Category: English

It was freezing cold, and I was digging through the school’s donation bin for old clothes. The richest girl in class caught me. Shame and inferiority washed over me. But then, she handed me a black plastic bag. “We have too many at home. They’ll expire if no one uses them.” I lowered my head. I was on my period, using toilet paper as a pad. Inside the bag were brand new sanitary pads. And inside that bag, she also preserved my crumbling dignity. 1 I snuck out at night to raid the donation bin. I didn’t want to, but it was freezing. My thin shirt couldn’t block the biting winter wind. The bin was designed so clothes dropped to the bottom. If it weren’t overflowing with donations, I wouldn’t have had a chance to fish anything out. Dignity? That shattered the moment I stood on my tiptoes, reaching into the bin like a scavenger. I finally snagged a thick coat. It was too big, but it looked warm. But when I looked up, my relieved smile froze. Standing there was Chloe, the richest girl in our class. She was a loner, always draped in clothes that cost more than my dad made in a month. She didn’t live on campus. I had no idea why she was still here after evening study hall. In that moment, my shame, helplessness, and fear condensed into a single sentence: “I’m sorry, I wasn’t stealing, I just…” The donation bin was for poor kids in rural mountain schools. I couldn’t finish the sentence. In my heart, it was stealing. She didn’t say a word. She just walked over and shoved a black plastic bag into my hands. “Use these. We have too many at home, they’ll expire if they aren’t used.” Then she turned and walked away. She didn’t even wait to see if I accepted it. Just shoved it at me. I didn’t have time to ask anything. I just watched her disappear into the snow. Years later, whenever I talked about that snowy night, I always said the same thing: “Chloe, you really were a true heiress. So cool.” Only after she was gone did I open the bag. It was full of pads. I checked the dates. They were manufactured a month ago. Nowhere near expiring. She walked away so decisively, just to protect my fragile pride. 2 I rarely paid attention to Chloe before. She always seemed high and mighty, keeping everyone at a distance. She didn’t even like talking to people. Her grades were above average. On casual dress days, she never repeated an outfit for a month. Naturally, our paths never crossed. But right now, I desperately wanted to thank her. Last night, when I went back to the dorm to wash up, I realized my black pants were stained. Toilet paper just couldn’t hold back the flood. I wondered how many classmates had witnessed my humiliating disaster yesterday. I thought, maybe she’s not antisocial. Maybe she’s just… good. My mom has intellectual disabilities; she couldn’t teach me these things. My dad works hard, but he couldn’t afford these things. The inferiority of poverty bent my spine and lowered my head. During the break, I cautiously approached Chloe. “Chloe, thank you for last night.” She glanced at me. Her eyes flicked to the hem of my shirt. Shame flooded me again. Under my faded school uniform, the coat I scavenged last night was poking out. I knew my face was red, burning all the way to my ears. But she just reached out and pulled my uniform down to cover it. “Nothing to thank me for.” She was as quiet as ever. After saying that, she went back to her English worksheet. But after evening study hall, she stopped me. “My mom bought me this jacket and I hate it. It’s ugly. We’re about the same size, you take it.” Her tone was blunt, almost rude. That’s why classmates called her arrogant and unapproachable. The bag she handed me contained a brand new down jacket. No tags. I didn’t recognize the brand. I tried to refuse. “No, it’s too expensive. I found a coat, I have enough.” I noticed the sole of my sneaker had a hole. Snowmelt was seeping in, freezing my foot. “Expensive?” She looked at me. “You think I’d wear cheap clothes?” Suddenly, she seemed cute, even with her fierce expression. She was trying so hard to protect my pride, making up excuses she couldn’t quite sell, so she just acted tough. I smiled at her. “Can I bring you lunch then?” She hated the cold. I noticed that early on. In winter, she bundled up like a dumpling. I remember someone asking if she skipped lunch to diet, and she said, “I’m afraid of the cold. I don’t want to go out.” I wanted to do something for her. I started bringing her lunch. A few days later, as I walked into the classroom, someone jeered: “Look, here comes Chloe’s servant girl!” 3 High school kids don’t realize how heavy words can be. The lunch box in my hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. But I gripped it tight and placed it on Chloe’s desk. She wasn’t there, so the mockery died down. When she walked in, someone immediately asked, “Chloe, when did Lily become your maid?” Chloe was holding a pair of freshly washed chopsticks. She glanced at me. I was sitting in my seat, head down, terrified to look up. She said calmly, “I hate the cold and didn’t want to go out, so I asked her for a favor. What’s the problem? Since when is helping a classmate being a maid?” She raised her voice. “Want to go tell the teacher about it?” Her serious expression scared off the gossipers. She walked straight to my desk and slammed an apple down. “I don’t like apples. You eat it.” I didn’t dare speak. I wanted to say thank you. But my poverty-induced cowardice couldn’t keep up with this bright, bold girl. What seemed like the end of the world to me was nothing to her. She went back to eating as if nothing happened. At least her food was still hot. I had carried it against my chest all the way. The apple was so sweet. I rarely ate fruit this good. Usually, it was whatever wild fruit we could pick in the countryside. Big, sweet, juicy apples were a luxury. My desk mate whispered, “How did you get in with Chloe?” I couldn’t tell the story of that night, so I mumbled, “Maybe she thinks I’m immune to cold?” I wasn’t immune. I was just used to freezing. “Makes sense.” My desk mate didn’t pry, but she added a warning. “She’s rich, but you should stay away from her.” “Why?” She leaned in close. “You’re always studying, so you don’t know. Why do you think no one hangs out with her?” She looked mysterious. “She acts like a princess, but money isn’t everything. Who knows if it’s dirty money?” “I heard her dad killed someone.” “A murderer’s daughter… what if she’s violent too?” “Stay away from her.” 4 It was the first time I’d heard this. But true or false, I still thought she was a good person. “I knew you wouldn’t believe it. But my grandma lives near her family. Everyone there knows.” She whispered conspiratorially, “Don’t tell anyone I told you.” I hate “I heard.” Usually, it’s lies. And true or false, I wanted to be her friend. Compared to my poverty, she looked so lonely. The down jacket she gave me was incredibly warm. I didn’t understand how something so thin could be so warm. The lunch delivery thing kept causing gossip. I became immune to the word “servant.” Even if they said it to my face, I ignored it. Because the heiress gave too much. Maybe Chloe was watching her weight, because she ate very little. Every time I brought lunch, she made me take half. The money I saved on lunch bought me stationery. Seeing her disinterested attitude towards everything, I suddenly asked, “Chloe, want me to tutor you?” Her expression was a mix of shock and something I couldn’t read. I kept my grades in the top 50 because I had no other entertainment. And I knew from a young age that education could change my fate. Even though my dad had to care for my disabled mom, he always told me: “Go to school. They say if you study hard, you won’t have to live like mom and dad. Dad will find a way to pay.” Dad wasn’t Superman. He couldn’t find many ways. So I got used to scrimping and saving. She looked at me and refused flatly. “No need. My family hired a tutor.” I really wanted to ask what kind of tutor kept her grades so consistently mediocre. I thought for a moment. “I won’t charge you. I eat your lunch, let me pay with knowledge?” She looked surprised. “But I would have thrown that food away.” “It’s different,” I insisted, face heating up. “Because I help you, I save money on my own lunch.” I was young and had pointless pride. My voice got quiet. She thought for a moment. “Fine. Come to my house this weekend after school.” Girls are the best. She didn’t just give me extra food. She switched to a bigger lunch box for herself.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386771”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was halfway through saving the story’s villain when my broke, villainous boyfriend suddenly ‘awakened.’ He claimed he’d been reborn and that this time, he was going to change his fate and bravely pursue the woman he truly loved. I just stood there, stunned. He had just finished telling me he loved me, promising to spend the rest of his life with me. How was this any different from cheating? But he said I was just a desperate doormat, clinging to him so tightly that I’d driven the story’s heroine away. If I didn’t want him to crush me in the future, I should get the hell away from him. With no other choice, I had to settle for second best: the story’s main hero—handsome, wealthy, but emotionally constipated and stubbornly proud. Winning him over was a lot easier. All it took was a couple of slaps and a few stolen kisses to get his affection level rocketing to 99%. And just as the hero and I were wrapped up in a passionate embrace, the villain saw us. His face turned thunderous. “Damn it, Stella. Are you cheating on me?” 1 The moment Xavier ‘awakened,’ we had just finished kissing. He was lounging on the sofa, scrolling through his phone, while I was in the kitchenette washing the dishes from dinner. Suddenly, a flicker of electricity arced outside the window. The lights in the tiny apartment dimmed, and when they flared back to life, the look on Xavier’s face was… strange. He stared at the threadbare sofa as if he couldn’t believe he was lying on it. He bolted up, tearing through the cramped space, running a frantic loop from the living area to the kitchenette and back. Finally, as if confirming some terrible truth, he let out a triumphant shout. “I’m finally back! I’ve been reborn!” I heard every word, crystal clear, from the kitchen. My hand trembled, and a bowl slipped from my grasp, clattering loudly in the sink. The sound drew his eyes to me. In that instant, the disgust in his gaze was unmistakable. “You can go home,” he said, his voice cold. “Don’t worry about the dishes.” I numbly wiped my hands on a towel. “Oh. Okay.” As I was about to leave, he added, “And Stella? Don’t bother coming back.” I couldn’t bring myself to ask a single question. My head was spinning as I walked down the rickety stairs, the whole world feeling unreal. I stood in a daze at the corner of the block and watched as Xavier, now in a fresh set of clothes, hurried out of the building. Even with my eyes closed, I knew exactly where he was going. He was heading toward the home of the girl he’d always been obsessed with—Lila. After a year of working on him, it had finally come to this. Xavier had already promised me he was ready to build a life with me. He came from nothing, while Lila’s family was one of the wealthiest in the city. He was supposed to let go of his hopeless crush. He had promised me, just today, that we would start our new life together. I had been dropped into this story with one mission: win over Xavier. For a year, I’d endured more hardship and done more chores than in my entire twenty years of life. My heart was a tangled mess of emotions. The only thing that kept me going was the fact that somewhere along the way, I had actually fallen for him. Sure, his heart belonged to someone else, but he was undeniably handsome. And while he was usually distant, there were moments, small and fleeting, where he seemed to genuinely care. My System told me I was so close to succeeding. Once I redeemed Xavier, I would receive a handsome reward. I could do anything I wanted. I already had it all planned out: I’d use the money to fund his startup. He was brilliant; he was destined for greatness. And I would finally have the perfect life—a loving, successful husband and all the money we could ever need. But fate had other plans. Just as his affection meter hit 99%, Xavier was reborn. He said he was going to find Lila. And me? I was left to walk home alone, soaked in the cold, miserable rain. 2 Back in my rundown apartment in the old part of town, I lay on my bed, swallowed by misery. The System had been trying to console me for half an hour. “Look, I’m really sorry! It’s not my fault, I swear. It’s those idiots in the Time Bureau. Their screw-up is what caused Xavier’s rebirth.” “Don’t lose hope! I’ll figure something out. I’ll get Xavier to come back to you, okay?” “Worst case… worst case, I’ll give you a bonus voucher! If his startup fails and you have to sell stuff from a food truck to pay off his debts, your income will be double anyone else’s! Just please, don’t cry? Honey, I’m begging you.” His words only made me wail louder. “Waaaaah! So his startup is going to fail, and I’ll have to pay off his debts from a food truck? What kind of cruel fate is this?” “I’ve spent a year trying to win over this useless villain! I’ve washed 680 plates, 315 glasses, and 262 spoons! I’ve mopped this floor 363 times! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?” “My hands… my beautiful hands are covered in calluses! I’m only eighteen! What kind of life is this? Waaaah!” “I’m going rogue! I’m embracing my dark side! I’ll stab that bastard who made me suffer, and we can all just die together! (hic!)” The System sounded like it was having a migraine. “No, no, no, don’t do that! Sweetheart, please, let’s just think of another way.” “Okay, look. You go to class tomorrow like normal. I’ll go negotiate with the Time Bureau and see if we can get the old Xavier back.” “If… if we can’t, I’ll request a transfer from my superiors. I’ll get you a new target to win over. How does that sound?” My tear-filled eyes widened. “Really?” “Yes.” “The new guy has to be hotter than Xavier.” “…Okay.” “And he can’t be broke. I’m done washing dishes.” “…Fine.” “And damn it, after a whole year with Xavier, all I got was a kiss! I’m way too expensive for that. The next one has to be someone I can actually sleep with.” “…I’ll do my best, but I can’t exactly control the hero’s desires, you know.” “I don’t care! Waaaah! Otherwise, I’m going rogue! I’m going dark! I’m gonna stab that bastard who made me suffer!” “…” Finally, after the System repeatedly promised to fix the situation as soon as possible, I cried myself to sleep. The next morning, I did my best to hide my swollen eyes and headed to school. 3 With final exams just around the corner, the classroom should have been silent with the frantic energy of last-minute studying. But as I reached the door, I heard a loud voice cut through the quiet. “No way, Xavier! You actually went and confessed to Lila? Did she say yes?” Another voice chimed in. “Of course, she did! Did you see the show he put on yesterday? It was epic.” “Fireworks, a sea of flowers, and the most romantic confession ever. Lila was so moved she threw herself right into his arms.” Then, a girl’s voice—my deskmate, Chloe. “Wait a minute, Xavier. Aren’t you with Stella?” The classroom fell silent. Everyone knew I’d spent the last year chasing Xavier relentlessly. Even knowing he was in love with someone else, I brought him meals, cleaned his apartment, and basically became his personal doormat until he finally gave in. Just a few days ago, Xavier had openly walked out of the classroom holding my hand. When someone asked where they were going, he’d said, “Home with my girlfriend.” It was a public declaration. Now, only a few days later, he was confessing his love to another girl. It was a low blow, even for him. Xavier knew it too. But he wasn’t worried about my feelings; he was worried about Lila’s. He explained coolly, “Stella and I are just friends. Believe what you want.” “She was the one who was obsessed, following me around like a lost puppy. It made Lila misunderstand, thinking I was taken, and that’s why she kept her distance.” “We cleared the air last night. From now on, the only person on my mind, by my side, and holding my hand will be Lila. I belong to her.” Cheers erupted. Through the crack in the door, I saw Lila’s cheeks flush a delicate pink. Xavier gazed at her, his eyes full of a devotion he’d never shown me—the look of someone who had found a lost treasure. A sharp pain lanced through my chest. I wanted to cry. I had truly fallen for him, so how could it not hurt? Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to be calm. I pushed the door open and walked in, my eyes immediately meeting Xavier’s cold, indifferent stare. The moment he saw me, he instinctively moved to shield Lila, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?” My voice was just as sharp. “I’m here for class.” “You’d better just stick to that and keep your mouth shut. You know what will happen if you don’t.” 4 He talked a big game, but right now, Xavier was nothing more than the school’s token charity case heartthrob. Besides his good grades, he probably couldn’t even win a fight against me. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I just slumped into my seat and buried my head in my arms. Xavier and Lila sat behind me, their whispered conversations a constant torment. I overheard Lila worrying about whether I was hurt or sad. Hearing that, a complicated mix of feelings churned inside me. In the original story, Lila really was a good person. Despite being neglected by her family, she was kind and gentle, always willing to help others. A walking ray of sunshine. It wasn’t her fault that people were drawn to her. People like Xavier, who fell for her after she showed him a small kindness. He felt he was unworthy of her, and the internal struggle twisted him into a bitter, depressed man. After graduation, Lila’s family went bankrupt. To save them, she was forced to marry the proud, emotionally distant hero, becoming a lonely trophy wife. Xavier, after becoming a successful entrepreneur, met her again. They had a drawn-out, painful affair that finally made her husband realize his own feelings, and he won her back in a dramatic reconciliation. But now, Lila was with Xavier. I wondered what would happen to her brooding, rich-boy husband. The System was partly to blame for this mess. Fine, I thought bitterly. We can all get punished together. My foul mood killed my appetite. At lunchtime, while everyone else left, I stayed behind, dozing at my desk. Oh, I wasn’t entirely alone. Lila and Xavier were still there. Xavier was holding the bento box I’d made for him yesterday, patiently feeding Lila. “Here, babe, open up. It’s your favorite, sweet and sour ribs. Just one bite, ahhh~” Lila glanced nervously in my direction. “Don’t do that, someone’s here.” “Don’t worry about her. She can’t hear us.” “That’s ridiculous. How could she not hear from this close?” “Trust me, she can’t. We could make out right here, and she wouldn’t hear a thing.” “Stop it.” I gritted my teeth and endured the sound of them finishing the meal I had prepared. Then, Xavier walked over to my desk. He dropped the empty bento box with a clatter. “Stella. Wash this and put it back in my desk.” I blinked. What? I picked up the box, and with a flick of my wrist, sent it sailing across the room. It landed squarely in the corner trash can. “No, thanks.” Xavier took a sharp breath, his face contorting with anger. But then he remembered Lila was watching. He leaned in close, his voice a low hiss only I could hear. “You’re still trying to win me over, aren’t you? Don’t you want to complete your mission?” A chill ran down my spine. He knew? He knew about my mission? He smirked, as if reading my mind. “Of course, I know you’re a transmigrator. I know you’re here to win me over, to get my affection points.” “Before, you had to be my girlfriend to get those points. But now I have Lila, and I can’t let her feel insecure. So, you’ll just have to be the one who suffers.” “From now on, you do my laundry, cook my meals, and I’ll decide if you get any points for it.” “If you keep me happy, who knows? Maybe one day you’ll get to go back to your own world.” “What do you think, Stella? Aren’t I being merciful?” he finished with a smug wink. Watching him walk away with his arm around Lila, I suddenly realized something. This wasn’t the Xavier I had let into my heart. 5 After school, Xavier cornered me again. He tossed me a key. “Go to my place and get your stuff. And while you’re there, clean up a bit. I’ll give you 0.5 affection points.” “And don’t try any funny business,” he warned. “I can see right through your pathetic little schemes.” Staring at the thin piece of metal in my hand, I felt my sanity begin to fray. I screamed for the System in my head, but the useless thing was dead silent. Swallowing my rage, I headed to Xavier’s apartment. I had to. What if the System failed to negotiate a deal? Winning Xavier over might still be my only way home. Damn it. He had me right where he wanted me. I walked back into that familiar little apartment. I’d been here countless times. Most of the things inside were things I’d bought. The pink slipcover for the sofa, the white lace curtains, the refrigerator, the washing machine, the water heater. I had paid for all of it with money I’d earned from part-time jobs since I arrived in this world. I’d imagined that once I completed my mission, this would be our love nest, every item a memory of our journey together. But I never, ever imagined that just as I was about to succeed, he would be reborn. And that he wouldn’t want me anymore. My nose started to burn. I felt like the world’s biggest fool. Young, heartbroken, and exploited. I packed my clothes and shoes, along with some small decorations I’d bought. They were mine; I wasn’t letting him throw them away. I pulled open a drawer. The salary I’d earned last month was supposed to be in there—3,215 dollars. It was meant to cover his living expenses. Now, the drawer was empty. The words from this morning echoed in my mind: fireworks, a sea of flowers. A hot wave of anger washed over me. Dumping me was one thing, but taking all my money? That was too much. My fingers closed around a lighter on the counter. I could burn this whole damn place to the ground. Then I could find a knife and stab that bastard. After I was executed, maybe I’d finally get to go home. Just as the flame licked the edge of the curtain, the System’s voice shrieked in my mind. “AAAAAHHHH! STOP! STELLA, LET GO OF THE CURTAIN!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386787”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 The day my father and his ex-girlfriend made headlines at a gala, everyone was laughing at my mother. She had given up a flourishing career to be with a man from a powerful dynasty, only to spend thirty years without a title, without a ring, without even the right to call out his mistress. After a long cry, my mother looked at me, her eyes clouded with exhaustion. “He betrayed me first,” she said softly. “So I’m done with him.” She took my hand. “Ellie, will you come with me?” Just then, my phone buzzed. A message from John, my boyfriend of seven years. [Elara, it’s just a piece of paper. Can’t you still be my girlfriend?] I stared at the screen for a long moment, then slowly nodded at my mother. And so, on the day of their wedding, my mother and I vanished in the flames of the villa. … The second I saw the news alert, I rushed home. My mother was sitting by the window, gazing out at the rose garden she and my father had planted together. “Ellie, he lied to me.” Her voice was a fragile whisper. “He promised that once he had full control of the Torrence empire, he would marry me.” “I waited thirty years, Ellie. And what I got was the news of his wedding to Isabelle.” I knelt beside her, taking her cold hands in mine. “It’s just tabloid gossip, Mom. We don’t know if it’s true.” “Remember how Grandpa and Grandma threatened to disown him, and he still wouldn’t leave you? Now that they’re gone, why would he abandon you?” She picked up an embossed invitation from the table and handed it to me, a bitter smile twisting her lips. “Mr. Peterson, his assistant, delivered this. He said he hoped I would be prepared, and that I wouldn’t… make a scene.” “He feels sorry for Isabelle, for the son she raised all alone,” she choked out, her voice breaking. “But did he ever once think about me? I gave up everything for him. I was willing to be his wife in all but name for three decades!” “And my daughter… my daughter has been called a bastard for over twenty years!” “And in the end, all I get is a warning not to ‘make a scene’?” A son? So that was it. That was why my father was breaking his promise to my mother. Because Isabelle had secretly given him a son, an heir to the so-called family empire. And to fulfill his ridiculous sense of ‘responsibility,’ he was going to make my mother bear the weight of his betrayal? My mother broke down, pulling me into a desperate hug. “He broke his promise,” she sobbed, “and he expects everything to just stay the same.” “But I am not a mistress. And my daughter is not a bastard.” She pulled back, her fingers gently tracing my face. “Ellie, will you leave with me?” “Or will you stay here, in Northgate, with that Smith boy?” At the mention of John, I glanced down at the message on my phone. [Elara, it’s just a piece of paper. Can’t you still be my girlfriend?] I forced a smile and hugged my mother back. “No,” I said, my voice firm. “I’m your daughter, Mom. Of course, I’m going with you.” “As for John and me… there’s nothing left.” My mother’s tears stopped. She looked at me, her face etched with worry. “What happened?” “You and John were together for seven years. How could he…” I gave a humorless laugh, locking my phone. “Thirty years meant nothing to my father. What’s seven years to John?” “The Smith and Bishop families have a major joint venture in the works.” “John already agreed to the arranged marriage. Their wedding is on the fifteenth of this month.” “And as for me… he said everything could stay the same.” My mother’s face flushed with anger. “Stay the same?” “He wants you to be his mistress! That boy has some nerve!” “This is all my fault,” she whispered, fresh tears streaming down her face. She held me tighter, murmuring apologies over and over. “It’s because of me that you can’t even have a normal relationship.” I stroked her back, my own tears falling silently. “Mom, this was never our fault.” “Maybe it’s better that we found out now. We can leave this place and start over.” “Okay?” After I settled my mother in her room, I drove back to my apartment. The moment I opened the door, I saw them. John and Kate Bishop, standing in the middle of my living room. “Ellie, you’re back,” John said, a relieved smile on his face. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to throw away what we have.” My eyes fell to the wedding band on his finger, and a sarcastic smile touched my lips. “John. You’re wearing your wedding ring, with your future wife, trespassing in my apartment.” “You can’t possibly expect me to be happy to see you, can you?” Hearing the ice in my voice, John rushed to explain. “Ellie, why don’t you understand? I’ve told you a hundred times, marrying Kate is temporary.” “The partnership between our families is out of my hands. And Kate said… she said she’s willing to accept your presence.” Kate stepped forward then, looking down her nose at me. “John’s right.” “Miss Torrence, you may not be aware, but I’ve seen plenty of girls like you in our circles.” “As long as you don’t cause too much trouble, I won’t have to get my parents involved. I can even put in a good word for you with the Smiths.” Her condescending gaze swept over me. “After all, being a Torrence is one thing, but being a Su is quite another.” The blatant insult was the final straw. I grabbed a glass of water from the table and threw it in their faces. “Ah!” Kate shrieked. John fumbled for a tissue, frantically dabbing at her face. “Elara, are you insane?” he yelled. “You’re the ones who are insane!” I shot back, my eyes cold. “Miss Bishop, are you deaf or just stupid? John and I were in a serious relationship for seven years. And now I need your acceptance?” “Did you ask for my permission before putting on this pathetic little play in my home?” “Now get out of my apartment. Both of you!” Enraged, Kate stormed up to me. “What are you so proud of, Elara?” “Your mother shamelessly latched onto the Torrences for years without a marriage license to her name. Now that Mr. Torrence is marrying Isabelle, what is your mother but a common mistress?” “Like mother, like daughter. You were born to be a mistress!” “If John hadn’t begged for you, you’d never even get a foot in the Smith family’s door!” SLAP! Before she could finish, my hand connected with her cheek. The next second, John shoved me. I stumbled backward, my head cracking against the corner of a table. I clutched my forehead, the room spinning. “Elara, don’t you dare go too far!” John snarled, protectively shielding Kate. “Don’t you get it yet? Once Mr. Torrence marries Isabelle, you and your mother will be nothing but a shameful mistress and her bastard daughter.” “With a background like yours, you’re not even worthy of being a kept woman!” “It’s Kate who is being generous, tolerating you for my sake.” “If you don’t learn your place, don’t blame me for what happens next.” “What happens next?” I laughed, a low, hollow sound. I pushed myself up from the floor and, without a second thought, hurled the empty glass at his head. It shattered on impact, leaving a trail of blood on his forehead. Kate screamed, threatening to call the police, but one look from me and she fell silent. “John, you brought another woman into my home without my permission,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “That’s breaking and entering. I’m the one who should be calling the police.” “And I don’t need her ‘generosity.’ Consider my last seven years a gift to the dogs.” Dazed, John stumbled toward the door, but not before firing one last shot. “Elara, take a good look at yourself. Do you really think you’re fit to be the lady of the Smith family?” “I’ll be waiting for the day you come crawling back to me!” The moment the door slammed shut, my legs gave out. I collapsed onto the floor, silent tears streaming down my face. John and I had known each other since we were kids. Seven years together. He knew everything I liked, celebrated every anniversary, and was always there when I needed him. I thought I had found the person I would spend my life with. We had dreamed about our future together countless times. But he knew how much I despised infidelity. And yet, for such a pathetic reason, he tried to force me into that very role. All those years… it was all a joke. He used to say he didn’t care about anything else, as long as he had me. Now, he was telling me to question if I was even worthy of being his wife. The thought gave me a surge of strength. I got to my feet and looked around the apartment. From the photo albums to the trinkets and stuffed animals, every single thing had been chosen by us together. He had called it our “little home,” excitedly asking for my opinion on every detail, buying everything I loved. “Ellie, no matter how mad you get at me in the future, you have to look at all this effort and give me one more chance, okay?” That’s what he had said, holding me, teasing me. But I had been serious. “That depends on what you do. If you do the one thing I hate most, I will never, ever forgive you.” He had sworn up and down, holding me so tight I could barely breathe. “That will never happen. If it does, I’ll go to Lover’s Leap where we had our first date and jump off to atone for my sins! Then you can burn my body and scatter the ashes!” The memories were a knife in my heart. I picked up my phone and made a call. “Yes, sell the apartment. As fast as you can.” I had everything ready. Plane tickets for my mother and me were booked. But my father’s assistant found out. He stationed bodyguards outside our house, watching us day and night. Even on the day of his wedding, he was determined to force us to attend. When we arrived at the reception, the guests stared. “It’s Mr. Torrence’s wedding day. How dare they show their faces here?” “Isn’t it obvious? They’re shameless. They must have insisted on coming.” “An actress… did she really think she could marry into the dynasty?” “And her daughter is just as bad. Tried to snag the Smith heir, but he was just playing with her.” “I heard the Smith boy is getting married today, too.” “Yes, to the Bishop girl. A perfect match. A girl like her is completely out of his league.” The whispers and judgmental stares followed us everywhere. I looked at my mother with concern, but she just squeezed my hand, her grip firm. “Don’t worry about me, Ellie.” Her voice was calm. “It took thirty years to see him for who he really is. It’s a high price to pay, but at least my eyes are open now.” “From now on, we live for ourselves.” The grand doors opened. Isabelle, radiant in a white gown, walked down the aisle. My father, dapper in a tailored suit, watched her approach, his face filled with a tenderness I had never seen. Their son, Julian, placed Isabelle’s hand in my father’s. “Dad, I’m entrusting Mom to you now.” “She suffered a lot to raise me all these years. I hope you’ll treat her well.” A look of pride crossed my father’s face. He clapped Julian on the shoulder. “Listen to you, lecturing your old man.” “Don’t just talk about me. You need to work hard, too.” “One day, the Torrence empire will be in your hands.” It was a picture of familial bliss, and the guests murmured in appreciation. Then, my father’s gaze fell on us. “And another thing,” he said, his voice carrying across the hall. “Your Aunt Liana has been with me for many years. You will show her the proper respect in the future.” “What is rightfully yours will be yours.” “But don’t get any foolish ideas. I know where to draw the line.” The warning was clear. The scornful, suspicious looks returned. I squeezed my mother’s hand back. Just then, my phone vibrated. It was a video. On the screen, John was gazing into Kate’s eyes, making a solemn vow to her parents. “Mom, Dad,” he said earnestly. “You have my word. I will take good care of Kate. I will never let her suffer, not for a single moment.” I took a deep breath and stood up. “Mr. Torrence, you can spare us the sanctimonious act.” “If my mother were the kind of gold-digger you seem to think she is, she wouldn’t have wasted thirty years on you.” “I have no interest in the Torrence name, and neither does my mother.” “You can keep your so-called empire for your precious son.” My father’s face contorted with rage. He clearly hadn’t expected me to cause a scene. “Insolence!” he roared. “This is not the time or place for your theatrics!” “If you don’t want to be here, then take your mother and get out!” A group of bodyguards in black suits quickly surrounded us. They practically dragged us out and shoved us into a car, taking us back to the villa and locking us inside. As soon as the guards left, I calmly took out my phone and made a call, telling our man, Arthur, to pull his people away. Years ago, his wife and child were gravely ill. My mother and I paid their medical bills and saved their lives. To repay us, Arthur took a job as a security guard for the Torrences. I never thought we’d actually need his help. On the television in the living room, news coverage of both weddings was playing. Watching the two couples share passionate kisses, I saw that the old sadness was gone from my mother’s eyes. She looked at me with a serene smile, picking up her suitcase. “Ellie,” she said. “Let’s go.” I nodded firmly. I called the car we had waiting, and took one last look at the villa I had lived in for over twenty years. Then, I walked away and never looked back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386803”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My brother-in-law was trapped deep in the abandoned quarry pit. I was the one who volunteered to go down, the rope chafing my hands as I descended into the earth. I’d just managed to loop the safety line around his waist when the tension above snapped. The rope went slack, and we both slammed hard against the jagged, sandy bottom. My eyes shot up. Standing at the rim, under the blazing Nevada sun, was my wife. Vivian Shaw. She was looking down at us, holding a wicked-looking utility knife, the rope ends dangling beside her. Her high school sweetheart, Rhys Beckett, laughed—a sharp, triumphant sound that echoed off the rock face. “Do it!” he screamed. Black-suited security guards instantly swarmed the rim, shoveling loose, silty earth and sand into the deep excavation. It wasn’t just dirt; it was the kind of quick-clogging loam that could swallow a man whole. They were trying to bury us alive. I grabbed the two-way radio clipped to my belt. “Vivian! It’s me and your brother down here!” Vivian scoffed, her voice crackling over the tiny speaker, devoid of warmth. “Three years ago, during the quake, you put your rescue work before Rhys’s brother. You left him trapped in the rubble for five days, remember? It’s time to pay the debt, Ethan Cole.” Beside her, Rhys instantly squeezed out a tear. “Vivian—thank you. My brother’s death is finally avenged.” The sand was already past my ankles. I tore at my throat, yelling into the radio. “Vivian! This is your actual brother! Liam is down here!” 1 A harsh, cold laugh was the only response. “You’ll say anything to survive, won’t you, Ethan Cole?” she continued. “My brother and his girlfriend are at Disneyland today. I looked up their itinerary last night. Next time you lie, write a better script.” Rhys’s voice cut in, low and venomous. “Ethan, what goes around comes around. You’ll die the exact way you killed my brother, right here, together!” I tried to pull back from my brother-in-law, Liam, hoping to give Vivian a better view of him. Liam had been trapped down here for over twenty-four hours, and his face was already cut and bruised. But it was too late. He was unrecognizable. “Vivian, you will regret this!” I spat, then immediately clicked the radio off. There was no time for useless pleas. If we didn’t get out before the sand reached our chest, we were dead. Liam was panting, clutching my hand, his grip terrified. “Ethan, what’s wrong with her? She can’t actually want to kill me—I’m her little brother!” His voice finally cracked, dissolving into sobs. My heart ached, but I couldn’t stop. Every second of hesitation meant certain death for both of us. The sand crept higher, now covering our ankles. “Hold on tight. Don’t let go!” I said, my voice strained. I looped a secondary line around both our waists, linking us together, then pulled a small, tactical shovel from my pack. I started digging footholds into the sandy wall, hoping to use my decade of mountain-climbing experience to claw our way out. The next second, a softball-sized rock whizzed past my ear, striking the wall with a sickening thud. Liam screamed up, his voice raw. “Vivian! Are you crazy? What are you doing? Why are you throwing rocks at your husband?” I pressed a cloth to my ear to stem the blood flow. Vivian’s voice boomed through a megaphone, completely arrogant. “Still running your mouth when you’re about to die? You’re really asking for it!” A storm of rocks followed, forcing us to stop digging and huddle against the wall. The quicksand-loam was building fast, swallowing my shins completely. Suddenly, the guards stopped shoveling. A small package was tossed into the pit. I ripped it open. Inside was a phone on a video call—Veronica Shaw, Vivian’s older sister, was on the line—and a sealed folder. “You can surrender now,” Vivian’s voice returned to the radio. “Agree to the terms in that document, and I’ll have you pulled out immediately.” I flipped open the folder, my eyes scanning the pages. I needed to know what could possibly drive her to this calculated murder. I went numb. The document was a confession: I was to take the fall for the corporate structural collapse during the earthquake, confessing that my negligence had led to Rhys’s brother’s death and the resulting casualties. I was climbing a mountain on the other side of the country that day. Vivian had been left in charge of the construction project. It was her corner-cutting that led to the deaths. Now, she wanted me to be her scapegoat, sign away my life to prison, and transfer all my company shares to Rhys. Liam read the document over my shoulder, his face a mask of rage. He tore the paper into shreds. “Vivian Shaw, you despicable bitch!” He snatched the phone, holding it up to the camera, tears streaming down his face. “Vivian! Open your eyes! It’s me, your brother! You promised to take care of me forever! Get down here and save me! I won’t let Ethan sign that!” A wave of bitter sadness washed over me. In the five years of my marriage, Liam and I had become closer than brothers. He was the only good part of this family. Vivian spat into the radio. “You look like a freak show and you’re trying to impersonate my brother? Pathetic. My brother is tall and handsome. You’re a wreck, and you can’t compare.” She paused. “Ethan Cole, my patience is gone. Sign it, or you die!” The guards began shoveling with renewed force. A set of keys, mixed in the dirt, sliced open Liam’s arm. “Make a decision! Next time, it’s a knife!” “Liam!” I tore off a piece of my shirt and wrapped the gash, then glared up at my wife. “Do you really think this plan is flawless?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. Vivian chuckled. “And if it is? Nobody can save you now.” I pointed to Rhys, standing smugly next to her. “Someone’s borrowing your rage to settle their score. You think you’re a warrior fighting for love, but you’re just a dog on his leash.” “Who are you calling a murderer?” Rhys snapped. “You know damn well who. You keep this up, and you’ll regret everything.” Rhys didn’t hesitate. He grabbed another stone and hurled it at us. “Vivian, don’t listen to his bullsh—he’s just stalling for time until backup arrives! Bury him!” Vivian instantly lost her focus and her temper. “Didn’t you eat this morning? Shovel harder, damn it!” The guards went into a frenzy. The quicksand was past our thighs. I reached into my pack and pulled out a small aerosol can. I threw it up with every ounce of strength I had left. It arced perfectly, landing just at the feet of the lead guard. Vivian burst into laughter. “Bear spray? Really? Ethan Cole, you’re a genius with a degree, but can one canister stop ten men?” The sand was now covering my stomach. Liam was pressed against my waist, his tears soaking the back of my shirt. The nozzle on the canister automatically deployed, releasing a powerful, concentrated jet of chemical agent. “Vivian,” I gasped, “do you know how much concentrated military-grade pepper extract I put in that thing?” Vivian’s brow furrowed, but before she could speak, the ten guards at the rim were collapsing, convulsing and screaming, two of them plummeting into the pit. Rhys was now coughing uncontrollably. The smoke was a weapon I hadn’t expected to use, but it had bought us precious time. I seized the moment, hoisting Liam onto my back and scrambling up the wall. Ten years of dedicated climbing made the ascent difficult, but possible. But the furious sound of Vivian’s voice was back on the radio. “Ethan Cole, are you so arrogant you think that’s enough?” The video feed shook as she pulled a heavy-duty entrenching tool from her car. She raised the shovel high over her head and brought it down, aiming directly at us. I couldn’t let go. If I fell, Liam would be crushed. He was tied to my back. The shovel slammed directly into Liam’s shoulder. His scream was a terrible, wet sound of flesh tearing. He went instantly unconscious. “You bastard!” Vivian shrieked. “Don’t tell him not to sign! See how many more hits you can take!” She swung twice more. I screamed through the agony, narrowly dodging the blows with my forearm. Liam’s attempt to stabilize the company, to soothe the angry victims, had led him here, a sacrificial lamb in this brutal family feud. I roared into the phone. “Vivian! Your brother is dying!” She lit a cigarette, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Still lying in the face of death. If you really want to save him, sign the documents.” “Fine! I’ll sign it! It was all my fault!” Without hesitation, I scrambled down just far enough to retrieve the documents and the pen she tossed down. I signed the confession. “It’s signed! Now get us out!” Liam roused slightly with the jostling, saw the signature, and choked out a cry. “You’re not human, Vivian! I’m your brother!” Vivian reeled in the document with a thin cord and inspected it. Satisfied, she pulled a small, custom-made throwing knife from her belt. “You still have the nerve to insult me? You need to be taught a lesson.” She took aim at my head. We were exhausted, our guard down. She flicked her wrist. Liam, behind me, saw the flash. He threw his good arm forward to intercept the blade. “Agh!” The knife went clean through his wrist, severing the hand in a sickening, muffled snap. “NO!” I went berserk, pulling out a tourniquet and emergency medical supplies from my pack, working desperately to stem the blood flow. “It’s okay. It’s okay…” “Keep begging, Ethan,” Rhys’s voice was back, high with excitement. “Where was all this panic when I was begging you to save my brother?” “Vivian, hurry! Finish them! Kill them both!” Liam was completely numb from the pain. He could only stare at his detached arm, unable to even cry. But Vivian was not done. She and Rhys started shoveling again, tossing the sand directly onto us. I tied Liam tighter to my back. I had to reach the top. I climbed, step by agonizing step, trying to match their filling speed. Vivian suddenly stopped. “Ethan Cole, I’m tired of playing with you.” She pulled out a handful of throwing knives from a duffel bag and took aim. Rhys tossed his shovel and settled in to watch, rubbing her shoulders. “Go, Vivian! Stick both those bastards!” There was a small ledge about halfway up. If we could reach it, we would have some cover. Just one more step… A terrible, sharp pain tore through my back. I bit down, shoved Liam onto the ledge, and then lost my footing, falling hard, allowing the sand to immediately swallow my torso. “Ethan!” Liam, despite his injuries, didn’t think twice. He jumped back down. With his one remaining hand, he frantically clawed the sand away from my face, forcing me upright to keep me from suffocating. I was done. I couldn’t climb again. “Liam, I’m not going to make it,” I choked out. “Stay behind me. You live. You go find Veronica. She can clear my name.” Liam clung to me with his good arm. “No, Ethan! We die together! I don’t want to look at that animal again!” Even injured, I was stronger. Ignoring his cries, I tied him firmly to my chest. If only one of us could live, it had to be him. He stopped struggling, a terrible look of surrender in his eyes. “It’s alright, Ethan. I still have one hand. I can use it to block anything else she throws.” I didn’t contradict his foolish bravery. I felt only a self-mocking pity. I had worked for this family for years, only to be murdered by my own wife. Vivian stood directly over us, the cluster of knives suspended over Liam’s head. I had no strength left. No plan. I flipped the phone camera to face Liam’s mangled form. “Vivian! Please, for the last time, look at him! I’m not lying! This is your brother!” Vivian rolled her eyes, impatient. “Ethan Cole, you’re delusional. You’re about to die.” Rhys’s voice was sickeningly sweet. “Vivian, he’s trying to play on your guilt. Your brother is a Shaw, not some dirt-covered tramp. He’s waiting for the fireworks at the park. Now, you and your brother can go to hell!” “No!” The knives rained down. Liam surged forward, covering my head and chest. Dozens of blades pierced him, from scalp to thigh. Hot, wet blood streamed down my face. I looked into his eyes—and they were filled not with pain, but with worry for me. Rhys roared with laughter. “What devotion! At least you’ll have company! My little brother died all alone!” The security guards were recovering and resumed shoveling. The sand was rising quickly, now burying my chest, threatening my throat. I stared blankly at Vivian, the woman who had promised me forever, the monster who had just murdered her own brother. She looked down on me. “Kneel and beg, and I’ll give you a proper burial. I’ll even let you two brothers be buried together.” Rhys tugged her arm. “Vivian, help me shovel. Just looking at him makes me remember my poor, dead brother.” The sand reached my chin. “Vivian Shaw,” I whispered, my voice thick with sand, “even if I become a ghost, I will haunt you and tear you apart!” Vivian clapped her hands. “My husband, ever the drama king. Go on, then. Die.” Just as the earth was about to swallow me whole, the sound of dozens of high-powered off-road vehicles roared up around the quarry pit. Vivian’s voice, suddenly weak and trembling, called out to the woman who stepped out of the first vehicle. “Veronica… Big Sis… Why are you here?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386819”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My adoptive father, Rhett Callahan, was the biggest rancher in the entire state—a true land baron of the West. The day he found out I was the lost heiress, he held me close, his eyes full of the vast, quiet sorrow of the plains. “You listen to your new parents, little Aura,” he’d rumbled, using the nickname only he used. “The people in Manhattan are sharper than your old man, a rough-cut cowboy. They’ll mold my Nu-nu into a delicate little princess.” I nodded, trying to be brave. I hauled the cooler filled with the prime, dry-aged beef he’d butchered himself and stood at the gates of the Prescott estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. When Evelyn Prescott, my biological mother, saw me, she wrinkled her nose. Jonathan Prescott, my biological father, scowled. Skylar Prescott, the girl who had taken my place, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at my chest and sneered that I was a savage from the sticks. My new parents ordered the housekeeper to use a scrub brush—I swear, it felt like steel wool—to scour the smell of the range off me. They forced me to sit through endless etiquette lessons and kept me hungry, claiming it would make me “delicate.” The Prescott world was nothing like I’d imagined. My eyes stung, and I finally sat down in the attic room they’d given me to pen a frantic letter. A week later, Dad’s reply arrived. “The measly Prescott Industries? Your Abba could buy and sell them for a coffee tab with the longhorns I own. Do not suffer their foolishness, Aura. Your Abba will be there in three days!” 1 Skylar snatched the thick envelope from my hand, the rough texture of the paper crinkling under her perfect grip, and then she slapped me. Hard. This time, I remembered Dad’s words. I wouldn’t stand for it. I clenched my fists and focused my eyes, locking onto Skylar like a lone wolf tracking a weak calf on the open range. My gaze made her skin prickle. She clutched the letter, taking a hesitant step back. “What are you doing? This is the Prescott house! If you dare to touch me—” Warm-up complete. I slid my right foot, dropped my center of gravity, and put all my core strength into my arms. With a yelp of pure panic from Skylar, her body traced a sharp, clean arc in the air before hitting the antique Persian rug with a sickening thud. A perfect, textbook hip-toss. Jonathan and Evelyn rushed in. Skylar’s expression twisted into a caricature of pain faster than a spooked mustang. “Mom, Dad, I only asked what Autumn was reading! She just… she tried to kill me!” They automatically ignored the bright red print of Skylar’s hand on my cheek. “Autumn Reed Prescott! Were those etiquette classes completely wasted? You resort to such crude violence against your sister?” My blood-stained year of experience in the Prescott house told me one thing: the more I argued, the more severe the punishment. I stayed silent, staring at my worn boots. Skylar wasn’t done. She dramatically waved the letter. “Look, Mom, Dad! She got a letter from her savage father!” My heart squeezed tight. If they saw Dad’s proud dismissal of their “measly” empire, their fragile upper-class egos would shatter. Jonathan and Evelyn squinted at the rough, looping script, which was written in Dad’s private ranch code—a language only we spoke. They couldn’t decipher a word. They tossed it to Skylar, who claimed to know “simple Western dialects.” Skylar read the characters, her voice dripping with venom. “Her poor adoptive father is clearly after the Prescott fortune! He’s telling her to steal as much cash as she can!” That was it. My dad was the largest landowner and stockman in the state, a bona fide hero of the range! He would never be reduced to a common thief! “You’re lying!” I managed to choke out half a word. Smack! Jonathan’s palm slammed across my face, the impact sending a ringing echo through my ears. “Haven’t you disgraced us enough? A Prescott heiress acting like some common brute who throws people around. You’ll skip dinner tonight. You can spend the evening kneeling in front of your sister’s room.” They guided a tearful Skylar away, their voices thick with exasperation and disappointment. “They’re the same age—barely ten. How can their personalities be so different?” Evelyn sighed. “If the whole adoption scandal hadn’t been picked up by the news, damaging our stock, I would never have brought Autumn back.” “Honestly, I wish she’d just been lost forever when she wandered off at six months.” As they comforted each other, Skylar twisted her head around and gave me a wicked, triumphant smirk. In this house, I was Autumn Reed Prescott. Only Dad called me Aura. I sucked in a shaky breath, my fingernails digging hard into the soft flesh of my thigh. Dad said girls raised on the range don’t cry easily. That night, I knelt outside Skylar’s polished oak bedroom door. My knees were starting to swell, and my stomach growled a miserable complaint. A sliver of moonlight fell through the window, and a big, ugly whip scorpion crawled next to me. I remembered being bored while watching the herd, and Dad teaching me how to find scorpions and race them. When that was boring, he’d teach me how to count our livestock—a cow for twenty grand, until I reached thirty million—and then I’d fall asleep, safe on his wide, warm shoulders. Just two more days. I’d see Dad soon. Drifting off, I gently cupped the whip scorpion and curled up, exhausted, by the door. 2 The next morning, Skylar’s piercing scream jolted me awake. She was staring at the whip scorpion in my hand, her face paper-white, tears streaming down her face. “Autumn… I didn’t make you kneel! Why would you bring this… this thing to scare me!” I saw the flash of cunning in her eyes and knew the performance was for someone else. Sure enough, a dark shadow fell over me. A large hand snatched the insect away. The next second, the whip scorpion was a two-part corpse on the polished marble floor. Jonathan Prescott’s face was grim. “Autumn, we have been too lenient with you.” Before I could speak, he waved his hand and summoned the head groundskeeper. “Bring Shadow over.” At the name Shadow, my pupils contracted, and an involuntary tremor ran through my body. A smug smile played on Skylar’s lips. “See, Autumn? Dad is just applying your rules. You can’t accuse him of favoritism.” I instantly dropped to my knees, clawing at Jonathan’s bespoke trousers. “Dad, I wasn’t trying to scare Skylar! I know I was wrong!” He glared at me, annoyed, and kicked my hand away. “We gave you a chance! Skylar even hand-stitched you a welcoming doll, and you deliberately tore it to shreds and told her to get lost!” “We assumed you inherited the superior Prescott genes and would adjust quickly, but it’s clear the rotten ideologies of your dirt-poor upbringing are ingrained in you!” The groundskeeper approached, respectfully leading a massive, heavily-muscled Rottweiler named Shadow. The man’s face wore a sickeningly eager smirk. I looked up at the dog. The last time, my ankle was shredded—the tendons barely healed. A familiar, throbbing pain started in my foot. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of the first day, when the Prescott family had collectively ripped apart any hope I had for a new home. They had thrown away the special, cured side of beef Dad had prepared. Skylar had brought the doll, pretending to be sweet, but the minute Jonathan and Evelyn left, she snatched the eagle feather Dad had tied to my belt—a mark of honor on the range—and snipped it into tiny pieces with her scissors, calling me a country bumpkin. I lost it. I tore her handcrafted doll to shreds. When the Prescotts sided with Skylar, I protested. “Where I come from, adult grievances don’t cross into the children’s arguments! We fight it out in the corral, and then it’s done! No hard feelings!” Dad had taught me that the vast land gave us the right to love freely and hate openly. Jonathan sneered. “Oh, you like to fight, do you?” He tenderly lifted Skylar, called the groundskeeper, and had me thrown into the kennel where Shadow was kept. Jonathan and Evelyn had stood by while the dog tore at me for a full day and night. I spent half a year recovering in the hospital. The groundskeeper gripped the back of my collar. “Miss Prescott, let’s go.” No matter how I thrashed, he didn’t slow his pace. Jonathan seemed deaf to my pleas. I was suddenly weightless, falling into the kennel. Shadow, the Rotty, immediately bristled, bearing its teeth and issuing a deep, guttural warning. I moved cautiously, playing a terrifying game of chase with the dog inside the chain-link enclosure for several dizzying rounds. Skylar gave a fake, fearful yelp from outside. Shadow, startled and agitated, lunged. Its jaws locked onto my forearm. Canine teeth pierced skin, sinking into the flesh and tearing, hot blood spurting out. The intense pain nearly made me black out. Skylar, spoiled and sheltered, had never seen real blood. She collapsed into Jonathan’s arms. “Daddy, I’m scared.” Jonathan tenderly covered her eyes. “It’s alright, my precious Skylar. Daddy is here.” Clutching my profusely bleeding arm, I felt a familiar haze of pain and delirium, and then, I heard Dad’s voice. “If the livestock goes mad, you tame it!” “Abba, I’m afraid.” “I’m here, Nu-nu. Don’t be afraid.” “Get on its back!” I spun around and scrambled onto Shadow’s back, clamping my legs tight around its torso. “Wrap your arms around its neck! You don’t let go until it stops struggling!” I seized Shadow’s neck, pulling back with all the power I could muster. Under the stunned stares of Jonathan and Skylar, the dog’s violent struggle turned to whimpers, then a pathetic gasp, before it finally collapsed, foaming at the mouth. Evelyn rushed over, muttering, “What a sin, what a sin.” Jonathan just scoffed, spat out the word “Crude,” and stalked off, clutching Skylar. I stood in the metal cage, covered in my own blood. My last sight before passing out was Skylar’s face, a mask of pure, ugly defiance. When I next woke up, Evelyn was crouched beside me, dressing the wound. Half the muscle on my forearm had been ripped away; I was a hair’s breadth from seeing bone. She gently blew on the wound as she applied ointment, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Why is this child so stubborn? Where did she get this temperament?” “Mommy is so heartbroken for you. But Skylar is the only child I’ve known since she was an infant. Listen to me, be a good sister to her, okay?” I reached out my small, bloody hand and hooked my little finger around hers. “Mom, I want my Abba.” Her expression instantly froze, turning cold. The ointment tube clattered to the ground. “Abba, Abba, it’s always your damn Abba! You are so ungrateful for the life we’ve given you!” She stormed out. The housekeeper cautiously inquired. “Mrs. Prescott, what about the wound…” “It’s bandaged. The school gala is tomorrow, and the media will be everywhere. We can’t afford any rumors of child abuse. It would be too much trouble.” I listened to the click-clack of her heels fading away. 3 The housekeeper applied some miraculous ointment that stopped the bleeding, then ordered the makeup artist to slather my face with unnatural rouge. I was stuffed into a hideous, frilly couture disaster, a sad attempt at a delicate princess. I was compliant. Dad would be so happy to see me looking… safe. At the Charity Gala, my classmates whispered into their parents’ ears. “That’s the bumpkin who just arrived. She stole Skylar’s parents and bullies Skylar every day.” “No class whatsoever. That blush looks like a baboon’s rear.” “Good thing Skylar’s parents saw through her tricks. Skylar didn’t have to turn into a poor orphan.” Was that really the truth? I watched as Jonathan and Evelyn crammed themselves into a single seat, preferring to hover over Skylar than give me a sliver of their attention. Out of every child in the room, I was the only one standing alone in the center. When reporters asked, Jonathan and Evelyn forced a strained smile. “She’s not close with us. We respect her privacy.” The gala dragged on into the evening. I bit my lip until it went white, my burning eyes fixed on the school entrance. “Abba… are you going to break your promise to Aura?” On the stage, the Headmaster was thanking each corporate sponsor. The highest donor would receive the coveted Diamond Tiara—a social prize. Skylar was ignoring me. She had worn the Tiara for three straight years, and this was her favorite moment of glory. But today, after thanking Prescott Industries, the Headmaster paused, and the Tiara remained on the velvet cushion. A flicker of annoyance crossed Skylar’s face. “Headmaster, where is my Tiara?” The Headmaster looked genuinely embarrassed. “This year, the largest corporate donation… was not the Prescott family. It was from a private philanthropist named Rhett Callahan.” My stunned mind suddenly clicked, and a bolt of pure energy shot through me. “It’s my Dad!” Every single eye in the crowded ballroom snapped to me. “What? I thought they said the Prescotts found this kid in a backwater town? How could he be richer than the Prescotts?” “The kid’s just distraught from being neglected at the Prescott house. She’s probably making things up.” Skylar was furious at the sudden shift in focus. She charged at me, grabbing my ugly dress collar. “Autumn Prescott! You’re not just a nobody, you’re a liar!” “I am not! The Headmaster is talking about my Dad!” The rough tug-of-war ripped the delicate sleeve, exposing the horrifying, concave scar on my forearm. A collective gasp swept through the room. “Good God! Has this child been abused at the Prescott house?” “No wonder she’s talking nonsense—she’d rather go back to the country than stay here.” Cameras flashed furiously. Jonathan and Evelyn rushed over, and both slapped me. “It was bad enough that you tried to push your sister into a kennel! Now you’re faking injuries for sympathy!” “I’m not faking—” Their own parents’ betrayal was a poison I couldn’t combat. “Autumn Reed Prescott! Your father and I are taking you to a treatment center tonight to fix your twisted brain!” They grabbed me, trying to drag me toward the exit.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386835”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The zipper snagged as Mom, Vivian, forced the last sweater into her travel bag. She tugged at it twice, hard, and when it wouldn’t budge, she simply let go of the pull-tab and sank onto the floor. I watched her from the crack in my bedroom door, afraid to make a sound. Dad, Ethan, was in the living room, his voice low and tight on the phone. “Where is she going to go? No money, barely any friends. Just let her be, she’ll come back when she’s cooled off.” He’s wrong. I whispered the protest in my mind. Mom wasn’t coming back. Her eyes had told me so. Vivian finally stood up, not looking again at the bulging, half-zipped bag. She walked to my doorway and crouched down, bringing her gaze level with mine. “Aubrey,” she called me, her voice a little rough, but gentle. “Mommy has to go on a trip.” 1 I stared at the tiny mole on the bridge of her nose. “How long?” She paused, then reached out to touch my cheek. Her fingertips were cool. “It might… be a long time. You have to be a good girl, Aubrey. Listen to Dad, and eat all your dinner, okay?” I nodded. I knew what a “long trip” meant. My friend Mandy’s mom upstairs went on a “long trip” and never returned. Mandy said her mom didn’t want her anymore. Would Mom not want me, either? The thought was a cold, slick snake that suddenly slithered into my heart and coiled there. She leaned closer and kissed my forehead. It was so light, like a feather landing. Then she stood up, grabbed the travel bag, and walked toward the front door without a backward glance. The zipper was still broken, gaping like a black, silent mockery. Dad hung up the phone and stood in the center of the living room, watching her. He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to stop her. His face was drawn and pale in the hallway light, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. The door clicked shut with a soft finality. The house fell into an enormous silence. It was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator compressor humming, and the frantic thump-thump-thump of my own heart, beating like a small drum. Dad stood there for a moment, then walked to the sofa and dropped onto it heavily, burying his face in his hands. My eyes fell on the coffee table. A single butterscotch candy lay there, wrapped in a pretty gold and orange foil. Mom had given it to me that morning. She’d said: When life gets bitter, you eat a piece of candy. I walked over, carefully peeled back the wrapper, and put the orange-yellow square in my mouth. It was sweet, cloyingly sweet. But the sweetness, once it reached my throat, morphed into a strange, inexplicable ache that made me want to cry. I smoothed out the wrinkled foil, holding it up to the lamp. The wrapper refracted the light into vibrant, tiny, fragile stars. Mom was gone. She left with a broken zipper and what I knew was a broken heart. My world, from that moment on, was fundamentally different. 2 Sierra arrived on the third day after Mom left. She carried a large bag of fresh groceries and put them in the refrigerator like she knew exactly where everything belonged. She moved like she already owned the place. “Goodness, look at this mess,” she muttered, frowning. Her eyes swept over Dad’s shirt tossed on the sofa and my uncollected blocks on the rug. “A grown man trying to raise a kid alone—it just doesn’t work.” Dad scratched his head awkwardly. “We’re making do.” Sierra didn’t respond. She tied on an apron and began straightening up. She was quick and efficient, and soon the living room looked immaculate. Then she disappeared into the kitchen, where the clatter of pots and pans began. I sat at the dining table, watching her back. Sierra was nothing like Mom. Vivian always cooked slowly, sometimes staring out the window and letting something scorch on the stove. Sierra wouldn’t; her every movement was precise and productive. When dinner was served—three dishes and a soup—it was colorful, fragrant, and perfectly presented. “Aubrey, eat up,” Sierra said, putting a generous slice of pot roast onto my plate with a bright smile. “You’re too skinny. Aunt Sierra will come make you good food all the time now, okay?” I didn’t answer, just kept my head down, picking at my rice. The pot roast was tender, practically melting in my mouth. It tasted objectively better than Mom’s cooking. But I still felt that something was missing. Dad was eating with gusto, praising her enthusiastically. “Sierra, your cooking is incredible. Vivian… sigh… she could never get it to taste like this.” Sierra gave him a playful, scolding look. “Vivian had bigger things on her mind. She had a whole world waiting for her, Ethan.” Dad just snorted and didn’t say anything else. My heart sank. A bigger world? Was it bigger than me and Dad? After dinner, Sierra went to do the dishes. Dad sat on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. I heard her light humming mixed in with the sound of the running water. She sounded… happy. When she finished, Sierra took off her apron and walked over to sit next to Dad. She sat so close, almost touching him. “Ethan, look at your beard. How many days since you shaved? You’re a mess.” She reached out, as if to lightly touch his chin. Dad instinctively leaned back a little. Sierra’s hand froze mid-air. Her smile flickered for a second, then she casually pulled her hand back. “By the way, my brother has a project—it sounds promising. You should take a look. Might be a good opportunity.” Dad’s interest perked up. “Oh? What kind of project?” They leaned in close, talking in hushed tones. Dad’s expression was focused. He only used to look that focused when he was looking at Mom. A heavy feeling settled in my chest, like a ball of wet cotton. I stood up, wanting to retreat to my room. As I walked past them, Sierra suddenly stopped me. “Aubrey, is your homework done? If not, go do it. Adults have business to discuss, and kids shouldn’t eavesdrop.” Her tone was natural, radiating a self-assured familiarity, as if she were already a permanent fixture with the right to organize my life. Dad looked up. “Listen to Sierra, go do your homework.” I looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, and held a strange expression I couldn’t decipher, something like relief. He didn’t look at me for long, quickly lowering his head to resume talking with Sierra. I silently turned and walked back to my room. I closed the door, shutting out the low murmuring from the living room. My homework lay open on the desk, but I couldn’t focus on a single word. I picked up the wrinkled candy wrapper from the afternoon and carefully smoothed it out, folding it into a tiny, eight-pointed star. The foil star glimmered faintly under the desk lamp. Mom, where are you right now? What is your world like? 3 Sierra started coming over more and more often. She even began doing Dad’s laundry. I saw her once, taking his pajamas off the clothesline, folding them neatly, and putting them into his dresser. When she saw me, she smiled. “Aubrey, home from school? Your dad is so careless about the house. He can’t manage without someone looking after him.” I didn’t say anything. I remembered Mom saying underwear should be hand-washed, never thrown into the washing machine with outerwear. Mom always hand-washed everything. Dad didn’t seem to notice or care. He actually seemed to be enjoying the attention. His shirts were crisp, his socks weren’t scattered everywhere, and there was a bit more laughter on his face. The kind of relaxed smile I hadn’t seen since Mom left. The house no longer smelled of burnt vegetables. The floors were always spotless, and the fridge was stocked with food. Everything, on the surface, was getting better. But I felt that our home was becoming more and more alien. The air was now thick with Sierra’s light jasmine perfume, masking the faint, warm, familiar scent Mom had left behind. Sierra took over my life, too. She checked my assignments, circling mistakes with a red pen. “Aubrey, this word is wrong.” “This problem needs a different approach. Let Aunt Sierra show you.” She bought me new clothes—pink, with lace—not the comfortable blue and athletic styles I preferred. “A girl should dress pretty, right?” She set time limits for my TV watching and rationed my snacks. “This is for your own good, Aubrey. You need to be sensible.” Dad always backed her up: “Listen to Sierra.” He grew increasingly reliant on her. He discussed work worries and daily annoyances with her. They spent more and more time together. Sometimes Sierra stayed late, in the study with Dad, “talking business.” The study door would be closed, and I could hear their low voices, occasionally punctuated by Sierra’s clear, bright laugh. I sat in the living room, hugging my knees, staring at that closed door. The cold snake in my heart began to wriggle again. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Passing the study, I heard Sierra’s voice, laced with a hint of petulance. “Her leaving, it really did clear the path for us, didn’t it, Ethan? Don’t you think this was fate?” Dad’s reply was mumbled. “Don’t say things like that… the kid is still here…” “Aubrey will have to accept it eventually. Are you still holding out hope that Vivian will come back?” Silence followed. My heart lodged itself in my throat. Then I heard Dad say, very softly, “She won’t.” The word was quiet, yet it landed on my chest like a boulder. She won’t come back. Mom won’t come back. And Dad… Dad didn’t want her back, either. I tiptoed back to my room, climbed into bed, and pulled the blanket over my head. In the dark, I found the candy wrapper star under my pillow and clenched it tightly in my fist, the sharp edges digging painfully into my palm. 4 That weekend, Sierra suggested a picnic. “Let’s take Aubrey out. It’s not good for her to be cooped up in the house all the time.” Dad agreed. We drove to a park on the city outskirts. The weather was beautiful, sunny and bright, and the lawns were dotted with families picnicking. Sierra spread out a nice checkered blanket and arranged homemade sandwiches, fruit, and pastries. She even brought a small kite. “Aubrey, look what Aunt Sierra brought! Want to fly a kite?” She held the kite up, her smile dazzling, and beckoned to me. I stood still. Dad nudged me. “Go on, Aubrey. Sierra’s talking to you.” I walked over slowly. Sierra put the string spool in my hand, showing me how to let out the line and how to run. Her palm was soft and smelled of hand lotion. The kite wobbled, then soared up into the sky. It was a colorful butterfly. “It’s flying! You’re so good, Aubrey!” Sierra clapped and cheered like a kid herself. Dad sat on the blanket, watching us, a relaxed smile on his face. The scene looked exactly like a happy, harmonious family. But the kite string was taut, tethering the butterfly that flew higher and higher, like it was ready to snap and disappear into the blue at any moment. Just like Mom. Tired from running, I went back to the blanket. Sierra handed me a bottle of juice, then picked up a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and handed it naturally to Dad. “Have some water.” Her movement was fluid and intimate. Dad took a drink. I watched them, and suddenly I spoke. “Dad, Mom always used to open your water bottles for you too.” Dad froze, the bottle mid-air. Sierra’s smile faded slightly. The atmosphere grew instantly awkward. “Did she?” Dad lowered the bottle, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t remember.” He did remember. Mom had small hands and sometimes struggled with the cap. She would pout and hand the bottle to him to help. Dad would laugh, call her his “little idiot,” and open it easily. Sometimes, he’d pretend he couldn’t open it either, just to watch her fret, then burst out laughing. Those moments were perfectly clear in my head. How could he forget? Sierra picked up a sandwich and offered it to me. “Aubrey, try Aunt Sierra’s tuna salad sandwich. Your dad says it’s delicious.” I looked at the sandwich but didn’t take it. “Mom said I can’t have tuna. I’m allergic,” I said softly. It was true. When I was little, I’d eaten tuna once and broken out in hives that were so itchy and painful I had to get shots for days. After that, Mom banned all tuna products from the house. Dad’s face shifted. He had clearly forgotten that too. Sierra’s hand stayed suspended in the air. Her smile finally vanished completely. She pulled her hand back, putting the sandwich on the plate. Her voice was flat. “Oh, really? Well, have something else then.” The rest of the picnic was subdued. The kite eventually got stuck high up in a tree, beyond reach. Sierra said it was fine, we’d just buy a new one next time. But I knew there wouldn’t be a next time. On the drive home, I sat in the back, watching the scenery rush by the window. Dad drove in focused silence. Sierra was in the passenger seat, looking down at her phone. They didn’t exchange a single word. I secretly pulled the candy wrapper star from my pocket. Sunlight streamed through the car window, illuminating the star with a faint, determined glow. Mom, I didn’t eat the tuna. I remember your words. I remember you, too. I never forgot. 5 My first birthday since Mom left arrived. Dad asked me how I wanted to celebrate. I said I wanted cake. I didn’t really crave cake. I just remembered that every year, Mom would buy me a beautiful buttercream cake with small candles. She would hold me as we blew out the candles, then tell me to make a wish. She said that a birthday wish doesn’t come true if you say it out loud, so you have to keep it in your heart. My wish had always been the same: I wish Mom, Dad, and I could be together forever. But that wish never came true. Dad bought a huge cake, piled high with fruit and chocolate. It was bigger and flashier than any Mom had ever bought. Sierra came over, too. She gave me a brand-new dress as a birthday gift. “Thank you, Sierra,” I said, taking the dress and offering a polite thank you. Dad seemed pleased by my “sensibility.” He lit the candles and turned off the lights. “Aubrey, make a wish!” he prompted. Sierra smiled, watching me. The candlelight flickered, reflecting in their faces. I closed my eyes. Mom, where are you? Do you remember it’s my birthday? I whispered the question silently in my heart, then blew out the candles. The lights came back on. Dad began to cut the cake. He cut me a huge slice with my favorite strawberries on top. I took my fork, dug out a small piece, and put it in my mouth. The frosting was too sweet, the strawberries too tart. The mixed flavors were strange. “Is it good?” Dad asked, looking expectant. I nodded. “It’s good.” Dad smiled, clearly relieved. He cut a slice for Sierra, too. She ate daintily, complimenting the flavor. The phone rang just then. Dad walked over to answer it. I saw his expression change the moment he looked at the caller ID. He walked onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. My heart started to race. I had a strange premonition. Sierra also noticed his unusual behavior. She put down her fork, watching the balcony with a slight crease in her brow. The sound from the balcony was muffled, but I caught a few words. “…No need… she’s fine… just take care of yourself…” Who was it? Was it Mom? The fork slipped from my hand and clattered onto the plate. Sierra turned to look at me, her expression complicated. A moment later, Dad came back in. His expression was back to normal, even carrying a hint of relief. “Telemarketer,” he said casually, sitting down and picking up his fork. He was lying. I knew it. That look, that tone—it was absolutely not the way someone reacts to a cold call. It was Mom. It had to be Mom. She remembered my birthday. She called. But Dad didn’t want me to know. He rejected Mom. He said, “No need.” No need for what? No need to see me? No need to send wishes? Or… no need to contact me ever again? The cake in my mouth suddenly turned unbearably bitter, impossible to swallow. My stomach twisted violently. I put down my fork. “Dad, I’m full.” “Already? You barely ate anything,” Dad said, surprised. “Yeah, I’m just not hungry.” I slid off the chair. “I think I’ll go rest in my room.” I walked into my room, closed the door, and slid down the wood, collapsing onto the floor. Tears sprang up without warning, falling in fat drops. I bit down hard on my lip to stop myself from sobbing out loud. In my pocket, I squeezed the candy wrapper star until it was nearly embedded in my skin. Mom. Mom. I called her name over and over in my head. 6 I noticed Dad started going into the office for “overtime” on weekends. He’d be wearing a crisp, pressed shirt, his hair neatly combed, smelling faintly of cologne. Before leaving, he’d instruct me, “Aubrey, Dad has to go into the office. You be a good girl at home alone. Do your homework, no more than an hour of screen time. Sierra will come over and make you lunch.” I’d nod obediently. But I knew he wasn’t going to work. One time, I secretly followed him. He didn’t go to the office tower. Instead, he went to a coffee shop downtown. Sierra was waiting for him there. They greeted each other with a natural, brief hug, then walked inside, holding hands. Another time, they went to the movies. Like a couple on a date, Sierra carried a huge bucket of popcorn, and Dad held two sodas. Sierra was beaming, and Dad looked at her with a soft tenderness I hadn’t seen in a long time. I didn’t follow them anymore. The snake in my heart was no longer wriggling; it just lay there, cold and rigid. I went back home and sat in the empty living room. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting dappled shadows on the floor. The air was silent, save for the ticking of the wall clock’s second hand. I took out a photo of Mom and gently traced her face with my finger. In the picture, she was smiling so beautifully, her eyes crinkling like crescent moons. But where was she now? Was she doing okay? Did she… miss me? When Dad came home that evening, he brought me a new pencil case. “Like it? I passed a store and thought you’d love it.” It was a beautiful pencil case, double-layered, with a combination lock and a popular cartoon print. If it had been before, I would have jumped up and down with joy. Now, I just took it and mumbled, “Thank you, Dad.” Dad patted my head. “Good girl, Aubrey.” A faint scent of cologne still lingered on his hand. That smell, mixed with the light jasmine from Sierra, created a strange, suffocating odor. I began to dream of Mom frequently. In the dreams, she was always crying. She was walking alone on unfamiliar streets, her back thin and lonely. I wanted to run and hug her, but my feet were pinned to the ground. I wanted to scream her name, but no sound would come out of my throat. I could only watch her walk farther and farther away until she disappeared into the mist. I would wake up, my face drenched in tears. My pillow was wet, and so was my heart. I grew quieter and quieter. At school, I stopped playing with the other kids, sitting at my desk and staring into space during recess. My teacher noticed and spoke to me several times, asking if something was wrong at home. I shook my head, saying nothing. Family business. How could I tell a stranger? Dad and Sierra were immersed in their “new” life and didn’t seem to notice my change. Or perhaps they did notice, but didn’t care. Dad thought I was just being “sensible,” not clingy like before. Sierra figured that kids just need time to adjust. Until that day, when I overheard their argument. I was already asleep that night when I was awakened by raised voices in the living room. It was Sierra’s voice, sharper than usual. “When is she leaving? It’s been long enough! Are we going to keep doing this forever?” Dad’s voice was soothing. “Lower your voice! Aubrey’s sleeping! Where is she going to go? She’s my daughter!” “Daughter? Does she even see me as a person? Haven’t I been good enough to her? Look at her face—she glowers all the time, like I owe her a million dollars! Ethan, I’ve given up so much for you! I didn’t get involved with you to be a free babysitter who has to put up with your daughter’s attitude!” “Sierra, don’t be like this… Aubrey’s just a kid, she needs time…” “Time, time! How much time are you going to give her? A year? Two years? Ten years? I can’t wait that long! Ethan, I’m laying it out now: it’s either her or me! One of us goes!” “You… you’re putting me on the spot!” “No, you are! Tell me, who are you choosing?” The argument ended abruptly. I lay in bed, chilled to the bone. My limbs felt soaked in ice water, unable to move. It’s either her or me. Sierra was forcing Dad to choose. Choose me, or choose her. Who would Dad choose? I couldn’t bring myself to think about it. Fear instantly overwhelmed me like a tidal wave. I curled into a ball, squeezing my eyes shut, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing. But the phrase repeated itself like a curse in my mind. It’s either her or me. 7 My midterms were a disaster. My grades plummeted. The teacher called Dad in for a conference. On the way home, Dad’s face was a stone mask. The moment we stepped inside, he threw my backpack onto the sofa and barked at me, “Aubrey Miller! What is wrong with you? Why are your grades so bad? What are you doing in class?” I kept my head down, staring at the tips of my shoes, saying nothing. “Answer me!” Dad’s voice rose by an octave. “Are you just playing games all day? Watching TV? On your phone? How many times have I told you to study? Are you even listening to a word I say?” I remained silent. My throat felt stuffed with cotton. “You…” Dad raised his hand, fueled by anger. I instinctively closed my eyes and flinched. The expected slap didn’t come. I opened my eyes and saw Dad’s hand frozen mid-air, his face a mixture of rage and profound disappointment. He eventually dropped his hand and sank onto the sofa in defeat. “Aubrey,” his voice was exhausted. “I’m busy with work, and I’m tired. Can you please… please just stop worrying me?” I looked at him. He looked genuinely drained, with heavy dark circles under his eyes and, I thought, a few more gray hairs at his temples. He was no longer the all-powerful Dad of my memory, the one who used to hoist me high onto his shoulders. But Dad, did you know that I was tired too? My heart was so tired. Sierra walked out of the kitchen then. She had been listening. “Ethan, don’t get upset. Kids mess up sometimes, it’s normal.” She came over, sat next to Dad, and gently rubbed his back, as if calming an agitated beast. Then she looked at me, her tone gentle but her eyes holding a critical gaze. “Aubrey, tell your father—is something bothering you? Is there something on your mind? You can talk to Sierra, I can help.” I looked at her, at the hand resting on Dad’s back, and at her confident “lady of the house” posture. The emotions that had been bottled up for too long, like a lit fuse, finally reached the end. I lifted my head, looked straight at Dad, and asked, one word at a time: “Dad, did you abandon Mom?” “Are you abandoning me too?” Dad froze. The smile instantly evaporated from Sierra’s face. The living room was plunged into absolute silence. Time seemed to stop. I could hear my own shallow, quick breaths and see the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Dad’s lips moved, as if he wanted to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide with shock. Sierra jumped up, her voice shrill. “Aubrey! What are you saying! Who put those words in your mouth?! It must be Vivian! She’s gone, but her ghost is still here! She’s coaching the child to hate us!” I did not let her distract me. My eyes stayed locked on Dad. “Dad,” my voice was trembling, but I tried to keep it steady. “The one who called that day—it was Mom, wasn’t it? Why wouldn’t you let me take the call? Did you tell Mom not to contact me again?” Dad’s face went instantly pale. “How did… how did you know?” “I heard you.” I said. “I also know you and Sierra weren’t working overtime. You were on dates. Going to the movies, getting coffee.” I turned my gaze to Sierra, watching her face drain of color. “Sierra, that cardigan you’re wearing is my mom’s. Those slippers on your feet are my mom’s. Your perfume is covering up my mom’s scent. You cook better food than my mom did. You take better care of Dad than my mom did.” I spoke in a rush, pouring out everything I had seen, heard, and felt over the past months. It was a dam breaking. “But this is my and Mom and Dad’s home. It’s not your home.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386851”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The college reunion was the last place I expected to see him. Rhys Beaumont, my ex-husband, a man I hadn’t spoken to in three years. One of our mutual high school friends didn’t hesitate to launch the first volley of mockery. “Willow, this is a university alumni event,” Amber sneered, tossing back her blonde waves. “Didn’t you only go to, like, a local state college? Don’t you think you’re reaching a bit?” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that carried perfectly. “Honestly, girl, have some dignity. Rhys got married—are you really still chasing him?” I held my gaze steady and offered a level statement. “I’m here to pick up my husband.” Rhys looked up from across the room, his expression caught somewhere between pity and discomfort. He hesitated, then spoke, his voice low. “Willa, we haven’t been married in three years.” I knew that, of course. And I hadn’t actually said I was here to pick him up. 1 “Pathetic. Still trying to ride on his success even after the divorce.” Dustin Cole lit a cigarette, his eyes scanning me with casual contempt. “First time I’ve seen someone actively audition for the role of the side chick.” Dustin used to be Rhys’s best friend and, once, the second best person in my world. We were a trio in high school. But when my marriage with Rhys imploded, he’d sided with Rhys instantly. Why? Because the woman Rhys eventually cheated with—the woman Rhys eventually married—was the girl Dustin had always secretly loved. And Dustin, it turned out, had spent months helping Rhys keep their affair a secret. I’d been the only fool, blind and happily clueless until the very end. “Dustin, enough,” Rhys cut in sharply, his lips pressed into a thin line. Dustin bristled, flicking the cigarette butt away impatiently. “What? I’m just speaking the truth. A clueless mess like Willa could never compare to someone like Verity Shaw. She’s brilliant, sophisticated, everything you deserve. You let this idiot drag you down for years.” Rhys met my gaze, his voice firm, “Willa isn’t dumb.” Willa isn’t dumb. Coming from the mouth of Rhys Beaumont—the certified genius, the Ivy League grad, the tech mogul—it sounded almost ridiculous. A patronizing relic of a forgotten time. But sixteen-year-old me, the naive girl I once was, had believed it wholeheartedly. My mother and Rhys’s father formed a new family the summer I finished middle school. Rhys and I were the same age and ended up at the same ordinary high school. We even shared a homeroom. He was dead last in class rankings; I was firmly in the middle. Rhys hated me. He never spoke to me. I constantly saw him in trouble for fighting, followed by the inevitable disciplinary action. Then, it would be my mother’s turn to arrive at the principal’s office, head bowed, quietly accepting the humiliating lecture. One night, I went to the kitchen for water and saw her sitting alone on the sofa, silently weeping. “Willa,” she whispered, her voice laced with despair. “How can I make Rhys accept me?” I didn’t know. All I knew was that after that night, the tentative truce between Rhys and me broke. Our relationship became a series of petty wars. I’d spike his juice with mustard, dump dirty water in his backpack, or slip laxatives into his lunch. Rhys had finally cornered me, his jaw clenched with fury. “What else you got? Listen up, Willa, if you don’t manage to kill me, I swear I will make your mother’s life a living hell!” We went on like that for nearly a year, locked in a toxic, bitter stalemate. I honestly thought I would hate Rhys Beaumont for the rest of my life. Yet somehow, he eventually became the only person in the world who truly loved me. 2 Our endless feud came to a violent stop after a single, defining night of trauma. Rhys’s father beat my mother so badly she ended up in the emergency room. As the paramedics wheeled her onto the gurney, his father was still shouting vile accusations. “I chased you for a year! All you are is a pretty face, completely useless, zero ambition, zero capability!” My mother was nearly forty, and she had spent the first half of her life pampered and protected by my own father. She was indeed, as he screamed, unskilled in the ways of the world. Rhys’s cold, arrogant expression shattered the moment he heard those words. He stared at me in shock, muttering under his breath, “It wasn’t your mom… she didn’t chase my dad…” Rhys had always hated my mother, convinced she was the aggressive interloper who broke up his original family and caused his own mother to leave. But it didn’t matter anymore, because after that day, I didn’t have a mother either. I went to the hospital with a bouquet of the white lilies my mother loved most, only to find out she had run. She hadn’t taken a single belonging. And she hadn’t taken me. Willa Reid had no home. I didn’t know where to go. Wandering aimlessly on the street late that night, I was found by Rhys. His eyes were red-rimmed, full of a fierce, silent anger. I was so afraid he was going to hit me that I immediately curled into myself. In my fear, his arms wrapped around me in a warm, solid hug. For the first time, he spoke to me with genuine tenderness. “Willa, come home with me.” “From now on, I’m your whole world.” I reached for the hand he offered and gripped it tightly. And so, from the age of sixteen, Willa Reid’s world contained only Rhys Beaumont. 3 After my mother left, Rhys’s father’s temper became more erratic and violent. Fearing for my safety, Rhys took me and we moved out. Our lives continued, but the dynamic had fundamentally changed. I stopped acting out, and the severity in Rhys’s eyes softened. He began spending more and more time reading and studying. I couldn’t help but ask him about it. “You never liked books or classes before.” He looked at me, his gaze intensely serious. Finally, he gave my cheek a gentle, helpless squeeze. “Willa, I want to give you a better life.” I watched the flush creep up his neck and color the tips of his ears, and I nodded resolutely. Willa would never hold Rhys back. I threw myself into studying with a newfound fervor. But while Rhys climbed from dead last to the top of the class, ultimately becoming the state’s top scorer, I was still stuck stubbornly in the middle. Rhys tutored me until midnight. I would stare at the calculus problems and just shake my head. He’d sigh. “Willa, you really are such a fool.” “But,” he’d add, his tone softening as he kissed my forehead, “I love that sweet, clumsy way you are. You’re adorable.” As sleep overwhelmed me, the pen slipped from my exhausted fingers. I remember mumbling, half-awake: “Rhys, can you slow down? I’m going to lose you.” Rhys had replied that I never had to chase him; he would wait for me forever. He didn’t. Later, that sweet, clumsy way I was became the very thing he grew to despise. 4 “See? I told you she was dumb. You practically killed yourself tutoring her, and she still only managed to get into a pathetic local college, didn’t she?” Dustin played with his zippo lighter, seizing the opportunity to jump back into the conversation. I glanced around the room, trying to spot my actual husband, Ethan Wells. Ethan did attend this university, but he was in a different, non-academic college. He shouldn’t be here. I figured he must have sent me the wrong address. I couldn’t be bothered to prolong the argument over old history. “My apologies for the intrusion,” I said, and turned to leave. I’d texted Ethan, but he hadn’t replied, and his phone went straight to voicemail. I decided to head home. Just as I reached the car, a hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. “Sweetheart, please forgive me.” Rhys lowered his eyes. His expression held an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. Sweetheart. That familiar, infuriating nickname. It used to make me blush, a fun, flirtatious jab between us. But later, that simple, intimate greeting became the signal that sent my life spiraling into ruin. “Rhys,” I yanked my hand free, my face an impassive mask. “Are you acting? Because I’m not playing this game anymore.” The tension was cut by a light, contemptuous chuckle. “Willa. Fancy seeing you here.” Verity Shaw clicked her heels as she approached, as arrogant and haughty as she always was. In the past, I would have been instantly intimidated by her sheer presence. I would have felt a surge of admiration, maybe even an uncomfortable rush of inadequacy. But after the years of mental anguish and emotional turmoil, all that history had settled into a hard, cold, unremarkable calm. “Willa, why don’t you just come home with Rhys and me?” Verity suggested, her smile condescending. “Your mother misses you very much, you know.” I couldn’t believe how easy it was to say, three years later. “I don’t have a mother.” My brother. My mother. They all chose Verity Shaw. And I had chosen to let them go. Verity grasped my wrist, then nonchalantly shifted her pose, ensuring I couldn’t miss the thick, vintage gold bangle she wore. It was Rhys’s mother’s heirloom. I had worn that bracelet for ten years. And ten years was the exact length of my relationship with Rhys. 5 Dustin was right: I was truly a fool. Despite Rhys’s superhuman effort to tutor me, I barely scraped by with acceptance to a state college. Rhys, on the other hand, was the state’s top scorer and went on to the Ivy League—a star at Columbia. We both stayed in the NYC area, not terribly far apart. Though we couldn’t be together all the time, our days were sweet, close, and blissful. It was the simplest kind of happiness, and a memory I would cherish forever. Rhys was handsome, brilliant, and constantly pursued. But he always gave me all the reassurance I needed. I would often visit him at Columbia. He was so famous on campus that every little rumor about him would spread like wildfire. Soon, comments started popping up on the forums: She doesn’t deserve him. No talent, no connections, just a face. The idiot shouldn’t even look at the great Rhys Beaumont. Rhys had already made our relationship official. These posts enraged him. He said they didn’t know the real me. So, on one of his final Political Science exams—a course where he was already a borderline genius—he changed every instance of the word “Materialism” to “Willa-ism.” He nearly flunked the course and was publicly reprimanded by the department for being “too obsessed.” The incident became an infamous campus legend. Rhys was so terrified of anyone not knowing I was his girlfriend. And yet, when it came time for us to finally get married, he said, “Willa, let’s keep this a secret for now. Let’s elope.” “Just wait a few more years,” he’d pleaded. “I’ll get to the top, and then I’ll give you the grand, public wedding you deserve.” I agreed. Four years into our marriage, Rhys was a wildly successful industry leader. I never got the grand, heartfelt wedding I’d been promised. What I got instead was his infidelity. 6 On our fourth wedding anniversary, Rhys threw a massive fit. Why? Because I had supposedly lost the heirloom bangle he’d given me. He was furious, slamming the door and storming out of the house. It was the first time he had ever spoken to me with genuine malice. It was pouring rain that night. I searched everywhere we’d been. Then, I remembered the small apartment we’d shared in high school. Rhys had bought it and kept it. The walls were covered with thousands of photos of us from those early years. The instant I pushed the door open, I saw it. Rhys had another woman pinned beneath him, their bodies colliding with brutal, desperate intensity. I knew her. Verity Shaw. Rhys had mentioned her, but only sparingly. He first told me her father had shoved her onto his team and that she was probably going to be a nuisance. Later, he said Verity was brilliant, hyper-competent, and a certified genius. It was around that time that Rhys began to feel that I was the slow, difficult one. Our shared interests dwindled. Rhys’s standard reply became: “Can you stop asking? You wouldn’t understand even if I explained it.” “Willa, you’re just so slow.” But I genuinely felt happy that he had found a partner who finally matched his intellect. Now, Verity was wearing the heirloom bangle, her eyes full of cold triumph. I had been wracked with guilt, searching frantically like a desperate dog for a thing I thought I’d lost. But I hadn’t lost it. Rhys had simply given it away. She stood up slowly, leaning into Rhys’s side, and spoke with deliberate cruelty. “What are you so shocked about?” “We’ve done it in your bed in the city, in your shower, in front of your floor-to-ceiling windows. We just wanted to try the very first place you two ever did it.” A ringing deafness overtook my ears. All the strength drained from my body. Acting purely on instinct, I grabbed the photo frame from the nearby table and hurled it. Rhys immediately shielded her, his eyes blazing red. “Willa, are you insane?!” The man who had promised to be my whole world brutally shoved me to the floor. My hand landed on the shattered glass. The photo—our very first picture together, the one where he had me wrapped in his arms, showing me off proudly—was now in pieces. And the eyes of the man above me held nothing but cold annoyance. Before I could process the pain, another bomb dropped, shattering what little composure I had left. “Willa, stop your childish drama! You’re being suffocating—no wonder your mother abandoned you!” My mother. She had remarried. She had married Verity Shaw’s father and had spent the last ten years doting on Verity, showering her with the love I had always longed for. My decade of hopeful fantasy turned into a nightmare in a single, devastating moment. Rhys later demanded a divorce. I fought him, determined not to give them the satisfaction. But I was fighting a losing battle. Everyone I loved, everyone I trusted, had switched sides. My husband. My best friend. And my mother. 7 Rhys locked me in our penthouse in the city. For nearly a week, he unleashed all his resentment and fury. “I won’t sign the papers. You want to marry her? In your dreams.” At the time, the marriage certificate was the only card I had left. I was desperate, stubborn, and acting like a lunatic. A week later, a heavily pixelated video surfaced. The audio, however, was chillingly clear. “Big Brother, I love you, but please save some love for Willa.” That was a clip from a private video he’d insisted we shoot when he was traveling. He’d said he needed a ‘consolation’ when I wasn’t physically there. Rhys was always intensely private and formal, so his request for the video had both stunned and embarrassed me. Rhys and Verity knew how to manipulate the narrative. That single, out-of-context line—“Big Brother…”—was enough to launch a massive social media scandal. The final touches of the disaster were added by my own flesh and blood and my supposed best friend. My mother publicly claimed I was incestuous, that I had seduced Rhys and forced her out of her home. Dustin claimed Rhys only ever treated me like a little sister, that I was an ungrateful person who wormed my way into his bed, forcing him to marry me out of misplaced obligation. But the final, crushing blow came from Rhys himself. I lay on the bed, numbly watching my family and friends’ accusations spread online, when Verity came to see me. She told me that she had confessed her feelings to Rhys back in college. Rhys had turned her down.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386867”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It started with a joke. A cruel, offhand comment by the team’s shiny new recruit about my “senior citizen” reflexes. He said I should be put out to pasture. My wife, Sloane—who I thought loved me more than life itself—responded by spiking my pre-game smoothie with enough laxatives to kill a horse. I spent the championship match humiliated, sick, and destroying my reputation on live stream. Afterward, she benched me. She claimed it was strategy. She called it “The Icarus Gambit.” She said she was giving the rookie, Jax, everything—the captain’s armband, the millions in sponsorship, the penthouse in downtown L.A.—just to inflate his ego until he popped. She claimed she was building him up to tear him down, all to avenge me. She bought him state-of-the-art gear while I sat on the sidelines. She poured money into him like water. “It’s a long con, Wes,” she’d whisper. “I’m making him think he’s a god so he falls harder.” I believed her. Until the car accident. My arm was crushed under the wheel. I needed emergency surgery to save the nerves in my hand—my career. I applied to the company for a loan. Sloane approved it instantly. But when the billing department called me for the ninety-ninth time to say the transfer hadn’t gone through, I checked our team’s internal Slack channel. Jax had reposted my medical request. He tagged me, then asked the group: “Some people think the boss is a charity case. Just because you’ve been here forever doesn’t mean you get to milk the company account. What do you guys think? Should I approve this?” My teammates—boys I’d trained, boys I’d protected—reacted with “laugh” emojis. They voted No. I felt my heart turn to ash. I voted No, too. That was when Sloane finally called, her voice dripping with that manipulative sweetness. “Wes, honey, don’t be mad. I let Jax block it to feed his arrogance. Just rest your hand. Wait for Worlds. When he chokes on the global stage, you’ll step in and save the day. You’ll be the undeniable GOAT.” “The day you lift that trophy,” she promised, “we’ll finally go public with our marriage. Okay?” She didn’t know that because of the delay, the nerves in my wrist had severed completely. I would never play again. And she didn’t know I was already drafting the divorce papers. 1 I didn’t get a chance to respond before Sloane hung up. The ER doctor looked at the blood soaking the trash can beside me, his expression tight with pity. “Mr. Carver, are you telling me you can’t scrape together three thousand dollars? If we don’t operate in the next hour, the damage is permanent.” My chest felt like it was in a vice. Instinctively, my right hand went to my left wrist, fingers brushing the cold steel of my watch. It was a vintage Patek Philippe. Years ago, when Sloane was cut off by her wealthy family for dating a ‘gamer,’ she had worked double shifts at a call center and sold plasma twice just to buy it for my birthday. “To us against the world,” she had said. That watch held the weight of every struggle we’d survived. I never thought I’d take it off. But here I was. The legendary Wes Carver, captain of Team Zenith, sitting in a fluorescent-lit hallway, unable to find a single friend who would lend me a dime. My fingertips were going numb. Sloane, I really have no other choice. I opened a resale app on my phone, snapped a photo, and listed the watch. Because I priced it desperately low, my phone buzzed within minutes. A collector was nearby; he came to the hospital lobby with a wad of cash. I stared at the stack of bills in my hand, then at my bare wrist. I felt a phantom weight there, a ghost of a promise. My eyes burned, but I finally exhaled. When I woke up from anesthesia, the surgeon looked grim. “We saved the hand, Wes. But we only restored about fifty percent of the function. Fine motor skills are gone.” In plain English: My career as an e-sports athlete was over. My stomach dropped. The World Championship was a month away. Jax was flashy, but he had no discipline. Without me anchoring the mid-lane, Zenith wouldn’t make it past the group stage. For five years, Sloane and I had bled for this team. She handled the investors; I handled the game. I managed the egos, the strategies, the 16-hour scrims. When we qualified for Worlds this year, she had cried in my arms, saying it was all worth it. I ignored the throbbing in my arm and grabbed my phone. I needed to text her. She knew specialists in Switzerland; maybe there was still a chance for reconstruction. But before I could type, a notification from Jax popped up on my feed. The caption read: “Boss Lady treating me to a five-star feast as a reward for being the team’s new shot-caller!” The photo showed Sloane, who is deathly allergic to shellfish, peeling a shrimp with a gentle, adoring smile. A bottle of antihistamines sat by her elbow. In the corner of the frame, the receipt was visible. Total: $33,000. A bottle of Romanee-Conti alone was thirty grand. My surgery—the one that could have saved my career—cost three thousand. To Sloane, three grand was a rounding error. She used to tell me the team’s burn rate was too high. She made me, the captain, lead by example. She took my salary, “invested” it for me, and gave me a $500 monthly allowance. Every expense needed a receipt and a memo. I thought she was just scarred from her family cutting her off. I thought she was being prudent. I indulged her because I loved her. It wasn’t about budgeting. It was about value. And I just wasn’t worth it. I screenshotted the post, my thumb hovering over the send button to Sloane. But I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of the answer. I thought I was her world. But did she really need me at all? “Sir, the patient needs rest, you can’t—” The door banged open. Sloane burst in, pushing past the nurse, her chest heaving. “Why the hell did you sell the watch? The one I gave you?” I looked at her, exhausted. “Surgery fees.” Sloane paused, blinking. “Wes, you scraped your arm. You needed a Band-Aid and some Neosporin. You spent three grand on surgery? Are you insane?” She paced the room. “I get it. You’re doing this to punish me. You’re mad I let Jax block your loan request. But Wes, you have to see the big picture! I need Jax to think he’s untouchable. I need him to think he’s crushed you so he gets sloppy. The higher he flies, the harder he falls. Worlds is in a month. Can’t you just suck it up for the team?” Her voice was hypnotic. The old Wes would have folded. But she didn’t notice that when she said Jax’s name, her eyes shined. She didn’t look at me; she looked through me. A year ago, Jax mocked me on stream. “Old man,” “slow hands,” “waste of a roster spot.” He didn’t know my hands were slow because five years ago, I took a falling wardrobe to the wrist to save Sloane during an earthquake. I fractured my scaphoid so she wouldn’t get a scratch. Back then, if a rookie disrespected me, they were gone by morning. Now? Sloane claimed she was “playing 4D chess.” At first, we played the part. She’d scream at me in front of the team, then slip a candy bar into my pocket later. I’d act depressed, secretly laughing at Jax’s ego. But the game changed. Sloane stopped slipping me candy. She started talking about Jax’s “potential,” his “mechanics,” his “star power.” She forgot to ask if I was okay after the car crash. She forgot that when she demoted me, she also cut my allowance to fifty bucks a month. “To sell the lie,” she had said. I stayed silent. Sloane frowned, her tone softening just a fraction. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to give you money. But Jax checks the accounts. If he sees a transfer to you, he gets jealous. He stops eating. You have to understand, Wes. I’m doing this for you.” So, Jax skipping a meal was a crisis. But my five years of sacrifice? My hand? That was nothing. My voice rasped when I finally spoke. “Sloane. Do you realize I can never play again? My tendons—” She cut me off, digging into her Hermes bag. She pulled out a toy model of a Bentley and shoved it onto the bedsheet. “Stop being dramatic, Wes. I know you’re feeling insecure.” “You were eyeing this car the other day. I know you like it. The team is cash-poor right now, but listen—once we win Worlds, I’ll take the prize money and buy you the real thing. Okay?” She forced the toy into my bandaged hand. “Jax is almost ruined. I’ve made him lazy and entitled. Just wait one month. He’ll humiliate himself on the world stage, and then you’ll sub in and look like a savior. You’ll be the hero. I’m going to make him regret ever insulting you.” Bang. The door was kicked open again. Sloane whipped around, annoyed. But when she saw who it was, the color drained from her face. Pure panic. Her fear told me everything. The “strategy” was a lie. Jax stood in the doorway, fists clenched, looking like a tragic hero in a teen drama. “Sloane. I knew it. I saw you ask the dealer for the extra model car. You bought it for him!” “If Wes hadn’t texted me to come watch this show, I would have been the idiot forever. It’s all a conspiracy? I’m just a pawn?” “Forget Worlds. I quit. Let him carry you!” He dramatically stripped off his team jacket—custom-made by Sloane—and threw it at me. Then came the Rolex I knew cost a hundred grand. Then the keys to the penthouse. I couldn’t dodge. The heavy keys struck my ear, hard. It swelled instantly, ringing with a high-pitched whine. I saw the smirk in Jax’s eyes. He wasn’t hurt; he was calculating. As he turned, his jacket snagged my IV line. The needle ripped out of the back of my hand. Blood sprayed across the white sheets. Sloane didn’t look at me. Not once. She was staring at Jax, frozen, terrified he would leave. Jax stormed out, “accidentally” bumping a nurse’s cart and falling to the floor with a theatrical groan. Sloane gasped. She rushed to him. I grabbed her sleeve with my good hand. “Sloane, wait. I didn’t text him. I didn’t invite him—” “Wes!” She slapped my hand away. Hard. Her eyes were blazing. She looked at me like I was a stranger. An enemy. “Who else would it be?” “Worlds is in three days. If anything happens to Jax, I will never forgive you.” I went mute. She trusted a kid she’d known for a year over the man she’d slept beside for five. Five years of marriage. Reduced to this. Sloane grabbed the toy car and ran after Jax without looking back. The nurse came in to find a disaster zone. My hand was purple, the IV site gushing blood, my ear throbbing. She gasped. “Some people… I swear. That guy bumped me on purpose. And that woman—she’s a CEO? Her husband is in here bleeding out, and she’s on her knees in the hallway crying over a guy with a scraped palm? She literally called the whole medical team to attend to him.” I glanced at the nurse’s iPad. She had the hallway security feed up. On the screen, Sloane—the icy, untouchable Sloane Evelyn—was kneeling on the linoleum, cradling Jax’s hand, weeping. I stared at the image. Years ago, when the wardrobe crushed my wrist, she had knelt just like that. Begging the doctors to save me. Crying hot tears onto my skin. I knew how she loved. And looking at that screen, I knew with absolute certainty: She loved Jax. I thought she was acting. I finally realized the only person she was acting for was me. “Wes, you are my anchor. Nothing matters more than you.” I remembered her vow when she started this “pummeling” scheme. Well, Sloane. It seems anchors are replaceable. Good thing I wasn’t planning on waiting anymore. I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in five years. 2 “Wes Carver? Are you serious? You’re actually willing to coach for Vanguard?” The voice on the other end was incredulous, then ecstatic. Margot Vane. Sloane’s sworn rival. She had been trying to poach me since the day she started her team. This was the first time I’d ever replied. “I am,” I said. I hung up and sent my resignation email to Zenith’s HR portal. It was approved instantly. My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. She wanted me gone that badly. To please Jax. … I spent the next few days in the hospital. Sloane didn’t call. She didn’t text. I saw her on the news, though. At auctions, buying rare memorabilia, gifting it to Jax publicly. “The Duchess courting her Duke,” the headlines read. The industry mocked Jax for being a “kept man,” but they were envious. Jax posted on Instagram constantly. A photo of a bonfire. In the flames, the twisted metal of a toy Bentley and two other models were melting. Jax held up a keychain with ten real supercar keys. Caption: “Burned the trash. Feels bad to like the same stuff as a has-been. Luckily, Sloane bought me the real deal.” I didn’t comment. I just liked the post. On the day of my discharge, Sloane finally texted. She said she was coming to pick me up. We needed to have dinner. I knew the signs. This was the olive branch. She wanted to smooth things over. I didn’t refuse. I wanted to end this face-to-face. I waited in the lobby from noon until the sun went down. She never came. Just as I was about to call a cab, a notification from Jax popped up. “Wes, seems like a broken hand didn’t teach you a lesson. Still trying to cling to Sloane? Time for another reality check.” Before I could process that, the general e-sports group chat—with every pro, manager, and owner in the league—lit up. Jax dumped a folder of photos. “Guess who wrote these?” The chat exploded. “Whoa, love letters to Sloane Evelyn?” “‘I want to grow old with you’… cringe. Sounds like a stalker.” “That handwriting… isn’t that Wes?” Jax tagged me. “Bingo. Didn’t know ‘The General’ was such a sap. Care to explain, Wes?” I froze. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Those were the 99 love letters I wrote Sloane during our first year. On our wedding day, we buried them in a time capsule under a sapling in a private park we bought. We planted a “Marriage Tree.” Sloane said it was our sanctuary. Holy ground. No one else was ever allowed there. Jax sent a voice memo to the group. “Sloane, babe, interview time. How do you feel reading these old letters?” Sloane’s voice, cold and dismissive, cut through the speaker. “Disgusting.” It felt like a physical blow. I dialed Sloane, my hands shaking. “You took Jax to the sanctuary? Tell him to delete the photos. Now.” Sloane sounded bored. “Jax was in a bad mood today. I needed to cheer him up. It’s just a laugh, Wes. Don’t be so sensitive.” “You almost ruined the plan the other day. I’ve had to work so hard to get his ego back up. Consider this your penance. He’s coming back to the car. I have to go.” For Jax’s amusement, she fed him my heart. I dropped the phone. I hailed a cab to the sanctuary. The moment I stepped out, I saw the tree. Our tree. It was covered in red ribbons. But the ribbons with “Wes & Sloane” were gone. Every single one now read: “Jax & Sloane Forever.” “Jax & Sloane – To The Moon.” The dirt around the roots was fresh. Scattered in the mud were damp clumps of paper. Some charred, some soaked. My letters. “These are my treasures, Wes,” she had told me once. “Even when I’m old and gray, I’ll read these and feel young again.” I stood there for a long time. The wind dried the tears on my face until my skin felt tight. Then I remembered. Sloane had buried something else in the capsule. A “guarantee,” she called it. “If I ever break your heart, dig this up.” I fell to my knees and started digging. I didn’t have a shovel; I used my hands. Memories flashed—our wedding, the earthquake, the late nights planning strategies. They morphed into the image of her kneeling over Jax in the hospital hallway. My fingernails tore. Blood mixed with the soil. Finally, I hit metal. I pulled out the capsule. Inside, there was a single document. A divorce agreement.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386452”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 The driver’s son became the king of our school, all by pretending to be a rich heir. He was the one who spread the rumor that I was desperately in love with him. When priceless heirlooms started vanishing from my home, he begged me not to call the cops. Then, at school, he led the charge to make my life a living hell. I was diagnosed with severe depression. Just as my parents started to uncover the truth, he had his father leak our company’s most guarded secrets to our biggest rival. We were ruined. My family, once titans of industry, were now homeless, wandering the streets. One rainy night, in a dark alley, we were beaten to death. The last thing I saw was his smug, handsome face, sneering down at us, telling us we deserved it. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back before it all went wrong. The driver’s son—Ethan—stood before the entire class, arms spread wide. “This weekend,” he announced, “party at my villa! Everyone’s invited!” A roar of excitement filled the room. As they cheered for him, I pulled out my phone and sent a single, cold text: Effective immediately, no outsiders are permitted in any of my family’s properties. Screw his rich-kid act. If he thought I was a fool, he was about to learn just how wrong he was. “Ethan, you’re the man! A true prince!” “Thanks, Ethan! We finally get to see how the other half lives!” The deafening cheers snapped me back to the present. Ethan stood in the center of it all, a king surrounded by his adoring court, basking in their praise. His eyes met mine, and a flicker of something—annoyance? confusion?—crossed his face before he frowned and looked away. His glance was enough. Someone noticed me staring and a ripple of laughter spread through the group, their voices deliberately loud. “Isn’t that the broke girl who’s obsessed with Ethan? Stare all you want, honey, he’ll never like you. He’s with Madison, our school’s queen bee, now!” Those words. They were a poisoned dart from my past, hitting me with the force of a memory I had already lived. I was reborn. The realization sent a tremor through my entire body. It wasn’t fear. It was pure, electrifying adrenaline. In my last life, the rumor that I was pathetically in love with Ethan had made me a social pariah. I thought if I just kept my head down, it would all blow over. But living it all again, I finally understood: Ethan had orchestrated everything. He paraded around as a wealthy heir, enjoying the same privileges I did, while secretly painting me as a desperate gold digger. “She’s crazy about me, practically begs for my attention,” he’d say with a put-upon sigh. “What can I do? We’re classmates. I don’t want to be cruel.” And just like that, the fact that we arrived and left school in the same luxury car every day was twisted into something ugly. It wasn’t my family’s car; it was his, and he was just taking pity on me. I, the heiress, became the gold digger. And he, the driver’s son, became the heir. He lived off my family’s generosity, yet he despised us with every fiber of his being. The money my father spent on his education could have funded scholarships for a hundred deserving students, but for him, it was never enough. Gratitude wasn’t in his vocabulary. My fingers flew across my phone’s screen. “Starting today, no outsiders are allowed in any of the Sterling family properties. If any of the staff can’t handle a simple thing like gate security, they can pack their bags and leave.” Let’s see you host your villa party now, Ethan. He and his parents had first come to our home when we were in high school. The three of them stood before my father, bowing and scraping. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling, for sponsoring our son’s education! We’ll work hard to repay your kindness!” Ethan’s father, John, was our driver. His mother, Linda, was our housekeeper. When they heard my father was looking to sponsor a student, they begged him to choose Ethan. My father, ever the philanthropist, agreed. Ethan had good grades; he was a smart kid. It was supposed to be a simple act of charity. Instead, it was the beginning of my nightmare. Ethan moved into our house, living a life identical to mine. Soon after, the rumors started at school: I was obsessed with him. He was the rich kid with the chauffeured car, and I was the charity case who didn’t know her place. I tried to set the record straight, but Ethan talked me out of it. “It’s just gossip,” he’d said, his voice smooth and reasonable. “Let it go. Do you really want people to think you’re some rich bitch who throws her family’s money around?” “Just focus on your studies,” he’d urged. “That’s what’s important.” So I buried the hurt and confusion. My parents were always busy with work, rarely home. I listened to Ethan and threw myself into my schoolwork. But just as I fought my way to the top of the class, our family’s valuables began to disappear. I wanted to call the police, but Ethan stopped me. “Just wait until your dad gets back,” he’d insisted. “Calling the cops is a huge hassle, and you have school to worry about.” I didn’t call them. But at school, the rumors escalated. Now, I was actively trying to seduce him, a desperate attempt to marry into his “wealthy” family. The other students started to isolate me. Madison, Ethan’s beautiful and popular girlfriend, made it her mission to torment me. I was locked in bathroom stalls, had drinks “accidentally” poured on me in the hallways. I knew, deep down, that Ethan was behind it all. By the time my parents returned and saw the shell I’d become, I had been diagnosed with severe clinical depression. They were ready to confront Ethan, to tear him and his family apart. But before they could, the final blow came. John, our “loyal” driver, had leaked our company’s most sensitive data to our fiercest competitor. We were ruined. My family was thrown out onto the street. One rainy night, we were dragged into a lightless alley and beaten to death by strangers. But just before I died, I saw him. Ethan, dressed in a designer suit, looking down at us with a cold smile. “I can’t stand you rich people,” he spat. “You all got exactly what you deserve.” The killers were hired psychopaths. They took Ethan’s money and walked away, free. The memory of that agony, that burning injustice, made my eyes sting with tears. Ethan, I thought, my hands clenching into fists. Just you wait. I will never let you get away with it again. With my orders in place, Ethan’s villa party was dead on arrival. The other staff knew who signed their paychecks, and it wasn’t a Clark—it was a Sterling. By the afternoon, the news reached Ethan, and he was livid. I could feel his furious glare burning into the back of my head all through class. My phone buzzed incessantly. Sophie, are you doing this on purpose? What the hell is your problem?! Your dad promised to pay for everything! Are you going back on his word?! I already promised everyone! If you don’t let this happen, you can be the one to tell them why! I scrolled through a dozen more messages just like it before silencing my phone and shutting it off. Ethan was seething, but he didn’t have the guts to confront me himself. He sent his pitbull instead. The moment the bell rang, Madison stormed into our classroom. After a few whispered words from Ethan, she marched straight to my desk, her hand raised to slap me. “You just can’t give up, can you? Still trying to get your claws into my boyfriend!” she shrieked. “You were so scared people would find out you live in the servant’s quarters that you made him cancel his party!” “You’re insane, Sophie! Threatening to kill yourself for attention? Are you that pathetic?!” Madison’s voice was like a megaphone. The entire classroom fell silent, all eyes on me. Some looked at me with pity, others with open contempt and mockery. Only Ethan kept his head down, pretending to be absorbed in his desk. I shot up and grabbed her wrist, stopping her hand inches from my face. As I opened my mouth to speak, Ethan finally moved. He wrapped his arms around Madison, pulling her back. He looked at me, his handsome face, framed by a designer haircut, a mask of confidence. But the words that came out of his mouth were pure poison. “Maddy, don’t…” he murmured, then raised his voice for the class to hear. “Hey everyone, I’m so sorry, but we’ll have to postpone the party. Something… came up.” He shot a glance at me, his eyes filled with fake helplessness and regret. “It has nothing to do with Sophie, so please don’t jump to any conclusions.” Of course, that’s exactly what they did. The other students exchanged knowing looks, their glares in my direction growing colder. Even Madison, held in his arms, was trembling with rage, as if I were the one who had wronged her. He was a master at this, painting himself as the victim while making me the villain in every story. It reminded me of the time he’d written me a love note. I’d turned him down flat, and without missing a beat, he’d asked Madison out the very next day. From the first day of school, we’d arrived together in my family’s Rolls-Royce. Madison, convinced he was a wealthy heir, said yes immediately. And that’s when the rumors truly began, started by her and fueled by everyone else’s gossip. My fate was sealed. How utterly ridiculous. The driver’s son became the prince, and the heiress became the gold digger. And the most pathetic part? Everyone believed it. Well, payback’s a bitch. Ethan was petty and vindictive; I knew he wouldn’t let this go. I spent the rest of the afternoon ignoring the whispers and focusing on my work. When the final bell rang, he made his move. He strode ahead of me and, with an air of complete ownership, slid into the back of the Rolls-Royce. He rolled down the window and looked at me with a condescending smirk. “Well, get in,” he said loudly. “They’re waiting for us for dinner at home.” The way he said it, he sounded like the master of the house, and I was just someone he was graciously tolerating. I stared at him, saying nothing. “Come on!” he snapped, raising his voice even more. Behind us, students were already starting to point and whisper. His father, John, sat in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear his son’s disrespect. I didn’t move. With an annoyed huff, Ethan told his father to drive on. As the car pulled away, I heard laughter behind me. I smiled, too. I made a quick phone call, gave them my location, and waited quietly by the curb. Suddenly, someone “accidentally” slammed into me from behind. As I stumbled to regain my balance, I heard a familiar, mocking laugh. “No matter how hard you try to get my boyfriend’s attention, he’s never going to want a charity case like you,” Madison sneered, puffing out her chest. Her long, curled hair bounced as she posed, a few of her cronies flanking her, all of them looking at me with undisguised scorn. I didn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction. “Excuse me, you’re in the way,” I said calmly, my gaze shifting past her. Madison was about to retort when her eyes widened. She turned, saw the gleaming black Bentley that had silently pulled up behind her, and immediately fell silent, shuffling to the side. The chauffeur didn’t even glance at her. He walked directly to me, bowed slightly, and opened the rear door in one fluid motion. “Miss Sterling,” he said, his voice respectful and professional. “Shall we go home?” Madison’s jaw dropped. Her friends stared, mouths agape. I stepped into the car without a backward glance. As the Bentley purred to life, she finally found her voice, her face flushing a deep, angry red. “Sophie Sterling, who do you think you’re fooling?!” she shrieked at the departing car. “Everyone knows you’re broke! ‘Miss Sterling’… what a joke!” I tuned her out as we drove away. My family had more than one driver. If Ethan wanted to play pretend, I was more than happy to shatter his fantasy piece by piece. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of a familiar Rolls-Royce hiding awkwardly around the corner. The sight was so pathetic it was almost funny. Ethan and his father had been waiting, expecting me to come crawling to them. Seeing me leave in a Bentley had clearly sent them into a panic. The Rolls-Royce tailed us sheepishly, not daring to overtake. Seeing them follow, I took a screenshot of the dozen angry texts Ethan had sent me and forwarded them to my father. Then I met the new driver’s eyes in the mirror. “Evans,” I said casually. “From now on, you’ll be driving me to and from school every day. And John Clark is no longer permitted in the garage.” By the time we arrived home, John must have already received a call from my father’s assistant. He scrambled out of the Rolls-Royce, his face a ghostly white, beads of sweat on his forehead. He bowed low as I stepped out of the Bentley. “Miss Sterling, I am so sorry! I was wrong!” Wrong about what? I glanced at the top of his bowed head, then caught sight of Ethan standing by the door, his fists clenched, his face a mask of humiliation. The sight made my smile widen. “It’s not like you’re fired,” I said, my voice sweet as poison. “I just think you’ve been working too hard. Why don’t you take a few days off? Stay out of the garage, get some rest.” I walked past John’s ashen face and into the villa without a second glance. He couldn’t handle this? Oh, this was just the beginning.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386468”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

A tube of lipstick lay on the passenger seat of my husband Leo’s car. An unfamiliar shade of Lancôme L’Absolu Rouge. In my past life, the day after this discovery marked the beginning of my transformation from a respectable, wealthy wife into a madwoman in the attic. I installed a GPS tracker on Leo’s phone. I hired private investigators to follow him. I called the police to raid hotels, hoping to catch him in the act. I stooped to every sordid, undignified trick in the book. Finally, through my relentless efforts, on our seventh wedding anniversary, I caught him in bed with his secretary. Our divorce battle became a public war. He dismantled my life with the precision of a corporate takeover, clinging to every penny of his fortune. I consulted every lawyer in the city and walked away with a settlement of just forty-eight dollars. Shortly after the divorce, I was diagnosed with cancer. When the pain was so intense I thought I was dying, I swallowed my pride and knelt before Leo. He stood by and let his secretary slap me three times, then refused to give me a single cent. Penniless and broken, I froze to death on the doorstep of the home I had lived in for seven years. So in this life, seeing the exact same lipstick in the exact same spot, I calmly picked it up and placed it in the glove compartment for him. 1 My simple action seemed to unnerve Leo. He suddenly felt the need to explain. “That lipstick belongs to Jenna.” “I took her to a business dinner last night,” he said. “The silly girl thought she could land the contract by drinking the client under the table. She started downing glasses of wine the second she sat down. She got the deal, but she was completely wasted.” “I know you don’t like other women in the passenger seat, but Jenna is the daughter of a dear family friend. He helped me out when I was just starting my company. I couldn’t just leave her there.” He’d said the exact same thing in my last life. Back then, the sight of the lipstick, combined with the fond, gentle way he spoke about his new secretary, had sent me into a blind rage. I’d unbuckled my seatbelt and screamed at him. “Stop the car, Leo! You and this car are equally disgusting.” I don’t remember the details of what happened next. I only remember him pulling over, spitting the word “psycho” at me, and speeding away, leaving me on the side of the road. I walked for four hours in the cold winter drizzle, tears streaming down my face. My heels rubbed my feet raw until they bled. I ended up with a fever of 104 degrees. And as I lay in bed, sick and miserable, Leo was on a plane with Jenna, heading overseas for a business trip. Photos and videos of him adjusting the strap of her slip dress, of her leaning in to kiss his cheek, became the top gossip on his company’s internal forum. How stupid was I in my past life to think that hurting myself would ever make him care? The irony was so bitter that a smirk unconsciously touched my lips. The next second, Leo slammed on the brakes, screeching the car to a halt in the emergency lane. He turned to me, his voice sharp. “How many times do I have to tell you? Jenna is the daughter of my father’s friend. I’m just looking out for her.” “There is absolutely nothing going on between us. Can you please stop being so unreasonable…” Seeing the sudden anger flash across his face, a familiar bitterness welled up in my chest. But this time, it wasn’t for him. It was for the woman I used to be. In my last life, I had pancreatic cancer, one of the most painful forms of the disease. Every day was a blur of nurses jabbing long needles into my skin, leaving me a sobbing mess. Or I’d be curled on the floor, clutching my stomach, begging for a quick death. When I was at my most desperate, I’d taken a fruit knife and stabbed at my own emaciated body, just hoping for a single night of uninterrupted sleep. Yet even then, I could never bring myself to sell our wedding ring for another dose of painkillers. When the doctor told me I had a month to live, I dragged my skeletal frame out of the hospital to find Leo, intending to ask him to remarry me. After all, when my parents died, he had sworn he would take care of me for the rest of my life. But when I finally reached the house we had shared for seven years, I had to kneel and beg the security guard just to call him for me. Leo heard my voice, said my name, and then replied with chilling calm, “Vera, we’re divorced. That means we have no relationship anymore. Whatever happens to you, don’t contact me again.” Then he hung up. I collapsed in the backyard of the villa we once called home. In the final moments before my life faded away, I saw him through the window. He was holding Jenna, his secretary, in his arms. In the home I had so carefully decorated, they were using the dishes I had bought, drinking from the wine glasses I had chosen, sharing a romantic dinner, kissing intimately. The pain in my chest was a physical weight, stealing my breath. Shoving the memory away, I calmly took an eye mask from my purse and slipped it on. “I believe you. There’s nothing going on between you and Jenna.” “Now, can we please get moving?” Leo’s face was a canvas of shock, but I simply pulled the mask down, shutting out the world. 2 The moment we got home, I went straight to our bedroom. I called the hospital, made an appointment with a top specialist, and scheduled a full physical for the next day. Whether in this life or the last, all I ever wanted was to live. Just as I hung up, Leo pushed the door open. “What was that in the car all about?” he demanded. “Vera, can you stop giving me the silent treatment over every little thing?” Ever since Jenna became his secretary, Leo had become exceptionally harsh with me. No matter what I did, he found fault. It was his change in attitude, coupled with Jenna’s constant provocations, that had driven me mad in our last marriage. I fought back the suffocating ache in my chest and turned to him calmly. “Leo, believe it or not, I’m not angry. I’m not trying to start a fight, and I’m not giving you the silent treatment.” “I honestly don’t care about the lipstick.” Without another glance at him, I walked into the bathroom and locked the door. When I came out, he was gone. But my phone was blowing up with notifications. It was Jenna’s signature move. Whenever she was with Leo, she would bombard me with photos of them together, treating my message inbox like her personal cloud storage. In my past life, this would have sent me into a spiral of crying fits or provoked me into a screaming match with Leo. But now, as I looked at the photos she sent, I didn’t curse her. Instead, I offered some sincere advice. You’re holding the phone at the wrong angle. Leo’s profile is more handsome. Try holding it higher next time. And you should crop the photo tighter. Less empty space. It’ll make you and Leo look closer. She replied almost instantly. Has your account been hacked? I sent a smiling emoji back. Nope. Just wanted to let you know, he’s all yours. Then, I blocked her. This new arrangement worked for me. I wanted the title of Mrs. Vance and the supplementary credit card. As for Leo’s body and his affection, Jenna could have them. Unlike the foolish woman I was in my last life, I no longer wanted his love. 3 After dealing with Jenna, I lay down and closed my eyes. But even with a second chance at life, sleep didn’t come easily. Just like when I was sick, my dreams were haunted by memories of Leo and me. When we were kids, Leo was quiet and introverted. His mother, a strict teacher, was constantly punishing him. I’d wake up at midnight and see him still at his desk, thick glasses perched on his nose, scribbling away at worksheets while his mother stood over him with a cane. For every wrong answer, the cane would come down hard on his back. Living across the street, I’d watch this happen and my heart would ache for him. Whenever I got candy, I’d sneak it into his backpack at school. “Leo,” I’d whisper with a smile, “eat one when your back hurts.” The first time I gave him candy, his face turned bright red. He waited until I was a hundred feet away before mumbling, “I… I don’t eat candy.” I just waved back, grinning. “Leo, you should talk more. You have a really nice voice.” It became a habit. The boy who was always a loner started waiting for me, waiting for me to slip candy into his bag. In the small alley outside our neighborhood, we walked through countless springs, summers, and winters together. Then, when we were eighteen, Leo, the valedictorian of our county, was accepted into a top university. He awkwardly handed me a brochure for another school. “I checked,” he stammered, pushing his glasses up. “This one is really close to mine, only a ten-minute walk. Your scores aren’t high enough for a four-year program, but you could get into this two-year college.” Looking at his nervous face, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my parents had already decided I would go to a four-year university, even if it was a less prestigious one. They could afford it. I secretly changed my application, a decision that earned me a lecture and grounding from my parents, but I never regretted it. We went to college in the same city. Away from his mother, Leo blossomed. He swapped his thick glasses for contacts, grew his buzz cut into stylish curls, and traded his plaid shirts for crisp white ones. His old black sneakers were replaced by clean white ones. I didn’t understand the sudden transformation until I was gushing about my favorite band coming to town for a concert. Leo grabbed my arm, his eyes red-rimmed. “I’ve changed everything about myself to be the person you like,” he said, his voice raw. “Can’t you still find a way to like me?” The word “like” hit me like a sledgehammer. Even though we were at different schools, I’d heard the legends about him—the programming prodigy who won national competitions as a freshman, the coding genius who had job offers from major tech firms by his sophomore year. A group of girls had even started an online forum dedicated to documenting his transformation. I thought an ocean separated us, that we would forever be just friends. I never imagined he felt this way. Without a second thought, I, the girl who was never shy, stood on my toes and kissed him. We started dating. My life revolved around feeding him my favorite milk teas, desserts, and pastries. I had no career plans; my days were spent deciding what to feed Leo or where to take him for fun. Meanwhile, his life continued its meteoric rise. He started his own company while in grad school, secured multiple rounds of funding right after graduation, and by the time he finished his Ph.D., his tech company was ranked among the top 10 in the country. My life went in the opposite direction, as if cursed. I failed the entrance exam to transfer to a four-year program. After graduation, I lived off the allowance Leo gave me. In my second year out of college, my parents, who had always doted on me, were rushing to see me in the hospital for pneumonia when they were killed in a car crash. Suddenly an orphan, I clung to their bodies, my tears soaking through their clothes. And Leo knelt beside me, in front of their bodies, and under his mother’s cold, disapproving gaze, he swore he would take care of me for the rest of my life. We got married. I had multiple miscarriages. Every pregnancy ended in loss. And then, Leo met Jenna. He started to find fault with me. I had no substance, he said. All I ever did was ask him what he wanted to eat or drink. Unlike Jenna, who could discuss world-famous paintings with him, who could debate the future of the tech industry. Tears welled in my eyes. I blinked them open and realized the sun was up. Just like in my last life, my pillow was soaked. Just then, a message from Leo came through. We’re going to the nursing home to see my mom this afternoon. 4 I calmly replied: I’m busy today. I can’t make it. His call came instantly. “What are you busy with?” “Vera, how many times do I have to tell you, there’s nothing going on with Jenna. Why do you have to keep fixating on this one little thing?” Hearing him bring up Jenna again, a bitter smile touched my lips. Since his company took off, Leo had become a man of few words. This was the first time he’d ever harped on a single issue. Was he trying to convince himself he wasn’t interested in her, or was he trying to lessen his own guilt? The pain in my chest was a sharp, trembling thing, but my voice was steady. “Leo, I’m not feeling well. I have to go to the hospital for a check-up. I really can’t go with you to see your mom today.” “Besides, your mother has a heart condition, and she’s never liked me. Isn’t it better if I don’t go and upset her? And doesn’t she adore Jenna? She always said only a woman of Jenna’s status was a worthy match for you. You should take her instead.” I was genuinely trying to be helpful, but my words only made him angrier. “Fine, Vera. Keep throwing your tantrum.” Then he hung up. Listening to the dial tone, I let out another humorless laugh. See? That’s the difference between love and no love. When he used to love me, the slightest hint of sadness on my face would have him anxiously asking what he’d done wrong. Now that he didn’t, even my most sincere suggestions were just me being unreasonable. 5 The familiar ache returned, but I didn’t let it delay me. I went to the hospital, and to avoid any emotional triggers, I left my phone at home. This check-up was too important. It would determine if I was doomed to repeat my past life. For the next seven days, I stayed at the hospital, undergoing biopsies and having vial after vial of blood drawn. I had to thank Leo’s connections and his bank account for the thoroughness of the care. By simply using his name, I got an appointment with a specialist I couldn’t get to see for a month in my last life. Now, he was the first doctor to check on me every morning during his rounds. In my last life, penniless, I’d had to sell my bags and jewelry. Without connections, every test meant another trip to the hospital, waiting two hours for a blood draw, a week for a CT scan. Now, thanks to Leo, I just had to lie in a VIP room, and the nurses came to me. The results were bittersweet. I did have cancer, but it was in the early stages. When the doctor told me, his face was full of sympathy. I, on the other hand, burst into tears, my body shaking uncontrollably. Everyone thought I was terrified. Only I knew I was crying with joy. I finally had a chance to live. The day I got the results, I checked into the hospital to begin treatment. I was confident I could be cured. This time, I had money, the best doctors, and the best medicine. Chemotherapy was still hell, but because it was early stage, the dosage was lighter, and the imported drugs had fewer side effects compared to the generic ones I had in my past life. Aside from losing my hair and some weight, I had enough energy for daily walks. And because of the medication, I never once felt the excruciating pain of a full-blown pancreatic cancer attack. After a month of treatment, the doctor gave me more hope. He said that after two more rounds of chemo, I would likely be able to go home. It was a spark of hope that ignited a fire in my soul. In my last life, my greatest dream was to be cured, to live. But just as I was about to pay for the third round of treatment, the hospital informed me that my supplementary card had been canceled. The payment wouldn’t go through. Hearing the news, I remained calm. As long as we were still married, he was legally obligated to pay for my medical care. I simply asked the nurse for a day pass and took a cab to Leo’s company. The receptionist stopped me at the entrance. “I’m sorry, miss, but you need an appointment to see Mr. Vance.” I smiled faintly and took my marriage certificate out of my purse. “With this, can I see Leo Vance?” The receptionist’s eyes widened. She shot up from her chair. “My apologies, Mrs. Vance. I didn’t recognize you.” I just shook my head and followed her to the elevator. As we passed the main office area, I felt eyes on me. I knew I looked awful—bald, with a thick down jacket thrown over my hospital gown—but I felt no shame. In my last life, after the divorce, I had come here desperate to borrow money for treatment. I never even made it past the front door. Back then, all I had was a divorce certificate, not a marriage one.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386484”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel