Author: Momo Chan

To pull the campus golden boy off his pedestal, I created three separate burner accounts to date him online. My plan was simple: make him fall head over heels, then shatter his heart into a million pieces. Account No. 1 was the “Sweetheart” — high-pitched, needy, and constantly whining about her “tummy rumbling” until he’d Venmo me for UberEats. Account No. 2 was the “Pro-Gamer” — a cold-blooded assassin in League of Legends who carried his sorry ass through matches while teasing him for being a “cute little noob.” Account No. 3 was the “Sugar Mommy” — an older, wealthy woman who threw money at him just to coax out spicy voice notes and shirtless gym selfies. And then, one night, the floor fell out from under me. To prove to a room full of people that he actually had a girlfriend, the “golden boy” put his phone on speaker and dialed. A second later, my pocket erupted. “Honey-bunny is calling! Honey-bunny is calling!” The ringtone blared, relentless and shrill. The entire room went deathly silent. I stood there, frozen: Well, shit. I played myself. 1 The referee’s whistle cut through the air, signaling the end of the game. Our varsity team had sunk a buzzer-beater three-pointer in the final second. As the crowd erupted in a deafening roar, I was still sitting in the bleachers, staring into space. “Wren, aren’t you going to go give Bradley his water? Move it!” My best friend, Piper, nudged me with a wicked grin. “That last shot was Nate Miller’s. God, he’s hot, right? I saw you staring. Admit it—is he hotter than your ‘God of Basketball’ Bradley or what?” “Not even close,” I shot back instinctively, grabbing the chilled bottle of Fiji water and heading down the stairs. Today was a scrimmage against a rival college. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, and I’d only shown up to support Bradley. But for some reason, Nate Miller—the department’s resident heartthrob—had signed up for this game too. The second the girls in our year heard Nate was playing, they organized a cheering squad like it was the NBA Finals. From the moment he stepped onto the court, the screaming hadn’t stopped. It was terrifying, honestly. I sighed, feeling a pang of pity for my “God.” In every academic competition in our department, Bradley always seemed to fall just a hair behind Nate, forever relegated to second place. Now, Nate wouldn’t even let him have the spotlight in a measly scrimmage. Does the guy have a Main Character syndrome or something? Down on the court, Nate was already swamped by a mob of girls begging for selfies. Bradley stood in the corner, laughing and chatting with his teammates, looking heartbreakingly sidelined. Piper was still buzzing in my ear. “I seriously don’t get why you have such a massive chip on your shoulder when it comes to Nate. And this ‘Evil Catfishing Scheme’ of yours? It’s unhinged, Wren.” I clamped my hand over her mouth. If Nate Miller ever found out I was running three different personas just to mess with him, I’d be the lead story on the campus news by morning. Bradley spotted me and looked surprised. “Wren! You actually came to watch?” I gave him my best shy smile. “I came specifically to see you play, Bradley.” He chuckled, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. “I didn’t think anyone was watching me today.” Poor guy. Nate had sucked the confidence right out of him. I looked at Bradley with soft eyes, completely oblivious to the world, and held out the water. “Bradley, I got this for—” Before I could finish, a pale, long-fingered hand reached out and snatched the bottle right out of my grasp. Me: “?” 2 The crisp, sharp scent of peppermint swirled around me. Nate Miller stepped directly between Bradley and me. He had one hand buried in his gym shorts pocket while he tossed the water bottle up and down with the other. He leaned in, his eyes curving into a brilliant, predatory smile. “Wow, Wren. How’d you know I was dying for a drink? You’re a lifesaver.” I stared at him, flat-eyed. If you’re thirsty, go to a vending machine, you prick. The damp strands of hair on Nate’s forehead were soaked with sweat. Almost as if he knew exactly what he was doing, he brushed them back, revealing the sharp, perfect lines of his brow and eyes. The fangirls nearby let out a collective, strangled gasp. Even I had to admit, the man was offensively attractive. But where the hell did he even come from? I was fuming. That water was for my guy. Nate turned to Bradley, his tone light but edged. “You don’t mind if I take this, do you, Brad? You’re not that stingy, right?” Bradley blinked, then shook his head. “No, it’s fine.” Nate grinned, looking like he hadn’t tasted water in a century. He twisted the cap and chugged half the bottle in one go, his Adam’s apple bobbing rhythmically. I heard the girls whispering behind us. “Who is she? She’s so lucky Nate’s drinking her water! I’m literally dying.” “I think she’s a junior in his department. They say he’s got a soft spot for her.” I watched Nate finish the water with a completely blank expression. When he looked down at me with those “soulful” eyes, I simply held out my phone, screen glowing with my Venmo QR code. “Nate, I’m sorry, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m actually selling these. That’ll be four dollars.” Nate: “?” The Crowd: “…” The air went dead. I watched as the color rushed to Nate’s face, turning him a magnificent shade of crimson. He stared at me like I’d just grown a second head. What? You’ve never seen a girl run a business? Pay up. 3 To celebrate the win, the student union threw a small victory dinner at a local bistro. I was invited along with the rest of the support staff. When it was time to sit, I saw Bradley take a seat by the window. The chair across from him was empty. Jackpot. I kept my face neutral, moving with practiced ease to pull out the chair. “Bradley, what a coincidence! Looks like we’re table buddies.” Bradley smiled back, looking genuinely pleased. Suddenly, Nate, who was standing a few feet away, stopped mid-motion. He looked troubled, his brow furrowing as he scanned the room. The student union president asked, “Nate? Something wrong? Take a seat, man.” Nate bit his lip, looking embarrassed. “I… I have this weird thing. I can only eat if I’m sitting by a window. It’s a claustrophobia thing. If I’m not by the glass, I lose my appetite.” I stopped unwrapping my silverware. You lying sack of garbage. I’d seen him eat in the middle of a crowded, windowless cafeteria back in high school a thousand times. The president immediately turned to Bradley. “Brad, would you mind swapping with Nate? Just for the night?” No! Bradley, stay strong! I sat there, looking at Bradley with pleading eyes. But of course, being the “nice guy” he was, Bradley stood up and swapped places without a second thought. Nate slid into the chair directly across from me. He met my gaze and smiled like a harmless, fluffy golden retriever. “Wren, what a coincidence,” he purred, echoing my exact words back to me. “Looks like we’re table buddies.” The smirk he gave me made the hair on my arms stand up. 4 I was now eighty percent certain he was doing this on purpose. But I had no proof. I stabbed a piece of steak and chewed it with unnecessary violence. Just you wait, Nate. You have no idea what’s coming for you. Around us, the conversation was loud and cheerful. Nate, however, ignored the crowd, resting his chin on his hand as he watched me eat. His gaze was so intense it made my skin prickle. It was the kind of look that made you want to scream at someone to stop. But in real life, I was a chronic introvert with a touch of social anxiety. All I could do was bury my face deeper into my plate. Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. Suddenly, Nate leaned in. “You know, Wren, you’re actually really cute when you eat.” “Pffft—” I choked, spraying a bit of rice across the table. My face felt like it was on fire. I glared at him, mortified. Nate didn’t even flinch. He just kept smiling that innocent, devastating smile. Ugh, such a player! I had three different personas currently blowing up his phone with “I miss you” texts, and here he was, flirting with the real me in broad daylight. Scum. Absolute scum. I pretended the steak was Nate’s heart and sliced into it again. 5 I had known Nate Miller was a two-faced playboy long before college. We went to the same high school. Back then, I was obsessed with this one specific Otome game. I was head over heels for a 2D character, calling him “husband” every five minutes. Piper used to say that if anyone ever talked trash about my 2D man, I’d haunt them like a Victorian ghost for the rest of their lives. Then, one day, I saw a video Nate posted on Instagram. He was already the school’s resident heartthrob. In the video, under moody purple lighting, he showed off his sharp profile, radiating a sort of “brooding loner” energy. But then he turned his screen to reveal… a photo of my 2D husband. The caption read: “On a snowy winter night, I wish I could be the one standing by your side, just like him.” The comment section was a disaster zone of thirsty girls. “OMG! My two favorite husbands in one frame!” “Nate, I’ll be your winter girl!” I felt my blood pressure skyrocket. I scrolled through Nate’s other posts. Nearly every single one featured a tag or a reference to my game. He even posted clips of himself playing it. To me, no matter how attractive a 3D guy is, “cosplaying” or trying to skin-walk a 2D character is a capital offense. That night, Piper witnessed the true terrifying power of a woman scorned. She watched me scroll through Nate’s feed, cursing him with every insult I could conjure. From that day on, Nate Miller was on my permanent blacklist. Then we got to college, and I met Bradley. I quickly realized that Nate was still overshadowing everyone—including Bradley. Even the girl Bradley had a crush on had once confessed to Nate, only to be rejected. That was the breaking point. To expose Nate’s true, manipulative nature, I launched the “Evil Catfishing Plan.” I would make him fall in love, drain his bank account (ironically, of course), and then dump him so hard he’d never look at a 2D character again. 6 Piper was scrolling through her phone next to me when she let out a quiet “Oh, wow.” She turned her screen to show me a post on the campus forum. Someone had snapped a photo of Nate taking the water bottle from me today. In the shot, my back was a blurry mess of pixels, but Nate looked like he’d been professionally airbrushed, drinking the water with cinematic grace. Me: “…” The injustice was staggering. I looked at Nate, who was currently charming the table, and a wicked idea took root. I ducked my head and switched my phone to the “Sweetheart” account. My thumbs flew across the keyboard. Bunny: [Sent a photo of the forum post] Bunny: Nate! Bunny is going to cry! Who is this girl at the game? People are saying you drank her water! Hmph!! Nate’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced down, and I watched his expression from across the table. He froze for a second, but then a slow, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He typed back immediately. Nate: Bunny, baby, it was just water. She’s just a girl in my department. Nothing more. Bunny: Liar! Bunny doesn’t believe you. You’re surrounded by pretty girls every day. You’ve probably already replaced me, you big meanie! Typing that out took every ounce of my self-control not to burst out laughing. Nate looked genuinely distressed. Nate: How can I prove my heart only belongs to you? Just then, the student union president noticed Nate’s distraction. He stood up with a glass. “Nate! You were the MVP today. We couldn’t have won without you. Let’s have a toast!” Nate set his phone down and stood up with a glass of orange juice. “It was a team effort,” he said, sounding modest and perfectly composed. “I just helped get us over the finish line.” Piper sighed beside me. “God, he’s so well-spoken. It’s hard not to like him…” “Wait, are you even listening?” I was staring at my phone, imagining the look on Nate’s face when he read my next demand. Piper nudged my shoulder. “Wren, do you realize how creepy you look right now?” “What?” “You look like a thirsty fanfic writer who just saw their ‘ship’ go canon. It’s a bit much.” “…” Hehe. I can’t help it. Nate sat back down and checked his phone. His face went pale. Bunny: If you mean it, send me a voice note right now. Tell me you love your wittle Bunny-wunny the most in the whole wide world. Nate: Baby, I’m out at dinner with a bunch of people. Bunny: I don’t care! I want it now! Or we’re through! I was shaking with suppressed laughter. Nate suddenly bolted upright, nearly knocking his chair over. The whole table went quiet, staring at him. “Something wrong?” someone asked. Nate’s face was as red as a lobster. He stammered, “I… I have to go to the bathroom. Keep eating.” He practically fled the room. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned away, burying my face in my hands as my entire body shook with silent, hysterical laughter. 7 Nate was gone for a long time. The table continued to chatter, while I sat in the corner, refreshing my screen. Given Nate’s flair for the dramatic, he was probably in a stall right now trying to find the perfect “seductive” tone of voice. Bunny: Nate? Why aren’t you responding? Bunny is getting really mad now! You want to break up, don’t you? A second later, a 23-second voice note appeared. My heart actually skipped a beat. Twenty-three seconds? What did he say? I moved away from the group, pressed the phone to my ear, and turned the volume down to the lowest setting. His voice was low, melodic, and held a trace of genuine embarrassment: “I love Bunny the most… Bunny is my sweetest little baby girl. I’m sorry for making you wait, princess. Don’t be mad, okay? Daddy’s coming home soon…” He had lowered his register until it was a husky, intimate murmur. It sounded like a lover whispering in the dark. My brain actually short-circuited for a moment. Even though I hated him, I had to admit—the man was a professional. When he “dated” my alt accounts, he was never stingy with his affection. Being pampered by him—even if it was all a lie—made me feel a strange, momentary dizziness. I slammed the “stop” button on the audio. Nate returned to his seat at the same time. My phone buzzed again. Nate: Did you hear it? Do you believe me now? Bunny: Teehee. You’re the best. I typed it out with cold, clinical precision. Hahaha. You don’t have a sincere bone in your body, Nate Miller. 8 Back at the dorm, I applied a face mask and pulled out my other two phones. Nate had been busy. Nate: Rogue, baby. I missed you tonight. Nate: Madeline, I’m thinking about you. What a dog. If there were an Olympic event for time management, this guy would take the gold every year. I decided to reply as Account No. 2, “Rogue,” the gamer girl. Rogue: Get online, kid. There’s a guild war. I’m carrying you. Nate replied instantly. Nate: Rogue! Where have you been? I checked the server, you weren’t even logged in. Are you ignoring me? Ah, the classic “guilt trip” play. Too bad “Rogue” was a stone-cold ice queen. Rogue: Don’t get clingy, little man. We’re here to play. If you’re going to whine, I’ll find another support to carry. Nate sent back a crying cat emoji. Nate: T^T No, don’t leave. I’ll play. But I’m still trash, so don’t let them bully me. Protect me, okay? It was honestly fascinating. He was a total chameleon. With “Bunny,” he was the doting older boyfriend. With “Rogue,” he was the submissive, clingy “soft boy.” And when I switched to “Madeline,” the rich older woman… he became the charming, flirtatious young puppy. He really put in the work. I logged into the game. My character was a fierce warrior in green robes, wielding a massive broadsword. Standing next to me was Nate’s character… a walking disco ball. He had spent a fortune on the gaudiest, most expensive gear. He wore a glowing crown, a shimmering cape, and rings that pulsed with golden light. He was a mobile loot drop. Nate was famous on the server for being the “No. 1 Pay-to-Win Noob.” A rival guild member typed in the world chat: “Is that the server’s richest loser again? Bringing out the shiny toys for us to break?” Nate’s character leaned against mine. Nate: Baby, they’re being mean to me! Honestly, the rival guy has a point, I thought, laughing as I swung my massive sword. The guild war erupted into a chaos of light and steel. 9 Nate’s voice kept crackling through my headset. “Rogue! My health bar is halfway gone! It hurts!” “God, you look so hot when you swing that sword. My heart is actually pounding.” I glanced at the screen where I had just used Nate’s character as a human shield to block a fireball. I smirked. Your heart is pounding? Let’s turn up the heat. I kept playing with one hand and used the other to switch to Account No. 3. Madeline: Sorry, sweetie. I had a long day at the office. What are you up to? The voice chat went dead for a second. Then, a message popped up. Nate: Just got out of the shower, Madeline. Liar. Madeline: Oh? Show me those abs. I’m exhausted and could use a little eye candy to wake me up. At the same time, I spoke into the headset as “Rogue.” “What’s wrong? Why are you quiet all of a sudden?” Nate didn’t answer in the game. Instead, my “Madeline” phone buzzed with a photo. It was Nate, leaning against a bathroom mirror, a towel slung low on his hips. His hair was damp, water droplets still clinging to his chest and tracing the lines of his V-cut. Jesus, have some decency. I cursed under my breath, feeling a flush creep up my neck. I typed back: Madeline: You really are my favorite little man. I think I need to hear your voice. I’m calling you now. Madeline: [Sent a screenshot of a “busy” signal] Madeline: Wait, why is your line busy, Nate? Who are you talking to? Nate: I’m… uh, I’m on a work call, Madeline! Meanwhile, in the headset, Nate’s voice finally returned. “Sorry, Rogue! I’m back.” I looked at the “Death” screen for Nate’s character. “You weren’t paying attention,” I said coldly. “You died so fast it was pathetic. I’m done for the night.” Nate panicked. “I didn’t mean it! I’m just… a little slow sometimes. Don’t be mad!” I ignored him on the headset and kept blowing up his “Madeline” phone. Madeline: I want to hear your voice right now, or I’m going to be very upset. Are you going to be a good boy for me? Nate: Okay… anything for you. Then, over the headset, I heard Nate say in a fake-sweet voice: “Rogue, honey, I have to take this. I’ll be back in a bit to make it up to you.” Rogue: “Who is it?” Nate: “It’s… my aunt. Family emergency.” “…” Unbelievable. I didn’t realize I’d been added to the family tree. I gritted my teeth. Just wait, Nate Miller. There’s going to be a day when you’re on your knees begging for my mercy.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402448”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For as long as I could remember, the four heirs of New York’s most prominent dynasties had treated me as their most fiercely guarded possession. But the night a fresh-faced, lively girl stepped into the ballroom, the air in my world fractured. Suddenly, glowing lines of text began scrolling across my field of vision like a neon ticker tape: [The darling female lead and the male leads have finally met! Throwing confetti!] [They can’t help but be drawn to her. They’re finally learning what true love is. Watch them distance themselves from the side-character!] [The jealous best friend is going to hurt our precious girl, and the boys are going to destroy her family for it!] At first, I scoffed at the bizarre, floating hallucinations. That was until they all skipped my birthday gala, abandoning me just to take that girl to see the fireworks. Only then did it hit me: the boys who had clung to my side since childhood were truly gone. Fine. It was about time I found a real boyfriend anyway. 1 The ballroom was suffocatingly opulent, the air thick with the scent of expensive orchids and old money. Tristan Vanderbilt pressed his hand over my eyes, his chest warm against my back, deliberately blocking my view of the older, sophisticated Harrington heir across the room. I sighed, prying his heavy fingers away, only to have a small mother-of-pearl spoon pressed to my lips. Beluga caviar. Kieran Astor held the spoon, his dark eyes shimmering with pure, puppy-dog expectation. “Good?” It was rich, melting instantly on my tongue. I nodded. “Have another bite, Caro.” He tipped another spoonful toward me. Before I could swallow, Nathaniel Montgomery had already produced a pristine, monogrammed linen handkerchief, leaning in to dab at the corner of my mouth. I took the handkerchief from his elegant fingers, offering a faint, tolerant smile as I wiped my own mouth. “Dance with me next, Caro,” Kieran whined, tugging at the silk of my gown like a neglected child. “For God’s sake, Kieran, crying gets you nowhere. You’re suffocating her.” Tristan slapped Kieran’s hand away with a scowl, pulling me closer by the waist, staring down at me with those intense, hungry eyes. “Enough, both of you. You’re wrinkling her dress.” Harrison Dupont—the steady, authoritative anchor of our chaotic quintet—stepped in. He crouched smoothly, his broad shoulders shifting under his tailored tuxedo as he adjusted the hem of my gown. Beside him, Nathaniel gently tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my ear, restoring my composure to picture-perfect elegance. The rest of the elite guests in the room barely batted an eye. The sight of these four untouchable scions revolving around me like planets around a sun was an old, tired Manhattan legend. Then, she walked in. There were dozens of stunning women at this gala, draped in couture and diamonds. She was in a simple evening gown, looking around with wide, curious eyes. She shouldn’t have commanded the room. But as her gaze swept toward our corner, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavy. Slowly, as if pulled by an invisible, gravitational force, the four men beside me turned their heads. They froze. It was as if time had stopped, their eyes locked onto her, entirely unblinking. That was when the glowing text began scrolling frantically before my eyes: [Ahhhh! The female lead and the male leads have met! Love! Heart emojis!] [The boys are totally captivated! Is this the magic of love at first sight?] [The childhood friend must be so dumbfounded! From now on, they belong to the female lead. No one’s going to revolve around her anymore!] [When the wicked friend gets jealous and tries to hurt our baby, she’s finished! The boys will make her die a miserable death, haha!] I didn’t need a dictionary to know the “wicked friend” was me. I didn’t care about the psychotic floating words, but the physical reaction of the men beside me made my stomach drop. A cold, sharp hollow opened in my chest. The girl stared right back at them. She didn’t look intimidated. She didn’t look at me and shrink back in self-doubt or envy, the way other girls usually did when they saw the fortress these men built around me. Instead, she offered them a bright, unabashed smile. A silent, magnetic greeting. Beside me, the men shifted their weight. One by one, they stepped away from me, moving toward her. They didn’t even glance back. This had never happened. Never. They were ignoring me. They were walking toward someone else. Was this the “magic of love at first sight” the text had screamed about? I was witnessing it firsthand. 2 The heirs of New York’s four ruling families possessed notoriously short tempers with everyone—except me, Caroline Sinclair. A single furrow of their brows was usually enough to send people scrambling away in terror. Now, they stood in a semi-circle around this strange girl, laughing. Conversing. She smiled like a blooming flower; their eyes burned with an intense, heated focus. Murmurs rippled through the ballroom. People were staring, their eyes darting between the picturesque group and where I stood, suddenly, glaringly alone. The girl began walking toward me. The four men flanked her like devoted bodyguards. She extended a hand, her posture dripping with a casual, terrifying confidence. “Hi. I’m Maddie. Maddie Foster.” I met her grip. “Caroline Sinclair.” “I saw them standing with you earlier,” she said, her smile utterly flawless. “I didn’t want you to feel left out because of me, so I thought I’d come say hi.” I gave a polite, measured smile. “I’m perfectly fine.” “Maddie, you still haven’t picked which one of us gets to drive you home tonight,” Tristan murmured, the corner of his mouth curving in a way that used to be reserved only for me. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat while you decide. You can’t starve.” Kieran gently guided her by the elbow toward the sprawling buffet. Harrison and Nathaniel followed without a moment’s hesitation. A tidal wave of unfamiliar sensations washed over me—humiliation, confusion, and a bizarre, quiet grief. Whispers drifted from the champagne tables: “My God, did the Sinclair girl just get benched?” “The tectonic plates are shifting. Who is that girl?” The neon text danced in my vision: [Ugh, our girl’s charm is unmatched! She just stood there and completely defeated the side-character!] [This is the kind of pampered, center-of-attention trope I love! No angst for the female lead! The boys just spoil her!] [Exactly! Spoil the lead, torture the side-chick! Sweet and satisfying!] Meeting the barrage of sympathetic and calculating stares from the crowd, I calmly took a sip of my champagne. [Look at her acting so calm, she must be dying of rage inside! Haha!] [Oh, don’t worry, there’s plenty of days like this ahead. Once she overestimates herself and tries to fight for the men, they’ll ruin her family and she’ll finally learn her place!] …Did I really look like the kind of person who would resort to something so pathetic? Across the room, they seemed to have reached a verdict. Under the collective, breathless gaze of Manhattan’s elite, the four of them escorted Maddie Foster out of the ballroom. I went home alone. Late that night, the buzzer to my penthouse rang. I checked the monitor and unlocked the elevator. Tristan, who owned the penthouse across the street, stepped in. He held out a bundle of silk. “You left your wrap in my car. Brought it over.” “Thank you.” I took it from his hands. It was a wrap he had playfully hidden from me days ago, demanding I stay longer if I wanted it back. Now, he was voluntarily returning it. “What happened to your arm?” he asked suddenly. I glanced down at the small bandage near my elbow. “I must have scraped it on something.” He gave a curt nod. “Be careful then. I’m taking off.” He turned and walked back to the elevator. Just like that. In the past, a paper cut would have drained the color from his face. He would have dragged me to the sink, sterilized it himself, and fretted over it for an hour. Now, he couldn’t care less. A bitter, dry laugh escaped my lips as the doors slid shut. I suppose I really needed to get used to this new reality. [Haha, the boys are drawing boundaries!] [The side-chick doesn’t even know how panicked they were earlier when our girl almost tripped!] 3 Half a month bled by. I didn’t see a single one of them. The socialites in my circle were all too eager to feed me the gossip, and the floating ticker tape filled in the agonizing details. Where they took Maddie. How fiercely they competed for her attention. Exactly how they used to be with me. Maddie stubbed her toe, and they practically called in a medevac. They guarded her like she was the rarest diamond on earth. The rumor mill was brutal: The four princes of New York have discarded the Sinclair heiress for a middle-class Cinderella. Treasured. Worshipped. Caroline Sinclair was officially yesterday’s news. Amidst the noise, I buried myself in my work at my father’s firm. Before, they were a constant, disruptive presence. If I worked an hour of overtime, one of them would march into the boardroom and drag me out. If I had a dinner with a male client, they would lurk at the bar, claiming they were “making sure no one took advantage.” Now, the silence in my office was profound. I could finally just work. We eventually crossed paths at a high-profile charity auction at Sotheby’s. They sat in the front row, Maddie nestled like a queen among them. I sat several rows back with my friend, Harper. Lot after lot went to the front row. They bought Maddie millions in vintage jewels, drawing breathless sighs of envy from the women in the room. When a stunning pair of antique emerald drop earrings appeared on the screen, I raised my paddle. “Oh, those are beautiful. I love them,” Maddie said, her voice carrying just enough to be heard. Instantly, four paddles shot up from her row. I raised my paddle three more times. Finally, Harrison Dupont threw out a number so astronomically high it effectively silenced the room. A blank check. Auction over. Harper shot me a look of deep, painful pity. The text hovered, glowing mockingly: [Hahaha, who can compete with the male leads’ bank accounts? They’re going to give our girl the moon and the stars!] [Think about how good they used to treat the side-character. Now she’s nothing. Once you meet the one, your past means nothing!] [This is the pure, romantic satisfaction I crave!] During the intermission, the champagne flowed. Harper clicked her tongue. “I still can’t believe the four of them are doing this to you. How did it happen so fast?” I just shook my head, offering a small smile, and took a sip of my drink. “Miss Sinclair.” Maddie’s voice was sickeningly sweet. She approached our table, beaming. “I saw you bidding on those earrings. Since the boys have already bought me so much tonight, why don’t I just gift them to you? I’d hate for you to feel sad because of how well they treat me.” She held out the velvet box, her smile masking a sharp, arrogant provocation. [Our girl is so kind. Truly a pure, angelic soul!] Harper bristled. “If they bought them for you, keep them. It’s not like Caroline can’t afford her own jewelry.” I placed a restraining hand on Harper’s arm, turning back to Maddie. “No thank you. Keep them, Miss Foster.” “Oh my, your friend is so angry. Is she upset because Harrison and the others are treating me so well? Is she fighting your battles?” Maddie pouted, ignoring the dark look on Harper’s face. “Well, now I feel terrible. You must take these as an apology.” She thrust the box closer, practically shoving it into my chest. Frowning, I raised my hand to gently push the box away. “Ah!” Without my applying any pressure at all, Maddie threw her body backward, stumbling as if violently shoved. Tristan and the others, who had been watching like hawks, surged forward in a panic. Tristan caught her before she hit the carpet. “Are you okay?” Nathaniel, usually so composed, asked, his voice threaded with raw anxiety. All four of them hovered over her, their faces etched with absolute devotion and fear. Harper let out a breath of disbelief. She couldn’t fathom that these men—our men—were obsessing over someone else to this degree. Maddie leaned into Tristan’s chest, looking frail and flushed. “I’m okay. Thank God you caught me, Tris.” Then, she looked up at me, her eyes brimming with calculated tears. “Miss Sinclair, I know you’re upset that they favor me now, but you didn’t have to push me in front of everyone just to embarrass me!” The surrounding crowd turned toward us, eyes hungry for drama. The Sinclair-Vanderbilt-Astor-Montgomery-Dupont fallout was the only thing anyone cared about. “What the hell are you talking about?” Harper snapped. [Wait? Did the side-character actually push her? I didn’t see her move!] [You just weren’t paying attention! If our girl says she pushed her, she pushed her!] [This girl is so vicious! But whatever, with the boys here, she can’t hurt our baby. She’s just going to embarrass herself!] [Keep acting up, you wicked witch. They’re going to exile you to the middle of nowhere!] 4 I glanced at the floating text, took a slow, grounding breath, and let my voice drop to a freezing calm. “Aren’t you being a little ridiculous, Miss Foster? I barely moved my arm. Did I push you over with my mind?” Maddie stiffened, then her eyes narrowed in a fleeting, contemptuous sneer, confident she held all the cards. Kieran stepped up, his face flushed with anger. “Caro, Maddie was standing right in front of you and suddenly fell backward. If you didn’t push her, who did?” “We know this transition is hard for you, Caro,” he continued, his tone patronizing. “But we just find Maddie incredibly charming. She hasn’t done anything wrong. You can’t just attack her because you’re jealous.” Harper looked at Kieran like he had grown a second head. Maddie hid a triumphant smirk behind her hand. “He’s right, Caroline. That was uncalled for,” Tristan added, his voice low and cold. My expression turned to stone. I looked at the four of them, letting my gaze linger before settling on Kieran. “So you’re deciding, without question, that I pushed her?” Kieran scoffed. “Isn’t it obvious? Look, just apologize to Maddie, Caro. I’m sure she won’t hold it against you.” Maddie gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose since Miss Sinclair is feeling so insecure lately, if she apologizes, I’ll be the bigger person and forgive her.” [Jealousy is so ugly. Look at the male leads defending their wife! So satisfying!] [Our girl is so generous!] “You people are out of your goddamn minds—” Harper started, but a single, glacial look from Harrison Dupont silenced her. No one crossed these men. And right now, all that immense, terrifying power was positioned behind Maddie Foster. Harper looked at me, her eyes wide with real fear. The whispers grew louder. Everyone was watching the mighty Caroline Sinclair be reduced to dirt beneath their shoes. “Just apologize, Caroline,” Harrison said softly, the disappointment in his voice heavy. Kieran smiled, a cruel, boyish twist of his lips. “You used to teach us to take responsibility for our actions, Caro. We get it. We’re great catches. You can’t bear to let us go, so you take it out on Maddie. But she belongs to us now, and we’re not going to let you bully her—” Smack. The sound of my hand striking Kieran’s cheek echoed like a gunshot through the silent room.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402447”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Twenty years after my husband, Chris, supposedly had a vasectomy to support our child-free lifestyle, I found myself staring at a positive pregnancy test. I thought it was a miracle—a late-blooming gift from the universe. But then I found the truth. Chris didn’t just have a secret; he had an entire second life. He had a family on the other side of town, and a son with leukemia who desperately needed a bone marrow match. My “miracle” pregnancy wasn’t a gift to me; it was a biological harvest Chris had planned to save his other woman’s child. The shock sent me into a physical collapse. When I woke up in the hospital, my world felt like it had been razed to the ground. “I’m terminating it,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “I want this out of me. Now.” Chris didn’t yell. He didn’t even look me in the eye. He simply had the nurses restrain me to the bed “for my own safety.” Then came the vultures. My mother-in-law and the doctor stood over me, their voices a synchronized drone of manipulation. “It’s a life, Evelyn! Think of the karma,” his mother pleaded, her eyes cold despite the tears she forced. “Chris’s son is your son, too! This baby is already here; how can you be so heartless? If you hadn’t been so stubborn about your ‘career’ and your ‘independence’ all these years, none of this would have happened. Chris was backed into a corner…” I stopped fighting the restraints. I looked at Chris, whose eyes were red-rimmed. I thought it was guilt. I was wrong. “Go have another child with her then,” I said, my voice dead. “I’ll pay for it. Whatever the treatment costs, I’ll sign the check. Just let me go.” A flicker of disappointment, then something sharper—pity—crossed his face. “I tried,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “Jade… she’s had several miscarriages trying to give me a son. She can’t carry anymore. Her body is spent.” He leaned in closer, his shadow swallowing me. “The doctors say a half-sibling has a twenty-five percent chance of a perfect match. Evelyn, please. If you save my son, I’ll give you anything. Anything you want.” I turned my face toward the sterile white wall. The chill in my bones felt permanent. “I want a divorce. I’m leaving this hospital in a week, and I expect you to meet me at the lawyer’s office.” … My mother-in-law’s blood pressure must have hit the ceiling. she lunged forward as if to strike me, but Chris caught her arm. His brow furrowed, his jaw setting into that stubborn line I used to mistake for strength. “No,” he said firmly. “I won’t divorce you. Don’t even dream of it.” I let out a jagged laugh. We had been married for two decades; he knew that look on my face. He knew I was done. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed, his tone softening into that patronizing “reasonable man” voice he used in boardrooms. “Evie, we’ve spent half our lives together. Imagine the scandal. Do you really want to be the woman who blows up her life at forty-five?” “I know you feel slighted,” he continued. “But Jade… she’s not like you. She didn’t grow up with a silver spoon. She didn’t have your education or your family’s connections. She’s just a girl who gave me a son. It wasn’t easy for her. If you need someone to blame, blame me. But the boy is innocent. Don’t you see how cruel you’re being by holding this over me?” Cruel. The word felt like a slap. I touched my stomach, my mind drifting back twenty years. Back then, Chris was the one talking about the unfairness of fate. He was the brilliant, broke scholarship student my father had sponsored. I remember the day he lost a major contract—he had been standing in the pouring rain, begging for a chance to pitch. I was the one who held the umbrella over him and brought him home. A fallen genius. A man of integrity. Unyielding will. To the heiress of the Montgomery estate, he was a romantic tragedy I was desperate to rewrite. Naturally, he became the Montgomery son-in-law. His life became a series of wins. Back then, I never wanted to be child-free. I was obsessed with him; I wanted a little piece of us to carry on. When I first got pregnant, Chris cried with joy. “But Chris,” I had told him, “my parents want the first child to carry the Montgomery name. After that, we can have as many as you want. What do you think?” A shadow had passed over his face, so brief I thought I imagined it. “Evie, are you sure you’re ready to be a mother?” he had asked, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “I just… I don’t want to see you suffer. It would break my heart.” I was so moved. I told him I wasn’t afraid. But the pregnancy was a nightmare. I couldn’t keep anything down. Two weeks later, I was doubled over in pain. Chris went frantic, rushing me to the ER, but we lost the baby anyway. He stayed by my side all night. The next morning, he was sobbing, hitting his own forehead. “It’s my fault. I put you through this. No more, Evie. Let’s just be us. We’ll be ‘DINKs.’ I can’t lose you.” I insisted I was willing to try again, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said I had already given him enough, that I was his whole world. To prove his devotion, he told me he went to the clinic for a vasectomy that same week. For twenty years, he was the model husband, always “careful,” always protecting my health. Even his parents seemed to accept it, never pressuring me for an heir. They even bought us a Border Collie, Lucky, telling us to treat him like our son. I was so naive. I thought he had fought his traditional parents for me. Hearing his mother’s vitriol now, I finally understood. He didn’t want no children; he just didn’t want my children. Being the “sponsored” son-in-law was the thorn in his side. Letting a child carry my family name was the ultimate emasculation to him. He had orchestrated everything. I was the engine that drove his career, the bank that funded his lifestyle. And Jade? She was the quiet harbor where he could be the “provider,” the man whose name would be passed down. Now that my parents were dead and I had no family left to protect me, he was ready to use me one last time. He wanted me to endure a high-risk pregnancy just to provide spare parts for his “real” legacy. The humilation burned like acid. “The boy is innocent?” I spat. “To save your secret son, you’re willing to risk my life and the life of this baby. Tell me, Chris—who’s the cruel one here?” Chris flinched. “It’s not like that. I’ll hire the best doctors in the country. You always wanted a child, didn’t you? Why can’t you look at the bright side? You’ll both be fine, and then we can all be a family.” I looked at him, truly seeing the stranger he had become. “A family? You mean a harem? You expect me to live in some twisted sister-wife arrangement?” Chris walked toward the door, his voice heavy with a self-righteous burden. “Jade has never wanted to take anything from you. I still love you, Evelyn. You will always be my wife. But you need to be the bigger person here. This baby stays.” He left the room, posting two private security guards at my door. They weren’t there to protect me; they were there to ensure I didn’t find a way to a clinic. I didn’t waste another second. I picked up the phone and dialed my lawyer. “Lee, if he refuses to sign, what are my options?” He gave me a direct answer. There was a way out, but I had to wait a week for the paperwork to be ironed out. The next day, Chris didn’t show up. Lee, who has a reach as long as his career, sent me photos. Chris was with Jade. He must have told her the news. In the video clip, Jade was weeping with joy, throwing her arms around Chris in a crowded cafe. I shut the screen, unable to watch. I tried to distract myself with social media, but then I saw my mother-in-law’s profile. The “sweet, traditional” woman had undergone a personality transplant. She had posted a flood of videos featuring a young boy—her “beloved grandson.” I realized then that every holiday Chris was “working late,” he was actually with them. Her latest post was a video of her crying to the camera, calling me the “most wicked daughter-in-law in history.” She had even photoshopped my face onto a funeral portrait. She told her followers that I was an ungrateful woman who was refusing to save her dying grandson out of spite. The comments were a bloodbath. Strangers were calling for my head, calling me a monster, a “barren ice queen.” Thinking of my late parents—who had loved Chris like a son—my rage boiled over. I commented directly: “He isn’t my son. Why is his life my responsibility?” She replied instantly: “How heartless! Is this what a mother says?” My DMs exploded. I threw the phone across the room, shaking. But she wasn’t done. She sent me a voice note, her voice a shrill hiss: “You’re evil! I said nothing but the truth! A husband is your king, and his child is yours! It’s your duty to save him! If you hadn’t nagged Chris into that surgery, he wouldn’t have had to go elsewhere for a family! This is your fault! My poor grandson is suffering because of your ego!” I couldn’t listen anymore. The pregnancy hormones made it impossible to stop the tears. The whole world was telling me I was a criminal for not wanting to be a human incubator for a mistress’s child. A bowl of chicken soup appeared in my field of vision. Chris was back, looking disheveled. He reached out to wipe a tear from my cheek. “You’re still the same,” he murmured. “Always crying when you’re pregnant.” The memory hit me like a physical blow. Twenty years ago, when I was throwing up everything, he had learned to make this exact soup. I had forced myself to eat it, touched by his devotion. I remembered the night before my miscarriage. He had looked at me with such hesitation. I had asked him what was wrong, and he had just pulled me into his arms and sobbed, “I’m so sorry I’m making you suffer. We don’t need a baby. Just you and me.” I thought he was a fool who loved me too much. But I was the fool. His “devotion” was guilt. He hadn’t been worried about my health; he had been struggling with the fact that he was actively sabotaging our child because of a bruised ego over a surname. I looked at the man I had loved for two decades and realized I had never known him at all. “Chris,” I whispered, “why didn’t you just talk to me? My parents just wanted the first one to have our name. We could have had three more. I gave you everything—my life, my money, my family’s legacy. And you couldn’t even give me the truth?” I slapped the bowl of soup out of his hand. It shattered against the floor. “I’m going to make you lose everything, Chris. Just wait a week.” His face darkened. “What the hell is wrong with you?” A slender woman rushed into the room, frantically trying to clean up the mess. “Chris, don’t be angry. It’s my fault. The soup probably didn’t smell right to Evelyn.” I froze. It wasn’t Chris coming to see me. It was the two of them, putting on a show of “kindness.” Jade was beautiful in a fragile, wilted sort of way. Looking at her, I felt ancient. My youth had been spent building an empire Chris now sat upon. I didn’t have that “damsel in distress” look. Chris didn’t even look at me. He was too busy checking Jade’s hands for burns. When she winced, he looked like someone had stabbed him. “I’m fine, Chris,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward me. “Evelyn’s health is what matters.” She gestured toward the door. A small, pale boy with a shaved head walked in. “Noah, come here. Say hello to Mrs. Bennett.” The boy looked sullen. Jade led him to my bedside and, before I could react, she took his small, cold hand and pressed it against my stomach. “Noah, feel that? There’s a little brother in there. He’s going to save you. Just a few more months, and the pain will go away.” Her words were like poisoned needles. Even if I kept this baby, you can’t take bone marrow from a newborn. She was talking about an experimental cord blood procedure—or worse. She was looking at my child as a medical resource. I looked at Chris. He was smiling at them, a look of pure paternal pride on his face. He didn’t see anything wrong with what she said. “Chris… are you planning an eye for an eye?” I asked. “What if the match fails? What if I refuse to go through with it?” Chris’s expression turned to stone. “There is no ‘if.’ This is happening.” “I have a heart condition, Chris! A high-risk pregnancy at my age could kill me! And I will never let my child be a sacrifice for anyone!” “This child,” I pointed at the boy, “is not my problem. His illness is the result of your lies!” “Shut up!” Chris roared, slamming a glass against the nightstand. His eyes were wild. He immediately turned back to Jade, pulling her and the boy into a protective embrace. Jade sobbed into his shoulder, covering the boy’s ears. “Chris, it’s my fault,” she wailed. “I’m useless. I couldn’t give you a healthy son. Evelyn has every right to hate me, but Noah is just a child! If I could take his place, I would… I just wanted her to have some nutrients. I see now… you were just trying to spare my feelings because she said no. It’s okay, Chris. This is just our fate…” The “soft” attack worked instantly. Chris looked more panicked than I’d ever seen him. “Jade, listen to me. I won’t let anything happen to Noah. I promise. I love you both. We’re going to Europe after this, remember? I have the money, I have the power. Not even God is taking my son from me!” He had forgotten one thing. The money and the power? They were mine. “Let’s stop the theater, Chris,” I said, my voice cold as a grave. “Sign the papers and let’s end this.” Chris ignored me. He moved Jade and Noah into a VIP suite down the hall and came back to my room. “Don’t ever speak like that in front of Jade again,” he warned. “She blames herself enough. And for the last time, I am not divorcing you. Everyone knows I am where I am because of your father. I’m grateful for that. But look at any man in my position—we all have someone on the side. I’m telling you, you will always be my wife. Isn’t that enough?” “A seat at the table you stole from me?” I mocked. The boy I loved was gone. In his place was a narcissist who thought he was doing me a favor by letting me keep my title. From the moment my parents died, he had dropped the mask. He had cried louder than me at the funeral, posing for the cameras. A month later, he had maneuvered through my father’s old connections and diluted my shares in the company before I could even process my grief. He told me it was to “protect me from the stress.” The next day, I stood by the window, clutching the divorce papers Lee had smuggled in. I was rehearsing my final words. A tug on my sleeve broke my concentration. It was Noah. “Ma’am? Dad took Mom out for a walk. He said you were supposed to stay with me while I did my treatment.” I looked out the window. Chris was leading Jade toward the garden. The boy looked so small, so fragile. I felt a flicker of pity. Back in the ward, Noah whimpered in pain, begging for some candy from the gift shop downstairs. My heart softened. I told him I’d be right back. But when I returned five minutes later, the bathroom door was open. Noah was standing under a freezing cold shower, fully clothed, sobbing into a video call with Jade. “Mom, I’m so cold! Mrs. Bennett told me the cold water would make me stronger, but it hurts!” I dropped the candy. I rushed in to wrap him in a towel, but it was too late. Within minutes, Chris and Jade burst in. Noah threw himself into Jade’s arms, shivering. “Mom, I was brave! Mrs. Bennett gave me candy for doing it!” He looked at me with those wide, innocent-looking eyes. “Dad, don’t be mad at her. I’m a big boy.” Jade dropped to her knees, sobbing and banging her head on the floor. “Evelyn, I’m sorry! Hit me instead! The boy is innocent! If you don’t want to save him, fine, but please don’t hurt him! He has no immune system; the cold will kill him!” I reached out to pull her up, but Chris lunged forward. He shoved me back so hard I hit the wall, and then he backhanded me across the face. The world went silent. My ears rang. “I told you it was my fault!” Chris screamed. “Why would you take it out on a child? You want to end my bloodline that badly?” I held my burning cheek, my stomach tightening in a cramp. “He did it himself. I didn’t touch him!” “I don’t want to hear your lies! Apologize to Jade and Noah. Now!” He gathered his “real” family. There was no room for me in that circle. I started to laugh. It was a jagged, hysterical sound. I pulled out a document—the one Chris had left for me to sign regarding the bone marrow compatibility tests. I flipped to the last page. “Fine. You want the tests done the second this baby is viable? I agree. Sign it.” Chris, blinded by rage and disgust, didn’t even look at the header. He scribbled his name and threw the pen at me. “You should have done this from the start! If anything happens to Noah, I’m done with you!” I walked out of the room, clutching the paper. It wasn’t a medical consent form. Lee had swapped it. It was a binding, no-contest divorce settlement and a full transfer of the remaining Montgomery assets Chris had tried to hide. “Chris,” I said, stopping at the door. “Do you remember how I haven’t touched cold water since the miscarriage?” He didn’t look up. He didn’t follow me. I left a copy of the actual divorce papers on my hospital bed and went straight to the airport. As the plane took off, my phone lit up with dozens of missed calls. A flight attendant kindly helped me answer one. Chris’s voice came through, sounding like a terrified child. “Evie? Evie, I’m sorry. Where are you…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402446”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first time Gwen Sinclair cheated, she dragged her lover into the foyer of our penthouse, her eyes rimmed with a manic sort of red. “Do what you want with him,” she’d challenged, her voice trembling not with guilt, but with a terrifying kind of adrenaline. Because I loved her with a desperation that bordered on the pathetic, I chose to believe it was a momentary lapse in judgment. I forgave the unforgivable. The second time, I took matters into my own hands. I bought the man off, sent him to a different continent, and made it clear that if he ever touched American soil again, he’d find out exactly how much power the Wilder name carried. Then came the night of our engagement gala. Gwen didn’t come to me with an apology this time. She came with a blade. She pinned me against the mahogany desk in my study, her hand tightening around my throat, the cold tip of a stiletto knife pressing into the soft skin of my lower abdomen. “Where is Samuel?” she hissed, her breath smelling of expensive scotch and ruin. “He’s the father of my child, Bennett. Didn’t you know?” The room felt like it was tilting on its axis. “It was my fault,” she continued, her voice breaking. “I couldn’t control my feelings. If you want to be a monster, be one to me. Samuel is innocent. He doesn’t deserve your vendettas. Please… I’m begging you. Just let the baby be born safely, and I promise, I’ll never see him again.” She leaned in closer, her eyes searching mine for a mercy I no longer possessed. “You lost the ability to have children after the accident, didn’t you? Let’s just keep this one. We can raise him together. He’ll only ever know you as his father. That’s my vow to you.” The knife punctured my skin. A sharp, stinging heat blossomed across my stomach, followed by the wet warmth of blood soaking into my silk shirt. I looked at her—really looked at her—and smiled. Then, I told her exactly where Samuel Moore was hiding. … The heavy thud of the front door echoing through the house signaled her departure. I fumbled for my phone with shaking fingers, dialing a number I’d kept in my contacts like a glass-break emergency kit. “You were right,” I whispered into the receiver, my voice thin. “Can you still get me out?” On the other end, a woman cursed under her breath. Her tone was a mix of exasperation and pity. “You’re telling me this now? Bennett, I’m already at the gate for my flight to London. How am I supposed to help you from across the Atlantic?” “Harper, please.” “Bennett Wilder,” she sighed, her voice softening. “You’re the smartest man I know in a boardroom, but you’re a goddamn idiot when it comes to that woman. Did you trade all your common sense for a pretty face?” I pressed a hand against the wound on my belly, the pain a dull, rhythmic throb. “I’m sorry. I owe you. A thirty percent stake in the next development project—is that enough to make it worth your while?” There was a sharp intake of breath. Harper Ross was a shark, and I’d just dropped blood in the water. “Send me the time and the location,” she said, her professional veneer snapping back into place. “I’ll be there. And next time you want to screw over your life, make sure I’m the one you call first. I’m expensive, but I’m loyal.” I forwarded the entire wedding plan to Harper. She replied with a simple OK emoji. The house we’d built together, the one intended to be our marital home, was a wreck. Gwen had torn it apart in her rage, a perfect mirror of the state of my soul. I cleaned the wound as best I could, bandaged it with trembling hands, and stumbled out into the night. I had just checked into a discreet boutique hotel when Gwen’s name flashed on my screen. The roar of jet engines in the background was unmistakable, but it couldn’t drown out the sharp, defensive edge in her voice. “Ben? I’m on a private flight out of the country. I can’t be there tonight. Just… get some rest. I’m sorry about earlier. I was emotional. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She paused, perhaps waiting for me to comfort her. “Is it bad? Should I send a doctor over to the villa?” “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice cold and flat. Gwen’s tone instantly hardened. “Bennett, don’t do this. What happened with Samuel was an accident. I was—someone drugged my drink, and I thought he was you. It’s done now. I have to find him. You expect me to let the father of my child rot in some foreign gutter?” She scoffed. “You forgave me once before. Why are you making a scene now? Our wedding is in a week. Just take tonight to calm down.” I stared at my chat history with Harper, a grim sense of finality settling over me. “Don’t worry about the week,” I said. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.” “Gwen,” I added, “I told you once. I don’t do compromises on loyalty. Not anymore.” I was about to hang up when she exploded. “Not getting married? Are you joking? The gala is over, the papers are signed, the entire East Coast knows the Sinclair and Wilder families are merging! You’re going to threaten the merger over this?” “Bennett, we grew up together. You know who I am. I wouldn’t have betrayed you if I hadn’t been set up!” “They say three’s a crowd, but I’ve only made two mistakes. Once the baby is born, I swear Samuel will never cross your path again. Isn’t that enough?” A single tear escaped, hot and bitter, tracking down my cheek. I let out a jagged laugh. “So that’s the plan? I spend every day looking at a child that isn’t mine, a living, breathing reminder of every time you chose him over me? I can’t do it, Gwen. I’m sorry.” “Fine!” she screamed. “Remember you said that! Don’t you dare regret it when I’m gone! Look at any woman in my position—every CEO has a side piece. I gave you Samuel to deal with as you saw fit. I’ve been more than fair. If you can handle it, show up at the altar. If not, then get out. Do whatever the hell you want.” The line went dead. I looked at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. I looked broken, pale, and entirely too young for the weight I was carrying. She had forgotten. She’d forgotten the car crash three years ago. She’d forgotten that the only reason I had a permanent scar on my abdomen—and the reason I could never give her a child—was because I had thrown my body over hers when the truck hit us. Suite 1214. This room used to be our sanctuary. She said it was where our best memories lived. Valentine’s Day, birthdays, anniversaries—we’d claimed this space as our own. But now, I was the only one left who remembered the ghosts. When my parents called, I knew she had already leaked the news of the “breakup” to them. “Bennett, honey, what is happening? Gwen says you’re calling off the wedding?” my mother asked, her voice hovering between panic and confusion. “This isn’t a game, son,” my father added. “You can’t just walk away from a merger of this scale.” I buried myself under the heavy duvet, my voice thick with unshed tears. “She’s pregnant. It’s not mine.” There was a heavy silence. Then, my father’s voice came back, lower this time. “Every woman makes mistakes, Ben. Just have her take care of it and—” “I’m not calling off the wedding,” I interrupted. “I’m just changing the bride. You remember Harper Ross.” My father’s advice died in his throat. My mother gasped so loud it echoed through the line. “Harper? Bennett, you two are rivals! She’s been trying to sink your firm since prep school. Have you forgotten the time she nearly got you expelled?” I smiled, though it felt more like a baring of teeth. “Exactly. That’s why I’m marrying her. I want to spend the rest of my life making her miserable. Or maybe she’ll do the same to me. Either way, it’ll be honest.” I didn’t sleep. The wound in my gut throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a constant, nagging reminder of Gwen’s “love.” At dawn, I called a broker to list the villa. I didn’t want the equity. I just wanted it gone. When I went back to pack my things, I saw Gwen’s private jet idling on the lawn. Inside the house, the walls told a story I hadn’t been invited to read. The photos I had carefully framed of us were gone. In their place were snapshots of her and Samuel. The glaciers in Iceland. The Eiffel Tower. The ruins of Notre Dame. Every place we had ever visited, she had taken him there to rewrite our history. She used to tell me she hated photos. She’d say that as a woman in power, she couldn’t afford to have her image used against her by competitors or the press. No matter how much I begged for a single portrait of us together, she refused. But for Samuel, she was an open book. I found them standing by the photo wall. Gwen was glowing, her hand resting on her barely-there bump. She looked younger, softer. “Samuel, when the baby is born, we’ll take him to all these places, okay?” she whispered. “He’s going to love it. Look, he just kicked! Can you feel it?” The sound of the door closing drew their attention. Samuel didn’t act like a tough guy. He immediately dropped to his knees, crawling toward me and grabbing the hem of my coat. “Bennett, please. It’s my fault. I broke my promise. I shouldn’t have come back, but I love her so much… I swear, once the baby is here, I’ll disappear. I won’t get in your way…” Before I could speak, Gwen let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Don’t apologize to him, Samuel. You were drugged, too. If anyone owes an apology, it’s me for putting you in this position.” She turned her gaze on me, her eyes like chips of flint. “Bennett, I found out who was behind the drugging. That company will be bankrupt within the month. Samuel is a victim here. You can’t blame him for a mistake he was forced into. I’m willing to overlook your behavior last night. Just apologize to him, and we can put this behind us.” I looked at her, and for the first time in twenty years, I felt absolutely nothing. No anger. No longing. Just a profound sense of absurdity. “I should apologize? Gwen, have you finally lost your mind?” Suddenly, Samuel’s grip on my waist tightened, his fingers digging directly into my bandaged wound. I let out a sharp, choked gasp, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. The pain was blinding. I shoved him away instinctively. I didn’t use much force, but he tumbled backward, hitting the glass cabinet with a theatrical crash. “What are you doing?!” Gwen lunged at me, shoving me with all her strength. My head slammed into the sharp edge of the doorframe. The world went white. I felt the warm trickle of blood running down my temple. “I think you’re the one who’s lost it!” Gwen screamed, her voice distorted by rage. “He was humbling himself before you, I gave you an explanation, and you still act like a savage?” “Apologize. Now. Or you’ll see exactly what I’m capable of.” I gritted my teeth, swallowing the iron taste of blood and the crushing weight of betrayal. “Never.” “You want me to apologize to your plaything? In your dreams, Gwen.” “You ungrateful bastard!” Gwen’s face was contorted. she helped Samuel into the master bedroom, her touch infinitely tender. When she came back out, she didn’t come alone. She summoned the household staff. “Where are the security ties?” she demanded. “Mr. Wilder is having a breakdown. Let him sit out in the garden and clear his head.” “No one lets him up until I say so.” My eyes went wide. “Gwen, you’re insane! He’s a nobody, and you’re doing this to me? In the house I bought?” “The house you bought,” she whispered, leaning into my space, “but I’m the one who owns the air inside it.” She didn’t look back as the guards dragged me toward the terrace. My boots dragged on the hardwood, leaving a smear of blood from my head wound. As the heavy glass doors locked behind me, a crack of thunder split the sky. Within seconds, the clouds opened up, a torrential New England downpour drenching me to the bone. I slumped against the stone balustrade. The wounds on my head and stomach began to burn, then throb, then go numb. My consciousness began to fray at the edges. I looked at the guard standing under the eaves, his expression one of bored amusement. “Please…” I rasped, my voice barely audible over the rain. “Tell Gwen… I need a doctor. Please.” The guard gave me a mocking smirk. “Save it, kid. I’ve seen enough of your type’s drama. Ms. Sinclair just called her private physician for Mr. Moore. She’s a little busy right now.” I looked up at the second-floor balcony. Two silhouettes moved behind the sheer curtains. Then, the world went dark. Through the haze of my fever, I heard shouting. “Shit, he’s out! There’s blood everywhere!” Footsteps approached. An umbrella was held over me, blocking the relentless needles of rain. Gwen’s voice was like ice water. “Are you done playing the martyr?” “Anyone would think you were the one being mistreated here, Bennett. You need to learn some humility. This is for your own good.” The footsteps retreated. I heard her and Samuel talking near the door. “Gwen,” Samuel’s voice was a soft, manipulative purr. “He doesn’t look like he’s faking. Is this too much? He’s your fiancé. If his family finds out…” Gwen’s voice was firm. “I’ve spent years building this empire. I don’t answer to the Wilders anymore. He started this. You’re going to be here for the next eight months; I won’t have him bullying you. His ego needs to be broken.” I could almost see the smirk on Samuel’s face. “I heard these high-society marriages are just business. Is that how it is with you and Bennett?” The rain continued to lash against my face, cold and unforgiving. For a moment, I thought my heart had simply stopped. “To wear the crown, one must bear the weight,” Gwen said, her voice devoid of emotion. “Being a Sinclair means marriage is a strategic alliance I can’t escape. Since I have no choice, I accepted it. Bennett is handsome, he’s predictable, and compared to the other arrogant heirs out there, he was the best option.” Tears mingled with the rainwater, sliding into the dirt. Gwen’s voice changed then—it became warm, filled with a genuine affection I hadn’t heard in years.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402445”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The world ended, but the nightmare came with a twist: I could hear the thoughts of the undead. “Yo, back off! Nobody touches her. She’s the one our boy is obsessed with.” “For real. Remember when we were human? Grayson was the one who kept us safe. He’s got that lightning ability now.” “Listen up, guys. This is our Girl. We’re going to protect her, get her back to the Captain, and let him take over.” Then, a chorus of gravelly, psychic voices chimed in: “Are you high, Jax? No sane person sees a pack of ghouls and thinks, ‘Yeah, I’ll follow them.’ She’s gonna run the second she sees us.” I rolled my window down just a fraction of an inch, my voice trembling. “I—I’ll do it.” 1 I’ve officially lost my mind. When the sky fell and the world went to hell, I didn’t get super-strength or the ability to fly. I got the “privilege” of hearing the internal monologues of the things trying to eat me. I’d been holed up in my cramped studio apartment for thirty days. The silence was deafening, and my pantry was a graveyard of empty granola bar wrappers. Starvation eventually overrode my survival instinct. I crawled into my beat-up little hatchback, desperate for a grocery run, only to be swarmed by a mob of the undead within three blocks. I thought it was over. I watched them climb onto my hood, their gray, decaying palms slamming against the windshield. I was curled in the driver’s seat, shaking so hard my teeth rattled, when the voices started bleeding into my skull. “Wait, wait! Stop hitting the glass! Look at her… doesn’t she look exactly like that girl Grayson Pierce used to keep a photo of?” “Grayson? You mean Captain Pierce? The guy with the lightning hands? Man, he saved all our asses before we turned. You guys didn’t forget that, did you?” “Nobody forgot. He practically ran the city’s defense. And everyone knew the only thing he cared about was finding his ‘Holy Grail’—this girl.” “Talk about a lucky break. We’ve been looking for her for weeks. Brothers, we’re taking the Boss’s Girl home.” I thought I was hallucinating from the sheer terror. I was being hunted by a pack of zombies, and I was dreaming they were my secret service? But then, more voices joined the fray. “Jax, you’re delusional. Look at her face—she’s paler than we are. She’s terrified.” “And even if we want to protect her, our bodies are literally hardwired to bite. How are we supposed to escort her without, you know, devouring her?” “Stop hitting the window! If you break it and someone bites Grayson’s girl, we’re all dead. Again.” “I’m sorry! My hand isn’t listening to my brain! It just wants to smash… I want to bite that neck so bad…” “Bad hand! If you can’t control it, I’ll bite it off for you!” Right before my eyes, three zombies lunged at another one, tearing his arms clean off with a sickening crunch. I nearly fainted. “Oh, great. Now we’ve really scared her. Should we just leave?” “If we leave, she’s literal finger food for the first mindless roamer she passes. We have to stay.” “Stay and do what? Give her a heart attack? We’re monsters, man. No one trusts a monster.” “Think! How do we get her to follow us to the Captain?” “Jax, give it up. Who in their right mind follows a zombie?” The group—about a dozen of them, still wearing tattered, blood-stained high school letterman jackets—started to shuffle away. I didn’t think. I just acted. I slammed my hand onto the horn. The sound echoed through the desolate street. They all froze, turning their rotting heads back toward me. I cracked the window a tiny bit more. “I’ll do it,” I shouted, my heart thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. “Can you… can you take me to Grayson?” 2 The world went silent. Outside that sliver of a window, the group of letterman-jacket-wearing corpses stopped dead. A dozen heads snapped back toward me simultaneously. Their clouded, milky eyes bored into mine. It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen. My foot hovered over the gas pedal, screaming at me to floor it and get as far away as possible. But I forced myself to hold their gaze. This was it. Life or death. I was betting everything on the chance of having a zombie security detail. After a heartbeat of dead air, the mental chatter exploded: “Holy crap! Did she just… did she hear us?” I nodded vigorously, my hair matted with sweat. “Yes. I can hear you.” “Thank the gods! Brothers, get back here! We can actually talk to her!” “I haven’t talked to a living person in weeks. I’m gonna cry. I mean, I can’t actually cry, but I’m feeling it. A month ago, I was the Prom King!” “Girls used to flirt with me. Now they just scream. I can’t even look at myself in the rearview mirror.” “Don’t look at me either. Seriously, don’t describe what I look like. I don’t want to know.” “She’s Grayson’s ‘One,’ alright. Only his girl would have a crazy ability like this. It makes total sense.” “Wait, she’s turning green. I think we’re grossing her out. Everyone, pipe down! Give her some space. Keep it together.” The one called Jax—the leader—was in rough shape. Half the skin on his left cheek was gone, exposing a jagged white jawbone. But his movements were strangely human. He waved his one remaining good arm with a frantic energy. He tried to stretch his torn lips into a friendly smile, but it only made him look more like a sleep-demon. “Jax, stop smiling. It’s horrific.” “You’re gonna make her pass out.” Jax twitched, standing a few feet back, looking genuinely distressed. “Sorry, Boss’s Girl. I’m trying my best. Is it really that bad?” It was a nightmare, but I forced a rigid smile back. “I can handle it.” “Oh my god, she smiled back.” “That’s the first time a human has smiled at me since the world ended.” “Her smile is so pure… I suddenly don’t feel like ripping her head off quite as much.” Jax’s voice cut through the sentimentality: “Focus! Everyone stay back. Remember, we’re still zombies. We can snap at any second. Keep your distance!” The dozen zombies shuffled back instantly, forming a perimeter about fifteen feet away. Jax turned back to the car. “Boss’s Girl, drive slow and follow us. Before the change, Grayson holed up in his estate on the hill. High walls, electrified fences, plenty of food. He should still be there. Just whatever you do… do not get out of the car.” “Okay,” I whispered. Jax barked a mental order: “Listen up! If anyone gets within ten feet of that car, I’ll personally tear your skull open. Got it?” “Got it, Jax.” “For the Captain. Let’s move.” They began to move in a clumsy, coordinated dance, fighting their predatory instincts and keeping each other in check. They formed a loose escort around my little car, clearing the path ahead. I started the engine and put it in gear, moving at a crawl. Tears blurred my vision as I watched the back of those tattered jackets. They were the world’s most dangerous predators, yet here they were—grotesque, decaying, and fiercely loyal—paving a way through hell for me. It was absurd. It was terrifying. And it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. As we drove, I listened to their chatter, realizing with a jolt that the “Captain” they were talking about—Grayson Pierce—wasn’t just some local hero. He was my brother’s oldest rival. Since when was I Grayson Pierce’s “Holy Grail”? 3 Jax filled me in as we navigated the wreckage of the suburbs. “Your brother is with the Captain now. When the virus hit, Grayson went straight to your place to find you, but you were gone. He only found your brother, Brooks.” I responded in my head, realizing I didn’t need to speak out loud anymore. “The day the news broke about the outbreak in the city, my best friend was away for an exam. She asked me to go to her place to feed her cat. By the time I got there, the elevators were full of… them. I got trapped in her apartment and just stayed hidden.” Jax’s mental voice spiked in excitement. “Wait! Boss’s Girl, you can talk back to us without rolling the window down?” I realized it too. I had just thought the words, and they’d heard me. It was like I’d been added to a telepathic group chat of the damned. I concentrated, focusing my mind: “Can you all hear me now?” A chorus of voices flooded my brain: “Loud and clear!” “This is awesome! Wireless communication. This makes the apocalypse way easier.” “Can you hear me, Boss’s Girl? I’m Tyler.” “I’m Big Mike.” “I’m Sarah.” Names and voices swirled in my head. I felt a surge of warmth. “I hear you all. My name is Riley. You can just call me Riley.” Jax cut in: “Nope. You’re the Boss’s Girl. That’s the rule.” “Yeah,” Tyler added. “We’re on a mission to help the Captain win his girl back.” “Grayson is a beast now,” Big Mike chimed in. “Tall, brooding, and he can literally jump-start a car with his bare hands. The whole city’s power grid is fried, but he keeps an electric stove running at the house. His instant ramen game is legendary.” My stomach let out a pathetic growl. “Don’t talk about food. I’m starving.” Jax asked, “Why did you leave the apartment if you were safe?” I rubbed my empty belly. “Hunger. My friend was a bit of a prepper—lots of ramen and dried snacks—but the power went out weeks ago. I’ve been eating dry noodles for a month. I ran out yesterday. It was leave or die.” The zombies let out a collective, psychic moan. “Don’t talk about ramen. Now I want ramen.” “If I could just have one bowl of spicy beef noodles…” I interrupted their daydreaming. “How is my brother? Is Brooks okay?” “Brooks?” Jax chuckled. “He’s fine. Better than fine. He’s a ‘Hydromancer’ now. He can pull water out of thin air. He and Grayson are a total power couple—not like that, you know—but as a team. They’re unstoppable.” The others jumped in: “Exactly. In a world with no power and no water, you’ve got one guy who makes the water and another who boils it. They’re the kings of the apocalypse. You’re never going to go hungry again.” “Imagine it… hot pot. Sliced beef, mushrooms, spicy broth…” I groaned. “Stop! Please. If I don’t die of a zombie bite, I’m going to die of longing for a hot meal.” The thought of my brother—the perpetual slacker—and his high school nemesis, Grayson, working together to cook noodles with their superpowers was a vivid, hilarious image. For the first time in weeks, I felt a spark of real hope. 4 In the “group chat,” I asked Jax nervously, “How much further?” “Almost there. Take a right at the next intersection. Grayson’s place is in that gated community up the hill. It’s a fortress. High walls, electrified wire… wait…” His mental voice trailed off, thick with hesitation. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white. “What is it?” The chatter among the group turned grim. “Something’s wrong.” “It’s too quiet.” “I smell blood. A lot of it. And… others. Many others.” Jax’s voice was sharp with warning: “Stay sharp, Boss’s Girl. Stay close to us.” The dozen protectors tightened their circle around my car, their movements losing their clumsy edge and becoming predatory once more. As I turned the corner into the wooded drive leading to the estate, the scene was devastating. The manicured lawns were torn up, and several luxury SUVs were flipped over, their windows shattered and frames stained with dark, dried blood. And then, I saw them. Zombies. Dozens of them, shambling aimlessly near the gates. I slammed on the brakes, my heart freezing in my chest. Clearly, a massive battle had just taken place here. Jax spoke up: “Stay in the car, Riley. Don’t move. Brothers, guard the car. I’m going in to see if the Captain is still alive.” I reached for my wrist and pulled off a jade bracelet. I cracked the window just enough to slide it out. “Wait! Take this. It’s a token. My brother gave it to me for my birthday. He’ll recognize it.” Jax reached out with a trembling, gray hand. “Put it on my wrist, Boss’s Girl. You smell… too good. Please, hurry. I don’t know how much longer I can keep my mouth shut.” I snapped the bracelet onto his wrist and rolled the window up in a heartbeat. Jax looked at the jade. “Wait a minute. I know this bracelet. I was with Grayson when he bought this at the mall. It cost him a fortune. He spent hours picking the perfect one.” I blinked, stunned. “What? Brooks gave it to me. He said it was from him.” Jax’s mental voice grew heated. “That little thief. Brooks totally stole the credit.” Thinking of my brother—always the charming rogue, always bickering with Grayson—it made perfect sense. I felt a weird mix of annoyance and a flutter of something else in my chest. Jax shook his head. “I’m going. Stay safe. Pray the Captain is still in there.” I sat in the car, clutching my friend’s cat—who had been hiding under the seat—and waited. Minutes felt like hours. Finally, Jax’s voice flickered back into my mind. “Wait! Don’t shock me! Look at my wrist! Just look at the bracelet! Grayson, I found her! Can you hear me, you idiot?” My heart leaped into my throat. Jax had found him, but Grayson couldn’t hear the thoughts. He just saw a zombie charging at him. Jax was in trouble. 5 “Hold it! Stop!” Inside the villa, Grayson Pierce grabbed Brooks’s arm, forcing the electrified baton down. Brooks, his eyes wide with adrenaline, struggled against him. “What are you doing? That’s Jax—or what’s left of him! Don’t be a martyr, Gray. He’s gone. He’s just a hungry corpse now.” Grayson’s bloodshot eyes were fixed on the zombie’s wrist. “Look at the bracelet, Brooks. Isn’t that the one you ‘bought’ for Riley?” Brooks froze, his face going pale. “That’s hers. Oh god… what did that monster do to my sister? I’ll kill him!” Grayson shoved Brooks back against the wall. “Think for a second! He’s not attacking. He’s pointing at the bracelet. He’s trying to tell us something.” “You’re dreaming,” Brooks hissed. “They’re mindless. He probably killed her and took it as a trophy.” Grayson grabbed Brooks by the collar, his voice a low growl. “Look at him! Has he tried to bite you? He’s fighting it. He’s still in there, Brooks. I know it.” Grayson turned to the zombie that used to be his best friend. His heart was breaking. Twenty-four hours ago, they had been brothers-in-arms. Now, they were hunter and prey. He stepped forward, wary. “Jax? If you can hear me… what are you trying to say?” Jax looked like he was about to burst into tears. “Finally! Yes! Follow me, man! Just follow me! Your Holy Grail is right outside!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402444”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At my best friend’s wedding, the bride’s bouquet arced through the air, fumbled by a groomsman, and landed squarely in my chest. The entire room’s gaze shifted, as if choreographed, straight to Margot. Eight years we’d been together. The crowd wasn’t going to let an opportunity like this slide. “Put a ring on it! Put a ring on it!” “He’s got the flowers, Margot! You’re up!” Pushed forward by a sea of laughing bridesmaids, Margot finally stumbled to a halt in front of me. I looked at her, the white roses fragrant between us, quietly waiting for her to say, Let’s get married. Instead, her face remained perfectly composed. She reached out, calmly slid the bouquet from my grip, turned, and casually handed it to the groomsman standing beside her. “He touched it first,” she said, looking back at me. Her voice was the same gentle, persuasive velvet she always used. “Be good. We’ll get the next one.” The spotlight swung away, chasing the bouquet. I stood there, looking at the young man’s face lighting up with exaggerated, thrilled surprise. I managed a stiff, self-deprecating smile. Margot didn’t know. There wouldn’t be a next one. My wedding was next week. … 1 Carter’s face darkened the second the music swelled again. I grabbed his wrist just as he was about to march over there. He whipped around, his eyes blazing with protective fury. “That little prick did it on purpose! I cleared it with every single groomsman and bridesmaid. That bouquet was supposed to end up in your hands…” “Carter.” I cut him off, my voice barely above a whisper. “The wedding isn’t over yet.” The room’s attention had already drifted away from Margot and me. It was now firmly planted on the young man holding the flowers: Chase, her executive assistant. He cradled the roses against his chest, shooting Margot a wide, sparkling look of devotion. Margot had already slipped gracefully back to the fringes of the crowd. The MC, a seasoned pro, tossed out a few quick jokes, and the party roared back to life. Carter finally wrenched his gaze away, swearing under his breath as he returned to his bride. For the rest of the reception, I sat at the head table reserved for the wedding party. I drank my champagne, absorbing the suffocating, sympathetic glances darting my way from every corner of the room. Margot sat at a different table, laughing effortlessly with her tech-startup friends. Chase sat right beside her. The physical space between them had long ago crossed the boundary of what was appropriate for an executive assistant. He wasn’t even supposed to be a groomsman. A bridesmaid had been added at the last minute, and Margot had insisted Chase step in to balance the numbers. She brought him everywhere these days. Networking, she called it. Gaining exposure. She even brought him to my best friend’s wedding. When it was time for toasts, Carter brought his new wife over to my table. He pulled me into a crushing hug, his jaw ticking as he leaned into my ear. “That kid has been maneuvering his way into Margot’s life for six months,” Carter hissed, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “I had a buddy run a background check. He’s calculated, Hardy. And Margot, she’s…” “Carter,” I said, patting his back, intercepting the rest of his sentence. “You’re the happiest man in the world today. Let’s not ruin it with this.” He let out a heavy sigh, pulling back, and said no more. Hours later, as the venue emptied out, Margot finally sauntered over. “Ready to head out?” She naturally reached for my coat, her other hand coming up, out of sheer muscle memory, to loop through my arm. I shifted my weight, turning my shoulder just enough to let her hand fall to empty air. “You’ve been drinking. I’ll call an Uber Black.” She didn’t seem to notice the rejection, just nodded lightly. “Good idea.” The sleek SUV glided through the Manhattan night. The tinted window offered a blurry reflection of my face. I looked sharp in the custom tuxedo, but there was no hiding the hollow exhaustion bruising the skin beneath my eyes. “Look,” she said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “Chase really did get a hand on the bouquet first. He’s young. He probably just wanted a bit of the good luck.” She smoothed a wrinkle from her dress. “I was just returning it to its rightful owner. Don’t read too much into it.” I didn’t answer. I just watched the neon city lights bleed backwards into the dark. She waited for a beat, finally tearing her eyes away from the glowing screen of her phone to look at me. “Are you mad?” She leaned closer, her perfume—Santal 33—clouding the air between us. “Didn’t I say we’d definitely get the next one?” 2 Her fingers combed through the hair at the nape of my neck, massaging gently. It was the way you’d soothe a temperamental house cat. “Our wedding is going to blow Carter’s out of the water. You can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?” A bitter, acidic ache bloomed in my chest. It was always like this. She would use that impossibly tender tone to issue an empty, hollow promise about “next time.” And then, in her mind, the storm was weathered. The crisis was averted. “Margot,” I said, looking at her reflection in the glass. “Hmm?” “Carter and I made a pact when we were kids,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Whoever got married first, the other had to tie the knot no more than a week later.” “We promised we’d be each other’s best men. That we’d be the first to witness each other’s happiness.” The backseat went dead silent. The fingers massaging my neck went still. “You’re still holding onto a childhood joke?” She let out a soft, incredulous laugh. Her hand started moving again, though the rhythm was absentminded, patronizing. “You know how fast plans change now. The venue, the schedule, the PR rollout—those take at least a year to prep.” “We’ll sit down and plan it out properly. I’ll give you the most perfect wedding. What’s the rush?” She didn’t explain why she couldn’t publicly commit to marrying me when the crowd chanted. She just leaped straight to the logistics of how to throw a perfect event. I suddenly remembered a month ago, when Carter practically dragged me to his tailor to try on the groomsman suit he’d designed himself. When I stepped out of the dressing room, Carter’s eyes had lit up, then inexplicably glassed over with tears. “Hardy, you look like a goddamn movie star,” he had choked out. “I made this one specifically for you. But when it’s your turn, I’m making you an even better suit. The best one of my career.” Margot had been there. She was sitting on the velvet sofa, head down, answering an email. At Carter’s words, she glanced up for half a second, offered a tight smile, and said, “Looks good.” Then her eyes dropped right back to the screen, her thumbs flying across the glass. In that moment, nestled beneath the overwhelming joy I felt for my best friend… was a profound, suffocating grief for my own eight-year dead-end. The SUV pulled up to our Upper West Side brownstone. Margot unbuckled her seatbelt. Thinking the little spat had been neatly resolved, she leaned across the center console, naturally expecting a kiss goodnight. I raised a hand, pressing my palm gently but firmly against her shoulder. She froze. “I’m tired, Margot.” She looked at me, her eyes narrowing slightly in the dim light. Silence stretched between us. Finally, she just patted my arm. “Being a groomsman takes it out of you. Go up and get some sleep.” “Chase said he can’t find a cab. His neighborhood isn’t safe at night, so I’m going to have the driver drop him off.” “Okay,” I said. My voice was entirely devoid of an emotional pulse. She hesitated. She was waiting for me to play my part. To tell her to be safe. Or to whine, with a hint of jealousy, “Why do you have to go back out this late?” Instead, I opened the door. I stepped onto the curb. The driver slowly pulled away from the curb. The front door clicked shut behind me. I collapsed onto the living room sofa, letting the darkness swallow me. A long time passed before I finally forced myself up and walked toward the bedroom. As I passed the room at the end of the hall, my footsteps halted. Four years ago, when we bought this place, we had designated it the nursery. Now, there was no child. It was just a graveyard for overflow storage and forgotten things. I pushed the door open. I walked over to a dust-covered crib in the corner and pulled out a thick, heavy stack of paper from the bottom drawer. It was all there. Her handwritten love letters from college. Movie stubs. Wristbands from music festivals. Polaroids from our road trips. At the very bottom lay a photo from my college graduation. I was giving her a piggyback ride beneath the blooming dogwood trees in Central Park. She had her arms wrapped tight around my neck. 3 Her long hair was caught in the same breeze that scattered the white petals. On the back, written in her frantic, sprawling script: “You have to carry me forever. Promise me.” The pale light from the streetlamp outside washed over the faded ink, cold and sharp. It felt like a silent, mocking sneer. From the street below, the faint hum of an engine pulling into the driveway broke the silence. I froze, crouching over the crib, just listening. The scrape of a key in the deadbolt. The hushed, careful footsteps on the hardwood. A moment later, the nursery door was nudged open. She stood in the doorway. “You’re still up?” I didn’t turn around. I kept my eyes on the crib. “Yeah.” “Why are you digging all this old stuff out?” she asked, her tone light, breezy. “Feeling nostalgic?” I ignored her question. Instead, I asked quietly, “Did he get home okay?” She paused, a momentary hesitation before explaining, “Yes, he’s home. He lives way out in Queens; it’s a nightmare getting a car out there.” “Oh.” I lowered my head, carefully aligning the edges of the Polaroid, and placed it back in the box. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed,” she said. This time, she stepped into the room and offered her hand, wanting to pull me up. I didn’t take it. I braced my hands on my own knees and pushed myself up, my joints popping. My legs had fallen asleep, and I swayed slightly as I stood. “Margot.” “Hmm?” She stopped at the door. “Let’s break up.” She went perfectly still for two seconds. Then, she let out a breathy, exasperated laugh. She reached up and tugged at her collar. “Are you seriously still hung up on the bouquet thing? Don’t be so petty.” It was the exact tone a mother uses with a toddler throwing a tantrum in a grocery store. “Alright, fine. I’ll order you an even bigger arrangement tomorrow. Are we good? Go take a shower. I have a board meeting at eight A.M.” She turned toward the hallway bathroom. “In a week,” I said to her retreating back. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the air. “I’m getting married.” Her hand, which had just grasped the brass doorknob, went rigid. A few seconds ticked by. She slowly turned around. The patronizing warmth had completely vanished from her face. “Hardy, stop this.” She pressed two fingers to her temple. “Marriage is a massive legal and financial commitment. You don’t just ‘do it’ because you’re throwing a fit.” “Is this what Carter was whispering to you about? Just because he rushed into a shotgun wedding, he thinks everyone else needs to be as impulsive?” “Hardy, snap out of it. Don’t let him get in your head. We’ve been together too long for this…” “Margot,” I interrupted. “The invitations go out tomorrow.” A tiny, almost imperceptible muscle twitched in her jaw. “Hardy, do you really think this is working? This doesn’t make me jealous. It just makes you look incredibly immature. Unreasonable, even!” “I am in the middle of closing Series B funding. My career is skyrocketing right now. Pulling a stunt like this only distracts me and ruins the rollout of my entire quarter.” “Are you really that desperate for a wife?” Her words felt like stones thrown at my chest. Years ago, this icy, corporate wrath would have sent me into a panic. I would have backpedaled, apologized, desperate to smooth things over. Now? There was nothing but a sprawling, quiet wasteland inside me. Her attention was a luxury commodity. It was reserved for high-stakes investors. It was reserved for her “indispensable” assistant—the late-night texts asking for advice, the surprise birthday coffees, the accidental extra day added to their “business trip” in Aspen. For the man who had been here for eight years? The budget had run dry. I met her furious gaze and simply nodded. “Yes. My friends are married. I want to be married too.” 4 With that, I walked past her and went into the bedroom. On my nightstand sat a glossy bridal magazine from six months ago. The headline screamed: THE GROOM’S GUIDE: 90 DAYS TO THE PERFECT WEDDING. I had bought it in a surge of giddy excitement, flipped through three pages, and then left it there after she told me, “We’re not in a rush.” I hadn’t opened it since. In the dark, I stared at the shadowy ceiling. My phone buzzed against the mattress. The screen lit up. A text from Carter: [You awake? My chest is tight just thinking about it. Seeing that kid’s smug face pissed me off. What the hell is going on with Margot?] What the hell is going on. Nothing was going on. It was just the simple, brutal truth of the universe: not all seeds you plant in the dirt decide to bloom. Another text bubbled up: [We promised. One week apart. Remember?] [Who knew your girl was made of stone? The flowers were literally in your hands. Eight years, Hardy. Not eight months!] [You know what? Screw it. I give you a pass. You’re allowed to break the pact.] My thumb hovered over the keyboard for a second. I tapped back: [Man, when have I ever broken a promise to you?] Margot moved out the next day, retreating to a corporate apartment downtown she kept for “late nights at the office.” I assumed my sudden, absurd declaration of a wedding had suffocated her, and she needed space to clear her head. Fine. The breathing room was exactly what I needed. I quietly managed the logistics. I contacted a broker and listed the Upper West Side brownstone on the private market. On the afternoon I handed the keys to the realtor, I was doing a final sweep of the living room. Tucked inside a stack of old magazines, I found a manila folder—critical specs for the prototype her company was launching. After a brief internal debate, I ordered a car to bring it down to her. When I stepped off the elevator at her floor, I could hear the muffled sounds of laughter bleeding through her heavy oak door. It sounded like a party. I raised my knuckles to knock. Just then, a familiar, boyish voice floated out, laced with a calculated, theatrical distress: “Margot, I feel awful. Honestly, I didn’t know what to do when she handed me the flowers. Now the whole Slack channel is going crazy. A bunch of the execs are DMing me, asking if we’re…” “You have to post something in the #general channel to clear it up! I’m too embarrassed to even look at anyone in the office tomorrow.” My raised hand froze in mid-air. Before Margot could answer, one of her closest friends, Chloe, cut in with a sharp, teasing cackle: “Oh, please, Chase. Do you actually want her to clear it up, or are you just trying to get her to say something else entirely?” A chorus of knowing, wine-drunk laughter erupted. Chase protested with an exaggerated “Stop it!” but there wasn’t a shred of actual annoyance in his voice. “Alright, leave him alone,” Margot’s voice finally drifted through the wood. It carried that lazy, indulgent warmth she saved for people she favored. “Don’t sweat the gossip, Chase. People have short memories. Give it a week, they’ll forget.” Give it a week, they’ll forget… The phrase forcibly kicked open a locked door in my memory. Two years ago, I had dropped by her office to bring her lunch. Distracted by her phone, she had naturally looped her arm through mine in the lobby. A VP had walked out of the elevator and spotted us. That exact afternoon, Margot had posted a stiff, formal message in the company Slack channel. “Just clarifying some lobby rumors so we can all stay focused on Q3 goals. The gentleman earlier is a family friend dropping off a package. Back to work, everyone.” Back then, I had forced myself to understand. She was a young female founder; she didn’t want the optics of her private life undermining her authority. To avoid causing her trouble, I stopped going to her office. My fingertips went ice cold. It suddenly clicked. The thing she was trying to hide wasn’t an “office romance.” It was me. She was embarrassed to be seen with me. 5 A man who brought absolutely zero strategic value to her empire. Another friend’s voice broke through the chatter, sounding hesitant. “But wait, Margot… what did you end up doing about Hardy? I literally got a wedding invitation in the mail from him this morning. It’s insane!” A beat of silence. Then, Margot let out a short, hollow laugh. There was no warmth in it. “Let him throw his tantrum.” “I’ve spoiled him over the years. I let him get away with a lot of petty stuff. But this time, he needs to learn a lesson. He needs to realize that throwing a nuclear fit isn’t going to get him his way.” “Damn,” someone whistled. “So the bride is officially going on strike?” Margot didn’t answer. Her silence was a confident confirmation. Until another friend chimed in, probing the quiet with cautious curiosity. “Marge… are you really going to push him this far? You guys have been together forever. We’ve been waiting to drink at your wedding for half a decade…” The friend’s voice shifted, slipping into a half-joking, conspiratorial purr. “Since you’re playing hardball… does this mean you’re keeping your options open? Say… for a certain executive assistant?” “Ladies—” Chase dragged out the word, laughing breathlessly. “Please, do not joke about that. Margot… she knows what she wants.” The way he said it—so soft, so intentionally loaded with implication. Margot didn’t correct him. Another wave of low, conspiratorial giggling washed over the room. “If you ask me, Margot’s a saint,” the first friend sneered. “Any other woman would have run out of patience years ago. What does Hardy even bring to the table besides whining? Not like Chase here. Smart, proactive… actually steps up when it counts.” “Stop it, you guys!” Chase said, though he was clearly beaming. The motion-sensor light in the hallway abruptly timed out, plunging me into darkness. I slowly lowered the manila folder to the floor. Using the toe of my shoe, I nudged it perfectly under the crack of her door. Then, I turned around and walked away. (Margot’s POV) I tapped my phone screen again, staring at the frozen text thread. My last message to Hardy, sent five days ago, still sat there: Let me know when you’re done acting like a child. Something felt off. I knew Hardy. I had spent eight years learning his architecture. Even when we fought, his silence always possessed a certain gravity, a subtle gravitational pull designed to make me look his way. But it had been five full days since I moved to the corporate apartment, and he hadn’t so much as posted an Instagram story. “Marge,” my friend Sarah said, shoving her phone into my line of sight. Her voice was tinged with genuine awe. “Holy shit. Hardy’s tux… wow.” I blinked, pulling myself out of my head. It was Carter’s Instagram grid. A carousel of nine photos. Right in the center was a shot of Hardy. He was standing by a floor-to-ceiling window in a luxury tailor’s suite. The afternoon light poured over him, casting a soft, golden halo around his broad shoulders. He was looking down, adjusting the cuffs of a midnight-blue tuxedo, a faint, devastatingly handsome smile playing on his lips. He looked incredible. It was a specific, relaxed kind of magnetism I hadn’t seen radiating from him in years. The comment section beneath the photo was a warzone of fire emojis and congratulations from our mutual friends. “Hardy looks lethal!” “Margot is a lucky, lucky woman.” “Finally! The royal wedding is happening!” Carter had blocked me from viewing his stories years ago, so I couldn’t see it on my own feed. But seeing it here, through a proxy, a strange, electric jolt of anger spiked in my chest. Was he actually serious? 6 And making this much of a public spectacle out of it? “Tch. He’s really committing to the bit,” I scoffed, though my throat felt a little tight. “Let him exhaust himself. I’m not showing up. Let’s see how he plays the groom to an empty aisle.” Sarah offered a strained, nervous smile. “Marge, is it really worth calling his bluff like this?” “You can’t reward this kind of manipulation,” I said, cutting her off, my tone sharpening. “Especially when he has people like Carter whispering in his ear. Once he humbles himself and this blows over…” I paused, my eyes narrowing. “I’ll make sure he understands exactly who he needs to cut out of his life.” Carter had always been a liability. He was a bad influence, constantly feeding Hardy archaic ideas about romance and masculinity. October 28th. The day after Carter posted the tuxedo photos. I woke up earlier than usual. Earlier this year, Hardy’s parents had flown in for dinner. Over wine, his mother had casually mentioned that the Farmer’s Almanac claimed the end of October was the most auspicious date for a union. If we missed it, we’d have to wait until next year. At the time, I just smiled, poured her more Pinot Noir, and deflected. “No rush, right? We have all the time in the world.” I remember thinking it was absurd to plan a multi-million-dollar milestone around an old wives’ tale. I never expected Hardy to actually listen to her. To actually book the goddamn date. My phone started lighting up. Texts and calls pouring in from the girls. “Marge, are you seriously not going? We’ve got the cars waiting. Give the word and we’ll roll up to the hotel.” “Do we need to plan the bridal suite ambush? Should we make the groomsmen sweat before the first look? It’s not too late!” I let out a harsh breath, typing back into the group chat: “Relax. Let him sweat.” I pictured Hardy right now, standing in that midnight-blue tux, staring at his watch, his heart pounding in his throat as he waited for me to arrive. A twisted, satisfying thrill of power swelled in my chest. He needed to feel this panic. He needed to be terrified of losing me, so he’d never try to back me into a corner again. Then, Sarah dropped a screenshot into the chat. It was Carter’s latest story. It was a video of a sprawling, impossibly luxurious hotel bridal suite. Gold-leaf champagne flutes. Silk ribbons. Rose petals scattered over a king-sized bed. The morning light filtering through the sheer curtains made the room look like something out of a cinematic dream sequence. The caption read: [To my brother. You deserve the world.] The group chat exploded. “Holy shit, he actually booked the Plaza.” “This vibe… Marge, if you don’t go, I’m going to physically drag you there!” “Margot! If you have a pulse, get moving! Stop playing chicken!” “Send the address! We’re coming to you right now!” The blue light of the screen reflected in my eyes. I stared at the rose petals on that bed, and suddenly, my chest felt incredibly tight. Every single detail in that room was begging for a bride. I pictured pushing open those heavy mahogany doors. I pictured the roar of our friends. I pictured Hardy turning around, the relief and absolute awe washing over his face when he realized I hadn’t abandoned him. I turned my head and looked at the walk-in closet. Hanging right in the center, wrapped in a protective garment bag, was a custom Vera Wang gown. The veil. The Jimmy Choos. A week ago, I had ordered my assistant to pull every string in Manhattan to get it rushed. I told myself it was just a contingency plan. But looking at the girls panicking in the chat, the tight, iron grip I had on my pride finally slipped. I picked up the phone, infusing my voice with a heavy, put-upon sigh. “Alright, fine. Everyone calm down.” I made it sound like they had simply worn me down. “Give me an hour to get into the dress.” I walked toward the closet, my pulse hammering in my ears, my footsteps faster than I wanted to admit. By the time the makeup artist I called had pinned my veil into place, my phone rang. It was Sarah, who had gone to our brownstone to do the traditional pre-wedding champagne toast. “Marge, why the hell did you guys sell the brownstone? Where are we supposed to meet Hardy?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402443”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For seven years, Cameron never bought me a single flower. So, when a sprawling arrangement of a thousand imported red roses and a box containing a set of outrageously expensive, sheer black lingerie arrived on my thirtieth birthday, I was stunned. I snapped a picture, my heart fluttering with a naive, long-forgotten joy, and posted it to my Instagram. Minutes later, a notification popped up. A comment from Mia, his untouchable first love—the golden girl he claimed he’d outgrown. “Some people really just love picking up the trash I throw away.” That was how I found out Cameron had bought her a luxury condo. Right downstairs from the penthouse we shared. Right beneath my feet. The misguided delivery wasn’t an epiphany of his love for me. It was meant for her. I took the roses downstairs myself, pushing open the unlocked door, only to find them mid-laugh over a candlelit dinner. Cameron didn’t even flinch. He just looked at me with that chilling, exasperated glare and started yelling. “Can your mind not immediately jump to the gutter for once? Mia and I are discussing a corporate merger. We’re working.” He scoffed, adjusting his cuffs. “Besides, if there was actually something going on between us, do you really think you’d be the one I’m marrying?” The old me would have cried. I would have demanded answers, begged for reassurance, held onto his arm until my knuckles turned white. But this time, a profound, icy silence settled over my chest. I tossed the bouquet onto the floor, pulled the diamond engagement ring off my finger, and let it drop into the center of the scattered red petals. “I wish you both nothing but the best,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. 1 The diamond ring rolled across the hardwood, stopping directly at Cameron’s polished dress shoe. He let out a sharp, mocking laugh and stepped right onto it. The crunch of his sole against the platinum band echoed in the quiet room—a physical manifestation of how he’d crushed my dignity and my love for the better part of a decade. “If you actually want to marry me, Claire, you need to fix this paranoid, hysterical personality of yours,” he sneered, not breaking eye contact. “Stop getting in the way. We have actual business to handle. Go back upstairs and think about how you’re acting.” Hearing those familiar, weaponized reprimands, my inner world was terrifyingly calm. The storm had passed. I was just standing in the wreckage. I walked out of Mia’s apartment, pulled out my phone, and opened Cameron’s extended family group chat. I typed out a single, definitive text detailing his infidelity, attached a photo I’d just snapped of the romantic setup, and announced that the wedding was off. Cameron—a man who had never replied to my texts in under four hours—responded instantly. He fired off a photo of a laptop screen displaying a spreadsheet. “Handling a crisis with a subordinate. Completely professional,” he wrote. Then, with the practiced ease of a seasoned manipulator, he flipped the narrative. “Claire, throwing a tantrum just because I wouldn’t buy you that twenty-thousand-dollar wedding gown is pathetic. I didn’t say a word when you maxed out my Amex buying drinks for your guy friends at that bar last week.” The silent group chat erupted. My mother was the first to draw blood. She flooded the chat with venom, calling me an ungrateful, worthless leech who didn’t deserve a man of Cameron’s stature. She demanded I apologize immediately. She threatened that if I ruined this “perfect arrangement,” she would take her own life just to make me pay. Seeing the exact reaction I expected, I let out a soft, trembling sigh and permanently left the chat. After my parents’ bitter divorce, my mother had morphed into a ticking time bomb of rage. I grew up suffocating in a house of walking on eggshells. That was why, at twenty-three, Cameron’s polished, mild-mannered facade had felt like salvation. But over the last seven years, the curtain had been pulled back. His endless patience and gentle smiles were exclusively reserved for Mia. His polite, charming banter was for strangers and clients. For me, there was only a bottomless well of cold-shoulder treatment and sharp, biting criticisms. His favorite pastime was provoking me into an emotional reaction in public. He would push and push until I broke down crying, demanding answers. Then, he’d step back, put his hands in his pockets, and play the role of the exhausted, forgiving saint, making everyone around us believe I was simply unhinged. But this time, his math was wrong. Only a woman who still cares has the energy to scream. A dead heart doesn’t ripple, no matter how hard you throw a stone into it. When Cameron finally walked through the front door of our apartment, clutching a half-dead bouquet of the roses from downstairs, I was lying on the velvet sofa, scrolling aimlessly on my phone. “Why isn’t dinner ready?” he demanded, tossing his keys onto the console. “Are you still pouting? Drop it, Claire. You’ve always wanted me to buy you flowers, right? Well, here. Stop sulking.” He tossed the damp, bruised roses onto the coffee table in front of me. Years ago, I used to look at girls on the street carrying wrapped bouquets with pure, unabashed envy. I had asked Cameron for flowers so many times, only to be met with eye rolls. “If I knew you were this superficial, I never would have dated you,” he used to say. “It’s not about the money. But Claire, you sit at home doing laundry and cooking all day. Do you really think a housewife who contributes nothing deserves grand romantic gestures?” He called me lazy. He called me a gold digger. He conveniently forgot that it was his relentless coaxing, his promises of marriage and a family, that had convinced me to quit my high-pressure marketing job in the first place. To him, I was just a glorified maid. He hoarded his pennies when it came to buying me a single stem, but was generous enough to buy Mia a piece of prime real estate and a literal sea of imported blooms. Just minutes before he walked in, I’d seen Mia’s latest Instagram story. They had run a bubble bath downstairs, tossing the rose petals into the water, laughing and splashing champagne. After absolutely destroying the arrangement, Cameron had scavenged the few surviving stems to bring upstairs to me as a peace offering. I looked at the bruised petals. I didn’t even want to touch them. I used the toe of my slipper to push the flowers off the table, watching them hit the floor. I looked up at him, my voice completely hollow. “I don’t like dirty, second-hand garbage.” I paused, holding his gaze. “And I definitely don’t like dirty, second-hand men.” 2 Cameron’s face darkened, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Claire? Don’t forget whose apartment you’re living in. Don’t forget who pays for the roof over your head…” I wanted to scream. I wanted to remind him that for seven years, we split every grocery bill down the middle. Even after I quit my job, I survived off my own dwindled savings. But before the words could leave my throat, the oven timer chimed. A sharp, cheerful ding. I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. I turned my back to him, slipped on my oven mitts, and pulled out the cake. Cameron watched my rigid posture for a moment. His brow furrowed, and his aggressive stance softened slightly. “Is today… your birthday?” My thirtieth birthday. And our seven-year anniversary. I had been on my feet all day, baking this cake from scratch, meticulously piping the frosting, just wanting to celebrate a quiet milestone with the man I thought I’d spend my life with. A flash of genuine guilt crossed his face. He walked over to the drawer, dug out a box of candles, and began placing them into the vanilla buttercream. “Work has been brutal lately. I’ll make it up to you,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, persuasive cadence he used to close deals. “Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll take you to Cartier. We’ll pick out a new ring. A bigger diamond.” He pulled out a barstool and sat across from me, the charming executive once again. “Claire, you have to stop competing with Mia. Yes, we had a fling when we were kids. But it’s been years. I moved on a long time ago.” Did he really? My mind flashed back to our first year together. I had brought him lunch at his frat house, standing just outside the cracked bedroom door, listening to his brothers ask him why he was settling down with me. “Because she’s not Mia,” he had said, his voice terrifyingly casual. “If it’s not Mia, it doesn’t matter who it is.” Back then, I was young and arrogant enough to believe my devotion could rewrite his heart. I thought love was a sheer force of will. Looking back, it was a slow-motion car crash. I had to unbuckle my seatbelt and jump before the whole thing went up in flames. “Don’t bother with the ring,” I said quietly. “Focus on your work. I’ll handle myself.” Cameron froze for a split second. But after years of my capitulation, he simply interpreted my exhaustion as submission. He thought I was swallowing my pride again. A satisfied smile played on his lips as he struck a match and lit the candles. “Make a wish,” he whispered. Every year prior, my wish had been the same: Let Cameron and I be happy. Let us last forever. This time, I closed my eyes and stared into the dark. I want to be happy. And I want to get as far away from Cameron Davis as humanly possible. I opened my eyes, drawing in a breath to blow out the flames. But the stool across from me was empty. The cake I had spent six hours perfecting was shoved halfway off the counter, smushed into the marble. He had left in such a rush he had knocked it over and hadn’t even bothered to close the front door. I numbly grabbed a roll of paper towels, wiping the sticky frosting off the floor. When I finished, I checked my phone. Mia had just posted a new update. “I’m such a klutz! Stubbed my toe on the dresser. Thank god my knight in shining armor is always just a sprint away to rescue me.” In the comments, Cameron—the man who had ignored my calls when I was rear-ended on the freeway last year—had written: “Whatever you need. Just say the word.” I hit the little heart icon, liking the post. A second later, a text from Cameron lit up my screen. 3 “Mia hurt her ankle. I’m driving her to the ER. Go downstairs and clean up her apartment while we’re gone.” A second text immediately followed: “And make some bone broth. Bring it to the hospital when it’s done. Remember, no cilantro.” A quiet, devastating realization washed over me. Cameron didn’t have any food allergies. But for years, anytime I accidentally garnished his dinner with cilantro, he would lose his mind. He would hurl the plate into the sink, screaming that I was an incompetent idiot who couldn’t get a single detail right. It wasn’t that he hated cilantro. Mia did. I debated ignoring the text entirely, but a strange, morbid curiosity pulled me toward the door. I walked down the carpeted stairs to the floor below. The door was ajar. Inside, Cameron was kneeling on the floor, cradling Mia’s foot, murmuring softly to her. The second he heard my footsteps, his tender expression evaporated into a hard scowl. “What took you so long?” he snapped. “If you delay her getting to a doctor—” Mia tugged gently at his blazer sleeve, batting her eyelashes. “Cam, don’t be mad at Claire. It’s okay. I know she’s always hated me.” “Enough, Claire,” Cameron commanded, standing up. “Clean up this mess. I will not marry a woman who spends her days drowning in petty jealousy and can’t even manage basic instructions.” With that, he scooped Mia into his arms and carried her toward the elevators. I watched his broad shoulders disappear down the hall. “I won’t marry a shameless, cheating coward, either,” I whispered to the empty air. Once they were gone, I truly looked at the apartment. The bathroom floor was soaked, towels thrown haphazardly. In the small, gold-rimmed wastebasket, two used condoms sat openly near the top. Bile rose in my throat. It all made sense. The late nights at the “office.” The sudden dedication to early morning gym sessions. He had been coming down here to sleep with her, showering, and then walking upstairs to eat the dinners I kept warm for him. I wandered into the bedroom. It looked like a luxury department store display. Rows of La Mer skincare, limited-edition Chanel bags, rows of designer heels. Just three days ago, I had timidly asked Cameron if he might buy me a specific Dior lipstick for my birthday. He had looked at me with pure disgust. “You’re turning thirty. Aren’t you embarrassed to even celebrate it? You’re not a kid anymore. Stop trying to act young. It’s pathetic. Just stay home and do the dishes. No amount of expensive makeup is going to make you twenty again.” He was right. I wouldn’t be twenty forever. But Cameron would always make sure there was a twenty-something girl in his orbit. His beloved golden girl, Mia, just happened to be his favorite. I took a deep, shaky breath. I pulled out my phone and meticulously photographed every inch of the apartment. The bedroom, the closet, the trash can. Then, I walked back upstairs to our penthouse and pulled my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. Over our seven years together, Cameron hadn’t completely starved me of gifts. He bought me a set of French copper pots. A high-end robot vacuum. A custom-forged chef’s knife. I left every single piece behind. Halfway through packing, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. Downstairs, Mia’s apartment was overflowing with treasures. But up here, in the home I had bled and sweat to maintain for years, everything that truly belonged to me fit into a single, carry-on suitcase. Once the zipper was closed, I sat on the edge of the bed and dialed Stella, my best friend who had moved to London three years ago. It rang to voicemail three times. On the fourth try, she picked up. I choked back a sob. “Stella… I was wrong.” Silence on the other end. “I shouldn’t have made him my entire world. I shouldn’t have given up my career. I shrank myself to fit into his life, and now there’s nothing left of me.” My chest heaved. “I regret it. I want to come to you.” Stella let out a shaky breath. She told me I was an absolute idiot, told me I deserved the wake-up call, called me a fool—and then hung up on me. I sat in the hollow quiet of the bedroom, a tidal wave of grief crashing over me. I remembered all the late nights she spent begging me to leave him. I remembered the absolute heartbreak in her eyes the day she moved to London, furious that I was throwing my life away for a man who didn’t respect me. As the first tear slipped down my cheek, my phone buzzed. It was an email forward from Stella. An electronic ticket confirmation. First-class to London Heathrow. Three days from now. 12:00 PM. The dam broke. The tears I had been swallowing for seven years finally poured out—for myself, and for the ghost of the woman I had allowed myself to become. 4 Cameron didn’t come home that night. After I ignored his demands to cook for Mia, he simply blocked my number. I didn’t care. I needed to get the last pieces of my life in order. The next morning, I took a train back to my hometown to pack up the few childhood mementos I had left in my mother’s house. I don’t know what Cameron told her, but the second the cab dropped me off, I saw her pacing the front porch. When she realized I was alone, her face twisted into a mask of pure contempt. She didn’t know that Cameron considered himself far too good to ever set foot in our working-class neighborhood. He was deeply ashamed of where I came from. “So, you haven’t fixed things yet?” she demanded, not even offering a hello. “There is nothing to fix. It’s over.” The words were barely out of my mouth before her hand cracked across my cheek. The slap echoed over the hum of the street traffic. The left side of my face instantly went numb, then burned hot. But that wasn’t enough for her. Just like when I was a kid, she lost all control. Right there on the front lawn, in full view of the neighbors, she grabbed the heavy wooden broom resting against the porch railing and swung it at my legs. She hit me with everything she had. “Cameron told me everything!” she screamed, taking another swing. “Do you know how lucky you are? A girl with your background finding a man with his money? You are a pathetic, ungrateful little bitch! Jealous, throwing fits, out drinking with men!” I stood perfectly still, letting the wood hit my shins. “I don’t care what you have to do!” she shrieked. “Get on your hands and knees! Get pregnant! I don’t care! You will marry Cameron Davis, or you will never set foot in this house again!” A sharp gust of wind ripped through the trees, and the sky finally broke. Rain poured down in heavy, freezing sheets. My mother dropped the broom. She stormed inside, slamming the door. Moments later, the door swung open again, and she started hurling my belongings onto the wet grass. Books, clothes, old photographs. “Get the hell out of here! If you’re going to die, die as his wife!” A heavy brass debate trophy—something I’d been so fiercely proud of in high school—flew through the air and struck my forehead. The skin split. Warm blood mixed with the freezing rain, running into my eyes and down my jaw. I didn’t say a word. I knelt in the mud, sorting through the ruined artifacts of my childhood, picking up the few photographs that survived the puddles. A black Bentley glided down the street, its tires hissing against the wet asphalt, and rolled to a stop right beside me. Cameron stepped out. He held a massive black umbrella over his head with one hand, and with the other, he grabbed my upper arm, his grip bruising as he forcefully hauled me up and dragged me toward the leather interior of the car. “Have we learned our lesson, Claire?” he asked softly, slamming the passenger door shut once I was inside. He slid into the driver’s seat. “No one else in this world is ever going to love you. Just be good. Come home with me. You’ll apologize to Mia, and you’ll go back to being the future Mrs. Davis.” He tossed his suit jacket over my shivering shoulders. The heavy, suffocating scent of Mia’s Chanel No. 5 hit me like a physical blow. I turned my head away, staring out the rain-streaked window. My chest felt hollow. For years, I had viewed Cameron as my sanctuary. I had poured my deepest insecurities into his hands, trusting him with the trauma of my childhood. But he hadn’t protected me. He had weaponized my pain, using my fear of abandonment as a leash to keep me compliant. He was never my safe harbor. He was the storm I had been convinced was sheltering me. Only by cutting him out—by cutting out this toxic family—could I ever breathe. As I sat there bleeding onto his pristine leather seats, his phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth. “Cam! Where are you?” Mia’s voice whined through the speakers. “Everyone’s waiting for you at the corporate retreat! The whole executive team is making fun of me, saying you left the future boss’s wife to hold court while the boss skips out. I can’t handle them alone!” Cameron shot a nervous glance at my bloody face and soaked clothes. He instinctively reached for the console to end the call, wanting to hide me away, but then hesitated. A cruel idea clearly formed in his head. “Actually, Claire,” he said smoothly, putting the car in gear. “You’re coming to the company retreat.” For seven years, I was forbidden from stepping foot into his corporate world. When I brought him hot meals at the office, I was made to stand in the lobby, handing Tupperware to his assistant so his colleagues wouldn’t see the “housewife.” This invitation wasn’t an olive branch. It was an execution. I pulled a tissue from the glovebox, pressing it to the bleeding cut on my forehead. “Okay,” I said quietly. 5 I walked into the opulent hotel banquet hall looking like a feral animal. My clothes were plastered to my skin with mud and rainwater, my hair matted to my face, dried blood flaking on my temple. The moment we stepped inside, Cameron sped up, putting ten feet of distance between us, terrified the executives might realize we arrived together. Mia, dressed in a stunning silk slip dress, spotted me. Her lip jutted out in a manufactured pout. I watched Cameron lean in close to her, his hand resting on the small of her back. I couldn’t hear him clearly, but the shape of his words carried over the jazz music. “I’m not feeling sorry for her. I brought her here to humiliate her. I want everyone to see that without me, she’s practically a stray dog.” The room was filled with murmurs, sideways glances, and muffled laughter. But sitting under the weight of their judgment, my heart didn’t even skip a beat. Maybe you can only get your heart broken so many times before the nerves just die. I calmly flagged down a waiter, asked for a dry towel, and wrapped it around my shoulders. I sat on a velvet sofa in the corner, watching the room like a spectator at a zoo. My phone buzzed. It was Stella. She was rattling off a list of marketing agencies in London that had seen my old portfolio and were eager to set up Zoom interviews. Before I could respond, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder. I turned around. Cameron was staring at me, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who are you talking to? What interviews? Where do you think you’re going?” I didn’t miss a beat. “Telemarketers.” The tension drained from his face, replaced by a smug, pitying smirk. “Of course. Your parents don’t even want you. Where else could you possibly go?” He checked his Rolex. “The rain stopped. You’ve put on enough of a show. Go home. And make sure you dry-clean my jacket.” I didn’t say a word. I just shrugged his blazer off my shoulders and let it drop onto the cushion. I stood up and walked toward the terrace exit. Mia tilted her head, watching me go, then grabbed Cameron’s arm, insisting they “escort” me out to the valet. As I stepped off the paved walkway near the gardens, Mia suddenly lunged forward. Her heel hooked around my ankle. I pitched forward, throwing my hands out, and fell hard into the manicured, massive rose bushes lining the driveway. “Claire!” Cameron shouted, instinctively reaching for me. But Mia let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp, stumbling backward. Cameron froze, instantly pivoting to catch her by the waist, shielding her from the non-existent danger. I crashed into the thick, thorny branches. Sharp, inch-long thorns tore through my clothes, slicing into my arms, my palms, my ribs. I hit the muddy soil beneath the bushes, completely covered in filth and bleeding from a dozen new cuts. I pushed myself up onto my knees, gasping through the stinging pain. I looked up. Cameron was bent over, delicately using a linen handkerchief to wipe a single drop of mud off Mia’s designer heel. He finally looked at me. A flash of genuine panic, maybe even shame, crossed his face as he saw the blood soaking through my torn shirt. “Claire, are you okay? Let me… let me drive you to the ER.” “Cam,” Mia whimpered, her eyes welling with crocodile tears. “You promised you’d stay with me tonight. It’s the anniversary of the first time we held hands. Are you really going to abandon me?” Cameron’s gaze darted frantically between my bleeding hands and Mia’s pout. He hesitated. “I’ll take a cab to the hospital,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “It’s your company retreat. You shouldn’t leave early.” A visible wave of relief washed over his features. He let out a breath. “Okay. Just… be careful. I’ll pick up some of those raspberry macarons you like on my way home tomorrow.” Raspberry macarons. Mia’s favorite. But I didn’t correct him. There was no point in arguing with a ghost. I had always been the sacrificial lamb, the collateral damage in his life. Rather than waiting around for a love that would never come, it was time to quietly close the door. 6 The ER doctor used metal tweezers to painstakingly extract the broken thorns from my skin. With every prick, every pull, it felt like I was physically extracting the seven years of toxic love out of my bloodstream. The next morning, as I packed the final items into my carry-on, Cameron did something he hadn’t done in years. He initiated a FaceTime audio call. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he demanded. “Didn’t you block me?” A beat of silence. Then, his voice softened into a practiced, soothing rhythm. “I’m half an hour away. I got the macarons. And croissants. Oh, and I bought you a new ring. Platinum, just like you wanted. I know I was a little harsh these last two days. It won’t happen again.” I looked up at the clock on the wall. “We don’t have an ‘again’,” I said plainly. But he had already hung up. Three hours until my noon flight. I walked over to his sleek, silver laptop sitting on the desk. I tried three different passwords. On the fourth try—Mia’s birthday—the screen unlocked. I sat back in the chair and waited. Thirty minutes passed. An hour passed. I opened Instagram. Mia had just posted a new photo. She was sitting in the passenger seat of Cameron’s Bentley, their hands intertwined over the center console. On her finger, sparkling under the dashboard lights, was the brand-new platinum engagement ring. I let out a soft laugh. I turned back to his laptop. I opened his email client, selected the “Company Wide” distribution list, and attached the photo of Mia’s apartment, the used condoms, the receipts for her condo, and a meticulously detailed timeline of our seven-year relationship. I hit send. Then, I picked up a brass paperweight from his desk and drove it straight through the center of his laptop screen. I grabbed my suitcase, walked out of the apartment, and took a cab to the airport. Right as I handed the TSA agent my boarding pass, my phone began to vibrate violently. A tidal wave of missed calls, frantic texts, and voicemails from Cameron flooded my screen.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402442”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was at the TSA checkpoint, the smell of recycled air and stale coffee heavy in my lungs, when the officer asked the standard question: “Any prohibited items in your luggage?” I was about to shake my head, my mind already halfway to the O.R. in Nashville, but my assistant, Tiffany, beat me to it. She raised her hand with a look of wide-eyed, terrifying innocence. “Do surgical knives count? Because she has dozens of them in that suitcase!” The world stopped. The rhythmic shuffling of the line went dead silent. The officer’s hand flew to his radio, and within seconds, a perimeter of blue uniforms and tactical gear closed in around us like a steel trap. Sweat pricked at my hairline. “I’m a surgeon!” I shouted, my voice tight with panic. “I’m heading to a neighboring state for an emergency pediatric procedure. Those are medical instruments. I have the permits, the hospital credentials, everything is in the bag!” “Open the case,” the officer said, his face a mask of granite. The lid flipped back, revealing rows of scalpels, hemostats, and surgical saws nestled among my scrubs. I pointed at them, my hands trembling. “Check the paperwork. Where’s the file, Tiffany? Give them the patient’s chart.” Tiffany Banks stood there, her head bowed, her voice a pathetic whisper. “I… I have it.” “And what’s this?” the officer asked, pointing to a dark silhouette on the X-ray monitor. Before I could even look, Tiffany let out a high-pitched, theatrical gasp. “Dr. Beckett! I told you that you couldn’t bring gasoline on a plane! Why didn’t you listen? Were you actually planning to blow us all up?” The air in the terminal curdled. The officer’s suspicion instantly sharpened into cold, hard aggression. “Step away from the bags. Both of you, coming with us. Now.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. The patient was already under anesthesia. The surgical team was scrubbed in. And I—the lead surgeon—was being treated like a domestic terrorist because my assistant couldn’t keep her mouth shut. I looked at the clock above the gate. Eighteen minutes until the doors closed. 1 “Officer, please, this is a catastrophic misunderstanding!” My voice cracked, my knuckles white as I gripped the handle of my luggage. “I’m Dr. Joanna Beckett, Chief of Surgery at Metro General. There is a seven-year-old boy with a thoracic hemorrhage waiting for me. I am the only one qualified to repair the vessel!” “I don’t have gasoline! She’s lying, or she’s confused, or—” The security team didn’t care. Two officers grabbed my arms, the pressure of their grip bruising. “Regardless of whether it’s a joke or a threat, any mention of explosives or incendiary devices triggers a full federal sweep,” the lead supervisor said, his eyes cold as he snatched my boarding pass. “Take them to the holding room.” They marched me down a sterile, white corridor, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the linoleum. I looked back to see Tiffany sauntering along behind us, looking more bored than bothered. Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me. “Tiffany! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” I screamed. “That child is bleeding out! Every minute we waste is a minute he doesn’t have!” Tiffany rolled her eyes, inspecting her fresh French manicure. “God, Dr. Beckett, don’t be so dramatic. I was just trying to lighten the mood. It’s not my fault these TSA people have zero sense of humor.” She looked at the supervisor and sighed. “Seriously, are you guys really that gullible? You actually believed the gasoline thing? You really need to get out more.” The supervisor’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple. “Humor?” he spat. “Ma’am, making a false claim about explosives in an airport is a federal offense. It’s a felony.” Tiffany let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, please. My uncle is Robert Banks, the head of the State Health Department. You’re not charging me with anything. Now, let us go, or I’ll have your badges for ‘excessive force’ or whatever.” Her arrogance was the final nail in the coffin. The heavy steel door of the interrogation room slammed shut, locking us in. I looked at the digital clock on the wall. Ten minutes until takeoff. If I didn’t get through those doors, it was over. 2 I didn’t think; I just acted. I dropped to my knees, my voice echoing off the cold walls. “Please. The liquid in the bag is just medical-grade alcohol. Take it. Fine me. Throw me in jail tomorrow. I don’t care! Just let me get on that flight. I am a doctor. There is a life on the line eight hundred miles away. Please!” One of the younger officers looked at me, his expression wavering. He reached for his radio. “Dispatch, verify the suspect’s identity. If this is a medical emergency, we might need—” Tiffany, sitting in a metal chair with her legs crossed, cut him off with a cruel laugh. “Oh, honey, don’t believe a word she says. She’s not going to save a kid. She’s a flight risk.” The officer froze, his eyes narrowing. “A flight risk? Explain.” Tiffany smirked, her eyes gleaming with a malice I hadn’t fully realized she possessed until this moment. “Our ‘esteemed’ Dr. Beckett here lost a patient on the table yesterday. The family is out for blood. The hospital board issued a suspension notice this morning and revoked her license pending a malpractice suit. She’s trying to skip town before the process servers hit her.” She put a hand over her mouth in a mock gesture of shock. “Oh, Jo… I really didn’t want to out you. We were colleagues, after all. But I can’t let you use these nice officers to help you run away from your crimes.” The supervisor’s face went dark. “Is this true?” It was a lie. A monstrous, career-ending lie. I stared at Tiffany, my body shaking with a fury so intense it felt like a physical weight. “Tiffany, I’ve done everything for you. I put your name on papers you didn’t write. I covered for your mistakes. I blocked your HR complaints. Why are you doing this?” The smile vanished from Tiffany’s face. She leaned in, her voice a venomous hiss that only I could hear. “Done everything for me? You’ve treated me like a servant, Joanna.” “Last week, that billionaire’s son in the VIP wing asked for my number, and you confiscated my phone right in front of the head nurse. Then you had the nerve to call me out in the morning briefing about my ‘inappropriate attire’? You humiliated me. You made me look like a joke in front of the interns.” The resentment in her eyes was a living thing. “You think you’re so special because you’re the ‘Chief’? Well, guess what? You’re not going anywhere today. I’m going to make sure of it.” It was so petty. So incredibly, horrifyingly small. Because I had stopped her from hitting on a patient’s family member in a sterile ward—because I had insisted on basic professional standards—she was willing to let a seven-year-old boy die. I started to scream a rebuttal, but the supervisor shut us both down. “Enough! Medical malpractice and fleeing the jurisdiction? This just became a police matter. Seize the bags. Detain them both until the local precinct and the Health Department send representatives.” Two female officers stepped forward, forcing my arms behind my back. The clock ticked. Six minutes. The gate was closing. I felt a sob break out of my chest. If that gate closed, even if I proved my innocence ten minutes later, there were no more flights. That child wouldn’t survive the night. “I’m not lying! I didn’t kill anyone!” I struggled against their grip. “I have proof! Let me show you my phone! Please, just look at my phone!” The supervisor groaned, losing patience. “Knock it off! You can talk to the detectives at the precinct.” “It’s a life!” I was hysterical now, tears and mascara blurring my vision. “Please! Just one look! If I’m lying, you can shoot me yourself!” 3 Maybe it was the sheer, raw desperation in my eyes. The younger officer who had tried to help earlier put a hand on the supervisor’s arm. “Sir, let her show us. Just in case… what if she’s telling the truth?” The supervisor hesitated, then let out a sharp breath. “Watch her. Don’t let her delete anything.” My hands were shaking so hard I could barely type my passcode. The second the screen flickered to life, it was flooded with a barrage of red notifications. Missed calls. Dozens of them. All from Dr. Kaufman, the Chief of Surgery in Nashville. I opened the messages and thrust the phone toward the officers. “Look! Look at this! This is Dr. Kaufman. This is the boy’s chart. This is a live feed from the O.R. monitor!” I scrolled frantically, my voice breaking. The supervisor took the phone, his brow furrowed. He tapped on the latest voice memo. A frantic, aged voice filled the small room. “Joanna! For God’s sake, where are you? The kid’s heart rate is dropping to forty! We can’t get a blood pressure reading! There’s too much fluid compressing the heart. We have to crack his chest, but nobody here has the hands for this! The vessels are too fragile—one slip and he’ll spray the ceiling. The whole team is standing here, Joanna. We’re waiting for you! Please, I’m begging you, hurry!” In the background, you could hear the shrill, rhythmic beep of a flatlining monitor and a nurse screaming, “Epi is in! Still no response!” The audio ended. The room fell into a deafening silence. But this time, the silence was different. It wasn’t suspicion; it was horror. The supervisor looked at the clock. Four minutes. I stared into his eyes, my own leaking tears. “That wasn’t a recording from yesterday. That was sent twenty minutes ago. Please… let me go.” The supervisor’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. The wall of authority he had built around himself was crumbling. But then, Tiffany’s sharp, shrill voice sliced through the air. “Oh, please!” She was laughing, a melodic, tinkling sound that made my skin crawl. “She’s really committed to the bit, isn’t she? Where’d you hire the actors, Jo? ‘Dr. Kaufman’? That old man’s voice was a little too cliché, don’t you think? And the background noise? Nice touch. Must have cost a fortune on Fiverr.” She walked up to the supervisor, pointing at my phone with total disdain. “Officers, come on. Scams are so high-tech these days. You can buy AI voice generators for a hundred bucks online. She probably had this all queued up the second she realized she was caught.” She looked at me, her eyes dancing with triumph. “If it were really that urgent, the hospital would have sent a private jet or a LifeFlight, wouldn’t they? Why take a commercial flight? It doesn’t make sense. She’s playing you.” Tiffany turned back to the supervisor. “Joanna Miller—sorry, Dr. Miller—is so desperate to dodge a malpractice suit that she’d fake a dying child. It’s pathetic. It’s a total lack of medical ethics. She’s a disgrace to the profession.” The supervisor’s hand, which had been reaching for my boarding pass, wavered. The doubt crept back into his eyes. He was tired. He was confused. He made a call. “Keep them here. Resume the interrogation. And someone get me a direct line to Metro General’s board. I want the truth.” 4 I stared at Tiffany, at that perfectly made-up face. She was a “legacy hire”—the niece of Robert Banks, forced onto my surgical team by the hospital administration. I had tolerated her laziness. I had tolerated her checking her Instagram during rounds. I had even covered for her when she handed me the wrong forceps or screwed up a patient’s history. But I hadn’t realized that a human being could be this hollow. “The hospital tried to send a LifeFlight, Tiffany,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “But you told the Director I preferred the commercial flight because of the ‘equipment weight limits.’ You set this up. You steered me toward this gate.” “Tiffany… that is a child’s life. You went to med school. Where is your soul?” Tiffany let out a bored sigh and pulled out a compact to touch up her powder. “Don’t try the ‘moral high ground’ crap with me, Jo. My uncle said I’m just here to pad my resume until I can transition into hospital administration. I’m going to be a VP in two years.” “Why would I kill myself working eighty-hour weeks like you? And look at you now. You missed your flight. It’s over. I think I’ll head home and make my dinner date after all.” “A dinner date? This was all for a date?” My teeth were chattering. Tiffany nodded, checking her eyeliner in the mirror. “Well, yeah. A girl’s gotta have a life. Some random kid I don’t know versus my Friday night? I know which one is more important.” She actually winked at me. “Honestly, Jo, you should thank me. That surgery only had a twenty percent success rate. When the kid died on your table, you would’ve had to write so many reports. I saved you the paperwork.” I was about to lung at her when the door burst open. A man in a suit—a detective from the Metro PD—walked in. He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “Dr. Beckett? We just finished the identity verification. You’re a federally Tier-1 Board Certified Surgeon. Your medical kit was pre-cleared by the FAA.” Hope flared in my chest. “Can I go? Is there still time?” The detective looked at the clock. His eyes were filled with pity. “Dr. Beckett… the tower just confirmed. Flight 1422 to Nashville… it pushed back three minutes ago. It’s in the air.” My legs gave out. I collapsed into the plastic chair, the world spinning. Tiffany picked up her bag, dusting off an invisible speck of lint. “Well, there it is. Guess we can all go home now. Come on, Jo, I’ll buy you a drink. You look like you need it.” I didn’t answer. At that moment, my phone began to vibrate. It was a FaceTime request from the ICU in Nashville. My hand shook as I hit ‘Accept.’ The screen showed Dr. Kaufman. He was covered in blood. His surgical cap was crooked, his eyes red and raw with grief. “Joanna… Joanna, where are you?” I tried to speak. I tried to apologize. I wanted to tell him about the TSA, about the gasoline, about the lie. But the words were stuck in my throat. The camera panned over to the table. I saw the small, limp form under the blue drapes. I saw the flat line on the monitor. Kaufman’s voice broke into a sob-filled roar. “You said you’d be here! You promised! Because you weren’t here, he’s gone, Joanna! He’s gone!” The room went cold. Tiffany leaned over my shoulder, looking at the screen. “Ugh, so noisy. It’s just one kid. People die on tables every day, get over it.” Dr. Kaufman’s head snapped up. He stared at Tiffany through the screen, his face contorting with a rage so cold it felt like death itself. “Who is that? Who just said that?” Tiffany scoffed. “Who cares? I’m Tiffany Banks. And I’m telling you to stop being so dramatic.” Kaufman let out a hollow, terrifying laugh. “Banks? You’re Robert Banks’ niece? You think you’re safe because of your uncle?” “That boy… that boy was the only grandson of General Arthur Harrison.” “Every person who had a hand in stopping Dr. Beckett today… God help you. Because the General won’t.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402441”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The mission was over. Nathaniel’s memory had been scrubbed clean. Every laugh we’d shared, every secret whispered in the dead of night, every “I love you”—erased. In their place was a scripted attraction to the story’s “true” heroine, the bubbly and sweet Maisie. As for me? I was forced into the role of the Bitter Ex, the socialite villainess destined to claw at their happiness until I met my pathetic end. Nathaniel looked at me now with nothing but cold, sharp-edged loathing. Until tonight. The class reunion. I was playing my part to perfection. I’d snatched Maisie’s seat at the head of the table, flirted shamelessly with the wrong men, and “accidentally” tipped a glass of Merlot so that it bloomed like a bloodstain across her white dress. I was being a nightmare. Nathaniel finally snapped. He pulled Maisie behind him, his fingers clamping down on my wrist like a vice. “Madeline, I’m warning you. Don’t you dare—” My skin stung under his grip. I let out a sharp, involuntary hiss of pain. The effect was instantaneous. His hand flew open as if he’d been burned. Before I could even recoil, he’d pulled me into his arms, his voice dropping into a low, frantic murmur. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I messed up.” The movement was fluid, instinctive. It was muscle memory—a reflex honed by a thousand nights of him holding me after an argument. 1 He didn’t stop there. He pulled my reddened wrist to his lips, blowing soft, warm breaths over the skin, his touch so tender it was as if he were handling a piece of priceless, fragile porcelain. The entire room went silent. You could hear the ice melting in the cocktail shakers. No one—not the old classmates, not the wide-eyed Maisie—could process what they were seeing. In my head, the System let out a sound like a hard drive crashing. [Wait—what the hell? I turned the villain into a cold-blooded shark, not a golden retriever!] [How many times did he apologize to you in the old timeline? The muscle memory is overriding the rewrite!] It took a few seconds for Nathaniel to actually look at me—to see the “villainess” he was supposed to hate. The recognition hit him like a physical blow. He shoved my hand away, his face turning a humiliated shade of crimson. He cleared his throat, trying to summon the frost back into his eyes. “Madeline, I’m warning you. If you lay another finger on Maisie, you’ll regret it.” He was still stronger than he realized. The force of him shoving me away sent a fresh jolt of pain through my arm. I couldn’t help it; I gasped again. Nathaniel’s breath hitched. He jerked his gaze away, his jaw tight enough to crack. “Stop it. The damsel-in-distress act doesn’t work on me anymore.” But I saw his hands. Down by his sides, they were clenched into white-knuckled fists, trembling with the effort of not reaching for me again. Watching him stand there, acting as Maisie’s shield, felt like a slow-acting poison in my chest. “Got it,” I whispered. I spent the rest of the night quiet. Submissive. I sat in the corner and drank, one glass after another, watching the bottom of the bottle as if it held the answers to why my heart was still breaking. Nathaniel never took his eyes off me. He was waiting for me to pounce on Maisie again, but all he saw was a girl drowning herself in expensive gin, looking smaller than she ever had. It was making him restless. Agitated. By the end of the night, even he realized he’d spent ten times more energy tracking my movements than he had looking at the girl he was supposed to love. When the party broke up, the sidewalk was a blur of goodbyes. Only four of us remained: me, Nathaniel, Maisie, and Sebastian. Nathaniel, the only one sober, pulled his Bentley to the curb. He leaned over and pushed the passenger door open, his eyes bright as he looked at Maisie. “Get in. I’ll take you home.” The System started screaming in my brain. [This is it! Villainess move! Obstruct the leads! Break up their moment! Do something!] The adrenaline hit me, clearing the alcohol fog just enough. I didn’t think. I just dove into the passenger seat before Maisie could even reach for the handle. Nathaniel’s face darkened instantly. “Get out, Madeline.” I remembered the System’s orders. I hugged the seatbelt to my chest, shaking my head stubbornly. But the gin won the battle. My head lolled back against the leather, and I blacked out right there in the car. He looked like he wanted to scream. Maisie, ever the martyr, helped a drunken Sebastian into the back seat and smiled weakly. “It’s okay, Nate. She’s had too much to drink. It’s not safe for her to find her own way. Just drop her off. I’ll give you the directions.” Nathaniel gritted his teeth and nodded. But the moment he shifted into drive, the car’s AI voice chimed through the speakers: [Route to ‘Home’ calculated. Estimated arrival: 30 minutes.] The destination on the screen wasn’t his house. It was mine. 2 I was a “Transmigrator.” My target had always been Nathaniel Beaumont. We were childhood sweethearts—or we were supposed to be. He was the golden boy, the class president, the quiet genius with the steady hands and the heavy burden of his family’s legacy. To win him over, I followed him through every school, every grade. I was the girl behind him at the bus stop, the girl bringing him snacks while he studied, the girl cheering the loudest at his games. Eventually, I saw the cracks in his armor. His ears would turn red when I complimented him. He’d spend longer explaining a math problem just to keep me near. But the “Affection Meter” wouldn’t budge. Once, during a quiet study break, I looked at his perfect profile and lost my mind. I leaned in and kissed him. His breath hitched, his skin flushed, and then he pushed me away. His voice was a strained, desperate rasp: “Madeline, don’t. We can’t.” After that, he avoided me. He talked to other girls, tried to keep his distance. But I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn’t looking—those dark, intense eyes following me like a hawk. On our eighteenth birthday, the mission was failing. The Affection Meter was bottoming out. In a fit of drunken desperation, I lured him to a bedroom and pinned him to the mattress. I climbed on top of him, fumbling with his shirt, my voice trembling but fierce. “If you like this, you better start talking. If you don’t, then just shut up and let me do this.” The boy who was always so composed looked up at me, his voice a gravelly ghost of itself. “Are you serious?” “Dead serious.” Suddenly, the System—which had been silent for months—exploded in my head. [What are you doing?! Why have you tied up the Dark Obsessive Villain? Why are you on top of him?!!!] [The Male Lead’s favorability is in the negatives, but the Villain’s favorability is breaking the scale!] [You idiot! What are you doing to the plot?!] My hands froze. Nathaniel wasn’t the “Golden Boy” Male Lead. He was the “Dark, Sickly Obsessive” Villain. I panicked. I gave him a weak, terrifyingly awkward smile. “Uh… just a prank? Total joke. My bad.” I tried to scramble off him, but a hand shot out and gripped my wrist. Nathaniel’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he stared at me. “Too late.” “Tonight, either I run out of strength, or you…” 3 The System gave up after that. It rewrote the entire narrative on the fly, making Nathaniel my official target. And once the mission was “won,” I became a brat. I cried when he worked too late. I sent him a hundred texts an hour. I threw tantrums when I was bored. And he? He adored it. He spoiled me, catered to my every whim, and humored my every mood. I’d turned a world-ending villain into a devoted lapdog. I thought we were set for life. Until the System came back. It sighed, sounding genuinely regretful. [Host, the readers aren’t happy. They want the ‘Original Flavor’ Nathaniel. They want the tragedy. They want him to be the villain who loses the girl, goes dark, and burns the world down.] I went cold. “So?” [So, we have to wipe his memory. Send him back to the start.] “What about me?” [Normally, you’d be sent back to your world. Mission over.] The thought of leaving him—of watching him love another woman from a different universe—made me feel like I was suffocating. “I won’t go.” [If you stay without the wipe, the script will force him to fall for Maisie anyway. You’ll just have to watch him stop loving you.] I couldn’t endure that. [But,] the System whispered, [if you agree to the wipe, I can keep you here as the Villainess. You’ll play the foil. Once the plot is finished, I can restore his memories and you can have him back for good.] I took the deal. I watched from the sidelines as Maisie became “The One.” I watched her become his light, his obsession. The way he used to look at me—that dark, possessive intensity—was now directed entirely at her. And because I was the “Villainess,” I had to hurt her. I had to belittle her. Nathaniel grew to loathe me. He became the shield between Maisie and my “cruelty,” spitting venomous words at me every chance he got. Just like tonight. 4 I was sleeping deeply when the System started screaming again. I jolted awake, disoriented. I saw Nathaniel’s silhouette in the driver’s seat and, out of pure habit, I rubbed my eyes and murmured, “Are we home yet, baby?” I reached out to grab his hand. The silence in the car was deafening. Maisie’s eyes were wide, her voice trembling with suspicion. “Wait… are you two… together?” “What?” “No!” Nathaniel and I spoke at the exact same time. He wrenched his hand away from mine, his eyes flashing with genuine rage. He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Madeline, is this your new game? Re-programming my car and calling me… that?” “Is this fun for you?” “Let me make this clear. I will never marry you. Not in this lifetime, not in any other.” My heart did a slow, agonizing roll in my chest. I was the Villainess. I was supposed to be jealous of Maisie. I was supposed to try and steal her life. Our families had an old “arranged marriage” agreement from when we were kids—a relic of a time when my family had money. My father had recently brought it up, and Nathaniel’s father, a man of his word, had agreed. Even knowing Nathaniel’s memory was gone, even knowing this was all part of the “script,” seeing the sheer disgust in his eyes made me flinch. “I… I didn’t mean to,” I whispered. He didn’t want an explanation. He slammed the car into park at the side of a deserted road. “Get out. Don’t make me say it twice.” We were miles from my house. The streetlights were flickering, and the neighborhood looked unfamiliar and cold. This was the “Villain” Nathaniel. The man the script described as ‘cold, calculating, and ruthless, a man who reserves his warmth for only one woman.’ I wasn’t that woman anymore. I was just a ghost in his machine. “Get out,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. “Before I physically remove you.” Maisie tried to play the peacemaker from the back seat, though her voice lacked conviction. “Nate, maybe she didn’t mean it. It was probably just an accident. Like when she ‘accidentally’ took my seat, and ‘accidentally’ spilled wine on me, and ‘accidentally’ jumped into your car…” With every word she spoke, Nathaniel’s expression grew icier. “Out,” he snapped. I didn’t argue. I knew that look. I opened the door and stepped onto the damp pavement. I watched the taillights of the Bentley disappear into the dark, moving like an arrow shot from a bow. 5 After dropping Sebastian off, Nathaniel drove Maisie home. He should have been happy. He was alone with the girl he was supposed to desire. But a strange, buzzing irritation was crawling under his skin. When they pulled up to her place, Maisie tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, blushing. “Thank you for tonight, Nate. For everything.” He gave a curt nod. She reached out, intending to give his shoulder a friendly pat, but his body reacted before his brain did. He flinched back, dodging her touch entirely. Maisie froze. Nathaniel froze. “Sorry,” he muttered, his brow furrowed. “I’m just… I don’t like being touched. You should go inside.” Maisie nodded, her smile tightening. “I understand.” But as soon as she turned her back, her face fell into a mask of cold resentment. Once she was gone, Nathaniel leaned against his car and lit a cigarette. The smoke swirled in the night air. He knew himself. He’d always hated being touched. It was a core part of his personality. Even with Maisie, he felt a strange, instinctive need to keep a perimeter. But tonight… when he’d grabbed Madeline’s wrist… when he’d pulled her into his lap… There had been no disgust. Only a terrifying, electric sense of rightness. His body hadn’t just tolerated her; it had craved the contact. And now that he’d dumped her on the side of the road, his chest felt tight. Like he’d forgotten something vital. He finished his cigarette, crushed it under his heel, and got back in the car. That’s when he saw it. Sitting in the passenger seat was a phone. It had a sparkly pink case with a cartoon cat on it. It was hers. He told himself it was a good reason to go back. A logical reason. He didn’t want her trash in his car. It wasn’t because he was worried. As he pulled a U-turn and floored it back toward where he’d left her, he didn’t realize he was smiling. 6 I’d been sitting on the curb for twenty minutes. My legs were numb. I knew Nathaniel hated me. I knew he’d be happy if I just vanished into thin air. He wasn’t coming back. I started to walk, hoping to find a place where I could catch an Uber. I reached into my pocket. Empty. The realization hit me like a physical weight. My phone was in the Bentley. I was alone, in the dark, with no way to call for help. The shadows in the trees seemed to shift and whisper. I was terrified. System, I sobbed internally. Help me. [Host, I can’t interfere directly with the physical world without a penalty. Just keep walking. If it gets truly dangerous, I’ll see what I can do.] I picked up a sturdy-looking branch from the side of the road and kept moving, my heart hammering against my ribs. Then, a pair of blinding high-beams cut through the darkness. The roar of an engine echoed off the trees. The Bentley screeched to a halt beside me. The window rolled down, revealing Nathaniel’s sharp, aristocratic profile. He didn’t look at me at first. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, his voice mocking and cool. “I’m not here for you. I just—” He stopped. He finally looked at me, and saw the tears streaming down my face. I was a mess, shivering and clutching a stick like a lunatic. He didn’t finish his sentence. He threw the door open, his six-foot-one frame moving with frantic grace. He knelt in front of me, looking completely lost. “Don’t cry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m here, okay? I came back.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402440”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Six years. That’s how long Nicky and I had been a “we.” He’d tossed a ring at me like it was an afterthought, a piece of scrap metal he’d found in his pocket. “Take it,” he’d said. “And get your hair cut this weekend. My mom likes girls with short hair. It looks cleaner.” So, on Saturday, I wore that plain gold band with a heart full of hope. I sat in a sleek, overpriced salon and waited until the “Closed” sign flipped over and the stylists began sweeping the floor. He never showed. I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over his name, but then I saw it. His cycling partner, Jade, had posted a photo on her Instagram story. A selfie of the two of them, windblown and grinning, captioned: Someone decided to skip his “big family dinner” to help me conquer this winter trail. Bad boy! I’m making him sleep in the tent tonight as punishment~ In the past, I would have spiraled. I would have called him ninety-nine times, screaming, crying, demanding to know why I wasn’t enough. But this time? I was just tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired. It was mid-December in New York, and a freezing rain was slashing against the pavement. I huddled in the doorway of the darkened salon, shivering. Today was supposed to be the day I finally met his parents. Last night, Nicky told me his mother preferred the “professional, short-haired look.” So, before the sun was even up, I’d taken an Uber to this specific stylist he’d recommended. I’d watched three years of growth—hair I loved, hair that made me feel like myself—fall to the floor in dark, heavy clumps. Nicky said he had to pick up a gift first. He said he’d fetch me before lunch. And so, I waited. And waited. … Six hours. I had spent six hours in that chair and then on that curb. I called him eight times. He didn’t pick up once. My phone battery hit one percent. That’s when I saw the photo. Nicky and Jade, flashing peace signs at the camera, looking like the lead characters in a movie I wasn’t cast in. Skipped the dinner. I felt a sharp, hysterical laugh bubble up in my chest. He skipped it. Just like that. Did it ever occur to him to tell the person actually involved? I had hacked off my hair to please him, to win over parents I’d never met, to fit into a mold he’d designed. And he had discarded me on the most important day of our relationship without a second thought. The phone buzzed. A final gasp of life. It was Nicky. “Where are you?” he asked, his voice casual, as if he hadn’t just ghosted me. “You forgot about the dinner, didn’t you? It’s fine. Jade and I ended up heading upstate to the Finger Lakes for a ride. We’ll do the parents another time.” It wasn’t a question. it was a notification. A status update. Of course. Jade was already there. Why would he choose me when he had her? Nicky and I had met in college. Six years of “long-distance” within the same city, six years of breaking up and making up, of me chasing him while he ran toward his career. I thought we were finally at the finish line. I was wrong. A few months ago, Nicky got obsessed with cycling. He joined this elite, trendy “Century Club.” It was full of young, fit, “adventurous” types. And then there was Jade. Jade was a yoga instructor. Since she’d entered the picture, Nicky had started looking through me as if I were made of glass. He’d spend hours in their group chats, laughing at inside jokes I didn’t understand. He wouldn’t reply to my texts. If I complained, he’d snap, “You’re so suffocating. It’s just a hobby.” He remembered Jade’s cycle. He’d remind her not to overexert herself on those days. He’d bring her electrolyte drinks and heating pads. He didn’t remember mine. When I doubled over in pain, he’d just sigh. “Women are so dramatic. Take an aspirin and stop moping.” And now, he had sacrificed my six-year milestone for Jade’s “winter wish.” I looked out at the torrential rain and listened to the upbeat indie music playing in the background of his call. Suddenly, Nicky felt incredibly small. Uninteresting. “Nicky,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I think you forgot that I’ve been sitting at the salon waiting for you all day.” “Oh, come on. I’ve waited for you plenty of times, Regina. Don’t start. I’m too tired for a fight.” “You aren’t listening. I’m not fighting.” “Good,” he huffed. “It was an accident. We’ll do the dinner next time. I promise.” Next time. I almost laughed. I’d spent my life in the “Next Time” waiting room. I wanted to go to the Vineyard. Next time. I wanted to try that new French place. Next time, it’s too expensive. I wanted to go to the movies. Next time, when work slows down. I was always waiting. He was always stalling. The salon was in a remote part of Brooklyn, far from the subway. The rain was coming down in sheets now. I had no umbrella. “Nicky, let’s break up.” I said it as simply as if I were ordering a coffee. On the other end, Nicky wasn’t even listening. He was arguing with Jade about some Marvel movie trivia. It was just another void of communication. Right as I was about to hang up, I heard him scoff. He’d heard me, but he didn’t care. “Here we go again,” he mocked. “How many times have you ‘broken up’ with me, Regina? We both know you’ll be calling me tomorrow morning crying your eyes out.” His tone was a needle, sharp and cold, stitching a map of scars across my heart. But for the first time, it didn’t hurt. It just felt… finished. I wanted to tell him I was serious. Before I could, Jade’s voice rang out, playful and cloying: “Hey, Regina! Sorry for stealing him! I just really had to get to the lake today, and Nate was such a sweetheart to drive me…” Click. My phone died. The clock inside the salon ticked. I had waited eight hours. Nicky wouldn’t think my phone was dead. He’d think I was playing games. He’d think I was “throwing a tantrum.” The storm raged. I curled into a ball in the corner of the doorway, my body shaking, my feet numb and swollen. Three hours later, the rain finally slowed to a drizzle. I tried to stand. My legs buckled. Every step was a jolt of ice through my veins. I’d dressed up for the parents. A thin, elegant wool coat and a silk blouse. It was meant for a heated restaurant, not a midnight walk in a freezing gale. My vision blurred. My teeth began to chatter so hard it was the only sound in the world. The last thing I remember was the asphalt rushing up to meet me in the middle of a deserted street. I woke up in a hospital bed. A cab driver had found me and brought me in. Seeing me wake up, the driver—an older man with kind eyes—offered me a cup of warm water. “Have a fight with the boyfriend? Even so, a man shouldn’t leave a lady on the road like that. It’s dangerous.” He saw it. A stranger saw what Nicky couldn’t. It took me six years to see it myself. I gripped the cup, my fingers still tingling. “It won’t happen again. Thank you, sir.” He nodded and handed me my phone, which he’d plugged in for me. He held up two fingers. “That fellow you have saved as ‘Babe’ called. It only rang for two seconds before he hung up.” Two seconds. That was the extent of Nicky’s patience for me. I looked at the screen and smiled. “That’s okay. He’s dead to me now.” The driver looked like he wanted to say something, but he just patted my hand. I checked my notifications. A single text from Nicky sat at the top of the list: Stop the drama. It’s just a dinner. We’ve been together forever, Regina. Just wait a little longer, I’ll take you to meet them eventually. I didn’t reply. I blocked him. On everything. After the IV was finished and the bill was paid, the driver insisted on taking me home. Before I got out, I tucked two hundred dollars under the floor mat of his back seat. “Sorry for the trouble, sir. Thank you.” “Be happy, kid,” he called out as I shut the door. “I will be,” I whispered. “I really will.” I walked into the apartment we shared and pulled a battered suitcase out of the closet. It hit me then—in this big, expensive apartment, there was almost nothing of mine. Nicky came from a struggling family in a small town. His dream was to make it big in DC or New York. When we graduated, he begged me to turn down a teaching position in my hometown to move to the city with him while he climbed the corporate ladder. I’d given in. I’d used my savings to support us while he took unpaid internships and entry-level grinds. Nicky hadn’t failed himself. He hadn’t wasted my money or my time. He was a rising star now. He had only failed me. They say you should never travel across the world for a man who won’t cross the street for you. I was the cautionary tale. Twenty minutes. That’s all it took to pack my life. Half a suitcase. As I reached for the door, it swung open. Nicky was there, holding a pale, wincing Jade. “Oh, good, you’re home,” he barked, his face tight with irritation. “Hurry up and make some ginger tea for Jade. Her cramps are killing her, and we’re both exhausted.” I didn’t even look at her. I gripped my suitcase and tried to walk past him. Nicky’s hand shot out, grabbing the suitcase handle. He yanked it so hard it hit the floor with a crack, the plastic shell splintering. “I said she’s in pain. Go make the tea.” “Are you deaf?” he shouted. “What is this? Another pathetic attempt to get attention? Pack a bag and walk out? Grow up, Regina.” I looked at my broken suitcase. I looked at the man I had loved for six years. Slap. The sound echoed in the hallway. “Give me a thousand dollars,” I said. Nicky’s head was whipped to the side, his expression one of pure shock. I held out my palm. “You want tea? You want my labor? It costs a thousand dollars. My time is very expensive now.” I wasn’t joking. Nicky didn’t know the truth about me. I was the daughter of a real estate mogul. I had run away to New York for love, cutting ties with my family to prove I could make it on my own. It was a cliché, and the lesson had been brutal. Nicky sneered, pulling out his phone. “Fine. If you’re that desperate for cash, I’ll Venmo you. Stop being a bitch about it.” I pulled out my phone and held up a QR code. “Actually, scan this. I’ve already blocked you.” Nicky’s eyes flickered with a brief moment of doubt, but he scanned the code. Payment Successful. I didn’t say another word. I went into the kitchen, sliced the ginger, and stirred the brown sugar into the boiling water. Nicky watched me from the doorway, probably expecting me to poison it. I wasn’t that petty. I even added extra sugar. “Regina,” Nicky said, his voice suddenly shifting. “Let’s just get married. We’ll have the families meet this weekend. For real.” I kept stirring. I didn’t even blink. “Is this a dare?” I wasn’t being sarcastic. A few months ago, Nicky had taken me on a hike. On a desolate, windy ridge, he’d dropped to one knee with a bunch of wildflowers and yelled, “Regina, let’s get married!” My heart had soared. I was ready to say yes. And then Jade had burst out laughing from behind a rock. Nicky had started laughing, too. Jade had doubled over, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god, Regina! You should see your face! We lost a bet at the bar last night—it was a Truth or Dare thing!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402439”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel