Category: English

“I became the most hated woman on the internet after helping my daughter with her homework. It was the 99th time I’d broken down the elementary school math problem for Mia. And for the 99th time, she wrote down the wrong answer. “Is the answer 1, Mommy?” Seeing the same number she’d started with, something inside me finally snapped. I slammed the door to her room and walked away. I collapsed onto the sofa, desperate for a moment of peace, only to find my husband’s dirty socks balled up next to the cushions. After throwing his socks in the wash, I realized the laundry from yesterday was still sitting in the machine, damp and forgotten. By the time I’d hung the clothes, mopped the kitchen floor, and washed the dishes, I heard a crash from the living room. Mia had spilled her box of Goldfish crackers everywhere. The room was a disaster again. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I screamed at her. Shaking, I grabbed my phone, mindlessly scrolling to escape my own life, and stumbled upon a live stream. On the screen, a woman who looked like a ghost sat numbly at a dining table, mechanically shoveling food into her mouth. Her face was gaunt, her skin sallow and oily, and she wore a cheap, faded pajama set that looked like a $9.99 Amazon special. I froze. The woman on the screen looked terrifyingly familiar. She looked like me. I clicked on the stream. It was from a reality show called Fresh Start Family. And the woman in the video was being verbally crucified by hundreds of thousands of viewers. 【How can any woman let herself go like this? She looks like a zombie. It’s actually disgusting to watch.】 【I can’t imagine how her husband faces this every day. No wonder he signed them up for this show. He’s trying to save her from herself by forcing her to see the truth.】 【Did you see her this morning? She had a total meltdown because her daughter got ONE math problem wrong. What a monster. I feel suffocated just thinking about it!】 I looked up from my phone, my reflection catching in the dark screen of the TV. The woman in the live stream looked up at the same time, her face a mask of despair. It was me. I was the monster. 1 The comments kept coming, a relentless, hateful torrent. “Her daughter is ten. So she’s a little slow with math, who cares? Is that a reason to scream like a psycho? If you can’t handle it, hire a tutor. This whole ‘I sacrifice everything for my child’ act is pathetic.” It’s been ten years since I turned down a six-figure corporate job to become a stay-at-home mom. Now, I was a national spectacle, the crazy mother everyone loved to hate. Mia was in the fourth grade, but she still couldn’t grasp basic multiplication and division. I’d teach her, and five minutes later, the knowledge would vanish. Every homework session was a marathon of failures that left me utterly broken. Her teachers had started to whisper about sending her to a school for children with special needs. I couldn’t bear the thought of her growing up under that kind of stigma, so I doubled down, pushing her, pushing myself. She refused to go to a tutor. The mere suggestion sent her into a tantrum—sobbing, screaming, rolling on the floor. My husband, David, always gave in. “It’s okay, honey,” he’d say to me, his voice laced with patronizing pity. “You just need to be a little more patient. Spend a little more time with her.” I’d look around at the mountain of housework, the endless cycle of chores, and feel a profound exhaustion settle into my bones. Before I was married, I barely knew how to boil water. Now, I was a master of domestic drudgery. On top of that, Mia’s stubborn refusal to learn felt like a personal attack, a deliberate act of rebellion that sent my blood pressure soaring. David and I both had degrees from prestigious universities. How did we produce a child who seemed incapable of learning? At first, we thought it was a cognitive issue. We spent years shuttling her between specialists, our vacations spent in the sterile waiting rooms of pediatric neurologists. The answer was always the same: “Her cognitive development is perfectly normal. We can’t find a medical reason for her learning difficulties. We suggest seeing a child psychologist.” Therapists in our city were a luxury we couldn’t afford. Four hundred dollars an hour. A full month of my part-time salary barely covered five sessions. And they were useless. Mia would charm the therapists, derail the sessions, and convince them to tell her stories. After a while, David started to think I was the one with the problem. “What kind of mother has so little patience for her own daughter?” he’d demand. “So she’s a little slow! She’ll grow out of it. You’re the one who needs to see a shrink! Stop pressuring her!” The live stream audience, remembering my breakdown from that morning, piled on. “Why do women like this have kids? Is she just a masochist? Or too cheap to hire a tutor?” “Seriously, if you can’t teach a ten-year-old basic math, you have no business being a mother. Just die already.” “That poor little girl looks so scared of her. You can tell she’s trying her best! Can’t you show your child a little grace?” 2 Could she learn? Deep down, I already knew the answer. But I was her mother. My job was to protect her, to shield her from the world’s judgment. I told myself her defiance was just a phase, a childish quirk. I thought if I just loved her enough, taught her enough, I could fix it. I cleared my mind, pretending I hadn’t seen any of it. I shut off my phone and gently woke Mia. “No more homework this morning, sweetie. I already corrected it for you. Time to get ready for school. I toasted that chocolate croissant you like.” She nodded, meek as a lamb, while I dressed her. I packed her lunch, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt normal. Then I turned back around. She had taken a pen and scribbled all over the worksheet I had just corrected, changing the right answers back to the wrong ones. Her expression was blank, devoid of guilt. In fact, there was a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. “Mommy,” she said, her voice dripping with fake innocence, “is this right? Can you teach me again? I don’t want the teacher and the other kids to be mad at me.” It was a performance. She was trying to provoke me, to turn me back into the desperate, screaming lunatic from the live stream. The teacher’s words about a special school echoed in my ears, and a high-pitched ringing started in my head. I had been up until midnight with her homework, only grabbing a few bites of a cold dinner after she was asleep. Then I was up again at 5:30 a.m. to start the day. The chronic sleep deprivation was shredding my nerves. I took a deep breath, fighting to control the rage building in my chest. “Mia, honey, I know you understand this. These are easy problems. Can we please just try to learn them?” I patiently explained it one more time, stopping just short of giving her the answer. She stared at me with those wide, clear eyes. “Like this?” She wrote down a 1. I felt the air leave my lungs. My chest heaved as blood rushed to my head. I wanted to slap her. The urge was so powerful, so visceral, that my hand twitched. But my education, my identity as a mother, as a rational adult, held me back. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms until they bled. Mia’s angelic smile never wavered. “Mommy, can you explain it again? I just don’t get it.” Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard, a trigger that made me physically ill. David, woken by our voices, stormed out of the bedroom. “What is wrong with you?” he bellowed, pointing at me. “Why can’t you do this one simple thing? Can’t you even handle your own child’s homework? What good are you?” Hearing her father yell at me, Mia’s eyes lit up with triumph. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. A bomb went off in my head. She is doing this on purpose. The innocent eyes, paired with that fleeting, knowing smirk… it was a look of pure, calculated poison. I shouldn’t think this way about my own daughter, but in that moment, I felt like I had given birth to a monster. I lost control again. I was hyperventilating, but I couldn’t calm down. I sank to the floor, pulling at my own hair, a helpless, insane wreck muttering to myself. “Why? Why did I ever have you? Why are you my daughter?” Predictably, the live stream chat exploded. 【Her husband works so hard to support them, and he can’t even get a decent night’s sleep. This woman is human garbage. I’d hire a damn tutor.】 【Exactly. She’s the one with bad genes, and she blames her ten-year-old daughter. She’s a psycho.】 【Can they just cancel this episode? This woman is genuinely mentally ill. This isn’t entertaining, someone is going to get hurt.】 【Okay, but to be fair… 18 divided by 3 minus 4 is 2. She has explained it over a hundred times. I wouldn’t have that kind of patience either!】 3 Seeing me on the floor, David looked momentarily startled, maybe even scared. But then a flicker of something else crossed his face—satisfaction. He glanced up at the hidden camera in the corner of the room, pursed his lips, and said nothing. He was waiting. Waiting for me to have a complete public meltdown, to cement my role as the crazy one. In that instant, the expression on his face was identical to our daughter’s. He sighed dramatically, shook his head, and went to brush his teeth. He put on his suit without another word and walked out the door. I was left alone in the room with my wide-eyed, innocent daughter and my own shattered sanity. The audience was starting to notice. 【Wait… did the dad just walk out? He just left her like that? This is basically single parenting.】 But his defenders were quick to reply. 【He probably has to get to work. It’s hard enough providing for a family. You can’t expect him to do everything.】 【Besides, isn’t educating the kids the mom’s job? Men aren’t usually good at that stuff anyway.】 The argument sent the stream’s viewership soaring. The air in the room was cold. I looked at Mia, and she felt like a stranger. The sweet memories of her in the cradle, the first time she said “Mama,” were all fading, replaced by this cold, calculating child in front of me. Sensing the shift, she seemed to get nervous. She knew she needed me. She walked over, her face a perfect mask of sweetness. “Mommy,” she cooed. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” There it was. The angel. The one who only appeared when she wanted something from me. I had suspected for a long time that she was faking it. I’d seen her playing with a boy she liked, effortlessly showing off how smart she was. That was the first time I realized this wasn’t about inability; it was about power. When she was unhappy with me, when I denied her some new toy or treat, she would weaponize her own supposed stupidity. She knew it was my weak spot. And seeing me, the woman who prided herself on competence and control, become a fumbling, desperate mess in front of everyone… the look in her ten-year-old eyes was one of pure, punishing glee. I had tried to tell David. “Do you think… maybe she’s doing it on purpose?” His response was always the same wave of dismissive anger. “She’s a child, Sarah! What does she know? How can you be so cynical about your own daughter?” And so I became the paranoid, cruel mother who projected her own failures onto her innocent child. I stopped bringing it up. I checked my phone. The live stream comments, swayed by Mia’s apology, were turning on me again. 【See? What a sweet kid. She’s apologizing even though she can’t help being slow.】 【My heart breaks for this little angel. What is this mother’s problem?】 I stood up, went to the fridge, and chugged a bottle of cold water. When Mia saw my frown, her face hardened. “Mommy, are you ashamed of me? Because I’m stupid?” Normally, I would have rushed to reassure her, to smother her with affirmations of my love. This time, I said nothing. I just coldly packed her schoolbag. The sooner this was over, the better. They say a mother can’t be ashamed of her child. They’re wrong. I’m not just a housewife. I have a job. A part-time, remote job that I cling to as the last remnant of my former self. Sometimes, after a hellish morning, I’d log into a Zoom meeting and see the pitying looks from my colleagues. My hair a mess, dark circles under my eyes. What does marriage give a woman? Misery, humiliation, torture? I took her hand and walked her to the school bus stop. In the hallway, she was still wearing her angel face, but the look she gave me was ice-cold. She smiled, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and whispered, as if commenting on the weather: “I wish you would just die.” 4 Her tone was so casual I thought I’d misheard. “What did you say, Mia?” Before she spoke, she glanced up, checking the hallway for the little red light of a camera. She knew. She had known about the live stream all along. The only one in the dark was me. After dropping her off, I went through my usual ritual: delivering small gifts to her teachers, thanking them for their patience. The head teacher, Mrs. Davis, pulled me aside. “Mrs. Miller, you really need to work with her. She’s ten years old. If she isn’t learning, she’s disrupting the class. This is a lapse in educational oversight at home. My teachers are not your private tutors.” I’d lost count of how many times I’d had this conversation. Shame and guilt washed over me, and I could only nod and apologize. In ten years of being Mia’s mother, I had lost every shred of my dignity. The woman I used to be—strong, confident, always put-together—was dead. The grief for that lost self hit me so hard I stumbled back to my car, got in the back seat, and sobbed. As I was crying, a paper fell out of my bag. Her latest report card. A sea of red F’s. The live stream viewership was low. No one wanted to watch a woman cry. 【Serves her right. She can’t even handle her own life. Who else is there to blame?】 【I don’t know… I feel kind of bad for her. The dad is useless. He just criticizes her and walks away.】 BING. An email notification popped up on my phone. It was from HR. A termination letter. The last piece of my old life, the career I had fought so hard to maintain, was gone. A profound, numbing despair spread through me. Each disaster was a stone, and they were all being thrown at me at once. I was losing everything. I truly was… a failure. Did I have to bury my entire life for a child who hated me? I cried for a solid half hour, huddled in the back of my car. And then, something shifted. The tears stopped. I was done. I would clear my name, in front of the whole world. This game my husband and daughter were playing, the game of driving me insane… it ends now.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394235”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was driving my husband’s new Tesla to the airport to pick up a client. I connected my phone to the Bluetooth, intending to play some music, but a memo popped up on the center console screen instead. The title was “Notes on Caring for My Little Kitten.” My little kitten loves strawberry-flavored candy, not mint. My little kitten needs to be held when she sleeps, or she’ll cry. When my little kitten is on her period, buy her painkillers and a hot water bottle in advance. I scrolled through the list, one item at a time, until I reached the final note, written in bold, red font: “Crucial! Next month, take the little kitten for her prenatal check-up.” My face was a mask as I closed the memo and dialed my husband’s number. “Honey,” I said, my voice deceptively sweet, “what brand of painkillers does your little kitten like? I can pick some up for you on my way.” 1 On the other end of the line, my husband, Hugo Walter, paused for a beat. “Emma, what are you talking about, honey?” His voice was the same deep, steady, and gentle tone I had listened to for five years. “What little kitten? I don’t follow.” He let out a soft chuckle, his tone laced with a fond, patronizing helplessness. “You’re the only little kitten I have.” My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I watched the river of traffic ahead and smiled. “The one from your memo,” I said lightly. “The little kitten who needs a prenatal check-up.” His tone instantly brightened with a feigned flash of understanding. “Oh, that! That’s for Leo’s cat. She’s pregnant.” “His phone was broken yesterday, so he borrowed mine to jot down some notes. He thought he deleted it, but I guess it synced.” It was a perfectly crafted excuse. Leo was his best friend, the best man at our wedding. He was sure I would believe him. “You know how he is, so forgetful,” Hugo continued smoothly. “I’ll have a word with him. Can’t have him leaving random notes on my phone and making my wife worry.” “Is that so?” I murmured. “Well, Leo must really love his cat, remembering her prenatal appointments and all.” Hugo played along seamlessly. “Tell me about it. I’m almost jealous.” “Emma, don’t let your imagination run away with you. You’re the only one for me. What do you want for dinner tonight? I’ll get everything ready.” “Don’t bother. I’m picking up a client. I have a dinner meeting tonight.” I hung up, pulled the car over, and took a picture of the memo. Less than half an hour later, Hugo was home. The moment he walked in, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin in the crook of my neck. He still carried the faint chill of the evening air. “Emma, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I rescheduled with my client and came straight home.” He cupped my face, his eyes filled with sincerity and a deep, aching concern. “Have I been too busy lately? Have I been neglecting you? Is that why you’re feeling so insecure?” “When I heard that tone in your voice on the phone, my heart just dropped. Work isn’t as important as you are.” “It’s all my fault.” He took all the blame, shouldering every ounce of responsibility, painting me as the irrational, paranoid wife. Looking at the face that had once made my heart race, a bitter wave of sorrow washed over me. “No,” I said, my voice soft. “Maybe I was just being too sensitive.” He let out a visible sigh of relief. “You silly girl.” He tapped the end of my nose. “Alright, let’s not think about it anymore. I’ll go make dinner.” He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it casually onto the sofa. I watched him walk into the kitchen, then picked up the jacket to hang it properly. A folded receipt slipped from the pocket. I unfolded it. It was from a high-end maternity and baby boutique. 2 The list of items was long, from imported formula to a custom-made crib—all for a newborn. At the bottom, a handwritten delivery address. It wasn’t our home. Nor was it his friend Leo’s. Clutching the receipt, I called my best friend, Whitney. She was a top-tier private investigator with connections that ran deep. “Whitney, I have an address. I need you to run a check on the resident. Find out if she has any connection to Hugo Walter.” For the next few days, Hugo was almost sickeningly perfect. Morning kisses, goodnight hugs, chauffeuring me to and from work, taking over all the household chores. He acted like a man terrified by a near misunderstanding, desperately trying to make amends. On Wednesday night, my mother-in-law called. After a few perfunctory pleasantries, her tone shifted. “Emma, you and Hugo have been married for five years now. Isn’t it about time we heard some news?” “You know how men are, they all want children. You need to put in a little more effort.” “Our Hugo is successful, he’s a family man. You need to hold on to him tightly.” Every word was a needle—not painful, just a sharp, irritating prick. I gave her some vague answers and hung up. Hugo emerged from the kitchen with a plate of sliced fruit and sat down beside me. “Was that Mom, pushing for a baby again?” I nodded. He sighed, pulling me into his arms. “Don’t listen to her. We’ll let it happen when it happens.” “Whether we have children or not, I’ll always love you.” His words were so beautiful. I leaned against his chest and smelled nothing but the stench of rotting lies. On Friday, Whitney called. “I found her.” Her voice was ice. “The resident is Isla Croft. Twenty-two years old. She started at Hugo’s company two months ago.” “She has that innocent look, but she’s a sweet-talker, knows how to play the game.” “Most importantly, I found an appointment record from a private maternity hospital.” “The appointment was made by Hugo Walter. For patient Isla Croft.” A sharp pain shot through my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. Whitney let out a cold laugh. “And it gets worse.” “I hacked her social media. She has it set to private, viewable only by a select group.” “It’s a highlight reel of her love affair with Hugo.” I hung up and opened the screenshots Whitney had sent. Isla’s handle was PamperedKitten. The most recent post was from three days ago. [Mr. W says I’m his most precious treasure, that he’s going to give me and our baby a real home.] [He has a surprise for me at the family banquet next month.] The accompanying photo was of a lavish jewelry box. Inside lay a diamond necklace I had never seen before. The brand was one Hugo had mentioned just last week, when he told me he’d bought a “small gift” for an important female client. I scrolled down. [Period cramps are the worst. Mr. W came over in the middle of the night with a hot water bottle and painkillers and held me all night.] [He said he’ll never let me be in pain again.] The photo was of Hugo’s profile as he slept soundly, one arm draped over Isla’s waist. The location was our spare bedroom—the room I had set up specifically for him to use when he worked late and didn’t want to wake me. I kept scrolling. [Mr. W has such good taste. This white Tesla is gorgeous! He said it’s the first stroller for our baby~] The photo showed her sitting in the passenger seat, making a peace sign at the center console. On the screen was the very same memo I had discovered. The phone slipped from my trembling hands and clattered to the floor. 3 I curled into a ball on the sofa, all the strength draining from my body in an instant. Ten years. Ten years, from high school sweethearts to husband and wife. The sweet nothings he had whispered, the things he had done for me—they all transformed into razor-sharp blades, slicing through my memory again and again. He said he loved me, yet he held another woman in our home. He said he was busy with work, yet he was running to another woman’s side in the middle of the night. He said having children would happen when it happened, yet he had already gotten someone else pregnant with his child. A wave of nausea washed over me. I ran to the bathroom and threw up until only bitter acid remained. Why? What had I done wrong? Hugo, how could you do this to me? My heart felt like it had been ripped in two. I couldn’t breathe. I sank to the floor and sobbed. But as the tears flowed, a laugh bubbled up from my throat. I stood up and wiped my eyes. Pain wouldn’t break him. And my tears? They were worthless. Hugo, I thought, you want a family, do you? Fine. I’ll help you get one. Just then, Hugo walked in. His face changed when he saw me. “Emma? What’s wrong? You look terrible.” He rushed over, his hand flying to my forehead to check for a fever. I looked up, my eyes red and swollen. “Hugo,” I whispered, “I think… I’m sick.” He froze, his face a perfect mask of concern and heartache. “Where does it hurt? We’re going to the hospital right now.” He moved to grab his car keys. “Don’t.” I stopped him. “It’s just… my heart. It hurts.” Hugo stopped moving. He knelt before me, taking my hand in his, his face a portrait of self-reproach. “It’s all my fault. I’ve been so focused on work, I haven’t been taking care of you.” “Emma, listen to me. Work doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but your health.” “I’ll take time off tomorrow. We’ll go to the Maldives, okay? You’ve always wanted to go.” As if all my pain was simply a result of his neglect, not his betrayal. I looked at him and, suddenly, I smiled. “Okay,” I said. “Whatever you say.” 4 The family banquet next month was for his mother’s sixtieth birthday. The Walter family was well-known in our city, and the party was an extravagant affair, held in the grand ballroom on the top floor of a five-star hotel. As the favored son, Hugo was the center of attention. He wore a custom-tailored white suit, looking sharp and confident as he moved through the crowd of guests. My mother-in-law stood beside him, dripping with jewels, a proud smile plastered on her face. “Emma, come here,” she beckoned. I walked over, and she pulled me aside, lowering her voice. “Everyone who is anyone is here tonight. Don’t you dare walk around with that long face. People will think the Walter family is mistreating you.” “And another thing,” she hissed, “you’d better get that womb of yours in gear!” “Let me tell you, our Hugo is a real catch. There are plenty of younger girls out there who would kill to have his baby! If you can’t produce an heir, you should get out of the way. Don’t just warm the seat!” Her words were venomous and cruel. I stared at her, my face a blank canvas, and said nothing. She was about to say more when Hugo walked over. “Mom, what are you talking to Emma about?” he asked, smoothly wrapping an arm around my waist and smiling at his mother. “Emma’s not feeling well today. I told her to rest and not talk too much.” He was always like this, always defending me in public, always preserving my dignity. My mother-in-law sniffed and turned to greet another guest. Hugo leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Don’t mind her. You know her bark is worse than her bite.” I smiled, my gaze drifting over his shoulder to a familiar figure. 5 Isla was wearing a pale pink maternity dress, draped in a white Chanel cardigan. Her long hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, and her face glowed with a shy, blissful smile. One hand rested protectively on her stomach. She stood near one of Hugo’s friends, looking as if she were his date for the evening. Hugo’s eyes fell on her, too. For just a second, before he looked away. But in that one glance, I saw it all—the tenderness, the affection. It was unmistakable. Halfway through the party, it was time for the presentation of gifts. As the son, Hugo went first. He walked onto the stage and took the microphone. “Today is my mother’s sixtieth birthday. As her son, I didn’t prepare anything too extravagant.” He paused, his eyes sweeping across the room before they finally settled on me. “I just want to tell you that very soon, you’re going to be a grandmother.” The room was silent for a moment, then erupted in thunderous applause and congratulations. “Congratulations, Mr. Walter!” “Mrs. Walter, what a blessing!” My mother-in-law gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. She rushed onto the stage, grabbing Hugo’s hand excitedly. “Hugo! Are you… are you serious? Does this mean Emma is…” She whirled around to look at me, her eyes shining with an unprecedented fervor. I stood rooted to the spot, an outsider at my own life’s drama. In the crowd, Isla rested a hand on her belly, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. Hugo didn’t answer his mother. He just smiled, held the microphone, and continued. “This child… was not easily conceived.” “And so, I’d like to take the opportunity of my mother’s birthday to make another announcement.” His gaze finally left my face, turning cold and resolute. “I, Hugo Walter, will be dissolving my marriage to Ms. Emma Sterling.” The room exploded in a chorus of gasps and murmurs. “What? A divorce?” “So the baby isn’t hers?” “My God, what is happening? He’s announcing their divorce in public?” My mother-in-law’s face fell. She tugged at Hugo’s arm. “Hugo! What nonsense are you talking about?” He shook her off, his voice like ice. “I’m not talking nonsense.” “Emma and I have irreconcilable differences. Our marriage has been broken for years.” “For years, she has used every excuse in the book to avoid having children. Out of respect for our marriage, I tolerated it.” “Until I met a woman who was willing to give me everything. A woman willing to bear my children.” He turned and extended a hand toward Isla. “Isla, come up here.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394251”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day my husband’s intern showed up on my doorstep was our twentieth wedding anniversary. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, maybe nineteen, with a look in her eyes that was a brazen cocktail of confidence and contempt. “James told me he never knew what true love was until he met me,” she announced. “You’ve had a nice long run, but it’s time to step aside.” When I asked James to fire her, he said I was being unreasonable. My own daughter told me I was just menopausal and paranoid, and then, to my horror, she befriended the intern. My first instinct was to endure it, to weather this storm as I had with all the other little flings and flirtations over the years. But then I found out the girl was pregnant. And James had moved her into the very first apartment we ever shared—the place where our love story began. That’s when I knew. Some things, once they become trash, just need to be thrown out. I contacted the best divorce attorney in the city. But when James found out, his eyes went wild. He grabbed my arm, his voice raw. “You’re hiring your ex-boyfriend to handle our divorce? After all these years, you still haven’t forgotten him?” 1 To be honest, at the very beginning, I really did try to just let it go. The intern, Heather, was so young—barely out of her teens. My husband, James, had just turned forty-one. Our daughter was already in college. The girl came to me, her eyes brimming with tears, pleading for me to “set their love free.” Her eyes sparkled with a fierce determination, a mirror of the reckless girl I once was. Now, all I saw in my own reflection were fine lines creeping from the corners of my eyes and the stray silver hair I’d found that morning. “Claire,” she said, her tone falsely sweet, “let’s be honest, woman to woman. Your body isn’t what it used to be. You don’t know a thing about his business. What exactly are you holding onto him with?” She leaned in, a conspiratorial smirk on her lips. “The only reason James hasn’t divorced you is because he’s a good man, and he pities you. But there’s a line, you know? A person can’t be that shameless.” A dry laugh escaped my lips. I looked at this smug girl, her lips pursed in a perfect pout. “I’m sorry, did I hear you right? You, the little homewrecker who wormed her way into my family, are calling me shameless?” She pulled down the collar of her blouse, revealing a stretch of pale neck littered with a constellation of angry red marks. “Last night, he held me and told me that being with me was the first time he ever felt a true union of body and soul.” Her voice was a triumphant whisper. “From my first day at the company, he took care of everything for me. He taught me how to read financial statements, how to analyze contracts, how to negotiate.” “I understand his ambition, his dreams. At the office, I’m his right hand. In bed,” she paused, her eyes glinting, “I’m the fantasy he can’t get enough of.” I let out a cold snort and leaned back in my chair. “Heather, is it? You’re an intern, not even graduated yet. You think it’s some grand achievement to sleep your way into my husband’s bed under the guise of work?” I let the question hang in the air. “You don’t actually believe you’re the first little girl to latch onto James Shaw, do you?” Heather’s body went rigid. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Have you ever wondered why he’s never divorced me?” I pressed, watching the panic bloom in her eyes, her breathing growing shallow. “There’s a saying: better to be a rich man’s wife than a poor man’s darling. Instead of waving your youth around like a trophy, you should be thinking about how much money you can squeeze out of him before he gets tired of you and kicks you to the curb.” When I got home, James was on the sofa, scrolling through documents on his tablet. Time had been exceptionally kind to him. Even in his forties, the years had only carved a deeper, more mature intensity into his brow, making him all the more magnetic. He heard me come in but didn’t look up. This was the rhythm of our life after twenty years. An unspoken truce. If I didn’t speak, it meant there was nothing to discuss. I went into the kitchen and soon returned with dinner. Three dishes and a soup. James put down his tablet and moved to the table. “Jenna called. She wants you to pick her up for Fall Break.” “Okay.” “Your mother hasn’t been feeling well. She needs to see a doctor.” “Fine. You can handle it.” “The bathroom floor is getting slippery. I was thinking of having it redone.” “Whatever you think is best.” “Heather came to see me today.” … His eyes finally lifted from his bowl, meeting mine. His expression was flat, detached, with just a hint of confusion. “And?” His mistress had just confronted me, and all he had to say was and? Even after years of mastering my temper, the word lodged in my throat. I frowned, staring at him. “James, we are married. What you are doing is called having an affair.” Something in my tone must have struck a nerve. He slammed his bowl down on the table with a sharp crack. “Don’t be so dramatic, Claire.” “Heather is just an intern at the office. I help her out a little, and suddenly you’re acting like a paranoid lunatic.” Classic James. Not just deceiving himself, but turning the blame back on me. Dinner ended in a cold, suffocating silence. I expected the tension to linger for days. I was wrong. The very next afternoon, I came home from grocery shopping to find Heather in my living room. She was wearing the slippers I’d bought for our daughter, leaning against James’s shoulder as he handed her a glass of homemade lemonade. “Oh, James, you’re amazing! I can’t believe you know how to make this from scratch.” She took a long sip, her head tilted back as she gazed at him with pure adoration. “Heh, don’t be so dramatic. Drink it slowly,” he murmured, his thumb gently wiping a drop from the corner of her mouth, his fingers lingering on her lips. A sharp, bitter scent of lemon filled the air. When we were young and newly in love, I had a craving for fresh lemonade. James bought lemons by the crate, spending hours perfecting his recipe, determined to make the freshest, most delicious drink just for me. And now, he was making it for her. Heather took another small sip, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. She settled back on the sofa, her pale, slender legs swinging playfully. I saw James’s gaze darken. It was a look I knew all too well. The look of desire. He reached for her, pulling her onto his lap. Just as their lips were about to meet, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Seeing me didn’t faze her. She stayed right where she was, draped over James, and simply tilted her head. “Oh, hi, Claire! We meet again!” she chirped. “Sorry about this, I twisted my ankle, and James was just taking a look. You don’t mind, do you?” She shifted her weight, and a low grunt escaped James’s lips. I took a slow breath, walked to the dining table, and set down the groceries. Then, I turned to my husband. “Let’s get a divorce.” 2 James refused. His excuse was that he hadn’t committed any “fundamental breach” of our marriage vows. He then mobilized our entire network of family and friends to talk me out of it. My in-laws, whom I had cared for for two decades, told me these young girls were shameless. They promised to set things right, to have James transfer five percent of his company shares to my name as compensation. Our mutual friends warned me that leaving would be playing right into the other woman’s hands. James’s business was booming; only a fool would walk away from that kind of wealth. My best friend was going through her own divorce. Her husband had also cheated, but he was broke and ugly. She sighed and suggested I just let it go. “At least James is rich,” she said. It seemed money was the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card, capable of pardoning any sin within a marriage. I said nothing and continued gathering the documents I needed. My father heard the news and stormed over. The moment he walked in, he slapped me across the face, his voice booming. He called me ungrateful, reminding me that I was forty years old. Who would want me now? He looked healthy, flushed with life. Clearly, his new wife was taking good care of him, and my new little half-brother was a delight. He had no time for my petty grievances. The last person to try and change my mind was my daughter. When Jenna came home from college, my first instinct was to hug her. She shoved me away. “Why are you so determined to divorce Dad?” I, who had stood my ground against everyone else, felt myself shrink. “Your father is with another woman, honey. I can’t live like this anymore.” “You mean Heather? Dad told you, she’s just an intern from his office!” Jenna looked at me with an impatience that was a perfect echo of her father’s. “Mom, you’ve lived a life of luxury. Do you really think you can handle being on your own? Don’t come crying to me when you can’t.” Honestly, until that moment, I had believed that she, the child I had raised with my own hands, would be the one to give me a hug. I imagined her screaming at her father, demanding to know why he had hurt me, standing firmly by my side. Instead, she unleashed a torrent of anger at me, then stormed upstairs. SLAM! The sound of her door shutting rattled the house, and my soul along with it. Claire, how did you let your life come to this? That evening, for the first time in what felt like a year, James joined me in the shower. He entered the steamy bathroom, his eyes cold and distant. But his hands moved with a familiar confidence, tracing paths across my body. “Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” he murmured. “I’ll get rid of her tomorrow. She’ll be out of the company. You’ll never have to see her again.” A warmth spread across my skin, but a chilling frost was forming around my heart. I closed my eyes, letting the hot water mix with the silent tears rolling down my cheeks. “James.” “Hmm?” “Did you sleep with her?” “…” The silence was all the answer I needed. A wave of fury surged through me. “You… you make me sick.” That girl, Heather, was the same age as our daughter. If he’d chosen someone in their late twenties, or thirties, I could have chalked it up to a simple mid-life crisis. But he chose a girl young enough to be his child. A girl just starting out in the world. How could he? My words enraged him. He shoved me, hard. 3 A sharp pain shot through my ankle, but before I could react, he grabbed my chin and dragged me in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I make you sick? What about you? Aren’t you disgusting?” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. “Look at yourself! Look at this haircut—it looks like a dog chewed it! Look at your breasts, they’re sagging down to your stomach! And your face, all those spots… it’s impossible to even look at you anymore!” “Claire, do you even look like a woman anymore?” His hand moved from my chin, cruelly squeezing my breast, his eyes like shards of ice. “We can stay like this. I’ll guarantee you a life of comfort. But if you divorce me, I swear I will make your life a living hell.” Long after he had left, I was still trembling. I couldn’t believe the man I had loved for twenty years could say such things. Or… had he changed long ago, and I had simply been too blind to see? I clenched my fists so tightly my nails dug into my palms, the sting of pain bringing a cold, sharp clarity. James Shaw, you think I’m powerless? You think you can do whatever you want? Just you wait. This divorce is happening. The next morning, James had, for the first time in ages, made breakfast. My daughter, Jenna, was already eating. She glanced at me and then quickly looked down, clearly still angry. He, however, played the peacemaker. “Jenna,” he said softly, “we agreed yesterday. We’re going to forgive your mother.” Jenna mumbled a reluctant, “Morning, Mom.” “She was tired from the trip yesterday,” James said, his eyes meeting mine with a look of undisguised triumph. “Come eat. I made your favorite, club sandwiches.” I didn’t say a word. A moment later, the doorbell rang. The housekeeper showed Heather in. “Good morning, Mrs. Shaw. I’m just here to drop off some files for James.” They exchanged a handshake that lingered a little too long. Jenna didn’t seem to notice or care; instead, she invited Heather to join them for breakfast. Heather feigned hesitation for a moment before gracefully sliding into my seat at the table. As if to spite me, Jenna pushed my plate of food in front of her. Then she poured her a glass of orange juice—my favorite. Heather, for her part, turned on the charm, doing everything she could to win Jenna over. They discovered they’d even gone to the same university. “Wow, Jenna, you’re so cool! I was worried you’d be like your mom and not like me…” Heather simpered. “My mom’s just going through menopause, she’s paranoid about everything,” Jenna replied dismissively. “She’s convinced you and my dad are having an affair. Just ignore her.” By the end of the meal, the two of them were acting like best friends. I had stopped listening the moment Jenna called me paranoid. I turned and walked out of the house. I had to see someone. An old classmate I hadn’t spoken to in over a decade. My first love, and now the city’s top litigator, Grant Hayes. 4 In a quiet corner of a coffee shop, I laid out the whole story for Grant. He just snorted. “You’re really ready to let him go?” All these years, and he was still as blunt as ever. If he’d been just a little gentler back then, maybe I never would have broken up with him. Not wanting to get into it with him, I pulled a card from my purse and slid it across the table. “I did my research. Your current rate is a million-dollar retainer. This is half. You’ll get the rest when the divorce is final. This is business, Grant. No feelings involved.” Grant picked up the card, flicked it between his fingers, and then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Whatever you say, boss.” On the way out, he offered me a ride. Compared to my life of domestic bliss, his had been much harder. I’d heard his wife passed away from an illness a few years ago. They never had children. He’d since poured all his energy into his work, becoming the most sought-after lawyer in the city. Grant’s car was a loud-ass Maserati that roared to life. I couldn’t help but frown. “You’re a grown man. Why do you still like such flashy toys?” I wondered what his late wife had seen in him. He just arched an eyebrow. “You used to love this stuff, remember?” He had me there. In my twenties, I was all about the flash. But who has the energy for that at forty? I let it drop. When he dropped me off, I sent him a three-hundred-dollar transfer. G: ? C: For the ride. G: Got it, boss. Despite the flashy car, Grant gave me a mountain of solid advice. Following his instructions, I managed to get a clear picture of James’s finances. I also hired a private investigator who quickly found the address where he was keeping his little secret. It was an apartment I’d bought before we were married. We lived there when we were dating and for the first few years of our marriage. It was only after Jenna was born and we needed space for a nanny that we moved into our current house. I hadn’t been back in years. This is where he was hiding her? I found my old key and went over on a day I knew they’d be out. Inside, nothing had changed, except for the clutter of a new life. It was painfully obvious that Heather was desperate to marry James. Behind the sofa hung a portrait of them together. On the dining table sat a hand-crocheted doll she’d made. And in the kitchen, a rich, fragrant soup was simmering on low. If the portrait hadn’t been a carbon copy of one James and I had taken in that exact spot… If the doll hadn’t been a replica of my favorite orange plushie… And if the soup hadn’t been the exact recipe I had spent weeks developing to soothe James’s chronic stomach problems… Then maybe, just maybe, I could have applauded this happy little illicit love nest. But that soup recipe… I had only ever shared it with one person: my mother-in-law. Which meant that besides me, she was the only one who knew it. And now it was simmering in Heather’s kitchen. The weight of so many betrayals crashed down on me. Was I such a failure that everyone in my life felt no hesitation in hurting me? Just as I was drowning in despair, the door swung open. Heather burst in, beaming. She threw herself into James’s arms. “It’s wonderful! James, my love, I’m finally going to give you a son!” James stroked her cheek, a look of pure adoration on his face. Then he looked up, and his eyes met mine. For the first time in our twenty years together, I saw genuine panic on James Shaw’s face. … He never, in a million years, could have expected to find me here. But in that moment, a strange calm washed over me. I took out my phone and started recording. He saw the red light and lunged for it, but I stepped back. “Think carefully, James. This building has security cameras. If I get the footage, your reputation is finished.” James’s breath came in ragged gasps. He was a man accustomed to being in control, a titan of industry. This loss of control was making him visibly agitated. “Claire, stop this nonsense. Go home.” “I want a divorce.” “I’m not divorcing you. Get that idea out of your head!” “I want a divorce. We’ll sign the papers tomorrow. If not, you and your little secret will be front-page news.” “Why are you doing this? Have you thought about my parents? About your father? Have you thought about our daughter?” The mention of Jenna made something inside me snap. I grabbed a vase and hurled it to the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare bring them into this!” I screamed, rushing forward and slapping him hard across the face. “You bastard! You didn’t think about them when you were cheating on me! You didn’t think about them when you were getting another woman pregnant! And now that I’ve caught you red-handed, you have the nerve to tell me to think about them? What kind of world-class hypocrite are you?” “You’re nothing but a disgusting old man who can’t keep it in his pants! You think you can humiliate me and then silence me? Dream on! Either you sign those papers with me tomorrow, or we go to war, and I will burn everything to the ground. Your choice!” I went straight to Grant’s law firm. He was free and led me to a quiet office, pouring me a glass of water. “What happened? You look ready to kill someone.” “Don’t ask. I ran into the mistress. She’s pregnant.” “So, what’s your next move?” At the question, my anger flared again. “What can I do? Is there anything I can do now?” Grant paused, then pushed the glass of water closer to me. The small gesture extinguished my rage. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He shrugged. “It’s fine. The customer is always right.” … Grant explained that this development was actually a huge advantage for me. The photos I took in the apartment, combined with the fact that James now had a child with another woman, constituted irrefutable proof of adultery. This would significantly strengthen my position in the asset division. My mind felt numb. I couldn’t process any of it. When I left the firm, he offered me a ride, but I refused. I needed to walk. I needed to be alone. 5 I walked along the park trails for two or three hours. It was a Friday afternoon, and the park was mostly empty, save for a few people strolling. I saw a young couple, obviously deeply in love. The boy would snap a photo of the girl, then lean in and steal a kiss. Once upon a time, James and I were just like them. We met in high school and were inseparable through college, the campus’s golden couple. My family was well-off, and James was handsome, brilliant, and at the top of his class. Countless girls tried to steal him away. But James never wavered. He gave me a profound sense of security and even proposed to me in our sophomore year. In fairy tales, the prince and princess always end up at the altar. What they never tell you is that getting married is easy; staying married is the impossible part. After graduation, James took over his family’s business and multiplied its profits tenfold. He traveled constantly. The day our daughter was born, he was in another city signing a contract. My in-laws were old-fashioned and desperate for a grandson. After Jenna was born, they pressured me endlessly to try for another. James always shut them down. He was terrified of me going through another postpartum hemorrhage like the first one. He placed me on a pedestal, safe and secure inside an ivory tower. I never imagined the man holding me up had grown weary, or that he would let me fall without so much of a warning. Heather wasn’t the first. But she was the first one James allowed to be seen, to taunt me openly. He was testing me, trying to find the absolute limit of my tolerance. Or maybe, his ideal endgame was to have it all. When I finally got home, my in-laws were there, laughing and chatting happily with Jenna. My poor, foolish daughter. I had sheltered her so well that she was completely oblivious to the malice her grandparents held in their hearts. And there, in the center of them all, was Heather, smiling sweetly. James looked up and saw me. The red mark from my slap was still visible on his cheek. His expression wasn’t as pleased as I expected. Because he also saw the resolve in my eyes. After twenty years, we could still read each other without a word. His face instantly turned to stone. He turned to Heather. “You should go.” The warmth in the room evaporated. Heather was stunned. “Wh-what? Why?” “I said go.” In the Shaw household, money was power, and James’s word was law. My in-laws didn’t dare say a thing, confused by his sudden change of heart. My mother-in-law shot me a venomous glare. James called for the driver. Heather started to leave, looking back at him with every step. Jenna couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, what is wrong with you?” she yelled. “Why are you making Heather leave? She came to see me! She’s my friend!” For the first time, I didn’t hold back. A cold laugh escaped my lips. “You want to be best friends with your father’s mistress?” “…I told you, it’s a misunderstanding! There’s nothing going on between them!” “Heather is pregnant with your father’s child.” Jenna’s face went pale. She turned to James. “Dad… is that true?” 6 James sent everyone away. We sat at opposite ends of the long dining table, the silence stretching between us. “I don’t understand, Claire. Why do you have to make things so ugly?” he finally said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I told you, Heather won’t affect your position. When the baby is born, you’ll be his mother. Nothing between us has to change.” I just stared at him. How could anyone say those words with a straight face? I was so stunned I started to laugh. “How could you possibly think that’s okay?” I asked him directly. He slammed his fist on the table. “Why shouldn’t it be okay? It’s how the world works!” “Look at Bob Henderson—sixty years old, and his new girlfriend just gave him a son. His wife even went over to help out after the birth! Look at Mr. Davies—he has a whole apartment building in the city filled with mistresses waiting for him to visit!” “So what have I done that’s so terrible? All I want is a son, something to make my parents happy. If your health hadn’t been an issue, do you think I would have looked elsewhere? Claire, search your heart. Have I not been good to you all these years?” His voice rose with each word, a crescendo of self-pity and indignation. “After your mother died, your father only cared about his new wife and son. It was my money that made them treat you with respect! Every time you went home and acted like a queen, who do you think was backing you up? It was me!” “Every class reunion, you showed up dripping in designer clothes and jewelry. Everyone envied you, flattered you. You think that was about you? They were kissing up to James Shaw!” “My mother has been begging me for a grandson for years, and I always told her no, that Jenna was enough. You think I don’t want a son? I have this massive company! Am I supposed to just hand it over to a stranger? Who’s the naive one here, Claire? You or me? Just drop it! Like your friend said, stop being so ungrateful!” He was shouting now, his face contorted with outrage, as if in this entire sordid affair, I was the one at fault. My laughter returned, sharp and bitter. It’s true what they say—at the peak of anger, all you can do is laugh. I didn’t know whether to curse his callous cruelty or laugh at my own foolishness. Twenty years of what I thought was a happy, loving marriage was, in his eyes, nothing more than charity. I looked at him, really looked at him. His face hadn’t changed much over the years, but now, all I saw was an ugly, repulsive stranger. I had no interest in a screaming match about who was right or wrong. At this point, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting what I was owed and getting out. I stood up and pulled a file from my bag. “Since you’re so unhappy with me, you shouldn’t have any problem with this. Here’s the divorce agreement. Sign it.” James stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. “I’ve said all that, and you still want a divorce?” “Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “I do.” “Fine,” he snarled, grabbing the papers. “Don’t you dare regret this.” He scanned the pages, then seized a pen and, with a vicious stroke, ended our twenty years of marriage.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394268”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first person I saw after stepping off the plane at JFK was a ghost from a past I had buried seven years ago: my ex-fiancé’s sister. She cornered me by the baggage claim, her arms crossed. “It’s been seven years, Elara. Don’t you think it’s time you apologized to my brother?” Her brother, Julian Vance, was the man I almost married. Seven years ago, at our engagement party, in front of everyone we knew, he had shattered my world. He’d publicly called off our wedding, accusing me of carrying another man’s child. He wished me a long and happy life with my “lover” before taking his young assistant’s hand and walking out, leaving me in the ruins. But there was no lover. There never had been. The wound he’d carved into my soul had been so deep I’d fled New York that very night. And now, his sister, Jessica, stood before me, suggesting I should be the one to crawl back and beg for a second chance. A dry laugh escaped my lips. “Apologize? For what? My daughter is already in kindergarten. The time for reconciliation is long past.” 1 Jessica’s perfectly made-up face stared back at me in disbelief. “What did you say? You… you’re married?” Her voice was a stuttered whisper, as if she couldn’t process the words. “And a child? A… a four-year-old?” I gave a curt nod, having no desire to get dragged back into the Vance family drama. I tried to step around her, but she grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “You’re joking, Elara. This has to be a joke!” Her voice climbed to a shrill pitch, drawing stares from fellow travelers. “You would never marry someone else! You couldn’t possibly give up on Julian!” She leaned in, her voice dripping with a venomous pity. “Everyone in our circle knew you lived and breathed for him. A shadow. You threw away that incredible career opportunity, a job anyone would kill for, all for him. How could you possibly marry another man?” Her eyes widened with a sudden, crazed realization. “And the child! She’s not four! She’s seven! She has to be Julian’s daughter!” I felt a familiar headache begin to throb at my temples. I couldn’t believe she was dredging up my past devotion as proof of her insane theory. It was true, I had loved Julian. I’d loved him so much that everyone saw me as an extension of him, not as his partner. But that was a lifetime ago. “Why would I lie to you?” I asked, my voice flat. “And as for Julian’s child… I took care of that seven years ago.” The implication of my words seemed to ignite her. Her grip tightened, her nails digging into my skin. “Impossible! Tell me, who is your husband? Is he as handsome as Julian? As tall? I bet he’s not even six feet.” The questions came in a torrent, each one a thinly veiled insult. “What does he do? Where does he work? Does he even clear six figures a year?” Her words were laced with a hostile certainty that by leaving her brother, I had doomed myself to a life of mediocrity. I had no interest in wasting my breath on a woman so blinded by a cult-like devotion to her brother. “Jessica,” I said calmly, “this has nothing to do with you or your family anymore.” I began to pry her fingers off my arm, one by one. She wouldn’t let go. “Is that it, Elara? Did you marry some lesser man just to spite my brother? Do you have any idea what he’s been through? He nearly destroyed himself looking for you!” She puffed out her chest, a triumphant gleam in her eye. “He runs Vance Corporation now! He’s powerful, handsome, and rich. Women dream of being with him! And you, you foolish girl, threw him away out of stubborn pride!” By the end of her speech, she was practically beaming, as if the world contained no other man of value. As if I were a blind fool for not wanting him back. She lifted her chin, looking down her nose at me. “It’s not too late to apologize. We Vances aren’t completely unreasonable.” The sheer audacity made me want to laugh, but all I felt was a wave of nausea. 2 Seven years ago, I stood on a stage in a pristine white dress, my hand outstretched, ready to begin the rest of my life. Instead, Julian, my groom-to-be, took the microphone and shattered it. He threw the diamond ring that was meant for my finger to the floor. “I gave you so many chances to be honest with me, Elara, but you kept lying!” I was bewildered. “Lying about what?” “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced to the stunned crowd, “I regret to inform you that the wedding is off. It seems Ms. Hayes here has found comfort in another man’s arms. The child she is carrying is not mine!” With that, he flung a stack of photographs at my face. They scattered across the floor at my feet—intimate, compromising pictures of me in bed with a man I had never seen before. A gasp rippled through the guests. Julian’s parents wore masks of fury, while my own parents’ faces burned with shame. “Those aren’t real!” I pleaded, my voice trembling. “I don’t know that man!” But Julian’s eyes were cold steel. “The Vances have a legacy to protect. I will not marry a woman with a divided heart, and I certainly won’t raise another man’s bastard child!” He turned, took his young assistant’s hand, and walked off the stage. The groom was gone. The wedding was over. My parents, after slapping me hard across the face, rushed after the Vances, leaving me alone amidst the scattered lies, the target of a hundred pairs of judging eyes. The day before I left New York for good, Julian’s mother requested a meeting. She surveyed me from across a small café table, her expression unreadable. “Julian’s behavior was in poor taste,” she began, her tone measured. “This was a private matter that should have been handled discreetly, not turned into a public spectacle.” She paused, taking a sip of her tea. “And yes, we know the photos were doctored. Julian is a good boy, but he can be naive. He was manipulated. His father and I have taken him to task for his outburst.” Her tone shifted, becoming sharp as glass. “However, the damage to his reputation is done. You know Julian is the sole heir to the Vance Corporation. He cannot afford the slightest hint of scandal. He needs a partner who supports him, who is unimpeachable.” I understood her meaning perfectly and said nothing. She slid a bank card across the table. “This is three million dollars. Get rid of the baby.” I stared at the card. “What does he think?” I managed to ask. A small, thin smile touched her lips. “My son? Did you see his assistant at the party? Melissa Monroe. A Cambridge PhD. She will be Julian’s future wife. As you know, our family has traditional values. We cannot have a daughter-in-law with your… history.” But I knew. It wasn’t about my manufactured history. It was about securing a powerful alliance. Even if it meant sacrificing their own grandchild. 3 “Elara, are you even listening to me?” Jessica’s angry voice pulled me from the memory. “My brother is a huge success, and he’s still obsessed with you. All you have to do is say you’re sorry, and you can have it all back.” I looked at her, this woman so lost in her own self-serving fantasy, and felt nothing but pity. “No, thank you,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “I’m very happy now. And I don’t need your brother’s forgiveness.” With that, I turned and walked toward the taxi stand. “You’ll regret this, Elara!” she screamed after me. “Without my brother, you’re nothing! You’ll be stuck with that poor, pathetic husband of yours for the rest of your life!” I didn’t look back. Everyone once thought I couldn’t live without Julian Vance. But the world keeps spinning, with or without any single person in it. Soon, I arrived at the preschool. Across the street, I saw my daughter, Lily, laughing as she and her friends played with a jump rope. Her smile was pure sunshine. A warmth spread through my chest, and I started to cross toward her. Suddenly, I was slammed against a brick wall. “Elara, I can’t believe you’d stoop to such a childish game just to get back at me.” I looked up. The man pinning me to the wall was impossibly handsome, dressed in a tailored suit that looked like it had just come from a boardroom. It was my ex-fiancé, Julian. Seeing him after seven years was disorienting. We’d grown up together, our houses separated only by a quiet suburban street. We were inseparable. He’d transformed himself from a slacker to a top student just to get into the same university as me, even turning down a scholarship to study abroad. Everyone said he was crazy about me. And I, in turn, had given up a lucrative career to support his. When his work became all-consuming, I was the one who brought him home-cooked meals, who listened to his frustrations, who made sure he never had to worry about a thing. Slowly, in the eyes of others, I went from his girlfriend to his devoted follower. We used to laugh it off. Then Melissa Monroe appeared. His new assistant. Capable, gentle, beautiful. At first, I paid her no mind. Julian had always been surrounded by impressive women, but his eyes had only ever been for me. Until they weren’t. Their private messages became more frequent. One afternoon, I left my phone at his office by mistake. When I went back to get it, I heard Melissa’s voice from inside his office. “Julian,” she was saying, holding my phone, “Elara’s phone is here. I accidentally saw a new message… from someone saved as ‘My Darling’.” She looked up and saw me, then had the audacity to feign embarrassment. “Oh, Elara, I am so sorry! I wasn’t trying to snoop, I was just curious.” Julian’s face went dark. “She’s a female friend,” I explained. “She uses a male profile for her work.” I even played a voice note from our chat to prove it. But as the clear, feminine voice filled the room, Julian just stared at me, his face an unreadable mask. After that, a wall of ice grew between us. My attempts to talk were always brushed aside with the excuse of “work.” Meanwhile, Melissa was always there, offering him comfort and support. The day before our engagement party, she sent me a photo: Julian, asleep beside her, dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes. Melissa’s expression in the photo was one of smug triumph. A voice message followed. “Julian’s been under so much stress with work lately,” she cooed. “Try not to upset him.” My mind reeled, but I told myself he was just exhausted from work, that he’d had too much to drink. I spent right up until the ceremony trying to bridge the gap between us, unwilling to let a misunderstanding destroy a twenty-year history. I never imagined he would use a stranger’s lies to publicly humiliate me, to abandon me on what should have been the happiest day of my life. And now, here he was, his eyes bloodshot with a terrifying intensity. “You run off with my daughter for seven years, Elara, and you have nothing to say for yourself?” “Mr. Vance,” I said, my voice cold, “the child you’re referring to is gone.” “Enough, Elara!” he snarled, his composure cracking. “Not only did you cheat on me with some lowlife, you took my mother’s money and left me, and now you’re trying to make my daughter call another man ‘daddy’!” Before I could react, he lunged past me and snatched Lily. “What are you doing?!” I screamed, my blood running cold. He ignored me, turning to my terrified, sobbing daughter. “Shh, don’t cry,” he crooned. “Daddy’s taking you home.” Lily’s cries intensified into heart-wrenching wails. “You’re not my daddy! I want my mommy!” She struggled in his arms, her face turning red as she gasped for air. A spear of panic pierced my heart. “Julian, give her back to me!” I lunged for her, but he shoved me hard, sending me stumbling to the pavement. He looked down at me, his face twisted with rage. “You ran away with my child. Why should I give her back to you now?” Ignoring the scrape on my knee, I scrambled up and charged toward him again. This time, an arm shot out and grabbed me. It was Jessica. She sneered, her eyes filled with contempt. “I’ve seen your type before, Elara. Using a child to claw your way back into wealth. You’re just playing hard to get.” She tightened her grip. “I’m telling you, you are not taking a Vance child anywhere today!” As she spoke, Julian moved toward his car, still holding my screaming daughter. Just as he reached for the door handle, he glanced back at me. “If you want your daughter back, divorce that nobody. No daughter of mine will call another man father.” In that same instant, a black Rolls-Royce appeared out of nowhere, speeding directly toward Julian’s car. My heart leaped into my throat. Julian froze, his legs visibly buckling. His grip on Lily slackened for just a second, and it was all she needed. She wriggled free, stumbling toward me, crying “Mommy!” as I rushed to scoop her into my arms and shield her with my body. The Rolls-Royce screeched to a halt, its bumper less than an inch from Julian’s car. The driver had incredible skill. Julian, recovering from the shock, immediately tried to approach us again. He plastered a sickeningly sweet smile on his face. “Come here, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “Daddy will take you to Disneyland. We’ll go to the aquarium restaurant and see the dolphins.” It was a pathetic attempt. What he didn’t know was that these things were not extravagant treats for my daughter; they were part of her normal life. More importantly, my husband and I had drilled stranger safety into her from the moment she could talk. Even if she’d never been to Disneyland, she would never go with him. His plan was doomed. Seeing that his false kindness wasn’t working, the mask fell away. He lunged for us. I shut my eyes, clutching Lily tightly as she let out a terrified shriek. But the impact never came. I opened my eyes. A man stood between us and Julian, his hand clamped firmly on Julian’s arm, stopping him cold. The man was tall and impeccably dressed, with a face so handsome it seemed carved from marble. It was my husband, Adrian Hale.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394284”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 The world shattered in a screech of metal and glass. I was driving to my final check-up when suddenly I was rushed into the ER alongside another pregnant woman from the other car. “Her water broke! We need to move — now! Get the husband to sign the forms,” a nurse yelled urgently. As they wheeled me toward the OR, I gasped, “My husband’s busy… I can sign myself!” Just then, the other woman’s husband burst in, his face bloody. “Help her first!” he shouted, pointing to the other gurney. “She has a heart condition — she’s worse!” His face was panicked and dirty, but I knew him. My heart stopped. Alberto. That’s my husband. He turned to the medical team with sudden professional calm. “I’m Dr. Alberto Hayes from Metropolitan General OB/GYN. Trust my judgment.” I reached out, trembling, trying to touch him. He swatted my hand away without looking. “But this patient’s water has broken,” a nurse said, gesturing at me. Alberto gave me a cold, dismissive glance. “She’ll be fine. I’m her husband. I’ll sign a waiver.” … The crash had thrown the hospital into chaos, and doctors were stretched thin. An operating room had been a precious, life-saving lottery ticket, and I had just won it. But because my husband was a respected authority at Metropolitan General, the staff deferred to him. They trusted his “professional judgment.” They delayed my surgery. As my gurney was pushed aside, Alberto didn’t even look at me. His focus was entirely on the other woman, Bella. He held her hand, his touch gentle, all his fear and tenderness laid bare for her. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing promise. “I’ll get approval, and I’ll perform the surgery myself. I’ll make sure you get off that table safely.” The raw devotion in his eyes was a spike through my heart. With no available beds, I was left in the hallway, forced to watch the man I married pour his soul out for another woman. All around me, patients were surrounded by family, their hands held, their fears soothed by a loving presence. My own loving presence had just secured permission to personally save his true love. He walked past me on his way to scrub in. He paused for a fraction of a second but never turned his head. His steps were firm, resolute, leaving behind nothing but a cold, clipped sentence that drifted back to me. “You’re not going to die. Please, trust my professional judgment.” I don’t know how long that surgery took. Waiting in the cold, chaotic hallway, I drifted in and out of a pained, hazy sleep. The next time I was jolted awake, it was to the sound of panic. A crowd of scrubs and white coats swarmed around my gurney. “Patient is experiencing an acute amniotic fluid embolism! Now! Get the blood bank on the line!” “Where is Dr. Hayes?! Get him here! He’s the only one in the entire city who’s successfully treated an AFE! None of us have the experience!” The frantic thud of footsteps echoed around me as several orderlies grabbed my gurney and started running. “It’s going to be okay,” one of them said, his voice strained with false confidence. “Your husband is the best OB/GYN in the city. He’s handled two of these cases before, ninety-nine percent success rate. You’re young, you’re healthy, your blood type is common. You have a great chance.” They burst through the doors of an operating room. The blinding white light seared my eyes. Voices called out my vitals, a strange mix of clinical calm and rising panic. “No! Her O2 stats are dropping too fast! She’s not going to make it! Where the hell is Dr. Hayes?” my attending physician yelled, his hand gripping mine, his skin cold and clammy. A nurse nearby answered, her voice trembling. “Dr. Hayes… he left after finishing Bella’s surgery. He said she woke up craving the soup he makes, and he went home to cook it for her.” “Then call him!” “We did! He’s not picking up…” “The baby! Fetal heartbeat is gone! The mother has no will to live, we’re losing them both!” My doctor squeezed my hand, his voice firm and close to my ear. “They assigned you to me, and I don’t give up on my patients. You hear me? Don’t you dare give up on yourself! Get Pediatrics in here for the infant resuscitation! We are saving them both, do you understand?” Okay… I managed a weak flutter of my eyelids. Someone in this world still wanted me to live. I had to try. The interns were still frantically trying to reach Alberto. My doctor and a team of senior surgeons began a desperate, racing battle against time to save me. I watched bags of blood, full and red, being hung, then taken down, empty and pale. I saw the sweat pouring down their faces, their brows furrowed in intense concentration. A hollow ache bloomed in my chest. Just then, an intern held up my phone, his voice filled with relief. “Dr. Hayes is calling her! He’s calling back!” The call was put on speakerphone, his voice echoing through the tense silence of the OR. It wasn’t a voice of concern. It was sharp, impatient, and angry. “Lia! Where the hell did you put your hospital go-bag? It’s not like you’ll be needing it anytime soon. I’m taking it for Bella to use.” 2 I saw my attending physician’s brow furrow in disbelief. His face hardened as he handed his instrument to another surgeon and strode over to the intern, taking the sterilized, bagged phone. “Dr. Hayes,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Your wife has suffered an acute amniotic fluid embolism and is currently in critical condition. You have experience in this area. We need you at Riverside Community Hospital immediately to assist with saving her life.” Beep. Beep. Beep. He had hung up. “What the— Is he insane?!” one of the younger doctors exploded. “His wife is dying, and he’s worried about a go-bag for his mistress? Some top doctor! He’s nothing but a world-class scumbag!” The outburst was loud enough for everyone to hear. I almost laughed. The attending physician, realizing his colleague’s words might affect me, quickly apologized. Through the fog of anesthesia, I tried to move my eyes to show him it was okay. Because he was right. In that single, sharp moment, despair washed over me, a black tide that swallowed the last flicker of my will to fight. “Her O2 is crashing! Get more units from the blood bank!” Riverside Community began making emergency calls to every hospital in the city, pleading for plasma. The news of a woman battling an AFE spread quickly, even making it onto the local news reports. Finally, Metropolitan General sent over another doctor who had previously assisted with an AFE surgery. He rushed in, still breathless. “What a coincidence! Dr. Hayes’s wife just gave birth over at our hospital too. I was just stopping by to visit when I heard about your emergency. I got special permission to come over and help.” Dr. Hayes’s wife? My attending physician shot a quick, confused glance in my direction. But Alberto’s colleague, having worked with him on these cases before, was relatively calm. He helped stabilize the situation. As my vitals slowly returned to normal, he tried to lighten the mood with some chatter. “When I was on my way over, I saw the pediatric team had resuscitated the newborn. A healthy, chubby little boy.” He chuckled. “But they kept calling for the dad, and no one showed up. Is she a single mom or something?” My doctor cleared his throat loudly. The man didn’t catch the hint. “And it’s strange, you know? Alberto’s wife is in Room 303 right over at Metropolitan, but he didn’t come here to help you guys out. He’s the authority on this stuff! Did he turn down a chance to save a life because he was too worried about his own wife giving birth?” He kept rambling until an intern couldn’t take it anymore. “Dr. Evans,” she snapped, “the woman lying in front of you is Dr. Hayes’s wife, Lia.” Dr. Evans chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous, kid. I’ve worked with Alberto for years. I think I know who his wife is. It’s Bella. Not some Lia.” “We’re screwed,” my doctor muttered, watching my monitor as my once-stable vitals began to plummet again. He turned on Dr. Evans, his voice laced with fury. “Why would we lie to you about that? This is Lia Thorne, Alberto Hayes’s wife! He admitted it himself! She had a sliver of a will to live, and now, after what you just said, it’s completely gone!” Dr. Evans slapped his forehead. “I thought you were all joking!” At that moment, the faint sound of a baby’s cry cut through the tension. “The baby!” my doctor yelled to the pediatricians across the room. “Bring the baby to the mother, let her see him!” I forced my heavy eyelids open. A tiny, purplish infant was brought into my line of sight. A weak smile touched my lips. He was so wrinkled and ugly. He looked just like Alberto. But I loved him. An instinctive, biological mother’s love that I couldn’t control, even as it disgusted me. After a grueling twenty-four hours and a transfusion of what felt like the city’s entire blood supply, I survived. When I was finally moved from the ICU to a regular room, the maternity nurse I’d hired was already there. She looked incredibly awkward, holding a used diaper in her hand. I knew instantly what had happened. “Ma’am,” she began, avoiding my eyes. “Mr. Hayes insisted that I go and take care of Miss Bella first. I… I couldn’t really say no.” 3 Before I could respond, Alberto’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Maria, hurry up! The baby spit up again, and Bella is too weak to hold him.” He pushed the door open and froze, clearly surprised to see me there, awake and alive. Our eyes met for a moment before he adopted an air of nonchalant dismissal. “Our son is still in the NICU, so Maria isn’t needed here yet,” he stated, not asked. “I’m just borrowing her for Bella. I’m sure you don’t mind.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh, by the way, I called your parents. They’re on their way. I’m exhausted from taking care of Bella, so I really don’t have the energy to look after you too. Hope you understand.” Just then, a group of his colleagues arrived, their arms laden with gift baskets and flowers. “Alberto, what are you doing in here?” one of them asked. “Your wife is looking for you!” “Bella needs something?” he asked, his immediate assumption that “wife” meant Bella sending another pang through me. He rushed out to her. His colleagues followed, leaving only Maria standing there, utterly bewildered. “But you’re Dr. Hayes’s wife, aren’t you?” she whispered. “I thought Bella was just his friend. Why does everyone call her Mrs. Hayes?” I managed a weak, bitter smile. “I guess it’s just a misunderstanding.” Maria tossed a washcloth onto the counter in frustration. “Doesn’t he have a mouth? Can’t he correct them when they’re ‘misunderstood’? It seems to me Dr. Hayes has a wandering eye and is more than happy to let everyone think Bella is his wife.” Even a stranger could see Alberto’s intentions so clearly. Bella was his high school crush, the goddess he never had the guts to ask out but whose pedestal he worshipped at from afar, very publicly. I wouldn’t have known the depths of his obsession if he hadn’t dragged me to a class reunion once. I saw a side of him I never knew existed—this proud, arrogant man, so subservient and meek in her presence. Facing Bella, he was always looking down, like a scolded puppy. His old roommates had joked with the newly divorced Bella, “You really have bad luck, goddess. If you’d just said yes to Alberto back then, you’d be Mrs. Dr. Hayes, the wife of Metropolitan General’s top specialist. Someone else wouldn’t have gotten the chance.” And I was that “someone else,” sitting right there, trying to saw through a tough piece of steak. None of his friends liked me. They saw me as the obstacle between Alberto and Bella. Without me, their goddess would have had her rightful place. And Alberto believed it, too. After that reunion, he started giving me the silent treatment. He used work as an excuse, coming home once a week at most and refusing to accompany me to a single prenatal appointment. Meanwhile, he became a fixture in Bella’s social media posts, lauded as her “amazing male friend.” Bella, for her part, never corrected the assumptions about their relationship. She’d just smile, a silent, all-accepting refusal to clarify. Alberto was the same. He basked in the glory of people thinking the vibrant, beautiful Bella was his wife. We fought about it once. He told me the “truth would speak for itself” and there was no need to prove anything. He told me to respect his right to have friends. When it came to Bella, his confidence evaporated. The slightest hint of affection from her, and he’d come running like a dog. But with me, he was always so sure. He thought I was his for the taking. If I couldn’t leave him before we had a child, I certainly wouldn’t leave him now. That certainty made him reckless. He forgot one crucial thing. Unlike him, I wasn’t a dog who would keep coming back for scraps. Bella’s room was right next to mine. A steady stream of visitors flowed in and out—Alberto’s colleagues, his old classmates, and even Dr. Evans, the surgeon from my operation. “Alberto, what you’re doing is disgusting!” I heard Dr. Evans’s voice, sharp and clear even through the wall. “Bella isn’t your wife, but you never correct anyone! You let all of us colleagues make fools of ourselves, calling her ‘Mrs. Hayes’ day in and day out! Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was during your real wife’s surgery?” There was a long pause before Alberto finally replied, his voice flat. “I told you all to just call her Bella. You were the ones who insisted on calling her ‘Mrs. Hayes.’” 4 “Are you f—king kidding me? You couldn’t just say ‘she’s my friend’? Besides, your wife just survived an AFE! She was literally knocking on death’s door, and you’re in here playing nursemaid to Bella? Aren’t you afraid your wife is just going to leave you?” I heard the sound of a hand slapping against my door, as if Dr. Evans was trying to shove Alberto into my room. But the sound was followed by the firm click of Bella’s door being shut. “Afraid?” Alberto’s laugh was a cold, cruel thing. “I wish she would. She was the one who chased me for years, a pathetic backup plan who finally got lucky. She’d never leave. And now with the baby? She’s trapped.” The sound of his mocking chuckle sliced through me. “She’s not like Bella. Bella has a heart condition; she’s fragile. Lia was an athlete. An AFE is a big deal for other people, but for her? It’s a minor inconvenience.” “Have you lost your mind? You’re a damn OB/GYN! Do you not know the mortality rate for an AFE?” Dr. Evans shot back, his voice thick with disbelief. “That patient who died on your table last year was an athlete, in perfect health! An AFE took her in less than thirty minutes. Your wife is just lucky. Maybe Death took one look at her miserable marriage and took pity on her.” Dr. Evans argued until he was hoarse, but Alberto never came into my room. Instead, I got a notification on my phone: a wire transfer for twenty thousand dollars with a curt message to take care of myself. I blocked his number. I deleted every form of contact. That evening, my attending physician, Dr. Cole, stopped by. He told me that since my recovery was going well, a local news station wanted to interview me. Surviving an amniotic fluid embolism, with its ninety-nine percent mortality rate, was a miracle. “Don’t worry, the interview will be quick,” he assured me. “Afterward, the heads of Metropolitan General and a few other major hospitals are going to hold a postpartum consultation for you. It’s a good thing.” “Okay,” I agreed without hesitation. On the day of the interview, Alberto showed up. He was dressed in a sharp suit, standing confidently among the hospital administrators. He spoke at length about the challenges he faced performing my surgery, the immense pressure of operating on his own wife. Dr. Evans stood nearby, head down, looking miserable. The leadership from Metropolitan General beamed at Alberto with pride, murmuring words of sympathy. “The hardest thing for a surgeon is to operate on a loved one,” his direct supervisor proclaimed for the cameras. “And in this case, Dr. Hayes was faced with the lives of his wife and unborn son. It took incredible strength and a will of iron to achieve such a perfect outcome.” The supervisor gave Alberto a pointed look. Alberto strode through the crowd and stopped in front of my bed. “You know I’m up for a promotion,” he whispered, his voice low. “This is a huge opportunity.” He leaned closer. “Thank God it was you they were saving. If it had been anyone else, this wouldn’t have been so easy to arrange. When they ask you questions, don’t say the wrong thing. Remember, I was the one who performed your surgery. Just me. My superiors have already taken care of the narrative.” He reached out and ruffled my hair, an old gesture of affection. But I hadn’t washed it since giving birth, and it was greasy. He quickly wiped his hand on his trousers with a flicker of disgust. The interview began. Dr. Cole arrived late and was blocked from entering the room by staff from Metropolitan General. A reporter pushed a microphone toward my face. “Ms. Thorne, after such a near-death experience, what is the most important thing you want to say?” I paused, gathering my thoughts, then took the microphone. “I want to thank the doctors for their absolute refusal to give up on me, especially when I was about to give up on myself. They never faltered.” The reporter, sensing a story, glanced from me to Alberto and back again. “And is there any particular doctor you’d like to thank the most?” I saw Dr. Evans by the door, already turning to leave. I raised my hand and pointed past the crowd. “My attending physician, Dr. Cole, and from Metropolitan General…” Every camera swiveled to Alberto. He puffed out his chest, a prepared speech already on his lips. “…Dr. Evans!” I finished. The room erupted in confused murmurs. Alberto stared at me, his eyes wide with fury. He fumbled for his phone, probably to text me, but the failed delivery notification only made his expression darker. Dr. Evans, singled out, looked utterly stunned, his eyes welling up with tears. The reporter, flustered, tried to regain control. “Is there… anyone else?” I smiled, a wide, bright, unforgiving smile. “Of course. There is one more person. I want to thank my husband most of all.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394300”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After the divorce from my movie-star husband, I took my settlement, bought a run-down property on the outskirts of the city, and opened a shelter for stray animals. His new flame, an actress and viral sensation, took a swipe at me on their celebrity reality show. “Some people just don’t have what it takes,” she said to a live audience of millions, “so they surround themselves with helpless animals to feel important.” The entire internet was waiting for me to become a punchline. The next moment, on a globally televised broadcast from the World Economic Summit, the richest man on the planet interrupted his own keynote speech to make an urgent, public plea. “Whoever finds my cat,” he said, his voice tight with desperation, “will be rewarded with a ten percent stake in the Sterling Tower.” The photo he displayed on the screen behind him was of the hungriest, most mischievous orange cat currently living in my shelter. 1 “Liam, is your ex-wife… okay?” On the live feed of the celebrity reality show Living with the Grays, Chloe Summers draped herself over my ex-husband’s arm, her laughter tinkling like cheap wind chimes. “While we’re out here hustling, building our careers, she takes your money and opens some dilapidated animal shelter on the outskirts of the city. Spends all day with a bunch of dirty cats and dogs.” She leaned into the camera, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “I mean, some people just don’t have what it takes, so they surround themselves with helpless animals to feel important.” Liam Gray, Hollywood’s newest leading man and my ex-husband, tenderly brushed a stray strand of blonde hair from Chloe’s forehead. He offered the camera a weary, indulgent smile. “Don’t be like that,” he said, his voice dripping with magnanimity. “She just… has a big heart.” The tone was pure condescension, the kind you’d use for a child who just can’t seem to understand the grown-up world. The live comments exploded. [OMG Liam is such a gentleman! I ship them so hard! #Loe] [Chloe’s savage but she’s not wrong. Who even knew who Willa was before she married him?] [I heard she got a massive settlement. And she opens a shelter? Talk about throwing your life away.] [LOL, she gave up being Mrs. Liam Gray to go scoop poop. Is she crazy?] My phone vibrated incessantly on the counter, a stream of screenshots and “Are you okay?” texts from my few real friends. I ignored them. Setting the phone face down, I gently lifted a sleeping orange cat from the top of a scratching post. “Cheeto, you’re putting on weight again. We’re going to have to talk about portion control.” I’d named him Cheeto. He was the shelter’s hungriest, most mischievous, and most affectionate resident. I managed two strokes down his back before he pushed my hand away with an impatient paw, hopped to the floor, and expertly tore open a bag of freeze-dried salmon treats, the crunching sound echoing in the quiet room. I sighed and reached for the dustpan. The whole internet was waiting for my response, hungry for a tearful, hysterical breakdown. But all I felt was tired of the noise. When we divorced, Liam gave me this small, run-down property and a sum of money he considered “more than generous.” He expected me to wither like a vine cut from its tree, lost without his spotlight to sustain me. He never understood that all I ever wanted was to get away from the glare, to live a quiet life of my own making. On the television, a financial news network was covering a global business summit. Liam and Chloe were still on screen in a smaller window, performing their roles as the perfect, aspirational couple. I muted the volume and turned to refill the water bowls for the dogs in the yard. As I turned my back, a familiar face filled the silent screen. Alistair Sterling. The richest man in the world. A man who typically only appeared on the cover of Forbes was now standing at a podium, broadcast live across the globe. He seemed to have gone off-script, his expression etched with a raw urgency I’d never seen on a man of his stature. The next moment, he leaned into the microphone, his voice steady but laced with a barely concealed desperation that cut through the silence of my living room. I fumbled for the remote, turning the volume up. “…anyone who can help me find my cat, I am prepared to offer a ten percent stake in the Sterling Tower as a reward.” An assistant quickly projected a photo onto the massive screen behind him. It was a chubby orange cat with a comically imperious expression. It was identical to Cheeto, who was at that very moment trying to wedge his entire head into the treat bag at my feet. 2 “Willa, have you completely lost your mind?” Liam’s voice on the other end of the line was a low, controlled burn of fury. “Isn’t this embarrassing enough for you? For me?” he seethed. “Posting that kind of thing online… Do you have any idea that Chloe was mobbed by reporters all day because of you?” I’d just settled the last of the puppies for the night, my back aching from the strain. “What did I post?” “Don’t play dumb with me!” His voice shot up an octave. “That billionaire’s cat! Why did you have to jump on that bandwagon? The entire internet is laughing at you, calling you a delusional gold digger. Are you trying to drag my name through the mud with you?” I stayed quiet. After seeing the news report, I’d been stunned. But then I’d thought, there are millions of orange cats in the world. It’s probably just a coincidence. I’d gone to bed and put it out of my mind. But this morning, while trimming his claws, I’d noticed it: a faint, heart-shaped marking on the pad of Cheeto’s back paw. It was a perfect match for the detailed close-up photo Alistair Sterling had released to the press. After a long hesitation, I’d filmed a short, quiet video of Cheeto and posted it online. I didn’t show my face. It was just clips of him eating, sleeping, and attempting to shred a new armchair, ending with a clear shot of the heart-shaped mark. I hadn’t been thinking about the reward. My only thought was that somewhere out there, a man was desperately missing his pet. I never imagined it would cause such a firestorm. My Instagram followers had jumped by a million overnight, but the comments were a cesspool of mockery. [Thirsty much? Find a random ginger cat and claim it’s the billionaire’s? Pathetic.] [Nice photoshop job on the paw print. Almost looks real. ] [Just let it go, Willa. You’re divorced. Liam has moved on. Try to have some dignity.] Liam’s call was just gasoline on the fire. “Willa, I’m warning you. Delete that video right now, and post an apology. Stop living in this fantasy world. There are limits to chasing clout.” “But what if it really is him?” I asked softly. A humorless laugh crackled through the phone, followed by Chloe’s syrupy voice in the background. “Liam, honey, don’t waste your breath. She’s just jealous we’re trending, so she cooked up this insane scheme to get some attention.” Liam’s tone softened, shifting into that familiar, patronizing gentleness. “Willa, listen. I know it’s not easy for you on your own. If you’re short on cash, you can just ask me. You don’t have to resort to… this.” “I don’t need your money,” I said, cutting him off. “I was just posting a lost pet announcement.” I hung up. The phone rang again almost immediately. It was Liam’s agent. “Ms. Hayes,” he said, his voice cold and professional. “Liam and Chloe are at a critical stage in their careers. We must insist that you cease using your former association with Mr. Gray to generate publicity that negatively impacts their public image. If you refuse, our legal department will be in touch.” A threat. A bald-faced, Hollywood threat. I looked out the window. The animals I’d rescued were chasing each other across the small patch of grass, bathed in the warm afternoon sun. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I had escaped that world, so why wouldn’t they just let me go? That evening, Chloe went live on Instagram. The theme: “Chatting about my sweet, misguided friend.” She never mentioned my name, but every word was a perfectly crafted dart aimed directly at me. “So, I have this friend,” she began, sighing dramatically. “She’s been having a really hard time since her divorce, always dreaming that some miracle will just fall into her lap. Recently, she started telling everyone she found a billionaire’s lost cat. Isn’t that just the saddest, funniest thing you’ve ever heard?” Her fans flooded the comments with laughing emojis. [LMAO, I think we all know who Chloe’s talking about.] [It’s her, isn’t it? The ex. This is the funniest story of the year.] 3 Chloe covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with faux giggles. “No, no, you guys, don’t speculate. I’m just sharing a funny story. But seriously, you have to be realistic in life. If you spend too much time daydreaming, you can really lose your grip on reality.” The stream’s viewership soared. My name, Willa Hayes, scrolled across the screen in an endless, mocking loop. I had become a national punchline. The next day, a new kind of trouble arrived at my gate. A group of clout-chasing YouTubers, phones held out like weapons. “What’s up, guys! We’re live on the scene, about to expose the truth behind the Celebrity Ex-Wife’s Billion-Dollar Cat-fish!” They laughed as they pushed open my unlocked gate, their cameras panning across the modest yard. “Check it out! This is it. The so-called ‘palace’ where the Sterling cat is supposedly being held hostage.” “Yikes, this place is a dump. Any cat would get depressed living here.” The dogs in the yard erupted into a frenzy of barking. The more timid cats vanished. I put down the bag of kibble I was carrying and walked outside. “This is private property. You need to leave.” The leader, a guy with bleached-blond hair, shoved his phone in my face. “Whoa, the main character has entered the chat,” he sneered. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. We’re just curious. We want to see the cat that’s worth more than our entire careers combined. We’re giving you free publicity! If the billionaire sees this, you’ll be set for life. You should be thanking us.” Their live chat was a waterfall of vulgar insults. My jaw tightened. I pulled out my phone to call the police. Seeing this, the blond guy’s expression soured. He lunged, trying to snatch the phone from my hand. “What the hell are you doing?” I stumbled back, but one of his friends blocked my path. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a few pictures. Who are you trying to fool with this prim-and-proper act? We all know you posted that video for attention.” They closed in, their words sharp and humiliating. One of them shoved me, and my back slammed against the wall, a sharp pain radiating through my shoulder. Suddenly, an orange blur shot out of the house like a rocket. It was Cheeto. He launched himself through the air, a furry cannonball, and landed squarely on the blond YouTuber’s face. “Aaaargh!” A blood-curdling scream. The guy stumbled back, claw marks instantly welling up with blood on his cheek. Cheeto landed gracefully, arched his back, and let out a guttural hiss that promised more violence. The would-be internet stars, shocked and terrified, scrambled over each other to get away, tumbling out of the gate and disappearing down the street. Silence returned to the yard. I knelt and stroked Cheeto’s head. “Good boy,” I murmured. He rubbed against my hand, a deep, rumbling purr starting in his chest. Looking at him, the last of my hesitation vanished. This wasn’t about money or fame. It was about getting this little warrior home. And it was about finding a way to live my own life, on my own terms, without being pushed around by anyone. I took out my phone and recorded a new video. This time, I spoke. “His name is Cheeto. I found him in a dumpster during a rainstorm about a month ago,” I said, my voice calm and clear. “He’s a picky eater and turns his nose up at cheap kibble. He’s the undisputed king of this yard, and all the other animals know it. And he has a heart-shaped mark on the pad of his back-left paw.” I kept my tone even, factual. “I don’t know if he is the cat you’re looking for. But if your cat is anything like him, please contact me.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t want the reward. All I ask is that you make a donation of food and medical supplies to my shelter.” I paused, turning the camera to the other animals playing in the yard. “They need a home, too.” 4 The video ended with a lingering shot of the shelter’s residents—each one a survivor, each one a soul that had been thrown away. Less than half an hour later, Liam called again. “Willa, are you finally admitting this is about money?” His voice was thick with contempt. “Done playing the saint? Now you’re openly asking for donations? Couldn’t you at least try to be a little less obvious with your scheming?” I listened, saying nothing. “I’m telling you for the last time, take the video down. Stop causing problems for me. Chloe has a major gala next week, and I don’t want her name associated with this kind of desperate circus.” “Liam,” I said, my voice flat. “We’re divorced. What I do has nothing to do with you or with Chloe Summers.” “You—” I ended the call and blocked his number. And his agent’s. And his mother’s. The silence that followed was bliss. My new video began to circulate, and this time, the public reaction started to shift. The mockery was still there, but new voices emerged. [Say what you want, but that shelter looks spotless and the animals look really healthy and happy.] [Her voice is so calm. She doesn’t sound like a crazy person.] [Whether the cat is real or not, advocating for shelter animals is always a good thing.] That night was the season finale of Living with the Grays. The host, of course, brought up the incident with the YouTubers at my shelter. Chloe immediately adopted a look of pained innocence. “I was just horrified,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “I had no idea some of our fans would be so reckless. I’ve already told them their behavior was unacceptable.” She looked into the camera, her eyes welling up. “Honestly, I feel for Willa. It must be so hard for her, all alone with so many animals. Liam and I would be more than happy to help her if she’s struggling. We just wish she would reach out in a… more conventional way.” In one fell swoop, she painted herself as a benevolent saint, heartbroken over her “troubled” friend. Liam, ever the supportive partner, gazed at her with adoration. “She wasn’t always like this,” he added, shaking his head sadly. “I think living alone, all that stress… it can make people do extreme things. I just hope everyone can give her some space and stop harassing her.” Their tag-team performance was flawless. They had successfully crucified me on a cross of their own making, labeling me as unstable, desperate, and pathetic. The live chat became a torrent of hatred aimed at me. [Chloe is literally an angel.] [Liam is still protecting her! What a man!] [Willa, get help! Seriously!] I turned off the broadcast. I looked at their faces on my phone’s dark screen—the man I once shared a bed with, and the woman who had taken my place. They were basking in the glow of public adoration, while I was being treated like a rat in the sewer. I expected to feel a surge of anger, a sting of pain. But strangely, there was nothing. My heart was a placid lake, still and silent before a coming storm. The animals were asleep, and the yard was quiet except for the rustle of wind in the trees. I picked up my phone again and opened the comments on my video. A new comment had been pinned to the top. It had a gold checkmark next to the name, shining like a tiny beacon. It was from the official, verified account of Alistair Sterling. The message was five simple words. “Send us the address. On my way.” For the first time in a very long time, I smiled. A real, genuine smile that reached my eyes. I picked up the remote and switched the television back on. On screen, Chloe was dabbing a tear from her eye, her voice thick with fake emotion. “I just hope Willa can find her way back to reality soon, and stop living in a fantasy.” As the words left her mouth, the giant screen behind the stage suddenly flickered and changed. My video appeared, playing for the entire studio audience and the millions watching at home. And beneath it, highlighted for all to see, was that shining, golden comment. The host froze. The director was probably screaming in the control room.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394316”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was treating some friends to dinner at the new private club my cousin, Leo, was running. When the evening wound down, I flagged down a server. “The check, please. Just put it on Leo’s tab.” The young man nodded, but before he could turn away, a manager I’d never seen before stepped in his path. She aimed a smile at me that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sir, this is a members-only establishment. We don’t ‘run tabs.’” A flicker of annoyance. “I’m the owner’s cousin. Just let him know.” The manager let out a short, sharp laugh and slapped a leather billfold on the table. Inside was a bill for one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. My eyes scanned the itemized list. Exclusive Suite Ambiance Curation: $15,000. Elite Network Integrity Fee: $30,000. Impromptu Artistic Accompaniment: $25,000. And on and on, a laundry list of ludicrous service charges. When did Leo’s place get this brazen? “What’s the matter? Can’t pay the bill, so you start name-dropping?” The manager’s eyes raked over me, from my simple watch to my well-worn dress shoes. “I’ve met plenty of the owner’s ‘relatives.’ None of them have ever been quite so broke, so shameless, and so full of it.” Right there in front of her, I dialed Leo’s number and put it on speaker. “You have ten minutes to get her out of my sight. Or I pull the plug on this whole club.” 1 Leo’s voice crackled through the phone, laced with panic. “Ethan? What’s going on? Is there some kind of misunderstanding?” “A misunderstanding?” I glanced at the manager beside me. Vanessa, according to her name tag. She stood with her arms crossed, a smug smirk playing on her lips, enjoying the show. “Why don’t you ask your star manager what she’s been up to?” I could hear the muffled sound of Leo talking to Vanessa, punctuated by her dismissive, whispered excuses. “Ethan, look, Vanessa was just following procedure,” Leo’s voice came back, strained. “Don’t give her a hard time. This one’s on me…” “Leo,” I cut him off. “I didn’t call you to get a free meal. I called you to tell you to handle your employee.” Vanessa must have felt emboldened by whatever Leo whispered to her, because she plucked the phone right out of his hand. “Listen, sir,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “Our owner is a kind man, so he won’t hold this against you. But the rules of Aura are the rules. Either you settle your bill now, or we’ll have to ask you to have a chat with our security team in the back office.” Her voice, amplified by the speakerphone, was arrogant, utterly certain of her victory. My friends, important partners in my industry, exchanged awkward glances. I’d brought them here tonight to impress them, to give them the best experience at my cousin’s place. Instead, my own reputation was being ground into the dirt. “Fine,” I said, ending the call. I looked directly at Vanessa. “I’ll pay the bill.” Her smug smirk widened into a triumphant grin. A few minutes later, Leo himself scurried over, an apologetic smile plastered on his face, though his eyes darted around nervously. “Ethan, I’m so sorry. Vanessa’s new, she doesn’t know the ropes,” he said, while simultaneously wrapping an arm around Vanessa’s waist in a gesture of intimacy. Vanessa leaned into him, looping her arm through his. Her tone wasn’t an apology; it was a declaration of ownership. “Leo is generous enough to let you call him cousin. But that doesn’t give you the right to come in here and act like you own the place. Aura is the culmination of his life’s work. It’s not a soup kitchen for freeloaders like you.” With that little speech, she’d painted herself as the valiant defender of her lover and his empire, and me as the pathetic, freeloading parasite. I almost laughed. His life’s work? Did she have any idea that this entire club, “Aura,” from the brand concept to the architectural design, from the operational philosophy to the very font on the menu—every word, every brick—had come from me? Leo was just the executor. Or, to be more precise, the mascot I’d put out front. Watching the way he looked at Vanessa, a pathetic mix of helplessness and adoration, a cold dread washed over me. When had my cousin become such a clueless fool? 2 “Since your manager is so by-the-book, why don’t you have her explain this hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand-dollar bill to me.” I ignored Leo, my gaze fixed squarely on Vanessa. She was clearly annoyed that I was dragging this out, but she maintained her air of superiority. “The services at Aura are priced for a certain clientele. If you don’t understand, it simply means you’re not on that level.” She gestured for a server to lead us from the private room to the main lounge area. It was bustling with the evening’s patrons. She was going to humiliate me publicly. My friends had seen enough. One of them stood up. “Ethan, why don’t we just go? I’ll take care of this.” I held up a hand to stop him. This was no longer about the money. Vanessa had the ridiculous bill mounted on a display stand and placed on a coffee table. Her voice was perfectly modulated—not shouting, but loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear every word. “The Exclusive Suite Ambiance Curation, fifteen thousand dollars. Every suite at Aura has had its metaphysical harmony professionally calibrated to ensure our guests’ business dealings are blessed with fortune. It’s an energy science. You might not get it, but there are plenty who will pay for it.” “The Elite Network Integrity Fee, thirty thousand. The people who frequent Aura are the city’s movers and shakers. Do you have any idea how many wannabes and grifters we turn away at the door? This fee covers the service of filtering out the social static, protecting you from potential risks. Isn’t that worth it?” “And this one: Impromptu Artistic Accompaniment. While you were dining, one of our resident musicians was performing a custom composition just outside your suite, adjusting the melody in real-time based on the rhythm of your conversation. That is the price of true artistry.” With every item she announced, a low murmur rippled through the lounge. Eyes turned towards me, a mixture of curiosity and contempt. I was the clown who had crashed the gates of high society, only to find he couldn’t afford the ticket. Leo stood off to the side, his face pale. He tried to speak several times, but Vanessa silenced him with a sharp glance. He just stood there, watching, letting his girlfriend publicly crucify me. The last thread of affection I held for him was beginning to unravel. “Are you finished?” I asked calmly when she was done. Vanessa crossed her arms, her chin held high. “I am. So, Mr. Shaw, are you ready to pay? Or are you going to continue wasting our time?” “Of course,” I nodded, pulling out my phone. “But I don’t carry that kind of cash on me. I’ll need to have my assistant bring it over.” She scoffed. “Oh, this again? Trying to stall?” “You don’t have to believe me,” I said, dialing my assistant. “Bring three million dollars in cash to Aura. Immediately.” I made sure to emphasize the words “three million.” Vanessa’s pupils contracted for a split second, then her eyes lit up with a raw, greedy fire. She probably thought I was intimidated, trying to buy my way out of the humiliation. Her gaze shifted, now sizing me up like a fool with too much money. A whale. “Now you’re talking,” she whispered, leaning in so only I could hear. “Consider the extra a little tip for the trouble you’ve caused me and Leo tonight.” 3 My assistant is nothing if not efficient. Less than twenty minutes later, two men in sharp black suits, my personal security detail, walked through the club’s entrance carrying three large, heavy-duty briefcases. Every head in the lounge turned. The latches on the three cases were clicked open, revealing crisp, neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills. They seemed to glitter under the crystal chandeliers. The murmuring crowd fell silent. Vanessa’s breathing became heavy, her eyes glued to the money. Leo was stunned, his mouth hanging open as he stared at me in disbelief. “Ethan, what are you doing? This isn’t necessary…” “Whether it’s necessary or not isn’t for you to decide,” I said flatly. I motioned for my assistant to push one of the cases in front of Vanessa. “One hundred and twenty-five thousand. You should count it.” A flash of embarrassment crossed her face, but it was quickly swallowed by her avarice. She actually reached out and began to count the money with a flourish, as if to prove a point. The sight of her, so smug and triumphant, was repulsive. I turned my back on her and addressed my guests with an apologetic smile. “Gentlemen, I am truly sorry for this evening’s spectacle. Please, allow me to cover all of your expenses tonight. Furthermore, I own a spa resort just outside the city. I’d like to invite all of you for a weekend retreat, on me, as a proper apology.” These were sharp men. They understood immediately that I was not just saving face, but demonstrating power. They accepted graciously, and the tense atmosphere finally eased. After my friends had departed, the lounge was empty except for me, Leo, and Vanessa, who was still absorbed in her “counting.” Leo finally broke. He rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Ethan, don’t be like this. Can we please talk about this at home? Don’t be mad at me.” I pulled my arm free. Looking at his face, I felt like I was seeing a stranger. “Leo, the moment you stood by and watched her humiliate me, you should have known there was no going back.” “I didn’t, I…” he stammered. Just then, Vanessa finished her count. She snapped the case shut, rising to her feet with an air of absolute victory that cut Leo off. “Leo, darling, why are you wasting your breath on him? The bill is paid. We’re even. We should really discourage this kind of riff-raff from coming around. It lowers the tone of Aura.” She took Leo’s arm, her eyes locking with mine in a defiant stare. “Oh, and by the way,” she said, gesturing to the other two briefcases. “I’ll be taking these two million as compensation for my emotional distress, and as an apology to Leo. Don’t mind if I do.” She reached for the cases. “Stop,” I said, my voice cold as ice. My two security men took a single, synchronized step forward, blocking her path. Vanessa’s expression soured. “What? Thinking of backing out?” “Not at all,” I said, walking towards her until I was looking down at her. “I just want to make sure you understand something. You can take this money. But I’m not so sure you can afford to spend it.” My assistant, perfectly on cue, presented a document and a pen. “What is this?” Vanessa asked, suddenly wary. “A receipt of services,” I said simply. “You’re accepting three million dollars. Sign here, acknowledging the payment, and we’re all square. Otherwise, you don’t get a single dime.” Vanessa snatched the document, her eyes scanning it quickly. It listed all of her fabricated charges, along with the additional “Emotional Distress Compensation” and “Apology Fee.” The terms were clear, the amounts precise. To her, it was just a formality. Without a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed the pen and scrawled her name—Vanessa Croft—on the signature line. She tossed the document back at me and moved triumphantly towards the money. “There. Now the money is mine.” “Is it?” I carefully folded the signed paper, a cold smile touching my lips. I took out my phone, not even bothering to look at them again, and made another call. “We can begin.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394332”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

“When it was time to bring the operation home, I was the one who snapped the cuffs on his wrists. He tilted his head back, looking up at me from his knees. The flashing blue and red lights painted his face in strobing color. “”Ava,”” he asked, his voice low and steady despite everything. “”Did you ever love me? Even a little?”” A smile found my lips. I leaned down and patted his cheek, the metal of the cuffs cold against my knuckles. “”Not for a second.”” I straightened up. “”Enjoy the food in federal prison, Sebastian. My own personal Medal of Valor.”” … The next day, the man who had taken half the city’s police force and a six-month surveillance operation to catch, escaped from custody. 1 The news broke while the ink on my commendation paperwork was still drying. The transport van heading to the East End correctional facility was hit by an IED. Nine officers dead, one critically wounded. Sebastian Vale, the target of a multi-agency task force, the man we’d spent two years hunting, hadn’t even had time to get used to the feel of a prison bench before he was gone. I stood on the scorched asphalt, the ghost of smoke still acrid in the air, staring at the blackened blast pattern on the road. And to make a catastrophic situation worse, the consensus back at the precinct was clear. As the undercover officer who had spent two years by his side, who had not only played with his heart but had driven the final knife into his back, I was now, without a doubt, his number one target. 2 “”You don’t look too happy, Agent Reed.”” …Nobody’s happy when their Medal of Valor goes on the run. Twenty-seven hours after Sebastian Vale’s escape, we had nothing. Fifteen drones, nearly every K-9 unit in the state, and a city-wide lockdown had turned up zero trace of him. He hadn’t just vanished; he’d left a message. Scrawled in the blood of a dying officer on the overturned door of the transport van were four words: I’ll recapture my rose. Who was the “”rose””? Every head in the briefing room swiveled to face me. “”You can all stare,”” I said, crossing my arms and shrugging. “”But the only thing this proves is that Sebastian Vale is a sucker for a love story.”” What else could explain it? A man with the world crashing down around him, and his last question is whether I ever loved him. It was pathetic. Of course I didn’t. My job was stressful enough without adding real feelings to the mix. 3 In the back of the squad car, my partner, Mark, handed me a tablet. “”We tracked a call Vale made from a public payphone after the breakout. The location might look familiar.”” I looked down at the photo on the screen. An old brick apartment building in the warehouse district. “”Yeah,”” Mark said, reading my expression. “”It’s the place you two shared.”” After we’d made the “”relationship”” official, Sebastian and I had lived there for quite a while. Stepping inside, the first thing I saw was a pair of women’s slippers next to a pair of men’s boots by the door, a staged tableau of domesticity that felt like a lifetime ago. Everything looked untouched, except for the ashtray on the coffee table. It was filled with fresh ash. “”Lab report on the cigarette butts came back. It’s Vale’s brand, alright,”” Mark said, walking into the bedroom. He let out a low whistle. “”Guy’s got balls. Hiding out here just hours after the escape. Playing the ‘hide in plain sight’ card.”” Crime scene techs were dusting for prints, their cameras flashing, but I was somewhere else entirely. This was the first place Sebastian and I had called home. He was the first kingpin I was ever assigned to. 4 Right after graduating from the academy and inheriting my father’s badge number, I was tapped for the undercover operation targeting Sebastian Vale. The reasons were simple: I looked like a college student, my eyes had a disarming clarity, and I had been the most ruthless hand-to-hand combatant in my graduating class. Back then, Sebastian wasn’t the head of the largest narcotics syndicate on the West Coast. He was just an ambitious number two, but his youth and rapid ascent had put him on our radar. To take down the whole organization, we had to plant a fuse deep inside, and I was that fuse. My cover was a cashier at the 24-hour bodega on the ground floor of his apartment building. Every night, usually between eleven and midnight, he’d come down for a pack of cigarettes. He had this intense gaze, deep-set eyes, and always wore a black tactical jacket. The first time I saw him, I was surprised. For a rising drug trafficker, he was beautiful in a way that was almost jarring—skin so pale it was nearly luminous, with features that seemed carved from cold marble. To avoid spooking him, I waited two weeks before saying more than “”have a nice night.”” I finally made my move, a simple comment as I handed him his change. “”You know, you buy a pack of these every night. You should try to cut back.”” He raised an eyebrow, his cool gaze sweeping over me for a fraction of a second before he grunted a noncommittal “”hmph.”” After that, I used that tiny opening to exchange a few sentences with him every night. Honestly, after weeks of this, I felt like I could have charmed a statue into bloom, but Sebastian remained completely unmoved. Thankfully, my backup team decided to accelerate the timeline. They orchestrated a small-scale bust on a lower rung of the supply chain. It wouldn’t hurt the organization’s core, but it was designed to wipe out a few minor crews, including the one Sebastian was affiliated with. Letting him escape, bleeding and barely alive, was part of the plan. It was my cue to “”find”” him in a dumpster-filled alley nearby. He was covered in blood when I got to him, the crimson stark against his pale skin. Even then, on the verge of collapse, his guard was up. I played my part perfectly—the terrified bodega girl. When he rasped, “”No hospitals,”” I took him back to my place. He stayed with me for the next few weeks, recuperating. Everything was meticulously staged. The location of his room, the way my towel “”accidentally”” slipped when I walked out of the bathroom, the unavoidable physical contact as I changed his bandages. I was bubbly, cheerful, doing everything I could to make him smile. I made him curry with the rice shaped like a teddy bear and tied his bandages into neat little bows. And yet, even with a man and a woman alone in a small apartment, he kept his distance for weeks. Night after night, I’d feel his eyes on me, dark and unreadable. The Captain kept telling me to be patient, but there were moments, watching him watch me, that a cold dread washed over me—the fear that I’d already been made. Then one night, after a late debrief with my handlers, I came home to a dark apartment. That was unusual; he always left a light on. “”Sebastian?”” I called out tentatively as I slipped off my shoes. No answer. As my hand fumbled for the light switch, a gentle touch grazed the back of my neck. In a split second, I fought down the instinct to spin around and throw him over my shoulder. Instead, I froze. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his breath warm against my ear. My body went rigid. The feeling of being controlled by this stranger, this target, sent every nerve ending screaming in protest. But I had a mission. I knew what I had to do. Slowly, deliberately, I forced my body to relax, to melt into his embrace. His lips found the side of my neck, his kisses tender and searching. … I had to be the naive girl, looking at him with wide, trusting eyes. Even after we were officially a “”couple,”” Sebastian remained quiet, watchful. His suspicion was a wall between us. That wasn’t good enough. He had no idea the lengths I’d gone to for him. The things he liked, the things he hated, his subtle tells—the way his brow would lift almost imperceptibly when he liked a meal I cooked, the way the corner of his mouth would twitch into a half-smile when I wore a certain dress. I cataloged every detail, replaying them in my mind each night. Slowly, it started working. He began to laugh when I’d get spaghetti sauce on my nose. He’d gently stroke my hair when he found me asleep on the couch, waiting for him to come home. One night, he knelt in front of me, looking up with a soft expression. “”Sunshine,”” he murmured, “”why are you still up?”” In that moment, I knew. Phase one was complete. I had won. But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t part of his future; I was a girlfriend he could discard at any moment. He never told me about his deals, his locations, or what exactly he was moving. Then, my opportunity arrived. I was targeted by one of Sebastian’s rival syndicates. They snatched me off the street on my way to the farmers’ market. Their goal was simple: use his girlfriend as leverage. They tied me to a chair and set up a camera. The man across from me laid it all out—told me my loving boyfriend was a ruthless drug lord, detailing Sebastian’s cruelty, painting a picture of a monster. My mind was racing. I had to appear terrified, but not useless. Heartbroken, but not weak. I had to be a woman who was resolute, brave, and above all, utterly devoted to Sebastian. Eleven hours later, Sebastian walked into that dusty factory. He was born to wear black; it was the color of the shadows he commanded. My eyes, wide and tearful, locked onto his. But the man I had been sleeping next to for months just gave me a single, dismissive glance. “”The terms,”” he said, his voice clipped and devoid of emotion. “”Your three main suppliers,”” the man holding me said, pressing the barrel of a gun to the back of my head. “”And fifty kilos of the new product.”” There was a long pause. Then, a cold, sharp laugh from Sebastian. “”You really think she’s worth that much?”” He gave me one last look, a look of pure contempt, and turned to walk away. I watched his tall frame disappear into the darkness. In that moment, I truly believed I was going to die. But then, the gun at my head moved, shifting its aim toward Sebastian’s retreating back. “”LOOK OUT!”” The instant before the trigger was pulled, I threw my entire body weight backward, knocking the gunman off balance. The shot went wide, but the momentum was uncontrolled. A bullet, meant for Sebastian, tore through the flesh of my arm. I’d been shot before, but always while wearing a vest. The searing pain blanked out my vision for a second. When it cleared, the men around me were being cut down in a hail of gunfire. Of course. Sebastian hadn’t come alone. He had a fire team hidden in the shadows. He walked over to me, his face unreadable. The pain on my face was real. I stumbled toward him and collapsed into his arms, sobbing. He stiffened for a moment, surprised by the embrace. Then, after a long second, I felt his hand gently stroking my hair. “”Why?”” he whispered, his voice rough. “”I abandoned you. Why would you still save me?”” Because your backup would have Swiss-cheesed him before the bullet even left the chamber, I thought. But what I said was, “”I… I just reacted. It was just… instinct… to protect you.”” In the darkness, I heard his voice soften. “”You don’t care what I do?”” I shook my head against his chest. Sebastian Vale, I thought, the pain in my arm a searing promise. One day, you will be the shiniest medal on my uniform. 5 “”What’s on your mind?”” A hand holding a lit cigarette pulled me from my thoughts. The smell of tobacco was foreign; it had been a long time. Many of my colleagues chain-smoked when they were stressed. But Sebastian didn’t smoke. And to maintain my “”good girl”” image, neither did I. “”So, after this Medal of Valor comes through, they’ll put you on desk duty, right?”” Mark and I were sitting on the steps of the precinct’s back entrance. He ran a hand through his messy hair as he flipped through a case file. I nodded. For people like us, no matter the outcome, we were meant to fade away, to become ghosts in the system. “”What do you want to do? After you retire.”” “”Teach English,”” I answered without hesitation. He raised an eyebrow. “”I think… I think I’d be a good teacher.”” … Sebastian had never finished high school. So I was the one who taught him English. Maybe I really did have a talent for it, or maybe he was just that smart. The same man who once struggled to say “”You are mine,”” could now declare war on the entire police department in perfect, taunting English. Because that’s what this was. A declaration of war. A way to force me out into the open. By brazenly returning to our old apartment and leaving a trail, he was sending me a message: I will find you. No matter how many cops are protecting you, you can’t run from me. … “”That’s why I don’t think holing me up here is the right move,”” I said, leaning against the doorframe of the cheap motel room they’d stashed me in. Mark sighed, his shoulders slumping. “”He’s coming for me, Mark. You should let him.”” “”Don’t talk like that,”” he said tiredly. “”Nobody’s life is expendable. We don’t sacrifice our own unless there is absolutely no other choice.”” When I didn’t respond, he stood up and put a hand on my shoulder. “”Ava, you know better than anyone what these monsters do to undercovers who are burned.”” … Bright sunlight sliced through a gap in the blackout curtains, a single, dancing line of dust motes in the dim room. Of course I knew. My father had been the captain of the Westbridge City Narcotics Division. A foreign cartel put a million-dollar bounty on his head. I was still at the academy when my uncle, also a cop, found his body. I should thank my father. He gave his daughter one last, brutal lesson. Because in my entire life, I have never seen a corpse more mutilated than his. After that day, nothing I saw on the job could ever shake me. My dad always told me that for a narcotics detective, a Medal of Valor is something you usually get after you’re dead. I decided then and there that I was going to get one while I was still alive, just to show him, wherever he was. … Day three of Sebastian’s escape. The department’s criminal profiler was grilling me for details again. As the person who had been closest to him, every insight I had was priceless. After I took that bullet for him, Sebastian had slowly started to let me in. And I discovered something crucial: he was starved for love. It was the perfect vulnerability. He’d had almost no romantic contact with women his entire life. He was an orphan, raised by human traffickers. He was smart and charming enough to avoid the fate of the other kids—maimed and sent to beg on the streets—but his childhood was a wasteland of cruelty and pain. He probably didn’t even realize how desperately he craved a gentle, kind soul to love him. Sebastian was a natural criminal: decisive, calm, obsessive, and brutal. But as a lover, he was a fool. He was too eager to drown in affection, desperate to please the person he cared about. He tried to act indifferent, but his micro-expressions betrayed him every time. So, even though I was no expert in romance myself, I used every psychological tactic I’d learned at the academy to reel him in. It was clumsy at times, but I got him. The final step was to embed a hook in his heart so deep he could never remove it. What’s more powerful than a lifetime of devotion? A lifetime of devotion that is suddenly, violently snatched away. As Sebastian climbed the ladder of his organization, women naturally started to gravitate toward him. They knew about me, the official “”girlfriend,”” but that didn’t stop the butterflies from flocking to him. The most dangerous of them was a woman named Ruby. Ruby was her business name, I assumed. She was stunning, a completely different style from me. If I was sunshine and innocence, she was a beautiful, poison-tipped needle. And she had her sights set on Sebastian, and my position. On paper, she was the owner of a chain of local nightclubs. In reality, she was the biggest independent distributor in her territory. If she and Sebastian teamed up, it would be a power merger, and I’d be out of the picture. She saw me as a naive little student, someone she could crush without a second thought. At the time, my relationship with Sebastian had hit a plateau. He was still good to me, doting even, but he never explicitly rejected Ruby’s advances. And I thought, Perfect. The hero, the villain, the other woman. It was the setup for a perfect tragedy. If I played my part right, he would never, ever forget me. …The stage was a corporate yacht party. Publicly, it was the annual gala for some shell corporation. In reality, it was a summit for the region’s top traffickers. We had assets on board, hidden among the crew. The whole night was a powder keg. I was there as Sebastian’s girlfriend. But Ruby pushed, relentlessly. First, she tried to humiliate me during the reception, then she brazenly flirted with Sebastian right in front of me. He didn’t stop her. And right there, I knew something was wrong. Even if he was losing interest, he wouldn’t disrespect me so publicly, not when I was known to everyone as his girl. Later that night, I walked into his stateroom after a shower. He grabbed my wrist and slammed me against the doorframe. “”Ava,”” he said, his voice dangerously low. “”Swear to me. Swear you’ve never lied to me.”” For a second, my blood ran cold. I saw my entire mission, my life, crumbling. I had already pictured my triumphant return, but now I wasn’t even sure I’d make it back in one piece. But he’d said “”swear.”” Swear. That meant he had no proof. It was just a suspicion, probably planted by Ruby. He was trying to decide if I was a cop. He wasn’t sure. I couldn’t be too defensive, but I couldn’t be too calm either. “”I have never lied to you,”” I said, meeting his gaze, repeating his words back to him like a sacred vow. He let go of my wrist. “”Sebastian, I—”” I reached for him, but he pulled away. “”I didn’t lie to you…”” My voice trembled, a perfect performance of hurt. “”Go back to your room, Ava,”” he said, his tone softening slightly, but the command was absolute. I didn’t move. I reached for his hand again. He pushed me away, not hard, but enough to make me stumble back. I just stared at him, my eyes wide with disbelief. “”Ruby was right,”” he said, his dark eyes boring into me. “”Maybe you are just a very, very good actress.”” I watched him, incredulous. “”You’d rather believe her than me?”” … The only answer I got was the solid click of the door shutting in my face. The tears that welled in my eyes vanished the second I was alone. Sebastian’s instincts were sharp. I didn’t think it was just Ruby. It was his own gut, his seventh sense, telling him something was off. With a man like that, no matter how perfect my cover was, suspicion was always a risk. And once the seed of doubt was planted, it was only a matter of time before it grew into a conviction. I needed to do something drastic. And thanks to Ruby, I had the perfect stage. 6 I had always told Sebastian I was afraid of the water. In truth, I was the captain and gold medalist of my high school swim team. The pieces you put on the board early in the game sometimes come in handy when you least expect it. There was another undercover officer on the yacht, disguised as a crew member. He’d told me that a specific spot on the edge of the top deck was perfectly covered by a security camera. According to the ship’s route, we would be passing a small, uninhabited island about half a mile off our port side. The sea was calm that night. By 2 a.m., the deck was deserted. I stood in the exact spot we’d planned, perfectly framed by the camera. The wind whipped my white dress around my legs. I typed out a text message to Sebastian. I know I’m not as smart as her, or as powerful. But maybe this… …maybe this will prove I never lied to you. Then I jumped. … The drama of faking a suicide to prove your love and innocence is amplified a thousand times when the target is a man starved for affection. I won’t bore you with the details of that night: how I navigated half a mile of open ocean with only a compass and the glowing dial of my sports watch; how I collapsed on a sandy beach, fighting off birds that thought I was a corpse, while waiting for my contact. It was the kind of harrowing experience you could write a novel about. Eventually, an officer picked me up in a small inflatable boat, and I spent the next few weeks hiding out and recovering in a fishing village on a different island. The ordeal had left me with more than a few injuries. During that time, I heard that Sebastian was tearing the ocean apart looking for me. Even with the security footage clearly showing his “”non-swimmer”” girlfriend leaping into the sea to prove her devotion, he refused to believe I was dead. Witnesses said they’d never seen him so unhinged, commandeering dozens of fishing boats for the search. He found me on a day when the setting sun bled across the water. I was sitting on a small stool outside a fisherman’s hut, my hair in a single braid, watching the light fade. I had calculated the angle. From where he would first see me, my profile would look tragic, beautiful, and devastatingly fragile. All that effort paid off. He stumbled toward me, his steps unsteady, and pulled me into an embrace so tight I thought my ribs would crack. Men. They’re all the same. They crave a woman who will destroy herself for them, a woman who asks for nothing in return. I could feel myself being absorbed into him. I parted my lips, my voice deliberately soft and hoarse. “”Sebastian,”” I whispered. “”You could have just let me go.”” “”I’m okay.”” “”If you want to be with her, just let me go.”” “”Just… just tell me to my face,”” I choked out, “”that you don’t want me anymore…”” I felt his body go rigid. His fingers threaded gently through my hair. This was different from before. This time, it was real. Sebastian was hooked. He was the one who couldn’t leave me now. I rested my chin in the crook of his neck. If jumping into the ocean was a gamble, then in that moment, I knew. I had won the whole damn pot. “”So, where do you think he’d go? Now that he’s out.”” “”He’s a madman, Mark. How am I supposed to know what a madman is thinking?”” In the office, the ceiling fan spun lazily. Light filtered through the blinds, striping the room where my exhausted colleagues were hitting one dead end after another. No tips, no sightings. He’d vanished. And yet, we all knew he would surface again. Sebastian Vale was not the type to let things go. “”Ava’s family is secure, right?”” the captain asked the room. “”She’s burned. We can’t rule out the possibility that Vale will retaliate against her relatives,”” Mark said, rubbing his temples as he looked over at me. He was right. Now that my identity was compromised, my entire family was under 24/7 police protection. Everything should have been fine. But my right eye had been twitching all day. I’m not superstitious, but some of the older guys on the force are. They have little rituals, like eating their favorite meal before a big bust to see if the taste is off—a “”tell,”” they call it. My breakfast this morning tasted like ash. I sat at my desk, my head down. This mission was supposed to be my ticket to a quiet desk job. I was already planning my vacation. It felt like the universe was playing a cruel joke. The door to the briefing room burst open. A uniformed officer rushed in, his eyes wide with panic. When his gaze landed on me, my stomach dropped. “”Agent Reed,”” he panted. “”It’s your nephew.”” … “He was found at nine this morning, near the East Maple Road market.” I sat in the car, a thick fog filling my head as the officer recited the report. “”Multiple injection sites. Upper arm, wrist, inner thigh. Prelim tox report shows a massive, repeated overdose of heroin.”” “”He’s at First General. In surgery now.”” “”…”” Sebastian’s revenge… had begun. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. A buzzing filled my ears. Stay calm, stay calm. What did I need to ask? What was the question? “”He had a protection detail, didn’t he? How the hell did this happen?”” Mark’s voice was sharp, cutting through my haze. “”The kid’s a senior in high school. Finals are coming up,”” the officer explained, looking miserable. “”His mom said he couldn’t miss any more school. So they scaled back the detail to just escorts to and from.”” “”Somehow, they still got to him…”” … I remembered. I’d promised my nephew, Leo, that if he got into a top-tier school, I’d buy him a top-of-the-line gaming PC. Now, he was in an operating room, and I was standing outside it. My cousin’s raw, guttural sobs echoed in the sterile hallway, hammering against my eardrums. In my hand, I clutched an evidence bag containing a small, folded piece of paper. They’d found it in Leo’s pocket. A message from Sebastian. His handwriting was messy, but sharp, just like him. It said: Don’t you dare not love me.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394351”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was at a luxury car dealership, scrolling on my phone while waiting, when I stumbled upon a livestream of my husband Adrian’s graduation. The camera briefly showed a young woman—one of his grad students—linking arms intimately with him. Just then, the salesman pointed at my screen. “I know that guy! He bought a car here the other day.” I pointed at Adrian. “Him?” “Absolutely. A client that generous? Unforgettable.” He gestured to the girl. “That must be his wife. The car was for her.” “A seven-figure car… rich and devoted,” he added. An icy knot tightened in my chest. After the stream, I called Adrian. “Honey, my car’s old. What’s a reasonable price for a new one?” He dismissed me. “Just get it fixed. Stop being materialistic, Beth.” I found the girl’s social media and commented under her new car photo: 【Nice car. Too bad the broke freeloader who bought it will soon be kicked out with nothing. Hope he can still afford you then.】 1 I put my phone away and pointed to a car in the center of the showroom—the exact same model Adrian had bought for his student, Bianca. “That one. I’ll take the fully-loaded version.” The salesman’s eyes lit up. “M-Ms. Thorne, are you sure? The top-of-the-line model is over two hundred thousand dollars…” Without a word, I pulled a black card from my purse and handed it to him. My only condition was that I wanted to drive it off the lot within the hour. The old car I had been driving was a wedding gift from my father. After all these years, it was falling apart. I’d mentioned wanting a new one several times, but Adrian always lectured me about how, as a professor’s wife, I needed to be modest and not chase after material possessions. And I, like a fool, had believed him. I never imagined it was just a script he used to manipulate me. With the new keys in my hand, I drove straight to Northwood University. It was 5 p.m., just when Adrian would be getting off work. I parked the car in the most conspicuous spot right by the main entrance. Students stopped in their tracks, pulling out their phones to take pictures. This was exactly the effect I wanted. I didn’t have to wait long, but it wasn’t Adrian who showed up first. It was Bianca. When she saw my new car, identical to hers, a flash of panic crossed her face. Her voice was already trembling as she approached me. “Mrs. Thorne…” “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. Please don’t misunderstand Professor Thorne.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears welling up as if on cue. “The university doesn’t provide housing for grad students, and Professor Thorne saw how exhausted I was commuting four hours every day from the suburbs. He was just worried about me, a young woman traveling alone… that’s why… that’s why he helped me buy the car.” “I’m going to pay him back! I promised I would, as soon as I start working.” She dabbed at her eyes with a delicate hand, her performance drawing the attention of passersby. “Is that Professor Thorne’s wife? She looks so intimidating.” “Yeah, Bianca is such a sweet, hardworking person. She would never do something like that.” “Rich wives are always so paranoid. They think every younger woman is a homewrecker.” I watched her act, a perfect, pitiful little victim. What a masterclass in manipulation. Just then, Adrian arrived. He saw the tear-streaked Bianca and the whispering crowd, and his face instantly darkened. He walked straight past my car without even glancing at me, handing a tissue to Bianca with a soothing murmur. “Don’t cry. I’ll handle this.” Then, he turned to me, his voice barely suppressing a roar. “Beth! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He shouted my full name, loud enough for half the campus to hear. “Can’t you bring this up at home? You have to come here and make a scene in front of a student? Have you no decency?” He pointed a shaking finger at me. “And what was that comment you left on Bianca’s photo? Delete it, right now! And apologize to her!” “Apologize?” I laughed as if he’d told the funniest joke in the world. “Why should I?” Adrian’s eyes finally landed on my new car, and his brow furrowed. “This car… you bought this?” I stepped out and dangled the keys in front of his face. “That’s right, darling.” I raised my voice, making sure every single gawker could hear me. “Since you were so generous as to buy one for your student, I couldn’t let your actual wife look too shabby, could I? So I bought this one for myself. Fully loaded. Paid in full, with my own card.” “If you want something in life, you work for it. That’s what real strength is. A young woman with her whole life ahead of her shouldn’t be looking for shortcuts, getting involved in things she’ll be ashamed of later.” I shot a pointed look at the now-pale Bianca. “After all,” I paused, my gaze returning to Adrian’s thunderous face, “his gravy train is about to come to a screeching halt.” 2 We walked into the house, one after the other. Adrian tossed his keys onto the console table and sank into the sofa, adopting his usual cold-war stance. I changed my shoes and poured myself a glass of water, ignoring him completely. When I met him, Adrian was just a poor kid from the countryside. I married him against my parents’ adamant objections. In his eyes, that desperation became proof that I was weak, that I could be easily controlled. He was convinced that if he gave me the silent treatment, just like he always did, I would eventually break and come crawling back, apologizing and begging for his forgiveness. But this time, I said nothing. And just as I expected, he couldn’t stand the silence. “Beth, what is it you want?” “There’s nothing going on between Bianca and me.” He walked over, his tone softening slightly, but still laced with that infuriatingly paternalistic air. “She’s a gifted student from a poor family. I was just trying to help a talented person in need.” “She said she would pay me back. Why do you have to be so unreasonable? Humiliating her in front of the entire university? How is she supposed to face anyone now?” Every word was a defense of Bianca, an indictment of me. I laughed inwardly, my face remaining a placid mask. “Is that so? Well, if she’s such an exceptional student, then I really should get to know her better.” “How about this? Let’s take her out for a meal sometime. It can be my apology for my… rash behavior today.” Adrian stared at me, clearly taken aback by my sudden capitulation. A flicker of smug satisfaction crossed his face before he nodded in agreement. The dinner was at an exclusive private kitchen. Bianca was wearing a white dress, her makeup flawless, looking even more radiant than the day before. Adrian took the menu and spoke to the waiter with an easy familiarity. “Bianca is allergic to seafood, and she doesn’t like cilantro or spicy food. Extra sugar in the braised pork belly; she has a light palate, prefers things sweet.” He had it all memorized. Then he turned to me. “Beth, what do you want?” I smiled and told him to order for me. A few minutes later, a large platter of grilled lamb chops was placed in front of me. He had forgotten. Or perhaps, he had never bothered to remember that I am severely allergic to lamb. Bianca pointed at my plate with a giggle. “Mrs. Thorne, you’re so amazing. You can eat anything. I’m so picky with my food, it must be such a hassle for Professor Thorne to always remember my preferences.” “It’s no trouble at all,” Adrian chimed in immediately. “You’re perfect just the way you are.” Watching his fawning display, my heart grew colder with each passing second. I put down my chopsticks and casually brought up the past, my tone light as I spoke to Bianca. “You know, it wasn’t easy for your Professor Thorne to get where he is today. When I first met him, he was an apprentice at a hair salon. Everyone called him ‘Tony’.” Bianca choked on her tea, nearly spitting it out. Adrian’s face went black. I ignored them and continued. “He was so poor back then, he couldn’t even afford rent. I thought it was a waste for a university graduate to be washing hair, so I paid for his master’s and his Ph.D.” “Even his current teaching position at the university… my father had to pull a lot of strings to get that for him.” Bianca probably never imagined that the brilliant professor she so admired had such a sordid history as a kept man. Adrian looked like he was about to explode, but under my calm, steady gaze, he didn’t dare say a word. Because every word I’d said was the absolute truth. The rest of the meal passed in a strange, suffocating silence. As soon as we got home, Adrian clutched his stomach and announced he had diarrhea, a frequent excuse of his lately. I used to believe him, naively buying him all sorts of probiotics. Now I knew it was just a cover. While he was in the shower, on a whim, I picked up his phone from the nightstand where it was charging. I had never checked his phone before, so his password was simple: his birthday. I opened his messaging app. Pinned to the top was Bianca’s profile picture, a cute little white rabbit. The chat history was completely wiped. But then I went back and opened his text messages. The most recent one was sent just a few minutes ago. 【Bianca, don’t listen to her nonsense. I’m the one in charge of my family now. She’s just a clueless housewife who’s been depending on me for years. Stick with me, and I’ll take care of you.】 ‘Depending on me for years.’ The words made me tremble with rage. His meager professor’s salary could barely cover a designer coat, let alone the lavish dinners he used to impress people. But the naive Bianca had bought his lies, replying with a shy emoji. Followed by: 【So… same place tomorrow?】 3 A jolt went through me. I remembered something. Not long ago, Adrian had mentioned wanting to stay at our other, unused villa for a few days, claiming the quiet environment was better for writing his thesis. I hadn’t suspected a thing and had given him the keys. Now I realized, it was indeed a quiet, perfect place for… certain activities. The next morning, I drove directly to the suburban villa. A faint, unfamiliar perfume lingered in the air. I had never worn that scent. I slipped on a pair of house slippers and walked inside. The closer I got to the bedroom, the tighter an invisible hand squeezed my heart, making it hard to breathe. Just then, the bedroom door opened. Bianca emerged, wrapped in a sexy silk nightgown, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Honey, is that you? I’ve been waiting for you…” Her words died in her throat when she saw it was me. I didn’t give her a chance to speak. I walked up and delivered two sharp slaps across her face. Smack! Smack! Bianca stumbled back, stunned, clutching her rapidly swelling cheeks. “You… you hit me?” “Hit you?” I sneered. “You’re lucky that’s all I’m doing. This is my house. You’re trespassing. I could have you arrested.” The mask of innocence dropped. “Don’t act so high and mighty, Beth,” she spat. “You think you’re still the untouchable heiress? Stop deluding yourself! Adrian told me everything. Your family is nothing but an empty shell now. Even this villa is in his name!” At that moment, the front door opened. Adrian walked in, carrying breakfast. He froze when he saw the scene. His eyes locked on the red handprints on Bianca’s face, and his gaze shifted to me, blazing with fury. “Beth, are you insane?! Why are you hurting Bianca?!” He rushed to her side, shielding her behind him. Watching him protect her so fiercely, my heart turned to ash. “Adrian,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “have you forgotten who bought you this house?” His pupils contracted. “I’ll give you one last chance,” I said, pointing to a utility knife on a nearby table. “You have two choices.” “One, take that knife and shave her head. If I’m satisfied, we can pretend none of this ever happened.” “Or two,” my voice dropped to an icy whisper, “you can keep protecting her. But I will call my father right now and have him cut off all your project funding and get you kicked out of the university.” He knew, better than anyone, that my father could and would do exactly that. Everything he had—his title, his status, his reputation—was a gift from my family. “Beth, do we have to do this? After all our years of marriage…” “Marriage?” I cut him off. “Did you think about our marriage when you were lying about writing a paper and screwing her in this bed? Did you think about our marriage when you were using my family’s money to buy her a luxury car, while refusing to buy me a new one?” With every word, the color drained from his face. I pressed the knife into his hand. “Choose. Your future… or your true love.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394368”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first time I saw Victor, he was just another street punk, slick with blood. The only clean thing about him was the raw, clumsy sincerity in his eyes when he tattooed my name over his heart. Later, when he seized power, he gifted me half the Waterfront as a wedding present. Everyone in the city knew: I, Ava Costello, was his everything. Until today, when the little starlet Victor was keeping shimmied into my home. She stood there, one hand on her swelling belly, her eyes curving into a smug smile as she offered her advice. “Ms. Costello, are you going to walk out of here with your dignity, or are you going to wait for my son to grow up and throw you out?” I raised a hand and had my men drag her away to “take care of the problem.” Victor saw the pool of blood spreading beneath her and his face twisted with fury. He pressed a knife to my throat. “Ava,” he hissed, his voice a low growl, “you need to learn some goddamn gratitude.” I just laughed, the sound soft as I pressed the muzzle of my pistol against his heart. “You’ve really changed. Good thing I haven’t.” “The only thing real in my heart… has always been my ambition.” Bang. The gunshot echoed through the hall. 1 The one who fell was Limpy, the man who had hobbled in Victor’s shadow for a decade. “That attached to her, are you? It makes sense. Limpy was the one who so carefully trained that little actress before delivering her to your bed. I suppose he did a fine job, if she could make you this furious with me.” My gaze dropped to the sliver of cold steel still resting against my neck. I scoffed. “Aren’t you going to do it, Victor? You were never this indecisive before.” “What’s the matter? Your hand is shaking.” My mocking gaze was a physical blow. In the silent war of our eyes, he was the first to break. He threw the knife down, the clatter echoing his defeat, and sank back onto the sofa. “Limpy was with me for ten years. What you did… it was too much, Ava. Too cruel.” A faint smile touched my lips as my men dragged Limpy’s body from the room. “He wasn’t you.” “You’re the only one I’m ever soft on.” Victor looked at me, his expression a tangled knot of emotions. “I want Vivian to stay.” “This life… it’s all blood and shadows. I’m tired, Ava. Vivian is like… an open window. She lets me breathe. She makes me feel like a simple man, someone who could have a normal life, buying groceries and cooking dinner.” I didn’t answer right away. I placed my gun on the table beside me. I took my time lighting a cigarette, the smoke curling around my fingers before I finally spoke. “Normal?” “Victor, have you told her about the blood on your hands? The dirty money in your ledgers? The enemies who hunt you in the dead of night? You want to place her quiet little world of picket fences into the middle of all this?” “That’s not a simple life. That’s a death wish.” Victor’s brow furrowed, his patience wearing thin. “Ava, I’m not discussing this with you.” “I’m informing you.” He stood and walked into the other room, returning with Vivian in his arms. Her bleeding had stopped, and her pale, unconscious face was nestled against his chest. In the flickering lamplight, she looked disturbingly like a younger version of me. “Ava, just be the lady of the house.” “This is your last chance. If you dare touch Vivian again, I won’t show you any mercy.” Victor swept out with his men, the wide-open door letting in a gust of wind that extinguished the cigarette between my fingers. My right-hand man, Justin, stepped forward and relit it for me. “The gun was aimed off-target,” he murmured. “Did you go soft?” I exhaled a plume of smoke, repeating his words with a dry, mocking tone. “Soft? I never intended to kill him.” “One bullet is all it would take to end Victor’s life. But what I want are the passwords to his Swiss accounts, the ledgers of his gray-market dealings, and every last one of his legitimate businesses.” “Death would be getting off easy.” Justin, who had just been unsettled by my apparent mercy, now felt a chill run down his spine at the venom in my words. He asked a question that was almost naive. “Don’t you… don’t you love him?” A thousand memories flashed behind my eyes, leaving only a faint shadow of something like exhaustion, or perhaps nostalgia. “Love him? Of course, I do.” “Otherwise, what were the last ten years of dodging bullets with him for? A game?” “But love is a painkiller, Justin. Power… power is oxygen. You take a pill when you’re in pain, and it helps. But you can live without it. Cut off the oxygen, and you’re dead in minutes.” As if on cue, the grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour, its crisp notes slicing through the silence. Justin glanced at a text that had just appeared on his phone. “Latest update, boss. The head of the Northside Outfit, Don Costello, just died. They’re saying… heart attack.” “Hm,” I replied, a single, cold syllable. Justin couldn’t help but take a half-step closer, his voice laced with confusion. “You’re… not surprised? He was your father, after all.” The corner of my mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile. “Why would I be surprised?” “That was my work.” Justin’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, and the color drained from his face. I watched his horrified expression, my voice as calm as if I were discussing the weather. “Any stone in my path gets cleared.” “My own father… was no different.” The ember at the tip of my cigarette reached my fingers. I crushed it out in the ashtray and looked at him. “Any more questions?” Justin bowed his head, not daring to ask another word. I stood, picking up the gun from the table and gesturing vaguely toward a spare room. “Victor said he wants Vivian to stay? Fine. Let her stay.” “The show’s just getting started.” 2 The sharp click of heels echoed from the foyer. Vivian’s sweet, cloying voice drifted in as she directed Victor’s men with her luggage. “Be careful with that!” “Victor bought that for me at an auction. Don’t you dare scratch it.” She stood in the center of the opulent villa, her eyes sweeping over everything with a greedy, defiant hunger. Her gaze finally landed on my back as I sat on the sofa, reviewing a stack of documents. She sauntered over. “Sister,” she began, the word dripping with false sweetness. “Victor said the air is better out here. He wants me to move in so we can get to know each other.” “You don’t mind, do you?” I didn’t look up. I turned a page of the financial report, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. “I do.” Vivian was taken aback by my bluntness, by the fact that I wouldn’t even pretend to play nice. She froze for a second, then her smile widened, blooming with a foolish arrogance. “It doesn’t matter if you mind.” “This is what Victor wants. He said that once I learn the ropes of the business, I’ll be the new lady of this house.” As she spoke, she wandered over to the liquor cabinet. She picked up one of my prized crystal glasses. “This is nice. I’ll use it to drink my sweet tea.” Seeing that I was still ignoring her, Vivian marched over and sat down beside me, snatching the documents from my hands. “What are you looking at?” “You’re not allowed to see these anymore. From now on, only I can read these papers!” The freshly printed A4 paper was sharp. As she ripped it away, its edge sliced a thin, stinging line across my palm, drawing a bead of blood. Only then did I finally turn my gaze to her. I looked at her the way you might look at a piece of trash, with a coldness utterly devoid of feeling. Honestly, it had been years since I’d met someone so eager to die. “Who let you in here?” “Victor, of course. Who do you think you—” I cut her off, my voice still quiet, but carrying the weight of unspoken threat. “There is only one master in this house.” My presence seemed to stun her for a moment. But she quickly recovered, puffing out her chest and standing to look down on me. “You dare touch me?” she sneered. “Victor told me that yesterday was the last time he’d tolerate your behavior. If you lay a hand on me again, he’ll throw you out on the street!” A small, cold smile touched my lips, but it never reached my eyes. I stood up, pulling the pistol from the small of my back and reloading it right in front of her. “Touch you?” “You’d dirty my hands.” I suddenly raised the gun— Vivian shrieked, dropping to the floor and covering her head, her eyes squeezed shut. But the shot she expected never came. My aim wasn’t on her. It was on the liquor cabinet behind her. The next second—CRACK! The explosive sound of shattering crystal ripped through the room. Flying shards of glass peppered the air, one of them slicing a deep, bloody gash across Vivian’s calf. She was frozen in terror, her face ashen. She had forgotten how to even cry. “It’s filthy now,” I said calmly. “Have someone clean it up.” Justin immediately nodded. I looked down at the trembling girl and leaned in close. I spoke each word with chilling precision. “The last person who dared to act like this in front of me was named Limpy. Yesterday, I sent him to meet his maker.” “If you don’t believe me, I can send you down to ask him yourself.” With that, I straightened up, pulled out my phone, and dialed Victor’s number. I put it on speaker. “You have twenty minutes to get your girl and her trash out of my house.” “Otherwise, you can start planning a funeral.” 3 Twelve minutes later, the screech of tires tore through the quiet afternoon. Victor stormed into the villa, his face a mask of thunder, with his top enforcer, Bruno, right behind him. His eyes immediately found Vivian, collapsed on the floor with a bloody leg, weeping hysterically. Behind her, a massive hole had been blown through my liquor cabinet. His rage ignited. The moment Vivian saw Victor, she scrambled toward him like he was her savior, collapsing into his arms. Her sobs grew more pathetic. “Victor, she… she’s trying to kick me out!” “And… and she tried to shoot me! I was so scared…” Victor murmured a few comforting words to her before turning his fury on me. “Ava, what the hell is the meaning of this?” “I just warned you yesterday! She lost our child because of you! She’s still recovering!” I remained seated on the sofa, not having moved an inch. I met his blazing eyes with a calm that was almost terrifying. “The meaning?” “Was I not clear enough on the phone?” My unshakable composure only fueled his anger. “Ava, this is my house!” “I’ll have whoever I want live here. You don’t get to give the orders.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. An image flashed in my mind: Victor bringing me here for the first time. His young face was flushed with excitement as he showed me the unfinished house, waving his arms around wildly. “Ava, this will be our home. You can decorate it however you want, do whatever you want. In this house, you’re the boss!” And now, here he was, ordering me to tolerate his mistress. I stood up. “Your house?” “Victor, have you forgotten? This villa… whose name is on the deed? And while we’re at it, the legal ownership of all your ‘clean’ businesses… who holds that title?” Victor was momentarily speechless. But one look at the weeping girl in his arms hardened his resolve. “You…” My gaze flickered to Vivian, still playing the victim. “For her? A toy you’ve known for seven months, one who was hand-picked and trained just for you?” “You’re willing to burn everything down between us for that? Have you thought this through?” Victor’s towering rage suddenly deflated, his bravado gone. I smiled and stepped closer. My voice dropped to a low hiss, like a viper’s whisper. “What do you think would happen if I took those real ledgers from your safe and sent them over to the Northside Outfit? I hear their new boss is looking to make a name for himself. Or perhaps I could give them to Detective Miller at the Financial Crimes Unit…” “Do you think you’d still be able to stand here, parading your little lover in my face?” Victor fell silent. When my eyes swept over Bruno, even he instinctively lowered his head, unable to meet my gaze. I gave Justin a slight nod. He immediately understood and stepped forward, making a polite, but firm, “this way” gesture to Victor. “Sir, the car is waiting outside.” Victor’s face was dark as a storm cloud. He held Vivian tight and stalked out of the villa without a backward glance. “Ma’am,” Justin said quietly once they were gone. “Showing your hand so openly like that… Victor is bound to make a move.” “You…” I just shook my head, a faint smile on my lips. “That wasn’t a trump card, Justin. That was me, being merciful, and giving him one last chance.” “If he dares to make a move, that’s when he truly loses.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394385”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel