Author: Momo Chan

Monica’s rule took effect on the second day of our marriage. “Personal expenses are capped at twelve hundred a month.” “Any single purchase over seventy-five dollars requires a photo of the receipt sent to me for approval.” “It’s not that I’m cheap, Elliot. I’m helping you build financial discipline. You’ve always been reckless with money.” At the time, I thought she made sense. So for three years, I spent two weeks agonizing over whether to buy a new winter coat, and waited hours for her text confirmation just to order a fresh pair of contact lenses. Until last month, when I found a secondary card statement tucked in the pocket of her trench coat. Cardholder: Brad Cox. Her Executive Director of Operations. Past three months of transactions: – Custom tailored menswear: $12,000. – Exclusive golf club annual membership: $4,500. – Michelin-starred dining: $2,000. The total exceeded my living allowance for two full years. I folded the statement back into her pocket, placing it exactly as I’d found it. When she came home that evening, she saw me sitting at the kitchen table with my expense ledger. “How much today?” she asked casually, slipping off her heels. I didn’t look up. “One hundred twenty. Groceries were sixty-three, utilities fifty-seven.” She gave a satisfied “Mmhmm” and walked into her study. On the final page of my ledger, I hadn’t written a number. I had written my signature—at the bottom of a divorce agreement she hadn’t seen yet. … The next morning, Monica flipped to the final page of my ledger. The divorce agreement was hidden under the drawer lining, so she saw only dense columns of figures. “Why were utilities twelve dollars higher yesterday than last month?” Her fingertip tapped the entry, her tone cool and measured. “It’s getting cold. I ran the water heater longer.” “Elliot, twelve dollars isn’t much, but bad habits start with small compromises like this.” She unsheathed her fountain pen and wrote “Keep this under control” in the margin. I stared at her crisp cursive, suddenly realizing how long three years truly was. Long enough for her to forget that before we married, I had never kept an expense ledger in my life. My phone rang. It was my mother. She coughed twice before speaking, her voice gentle. “Elliot, the hospital says the follow-up needs a contrast MRI. Is six hundred eighty dollars too expensive? A standard scan might be fine…” I gripped the phone tightly. “It’s not too expensive, Mom. Get the contrast.” Monica glanced up from her coffee. After I hung up, she opened the shared family account app on her phone, her tone entirely natural. “What scan?” “Mom’s post-surgery follow-up. Six hundred eighty.” “Didn’t she just get checked last month?” “The doctor saw a shadow. They need to confirm what it is.” Monica frowned. “Let’s stick to the standard scan first. Contrast scans are just hospital upsell tactics. At her age, the contrast dye isn’t good for her kidneys anyway.” She tapped “Decline” on her screen before I could stop her. A prompt flashed on my phone: “Request Denied.” I looked at her. “The doctor recommended the contrast.” “Doctors aren’t paying your bills.” She flipped her phone face down on the table. “You’re too anxious, Elliot. You believe whatever people tell you.” Her study line rang. Monica answered, her tone shifting instantly, softening into smooth warmth. “Brad, what’s wrong?” Brad’s voice bled through the receiver. “Monica, about the bespoke cufflinks for the launch party… the brand says the deposit is two thousand dollars. Should I put it on my personal card first?” “No need. Use the secondary corporate card.” “Won’t finance say I’m over budget?” Monica chuckled softly. “It’s a business expense. Don’t waste time worrying about small change.” I opened my banking app and transferred six hundred eighty dollars directly to my mother from an old personal account I had kept from before our marriage. The moment the transfer cleared, Monica’s phone chimed with a joint balance alert. Her face darkened instantly. “Where did that money come from?” “My pre-marital savings.” “I thought we agreed that all family funds were to be managed under one roof?” “It’s for my mother’s medical check.” “I never said she couldn’t have it. I told you to verify if it was necessary first.” She took my phone from my hand and linked my old account to the joint household portal. “Don’t spend money behind my back, Elliot. Transparency is the bedrock of a marriage.” She spoke with such high-minded authority, as if I were the one committing a breach of trust. Before Monica left, habit took over. I stepped forward to straighten her trench coat collar. The instant my fingers touched the fabric, the image of Brad’s secondary card statement flashed in my mind. I pulled my hand back slowly. She didn’t notice, merely glancing at her watch. “Launch rehearsal tonight. I won’t be back for dinner. Don’t buy too many groceries; leftovers spoil.” Once the door clicked shut, I called the clinic to confirm Mom’s appointment. That afternoon, an email landed in my inbox: an invitation to the launch of “Lumina”, the new high-end fine jewelry line under Blake Global. Lead Designer: Brad Cox. I opened the digital catalog. The centerpiece piece was a half-moon crescent brooch paved in diamonds. It was identical to the sketch locked in my study drawer. Underneath, a caption read: “Brad Cox’s three-year labor of love, dedicated to equal partners who elevate each other.” I pushed open the study door. The drawer holding my old portfolio was completely empty. “I told Brad to take those sketches,” Monica said when she came home that evening. She didn’t even bother denying it. “You weren’t doing anything with them anyway. Letting Brad turn them into a real collection isn’t a waste.” I stood by the dining table. “Those are mine.” “I know.” “Then why is his name on the catalog?” She looked at me for a long moment, like a parent deciding how to explain a simple truth to an unreasonable child. “Because he managed the sourcing, the production, and the marketing. Elliot, a few loose sketches aren’t a design collection. Don’t confuse a hobby with a career.” “Before we married, I was a fine jewelry designer.” “Your studio made under a hundred grand a year,” she said dismissively. “Blake Global put five million into this launch. Can you afford to fail?” I didn’t answer. Three years ago, when she persuaded me to close my studio, she had used the same gentle, reasonable tone. She said my stomach ulcers couldn’t handle late-night stress. She said she wanted to take care of me. Back then, I handed over my client lists, turned the key in the studio lock, and believed I was stepping into the safest, most loving marriage in the world. Now I understood: a kept spouse owns nothing. “Add me as co-designer,” I said. Monica picked up her glass of water. Her tone was flat. “We’ll discuss it after the launch.” “I want it changed now.” “Elliot, don’t be childish.” She set the glass down; the water rippled. “Brad spent four months putting this together. If you jump in now demanding credit, how does that look to the team?” “He spent four months. I spent four years drawing them.” “So?” Her eyes turned ice cold. “You want the press to know Monica Blake’s husband sat at home doing nothing for three years, then rode his wife’s coattails back into the industry?” My fingernails dug into my palms. She always found the most elegant way to dress up my work as my shame. The next day, I went to Blake Global headquarters. Brad was in the VIP fitting room trying on pieces for the launch. When he saw me, he touched a carved opal pendant hanging around his neck. It was my mother’s heirloom. “Elliot! Perfect timing. Tell me, does this opal piece complement the centerpiece collection?” I walked over. “Take it off.” His smile stiffened slightly. “Monica said the presentation needed an heritage touch. She let me borrow it for a few days.” “It belongs to my mother.” “I know,” he whispered, stroking the smooth green surface with his thumb. “But Monica said letting it sit in your drawer gathering dust was a waste. Better to let it create real value.” Over a dozen staff members were in the room. Some pretended to read files; others suddenly found their tablets fascinating. Monica pushed the door open just as Brad made a show of reaching for the clasp. “What’s going on?” Brad’s eyes turned instantly rimmed with red. “Elliot doesn’t like me wearing it. I’ll return it right now.” Monica stopped his hand. “The press shoot is in ten minutes. Re-styling now is out of the question.” She finally turned to me. “It’s just a piece of opal. He’ll give it back after the event.” “It’s my mother’s heirloom.” “If your mother gave it to you, it’s yours. Lending it to a colleague for an hour isn’t a crime.” Brad said softly, “Monica, please don’t argue with Elliot on my account. The photo shoot can wait.” “The crew has been waiting for two hours!” Monica handed him an expense sheet. “The cufflink deposit is approved. I added seven thousand for your wardrobe upgrade—don’t skimp.” She looked back at me, as if suddenly remembering. “Did your mother’s test results come back?” “This afternoon.” “If it’s nothing serious, stop running back and forth to the hospital. Gas and parking add up.” The fitting room fell dead silent. Brad lowered his head, but a tiny, triumphant smirk touched the corner of his lips. My phone vibrated. A call from the hospital. The oncologist said the shadow looked suspicious. They needed her admitted for immediate exploratory surgery. Deposit required: five thousand dollars. I submitted the spending request on my phone, right in front of Monica. She glanced at her screen. “Five thousand is significant. Let me consult her doctors first.” “The surgical bed is only held until five p.m.” “Then let them reassign it. If it’s a real emergency, they won’t refuse a patient over five thousand dollars.” She tapped “Pending Review”. Just then, a brand coordinator rushed in: “Mr. Cox, the rush dispatch fee for the custom tuxedo came out to six thousand dollars.” Brad handed over his secondary corporate card. “Charge this.” The POS machine whirs and prints the receipt. At the same second, Monica’s phone lit up with a corporate card notification for six thousand dollars. She glanced at it, then casually flipped her phone face down on the desk. I took my wedding band to a high-end jeweler downtown. Buyback price: six thousand dollars. Just enough for Mom’s deposit. The jeweler placed the platinum band in a velvet pouch. “Are you sure? It’s custom-engraved on the inside.” I shook my head. “Positive.” The ring had cost forty grand three years ago. Monica had placed it on my finger herself, promising I would never have to worry about money again. Today, its only value was buying my mother a chance at life. When I returned from the hospital, Monica was sitting in the living room. The pawn receipt sat open on the coffee table. “Where is your ring?” “Sold.” “Why couldn’t you wait for my approval?” “My mother couldn’t wait.” Her brows drew together. “I spoke to a specialist friend. The surgery could have waited a week.” “The surgical bed would have been gone today.” “Then we would have found another hospital!” “The chief surgeon was only available this week,” I said, my voice terrifyingly calm as I unlaced my shoes. “I paid with my own ring. It didn’t cost you a dime.” Monica stood up, grabbing my wrist. Her grip wasn’t violent, but it was firm, refusing to let me walk away. “Elliot, do you really have to push me like this?” “Push you how?” “Forcing me to play the bad guy who doesn’t care about your mother! Forcing me to bow to you over five thousand dollars!” I stared at her, suddenly at a loss for words. To her, my mother’s surgery wasn’t a matter of life and death. It was just a bargaining chip in a game of control. She released my wrist and pulled a matte black card from her wallet. “There’s ten thousand on this account. Password is your birthday. Redeem your ring. Don’t make me a laughingstock among my peers.” My body moved before my mind could stop it. I reached out to take it. Then her phone lit up on the table. A photo text from Brad. He was wearing my mother’s opal pendant alongside an eighteen-karat gold luxury watch. “Monica, please come with me to the investor dinner tonight. I can’t handle these sharks alone.” Monica pulled the card back. “Go to the hospital first. I have a dinner tonight.” “My mother’s surgery is tomorrow morning. They need family consent forms signed.” “You signing is enough.” “She wanted to see you.” “After the launch.” She grabbed her coat, stopping at the foyer. “Come to the launch tomorrow night. Brad said having the designer’s spouse there creates good press. Don’t look underdressed—I’ll have my assistant send over a suit.” The night before Mom’s surgery, Theresa Stone came to the hospital room. Theresa was my late father’s corporate attorney and a family friend I’d known since childhood. She handed me a thick manila folder. “The equity proxy agreement your father created for you expires next month, Elliot. You never called, so I brought the paperwork myself.” I froze. “What equity?” “Thirty-two percent of Blake Global.” Theresa watched me closely. “When Monica was starting Blake Global, your father provided the seed capital in your name. Right after your wedding, you signed a proxy giving Monica voting control over your shares for a term of three years.” I recalled the stack of paperwork Monica had brought home right before our wedding. She had said it was for joint insurance and household accounts. I had trusted her. I signed everything without reading. “What happens when it expires?” “You can renew it. Or you can revoke it.” The door swung open. Monica stood on the threshold, her eyes locking onto the document folder in Theresa’s hands. “What are you doing here?” Theresa stood up smoothly. “Helping Elliot sign his mother’s surgical consent forms.” “He has a wife. He doesn’t need your help.” Monica walked over, laying a fresh legal document on the bedside table. “The brand launch requires a supplemental design release. Sign it, and I’ll have finance reimburse every penny of your mother’s hospital bills.” I flipped to the final page. The scope covered “all design work created prior to and during the marriage, in perpetuity.” “And if I don’t sign?” Monica’s expression didn’t flicker. “Then we follow household protocol. Unapproved medical expenses may not qualify for reimbursement.” From behind the curtain, my mother whispered weakly, “Is that Monica?” I heard gurneys rolling down the hallway. I picked up the pen. Monica pressed her hand on the corner of the paper, reminding me softly: “Full signature, Elliot. Don’t mess it up.” I wrote out “Elliot Shaw”, stroke by stroke. As the tip left the paper, Mom let out a quiet, heartbroken sigh behind the curtain. “Elliot… I agreed to you marrying her because she promised you’d never suffer a day in your life.” Monica’s fingers went rigid. The nurse pushed open the door. “Family members, please step aside. We’re preparing the patient for the pre-op suite.” Monica gathered the signed release, her eyes darting away from mine. Before the launch event, the suit Monica’s assistant brought over was an inch too narrow at the shoulders. The tag read “Brad Cox”. It was a sample he had rejected. I didn’t put it on. Instead, I wore my three-year-old dark wool suit, its cuffs slightly worn at the edge. Monica reached out to smooth my lapels. “Don’t bring up the design credit tonight. And don’t talk about your mother being in the hospital.” “Investors don’t like founders with messy personal lives.” In the mirror, she stood before me, her movements practiced and attentive. For a fraction of a second, I almost wanted to believe she just cared too much about her career. Until Brad pushed the door open. He was wearing the signature bespoke tux from the “Lumina” line. Hanging against his chest was my mother’s heirloom opal medallion. “Monica, the press has arrived.” Monica smoothed the last crease on my jacket and stepped back. “Elliot, sit in the second row. If reporters ask, tell them you’ve always supported Brad’s creative vision.” I turned around. “Those designs belong to me.” “You signed the authorization.” “I signed a licensing release, not a waiver of authorship.” Brad took a soft breath. “Monica, maybe we should credit him tonight. Even if the investors pull back, I don’t want Elliot feeling mistreated.” Monica looked at me, her voice dropping into a chill. “Are you satisfied now?” Those four words felt like a backhanded slap across the face. I stopped arguing. Halfway through the event, the host invited Brad onto the stage. The massive LED screens displayed twenty-four high-jewelry pieces. Every single one was pulled directly from my sketchbooks. The grand finale piece appeared: a moonstone and diamond brooch named “Homecoming”. I drew it the month after my father died. Monica had held me back then, promising me, “We’ll never sell this one. We’ll save it for our child.” On stage, Brad smiled warmly into the spotlight. “Homecoming” is a gift from Monica. She taught me that a man doesn’t need a marriage to have an identity—he just needs his own name.” Applause cascaded through the ballroom. Monica sat in the front row, looking up at him with an expression of pride I hadn’t seen directed at me in three years. Suddenly, the host turned to me with a microphone. “Mr. Shaw, we understand you also have a background in design. How would you evaluate Director Cox’s work?” Cameras flashed toward me. Monica leaned sideways, whispering under her breath: “Answer as we agreed.” I held the microphone. “It feels very familiar.” A few nervous laughs ripple through the audience. The host pressed on: “Familiar in terms of style?” Brad stepped in quickly, sounding modest: “Elliot has reviewed my concept drafts over the years. Naturally, when two people exchange ideas, aesthetic influences flow both ways.” He phrased it so humbly, yet effortlessly flipped the narrative of plagiarism upside down. Monica took the mic. “My husband hasn’t practiced professionally since our marriage. He sketches occasionally at home. Brad was kind enough to share his work with Elliot to keep him engaged.” I looked straight at her. “Monica. Are you sure about that?” Her brows knit tight. “Don’t cause a scene.” The main screen flashed to a promotional photo. Brad wearing my opal medallion, standing shoulder to shoulder with Monica. Caption: “Blake Global’s Ultimate Creative Soulmates.” A reporter joked loudly, “Ms. Blake, Director Cox understands your vision so well! Isn’t Mr. Shaw jealous?” Monica smiled gracefully. “Elliot is very mature. He understands that business and personal life are separate.” Brad walked over after the presentation, holding a glass of champagne. “Elliot, thank you for your understanding these past three years. Monica always says that without you keeping the home stable, she couldn’t devote herself entirely to me.” He stepped closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “The twelve-hundred-a-month rule? I helped her set that.” “I told her once a man loses his financial independence, he won’t run away. She thought it was brilliant advice.” I stared at him. His smile was sweet, toxic. “Oh, and the perpetual release document? I drafted that, too. When you signed it, you were terrified for your mom, weren’t you?” The champagne glass in my hand trembled slightly. I didn’t throw it in his face. Monica walked over and took my glass away. “You have an ulcer. Don’t drink.” I looked her in the eye. “Did you restrict my money because you were afraid I’d leave?” “I restricted it because you lack discipline.” “And giving my designs to him was for my own good, too?” Her patience wore out completely. Her voice dropped into a whisper sharp as a razor. “Elliot Shaw. You enjoy the prestige of being the husband of the CEO of Blake Global. You already have it better than ninety-nine percent of people. Stop expecting everything.” “And if I insist?” “Then feel free to leave me.” Monica reached out to adjust my tie, her posture intimate, her words freezing cold. “No job. No client list. Your mother’s medical bills piling up. Where exactly do you think you can go?” I looked at her, and suddenly, a smile broke across my face. Not out of spite. Not waiting for her to pull me back. Just relief that these three years were finally over. I reached into my inner pocket, pulled out the divorce agreement, and slipped it directly into her designer clutch bag. “Monica. Remember to approve it.” She assumed it was just another expense receipt. She didn’t even look down. I turned and walked straight out of the gala. Theresa was waiting by her car outside. I handed her my expense ledger from the past three years. Tucked inside the back cover was the Revocation of Voting Proxy. “Deliver this to the Board of Directors.” She took the ledger. “What about the brand launch?” Inside the venue, the countdown on the main stage had begun. Five. Four. Three. I pressed “Confirm” on my phone.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560142”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There was an unwritten law in our house: I came first. Every decision, every concession, every heavy silence revolved around me. Because when I was ten years old, I dragged my twin brother and sister out of our burning house. The cost was my right leg—charred down to the bone, muscle fused into jagged scar tissue. To spare me from feeling guilty, Mom forced Betty to hand in her pointe shoes and abandon her dream of dancing ballet professionally. Dad made Samuel spend every high school summer working double shifts at the machine shop to build up a medical fund for my treatments. But as the years stretched on, the pain in my ruined joint grew unbearable. Navigating the steep stairs to my tiny second-floor bedroom became a daily ordeal. When I finally asked Betty if we could swap rooms so I could have her first-floor space, she snapped. She smashed every frame and porcelain trinket in her room before Samuel dragged her out the front door. They didn’t come back for three days. Dad’s eyes turned bloodshot with rage as he forced me onto my knees on the hardwood floor. Mom slapped my face—hard enough to ring my ears—and screamed down at me. “Because of you, your sister had to give up dance! Your brother’s hands are covered in calluses from factory work! And now you want to steal her bedroom too?” She choked on her own fury. “I wish you had died in that fire ten years ago, Alice. Anything would be better than watching you bleed them dry!” Looking up at their cold, hateful eyes, a memory flickered in the back of my mind—an acceptance letter tucked under my mattress, sent from a specialized academy for disabled youth in New Mexico, thousands of miles away. My crippled leg couldn’t carry me very far. But it could carry me far enough that I would never be their burden again. … I hadn’t been kneeling on the icy hardwood for even five minutes before a wave of sharp, white-hot agony shot through my knee, like thousands of rusted needles pressing into the nerve endings. The color drained from my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, my lower lip trembling from the sheer intensity of it. Mom and Dad saw it. They saw every bit of it. In the past, a look like that would have sent them into a panic. They would have rushed to scoop me up, fussing over ice packs and calling the orthopedic clinic. This time, Dad’s palm stayed heavy and unyielding on my shoulder, pinning me down. Mom stood over me, her arms crossed tight against her chest. The look in her eyes wasn’t concern—it was a deep, curdling disgust. “Five minutes, Alice? You’re going to fake an agonizing pain act after five minutes?” Mom’s voice was clipped, utterly devoid of warmth. “Haven’t your father and I played along with your little drama routines enough over the last decade?” Humiliation clawed at my throat, thick and suffocating, swallowing the words “Mom, it really hurts” right back down. I forced my posture upright, trying to stop my body from visibly shaking. Just as my leg was about to buckle completely, Mom’s phone blared from the kitchen counter. She snatched it up. Within seconds, her tight, furious posture melted. Her face lit up with overwhelming relief. “You found them both? Oh, thank God! Yes—yes, officer, we’re coming right now!” We rushed to the police station in record time. When we walked in, Betty and Samuel were sitting on a metal bench in the holding area. They looked disheveled, their clothes dusty, but their jaws were set in matching expressions of bitter defiance. The desk officer walked over, shaking his head as he looked at my parents. “Are you the parents? Do you have any idea how close you came? Another half hour, and these two would have been smuggled across the border. They signed up for one of those high-paying fake job scams down in Cabo.” Mom gasped and threw her arms around the twins, sobbing hysterically. Dad looked terrified, his hand raised as if to smack them both, but he couldn’t bring himself to let it fall. He ended up pulling them tight into his chest instead. Betty yanked herself out of Mom’s embrace, her face twisted in resentment. “Don’t act like you care! We went down there to make quick cash so we could pay off Alice’s medical bills!” Samuel stared at Dad, his voice ice-cold. “Name a number. How much money do we have to pay her before we don’t owe her our lives anymore?” Even the officer looked uncomfortable. He glanced at my parents with disapproval. “Look, folks, I get loving your youngest, but pushing your older kids into high-risk labor to cover her expenses? That’s out of line.” Mom broke down completely, her voice cracking. “It’s our fault… all our fault. You don’t owe Alice anything. You don’t have to pay her back. Not another cent. Ever.” Dad stroked Betty’s hair, murmuring soft apologies, his eyes overflowing with regret. I stood near the heavy glass doors of the precinct, watching the four of them cling to one another. They looked complete. A real family. I didn’t even have the courage to cross the room. I just hovered by the entrance, clutching my coat tighter around my chest as the chill of the air conditioning seeped through my thin clothes. Right then, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the rehabilitation clinic, reminding me of my scheduled physical therapy session. When the doctor’s voice echoed faintly through the speaker, my parents finally looked over at me. Betty caught my eye and let out a small, cruel smirk—a look that said “Of course. Right on cue.” Samuel turned his head away, deliberately shifting his shoulder so Dad couldn’t put a arm around him. For the first time in my life, I felt my presence was so glaringly wrong that it made everyone else sick just looking at me. I tried to pull my lips into a polite, quiet smile. But before I could say a word, Mom snatched the phone straight out of my hand and spoke directly into the mic. “Alice won’t be attending physical therapy anymore. Cancel all her future appointments.” The physical therapist tried to interrupt, his voice sounding panicked, but Mom cut the call and handed the black screen back to me. I knew what the doctor was going to say. A week ago, he had sat me down in his office and laid out the scans. The scar tissue from the burns was contracting, pulling the surrounding muscles out of alignment. If I abruptly stopped my physical therapy now, the complications would compound. Within months, I’d be facing severe tissue necrosis—and very likely an amputation. Mom and Dad were hovering over Betty and Samuel again, sharing soft, tender smiles. I watched them in silence. And in that quiet moment, a dull realization settled in my chest: it had been years since they had looked at me with that kind of warmth. … By the time we got home, night had fallen. After hours of emotional volatility and standing on my feet at the station, my right leg felt like useless lead. I couldn’t even manage the basic strength required to walk across the living room. Mom and Dad spent the evening hovering over the twins, making them soup and fussing over their clothes. By the time they remembered I existed, I had been sitting motionless on the living room sofa for over two hours. Mom let out a weary sigh, her expression softening just a fraction as she walked toward me. But before she could speak, Betty stormed out of her room upstairs. She slammed a stack of books onto the banister, glaring down at me with brimming tears. “Are you serious, Alice? Sitting down there for two hours staring at my door? You’re really going to pull this pathetic guilt trip just to steal my room?!” She turned around, threatening to run out into the night again. Mom panicked completely. She sprinted up the stairs to hold Betty back, then turned on her heel, marched down, and struck me across the face. She regretted it the moment her hand made contact; the blow lacked real weight, landing light as a breeze. But inside my chest, something shattered with the force of a sledgehammer. My voice shook so hard I barely recognized it as my own. “Mom… I wasn’t trying to take her room. I just… my leg hurts so bad I can’t stand up.” Betty let out a wet, mocking laugh from the top of the stairs. “Oh, how convenient! ‘Too in pain to stand up’—and you just happened to collapse right facing my hallway!” Mom set her jaw, her voice turning hard as stone. “If she wants to play the martyr, let her. Let’s see if she stays on that couch all night!” She grabbed Betty’s arm and led her back toward the bedrooms. Samuel walked past the sofa a moment later. Whether it was intentional or an accident, his heavy boot clipped my bad leg. A sharp gasp of pain escaped my throat. He stopped and looked down at me, his eyes dark and empty. “You’ve used that leg to hog Mom and Dad’s love for ten whole years, Alice. Now that we’re taking a little piece of it back, you suddenly can’t handle it?” I didn’t answer. A bitter, hollow chuckle rose in my throat, but I forced it down. I thought back to the day we moved into this house, ten years ago, right after I got out of the burn unit. Mom and Dad had insisted on buying this spacious, multi-level townhouse because Betty had fallen in love with the sunlit upstairs bedrooms. When it came time to assign the rooms, Dad had sat on the edge of my hospital bed, looking at me with gentle, apologetic eyes. He told me Betty needed the natural sunlight for her mood, and Samuel needed the larger room for his computer desk and schoolwork. That left the windowless, cramped storage room on the second floor for me. Mom had even framed it as a gift. “The second floor is wonderful for you, Alice! Walking up and down those stairs every day will be great for your rehabilitation. We’re doing this because we love you so much—don’t tell your brother and sister, or they’ll think we’re favoring you again.” Sitting alone in the pitch-black living room, I tried to control my breathing. But fat, heavy tears spilled over my lashes, burning against the back of my hand. “Favored me for ten years?” Why hadn’t I felt it for a single second? … Around midnight, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway. I opened my eyes to see Mom holding my prescription pain medications, walking quietly toward the kitchen trash can. When her eyes met mine in the darkness, her expression flickered with guilt. But it was swallowed up almost instantly by a cold, hardened resolve. “Your brother and sister caught a cold from being out all night,” she said, her voice clipped as she tossed the pill bottles into the bin. “Your medications were taking up too much room in the medicine cabinet. Your father and I talked it over. From now on, all three of you are going to be treated equally. No more special privileges just because you have an injury.” She stopped and stared down at me. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Alice?” I stared at the trash can. Those painkillers were the only thing that kept the nerve agony from feeling like my leg was being skinned alive. I didn’t argue. I just gave her a tiny, barely perceptible nod. “Okay.” I was leaving in less than forty-eight hours anyway. There was no point in cluttering up their house with my things. … When I opened my eyes the next morning, the house was completely silent. Everyone was gone. My head throbbed with a terrifying, heavy fever, and my bad leg had gone completely numb—a cold, dead weight attached to my hip. It wasn’t until the sharp, acrid smell of burning plastic filled my nostrils that I realized something was terribly wrong. I turned my head toward the kitchen. Thick, dark plumes of smoke were pouring out of the doorway. A familiar, paralyzing terror seized my chest. I dragged myself off the sofa, my elbows scraping against the floorboards as I crawled toward the front door. I reached up and hauled myself up by the brass handle, tugging with all my weight—only to find the heavy deadbolt locked firmly from the outside. Panicking, I dialed 911, then tried calling my mother. The line rang once before she cut it off. I tried Dad. He rejected the call instantly. I shook the locked door handle with everything I had, smoke filling my lungs, coughing until my vision blurred into dark spots. By the time I lost consciousness on the entry mat, the only sound left was the cold, automated recording echoing from my speaker phone: “The party you are trying to reach is unavailable…” … When I woke up, the blinding fluorescent lights of an emergency room stung my eyes. The first thing I saw was Mom sitting beside my bed, her eyes red, her face tight with worry. A wave of childlike relief rushed through me. Tears welled in my eyes as I whispered hoarsely, “Mom…” Her expression vanished, replaced instantly by intense rage. She glared at me with pure disgust. “Don’t call me Mom. Setting fire to our kitchen—I don’t have a daughter like you!” Dad was standing by the window, rubbing the shoulders of a trembling Betty. He looked over at me, his voice dangerously low. “The fire department finished their preliminary investigation. The burner on the stove was left on high under an empty pan. Alice, we were all out of the house. You were the only one there. This time, you went way too far.” My mind went completely blank. I looked past Dad to Betty. She shrank back slightly, her eyes darting away, a guilty flick of panic crossing her features. She was the one who had been fry-cooking late last night! Before I could force the words out to defend myself, Mom snapped. She stood up and screamed at me, her voice raw. “Fine! I admit it! We took your sister to her ballet audition today! And yes, we locked the front door from the outside because we were terrified you’d find out and show up to ruin her big day! Alice, we’ve given up everything for you over the last decade! When will you ever be satisfied?!” Her screams echoed across the ward. Other patients and nurses turned to stare, whispering to one another, shooting horrified looks at the girl lying in the hospital bed. Mom kept going, venting years of poisonous resentment. “It was the exact same thing ten years ago! The three of you were playing at home, and out of nowhere, a fire starts? How come “you” weren’t trapped in that bedroom? How come “you” had the strength to drag them out? Alice… how did I give birth to a child so calculating?!” It felt as though a pair of massive hands had reached into my ribs and crushed my heart into dust. I stared at my mother, entirely paralyzed. “Mom… is that really what you’ve thought of me all these years?” Mom didn’t look at me. She turned her head toward the wall, wiping at her cheeks, refusing to say another word. Her silence was the final answer. All the explanations, all the desperate pleas for her to believe me, withered up in my throat. I didn’t say anything. Not because I didn’t care, but because I finally understood how utterly pointless it was. They didn’t just resent me. Deep down, in the dark corners of their minds, they wished I had died in that fire ten years ago. If I were dead, they wouldn’t have to carry the burden of my medical care, or pretend to balance their love between three children. The pain inside me was so absolute it turned entirely numb. I reached into my coat pocket, my fingers brushing against the stiff paper of the one-way plane ticket scheduled for tomorrow morning. I forced the tears back into my eyes and let out a single, quiet breath. … Because my smoke inhalation was mild, I was cleared for discharge later that evening. As we walked out to the hospital parking lot, Samuel suddenly lunged forward. He grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me violently against the side of the car. “Alice! Where is my money?!” The impact sent a violent jolt of pain straight up my spine. “Samuel… what money?” Samuel’s face was flushed red, his voice trembling with fury. “The cash I saved over the last three years! I kept ten thousand dollars in an envelope under the sofa cushions for my college study abroad program! It’s gone! I’ve given up everything for you, but I am begging you—give me my ten thousand dollars back!” Mom and Betty hurried over, trying to soothe him, while Dad grabbed my arm with an icy grip. He looked down at me, struggling to suppress his disappointment. “Alice, I know you’re angry at your mother for stopping your therapy. But taking your brother’s hard-earned savings? That crosses a line.” Sweat broke out across my forehead from the pain in my back. “Dad, I didn’t! I swear to God, I didn’t touch his money!” Samuel let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “I never told a single soul where I hid that cash! It was tucked under the lower sofa frame! You’re the only person who’s been sleeping on that couch for the last week! Who else could it possibly be?!” My brain spun in circles. I had no memory of any cash under that frame. I opened my mouth to tell him to check his room again, but Mom’s voice cut through the damp night air like a blade. “Enough. Stop asking her, Samuel. She’s never going to give it back.” She turned to look at me—not with anger, but with a horrifying, detached disgust, as if she were looking at a pest that had infested her home. “Keep the ten thousand dollars, Alice,” she said quietly. “Consider it our final settlement. That money officially buys out whatever debt your brother and sister owed you for saving their lives.” I slumped against the cold metal of the car, staring at her. I read the finality in her eyes. In that single moment, the very last embers of warmth in my heart died out completely. Dad let out a heavy, tired sigh. “Get in the car.” The four of them climbed inside. Not one of them offered a hand to help me up from the pavement. Mom paused for half a second as her hand rested on the door handle. But it was only a second. “SLAM.” The dark SUV pulled out of the parking spot and drove away into the night, leaving me sitting alone on the wet asphalt. Occasional pedestrians cast curious, unsettled glances at the limping girl left behind in the hospital parking lot. I didn’t move. I sat there on the cold ground until the sky began to bleed into the pale grey of dawn. I pulled out my phone. A single notification sat on my lock screen: “You have been removed from the family group chat.” I blinked. No tears fell. My leg slowly regained a fraction of its feeling. Leaning heavily against the concrete retaining wall, I pushed myself up, stood on my one good foot, and began to limp, step by agonizing step, toward the airport bus stop. … That night, back at the house, nobody slept. Mom and Dad tore my upstairs bedroom apart, turning over the mattress, pulling out drawers, searching for Samuel’s ten thousand dollars. As Mom searched, she cursed my name under her breath, calling me a deceitful, ungrateful thief—yet every few minutes, her eyes darted toward the front door, listening for the sound of the deadbolt clicking open. Hours passed. The front door remained shut. By morning, Mom’s anxiety had turned into a foul, venomous mood. “The nerve on that girl! Stealing cash and then pulling a vanishing act!” Just then, Samuel walked into the living room, his face pale, holding a bank deposit slip in his hand. “Mom…” Samuel’s voice was barely a whisper. “I… I found the money.” He had completely forgotten that two weeks ago, nervous about keeping that much physical cash in the house, he had deposited the ten thousand dollars into a high-yield savings account. The living room fell into an eerie, suffocating silence. Looking at the slip of paper, my parents realized, with a sickening delay, what they had done. Dad cleared his throat awkwardly, picking up his car keys. “I’ll… I’ll call Alice and tell her to come home for breakfast.” Nobody mentioned an apology. In their minds, calling me back to the house was already the ultimate concession. Dad dialed my cell number and put it on speaker. The phone rang once, followed by a flat, automated operator chime: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”

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The department organized a welcome dinner for our newest surgeon. To keep up the illusion of professional distance, Wesley—my secret boyfriend of three years—chose a seat at the far end of the long dining table, as far away from me as possible. Halfway through the meal, Dr. Cooper glanced back and forth between Wesley and Sabrina, a conspiratorial smirk playing on his lips. “Come on, Wesley,” Dr. Cooper teased, tapping his glass. “You’ve stayed single all these years… you weren’t just holding out for Sabrina to finish her fellowship abroad, were you? Back in med school, you two were the golden couple everyone envied.” Sabrina laughed softly, setting down her fork. Her eyes darted toward me—a fleeting, almost imperceptible flick of her gaze—before settling back on Wesley. “If you guys keep talking like that, you’re going to make Wes blush.” The private room erupted in hooting and catcalls. My eyes locked onto Wesley. He caught my gaze for a fraction of a second, then immediately looked away. I dug my fingernails into my palm, biting the inside of my cheek, waiting for him to clear the air. Waiting for him to say “I’m with Natalie”. Instead, he turned his head and casually struck up a private conversation with Sabrina. A moment later, someone snapped a candid photo of them leaning in close, murmuring to each other, and dropped it into the department group chat. Within seconds, the chat flooded with heart emojis, praise, and sweet congratulations. For three long years, every single time I brought up going public with our relationship, Wesley gave me the exact same speech: “We work in the same surgical department, Natalie. If word gets out, it looks unprofessional. We need to maintain strict boundaries.” Staring at the glowing screen of my phone, a quiet realization washed over me. This hidden, secret life—this relationship that couldn’t survive in the light—wasn’t worth keeping anymore. … When the dinner finally wrapped up, people spilled out of the restaurant in small, laughing clusters. I stood in the shadow of the overhang, waiting for Wesley to bring his car around to pick me up. When his SUV pulled up to the curb, Dr. Cooper stepped forward and opened the passenger door for Sabrina. “Sabrina lives in your complex, right, Wes? I’ll leave her in your capable hands.” Sabrina buckled her seatbelt with a soft, gracious smile. “Thanks for the lift, Wes.” Wesley smiled back, nodding before his eyes casually swept over me standing in the doorway. “Get home safe, Natalie,” he said smoothly. He flipped on his blinker and pulled smoothly into traffic. Dr. Cooper turned to me, jingling his keys. “Hey, hop in with us. I can drop you off.” I climbed into the backseat of Cooper’s car, keeping my head down and refreshing my phone. The department group chat was still blowing up with messages, but Wesley’s private text thread remained entirely silent. “How long have you been in the department now, Natalie?” Dr. Cooper asked, making small talk in the rearview mirror. “Three years,” I said quietly. He gave an awkward chuckle, clearly realizing he should have known that, and quickly pivoted. “You know, Wesley might seem quiet on the surface, but the guy is a total hopeless romantic. Years ago, he gave up his prestigious research slot in London just so Sabrina could take it.” He paused, glancing back at me. “All these years they’ve been apart, there hasn’t been another woman on his socials.” I gripped my phone tightly, an instinctual protest rising in my chest. “That’s not possible.” “Don’t believe me? Look for yourself.” Cooper handed his unlocked phone over his shoulder. I took it and scrolled down Wesley’s feed. Every single post was tied to Sabrina. After she went abroad three years ago, his updates completely stopped. Until tonight. Just twenty minutes ago, he had posted for the first time in years. “Welcome home.” The photo attached was the candid shot from dinner—the two of them leaning toward each other in quiet, intimate conversation. My fingers trembled slightly as I pulled out my own phone. I opened Wesley’s profile on my app. I refreshed the page. Blank. I refreshed it again, thinking the signal in the car was bad. Still blank. [This user’s posts are unavailable.] My breath hitched. I had just seen the “Welcome home” post on Cooper’s screen. Wesley hadn’t stopped posting. He had blocked me from seeing his life. By the time I reached my apartment building, a heavy downpour had broken over the city. I stood under the awning of the entrance, dialing Wesley’s number. It rang endlessly until someone finally picked up. “Wes is a little busy right now,” Sabrina’s voice floated through the speaker, laced with a gentle, cozy warmth. “I’ll have him call you back in a bit, okay?” I didn’t say a word. I hung up the phone and walked straight out into the rain. When I unlocked the front door of our apartment, the living room lights were on. Wesley and Sabrina were sitting together on the plush gray couch, speaking softly. Hearing the front door, they both turned. Their eyes landed on my soaked hair and the water dripping heavily from the hem of my coat. “Why are you soaked?” Wesley frowned, rising from the couch. “Why didn’t you call me to pick you up?” I stood on the entryway mat, rainwater running down my temple. “I did. Sabrina said you were busy.” Wesley opened his mouth, a flicker of something passing over his face, but he ultimately chose silence. I didn’t look at either of them. I turned and walked straight into the bathroom. By the time I dried my hair and stepped back out, Sabrina was gone. Wesley stood alone in the center of the dark living room. “Why didn’t you clear up the rumors about you and Sabrina tonight?” I asked, my voice flat, drained of emotion. “It’s just harmless gossip. Why make a big deal out of nothing?” He checked his phone, his tone entirely indifferent. “Besides, she just got back. If I publicly shot her down in front of everyone, wouldn’t that humiliate her?” I let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He didn’t want to humiliate “her”. So he humiliated me. I didn’t argue. I turned, walked into the bedroom, and lay down on the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, forcing myself to think about tomorrow’s surgical schedule instead of the hollow ache in my chest. Wesley walked in a moment later, standing at the edge of the mattress. “Natalie, for tomorrow’s procedure… I need you to step down to second assist.” My eyes snapped to his. “Why?!” “Sabrina spent years refining her technique at the fellowship,” he said, his voice measured, objective. “Her foundation is solid. She’s better suited for first assist on a complex case like this.” Before the words had even fully settled in the air, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. A notification popped up from the hospital network—the revised surgical rota. I scrolled down to my name. “First Assist: Sabrina. Second Assist: Natalie.” In the three years I had worked under him, I had assisted in over a thousand surgeries. Every single time a major opportunity came up, there was an excuse. I was always “almost” ready, always “just a little” short. Colleagues with less experience and weaker skills were promoted to Attendings, while I remained stuck as a resident assistant. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the group chat overflow with messages congratulating Sabrina on landing first assist her very first day back. Without another second of hesitation, I opened my portal, pulled up the application for the three-year rural medical outreach program in an impoverished county, and hit “Submit”. “Wesley, I don’t want you anymore.” “From now on, you never have to hide me again.” … The next morning, I didn’t make breakfast like I usually did. As I bent down in the hallway to tie my sneakers, Wesley stepped out of the bedroom, buttoning his crisp white shirt. “Natalie, which tie goes with this today?” “Whatever you want,” I said softly. Every morning for three years, I had laid out his clothes, ironed his suits, and chosen his ties. Starting today, I was done. His face darkened, his jaw tightening. “What are you throwing a tantrum about now?” I stood up straight, keeping my eyes fixed on the door handle. “I’m running late. I’m leaving.” I opened the door and walked out before he could respond. When my city bus pulled up to the stop directly across from the hospital, I looked through the rain-streaked window and saw Wesley’s black sedan idling at the main entrance. Sabrina opened the passenger door, stepped out, and adjusted her coat collar. Then she bent down, leaning through the open window to say something that made Wesley smile. A moment later, they walked into the building side by side. A bitter sting burnt behind my eyes. I remembered a day six months ago during a torrential storm. Shift was over, and I had asked if I could ride home with him. He had looked at me with cold irritation: “Can’t you just take an Uber? Someone from the department might see us.” That day, I stood in the storm outside the ER entrance, waiting nearly three hours just to get a ride home. It turned out his strict rules on “professional distance” were reserved exclusively for me. The bus lurched forward again, and I called out to the driver, “Next stop, please!” Disregarding the muttered complaints of the commuters around me, I stepped off the bus and walked briskly into the hospital lobby. As I passed the central nurse’s station, the charge nurse called out to me. “Dr. Natalie, I just heard someone say Dr. Wesley and Dr. Sabrina are back together. Is that true?” My expression didn’t falter. “I don’t know. Excuse me, I have to prepare for surgery.” I walked into the surgical wing, forcing myself into a state of clinical numbness. The operating room was deathly quiet. Sabrina and Wesley moved with a fluid, silent rhythm that spoke of years of shared history. The procedure was progressing faster than expected. Sabrina was at the primary position, executing the final vascular anastomosis. I stood at second assist, monitoring the vitals and holding retractors. As her needle pierced the delicate wall of the blood vessel, her hand gave a microscopic flinch. The vein tore. Blood welled up instantly, obscuring the field. Wesley stepped in without a heartbeat of delay, taking over the primary position. “Natalie, suction and clamp. Assist me.” “Got it.” I took the instruments smoothly—suctioning, clamping, suturing, closing the chest. Every motion was precise, an automatic response born from performing these exact steps thousands of times over the last three years. When we finally stepped out of the scrub room, my scrubs were soaked through with sweat. Sabrina stood in the quiet hallway, her head bowed. “Wes, I’m so sorry. I almost caused a major complication…” Wesley reached out, gently patting her hair. “It’s your first day back in an active OR. It’s completely normal to be nervous. I know what you’re capable of.” I stood a few feet away, watching his hand rest softly on her head. I remembered my very first surgery under Wesley. My second stitch had been 0.02 centimeters wider than my first. He had gathered the entire surgical team into the conference room, projected the high-resolution image of my stitch onto the screen, and magnified it three times. He had pointed at the stitch with a cold, severe tone: “In my operating room, I do not tolerate a 0.02-centimeter error.” From that day on, whenever a new resident joined the department, I was brought up as the cautionary tale. People subtly distanced themselves from me, assuming I was incompetent. I pulled my gaze away and walked past them into the staff lounge. The moment I sat down, my phone rang. It was Human Resources. When I arrived at the HR suite, Eileen, the senior HR manager, set down her file and looked up at me with a soft, sympathetic expression. “Have a seat, Natalie.” “Dr. Natalie, the county hospital in our outreach program is extremely under-resourced. It’s a minimum three-year commitment. Are you entirely sure about this?” I tightened my fists in my lap. “I’m sure.” Eileen sighed softly, choosing not to press further. She slid an official, red-stamped document across the desk. “You depart in three days. The hospital-wide announcement goes live on the portal today.” I took the paper. “Thank you, Eileen.” I returned to the staff lounge, and just as I hung my white coat on the rack, the door was violently kicked open. The heavy wood crashed against the wall with a deafening thud. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, his eyes wild as he scanned the room. “Which one of you is Natalie?” I took a step forward. “I am. Can I help—” Before I could finish, the man—his eyes bloodshot with rage—swung his fist directly into my face. The impact threw me backward. My lower back slammed hard against the edge of the metal desk. Pain exploded in my jaw, and my vision went dark for a second. I forced myself upright, leaning against the desk, and wiped a smear of blood from the corner of my lip. “Sir! What do you think you’re doing?!” The man let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “What am I doing? Striking you is the least of what you deserve! My father, Mr. Sullivan—you were in his operating room this morning, weren’t you?!” A terrible pit formed in my stomach, but I kept my voice steady. “Yes, I was.” “I heard that because of your incompetent mistake, my father almost died on that table!” A crowd of onlookers was gathering in the hallway, whispering furiously. “That’s reckless endangerment…” “He had every right to hit her.” “The hospital needs to fire someone like that immediately.” I stood straight, staring directly into the man’s enraged eyes, pronouncing every word clearly: “I was second assist on that surgery, sir. I made zero errors, and I followed every single safety protocol.” Someone in the crowd scoffed loudly. “Oh, like anyone ever admits when they screw up!” “She’s been a resident here for three years without a promotion. Her technique must be awful.” I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper, taking a deep breath to steady my trembling hands. “My technique is fine. You can ask the lead surgeon himself—Dr. Wesley.” Down the hall, Wesley and Sabrina were walking toward the commotion. When Wesley caught sight of my bruised, swollen cheek, his steps faltered slightly. I looked at him desperately. “Dr. Wesley, in this morning’s procedure, did I make any technical errors or breach any protocols?” “Dr. Natalie’s technique…” Wesley started. Beside him, Sabrina subtly reached out and tugged lightly on the back of his sleeve. The gesture was tiny, almost invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking directly at them. She didn’t say a word; she just raised her eyes to his, her expression filled with quiet vulnerability. Wesley stopped. When he looked back at me, his eyes held a hollow, performative flicker of regret. “Dr. Natalie’s surgical skills… do indeed still require significant refinement.” To protect Sabrina’s reputation on her very first day, he lied. With a single phrase, he threw me to the wolves. The staff members who had been standing near me immediately stepped back, creating a physical gulf of disgust between us. “Wesley…” My voice cracked, raw and disbelieving. “Is my technique “really” the problem here?” He blinked, clearly startled that I had dared to challenge him openly. He didn’t answer me. Instead, he turned to the furious man. “Mr. Sullivan, the hospital will conduct a thorough review and provide your family with a satisfactory resolution.” The man spat on the floor and gave me one final, vicious glare before walking away. The medical board launched an immediate internal review. By late afternoon, the truth came out: a surgical nurse had been gossiping in the hallway, and Mr. Sullivan’s son had overheard a half-truth. I had made no mistakes. It was Sabrina who had torn the vessel. But Wesley pulled every string he had to shield her. Combined with her prestigious foreign fellowship, the hospital leadership decided it was best to keep quiet and avoid a public scandal. They needed a scapegoat. To appease the patient’s family, they placed me on administrative suspension. I sat alone in the dimming staff lounge until the end of the shift. Right at five o’clock, the hospital portal published the official transfer notices. My name was listed at the top. I folded the document, put it in my bag, and took a cab back to the apartment. I ate a quiet dinner alone and sat on the couch, waiting for Wesley. It was 9:30 PM when the front door finally unlocked. He stepped inside and froze when he saw me sitting in the dark, surprised I was still awake. “Natalie, letting you take the administrative fall was a calculated decision for the department,” he began, stepping closer, his voice carrying an explanatory tone I had never heard from him before. “Sabrina just joined the hospital. She’s proud, and a mark on her record right now would destroy her career…” This was the first time in three years he had ever bothered to explain his actions to me. If this were six months ago, I would have listened. My heart would have softened, and I would have nodded, accepting whatever crumbs he offered. Dependencies die slowly, but indifference happens all at once. “Wesley,” I interrupted, my voice unnervingly calm. “We’re done.” He stopped mid-sentence. “Make sure you call your parents,” I added, rising from the couch. “Tell them dinner this Saturday is canceled.” He stood motionless, staring at me as if trying to figure out if I was bluffing to get his attention. I walked toward the bedroom. “If you don’t know how to explain it to them, just say I broke up with you. That way, you won’t lose face in front of your family.” Inside the bedroom, I shut the door and dialed my mother’s phone. She answered on the very first ring. “Mom, you don’t need to fly in for dinner with Wesley’s parents this Saturday.” A beat of anxious silence came over the line. “Natalie? Honey, did he do something to you?” A sudden wave of warmth washed over my chest, tears pricking the corners of my eyes before I forced them back. “No. We broke up. And… I applied for a three-year medical outreach assignment in Pine County. I leave in two days.” The phone went quiet for a long moment. “Have you made up your mind?” my mother asked softly. “Yes.” “As long as it’s what you want, your father and I support you completely.” Right after I hung up, the bedroom door swung open. Sabrina was standing in the doorway, her voice dripping with delicate remorse. “Dr. Natalie, you really misunderstand the relationship between Wes and me. We broke up three years ago. We are just good friends now.” She lowered her head, looking deeply pained. “If my presence caused a rift between you two, I will make sure to keep my distance from him from now on.” Despite her bowed head, I caught the swift, triumphant glance she aimed at me. “We have already broken up,” I said, meeting her eyes dead-on. “Whatever he does, and whoever he spends his time with, has nothing to do with me anymore. If you’re done speaking, please leave. I need to rest.” Wesley’s stern voice cut in from the hallway behind her. “Natalie, know when to stop. If you keep throwing a childish tantrum like this, the only person who ends up looking ridiculous is you.” He took Sabrina by the elbow and led her away. Even now, he genuinely believed I was just throwing a fit to get a reaction out of him. After all, whenever we argued in the past, he only had to give me the cold shoulder for a few days, and I would always swallow my pride and apologize first. I turned off the light and lay down. When I woke up the next morning, Wesley was already gone. I pulled out my suitcases and began to pack. It turned out we shared very little. We didn’t have matching couple’s mugs, matching shoes, or coordinated clothes. The abstract painting hanging in the study was something I had framed and put up myself; even with it gone, he probably wouldn’t notice the bare wall. On the desk sat the only photograph I had of us. It was a large group photo from a department retreat three years ago. Wesley stood dead center, looking handsome and confident, a slight smile on his lips. I stood in the far-left corner of the third row, half my face blocked by a colleague’s shoulder. If you didn’t look closely, you couldn’t even tell it was me. There were twelve people standing between us in that photo. I had spent three years trying to bridge that distance, but I never managed to reach his side. I packed my bags, locked the apartment door behind me, and took a cab back to my parents’ house. They didn’t pry into why the relationship had ended. They simply surrounded me with quiet comfort, cooking my favorite meals and helping me prepare for the journey ahead. On the morning of my departure, I boarded the early train heading toward Pine County. As I sat by the window, scrolling absently through my phone, a new update from Sabrina popped up on my feed. “Feeling so safe whenever he’s by my side.” The attached photo showed Wesley standing on stage at a high-profile medical conference in the nearby city, presenting a complex case study with effortless authority. I exited her profile, tapped on her name, and selected “Delete Contact”. Then, I scrolled down to Wesley’s name. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, my thumb hovering over the screen, before pressing “Delete”. I slipped my phone into my coat pocket, leaned my head against the cold glass of the window, and closed my eyes. “Wesley, you never have to find excuses to push me away again.” “You don’t need to keep your distance anymore.”

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Every time Alex and I were intimate, my consciousness was violently ripped from my skin and forced into his body for exactly thirty minutes. For three years, Alex assumed I was just exhausted after sex, drifting into a heavy, post-coital sleep. He had no idea that while my body lay limp on the mattress, my mind was riding behind his eyes, trapped inside his skull. Until that night on the balcony. My consciousness floated with Alex as he stepped outside into the cool night air, flicking open his lighter to ignite a cigarette. He took a slow, deep drag. Then his phone buzzed. It was my best friend, Chloe. Alex’s brow furrowed in a brief flicker of annoyance. He hesitated before pressing answer. “Didn’t we agree?” he murmured, his voice low and cautious. “You were supposed to call Kallie first. Make sure we weren’t together before you dialed me.” Chloe’s soft, fragile whimper bled through the speaker. “I did call her, Alex. She didn’t pick up. I thought…” Alex let out a long, heavy sigh, the tension melting from his shoulders into a tone of sickening indulgence. “You silly girl. I’m not mad at you. It’s just… she and I haven’t parted ways for the night yet.” He paused, taking another drag of smoke. “I’ll buy our baby that new designer bag tomorrow to make it up to you, okay?” Listening to their conversation from inside his head, my mind went dead quiet. A cold, blinding void expanded in my chest. I had always thought Chloe was just obsessed with catching up over brunch or dinner. Every time she called me, it was always under the guise of inviting us both out to some new bistro downtown, asking me to check if Alex was free to join. She wasn’t inviting us out. She was verifying whether Alex was lying in my bed. Three years. Over two hundred phone calls. It wasn’t me and my best friend. It was the two of them, all along. … The thirty minutes expired, and the invisible tether snapped. My consciousness was yanked backward through the dark, slamming back into my own flesh. I opened my eyes on the bed. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Alex slipped inside, smelling faintly of tobacco and expensive cologne. “Exhausted, sweetheart?” he asked softly, stepping toward the bed. For three years, every time he said those words, I thought he was being tender. I thought he was caring for me. I stared straight into his dark eyes, refusing to play my part. Without a word, I rolled over, grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and dialed Chloe on speaker. It didn’t even ring twice before she picked up. “Hey! Kallie?” Chloe’s voice was bright, bubbly, completely devoid of the fragile, pathetic tone she had used just minutes ago on the balcony. “Chloe,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly flat while locking eyes with Alex. “I was so tired earlier, I fell asleep. I just woke up and saw Alex was getting ready for work, and I saw your missed call. What’s up?” There was a distinct, microscopic beat of silence on the line. Then came her sharp, cheerful laugh. “Oh, it’s nothing! I was just craving that upscale Italian bistro down on 5th. Wanted to see if you guys were free tomorrow night.” “Sure,” I said smoothly. “See you tomorrow.” I hung up and didn’t look at Alex. Instead, I began counting silently in my head. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” Five seconds later, Alex’s phone chimed on the nightstand. “Chloe.” His eyebrow gave a microscopic twitch. He let out a light, charming chuckle. “She probably wants to change the reservation time already. You know how she is.” I sat up, resting my back against the headboard. “Answer it. Put it on speaker. I want to hear what time we’re meeting.” Alex looked at me. For a fraction of a second, I caught it—a razor-thin sliver of panic in his gaze. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual gentle, indulgent smile. “Sure. Whatever you want.” He answered and tapped the speaker button. Chloe’s voice filled the quiet bedroom, but she didn’t mention dinner, or a restaurant, or a time. She asked: “Has the rain stopped over there?” I turned my head to look out the window. The night sky was crystal clear. It hadn’t rained all week, and the forecast promised sun for the next three days. Alex didn’t look at the window. He kept his eyes locked on mine, his voice smooth and steady. “It stopped. The roads are completely dry.” On the other end, Chloe let out a relieved breath. “Good to know. Goodnight!” The line went dead. Silence settled over the bedroom like heavy dust. I kept my eyes on Alex as he set his phone back on the nightstand, his expression entirely unbothered. It was a code. A sick, private language designed to communicate in front of my face. “Why is she asking about rain?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Alex reached out, his hand gently smoothing my hair, soothing me as if I were a paranoid child. “Kallie, baby, are you just overwhelmed? She’s been so anxious about work lately. You know how she gets—she rambles about nonsense when she’s stressed.” I pulled my head back, dodging his touch. “Are the two of you keeping something from me?” Alex’s hand hovered in mid-air before he dropped it naturally back to his side. His expression hardened just a fraction. “Don’t overcomplicate things with Chloe. She’s your “best friend”.” He emphasized those two words as if delivering a warning. Alex turned and walked into the bathroom. Moments later, the shower turned on. I picked up his phone from the nightstand. I didn’t need to guess his passcode; I knew it by heart. I opened Instagram and pulled up Chloe’s profile. Her latest post had been uploaded twenty minutes ago. It was a photo of a sleek, black luxury handbag resting on a marble table. Hanging from the strap was a custom, hand-carved silver key ring. It was identical to the key ring Alex carried on his hip every single day. I refreshed her profile from my own phone. Nothing. She had customized her privacy settings to hide the post strictly from me. The next evening, Chloe booked a private booth at the bistro downtown. The moment I pushed open the door, Chloe bounced up from her seat and threw her arms around me. “Kallie! You finally made it! I swear, I woke up this morning dreaming about their truffle risotto.” Alex stepped up behind me, casually pulling out the chair beside him for Chloe to sit. Then he flagged down the waiter. “Could you swap her starter?” Alex instructed the waiter attentively. “Make sure there are absolutely zero pine nuts in hers. None at all.” I lowered my eyes to the artisanal arugula salad sitting directly in front of me. It was buried under a thick, generous layer of shaved walnuts and crushed pine nuts. I have a severe, violent tree nut allergy. It causes my throat to constrict within minutes. Alex had known this since the very first week we started dating. Yet tonight, he didn’t even notice what was sitting on my plate. His eyes were entirely on Chloe. Chloe set her new black handbag against the back of her chair, making a deliberate, showy movement so the silver key ring clinked loudly against the wood. I stared at the metal charm for two full seconds. Chloe immediately snatched the bag into her lap, covering the charm with her small hands, her expression suddenly filled with flustered innocence. “Kallie, please don’t get the wrong idea,” she squeaked, her voice dripping with quiet injury. “I bought this key ring myself. I just thought it was pretty. It’s just a coincidence that it looks a little like Alex’s.” Before I could even open my mouth, Alex cut in from the side. “It’s completely normal for girls to have matching accessories,” he said, carving a piece of his filet mignon with a steak knife. “Don’t look at her like you’re conducting an interrogation, Kallie. You’re scaring her.” During the meal, Chloe’s phone screen lit up multiple times. Calls were coming in, but she merely glanced at the screen, ignored them, and looked up at Alex instead. “Is the sauce going to be too rich tonight?” she asked softly. Alex laid his fork down, picked up his wine glass, and took a slow sip. His tone was utterly comforting. “It won’t be. I’m right here.” My fork froze in mid-air. “Last night it was rain.” “Tonight it was sauce.” Phrases that sounded like mundane table talk to an outsider, but every single word was a codified reassurance. “I’ve got you. I’ll protect you.” I set my silverware down on the linen napkin and looked directly at Alex. “Did you buy her that bag?” Alex didn’t even flinch. He casually sliced off a tender piece of steak and placed it gently on my bread plate with absolute composure. “She’s been having a terrible month with her boss,” he said, looking at me with eyes that seemed entirely sincere. “I bought a little gift to cheer her up. You’ve always said she acts like a helpless kid, haven’t you? It’s just a gift between friends. There’s no need to be petty about it.” I stared down at the isolated piece of meat on my plate. “And what about me?” He let out a short, quiet laugh, grabbing a napkin to wipe his fingers. “You’re different, Kallie. You’re mature. You’re grounded. You don’t need material bribes to feel secure.” Halfway through dinner, Chloe suddenly gasped, clutching her upper abdomen as her features contorted in pain. “Ow… my stomach. It hurts so bad. I think I drank that iced water too fast…” Alex bolted up from his chair instantly. “A stomach spasm? I’ll go buy you medication right now.” He didn’t even grab his jacket. He snatched his wallet off the table and sprinted out of the restaurant. I sat alone in the quiet booth, staring silently across the table at Chloe. The pain on her face melted away in seconds. She casually pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her feeds, utterly unfazed. Alex’s jacket was still draped over the back of his chair, his phone resting inside the pocket. The screen lit up with a text notification. I cast a sideways glance at it. It was from Chloe: “Babe, did Kallie notice the key ring? She looked so mean. I’m scared.” A minute later, the door slammed open. Alex rushed back in, breathless. He didn’t look at me for a single second. He grabbed his coat, pulled Chloe gently up by her arm, and draped his shoulder around her. “Kallie, Chloe’s in really bad shape,” he said hurriedly. “The pharmacy downstairs is closed. I need to drive her back to her place right now so she can rest.” He steered her out the door. I sat alone at the table, watching their retreating backs. A bitter, empty smile pulled at my lips. “It’s time to leave.” …… By the time I managed to get back to our apartment, an agonizing, tearing pain gripped my lower abdomen. Cold sweat burst from my pores, soaking my hair and dampening the pillow as I crumpled onto the bed. I forced myself to crawl up, feeling a sudden, terrifying rush of warm fluid between my thighs. I pulled myself into an Uber and rode all the way to the emergency room, clutching my stomach the entire time. The attending physician was a young doctor whose nametag read “Dr. Jonah Kelly”. He walked back into the triage room holding a sheaf of lab results, his face dark with concern. “Did you know you’re six weeks pregnant?” he asked bluntly. I went entirely rigid. “You’re showing severe signs of a threatened miscarriage,” Dr. Kelly continued firmly. “We need to admit you immediately to try and save the pregnancy. But this is critical—we need a family member or partner here to sign the emergency consent forms. Call him now.” My hands shook violently as I pulled my phone from my bag and dialed Alex. First call. It rang until it hit voicemail. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, and dialed a second time. He picked up. The background was dead quiet. “Alex,” I choked out, unable to suppress the sob tearing through my throat. “I’m at the hospital… my stomach hurts so bad… I’m bleeding…” A heavy sigh echoed through the receiver. His voice was soft, but laced with icy, unmistakable irritation. “Kallie, can you please not do this right now?” I froze. “Chloe just took her prescription and finally fell asleep,” Alex continued coldly. “If I leave right now, she’s going to wake up terrified in the middle of the night.” I gripped the edges of my phone case so hard my fingernails nearly bent backward. “I am telling you I am at the hospital! I might be losing our baby! Can you please just come here?!” There was a two-second pause. When Alex spoke again, his voice had gone entirely dead. “You’re really resorting to making up a fake pregnancy just to force me to come home?” He let out a breath of disgust. “Grow up, Kallie. You’re exhausting me. I’ll come back early tomorrow to talk.” “Click.” The line went dead. The harsh, rhythmic dial tone echoed brutally through the sterile room. Dr. Kelly stood on the other side of the desk, having overheard every word. He slowly pushed the consent form and a pen across the table toward me. “Can you sign it yourself?” he asked quietly. I unclasped my teeth from my bloody lip, took the pen, and signed my name—stroke by stroke—on the line. …… By midnight, I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV dripping into my vein. The cramping in my abdomen still hit in agonizing waves, and the saline felt ice-cold as it seeped into my bloodstream. My phone illuminated on the mattress beside me. A short video notification from Chloe. I tapped play. The background was the modern, high-end kitchen of her luxury penthouse apartment. Alex was standing at the gas stove wearing a loose bathrobe, stirring a small saucepan of organic bone broth. Chloe’s sickly sweet voice floated from behind the camera: “Alex… if my stomach never gets better, will you stay and take care of me forever?” Alex turned toward the camera holding a wooden spoon. His eyes were overflowing with a soft, devotional warmth I hadn’t seen in years. “Of course,” he murmured. “Who else is going to look after my helpless girl?” In the dark hours of the early morning, a blinding, razor-sharp tear ripped through my lower body. Warm blood gushed down my legs. I couldn’t even reach the call button before the pain blacked out my consciousness entirely. When I opened my eyes again, the morning sun was cutting through the blinds. Dr. Kelly was standing at my bedside, the dark circles under his eyes heavy with exhaustion. “I’m so sorry, Kallie,” he whispered. “We did everything we could. We couldn’t save the baby.” I stared blankly at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. I couldn’t even squeeze out a single tear. Dr. Kelly gently tucked the blanket around my shoulders, his voice barely audible. “We called your partner thirteen times last night.” He hesitated. “He finally picked up on the thirteenth call. He told us your friend had severe stomach bleeding and was in the ER, and that he couldn’t leave her side.” I closed my eyes. While my child was dying inside me, he was holding her hand. Suddenly, frantic footsteps rushed down the hallway outside. A nurse pushed open the door, her voice urgent. “Dr. Kelly, Miss Marsh’s condition is deteriorating! The blood bank doesn’t have enough units of her type—she’s Rh-negative, it’s extremely rare!” Another nurse flipped through a chart on a clipboard, hesitant. “Wait… Miss Morrison’s chart says she has the exact same rare blood type.” My eyelashes fluttered. A second later, the door was slammed wide open. Alex stepped into the room. For one absurd, pathetic second, a piece of me thought he had finally come to ask if I was okay. If I was in pain. “Kallie,” he said, walking straight to my bed. His voice was tender, like he was soothing a child after a minor misunderstanding. “Chloe’s in bad shape right now.” I looked at him, my throat so raw it burned to speak. “So?” Alex sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “The doctors said you two share the same rare blood type.” He leaned in closer. “Help her out just this once, okay? As soon as Chloe is out of danger, I promise I’ll stay right here and help you recover from whatever illness you’ve got.” A horrific, silent laugh welled up in my throat, causing my lower abdomen to spasm in agony. He spoke so softly. As if this were all just a tiny mistake we could smoothly move past later. “I won’t donate.” Alex let out a soft, disappointed sigh. “Kallie, don’t be selfish.” Outside the doorway, a nurse was pushing Chloe past in a wheelchair. Chloe was deathly pale, her eyes red-rimmed, looking up at Alex with delicate vulnerability. “Alex, it’s fine…” she whimpered. “Don’t force her. I don’t want to make things hard for you…” Alex turned to look at her, his expression melting with pity. “It’s fine. Kallie has always been reasonable.” Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. He turned back to me, his gaze demanding compliance. “It’s only two hundred milliliters. The doctors will monitor you. Nothing bad is going to happen.” Every word was a quiet blade to my heart. “Alex, back off!” Dr. Kelly suddenly shoved his way between Alex and the bed, blocking him. “She just had a traumatic miscarriage! Her body cannot handle blood draw right now!” Alex lifted his eyes to Dr. Kelly. No rage, no loss of control. Just a cold, superior smile. “Dr. Kelly, I respect your medical opinion,” Alex said calmly. “But Chloe cannot wait.” In the next second, Alex reached down and forcefully hauled my weak body up out of the hospital bed. The sudden movement tore through my fresh internal wounds. A blinding flare of agony exploded behind my eyes as fresh blood soaked instantly through my hospital gown. Dr. Kelly lunged forward to stop him. “Alex! Are you out of your mind?! Put her down!” Alex held me tightly, his posture unyielding as he turned his shoulder away. “Dr. Kelly, get out of my way.” “You need to let me go, Alex!” I screamed, thrashing with every ounce of strength I had left, desperate to escape his grasp. My violent struggling knocked into an iron medical cart parked beside the bed. The cart overturned with a deafening crash. Glass medication vials shattered across the floor. Alex lost his footing, and I slipped from his arms, my body crashing violently onto the linoleum floor. My bare hands slammed directly into the pile of jagged, broken glass. Alex’s face twisted in shock. “Kallie!” He dropped to his knees to pull me up. A sharp piece of glass sliced deep into his palm. His blood welled up instantly, spilling into the cuts on my own open hands. My blood rushed into his palm, fusing together where our flesh met. The instant our blood mixed, a violent, blinding surge of electricity shot directly through my brain. My vision snapped to total blackness. My physical body went completely limp, collapsing onto the bloody floor. But right before the darkness swallowed me entirely—I opened my eyes again. My perspective was unnaturally high. I looked down and saw a pair of large, broad, masculine hands. It was that familiar, terrifying pull. The exact sensation I felt after intimacy. Chloe was clinging tightly to “my” arm, weeping hysterically. “Alex! Your hand is bleeding! Oh my god, are you okay…?” And lying on the cold floor right at “my” feet… Was the pale, motionless body of Kallie Morrison, blood dripping from her nose and pooling beneath her hospital gown. “It was never about intimacy.” “It was about the exchange of bodily fluids.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560139”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There is an unwritten rule in the underground circuit of Ironford. The last fight before you walk away is always a death match. If you lose, your life stays on the canvas. Almost everyone assumed I would walk out of the arena alive. For six straight months, my name had sat at the very top of the leaderboard, untouched. I never expected to see Maeve Chasel stepping through the ropes. She was the one who had taught me how to fight. Every jab, every pivot, every lethal counter—it all came from her. Against Maeve, I didn’t stand a chance. The moment the bell rang, a barrage of vicious, calculated strikes rained down on me. I didn’t even have time to set my stance. A sickening “crack” echoed through the cage as my ribs gave way under her fist, and I crashed heavily onto the bloody canvas. As the referee raised her hand and declared the match over, I heard Maeve’s soft, familiar sigh above the roaring crowd. “I’m sorry, Seth,” she whispered, bending down toward me. “Yesterday was Damon’s birthday. His only wish was to see me beat you in the ring just once.” She paused, brushing a streak of sweat from her forehead. “His health is deteriorating. The doctors said he might not live to see another birthday. I had to grant him this one last wish.” Below the ring, Damon Porter sat in his high-tech wheelchair. His cheeks were flushed with a healthy color, a subtle, triumphant smirk playing at the corners of his lips. I lay on the mat, my chest rising and falling in weak, agonized hitches. Every shallow breath felt like a blade sliding into my chest. I didn’t know if Damon would survive until next year. But I knew with terrifying certainty that I wouldn’t live to see the sun three days from now. 1 The deafening roars of the crowd suddenly faded into a dull, underwater hum. Uncle Mac, the pit referee who had watched me grow up in this arena, rested a hand gently on my shoulder. “Can you get up, kid?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly. I stayed flat on my back. My broken ribs felt like jagged splinters poking directly into my lung. When I tried to speak, my voice was barely a rattle in my throat. “Let it go, Mac. It’s over.” Losing to Maeve… I accepted it. After all, the only reason a street kid like me had managed to survive in a place that swallowed men whole was because of every strike and dodge she had drilled into me. Just last night, I had been too wired to sleep. I had climbed up to the highest rooftop above the gym, staring up at a sky full of stars while listening to her soft breath over the phone. My heart had hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I asked her, my voice laced with hesitant hope, “Tomorrow is my last fight. Are you coming to watch?” I had wanted Maeve to witness my final victory, to see me step out of the shadows for good. A light laugh had drifted through the receiver. “Of course I will.” She was a woman of her word. She had come. She had personally replaced my scheduled opponent, stepped onto the canvas, and personally ended my life. Maeve unlaced her fighting gloves. Her pale skin bore a few minor scratches from our clash. She extended a slender, well-manicured hand toward me. “Don’t be dramatic, Seth. Get up. The ring is no place to act weak.” I hesitated, my hand trembling as I reached up toward hers. But before my fingers could graze her skin, a sudden, wet cough echoed through the crowd. Damon was hunched over in his wheelchair, clutching his chest, his shoulders quivering like a dry leaf in a autumn gale. Maeve’s brow furrowed instantly. Without a second thought, she pulled her hand back, vaulted over the ring enclosure, and rushed to his side. She gathered the fleece blanket resting on his lap and pulled it tightly around his shoulders. “It smells like blood down here, Damon. You know your lungs can’t handle this,” she chided softly. “I told you I’d bring you home.” Her tone sounded like a reprimand, but if you listened closely, it was soaked in helpless devotion. “You just had to see it yourself, didn’t you? If you wanted to know the outcome, I would have told you. When have I ever broken a promise to you?” She kept a protective arm around Damon’s shoulders as she wheeled him toward the exit. Just as they reached the double doors, she paused and cast a glance back over her shoulder at me. “Stop playing dead on the floor, Seth. I pulled my punches—I know my own strength,” she said, her voice cool and practical. “I know you’re upset that I broke your streak. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night and take you to that diner downtown you like.” She spoke with the casual ease of someone who believed a hot meal could fix a shattered heart. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take over. She didn’t get it. This time, there was no fixing this. After the crowd dispersed, Uncle Mac helped me up and dragged me back to the locker room, begging me through choked tears to go to the emergency room. When I pulled off my blood-soaked fight gear, my torso was a landscape of violence. Deep purple and sickly green bruises bloomed across my pale skin, terrifying to look at. Maeve’s fists had carried extra weight tonight. I poured stinging liniment directly over the open abrasions and wrapped my chest tightly with medical binding tape. Only when the sharp pressure stabilized my ribs was I able to catch enough breath to speak. “I only have a few days left anyway, Mac. Don’t let me waste the money.” I offered a small, strained smile, keeping my gaze lowered. “I need every cent left in my account for Gran’s medical bills.” I mentally calculated my bank balance, wondering if it would cover another few rounds of dialyzing for her. My phone buzzed on the bench. A news push notification popped up on the screen. The cover photo showed Maeve pushing Damon out of the fight pit, her head bowed toward him, her expression tender in a way she rarely showed the world. The headline was bold and unapologetic: “CHASEL AND PORTER HEIRS SPOTTED TOGETHER: WEDDING BELLS IN THE NEAR FUTURE?” Whether intentionally or not, Damon had clicked ‘like’ on the article before quickly un-liking it moments later. Uncle Mac stood beside me, his voice cracking with sudden rage. “These damn paparazzi and their fake news! Ms. Chasel’s boyfriend is “you”! Who the hell does this Porter kid think he—” I reached out and flipped the phone face down onto the wooden bench. The bitter taste in my mouth tasted worse than blood. “They come from the same world, Mac,” I whispered. “They look good together.” 2 Before the silence in the locker room could settle, the heavy metal door was thrown open. A neighbor from our street burst in, panting heavily, his face pale with panic. “Seth! It’s bad—it’s really bad!” he gasped out. “Porter Enterprises brought in heavy machinery to demolish Mill Creek! They’re forcing everyone out tonight! They just dragged your grandmother out onto the street!” A cold shock shot through me. I bolted up from the bench, ignoring the agonizing fire that ripped through my chest, and ran out into the night. The sky outside hung low and bruised, heavy with the promise of snow. By the time I reached our narrow alley, the air was thick with yelling and the crunch of splintering wood. My grandmother was slumped against the frozen dirt of the courtyard, our few pieces of worn furniture smashed into kindling around her. Three men in tailored dark suits were pinning her fragile frame down, forcibly pressing her ink-stained thumb onto a stack of legal documents. “Get your hands off her!” I grabbed a discarded iron pipe from the debris and swung it wildly at them. They scattered with startled curses, allowing me to throw my body over Gran like a shield. The legal papers fluttered to the slushy ground, stamped with muddy boot prints. I glanced down. In the section marked “Relocation Compensation”, the payout figure was clearly printed: “$0.00”. Blood roared in my ears. I glared up at the suit-clad men, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. “This is robbery!” Next door, Old Man Miller cracked his front door open, his white hair messy in the wind. “Seth, son, just tell your poor grandmother to sign it!” he yelled nervously. “Five hundred thousand dollars is enough to pay for her hospital bills!” My brain went completely numb. “What five hundred thousand?” Miller looked confused. “The relocation payout! It’s the standard contract for the whole street—five hundred thousand per household!” I turned my head slowly, staring at the lead enforcer. “Why does ours say zero?” The man scoffed, dusting off his lapel with disdain. “You have yourself to blame for crossing people you shouldn’t have. Consider this a lesson in knowing your place. I suggest you sign, kid. A sickly old bird like your grandmother isn’t going to survive another week of us dropping by.” A heavy, suffocating dread settled in my gut. People I shouldn’t have crossed. Porter Enterprises. Damon. My mind flashed back to the night Maeve had asked me to be hers. Damon—who had always been in decent health—had suddenly suffered a rare, life-threatening relapse and was rushed to the ICU. The entire Porter family went into a frenzy. When the call came through, Maeve had been standing in my tiny bedroom, fastening her family’s heirloom silver medallion around my neck. “Damon’s in trouble,” she had said. And without another word, without looking back, she had walked out into the rain. When I saw her the next morning, that same silver medallion was resting against Damon’s collarbone. Maeve had stepped between us like a shield, treating me as if I were a threat. “Damon loved the piece,” she had said, her voice clipped. “I’m letting him wear it for a while. Don’t be petty, Seth. He’s sick.” Damon had smiled weakly at me from his bed, his hand reaching out to clasp mine. “I don’t have much time left in this world, Seth,” he had murmured, his voice soft as silk. “Please don’t hold it against me.” His tone was fragile, but the sharp nails of his thumb had dug deep into the back of my hand, cutting into my skin until I bled quietly into my sleeve. It was only then that I truly understood what Damon felt for Maeve—and how deeply he hated me for being the outsider who took his place. I just hadn’t realized he hated me enough to strip away everything I had left. After the men finally left with a parting threat, I gathered Gran into my arms and lifted her off the cold ground. As I carried her through the shattered doorway, a sudden “boom” reverberated across the city. High above the skyline, brilliant bursts of red and gold fireworks bloomed against the dark clouds. Splendid. Extravagant. I lifted my face to the sky and realized that white flakes had begun to drift down through the dark. Snow was falling. Back in late autumn, Maeve had held my hand as we walked through the park, her eyes bright. “When the first snow falls, Seth, I’m going to light up the whole city with fireworks for you,” she had promised. “I want everyone in Ironford to know you’re mine.” Now, the snow was falling. The fireworks were blinding. But the promises, and the woman who made them, no longer belonged to me. 3 The shock and exposure to the cold proved too much for Gran. By midnight, her skin was burning with a dangerously high fever. Desperate, my hands trembling violently, I dialed Maeve’s private line. The line rang for an eternity before it finally picked up. “Maeve, please… Gran is—” “Seth, don’t tell me your grandmother is sick again just to get me to come over,” she interrupted, her voice heavy with irritation and exhaustion. “This routine is getting old.” The words I had prepared froze in my throat. I couldn’t push a single sound past the tightness in my chest. “Damon just finished his physical therapy,” Maeve continued coldly. “He can’t sleep without me nearby. Try to show a little compassion for someone who is actually dying, Seth. Stop throwing these childish, jealous tantrums.” I lowered my head, staring at the floor as hot, bitter tears dripped onto the back of my hand. I remembered the very first time I had stepped into her underground gym. I had been beaten so badly my face was unrecognizable, cowering in a dark corner behind the dumpster. A pristine white handkerchief had appeared in front of my vision. Maeve had stood there, backlit by the gym’s harsh fluorescent lights, her voice softer than anything I had ever known. “Clean yourself up, kid.” Later, she bought me medicine. She visited Gran in our tiny rental. She showed me how to use my lean frame to generate power, how to strike with maximum efficiency. The night I won my first professional bout, she had wrapped her arms around my waist in front of the cheering crowd, her warm breath resting against my collarbone. “From now on, Seth, you lean on me.” I had believed her. I had truly, foolishly believed her. I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve, walked out into the yard, and dragged out our old wooden handcart. I layered it with every extra blanket we owned. Then I went back inside, gritted my teeth against the searing agony in my ribs, and hoisted Gran onto my back. I didn’t let out a single sound as I carried her out and laid her down on the cart, securing her with straps. The snow was thick on the pavement now. Every step I took sank deep into the slush, my body lurching forward inch by torturous inch. By the time I pushed the cart up the ramp of the city hospital, I had lost all sensation in my fingers and toes. Nurses rushed out to grab the cart, and soon, the bright red light above the emergency operating room clicked on. I collapsed against the sterile wall, staring at those double doors without blinking. The snow melted off my thin coat, soaking through the fabric until I was shivering from the inside out. Hours later, the surgeon stepped out, pulling down his mask. His words felt like the first breath of air after drowning. “She’s stable for now. We managed to break the fever, but she needs to be admitted for follow-up care immediately.” My voice was tight with anxiety. “How much will the immediate treatment cost?” “Around ten thousand dollars to cover the specialty meds and the ICU stay.” I let out a shuddering breath. Ten thousand. I had pushed myself to the brink over the last two years, taking fight after fight without rest. My savings account had just enough to cover it. When I stepped into the room, Gran was awake, her eyes clouded with age and fatigue. “Seth… I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m just a burden to you…” “Don’t say that, Gran,” I whispered, tears spilling over as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my dark blue debit card, tucking it carefully under her thin pillow. “Use this for the hospital fees. If… if I’m not around for a few days, you take care of yourself, okay?” The next morning, I walked down to the hospital pharmacy to collect her prescriptions. As I turned the corner of the hallway, I ran straight into a sleek, customized wheelchair. “Seth! What a coincidence,” Damon said, offering a pleasant, polished smile. “I had a slight migraine last night, but Maeve insisted I come in for a full brain scan today.” I pulled my lips into a tight line, opting not to say a word. I turned on my heel and walked back toward Gran’s room. When I pushed the door open, my heart dropped into a bottomless pit. The bed was empty. Gran was lying on the cold linoleum floor. “Gran!” 4 Her hands were shaking hysterically. Before I could reach her, she lifted a trembling hand and slapped her own cheek with a wet, sharp “crack”. I dropped to my knees, catching her wrists in my hands, my blood running cold. “Gran, what happened?! What are you doing?!” Tears streamed down the deep wrinkles of her face. “Some men… three men in suits walked in just now…” she sobbed, her jaw trembling violently. “They took the card from under the pillow! I tried to hide it, Seth… I tried… I’m useless! I couldn’t stop them!” She beat her hands against her useless legs, consumed by grief and self-hatred. A terrible noise stuck in my throat. My vision flickered with dark spots, the air completely rushing out of my lungs. Gran gripped my forearm with surprising strength, her eyes burning with a sudden, wild fury. “It was them, Seth! The same men who smashed our home yesterday!” Damon. His sinister smile down in the lobby flashed through my mind like a stroke of lightning. It was him. I stood up like a man possessed and bolted out of the room. I spotted the wheelchair near the main glass entrance. “Damon!” I lunged forward, my eyes bloodshot, extending a trembling hand. “Give it back! Give me the card!” Damon tilted his head, his expression innocent and confused. “Seth? What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” “Stop playing games!” I grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, falling to my knees right there in the marble lobby, weeping openly. “Do whatever you want to me! I don’t care about Maeve anymore—you can have her! Just give me the money back! Please, I’m begging you! I just need the money for my grandmother!” Damon stared down at me for a long beat. Slowly, his eyes welled with tears, and his body began to tremble as if in terror. “Seth… please, you’re scaring me…” Before I could process his words, a violent force slammed into my side, throwing me off the wheelchair and crashing onto the hard floor. Maeve stood over me, her hand holding her wrist, her eyes blazing with fury. “You really are hopeless, aren’t you?” she spat, her voice laced with disgust. “Harassing Damon in public? I guess I went too easy on you in the ring yesterday!” I let out a broken, wheezing laugh that tore through my damaged chest. I looked up at her, my eyes hollow. “I just want him to give back what he stole.” Maeve’s brows pulled together into a tight, angry line. “You lost your money?” “If your money is gone, go earn it back! What right do you have to run over here and act like a wild animal in front of Damon?” I slapped her reaching hand away, breaking down completely. “There’s no time! I don’t have time to earn it back!” Maeve’s patience snapped. She stepped forward and delivered a sharp, stinging slap across my face. “SNAP.” “What do you mean, no time?!” she yelled. “I’ve spoiled you for too long, Seth! The laziness in your blood is finally showing! You really are nothing more than street trash that can’t be pulled out of the gutter!” Street trash. When she first met me, she used to call me wild grass—resilient, unbreakable, uniquely beautiful in my survival. She said that was what drew her to me. Now, I was just trash. My throat worked as I forced down a mouthful of metallic warmth. Maeve turned away, taking hold of Damon’s wheelchair handles. “I am so thoroughly disappointed in you, Seth.” I lay paralyzed on the cold tile, but I didn’t miss the cruel, triumphant flash in Damon’s eyes as she wheeled him away. And there, slipping slightly out of the cuff of his jacket, was the familiar dark blue corner of my debit card. “Give it back!” I roared, throwing my body forward to tackle him— A heavy leather boot kicked me square in the chest. Before I could rise, two large security guards pinned my arms behind my back, pressing my face hard against the lobby floor. “Seth, that’s enough!” Maeve shouted over her shoulder without stopping. The pain in my ribs exploded into a terrifying, blinding agony. Black dots swarmed across my field of vision, multiplying rapidly. Suddenly, a wave of commotion burst out near the elevators behind us. Nurses were sprinting toward the rear exit, their voices elevated and sharp with panic. “Someone just jumped from the sixth floor of the inpatient building! Dead on impact!” “Isn’t that the old woman admitted last night? The one whose savings got stolen?” The voices drifted away, sounding muffled and distant, as if coming from under deep water. All that remained was the harsh, ragged sound of my own failing lungs. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. A dark, thick wave of blood erupted from my throat, splashing across the white tiles beneath my face. As my consciousness faded, I felt hands hauling my limp body off the ground. Voices hovered above me. “Take him out the back.” “The boss said his life belongs to the Vault now.” Slowly, the noise faded, and I sank into absolute, silent darkness. … In the hospital’s underground parking garage, Maeve carefully lifted Damon out of his wheelchair, helping him settle into the leather backseat of her sedan. Just as she straightened up, a dark-suited assistant sprinted toward her, leaning in to whisper a few hurried sentences into her ear. In an instant, Maeve’s face drained of all color.

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In the seventh year of our long-distance marriage, I traveled three thousand miles across the country to see Sandy. Standing outside the door of her apartment, my key snapped inside the lock with a sharp, brittle crack. My stomach dropped. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. “You probably grabbed the wrong key again, babe,” Sandy’s voice came through the speaker, smooth and soothing. “Why don’t you check into a hotel down the street and get some rest? I’ll come unlock the door as soon as I’m done.” I looked down at the brass stub remaining in my hand. The little blue label I’d stuck on it years ago was still there, faded at the edges. It wasn’t the wrong key. There was only one reason it didn’t turn: she had changed the locks. Before I could process the sudden knot tightening in my chest, my father’s call flashed on the screen. He answered on the first ring, his chuckle loud and lighthearted. “Sandy’s not at home, Eugene! She came over to my place first thing this morning with armfuls of groceries. She’s making us lunch right now.” A second later, a group text from my best friend, Mark, pinged on my screen, followed by a slurred voice memo: “Man, Sandy’s at the salon getting a manicure with my girlfriend. Women, I swear…” Then came a call from my older sister, Megan. “She’s such a busy bee today,” Megan said with a soft sigh. “She finally carved out an hour to help me review my portfolio.” My head throbbed, a dull roar echoing in my ears. None of them knew that five minutes ago, the building’s front desk concierge had greeted me at the lobby, casually mentioning that the homeowner had just walked upstairs moments earlier. I didn’t press any of them. Instead, I dialed an emergency locksmith. I suddenly desperately needed to know what secret my entire family was keeping from me behind that heavy oak door. … The door creaked open with a low groan. Sitting on the plush sectional in the living room, a young man holding a console controller whipped his head around. When our eyes met, the blood in my veins turned to ice. Justin. The illegitimate son my father had brought into our lives—the boy whose very existence had broken my mother’s heart and driven her to jump from the roof of our family home. Years ago, my father and sister had sworn they would destroy him for what he did to Mom. Mark had almost beaten him senseless with his bare hands. And now, here he was, brimming with youthful energy, lounging in the temperature-controlled luxury of Sandy’s living room, playing video games. “Is that Dad and the others?” A familiar female voice called out from inside. My heart took a violent, sickening plunge. A moment later, Sandy stepped out of the kitchen wearing a beige linen apron. When her eyes landed on me, her entire body went rigid. Her eyes widened in absolute terror. “Eugene… how… how did you get in?” I couldn’t speak. My gaze drifted past her, locking onto a fluffy white cat curled up asleep on a heated pet bed in the corner. It was my mother’s cat—the only tangible thing she had left me when she died. Three years ago, Sandy had called me crying, claiming the cat had passed away from an incurable kidney disease. It hadn’t died. It had been raised all this time by the bastard who killed my mother. Sandy tore off her apron, her hands trembling as she reached out to grab my wrist. “Eugene, please, let me explain. He was completely broke, he had nowhere else to go… I couldn’t just leave him on the street…” I slowly looked around the apartment. Matching silk slippers by the entryway. Two electric toothbrushes sitting side by side in the marble vanity holder. His-and-hers coffee mugs on the counter. Even the loungewear they were wearing matched. In this home where I had never been allowed to set foot, every square inch was filled with the quiet, suffocating evidence of their domestic bliss. The front door chimed. My father walked in, carrying a covered Dutch oven filled with braised beef—Justin’s favorite dish. Megan followed right behind him with a fresh bouquet of peonies, and Mark rounded out the rear, hauling a crate of vintage wine. The moment their eyes fell on me standing in the center of the room, the smiles vanished from their faces like dust in the wind. “Eugene…” The living room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. A ragged, hollow laugh tore from my throat. “So this is how you all work together? Helping the bastard child lie to me?” I pulled out my phone. My screen was still flooded with the texts they had sent me over the past twenty-four hours: [Come over tomorrow, son! Dad’s cooking a massive feast just for you!] [Hey man, let’s check out that auto show on Thursday. My treat!] [Eugene, come to the concert with me this weekend! I bought us VIP seats!] As a chief trauma surgeon, my hospital only gave me five days of paid leave a year. Every single year, I raced across the country to spend those precious few days with Sandy. And every single year, my family would crowd around me, dragging me to dinners, short trips, and outings, showering me with suffocating attention. I used to think it was because they missed me. Now I realized the sickening truth: they were just keeping me occupied, making sure I never came home unexpected, ensuring Sandy and Justin had all the space they needed for their quiet little life together. Justin immediately stepped toward me, his shoulders slumped, putting on his signature look of helpless innocence. “Eugene, please don’t be mad at them. They were just feeling sorry for me because I had no one else. They were just taking care of me in secret… Don’t blame them.” I used to believe my family hated Justin as much as I did. I thought we were standing together in the same dark trench of grief. Now I saw that I was the only one who had ever been locked outside. A tear finally escaped my eye, burning hot against my cold cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and looked at Sandy, who stood frozen in place. “I want a divorce.” The sentence dropped into the room like a heavy stone into deep water. Sandy blinked, stunned. Then, with a sudden, desperate surge, she threw her arms around my neck, wrapping her body around mine. “I can explain everything, Eugene. Let’s just go home. Let me talk to you once you’ve calmed down, okay?” She tried to push me toward the doorway, but my father’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Eugene! What right do you have to bring up divorce?” Sandy tried to gesture for him to stop, but my father stepped forward, his eyes blazing with self-righteous anger. “You’re always tied down at that damn hospital! It’s Justin who’s been stepping up to take care of me! It’s Justin who’s been taking care of your wife while you’re gone! You haven’t fulfilled a single duty as a son or a husband!” My chest squeezed so tight I could barely draw breath. My own father was standing in front of me, publicly condemning me for being unfilial—all to protect the illegitimate child who drove my mother to her death. Mark spoke up next, his voice tight. “Eugene, when those loan sharks came after my business, Justin was the one who stood up for me. You were stuck on some surgery table and didn’t even pick up my calls. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be ruined. You really don’t have the right to act like this toward him.” My best friend. The man I had known since high school, looking at me with cold indifference. Megan pulled on my sleeve. “Eugene, Justin has been taking care of us for years in your place. Can’t you just close one eye and let it go?” It was absurd. It was so agonizingly absurd it almost made me laugh out loud. So this was what it felt like to be gutted from the inside out by the people you loved most. “Enough! All of you, stop talking!” Sandy slammed her hands down on my shoulders, her eyes rimmed with red. “Don’t divorce me, Eugene. Stop saying such foolish things.” Her voice softened into a desperate whisper. “We only did this to keep the family whole. To keep the peace.” A bitter chuckle escaped my lips. “The family is whole. The peace is kept. It’s just that I was never part of it.” Sandy pressed on, her eyes searching mine. “Now that you know the truth, why can’t you just make peace with Justin? We can all finally be together in the open. Wouldn’t that be better?” I took a step back, staring at her as if she were a total stranger. Seven years ago, when my father brought his mistress and Justin into our house, my mother jumped off the roof in utter despair. Back then, Sandy had held my hands in the rain and sworn she would help me get justice. She swore she would never become a betrayer like my father. My father and sister had spent the night kneeling in the funeral home, crying until their eyes bled, whispering promises of repentance until dawn. It was all a performance. A long, elaborate play. I clenched my fists, my jaw tight. “You want to be a happy family with him? Go ahead. Just leave me out of it.” Without another word, I turned on my heel and walked out the door. “Eugene! Listen to me!” Sandy chased after me, reaching out to grab my coat. Just as her fingers brushed my sleeve, a sharp cry sounded from inside the living room. “Justin’s faint! His hypoglycemia is acting up again!” Sandy’s hand snapped back instantly. Without a second thought, she turned around and sprinted back inside. The force of her sudden pullback threw off my balance. My foot slipped on the top stair, and I tumbled down the hard concrete steps. An agonizing surge of pain tore through my right knee as it smashed against the sharp edge of the riser. The skin split open, exposing white bone beneath red tissue. Blood began to soak through my trousers, pooling on the cold floor. Above me, the heavy wooden door slammed shut. No one came out to look for me. I pulled myself up, leaning heavily against the handrail, and limped out of the building. I didn’t stop. I went straight to the airport, bought the first ticket back, and flew back to my city. The moment I stepped off the plane, I walked straight into the hospital’s HR office. “Ruth,” I said, stepping up to the director’s desk. “I’ll take the overseas surgical fellowship. Please initiate my transfer paperwork.” Ruth looked up from her computer, caught off guard. She let out a light laugh. “Are you serious, Dr. Eugene? Can you really bear to leave your wife? She loves you to death—the stories about you two are practically legend around here.” I let out a soft, hollow smile. Ruth picked up a pen and pulled out a fresh file. “Honestly, if that contract hadn’t expired this month, I wouldn’t even be able to process this for you.” My heart stalled. “What contract?” “The agreement your wife signed with the hospital board, of course,” Ruth said, stamping a document. “She arranged for the hospital director to keep you here on a permanent track, doubling your benefit package. The only stipulation was that the hospital could never approve your transfer to another city.” She chuckled softly. “If that five-year clause hadn’t reached its end date, you’d be stuck here forever.” Seeing the dead silence on my face, Ruth paused, realizing she might have said too much, and quickly shut her mouth. I looked at the thick stack of transfer applications sitting on the corner of her desk—dozens of forms I had submitted over the last seven years. Tears finally welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. For seven long years, I had nearly worked myself to the bone trying to get transferred to Sandy’s city. I wrote application after application, only to have every single one rejected without explanation. Because of the distance, I hadn’t made it back in time to hold my mother’s hand before she died. I couldn’t even visit her grave on her memorial days. I had always thought I wasn’t skilled enough, wasn’t senior enough to earn the transfer. It turned out it was my own wife who had pulled the strings behind my back, keeping me trapped three thousand miles away. Ruth held up the official seal, looking at me with concern. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Eugene? Once you sign, you’ll be stationed at the international research center for at least five years. You won’t be able to come back.” I took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m sure.” If three thousand miles wasn’t far enough to hide from them, I would go to the other side of the world. As I walked out of the administrative wing, I passed the OB-GYN clinic on the third floor. Two young nurses were leaning against the desk, whispering excitedly. “Isn’t that Dr. Eugene’s wife? The one who just tested positive for pregnancy?” “Yeah, but… who’s the guy holding her arm? That’s not Dr. Eugene, is it?” I stopped in my tracks and turned my head. Down the hallway, Justin was carefully holding Sandy by the waist. She was holding a fresh ultrasound report in her hand. When she caught sight of me standing nearby, she didn’t try to hide it. She didn’t even look guilty. “I just took the test,” Sandy said, her voice calm as she walked over, Justin trailing behind her. “It’s Justin’s.” My body turned completely cold. I stood there, unable to move a muscle. Sandy softened her tone, stepping closer, talking to me like she was soothing a threw-a-fit child. “You know your medical condition, Eugene… Since you can no longer father a child, Justin stepping in is the best option for us. His child carries your family’s blood anyway. It’s practically yours.” I stared at her slightly rounded stomach, my voice raspy. “How far along?” Justin turned his head away, looking down at his shoes, unable to meet my eyes. Sandy answered for him. “Three months.” “Three months…” I repeated, the words tasting like lead on my tongue. Three months ago, I was involved in a massive highway pileup during a torrential downpour. Bleeding heavily from a crushed pelvis, I called her phone dozens of times from the wreck. When she finally picked up, she cried helplessly over the line: “I’m tied up with something urgent, Eugene! Besides, if I drive over now, it’ll be too late anyway… I’ll call the police for you…” That was the accident that damaged my pelvic nerves. The doctors had gently broken the news to me a week later: I would never be able to father children. And while I was pinned under crushed metal, bleeding into the dark, they were creating a life together. I clenched my fists so hard my short nails bit into my palms, the sharp pain in my lower body flaring up, forcing me to bend slightly at the waist. Justin stepped forward, pretending to offer me a hand, his voice dripping with remorse. “Brother, that night was a complete accident. She drank too much and thought I was you… Please, don’t file for divorce because of this baby.” I leaned against the hallway wall and violently shoved his hand away. I didn’t use much strength, but Sandy snapped instantly. She grabbed my wrist with a tight, painful grip. “Eugene! Why are you taking it out on him? I’m the one who chose to carry his baby!” Her eyes were ablaze with fury. In all our seven years of marriage, she had never raised her voice at me once. And now, she was baring her teeth to protect the man I loathed most in this world. I let out a bitter, lifeless laugh. Reaching into my leather briefcase, I pulled out a freshly printed set of papers and slapped them into her hands. “If you care about him that much, sign it.” Sandy froze, her eyebrows pulling together as she scanned the bold header: “PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE”. Before she could speak, Justin suddenly snatched a small fruit knife from the refreshment tray nearby. He dropped to his knees right on the polished tile floor, tears streaming down his face. “Brother, if you really can’t accept me or this child, just take it out on me!” he sobbed, grabbing my hand and forcing it around the plastic handle of the knife. “The baby can be yours! Just don’t leave!” “Let go of me! Are you insane?!” I struggled to pull my hand back, but his grip was surprisingly vicious. In the next second, Justin drove my hand—and the blade—straight into his own abdomen. “Thwack.” “Eugene! How could you!” Sandy shrieked, shoving me back with all her strength. I hit the wall hard, the back of my head throbbing. Justin collapsed into a pool of deep red, clutching his stomach, his face twisted in performative agony. “I don’t… I don’t blame Brother for hating me… I know I shouldn’t exist… but I didn’t think he’d actually…” Sandy looked at me, her eyes filled with absolute disgust. “I was blind to marry a venomous monster like you! I must have been out of my mind!” She scooped Justin into her arms and screamed for medical staff, rushing him down the hall. The quiet lobby erupted. Onlookers stared at me, whispers turning into loud accusations. “A doctor trying to kill someone in broad daylight?!” “He took the Hippocratic Oath! Where’s his conscience?” I stood there, my hand still stiffly suspended in the air, my white coat splattered with dark red stains. Within fifteen minutes, my personal phone was flooded with thousands of hate messages. People online were calling the hospital desk. Someone even threw a bag of wet trash onto my desk in the staff room. When my father rushed into the hospital lobby, he didn’t even ask what happened. He walked straight up to me and threw a heavy, ringing slap across my face. “SNAP.” “How could I have a son like you?!” he roared, his finger trembling in my face. “He is your brother! How could you drive a knife into him?!” Megan stood behind him, her eyes red with fury. “Don’t you ever call me your sister again, Eugene. Justin is my only brother now!” Mark glared at me with pure contempt. “We’re done, man. Don’t ever call my phone again.” I dragged my feet back to my office. My desk and chair had been covered in bright red spray paint: “HOMEWRECKER.” “MURDERER.” My mother had spent her entire life suffering because of a homewrecker. My mind went completely numb. I pulled out my phone, logged onto my verified professional account, and posted a single sentence: [Justin and his mother are the homewreckers who destroyed my family. I am innocent.] Not five minutes later, my father replied directly under my post, attaching a photo of an official state marriage certificate between him and Justin’s mother. [Justin’s mother is my lawful wife. She was never a homewrecker.] I stared at the golden seal on the digitized document, my breath catching in my throat. The date on the certificate predated my parents’ wedding by two years. The marriage license my mother had held onto her entire life… had been a fake. She had been the unwitting “other woman” in his grand design all along. The last pillar of my reality collapsed into dust. Right then, my phone buzzed violently. It was the caretaker from the municipal cemetery. “Dr. Eugene! Something terrible is happening!” the man panicked over the line. “A demolition crew showed up with excavators! They’re smashing your mother’s headstone right now! Get down here!” I stumbled out of the building, taking a cab straight to the hillside cemetery. When I arrived, a yellow excavator was raising its heavy steel bucket, pounding down repeatedly onto my mother’s granite monument. “Stop! Stop it!” I screamed, running toward the site. The roar of the heavy diesel engine completely drowned out my voice. As I lunged forward to shield the remaining piece of stone, the excavator swung around. The massive rubber tire caught my leg, dragging me beneath the heavy frame. A sickening crunch echoed through the valley, followed by an agonizing scream that tore from my chest. Bleeding profusely on the dirt, I frantically dialed Sandy’s number with shaking fingers. No answer. I dialed again. “The phone you are trying to reach has been turned off.” My energy drained away, my body broken like a discarded rag doll in the mud. A notification popped up on my phone screen. It was a video message from Justin. In the clip, Sandy was leaning over a hospital bed, pressing a fierce, tearful kiss to Justin’s lips, her voice raw with emotion: “You’re going to be okay, Justin. I’ve already sent a team to tear down his mother’s grave. I won’t let you or your mother suffer any more humiliation.” The video replayed automatically, looping her promise over and over, freezing my heart into solid ice. A follow-up text from Justin appeared right beneath it: [Your mother was a filthy side piece, and so are you.] [Homewreckers deserve to rot in hell. Why don’t you go down there and keep her company?] In the growing darkness, my eyelids grew heavy, and my world faded to absolute black. Three hours later, Sandy led my father, Megan, and Mark into the hillside cemetery, intent on showing Justin that justice had been served. But the moment her designer heels stepped onto the muddy clearing, her body swayed violently, and she nearly collapsed onto the dirt.

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The day Vicky’s company went public, she used the national press conference to announce her engagement to her assistant, Kyle. I had been her husband for four years, standing quietly in the shadows while she built her empire. From the audience, I watched Kyle step onto the flower-draped stage, beaming under the warm lights. “Our company wouldn’t be where it is today without Kyle’s unwavering support,” Vicky said into the microphone, her voice echoing through the glass auditorium. “Thank you all for believing in us. Going forward, Kyle and I will be running our premier tech division together.” The room erupted into applause. Flashbulbs strove to capture the happy couple. Looking at their glowing faces, the tight knot in my jaw slowly loosened, and the fists I had been clenching at my sides finally relaxed. Four years of devotion. Four years of quiet sacrifice. It was time to let go. 1. When I got home, I pulled out my phone and dialed a private number. “I honestly didn’t think you’d say yes,” CEO Enoch’s voice boomed softly over the line. “If you join us, Joel, I’ll offer you the highest tier package in the entire firm.” “I’m in, Mr. Enoch,” I said quietly. “As soon as I wrap up my transition here, I’ll be over.” I had just hung up when the front door clicked open. Vicky walked in, setting her designer handbag on the marble console. “Who were you talking to?” she asked, kicking off her heels. “Just someone from engineering,” I lied smoothly. “Clarifying a few technical specs.” My eyes caught the heavy, light-catching diamond ring sitting on her left ring finger—the one Kyle had slipped onto her hand on live television. In our four years of marriage, Vicky had never worn the wedding band I bought her. She had always claimed she was allergic to metals, insisting that jewelry broke her skin out in rashes. Yet here she was, proudly sporting a flashily cheap engagement ring from her assistant. “Why did you leave the launch early?” she asked, stepping into the living room, her voice laced with sharp accusation. “A dozen major investors were asking me deep-dive technical questions about the microchips. Were you trying to humiliate me?” “You handled the press just fine,” I replied flatly. “You didn’t need me.” A flicker of guilt crossed her face, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “And what about that tone?” I asked, meeting her gaze head-on. “You announced an engagement to Kyle on national television. What does that make me, Vicky? What am I to you—your legal husband?” She let out an irritated sigh. “The market demands drama, Joel. An executive romance drives publicity, and publicity drives initial venture funding. If we frame it as a power-couple merger, we pull in double the capital for the new rollout.” I stayed silent. I knew for a fact that three top-tier institutional investors had already locked in their term sheets a month ago. The market excuse was a lie. She was simply hiding behind the proprietary chip architecture I had spent years pouring my soul into, knowing I cared too much about the technology to make a scene. Seeing my silence, Vicky assumed I was merely sulking. She walked over and sat beside me on the leather sofa. As she leaned in, a soft wave of cedarwood cologne hit my nose. It was Kyle’s signature scent. My eyes drifted to her neck. Beneath her soft turtleneck, a faint, mottled bruise—a fresh hickey—peeked out from under her collar. Noticing where I was looking, she pulled the sweater up higher, her posture stiffening. “Look at these,” she said quickly, pulling out a stack of term sheets from her tote bag and placing them on the coffee table. “Investors are practically throwing money at us. Kyle is exceptionally good at client relations, so I’m putting him in charge of managing the overall project. You just stick to the backend coding and hardware engineering like you usually do.” She expected me to be thrilled by the sheer volume of contracts. “If Kyle is so exceptionally capable,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “why don’t you let him handle the engineering side, too?” Vicky’s expression turned sour instantly. “Joel Callahan, learn to separate your personal feelings from business! Have some self-respect! You’re asking a non-technical manager to take over core engineering just to set him up to fail! Since when did you become so ridiculously petty?” She genuinely believed I was acting out of jealous spite, playing the same old passive-aggressive games she thought I always played. She rolled her eyes, shifting back into her authoritative executive tone. “Go draw my bath. And get the essential oils ready—my shoulders are tight from standing all day.” In the past, whenever she returned home late from networking dinners, I would draw her a warm lavender bath and spend an hour massaging her aching neck and back. To her, I wasn’t an innovator or a partner; I was a glorified live-in butler who happened to build her company’s intellectual property. Four years of unconditional love had been outmatched by a boyish assistant who had joined her team three months ago. “I’m tired,” I said, standing up. “If you want a bath, the tub is in the bathroom.” Vicky stared at me, a flash of pure bewilderment breaking through her composed facade. “Joel? You’re throwing a tantrum over something this small? Everything I do is for this company! It’s for our future!” As I walked away, her voice pitched higher behind me. “Joel! Are you deaf?! I’m talking to you!” I walked straight into the master bedroom, closed the door, and turned off the light. 2. Vicky spent the night on the couch in a fit of silent fury. The next morning, I cooked breakfast for two out of sheer habit. To my surprise, Vicky actually came down early, dressed for work, and offered to drive me to the office. Ever since we married, she had insisted on keeping our relationship strictly secret at the firm, claiming we needed to maintain professional boundaries. We had never once commuted together; she wouldn’t even let me be seen stepping out of her car within three blocks of the building. I didn’t bother refusing. I almost thought her sudden change of heart meant she was trying to extend an olive branch after my coldness last night. Ten minutes into the drive, she pulled the sedan up to a leafy curb. Kyle was standing under a streetlamp, waving down at us with a familiar smirk. She unlocked the doors, and Kyle smoothly opened the front passenger door, sliding into the seat beside her. “Oh,” Kyle said, turning around to look at me in the backseat, his eyes gleaming with clear provocation. “Joel! What a surprise. I’ve been taking Vicky’s car every morning for weeks, but this is the first time I’ve seen you in it.” Every morning. My mind flashed back to a month ago during the heavy summer downpours. The rain had flooded the streets, and every ride-hailing app was completely jammed. I had gone to Vicky’s office, asking if she could give me a lift home. She had berated me viciously in front of her door, warning me never to mix personal favors with work, and told me to walk if I couldn’t get a cab. Later that evening, from the lobby window, I had watched Kyle get into her passenger seat. She had been more than willing to drive twenty miles out of her way in a torrential storm for him, while telling her husband to walk home in the dark. “Kyle lives far out in the east end and doesn’t have a vehicle yet,” Vicky said glibly, checking her rear-view mirror. “It’s just convenient.” “Right,” I said softly. “A star manager like Kyle deserves premium executive perks.” Kyle turned his head further, giving me a gloating grin. “Vicky actually offered to buy me a company car, but my driving isn’t great. You’re not upset that she picks me up every day, are you, Joel?” Before I could answer, Vicky cut in sharply. “It’s just a ride, Kyle. Joel isn’t that fragile.” I looked out the side window, watching the blur of morning traffic. “I’m fine,” I murmured. Vicky frowned at my detached response. As the glass-and-steel façade of our corporate headquarters materialized in the distance, her voice turned sharp again. “Pull over at the next corner,” she ordered, tapping the dashboard. “Joel, you can get out there. It’s a short walk, and I don’t want people gossiping if they see us arriving together.” Even after breaking her own rule to bring me along, she was still terrified of being associated with me. “Oh, come on, Vicky,” Kyle purred, placing a hand gently over hers on the gear shift. “We’re almost at the underground garage. Just let Joel ride down with us.” Vicky’s stiff demeanor melted instantly. “Alright. If you say so.” She would listen to a casual suggestion from him over a direct plea from me any day. Besides, if colleagues saw all three of us stepping out of the same elevator, no one would suspect a marriage; they would simply assume the executives were being generous to a senior developer. I didn’t care anymore. My only goal today was to get human resources to sign off on my resignation without causing an uproar. In the underground parking structure, Kyle and Vicky walked ahead, their hands naturally interlacing as they headed toward the private executive elevator. Upstairs, the office was buzzing with post-IPO tension. The company had hired a batch of senior tech interns the previous month, and today was the deadline to process their end-of-term evaluations. Out of seven, only two were being retained. I took my resignation letter, slid it inside the thick stack of intern termination forms, and walked straight into the HR manager’s office. The manager glanced at the top sheet, assumed I was simply dropping off the department paperwork, and signed the bottom of the stack without flipping through the back pages. Handing the folder back, he smiled warmly. “You and Kyle are truly Vicky’s left and right hands, Joel. The company couldn’t run without you guys.” I offered a small, polite smile and said nothing. 3. At 2:00 PM, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from Vicky. It was a screenshot of two premium seat reservations for a romantic drama playing at the downtown theater tonight. It was her standard apology gesture. Deep down, she knew that the firm’s upcoming product roadmap relied entirely on the next-generation microchip design sitting locked inside my private server. “We haven’t seen a movie together in ages,” her text read. “Let’s go tonight after work.” I stared at the screen for a moment, then typed back: “Engineering is light tonight. I’ll head over straight from the office and wait for you near the theater.” I needed a neutral, public venue to hand her the divorce papers. When 6:00 PM rolled around, I stood near the glass doors of the building and watched Vicky walk out to the parking lot. Kyle walked beside her, sliding comfortably into her passenger seat once again. A minute later, my phone pinged. “Something urgent came up at the office. Go ahead to the theater and wait for me inside.” I didn’t bother going to the theater. Instead, I took a cab straight to a family law firm downtown, met with a senior partner, and spent an hour finalizing the draft of our divorce petition. By the time I walked back toward the cinema district, the movie Vicky had picked was already halfway over. She always dragged me to melodramatics I hated, forcing me to sit through two hours of contrived angst just to keep her company. I bought a single ticket for a sci-fi indie playing in the adjacent screen, watched it in peaceful solitude, ate a quiet dinner at a noodle bar, and headed home. While taking off my coat in the hallway, I opened my social feed. Kyle had posted a photo half an hour ago. The background was an upscale candlelit steakhouse. High-end ribeyes, two glasses of vintage Pinot Noir, and two hands clasped tightly across the white linen tablecloth. Though only the hands were visible, I recognized her manicured fingers instantly, along with the thin gold bracelet I had bought her for our first anniversary—the one she usually kept hidden in her jewelry box. Caption: “Real love goes both ways. Thank you, baby, for the incredible surprise gift tonight.” A few minutes later, the front door unlocked. Vicky walked in, carrying a crisp, glossy shopping bag. “I bought you a designer necktie while I was out,” she said, tossing the bag onto the entry table with a practiced smile. “See if you like it.” Whenever she canceled plans or stepped over a boundary, she bought me a random gift to smooth it over. In the past, I would pretend to be overwhelmed with gratitude, carefully storing the item away like a prized trophy, eager to prove that her breadcrumbs were enough to keep me happy. She was used to the routine. “Just leave it in the closet,” I said calmly, stepping past her. Her smile vanished, replaced by an instant flash of heat. “Joel! I know I had to raincheck on the movie, but I went out of my way to buy you something nice! What is with this cold attitude?” I stopped, turning back to look at the bag. “Vicky, did that tie come free with a minimum purchase at the boutique?” Her face flushed crimson. Her eyes widened in sharp, defensive anger. “What the hell are you talking about?!” In the past, I never cared about the price tag of her gifts because I treated every gesture as proof that she cared. But my phone had just buzzed with an email from my attorney containing the final PDF of the divorce settlement. I didn’t even look up as I unlocked my screen. “The tag on the silk lining says “GIFT WITH PURCHASE – NOT FOR RESALE”,” I said evenly. “You can keep Kyle’s leftover freebies. I don’t want them.” “Joel Callahan! Who do you think you are?!” she hissed, her voice rising to a sharp pitch. “You spend all day rotting in that dim laboratory—what do you know about luxury? I was nice enough to bring you back a luxury accessory, and you’re turning your nose up at it? If you don’t want it, fine!” I didn’t argue. I turned on my heel and walked into the guest study, shutting the door behind me. Once you decide to leave a marriage, the words that used to tear your heart apart lose every bit of their power. I stayed in the study all night. Vicky never came to knock on the door. 4. Vicky left the house early the next morning without a word. I drove to the law firm, picked up the printed physical copies of the divorce agreement, and tucked them neatly inside my leather briefcase before heading to the office. My morning was spent doing quiet handovers with my core engineering team. Vicky was deliberately avoiding my floor, trying to use her old silent-treatment tactic to make me feel isolated so I would come groveling back to her. At noon, I walked down to the executive cafeteria for a quick bite. I had no intention of causing a scene, but as fate would have it, Vicky and Kyle were already sitting at the center booth. “Eat more, sweetie,” Kyle purred loudly, peeling a steamed prawn and pressing it directly to Vicky’s lips. “You’ve been working way too hard.” Vicky blushed softly, taking the bite while several junior staff members at adjacent tables watched with exaggerated swoons. “Vicky and Kyle are honestly couple goals,” a young analyst near me whispered loudly. “They’re so affectionate, even in the middle of the office!” Vicky caught the remark and gave a self-conscious laugh. “Kyle just knows my stomach gets sensitive when I’m stressed. He makes sure I actually eat.” When we first got married, Vicky was drinking heavily to win over early angel investors. Every night she came home sick, I would stay up until 2:00 AM preparing hot ginger broth and soothing rice porridge to heal her lining. Later, after my patents secured our first major institutional funding, she didn’t have to drink anymore. But I still cooked tailored, gut-friendly meals for her every single day. I ate my salad in complete silence, my eyes fixed on my plate. Kyle wasn’t satisfied with my lack of drama. He turned his head and called out with an overly bright smile, “Oh, hey, Joel! I didn’t see you sitting there!” The table’s attention snapped to me. The analyst who had been swooning earlier gave me an awkward grin. “Joel! You’re pretty much the last single guy left in senior management. What’s your type? What kind of girl are you looking for?” I set my fork down, matching her cheerful tone. “Honestly? I’m open. Do you have any nice, single friends you could introduce me to?” The analyst beamed. “Definitively! I have a few great friends from business school—I’ll send you their profiles tonight!” Across the table, Vicky’s face turned instantly thunderous. Her knuckles turned white around her glass of water as she glared at me. I stood up, cleared my tray, and walked out without looking back. … By mid-afternoon, a crucial cross-departmental compliance file needed Vicky’s signature. I took the folder and walked up to the executive suite. I knocked firmly on her door. No response. The heavy oak door was resting slightly ajar. Assuming she had stepped out for a meeting, I pushed it open to leave the folder on her desk. The sight inside made my blood run cold. Vicky was sitting directly on Kyle’s lap on the leather sofa behind her desk. Her skirt was pulled high above her thighs, her neck flushed red, her blouse half-unbuttoned. Even though I had already checked out of this marriage emotionally, the sheer, visceral indignity of the visual hit me like a physical punch to the chest. “Vicky,” I said, my voice shaking slightly with disgust. “You are truly vile.” I slammed the heavy compliance folder onto the floor. The loud crack echoed through the room as I turned to leave. “Joel! Wait! It’s not what it looks like!” Vicky scrambled up, her hands wildly trying to adjust her clothes. “Not what it looks like?” I turned back, staring at her with cold contempt. “Then enlighten me, Vicky. What exactly are you two doing on your office sofa during market hours?” She flushed, stammering for an explanation, but Kyle smoothed down his tie and cut in with a sneering grin. “Why are you acting so high and mighty, Joel?” Kyle said, stepping in front of her. “If you were actually capable of satisfying her in bed, do you really think Vicky would be coming to me?” Kyle had been at this company for three months. For those exact three months, Vicky had used every excuse in the book—stress, migraines, late-night deck prep—to keep me from touching her. I had thought she was exhausted. I had tried to be gentle, patient, and understanding. My patience had simply given her the room to mess around with her assistant behind my back. I reached into my briefcase, pulled out the thick stack of legal paper, and slapped it onto her desk. “Vicky,” I said cleanly. “We’re getting a divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560136”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The big three campus heartthrobs were currently putting a notorious “cheater” on blast on the student forum—a girl who had supposedly been two-timing all three of them simultaneously. I was sitting in the dining hall, casually sipping my iced latte and enjoying the spectacle, when a stream of glowing, transparent bullet comments suddenly began floating right across my field of vision. [The female lead is so delightfully real! Who else would think to steal her three childhood besties’ forum accounts just to prank her annoying roommate?] [I mean, yeah, the roommate ends up getting expelled later when things blow out of proportion, but it’s not like Ivy did it on purpose!] [Whatever, let Ivy baby have her fun for now! In a few weeks, when she realizes all three of her childhood friends fell in love with the roommate at first sight, she’s going to cry her eyes out.] [Can you blame them? It’s a classic angst-fest novel. The guys are going to suffer so bad during the groveling arc later. At least the roommate didn’t give them the time of day, so our girl’s men are still totally pure.] The very “Ivy baby” those comments were crying over was currently standing right in front of me, thrusting her phone directly into my face. “Shirley,” Ivy sneered, her voice dripping with artificial outrage. “This shameless slut on the forum… it’s you, isn’t it?” On her phone screen was a collage: three ridiculously handsome male faces surrounding a single, candid photo of a girl from behind. I blinked, contemplating my options for a brief second. I’d always considered myself a quiet, law-abiding student. But if three literal golden retrievers—or rather, three well-trained attack dogs—were walking right up to my porch, it would be a shame not to break out the leash. 01 Ivy had intentionally raised her voice. It was peak lunch hour, and half the dining hall paused, their eyes swiveling toward our table. Meeting Ivy’s malice-filled glare, I kept my expression entirely placid. “It’s a picture of the back of someone’s head, Ivy. What on earth makes you so sure it’s me?” I paused, letting a cool smile touch my lips. “Unless, of course, your own conscience is dirty, and you’re just trying to frame me first.” [Ivy is just young and mischievous, she doesn’t actually mean any harm to her roommate!] [Right? She only posted a blurry side-profile photo later on! If people recognized the roommate, it’s only because the girl dresses way too flashily.] [Ivy was so heartbroken when the three male leads scolded her for this the first time… Poor baby.] Ivy offered me a triumphant, nasty little grin. “Oh, so you think the back of your head isn’t enough proof? Fine. I’ll just have the three of them post the slut’s full-face photo right now, and we’ll see who the real shameless liar is!” Sensing immediate drama, the surrounding crowd started hooting, chanting for her to do it. Under the table, my hands clenched into tight fists. A flash of annoyance washed over me. I shouldn’t have let those stupid floating text boxes rile me up into calling Ivy out without a backup plan. If I stood up right now and accidentally “knocked” her phone out of her hand, would it look too deliberate? 02 I had barely shifted my weight to stand when I froze, settling right back into my seat. [Wait, what’s happening?! Why did the guys change all their account passwords? Ivy can’t log in!] I leaned back, resting my chin on my palm as I watched her with cool amusement. “Well? What’s the hold-up, Ivy? Did the thief get cold feet?” Ivy shot me a furious glare, snapping her head away as she pulled up her contacts. She dialed the first number. Hung up. She swallowed hard, forcing a bright, strained smile toward the crowd. “He’s… probably just in a lecture.” Second call. Hung up. Third call. Declined instantly. The color slowly drained from her face. She glared at me with pure hatred, her shoulders tense as she turned awkwardly to make a quick exit. Suddenly, a guy at the adjacent table shouted, “Holy crap, who’s got fingers that fast?! Someone just posted a video of this whole cafeteria confrontation on the forum!” Within two minutes, the campus forum exploded. Ivy had spent her entire freshman year broadcasting the fact that she grew up with the university’s top three golden boys—Matt, Denis, and Conrad. Because of that established narrative, the angry pitchforks on the thread immediately swung toward me. Seeing the tide turn, Ivy stopped retreating. She sauntered back, taking her seat with an air of delicate, high-nosed disgust. “Looks like everyone else can see right through you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Girls who rely on a pretty face never know how to stay in line. I know you come from some backward, dirt-poor town in the middle of nowhere, Shirley, but being broke doesn’t give you an excuse to be a two-timing parasite.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping into a faux-sympathetic purr. “If you’re really that desperate for cash, I know plenty of wealthy older gentlemen. Sure, they’re a bit up there in age, but they know how to take care of a young girl.” A few gullible bystanders in the cafeteria began snickering, whispering and pointing at me. The commentary grew uglier by the second. Ivy sat back like a prize-winning rooster, her chin tilted high. I glanced down at my phone screen, which had just lit up with a notification. Moments ago, the three private messages I’d dispatched through the forum’s back-end system had received their replies. 03 I held my phone up, flashing the screen toward Ivy. “Maybe you should take a look at the forum again,” I said softly, “before you start drafting your apology to me.” Ivy gave a dismissive scoff, scanning her own screen with casual disdain. In a fraction of a second, her smug expression shattered into pure, unadulterated shock. The screech that tore from her throat nearly cracked the dining hall windows. “That’s impossible!” The original thread outing the “cheater” had been wiped clean. In its place were three identical, newly pinned posts from the university’s three most elite accounts: [The previous post was the result of a lost dare. Please do not harass or speculate about innocent students. I offer my sincere apologies to Shirley Walsh for dragging her into this mess.] Ivy’s face turned an ugly shade of bruised purple. She scraped her chair back, desperate to flee. I moved faster. Before she could take a step, my hand came down firmly on her shoulder, pinning her in place. “For the slander you just spewed in front of everyone,” I said, my voice quiet and absolute, “I want a public apology. Right now. Otherwise, I’m taking this straight to the board.” Ivy shoved my hand off, her voice shrill. “I was making a reasonable assumption! What slander? You think this is primary school where you can run crying to the Dean? Go ahead and snitch! See if anyone actually gives a damn about you!” Our two other roommates, who hadn’t uttered a single word during the entire spectacle, crept over only after Ivy had stormed off. They offered me timid, guilty apologies for not backing me up, followed by well-meaning advice. “It’s just an apology, Shirley… let it go,” one of them whispered softly. “Kids like us, from normal families… we can’t afford to mess with people like Ivy.” 04 Matt was the first one to corner me. He posted up right at the classroom doorway after my afternoon lecture. Recognizing the high-profile heir to the Harrington Logistics empire, the rest of the students hurriedly scattered like frightened quail. Before I could reach the exit, Ivy pushed past me, throwing herself in front of Matt. Her voice instantly shifted into a sickeningly sweet whine. “Matt… You said you were busy today! How come you had time to come pick me up?” Without waiting for his response, she pouted, tugging at his jacket. “You didn’t pick up my calls yesterday and made me look so foolish! Hmph. I’m not talking to you anymore.” I reached out, coldly brushing Ivy aside. “Excuse me. You’re blocking the door.” Ivy flinched as if I’d struck her, instinctively reaching out to wrap her arm around Matt’s to assert her dominance. Matt, however, flicked a glance at me—and stepped back. Ivy’s hand caught empty air. Ignoring the subtle dynamic, I took a step forward to leave. Matt immediately raised an arm, blocking my path, before turning his head toward Ivy. “I need to talk to Shirley about something,” Matt said, his voice flat. “Go find Denis.” Ivy’s smile completely collapsed. Then, as if realizing something, she cast a triumphant, knowing look in my direction, her tone instantly dripping with theatrical concern. “Oh, Matt… it’s totally fine! Just make sure you talk things through with Shirley gently, okay? Don’t be too mean and scare her.” [Ugh, even though Matt hasn’t realized his true feelings yet and still treats Ivy like a little sister, he was ALWAYS the first to jump into the ring whenever anyone made Ivy feel bad!] [Matt might be obsessed with the roommate’s face right now, but Ivy is the one who actually holds his heart. The roommate made Ivy lose face—Matt is definitely going to make her pay!] 05 It was almost hilarious how wildly delusional both Ivy and those floating text boxes were. Matt hadn’t come to intimidate me. He had come to apologize on Ivy’s behalf. I let out a low, cold laugh. “Don’t bother. Whoever commits the crime makes the apology.” Before Matt could even respond, the floating text stream exploded in righteous fury. [Matt is literally lowering himself to apologize to her, and she’s still giving him attitude?! Who does this background extra think she is!] [So naive! Ivy literally saved Matt’s life when they were kids! She’s his soul savior, not some random stray you can compare her to!] God, reading those comments was giving me an aneurysm. Were the people behind those texts clinically brain-dead? Glaring at Matt with newfound irritation, I stepped around his arm and tried to push past him. His fingers clamped firmly around my wrist. “If you don’t want to hear an apology for her,” Matt said quietly, his grip firm but careful, “then I won’t mention it.” He smoothly shifted the topic, his dark eyes searching mine. “What did you mean by that message you sent my forum account yesterday?” The message I’d sent to all three of Ivy’s golden boys had been identical: [This is Shirley Walsh. If you don’t want your secrets leaked, delete the post.] I raised my eyebrow, holding out my hands. “If I hadn’t sent that, would any of you have shown up?” Matt lifted a brow. “Any of us?” To be fair, my interaction with the trio was practically non-existent. Aside from a polite nod when they dropped Ivy off at our dorm on move-in day, we were complete strangers. “You three framed me for two-timing the three of you online,” I said smoothly. “All three of you had a hand in it. Naturally, I had to notify the whole set.” Matt pressed two fingers to his temple, letting out a heavy sigh. He admitted the whole ordeal was a massive misunderstanding, though he couldn’t elaborate on the details. He asked me to withdraw the threats I’d sent to Denis and Conrad, promising he would personally compensate me for any damages. Looking at his deadly serious expression, I tilted my head. Suddenly, I changed my mind. Forcing a public apology out of a girl like Ivy was amateur hour. Watching her precious childhood protectors turn into my personal playthings? Now “that” sounded like a much more exquisite punishment. “Fine,” I agreed easily. Matt’s shoulders visibly dropped in relief. “What do you want as compensation?” I raised a finger, crooking it toward him with a playful, dangerous smirk. “Simple. You can be my dog.” 06 The floating comment section broke into a storm of question marks. [What is wrong with this NPC roommate?! How dare she insult Matt like that? Does she want to get expelled?!] [Wait… is it an insult? Why does it sound so much like flirty banter?] [Isn’t the roommate supposed to be completely indifferent to the male leads?!] [She dares touch Ivy’s man?! I’m going to crawl through the screen and murder her!] [Oh my god, Ivy is watching from around the corner right now… I can’t bear to imagine how heartbroken she is!] I flicked a subtle glance toward the stairwell landing. Sure enough, a small shadow was ducking behind the wall. I let out a soft hum, stepping closer to Matt, closing the distance until our clothes almost touched. “What? Unwilling?” Matt froze for a beat. Then, his lips curved into a slow, dazzling grin, showing off a row of straight, bright white teeth. “Deal,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m all yours.” After exchanging contacts, a banking notification chimed on my phone. Matt had just transferred an eye-watering sum into my account. I spun the screen toward him. “If this is compensation on Ivy’s behalf, I’m sending it back. If it’s a voluntary gift to your master… I’ll keep it.” Matt hesitated for a second. Then he reached out, his thumb gently pressing the ‘Accept’ button on my screen. As he walked me back to my residence hall, the reality of those floating comments hit me: Matt really “had” fallen for me at first sight. Or, more accurately, he was entirely entranced by my face. For half the walk, his eyes barely left my profile. Near the dorm entrance, his phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID, looking back at me with a conflicted expression. “Go ahead,” I said, entirely magnanimous. “If it’s urgent, don’t let me keep you.” Once Matt turned and hurried away, I walked over to a nearby stone planter and sat on the concrete ledge. Looking up at the dense oak tree nearby, I called out toward the branches. “If you don’t come down right now, I’m going inside.” 07 Denis stepped out from behind the trunk of a massive oak. Unbothered by the dirt, he walked over and slid onto the stone ledge right beside me, completely at ease. He looked at me with open curiosity. “How’d you catch me?” I glanced vaguely up at the sky. “Because I have cheat codes, obviously.” I turned my head, meeting a pair of bedroom eyes that could make a stray dog feel like the love of his life. Among campus rumors regarding the elite trio, Denis’s were the most colorful. Ivy was insanely possessive of her three childhood friends. Being a year ahead of us, Denis’s playboy reputation had been a frequent topic of gossip among my former roommates. Ivy would always throw icy, passive-aggressive remarks whenever his name came up, forcing the girls to gossip behind her back instead. And Denis was the undisputed star of those rumors. Whether it was his jawline or his trust fund, girls threw themselves at him in waves. Though he rejected them all, he never said a harsh word, leaving a trail of broken hearts convinced they still had a chance. Up close, I had to admit: the guy certainly had the capital to be a menace. [Even if Denis struts around campus like a flashy peacock every day, the roommate hasn’t given him a single glance!] [Ivy is still the sweetest girl. She’s always complimenting him, giving him confidence!] I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Ivy? Giving “Denis” confidence? Careful, or his ego might actually burst through the stratosphere. Denis stared at me, his gaze so heavy it practically felt liquid. “I’m guessing Matt came to apologize for Ivy.” I gestured for him to continue. “Don’t let Matt’s dark, brooding act fool you,” Denis murmured, leaning in slightly. “Deep down, the guy is indecisive as hell. You can’t rely on him to back you up. Next time you and Ivy clash, he’s going to swing right back into his conflicted little shell.” He flashed a breathtaking, dimpled smile. “So… why not give me a shot instead?” 08 I shifted an inch away, creating some space as I looked at him with exaggerated suspicion. “Aren’t you and Ivy childhood sweethearts too? What makes you think you’re any different from Matt?” Denis looked as if I’d just told the funniest joke in the world, leaning back and throwing his head back in laughter. When he finally sobered up, his eyes darkened. “I only gave a damn about Ivy in the beginning because Matt gave a damn about her.” Matt had been the golden standard pushed onto their peer group since childhood. Deep down, Denis carried a petty, competitive itch he could never quite scratch. Whatever Matt wanted, Denis wanted to steal. “Later on,” Denis added casually, “taking care of her just became a habit.” I hit him with a sharp question. “Are you sure this isn’t just your pathetic rivalry with Matt acting up again?” Denis reached out, framing my jaw with his warm fingers to force me to look directly into his eyes. “Even if it started with falling for a pretty face,” he purred, “I was the one who walked into your dorm room first that day. And today, I beat Matt to you.” I remained noncommittal. Panicking slightly at my cold response, Denis added hastily, “At least there’s one thing I have over Matt.” I stopped shaking my head against his grip, posing as an attentive listener. “Oh?” “Between a girlfriend and a childhood friend,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming, “the girlfriend comes first. Every single time.” Words were cheap, of course. “If you can get Ivy to publicly apologize to me,” I murmured, “I’ll think about it.” Denis looked like he’d just won the lottery. Meanwhile, the floating text comments were losing their collective minds. [The plot has derailed so hard I can’t even watch this anymore! I’m dropping this book!] [If Denis actually forces Ivy to apologize, he is officially REVOKED from the male lead lineup! He can forget about ever winning her back in the groveling arc!] [Ivy was right all along! This roommate is nothing but a calculating, manipulative snake!] [Can a bolt of lightning just strike this woman dead already?!] Denis asked for three days. Naturally, I agreed. It wasn’t that I lacked the means to make Ivy apologize myself. But watching her beloved, precious childhood “brother” force her onto her knees to apologize to me? That sounded infinitely more entertaining. 09 The moment I stepped through my dormitory door, my instincts screamed danger. I ducked instinctively, covering my head. A heavy glass mug slammed into the doorframe behind me, shattering violently. Sharp shards rained down, slicing across my exposed calves. Thin lines of bright red blood welled up instantly. Having missed her target, Ivy grabbed a heavy hardback textbook from her desk, ready to hurl it at my head. In two quick strides, I closed the gap and grabbed her wrist, twisting it sharply upward. Ivy let out a shrill scream of pain. Tears spilled from her red-rimmed eyes as she glared at me with wild hatred. “You bitch! You shameless whore! How dare you try to seduce Matt?!” [Ugh! My heart breaks for Ivy! Seeing both Matt and Denis getting close to the roommate made her realize she actually loves them!] [She called both of them crying, but in her desperation, when she confessed… Matt told her he only ever saw her as a little sister, and Denis literally told her she was delusional!] Ivy was burning with rage, so naturally, I decided to pour gasoline on the fire. “You really ought to thank yourself, Ivy,” I purred, leaning down to her ear. “If you hadn’t pulled that stunt on the forum, I wouldn’t have had the chance to get so close to them.” Ivy bit her lip until it almost bled. “Matt’s life belongs to me! One word from me, and he’ll see you for the trash you really are!” “Go ahead then,” I smiled coldly. “I’ll be waiting.” I pulled out my chair and sat down, completely ignoring her meltdown. Our two roommates hurried over with a broom, intending to clean up the shattered glass around my feet. I immediately reached out, blocking them. “Whoever broke it cleans it up,” I said firmly. Ivy crossed her arms, finally finding a point of leverage to sneer at me. “I’m not a dirt-poor peasant like you, Shirley. Money solves everything. I’ll pay you two two hundred dollars each to sweep this up.” Though the two roommates were usually terrified of crossing Ivy, everyone has a breaking point. Faced with such blatant, arrogant humiliation, both girls set their brooms down and walked away. In the end, a girl from down the hall filed a noise complaint with the resident advisor. Ivy was forced to bend her precious, spoiled waist and clean up every single piece of glass under the RA’s stern supervision. I kicked my legs up, enjoying the view of the “heiress” doing manual labor, while taking a crisp, high-res photo of the blood dripping down my calf. I posted it to my close-friends story on social media. Targeted audience: Conrad—and Conrad only.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560135”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend, Elvis, suffered from severe social anxiety. Or at least, that was his excuse for hating lines. He couldn’t stand waiting for anything. On May 20th—the date every couple in the city rushed to turn into a wedding anniversary—I dragged him down to City Hall to pull our marriage license. He took one look at the queue stretching down the marble steps, turned on his heel, and walked away. Then came the night my appendix almost burst. By the time we reached the emergency room, I was doubled over, cold sweat soaking my collar. Elvis scanned the overcrowded triage desk, his handsome face contorted in disgust. “Do you pick peak hours to get sick and get married on purpose?” he sneered. “Or are you just trying to torture me?” I squeezed my eyes shut against the searing pain in my abdomen, forcing a faint, placating smile. “I’m sorry… the timing is terrible. It’s okay. Go wait in the car. I’ll queue up myself.” Elvis gave a stiff, arrogant nod, turned, and left without looking back. For five years, I convinced myself that I had grown accustomed to standing alone in endless, suffocating lines. I told myself it was just who he was—a deeply private, introverted man who couldn’t handle crowds. Until the day before my best friend Cecilia’s birthday. Cecilia had been obsessed with a limited-edition designer vinyl figure for months, incessantly dropping hints about the secret chase version. Hoping to surprise her, I headed downtown to the boutique toy store early in the morning—only to freeze when I reached the block. There, shuffling slowly near the front of a three-block-long line, was Elvis. Strangers jostled his shoulders in the muggy heat. Strands of dark hair clung to his damp forehead. Yet there was no scowl on his face, no restless shift of his feet, no trace of the frantic panic he always claimed suffocated him in crowds. He just stood there, patiently waiting. In that quiet, terrible moment, the truth slammed into my chest like a physical blow. He didn’t hate waiting in lines. He just hated waiting in line for me. I pulled out my phone with trembling hands. I opened my notes app, scrolled to the top, and located a pinned note I had edited a hundred times over the years—a curated list of quiet, off-peak dates for City Hall, carefully cross-referenced with quiet coffee shops and low-key venues that wouldn’t set off his anxiety. Slowly, deliberately, I hit delete. I didn’t need that list anymore. … The midday sun beat down relentlessly, twisting the faces of everyone in line into masks of misery. A middle-aged man nearby spat on the pavement, a tiny drop splashing onto the crisp white leather of Elvis’s sneakers. Elvis was a ruthless germaphobe. Once, on a date with me, a passing car splashed dirty puddle water onto his hem, and he immediately canceled lunch and went straight home to shower. Now, he merely knit his brows slightly, wiped his shoe against the back of his jeans, and returned his focused gaze to the store’s glass doors. Yesterday, Cecilia had posted in our group chat: “I am begging on my knees! I need this secret chase figure. Whoever gets it for me, I will love you forever!” One of our mutual friends had joked: “Good luck. That line is ninety percent scalpers. You could stand there all day and still come up empty.” I had planned to braving the crowd for my best friend. But why was Elvis here? I stepped back into the shadow of a nearby awning, watching him with a sickening, self-flagellating obsession. It felt as though by standing here in the shade, I could somehow rewrite the narrative of the last five years—the years I had spent standing alone in queues while he waited comfortably in the car or stayed home entirely. Two hours passed. Elvis finally reached the counter. Store policy capped purchases at two blind boxes per customer. He bought his pair and unboxed them right at the register. Neither was the chase figure. Without a second of hesitation, he turned around, walked past the dozens of waiting people, and rejoined the very back of the line. Four hours later, he emerged into the heat again, his shirt drenched in sweat, his skin flushed pink from sunburn. He unboxed the third attempt. This time, he pulled out the golden figure Cecilia had been crying for. A rare, triumphant smile curved Elvis’s lips. My chest caved in. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number, digging my thumb nail into the meat of my palm, using the tiny, sharp pain to anchor myself against the tremor in my voice. “Elvis? Are you out right now?” “What is it?” His tone was clipped, impatient. “I’m having a massive craving for those warm guava tarts from Porto’s,” I said, trying out the high-pitched, exaggeratedly sweet tone Cecilia always used when she wanted something. “Could you pick up a box for me? Please? I really, really want them right now.” There was a sharp pause on the line before Elvis’s icy voice cut through. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you talking like Cecilia all of a sudden? It’s disgusting.” My blood ran cold. Not because he called me disgusting. But because he had recognized Cecilia’s tone instantly. Porto’s was only two blocks away from where I stood. I could see the shop window from the corner. The line outside was practically nonexistent—just five or six people waiting under the patio umbrella. Elvis paused outside the bakery, cast a dismissive glance at the small queue, and didn’t slow his stride for a second. “There’s a line,” he said coldly. “Maybe next time.” “Next time.” In five years, I had heard those two words more times than I could count. “We’ll get the marriage license next time.” “I’ll come to your wedding dress fitting next time.” “We’ll set up a dinner with your parents next time.” Before I could speak, the call went dead. I watched his tall, lean figure disappear down the street. Then, I walked over to Porto’s and stepped into the queue. It took less than two minutes to reach the register. I held the warm box of pastries in my hands—a treat I had been looking forward to all week—and realized I didn’t have an ounce of appetite left. I turned around and handed the box to the startled girl behind me in line. For the rest of the afternoon, I made the rounds. The wedding planner’s office. The travel agency for our Mediterranean honeymoon. The boutique photography studio where we had placed a deposit for our engagement portraits. One by one, I canceled every single reservation in person. I was just stepping out of the photography studio when my phone buzzed frantically. It was Cecilia. “Bridget! Where the hell are you?!” she shrieked the moment I answered. “Elvis collapsed from heatstroke! He’s in the ER! Get over here right now!” My heart instinctively leaped into my throat. Forgetting everything for a second, I sprinted to the curb and hailed a cab. When I burst into the urgent care waiting room, Cecilia met me at the door, her face contorted in anger as she launched into a barrage of accusations. “What kind of girlfriend are you?! It’s a hundred degrees outside—how could you let him wander around in the heat for so long?!” On the ride over, I had checked my phone multiple times. Elvis hadn’t sent me a single text, hadn’t missed a single call. Now was not the time to argue. “Where is he?” Cecilia pointed toward the intake desk line, looking suddenly sheepish. “Over there. My period just started and my cramps are killer, so after he rested for a few minutes, he insisted on standing in line to get my intake paperwork sorted.” My voice rose, sharp and incredulous. “He has heatstroke, and you’re letting him wait in line for you?!” I pushed past her and marched toward the desk, instantly spotting Elvis’s pale, stooped frame. His spine was curved, his lips tinged with an unhealthy bluish hue, looking as though he might pass out at any second. A sudden memory flashed through my mind—a heavy blizzard three years ago, when the city was entirely shut down and cabs were nonexistent. I had developed a terrifyingly high fever, and Elvis had carried me on his back, trudging through two miles of knee-deep snow to get me to a clinic. When he finally set me down on the examination table, his inner thermal shirt was completely soaked through with sweat. My heart softened despite itself. I walked up beside him. “Let me take your place.” Elvis’s dark brows pulled together into a harsh scowl. His tone was laced with raw irritation. “What were you shouting at Cecilia for? She’s in pain. How is she supposed to stand here? I told her to sit down.” He swayed precariously as he spoke. I reflexively grabbed his arm to steady him, swallowing down the bitter taste of betrayal in my throat. “Go sit down, Elvis. We’ll talk about this later.” I stepped into his spot as he stumbled toward the plastic chairs. The queue moved at a painful crawl. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of rubbing alcohol, stale sweat, and sickness. My stomach churned, a sudden wave of nausea hitting me so hard I felt dizzy. In that moment, I understood Elvis better than I ever had before. Waiting in line was awful. I hated it, too. In my periphery, I watched Elvis walk over to the water cooler. He poured a cup of warm water, tested the temperature against his palm, and gently handed it to Cecilia. He hovered over her, his eyes filled with quiet, protective concern. As if she were the fragile one. As if she were the patient. I forced myself to look away, staring fixedly at the back of the person ahead of me as the line slowly crept forward. When I finally reached the glass partition, the administrative assistant tapped her desk impatiently. “ID and insurance card.” I froze. I turned around and realized Elvis hadn’t given me any of his cards. The man behind me groaned loudly, giving my shoulder a rough shove. “Hey, lady, if you don’t have your stuff ready, get out of the way! People are sick here!” “Sorry,” I muttered, stumbling out of the queue. I walked over to where Elvis and Cecilia were sitting. “Where’s your ID?” Elvis looked up at me coldly, then reached into his pocket and handed over his wallet. He had a photographic memory; he never forgot anything. Except for me. A bitter, mocking smile touched my lips. This was his punishment. His quiet little way of getting back at me for raising my voice at Cecilia earlier. … Elvis spent the night hooked up to an IV drip for severe dehydration and exhaustion. I didn’t bring up the breakup that night. Looking at his pale, hollow face, I told myself that five years deserved a civilized, decent farewell. I would wait until he recovered. The next afternoon, as the nurse discharged him, I kept my tone light and neutral. “You’re still weak. Why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll go to Cecilia’s birthday party at the lounge by myself tonight.” Elvis didn’t say a word. He just nodded and closed his eyes in the back of the Uber. Yet when I pushed open the door to the VIP lounge that evening, the first thing I saw was Elvis sitting on the velvet plush couch, right beside Cecilia. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel a sting of shock. My heart remained dead silent. Elvis’s friends called out my name, moving over to make room for me. I declined with a soft wave and pulled up a chair at the outer edge of the booth—only realizing after I sat down that the guy next to me was an old college acquaintance who had confessed his feelings to me years ago. Elvis’s eyes swept over us, his expression darkening instantly. Without a word, he picked up a sleek gift bag from the table and slid it toward Cecilia. When Cecilia pulled out the limited-edition golden figure, she let out an ear-splitting shriek, throwing her arms around Elvis’s neck in a breathless hug. “Oh my god! Elvis! If you weren’t my best friend’s man, I would kiss you right on the mouth!” I saw a subtle, rare curve touch the corner of Elvis’s lips. “Just got lucky,” he murmured casually. Elvis had always been cold, aloof, and painfully distant. I had spent three exhausting years chasing him before he finally let me into his life. He used to tell me he liked quiet, sensible, low-maintenance women. So, whenever I was around him, I muted myself. I shrank my personality, careful never to be too loud, too demanding, or too much. When Cecilia first found out about our dynamic, she had slammed her drink on the table and yelled at me: “Why are you bowing down to him like that? He’s literally conditioning you! It’s textbook emotional manipulation!” And Elvis had pulled me aside more than once, saying: “You should keep your distance from Cecilia. She’s messy, loud, and constantly hanging out in trashy places. Don’t let her rub off on you.” Yet somewhere along the way, the rules had shifted. Whenever Cecilia threw a tantrum, acted reckless, or whined, Elvis would put his phone down and listen to her with endless, brooding patience. Just like he was doing right now. Nobody in the flashing neon room noticed my flushed face or the silent tears stinging the backs of my eyes. After the unboxing hype settled down, the group moved on to drinks and cake. Eventually, the topic drifted toward marriage. “Hey, Elvis,” one of his old fraternity brothers leaned in, sloshing his whiskey. “When are you and Bridget finally locking it down? You’ve been together forever.” Elvis’s jaw clenched, his eyes turning arctic cold. Not wanting to create an embarrassing scene in front of our entire social circle, I took the initiative to cut in. “We’re not getting married.” I forced a tight, cheerful smile. “Elvis thinks weddings are like circus shows—just two monkeys performing for a crowd. It’s tedious, and honestly, I agree.” The room went quiet for a beat before another friend scoffed loudly. “Not getting married? Man, Elvis, that’s harsh. After everything she did for you? What about those dozen final letters she wrote you back in grad school?” When Elvis got accepted into MIT on a full ride, I had deferred my life to follow him to the East Coast, taking an administrative job at a low-tier college in California just to maintain a US visa. Every weekend, I would make the brutal eight-hour drive along terrifying, fog-slick mountain passes just to spend thirty-six hours with him in Cambridge. Before every single drive, terrified I might crash on the cliffside roads, I would write a final letter—a makeshift last will and testament—and leave it in my glove box. One day, Elvis rode in my car and discovered the stack of letters tucked beneath the registration papers. He read them in silence. Then, he looked at me and said: “Bridget, let’s give us a real try.” The memory hung heavy in the air, thick with awkward tension. Elvis stared directly at me, his knuckles turning white around his glass. Suddenly, he snapped, “Who said we’re not having a wedding?” He turned to Cecilia, his voice loud enough for the entire booth to hear. “You two promised to be each other’s maids of honor years ago, didn’t you? I’m not going to be the reason Bridget breaks her promise to you.” Cecilia squealed, jumping up from the couch. “Yes! I’ve had three different bridesmaid dresses saved on Pinterest forever! Finally!” She beamed at me. “Bridget, did you hear that? You owe me big time!” I looked at Elvis in absolute, dizzying disbelief. I had written a fifty-page planning binder for our wedding—venues, florals, modest budgets—and he had vetoed every single page with cold disdain. I had chased him for three years. I had given him five years of my life. Yet I couldn’t earn a simple ceremony. And now, simply because Cecilia wanted to play dress-up as a bridesmaid, he casually agreed to it. A wave of overwhelming absurdity washed over me, rendering me breathless. My quiet murmur—”Elvis, we’re never having a wedding”—was completely swallowed by the deafening bass of the lounge music. Up on the small karaoke stage, Cecilia was already pulling Elvis toward the microphones, forcing a duet headset into his hand. I picked up a glass of bourbon from the table and swallowed it in one sharp, burning gulp. A week ago, a tech startup in San Francisco where I had interned during college reached out to offer me a senior operations role—with double my current salary. I had hesitated, torn between my life here with Elvis and my own career. Right now, in the middle of the thumping bass and flashing lights, the choice was blindingly clear. I unlocked my phone, opened my email draft, and hit send. “I accept the offer. I can start immediately.” … The hangover the next morning hit me like a sledgehammer. I was jolted awake by my phone ringing off the hook. It was Cecilia. “Bridget! Elvis and I are going viral!” she screamed into the receiver. “What?” I rubbed my aching temples, trying to clear the fog from my brain. “The duet video I posted of us at the lounge last night! It hit half a million views overnight!” Cecilia’s voice was breathlessly euphoric. “I already have brands DMing me for couple-sponsorships! Eight hundred bucks for a thirty-second feature! Bridget, please, can I borrow Elvis for a few weeks? Just for content! Please!” Cecilia came from a struggling family and had been trying to make it as a lifestyle influencer for two years with zero traction. I sat up in bed, my tone solemn as I tried to reason with her. “Cecilia, building a fake couple persona is dangerous. If your followers find out it’s staged, the backlash will destroy you.” “Ugh, Bridget, don’t be so stingy!” she snapped, her tone instantly flipping from begging to hostile. “You’re just using some high-and-mighty excuse because you don’t want to share him. Are we even real friends?!” I bit back my anger. “It doesn’t matter what I say. Elvis will never agree to it anyway.” Elvis was obsessive about his privacy. Once, I had posted a picture of our dinner where the blurred reflection of his back was visible in a wine glass, and he had thrown a furious tantrum, forcing me to delete the post immediately. Cecilia chuckled triumphantly. “Hehe, actually? Elvis already said yes.” I suddenly realized she was on a video call. The camera flipped around. Elvis was sitting at the tiny laminate desk in Cecilia’s cramped studio apartment, focused intently on a laptop screen as he drafted a script. He didn’t even glance up as he spoke into her speakerphone. “Cecilia’s going through a tough time financially. As a friend, helping her out is the right thing to do.” He paused, his voice dropping an octave, laced with a bite. “Besides, Bridget, didn’t you pose intimately with other guys for those college promotional videos back in the day?” “That was an official university recruitment campaign!” I shot back, my chest heaving. Cecilia giggled in the background. “Double standards, much? Rules for thee, but not for me!” In that instant, a cold realization settled deep in my bones. They were an alliance now. Standing on the exact same side, united against me. No matter what I said, I would always be the villain, the outsider, the killjoy. The urge to argue vanished completely. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Do whatever you want.” An hour later, Cecilia dropped the link to their first official promo video in our group chat. In the video, Cecilia and Elvis were sitting side-by-side on her narrow twin bed, wearing matching silk pajamas. They were reviewing an adult intimacy toy. Halfway through the sponsored script, Cecilia feigned embarrassment, hiding her blushing face against Elvis’s chest. The comment section was exploding: [They are so gorgeous together!] [I’m obsessed!] [The chemistry is insanely sweet!] In our usually rowdy group chat, however, nobody replied. The silence was deafening. To break the awkward air, Cecilia posted a follow-up text: “It’s all just acting for the algorithm, guys! Acting! Bridget, don’t be jealous, okay?” Elvis replied instantly: “She won’t be. She’s used to it.” I stared at the glowing blue light of the screen for a long time, waiting for the surge of agony, the humiliation, the heartbreak. Instead, there was only a profound, weightless calm. The storm inside me had finally burned itself out. I stood up, pulled my large red suitcase out of the closet, and began packing. My start date in San Francisco was confirmed for Monday. On the evening before my flight, the front door clicked open. Elvis walked in, carrying a pink hardshell suitcase in one hand. Cecilia trailed behind him. “Her apartment is too cramped to set up lighting for livestreams,” Elvis explained casually, setting her bag by the entryway. “She’s going to crash in our guest room for a few weeks.” He glanced around the living room, a subtle frown tugging at his brows. “Why is the place so bare? Did you clean early?” I offered a faint smile. “Yeah. Clearing out space for you two.” Elvis didn’t probe further. He turned to me. “Give Cecilia your house slippers.” I blinked. “What?” “We don’t have guest slippers,” he said, his tone commanding and unbothered. “She has a cold right now and shouldn’t walk on the hardwood floor. Go run down to the store and buy yourself a new pair.” Cecilia tugged at his sleeve, putting on a show of hesitation. “Oh, Elvis, don’t be so dramatic! I’m wearing socks, it’s fine… though for our live night stream later, we do need to wear matching couple slippers. Bridget, can I just borrow yours for a bit? We’ll buy new ones tomorrow and give them back!” Without a second of hesitation, I slipped my feet out of the plush shearling slippers I had spent hours searching for online to match Elvis’s, and kicked them directly to her feet. “No need to return them,” I said evenly. “They’re yours.” The matching slippers. The apartment. And Elvis. She could have all of it. … My flight was scheduled for early the next morning. I had intended to sit Elvis down tonight and have a final, clean break. Instead, he spent the entire evening locked in the guest room with Cecilia, launching their first joint livestream. Their voices were muffled behind the closed door, but snippets of words floated through the hall: “selling fish,” “smell,” “donations.” A cold knot twisted in my gut. I opened TikTok and found her stream. Cecilia was sitting close to Elvis in front of a ring light, dabbing at her eyes as she addressed over ten thousand live viewers. “After my parents divorced, my mom ran a filthy fish stall at the wet market to raise me,” Cecilia sobbed softly into the mic. “I grew up smelling like raw fish. No matter how many times I showered, the scent never went away. Kids at school bullied me relentlessly… except for Elvis. He was the only one who stood up to protect me. I thought he was the coolest guy in the world.” She stole a shy glance at Elvis. “When my mom was dying of cancer in my senior year of high school, our school set up a charity drive. Elvis secretly donated fifteen thousand dollars—his entire college fund—and thought he hid it so well.” Cecilia leaned her head on his shoulder, her voice dripping with playful affection. “Be honest, Elvis… did you fall in love with me back then?” Elvis looked at her, his voice soft, indulgent. “Maybe a little. But I was afraid of the drama.” Cecilia giggled, her eyes shining with triumph. “He’s just so stubborn! He wouldn’t admit it, so I had to chase him all the way across the country! I wrote him dozens of love letters, and when those didn’t work, I literally wrote him last wills and testaments every time I drove to see him!” I stared at the screen, my hands trembling so violently I could barely hold the phone. They had stolen my childhood. It was “my” mother who had sold fish to put food on the table. It was “my” mother who had died of cancer in my senior year. It was “my” fifteen thousand dollars in hard-earned scholarships that I had used to support myself, and “my” terrifying drives through the mountains, “my” letters in the glove box. They took my grief, my sacrifices, my painful past, and rewrapped it as their epic romance to farm clout on the internet. The comment section was scrolling so fast it was a blur: [I’m crying! This is true love!] [You are so brave, girl!] [Please never let each other go!] Suddenly, a top donor dropped a two-thousand-dollar digital gift on the stream, flashing a banner across the screen: [KISS ON CAMERA NOW!] Elvis hesitated, glancing nervously toward the bedroom door. “Thank you, boss!” Cecilia squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his face down toward hers. I slammed the app shut, my breathing ragged. As I backed out of her profile, my thumb accidentally brushed her grid. The cover of her newest video popped up—and my heart stopped. It was a clip she had filmed in my hallway yesterday. In the background, caught in the wide-angle lens, was me. I had been hauling boxes; my hair was a rat’s nest, my clothes oversized and faded, my face distorted by the camera angle into something grotesque and exhausted. The top comment under the video had thousands of likes: “Who’s the ugly goblin in the back?” Cecilia had replied with two words: “The maid.” And she had pinned the comment to the top. A cold, terrifying calm settled over me. I got out of bed, walked across the hall, and began pounding on the guest room door. A minute later, the door swung open. Elvis stepped out, snapping it shut behind him. His voice was a harsh whisper. “What is your problem?! Don’t you know we’re live?!” I squeezed my hands into fists, forcing my voice to remain steady. “You can play happy house on camera all you want,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “But you do not use my mother’s death for your content. And tell her to take that video of me down right now.” Elvis glanced at his phone, his tone softening slightly into a dismissive compromise. “Bridget, that video already cleared three brand sponsorships. Do you have any idea how much money Cecilia would have to pay in penalties if she deletes it now?” I turned my back on him. “That’s your problem.” Perhaps the ice in my voice frightened him. Elvis suddenly reached out, grabbing my wrist. “Bridget… wait. Tomorrow afternoon, let me take you to the bridal boutique. You’ve been waiting to try on wedding dresses for years, haven’t you?” I turned slowly to face him. He cleared his throat, adding awkwardly, “Cecilia wants to shoot a bridal-themed vlog anyway. We can kill two birds with one stone.” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. “You guys go ahead,” I whispered. “Have fun.” I pulled my wrist out of his grip and walked back into my room. Elvis stepped forward to follow me, but Cecilia’s sweet voice called out from behind the door. “Elvis! Come back! The chat is calling for you!” Elvis paused, exhaled sharply, and turned back to the guest room. “Stop throwing a tantrum, Bridget! The appointment is set for two tomorrow afternoon. Be ready!” The stream finally ended in the dead of night. At 4:00 AM, the apartment was shrouded in pitch-black silence. Elvis was asleep on the living room sofa, his brow furrowed even in his dreams. I rolled my red suitcase quietly out of the bedroom. On the coffee table next to his phone, I laid down a single, white envelope. I had written Elvis dozens of love letters in my youth. I had written him dozens of final wills on mountain passes. This was my last letter to him—a simple, one-line farewell. At the airport gate, as the morning sun broke over the horizon, I opened TikTok one last time. Under Cecilia’s pinned video, I posted a single, detailed comment: “I am not the maid. I am the ex-best friend whose life story was stolen for this script, and the ex-girlfriend of the guy in your videos. As of today, we are officially done.” Within minutes, the comment gained thousands of likes. I didn’t stay to read the replies. I turned off my phone, popped out the SIM card, and dropped it into a trash bin before walking down the jetway. From this moment on, whatever storms raged in his world were no longer my concern.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “560134”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Summer break. My parents, both high school teachers with far too much free time on their hands, struck gold and snagged discounted tickets to London. They counted down the days on their fingers, systematically going around the circle—my older sister was working, my younger brother had sports camp—deliberately ignoring me, who had just finished high school exams and was idling around the house with nothing to do. And just like that, they were gone for seven days. Seven days later, when they rolled back through the front door looking polished and glowing, the three of us were hunched over the kitchen island, sharing a pot of cheap instant ramen. Mom handed a life-sized Spider-Man collectible statue to my brother. “Todd, sweetie, I know how much you’ve loved superheroes since you were little. Your dad and I went to seven different stores just to find this in stock.” Dad reached into his shopping bag, pulling out two sleek boxes for my sister. “A Burberry silk scarf and Jo Malone perfume, Chloe. I hope you can put these to good use when you need to make an impression.” Chloe and Todd squealed with joy, clutching their gifts like sacred treasures. When it came to my turn, Mom fished two identical, squashed airplane meal boxes out of her canvas tote and tossed them casually onto the floor. “Here’s yours. Your dad and I couldn’t even bear to eat them on the flight.” The flattened bread popped out of its flimsy wrapper with a dull thud, sticking firmly to the linoleum. I said nothing. I just turned on my heel and walked back to my bedroom. Luckily, just one second before the college application portal locked forever, I had secretly changed my top choice to a university a thousand miles away. … 1 The moment my bedroom door clicked shut, the loud chatter outside instantly fell dead silent. But it lasted for only a breath. A second later, the house erupted into laughter again. My brother gushed repeatedly about how Mom and Dad’s gift was literally the coolest thing he’d ever owned. Chloe couldn’t wait to tear open the fancy packaging, spraying perfume into the air and spinning beneath the scented mist. Only I was curled up in the cramped study, feeling like a thief peeking at someone else’s happiness through a keyhole. Mom’s voice drifted through the thin wooden panel. “Unbelievable! We leave the house for a week, and Josie lets you two eat instant noodles? I wasted my time teaching her how to cook!” “Hold on, I’ll make you a real dinner right now.” The kitchen door creaked open, and within moments, the stove was roaring. A single wall separated us, but it couldn’t block the deafening rumble of the exhaust fan, nor could it filter out the thick smell of grease wafting through the cracks. What my mother called “teaching” was really her forcing me into the kitchen at six years old under the guise of “building character.” At an age when my peers couldn’t even hold a kitchen knife safely, I had already learned how to slice potatoes, braise short ribs, and simmer complex broths. Ever since I mastered cooking, whenever the family gathered, I was the one permanently trapped in the kitchen. Chloe would lounge on the sofa watching TV, while Todd glued his eyes to his phone, playing games. By the time I carried the last dish to the table, the food had already gone lukewarm, and the best cuts of meat had been picked clean from the platters. They complained that I was too slow, that my seasoning was too bland, that I didn’t know how to control portions for soup or pasta. Ten years of this made me an extraordinary cook. But no one ever asked me if I actually wanted to learn. Outside, the laughter continued. Mom whipped up a full table of food in record time and called everyone to eat. Chloe hesitated. “Josie is still in her room…” Dad cut her off sharply. “Why bother with her? If she doesn’t come out, she isn’t hungry. Todd is growing—saving that extra portion means more fuel for him.” As for the instant ramen from earlier, I hadn’t even been allowed to eat the noodles. If I hadn’t snuck two hasty sips of the boiling broth right after pouring the hot water while they complained it was too hot, I wouldn’t have tasted a thing. Smelling the savory food outside, my stomach growled painfully. Out of the four people sitting around that dinner table, not a single one came to check if I was hungry or if I wanted a bite. I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. I had long accepted the fact that I was an invisible ghost in this house. Why did I still harbor these pathetic, foolish fantasies? I pulled out my phone, masochistically tapping into the college portal to view my secretly altered choice. “University of Michigan, Department of Mechanical Engineering.” When my test scores had first come back, my parents insisted I choose a pre-med track, claiming under the guise of wisdom that having a doctor in the family would save everyone a lot of hassle down the road. Yet Chloe’s graphic design major was her passion, and Todd’s athletic training was his prized talent. When it came to me, the only consideration was “saving them hassle.” They didn’t care about what I loved; they only cared about what utility I could bring to this family. If I hadn’t seen my own birth certificate with my own eyes, I would have genuinely doubted whether I was adopted. So in the final minute before the submission portal locked, a quiet defiance took hold of me, and I selected the field I actually cared about: mechanical engineering. “Buzz. Buzz.” My phone vibrated violently under my pillow. I pulled out the beat-up, hand-me-down flip phone and clicked open the message. “Congratulations! You have been accepted to your top-choice program: University of Michigan.” Tracing the small screen with my thumb, a fierce, blooming warmth flared in my chest. For the very first time in my life, I had made a choice for myself. It was the first time, but it would certainly not be the last. BANG! The front door of my room was kicked open, the brass latch snapping off and flying across the room. Startled, I sat up abruptly on the bed, staring into my father’s thunderous face. He glared down at me, his eyes dark with fury. “Josie! Your mother and I just walk through the door and you give us attitude? Now you lock yourself in here to throw a hunger strike? What is the meaning of this? Are you trying to threaten us?” 2 I sat on the edge of the bed, my mouth parting slightly, but no words came out. They had handed one child a collector’s statue worth hundreds and another a closet full of luxury goods, while I was thrown cold airline trash. What “attitude” did I even have the right to show? Dad took a heavy step forward, grabbing my shirt collar and yanking me out into the hallway. Todd, his mouth stuffed full of pot roast, mumbled around his food, “What else could it mean? She’s throwing a fit because Chloe and I got real presents. You guys didn’t buy her anything expensive, so her precious feelings are hurt. Am I right, Josie?” Chloe daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin, raising an eyebrow at me. “Josie, this is really on you. Whatever Mom and Dad bring back is a gesture of love. How could you throw a tantrum over price tags?” Mom pressed her lips together, her eyes sharp and unforgiving. “Who we buy gifts for and what we choose to buy is OUR freedom! Who gave you the right to point fingers? Take it or leave it, or get out!” With a sharp flick of her foot, she kicked the squashed airline meal box right toward me. The heavy plastic box slammed hard against my shin, sending a jolt of sharp pain through my leg that made my face twist. Look at that. I hadn’t said a single word, yet in just a few sentences, they had already tried, convicted, and sentenced me. In the past, I would have swallowed it down, endured it in silence, and waited for a new day to reset the clock. But this time, the acceptance notification flashed wildly in my mind. For the very first time in my life, I stood up straight in front of them. “Why?” I asked, my voice steady. They froze, caught off guard. I looked them dead in the eye. “I am your child, too. Why do their gifts cost hundreds of dollars while mine is free airline trash?” “I would rather you brought me nothing at all than use garbage to humiliate me.” Whether from rage or sheer humiliation, Mom’s face flushed red. She marched over, shoving her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose with a trembling finger. “Humiliate? You are getting more out of line by the second! Josie! On your knees!” Here it came again. Whenever I “erred,” she would put on her authoritative teacher persona and use forced kneeling as her weapon of discipline. It started inside our house, then moved to the hallway outside, and eventually, no matter where we were, she used the exact same method to “educate” me. Malls, public sidewalks, school playgrounds, amusement parks… I had measured practically every square inch of this town with my bare knees. I stood my ground, staring at her coldly. She pointed a finger directly at my nose, screaming, “Josie! Did you forget the family rules? “Respect your elders!” I say one word and you have a hundred talk-backs waiting for me! Is this how a child speaks to her parents?” My parents and Chloe were “elders,” so naturally, the rules didn’t apply to them. Todd was young, male, had a strong sense of pride, and was destined for “great things,” so he was exempt from following them, too. Her so-called “family rules” were created solely to shackle one person: me. The atmosphere locked into a suffocating stalemate. No one spoke. Suddenly, Todd stood up, deliberately stepping right on the squashed airplane bread scattered on the floor. He walked into his bedroom, grabbed his aluminum baseball bat, and handed it to Mom. “Mom, you always say spare the rod and spoil the child. Looks like Josie needs another round of discipline.” Enraged and seeing that I remained entirely unmoved, Mom actually gripped the bat and swung it straight toward my head. I dodged to the side, instinctively raising my arm to block the impact. Just as the bat sliced through the air, whistling inches from my face, Dad shouted at the top of his lungs: “Enough! Stop it!” The bat halted abruptly, hovering a mere two inches from my temple. Todd and Chloe looked at him in total shock. Even I was stunned. Whenever Mom punished me in the past, Dad was always the cold spectator enjoying the show. Yet today, he had actually stepped in to stop her? 3 Dad rubbed his temples, his brow deeply furrowed. “She already submitted her application for pre-med. She’s going to be a surgeon. If you break her arm over a petty fight, what happens to her future? Do you know how hard it is for a middle-class family to produce a doctor? If she can’t hold a scalpel later, how are we supposed to recoup our investment?” Mom’s grip loosened, and she carefully carried the bat back into Todd’s room. Dad tightened his lips, his voice dropping into a stern tone. “Besides, her high school called me two days ago. Local press wants to do a feature interview on our family next month. Even if she only placed third in her class, we are going to use the platform to showcase our parenting philosophy. If you break her arm, she’ll be sitting in front of the cameras wrapped in a cast! How would that look?” I froze. I had never heard a single word about this. Todd’s eyes lit up with instant excitement. “What? Does that mean I’m going to be on TV? I want to go!” Chloe also looked at Dad, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. Dad waved a dismissive hand, a proud smirk touching his lips. “Of course. The whole family goes. If we go viral from this interview, it’ll do wonders for Todd’s college applications later. After all, with a high-achieving sister, people will assume the brother is just as brilliant.” In an instant, the entire family was swept up in the excitement of their upcoming television appearance. The cruel farce ended just like that—forgotten, dismissed, and buried. …… After that day, the house shifted into a strict prep routine. Mom and Chloe visited spa clinics every few days, dieting and pampering their skin to ensure they looked immaculate on camera. Even Dad and Todd started paying meticulous attention to their grooming. Yet no one paid any attention to me. It never crossed their minds that without my test scores, they wouldn’t have had this spotlight in the first place. Of course, I was long used to being invisible. While they were busy preening themselves, I snuck out every day, working grueling summer jobs from dawn to dusk to save up for my travel expenses and deposit. I knew with absolute certainty that the moment my true university choice was revealed, they wouldn’t give me a single dime. I had to pave my own way out. A month flew by in the blink of an eye. On the day of the interview, our whole family arrived at the local media studio in full gear. Chloe and Mom had gotten their hair styled and wore tailored silk dresses, determined to capture their best angles for the camera. Dad was unusually nervous, pacing back and forth while rehearsing his speech. I had overheard his talking points earlier—it was nothing more than a fiction of how much sweat and blood they had poured into raising me, how supportive the family environment had been, and how my success was built entirely on their sacrifices. Not a single word of truth. I wore my faded high school hoodie—the one with worn-out cuffs—and stood behind them, looking like an ugly duckling shoved into a flock of swans. After two other top-scoring students finished their segments, it was my turn. The moment the camera lens swung toward me, Chloe threw her shoulder out, shoving me violently out of the frame. “Yes! Hi, I’m Josie’s older sister, Chloe! Josie’s incredible score has everything to do with our home environment. Both of our parents are dedicated high school teachers…” The reporter’s eyes lit up. “Both parents are educators? What a wonderful background! What was your family’s core educational philosophy while raising Josie?” Chloe spoke smoothly to the camera, her tone dripping with polished grace. The monitor occasionally cut to Mom and Dad, who were beaming with warm, loving smiles. Anyone watching would think we were the most harmonious, picture-perfect family in the country. After a few general questions, the camera finally focused on me. Todd tried to squeeze into the frame to speak, but the cameraman politely blocked him. “Josie,” the reporter said, smiling warmly, “we heard your official acceptance came through today. When you opened that letter, who was the person you wanted to thank the most?” I looked up. Mom and Dad were desperately mouthing “Us” from behind the lights. Chloe and Todd pointed blatantly at themselves. Facing the expectant eyes of those four people, I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Myself.” “I want to thank myself—for saving my own life again and again, and for refusing to give up.” “I have always believed that you have to carve your own path. You can’t let other people write your script.” Mom and Dad’s smiles shattered instantly. My veiled jab made their expressions turn dark and treacherous. But with the rolling camera recording every second, they desperately suppressed their rage, forcing stiff, unnatural grins back onto their faces. As the segment wrapped up, a reporter in the back suddenly raised his microphone. “Finally, a question for Josie’s parents—how do you feel about letting your daughter travel all the way across the country to attend the University of Michigan? Did you consider the extreme distance and harsh winters when helping her select her school?” Hearing those words, the smiles on my parents’ faces froze completely solid.

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