Category: English

After five years of marriage, I ghostwrote twelve bestselling novels for my husband and built his success with my own hands. At the launch party for his new book, he walked in with a rising celebrity on his arm and announced he’d found a new “muse.” When a reporter asked about my contribution, he smiled and cut them off. “Her? Without me, she’s nothing.” I just smiled back, calm as ever. Because from the very first book, he was never really my husband — He was an investment. One I’d spent five years carefully building up. And tonight, at the peak of his arrogance, his biggest rival would buy him out — contract and all — at the price I’d already set. The lights at the book launch were blazing, and they made Rowan Sterling look handsome and successful. Elara Vance stood beside him — a hot celebrity in an expensive gown, her arm looped through his. They were the stars of the night. I sat in the most invisible corner of the audience, holding a guest pass between my fingers. Rowan’s assistant had shoved it into my hand just to check a box. “Evelyn, tonight is really important for Rowan. Just watch from down here — don’t come up on stage. We can’t have you saying the wrong thing.” Her words were still ringing in my ears. Up on stage, the host introduced Rowan’s thirteenth book with barely contained excitement. “Rowan, congratulations on your upcoming release, Light in the Dust! Critics are already calling it the pinnacle of your career. Can you walk us through the creative journey behind this one?” Rowan picked up the mic and glanced at Elara. “This book wouldn’t exist without my muse — Elara Vance.” Every camera in the room swung toward her. She smiled for the lenses with the ease of someone who’d already won. “Every single day with Elara fills me with the drive to create. She’s like a beam of light cutting through the darkness inside me — a darkness I thought had run dry.” Applause and camera clicks filled the room. My heart was completely still. Like standing water that hadn’t moved in years. Light in the Dust — I came up with that title after three consecutive all-nighters in the attic, staring out the window at the faint glow of early morning. Rowan had been in another city at the time, attending some business event with Elara. He told me it was all for our future together. A reporter stood up. “Rowan, we all know you’re married. How has your wife supported your career? Was she involved in this new book at all?” It was a pointed question. Every eye in the room landed on Rowan. I watched his brow twitch — just barely, just for a second. Then it smoothed out, and he flashed that perfect smile. “My wife has always been my quiet support system at home. She takes care of everything so I never have to worry.” He paused, and his tone went flat. “As for the writing itself — that’s a specialized craft. It takes talent and inspiration. It’s not something you can compare to keeping house.” Five years of my life. Twelve books. Tens of millions of words. And he’d just filed it all under housework. Elara stepped in right on cue, her voice honeyed and smooth. “Rowan is such a dedicated writer. He locks himself in his study for hours — sometimes a whole day at a time. The best thing the people around him can do is stay out of his way and let him work.” She’d placed herself firmly in the category of the people around him. The reporter wasn’t done. “So, Rowan — does that mean your wife had nothing to do with the massive success of your previous twelve books either?” A flicker of irritation crossed Rowan’s face. He raised the mic, and his voice cooled. “My wife has given a lot to this family, and I’ve always been grateful for that. But the writing is mine. My work. My talent.” He said it without a moment’s hesitation. As if all those sleepless nights meant nothing. As if the pages covered in my handwriting had never existed. The young reporter sitting next to me — clearly new to the job — leaned over and whispered to her colleague. “Who even is his wife? I’ve never seen her before.” “Probably just a housewife,” the other one murmured back. “He keeps her so hidden — she must not be much to look at.” I looked down at my hands. At the knuckles that had bent slightly out of shape from years of holding a pen. Then another reporter stood up. “Evelyn — are you here tonight? As Rowan’s wife, do you plan to keep supporting his career? And what do you think about him finding a new muse?” Heads began turning all across the room, searching for me. Rowan’s gaze cut through the crowd like a blade, landing on me with a clear warning. He jumped in before I could say a word, his voice loud and carrying the easy condescension of someone doing a favor. “Of course she supports me. “ ”She’d be nothing without me.”

The room fell completely silent. Then came an even bigger uproar. Those words were captured by countless cameras and spread across the entire internet. I became what everyone was talking about — a worthless woman who could only survive by clinging to her husband. I slowly lifted my head and looked up at Rowan on the stage. He was basking in the spotlight, not sparing me a single glance. He thought I would swallow every humiliation and injustice, just like I had for the past five years. I took out my phone. The screen’s glow lit up my face. I found a number — one I had saved a long time ago but never once called. Elias Thorne. Rowan’s biggest rival in the literary world. I opened the email attachment. Inside was a complete document. The file was titled: Light in the Dust. Recipient: Elias Thorne. I hit send. Then I stood up and walked out of that place that made me sick to my stomach. My phone buzzed. A new email. From Elias. Just one word. “Yes.” I went back to the place that was supposed to be called “home.” It was quiet. Our wedding photo hung on the wall. The woman in that picture was smiling — genuinely happy. Back then, I believed I had married for love. I pulled out my suitcase and started packing my things. I didn’t have much. A few clothes, some books, and an old laptop. That laptop held every single word I had written over the past five years. Every word had been published under Rowan’s name, turned into the halo that crowned his head. I placed the laptop gently into the suitcase. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t angry. My heart was calm. When a person has been completely let down, there’s nothing left to feel. The door opened. Rowan walked in with Elara. He’d been drinking — the smell of alcohol clung to him. Elara had her arm around him. When she saw me packing, her eyes went wide with exaggerated surprise. “Evelyn, what are you doing?” Rowan shoved Elara aside and stormed over to me. He snatched the clothes out of my hands and threw them on the floor. “Evelyn, what the hell is wrong with you?” His voice was full of rage. “You already embarrassed me at the launch. Now you’re pulling some dramatic walk-out?” I ignored him. I bent down, picked up the clothes, and folded them again. “I’m not being dramatic, Rowan. I want a divorce.” My voice was steady. Rowan looked at me like I’d just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Divorce? Evelyn, do you even know what you’re saying?” He jabbed his finger at me. “You eat my food, wear clothes I pay for, live in my house. If you leave me, where are you going to go? What are you going to do?” “Don’t forget — without me, you’re nothing.” He said it again. The same words. Elara walked over and tugged at his arm, putting on a show of trying to calm him down. “Rowan, don’t say it like that. Evelyn’s probably just not thinking straight right now.” She turned to me, her eyes full of gloating dressed up as pity. “Evelyn, I know you’re hurting. But you can’t force feelings. Rowan loves me now. You should let us be happy.” “Besides, a woman needs stability. Throwing a fit is one thing, but don’t throw away your whole future over it.”

She said it all so matter-of-factly. Like I was some child who didn’t know any better and needed to be set straight. The alcohol was hitting Rowan harder now. He dropped onto the couch and pressed his fingers to his temples. “Evelyn, I’m exhausted. I’m not doing this with you tonight.” “Right now, you’re going to apologize to Elara.” He said it like an order. “She had a rough night at the launch, and it’s because of you. You made her look bad.” I stared at him. It almost made me laugh. I was the one who’d been humiliated. I was the one who’d been publicly shamed. I was the one who’d been stripped of everything. And now he was telling me to apologize to the woman who had taken it all. “And if I don’t?” I asked. Rowan’s eyes narrowed. Something dangerous flickered in them. “Don’t push me.” “I’m telling you right now — I run this house. You either apologize and go back to being the way you were, or you get out.” “I’ll give you three seconds.” “One.” “Two.” Elara leaned against Rowan, watching me like she had a front-row seat to a show. I didn’t wait for three. I zipped up my suitcase and stood up straight. “You’re right, Rowan.” “This is your house. You make the rules.” “So I’m done here.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked toward the door. Rowan froze. He probably never expected that I — always so obedient — would actually leave. “Evelyn, you dare!” He roared at my back. I didn’t turn around. As I opened the door, I heard Elara say behind me: “Rowan, don’t be mad. She’s just throwing a tantrum. Give it a few days — once she runs out of money, she’ll come crawling back on her own.” Rowan’s voice dripped with contempt. “She won’t last three days before she’s crying and begging me to take her back.” I closed the door. Shutting the two of them — and my past — inside. The air outside was cold. I dragged my suitcase through the streets in the dead of night. I had nowhere to go. My parents were long gone, and my friends had all drifted away because Rowan didn’t like them. For five years, my whole world had been him. I checked into a hotel. The room was small, but clean. I set my suitcase in the corner and sat on the edge of the bed. My phone rang. It was Elias. I answered. “Hello?” “It’s me, Elias.” His voice was low, carrying a trace of surprise. “The manuscript you sent me — you wrote this?” “Yes,” I said. A brief silence on the other end. “All twelve of Rowan’s books — you wrote them?” “Yes.” Another silence. I could picture the shock on his face. The entire literary world had been fooled by Rowan. “Where are you right now?” Elias asked. “A hotel.” “Would you be okay meeting in person? I’d like to talk face to face.” “Sure.” We arranged to meet at the café downstairs. Elias was younger than I’d imagined. He was dressed casually, and he looked less like a successful businessman and more like an academic. When he spotted me, he stood up. “Mrs. Sterling.” “Just Evelyn is fine.” We sat down, and he ordered me a warm glass of milk. “I read the manuscript. It’s exceptional.” Elias got straight to the point. “The story structure, the prose — it’s far beyond anything Rowan is capable of now.” “He hasn’t produced anything this good in a very long time.” I said nothing, just stirred the milk in my cup. “I want to know — what are your plans?” Elias looked at me, his gaze direct. “I want to take back everything that belongs to me,” I said. “My name, my work, and my life.” Elias smiled. “Good.” He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a document, and slid it across the table. “Sell it to me.” “We want to purchase the rights to your manuscript, Light from the Dust, and promote it with everything we’ve got.” “The author’s name on the cover — your name.” I looked at the contract. The terms they were offering were even better than what Rowan currently had. “Why?” I asked. “Rowan is your rival. Helping me means going up against him. What’s in it for you?” Elias leaned back in his chair. “First — I respect your talent. Work this good shouldn’t be buried, and it sure as hell shouldn’t be stolen by a fraud.” “Second — taking down the competition is just business. Rowan has dominated this market for too long. It’s time for a change.” “Third,” he paused, “I think you deserve it.” I looked into his eyes. There was no pity there — only admiration and respect. In five years, no one had ever looked at me that way. “I have one condition,” I said. 4 “Go ahead.” “I want Rowan completely destroyed.” The corner of Elias’s mouth curved into a smile. “That’s not a condition. That’s just what happens when we work together.” I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the contract. Evelyn. Not Rowan’s wife. Not anyone’s shadow. Just myself. After signing, I went back to my room. There was an unread message on my phone from Rowan. “When you’re done with this little act, come home. I’ll pretend none of this ever happened.” I deleted the message, and typed back with a thrill I’d never felt before: “Don’t rush. The show has only just begun.” I signed a deal with Elias’s publishing house. They gave me an apartment to use as a temporary workspace. It was quiet, with a large floor-to-ceiling window. I could write there in peace. Elias’s team moved fast — they wasted no time getting my new book ready. Meanwhile, Rowan didn’t seem to sense the storm coming. He probably still thought I was just sulking. I spotted him in a business news segment. He had taken Elara to a major film and TV adaptation conference. The photo showed him looking confident and full of life, his arm around Elara’s waist, smiling at the camera. The report said that “Stellar Pictures” the country’s largest film and television company, was interested in adapting his next work, Light in the Dust, into a major production. Stellar Pictures was one of Elias’s business partners. My lawyer told me everything was going according to plan. A few days later, I got a call from Elias. “There’s a meeting with Stellar Pictures. You should come.” “In what capacity?” I asked. “As the original author.” The meeting was scheduled at the conference center of a five-star hotel. When I arrived, Rowan and Elara hadn’t shown up yet. I was directed to wait in the lounge area. It wasn’t long before I heard those familiar, grating voices. “Rowan, if this deal goes through, I have to play the female lead.” That was Elara. “Don’t worry. I’m on good terms with the CEO of Stellar. This project is as good as ours.” That was Rowan. They walked in. Rowan spotted me the moment he stepped through the door. His face flashed with surprise, then quickly shifted to contempt. He probably thought I had followed him here, or was looking for a job. “What are you doing here?” He walked up to me, looking down at me like I was beneath him. Elara followed close behind, arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone who couldn’t wait to watch a scene unfold. “Evelyn, are you here to beg Rowan for forgiveness?” I didn’t bother responding to either of them. Rowan’s patience ran out fast. “I don’t care how you got in here. Leave. Right now. Don’t embarrass me.” His eyes landed on the coffee machine in front of me, and something seemed to click. He pushed an empty cup toward me and spoke like he was giving an order. “Pour me a cup of coffee.” I looked at him. Elara laughed out loud. “Evelyn, weren’t you always so good at taking care of people? Don’t tell me you can’t even pour a cup of coffee anymore.” Rowan let out a scornful snort. “Without me, this is all she’s good for anyway.” His eyes were full of contempt. He thought I was still the same Evelyn he could walk all over whenever he felt like it. He thought that without him, I was nothing. I slowly stood up. I didn’t touch the coffee machine. I just looked at him and said, calmly: “Rowan, you’re going to find out very soon — which one of us is nothing without the other.” He looked at me like I’d just told the world’s worst joke. “You? Really? You?” Just then, the door to the lounge swung open.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “433314”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

After the car accident, my father lost his memory and had been living in a care facility. I visited him every week. He was in good spirits today, sitting quietly by the window, fiddling with a chess set. The caretaker smiled and told me he’d become obsessed with it lately, and was getting quite good. But I felt ice run through my veins. I couldn’t bring myself to take another step toward him. That chess set had belonged to my late mother. My father had sworn in front of every family member we had that he would never touch a chess set again for as long as he lived. The care facility was quiet. Afternoon sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, coating everything in the room with a soft gold. My “father” sat in that golden light with his back to me, a chess set laid out in front of him. He wore a clean striped patient’s gown, his hair combed neatly back, a faint shine of pomade catching the light. The caretaker walked in behind me, keeping her tone light. “Miss Thorne, look how well Mr. Thorne is doing today. He’s been obsessed with chess lately — plays for hours every day. He’s improving fast.” My feet felt nailed to the floor. The blood in my body turned cold all at once. I stared at that silhouette — the man I had called “Dad” for over a decade — and felt a chill cut straight to the bone. Chess. That single word was like a rusted blade jammed into my chest. My mother’s death was connected to chess. She had a serious heart condition. One day, She had a brief argument with her father over something trivial, and in the heat of the moment, she suffered an attack.” She collapsed in the living room, just a few feet from his study. My father had been sitting at his desk with his headphones on, lost in an online match, completely unaware of anything happening outside. By the time he finished the game and pulled off his headphones, it was too late. At my mother’s funeral, my father stood in front of every family member we had and smashed his most prized chess set — white jade, hand-carved — to pieces with a hammer. His eyes were red. His voice was steady, every word deliberate. “From this day forward, I, Richard Thorne, will never touch a chess set again for as long as I live. May heaven and earth strike me down if I break this oath.” Those words still rang in my ears. And yet that figure sat calmly before me, turning a cannon over in his hand. The caretaker noticed I hadn’t moved. “Miss Thorne? Is everything alright?” I took a slow breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m fine. Just a little surprised, that’s all.” I walked over and moved to his side. He seemed to sense something and looked up. When he saw me, a warm smile spread across his face. “Blair, you’re here.” His voice was the same as always — deep, with a richness to it. His face was the same face I’d known all my life, only a little pale and thin from the accident and the long recovery. Everyone said that after the crash he’d lost his memory — forgotten so many people, so many things — but that the one thing he hadn’t forgotten was me, his daughter. Every time I came to visit, he would smile and call me by name, just like that. But now, looking at that face, all I felt was a stranger staring back at me. “Dad,” I said softly, pointing to the board on the table. “When did you start playing the chess?” He glanced down and smiled. “Just a few days ago. The caretaker brought it in to keep me busy. Turns out I kind of like it.” “Is that right?” My voice wavered slightly. “Did you… used to like chess? Before?” He paused. A flicker of confusion crossed his eyes. “Before? I can’t remember. Probably not, I’d guess. Otherwise I’d have some memory of it.” He said it so naturally. So easily. And I felt my heart sink — down and down, into something bottomless. This man was not my father. My father, Richard Thorne, could forget the entire world, but he would never forget the guilt he carried for my mother. He would never forget the oath soaked in blood and tears. This man had taken my father’s identity, moved into my father’s care facility, spent my father’s money — and now he wanted to take me too. I pressed my nails into my palms until they dug into the skin. “Maybe so.” I looked down, hiding the cold fury in my eyes. “You should rest. I’ll come see you again soon.”

I couldn’t stand to be there a moment longer. I was afraid that if I looked at him one more time, I’d lose it — I’d lunge forward and tear that fake smile right off his face. I turned and walked out without looking back. The caretaker called after me warmly, “Miss Thorne, won’t you stay a little longer? Mr. Thorne is doing so well today…” I didn’t respond. I walked straight out of the care facility. The sunlight outside was harsh, but I couldn’t feel any warmth in it. What was I supposed to do? I drove straight to the nearest police station. “I need to report a crime!” I rushed into the station and said it to an officer I saw — a man who had just been sitting there with a cup of coffee. He startled and set down his mug. “Ma’am, slow down. Tell me what happened.” “My father — someone is impersonating him! The man in that care facility is not my father!” I was barely making sense, my voice shaking. The officer frowned and gestured for me to sit. “Are you talking about the chairman of Submer Group? Mr. Thorne?” “Yes!” “Miss Thorne, I think you may be exhausted. Mr. Thorne has been monitored by our department since the accident. He lost his memory, yes, but his identity has been verified.” “No! You have it wrong! He’s a fake — he plays chess! He plays chess!” I was clutching at the only proof I had, saying it louder like volume would make them hear me. The officer’s expression shifted to something closer to pity. “Miss Thorne, we understand how difficult this has been since your father’s accident. But the fact that he plays chess now doesn’t prove he’s an impostor. Memory loss can change a person’s personality and habits — which is medically documented.” “But he swore an oath! He swore he would never touch chess again for the rest of his life!” “An oath doesn’t carry legal weight,” the officer said patiently. “And Miss Thorne — when we confirmed his identity, we ran a DNA comparison. The paternity match between him and you came back at 99.99%.” DNA. I went still. How was that possible? If the DNA matched, then… A wild, terrifying thought surfaced in my mind. Was there really someone out there who looked exactly like my father — whose DNA was nearly identical to his? I walked out of the police station in a daze. The city was lighting up around me as evening fell, but I felt more alone and helpless than I ever had in my life. No one believed me. To everyone else, I was just a daughter who’d become obsessive and unhinged after her father’s accident. What was I supposed to do? I drove without thinking and found myself back home almost without realizing it. This was the house I’d lived in with my father for over twenty years. Now it was just me. I went into his study. Everything was exactly the way he’d left it. A financial magazine he hadn’t finished was still sitting on his desk. I sat down in his chair and tried to draw some strength from the familiar things around me. My gaze drifted to a wooden box in the corner of the bookshelf, coated in dust. It was the box my father used to keep his chess set in. After my mother died, that box had never been opened again. Something pulled me toward it. I lifted it down from the shelf. It was heavy, carved with delicate patterns across the lid. I blew off the dust and opened it. Empty. No chess pieces inside. Right. My father had smashed that white jade set with his own hands. I was about to close the lid when something caught my eye. The bottom of the box looked slightly off. I tapped it with my knuckles. A hollow sound came back. A false bottom. My heart started racing. I worked my fingernail into the gap along the edge for what felt like forever, until finally a thin wooden panel came loose. Underneath, resting quietly in the hidden compartment, was a small black USB drive. Attached to it was a tiny label, written in my father’s bold, distinctive handwriting: “The Final Match.”

I held that USB drive in my hand, my palm slick with sweat. “The Final Match.” Those three words felt like a riddle — one pulling me toward the truth hidden behind it. I went straight to my room and plugged the drive into my laptop. It was password protected. I frowned. What would my father use as a password? His birthday? My mother’s? Their wedding anniversary? I tried every number I could think of. Wrong every time. I slumped back in my chair. “The Final Match…” If it was connected to a match, maybe the password was connected to chess too. Something came back to me. The day my mother died, my father had been in the middle of a game. He printed out the game record afterward and kept it tucked inside his favorite chess book. He said he wanted to remember that day forever. To remember what his mistake had cost. I went back to the study and pulled 《Silman’s Complete Endgame Course》from the shelf. I opened it. A slightly yellowed piece of paper slid out. On it was a printed game record — a complex position, the final move showing the black king caught with no escape. At the bottom, in handwriting, a single line: “Rook to f 6. No way back.” My father’s handwriting. My heart lurched. What if… I went back to my laptop and typed the combination into the password field: rooktof6. Enter. The drive unlocked. My heart was hammering as I opened the single folder inside. There was no bombshell confession. No final message. Just a dense collection of Excel spreadsheets and financial reports. I went through them one by one, frowning at the screen. Most of it looked like standard Submer Group accounting. But several files had been flagged in red. I clicked one open. It was a record of a massive overseas investment — the recipient, an offshore company I had never heard of. And in the signature field, the name of the person who had authorized the transfer was one I recognized immediately: Victor Cross. Vice chairman of Submer Group. My father’s most trusted business partner. I’ve always had a deep respect for him. My head went blank. After my father’s accident, Victor had been the one who stepped in without missing a beat — steadying the company, reassuring the shareholders, keeping everything from falling apart. Everyone had praised him. Said he was loyal, capable, the backbone of Submer Group in a crisis. I had always been grateful to him. But now, these files — the ones my father had gone out of his way to encrypt and hide — felt like ice water poured straight over me. My father had been investigating him. Before the accident, my father had already been building a case against Victor. That was not a coincidence. I copied every flagged file onto my own computer and wiped the USB drive. When it was done, I felt completely hollowed out. A terrible suspicion had taken shape inside me: My father’s accident was no accident. And the man impersonating him was almost certainly working with Victor. I went back to the police. This time, I didn’t say a word about chess or oaths. I handed the police the suspicious financial records directly and laid out my theory plainly: there were serious financial irregularities inside Submer Group, Vice Chairman Victor Cross was a strong suspect for embezzlement, and my father’s car accident might be connected to all of it. The same officer from last time. When he saw what I’d brought, his expression changed. “Miss Thorne, we’ll open a formal investigation immediately. But until we have solid evidence, please don’t do anything that might tip them off.” I nodded. “I understand.” I didn’t go home when I left the station. I got in my car and drove somewhere else.

Back to the mountain road where my father’s accident happened. It was a remote stretch of highway. Barely any traffic at the best of times. The official conclusion had been that the road was slick from rain and my father lost control of the car. Looking at it now, that conclusion had more holes in it than I could count. My father had been driving for decades. No matter how bad the road conditions, he wouldn’t make a mistake like that. I parked on the road and looked down through the gap in the guardrail. A cliff dropped away below — dozens of meters down, thick with trees. That was where his car had gone over. He was found with severe head trauma, unconscious, and rushed to the hospital. I started picking my way down the slope. I wanted to see the scene of the accident up close. Maybe something had been missed. The ground was slippery. I fell several times, getting mud on my pants and hands. After about fifteen minutes, I reached the base of the cliff. His car — a black Bentley — had long since been towed away. All that remained was some broken debris and a long scar scraped into the earth. I searched the area carefully, not leaving a single corner unchecked. But aside from the wreckage and some crushed brush, I found nothing. The light was fading. Wind came down from the mountain, cold against my skin. I was about to give up when I noticed a small village not far off. A few lights glowed in the windows, still and quiet. A thought flashed through my mind. The accident happened in such an isolated spot. If anyone had witnessed something that night, it would have been someone from that village. I decided to try. I walked toward the lights. Near the entrance to the village, an elderly man sat on a stone step, smoking a pipe. I approached and greeted him politely. “Excuse me, sir. I was hoping you could help me with something.” He looked up, studying me with clouded eyes. “What is it?” “A while back — on the night it rained heavily — there was a car accident up on the mountain road. Do you remember that?” The elderly man took a long drag from his pipe and nodded slowly. “That black car that came off the mountain. Terrible fall. Didn’t know if whoever was inside lived or died.” My breath caught. “Were you… there at the time? Did you see anything?” The elderly man squinted, as if pulling something up from his memory. “Rain was too heavy for me to go out. But I heard something.” “What did you hear?” “Arguing.” He paused. “Two men. Going at it hard. One of them kept shouting something like ‘you can’t do this.’” Two men. The air went out of my lungs. “Could you see what they looked like?” The old man shook his head. “Too dark. pouring rain. Couldn’t make them out.” He paused. “Though there was something strange.” “What was strange?” “The two of them…” He tilted his head. “Their voices sounded exactly the same.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “433315”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

Everyone said the heir of the Sterling family had found himself a massive headache of an influencer girlfriend who was obsessed with “blind box” gimmicks. When it came to distributing performance bonuses to the staff, she insisted on making it a blind box draw. “I turned everyone’s bonuses into blind boxes! You draw your luck, and whatever amount you get is what you take home. Isn’t that so much more thrilling?” An assistant who had loyally worked under her for three years ended up drawing a measly fifteen dollars. He couldn’t pay his rent and was kicked out by his landlord the very next week. During a major corporate bidding war, she gave Julian Sterling a “brilliant” strategy: blind box bidding. “Let the bidding companies draw blind boxes to decide who wins the contract. It’s all about the thrill!” As a result, a shell company that had been registered for exactly three days, lacking even the basic operational licenses, walked away with the group’s largest annual contract. And on the eve of Sterling Group’s massive offshore acquisition negotiations, she did it again. “I’ve randomized all our minimum walk-away prices into blind boxes! Let’s make this negotiation exciting!” In my past life, as Julian’s wife and business partner, I had called out this utter madness. I fought tooth and nail to correct the proposal. I even personally flew to London, working seventy-two hours straight with no sleep, to secure exclusive authorization from the seller’s core executives. That was the only reason the Sterling Group didn’t go bankrupt right then and there. But instead of being grateful, she threw a massive tantrum, claiming I had humiliated her. She ran away in a fit of rage and got caught in a crossfire street shooting during her chaotic flight. Once the dust settled, Julian grabbed my wrist so hard it bruised and slammed a divorce agreement in my face. “Sienna was just trying to have some fun! If you hadn’t constantly opposed her and made her feel worthless, she would have never run out and faced that horror! Sign it and leave with nothing!” When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the exact moment she was tampering with our walk-away prices. Looking at the real pricing sheet that I had already memorized by heart, I chose to remain completely silent. I turned on my heel and walked back to my office. I wish you two a very happy, uninterrupted ride straight to hell.

“Chloe Vance, have you lost your mind?” “Sienna was just trying to lighten the mood. What’s with that cold, miserable face of yours?” Julian kicked my office door open, his voice roaring with impatience. I stared at the computer screen showing the randomized negotiation prices, a cold smirk playing on my lips. “I just don’t like spending my time around suicidal idiots.” “Who are you calling suicidal?!” Julian’s voice pitched higher, his face turning an angry shade of red. “Sienna set up this blind box negotiation because she felt bad that everyone has been working late. She wanted to bring some fun and energy to the team!” “But look at you. You didn’t say a word, just walked back to your office and slammed the door. Who are you trying to intimidate?” Julian’s tone was dripping with annoyance. “The entire project team is praising her for being creative. You’re the only wet blanket here.” “Get back out there right now and apologize to Sienna.” The memory of the words “leaving with absolutely nothing” on that divorce papers from my past life flashed through my mind. My voice turned ice-cold. “Julian, tampering with the walk-away price of an international acquisition is corporate suicide.” “If you two are tired of living, go jump off a cliff yourself.” “Leave me out of it.” Julian let out a harsh sneer. “Stop trying to scare me with your dramatic corporate speeches!” “Sienna already told me that her backer—a legendary hedge fund manager from Silicon Valley—is pulling the strings for her behind the scenes.” “Before the negotiation officially starts, he will send the real, optimized numbers directly to the heads of each department via email.” “It’s called psychological warfare. Do you even understand high-level strategy?” Psychological warfare? Using the entire group’s offshore expansion as a poker chip for some imaginary influencer game? It was beyond pathetic. “Then enjoy your game. Just don’t drag me down with you.” I pushed him out of my office and shut the door. Before Julian’s footsteps could even fade down the hallway, the assistant of the Sterling family matriarch rushed in. “Ms. Vance, Victoria Sterling has arrived!” Sienna was Victoria’s distant niece. I didn’t even need to guess—she had gone crying to the old lady the second I walked away. “Chloe Vance, Sienna said everything is under control!” “As Julian’s wife, not only do you fail to appreciate Sienna’s hard work, but you’re also actively rebelling against management and ruining team morale!” I cut off Victoria’s screeching voice without an ounce of respect. “There are less than twelve hours left before the negotiation begins.” “If we don’t recover the real pricing sheet right now, the moment the sellers realize our numbers are a chaotic mess, they will short our stock. Do you have any idea what will happen to the Sterling Group then?” “When the company goes under, is Sienna going to take the fall? Or are you?” “Insolent!” Victoria slammed her cane on the floor. “Don’t think just because your family empire, the Vance Group, holds a major stake in this merger, you can talk down to me!” “Sienna was so stressed by your toxic attitude that she just fainted in the lounge!” “I’m glad you remember the power of the Vance Group.” “I’ve been executing cross-border acquisitions with my father since I was eighteen. Do you honestly believe a TikTok influencer understands international trade better than I do?” “Harvey, escort Mrs. Sterling out!” “You—!” Seeing that she couldn’t bully me, Victoria stormed out, her face twisted in rage. I reached into my drawer, took out my family’s corporate digital authorization token, and called my core team. A message popped up on my phone. It was a private Slack message from Wyatt, the VP of Strategic Investment. The company-wide WhatsApp group was flooded with brainless praise for Sienna. “Sienna has a literal Silicon Valley god backing her! This blind box pricing is going to be a genius move!” “I just checked! Our team’s bid was set to the rock-bottom minimum! This is so exciting!” Wyatt’s message followed immediately after: “Chloe, these lunatics are actually going to submit those randomized numbers. Are we really just going to stand by and watch?” I typed out five words and hit send: “Let them burn. Save yourselves.” There were only ten hours left. In my past life, I flew across the Atlantic overnight, faced a hostile board of foreign regulators alone, and worked until my eyes literally bled. And my reward was being thrown out of my own home with nothing but a divorce suit. This time, I was going to grab some popcorn. Without me acting as the shield and the brains, I wanted to see how long these clowns could keep up their little circus. Just then, Julian burst back into my office. “Chloe! Sienna is in tears and hyperventilating!” “You are going to her right now, and you are getting down on your knees to apologize!” I looked into his raging eyes and calmly replied, “If she’s hyperventilating, call an ambulance.” “What do you need me for? Am I an oxygen tank?”

“Chloe Vance, are you really going to be this stubborn?” Julian took a violent step forward, slamming his hand down and scattering the files on my desk. “Sienna is just a young girl. What harm could she possibly mean?” “She put so much effort into this blind box pricing just to bring some fun to the boring prep work.” “And honestly, she did it to help you! You’re a miserable workaholic who does nothing but stare at spreadsheets. She wanted to make you less boring!” I looked at the documents scattered across the carpet and let out a soft laugh. “Risking a multi-billion dollar merger just to make me ‘less boring’? How incredibly charitable of her.” “Cut the sarcasm!” Julian pointed a finger right at my face, shouting, “Sienna said her backer is a retired Silicon Valley legend who can predict market trends perfectly! He already knows the seller’s absolute limit!” “The moment we submit our bid, it will be the most brilliant ambush in the history of the Sterling Group!” “We will swallow their market whole, and it will all be thanks to Sienna’s genius out-of-the-box thinking!” I honestly couldn’t believe what I was hearing. An ambush based on randomized, unchecked numbers? What kind of fairy-tale business textbook did he read that from? “Julian, do you have a single brain cell working?” “Those are minimum walk-away prices. One wrong digit means a loss of hundreds of millions. You are literally throwing this company into a volcano.” “Losses? If there are losses, it’s because the team your dad sent from Vance Group is incompetent!” Julian spat, glaring at me with pure disgust. “You’re just jealous of Sienna’s talent. You’re jealous that she has connections with elite players while you’re just a dry corporate suit.” “Let me tell you something, Chloe. If you don’t apologize to Sienna today,” “You can kiss your status as my wife goodbye, and we will terminate the strategic partnership between Vance Group and Sterling Group immediately!” I let out a low laugh, slowly pushing the remaining acquisition binders off my desk, letting them crash to the floor. “Julian, who was the one who practically knelt at my father’s feet, begging for Vance Group’s backing and a marriage alliance?” “If my father hadn’t respected your grandfather’s legacy, do you honestly think I would have agreed to marry a useless, incompetent boy like you to secure your CEO seat?” “Let me tell you this: this pathetic marriage? Anyone can have it. I’ve been sick of playing your savior anyway.” Julian clearly didn’t expect me to be so ruthless. He froze, his face turning pale as he stood there, completely speechless. “Chloe Vance… stop trying to play hard to get!” “Do you think anyone else in high society would ever tolerate a cold, heartless bitch like you?” He slammed my office door so hard the glass partition rattled, and stormed off. The cold air conditioning hummed in the empty room, making me feel utterly detached. Julian and I grew up together, but there was never any love between us. My father raised me as his sole successor. To protect our family assets and help Julian stabilize his grandfather’s company, I agreed to the marriage. Now, at the most critical juncture of the offshore acquisition, I was representing Vance Group in this joint venture, only to watch it turn into a complete joke. Sienna’s “blind box” show had already spread throughout the entire department. A few project managers were gathered in the breakroom, talking excitedly. “Hey, did you hear?” “Sienna randomized all the bidding brackets. We literally draw numbers out of a hat to fill in the final bid!” “That’s so fresh! I was so tired of doing the same old financial modeling. This actually makes work exciting!” “Exactly! Sienna’s Silicon Valley backer is a genius. Whatever number we pull is meant to be!” “Director Leo from finance tried to ask for the real spreadsheet earlier, and Julian literally kicked him out of the project. Said he was sabotaging Sienna’s strategy!” I watched these brainless sheep walk happily toward the slaughterhouse. Just then, my phone rang. It was Wyatt, the VP of Strategic Investment. I answered. His voice was frantic and trembling with fear. “Chloe!” Yes, although Julian was nominally leading the team, everyone in the industry knew I was the actual brain of this acquisition. “I can’t do this anymore! This blind box pricing is driving us straight off a cliff!” “I want to pull my entire team out of the project tonight. Please, give me the green light!” I remained silent for a moment, then calmly said, “Hold your ground. Do nothing.”

In my past life, Wyatt was the one who stood up and demanded the real pricing sheet. Julian publicly fired him on the spot and blacklisted him from the industry. This time, I wasn’t going to let him make himself a target. Right after I hung up, Harvey pushed my office door open. “Chloe, we have a massive crisis!” Harvey’s face was pale, sweat dripping down his forehead. “The teams just drew their numbers. The finance team pulled a bid that is ridiculously below our actual cost!” “It doesn’t even cover manufacturing. The moment we submit that, the seller’s legal team can sue us for predatory pricing and anti-competitive practices!” “The head of finance begged Sienna to let them redraw, but Sienna just said ‘it’s a trade secret’ and had security drag him out of the building!” I scrolled through the emails on my phone, my expression entirely blank. “So, why are you telling me?” “Chloe, you’re the actual director of this merger! Just say the word, and we will bypass Julian to upload the real pricing data!” Harvey slammed his hand on my desk in frustration. “Upload the real data?” I let out a cold laugh. “Julian made it very clear: anyone who touches Sienna’s pricing sheet will be treated as an insider threat and fired.” Harvey’s eyes were bloodshot. “So we just sit here and watch?” “The negotiation is tomorrow! If we submit these numbers, we won’t even get to see their board. We’ll be laughed out of Wall Street, and our stock price will tank before lunch!” I looked up at him, my voice dangerously calm. “Harvey, listen to me carefully.” “From this moment on, lock down Vance Group’s core proprietary data. Make sure our team’s independent legal channels are secure. No one is to touch our original models.” “As for the rest of them? Their survival has nothing to do with us.” Harvey opened his mouth to argue, but the sheer coldness in my eyes shut him up. He grit his teeth, turned around, and walked out. Outside the window, night had fallen. There were less than ten hours left. Over a hundred employees, running on the whims of an influencer’s blind box. What a beautiful disaster. In my past life, I bled for these ungrateful bastards, only to be thrown out like trash. This time, I was going to enjoy the show. Suddenly, a barrage of celebratory emojis and notifications popped up in the company Slack. I walked to the glass window and looked down at the open office floor. Sienna, dressed in a head-to-toe designer outfit, was standing on a desk in the middle of the room. She held a gold envelope high in the air, laughing hysterically. “Attention everyone! My Silicon Valley mentor has given the final green light! The blind box bids are officially locked!” “We are submitting our destiny-approved bids directly to the offshore board!” Hundreds of employees cheered, throwing paper into the air like they were at a college frat party. Julian stood right beside her, looking at her with eyes full of adoration. The first round of bidding emails was officially sent out. Ten minutes later, the Director of Offshore Operations came sprinting down the hall, slamming Julian’s office door open. “The sellers just rejected our first round of bids! They said our numbers are completely incoherent and insulting! They’re accusing us of wasting their time!” “Worse, two of our pricing brackets are so low that their legal counsel just sent a formal warning. They are preparing to sue us for commercial fraud!” It was the exact chain-reaction collapse I had predicted. Julian stood up, the smile fading from his face, but he immediately turned his fury onto the Director. “Incompetent! This must be because your operations team failed to execute Sienna’s strategy correctly!” He turned to Sienna, his voice carrying a hint of desperation. “Sienna, didn’t your mentor say this was a guaranteed win? Why are they threatening to sue us?” Sienna’s face turned slightly pale, but she quickly covered it up, twisting her fingers and looking incredibly victimized. “Julian, you have to trust the process. My mentor said we must break things down to rebuild them! This is a classic Silicon Valley tactic.” “Their aggressive response is just a test. If we stand our ground, they will back down!” “This is just a minor bump in the road. Once we push through, we win!” I almost burst out laughing at her absurd logic. Using a multi-billion dollar lawsuit as a “test of faith”? And Julian, the brilliant CEO, actually nodded. He waved his hand and roared, “Order the legal department to fight back! Crush their attitude!” “Anyone else who dares to question Sienna’s strategy is fired immediately!”

I gripped my phone tight. The memory of the freezing cold divorce papers made my fingers tremble. In my past life, this stunt wiped out half of Sterling Group’s market cap overnight. I took a deep breath, pushing down the anger, and walked back to my desk. Harvey rushed in, his voice shaking. “Chloe! Finance is in complete chaos!” “Leo, the finance director, realized how bad the numbers were and tried to recall the emails.” “But Julian had IT lock him out of the server, claiming he was committing corporate sabotage! He was escorted out by security and fired on the spot!” I slammed my fist on the desk. Firing the only people telling the truth? Julian had lost his mind. “Chloe, the entire finance department is being forced to execute the blind box contracts!” Harvey’s eyes were red. “Those numbers are a death sentence. The breach of contract fees alone will bankrupt us!” “Please, do something! Let’s release our Vance Group independent valuation sheet to the press!” I closed my eyes, my voice like iron. “Release it? With what authority?” “Julian has locked down all server permissions. If we upload anything now, we’ll be flagged for unauthorized data breaches.” “So we just watch the ship sink?” Harvey shouted, his voice cracking. “Vance Group will not be collateral damage.” I opened my eyes, cold and focused. “Harvey, protect our team. Lock our legal firewalls.” “If anyone from Julian’s side tries to touch our assets, sue them immediately.” Before Harvey could reply, loud arguing erupted outside. Wyatt, the VP of Strategic Investment, was practically thrown into my office. His suit was stained with spilled coffee, his tie torn, and a scratch ran down his cheek. “Chloe, please save us!” Wyatt gasped, gripping the edge of my desk. “Julian called me a traitor. He’s removing me from the board!” “I don’t care about my job, but there are dozens of people in operations who worked day and night on this! Now they’re all going to be ruined!” I stood up and handed him a bottle of water. Wyatt was a good, honest man. In my past life, he stayed up three nights straight helping me clean up Julian’s mess without a single complaint. And now, he was reduced to this. “Wyatt, listen to me,” I whispered. “If I step in now, even my corporate token can’t save anyone. Julian has bypassed the board.” “Vance Group is our final stronghold. Stay quiet, and I will protect you and your core team.” Wyatt stared at me, his lips trembling, before he finally let out a long, defeated sigh and bowed his head. “Harvey, take him out through the back elevator. Don’t let anyone see him.” In the hallway, the loud voice of Julian’s executive assistant echoed: “By order of the CEO, we are conducting an internal audit for corporate spies! All departments must comply!” I adjusted my blazer and stepped out of my office, coming face-to-face with the arrogant assistant. “Ms. Vance, have you seen Wyatt?” I stared at him with absolute disdain. “Do you think you have the security clearance to search my office?” The assistant hesitated, intimidated by my tone. “Mr. Sterling’s orders. Anyone harboring a traitor will be treated as an accomplice.” “If you are protecting Wyatt, you are defying the executive board!” I took a step forward, my presence forcing him to take a step back. “Go tell Julian that Vance Group only answers to our partnership agreement, not his childish tantrums.” “If you take one more step into my wing, my lawyers will have a harassment lawsuit on your desk before you can walk back to the elevator.” The assistant swallowed hard and scurried away. Julian was burning his own house down, and no one could stop him. Just as I sat back down, Harvey’s phone rang. He picked it up, and within seconds, all the color drained from his face. “Chloe… it’s over.” “The offshore regulators just stepped in. They are launching an international fraud investigation against Julian!” “Julian has just been detained for questioning!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “433316”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I spent seventy thousand dollars on an unlimited annual membership at an ultra-luxury wellness spa. But after only two weeks of going there, the lead therapist publicly humiliated me in front of everyone, calling me a “broke leech” who was just trying to abuse the card to get his money’s worth. When I tried to confront him, I realized he had already blocked my number and Snapchat. I went to the owner for a refund, but she turned the tables on me. She claimed that if I cancelled early, every single session I had would be billed at a walk-in rate of four thousand dollars. According to her math, not only was my seventy thousand dollars completely gone, but I also owed them an extra three thousand. Looking at the smug, arrogant faces of the owner and the therapist—both wearing an expression that practically screamed “What are you going to do about it?”—I smiled. I turned around and called the property management office. “Hey, Mr. Miller. Don’t renew the lease for ‘Luxe Haven Spa’ next month. Give them three days to pack their trash and get out.” Oh, I forgot to mention. This entire luxury shopping plaza? My family owns it. 01 The moment I realized I was blocked on Snapchat and iMessage, a nerve in my brain snapped. I couldn’t stand it for another second. I stormed straight to the third floor of the plaza, heading right for Luxe Haven Spa. Before I could even push open the heavy, ornate glass doors, the sound of loud, mocking laughter drifted out. “This guy, Ethan, is honestly pathetic,” Marcus’s voice echoed. “Just because he bought that unlimited Black-Card VIP pass, he thinks he owns the place. He basically lives here.” “I know, right?” another receptionist chimed in. “I’ve seen plenty of guys like him. He probably maxed out his credit cards or emptied his entire savings just to scrape together that seventy grand. All so he could play the big shot in front of us.” “It’s exhausting,” Marcus groaned, his tone dripping with undisguised disgust. “I get a headache the second he walks in. He demands a deep-tissue massage every single day. My hands are literally going to fall off because of this loser.” My blood began to boil. Marcus was the lead therapist, and yet here he was, gossiping about a paying customer with absolute contempt. Several junior therapists giggled and added fuel to the fire. “You’re so right, Marcus. His neck and shoulders are as stiff as rocks anyway. Even our premium essential oils are a waste on him. He should just stop embarrassing himself.” “Honestly, he probably doesn’t have a girlfriend to touch him, so he comes here just to feel some human contact.” “Hahaha! Exactly. He’s just a broke loser trying to abuse the system.” Their sharp, mocking laughter pierced my ears like needles. Rage surged straight to my head. I couldn’t take it anymore. I kicked the door open and stormed in. *BANG!* The heavy glass door slammed against the wall. The laughter inside stopped instantly. The temperature in the lobby seemed to drop to freezing point. Everyone stared at me as if they had just seen a ghost. “Who gave you the right to talk trash behind my back? Apologize to me. Now,” I growled, my eyes locked onto Marcus. Several junior therapists quickly looked down, their faces turning pale with panic. But Marcus only froze for a second. Then, he rolled his eyes, let out a cold sneer, and crossed his arms. “Nobody was talking about you, dude. Why are you losing your mind?” “Cut the crap. I heard every single word outside the door!” “Oh, really? No one else heard anything. Just you?” Marcus stepped closer, looking completely unbothered. “Maybe you’re hallucinating from too much steam in the sauna. Do you need a doctor?” Hearing this, a few receptionists couldn’t help but cover their mouths to stifle their giggles. Marcus puffed out his chest, looking incredibly proud of himself, like a soldier who had just won a grand battle. I clenched my fists so hard that my fingernails dug into my palms. “Then why did you block me?” I demanded, staring him down. Marcus looked me up and down with sheer disdain. “Look, buddy. I’m a very busy man. I deal with multi-millionaires every day.” “You keep spamming my Snapchat trying to book appointments. I’m a lead therapist, not your personal texting buddy.” “Then what did you mean by that post on your story? What ‘broke leech’ were you talking about?” “My membership is explicitly advertised as unlimited. Why are you complaining about me coming here?” “And didn’t you text me saying you were fully booked today? Why are you standing here gossiping if you’re so busy?” Marcus let out a mocking laugh, stepping right into my personal space and looking down at me. “Am I not allowed to take a break?” “Get a grip, dude. I’m a professional, not your slave.” “Did buying a membership really give you this much of an ego? Do you actually think you’re someone special?” He tilted his chin high, wearing a sickeningly arrogant expression. The other employees didn’t bother hiding their amusement anymore. They all stared at me with mocking grins, waiting to see me humiliate myself further. My temples throbbed with anger. I didn’t want to waste another breath on this garbage. I turned on my heel and walked straight toward the back office to find the owner, Cheryl. 02 Cheryl’s office was at the end of the hallway. She was a woman in her late forties, wearing heavy makeup and caked-on foundation, smelling of cheap perfume and sharp, greedy calculations. After listening to my complaint, she slowly took a sip of her tea. Then, with an agonizing slowness, she pulled a contract out of her drawer—one I had never seen before. “Mr. Sterling, please calm down,” she said smoothly. “But according to our policy, if a client requests a premature refund, all completed sessions must be billed at our maximum single walk-in rate.” “You have visited us fifteen times. Our premium walk-in rate is four thousand dollars per session. That comes out to sixty thousand dollars.” “Add in a two-thousand-dollar fee for premium oil consumption, one thousand for facility utility usage, one thousand for equipment wear-and-tear, and a one-thousand-dollar service fee.” “So, mathematically speaking… not only can we not refund you, but you actually owe us an additional three thousand dollars.” I laughed out of sheer shock. I slammed the ridiculous contract onto her desk. “Are you out of your mind, Cheryl? This is highway robbery! I never signed or saw this contract when I bought the membership.” Cheryl’s face darkened, her polite facade slipping away. “Mr. Sterling, this is standard industry practice. Feel free to ask around. Which high-end spa in this city doesn’t operate this way?” “Fine,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I won’t refund it. But I want to change my therapist. I don’t want Marcus anymore.” According to their own store rules, if a client blacklisted a therapist, Marcus would lose all his monthly commissions and bonuses, and he would face a heavy fine. Cheryl’s expression turned incredibly sour. “All our other therapists are fully booked for the next three months.” “Marcus is our star therapist. No one has ever complained about him before. Clearly, the communication issue lies with you.” “Tell you what. I’ll talk to Marcus and ask him to keep treating you. But you need to check your attitude, too. Don’t act like you’re above everyone else just because you bought a card.” My brain felt like it was about to explode. So, in the end, everything was my fault? I took a deep breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to smash her office to pieces. Without another word, I pulled out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo of the fraudulent contract, and walked out. Behind me, I heard Cheryl mutter with absolute disgust, “What a loser. Acting like a king when he’s probably living paycheck to paycheck.” 03 Over the next few days, I purposely didn’t ask for a refund. Instead, I kept booking appointments. Since it was unlimited, I wanted to see exactly what kind of games they were planning to play. Marcus pretended to be professional and took me back for my sessions, but he was actively looking for revenge. Under the guise of a “deep tissue detox session,” he locked me in the steam room at the absolute highest temperature setting. Normally, a steam session lasts twenty minutes max. He forced me to stay in there for an hour. He also brought me a cup of boiling hot “detox tea,” forcing me to drink it. When the heat became too suffocating to bear, I stood up to leave. But when I pushed the door, I realized it was locked from the outside. I banged heavily on the glass door, shouting for help. Marcus was standing right outside. Through the glass, he was casually sipping an iced energy drink, staring at me with a malicious smirk. “Come on, Ethan. You have too many toxins in your body. You need to sweat it out,” he mouthed through the glass, mocking me. “Didn’t you demand to have your daily sessions? Deal with it, or get lost.” I felt incredibly dizzy. My vision started to blur, and my heart was pounding wildly against my chest. Outside, he flipped me the middle finger. “You broke leech. I’m doing this for your own good. Sweating the poor out of you.” By the time the timer finally buzzed and the door unlocked, I had completely lost all strength. I collapsed onto the wet tile floor, unable to pull myself up. Just then, a few wealthy male VIP clients walked into the locker room. “Hey… please, help me up…” I gasped. But they were Marcus’s regular clients. They already despised me because they believed the rumors that I was “abusing” the membership and taking up Marcus’s time. They looked down at me with cold, disgusted sneers, making no move to help. “Oh, look, it’s that guy Ethan who clings to Marcus every day. Talk about desperate. Just because you have a yearly pass doesn’t mean you have to behave like a parasite.” “Seriously. Because of you, Marcus has been in such a bad mood lately. He barely talks to us during our massages.” “He deserves it. Broke loser.” Laughing, they stepped right over me and walked into the changing area. I clenched my teeth, dragging myself up off the floor using the wall. *Fine. Just wait.* 04 A few nights later, Marcus claimed he was too busy during the day and purposely scheduled my appointment for 10:00 PM. That was right before closing time. By the time the session ended, I was exhausted. I dragged my sore body into the shower room to wash off the massage oil. Just as I covered my hair in shampoo, the water suddenly cut off. Then, *click*. The lights in the shower room went out. The entire space was plunged into pitch-black silence. “Hey! Is anyone there? The water shut off!” I yelled. No one answered. I had no choice but to wipe the soap suds off my face with a dry towel, scramble into my clothes in the dark, and stumble out. The massive lobby was completely dark and empty. Marcus was standing outside the main glass doors of the spa. Under the dim hallway lights of the mall, he looked like a demon, smiling creepily at me. A terrible feeling washed over me. I rushed toward the exit. Suddenly, my foot slipped. I lost my balance and slammed heavily onto the hard marble floor. “Ugh—!” An agonizing, sharp pain shot through my body. I let out a choked scream, cold sweat breaking out over my forehead. I reached out to feel the floor in the dark, only to find it covered in thick, slippery massage oil. But that wasn’t the worst part. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through the palms of my hands. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight. The floor wasn’t just covered in oil—it was covered in hundreds of sharp pushpins and thumbtacks. My palms and knees were dripping with blood, punctured by dozens of needles. Shaking with pain and fury, I looked up. Marcus was standing outside the glass door, watching my agony with pure glee. He mouthed two words to me: “Die, loser.” With a smirk, he pulled down the heavy metal security shutter, locked it, and walked away. My chest rose and fell as rage consumed me. I dragged myself up, ignoring the agonizing pain in my hands and knees. I screamed for help, but only my own echo answered. I tried to call 911, but my phone had zero service. They had installed a signal jammer near the lobby. Left with no choice, I limped over to the reception desk. I picked up a heavy metal barstool and slammed it with all my remaining strength against the expensive glass doors. Once. Twice. Three times. *BANG! BANG! CRASH!* The glass shattered into a million pieces, rain-showering the hallway. Dripping with blood and sweat, I crawled out of the ruined spa. Once I reached the mall parking lot, I immediately dialed 91

The extraction process at the ER was pure hell. The doctor shook his head in disbelief as he pulled dozens of thumbtacks out of my skin. By the time I left the hospital, the sun was already rising. Without even changing out of my hospital gown, I went straight to the police station. “Officer, I want to report a crime. I was locked inside a business, assaulted, and intentionally poisoned and injured.” 05 Half an hour later, Marcus was brought into the precinct. The moment he saw me, he pointed at my face and started screaming. “Are you insane? Why the hell did you call the police on me in the middle of the night?” “You slipped and fell because you’re clumsy, and now you’re trying to sue me? People have to sleep, you psycho!” Cheryl arrived shortly after. Her hair was a mess, and she looked exhausted, but she immediately took Marcus’s side. “Officer, this man has been harassing my staff for weeks. He’s incredibly rude and constantly demanding. Marcus has been nothing but patient with him.” “And now, he makes up this ridiculous story and calls the police over a minor slip-and-fall? He literally destroyed our front entrance! I should be suing him for property damage!” I stared at them coldly. I pointed to the medical report on the desk, then pulled up my sleeves to reveal my bandaged arms and knees. “A minor slip-and-fall?” “Just because I used my unlimited membership, this psychopath locked me in a high-temperature steam room. And last night, he locked me inside the dark spa, covered the floor in oil and thumbtacks, and laughed while I was bleeding.” “You call that a minor issue? That is attempted murder!” Cheryl looked at me with a blank, mocking expression. “And do you have any proof of this?” “The security cameras are the proof! Officer, please review their security footage,” I demanded. Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Oh, what a shame. Our security cameras actually broke yesterday afternoon. We’re still waiting for the technician to fix them.” “You…” My jaw clenched, veins popping on my forehead. Marcus stood behind Cheryl, giving me a smug, triumphant wink. The next second, he pulled out his phone. Right in front of me, he started sending voice notes to their elite VIP Snapchat group, crying about how he was the victim. “Hey guys, please help me out. This crazy guy, Ethan, completely lost his mind, smashed our storefront, and now he’s trying to get the police to arrest me. Please tell them the truth!” The wealthy clients in the group immediately started replying: “He’s lying! Ethan has been obsessed with Marcus. He probably got rejected and decided to ruin the business.” “Exactly! He probably stayed in the spa on purpose so Marcus couldn’t leave, and got himself locked in. And those tacks? He probably stabbed himself to play the victim. What a creep!” “Marcus is literally the sweetest guy. He always gives us free fruit and snacks. Ethan is an ungrateful snake. Lock him up!” Listening to those voice messages, my blood ran cold with rage. I wanted nothing more than to smash Marcus’s phone into his face. Cheryl patted my shoulder, her voice dripping with triumphant malice. “Mr. Sterling, stop trying to play the victim. You’re going to pay for that glass door.” Marcus leaned in, whispering in a voice only I could hear: “This is just a warning, little boy. If you ever show your face in my spa again, I’ll make sure you never walk again.” I glared at him. If looks could kill, he would have been sliced into a million pieces. Because of the lack of evidence—the security cameras being “broken” and the crime scene being messed up when I smashed the door—the police couldn’t file criminal charges immediately. They treated it as a civil dispute, warned us to keep the peace, and told me to settle the glass door damage with the owner. Outside the station, Marcus and Cheryl stood side by side like victorious partners. They gave me one last mocking laugh before getting into Cheryl’s BMW. I stood in the cold morning breeze, my body aching and my eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. But I didn’t lose my mind. I took out my phone and dialed a number. “Hey, Mr. Miller. Regarding the lease renewal for Luxe Haven Spa on the third floor… cancel it.” 06 That’s right. I am the actual owner of this entire luxury shopping plaza. The plaza was an inheritance left to me by my father. Cheryl and her spa had been leasing the space for almost three years. I’ve always kept a low profile and didn’t like showing off my wealth. Plus, I had been studying business in Europe for the past few years, only returning recently to take over the family estate. Knowing how hard it is to run a physical business these days, I had actually given them a twenty percent discount on their rent. I never revealed my identity to them, so they had absolutely no idea that the ground they walked on every day belonged to me. Mr. Miller panicked on the other end of the line. “Mr. Sterling? Why so suddenly? Did someone offer a higher rent? We can negotiate! Cheryl was actually planning to sign a five-year renewal lease today.” “It’s not about the money.” I took a deep breath and explained everything that had happened to me over the past few weeks, including the incident last night. By the time I finished, Mr. Miller was sweating through the phone, apologizing profusely. “Mr. Sterling, I had no idea they were behaving like thugs on your property! Don’t worry, I’ll serve them eviction papers immediately.” “No, wait,” I said, my voice turning icy. “Find me a new tenant first. I don’t care about the rent. But I have one condition: the new tenant must be loud, obnoxious, and extremely difficult to deal with.” “And keep this a secret from Cheryl for now. Let them think everything is fine. I want to teach these people a lesson they’ll never forget.” Mr. Miller immediately understood. “Understood, Mr. Sterling. Consider it done. I’ll make sure they get exactly what they deserve.” After hanging up, I looked at the rising sun, a cold smile forming on my lips. Their lease had less than twenty days left. To celebrate their three-year anniversary and attract new clients, Cheryl had just spent three million dollars on a massive luxury renovation. She had imported state-of-the-art equipment from Europe. Forget about the massive loss from shutting down. Just that three-million-dollar renovation alone would take them at least two years of profit to recover. And this was only the beginning.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “433310”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

“I’m sorry, Maeve,” my coach said. “But the final roster has been confirmed. There wasn’t a mistake.” I found out on the last day of the public announcement. My Olympic Training Grant, the one I’d nearly destroyed my body for, had been reassigned. To Lyla Voss. I found Silas in the rink parking lot, leaning against his Porsche, flicking ash off a cigarette like it was any other Tuesday. “Lyla’s family is broke,” he said, not even looking at me. “Without the grant, she’d have to quit skating and get a job.” “You’re talented enough to qualify on your own at Sectionals.” I stared at him. Silent. Jaw locked. He frowned, pulled a black card from his wallet, and held it out. “Fine. I’ll cover your training costs for the next four years. All of it. Consider it me buying your spot. Happy now?” I looked at the card in his hand. So that was it. The spot I’d bled for. The early mornings. The torn ligaments. The hours on ice until I couldn’t feel my feet. All of it was just a price tag to him. A charity write-off. I didn’t take the card. I turned and walked away. Outside, it started to rain. Silas’s voice went cold behind me. “What the hell is your problem now? You bust your knuckles in that pro shop every day for cash. I’m handing you money and you’re acting like you’re above it?” My steps slowed. I turned my head. Looked at his face through the blur of rain. Fifteen years of loving him. Fifteen years of thinking he was mine. It all rotted through in that single moment. So I smiled. “Sure. Think whatever you want.” … I’d barely made it back to the pro shop when Bree called. “Maeve, did you see the roster? How the hell is Lyla on it? Did Silas do this?” I let out a bitter laugh. “I talked to him.” “What did he say?” “He said he bought my spot.” Silence on the other end. Then Bree’s voice came back, teeth clenched. “He’s a piece of shit.” I said nothing. “What are you doing right now?” she asked. “Sharpening blades.” “Stop sharpening blades! Go to the federation office and raise hell! That spot is yours! Do you not remember what you sacrificed for it?” I shook my head, kept working. “It won’t matter.” “How can it not matter? It’s a federal program!” “If Silas’s family can swap it once, they can swap it again.” More silence. Finally Bree said, “I just saw Lyla’s Instagram. Silas booked the most expensive restaurant in the city to celebrate for her.” “Okay.” “Maeve…” “I gotta go. Customer just walked in.” I hung up. A guy came in with a dull pair of skates. I grabbed them and got to work.

The next morning, I went to the rink to file my paperwork for Sectionals. In the hallway, I ran into Silas and Lyla. Lyla was clinging to his arm. The second she saw me, she ducked behind him like a scared kitten. “Silas, I’m scared.” He stepped in front of me, brow furrowed. “Maeve, don’t intimidate her.” I moved to walk around them. He grabbed my wrist. “What’s your attitude? Lyla didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t have a choice! Do you have to make a scene and embarrass everyone?” I yanked my hand free. “Move.” My voice was sharp. People in the hallway turned to look. Lyla’s tears spilled over. “Maeve, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. If you’re still angry, you can hit me. I deserve it.” She stepped toward me, arms open, like she was offering herself up. Silas yanked her back into his chest, glaring at me. “Look what you’ve done to her! Maeve, when did you become this cruel?” Whispers started around us. “That’s the girl from the pro shop, right?” “I heard she was supposed to get the grant, but Lyla got it instead.” “I mean, look at her face. Cold as ice. Who’d want to help her?” “Lyla’s so sweet. If I were Silas, I’d pick her too.” I ignored them all. Looked only at Silas. “I’ll say it one more time. Move.” He didn’t. He shoved me instead. “You’re apologizing to Lyla. Right now.” I stumbled back two steps. Hit the wall. Pain shot through my spine. I looked up at him. He looked back. Not a trace of warmth in his eyes. We grew up together. He was twelve when his family sent him from Manhattan to this nowhere town. Got into a fight his first day. I was the one who grabbed a wrench and scared off those older kids. After that, he followed me everywhere. He hated the grease on my hands. But whenever someone mocked my hearing, my dead right ear, he’d throw fists until they were on the ground. He said: “Maeve, I’ve got you from now on.” “You can’t hear out of one ear? Fine. I’ll be your other ear.” “When we get out of here, we’ll go to New York together.” Now he was shoving me into a wall. For another girl. Lyla sobbed harder in his arms. “Silas, forget it. Let’s just go. It’s all my fault.” He rubbed her back, voice going soft. “It’s not your fault.” He shot me one last look, pure warning, then walked away with his arm around her. I stood there for a while. Then straightened up and kept walking. On the way to the office, I passed the announcement board. Lyla’s photo was pinned in the center. Below it, the grant justification read: *Exceptional talent. Financial hardship. Remarkable perseverance.* I almost laughed. I remembered what it was like, going back to the pro shop. My father, reeking of whiskey, hand already out. “Where’s the money?” I ignored him. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my head into the wall. “I’m talking to you! You deaf?” My right ear heard nothing. My left ear rang from the impact. “I don’t have any.” “Bullshit. That Kensington kid is loaded! You’re always hanging around him. What’s a little cash? You hiding it from me?” He slapped me across the face. Started digging through my pockets. I shoved him off. He kicked me in the stomach. Hard. “You ungrateful bitch!” I curled up on the floor. Felt my organs twist. He was still screaming. “Worthless! Just like your dead mother! Trash, both of you!” He reached for the tire iron. That’s when Silas showed up. He kicked my father off me. Pulled me up. Checked my injuries. “Where’d he hit you?” I shook my head. He took off his jacket. Draped it over my shoulders. “Don’t be scared. I’m here.” That night, he didn’t leave. Slept on the busted couch in the shop. The next day, he had my father hauled off by the cops. He said: “Maeve, I’ll take care of you from now on.” I believed him. I really believed he’d be the one person I could count on forever. Turns out, that kind of thing can just disappear.

At the last mock competition before Sectionals, I placed first overall. Silas scored dead last. He crumpled his score sheet into a ball and tossed it in the trash. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not competing at Sectionals anyway.” Lyla was right there, gazing up at him with worship in her eyes. “Silas, you’re so amazing.” He grinned, pinched her cheek. “Obviously. I’m going home to run the family business.” I walked past them. Silas called out. “Maeve.” I stopped. “Still pissed about the grant?” I didn’t answer. “I know it sucked for you. But you saw Lyla’s situation. He needed it more than you did.” He walked up to me, voice softening. “Take the card. The PIN is your birthday. Whatever you need for training, just tell me.” He actually believed money could fix everything. Could erase what he did to me. Could buy back what I lost. “I don’t need it,” I said flatly. “Here we go again.” Irritation crept into his voice. “When are you going to drop this pathetic pride thing? You make, what, minimum wage at the shop? I’m offering you more than you’d earn in a lifetime.” Lyla walked over, tugging at his sleeve. “Silas, don’t say that to her. She’s just… not used to it yet.” She turned to me, pity dripping from her eyes. “Maeve, I know you resent me. But I was truly desperate. My stepmom, she’s… she’s not human.” Her eyes went red again. I watched the performance. All year, I’d watched it. Over and over. She always played the victim in front of Silas. And I was always cast as the villain. “Silas promised he’d make it up to you,” Lyla said, like she was the lady of the house making an announcement. “Whatever you want, just tell us.” I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. I actually laughed. First time in days. Silas blinked. “What’s funny?” “I’m laughing because you two deserve each other. A match made in hell.” I said it, turned, and walked away. Silas shouted behind me. “Maeve! Get back here!” I didn’t look back. That night, Bree sent me a photo. Silas and Lyla at a karaoke bar. He was singing into a mic. She was curled up against him, beaming. In the background, their friends held up a banner: *Congrats Lyla on the Grant! Silas + Lyla Forever!* Bree texted: *Don’t look at this. She’s not worth it.* I turned off my phone. Tossed it aside. Picked up my training journal. Started reviewing my jumps, one by one. Drowning in the work was the only way to stop thinking.

A week before Sectionals, the rink closed for the holiday break. Everyone else was out celebrating. Or cramming in last-minute practice at private facilities. I was still at the pro shop. One afternoon, Silas showed up. He pulled his Porsche right up to the front door, music blasting so loud the windows rattled. He got out, leaned against the door, and waved me over. “Maeve, come here.” I didn’t look up. He frowned, walked over. “I’m talking to you.” He reached for my hand, saw the grease, and pulled back. “Go wash up. You’re coming with me.” “Where?” “Lyla wants to go to the coast. You’re coming too.” I straightened up. “I’m not going.” “Throwing a tantrum again?” He clicked his tongue. “I came all the way here to get you. Don’t be ungrateful.” “I said no.” “Why?” “I need to train.” “Train?” He laughed like I’d told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “You could sleepwalk through Sectionals and still medal.” He paused, then added, “Come on. Think of it as a break. Lyla said she wants to make peace with you.” “There’s nothing to make peace over.” Silas ran out of patience. “Maeve, I’m asking you one last time. Are you coming or not?” “No.” He stared at me for a few seconds. Then he smiled. “Fine. Have it your way.” He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and threw it at my feet. Bills scattered across the dirty floor. “That’s your paycheck for the month. I already paid your boss. Take it and stay out of my sight.” I looked at the money on the ground. Didn’t move. “Not enough?” He pulled out another wad. “How about now?” Frank, the shop owner, came out from the back. He saw the scene and rushed over. “Mr. Kensington, what’s going on here? Let’s all calm down.” Silas didn’t even glance at him. He kept his eyes locked on me. “Pick it up.” I still didn’t move. Lyla got out of the car. She hurried to Silas’s side, tugging his arm. “Silas, stop. You’re scaring her.” She crouched down, picking up the bills one by one. “Maeve, please don’t be mad at Silas. He’s just doing this for me.” She held the money out to me, tears shining in her eyes. “Please come with us. I don’t want to be the reason you two are fighting.” I looked at her. Then at Silas. There was no guilt on Silas’s face. Not even a flicker. He thought he was doing me a favor. He thought he had the right to decide everything for me. Including my dignity. I stepped around them both and walked into the back room. Silas’s voice followed me, dripping with contempt. “See? That’s her problem. Give her an inch and she spits in your face.” Then the roar of the Porsche engine. Tires on gravel. Gone. Frank came in, sighing. “Kid, don’t take it to heart. That’s just how he is.” He picked up the bills from the floor and pressed them into my hand. “Keep it. Your situation at home, you need the money.” I held the cash. It still smelled like Lyla’s perfume. I walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and scrubbed my hands over and over. Until my skin turned raw and red. Then I stopped. That night, my father showed up again. He took the money. Smashed up some of the shop equipment. I called the cops. They took him away. Again. On his way out, he jabbed his finger in my face. “You ungrateful little bitch! Calling the cops on your own father! You’ll rot in hell!” I watched the police car disappear down the road. My heart was perfectly still. So this is what it feels like. When everyone in your life turns their back on you.

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/202607022PEJ0w3cn1 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni592710”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

My husband had a curse. Every wolf in Northbridge knew it. Every six months, Alpha Adrian Black would lose fifteen days of memory. Not all of it. Never his name. Never his power. Never the pack he ruled. Never the instincts that made wolves bow when he walked into a room. Only me. His Luna. His true mate. His wife. For fifteen days, the mate bond would go dead in his mind, and another woman would become the center of his world. He would call her his moon, his fate, his only love. And I would become the joke every pack wife pitied behind a jeweled hand. The first time the curse took him, Adrian fell for my rival at the Northbridge Broadcast Center. For his so-called true love, he had me kidnapped on the morning of the most important live broadcast of my career. I was supposed to anchor the national interview that would make my name impossible to erase. Instead, my own mate sent guards into the studio before the red light came on. They clamped a hand over my mouth, dragged me through the hallway in front of the crew, and broke both my legs on his orders so I could not crawl back to the desk. The broadcast went black. My rival took my seat. By sunrise, she was the new face of Northbridge. I was the Luna whose Alpha could break her bones for another woman and still make the whole city laugh. On the fifteenth day, Adrian woke. He collapsed at my feet and cried until his throat bled. Before nightfall, my rival vanished from the city. The official report called it a disappearance. The pack called it justice. No one dared say her name again. The second time, he fell for a maid who had climbed into his bed. She wanted my room. My jewels. My title. My bond. When I refused to leave, Adrian had his guards throw me into the red-lamp quarter outside the pack border. They filmed me being dragged through the streets while drunk wolves howled my name and posted the footage across every pack feed. On the fifteenth day, he woke outside the bond court. He put a blade to his own throat and begged me to let him bleed enough to pay for it. As for the maid, she ended the same way as the first woman: sold across the northern rogue line and returned three days later so broken she no longer knew how to speak. The worst time was the seventh. He chose my adopted sister. I was six months pregnant. For her, Adrian signed the order that sent me to a healer’s room and had our pup cut from my body before his lungs had learned how to breathe. By the time the curse ended, the sheets were soaked red, the crib was empty, and the pup I had carried under my heart was gone. Adrian woke in a room full of blood and silence. He tried to hang himself before the healers could stop him. They fought for three days and three nights to keep him alive. He survived. So did the curse. And now, this was the twelfth time. I stood at the door of our bedroom and looked at my best friend wrapped around my half-dressed husband. Selena Vale wore one of my old silk nightgowns. Pale blue. Expensive. The one I had thrown into the donation basket last week. She had always been delicate in public. Soft voice. Wet eyes. Fingers trembling at exactly the right moment. Now she lay against Adrian’s bare chest like a she-wolf who had won a war. “Elena,” she whispered, as if I were the one who had walked into the wrong room. “I know you’re hurt. But love can’t be forced.” Her hand slid over Adrian’s heart. “He loves me now. You have to accept that.” Adrian looked at me like I was a stranger standing too close to something that belonged to him. Something in my chest should have cracked. It didn’t. I only looked at the calendar on the wall. Day one. Good. I still had fourteen days to bury this marriage before it buried me. “If you run out of protection,” I said, “there’s more in the second drawer.” Selena blinked. Adrian’s brows drew together. I kept my voice calm. “If you want to give him a pup, tell me early. I have a heavy work schedule this week, and I’ll need time to file the rejection papers.” Selena stared at me like I had lost my mind. I turned to her and smiled. “Oh. And Selena?” “Yes?” “Did you buy life insurance?” Her smile froze. I let the question sit between us. Then I turned and walked out. Behind me, Adrian laughed, low and cruel. “Why are you wasting your breath on her? Elena was only ever a political Luna. My heart is yours.” A political Luna. That was what the curse always did. When Adrian forgot loving me, his mind filled the empty space with contempt. It gave him a story that made sense. I stepped out of the Alpha estate and called my lawyer before I reached the gates. “Start the rejection process,” I said. “I don’t care how much it costs. In fifteen days, I want the mate bond severed, my assets locked, and every Luna right removed from Adrian Black’s control.” There was a pause. “Luna Black, are you certain?” I looked back at the house where I had spent seven years bleeding for a male who only remembered loving me after the damage was already done. “Yes,” I said. “And don’t call me Luna Black again.”

By midnight, I was asleep in one of my own apartments across the city. By morning, my phone had almost burned itself dead. Adrian had called thirty-six times. I answered on the thirty-seventh. “Elena,” he snarled. “What did you do to Selena?” I rubbed my temple. “Good morning to you too.” “Don’t play innocent. She’s missing. You hated that I chose her, so you hurt her.” I almost laughed. The little fool had staged her own disappearance already. Fast learner. “Adrian, I didn’t touch your precious Eclipse Mate.” “Don’t call her that.” “That’s what she is, isn’t she? Fifteen days of moonlight before the dark comes back.” His growl shook through the phone. “If anything happens to her, I will never forgive you.” “You won’t remember saying that in two weeks.” The line went dead. Three minutes later, my apartment door broke open. Adrian came in first. His guards followed. His eyes were gold, wild, and empty of me. Before I could stand, his hand cracked across my face with the full strength of an Alpha who had forgotten he once kissed that same cheek. Pain burst white behind my eyes. I hit the floor hard enough for my teeth to cut through my lip. Blood filled my mouth. For half a second, the room went quiet. Then I looked toward the corner. The little red light on the security camera blinked steadily. Good. Adrian crouched in front of me, his expensive black coat brushing the floor. “Still looking at me like that?” he said. “Like I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?” I lowered my head. Not because I was afraid. Because the camera needed the angle. “Adrian,” I whispered, letting my voice tremble just enough, “you hit me for her?” His mouth twisted. “You kidnapped her. That crossed my line.” He stood. “Search the apartment. If she doesn’t tell us where Selena is, make her.” The guards moved at once. One fist landed against my ribs. Then another. Then another. Someone drove a knee into my stomach. Someone wrenched my arms behind my back until my shoulders screamed. I curled in on myself and counted each blow. Not because I wanted to remember the pain. Because every second was being saved to the cloud. A boot hit my side. My breath snapped apart. The room blurred. For one ugly heartbeat, I remembered the tenth curse, when Adrian had almost gouged out one of my eyes for a woman who said she hated the way I looked at him. When he woke that time and saw the blood crusted across my lashes, he locked himself in the cellar for a week and broke both his hands against the stone wall. He begged to tear out his own eye so the debt would be even. Back then, I stopped him. This time, I wondered why I had ever bothered. The last punch landed under my ribs. My throat tightened. I vomited blood onto my own floor. Adrian’s phone rang. His face changed before he even answered. “Selena?” His voice softened at once. “I’m coming. Don’t cry. I’ll be there.” He walked out without looking back. The guards followed. The broken door swung open in the silence. I lay on the floor until I could breathe again. Then I reached for my phone with shaking fingers, opened the live security upload, and saved the file under a new folder. Gift One. For the day he wakes.

Selena’s disappearance ended exactly the way I expected. She was found in a luxury hotel suite an hour later, wrapped in Adrian’s coat, weeping for the cameras. By noon, the whole pack believed I had tried to hurt her. By evening, Adrian froze my accounts. By nightfall, he called the Northbridge Broadcast Center and had me suspended from my own show. My director looked at me across his desk and smiled the stiff smile of a coward. “Elena, you know how this works. In fifteen days, Alpha Adrian will recover. He always does. Everyone knows you’re the one he truly loves.” Love. I looked at the suspension notice on the table. Then I asked, “Do you know how Adrian’s parents died?” The director’s smile vanished. “What?” “His father had the same curse. During his seventy-eighth cycle, he killed his Luna for another woman. When he woke, he jumped from the twentieth floor holding that woman in his arms.” The room went silent. I picked up the notice. “I’m not waiting for history to repeat itself.” Outside the station, Selena’s messages came one after another. Photos first. Adrian on his hands and knees while Selena sat on his back, laughing for the camera. Adrian kneeling at her feet. Adrian washing her feet in a silver basin. Adrian fastening diamonds around her throat. Adrian emptying every luxury store in Northbridge because she had said, laughing, that she wanted a mountain of gifts. Then came the words. You were always the main character, Elena. I was always the friend standing in the background. But now he belongs to me. Soon your crown, your wealth, your home, and your happiness will all be mine. Are you jealous? I hope it hurts. I stared at the screen. Then I took screenshots and uploaded everything. Gift Two. I drove back to the Alpha estate for one reason. My grandmother’s moonweave. It was the only thing I had left from my mother’s bloodline, a silver-threaded tapestry stitched by the women of my family for five generations. It carried our old crest, our birth moons, our names. My grandmother had placed it in my hands before she died and told me never to give it to anyone who did not understand what it meant. Adrian had once begged me for it. “Give me something that matters to you,” he had said, holding me after the seventh curse almost destroyed us both. “Something I can keep safe. Something that proves you won’t leave me.” So I gave him the moonweave. He framed it himself. Now I wanted it back. Clean break. Clean hands. Clean ending. But when I stepped into the estate, Selena was already in the great hall, holding a filthy stray pup against her chest. The animal was wet, trembling, and so terrified it had urinated down the front of her dress. Adrian stood beside her, pale from the fur allergy he refused to admit he had. “Poor thing,” Selena cooed. “Adrian, hand me that ugly cloth on the wall. I need to wipe him down.” My heart stopped. She was pointing at the moonweave. “Don’t,” I said. Adrian didn’t even look at me. He shattered the frame with one hand and pulled out the tapestry. “Why would anyone hang an old rag in the Alpha hall?” he said, disgust curling his lip. “Elena really has no taste.” The male who once kissed that cloth and swore it made him feel safe now tossed it to another woman like trash. Selena smiled at me. Then she dragged the mud-soaked, urine-stinking pup across my grandmother’s moonweave. Something in me finally tore open. I lunged. I didn’t reach her. Adrian caught the back of my coat and hurled me away from her as if I were filth. My body struck the floor-to-ceiling glass. The window exploded. Shards raked across my back, my arms, my thighs. For one second, I heard nothing but the wet sound of my own blood hitting the marble. Adrian froze. His eyes dropped to the blood spreading under me. His face went white. There. A crack in the curse. “Elena…” he whispered. Then Selena sobbed. “Adrian, she scared me. She scared the pup. I don’t want to stay here anymore.” The gold came back into his eyes. He shook his head hard. “No. No, I don’t care about her.” He pulled Selena close. “I love you. Only you.” I lay on the floor and reached for the ruined moonweave with bloody fingers. Selena passed me in Adrian’s arms. Her lips formed silent words. You are just like this rag. If I want it, he gives it to me. Then she let the stray pup slip from her arms. The animal, panicked by the smell of blood and waste, lunged back toward the cloth. Its teeth sank into my arm when I dragged the moonweave to my chest. Pain tore white through me. I held on anyway. By the time I woke again, I was in a private healer’s room. My hand was still clenched around a corner of the stained moonweave. A young nurse changed the bandages along my back and muttered under her breath, “Your Alpha is a monster.” I turned my head toward the window. Morning light warmed the sheets. “Healers called him last night,” she said. “They said you might not make it. They needed him to sign for emergency blood transfer.” I closed my eyes. “What did he say?” The nurse’s mouth tightened. “He said he was busy comforting Miss Vale. He said if you wanted to die, then let you die.” Let you die. I opened my eyes. “Can you repeat that?” I asked. She blinked. “What?” I lifted my phone. “For the record.” Her face hardened with understanding. She repeated every word. I saved the audio. Then I pulled the estate security footage from the backup server Adrian had forgotten I still controlled. The broken frame. The ruined moonweave. The glass. The blood. The dog’s teeth tearing into my skin. His face when he almost remembered. I uploaded everything. Gift Three.

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260702WNoU4M30sf 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni193650”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

I took on a huge debt to save my fiancé’s family, turns out he’s the one who sent me to a mafia auction block. After my heart stopped for the fifth time, I’m slumped inside a dog cage, oil still slick on my skin, eyes blown out and empty. That’s when I hear them laughing outside the door. “This is rich. She really thinks she took on eighty million for Mr. Greco? That money’s his own damn cash.” “Boss was scared she was a gold digger. Set the whole thing up to see if she’d bleed for him. He thought she’d be washing dishes back here — had no clue she’s been strung up every night, passed around like a party favor.” The door swings open. The stink of blood hits them and they freeze, scrambling for their phones. So that’s it. The loan. The debt. The “selling myself to save him.” All of it — a stage play my fiancé paid for, just to test whether I’d bleed for him. Iron floods my throat. The world goes black. … When I come to, I’m wearing nothing but shredded rags barely covering me. Whip cuts everywhere, some deep enough to see meat. The iron door crashes open. A flashlight burns straight into my face. I don’t have the strength to lift a hand. I squint through swollen eyelids. And there he is. Matteo Greco. My fiancé. The man I bled eighty million for. The man who handed me to this place. His eyes hit my body — and freeze. Behind him, my best friend Vanessa slaps a hand over her mouth, faking horror like she’s rehearsed it. “Oh my God! Cora, what happened to you? Matteo only had you helping in the kitchen!” Her voice can’t hide the thrill underneath. Matteo walks closer. The reek of blood and whore-house oil hits him. He curls his lip. “Cora. I just wanted to test you. See if you’d suffer a little for me.” His voice is ice. “And what do you do? You throw yourself into a place like this. Selling yourself.” I look up at that perfect face. Something hot and the taste of blood floods my mouth. I turn my head and spit a mouthful of black blood, chunks of something inside it, right onto the toe of his shoe. Matteo jerks back two steps. “Don’t you dare play dead!” He stabs a finger at the marks on my body. “Look at yourself. Covered in this filthy oil like some cheap whore. I told you to suffer — I didn’t tell you to crawl under those old bastards!” I drag my mouth into something that might be a smile. “Matteo.” My voice is wrecked. Every word tears. “Is the show over?” “What did you say?” His face goes colder. I lift my head. The eyes that used to look at him with love are dead now. “I said. You make me sick.” His face turns to stone. Then his hand flies up — crack — and the slap snaps my head sideways into the iron bars. “You think I’m disgusting?” He’s shouting now. “You eat my money, you wear my name, and I’m not allowed to test you? You couldn’t hold a damn line. You made yourself this dirty!” Vanessa rushes in, grabbing his arm like she’s the voice of reason. “Matteo, don’t. Maybe she didn’t have a choice. Look at her — let’s just take her home.” Her gaze drifts over the bite marks on my inner thigh. She knows exactly where every one of them came from. A sick little flicker of pleasure crosses her eyes. Matteo inhales hard. Drags his glare across me one more time. “Get her out. Take her back. Let’s see if she’s still got the nerve to call herself my fiancée.” A bodyguard steps in and rips the cuffs off my wrists. The second the chain lets go, I collapse face-down into the pooled blood on the floor.

I’m dumped in the corner of his private jet, on the carpet, wrapped in a black robe one of his men threw at me. The cold is in my bones. My body convulses on its own. My teeth clack so hard I think they’ll crack. Matteo sits on the leather couch across from me, a glass of red wine in his hand. He watches me shake on the floor. For one second, something almost like guilt flickers in his eyes. The tip of his shoe nudges my shoulder. “Enough. Stop playing pitiful. You passed the test. Half-passed, anyway.” “You made yourself filthy, but at least you did it for me. When we land, you’ll get cleaned up. I’ll bring in the best doctors. The wedding goes ahead next month.” I don’t even flinch. Wedding. He throws me into hell, watches me get torn apart, then wants to put a ring on me. It’s so absurd I almost laugh. “What? Stunned by your good luck?” His brow knots when I don’t answer. He crouches down and reaches for my chin. I turn my face away. “Don’t touch me.” His hand freezes mid-air. His face drops like a stone. “Cora Lane. Don’t push me. You know what you are right now? A used-up piece of trash a hundred men have been through. I’m still willing to marry you. You should be grateful I haven’t tossed you in the river.” I open my eyes slowly. Meet his glare. The pity in it. The charity. “Matteo. You actually think if you snap your fingers, I’ll crawl back and lick your shoe?” “You—” He shoots up to his feet. Right on cue, Vanessa walks over with a glass of warm milk. She steps around me and hands the glass to Matteo. “Babe, don’t waste your breath. Her head’s not right yet.” She turns to me. Smiles. “Cora, sweetie. Matteo’s been so good to you. Where’s the gratitude? On those nights they had you strung up on the cross — didn’t you think of Matteo at all?” Matteo’s face goes white. His eyes come back to me, and this time there’s no hiding the revulsion. Vanessa pulls out her phone right on schedule. “Matteo… I didn’t want to show you this. I have a contact who works the block. He sent me something. I was going to delete it — I didn’t want to dirty your eyes. But the way she’s acting…” She lets it hang. Matteo snatches the phone out of her hand. Security footage. High definition. Me. Naked. Roped to a massive iron cross. Oil slicked over every inch of me, glittering under the lights. Below the stage, a dozen rich bastards screaming and tossing bets. Some of them howling like animals. A huge man climbs up holding an electric whip. He’s laughing as he brings it down across the inside of my thighs. Current rips through me. My body jackknifes. The sound I make doesn’t even sound like me. Then he puts his shoe on my face and makes me lick his shoe clean. It goes on. Smack. Matteo hurls the phone straight into my face. The screen shatters. Glass slices my forehead. Blood pours down instantly. “Cora!” His voice cracks — fury, and something worse, disgust so deep it’s almost grief. “You filthy bitch— you let those old bastards do that to you? You make me sick. You make me physically sick.” I lie there. Blood runs into my eyes. The world turns red. I look at his twisted face and find I don’t have a single word left to say.

The jet lands. They drag me straight to the Greco estate, down to the basement that never sees daylight. This is where Matteo used to keep his Rottweilers. The air still stinks of dogs. They chain my wrists and leave me face-down on the concrete. The iron door creaks open. “Tsk tsk. Still got that pride, huh?” Vanessa walks over and lifts my chin with the toe of her heels. “You wanna know why he locked you down here?” She crouches and leans in close to my ear, sweet poison in her voice. “Because you’re filthy. He’s scared you’ll give him something. Right now, every time he pictures you under those old men, he can’t even keep his food down.” I close my eyes. My breath is barely there. She doesn’t like that. Her eyes flash. She signals the guards behind her. “Teach her some manners.” Two of them yank me up by the arms. Vanessa pulls a small electric prod from her pocket. “Back at the auction block, they used one of these on you all the time, right? Let’s jog your memory.” She jams the prod straight into the raw, unhealed meat on my inner thigh. “AAAAAHH—!” I thought I was ready. I wasn’t. Everything goes white. My body convulses off the floor. The wound splits open. Blood soaks through what’s left of my clothes. She keeps clicking the button. Again. Again. Again. The world starts to dim. The door opens again. Matteo stands in the doorway, watching like it’s a movie. Vanessa pockets the prod instantly. The concerned-girlfriend face snaps back on. “Babe, you came down? It’s filthy down here.” Matteo walks straight to me. He has a folder in his hand. He drops it on my face. “Sign.” I force my eyes open. I can read the words. Voluntary Surrender of All Shares and Assets of Lane Holdings. Stapled behind it: Lifetime Servitude Contract. “You said you loved me, didn’t you?” His voice is ice. He’s looking down at me like I’m something on the bottom of his shoe. “You’re already ruined. So I’ll buy the rest of your life with that eighty million. You’ll be my slave. That’s the deal.” “Sign it, and I’ll bring the doctors. Don’t sign, and you rot down here.” I look at the folder. Something cracks inside me, and I start to laugh. It echoes off the basement. Thin. Awful. It doesn’t sound like me. It sets him off. “What the hell are you laughing at?” “I’m laughing…” I lift my head. I lock onto his eyes and I don’t let go. “I’m laughing because you’re never going to get what you want. Not from me. Not ever.” I pull together every scrap of strength I have left. And I spit a mouthful of blood right onto the contract. Matteo loses it. “Beat her! Beat her until she can’t move!” Vanessa’s eyes light up like Christmas. She waves the guards on. Boots come down on my ribs. My back. My face. Matteo just stands there. Watching. Cold. The fury of a man who’s never been told no. Somewhere in the haze, I make myself a promise. I’m going to live through this. And when I do, I’m going to bury every single one of them.

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/2026070242uZr101J6 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni146643”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

The affair photos hit the trending page forty minutes ago, and my in-laws are already begging me to save the man who ruined my life. My husband’s steamy pictures with his assistant leaked online while they were on a “business trip.” His devoted-CEO image? Shattered overnight. The company stock tanked. His family showed up one by one to guilt-trip me. [Think about the big picture, Melissa. Do the right thing.] So I did what they asked. I clicked the button and posted seven clarification statements: “There is no so-called mistress in my marriage to Mr. Francis. The rumors about him and his assistant Ms. Amy Turner maintaining a love nest at Moristero Manor are simply that — rumors.” “My three miscarriages over five years were pure bad luck. They were absolutely NOT the result of a bet Mr. Francis lost to Ms. Turner.” “Mr. Francis traveling to Japan with his assistant on our wedding anniversary was strictly for business purposes.” “The monthly Porsches and Hermès bags purchased for Ms. Turner were standard corporate gifts. Nothing more.” “My family’s heirloom being given to Ms. Turner was entirely my idea. I volunteered.” “As for the viral intimate photos online — they were personally photoshoped by me.” “I owe Ms. Turner a sincere apology.” Three minutes after I posted the video, my phone buzzed. Corey — radio silent for days — finally decided to show up. In my Message. [Melissa. Take it down. NOW!] [Do it before I get back, or you know what happens.] I laughed softly and typed back: [Then I won’t wait for you to come back.] … I barely set my phone down before a voice beside me spoke. “Ms. Wood, your reinstatement request has been approved. Given the nature of the position, we’ll need confirmation that you are currently unmarried and not pregnant before departure.” I nodded. “Understood. Thank you.” After the officer left, I sat alone in the empty walk-in closet. An open suitcase lay in front of me — a few changes of clothes and an old photo album. That was it. Outside the window, the sky was fading to dark. But my phone screen kept lighting up. That “clarification” video had been live for forty minutes, and the comments had already blown past a million. Seven of the top ten trending topics were about my statement. #CoreyFrancis_AmyTurner_MoristeroManor #A_Bet_Caused_Miscarriages #MelissaWood_Apologizes_AmyTurner #CoreyFrancis Every single one — top viral. I scrolled through the comments. My fingers barely had the strength to swipe. [wasnt Corey Francis supposed to be the most devoted husband in the city? what the hell happened?] [Monthly Porsches and Hermès bags as standard corporate gifts? is the Francis Global a company or a charity?] [Francis Global doesn’t even have an office in Osaka. What kind of business trip was this exactly?] [lol someone in reddit dug up the hot spring resort they went to — it’s a couples-only spot with some VERY adult packages. ‘Business trip’ my ass.] [volunteered to give away my family heirloom? Melissa, blink twice if someone’s holding a gun to your head.] [I’ve been a paparazzi for 10+ years and this is the first time I’ve seen someone write ‘my husband is trash’ in a PR statement and disguise it as an apology. Melissa — are you asking for help?] I stared at the screen for a moment, then let out a quiet laugh. They were right. I was asking for help. Just not from them. Every single line in that statement — the public wouldn’t catch the full meaning. But Corey would. The moment I posted it, there was no going back. Not for him. Not for us. My phone buzzed again. A message without a profile picture. [Ms. Wood — the marriage certificate held by you and Mr. Corey Francis has been verified as a fake document.] I froze. I thought I’d already made peace with it — back when I first found the clues myself. But hearing it confirmed out loud, my eyes still stung.

The next morning at six, I was jolted awake by a knock on the bedroom door. It was Jody, the housekeeper. “Mrs. Francis, your husband is home.” I blinked. He wasn’t supposed to be back today. Before I could react, Corey was already standing in the doorway. Behind him — Amy Turner and Carol Sharp, the company’s PR manager. Amy was dressed in a crisp blazer, eyes red-rimmed and glistening. “Melissa, how could you post something like that? Do you have any idea what people are saying about me online? I…I can’t even leave my house…” I leaned back against the headboard, watching her trembling-lip routine, and let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, that statement? I just threw it together. Didn’t expect you to take it so personally.” “Melissa!” Corey’s voice was barely contained fury. “You’re going to delete that statement right now. Then you’re posting a new one — say the account was hacked. Say none of it came from you.” I didn’t respond. Carol pulled a document from her briefcase and handed it over. “Mrs. Francis, the PR team drafted a new statement. You just need to sign.” I took it and skimmed through. Professional wording. Pinned everything on a hacked account. “Get yourself ready,” Corey said, his voice dropping another degree. “The company’s holding a press conference at two. You’ll be there with me. You don’t have to say a word — just stand next to me and smile. The rumors will die on their own.” I looked up at him. “You want me to pretend none of this ever happened?” His expression darkened. “I’m not asking.” “I know,” I said, the smile fading from my face. “But I’m done performing for you.” I thought saying that would shake something loose in him. Guilt. Shame. Anything. But he just stood there, looking down at me with something close to impatience. Like I was the one being unreasonable. I thought about how he got me here. Step by step. Lie by lie. In the beginning, it was “Amy’s just a fresh grad, don’t overthink it.” Then it became “She’s good at her job. It’s normal for me to look out for her.” And then — she had a key to Moristero Manor. My grandmother’s jade pendant showed up around her neck. And I lost three babies. He played both sides flawlessly. Not a single crack I could find. Until the week before his trip — the company’s anniversary gala. I went upstairs to the lounge to find him. The door wasn’t fully closed. I heard him inside, drinking with his buddies. “Corey, you lost another bet to Amy? What was it this time?” His voice, careless and loose: “Bet on how long it’d take Melissa to forgive me for skipping her birthday. I said one day. Amy said one hour. I lost.” He took a drag of his cigarette, voice lazy with alcohol: “Melissa’s great, just… boring as hell. Feed her a couple sweet lines and she buys every excuse I give her. Nothing special in bed either… Last time I took her family’s jade pendant — told her some bullshit about a business partner who’s obsessed with occult, said wearing it would ward off bad luck — and she actually believed me.” Laughter erupted around him. “Good thing you never actually filed that marriage certificate. You’d be kicking yourself right now. But seriously — Amy’s way more fun. You’re not going to make it official with her?” “…maybe. Mrs. Francis? That spot fits someone like Melissa better. Doesn’t make waves, doesn’t make a fuss.” The laughter died down, and then he lowered his voice. “But this time — we can’t mess with her body again over a lost bet. Three miscarriages because of me losing to Amy… one more and her body’s really going to give out.” I stood outside that door, and the cold seeped straight into my bones. In that one moment, everything clicked into place. … The memory faded. I watched Corey walk slowly toward me. Then he smiled. “Melissa, your parents’ ashes — they’re at Rosendale Cemetery, aren’t they?”

He leaned in close, his lips almost brushing my ear. “If you don’t show up at that press conference and say exactly what you’re told to say — next time you visit them, that spot will be empty.” He straightened up and adjusted his cuffs. “Some things, Melissa, you can’t afford to lose.” My fists clenched at my sides. “Corey.” I stood up and looked him dead in the eye. “I’m done.” His steps halted. I took a deep breath. “I’m leaving. Mrs. Francis — that title, the position, all of it — give it to her. Is that enough?” The room went dead silent. Nothing but the sound of heartbeats. I waited for his reaction. Rage. A sneer. Some vicious remark designed to gut me. Any of it would have been fine. After all, this was the result everyone wanted. He’d get what he always wanted. Amy would get what she’d been scheming for. And I’d finally stop pretending. But he just stared at me for a few seconds. Then he laughed. “Leave?” He repeated the word slowly. “You have no friends. No family. No job. Where exactly are you going to go?” He reached out and gripped my chin, tilting my face up. “Isn’t this good enough? Just turn a blind eye to a few things, and we’ll call it even.” EVEN? There was nothing even between us. There never would be. I’d been counting down the days. One more month — just one — and the classified file from my old unit would be declassified. I could have laid the truth out in front of him. Proved that I never betrayed him. That what he saw that night was a cover operation, not what he thought it was… But now? I didn’t want to explain anymore. Five years. 1825 days. And this was all I had to show for it — absolutely nothing. Amy sniffled softly from behind him. Her voice came out thin and delicate. “Corey, please don’t be like this…” “Melissa.” Then she looked up at me with those wide, watery eyes. “I really never meant to come between you two. Could you please take that statement down? The comments online are so awful… My parents are terrified…” “Take it down?” I looked at her. “Without that statement, you’d still just be ‘Corey Francis’s assistant.’ Now the whole world knows your name. Isn’t that what you always wanted?” Amy’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Corey pulled her behind him in one swift motion — that instinct to shield her, to protect her at all costs. More real than anything he’d shown me in five years combined. “Melissa!” His voice was low thunder before a storm. “I’m saying this one last time. It’s an announcement, not negotiation. Figure it out yourself.” He wrapped his arm around Amy’s shoulders, turned, and walked out. The door clicked shut. I stood there, staring at it, and felt something heavy settle over me — the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t fix. When I married him, I thought he was my safe harbor. In the end, even my dead parents became leverage in his hands. Turns out the storm was never outside. The harbor was indeed the storm itself.

Before the press conference, I was forbidden from leaving the house. I didn’t fight. Didn’t scream. I just kept telling myself — get through today. Just get through today. That afternoon, I sat next to Corey on stage and read the script, word for word. Camera flashes popped like firecrackers beneath us. Corey smiled and held my hand the whole time. To everyone watching, it looked like a perfect couple. But my palm was drenched in cold sweat. The second the press conference ended, Corey stood up and walked straight to Amy, who was waiting in the wings. I didn’t watch them. I went to a flower shop and bought a bundle of chamomile and drove to Rosendale Cemetery. It had been too long since I’d visited Mom and Dad. I kept telling myself I’d go once things calmed down. That I’d sit with them and talk, the way I used to. I kept putting it off. Almost waited too long. When I got to their spot, I froze. Where were the jade urns? In their place sat a pot of bright red roses, blooming like blood. Blooming like they owned the space. I thought I’d gone to the wrong spot. I checked the number three times. No mistake. No. No. My parents’ ashes had been here for ten years. I knew every inch of that shelf. My head started buzzing. I’d known Corey long enough to understand him. When he couldn’t do something, he’d rather watch me cry than pretend otherwise. Like the time I found traces of his affair with Amy and asked him to fire her. Just let it go, I said. Pretend it never happened. He didn’t say a word. His face just said, I can’t — he wouldn’t even bother lying about it. So when he promised that if I cooperated at the press conference, he wouldn’t touch my parents’ ashes — I believed him. I actually believed him. I stood there for a long time before I went to find the staff. “Excuse me — the urns that were here. Where… where are they?” The man at the front desk didn’t even look up. “Oh, that spot? Boss reserved it for her flowers. The ashes? Moved somewhere, I guess.” “…moved?” My voice cracked. “I paid the maintenance fees. You moved them without telling me? Get your boss here. Now.” He finally glanced up, smirking. “Our boss is Mrs. Francis — wife of the CEO of the Francis Global. And who exactly are you?” Mrs. Francis? But when did I ever— The chamomile slipped from my fingers and hit the ground. I rushed back to the spot and searched frantically. Nothing. Nothing left. My eyes burned. I turned to leave — and tripped over the flower pot. Dirt scattered across the floor. Something white peeked through the soil. I crouched down and picked it up. A shard of white jade. Engraved with the letter W. …it was a piece of my father’s urn. A hand shoved me aside. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s Mrs. Francis’s flower! You break it, you pay for it!” I stumbled back. I watched him scoop the dirt back into the pot — dirt mixed with fragments of my father’s ashes — and my whole body started shaking. “My parents’ ashes… were used as fertilizer for that flower?” He wouldn’t look me in the eye, just mumbled something about how people should focus on being good to their parents while they’re alive instead of obsessing over ashes after they’re dead. “What difference does it make where they end up?” I didn’t hear the rest. I turned and walked out. My mind was blank the entire drive back. It stayed blank until I pushed open the bedroom door and saw Amy Turner lying in my bed. That was when my brain snapped back on. Corey glanced at me, casually tucking the blanket around Amy’s shoulders. “The press conference didn’t work. The comments are brutal. She’s a mess, so I brought her here to keep an eye on her.” I stared at that look on his face — like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Corey.” My voice came out calmer than I expected. “Where are my parents’ ashes?”

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260702WHMa9p6dQP 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni684529”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

My husband said the signal at sea was too weak to text me back — until his ex posted thirty-one screenshots of their nightly video calls. *** My husband worked as a communications operator on an oceanic research vessel — and I could never reach him. Every time he shipped out, he’d say the same thing: signal’s unstable at sea, totally normal if it takes three to five days to reply. I believed that for two whole years. Until his ex, Molly Fuller, started posting screenshots of their video calls. Thirty-one calls in a single month. The shortest one — forty minutes. The image was so crystal clear I could see the deck behind him and the stars in the sky. I scrolled back through my own chat history. The longest I’d waited for a reply? Fourteen days. Two words: Mm-hmm. After that, I learned my lesson. No more staying up late, staring at my phone, waiting for the screen to light up. No more sending long paragraphs about how much I missed him. My messages shrank from three lines to one: [Stay safe.] Then two words: [Be well.] Then just a single period. And then — nothing at all. The next time he docked and came home, he frowned at me. “How come you never text me anymore?” I smiled. In three days, our divorce hearing was scheduled — and he didn’t even know. ··· Declan Reid stood in the doorway, duffel bag still in hand. I used to change the sheets in advance, drive down to the pier to meet him, even line up his slippers facing outward so he could step right in. Today I was just sitting at the dining table, sorting through paperwork. He stared at the thick stack of documents, brow furrowed. “Izabella. I’m talking to you.” I pressed down on the stapler. A soft click. “How many days are you staying this time?” That caught him off guard. His tone softened slightly. “A week. Heading back to the ship next week. Tomorrow night there’s a banquet for the crew.” For the past two years, every time he came ashore, he said he was exhausted — walked in the door and collapsed into bed. But on Molly’s Instagram, he was strolling along the pier with her, helping her pick out equipment, staying on video calls until two in the morning. I kept my head down, organizing files. Said nothing. Declan set a gift box on the table. “This is for you. I missed our anniversary — I was at sea. Making up for it.” My fingers froze. I opened the box. Inside was a seashell bracelet. The edges were rough, barely sanded down. The tag under it read: 50% off. Before I could even open my mouth, my phone buzzed. Molly had posted on Instagram. In the photo, she stood on the pier, a deep-sea blue pearl necklace around her neck. In the corner of the frame was Declan’s sleeve. [Someone remembers I’m afraid of the dark, so he gave me a piece of the ocean.] I slid my phone across the table to Declan. He glanced at it. His expression shifted — then smoothed over just as quickly. “That necklace is a prop for her documentary. She’s just borrowing it. Yours is more of an everyday thing — more your style.” I nodded. “Oh. So Molly gets deep-sea blue pearls. I get seashells on discount.” He seemed thrown by that. Before he could respond, his phone rang — a video call, with Molly’s name on the screen. Declan answered almost on instinct. On camera, Molly was wearing a black windbreaker. I recognized it. Declan had bought it last year before shipping out. He said the windproofing was top-notch, couldn’t go to sea without it. Molly’s voice was hoarse. “Declan, I think I have a fever. The pharmacy’s closed and I’m all alone here. I’m kind of scared.” Declan looked at me. In that one look — I saw the conflict. And the apology of someone who’d already made up his mind. “Izzy, she just got to port. She doesn’t know anyone around here. I’ll drop off some medicine. I’ll be right back.” I watched him grab his car keys. “You just got home. We haven’t seen each other in months.” He frowned. “Don’t be like that. She’s sick.” The door closed. The apartment went silent again. I sat at the dining table and placed the seashell bracelet into a plastic evidence bag. Labeled it. [Difference in gifts.] Then I texted Milo Mainse, my lawyer. [Add one more item.] Milo replied almost instantly: [Got it.] Half an hour later, Molly sent me a photo. A box of medicine. A glass of hot water. Declan’s hand on hers. [You don’t mind, right, Izabella?] I replied: [Not at all.] After I hit send, I plugged in the voice recorder to charge. The next evening, Declan sent me a location pin. [Welcome banquet at seven. Don’t be late. My boss and colleagues will all be there. Don’t embarrass me.] I stared at the message, then dropped the voice recorder into my bag.

The welcome banquet was at a hotel near the port. By the time I walked into the private dining room, it was already packed. Declan was in uniform. Molly sat right next to him, draped in his crew jacket, his comms badge pinned to her chest. I knew that badge. Before his last deployment, I’d asked if I could keep one as a memento. He said shipboard equipment was strictly regulated — family members weren’t allowed to take anything. So I didn’t talk about it anymore. But now… it hung on Molly’s chest, like some kind of unspoken claim. Declan spotted me and pointed to a seat by the door. “Sit over there. The main table’s all crew. It’d be awkward if you sat here.” Molly looked up with a little smile. “Oh, Bella’s here! Declan, why don’t you let her sit next to you? I can move to that seat.” She said the lines, but didn’t budge an inch. Declan muttered under his breath, “It doesn’t matter where she sits.” I sat down by the door and quietly switched on the voice recorder in my bag. The dinner hadn’t been going long before the teasing started. “Molly and Declan — best team on the ship. One films the ocean, the other connects it.” “Honestly, back when you two were together, we all said you were perfect for each other.” “Declan really takes care of Molly, huh? Signal’s garbage out there, but her video calls never drop.” Declan just laughed it off. “Come on, knock it off.” He didn’t look at me. Molly ducked her head, the tips of her ears turning pink, like someone had touched on something she wasn’t supposed to admit. The food arrived. Declan picked the belly meat off the fish and placed it on Molly’s plate. “Stay away from the bony parts.” Then he swapped her iced drink for hot tea. “Your stomach’s bad enough — why are you drinking something cold?” I stared at the dressed crab in front of me. He knew I had a weak stomach. He knew I couldn’t handle too much seafood. The first year we were dating, he used to call ahead to restaurants and ask them to prepare hot soup for me. At which point, the person he remembered became Molly? Molly picked up her glass and walked over to me. “Bella, let me make a toast. Actually, I’ve been wanting to apologize to you. Declan gets so lonely out at sea. Sometimes I’d reach out just because I was worried the pressure was getting to him.” A few people chimed in right away. “Izabella, you’ve gotta understand his job. The mental toll on a communications operator — most people can’t even imagine.” “Don’t take it personally, Izabella. Molly’s an old friend, not some stranger.” “Declan’s a good husband overall, right? You guys are young — don’t blow this out of proportion.” I looked at their faces, one after another, all so matter-of-fact. I almost laughed out loud. “31 video calls in one month. The shortest was forty minutes. Is that part of the job too?” The room went dead silent. Declan’s face darkened. “Izabella. You really have to do this here? In front of all of them?” Molly’s eyes turned red instantly. “Izabella, you… you’ve got it wrong. I’m making a documentary — I needed to understand conditions on the ship. Declan was just helping me verify technical details…” I pulled out my phone and lit up the screen. “‘Verifying technical details’ requires singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at two in the morning?” Molly’s composure cracked for a split second before softening again. “I was in a really dark place that night. He was afraid something might happen to me.” Declan jumped in. “Izzy, Molly really was struggling last year. I couldn’t just watch my friend fall apart.” My friend. Those two words were like the ultimate cover-up. I didn’t push it further. I set my teacup down. The mood was ruined. No one cracked another joke at my expense for the rest of the night. Declan glanced over at me several times, his eyes full of irritation. Halfway through, I went to the restroom. Molly followed. She stood in front of the mirror reapplying lipstick, a faint smile on her lips. “You’re recording, aren’t you, Izabella?” I didn’t deny it. She twisted the cap back on. “You really don’t need to be this guarded around me. If Declan actually cared about you, nothing I said would matter.” I turned on the faucet. Water ran over my fingers. “You know, he always reaches out to me first when he’s at sea.” “The stars, the storms, when they’re pulling into port — I always know before you do.” The water kept on running. “You know he’s married.” Molly looked at me through the mirror. “I do. That’s why I never made a move. He’s the one who can’t let go.” She pulled out her phone. On the screen was a screenshot. [She stopped messaging. Peace and quiet.] The date was the exact day I stopped sending him a single period. Molly’s voice dropped low. “Izabella, the thing men fear most isn’t a woman who makes a scene. It’s a woman with nothing to offer who still won’t withdraw gracefully.” I dried my hands. “Save that line for court.” When I walked out, Declan was standing at the end of the hallway, waiting. He looked at me, visibly annoyed. “The second you show up, everyone’s uncomfortable. Izabella, can you please stop dragging our personal problems into public?” I looked up at him. “I’m going to my parents’ tomorrow.” His brow furrowed tight, his eyes full of impatience. “I barely have any days off. How long are you going to keep this up?” I walked past him toward the dining room. The red light on the recorder was still on.

Back home, I started packing my clothes. Declan stood in the bedroom doorway. His face was dark. “If you move out now, our parents are going to know we’re fighting.” I folded my everyday clothes into the suitcase. “Not a fight. It’s a separation.” “Izabella Lane.” When he used my full name, it always came with this forced patience — like he was trying very hard not to lose his temper. “I’ll admit I’ve been in touch with Molly too much. But you can’t twist a normal friendship into something dirty.” I stopped putting my dress into the suitcase.”I texted you at three a.m. with stomach cramps. You took fourteen days to reply. That same night, you were on a video call with her for an hour.” Declan frowned. “There are rules about communications on board. You can’t just reply to personal messages whenever you want.” I laid a stack of printed screenshots on the bed. March 15th. I had a 102-degree fever and asked if he could just send me one word back. That same night, Molly posted a call screenshot — 63 minutes. April 20th. A pipe burst at home. I rushed back from work and dealt with it alone until past midnight. Molly posted a reel — Declan showing her the moonlight over the ocean on video. May 9th. My dad had a sudden heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. I stood at the billing counter, hands shaking so badly I kept typing the wrong PIN. Declan was singing “Happy Birthday” to Molly. Someone was whistling in the background. … He stared at those pages for a long time before opening his mouth again. “Molly was depressed during that period. Her family situation was bad too. I was afraid she might do something to herself.” I let out a small laugh. “The day my dad went into surgery, I was afraid too.” He looked up at me. Something in his expression cracked, just for a second. His phone cut through the silence. Molly’s special ring tone. Declan picked up and hit speaker. On the other end, Molly was crying so hard she could barely breathe. “Declan, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come to the banquet. Izabella cornered me in the bathroom — she said she’d expose me, said she’d make sure I never work in this industry again.” Declan’s head snapped toward me. “…you threatened her?” I kept packing. “The hotel has security cameras.” “No need to check.” His voice hardened. “Molly wouldn’t lie about something like this.” I stared at him. Two years. Every time I was hurt, I needed evidence to prove myself. Meanwhile, all Molly needed was tears, and he took it as fact. Molly was still weeping: “Am I causing too much trouble? I just didn’t want you to be alone out there with no one to talk to…” Declan lowered his voice. “Don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” After he hung up, his eyes locked onto me, heavy and cold. “Why do you have to go after someone who’s already struggling?” I snapped back calmly. “Does she have a diagnosis?” “Izabella, do you have to be this heartless?” I pulled another file from the drawer. It was a message from last winter. [Declan, I can barely hold it together. The apartment’s freezing, my stomach’s killing me. I’m not trying to bother you. I just need to hear your voice.] I’d sent that message to him and only him. But that afternoon, Molly had forwarded me a screenshot with a note attached: [Izabella, you REALLY need to see a doctor:)] I held the screen up to his face. “You forwarded my message to her?” Declan’s face changed. “I just wanted her opinion on whether you’d been emotionally unstable. She took a few psychology courses back then.” The glass on the nightstand slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. A shard sliced across my palm. Blood came fast. Declan saw it. But his first move was picking up his phone and texting Molly. [She’s losing it. Don’t be scared.] I looked down at my hand. Turns out, when you hit a certain point, even pain could be on a delay. I pressed a tissue against the wound, grabbed my bag, and walked out. … The lights in the ER hallway were blinding white. Milo Mainse was waiting by the entrance, holding a copy of the court summons. He saw my hand, went to the nurse’s station for antiseptic cotton, then handed me the paperwork. “Court date’s confirmed. Three days from now, 9 a.m.” I took it. Milo hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to try mediation?” I looked at the thin cut across my palm. “I’m sure.” My phone buzzed. A text from Declan. [you really freaked Molly out. i’m going to check on her tonight. calm down first.] Milo glanced at it but said nothing. I screenshotted the message and saved it. The next morning, Declan called. “I’m taking Molly to the lighthouse today to shoot some footage. Your mom’s follow-up appointment — just go by yourself.” I looked at the appointment slip in my hand. “You promised you’d come with me.” His reply was instant. “It’s a follow-up, not surgery. Don’t use my family to pressure me.” And my mom heard every word.

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260702mWOySLVwZU 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni061061”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

Daniela’s proudest achievement is fucking the Don of the Vitale family behind his wife’s back. That wife is me. Back then, I’m scrolling through the thread after work, half-numb from a fourteen-hour day, when the top reply catches my eye. Question: What’s the proudest thing you’ve ever done? Answer: Stealing my son’s classmate’s father straight into my bed. “Two years ago my son pulled a little prank on the girl sitting in front of him at school. Carved his initials into her back with a pocket knife. Cute, right? Her mom found out and came screaming into the headmaster’s office calling me trash. Said I raised an animal.” “And she made some calls. Used her family’s money. Got my son expelled and blacklisted from every elite academy in the city.” “That’s when I met her husband. A real man. Gorgeous. Powerful. He told me she was a vulgar, mouthy bitch — and I was hooked.” “We ended up in bed. Easy. He paid to put my son into a private school overseas — she still has no idea.” “Cheating tastes so good, girls. Highly recommend.” “And the best part? I’m carrying his baby right now. If it weren’t for the bump, I’d shove it in her face. But I can wait. When my kid’s older, we’ll come back for her daughter’s inheritance. I want to see her face then.” Underneath the words, a photo. A man’s face pressed into a woman’s chest. Neither of them showing. They don’t have to. Because right there, on his forehead — just above his eyebrow — is a two-inch scar. Clean white line. Hair never grew back. My palm goes cold around the phone. I zoom in. Two centimeters of dead follicles in a perfect stripe. The kind of scar you only get when someone splits your skull open with intent. I should know. I gave it to him. Two years ago. The night our daughter came home from school with her back carved up by a six-year-old with a pocket knife. The night I broke a whiskey bottle over Lorenzo’s head. I keep scrolling. The comments are a war zone. Half the thread is calling her a shameless whore. She’s loving it. She drops another photo to shut them up — a man shirtless, arms wrapped around a swollen pregnant belly, a box of strawberry-flavored condoms tossed on the nightstand. Lorenzo’s brand. Lorenzo’s size. “The mistress is the one who isn’t loved, sweetie. He only has eyes for me now.” “Not my fault, she couldn’t hold onto her man.” I know that voice before I see the name. Daniela Rossi. Nico Rossi’s mother. The woman who stood in the headmaster’s office two years ago and screamed at me in front of every parent on the board. I tap into her profile. Two years of daily posts. Every single day. Every single one of them about her and Lorenzo. The first one — a coffee shop, the week after Mia came home bleeding. Lorenzo’s hand resting on the table, wearing the watch I bought him for our anniversary. I scroll. A trip to the Maldives the weekend of our wedding anniversary, while I sat in a hospital room holding Mia’s hand through a fever. A black-tie auction in Monaco the night I called him crying because Mia wouldn’t stop asking where Daddy was. Every post. Every receipt. Two years of my marriage, livestreamed by the woman fucking my husband. I stop on a post from last month. The fifteenth. “My king took me to my prenatal check-up today. Cried when he heard the heartbeat.” I remember the fifteenth. I had a meeting I couldn’t push. I called Lorenzo and asked him to pick Mia up from school. He grunted something into the phone. I thought that meant yes. It was the first time we’d spoken all year. I came home at midnight. Mia wasn’t there. Lorenzo wouldn’t answer. The school said she’d left at three. I called the police. I sat on the kitchen floor in a blood-pressure spiral, waiting for the worst news of my life. They found her the next morning. She’d tripped on the way home, scraped her knees raw, and a baker on the east side took her in because she was too scared to walk in the dark. Lorenzo walked through the front door at 8 a.m. like nothing happened. I slapped him so hard his lip split. He told me he got busy and forgot. Told me Mia was fine. Told me I was overreacting like always. We had the worst fight of our marriage that night. He slammed the door behind him and didn’t come back. Three weeks. No call. No text. Nothing. And now I know where he’s been. I lock the phone. Set it face-down on the table. This isn’t the first time Lorenzo has chosen someone else over us. It’s just the first time I’m done pretending I didn’t see it coming. Our marriage was rotting long before Daniela Rossi ever walked into it.

The Vitale family runs half this coast. Old blood, old money, the kind of power that makes governors return calls within the hour. My family built the other half. The Castellanis have been moving cargo through these ports since before the Vitales picked up their first gun. By the time it came down to me, I’d taken the business global. Our grandfathers shook hands across a dinner table sixty years ago. Our parents bought houses next to each other. Lorenzo and I grew up climbing the same fence. The first time I got my period, I was thirteen and crying in the school bathroom. He was the one who showed up. Tied his jacket around my waist. Walked down to the corner store and came back with an entire bag of pads. “Take it. Don’t ruin my jacket.” The words were sharp. The hand shoving the bag into mine wasn’t. He cussed me out every time I cried, then slipped painkillers into my desk before class. “Take them. I’m not carrying your ass home if you pass out again.” When he couldn’t say what he meant, he wrote it down. I found the poem folded into my locker when we were sixteen. I laughed at how cheesy it was. He ripped it out of my hand, shoved it back into my chest, and kissed me under the streetlight outside my house. That was the night I knew. We grew up tangled in each other. Got married the year I turned twenty-four. Had Mia two years after that. And then everything started to crack. He wanted me home. Wanted me to step back from the business. Be a wife. Be a mother. The kind of woman his world expected. I wasn’t built for that. I’d spent my whole life clawing my way to the top of the Castellani empire — I wasn’t about to hand it off so I could pour wine for his capos at Sunday dinner. “Why is the business always more important than me? Than this family?” “They’re not more important. They’re equal. I’m not choosing between them, Lorenzo.” “That’s the problem. You should be.” We fought like that for years. He’d slam doors. I’d work later. He’d disappear for a week at a time. I’d disappear for two. He still played the husband. Still played the father. Until he didn’t. The fights got uglier. My deals took me overseas for months. His patience ran out somewhere along the way, and I was too busy holding two empires together to chase him back. Then Mia came home with her back sliced open. Lorenzo and I had screamed at each other two nights before that. He was still angry when he showed up to the headmaster’s office — late, hands in his pockets, like he’d been pulled out of something more important than his daughter bleeding through her uniform. Daniela was already there. Already screaming at me. Calling me trash. Calling Mia a brat who probably deserved it. I was about to break her jaw. Lorenzo walked in. Looked at his daughter’s blood-soaked shirt. Looked at me. And took Daniela’s side. “Kids play rough. You don’t have to come at her like an animal, Sera.” I slapped him. In front of every parent on the board. In front of Daniela’s smug, lipsticked grin. Then I made my calls that ended Nico Rossi’s name in every elite school on the coast. I made sure that little monster wouldn’t sit next to another child until his mother begged on her knees. She never did. But apparently her husband — soon to be ex — couldn’t pay to undo it, and that’s where Lorenzo stepped in. That night Lorenzo came home drunk and louder than I’d ever heard him. “You humiliated me. In front of half this city.” “You humiliated yourself. Our daughter was bleeding and you defended the woman whose son did it.” He grabbed my wrist. I grabbed the whiskey bottle off the bar. The glass came down on the side of his head before he could finish the next sentence. Amber liquid and blood ran down his face together, soaking the collar of his white shirt. My voice didn’t shake. “Lorenzo. Now you know what our daughter felt.” After that, the marriage was a corpse. We just kept dressing it up for the family. … My hand is locked around the phone so tight my knuckles ache. Daniela’s profile refreshes. New post. “Thank you to my king for cooking for me tonight.” A photo of a man in an apron. Standing at a stove. Smiling like he means it. I’ve been married to him for eleven years. He has never once cooked for me. I dial his number before I can stop myself. It rings. And rings. And rings. Right when I think it’s going to voicemail, his voice slides through, slow and lazy. “What?” “You promised our daughter you’d come home for her birthday yesterday. Where the hell are you?” A pause. Then, quieter — almost amused — “Sera. Beg me. Tell me you miss me.” “Apologize. Soften up a little. And I’ll come home.” I can’t speak. Then a soft female voice in the background. “Lorenzo, who is it?” The last flickering thing inside me goes out. I hear my own voice answer, calm as a blade. “In your fucking dreams.” I hang up.

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260702HzFoe6yJar 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni674016”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix