived at seven. Seeing the spread, he raised an eyebrow. “Is it my birthday or something?” “Just had some free time,” I replied. He sat down and took a few bites, his mood lifting. He probably thought the incident from last night was behind us, that I was “once again” bowing my head to keep the peace. Halfway through the meal, he said, “Bella’s birthday is next week. Don’t say things like that to her again.” “Okay.” “If you apologize to her, we can just put this behind us.” “Okay.” He nodded, satisfied, and reached for another rib. After dinner, he went to his study to handle emails while I washed the dishes, wiping down the counters until they shone. At nine-thirty, I went into the study to grab my charger. Elliott looked up from his screen. “What’s that folder on your desk?” My chest tightened. On the desk lay a clear plastic sleeve containing my transfer confirmation, which I’d brought home that afternoon. “Just work stuff,” I said, picking it up. “Final project handovers.” He muttered a vague sound and looked back at his monitor. I slipped the folder into my bag, my palms slick with sweat. That was close. By eleven, he was asleep. I stood by the bed, watching him for a long time. I remembered our first year of marriage, how he used to kiss my forehead before sleeping and whisper, Goodnight, sweetheart. He had loved me then. But after Hannah died, that love twisted into resentment, a slow punishment. He had pushed me away again and again, always certain that no matter how far he threw me, I’d still come back. I quietly pulled my suitcase from the closet, zipped it closed, and walked to the living room. I laid the signed divorce papers on the coffee table. Next to them, I left a small note: I had nothing to do with what happened to Hannah. Believe me or don’t—it’s up to you. But this time, I’m truly leaving. Take care. I slid my wedding ring off my finger and set it on top of the note. At four in the morning, I rolled my suitcase to the front door. I took one last, long look at the apartment. Then, I closed the door quietly behind me. … At seven, Elliott woke up to find my side of the bed cold. He walked out to the kitchen to get some water and noticed the papers on the coffee table. He picked them up and scanned them. A divorce agreement. He let out a small laugh. “Again?” He tossed them onto the couch and pulled out his phone. Stop playing games. Just come home. The message failed to deliver. Norah has enabled friend verification. He dialed my number. The number you have dialed is no longer in service. He froze. Running into the bedroom, he yanked open the closet doors. It was half-empty. In the bathroom, all my skincare, my toothbrush, everything was gone. He walked back to the living room, picking up the papers, the note, and the gold band resting on it. His hands began to shake. He frantically called my office. “Norah? She finalized her resignation two days ago. She transferred to our South Carolina branch. Didn’t you know?” The memory of the plastic folder flashed in his mind. Just work stuff. Final project handovers. It had been her transfer confirmation.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463650”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For five years, I hand-prepared premium, raw-food diets for the delicate, show-grade Ragdoll cats belonging to the elite social circle of the Heights. I charged them a neighborly rate of sixty dollars a portion. Then, the new summer intern decided to make a scene in our group chat. “Are you serious? Sixty dollars for a tiny container of minced meat?” she wrote, followed by a series of crying-laughing emojis. “Chicken breast costs less than ten dollars a pound! Is it really this easy to fleece wealthy women?” Before anyone could reply, she dropped a cute, wide-eyed kitten sticker. “From now on, I’ll handle the babies’ meals! Only twenty-five dollars a portion. I’m fresh out of college and don’t need the money—I just love animals and want to get to know you lovely ladies better~” Watching the members of the chat immediately start canceling their orders and leaving my group, I quietly locked my phone. A slow, genuine smile spread across my face. Finally. This thankless, money-losing chore was no longer my problem. 01 “I’ve left the group,” I replied to Vicky Davenport’s final direct message. Her response came almost instantly. “Don’t be so petty, Gwen. Lexie is just young and trying to help us save a little money.” “We appreciated your help over the years, of course. But none of us grows money on trees. You were making a fifty-dollar profit on every single box. You’ve taken enough from us these past few years, haven’t you?” “Let’s just go our separate ways from now on. And please, don’t go spreading rumors about us behind our backs.” I stared at the three consecutive bubbles on my screen. Without replying, I hit block. A second later, my phone vibrated with an incoming audio call. It was Lexie. The very intern who had just promised to underbid my life’s work for twenty-five dollars. I pressed accept. “Gwen, sweetie, please don’t be mad at me~” Lexie’s voice was sugary sweet, laced with a thin layer of condescension. “I honestly just couldn’t bear to see the ladies spending so much unnecessary cash.” “I can easily whip up those meat blends using cheap chicken scraps from the local butcher. It’s barely ten dollars for a whole batch. How did you sleep at night charging them sixty?” I looked down at the wooden crate sitting on my kitchen floor. Inside, packed in dry ice, was fresh New Zealand venison venison loin, flown in just this morning. Ragdolls are famous for their incredibly sensitive digestive systems. For five long years, I had never used cheap scraps. I used human-grade Australian rabbit and New Zealand venison. Each portion was meticulously balanced with Norwegian krill oil, natural taurine, and organic dietary fiber. Every batch underwent a seventy-two-hour deep-freeze sterilization process at minus sixty degrees. My cost per portion hovered around eighty dollars. At sixty dollars, I was losing money on every single order. Lexie kept babbling. “So, Gwen, could you send over your supplier contacts and let me know what grinder you use? Since you won’t be needing them anymore, we might as well share the resources. Think of it as good karma~” “We’re in the same field, after all. Surely you aren’t so small-minded that you’d hold a grudge?” “Sure,” I interrupted calmly. I copied the link to my New Zealand venison importer and sent it to her, along with the specification page for my commercial-grade, high-precision freeze-grinder. Three seconds passed. Lexie sent a voice note, her voice shrill and panicked: “Are you insane? A five-thousand-dollar grinder? And this meat is eighty dollars a pound? You’re deliberately trying to mess with me!” “They’re just rich, clueless women. You can throw any cheap meat in a blender and they won’t know the difference. Why are you acting like you’re above it all?” “A greedy scammer like you deserves to be cast out!” I blocked her number without a word. Then, I went through my contact list and deleted every single member of that neighborhood group. For years, they had fed their prized pets premium raw food funded by my own bank account, only to turn around and accuse me of gouging them. I was finally rid of them. My phone buzzed again. It was Dr. Evans, the director of the city’s most prestigious veterinary hospital. “Gwen, I have a major contract for you. Are you taking clients?” “Go on,” I said, leaning against my stainless-steel counter. “Mr. Harrington—the top CFA breeder—just imported a new line of champion-pedigree Ragdolls. They’re valued in the six figures, and he’s entering them in the national exhibition next month.” “He needs a custom, elite-tier raw diet. His standards are incredibly exacting.” I pulled on a pair of sterile gloves and looked at my pristine prep station. “I’ll take it.” “My base formula starts at three hundred a portion. For show-grade custom nutrition, it’s five hundred,” I quoted, giving him the actual market rate for my expertise. Dr. Evans didn’t hesitate. “Harrington doesn’t care about the price. He only cares about hiring the best veterinary nutritionist in the state. Come by the clinic tomorrow morning. He’s bringing the cats in for their baseline panels, and you can meet him.” “Sounds good.” After hanging up, I browsed the local community pet forum. Pinned right at the top of the homepage was a post Lexie had uploaded ten minutes prior. The title was bold and obnoxious: “Saving the pockets of our neighborhood queens! Unboxing my premium $25 custom cat food~” Beneath it was a gallery of nine photos. Large plastic tubs were filled with a dark, purplish-red meat paste. The texture looked coarse, with a greasy sheen on the surface and dark pools of separated blood pooling at the edges. The comment section was already flooded. Vicky Davenport had left the first comment. “Lexie, this is amazing! Look at that rich color. It looks so fresh!” “So much better than that pale, sickly-looking mush Gwen used to bring us.” Several other women quickly chimed in. “Exactly. When my cat ate Gwen’s food, his stool barely had any odor. That must mean he wasn’t digesting it properly.” “Twenty-five dollars for a massive tub. We were so blind to let ourselves get ripped off for so long.” “We’re signing up for a monthly subscription, Lexie! Let’s show that greedy Gwen that we won’t support scammers!” I stared at the screen, my expression cold. Ragdolls have incredibly fragile gastrointestinal tracts. The consequences of feeding them low-grade, contaminated meat would show up soon enough. But I wrote nothing. I closed the browser, turned back to my prep station, and began inventorying the premium ingredients for tomorrow’s consultation. 02 Lexie was practically living in her comment section, replying to every single post. “Thank you so much for the trust, ladies~” “Handcrafted with pure love for your fur babies! I’m just glad I could save you all from being taken advantage of!” “And honestly, who knows what those weird, mysterious powders some people add to their food actually are? Pure, natural meat is always best~” I scrolled past her photos with detached indifference. The dark, muddy color of her meat paste was a dead giveaway. It was clearly made from expired, freezer-burned trimmings sourced from a low-end distributor. My formulas were a pale, delicate pink because they consisted of pure rabbit loin and organic turkey breast. Dark, oxidized meat in raw pet food usually pointed to only one thing. Diana, the only woman from the old group who hadn’t joined the mass exodus, sent me a private message. She attached several screenshots from their main chat. In the screenshots, Diana had asked: “Lexie, why is the meat so dark? Will the cats get upset stomachs?” Lexie had replied with an innocent, wide-eyed emoji. “Oh, Diana, that’s just because it’s packed with natural iron!” “I went out of my way to get throat and neck trimmings directly from the slaughterhouse. It’s the absolute most nutrient-dense part of the animal!” “Most people can’t even buy this cut. I had to use a special family connection to get it~” Vicky Davenport immediately validated her. “Lexie goes above and beyond! Gwen would never spend her time sourcing such rich meat for us.” Diana sent me a long, hesitant voice note. “Gwen… are you sure this is safe to feed them? I opened the container Lexie delivered, and it smells incredibly metallic, almost rancid.” I typed out a direct, clinical response. “Neck trimmings are where the animal’s lymph nodes are concentrated.” “They are filled with metabolic waste, localized bacteria, and parasite cysts.” “Feeding unsterilized lymph tissue to a Ragdoll is a guaranteed path to acute gastroenteritis.” “If the meat contains salmonella or toxoplasma, it can easily be fatal.” Diana sent back a horrified emoji. “I’m throwing it out. I’m not feeding this to my baby.” “That’s your choice,” I replied, ending the conversation. The next morning, I arrived at Dr. Evans’s clinic right on time. In the private VIP suite, a refined man in his late forties was waiting beside several beautiful, large-boned Ragdolls. These cats were magnificent—perfectly proportioned with deep sapphire eyes and thick, silky coats. Mr. Harrington stood up and offered his hand. “Gwen. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” “Dr. Evans tells me you are the only nutritionist in the region capable of formulating a true competition-grade raw diet.” I set down the chilled samples I had brought. Inside the vacuum-sealed glass containers were pale, smooth pâtés of fresh venison and rabbit rib. “This is the baseline formula,” I explained. “Fortified with cold-extracted green-lipped mussel lipid and wild-caught krill oil.” Mr. Harrington took a small sterile spoon and offered a taste to his prized male, a massive champion named Poseidon. Poseidon was notoriously finicky, according to his files. But the cat sniffed the pâté once and immediately began licking the spoon clean, purring softly. Mr. Harrington’s eyes lit up. “Incredible. The moisture retention and texture are exceptional.” “I have twelve cats entering the national show next month. I want you to handle their entire dietary regimen.” “I’ve already wired a five-thousand-dollar deposit to your account.” My phone chimed in my pocket with the bank notification. “It’s a pleasure working with you, Mr. Harrington,” I said. On my way home, I stopped by my specialized cold-chain importer to pick up the fresh cuts for the coming week. As I drove, my phone buzzed repeatedly in the console. Diana was still forwarding screenshots from the neighborhood group. Vicky was boasting. “My sweet Casper just ate a whole bowl!” “He never ate this fast when we fed him Gwen’s bland food.” “Lexie really knows what she’s doing. Cats know quality!” Lexie had quickly jumped in. “I’m so happy Casper loves it! Like I said, those strange chemical powders the other seller used must have ruined the natural flavor.” “Cats naturally reject artificial additives. This is just a clean, raw detox~” The “strange chemical powders” she was referring to were high-grade probiotics and organic psyllium husk—essential for preventing bacterial overgrowth and blockages in raw-fed indoor cats. The other ladies were frantic to place orders. “Lexie, sign me up for a monthly plan!” “Me too! Daily hand-deliveries, please!” “You’re an absolute angel, Lexie!” I put my phone on silent, pressed down on the gas, and drove toward my private, temperature-controlled laboratory. 03 My workspace was silent save for the low, rhythmic hum of the cleanroom air filtration system. I changed into full protective gear, passed through the air shower to remove any micro-dust, and stepped into the sterile formulation room. Mr. Harrington’s twelve champions required diets balanced down to the exact gram. I washed the rabbit ribs under high-pressure purified water, trimmed away every trace of tough connective tissue, and fed them into my commercial grinder. I added the precise ratios of pure, clinical-grade supplements. The machine hummed smoothly, dispensing a pale pink, mousse-like blend. I portioned the meals into vacuum-sealed pouches, labeled each with the exact preparation date and nutritional breakdown, and placed them into the blast freezer at minus seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. Only this extreme temperature could completely eliminate any potential pathogens or parasites. After four hours of intense, uninterrupted labor, I pulled off my gloves and checked my phone. My screen was covered in notifications. Diana had sent over a dozen frantic text messages in the last thirty minutes. I opened the first one. “Gwen! Vicky’s cat is having severe diarrhea!” The next message followed immediately. “It’s not just Vicky. Lydia’s British Shorthair is projectile-vomiting all over her house!” I opened the attached screenshots of the neighborhood group chat. Vicky had uploaded a picture of her litter box. The stool was a watery, foul-looking yellow-brown mess. She had tagged Lexie. “Lexie, is this normal? Casper has never had loose stools like this before.” Lexie’s reply was instantaneous. “Oh, Vicky, don’t worry! Loose stool is a classic sign of a healthy detox reaction~” “Your baby has been eating Gwen’s chemical-laden food for years, so his system is full of built-up toxins.” “My natural raw diet is just purging his digestive tract.” “Keep feeding him the transition meals, and his system will be completely clean in a few days!” The explanation was medically absurd. But Vicky bought it completely. “That makes sense. Heaven knows what kind of garbage Gwen was actually putting in those containers!” “You’re so right, Lexie. Detox is a good thing. I’ll give Casper another portion tonight to help him flush it out.” Lydia chimed in. “My cat’s stool smells absolutely horrific today, but it must be the toxins leaving his body.” “Thank goodness we found Lexie. Otherwise, our cats would still be slowly poisoned by Gwen.” I locked my screen. In Ragdolls, persistent soft stool is the first warning sign of severe mucosal lining damage in the intestines. Continuing to feed them unsterilized, bacteria-laden lymph tissue would inevitably lead to hemorrhagic enteritis. But they had made their choice. I packed Mr. Harrington’s custom orders into a specialized cooler and scheduled a professional cold-chain courier to deliver them. Two hours later, Mr. Harrington sent me a video. His twelve pristine Ragdolls were licking their bowls spotless. Not a single cat showed any signs of discomfort. His voice message was filled with quiet satisfaction. “Gwen, this blend is spectacular.” “I can already see a difference in their coats. You truly are an artist.” “Keep this up, and we’ll take every ribbon at the show,” I replied. By eleven that night, I had shut down the laboratory and was preparing to turn in. Suddenly, my phone screen began to flash violently. The chime of incoming alerts was relentless. Diana had sent a video. It was shaky and out of focus. Vicky’s thirty-thousand-dollar champion Ragdoll, Casper, was collapsed on the floor beside his litter box. His hind legs were twitching weakly. The floor around him was covered in bloody fluid mixed with undigested, dark red meat. The cat was foaming at the mouth, his chest heaving in shallow, spasmodic gasps. Diana’s voice notes were high-pitched with panic. “Gwen! Look at this! Casper is dying!” “Vicky is losing her mind in the group!” “Lexie is claiming it’s because of some delayed poison you left in the cat’s system!” “She’s telling everyone you used toxic preservatives that slowly destroyed his liver over the years, and it’s only showing up now!” 04 I opened the screenshots Diana had forwarded. The neighborhood pet group had descended into absolute madness. Vicky had posted several panicked voice notes, her voice cracking with tears. “Casper can’t stand up! He’s throwing up blood!” “He’s a champion-line import! He cost me thirty thousand dollars!” “The show is next month! What do I do? Someone help me!” Lexie had immediately jumped in to redirect the blame. “Vicky, take a deep breath! This is absolutely not because of my fresh meat!” “I watched the butcher cut it myself!” “This is definitely a delayed reaction to whatever Gwen was feeding him for years!” “A chronic liver toxicity like this only shows up when the body finally tries to heal itself!” She added a crying emoji. “Gwen must have known I was taking over the business, so she left a slow-acting poison in her last batches. How can anyone be so malicious?” The other women immediately turned their fury on me. “Call the police! She needs to be arrested!” “To think we trusted her for years. This is animal abuse!” “My cat threw up bile today too! It’s definitely Gwen’s fault!” I went back to the video Diana had sent and zoomed in on the pool of bloody discharge. Near the edge of the fluid, tiny, pale, translucent threads were writhing slowly. Roundworms. A classic, textbook consequence of feeding raw, unsterilized meat that had never been subjected to professional flash-freezing. But raw parasites alone wouldn’t cause immediate foaming at the mouth and hind-limb paralysis. That level of acute neurological distress and systemic collapse pointed to a severe, systemic salmonella infection that had triggered acute hemorrhagic pancreatitis. That thirty-thousand-dollar cat was already halfway to the grave. Suddenly, my screen lit up with a notification from the group. Lexie had tagged my secondary account—the one I had left in the group chat to observe. “@Gwen, why are you hiding? Come out and face us!” “What kind of poison did you feed these innocent animals?” “Casper is in critical condition. You are going to pay every dime of his vet bills!” “I knew you were a fraud from the start, but this is downright criminal!” Vicky followed immediately. “Gwen, if Casper dies, I will sue you for everything you own!” “Show yourself and pay for what you did!” “You’re a sick, twisted monster who doesn’t deserve to be near animals!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463649”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

That was the fourth time Chase denied holding any feelings for me in public. By then, I’d already learned to look away before the words even left his mouth. The music in the VIP booth was deafening, vibrating right through the soles of my shoes. He was slouched back in the corner of the leather booth, lazily flicking his Zippo lighter. “A girl like Sylvie?” He laughed as the flame flared up, casting a sharp shadow over his smirk. “Not a chance.” The stares of the people around us felt like tiny needles pricking my skin. At two in the morning, I was at the 24-hour convenience store, warming up a carton of milk in the microwave. Suddenly, the glass door rattled violently as someone threw it open. It was Chase. He was leaning heavily against the metal frame, his knuckles split and dripping fresh blood, the cuff of his jacket torn open. Outside, the yellow streetlamp stretched his shadow into a broken, stumbling line. “The guy who drove you home,” he rasped, his voice raw, a bead of blood rolling down the back of his hand and dripping onto the linoleum floor. “Who was he?” I kept my eyes on his raw knuckles, calmly unscrewing the cap of my warm milk. “You’re bleeding.” He lunged forward, grabbing my wrist with a desperate, suffocating grip. “I asked you a question, Sylvie.” I looked down at the tear in the skin near his thumb, oozing red. So the rumors were true. He really had gotten into a fight. And it was because of me. … Chase’s hand was still bleeding. I pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and held it out to him, but he didn’t take it. “You need to clean that,” I said quietly. Instead of letting go, his grip tightened, his dark eyes burning into mine. “Who drove you home?” Outside, under the amber glow of the streetlamp, his shadow seemed to tremble. I slowly spun the warm milk bottle between my palms. “A coworker.” I looked back at his bruised hand. “You were fighting.” He finally released my wrist, letting out a dry, raspy laugh that scraped against the quiet store. “Yeah.” “Why?” He averted his gaze, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “None of your business.” I turned away, scanning the shelves for a box of Band-Aids and a bottle of antiseptic. As I rang them up at the counter, his voice cut through the silence. “Sylvie.” I kept my back to him. “What if I said…” He choked on the words, the sentence dying in his throat. The only sound left was the low, electric hum of the store’s air conditioning. The next afternoon, his friend Luke was smoking on the fire escape when he saw me and called out. “Did Chase scare you last night?” I shook my head. He flicked the ash from his cigarette and laughed. “Don’t mind him. He’s always been like that. Some guy was hassling his childhood sweetheart, Chelsea, and Chase just lost his mind. He’s protective like a feral dog when it comes to her.” I nodded. The milk crate in my arms suddenly felt incredibly heavy. When I turned the corner of the stairwell, Chase was standing there. There was no telling how long he’d been listening. Luke cleared his throat awkwardly, muttered an excuse, and slipped away. Chase stepped down the concrete stairs, stopping right in front of me. The cheap Band-Aid on the back of his hand was already peeling at the edges. “Ask me,” he said. “Ask you what?” “What you didn’t finish asking last night.” I looked at him, watching the shadow of his long lashes cast over his cheeks. “Do you like me? Even just a little?” His throat moved. Then he smirked, the corners of his mouth turning up in a slow, infuriating curve. “I don’t like you at all.” I squeezed the box of milk tighter against my chest and brushed past his shoulder. “Fine. I don’t like you either.” The motion-sensor light on the second-floor landing was broken, forcing me to fumble for my keys in the dim gray shadows. His heavy footsteps followed me up, stopping on the step just below mine. In the darkness, his breathing sounded thick. “Sylvie.” “Yeah.” “Turn around.” I didn’t move. His hand reached out, brushing against my wrist. His fingertips were burning hot. “I really don’t like you,” he muttered, repeating the lie like a mantra. I turned around to face him. His eyes were wide, catching the faint light from the streetlamp outside. “I hear you,” I said softly. His fingers tightened around my skin, then slowly let go. “Stay away from that guy.” “You don’t own me.” He stepped closer, his warm breath fanning across my forehead. “Yes, I do.” A sliver of moonlight spilled through the dirty windowpane, highlighting a raw scratch near his collarbone. I reached out, my fingertips grazing the bruised skin. He went completely stiff. “Does it hurt?” I whispered. He didn’t answer, his quiet, ragged breath washing over my hand. The keys slipped from my fingers, clattering softly against the floor. He bent down instantly to retrieve them. When he stood back up, his forehead brushed against my chin. We were too close. I took the keys from his hand, turned around, and unlocked the door. He stood out there in the hall for a long time. By the time I finished my shower, my phone screen was glowing on the nightstand. A text from him: Goodnight. I didn’t reply. I bumped into him the next day in the dining hall. He was carrying a tray, a fresh Band-Aid neatly applied to his knuckles. As we passed each other in the narrow aisle, his hand grazed the back of mine. “It hurts,” he murmured suddenly. I turned to look at him. His eyes were fixed on the wall opposite us. “My hand, I mean.” “Oh.” I glanced down at his tray. His lunch was completely untouched. That afternoon, Luke cornered me again during study hall. “Chase was standing outside your building until two in the morning.” I kept turning the pages of my textbook, trying to appear unaffected. “Chelsea is leaving the country,” Luke added. My pen froze against the paper. “And?” Luke shrugged, leaning back. “And he’s been acting like a lunatic for the past forty-eight hours.” It was pouring by the time the final bell rang. Chase was waiting right outside my classroom, holding out a large black umbrella. “Take mine.” “What about you?” “I’ll run.” Drops of rain were already dripping from the damp tips of his dark hair. When I reached for the umbrella, our fingers brushed. He was freezing. “Let’s walk together,” I said. He blinked, caught off guard. The umbrella was small, leaving his left shoulder completely soaked as we walked. When we reached the convenience store, I stopped. “Let’s dry off inside.” Under the warm fluorescent lights, tiny water droplets clung to his long eyelashes. I grabbed a dry towel from my bag and handed it to him. As he vigorously rubbed his hair dry, his collar shifted, exposing a nasty purple bruise near his collarbone. “Another fight?” I asked. His hands froze. “Yeah.” “For her?” The towel slipped from his hands, landing on his shoulders. He looked down at me, his eyes dark and wet. “For you.” “Why would you fight for me?” I unscrewed the cap of a water bottle and handed it to him. He swallowed hard, his throat moving as he took a sip. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.” “Was he another guy bothering your precious Chelsea?” He choked on his water, coughing violently. “Who told you that?” “Everyone’s saying it.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “It wasn’t about her.” “Then who?” He stared at the display of potato chips, refusing to meet my eyes. I took the towel and slowly folded it. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” I turned to leave, but his hand shot out, catching the edge of my jacket. “It was you.” I spun around. The tips of his ears were burning red. “That guy in the alley… he touched your hair.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. His grip on my jacket tightened. “So you beat him up over that?” “He shouldn’t have touched you.” A sudden urge to laugh bubbled up in my chest. “Chase.” “What?” “Is this your version of being jealous?” He let go of my jacket instantly, as if the fabric had turned to hot coal. “Don’t flatter yourself.” I placed a bottle of milk in the microwave, watching it spin behind the glass. He leaned against the tiled wall. “Sylvie.” “Yeah?” “What if…” The microwave dinged, cutting him off. I pulled the warm bottle out, and his words hung unfinished in the air. “What if what?” He took the bottle from me, our fingers lingering against the warm glass. “What if I said yes. What if I am jealous?” I looked up, searching his face, but he quickly looked away. “Just kidding.” The rain had stopped. He pushed the heavy glass door open. “Keep the umbrella.” “What about you?” “I’ll run.” He stepped into the wet glow of the streetlamp, then suddenly stopped and turned back. “That guy…” “He’s my cousin, Tyler,” I said. He froze. “What?” “The guy who touched my hair. My cousin.” I pointed to the bandaged hand. “You fought him for nothing.” He stared at his bandage, a slow, ridiculously boyish grin spreading across his face. “Worth it,” he muttered. He turned and bolted into the misty night, his damp white shirt clinging to his back. Later that night, my phone buzzed on my pillow. My knuckles hurt. I texted back: Good. You deserved it. Three seconds later: Cold-hearted. Then another: You still owe me for the milk. I sent him money through Venmo, but he declined it instantly. Pay me back tomorrow. In person. Between classes the next day, he slouched against the edge of my desk. “My hand hurts.” “Let me see.” He held his hand out obediently. The Band-Aid was peeling again. I pulled it off, revealing a scratch that was already mostly healed. “Liar,” I muttered. He immediately flipped his hand over, catching my fingers in his. “It hurts like this.” His palm was burning hot. The teacher walked in, and he let go of my hand, but not before brushing his thumb gently over my knuckles. It was a featherlight touch. He was waiting by the door after the final bell. “Time to pay me back.” “How?” He handed me a cold carton of milk. “A fair trade.” I took it, but he didn’t let go of the other side. “Sylvie.” “Yeah?” “I think I might…” Laughter erupted from the back door. Luke threw an arm around Chase’s shoulder, dragging him back. “Yo, Chase! Chelsea’s looking for you.” Chase’s face instantly hardened, his warmth vanishing. I pulled my hand back, the carton suddenly feeling icy in my palm. He was pulled away into the crowd. Chelsea looked back at me, offering a polite, soft smile. I turned and walked down the stairs alone. There was a massive line at the boba shop down the street. Someone pushed past me to cut in line, but I didn’t have the energy to fight it. “Let her go first,” a voice rasped behind me. Chase was panting, his chest heaving as if he’d run the entire way. The guy who cut in looked at Chase’s expression and quietly stepped back. “Aren’t you supposed to be catching up with your old friend?” I asked, placing my order. Chase pulled out his wallet before I could reach for mine. “Done.” “That fast?” “We didn’t have much to say.” Chelsea came running up behind us, her eyes red and puffy. “Chase…” Chase immediately stepped in front of me, shielding me from her view. “Go home, Chelsea.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the shop. “I didn’t pay for my drink,” I argued. “My treat.” “I don’t need you to buy me drinks.” Chelsea followed us outside, reaching out to grab my arm. “Sylvie, please don’t misunderstand.” Chase immediately knocked her hand away, his voice cold. “Don’t touch her.” Luke wandered over, a smirk on his face. “What’s this? A rekindled flame?” Chase kicked his shin. “Shut up and get lost.” Suddenly, Chelsea threw her arms around my neck, pulling me into a tight hug. I went completely rigid. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered, her voice muffled against my shoulder. Before I could process it, she let go, turned, and ran down the street. Chase and I stood there, staring at each other. “I think she hugged the wrong person,” I muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Maybe.” The barista handed over my drink. I struggled to poke the straw through the plastic lid. Chase took it from my hands, tore the tip of the paper wrapper off with his teeth, and poked it through perfectly before handing it back. “Gross,” I teased. “Clean as a whistle,” he laughed. His phone buzzed relentlessly in his pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it to silent. “Is it about her flight?” I asked. “Yeah.” “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” “No.” He kicked a stray pebble across the pavement. “It has nothing to do with me.” Later that night, he sent a photo of the airport departure terminal. So you went after all? I texted. Dropping off my dad. Oh. A second later, he sent his real-time location. He was directly outside my building. I pulled back the curtains and looked down. He was standing beneath the streetlamp, waving up at me. Come down. Why? You haven’t finished paying me back for the milk. I threw on a jacket and headed downstairs. He was holding a plastic grocery bag packed to the brim with milk cartons. “How long is this going to take?” I asked, looking at the bag. “We have all the time in the world,” he murmured. His eyes were bloodshot. “Have you been crying?” “Just the wind,” he said, quickly turning his head away. The plastic bag rustled between us. “When she hugged you,” he said softly, staring at his shoes. “What did it feel like?” “Soft,” I replied simply. He made a strange, slightly disturbed face. “That sounds incredibly weird coming from you.” I laughed, and the tension broke as he smiled along. But then his smile faded, and his shoulders slumped. “Sylvie.” “Yeah?” “I actually—” Luke came skidding up on his motorcycle, the engine roaring. “Chase! Chelsea’s trying to reach you!” Chase swung his hand back and smacked Luke hard on the shoulder. “Can’t you see we’re talking here?!” Luke rubbed his shoulder, looking deeply offended. “What are you hitting me for? She just wanted to know what gate she was at.” Chase ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Can’t she read the giant screens herself?” Luke rolled his eyes and rode off. The plastic bag of milk was still dangling from Chase’s fingers. I reached out and took it from him. “Go,” I said quietly. He didn’t budge. “If I go, you’ll think there’s something between us.” “There’s already too many rumors,” I said. I turned around, clutching the bag of milk, and walked toward the entrance. He called out my name from the sidewalk, but I didn’t look back. A text arrived late that night: She boarded. I read it, but left it on read. The next morning, Luke showed up at my classroom door. “Chase told me to drive you home.” “I don’t need a ride.” “He’s terrified you’re mad at him,” Luke said with a grin. “Why would I be mad?” His motorcycle was parked at the end of the block. Luke tossed me a spare helmet. “Hop on. It’s on my way.” The engine rumbled loudly under us. As we sped down the street, Luke yelled over the wind. “Honestly, Chase is just like this.” “Like what?” “A coward.” I gripped the metal grab bars of the seat. “He’s crazy about you, he’s just too chicken to say it.” “He’s in love with Chelsea,” I shouted back. Luke let out a loud laugh. “How many years ago was that?” He pulled up outside the local convenience store and killed the engine, taking off his helmet. “Sylvie, you two need to stop playing these stubborn games.” I pushed the glass door open, and he followed me inside. “He sat at the gate all night,” Luke said, leaning against the counter. “What does that have to do with me?” “Do you really not get why he picked that fight?” “He said it was because of me.” “Exactly,” Luke said, tapping his cigarette pack against his palm. “Look, his parents divorced when he was a kid. Chelsea lived next door and used to bring him dinners so he wouldn’t starve.” My milk finished warming. “When her family moved away, he was devastated for a while. But that was a lifetime ago.” Luke took a sip of his own drink. “That’s in the past.” I unwrapped a pastry. “These days, you’re the only person he talks about,” Luke smiled. “It’s Sylvie this, Sylvie that. Honestly, it’s exhausting to listen to.” Outside, the streetlights were flickering to life one by one. Luke dropped me off right outside my door. “Get inside safely.” “Thanks, Luke.” “Don’t sweat it,” he waved. “See ya tomorrow.” The apartment hallway was pitch black. The moment I slid my key into the lock, the door swung open. My mother peeked her head out. “Who was that guy who dropped you off?” “A classmate.” “Another one?” she asked, her eyes scanning the street below. “That motorcycle looked expensive.” I brushed past her into the apartment. “Don’t start.” She followed me into the small kitchen. “What about the guy with the sedan last week?” “That was Tyler. My cousin.” “Don’t play dumb with me,” she said, rinsing an apple under the tap. “It doesn’t hurt to make friends with boys who have deep pockets.” I kept my mouth shut. She handed me the apple. “What’s his family do?” “He’s just a classmate.” “Just a classmate driving you right to our doorstep?” She smiled, a calculating look in her eyes. “Don’t waste an opportunity.” I retreated to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. My phone screen lit up. A text from Chase: You home? I didn’t answer. A minute later: Luke said he dropped you off. Then: Why are you ignoring me? The window was open, a cool breeze rustling the curtains. I typed a long reply, deleted it, and settled on a simple: Yeah. He replied instantly. Still mad? No. See you tomorrow? Yeah. The bubble indicating he was typing appeared, lingering for several minutes. Finally, he sent: Goodnight. In the middle of the night, a quiet knock rattled the front door. I unlocked it to find Chase standing in the dim light of the hallway, his hair messy. “Is your mom asleep?” he whispered. I nodded. He handed me a small paper bag. “What’s this?” “Band-Aids,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just passing by.” I took the bag, noticing the scratch on his knuckles had split open again, leaking fresh blood. “Did you get into another fight?” “No,” he said, looking away. “Just clumsy.” “Are you twelve?” He leaned his shoulder against the drywall. “Too many guys are looking at you.” “What does that have to do with you?” He stared down at his sneakers. “I don’t like it.” “Why are you being so stubborn?” He snapped his head up, his dark eyes locked onto mine. “Because I am.” The paper bag crinkled in my hands. “Sylvie.” “What?” “I’m serious.” I looked down at the smear of red on his hand. “Let’s go to the clinic and get that cleaned.” He shook his head. “It’s fine.” He turned to leave, but I grabbed the edge of his jacket. “Wait. Let me get my keys.” He froze, staring at my hand on his sleeve. The neighborhood clinic’s neon sign was still buzzing. The doctor applied antiseptic, making Chase hiss through his teeth. “Get into a scrap?” the doctor asked, raising an eyebrow. “Just clumsy,” Chase muttered. The doctor chuckled. “Clumsy enough to split your knuckles open twice?” I remained silent, watching from the corner. It was past three in the morning by the time we stepped back out onto the quiet streets. “That guy with the bike,” Chase said, breaking the silence. “What about him?” “Don’t ride with him anymore.” “Why?” “It’s dangerous.” I stopped walking and looked at him. “Chase.” “Yeah?” “You are incredibly difficult.” He smiled, a soft, genuine look in his eyes. “Only with you.” The yellow streetlamps cast our long, overlapping shadows on the asphalt. When we reached my building, he paused. “Go on up.” “What about you?” “I’ll have a smoke and head out.” I watched him pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, flicking his lighter several times without success. “Don’t smoke,” I said. He paused, his thumb resting on the lighter. “Are you bossing me around?” “Yes.” He slid the pack back into his jacket pocket. “Fine.” He turned to leave, but I called after him. “You still owe me milk money.” His eyes lit up in the dim light. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.” A guy with bleached blonde hair was lingering near the alley after school the next day. “Hey, beautiful, let’s hang out,” he sneered, blocking my path. I tried to walk around him, but he stepped in my way. Chase materialized from behind, pulling me back until I was shielded by his shoulder. “Back off,” Chase snarled. The guy laughed, sizing him up. “And who the hell are you?” Chase’s fist clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. I wrapped my hand around his wrist. “Don’t,” I whispered. The guy stepped closer, a smug grin on his face. “See? The lady has manners.” Before he could finish his sentence, I drove the heel of my boot straight into his kneecap. He let out a pathetic shriek, collapsing onto the pavement. I grabbed Chase’s wrist and bolted. We didn’t stop running until we were two blocks away. Chase was out of breath, a massive, disbelieving laugh escaping his chest. “You’re savage.” I let go of his wrist, catching my breath. “I had to be. I wasn’t going to let you get a police record over some creep.” He rubbed his wrist, looking at me with newfound respect. “That kick was incredibly precise.” “I took self-defense classes years ago.” He raised his eyebrows. “How much more is there to know about you?” “Plenty.” We walked side-by-side down the sidewalk. His fingers lightly brushed against the back of my hand. “Next time, let me handle it.” “Handle what?” “Protecting you.” I stopped and looked at him. “I don’t need protecting.” “Yes, you do.” “I really don’t.” He stopped in his tracks, his expression turning serious. “Sylvie.” “Yeah?” “Let me chase you.” I kept walking. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He caught up easily. “I am going to chase you.” “You think you can keep up?” “Let’s find out.” The bright lights of the convenience store welcomed us. He ran inside and emerged with a bottle of warm milk, his hands trembling slightly as he handed it to me. “Step one.” “What’s step one?” “First step of chasing you.” I took the bottle. “Chase.” “Yeah?” “Were you like this with Chelsea?” He froze. “Like what?” “Viciously persistent.” He shook his head. “No. Never.” “Really?” “I swear,” he said, scratching his head. “I was young back then. I didn’t know anything.” I took a sip of the milk. “And now you do?” “Yeah.” “What do you know?” He looked directly into my eyes, his gaze steady and intense. “I know exactly who I like.” I turned and headed into the stairwell. He followed me to the bottom step. “See you tomorrow.” “No, you won’t.” “Then the day after.” I looked back at him. He had a goofy, helpless grin on his face. “Goodnight, Sylvie.” My phone buzzed in my hand. How’s the milk? I replied: Average. I’ll get you something else tomorrow. Whatever. Another text: That blonde guy… I’ll be careful. I’m walking you home from now on. No. Yes, I am. I locked my screen and drifted off to sleep. My dreams were filled with the sound of the wind rushing past my ears as we ran. Finals week was creeping up, and my textbooks were giving me a massive headache. Chase slid into the seat next to mine. “What are you stuck on?” “Everything.” He took the book from my hands and flipped to the syllabus. “This part isn’t going to be on the exam.” “How do you know that?” “The teacher outlined the key chapters.” I stared at him. “When?” “Last week. When you were out sick.” He pulled a notebook from his backpack and tossed it onto my desk. “Copy mine.” His handwriting was incredibly messy. I flipped through the pages, squinting. “I can’t even read this.” He leaned in closer to point at the page. “Oh, that’s a mistake.” He pulled out a pen to correct it, his arm brushing against mine. “You’re warm,” I murmured. “Deal with it,” he said softly, continuing to explain the formula. His breath fanned against the side of my face. “Do you get it?” “A little.” He patiently started from the beginning again. After the final bell, he caught my arm. “We’re going to the library.” “Why?” “Tutoring.” “Are you going to charge me?” “Yes.” “What’s your fee?” He pretended to think about it. “A boba.” The library was dead silent, his voice dropping to a low whisper as he guided me through the chapters. I couldn’t stop yawning. “Focus,” he whispered. “I’m exhausted.” He lightly flicked my forehead with his finger. “Wake up.” I glared at him. He let out a quiet chuckle. “Don’t look at me like that.” “I’ll look at you however I want.” By the end of the session, my notebook was covered in circled formulas. He finished the last problem and closed the book. “Got it?” “Pretty much.” “What does ‘pretty much’ mean?” “It means I’ve got it.” He packed up his things. “Don’t cry when the grades come out.” “I’m not going to cry.” “We’ll see.” “Not happening.” After evening study hall, he shoved his notebook into my arms. “Keep it.” “I don’t want it.” “You have to take it.” “Why?” “Because I’m looking out for you.” The wind was blowing through his hair as we stood under the streetlamp. I clutched the notebook to my chest. “Chase.” “Yeah?” “Thank you.” The tips of his ears turned a shade of pink. “Don’t mention it.” He turned and walked away, then stopped after a few paces and looked back. “Same time tomorrow.” “Okay.” He trotted back to me. “Just ‘okay’?” “I understand.” He smirked. “Better.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. Text me when you’re home. I replied: I’m home. That was fast. I flew. Impressive. He stopped me right outside the classroom before the exam started. “Don’t stress.” “I’m not stressing.” “Your hands are shaking.” “I’m just cold.” He took my hands in his, wrapping his warm palms around my fingers. “How about now?” “Now they’re freezing,” I teased. He laughed, letting go of my hands. “Wait for me after the test.” “No.” “You have to.” The exam paper had several questions he’d spent hours explaining to me. I let out a massive sigh of relief as I handed it in. He was waiting in the corridor. “How did it go?” “It was fine.” “Which means you aced it.” He handed me a cold carton of milk. “Your reward.” “Just this?” “What else did you want?” As I reached for the carton, he suddenly leaned in close. A soft, warm pressure brushed against my cheek. I stood frozen in the middle of the hallway. He was already running down the corridor. “Chase!” I yelled. He looked back at the top of the stairs, a wicked grin on his face. “Now we’re even!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463648”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day I was due to give birth, Dan’s clinically depressed ex-fiancée, Daphne, stormed into the maternity ward. A paring knife. Straight into my flank. By the time Dan arrived with the trauma team, I was sprawled in a pool of my own blood beside the delivery bed, the monitors screaming. But he didn’t run to me. Instead, he knelt before Daphne, who had been pushed to the floor by a nurse, her elbow slightly scraped. “Dr. Cooper, your wife is in critical condition! We need to get her to the OR immediately!” Dan looked up, casting a cold, professional glance over my body. “Her wound didn’t hit any major organs. She can hold on. Daphne has a severe coagulation disorder—even a minor scrape can cause her to bleed out. Her situation is more urgent.” “Give Daphne the two units of typed blood we had reserved for the delivery.” As they began to wheel her away, I gathered every ounce of my remaining strength to grab the hem of his white lab coat. He frowned, looking down at me. “Daphne didn’t do this on purpose, Hannah. She’s having an episode. You went to medical school—you of all people should understand.” With those words, he pulled a printed non-prosecution waiver from his pocket. He took my hand, slick with my own blood, and pressed my thumb firmly onto the signature line. “The next batch of blood will be here soon. Just hold on a little longer.” He carried Daphne out. The hallway was vast, sterile, and quiet. Nobody looked back. Inside my belly, my baby kicked. Once. Twice. A desperate, pleading flutter. 1 “Hurry! Get two large-bore IVs started! Run the fluids under pressure! Someone call the blood bank again!” “Dr. Gibson, her blood pressure is down to fifty! Estimated blood loss is over two thousand milliliters!” “Where the hell are those two units of packed red cells we reserved?” I was floating above the operating table, watching the frantic huddle around my own body. Dr. Gibson’s surgical gown was already soaked through with my blood. I wanted to reach down and touch my belly, but my hand passed through the empty air like mist. Daphne’s strike hadn’t been the shallow graze Dan assumed. She had slipped past the nurses’ station, the knife concealed in her sleeve. When she drove it into me, she had leaned close, whispering in my ear, Once you and this baby are gone, Dan will have no one left but me. And when she pulled the blade out, she twisted the handle. On purpose. “The blood bank just called back. Dr. Cooper personally signed out those two units of reserved blood five minutes ago.” The circulating nurse’s voice cracked, on the verge of tears. “Signed them out? Is he out of his mind? That was a high-risk delivery reserve!” Dr. Gibson’s knuckles turned white. “Dr. Cooper said Miss Bishop has a severe bleeding disorder and needed emergency blood on standby for an arm laceration.” The operating room went dead silent. Only the shrill, persistent beep of the monitor cut through the quiet. I watched Dr. Gibson desperately packing laparotomy sponges into my abdomen, trying to stem the torrent. I wanted to tell him to stop. To save his energy. I was never going to get the next batch of blood Dan promised. The rapid, frantic rhythm of the fetal monitor began to drag, slowing down beat by agonizing beat, until it flattened into a single, continuous tone. The child who had been kicking me just moments ago went completely still. “Fetal heart rate is gone.” “She’s in V-fib! Prep the defibrillator!” “Two hundred joules. Charging. Clear!” A dull thud. My body arched off the table, then fell back heavily. The EKG monitor gave a few erratic spikes, then flattened into a cold, horizontal line. “Dr. Cooper says the next shipment of blood from the regional center will be here in ten minutes,” the charge nurse said, pushing through the double doors, her eyes red. Dr. Gibson set the defibrillator paddles down. His voice was completely shot, hollowed out by grief. “Don’t bother. Record the time of death. 8:07 PM.” I watched the nurse pull the white sheet over my face. Covering my eyes, which were still wide, staring into nothing. Just a thin wall away, in a private luxury suite. Dan was gently dabbing an iodine swab onto the tiny scrape on Daphne’s elbow. “Dan? Did I… did I kill her?” Daphne huddled in the bed, her shoulders shaking. Dan tossed the swab into the biohazard bin, his voice steady, anchoring. “No. It was just a superficial scratch. You had an episode, Daphne. You weren’t in control of yourself. The law won’t hold you responsible.” “But there was so much blood. The way she looked at me… it was terrifying.” “Her water broke. It was mixed with blood, which made it look worse than it was. She’s a doctor; she knew how to protect herself from any real harm.” Dan leaned down, gently blowing on her scrape, which had already stopped oozing. “But look at you. You know your coagulation levels aren’t perfect. Why were you wandering around? What if this scratch hadn’t stopped bleeding?” Daphne leaned into his chest, her tears dampening his white coat. Just below his collar, near the hem, was the bloody print of my hand—the final mark I left before I died. “I was just so scared. I thought once the baby came, you wouldn’t want me anymore. I couldn’t stop myself.” “Don’t talk like that.” He stroked her hair. “I already got her to sign the waiver. Once she delivers and her hormones settle, I’ll have her come tell you herself that everything is fine.” He spoke with the casual, detached air of a man organizing tomorrow’s clinic schedule. Just then, the OR doors swung open. Dr. Gibson pulled off his blood-stained mask, his voice raspy and dead: “Both of them. Gone.” And in the next room, Dan was still leaning over, gently blowing on the shallow scrape on Daphne’s elbow. 2 “Dr. Cooper, we need you to sign off on the OB/GYN resuscitation records.” Nurse Lisa stood at the door of the VIP suite, holding a blue clipboard. Dan tested the temperature of a cup of water before handing it to Daphne. He didn’t even turn around. “Leave it at the nurses’ station. Can’t you see Miss Bishop needs me right now?” “But Dr. Cooper, this record is highly unusual. It’s about the patient from last night…” “What’s so unusual about it? People require resuscitation in maternity every day,” Dan cut her off. He pulled a tissue and wiped a stray drop of water from Daphne’s lip. “I was up all night keeping Daphne stable. I don’t have the bandwidth for paperwork. Have the clinical director sign it.” Lisa opened her mouth, her eyes welling with tears. She gripped the folder tight, but in the end, she said nothing. She turned and walked away. I followed her, watching as she slid my death certificate into a drawer. Along with the tiny pink identification band that my baby never got to wear. Both stuffed into a thick manila folder. The morgue was freezing. My baby and I lay inside a stainless-steel drawer, unclaimed. With nowhere else to go, I drifted back to Dan. Daphne finished her water and timidly tugged at Dan’s sleeve. “Dan, the way she looked at me last night… it was so full of hate. Like she wanted to kill me.” “Do you think she’s still angry? Is that why she’s hiding from you?” Dan pulled out his phone and stared at the empty iMessage thread. His brow furrowed. Normally, if he was gone for more than two hours, my texts would flood his screen. Asking when he’d be home, asking if Daphne was having another crisis. But since last night, there had been nothing. Just cold, gray silence. “She’s just stubborn,” Dan said, his fingers typing quickly across the glass. “She thinks I’m favoring you, so she’s throwing a tantrum.” I hovered over his shoulder, reading the words he sent to a dead woman. If you’re done throwing a fit, text me back. Daphne has been through enough. Stop punishing her. A baby isn’t a chess piece for you to win arguments with. Do you really think playing missing-in-action is going to make me back down? He locked the screen with a sharp snap. Daphne watched him, a tiny, smug spark lighting up the depths of her eyes. She bit her lip, letting a tear fall. “What if she calls the police? I’m so scared, Dan.” Dan pulled out the copy of the signed waiver. “With this, she can’t press charges. Besides, she’s a physician. She knows the consequences of making a scene.” “When she cools off, I’ll have her apologize to you. She shouldn’t have triggered you last night.” I watched him calmly, listening to him use his gentlest, most reassuring voice to convict a corpse. Down the hall, two nurses whispered as they passed. “Did you hear about the delivery last night? She bled out completely.” “I know. They couldn’t save the baby either. A beautiful little girl, fully formed.” Dan’s hand froze mid-air, holding his water glass. He suddenly remembered: today was my due date. He stood up, a sudden, inexplicable weight pressing down on his chest. “I’m going to check on maternity.” He took a single step before Daphne clutched her arm and shrieked. “It hurts! Dan, I’m so dizzy. Am I bleeding again? Is my wound opening?” Dan spun around instantly, sitting back down on the edge of her bed to hold her hand. Outside, a nurse muttered to her colleague: “The father listed on the deceased baby’s chart… I think his last name was Cooper, too.” Before Dan could turn his head to listen, Daphne cried out again, throwing her arms around his neck, burying him in her panic. 3 When Dan finally returned to our house, the nursery’s nightlight was still casting its soft, warm glow. The light pooled over the brand-new crib. I had washed and ironed the tiny sheets myself. The hospital bag sat open on the sofa, packed with neat rows of onesies and diapers. My prenatal chart lay on the entryway table. On the dining table, a handwritten note was held down by a glass—a meal plan I’d prepared for my postpartum recovery. Dan kicked off his shoes. Looking at the silent, empty living room, his scowl deepened. He probably expected me to be sitting on the couch, waiting to confront him with tear-swollen eyes, demanding to know why he chose Daphne first. But the house was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. He walked over to the dining table and picked up the note. On the back, I had written a contingency plan for the birth. If I hemorrhage, please prioritize the baby. Save her first. If I don’t make it off the table, tell Dan to keep Daphne far away from my daughter. Dan let out a cold laugh, crumpling the paper into a tight ball and tossing it into the trash can. “Always the dramatist,” he muttered. He pulled out his phone and dialed my number again. Only the cold, automated operator answered, telling him the phone was powered off. He opened our chat, typing furiously. You’ve made your point. It’s time to come home. Your due date is literally any day now. Don’t put your health at risk just to spite me. I’ve handled the situation with Daphne. She’s sick, Hannah. You don’t need to compete with a patient. Once the baby is here and you’re on maternity leave, you’ll have plenty of time. Maybe you can even help me monitor Daphne’s therapy. The messages sent, but there was no bubble, no reply. Dan tossed the phone onto the sofa and rubbed his temples. Just then, his phone rang. The caller ID showed Dr. Pierce—my medical school mentor, the woman who had treated me like her own daughter. Dan answered, his tone returning to its usual polished, professional distance. “Dr. Pierce. Good evening.” “Dan. Where are you right now?” Dr. Pierce’s voice was trembling, thick with a suppressed, toxic rage. Dan glanced at the crumpled note in the trash, assuming I had run to her to complain. “I’m at home. If Hannah sent you to play mediator, tell her it’s not going to work.” “If she wants an apology, she needs to walk through that door herself. She’s about to be a mother. She needs to grow up.” A heavy, ragged gasp came through the receiver. “Grow up? Dan… do you have any goddamn idea what happened last night?” “Of course I do,” Dan said, his voice dropping an octave, turning icy. “Daphne had an episode and accidentally scratched her. I already made Daphne apologize. What else does she want?” “If she feels slighted, I’ll buy her that diamond necklace she wanted once the baby is born. Consider it a peace offering.” “Are you completely soulless?” Dr. Pierce screamed into the phone. “You put that woman above your wife every single day, but last night was her due date! You—” Before she could finish, Dan’s work phone buzzed in his hand. A FaceTime call from Daphne. Without a second thought, Dan hung up on Dr. Pierce. He swiped to answer the video. On the screen, Daphne was hysterical, tears streaming down her face. “Dan! Dan, you have to come back! I saw her! She was in my room!” “She had a knife, Dan! She said she was going to kill me! I’m so scared!” Dan grabbed his car keys without hesitation. “Don’t panic. I’m on my way.” As he reached the front door, his eyes caught a beautifully wrapped velvet box on the console table. He had bought it on a whim last week during a medical conference—a sterling silver baby bracelet. Engraved on the inside was the nickname we’d casually picked: Gracie. He had clearly intended to use it to soothe my anger after the birth. He slipped the box into his pocket, shut the door, and locked it behind him. When Dan arrived at the VIP wing, Daphne was curled into a ball at the corner of the bed, pointing wildly at the window. “She was here! She was holding the baby, staring at me!” 4 The curtains in the room were drawn tight, blocking out any trace of daylight. On her nightstand, Daphne’s phone was playing a looped audio recording of a fetal heart rate monitor flatlining. On the floor lay the shredded pieces of a 3D ultrasound photo. It was the scan from my twenty-fourth week. I had waited in line for three hours by myself to get it. Daphne covered her ears, rocking violently on the mattress. “It’s her! She’s texting me! She’s cursing me!” “She said she and the baby will never let me go! She said she’s dragging me to hell with her!” Dan rushed to the bed, pulling her tightly against his chest. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s just a hallucination. You’re safe.” “It’s not a hallucination! Look at the phone!” Daphne pointed a shaking finger at the screen on the floor. Dan picked it up. On the screen was a text message from an unknown burner number: You stole my husband. My baby and I will haunt you until the day you die. Dan’s expression darkened instantly. He knew that desperate, broken tone. It was the same tone I used when I had finally reached my breaking point, pleading with him to see what he was doing to us. “She has completely lost her mind,” Dan hissed, his eyes flashing with disgust. “Using a child to terrorize a sick woman? Where is her medical ethics?” I drifted near the ceiling, watching Daphne bury her face in his chest, a cold, satisfied smile spreading across her lips. She knew I was dead. When she drove that knife into my waist last night, her eyes had been terrifyingly clear. She had even slipped the handle into my dying grip before the nurses arrived, creating the illusion of a struggle. Now, she was using a dead woman’s ghost to play the victim. Dan pulled out his phone and dialed the hospital’s administration office. “Chief Bradley? It’s Dan Cooper. Regarding my wife’s fellowship recommendation for next year… pull it.” “Her psychological state is highly unstable right now. She’s displaying severe paranoia and aggressive tendencies. She shouldn’t be near patients.” “Yes, I’ll submit a formal clinical assessment to back it up.” With a few words, he erased three years of my sleepless nights and grueling shifts. He used his clinical authority to brand me mentally unfit. Hanging up, he sent me one last text message. You have ten minutes to get to this hospital and apologize to Daphne face-to-face. If you don’t, I won’t let you raise this child with these toxic habits. I will legally petition to suspend your clinical privileges and keep you home. The message delivered. No read receipt. No reply. Daphne clung to his lapels, her breath hitching. “Dan… I can never have children of my own. Why is she doing this to me? Why is she flaunting her baby?” Dan looked at her pale, tear-stained face, a pang of guilt striking his chest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box meant for my baby. He popped it open. The sterling silver bracelet gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light, the name Gracie etched sharply into the metal. “Don’t cry. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” Dan murmured. He took Daphne’s hand and pressed my daughter’s bracelet into her palm. “Keep this. Think of it as her paying penance to you.” Daphne’s tears vanished, replaced by a soft, victorious smile as she gripped the silver band. Then, the heavy wooden door of the suite was kicked open with a deafening crash. Dr. Pierce stood in the doorway, panting, her hair disheveled and her eyes bloodshot. She marched straight up to Dan, raised her hand, and slapped him across the face with everything she had. The crack of her palm echoed through the sterile room. Dr. Pierce’s voice shook with a rage so deep it sounded ancient. “She and the baby are dead, and you are using her child’s things to comfort their murderer?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463647”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Seven years of loving Daniel. We had survived the chaotic college years, built a quiet life together, and finally made it to the day I had dreamed of—the day I would walk down the aisle in lace and tulle. But thirty minutes before the ceremony was set to begin, both the groom and his inseparable female “bestie,” Chloe Albright, vanished. I was frantically pacing the bridal suite, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor, my heart hammering in my chest. And then, out of nowhere, a tiny, childish voice echoed in my mind. “Daddy is hiding in the dressing room, kissing Aunt Chloe!” I froze, the air leaving my lungs. Before I could even question my sanity, the voice rushed on, breathless and desperate. “Mommy, you can’t marry Daddy!” “He and Aunt Chloe secretly had a baby boy before me. He made me call her ‘Mommy,’ and I hate him.” My hands trembled. I whirled around, eyes scanning the empty suite, searching the corners, the closet, the heavy velvet drapes. There was no one. A soft, giggling sound reverberated deep within me. “Mommy, stop looking. I’m right here. Inside your tummy!” … I slowly lowered my gaze, staring in sheer disbelief at my flat stomach. “Mommy, it’s me, Serenity. Your sweet girl.” “I’m actually six years old, but somehow, I found my way back to you.” “We’re going to see each other again soon. Aren’t you happy?” A cold shiver ran down my spine. Serenity. We had chosen that name years ago, during a late-night study session in our cramped college dorm, whispering about the future. Daniel and I had promised that no matter what, our first child would be named Serenity—a wish for a peaceful, beautiful life. And just two days ago, a clinic test had confirmed I was four weeks along. My little Serenity seemed to sense my hesitation. Her voice grew urgent, pleading. “It’s true, Mommy. I promise. Go look for yourself. If you wait too long, they’ll leave.” My heart pounded like a war drum. I forced myself to walk out of the bridal suite and down the quiet, carpeted hallway toward the private dressing rooms. When my fingers wrapped around the brass handle, they were shaking so violently I could barely turn it. I prayed—deeply, desperately—that this was a cruel joke. A pre-wedding hallucination fueled by stress and sheer excitement. But as I cracked the door open a sliver, the sight of a white mermaid-hem skirt shattered my world. It was the bridesmaid dress I had picked out myself for Chloe. Last night, she had twirled in it, laughing, while Daniel teased her about her rare transformation from a tomboy into a lady. “Stop… let go of me,” Chloe whispered, her voice breathy. “I think someone’s coming.” Daniel reluctantly parted his lips from hers, his hands still lingering on her waist. “Why are you scared? Everyone’s in the main hall. No one’s coming back here.” He sighed heavily, leaning his forehead against her shoulder, looking utterly defeated. “Chloe, let’s just run away. Right now. We can leave all of this behind.” He looked at her stomach, his hand hovering over it. “I can’t let our baby be born without a father.” Chloe’s expression shifted instantly. She pushed him away with sudden force. “Don’t you ever say that again!” she hissed. “You proposed to Nora. Your parents, her parents, they’re all out there waiting. If you run away now, how is she supposed to face them?” Daniel let out a bitter, agonizing laugh. “If you hadn’t picked that fight with me, I would have never proposed to her out of spite! If I had known you were pregnant with my baby, do you think I would have been this reckless?” Chloe calmly adjusted the rumpled fabric of her dress, dabbing at her smudged lipstick. “I’m keeping this baby, and I will raise him on my own. He has nothing to do with you. Daniel, if you dare ruin things with Nora and break her heart over this, I will never forgive you.” Every woman has a boundary, and having a boyfriend with an inseparable female “bestie” is a minefield. In the beginning, I resented Chloe. I hated the private language she shared with Daniel, the inside jokes that flew over my head, and the way I always felt like an intruder in my own relationship. That resentment peaked during a weekend trip we took together. Daniel ordered a lavish seafood spread—all of Chloe’s favorites—completely forgetting my severe shellfish allergy. The years of built-up hurt and secondary status erupted. I snapped, threw my napkin down, and stormed out into the unfamiliar streets of the coastal town we were visiting. Wandering alone in the dark, I was targeted by a group of local thugs. Just as things were about to take a terrifying turn, Chloe appeared out of nowhere. She threw herself between me and the attackers, taking four stab wounds to protect me. She ended up in the ICU, fighting for her life. It was only after she woke up that she realized my anger that night had stemmed from jealousy. From that day on, she made a conscious effort to distance herself from Daniel. Because of her sacrifice, and the guilt I carried, we bonded. She became my closest confidante, my sister. Deep in my belly, Serenity’s voice flared with indignation. “That’s a lie! She didn’t stay away! Later, she moved into our house with Mason. Mason bullied me, and Aunt Chloe bullied you.” “Daddy felt so bad that Chloe didn’t have a legal title that he let her walk all over us. He never took our side.” “Mommy, you will never be happy with him!” The little voice paused, then perked up with a sudden idea. “Mommy, why don’t we run away right now, before they see you?” Just as the words faded, the door clicked open. Chloe stood there, freeze-framed. Her eyes widened, a flicker of raw panic crossing her face before she quickly masked it, stepping forward to loop her arm through mine. “Nora! What are you doing back here?” I didn’t pull away, but my body went rigid, my voice devoid of warmth. “I forgot my necklace. I came back to get it.” “You’re always so forgetful. Good thing I found it,” Daniel said, stepping out of the room with the delicate pearl necklace. He draped it around my neck, his fingers cold against my skin. “Beautiful.” He took my hand, pulling me toward the foyer. “The ceremony is about to start. We shouldn’t keep the guests waiting.” Inside me, Serenity was sobbing, her voice breaking with frustration. “Mommy, please run! Get away from him! He’s going to ruin everything. He’s going to kill us!” “I request you, Mommy, you have to believe me this time!” I closed my eyes for a brief second, my hand gently resting over my stomach. I believe you, my sweet girl, I whispered back in my mind. I do. But I couldn’t just run. Not yet. I refused to let them off the hook so easily, and I refused to let my aging parents bear the public humiliation of a canceled wedding in front of all our relatives and friends. So, the wedding proceeded. We walked down the aisle, exchanged vows, and slipped rings onto each other’s fingers. It was a bizarre experience, like reading a mystery novel when you already know who the killer is. When our pre-recorded love story video began playing on the big screen, I felt no warmth, no tears. Instead, I saw the cracks. I noticed the tiny details I had been blind to for years. A clip of us at the movie theater where, in the dim background light, Daniel’s hand was laced tightly with Chloe’s behind my seat. The subtle differences in the gifts he bought us. The way his umbrella always tilted toward Chloe on rainy days, leaving my shoulder soaked. Once the reception wound down and the last of the guests departed, I slipped away to find my purse, only to stumble upon them arguing in a quiet, shadowy alcove near the exit. “It’s your fault!” Chloe hissed, her voice trembling. “Nora was acting so strange during the vows. She must have heard us outside the dressing room.” Daniel dismissed her fear immediately. “If she knew, she would have burned the venue to the ground. You know how she is. Stop stressing—it’s not good for the baby.” He gently placed his hand over her stomach. “When our boy is born, I’ll put him under my name on the registry. He will inherit everything I own, legally. It’s the only thing I can do for him right now.” “Are you insane?” Chloe gasped, her eyes wide. “You just married Nora!” “The marriage certificate is fake,” Daniel said, his eyes shining with a chilling, desperate eagerness. “We didn’t actually register. If you say the word, we can go to the city hall tomorrow and get a real marriage license. I promise you, Nora will never find out.” Chloe shook her head, backing away. “No. I can’t do that.” Rage pulsed hot and heavy through my veins. My hands shook. And then, Serenity’s voice came soft and raw in my mind. “Oh… so that’s why my school teacher told the other kids I was a bastard and didn’t deserve to go to first grade.” “That’s why you always cried when you looked at that marriage certificate.” “Daddy was only Mason’s daddy. He was never mine.” I couldn’t see her face, but her sorrow washed over me in waves, cold and suffocating. But then, a sudden spark of childish joy lit up her tone. “But wait! This means you aren’t really married to him!” “You can be free, Mommy. You can just be yourself.” In the original timeline, they must have eventually registered their marriage, rendering my poor Serenity a second-class child, a secret kept in the dark. A toxic mixture of grief and fury hardened within me. Grief for the pain my little girl had endured, and fury at the monstrous betrayal Daniel was capable of. If they were willing to ruin my child’s life, I would ensure theirs never saw the light of day. After seeing my parents safely into a cab, I drove back to our new apartment. The living room was pitched in darkness. Daniel was sitting on the sofa, a shadow silhouetted against the window. “Are you pregnant?” he asked. His voice was unreadable, flat and cold. I remembered then. To avoid overshadowing the wedding, I hadn’t told a soul. I had left the positive lab report on the dining table, imagining his joyous reaction when he found it. It was supposed to be our perfect beginning. Now, it tasted like ashes in my mouth. “We’re having a baby. Aren’t you happy?” I flipped the light switch. Under the harsh yellow glow, Daniel quickly smoothed his features into a smile, rushing over to scoop me up and spin me around. “Of course! I’m thrilled, Nora!” He buried his face in my neck, his voice muffled. “I’m just worried about you. You’ve been running around all day in that dress.” Inside me, Serenity scoffed. “Liar. He’s not happy at all. Right now, he’s probably planning how to get rid of me.” “He always blamed me for stealing Mason’s things. But he spent every evening with Chloe and every weekend playing with Mason. He didn’t even have time to show up for my school play.” “I had nothing, Mommy. I only had you.” My chest ached with a profound, crushing sorrow for her. My fingers dug hard into the fabric of Daniel’s shirt as he held me, my knuckles turning white. He pulled back, looking down at me with an overly earnest expression. “Actually, Chloe is pregnant too. I was thinking… maybe she should move in with us. You two are practically joined at the hip anyway. You can keep each other company during the day, swap pregnancy tips. I have to work, and I can’t be here to look after you twenty-four-seven.” I pushed him away, keeping my voice incredibly level. “Chloe’s pregnant? I thought she was single.” Daniel’s face didn’t twitch; the lie slid past his lips with practiced ease. “It was a whirlwind thing. She eloped with a guy in the military her family set her up with. He’s deployed overseas, so she’s basically on her own. He can’t even get leave to come back for the baby.” He sighed, a picture of brotherly concern, and stroked my hair. “She only just told me. She probably didn’t want to stress you out before the wedding.” I let out a dry, silent laugh inside. “Alright,” I said slowly. “Tell her to pack her bags.” The very next day, Chloe arrived, her heavy rolling suitcase clattering up the steps. Her voice preceded her. “Nora! I heard the news! Oh my god, congratulations!” Daniel immediately dropped my hand and rushed to the door, snatching the suitcase from her. His face was a mix of intense worry and forced annoyance. “I told you to wait downstairs for me! Why did you carry this up yourself?” he scolded, his voice tight. “Did you forget what happened when you slipped on those stairs last month? You spent two weeks in the hospital! When are you going to learn to be careful?” I leaned against the kitchen counter, tilting my head. “Hospital? What hospital stay? How come I never heard about this?” Chloe’s smile faltered, a flash of awkwardness crossing her features. “Oh, you were so busy coordinating the florist and the venue, Nora. I didn’t want to throw my drama into your lap and ruin your mood.” Serenity’s quiet voice chimed in. “That was when she found out she was pregnant with Mason. Daddy stayed by her hospital bed for two whole weeks, feeding her and keeping her company.” I remembered those two weeks. Daniel had been leaving early and coming home late, exhausted. I had cooked him late-night meals, rubbing his shoulders, thinking he was working overtime to pay for our dream wedding. I had felt so guilty that he was losing weight from the stress. But the only person stressing over the wedding was me. He was playing husband in another hospital wing. Seeing my stiffening posture, Daniel quickly stepped closer, offering a placating smile. “Don’t be mad, honey. We just didn’t want to stress you out. It’s in the past anyway.” Chloe nudged him aside, wrapping her arms around my shoulders with familiar warmth. “Nora, you’ve always been fragile, and the first trimester is crucial. You have to take it easy. Leave all the heavy lifting and chores to Daniel. Make him work.” Daniel gave a soft, affectionate scoff. “Listen to you, giving lectures. If only you took half as much care of yourself.” Chloe rolled her eyes, swatting his arm playfully. “Shut up, Daniel. I’m built tough.” My frail health wasn’t a secret. When I was seven, I fell into a frozen pond during winter and wasn’t pulled out for nearly thirty minutes. Ever since, my immune system had been fragile, and my periods were so agonizing they often left me bedridden. Daniel and I actually met because of it; I had fainted on the track during a college gym class, and he had carried me all the way to the campus clinic without a second thought. That was the spark. Within weeks, we were inseparable. It was only after a month of dating that I found out about his “best friend” Chloe, a relationship so tightly knit there was barely room for me. I snapped out of the memory as Serenity spoke again, her voice small and trembling. “Mommy, you really do have to be careful.” “In the other life, you used to hold me and cry, saying you ate something bad while you were pregnant and almost miscarried. You said it made me born slower and sicker than the other kids.” “Mommy, I don’t want to be slow. I want to be smart for you.” A cold spike of adrenaline shot through me. I sat up straighter, every sense on high alert. A week later, after a prenatal checkup where the doctor advised me to get more calcium and rest, Daniel started a new routine. Every night before bed, he would bring two warm glasses of milk to the living room—one for me, one for Chloe. One evening, as I raised the glass to my lips, Serenity’s voice screamed in my head, raw with terror. “Don’t drink it!” “If you drink that, I’ll never get to see you!” My hand froze mid-air. I stared at the white liquid, my stomach turning. Taking a slow breath, I waited until Daniel walked back into the kitchen to rinse the pot. While Chloe was looking at her phone, I smoothly swapped our glasses. Serenity was hysterical, weeping softly against my mind. “Daddy is bad. He doesn’t want me, Mommy. He’s trying to hurt you.” At around three in the morning, a sharp, agonized groan cut through the quiet apartment, coming from the guest room. Within seconds, Daniel bolted out of bed, rushing to Chloe’s room. I sat up to follow, but as I swung my legs out of bed, a searing, white-hot pain bloomed in my lower abdomen. I gasped, doubling over. Why? I hadn’t touched the milk. Why was my body burning? Through the haze of pain, I saw Daniel carrying a pale, sweating Chloe out of her room. I reached out, grabbing the hem of his shirt with whatever strength I had left. “Daniel… my stomach. Something’s wrong.” He looked at me, panic flashing in his eyes, but his grip on Chloe didn’t loosen. “I’m so sorry, Nora. I have to get Chloe to the ER. I’ll carry her down to the car and come right back for you.” He pried my fingers off his sleeve, turned around, and ran. He never came back that night. Shivering on the cold floor, I dragged myself to my phone and dialed 911. By the time dawn broke, the pain had receded into a dull ache. I stepped out of my recovery room to use the restroom and ran right into Daniel in the hallway. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes wrinkled. The moment he saw me, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around me in a desperate, suffocating grip. “I’m so sorry, Nora,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “I failed you. I didn’t take care of you. But… we can try again. We’ll have another baby.” I pushed him off, looking at him with cool confusion. “What are you talking about? The baby is fine. I had acute appendicitis. They took it out last night, and the baby wasn’t affected at all.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463646”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The ninety-ninth time he postponed our wedding. That was when I called the coordinator and told them to swap my name out for his childhood sweetheart’s. “Miss Delia, I understand what you’re asking, but are you absolutely sure?” the planner’s voice crackled through the line, heavy with hesitation. “It actually seems like Mr. Keith isn’t planning on pushing it back this time.” I stared at the PDF proof on my laptop screen. Groom: Keith. Bride: Delia. But down in the designer’s notes, a single line of tiny text read: “Adjust the floral arrangements to the champagne-gold palette Fiona prefers.” Fiona. Keith’s childhood best friend. He had assured me she was only offering a second opinion. Yet, every detail of this wedding—from the floral selection to the party favors, down to the walk-in track—had been decided by her. Even when it came to my wedding dress, she had merely glanced at it and offered a dismissive, “A mermaid cut would suit her better.” I dragged the design file into the trash bin on my desktop and replied, my voice flat and even: “I’m sure. Change the bride’s name to Fiona.” This wedding was so saturated with her presence that it was never mine to begin with. I was simply handing it over to them, fully intact. And in doing so, I was finally pulling myself out of this farce. From here on, the world was wide. Let him cling to his old memories; I was going to find my own horizon. 1 “Understood. We’ll make the adjustment immediately,” the coordinator replied, her tone careful, almost tip-toeing. “But… should we notify Mr. Keith beforehand?” I stared at the dark screen of my laptop. “No need.” I hung up, and the silence of the empty house settled over me. I looked around the three-story townhouse in Brooklyn that Keith and I were supposed to move into next month. Every square inch of it was pristine, tailored, and expensive. But the French crystal chandelier hanging in the living room was only there because Fiona had deemed it “tasteful.” The silk sheets in the master bedroom were chosen because Fiona said they were “better for the skin.” Even the reed diffuser in the foyer was scented with Wild Bluebell—Fiona’s signature fragrance. I felt like an intruder who had accidentally wandered into someone else’s private sanctuary. Walking into the master bathroom to wash my face, my eyes caught a used Tom Ford lipstick sitting on the marble vanity. The shade was a deep, vintage crimson—the exact color Fiona always wore. Right next to it lay a delicate pearl earring. I stared at that smudge of red on the gold casing. I knew exactly whose it was. My phone vibrated, and a voice memo from Keith came through. “Delia, the coordinator mentioned you called them a few times today. Is everything okay?” I typed a quick reply: Nothing. Just checking on a few small details. It’s handled. A few minutes passed before his brief reply came back: K. Then, he sent a photo. In it, Fiona was standing in front of a tri-fold mirror, wearing a stunning champagne-gold couture gown, looking back over her shoulder. Fiona is trying on her bridesmaid dress, but the zipper got stuck. Just helping her with it. The shop has great pieces, but she’s having trouble deciding. Want to come over and help her look? My hands grew cold as I stared at the message. Just last week, I had gone to try on my wedding dress entirely alone. Locked in the dressing room, suffocating under the heavy, complex laces of a gown that didn’t fit, I had called him in tears. His background had been loud with traffic and chatter. “Delia, just ask one of the shop girls to help you. Fiona’s car broke down on the highway, and I need to go get her.” I had stood there in that ill-fitting mermaid dress—the one Fiona had picked out—under the pitying gaze of the boutique staff for thirty minutes before quietly changing back into my clothes. And now, he was carefully adjusting the hem of her gown. He even wanted me there to play the appreciative audience. I dialed his number. “Are you on your way?” he asked as soon as he picked up. “No,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “Keith, let’s call it off. The wedding—” Before I could finish, Fiona’s playful, sweet voice drifted through the speaker. “Keith, look at this one! Does it look good? Oh, stop staring at your phone and help me choose!” Keith’s usually detached, cool tone softened instantly into something warm and indulgent. “Beautiful. Honestly, Fiona, anything you pick looks beautiful on you.” Then, seemingly remembering I was still on the line, he spoke back into the receiver. “What were you saying about the wedding? It’s already set, Delia. Stop trying to change things at the last minute.” “It’s nothing,” I said, a dry smile touching my lips. I didn’t even have the energy to feel disappointed anymore. “Take your time helping her.” “Good. Fiona is the bridesmaid, and her dress represents my family’s image today. I need to make sure it’s right. Don’t be so sensitive.” He paused, perhaps sensing that his tone had been too sharp. “I just bought Fiona a ruby necklace, and the jeweler threw in a small diamond pendant as a promotional gift. I was going to refuse it, but Fiona thought it would look nice on you. I’ll bring it back tonight.” “Delia!” Fiona’s voice cut in clearly. “Keith is such a typical guy, don’t mind him. The freebie isn’t anything spectacular, but I know you usually dress so simply, so I figured it would suit you perfectly. On the wedding day, we can both wear our necklaces. Think of it as my little blessing to you guys.” She wanted to stand beside me at the altar, parading the masterpiece while I wore the scrap, silently declaring to everyone in attendance who actually held Keith’s heart. It had been like this ever since she returned from Canada a year ago. When he traveled for business, he bought Fiona limited-edition handbags worth tens of thousands, but would only toss a discounted bottle of duty-free perfume onto my nightstand. Later, he postponed our wedding date again and again just to fly across the country to secure some rare art piece she wanted for her gallery. When I confronted him, his defense was always entirely logical to him: “Fiona grew up accustomed to the finer things. You don’t really care about fashion anyway, so why does it matter? Besides, the wedding delays were accidents. Next time, I promise we won’t push it.” And Fiona would always laugh, adding, “Oh, don’t be so hard on her, Keith. Actually, Delia, I have some of the old gifts Keith gave me. If you want them, I can send them over.” “Thank you both,” I said softly, and hung up the phone. When disappointment reaches its absolute limit, even words feel like a waste of breath. I went into the bedroom and opened the closet. More than half of it was filled with “status-appropriate” designer pieces Keith had purchased for me to wear to corporate events. The tags were still attached. I reached for my old, battered suitcase—the one I had brought with me when I first moved in. I packed a few casual outfits, some daily essentials, and my laptop. My phone lit up with a message from Victoria, my editor-in-chief at the magazine. Delia, the transfer to the Paris bureau has been officially approved. Are you certain you want to leave tomorrow? Isn’t tomorrow your wedding day? I looked around the room, breathing in the faint scent of wild bluebells, my eyes resting on the vintage red lipstick on the counter. Yes, I’m sure, I wrote back. Because there’s going to be a different bride. 2 At ten in the evening, the front door clicked open, and Keith walked in, with Fiona trailing a step behind him. “Here, Delia,” Keith said, sliding a plain black velvet box across the kitchen island toward me. The lid popped open, revealing a tiny, thin silver chain with a speck of a diamond. Fiona was standing right beside him, the dazzling pigeon-blood ruby necklace already resting against her collarbone. The deep, blood-red stone caught the light, sending sharp glints of crimson across the room. My fingers stilled. On our first anniversary, I had stopped in front of a jeweler’s window, admiring a very similar ruby necklace. Keith had pulled me away immediately. “It’s tacky,” he had said. “You’d look like new money wearing that.” It wasn’t that the rubies were tacky. It was just that they were tacky on me. “Look at him, Delia,” Fiona giggled, touching the ruby at her throat. “He didn’t even bother to ask for a gift box. But honestly, that little diamond really does suit you. You don’t go out to events much anyway, so anything larger would just go to waste.” I quietly closed the cheap box. “You’re right. It would be wasted on me.” Keith blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He looked at me a little longer than usual, as if finally noticing how quiet I was being. But Fiona had already bypassed us, settling onto the sofa with a stack of wedding itineraries she pulled from her designer bag. “Oh, Delia, by the way,” she called out, her tone light and airy. “I swapped the main wedding car for a Porsche convertible. I get terribly car sick, and Keith agreed that the open air would be better for me. You don’t mind, do you?” My wedding. But the lead car had to be changed for the bridesmaid. I lowered my eyes, my gaze falling on the suitcase parked by the foyer. “Do whatever you want.” Keith’s eyes followed my gaze, freezing when they hit the suitcase. It was the same one I had used the day I moved in with him. “Are you going on a trip?” His brow furrowed. “The wedding is tomorrow.” I looked at him, preparing to tell him the truth. “Oh—” A sudden gasp cut me off. Behind us, Fiona’s water glass slipped from her hand, shattering against the hardwood floor. “Keith, I’m so sorry…” she murmured, pressing a hand to her chest, her face pale. “I suddenly felt so lightheaded.” Keith’s expression transformed instantly into sheer panic. “Is it your heart? Did you catch a chill outside?” His voice was thick with desperation as he rushed to her side. The explanation I had prepared died in my throat. I looked down at the broken glass on the floor. It was one of our couple mugs. Last year, Keith had gifted Fiona a complete set of handmade Italian porcelain. When I asked him if we could have something that belonged only to us, he had dismissed me as petty. Later, he had lazily ordered a pair of custom photo mugs. It was the only time he had ever tried to appease me. The mug with my face on it was now in pieces. It felt poetically timed. “I told you not to drink cold water. Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Keith was murmuring, his voice stern but laced with an undeniable tenderness. He didn’t even notice the shattered porcelain by his shoe. Last winter, when I ran a fever of 104 and could barely stand, Keith had only spared a moment to say, “Drink some water, take some Advil, and go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.” Yet, Fiona merely dropped a glass, and he treated it like a medical emergency. Fiona leaned heavily into his chest, looking up at him with weak, pleading eyes. “Keith, are you still going to dance the first dance with me tomorrow? Won’t Delia be upset?” Keith rubbed her back, speaking as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve wanted a chapel waltz since we were kids. I promised you, and I don’t break my promises to you. Delia is sensible. She’s not the type to get jealous over something like this.” At my own wedding, the groom’s first dance was reserved for the bridesmaid. I watched them, wrapped up in each other, and a small, genuine laugh escaped my lips. Keith saw the curve of my mouth and assumed I was agreeing to play along. “I’m glad you understand,” he said, looking relieved. “I’ve always looked out for Fiona like a sister. It’s just second nature to me now.” Fiona snuggled deeper into his arms. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Delia. I still remember when we were kids and I wanted to see the fireworks—Keith climbed over the school wall to take me, and his dad made him kneel on the cold floor all night as punishment. And the first time I fell in dance class, he carried me all the way home on his back. We really are just like siblings.” She sighed, a delicate, wistful sound. “I’m so jealous of you, though. After tomorrow, you’ll officially be Mrs. Keith.” Keith looked down at her, his eyes soft with indulgence. “Alright, let’s get you off your feet. Are you feeling any better?” Fiona wrapped her arms around his neck, pouting. “A little bit. But only a little.” Keith gave a helpless, affectionate laugh. “Okay. Let me carry you up to the guest room so you can rest.” He paused, finally remembering I was standing there. “We have a long day tomorrow. Go to sleep early. Once Fiona is settled, I’ll come back down.” He carried her up the stairs without looking back once. The bedroom door clicked shut, muffling their quiet laughter. I didn’t go to bedroom. I walked back to my suitcase, zipped my passport and documents into the side pocket, and closed the lid. As the zipper clicked shut, a sharp, violent spasm tore through my stomach. The pain was so sudden and intense that I collapsed onto the floor, cold sweat instantly soaking through my shirt. It was the chronic ulcer I had developed over the last three years—the result of countless late-night dinners where I drank myself sick to secure capital for Keith’s startup when his company was on the brink of collapse. Trembling, I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. “Keith,” I gasped, clutching my stomach. “My ulcer… it’s flaring up. I can’t move. Can you take me to the ER?” 3 The line went quiet for a beat. Then, Fiona’s soft, nasal whimper drifted through the phone. “Keith, my chest still feels so tight…” A second later, Keith’s voice returned, hushed and strained. “Delia, Fiona’s heart rate just stabilized. Her condition is fragile, and I can’t leave her side right now.” I curled tighter on the floor, the pain in my stomach feeling like a blade twisting repeatedly. “Keith, please. I’m really hurting.” There was another silence. Then Fiona’s voice rose slightly in the background. “Keith, maybe you should go check on Delia?” Before she could finish, Keith cut her off. “Don’t push yourself, Fiona.” He spoke back into the phone, his tone clipping. “Delia, don’t let your imagination run wild. Heart issues are critical; your stomach ache is just a flare-up. I’ll call an ambulance for you right now.” The call ended. I stared at the closed door at the top of the stairs. From the kitchen island to the staircase was barely fifteen paces. Yet, he wouldn’t come down. Ten minutes later, the flashing lights of the ambulance cast red and blue shadows across the living room windows. The doorbell rang. He still hadn’t come down. I had to drag myself off the floor, using the wall for support, and slowly make my way to the door. When the paramedics saw how pale I was, they immediately rushed forward to support me. “Where is your family?” the medic asked, looking around the empty hallway. I forced a weak smile. “Upstairs. Busy.” By the time I woke up, the sky was still dark. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nose, and the cold drip of an IV was slowly running into the back of my hand. Chelsea, my close friend and colleague from the magazine, was sitting by my bedside, her eyes red, clutching my travel document folder. “Are you out of your mind?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “An acute stomach bleed, and you were planning on boarding a flight to Paris tomorrow?” My throat felt like sandpaper. “Did you manage to reschedule the ticket?” Chelsea let out a dry, angry laugh. “Yeah, I got it moved to tomorrow night. But what about the wedding? Are you seriously telling me the bride is changing? Delia, tell me this is a joke.” I looked out the window at the graying sky. “It’s not a joke. I changed it myself.” Chelsea froze. I handed her my phone. On the screen was a confirmation email from the wedding coordinator sent at 2:00 AM. Groom: Keith. Bride: Fiona. Chelsea stared at it for a long moment, then let out a sharp curse. “Does he know?” I shook my head. “No. And he doesn’t need to.” Before she could reply, the door to the room swung open. Keith walked in, with Fiona close behind him. She was wearing a delicate white silk dress, with Keith’s designer suit jacket draped over her shoulders. The ruby necklace around her neck was blinding under the harsh hospital fluorescent lights. Seeing that I was awake, Keith let out a breath that sounded more like irritation than relief. “The doctor said it’s nothing serious,” he said. “Since you’re awake, let’s get things moving. We don’t want to fall behind schedule.” Before I could ask what he meant, Fiona clapped her hands with a bright smile. A crowd of people filed into the small hospital room—the bridesmaids, the photographer, the makeup artists, and several of Keith’s extended family members. They were carrying champagne-colored balloons, silk ribbons, and decorative signs. Within minutes, the sterile white room was draped in wedding decor. A “Just Married” banner was hung directly over my bed, and a massive floral arrangement was placed right next to my IV stand. It looked less like a wedding prep and more like a bizarre wake. Chelsea stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor. “She’s literally hooked up to an IV! What do you think you’re doing?” Keith’s brow furrowed. “Since she’s stuck in the hospital, we’re bringing the morning-of prep to her. Delia is sensible; she isn’t going to mind.” Fiona immediately reached out, tugging gently on his sleeve. “Delia, I know this was my idea, but if you’re really uncomfortable, we can stop. We can wait.” Even as she said the words, her eyes were darting toward the photographer’s lens, adjusting her posture. Keith’s face darkened. “Don’t ruin the mood, Delia. Fiona spent hours organizing this backup plan.” I watched him. The IV needle in the back of my hand throbbed slightly, and a thin line of dark red blood was beginning to back up into the clear plastic tubing. Keith’s mother walked over, patting Fiona’s hand with a warm smile. “Fiona is always the thoughtful one. Out of everyone in Keith’s life, you’ve always understood him best.” One of the bridesmaids laughed in agreement. “Seriously, we always thought Keith and Fiona would end up together. If Fiona hadn’t insisted on keeping him in the brother-zone, there wouldn’t have been room for anyone else.” As if suddenly remembering I was in the room, she added a quick, insincere smile. “Just kidding, Delia! Don’t take it personally. Oh, by the way, the bridal games today were all planned by Fiona’s friends. Since you’re not feeling well, you can just watch. We’re all family here anyway, so it doesn’t matter if the bride can’t fully participate.” Family. Everyone in this room was connected to Fiona. Keith’s relatives adored her, his friends knew her inside out, and even the bridesmaids were her inner circle. And I, the actual bride, was lying in a hospital bed like an uninvited guest who had been handed a program at the last minute. Keith finally stepped closer to the bed, reaching up to adjust the flow rate on my IV drip. He didn’t say anything at first. I looked up at him, the dull ache in my stomach still throbbing in waves, but my mind had never been clearer. “Keith,” I said quietly. “Do you truly believe that I am the one marrying you today?” His hand paused, his brow drawing together in a tight line. “What kind of nonsense is this now?” He checked his Rolex. “We have seven hours before the ceremony. I’m coming back to pick you up. Can’t you just be happy for once?” I smiled. “I am happy. In fact, I’m really looking forward to the surprise I have waiting for you at the venue.” 4 “What surprise?” Keith asked, and for a split second, a genuine look of anticipation crossed his face. It was an expression I hadn’t seen in years. When we first started dating, I had baked him a birthday cake from scratch. The frosting was lumpy and the writing was crooked, but he had stared at it like it was a work of art. “If it’s from you, Delia, I’ll love it,” he had told me back then. Once, he had truly seen me. I hadn’t been wrong about him in the beginning. He had just changed along the way. As I looked at that fleeting glint of warmth in his eyes, Fiona stepped between us. “What surprise, Delia? Did you get him a gift too?” I didn’t answer. The nurse came in to remove my IV. As the needle slid out, a small bead of blood welled up on my skin. Keith looked at it, a brief shadow of concern passing over his face. “The ceremony is starting soon. Get some rest,” he said softly. “I’ll be back to get you.” I held the cotton ball against my hand and looked up at him. “Keith.” “What if I told you I don’t want this wedding anymore? What if I want to just run away and elope? Today. Right now.” I held his gaze. “Would you walk out of this hospital with me and never look back?” The room fell dead silent. The photographer slowly lowered his camera, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Keith’s expression hardened, the warmth vanishing instantly. “Delia, today is not the day for your tantrums.” Fiona’s eyes welled with tears on cue. “Is this because of me? If I’m causing trouble, I can just leave… I can book a flight back to Toronto tonight…” Before she could finish, her knees buckled slightly. Keith’s hand shot out instinctively, catching her by the waist. “Fiona!” He pulled her against him, looking back at me with sharp accusation in his eyes. “You see this? She’s barely holding herself up, yet she’s been running around making sure our wedding goes smoothly. Can you stop being so incredibly selfish?” “I told you—” “I know,” I interrupted him, my voice barely a whisper. “She’s your sister. You have to take care of her.” I looked down at the cotton ball in my hand. It was entirely soaked in red. I smiled. “I’m not angry anymore, Keith. I finally understand.” Keith let out a long breath, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason. I’ll take Fiona back to get some rest, and the car will be here for you shortly.” He guided her toward the door, his arm securely around her waist. The door clicked shut behind them. I looked at the drop of blood on my knuckles. I had given him one final chance. And as always, he chose her. Only Chelsea and I remained in the room. Her face was flushed with anger. “Are you really going to that venue?” I peeled the tape off my hand, letting another drop of blood bead up, and pressed it down carelessly. “No.” “Take me back to the townhouse.” Half an hour later, I stepped back into the house in Brooklyn. The scent of wild bluebells hit me like a wall, cloying and suffocating. The kitchen counter was piled high with wedding favors and floral arrangements that had arrived yesterday. Champagne-colored silk ribbons draped gracefully along the banister. Every single corner of this place belonged to Fiona’s vision. I dragged my suitcase up the stairs. The guest room door was slightly open. The house was empty; I didn’t know where Keith had taken her to “rest.” Fiona’s cashmere wrap from last night was tossed carelessly over the arm of the chair. Her lipstick and earrings still sat on my vanity. My home had been treated like her personal hotel. I didn’t look at them again. I opened the drawer of my nightstand and pulled out the ring box. The band was incredibly thin. When he gave it to me, he had said, “A wedding ring is just a symbol, Delia. There’s no need to be ostentatious.” But the ruby necklace around Fiona’s neck could have bought fifty of these rings. I took the ring out and set it on the kitchen island. Beside it, I placed the cheap promotional diamond pendant, my house keys, the security fob, and the master wedding itinerary. Finally, I picked up the official wedding invitation. The bride’s name had already been reprinted as Fiona. In the blank space at the bottom, I wrote a single line with a black pen: Wishing you both a lifetime of happiness. I capped the pen. The click sounded final, like a lock turning in a door. My phone buzzed in my hand. Keith: The bridal car is outside. Where are you? A second message followed immediately: Stop playing games. Everyone is waiting at the hotel. I didn’t reply. Chelsea helped me wheel my suitcase out to the waiting car. “I have your passport, visa, and ticket right here. The Paris office is expecting you.” I nodded. Before stepping into the car, I looked back at the house one last time. The crystal chandelier was shining, the diffusers were active, and the wedding decorations were pristine. But it had never been my home. I closed the car door, sealing out the scent of wild bluebells. Chelsea took my hand. “Let’s go. Don’t look back.” The drive to JFK, security, and boarding went without a hitch. I sat in my seat and switched my phone to airplane mode, ready to sever every tie to my past. But before the plane could push back from the gate, the overhead speaker crackled to life. “Apologies for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. Due to an emergency security request from the authorities, all departing flights on this corridor have been temporarily held. Is passenger Delia Smith currently on board?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “463645”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel