Category: English

My best friend was becoming my sister-in-law. I was thrilled. I volunteered to edit the “Love Journey” video for their wedding reception myself. My brother, Mason, smiled and went to get the footage. But the moment he opened my best friend’s laptop, his expression darkened. He kicked her, over and over again, breaking her ribs before locking her in the basement. “You filth! I finally found you!” My parents took one look at the laptop screen, and their eyes turned cold and predatory. “Drain her blood. Hang her up. Only pain can purify her sins.” I didn’t understand. I tried to speak, to stop them, but a heavy blow to the back of my head silenced me. As I lay dying, a string of floating text drifted across my vision: [Run, Harper! Your best friend is bad news!] [Your whole family is psycho! Run, you innocent flower!] It was too late. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the morning of the wedding…

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389218”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My tab for the evening: two simple, honest dishes, barely scraping seventy dollars. The table next to me, however, was a different story. Four men in power suits, drowning in high-dollar Scotch and enough premium Napa Cabernet to flood a small cellar. Boston lobster shells piled up like tiny monuments to excess. When the waiter slid the check onto my table, I stared at the total: $1,260.50. I froze. “I only ordered two things,” I said. The waiter, with a practiced, neutral expression, nodded toward the now-empty round table. “Ma’am, your party left a moment ago. They instructed us to put the check on your table.” My friends? I had never seen them before in my life. I demanded the security footage. The manager, a thick-set man in a black suit, sneered when I pointed out the man in the video simply pointing at me, then swaggering out. “Don’t try to pull a fast one,” he growled. “You came in together.” That was the moment I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. The manager’s cold smirk instantly melted away. 01 The screen on my phone glowed, showing 7:00 PM. Noah’s text popped up: Traffic’s a nightmare, babe. Maybe thirty minutes late. Go ahead and grab a table. I quickly texted back a ‘thumbs up’ emoji and tucked the phone away. Tonight was our three-year wedding anniversary. A month ago, Noah had booked this place, Aura on the Ascent. He’d promised a refined atmosphere and exquisite food—a proper celebration. I sat at the window-side table for two, the clean, cream linen crisp beneath my elbows. A waiter poured me some chilled lemon water. I opened the menu. The prices were predictably steep. I bypassed the showy entrees and ordered a couple of our favorites—a delicate Pan-Seared Halibut and a plate of buttery, seasonal Asparagus with Hollandaise. Just the two dishes, well under a hundred dollars. I didn’t want to be extravagant, but I wanted the night to be perfect. I looked out the window. The city lights were beginning their nightly display, the traffic below looking like streaks of colored ribbon. “Waiter! Another bottle of the Macallan!” A loud, booming voice shattered the restaurant’s cultivated quiet. I flinched, glancing at the round table next to mine. Four men, all about forty, dressed in glossy, expensive suits. Their hair was slicked back, and their gold watches flashed under the ambient light. Their table was a disaster of high-end consumption. The man in charge, addressed as “Mitch” by the others, was scarlet-faced and waving his phone, bragging loudly. “I told the CEO, ‘Under five hundred million, we don’t even talk.’ The man poured me another drink right there!” His companions immediately fell all over themselves with sycophantic praise. “Legend, Mitch!” “We’re just happy to drink the runoff, boss.” I turned back to the window. I had no energy to waste on people who treated every public space like their own private stage. My two dishes arrived quickly. The halibut was perfectly browned; the asparagus was a tender, vibrant green. I left them untouched, waiting for Noah. The clamor next door was reaching a crescendo. Mitch seemed to notice me. He raised his wine glass and his eyes drifted over, a vague, knowing smirk on his lips. He spoke to the man beside him in a voice calibrated just loud enough for me to hear. “These young girls, coming to a place like this, ordering two sides just to take a picture for Instagram. All for show.” I didn’t even blink. Dealing with that kind of insecurity would only pull me down to their level. They drained another round, then finally seemed ready to disperse. Mitch staggered to his feet and wobbled toward the host stand. The remaining three men slapped each other on the back, and as they passed my table, one of them made a point of bumping my chair. I held my tongue. I saw Mitch interact with the server near the front. He said something, then explicitly pointed in my direction. The server nodded. Mitch and his buddies then swaggered straight out the main doors. 02 I watched them disappear, feeling a vague sense of irritation, but nothing more. Maybe he’d just asked the server to take his call at his table. Ten minutes later, Noah texted: In the lobby! Be right up! My mood lifted instantly. I reached for my phone, ready to tell the kitchen to warm up my order. A young server approached my table, a check presenter in hand. He placed it gently on the table. “Ma’am, your total comes to $1,260.50.” I was stunned. I picked up the check and opened it. A long, dense list of items—Scotch, the pricey Cabernet, the Boston Lobster—everything the table next to me had consumed. I looked up at the server. “Did you make a mistake? I only ordered two dishes.” He maintained a professional, if distant, smile. “No mistake, ma’am.” He gestured to the now-busser-cleared table beside mine. “The gentlemen who just left, your friends? They told us the bill was being settled by you.” Friends? I didn’t know them. A spike of pure heat rushed through me, but I forced my voice to remain even. “I don’t know those men. Please get your manager.” The smile dropped from his face, replaced by a look of stern professionalism. “Ma’am, please don’t joke. Mr. Hawthorne was very clear. He said you were a friend, and he was leaving the tab.” “I’m telling you one more time: I don’t know them.” My voice was now cold. “Get your manager.” The server looked flustered, clearly not equipped for a confrontation. He mumbled something into his earpiece. Moments later, a man in a black suit with a “Floor Manager” badge—Gary Benson—approached. He was stout and impeccably groomed, with a tight, judgmental expression. “Ma’am, I’m the manager. Gary Benson. What seems to be the trouble?” I pushed the bill toward him. “This isn’t mine. I ordered less than a hundred dollars in food. This three-course bill belongs to the table that just left. Your server has mistakenly charged it to me.” Gary Benson picked up the check, scanned it, then looked me up and down. A faint, contemptuous smile played on his lips. “Ma’am, I just confirmed with the host stand. Mr. Hawthorne explicitly stated you would be settling up. Look, we’re all adults here. It’s a bit over a thousand dollars. No need to make a scene, is there?” His tone was heavy with implication, suggesting I was a cheap opportunist trying to dine and dash. “A scene?” I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Strangers ate and drank a thousand dollars of food and told a restaurant I would pay for it. And you think I’m the one making a scene? Is this how Aura on the Ascent does business?” His face hardened. “Ma’am, please watch your tone. We operate on good faith here. We have every reason to believe you were part of that party. Trying to skip out on the bill now won’t work.” His voice was low, but several nearby tables heard the exchange. Heads snapped toward me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled scorn. I felt the blood rush to my face. Not from shame, but from pure, incandescent rage. 03 “I am not skipping out. I will not pay a single cent for what I didn’t consume,” I said, locking eyes with Gary Benson. “Proof?” I countered. “Where is your proof that we were a party?” He was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked down at me with disdain. “Proof? Our server heard Mr. Hawthorne say it with his own ears. Besides, you came in around the same time and sat this close to them. You expect us to believe you didn’t know them?” The sheer audacity of the logic made me speechless for a moment. “So, because my table was adjacent, I’m financially liable for strangers? Is this restaurant’s seating chart based on ‘Friendship Affinity’?” My voice was dripping with sarcasm. Gary Benson’s mask of pseudo-professionalism finally shattered. “Ma’am, I will tell you one last time. You are settling this bill tonight. Otherwise, we will be forced to follow protocol.” “And what is your protocol?” “We have the right to escort you to the security office until you decide to be reasonable and pay up.” He glanced pointedly toward the main doors. Two large security guards in black uniforms immediately detached themselves from the entrance and took up menacing positions flanking my table. The surrounding diners began whispering. “Look how ordinary she’s dressed. Probably trying to scam them.” “Right? Who comes to a place like this and doesn’t know their party?” “Trying to fake it till you make it, I guess. Never works at Aura.” The comments felt like pinpricks. In my thirty years, I had never faced such blatant public humiliation. My hands, hidden beneath the table, were clenched into white-knuckled fists. I took a slow, deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. Arguing was useless. They had already decided I was a fraud. “I want to see the security footage,” I stated. Gary Benson scoffed as if I’d suggested something hilarious. “Fine. But I’ll warn you, if that footage confirms you were part of the group, settling the bill will be the least of your problems.” “And if the footage proves we were not together?” I pressed. “Then the meal is on me, and I will apologize to you in front of every guest here,” he said with absolute certainty, clearly believing he had me trapped. “Deal.” I stood up. “Let’s go.” Gary Benson led the way, me following under the gaze of the entire dining room, with the two security guards trailing behind like escorts for a criminal. A wave of dizziness washed over me, not from fear, but from the raw heat of my fury. This anniversary, meant to be warm and romantic, had been completely poisoned by this man’s corruption. 04 The manager’s office smelled of stale coffee and a faint, metallic scent of a bad temper. Gary Benson sat behind his desk, indicating a small, uncomfortable stool opposite him. “Sit.” I didn’t. I stood, facing him across the desk. “The footage?” He took his time, slowly picking up a mug, blowing on the surface, and taking a deliberate sip. “Relax, kid. This is Aura on the Ascent. Our security is state-of-the-art. No one’s running away from this.” He clicked a few times on his computer, pulled up a video window, and spun the monitor toward me. “See for yourself.” The screen showed the host stand’s camera angle. I watched the man, Mitch Hawthorne, walk up to the counter. He spoke to the server, and then, exactly as described, he raised his hand and pointed in the vague direction of my table. The footage stopped there. Gary Benson leaned back in his chair, a smug, triumphant look on his face. “Well? There it is. He points right at you and tells our server, ‘That’s my friend, put it on her tab.’ Now, what do you have to say?” I stared at the frozen image, my mind racing. The footage was deliberately misleading. First, there was no sound. What they actually said was entirely his word against mine. Second, the angle was too limited. It showed the pointing, but not the server’s facial expression or any prior exchange. Third, why only this clip? Where was the full, uncut footage from the moment they walked in until they left? “I want to see the complete, uncut video log,” I said. “From the moment they entered until they left, from all available angles. Especially any that might have ambient audio.” His victorious smile flickered, then settled back into place. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. Our dining room cameras are silent to protect guest privacy. As for the full log, that involves other patrons. We can’t just hand it over.” It was the perfect, airtight excuse. I understood then. They were in this together. Gary Benson was never interested in resolving a mistake; he intended to pin this bill on me from the start. Seeing my silence, he must have assumed I was defeated. He stood and placed a patronizing hand on my shoulder. “Listen to me, little girl. In business, reputation matters. A thousand bucks isn’t much. Chalk it up to a lesson learned. You take the loss, and you leave. But if you keep pushing this, it’s going to get very ugly, and trust me, you don’t want that.” His voice was laced with an undeniable threat. I jerked his hand away and took a step back. “I told you. It’s not my money. I won’t pay a cent.” His last thread of patience snapped. The false professionalism evaporated, replaced by something dark and ugly. “You’re asking for it, huh? Fine. We’ll see how long you can hold out!” He grabbed the desk intercom and barked a command: “Tony, Mike, get her back out to her table! And keep her there! If she tries to bolt, I don’t care what you have to do!” 05 I was physically escorted—practically held—by the two guards and placed back in my original seat. Gary Benson followed, standing over me, and raised his voice to ensure everyone in the restaurant could hear. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the disruption. This woman consumed over a thousand dollars in food and beverage and is now attempting to skip the bill. We are handling the situation and apologize for the inconvenience.” The moment he finished speaking, I became the center of the restaurant. All eyes were on me, filled with a sickening mix of contempt, amusement, and self-righteous judgment. I felt like an exhibit, a spectacle. The blood was pounding in my ears. Then I saw Noah. He had just stepped into the restaurant and was scanning the room. He saw me—trapped between two guards—and his smile vanished. He hurried toward my table. “Naomi, what is going on?” “Stay back!” I yelled at him. I didn’t want him involved. I didn’t want him to see me in this humiliating, vulnerable position on our anniversary. Noah stopped dead, his eyes wide with panic. Gary Benson saw Noah and his eyes lit up; he had found a fresh target. “Oh, your friend showed up? Perfect. Since she won’t settle the bill, you can take care of it. $1,260.50.” He shoved the check toward Noah. Noah looked from the bill to me, his face registering pure confusion and disbelief. “We didn’t order any of this!” “She said the same thing,” Benson snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “I don’t care if you’re a party or not. Someone is paying this bill tonight. Otherwise, neither of you is leaving.” He pointed a finger at me, addressing Noah. “I suggest you pay up now. Otherwise, I’m calling the police and pressing charges for disturbing the peace and dining-and-dashing. You’ll have a permanent record. This isn’t just about a thousand dollars anymore.” It was a blatant, ugly threat. Watching Noah’s helpless, anxious face, watching Gary Benson’s triumphant smirk, and feeling the cold judgment of the crowd, the last wire of my patience snapped. Fury and humiliation erupted in my chest like a violent geyser. But I knew I couldn’t lose control. If I laid a hand on him, I’d lose the battle. I had to be surgical. I slowly turned back to Gary Benson, speaking each word with careful deliberation. “Are you absolutely certain you want to call the police?” Benson crossed his arms, leaning in with a mocking laugh. “What, you scared now? Too late! Even if you pay, I’m going to make sure you know the price of causing trouble in my house!” He was reveling in his power. “Good,” I nodded. I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389234”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I have a body like a pin-up model, but a voice that sounds like a toddler who swallowed a helium balloon. It’s a fatal mismatch. Every time I open my mouth, I get roasted. [Shut up! Does it hurt to pinch your throat like that all day?] [Stop faking it! You have a femme fatale face, why force the baby voice? Unfollowing!] The entire internet had been dragging me for a year. But I was a coward, so I never dared to clap back. Then came the reality show. I was publicly humiliated, pointed at, and cursed out in the streets. I finally snapped. I grabbed the Film Emperor standing next to me and wailed, completely breaking down. “Waaaah! I told you I wasn’t faking it! I wasn’t!” Unexpectedly, the usually toxic-tongued Film Emperor broke character instantly. His ears turned bright red, and he patted my head, looking completely panicked. The netizens, ready for a show, were confused. [Wait, is she… is she crying or flirting? Is it physically possible to sound that cute while having a breakdown?] [Xavier, why are you mute? Tell her she’s fake! Why are you blushing like a schoolboy?!] [LOL, spread the word! Hollywood’s sharpest tongue has malfunctioned. I think his bones just melted from that voice!] 01 I’ve had this baby voice since I was a kid. I also hit puberty early. Because of this, my dad hated me, and my mom said I was born to be a trophy wife for some rich old man. Later, a talent scout scouted me for my looks. When I debuted, my manager, Sarah, swore on her life I’d be a star. “With that face! With that body! You just stand there and you’ll be trending in minutes!” She laughed at the sky, convinced I’d take over Hollywood. But everyone underestimated the destructive power of my squeaky voice. A whole year passed, and my public image was in the gutter. It got to the point where people rolled their eyes the moment I opened my mouth. [Chloe Song is such a pick-me! If she just acted like a cool girl, I’d stan. Why force this sweet girl persona?] [Honestly, it was cute at first, but now it’s just annoying.] [Can she just shut up? If she wants to seduce men, go to a club, don’t disgust us on the internet!] The insults were endless. But I was too timid. I could only bite my blanket and swallow my tears. Sarah tried to comfort me. “Bad publicity is still publicity! Listen to me, with this contrast, if we just focus on your career, you’ll be rich sooner or later!” I burst into tears. “Is this the netizens’ revenge?” Sarah, a fiery Texan woman, felt she had developed the patience of a kindergarten teacher after managing me for a year. My voice made women scream and men weak in the knees. But the contrast between the sound and my appearance was too great. No one believed it was natural! The damn netizens insisted Sarah had no taste, ruining a “cool girl” by forcing her to be a “cutesy baby.” Who would understand her pain? “I begged every contact I have and got you a spot on a huge reality show,” Sarah said, gritting her teeth. “This time, we’re taking back everything that belongs to us!” She believed that once people saw me up close, men and women alike would fall into my net. Sarah giggled, lost in her own fantasy. 02 But before I even got to the variety show, I was trending for all the wrong reasons. #XavierKnightCallsChloeSongDisgusting# #ChloeSongFakeVoice# The trending topic was a clip of Xavier Knight, the youngest Film Emperor, streaming a video game. It had over a million reposts in half an hour. In the video, a teammate was dragging the team down. After dying a few times, she apologized in a pinched, nasal voice. Xavier laughed in anger and started roasting her. “Wow, did you swallow glue? Why are you pinching your throat like that?” “If you can’t speak normally, shut up! Don’t bark here! Your mouth is spewing nonsense.” Xavier had incredible acting skills, but his reputation was mixed. His mouth was venomous. His sarcasm was unmatched, making fans love and hate him. This had nothing to do with me, until Bella, the current “It Girl,” commented under the video. [That girl’s voice is so sweet, just like our Chloe on set.] A vague comment that twisted the narrative instantly. Netizens turned their firepower on my Twitter. [I knew that pick-me voice sounded familiar. It’s Hollywood’s resident baby, Chloe Song!] [Who else is that fake? Daring to use a baby voice in front of Xavier? Everyone knows he hates that.] [Doesn’t sound like her to me… Chloe is annoying, but not that bad, right?] [Comment above is a paid bot. If not her, is it Bella? Bella is known for being naturally sweet, they aren’t even comparable!] The internet was full of curses. I was almost dug out of my grave by netizens analyzing every video of me speaking. I was sitting at home, minding my own business, when the pot fell from the sky. Sarah was furious. “That damn Bella is the real fake! She thinks just because she has a cute face I can’t tell? That teammate was probably her, and she dragged you down to hide it!” Even though I was used to being flamed for my voice, this was my first time being mass-attacked on a trending topic. I felt like dying. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The next second, my phone rang. “Chloe! Log in! Bro is gonna take you to the Rift to slap Xavier Knight in the face!” 03 Jordan is the most famous male voice actor in the industry. We met in a dubbing club in college. He was indignant. “WTF, my sister’s voice is so sweet. Is Xavier deaf or just looking for a fight?” I was moved to tears, swearing to hug this brother’s thigh forever! Before I could react, Jordan pulled me into a lobby and matched us against Xavier. I started playing in a panic. But I suck at games. Fierce as a tiger in spirit, 0-5 in stats. Xavier’s gnashing teeth came through the headset. “Uninstall the game. Go play Candy Crush! You’re so bad you’re carrying the other team.” The chat went wild. [Did Xavier step in dog poop today? His luck with teammates is terrible.] [It’s probably another girl. Is she gonna apologize in a baby voice again?] Jordan was anxious, urging me on the phone. “Scold him back! Why are you here? If you don’t roast him, you’re getting flamed for nothing!” provoked, I turned on my mic. But having always been the one scolded, I stuttered for a long time before weakly replying: “So… so what?” Jordan almost coughed up blood. “Listen to me! I’ll say a line, you repeat it!” I nodded like a chicken pecking rice, stammering as I roared after him. “Did I eat your rice? Why do you care so much?” “If you hate me that much, you can die first!” “Did I ask you to speak? Why are you barking!” Just as I was getting into the rhythm, Jordan went silent. I was dumbfounded. And then? I froze for a while. Then, Xavier’s stammering voice sounded. “Sorry.” On the screen, the tips of his ears seemed a bit red. “Another round? Duo queue?” AHHHH! I curled my toes in embarrassment, my hand shook, and I swiftly exited the game. 04 I ran away, but the internet exploded. [Holy crap, so sweet! Who can resist that little voice?!] [Wait, she scolded him and ran? Who taught her that? Did you see Xavier freeze up?] [LMAO, this guy changed faces so fast. Half an hour ago he was a demon! But that girl’s voice really is too sweet!] Even more ridiculous, Xavier posted a tweet apologizing for his behavior tonight. [I was too fierce tonight, don’t take it to heart…] Since Xavier didn’t know it was me, I casually replied. [It’s okay, it’s okay. Just another day of being blamed for things I didn’t do.] I scolded him back anyway. Maybe because I was too D-list, I never realized the impact of interacting with a Film Emperor. My casual reply caused my notifications to explode. [You? Chloe Song, where do you get the nerve to leech off this?] [Do you really not know how annoying your voice is? Don’t make us laugh!] [It’s easy to tell the difference between a fake pick-me and a natural sweet voice, okay?] The harsh comments kept coming. But among them, I noticed a default-avatar account constantly defending me. [Her voice is sweet! What’s it to you?] [So what? I like it!] [Still calling her fake? What are you? Deaf?] [Damn it, if my main account wasn’t banned, I’d expose you all!] He attacked every negative comment indiscriminately. The style was vaguely similar to… Xavier? I shook the thought from my head, moved to tears. I secretly liked a few of his comments. Brothers for life!

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389251”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three years into our arranged marriage, my aloof, CEO husband started acting strange. He became even colder. He refused my advances. And his lawyer was frequenting his home office. I thought I understood: Carter had finally reconnected with his “White Moonlight”—his high school crush—and was preparing to divorce me. Being the sensible wife, I drafted the divorce papers myself. The next day, just as I was about to board a plane for my “Eat, Pray, Love” world tour, I received a video. It was Carter. He was standing on the edge of a rooftop, eyes red and swollen, hugging my beagle and sobbing uncontrollably. “She wasn’t supposed to leave us until next year! Why did the timeline change?!” “Buddy, you have to promise me… you have to bite that other man to death for Daddy, okay?!” 1 Carter got into a car accident. By the time I rushed to the hospital, he had already been awake for a while. He lay on the hospital bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, looking exhausted. The nurse whispered to me, “Mrs. Sterling, since he woke up, he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything. He seems… troubled.” I sat by the bed and opened the thermos. “Carter.” As I brought the spoon to his lips, he frowned almost imperceptibly and pulled back. I could tell something was off. So, I put on my sweetest voice. “Honey, try it. It’s still warm. I made it myself.” This time, his eyes were cold and distant. “I don’t want it.” He rejected me again. There was zero warmth in his gaze. He was a completely different person from the man who had cuddled me to sleep the night before. I tried one more time, patiently. “Really? I simmered this chicken soup for hours. Just one sip?” Carter remained silent. He studied me, as if analyzing my next move. I mentally rolled my eyes. I turned the spoon around and swallowed the soup myself. Fine. Starve then. 2 Carter Sterling and I are in an arranged marriage. Our families—the Sterlings and the Yorks—merged assets, and we merged lives. We were high school classmates, but we ran in different circles. He was the stoic loner; I was the social butterfly. After the wedding, we were polite roommates. Things changed in the second year. One day, I came home and bumped into Carter walking out of his room wearing only a towel. I froze. Who knew my buttoned-up husband was hiding that kind of body under his suits? Carter slammed his door shut, clearly annoyed by my ogling. But that image stuck in my brain. After a week of… interesting dreams, I realized something. He is my legal husband. Sleeping with him is literally my right. 3 From then on, I made it my mission to seduce Carter. But he was tough. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, had no hobbies. His life was a scheduled loop: home, office, weekly dinners with parents. He was an NPC. I couldn’t find a crack in his armor. Until one day, I wandered into his bedroom and saw our high school graduation photo on his nightstand. In the photo, Carter stood tall, slightly smiling. Next to him, a girl with a cute bob was leaning toward him. Her name was Zoey. The “White Moonlight.” The one that got away. I remembered the rumors. Carter’s mom had paid Zoey off to leave the country so Carter would focus on the family business. Suddenly, I felt bad for him. He was the classic tragic hero—forced apart from his true love, emotionally shutdown. But that was fine. Before I unbuckled his belt, I would listen to his trauma. Eventually, I succeeded. We slept together. In the heat of the moment, I whispered magnanimously, “Carter, I saw the photo. It’s okay. I understand.” He froze. Then he kissed me with a sudden, fierce intensity. 4 After leaving the hospital, Carter was still icy. He was avoiding me. Tonight, it was almost midnight, and he was still in his study. I put on my new silk nightgown and decided to take the initiative. I knocked and walked in, circling his desk to sit on his lap. “Honey, I had a nightmare. I’m scared.” Usually, he would hug me and carry me to bed. I straddled his lap, ready for action. But Carter just looked at my neckline. Then, his long fingers reached out… and buttoned my top button. “Go to sleep, Harper.” What?! I stared at him. “But we agreed to try that new thing this week!” “I have work.” “You said that yesterday.” Carter looked up. “Harper… is sex that important to you?” He stumped me. But I thought about it. We had no emotional foundation. Physical intimacy was the only thing holding this marriage together. So, yes. I nodded. Carter closed his eyes, looking pained. “I understand. Leave me alone.” 5 Over the next few days, I barely saw him. His lawyer, Mr. Shen, was always there. One day, I was bringing fruit to the study when I heard them talking. “Miss Zoey’s funds and apartment are arranged.” “Good.” “And this agreement… are you sure? It’s very unfair.” “Not a penny left for her?” I froze. Carter replied coldly, “Do your job, Shen.” Mr. Shen sighed. “I know you said you ‘saw the future’ and that you’re dying, but… this seems extreme. Harper was just cutting fruit for you…” “So everyone knows we have a bad marriage,” Carter laughed bitterly. I backed away silently. I understood. Carter thinks he’s dying. He’s probably having premonitions about reuniting with Zoey in the afterlife or something. And now, he wants to divorce me. And leave me with nothing. 6 I was done. I moved into the guest room immediately. I called my lawyer to draft divorce papers and booked a full-body health checkup (just in case). Late that night, I was lying on the rug in the living room, venting to my best friend on the phone. “…If anyone says Carter is a good guy, I’ll scream. It’s a moral issue!” “I knew arranged marriages were a scam!” I started crying. “You don’t know how hard my life is! Carter is so mean! I miss you so much, babe!” Click. The living room light turned on. I froze and looked back. Carter was standing there like a ghost. He stared at my phone, his face pale. “Harper.” “Is it him?” 7 “Who I talk to is none of your business,” I snapped, hanging up. “And eavesdropping is rude.” Carter looked like he was in physical pain. “Is calling another man ‘babe’ privacy?” “I’m your husband. You’ve never called me that.” I laughed. He wants me to call him babe? Go ask Zoey! I smelled alcohol on him. “Babe,” I said, my voice flat and dead. “Happy now?” Carter lowered his head, hiding his red eyes. “Can I go to sleep now?” I asked, walking past him and slamming the guest room door. 8 I didn’t know that after I left, Carter stood in the dark living room for hours. He covered his face in despair. It was happening again. The cold look. The annoyance. The slam of the door. It matched the visions he saw while in his coma. In his visions, Harper falls in love with another man. She smiles at him, kisses him, and then ruthlessly divorces Carter. In the vision, Harper mocks him: “Carter, you are boring. Sex was the only interesting thing about you, and now even that’s boring.” “I hate you. My kindness was all an act.” “You loved me for ten years? Wow, you’re such a ninja. Want a medal?” “Your love makes me sick.” So, that was her truth. When Carter woke up from the coma, he wrote down a list of every potential male rival. It was ten pages long. He felt like he was going crazy. Has the man already appeared? No. Harper wouldn’t do this. She must have been manipulated by that “Other Man”! Who is he?! Carter took a deep breath. He had one year until the divorce timeline. He had to change fate. This time, the man Harper lives happily ever after with… must be him.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389267”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I walked up to them with a heavy wooden club in my hand, right as Alexander Knight and the younger Eliza Thorne were about to share a private moment. “If you dare take her out again, I will break your leg.” “Excuse me, who the hell are you?” They both turned simultaneously, Alex’s arm instinctively shooting out to shield Eliza. The memory of that protective gesture—a gesture he would repeat countless times in our life together—flickered violently through my mind. The club was trembling slightly in my grip, but my voice was unnervingly calm. “Me? I’m Eliza Thorne, eight years from now.” Alex laughed. It was that familiar, condescending chuckle I knew so well. “You’re crazy.” He reached for his phone to call 911. But Eliza’s hand shot out, pressing his down. She peered around his shoulder, her eyes wide with a hesitant curiosity. “Eight years from now?” I looked at the girl standing before me, twenty years old, her eyes bright enough to hold starlight, every strand of her hair practically humming with life. Of course, without a closer look, she wouldn’t recognize the shell of a woman who stood before her—the 28-year-old version. A woman whose eyes were dull and lifeless, whose body was soft and out of shape from pregnancy and childbirth, and who reeked of exhaustion and resentment. “The scar on your knee? You got that falling off your bike trying to grab an ice cream cone when you were seven. Your journal is hidden beneath the mattress in your bedroom. And you always use your left hand to push the front door open when you come in.” I spoke slowly and clearly, each word a cold, hard fact. Alex glanced from her to me, then back to her, pulling her close to his side. “Liz, honey, is this some crazy relative of yours? Let’s just go. Don’t pay her any attention.” But Eliza’s feet were rooted to the pavement. She shook off Alex’s hand and took a step toward me, beginning a detailed examination of my face, searching my eyes. Eight years can change a lot, but some things time can’t erase: the curve of the brow bone, that tiny, almost invisible scar on the lower lip, the faint mole at the corner of the left eye. None of it had changed. Her breathing hitched. “Are you really me, eight years from now?” “No way, Liz, you actually believe her? She’s clearly a scammer.” Alex looked utterly exasperated, reaching out to pull her away again. “We are calling the police right now.” I looked at Alexander Knight, this still-green man who would instinctively protect me, and forced a smile. “Alex, you saved up three months’ worth of pocket money to buy the ring. It’s sitting right now in your left pant pocket, and you planned to give it to her tonight, didn’t you?” The hand he was using to pull the twenty-year-old version of me away froze, then unconsciously, and with utter disbelief, reached to cover his pocket. The next second, he looked at my hand and challenged me. “If you’re the Liz from eight years in the future, then why aren’t you wearing a ring?” “Maybe because, later on, we never actually stayed together?” I countered, staring him down. “We will.” Alex’s denial was immediate and resolute. He squeezed Eliza’s hand tightly. “I love Liz. I will only ever want her for the rest of my life, and she feels the same way. We will be together, we’ll get married, we’ll have a kid, and we’ll live happily ever after.” Twenty-two-year-old Alex Knight: his love was hot, bright, and utterly blind, convinced of a future paved in gold. And he was right. We did love each other. We did walk down the aisle. We did have a child. As for the happily ever after? I ran a thumb over my left ring finger. Now, there was only a pale scar. A scar I got in the second year of our marriage, when Alex scratched me with the very ring he had given me. Our daughter, Maya, liked the ring—an eight-year-old style that had long been discontinued. So, he came to demand it from me for her. He’d said then, “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Maya have it?” I refused. He tried to grab it, and in the struggle, he tore the sharp edge across my finger. “Who is Maya?” I asked, looking at the young Eliza, whose hand was still tightly held by Alex, their bond already palpable. “Maya is the woman who will eventually sleep in your marital bed, wear your wedding ring, and call me a crazy bitch.” The color drained from Alex’s face. “That’s impossible.” I thought so too. Alex was obsessed with me. I was the center of his universe. He was terrified of me ever feeling wronged. How could he possibly fall in love with someone else? So, when I first saw the cute little bunny charm dangling from the rearview mirror of his car, I didn’t question it. I assumed it was a new prototype from his design studio. Twenty-nine-year-old Alex had opened an independent design studio, specializing in lifestyle and artistic products. He was constantly busy with new product development, production, and networking events. My life, meanwhile, was consumed by our infant daughter—a relentless cycle of formula, diapers, and screaming fits. My sleep was fragmented, and the thought of finding time to look in the mirror felt like a luxury. But trust was the bedrock of our relationship. I trusted him as I trusted myself. Until later, when I reached into the narrow gap between the passenger seat and the center console and felt a long strand of auburn hair. I pinched the strand, holding it up in the gloom of the underground parking garage. “Whose is this?” He barely glanced at it, not a single muscle in his face twitching. “Oh, I gave Summer a ride home today. It must be hers.” “Who is Summer?” Alex slapped his forehead, feigning annoyance at his own forgetfulness. “I’ve been so busy lately, I forgot to tell you. I hired a new junior assistant. Her name is Summer.” I silently dropped the hair out the window. The next day, I made an effort to get myself ready, then took our daughter to his studio. In the office, a young, pretty girl was leaning over the computer screen, debating the curve of a certain design line with Alex. As she spoke, her auburn hair would occasionally brush against his cheek. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” The two of them sprang apart as if electrocuted. Alex awkwardly tugged at his tie. “What are you doing here?” I shifted our daughter in my arms. “You haven’t been home for a few days. We missed you, so we came to visit.” Alex came over and took Maya from me, a look of guilt washing over his face. “That’s my fault. I’ve been swamped. As soon as this new collection launches, I promise I’ll make it up to you both.” I glanced at the computer screen. It displayed two stylized human figures. “What’s the name of this collection?” “A Lifetime Too Late.” The girl answered brightly. I looked at the vibrant, spirited girl. “You must be Summer. Did you just graduate from college?” “I’m twenty.” Alex chimed in casually, “Summer looks exactly like you did when you were twenty.” In some quiet corner of my heart, something went ping. The sound of ice cracking—the first, impossibly fine line in a frozen expanse. The twenty-year-old Eliza in front of me asked, “What happened after that?” I rubbed the small of my back. Since the birth of our daughter, it was a constant, dull ache. I slowly walked over and sat on a nearby bench. The wind swept between the three of us, seemingly carrying the heavy burden of those eight years. After that? After that came countless nights of self-doubt. I blamed the grind of motherhood, believing that I had become too suspicious, too unlovable. I tried not to check his phone for text messages, I stopped questioning his late nights. I desperately tried to make myself attractive again. Until the day I brought our daughter home a day early from the hospital—she’d been running a high fever—and found them, naked, in our bed. Clutching my daughter, who was asleep from the medication, my arm went stiff and a cold chill ran up my spine. I pushed open the door to the nursery and gently settled Maya into her crib. Turning to walk toward the bedroom door, the floor felt like a swamp. Each step was too heavy to lift. Alex was habitually leaning back against the headboard, smoking a cigarette. Summer was nestled into his arms. “I just wish I’d met you sooner, before that old woman hogged all this time.” “Don’t be silly.” Alex smiled, full of sickening indulgence. “How old were you when I met her? It’s not too late. We’re starting now.” Alex turned his head, his gaze colliding with mine in the narrow crack of the door. The hand holding the cigarette paused, a minuscule, tell-tale twitch. Summer finally turned and saw me, letting out a sharp gasp, immediately grabbing the duvet to wrap around herself. I looked at the king-sized bed we had picked out together, at the scrap of lacy lingerie that wasn’t mine carelessly tossed on our wedding portrait. A thousand words condensed into one quiet question. “Why?” Thirty-year-old Alex draped his arm around Summer’s shoulder and said calmly, “Because I love her.” Before me, twenty-two-year-old Alex’s face instantly darkened. He unconsciously gripped the young Eliza’s hand tighter, his voice strained with disbelief. “That’s not right. I would never do that to you. I would never love anyone else.” See? Even his younger self couldn’t comprehend or accept the cruelty of the man he was destined to become. How could he possibly love someone else? I went insane, lunging forward to claw at Summer, only to be shoved violently back onto the floor by Alex. He looked down at me, utterly devoid of warmth. “Don’t blame Summer, Liz. I’m completely in love with her.” His eyes dropped to my left hand. “Give me the ring. Summer really likes this style.” I refused. It was the one thing I cherished, the symbol of the very beginning of our love story. He lunged for it, his fingers digging into the metal band, and yanked hard. The ring snapped and flew off, leaving behind this permanent scar on my finger. “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Summer have it?” It was true. A person’s heart really could change. It could become so cold, so ruthlessly final. In a single moment, everything we built was pulverized. The twenty-year-old Eliza broke free from Alex, rushing forward to hug me. “It must have hurt so much.” The tears I had been holding back finally broke free. My body shook uncontrollably. “It hurt, baby. It hurt so much that I became a crazy woman.” I compiled their filthy secret into short videos, added desperate captions, and posted them on every social media platform I could find. I printed out banners and hung them outside our condo complex and his studio. I clung to our marriage certificate, refusing to sign the divorce papers, hoping to forever nail Summer to a pillar of shame—a forever-unseen mistress. But in the dead of night, I would still break down and text him, demanding to know why he had betrayed me. None of it worked. Alex easily had my videos deleted and my accounts suspended. The building security guards politely, but firmly, escorted me away when I showed up with my banners. Finally, Alex looked at my hands, which were shaking from the medication I was on, his eyes filled with only deeper contempt. “Stop making a scene, Liz. All you’re doing is making me look down on you even more.” Then, he delivered the final, most devastating blow. One afternoon, while I was passed out from exhaustion and a mental breakdown, he and Summer returned and took my daughter. “Your current mental state makes you completely unfit to raise a child.” His voice was cold, flat, through the phone line. “I’m applying to the court. From now on, you can only see Maya once a month.” “Or, you can sign the divorce papers quickly, and I might consider relaxing the visitation terms. You choose.” In the end, I compromised. I signed the divorce agreement. “And after that? Why did you come here?” The day I signed the divorce papers, Alex’s studio officially launched its new collection with great fanfare: “A Lifetime Too Late.” A massive banner, bearing a romanticized quote about fated, timeless love, was plastered across the venue. At the product launch, they unveiled two giant, special edition sculptures: a fox tightly embracing a small, delicate pink bunny. Alex and Summer attended, each wearing matching fox and bunny lapel pins. Under the flashing cameras, Alex’s gaze rested softly on Summer. “I’m ten years her senior. When we met, she was in the absolute prime of her youth, and I thought my life was already set in stone,” he said to the crowd. “She always tells me, ‘A lifetime too late.’ It was that pure, passionate sentiment that struck me. She is my muse.” He put an arm around Summer. “Today is not just the launch of my new series, but the beginning of a new chapter in my life. This collection is the testament to our story. I hope everyone, after all the detours, finally finds their true love.” The room erupted in applause. And I? I was lying in a bathtub, watching the water slowly turn red. On my phone screen, I watched the thirty-year-old Alex’s face warp and rewind, settling back into the twenty-two-year-old version I now stood before. He said he would love me forever. Then, I heard a voice asking if I wanted a chance to go back. I said yes, without a second thought. I wiped a tear and looked at the speechless Alexander Knight. “That is why I’m here.” The twenty-year-old Eliza spoke softly, lifting a hand to stroke my hair with genuine sorrow. “You must be so angry.” “It’s not anger,” I heard myself say, my throat tight. “It’s just that the ache lasted too long.” The club slipped from my grasp, hitting the ground with a deafening CLANG. Tears streamed down my face simultaneously. “Changing others is too hard,” I said. “We can only try to stop the us who was rushing headlong into this.” “So, the choice is yours now. The future depends entirely on you. Do you want to try and choose a different future for yourself?” The twenty-year-old Eliza’s hand froze mid-air, beginning to tremble slightly. Twenty-two-year-old Alex suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the young Eliza by the shoulders, his knuckles white. “Something must have gone wrong!” His voice was frantic, carrying the conviction of his age. “I swear, I truly love you, Liz. Only you. I’ve never even heard of a ‘Summer.’ I would never want anyone but you.” He cupped the young Eliza’s face, forcing her to look at him, his eyes blazing with an intensity and sincerity that the thirty-year-old man had long lost—only complete devotion and pleading. “Don’t listen to her, honey.” “Don’t leave me. We will have a different future. I promise I’ll do better. I’ll protect you forever. We won’t turn out like she says, absolutely not!” His vows, carried on the evening breeze, sounded both profoundly earnest and tragically fragile. But then again, he’d sounded just as resolute before. Love and neglect, deep affection and brutal betrayal, could apparently coexist in the same man. I looked down at my watch. “Eliza, you have ten minutes to think. After that, I will disappear. You might remember today as a strange event, or maybe just a blurry dream.” “But your choice, it has to be made in these ten minutes.” From far away, the indistinct noise of traffic and the city’s low hum drifted toward us, as if a parallel universe was operating as normal. Twenty-two-year-old Alex was still desperately pleading, trying to control the present with his unrestrained love. And the twenty-year-old Eliza? Her gaze was fixed on my face. She looked at the ugly scar on my ring finger, at the sheer exhaustion and despair radiating from me. Then, just as I faded from existence, she finally spoke. I opened my eyes in a hospital room.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389283”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I reclaimed the three properties and the half-million-dollar trust fund I had put in my daughter’s name. She knelt before me, crying and begging, “Mom, I can’t live without him!” I refused without a moment’s hesitation. She wiped her tears, stood up, and told me she would rather disown me as her mother than give up on marrying that gold digger. The next day, the gold digger himself showed up with a gift, asking to meet with me alone. 01 When I arrived, Ryan was already there. We were in the most exclusive café in the city center. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows lay the bustling financial district, its glittering towers reflected in the glass, and in the pained sincerity of Ryan’s face. His coffee was untouched. A beautifully wrapped gift box sat on the table. I ignored the gift, sat down opposite him, and placed my Birkin bag on the adjacent chair. “Mrs. Heaton, you’re here,” he said, half-standing before settling back down, his smile perfectly calibrated. “Olivia didn’t sleep well last night. I was so worried about her.” His opening line, as always, was that of a devoted, caring boyfriend. I stirred the ice in the glass of water in front of me, not even bothering to order a coffee. The cubes clinked against the glass, a sharp, cold sound. “Get to the point,” I said, my gaze as sharp and dissecting as a scalpel. The smile on his face froze for a second before stretching back into place, though it no longer reached his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “Mrs. Heaton, you’re a smart woman.” “Olivia loves me. She loves me enough to give up everything, including you.” A sharp pain lanced through my chest. The stirring stopped. He seemed pleased with my reaction, the curve of his lips deepening. He began to list all the “foolish” things my daughter had done for him. She ate the cheapest cafeteria food for two months just to buy him a designer watch. She lent him her car so he could show off to his friends, while she squeezed onto the subway for over an hour every day to get to work. To protect his pathetic ego, she never dared to mention our family’s true financial standing, telling him only that I was a mid-level corporate employee. Each story was a blunt needle, pushing slowly but surely into my heart. The spoon in my glass trembled slightly, but I betrayed nothing on my face. “And?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. Finally, he showed his true colors. “So, give Olivia back the properties and the money.” “After we’re married, you’ll still be her mother. We’ll take care of you, just like before.” He paused, the threat in his eyes now naked and unvarnished. “Otherwise, you might find it very difficult to even see her again.” The café’s heating seemed to fail. A chill crept up from the floor. I stared at him, at the undisguised greed and calculation in his eyes. This was no longer an attempt to persuade me. This was a declaration of war. As if that weren’t enough, he added one more piece of ammunition. “Mrs. Heaton, Olivia is still young, and sometimes she acts on impulse.” “What if, one day, we were to have an… accident? A baby? Surely you wouldn’t want your own grandchild to be born into a family without your blessing.” He was using my daughter’s womb to threaten me. I laughed. A cold, mirthless laugh that felt foreign on my face, making the muscles ache. “Your ambition isn’t worthy of my daughter.” He laughed too, a smug, sickening sound of absolute confidence. “No, Mrs. Heaton, you’re mistaken.” “It’s your daughter who can’t live without my ‘love’.” 02 When I got home, a half-packed suitcase was already in the entryway. My daughter, Olivia, was sitting on the rug, her eyes red and swollen. She looked like a little rabbit abandoned by the world. She shot to her feet the moment she saw me, her eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and hurt. I changed my shoes, walked to the living room sofa, and calmly recounted my entire conversation with Ryan. I didn’t add a single embellishment, didn’t inject any emotion. I was a recording, playing back his every word. I thought that would be enough to make her see him for who he truly was. I was wrong. Her reaction was even more explosive than I had anticipated. “You forced him to do it!” Her voice was shrill, laced with tears, every word an accusation. “He loves me so much! He was just trying to show you how much I love him! He was trying to reassure you! He was doing it for both of us!” For us? By threatening me? Seeing how deeply she had been manipulated, my heart sank, piece by piece, into an icy abyss. “Mom, is money the only thing you see?” “You’ve never believed I could find true love! You measure everything in dollars and cents. You don’t understand what pure love is!” My own marriage had failed years ago precisely because I had trusted a man who was only after my money, a mistake that nearly cost me everything I had built. I thought my past would be a cautionary tale for her. Instead, it became her weapon against me. She saw my caution as an insult to her love. Any explanation now would be pointless, twisted into further proof of my “controlling” nature. I couldn’t say a word. I just watched her. My silence seemed to enrage her further. She zipped the suitcase shut with a violent tug and dragged it to the door. She turned back, tears streaming down her young, stubborn face. “I’m moving in with Ryan.” “We’ll let you know after we get our marriage license.” “You’re going to regret this, Mom! You’ll see how wrong you were today!” The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the house. It felt like it had shattered the twenty-three years of love between us. I stared at the closed door, a profound sense of powerlessness washing over me for the first time in my life. I was alone in the vast, empty living room. Photos of her, from a babbling toddler to a proud college graduate, lined the walls, each smiling face a mockery of my failure. I had raised an accomplished, kind-hearted daughter. But I had failed to teach her how cruel the world could be. After a long time, I took out my phone and dialed a number. “Mr. Davis, I need you to find me the most reliable private investigator you know.” “I need a full background check on a man named Ryan. His family, his social circles, his past relationships, his finances. Everything. I want to know everything.” I hung up and didn’t turn on the lights. I sat there in the darkness, all night long. Grief washed over me like a tidal wave, but from the ruins of that sorrow, a harder, colder resolve began to grow. 03 The private investigator was efficient. Less than three days later, the first report arrived in my encrypted inbox. Ryan’s hometown was in a dirt-poor, rural county, in a village nestled deep in the mountains. His parents were farmers with antiquated, misogynistic views that were truly appalling. They had bled themselves and their several daughters dry to put their one son, Ryan, through college. He had a younger brother, five years his junior, a high school dropout who loafed around at home, the lazy, spoiled hope of the family. Most of Ryan’s salary since he started working had been funneled back home. He himself lived in a tiny, 300-square-foot studio apartment near his office. I looked at the photos—the crumbling house, the weathered lines on his parents’ faces, the sneer on his bleach-blond brother’s face. This was the “simple, kind-hearted” family he had told Olivia about. At almost the same moment, my “mole” sent me a message. The mole was my distant niece, Sarah, a couple of years older than Olivia. I had introduced them as friends. Sarah’s text read: Aunt Katherine, it’s bad. Ryan brought his whole family to the city! Attached was a photo. Four people were crammed into that tiny apartment. Ryan’s parents sat on the only worn-out sofa, their expressions a mixture of discomfort and scrutiny. His brother was slouched in a chair, legs crossed, engrossed in his phone. And my daughter, Olivia, was in the cramped kitchen, wearing an apron, her back to the camera. She looked so utterly out of place. Sarah’s play-by-play followed. The moment his mom met Olivia, she grabbed her hand and asked when the three properties would be transferred back to her name. She said she and the old man were getting old and needed one to retire in. His brother was getting married soon and needed one for his marital home. The last one, they could live in. Olivia awkwardly explained the properties weren’t in her name right now, and his mom’s face just fell. She started making snide remarks, like ‘City girls are so precious. Not even married yet and already talking back to her mother-in-law.’ I could practically see the scene, see the helpless, cornered look on my daughter’s face. And the brother is even worse! He just flat-out asked Olivia for money to buy the new iPhone, acting like she owed it to him! Ryan just stood there trying to smooth things over, saying things like ‘Don’t make it hard for Olivia,’ but he was giving her these looks, like he was telling her to just play along. In the end, Olivia had no choice. She transferred him a thousand dollars from the two thousand she had left in her account. That two thousand dollars was graduation money I had given her. Aunt Katherine, I was so furious I could have exploded! How can Olivia be so blind?! The last message contained a few audio recordings. I pressed play. It was the sharp, grating voice of Ryan’s mother. “What is this supposed to be? It’s so salty, it’s slop fit for pigs! Olivia, you should just quit your job. A young woman shouldn’t be out in the world like this. Quit, stay home, learn to cook properly, and get your body ready to give our family a healthy grandson!” In the background, I could hear his brother shouting at a video game and Ryan’s half-hearted, “Mom, that’s enough.” I turned off my phone, my fingertips ice-cold. Excellent. The fish were starting to take the bait. I looked out at the inky black sky, my own eyes darker than the night. The show was just beginning.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389299”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day Liam was diagnosed with a condition that left him unable to feel love, he asked the doctor if he would ever be capable of it. The doctor gave a noncommittal answer. I squeezed Liam’s hand. He pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. He proposed a platonic marriage, explaining that intimate contact made him uncomfortable. I agreed, assuming it was just part of his condition. We slept in separate rooms for seven years. Until yesterday, when I found a folded sonogram report tucked inside a book he often read. Gestational Age: 20 weeks. Name: Isla Vance. Date: Three months ago. On the back, in his handwriting: “Prenatal appointment: City General Maternity, Wednesday afternoon.” So it wasn’t that he didn’t want a child. He just didn’t want one with me. Liam, that’s ten lies. I told you. After the last one, I would walk out of your life and never look back. 1 I put the sonogram report back where I found it and acted as if nothing had happened. We were at the breakfast table. He sat down, drank his coffee, and read the financial news. His coffee was black today. That was careless. He was never careless. “Liam,” I said, cutting into my fried egg. “It’s Wednesday.” “Mm,” he answered, not looking up. “Do you have plans this afternoon?” “A meeting.” A nervous swallow. An unconscious touch of his nose. He was lying again. The eleventh time. I nodded and kept eating. The egg was hard. It had just come off the pan, but it felt cold. Today was our seventh wedding anniversary. He had promised me last night that he would spend it with me. But now, he had either completely forgotten, or he had never cared in the first place. “I bought a new potted ivy yesterday. It’s on the windowsill.” “Fine.” He turned a page in the magazine. Still so cold. He didn’t even glance my way. The ivy was already dead. I’d discovered it last week while watering it, the roots rotted through. But I didn’t throw it out. I just let it wither on the sill. He had probably never even noticed it. His phone screen lit up. I caught a glimpse of the notification: “City General Maternity reminder: Prenatal appointment today at 3:00 PM. Please be on time.” He quickly blanked the screen. “The soup’s getting cold,” I said, pushing the bowl closer to him. He took a spoonful, then paused. “Did you put ginger in this?” “To warm you up,” I said, looking at him. “You’ve been coming home so late recently. I was worried you’d catch a chill.” He didn’t say anything else, just finished the soup. His mind was elsewhere, his gaze shifting away from mine. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his jawline tight. For over two thousand days and nights, every time I needed him to see me, he was always looking somewhere else. I acted as if nothing was wrong. I threw away the ivy he had given me. It was completely rotten. There was no reason to keep it. People are the same. At two in the afternoon, I said I was going to the library. Instead, I turned right out the door and went into the coffee shop across from the maternity hospital. At ten past three, he appeared at the hospital entrance. He was wearing a dark gray overcoat and carrying a file folder. A young woman with long hair, dressed in a cream-colored knit dress, walked toward him. That was Isla. I’d seen her picture in our high school yearbook. The dimples that appeared when she smiled were identical to the ones on the girl in the graduation photo tucked away in Liam’s wallet. They came out just as I was finishing my third Americano. He helped her down the steps, his hand cupping her elbow, a light, protective gesture he never released. When Liam’s car pulled away, I hailed a taxi. “Follow that black Mercedes,” I told the driver. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror but didn’t ask any questions. He had driven back to the maternity hospital. He walked into the lobby carrying a paper bag, his steps quicker than usual. I didn’t get out of the cab. Through the window, I watched as Liam leaned down and kissed Isla’s forehead. Like a devoted husband. He and I had never been so intimate in public. Every time I tried to take his hand, he would gently pull away. Isla took the bag, looked inside, and her eyes curved into crescents as she smiled. He reached out and very lightly touched her stomach. A gesture so natural it looked like he’d practiced it a hundred times. It was the middle of winter, but the air in the car felt thick, suffocating. I rolled down the window, and the cold wind that rushed in finally cleared my head. There was a time when I wanted a child with him, too. But that was a long time ago. Disappointment after disappointment had worn me down. Liam, I don’t think I love you that much anymore. 2 My phone vibrated. A message from him: “Won’t be home for dinner tonight.” I typed back: “Okay. Happy anniversary.” Three minutes later, a question mark appeared. But he deleted it almost immediately. “You too.” Two words. He couldn’t even be bothered to ask what anniversary it was. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fight with him. It was just that the disappointment had piled up so high that I was too tired to dig through the past. I told the driver to take me to the waterfront. The wind was strong, whipping my hair across my face. A couple was taking wedding photos by the shore. The bride’s white veil billowed in the wind, and the groom laughed as he held down the hem of her dress. We never had wedding photos. He said he didn’t like being in front of a camera. Looking back now, I realize he just didn’t like being in front of a camera with me. As dusk fell, I went to the restaurant we used to frequent. The table for two I had booked was half empty. Steak, red wine, candlelight. And a small cake with “Happy 7th Anniversary” written on it. I finished my portion, then cut up his steak and slowly ate that, too. I tried a bite of the cake. It was too sweet. So sweet it was bitter. When I paid the bill, the manager recognized me. “Mrs. White, Mr. White isn’t with you tonight?” “He’s busy,” I said with a smile. As I walked out of the restaurant, I got a text from my bank. A large sum of money had been transferred to my account. The memo read: “Gift.” He always used money to solve everything. Wedding anniversaries, birthdays, even last year when I was hospitalized with a fever. He transferred money with a note: “Hire a nurse.” That was just him. He would throw money at a problem rather than offer a single word of comfort. It wasn’t until today that I realized he did know how to take care of someone. That someone just wasn’t me. And he would never, ever see me. We met on a blind date. He said I was a good fit for him. We dated like a normal couple, except I never once saw a spark of light in his eyes. He would prepare for our anniversaries. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses, every grand gesture I could have wanted. But he was always so detached. I thought he just had trouble expressing himself. It turns out his heart already belonged to someone else. Later, when we got married, we didn’t have a wedding. Our friends all thought Liam was just painfully shy. The truth was, I was afraid to stand on that stage and see no recognition in his eyes as he placed the ring on my finger. I was afraid that when the officiant asked, “Do you take this man?” my “I do” would be louder than his. It was nearly midnight when I got home. He still wasn’t back. The door to his study was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and saw a gift box sitting on his desk, already opened. Inside was a tiny baby onesie, pale blue, with little airplanes embroidered on the cuffs. I picked it up, imagining how carefully he must have chosen it. I saw the open journal next to it. His parents wouldn’t let him be with Isla. And I was the most suitable marriage partner. He had met twenty other women that day. None of them were right. Until he saw me. He stopped searching. Because I looked so much like Isla. Our marriage certificate was a lie. He had never seen me as his wife, only as an obligation. This whole marriage was a mistake from the very beginning. So, Liam. Let’s just call it quits. 3 I heard footsteps on the stairs. I folded the onesie exactly as it had been and placed it back in the box. As I walked out of the study, I passed him in the hallway. “You’re home,” I said. “Mm.” He smelled faintly of lilies. I hate lilies. “I went to that steakhouse today,” I said, leaning against the wall. “It tasted the same.” He paused in the middle of loosening his tie. “Alone?” “Who else?” I smiled. He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of scrutiny in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Get some rest,” he said, then went into the study. The door clicked softly shut. Then I heard the lock turn. That night, I lay in bed and heard the faint sound of music coming from the study. It was a piano piece he used to listen to often. I had once downloaded the same album, and he had frowned. “It’s noise,” he’d said. Now I understood. Isla liked to play the piano. It must be difficult for her now, with her belly so large. So he was playing for her. My phone screen glowed in the dark. I opened the airline app and confirmed my flight details. Departure: Tomorrow, 3:40 PM. My bags were already packed and stored in the closet. One small suitcase, just enough to hold everything I owned from this marriage. At four in the morning, I got up for a glass of water. As I passed the study, I saw through the crack in the door that he had fallen asleep at his desk. The lamp was still on, illuminating the open notebook beside his hand. At the top of the page, it said: Liam & Isla. Below was a list: 1. Crib 2. Child car seat 3. Inquire about school districts 4. … The handwriting was neat, the list organized. He had always been meticulous. I gently closed the door and went back to my room. Seven years. Even an iceberg should have melted by now. But Liam White had not. That night, I walked into his room. He was still awake, reading. I sat on the edge of his bed. His body tensed almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t move away. “It’s been seven years,” I said. “Have you ever tried to feel something for me? Anything at all.” He was silent. “Not even a little?” “You are my wife,” he said, avoiding the question. “So it’s just a responsibility?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. When he apologized, he sounded as if he were commenting on the weather. “Liam, I want to have a child with you.” “We can adopt.” I laughed, and tears started to fall. He pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to me, careful not to touch my hand. “Liam,” I said, wiping my eyes. “You’re lying again.” His brow furrowed slightly. “I have never lied to you. I told you I couldn’t love you.” He was right. He had told me. He told me the day he was diagnosed. I was the one who had been lying to myself for seven years. Thinking his condition was the only obstacle. Thinking there was no one else. Thinking time could change things. But I was wrong. I fell apart that night. I cried, I screamed, but he remained unmoved. His calmness made me feel like a hysterical, unreasonable child. He pushed me away, saying my emotions were unstable, that I wasn’t acting like an adult. But he used to say something else. He used to say that since he had no emotions of his own, he was happy to be my emotional dumping ground. It turns out you were just looking through me, at someone else. Dawn was breaking, light seeping through the curtains. I should buy myself some flowers, I thought. Any kind of flower. Just for me. 4 One last time, I lay in this bed. One last time, I listened to the silence of this house. One last time, I was Liam White’s wife. At nine in the morning, before he left, he said to me: “I have a work dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.” “Okay.” I stood in the entryway, adjusting his tie. His body stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. “Liam,” I said, letting go. “Your tie is crooked.” He glanced down. “Thank you.” “Drive safe.” He nodded and turned to leave. Just before the elevator doors closed, I saw him raise his wrist to check his watch. His memo from yesterday had noted it. Today was Isla’s birthday. After the door shut, I called the housekeeper. “You don’t need to come in today.” Then I began the final cleanup. My toothbrush, my towel, my slippers. The few clothes in my closet. The half-read book on my nightstand. I erased every trace of myself, as if I had never been there at all. Finally, I placed the sonogram report in his room. At noon, as I was pulling my suitcase through the living room, I found him there. He was watering the ivy. He had bought a new one. He turned around, the small watering can still in his hand. “Where are you going?” he asked. My voice was cold. “A business trip.” He picked up his coat. “I’ll drive you.” He already had his car keys in his hand. I wanted to refuse, but in the end, I just nodded. Fine. One last time. And the first time in seven years he had ever offered to take me anywhere. He opened the trunk and put my suitcase inside. The car was clean, with a faint scent of lemon. The good luck charm hanging from the rearview mirror was one I had gotten from a temple three years ago. He started the car, and warm air blew from the vents. Then, he did a series of things that caught me completely off guard. He turned down the volume of the radio. He switched to the podcast I always listened to. He handed me a cup of coffee. An oat milk latte. My usual. “Picked it up on the way,” he said. I took it. The cup sleeve was my favorite shade of light blue. No sugar, extra milk, the temperature just right. He knew all my preferences. He had just pretended not to see them. I think he must have seen the sonogram report on the table. He didn’t even ask how I found it. Maybe he didn’t think it was important. We had a silent agreement not to mention it, but we both knew. As we drove out of the neighborhood, I stared at the logo on the coffee cup. This coffee shop was near my office. It wasn’t on his route. It was a twenty-minute detour. “Send me your flight number,” he said, his eyes on the road. “I’ll pick you up when you get back.” I didn’t say anything. “There’s a new movie out.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel while waiting at a red light. “The one you said you wanted to see.” I looked down and sipped my coffee. “Liam,” I said, watching the city streak past the window. “Do you remember what my least favorite flower is?” He was silent for two seconds. “Lilies.” The air in the car turned to ice. The podcast host was laughing, saying, “In Iceland, saying goodbye is such a light, simple thing.” She was right. Goodbye is light. So very light. I didn’t bring up Isla. It was the last bit of dignity I was affording him. I was tired. I had no interest in dissecting his feelings. I just wanted to live my own life. I pushed the car door open, and a blast of cold air rushed in. “Liam.” “Do you know what day it is today?” His lips moved, but no sound came out. He touched his nose again. Nervous, blushing, unable to meet my eyes. The trunk popped open automatically. I got my suitcase and pulled up the handle. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving.” Before I left, I said one last thing, without turning back. “Liam. You said you could never learn to love anyone.” “But you learned how to lie.” Goodbye, Liam.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389315”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My junior brother used my photos to catfish the school belle, but ended up hooking the fierce school bully instead. The bully was so furious he posted a warning thread online. [My roommate is a pervert, can I kill him?] [He still insists the goddess in the picture is his sister.] Netizens advised him to think twice: what if the pervert really has a fairy-like sister? The bully didn’t believe it, saying no one could be that beautiful. Until he saw me cheering for the opposing team on the basketball court. He hurriedly updated the thread. [My brother-in-law is doomed, but he sleeps like the dead, what do I do? Can I warm the bed instead?] 1 Since we were kids, I’ve known my twin brother was an idiot. When I was doing Math Olympiad, he was playing with poop. While I was winning awards left and right, his teachers hinted he should get his brain checked. I skipped three grades and got into college early; he was tormented by high school knowledge, not knowing which way was up. Finally, the year I was about to graduate, he barely scraped into the same university. Not long after school started, he fell in love. He shyly told me he was going to pursue the school belle. The school belle liked girls. But he said love could conquer all. He shared his simp diary with me every day. “Sis, I finally got her number!” “She actually said hi to me, so happy, so happy~” “The school belle’s emojis are cute, her words are cute, sweet girls really save the world!” “!!!” “Sis, help me, help me, she asked me out tomorrow, what do I do?” “…” “It’s over, I was so excited I smashed my phone, I have to use this laggy old one now, boohoo, so good sister, will you sponsor a new phone for your brother~” “Hehe, I finally succeeded, Sis, you must come tomorrow, you must!” “Sis, help your brother win this tough battle tomorrow, okay~” Followed by a few cheeky emojis. When I received Ben’s message, I was rushing a paper. Without thinking much, I agreed haphazardly. I revised until midnight before submitting the result I was most satisfied with to my advisor. After happily scrolling through my phone for a while. I remembered the school belle was known for being a cool, aloof queen. Where was the sweetness? Also, could an idiot like Ben really catch the school belle? Before I could figure it out, a friend forwarded me a campus forum post. Saying the content was quite explosive. I threw my brain aside and started reading. The OP was fierce. [My roommate is a pervert, can I kill him?] 2 The onlookers were excited. [How perverted? Please elaborate.] [Hahaha I get it, I get it, OP is a man, roommate is a man, men talking about men being perverted is just that, hehehe~] [Bestie, the BL you love to watch is real!] [Heh, OP is discriminating, reported.] The OP stated he didn’t discriminate against any group, but hated deception. [He photoshopped a stunning photo as his profile picture, I thought he was a woman!] Receiving the reply, the classmates who scolded the OP immediately apologized. [That really is perverted, using a woman’s photo to date a straight man, disgusting beyond measure, sorry for the friendly fire.] This comment got many likes. Occasionally there were replies advising him. [It’s late, don’t make a scene bro, just beat him up a couple of times to vent, being roommates it’s not worth it.] [How did you just find out your roommate is a pervert?] The OP replied to him. [I’m a freshman, mixed dorm, rarely stay in the dorm, don’t interact much with roommates, and usually he acts silly.] [Thinking about it now, maybe he was playing dumb.] [Can I really not kill him? I even bought a shovel.] [Oh, he confessed the profile picture isn’t photoshopped, it’s stolen from his sister, dying of laughter, how is that possible!] In just a few minutes, more people flooded under the post. Watching the drama with great pleasure. I also laughed out loud, twisting like a maggot on the bed. Until I scrolled to a blurry dorm photo at the bottom. Suddenly I couldn’t laugh anymore. In the bottom left corner of the photo was a gray backpack, hanging a familiar squirrel plushie. It looked exactly like the ugly one Ben won from a claw machine. Coincidentally, the post updated. [Can’t take a beating at all, started crying before I even got serious, he keeps saying the profile picture is his sister, his sister looks like that, something about catfishing the wrong person.] [He also said his sister is coming to help him tomorrow.] [Does that mean a fight? His sister is in the underworld.] [Fine, tomorrow I’ll just beat them both up and be done with it!] !!! F*ck, that dead pervert wouldn’t be my brother, right! 3 My brain crashed instantly. Numbly refreshing the post and flipping through replies for clues. Finally, I accepted my fate with tears. That idiot who used his sister’s photo to catfish the school belle but caught his roommate instead was my twin brother from the same parents. Ahhh, Ben, you’re dead! [Whoa, big talk, not afraid of the underworld, OP sounds tough, doesn’t seem like a freshman.] [Upstairs, don’t say not like a freshman, not even like a human! Could he be from the underworld too?] [So fierce, so crazy, so domineering, OP’s identity must be extraordinary.] [Hahaha that arrogant disdainful tone, I think I know who it is, let me reveal a bit, more badass than the underworld, the principal begged him to attend this school!] [Wow wow wow, that’s a true young master!] Reading the replies below, I got more and more alarmed. Years of life experience and novel reading told me, there are three types of “masters” you can’t mess with in this world. The old master crossing the street, the master you owe money to, and, the young master of a certain family! Which one isn’t trouble and hard to deal with? The urge to kill Ben reached its peak at this moment. Scrolling with my fingers, I subconsciously switched to the chat screen. When I calmed down, [Ben, you’re dead!] had already been sent successfully. After a long time, a voice message came from the other side. I hesitated and clicked it. The idiot’s scream pierced my eardrums “Sis, Sis, save me!” Luckily I was wearing headphones, my roommates couldn’t hear. Following that, was a clear, cold sneer. “Gutsy, which side are you from? How many people tomorrow?” 4 Realizing Ben’s phone had been commandeered. I typed and deleted. [Just me? Um, actually this is a misunderstanding…] He seemed angry. Without waiting for me to explain clearly, he unilaterally ended the conversation. “Look down on me? Fine, respect your decision, my principle is not hitting women, I’ll give you a two-hand handicap tomorrow.” Voice strong and powerful, sounds like he can really fight! I suddenly didn’t want to care about Ben anymore. Forget it, the battle of the century has always been like this, sleep! Before closing my eyes, the replies under the post suddenly became crooked. [OP have you ever thought, what if his sister really looks like the photo?] [So what? Does it affect beating people tomorrow?] [Upstairs forgot why OP was tricked, the photo must be stunning! Speaking of which how beautiful is she, show us.] [Hehe must be very beautiful, charmed OP so much he lost his north without sleeping with the pervert, photo probably saved.] […] The OP suddenly got anxious, replying one by one. [Impossible, absolutely impossible for anyone to be that beautiful!] [This is a premeditated scam, scammed people and still so arrogant, their chat history is evidence!] [Just a scammer’s trick, will I fall for it!] The alumni who got retorted posted a shrugging emoji. [See, anxious again.] [OP is mad confused, who exactly got into the OP’s thunder list, so hard to guess~] [So mad spinning in circles yet still won’t release the photo, don’t you have a clue in your heart?] The OP ignored everyone, making a bold statement. [First time I’ve been tricked since childhood, meet tomorrow, whoever begs for mercy first is the grandson!] [Those siblings just wait to get beaten!] I pulled a tired smile. Seemed like no way out, actually no way out indeed. 5 Woke up in the morning, phone popped up a message. [Something came up, I’ll tell you the time and place when I decide.] [Buy a helmet, I’ve never hit a woman.] Ha, he’s actually kinda nice. But I don’t want to send myself to death, Ben that idiot caused his own trouble, let him bear it himself! Rare weekend, I decided to vegetate in the dorm and binge dramas. My best friend Hannah came over grinning and hugged my arm. “JoJo, such nice sunshine, let’s go out and play~” Yes, the idiot brother and I took our parents’ surnames respectively. He took my dad’s surname, Ben Evans. I took my mom’s surname, JoJo Quinn. Plus I despised Ben for being too stupid and embarrassing, so people around thought I was an only child. And he didn’t dare say he had a twin sister. Afraid I’d get angry and cut his allowance. “JoJo, there’s a basketball game at the North Playground today, men, all men!” “Heard several freshmen are super handsome!” “Come with me, please~” Unable to withstand her coquetry, I had to go with her to watch the game. The playground was packed. Girls from several surrounding dorm buildings all came! Even from other schools. “Big scene right? Look, they’re all here for Liam.” “He’s the new campus heartthrob, rich second generation, the new teaching building of our school was donated by the King family.” “Also, he didn’t take shortcuts, got in by legitimate exam, handsome to a tragic degree, just a bit fierce.” Hannah pulled me to the front row, pointing at the center of the court. Liam King? I tried to open my eyes, blurringly, saw a big guy who could teleport. “JoJo, how is he?” “Mm, not bad, should be number one in fighting!” 6 Hannah asked if I was okay. Leaned in to look. “Where are your glasses? Take them out and put them on, Liam is so good looking!” “Speaking of which, JoJo you are a recognized beauty, just too low-key didn’t participate in the campus belle contest.” “Sometimes I really want to beg you not to study, isn’t it nice to find a handsome guy to date?” She stared at my face, suddenly changing the topic. I quickly interrupted: “So you support Liam?” She shook her head, looking shyly at the opposing team. Waved at the man in the very front: “No, I support my man.” !!! “What are you surprised about, you study all day, how would you know I found a new boyfriend.” She acted like a shy little wife. “Hehe, want to know the taste of a man?” I covered my face, indicating I didn’t want to. She had to pull me to cheer for her boyfriend. “Damn Liam is sick, why steal my man’s ball!” “Down with Liam, go go go!” “What a messy formation, JoJo, put on your glasses quickly and help me find my man.” Hannah’s voice was too loud, women around threw daggers with their eyes. Even the players on the court were startled. That big guy named Liam looked over. Front row position made it easy to see his face. Sword brows red lips, high nose bridge. Breathing slightly panting with the intense game, Adam’s apple rolling. Broad shoulders narrow waist, sweat wetting the translucent jersey, outlining tight waist and abs. He was very tall, visually over 1.8 meters. The ball landed in front of us, Liam glanced over casually. When sweeping over me. He widened his eyes, the ball he just picked up fell from his hand. Eyes filled with stars suddenly brightened, but then quietly dimmed. Like he discovered something terrible. The whole person was about to shatter.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389332”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The annual performance reviews were released, and my score was an “Unsatisfactory.” The lowest possible grade in the company. I was stunned. As the lead architect who had spent sleepless nights dragging three major projects across the finish line, how was this possible? Before I could even storm into HR, three different executives called me for “private chats.” My direct manager said, “I fought for you for hours, but the CEO and the HR Director have a bias against you. Don’t worry, because of our history, I made sure to give you an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ on my end.” The HR Director said, “Everyone saw your results. I gave you a top tier rating. But… have you offended your department head lately?” Finally, the CEO himself consoled me: “In terms of raw talent, you’re the best we have. Regardless of what others think, I insisted on giving you an ‘A.’ Don’t lose heart; keep it up next year!” I almost laughed. Did they really think I was that stupid? There were five evaluators in total. If three of them gave me an “A,” how did I end up with a failing grade? So that’s how they wanted to play? I got the message. If they wanted a “failing” employee, I’d give them exactly what they paid for. I pledged my loyalty to all three leaders, pretending to be their inside man, while I secretly checked out and watched the office burn. It didn’t take long for the vultures to start eating each other. 1 The moment I saw my performance review, it felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. This past year, I had worked myself to the bone. My team’s KPIs were ranked number one in the entire firm. Specifically, the company’s only “Tier-1” core project—the Solid-State Battery Chassis Integration—was hauled over the finish line by me and the technical crew I led. Because of that project, the entire engineering department received a department-wide “Exceeds Expectations” rating. The bonus pool was boosted by 50%. Everyone was looking forward to a fat paycheck. We had just passed the first phase of the client’s audit last week. I never, in my wildest dreams, expected my individual score to be the worst in the company. “Unsatisfactory.” In this company, that was the kiss of death. It meant I was rated lower than the security guards, the janitors, and even the guy who had been on medical leave for six months. Not only would I get zero bonus, but I was also looking at a demotion. I was officially on the “Performance Improvement Plan” (PIP)—the corporate waiting room for being fired. The irony? The intern who had been in the department for a month got a “Satisfactory.” Around me, my colleagues were scrolling through the internal portal. The cheerful chatter about bonuses died instantly. The office became eerily quiet. I didn’t look at anyone’s face, but I could feel the weight of their gazes—some pitying, some mocking, some just confused. A wave of humiliation and bitterness washed over me. For a long time, my mind was a total blank. I wanted to storm into the CEO’s office, slam my fist on the desk, and throw down a resignation letter. I wanted to tell them exactly where they could shove this job. But as I opened a blank document and typed the word “Resignation,” I hesitated. The holidays were coming. I was about to lose my bonus, and if I quit without a backup plan, how would I explain it to my family? My parents were getting older, and my wife had just found out she was pregnant. This wasn’t the time for an ego trip. Besides, quitting now would be letting this parasitic company off too easily. I decided I needed answers first. How could the top performer be ranked dead last? Even if I ended up screaming at someone, I needed to vent. But as I stood up, I saw my direct manager, Mark. He was standing at his office door, frantically gesturing for me to come in. 2 I thought for a second, then quietly turned on the voice recorder on my phone before stepping inside. The moment I entered, Mark slammed the door shut and locked it. Before I could even open my mouth, he sighed and patted my shoulder. “Ethan, I saw the results… honestly, I’m as gutted as you are.” I kept my face expressionless and didn’t say a word. Mark continued: “You’re my best engineer. I’ve always treated you like a younger brother. I fought for you during the review meeting until I was blue in the face. But the CEO and Sarah in HR? They have some ideas about you. They insisted on a low score to ‘keep you humble.’ You know I don’t have much sway with the board. My hands were tied.” I looked up sharply, my voice dripping with disbelief. “Keep me humble? What ‘ideas’ could they possibly have? No one has ever said a word to me about my performance.” Mark stammered. “Well, your solid-state chassis design passed the audit… but the execs think the tech is too conservative. It doesn’t align with their ‘growth at all costs’ strategy for mass production.” My temper flared. I shot back immediately: “The solid-state tech isn’t mature yet! Mass-producing it now is just throwing money into a black hole. The safety risks are massive!” Mark held up his hands, playing the role of the helpless middle manager. “Look, I agree with you, but that’s ‘engineering thinking.’ You have to think like a leader—macro-strategy, Ethan.” “Whatever. Let’s not get sidetracked. Leadership has their reasons. But listen, you and I are good. I absolutely gave you an ‘A.’ Don’t let this get to your head.” Hearing him say that, my anger softened slightly. We had been in the trenches together. In a room of five executives, his one ‘A’ wouldn’t have been enough to change the outcome. I nodded, my voice raspy. “Thanks, Mark. I’m just… I’m struggling to process this.” Mark’s gaze shifted, becoming unreadable. He whispered, “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a while.” “You need to network more with the higher-ups. I know you’re Ivy League, you’ve got the skills, you’ve got the ego—and you have the right to it. But ‘corporate politics’ is how you survive. Do you get it?” Corporate politics? His words hit me like a slap to the face. I let out a self-deprecating laugh. So, it didn’t matter how much I contributed; it mattered how much I sucked up to the right people. I wasn’t ignorant of politics; I just found it exhausting. I wanted to be an engineer. I wanted to get paid for my technical expertise. Was that really such a crime? I had nothing left to say. As I turned to leave his office, he added one more “consolation”: “Don’t take it too hard. Next year, for the Phase 2 launch, I’m stepping back. I’ll be backing you to be the Lead Project Director. Keep that between us, though. We take care of our own.” I didn’t say anything. I just nodded and walked out. I had just worked a whole year for zero bonus. Why would I care about next year? All I felt was a burning resentment toward the CEO and the HR Director. I had no idea how I had offended them. Or maybe, by not playing the game, I had already “offended” them? What a joke. I had worked the hardest, taken the most difficult tasks, and put in the most overtime. And in the end, I was worse off than the people who spent their days hovering around the water cooler, brown-nosing the bosses. I felt suffocated. I needed some air on the terrace. But as I passed the breakroom, someone blocked my path. 3 It was Sarah, the HR Director. She was a veteran at the firm, known for having a massive network and significant influence over the board. We rarely crossed paths, and I couldn’t think of a single reason why I’d be on her bad side. I certainly didn’t expect her to seek me out. In the breakroom, Sarah poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. She looked at me with an expression that was almost maternal. “Ethan, I know you’re hurting.” “To be honest, your performance is undeniable. As an HR professional, I see the metrics. I know who really does the work here.” I blinked, confused. Sarah lowered her voice. “But… did you have a falling out with your department head? With Mark?” “I’ll be straight with you: that comment in your review—the one about your ‘arrogant attitude’ and ‘lack of team spirit’? That was Mark. He insisted on adding it.” She let out a small, cynical laugh. “Anyone can see what he’s doing. He’s intimidated by you. He’s afraid you’ll take his job.” “For the record, I gave you a top rating. If it wasn’t for Mark’s sabotage, you would have cleared at least a $30,000 bonus. It’s a shame.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. The information Sarah just gave me was the polar opposite of what Mark had said. For a moment, I didn’t know who to believe. I tested the waters. “Sarah, are you sure? Mark and I have always been close. Why would he do that?” Sarah scoffed. She pulled out her phone and showed me a scanned copy of the final review document. “This is your official file. Look at the handwriting on the comments section.” I zoomed in. There it was, in Mark’s unmistakable, loopy script: “Arrogant attitude. Not a team player.” The blood rushed to my head. My vision tunneled. That bastard. I had treated him like a mentor, and he had treated me like a threat to be neutralized. I slammed my coffee cup down on the counter. I wanted to go back and rip Mark’s head off. Sarah saw my rage and grabbed my arm. “Don’t be reckless. I’m telling you this because I hate seeing talent wasted. But don’t out me—my position is sensitive enough as it is.” “Just hang in there. Next year, when the director-level positions open up for internal bidding, I’ll put my full weight behind you.” I forced myself to breathe. She was doing me a favor; I couldn’t sell her out. But I didn’t want to talk anymore. I thanked her and left. As for “hanging in there” or “internal bidding”? Pure garbage. From this day forward, if I don’t see a dime, this company isn’t getting a single ounce of “dedication” from me. I cursed Mark’s name ten thousand times in my head. But as I sat back down at my desk, a cold thought began to take root. Sarah said Mark was the one holding me down. Mark said it was Sarah and the CEO. Both of them looked incredibly sincere. But one of them—or both—was lying. Who was playing me? Or were they both in on it? As I sat there, the office gradually emptied out. Everyone had clocked out, leaving me alone in the dim light. Suddenly, someone tapped on my desk. I jumped. It was the CEO, David Sterling. 4 Now I knew something was wrong. High-level execs like David didn’t even work on the same floor as us commoners. They almost never spoke to individual contributors one-on-one. And yet, in a single afternoon, I had been approached by the three most powerful people in the building. David didn’t waste time. He invited me into his office and got straight to the point. “Ethan, you’re a rising star.” “In terms of technical ability, there isn’t a single person in this company who touches you. Truly. In my heart, I’ve always considered you my top technical lieutenant.” The alarm bells in my head were screaming now. Here we go again. Seeing that I wasn’t reacting to his “heart-to-heart,” David cleared his throat. “I’m deeply sorry about the review. I wanted to authorize a special bonus for you, but there was too much resistance in the meeting.” “Sarah from HR mentioned your attendance—apparently you’ve been ‘clocking in late.’ And Mark, your boss, complained that you’re ‘dictatorial’ in project meetings. That you don’t play well with others…” “Look, even as a CEO, I have to manage the board’s perception. I can’t just override everyone, or I look like a tyrant. It’s bad for morale.” I was vibrating with rage. I could barely stay in my seat. Clocking in late? HR only saw that I arrived at 9:15, but they ignored the fact that I left at midnight every single day. Dictatorial? Not a team player? Mark was only saying that because his technical skills were trash and he hated when I corrected his disastrous directions. If I hadn’t pushed back, this company would have gone under months ago. Both of them were snakes. Thankfully, I had already sat through two of these “confessions” and had my recorder running. Otherwise, I might have actually committed a felony right then and there. “I understand,” I said, my voice eerily calm. David seemed surprised by my composure. He looked a little awkward. After a beat, he continued his script. “Of course, regardless of what the others thought, I personally gave you an ‘Exceeds Expectations.’ That’s my stance as the owner. I don’t want the people who actually build this company to feel unappreciated.” He looked at me expectantly, waiting for a “thank you.” Inside, I was screaming. They all had the same script. Five people rated us. Three of them claimed they gave me an “A.” Mathematically, it was impossible for me to end up with a failing grade. They were all playing me for a fool. Unsurprisingly, David moved on to the “dangling carrot” phase. “You’re young. It’s normal to have some feelings about this. But don’t let personal frustration affect your work.” “Trust me, I know what’s going on. Hang in there this year. Next year, for Phase 2, I’m putting you in charge of all critical testing. I’m giving you a stage to prove yourself to everyone.” “To be honest, I don’t think much of the rest of the engineering team. You’re the one I’m grooming. So, wipe your eyes, and let’s kill it next year!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389348”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The ninety-ninth time I bought the paparazzi video of my wife cheating on me in a car, I dug out the promise note she’d written in high school. Briar Rhodes had gotten caught holding my hand in the hallway—a scandal that had her called before the headmaster. In that note, she’d meticulously penned the words that would become my gospel: “I know they say high school love is wrong, but I believe our love can conquer everything.” “Before I turn thirty, I will give Fitch Elliott a home—with babies and a cat.” I’m twenty-nine now. No babies. No cat. But she’d given another man—her secretary, Logan Miller—and a pair of boy-girl twins, the complete family she’d promised me. I pressed a heavy, frantic line onto the yellowed paper, then drove the scissor blade into my neck: “You were wrong. You didn’t make him happy. You only drove him to die.” … The blood streamed freely from my throat, and the cold was seeping into my limbs. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. I only felt relief. Just as my consciousness began to drift, the bathroom door slammed open. Briar charged in, her pupils dilating into pinpricks when she saw the crimson wash in the tub. She staggered, practically tackling the porcelain to grab a thick towel, which she pressed savagely against my wound. “Fitch Elliott, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you insane?” I looked at her panicked, ravaged face, and a cynical smile touched my lips. Was she afraid I was dead, or just afraid my messy, ignominious death would finally wreck her reputation? “Don’t touch me, Briar. Let go.” She tried to pull me out, but my struggles sent a spray of icy water over her. Her expensive custom dress clung to her body, leaving her looking utterly exposed and defeated. “You’re throwing a fit over that? Seriously, Fitch? When did you get so damn dramatic?” she asked, her voice tight with fury and exhaustion. I closed my eyes, too tired to argue. Years ago, when I was hysterical and demanded she get rid of the first baby, I’d threatened her with a razor. She lied to me then, claiming she’d gone abroad to a private clinic where the procedure wouldn’t hurt her or our chances for the future. It wasn’t until she reappeared, cradling a pair of infants, that I became so enraged I nearly threw myself off the balcony. After a cycle of self-harm and desperate pleas, Briar’s initial agony and guilt had curdled into a cold, dull indifference. “Fitch, you just can’t bring yourself to follow through,” she sneered. “You’re using this as a pathetic lever, a way to force my hand. Otherwise, how do you keep surviving every single time?” The car sped toward the hospital. The doctors worked quickly. Once I was settled in a private room, Briar finally lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her agitated face. “Logan wasn’t old when he came to me. He’s worked hard for the company and with the kids for three years now,” she explained, her voice flat. “That night, I was drunk. Yes, I was wrong, but the children are innocent!” She stood over me, her expression a mix of incomprehension and weariness. “The title of ‘husband’ is permanently yours. Why can’t you just be the bigger person?” “Is it so hard to accept two children? They are mine!” I stared up at the woman I had once loved to the bone. She was demanding I be “the bigger person” and embrace the children she’d birthed with another man. The place where my heart used to be no longer ached. It was just an empty, cold, suffocating void. “Briar,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Let’s get the divorce papers tomorrow.” Her brow furrowed. “How long are you going to keep this act up? It was just a stupid paparazzi video!” She then added, with chilling casualness, “You won’t touch me, and I have needs. You expect me not to find relief elsewhere?” I managed a self-mocking twist of my mouth. “You once promised that if you ever messed up, you’d let me go.” Her breath hitched. She looked at me with a complicated expression. “Fitchy, childish promises don’t count in the real world.” I closed my eyes, utterly exhausted. “Let the past stay in the past, then. Your home has already been given to someone else. I don’t want it anymore.” The room fell silent for a long time. She reached out and brushed my hair back from my forehead. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.” I instinctively flinched, pulling my head away. She slammed the door in frustration. “You rest. The doctor says you’re unstable and need quiet. We’ll talk about the divorce later. Don’t do anything stupid again.” In her eyes, my hysteria and utter breakdown were nothing more than childish stupidity. My pain was simply an inconvenience, disrupting her calm, privileged life. Just then, my eye caught the old high school note in my hand. New ink was floating up on the blank space! “Who are you? Why are you writing on my promise note?!” My heart skipped a beat. I stared, transfixed, at the words appearing from nowhere. I picked up the pen the nurse had left, my hand trembling uncontrollably. “Briar Rhodes, I am your guardian angel, here to protect you. Don’t be with Fitch Elliott.” I held my breath, waiting for a response. A few seconds later, the familiar, youthful handwriting, full of teenage pique and impatience, reappeared: “That’s BS! Why would I listen to you? I love Fitchy, and I’m going to be with him! What kind of sick prank is this?!” It was her. The eighteen-year-old Briar Rhodes. The girl who still believed that love could conquer everything, the girl who had vowed to build me a home. The girl she was then and the calm, controlled woman she was now were two completely different people. When I was a teenager, my mother had an affair, and my father murdered her and her lover before being sent to prison. Everyone had scorned me as the trash of a killer and a tramp. Only eighteen-year-old Briar held me, repeating endlessly how good I was. When I once wished out loud to see snow, she secretly saved up bus fare and took me a thousand miles north. She stood proudly in front of the entire student body during her public reprimand and declared, “I haven’t done anything wrong. I love Fitch Elliott, and I will marry him someday.” We squeezed into a tiny, rundown apartment, blowing out candles over cheap, leftover slices of cake from her after-school job. Even when she became the ruthless, shrewd businesswoman she is now, her eyes were still full of me. To give me a sense of security, she even let me choose her personal assistants and secretaries. Logan Miller’s resume was mediocre, and his English still carried a heavy, rustic accent. But he reminded me of my young self—the same hunger, the same fight to prove himself. I treated Logan like a younger brother, bought him nice clothes, taught him social etiquette. I even invited him to our holiday dinners. He would grin, throw his arm around my shoulder, and joke: “Fitchy, my man, I’ll make sure to watch out for the boss and keep all those sleazy guys away from her!” Yet, he was the one who betrayed me the deepest. The door to my room opened, and Logan walked in, looking slick and expensive. No trace of the boy who grew up in the mountains. “Briar’s tied up with company stuff, so she sent me to check on you.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Look, man, don’t hurt yourself. I know you’re angry. But her husband will always be you. We’re not trying to take your place.” I closed my eyes, refusing to watch his performance. “Don’t make me say it again. Get out.” Logan hadn’t expected the direct rejection, and his face soured. “Look, man, your sperm count is low. You couldn’t hold up your end of the deal. Briar got tired of it a long time ago.” He stood up, his voice dripping with condescension. “You’re a broken thing. Briar already got tired of you.” He left with a satisfied look. Who needs the empty title of “husband”? I wanted the girl whose eyes were only for me, the partner who promised me a home. Since Briar had personally shattered all of that, I didn’t want this relationship—drenched in betrayal and lies—anymore. With a cold, final resolve, I picked up the pen and wrote: “If you don’t listen, you will cause Fitch Elliott to attempt suicide countless times. You will destroy his will to live.” “If you truly love him, stay away. It is the only thing you can do to save him.” I leaned back, utterly drained, waiting for her reply. Time ticked by. Just as I thought the communication had stopped, new words slowly emerged on the paper. The youthful handwriting was no longer frantic, but hesitant. “You’re lying. Fitchy is so good. How could I ever hurt him? I’ll be good to him forever!” “Why should I believe you? You don’t have any proof.” My life was the bloody proof. But how could I tell the teenager from eleven years ago? Should I tell her she would get drunk after a business dinner and end up in bed with the adoring male secretary? That she would get pregnant and successfully give birth to a pair of twins? And that the boy she once held so dear would descend into depression from years of betrayal, repeatedly attempting to violently end his own life to escape the world? The truth was too cruel for the eighteen-year-old version of her. I thought for a moment, then added a line: “Just above your tailbone, near your hip, you have a small, star-shaped birthmark. Only the orphanage director and I know about it.” Briar had told me that. “Are you really my guardian angel?” I smiled faintly. The teenage girl was so easy to manipulate. “If you truly want to save Fitch Elliott, pull away from him. Treat him coldly. Let him live a life without you.” A long pause followed. Then, the words that appeared carried a tone of reluctant, pained compromise: “I’ll listen to you for now. But if I find out you’re lying, I swear I won’t let you get away with it.” The threat was fierce, yet childish. But I felt a deep sense of relief, a smile touching my lips for the first time in what felt like forever. Eighteen-year-old Briar. Please be ruthless. Be crueler. Push the boy who loves you with all his heart away—as far away as you possibly can. On the day I was discharged, Briar came to pick me up. She glanced at the dressing on my neck, her eyes darkening. “The passenger seat is a mess. You should sit in the back.” I looked at the seat, which she hadn’t bothered to clean, scattered with a few wadded-up, cheap tissues and a discarded, torn nylon stocking. My heart clenched into a cold fist. But this time, I had no sharp questions. I got in the back seat in silence. Briar stiffened, clearly surprised by my unusual calmness. The driver, understanding the tension, raised the privacy divider. She tried to make conversation, her tone laced with confusion. “Fitch, how did we end up like this?” I felt numb. “Before, your eyes were only for me. Now, I’m just the least remarkable thing in your life.” She bristled, her voice rising in automatic protest. “That’s not true! You know you’re still the most important!” I gave her a look of faint mockery. “Briar, I can’t live up to that claim.” Briar’s face hardened. “Fitch, do you have to be so relentless?” “I am trying to make amends! I haven’t even officially made them co-heirs, for God’s sake! What more do you want?” She always had a reason. Did my suffering mean nothing? I suddenly felt utterly weary, lacking the strength to even argue. “Let’s go to the courthouse tomorrow.” Briar grabbed my shoulder fiercely, forcing me to face her. “I said no. Divorce is not happening. You are my husband for life!” I looked at her beautiful face, twisted now by agitation, and felt an intense sense of unfamiliarity. “Briar, the thing that trapped me before was my love for you.” “I don’t love you anymore. You can’t keep me here.” Her pupils constricted. She slumped back into her seat, then let out a cold, strained laugh. “Your manipulation tactics have certainly improved. I underestimated you.” As soon as we walked into the house, I heard the sound of children laughing, followed by Logan’s gentle cooing. “Not so fast, you two. Mommy will be back in a minute.” Toys were scattered across the living room rug. The boy and girl were wrestling on the floor, and Logan, wearing a casual t-shirt and sweats, watched them with a fond smile. The scene was sickeningly cozy. Hearing the commotion, Logan naturally took Briar’s discarded jacket and smiled at me. “Fitchy, let me know if you need anything at all, okay?” He looked every bit the man of the house. The boy, seeing me, kicked my shin. “Jerk! Don’t you dare break up our family!” The girl pouted. “Mommy, why did you let the bad man back in our house?” Briar didn’t reprimand their insolence. Her face was full of doting affection. “Mommy loves you two the most, always.” I stood there, an outsider looking in at a happy, complete family of four. I dug my nails into my palm, using the pain to anchor myself. “I’ll take the guest room.” Briar followed me, her voice exasperated. “Are you really going to hold a grudge against the children? I was just trying to soothe them.” I suddenly smiled. “What do your children have to do with me? Why should I care about their feelings?” She choked on her words, her face turning ashen. “Fitch Elliott, I don’t even recognize you anymore!” I nodded, my tone light and hollow. “You have yourself to thank for that.” I placed the promise note gently on the nightstand. Just then, new writing began to form on the paper. “Future Me, you are a pathetic bastard!” “I see what you’re doing now. How dare you let another woman and those wild brats into my house?!” “How the hell could you let Fitchy suffer like this? I’m going to kill you!” The handwriting was frenzied and desperate. My heart hammered against my ribs. Briar, standing in the doorway, must have sensed the shift in the air. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the paper in my hand, her voice icy. “Fitch, what the hell is that you’re holding?” She snatched the note from my grasp. “Stop your mystical nonsense, Fitch. You’re clearly having a breakdown!” I watched her, instantly alert, and hissed, “Don’t touch it!” The sheer disgust in my eyes seemed to ignite her rage. Her gaze turned vicious. “This is my house, and you are my husband! What am I not allowed to touch?” “Fitch, have I been too lenient lately? Is this a love letter from your latest mistress?” So, forcing me to accept her betrayal, her bastard children, and ignoring my agony—that was lenience? A profound, chilling despair gripped me. I shoved her hard, locked the door, and sank against the frame. All I could do now was pray that the Briar from eleven years ago would listen and change my fate. But the next few days passed, and everything stayed the same. My hope plummeted to rock bottom. Perhaps to punish me for my defiance, Briar organized a lavish ceremony to officially introduce the twins to society. Invitations went out to almost every major figure in the business community. Logan, wearing a bespoke suit, walked through the room, holding the hands of the twins, accepting the compliments and blessings of the guests. His gaze caught mine, and his eyes were full of triumphant spite. He seemed to be saying: This is only the beginning. Next time, you’ll be attending our wedding. Midway through the banquet, the massive screen lit up to show a documentary of the children’s early life. Briar was there, picnicking with Logan and the kids, taking them to water parks—a painfully idyllic life. Suddenly, the children’s smiling faces vanished. They were replaced by a vile, grainy video. The footage of my mother’s affair with her lover, the same one that had been leaked online years ago, flashed across the screen! The resemblance between my mother and me was impossible to miss. Hundreds of guests’ looks of contempt immediately skewered me. Briar screamed at them to shut it down. But the control panel was unresponsive. My mother’s desperate moans echoed through the banquet hall. My body turned to ice. My blood seemed to solidify in my veins. Logan stood there, a cruel smirk on his face, silently mouthing the words: “How do you like my gift, Cal?” I lunged forward, hitting him with every ounce of strength I had left. Logan stumbled backward, conveniently crashing into the little boy, who’d run over to watch the spectacle. The child fell hard, bursting into tears. Briar’s furious roar tore through the room: “Logan! Jayson!” Before I could react, I was kicked away like a discarded rag doll. A blinding pain exploded at the back of my skull. Warm liquid instantly gushed out. I curled up on the cold floor. The back of my head was wet, and when I hesitantly reached a trembling hand to touch it, it came back covered in bright, thick red. As my consciousness faded, a figure in a school uniform frantically ran toward me. “Fitchy, don’t be afraid. I’m here…” Her face was younger, her brows still held a childish innocence, but I knew those features. I would never be mistaken. It was eighteen-year-old Briar. Had she really come?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389365”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel