Author: Momo Chan

1 After I lost most of my hearing, the specialist gave me one cardinal rule: avoid high-decibel environments at all costs. My eardrums were a fragile ecosystem, and any sudden shock could collapse them entirely. Hailey, my supposed best friend, treated my disability like a new toy. She had this unsettling habit of leaning in to whisper secrets directly into my boyfriend Ethan’s ear whenever she knew I couldn’t catch the frequency. I would stand there, my eyes glued to the shape of her lips, a hollow ache in my chest. “What did you just say?” I’d ask, trying to keep my voice from trembling. Then, she’d lunge toward me, her mouth inches from my ear, and scream at the top of her lungs: “I SAID, YOU CAN’T HEAR ME!” The sharp, jagged wall of sound tore through my ears like a physical blade. I’d instinctively recoil, clutching the side of my head as the white-hot pain flared. Hailey would just laugh, nudging Ethan’s shoulder with her own. “See? Isn’t she just the funniest like this? Like a startled cat.” Ethan would frown, but it was never at her. He’d just reach over and give my head a patronizing pat. “Don’t overthink it, Luna,” he’d say, his voice a low rumble I could barely decode. “Hailey’s just being Hailey. It’s a joke.” There was no rebuke in his tone. Only a soft, sickening indulgence. That night, Hailey wanted to go to a massive EDM festival downtown. I pulled Ethan aside, showing him my phone—the reminder for my follow-up exam was glaring at us. I told him the doctor was worried about my nerve damage and that the bass at a festival like that would be a death sentence for my remaining hearing. Hailey was standing right there. She let out a sharp, mocking bark of a laugh and whipped out her phone. She turned the volume to the max and blasted a heavy dubstep track right next to my head. The beat hit me like a physical blow. My ears went numb, then started to throb with a dull, rhythmic agony. She looked at Ethan, her eyes suddenly brimming with crocodile tears. “Is Luna trying to stop you from going with me? Does she really think I’m that much of a burden?” Ethan went quiet for a few seconds. He stepped toward me, but not to comfort me. He placed his hands over my ears, but his grip was firm, almost clinical. “Stop making a scene, Luna,” he mouthed. “I’ll go with her just for the set, and then I’ll take you to your appointment. Just stay calm.” I tried to pull away, my heart hammering against my ribs. I wouldn’t go. I couldn’t. Then, he did it. He reached out and snatched the hearing aids right out of my ears. The world didn’t go silent; it went muddy. It felt like being underwater in a thick, grey ocean. He pushed me into the VIP backstage lounge—a small, sound-dampened room—and turned the lock from the outside. But the walls were thin. The vibrations of the subwoofers outside made the very foundation of the building shudder. It felt like someone was pounding on my skull with a hammer. I collapsed to my knees, clutching my head, screaming into the void, hammering my fists against the door. Outside, in the muffled distance, I saw Hailey’s silhouette through the frosted glass. She was laughing. I could almost hear her ask, “Is she throwing another tantrum?” I saw Ethan’s shadow hesitate for a heartbeat. Then, he turned away. “Let her stay there,” I imagined him saying. “Once she’s tired of the drama, she’ll stop.” By the time the paramedics arrived, the world was gone. I couldn’t even hear my own screams. I woke up in a hospital bed wrapped in a terrifying, absolute silence. Nurses moved around me like ghosts. Their lips moved, but they were silent films. No hum of the air conditioner. No squeak of rubber soles on tile. Just the roar of my own blood in my head. Ethan was standing by the bed. He hadn’t even changed his clothes; he still had the neon festival wristband on. Hailey was leaning against him, her makeup smeared, glitter still stuck to the corners of her eyes. She was scrolling through her Instagram. I caught a glimpse of the photo she’d posted: her and Ethan in the middle of the crowd, him with his arm around her, his jacket draped over her shoulders. The caption: [Last night was so scary, but I’m so glad you were there to protect me.] The timestamp showed it was posted right as I was being rushed into the ER. While I was losing the last of my senses, he was holding her until dawn. A nurse handed me a clear plastic bag. Inside were my hearing aids. They were cracked, the earmolds caked with dust from the floor of that VIP room. The nurse wrote on a whiteboard: [Why weren’t you wearing these when you were found?] I looked Ethan dead in the eye. His face paled. His lips moved, stuttering, but no sound reached me. Hailey grabbed a notepad from the nightstand and scribbled frantically before shoving it in my face. [Luna, I am SO sorry. I had no idea it was actually that serious. I just thought you were trying to keep Ethan from coming with me.] In one sentence, she had reframed my permanent injury as a side effect of my own jealousy. I reached for my phone and opened our group chat. The last dozen messages were all from me, sent from that locked room. [Open the door.] [My ears hurt.] [Give them back. Ethan, please.] [I can’t hear anything anymore. Ethan!] Not a single reply. I scrolled up. Months of “jokes” from Hailey filled the screen. [Quiet night for our little Silent Hill tonight?] [Since you can’t hear anyway, stop being such a buzzkill. It makes things easier for everyone.] Ethan had only replied once: [Don’t call her that.] Hailey had sent a tongue-out emoji. [It’s an endearing nickname! She knows I love her.] Eventually, the group chat had become a monologue. They had moved to a private thread long ago. While I was bruising my knuckles against that door, they were watching the strobe lights. My mother arrived an hour later. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face a mask of controlled fury. She didn’t waste a second arguing with them. She simply handed me her phone. She had an open tab for a prestigious auditory clinic in London. She typed: [Luna, I’m taking you to see the best specialists in Europe. We’re leaving in seven days. I’ve already booked the tickets.] I looked at her, the first sob finally breaking through my chest, and I nodded. Before I was discharged, the doctor gave Ethan a stern, written list of instructions. No loud noises. Noise-canceling earmuffs at all times. Specific medications for the tinnitus. Constant monitoring. Ethan took the papers, nodding solemnly, playing the part of the devoted boyfriend he used to be. But the moment we stepped out of the hospital, his phone vibrated. I saw the caller ID. His entire expression softened instantly. Hailey must have said something “distressing.” Ethan frowned, glanced at me, then shoved the bag of meds and the follow-up instructions into my arms. “Hailey’s really shaken up from the music festival,” he said. My phone’s voice-to-text app struggled to capture the words, but I pieced it together. “She needs someone to pick up her anxiety meds. Go home and rest, I’ll be back later to help you organize your pills.” I looked down at the jumbled mess of boxes in my arms. I wanted to tell him that I was shaken, too. That I couldn’t even hear the sound of his voice to know if he was lying. But he was already walking toward his car. Back at the apartment, I sat staring at the medication labels. I didn’t know which ones were for the morning or which ones couldn’t be taken on an empty stomach. The doctor had explained it all, but I hadn’t been able to “hear” him. I texted Ethan. No reply. Thirty minutes later, Hailey posted a story. A photo of Ethan standing in line at a high-end apothecary, Hailey holding a box of “calming gummies.” The caption: [He said even when I’m scared, I have to take care of myself. Lucky me.] I looked at my own unopened bag of medicine and remembered a time, shortly after my initial diagnosis, when Ethan wasn’t like this. He used to crouch down in front of me so I could read his lips perfectly. He used to make digital spreadsheets of my doctor’s notes. He used to cover my ears the second a siren passed us on the street. He used to say, “Luna, I’ll turn the volume of the world down for you.” I believed him. But then Hailey came back into the picture. She was loud, vibrant, and she could go to the clubs and the parties Ethan loved. She didn’t require him to repeat himself. She didn’t require him to slow down. Every time I asked Ethan to avoid a loud venue, Hailey called me “controlling.” Every time I asked him to look at me when he spoke, she called me “insecure.” My survival mechanism became, in their mouths, a personality flaw. That evening, Hailey let herself into the apartment, claiming she wanted to “look after” me. The first thing she did was crank the TV volume to a level I could feel vibrating in my teeth. I typed on my phone, begging her to turn it down. She leaned in, shouting directly into my ear again. “WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” The shock sent a phantom spike of pain through my skull. I stumbled back, knocking my medication off the counter. The pills scattered across the floor like tiny white bones. When Ethan walked in, he saw the mess and me trembling in the corner. Hailey’s eyes went red instantly. “Ethan, I just wanted to keep her company,” she sobbed. “But she just kept acting like I was hurting her.” I pointed at the pills, at the doctor’s notes, trying to explain the sensory overload. Ethan just sighed, looking at me with a mixture of pity and exhaustion. “Hailey spent her whole day making sure you weren’t alone, Luna. Stop looking for reasons to be a victim.” I stared at him, and for the first time, I realized the truth. To him, my pain was just an inconvenience he was no longer willing to manage. The next morning, I had my critical evaluation—the one that would determine if any of my hearing could be saved. I reached for my bag, but my medical files, my backup hearing aids, and my appointment slip were gone. I remembered Hailey “tidying up” the living room the night before. I marched over to her. She stood at the far end of the room, positioned so the light was behind her, making it impossible to read her lips. Her mouth moved in a blurred, mocking speed. She was smiling. I typed: [Where are my things? Write it down.] She burst into tears. “Why do you hate me so much? You don’t trust me at all!” Ethan came home twenty minutes later, summoned by her frantic texts. He didn’t ask about my appointment. He just looked at me with pure disappointment. “You think Hailey stole your files? Luna, your paranoia is getting out of hand.” I showed him the text from the clinic, my hands shaking. I tried to make him understand that this was my last chance. But Hailey started hyperventilating, and Ethan immediately moved to hold her. I didn’t wait for them. I began tearing the apartment apart. I found them in the bottom of the kitchen trash can, soaked in coffee grounds. The appointment slip was unreadable. My backup hearing aids were crushed, the delicate wires snapped. I stood there, holding the wreckage. Hailey’s “explanation” was typed out on Ethan’s phone: [I was just cleaning and knocked over some water. I didn’t realize those papers were important.] Ethan didn’t even look at the trash. “It’s just a piece of paper, Luna. The hospital has digital records. Stop scaring Hailey over a clerical error.” A piece of paper. To him, it was a slip. To me, it was the countdown to silence. I spent the day at the hospital, begging for a new slot, waiting in lines, re-verifying my identity. By the time I got back to the tech, the note he wrote was devastating: [You missed the window for the emergency steroid injection. The nerve damage is likely permanent now.] When I walked out, Ethan wasn’t in the waiting room. Hailey’s Instagram was updated. A photo of Ethan at a high-end audio boutique, helping Hailey pick out custom noise-canceling headphones. The caption: [He said my ears need protecting, too.] I felt a strange, cold clarity. My eyes were dry. The tears had been replaced by a quiet, vibrating anger. A few days later, I had to go to Ethan’s production studio to pick up a specialized adapter I’d left in the sound booth. Hailey was there, sitting in the lounge. She pointed toward the booth with a smirk. She typed: [It’s in the recording room. Go ahead, it’s quiet in there. You like quiet, don’t you?] I walked in. As soon as I bent down to find the adapter, I heard the heavy “thud” of the soundproof door closing. I saw the lock turn. Hailey was on the other side of the double-paned glass, waving at me. She mouthed: “Take some time to calm down.” But then, the room next door—the drum room—started a low-frequency bass test. The vibrations traveled through the floor, hitting me like a series of electric shocks. My ears began to throb, then bleed. I fell to the floor, clutching my head, fumbling for my phone. [Open the door. Ethan, please, it hurts.] [I can’t breathe. Ethan!] His reply came minutes later: [Stop the drama. Hailey said you’re just trying to lure me back there. I’m busy.] I stared at the screen until my vision blurred. When the studio janitor found me an hour later, I was unconscious, blood staining the carpet, the adapter clutched in my hand like a useless relic of a life I no longer possessed. The world was finally, truly, cold and still. At the hospital, the specialist’s face was grim. He wrote on the pad: [The residual hearing is gone. The trauma from the low-frequency exposure was the final blow.] [We need to discuss surgery immediately.] This specific surgery had a months-long waiting list. My mother worked every contact she had, spent every cent, and managed to secure an emergency slot for the following morning. She showed me the confirmation, her eyes red from crying. [Luna, this is it. No more delays.] I needed my full medical history and the original scans Ethan still had at the apartment. I texted him. [Tomorrow, 9:00 AM. Bring my records to the hospital. You don’t have to stay. Just drop them off.] I didn’t beg. I didn’t hope. But Hailey heard about the “emergency” and suddenly claimed she was experiencing “distressing ringing” in her ears. Ethan messaged me: [Bring Hailey with you tomorrow. She needs to see the specialist, too. You of all people should understand how scary this is for her.] I typed back, my fingers trembling: [It’s a single emergency slot. For my surgery prep.] [The doctor said I can’t wait.] Hailey’s response came through the group chat: [Does Luna want me to go deaf too? Is that why she won’t share the appointment?] Ethan’s eyes—I could see them in my mind—were full of that familiar disappointment. [Hailey’s never been through this. She’s terrified. You’re used to it, Luna. You’ve been living like this for months. You can handle one more day.] You’re used to it. I realized then that in their eyes, because I had survived the pain, I was no longer capable of feeling it. The next morning, I arrived at the clinic only to find the name on my appointment had been changed to “Hailey Reed.” Ethan had called in, using his status as my primary contact to “update” the patient info. I stood at the reception desk, my blood turning to ice. I texted Ethan: [Why?] He replied almost instantly. [Hailey had a panic attack last night. I had to get her in first for her own peace of mind. You’ve made it this far, Luna. One more day won’t kill you.] I watched from the corner of the waiting room as Ethan led Hailey into the specialist’s office. He didn’t even look at me. The door closed with a click I couldn’t hear, but felt in my soul. Hailey’s “emergency” was diagnosed as minor stress-related tinnitus. She needed rest and a lower caffeine intake. Ethan comforted her as if she’d just survived a war. She posted: [So relieved! Thank you for never leaving my side.] Meanwhile, I sat in a standard exam room, wearing headphones, waiting for a sound that never came. The doctor slid the report toward me. [Due to the delay and repeated trauma, the residual auditory nerve response is zero. You are now profoundly deaf.] Ethan’s text arrived ten minutes later. [Hailey is fine, but she’s really hurt by how cold you were today. She feels guilty for ‘taking’ your spot. You need to apologize to her so she can stop crying.] Then: [Luna, you’re already used to the silence. Stop taking your frustrations out on her.] I looked at the words. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel anything at all. I took a photo of the “Profoundly Deaf” diagnosis and sent it to my mother. She called me on FaceTime immediately. I saw her lips moving, her face contorting with grief, but I heard nothing. She typed: [Luna, we’re leaving today. We aren’t waiting for the seventh day. Pack your bags.] I nodded. I booked the first flight out of Sea-Tac. As the plane climbed above the clouds, Ethan was still texting me. [Why aren’t you answering?] [Hailey says she’s willing to forgive you.] [I’ll bring your records home tonight, you can apologize to her then.] [Luna, stop being dramatic.] I switched my phone to airplane mode. I couldn’t hear the engines roar. I couldn’t hear the safety briefing. I just watched the city of Seattle disappear into the mist, a silent grey map of a life I was leaving behind.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541769”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 The day Bill and I signed our marriage certificate at City Hall, my best friend handed me a month-old baby as a wedding gift. I stood on the sweltering sidewalk, holding the tiny, swaddled bundle in my arms, completely bewildered. Bill, my brand-new husband, looked at me with a soft, comforting smile. “You’ve always been terrified of the pain of childbirth,” he explained, his tone infuriatingly gentle. “Gwen carried him for you. She said it was her way of repaying you for saving her life all those years ago.” He reached out, lightly brushing the baby’s pale cheek. “He’s mine, Aria. He’s family. You can raise him without worrying about a thing.” My blood ran cold. My breath hitched in my throat as I stared at him, my voice trembling violently. “That’s impossible!” A pregnancy isn’t something you can hide for nine months. Besides, Bill and I had been attached at the hip every single day. There was no way they could have behind my back— My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the infant. Beside us, my brother, Mason, went pale. He lunged forward, catching the baby just in time, and glared at me with sharp disapproval. “Careful, Aria! Do you have any idea how hard they worked for this? They spent three years trying to conceive this child. It took everything they had to finally bring him into the world.” Mason scoffed, settling the baby against his shoulder. “I’ve been helping them cover their tracks all this time just so they could give you a clean surprise.” At those words, Bill’s face flickered with a brief flash of guilt. He stepped closer to me, his voice dropping into that quiet, persuasive cadence he always used when he wanted me to give in. “Gwen suffered so much to pull this off, Aria. As compensation… we’re swapping her into the wedding ceremony seven days from now. It’s only fair. You don’t mind, right?” In my right hand, the red folder holding the marriage certificate I had waited ten agonizing years for felt scorching hot, bright enough to burn my eyes. A sudden, overwhelming numbness rushed through my veins. I didn’t want the wedding anymore. And God help me, I didn’t want Bill anymore, either. Seeing my silence, Bill took the baby back from Mason. His movements were tender, almost reverent. “Look at him, Aria. Look how sweet he is. Hold him again. Gwen was terrified you wouldn’t like him—she didn’t sleep a wink last night worrying about it.” I pulled my hands back, tucking my trembling fingers into my pockets to hide the shaking. I backed away from the baby, fixing my gaze on Bill’s face. “You promised me we were going to be childfree.” Bill looked up, his expression entirely unbothered, like we were discussing the weather. “I get it, Aria. You’re afraid of the pain, and I respected that. But you know how my mother is. I have a responsibility to the Miller family line. I needed an heir. This was the only win-win solution for everyone.” I squeezed my hands into tight fists. My fingernails bit deep into my palms, but I didn’t feel a thing. Ten years ago, the very day Bill confessed his feelings to me under the college oak trees, I had been entirely upfront: I am never having children. He had laughed then, pulled me into a tight hug, and whispered that as long as he had me, nothing else in the world mattered. I believed him. I gave him a decade of my life. It wasn’t until we brought up marriage to his family that his mother threw a wall in our face, declaring she would never accept a daughter-in-law who refused to give her a grandchild. Bill had stormed out of his parents’ house, dragging me by the hand, furious on my behalf. Seeing him torn between his family and me, I couldn’t bear to ruin his life. I proposed breaking up. He lost his mind. He refused to let me go, standing under my apartment window night after night in the freezing rain, begging me not to give up on us. He went on a hunger strike against his mother, waging a silent, desperate war until Mrs. Miller finally broke down and surrendered. When Bill finally showed up at my door after that ordeal, he was gaunt, skin stretched tight over his hollow cheekbones. I had wrapped my arms around his waist and sobbed, but I still offered him an exit. I told him that if he had even a shred of regret, he could walk away before we ever signed a marriage certificate. I would leave quietly. I thought our love was built on complete, brutal honesty. It turned out I was the only one being honest. My eyes fell back onto the baby’s face. The shape of his eyes, the arch of his tiny brows—he was a carbon copy of Bill. A wave of intense acid flooded my throat. I turned away, gagging uncontrollably. Bill frowned, his forehead creasing with sudden concern. “Are you okay? Wait here, I’ll go get the car.” Without waiting for a response, he cradled the baby against his chest and strode quickly toward the parking garage. Mason watched him leave, then turned his glare on me, his tone biting. “When you two broke up back then, you couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, looking like a corpse. If Gwen hadn’t agreed to carry a child for you, do you honestly think Mrs. Miller would have ever let Bill marry you?” He stepped closer, pointing a finger at my chest. “You got the legal paper today, and you didn’t even have to stretch your skin or go through labor. I have no idea what the hell you’re throwing a tantrum about!” Every single word felt like a silver needle thrust directly into my chest, leaving a deep, throbbed ache. Tears finally spilled over my lashes, hot and blinding. I shouted at him, my voice cracking with desperation. “Mason! Why do you think I was terrified of having a baby?! Other people might not get it, but how can YOU not understand?!” I was seven years old; Mason was ten. Our father walked out on us, abandoning our family for the woman he called his true soulmate. My mother, heavily pregnant at the time, was so shattered by the stress that she went into premature labor. It was a double death. She bled out on the floor of our old living room, drawing her last agonizing breath right in my arms. The blood that covered my small hands was thick and warm. Mason had held me on that ruined carpet, his body shaking violently as he sobbed into my hair: Aria, don’t be scared. Big brother is right here. Ever since that day, I was haunted by relentless nightmares. The thought of pregnancy filled me with a deep, visceral terror. Faced with the memory, Mason’s eyes flickered with a momentary pang of guilt. But a heartbeat later, his expression hardened back into self-righteous indignation. “It’s precisely because I didn’t want you going through that trauma that I helped them keep it from you! At the end of the day, it was all for your own good. What more could you possibly complain about?!” I froze. My crying stopped abruptly. What was I supposed to be satisfied with? Satisfied that my husband of ten years had fathered a child with my best friend? Or satisfied that my own brother had conspired to lie to me for three whole years? In that moment, every question I wanted to scream felt utterly hollow. The lingering embers of anger, confusion, and grief—along with the very last thread of hope I held for the two men in front of me—deflated like a punctured balloon, vanishing into nothingness. Bill’s black SUV pulled up to the curb. He stepped out holding a travel pack of wet wipes and a bottle of mineral water. The baby was nowhere to be seen. “Is it heatstroke?” Bill asked, his voice laced with gentle anxiety. “Here, clean yourself up. Let’s get out of the sun.” I reflexively took the wipe he offered, but the moment I lifted it to my face, I froze. The cloth carried a distinct, soft scent of sweet jasmine. It was Gwen’s signature perfume. Bill noticed my pause and cleared his throat casually. “I picked Gwen up this morning before coming to meet you. She insisted that the wedding gift would only be meaningful if she handed it over after we got the license.” I looked at him blankly. So that was why he had claimed there was an urgent emergency at the office this morning before rushing out the door. The front passenger window glided down. Gwen leaned out, her face framed by soft curls, looking at me with wide, worried eyes. “Aria… are you okay? You look so pale.” She made a motion like she was about to open the door and step down. Bill’s face changed instantly. He dashed over, his hand resting gently over hers to stop her from moving, his voice dropping into a scolding hush. “Stay inside. It’s boiling out here. You just finished your postpartum recovery—you know your body can’t handle extreme temperature swings right now.” Gwen looked up at him, her eyes rimmed with red, looking entirely wronged. “But Bill… I don’t think Aria likes the baby…” Bill leaned down, matching her eye level. His gaze was impossibly tender, his voice firm and reassuring. “She’s holding the child you carried for her—how could she not like him? Don’t overthink things.” He reached out, lightly squeezing her fingers, his brow furrowing with distress. “Why are your hands so cold?” Without another word, he reached inside and adjusted the car’s climate control, turning the air conditioning down two degrees. He was sweating from the summer heat himself, but he didn’t care at all. A bitter, metallic taste pooled in my mouth. Over the past four years, after Bill and I officially got back together, he had been by my side almost constantly. Yet, I had felt a subtle shift in him. When we sat together in dark movie theaters, he would clutch his phone, smiling vaguely at the glowing screen. Years ago, he used to reply to my messages within seconds. Lately, it took four or five hours. Sometimes three or four days was considered “fast.” His texts had evolved from Don’t worry babe, hang tight, calling you in two minutes! to a simple, dismissive K. I had spent months making excuses for him. He’s exhausted. His new firm is taking up all his energy. I had consoled myself with the classic lie: No romance stays fiery forever. It just matures into something comfortable. Standing on the burning pavement, the illusion shattered. He hadn’t changed at all. When Bill loved someone, he was still as passionate, attentive, and fiercely protective as he had been a decade ago. It was just that the person he loved wasn’t me anymore. Bill turned to Mason and me, waving his hand impatiently. “Get in the car. We can talk at home. It’s too hot out here; it’s bad for Gwen and the baby.” Mason nodded, sliding his long legs into the back seat. I stood staring at the front passenger seat—the seat that had belonged to me for ten years. Bill caught my gaze and frowned, his voice taking on a sharp edge. “Gwen gets carsick easily, Aria. Sit in the back today.” Gwen put on a panicked expression, clutching the baby to her chest as she shuffled toward the door. “No, Bill, this is Aria’s spot. I’ll move to the back, I don’t mind—” Bill gripped her wrist firmly, forcing her back into the leather seat. “Stay put.” Gwen looked out at me, her eyes brimming with helpless innocence. “Aria… I’m so sorry…” I stood rooted to the pavement beside the passenger door, refusing to budge. The air between us curdled into an icy standoff. Mason snapped. He reached out from the back seat, his face contorted with rage. “Aria! Gwen almost died on the operating table to give you a family! You ungrateful bitch!” He lunged across, thrusting his arm out and shoving me violently backward. “If you don’t want to ride, then walk your miserable ass home!” He slammed the door shut. In the split second before the tinted glass sealed out the world, I caught the flare of sheer disgust in Bill’s eyes. The SUV accelerated, tossing a wave of hot exhaust over my ankles as it sped away. The summer sun beat down on my skin, stinging like tiny needles. I stood on the side of the road, completely motionless. In my head, I began to count. One. Two. Three… During our sweetest year together, after a minor argument, Bill had wrapped his arms around me and whispered into my ear: If we ever get into a fight and I walk away mad, don’t follow me. Just stand right where you are and count to twenty. I promise I will always turn around and come straight back to you. In ten years, we had rarely fought. He had never once walked away in anger. I let out a shaky breath, letting a morbid, self-destructive curiosity take over. Did he still remember? Nineteen. Twenty. Down the street, the black SUV made a sharp U-turn, tires screeching as it pulled back up to the curb beside me. Tears spilled over my cheeks, heavy and silent. He still remembered. So why did my chest feel like it was being hollowed out with a knife? The front passenger door opened, but it wasn’t Bill who stepped out. Gwen had already moved to the back seat with the child. Bill leaned over from the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the steering wheel, his other rubbing his temples in utter exhaustion. “Stop throwing a scene, Aria. It’s hot. Get in before you get sick.” I bit my lip so hard I felt skin break. My voice was a thin, trembling thread. “Bill… what if I tell you I’m pregnant?” I hadn’t given up on us. Back when Bill was starving himself to fight his mother, I had stared out my window at his dwindling silhouette and asked myself over and over: Are you really going to lose the love of your life just because you’re scared? Seeing him waste away for me gave me my answer. If the man was Bill, I wanted to try. I wanted to fight my demons for him. I had kept it a secret from everyone, quietly seeing a clinical psychologist specializing in birth trauma for nearly two years. Step by step, I untangled the horrific memory of my mother dying in my arms. Eventually, the nightmares stopped. I could finally sleep through the night without waking up screaming. When the home test turned positive a month ago, I realized with a shock that the primal terror was gone. All I felt was a quiet, soaring anticipation. I kept imagining how overjoyed Bill would be when I finally handed him the ultrasound scan on the day we got our marriage license. Even now… even after everything… I needed to hear his answer. I needed to know if the last ten years had been a complete lie. In the car, a dead silence fell. The expressions on all three faces turned instantly to stone. Gwen’s eyes flooded with tears, streaming down her face in a pathetic, delicate display of heartbreak. “Aria… I never wanted to steal anything from you. I only wanted to repay you for saving my life… The baby is Bill’s blood, too. Please… please don’t hate him…” Bill looked at me through the open door, his eyes filled with an unbearable, cold disappointment. “Aria, if you were actually willing to get pregnant for me, why wait until today? You have the marriage certificate in your hand. What else could you possibly be trying to pull?” Mason leaned out from the back window, pointing a finger directly at my nose, his voice raw with fury. “Aria! Just because you pulled Gwen out of that lake when we were kids doesn’t mean you own her soul! She carried a child for you—her debt to you is paid! She was just sitting here sobbing, begging Bill to turn the car around to pick you up! Who the hell are you trying to guilt-trip?!” Looking at their harsh, accusing faces, the corners of my mouth curled into a faint, lifeless smile. I should have known. The secret gift I had prepared with so much hope had fermented into something grotesque—a desperate, pathetic threat in their eyes. Bill hadn’t turned the car around because he remembered a promise made years ago. He had come back because Gwen had begged him to. “Let’s get a divorce,” I whispered. The only answer I received was the roar of the engine. The SUV lurched forward, blowing a blast of hot air against my face as it tore down the street. Nobody heard what I said. Numbly, I reached into my purse, pushing the half-drawn ultrasound slip back into the bottom of my bag. This time, I didn’t stay on the sidewalk to count to twenty. I called a family law attorney, had her draft a standard divorce agreement, and went straight to the women’s clinic downtown to schedule an abortion. When the nurse handed me the appointment card, I stared at the date in shock. The 23rd. It was the exact date Bill and I had chosen for our wedding. Except now, it was the date for Bill and Gwen’s wedding. Over the next few days, I didn’t return to our apartment. I checked into a quiet hotel near my office. Every evening, my phone buzzed with notifications from the wedding planning group chat. Gwen had become the center of the universe: the lace on the gown needed to be altered, the stationery was too plain, the catering menu looked cheap… Piece by piece, every detail I had painstakingly curated over the past six months was scrapped and replaced by Gwen. I quietly tapped the screen and left the group chat. A second later, a text from Bill popped up: [Aria, as soon as the ceremony is over, I’ll take you to Alaska to see the Northern Lights like we always planned.] [You HAVE to come to the wedding. Gwen told me it was a pact you two made when you were eighteen.] [The baby has been fussing a lot at night. Gwen isn’t sleeping well, so I’m going to stay at her place for a few days to help out.] Before I could reply, he re-added me to the wedding chat. I let out a dry, bitter laugh. Not wanting to waste another second of my energy on him, I muted the group completely. On the morning of the 23rd, I went back to our old apartment to pick up my passport and birth certificate before heading to the clinic. Just as I reached my landing, the door to the neighboring apartment swung open. Gwen stepped out onto the hallway, wearing a full bridal gown, her hair intricately styled under a shimmering veil. I stopped dead in my tracks. “You… live here?” Our next-door neighbor had moved abroad four years ago, and I had never seen anyone move in. Gwen froze, her radiant smile faltering for a fraction of a second before melting into a timid, apologetic look. “I moved in three years ago… It was just easier… for the doctors to visit during the fertility treatments…” My breath hitched. A thousand screams lodged in my throat, but when I finally opened my mouth, the only word that came out was a quiet, broken, “Why?” In an instant, the timid look vanished from Gwen’s face, replaced by a dark, intoxicating malice. “Aria, who do you think you are?” she sneered, stepping closer, her heavy silk dress rustling against the narrow hallway walls. “You’ve always looked down on me, haven’t you? Pretending to be the generous savior. Well, guess what? Today, I’m the bride. And I’m the mother of his child.” She let out a soft, mocking chuckle, as if remembering a hilarious joke. “Did you really think Bill was sleeping in his office during those late nights? Every single night after you fell asleep, he came right across the hall to my bed.” She leaned in, her voice a poisonous whisper. “And your precious brother sat right in his apartment, monitoring your home’s security feed for us. The moment you stirred, Mason would text Bill to slip back into your bed. Eventually, they found it too risky… so Mason started putting crushed sleeping pills in your evening chamomile tea.” My hands clenched into fists so tight my knuckles turned stark white. A rusty, metallic taste filled my mouth as blood bloomed where I bit my inner cheek. I remembered those strange, heavy nights when I would wake up at three in the morning, feeling unnaturally groggy, finding Bill coming through the front door carrying a bag of late-night takeout, claiming he couldn’t sleep because he was hungry. “Gwen… I treated you like my own sister,” I whispered, my voice trembling violently. “When you fell into that frozen lake, I swam in to pull you out. When your father refused to pay for your college, I gave you every single cent of my savings so you could buy your books! How could you do this to me?!” Gwen glanced down at her manicured nails, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Saved me? Didn’t I just give birth to a son to pay you back? Since you’re always so generous, why don’t you gift me Bill, too? Not that I need your permission—he loves me now, not you.” Blinded by a sudden, violent rage, I raised my hand and swung it toward her cheek with everything I had. Before my palm could hit her face, an iron grip clamped around my wrist. I was shoved backward with immense force. I stumbled, turning around to collide with Bill’s thunderous, furious eyes. “Aria! That’s enough!” he roared. Gwen immediately collapsed against the wall, hiding her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently as tears spilled through her fingers. “Aria, I’m sorry! It’s all my fault! I don’t want the wedding anymore, you can have it back! Just… please don’t hurt the baby… I beg you!” “Gwen, stop acting!” I screamed, my voice raw. Mason rushed up the stairs behind Bill, grabbing my shoulders and digging his fingers into my collarbone to pin me down. “Aria, you’ve completely lost your damn mind! Apologize to her right now!” I strained against his grip, my chin lifted high, my eyes burning. “I did nothing wrong! Why the hell should I apologize?! You’re the ones who should be begging on your knees!” Bill’s eyes narrowed into dark, icy slits. “You’re not going to apologize? Fine.” He brushed past me into my apartment, walked straight to my bedside table, and picked up a velvet blue box. He walked back out and tossed it into Gwen’s hands. “Here,” Bill said coldly. “Consider this Aria’s apology gift to you.” My heart stopped. “No!” I went wild, twisting out of Mason’s grip and throwing my entire body forward to grab the box. “That’s my mother’s heirloom! You don’t get to touch it!” Gwen let out a high-pitched sob, clutching the blue box to her chest. Mason lost the last thread of his composure. He raised his heavy right hand and brought it down with a deafening crack across my face. SLAP. The impact threw my head to the side. My cheek bloomed with a searing, white-hot heat. My ears rang violently. He had never laid a finger on me in his entire life. Mason froze on the spot. He stared blankly at his own hand, then at the angry red mark swelling on my cheek, his face turning a confused shade of pale. Even Bill looked shaken. He took an involuntary step toward me, his hand reaching out, his expression softening with a sudden wave of instinctual remorse. Seeing his hesitation, Gwen immediately thrust the velvet box back toward Bill, sobbing hysterically. “Take it back! I don’t want it! I’m not a mistress, Bill! I only wanted to help you two…” Bill’s face hardened again instantly. His hand swerved, snatching the velvet box back from her with a snap. He looked at me, his eyes dead and unfeeling. “Aria, you are spoiled beyond belief. You need to learn a lesson.” I shook my head frantically, backing away, my voice dropping into a desperate, pathetic whisper. “I won’t cause a scene… I’ll sign the divorce papers right now… I’ll leave Chicago, I swear I won’t—” “You’re still making threats!” Mason shouted, his guilt instantly replaced by renewed fury. He lunged forward, ripped the blue velvet box out of Bill’s hand, and hurled it out the open hallway window. I watched in horror as my mother’s last legacy vanished into the deep drop outside. Before I could react, Bill grabbed my upper arm, dragged me roughly into my apartment, and shoved me backward. I slammed hard onto the hardwood floor. “Think about what you’ve done,” Bill said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying chill. “In three hours, we’ll come back to take you to the venue.” BANG. The heavy front door slammed shut, and the lock clicked from the outside. I lay on the cold floor, unable to move. A sharp, tearing agony exploded in my lower abdomen, as if a hot blade were slicing through my intestines. Cold sweat drenched my hairline within seconds. Between my thighs, a warm, thick liquid began to pool, soaking through my jeans. Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision, and I blacked out. Three hours later, Bill and Mason unlocked the front door to bring me to the wedding. They stepped into the quiet living room, calling my name, but the apartment was empty. The only thing waiting for them was a massive, dark red pool of blood dried onto the center of the floor. “Aria?!” Mason gasped. The replica necklace he had spent an hour searching for in the bushes outside slipped from his fingers, crashing hard against the floorboards. Bill walked slowly over to the coffee table. His hand trembled violently as he picked up a white sheet of paper left beside my keys. As his eyes read the bold letters at the top, every drop of color drained from his face.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541768”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 I had saved three hundred and sixty-four train tickets just to keep this long-distance relationship alive. Today was number three hundred and sixty-five. I was carrying a scarf I’d spent weeks knitting by hand, my heart racing with the thrill of a surprise. But when I used my spare key to open Ethan’s apartment door, I didn’t find a warm welcome. Instead, I found a trail of clothes leading across the hardwood floor. My best friend, Bridget, was stepping out of the bathroom, wearing my favorite silk pajamas—the ones I’d been saving for a special occasion. Ethan wrapped his arms around her from behind, his voice a low, intimate murmur. “Don’t worry. That boring little librarian is stuck working overtime tonight. She’s not coming.” I stood in the doorway, my world tilting on its axis. In my pocket, the folded medical report confirming my diagnosis of severe clinical depression suddenly felt weightless. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nothing did. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply pulled out that thick stack of three hundred and sixty-five tickets and began to tear them, one by one, right in front of them. “Ethan,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “I hope you two enjoy each other. A snake and a rat—it’s a match made in heaven.” The atmosphere in the room was thick with the scent of his cologne and her floral perfume. Bridget leaned back into Ethan’s chest, a playful pout on her lips. “Stop it, Ethan,” she giggled, pushing at his hands. “What if Nora actually shows up?” “Her?” Ethan let out a sharp, derisive laugh. “She’s as rigid as a board. If her boss tells her to stay late, she wouldn’t dream of leaving a minute early. She’s too terrified of breaking the rules.” He tightened his grip on her waist. “Besides, how many times have I told her to quit that dead-end library job and move to the city? Has she listened? No. She’d rather rot in that sleepy little town for a few thousand bucks a month. She has zero ambition.” Bridget laughed, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Then why stay with her?” “Because she’s useful,” he shrugged. “She’s frugal, she’s quiet, and all that money she’s been hoarding from her meager paycheck? It’s basically ours now, isn’t it?” He leaned down, kissing the top of Bridget’s head. “Did you like the vintage Chanel bag I got you last week, babe? That was a year’s worth of Nora’s savings.” “You’re so cruel to her,” Bridget whispered, though her face was alight with triumph. I watched them from the threshold, a silent witness to my own execution. The scarf I’d knitted—soft, cream-colored cashmere—was draped over my arm. It felt like a cold, dead weight. Finally, they saw me. Ethan froze, his hands dropping from Bridget’s waist as if she’d turned to ice. Bridget let out a sharp, performative gasp, clutching the silk of my pajamas to her chest. “Nora? What… what are you doing here?” Ethan’s voice was dry, cracking like old parchment. He took a tentative step toward me. I didn’t say a word. I reached into my coat and pulled out the bundle of tickets. Three hundred and sixty-five journeys from my quiet coastal town to this gray, heartless city. Three years of weekends, holidays, and missed sleep. Ethan’s face paled as he realized what I was holding. “Nora, look, let me explain. It’s not what it looks like.” Bridget chimed in, her voice trembling with fake innocence. “Nora, honey, don’t misunderstand. Ethan and I… we just had too much to drink. It was a mistake.” Too much to drink? Enough to put on my clothes and use my shower? A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. I didn’t cause a scene. I simply took the top ticket—the one from today—and ripped it down the center. The sound of the paper tearing was deafening in the silence. Ethan flinched. “Nora! Stop it!” I ignored him and moved to the next one. This was from last Valentine’s Day. There had been a blizzard, and the trains were delayed for ten hours. When I finally arrived, freezing and exhausted, he’d only complained that I was late. Then, he’d left me alone in his apartment to “meet a client,” while I spent the night shivering under a thin blanket. One by one. The sharp edges of the paper cut into my fingertips, but I didn’t stop. These tickets were the physical manifestation of my devotion, and now they were just trash. Ethan tried to lung forward to grab them, but I caught his eye, and the sheer emptiness in my gaze stopped him cold. “Don’t touch me,” I whispered. He stayed back. He had never seen me like this. To him, I was the girl who always said yes, the girl who waited, the girl who absorbed his every whim without a word of protest. Bridget ducked behind him, squeezing out a few crocodile tears. “Nora, you’re scaring me.” I looked at her and felt a wave of profound pity. “Bridget, when I asked you to check in on him, I didn’t realize you’d be checking into his bed. And Ethan? I didn’t give you my life savings to ‘invest’ so you could buy her bags.” Bridget’s face went white. Ethan looked like he’d been slapped. “Nora, don’t be dramatic,” he snapped, his guilt turning into aggression. “We just had a little misunderstanding.” “Misunderstanding?” I tore the final ticket and took out the psychiatric report. I threw the shredded paper and the medical papers into the air. They fluttered down like gray snow, landing on their discarded clothes, on the expensive rug I’d helped him pick out, on their stunned faces. “Ethan,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “We’re done. Don’t ever speak my name again.” I turned on my heel and walked out. Behind me, Ethan’s voice turned into a roar. “Nora! Get back here! You think you can just walk away? Fine! Leave! See if I care! Don’t you dare come crawling back when you realize you’re nothing without me!” I didn’t look back. I stepped out into the biting chill of the city night and didn’t stop until I reached the station. By the time I made it back to my little town, the sun was beginning to bleed over the Atlantic. I didn’t go home. I went straight to the library. My supervisor, Martha, looked up from her desk and gasped. “Nora? I thought you were taking the weekend off for Boston. You look like a ghost, dear.” I tried to smile, but my facial muscles felt frozen. “I’m fine, Martha. Just didn’t sleep well.” I started shelving books, my movements mechanical and rhythmic. It was the only way to keep the darkness at the edge of my vision from swallowing me whole. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket. I knew it was him. Without looking, I pulled it out and blocked his number. Then I deleted him from Instagram, Facebook, and every other digital tie we had. But I couldn’t delete the memory of that medical report. Severe depressive disorder with high anxiety markers. The doctor’s voice echoed in my head: “You need immediate intervention, Nora. Medication, therapy—you are in a dangerous place.” Dangerous? At the time, I’d almost laughed. I thought I was just tired. I thought if I just saw Ethan, if I got my money back to pay for the treatments, I’d be fine. The money. Twenty thousand dollars. Everything I had. He’d told me about a “can’t-miss” real estate flip near the harbor. He said we’d double it in six months. I believed him because I believed “I love you.” Now I knew that money was hanging off Bridget’s shoulder in the form of quilted leather. I sat in a corner of the stacks, staring out at the Maine coast. The sun was bright, but I felt like I was sitting in a freezer. My limbs felt heavy, like lead. Martha walked over and set a steaming mug of tea in front of me. “Nora, talk to me. You’re vibrating with tension.” Looking at her kind, worried eyes, the dam finally broke. “Martha, he took everything. He cheated, and he took all my money.” I told her everything—the three years of being his ATM, the silk pajamas, the “investment.” Martha slammed her hand onto the table, her face turning a furious shade of red. “That absolute bastard! Nora, you cannot let this go. Twenty thousand dollars? That’s your future!” It was my life. It was the down payment for the house we were supposed to buy. It was my safety net for the medical help I desperately needed. Martha leaned in, her voice fierce. “Nora, listen to me. Call the police.” I blinked. “But… I gave it to him. I signed the transfer.” “What did the memo say?” she asked. “Investment. Harbor Project.” Martha snapped her fingers. “Exactly! It was for a specific business purpose. If there is no project, and he used that money for personal luxuries for another woman, that is fraud. That is larceny by trick. You have the paper trail, Nora. Use it.” Her words were like a cold splash of water. She was right. I wasn’t just a victim of a broken heart; I was a victim of a crime. I needed that money to survive. I picked up the phone. My hand shook as I dialed, but my voice was the steadiest it had been in years. “Hello? I’d like to report a major financial fraud.” Ethan clearly thought I was just having a “tantrum.” When he realized he couldn’t call me, he started messaging our mutual friends to get to me. “Is Nora still playing hide and seek?” one friend texted me. “Ethan says he’s sorry and you need to grow up and talk to him.” I didn’t reply. Then he started calling my parents. They liked Ethan; they thought he was a “go-getter.” “Nora, honey,” my mom said when I finally picked up. “Ethan is worried sick. He says you two had a fight and you’ve gone totally dark. People fight, sweetheart, you can’t just block him.” “Mom,” I said, my voice flat. “It’s over. If he calls again, hang up. He’s not the man you think he is.” I hung up before she could argue. I didn’t have the energy to explain the sordid details. Ethan’s patience evaporated quickly. His messages—relayed through others—turned from fake apologies to threats. “Tell Nora she has three days to come back and apologize for that scene she made, or we’re done for good. I don’t have time for these little-town head games.” I felt nothing reading it. Done for good? We were done the moment he mocked me behind my back. On the fourth day, the police showed up at his office in the city. He was being escorted out in handcuffs for questioning regarding felony fraud when he finally realized this wasn’t a “spat.” “Officers, there’s been a mistake,” he stammered, his bravado crumbling. “Nora is my girlfriend. It’s just a personal loan. We’re in love.” The detective didn’t even look at him. “Mr. Carter, we have the wire transfer records for the ‘Harbor Project.’ We also have the bank statements showing that the ‘Harbor Project’ doesn’t exist, and that twenty thousand dollars was spent at Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and various high-end restaurants in the company of a Miss Bridget Miller. That’s called embezzlement and fraud.” Ethan’s face went the color of ash. He tried to call me incessantly from the station, then from his lawyer’s office. I never picked up. When he was released on bail pending his hearing, he went straight to Bridget, expecting her to be his rock. He burst into her apartment only to find it half-empty. Her phone was disconnected. Her social media was gone. And the joint account where he’d stashed the remainder of my money? It was empty. Bridget had taken the “investment” and vanished the moment the cops started knocking. The irony would have been funny if it didn’t hurt so much. Ethan came to my town. He didn’t wait for me to come to him this time. He pounded on my parents’ door, begging to see me. “Please! I made a mistake! I was confused! Nora is the only one I love!” My father, who had finally heard the truth from me, stood on the porch and blocked the door. “Get off my property, Ethan. You’re lucky I don’t call the police to report a trespasser right now.” “I just need to talk to her! If she drops the charges, I can make this right!” He ended up on his knees in the driveway, sobbing. The neighbors came out onto their porches, whispering and pointing. The “big city success story” was a shivering wreck. He went to the library next. Martha was waiting for him. “You Ethan?” she asked, her eyes narrowed with pure vitriol. “I need to see Nora,” he rasped, his eyes bloodshot. “Please. My life is over if this goes to court. I’ll go to prison.” Martha let out a sharp, cold laugh. “Your life is over? You didn’t give a damn about Nora’s life while you were bleeding her dry. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to her?” Ethan blinked, confused. “What… what do you mean? She’s just mad. She’ll get over it.” Martha reached into her desk and pulled out a photo I’d sent her from the clinic. In it, I was wearing a hospital gown, sitting in a fenced-in garden. My hair was lank, my face was gaunt, and my eyes were staring at something a thousand miles away. I looked like a shell of a human being. Ethan’s hands shook as he took the photo. “Where is this?” “The State Psychiatric Institute,” Martha said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Inpatient facility. High-risk watch.” The words seemed to physically strike him. He leaned against a bookshelf to keep from collapsing. “No… no, she was fine. She was always fine.” “She was never fine!” Martha snapped. “She worked herself to the bone to support your ego. She skipped meals so she could afford the train tickets to see you. She stayed up all night crying because she felt so alone, but she never told you because she didn’t want to ‘burden’ you. And then you took her last cent and gave it to that woman.” Ethan looked at the photo again. He remembered the night I left. He remembered the “boring” girl who had quietly torn up her heart and walked into the night. He realized then that it wasn’t a tantrum. It was a collapse. “Where is she?” he whispered. “I have to see her.” “She doesn’t want to see you, Ethan. And quite frankly, I think seeing you might actually kill her. If you have even a shred of humanity left, stay away.” Ethan didn’t stay away. He ran out of the library and drove straight to the hospital.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541767”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Everyone believed my father gave up the stage because his passion for dance had simply burned out. They spoke of him in nostalgic, pitying tones—the golden boy of American ballet who walked away at the height of his career. Only I knew the truth: my father stopped dancing to pay off a mountain of fake debt engineered to ruin him. Over the past three years, I watched the world dismantle him piece by piece. Debt collectors broke the tendons in his hands. A stage accident—orchestrated by the people who claimed to love him—left him an amputee, his left leg severed below the knee. And when those horrors weren’t enough, cancer took root in his body, carving him out from the inside until the pain kept him gasping through every endless night. I remember holding his icy hands in the dim light of the dilapidated storage shed behind our old estate. He had pulled me close, his breath smelling faintly of copper and iron. “Don’t be scared, Nora,” he had whispered, his voice as frail as dry autumn leaves. “Daddy’s just so tired. I can finally sleep now.” A second later, the heavy wooden door was kicked open. My mother, Vivian Mercer, stood in the doorway, flanked by my three uncles and my grandparents. They wore bespoke coats and tailored suits, immaculate and smelling of costly perfume, looking like angels descending into hell. Vivian looked down at my father, her face cold and sculpted, as if she were bestowing a begrudging mercy upon a stray dog. “Adrian,” she said, her tone dripping with disdain. “It’s time to end this drama. There were no loan sharks. The debts were never real, and the men watching you were put there by us.” She paused, adjusting the leather glove on her wrist. “We just needed you to learn a little humility. Three years ago, Gavin only wanted to try on your premier performance costume. You humiliated him in front of the entire company by making him strip it off in public. You ruined his confidence.” She took a slow step forward, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor. “Your punishment is over. Kneel down, apologize to Gavin, and admit you were wrong. Then we’ll bring you home.” I threw myself at my mother’s feet, wrapping my small arms around her knees, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. “Mom, please! Please look at him!” She didn’t even glance down at me. She remained motionless, a statue of pure indifference. They had put my father through three years of living death just to “teach him a lesson.” What they didn’t know was that less than ten minutes ago, my father had swallowed an entire bottle of stolen prescription sleeping pills. He wasn’t pretending. He was actually dying. The cold draft from the open door whipped through the shed, rustling the dusty tarps in the corner. Vivian stared at my father, her brow furrowed in irritation. “Adrian Hayes. Do you understand what you did wrong yet?” My father remained slumped against the rusted iron bedframe, his face a ghostly, translucent white. He didn’t even have the strength to lift his head. My second uncle, Marcus, let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “I told you, Vivian. He’s as stubborn as a mule. Three years of living in the dirt and he still thinks he’s too good to admit his mistakes.” Grandpa Arthur stepped forward, his heavy, authoritative voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. “Adrian, this farce ends today. You’re coming with us to the hospital right now. Gavin’s leukemia has flared up, and you need to undergo the donor prep for his bone marrow transplant. Afterward, you will get on your knees and apologize to him in person.” Grandma Evelyn’s eyes welled with dramatic tears. “Adrian, I know you feel slighted. But how could you be so cruel to Gavin? He was just a young boy trying on your costume. Did you really have to strip him down in front of all those directors? He ran out crying, fell down the stairs, and broke his ankle. He missed his own debut because of you!” Uncle Sean, the third brother, put on a soft, patronizing smile. “Nobody ever wanted to destroy you, Adrian. Just come with us. Once Gavin’s surgery is over, we’ll bring you back into the family.” My father’s pale lips twitched. A hollow, broken sound escaped his throat—a laugh. “Home?” he murmured, raising his head with immense effort. His eyes were milky, sunken, and entirely devoid of light. “Do I… still have a home?” Grandma sobbed, dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “Of course you have a home! If you just bend your pride for once, who would abandon you?” Vivian took another step closer, her voice dropping an octave into dangerous territory. “I don’t have time to play these mind games with you, Adrian. Get up. Now.” He didn’t move. He sat there like a broken marionette whose strings had been severed. Marcus completely lost his patience. He marched over and grabbed the lapel of my father’s thin jacket. “Who are you acting for, huh? You’ve been pulling this pathetic act for three years! Oh, my hands hurt! Oh, I’m coughing blood! Do you really think anyone in this family still buys your cheap tricks?” I threw my body over my father, screaming through my tears. “He’s not acting! He’s not! Dad is really sick!” “Shut up, Nora,” Marcus snarled, glaring down at me. “Adults are talking. Don’t teach your child to lie like you, Adrian.” Vivian’s face darkened as she watched my father’s silence. “Adrian, stop this. You think if you play the tragic martyr, I’ll soften up? It’s sickening.” My father slowly opened his eyes, staring at the woman he had loved since they were teenagers. “Vivian,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. “It’s… too late.” Vivian frowned. “What are you talking about?” In the very next breath, my father suddenly doubled over. A violent, gut-wrenching cough tore through his chest, and he spewed a huge wave of dark, crimson blood onto the concrete floor. The metallic stench of iron filled the air. “Daddy!” I shrieked, scrambling to wipe his mouth with my sleeves, but the blood wouldn’t stop—it pooled over my hands, warm and terrifying. Grandma shrieked, taking a panicked step back. Uncle Sean froze, his fake smile instantly evaporating. For a fraction of a second, Vivian’s eyes widened, a flicker of something raw and unreadable crossing her face. But Marcus spat on the ground and sneered. “Here we go again,” Marcus snapped, shaking his head. “Right on cue. Adrian, how long are you going to keep up this repulsive performance?” I hugged my father’s trembling shoulders, shaking violently. “It’s not an act! He’s going to die! He’s really going to die!” Vivian stared at the dark pool of blood on the floor. Her jaw tightened, her heart hardening like cold steel. “Enough, Adrian. Pack up your theatrics. You are going to that hospital today whether you like it or not.” My eyes caught a glimpse of something lying in the shadows near the foot of the bed. An empty glass prescription bottle, its label scraped off, rolling silently against the floorboards. My heart plunged into a cold abyss. It was too late. It had been too late before they even opened the door. “Vivian… please don’t force my brother.” A trembling, pathetic voice sounded from the doorway. I whipped my head around. Gavin was being pushed into the shed in a high-end mechanical wheelchair. He wore a pristine white shirt, his legs wrapped in thick, dramatic layers of white gauze. His eyes were red, brimming with delicate, practiced tears. But my eyes didn’t stop at his face. They fell directly onto his left foot. He was wearing my father’s vintage leather ballet shoe. That was my father’s most prized possession—the handcrafted Italian shoe he had worn when he won the International Ballet Competition at twenty-two. Even after his leg was amputated, my father kept that single shoe wrapped in velvet, gently polishing it when the night pain became unbearable. And now, Gavin had forced his own foot into it, creasing the worn leather. Gavin looked at the blood on the floor and immediately pulled his hands over his face, weeping. “Adrian… if you hate me this much, I’ll just leave. Please, don’t throw up fake blood just to scare everyone…” Marcus immediately rushed to Gavin’s side, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Gavin, what are you apologizing for? The only person who should be leaving is him!” Grandma hurried over too, fussing with Gavin’s blanket. “Sweetheart, your leg is injured, don’t stress yourself. With us here, nobody will ever bully you again.” Gavin’s eyes glided subtly across the floor until they landed on the empty glass bottle near the bedpost. He leaned down, picked it up with delicate fingers, and glanced at it before offering a soft, innocent sigh. “Oh… this is the mild herbal sleep aid I accidentally dropped here a few days ago,” Gavin said gently, holding the bottle up for everyone to see. “Adrian kept saying he couldn’t sleep, so I told him to try it. Even if you take the whole bottle, it won’t kill you. It just makes you a little groggy.” In an instant, the tense atmosphere in the room shattered. Marcus burst into a booming, mocking laugh. “I knew it! The coward doesn’t even have the guts to actually kill himself!” Vivian’s face settled into an expression of utter, absolute disgust. She glared at my father as if he were something scraped off the bottom of her shoe. “Adrian. You’ve degraded yourself to pulling suicide scams now?” “No!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “That’s not what he ate! He took—” “Nora…” my father croaked softly. He lifted a weak, blood-stained hand and laid it over my mouth. He shook his head slowly, his eyes filled with a terrifying, hollow peace. He was telling me to stop. I choked on my words, tears streaming down my face. Because I knew—deep in my seven-year-old chest—that even if I screamed the truth until my lungs bled, they would never believe us. They had decided who my father was three years ago, and nothing, not even his corpse, would change their minds. Gavin gently stroked the leather of the ballet shoe on his foot, looking up at my father with wide, apologetic eyes. “Adrian, if you’re still mad, I’ll give the shoe back. I can’t dance anymore… I just wanted to wear it to remember what it felt like to be a dancer.” My father didn’t answer. He couldn’t wear ballet shoes anymore anyway. He just stared at the shoe, his gaze gradually turning distant, as if floating away into a sky where he could still leap. Looking at Gavin’s sniveling face, memories rushed back into my mind like acid. I remembered when Gavin first arrived at our house four years ago. He wore a faded, oversized coat, standing at the gates with his head down, calling my father “Mr. Hayes” with terrified reverence. My father had taken him in. He bought him custom clothes, gave him a bedroom in the main house, and spent hours after his own rehearsals teaching Gavin technique. My father told me he grew up poor and knew how lonely it was to fight for a break in the arts. He wanted to be the light he never had. He brought Gavin into the Mercer-Hayes Ballet Company. The artistic directors used to say my father cared more about Gavin’s career than his own. And how did Gavin repay him? Gavin started taking things. First, it was my father’s custom dance wear. Then his stage makeup. Then his personal jewelry. Every time my father confronted him, Gavin would burst into hysterical tears, running to Mom and Grandma, claiming my father was paranoid and territorial. Gradually, my father was pushed out of his own house. First to the guest annex, then to this freezing, decaying storage shed. Gavin’s visits became more frequent after the “accident” that broke my father’s leg. He would stand at the doorway of this shed, a sweet smile on his face, watching my father writhe in agony from bone infections. I remembered one afternoon when my father was doubled over on his cot, clutching his stomach in sheer agony from the undiagnosed tumor. Gavin had walked in, crouched down, and slammed his heel violently into my father’s abdomen. My father had curled into a tight ball, his face turning blue as he gasped for air. And Gavin had leaned down, whispering with a smile: “You pretend to be sick so well, Adrian. Make sure you don’t actually die, okay? If you die, whose life am I supposed to steal?” I was too young back then to understand what those words meant. But I understood now. He didn’t just want my father’s stage. He wanted his entire existence. A surge of pure rage erupted in my chest. I threw myself forward, reaching frantically for Gavin’s foot. “Give it back! Give Dad’s shoe back!” Marcus grabbed my collar and shoved me violently backward. “What is wrong with you, you little brat!” I hit the concrete hard, my palms scraping raw, but I didn’t feel the pain. I scrambled back up, pointing at Gavin with shaking hands. “You liar! You pushed Dad! You stole his life!” Gavin shrank back in his wheelchair as if I were a wild animal, tears overflowing instantly. “Nora… I didn’t… I swear I didn’t…” Vivian’s patience shattered completely. “Enough!” she bellowed, her voice striking the room like a whip. “Look at what you’ve turned this child into, Adrian! A venomous, ill-mannered little liar! “Get on your knees and apologize to Gavin right now!” Vivian commanded my father, her eyes blazing. “And then get up and come to the hospital for his marrow prep!” My father let out a cold, raspy laugh. “Apologize to him?” my father wheezed, blood flecking his teeth. “He isn’t fit to sweep the floor I walk on. My only mistake… my greatest sin in this life… was bringing a parasitic viper into my home. Vivian… all of you… how can you be so blind—” PAFF! A brutal slap cut his sentence short. Grandpa Arthur stood over my father, his face purple with rage, his heavy ringed hand still suspended in the air. The force of the strike knocked my father off the cot. He struck the concrete, spitting out another mouthful of dark blood. “I have had enough of your arrogance!” Grandpa Arthur bellowed, looking down at his son with utter revulsion. “You ruin your own career out of pride, you slander an innocent boy, and you refuse to show a shred of remorse! I don’t have a son like you. From this day forward, Gavin is the only son the Hayes family recognizes!” My father lay motionless on the floor, soaked in his own blood, unable to even twitch a finger. I collapsed onto my knees, smashing my forehead against the freezing floor over and over again until I felt skin burst. “Please stop hitting him!” I screamed, my lungs shredding with every breath. “I beg you! Save my dad! Please save him!” “He’s really sick!” I sobbed, blood from my forehead dripping onto the dust. “He’s not pretending! The doctor at the free clinic said he has a monster growing inside his stomach! If he doesn’t get help, he’s going to die!” The room plunged into a sudden, eerie silence. Vivian’s expression froze. Uncle Sean subconsciously took a step back, staring at my father’s skeletal frame. Grandma’s hands tightened on the handles of Gavin’s wheelchair. Even Marcus blinked, a split-second of hesitation flickering in his eyes. My father lifted a trembling hand, trying to reach for me. But his arm was too heavy; halfway up, it crashed back down against the concrete. “Nora…” he whispered softly. “Don’t… don’t beg them…” I ignored him. I crawled on my hands and knees over to Vivian, wrapping my arms around her leather boots, choking on my tears. “Mom, please believe me just this once! Dad screams in pain every night! He vomits blood when you aren’t looking! He doesn’t want to stay in this shed, he’s just too weak to walk!” Vivian looked down at me, her throat bobbing slightly as she swallowed hard. “Nora,” Gavin spoke up, his tone filled with gentle, patronizing sorrow. “You’re too young, you don’t understand how your father operates. He used to tell everyone he was in pain back at the house too, but whenever we offered to call a private specialist, he threw a tantrum and locked himself in his room. He’s just… very good at scaring people.” Gavin bit his lip, looking at Vivian with tragic eyes. “I know Adrian hates me. But teaching a seven-year-old child to fabricate terminal illnesses just to manipulate his family… that’s going too far.” With those words, the momentary doubt in Vivian’s eyes evaporated completely, replaced by an even colder armor. Marcus’s face twisted in disgust. “I knew it. Using his own daughter as a prop. How pathetic can a man get?” Grandma looked at me with pity mixed with disappointment. “Nora, stop making up stories. Your father is just throwing a grand tantrum.” “I’m not making it up!” I shrieked, my voice going high and wild. “He bled so much before! In the winter!” I would never forget that night. The estate guards had locked my father in the unheated wine cellar for two days because Gavin claimed my father looked at him “threateningly.” When they finally opened the door, my father’s lips were dark blue, his body shivering uncontrollably. He had bled through his trousers onto the stone floor. I knocked on the heavy oak doors, screaming for help, but the guards outside just laughed and drank their coffee, saying Mrs. Mercer explicitly ordered that no doctors were to be called without her personal sign-off. My father had bled all night long. He couldn’t move, but he kept stroking my hair with his freezing fingers, telling me, “Don’t be scared, Nora. Daddy just needs to rest.” Marcus snapped back into his aggressive posture, his face darkening. “Look at how you’ve brainwashed this kid, Adrian! Lies, drama, playing the victim—she’s a carbon copy of you!” Vivian said nothing, but her jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped under her skin. Suddenly, my father turned his head and vomited another surge of dark, clotted blood. It ran down his chin, soaking his collar. His eyes were half-lidded, rolling toward the back of his head, cold sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He looked at me, giving a faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Adrian!” Vivian called out, taking a sudden step forward. “Vivian…” Gavin suddenly gasped, clutching his knees and leaning forward in his wheelchair. “My leg… it hurts so bad… I think the bone infection is spreading…” Vivian’s foot instantly stopped in mid-air. She looked at Gavin’s pale face, then looked down at my father lying in blood. Her expression hardened into granite. At that exact moment, Vivian’s phone rang sharply. She answered it on speaker. A doctor’s voice boomed urgently from the hospital: “Mrs. Mercer! Mr. Gavin’s pre-transplant window is closing! The donor needs to be in the prep room immediately for bone marrow extraction testing! We cannot delay this!” Vivian hung up the phone and bent down, grabbing my father’s shoulders to haul him up. “Adrian. You are coming to the hospital right now.” I lunged forward, throwing my body over my father’s torso. “No! You can’t take him! He’s dying!” Vivian glared down at me, her eyes burning with suppressed fury. “Nora, let go! Your father brought this on himself. He has to pay his debt to Gavin!” “He doesn’t owe Gavin anything!” I screamed, sobbing uncontrollably. “He’s bleeding out! Why won’t you leave him alone?!” Marcus slammed his hands down on my shoulders, pulling me off with brutal force and throwing me to the side. “Get out of the way! Keep acting up and we’ll lock you in the cellar!” I scraped my knees on the gravel outside as I fell, but I scrambled right back, grabbing onto my father’s pant leg. “Don’t take him! Please!” Uncle Sean’s face was pale. He finally muttered, “Vivian… maybe we should call an ambulance first—” “Sean,” Gavin interrupted softly, tears flowing down his cheeks. “Don’t make things difficult for Vivian. If Adrian really hates me this much and wants me to die without a transplant… I accept it. I just… I’m sad I’ll never walk again…” Grandma’s heart shattered. “What nonsense are you talking about?! As long as we’re alive, no one will let you die!” The last remaining thread of hesitation in Vivian’s heart snapped. She reached down, wrapping her arms around my father’s upper body, forcing him upright. My father couldn’t stand. The moment his weight hit his left side, his body collapsed like a hollow doll. His prosthetic leg, poorly fitted and rusted at the joints, detached from his thigh stump with a sickening, metallic CLACK, sliding out from his pant leg and crashing onto the concrete floor. Everyone in the room froze. They all saw it. The withered, scarred stump of his left leg, the empty pant leg swinging uselessly, and his broken body lying in a pool of dark blood. Grandma covered her mouth, letting out a stifled gasp. “Adrian…” My father didn’t seem to care. He lay there on the cold ground, his eyes closed, his breathing so faint it barely moved his chest. Vivian reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried to lift his head. But my father, using the very last ounce of strength in his body, violently turned his head away, refusing to let her skin touch his. Vivian’s hand froze in mid-air. Marcus snapped out of his shock first, his face turning an ugly shade of red. “Stop dragging this out!” He grabbed my father’s left wrist and violently dragged him across the floor toward the door. The movement was so rough that my father’s exposed thigh stump dragged against the rough concrete, leaving a thick, bloody streak behind. I shrieked, lunging at Marcus. “Don’t touch him! You’re hurting him!” Uncle Sean grabbed me from behind, holding me back, his voice hoarse and broken. “Nora, stop fighting! It’s just hospital prep! Once Gavin’s surgery is over, we’ll bring your dad home! I promise!” Vivian scooped my father’s limp body into her arms. He was terrifyingly light—like a bundle of dried twigs that a strong wind could blow away. She looked down at his white face, her voice low and tight. “Adrian. Just say you’re sorry. And this whole nightmare will finally be over.” My father gave no answer. His head sloughed back over her arm, his skin as cold as ice, his breathing so shallow that his lips didn’t even part. I chased after them barefoot, tumbling over the gravel path, getting back up, and running again. “Mom! I beg you! Save Dad first!” I screamed to the sky. “HE’S REALLY DYING!” SLAM! The heavy door of the SUV slammed shut. Vivian sat in the back seat, holding my father’s limp form, never looking back once. When we reached the hospital, I was the first to leap out of Uncle Sean’s car. My bare feet bled onto the polished marble tiles of the main entrance as I ran like a madwoman toward the ER counter. I had to find a real doctor. I had to tell them Dad took medicine, that Dad was dying. Before I could reach the desk, Uncle Richard—my youngest uncle—grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “Nora! Calm down!” I pulled at his suit jacket, crying uncontrollably. “Uncle Richard, please tell them to save Dad first! He took pills! He’s not breathing!” Uncle Richard’s lips parted, a flicker of genuine alarm crossing his face. But before he could speak, a nurse pushed Gavin’s wheelchair frantically through the automatic doors. “Mrs. Mercer! We need to move Mr. Gavin to the pre-op suite immediately! The donor needs to sign the consent forms and undergo immediate blood typing!” Vivian stood near the surgical elevators, holding my father’s unconscious body in her arms. Her very first sentence to the nurse was: “Can we run his donor compatibility tests first?” I felt my blood turn to ice. My father was barely breathing, his skin graying, and her priority was still securing his bone marrow for Gavin. I threw myself against Vivian’s legs, digging my nails into her coat. “No! Don’t touch him! Mom, please save Dad first!” Suddenly, the doors to the Trauma Bay burst open. A senior attending physician rushed out, his eyes instantly locking onto my father’s limp form in Vivian’s arms. The doctor’s face instantly changed. “What happened to this patient?!” He slammed the gurney lock down, shouting at the nurses behind him. “Get a gurney now! His airway is compromised! He’s in respiratory distress!” Vivian frowned, holding onto my father’s arm. “He just took some mild sleeping medication—” “Does this look like mild sleeping medication to you?!” the ER doctor roared, his voice shaking the entire hallway. “Look at his skin tone! Look at his pupils! This man has severe, end-stage systemic pathology! Who authorized you to transport a critical patient for elective pre-op screening?!” The medical team ripped my father out of Vivian’s arms, throwing him onto a gurney. They attached a bag-valve mask over his face, pumping air manually as they sprinted toward the double doors of the ICU. The red light above the doors snapped on: CRITICAL RESUSCITATION IN PROGRESS. I collapsed onto my knees in the center of the hallway, my bloody soles leaving dark marks on the white floor. The corridor fell into a suffocating, terrifying silence. Vivian stood at the front of the group, staring at her hands. They were covered in dark, sticky blood—my father’s blood. Minutes felt like centuries. Nobody spoke. Even Marcus stood frozen, staring at the glowing red light. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the heavy doors opened. The lead surgeon stepped out, pulling off his mask. His face was drawn, his eyes filled with grim sorrow and frustration. He looked at Vivian, then at the rest of the family. “Are you the family of Adrian Hayes?” the doctor asked, his voice ringing with cold condemnation. Vivian stepped forward, her voice trembling for the first time in her life. “I’m his wife. How is he? Can he give the marrow now?” The doctor looked at her as if she were a monster. “Give marrow?” the doctor let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “Madam, your husband was in the terminal stages of advanced abdominal cancer. His organs were in total systemic failure. He suffered from severe, long-term internal bleeding and profound malnutrition.” He paused, taking a deep breath before delivering the final strike. “On top of that, he ingested a massive, lethal dose of concentrated sedatives over an hour ago. You brought him here way too late.” The doctor lowered his eyes. “We did everything we could. Patient Adrian Hayes… has passed away.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541766”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Mike and I adopted a Samoyed named Marshmallow four years ago. The day we brought that white fluff-ball home, Mike held one of his tiny paws and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “From now on,” he whispered, his eyes crinkling with a warmth I thought would last a lifetime, “we’re his mom and dad. Just the three of us.” Then my best friend, Sophie, moved into the apartment directly above ours. From the start, she made a sport of criticizing him. “Mike, do you even know how to raise a dog?” she’d tease, leaning over the back of our sofa while Marshmallow wagged his tail into a frenzy. “Poor Marshmallow is going to starve if he waits for you to figure out the portion sizes.” Mike would give a playful scoff, playfully snatching the kibble scoop back. “What do you know? He loves the way I prep it. It’s a specialized technique.” It became a routine. They would bicker and laugh while they bathed him, trimmed his coat, or took him for his vaccinations. What started as a “quick walk around the block” often turned into afternoon excursions. One Saturday, Sophie mentioned a park nearby that allowed pop-up canopies, and before I could even grab my shoes, Mike was already loading her and Marshmallow into the car. By the time I caught up with them at the campsite, they had already tied a little designer bandana around Marshmallow’s neck and were busy taking a full “family” photoshoot. Sophie beamed at the camera. “Marshmallow definitely clings to me more. I’m clearly the favorite parent.” Mike rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk on his face. “He’s just clinging to you because you’re the loudest.” They dissolved into laughter, a private joke I wasn’t part of. I stood there, holding a water bottle no one asked for, completely erased from the frame. The breaking point should have been the follow-up appointment at the vet. “Are Marshmallow’s mom and dad here?” the nurse called out in the crowded waiting room. Without a second’s hesitation, Mike and Sophie stood up in unison. The nurse looked at me, then back at them, her smile faltering into a polite, confused curve. “Oh… and is this the older sister?” Sophie laughed, the sound bright and effortless. “No, she’s more like the ‘cool aunt.’” Mike didn’t say a word. He didn’t correct her. He didn’t even look at me. He just handed me the billing statement and murmured, “Don’t overthink it. Just go settle the bill while we take him back.” I watched their retreating backs—Mike’s arm brushing against Sophie’s as they carried the dog into the exam room—and a cold, bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. In this house, the roles of Mom and Dad were already filled. I was just the stranger paying the tab. When I returned from the front desk, Marshmallow was curled up in Sophie’s lap, his ears drooping from the stress of the shots. I reached out, my heart aching to comfort him. “Hey, buddy, come to Mom.” Mike shifted his body subtly, blocking my path. “Don’t touch him yet. He’s finally settled down.” My hand froze in mid-air, trembling slightly. Sophie looked at me and immediately put on a performative smile, nudging Marshmallow toward me. “Look, the ‘real’ mom is back. Better give him back to the rightful owner before she gets mad.” Marshmallow woke up, whimpering as he was disturbed. Mike frowned, his hand pressing firmly on the dog’s back to keep him in Sophie’s lap. “I told you, don’t ruffle him. He’s tired.” Sophie stuck her tongue out at him. “Hear that, Nora? Mr. Miller over here only has eyes for his ‘daughter’ today.” She bumped her shoulder against mine, the way she had since we were teenagers. But I couldn’t find the strength to smile back. The nurse’s voice kept echoing in my head: Is this the older sister? “When the nurse called for ‘Mom and Dad,’ why did you both stand up?” I asked, my voice flatter than I intended. Sophie blinked, then let out a sharp peal of laughter. “I just stood up out of habit! We’re always together with him, I didn’t even think about it. You’re really going to make a thing out of this?” She waved a hand dismissively. “You know Mike and I are like siblings. I don’t even see him as a man.” Mike didn’t laugh. He looked around at the other pet owners in the lobby, his expression darkening. “It’s just a label, Nora. Don’t make a scene in public.” He took the receipt from my hand, folded it neatly, and tucked it into my purse. The gesture was as gentle as it had always been, but his voice was like ice. “I’ll make it up to you at home. Don’t be so… beneath yourself.” The drive home was silent. Once we were inside, I reached for the bottle of painkillers the vet had prescribed. “I’ll give him his first dose,” I said. Mike snatched the pill bottle out of my hand. “Last time he gave you those puppy-dog eyes, you skipped half a dose because you ‘felt bad.’ You’re too soft. I’ll do it.” I looked up at him, my chest tightening. “Then who’s going to help you? He hates pills.” Before he could answer, Sophie had already slipped into those pale yellow slippers she kept at our entryway and headed straight for the kitchen. I hadn’t even noticed when they’d appeared there—the exact shade of lemon she loved. She opened the fridge, pulled out a pack of organic chicken breast, and found Marshmallow’s medicine bowl with a practiced ease. “I’ve got this,” she called out. Mike sat on the kitchen island, cradling Marshmallow. Sophie crushed the pill, mixed it into the chicken, and fed it to him spoonful by spoonful. When a bit of it dribbled out, she wiped it away with her bare finger. Mike grabbed a paper towel and caught her hand. “That’s disgusting, Sophie. Use a wipe.” She smirked, wiping the residue onto his clean white shirt instead. “If you’re so worried about germs, do it yourself next time.” “You’re asking for it, Brooks,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away. They were both laughing, a warm, domestic sound that filled the room. I tried to force my features into a smile, but my face felt like a mask that was cracking. I turned away, silently putting the unused bowl back into the cupboard. Sophie insisted that after a vet visit, Marshmallow needed something easy on his stomach—boiled pumpkin and broth. As she was carrying the hot pot out of the kitchen, Marshmallow caught the scent and lunged forward, barking. Sophie’s foot slipped on the hardwood. I was the closest. My instinct took over, and I shoved her out of the way. The pot tipped, and the scalding liquid splashed directly across my forearm. The pain was instant, a white-hot searing that turned my skin an angry, blistered red. Sophie hit the floor, yelping as she twisted her ankle. In the next heartbeat, Mike was there. He moved past me so fast I felt the rush of air. He dropped to his knees in front of Sophie. “Can you move your foot? Are you okay?” Sophie’s eyes were rimmed with tears, but she pointed at me. “Check on Nora! She got the worst of it. She’s burned.” Only then did Mike look up. His eyes lingered on my arm for a split second—long enough to see the skin peeling. “Go run it under cold water,” he said, his voice clipped. Then, without waiting for a response, he gathered Sophie into his arms, lifting her off the floor. As he walked toward the door, he paused beside me. “I’m taking her upstairs to ice that ankle. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. Marshmallow whined at the door, anxious to follow them. Mike looked back and gave a soft whistle. “Stay here and look after Mom, buddy. Dad will be right back.” The door clicked shut. I stood over the sink, the cold water numbing the pain in my arm, but doing nothing for the hollow ache in my ribs. I stared at my reflection in the window, wondering which “Mom” he had been talking to. Thirty minutes passed. Then forty. Mike didn’t come back. I bandaged my own arm, my movements clumsy and mechanical. Despite everything, Sophie was still my oldest friend. I worried her injury was worse than it looked, so I grabbed a tube of anti-inflammatory cream and headed upstairs. Their front door wasn’t fully closed. I reached out to knock, but stopped when I heard Sophie’s voice. “You really should go back down, Mike.” “She was already sensitive about me today,” she continued, her voice soft and heavy with faux-guilt. “If you stay here longer, she’s really going to lose it. Maybe I should just find a new place. I don’t want to cause drama.” There was a long silence. Then, Mike spoke. “Don’t move out.” My hand hovered in the air, frozen. Sophie let out a small, bitter laugh. “And do what? She’s clearly uncomfortable whenever I even hold the dog. How is she going to feel when she sees me using the key you gave me?” Mike’s voice took on a hard, defensive edge. “I gave you that code. I bought those slippers. I asked you to help with Marshmallow.” He paused, and then added the words that shattered the last of my resolve: “This home isn’t just hers to rule. It’s my life, too.” I stood in the hallway until my tears had dried into itchy streaks on my face. Then I turned around and walked back downstairs. Marshmallow ran to me, nipping at the hem of my jeans, wanting to play. For the first time since we got him, I didn’t lean down to pick him up. Instead, I opened my laptop and booked an appointment to view a new apartment the next morning. The next day, after a trip to the urgent care clinic to have my burn properly dressed, I went to the viewing. It was a small studio, but it was clean, quiet, and miles away from Mike. When I got home, Mike was just coming down the stairs from Sophie’s place. He stopped when he saw me. “Where have you been?” “Getting my dressing changed,” I said shortly. He finally noticed the heavy gauze on my arm, and his brow furrowed. “It’s that bad? Why didn’t you call me to take you?” Before I could answer, his phone buzzed. It was a photo from Sophie. Mike looked at it for a few seconds. “Look, today is Marshmallow’s fourth birthday. Sophie’s ankle is still messed up, so I need you to go down to the restaurant and handle the decorations. She posted the layout in the group chat—just follow her plan.” I checked my phone. I had been added to a group called Marshmallow’s 4th B-Day. Mike, Sophie, a photographer, and the restaurant manager were all in it. There were already over three hundred messages. The “Blue and White” theme I had spent weeks planning had been completely scrapped. Sophie had decided on “Sunlight Yellow.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and drove to the restaurant. I was pulling my custom-ordered dog cake out of the box when Sophie limped through the door on crutches. She saw my arm and her face softened immediately. “Nora, oh my god. Why didn’t you go to the hospital last night? You always try to tough things out.” We had known each other for fifteen years. She was the one who used to force-feed me soup when I was sick in college. For a fleeting second, the warmth in her voice made my resolve waver. Then she saw the cake. “Oh… we can’t use that one.” I looked up. A waiter was already wheeling out a different cake—a massive, tiered creation topped with fondant figures of Mike, Sophie, and Marshmallow. “I was worried you’d get the ingredients wrong,” Sophie explained gently. “Sugar and certain creams are terrible for Samoyeds. I had this one specially made by a dog-friendly bakery.” “Mine is dog-friendly too, Sophie,” I said quietly. She paused, then tapped her temple with a sheepish grin. “My bad. I was just trying to save you the stress. Should we just put both out?” Mike walked over, glancing at the table. “One is enough. Two makes it look cluttered.” I was the one who carried my cake back to the kitchen and put it in the industrial freezer, hidden away. The rest of the morning was a blur of yellow streamers, custom napkins, and a commemorative photo album—all designed by Sophie. By the time the guests arrived, there wasn’t a single thing in the room that I had chosen. In the afternoon, the photographer started the session. Marshmallow was distracted by the food and refused to look at the lens. I crouched on the floor, squeaking his favorite toy for ten minutes, but he just barked at me in frustration. Sophie, sitting in a chair nearby, called out casually: “Marshmallow, look at Mommy!” The dog immediately turned and sprinted toward her, tail wagging like a propeller. The guests all laughed. “He really knows who his mom is!” Sophie hugged him, then looked over at me. “Stop it, guys. The ‘official’ mom is right over there.” She waved me over. “Nora, come get in the shot.” As I approached, the photographer waved Mike into the frame. “Dad, help hold the dog so he doesn’t jump down.” Mike stepped behind Sophie, one hand steadying the dog and the other resting naturally, comfortably, on Sophie’s waist. Sophie playfully tried to wiggle away. “Careful, this looks like a wedding photo. My best friend is going to kill me!” Mike laughed, pulling her back. “Stay still, Sophie.” A friend in the crowd chimed in, “Finally, a proper family portrait of the three of you!” Sophie giggled. “I’m just the overworked auntie, I swear.” But she stayed right there, tucked into Mike’s side. Marshmallow was nestled between them, looking perfectly content. And I was standing three feet away, holding their discarded coats and Sophie’s crutches. When the flash finished, the photographer looked at me. “Okay, let’s swap. Let’s get Mom in here.” I set the coats down, but by then, Marshmallow had flopped onto the floor, exhausted. Mike petted his head. “He’s done. Let him rest.” “What about the family photo?” the photographer asked. “We’ll do it another time,” Mike said dismissively. Before the cake cutting, the restaurant staff brought out a commemorative frame for the “parents” to write a birthday wish. I took a card and wrote: I hope you grow up happy and healthy, Marshmallow. Love, Mom. Before I could sign it, the manager called me away to verify the catering bill. When I came back, the frame was already sealed. I looked through the glass. My card was gone. In its place was a new one, written in Sophie’s elegant cursive: I hope Mommy and Daddy get to watch you grow forever. Under “Daddy,” Mike had signed his name. Under “Mommy,” was Sophie’s signature. Sophie saw me and stood up instantly. “Everyone was rushing me, and I just… I wrote it without thinking! I meant to write ‘Auntie,’ but with everyone teasing us, my hand just slipped.” She reached for the frame. “I’ll break the seal and change it.” Mike caught her wrist. “It’s already done. Don’t make a scene over a piece of paper.” Sophie looked at me, her eyes wide and pleading. “Nora, don’t be mad. I really didn’t mean it.” I didn’t say a word. My gaze drifted to the trash can by the gift table. My card was there, crumpled into a ball under a pile of discarded wrapping paper. Mike followed my gaze. He let out a sigh of pure annoyance. “It’s a card, Nora. The dog can’t even read.” The room was filled with laughter and the sound of champagne corks. At that moment, my phone buzzed. It was a text from the landlord of the studio apartment. The lease is ready. You can sign and move in tomorrow morning. I typed back one word: Yes. I picked up my bag. Mike called out, “Where are you going? The party isn’t over. Are you really going to ruin the mood today?” I didn’t answer. I just walked out. Sophie chased me to the sidewalk on her crutches. “Nora, wait! Let me take you to the clinic to check that burn again.” I turned to her, my voice remarkably calm. “Go back inside, Sophie. They’re waiting for Marshmallow’s mom.” The smile on her face froze. That night, Sophie posted the party photos to the group chat. Nine photos. In every single one, it was her, Mike, and the dog. In the only one where I appeared, I was at the very edge of the frame, half my face cut off. The caption read: Four years of watching our boy grow. Family forever. I stared at it for five seconds, then left the group. I sent my new address to the moving company. 8:00 AM tomorrow. Please be punctual. At 8:00 AM sharp, the doorbell rang. Mike stared at the stack of boxes in the living room, his face pale. “Because Sophie held the dog a few times? You’re really doing this?” Before I could respond, the bell rang again. Mike, thinking it was the movers, yanked the door open irritably. It was his parents. “Since it was the puppy’s birthday yesterday, we thought we’d drop by!” Mike’s mother beamed, holding a bag of treats. Mike was stunned. “Mom? Dad? You didn’t say you were coming.” “Surprises are better!” His mother pushed past him, her eyes landing on the boxes. “What’s all this?” Mike opened his mouth, but no sound came out. At that exact moment, Sophie came down the stairs, carrying Marshmallow. Mike’s mother turned, and her face lit up. “Oh! You must be Sophie!” She walked right past me and took Sophie’s hands in hers. “I saw the photos Mike sent. You two look so wonderful together. Even better in person. A perfect little family.” Sophie’s smile faltered. She shot a panicked look at me. “Oh, Mrs. Miller, you’ve got it wrong. Nora is Mike’s girlfriend. I’m just her best friend.” The room went deathly quiet. Mrs. Miller looked at Sophie, then at me standing by the packing crates, then back at the photos on her phone. “Then… why are you in all the ‘family’ photos from yesterday?” Sophie set the dog down and rushed to my side, grabbing my arm. “It’s all my fault! I spend so much time with them and help with Marshmallow so much that it’s easy to get confused.” She squeezed my arm, her voice honey-sweet. “Nora is actually upset with Mike about it. She’s even threatening to move out.” With one sentence, she had reduced my years of heartbreak into a “petty spat.” Mrs. Miller’s expression shifted from confusion to disapproval. “Nora, dear, Sophie is your best friend. She’s been helping you take care of Mike and the dog. Moving out over a few photos? Don’t you think that’s a bit… dramatic?” Mike didn’t defend me. He just looked at the movers who were waiting in the hall. “Go wait downstairs,” he told them. “No,” I said. “Keep moving.” Sophie stepped in front of the boxes. “Nora, his parents are here for the first time in months. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you, but at least stay for lunch. Don’t let them think you weren’t raised with any manners.” Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. I hesitated for a few seconds, then finally nodded. At the table, Mrs. Miller kept asking Mike about his childhood. Sophie had an answer for every story, a laugh for every anecdote. “Mike’s always had a temper,” Mrs. Miller mused, looking at Sophie with growing affection. “It’s rare to find someone who can handle him so well.” She turned to me. “Nora, you’re lucky to have a friend like Sophie who looks after your man and your dog. You shouldn’t try to hoard everything for yourself. You have to make room for others.” My fork scraped against the plate. Then, Mrs. Miller brought up Mike’s grandmother’s 80th birthday gala. The old woman had just come out of surgery, and apparently, after seeing the birthday photos Sophie had “accidentally” sent to the family group, she was convinced Sophie was the one. “All the relatives have seen the photos,” Mrs. Miller said. “Grandma is so happy. Sophie, you’ll come to the gala with Mike this weekend, won’t you?” Sophie shook her head vigorously. “I couldn’t! Nora is his girlfriend.” Mrs. Miller looked troubled. “The doctors said Grandma shouldn’t have any shocks. If we tell her we were wrong now, she’ll be devastated. Just come as a guest, Sophie. Appear with Mike for the photos, and we’ll explain everything slowly after the party.” I looked at Mike. He was silent for a long time. “Just this once, Nora. Grandma is fragile. Don’t be petty about this.” He didn’t ask if I was okay with it. He just decided that I was the one who had to be “mature.” Sophie stood up, looking distressed. “Mike, are you crazy? If I go as your ‘plus-one’ to a family event, what happens to Nora?” She turned and grabbed my hand. “Nora, I won’t go. I won’t let them do this to you.” I slowly pulled my hand away. “No. You should go.” Mike’s shoulders relaxed. He probably thought I was finally “behaving.” Mrs. Miller pulled Sophie aside to start discussing what she should wear. “Grandma loves red. We should get Marshmallow a matching red bandana, something festive.” “Maybe a little tuxedo harness?” Sophie suggested. Mike laughed. “That’s so tacky.” “You have no taste, Mike. Red is for celebrations!” They were bickering again, and Mrs. Miller was beaming at them. No one asked if I wanted to go. No one even looked at me. As Mike walked his parents to the door, he glanced at the boxes. “Stop the drama, Nora. We’ll talk when I get back.” I stood by the window and watched their car pull away. They were still arguing about whether the dog’s harness should be red or gold. I picked up the phone and called the moving company. “You can come back up. Everything out. Three hours.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541765”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 On our wedding night, Alex decided we should play a game. He tied a dark silk scarf over my eyes, led me down the narrow stairs, and locked me in the basement. When I screamed, pounding my fists against the heavy oak door until my knuckles bled, Alex’s voice came through the grain, smooth, polite, and sickeningly apologetic. “Gwen isn’t happy that you married me, Sienna,” he said softly. “She just wants to give you a little lesson. Be a good girl. Once you come out, we’ll still be husband and wife.” Then I heard the dull click of the heavy iron latch, cutting off the light, the air, and my sanity. Darkness has a way of turning seconds into hours. Up in that cold cellar, terror became a physical weight pressing against my chest, crushing the oxygen out of my lungs inch by inch. By the time the door finally creaked open hours later, I was collapsed on the concrete floor, barely conscious. Gwen stood over me, covering her mouth as she let out a delicate, musical chuckle. “Oh, Sienna,” she purred, smoothing her disheveled hair. “I took Alex for a test drive for you last night. Turns out, he’s very capable.” Alex knelt beside me, his thumb gently wiping a tear from my cheek with sickening tenderness. “The rest of my life belongs to you, Sienna,” he murmured, his breath smelling faintly of her perfume. “I gave her my first time. It’s only fair.” I stared at the vivid, dark red hickeys painted across Gwen’s neck, and something inside my chest quietly shattered. The last lingering embers of my love for him turned to ash. After they walked away, hand in hand, I dragged my limp body upstairs and collapsed onto the king-sized bed. The master bedroom was thick with the suffocating, heavy scent of sweat and expensive silk—the unmistakable lingering atmosphere of intimacy. I didn’t need to see it to know how wild, how passionate their night together had been while I was suffocating downstairs. I sat there in the silence, numbly pulled off the platinum diamond band from my left ring finger, and rubbed its cool metal edge between my thumbs. I remembered the day Alex proposed, his eyes wide and full of gentle warmth: “Sienna, Gwen and I grew up together. She’s been spoiled her whole life. Now that we’re together, just let her have her way sometimes, okay?” Back then, I had felt a mix of annoyance and disbelief. I had playfully nudged his arm. “Am I your girlfriend, or is Gwen? Why am I the one who always has to yield to her?” Seeing my frustration, Alex had chuckled, ruffling my hair with fond indulgence. But his voice had dropped, laced with a helpless, grave sincerity. “Sienna, Gwen saved my life when we were kids. I was almost snatched by traffickers at a crowded carnival, and she was the one who ran and found the security guards. For my sake, don’t hold things against her, please?” Looking into his pleading eyes back then, I swallowed my pride and agreed, despite the bitter taste in my mouth. When Gwen found out we were dating, she threw a terrifying, theatrical tantrum. She climbed over the railing of a high-rise rooftop downtown, barefoot and hysterical, screaming into the wind: “Alex, you betrayed me! I hope you burn in hell!” A massive crowd gathered on the street below, filming her on their phones. By the time Alex rushed to the top floor, he was pale with terror. “Gwen, please, step back!” he had pleaded, his voice cracking. “Don’t do something stupid! You know how much you mean to me. We’ve known each other our whole lives—how could I not care about you?” Gwen had wiped her eyes, letting out a cold, venomous laugh. “You care about me? Then why are you with that bitch, Sienna? If you really care, prove it!” She swung her bare legs over the ledge, dangling hundreds of feet in the air. Alex’s heart practically stopped. “How?” he had rasped out, his hands shaking. “How do I prove it?” Gwen pointed a manicured finger at me, a cruel, triumphant smirk breaking across her face. “Slap Sienna across the face right here, in front of everyone. Do it, and I’ll come down. Otherwise…” She shifted her weight, pretending to lose her balance. “I’ll make sure you regret this for the rest of your life. You’ll see my face every time you close your eyes!” The bustling world around us seemed to fall dead silent. Alex’s brows pulled into a deep, painful knot. He looked tormented, caught in an agonizing bind. Then, slowly, he turned and began walking toward me. Meeting my wide, disbelieving eyes, Alex raised his hand. He closed his eyes tightly, his tone dripping with desperate, wretched entreaty. “Sienna, you promised me you’d let her have her way. Don’t make this harder for me, please. Let’s just get her down safely first. We can talk about everything else later.” My eyes burned violently. I shook my head, my throat tight with horror. Before I could utter a single word, his hand swung down. Crack. The sound was deafening, sharp, and brutal. My cheek ignited in blinding heat. Tears burst from my eyes in hot, uncontrollable streams. Gwen squealed with delight, scrambling back over the railing and throwing her arms around Alex’s neck. “I knew it!” she sobbed happily into his chest. “I knew I was the one you loved most! Look at yourself in the mirror, Sienna—you can’t compete with me!” Alex held her awkwardly, looking over her shoulder at me with eyes full of pathetic, hollow remorse. “Sienna… I’m so sorry.” I refused to accept his apology. I packed my bags that night and broke off the engagement. Alex completely unravelled. He tracked me down to my apartment building and spent the entire night standing outside in a violent, freezing downpour. By the time I walked out the next morning, he was curled into a shivering ball on the wet concrete, burning up with a high fever. The second he saw me, he forced a weak, trembling smile onto his pale lips. “Sienna, please forgive me… I was just terrified she’d jump. I couldn’t live with being responsible for someone’s death. You can hit me—hit me as many times as you want. I won’t move. Just don’t leave me. Do anything, just don’t leave me.” When I refused to lift a hand, he began slapping his own face violently, over and over, until he passed out right on the doorstep. My heart, which I thought I had hardened into stone, crumbled under the weight of his desperate self-destruction. I rushed him to the ER, and in the end, I forgave him. From that day on, I made sure to steer clear of Gwen Miller. I avoided being alone in a room with her, swallowed every snide remark, and kept my distance. Even when she brazenly moved into our new house weeks before the wedding, claiming she was “lonely,” I didn’t say a single word. I naively believed that once we walked down the aisle and exchanged our vows, everything would settle into place. It took being locked in a cold, suffocating basement on my wedding night to realize how utterly foolish I had been. This marriage was a mistake. This relationship should have died years ago. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the wedding band. It arced through the air and hit the bottom of the stainless-steel trash can with a sharp, definitive clink. At that exact moment, my phone vibrated on the nightstand. [Of course my promise still stands. Hang tight. I’m coming to get you.] I breathed out a shaky sigh. Before I could even begin to collect my thoughts, the bedroom door swung open. Gwen stepped into the room, holding a massive, blooming bouquet of deep red roses. She was wearing a traditional scarlet silk robe embroidered with gold thread, heavy gold vintage jewelry dangling from her ears and wrists—dressed exactly like a beaming, triumphant bride. “Look at you, Sienna,” Gwen sneered, her eyes glittering with dark malice. She crossed the room and slammed the door shut behind her. “So pitiful. So broken.” She reached out, her sharp, acrylic nails digging viciously into my jaw, forcing my head up. “Alex and I were always meant to be together,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Why did you have to ruin it? You’re nothing but a pathetic little home-wrecker!” Without warning, she shoved the massive bundle of roses directly into my face. A thick cloud of loose pollen rushed into my nose and throat. My airways constricted instantly. The oxygen drained from the room in a heartbeat. I gasped, my chest heaving violently as my face flushed a deep, blotchy red, my throat closing up as I clawed at my neck. Gwen watched me struggle for air, her eyes wide with sadistic wonder. She clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, wow! So you really are lethally allergic to pollen! Alex wasn’t lying to me after all!” She pulled out her phone, snickering as she snapped a quick photo of my swollen, desperate face. She opened our mutual group chat and uploaded it: [Look everyone, Sienna’s head is swollen like a pig right now!] A second later, Alex’s notification popped up in the chat—a helpless, laughing-emoji sticker. I stared at the screen, a solitary tear sliding down my hot, inflamed cheek. Years ago, on one of our very first dates, Alex had surprised me with a massive armful of fresh lilies. The second I touched them, my throat had seized, and I had collapsed into a fit of violent coughing. Alex had turned pale with terror, instantly hurling the multi-hundred-dollar bouquet into a street dump bin before scooping me into his arms and speeding to the nearest emergency room. After the doctor stabilized me and scolded us for being careless, Alex had sat by my hospital bed, his hands clammy and shaking, tears of sheer panic in his eyes. “Sienna, why didn’t you tell me you were so severely allergic?” he had whispered, his voice trembling. “If anything happened to you, I wouldn’t want to live. I can’t lose you.” I had forced a weak, reassuring smile. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin your surprise.” He had pulled me into a fierce, suffocating embrace, burying his face in my neck. “Nothing in this world is more important than you, Sienna. Nothing.” From that day on, real flowers were banned from Alex’s life. He spent weeks watching tutorials online, learning how to fold intricate origami flowers out of crisp hundred-dollar bills, assembling them into stunning, sterile bouquets just so I could have them. “Other girls get flowers, so my Sienna gets them too,” he had beamed, handing me a shimmering bouquet of crisp paper cash. “Even if you can’t touch real flowers, I’ll make sure you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.” Back then, my heart had melted with profound gratitude. I had thanked God a thousand times for sending me a man who loved me so deeply. Now, those sweet memories were nothing more than heavy, brutal slaps across my face. “Are you crying?” Gwen giggled, snapping a few more photos. [Look guys, the pig is crying now!] This time, Alex didn’t reply in the chat. Instead, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, and the bedroom door burst open. Alex rushed inside, his face pale with concern. He dropped to his knees by the bed, reaching out to wipe my tears. “Sienna, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Gwen’s smile vanished, and she gave him a sharp, angry shove. “What are you doing here? You promised me I could have my fun today! Get out, I’m not done playing with her!” “That’s enough, Gwen!” Alex growled, closing his eyes and drawing a long, exhausted breath. He grabbed Gwen’s wrist, firmly steering her toward the door, then turned back to me with an apologetic expression. “Gwen just likes to joke around. She doesn’t mean any real harm. You promised me you’d be understanding with her, Sienna. You’re not going back on your word now, are you?” Looking at his careful, tiptoeing demeanor, a sudden, bitter laugh burst from my chest. I wiped my wet eyes, raised my right hand, and delivered a ringing slap straight across his jaw. SMACK. Alex’s head snapped to the side. The redness bloomed across his cheek immediately. He didn’t flinch, nor did he hit back. He just stared at me with a complex, heavy sigh. “Sienna, stop talking nonsense,” he said softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Who divorces someone right after the wedding? You’re just exhausted from the past few days. Get some sleep, and you’ll feel better.” I turned my face away to avoid his touch. He merely smiled with forced patience. “Rest up, Sienna,” he murmured, kissing my forehead despite my resistance. “I promise, I’ll just let Gwen blow off steam for a couple more days. Once she’s not angry anymore, we’ll start our normal life together.” The moment the door shut behind him, I pulled out my phone and typed with trembling fingers: [Please, come get me now. I can’t spend another second in this house.] Perhaps my sudden hostility had rattled Alex, because half an hour later, he forced Gwen back into the room to apologize. “Gwen, at the end of the day, Sienna is your sister-in-law,” Alex grunted, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You went too far these past two days. She’s stuck in bed because of you. Apologize nicely.” Gwen sneered, stepping forward with a cup of piping hot tea in her hands. I reached out to push the tray away, but before my fingers even touched the ceramic, Gwen abruptly tilted her hands. The scalding water splashed directly across my forehead and face. I shrieked in pain, scrambling backward on the mattress. Taking advantage of my confusion, Gwen lunged forward, grabbed my arm, and yanked me off the bed with vicious force. I tumbled to the floor with a heavy crash, my temple slamming directly against the sharp edge of the mahogany nightstand. A blinding, searing pain exploded behind my eyes. “Are you insane?!” Alex roared. He lunged across the room, shoving Gwen so hard she stumbled backward into the wall. He scooped me into his arms, his face flushed with genuine panic. “Gwen, if anything happens to Sienna, I swear to God I won’t let this go!” Gwen froze, her eyes instantly filling with furious tears. She stomped her foot, her voice rising into an ear-splitting shriek. “You’re yelling at me?! Alex, you’re actually yelling at me for this woman?! Have you forgotten who matters most to you?! How could you do this to me?!” Her tears welled up, spilling over her mascara-stained cheeks. “Fine! If you don’t want me anymore, I’ll leave right now and never come back!” Her distress instantly broke Alex’s resolve. He let out a long, helpless sigh, his tone instantly softening. “I’m not yelling at you, Gwen… Come on, help me get Sienna to the hospital first. If something serious happens to her, it’s going to be a nightmare for you, too.” On the drive to the emergency room, Gwen complained nonstop from the back seat, claiming I was dramatic, fragile, and couldn’t even take a simple joke. “If she’s really this pathetic, why don’t you two just get a divorce?” Gwen sniffled, crossing her arms. “Sienna was never good enough for you anyway. Getting married was a mistake—you should just fix it now.” Alex kept his jaw tight, staring straight at the road without saying a word. I pulled my lips into a bitter, silent smile, turning my head toward the window, refusing to look at either of them. When we arrived at the clinic, Alex went to the front desk to handle the admissions and insurance forms, leaving Gwen and me alone in the private recovery room. Gwen paced around my bed for a moment, then pulled out her phone and slid it right in front of my face with a dark, triumphant grin. “Do you know where Alex and I had our very first session?” she asked, her voice dripping with venomous joy. I didn’t answer, but she burst into a high-pitched giggle anyway. “Right outside that basement door, darling! While you were screaming your lungs out and banging on the wood, Alex was driving me wild right against the wall. He couldn’t care less about your screaming—he was too busy trying to lose himself inside me.” The explicit photos on the screen flared against my eyes, burning into my retinas. My heart, which had felt completely numb, throbbed with a sudden, agonizing wave of nausea. “Why?” I rasped, forcing myself to sit up despite the dizziness pounding in my skull. “Why drag me into your twisted little game? He and I were legally married! You’re disgusting, Gwen.” Instead of being angered by my insult, Gwen laughed out loud. Her face hardened into an ugly mask of rage. She lunged forward, grabbed a handful of my hair, and slammed my head back against the pillows before dragging me off the bed and shoving me into the adjoining bathroom. She turned on the faucet and shoved my face directly under the icy, rushing water. I choked, thrashing frantically as cold water rushed up my nose and into my lungs. “You’re the one who’s disgusting!” Gwen hissed into my ear, holding me down with all her weight. “Alex and I were built for each other! You squeezed your way into our lives! If he didn’t think I lacked the ‘wife material’ look for his corporate image, do you really think you’d ever have a chance?!” In a desperate bid for air, I thrashed my legs, my heavy shoe catching her hard in the side of the knee. Gwen gasped in pain, stumbling back. But instead of attacking me again, a chilling, psychotic smile spread across her face. She raised her own hand and delivered a brutal, crushing slap straight to her own cheek. Then, she burst into loud, wailing tears and ran out of the bathroom. I lay on the cold tile, gasping for breath, my body trembling uncontrollably. I didn’t bother chasing her. I limped back out and dragged myself onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. A moment later, the door slammed open. Alex rushed in, holding Gwen tightly behind his back, his brow furrowed with deep disappointment. “Sienna, how could you be so petty?” Alex snapped, his voice sharp with judgment. “How could you actually lay a hand on Gwen? She’s my oldest friend! Have you forgotten everything I told you? You really disappoint me.” I stared at him, a manic, breathless laugh bubbling up from my throat until tears streamed down my cheeks. “I hit her?” I gasped out, my voice raspy and broken. “Alex, are you completely insane?!” I glared at him, swallowing down the suffocating humiliation that had built up over years. “Who has been tormenting whom this entire time?! Do you really not know? Or is your heart just so twisted that you’ll cover for her no matter what she does?!” Alex’s brows pinched tighter. “That’s not what I mean.” He dragged Gwen forward, pointing to the angry red welt swelling on her cheek. Gwen sniffled pitifully, burying her face in his shoulder. “Alex, I told you! Sienna hit me, and now she’s lying about it!” Looking at the red mark, the last trace of hesitation vanished from Alex’s eyes. He looked at me sternly. “She couldn’t have slapped herself this hard, Sienna. Be honest.” “It wasn’t me,” I whispered, turning my face toward the wall. “I’m sick. Get out. Take her and get out.” Alex stood his ground, unmoving. After a long silence, he let out a heavy, solemn sigh. “Sienna, I can’t let you keep acting like this without consequences. You hit her, so you need to take a slap in return to make things right.” He stepped toward the bed, his hand lifting into the air, his eyes filled with a terrifying, self-righteous resolve. “Just one slap. It’ll be over quickly.” I stared at him in utter shock. The memory of the rooftop slap flashed violently in my mind. I shoved him with all the strength I had left, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Don’t you touch me! Touch me again, Alex, and I swear to God I’ll file police charges against you!” “You won’t,” Alex said with absolute certainty. He gave Gwen a quick nod, and she instantly rushed forward, grabbing my wrists and pinning my shoulders to the mattress. “When you do something wrong, Sienna, you have to face the consequences,” Alex instructed calmly, his shadow towering over me. “I’m doing this to help you. Be good. Close your eyes, and it’ll be over in a second. Do you really want to become the kind of toxic person who refuses to own up to her mistakes?” His hand cut through the air, the wind rushing toward my face. The sheer terror of the imminent blow paralyzed my muscles. My body went into complete shock; I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even scream. At that split second, the heavy door of the private room was violently kicked off its hinges with a deafening BANG. A thunderous voice echoed through the hallway: “I dare you to lay a finger on her!” A tall figure stalked into the room, flanked by four imposing, suit-clad security guards. Before Gwen could even react, a heavy boot struck her viciously in the side, sending her flying across the room to collapse on the floor, groaning in pain. In the same breath, a large, calloused hand clamped around Alex’s throat, slamming his upper body against the drywall with terrible force. Alex choked, his eyes bulging as he struggled to breathe. He looked up, his face turning ghostly pale the moment he recognized the man holding him. “You…” Alex gasped, his voice trembling with pure disbelief. “Weston Cole?! How… how are you here?!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541764”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 It was the fourth year since I had “crossed over” into this parallel reality, and my fiancée was about to put me under the knife for the hundredth time. Fortunately, I was born with a gift—or perhaps a curse: a biological anomaly that allowed my body to regenerate at an impossible speed. The “System” in my head whispered that this was the final threshold. One more procedure, and I would be granted passage back to my original world. In that world, my fiancée loved me more than life itself. She wasn’t like the woman here, who treated me as nothing more than a biological resource—a living mannequin for her protégé, a medical student named Oliver, to practice his dissections. I never refused the table. Even when post-operative infections left me convulsing with fever, or when the sheer psychological weight of being carved open drove me to the brink of catatonia, I lay down. I wanted to go home. As the hundredth dose of anesthesia began to crawl through my veins, my eyelids grew heavy. But before the darkness could swallow me, the heavy steel doors of the OR pushed open. I heard voices—Madeline’s and the lead surgeon’s. “Ms. Pierce, we’ve kept up this charade for four years,” the doctor whispered, his voice tight with nerves. “The parallel world, the ‘System’ prompts, the entire narrative… once this is over, can we really keep the lid on it?” “We will,” Madeline replied, her tone as cool and polished as a marble gravestone. “I hired the best hypnosis team in the country to wire those triggers into his subconscious. He believes what he needs to believe.” “These four years… what we’ve put him through…” “I know,” Madeline interrupted, her voice softening just a fraction, but not for me. “I owe him for his cooperation, even if he didn’t know he was cooperating. But his physiology is the only thing that could get Oliver through his residency training. The first ninety-nine trials were failures, but today, Oliver will finally master the technique.” She paused, and I could almost imagine her checking her reflection in the glass of the observation booth. “Once the surgery is over and the recovery is complete, I’ll give him the most lavish wedding New York has ever seen. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to him.” Underneath the surgical drape, my eyes snapped open. The “System” wasn’t a cosmic entity. It was a hypnotic cage. Everything—the hope of returning to a world where I was loved, the missions, the progress bar—was a lie crafted by the woman I intended to marry, all to facilitate Oliver’s medical ambitions. “By the way,” Madeline added, “this time we’re harvesting the brain tissue, not the ocular nerves. Make sure the vitals are stable when he wakes up. I don’t want any ‘glitches’ in the hypnosis.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. She didn’t know. My “gift,” my ability to knit flesh and bone back together, originated in my brain. It was the anchor. If the brain was harvested, it wouldn’t regenerate. I wouldn’t wake up to a lavish wedding. I wouldn’t wake up at all. I began to thrash. My limbs, already bolted down by heavy leather restraints, strained against the cold metal. Oliver walked in, snapping on his latex gloves. He pulled back the sheet and looked at me with a sneer of pure irritation. “What’s the drama now? We’re starting. Stay still.” “Let me go!” I screamed, my vision blurring with rage and terror. “I’m done! No more surgeries!” In my mind, the mechanical voice of the System shrieked: [WARNING! WARNING! Host has only one surgery remaining to exit this parallel world. Forfeiture will result in total reset. All progress will be lost.] In the past, that voice would have terrified me into submission. Now, it just sounded like the hollow recording it was. Oliver let out a sharp, mocking laugh. He signaled the nurses to tighten the straps until they bit into my skin. “You don’t get a vote, Elias. Do you have any idea how much my research depends on this? You’re a footnote in medical history. Don’t ruin it.” Hearing the commotion, Madeline stepped into the room. She frowned, her eyes scanning the monitors. “What’s happening? Why isn’t the anesthesia working?” The anesthesiologist checked the IV drip, looking frantic. “Ms. Pierce, after a hundred procedures, Mr. Miller has developed an extreme resistance to the sedative. We need to switch to a high-potency nerve block.” “Don’t touch me!” I howled. “You are not cutting into my head!” Madeline froze for a second, realizing the weight of my words. “You heard us.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping into that melodic, manipulative coo I used to crave. “Elias, honey, look at me. You’ve complained about those migraines for years. We’re just going to remove the damaged tissue. You’ll grow back a fresh, healthy brain. You’ll be better than ever.” “Madeline, I will die,” my voice broke, tears spilling into my hair. “You lied to me for four years. I’ll let it go. I’ll walk away and never say a word. Just please… don’t do this.” She looked down, her gaze flickering for a heartbeat. “Oh, stop the pity party, Elias,” Oliver cut in, his voice dripping with boredom. “How many times have you ‘died’ on this table? You always bounce back. Madeline, if we don’t start now, I’m going to miss Mochi’s feeding time.” Mochi was his purebred Pomeranian. Madeline’s hesitation vanished instantly. She nodded to the nurse. “Finish it. Mochi is sensitive; he gets anxious when he’s hungry.” She looked at me one last time, her expression vacant. “This is the last one, Elias. I promise. We have a long life ahead of us. I’ll make it up to you.” In her world, my life was worth less than a dog’s dinner schedule. I twisted violently, my muscles screaming. “Oliver is a hack! He’s not a surgeon! He’s forgotten to sterilize the scalpels three times in the last month alone! Do you know how many infections I’ve had to sweat through because of him?” “You’re an anatomical resource,” Oliver snapped, snatching a syringe from the nurse. “Why would I waste time on obsessive sterilization for a ‘tool’? Since he’s being so difficult with the sedatives, let’s just skip the block. We’ll do it while he’s conscious.” The doctor gasped. “Without anesthesia? The pain… it would be lethal.” “He doesn’t die, remember?” Oliver countered, his eyes gleaming with a sick, scientific curiosity. “Actually, it’s a perfect opportunity to observe real-time neural responses during a conscious harvest.” He tugged at Madeline’s sleeve, his voice turning soft and wheedling. “Madeline, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance for my thesis. You’ll let me, won’t you?” Madeline glanced at me, then looked away, focused on the far wall. “Whatever you need, Oliver.” The last string of my sanity snapped. The cold metal of the skull clamp pressed against my temples. They locked it down until I felt the bone groan. I was pinned, a butterfly on a corkboard. As the end approached, a strange, frigid calm washed over me. “Madeline,” I whispered. “For the sake of the people we used to be… when I’m gone, bury me next to Lily.” Lily. Our daughter who never got the chance to breathe. “Don’t you dare speak her name!” Madeline’s face contorted, her voice turning to ice. “The only reason she’s gone is because of your ‘lifestyle.’ I haven’t brought it up because I wanted peace, but don’t think for a second I’ve forgotten your infidelity.” I stared at her, genuinely lost. “Madeline, what are you talking about?” Oliver paused his preparations, a smirk playing on his lips. “You really have a thick skin, don’t you? Five years ago, on Madeline’s birthday, she was kidnapped. If I hadn’t found her and pulled her out of that warehouse, she would have been killed. And she still lost the baby—eight months pregnant—because of the stress.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “And where were you while she was fighting for her life? You were at a dive bar, blacked out with a group of women. You have no right to question her. You’re lucky she even lets you breathe.” Madeline stepped back, her hand trembling slightly. “That’s enough, Oliver. Just get on with it.” I felt the first bite of the cauterizing blade against my scalp. The sizzle of burning skin filled the room. The smell of my own charred flesh rose into my nostrils. It was an agony beyond language. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper, my body arching against the restraints in a futile, rhythmic spasm. Five years ago. Madeline’s birthday. She was taken by a rival firm’s hired muscle. I was the one who found her. I had used the GPS tracker she’d insisted on putting on my phone. To buy her time, I had forced my assistant to drive her unconscious body away while I locked myself inside the warehouse to face them. The kidnappers had taken their rage out on me. It was a descent into hell. I barely escaped, collapsing in front of a bar blocks away, my body already beginning its gruesome, silent process of knitting itself back together. I woke up in the ICU three days later. Madeline was there, wrapped in bandages, silent. She stayed by my side for seventy-two hours. I thought she was grieving for Lily. I thought her sudden coldness in the months that followed was trauma. I never told her the details of that night because I didn’t want her to feel the weight of my sacrifice. I had nearly died to save her, and all she saw was a “lifestyle choice.” A scream tore from my throat as the cranial drill whirred to life. Oliver was clumsy. The drill bit skated across the bone, failing to find purchase, biting in and slipping three times before it finally caught. Bone dust sprayed, coating my cheeks, stinging my eyes. Sweat soaked through the paper thin gown. “Oliver, stop,” Madeline said. For a fleeting second, I thought she had finally found her soul. Then I saw her look down. A small Pomeranian was trotting around her heels. “Mochi found his way in,” she said, her voice instantly turning warm and indulgent. Oliver dropped the drill immediately, not even bothering to set it on a sterile tray. He knelt in his blood-splattered surgical gown to scoop the dog into his arms. “Oh, I’m so sorry, my prince! Daddy missed your dinner, didn’t he? It’s all that mean Mr. Elias’s fault.” He rubbed his face against the dog’s fur, taking a bag of premium kibble from a maid who had appeared at the door. “I know you only eat when Daddy feeds you. Here, have some.” I lay there, the top of my skull partially drilled, a hole leaking cerebral fluid, watching a man feed a dog in what was supposed to be a sterile environment. Madeline turned to me, her brow furrowed in minor annoyance. “Why are your lips so pale?” She reached for a thermos of fortified bone broth sitting on the side table and walked toward me. “Drink this.” I drifted for a moment. I remembered a time when I had a fever for a week, and she had woken up at 4 AM every morning to make me soup, sitting by my bed and blowing on each spoonful. “Drink,” she had whispered back then, “I worked so hard on this. Do it for me?” As I sat lost in the ghost of that memory, Oliver spoke up. “Madeline, that’s the restorative tonic for Mochi. Why waste it on him?” “He’s too weak,” she explained clinically. “I’m afraid he’ll flatline before the harvest is complete. I don’t want you to lose this data, Oliver. It’s a rare opportunity.” She looked back at the dog. “Mochi will have to be brave for one night. I’ll buy him those Wagyu treats tomorrow.” “Fine,” Oliver pouted, looking at me with disdain. “Lucky you. Try to be grateful for once.” I wanted to laugh, but my throat was too constricted. I was being fed a dog’s leftovers so that I could survive long enough to be mutilated further. Madeline forced the liquid into my mouth. It tasted of salt and iron. As soon as I swallowed the last drop, the drill started again. The vibration rattled my very soul. After an eternity of grinding, Oliver swapped the drill for a bone saw. When the blade bit into the cranium, my fingernails dug into my palms until they drew blood. Madeline wiped the sweat from my forehead. “Almost there, Elias. Just hold on. After this, you can have whatever you want. A new house in the Hamptons, a car, that watch you liked… just name it.” I looked at her with a hollow, jagged smile. A “compensation.” She thought she could buy four years of torture with a shopping spree. Four years ago, her love had vanished overnight. When I asked her why, she had laughed, calling me delusional, saying the engagement was a matter of convenience because I was “easy to manage.” When I reminded her of how she used to hold me, how she’d drive across the city just to get my favorite pastries, she’d handed me a business card for a psychiatrist and told me to get help. I had gone. And it was there, under the “care” of her hand-picked doctors, that the “System” appeared. I had clung to the idea of a parallel world because the alternative—that the woman I loved was a monster—was too much to bear. I had given a kidney first. For Oliver, who had been “failing” from renal disease. He had been her charity project for years, and my kidney gave him the health he needed to pursue his “dream.” I had given my corneas. A portion of my liver. My gallbladder. My body was a map of jagged, silver scars. I, who used to live in the gym, now couldn’t bear to look at myself in a mirror. And it had all been for a lie. “Madeline,” I whispered, my jaw locked. “If I die today…” She stroked my cheek. “Don’t be dramatic. But if you did… I’d follow you.” I closed my eyes. The pressure in my bladder was becoming unbearable; my nervous system was misfiring under the sheer volume of pain. “You’d better mean that.” “Is that a threat? A life for a life?” Oliver chimed in, far too cheerful. “What about me?” “You saved me,” Madeline said to him, her voice full of devotion. “You’re more important than my own life. Anything you want, I’ll give.” “Really?” His voice went up an octave, then dipped into a whine. “But you wouldn’t let me livestream this. My followers have never seen a live craniotomy.” “I was protecting you,” she sighed. “The pressure of a live audience… if you made a mistake, it could crush your confidence.” “But they’re begging for it! It would triple my engagement! Please, Madeline. Support my career.” She chuckled. “You’re impossible. Fine. But don’t come crying to me if the comments are mean.” She actually pulled out her phone and began setting up the tripod. She didn’t even look at me. I fought for dignity. I fought to keep my muscles from failing. “I… don’t… consent.” Madeline didn’t even pause. “Just this once, Elias. Then we can talk about the wedding. Traditional? Destination? Whatever you want.” I stared at her through a haze of agony. “Is our wedding just a bargaining chip to you? Do you… do you even love me?” I had questioned fate. I had questioned my own worth. But I had never, until this moment, questioned the fundamental nature of what we were. I remembered something then. Shortly before the “crossing,” we were in a car accident. A semi-truck had T-boned us. I had shielded her with my body. My bones had shattered; my organs had ruptured. Before the ambulance arrived, she had watched me. She saw my mangled arm knit back together in seconds. She saw the life force surging back into me. I saw the look in her eyes then—not relief, but a cold, calculating hunger. She hadn’t stayed with me out of love. She had stayed to harvest the miracle. “You hate me, don’t you?” I whispered. “That’s why you’re doing this.” She was silent for a long time. “I don’t hate you, Elias. But you were reckless. You cost us our child. These four years… they were a way for Oliver to learn, and a penance for you. But it’s over now. Once we’re married, I’ll be the woman you remember.” I started to laugh, and the laughter turned into wheezing sobs. “Madeline… if you only knew… who actually pulled you out of that warehouse…” My voice went flat. “I would rather die than marry you.” “You don’t have a choice,” she sneered. “Now, stay still. We’re live.” The stream started. Oliver began his commentary, his voice shifting into a practiced, academic tone. Suddenly, Madeline stepped to my side. She reached down and ripped the surgical drape away, exposing my scarred, trembling body to the camera. She used a laser pointer to trace the lines on my skin. “For those asking in the chat, these scars are from the patient’s previous ‘extracurricular’ activities. Dr. Reid wants to remind everyone that a lack of self-respect leads to a lack of physical integrity.” The white heat of the surgical lamps felt like they were flaying me. “End of lecture,” she said, stepping back to my head. “Proceed.” The saw finally cut through the last bit of bone. The skull flap was pried upward. My entire body buckled. The pain reached a frequency that transcended the physical. I lost control. A sudden warmth spread beneath me, soaking into the thin mattress of the surgical table. The smell of urine filled the air. Oliver stopped, tilting the camera down toward my waist. “Oh, look at that. Loss of sphincter control. A common physiological response to extreme neural trauma. Totally normal, guys.” Madeline moved to block the lens. “Don’t let that foul your eyes, Oliver. You keep going. I’ll handle it.” She began to change my garment, her movements rhythmic and practiced. It was a haunting echo of the weeks after the kidnapping, when I couldn’t walk and she had bathed me with such tenderness. Then, it had been my sanctuary. Now, it was a desecration. She looked up and saw the tears streaming into my ears. “I… hate… you,” I gasped, the words barely a puff of air. She flinched, a shadow of genuine panic crossing her eyes. I looked away, staring into the blinding light of the overhead lamps. I saw a girl in a white high school sundress. I saw the purple wisteria falling around us as she asked if I’d be hers. I saw myself saying yes. If I could go back, I would have let the truck hit us both. Oliver’s voice was a distant buzz. “And now, the final step. Harvesting the primary cerebral mass.” The scoop entered. A hollow, ancient roar echoed in my mind—not the “System,” but something far older. A voice like grinding stone. THE CONTRACT IS BREACHED. THAT WHICH WAS BORROWED SHALL BE RETURNED. THAT WHICH WAS TAKEN SHALL ROT. My consciousness began to float. The pain vanished. The world turned to white noise.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541763”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 As a creator with forty million followers, I chose peak engagement hours to finally introduce Derek to the world. A single, unedited portrait of him was all it took to pull eight million likes in a matter of hours. My comment section blew up instantly, flooded with thousands asking if he was my boyfriend. I didn’t play coy. I answered with a simple, proud yes. Yet, barely twelve hours later, the tide violently turned. The affection evaporated, replaced by a wall of brutal, sneering vitriol. She’s live with him on her channel right now saying he doesn’t even know you. Embarrassing much? Check out Sadie’s page if you want to see what a real couple looks like. Imagine posting someone else’s man and claiming he’s yours. Clout-chasing bully. My stomach dropped. I sat frozen on my couch, tapping through the tagged handles until I landed on the profile. It belonged to a mid-tier lifestyle account with around three hundred thousand followers. The woman behind it was Sadie Jenkins—Derek’s lifelong “best friend.” I took a screenshot of her latest post and sent it to Derek, demanding an explanation. His response came with an airy, dismissive laugh. “Elena, relax. Sadie’s reach has been stalling for months. We’re just playing up a little fake-dating drama to give her engagement a boost.” “It’s really not a big deal,” he added, his voice completely casual. “Don’t take it to heart.” For three years, Derek had insisted he hated being in front of a camera. He claimed the entire digital landscape made him uncomfortable. When I finally convinced him to let me post that single photo, it had taken two weeks of relentless begging before he reluctantly gave in. And yet, there he was on Sadie’s grid—starring in over a dozen affectionate couple vlogs and co-hosting late-night streams. I listened to the hollow hum of the receiver, said nothing, and hung up. Then, I opened my profile and deleted the photo. If that was the game they wanted to play, I would simply step out of the frame. 2 Because Derek had explicitly denied knowing me on a public platform, my account hemorrhaged nearly a hundred and fifty thousand followers in under an hour. Sadie’s account, meanwhile, gained over a hundred thousand. With heavy eyelids, I reopened her page. She had posted a new photo just ten minutes prior. It was a candid shot of her and Derek. Neither of them was looking at the camera; they were locked in an intimate, laughing gaze, leaning so close their shoulders overlapped. A simple, unpolished picture, yet in ten minutes it had already racked up thousands of comments and tens of thousands of likes. I opened the comment section. Pinned at the very top was a comment from a freshly created profile. I didn’t even need to check the bio to know it was Derek’s. The comments underneath were a chorus of adoration, hailing them as soulmates. Then, someone dragged my name into the dirt. I still can’t believe a top-tier influencer literally tried to claim another girl’s boyfriend in the comments. Thoughts, @ElenaHayes? The comment gained traction rapidly, riding a wave of malicious upvotes. I typed out a four-word reply: Believe whatever you like. That single response unleashed an even darker torrent into my direct messages. This time, it wasn’t just mockery; it was violent threats, targeted harassment, and explicit wishes for my ruin. Internet sleuths began dissecting my older travel videos, twisting every line of voiceover script into evidence of a manipulative persona. By dinner, my inbox was flooded with emails from brand partners. Three major campaigns were canceled effective immediately. Worse, citing damage to their corporate reputation, two of the companies attached formal demands for liquidated damages. 3 When Derek came home that evening, he carried a bakery box containing a blueberry ice cream cake—my favorite. He walked into the kitchen, placing the box softly onto the marble island. “Still pouting?” His tone carried that familiar, patronizing weariness. “It’s just a clout-chasing strategy, Elena. It’s not like I’m actually sleeping with her.” Just a strategy. Whenever I had asked to soft-launch our relationship, he had complained about the hassle, claiming he refused to expose his private life to the internet. The single portrait I posted was the absolute limit of his compromise. Derek had never cared for social media. He had never even owned an active profile. And he certainly hadn’t stepped up to claim the photo I posted. “Don’t be dramatic,” Derek continued, utterly oblivious to the quiet collapse inside me. “Sadie’s channel has been dying. She came up with this concept to save her metrics. You know how close we are. It’s just content.” Of course I knew how close they were. They were childhood neighbors, raised in the same cul-de-sac, constantly tumbling through each other’s lives. Sadie wore the “one of the guys” label like a badge of honor, always insisting she looked down on him. When Derek and I first started dating seven years ago, she had snorted in my face, her voice dripping with exaggerated theatricality. “How on earth did you fall for him?” she had laughed, shaking her head. “Derek was still wetting the bed at six! And in high school, he had a wet dream and panicked so hard he thought he was dying!” “You should’ve seen his face the first time I wore a sundress—his ears turned bright red! Haha!” She only stopped when Derek finally snapped at her to shut up. That was their dynamic. I met Derek’s gaze. “Do you have any idea what my inbox looks like right now?” “My brand sponsors are pulling out because of the fallout,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “They’re suing me for breach of brand protection clauses.” Derek shrugged, utterly unbothered by the financial ruin knocking at my door. He let out a short, dismissive sigh. “How much is it? Just send me the bill, I’ll wire you the money.” “Derek, this isn’t about money.” I closed my eyes, a heavy, suffocating pressure settling deep in my chest. When I opened them again, the room felt darker. Seeing my expression, Derek’s patience snapped. “Then what do you actually want from me?” he said, his voice rising in irritation. “Sadie finally has some momentum. If I come out and clear things up right now, her account is done for.” “I promise you, as soon as her follower count stabilizes, we’ll set the record straight.” I looked at him, the words catching in my throat like dry cotton. I couldn’t swallow them down, nor could I force them out. He was terrified of damaging Sadie’s trajectory. But it hadn’t even crossed his mind that I was being incinerated in the process. Especially after I had risked my platform to finally claim him. Before I could speak, Derek’s phone chimed with an incoming FaceTime call. He raised a hand, signaling for me to stop whatever I was about to say, and swiped to answer. Sadie’s vibrant voice echoed through the speaker. “Derek! Are you free right now? My followers are dying for a live stream, and I’m almost at your building!” Derek shot a quick glance in my direction. On the screen, Sadie lifted an eyebrow, her smile playfully sharp. “Oh, is the lady of the house there? It’s just a routine stream, I’m sure she won’t mind, right?” “She doesn’t mind,” Derek answered for me without hesitation. “You know the door code. Just come on up.” As he tapped the screen to end the call, I looked at him directly. “How does she know our door code?” Derek didn’t look up. “Last month she was too tired to drive back to her apartment, so she crashed here for the night.” He paused, as if remembering something, and added a quiet warning: “When Sadie gets here, don’t give her an attitude. It’ll ruin the vibe on camera.” I stared at him, feeling a strange, hollow silence wash over me. I had nothing left to say. 4 While Sadie set up her ring light in the living room downstairs, I stayed locked in the primary bedroom, pulling up her stream on a burner account. The viewer count was already soaring past a hundred thousand, climbing by the second. On screen, Sadie was curled casually into Derek’s side on our sectional sofa, happily eating a slice of the blueberry ice cream cake he had brought home. When a comment flashed across the screen asking if they were officially dating, Sadie nudged Derek with her elbow in an easy, practiced gesture. “The chat wants to know,” she cooed, leaning into him. “Are we real, or what?” It looked entirely natural. Sadie had always claimed that because they grew up together, physical touch was second nature to them. She had told me repeatedly not to read into it—that I should just view her as one of Derek’s male buddies. Derek reached out, his fingers trailing lazily through her hair before resting on her shoulder. “Of course we’re real,” he smiled gently into the camera. “No faking here.” When the words left his mouth, Sadie scooped a piece of cake onto her fork and held it up to his lips. Derek didn’t hesitate. He opened his mouth and ate it. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Derek hated sweets. In seven years, whenever I brought home desserts and offered him a bite, he always refused with a look of distaste. Eventually, after I asked enough times, he grew annoyed, and I stopped asking altogether. It turned out he didn’t hate sweets after all. The chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur, but several comments stood out, calling my name. What’s the deal with Elena Hayes then? Is she delusional, or is she a homewrecker trying to slide in? Derek caught the comment. “Elena Hayes?” he mused aloud, his tone casual. “What’s her deal…?” My breathing hitched. I braced myself, waiting to hear what seven years of shared history, shared dinners, and shared dreams meant to him in this moment. He let out a quiet chuckle. “There’s no deal. I don’t even know her.” A high-pitched, incredulous laugh escaped my chest in the quiet of the bedroom. Seven years. Reduced to I don’t even know her. Lmao! She posted that photo claiming he was her secret man and that he didn’t even have social media. This girl is a pathological liar. When people had tried to locate Derek’s online digital footprint after my upload, I had defended his privacy, telling my audience he didn’t use social media apps. It had been the truth. But now, it was framed as proof of my fraud. Derek offered no correction. He simply let the lie hang in the air. Sadie, acting the part of the gracious host, waved a hand toward the camera with a playful smile. “Let’s keep the chat positive, guys. No need to give free publicity to outside noise.” Derek looked down at her with fond indulgence, smoothing down a stray lock of her hair. “Right. What do you want to talk about instead?” Sadie’s eyes lit up with mischief. “How about the story of how we ended up together?” “Sure,” Derek agreed softly. I exited the app and tossed the phone onto the bed. Outside the bedroom door, the muffled chatter from the live stream echoed faintly through the hallway. Two hours later, Derek knocked on the bedroom door. He didn’t ask for my input; he simply delivered an ultimatum. “It’s getting late. Sadie’s going to stay in the guest room tonight.” He had already made up his mind. Coming into the room was merely a formality. Sadie popped out from behind his shoulder, resting her chin lightly on his arm as she smiled at me. “Hope you don’t mind, Elena. If it really makes you uncomfortable, I can try to call an Uber home right now.” Derek frowned immediately, turning to her. “It’s past midnight. It’s not safe for a girl to travel alone at this hour.” Sadie shot me a pointed glance. “Well, safety doesn’t matter if I’m making your girlfriend uncomfortable. I should probably just leave.” “You’re not going anywhere,” Derek said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re sleeping here.” “Well, if Elena…” She let her sentence drift off into a delicate, helpless pause. Derek turned back to me, his voice sharp. “Elena, come on—” “Do whatever you want,” I interrupted, my tone flat. “I don’t care.” Derek let out a visible sign of relief. “See? I told you she wouldn’t care.” “Thanks so much, Elena,” Sadie said, her eyes gleaming. “Don’t worry, I honestly just look at Derek like a brother. Nothing weird is ever gonna happen.” I turned away without a word. 5 Derek walked back into the master bedroom a few minutes later, grabbing a fresh set of clothes before heading toward the bathroom. “Derek,” I called out softly. He stopped, turning his head. I had already contacted a local real estate agent earlier that evening. This condo—the home we had chosen together, the place meant to be our marital home—was no longer something I wanted to keep. The agent had completed a fast evaluation over the phone and sent through a rough appraisal. “If you’re looking for an immediate liquidation,” the agent had warned me, “we’ll need to set the listing price about ten percent below market value to catch cash buyers. Are you okay with that hit?” I hadn’t hesitated for a second. “List it tomorrow. Sell it as fast as possible.” After ending the call with the agent, I noticed Sadie had posted another video. I clicked on it. This time, the camera wasn’t focused on Sadie. It was focused entirely on Derek. “Look who’s making lunch today, guys~” Sadie’s voiceover cooed behind the lens. “Let’s see if Mr. Handsome can actually cook.” The camera panned over Derek’s profile as he chopped vegetables at our kitchen island, his focus entirely on the stove. Derek hated being filmed, and he hated cooking even more. In seven years, I had never dared to point a lens at his face while he worked around the house. When we were too busy to cook, we ordered takeout. That was our routine for nearly a decade. Yet here he was, playing the dutiful, domestic partner for four million newfound followers. I didn’t finish the video. I closed the app. I switched over to my professional brand manager account. The interface lagged for a moment under the sheer volume of incoming notifications. Even without opening the direct messages, I knew the contents: violent threats, demands for my cancellation, and detailed insults about my character. In just three days, my follower count had plummeted by over three million. Originally, this account had been created to document my relationship with Derek. But Derek had refused, claiming he didn’t want his private life exposed online. So, I adapted. I pivoted to travel, history, and cultural storytelling. I spent years wandering through historic districts, researching architecture, and crafting narrative scripts until I built an audience that loved the world through my eyes. Perhaps that was where our cracks had begun. He resented how often I traveled for shoots, complaining that I was never anchored at home. So I had decided to take a sabbatical at the peak of my career, to stay home, to make time for him, and to finally introduce him to the world. And his response had been to launch a fake romance with Sadie. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a text from Derek. Elena, I’m flying to Savannah with Sadie for a week-long vlog shoot. I’ll bring you back a souvenir when I’m home. Before I could type a reply, a voice memo popped up beneath his text. It wasn’t Derek’s voice. It was Sadie’s. Her laugh was bright and airy through the speaker: “Don’t worry, Elena! I’ll make sure to keep a close eye on your man so no other women try to slide into his DMs.” “Though, since this is a couple’s travel series, the brand booked us a suite with a single king bed. Hope you aren’t the jealous type! You know how it is—we’re basically brothers.” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. I left the message unread. A second later, Derek’s call came through. The moment I pressed answer, his sharp, impatient voice filled my ear. “Didn’t you see my text? Why aren’t you replying?” He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t ask what I was doing. His very first instinct was an accusation. I opened my mouth to speak, but the loud overhead chime of an airport boarding call echoed clearly through his end of the line. He hadn’t texted to inform me; he had texted as an afterthought while walking down the jet bridge. “Look, Sadie and I are boarding for Savannah right now,” he said rapidly, his voice clipped. “I know what I’m doing. Don’t overthink it. I’ll get you something nice at the airport on the way back. Gotta go.” “Derek,” I said, my voice steadying. “Let’s break up—” Click. The line went dead before I could finish the sentence, replaced by the hollow rhythm of a busy tone. 6 Because the condo was priced significantly below market value, a buyer stepped forward almost immediately. It was a young married couple, eager to secure a home in the district but previously priced out by the market. My listing was a perfect match for their budget. Once the purchase agreement was signed and escrow opened, I began packing. Five years of living in that apartment meant five years of accumulated life. It took three full days of heavy lifting and sorting to clear every trace of my existence from the rooms. I moved into a modest, single-bedroom apartment downtown that I owned outright. During those three days, Derek didn’t call or text once. Instead, his presence was announced through Sadie’s feed, which featured a new video of them at a luxury boutique hotel in Savannah. On screen, they looked every bit the devoted, hopelessly-in-love couple. Their interactions were seamless, affectionate, and drenched in domestic intimacy. If I hadn’t been his girlfriend for seven years, I might have rooted for them too. On my final night at the old apartment, I rendered and uploaded a new video to my channel. When I woke up the following morning, I checked my notification tab out of habit. The comment section under my new upload was an absolute battlefield. Are you serious right now? First you try to claim another girl’s fiancé, and now you’re straight-up plagiarizing her content line for line? Have some self-respect. I used to respect your work so much, but this is pathetic. Go check Sadie’s latest upload. It’s word-for-word the exact same script. Plagiarism? Every single word of my travel scripts was researched, drafted, and refined by me alone over late nights at my desk. The idea that I would copy anyone—let alone Sadie—was absurd. I opened Sadie’s profile and played her latest video. My hands turned ice cold. Every sentence, every historical reference, every subtle nuance of the voiceover was an exact replica of the draft sitting in my cloud drive. Even the background music—a niche, instrumental track I had spent hours searching for—was identical. The only person who had ever seen that script was Derek. I remembered the night I wrote it. I had sat beside him on the couch, showing him two different audio tracks, asking for his opinion on which mood fit the voiceover better. He had passed my work directly to Sadie. A shudder ran through my chest as my blood ran cold. I dialed Derek’s number immediately. When he picked up, I fought to keep my voice from trembling. “Why did you give my script to Sadie?” “Do you have any idea how many nights I stayed up writing that?” There was a long beat of silence on his end before Derek finally spoke, his voice completely nonchalant. “Sadie was short on content for her Savannah brand deal, so I sent it over to her.” He spoke as if he had lent her a paperclip. “It’s just a script, Elena. What’s the big deal? Just write another one.” Just write another one. As if creative labor was as trivial as breathing out air. A breathless, tearful laugh burst from my chest. “Derek, do you have any idea what people are calling me online right now?” He went quiet again. He knew. “Look,” Derek sighed softly, his voice dropping into a pacifying register. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back to Seattle, okay?” “Just… delete your video for now, Elena. Don’t make a scene. It’s bad for your image, and it’s bad for Sadie’s launch.” He was still protecting her. Even now, his first instinct was to shield Sadie from the backlash of his own theft. “Right,” I whispered. I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue. I simply ended the call. Then, I pulled out my old laptop, unlocked my backup hard drives, and began organizing my files.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541762”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 The day before move-in, my girlfriend told me she’d lost me in a game of Truth or Dare. Before I could even process what she meant, she added me to the “Class of 2028” Discord server—a massive digital shark tank for incoming freshmen. Within seconds, a new announcement pinged across the screen: [CHALLENGE UPDATED: Congrats to Audrey Quinn for winning herself a brand-new, 260-pound boyfriend!] Immediately following the text, a photo was dropped into the chat. It was me, circa sophomore year of high school. I was wearing an oversized, stained hoodie; my stomach was pressed against the desk, and my face was so round that my eyes were practically swallowed by my cheeks. The chat went nuclear. “Is that a boyfriend or a prize-winning hog?” one person typed, followed by a string of skull emojis. “I actually feel bad for Audrey. Imagine being the campus ‘It’ girl and having to play house with Shrek,” another chimed in. “Beauty and the Beast: Live Action. Except the Beast didn’t get the memo about the gym.” A betting pool was opened through a third-party app within minutes. People were wagering on whether I’d actually show my face at the freshman mixer tomorrow night. My girlfriend—well, my “online” girlfriend—slapped down fifty dollars on No. “Don’t hate the player, Miles,” she messaged me privately. “Sienna rolled a six. You were the stakes. It’s just a game.” Audrey Quinn—the girl who supposedly “won” me—remained silent. But Grant Harrison, the local golden boy whose profile was a curated gallery of Porsches and Swiss watches, tagged me directly. “Hey man, you’re coming tomorrow, right? Don’t leave a lady hanging.” I looked at the notifications scrolling past my eyes and felt a slow, cold smile spread across my face. Nobody knew. Nobody knew that over the past year, I’d dropped eighty pounds. That I’d traded the 2 a.m. gaming sessions for 5 a.m. HIIT workouts. That over the last two months, I’d been asked for my number in coffee shops and gyms more times than in the previous eighteen years of my life combined. I pulled up the betting app and dropped a hundred dollars on myself. Miles M. bets: I’ll be there. Then, in the main chat, I typed three words: “A bet’s a bet.” I stared at the Discord announcement for a full ten seconds. The messages were moving so fast it was a blur of mockery. “Sienna really played this perfectly. Shedding the dead weight and getting in good with Grant’s circle in one move.” “@AudreyQuinn, come on, give us a victory speech!” Another photo dropped. This one was from the high school field day. I was at my heaviest—two hundred and sixty pounds. My school shirt was straining at the buttons, and I was caught in the background of someone else’s shot, hunched over a bag of chips. The person who posted it was Sienna Reed. My girlfriend of eleven months. A minute ago, she’d been “soothing” me in our DMs. “Babe, it’s just a thing girls do. I temporarily lost you to Audrey. Just do the three ‘couple challenges’ tomorrow and it’s over. Don’t overthink it.” I didn’t reply. The chat was having a field day. “Does the venue have reinforced chairs?” someone asked. “Isn’t there a princess carry challenge? Can he even see his own knees, let alone lift her?” Sienna posted a face-palm emoji. “Guys, stop. You’re going to give him an anxiety attack.” It looked like she was defending me. In reality, she was just twisted the knife, making me look even more pathetic. We had met on a Discord server for competitive Valorant. When she couldn’t sleep, I stayed up until dawn talking her through her stress. When she failed her psych midterm, I spent a week straight organizing her notes. I’d even chosen this university because she told me, “Miles, let’s go to the same school. On move-in day, I want you to be the first person to hold me.” Now, I was just a chip she’d tossed onto the gambling table. Grant Harrison chimed in again: “Look, everyone, leave him alone. Being big isn’t a crime, as long as he’s a nice guy.” Grant was the quintessential rich kid. His Instagram was all yacht parties and private clubs. Lately, he’d been chasing Audrey Quinn, but the rumors said he was also getting very cozy with Sienna. They’d even changed their profile pictures to matching minimalist aesthetics. “Bro, you’re coming, right?” Grant tagged me again. “No one has any real malice. Don’t be insecure.” The chat flooded with “Grant has such good vibes” and “Total class act.” Sienna even reacted with a heart. I didn’t rush. I clicked the betting link again. Another hundred. On me. The chat froze for two seconds before a wall of question marks appeared. Sienna immediately messaged me. “Are you insane? Grant and Audrey are both going to be there. Why would you subject yourself to that?” I looked in the mirror. Six-foot-one. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. The features that had been buried under layers of soft tissue were now sharp—a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and eyes that no longer looked hidden. I’d spent twelve months in a private hell of calorie counting and heavy lifting. I wanted to save the surprise for the moment we finally met in person. But now? She didn’t deserve the surprise. She deserved the fallout. I closed her chat and replied in the Discord: “I’ll be there.” Sienna’s name lit up my phone immediately. I ignored it. She called three times, then sent a frantic voice note. “Miles, stop being a child! This is how the game works. I lost, you’re Audrey’s ‘boyfriend’ for the night, we do the three tasks, and we’re done. We’re all going to be in the same social circles. Don’t make this awkward for me.” I actually laughed. She’d traded me like a used car and was worried about her social standing. I opened the event file. The “Couple Challenges” were: 1. Feed each other cake in front of the group. 2. 3. A hand-holding photo posted to the main school Instagram page. 4. 5. The male partner must carry the female partner—princess style—for ten seconds. 6. The comments under the file were brutal. “Someone warn Audrey’s spinal cord.” “Can he even bend over?” “Maybe Audrey should just jump on him and hope for the best.” Audrey Quinn hadn’t said a word. Her profile picture was a grainy, artistic shot of her back facing a sunset. She was a mystery, but a highly coveted one. Grant Harrison was already acting like her gatekeeper. Whenever someone tagged her, he replied for her. “Audrey’s not big on group chats. Don’t pressure her about the tasks.” It was a possessive, familiar tone. And Sienna was right there, feeding into it. “Wow, Grant, you know Audrey so well,” she’d post, followed by a shy emoji. It was nauseating. She was flirting with Grant while keeping me on a leash as her emotional support dog. My best friend, Tyler, FaceTime-called me a second later. He was fuming. “Dude, is Sienna actually brain-dead? She ‘lost’ you in a game? What is this, a 90s teen movie?” “You saw the screenshots?” I asked. “The whole high school group chat has seen them! Sienna is the one who posted those old photos, Miles. The girl you called ‘the sweetest soul’ just threw you to the wolves.” I smiled. Tyler looked even more worried. “Why are you smiling? You’re going to go there and let them do this?” “I’m going,” I said, walking to my closet. “To do what? Pull a ‘The Nutty Professor’ reveal?” “Photos are easy to fake, Tyler. They’d just say I used AI or found a lookalike. No. I want them to see it. I want to see the exact moment the blood drains from Sienna’s face.” Tyler let out a low whistle. “Man, I almost feel bad for them. Almost.” The night of the mixer, I stayed in bed until noon. My phone was a graveyard of notifications. People were posting photos of reinforced double-wide chairs they’d “reserved” for me at the lounge. Sienna was still playing the martyr: “He’s not coming, guys. Stop picking on him.” Grant: “Hey, if he shows, he shows. Let’s all promise not to laugh, okay?” His “kindness” was the most insulting part of all. I got up, showered, and spent an hour on my hair. Tyler showed up at 4 p.m. with a garment bag. “Today, we’re going with ‘Lethal Elegance,’” he announced. He’d picked out a charcoal-black button-down, tailored slim. When I tucked it into my dark trousers and rolled the sleeves to my elbows, revealing the vascularity in my forearms, even Tyler went quiet for a second. “Jesus, Miles. If I were a girl, I’d be sliding into your DMs right now.” “Shut up.” “I’m serious. Grant Harrison is ‘Country Club Rich,’ but you look like you own the club and the country.” At 5:30, a video was posted to the Discord. The lounge was packed. In the center of the table was a massive sheet cake with red frosting that read: WELCOME, BIG CHUM! Laughter erupted in the background. A guy with a buzz cut pointed the camera at the cake. “Miles, buddy! If you don’t show up in ten minutes, we’re gonna have to eat your girlfriend without you!” Sienna was sitting on the velvet sofa, sipping a drink. She looked bored. “Told you. He’s a no-show. He didn’t even have the guts to FaceTime me this month. You think he’s gonna walk in here?” Grant was sitting right next to her. She leaned in to fix his collar, and he didn’t pull away. Then, Audrey Quinn walked into the frame. Grant stood up instantly, nearly knocking Sienna over. “Audrey! You’re here. I was going to pick you up.” Audrey barely glanced at him. The video cut there. I grabbed my keys. My heart was thumping, but it wasn’t the old heart—the one that fluttered with anxiety. This was a steady, rhythmic drum of anticipation. As I pulled up to the hotel lounge, a girl from my high school—someone who had once called me “The Human Shield” during dodgeball—passed me in the lobby. She did a double-take so hard she nearly tripped over her own heels. The lounge was on the third floor. I could hear the music and the raucous laughter through the heavy oak doors. “Ten!” the crowd started chanting. “Nine!” “Eight!” Sienna’s voice rose above the rest. “Just close the bets. He’s not coming. He’s probably at home with a tub of ice cream, crying into his Discord.” I reached for the handle. “Miles?” I turned. Standing in the hallway was a girl in a silk emerald dress. Her dark hair was swept up, her features striking and cold. Audrey Quinn. She looked at me, her eyes widening in genuine shock. “Are you…?” I gave her a small, sharp smile. “Audrey. Right on time.” Inside, the countdown hit zero. I pushed the doors open.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541761”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Two years into our marriage, I realized my husband, Carter, shared a language with his childhood foster sister that left no room for me. She called him “Car-Car.” He called her “Starla.” She was twenty-three years old, but the moment she walked through our front door, she’d throw her arms around Carter’s neck, tipping up on her toes to press her lips to his cheek. Carter would catch her with an easy, practiced laugh, his palm settling naturally against the small of her back. The first time I saw it after we moved in together, my fork hovered an inch above my plate. Carter caught my eye and shrugged it off. “We’ve been doing that since we were kids, Nora. Don’t make a production out of it.” On our second wedding anniversary, I booked a table at a Michelin-starred restaurant downtown. I had my dress on, my hair done, my jacket in hand. Carter was about to step out the door when his phone rang. He hung up thirty seconds later, giving me an apologetic, helpless smile. “Starla’s having terrible stomach cramps,” he said. “I need to run her to the ER. I’ll make it up to you later tonight, okay?” “Later” turned out to be one in the morning. When he finally walked into the bedroom, there was a smear of coral lipstick on his shirt collar, right above his collarbone. He saw me sitting up in bed and instantly knit his brows in defensive exhaustion. “She threw up,” he blurted out before I could open my mouth. “It bumped against me while I was holding her up over the sink. Jesus, Nora, tell me you’re not going to be jealous over a stomach virus.” I didn’t say a word. The next morning, while running his dry cleaning down to the laundry room, a crumpled piece of paper slipped from his coat pocket. It was a movie ticket stub dated yesterday’s date—eight-thirty p.m. On the back, drawn in blue ballpoint pen, was a lopsided star next to a scrawled note: Car-Car, this is our little secret code, okay? I put the stub back in his pocket, went upstairs, and pulled my suitcase out of the closet. People doubled over in agonizing pain don’t sit through a two-hour midnight romantic comedy. And I was done waiting up until one in the morning. “It’s three in the morning. What the hell are you doing with a suitcase?” Carter stood in the bedroom doorway, still wrapped in the lingering chill of the night air and the faint, sharp sting of hospital disinfectant. He stared at the hand luggage I was packing. “Work trip,” I said, pulling the zipper shut with a harsh, metallic scrape. “You didn’t say anything about a work trip.” He stepped into the room, reaching out with an automatic, soothing gesture to cover my hand. “What kind of art consultant goes out of town on a Sunday morning? Are you seriously still sulking because Starla ruined my shirt?” I pulled my hand back, stepping out of his reach as I stood up. “No.” “Nora, whenever you say ‘no’ in that tone, it means ‘yes.’” He let out a long, weary sigh, a mix of bone-deep fatigue and condescending indulgence. “Starla doesn’t have anyone else in Chicago. Her parents died when she was little, and my family raised her. When she’s doubled over in pain, who else is she supposed to call?” “What did the doctor say?” “Acute gastroenteritis. They gave her a shot, and she fell asleep.” I looked straight into his eyes. “Did they give her the shot in row F of the AMC theater downtown?” Carter froze. The bedroom went dead silent. I reached into my trench coat pocket, pulled out the ticket stub, and laid it on the nightstand between us. Under the warm glow of the bedside lamp, the scrawled star looked grotesquely bright. “Cute code,” I said quietly. Carter’s eyes dropped to the paper. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Nora, that’s… it’s a misunderstanding.” “What part of it?” “She felt better after we left urgent care. She said she was stressed and wanted a distraction, so we caught a late movie.” “A girl vomiting from stomach cramps suddenly wanted buttered popcorn and a comedy at midnight?” “She’s young, Nora! She acts on impulse, she’s like a kid—” He stepped closer, reaching out to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “Today was supposed to be our anniversary. I messed up. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you tomorrow, alright? Anywhere you want to go.” I looked at the faint pink smudge on his crisp white collar. It was positioned at an impossibly deliberate angle. When a person vomits, they don’t press their lips precisely against the top button of a man’s dress shirt. “Don’t bother,” I said, picking up my suitcase. “Where are you actually going?” “To check on the build-out for the new studio space in South Loop.” “At three in the morning?” “Yes.” He stepped in front of the bedroom door, his face darkening into a scowl. “Nora, enough is enough. I’ve explained it to you. How long are you going to throw a tantrum over this?” A tantrum. He always thought I was throwing a tantrum. Five years ago, when my father passed away, I stood alone in a pouring rainstorm at the cemetery, coordinating the funeral arrangements with numb hands. Carter wasn’t there. He was in Miami with Starla because she’d just gone through a bad breakup and needed a beach trip to “heal.” I couldn’t get ahold of him for thirty-six hours. Afterward, he’d told me: “You’re so strong and independent, Nora. I knew you’d handle it. Starla’s fragile. She can’t be left alone.” In two years of marriage, that logic had played out a hundred times. A quiet chime echoed from the nightstand. Carter’s phone screen lit up with a lock-screen notification. Starla: Car-Car, I’m back in bed! Tonight was so much fun. Next time, let’s go just the two of us again without your wife, okay? Shh, secret! Carter caught sight of the banner. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his features. “She’s just joking, Nora—” “She’s hilarious,” I said, stepping past him into the hallway. He didn’t follow me down the stairs. But as I reached the front door, his voice cut through the empty house behind me. “If you walk out that door tonight, Nora, don’t expect me to come running after you tomorrow!” The heavy oak door clicked shut. The December wind cut straight through my coat as I stepped onto the porch. The Uber I’d called was waiting at the curb. The driver popped the trunk and loaded my suitcase. “Where to, ma’am?” “South Loop. Astra Gallery.” Astra Gallery was the independent art space I’d spent six months preparing. My debut exhibition was scheduled for next month. As the car glided through the sleeping, snow-dusted city, my phone vibrated. I opened the smart-lock app connected to our townhouse. A notification popped up: Front door unlocked 5 minutes ago. Carter had already left the house. I didn’t need a GPS to know where he was going. He was running back to the helpless, fearful “sister” who couldn’t sleep in the dark. I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window and closed my eyes. A moment later, Instagram pinged. Starla had just posted a picture to her story. It was a close-up of two hands intertwined—fingers tightly laced—against the backdrop of a 24-hour diner over two bowls of steaming soup. The caption read: My stomach hurts, but drinking late-night soup with the person who always chooses you makes everything sweet. She’d set the privacy settings so only I could see it. I didn’t like it. I didn’t screenshot it. I simply closed the app, tossed the phone onto the leather seat beside me, and looked out at the dark street. Astra Gallery was dark and silent when I arrived at three-thirty. I pushed open the double glass doors and flipped on every track light in the building. In the center of the main showroom stood my prize canvas—the centerpiece of my upcoming show. I’d titled it Imbalance. It depicted a massive, rusted scale, tilted violently to one side. On the high, lifted side sat a single, weightless white feather. On the crushed, sunken side lay a jagged, brutal stone. I picked up my palette and stood in front of the frame. The scale had tipped a long time ago, Carter. It was time for me to step off. “Nora? What are you doing here so early?” At eight in the morning, my assistant, Annie, walked through the front doors and gasped, startled to see me. “Couldn’t sleep,” I said softly. “Jesus, your eyes are bloodshot. Did you stay up all night?” “A bit.” I set down my brushes, walked into the back restroom, and splashed freezing water over my face. When I stepped back out into the lobby, the front doors pushed open again. Carter walked in wearing yesterday’s wool topcoat, his expression tense. Right behind him was Starla. She wore an oversized white puffer jacket and a fluffy faux-fur beanie, looking like a delicate, wide-eyed winter rabbit. “Nora!” Starla squeaked, her voice dripping with artificial warmth. She reached out and wrapped both hands around Carter’s arm, squeezing tight. “Car-Car said you were here, so I insisted he bring me over! Oh my gosh, your gallery is just gorgeous!” I looked at their tangled arms, my voice flat. “What are you doing here?” Carter cleared his throat, pulling his arm out of her grip, though he didn’t take a step away from her. “Starla’s brand launch livestream is next week. Her production team needs a venue with an elevated, artistic aesthetic.” I stared at him. “And?” “I thought this place would be perfect,” he said, his tone casual, carrying that subtle, unquestioned authority he always assumed in our relationship. “The second floor is mostly empty anyway. Let her use half of it.” 2 “No.” The refusal was sharp, immediate, and left zero room for negotiation. Starla’s smile froze. She shrank back behind Carter’s shoulder, her big eyes filling with tears in an instant. “Nora… is this because I asked Car-Car to go to the movies with me last night?” She bit her lower lip, her voice trembling. “If you’re mad at me, I’m so, so sorry. Please don’t take it out on my work…” Carter’s expression hardened into an angry scowl. “Nora, stop being so bitter and childish.” He took a step toward me. “I put up half the seed money to get this gallery open. Legally, this space is marital property.” I looked at his self-righteous face. “You provided a bridge loan, Carter. Which I signed a legal promissory note for, and which I’ve been paying back to your account monthly with four percent interest.” I pointed toward the glass front doors. “The lease for this building is in my name alone. Get out.” Carter clearly hadn’t anticipated me cutting him off so ruthlessly in public. Usually, to keep the peace and preserve my own dignity, I swallowed my pride and compromised. “Did you take the wrong medication today?” he muttered, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “Starla’s stream launches next Monday, and her location fell through. She’s a young woman trying to build something from scratch—as her sister-in-law, why can’t you just extend a hand?” “Extend a hand?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “If she wants an artistic aesthetic, she can rent an actual studio. The second floor is my private workspace and storage area. It’s full of unreleased, original canvas drafts that cannot be exposed to dust or chaos.” “I told you she’d be careful!” “She’s bringing a production crew of fifteen people with lights, heavy gear, and racks of clothes. How is that careful?” Starla tugged gently on Carter’s sleeve, her voice dripping with meek despair. “Car-Car, forget it. If Nora doesn’t want me here, I’ll just cancel the stream. It’s fine… I’ll just pay the breach-of-contract penalties to my sponsors.” She let a single, perfect tear spill down her cheek. “I’m used to it anyway. I’ve been an orphan my whole life. I know what it feels like to be looked down on.” Carter’s temper instantly flared into a blaze. “Who the hell is looking down on you?” He whirled around to glare at me. “Nora, do you really have to make a miserable scene out of everything?” “You brought her into my place of business!” “What do you mean, your place? We’re married! What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine!” He gestured aggressively toward the stairs leading to the second floor. “She’s using the space today. End of story.” He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “Hey, Frank? Yeah, bring three guys from your moving crew down to Astra Gallery right now. Yeah, South Loop. We need to clear out half of the second-floor storage.” I stood perfectly still, watching him make the call with practiced efficiency. Annie was beside herself with anxiety, pulling frantically on my cardigan. “Nora, we can’t let them move those canvases! Some of those pieces are unframed!” “Don’t stop them,” I murmured. I looked at Carter. “Are you absolutely sure you want strangers touching my work?” “I’m just helping you optimize the space,” he said coldly, hanging up his phone. He stepped closer, his tone shifting into that familiar, transactional sweetness he used whenever he wanted to smooth things over. “Nora, stop acting up. Once Starla gets through this launch, I’ll book us a two-week ski trip to Whistler, okay? Just you and me.” A slap to the face, followed by a piece of candy. It was his favorite trick. “Don’t touch me,” I said, shoving his hand away. His face turned thunderous. “You are completely impossible.” The moving crew arrived within twenty minutes. Three burly men carrying dollies and furniture pads pushed past the front desk toward the stairs. I didn’t physically block them. Instead, I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and set the camera to high-definition video recording. “Nora, what are you doing?” Starla asked, fluttering over in an attempt to block my lens. “Documenting,” I said smoothly, stepping around her. “Filing video evidence of Mr. Bennett illegally trespassing on commercial leased property and endangering high-value fine art.” Carter snatched the phone right out of my hands. “Have you lost your mind?!” “Give me back my phone.” “Nora, if you keep acting like a psychotic child, don’t come asking me to cover the final construction installment for the gallery next month!” He was threatening my livelihood. I stared at him, and suddenly, a wave of dark, hollow amusement washed over me. “Fine,” I nodded slowly. “Don’t worry about the final payment. But if a single piece of paper on that second floor goes missing or gets damaged, I am calling the Chicago Police Department directly.” Starla pulled on Carter’s coat again. “Car-Car… she’s really mad. Maybe we should go…” “We’re not going anywhere. Move the crates,” Carter barked at the workers, forcing his way up the stairs to supervise. I walked over to the lounge area on the main floor, sat down on the velvet sofa, and poured myself a paper cup of water. From upstairs came the heavy scraping of wooden furniture being dragged across hardwood, punctuated by Starla’s high-pitched, bossy instructions. “Put that rack over there! No, that easel is blocking the light, just shove it into the corner!” Annie was on the verge of tears. “Nora, how can you just sit there and let them do this?” I took a sip of the water. It was ice cold. “If I don’t let them move it, Annie, how am I supposed to calculate the damages?” Half an hour later, Starla trotted down the stairs, dusting off her hands. “Nora! We cleared out half the floor. Thanks so much!” She walked up to my sofa, leaning down so close that only I could hear her whisper: “Honestly, I didn’t even need the venue that badly. I just wanted to see who he’d choose when push came to shove—you, or me.” She gave me a sweet, innocent smile. “Looks like you lost, sister-in-law.” I set my paper cup down on the glass table. “Did I? Let’s see if you’re still smiling after your livestream next week.” Carter walked down the stairs, wiping a light bead of sweat from his forehead. “It’s all set up. I had them put a privacy screen down the middle, so it won’t interfere with your painting.” He reached out out of habit, trying to pat the top of my head. I pulled my head back sharply, avoiding his palm. His hand hovered awkwardly in the air. “Let’s get dinner tonight,” he offered, trying to reset his tone. “I made a reservation at that omakase place you love.” “No.” “Nora, I’ve given you a dozen olive branches today. Don’t throw them back in my face.” His patience was entirely spent. “Car-Car, if Nora doesn’t want to go, don’t force her,” Starla chimed in, wrapping her arm back through his. “Take me instead! I’m starving!” Carter threw me one last, cold look. “Fine. Suit yourself.” He turned and left with Starla. The gallery fell dead silent once more. I stood up, walked up the stairs, and stepped onto the second floor. My carefully organized studio space was a disaster. Canvas racks were rammed against each other; delicate, half-finished pencil drafts were crumpled and shoved carelessly into storage boxes. And worst of all—my locked, temperature-controlled archival cabinet had been dragged out of its dark corner and pushed directly under the south-facing window. Brilliant, unfiltered sunlight poured through the glass, baking the cabinet doors. Inside that cabinet was the most precious thing I owned. I walked over, my hand touching the metal handle. My fingertips were trembling. The heavy stone on the scale had just gotten heavier. “Annie,” I called down the stairs. “Yes, Nora?” “Call my corporate lawyer. Tell him I need him to draft a legal separation and property division agreement.” Annie gasped from the bottom of the stairs. “Right now?” “Right now,” I said, looking out at the harsh winter sun burning through the window. “As fast as humanly possible.” 3 A week later, Starla’s production crew officially took over the second floor of Astra Gallery. Ring lights, heavy aluminum stands, and reflector boards choked the once-serene space. She was selling a line of fast-fashion clothes she claimed were “exclusive designer collaborations.” Every day from three in the afternoon until ten at night, her shrill, theatrical pitch echoed down the stairwell. “Guys! Car-Car personally picked out this jacket for me! You can’t get this anywhere else on the internet!” I wore noise-canceling headphones downstairs, working doggedly on my main exhibition piece—a ten-foot oil painting. Carter hadn’t come home or called in days, attempting to freeze me out in a childish silent war. On Friday afternoon, I needed my set of antique French mineral watercolors to complete the final glazing on my canvas. My father had bought those paints for me in Paris five years ago, right before he died. They were part of a limited, unrepeatable run of fifty sets worldwide, ground from rare lapis and botanical pigments. After he passed, those fifty small porcelain jars were the only tangible pieces of his support I had left. I kept them locked inside the archival cabinet on the second floor. I took off my headphones and walked upstairs. Starla’s stream had just wrapped, and her crew was packing away cords. Starla was sitting in a plush velvet chair, cradling a fluffy, snow-white Pomeranian in her lap. I walked past the tangled extension cords toward the cabinet. The moment my eyes hit the metal frame, the blood in my veins turned to ice. The lock on the archival cabinet had been violently pried open with a screwdriver. The digital temperature display was dead. Inside, the fifty neat porcelain jars were a war zone. Dozens had been knocked onto the hardwood floor, shattered into jagged shards. Deep, vibrant lapis-blue pigment was smeared across the floorboards like a pool of drying blue blood. Starla’s white Pomeranian was prancing happily through the mess, leaving a trail of bright blue paw prints all over the floor. A spray of blue dust was smeared across the hem of Starla’s white silk dress. “What did you do?” My voice didn’t sound like my own. It was a low, terrifying shake. Starla turned her head, saw me, and let out a light, careless giggle. “Oh, hey, Nora! We were looking for an extra light stand earlier and accidentally bumped into the cabinet. The lock was so cheap, it just popped right open!” She stood up, holding her dog. “I saw those old little jars in there. They looked ancient and dusty anyway. Car-Car said everything in this building was fair game, so I used a few to stamp Snowflake’s paws with blue ink as a fun giveaway for my viewers!” To stamp a dog’s paws. With the last gift my dead father gave me. I walked over and dropped to my knees. I picked up a broken piece of white porcelain stained with deep cobalt powder. A sharp, jagged edge slice through the skin of my thumb, and a bead of red blood welled up, mixing with the blue dust. “Do you have any idea what this is?” I asked, raising my eyes to look at her. “It’s paint, Nora. What else would it be?” She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s creepy. I’ll buy you a new pack on Amazon, okay? They’re like twenty bucks.” I stood up. Without a single word of warning, I pulled back my left arm and delivered a roaring, open-handed slap across her face. The sharp crack echoed through the second floor like a gunshot. Starla’s head snapped to the side. She stumbled backward, dropping her dog, which squealed in terror. “Are you insane?!” she shrieked, clutching her bright red cheek in absolute disbelief. The entire production crew froze, terrified. “Buy me a new set?” I stepped toward her, my vision turning red. “That was a irreplaceable artifact! My father gave that to me before he died! Your pathetic life isn’t worth a single jar of that pigment!” Starla’s eyes welled with tears, but instead of striking back, she took a deliberate, dramatic step backward—straight into a heavy lighting rig. The metal stand tipped over, crashing into a stack of wooden crates with a deafening rattle. At that exact second, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. “What the hell is going on here?!” Carter burst onto the floor. He was wearing a tailored suit, clearly fresh from a high-level corporate meeting. Starla saw him and threw herself into his arms like a victim escaping a murderer. “Car-Car!” she sobbed hysterically. “She hit me! I accidentally bumped her stuff and offered to pay for it, and she slapped me!” Carter wrapped his arm around her. When he saw the vivid red handprint blooming on her cheek, his face transformed into a mask of pure rage. He whirled on me. “Nora! What is wrong with you?!” I held up my bleeding hand, pointing at the shattered porcelain and ruined blue dust on the floor. “She destroyed my father’s final gift to me.” Carter cast a quick, dismissive glance at the floor. “Over a couple of old jars of paint, you put your hands on her?!” “Old jars of paint?” I let out a terrible laugh. “Carter, my dad gave me those five years ago for my birthday! You were there when he handed them to me!” He flicked his gaze away, a split-second of guilt crossing his face before he hardened again. “It’s just material stuff! It’s an inanimate object! You can replace paint, but look at her face—her cheek is swollen! Apologize to her right now!” He let go of Starla and took a menacing step toward me, reaching out to grab my arm. I instinctively lunged backward to get away from him. My foot caught on a heavy metal cable on the floor, and my center of gravity failed. I crashed backward hard onto the hardwood. To break my fall, my instinct kicked in, and I slammed my right hand flat against the floor. My palm landed directly on top of a jagged, two-inch piece of broken porcelain sticking straight up out of the floorboards. A sharp, searing spike of agony exploded up my arm. I gasped, the air completely leaving my lungs as cold sweat instantly broke out across my forehead. Blood spurted from my palm, pooling into the dark blue pigment on the floor, swirling into a sickening, purplish-black sludge. Carter froze in his tracks. The hand he’d extended dropped halfway. “Nora…” His voice finally lost its anger, replaced by a sudden, sickening panic. “Car-Car, don’t let her fool you,” Starla whimpered from behind him, clutching her head. “She’s just acting dramatic because she got caught hitting me… Oh, my head hurts so bad, I think I have a concussion from the lamp falling…” I ignored them both. Biting my lip until I tasted blood, I pulled my right hand up off the floor. A thick, two-centimeter shard of porcelain was buried deep into the meat of my hand, right below the joint of my thumb. For a painter, that location was a death sentence. Carter took a step toward me to help me up. “Nora, let me see—” “Don’t touch me.” I looked up at him. There was no anger left in my eyes. No hurt. No tears. Just a vast, terrifying void. In that quiet, terrible second, I heard the final string inside my heart snap cleanly in two. “Carter,” I said, my voice eerily calm as I held up my drenched, bleeding hand. “Five years ago, when my father was buried, you weren’t there. And today, you helped someone destroy the last piece of him I had left.” I watched the color drain completely from his face. “We’re done,” I said. I pulled myself up off the floor, turned around, and walked down the stairs, leaving a trail of crimson drops behind me. Annie screamed when she saw me come down to the lobby. “Nora! Oh my god, your hand!” “Call an ambulance,” I said softly, sitting down on the showroom sofa. Upstairs, I heard Carter’s heavy footsteps start down the stairwell to follow me. But halfway down, Starla’s shrill voice cried out above him: “Car-Car! I’m dizzy! I’m going to pass out!” The footsteps stopped. Then, they turned around and hurried back up. I closed my eyes and listened to the distant, wailing siren of the approaching ambulance. The scale hadn’t just tipped. It had crashed through the floor. 4 Eight stitches. Nerve damage. The trauma surgeon at Northwestern Memorial told me I wouldn’t be able to hold a paintbrush for extended periods for at least six months—maybe longer, depending on physical therapy. I sat on a cold plastic bench in the hospital corridor for two hours after being discharged. I didn’t cry. A strange, serene clarity took over. It felt like living through a long, agonizing illness, only to finally receive the terminal diagnosis: no more guessing, no more hoping, no more lying to myself. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. It was a text from Annie. Nora, Carter brought a locksmith to Astra Gallery. He’s changing the locks on the main entrance right now. I texted back a single word: Good. The next afternoon, Carter cornered me in the lobby of my temporary apartment building. He looked terrible. His stubble was dark, his eyes bloodshot, his designer suit rumpled. When he saw the thick, pristine white bandages swaddling my right hand and wrist, his gaze flicked away in guilty discomfort. “Your hand…” he rasped. “What did the surgeon say?” “I’m not dying,” I said, stepping sideways to walk past him. He lunged forward, blocking my path, and thrust a thick manila envelope into my space. “What’s this?” “The deed transfer for Astra Gallery,” he said, adopting an air of magnanimous, long-suffering generosity. “If you sign the acknowledgment, I’ll transfer my fifty percent equity over to your name entirely. It will be 100% yours. I’ve already forced Starla’s crew to vacate the second floor.” I looked at the envelope, my hands remaining at my sides. “What’s the catch?” Carter took a deep breath. “There’s an industry networking dinner tonight at the Drake Hotel. Everyone in our social and investor circle is going to be there. Starla will be there too.” He paused, testing the waters. “I need you to come, sit down, and offer her a public apology for slapping her. Once we clear the air about yesterday, we can put all of this behind us.” I stared at him, genuinely marveling at the creature before me. He was offering me something that was already rightfully mine, in exchange for me bowing my head to the woman who destroyed my father’s memory. In his mind, my dignity—and my father’s memory—could be bought off with a real estate transfer. “Fine,” I said, a slow smile touching my lips. “I’ll go.” Carter let out a massive sigh of relief, shoving the envelope into my coat pocket. “I knew you were a reasonable woman, Nora. I’ll send a car for you at seven.” “Don’t bother. I’ll get there myself.” “Great. Dress nicely.” He walked toward his car with a light, triumphant bounce in his step. At eight o’clock sharp, I pushed open the double doors of the private dining room at the Drake Hotel. Around a long, mahogany table sat a dozen of Carter’s wealthiest business associates and mutual acquaintances. Starla was seated right next to Carter, wearing a gorgeous cream-colored satin cocktail dress. When she saw me walk in, she shrank back slightly, playing the fragile victim. “Nora! Over here,” Carter called out, gesturing to the empty chair directly beside Starla. I walked over and sat down. My bandaged right hand rested flat on the white tablecloth. Nobody asked what happened to my hand. Instead, the women at the table were busy fawning over a delicate diamond tennis necklace glittering around Starla’s neck. “Car-Car gave it to me,” Starla chirped modestly, casting a coy glance at my husband. “He insisted I needed a pick-me-up after… recent events.” Carter smiled, placing a piece of seared salmon onto her plate. “You deserve nice things, Starla.” After two rounds of drinks, the room reached a warm, cheerful hum. Carter tapped his fork against his crystal glass, drawing everyone’s attention. He cast a heavy, meaningful glare in my direction. “Nora,” he prompted smoothly. “I believe you had something you wanted to say to Starla?” I stood up. Using my left hand, I picked up a full glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from the table. Every eye in the room turned to me. Starla tilted her chin up slightly, a smug, triumphant glimmer flashing in her eyes as she prepared to accept my public humiliation. “Regarding what happened yesterday, I was indeed out of line,” I said, looking straight into Starla’s eyes. “I didn’t realize that priceless artifacts mean nothing to someone who equates art with twenty-dollar Amazon knockoffs. And I shouldn’t have expected a girl who lacks basic human boundaries to understand the concept of respect.” Starla’s smug smile instantly disintegrated. Carter’s face turned bright red. “Nora! Watch your mouth!” “I am watching it,” I said calmly. I took two steps around the table until I was standing directly over Starla. “This toast is for you.” Starla looked up, bewildered. “Nora, you don’t have to be so mean—” Before she could finish her sentence, I flicked my wrist. A full glass of deep red wine splashed violently across Starla’s face. The dark liquid dripped from her nose, her false eyelashes, and her styled hair, drenching her cream satin dress in a massive, ugly purple stain. The private room went dead silent. “What the fuck are you doing?!” Carter roared, leaping out of his chair and shoving me back violently. I stumbled back against a waiter’s station, steadying myself with my left elbow. I set the empty wine glass onto a tray with a crisp, echoing clink. “I came to deliver an apology,” I said, looking at him coldly. “Just… on my own terms.” “You’re fucking insane, Nora!” Carter yelled, grabbing a cloth napkin to furiously wipe the wine from Starla’s crying face. “I gave you an olive branch! I gave you a way out of this! You just threw everything away!” “Threw everything away?” I pulled the deed envelope from my coat and slapped it onto the center of the table. “I don’t want your pathetic venue. Keep it.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the private room. “Nora! If you walk out that door tonight, don’t you ever think about coming back!” Carter’s voice screamed behind me, breaking in rage. I didn’t turn around. I pushed open the hotel doors and stepped out into the crisp, cold night air. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 9:30 p.m. My red-eye flight to London departed from O’Hare at 11:45 p.m. At the international terminal, I checked my single bag. Ten minutes before boarding, my phone vibrated. Carter’s caller ID flashed on the screen: Husband. I stared at the blinking letters for three seconds, then calmly tapped Block This Caller. I opened my settings, wiped his contact from my phone, and unlinked our shared accounts. “Boarding pass, please, ma’am,” the gate agent smiled. I handed her the slip of paper. “Thank you, Ms. Ellis. Have a wonderful flight to Heathrow.” I walked down the jetway without looking back once. Game over, Carter. Now it’s your turn to pay.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “541760”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel