Author: Momo Chan

I’ve always been a spoiled prick. It was my brand. I married an ice queen who didn’t love me, and together, we produced a mini-iceberg of a daughter. By the time my daughter was five, I was still the undisputed tyrant of the household, treating them like high-end service staff. Honestly? I lived for it. I loved the way they looked at me with simmering resentment while still attending to my every whim. It felt like winning a game they hadn’t agreed to play. Then, the Feed appeared. Translucent lines of text began scrolling across my vision like a high-speed Twitch chat. [Finally, the villain’s countdown starts. The Male Lead just transferred to the Female Lead’s company. He even took Little Bit to KFC today. The story is finally getting on track.] [He spends all day abusing our Queen and the kid. Thank god they eventually kick him to the curb to make the Hero happy. Watching this spoiled brat end up homeless and paralyzed from the waist down after a car accident is going to be peak cinema.] [I’m literally just waiting for the scene where the happy family of three visits him in the hospital just to mock his useless, broken body. Pure catharsis.] I jerked my legs back so hard I nearly gave myself whiplash. My wife, Catherine, who was currently kneeling to dry my face, and our daughter, Madeline, who was massaging my calves, were both splashed with water. The two of them—the Big Iceberg and the Little Iceberg—simultaneously knitted their brows. Their expressions were identical masks of irritation. I started stammering. “That’s… that’s enough. I’ll do it myself.” Madeline, only five, tilted her head. Her tiny mind clearly couldn’t process why her father, the man of a thousand demands, was suddenly calling an audible. “Daddy? Is the water too cold?” My heart hammering against my ribs. “No. I’m done. I don’t need the massage. Just… stand up. Both of you.” I swallowed hard, looking at Catherine. She was still on one knee, a designer towel draped over her arm, looking like a Greek statue carved from spite. … “You too. Get up.” Compared to Madeline, Catherine was a fortress of composure. Used to my mercurial moods, she calmly stood and reached for a fresh towel. [The more humiliated they are now, the better the payback will feel later.] [Making a billionaire CEO wash his feet and an heiress rub his legs? This guy has a death wish.] I stared at the scrolling text in silence. So, I was the villain. A “Male Supporting Character” designed to be hated. Catherine and Madeline were the stars of some cosmic drama, and I was just the obstacle. According to the Feed, I was basically a placeholder. Catherine had only had Madeline with me because she was afraid of childbirth and wanted to “practice” with a secondary character before the real Hero arrived. Eventually, this guy—the Male Lead—would appear, rescue them from my tyranny, and they’d finally see what a “good man” actually looked like. Then they’d become a perfect family of three, and I’d be a memory in a wheelchair. I clenched my fists. Fine, Catherine was one thing. We were a corporate merger, an arrangement of convenience with zero emotional foundation. But Madeline… I looked at the little girl standing obediently by the chair. She had her mother’s sharp features and that same cool, detached gaze, but she was my daughter. I had raised her. I wasn’t about to just hand her over to some “Hero” so he could play house with my life. I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual. “Hey, kiddo. If… if Mommy and I ever got a divorce, who would you want to live with?” Madeline blinked. Then, mimicking her mother’s stoic posture, she spoke with a chillingly adult coldness. “Daddy, don’t make pointless hypotheses.” I felt the air leave my lungs. I looked up and met Catherine’s amber eyes. They were like a still lake—beautiful, but there was no life beneath the surface. She stepped forward, knelt again, and took my foot in her hand to finish drying it. “Don’t say things like that in front of the child,” she said softly. Madeline nodded, turned like a little soldier, and walked toward the door. “I’m going to sleep.” The Feed exploded with mockery. [What is he thinking? The daughter is a carbon copy of the mother. She hates him just as much.] [Catherine at least knows how to mask it for the sake of the prenup. The kid looks like she’s holding back vomit every time he touches her.] [LOL, as if he’d ever actually divorce her. And even if he did, why would Madeline choose him? To be his footstool for the rest of her life?] [His only purpose is to be a piece of trash, get thrown out, and then die in a wreck so we get a happy ending.] My heart skipped a beat. I snatched the towel out of Catherine’s hands. “I said I’ve got it!” Catherine’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t argue. Later, lying in bed, I tried to process the information. I pulled up my silk pajama bottoms, staring at my legs. They were long, well-toned, and currently very much attached to my body. I refused to accept a future where I lost them. I decided then and there: I had to stop the “oppression.” If the Feed was right, I couldn’t stop the “Hero” and Catherine from meeting. Fate was a railroad track. But if I could prove to my daughter that I was a loving father, maybe—just maybe—she’d choose me when the inevitable split happened. I looked up just as Catherine stepped out of the ensuite. She was wrapped in a plush robe, droplets of water tracing the line of her throat. When she saw me lying there with my pajama legs rolled up, staring intensely at my own shins, she paused. Her eyes darkened. I was too busy planning my “World’s Best Dad” campaign to notice the shift in the room. Then, Catherine walked to the closet and pulled out a set of lingerie I’d bought for her months ago. She held a black lace slip in one hand and a sheer purple set in the other. Her ears were slightly flushed, but her face remained a mask of marble as she waited for my “command.” The Feed went wild. [Why is the screen going black?! I pay for the premium tier, let me see!] [Villain, I’ll stop cursing you if you just turn the camera toward your wife.] [Miles, share the wealth. Let us see the CEO in her prime.] Amidst the horny comments, a few “Original Story” purists chimed in. [I hate this. Even knowing how Madeline was conceived, I still feel like Catherine is being coerced. Does the villain not see how much she hates him every time he makes her wear that stuff?] [It’s disgusting. She said no the first time, and he keeps forcing the “dress-up” hobby on her. He’s a creep.] [Whatever. Just remember those legs she’s standing on won’t be there much longer. That makes it easier to watch.] I took a sharp breath. Looking at Catherine—who was bracing herself to put on clothes she clearly loathed just to satisfy my “whims”—I grabbed the duvet and yanked it over my legs. “I… I’m not in the mood tonight. Let’s just sleep.” The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a man. The Feed was stunned. [Wait, did he just pass?] [Look at Catherine’s face. She looks… pissed? What did he do now?] [Probably some new psychological torture. Look how hard she’s gripping that lace. She’s at her breaking point.] I noticed it too. Catherine’s expression was harrowing. The moment I said “not in the mood,” her face darkened by several shades. Usually, it took an hour of coaxing and demanding to get her into those outfits. Now, seeing the Feed’s vitriol, I was terrified of even breathing too loud. “Understood,” Catherine said. Her voice was as cold and clinical as a surgeon’s. She tossed the lingerie back into the closet, climbed into bed, and turned away from me. I gripped the blanket, feeling my legs beneath the fabric. I love you, legs. See you tomorrow. The next morning, the sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse. I walked into the dining area to find the Big and Little Icebergs already seated. The moment I sat down, Catherine stood up to get me a croissant. Madeline, struggling with the weight of a heavy glass milk carafe, hopped off her chair to pour my drink. The Feed started up again. [He really is a piece of work. They have three nannies and a chef, but he makes the wife and kid wait on him. Unbelievable.] [He says it’s to “teach Madeline the value of service” so she’ll be a good wife someday. As if an heiress needs to serve anyone.] [He just likes the power trip. He’s a control freak.] My pulse spiked. I reached out and caught Madeline’s small arm before she could pour. She looked up at me, confused. “I put in a spoon and a half of sugar, just like you like.” I took the carafe from her and poured it myself. “It’s fine. I can do it. Go back to your breakfast.” Madeline stared at me as if I’d grown a second head, but she slowly climbed back into her seat. Catherine emerged from the kitchen, looking troubled. “We’re out of the imported balsamic glaze. I’ve already sent the driver to pick some up…” I picked up a plain piece of toast. “It’s fine. I don’t need it today.” The room went silent. Even the housekeeper paused in the hallway. Catherine looked at her empty hands, her brow deepening into a heavy frown. “Daddy,” Madeline whispered, her eyes wide. “You didn’t throw the plate at Mommy.” I choked on my toast. Was I really that much of a monster? The Feed answered for me. [Wait, did he actually take the toast? Usually, if the glaze is missing, he has a full-blown tantrum. Last time, he threw the whole tray across the room.] [Look at poor Madeline. She’s terrified. She thinks her dad has been possessed by a demon.] I took a bite of the dry toast, too guilty to keep reading. A small piece of greens fell from my sandwich and landed on my thigh. Without thinking, I frowned at the stain on my silk loungewear. Suddenly, a hand reached out with a napkin. Catherine’s hand. She began to wipe my thigh, and for a second, my heart stopped. I had a flash of the “future”—my legs becoming invisible, growing wings, and waving goodbye to me. I swatted her hand away and stood up abruptly. “I can do it myself!” I snapped, then immediately softened my voice. “I mean… it’s just a small thing. I’ve got it.” I looked at my daughter. “Maddy, from now on, you don’t need to pour my milk or rub my legs. Daddy is a big boy. I can take care of myself.” Madeline’s brow remained tightly knitted. “Daddy… are you sick?” I felt a sting in my chest. This kid. I try to be nice and she thinks I’m dying. For the rest of the meal, I stayed quiet. I didn’t bark orders. I didn’t complain about the temperature of the coffee. Madeline kept glancing at me, her tiny face scrunched in suspicion. Catherine’s eyes tracked my movements like a hawk watching a confusing new prey. After they left for the day, I collapsed onto the sofa. I looked up at the massive, oversized wedding portrait hanging in the center of the living room. The truth was, I had been obsessed with Catherine long before the merger. But she was a glacier, and every guy I knew had crashed and burned against her. I had my pride; I didn’t know how to “pursue” someone like her. So, when the families tied us together, I was secretly ecstatic. Until our wedding night. I’d been outside her study, ready to be the perfect husband, when I heard her talking to a friend. “Miles is a spoiled brat,” the friend had said. “You really drew the short straw.” And Catherine’s voice, so flat and indifferent: “It’s just a transaction. We each get what we need. That’s what marriage is.” That little flame of hope in my chest had died right then. If she wanted a “spoiled brat,” I decided I would give her the most demanding, arrogant version of myself she could imagine. If she wasn’t going to love me, she was at least going to notice me. I’d designed every inch of this house. Every rug, every appliance. Catherine never cared. The only time she’d voiced an opinion was when I insisted on hanging that giant wedding photo. “It’s tacky,” she’d said. “It doesn’t fit the aesthetic.” I’d hung it anyway, out of pure spite. Now, six years later, I finally saw it for what it was: a monument to a one-sided fantasy. “Elena,” I called out to the housekeeper. “Get someone to take this down and throw it away.” The boy who hung that photo was gone. The man remaining realized that in Catherine’s eyes, he was no different from the furniture. I could handle a loveless marriage. What I couldn’t handle was the Feed, which was currently live-streaming the “Hero’s” day like a CCTV camera. [The Hero just got Catherine a coffee. She actually smiled at him! I’m screaming!] [He made a typo on a report, he’s such a clumsy dork. Catherine is definitely going to find him adorable.] I closed my eyes, trying to sleep. When I woke up, the sky was bruised purple, and thunder was rolling across the city. My phone buzzed. It was Catherine. “Did you fall asleep on the sofa?” Her voice was steady. “Yeah,” I mumbled. “I have to work late. If it gets too late, I’ll stay at the hotel near the office. Have Madeline sleep in your room tonight.” Before I could answer, the Feed blurred past. [She is working late, but the Hero is there too! A rainy night, an empty office… it’s so romantic.] [I love a power couple. The Ice Queen CEO and her hardworking, soulful employee. Unlike her man-child husband.] [Exactly. He’s scared of a little thunder? He needs his five-year-old to hold his hand? What a loser.] I took a deep breath. “No need. Stay at the office. I’m fine.” As I spoke, I noticed Madeline standing by the door, her backpack still on. She’d been listening. She didn’t say a word, just turned and walked into her room. Catherine spoke again on the phone. “The wall behind you…” I turned. The wedding photo was gone, leaving a blank, pale rectangle. “Where is it?” she asked. “I had it tossed,” I said. “Go back to work. Bye.” I hung up before she could respond. I stared at the empty wall. It looked better this way. Cleaner. After dinner, the storm worsened. I was rubbing my eyes when I felt a presence. Madeline was standing there, clutching a storybook. “Fine,” she said, her face a mask of duty. “Let’s go. I’ll put you to sleep.” I wasn’t actually that afraid of thunder; I just hated the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of storms. Usually, I used the weather as an excuse to be particularly “demanding” with Catherine in bed. [Ugh, he’s so annoying. A five-year-old has to tuck him in? This is ridiculous.] [He’s so oblivious. The kid looks like she’s going to a funeral. He can’t harass his wife, so he’s harassing his daughter. When does the Hero get here?] I looked at Madeline. She looked like a miniature version of Catherine—emotionless and bored. “It’s okay, Maddy. I can sleep by myself. Go to bed.” I waved her off. For a split second, her lip trembled. “But Mommy said I had to stay with you.” I was about to argue when the sound of a car horn honked in the courtyard. I froze. The Feed froze too. [Wait, why is Catherine home? What about the Hero?!] Madeline dropped her book and ran to the door like it was a life raft. She grabbed her mother’s hand the moment Catherine stepped inside. “Daddy won’t let me stay with him,” she tattled, her voice tight. Catherine nodded, her face unreadable. The Feed was a chaotic mess of question marks. “Why are you back?” I asked, confused. Catherine didn’t answer. She was staring at the empty space where the wedding photo used to be. Her eyes seemed to turn a shade darker. “You said it was tacky,” I said, feeling defensive. “So I got rid of it.” She stared at me until I felt a chill. Then she turned to Madeline. “Go to bed.” Madeline blinked, looking at me. “Do you still want the leg massage, Daddy?” “No, no. Go on.” Madeline pouted—a rare flash of emotion—and then stomped off to her room. Catherine reached up and loosened her scarf. She looked… stressed. “Are you in a bad mood?” she asked. “No, I’m great. Best mood of my life.” Silence. She took a deep breath. Outside, the rain lashed against the glass. The Feed flickered. [She left the Hero for this? The plot is broken.] [Don’t worry, the ‘red thread’ of fate is stronger than steel. They’ll find each other again.] Just as that text scrolled by, Catherine’s phone rang on the nightstand. She was in the bathroom, and the sound of the shower was already running. “Phone!” I called out. The Feed perked up. [Here it is! The Hero is calling!] [Is the villain going to answer it? He’s such a creep about privacy.] [Let him! It’ll just make her hate him more. In the original book, he answered her phone once and screamed at the guy. Catherine ended up throwing him out. It was glorious.] Then, Catherine’s voice came from the bathroom. “Answer it for me. See what they want.” I stared at the phone as if it were a live grenade. “No. Just come out and do it yourself.” The water stopped instantly. Catherine stepped out, her hair a mess of shampoo suds. She looked at me, her gaze heavy and strange, then picked up the phone. A man’s voice—clear, bright, and soulful—rang out through the quiet room. “Ms. Montgomery? I sent over the two proposals, but I haven’t heard back…” Catherine didn’t look at the phone. She looked at me. She seemed to be waiting for something. I felt incredibly awkward. Why was the guy’s voice so loud? The Feed was losing it. [Is he going to lose it? Usually, if a man calls her after hours, he breaks things. One time he even scratched her face.] [His tantrums just make the Hero look better. Keep it up, Miles! Every scream is a nail in your coffin!] The word “coffin” triggered a physical reaction. I started coughing violently. I stood up, heading for the door. “I’m… cough… going to shower.” A hand caught my arm. Catherine took a deep breath, as if she were suppressing a volcanic eruption. She hung up the phone without a word. “It’s after hours,” she said to the dead screen. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Then she turned to me. “A man calls me at night, and you have nothing to say? You aren’t angry?” The room was dead quiet. She stared at me for a long time, then slowly let go of my arm. That night, she tossed and turned until the early hours of the morning. The Feed wouldn’t stop. [She’s clearly regretting her choice. She’s wondering why she isn’t with the Hero right now instead of this loser.] [He’s pathetic. His wife is literally dreaming of another man right next to him.] I clenched my fists under the covers. Fine. Whatever. As soon as I could convince Madeline to come with me, I was filing for divorce. I’d leave Catherine to her “Hero” and her “Destiny.” I just wanted my legs and my daughter.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402438”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

All this because I refused to hand over a 1.5-million-dollar “subsidy” to my company’s cleaning lady. Now, she had me in a courtroom, dragging my name through the mud. On the stand, she was a masterpiece of performative grief, tears tracking through the deep-set wrinkles of her face. “If you hadn’t used your family’s connections forty years ago to steal my spot at the university, do you think I’d be standing here today?” she sobbed, her voice cracking. “Do you think I’d be scrubbing your floors for peanuts?” She looked at me, her eyes red and accusing. “You watched me every day. You saw me breaking my back for twelve dollars an hour while you sat in your corner office. Does your conscience even spark, or is it as cold as your money?” I sat in the defendant’s chair, my expression a mask of practiced neutrality. Unmoved, she trembled as she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket—a critical care notice. “Now you’re a success. You’re worth millions. I’m only asking for a fraction of that to save my son’s life. Am I really the monster here?” The gallery erupted. The air in the room grew hot with the collective fury of people who wanted to see a “titan of industry” fall. “She’s heartless! She’s literally letting that woman’s son die!” “She built that empire on a stolen life. She’s a fraud!” “Don’t let her walk! Your Honor, she deserves to rot in a cell!” I looked at the ceiling, fighting the urge to laugh. She claimed I stole her college admission forty years ago. The problem was, forty years ago, I hadn’t even been born. 1 “You stole my future! You took my degree, used it to build your company, and left me with nothing!” Martha Higgins stood at the plaintiff’s table, her faded blue uniform hanging off her thin frame. She was screaming now, a raw, primal sound. “I want an apology, and I want what I’m owed! Everything you have should have been mine!” Martha was shaking with a frantic, desperate energy. Her hair was a messy nest of gray, her skin parched and weathered. She looked like a woman who had been beaten down by every decade she’d lived. Then there was me. My hair was just as white as hers, but that’s where the similarities ended. I was draped in a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than her annual salary. My handbag, resting on the table, was a fifty-thousand-dollar piece of hand-stitched leather. The contrast was staggering. To the jury and the gallery, I was the villain of a Dickens novel brought to life in modern-day Chicago. I leaned forward, exhaling a slow, tired breath. “Martha, I’ve told you this a dozen times. I didn’t steal your identity. I didn’t steal your degree. We aren’t even from the same generation. It’s physically impossible.” A year ago, I had donated bone marrow to a stranger—a young girl with a rare form of leukemia. It was supposed to be a simple, noble act. Instead, I suffered an incredibly rare, stress-induced reaction. My hair turned white overnight. I’m only forty years old. But with this hair and the weight of the company on my shoulders, people look at me and see a woman in her sixties. Martha used to be my office cleaner. We shared the same name—Meredith. We even grew up in the same corner of rural Ohio. At first, I thought it was a poetic coincidence. I liked her. I gave her bonuses. I treated her with the respect my grandmother taught me to show everyone. When I found out her son had been diagnosed with leukemia, I didn’t hesitate. I cut her a check for fifteen thousand dollars out of my personal account and organized a company-wide fundraiser. But fifteen thousand wasn’t enough. She demanded a million and a half. I thought she had suffered a mental break and ignored the demand. Two weeks later, I was served with a lawsuit. “Liar!” Martha hissed, her body vibrating. “If you didn’t steal my spot at Hudson University, how did a girl from a trailer park like you end up running a biotech firm? How did you get the credentials?” She choked back a sob. “I’m not asking for much. Just the money for the treatment. Because I didn’t have that degree, I couldn’t get a real job. We lived in a basement apartment full of black mold and lead paint—that’s why my boy is sick! It’s because of you!” I felt a pang of genuine pity. “I can authorize another donation for your son’s medical expenses, Martha. But I will not admit to a crime I didn’t commit.” Martha’s face hardened. She looked like she was stepping off a cliff. “I knew you’d lie. But I have proof.” She pulled a stack of yellowed papers from a folder. They were old high school exams and homework assignments. “These are your records from high school,” she announced to the room. “Look at the grades. F’s. D’s. You couldn’t even solve basic algebra. Someone this stupid doesn’t get into an Ivy-equivalent like Hudson University. Unless, of course, they aren’t using their own name.” I nodded slowly. “I did graduate from Hudson. I’ve never denied that.” Martha turned to the judge, her eyes wild with triumph. “You heard her! She admitted it! Your Honor, please, give me justice!” 2 The gallery was a beehive of whispers. Someone passed around copies of the failing grades—single digits circled in red ink, blank spaces where simple answers should have been. “She’s a fraud,” a woman in the front row hissed. “How does a kid like that get into Hudson? My son had a 4.0 and got waitlisted.” “It was the eighties,” a man replied. “Identity theft was easy back then. No digital records. She just slipped right into Martha’s life.” I watched them, my expression unreadable. I didn’t blame them for being angry. If the story were true, I’d want to claw my eyes out too. Martha took a deep breath, sensing the tide was with her. She pulled out a final document: a termination notice. “A month ago, she realized I was the woman she’d robbed,” Martha told the court, her voice thick with hurt. “She was terrified I’d remember. So she framed me. She said I was stealing office supplies and fired me on the spot.” She looked at the jury. “I’m sixty years old. Even if you gave me my degree back today, it wouldn’t matter. My life is over. But I want the world to know who she is. I want to save my son.” I sat there, perfectly still, watching her performance. It was masterful. She had the “quiet dignity of the wronged” down to an art form. The crowd was nearing a breaking point. A few people stood up, shouting insults. One man looked like he was ready to hop the railing and settle this with his fists. I didn’t flinch. I actually smiled—a small, tired tilt of the lips. The judge slammed his gavel. “Order! Sit down or I will have the bailiffs clear this room!” The judge turned to Martha. “Ms. Higgins, do you have any other evidence? Or a witness?” Martha glared at me, her voice rasping. “I have a witness. A classmate from forty years ago. He can prove I was the one who was supposed to go to college.” A man named Frank stepped forward. He was in his sixties, wearing a cheap suit and a nervous expression. “Your Honor,” Frank began, casting a look of pure disgust my way. “I was in the same graduating class as the real Martha Higgins. Forty years ago, the school posted the honors list on the bulletin board. Martha was at the top. She got into Hudson. It was a huge deal in our town. It was in the local paper.” Martha began to cry again, the sound echoing in the silent room. “I lived on a farm out in the sticks,” Martha choked out. “We didn’t get the paper. No one called me. I waited for that letter every day. I waited until the semester started, and when it never came, I thought I’d failed. I thought I wasn’t good enough. I spent forty years thinking I was a failure.” She paused, wiping her eyes. “It wasn’t until I was fired and went back to my hometown to see my sister that I heard the truth. People remembered me. They remembered the girl who got into Hudson. But if I got in… where did my life go?” The room was electric. All eyes were on me—the thief, the life-snatcher. “Where else could it go?” Frank added, sighing. “Communication was slow back then. I heard from a friend who went to Hudson that there was a ‘Martha Higgins’ in his year. We just assumed it was our Martha. We didn’t know someone had intercepted her mail and stolen her soul.” The fury in the room was a physical weight. I could feel the heat of their judgment. I stood up slowly, adjusting my sleeves. I looked at Frank, my voice calm and conversational. “Frank, you say Martha Higgins got into Hudson forty years ago. But do you have a single shred of evidence that I am the person who took that spot?” 3 Frank blinked, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face before he doubled down. “If I had the paper trail, I wouldn’t be standing here—I’d be at the police station. I’m here because it’s obvious. You have her name, you have her degree, and you have the money she should have made.” My question only served to stoke the fire. The insults coming from the gallery were getting personal, dragging my parents and my “corrupt” lineage into it. The bailiffs had to step between me and a particularly angry woman in a cardigan. Even the bailiffs looked at me with loathing. I remained unmoved, my smile sharpening into something colder. “So, to be clear, Frank… you have no proof. Just a feeling.” Frank sputtered, unable to find a comeback. Martha panicked. “Is all this evidence not enough? The failing grades? The names? The timing? Your Honor, I want her stripped of everything! She stole my life!” She broke rank, lunging across the floor to grab the lapels of my suit. “You stole it! You took my letter! You think you can just sit there and pretend you’re better than me? I’ll die before I let you get away with this!” Her hands were shaking, her face inches from mine. I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink. I just looked at her with an unsettling level of detachment. “You think a few old notebooks and a story from a man who hasn’t seen you in four decades is enough to convict me? This is a court of law, Martha. Not a campfire for ghost stories.” Martha’s face turned a violent shade of purple. “You monster! You’re still lying!” She pulled back her sleeves, revealing her forearms. They were a roadmap of bruises and needle marks. “You think I’m here for a payday? I’m doing this for my son! He’s twenty-seven. He’s supposed to be starting his life, and I’m watching him fade away. I’ve sold everything. I’ve sold my own blood to pay for his meds. Look at me!” The room was devastated. The “mother’s love” card was the ultimate play. “Just give her the money,” someone yelled. “Have a heart, you bitch!” I gently pried her hands off my jacket. My voice was steady, projecting to the back of the room. “I will say this one last time: I did not do this. And I will not admit to a lie to satisfy a mob.” 4 The tension snapped. Someone in the back threw a smartphone. It clipped the side of my head, drawing a sharp sting of pain. I felt a trickle of warmth run down my temple, but I didn’t reach up to touch it. “Apologize!” they screamed. “Pay her!” I stood my ground, my voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “I’m a busy woman. I don’t have time for this circus. Unless you can provide a legal link between her missed opportunity and my career, we are done here.” I looked at the judge. “Your Honor, I’d like to move for an immediate dismissal. Furthermore, I will be filing countersuits for defamation against both Martha Higgins and Frank.” The audacity of my statement was like pouring gasoline on a forest fire. “You’re a thief and a killer!” “If that boy dies, it’s on your hands!” I sat back down, pulled out my phone, and began checking my emails as if I were waiting for a flight at O’Hare. My indifference was the ultimate insult. Martha was screaming, “If my son dies, I will haunt you until the day you join me in hell!” The judge hammered his gavel until the room fell into a simmering silence. “Ms. Higgins, the court acknowledges the emotional weight of your testimony. However, the defendant is correct. Without a direct link… I cannot rule in your favor.” Martha wiped her face, her eyes glinting with a last, desperate hope. She pulled a final document from her bag—an official record from the Bureau of Vital Statistics. “I have proof that she changed her name forty years ago, on the very week the Hudson semester started!” she cried. “Her birth name wasn’t Meredith. It was Claire. She changed it to Meredith Higgins to match my admission letter. Deny that!” The room gasped. This was the “smoking gun.” “To change a whole identity… even the last name,” someone whispered. “She really did it.” I looked up from my phone and met Martha’s gaze. “I’m not denying it,” I said clearly. “I did change my name.” The gallery went wild. People were high-fiving. Martha was weeping with relief. “Finally!” she sobbed. “Justice! Your Honor, she confessed! Make her sign over the company! Make her pay for my son!” I waited for the noise to die down. Then, I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a small, laminated card. “You’re right, Martha. I did change my name. But there’s one small detail you’ve overlooked.” I handed the card to the bailiff to pass to the judge. “That is my birth certificate. I was born forty years ago. On the exact day you claim I was at Hudson University stealing your life, I was actually in a delivery room in Columbus, Ohio, weighing seven pounds and six ounces.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402437”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend told me his company was doing a week-long “dark period” retreat—no phones, no outside contact, just intensive leadership training. He was supposed to be back tomorrow. I decided to head over to his place a night early, wanting to surprise him with dinner and a bottle of the good bourbon he liked. But when I reached the door, I heard noise coming from inside. He’d lived alone for the three years we’d been in this city. He made a point of telling me how much he valued his “bachelor sanctuary” until we finally moved in together. A girl’s voice drifted through the wood, playful and teasing. “Stop it, let me see your phone.” My hand froze an inch from the keypad. Then came his voice, thick with a laugh I knew too well. “Not a chance. I didn’t even get your good side in those photos.” My body went cold, a sharp, localized frost spreading from my chest to my fingertips. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. Inside, the laughter stopped. A few seconds later, he picked up. “Hey, babe? Everything okay?” His voice was smooth, practiced. “I’m at your front door,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. “Open up.” The silence that followed was absolute. 1 I hung up. I reached into my bag and pulled out my spare key. He’d given it to me two years ago, pressing it into my palm with a look of practiced sincerity. “Keep it,” he’d said. “Come over whenever. It’s going to be your house eventually anyway.” I had never once used it without calling first. I believed in boundaries. I believed in him. I slid the key into the lock. It turned with a sickeningly familiar click. The door swung open. The entryway light was on. His Nikes were kicked off by the shoe rack, sitting right next to a pair of strappy white heels I’d never seen before. I didn’t move past the foyer. I just stood there, rooted to the hardwood. From the living room came the frantic sounds of movement—the rustle of fabric, the friction of skin against cushions, hushed, panicked whispers. I took two steps forward. A lilac sundress was draped over the arm of the sofa. It was tiny, made of a flimsy material that looked like it would dissolve in the rain. A single white no-show sock lay on the rug. On the coffee table sat two half-empty wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet. Then I saw them. He was scrambling up from the couch, fumbling with his jeans. His button-down was half-open, the buttons misaligned, his hair a bird’s nest of guilt. The woman was shrinking behind him, trying to use his frame as a shield. I could see a faint, angry red mark on the curve of her shoulder. I stopped in the middle of the room. A stray thought flickered through my mind: I’m glad I called first. If I hadn’t, what would I have walked in on? Would it have been more visceral? More disgusting than this? “Nydia.” His voice was tight, strained. “How… why are you here?” “I thought you were at a retreat,” I said, cutting through his stammer. He blinked, finally getting his fly zipped, but his shirt was still a mess. He looked down at himself, then back at me, his expression a pathetic cocktail of a caught thief and a man trying to pretend the house wasn’t on fire. “I, uh… I got out early,” he said. “Right,” I nodded slowly. “Got out early to continue the training here?” He went quiet. The woman stepped out from behind him. She kept her head down, snatching her dress off the sofa and pulling it over her head in one jagged motion. She looked young—maybe twenty-two, twenty-three. Her hair was a trendy honey-blonde, her face flushed with a wine-soaked glow. Her hands shook so violently she had to tug at her zipper three times before it caught. I watched her. She risked a glance at me, then looked away just as fast. “And who is she?” I asked. His mouth opened, a few hollow syllables dying in his throat. He stood there, hands hovering uselessly before he finally balled them into fists at his sides. The silence in the room was suffocating. The woman finished dressing and stepped into those white heels. The clack-clack of the plastic tips against the floor sounded like gunshots. She looked at him, then at me, then bolted for the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Thud. I stared at the closed door, then turned my gaze back to him. “Talk,” I said. “Nydia, I…” He took a step toward me, then stopped. “I messed up.” “I asked you who she is.” “Just a friend. Someone from work.” “A friend?” He looked at the floor. I let out a short, sharp laugh. I didn’t know if I was laughing at him or at the sheer stupidity of my own life. Eight years. I had known him for eight years. We’d gone from high school proms to college midterms to our first real jobs. I thought I knew every mole on his back, every fear in his head. I had never seen this version of him. “It won’t happen again,” he said suddenly. He looked up, his eyes swimming with a desperate, manipulative kind of pleading. “I swear, Nydia. Never again.” I said nothing. He suddenly turned and began rummaging through the living room. He checked the drawers under the TV, the side tables, shoved his hand under the sofa cushions. I watched him, bewildered. After a minute, he pulled out a small, velvet red box. He walked over and held it out to me. “I got this for you,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I was going to give it to you in a few days. For our anniversary.” I looked down. It was a jeweler’s box. I opened it. Inside was a silver necklace with a small, diamond-chip star pendant. It was beautiful. It was also a bribe. I held the box for a few seconds, feeling the weight of it. Then I walked over to the kitchen trash can and dropped the box, necklace and all, right on top of the discarded takeout containers. “Nydia!” he barked. “I don’t want your guilt-offerings,” I said. I turned to face him. The light hit his face, and for the first time, he looked like a stranger. A poorly rendered imitation of the man I loved. “Eight years,” I said. “This is how you treat eight years?” He ducked his head, silent. “Eight years, Jason. Since we were seventeen. I moved to this city for you. I stayed up late making you dinner when you worked overtime. I took care of your mom when she was in the hospital so you wouldn’t have to miss meetings. I thought we were waiting for the right time. Waiting to save enough for the house, waiting for the promotion, waiting for life to be ‘ready.’ What were you waiting for?” 2 He still wouldn’t speak. “Were you waiting for her?” “No!” He looked up, his voice frantic. “It’s not what you think, Nydia. It was a mistake. I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking—” “Drunk?” “Yeah, we just had some wine, and things got out of hand…” The bedroom door opened. The woman walked out. She had changed into a white button-down and jeans, her hair pulled back into a messy knot. She looked more composed now. But she couldn’t hide the mark on her neck. A hickey. Fresh, purplish-red, sitting right above her collarbone. She walked over to his side and stood there. She didn’t look down this time. She stared straight at me, her lips set in a stubborn, defiant line. “I love him,” she said. I looked at her, unimpressed. “I love him more than you do,” she added, her voice small but clear. “We’re actually happy together.” “Shut up!” Jason snapped, spinning toward her. “Don’t say another word!” She flinched, then reached out and grabbed his arm, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. “That’s not what you said ten minutes ago. You said you were going to leave her. You said you’d marry me.” He wrenched his arm away, stepping back as if she were radioactive. She stood there, her arm still hanging in mid-air, her face freezing into a mask of shock. I looked from her to him. He avoided my eyes, staring at the floorboards, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. She stood there biting her lip, her eyes welling up. “Do you even know who he is?” I asked her. “Do you know he has a girlfriend of eight years? That we have a joint savings account for a down payment?” “I know,” she said, lifting her chin. I blinked. “He told me. He said you’d been together forever.” She paused, glancing at him. He remained silent. “But he said the spark died years ago. He said you’re suffocating. That you track his every move, that he has to check in every hour, that he can’t breathe around you. He said being with me is the only time he feels like himself.” I stood perfectly still. So, asking if he wanted me to pick up Thai food on the way home was “suffocating.” Waiting up for him to make sure he got home safe from a late shift was “tracking his every move.” Caring about his life was a “burden.” I thought I was being a partner. He thought I was a jailer. “He said you’re too much work,” she continued, a hint of triumph creeping into her tone. “Always nagging him to eat better, to sleep more, asking why he didn’t text back. He said he couldn’t take it anymore.” I looked at Jason. He was a statue of cowardice. “Is that right?” I asked him. His lips moved, but no sound came out. “Jason,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He finally looked at me. Just for a second. And in that second, I saw it. The resentment. The truth. Everything she said was true. He had turned my love into a list of grievances to tell a twenty-two-year-old in the dark. I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me, starting from my heels and rising to my throat. My legs felt heavy, but I refused to sit. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me collapse. I took a deep breath. “Fine. We’re done.” 3 He snapped his head up. “Nydia—” “Don’t say my name.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped the screen. “I recorded everything.” He froze. The girl froze. “Everything you both just said,” I said, looking at her. “The part where you admitted you knew about me. The part where he admitted he cheated. It’s all on tape.” Her face went pale. “You recorded us? When?” I didn’t answer. I just slid the phone back into my pocket and turned toward the door. “Wait!” she screamed behind me. “You have to delete that! You can’t take that! What are you going to do with it? Are you going to post it? You’ll ruin my life!” I didn’t stop. I kept walking. “Jason!” she shrieked. “Make her delete it! Don’t let her leave with that! Do something!” I heard a scuffle behind me. Footsteps thudded on the hardwood. Before I could reach the handle, she lunged forward and grabbed my arm. Her skin was cold, her nails digging into my bicep. “Give me the phone!” she yelled. I shoved her off, stepping back. She lunged again, reaching for my pocket. I held the phone high above my head. She was shorter than me; she jumped, her nails raking across the back of my hand. A sharp, stinging heat flared up where she broke the skin. “Jason! Help me!” I shoved her harder this time. She stumbled back, her heels catching on the edge of the rug, and she landed hard on her backside. She let out a pathetic little yelp, sitting there on the floor, looking up at me with big, tearful eyes. Jason rushed over, kneeling beside her. “Are you okay?” He checked her shoulders, her head, his touch frantic. “Did you hit anything?” She leaned into him, sobbing, shaking her head. I stood there, watching the tableau. He looked up at me, his face darkening. “Nydia. What the hell? Why did you push her?” I said nothing. He helped her up. She clung to him, weeping softly, whispering that she was fine, it was her fault—the classic “damsel” routine that made him hold her even tighter. “Delete the recording,” he said, his voice hardening. “I messed up, I get it. But you don’t get to get physical with her.” I wanted to laugh, but the air in my lungs felt like lead. “Delete it?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “I’ll give you money. Just delete it and walk away.” “How much?” He blinked, clearly not expecting me to negotiate. He thought for a moment. “Two thousand dollars.” I looked at the woman. She was leaning against him, her tears dried up, watching me with a mix of anxiety and predatory hope. “Not a chance,” I said. “I’m keeping it.” His face twisted. “Nydia, don’t be a bitch about this.” “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m trying to be civil.” “Civil?” I repeated. I turned back to the door. “Jason!” the girl cried. “You can’t let her go! If my parents hear that… they’ll kill me! You said you’d protect me!” He stood there, his face cycling through a dozen different shades of panic. My hand was on the doorknob. “Wait,” he called out. I didn’t turn around. “Nydia, please.” His voice went soft, pleading. “Just delete it. This is on me, not her. She’s young, she didn’t know any better. I’m the one who couldn’t keep it in my pants. Blame me, just don’t ruin her.” I turned back. They were standing there, hand in hand. “She didn’t know any better?” I asked. “She seemed pretty ‘aware’ a minute ago when she was telling me how much better she is for you.” He went silent. The girl looked at her shoes. “She’s a child, but you’re a man, right?” I looked at him. “And you still did it.” He wouldn’t look at me. “Jason,” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “Make her do it. Please. How much time is left?” He looked at me, his eyes suddenly cold, like a stranger’s. “Nydia,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Delete the recording. If you don’t, I’ll have to take the phone from you.” I didn’t move. He took a step forward. I reached into my pocket and gripped the phone. “Try it,” I said. “It won’t matter.” He stopped. “I set a scheduled upload,” I lied. “In two hours, if I don’t enter a deactivation code, the audio file gets sent to every one of our mutual friends, your boss, and your mother.” His face went white. The girl looked like she was about to faint. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “You’re insane.” I said nothing. The room was silent for a long, heavy beat. “A hundred thousand,” he said suddenly. I stared at him. “A hundred thousand dollars,” he repeated. “You delete the recording, right now, and I’ll transfer it.” I remained silent. “I don’t have it all in cash, but I can get it,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “I have eighty thousand in our ‘house fund’ account. I’ll borrow the rest from my brother tonight. A hundred thousand, and we call it even. You walk away, and this never happened. Deal?” The girl pulled at his sleeve, looking like she wanted to protest the amount, but she kept her mouth shut. “A hundred thousand. Transfer it now.” He hesitated, then pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. I pulled out mine and opened my banking app. His hands were shaking so badly he had to scan his face three times for the ID check. He tapped the screen, then looked up at me. “Sent,” he said. “Check it.” I looked down. A notification popped up. Transfer Pending: $100,000.00. “Now,” I said. “Write it down.” “Write what?” “A statement. Stating that this hundred thousand is a voluntary settlement for the dissolution of our relationship. Acknowledge the eight years. Acknowledge the infidelity. Sign it.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402436”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother is a titan of industry, a permanent fixture on the Forbes list, and a ghost in my actual life. My father was the “supportive” one, the man who stayed behind to raise me while she conquered the world. He always told me she looked down on us—that to her, we were just “small-town trash.” He claimed she only sent eight hundred dollars a month for our living expenses, calling us “stray dogs that could never be fed enough.” I hated her with every fiber of my being for that. Until the day she made a surprise appearance at my university, looked at the sad tray of cafeteria food in front of me, and frowned. “I wire twenty thousand dollars to your account every single month,” she said, her voice cold and confused. “Is this really what you’re choosing to eat?” … 1 My phone screen buzzed on the library table. A notification from the bank. [Arthur Miller has transferred $800.00 to your account ending in XXXX.] Eight hundred. The number felt like a needle pricking a raw nerve. I put the phone down, a dull, hollow ache blooming in my stomach. To save money, I’d only eaten one meal yesterday. Now, I had to make this eight hundred last for thirty days in one of the most expensive cities in the country. My roommate, Sophie, leaned over and caught a glimpse of the screen. She immediately bristled on my behalf. “Rose, is your mom actually made of stone? What is eight hundred dollars supposed to do in Chicago? I spent forty bucks on a Uber and a latte yesterday! This isn’t an allowance; it’s an insult.” She reached for a small bottle of imported serum on her desk—a tiny glass vial that cost more than my entire month’s budget. I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. She didn’t get it. She couldn’t. To my mother, the Great Diana Montgomery, we probably were just beggars. My father’s face flashed in my mind—that look of weary resignation he always wore. Since I was a child, he’d whispered the same poison into my ear. “Rose, your mother is a creature of the city. She despises where we come from. She looks down on me, she looks down on you, and she certainly doesn’t care about your sick uncle or your grandparents.” “I go to her,” he’d say, his voice cracking. “I beg her to give you a better life, and do you know what she calls us? She says the Miller family is a pack of ungrateful leeches. She says we’re just parasites trying to bleed her dry.” Those words had taken root in me, growing into a thicket of resentment. My phone buzzed again. It was him. “Rose…” His voice sounded exhausted. “It’s… it’s eight hundred again this month.” “I asked her. I swear, I practically got on my knees, but she said not a penny more.” He paused, a heavy sigh rattling through the line. “It’s my fault. I’m a failure of a father for letting you live like this.” Anger and pity surged through me. It wasn’t his fault. He was the one who had endured her cruelty for years just to stay by my side. The thought of a grown man having to beg his ex-wife for his daughter’s grocery money broke my heart. “Dad, stop,” I interrupted, my voice thick. “I’ll find a part-time job on campus. I can take care of myself.” “Good girl,” he whispered, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. “Just… don’t go hungry, okay?” I hung up. The dorm room felt suffocatingly quiet. I pulled a bag of two-day-old bagels from my drawer, tore off a piece, and forced myself to chew. It was dry, hard, and tasted like cardboard. My phone lit up again. The class group chat was exploding. [Birthday drinks for the class president tonight! Karaoke then late-night sushi. See you all at the usual spot!] [I heard that new Omakase place is $150 per person minimum. Let’s go big!] [Split the bill, obviously! But for Ben, it’s worth it!] The “it-girl” of our major tagged everyone. [@Rose Miller, you’re coming, right? Don’t be a hermit! It’s Ben’s 21st, no excuses!] I turned the phone face down, trying to shut out their world. $150. To them, it was a Tuesday night. To me, it was two weeks of survival. I picked up the phone, my fingers hovering over the glass. I typed and deleted, typed and deleted. Finally: [Sorry guys, I’ve got a shift at work tonight. Have a drink for me! Happy Birthday, Ben!] A lie. But I had no choice. I was too poor to have friends. I curled up on my bed, retreating into the dark. The joy of being a normal college student was a luxury I couldn’t afford. That night, I dreamed of the woman I only saw in business magazines. She was standing over my father, who was collapsed on the floor. “Arthur,” she sneered in my dream, “you and that hillbilly daughter of yours are nothing but dogs begging for scraps.” 2 A few days later, a glossy poster appeared on the campus bulletin boards. GUEST LECTURE: DIANA MONTGOMERY. Her name was printed in bold, authoritative serif right in the center. My heart did a violent somersault. I turned to bolt, but Sophie grabbed my arm, squealing with excitement. “Rose, look! It’s Diana Montgomery! An actual billionaire on our campus!” “Oh my god, can you imagine being her? I heard she cleared three billion in acquisitions last year alone.” “My mom literally has her autobiography on her nightstand like it’s the Bible!” I was dragged, kicking and screaming internally, into the packed auditorium. Diana stood on the stage. She was wearing a suit that probably cost more than my father’s house, speaking with a precision and clarity that commanded the room. She looked nothing like the screeching, bitter woman my father described. She looked… powerful. And terrifyingly calm. My chest tightened. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. When the lecture ended, the university deans swarmed her like moths to a flame. I kept my head down, trying to melt into the crowd of students heading for the exit. “Rose Miller.” The hall went silent. A hundred heads turned in unison. I froze, the blood draining from my face. She didn’t acknowledge the deans. She walked straight through the parting crowd until she was standing directly in front of me. “With me. Now.” She led me out of the hall. I could hear the whispers rising behind us like a tide. “Wait, is she Montgomery’s daughter?” “No way. Look at her clothes. She looks like she shops at a thrift bin.” “If that’s her daughter, why does she look so… tragic?” The words cut deeper than any knife. I clenched my fists, saying nothing. She led me to the student union cafeteria. It was the lunch rush. I felt her eyes on me as I reflexively went for the cheapest option—a side of steamed broccoli and a scoop of white rice. Four dollars and fifty cents. She looked at my tray, her brow furrowing into a sharp V. “I wire twenty thousand dollars to your account every single month,” she said. “Is this really what you’re choosing to eat?” Twenty thousand? The number exploded in my brain. “What… what are you talking about? Twenty thousand?” My voice was trembling so hard I could barely get the words out. I only ever saw eight hundred. She blinked, looking genuinely confused. “On the 15th of every month, a transfer goes out. Twenty thousand dollars.” She pulled out her phone and turned the screen toward me. There it was. A long, unbroken list of transfers. $20,000.00. Every single month. The recipient’s name: Arthur Miller. My world tilted on its axis. My hands went cold; my mind went blank. Where was the money? “Your father… he didn’t give it to you?” she asked, her eyes searching mine. I forced myself to stay upright. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and plastered on a stiff, fake smile. “Oh. Right. Dad mentioned it. I… I just put it all into a long-term savings account. I forgot.” The moment the lie left my lips, I saw the tension leave her shoulders. “Rose,” she said, her voice softening just a fraction. “I know I haven’t been around. I’ve been… busy. I thought the money would at least make things easier for you.” “It does,” I lied again. “By the way,” she added casually, “why don’t I ever see you driving the Porsche I bought for your eighteenth? Your father said you hated it, so I didn’t push, but it seems a waste.” A car? Another thing I had never heard of. I gripped the fabric of my pockets, trying to stay grounded. “The city… parking is a nightmare. I didn’t want the hassle.” I made some more excuses and practically ran back to my dorm. I slammed the door and slid down against it, my body shaking uncontrollably. I pulled out my phone and found the contact I had never dared to call. Mom. She picked up on the second ring. “Rose?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. “Mom… I… I need some money. An emergency.” There wasn’t a second of hesitation. “Of course. How much?” “Fifty… fifty thousand,” I said, a number that felt astronomical. “I’ll send it now.” “Mom, wait. Send it to a new account. I’ll text you the details.” “Done.” Ten seconds after I sent the info, my phone buzzed. $50,000.00. Instant. The memo read: Don’t ever hesitate to ask. Take care of yourself. I stared at the screen until the words blurred. This was the woman I had hated for eighteen years? I wiped my eyes and opened a different chat. I took a deep breath and typed to my father: [Dad, I have a huge emergency. Can you please, please ask Mom for some extra money?] His reply came back almost instantly. [You know how she is, Rose. She’ll just use it as an excuse to insult us. You have to learn to handle your own problems. Asking her only makes her despise us more. I’m sorry, honey. My hands are tied.] I stared at those words. My blood turned to ice. For eighteen years, I had been a pawn in his sick, twisted game. I took the money my mother had just sent and used it to hire the most expensive private investigator in the city. My goal was simple: I wanted every single bank statement associated with my father, Arthur Miller. 3 At 2:00 AM, I opened the encrypted file the PI sent over. Every month on the 15th, $20,000 arrived from my mother’s corporate account. And every month on the 16th, exactly $19,200 was transferred out. The recipient? Robert Miller. My “sick, bedridden” uncle. Eight hundred. My entire life—my meals, my clothes, my dignity—had been calculated down to the last cent. My father and his brother were tossing me the scraps of my own life like I was a dog under the table. No wonder my cousin Tyler was driving a brand-new car and wearing designer clothes. No wonder my grandparents looked at me with such pitying contempt every time I went home. They thought I was a charity case, a failure who couldn’t even get her “rich bitch” mother to love her. And my father? He was the hero. The martyr who “endured” his wicked ex-wife to provide for the family. I stared at the ledger until my eyes burned. I dragged the file into the trash and emptied it. The next day was the 16th. My father called right on schedule. “Rose, did the money hit? Make it last, okay? Don’t go wasting it on frivolous things.” “I got it, Dad,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “Thank you for begging her for me. I know how much it hurts your pride.” I could practically hear his smug satisfaction through the phone. “As long as you’re okay, it’s worth any humiliation.” I hung up and opened Instagram. I went straight to my cousin Tyler’s profile. His latest post was him sitting in a white Porsche Cayenne, grinning like a shark. The caption: Shoutout to my Uncle Artie for closing another “big deal”! Family first! The comments were a cesspool of Miller relatives. Aunt Sarah: Artie is the backbone of this family! So proud! Uncle Robert: We’d be nothing without your sacrifice, brother! A volcano of cold, hard rage erupted in my chest. I dialed my father back immediately. “Dad,” I said, making my voice tremble. “There’s an exchange program in London. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, but I need a thirty-thousand-dollar deposit by tomorrow.” “Thirty thousand?!” he barked. “Rose, have you lost your mind? Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? That woman would kill me! She won’t give us a dime!” I squeezed my eyes shut, leaning into the performance. “But Dad… I heard some students say that for things like this, moms usually want to help. Actually, when she was here, she gave me her private number. She said I could call her if it was urgent.” I paused for effect. “Maybe I should just call her myself? Maybe if I explain it, she’ll say yes?” Silence. Absolute, dead silence on the other end. I could hear his breathing turn shallow and panicked. “No! Rose! Don’t you dare!” he hissed, his voice cracking. “Don’t humiliate yourself! You don’t know her like I do. She’ll tear you apart!” “Don’t worry about the money! I’ll figure it out! I’ll sell the house if I have to! I’ll go crawl to her on my hands and knees! Just… stay away from her. Do not call her!” I listened to his frantic rambling until he hung up. Thirty minutes later, a text arrived: [Rose, I found the money. I’m transferring it now. Just please, for the love of god, stay away from your mother. If she finds out we’re asking for more, we’re both finished.] I looked at the word “finished” and smiled. No, Dad. You’re done.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402435”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was taking my wife’s car in for a routine service when a thick manila envelope slid out from the gap in the passenger seat. I assumed it was a stray invoice or a stray registration form, so I opened it without thinking. Inside were two plane tickets. First class. The Maldives. Departing next Wednesday. The first ticket: Claire Stanford. My wife. The second ticket: Sebastian Reed. I stared at those thirteen letters until they blurred. Sebastian Reed. Not me. I’ve memorized her company’s entire directory. That name isn’t on it. I searched the archives of my own memory, going back years. Nothing. I slid the tickets back into the envelope and tucked it exactly where I’d found it. My fingertips were like ice, but my head had never felt clearer. Four years of marriage, and for the first time, I realized that the passenger seat had never really belonged to me. 01 The mechanic at the dealership was waiting for me. I stepped out of the car, brushed a speck of non-existent dust off my slacks, and handed him the keys. “Just the standard synthetic oil change,” I said, my voice steady. “Use the high-end stuff.” “You got it, Miles. Have it ready for you by four.” I nodded, stepped out onto the curb, and hailed a cab back to the office. The leather seat of the taxi was scorching from the midday sun. I sat there, knees pressed together, clutching my phone. The screen was still glowing with the photo I’d just surreptitiously snapped of those tickets. Flight 402. First Class. Outbound December 18th. Return December 25th. A full week. They’d be coming back on Christmas Day. In the four years Claire and I have been married, she’s never spent a single Christmas with me. “It’s a commercialized Hallmark trap,” she’d always say. “Too much fuss for a Tuesday.” Back at the office, I went through the motions. I led the afternoon product meeting, reviewed the quotes for our new Southeast Asia luxury tours, and confirmed the block seating for the Lunar New Year charters. A colleague asked if I was feeling alright. I looked pale, they said. “Just something I ate at lunch,” I lied. Ten minutes before the end of the day, I texted Claire. Car’s done. You’ll have to pick it up yourself tonight. I’m pulling an evening shift. She replied instantly: Okay. Three seconds later, a follow-up: Don’t stay too late. I stared at the period at the end of that sentence. She used to be a fan of exclamation points, or at least a trailing ellipsis. When did she start sounding like a formal deposition? I flipped my phone face down, opened my laptop, and logged into the company’s GDS—the Global Distribution System for flights. I’m a senior product manager for a luxury travel firm; I spend eight hours a day in this system. I typed in the ticket numbers. Hit enter. When the order details populated, my throat went tight. Payment Method: Frequent Flyer Miles Redemption. More than half of those miles were mine. I’d spent three years flying for business, racking up over a hundred and fifty thousand miles. Last year, on my birthday, Claire suggested we merge our accounts to make it easier to book a “big trip” together. I hadn’t hesitated. I’d handed her the login. Since the merger, we hadn’t gone anywhere. But she had used my sweat and jet lag to buy a first-class seat for another man. I scrolled down to the remarks section. Four words were typed there in the “Special Requests” field. Honeymoon trip. Ocean suite. The office AC was humming, but a chill crawled up my spine. Honeymoon. Our honeymoon had been a long weekend in a budget hotel in Florida. She’d told me we needed to save every penny while she was launching her startup. I’d agreed. I’d been happy to. Four years later, it turns out she owed me a honeymoon. She was just giving it to someone else. 02 When I got home that night, Claire was on the sofa with her iPad. A glass of lukewarm water—my glass—sat on the coffee table. She looked up briefly. “You’re back. There’s some beef stew in the fridge. I warmed it up for you.” I kicked off my shoes and sat down beside her. “Are you traveling next week?” Her fingers faltered on the screen. It was subtle—less than a second—but I saw it. “Yeah. A client in San Francisco. Needs some hand-holding.” “When do you leave?” “Wednesday.” “Back when?” “The weekend, probably. Depends on how the meetings go.” I took a sip of the stew. The meat was tender, simmered with carrots and potatoes. She wasn’t much of a cook; this was almost certainly a high-end meal kit. But she had remembered to skim the fat off the top because she knew I hated greasy broth. The absurdity hit me like a physical blow. A woman planning a honeymoon with another man still remembered to skim the fat off her husband’s soup. “What’s the client’s name in SF?” She locked her iPad and set it down, her tone casual. “A project for the Reed account. You wouldn’t know them.” Reed. I set the bowl down. Claire’s company has three partners. She owns thirty-five percent. Two smaller shareholders own fifteen each. The remaining thirty-five percent belongs to a woman named Victoria Reed. Victoria Reed. Sebastian Reed. I put the names together for the first time. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t dare ask anything else. I wasn’t sure my face would hold. “I’m going to shower and head to bed,” I said. Behind the closed bathroom door, the sound of the shower masked the world. I pulled out my phone and opened LinkedIn. Search: Sebastian Reed. Nothing. I tried Instagram. Private. The man was a ghost. Either he was incredibly low-profile, or he was being hidden. Neither was a good sign. The water scalded my scalp, but I didn’t turn it down. I made a decision then. I wouldn’t ask her. I would find out myself. 03 The next morning, the breakroom smelled of burnt espresso. My assistant, Ben, leaned against the counter. “Miles, you look like hell. You seeing a doctor?” “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.” That was an understatement. I’d spent the night haunted by those thirteen letters. I retreated to my office and locked the door. Once the morning emails were cleared, I pulled up the photo of the ticket again. Next to the ticket number was a small string of digits: the Frequent Flyer ID. I logged into the airline’s member portal using the credentials I knew. Member Name: Claire Stanford. Balance: 3,200 miles. The account had been gutted. I clicked on the redemption history. In the last twelve months, this account had booked four trips. First: March. Two tickets to Chiang Mai. Second: June. Two tickets to Bali. Third: September. Two tickets to Hokkaido. Fourth: Next week. The Maldives. Four trips. Always two tickets. The companion passenger for every single one: Sebastian Reed. Four international vacations in a year. I hadn’t even had a weekend getaway. She told me the company was in a “growth phase.” I believed her. She said she had to work weekends. I believed her. She said her business trips were about securing investors. I believed every word. I’d spent 365 days being a supportive husband while she was busy being a girlfriend to someone else. I took a deep breath and dialed a number. “Elena, it’s Miles.” Elena was a contact I’d worked with for six years. She ran a high-end ground handling agency in the Maldives. “Miles! It’s been too long. What can I do for you?” “I need a favor. A discreet one.” I sent her the hotel name and the passport details for Sebastian Reed that I’d pulled from the flight booking. “Can you check the guest history?” “Give me thirty minutes.” Twenty-three minutes later, a PDF landed in my inbox. I opened it. My hands didn’t shake. But after I finished reading, I turned the phone face down and closed my eyes for a long time. Over the past year, Claire and Sebastian had stayed at that same resort three times. Always the same ocean suite. Every charge—the champagne, the private dinners, the spa treatments—was billed to the same corporate credit card. A company card. She wasn’t just cheating on me; she was using her company’s capital to fund her affair. I opened my eyes, saved the PDF to an encrypted folder, and named it 2024 Tax Receipts. No one ever looks at something that boring. I didn’t eat lunch. All afternoon, one question looped in my mind: Who exactly is Sebastian Reed? The hotel records had his passport number. It was a standard US passport, issued recently. I wrote down the sequence. I needed one more person to help me. 04 “Sebastian Reed. Born 1994. Registered address in Seattle.” My friend Daniel, a lawyer with a knack for finding things people want buried, paused on the other end of the line. “Miles, are you sure you want the rest of this? Once you know, there’s no going back.” “Keep going.” “He has a sister.” My grip on the phone tightened. “Name?” “Victoria Reed.” The name hit me like a physical weight. Victoria Reed. Claire’s business partner. The thirty-five percent shareholder. Her sister-in-law. Or, rather, the sister of the man my wife was sleeping with. “There’s more,” Daniel continued. “Sebastian owns a boutique trading firm. Five million in seed capital. He’s the face of it, but the ‘Beneficial Owner’ listed in the private filings…” Daniel hesitated. “It’s Claire, Miles. It’s your wife.” The silence on the line stretched out. “Miles, do you see the play here? This isn’t just a fling.” I saw it perfectly. Victoria wanted more control of the company. If Claire and Sebastian were “linked,” the Reeds could effectively control Claire’s thirty-five percent. Combined with Victoria’s thirty-five, they’d have seventy percent. Absolute power. And I, the legal spouse, was the only obstacle. In our state, the appreciation of her company shares during the marriage was considered marital property. If Claire wanted to funnel the value of the company to the Reeds, she had to get rid of me first. Divorce me, or make me want to leave. The beef stew, the “don’t stay too late”—it was all just smoke and mirrors to keep me docile until the trap was set. She was waiting for the perfect moment to cut me loose. Probably right after they got back from the Maldives. I hung up and sat in my office until the city lights flickered on outside. Four years. Was any of it real? I didn’t know. But I knew one thing for certain. She wanted me to walk away with nothing. I wasn’t going to let that happen. 05 That weekend, Claire told me there was a “company retreat” and she wouldn’t be home. “Have fun,” I said. Thirty minutes after she left, I went out. I didn’t follow her—that was beneath me. Instead, I went to a public records office and pulled the filings for every entity Claire was associated with. Three companies. The first was the tech firm she started with Victoria. I knew that one.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402434”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother always said her best friend was the most graceful, most principled woman in the world. But there she was. The woman I’d called “Auntie” my whole life, the woman who supposedly knew everything about boundaries, was currently curled into my husband’s chest. Her hand was wandering, tracing the line of his jaw with a sickening familiarity. The moment I ripped the mask off her face, the air in the hotel room turned to lead. The slap I’d rehearsed in my head, the screaming match I’d prepared for—it all died in my throat. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting, a dull numbness spreading from my skull to my fingertips. “You’re family,” I whispered, my voice trembling so hard it barely sounded like mine. “How could you do something so… so subhuman?” She didn’t flinch. Instead, she let out a soft, melodic laugh. With a straight face and a voice full of unearned authority, she told me she was simply “testing” my husband for me. I looked at the two of them—this scene so absurd it bordered on the surreal—and I started to laugh. A jagged, hysterical sound. Fine. If one of you has no shame and the other is looking for a thrill, I’ll give you exactly what you deserve. 1 The hotel hallway was bathed in a dim, amber glow that felt like sticky syrup, coating the two of them in a sickly light. My stomach did a slow, violent roll. Nausea surged in the back of my throat. I thought I would scream. I thought I’d turn into a madwoman, clawing at their lying faces. But I didn’t. My body reacted faster than my mind. A bone-chilling cold raced up my spine, settling at the base of my brain. The rage didn’t vanish; it was just compressed, shoved deep into my chest where it simmered without an exit. I forced myself to breathe. I dug my nails into the soft meat of my palms until the sharp sting brought a flicker of clarity. I pulled out my phone. As the screen lit up, I saw Bradley’s face. My husband. He looked like a dog that had just been caught eating off the table—panicked, pathetic, desperate to hide the evidence of his sin. He lunged toward me. “Summer, wait! Let me explain. It’s not what it looks like!” His voice was thin, reeking of his usual cowardice. “Don’t move,” Victoria said, stopping him in his tracks. Victoria. My mother’s best friend of thirty years. The woman who had watched me grow up. She didn’t even fully untangle herself from Bradley’s arms. She just hooded her eyes, looking at me with a strange mix of excitement and provocation. She was wearing that perfume my mother always praised—something “soft and elegant.” Now, mixed with the stale, recycled air of a cheap hotel room, it made me want to gag. I hit the record button. The small red dot on the screen blinked like a cold, unblinking eye, witnessing everything. “Testing my husband?” I repeated her words. My voice was so flat it sounded like I was reading lines for a play I wasn’t even in. Victoria smiled. It was a light, feathery thing, but it cut like a razor. “Yes, Summer.” She finally stood up straight, smoothing out her dress with practiced elegance. “Men these days… they can’t be trusted. I was worried you were being played, so I decided to see what he was made of.” She took a step toward me, her tone shifting into that of a concerned elder. “And look. He failed instantly. A man like this? He’s not worth your time.” Bradley’s face went from pale to a bruised purple. He opened his mouth to protest, but one sharp look from Victoria silenced him. He looked like a marionette, his strings held by a woman twenty years his senior. Suddenly, it hit me. This wasn’t just an affair. This was a joke. A cruel, meticulously planned joke at my expense. I pointed the camera directly at Victoria’s perfectly maintained face. “So, how long has this ‘test’ been going on?” “Bradley was the one who came to me,” Victoria said, her voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “He said your marriage was suffocating. That he couldn’t breathe. He said living with you was like living with a piece of wood—boring, lifeless. He needed someone who understood him. Someone who could bring back the spark.” She sighed. “Summer, don’t be mad at me. I did this because I care about you. I wanted you to see his true colors before it was too late.” Bradley was sweating now, stammering over his words. “No! That’s not—she seduced me! Summer, you have to believe me!” His defense only served to complete her narrative. A perfect, closed loop of betrayal. I watched them through the screen—one smug, one frantic. Whatever was left of the thing I called “love” was ground into the carpet. I could almost hear the physical snap of my heart breaking. “Test passed,” I said. I stopped the recording and tucked the phone away, forcing a twisted smile. “You two deserve each other.” I looked at them—the executioner and the man-child—standing in the shadows of the hallway. They looked ridiculous. I saw the confusion in their eyes, maybe even a flicker of fear, as I turned my back on them. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t waste another word. My heels clicked softly against the plush hotel carpet. I walked away as quietly as I had arrived. One step. Two steps. Three. The moment I pushed through the revolving doors and hit the street, the icy night air slammed into me. My knees buckled. I collapsed onto the sidewalk, my body shaking with a violence I couldn’t control. The tears finally came—a flash flood that blurred the world into a smear of neon lights. So this was what it felt like to be hollowed out. 2 I don’t remember the Uber ride. I don’t remember walking up the steps to my mother’s house. My hands shook so badly I couldn’t get the key into the lock. Before I could try a third time, the door clicked open. My mother, Evelyn, stood there in her silk robe, her face etched with worry. “Summer? What are you doing here at this hour? You look like a ghost.” The moment I saw her, the wire I’d been walking on all night snapped. I fell into her arms, sobbing like a lost child. She was the only person left who felt like home. Evelyn gasped, patting my back rhythmically. “What happened? Did you and Bradley have a fight? Honey, it can’t be that bad.” I couldn’t catch my breath. The words came out in jagged, broken shards. “Mom… Bradley… he’s with Victoria. At a hotel.” The hand on my back stopped moving. Evelyn gripped my shoulders and pulled me back, her expression hardening into something I didn’t recognize. “Summer, think about what you’re saying. What do you mean, Bradley and Victoria?” I looked at her, desperate for her to hold me again, to tell me she’d handle it. I told her everything. Every sordid detail of what I saw in that hallway. Evelyn’s brow furrowed. But her first reaction wasn’t anger at them. It wasn’t comfort for me. It was a sharp, cold interrogation. “Are you sure? Maybe you saw it wrong. Maybe it was a misunderstanding.” Those words hurt worse than the hotel air. “A misunderstanding? Mom, I saw them with my own eyes. I was there.” I fumbled for my phone, my hands still trembling. “I recorded it. Look!” Evelyn flinched as if the phone were a hot coal. She turned her head away, covering her eyes. “I won’t look at that!” her voice rose, sharp and scolding. “Summer! How could you even think such things about Victoria?” “She’s been my best friend for thirty years! I know her better than I know myself. She treats you like her own daughter! She would never do something so disgusting.” I stood there, arm extended, phone in hand. My own mother was looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and disgust—not for the cheaters, but for me. She started listing Victoria’s virtues like a litany. “She stayed up all night with you when you were sick as a baby. She gave you the biggest check at your wedding. She’s the one who introduced you to Bradley! Why would she destroy your marriage?” “You’re just confused. You must have seen someone else.” I felt the blood in my veins turn to slush. Thirty years of being her daughter didn’t stand a chance against thirty years of “sisterhood.” My pain was just “immaturity” to her. My trauma was a “slander” against her friend. She didn’t even look at me again. She picked up her own phone and dialed Victoria’s number. The second the call connected, Evelyn’s voice softened into a coo of concern. “Victoria? Oh, did I wake you? I’m so sorry, but Summer just got here and she’s saying the most awful things…” I watched my mother’s face shift from confusion to a slow, nodding realization, and finally, to a burning anger directed at me. She hung up and looked at me like I was a stranger who had just insulted her honor. “I’ve heard enough,” she snapped. “Victoria told me everything. She was at that hotel for a business meeting with a client. She happened to see Bradley there—he was drunk, Summer. She was just helping him to his room because she’s a decent person. And you? You burst in and started screaming at her. She’s been crying on the phone, she’s so hurt!” Evelyn pointed a finger at my face, her voice shaking with indignation. “Summer, you are going to call her right now and apologize.” Apologize? To the woman who had just dismantled my life? To the woman who was currently gaslighting my mother? A sense of profound absurdity washed over me. I looked at this woman—my mother—who was so blinded by a toxic friendship that she was willing to sacrifice her own child. I realized then that you can’t wake someone who is pretending to be asleep. We screamed at each other. I used words I’d never used with her, and she looked at me with a coldness that froze my heart solid. “I am so disappointed in you,” she said. It was the last thing she told me before I walked out. I grabbed my bag and ran into the night. I didn’t cry this time. I was numb. True loneliness isn’t being alone. It’s realizing that the person you trusted most as your backup just stabbed you in the back. 3 I went back to the place we called “home.” The moment I opened the door, the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey hit me. Bradley was curled on the sofa like a wounded animal, surrounded by empty bottles. He scrambled to his feet when he heard the door, his bloodshot eyes wide with terror. He tripped over his own feet and fell to his knees in front of me. “Summer, I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!” He grabbed my legs, sobbing like a child. “It was a mistake! I was stupid! I’m not a man, I’m a piece of trash!” He started slapping himself—hard. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed in the silent living room. I looked down at him. This was the man I’d shared a bed with for three years. His performance was top-tier; his face was already starting to swell. But I felt nothing. No pity, no anger. Just a vast, empty wasteland where my feelings used to be. “It was Victoria! She seduced me!” he cried when he saw I wasn’t reacting. “She told me you were too controlling, that you didn’t know how to take care of a man. She said she’d take care of me like… like a mother. I was just confused, Summer! I love you, only you!” He was weeping, painting himself as the victim of a predatory older woman. It was a pathetic, desperate attempt to shift the blame. I watched him like I was watching a bad movie. This man would never take responsibility. He would only kneel and bleed until he got what he wanted. In the past, I would have softened. I would have helped him up. Not today. He made a show of taking out his phone and deleting Victoria’s contact info, blocking her on everything. “See? I’m done with her! Just give me one more chance. Please.” He looked up at me, his face red and puffy, begging for the familiar comfort of my forgiveness. I knew he wasn’t sorry. He was just scared. Scared I’d post the video and ruin his reputation. Scared he’d lose his comfortable life. I looked at him, and a plan began to take shape. A cold, surgical plan. I let my expression soften, just a fraction. I pulled my leg away from his grasp and spoke in a raspy whisper. “I need time to think.” Bradley’s eyes lit up. He saw a crack in the door. He thought this was just like all our other fights—that if he groveled low enough, I’d eventually cave. “Yes, of course. Take all the time you need,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “But… don’t leave, okay? I’ll stay right here. I won’t leave your side.” I shook my head. “I’m staying at my mom’s for a while. I’ll contact you when I’ve cleared my head.” The light in his eyes dimmed, but he didn’t dare argue. “Okay. Whatever you need.” He thought “clearing my head” meant finding a way to forgive him. He had no idea that I was actually figuring out how to make him and Victoria pay for every single thing they’d taken from me. I started packing a bag. While he went to the kitchen to get me a glass of water, I grabbed his phone from the coffee table. No passcode. The irony was almost funny. I moved fast. I opened his messages, his bank apps, his call logs. I used a simple recovery tool I’d learned about for work to pull up the “deleted” chats. The filth I found was staggering. Explicit photos, high-frequency bank transfers, hotel bookings… every message was a fresh knife in my heart. I didn’t flinch. I backed everything up and sent it to a burner email address. When I was done, I zipped my suitcase and headed for the door. Bradley caught up to me, holding a glass of lukewarm water. “Summer, drink some water before you go.” He looked so small, so eager to please. I didn’t take the glass. I just looked at him and said, “Don’t follow me.” I shut the door on his desperate face. Outside, I took a long, deep breath. It tasted like copper. Summer, the girl who loved Bradley, died tonight. The woman who walked away is someone else entirely.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402433”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For three years with Bennett, I was the legendary “Saint of Manhattan”—the most chillingly perfect girlfriend his social circle had ever seen. I never tracked his location. I never blinked when he flirted with other women. No matter how late he stayed out or how many suggestive photos ended up on his Instagram, I never started a fight. Bennett wore my compliance like a trophy. He loved to brag to his friends about how much I worshipped him, how he’d finally found a woman who “knew her place.” That was until he accidentally found the old cloud account I shared with my first love. In those old videos, I was anything but stable. I was petty, prone to jealousy, and temperamental. I was a lightning storm of emotions. In one video, my first love laughed helplessly as he pulled me into a hug. “Why is your fuse so short, Jo?” he teased. I looked into the camera, chin tilted defiantly. “I only get angry because I love you. If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t give a damn what you did.” I saw Bennett’s face as he watched it. He went completely still. 1 When I walked into the dimly lit lounge, Bennett had a girl in a silk slip dress perched on his lap. Her thin, pale arms were draped around his neck, and her lips—glossed to a high, sticky shine—were inches from his. The married men in the booth were already standing up, offering sheepish smiles to Bennett. “Sorry, B. My wife’s been blowing up my phone for twenty minutes. If I’m not home by midnight, I’m sleeping on the sofa.” Bennett didn’t even look up. He let the girl pluck the cigarette from his mouth and take a drag herself. He let out a sharp, mocking huff. “You guys are pathetic. Letting a woman keep you on a leash.” The single guys in the group cheered. “That’s our Bennett. Doesn’t matter if he rolls in at 4:00 AM, Jo never says a word. Come on, man, give us the secret. How did you train her?” The girl on his lap giggled, pressing her chest against his blazer. “Seriously, Bennett. You’re doing this right in front of me—aren’t you afraid your girlfriend will walk in and lose it?” Bennett smirked, a flicker of performative arrogance crossing his handsome face. “She’s obsessed with me. She does whatever I say. In three years, we haven’t had a single argument. She doesn’t have it in her to be angry.” “Incredible,” someone muttered with genuine envy. “The guy spends three years playing the field and she stays silent. That’s a real man’s life right there—” The man’s voice died in his throat. He had spotted me standing by the velvet curtain, expressionless. Bennett turned. There wasn’t a trace of guilt on his face. He simply nudged the girl off his lap and beckoned me over with a flick of his wrist. “What are you doing here?” I paused for a second, then walked over. My voice was level, polite. “I’m out with some friends.” The girl he’d pushed aside looked annoyed. She sized me up, her eyes lingering on my modest coat before offering a tight, forced smile. “Hi, Jo.” Up close, I recognized her. She was the new intern at Bennett’s firm—Crystal. She’d graduated from a mid-tier state school; Bennett had personally insisted on hiring her after seeing her headshot in the HR pile. I didn’t realize he’d moved this fast. I ignored her. Bennett had clearly been drinking. His dark eyes were hooded and hazy, looking unfairly beautiful under the amber lights. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him. “You should’ve told me you were coming out. Give me a kiss.” He leaned in toward my mouth. I instinctively tilted my head away. I didn’t know if he’d just tasted Crystal’s lip gloss, and the thought made my skin crawl. Bennett’s expression shifted instantly. The smug smile evaporated. Even though he was sitting and I was standing, the way he looked at me felt like he was peering down from a great height. “Joanna. What the hell was that?” I looked away and said softly, “You’ve had too much to drink.” “You’re disgusted by me?” He sensed the eyes of his friends on him. He felt his ego bruising. Suddenly, he reached out, grabbed Crystal by the waist, and pulled her back onto his lap. He cupped the back of her head firmly. Crystal’s eyes lit up. She surrendered to the kiss immediately. They shared a long, wet, performative kiss right in front of me. When Crystal finally pulled away, breathless, a thin silver thread of saliva connected their lips. She looked at me, her mouth curling into a triumphant smirk. Bennett watched me, his eyes a challenge. The table went silent. Every man there knew that no woman should be able to stomach this. They were all waiting for the explosion, for the drink to be thrown, for the screaming to start. I just met Bennett’s gaze and said calmly, “You’re drunk. I’m going home.” As I turned to leave, I heard one of his friends whisper in awe. “Damn. Her ’emotional stability’ is terrifying. She didn’t even flinch.” “Bennett’s got her under a spell,” another laughed. “She’s probably terrified he’ll dump her if she makes a scene.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402432”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the man who was supposed to be the “protagonist” of her life finally appeared, Madeline and I already had a child. I couldn’t fight the script. Once, she had been willing to burn her entire world down—breaking off a high-society engagement—just to be with me. But then the shift happened. Suddenly, she looked at me with a soul-deep loathing, as if my very existence was a stain on her life. Eventually, I just broke. I let go of the love that had become a noose, walked away from the wreckage, and even left our daughter behind. Until a Tuesday evening, six years later. A small, solemn girl knocked on my door. She stood there with her face set in a mimicry of adult stoicism and said: “My mom doesn’t want me anymore. Can I stay with you?” 1 I froze, the words dying in my throat. Sophie pouted, her brow furrowing with impatient displeasure. She tilted her beautiful little face up and spoke with the precision of someone reciting a textbook. “My teacher said that parents have a legal and moral obligation to provide for their children…” I opened the door the rest of the way, cutting off her prepared speech. Stepping aside, I said quietly, “Come in.” The amber glow of the hallway lamp caught the slight widening of her eyes. They shimmered with an emotion I couldn’t name. She lifted her chin, let out a tiny, haughty “Hmph,” and marched inside. As I closed the door, I watched her. She was trying to look casual, but her eyes were darting everywhere, taking in my modest apartment. When she caught me watching, she gripped the straps of her backpack until her knuckles turned white. “My name is Sophie,” she said. It sounded like an introduction, but it felt like a reminder. A reminder that she was the daughter I had shared with Madeline. I knew. I had known the second I saw her. She was a carbon copy of the woman who had shattered my heart. Sophie seemed disappointed by my lack of a grand reaction. She looked away, her little shoulders tensing. I took her small backpack, set it on the bench in the entryway, and led her to the sink. “Let’s eat first,” I said. She gave a quiet “Okay.” By the time I brought the food out, she had already scrambled onto a chair. I asked her why she had suddenly decided to find me. Sophie poked at a piece of broccoli in her bowl, her head bowed. Her hair was dark and thick, just like her mother’s. Her voice came out muffled. “We had a fight. She started breaking things and told me to get out. She said she never wanted me to come back.” A childhood tantrum, then. A runaway. Madeline would probably be here to collect her within the hour. It made sense. Six years ago, the prestigious Jackson family—her family—had fought me tooth and nail for custody. They wouldn’t just throw her away now. My fork paused halfway to my mouth. I didn’t know what I was feeling. I hadn’t expected a guest, so dinner was just simple stir-fry and soup. Sophie, it turned out, was a surgical eater. She spent ten minutes picking out every trace of onion and carrot until there was nothing left on her plate but white rice. She stared at the mangled vegetables with a look of profound betrayal, stole a glance at me, and then guiltily swallowed a mouthful of rice. She had arrived with a shield of arrogance and pride, but seeing her struggle with a piece of broccoli made me realize she had likely been raised in a world where every whim was met. She hadn’t been mistreated. I felt a small, bitter relief. After finishing the dishes, I sat down to wait for the car Madeline would inevitably send. I waited until nine-thirty. A six-year-old’s internal clock is relentless. She pulled a pair of pajamas out of her bag, looked around the one-bedroom apartment, and pressed her lips together. “There’s only one bed,” she noted. “Am I supposed to squeeze in with you?” I looked at the clock. For some reason, the black SUVs hadn’t arrived. “Yeah,” I sighed. “You’re with me tonight.” I expected a meltdown. This cramped apartment was a far cry from the sprawling estate she was used to. But Sophie just bit her lip, her eyes flickering. She washed her face, grunted as she struggled into her pajamas, and climbed onto the bed herself. She had complained about the vegetables, too, but she’d eaten them in the end. Now, she burrowed into the duvet until she was a small mound of fabric. She produced a book of fairy tales from somewhere, peeked out from the covers, and whispered, “Aren’t you going to read to me?” She actually looked… happy. 2 After Sophie fell asleep, I pulled up a contact in my phone I hadn’t touched in years. I stared at Madeline’s name for a long time. I didn’t call. We had been apart for six years. In the beginning, we thought we could outrun destiny. My family had gone bankrupt overnight; hers had immediately moved to marry her off to a man named Victor. She had fought them. She had broken her engagement to Victor for me. I thought we were going to be the exception. I thought the bankruptcy would pass, that we would be okay. We got married in secret. We were happy, for a while. Then, on the eve of Sophie’s birth, everything changed. Madeline was rushed to a different hospital by her family. When she woke up, the woman I loved was gone. In her place was a stranger—cold, indifferent, and eventually, cruel. I didn’t understand how someone could change so fundamentally between sunsets. The way she looked at me went from adoration to a visceral disgust. Victor came to see me once. He was the one who told me the “truth” of our world. He spoke about “narrative corrections” and “protagonists.” He told me that because the intended “Male Lead”—him—had arrived late, the world had to fix the mistake. The price of that fix was the reversal of the heroine’s feelings. The more she had loved me, the more she was now forced to hate me. Victor looked at me with a sickening kind of pity. Before he left, he asked, “Have you thought about what will happen to your child in a world that doesn’t want you?” I went numb. I didn’t know who to hate. Madeline? She didn’t even seem to own her own mind anymore. Fate? Hate is useless against a force you can’t touch. Around that time, my parents were in a catastrophic car accident. They were left in comas, likely brain-dead. I was spiraling, Victor’s words echoing in my head like a death knell. The world felt like a sick joke I was tired of playing. One afternoon, I opened a high window in the hospital and looked down. Behind me, the baby in the crib started to wail. A dark, intrusive thought took hold: If I leave, what happens to her? Will the world allow her to exist? Will Victor hurt her? Or will she be like me—discarded by Madeline, left to wither away in silence until she dies just to satisfy the plot? I started shaking. I walked back to the crib, my hands trembling as I reached for her small neck. I wanted to take her with me. I wanted to save her from the life ahead. But then, she stopped crying. She stared at me with those big, watery eyes, looking at me as if I were her entire universe. The door burst open. Nurses and bodyguards swarmed in, shoving me away. I looked at my hands, horrified by what Victor’s poisonous whispers had almost driven me to do. The news reached the Jackson family immediately. The patriarch demanded a meeting. They wanted the child. I gave them everything. I signed the papers. I let go of the woman who hated me, and I gave up the daughter I was too broken to protect. I took two million dollars—just enough to cover my parents’ medical bills for the rest of their lives—and I disappeared. Madeline never showed up to the mediation. She couldn’t even bear to look at me. So, I accepted my role. I stayed in the shadows. I let her go, and I let myself go. I was pulled back to the present by a soft weight pressing into my side. Sophie had rolled over in her sleep, tucking herself into my chest. She was snoring softly, her tiny hand clutching my shirt as if she were afraid I’d vanish if she let go. I looked at her innocent face and let out a long, jagged breath. If she knew her father had almost ended her life the day she was born, would she still be here? She’d be running for the hills. 3 Morning came, and Madeline was still a no-show. I couldn’t figure out the angle. They had fought so hard for her, and now she was just… here. I woke Sophie up, got her dressed, and hailed a cab to take her to school. Her preschool was an hour away in the city, a place for the children of the elite. Before getting out of the car, she made me promise ten times that I’d be there to pick her up. She was clingy, rambling about nothing, until she saw a specific car parked near the school gates. Her eyes lit up. she dragged me out of the cab, but as we got closer to the gates, she slowed down. She purposefully marched over to a chubby little boy who had just stepped out of a luxury SUV. She held my hand tightly, swinging our joined arms so he couldn’t miss it. “Daddy,” she said, her voice loud enough for the entire sidewalk to hear. “You’ll be here to pick me up later, right?” It was the first time she had called me “Daddy.” Even when she’d shown up at my door, she hadn’t used the word. The little boy stared at me, skeptical. “If you have a dad, why hasn’t he ever brought you to school before?” Sophie lifted her chin, her expression one of pure disdain. “My dad is an executive. He’s incredibly busy, but he took special time off today just for me.” She put a heavy emphasis on “special.” She paraded me to the entrance like I was a trophy. Before she went inside, her bravado flickered. She leaned in and whispered, “You… you are coming, right?” When I didn’t answer immediately, she glared at me, her voice trembling. “You promised in the car! Adults aren’t allowed to lie!” I knelt down, adjusted her crooked collar, and ruffled her hair. It was soft, just like I remembered. “I’ll be here. I promise.” A smile tugged at her lips before she forced her face back into a mask of regal indifference. “Fine. I’ll be waiting.” I watched her until she disappeared inside. Then, I found her teacher. I wanted to know how she was doing. The teacher hesitated, then sighed. “Look, I know the Jackson family is powerful, and maybe it’s not my place… but Sophie’s father? Even if you’re busy, you can’t just ignore her.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Nobody has ever come to a parent-teacher conference. Not once since she enrolled. The other kids have started saying she doesn’t have a father. It’s affecting her, Mr. Sterling.” My heart sank. Not even an assistant? Madeline couldn’t even be bothered to send a proxy? I felt a surge of regret. Maybe I shouldn’t have signed those papers. But back then, I was a bankrupt ghost with two dying parents. How could I have raised a child? I pulled out my phone and dialed Madeline’s number. I needed to talk to her. If she didn’t want Sophie, I would take her. I wasn’t rich, but I could give her a life. As the phone started ringing, a ringtone sounded right behind me. I turned around. Madeline was stepping out of a sleek black sedan. Six years had passed. She looked different, yet exactly the same. She was looking down at her buzzing phone, then she looked up and met my eyes. “You’ve been hiding from me for a long time,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s time we talked?” Unlike my haggard, worn-down self, Madeline was the picture of composed power. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. I’d heard rumors—that she’d taken over the entire Jackson empire, that her brand was a global powerhouse, that she lived a quiet, solitary life. Seeing her felt like a physical blow. The memories I had tried to starve out came rushing back, filling my chest with a dull, aching heat. I thought I was over her. I wasn’t. This was the girl who used to make me rings out of twisted grass. This was the girl who pushed my bullies into the pool. How did we end up as strangers in a parking lot? She hadn’t changed. She just didn’t care about me anymore. “Long time no see, Madeline.” 4 We went to a quiet coffee shop nearby. Neither of us spoke until the lattes arrived. I didn’t want to play games. “Do you still want the child?” I asked bluntly. I had rehearsed this confrontation in my head a thousand times over the years. I was finally numb enough to sound indifferent. Madeline looked at me, her gaze unreadable. “Of course I do.” I looked out the window at the street signs. “Then make sure you pick her up. If you’re too busy for the conferences, let me know. I won’t get in the way of you and—” I couldn’t say Victor’s name. The sting was still too sharp. “—your life.” I stood up to leave. As I passed her, she spoke. “Is that all you want to talk to me about? Sophie?” I paused. “What else is there? We settled everything six years ago. You moved on, I took the money. What’s left?” Madeline let out a slow breath, her dark eyes locked on mine. “Fine. Then I don’t want her anymore.” The casualness of it floored me. “What are you talking about?” She gestured for me to sit back down. “Exactly what I said. You want her? Fine. She’s yours. But for the sake of her mental health, I will be coming to your place every Friday night to spend the weekend with her. I’ll leave Monday mornings for the office.” It was absurd. It was irrational. “Madeline, we’re divorced.” She let out a dry, sharp laugh. “Are we? I never signed the papers.” I felt the blood drain from my face. Six years ago, her grandfather had handed me the papers. I assumed she was too disgusted to see me, so I signed them and left. She was saying she never finished the process. But why wait six years to find me? I wasn’t deluded enough to think she still loved me. Maybe the papers got lost. Maybe she needed a formal settlement for tax reasons. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll sign new ones.” “No,” she said. “Madeline, let’s just finish this. It’s better for everyone.” “It’s not.” “What is it? Money? Stocks? You can keep it all. I want nothing.” “No.” Three ‘no’s. It made me angry, but it also felt hauntingly familiar. This was the Madeline I knew as a teenager. I remembered her eighteenth birthday. A rival of mine had been mocking me, humiliating me in front of the elite crowd. Madeline had walked up and shoved him into the pool without a word. It was a scandal. The elders were furious. Madeline refused to apologize. Her grandfather had her locked in a study for three days as punishment. I had sat outside that locked door. “I’m sorry,” I whispered through the wood. There was a silence, then the sound of her shifting, sitting on the other side of the door. “Go away,” she’d mumbled. “You should have just let him talk,” I said. “It didn’t matter.” “No.” “Don’t be guilty,” she’d added, tapping on the door. “I did it because I wanted to. It has nothing to do with you. Don’t you dare feel guilty.” Coming back to the present, I felt like I was hearing those words again. Madeline smiled, the light from the window catching the faint dust motes in the air. “Miles,” she said, using my name for the first time. “We are never going to be ‘even.’”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402431”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The Caldwell family was haunted by a legacy of early graves. Every man in their bloodline carried a genetic ticking clock—none had ever made it past thirty. My family’s lineage was the only antidote, a tradition of spiritual and physical tethering that kept the darkness at bay through marriage. But on the day of our wedding, Bennett Caldwell didn’t say “I do.” Instead, he reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulled out our marriage contract, and tore it to shreds in front of the entire congregation. He did it for her—his college sweetheart, the “one who got away” who had suddenly come back into his life. His mother rushed forward, her face pale with terror, trying to stop him. Bennett ignored her. He looked at me with eyes full of a localized, burning hatred. “Morgan, you’re nothing but a parasitic fraud,” he spat, his voice echoing through the cathedral. “My family has been bled dry by yours for nearly a century. You’ve tricked us with ghost stories and superstition to fund your lifestyle. Well, the free ride ends today.” Brooke, the woman standing at his side, leaned into him. She wore a smug, dismissive smile as she looked at me. “What are you still standing there for? Get out.” She adjusted her glasses, the light catching her “Dr. Brooke Stevens” name tag from the hospital. “I have a PhD in medicine, Bennett. Trust me, with real science on your side, you won’t just live past thirty—you’ll live to a hundred. You don’t need a witch.” I thought about Bennett’s pulse this morning. It had been a thready, fading vibration, barely a whisper against my fingertips. A cold, hard knot formed in my chest. Fine, I thought. His thirtieth birthday is in three days. We’ll see who’s right very soon. 1 I turned to leave, but Bennett’s mother, Mrs. Caldwell, grabbed my hand, her fingers trembling. “Morgan, please! Don’t go!” She spun toward her son, her voice cracking. “Bennett, apologize to her right now. Stop this madness!” Bennett didn’t move. He kept his hand firmly locked with Brooke’s. “You know exactly why we have this arrangement,” Mrs. Caldwell hissed, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “Thirty years ago, your uncle tried to break the cycle. He was crushed by a semi-truck on the morning of his thirtieth birthday. And your cousin? He laughed at the ‘curse’ just like you are now. He dropped dead of a massive hemorrhage the second he blew out his candles. You have three days left, Bennett! You are flirting with death!” “Enough, Mom!” Bennett roared. “Uncle Mark was an accident. My cousin had an undiagnosed heart condition. It has nothing to do with some backwoods ritual marriage!” He pointed a finger at me, laughing mockingly. “This ‘curse’ is a scam designed specifically to milk the Caldwell estate. I look at her and I feel sick. If you force me to marry this con artist, I won’t wait for my birthday. I’ll end it right now.” In a flash of dramatic instability, Bennett pulled a pocketknife from his vest and pressed the blade against his own throat. Brooke let out a sharp gasp and dropped to her knees before Mrs. Caldwell, sobbing. “Please, just trust the science for once! I’ve had Bennett on a state-of-the-art biometric monitor for weeks. His vitals are perfect! Let us prove it to you. I spent years in med school specifically so I could protect him from this nonsense. Give him a chance to be free!” “Mom, if you don’t back down…” Bennett pressed harder. A thin line of crimson bloomed on his neck, staining the white silk tie I had picked out for him myself. “I agree! Stop!” Mrs. Caldwell screamed. She lunged forward, wrestling the knife away from him, then turned to me with eyes full of agonizing guilt. “Morgan… I’m so sorry…” “It’s okay,” I said, cutting her off. I forced a small, sharp smile. “I truly hope Brooke can break the ‘curse.’ It would be nice for the women in my family to finally be free of yours.” I turned and walked out. Behind me, Bennett’s voice followed, thick with disgust. “Good riddance, you gold-digging bitch! Don’t let the door hit you!” I ran until I hit the humid air of the parking lot. The second the heavy doors closed, I doubled over. Cough. A mouthful of thick, black blood splattered onto the pavement. I should have stayed at the sanctuary for a few more years of training. But three years ago, when Bennett first took my hand and told me he loved me, I believed him. I was young, and his devotion felt like a sun I wanted to bask in. Even then, I could feel the weakness in his marrow through his pulse. Because I loved him, I had knelt before my mentor for seven days and seven nights, begging for permission to leave the mountain early to save him. For three years, I had sustained his life by siphoning his darkness into my own body, enduring the sensation of my internal organs being slowly ground to dust every single night. I thought it was a sacrifice for the man I’d spend my life with. I didn’t realize that his “love” was just a game—a cheap thrill to see if he could bed the “mystic girl” before he threw her away. I wiped the blood from my chin and ignored the stabbing pain in my chest. I just wanted to go home and sleep. But when I reached my apartment, the world shifted under my feet. The hallway was covered in red spray paint: SCAMMER. WITCH. SLUT. My front door was hanging off its hinges. Smoke billowed out. My sanctuary, the place I had carefully curated for three years, was being consumed by a roaring fire. 2 Inside that apartment were the journals and talismans I had spent years writing, using my own blood to anchor the protection spells that kept Bennett alive. I lost my mind. I sprinted toward the flames, desperate to save the only things that proved my sacrifice. But I only made it one step inside before a tongue of fire licked across my arm. The skin hissed and peeled away, exposing raw, weeping flesh. The salt from my tears hit the burn, and I screamed. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?” I spun around. Bennett was standing at the end of the hall, Brooke tucked under his arm. He was looking at my charred, bloody arm with a smirk. “Oh, I thought you were some kind of immortal goddess. Do you actually feel pain like the rest of us?” “Bennett, why?” I gasped, clutching my arm. “Everything in there… if those are gone, you don’t have a chance!” “Enough!” Bennett stepped forward and grabbed my throat, slamming me against the soot-covered wall. “Stop talking about your voodoo bullshit! It’s pathetic! I’m not just burning your toys, Morgan. I’m going to make sure the whole world knows what a fraud you are.” Before I could breathe, a swarm of reporters and paparazzi flooded into the narrow hallway. Cameras flashed, blinding me. “Ms. Thorne, how much money did you embezzle from the Caldwells over the last three years?” “Is it true you used ‘curses’ to blackmail a dying man into an engagement?” “You’re a criminal! You should be in jail!” A woman in the crowd reached out and grabbed my burned arm, twisting the raw flesh. I collapsed to the floor, my vision blurring into white-hot agony. Kicks landed on my ribs, my stomach, my back. Bennett just watched, laughing as he led Brooke away. By that evening, I was the top trending topic on social media. [Caldwell Heir’s Ex-Fiancée Exposed as Occult Con Artist! Hundreds of thousands of dollars stolen through ‘superstition’!] [Science Wins: Dr. Brooke Stevens Breaks Century-Long ‘Family Curse’!] I stumbled through the streets in my charred, ruined wedding dress. I tried to go to a department store to buy something—anything—to cover myself, but my card was declined. The automated voice on the phone was cold. “Ms. Thorne, your accounts have been frozen pending a fraud investigation. Please contact your branch…” I reached into my pocket and found a few crumpled twenties. I tried to check into a cheap motel, but the woman behind the desk recognized me from the news and spat on my shoes. “We don’t rent to lying hags. Get out!” I hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. My burns were beginning to fester. I felt the fever rising in my blood, a heavy, throbbing heat. I collapsed in an alleyway next to a dumpster, unable to take another step. Passersby who recognized me didn’t offer help. They threw trash. They poured old coffee on my wounds. I missed the mountains. I missed Arthur, my mentor. But I couldn’t leave yet. Tomorrow was Bennett’s birthday. When he had his hand on my throat, I had felt it. His pulse wasn’t just weak anymore. It was chaotic. Shattered. I needed to see the end. I dragged myself up, using the brick wall for support. I took one step, then another, before the world turned black and I pitched forward into the darkness. I woke up to the smell of dried sage and bitter herbs. I forced my eyes open, my body screaming in protest. Arthur was sitting beside me, his weathered hands carefully applying a poultice to my infected arm. “Arthur… I have to stay…” I wheezed. He looked at me with a heart-wrenching pity. “I know, child. You need to see the clock strike midnight.” He didn’t get to finish. The door to his small apothecary was kicked open with a violent crash. A dozen heavy-set men stormed in. They pinned me to the chair. The leader pulled a hunting knife from his belt and, without a word of warning, drove it straight into Arthur’s chest. 3 I let out a guttural scream and tried to lung toward him, but a hand clamped onto my hair and yanked me back. Bennett walked through the door, looking down at me with pure venom. “I wondered where you were hiding,” he said, stepping over Arthur’s slumped body. “So, this is the master puppeteer? The one who taught you how to bleed my family dry?” Bennett ground his heel into the wound in Arthur’s chest. Arthur gasped, blood bubbling at his lips. “Stop it! Let him go!” I sobbed, clawing at the floor. “He saved your life! You wouldn’t even be breathing right now if it weren’t for him!” Bennett leaned down, a cruel, twisted smile on his face. “Tell you what. I’ll give the old man a chance.” He pulled out his phone and shoved it in my face. “Record a video. Admit you’re a fraud. Tell the world you made up the curse to steal my money. Do it, and I’ll call an ambulance.” “Morgan, don’t…” Arthur shook his head, his eyes clouded with pain. Bennett didn’t hesitate. He pulled the knife out of Arthur’s chest and jammed it into the side of his neck, near the artery. A spray of hot, metallic blood hit my face. “Okay! Okay, I’ll do it! Just stop!” Bennett got his video. He was satisfied. Finally, he allowed his men to haul Arthur toward the hospital. When we arrived at the ER, a nurse rushed out, shoving a stack of paperwork into my hands. “He’s in critical condition! We need a deposit for the surgery immediately!” I froze. “My cards… they’re frozen. Please, he’s dying.” “Move it, honey! If we don’t get him into the OR now, he’s gone!” the nurse barked. I turned to Bennett. He was standing by the entrance, Brooke’s arm draped over his shoulder. “Bennett, please. You have the money. Pay the deposit. I did what you asked.” He laughed, a hollow, mocking sound. “Oh, you want a favor? You’ve been robbing my family for a hundred years, Morgan. A video doesn’t settle that debt. Get on your knees. Apologize to me and my ancestors.” I looked at Arthur, who was turning a terrifying shade of gray on the gurney. I didn’t care about my pride anymore. I dropped to the linoleum floor. “I’m sorry. I lied to you. Please, save him.” Brooke stepped forward, her voice sweet and poisonous. “An apology isn’t enough, sweetie. You need to beg. Properly. Give us a hundred kowtows. Let’s see that ‘spiritual’ devotion.” “You heard her,” Bennett said. “One hundred. Or he bleeds out right here.” I slammed my forehead against the hard floor. One. Two. The skin on my forehead broke. Blood ran into my eyes, blurring my vision. I lost sensation in my limbs. I just kept hitting the floor until I reached a hundred. I looked up, my head spinning. “There. Now pay. Please.” “Sure,” Bennett said with a shrug. “Let me just run home and grab my checkbook. I’ll be back.” He turned to leave. I lunged forward, grabbing his ankle. “You’re doing this on purpose! Bennett, he’s dying now!” “Careful, Morgan. That’s not a very grateful tone. Do you want the money or not?” I let go, my strength failing. “Please… just hurry.” Bennett returned an hour later. He tossed a receipt onto my lap. I scrambled to give it to the nurse, but she just looked at me with a heavy, tired sigh. “It’s too late. He’s gone. He went cold ten minutes ago.” The world stopped. I turned to Bennett, my vision tunneling into a red haze. I screamed, throwing a desperate, weak punch at his face. “You murderer! You did it on purpose! I’ll kill you!” Bennett caught my wrist effortlessly. His eyes were cold. “Kill me? You should worry about yourself. Now that you’ve confessed to being a fraud on video, let’s talk about restitution.” He threw a thick stack of invoices at my feet. “My family has supported yours for a century. Since you admitted it was all a scam, you owe us every cent back. With interest.” He waved his phone. “If you don’t pay, this video goes to the police. And I won’t just stop with you. I’ll go after your entire ‘clan.’ Every single one of them.” I gritted my teeth, my voice a jagged whisper. “I’ll pay. Just wait until after your birthday tomorrow. I’ll give you everything you’re owed.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402430”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend has been acting incredibly strange lately. It isn’t just that he’s been remarkably… attentive in the bedroom every night. It’s the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching—a gaze full of a dark, brooding resentment, as if he’s mourning me while I’m still standing right there. I was beginning to think he was having some sort of mid-life crisis at thirty, until I heard the Voice. I was lounging on the sofa, half-dreading the next page of my script, when a mechanical, digitized voice cut through the silence of the room. It was talking to him. [Host, the female lead’s “First Great Love”—the one who got away—is returning tomorrow. This isn’t a drill. History is about to repeat itself.] [This is a “Second Chance Romance” story. You? You’re just the placeholder. The cannon fodder. The guy who keeps the seat warm until the hero comes home.] [I know it hurts, but you have to accept reality. You aren’t the man she loves. You’re just the man she’s with.] [Walk away now. If you leave today, you can at least keep your dignity.] I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked around the penthouse, but Roman was in the kitchen. Then, his voice drifted through the doorway—low, cold, and dripping with a quiet, terrifying malice. “So what?” he whispered, his voice like a blade dragged over ice. “I don’t care if the glass is shattered. I don’t care about their ‘history.’ If she’s going to be whole again, I’m the only one who gets to glue the pieces back together.” 1 The sound of his voice—and that other voice—was so sudden I jumped, the heavy script slipping from my hands and smacking me right in the face. I scrambled into a sitting position, eyes darting around. The room was empty. Just me and the mid-afternoon sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But the conversation hadn’t stopped. [How do you not get it? She doesn’t love you, Roman!]The Voice sounded frustrated now, like a glitchy Siri with an attitude.[She only agreed to the engagement because of the family merger. It was a business deal for her.] Roman’s response was a bored, indifferent hum. “Mhm. Tell me something I don’t know.” The System: […] [Sebastian is coming back specifically to win her back. You’re the obstacle in a best-seller, Roman. Give it up while you’re ahead.] [Lest you forget, they only broke up because of you in the first place! If she ever finds out what you did, do you really think she’ll stay? The ‘Main Character Energy’ is with him. You can’t fight the narrative.] There was a long, suffocating silence. Then, Roman’s voice came back, freezing the air in my lungs. “Then let’s see the narrative try to stop me.” … From the fragments of that bizarre exchange, a localized reality began to settle in my mind. I was living in a trope. My life was a “Second Chance” novel. I was the Leading Lady, destined to reunite with my tragic ex. And my current fiancé, Roman Blackwood? He was just the guy in the way. The temporary fix. I wanted to hear more, to understand how I was hearing a ‘System’ inside Roman’s head, but the bathroom door swung open. I turned and collided with Roman’s sharp, piercing gaze. Steam still clung to his skin, making his features look even more severe, more angular. His silk robe was tied loosely, droplets of water tracing the hard lines of his chest and disappearing into the shadows of his abdomen. We had been together—intimately—many times since the engagement. But every time he looked at me like this, my face still burned. I quickly looked away, my pulse tripping. And then, that electronic buzz returned. [See? Total lack of interest. She won’t even look at you.] The temperature in the room plummeted. I could feel Roman’s eyes on the back of my head, a gaze so intense it felt like it could pierce skin. [Our heroine is a one-man woman, Roman. You could stand in front of her completely naked and she’d still be thinking about the guy who left.] I: … Excuse me? I wasn’t being a saint; I’d looked, I’d touched, and I’d definitely enjoyed it. [I don’t know where you get the audacity. Once Sebastian shows up, you’re getting the pink slip. Just watch.] I felt like I was sitting on a bed of nails. The script in my lap felt like a hot coal. I couldn’t stand the tension, so I forced myself to turn back and look at him. I searched my brain for something—anything—to say. “Um… do you want me to dry your hair?” Before Roman could even open his mouth, the System shrieked in my ear. [Are you kidding me?! Is this how you treat her? Like she’s your maid?] [Where is your sense of service? Being near her is a privilege, you arrogant prick!] [When Sebastian was around, she never had to lift a finger. He used to peel her shrimp for her, for god’s sake!] [Just step down, Roman. Make way for the real couple.] I was genuinely floored. I’d known Roman for years, and he was usually the one doing the chewing out. I’d never heard anyone—or any thing—speak to him with such utter contempt. Roman’s expression didn’t flicker. His lips didn’t move. But his internal retort echoed in my skull with its usual mocking bite: “She hates shrimp. Your ‘hero’ didn’t even know that.” The System paused, then sputtered: [Impossible! She always looked happy when he did it!] “Idiot.” I wasn’t sure who he was calling an idiot—the System or the ex. While I was lost in a daze, Roman had walked over to me. He took the hairdryer from my hand and said in a clipped, neutral tone: “I have some files to go over. Go to sleep first.” He turned toward the study. The System started up again, relentless. [Look at you. You know she likes the ‘Golden Boy’ type—warm, sunny, gentle. And here you are, acting like a human ice cube.] [No wonder you’ve been pining for eight years and haven’t made a dent. You’re a fraud. I despise you!] Eight years? 2 Finding out my life was a plot point in a commercial novel was surreal enough. Finding out that Roman Blackwood had been secretly in love with me for eight years? That was bordering on the impossible. I’m two years older than Roman. If the System was right, he’d been pining for me since he was eighteen. But we barely had a history before the merger. We’d seen each other at galas, traded maybe ten sentences in a decade. Even when our families brought up the alliance, I wasn’t the first choice. The offer was originally for my younger sister, Beatrice. She was his age, the “perfect” socialite, the polished heir. But Beatrice had thrown a fit, refusing to be “sold off,” and so the burden fell to me—the quiet daughter who lived in scripts and film sets. I had always assumed I was the consolation prize. The runner-up. When Roman suggested we skip the wedding for a while and just stay engaged to “get to know each other,” I didn’t object. For eighteen months, we’d gone through the motions of a modern power couple. Our bodies were intimately acquainted, but our hearts remained at a polite, lukewarm distance. Roman was cold. He didn’t laugh. He barely talked. And his temper? It was legendary. Shortly after the engagement, my father sent me to his office to deliver some papers. I’d stopped outside his door, paralyzed by the sound of him obliterating his senior staff. “Is this a report or a ransom note? The only thing correct in this entire pile is the page numbers.” “Does your job description involve anything other than keeping your chair warm?” “I don’t pay you this much to see how smooth you can keep your cerebral cortex.” The employees had filed out looking like they’d been through a war zone. It terrified me. From that day on, I made sure never to poke the bear. I stayed out of his way, handled my own problems, and tried to be the “low-maintenance” fiancée. It had worked. He’d never yelled at me. But he certainly didn’t seem like a man in love. Maybe the System was glitching. Or maybe I was just hallucinating from the stress of my upcoming shoot. Yes, I told myself, pulling the duvet over my head. A good night’s sleep and the voices will disappear. 3 I was wrong. The next morning, I was jolted awake by a digitized snark-fest. [You’ve been staring at her for thirty minutes. Are you trying to be late for work?] Roman’s voice was lazy, heavy with morning grit. “I’m the boss.” The System went silent for a beat. [God, I hate the 1%. I really do.] [So what if you’re the boss? She still doesn’t love you. Hehehe…] This time, it was Roman who fell silent. “If you can’t say something useful, go bark at a wall.” The System: […] [So mean. No wonder she’s indifferent.] I used every ounce of my acting training to pretend I was still asleep. It was the performance of my life. By the time I finally “woke up,” Roman had already made breakfast. Exactly one portion. He sat there, eating a few bites, then habitually pushed the rest toward me. [Aha! I knew it! You only make one portion so you can have the ‘honor’ of eating her leftovers!] [You’re a sick, twisted second-lead, aren’t you? This is your kink!] Roman bit into his toast. “If you’re that bored, go lick a frozen pole.” The System: […] I choked on my water, coughing violently. Roman was up in a second, his hand firm but surprisingly gentle as he patted my back. “Slow down,” he said, his voice as calm as a deep lake. “No one’s taking it from you.” My face flushed a deep crimson. At the start of our engagement, he did make two portions. But as an actress, I was constantly on a strict diet for roles, and I could never finish. Eventually, he started making one “mega-plate”—nutrient-dense, beautifully plated. I’d eat what I needed, and he’d finish the rest so nothing went to waste. I’d always thought it was just practical. Now, thanks to the System, it felt… intimate. Charged. After breakfast, my assistant, Jade, arrived to take me to the studio. I had a cover shoot for a major fashion magazine—a long-scheduled event. I certainly didn’t expect to run into my ex, Sebastian Hart. He wasn’t the broke, struggling musician I’d dated years ago. He was a global icon now. He was wearing a vintage leather jacket, his dark hair swept back, his eyes sharper, harder than I remembered. For a second, I didn’t recognize the man who had once written songs for me in a cramped studio apartment. Then he spoke, and the years melted away. “Nora. It’s been a long time.” Remembering what the System said about “Second Chance Romances,” I felt a spike of anxiety. I nodded with cold professionalism. “Sebastian. Good to see you.” His smile faltered. His eyes darkened with a familiar, wounded look. I had no intention of catching up, so I tried to walk past him. But he wasn’t having it. He caught my wrist, his grip firm. “Nora, please. Don’t talk to me like I’m a stranger.” I frowned, trying to pull away. “Let go, Sebastian.” He was stubborn. He always had been. “We need to talk. Five minutes.” “There’s nothing to say. Let go.” [Oh my god! Touching already? The plot is moving so fast!]The Voice was practically squealing.[That’s my hero! So much more chemistry than the Ice King!] I stiffened. A second later, a voice like a sub-zero wind echoed down the hallway. “She told you to let go. Are you deaf, or just stupid?” 4 Roman was standing at the end of the corridor in a charcoal suit, looking like he’d stepped out of a nightmare. While Sebastian was distracted, I yanked my arm free and practically ran to Roman’s side. Only when I reached him did I realize his gaze was fixed entirely on Sebastian. Their eyes met, and the air between them practically hummed with lethal intent. The System was vibrating with excitement. [YES! The ‘Aggressive Competition’ trope! Fight for her! Tear each other apart! I live for this!] [The hero has arrived! Time for the redemption arc!] [Wait… look at her wrist. It’s red. Sebastian, you brute, you’re losing points for being too rough!] Roman looked down, his eyes landing on my wrist where Sebastian had gripped me. He reached out, his thumb grazing the reddened skin with a touch so light it was almost a ghost. When he looked back at Sebastian, his voice was terrifyingly calm. “Mr. Hart. I realize you’ve been out of the country, but let me refresh you on the local customs.” “In this city, grabbing my fiancée like that is considered harassment. With the right lawyer, it’s a quick way to spend five to ten days in a cell.” He hit the word fiancée with the weight of a sledgehammer. Sebastian’s face paled for a fraction of a second, but he recovered with a smug, easy grin. He stepped closer, acting as if they were just chatting over drinks. “Congratulations are in order then, Mr. Blackwood.” “But an engagement is just a promise, isn’t it? It’s not a contract.” “And even contracts can be voided. People change their minds every day. Don’t you think?” The air turned to lead. I stared at Sebastian, shocked by his blatant audacity. The System was pouring gas on the fire. [The reunion! From this moment on, the countdown to the ‘Broken Mirror Reunited’ begins!] [True love never truly dies. Even if they strayed, they’re destined to find their way back.] [You can use a ring to tie her down, Roman, but you can’t make her love you.] [Look at Sebastian declaring war for love! So dreamy!] Roman’s face was turning a shade of pale that usually preceded someone getting fired—or worse. I stepped in before he could do something we’d both regret. “My fiancé and I are very happy, Sebastian. You don’t need to concern yourself with my life.” I grabbed Roman’s hand and pulled him toward the exit. We got to the car in silence. Roman gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “What are you doing here?” I asked softly. He stared straight ahead. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d check in.” The System chimed in gloomily: [‘In the neighborhood’ my ass. You heard they were meeting and you cancelled three board meetings to fly down here in a panic.] [You’re such a fraud, Roman. An insecure, villainous fraud.] [Look at you. Your heart is probably in eighty-eight pieces right now. Sucks to be the second lead, doesn’t it?] I swallowed hard and tried to explain. “I didn’t know he was going to be at the shoot. There’s nothing between us, Roman.” Roman turned his head. His expression had returned to its usual, unreadable mask of stone. “I know.” “He’s the past. The past doesn’t matter.” 5 After a short break, I was scheduled for a cameo in a new indie film. It was supposed to be a low-key ten-day shoot. The night before I was set to start, I got word that one of the leads had been dropped due to a scandal. His replacement? Sebastian Hart. Given his current superstar status, a role this small was beneath him. The only reason he’d take it was to be near me. I really didn’t understand the “System’s” obsession with us getting back together. Based on what I knew about myself, I wasn’t the type to look back. If a mirror breaks, you don’t try to glue it back together and risk cutting your hands; you buy a new one. I hesitated, wondering if I should tell Roman. He noticed my hesitation immediately. He set down his tablet and looked at me. “Something on your mind?” I told him about the casting change. He looked at me for a long beat. “And?” I blinked. “Does it… bother you?” Roman was quiet for a moment. “A little.” “But I’m not going to sabotage your career because of a man. I’m not going to ask you to quit just to make myself feel secure.” His eyes were incredibly sincere. It reminded me of a time early in our engagement. I was filming in a remote mountain range when a flash flood hit. The signals were down, the roads were washed out. I still don’t know how he did it, but Roman found me. I remember the sound of the helicopters cutting through the storm. Roman had stepped out into the biting wind, his dark coat whipping around him. He looked like a solid, immovable mountain in the middle of the chaos. That image had stayed with me for a long time. He had always respected my work. Even when my own father tried to force me to “retire” and become a full-time socialite after the engagement, Roman had been the one to shut him down. He was the one who adjusted his schedule to visit me on set, even if it meant working through the night on his private jet. My heart swelled with a sudden, sharp heat. I was about to say something—maybe something brave—when the System piped up. [Exactly! Love should be loud! Tell her how you feel, you idiot!] [Wait… hang on. You’re the villain. Why am I starting to root for you? No, focus! Team Sebastian!] Roman: “…” I bit my lip to keep from laughing and hurried out of the room. 6 On set, I was a ghost. I spent every second glued to Jade, terrified Sebastian would corner me again. But it didn’t happen. We were both busy, our schedules barely overlapping. Instead, Roman’s “casual” visits became strangely frequent. Five times in one week. Every time, his excuse was the same: “I had a meeting nearby.” The System was a relentless fact-checker. [Nearby? You went from New York to LA via a ‘stopover’ in Seattle? That’s some creative geography, Roman.] [Just admit you want to be her backpack. You’re obsessed. It’s pathetic.] Roman: … The last time he came, however, he actually was on his way to Australia and had a layover in the city. He’d brought me some of my favorite takeout. I was stuck in a scene and couldn’t get back to the hotel. I was planning to call him during the break, but Jade sent me a video first. It was filmed from a hidden angle in the hotel lobby. Roman and Sebastian were standing face-to-face. Roman was in his usual armor—a bespoke suit, back straight as a spear. Sebastian was still in his costume—a period piece—looking every bit the dashing hero. Sebastian spoke first. “You’re here a lot, Roman. What are you so afraid of?” Roman smiled—a thin, dangerous thing. “They say you only need to guard against thieves, not gentlemen. What does that tell you?” Sebastian didn’t flinch. He’d clearly grown a thicker skin during his years abroad. “I’ve heard you’re good with words, Roman. I’m not here to play games.” He took a step forward, closing the gap. “Years ago, one word from you ruined three years of my life. I was nobody then. I had to take it.” “But I’m standing here now to tell you: it’s a fair fight now. And I’m going to win.” The lobby lights were warm, but the atmosphere in the video was freezing. Roman, holding a thermal bag of food, didn’t even blink. “A ‘fair fight’ with a ghost? You’re a memory, Sebastian. Nothing more.” Sebastian’s eyes flashed. “A memory? If she’s really over me, why was she so desperate to push me away the other day? You know the truth, Roman. She never loved you. She loved the version of herself she was with me.” Roman didn’t move. But I could see his knuckles whitening around the handle of the bag. When he spoke, his voice was as steady as a heartbeat. “So what?” “She is my fiancée now.” “I am the first person she sees when she wakes up, and the last person she sees before she sleeps.” “She eats the food I cook. She wears the rings I buy. She lives in the life we built.” “And you? You’re just a guy she used to know.” Sebastian’s mask slipped. The smugness vanished, replaced by a raw, suppressed rage. “If you were that confident, you wouldn’t be hovering over her like a vulture,” Sebastian hissed. “You just caught her at a weak moment. I beat you once, and I’ll beat you again.” Roman actually laughed. It was a soft, pitying sound. “I don’t view her as a prize to be won, Sebastian. She isn’t a trophy. She isn’t a ‘win.’” With that, he walked right past a stunned Sebastian and out of the frame. The video ended. My phone was vibrating with a million exclamation points from Jade. JADE: IS THIS REAL LIFE? THE TENSION! THE DRAMA! JADE: Roman is a KING. That ‘So what?’ gave me chills! I’m officially a stan. JADE: But wait—what did Sebastian mean about Roman ruining his life for three years? What happened?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402429”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel