Author: Momo Chan

The apocalypse had already taken everything else, and now it had reduced my bitterest rival to an item on an auction block, locked inside a gilded cage. I was just about to raise my paddle to buy him when the Oracle Feed—the psychic broadcast that streamed endlessly through the ocular implants of the Citadel’s elite—flashed across my vision. [Is the side-chick actually psychotic? He’s the strongest Aether-class operative we have. He’s faking this whole “helpless slave” routine just so he can get close to the Golden Girl and be her devoted attack dog. It’s their twisted foreplay. Why is this tragic extra trying to insert herself into the main plot?] [Harper is so desperate for a man, it’s pathetic. When the Swarm breaches the walls next month and tears her into bloody confetti, she’ll totally deserve it.] A violent shiver racked my spine. I immediately lowered my paddle. “Never mind,” I muttered. “I’m out.” A second later, the man in the cage lifted his head. “I bid ten thousand Aether credits. I’ll buy myself, and I am giving myself to her.” Kieran raised a heavy, chained arm. He pointed straight at me. 1 “Sold!” The auctioneer’s gavel cracked like a gunshot. “Congratulations, Miss. This human male is now your exclusive property!” The blood drained from my face. I shot up from my velvet seat. “I literally just said I didn’t want him! How are you forcing a sale?” The auctioneer offered an apologetic, oily smile. “Miss, the gavel has struck. The transaction is bound by Citadel law. Besides, you aren’t paying a dime. The merchandise has volunteered to cover his own acquisition fee, begging for you to take ownership.” This was the subterranean black market of the Citadel, a lavish three-day event overflowing with illicit weaponry, rare defense tech, and stolen artifacts. I had been hoarding my Aether credits for three grueling years, intending to finally buy a weapon that wouldn’t jam when I needed it most. Instead, I found Kieran Cross on the auction block. Under the harsh, blinding glare of the crystal chandeliers, his eyes locked onto mine. While the audience was draped in silk and bespoke tailored suits, Kieran had been stripped of his tactical gear. He was locked in an iron cage, wearing nothing but dark grey combat trousers. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his waist lean, every muscle defined and coiled with a dangerous, predatory grace. A heavy obsidian collar was locked around his throat. A delicate, degrading chain of spun gold connected the collar to the piercings at his chest. He looked exactly like what he was meant to be tonight: a beautifully packaged plaything, waiting to be consumed. My initial instinct to buy him had been born of pure, foolish pity. I never expected Kieran to pay for his own subjugation, forcing himself into my life. The Oracle Feed in my vision exploded into a blur of frantic text: [Holy shit, what is happening?!] [The plot says the male lead is supposed to use his cunning to sell himself to Camille! He’s the ultimate manipulative simp—he even picked out that gold chest chain himself to appeal to her! Why is he suddenly throwing himself at the side-bitch?!] [Harper is such trash, trash, trash. Can she stay away from him?! Collateral damage girls who try to play the main character always end up dead!!!] [Whatever, buying him won’t save her. During the Swarm invasion next month, he’s going to shield Camille with his own body. Harper’s going to get gutted by an Aberration. The biggest piece left of her won’t be larger than a fingernail. Watch.] A visceral, bloody image flashed through my mind with sickening clarity. I looked down at my own fingernail and violently shuddered. The residual terror instantly morphed into irritation directed at Kieran. “The auction house claimed you were drowning in debt and selling yourself to survive,” I snapped, walking up to the cage. “Who exactly are you trying to fool with this pathetic act?” Kieran froze. Those cold, narrow eyes of his slowly dropped to the floor. He pressed his lips together, his voice a low, muffled rasp. “Harper. It’s been a long time. I thought… at the very least, you might say hello.” 2 I was fifteen the first time I met Kieran. Back then, I was just trying to survive, taking on bottom-feeding mercenary jobs in the Scrap Wards. He was out there too, a lone wolf with a chip on his shoulder the size of a crater. Somehow, we always ended up taking opposing contracts. Most days, we were bitter rivals, trading blows and insults in equal measure. It was only when one of us was bleeding out in an alley that we’d begrudgingly drag the other to safety. The last time I saw him, we had a screaming match that shook the rain-slicked streets. “Can you have some damn standards about whose money you take, Kieran?!” I had yelled, my voice cracking. “Do you have any idea that your client is a complete psychopath? He tortures kids in the lower levels!” I was so angry, the words spilled out like battery acid. “Or do you just enjoy being on someone’s leash?!” His face had gone deathly pale. He reached into his jacket and tossed a bloody, searing-hot Aether core onto the ground between us. “I know exactly who he is,” Kieran said, his voice dropping an octave. “That’s why I took the job. To rip the core straight out of his chest.” He stepped into my space, every word a deliberate strike. “There is nothing I hate more in this miserable world than someone trying to put me on a leash.” I bit my lip, instantly suffocating on my own regret. But he didn’t wait for an apology. His jaw was tight with fury as he turned and walked away into the smog. The very next day, the elite Croft family discovered my latent abilities and pulled me out of the Scrap Wards. I never saw Kieran again. I never even got to say goodbye. So, when the Feed told me that he would eventually abandon me to be ripped apart by monsters just to save another woman… it felt like a physical blow. Did those years in the gutter mean nothing? Was there really no loyalty left between us? Kieran stared at me through the bars of the cage for a long, heavy moment. His brow furrowed, casting a shadow over his face. “Besides,” he said quietly, the arrogance completely gone from his tone. “That was every last credit I had. My Aether core is shattered, Harper. I’m just a normal human now. I’ll never be able to earn that kind of money again.” I thought of the frantic scrolling of the Feed. He’s faking it. “Bullshit,” I breathed. “That’s impossible.” Kieran lowered his eyes, his thick lashes casting long shadows. “You’re a Healer class. You can check the core yourself.” Before I could protest, he reached through the iron bars, grabbed my hand, and pressed my palm flat against the thick, hard muscle of his chest. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. His heartbeat reverberated through his ribs, syncing violently with my own pulse. I took a shaky breath, carefully channeling a thread of my Aether energy, letting it slip through his skin to search for the radiant, burning core that should have been resting near his heart. A second later, my eyes snapped wide open in horror. It was gone. Not just damaged—obliterated. Jagged, dead fragments were all that remained of the most powerful Aether core I had ever sensed. Anyone with a shattered core couldn’t even conjure a spark, let alone fight. Why was the Feed lying? What the hell had actually happened to him? My mind reeled. As I hastily pulled my hand back, my finger caught on the delicate gold chain draped across his chest. The chain went taut. Kieran let out a sharp, breathless grunt. The skin around the piercings flushed a deep, angry red. He looked up at me through his lashes, his expression adopting a bizarre, unsettling submissiveness. “That pinches,” he whispered. “Could you take it off for me?” My mouth moved faster than my brain. “Oh? Beg for it, then.” He didn’t miss a beat. His gaze dropped, his voice a smooth, flat hum. “I’m begging you. Mistress.” Boom. I felt my own heart slam against my ribs, a massive, deafening beat in my ears. Kieran pressed his own hand over his chest, his voice muffled and thick. “The world has ended, Harper. Only the strong survive. Look at me. I’m just a fragile, broken man now. Easy prey for anyone.” He slowly lifted his eyes to mine. They were impossibly dark, an abyss of ink and gravity that threatened to pull me under. “As long as you promise to keep me by your side,” he said softly. “As long as you protect me, every second of every day…” He leaned closer to the bars. “In return… I’ll be your dog.” 3 For several agonizing seconds, the Oracle Feed was as silent as a graveyard. Then, it erupted. [WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?! The plot is completely derailed! I don’t even recognize this story anymore!] [Wait, I just pulled the Citadel databanks! The male lead took an SSS-rank mission a few days ago and actually DID suffer catastrophic damage to his core! And Harper is a rare Healer class. If he drains her healing energy dry, his core will regenerate!] [Omg, that makes so much sense! He’s playing the long game. What a manipulative king.] [Haha, let the side-bitch suffer the drain. Our Golden Girl Camille is too precious to go through that kind of pain anyway.] My racing heart slowly began to decelerate. A strange, acidic ache bled from my chest outward, seeping into my veins. And then, it solidified into something else entirely. Pure, unadulterated anger. I stepped forward, gripping the heavy iron chain attached to his obsidian collar, yanking it upward to force him to look at me. “I own you now,” I said, my voice dangerously even. “Whether I want you cooking my meals and scrubbing my floors, or warming my bed as a late-night toy, you do exactly what I say. Understood?” He nodded once. A cruel, spiteful smile tipped the corner of my mouth. “Then let’s start by putting you in something I like.” I signaled the auctioneer and gave a few clipped instructions. A moment later, he returned with a sealed garment bag. “Keep the chest chain on,” I ordered, staring Kieran dead in the eye. “I like it right where it is.” Kieran stared at the garment bag, a flicker of something volatile crossing his face before he smoothed it over. “Yes. Of course.” He took the bag and vanished into the dressing room. The auction was still in full swing. Because Kieran had somehow transferred his own credits to my account to buy himself, I was treated like royalty. The manager practically bowed as he escorted me to a VIP viewing suite on the second floor. I pushed the heavy oak door open—and stopped dead. Someone was already sitting inside. “Murphy,” I said, blinking in surprise. “What a coincidence.” Murphy’s eyes lit up, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Little Harper. It’s been what, two years?” Like me, Murphy was a rare Healer class. He used to be contracted by the Croft family and was the closest thing I ever had to a mentor. He eventually got recruited by an elite combat squad and left the estate for good. I smiled back, the tension in my shoulders easing. “You look exactly the same. You were the best combat medic the Citadel ever saw. If you hadn’t insisted that your new squad captain saved your life, the Crofts never would have let you out of your contract.” Murphy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. When I first met my Captain, he was young, built like a tank, and had off-the-charts Aether abilities. I thought he was a rock-solid leader. Turns out, the guy is a terminal romantic. A complete idiot for love.” He leaned forward, looking utterly exasperated. “Do you want to know what this lunatic did recently?” I raised an eyebrow. “What?” “He came to me and said that women only feel protective over men who are broken. Then he actually asked me if there was a medical way to temporarily shatter his own Aether core so he could play the tragic victim and force the woman he’s obsessed with to take him in.” Murphy let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “I don’t even know how far this lovesick bastard is willing to take it. Honestly, if the girl he likes told him to put on a frilly little maid costume, he’d probably do it with a smile.” A very cold, very precise sense of dread pooled in my stomach. That plotline sounded entirely too familiar. Click. The heavy door to the VIP suite swung open. Kieran walked in. He was wearing the humiliating pleasure-thrall outfit I had selected: a tight white velvet corset-vest, a ridiculous ruffled skirt that barely hit his mid-thigh, and an obsidian headband equipped with stylized cat ears. The gold chain peaked out from the plunging neckline, catching the chandelier light. Kieran froze. Murphy froze. They stared at each other.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408316”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The ping from my gig-worker Discord server cut through the silence of dinner like a dropped knife. [URGENT: Need 2 groomsmen for this Friday. $300 cash, paid on site. DM for client details.] My thumb slipped, tapping the notification. For a second, the screen blurred. My brain went entirely blank. Across the kitchen island, Barbara set her phone face-down on the marble counter. Her tone was agonizingly casual. “I have to fly out to Milwaukee for work on Thursday. I’ll be back Monday.” She paused, taking a slow sip of her wine. “I’m going to be swamped. If I don’t text back right away…” A dry, humorless scoff escaped her lips. “Please don’t act like a neglected housewife and interrogate me this time.” I gave a numb, mechanical nod. Beneath the counter, out of her line of sight, I typed a quick reply into the Discord server. I’ll take the job. We had been together for seven years. The least I could do was show up to her wedding. … 1 The initial shock was blinding, but once it faded, a terrifying clarity took its place. After the gig coordinator confirmed my spot, I cleared my throat. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “I thought your firm froze all new acquisitions for the quarter,” I said, staring at my half-eaten pasta. “Why the sudden trip?” Barbara froze. The annoyance rolling off her was palpable. “I literally just asked you not to do this, and you’re already tracking my every move?” She slammed her fork down, shoved her phone across the island, and glared at me. “Look for yourself.” I lowered my eyes. The screen was open to her corporate Slack channel. Five minutes ago, her department director had tagged her in a message about an emergency site visit. It was perfectly timed. The exact same timestamp as the groomsman listing in the gig server. “You haven’t been breathing down my neck lately, so I actually thought you were making progress,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “But you’re exactly the same. Cole, aren’t you exhausted being this paranoid all the time?” I sat in silence for a long moment. My knuckles were white around my fork. Finally, I looked up. “Barbara,” I asked quietly. “Earlier this year, you said we were going to get married. Is that still happening?” She blinked, caught off guard. For a few seconds, she just stared at me. Then, she pushed abruptly away from the counter, her stool scraping loudly against the hardwood. “It is pathetic that you feel the need to trap me with a ring just because you don’t trust me,” she spat. “I told you I’d marry you, Cole. But I’m going to do it because I love you, not to prove a point.” All the suffocating weight I’d been carrying for months suddenly caved in on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. So, my seven rejected proposals were because she didn’t love me enough. But marrying him on Friday—that was love? A tremor started in my hands and quickly violently shook my whole body. I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat. “Then let’s break up,” I said. A flash of genuine panic crossed Barbara’s eyes, but she masked it quickly with a haughty tilt of her chin. “What kind of tantrum is this?” she demanded. “I never said we weren’t getting married.” I looked up, stunned by her audacity. She let out a long, exaggerated sigh, snatched her phone back, and tapped the screen a few times. “Look. I was going to wait until after my birthday to take you home to meet my parents and officially talk about the wedding. I even started planning the honeymoon.” She shoved the screen back in my face. It was a confirmation email for two first-class tickets to Cabo. Seeing my silence, Barbara reclaimed her usual air of untouchable arrogance. “The tickets are booked. Believe whatever you want.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked to the bedroom, leaving the kitchen in a suffocating, dead silence. Driven by an instinct I couldn’t quite name, I walked over to the living room and flipped open her MacBook on the coffee table. She was terrible with passwords; they were always combinations of our anniversaries. I hit enter. My heart slammed against my ribs. Her email was open. One minute ago, she had submitted a cancellation request. For the two tickets to Cabo. Somewhere between hysterical laughter and absolute despair, a thought pierced through the fog. I had only joined that gig-worker Discord to scrape together enough cash to buy Barbara that $1,500 Arc’teryx climbing setup she’d been eyeing for her birthday. I was an ER resident. My salary barely covered the rent, and my hours were brutal. To afford her gift, I had picked up every humiliating side hustle I could find. I drove late-night Uber. I participated in clinical sleep trials. Once, I delivered food to a drunk frat guy who slapped me across the face because I forgot his extra ranch dressing. Because I desperately needed the tip, I swallowed my pride, apologized, and walked back to my car with my cheek burning. When I finally got home that night, smelling like cheap beer and exhaustion, I thought Barbara would at least hold me. But the apartment was empty. She didn’t reply to my texts. She didn’t answer my calls. I stayed awake all night, sick with worry. The next morning, I opened Instagram and saw a photo she had posted on her climbing account. A sunrise shot at the peak of a bouldering trail. In the corner of the frame, intentionally blurred, was the profile of a man. Looking back now, that profile perfectly matched the photo of the groom attached to the gig listing. It all clicked into place. The guy she had been climbing with that weekend was Cameron. 2 I first heard Cameron’s name at a rooftop party hosted by one of Barbara’s sorority sisters. The drinks were flowing, and someone across the fire pit laughed loudly, pointing at Barbara. “Honestly, B, you’ve got the best setup. A resident doctor playing househusband at home, and a hot adventure buddy to keep you entertained on the weekends.” I thought it was a joke. But then I saw the blood drain from Barbara’s face, and my stomach dropped. “Shut up,” Barbara hissed, her voice venomous. Maybe the girl was too drunk to read the room, or maybe she just hated Barbara. She pulled up a photo on her phone and shoved it across the table toward us. It was Barbara and a rugged, sun-kissed guy, sitting entirely too close together at a local brewery. “Oh, come on, that’s Cameron from the bouldering group,” the girl slurred. “I heard you guys have been doing overnight climbs together for months. Guess being in a relationship didn’t stop—” Barbara slammed her hand down on the table, cutting the girl off. An hour later, after I had smoothed over the screaming match and practically dragged Barbara out of there, we were in my car heading home. The streetlights flickered over her tense profile. “I thought you promised you were done keeping these random guys around,” I said softly. Her expression morphed from guilt to defensive rage. She stared out the window, refusing to speak until we pulled into our parking garage. “He’s a new vendor at work. What am I supposed to do, ignore him?” she snapped, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Does grabbing a beer mean I’m sleeping with him? God, Cole, your mind is so sick.” She slammed the car door and marched to the elevators. I sat alone in the dim, concrete garage for half an hour, letting the engine idle. My mind wasn’t sick. Barbara was projecting. She was furious because she got caught. Suddenly, a sharp knock on the window startled me. Barbara was standing there, jaw tight. She shoved her unlocked phone through the cracked window. “Look for yourself,” she demanded. I took it. It was a text thread with Cameron. It was entirely professional. Boring, even. They barely spoke outside of coordinating that one drink. My chest loosened, just a fraction. I let it go. But the seed of doubt had already been planted. A month later, that seed violently took root. I was working a grueling 14-hour night shift in the ER when paramedics wheeled in a guy who had been bitten by a rattlesnake on a hiking trail. He was going into anaphylactic shock. I grabbed the antivenom and sprinted into the curtained bay. Sitting by his bed, her hands tightly clutching his, was Barbara. The same Barbara who had told me she was going to bed early because she had a migraine. When I pulled back the curtain, our eyes locked. She dropped his hand like it was made of fire. The color vanished from her face. The attending nurse, entirely oblivious, clapped Cameron on the shoulder. “You’re lucky, man. Your girl here was practically hyperventilating when the ambulance pulled up.” I stared at Barbara. I felt completely hollowed out. I forced the corners of my mouth to lift into a dead smile. “You’ll be fine,” I told him, checking the monitor. “The venom load is low.” I turned my eyes back to Barbara, whose lips were trembling. “Let’s break up,” I said simply. Then I turned and walked out. But the moment the door to the doctors’ lounge clicked shut behind me, the agony hit. I sank to the linoleum floor, gasping for air. I couldn’t stomach the betrayal. But the thought of never seeing Barbara again—of severing a bond that had defined my entire adult life—felt like dying. Barbara and I met in high school. My dad was a violent alcoholic. I only made it to graduation because the public school system was legally obligated to keep me. During our senior year, when I couldn’t afford the fees for my AP exams and was about to drop out, Barbara quietly paid them. For three years, she shared her lunch with me every single day so I wouldn’t starve. When it was time for college, my dad demanded I go to a local community college to learn a trade so I could start giving him cash. It was Barbara who logged into the admissions portal at the eleventh hour and submitted my application for a pre-med program. During undergrad, practically her entire allowance went toward keeping me afloat. In a very real sense, she had financially carried me for seven years. All I could think about was my junior year of college. The heat in my cheap off-campus apartment had been shut off in the middle of a Chicago winter. I was shivering under a thin sheet. Suddenly, I heard someone screaming my name from the street. I looked out the window to see Barbara, knee-deep in snow, holding a massive new comforter and a down jacket. Whenever I remembered that image, every terrible thing she did seemed forgivable. So, an hour after I walked out of that ER bay, I broke. I called her, crying in the stairwell, and begged her to work it out. Barbara gave me exactly what I wanted. She deleted Cameron’s number right in front of me. She swore on her life that they were just climbing partners, that there was no romantic connection whatsoever. 3 I should have believed her. But whenever she worked late, my chest would tighten. I became the very thing I despised—a detective tracking my own life. I checked her location. I analyzed her Instagram likes. I asked too many questions. It peaked a few months ago. She went on an out-of-town conference, and my anxiety reached a boiling point. Driven by pure madness, I drove three hours, tracked down her hotel, and banged on her door. When it opened, I saw Cameron standing there in a wrinkled button-down. I didn’t think. I swung and hit him square in the jaw. Cameron cursed, shoving me back into the hallway, screaming that I was a psycho and that they were literally just prepping a PowerPoint. Over his shoulder, I saw Barbara’s regional manager sitting at the desk, looking horrified. Barbara was standing by the window, her face a mask of absolute fury and humiliation. It took a few seconds for Barbara to recover. She apologized profusely to her boss and Cameron, grabbed me by the collar, and dragged me down the hall. “If you can’t trust me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with rage, “we are done.” The panic swallowed me whole. I dropped to my knees in that hideous patterned hallway. I apologized until my throat bled. I promised I would fix myself. And I really did try. But today, scrolling through a gig-worker Discord, I found out they were getting married. By the time I pulled myself out of the memory, I was lying in bed, confirming the final details with the gig coordinator. Once I guaranteed I would be on time, the coordinator Venmo’d me a $150 deposit and sent over the itinerary. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when I read the schedule. I wouldn’t have to be in the bridal suite. The hired groomsmen were strictly meant to manage the crowd, hand over the rings, and participate in the bouquet toss. I wouldn’t have to face them until I was walking down the aisle. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. A message from the coordinator: [Hey man, I noticed you’ve been taking a lot of random gigs lately. Everything from moving boxes to catering. You in some kind of trouble? Need cash bad?] My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I turned my head. In the living room, Barbara was humming a pop song as she folded designer clothes into her Rimowa suitcase. I opened my banking app. Balance: $1,520. Just enough for the Arc’teryx climbing setup. I typed my reply to the coordinator. [No trouble. After this gig, I’m actually deleting the app.] I switched over to the outdoor retailer’s website and hit ‘Purchase’ on the climbing gear. The night we got back together after the ER incident, I had mentally calculated every dollar Barbara had ever spent on me since high school. Over the last few years, I had quietly bought her expensive gifts, paid for vacations, covered rent. With this final $1,500 gift, the ledger in my head would finally hit zero. We were even. “Hey, Barbara,” I called out from the bedroom. “I bought you a gift for next week.” Barbara paused her packing. Her posture relaxed, a smug, satisfied lilt entering her voice. “The best gift you could give me is to stop acting like a paranoid freak.” I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes and let the darkness take over. Maybe it was because I had just read the wedding itinerary, but that night, I dreamt of our wedding. It was a dim, suffocating affair. The lighting was sickly yellow. Nobody looked happy. When the officiant looked at us and asked the question—for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health—a man in a tailored suit stormed the altar and shoved me so hard I hit the ground. “She’s mine,” he said. I looked up. It was Cameron. He was holding Barbara’s hand, looking down at me with absolute victory. I woke up gasping for air. 4 The space beside me was empty and cold. There was a sticky note on the nightstand: [You were sleeping so deeply I didn’t want to wake you. Make sure you actually eat while I’m on my trip.] I stared at the note, then crumpled it into a ball. I got out of bed, pulled my duffel bag from the closet, and began packing. Piece by piece. It was an excruciating process. Every object in the apartment was tied to a ghost. The ceramic coffee mugs we threw on a wheel during a pottery class in our twenties. The silver chain around my neck, holding the matching promise ring I couldn’t wear at the hospital because of the sterile environment. Her hair ties wrapped around the bathroom doorknob. My heart hurt so badly it felt like a physical wound. It hurt until the pain tipped over into total, freezing numbness. I called a local college kid off Craigslist and let him haul away everything I couldn’t fit in my bag, for free. Finally, I placed my apartment key gently on the kitchen island. Carrying my duffel and the massive box containing the climbing gear that had just arrived, I walked to the station and boarded an Amtrak train heading to Milwaukee. I bought the cheapest, slowest ticket available. I sat by the window, watching the landscape blur by in the dark, entirely awake. When I arrived at the venue the next morning, it was exactly call time. I went to the staff room to change into the rented tuxedo. The coordinator, a stressed-out guy with a clipboard, took one look at me and frowned. “Do me a favor and wear this black medical mask,” he said, handing one over. “With a jawline like that, you’re going to pull focus from the groom. Client requested background characters only.” It was perfect. I looped the strings over my ears. My assigned duties were simple: stand near the altar, hand over the rings, and catch the bouquet if the crowd was dead. While I was waiting in the wings for the ceremony to begin, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Barbara. A photo of a beautifully plated slice of wedding cake. [Checking in! The clients catered some ridiculous desserts for this meeting.] I looked up. Thirty feet away, a waiter was placing the exact same slices of cake onto the tables of the reception area. It was so absurd, I actually laughed out loud. My chest rattled with it. I opened our chat. My thumbs shook as I typed. [Looks amazing. I miss you.] [Are you guys working hard?] [Who is the client again?] [When you get back, let’s finally get married, okay?] The moment the messages delivered, the little typing bubble appeared. Then vanished. Appeared again. Vanished. I waited. The silence stretched. Finally, a new message popped up, dripping with ice. [Seriously, Cole? You have to do this right now? You suffocate me. I literally don’t have room to breathe with you constantly checking up on me!] A few minutes later, the final nail in the coffin arrived: [We’ll talk about the marriage thing later.] A sharp, violent pain lanced through my chest. Later. It was a word she used as a weapon, stabbing into the corpse of seven years of hope. I put my phone on silent and slid it into my pocket. I stood quietly in the shadows as the house lights dimmed and the string quartet began to play. I watched Barbara step out into the aisle, breathtaking in a sweeping white gown. Her father held her arm, walking her slowly toward Cameron. The officiant began speaking, using all the right, emotionally manipulative buzzwords. I could hear people in the front row sniffing. I thought, with a profound sense of tragedy, that if the bride weren’t the love of my life, I might have cried at the beauty of it all, too. “Hey, groomsman. You’re up. Go.” The coordinator shoved the velvet box into my hand, snapping me back to reality. I gripped the box. I stepped onto the white runner, following the tape marks on the floor, and began the long walk toward Barbara.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408315”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My best friend set his sights on the reigning queen of Alden University, relentlessly pursuing her for weeks. She wouldn’t even spare him a passing glance. Feeling too pathetic dying on this hill alone, he tried to pawn her best friend off on me—the resident sickly shut-in. I pointed to my chronically pale lips. “Marcus, do I look like I have the stamina to court someone?” He just patted my shoulder with the solemnity of a slick-haired preacher. “Romance is good for your cardiovascular health, Eden.” Eventually, Marcus decided to give up the chase. Naturally, I stopped mine too. That was when the campus queen texted my best friend, her tone utterly exhausted: Fine, I’ll go out with you. Just make your friend unblock my best friend. I’m drowning in her tears over here. 01 Ever since my best friend, Marcus, attended a guest lecture at Alden University last month, he had been profoundly, irritatingly obsessed with Valerie, the school’s untouchable IT girl. He made up his mind to win her over, dedicating weeks to the pursuit. The girl was carved from ice; she didn’t so much as look in his direction. Yet, rejection only seemed to fuel his delusion. It was like a sickness. “This is exactly the kind of woman I need, Eden,” he’d declare, pacing the floor. “If she’s too easy to get, I won’t cherish her later.” Because of my perpetually poor health, my parents rented a quiet off-campus apartment for me. Marcus moved in to keep an eye on me. We were a package deal. It was past nine on a Tuesday night. A cold, rhythmic rain beat against the windows. Marcus burst through the front door, dropping a pile of shopping bags, his face twisted in utter indignation. He kicked off his soaked loafers, his voice echoing in the hallway. “Damn it all. Why is Valerie so impossibly immune? I wore my killer crimson blazer today, the lucky one. I looked devastating. But she’s like a damn saint. Completely unfazed.” I dragged my eyes away from the movie playing on my laptop, taking in the sight of Marcus standing there in a dripping red suit. “If she’s that impossible to reach, maybe look somewhere else?” I suggested softly. “It’s not like you have a shortage of people throwing themselves at you.” “No, no, no.” He padded over to the fridge, pulled out a soda, and slumped onto the sofa, cracking it open. “Valerie isn’t like the rest of them. Just looking at her makes my heart do this… this crazy flip. And besides…” He covered his mouth, a dopey, lovesick grin spreading across his face. “Her body is insane. I went to watch her dance rehearsal last time. She has these killer abs, that sharp V-cut, straight out of an anime. Kissing her would be an absolute religious experience.” I turned my attention back to the screen, entirely unable to comprehend the chaotic inner workings of a man drowning in unrequited lust. “Hey!” He bumped his shoulder against mine, a sly, dangerous glint in his eye. “Let me show you a picture.” Before I could protest, he unlocked his phone, pulled up a photo, and shoved the screen into my face. I took it, mildly curious. A girl stared back at me. Her gaze was chillingly cool, her features bright but aggressively sharp, with an intimidating arch to her eyebrows. It looked like a screenshot he’d stolen from Valerie’s social media. “What about it?” “Eden. Do you like her?” Marcus and I had been joined at the hip since childhood. I could read the twitch of his brow before he even opened his mouth. I pointed to my pale, bloodless lips. “Marcus, do I look like I have the stamina to court someone?” His eyes sparkled. He grabbed my hands, holding them tightly. “Eden, listen to me. These two girls are attached at the hip. We need someone to divide and conquer. Plus, chasing Valerie all by myself is just… really lonely.” He gave me his best puppy-dog eyes, his tone shifting into earnest desperation. “Just keep me company in the trenches. Besides, getting your heart racing a little is good for your health.” The movie played on in the background, the protagonist’s voice cutting through the silence: I can’t believe I’m buying into your twisted logic! A second later, his phone pinged. Marcus instantly forwarded me the girl’s contact. “Trust me, Eden. You have to give this a shot. She… well, she looks a little fierce, but she’s actually really sweet.” I let out a long, heavy sigh. “Fine.” “God, I love you!” He lunged forward to hug me, then abruptly froze, realizing he was still drenched in rainwater and hair product. “Wait, let me shower first, then I’ll squeeze the life out of you. Wait for me!” I just stared at him. While he was in the shower, I tapped the link to add her, only to realize I was already on her friends list. Huh? I lowered my eyes, studying the girl’s profile picture. It was Snorlax from Pokémon. My own screen name was a bit embarrassing, a relic from my teenage years: SleepyPuff. My icon was Jigglypuff. I just wanted to live a simple, well-fed, deeply sleepy life, completely free of worries. Her screen name was CheeryPuff. My finger hovered over the glass screen. Anyone who loves vintage Pokémon can’t be a bad person, I reasoned with myself. By the time Marcus emerged from the bathroom, I had already switched the movie to My Neighbor Totoro. I didn’t have many hobbies outside of staying alive, but getting lost in animation and cinema was my sanctuary. “Eden, did you add her?” He walked out aggressively towel-drying his hair, wearing nothing but a faded tank top. “Yeah,” I mumbled, my eyes glued to the magical creatures on screen. Suddenly, a thought struck me. I scratched my head. “Wait, am I supposed to announce my intentions? Like, ‘Hello, I will be pursuing you now’?” “Hmm…” He leaned against the wall, pondering. “Ask her if there’s anyone she likes right now. If she says no, you hit her with: ‘Would you mind if I took that spot?’” “What?” My face scrunched up in pure disgust. “That sounds incredibly cheesy. Is this seriously how you hit on people?” “Look, there are a million complicated mind games out there. A raw, unpolished line like this will make her think you’re pure and innocent. Do exactly as I say. It’s foolproof.” “It’s called… laying the groundwork.” Despite my overwhelming skepticism, I tapped out the message: Hi. Do you have someone you like right now? I set the phone face down, expecting it to take hours. I was just settling back into the movie when the screen immediately lit up. “?” “Marcus,” I panicked quietly, “what if she just sends a question mark?” Before I could even voice the question aloud, a second message popped up. No. A shiver ran down my spine. Marcus peered over my shoulder. “Copy exactly what I told you. I’m gonna go blow-dry my hair.” “Okay.” Her message: Why do you ask? I typed: Would you mind if I took that spot? The moment I hit send, I threw the phone onto the cushions in sheer agony. God, the cringe was physical. The phone stayed silent. I forced my attention back to the movie. When Marcus returned, hair perfectly styled, he flopped onto the sofa next to me. “Well? How’d it go?” “She left me on read,” I said honestly. He grit his teeth, staring at the ceiling. For a second, I thought he was having an epiphany about his own terrible flirting strategies. Instead, he sighed, “It’s fine. That’s normal. Valerie didn’t reply to my first text either.” I stared at him in silence. I wanted to tell him that she probably didn’t reply because the line was a radioactive level of cringe, leaving her paralyzed with secondhand embarrassment. Marcus had a group project to work on, so he booted up his laptop to edit some video slides. I picked up my phone to check the time, and my breath hitched. Marcus spoke up, “By the way, her name is Morgan.” Morgan: Wait, what do you mean? I don’t just accept anyone’s feelings. Morgan: I’m not that kind of easy girl. Morgan: Are you saying you actually like me? There was a one-minute gap after those texts. She was probably waiting for my reply, which never came because my phone was face down. Morgan: Actually, I’m pretty easy. Are you trying to court me? Morgan: I’m really easy to catch. Another minute passed. She was panicking. Morgan: If you like me, let’s just date. Morgan: I’m sorry, I was playing hard to get just now. Morgan: Are you busy? Can you reply when you see this? Morgan: It’s been ten seconds. Still busy? Morgan: I messed up. I should be the one pursuing you. You don’t have to lift a finger. Please text me back? Morgan: I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have acted so detached. I was just so excited, I asked my best friend what to say, and she told me to play it cool. Morgan: She said if I said yes too fast, you wouldn’t cherish me. Morgan: Baby, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. Morgan: The truth is, baby, I’ve liked you for a really long time. I just didn’t know how to tell you. I had no idea you liked me too. I sat there. Utterly speechless. “What’s wrong?” Marcus asked, not looking away from his screen. “Did she reply?” I pressed my lips together in a tight line. “Chasing someone usually requires them to reject you first, right?” I asked carefully. “Yes, exactly.” Then what on earth is happening right now? A sudden spark of inspiration hit me. I typed: Reject me. If she rejected me, I would have a legitimate excuse to pursue her. Then I wouldn’t be leaving my best friend alone in the trenches. Morgan immediately fired back a crying meme: No! I don’t want to reject you! I was wrong, okay? I want to go back in time and strangle the version of me that tried to play it cool. I shouldn’t have listened to my friend. I know I messed up. You can yell at me, just please don’t leave me. I rubbed my temples. No. Reject me, so I can chase you. This time, the reply didn’t come as quickly. The “typing…” bubble pulsed at the top of the screen for what felt like an eternity. Finally, a cautious message appeared: Baby, is this some kind of roleplay thing? Promise me you won’t actually leave me. How long do you plan on chasing me? Give me a timeline so I can emotionally prepare. I glanced over at my fiercely focused best friend and typed: I don’t know yet. Okay, baby. I reject you. That rejection only applies to the roleplay, not to my actual feelings for you. Seeing that, I finally turned to Marcus with a straight face. “She rejected me.” Marcus leaned over, clapping my shoulder. “It’s fine. We have to be resilient. I’ll teach you the advanced pursuit tactics later.” Then, I watched in abject horror as he cleared his throat, put on his deepest, most affected voice, and sent a voice memo to Valerie: Could you save two seats for me and my friend tomorrow? I really want a front-row view of you playing basketball. I quietly opened a browser tab and searched: How to woo a girl. The top results from a dating blog laid out a few key points: a. Master the push-and-pull. Don’t be too eager. b. Match her energy. If she runs hot, you run hot. If she goes cold, ice her out. c. Maintain an aura of innocent charm. d. Never act desperate. I looked at Marcus. “Did you get your dating advice from the internet?” “Ha.” He confidently ran a hand through his hair. “Do I look like a guy who needs to steal someone else’s playbook?” No wonder you’ve been single so long, I thought. My mentor is a certified disaster. 02 The next afternoon, right after our last class, Marcus expertly navigated us to the Northridge College campus. By the time we arrived, the dance studio was already packed. His eyes lit up the moment he spotted someone. He waved frantically over the crowd. “Valerie!” I was still scanning the sea of bodies when he practically dragged me forward. The girl was wearing a sleek white performance outfit, her expression completely detached. I hadn’t actually seen Valerie in person before, only through the obsessive lens of Marcus’s camera roll. Because of my fragile immune system, I rarely ventured into crowded spaces. “Eden, if you start feeling faint, tell me immediately. The air is pretty stagnant in here,” he whispered, suddenly shifting into protective-brother mode. “I’m fine,” I signed with an okay gesture. We were just about to back away to the bleachers when we heard Valerie turn to the other dancers. “Where’s Morgan?” “No idea, haven’t seen her all day.” A second later, a girl near the entrance gasped, pointing a shaking finger toward the door. “Holy crap, that absolute vision cannot be Morgan!” Every head in the room instinctively swiveled. A tall girl stepped into the frame. She had fresh, silver-blonde highlights woven through her dark hair, a sleek silver stud catching the light on her left ear. She radiated an effortlessly beautiful, razor-sharp energy. “What… what did she do? Did she skip practice just to get her hair done?” “Who provoked her this time?” From the moment Morgan walked in, her eyes darted furiously across the room until they finally locked onto my pale pink sweater in the crowd. No, I have to play the part, she must have reminded herself. Her determined stride toward me abruptly veered off-course halfway across the floor. Marcus was just about to pull me toward the seats when a guy jogged up and clapped Valerie on the shoulder. “Hey, Valerie, where’s the seat you saved for me?” The guy had a clean, preppy haircut and a small entourage of equally loud guys trailing behind him. “Who is that?” I asked quietly. The bright smile on Marcus’s face instantly died. “Her childhood friend. They grew up together.” I might not socialize much, but I consumed romance novels like they were keeping me alive. The scent of a toxic, boundary-crossing orbiter hit me instantly. A single phrase flashed in my mind: The ‘Just a Friend’ Guy. “Um…” Morgan had inevitably gravitated toward me, desperate to speak, but before she could formulate a sentence, Marcus grabbed my wrist and pulled me away. His mood had plummeted. “Out of sight, out of mind,” he muttered darkly. I glanced back over my shoulder, catching Morgan’s devastatingly pitiful gaze. She looked exactly like my mother’s golden retriever right after being told she couldn’t have table scraps. “Over there. Go sit yourself down,” Valerie pointed out a row of seats to Spencer, the preppy guy. Morgan, looking absolutely murderous, intentionally shoved her shoulder hard against Valerie’s as she walked past. Valerie stumbled slightly, blinking in shock. “Did you eat gunpowder for breakfast?” Morgan silently stripped off her oversized jacket. A couple of guys tried to approach her, but one sweep of her frigid glare froze them in their tracks. … In the bleachers, I tentatively probed Marcus. “How does she treat that guy?” Marcus shot me a defeated look, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just… wherever Valerie is, he is.” Speak of the devil. Spencer and his entourage swaggered over to our section. Valerie was truly a piece of work. She had reserved an entire row. The words I wanted to say died in my throat. Sigh. The spectator sees the game best. Right before the performance started, my phone buzzed with rapid-fire texts from Morgan. Why didn’t you talk to me? I thought you were supposed to be chasing me? Are you giving up? Can I chase you now instead? I’m going on stage in a second. You have to keep your eyes on me. I looked up from the screen just as Morgan glanced up at the stands, her eyes locking onto mine. The guys next to me immediately started whispering. “Morgan keeps looking up here. Spencer, is she looking at you?” “Man, I’m so jealous you grew up with two absolute goddesses.” Spencer’s cheeks flushed slightly, a sickeningly smug gleam in his eyes. “Oh, come on, it’s not like that.” Marcus let out a loud, derisive scoff next to me. I calmly broke eye contact, and the corners of Morgan’s mouth instantly turned down into a pout. Once the music started, I completely lost myself in the performance. I genuinely loved watching dance. The room was filled with gasps of admiration, applause, and whispered debates about who had the best technique. Suddenly, Morgan executed a flawless, brutally difficult sequence of rapid pirouettes, sending the entire gymnasium into a frenzy. The girl’s face was flushed with exertion, the sleek lines of her exposed arms flexing with a mesmerizing grace. She instinctively looked up at our section again, drawing more hushed gasps from the crowd around me. “Is her girlfriend sitting up here or something? She keeps staring right at us.” To my right, someone sighed enviously. “Spencer, if both Valerie and Morgan wanted you, who would you even pick?” “They’re both so stunning. That’s an impossible choice!” “Oh, stop it, you guys, just watch the show,” Spencer deflected, basking in the attention. Marcus leaned over and mouthed the word, Poser. When the showcase ended, Marcus turned to me, panic in his eyes. “Eden, don’t move a muscle. Stay exactly right here. I’ll be right back.” With that, he bolted toward the backstage area with a bottle of water clutched in his hand. Spencer was already long gone, naturally. I sat obediently in the empty bleachers. Against the flow of the departing crowd, a girl pushing her way up the steps caught my eye. She had changed into street clothes, her hairline still damp with sweat. I didn’t blink as Morgan closed the distance and dropped into the empty seat beside me. Seeing me, a slow, breathtaking smile spread across her face. “I thought you were courting me? Where’s my water?” “I’m sorry. This is my first time chasing someone. I lack experience.” My voice was soft, airy, but my eyes held absolutely zero remorse. Morgan was still breathing heavily from the routine. Hearing my response, she let out a breathless, exasperated laugh. She tilted her head back, taking a long pull from her own water bottle. She was already devastatingly cool, but right now, with the corners of her eyes tinted red and a post-adrenaline flush on her cheeks, she looked dangerously intoxicating. She wiped her mouth, dropping her head in defeat as she leaned in close. “Stop torturing me, baby.” “Can we just make it public right now?” The heat radiating off her skin carried the sharp, clean scent of sweat and adrenaline. I instinctively leaned back. “Sit up straight.” I tapped her shoulder with one finger. Tilting my head, I asked softly, “You like me?” She immediately snapped to attention, nodding with frantic sincerity. “But…” I let the word hang, pointing down toward the gym floor where Spencer was marching toward the backstage area. “What is your relationship with him? I heard you two were childhood sweethearts.” Morgan’s dark, obsidian eyes locked onto mine as she scrambled to explain. “Valerie, him, and I did grow up together, yes. But we are strictly platonic. Literally just friends.” “Really…” I shifted my gaze past her shoulder. Spencer, looking livid, was stomping up the bleachers toward us. He glared at me before hissing through gritted teeth, “Morgan!” “Where the hell did you go? I searched the entire backstage for you! Wow, choosing a pretty face over your best friends, huh? Unbelievable!” I stared at the two of them in utter silence. Morgan’s jaw clenched. She turned her head slightly away. “I already told you, Spencer. I don’t drink water given to me by anyone. Except my partner.” “I… how can you compare me to anyone else? We grew up together! What’s the big deal about me bringing you water? Are you saying the second you get a partner, we can’t even be friends anymore?” Instantly, Spencer’s eyes went red. He bit his lip, playing the absolute picture of a wounded victim. I looked calmly at Morgan. “I never said you couldn’t be friends once you have a partner. I just said there needs to be boundaries.” Spencer’s teary eyes snapped to me. His voice wavered with a perfectly engineered tremor. “I didn’t see you there earlier. I didn’t realize you were her partner. I’m so sorry if I made you misunderstand.” Wow. Coming right out of the gate, slapping the ‘jealous, unreasonable girlfriend’ label on me. I spent my life locked in my room reading hundreds of novels where the female lead mathematically dismantled toxic orbiters. I just never had the chance to test it in the field. Until now. The theory was about to meet practice. I mentally rolled up my sleeves. But Morgan beat me to it. She scowled, her voice dropping to a dangerous register. “What the hell are you talking about? She hasn’t agreed to be my girlfriend yet, but honestly, the way you’re talking right now is pissing me off.” Spencer’s face froze. He literally forgot to keep fake-crying. Right on cue, Marcus called me. “Eden, let’s go.” I grabbed Marcus’s bag from the seat and stood up. Morgan looked up at me, panic and desperation swirling in her eyes. I smiled, pulling a fresh bottle of water out of Marcus’s bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Spencer watching. I handed it to Morgan. “Here.” Morgan’s amber eyes practically lit up like floodlights. Her knuckles grazed mine as she snatched the bottle. “We’re going out to celebrate later. Do you and Marcus want to come?” I stepped around the benches, stopping right in front of Spencer, with Morgan trailing obediently behind me like a shadow. I smiled at him. “Excuse me, classmate. You’re blocking the way.” Spencer ground his teeth together and stepped aside. I walked a few paces down the stairs, then glanced back over my shoulder. I gave Morgan a brilliant, lingering smile. “See you next time, Morgan.” When I reached the bottom of the bleachers, I grabbed a shell-shocked Marcus by the sleeve and dragged him toward the exit. He whipped his head around, staring in disbelief at Morgan, who was glued to her spot, watching me leave like a sailor watching a lighthouse. He looked back at me. “Holy… what did you do? How did you train a wolf into a golden retriever in five minutes?” “Secret.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408314”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, waiting to snag a carton of eggs on clearance, when the glowing text suddenly materialized in the air in front of me. [So this is the phantom ideal the male lead has been obsessing over all these months?] [Look closely, the villainous adopted daughter actually looks a lot like her…] [Because of that resemblance, the male lead blindly favors the adopted kid. The actual heroine never stood a chance.] [The heroine was depressed for years. It wasn’t until she was diagnosed with terminal cancer that the male lead finally woke up and regretted everything.] A violent shudder ripped through me. I stood frozen in the middle of the aisle, my hand hovering over the carton. A phantom ideal? A tragic muse? But… I’m fifty years old. 1 Because I had stopped moving, the woman behind me seized the opportunity. She reached right past my elbow and snatched the largest, most pristine carton of jumbo eggs from the display. My old friend Barb nudged me hard in the ribs. “What are you doing, Maggie? You just gonna let her take your eggs?” I blinked, the neon lights of the supermarket coming back into focus, and hurriedly grabbed a different carton, dropping it into my basket. By the time Barb and I squeezed our way out of the crowd and headed toward the registers, the floating lines of text were still scrolling relentlessly across my vision. [As a billionaire CEO, the male lead gave the heroine plenty of money, but he never gave her an ounce of love.] [Yeah, the poor heroine. She loved him so much…] [If he’s emotionally unavailable, fine, but why does he unconditionally pamper the evil adopted daughter? What’s his problem?] A hand suddenly waved in front of my face. “Earth to Margaret. You’re spacing out again.” Barb frowned, eyeing me up and down. Then, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, she clapped her hands together. “Oh, I get it! Arthur asked you to the community center dance yesterday, didn’t he? Finally falling in love? If you ask me, Arthur is a catch. Back in the day, he was the most handsome guy in the county…” Barb was the undisputed gossip queen of our little social circle. She thrived on sniffing out secrets. Ever since Arthur made his feelings known a little over six months ago, she hadn’t stopped teasing me about it. “I’m just saying, a twilight romance isn’t the worst idea in the world,” she prattled on. “Arthur is financially stable, his kids are all grown and living in Europe…” I waved her off, exhausted. “Drop it, Barb. I’m used to being on my own.” Barb and her husband had a wonderful marriage; even in their golden years, they still liked to play at romance. I was different. I had lived on this earth for half a century and had never been married. No strings, no attachments, no lingering regrets. My days were quiet, unhurried, and perfectly my own. But today, these bizarre, hallucinatory comments had appeared out of nowhere. Calling me the “phantom ideal” of some fictional male lead. What an absolute joke. I’m retired. I have a pension. I don’t have time for this nonsense. 2 I went home and started cooking dinner. The text began scrolling again against the backdrop of my kitchen cabinets. [The heroine accidentally broke a picture frame today and the male lead screamed at her. She’s still hiding in her room crying.] [Yeah, she hasn’t even eaten dinner.] [The housekeeper tried to bring her some food, but the male lead stopped her. Said he wanted to teach the heroine a lesson.] [You’ve gone too far this time, you garbage CEO!] Before I retired, I was a high school teacher. I made a decent living. As an older woman with a bit of money and a lot of free time, I’d read my fair share of romance novels. The whole “billionaire loves the evil stand-in while the true heroine gets terminal cancer” trope? I’d read at least eighty variations of that exact story. But according to the glowing commentary, this specific tragedy was somehow connected to me. The so-called “villainess” was only receiving the male lead’s twisted, unconditional love because she looked like me. And that favoritism was indirectly driving the heroine toward a miserable, lonely death. My conscience simply couldn’t take it. Through the comments, I pieced together the details. The male lead was Nathaniel Bancroft, the thirty-year-old CEO of Bancroft Holdings, based in Chicago. …I was twenty years older than him. How on earth did I become the object of his eternal fixation?! I wrestled with it all night, but by dawn, I had booked a flight to Chicago. After a cab ride that cost entirely too much, I finally stood before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Bancroft estate in the affluent North Shore suburbs. Only to discover, unsurprisingly, that I couldn’t even get past the security checkpoint. I was standing on the sidewalk, seriously debating whether I should try to fake my way in as a newly hired maid, when the comments suddenly exploded. [The girls are home from school!] School? I froze. A second later, a sleek black Bentley glided down the street and pulled to a smooth stop just outside the estate gates. The tinted rear window rolled down, and a small, delicate face peered out. The girl looked at me with cautious, innocent curiosity. “Excuse me, ma’am? Do you need some help?” Before I could even open my mouth, the text went wild. [Sobbing! Our baby heroine is just too sweet.] [She’s living in a nightmare, but the second she sees someone who needs help, she still reaches out…] [And this beautiful angel ends up with terminal cancer. My heart is literally breaking.] [It’s all Nathaniel’s fault. Just you wait, Nathaniel Bancroft, I’m going to climb through this screen and rip your throat out.] Before I could reply to the sweet girl, another face appeared from the shadows of the backseat. Two small heads, side by side. Only, the one on the right had a voice like grinding glass. “You’re being pathetic again, Clementine,” the second girl sneered. “Did you forget how hard you cried the last time you got scammed by a beggar?” [The villainess is so spoiled. Does she even remember how hard she tried to suck up to Clementine when she first moved into this house?] [Right? A perfectly good kid, completely warped.] [You can’t entirely blame her. Kids mirror the adults around them. She sees Nathaniel treating Clementine like trash, so she just copies him.] [At the end of the story, when Clementine gets cancer, Nathaniel finally regrets everything and kicks the villainess out.] [But by then, he’s already spoiled her beyond repair. She can’t survive on her own and literally starves to death on the streets.] [Basically, Nathaniel ruins everyone!] Amidst the furious debate scrolling before my eyes, I stood rooted to the pavement, utterly dumbfounded. Wait a minute. Why did no one mention that the “heroine” and the “villainess” in this tragic saga… were currently just two little kids?! 3 I lied. I told them I had come to Chicago looking for work and had my purse stolen at the station. I just needed a little something to eat. Without a second of hesitation, Clementine said, “Please, get in the car. We have food at the house. I’ll have the chef make you something.” Isabelle, the younger girl, let out a sharp, aristocratic scoff. She looked at me with naked disgust. “Who goes looking for a job outside a gated billionaire’s community? You’re so stupid, Clementine. You deserve to get scammed.” “When Dad gets home, he’s going to scream at you for this.” At the mention of their father, Nathaniel, a shadow of genuine sorrow flickered across Clementine’s eyes. But she forced a brave, wavering smile and looked back at me. “Please, ma’am. Come inside.” I slid into the front passenger seat and reached for the seatbelt. Behind me, Isabelle scoffed again. I studied her in the rearview mirror. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. But the slight, upward tilt of her eyes, and that distinct, dark beauty mark resting just beneath her left eye… it did look like me. But that was where the resemblance ended. I am fifty years old. The silver in my hair is undeniable, the lines around my mouth etched deep by decades of living. She was just a cruel little child. 4 It didn’t take long for me to follow Clementine and Isabelle into the cavernous Bancroft mansion. The interior was a masterclass in cold, sterile wealth. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and staff bustling about like silent ghosts. The house lacked even a single ounce of warmth. Clementine dropped her backpack on an absurdly expensive leather sofa and scurried toward the kitchen on her short little legs. Isabelle simply rolled her eyes, swinging her designer backpack over her shoulder as she marched upstairs. A few minutes later, Clementine reappeared, carefully balancing a plate with a thick turkey sandwich. “Here, ma’am. You can eat this.” She tilted her head back, offering me the sweetest, most blinding smile. “I’ll go pour you a glass of milk.” Looking into her wide, earnest eyes and her soft, flushed cheeks, I felt my heart melt into a puddle. The comments were practically howling. [Ahhh! Clementine is so cute I could die!] [If Nathaniel doesn’t want this perfect angel, can I please adopt her?!] [Honestly, I’m just confused. This random lady is old. Why would the CEO use her as his ultimate phantom ideal?] Her curiosity matched my own perfectly. Unfortunately, the comments debated it for a while and came up with absolutely nothing. They eventually just blamed the author for being a hack who wrote illogical plot holes just to torture the heroine. I had just finished the last bite of my sandwich when Isabelle came sauntering back down the grand staircase. “Dad comes back from his business trip tonight,” Isabelle announced, a wicked glint in her eye. “The teacher said we need a parent’s signature on our report cards. Have you figured out how you’re going to explain failing math yet, Clementine?” At the mention of the failing grade, the soft smile vanished from Clementine’s face. Her shoulders slumped, and she bowed her head in defeat. The comments wept for her. [Poor Clementine.] [She had food poisoning the day of the test! She was in agony for two hours and couldn’t even finish the paper.] [Nathaniel didn’t even ask. He just saw the grade, screamed at her, and then praised the villainess right in front of her.] [Clementine cried in her room all night.] I looked at Clementine. She was gripping the straps of her backpack, her knuckles white, practically trembling where she stood. I couldn’t help myself. “Bring me the test,” I said softly. “I’ll sign it for you.” 5 Neither of them seemed to expect that. Both girls froze. After a long, agonizing moment, Clementine reached into her bag, bit her lip, and handed me the crumpled math test. “I… I didn’t finish it,” she whispered. I took it. It was a second-grade math assessment. At the top, in aggressive red ink, was a glaring 43%. Large sections of the paper were completely blank. The long addition and word problems were almost entirely untouched. Isabelle leaned over to sneer at it. “It’s so easy. I got a hundred percent. Dad is going to give me a massive reward later. I’m going to make him buy me that new designer princess dress!” I ignored her. I just put a gentle arm around Clementine’s narrow shoulders. “Tell me the truth,” I said quietly, looking into her eyes. “Do you know how to do these problems?” Encouraged by my steady gaze, Clementine gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Beside us, Isabelle shrieked, “You’re lying! If you knew how to do them, why didn’t you write the answers? You’re just scared Dad is going to yell at you again—” I cut her off. My voice was calm, but sharp enough to slice glass. “Little girl. This is your older sister. Speaking to her with that kind of venom is hardly what I would call good breeding.” Clementine’s head whipped up. She stared at me, her mouth slightly parted in shock. Isabelle looked like I had just slapped her. Her face twisted in ugly indignation. “You’re literally a beggar! How dare you lecture me?!” she screamed, completely losing her composure. “You have no right to talk to me! Get out of my house! Get out right now!” Just then, the heavy oak front doors swung open. A chorus of staff voices murmured, “Welcome home, Mr. Bancroft.” Both little girls instantly went rigid. In the blink of an eye, I watched Isabelle undergo a terrifying metamorphosis. She rubbed her eyes furiously until they were red, squeezed out a single, glittering tear, and looked past me with an expression of pure, victimized terror. “Daddy! Clementine found a crazy beggar on the street and forced her inside! I tried to tell her it wasn’t safe, but she wouldn’t listen!” “And then they both called me uneducated! Daddy, I’m scared!” 6 The floating text exploded into a frenzy of rage. [This manipulative little monster! I want to strangle her.] [It’s over, it’s over. Nathaniel already comes home in a bad mood on this day. He’s going to destroy Clementine.] [Random grandma, please do something! Channel your inner phantom ideal!] Sure enough. A second later, a voice like a frozen blade cut through the foyer. “Isabelle.” “Apologize to your sister. Right now.” Clementine flinched violently. I pulled her tighter against my side, resting a hand on her hair to soothe her. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Don’t be scared.” I stood up straight and slowly turned around. My eyes met the gaze of a tall, imposing man. He was young, undeniably handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features—but there was a suffocating, violent gloom baked into his expression. This was the male lead. Nathaniel Bancroft. I steadied my breathing. “Mr. Bancroft. Hello.” Nathaniel didn’t speak. He just stared at me. I watched his pupils blow wide, consuming the irises. I watched his Adam’s apple bob frantically as his breathing hitched. I frowned, momentarily thrown off by his intense reaction. I quickly tried to explain myself. “I’m not a beggar. I came to Chicago looking for work. My name is Margaret Callahan.” The man’s gaze suddenly sharpened into something terrifying. His jaw locked. Through clenched teeth, he forced out a single, trembling sentence: “What did you say your name was?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408313”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Carter and I were getting married, and he insisted that his ex-wife be our maid of honor. This was our seventeenth attempt at a wedding. And for the seventeenth time, Becca fainted in Carter’s arms right as we were about to exchange vows. The ceremony ground to a jarring halt. Carter scooped her up with a practiced, rhythmic ease, his face a mask of grim determination as he announced the wedding was off. Again. I didn’t break down this time. I didn’t scream or beg. I just stood there in my Vera Wang, watching the man I loved prepare to carry another woman out of our life together. “Carter,” I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs of the confused guests. “If you walk out that door today, we’re done. There is no tomorrow for us.” He paused, looking back with a flicker of annoyance, as if I were the one being unreasonable. “June, you know she’s carrying my child. She’s my responsibility. I can’t just leave her.” He adjusted his grip on her. “You wouldn’t want to marry a man who abandons his duties, would you? Be a good girl. I’ll take Becca back to our place so she can rest in the master suite. Stay here, apologize to the guests, and when you’re done, come home and make us some dinner. We’ll talk then.” As the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind him, I reached up and ripped the cathedral-length veil from my hair, taking a few strands of scalp with it. I stared at the ceiling, blinking hard to force the stinging tears back into my skull. My phone vibrated in my lace clutch. An old, familiar number. “Left at the altar again?” the voice teased, sharp and brimming with a dark kind of amusement. “You really should have just married me, June.” I took a shaky breath, my resolve hardening into something cold and crystalline. “If you’re still asking, the answer is yes.” 1 There was a stunned silence on the other end. Then, his tone shifted, the playfulness replaced by a low, gravelly seriousness. “Are you for real? Because if you are, I’m getting on a plane.” Before I could breathe a word, he added, “June, I’m heading to the airport now. If I come back for you this time, I’m never letting you go. No regrets.” He hung up. I drove back to the penthouse we shared, but when I tried the keypad, the red light flashed. The code had been changed. My stomach dropped. All my things were in there—including the hand-stitched silk duvet my mother had finished on her deathbed, her final gift for my wedding night. I called Carter. He declined. I called again. Voicemail. Ten minutes later, the door finally groaned open. Carter stood there in his undershirt, looking disheveled. “Sorry,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “I was helping Becca clean up. She’s so far along she can’t reach her own back… I couldn’t get to the phone.” He saw my expression—or lack of one—and forced a small, condescending smile. He reached out to pull me into his side. “Are you actually jealous?” he chuckled, as if I were a child pouting over a lost toy. “She’s my ex-wife, June. There’s nothing I haven’t seen. We aren’t together anymore, but she’s family. It was just a sponge bath. Don’t be so small-minded.” “Okay,” I said quietly. In the past, I would have burned the house down. I would have screamed until my throat bled. But now? I just wanted my mother’s quilt. My lack of a reaction seemed to unnerve him. He cleared his throat. “By the way, I changed the door code to Becca’s birthday. She’s got pregnancy brain—kept forgetting the old one.” He watched me closely, waiting for the explosion. “Fine,” I replied. He hesitated, his hand reaching for mine, but a sharp “Oh!” drifted from upstairs. Carter didn’t even look at me; he practically shoved me aside to bolt up the stairs. I lost my balance, my heel catching on the rug. I hit the floor hard, a sickening pop echoing from my ankle. Pain flared, white and blinding. By the time I managed to crawl to the hallway and grab the first-aid kit, Carter was coming back down. He snatched the kit out of my hands without a word and turned to head back up. “Carter,” I hissed through gritted teeth. He stopped, his back to me. “I’m hurt, too.” When he turned around, his eyes weren’t filled with concern. They were filled with a scorching, weary disgust. “Do you have to turn everything into a competition?” he snapped. “Can’t you just give it a rest for one night?” He disappeared back into the master bedroom. It took me a long time to stand up. Every step toward the stairs was a jagged bolt of agony. When I finally reached the landing, I saw my life piled in the hallway. My clothes, my shoes, my books—all tossed out like trash. And there was the quilt. It was crumpled in the corner, covered in the sour, yellow reek of vomit. Carter stepped out of the bedroom, holding the empty kit. He looked at the mess, then at me, and spoke with the casual tone of a man ordering a coffee. “Good timing. Becca got sick. Go wash the linens, would you?” My fingers trembled as I picked up the silk quilt. The delicate, intricate embroidery my mother had spent months on was matted with filth. “Hand wash only,” Carter added, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t use the machine. Becca’s a light sleeper and she needs the rest. Her ankle is swollen, so she’s taking the master bed tonight.” I stood up, my vision blurring with a sudden, violent red. “She’s your ex-wife, Carter. You don’t think it’s a little twisted for her to sleep in our marriage bed?” Becca appeared in the doorway then, looking pale and fragile in a silk nightie that looked suspiciously like one of mine. “Carter… maybe I should just go,” she whimpered, her voice cracking. Carter was at her side in an instant. “You’re hurt! Where are you going to go?” “Just let me leave,” she sobbed, leaning into him. “Tonight was supposed to be your wedding night. I shouldn’t be here.” Carter gripped her wrists, his voice dropping to a low growl. “The wedding didn’t happen, Becca. There is no wedding night.” He looked at her with an intensity that made my skin crawl. “You’re the one who said if we ever split, we’d always be there for each other’s big moments. You’re staying.” He swept her up into his arms. As she “struggled” half-heartedly, the strap of her nightgown slipped, exposing her shoulder, her skin glowing in the hallway light. Carter didn’t even look away. I didn’t stay to watch the rest of the soap opera. I gathered the ruined quilt and retreated to the guest room. Surprisingly, I didn’t cry. I didn’t lie awake wondering what I’d done wrong. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. But in the gray hours of the morning, I felt a hand sliding under the covers. I bolted upright, adrenaline spiking, and shoved the person away. It was Carter, his shirt unbuttoned, his eyes dark and heavy. “Don’t touch me,” I spat. His face contorted into a mask of cold fury. “June, I know you’re upset about yesterday, but I’ve been working my ass off all day and I came in here to make it up to you. Don’t push your luck.” I stared at him, feeling a profound sense of revulsion. “I don’t want it. Go back upstairs to Becca.” He sighed, his voice softening into that manipulative, ‘reasonable’ tone he used whenever he wanted something. “How long are you going to keep this up? I’ve told you a thousand times: Becca is my past. You are my future. I’m only looking after her out of duty. Why can’t you just understand that?” I let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “I let her ruin seventeen weddings, Carter. I think I’ve been plenty understanding.” He flinched, his ego bruised. “You’re being impossible!” He slammed the door so hard the pictures on the wall rattled. Years ago, I would have chased him. I would have apologized for my “tone” and begged for a scrap of his affection. But lying there in the dark, I just felt hollow. My eighteen-year-old self wouldn’t have believed it—that a decade of obsessive, bone-deep love could end with such a pathetic whimper. I remembered the day it started. I was eighteen, climbing over the school fence to cut class, and I fell. Carter caught me. One look into those dark eyes and I was gone. I spent years molding myself into what I thought he wanted. I went abroad for school because his family suggested it. When I came back and found out he’d married someone else, I stayed in a hotel room and cried for a month. When he got divorced and ended up in a body cast after a car wreck, I begged my father to let me use our family’s influence to help him. I spent six months in a hospital room, cleaning him, feeding him, pulling him out of the darkness. When he finally proposed, I thought I’d won. I didn’t find out until later that Becca had announced her new boyfriend the very same day. I wasn’t his choice. I was his consolation prize. I finally drifted off, and when I woke, a knock at the door startled me. “Get up,” Carter’s voice came through the wood. “Breakfast is ready.” I blinked. He had never made me breakfast. My stomach grumbled—I hadn’t eaten since the rehearsal dinner. When I walked into the dining room, the table was covered. Crepes, eggs benedict, fresh fruit, artisanal pastries. It was a feast. I reached for a plate, but Carter’s hand shot out, blocking me. “Wait your turn,” he snapped, his brow furrowed. “We’re waiting for everyone.” He caught himself, his expression shifting to something more neutral. “Becca’s cravings are all over the place. Let her pick what she wants first.” I didn’t say anything. I turned around, went to the pantry, and grabbed a slice of dry toast. Carter followed me into the kitchen. “Listen, when Becca and I were married, we never had a real wedding. I want to give her that. A ‘do-over’ ceremony.” I froze, the toast like ash in my mouth. I almost had to laugh. Of course. The breakfast wasn’t a gift; it was a bribe. “And?” I asked, turning to face him. “She’s too tired to plan anything. I want you to handle the details. You’ve got plenty of experience with weddings, and you know what I like. Becca will send you her Pinterest board later.” I stared at him, wondering if he was actually insane. “Carter, you’re asking your fiancée to plan a wedding for you and your ex-wife?” “Do you have any idea how much of a laughingstock I am because of those seventeen failed ceremonies?” My voice rose, the dam finally breaking. The first wedding, I was so happy. I thought I was finally marrying the love of my life. Becca was the maid of honor, and I was naive enough to think it was a sign of maturity. Then she threw up on my dress in front of the altar. Carter carried her away and left me standing there. He spent the next twenty-four hours on his knees, begging for my forgiveness. The second time, she showed up in a white gown identical to mine. He walked her down the aisle by mistake. The third time, she slit her wrists in the bathroom. He broke the door down and forgot I existed. Every time he left, he came back with a ring, a car, a promise. By the seventeenth time, he didn’t even bother to lie. He just knew I wouldn’t leave. But he forgot one thing. Beyond the “love,” our relationship was a contract between two powerful families. And that contract had an expiration date. The project our families were collaborating on was over. And so was my love for him. Seeing the tears in my eyes, Carter looked momentarily flustered. “Look, if it’s too much…” He stopped as Becca entered the room, dragging a suitcase. She looked like a martyr. “Carter, I was just joking! I can’t believe you actually asked June to plan our wedding,” she said, her eyes downcast. “I shouldn’t have come back. I’ll just leave and raise the baby on my own. I won’t make things difficult for June.” She let a single, perfect tear fall and bowed to me. “June, the baby… it was an accident. I was drugged at a party, and Carter was just trying to save me…” Seeing her “trauma” resurface, Carter turned on me with a snarl. “June, for God’s sake! She’s pregnant. As a woman, have you no empathy?” He swept her into his arms again. “Come on. I’m taking you to try on dresses.” As he passed me, he leaned in, his voice a cold whisper. “The planning details will be in your inbox by five. Don’t be a brat. This is part of your job.” I stood in the silent kitchen for a long time. Then, my phone chimed. “June, what kind of wedding do you want?” It was Brooks. “The flight was delayed. I’m sitting at the gate, thinking we should settle the details now. What do you think?” I laughed until I cried. My “fiancé” was forcing me to plan his wedding to his ex, while the man I’d called my rival for years was asking what I wanted. I replied to Brooks. Then, I opened Instagram. Becca had already posted a carousel of photos. Her in a lace gown, Carter holding her waist. The caption: The Final Chapter. The comments were a cesspool of “I knew they’d find their way back” and heart emojis. And there was a comment from Carter’s official account: Don’t be silly. You’ll always be the mother of my child. The ring on her finger in the photo was the one Carter had never managed to put on mine during our seventeen ceremonies. It felt like a physical weight was being lifted off my chest. I liked the post, closed the app, and sent my resignation to HR. The HR director called me within minutes. “June? Does Carter know about this?” “Did you see Becca’s post?” I asked, my voice calm. “It’s his wish. Just process it and send me the confirmation.” Ten minutes later, the signed exit papers were in my inbox. Then, Carter called. His voice was sharp, commanding. “Get to the Sapphire Club. Now.” I was about to hang up when he added, “Our friends are all here. They’re waiting for you.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of our social circle. I figured I’d go, say my goodbyes, and leave for good. But when I walked into the private lounge, Becca was sitting in the center of the room, daintily wiping a smudge of food from Carter’s lip. She stopped when she saw me, flashing a shy, guilty smile. “Oh, sorry, June. Old habits die hard. Come, sit here.” She made a move to stand up, but Carter pressed a hand on her shoulder, keeping her down. “It’s fine,” I said, taking a seat by the door. Carter’s eyes narrowed. He gripped his scotch glass a little tighter. Throughout the dinner, he kept glancing at me, trying to gauge my reaction. He even peeled a plate of shrimp and pushed it toward me. I looked at the plate, then at him. “I’m allergic to shellfish, Carter.” He blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion—and maybe shame—crossing his face. Becca seized the moment. “Oh, June, don’t be mad. Carter probably just remembered that I love shrimp. He’s so forgetful lately.” She was trying to bait me. Usually, I would have snapped. I would have made a scene and looked like the “crazy” one. Instead, I just pushed the plate toward her. “Then you should have them.” Carter stared at me, his gaze heavy and unreadable. Becca tried to get his attention, but he was locked onto me. “June,” Becca said, standing up with a glass of champagne. “I feel terrible about everything. Let me make a toast to you.” She walked over to me, her pregnant belly leading the way. Before anyone could react, she drained half the glass, leaned in, and dumped the rest over my head. The cold liquid drenched my hair and soaked into my blouse. “The baby wasn’t an accident,” she whispered into my ear, her voice a venomous hiss. “I told him I wanted one, and he gave it to me. Oh, and remember the day your mother died? We did it three times right behind the funeral parlor while you were giving the eulogy.” Suddenly, she threw herself backward. “Ah! My baby! The baby!” “Becca!” Carter screamed. SLAP. The world spun. My cheek exploded in a searing, throbbing heat. It took me a second to realize Carter had hit me. I sat on the floor, the champagne dripping from my chin, as the tears finally fell. Carter scooped Becca up. When he looked at me, his eyes were bloodshot, filled with a primal, terrifying hatred. “She organized this whole night just to apologize to you,” he roared. “And you push her? How can you be so goddamn evil, June?” I stayed on the floor, Becca’s words echoing in my head like a death knell. While I was saying goodbye to the woman who gave me life, the man I loved was rutting against his ex in the shadows of the cemetery. I looked at Carter’s retreating back. “I will never forgive you for this,” I whispered. “Not in this life or the next.” He stiffened for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t look back. I stumbled home, dragged my suitcase out of the closet, and walked out. But as I reached the driveway, Carter’s car swerved in, nearly hitting me. He jumped out, his face pale, his voice shaking with rage. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill my child?” I gripped the handle of my suitcase. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Don’t lie to me!” he screamed. “That hospital is owned by your family! You told them to kill Becca’s baby during the exam!” My brain went numb. “I didn’t do anything.” His phone rang. It was his assistant, his voice frantic even through the speaker. “Sir, it’s Becca. She’s on the roof of the clinic… she’s going to jump.” The phone hit the pavement with a crack. Carter grabbed me by the arm, shoved me into the passenger seat, and drove like a maniac, blowing through every red light. When we reached the hospital roof, the wind was whipping. Becca was standing on the ledge, looking like a broken bird. Carter’s breath hitched. He looked like a man watching his entire world dissolve. “Becca, please,” he choked out. “Don’t do this.” Becca saw me and her hysteria reached a fever pitch. “It was her! She killed my baby!” She was sobbing, clutching a blood-stained bundle to her chest. “You hate me! You can hit me, you can call me names, but why my baby?” I looked at the bundle and felt a wave of nausea. “Sweetheart, don’t be scared,” Becca cooed to the bundle. “Mommy’s coming to be with you.” “No!” Carter screamed. He suddenly kicked me behind the knees, forcing me to the concrete. “Becca, look! I brought her here to pay for what she did. You can do whatever you want to her. Just come down!” I stared at him, horrified. “Carter, I didn’t do it!” But he wasn’t listening. He was crying now. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have divorced you. I didn’t protect you.” He looked at me with cold, dead eyes. “June, tell her you’ll do whatever she wants.” Becca’s eyes glinted with a momentary triumph. “I want her to crawl. I want her to beg my baby for forgiveness. A hundred times.” “Fine,” Carter said without hesitation. “I want her to kneel at the hospital entrance and let every passerby slap her until her face bleeds.” “Fine.” “And I want her… I want her to never be able to be a mother. Ever.” “Fine!” Carter yelled. The bodyguards grabbed me before I could even scream. “Don’t you touch me!” I shrieked. But Carter’s voice came from above me, cold as a winter grave. “Do what she says. Call the surgeon. Perform the hysterectomy.” Thump. Thump. Thump. My head was forced against the concrete again and again until the world turned red. The slaps came in a rhythmic blur, my cheeks swelling until I couldn’t see. I finally broke. “Carter, please… I’m losing consciousness. I can’t breathe.” He didn’t even look at me. “Take her to the OR. No anesthesia. I want her to remember this lesson.” In the operating room, I felt the cold bite of the scalpel. I felt the invasion of the metal. Every cut was a scream that died in my throat until the room faded into blackness. Just as I was slipping away, the doors to the OR were kicked open. The surgeon, trembling, held up a tray with a tiny, bloody mass. He ran out to the hallway where Carter was waiting. “Mr. Jared… we didn’t know… she was pregnant too…” At that moment, Carter’s phone rang. It was his grandfather. “You idiot! What have you done to June?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408312”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Rich people have a favorite catchphrase, unspoken but universally understood: Reality is whatever I decide it is. And so, simply because I possessed the exact bone structure and eye color of the Kensington family’s runaway heir, they collectively decided I was their son, Sean. I explained it to them. Over and over again. I told them my name wasn’t Sean Kensington. My name was Cole Bennett. It was printed in black ink on my NDA, right next to my signature. But they would just stare at my face, their expressions dead serious. Since you’re finally home, stop throwing tantrums, they’d say. Using a fake name? Is that really necessary? Do you honestly expect us to cut ties with you? Or is this about Tristan? Will you only be happy if we throw him out? He’s lived in this house for twenty years. Giving him away now would be abandonment. That was how I learned about the twisted ecosystem of the Kensington estate. There were two sons: the biological heir, and the golden replacement. When the real Sean was finally found and brought back to the family, he couldn’t stomach the reality waiting for him. The Kensingtons favored their adopted son, Tristan, in every conceivable way. Even Sean’s own childhood fiancée, a high-society heiress, always took Tristan’s side. Three years ago, after a massive, foundation-shaking argument, Sean walked out of the estate and vanished into thin air. Then, they found me. I looked so terrifyingly much like him that even his fiancée, Betty Montgomery, mistook me for him. She even organized a lavish, highly publicized proposal ceremony to welcome me back into her life. Except, when the day of the proposal arrived, Betty stood under the crystal chandeliers in front of hundreds of elite guests, bypassed me entirely, and dropped to one knee in front of Tristan. Tristan gasped, his hands flying to his mouth in perfectly choreographed shock. “Oh my god… I had no idea she was going to propose to me,” Tristan whispered, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes. “You two have always been so close. I really thought this was for you…” Betty stood up, looking down her nose at me. “Sean, so what if you share their blood?” she said, her voice dripping with icy condescension. “Tristan and I grew up together. I hope today serves as a lesson. Learn your place in this hierarchy, and stop coveting things that will never belong to you.” Beside me, my friend Carter was practically vibrating with rage. “Are you seriously going to take this?” he hissed. “They’re humiliating you!” I let out a slow, quiet breath. Could I take this? Yes. I absolutely could. … When the diamond ring slid onto Tristan’s ring finger, the collective gaze of the ballroom shifted to me. I could feel the weight of their mockery, a hundred pairs of eyes peeling back my dignity. “He really thought it was going to be him. Hilarious.” “If I were him, I’d find a hole to crawl into and die.” “He deserves it. Everyone knows Tristan and Betty are the real power couple. He just uses his biology to try and steal everything Tristan has.” Carter lunged forward, his fists clenched, but I grabbed the back of his jacket, yanking him back. “They’re doing this on purpose, man! How can you just stand there?” Carter demanded, his face flushed. “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked quietly. I looked past the whispering crowd and watched Tristan pull Betty into a tight embrace. Over her shoulder, he caught my eye and let a slow, triumphant smirk curl the edge of his lips. Looking at that smirk, I didn’t feel anger. I felt an overwhelming, intoxicating wave of relief. I finally get to stop acting in this psychotic family’s play. Three years ago, when I first applied for an entry-level corporate job at Kensington Holdings, the CEO—Mr. Kensington himself—had taken one look at me and teared up. “Sean,” he had choked out. “After all this time… you’re finally willing to come back?” You left because of a petty fight with Tristan, and he’s been blaming himself ever since. I had tried to explain. I brought out my ID. I am Cole Bennett. But the delusion of the ultra-rich is a fortress. They refused to hear it. They offered me a choice: I could leave and try to survive in a city they practically owned, or I could stay. Betty herself had cornered me in the lobby that day, shoving a sleek black card into my chest. “Are you trying to drive Tristan into another depression?” she snapped. “Your little disappearing act nearly ruined him. If you stop throwing these tantrums, I’ll honor our engagement. But the prerequisite is that you stop making Tristan’s life miserable. Stay. There’s three hundred thousand dollars on this card. It reloads every month.” Three hundred grand. A month. Who would say no to that? So, I became the ghost of Sean Kensington. I kept my head down. I stayed out of the way. I practically lived as a vampire, sleeping during the day and haunting the estate at night, collecting my paycheck. But Tristan was relentless. He had a pathological need to frame me. He would throw himself down the sweeping mahogany staircases. He would deliberately slip peanut oil—his known allergen—into his own soup and go into anaphylactic shock. There were security cameras. I pointed out the footage time and time again. But nobody in that house ever wanted to look at a screen that proved their golden boy was a sociopath. At three hundred thousand a month, it wasn’t a salary. It was hazard pay for my fading sanity. But tonight, the mask was off. They weren’t even pretending anymore. Which meant I could finally hand in my resignation. Under the blinding glare of the chandeliers, I stepped forward and approached the happy couple. “Congratulations to you both,” I said, my voice steady and clear. “I’m genuinely happy for you. I wish you a lifetime of joy together. And on that note, I’ll be taking my leave.” Tristan froze, his smirk faltering. Betty’s perfectly manicured brows snapped together. “Sean, what kind of act is this?” Instantly, Tristan’s eyes welled with tears. “Don’t be like this. I swear, I had no idea Betty was going to do this. If you’re upset, here—you can have the ring.” “I don’t need it,” I said, taking a step back. “No, I mean it!” Tristan insisted, stepping into my space and grabbing my hand, trying to force the heavy diamond onto my palm. “Take it!” “Seriously, let go—” I pulled my hand back. It was a reflex, a slight push to break his grip. The ring slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the marble floor. Tristan gasped, his eyes instantly brimming with devastated tears. “Do you really hate me that much?” “That is enough!” Betty stepped between us, shoving me backward. She shielded Tristan like he was a fragile piece of glass. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Betty snarled, her voice echoing in the sudden silence of the ballroom. “Yes, you have the Kensington blood. But Tristan and I have known each other for twenty years. If we’re getting down to brass tacks, you are the outsider here!” A fuse blew in my chest. Three years of biting my tongue finally snapped. “You’re right!” I shouted, the sound ringing out over the gasps of the crowd. “I am an outsider! I’m not your missing heir. I am not Sean Kensington! My name is Cole Bennett!” The ballroom plunged into a dead, suffocating silence. I was breathing hard, my chest rising and falling sharply. Tristan covered his mouth, a sob escaping his lips. “How can you say something like that just to throw a tantrum? Do you have any idea how much that hurts me?” I stared at him, my eyes wide. “What?” Did none of them speak English? I pointed a rigid finger at my own face. “Look at me! Look closely! I don’t even look exactly like him. His eyes are slightly wider than mine. His earlobes sit lower. Open your damn eyes!” “Stop it!” Betty shoved me again, harder this time. “I told you, you are never to make things difficult for Tristan again.” Behind her, Tristan buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with manufactured grief. The murmurs in the crowd morphed from shock into disgust. “What is he trying to pull? He’s a carbon copy of Sean.” “Lying through his teeth just to make Tristan look bad. He’s just playing the victim to force Tristan into giving Betty back.” Betty glared at me, her eyes flat and cold. “My patience has limits. If you keep making these unreasonable scenes and attacking Tristan… don’t expect any mercy from me.” …Was there a single sane person in this room? I threw my hands up. “Fine! You don’t believe me? Let’s go get a DNA test. Right now.” Both Betty and Tristan flinched, staring at me in shock. I pointed straight at Tristan. “Let’s go back to the estate. We’ll swab Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. We’ll pay for the rush order. And then you can all see, in black and white, whether or not I belong to this family!” Betty’s frown deepened. A flicker of genuine uncertainty crossed her face. The guests exchanged uneasy glances. “He doesn’t sound like he’s bluffing… is he actually going to do it?” “Wait, could he seriously not be Sean?” “Look at his posture. He’s dead serious.” Betty opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Tristan let out a loud, agonizing wail. “I know I’m the outsider!” he cried, gripping his chest. “You don’t need to use this to humiliate me! You don’t need to keep reminding me that I don’t share their blood!” With a theatrical sob, he kicked the fallen diamond ring across the floor, covered his face, and sprinted toward the exit. When a waiter tried to gently stop him, Tristan violently shoved the poor guy aside. I stood there, completely stunned. “Wait, I wasn’t talking about—ah!” Two hands hit my chest with the force of a battering ram, sending me stumbling backward. Betty looked at me with a hatred so pure it was almost glowing. “When are you going to stop ruining everything?” she screamed. “Listen to me! I am not Sean!” “Shut up!” She spun around, her heels clicking frantically as she chased after her weeping fiancé. “Tristan! Tristan, wait, where are you going?!” Carter sidled up next to me, watching the chaos unfold. “Is there something literally wrong with the brains of the one percent?” “I’m starting to think it’s a genetic requirement,” I muttered, rubbing my chest. I turned my back on the ballroom and walked out. I had made enough money. Regardless of whether they believed me or not, I was going back to the estate, packing my bags, and getting the hell out of Connecticut. But the moment I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Kensington mansion, two massive security guards stepped out of the shadows and grabbed me by the arms. “Mr. and Mrs. Kensington heard about the stunt you pulled, making young Master Tristan cry,” one of them rumbled, his grip like a vice. “They left orders. You’re going in the attic to reflect on your behavior for three days.” “What? Wait! I’m not Sean! I’m seriously not! Let me go!” My protests were useless. They dragged me up three flights of stairs, shoved me into the dusty, unfinished attic, and the heavy door slammed shut with a sickening thud. I pounded on the wood until my knuckles bruised, screaming until my throat was raw. Nobody came. Eventually, I slid down the wall and sat on the floorboards in the dark. I stopped fighting. Fine, I thought. Three days. I’ll just leave in three days. But by the second day, a terrifying reality began to set in. They hadn’t sent anyone up with food. By the third day, I didn’t know how many hours had passed. The hunger had hollowed me out, and I didn’t even have the energy to call for help anymore. Three days. Not a single drop of water. I realized, with a quiet, creeping horror, that I might actually die up here. Suddenly, there was a soft rustle. A plastic-wrapped slice of bread slid under the narrow gap beneath the door. I scrambled toward it, my hands shaking so badly I barely managed to rip the plastic open before tearing a piece off with my teeth. “It’s me.” The voice on the other side of the wood made me freeze. “Tristan?” I rasped, my voice barely a croak. “I believe you,” Tristan whispered, his tone hushed and urgent. “I believe you aren’t Sean. I can get you out of here, but you have to promise me something. You can never, ever come back.” It was a deal I would have sold my soul for. “Swear it!” he demanded. “I swear it,” I choked out. “I will never step foot in this house again. I will never look at another Kensington for as long as I live!” “Wait here. I’m going to get the key.” Of all the things I expected, being rescued by Tristan Kensington was at the bottom of the list. He was a manipulative psychopath, but right now, he was opening a door that was saving my life. He snuck me out through the service quarters and drove me to a hotel in the city. He even carried my duffel bag up to the room. But the moment I swiped the keycard and pushed the heavy hotel door open, my stomach dropped. We weren’t alone. Seven or eight massive, heavily tattooed men were standing in the center of the room, their arms crossed, staring at us with predatory eyes. Before I could even process what was happening, Tristan shoved a baseball bat into my hands. In one fluid, violent motion, he grabbed the collar of his own silk shirt and ripped it down the middle, popping the buttons off. Then, he unleashed a blood-curdling scream. “No! Please, Sean, I’m sorry! Don’t let them touch me!” I stood there, paralyzed, the bat heavy in my grip. Three of the men lunged forward, grabbing Tristan and dragging him toward the bed. I hadn’t even found my voice to yell when the sound of frantic, pounding footsteps echoed down the hallway. “Tristan!” “Oh my god, my son!” The hotel door burst wide open. It was Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. And Betty. “Tristan!” Betty shrieked. Her eyes went completely red as she took in the torn shirt, the men, and the baseball bat in my hands. She crossed the room in a blur, shoving me violently against the wall before turning and slapping the largest thug hard across the face. “Do you want to die?!” she screamed at him. Mrs. Kensington dropped to her knees, her hands trembling violently as she took in the angry red marks Tristan had deliberately scratched onto his own neck just seconds prior. Mr. Kensington turned to me, his face purple with rage. “Sean! He is your brother! How could you be this vicious? This evil?!” “I…” I dropped the bat as if it had caught fire. Tristan curled into a pathetic ball, burying his weeping face in Betty’s chest. “It’s okay, you can have her,” Tristan sobbed, his voice trembling with manufactured trauma. “I know you love Betty. I can give her back to you. I know you’re the real son, and everything belongs to you. If you just ask, I won’t say a single word of protest. But why… why did you have to hire these men to ruin my purity? Did you just want Betty to be disgusted by me? Did you want mom and dad to throw me away?” He broke down into hyperventilating sobs. I just stared. …Wow. I genuinely had to hand it to him. I never saw this coming. Mrs. Kensington threw her arms around him, burying her face in his hair as she screamed at me. “How did we give birth to such trash?! To think up something so vile to destroy your own brother! Are you even human?!” “You’re all insane!” I yelled, my exhaustion replaced by pure, blinding adrenaline. “I am not a Kensington! I just happen to share his face! I have absolutely zero interest in Betty! She is a pawn in his game—he set this entire thing up!” Betty let out a sharp, cruel laugh. “Do you really think spewing garbage is going to save you?” she said, her voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. “Tristan is my fiancé. No matter what happens to him, he will be my husband. You thought you could use cheap, filthy tactics to ruin him? Fine. I’ll just ruin you first.” She stood up, smoothing her skirt. “Take him to the cold storage.” My blood ran cold. “What?” Her security detail—the men Tristan had supposedly hired to ‘attack’ him—grabbed me by the arms and dragged me out of the room. I fought them like a cornered animal. “I am not Sean! Run a damn DNA test! Let go of me! Let me go!” But money is a louder language than truth. As they shoved me into the back of a black SUV, I realized something profound: the three hundred grand a month was nothing compared to the monsters I was dealing with. The commercial freezer at one of the Montgomery family’s distribution centers was kept at five degrees Fahrenheit. I was wearing a thin t-shirt and jeans. The moment they hurled me onto the frost-covered concrete and slammed the heavy steel door, the cold hit me like a physical blow. I scrambled to my feet, pounding on the metal. “I am not Sean! You have the wrong person!” “Still playing the victim?” Betty’s voice was muffled through the thick insulation. “This door operates on biometric scans. Only Kensington and Montgomery fingerprints can open it. You keep up the act, and you can freeze to death in there.” I heard the sharp click of her heels turning away. Panic flared in my chest. “Betty? Betty! I am not Sean! I’m going to die in here!” But there was no answer. Only the low, mechanical hum of the refrigeration units. I retreated to the corner, curling my body into the tightest ball possible. I blew hot air into my cupped hands, trying to trap the warmth against my face. But it wasn’t enough. The chill seeped through my clothes, into my muscles, and finally settled into my bones. I started to shake uncontrollably. Then, terrifyingly, the shaking stopped. Hypothermia was setting in. My mind began to drift, blurring the edges of my terror into a heavy, seductive sleepiness. Through the fog, I heard a sharp beep. The heavy lock disengaged. The door cracked open, letting in a sliver of warm, dusty warehouse air. I dragged myself across the floor, my limbs feeling like lead. I pushed the door open. There was no one there. The corridor was empty. I don’t know how I made it back to the Kensington estate. Pure, spiteful adrenaline, mostly. When I stumbled into the grand parlor, they were all sitting by the fireplace. Mr. and Mrs. Kensington were fussing over Tristan, while Betty paced the floor, her phone in hand. “Is that bastard still pretending in the freezer?” Betty snapped to someone on the phone. “Drag him out. I want him on his knees apologizing to Tristan.” “You don’t need to drag me,” I croaked. “I’m right here.” She jumped, spinning around. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before hardening into a sneer. “Oh, look who it is. I thought you said you weren’t Sean?” she mocked. “How did you get out, then? Did your phantom identity open the door?” I scanned the room. All the key players were right here. Whoever had pressed their finger to that scanner to let me out… it wasn’t one of them. When I didn’t answer, Mr. Kensington slammed his fist on the coffee table. “Tristan doesn’t share our blood!” he roared. “It’s only natural he feels insecure! Giving him preferential treatment is our duty as his parents! You are our biological son—nothing can change that! So why do you insist on competing with him? On hurting him? Are you even a part of this family?” He stood up, pointing a trembling finger at the floor. “Get on your knees and apologize. Or you are no longer a son of mine.” A dark, broken laugh scraped its way out of my throat. “Sure!” I shouted, my voice cracking but loud enough to echo off the vaulted ceilings. “I’ll kneel. I’ll even bow my head to the damn floor! But since you are so adamant that I am your flesh and blood…” I locked eyes with the patriarch. “Where is my dividend?” They all froze. I took a step forward, the residual cold radiating off my skin. “Don’t think I don’t know the financials. Tristan gets an eight-figure payout from the family trust every single year. You claim I’m your son. You claim I belong here. Fine!” I held out an open palm. “I’m not greedy. Five million. Transfer it to my account right now, and I will drop to my knees and apologize to your golden boy.” “You…!” Mr. Kensington choked, his face reddening. “What?” I cut him off, my voice sharp as glass. “You want me to play the dutiful son, but you won’t give me a dime of what’s mine? You funnel the entire family wealth into someone with no blood tie to you, and call it love?” I looked at Mrs. Kensington, who was staring at me in shock. “Is that what family means to you?!” Mr. Kensington opened his mouth, but no words came out. “You talk a big game about me being your child,” I sneered, “but when have your actions ever backed that up? For three years, all you’ve done is demand I step aside, make myself small, and swallow abuse so Tristan can feel better about himself. What have you ever actually given me?” The parents exchanged an uneasy, guilty look. Even Betty looked slightly taken aback by the sheer venom in my voice. “You refuse to give me what is mine, and then you punish me for fighting for scraps!” I yelled. “You want me to be magnanimous? You want me to play nice? Pay me!” The parlor was dead silent. Only the crackle of the fireplace dared to make a sound. “If you won’t pay,” I whispered, dropping my hand. “Then don’t talk to me about apologizing. Don’t talk to me about kneeling. You don’t deserve it.” I turned my back on them and walked toward the grand foyer. “Wait.” Mr. Kensington’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “Five million,” he said, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. “I’ll wire it. And then you will get on your knees and grovel for Tristan’s forgiveness.” Hah. These pathetic, twisted people. They were willing to pay off their ‘biological son’ with his own birthright, just to buy a moment of satisfaction for the imposter. I slowly turned back around. “Deal,” I said smoothly. I reached into my jacket—thank God I had packed it before the gala—and pulled out a folded legal document. “Oh, and you’ll be signing this.” I tossed it onto the glass coffee table. It was an Irrevocable Deed of Gift. I had my lawyers draw it up weeks ago, just in case I ever found an exit strategy. It explicitly stated that the funds were a voluntary, unconditional gift, immune to any future legal recall or clawback. Mr. Kensington grabbed a pen, scrawled his name across the bottom, and threw the pen at my chest. “Three years out in the wild,” he spat with disgust, “and you’ve turned into nothing but a calculating, greedy street rat.” I didn’t care. I didn’t care about his insults. I didn’t care about his opinion. Because my phone vibrated in my pocket. $5,000,000 USD successfully wired to account ending in 4921. I walked over to where Tristan was sitting, looking at me with wide, nervous eyes. I dropped to my knees. The hardwood floor dug into my joints. I leaned forward. Thud. I hit my forehead against the ground. Thud. Again. Thud. A third time, loud and hollow. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. “I was wrong.” I stood up. I didn’t brush off my jeans. I didn’t look at their faces. I turned on my heel and walked out of the Kensington estate for the absolute last time. As I passed Betty, she took a half-step toward me, her mouth opening as if to speak. I didn’t even glance at her. I just kept walking. She left her hand suspended in the empty air. As the massive iron gates of the estate closed behind me, my burner phone buzzed. It was a call from a detective at the NYPD missing persons bureau. “That missing persons report you filed three years ago?” the officer’s rough voice came through the speaker. “The kid named Sean Kensington? We found him.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408311”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Jackson was obsessed with doomsday prepper novels. When the temperature dropped to seventy below zero for three consecutive days in my previous life, he was convinced the apocalypse had arrived. He went into a frenzy, hoarding enough supplies to last a decade. As a graduate student in meteorology, I tried to offer a rational analysis—the mercury would bounce back within a week. I begged him to only buy a week’s worth of food. But he wouldn’t listen. He insisted on cramming the house with frozen meat until the floorboards groaned. To prevent the inevitable disaster of the meat rotting once the power failed and the thaw began, my parents and I distributed the excess to our starving neighbors. That night, Jackson lost his mind. He grabbed a kitchen knife and slaughtered us all. “The first rule of the apocalypse is to kill the bleeding hearts!” he had screamed, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “Family means nothing now! Three fewer mouths to feed means my odds of survival just went up!” He survived until the National Guard swept through the neighborhood. Mistaking them for raiders coming for his hoard, he charged them with his blade. They didn’t hesitate. A single shot ended him. Then, I opened my eyes. We were back. Three days before the Great Freeze, sitting at the family dinner table. … “As of this moment, I am done with the Miller family! We are finished!” Jackson’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and dripping with venom. The moment I heard him, I knew. He had come back too. My parents sat there, stunned. They immediately tried to soothe him, their faces etched with that familiar, heartbreaking concern. “Jackson, honey, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Talk to us.” I glanced at my phone. It was mid-August, peak summer in Minnesota, yet the temperature had dipped to seventy-seven degrees. In three days, the world would turn into an icebox. I looked at my parents, their desperate pleas ringing in my ears, and I couldn’t find my voice. I was paralyzed by the phantom sensation of Jackson’s knife sinking into my chest. “You don’t have the right to tell me anything!” Jackson spat. “I’m not even your real son!” He threw his napkin onto his plate and stormed out. Within hours, he had moved out of the house. Over the next three days, he went on a scorched-earth spree of predatory online lending, racking up nearly seven million dollars in high-interest debt. He bought a fortified suburban estate, rented out climate-controlled warehouses, and began snapping up grain, generators, and shotguns at astronomical prices. Then, the snow started. Great, heavy flakes that looked like feathers but felt like ash. As the realization dawned on the public that this wasn’t a normal storm, the panic-buying began. I helped my parents stock up on the essentials—enough to keep us comfortable for a couple of weeks. We had just finished hauling the last of the groceries inside when Jackson called. His voice was thick with a manic, triumphant glee. “Is that it? A hundred pounds of rice and some canned beans?” He laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. “God, you people are such pathetic peasants. A hundred pounds won’t even last you through the first month of the New World.” “Jackson, please—” my mother started, but he cut her off. “I don’t care if you live or die this time. I’m going to be the king of this wasteland while you rot. Maybe if you crawl to my gates and beg, I’ll throw you a bone. Maybe.” He hung up. My parents looked at the modest pile of supplies in our pantry, their faces clouded with anxiety. “Miles,” my father said, looking at me. “Is your brother right? Is this… is this the end? Maybe we didn’t buy enough.” I didn’t look up from my laptop. “He’s been reading too many of those trashy novels, Dad. His brain is fried. Don’t listen to him.” The wind began to howl outside, rattling the windowpanes. As a meteorology student, my word held weight in this house. They wanted to believe me. They needed to. They stopped entertaining Jackson’s taunts. My mom even sent him a text: Jackson, please stay safe out there. Miles says this will blow over in a few days. We’ll come pick you up and bring you home then. Reading that made my stomach churn. My parents still didn’t get it. They didn’t know that for fifteen years, they had raised a viper. Jackson had been switched at birth with me, and when he was finally “returned” to his biological parents in the countryside, his resentment had curdled into something demonic. My parents, out of a misplaced sense of guilt, had brought him back into our lives when they heard he was struggling. They died in the last life believing he was just a “troubled boy.” They never saw the monster underneath. Jackson’s reply to the group chat was immediate and mocking: A few days? You’ll be frozen carcasses in a few days! This is the Great Reset! Watch me build my empire while you starve—if you even live long enough to watch! My father sighed and turned away, focusing on cleaning his old gym equipment just to stay busy. My mother hopped onto her iPad to play bridge with her friends online. Listening to the mundane sounds of our home, Jackson’s voice came through the speakers again, dripping with contempt. “Laugh while you can. You’re dead men walking.” I took a deep breath. I couldn’t let the bitterness stay down. “I heard you bought a fortress, Jackson. Generators, weapons, the whole nine yards. Where’d the money come from? We both know you don’t have two nickels to rub together.” Jackson sounded like he’d been stung. “None of your business! I earned that money. I have resources you couldn’t dream of!” I let out a cold laugh. “You mean payday loans and Maxed-out credit cards? Real ‘resourceful’ of you. How do you plan on paying that back? The family isn’t bailing you out this time.” “Who’s going to collect when the world is a graveyard?” he snapped. “Don’t ask the Millers for a cent, and don’t come knocking on my door. It’s every man for himself now.” To drive the point home, he flooded the family group chat with photos. Warehouses packed with pallets of food, enough to sustain a small army for a decade. I heard you city folk like small portions, he texted. That hundred pounds of rice should last you until the heat death of the universe. Good luck! I didn’t hesitate. I screenshotted every single photo and posted them to a local survivalist forum and several neighborhood watch groups. My brother is convinced the world is ending and has hoarded a literal mountain of food in the suburbs, I wrote. Is he crazy, or should we all be worried? The internet is a volatile place during a crisis. The post went viral within the hour. It’s definitely the end, one user commented. Look at the sky. He’s a genius. He’s a ‘reborn’ for sure. Does anyone know where this warehouse is? My kids haven’t eaten in two days. I’m going to go find this guy. If he has that much, he has to share. I watched the comments roll in, a grim satisfaction settling in my chest. I replied to one particularly desperate-sounding man: I’m sorry, I don’t live with him. He really does have a massive hoard, but he’s not the sharing type. You might have to find another way. Then, I deleted the post. The storm intensified. The sky turned a bruised, sickly purple. Suddenly, a drone buzzed outside our window, hovering in the freezing gale. Dangled from a string was a piece of grey, putrid meat. Jackson’s voice crackled through the drone’s speakers. “Miles, don’t say I never gave you anything. For old times’ sake, here’s a treat for you and the folks.” I stared at the rotting meat, then at our own modest, clean supplies. I felt a wave of nausea. Suddenly, on Jackson’s end of the line, there was a frantic pounding on a door. At seventy below, the only people moving outside were government officials or the truly desperate. “Mr. Miller?” a muffled male voice shouted. “We’re with the Regional Emergency Task Force. The floods downstream have destroyed the local food banks. We saw reports online that you have a surplus of supplies. We need you to contribute to the community effort.” Jackson’s scream was shrill. “How did you find me? No! It’s mine! Go away!” “Sir, please,” the officer replied, his voice calm but firm. “The meteorological models show the weather will stabilize in less than a week. This is not the end of the world. People are dying of cold and hunger right now. You will be compensated, and you’ll receive a ‘Civilian Service’ commendation.” That was the breaking point. I heard a muffled bang—a gunshot. “I don’t want your blood money!” Jackson roared. “Rice is worth more than gold now! Step back or I’ll kill every last one of you!” The line went silent on the other side of the door. My hands were shaking. “Jackson, what have you done? You need to stop.” “You did this, Miles!” he bellowed into the phone. “You leaked my location! You think I’m scared? I’m prepared for anything!” To prove his point, he switched to a video call. The camera panned to a woman shivering in the corner of his opulent, heated living room. It was Madison, my fiancée. She looked at the camera, a flicker of shame crossing her face before it was replaced by a hard, cold stare. “Miles, I… Jackson and I got married this morning. He can protect me. He has everything. I know it seems cruel, but survival comes first.” I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Madison, you’re a PhD candidate. How can you be this incredibly stupid?” Her face flushed crimson. “Just… take care of yourself, Miles. I hope I see you on the other side of this.” Jackson sneered. “The National Guard is going to give up on your neighborhood soon. When you’re too weak from hunger to even crawl, you’ll realize who was right.” I hung up. I was angry, yes, but mostly I felt a strange sense of relief. At least I knew exactly who Madison was now. My parents had overheard everything. The color had drained from their faces. The next morning, the sound of a heavy engine roared past our house. We ran to the window. It was the National Guard supply truck—the one that was supposed to drop off our emergency rations. It didn’t stop. It accelerated, disappearing into the white haze. “Miles… Jackson was right,” my mother whispered, her voice cracking. “They’ve abandoned us.” They collapsed into chairs, staring out at the frozen wasteland. “What are we going to do? We’re going to die in here.” I felt a prick of doubt, but I checked my data again. “Mom, Dad, look at me. Don’t panic. We have enough food for a week. The atmospheric pressure is already shifting. Trust me.” They nodded, but the trust was gone. The atmosphere in the house turned funereal. We ate in silence, small, meager portions. Meanwhile, Jackson was a ghost in our group chat, haunting us with photos of feast after feast. Fried chicken, burgers, chilled sodas. I have so much food it’s going to go bad before I can eat it, he messaged. Dad, Mom, don’t blame me. Blame the ‘genius’ son who told you not to prep. My parents didn’t say it, but I could see the resentment simmering in their eyes. They looked at me like I was the one who had sentenced them to death. When the temperature hit seventy-five below, they couldn’t take it anymore. They started packing their heaviest coats. “Miles, we’re going,” my father said, his voice hard. “While the roads are still somewhat passable, we’re driving to Jackson’s. We’ll apologize. He’s family. He’ll take us in.” They hadn’t lived through the last life. They didn’t know that Jackson didn’t have a heart to appeal to. “Dad, if you leave this house, you’re putting yourselves at his mercy. He doesn’t have any!” “Miles, we know you’re bitter because we loved him too,” my mother said, her eyes welling with tears. “But we can’t let your pride kill us all.” “It’s not pride! If we go to him, we are signing our lives away. When this is over, he’ll make us pay for every grain of rice with our dignity!” “If you won’t come, stay here,” she said, her voice trembling as she squeezed my hand. “I’ll bring food back for you if I can.” The warmth of her hand made my soul ache. I couldn’t let them go alone. I drove the SUV through the drifts, a grueling, three-hour battle against the elements. When we finally reached Jackson’s gated estate, it was dark. My parents frantically dialed his number. Finally, the video connected. Jackson’s face appeared, his neck covered in fresh hickeys. He looked entirely unsurprised to see us. “Look at that. The prodigal parents return. I thought you had eighty pounds of cabbage to keep you company?” “Jackson, please!” my father begged, his voice muffled by the cold seeping into the car. “Let us in! I’m begging you!” Jackson’s expression turned into a mask of pure coldness. “In your dreams. I spent millions to build this sanctuary. Why should I share it with people who didn’t believe in me?” I leaned into the frame. “And Madison?” Jackson grinned and tilted the camera. My heart stopped. Madison was on the floor, stripped of her dignity and her clothes, crawling at his feet like a dog. “That’s the price of admission,” Jackson said. “What are you willing to pay, big brother? I bet those two ‘Saint’ parents of yours would do anything to save their precious Miles.” He leaned in close to the screen. “Tell you what. I only have room for one more. Either the parents come in, or Miles does. You choose.” The car went silent. The cruelty was so profound it felt physical. My parents looked at me, their eyes overflowing. “Miles,” my father whispered. “The last fifteen years… we haven’t been fair to you. We tried so hard to make up for the switch that we neglected the son who was actually ours.” “Go,” my mother sobbed. “Go inside. Live.” I looked at them, my heart breaking. They thought I was going to leave them. Instead, I pulled out my phone and sent a pre-timed message to a contact I’d made on the forums. Then, I looked at Jackson. “Fine,” I said. “I’m coming in.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408310”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Seven years. That’s how long we were together, and in all that time, there wasn’t a single trace of me on Maya’s social media. No tagged photos, no subtle shots of my hand across a dinner table, nothing. Until yesterday. She posted a photo with a junior colleague from her firm—a clean-cut guy she’d mentored back in college. They were standing in a sleek conference room, looking like a power duo. Her caption read: “Look who’s all grown up and holding his own against me at the negotiation table.” The guy commented almost instantly: “Checkmate, Maya. I’m just getting started.” This time, I didn’t pick a fight. I didn’t even send a snarky text. I just felt a strange, hollow quiet settle in my chest. When my mom called later that evening to suggest a blind date with a family friend’s daughter, I didn’t argue. I just said, “Okay.” The high school reunion was held two weeks after I walked out on Maya. It was the first time I’d seen her since the breakup. … When I walked into the private room at the bistro, the old gang was already mid-toast. Our old class president was teasing Maya. “Come on, Maya,” he laughed. “Are you really going to play the Ice Queen forever? You’ve been single since graduation.” “Seriously,” another girl chimed in. “I’ve tried setting you up with half the eligible bachelors in the city. What’s your type, anyway? Does he even exist?” I kept my head down, sliding into an empty seat at the far end of the table. Maya’s eyes shifted, landing directly on me. She took a slow sip of her water and looked back at the class president. “Ask him,” she said. The table went silent. Twenty heads turned toward me in unison. “Oh, that’s right! Ben, you were her desk mate for three years. You’ve got the inside track. What does our resident genius actually look for in a man?” “How would I know?” I said, my voice flatter than I intended. The guy who asked looked a bit taken alphabetical back by my tone. Maya’s lips twitched into a faint, unreadable smirk. She didn’t look away. Someone else broke the tension. “Wait, Ben might not know, but I have a theory! Did you guys see Maya’s post the other day? That guy in the suit? With a face like that, I don’t blame her for finally catching feelings.” “I saw that!” Suddenly, everyone was fumbling for their phones, scrolling through Instagram to find the photo. But they hit a wall. “So stingy, Maya!” someone teased. “Did you archive it already? Keeping him all to yourself?” “Lucky for you, I took a screenshot!” a girl at the end of the table announced, proudly waving her phone. She sent it to the group chat. In the photo, the guy’s eyes were bright, his gaze fixed on Maya with an expression that bordered on worship. Maya stood beside him in a sharp blazer, the corner of her mouth lifted in a rare, soft smile. They looked like the lead couple in a high-end legal drama. The room erupted into chatter about how “perfect” they looked together. My best friend, Matt, nudged me with his elbow. “Maya never comes to these things,” he whispered. “What’s she doing here today?” I took a long pull of my soda. “Who knows.” A few days ago, on my birthday, Maya and I had the worst fight of our seven-year relationship over that very photo. I asked her why she could never acknowledge me—not once—but could post a glowing tribute to some guy she’d known for five minutes. She just frowned and told me I was being “insecure and dramatic.” Seven years is a long time to wait for a person to be proud of you. I couldn’t do it anymore. The anxiety, the constant questioning of my own worth—it had eroded everything. I’d reached the end of my rope. That night, I had lit a single candle on a grocery-store cupcake. I made a wish. For seven years, the wish had been the same: Please let her love me enough to show me off. This year, I changed it. I looked at Maya’s tired, annoyed expression and said, “Maya, my birthday wish this year is for us to break up.” It was the first time I’d ever suggested it. She froze for a second, her face transitioning back to its usual, cool composure. “Are you sure about that?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. “Ben, if you walk out that door, you’re the one who’s going to regret it. Not me.” I knew what she meant. She had the pedigree—the Ivy League degree, the seven-figure salary at a top tech firm, the effortless beauty. She was the girl who had everything. And me? I was the son of a high school teacher. I worked a steady, mid-level marketing job. I was “fine.” If my mom hadn’t been the head of the honors program, I wouldn’t have even been in the same classroom as Maya, let alone her life. But that night, I just nodded. “I’m sure.” It took me three hours to pack my life into boxes. I moved out before sunrise. “Earth to Ben,” Matt said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I blinked, returning to the present. Maya was currently fielding questions about the “mystery man.” “Stop it, guys,” she said smoothly. “He’s just a junior from the office. He recently transferred to my department.” Matt leaned in closer to me. “I don’t buy it. Maya doesn’t post anyone. You don’t break a streak like that for a ‘junior.’” “I guess not,” I muttered. It took seven years of me begging, and I couldn’t even get a blurred photo of my shadow on her grid. When the reunion ended, a light drizzle had started to fall. I didn’t want to wait twenty minutes for an Uber, so I pulled my jacket over my head and started jogging toward the subway station. I was halfway there when a familiar black Audi pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. “Get in,” Maya said. I didn’t stop. I kept walking, my sneakers splashing through the puddles. Maya hopped out of the car and grabbed my arm. “Why are you being so stubborn? You’re going to catch a cold.” I wrenched my arm away. “Since when is that your problem?” “Ben,” she said, her grip tightening. “Are you actually serious about this? This… tantrum?” I knew what she was doing. She was giving me a “way out.” A chance to apologize, to slide back into our routine, to pretend the breakup never happened. “What do you think, Maya?” She let out a sharp, cold laugh and let go of my arm. “Fine. Suit yourself. I’m done playing games.” She got back in the car and floored it. The spray from her tires soaked my jeans and sneakers. The spring air in the city was starting to turn, but the rain brought a biting chill. I pulled my jacket tighter and kept walking toward the station. When I finally got back to my mom’s house, she was waiting with a mug of hot ginger tea. “I figured you’d be walking in the rain,” she said, shaking her head. “You never listen, Ben. I told you to take an umbrella.” I took the mug, leaning against the kitchen counter. I’d ignored a lot of warnings lately. “Did you see Maya?” Mom asked, her eyes lighting up. She loved Maya. To my mom, Maya was the gold standard—the star student who had actually made it. She kept tabs on Maya’s career like it was a hobby. “Yeah. I saw her,” I said, looking into my tea. “I wonder if she’s seeing anyone,” Mom mused. “A girl like that… she’s so brilliant, so picky. Most men wouldn’t even know how to talk to her.” I felt a sharp ache behind my eyes. I swallowed a mouthful of the spicy tea. “I think she’s found someone.” “Really?” Mom looked genuinely excited. “Yeah.” She must have noticed my mood shifting. She went quiet for a moment, then added, “Well, my Ben is a catch too. If you’d just put yourself out there, you’d find someone wonderful.” I looked up at her. “Do you really believe that, Mom?” She looked surprised. Usually, whenever she brought up dating, I’d get defensive or change the subject. She nodded firmly. “Of course! Your Aunt Sarah mentioned a girl—Chloe. She’s lovely, very successful, and she’s back in town for the holidays. Why don’t you meet her for a drink?” “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.” The next two days were quiet. I slept in, spent hours scrolling through apartment listings, trying to figure out where I’d move once I got back to the city after the break. I was walking out of my bedroom on the third morning when I stopped dead. Maya was sitting on our living room sofa. My mom came out of the kitchen with a plate of sliced fruit. She saw me and frowned. “Ben! You’re still in your pajamas? Maya stopped by to say hello, and you’re being a terrible host. Go change.” I retreated into my room and stayed there as long as possible. I wasn’t being vain. Maya had been a student of my mom’s, and she came by every year to pay her respects. The irony was that even after we’d started dating, Maya insisted we keep it a secret from my mother. At first, I thought it was romantic—our little secret. Then, as years passed, it felt like a cage. “I’m just not ready to tell her yet,” she’d say. “It’ll be awkward. Let’s just keep things as they are.” “I’m not the type to do the whole ‘meet the parents’ thing as a couple. It’s cringe.” “Next year, Ben. I promise.” Next year turned into seven years. When my mom called for me the third time, I forced myself out. “Look at him, he’s actually shy around his old classmate,” Mom joked. I didn’t look at Maya. “Mom, I’m actually heading out to meet someone. I should probably get going.” “Oh?” Mom’s eyebrows shot up. She lowered her voice, a huge grin spreading across her face. “Is it for your date with Chloe?” I didn’t answer, but my silence was all the confirmation she needed. “Go, go! Don’t keep a lady waiting.” Maya spoke up suddenly. “Who’s Chloe?” “A girl Ben’s aunt set him up with,” Mom answered, beaming. “She’s wonderful. She works in the city too. Actually, Maya, you should look out for our Ben since you’re both in the same circles. Make sure he doesn’t pick someone too crazy.” She didn’t notice Maya’s face go pale and then settle into a cold, hard mask. “Mom—” I cut her off. “I’m leaving.” I walked out the door, but I didn’t even make it to the end of the driveway before Maya caught up to me. “A date?” she hissed, grabbing my wrist. “Care to explain that, Ben?” I shook her off. “Does it matter to you?” She let out a sharp, angry breath. “My boyfriend is going on a blind date. Yeah, I’d say it matters.” “Ex-boyfriend,” I corrected her. Maya’s jaw tightened. “You’re really doing this? Over a stupid Instagram post? You’re throwing away seven years because of a photo of a coworker?” “I’m not throwing it away,” I said, and to my surprise, my voice was perfectly calm. “I’m just finally realizing there’s nothing left to hold onto.” Maya stared at me, looking genuinely confused. She was brilliant, but she had a blind spot for things she didn’t value. And she didn’t value my feelings. Before she could speak, Matt pulled up to the curb in his beat-up truck. “Hey, Ben! Sorry I’m late, man. You ready?” He hopped out and saw Maya holding my arm. “Uh… what’s going on?” Maya suddenly let go. A strange, smug little smile played on her lips. “Oh, I see,” she said, her voice dripping with relief. “You’re ‘meeting’ Matt. I should have known.” She reached out and playfully flicked my forehead, as if I were a child who’d been caught in a lie. “I was wondering how you could possibly be over me so fast. Go have fun with your friend. Get it out of your system.” She turned and walked toward her car, humming to herself. Matt looked at me, then at her retreating back. “What the hell was that? Is she… okay?” My phone died later that afternoon. When I finally plugged it in at home that night, I had fifteen unread messages from Maya. I opened them, expecting an apology or another lecture. Instead, it was like the breakup had been erased from her memory. “Are you home yet?” “Want me to come pick you up?” “I bought those honey cakes you like. I’ll bring some back to the city for you.” “The company site crashed today. I had to fix the backend before it went viral. Your girlfriend is a genius, isn’t she?” “That boba place you like has a new seasonal flavor. We’ll go when we’re back.” I scrolled up to the very top of the thread, back to the night of my birthday. I had sent her a photo of us that a colleague had taken at a Christmas party. I looked hurt in the message: “Am I really that much worse-looking than your junior? Is that why you won’t post us?” I had sent three more photos. “I’m not an ugly guy, Maya. Pick one. Post it. Let’s just be public for once.” Her reply, thirty minutes later, had been: “Don’t be insecure. It’s not a big deal.” She never tried to comfort me. She never used more words than necessary. She knew I would eventually just… deal with it. But looking at these new, “warm” messages, I realized I didn’t want them anymore. I hovered over the option to Clear Chat History. My thumb trembled. Deleting seven years felt like cutting out a piece of my own chest. It took the loading circle a full minute to finish. When the screen went white, I fell back onto my pillow and finally let the tears come. The Sunday after New Year’s was always the day we drove back to the city together. Usually, I’d have to lie to my mom, tell her I was taking the train, wave goodbye at the station, and then sneak back out to meet Maya at a nearby gas station. Maya’s Audi was idling in front of my house. She had texted me the night before: “Picking you up at ten. Be ready.” She was certain I’d be there. After all, I’d spent seven years begging to be part of her world. She probably thought that by showing up at my mom’s door, she was finally “giving in” and making me happy. Maya stood at the front door, her heart racing. For the first time, she wasn’t just visiting Mrs. Adler as a former student. She was here as the woman who loved her son. My mom opened the door, looking surprised. “Maya? What are you doing here?” “Mrs. Adler,” Maya said, her voice tight. “I’m here to pick up Ben.” My mom’s expression turned to one of confusion. “Oh, dear. You missed him. Ben left for the city hours ago. I just got back from dropping him off.” Maya froze. She pulled out her phone and opened our chat. No new messages. She didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t leave without her. “Ben, where are you?” she typed. The message sent, and then—a bright red exclamation point appeared.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408309”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My roommate thought her online boyfriend was too much of a “paternal freak,” so she decided to hand him over to me. “He’s constantly checking my location, even policing what I wear. The internet says guys like this are dark, obsessive types—the kind who end up trapping you in some twisted, forced-romance scenario,” Brianna complained, tossing her phone onto her duvet. She looked at me with a pitying smirk. “Since you grew up without a father, I figured you’d actually enjoy an old man with a savior complex and a need for control.” I was half a second away from slapping the taste out of her mouth when a flicker of glowing text drifted across my vision—a stream of digital comments, like a live-chat feed from another dimension: [Girlie, don’t overthink this! Older men have the looks, the money, and more stamina than a frat boy. Give him a little sugar, and he’ll give you the world.] [Sure, he’s ‘forced.’ Forced to buy you a penthouse, forced to cook you five-star meals, forced to get you into an Ivy League school.] [It’s fine. This side character is just a bridge. Once he realizes he’s been talking to someone else, he’ll fly across the ocean just to find our girl. That’s when the real ‘possessive’ drama starts!] My hand, which had been raised high to strike, softened. I lowered it gently and patted Brianna’s cheek. “Thank you,” I said, my voice sweet as honey. “I’ll make sure to take very good care of him.” It wasn’t about the money—at least, not entirely. It was mostly because I really, really wanted to get into Yale. … The moment I got the login for Brianna’s burner account, I changed the password. As soon as I logged in, the screen exploded with notifications. [Are you there? Why aren’t you answering?] [You missed your morning seminar. Why has your GPS been stuck at the dorms all day?] [Pick up the phone.] The last message was sent two hours ago: [I’ve already booked a flight back to the States. You’d better have a damn good explanation for this silence.] I scrolled through their chat history. Brianna was right—he was an older man, constantly traveling for business. They didn’t talk much, but when they did, he was hyper-focused on her life. He asked what she ate, what she wore, and if she was studying. He kept pushing her to transfer out of our mediocre community college, to aim for a Master’s, then a PhD. He didn’t just lecture, though. He sent money. Five thousand dollars at a time, just because. For a normal college student, that was a fortune. For Brianna, it wasn’t even enough for a new designer bag. She’d tried to ask for more, but he’d shut her down. [I’ve done the research. The average student’s living expenses don’t exceed two thousand. Five is more than enough.] [Don’t be flashy. Stay humble at school so you don’t invite unnecessary envy.] Those two sentences were enough for Brianna to write him off as a stingy, lecturing bore. Her loss, my gain. It had been two days since she last replied, and he was clearly spiraling. I pulled up the keyboard and typed out a frantic apology. [I’m so, so sorry! I’ve had a brutal fever the last two days. I was completely out of it, and I ended up dropping and breaking my phone.] Less than three seconds later, the phone vibrated with an incoming voice call. I took a sharp breath, declined it, and typed: [My throat is so raw, I’ve lost my voice…] The chat went silent for a few beats. Then, a notification popped up. A transfer of $100,000. [Was it because I didn’t give you extra spending money last time? Are you angry?] I stared at the zeros on the screen, my fingers trembling. One hundred grand. Who said this man was stingy? This was the most generous man I’d ever encountered. I didn’t accept the money. I typed back: [I don’t want the money.] Him: [Then what do you want?] I stared at the text, my heart hammering against my ribs. [I don’t want to be in school anymore.] The chat box went dead. Immediately, the “bullet comments” flashed before my eyes: [The gold-digger is showing her true colors. She wants to be a caged bird already.] [Too bad he hates lazy women. He likes them ambitious.] [Just wait. He won’t reply. Men like him have zero respect for girls who just want a free ride.] My chest tightened. I quickly added another message: [What I mean is… I want to drop out and retake the SATs. I want to aim higher. I want to get into Yale. Can you help me?] The seconds ticked by. One minute. Two. I was starting to sweat, certain he’d figured out I was an impostor. Then, a single bubble appeared. [Okay.] The next morning, I got a call. The man on the other end identified himself as Mr. Miller, an executive assistant for a Mr. Bennett Crawford. He told me to gather my transcripts and meet him at a high-end coffee shop off-campus to discuss my “Ivy League roadmap.” Brianna had never shared her real ID with him, so I was terrified of being caught. But Mr. Miller barely blinked when he looked over my papers. “Do you have a target school?” he asked. I felt a flush creep up my neck. “I want to go to Yale.” Mr. Miller looked surprised. The bullet comments went nuclear. [Is she serious? Does she think Yale is just a place you ‘decide’ to go to?] [She thinks she can just buy an Ivy League degree lol.] [Girl, stay in your lane at community college.] I knew how ridiculous it sounded. But for a girl from a dead-end town in the Rust Belt, Yale was the dream. The only reason I was at this community college was because I’d missed my finals senior year due to a high fever. My parents refused to let me retake them. They told me to get a degree fast so I could start working to pay for my younger brother’s tuition. Even with that fever, my scores were still higher than Brianna’s. I expected Mr. Miller to laugh, but he just nodded. “Understood. We will tailor the plan for Yale, Ms. Jade.” He explained the strategy. First, I’d drop out of this school. Since the quotas for top-tier admissions were brutal in my home state, he would establish my legal residency in a high-performing district. Then, he’d hire a team of elite private tutors for one-on-one prep. I was stunned. Residency in a better district? Private tutors? If I’d had a private tutor in high school, I wouldn’t have spent my nights crying over AP Physics. “Mr. Miller,” I whispered. “How much is all of this going to cost?” “Don’t worry about the finances, Ms. Jade. Mr. Crawford will handle everything.” After the meeting, Mr. Miller took me to a luxury mall. He said Mr. Crawford had instructed him to buy me a new wardrobe and the latest phone. During the shopping trip, I learned a bit more about the “old man.” His name was Bennett Crawford. He’d started his own firm, which Mr. Miller described as a “small startup” expanding overseas. He wouldn’t be back for at least six months. I did a quick search on my new phone for “Bennett Crawford.” “Small startup” was the understatement of the century. When I saw the name Crawford Global, I nearly choked. The man’s net worth was more than all the trust-fund brats in Brianna’s orbit combined. And his face… he wasn’t some decrepit old man. He was striking, with a sharp jawline and eyes that seemed to see through the screen. [It’s over. Now that she knows who he is, she’ll never let go.] [Get away from him! Bennett belongs to Brianna!] [Don’t worry, once he realizes she’s a fake, he’ll toss her out like trash.] The word trash hit me like a cold shower. Eventually, Bennett would come looking for Brianna. Until then, I had to be the perfect girlfriend. I had to treat him like a god. In a fit of panicked gratitude, I sent him a flurry of romantic texts. My thumb moved faster than my brain, and I sent: [Thank you for everything, Daddy. I’m going to work so hard for you. I’ll make you proud.] The moment I realized what I’d sent, I tried to unsend it, but it was too late. I’d leaned too hard into the “Daddy” thing. Surely he’d see through me now. My Ivy League dream was dead before it started. Then, a voice note popped up. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” His voice was deep, a low baritone that sent a shiver down my spine. I could tell—he liked the “Daddy” title. He liked it a lot. When I got back to the dorm with my designer shopping bags, Brianna was waiting. “Jade? Who was that guy dropping you off? And what is all this?” I hesitated. “It’s… that guy you gave me. The online one.” Brianna’s brow furrowed. She looked pissed. “What did you do? When I was with him, he only gave me five grand a month. How did you get all this in one day?” I’d anticipated this. I opened the bags and showed her the most basic items. “It looks like a lot, but it’s mostly just high-street stuff. This tee was on sale, these jeans were cheap… the whole haul was under two grand.” Her face softened, but only slightly. “Are you lying? I saw the car. That was a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes at least.” “It’s a company car,” I said, my voice steady. “He’s just an executive assistant—a high-end errand boy. His boss lets him use the car for errands sometimes.” Brianna scoffed. “I knew it. I thought he was actually rich for a second.” She rolled her eyes. “Still, for someone like you, an errand boy is a catch. He spent a lot on you today, so you owe me. Buy me dinner.” I ignored the insult. “Of course. What do you want?” “I’ll think about it. I’m bringing a few friends, you don’t mind, right?” I nodded. Within two hours, the rumor that I’d been “picked up” by a stingy old errand boy had spread through the entire dorm. I didn’t care. I was leaving soon anyway. I packed my things and sent a photo of my new outfit to Bennett. [Daddy, I love the clothes Mr. Miller picked out. Which one should I wear tomorrow?] Bennett: [The first one.] From that day on, I reported everything. I asked what to wear, where to go, and sent him my location without being asked. I even texted him when I was drinking a glass of water. It turned out he was controlling—and the more I obeyed, the more generous he became. Mr. Miller was efficient. Within a week, my withdrawal from the college was processed. When the girls in the dorm saw me packing, they swarmed. “Jade, are you crazy?” my other roommate, Megan, asked. “At least get the associate’s degree. What are you going to do for work?” “Exactly,” Taylor added. “Don’t be stupid. Men are unreliable. If he dumps you, you’ll have nothing.” Before I could speak, Brianna chimed in with a smirk. “Oh, leave her alone. Jade is going off to live the ‘good life.’” She turned to the others. “Even if he is a bit of a penny-pincher, he’s still better than what she’s used to. It’s her choice. Haven’t you heard of respecting someone’s journey? Let her be.” I kept my head down and continued packing. Brianna was right—respect the journey. She just had no idea where mine was headed. I moved into a sprawling estate with a butler, a private chef, and a 24-hour on-call doctor. I lived in luxury, but I kept my social media “persona” humble. I posted about being a “trad-wife,” pretending I was cooking and cleaning for my boyfriend every day. I posted photos of “gifts” I found on Pinterest—cheap $20 trinkets—claiming he’d bought them for me. Brianna commented on every post: So jealous! But in our old group chat, she was telling everyone: [Jade is so pathetic. She’s basically his unpaid maid, and she thinks she’s going to be a trophy wife.] The bullet comments were equally toxic: [This girl is so shameless. All of this should belong to Brianna.] [She’s literally gaslighting her roommate so Brianna doesn’t find out the truth and take him back.] I didn’t care. Their words couldn’t take away the residency papers Mr. Miller handed me on my third day. “Ms. Jade, your new residency and registration are complete.” I gripped the folder, my hands shaking. My parents had spent years trying to get my brother into a district like this. I’d done it in a week. Next came the tutors. A former Ivy League admissions officer for English, a math genius who wrote the textbooks, a linguistics professor for prep… I set my schedule from 8:00 AM to 11:00 PM. Bennett saw the schedule and was furious. He forced me to stop at 9:00 PM, saying I’d have a mental breakdown. I wanted to tell him that where I came from, 11:00 PM was an early night. But I didn’t argue. He was “Daddy,” after all. The months blurred by in a fever of study and “good girl” reporting. Suddenly, it was time for the exams. The night before the SATs, the bullet comments—which had been quiet for a while—suddenly went wild. [The Big Boss is back!] [Here we go! He’s going to find out she’s a fraud and kick her to the curb!] [I can’t wait to see her face when she realizes she can’t take the test because he’s done with her lol.] My heart stopped. Bennett was back? Now? I grabbed my bag and ran for the door. I didn’t care about the money or the house, but I had to take that test. I had to get into Yale. I yanked the door open and slammed straight into a broad, solid chest. I looked up, trembling, into a face that was even more handsome—and far more intimidating—than the photos. Bennett Crawford looked down at me, his expression unreadable. “Where are you going?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “408308”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the fifth year of our marriage, I died saving Ethan Matthews. The only thing I left him was our four-year-old son. After that, Ethan raised our son alone, living with memories of me. Until he met Sophie, who pursued him relentlessly. No matter how many times Sophie confessed her feelings, Ethan gently refused. “I promised Charlotte that I would love her forever, and she would be my only wife.” I watched from the sidelines. Silently praying that Ethan would keep his word. But not long after, Sophie fell into a coma after risking her life to save our son from a fire. Ethan could no longer hold back. He knelt by her hospital bed, begging her to wake up. But Sophie didn’t wake up. Instead, my soul uncontrollably attached itself to her body, opening her eyes in her place to see Ethan. Of course he didn’t recognize me. He only choked out a confession: “Sophie, I love you.” For a split second, I thought I’d heard him wrong. But Ethan immediately repeated it. “Sophie, I love you.” “I’ve told my parents—once you’re out of danger and wake up safely, we’ll start preparing for the wedding.” He pressed my hand against his face, looking at me with devotion. But I didn’t know how to tell him that I wasn’t Sophie. I was his wife, Charlotte. And I had no idea how to face the fact that he had truly fallen in love with Sophie. Seeing my silence, Ethan apologized frantically. “I’m sorry, Sophie. It was all my fault before. I fell for you but was too afraid to admit it.” “I swear, from now on I’ll love you with all my heart. Is that okay?” Those words were exactly the same as what he’d said when he proposed to me years ago. Back then, I’d hugged his arm and playfully said: “Then it’s a promise! If you ever change your heart, I won’t forgive you even if I die!” Yet now, at this moment. I could only dig my nails into my palm, holding back tears as I told him. “But I’m not Soph—” Before I could finish saying “Sophie,” someone burst into the hospital room. “Mom! You’re finally awake!” My whole body trembled. I watched helplessly as my son’s small body embraced me, crying until his eyes were red and swollen. Feeling his warm body temperature, I was momentarily overwhelmed by immense joy, my voice even trembling. “You… what did you call me?” “Say it again, please?” It had been so long since I’d heard little Henry call me Mom. However, before Henry could speak again, Ethan covered his mouth and patiently corrected him. “Henry, you can’t call her that. Your Aunt Sophie hasn’t agreed to marry Daddy yet!” “She’s not your mom right now.” Those words hit me like cold water, snapping me back to reality. Right now, I was “Sophie.” Even Ethan hadn’t noticed anything unusual. How could my young son know that I was his mother? My nose suddenly stung. I lowered my head and tried to explain again. “Actually, I am Henry’s mom…” But Ethan misunderstood my meaning and grabbed my hand excitedly. “So, does this mean you’re agreeing to marry me?” I froze, about to shake my head. But Henry happily hugged me. “That’s great! So from now on, Aunt Sophie will be my mom, right?” I looked at the joy in their eyes. The truth on the tip of my tongue could no longer be spoken. In the three years since my death, this was the first time the father and son had been this happy. They truly liked Sophie. As for me… A person who’d been dead for three years—no matter how unwilling, how could I take away the happiness they wanted? My eyes grew hot. I hurriedly turned my face away and nodded. “Yes.” I didn’t know when I would disappear. Since they only wanted to see Sophie. Then I would be as they wished.

Hearing my answer, father and son both embraced me excitedly. Ethan’s voice choked up again. “Sophie, thank you…” “Thank you for being willing to forgive me, and thank you for being willing to be Henry’s mom.” Henry was still young and only knew to burrow into my arms, thanking me along with his dad. Smelling the scent on them, I felt dazed. After all these years, they still had the gardenia fragrance. It was my favorite scent from before. I used to buy laundry detergent with this scent to wash their clothes. Henry would always cling to my legs when I hung up the laundry, acting cute: “Mommy smells so good! So nice!” Ethan would also tell me: “Every time I smell the gardenia scent on you, it makes me feel so at peace.” This was a scent that belonged exclusively to our family of three. Now, they were holding another woman’s body with this scent. An indescribable revulsion and rejection welled up inside me. I pushed them away and held my breath. “What’s that smell on you? It’s too strong.” Ethan sniffed his sleeve, then his whole body stiffened. Henry explained for him. “It’s gardenia fragrance. Dad said it was Mom’s favorite before…” Before he could finish, Ethan covered his mouth. “It’s just ordinary laundry detergent. If you don’t like it, we’ll change to a different one tomorrow.” Ethan carefully explained it to me. The next day, the scent on them had changed. It was the fruity fragrance I used to hate most. But Henry kept asking me if I liked it. Looking at his innocent smile. I could only nod against my will and persuade myself once again to let go of the past. I wasn’t Charlotte anymore. I had to work hard to play Sophie well, until the day she came back. Coming quietly, leaving quietly. That way, I could still deceive myself. At least in memories, our family was still as beautiful as ever. For Ethan and Henry now. “Sophie’s” feelings were the most important. Because he thought “Sophie” didn’t like it. Ethan took off his wedding ring, leaving a white ring mark. Because he thought Sophie didn’t want to see anything related to Charlotte. Henry also put away the bracelet on his wrist and never wore it again. Slowly, the father and son erased all traces of me from themselves, bit by bit. And I could only watch helplessly. Close to my discharge date, my period came, and I lay in bed trembling with pain. Henry ran into my arms and hugged me, using his warm little body to warm my stomach. Ethan specifically took leave from the company and went home to make me almond milk. Everything was just like before. But I knew they still hadn’t recognized me. Ethan brought the milk to my lips. “Be good, drink it while it’s hot. The pain will go away after you drink it.” It was clearly sweet milk, but it stung my eyes. I turned my face away. “I don’t want it.” Ethan’s hand holding the cup froze, his tone anxious. “Wasn’t this your favorite drink before? Why don’t you want it suddenly?” “Is your stomach upset?” As he spoke, he turned to call a doctor. But my words interrupted him. “Ethan, I’m allergic to almonds. I never drink this stuff.” “Who is this person you’re talking about?”

My dead heart was reignited. God knows how much I hoped Ethan would discover the truth. I hoped he could find evidence from the subtle clues that he still loved me. However, after his lips moved for a long time, he still didn’t say a word. I was allergic to almonds. But in my memory, Sophie was allergic to almonds and had told Ethan many times. Now he’d forgotten about this. Did that mean he still had me in his heart? Henry looked back and forth, tugged Ethan’s sleeve, and quietly reminded him. “Dad, the one who loved almond milk was Mom.” My eyes grew hot, and I bit my lip hard and turned away. I couldn’t describe what I was feeling. Ethan put down the bowl in his hand and hugged me, apologizing repeatedly. “I’m sorry, Sophie… I forgot.” “Charlotte really did like drinking this before. Every time she drank the almond milk I made during her period, she’d be happy for a long time.” “I just haven’t adjusted yet. I’m really sorry.” “Give me a little more time. I promise I’ll remember your preferences and forget Charlotte completely, okay?” I bit through my lip, letting the blood flow into my heart. So be it… Stop hoping for anything from Ethan and torturing yourself. I leaned on his shoulder and nodded lightly. “Don’t let it happen again.” Henry also snuggled over, saying sweetly, “From now on, I’ll supervise Dad to remember everything about Mom.” The father and son kept their word. They never got Sophie’s preferences wrong again. After leaving the hospital, Ethan brought me home. In the years after my death, I’d been by their side. I also knew that Ethan couldn’t bear to throw away the things I’d left behind. He’d maintained the house’s original appearance and didn’t allow anyone to damage it. Once, Sophie had the nerve to visit our home and threw away a puzzle I’d been working on with Henry. Ethan got really angry. Later, regardless of his image, he personally went to the trash to find the puzzle pieces, put them back together with Henry one by one, and returned them to their original place. But now… I looked around the living room. The puzzle that had been on the entryway cabinet was gone. The vase I’d bought for the table was nowhere to be seen. And the family photo of the three of us that should have been hanging on the living room wall had also been put away. All traces of me had been completely removed by Ethan. An empty, uncomfortable feeling filled my heart. I unconsciously spoke out loud. “This house… is missing a lot of things.” Ethan hugged me from behind and said softly. “You’re right. This house is missing a lady of the house. Sophie, will you marry me?” As he spoke, a diamond ring came into my view. Even though I’d known this day would come, I couldn’t stop trembling inside. Should I say yes? If the real Sophie were here, she would definitely agree, wouldn’t she? While my thoughts were in chaos. Ethan walked in front of me with the ring and knelt on one knee. “Sophie, I’m serious.” The next second, countless people rushed out of the room, releasing countless party poppers with a “bang,” cheering loudly. “Marry him! Marry him!” For an instant, I thought I’d returned to long ago, when Ethan proposed to me. Back then, there were also so many people blessing Ethan and me, wishing us a long life together. Ethan had also declared his love publicly just like now. He thanked Sophie for lighting up his world, thanked Sophie for pulling him out of the abyss. And thanked Sophie for saving him and his child. “Charlotte was the love of my first half of life, but Sophie, you are the redemption of my entire life.” “Marry me.” The fire reflected from the ring stung my eyes. I knew Sophie would agree. I should choose to accept too. But at this moment, I couldn’t say a single word. What woman could hand over her own husband to someone else? I couldn’t do it. Seeing that I still hadn’t moved, Ethan’s parents approached me with red eyes, saying carefully: “Sophie, we know any woman would mind that Ethan was married before.” “But after that person died, Ethan was depressed until he met you and finally showed signs of life.” “As parents, our greatest hope is for our child to be happy. We also hope Ethan can move on from the past and live well.” “Sophie, are you willing to grant our request?”

I looked at my former in-laws, inexplicably feeling unable to breathe. Even they had accepted Sophie as a matter of course. Ethan’s friends also came over, telling me not to mind his past. “Ethan is devoted. Once he’s committed to someone, he’ll love them forever. You don’t need to worry at all about him changing his heart.” I stood there in a daze, pulling at the corner of my mouth. Love forever? Won’t change his heart? Then why didn’t he love me anymore? My fingertips had gone numb with pain. I knew I had to make a decision. I reached out my hand to Ethan, using all my strength to say. “Okay, I’m willing.” His eyes lit up, and he immediately grabbed my hand and put the ring on me. It felt heavy on my ring finger. But I felt something inside me was empty, with nothing there. A group of people clapped with red eyes, blessing us. Henry jumped around us happily. “Great! Mom and Dad are together! I have a mom again!” Ethan also hugged me excitedly, crying and laughing. “Once your body fully recovers, we’ll have the wedding together.” “I promise I’ll give you an unforgettable wedding…” Like a controlled puppet, I stiffly pulled at the corner of my mouth. “Okay…” Before I could finish speaking. Two people burst in from outside, roaring at Ethan. “What wedding! We don’t agree!” I was startled and quickly came back to my senses, looking at them. Dad… Mom? Henry rushed over and hugged them happily. “Grandma! Grandpa! I’m going to have a mom again!” Hearing this, my parents’ faces darkened so much they could drip ink. “What do you mean your mom!” “In this world, your only mom is Charlotte!” With that, Mom walked over and slapped Ethan across the face. “Back then you insisted on taking Charlotte mountain climbing with you, and you got into a car accident on the way. It was Charlotte who risked her life to protect you!” “We only had one daughter! She wasn’t even 30 years old! And she died for you!” “What did you promise us at the funeral?” “You said you’d guard Charlotte for life and raise Henry well!” “But how long has my daughter been dead, and you want to remarry and find a stepmother?” “Then what about my daughter? What is she to you?” “How do you think her soul in heaven feels?” “I’m putting it out there today—if you want to remarry and find Henry a stepmother, no way!” I looked at my parents’ aged wrinkles and gray hair. My heart ached unbearably. In this world, probably only my parents still cared about my feelings. Ethan lowered his head without speaking, probably also remembering the car accident that led to my death, his face full of guilt and helplessness. His mother and my mother started arguing directly. “My son is in his prime. He’s kept faithful to your daughter for so long—why can’t he remarry?” “Besides, Henry needs a mother right now. What’s wrong with remarrying? Don’t you see that he also wants a new mom?” “Are you trying to force my son and grandson to death?” Mom’s face turned livid with anger, her trembling finger pointing at her. The next second, she closed her eyes and fell backward. My heart jumped, and I rushed over to catch her, blurting out: “Mom!” In the chaos, no one noticed my slip. Except Ethan, whose pupils dilated in shock, looking at me in disbelief.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “380344”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster