Author: Momo Chan

My fiancée, Sally, wanted to go on a two-month road trip up the Alaska Highway with her male best friend, Rory. I said no. She called me insecure. I told her a single man and a single woman spending two months alone in a truck wasn’t right. She called me disgusting. I asked her if she absolutely had to go. She lifted her chin, defiant. “Yes.” I just smiled. I pulled out my phone and texted my assistant, Lawrence: “Thirty minutes. Cut off every single business line the Spencer family has in this city.” She had no idea. The “struggling delivery boy” she thought she was dating held enough keys to make her entire family beg on their knees in the middle of downtown Seattle. 1 It all started three days ago. I’d come home late after a brutal shift. Sally was curled up on the sofa, scrolling through her phone without even glancing up. There were two iced lattes on the coffee table. One was untouched, condensation pooling at the base; the other was empty. I kicked off my shoes, walked over, and picked up the full one. I took a sip. It was lukewarm and watery. “Who was here?” Only then did she look up, her expression utterly detached. “Rory. He stopped by for a bit.” Rory. Always Rory. I’d heard that name at least fifty times over the past six months. Her “platonic best friend.” College classmate, freelance photographer, free spirit. I didn’t say anything. I just sat down next to her. Suddenly, she shoved her phone screen in front of my face. “Look at this. Rory took these in Banff last week. They’re absolutely breathtaking.” I glanced at the screen. Snow-capped peaks, empty highways, a lonely tent. The composition was good. “Yeah. Nice.” “He’s planning to drive all the way up through the Yukon to Alaska next month. A massive road trip.” “Oh.” Sally pulled her phone back, her eyes shining with an intensity I hadn’t seen in a long time. “He asked if I wanted to go with him.” I set the lukewarm latte down. “And what did you say?” “I think it’d be amazing. I’ve always wanted to see the Northern Lights.” I looked at her profile. She kept her eyes glued to the screen. “Sally.” “Yeah?” “You and him. In one truck. Driving through the wilderness to Alaska. That’s a two-month trip, minimum.” “So?” “Just the two of you.” She finally turned her head, her forehead creasing in irritation. “Adam, can you not be so disgusting? Rory and I are completely platonic. We could share a tent and literally nothing would happen.” Share a tent. She said it so casually, like she was talking about sharing a cab. I squeezed the plastic cup in my hand until it buckled. “So you already told him yes?” “I haven’t officially given him an answer, but I want to go.” “I’m not okay with this.” Sally let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Adam, you don’t own me. You don’t get to dictate my life.” “You’re my fiancée.” “A fiancée is still an independent person.” She stood up, clutching her phone as she headed toward the bedroom. Before she shut the door, she threw one last line over her shoulder: “If you’re going to be this insecure, I don’t even know why we got together in the first first place.” The door clicked shut. I sat alone in the living room, the artificial sweetness of the watery coffee coating my throat like ash. I didn’t sleep in our bed that night. I stayed in the study, staring at the wall until dawn. It wasn’t just that she wanted to go to Alaska. It was that she hadn’t even thought to invite me. And when she spoke, her eyes were completely empty of me. Over the next two days, she lived in a different world. She spent hours on FaceTime with Rory, planning routes, gear, budgets. I sat in the same room, listening to her laughter. It was a bright, easy sound—a sound she hadn’t given me in a very long time. It felt like I had already become a ghost in my own apartment. On the third night, she officially laid her cards on the table. “Adam, I’ve made up my mind. We’re leaving on the fifteenth.” I was sitting across from her at the dining table, my fork resting against the rim of my plate. “A guy and a girl, sharing a vehicle for two months in the middle of nowhere. You really think that’s appropriate?” “What’s inappropriate about it?” “So I’m just supposed to sit here and wait for you to cheat on me?” Sally’s face flushed red. She slammed her fork onto the table. “Adam! How dare you? Are you seriously insulting my integrity?” “I’m stating facts.” “The fact is that Rory and I are friends! If you can’t even trust me that much, what’s the point of this relationship?” “My trust isn’t the only thing at play here, Sally. Have you thought about how this looks to anyone else?” “I don’t give a damn about what other people think.” She stood up, leaning her hands on the table, looming over me. “Let’s be honest, Adam. You’re just bitter because you don’t have the means to take me on a trip like this, so you can’t stand the thought of someone else doing it.” The words hit home, sharp and cold. I didn’t answer. She pressed on, her voice dripping with disdain. “Rory has money, free time, and talent. He actually wants to show me the world. What can you offer me? You pull sixty-hour weeks at some dead-end office, and your monthly paycheck doesn’t even cover what he spends on a single weekend.” I looked up at her. Her eyes held a cruel, unvarnished honesty. “So this trip,” I said quietly, “you’re absolutely going, no matter what?” “Yes.” She didn’t hesitate. I nodded. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and opened my chat with Lawrence. I typed a single line. Thirty minutes. Shut down every distribution channel the Spencer family has in this city. Send. The message immediately showed Read. Lawrence replied with three words: On it, sir. I flipped the phone face-down on the table and looked up at Sally. “Go ahead then.” She blinked, clearly caught off guard by my sudden surrender. “You… you’re letting me go?” “I’m not letting you go on a trip.” I stood up and began clearing the plates, taking them into the kitchen. With my back to her, I said the last words I would ever say to her as her partner. “I’m letting you go for good.” 2 Sally didn’t understand. Or maybe she chose not to. “Adam, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” I placed the dishes in the sink and turned on the faucet. The rush of cold water drowned out her steps. “It means the wedding is off. We’re done.” “Are you out of your mind?” She marched into the kitchen, standing at the threshold, her face a storm of anger and disbelief. “You’re throwing away our engagement over a vacation?” I shut off the tap, dried my hands on a dish towel, and turned around. “It’s not about the vacation.” “Then what is it?” “It’s about everything you just said.” She froze. I looked directly into her eyes. “You said Rory has money, time, and talent. You said I can’t offer you anything. You said my monthly salary isn’t worth one of his trips.” “I…” “You have a scale in your heart, Sally. And you don’t weigh love on it. You weigh dollar signs.” Her lips parted, but no sound came out. “Since you think I’m so beneath you, go run to your rich best friend. I won’t stand in your way.” I brushed past her, walked into the study, and grabbed my car keys and jacket. She followed me to the entryway. “Adam! Stop! Calm down! I was just angry, I didn’t mean it!” “People mean exactly what they say when they’re angry.” “Don’t walk out that door—” “I’ll have someone contact your parents about dissolving the engagement.” I pulled the door open and stepped out. Behind me, her voice chased me down the hall—tinged with panic, but mostly laced with that familiar, insulted pride. “Adam! Who the hell do you think you are to call off the wedding? You’re nobody!” I paused in the stairwell. The fluorescent motion-sensor light hummed overhead, casting a harsh, sterile glow. Who do you think you are. I smiled to myself. She was going to find out the answer to that question very, very soon. I drove straight to our corporate headquarters. It wasn’t the modest mid-rise she pictured. It was the tallest skyscraper in downtown Seattle’s financial district. The top floor. Fifty-eighth. The elevator chimed open, and Lawrence was already waiting by the glass doors. Impeccable charcoal suit, a tablet in his hand. “Mr. Sabrina.” “Status?” “The three major developers partnering with the Spencer construction business have already been notified. They will officially terminate all contracts tomorrow morning. We’ve also halted deliveries from our material supply subsidiaries to their waterfront site. And the commercial line of credit Richard Spencer was negotiating? The underwriting department pulled the authorization ten minutes ago.” I walked into my office and sat down. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, the Seattle skyline stretched out beneath me—a glittering sea of lights. Once, Sally and I had looked at those lights and talked about building a life together. Now, it was just cold glass. “Anything else?” “We finished the background check on Rory,” Lawrence said, sliding a digital file onto my desk. “His father, Arthur Rory Senior, runs a high-end used car operation. Rory’s ‘freelance photography’ career is mostly a front to help launder funds for his father’s side businesses. His interest in Sally is purely transactional. Richard Spencer holds the rights to a prime parcel on the waterfront, and the Rorys want in on that development.” I leaned back in my leather chair. So the “pure, platonic friendship” she defended so fiercely was nothing more than a calculated hustle. Rory was playing her to get to her father’s land. And Sally, blind to it all, thought he was just a gentleman wanting to show her the snow peaks. Foolish. “Do you want me to share this with Miss Spencer, sir?” “No.” I stared out at the dark harbor. “Let her figure it out on her own.” Lawrence nodded, then paused. “The engagement… are we making it official tomorrow?” “Yes. Have my mother’s office handle it. If the Spencers try to cause a scene, show them exactly what we hold over them.” “Understood.” Before Lawrence turned to leave, he hesitated. “Sir… you were with her for three years. Are you certain about this?” Three years. Over a thousand days. I remembered buying her ninety-nine roses for her birthday. She’d complained they were cheap, pointing out that Rory had gifted her a vintage Leica camera. I remembered taking her to a luxury resort in Maui, booking an oceanfront suite. She’d posted on Instagram with the caption: Okay for a weekend, but definitely looking forward to better views next time. I transferred fifteen thousand dollars to her account every month for “living expenses.” And just last month, I’d overheard her talking to her friends on the balcony: “Adam’s fine. He’s safe, predictable. We’ll settle down, I guess. At least until something more exciting comes along.” Settle down. Fine. Three years of devotion, reduced to a safety net she was waiting to outgrow. “I’m certain,” I said, setting my teacup down. “Three years was more than enough.” 3 At ten o’clock the next morning, my mother made the call. Victoria Sabrina. Very few people in the Pacific Northwest didn’t know that name. She was the matriarch and founder of the Sabrina Group, a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate. I was her only son. Her sole heir. But since I was twenty-three, I had chosen to live outside the family shadow, wanting to build something of my own. My mother respected my choice, only insisting that Lawrence stay close to manage my security and assets. For three years, I had loved Sally as “Adam, the mid-level corporate employee.” The Spencers had no clue who I actually was. To them, I was a quiet guy with a decent salary and zero family pedigree. Richard Spencer had only tolerated the engagement because Sally insisted on it. At a dinner with his business partners, he’d reportedly said, “My girl fell for a working-class nobody. What can I do? At least the boy is compliant. He’ll make a decent, obedient son-in-law we can run ragged.” Decent. Obedient. Run ragged. Lawrence had reported those words to me at the time. I’d let them slide because I still believed Sally was worth it. She wasn’t. At eleven in the morning, our legal team, led by our lead attorney Thomas Pendelton, arrived at the Spencer residence. Richard Spencer didn’t take them seriously at first. What kind of legal representation could a “working-class boy” afford? But when he opened the door, he found three men in bespoke suits. “Mr. Spencer,” Thomas said calmly. “We represent the Sabrina family. We are here to formally notify you that the engagement between Mr. Adam Sabrina and Miss Sally Spencer is dissolved, effective immediately. Please review the termination agreement.” Richard took the folder, his eyes scanning the first few pages. His smug expression quickly curdled. “What the hell is this? That kid Adam sent you? Who does he think he is, hiring lawyers like this?” Thomas’s face remained impassive. “Mr. Sabrina has every right. Page three outlines the terms. There are no outstanding property disputes, nor is there any request for compensation. We simply require your signature.” “Get the hell out of my house!” Richard slammed the folder onto the floor. “Tell that coward to come face me himself! Lawyers? He can’t afford you!” Thomas bent down, picked up the folder, and brushed off a speck of dust. “Mr. Spencer, I strongly advise you to compose yourself. Furthermore, there are a few pressing matters I must bring to your attention.” He pulled another document from his briefcase. “The three major development projects under your name have had their contracts terminated as of nine this morning. Your material suppliers have ceased all deliveries. And your pending commercial loan application has been officially denied.” Richard froze, the color draining from his face as if he’d been plunged into freezing water. “What… what are you talking about?” “Consider this a courtesy notice,” Thomas said, placing the document on the console table by the door. “Take your time with the dissolution agreement. But I suggest you sign it soon.” The lawyers turned and walked out. Richard stood frozen at the door, holding the termination notice. He couldn’t comprehend it. How had every single one of his business partners, suppliers, and lenders turned against him overnight? Just then, Sally ran down the stairs. “Dad! What’s going on? Who was that?” Richard looked at his daughter, his anger slowly giving way to a cold, creeping dread. “Your fiancé… who is he, really?” 4 Sally scoffed. “Adam? Who is he?” She let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “He’s an office worker who barely pulls six figures. Who else would he be?” Richard’s expression remained grim. He handed her the papers. Sally glanced at them, her smirk faltering. But her immediate reaction wasn’t fear—it was indignation. “This has to be a coincidence. He doesn’t have the power to do this.” She whipped out her phone and dialed my number. The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. She tried again. Same result. “He turned his phone off!” She threw the device onto the sofa. “He’s just throwing a tantrum like a child.” Richard wasn’t listening. He was dialing his business contacts. His first call went straight to voicemail. On his second attempt, a partner answered, his voice hushed and frantic: “Richard, look, I’m sorry. The order came from the very top. I can’t touch your projects without ruining my own company.” The third call was even more brutal: “Richard, you need to figure out who the hell you pissed off. Because whoever they are, they’re burying you. I can’t help you.” Richard’s hand began to shake. He’d been in business for twenty years, and he’d never seen a supply chain collapse this quickly. It was clinical. It was absolute. “Dad, stop panicking,” Sally said, stepping closer. “I’ll go talk to him. He’s just acting out because of the trip—” “Shut up!” Richard roared. Sally flinched, taking a step back. She had never seen her father lose his temper like this. “Do you have any idea what’s happening? Our waterfront projects have been shut down! Our funding is gone! I have thirty million dollars in construction debts due next month! Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?” “But… what does that have to do with Adam?” “He called off the engagement, and within the same hour, my entire business is ruined. You think that’s a coincidence?” Sally bit her lip. A cold knot of anxiety was forming in her stomach, but she refused to acknowledge it. No, Adam couldn’t be some powerful shadow figure. It didn’t make sense. Her phone buzzed. A text from Rory. Hey babe, got the gear packed and the truck ready. We still on for the fifteenth? Alaska is calling! The message felt suddenly jarring. She stared at it, unable to type a reply. Richard took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “I’m going to call some favors. Find out who is pulling the strings.” He spent the entire afternoon on the phone. By eight that evening, an old contact from the bank finally returned his call, his voice barely a whisper: “Richard, you’ve stepped on a landmine. The directive to pull your loans came directly from the executive board of the Sabrina Group. You know who they are, right? They hold half the commercial real estate in the Northwest. Think carefully—how did you offend the Sabrinas?” Richard hung up. The phone slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft thud. Sabrina. Adam. Adam Sabrina. He slowly turned to look at his daughter, who was curled up on the sofa clutching a throw pillow. “Your fiancé,” he whispered, his voice dry. “His last name… is Sabrina.” Sally looked up. “Yeah, so? It’s a common name.” “As in the Sabrina Group.” “Dad, what are you talking about? He lives in a rented apartment, he drives a ten-year-old sedan—” “He lied to you,” Richard said, sinking into his chair as if the bones in his legs had turned to liquid. “He lied to all of us.” “No way…” Sally’s voice trembled. “He couldn’t be…” “Look it up,” her father rasped. “Look it up right now.” Sally unlocked her phone, her fingers shaking so badly she could barely type the words into the search bar: Sabrina Group heir. The search results were sparse; the family kept a notoriously low profile. But there was a single profile from a business journal three years ago. It featured a grainy photograph of a young man leaving a charity gala. The sharp line of his jaw, the quiet, focused gaze. She knew that face. It was Adam.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540690”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The university was hosting a debate tournament. The topic: “If you’re in a committed relationship and the love of your life—your ex—comes back, what do you do?” The affirmative argued for the ex; the negative argued for the current partner. My boyfriend of three years, Chris, chose to speak for the affirmative. My roommate, Zoey, watched me warily, keeping her voice low as if any wrong word might shatter whatever fragile composure I had left. “Maeve…” I forced a small, practiced smile, offering the perfect excuse on Chris’s behalf. “It’s just for the course credits. I’m sure he didn’t want to be on the affirmative side anyway.” But during the free-rebuttal round, things got heated. The third speaker for the negative, his face flushed with adrenaline, gestured sharply toward where I sat in the crowd and shouted: “Chris! Your girlfriend is sitting right there in the audience. Are you seriously standing up there and telling us you’d choose your ex?” Chris didn’t look at me. His gaze drifted, turning distant, as if he were suddenly pulled back into some old, sacred memory. “My current relationship is a perfect score,” he said, his voice echoing through the microphone, steady and heartbreakingly clear. “It’s a flawless paper. But she’s the bonus question I never got to solve, and I’m just not ready to leave it blank.” The auditorium erupted into thundering applause. In my quiet corner of the back row, the sound was deafening, swallowing me whole. Chris won the debate. He got the trophy, the handshakes, the loud cheers of his peers. But he made sure I lost everything. … When the debate ended, Chris practically ran off the stage toward me. He leaned down, bringing his eyes level with mine. “Mae, I only did what I had to do for the grade. You know me. You know I didn’t mean it, right?” I kept my eyes trained on the floor, blinking hard against the hot tears clinging to my eyelashes, refusing to let them fall. The tragedy was that I “did” know him. And because I knew him, I knew he was telling the truth—he truly, deeply, could not let go of that unsolved question. Seeing how quiet I was, Chris tried to soften the air. Like a magician performing a cheap trick, he pulled a cherry lollipop from his coat pocket. He tore open the plastic wrapper with a quick, practiced flick and held it out to me. “Eat something sweet, Mae. It keeps the sad faces away.” Our story had started with a lollipop just like this one. Three years ago, I was living through the darkest winter of my life. My high school sweetheart had ghosted me out of nowhere, cutting me off so cleanly it felt like a physical amputation. Around the same time, my parents finalized their bitter divorce, remarried other people, and decided that since I was eighteen, I was no longer their responsibility. I was a leftover child, suddenly entirely alone. To top it off, I had choked on my finals, missing out on a crucial scholarship by a mere fraction of a GPA point. I remember sitting on a bench in the pouring rain, sobbing hysterically, utterly convinced the world had abandoned me. That was when Chris appeared. He held an umbrella over my head and handed me a lollipop. He told me that if I ate something sweet, my face wouldn’t have to look so sad. Later, I learned that Chris had been going through his own quiet hell that day. His family’s business had collapsed into bankruptcy overnight. His girlfriend had boarded a plane to study abroad without even saying goodbye. And his little sister, whom they couldn’t afford to keep in the clinic, had passed away. The lollipop he gave me was the one his sister loved most—the last gift he’d never got to give her. From that afternoon on, those cheap lollipops became my anchor. Every time my world started to tilt, they brought me back. Maybe we were just two drowning people clinging to each other for warmth, or maybe it was real, but our grief eventually bloomed into love. We fell into a relationship naturally, and we stayed there for three years. I reached out to take the lollipop from him. But just as my fingers brushed the wrapper, a fragile, trembling voice cut through the crowded hallway. “Chris…” Chris stiffened instantly. His hand jerked, and the lollipop slipped from his fingers, hitting the linoleum floor and shattering into a dozen sharp, sugary pieces. He turned around, his eyes instantly turning a raw, painful red as he stared at the girl standing a few feet away. I recognized her instantly. I had seen her face tucked away in a hidden, password-protected folder on his laptop. It was Rebecca Shaw—his great, unfinished love. Rebecca took a tentative step toward him, her voice thick with tears. “Chris… I heard what you said on stage. I came back because I needed to tell you. I didn’t leave you because I wanted to. I had no choice.” Chris let out a harsh, mocking laugh, though his lips trembled. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit. My mind was a chaotic blur. A small, desperate part of me wondered if I had been overthinking things. Maybe he really had moved on. Maybe I could trust him. I squeezed his hand, trying to offer some silent comfort, trying to anchor him to me. But then, Chris stopped. I looked up. He had his eyes closed tightly, his chest heaving as he took a succession of shallow, ragged breaths. When he turned back around to face Rebecca, his voice shook with a desperation he couldn’t hide. “What choice did you have?” Rebecca froze, caught off guard by his sudden demand. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Chris’s expression crumbled, his eyes wild and bloodshot. “You didn’t even bother to think of a lie before coming back? You couldn’t even respect me enough to fake an excuse?” He took a step toward her, his voice rising. “And as for the debate—don’t flatter yourself. It was an assignment. Nothing more. I will hate you for the rest of my life.” But he couldn’t even bear to look at her face. He turned and stumbled blindly out the doors, running away from the very sight of her. In his haste, his heavy boot came down hard on the shattered pieces of the cherry lollipop. The sharp, cracking sound of breaking candy echoed in my ears like a gunshot. He left me standing there, face-to-face with Rebecca. Rebecca walked up to me, her eyes filled with a pity that made my stomach turn. “You see it, don’t you?” she whispered. “He’s still completely in love with me. Staying with him is just humiliating yourself.” She looked me up and down, her voice dripping with condescension. “You’re smart enough to go to this school. You know when to walk away, right?” I didn’t answer. Around us, the whispers of passing students were already starting to swell. “It was such a tragedy when Chris and Rebecca broke up. Even their names sounded like they belonged in a book together.” “Remember when he hijacked the campus radio station to apologize to her? Or when he engraved her initials on his soccer trophy? He literally jumped into the campus lake in November to find her lost ring. You don’t just forget a love like that.” “Honestly, Maeve was always just a placeholder. She got him on the rebound because he was lonely.” It was true. In the three years Chris and I were together, no one in his circle ever really took us seriously. They all whispered that if the Mercer family hadn’t lost their fortune, a guy like Chris would have never looked twice at a girl like me. Our entire relationship felt like something I had stolen, a temporary lease on a life that belonged to someone else. A few people tried to defend me in the crowd. “If he wasn’t over his ex, he shouldn’t have started dating someone else. How is any of this Maeve’s fault?” But those quiet voices were quickly drowned out by the romanticized nostalgia of his past. I walked out of the building and headed toward the wooded hill behind the campus, sitting down on our usual wooden bench. On the back of the wood, our initials were still carved: “M + C”. I traced the letters over and over, my fingers shaking as the tears finally spilled over. A sudden rain began to fall, soaking through my clothes, chilling me to the bone. It occurred to me that exactly three years ago today, on this very bench, in a rainstorm just like this, Chris had found me. But today, there was no umbrella. There was no sweet candy to make the sad face go away. I buried my face in my knees and whispered to the wet grass that when the rain stopped, I would let him go. A few minutes later, the downpour abruptly ceased to hit my back. But the sound of water splashing nearby kept going. I looked up. Chris was standing in front of me, holding an umbrella over my head. Just like three years ago. The dam broke, and I sobbed, loud and ugly, right there in the open air. I didn’t understand why happiness was always something dangled in front of me, only to be yanked away the moment I reached out to touch it. Chris dropped to his knees and pulled me gently into his arms. “Mae, please don’t cry. I’m so sorry. I lost my temper, and I never should have left you there alone. I’m so sorry.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another lollipop, his eyes pleading. “Look, I got you a new one. Don’t cry, okay?” The gentler his voice was, the more it broke me. The word “breakup” was lodged in my throat like a stone, heavy and unspeakable. He helped me up, tilting the umbrella so it covered me completely while the rain beat down on his shoulders. “Come on. Let me walk you back to your dorm.” But as we took our first step, Rebecca’s voice cut through the rain again. She was standing on the path behind us, completely drenched, without an umbrella. “Chris… are you really just going to abandon me?” This time, Chris’s face was entirely blank. He didn’t even look back. He kept his hand firmly on my shoulder, guiding me forward, away from her. Then came the sound of splashing water—a frantic, clumsy run, followed by a dull, heavy thud. Rebecca had tripped on the slick pavement, falling hard into a puddle. She lay there, clutching her ankle, letting out a sharp cry of pain. That sound seemed to strike Chris right in the chest. He stopped dead in his tracks. He let out a long, slow breath, then turned to me and handed me the umbrella. “Mae, go inside and take a hot shower. Don’t catch a cold, okay? Just go on up.” He didn’t wait for me to argue. He turned around and walked back down the path toward Rebecca. Seeing him approach, Rebecca reached up with her pale, trembling arms. “Chris… I knew you wouldn’t leave me.” Chris looked down at her, his voice freezing cold. “This is the last time. Don’t ever seek me out again.” He bent down and lifted her into his arms. Rebecca smiled through her tears, her hands naturally wrapping around his neck. I stood under the umbrella, watching them disappear into the gray mist, my chest feeling as cold and hollow as the rain. I don’t know how long I stood there before I finally turned and walked the other way. When I reached my dorm, I closed the umbrella, walked over to the trash bin outside the lobby, and tossed it inside. The resident advisor saw me and jogged over. “Oh, sweetie, that’s a perfectly good umbrella. Are you sure you want to throw it away?” I gave her a quiet, empty smile. “Yes,” I said. “I don’t need it anymore.” I didn’t need the umbrella. And I didn’t need him. I went upstairs, took a long shower, and dried my hair. When I reached for my phone to check the campus forum out of habit, Zoey suddenly snatched it out of my hand. “Mae, you’ve been on your phone too much today. It’s bad for your eyes,” she said quickly, her voice unnaturally bright. “Yeah, seriously,” our other roommate, Sarah, chimed in. “Blow-dry your hair, and let’s go grab some diner food. My treat.” I looked at their anxious faces, the tension in their shoulders. “What’s going on? What is on my phone that you don’t want me to see?” They exchanged a nervous glance, their forced smiles faltering. “Nothing, really. We just realized we haven’t had a girls’ night in forever.” I sighed gently. “Give me the phone, guys. You can’t keep me in a bubble forever.” I took the phone back and opened the student forum. A headline pinned to the top of the feed made my blood run cold: “Maeve: The Gold-Digging Homewrecker Who Ruined a Perfect Love.” I clicked on it. The comment section was a toxic wasteland of vitriol. “Honestly, Chris and Rebecca were soulmates. Maeve just saw an opportunity when Rebecca went abroad and leaped on him. Pathetic.” “I bet she sat on that bench every single day waiting to trap him. Who else sits in a rainstorm on purpose?” “No wonder her parents abandoned her the second she turned eighteen. Clearly, there’s something fundamentally wrong with her.” The words sliced through the fragile scars I had spent three years trying to build, tearing them open to bleed in public. My family, my past—I had only ever shared those secrets with one person. Chris. I knew he wouldn’t post this himself. He wasn’t that cruel. Which meant there was only one other person who could have done it: Rebecca. I couldn’t believe that within twelve hours of her return, Chris had already handed her the weapons to destroy me. Before I could scroll any further, my phone buzzed. Chris’s name flashed on the screen. When I answered, his voice was as gentle as it always was, but it no longer carried the power to soothe me. “Did you take that hot shower? I ordered a ginger tea to your dorm lobby. I got one for your roommates too, so you don’t have to walk down into the cold air to get it.” He was still so attentive, so careful with the logistics of my life. But I was done playing the game. “Have you seen the forum?” I asked, cutting through his pleasantries. I expected him to play dumb, but he didn’t. He answered with a heavy quiet. “Yes.” “Rebecca posted it, didn’t she?” I braced myself for him to defend her, to accuse me of being paranoid. But again, his honesty was brutal. “Yes. It was her.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “Then why haven’t you cleared my name?” A soft sigh traveled through the receiver. “Maeve… if the school finds out why she really left three years ago, she’ll be absolutely ruined. The online mob will tear her apart.” He paused. “I’ve already talked to her. She knows she was wrong.” “I’ve already talked to her.” My privacy had been violated, my painful past broadcasted to thousands of strangers, and my reputation dragged through the mud—and all it warranted was a polite scolding behind closed doors. I couldn’t stop the bitter laugh that escaped my lips. “And what about me, Chris? Will the online mob not tear me apart?” “Mae, the truth always wins in the end. People will move on. You know who you are.” I looked at my reflection in the dark window pane, feeling a profound, cold clarity. He knew everything. He knew Rebecca was selfish, that she had abandoned him when he was poor, and that she was currently trying to ruin my life. He knew her flaws, and yet he still loved her. And he loved me simply because I was “good.” I was the safe harbor, the girl who didn’t cause trouble. In that moment, the contrast was painfully clear. I used to think that letting go of someone you loved was a long, agonizing process filled with sleepless nights, empty bottles, and screaming at the ceiling. But as I sat there, the weight of the last three years simply evaporated. I just felt tired. And finished. “Chris,” I said softly, my voice barely a whisper. “Let’s break up.” In that exact second, a loud, frantic voice echoed on his end of the line. I heard Rebecca calling his name in panic. “Mae, something’s happening. I have to go, I’ll call you right back,” he said hurriedly, and the line went dead. I didn’t care enough to wonder what drama had called him away. I put my phone on silent, crawled into bed, and closed my eyes. But sleep didn’t bring peace. I dreamed of my parents walking away from me at a crowded train station, of my high school ex turning his back on me, of the bench in the pouring rain. When I finally woke up, Zoey was sitting on the edge of my bed, her eyes full of concern. “Mae… you were crying in your sleep. Are you okay?” I wiped my face, finding it damp. “I’m fine.” “Okay. Well, get dressed. We have the department dinner tonight.” I had forgotten. Chris and I shared the same major, which meant we shared the same academic advisor. Every two months, the department organized a dinner at a local restaurant to keep everyone connected. As the student representative, I couldn’t skip it without looking unprofessional. When I arrived at the private dining room, Chris was already there. Rebecca was sitting right next to him, laughing at something she had just said. Chris’s face was neutral, but I knew him well enough to spot the faint, relaxed curve at the corner of his mouth. A few students at the end of the table looked up, their eyes darting between me and the couple. “Well, look who it is. The perfect score has arrived,” one of Chris’s friends muttered under his breath, loud enough for the table to hear. Against such mockery, Chris did nothing to stop him. Zoey stepped forward, her mouth opening to defend me, but I laid a hand on her arm, shaking my head. It wasn’t worth the energy. I walked to the far end of the long table, taking the seat furthest from Chris, and quietly ate my dinner. Halfway through the night, whether from the chill of the rain or the tension in the room, my stomach started to ache. I excused myself to the restroom. When I came out to wash my hands, Chris was waiting by the sinks. “Mae,” he said, stepping into my path. “Rebecca doesn’t really have any friends here yet. That’s why she sat next to me. I knew you had Zoey and the others, so I figured you wouldn’t feel lonely.” He called her Rebecca now. Not “my ex,” not “her.” Just Rebecca. When I didn’t reply, he pressed on. “Mae, she’s not staying here permanently. But we are. We both got accepted into the graduate program here. We have our entire lives ahead of us. Please don’t let a temporary situation make you insecure.” Before I could speak, one of his friends, Connor, walked into the hallway. “Hey, Chris. Rebecca’s had a bit too much to drink. She’s asking for you.” Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, looking exasperated. “She always does this. She knows she can’t handle her liquor.” Despite the complaint in his voice, his feet were already moving, rushing back toward the dining room before Connor could even finish his sentence. Once Chris was out of earshot, Connor turned to me, his expression cold and critical. “You should just do the right thing and step aside,” he said. “Save yourself the embarrassment.” I knew Connor had never liked me. In his eyes, a girl with no family and a mediocre background was a stain on Chris’s potential. Whenever we hung out, he always called me “Maeve,” formal and distant. But Rebecca was always “Becca.” I let out a slow, steady breath. “I don’t remember asking for your advice on my life, Connor.” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Suit yourself. Keep humiliating yourself if you want.” On the way back to the table, I bumped into our advisor, Dr. Sterling, who was standing near the coat rack. I looked at him, feeling a sudden, liberating wave of certainty. “Dr. Sterling, I’m sorry, but I won’t be accepting the graduate offer here. I’ve decided to attend the University of Texas at Austin instead.” He looked toward the dining room, where Rebecca was currently leaning her head on Chris’s shoulder, then looked back at me with a soft, understanding sigh. He patted my shoulder gently. “I understand, Maeve. Go do what you need to do.” When I went back inside, Rebecca was practically glowing, her face flushed as she rested against Chris’s chest. “She’s just a little drunk, Maeve. Don’t take it personally,” someone called out. I didn’t answer. I smiled at the rest of the table. “Is everyone finished? I’ll go take care of the bill.” As the student rep, I had the department card. The line at the host stand was long, and by the time I returned to the room, most of the students had already left. Only Chris, his core group of friends, and a semi-conscious Rebecca remained. “Chris, seriously, what are you doing?” Connor was asking, leaning over the table. “Rebecca’s back. Who are you choosing?” Chris stared blankly at the polished wood of the table. After a long, agonizing silence, he spoke. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “But Maeve is my girlfriend. I have to be responsible for her. Rebecca is going to leave eventually to finish her degree anyway. Once this period is over, things will go back to normal.” As he spoke, Rebecca murmured something in her sleep, shifting closer into his side. Chris’s arm tightened around her automatically. He looked down at her with a tenderness that made my stomach drop. “Just let me have this one last moment,” he whispered. In the weeks that followed, I didn’t reach out to Chris, and he didn’t reach out to me. It wasn’t until I was in the library, researching the prerequisites for my new curriculum, that I ran into them again. The moment our eyes met, Chris dropped Rebecca’s hand as if he had been burned. When he saw that my expression remained entirely neutral, he let out a subtle sigh of relief and walked over, sliding into the empty chair next to mine. He glanced at the textbooks spread out in front of me, his brow furrowing. “Are you studying the wrong material? These aren’t the courses for our graduate track here.” I didn’t want him to know about Austin yet. Before I could formulate a lie, Rebecca stepped up behind him. “Maeve is a straight-A student, Chris. She probably just reads this stuff for fun. Stop micro-managing her.” Chris seemed to accept that. He gave her a fond, teasing smile. “True. Mae’s always been the smart one. Unlike you, who only went to Europe to slack off.” Rebecca giggled, tapping his shoulder playfully. I felt a physical wave of nausea. I truly did not understand how he could live like this—maintaining this effortless, agonizing equilibrium between two different women. Just then, Zoey walked up to the table. She gave Chris an icy glare. “Excuse me. You’re in my seat.” Chris stood up quickly, offering a polite nod. “Sure. Mae, make sure you eat something when you’re done studying.” I didn’t look up. I just kept writing. By dinnertime, the library had cleared out, but I stayed behind, determined to finish the last set of advanced calculus problems. Zoey and the others had gone to grab food, leaving me alone in the quiet stacks. A few minutes later, a bag of takeout and a carton of milk were set gently on the corner of my desk. I looked up to see a freshman library assistant. “Are you Maeve?” I nodded. “Some guy named Chris asked me to bring this to you. He said you always forget to eat when you’re studying and that you need to take care of yourself.” I stared at the paper bag. He knew me well enough to predict my habits. He knew I would skip dinner. Yet he had ordered sweet and sour cod—a dish he knew I absolutely despised. A love so careless, so divided, was something I had no use for anymore. The semester blurred by, and soon the day arrived to check the graduate admission results. When I logged into the portal and saw the acceptance notification from UT Austin, I knew my future was secure. A few days later, the university published the official list of accepted students for our local graduate program. Chris searched the list cover to cover, but my name was nowhere to be found. I was walking back from the campus mailroom, holding the physical acceptance package from Austin in my hands, feeling a quiet sense of triumph. It had been a long, hard road, but I was finally free. Before I could even savor the feeling, Chris appeared at the end of the path. He looked like he had been running across campus for hours, his chest heaving, his face pale. “Maeve! Why isn’t your name on the graduate list? What happened? Was there a mistake with your paperwork?” Then his eyes fell on the package in my hands. The logo of the University of Texas was printed clearly across the front. The color drained entirely from his face. “Mae… you’re going to Austin?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540689”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Working through the night to pull the project across the finish line left me running on fumes. My first instinct when it was over was to text Willie, to ask him out for a nice dinner and celebrate. But opening our chat, the reality of us hit me: we hadn’t spoken in nearly two weeks. The little digital spark that kept our thread alive had flickered out three years ago. The screen still held his last messages: [Bella, stop being mad over such a petty thing.] [I have to help my mentee prep her competition portfolio tonight. Don’t wait up, I’ll bring you an iced latte on my way back.] He was busy guiding a young girl through her career. I was busy working, chasing deadlines, squeezing onto crowded subway cars. I’d forgotten to reply. I’d even forgotten what little thing had triggered our latest silent war. Staring at the glowing screen, a quiet realization washed over me—I had, without a sound, slipped right out of his life. … I locked my phone and went to get fondue at a cozy spot downtown I hadn’t visited in ages. The waitress was wiping down a table when I walked in. She froze, rag in hand. “Oh,” she said, looking up. “You haven’t been here in a month, right?” I hesitated for a second. “Yeah. Been busy.” She glanced behind me. “Just one? Where’s your boyfriend?” My hand paused on the back of the chair. “We broke up.” Those words, once so terrifying to speak, slipped out of my mouth with an almost eerie ease. Natural. Light. She let out a soft “oh,” her face tightening with a brief, awkward sympathy. “Then… where would you like to sit? Your usual spot?” “Yes, please.” She led me to the booth by the window. It was a table set for two, with an extra, useless set of forks and a dipping plate resting on the opposite side. As I sat down, my mind drifted. Right after high school graduation, when we first started dating, we stumbled across a meme listing the ‘ten levels of loneliness.’ Eating fondue alone was level eight. I had forwarded it to him with a crying emoji. He replied instantly: [Don’t worry, you’ll never hit level eight.] [Why?] I had asked. [Because I’ll always be sitting right across from you, cooking your steak skewers.] Followed by three little pig emojis. I had laughed for a long time, saving a screenshot of that exchange. And for a long time, I really never ate fondue alone. From high school through college, and then into our working years, he was always there. He would always snatch the meat out of the boiling broth just as it cooked, dipping it in the garlic-butter sauce and putting it on my plate with a familiar tease: “Look at you, so clumsy.” But eventually, I learned to ride the subway alone. I worked until midnight alone. I sat in the ER with an IV drip alone. I spent birthdays and anniversaries alone. I even went to try on wedding dresses alone. Being alone, I realized, wasn’t actually that hard. The pot arrived, the seasoned broth bubbling in the center of the table. I lowered a beef skewer into the broth, watching it cook. He used to insist on doing this, claiming his timing kept the meat tender. I lifted a piece to my mouth, the hot broth stinging the tip of my tongue, numbing it. The numbness let my thoughts wander. Was this actually a breakup? Neither of us had uttered the words. I couldn’t even remember the details of our last fight. I just remembered slamming the door, him leaving for the lab to review data, and then those final two texts. He had brought home the iced latte that night. I didn’t drink it, and he never asked why. We became like two roommates sharing a lease, polite enough to take turns changing the trash bags, but nothing more. I didn’t know who stopped talking first. I just remembered coming home late one night to the sound of his voice echoing from the study. He was on a Zoom call, his tone incredibly patient, explaining a concept, punctuated by a couple of light, easy laughs. I stood by the door for a moment before going in to grab my charger. He looked up, gave a brief nod, and immediately returned his eyes to the screen. It was a shared presentation. In the corner of the screen was the avatar that used to trigger an instant argument within three seconds—his mentee, Daisy. He didn’t bother to hide it, and I no longer cared. I grabbed the charger and walked out. That night, we lay in bed, a pillow’s worth of empty space stretching between us. He slept with his back to me, his breathing steady and even. I stared at the back of his head for what felt like hours, wondering: if I spoke right now, would he turn around? But I forgot if I ever made a sound. The next morning, he was gone before I woke, the sheets cold. On the kitchen island lay some breakfast, pinned down by a sticky note: [Meeting tonight. Won’t be home for dinner.] And that was how we lived. The waitress came over to refill the broth. “Miss, your couples’ membership is about to expire,” she said, holding the heavy metal pitcher as steam billowed from the spout. “It’s the ten-year anniversary promotion we ran—deposit five hundred, get a thousand. There’s still about two hundred dollars left on it. I asked the manager, and you can still renew it with the bonus if you do it today.” Before I could answer, the chimes above the door jingled. Willie walked in, followed by a young woman. Ponytail, white jacket, a camera slung around her neck. “Stand under the light, Boss! Let me take a quick photo,” she said, tugging lightly at his sleeve. “Let’s eat first. You’ve been starving yourself these past few days.” “No way! You’ve been mentoring me for three whole years, practically living at my place to help me prep. Now that I’ve won the gold prize, I need a picture to commemorate this,” she insisted. He shook his head with a fond smile, reaching out to gently disentangle her camera strap from her jacket zipper. “Watch what you say.” “I’m serious,” she said, clicking the shutter and peering at the screen. “Oh, by the way, isn’t today your anniversary with your girlfriend? Won’t she be upset that you’re celebrating with me?” He paused. “It’s fine. She knows I’m busy. She doesn’t mind.” “Really?” Daisy beamed, grabbing his arm. “That’s great! Let’s order. I want the triple cheese fondue.” He took a couple of steps with her, then his eyes drifted up and locked onto me. His footsteps halted. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, then slipped it back in. “Bella. You’re here.” I didn’t stand up. My fork held a roasted potato wedge. “Yeah,” I said. “Having fondue.” Ten years of shared habits meant we even picked the exact same restaurant to celebrate. He was celebrating his mentee’s big win. I was celebrating the completion of a project that would secure my partnership at the firm. But both of us had forgotten that today was our ten-year anniversary. Daisy leaned over to look at my table. “Oh, a split-pot broth. You’re so cute, sitting all by yourself with a half-Cajun, half-garlic-wine broth.” Willie stood by the edge of the booth, silent. Daisy had already raised her camera, snapping photos of the bubbling cheese, then turning to the window to photograph the streetlights and passersby. “Let me take one of you,” she said, aiming the lens directly at my face. “I’ll title it: ‘Eating Fondue Alone: Which Level of Loneliness Is This?’” The shutter clicked. My hand froze. The potato wedge slipped back into the boiling broth, splashing a tiny drop of hot liquid onto the table. “Delete it.” Daisy blinked, lowering the camera. “Excuse me?” “The photo. Delete it.” Daisy looked at the camera screen, then up at Willie. He stood there, a slight crease forming between his brows. “Bella, it’s just a picture. Don’t make a scene.” “I said, delete it,” I repeated, staring directly at him. Willie’s frown deepened. “Why do you always have to make things difficult for her? It’s just a photo. It’s not like she’s going to post it anywhere.” I stood up, stepped around the table, and reached for the camera. Daisy took a step back, feigning a stumble, her elbow jerking outward. The camera strap whipped across my wrist. My hand swerved, knocking directly into the dipping ramekin on the edge of the table. Warm garlic butter splattered across the wood, some of it catching my hand. I winced, pulling back. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Daisy cried. “Are you okay?” Willie stepped forward, reaching for my wrist. “Did you get burned? Let me see—” I ignored him, snatched the camera from her hands, and deleted the photo myself. Daisy bit her lower lip, her voice dropping to a meek whisper. “I really didn’t mean to… I just tripped…” Willie looked at me, his gaze briefly passing over my reddened hand. “Clean yourself up. I’ll get her settled at another table and come right back.” They walked to a table three rows over. The waitress hurried over with some burn ointment. “About the membership card…” she said awkwardly. “Should we… renew it?” I looked down at the bubbling broth. “No. Don’t renew it.” I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my boss: [I’ll take the partner track. A girl’s got to afford her own fondue.] As I looked up, I caught Willie watching me from a distance. It was the same look he always gave me whenever I threw a tantrum—patient, slightly amused, waiting for me to cool down and soothe myself. I wondered how he could be so distracted. After all, the new favorite was right beside him; the old love was just background noise. He always prided himself on ‘knowing what mattered.’ The first time I realized there was a new girl in his lab was when she called him, sobbing because her PowerPoint wouldn’t open. That night, I was meeting his parents for the very first time. He left halfway through dinner, leaving me to face them alone. Back then, though frustrated, I convinced myself to be understanding. She was just a rookie; mentors had to mentor. But then she started calling him at midnight to ‘discuss sudden inspiration.’ He would slip on a jacket, head out to the balcony, and talk for two hours. Then she began using his database credentials. To make things easy, he changed his password to her birthday. By the time she claimed the front passenger seat of his car as her personal spot, we had fought more times than I could count. I was never good at arguing. I would repeat the same line: “Can you please remember who your actual girlfriend is?” He wasn’t good at arguing either. He would always shoot back: “She’s just a student. Stop being so petty.” Afterward, he would lock himself in the study, and I would cry in the living room. Eventually, the screaming stopped, replaced by cold silence. One day, three days, a week… neither of us would speak. Until I would ask him to bring me a cup of coffee. Even though he knew my order by heart, he would still ask me what kind of milk I wanted, every single time. And that was how we ‘made up.’ It felt like if I didn’t bow my head first, this relationship would simply cease to exist. … Daisy tugged at Willie’s sleeve, pointing at the menu. He leaned down, his profile softening, his dimples vanishing into a smile. I ate my last piece of potato, stood up, and went to the front counter to pay. The cashier looked up. “Oh, your table has already been paid for, ma’am. Your boyfriend,” she pointed toward their table, “that gentleman over there paid.” I glanced over. He was currently dipping a fresh piece of chicken into cheese for Daisy, teasing her: “Look at you, suddenly losing your appetite when the food actually gets here.” Daisy laughed, pushing his shoulder. I turned back to the cashier. “Ex-boyfriend.” The cashier blinked. “Oh… then…” “It’s fine.” I pulled out my phone to Venmo him the money. I typed out: [Sending you the money for dinner. We—] The cursor blinked. That was when I noticed the green bubble at the bottom of our chat. [I’ll take the partner track. A girl’s got to afford her own fondue.] My fingers froze for two long seconds. In my rush, I had sent the message meant for my boss to Willie. His chat was still pinned to the top of my list. We had texted about date nights thousands of times over the years. [Fondue tonight?] [My treat, you pay.] My thumbs had simply acted on a decade of muscle memory. No wonder he had paid my bill. He actually thought I couldn’t afford dinner. I stared at the text, letting out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. I turned and walked out. As the door swung open, the warm, savory aroma of the restaurant hit my back like a gentle push, nudging me out into the cool night. I had only reached the streetlamp when I heard hurried footsteps behind me. He was running, his coat fluttering in the wind. “I told you to wait for me,” he said, a touch of exasperated affection in his voice—the exact tone he used whenever he did something nice and I failed to show proper gratitude. “Why did you just leave?” I stopped. He stood in front of me, slipping off his jacket to drape it over my shoulders. “Look at you, moving up in the world,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. “Making partner? No wonder you’re working so hard. You can eat all the fondue you want now.” He patted my shoulder. “Come on. The car’s parked over there.” He took a few steps, then paused, expecting me to follow. It was so natural. Just like all those times he locked himself in the study, waiting for me to finish crying before I’d go knock on his door to ask him to open a bottle of water for me. He assumed this time would be no different. The words gathered in my throat. But before I could speak, a sharp gasp came from the steps nearby. Daisy was leaning against a billboard, clutching her ankle, keeping her foot off the ground. She looked over, her voice laced with panic. “Boss… I’m okay. I just twisted it a little…” Willie froze. Daisy waved her hand dismissively. “Go ahead. I’ll just sit here for a bit. Don’t worry about me…” She tried to take a step, stumbled, and grabbed the billboard again. Willie looked at me. It was a glance so fleeting I didn’t even have time to utter the word ‘breakup’ before he turned and ran back to her. “Don’t move,” he called out. “Stay right there. Let me look.” The wind swept under the streetlamp. The jacket he had draped over my shoulders slipped, falling silently onto the pavement. I bent down, picked it up, brushed off the dust, and hung it over the metal railing nearby. Then I turned and walked away. When we first got together, there was no grand confession. We were having fondue, he put a piece of steak on my plate and said, “Let’s eat like this forever,” and I said, “Okay.” It was as natural as water flowing downstream. And so was the end. We didn’t need a formal date to sit down and discuss it. Every time he looked at his phone instead of listening to me, every time he shut the study door, every time he ran to her side… those two words had already been written. I had just refused to read them. I pulled out my phone as I walked. My boss’s contact had a red notification dot. I tapped it. [To become a partner, you must accept an overseas relocation. It’s a three-year minimum at the London office. Think it over carefully.] The cursor blinked in the input box. I typed: [Are flights reimbursed?] The phone buzzed instantly with a facepalm emoji from my boss, followed by a thumbs-up. [Only you would ask about that.] I locked the screen and slipped the phone into my pocket. At the intersection ahead, a right turn led to the subway; a left turn led back to the apartment we shared. I turned right. Standing behind the yellow line on the platform, I watched my reflection in the glass barrier doors. My expression was flat—neither crying nor smiling, just tired. My bags were already packed and stored at the office. I had known this partnership was mine for the taking. And I had known, for a long time, that I didn’t want him anymore.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540688”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother was the housekeeper for the Whitmores. From the moment I was old enough to walk, Hudson Whitmore treated me as his shadow. In elementary school, while other kids went home to watch cartoons, I was dragged along to his private tutoring sessions. In middle school, I stood by him during a chaotic street fight. He walked away without a single scratch, but a stray wooden plank caught me right across the forehead. Hudson cried the entire time he carried me on his back, running to three different emergency rooms in the pouring rain. The wound eventually healed, but it left a permanent white scar. By high school, the age of sudden flushes and secret pining, Hudson fell hard for the school’s golden girl. With an infectious, bright-eyed excitement, he enlisted me to draft his love letters, pick up her favorite breakfasts, and help him select the perfect gifts. I became his silent, loyal accomplice—a shadow he couldn’t shake—forced to choreograph every beat of his courtship. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, right before our final college prep exams, he turned to m and said: “Isla mentioned she’s always wanted a personal assistant like I have. Why don’t you go help her out for a few months?” For the first time in my life, I said no. He frowned, annoyed. “Cassie, don’t you love me? Why can’t you just do this one little thing for me?” The second the words left his mouth, he froze, realizing exactly what he had let slip. I looked at him, slowly. He knew. He had always known. … Loving Hudson Whitmore was the most agonizing, helpless secret of my youth. He was the golden heir to a real estate empire; I was just the stray dog living under his family’s roof. I was three when we first met. My parents had just divorced, and my mother, red-eyed and trembling, carried me into the Whitmore estate. Four-year-old Hudson sat on the plush living room rug playing with Lego bricks. He frowned up at my mother and said, “I don’t like crying kids. Make her be quiet.” My mother quickly pulled me close, bowing her head to apologize to the four-year-old heir. Then, she ushered me into her small, windowless bedroom off the kitchen. For many years, that windowless room was my world, and I learned to be incredibly quiet. I trailed behind Hudson like a keychain dangling from his backpack—a convenient, disposable fixture in his life. In elementary school, he would grab my arm as soon as the bell rang. “Advanced math tutoring today,” he’d announce, taking it for granted. I hated those classes. They were designed for elite kids. The instructors flew through the material, I struggled to keep up, and nobody ever spoke to me—except to whisper giggles and call me the “charity case.” But Hudson refused to let me leave. Once, while packing up my bag, I gathered the courage to ask him in a small voice, “Why do you always make me come with you?” Without looking up from his textbooks, he muttered, “Because I get bored alone.” Because he got bored. That single, selfish whim tethered my entire childhood to his side. Whenever classmates asked who I was, Hudson would offer a dismissive shrug: “Just the housekeeper’s kid. My shadow.” The moment those words were spoken, the pitying or contemptuous stares would settle over me like heavy dust. My elementary school years were entirely defined by those looks. Once, I asked my mother if we could rent a place of our own. She rubbed her calloused hands together, looking so terribly conflicted as she sat on our narrow single bed, scanning cheap rental listings on her phone late into the night. I didn’t sleep a wink either. The next morning, I pretended it was all a joke. “I was just being silly yesterday,” I told her, offering a practiced smile. “The Whitmores’ place is great, and Hudson is really nice to me.” I don’t know if she believed me, but she smiled, stroked my hair with her rough fingers, and hurried to the kitchen to prepare Hudson’s breakfast. I understood from a very young age: Hudson was gold, and I was dirt. The chasm between us was insurmountable. To fall in love with him despite knowing this was nothing short of emotional masochism. But love is rarely logical, and when the shift happened, I was entirely off guard. It was our freshman year of high school when Hudson got into a fight with a group of older boys from the vocational school down the street. In the chaotic blur of fists, someone swung a heavy wooden bat toward his head. I didn’t think; my body just moved on instinct. I threw myself over him. The next second, a blinding agony struck my temple, the world went black, and warm blood began pouring down my face. Everything dissolved into panic. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Hudson scream my name: “Cassie!” In the dim streetlights, I saw his beautiful, terrified face. He scooped me onto his back and ran through the downpour, trying three different emergency rooms before finding one that could take me. When I finally woke up, the first thing I saw was his bloodshot, tear-swollen eyes. He was kneeling by the hospital bed, completely drenched, his voice raw and cracking. “Does it hurt?” It hurt terribly. But seeing him look so utterly broken, I shook my head, entirely under his spell. The doctor told us there would be a permanent scar. Hudson sat in silence for a long time before whispering, “Cassie, I’m sorry.” It was the very first time he had ever apologized to me. Watching this proud, rumpled boy crying over me, my heart felt strangely, foolishly light. “It’s not your fault,” I whispered back. “The wood was just too hard.” As high school progressed, Hudson grew even more magnetic and popular, yet he still demanded my presence at every turn. He even playfully threatened me, insisting I had to get into Columbia University with him. When I agreed, his smile was so radiant it eclipsed everything around us, making my chest tighten with a dangerous hope. I believed this was our forever. I actually allowed myself to dream. Then, during our junior year, a transfer student arrived: Isla. She was brilliant, effortlessly beautiful, and immediately knocked Hudson off his throne as the top humanities student in our class. At first, Hudson dismissed her as a try-hard, but soon, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. One evening during study hall, Hudson stopped me. His ears were flushed a deep crimson as he slid a pale blue envelope across the desk. “Cassie, read this for me. Tell me if the letter sounds right.” My heart dropped into a hollow pit, but I reached out and took it. “Who’s it for?” “Isla.” In that exact moment, the old scar on my forehead flared, aching as if the wound had been ripped wide open again. I breathed through the pain, kept my face perfectly still, and said, “Okay.” From then on, I was the architect of his courtship. When he struggled with his prose, I polished his love letters. When he didn’t know what pastries she liked, I quietly found out. When he couldn’t choose a gift, I spent hours scanning storefronts with him. I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of jealousy, wearing a placid mask of indifference while managing the logistics of his romance. I couldn’t let a single soul—least of all Hudson—discover my pathetic, unrequited, teenage pining. And so, for an entire year, I carried my own heart’s execution orders to the girl he wanted. But even as our final exams loomed, Isla hadn’t accepted him. Hudson grew restless and irritable. One afternoon, he sighed and said, “Isla told me she thinks it’s so cool that I have someone looking out for me all the time. Cassie, why don’t you go be her assistant for a few months? Just to help me win her over.” The air in the room suddenly felt freezing. My fingers turned numb. I looked at him, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t nod. Oblivious to the shift, his tone remained casually cruel. “I mean, what’s the difference? If Isla and I end up together, she’ll basically be your boss anyway.” I lifted my chin, my voice barely a whisper as I spoke the words I should have said years ago. “No. I won’t do that.” Hudson blinked, stunned. His expression hardened. “What do you mean, no?” I couldn’t begin to explain the quiet, humiliating agony of my teenage heart. I merely repeated, “I don’t want to.” He stared down at me, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s a simple favor, Cassie. Why are you making a federal case out of it?” I turned to walk away, but his hand shot out, wrapping tightly around my wrist. In the tense silence, a cold, mocking laugh escaped his lips. “Come on. You’re in love with me, aren’t you? Why can’t you do this one little thing for me if you care so much?” Every muscle in my body locked. My deepest, most fragile secret had been ripped open and exposed to the harsh light of day. I couldn’t even attempt to cover it. I just stared at him in sheer, horrified disbelief. He knew. He had always known how I felt, yet he still made me write those letters. He still made me buy those gifts. To him, my devotion wasn’t something to protect—it was a cheap tool he could exploit. Seeing the blood drain from my face, his smugness vanished, replaced by sudden panic. He dropped my wrist as if it burned him. “Look… if you don’t want to, forget it. Just go home and study. Don’t forget, we promised we’re going to Columbia together.” I didn’t say a word. Go to Columbia? For what? To spend another four years playing the unpaid maid to his perfect love story with Isla? That afternoon, I left school without waiting for him for the very first time. Halfway down the block, Isla stepped out to block my path. “I heard you and Hudson had a fight because of me,” she said gently. “You don’t need to do that. I’m never going to date him anyway. I like someone else.” Gathering her courage, she looked toward the shadow of a maple tree a few yards away. A boy was leaning against the trunk under the dim streetlight. Even in the gloom, I recognized him instantly: Wright Mercer, the brilliant, quiet valedictorian of the science department. He was aloof, strikingly handsome, with a sharp, guarded edge—like fresh snow on a high mountain peak. He stood in the cool evening air, his calm eyes fixed on us. Isla’s cheeks flushed. “So,” she whispered, “please don’t let him make you feel small on my account.” With that, she turned and hurried away. Wright didn’t leave. Instead, he began walking toward me. I stood frozen; though we shared a few classes, we had barely spoken, aside from the occasional times I’d asked him to explain a difficult physics problem. He stopped a foot away, looking down at my tear-rimmed eyes. His voice was level, almost detached. “Stop helping other people chase after what they want.” He paused. “It’s a bad look on you.” A sharp, bitter ache flared in my chest. “No wonder he barely talks,” I thought miserably. “When he does, he’s incredibly blunt.” I turned to leave, but then I spotted Hudson stepping out of the school gates, scanning the street anxiously. My stomach dropped; I couldn’t face him right now. Before I could panic, Wright shifted his weight, his tall frame perfectly blocking me from Hudson’s line of sight. “…Thank you,” I murmured. “Don’t mention it,” Wright replied, his tone as steady as ever. “Are you really going to Columbia?” “I…” “Columbia is fine for humanities, but Emory has a far better program for your major. Columbia isn’t your best option.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hudson give up his search and head down the street. I took a step back from Wright. “I know.” When I got home, I helped my mother prep dinner for the Whitmores before retreating to my windowless room. On my desk lay a fresh stack of scientific journals. It was Hudson’s classic way of offering an olive branch. When we were kids and I couldn’t afford books, he would hand down his old ones. But those gestures were never free. They were always offered right after he had done something particularly thoughtless, a quiet transaction to buy my forgiveness. He had always treated me this way—even his charity carried a price tag. If I kept the journals, it meant I was erasing the slate. No matter how deeply he had cut me. The next morning, Hudson was waiting for me in the dining room, looking exactly as he always did. In his mind, because the journals were on my desk, all was forgiven. He fell right back into his old, demanding rhythm. “Why were you walking with Wright Mercer yesterday?” he asked, pouring himself orange juice. “He’s a stick in the mud. What could you possibly have to say to him? Stay away from him.” I quieted for a beat. “That’s between Wright and me.” Hudson’s brow furrowed. “Between you and him? Since when do you have secrets from me? Besides, what could you possibly have going on with him? You’re “my” shadow.” I remained silent. His tone grew frantic, a note of desperation creeping in. “Are you still mad at me? Cassie… I didn’t mean it like that yesterday.” “I know,” I said softly. “It’s fine.” Once the illusion is shattered, nothing really matters anymore. I thought about those hand-me-down books. I used to treasure them, treating them like a quiet, private language between us. Every time he gave me one, a foolish warmth would bloom in my chest, followed quickly by guilt. I had told myself I was projecting, that I was the one making things complicated because of my unrequited feelings. I assumed Hudson was just being friendly, entirely unaware of my heart. But if he had known all along… then those gestures weren’t innocent. They were deliberate, cruel breadcrumbs. While I was agonizing over every brush of his shoulder, what had he been doing? Standing on the sidelines, amused by my devotion? Watching my quiet longing, my quiet grief, my entire universe revolving around his whims? It made me sick to my stomach to think about it. Hudson let out a sigh of relief. “I knew you wouldn’t hold a grudge. You’re not like that. Listen, once exams are over, we’re moving to Boston. My dad bought an apartment near Columbia, and there’s a room in it for you. Isla will probably move in too, and we can all go to class together. If you miss your mom, I’ll have my mom send her up to Boston too. She can cook for the three of us every day.” A cold, hollow laugh bubbled up in my throat. “We’ll see,” I said. I took a step back, opened the door, and walked out ahead of him. The final exams came and went in a blur. Even after graduation, Isla still hadn’t given Hudson a chance. Yet he kept trying to pull me into his efforts. I couldn’t understand his obsession with inserting me into their dynamic. If he bought a gift for Isla, he’d buy a duplicate for me. When we sat down for meals, he spent more time watching my reactions than hers. When he wanted to play video games with her, he insisted I log on to play support. One evening, I refused. Wright was on the line, helping me compare university programs. Hudson frowned, hovering by my door. “Who are you talking to? You’ve been on the phone for an hour.” “Wright,” I said evenly. “We’re discussing college applications.” “Why are you still talking to him? I told you to stay away from that guy,” Hudson said, his voice tightening with possessiveness. “And what is there to discuss anyway? You’re going to Columbia. The apartment is already set up. True, your room there doesn’t have a window, but you’re used to that, right? Hang up the phone and come play with us.” I glanced at the digital clock on my desk. Three days until our scores were released. Seventy days until the start of the fall semester. Not much longer now. I said goodbye to Wright, hung up, and went to play the game, just as Hudson wanted. The day our scores came out, my phone rang the second I logged off the portal. “Cassie, what did you get?” Hudson demanded. I read out my scores. On the other end of the line, he let out a loud, triumphant shout. “Yes! That’s a lock. We’re definitely going to Columbia together!” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “What about Isla? What did she get?” “Oh… I haven’t asked her yet. I’ll text her in a bit. I was just worried about you because you always stress out over exams. I wanted to check on you first.” “Thanks,” I muttered, and hung up. Sixty-seven days. By the time our acceptance letters arrived, Hudson was away on a graduation trip in Europe. He had tried to drag me along, but I had flatly refused. I tucked my acceptance letter from Emory deep into my desk drawer. Forty-three days left. When Hudson returned, he brought back a sleek, designer suitcase. “It’s identical to mine,” he said proudly, sliding it toward me. “That way, when we arrive at Columbia, everyone will know you’re with me. It’ll keep the random guys from hitting on you so you can actually focus on keeping me organized.” I managed a polite smile and accepted the suitcase. Seventeen days left. On my final night in that house, I packed the scientific journals he had given me back into that beautiful, matching suitcase. I rolled it down the hall and left it right outside his bedroom door. The next morning, acceptance letter in hand, I boarded a flight to the South, bound for Emory. Hudson, this time, there is no forgiveness.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540687”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother passed away early, leaving me in the care of my three billionaire uncles. The oldest, Charles, is an AI tech mogul. The middle, Alistair, runs the largest fine art and antique auction house in the country. The youngest, Brody, is a culinary empire giant. These three powerhouse bachelors have spoiled me rotten, single-handedly raising me to be a thoroughly useless heiress. I fully expected to spend the rest of my life coasting as a luxury-class slacker. Until last night, right before bed, when I was dragged into a bizarre group chat titled The Underworld Cannon Fodder Support Group. The pinned announcement flashed my name in dripping, neon-red numbers: [Member: Maeve Callahan. Time remaining until forced offline: 30 days.] [Cause of Death: Fatal car crash plunge into the ocean, orchestrated by three Destined Heroines.] I thought it was a spam bot or some elaborate prank. But then, three candid photos popped up in the chat. The first was taken in Charles’s office. The timestamp read 11:40 PM. A woman in a cream trench coat carrying two coffees was smiling as she pushed the door open. Below it was a line of text: Victoria, 31, Stanford PhD, Lead Algorithm Engineer at Callahan Tech. Transferred three weeks ago. Note: The girl on page three of Charles’s high school yearbook. My heart skipped a beat. Sleep vanished instantly. The second photo was Alistair’s private appraisal room. A woman in an elegant, deep-emerald silk dress was leaning in close to whisper in Alistair’s ear, their faces mere inches apart. Isabel, Alistair’s high school sweetheart. Recently left her post at the British Museum to become the auction house’s chief appraiser. The third was even more direct. Outside Brody’s townhouse, a woman with a high ponytail was hauling two large duffel bags, smiling brighter than the morning sun. Note: Cassidy, the “tomboy best friend” Brody swore was like a sister. Just moved in next door under the guise of starting a joint restaurant venture. The group announcement scrolled on mercilessly: [These three women will collaborate to eliminate the host within a month to secure their hold on the Callahan fortune and affection. Meanwhile, your love-struck uncles, blinded by nostalgia, remain entirely oblivious.] [Once the host is dead, they will divide the Callahan estate, and their personal influence will skyrocket.] I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the dial button to call Charles. But I hesitated. … What would I even say? “Hey Uncle Charles, it’s 1:00 AM, and a ghost chat told me the girl from your yearbook is going to murder me”? With his hyper-rational, tech-CEO brain, he’d have me booked for a full brain CT scan and a mandatory mental health retreat by morning. Alistair would laugh and ask if I’d been watching too many psychological thrillers. Brody would call Cassidy over to cook me a warm meal and tell me to stop drinking iced energy drinks before bed. I tossed the phone onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t fight them directly. I had to outsmart them. They wanted to play a game? Fine. I would simply turn my three starry-eyed uncles into spinning tops that only rotated around me. The next morning at ten, wearing deep dark circles under my eyes, I stormed into the Callahan Tech high-rise. As the elevator let me out on the penthouse suite, Charles’s secretary, Frank, greeted me with a warm smile. “Morning, Miss Maeve. Mr. Callahan just finished his morning brief—” “Frank,” I interrupted, “what’s in the empty suite right next to my uncle’s office?” Frank blinked, startled. “That’s reserved for incoming executives. It’s currently vacant. Why?” “I’m leasing it. Actually, I’m buying it.” Frank froze as if someone had hit pause on his life. “Buying it? For what?” “A studio,” I said, entirely serious. “Music production. Heavy metal.” His mouth opened, but no words came out. I didn’t wait for him to recover. I pushed past him and opened the double doors to Charles’s office. Charles sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, reviewing a stack of data sheets. His gold wire-rimmed glasses caught the morning light, giving him a clean, untouchable look. At thirty-six, he easily carried the effortless grace of someone ten years younger. Hearing the door, he looked up. When he saw it was me, he set his pen down. “What are you doing here at this hour? Have you eaten?” “Yes,” I said, hopping onto the corner of his desk and swinging my legs. “Uncle Charles, I’m getting into music.” “Alright.” He looked back down at his documents. “What kind?” “Heavy metal.” The tip of his pen paused on the paper. “Where?” “Right next door.” Before Charles could reply, there was a soft knock, and the office door opened. “Mr. Callahan, I have the revised system architecture report—” Victoria walked in, wearing a crisp cream silk blouse, her dark hair draped over her shoulder. She held a folder in one hand and two cups of coffee in the other. Her gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second before she offered a warm, polished smile. “And who is this?” “My niece, Maeve,” Charles said without looking up. “Maeve, say hello to Victoria.” Victoria’s smile widened slightly, savoring the polite distance of the introduction. “Hi, Victoria,” I said, beaming. Then I turned right back to my uncle. “So, about the room next door…” “Go see Frank for the paperwork,” Charles said, taking the folder from Victoria. “Make a list of whatever equipment you need. Run the invoice through company procurement.” Victoria’s grip on the coffee cups tightened ever so slightly. I slid off the desk, blew my uncle a kiss, and headed for the exit. As I passed Victoria, I caught her eye. Her smile remained perfectly composed, but beneath the surface, a tiny crack of irritation had opened. I didn’t miss it. The drum kit arrived three days later. Along with it came two electric guitars, a bass, and a pair of professional studio monitors standing nearly six feet tall. I timed my practice sessions to start exactly during Charles’s “deep focus hours”—two to four in the afternoon. When the first bass kick echoed, the entire floor’s glass partitions began to hum. The leaves of the potted plants in the corridor visibly trembled. In less than four minutes, the sharp click of high heels sounded outside. Victoria stood in my doorway, her smile still intact but looking distinctly strained. “Maeve, your uncle is running a critical algorithmic simulation right now. The noise is a bit…” “What?” I pulled one ear of my headphones off, tilting my head. “Victoria, what did you say? I can’t hear you over the track.” She took a slow, controlled breath. “I asked if you could turn it down.” “Turn it down?” I pointed at the massive monitors. “Have you ever heard quiet heavy metal? That’s not metal, Victoria. That’s a lullaby.” Her jaw tightened. Right then, the door to the executive office swung open. Charles stepped out, his suit immaculate, holding a sheet of messy scribbles. Victoria turned immediately, her voice softening. “Mr. Callahan, I was just trying to work things out with Maeve—” Charles ignored her, walking straight up to me. He took the drumsticks from my hands. Then, he sat down and played a flawless, driving four-four metal rhythm. Clean, precise, and heavy. I stared at him, my eyes wide. “You actually know how to play?” “College band,” he said, handing the sticks back and straightening his sleeves. “I’ll move my focus hours to the evenings. Practice whenever you want during the day.” He turned and went back inside his office, shutting the door behind him. Victoria stood frozen in the hallway, looking like a statue that had suddenly lost power. I spun the drumstick in my hand, caught it, and gave her a polite nod. “Sorry to disrupt your work, Victoria. Take care.” That evening, my phone buzzed. [28 Days Remaining. Threat levels updated: Target Victoria’s status toward the host has changed from ‘irrelevant bystander’ to ‘active threat’. Please exercise caution.] I rested the phone against my chest, staring at the ceiling as a slow smile spread across my face. An active threat. That was much better. If I didn’t get in her way, I’d never break her game. Just as I finished adjusting the cymbals, another notification popped up. [27 Days Remaining. Target Isabel will have lunch with Alistair in the VIP Appraisal Room today at 12:00 PM. Agenda: Establishing a joint valuation studio.] I stared at the screen for three seconds, grabbed my keys, and headed straight to the garage. It was time to pay Alistair a visit. Alistair’s auction house occupied the top floors of a sleek glass tower downtown. As I walked down the quiet, carpeted gallery hall, I caught sight of Isabel. She was carrying two small gourmet dessert bowls toward Alistair’s private appraisal room, wearing a tailored emerald-green dress, her hair swept up elegantly. “Maeve?” She stopped, looking surprised before offering a soft smile. “What brings you here?” “Looking for Uncle Alistair,” I replied, flashing a bright, innocent grin. “Hello, Aunt Isabel.” The word Aunt made Isabel’s hand stiffen visibly on the dessert tray. She was thirty-four, only two years younger than Alistair. Calling her “Aunt” was mathematically reasonable, but socially devastating. She kept her composure, though her smile slipped a fraction of a millimeter. “You can just call me Isabel, dear.” “Of course, Aunt Isabel,” I said earnestly, nodding. “He’s inside, right? I’ll let myself in. Don’t let me keep you.” With a quick step, I slipped past her, leaving her and her desserts out in the hallway. Inside, Alistair was leaning over a delicate blue-and-white porcelain vase with intricate lotus scrolls. He was a man of quiet, vintage elegance—equally comfortable in a tailored three-piece suit or a relaxed silk smoking jacket. Hearing the door, he didn’t look up. “Just set it down, Isabel.” “Uncle Alistair, it’s me.” He raised his head, his eyes warming instantly. “Maeve. What are you doing here?” I sat down on the antique rosewood chair across from his work table. “I’ve decided to get into metal sculpting.” “Oh?” “Industrial style,” I said, leaning forward. “Welding, scrap metal, blowtorches. The whole thing.” He set his magnifying glass down. “And where is this studio going to be?” “Right here.” His eyebrows rose. “This is a climate-controlled secure vault, Maeve.” “I know,” I said, entirely reasonable. “But I need inspiration. This room is practically dripping with history. If I stay here for a month, I’ll produce ten masterpieces.” Alistair stared at me for a few seconds, then let out a low laugh. “Fine.” “Fine?” “Yes,” he said, picking up his glass again. “The east wing storage is empty. I’ll have the staff move some welding equipment in. But there’s one rule.” “What?” “Touch a vase, and I lock you out.” “Deal.” Just then, the door pushed open. Isabel entered, carrying the now slightly cooled desserts, her expression soft and accommodating. “Alistair, I brought these up from the cafe downstairs—” Her eyes fell on the desk, landing on the joint-appraisal proposal she had spent two weeks drafting. It was currently buried under a messy, hand-drawn sketch of “Maeve’s Industrial Art Lab” taking up the entire east wing. “Alistair,” Isabel said, her voice dropping to a gentle, pleading register, “I thought we discussed using the east wing for our joint-venture office?” Alistair didn’t look up from his ancient text. “I changed my mind.” “Changed your mind?” “Maeve needs the space,” he said simply. “We can delay your project, or find another location.” Isabel’s fingers turned white against the edge of the dessert tray. I leaned over the table, looking helpful. “Aunt Isabel, those desserts look delicious. Can I have one?” She handed a bowl over with a stiff, mechanical movement. I took a bite and sighed happily. “Wow, so sweet. Uncle Alistair, do you want a taste?” Alistair took the spoon from my hand, sampled a tiny bit, and frowned. “Too sweet. Isabel, you know I don’t eat sugar.” Isabel’s face went pale. They had spent years together in high school, yet she had forgotten his basic aversion to sweets. Or perhaps she was still holding onto the memory of a seventeen-year-old boy who would eat sugar just to please her. But people change. Only those blinded by nostalgia stay in the past. As I left the auction house, my phone buzzed again. [26 Days Remaining. Target Isabel’s status updated: Alert. Host has successfully intervened in the second territory.] I slipped the phone into my pocket, intending to call a car, when Brody’s name flashed on the screen. “Maeve!” his booming voice echoed through the speaker. “The soft opening for the new restaurant is tomorrow. Come get some food! Oh, and Cassidy’s here. You two need to get to know each other—she’s my absolute ride-or-die.” I stared at the screen and smiled. Perfect timing. It was time to meet the third player. Brody’s new restaurant occupied a massive three-story corner space in the city’s trendiest culinary district. I arrived at four in the afternoon, an hour before the private soft opening. As my car pulled up, I saw Cassidy standing by the entrance, directing workers hanging a massive custom sign. She was wearing a white chef’s coat, her sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms, her high ponytail swinging as she laughed. She spotted me immediately and walked over. “Well, look who it is! Maeve, right? Brody’s little princess!” She reached out to hug me, but I took a step back, smoothly avoiding the contact. “Hello, Aunt Cassidy,” I said, offering a polite smile. “Is Uncle Brody inside?” Her hand remained suspended in the air for a second before she drew it back, her smile tightening. “Just call me Cassidy, sweetie. ‘Aunt’ sounds so formal. Your uncle and I grew up together. If we’re talking about seniority—” “But respect is important,” I interrupted, keeping my voice sweet. “I lost my parents young, so Uncle Brody has basically been a father to me. Since you’re his childhood friend, that makes you family. Like an aunt.” The corner of Cassidy’s mouth twitched. She was thirty-two, a year younger than Brody. Being labeled an aunt clearly wasn’t part of her plan. Inside, Brody was behind the open kitchen counter, tossing a heavy copper wok. When he saw me, he nearly dropped his spatula. “Maeve! You’re here! Are you hungry? Let me make you some garlic ribs!” Brody was the most rugged of my uncles—standing six-foot-three with athletic shoulders—but the moment he stepped into a kitchen, he became a gentle giant. I sat at the counter. “Uncle Brody, I have an idea.” “Let’s hear it.” “I want to study molecular gastronomy.” “Sure, sounds fun.” “I want to take over your kitchen.” Brody’s wok came to a halt. “Take over?” “Just for a week,” I said, putting on my best pleading look. “I want to set up an experimental lab. Liquid nitrogen ice cream, reverse-spherification caviar, things like that. I’ll give it back to you in perfect condition.” “But the soft opening—” “Can we delay it for a week?” I leaned in. “Please, Uncle Brody?” Brody sighed, waving his spatula in defeat. “Fine, fine. Whatever you want.” “Brody.” Cassidy’s voice cut through from behind us. She walked over, holding a tray of prepped ingredients, her expression strained. “We’ve been planning this opening for three months. The food critics are already booked. A delay is going to look highly unprofessional.” “Then we’ll reschedule them,” Brody said without looking up from his stove. “My niece wants the kitchen. Everything else can wait.” Cassidy’s grip on the tray turned her knuckles white. I turned to her with a helpful smile. “Don’t worry, Aunt Cassidy. I’ll have Uncle Charles’s secretary handle the critics. We’ll pay them triple their appearance fees and give them VIP passes to the Callahan hotels. They’ll be happy to wait.” She forced a laugh. “There’s no need to go to such trouble—” “It’s no trouble at all,” I said warmly. “After all, it’s your hard work we’re talking about.” I made sure to emphasize the “Aunt” once more. By seven that evening, I was in the kitchen directing a crew installing liquid nitrogen tanks when Cassidy walked in carrying a covered bowl. “Maeve,” she said softly, “your uncle simmered some chicken broth earlier. I brought a bowl over for you. Drink it while it’s hot.” I took the bowl and set it down on the stainless steel counter without tasting it. “Aunt Cassidy,” I said, looking up at her. “Can I ask you something?” “Of course.” “You and my uncle grew up together, right?” “We did.” “Then you must know about his severe peanut allergy.” Cassidy’s expression froze. She didn’t know. Brody’s allergy had developed during his college years, a period when she had been living abroad and they had lost touch for nearly six years. Her entire “ride-or-die” dynamic was built on childhood memories that no longer matched reality. “I—” “And,” I continued, pointing to the bowl, “you didn’t ask about his dietary restrictions before bringing this, did you? There are green onions in this broth.” “Yes… just a few.” “Brody hasn’t touched green onions in twenty years,” I said gently. Cassidy stood there, her face flushing red, then pale. Before she could speak, the kitchen doors swung open. Brody walked in, his expression uncharacteristically dark. Behind him stood Charles and Alistair. Three of the city’s most powerful men stood lined up at the kitchen entrance. Charles, looking cold behind his gold-rimmed glasses, fixed his gaze on Cassidy. “Who authorized that broth?” Alistair adjusted his cuffs, his voice deceptively calm. “I was just told downstairs that someone was calling my niece a ‘little princess’?” Brody untied his apron, tossing it onto the counter, his voice flat. “Cassidy, the three of us need to talk.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540686”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I have always lived my life a beat behind. My childhood friend, Piper, and my best friend, Chase, were the opposite—always operating in fast-forward, breathless and impatient. When we ate out, I’d barely be halfway through my meal before they’d already finished, clamoring to head to the arcade next door, leaving me alone at the table. When we went swimming, my leg cramped up halfway across the lake. I cried out for help, only to look up and realize they had already dried off, packed up, and vanished. Even when it came to submitting our college decisions, I hadn’t even logged into the portal yet when they finalized theirs, clicked submit, and stood up in unison. “Theo, you’re moving like molasses,” Piper said, her eyes already glued to her phone. “I have to help Chase grab Taylor Swift tickets, so we can’t wait. We committed to Columbia. Make sure you don’t mess up your application.” Before her words could even settle, Chase grabbed her hand and they bolted out the door. They were running so fast she never heard my quiet reply. “I’m not going to Columbia.” “And you don’t ever have to wait for me again.” … It is true; I really do take longer than most. By the time I finally hit submit on my college portal and glanced at the clock, it was the very last minute before the deadline. There was no turning back. The realization hit me like a physical ache: for the next four years, Piper and I would be separated by nearly two thousand miles. My chest tightened, a bitter sting rising in my throat. Right in the middle of my grief, my phone buzzed. “Theo, what is taking you so long?” Piper’s voice crackled through the speaker, sharp with impatience. “The graduation party started at six. Everyone is waiting on us. Can you please just hurry up for once?” Listening to her familiar, irritated sigh, I scrambled to my feet and rushed out the door. I moved so frantically that the sharp edge of the kitchen chair gouged a line down my calf, but I didn’t even stop to look down. But even with all that rushing, by the time I reached the school gates, all that was left for me was the red glow of taillights fading into the evening traffic. I stood there, frozen on the curb, as my phone rang again. It was Piper’s contact photo flashing, but when I answered, Chase’s voice came through. “Hey, sorry, Theo. Our Uber got here, and the driver said he’d charge us an extra waiting fee if we lingered. We had to jump in. Just grab yourself another ride, alright? See you there.” My heart sank, heavy as a stone. It was always like this. They promised they would wait, yet they always managed to leave exactly two minutes before I arrived. When we went to the amusement park, they did this. When we went hiking, they did this. Did those two minutes really matter that much to them? I didn’t know. All I knew was the lump forming in my throat, tasting of old, bitter disappointment. “Hey, kid. You friends with that couple who just left?” I blinked, turning to face the school’s security guard walking over. He reached into his pocket and handed me a glossy photo booth strip. The date stamped on the bottom was today. The faces grinning back at me were Piper and Chase, their heads tilted together, laughing, intimately close. Staring at it, Piper’s voice from yesterday echoed in my mind. “Theo, I know you’ve been dying to get those cheesy photo booth pictures. Tomorrow, after we submit our decisions, I’ll go with you.” In all three years of high school, she had never once been the one to initiate a plan with me. I had stayed up late, giddy with excitement, and even spent thirty minutes this morning watching a tutorial just to do my hair and look nice. But she hadn’t waited for me to submit my application. And she had gone and done the very thing she promised me—with someone else. A hollow ache bloomed in my chest. I couldn’t find the words to speak. I just stood there, rooted to the pavement, listening to the guard ramble on. “Smart kids, those two,” the guard said, shaking his head in admiration. “Heard them talking about going to Columbia. Good for them, not letting a relationship get in the way of their grades. They make a handsome couple, don’t they?” He paused, his eyes drifting down to my oversized t-shirt and slightly flushed, ordinary face. “Funny, though. You look so… average. Wouldn’t have guessed you ran in the same circle.” A sudden, sharp humiliation burned through me. I forced a tight, empty smile. “Yeah. Honestly, neither did I.” Leaving him behind, I hailed a cab, my mind drifting. When I finally walked into the restaurant’s private dining room, I realized Piper had lied. The room was barely half full; most of our classmates hadn’t even arrived yet. But Piper and Chase were already there, tucked into a booth in the corner, their shoulders pressed together as they huddled over a phone, whispering and laughing. “Theo, don’t just stand there by the door. Find a seat!” someone called out. Hearing my name, Piper finally looked up. She waved me over, entirely unfazed, as if nothing had happened. “Come here! Look at this meme Chase found. It’s hilarious.” Out of sheer habit, my feet carried me toward her. But just as I slid into the booth, the class president grinned and teased, “So, Piper, you three have been joined at the hip all through high school. Are you going to keep being a package deal in college, too?” My mind flashed to my submission to CU Boulder. I opened my mouth to say “not anymore”, but before I could, Piper threw her arms out, draping one over my shoulder and the other over Chase’s. “Of course,” she declared brightly. “Theo is so slow at everything, and he’s way too soft-spoken. If he doesn’t have Chase and me looking out for him at the same school, he’ll get eaten alive.” Chase laughed, chiming in, “Seriously. Theo spent a fortune on private tutors all senior year just to keep up with our grades.” Beside me, I felt Piper’s arm stiffen slightly. Around the room, quiet whispers broke out. I caught muffled words like “third wheel” and “hanger-on”. I pretended not to hear. I just sat there, thinking of the past year. I had survived on fewer than four hours of sleep a night, wearing out my eyesight and needing a stronger prescription, all so I wouldn’t be left behind by her. And in the end, I had chosen a school nearly two thousand miles away. My chest felt tight and heavy. Suddenly, a voice cut through the chatter. “Hey, Piper! We’re graduated now. You can finally tell us—who’s actually dating who? And who’s the odd man out?” Piper froze. Her eyes darted instinctively to me. That single, hesitant glance was all the room needed. The class erupted into laughter. “I knew it! Theo’s the ultimate third wheel!” “Classic case of the childhood friend losing to the new guy!” “So when did you and Chase actually make it official, Piper?” A hot, suffocating wave of embarrassment rushed to my face. Beneath the table, my hands clenched into tight fists. Maybe she sensed my distress, because Piper suddenly slammed her glass onto the table with a sharp clink. “Shut up, guys. There’s nothing going on. The three of us are just a trio. That’s it.” “Oh, sure… ‘just friends,’” the class president drawled. Chase quickly waved his hands, a sheepish smile on his face. “Come on, guys, don’t start rumors. My mom had a strict rule about no dating until college. High school was strictly off-limits.” His attempt at a denial only fueled the fire. “Oh, so it’s just because of Chase’s family rules! Well, high school is over now. Perfect time to confess!” “Yeah, the chemistry is right there! Don’t be a coward, Piper!” The chanting grew louder, but Piper remained silent, staring at her lap. “Hey, Theo, why the long face? Afraid she’s going to say yes?” one of Chase’s close friends teased. My mind went completely blank. Before I could scramble for a response, another boy chimed in: “Come on, Piper. A real best friend is happy when you find love, right, Theo? You wouldn’t mind, would you?” They had backed me into a corner, holding me up to the light of public expectation. I managed a tight, fragile nod. “Right. I wouldn’t mind.” Almost the second the words left my mouth, Piper’s face darkened. “I don’t do public confessions,” she said coldly. Chase looked visibly deflated, but he quickly forced a bright, casual grin. “Exactly. Pure friendship, guys. Stop teasing and let’s order some food.” With the main subjects deflecting, the crowd let it drop, settling down to look at the menus. When the menu finally made its way toward my side of the table, I reached out my hand. But Chase snatched it right before I could touch it, offering me a helpful wink. “Theo, you take forever to decide. Piper and I will just order for you. We already know what you like anyway.” Without giving me a chance to protest, the two of them bent their heads together, murmuring. “Spicy crawfish, chili-boiled pork, and the hot-and-sour fish soup,” Chase read off. Piper glanced up at me. “One favorite dish for each of us,” she said softly, before passing the menu along. I looked down at the angry, itchy red eczema flaring up across my knuckles and nodded bitterly. Yes, I loved the sour fish soup. But the doctor had explicitly told me yesterday that with this flare-up, I had to avoid seafood and spicy food completely. Yesterday, I had asked Piper to go to the clinic with me. But because I took one minute too long putting on my shoes, she left to play pool with Chase instead. When I asked her later why she couldn’t have just waited, she had been entirely dismissive. “If it were a real emergency, you wouldn’t be moving like a snail. If you can afford to linger, it’s clearly not that urgent.” So, I had gone to the clinic alone. Registered alone. Sat in the waiting room alone. “Oh my god, Piper! You and Chase actually got tickets to Taylor Swift?!” A classmate’s excited shriek snapped me back to the present. I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram. When I saw the feed, my breath caught. Two identical photos of concert tickets, posted minutes apart. The person who had promised me since middle school that we would go to our very first concert together hadn’t even grasped a third ticket. Noticing me staring at my screen, Piper nudged my elbow. Her voice sounded slightly strained. “The reception near the school gates was terrible. The site kept crashing; we could only buy them one by one. If you really want to go, I can look for a reseller ticket. It just… probably won’t be in our section.” Chase quickly chimed in with an apologetic look. “Man, don’t be mad, Theo. Honestly, if you want to go that bad, you can have my ticket. I don’t mind.” “No way!” Piper cut him off immediately, shooting me an annoyed glance. “Chase, you’ve wanted to see this tour forever. Why should you give up your seat? Theo, don’t be selfish.” I hadn’t said a single word, yet here I was, branded as the selfish one. A rare spark of anger flared in my chest. “I don’t even want to go,” I said, my voice flat. It was the truth. Even though I had loved Taylor Swift for a decade, the concert was scheduled for the night before move-in day, all the way in New York. With Boulder being nearly two thousand miles away in the opposite direction, there was no logical way I could make it. I meant what I said, but Piper just rolled her eyes, reading it as a tantrum. “I already told you I’d find you a ticket. Stop acting like a child. Honestly, without Chase and me, with how slow you are and how easily you get lost, you’d probably manage to miss the opening act anyway.” We had known each other for over ten years. Hearing her say those words out loud, in front of everyone, brought a sudden, stinging burn to the backs of my eyes. “Theo…” she started, her expression softening slightly, but the waiter arrived, balancing heavy plates. “Excuse me, coming through…” Piper looked at me, looking a little lost, and quietly slid the sour fish soup closer to my side of the table. But because of my flare-up, I didn’t touch it. I sat through the entire dinner without eating a single bite. Even when Piper secretly picked out the bones from a piece of fish and slid it onto my plate when no one was looking, I ignored it completely, leaving the fish to go cold. “Hey, Piper, if you don’t have plans before college starts, we should all plan a road trip!” the class president suggested as we gathered our coats at the end of the night. Piper froze, biting her lip. Chase offered an awkward scratch of his neck. “Actually, sorry, man. Piper and I already booked tickets to Miami for tomorrow morning…” Beside me, Piper’s voice rushed in, thick with guilt. “Theo, don’t get the wrong idea. We only didn’t tell you because we know how much you hate the ocean. It wasn’t to exclude you. Besides, we’re both going to Columbia. Once winter break rolls around, I’ll go anywhere you want. Just the two of us. We don’t even have to invite Chase.” I looked up at her. Her eyes were bright, filled with a sweet, naive expectation of our future together. The truth I had held back all night finally burned its way to my lips. “Piper, I’m not going—” “Piper! Have you seen our photo booth strip?” Chase’s frantic voice cut me off as he patted down his pockets. “Did we leave it with the security guard when we showed him earlier?” I reached into my bag, my fingers brushing against the smooth, glossy paper of the strip the guard had given me. But before I could pull it out, Chase grabbed Piper’s hand and pulled her out into the street. A minute later, my phone vibrated. [Those pictures… Chase made me take them while we were waiting for you. I’ll take better ones with you later, okay?] [It’s getting late. I ordered you an Uber. Here’s the plate number. Text me when you get in.] I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I handed the photo booth strip to the class president. “Can you make sure Piper gets this?” I asked quietly. Then, I pulled up her contact and tapped “Block”. On the quiet cab ride home, staring out at the passing streetlights, I bought a train ticket to Mount Elbert. Back in sophomore year of high school, Piper and I had made a pact: if we both got into our dream schools, we would spend our final summer hiking the Five Great Summits of the Rockies. She had forgotten. But I hadn’t. If she was going to break her promise, I would keep it alone. I tried to convince myself I was being strong, independent. But as I packed my duffel bag and my eyes fell on the faded plush rabbit keychain dangling from the zipper, the tears came, hot and silent. The keychain had been a gift from Piper in the first grade. That summer, our families had gone to the beach together. Piper had chased a wave out too far and swept into an undertow. The adults had been too far away to hear. I had jumped in after her. I dragged her to the shallow water, but I swallowed so much saltwater and suffered such severe oxygen deprivation that I spent three days in the ICU fighting for my life. I survived, but the doctors told my parents that I would develop a little slower than other kids from then on. My brain had paid the price for saving her. Back then, neither of us understood what “slower” really meant. We thought it just meant I walked slowly. I remember little Piper holding my hand, her eyes wide with tears, promising me: “Don’t worry, Theo. If you’re slow, I’ll just wait for you. Always.” And to her credit, she hadn’t lied. She had waited for me for twelve years. From the first grade all the way to our freshman year of high school. But on our first day of high school, I had arrived early for the first time in my life. She was five minutes late. When she finally rode up on her bike, Chase was sitting on the back rack, laughing. She explained that she had run into Chase, who had missed his bus, and figured since they were going to the same school, she’d give him a lift. From that day on, she stopped waiting for me. Instead, I spent the next three years exhausting myself trying to keep up with her. She had almost drowned once, yet she still loved the ocean. So, swallowing my trauma, I forced myself to learn how to swim just to be near her. But when my leg seized up in the water and I was genuinely drowning, she had already walked away with Chase. That was the day I decided I was done running. I didn’t sleep at all. When I dragged my suitcase out the front door the next morning, I was shocked to find Piper waiting on the porch. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her voice heavy with hurt. “Theo, you blocked me. I stayed up all night and bought you a ticket to Miami. I know you hate the beach, but there are tons of other things we can do there.” I stood there, momentarily frozen. With a quiet sigh, I raised my phone and showed her the confirmation screen of my train ticket to Colorado. Piper’s face went completely pale. I saw the exact moment she remembered our sophomore pact. She bit her lip, her shoulders trembling. “I’ll go with you,” she blurted out. “Unblock me. I’ll meet you at the station in an hour.” Before I could say a word, she spun on her heel and bolted down the driveway. Maybe it was the desperate conviction in her eyes. I let myself believe her one last time. I unblocked her number and waited by the security gates at the station for an hour and a half. I didn’t get a text from her. Instead, I saw Chase’s newly uploaded Instagram story. A video of him and Piper, boarding a flight to Miami, laughing as they held up their boarding passes. The very last thread of affection I held for her snapped, silent and clean. I turned around, handed my ticket to the gate agent, and walked toward the train. From now on, I would climb my mountains. And she could have her ocean.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540685”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had forty million followers. At the absolute peak of my engagement, during the prime-time hours when the algorithm was buzzing, I finally hard-launched Caroline. A single, stunning portrait of her looking directly into the lens brought in over eight million likes. The comment section was a flood of excitement, with everyone asking if she was my girlfriend. I didn’t play coy. I proudly claimed her. But within twelve hours, the tide completely turned. My comment section became a toxic wasteland of mockery and rage. [She’s live-streaming with her actual boyfriend right now, saying she doesn’t even know you. Talk about an embarrassing self-own.] [Go look at @Chase’s account. See what a real couple looks like. Posting another guy’s girl and claiming she’s yours? Stop bullying smaller creators.] I sat frozen, staring at my phone. I clicked the handle tagged in the comments. It was a modest account, maybe three hundred thousand followers, belonging to Chase—Caroline’s “guy best friend.” I screenshotted it and sent it to her, demanding an explanation. She brushed it off with a casual shrug. “Chase’s growth has been dead. He’s barely pulling views,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We’re just playing up a couple dynamic to help his engagement. It’s shipping bait, Austin. It’s not a big deal. Don’t overthink it.” She’d always told me she hated being on camera. She claimed she didn’t want the spotlight. Yet, here she was, filming a dozen couple-themed TikToks with Chase, doing joint live streams, behaving like newlyweds. Even getting her to agree to that single photo had taken me two weeks of begging. She’d made it feel like a chore. I stared at the screen, my chest tight. I quietly hung up the phone and deleted the post. Fine. If this was the game she wanted to play, I’d let them have each other. … Due to Caroline’s public “debunking” of our relationship, my follower count plummeted by nearly a hundred and fifty thousand in a single hour. Meanwhile, Chase’s account gained over a hundred thousand new followers. With a heavy heart, I clicked back into his profile. He had uploaded a new photo just ten minutes ago. It was a candid shot of him and Caroline. They weren’t looking at the camera; they were looking at each other, laughing, eyes locked in what looked like pure intimacy. A simple, unadorned picture. Yet, in just ten minutes, the comment count was in the thousands, and the likes had already crossed twenty thousand, climbing by the second. I tapped the comments. The top pinned comment was from a verified account. I didn’t need to guess. It was Caroline. The comment section was a chorus of swooning fans, screaming that they were “endgame” and a “real couple.” And then, someone brought up my name. [Honestly can’t believe a massive creator like @Austin would try to claim someone else’s girlfriend. Right, man? @Austin] That comment was rapidly climbing to the top, fueled by hundreds of likes. I didn’t ignore it. I typed out a reply: [If that’s what you want to believe, go ahead.] That single sentence was like throwing gasoline on a fire. My direct messages exploded with vitriol. This time, it wasn’t just mockery; it was straight-up harassment, venomous insults, and threats. People started digging through my old videos, analyzing every single caption, tearing apart every word I’d ever written to find “clues” of my supposed delusion or toxicity. By evening, several major brands I partnered with had sent urgent emails. They wanted to terminate our contracts immediately. They claimed my “damaged reputation” was hurting their brand image. They were demanding compensation for breach of contract. When Caroline came home that night, she brought a blueberry ice cream cake—my favorite. She walked over, sliding the cake onto the dining table. “Are you still sulking?” she asked, her voice carrying that familiar, patronizing sigh. “It’s just a couple dynamic for the algorithm, Austin. It’s not like I’m actually dating him.” Just a couple dynamic. When I wanted to go public, she told me it was too much drama. She said she hated the internet and didn’t want her face associated with my content. That one photo was the absolute limit of her compromise. She didn’t even have her own social media accounts, or so she’d told me. She certainly hadn’t claimed the photo I posted. “Don’t be like this,” Caroline said, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Chase’s channel has been stagnant for a year. He was desperate. It was the only way he could think of to break through. You know what he is to me. We’re just playing a part.” I knew what he was to her, all right. They were childhood friends. They had grown up together, scraping their knees on the same asphalt. Chase called himself her “platonic bestie,” always claiming she wasn’t his type. When he first found out Caroline and I were dating, he’d laughed right in my face. “Man, how do you deal with her?” he’d chuckled, shaking his head. “Caroline used to wet the bed until she was six! And during puberty, she was a walking disaster.” “You should’ve seen her the first time I dressed up for prom. This girl’s face turned as red as a tomato. It was hilarious.” He only stopped when Caroline got genuinely annoyed and snapped at him to shut up. That was their dynamic. And I had tolerated it because I trusted her. I looked up at her now, feeling a cold weight in my chest. “Do you have any idea what they’re saying about me online, Caroline?” “The brands I work with are dropping me. Every single contract is being terminated.” “My reputation is in the gutter, and they’re demanding breach-of-contract penalties.” Caroline barely blinked. Money had never been a real obstacle for her family. She let out a soft click of her tongue. “How much is it? Just wire me the bill, I’ll transfer you the cash.” “Caroline, it’s not about the money.” I closed my eyes, the air in my lungs feeling heavy, suffocating. When I opened them, the frustration was still there, a hard knot in my throat. Seeing my expression, Caroline’s patience evaporated. “Then what do you want me to do?” she snapped, her tone sharp. “Chase is finally getting some real traction. If we back out now and say it was a lie, his career is over before it even starts.” “I promise you, once his channel stabilizes and he gets a solid base, we’ll clear things up.” I stared at her, the words dying in my throat like wet cotton. She was terrified of hurting Chase’s career, but she hadn’t given a single thought to mine. Especially after I had risked my platform to hard-launch her. My mouth opened to speak, but before a sound could escape, her phone began to buzz with a FaceTime request. It was Chase. Caroline raised a finger, silencing me. She answered it immediately. Chase’s face popped up on the screen, his grin wide and easy. “Hey, Caroline, you free? The chat is begging for a live stream, and I’m actually just pulling up to your place right now.” Caroline instinctively glanced at me. Chase noticed, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, is Austin there? It’s just a casual stream, buddy. Surely Austin doesn’t mind, right?” “He doesn’t mind,” Caroline answered for me, her eyes locking onto mine with a warning gaze. “You know the keypad code. Just head on up.” Once she hung up, the silence stretched between us. I finally spoke, my voice quiet. “How does he know the code to our apartment?” Caroline sighed. “Last week he was too tired to drive back to his place, so he crashed on the couch. I gave it to him so he wouldn’t have to wake me up.” She paused, adjusting her hair in the mirror. “When Chase gets here, please don’t pull that face. It’ll ruin the vibe of the stream.” I looked at her, and the last urge to argue withered away. There was nothing left to say. When Chase arrived, they set up their stream downstairs in the living room. I retreated to our bedroom, closed the door, and logged into a burner account to watch. The viewer count was already pushing a hundred thousand and climbing fast. Caroline was sitting close to him on the sofa, casually eating a slice of the blueberry cake she’d bought for me. Someone in the live chat asked if they were actually dating. Chase smirked, nudging Caroline with his elbow. “The chat wants to know, Care. Are we the real deal?” It was an effortlessly intimate gesture. Chase had always told me they’d spent so much time together growing up that physical boundaries didn’t exist for them. He’d told me to “just think of him as one of the girls.” Caroline laughed, leaning into his side. “Of course we are,” she said, looking right into the lens. “No fake relationships here.” She smiled, a warm, soft look I hadn’t seen directed at me in months. “The real deal.” As soon as she said it, Chase scooped up a forkful of the cake and fed it to her. Caroline didn’t hesitate. She opened her mouth and ate it. But I knew she hated sweets. Every time I brought home a dessert, she refused to even try a bite. If I asked more than once, she would get annoyed. Eventually, I just stopped buying them for her. It turned out she didn’t hate sweets. She just hated sharing them with me. The chat was moving at lightning speed. Dozens of comments were bringing up my name. [What’s the deal with @Austin then? Is he some kind of delusional stalker or a homewrecker?] Caroline’s eyes lingered on the screen. She saw it. “Oh, him…” she murmured. My breathing slowed. My heart hammered against my ribs. We had been together for seven years. I wanted to know, more than anything, what those seven years meant to her in front of a hundred thousand strangers. After a long, agonizing pause, she laughed it off. “It’s nothing. I don’t even know who that is.” I sat in the dark bedroom, staring at the screen. A dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. Seven years. Reduced to “I don’t even know who that is.” [Lmao, he literally posted a photo claiming you were his girlfriend and said you didn’t have social media. That guy is a pathological liar.] When I’d posted that photo, I’d told my followers she didn’t have accounts because she wanted privacy. It was the truth. But now, my defense of her privacy had become the evidence of my “delusion.” A hollow ache opened up in my chest. Caroline made no move to defend me or set the record straight. Instead, Chase grinned at the camera. “Let’s keep the vibe positive, guys. No need to talk about random internet drama. Let’s talk about us.” Caroline gave him a fond, indulgent smile, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Sure. What do you want to talk about?” Chase flashed a mischievous grin. “How about how we finally got together?” “Sure,” she agreed softly. I closed the app. The bedroom was dead silent, save for the muffled, happy chatter drifting up from the living room floor. Two hours later, the stream ended. Caroline knocked on the bedroom door. She didn’t ask for my input; she simply stated her decision. “It’s getting late. I told Chase he could sleep in the guest room tonight.” It wasn’t a conversation. It was a notification. Chase peeked over her shoulder, his arm casually slung around her neck. He smiled at me. “Hey, Austin. You don’t mind, do you? If it’s really an issue, I can drive back in the dark.” Caroline’s brow furrowed. “It’s past midnight, Chase. It’s not safe for you to drive tired.” Chase shot me a look. A knowing, subtle smirk. “Yeah, but if Austin’s uncomfortable, I should probably go.” “You’re not going anywhere,” Caroline said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “You’re staying here.” “Well, if Austin says so…” Chase trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air. Caroline looked at me, waiting. “Austin, come on…” I cut her off. “Whatever. I don’t care.” Caroline let out a sigh of relief. “See? I told you he wouldn’t mind.” “Thanks, Austin,” Chase said, his eyes glittering. “Don’t worry, man. She’s like a sister to me. Nothing to worry about.” I said nothing. Caroline walked past me to grab some clean clothes for a shower. I didn’t stop her. Instead, I opened my laptop and contacted a real estate agent. This apartment—the place we were supposed to build a life in—was no longer home. I wanted out. The agent got back to me quickly with an estimate. “If you want a quick sale, we’ll have to list it slightly below market value. Are you comfortable with that?” I didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Sell it. As fast as possible.” After finalizing the email, I saw that Chase had posted a new video. I clicked it. This time, the camera was focused entirely on Caroline. “Look who’s making lunch today, guys! The beautiful Caroline herself.” “Let’s see if she can actually cook.” Chase narrated as the camera followed her around the kitchen, capturing every soft laugh, every close-up of her face. Caroline had always detested being recorded. She hated cooking even more. Because of that, I had never pointed a lens at her. If we didn’t have time to cook, we ordered takeout. For seven years, that was our unspoken rule. But with Chase, those rules didn’t apply. Leveraging the controversy of their “relationship,” Chase’s follower count skyrocketed to four million in mere days. Watching his feed transition from silly skits to intimate, beautifully shot videos of Caroline, the contrast was glaring. The double standard was undeniable. I closed the app before the video finished. I switched over to my professional account. The screen lagged for a second under the sheer volume of notifications. The messages were a relentless stream of abuse. Even without opening them, I could see the vitriol. In just three days, I had lost over three million followers. Originally, this account had been created to document my life with Caroline. But she had hated the idea of public exposure, so I pivoted. I became a travel and culture creator, documenting hidden historical gems and scenic towns across the country. It had taken years of hard work to build that audience. Our relationship had suffered because of it; she always complained that I was away too much, that my work took me out of the house. So, I had planned this massive hard-launch. I wanted to take a break at the peak of my career to focus entirely on her. And in return, she had handed herself over to Chase for views. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Caroline. [Austin, I’m heading to L.A. with Chase to shoot some content. We’ll be gone for about a week. I’ll bring you back something nice.] Before I could reply, an audio message arrived. It wasn’t her voice. It was Chase’s. He laughed, his tone dripping with fake friendliness. “Don’t worry, Austin. I’ll keep a close eye on her for you. No other guys are getting near her.” “We might have to share a room for the couple’s vlog aesthetic, though. Hope you don’t mind! But seriously, we’re just platonic. Don’t worry.” I let out a cold, bitter laugh and ignored the message. A minute later, Caroline called. The moment I answered, her voice was laced with irritation. “Didn’t you see my text? Why aren’t you replying?” No inquiry about how I was doing. No check-in. Just immediate accusation. I opened my mouth, but the loud overhead announcement of an airport boarding call cut me off. She was already at the gate. The message had been a last-minute afterthought. “Look, we’re boarding,” she said quickly. “Chase and I are going to L.A. Don’t worry, I know my boundaries. I’ll get you a gift. I have to go.” “Caroline,” I said, my voice flat. “We’re done. I want a—” The call disconnected. Only the dial tone echoed in my ear. Because the apartment was priced competitively, a young couple toured it the next day and bought it almost immediately. It was perfect for their budget. Once the paperwork was signed, I spent the next three days packing up my life. We had lived there for five years. The sheer volume of memories and belongings was overwhelming, but by the third day, the place was completely empty. I moved my essentials back into the small studio apartment I’d kept in the city. During those three days, Caroline never called. She only uploaded another video of her and Chase in an L.A. hotel room, looking every bit the happy, devoted couple. If I weren’t her boyfriend, I probably would have thought they were perfect for each other, too. That night, I uploaded my latest travel documentary video. The next morning, I woke up and instinctively checked the engagement. The comment section was a bloodbath. [Are you serious, dude? Have some self-respect. First you claim another man’s girl, and now you copy his content word-for-word?] [I used to respect your work, but this is pathetic.] [Did you really think nobody would notice you copied Chase’s latest script?] Copied? I had spent weeks drafting every single line of that script. I had written it myself. How could I have copied it? I clicked on Chase’s latest upload. My stomach dropped. The air rushed out of my lungs. Every sentence, every word, even the background music choice—it was identical to mine. But I had only ever shared that script with one person. Caroline. A cold, numbing sensation washed over me. I remembered showing it to her on the couch, debating which ambient track would fit the narration best. I had spent sleepless nights perfecting it. And she had simply handed it to Chase like it was scrap paper. I dialed her number, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped the phone. When she picked up, I fought to keep my voice steady. “Why did you give my script to Chase?” “Do you have any idea how long I stayed up writing that…?” There was a long pause on the other end. “Chase was short on content this week,” Caroline said, her voice incredibly casual, as if she were talking about a cup of sugar. “So I gave it to him.” “Austin, it’s just a script. You can write another one.” Just write another one. Like it was nothing. Like my creative labor was an infinite, cheap resource she could harvest for her best friend. I laughed, though it sounded more like a choke. “Caroline, do you have any idea what they are saying about me online right now?” Silence. She knew. Of course she knew. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” she said quietly. “Just… don’t make a scene, Austin. Delete your video for now.” “Otherwise, it’s going to look bad for both you and Chase.” She was still protecting him. Even now, her primary concern was making sure Chase didn’t face backlash. It was almost funny. I hung up without another word. I walked over to my desk, opened my old laptop, and began gathering the files I needed. … The moment Caroline landed back in Seattle, she went straight to the apartment to find Austin. Chase, walking beside her, rolled his eyes. “Only a week apart and you’re practically running back to him? God, Caroline, have some dignity.” After that phone call, she had avoided texting Austin, afraid of escalating things. Between that and the hectic shooting schedule Chase had set up, she had pushed the guilt to the back of her mind. “I bought him a watch,” Caroline said, her fingers tightening around the luxury shopping bag. “I’m going to apologize.” But when she reached the door, the keypad code didn’t work. She tried it three times, each beep sounding like a rejection. Suddenly, the door swung open from the inside. A strange woman stood there, looking at Caroline with a frown. “Who are you? What are you doing at my door? Where’s Austin?” The woman let out a dry, irritated laugh. “Your door? Honey, I bought this place last week.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540684”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The fourth time I saw Troy posting the herbal wellness broth I had spent four hours simmering for Amelia on his Instagram feed, I didn’t say a word. I simply opened my messages with my personal jeweler. I ordered myself the expensive watch I’d been eyeing for months. Consider it a self-awarded medal for standing over a hot stove for four hours, watching the steam rise, thinking of someone who wasn’t thinking of me. But when I finally finished scrubbing the kitchen counters and walked to the entryway to unbox it, the package was gone. My phone buzzed. Amelia’s name popped up on the screen. “Troy got laid off today and he’s an absolute wreck. I grabbed that gift box from the porch to cheer him up. You don’t mind, do you?” I stared at the glowing screen. Somewhere deep inside me, the last remaining ember of warmth went cold. There was no point in holding on anymore. … Troy was quick to update his feed. In the photo, the sleek leather strap and polished gold bezel of the watch I had saved up for weeks to buy sat open on a velvet lining. Next to the luxury packaging was a woman’s slender, pale hand resting gently on his sleeve. I had held that hand for seven years. The caption was practically dripping with subtext: “It’s the best feeling knowing someone always has your back. Winter suddenly doesn’t feel so cold.” I stared at those words until my eyes burned, blinking back the sting of unshed tears. My phone buzzed again, breaking the silence. It was a text from my mother. “Lucas, sweetheart, did you and Amelia try that wild mountain ginseng I mailed you? It’s so hard to find nowadays. I had to ask half the town to track down high-grade roots. If you both like it, I’ll find a way to send more.” My fingers trembled over the keyboard. I scrolled up, and Troy’s previous post caught my eye. It was a photo of a steaming bowl of golden, rich chicken broth. The wild ginseng roots were visible, soft and steeped in the broth. He was holding up a peace sign to the camera. “When you’re loved, even the soup tastes sweet.” A hard, dry lump lodged itself in my throat. The rare ginseng my mother had scraped together, refusing to use for her own failing health, had traveled thousands of miles only to end up in Troy’s bowl. And Amelia hadn’t even bothered to offer a single word of explanation. I locked my phone, let the screen go dark, and then forced myself to open my mother’s messages again. Another text from her popped up. “Oh, by the way, your dad says the landlord for that old corner shop on Main Street is finally willing to lower the rent. Do you think you’d ever want to come back to Astoria and open your own place?” Just last month, I had asked Amelia, “When are we getting married?” She had been busy picking out a designer silk tie for Troy, not even bothering to look up from her laptop. “Didn’t we agree to wait? Marriage isn’t like putting together a quick dinner, Lucas. You can’t just rush into these things.” Back then, I had made excuses for her. I told myself she was just overwhelmed with her promotion, that her job was high-pressure. But looking at the screen now, the truth was glaringly obvious. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to get married. She just didn’t want to marry me. I typed back: “Okay. I’ll come home.” The moment the message sent, my mother’s name flashed on the screen with an incoming call. I answered, and her excited voice filled the quiet apartment. “Really? Oh, Lucas, that’s wonderful! Is Amelia coming back to Astoria to settle down with you too?” My throat tightened, making it hard to breathe. My parents had been dreaming of our wedding for years. They always talked about how grounded Amelia was, how she seemed like someone who would take care of me, someone I could build a life with. They had no idea that all her care, all her devotion, had long since been given to someone else. “We’ll talk about it when I get there,” I managed to say, keeping my voice level. My mother didn’t press. She just said, “Can you make it back by the end of the month? Your dad and I want to help you get the place remodeled before the holidays.” I glanced at the calendar on the wall. There were exactly seven days left in the month. “I’ll be there,” I said. The next morning, I walked into the office and handed in my resignation. The HR manager, a colleague I’d grown close to over the years, stared at the paper in disbelief. “Lucas, are you serious? You’re leaving? I thought you stayed in the city specifically to build a life here with Amelia.” I kept my eyes trained on the polished wood of the desk, handing over the signed forms. “We’re over.” Saying the words aloud for the first time, I expected to feel a crushing weight, a violent ache in my chest. But there was only a vast, hollow quiet. Seven years. We had gone from college sweethearts to planning a life together. I had truly believed we would make it from the campus grass to the altar. But I was learning that seven years was nothing compared to the lifetime of history Amelia shared with Troy. Just as I stepped out of the office building, the cool autumn wind hitting my face, Amelia’s call came through. “The broth you made yesterday was great,” she said, her tone casual, as if we were discussing the weather. “Troy’s stomach has been acting up lately, and that was the only thing he could actually keep down.” “Simmer another pot tonight. I’ll bring him over later to have some.” I stood on the sidewalk, the wind stinging my eyes. I let the silence stretch between us for a few seconds before I spoke. “Amelia, do you have any idea how long it takes to make that broth?” She paused on the other end. “The wild ginseng inside,” I continued, my voice steady, almost detached. “My mother sent that from Astoria. She heard you were working late nights and wanted me to make sure you were taking care of your health.” In our first year together, if I so much as nicked my finger slicing vegetables, she would panic, wrapping her hands around mine and blowing gently on the skin. But then Troy came back into her life. And suddenly, the soup I poured my heart into was hers to give away. The gifts I bought for myself were hers to pacify him with. Every ounce of care I offered was treated like a cheap commodity she could hand to another man. As expected, Amelia’s voice hardened slightly after a brief silence. “Lucas, it’s just some ginseng.” “Troy needed it, so it was worth it. Just make another batch, okay?” Hearing the exact answer I knew was coming, I hung up. I didn’t walk to the local market to buy ingredients for soup. Instead, I went to the department store and bought a heavy, dark grey suitcase. Twenty-seven inches. Just large enough to pack away seven years of humiliation. Amelia and Troy arrived around six in the evening. The moment Troy stepped through the door, his eyes darted toward the kitchen. When he saw the spotless, cold stove, his expression fell, his eyes immediately welling with tears. “Amelia… I thought you said we were coming over for dinner and soup?” Amelia’s brow furrowed as she looked at me. “You didn’t cook?” I was sitting on the sofa, looking up at her. “No.” Her face darkened. Her eyes swept over the empty dining table. There was no herbal tea waiting, no light dinner keeping warm in the oven. For years, no matter how late she worked, I always kept something warm for her, terrified she would skip a meal and trigger her chronic gastritis. Tonight, there was nothing. She seemed to finally register the shift, her voice dropping an octave. “Then what are we supposed to do about dinner?” Troy reached out, gently tugging at the sleeve of her coat, his voice a soft, timid whisper. “Amelia, don’t be upset. I’m sure Lucas is just still hurt about the broth from yesterday.” With one sentence, he had effortlessly painted me as the petty, unreasonable boyfriend. Amelia let out a long, exhausted sigh. She reached into her bag and pulled out a beautifully wrapped designer box, holding it out to me like she was soothing a difficult child. “Alright, let’s not do this.” “Troy bought this specifically to make it up to you. Just accept it so we can move on.” I opened the box. Inside was a classic watch—the exact brand and model I had admired for over a year but could never bring myself to spend the money on. Seeing my silence, Amelia’s tone softened slightly. “I know you’ve wanted this one forever. Troy went out of his way to get it for you, so please stop holding a grudge.” I picked up the watch. But as my thumb brushed against the polished back of the metal casing, I felt an engraving. I turned it over. In tiny, delicate cursive, it read: Troy. Amelia noticed my gaze and immediately spoke up. “Troy’s a lifestyle creator, you know that. The brand sent that to him as a promotional gift.” “He only wore it once for a ten-second transition video. It’s practically brand new. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” A quiet, dry laugh escaped my throat. It was always the same story. Whatever Troy did was entirely innocent, completely accidental. But if I dared to feel even a flicker of resentment, I was the one “making a big deal out of nothing.” I placed the watch back into its velvet slot. “I don’t want it.” Troy’s face crumbled, a tear spilling over his eyelashes. “Lucas… are you rejecting it just because I touched it? I promise you, I barely even wore it…” Amelia’s patience snapped. “Lucas, can you stop being so incredibly ungrateful?” Troy sniffled, stepping between us as if to shield her from me. “Don’t argue with him because of me, Amelia. It’s fine. I’ll just find something else to buy him.” As he spoke, he reached out and took Amelia’s phone directly from her hand. With a simple swipe, the screen unlocked. I froze. Amelia had never let me touch her phone. Once, when my battery died and I tried to use her phone to order food, her face had turned incredibly cold. “Do you really trust me so little? Are you trying to go through my private messages?” When I tried to explain, she had lectured me about boundaries and mutual respect. From that day on, I never touched her phone again. Yet Troy unlocked it without a single second of hesitation. He didn’t even have to ask for her passcode. He began scrolling through a shopping app, looking up at her with a bright smile. “Amelia, what does Lucas actually like? Help me pick.” Amelia stood there, thinking for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she shrugged. “I don’t know, tech stuff? Video games? Don’t all guys like that?” I lowered my eyes, a cold chill settling over my chest. I loved working with wood. I loved simple, hand-spun linen shirts. I loved handmade, rustic ceramics. We had been together for seven years, and she couldn’t name a single one of my hobbies. Troy quickly tapped on a high-end gaming console that cost over a thousand dollars. “What about this? I’m sure Lucas would love it.” Amelia didn’t hesitate. She authorized the payment immediately. Then, Troy pouted, looking up at her through his lashes. “You can’t just buy things for Lucas. What about me?” The irritation on Amelia’s face vanished instantly, replaced by a deep, gentle warmth. “Of course. Weren’t you talking about that professional camera lens? Let’s get it.” Standing beside them, I saw the price tag on the screen. Ten thousand dollars. She paid for it without a single blink, as if it were nothing more than a cheap toy to keep him smiling. Once the transaction cleared, Amelia finally looked back at me, her expression carrying a patronizing pity. “Are we good now? Can you forgive Troy?” This scene had played out more times than I could count. Whenever Amelia bought me something, Troy would see it, throw a quiet tantrum about how he wanted one too, and Amelia would immediately turn around and buy him something three times more expensive. Eventually, I stopped asking her for gifts entirely. It wasn’t because I was trying to be “understanding.” I was simply tired of watching her prove, over and over again, that I was never the one she cherished. I forced a polite, empty smile. “Sure.” Amelia let out a visible sigh of relief, offering a half-hearted complaint. “Keeping both of you happy is exhausting. My savings took a real hit today.” Troy laughed, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her toward the kitchen. “Alright, alright, you’re the hero today. The prince will personally cook to reward you.” “Let’s set up a quick livestream while we prep. My followers have been begging to see you.” Amelia muttered a protest about how much work it was, but her eyes were bright with affection. I watched her follow him into the kitchen. She, who had always claimed she couldn’t stand the smell of cooking oil, clumsily picked up the chef’s knife, working with a diligence I had never seen before. When Troy complained that her apron was tied unevenly, she stood still, letting him lean in close to adjust it. When Troy complained that the overhead light was too harsh for the camera, she reached up to adjust the angle for him. She didn’t hate the kitchen. She just hated being in it with me. I pulled up Instagram and clicked on Troy’s livestream. On the screen, Troy was laughing, directing her actions. “Amelia, slice the potatoes thinner than that.” Amelia chuckled, her voice soft and intimate. “Alright, master chef.” The comment section was flying by. “Oh my god, they are so sweet together!” “What kind of perfect couple is this? Just get married already!” “Troy’s girlfriend is so incredibly supportive!” Amelia didn’t correct a single comment. She didn’t even hesitate when Troy picked up a piece of seasoned beef and fed it directly to her. She leaned in, taking it from his fingers with a small smile. My grip tightened around my phone. Even though I thought my heart had gone entirely numb, that image still managed to slice through me like a razor. I closed the app, turned around, and walked back into my bedroom. Half an hour later, Amelia called out to tell me dinner was ready. When I walked out, the table was loaded with heavy, deep-fried spicy chicken, boiled beef in chili oil, and spicy crawfish. In the center was a pot of hot pot broth, bubbling with bright red chili oil. Every single dish was packed with spices I couldn’t eat due to my stomach issues. Amelia was busy setting Troy’s spot—arranging his plate, his glass of water, and a stack of napkins. But in front of my usual chair, there wasn’t even a pair of chopsticks. Amelia didn’t notice. She simply glanced at me, frowning. “What are you standing there for? Sit down.” I walked into the kitchen, retrieved my own bowl and chopsticks, and sat down. When I returned, she was already busy dipping vegetables into the boiling broth and placing them on Troy’s plate. Troy glanced at me, then reached out to take the tongs. “Amelia, it’s fine, I can do it myself.” Amelia brushed his hand away. “I know how impatient you are. You’ll either undercook it or leave it in too long. Just let me do it.” Soon, the food on Troy’s plate had piled into a small hill. He took a few bites, then seemed to suddenly remember I was sitting there. “Amelia, you should put some food on Lucas’s plate too.” Amelia didn’t look up from the pot. “I have my hands full just taking care of you. He’s got his own hands; he can feed himself.” My hand holding the chopsticks paused in mid-air. I slowly lowered them, picking up a single green leaf from the side of the pot. The hot pot steamed, filling the room with heat, but inside, I felt like I was freezing. It was amazing how obvious her favoritism was when she no longer cared to hide it. Troy chewed, his brow furrowing as he tasted the dipping sauce. “Amelia, this sauce doesn’t taste right. Did you mix it wrong?” Amelia looked up instantly. “Impossible.” “Five spoonfuls of sesame paste, a dash of sesame oil, two spoonfuls of green onions, half a spoonful of minced garlic, and absolutely no vinegar. I know your recipe by heart.” As she spoke, the doorbell rang. She ran to the door, took a fresh jar of premium sesame paste from a delivery courier, and immediately rushed back to the kitchen to whisk a fresh bowl for him. “Try this one. Is the flavor right now?” Troy took a taste and smiled, completely satisfied. Watching them interact, so perfectly in sync, I felt like a ghost haunting a room I no longer belonged in. Amelia finally turned her attention to me, as if performing an act of charity, and mixed a quick bowl of sauce, placing it in front of me with a hint of irritation. “Here. Don’t go telling people I treat you differently.” “Honestly, Lucas, you didn’t even have sesame paste stocked in the pantry. I had to order it last-minute.” I stared at the bowl of sauce, entirely speechless. She could remember the exact ratios of the ten ingredients Troy liked in his dipping sauce. But she had completely forgotten that I was severely allergic to sesame. I didn’t touch my food for the rest of the meal. After dinner, Troy set up his camera for another livestream. “Hey guys, I have something really special to show you tonight.” He walked into the kitchen and brought out a delicate white porcelain double-boiler. When he lifted the lid, a sweet, fragrant steam drifted into the room. Inside was a delicate stew of rock sugar and bird’s nest. The moment I saw the porcelain container, the blood in my veins turned to ice. That dried bird’s nest was a rare, premium grade that my late grandmother had bought for me before she passed. I had kept it sealed in the cupboard for years, unable to bring myself to use it because it was the last physical memory I had of her. I stared at Troy, my voice laced with a cold anger I had never shown before. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” Troy flinched, his eyes instantly clouding with tears. “Lucas… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to use this…” The live chat immediately exploded. “Who is this guy? Troy went out of his way to make a beautiful dessert, and he’s throwing a fit over some bird’s nest?” “This is so toxic.” “Don’t cry, Troy! Some people just don’t know how to appreciate kindness.” Amelia shot me a warning look, her voice low and sharp. “Lucas! Stop making a scene. The stream is live.” Troy looked from Amelia to the screen, his tears falling right on cue. “Lucas, how much does it cost? I’ll pay you back for it, I promise…” I stared at him, my knuckles turning white. “That was a rare heirloom blood bird’s nest from my grandmother. You can’t just buy that in a store.” Amelia interrupted me, her voice dripping with impatience. “It’s just some food, Lucas. Do you really have to be this petty?” The anger inside me suddenly vanished, leaving only a vast, empty silence. This wasn’t the first time. On Troy’s birthday last year, he had taken a liking to an antique jade pendant my mother had given me, insisting on wearing it for his photos. When I refused, his eyes had gone red in front of all our friends. “Does Lucas think I’m too low-class to touch his things?” Amelia had immediately stepped in front of him, glaring at me. “It’s just a piece of jade, Lucas. Did you really have to humiliate him like that?” And then there was the time I had a fever of 102 degrees. Amelia had accompanied me to the hospital to get an IV. I had drifted off to sleep on the hard plastic waiting chairs, and when I woke up, she was gone. The IV had run dry, and my hand was swollen and bruised where the blood had backed up. I called her, my head spinning with fever, only to hear Troy’s soft whimpering in the background. She had said, “Troy fell and hurt his knee at home. I had to come check on him. You’re already at the hospital, so you’re fine on your own, right?” We had a massive fight that night. But in the end, she had simply walked away, leaving me with one final sentence: “Lucas, you’re becoming completely unreasonable.” In front of Troy, I was always the calculating, selfish, dramatic villain. The fire that had burned in my chest for seven years finally turned to ash. I realized there was no point in arguing anymore. I turned around and walked out the door, Amelia’s sharp voice echoing behind me. “Lucas! Where do you think you’re going? You still owe Troy an apology!” I didn’t look back. That afternoon, she sent me a text. “Troy was really shaken up by your outburst. I’m taking him up to the mountains to get some fresh air.” “When we get back tonight, make sure you have dinner ready and apologize to him properly.” I stared at the messages, a cold smile touching my lips. At the exact same time, a notification from my mother popped up. “Lucas, the deposit for the shop on Main Street is set. When are you coming back to sign the papers?” I typed back: “Tonight.” I went back to the apartment and began packing my things. My clothes, my documents, my laptop. It turned out that after seven years, the things that actually belonged to me were incredibly few. I had thought I had deep roots in this city, but when it came down to it, my entire life fit perfectly into two suitcases. At eight o’clock that evening, I boarded a flight back to Astoria. As the plane lifted off, the sprawling lights of the city slowly shrank into tiny, glittering dots outside my window. The streets, the buildings, the apartment I had once foolishly hoped would be a home—all of it faded beneath the thick blanket of clouds. I looked out into the dark sky and whispered to myself, Goodbye, Amelia. The moment the plane touched down and my phone regained signal, dozens of missed calls and messages flooded my screen. Every single one was from Amelia. Standing near the luggage carousel, I finally answered her latest call. Her voice was tight with panic and irritation. “Lucas! Where on earth are you? Why is the apartment empty? Where did all your things go?” I kept my voice completely calm. “Amelia, let’s break up. You can keep the apartment. I’m leaving it to you and Troy.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540683”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ten years of marriage ended the day my seven-year-old daughter’s body was cremated. That was the same day I saw my wife holding the man she’d always truly loved in her arms, whispering soft, sweet reassurances, begging him to eat just one more bite of dinner. I finally understood then that the man enshrined in her heart had never been me. “Host, your mission to devotedly protect the female lead is near completion. Would you like to depart this world?” I didn’t hesitate for a single second. “Yes.” I turned my back on everything. What I didn’t expect was a catastrophic glitch in the system. I didn’t just leave; my original reality merged directly into this one. When I saw Giselle again, I was a completely different person. Yet she recognized me. She grabbed my wrist, her eyes bloodshot, weeping as she refused to let me go. “Why did you abandon me? Was everything between us a lie?” “I can’t live without you. I love you!” … 1. The day our daughter’s small body was reduced to ash was also the day Giselle won the National Fashion Design Championship. She knew how fragile I was. She had made a rare promise: she would come home after the ceremony and share a quiet dinner with me to say goodbye to our little girl. I waited. I sat at the kitchen table as the twilight bled into total darkness, watching the food go cold, watching the sun begin to creep over the horizon again. Her shadow never appeared. Driven by an ache I couldn’t contain, I rushed to the grand hall where the awards gala was held. The moment I stepped out of the stairwell, I froze. In the dim, quiet corridor ahead, two bodies were wrapped around each other. Giselle was gently massaging Ted’s hand, her voice laced with a tender devotion I hadn’t heard in years. “You silly boy. If you don’t eat properly, how will you have the strength to walk as my showstopper tonight?” Ted leaned his head against her chest, rubbing softly against her collarbone. “I just wanted to look perfect for you tonight, Giselle. This… this might be our very last collaboration…” Giselle’s eyebrows knitted together in immediate protest. “Don’t speak such nonsense. As long as I’m alive, my grand finale model will always be you. Only you.” My fingers tightened around the paper bag in my hand until the handles cut into my palm. It was true, wasn’t it? They were the golden pair, the match made in heaven, perfectly aligned even in their artistic souls. It was no wonder millions of fans on the internet rooted for them to end up together. There was even a phrase trending online: “The most romantic thing in the world is that her final bow always belongs to him.” Netizens had unearthed their years-long love story, obsessing over an old photograph of them smiling at each other beneath a blooming cherry blossom tree. It was a beautiful story. Except everyone had forgotten one minor detail. Me. Giselle’s husband of ten years. In the shadows of the hallway, Ted’s eyes flickered with a calculating light. Their hot breath mingled in the narrow space between them. His face drifted closer to hers, their lips nearly brushing— Then, with a sudden, melancholic sigh, Ted gently pushed her back. “You’re just trying to make me feel better… I know Jesse has always hated me. Sooner or later, you’ll pull away from me because of him…” At the mention of my name, the softness vanished from Giselle’s face. She took a step back, her expression souring. “Why should his opinion matter? You will always be number one in my heart. Don’t waste your time worrying about him.” She paused, letting out a heavy, dismissive breath. “You know I can barely stand the sight of him. Years ago, when you vanished without a word, I only accepted his proposal out of spite. A pathetic puppy like him could never have won me over if you hadn’t left.” My heart went completely numb. Right. If my opinion had ever mattered, she would be standing beside me right now, helping me scatter our daughter’s ashes. She wouldn’t be standing in a backstage corridor, bribing another man to take a bite of his meal. A decade of my life, spent devoted to a woman who viewed me as nothing more than an instrument of revenge against the man who had abandoned her. I turned to walk away. Suddenly, a cold, synthetic chime rang directly inside my mind: [Host, your mission is complete. Would you like to depart this world?] How could I have forgotten? I didn’t belong to this universe. I had been brought here for one purpose: to protect Giselle, to ensure her rise to glory. And now, the only real bond we had ever shared—our daughter—was gone. What reason did I have to stay? I closed my eyes, letting out a quiet, shuddering breath. When I opened them again, my resolve was absolute. “Take me away.” If there was nothing left for me here, then Giselle… we will never see each other again. 2. I sat on the couch until 3:00 AM, waiting until the front door finally clicked open and Giselle stumbled in, reeking of expensive scotch. She seemed startled to see me sitting in the dark. A flicker of guilt crossed her face, but it was instantly replaced by irritation. She unzipped her leather handbag, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and tossed it straight at my face. “Don’t give me that corpse-face the second I walk through the door,” she snapped. “Cheer up a little. It’s not like I don’t give you money to spend.” The paper cash scraped against the bridge of my nose. It hurt, but I didn’t reach up to touch it. I just lifted my head slowly and looked at her. “Giselle. Do you even know what day today was?” She stiffened. An unmistakable flash of remorse passed through her eyes, but her impatience burned it away almost immediately. “How many damn times are you going to throw this in my face?!” she shouted, her voice shrill in the quiet apartment. “Do you think I’m not heartbroken that our daughter is gone?! But Jesse, life goes on! She’s dead, but we still have to live! Do you expect me to spend the rest of my life locked in a cage of guilt?!” Something inside me snapped. I slammed my hands onto the coffee table, sending glass coasters and vases crashing to the hardwood floor. “You “should” feel guilty!” I roared, my voice breaking. “If you hadn’t left her alone on the beach while you were off flirting with Ted, she wouldn’t have drowned!” Giselle’s face paled, her jaw twitching violently before a wave of pure rage overtook her. Fueled by the alcohol, she stepped forward and slapped me across the face. “PA!” “Enough!” she screamed. “So what if I made a mistake?! I brought her into this world! I gave her life! Even if I lost her by accident, neither of you has the right to judge me! Without me, she wouldn’t have even existed!” The echo of her voice died down, leaving the apartment in dead silence. The wall clock ticked loudly—sec by sec. We stood there, staring at each other across the wreckage of the broken glass, neither of us willing to back down. After what felt like an eternity, a bitter laugh escaped my throat. “I used to think that even if you despised me, you at least loved our child,” I whispered, looking at her like she was a stranger. “Now I realize… you don’t have a heart at all.” Giselle trembled with rage, opening her mouth to hurl another insult, but I cut her off. “Why did you even come back tonight?” The question reminded her of her original purpose. She straightened her blazer, letting out a cold scoff. “I came back to tell you to stop targeting Ted. Don’t think I didn’t know about the dirty little tricks you used against him in the past. I only kept quiet for the sake of our daughter. Now that she’s gone, I suggest you know your place and stay away from him.” I stared at her, and then, uncontrollably, I began to laugh. She looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “What the hell is so funny?” I laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks, until my stomach cramped and my face burned. When I finally stopped, I wiped my eyes and looked at her. “Giselle… do you even remember the vows you made to me when we first met?” 3. When the system first dropped me into this unfamiliar world, I was terrified. I had no friends, no family, no history. Everything I had ever known had been erased, leaving me as a phantom wandering a world that wasn’t mine. The only thing that kept me sane was Giselle. I still remembered the first day I met her. She was wearing a simple white dress, walking down a narrow, rain-slicked alley where I was huddled, quietly sobbing. She had knelt beside me, offering a sweet, bright smile. “Hey. I’ve been looking for you. Why are you crying all by yourself?” Back then, even though I knew she was my ‘mission target,’ I was too consumed by grief to respond. I just kept weeping. She didn’t get angry. She just sat down on the damp pavement right next to me, waiting patiently until I ran out of tears, before handing me a clean tissue. “Can you tell me what’s wrong now?” she had asked softly. “I want to go home,” I had whimpered. “I miss my mom and dad…” In this world, my assigned identity was an orphan. Naturally, she assumed I was crying over my lost family. Her smile faded into a look of deep, tender sympathy. She wrapped a small hand around my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Even if you don’t have a home anymore, I’ll be your family from now on. I’ll stay by your side forever.” That day, I walked out of the alley holding her hand, believing every word. Later, I learned that her lifelong dream was to become a high-fashion designer. The trouble was, she lacked true talent. Her sketches were derivative, messy, and constantly rejected by fashion houses. I couldn’t bear to watch her crush her own spirit, so I began quietly drawing concepts for her, submitting them under her name. Those designs blew the fashion industry away. Overnight, she became the hailed prodigy of the design world. The day she accepted my proposal, it felt like a dream. I genuinely believed I was the luckiest man alive. But on our wedding day, everything shattered. Ted, looking pale and unkempt, barged into the venue. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the aisle, crying, begging her to forgive him for running away years ago. Giselle threw her bridal bouquet straight at his face, screaming at him to get out. But the moment Ted turned to walk away, her composure crumbled completely. She broke down in tears and threw herself into his arms right in front of all our guests. That was the day my dream ended. From then on, they were inseparable. She made him her exclusive runway star. Every major show she hosted ended with Ted holding her hand at the center of the stage. The media dubbed them star-crossed lovers. Paparazzi caught them staggering out of late-night lounges, locked in passionate, messy embraces. I tried to confront her. I fought, I pleaded, I demanded respect. But all I ever received was her growing indifference, until eventually, she stopped coming home altogether. The only comfort I had left was our daughter, Sadie. Whenever Giselle and I had a screaming match, Sadie would gently tug on my sleeve with her tiny hand. “Daddy, don’t be sad. I’ll stay with you forever.” And now… I didn’t even have her. Seeing the hollow look in my eyes, Giselle shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet my gaze. “As long as you behave yourself and stop bothering Ted, you can keep living your comfortable, wealthy life as my husband.” “My comfortable, wealthy life?” She seemed to have completely forgotten that every single iconic garment that built her empire had been sketched, stroke by stroke, by my hands. Without me, who would even remember the name Giselle? Taking my silence for compliance, she turned toward the bedroom to change her clothes, preparing to go out again. As I watched her silhouette, I couldn’t stop the words from slipping out: “Are you really leaving again tonight? Can’t you just stay… just for one night?” I didn’t want her love anymore. I just needed someone—anyone—who shared the memory of our daughter to sit in the quiet with me on the night of her cremation. I thought she might show a sliver of humanity. Instead, she paused at the door, turned her head, and sneered. “Psychopath.” “SLAM.” The heavy mahogany door shut in my face. I stood alone in the empty, silent house, staring at the blank walls. 4. The day before my scheduled departure from this world, I received a phone call from Ted. He wanted to meet at a glass-walled coffee shop downtown. I knew it was a trap, but I went anyway. It was time to close every chapter. He was already sitting at a corner table when I walked in, a smirk playing on his lips. “I thought you’d keep playing the coward. Surprised you actually showed up. Quite brave of you.” Sadie’s death had drained every ounce of fight out of me. I sat down, my voice flat. “What do you want?” Ted scoffed at my lifeless tone. He pulled a thick document from his briefcase and slid it across the table. “Sign it. It’s a divorce agreement. Your marriage is dead anyway. There’s no point in clinging to Giselle like a parasite—she stopped loving you years ago.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Did you know? She told me that just looking at your face makes her feel sick.” “How could I not know?” I had heard far worse from her own mouth. During our worst arguments, she had thrown heavy crystal ash trays at my head, leaving me bleeding on the floor. Fortunately, it was all coming to an end. I picked up the pen, flipped to the final page, and signed my name without a second of hesitation. I slid the papers back to him. “Is that all?” Ted stared at the signed document, utterly stunned. He had clearly prepared for a long, dramatic confrontation, and my immediate surrender left him entirely off-balance. “What kind of game are you playing?!” he spat, leaning over the table. “I’m telling you, no matter what scheme you’re cooking up, Giselle will never want you back!” I didn’t answer. I stood up, preparing to leave. Suddenly, the ground beneath us jolted violently. A deafening roar echoed through the air as the floor lurched. The massive glass windows of the coffee shop shattered instantly. Concrete debris fell from the high ceilings. “Earthquake! Get out!” someone screamed. Panic erupted instantly. The crowd surged toward the exit, pushing and shoving. I stumbled toward the door, my hand reaching for the metal handle— When suddenly, a foot kicked out from the side, tripping me hard. I slammed onto the floor, my chin cracking against the marble. I looked up to see Ted standing over me, his face distorted in a manic grin. “You deserve this! That’s what you get for taking what’s mine!” Before he could step past me, a massive concrete support beam tore away from the ceiling above. “BOOM!” The structure collapsed, pinning both of us beneath tons of twisted steel and rubble. Darkness closed in. I was crushed from the waist down, my sight blurring as blood pooled beneath my head. Just as I was fading into unconsciousness, I heard the frantic, hysterical sound of Giselle’s voice echoing through the dust above. “What are you all standing around for?! Move the rubble! Save them!” A paramedic’s voice sounded hesitant, full of strain. “Ma’am, we can’t move the main beam without causing a second collapse! Because of how they’re pinned, we can only safely extract “one” of them right now. Moving the debris from the other man will cause immediate internal crushing… he won’t survive.” Silence fell over the ruins. For the first time in her life, Giselle hesitated. “Giselle…” Ted’s weak, wheezing voice sounded from beneath the rock beside me, heavy with calculated theatrical sacrifice. “Don’t worry about me… save Jesse… As long as I know you’re happy… I can die with no regrets…” It was a masterclass in manipulation. Giselle’s heart shattered instantly. “Save Ted!” she shrieked to the rescue team, her voice breaking. “Save Ted first! If Jesse becomes disabled, I’ll pay for his medical bills for the rest of his life!” A heavy thud sounded above us as the hydraulics shifted the beam off Ted—and slammed the full weight of the structural slab down onto my torso. The final light in my eyes went black. “Giselle… is this the ‘family’ you promised to give me?” “Then I wish you and Ted a long, happy life together. May you burn in it.” “System,” I whispered in the silence of my fading mind. “I want to leave.” [Are you certain, Host? Once you leave, your physical existence in this realm will be permanently erased.] “I’m certain.” [System resetting…] [Ding. Welcome home, Host.]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540682”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

While my four-year-old daughter lay in the ICU with her life hanging by a thread, my wife was walking down the aisle with the man she’d spent a decade pining for. When I called her from the hospital, my hand shaking violently, she didn’t ask how I was. She spat venom into the receiver. “I’m just helping Todd with his wedding setup, Jason! Can you stop being so petty? Making up a sick lie about Grace being critically injured just to drag me away—do you have any idea how pathetic you sound?” Todd’s smooth, patronizing voice floated in through the background. “Look, Jason, if you want Vera back, just say so. My big day isn’t that important, but using your own kid to craft a sob story? That’s low, man.” Vera snapped at me again, hung up, and blocked my number. Sitting on the edge of the vinyl hospital chair, my knuckles turned white as I gripped the thin sheets. I stared at my daughter’s pale, unconscious face beneath the tangle of clear plastic tubing. The steady, terrifying rhythm of the heart monitor echoed in the quiet room. A cold, crystal-clear realization washed over me. It was time to kill this marriage. 1 It wasn’t until two days after I was transferred out of the trauma ward that my wife, Vera, finally unblocked my number and called me. “Todd has an emergency to deal with. Come pick me up from his place right now.” Her tone was clipped, demanding, dripping with the quiet impatience of someone who believed that making her wait a single second was a cardinal sin. For seven years of marriage, I had obeyed her every whim. I had bent over backward to be the steady anchor while she built her public persona. But two days ago, while I was driving our daughter home, a runaway truck slammed into our sedan. Vera was too busy playing glowing bride at Todd’s makeshift altar to pick up the phone. I looked down at the fresh surgical dressings taped tightly across my torso, then turned my head toward the heavy double doors of the Intensive Care Unit where Grace was still fighting for her life. Without a word, I ended the call. Dragging my battered body out of the room, I sank onto a hard plastic chair in the busy hospital concourse, bowing my head in silent prayer for my little girl. Vera arrived nearly forty minutes later, her face dark with fury. She strode toward me in her tailored cream blazer, her pristine heels clicking loudly against the linoleum. Her brows were pulled into a tight knot. “What the hell is wrong with you, Jason?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the hum of the waiting room. “I told you to pick me up. How dare you hang up on me?” She stopped in front of me, her eyes flashing with heat. “And now you’re sitting here playing the martyr? You think sitting on a hospital bench is going to get you out of trouble?” I opened my mouth to speak, but a sharp, blinding spasm ripped through my torn abdominal muscles. I doubled over, gripping my ribs, forcing myself to endure the blinding pain in silence. Vera misconstrued my silence as weakness. She sneered, leaning in close. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it’s been for me at the company lately? I brought you onto my team so you’d carry some of the weight, not so you could sit around pretending to be useful, dump extra work on my plate, and throw a childish tantrum the second I turn my back!” I looked up at her, my vision slightly blurred from the pain. Deep inside, something shattered completely. She didn’t know—or perhaps she simply refused to care—that to lighten her load, I spent eighteen hours a day buried in code and lab work, engineering the core biomedical patents that formed the entire backbone of her startup. I had worked myself to the bone to position her firm for a multi-million-dollar IPO. Yet in Vera’s twisted narrative, the company’s meteoric rise was hers and hers alone. To her, I was just a needy parasite draining her energy. “What, feeling guilty now?” She folded her arms, looking down her nose at me. “Do you have an ounce of pride left as a man? Why can’t you be more like Todd? He actually knows how to pull his weight.” Once the blinding throbbing in my side subsided to a dull ache, I straightened up and looked at her with a flat, hollow expression. “I hear you,” I said softly. “It won’t happen again.” Her anger flickered, satisfied by what she assumed was my usual submission. She shifted back into her authoritative executive tone. “Good. Then stop sitting there looking like a ghost. I just got off a flight and I need a warm shower. Drive me home.” She glanced around, frowning slightly. “And where’s Grace? You left her home alone? If anything happens to her because of your negligence, Jason, I swear—” When I didn’t move, her restraint broke entirely. “I told you to get up! Are you deaf? What is wrong with you lately?” I clamped down on my surging emotions, staring at her with eyes as cold as glass. My voice dropped to a quiet, dangerous whisper. “Vera. Tell me, step by step… what exactly have you been doing with Todd over the past three days?” Vera froze. A momentary flicker of panic crossed her face before her defense mechanisms kicked in, inflating her voice with synthetic outrage. “What is that supposed to mean? I’ve explained this a dozen times! He needed help putting together his wedding showcase. What else would we be doing?” I didn’t argue. I simply reached into my jacket, pulled out my phone, unlocked it to Todd’s public social media feed, and turned the screen toward her. There, on a high-definition photo grid, was Vera. She was wearing an elaborate, bespoke crimson bridal gown, standing beneath a massive arch of white roses. Her face was flushed with radiant, tearful emotion as Todd slipped a massive diamond band onto her finger. The caption read: “To forever with my soulmate.” Below it, hundreds of comments from her friends and corporate colleagues showered them with congratulations on their marriage. And while she was standing beneath those roses, smiling into his eyes, Grace and I were being cut out of a crushed vehicle with jaws of life. Vera’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. The fury on her face vanished, replaced by a sudden, stunned silence. For one second, she was caught. Then, like a cornered animal, she exploded. “Jason! Are you insane?” she shrieked, snatching at my phone. “Todd and I have known each other for thirteen years! It was just a promotional photo shoot for his branding project! How disgusting can you be, spying on my friends like a sick creep?” Her eyes welled with dramatic tears. In the past, those tears would have gutted me. I would have rushed to comfort her, convincing myself I had misjudged her pure heart. Now, it just felt surreal. Ridiculous. Noticing the dead, unbothered expression in my eyes, Vera’s tone suddenly softened. She bent down, wrapping a slender hand around my arm. She pressed her lips gently against the corner of my mouth, her breath warm against my cheek. “Okay, I’m sorry if it hurt your feelings,” she whispered smoothly, playing the devoted wife. “Stop overthinking. Let’s just go home. Grace must be waiting for us, and it’s bad to leave a kid alone for this long.” As she leaned down to pull me up, her designer handbag slipped off her shoulder, hitting the hard hospital floor. The leather unzipped slightly, and a crisp, thick piece of cardstock slid out. I reached down and picked it up. It was an official, gold-embossed marriage invitation. My eyes swept over the names engraved on the heavy cream paper. “Groom: Todd Williams.” “Bride: Vera Williams.” 2 Vera stared at the card in my hand, her face draining of color as a wave of panic swept over her features. “Jason, wait—let me explain!” Her voice trembled, dropping into a frantic whisper. “That’s—that’s just a formality! Todd needed to convince his traditional parents so they’d release his trust fund. It’s a fake ceremony! It doesn’t mean anything, I promise!” I listened to her pathetic excuses, feeling an icy claw tighten around my heart. She had gone to him to be his bride. A “fake” ceremony? Looking back at our cold, distant living arrangement over the last two years, our own legal marriage felt far more like a cruel joke than whatever she shared with Todd. In the past, whenever I raised questions about Todd, she would shut me down with loud, fiery accusations until I apologized for doubting her. This time, I didn’t utter a word. I carefully folded the heavy invitation, placed it back inside her bag, and pulled the zipper closed. My movements were slow, almost mechanical. Vera watched me, her panic quickly twisting back into defensive rage. “Jason! We dated for three years and we’ve been married for four! Do you really have zero trust in me?” She raised her voice, gesturing wildly. “Todd and I are completely innocent! Nothing happened! I did this strictly as his CEO to help a core executive manage a personal crisis!” “He is the backbone of our firm! He’s our chief strategist! Keeping him happy keeps our company floating! Why can’t you understand that?” I hadn’t said a single word, yet she was practically screaming, wildly manufacturing excuses to cover her guilt. My throat felt bone-dry. “Vera… do you even know?” “Know what?” she snapped. “While you were busy standing at the altar becoming another man’s wife… Grace and I were T-boned by a semi-truck. Grace is in the Intensive Care Unit right now, fighting for her life.” Vera gasped, but instead of remorse, her face twisted in utter disbelief and anger. She shook her head violently. “Are you serious right now? You’re still dragging this out?” she yelled, stepping closer. “Just because I helped Todd, you’re going to stand here and throw a temper tantrum? Expressing your jealousy is one thing, Jason, but cursing our four-year-old daughter to play the victim? You make me sick! You aren’t a man!” In a flash of furious disdain, she shoved my chest with both hands. My body, weakened from internal bleeding and held together by fresh sutures, couldn’t absorb the impact. My feet slipped, and I went down hard, my back crashing against the cold floor. Pain exploded across my abdomen. It felt like a hot blade tearing through my insides. Blood began to seep through my light gray shirt, forming a dark, expanding stain. Vera looked down at me, her lip curling in disgust. “Still acting? You think falling to the floor is going to make me feel sorry for you?” “I am sick and tired of your manipulation! Don’t forget who pays for the roof over your head and the food on your table! Go home, sit in the dark, and think about what you’ve done. When you’re ready to apologize like an adult, you can call me.” “And if you ever use Grace’s name to fabricate a sick story like that again,” she added, her voice chillingly sharp, “I will make sure she never calls you ‘Daddy’ again.” She spun on her designer heels and walked away, the sharp click of her shoes echoing down the bright corridor. I lay on the floor, gasping for air, clutching my bleeding stomach with a hand slick with cold sweat. She thought I would crawl back. She thought that, like every other time, a few harsh words would break my resolve and bring me to my knees, begging for her forgiveness. The hallway fell quiet again. I forced myself up, pressing my arm against my torso to stanch the bleeding, and dragged myself toward the thick glass window of the pediatric ICU. Inside, Grace lay beneath a white blanket, her tiny hand taped to an IV board. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, my chest heaving silently. “Grace…” I whispered, my voice breaking in the quiet hall. “We don’t need a mommy anymore… okay?” 3 The hospital staff rushed me into a treatment room to re-stitch my ruptured incision. By the time they finished, my head was spinning from blood loss and exhaustion. When I went to the pharmacy counter to pay for Grace’s upcoming physical therapy medication, I handed over my primary debit card. The receptionist swiped it. “Declined.” She tried again. “Insufficient funds.” I stood at the counter, a faint, bitter smile touching my lips. To give Vera absolute peace of mind when we married, I had handed over control of all my primary accounts. I lived on a modest monthly stipend of five hundred dollars, despite generating millions in enterprise value for her firm through my proprietary tech patents. I had freely assigned those patents to her company, asking for nothing in return. Every major investor on her client list had signed on because of my software architecture. And now, after everything I had built for her, my reward was a bleeding wound and a zeroed-out bank account. I walked back to the cold corridor bench, sitting in the silence, nursing the dull ache in my side. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. The screen displayed the name “Brooke”. Brooke was Vera’s best friend—a wealthy heiress who had always viewed me as an unworthy house-husband who had somehow conned my way into Vera’s elevated social tier. The moment I pressed answer, Brooke’s shrill voice blasted through the speaker. “What is wrong with you, Jason? Are you even a man? How dare you raise your voice at Vera after everything she’s done for you! She has supported your pathetic life for years! Do you have no shame?” Over the years, Vera’s circle had treated me like dirt, and Brooke was always the ringleader. To her, my marriage to Vera was an act of charity on Vera’s part. Before I could reply, Brooke barked orders down the line. “We’re at Velvet Lounge downtown. Vera is smashed. If you aren’t here in ten minutes to pick her up, Todd is taking her to his hotel room!” A week ago, a threat like that would have sent me into a panic, sprinting to my car. Now, I just felt a profound, hollow absurdity. “Is Todd with you?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly flat. Brooke snorted. “Yeah, he’s right here! Unlike you, Todd actually knows how to take care of a woman and run a multi-million-dollar company. I don’t know what kind of miracle landed you Vera in the first place, but if you keep giving her attitude, take a look in the mirror and ask yourself if you even deserve to breathe the same air as her!” Laughter leaked through the receiver. Then, Todd’s smooth, mock-polite voice took over the call. “Don’t worry, Jason. I’m a gentleman. I won’t take advantage of her while she’s drunk. I’ll just make sure my bride gets back to my place safely.” My wife was out drinking at an upscale lounge with her ex-lover, boasting about their fake wedding, while I sat in a hospital hallway clutching a prescription I couldn’t afford. I hung up without saying another word. When Brooke tried to call back three times in a row, I calmly added her number to my blocked list. 4 At three in the morning, a surgeon pulled me into a consultation room. Grace’s intracranial pressure had spiked; she needed emergency neurosurgery, and the hospital required an advance deposit before moving her to the operating room. With my accounts frozen, I remembered the emergency physical passbook and savings bonds I kept inside the floor safe at our house. I rushed home in a taxi, my stomach knotting with anxiety. As I pulled up to the house, I was surprised to see every light on the ground floor blazing. I opened the front door quietly. Voices drifted down the hallway from the study. “Vera, thank you so much,” Todd was saying, his voice soft and tender. “Doing that fake ceremony meant everything to my family… but my dad is insisting on seeing an actual marriage certificate before he transfers the corporate stock.” Vera’s voice followed—soft, gentle, and affectionate in a way she hadn’t spoken to me in years. “Don’t worry about it, Todd. I secretly filed for divorce from Jason months ago. The paperwork is already processed. We can go to City Hall first thing tomorrow morning and register our marriage legally.” “Once your parents see the official license, they’ll drop all their doubts.” I stood frozen in the foyer, the cold air rushing into the open doorway. My daughter was laying on an operating table, hovering between life and death. And inside my house, my wife was casually explaining how she had quietly severed our marriage months ago so she could legally marry her high school sweetheart the next morning. I thought my heart was already dead, but a fresh, agonizing pain flared up, hot and terrifying. I reached out with a trembling hand, pushed the study door open, and walked inside. Vera gasped, dropping her wine glass onto the hardwood floor. Her face went completely white. “J-Jason? What are you doing here?” I ignored her completely. I walked past Todd, opened the small floor safe behind the bookshelf, grabbed my personal passbook and physical bond certificates, and turned around to leave. Seeing my icy, detached composure, a sudden panic seemed to hit Vera. She scrambled after me, catching up to me at the front porch. She grabbed my sleeve, her eyes desperate. “Jason, listen to me! Try to understand! I’m doing this for the company! If Todd doesn’t secure his family’s trust fund, our firm loses its biggest backing! Once I get him settled, I’ll divorce him and remarry you immediately!” “Remember how you always wanted to go to Hawaii for a real honeymoon? As soon as the legal registry with Todd is done, you, me, and Grace will fly out to Honolulu. I promise!” I stopped, looking at her with absolute, unadulterated clarity. “Vera. Since we’re already divorced… there’s no need to remarry.” Her apologetic mask instantly cracked, replaced by cold fury. “Why are you always so petty?” she snapped, letting go of my arm. “All you care about is this stupid piece of paper!” “You live off my hard work! You eat my food, live in my house, and Todd is out there holding this company together on his back! Do you honestly think you compare to him?” When I remained silent, her anger flared hotter. “You know what? I’ve had it with your attitude. Don’t bother coming back to work at the office anymore!” “And I’m warning you, Jason—if you cause any trouble for Todd and me at City Hall tomorrow, you can forget about ever getting back together with me!” I looked at her face—the sharp cheekbones, the harsh glare—and realized I was staring at a stranger. A single word escaped my lips: “Okay.” Vera mistook my compliance for surrender. A satisfied, triumphant smile appeared on her face, and without another glance at me, she turned and trotted back inside to Todd. I turned around, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I had saved months ago. “Hello? Is this the United States Patent and Trademark Office enforcement division? I need to initiate an immediate emergency revocation of all intellectual property assigned under my name.” … At dawn, after depositing my savings at the hospital to clear Grace for surgery, I went directly to the corporate headquarters to execute my formal exit paperwork and assist the IP enforcement officers. As I exited the elevator on the executive floor, I ran straight into Vera and Todd. They were holding hands, stepping out of the main conference room, glowing with fresh arrogance. The moment Vera saw me, her face darkened. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you caused enough drama? Why are you stalking me at my place of business?” She didn’t give me a chance to answer before launching into a tirade. “Are you here to beg for money again? Look at you! All you do is tinker with your worthless little coding projects while Todd just closed a major distribution deal!” “Let me make one thing clear: you aren’t getting a single cent from this deal’s commission. Even if you get down on your knees and beg me, the answer is no!” Todd gave a sleek, condescending chuckle. “Vera, take it easy on him. He doesn’t know any better.” He turned to me, his smile fake and slimy. “Jason, if you give me a genuine, formal apology right now, I might be able to put in a good word and get you a job managing our night-shift security team.” Vera nodded sharply. “Did you hear that? Apologize to Todd! You contribute nothing to this firm, Jason. Feeding you was pure charity!” “Ring… Ring…” Vera’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the caller ID, her expression swelling with pride. “See that? That’s another major venture partner calling to sign on, all thanks to Todd’s networking.” She pressed answer and put it on speaker to humiliate me further. “Vera!” her chief legal secretary gasped, her voice shrill with panic over the speaker. “We have a catastrophic crisis! Federal IP officers and patent board representatives just walked into the lobby! They’re issuing a cease-and-desist and freezing all our proprietary software assets!” “Our lead investors just heard! They’re declaring a breach of contract and demanding an immediate fifty-million-dollar buyout penalty!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “540681”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel