Category: English

The entertainment industry was in the middle of a brutal winter, but I was thriving on two fronts: as an A-list leading man on camera, and as the shadow boss behind the biggest PR smear network in Hollywood off camera. With tens of thousands of burner accounts and an ungodly stockpile of industry dirt at my fingertips, I had made countless toxic elite figures vanish overnight. After winning Best Actor at the Academy Awards, my mainstream career skyrocketed. I was planning to sunset the side hustle for good—until a high-paying, encrypted client dropped an outrageous sum into my private portal. “I want you to completely destroy someone.” “My biological son.” My core team went dead silent in the group chat. She sent a voice note over the encrypted app. Her voice was flat, devoid of any discernible warmth. “I have an adopted son who grew up with me. When he launched his career, he was brutally cyberbullied. He developed severe clinical depression and slashed his wrists twice.” “And my biological son—fully aware of what happened—constantly flexes in his face anyway.” “Best Actor trophy today. A major luxury global campaign tomorrow. A magazine cover the day after.” “I want him to taste what it feels like to fall from the sky. But I can’t bring myself to do it directly.” “So I want your team to use the most ruthless, professional methods to leave his reputation in ashes.” As a son myself, my hand holding the mouse went entirely numb. She added another line: “Don’t worry, I don’t want his life. I just want to take him down a peg.” “Smear him for a month. Ruin every project he has lined up.” “My adopted son was dragged through the mud for three years. One month for my birth son is more than fair.” In our private group chat, a few of my key operatives were already rubbing their hands together, eager for the massive payday. I took a sharp breath, preparing to reject this morally bankrupt contract. Then the client sent a password-protected zip file. “Here is the target.” I clicked on the first folder. My own face stared back at me from the screen. …… 1 “Boss… the guy in these photos… isn’t that Logan Archer? The guy who just won Best Actor?” Kyle, my second-in-command in the network, sent a quick voice message. Shock leaked through every syllable. I stared at the monitor. Lying inside the folder was a digitized copy of my intake records from the Oakwood Psychiatric Recovery Center in Chicago, dated back when I was eighteen years old. The watermark was thick across the pages. In the bottom right corner, signed in neat, precise script, was my full name. A sharp, dull ache clamped around my chest, spreading through my ribcage. The year my father died in a head-on collision, I couldn’t pull myself out of the wreckage. I spiraled into severe clinical depression. It was my mother who held my hand, guiding me into that facility to check me in. She had stroked my hair back then, tears brimming in her reddened eyes, swearing to me: “Don’t be afraid, Logan. Mom is here. I will take this secret to my grave.” Now, the woman who swore she would protect me was selling my deepest trauma to the highest bidder on the internet. I typed on my keyboard, switching to the encrypted private chat. “Client, the legal risk on this order is too high.” “Leaking sensitive dirt on an A-lister like this—if we get exposed for defamation, we’re looking at millions in legal damages.” The status at the top of the chat box flickered: “Typing…” Helena Archer didn’t hesitate for a single second. “It isn’t defamation.” “He had severe clinical depression. He was on Prozac for two years. He spent four full months locked in a psych ward.” “A man with a history of mental instability doesn’t deserve to sit on a pedestal under the spotlight.” I read those lines, the coldness creeping slowly down to my fingertips. An icy chill bled from the marrow of my bones, paralyzing me. I forced a deep breath and kept typing, trying to erect a wall. “Even if it’s true, invading medical privacy is illegal. Nocturne doesn’t touch jobs with zero ethical boundaries.” “Money isn’t an issue.” Helena sent a screenshot of a wire transfer. “A two-million-dollar deposit has already hit your offshore escrow account.” “I don’t need you to be the original source.” “Tonight at 11:50 PM, I will use an anonymous offshore burner email to send the original documents directly to his three biggest rival talent agencies.” “Your job is simple: once the leak breaks, push the scandal into the top three trending topics nationwide.” She paused, then sent one last message. “If you won’t take it, I’ll hire another agency.” “But everyone in the industry knows Nocturne has the most bulletproof push algorithm. I need guaranteed destruction.” The digital clock in the top corner of my monitor ticked forward. 11:45 PM. Five minutes left. My fingers tightened around the mouse until my knuckles turned stark white. An offshore burner email, scheduled delivery, sent to my three fiercest industry rivals. Helena had blocked every single exit. She knew I had plenty of ruthless enemies in Hollywood. She knew it better than anyone. The moment that email went out, those rival agencies would spend millions to make sure the scandal suffocated my career entirely. If I turned down this contract, she would simply hire another PR smear firm. And when that happened, the narrative machine would spin completely out of my control. “Boss, are we taking it? The boys are waiting,” Kyle pressed in the group chat. I bit down on the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper. My throat felt plugged with bloody cotton. The biological son Helena insisted “deserved to fall from the clouds”—was me. The victim she was trying to avenge by destroying me—was also me. And she had no idea that she was handing the butcher’s knife straight into my hands. 11:48 PM. I picked up my personal phone and dialed Helena’s private line. It rang three times before she answered. “Logan? Sweetheart, why aren’t you asleep?” Helena’s voice was warm, dripping with the familiar, gentle concern of a loving mother. “Mom,” I said, straining to keep my tone steady. “What are you doing right now?” “Just finished some late work, getting ready to take a shower. What about you? Don’t you have that major global luxury campaign announcement tomorrow? You need your rest.” She brought up the campaign. It was the Cartier contract that Tyler—her adopted son—had been envying for two straight weeks. “Yeah. I’m going to sleep soon. Mom… have you run into any trouble lately?” “No, darling. Why do you ask out of nowhere?” She let out a soft laugh, her tone as light and breezy as if we were discussing the weekend weather. “Nothing. Just missed you. Goodnight.” “Goodnight, sweetie.” I hung up. I stared at the cold, glowing digital countdown on my monitor. 11:50 PM. In that exact instant, the global trending topics page suddenly exploded with a brand-new, deep-red tag: #LoganArcherPsychHistory Helena hadn’t waited for 11:50 PM. She had hit send early. The emails went out faster than I anticipated, and my rivals didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second to pour gas on the fire. In the private portal, Helena sent one final message: “The leak is live. Get to work.” I covered my face with my hands, but no tears came. On the desk, my phone began to vibrate violently. My manager, Sam, was calling. The second I hit answer, his panicked, desperate voice almost shattered my eardrum. “Logan! What the hell are these medical records online?! The luxury brand just put an emergency freeze on the contract! Talk to me!” 2 By 2:00 AM, the crisis management room at my agency was lit up like a stadium. Sam slammed a thick stack of printed web articles down onto the glass table. “We can’t suppress it! We physically cannot drown this out!” “Whoever leaked this went straight for the jugular—the facility ID, the attending doctor’s signature, everything is authentic! A simple search verifies the whole paper trail!” His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at me. “Logan, tell me the truth. Aside from your mother, who else knew about this?” I sat in the corner of the leather sofa, watching the steam fade from my cooling cup of black coffee. “Nobody else.” “Then who leaked it?! We already served legal notices to Oakwood Recovery Center, but the internet doesn’t care about privacy violations—they only care if a top-billed actor with a psych record is going to snap on set!” Sam paced the room like a caged animal. “The director of “The Long Dark” just called. They’re officially reconsidering the lead role.” “You know Tyler’s team has been circling that project for weeks! Now that you’re in the mud, all those resources are going straight into his lap!” At the mention of Tyler’s name, I finally lifted my eyes. “Let him have it.” “What did you just say? Have you lost your mind?!” Sam stared at me, dumbfounded. “I said, don’t fight him for it. Let it cool off.” I stood up, grabbing my coat off the back of the chair. “Sam, trust me this once. Don’t make any sudden moves.” When I pushed open the front door of my house, the sky was already turning a pale grey. The house was empty, saved for a single warm nightlight burning in the foyer. At precisely 8:00 AM, the doorbell rang. I walked over to open it. Helena was standing on the porch, holding a warm brown bag from an artisanal bakery across town. “Logan, you haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you?” She slipped off her shoes and walked into the kitchen with familiar ease, unpacking gourmet pastries and fresh breakfast boxes onto the island. The rich scent of butter and coffee filled the air. She turned around, looking at my pale, exhausted face, her eyebrows knitting together in deep distress. “I saw the news online. Don’t be afraid, Logan. Mom has already reached out to the top privacy attorneys in the city. We will find whoever leaked this.” She pulled out a chair for me. “Eat something first. Your stomach is delicate, you can’t skip meals.” I stood in place, watching her in complete silence. Those hands—the very same hands that, just hours ago, tapped away on a keyboard to transfer two million dollars to ruin me. Now, those hands were carefully peeling a hard-boiled egg, setting it gently onto a porcelain plate in front of me. “Mom.” “Hmm?” She looked up, her gaze overflowing with maternal heartache. “Who do you think put my medical records on the internet?” Helena’s hand paused for a fraction of a second—so brief it was almost imperceptible. “I don’t know, darling. Maybe an unethical employee at Oakwood looking to make a quick buck. Or maybe one of your rivals paid off someone at the clinic.” She wiped her fingers with a napkin, walked over, and gently patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. If the sky falls, Mom will hold it up for you. I already talked to Tyler—I told him to clear his schedule and come spend time with you.” I couldn’t stop the soft, bitter laugh that escaped my lips. “What’s funny?” she asked smoothly. “Nothing. I just thought… it’s really nice having a mother.” Helena let out a quiet sigh, her expression growing even softer. “Silly boy. I’m your mother. Who else would I be good to if not you?” Her phone, sitting face-up on the island, lit up. The screen wasn’t locked. A preview banner from a messaging app popped up. It was from Tyler. “Mom, did you see the news? Logan is getting destroyed, he even lost the luxury deal. Are we being a little too harsh on him?” Helena had her back turned, pouring a glass of warm milk, and missed the notification. I lowered my eyes, locking my gaze onto the screen. Ten seconds later, Helena walked back with the glass. She picked up her phone, glanced at it, and her expression didn’t shift by a single millimeter. Her thumbs flew effortlessly across the glass. I didn’t need to look to know what she replied. Because in the admin portal of Nocturne, just seconds ago, a new directive had come in from Helena’s alternate account. “Double the pressure. Mix in fake stories about him being abusive to crew members early in his career.” “I want him to have nowhere left to stand by the end of today.” I lifted the glass of milk and took a slow sip. It was sweet. So sweet it made my stomach turn. “Mom… what if I’m really forced out of Hollywood?” I asked softly. Helena sat back down, meeting my eyes with unwavering warmth. “Then you leave. The industry is too toxic anyway—it was never suitable for someone as sensitive as you. You just stay home, and Mom will take care of you for the rest of your life.” Her voice was laced with pure sincerity. Every word carried the undeniable weight of an adoring, self-sacrificing mother. I nodded slowly, picking up the egg she had peeled for me. “Okay.” 3 By the third day, the narrative momentum had turned me into a pariah across the internet. Nocturne’s execution was terrifyingly efficient. Truth mixed seamlessly with meticulously crafted fabrications, rolling over my reputation like a tidal wave. Outlets that had praised my work ethic days ago were now publishing deep dives into my supposed “early signs of mental instability.” At 10:00 AM, I received a formal notice from the corporate legal team. I was required to report to headquarters immediately. Helena insisted on driving me. “In your current state, I can’t let you go alone. What if you run into unhinged anti-fans?” She held the steering wheel with a firm grip, her tone grave. I sat in the passenger seat, watching the city skyline drift past the window. “All right. Thanks, Mom.” The moment her car pulled into the executive underground garage, Tyler’s luxury SUV pulled up right beside us. He stepped out wearing a tailored high-fashion suit, stepping toward us with a look of perfectly calibrated concern. “Logan! Are you okay? I just got back from my audition for “The Long Dark”, and the second I heard you were coming to headquarters, I rushed right over.” He reached out, attempting to pat my arm, but I subtly stepped out of reach. Tyler’s hand froze mid-air. His eyes welled up with instant tears. “Logan… are you still blaming me? Honestly, regarding that luxury endorsement… I had no idea the brand would turn around and offer it to me.” Helena’s eyebrows instantly shot up. She took a swift step forward, placing herself directly between me and Tyler. “Logan, what is wrong with you? Tyler is just showing concern for you! The brand made its own choice—what does that have to do with him?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but the bite of maternal disapproval was unmistakable. “I don’t blame him,” I said, eyeing the mother and son duo. “I just don’t like people touching me.” “You never used to be like this,” Helena sighed, her voice heavy with tragic disappointment. “Is it because the stress is too much… and your condition is…” She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. But the unspoken words hung in the air like a blade. “Your condition is relapsing.” That was the exact signal she wanted to broadcast to everyone around us. The elevator rode straight to the executive boardroom on the top floor. When I pushed the door open, the entire senior leadership team was seated around the long conference table. Sam sat at the far end, his face ash-grey. “Logan. Have a seat,” CEO Richard Davies said, pointing to an empty chair directly across from him. Helena walked in behind me, pulling out the adjacent chair and sitting down. “Mr. Davies, Logan’s psychological state is extremely fragile right now. As his mother, I need to be present for this conversation.” Richard nodded curtly, sliding a thick document across the polished wood toward me. “Logan, you’ve seen the news. The agency spent incredible resources trying to protect you, but our brand sponsors have formed a coalition. They are demanding immediate contract terminations and millions in liquidated damages.” “On top of that, the producers of “The Long Dark” have officially served us notice. Your lead actor contract has been terminated.” I looked down at the stark black ink on the white paper. “And?” “And so, after a board vote, the company has decided to terminate your representation contract effective immediately.” Richard tapped his fingers on the table. “Of course, considering how much revenue you’ve generated for us in the past, the agency will swallow half of the total breach penalties. The remaining half… you will need to cover out of pocket.” Five million dollars. That was the number I was expected to pay. Sam bolted out of his chair. “Mr. Davies! That isn’t fair! Logan doesn’t have a dangerous mental illness—it was psychological trauma from saving a life years ago!” “Shut up, Sam!” I cut him off sharply. Sam froze, staring at me in utter shock. Helena turned her head toward me, a flash of panic darting through her eyes before she buried it deep beneath her composed facade. “Sam, facts are facts. There’s no point in making excuses,” I said calmly, twirling a pen between my fingers. Helena seized the opportunity effortlessly. “Mr. Davies, Logan genuinely needs to take a step back and rest. Honestly, Tyler’s career momentum has been phenomenal lately. If the agency is willing to reallocate Logan’s remaining project slate to Tyler… I will personally cover Logan’s five-million-dollar penalty.” The room went entirely silent. Richard and the executives exchanged quick, calculating looks. Behind Helena’s chair, Tyler tried—and failed—to keep the triumphant smirk from curling the corners of his lips. This was Helena’s ultimate objective. To use my complete annihilation to pave a golden highway for her adopted son. And to do it while cementing her saintly, devoted mother persona in front of the entire industry. “A mother’s love really is something else,” Richard mused, sliding another document toward Tyler. “In that case, Tyler, come sign the transition agreement.” Tyler stepped forward, trying desperately to mask his wild excitement as he picked up the pen. “Hold on.” My voice cut through the warm, celebratory atmosphere like a shattered sheet of ice. 4 Everyone turned to stare at me. Helena frowned, her voice dropping into a stern whisper. “Logan, don’t throw a tantrum. Mom is trying to save you.” “Save me?” My face remained entirely expressionless as I tossed the pen onto the glass tabletop with a dull “clack”. “No need. I’ll pay my own damages. And as for my projects… nobody touches them.” Tyler looked at Helena with wide, pitiful eyes. “Mom… is Logan getting worse? He’s talking nonsense…” Before he could finish, the heavy boardroom doors were pushed open with sudden force. A breathless young assistant stood in the doorway, clutching the handle. “Mr. Davies! Director Lawrence Drake is here! He brought his entire legal team!” The air in the room instantly turned to stone. Lawrence Drake. The most acclaimed director in modern cinema. An elusive recluse who held a mountain of international awards and answered to no studio. Why on earth was he here? Before anyone could regain their composure, a middle-aged man in a sharp black trench coat strode into the room. Behind him, a fleet of high-powered corporate attorneys carrying leather briefcases exuded a terrifying, ice-cold authority. Richard’s face immediately melted into a groveling, sycophantic smile as he rushed to greet him. “Director Drake! What an unexpected honor! You could have just called—please, take a seat!” Lawrence didn’t even grant him a glance. His sharp eyes swept across the boardroom before locking firmly onto me. Seeing this, Helena immediately grabbed my arm, shifting her body to block me from his view. “Director Drake, hello. I am Logan Archer’s mother. I am so deeply sorry about the scandal online. Logan’s psychological state is completely unstable right now. If he has offended you in any way, I apologize on his behalf.” Helena’s tone was polite, but every word was designed to nail down the narrative that I was out of my mind. Tyler seized the moment, stepping forward with a polished, humble smile. “Director Drake, my brother is unwell and unable to continue working. If you have any upcoming projects that require auditions, I am fully available.” “Who the hell are you to audition for my film?” Lawrence’s cold, rasping voice cut Tyler down where he stood. Tyler’s face flushed an intense, burning red. He froze instantly. Lawrence walked straight up to me. Behind him, one of his attorneys smoothly pulled out a chair for him. He sat down and looked me straight in the eye. “Logan Archer. Regarding those psychiatric records from the Oakwood Recovery Center…” The moment those words left his mouth, Helena’s fingers clenched around my arm with brutal force. She stared at Lawrence, waiting desperately for the explosive rage that was bound to follow. Richard hurriedly tried to wash his hands clean. “Director Drake, we are currently terminating Logan’s contract. His personal actions have zero relation to our agency—” Lawrence let out a harsh, mocking laugh, turning his head toward Richard. “Terminating him? Davies, your agency’s vision is pure, unadulterated trash.” He pulled a gold-embossed leather folder from his attorney’s briefcase and slammed it onto the table. “Mr. Logan Archer. Regarding those photos and intake forms from the recovery center…” He paused, his voice echoing with absolute authority through the silent room. “…that is precisely the broken soul our new masterpiece, “Into the Abyss”, has been searching for.” “Congratulations. The raw resilience you showed in crawling out of your darkest hour completely captivated our board of investors and production team.” “This is the lead actor contract for “Into the Abyss”. Fully funded, fifteen million dollar guaranteed base salary, plus global box office gross backend points.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556437”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When tickets for the express train to New York went on sale, Bruno habitually ordered two. One for himself. One for Isla. Only after locking in their seats did he turn to me and ask, “Callie, did you get your ticket?” I froze. On his screen, his seat was right next to Isla’s. When I opened the app a second later, the only remaining seat on the train was in the adjacent car. I stared at the seat number, a sudden, hollow laugh catching in my throat. From our summer trips to college orientation, whenever there were three of us, they were always a pair. I was always the odd one out, running to catch up behind them. Not long after, Isla dropped a picture of a lease agreement into our group chat. Under the tenant column were two names: hers and Bruno’s. She tagged me with a cheerful emoji. “Callie, Bruno said it’s safer for you to live in the dorms. But you can always come over to our place for dinner on weekends!” “Our place.” Something sharp pricked my chest. I hadn’t even stepped foot onto a college campus yet, and I had already been locked out of his future. A moment later, Bruno sent me a private text. “Don’t overthink this. Isla renting an apartment on her own isn’t safe. I promised her parents I’d look after her. Don’t make a scene over something so minor.” I stared at the phrase “something so minor”. Slowly, I opened the university portal on my phone. The Columbia University enrollment confirmation page was still active, waiting for my final click. I hit back. I navigated over to the late-clearing admissions portal for University College London. This time, I stopped chasing their train car. And I stopped chasing Bruno’s life. … Canceling my enrollment at Columbia still required me to hand over paper forms in New York. The day the train departed, the station was packed. Bruno and Isla sat side by side, one car ahead of mine. Before we left, he’d promised to help me with my heavy luggage. But after passing through ticket control, he went straight ahead, finding Isla’s seat and lifting her small wheelie bag onto the overhead rack with practiced ease. I was stuck one car back, dragging two oversized suitcases through the narrow aisle. People bumped past me, muttering complaints under their breath. I texted him, asking if he could come help me for a second. Ten minutes later, he replied: “Isla gets motion sick. She just fell asleep.” “My mom specifically told me to keep an eye on her on the way down. I can’t move right now.” I looked at the screen, my hands and feet turning ice-cold. In the end, I had to stand on my tiptoes and hoist the heavy bags up myself. The weight was too much; my wrist gave out, and the suitcase slammed down, sending a shot of numbness straight up my arm. A woman sitting nearby caught the edge just in time, preventing it from hitting anyone. I thanked her profusely, my voice shaking. A minute later, Isla posted a photo in the group chat. In the picture, Bruno was kneeling in front of her, carefully draping his jacket over her shoulders. On the fold-down tray sat a paper cup of hot milk and a box of non-drowsy Dramamine. That box of medication was something I had tucked into his backpack that morning, worried I might feel sick on the ride. I tagged him in the chat. “Could you bring me a Dramamine pill? I’m feeling really nauseous.” Two minutes later, his private text arrived. “You’ve never gotten motion sickness before.” “Just drink some warm water.” I turned off my screen and looked out the window. The dull ache in my chest fermented slowly with every rattle of the train tracks. Halfway through the trip, a heavily intoxicated man sat down in the empty seat next to me. Reeking of cheap whiskey, he kept leaning over, his elbow brushing against me, even reaching out to touch my bag whenever the train lurched. My stomach churned with anxiety. I dialed Bruno’s number. The first time, no one answered. The second time, he hung up on me. Immediately after, a text popped up: “Isla just fell asleep. Stop causing drama.” “Stop causing drama.” Those four words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. In the end, a conductor noticed the situation during her walk-through and reassigned me to a safer seat. It was near midnight when we pulled into Penn Station. Bruno held Isla’s hand as they walked off the platform ahead of me. Watching their fingers intertwined, I suddenly remembered the night of our high school graduation. The summer breeze had been soft that evening. He had held my hand just like that on the school rooftop, whispering softly, “Callie, once we get settled in New York, we’ll make it official.” We had been inseparable since sophomore year. Everyone assumed it was only a matter of time before we put a real label on it. Now, he was holding someone else’s hand, never once turning around to see if I was behind them. Without looking back, Bruno called over his shoulder, “Isla’s blood sugar dropped. I’m taking her straight to the apartment to rest.” “Take a cab to the dorms yourself.” With that, he hailed a yellow cab, shielded Isla as she slid inside, and sped off into the night. I stood in the freezing wind, dragging two massive bags, waiting thirty minutes in the taxi line. The night was pitch-black, and my driver got confused by the road construction, taking a wrong turn into an unfamiliar, deserted industrial strip. Terrified, I texted Bruno my real-time location. The message sank into an abyss. No reply. It wasn’t until my resident advisor noticed I hadn’t checked in and sent two upperclassmen out to locate me that I finally made it to the temporary dorms. My phone battery was down to one percent when his text finally arrived: “Let me know when you arrive. Don’t make people worry.” I stared at that belated burst of concern, a wave of dark irony washing over me. A second later, a push notification popped up on my screen. “UCL Clearing Application: Preliminary Review Passed.” I stared at the prompt asking “Do you wish to proceed?” for a long time. Then, I tapped “Confirm”. …… The next morning, Bruno sent me a text. “Come over for lunch.” My high school transcripts, passport copy, and registration documents were still packed in the side pocket of his suitcase—documents I needed to officially withdraw from Columbia and send to London. I had no choice but to go to their rented place. Bruno opened the door. He punched the passcode into the keypad right in front of me, not even bothering to cover the screen. A string of six beeps. I recognized those numbers instantly. It was Isla’s birthday. My mind flashed back to graduation night, when he had promised that when we had our own place in New York, the front door code would be the date we officially became a couple. Now, the apartment living room was filled with new, spotless furniture. By the window sat a sleek wooden desk—the exact model I had drooled over months ago. Today, it was cluttered with Isla’s makeup mirrors, luxury perfumes, and Polaroid prints. The refrigerator door was covered in sticky notes. “Isla doesn’t eat onions.” “Isla needs warm oat milk in the morning.” “Isla is terrified of the dark—leave the hallway light on.” Every single note was written in Bruno’s unmistakable, neat handwriting. I pointed at the fridge, my voice surprisingly steady. “What am I to you, Bruno?” Bruno paused, his hands resting on his hips. “My parents set this place up for Isla. She’s a girl alone in a huge city with no family. I’m just staying here temporarily to look out for her.” “You can come over whenever you want, of course. But Isla’s a light sleeper, so just let us know in advance before you pop in.” “Let us know in advance.” I looked him dead in the eye. “And what about me? I’m alone in a dorm room on the other side of town. Do you ever worry if I’m scared? If I’m safe?” Bruno frowned, annoyance slipping into his tone. “You’re in a university residence hall. You have roommates, an RA, building security. What could possibly happen to you?” “Isla is different. She hasn’t had parents around since she was a kid.” “Callie, stop being so petty about everything.” The words died in my throat. Isla was our high school classmate, the daughter of a long-time friend of the Lawson family. After her parents died in an accident years ago, Bruno’s family had practically taken her in. His parents treated her like a second daughter. In the past, whenever Bruno ditched me for her, he used the exact same line: “She doesn’t have parents, Callie. Just yield to her a little, okay?” At first, I felt sorry for her too. It was only now, standing in this warm, beautifully lit apartment, that I realized her tragedy had long become his ultimate excuse to ignore me. Without another word to me, he reached into his pocket and dropped a spare set of house keys into Isla’s purse. “You’re always losing things, Isla. Keep a back-up set in your bag.” I stood in the middle of the room like an uninvited guest. At noon, the smell of sautéing peppers drifted from the kitchen. Isla sat on the sofa, dramatically covering her nose, whining that she couldn’t stand spicy food. Bruno immediately turned to me. “Callie, let’s keep things mild today. I’ll make you a full spicy meal another time, okay?” I remembered our dinner dates back home. He used to laugh softly as I ate spicy noodles until tears ran down my cheeks, gently wiping my face with a napkin, teasing that he’d have to buy me safety goggles just so he could cook my favorite meals once we moved in together. Back then, no matter what we talked about, he always framed it around our future life together. Now, I was entirely erased from his present. That evening, a sudden storm caused a power outage in the old apartment complex. The living room plunged into total darkness. Isla shrieked, throwing herself directly into Bruno’s arms. “Bruno! I’m scared!” Bruno wrapped his arms around her tightly. “Don’t worry. I’m right here.” Meanwhile, I was in the dark kitchen, gathering up the lunch dishes. A sharp piece of broken porcelain sliced deep into my index finger. Blood gushed out immediately. In the living room, they whispered gentle words of comfort to each other. Neither of them turned around to check on me. When I left, I demanded my documents back. Bruno unzipped his suitcase. My file folder was crushed and crumpled at the very bottom, while Isla’s medical records, lease forms, and campus orientation maps were neatly organized in a pristine clear sleeve right on top. I pulled my papers out and walked out the door without saying another word. Back in my temporary room, I logged into the London university portal and uploaded all my finalized materials. The day I went to the Columbia administration building to process my formal withdrawal, the cut on my hand still hadn’t healed. Bruno, who had promised to accompany me for campus registration, dropped me the second Isla couldn’t find the medical center building. When his text arrived, my heart gave a dull, familiar ache, though the numbness was already taking over. I told myself it was fine; I was cutting him out of my life anyway. I dragged my luggage to the registration queue alone. The student volunteer looking over my passport paused when she saw my name. “Wait, you’re Callie Palmer?” She smiled warmly. “Isla mentioned you earlier! She said you guys went to high school together, and that you’d be coming over to their place for dinner on weekends.” She chuckled. “She was telling us how sweet they are together. Honestly, you guys must be the power couple of the incoming freshman class!” “High school friend.” “Their place.” “Power couple.” Every phrase felt like a tiny, deliberate twist of a blade. At noon, a notification popped up on my feed. Isla had posted a new photo on Instagram. She was standing in front of the iconic university gates. Bruno stood beside her, holding two iced boba teas and a massive bouquet of sunflowers. Her caption read: “Day one in New York with @Bruno. We both have a brand new home!” The comments were already flooded with high school classmates. “Wait, is this official?!” “What about Callie though?” “Honestly, childhood sweethearts always win in the end.” Bruno didn’t reply to any of them, nor did he deny it. If it had been me tagged in a photo like that, he would have instantly posted a public correction: “Just friends, guys. Don’t make rumors.” A torrential downpour hit the campus around two in the afternoon. I was stuck inside the main administration building while my heavy suitcases and paper records were still sitting under a temporary canvas canopy near the registration plaza. I messaged Bruno, asking if he could push my bags inside the lobby. He texted back: “Isla felt dizzy after her blood draw.” “I need to stay with her in the clinic for another thirty minutes.” “Your luggage is hard-shell and waterproof anyway, stop worrying.” By the time I ran through the rain back to the plaza, the canvas tent had given way. My bags were completely soaked, and my printed files were dripping wet. I grabbed my files. As I pushed myself up, my wet shoe slipped on the marble step. I fell hard, crashing against the concrete ledge. The scab on the back of my hand tore wide open, blood mixing with rainwater as it trickled down my wrist. My vision swam with gray spots. I couldn’t stand up. My assigned advisor happened to pass by and quickly pulled me into the dry hallway. She flipped through my wet registration file, concern written all over her face. “Can you hear me? I need to call your emergency contact. Did he come with you today?” She dialed Bruno’s number on speaker. First call: No answer. Second call: Straight to voicemail. When we were filling out our pre-orientation safety forms back home, Bruno had insisted on being my emergency contact. He had taken my phone, typed his own cell number into the field, and said, “If anything ever happens to you in New York, the school needs to call me first.” I had believed him. The advisor stared at the silent phone for a few seconds, then looked up at me gently. “I can’t reach him, sweetie. Rest here for a bit, and once the rain slows down, I’ll walk you to the health center.” Thirty minutes later, Bruno finally rushed into the lobby—holding a fresh set of dorm bedding he had just picked up for Isla. He took one look at my drenched, disheveled state and scowled. “Callie, why do you always have to make things so complicated?” Isla peeked out from behind his shoulder, her voice tiny and sweet. “It’s all my fault, Callie… If I hadn’t felt sick, Bruno could have come over to help you sooner.” Bruno immediately turned to her, his voice softening. “This has nothing to do with you, Isla.” The advisor stepped forward, her voice sharp and uncompromising. “Is this young man your boyfriend? You were listed as her primary emergency contact, sir. She was injured and stranded in a downpour. If you accept that responsibility, you step up—you don’t come in here and blame the victim.” I lifted my head, staring at his face. For a brief, fleeting second, I wanted to ask him: “Were we ever actually boyfriend and girlfriend?” Then I caught myself, feeling a bitter wave of self-ridicule. Whether we were or weren’t didn’t matter anymore. The answer was already staring me in the face. That night, I logged into the residence portal and officially canceled my dorm reservation. I reprinted my UCL admission documents, carefully placing each clean sheet into a protective plastic sleeve. Just as I tucked the final page into my envelope, an email from London popped up on my screen. “Clearing Application Approved. Please complete final registration and travel verification within three days.” That same night, I booked a one-way flight to London Heathrow for three days later. The night before my flight, the freshman group chats exploded. Someone had taken a screenshot of Isla’s post and re-shared it to the campus gossip page, commenting on the handsome new couple living together off-campus. I stared at the endless stream of comments reading “So cute!” and “Relationship goals!”, my fingertips trembling on the glass. Deep down, a tiny, foolish part of me was still unwilling to accept that years of shared memories were nothing more than a fever dream I had experienced alone. In a moment of final, tragic hope, I typed a comment under the main post: “Don’t misunderstand. He has a girlfriend.” It was the first time I had ever publicly claimed my place in his life. “Just give me one sign,” I thought. “If Bruno stands up for me just once, I’ll give him one last chance.” Within an hour, my comment was screenshotted and pinned at the top of the thread. The new headline was vicious: “Freshmen Living Together? Real Girlfriend Steps Up? Who’s the Side Chick?” The comment section erupted into chaos. “He has a girlfriend and he’s renting an apartment with another girl? Isla is literally a homewrecker.” “Wait, I saw them at orientation, they looked totally like a couple!” “I went to high school with them. Bruno and Callie were definitely dating.” “Isn’t Isla an orphan? The Lawson family has been taking care of her for years.” “Even so, zero boundaries! Who moves in with a guy who has a girlfriend?” Isla was soon sobbing in the group chat. She claimed she was only staying there temporarily, that Bruno was helping her purely out of family obligation. She said being an orphan was hard enough, but now she was being publicly branded a homewrecker on her first week of college. She added that if I was really that insecure, she would break her lease and drop out of school altogether. The post gained so much traction that the department dean called the three of us into her office the following morning. The dean laid her tablet on the desk, the viral post still displayed on the screen. “This is spreading through the incoming class,” she said, looking over her glasses. “Normally, I don’t interfere in students’ personal lives, but campus code of conduct is strict, and this isn’t the reputation we want for our freshmen. I need an explanation.” She looked at Bruno first, asking if the cohabitation was real. Then she turned to me, asking what I meant by “girlfriend.” The office fell deathly quiet. I turned my head to look at Bruno. All he had to do was say one sentence—”She’s my girlfriend”—and the whole nightmare would end. He stayed silent for a terrifyingly long time. Finally, he pulled out his phone and brought up a text thread from months ago, showing a message where I had asked, “Are we officially together now?” He showed only my desperate, insecure question, hiding all his previous replies where he had promised: “When we get to New York, we’ll be official.” He looked the dean dead in the eye. “Professor, Callie has had a crush on me for a long time.” “But I never officially accepted her.” “We are not in a relationship.” “Isla is not a side chick.” “Isla and I are the ones currently seeing each other seriously.” My body went numb. I was pinned to the floor, frozen. All those years of quiet, tender devotion were instantly rewritten as the delusion of a desperate girl who couldn’t take a hint. Isla’s sobs grew louder, delicate and heartbroken. “I just started college… I can’t have everyone calling me a homewrecker…” Bruno immediately turned to comfort her, his hands rubbing her shoulders. Then, turning his back to the dean, he leaned in and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Callie, apologize to Isla right now.” I stared at him. “Apologize for what?” “Her reputation can’t be ruined over this!” he hissed, his eyes pleading and angry all at once. “She doesn’t have parents, Callie. She can’t handle this kind of humiliation. You know what I meant—just don’t make things hard for her right now.” My voice came out barely audible. “So to you… I was never your girlfriend?” Bruno’s throat bobbed. Isla clutched his sleeve, burying her tear-stained face in his arm. He closed his eyes. “At least… not right now.” In that exact second, I heard something deep inside me break into a million pieces. It wasn’t a loud, dramatic shatter. It was just a quiet, final snap. Something that could never, ever be put back together. I stood there for a long time. Then, I turned to Isla. “I’m sorry.” Everyone in the dean’s office let out a long, collective sigh of relief. Only I knew the truth. I wasn’t apologizing for the rumor. I was apologizing to the past version of Callie Palmer—the girl who had spent three years foolishly believing she was loved. When I walked out of the administration building, I didn’t offer another word of explanation to anyone. I opened the UCL registration portal on my phone. “Do you accept your offer of admission to University College London?” I stared at the words for a long moment. Then, I tapped “Accept”. When the green confirmation checkmark flashed onto the screen, I finally let myself swallow the tears choking my throat. Bruno didn’t run out after me. I glanced back once through the glass doors. He was still in the office, using tissues to gently wipe the tears from Isla’s cheeks. He probably assumed I’d be waiting outside, just like I always did, standing in the cold until he was done comforting Isla, waiting for whatever crumbs of explanation he decided to throw my way. That evening, he finally went to the freshman residence hall to look for me. When I ignored his endless stream of texts, he tried asking a passing student to take a message up to my room—only to realize he had no idea what my room number was. Frustrated, he went to the housing desk. The housing coordinator flipped through the system logs and looked up at him. “Callie Palmer withdrew her housing application this afternoon. She moved all her luggage out hours ago.” Bruno’s face drained of color. “What?” A student volunteer standing nearby overheard and chimed in casually, “Oh, Callie? She transferred to UCL in London. She came by to turn in her keys today. Didn’t you guys go to high school together? How did you not know?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556422”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On my birthday, my wife trended on social media with another man. Tim had posted a photo wearing the limited-edition luxury watch I was supposed to unwrap that night. “My favorite little girl sure knows how to show respect,” his caption read. “Gave Papa her husband’s birthday present to wear first. Come kneel and thank me, and I might just grant you a kiss.” The image breaking the internet was a close-up of the two of them, mouths pressed together in an intimate, breathless kiss. Moments later, Adriana called me. “Tim was just messing around,” she said, her voice smooth, devoid of any real apology. “Don’t make a scene over this. I’ll make it up to you.” A notification chimed on my phone a second later: a wire transfer for one million dollars. In our social circle, the high-society trust-fund heirs were having a field day. They mocked me in private group chats, whispering that I couldn’t even hold my ground against my wife’s “guy best friend.” I accepted the money. My heart rate didn’t even spike. I didn’t care. Not anymore. Because three months ago, the System had given me a singular rule: every single cent I made in this world could be transferred back to my real life. I had given Adriana five years of my life. I wasn’t about to walk away empty-handed. Thirty days left. Just thirty more days, and I’d return home as a very, very wealthy man. … Tim posted another update. In the photo, Adriana was asleep on his sofa, her head resting on his shoulder. He angled his face close to hers, holding a single finger to his lips in a “shh” gesture. “Insisted on keeping up with me all night,” he wrote. “My good girl completely wore herself out.” The comments under the post were predictable. “Haha, you really broke her, didn’t you?” “Damn, Tim, the husband’s position is looking real fragile right now!” My phone buzzed relentlessly with direct messages. The guys-only group chat was practically on fire. “Larry, if you don’t put a leash on your wife, get the hell out of this chat. If you’re not embarrassed, we are.” “Letting her ‘platonic bestie’ walk all over you like this? How do you even look in the mirror?” I scrolled through the messages without replying. Sitting alone at the grand dining table, I continued eating my birthday dinner. When I swallowed the last bite of cake, I opened Tim’s post and gave it a polite like. I typed out a comment: “Thanks for looking out for her. She snores when she sleeps like that—make sure to put a blanket over her so she doesn’t catch a chill.” After posting, I opened my banking app to check the transaction history. One million dollars deposited tonight. Nice. At one in the morning, just as I was drifting off to sleep, Adriana called. “Larry!” Her voice was raspy, heavy with sleep. “What the hell is happening online? What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything,” I said mildly. “How is that possible? My parents just called me in a panic!” She was furious now. “I spent a little time playing games with my best friend—is that really worth turning into a national scandal? Do you care about my family’s reputation at all?” So, she cared about her reputation now. My voice remained entirely flat. “Adriana, the people who made a spectacle online were you and Tim. Not me.” “Stop acting so innocent!” She let out a sharp, disdainful sneer. “Today was your birthday. I wasn’t home, and you didn’t call me even once to nag me to come back. That isn’t like you!” “Not today,” I said, looking at the glowing digits on my phone. “It’s past midnight. Yesterday was my birthday.” Adriana went quiet for a beat. “So what?” she snapped, though her tone faltered slightly. “You never used to be like this. You used to blow up my phone until I came home……” I let out a soft laugh. I truly couldn’t follow her logic anymore. “You were spending quality time with your best friend,” I said softly. “If I kept calling to drag you home, wouldn’t I be disrespecting your bond?” Silence stretched across the line. She was right about one thing: I didn’t used to be like this. I used to scream. I used to break things. I used to cry until my throat burned. I used to drive out to Tim’s loft, corner him, and throw punches. But even knowing how much it destroyed me, Adriana refused to cut ties with him. Instead, she blamed me for being unreasonable, for being insecure. “He’s my brother!” she used to yell at me. “When you lay a finger on him, you’re disrespecting me!” Once, she abandoned me to go skateboarding with Tim. We had hired a surrogate who was five months pregnant with our child. I had just picked up the ultrasound reports with the surrogate when Tim came tearing down the concrete path on his board and slammed straight into her. The collision was brutal. We lost the baby that night. When Adriana arrived at the hospital, her expression was indifferent. “He didn’t mean it,” she had said coldly. “Who knew your surrogate was made of glass?” Then, she transferred a million dollars into my account. “Let it go,” she told me. “We can always hire another surrogate later.” She used a million dollars to buy out the life of our unborn child. That night, lying on the hospital cot, I stared at the confirmation page on my phone for hours. And then, I started laughing. I laughed until my chest ached, until tears burned my eyes. It was a bitter, hollow sound. That was the night I remembered the System’s original prompt. [Task: Win Adriana’s heart and stay married to her for five years. Upon completion, you may return to the real world.] [Special Bonus: Any wealth accumulated in this world can be transferred to your real-world bank account.] I had long forgotten about the mission because I had genuinely fallen in love with Adriana. I had wanted to build a real life here with her. But I didn’t want to love her anymore. From that day forward, I started counting down the days. When the five-year mark arrived, I would leave. And I would take every single cent I could get my hands on. The next morning, Adriana came home. She walked into the dining room carrying a bakery box, wearing an expectant smile that practically begged for gratitude. “I stood in line at seven this morning to get your favorite chestnut sponge cake,” she said, setting it in front of me. “Eat up.” I glanced at the cake. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Her smile froze. “I’m severely allergic to chestnuts.” Annoyance flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a sudden, jarring panic. I gave her a polite, unbothered smile. “Don’t you remember? Last year, Tim blended chestnuts into a powder and told me it was a protein smoothie. I drank it and ended up in the ICU.” My voice stayed conversational. “Back then, you told me Tim was just careless and didn’t mean anything by it.” Her mouth opened slightly. A rare pang of guilt washed over her face. “I…… I forgot.” “It’s fine,” I waved my hand dismissively and took my seat at the table. “You’re a busy woman. You can’t be expected to remember every little detail.” Adriana watched me, her gaze analytical, searching my face for a crack in the armor. “Larry…… are you really not angry?” I chuckled, taking a slow sip of my warm milk. “What is there to be angry about? If I had to guess, Tim was the one who suggested you pick up chestnut cake in the first place, wasn’t he?” She parted her lips to explain, but I cut her off gently. “He loves chestnut cake,” I said softly. “It makes complete sense that you’d buy one for him and grab an extra while you were at it. The fact that you thought of bringing one home to me at all is already very sweet.” Adriana stared at me, her expression a messy knot of confusion and guilt. I didn’t look at her again. I quietly ate the breakfast our butler, Frank, had already prepared for me. The grand gesture of bringing me breakfast was a performative act she was late to—Frank had already taken care of it. We ate the rest of the meal in silence. “There’s a company gala tomorrow night,” she said finally, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “I want you to come with me.” It was her classic routine. Every time she stepped out of line, she insisted on dragging me to public events to prove to the world that our marriage was as rock-solid as ever. I pondered it for a second. “Sure. But I’ll need a new suit and a pair of cuff links.” She visibly breathed a sigh of relief. My lack of resistance meant, in her mind, that the storm had passed. She immediately pulled out her phone and wired me five hundred thousand dollars. “Let me know if you need more.” It was more than enough. My closet was lined with custom suits I had bought for past galas. But if she was offering cash, I wasn’t going to turn it down. It had taken me four years to realize that cash was the only thing in this house that wouldn’t betray me. The next night, I arrived at the gala wearing a silver-grey bespoke suit, accessorized with diamond cuff links Adriana had gifted me years ago. Tim was already there. He was wearing a champagne-colored silk suit, cut low at the neck to show off his chest. When he spotted me, he smirked loudly enough for half the room to hear. “Look who it is! My girl actually brought her husband out tonight!” He stepped up, scanning me from head to toe. “Look at you, all dapper. This suit must’ve set you back a few hundred grand, huh?” “It was alright,” I replied coolly. “Thirty-eight thousand.” Tim’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second. My suit was significantly more expensive than his. A waiter carrying a tray of champagne walked past us. Tim executed a sudden, clumsy turn, deliberately brushing against the tray and sending a full flute of champagne splashing across his own chest. “Oh no!” he gasped dramatically. The amber liquid soaked down his front, turning the light silk a dark, ugly yellow. “I’m supposed to give a speech on stage in twenty minutes……” he whined, looking helpless. Adriana frowned, her eyes immediately darting to me. “Larry…… could you swap suits with him?” I remained silent. Tim playfully smacked Adriana on the head. “Hey, little girl, I’m wearing yours! Just take yours off and give it to me, hurry up.” Adriana blushed slightly. “Stop messing around. I have to go on stage later, too.” Then, her eyes locked onto me again. This time, it wasn’t a request. It was an order. I offered a perfectly practiced, polite smile. “Take mine.” Tim’s eyes gleamed with instant triumph. “Larry, you’re a real pal!” We walked into the VIP restroom to swap clothes. The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind us, the easy smile vanished from Tim’s face. “How do you tolerate this?” he asked, staring at me with pure contempt. I unbuttoned my jacket, my voice completely tranquil. “What do you mean? You’re her best friend. Helping you out is the right thing to do, isn’t it?” He let out a cold snort, taking the silver-grey jacket from my hands and slipping into it with agonizing slowness. It fit him like a glove. He turned in front of the mirror, admiring himself. “Honestly, I thought this suit looked tacky when I first saw it.” He glanced at my reflection through the glass. “Every piece of clothing Adriana gives you is something I rejected first.” I smiled softly, entirely unbothered. “Then you definitely made a mistake passing on this one.” I reached out to pick up his stained champagne suit from the counter. Tim casually let his hand slip, letting the dirty jacket tumble straight into the toilet bowl. “Oops. My hand slipped,” he said, his eyes glittering with smug malice. My expression faltered just enough to satisfy him. I was standing there in my undershirt and trousers. Tim grabbed the cuffs of his trousers, spun around on his designer leather shoes, and walked out, the heavy wooden door closing with a firm click. As soon as he was gone, I reached into my pocket and stopped the audio recording on my phone. Then, I dialed Adriana’s number. She picked up on the second ring. “Larry—” “Hey, stop talking on the phone, we’re up next—” Tim’s voice cut in through her speaker. The line went dead. When I tried calling back, her phone was switched off. I took a deep breath, dialed the hotel front desk, and spoke clearly into the receiver. “Hi, please send a size medium staff uniform to the main floor VIP restroom.” Ten minutes later, dressed in a plain black hotel polo and cargo pants, I slipped out of the venue through the service exit. By the time I reached home, my phone rang again. Adriana’s voice erupted with rage the moment I answered. “Where the hell did you go without telling me? Tim said you threw his thirty-thousand-dollar suit into the toilet! You need to pay him back right now!” I didn’t answer. I simply tapped on the audio file I had recorded in the restroom and sent it directly to her chat. Two minutes passed in absolute silence. Then, a voice note arrived from Adriana. “Tim didn’t mean it…… don’t take it to heart.” “He’s wearing your suit home tonight. I’ll reimburse you for it.” My phone buzzed with a bank notification. “Four hundred thousand dollars deposited.” I accepted the transfer, locked my phone, turned over, and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Twenty-five days left. The following morning, I began quietly liquidating my assets. Over the years, Adriana had transferred two luxury villas, ten prime commercial storefronts, and two plots of land into my name. I didn’t make a grand spectacle of it. Instead, I hired a discreet, high-end real estate broker to list everything quietly. My only condition was speed: sell at slightly below market value, but close as fast as humanly possible. The broker looked at me in surprise. “Mr. Vance—sorry, Mr. Larry—are you in urgent need of cash?” I nodded serenely. “Yes. I’m preparing to make a quick exit.” The broker chuckled, assuming I was pulling his leg. When I returned home that evening, Adriana and Tim were already sitting at the dining table. Frank had just finished serving a spread of elaborate dishes. “Here, try this, it’s amazing,” Tim said, using his own chopsticks to drop a piece of braised pork into Adriana’s bowl. Then, with casual familiarity, he reached into her bowl with the same chopsticks, picked out the green peppers she hated, and popped them into his own mouth. It was an exchange so practiced it looked like second nature. When Tim noticed me entering, he looked up with a easy grin. “Larry’s back! Come on, sit down and eat!” I sat across from them. Tim continued heaping food onto Adriana’s plate. I glanced at the serving utensils sitting untouched in the center of the table. Tim noticed my gaze and laughed it off. “Oh, come on, Larry. Adriana and I go way back. We don’t need to be so formal with serving spoons.” I said nothing, quietly eating the food in my own bowl. Adriana set her chopsticks down and cleared her throat softly. “Larry, I wanted to talk to you about something.” She paused, taking a breath. “Tim’s baby is going to be born soon. He wants to raise the child as a single father.” My hand holding the fork stilled for a fraction of a second. Tim was staring down at an ultrasound photo on his phone, a smug, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. “But his parents are extremely traditional,” Adriana continued, her fingers nervously twisting together. “They refuse to accept him being a single dad and are threatening to force the child into adoption.” She took a breath, watching my face closely. “So…… I was thinking I could enter a temporary, fake marriage with him. Just to get his parents off his back and secure the child’s legal birth certificate. Once the baby’s registered, we’ll get divorced immediately.” She emphasized quickly, “It’s just helping out a friend. It doesn’t mean anything.” I held my bowl, perfectly composed on the outside while a wave of pure, unadulterated thrill washed over me. I had been wondering how to extract one final, massive payout from her before my time was up. I looked up at the two of them. “Whose baby is it?” Tim waved a hand carelessly. “Who cares? Some girl from a party. I’m raising it on my own regardless.” Adriana frowned at him. “Watch your mouth.” I laid my utensils down, my tone entirely flat. “Fine. We can get divorced. But how are we dividing the property?” Adriana froze. “It’s a fake divorce, why would we divide anything? Don’t you trust me?” I shook my head slowly. “Then you transfer everything to my name and walk away with nothing.” I locked eyes with her, speaking each word deliberately. “Do “you” trust “me”?” Adriana’s lips parted, entirely caught off guard. Tim crossed his arms, leaning back with an annoyed scowl. “Walk away with nothing? On what grounds? Are you insane?” I ignored Tim entirely, keeping my eyes fixed on my wife. Adriana remained silent for a few agonizing seconds. “I have to keep the company under my name for operational reasons,” she said slowly. “Everything else…… I’ll sign over to you.” I nodded cleanly. “Deal.” Tim’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? What if he—” Adriana offered a confident, relaxed smile. “I trust Larry. Besides, we’ll be remarrying in six months anyway.” I offered her a polite smile in return, choosing not to say a single word. The look Tim hurled at me was no longer just petty jealousy. It was poison. A few days later, Adriana and Tim publicly announced their sudden engagement online: “My best friend is about to become my forever family.” Social media exploded instantly. Old rumors and gossip were dragged back into the light. In front of a swarm of paparazzi, Tim officially moved his luggage into the estate. Adriana pulled me aside, whispering softly, “We have to make it look convincing for the media.” I shook my head gently. “I don’t mind.” I didn’t care. I had one week left. On the day we went to the family court to file for divorce, the entrance was swarming with reporters. Camera flashes went off like lightning strikes. “Ms. Adriana, are you divorcing your husband due to an extramarital affair?” “Mr. Larry, how do you feel about your wife marrying her best friend?” Adriana frowned, reaching out to block the camera lenses. I calmly wrapped my arm through hers, facing the reporters with a relaxed, composed smile. “Adriana signed over all her personal real estate and cash assets to me in the settlement,” I said clearly into the microphones. “What do I have to be unhappy about? Very few women in the world are this generous.” The crowd of journalists went dead silent. Someone whispered loudly in the back, “Damn, so Larry traded his dignity for a paycheck.” Adriana looked up at me, a flick of deep guilt flashing through her eyes. I simply maintained a refined, dignified smile. Inside the building, we filled out the paperwork, signed the agreements, and took the final photographs. When the clerk handed over the finalized divorce certificates, Adriana took hers, her expression deeply unsettled. “Larry…… I’m really sorry about all this.” I smiled softly. “If you’re truly feeling guilty, why don’t you transfer a portion of your company stock to me as well?” I said it lightly, as if making a casual joke. She thought about it for a moment. “Fine. I’ll give you ten percent.” Within two hours, her corporate lawyer drafted the “Equity Transfer Agreement”, and we both signed it without hesitation. As I walked out of the courthouse doors, Tim was waiting outside, leaning against a luxury sports car. The moment he saw us, he stepped forward and wrapped his arm around Adriana’s waist, pulling her toward the marriage registration window. A seamless transition. Very typical of Tim. Flashy, reckless, and entirely unbothered by public decency. Back at the house, I began packing my remaining belongings into a single suitcase. Adriana grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “Why don’t you just stay here? You can help me take care of Tim while he’s recovering.” I glanced down at her hand, then up at her face. “If I stay, what will Tim’s conservative parents think when they come over and see the ex-husband living in the guest room?” Adriana bit her lip, realizing her oversight. “Then…… at least stay until after the wedding,” she pleaded softly. “If you attend and give us your blessing, the rumors outside won’t be so vicious.” I glanced at the digital calendar on my phone. The wedding was scheduled in three days. The very last day of my five-year term. “Sure,” I smiled gently. “I’ll be there.” It was the perfect timing to deliver my final gift.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556438”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My life was down to a ticking clock, so I bought a one-way ticket to Morocco to finish the Sahara expedition Gideon Wells and I had promised each other back when we were still madly in love. On my first day, I barely managed to drag myself through the local bazaar before my body caved. Exhausted, hollowed out by pain, I retreated early to my hotel room. Curled in bed, I unlocked my phone and opened my feed. The top video hit me like a slap to the face: Gideon, standing beneath a canopy of desert stars, down on one knee proposing to Mallory King—my best friend from college. Behind Gideon, a wall of fairy-light letters blazed into the night sky, burning straight into my chest. “Thank you for holding me up through the hardest three years of my life.” Three years ago, when I tore my own heart out and left him, Gideon had looked at me with bloodshot eyes and screamed, “You don’t have a soul, Clara! I’ll never forgive you for this. Not as long as I live!” It turned out that for those three long years, Mallory had been the one keeping him whole. The comment section was a waterfall of congratulations from our old college circle. “Mallory deserves this more than anyone.” “She pulled Gideon out of the gutter and stood by him when he had nothing. It’s about damn time.” “True love survives the storm. Those toxic ghosts from his past finally belong in the trash where they belong.” I locked my screen and set the phone face down. I was dying anyway. Stepping back into the shadows was the kindest thing I could do for everyone. That way, when I slipped away, no one would have to grieve. I forced myself up, clutching my side, and reached for the souvenir I’d picked up at the medina earlier that afternoon: an antique brass lamp, tarnished and heavy. I pulled out a soft cloth and began to polish the dull metal. As the last layer of grime gave way, a dense, violet smoke surged into the room. A towering, translucent shadow materialized before me, bowing low until its silhouette hovered inches from my face. “Speak, my master. Three wishes. Anything within this realm is yours.” I laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks, choking on my own breath. My body was so withered, so eaten away by disease, that my mind was inventing fairy tales. Still, looking at the apparition, I whispered the truest, rawest wish buried at the bottom of my soul. “I… I want to live.” … “As you command, my master.” The shadow dissolved slowly into thin air, and the purple fog receded like a dying tide. Suddenly, the deep, gnawing agony in my stomach—the ache that had haunted my every waking hour for three years—simply vanished. I took a tentative, deep breath. My lungs expanded fully. There was no stabbing pain, no metallic taste of blood at the back of my throat. I was… alive? Truly alive? If I wasn’t going to die in a foreign hotel room, there was no need for the absurdly expensive international body repatriation service I’d pre-arranged. I pulled up the agency app, canceled the post-mortem transport, and watched a massive refund post back to my account. With cash in hand, I decided to book a suite at the iconic luxury desert resort nearby. Back when Gideon and I were broke and backpacking through North Africa, we’d stood outside its high gates, looking up at the glowing glass domes. He’d wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered, “One day, Clara. When I make it, I’m taking you here. We’ll get the top-tier star suite, and we’ll lie in bed and watch the Milky Way together.” Now, I was finally here. Alone. My car pulled up to the glowing oasis camp set deep in the dunes, its fairy lights shimmering like fallen constellations. The valet stepped forward to open my door. In the grand open-air lounge, a massive digital screen was cycling through a romantic photo slideshow. My breath hitched. The couple in the high-resolution portraits was Gideon and Mallory. Across the top of the display, bold elegant script read: “From Nothing to Everything: Together Forever.” He had returned to the desert and rented out the entire resort for Mallory’s engagement gala. “Clara? What on earth are you doing here?” A voice broke through the ambient music. I turned to see Tyler Scott, an old mutual friend from our group, staring at me in disbelief. Surrounding him were several familiar faces. When they recognized me, their expressions curdled into collective disdain. “I booked a room,” I said quietly, keeping my posture straight. Another friend sneered, “Oh, look who suddenly found some cash. Following him halfway across the globe?” “Today is Gideon’s big night, Clara. Don’t do something desperate.” “Seriously, after how ruthlessly you dumped him when he was down? Now that he’s a millionaire and happy with Mallory, you crawl back? What is wrong with you?” Tyler cut them off with a dismissive wave, giving me a cold, patronizing smile. “Alright, guys, give it a rest. Look, Clara, just head inside. Gideon’s in the main courtyard greeting real guests.” I nodded silently and wheeled my luggage toward the concierge desk. Behind me, the whispers floated over the desert breeze like venom. “Jesus, why is she so thin? She looks like a ghost.” “Karma, probably. She saw Gideon hit the big time on the news and realized what she threw away. She’s green with envy.” “Serves her right. Mallory stood by him through hell while Clara bounced the second things got tough. Who does she think she is?” I kept my eyes down and handed my passport to the clerk. Suddenly, a heavy hand gripped the handle of my suitcase. I turned around and ran straight into a pair of stormy, familiar eyes. It was Gideon. He wore a tailored linen tuxedo, polished and radiating the quiet authority of a man who had conquered the world. He looked nothing like the broken boy I had walked away from three years ago. “Why are you so thin?” he demanded, his voice dropping an octave. The raw, instinctual concern in his tone made my heart stutter. For a fraction of a second, the years vanished. Then, a flurry of white silk appeared at his side. Mallory wrapped her arm securely around his, her smile radiant, practically dripping with triumphant bliss. She followed Gideon’s gaze to me, her eyes widening in theatrical surprise before softening into a sweet, graceful mask. “Clara? Oh my goodness, it’s been so long! You’ve gotten so thin.” She stepped closer, her voice laced with honey. “Did you really fly all the way to Morocco to celebrate us? I’m so touched. Please, come inside and join the party!” Gideon snapped back to reality, the lingering warmth in his eyes instantly freezing into stone. He pulled his hand back as if my suitcase were contaminated. “Tonight belongs to Mallory and me,” he said coldly. “What kind of scene are you trying to make?” I stared at him, refusing to offer an explanation. Instead, I pulled up my single-room confirmation on my phone and held it out to the receptionist. “I had no idea you were staying here,” I said, my voice smooth and detached. “If my presence makes you uncomfortable, I’ll just cancel.” The clerk processed the cancellation immediately. I grabbed my bag, turned on my heel, and headed for the exit. I passed right by Gideon without giving him a second glance. “Look at her, still playing the tragic martyr,” someone scoffed behind me. “Self-righteous as ever…” I walked out into the cool desert night. A moment later, the hotel manager came hurrying out of the lobby, holding a sheet of paper. Spotting the crowd near the entrance, he assumed Gideon’s group was with me and handed the document over with a professional bow. “Mr. Wells, pardon the intrusion, but the lady left before I could hand her the final refund receipt. Please make sure she gets this.” Gideon didn’t reach for it, but his eyes drifted down to the page. Tucked right beneath the hotel invoice was a fresh fax that the front desk had received on my behalf—a confirmation from my travel insurance provider. The header read in bold, black print: “Terminal Care Services: International Remains Repatriation Service — Cancellation Confirmed.” Gideon froze, his head snapping toward the dark driveway where I was walking. Mallory read the lines over his shoulder, her flawless smile instantly fracturing. “Gideon… what does that mean? ‘Remains repatriation’?” I had doubled back to grab a forgotten coat from the bellhop counter, and I caught the tail end of her panic. “It means nothing,” I said calmly, taking the papers straight out of Gideon’s paralyzed hands. “Just a cheesy marketing bundle the travel agency pushed on me.” Without waiting for a reply, I turned and vanished into the darkness. … The next morning, I plunged into the labyrinthine alleys of the old Medina in Marrakech. The lamp had given me a second chance at life, which meant it was time to purge the ghost of my old one. I stepped into an ancient jewelry shop hidden down a quiet alleyway, the air thick with burning frankincense and aged cedar. From a hidden pocket inside my coat, I pulled out a simple, worn silver cuff bracelet. Gideon had forged it himself. Back when his tech startup was bleeding money and we were living on instant noodles in a drafty apartment, he spent an entire month hand-carving and polishing this bracelet for my birthday. He had pressed his lips to my wrist that night, his eyes shining with fiery promise. “I’m sorry it’s not real jewelry, Clara. But I swear to you, the second I make my first million, I’m going to design the biggest, reddest ruby ring in the world for you. You’re going to be my bride.” Memory was a dust storm, blinding and sharp. I laid the tarnished cuff on the glass counter. “Excuse me. I’d like to sell this.” The silver-bearded Moroccan shopkeeper picked it up, examined it for a second, and shook his head gently. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. This has no commercial value. It’s just common, low-grade silver.” Before I could answer, the brass wind chimes above the shop door jingled. I turned instinctively. It was Gideon and Mallory. The moment they walked in, the old jeweler’s face lit up. He reached beneath the counter and brought out a plush velvet box. “Ah, Mr. Wells! Perfect timing. Your custom piece is ready.” He popped the latch. Resting on the black velvet was a breathtaking, pigeon-blood ruby ring, set in platinum and glowing beneath the shop lights like a drop of liquid fire. The cut, the intricate vintage band, the hidden heart engraved inside the setting—it was the exact design Gideon had sketched on a napkin five years ago. Mallory gasped, clapping her hands to her mouth. “Gideon! When did you order this? It’s… it’s absolute perfection!” She picked it up, admiring the way the ruby caught the light, before throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank you, baby. I love it so much.” Gideon wrapped his arms around her waist, his voice soft and tender. “You stood by me through the mud, Mal. You deserve the absolute best.” The words weren’t loud, but they struck me like a physical blow. The promise he had made to me in a cold, leaky apartment was now sitting on another woman’s finger. Gideon looked up, his gaze suddenly locking onto me standing at the far end of the counter—and then down to the tarnished, worthless silver cuff resting in front of me. His face drained of color. “It’s… it’s just a standard classic design,” he stammered, his voice unnaturally tight. “I saw it in a catalog…” I looked at him, forcing a soft, faint smile onto my lips. Mallory noticed the silence, her eyes darting between Gideon and the silver bracelet on the glass. The air in the shop instantly curdled into suffocating awkwardness. “My mistake,” I told the jeweler quietly. I pulled the cuff off the glass. “Thank you anyway.” I turned and walked out into the crowded street. Navigating through the sea of tourists and merchants, I walked until I found the administrative office for the central bazaar. Outside the door sat a clear plastic Lost & Found box filled with unclaimed trinkets. I opened the lid and gently slid the silver cuff inside. “Hi,” I told the clerk behind the window. “I found this near the alley. If no one claims it after a week, feel free to toss it.” As I stepped back onto the cobblestones, I felt an physical weight lift off my shoulders. A breath I had been holding for three years finally left my chest. Suddenly, a grip clamped around my wrist from behind, spinning me around. Gideon stood there, glaring down at me, his chest heaving. “Clara! Do you really have to be this dramatic?!” I looked down at his grip and tried to pull away, but his fingers were like steel bands. “Gideon, you’re hurting me.” “Hurting you?” He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You ghosted me three years ago without a word of explanation! You made a fool out of me! Did you ever once stop to think about how much you hurt “me”?!” I stopped struggling and looked straight into his eyes. “You gave the ring you designed for me to someone else,” I said softly, every word measured and calm. “It’s hardly appropriate for me to keep the bracelet anymore.” Gideon froze. His grip went slack, his hand slipping off my wrist. At the entrance of the alley, Mallory stood frozen under the afternoon sun, staring at the two of us. The ruby ring on her hand blazed blindingly in the sunlight. “So…” Mallory’s voice trembled across the distance. “This ring… was meant for her all along?” I didn’t answer her. I smoothed down my sleeve, turned my back on both of them, and walked away. … The desert sky flipped without warning, a wall of dust swallowing the afternoon sun. Within an hour, a sudden sandstorm trapped dozens of travelers—including Gideon, Mallory, and me—inside a stone roadside diner off the main highway. I sat alone in a quiet corner booth, separated from their group by several tables. Shortly after placing my order, I heard a low groan. Mallory was hunched over, clutching her stomach against Gideon’s shoulder. “Gideon… my stomach is killing me.” Gideon immediately pulled her close, raising his hand to shout across the room. “Excuse me! We need some hot water over here! Now, please!” Mallory leaned into his chest, her voice small and pouting. “It’s your fault. You insisted on taking me to that seafood place yesterday. You know how sensitive my stomach is, but you keep spoiling me.” “My fault, totally my fault,” Gideon murmured softly. He unzipped his leather bag and pulled out a travel pill organizer with practiced ease. “Here, take these first.” I watched them quietly from my booth. A dull ghost-pain vibrated in my abdomen—not physical anymore, but emotional. I remembered the night I was diagnosed with terminal late-stage stomach cancer three years ago. I had sat alone on the floor of my tiny rented room, shivering violently as cold sweat soaked through my shirt from the agony. I had gripped my phone, Gideon’s contact pulled up on the glowing screen. That exact night, his company’s funding had fallen through. Creditors were beating down his door, threatening to destroy him. He was drowning. I had told myself over and over: “You can’t burden him. You can’t make him watch you die while his life is falling apart.” I never made that call. I reached into my pocket and pulled out an old, faded prescription bottle. It was the heavy-duty narcotic painkiller I used to rely on just to get through the night. I didn’t need it anymore. I tossed the bottle into the small trash bin beside my booth. As Gideon stood up to get Mallory’s water, his eyes happened to land on the trash bin—and the red warnings printed on the prescription label. His expression shifted instantly. It was a high-grade oncology drug, available only through hospital dispensaries. He frowned, stepping toward my table as if to demand an explanation. “Gideon…” Mallory whimpered behind him, grabbing his hem. “It still hurts so bad…” Gideon’s step halted instantly. He paused, torn for a single second, before turning back to wrap Mallory in his arms. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. The medicine takes a few minutes to kick in. Just hang on.” Mallory rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes drifting over his collar to lock onto me. She looked at the bottle in the trash, her gaze flickering with a dark, complex mix of realization and dread. “Clara,” Mallory called out softly, her voice barely carrying over the howling wind outside. “Have you… have you been sick these past three years?” I took a quiet sip of my water and offered a small, easy smile. “I used to be,” I said softly. “I’m better now.” Outside, the raging wind gradually died down. Rays of late-afternoon sun broke through the dispersing dust clouds, painting the dunes in warm, golden light. I threw some cash on the table, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and walked out of the diner. I flagged down a passing taxi and instructed the driver to head straight to the airport. I was done with this trip. I just wanted to go home. I was moving so fast I didn’t notice that the side mesh pocket of my canvas bag had torn open. An old, deactivated phone and a worn leather document folder slipped out, tumbling quietly onto the roadside gravel. Back at the diner, Gideon stepped outside, his eyes scanning the empty road where my cab had just sped away. His boot kicked against something hard. He looked down and picked up the fallen folder. He opened it, and his entire body went rigid. “Patient: Clara Price.” “Diagnosis: Late-Stage Gastric Carcinoma (Terminal).” Mallory walked out behind him, leaning over to glance at the paper. She instantly clapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. “So… that fax at the hotel… the body transport service…” Mallory whispered, her voice shaking violently. “It wasn’t a joke?” Gideon didn’t utter a single word. Gripping the diagnosis sheet and the dead phone, he sprinted down the road, screaming my name into the empty desert wind. But I was already gone. … That night, Gideon didn’t return to the luxury suite he shared with Mallory. He rented a separate, solitary room on the lower level, plugged my old phone into a charger, and sat in total darkness wait for the screen to light up. When the display finally flickered on, the lock screen wallpaper made his breath hitch. It was a candid selfie of the two of us from three years ago, laughing in the rain. With trembling hands, he unlocked the device and opened the photo gallery. There was only one saved image in the entire album: a high-resolution scan of my terminal cancer diagnosis. The timestamp on the photo was dated precisely one day before I had broken his heart and ended our relationship. He exited the gallery and opened the notes app. At the very top was an unsent draft: “Gideon, I’m leaving. I sold my parents’ old house in the suburbs—the money has been routed directly into your startup’s escrow account through an anonymous trust. That house was the last thing my parents left me, but now it’s yours. Consider it my way of paying you back for the beautiful years you gave me. Don’t look for me. Forget me, and please, build a wonderful life.” It was the original breakup letter I had written before I lost my nerve and replaced it with a cruel, terrible lie. Gideon’s chest heaved as panic choked the air from his lungs. He frantically tapped into the phone’s archived call logs. On the night of his company’s total collapse, at 3:14 AM… My phone had attempted to dial his number three times in a row. Every call had been canceled after two rings—hung up by my own terrified hand. He remembered that night vividly. He had been surrounded by aggressive loan sharks at a bar, overwhelmed and drowning his sorrows. He had turned his phone off and thrown it into his trunk. He had spent that night thinking “he” was the most miserable man in the world. He had no idea that on the other side of the city, I was sitting alone in a sterile hospital hallway, crushed under a death sentence. And the next morning, when he finally turned his phone back on, the first thing he’d received was my icy text message: “Gideon, I’m done. I’m tired of being broke and waiting for your grand dreams to pan out. I met someone else—he has real money. Don’t call me again; it’s pathetic.” “NO! GOD, NO!” Gideon slammed his fist into the concrete wall with monstrous force. The impact cracked the plaster, blood bursting from his knuckles, but he didn’t even flinch. He threw the door open, sprinting frantically down the hallway, desperate to reach the airport, to track down every flight, to tell me he was sorry, that he was an idiot, that he was wrong— “Gideon, stop!” A figure blocked his path at the corner of the corridor. Mallory stood there, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. She reached out, grabbing his bleeding hand with all her strength. “I know where you’re going,” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “I know you want to run after her and tell her you still love her.” She stepped closer, clutching his suit jacket. “But what about us, Gideon?! What about the last three years?! I worked twenty-hour days alongside you! I drank with your investors until I vomited blood! I built this company with you from nothing! Are you telling me none of that mattered?!” Gideon stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t stop because he didn’t love me. He stopped because he was paralyzed by the overwhelming weight of reality. He couldn’t simply erase three years of Mallory’s devotion, sacrifice, and presence from his life without feeling like a monster. He looked down at Mallory’s tear-stained face, an agonizing war raging behind his eyes. “Mallory…” he rasped out, his voice hollow. “Just… give me some time.” Standing at the far end of the quiet hallway, I stood partially hidden behind a decorative pillar. I had realized my old phone was missing and had taken a cab back to the hotel to retrieve it. I had heard every word. I saw the hesitation paralyzed in Gideon’s posture. I quietly stepped back. It didn’t matter anymore. He knew the truth, but truth couldn’t rewrite time. These old relics were useless to me now. I slipped down the service stairs without making a sound. Walking down an empty, sunlit street away from the hotel, I pulled the antique brass lamp from my bag and lightly rubbed the cool metal with my thumb. The purple smoke swirled into the desert air once more, the giant shadow bowing before me. “Master… state your second wish.” I looked down the long, endless road stretching into the horizon, and whispered softly. “I want money. I want enough wealth to live comfortably, independently, and freely for the rest of my life.” The moment the words left my mouth, my current phone vibrated in my palm. A major breaking financial news alert popped up on my screen: “Tech Giant Acquires Dormant AI Startup ‘Singularity Labs’ in Shock $2 Billion Deal. Early Angel Investors See Returns Exceeding 10,000%.” Singularity Labs was a tiny, failing project run by a college senior I had thrown a spare ten thousand dollars at five years ago just to help him pay rent. Now, I was a multimillionaire. I boarded my flight home, switched my phone to airplane mode, and leaned my head against the oval window, watching the golden dunes of North Africa shrink into tiny ripples below. Down in the terminal below, Gideon finally broke past security, only to be tackled and held back by airport guards as my plane lifted into the clouds. None of it mattered anymore.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556423”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When my family found out that my severe clinical depression was caused by years of emotional neglect, they were suddenly consumed by overwhelming guilt. My father ordered my older sister, Whitney, to pack up her stuff and hand over her spacious, sunlit bedroom to me. My mother grabbed the brand-new designer clothes she’d just bought for Whitney and forced them into my hands. Even my younger brother, Toby—who had spent years treating me with open coldness—baked a birthday cake from scratch with his own hands. He held it out to me with wide, expectant eyes, wishing me a speedy recovery. Never mind that they had gotten my birthday completely wrong. Wanting so desperately not to disappoint them or waste their sudden effort, I forced myself to smile. And in the very next second, Toby smashed the cake directly into my face. “I told you she was faking!” he sneered. “If she were actually depressed, how could she smile so easily?” Whitney burst through the doorway, her eyes rimmed red with theatrical tears: “Sadie, if you wanted attention, you could have just asked for it! Why fake an illness and drive Mom and Dad crazy with worry?” I caught the sudden shift in my parents’ faces—the guilt vanishing, replaced instantly by cold, familiar disgust. Panicked, I opened my mouth to explain. But sticky, cloying frosting filled my throat, choking back every word. I could only watch with wide, helpless eyes as they dragged my threadbare blanket out of the bright room and shoved it back into the cramped closet-bedroom under the stairs. As Mom snatched the new clothes off my lap and handed them right back to Whitney. Slowly, my vision blurred. Only my parents’ sharp, venomous words echoed clearly through the quiet apartment: “Faking depression at your age just to compete with your sister for attention—are you trying to put us in an early grave?” “If I knew you’d turn out to be this manipulative, I would have smothered you the day you were born!” So, I swallowed the bitter, cloying cake. And I made the very first real wish of my life. “May Mom and Dad finally be happy after I die.” … My parents’ sharp insults completely drowned out my whisper-thin wish. “Ungrateful little brat! Your father and I are sick with rage, and you have the nerve to sit there eating cake?” A heavy slap landed across my cheek. I opened my eyes sluggishly, meeting my mother’s gaze, which burned with pure resentment. “Did we starve you? Did we withhold clothes? You staged this whole illness just to scare us?” “If you’re going to fake being suicidal, why don’t you have the decency to pull it off and die?” A dull, sharp pain stabbed through my long-numb heart. I stared at my mother, remembering how just minutes ago, she had cupped my face with tender hands and whispered: “Sadie-girl, as long as you get better, I’ll give you anything you want. Even if you asked for my own life, I’d give it to you.” It had felt like a dream. Now, the dream was over. She was back to her true self, glaring down at me with utter revulsion. “What, caught red-handed so now you’re playing mute?” Dad rubbed his temples, letting out a long, irritated sigh. “Your mother and I took over a month off work to cater to your ‘illness.’ Do you have any idea how much money we lost?” “We have three kids to raise! Money is tight enough as it is. Can’t you just be sensible for once instead of pulling these dramatic stunts?” I had heard variations of those exact words countless times before my diagnosis. When buying new clothes, they said: “There are three of you, Sadie. Be sensible and wear Whitney’s hand-me-downs.” When assigning bedrooms: “Be sensible, give the bigger rooms to your sister and brother, and take the small box room.” When planning family trips: “Be sensible, we can’t afford everyone. Stay home.” Every single time back then, I used to cry and fight back. “Whitney is older, Toby is stronger—why am I the only one who always has to be “sensible”?” After the depression took hold, I lost the strength to fight. And ironically, once I stopped fighting, they stopped demanding I be sensible. Instead, they kept swearing: “Sadie, as long as you stay healthy and alive, even if you tear down the sky, Mom and Dad will hold it up for you.” Seeing me sit motionless on the floor, Mom swung her hand again, landing another hard slap on my face. “Say something! What are you so unsatisfied with?!” My ears buzzed from the impact. Oddly, though, my face didn’t hurt. Neither did my heart. It only solidified the quiet truth in my mind: “Mom and Dad will only be happy if I’m dead.” So I shook my head softly. “I’m sorry. I’ll be sensible from now on.” Even if “sensible” meant quietly dying. That single sentence consumed every last drop of air in my lungs. Seeing me slump amidst the ruined cake and smeared cream, Toby curled his lip in contempt. “Tch. Look at her, acting fragile again.” I looked up at his cruel, adolescent face. Unbidden, memories from the past month flooded my mind. Because of severe somatization, my body would give out without warning, leaving me tumbling to the hard floor. Whenever he saw my skin covered in purple bruises, Toby’s eyes used to turn red with tears. He had become my shadow, trailing behind me everywhere. He would reach out to catch my hand right before I hit the ground. And if he couldn’t catch me, he’d throw himself underneath me to act as a human cushion. And now? Here I sat on top of the ruined cake he had baked, slathered in whipped cream, looking pathetically broken. He didn’t reach out to lift me up. Instead, he hurled a heavy, leather-bound notebook straight at my face. The sharp corner sliced across my cheekbone, drawing a thin line of red. He didn’t even flinch. He just sneered, “If Whitney hadn’t found your secret diary and showed it to us, we’d still be fooled by your little act!” With trembling hands, I picked up the journal and opened it. The handwriting was intimately familiar, but the words written inside were terrifyingly foreign. [June 1, 2026: Mom, Dad, and Toby went to that concert with Whitney and left me behind again. I hate her. Why can’t Whitney just die? What do I have to do to make them love me instead?] [June 7, 2026: Symptoms of severe depressive somatization: loss of speech, vacant eyes, rapid hair loss, total exhaustion, loss of taste… God, please help me act convincing enough!] [June 11, 2026: The whole family took me to the doctor today. When the doctor said I had clinical depression, Mom and Dad cried. Toby even bought me cotton candy—it tasted so sweet. I really am a genius!] I flipped through the pages, a cold wave of panic rising in my chest. The physical symptoms described on the page were exactly what I had suffered through. But I had “never” written this diary. My hands shook violently, and the journal slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. Desperate, I blurted out, “Mom, this wasn’t me—” “Sadie!” Whitney stepped forward, grabbing my wrist and cutting me off, her voice laced with sorrowful restraint. “I know you’re jealous because Mom and Dad love me, and I know how badly you wanted their attention. But you shouldn’t have resorted to this!” “Lies will only push the people who love you further away.” As she spoke, a tiny flash of triumphant malice glinted in her tear-stained eyes. In an instant, a memory slammed into me. Years ago, when I was first brought back from my grandparents’ house, I wanted so desperately to make Whitney like me. I used to offer to do her homework by copying her handwriting. Over time, my handwriting became a mirror image of hers. I turned my head and stared directly at Whitney. Before I could demand an explanation, she gasped, tears spilling over her lashes. “Sadie, why are you glaring at me like that? Don’t tell me you’re going to accuse “me” of writing that diary?” She looked like the ultimate picture of injured innocence. “You envy me so much? Fine! I’ll give you all of Mom and Dad’s love! I’ll give you Toby’s love too! But we’re sisters—how could you think I’m so evil?” I stared into her eyes, seeing the hidden cruelty dancing beneath the tears. “Is she not evil?” The year I was brought back to this house, my parents saw how thin and frail I was after living with my grandparents in the countryside. I was so terrified of taking up space that I barely dared to reach for food at the dinner table. Back then, Mom and Dad had cried, holding me tight, promising they would make up for all those lost years. Even Toby, who was younger then, had placed the best drumstick into my bowl, promising he’d protect his big sister. But that warmth didn’t last. When Whitney returned home from boarding school and found me living in her house, she threw a massive, screaming tantrum. When screaming didn’t work, she turned to quiet poison. She started whispering to Mom and Dad that she saw me overwatering Mom’s precious indoor plants until they rotted, that she saw me ripping up Dad’s work documents, that she saw me smashing Toby’s limited-edition action figures. Every time I tried to explain that it wasn’t me, Whitney would tear up and say gently: “Forget it, Mom. Sadie is young, and if she made a mistake, it’s my fault for not guiding her. Let me take the blame.” Repetitive drops of water hollow out stone. Over time, Mom, Dad, and Toby began to believe her. They decided I was uncultured, sneaky, and raised improperly by my grandparents. They grew to resent me. Their standards for me became impossible, their coldness absolute. And like those indoor plants Whitney secretly killed, I slowly withered away inside, until I became the ghost standing here today. Seeing me frozen, Mom roared at me in rage. “Sadie, are you done yet?!” “Faking an illness wasn’t enough? Now you’re trying to frame your sister?!” Dad shook his head, looking at me with pure, gut-wrenching disappointment. “If I had known you’d grow up to be this calculating and wretched, your mother and I never would have brought you into this world.” Their cold, murderous disgust pooled around me like ice water. I wanted to speak. I wanted to defend myself. But my mouth felt glued shut. I couldn’t utter a single sound. I could only sit there, paralyzed, as they listed every grievance they held against my existence. Mom said I was born a curse—that the hospital bills and administrative fines from my birth had wiped out their savings. Dad said ever since I returned to this house, there hadn’t been a single day of peace. Toby blamed me for my fake depression, claiming that catering to me had ruined his focus and ruined his high school entrance exam scores. Finally, the three of them looked at me with shared, terrible hatred. “Sadie… you really are the most useless, extra thing in this family.” With those words, they turned away. No one looked at me again. Under Whitney’s gentle coaxing, they went about their business. I sat motionless on the floor until the cream on my skin dried into a sticky, suffocating film. When dinner was ready, Mom called out in a voice like stone: “Clean yourself up and get over here to eat. Or are you expecting me to wait on you hand and foot?” I snapped out of my daze, scrambling awkwardly. “I’ll clean up right now. You guys go ahead and eat… I’m not hungry…” Ever since the depression had taken hold, my appetite had completely evaporated. Before today, every mealtime would feature Mom cooking a table full of my favorite dishes, sitting beside me, softly spoon-feeding me bite by bite. Now, hearing me say I wasn’t hungry, Mom slammed her fork onto the table. “Sadie! Everyone in this house knows you’ve been faking! How long are you going to keep up this pathetic act?!” Seeing the sharp rage in her eyes, I didn’t dare utter another word. I practically crawled to the table, sat down, and began shoveling dry rice into my mouth with frantic, desperate bites. “Mom, don’t be mad. See? I’m eating. I’m eating…” The dry rice burned my dry throat like sand, and my stomach heaved violently in protest. Yet my compliance only infuriated Mom further. As if she couldn’t take it for another second, she snatched my bowl away and slammed it down. “If you don’t want to eat, then get out of my sight!” I stared at her blankly, my hand hovering in midair, torn over whether I should keep eating. Suddenly, Dad’s phone alarm chimed. I recognized the chime immediately—it was the daily reminder set for my evening medication. Instinctively, I walked over to the side table and reached for the pill bottle. Before my fingers could unscrew the cap, Dad struck my hand down with a loud, ringing smack. “Why are you taking medication if you’re not sick?!” “You leech! A single bottle of this stuff costs over two hundred dollars. I’m going to see if the pharmacy will take it back.” The bottle rolled across the floor, and Dad scooped it up, turning his back on me. I watched his silhouette, quietly praying that the pharmacy would accept the return. Maybe then, he’d be a little less angry. Dinner ended in miserable silence. When Dad sat down on the living room sofa to watch TV, my body moved on pure habit. Over the past month, on the doctor’s recommendation, Dad would sit beside me every night and watch warm, uplifting family movies with me. I walked over and sat down on the far cushion next to him. The moment I sat, the terrifying roar of a chainsaw shrieked from the speakers. Dad was watching a violent horror movie. Seeing me shiver uncontrollably, my face draining of all color, Dad scowled with immense irritation. “If you don’t want to watch, get the hell out.” I swallowed hard, pulled myself up, and dragged my feet back toward my tiny box room under the stairs. No food. No medicine. My stomach wasn’t hungry, but my brain was alive with a terrifying, chaotic nightmare of memories. Flash: I was six years old. Mom and Dad had dropped me off at my grandparents’ house in the countryside so they could prepare for Toby’s birth. I remembered sprinting down the dirt road behind their receding car, screaming until my lungs bled. Flash: I was twelve, on a freezing winter night. Whitney accused me of stealing money from Mom’s purse. Mom threw me out into the snow, shutting out my frantic, weeping explanations. Flash: I was eighteen, during Christmas break. We were driving for a family vacation, and because I misspoke during an argument, Dad pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway and left me behind in the cold. During the dark days of my depression, whenever these memories surfaced, I would break down, screaming in terror. And every time, Mom and Dad would hold me close, whispering gently: “Sadie, don’t think about it. That’s all in the past. We’re going to treat you right from now on. We promise.” But tonight… when I couldn’t stop the quiet sob from escaping my throat, the only response was Dad viciously kicking my bedroom door from the hallway. “Sadie! Shut the hell up! Crying, crying, crying—you’re wailing like someone died! You’re sucking all the peace out of this home!” Through the thin door, I heard Mom’s cold, dismissive voice: “Ignore her. Let’s all go out for a walk. She’ll stop her little show once she realizes no one’s listening.” Footsteps receded. The heavy front door clicked shut. Silence descended on the house. Yet inside my head, the noise grew deafeningly loud. “Sadie, why don’t you just die?” “Sadie, you’re extra. You were never meant to be here.” “Sadie, you liar. A fake. Mom and Dad will never love you… unless you prove you were really broken.” My exhausted, shattered body suddenly found a surge of terrifying strength. In a daze, I crawled toward the small window in my room. Looking through the dusty glass, I saw them. Mom and Dad were holding Whitney and Toby’s hands, all four of them walking side by side under the streetlights, laughing and talking as they walked into the distance. “Look at that,” I thought softly. “Without me, they really are happy.” I didn’t hesitate anymore. I pushed the window open, spread my arms into the cool night air, and stepped out into the dark. The moment my body slammed against the concrete below, I caught a brief, fleeting glimpse of my father turning his head back in the distance, his eyes wide with sudden, unimaginable horror.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556439”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Every Wednesday, my fiancé took our dog to see his ex-girlfriend. He swore it was part of their sacred post-breakup pact—a non-negotiable clause from when they called it quits. On the day Chase and I were scheduled to take our wedding photos, I waited at the studio until the sun sank below the horizon. He never showed. Instead, I got a brief, distracted phone call. “Piper’s busy on Wednesday,” Chase said over the rushing sound of traffic. “She can’t see Peanut then, so it had to be today.” I stood alone in the dressing room, the heavy silk of my bridal gown suddenly feeling like an anchor. I had to apologize to the photographer, who also happened to be my best friend, Maeve, and tell her we were calling it off for the day. At first, Maeve laughed, thinking I was pulling her leg. “Alright, real funny. Tell Chase to get his ass in here.” When she saw the hollow look in my eyes, her smile evaporated. The air in the studio turned cold. “Wait… that three-rule agreement with his ex? You’re telling me that bullshit is actually “real”?” I forced a tight, bitter smile. “Well… they did adopt Peanut together.” Maeve crossed her arms, her jaw set so hard her cheekbones trembled. “To hell with understanding his ex! The only person Chase needs to understand right now is you!” Her words hit like a blunt needle, puncturing the fragile bubble of self-delusions I’d spent four years carefully building. When I got back to our apartment complex, I saw them right away. They were out on the courtyard lawn, playing fetch with Peanut. A couple walking past slowed down, smiling at them. “Look at those two,” I heard the woman murmur to her partner. “What a beautiful family.” I walked up to Chase, my shadow falling over his polished sneakers. I looked straight into his eyes. “Since you two look so happy,” I said, my voice eerily steady, “why don’t you just get back together?” … Hearing those words, Chase froze. A flicker of heavy exhaustion passed over his face. “Camille, come on,” he sighed, using that tone he reserved for unreasonable children. “Don’t throw a tantrum.” “Aren’t you the one who taught me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “A deal’s a deal. Once you make a promise, you keep it.” A sharp ache burst behind my ribs. I used to fall so hard for that trait of his. Even when he was dense, even when he overlooked me, he was a man of his word. If he promised me something, he delivered. I used to mistake that rigid reliability for devotion. I thought it meant he loved me. It wasn’t until this exact moment that the scales fell from my eyes. He didn’t keep promises because he loved me. He kept them because he was a man ruled by ironclad, inflexible principles. His code mattered to him; I was just someone standing within its grid lines. Beside us, Piper broke the silence. She let out a dramatic, annoyed puff of air, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. As if. Chase and I are ancient history,” she said, though her tone held that playful, possessive edge she always used with him. “He’s way too repressed and straight-laced. I could barely stand him when we were together.” Chase turned to her, his finger pointing at her nose in playful retaliation. “Who are you calling repressed? Who’s straight-laced?” He reached out and tickled her waist. The movement was fast, intimate, born of years of effortless muscle memory. Piper squealed, dodging his touch, and they dissolved into a fit of shared laughter. I stood there on the manicured grass, isolated, like an unwelcome extra who had accidentally walked onto the wrong movie set. Suddenly, Peanut—who had been darting wildly across the lawn—stumbled. His front paws buckled, and he collapsed onto the grass, his small body going completely limp. Piper’s face drained of color in an instant. Panic took over. She dropped to her knees, scooping the dog into her arms. “Peanut! Peanut, what’s wrong? Don’t scare me like this!” Chase’s effortless demeanor shattered. “Something’s wrong. He must have picked up something toxic from the grass. We need to get to the emergency vet. Now.” Piper didn’t hesitate. Holding the limp terrier mix to her chest, she bolted toward the parking lot. Fearing the dog was too heavy for her, Chase stepped in and grabbed Peanut, his movement frantic. As he swung around to take the lead, his elbow slammed heavily into my shoulder. The impact caught me completely off guard. I stumbled backward, losing my footing on the edge of the walkway, and crashed hard onto the concrete paving stones. The rough stone scraped a sheet of skin right off my palm. A sharp, searing pain shot up my arm, settling into a deep, dull throb within the bone. Chase didn’t notice until he reached the passenger side and opened the door. He turned back to check the rear seat and caught sight of me sitting on the ground, struggling to push myself up. A flash of guilt broke through his panic. He jogged back, bending down to grab my arm and pull me to my feet. “Camille, I’m so sorry—I was moving too fast, I didn’t see you. Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?” Before I could regain my balance, Piper’s panicked scream cut through the evening air from the car. “Chase! Where the hell are you?! If anything happens to Peanut, I swear to God I’ll make you pay!” Chase’s feet were already turning back toward the car before he even finished listening to her. “We need to get Peanut to the clinic,” he said, his eyes darting between me and the running vehicle. “Do you… want to come with us? After we sort Peanut out, I’ll take you to urgent care.” I looked down at my raw, bleeding palm. The dark red blood was beginning to bead along the tears in my skin. “Yeah,” I said quiet. “Sure.” At the emergency vet, the veterinarian came out after twenty agonizing minutes. His expression was grim. “He already had a sensitive stomach,” the vet explained. “It looks like he ingested a piece of dark chocolate thrown in the bushes. Toxicity is setting in fast. It’s critical.” The moment the words left the vet’s mouth, Piper snapped. She sank to the linoleum floor, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently as she sobbed. Chase looked down at her, his expression softening into an intense, protective tenderness. He stepped forward, dropped to his knees, and wrapped his arms completely around her. “Hey, stop crying,” he murmured, pulling her head into the crook of his neck. “Peanut’s tough. He’s going to make it through this.” I stared at the dirt and grass stains smudged across Piper’s sweater, feeling an icy sting in my chest. Chase was a severe germaphobe. If I came home from a long day at the office and tried to hug him before washing my hands, he would pull back with a frown. Yet here was Piper, covered in street grime and mud, and he didn’t even hesitate to wrap her in his arms. He was wearing his favorite white linen shirt—the one he was so careful with. Piper’s tear-stained face and dirty hands were wiping straight onto his chest, and he didn’t even flinch. It turned out his boundaries weren’t set in stone after all. They simply shifted depending on who he cared about. When I had been sick with a double stomach flu months ago, he hadn’t even offered to bring me a bowl of broth because I hadn’t changed out of my day clothes yet. My palm throbbing, I stared at the two of them on the floor. Strangely, the physical pain was fading, replaced by a vast, hollow emptiness. It felt as though someone had carved out a hollow space inside my chest and poured cold salt water straight into it. A quiet, inescapable realization settled over me: I was never going to warm Chase’s heart. No matter how long I stayed, no matter how much I gave, the core of him would always belong somewhere else. I didn’t want to watch them anymore. I didn’t want to be the invisible witness to their tragic, beautiful bond. I turned around, pushed open the glass doors of the clinic, and walked out into the cool night air. I pulled out my phone and dialed Maeve. “Cancel the wedding photos,” I said, my voice calm, almost light. “Don’t reschedule them. We’re done.” On the other end of the line, silence stretched for a long moment. “Camille… you two have built a whole life together,” Maeve said softly, her anger replaced by cautious concern. “You were going to get married in forty-eight hours. Are you sure you want to call it off like this?” I stood under the bright streetlights outside the vet clinic. The wind carried a bite, but I didn’t shiver. The scrape on my hand was already clotting into a dark ridge, but the bitter taste in my mouth wouldn’t go away. “When a relationship is rotten on the inside,” I said, watching my breath fog up the cool air, “pretending you don’t smell it doesn’t stop it from falling apart. I can’t keep holding onto a corpse just because I’m afraid of the pain of burying it.” Maeve caught the absolute finality in my tone. She stopped trying to reason with me. “Alright,” she whispered. “Whatever you decide, I’m in your corner. Always.” In the past, I had been terrified of letting go. I used to tell myself that if I just endured a little more, if I was just a little more patient, he would turn around and see me. But I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting in line for a man who had already given his best years away. I hung up, walked to the curb, and caught a ride home alone. It wasn’t until midnight that Peanut was declared out of the woods. And it was only then, as the adrenaline faded, that Chase realized I was gone. He called me twice, but when I didn’t answer, he didn’t keep ringing. He knew me too well. He knew that whenever we had a major fallout, I retreated to the small reading study in our apartment to process things alone. When he finally walked through the front door at 1:00 AM, he was holding a brown paper bag. The rich, savory scent of spicy citrus duck filled the entryway—it was from a little Thai bistro five blocks away. It was his go-to olive branch. Every time we fought, he would bring home a box of that duck, hand it to me with a faint smile, and tease me about how easy I was to buy off. “‘One good meal and you forgive me every time,’” he used to say. And God, it was true. I had been so easy to satisfy. I asked for so little. Yet even that little was too much for him to give. He walked slowly into the study, setting the warm takeout container on the desk in front of me. “Camille,” he began, his voice laced with exhaustion. “I’m sorry about today. I know I made you feel like an afterthought.” Before I could speak, his phone vibrated loudly against the wood. The screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime call. “Piper.” Chase’s hand hovered over the phone. He hesitated for two seconds, his eyes darting to me, before pressing the green button. A burst of self-pity washed over me. I had been so easily fooled. When he first told me about their “breakup agreement,” I had been furious. He had held my hands, looked me in the eye, and sworn up and down: “There’s nothing between us anymore. I deleted her off social media. We only text about Peanut.” I had believed him. I thought he was a man who understood boundaries. Now, watching her face pop up on his screen in high definition, I realized how blind I’d been. How many other lies had he neatly filed away under the excuse of “keeping things civil”? The moment the video connected, Piper glanced at Chase and immediately pulled a face. “Ugh, pass the phone to your girlfriend. I really don’t want to look at your mug right now. Today was entirely your fault anyway.” Chase gave a soft, defeated chuckle. Without asking if I wanted to speak to her, he handed the phone over to me. Piper’s face filled the screen. “Camille, hey! Look, I am so, so sorry. I honestly had no idea you guys were supposed to do your wedding shoot today. If I’d known, I never would’ve let him bring Peanut over.” I didn’t answer. My eyes weren’t on Piper’s face; they were fixed entirely on the room behind her. She was at her apartment. But her apartment looked identical to the interior design I had meticulously created for Chase and my future home. The cool grey feature wall in the living room. The woven jute mat underneath the low coffee table. The slender brass floor lamp tucked beside the sectional couch. Every single detail of that layout was burned into my mind. I had spent months tweaking those blueprints, measuring dimensions, picking out swatches—building a space where Chase and I were supposed to start our life. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced my voice to stay level. “Your place looks really nice.” In my peripheral vision, I saw Chase stiffen. Piper grinned on the screen, angling the camera to show off the rest of the space. “Right? I have to give credit to this stiff guy here,” she said, nodding toward Chase. “I had zero clue how to decorate when I moved in, so he just handed me this complete design package and told me to use it if I liked it. Turns out you and I don’t just have the same taste in men—we have the exact same taste in interior design!” Each word felt like a tiny blade dragging across my heart. When the call finally ended, Chase immediately stepped forward, reaching out to grasp my cold hands. “Camille, please don’t be mad,” he said quickly, searching my face. “I just thought… well, if someone else appreciated your hard work, it would make you happy. It was such a great design, it felt like a waste not to use it.” I slowly lifted my head and looked at him. My voice was as thin as paper. “Chase… do you have any idea what those blueprints were?” He blinked, taken aback, as if noticing the gravity of it for the very first time. That wasn’t just a collection of pretty renders. It was the blueprint of our home. It was our sanctuary. I gave a dry, lifeless smile and looked him dead in the eye. “Let me ask you something, Chase. If I took your custom wedding suit—or the ring you had made for our vows—and gave it to another man to use, would you be happy?” Chase’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood drained from his face, leaving him completely speechless. … That night, after showering, I lay on my side of the bed, my back turned to him. In the past, whenever we had a terrible argument, I would curl into a ball, buried under the covers, crying silently into my pillow until the fabric was soaked through. I would toss and turn all night, mourning the relationship, mourning the years I’d invested. Tonight, I didn’t shed a single tear. I had reached the point where the pain was so severe it turned into absolute numbness. The mattress dipped behind me. Chase shifted closer, his chest pressing lightly against my back. He reached out with tentative slowness, wrapping one long arm around my waist, pulling me against his warm frame. His touch was just as warm as it had been four years ago. But the man holding me was a stranger. “Camille,” he whispered into the dark, his voice thick with gravel. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.” He tightened his grip slightly. “I won’t go back there. I swear it. I’ll never bring Peanut to see her again. Okay? Please…” I let my eyelids drop. A heavy wave of fatigue washed over me. When a heart truly dies, even arguing feels like a waste of energy. Whether he changed or not didn’t matter anymore. A gift promised at twenty-two holds no value when it’s finally delivered to a twenty-six-year-old who has already walked away. … When I woke up the next morning, Chase was already awake. He was propped up on one elbow, watching me with an undeniable softness in his eyes. Seeing my eyes open, he smiled gently. “Morning, beautiful. Why don’t we go reshoot the wedding photos today? I cleared my whole schedule.” I looked at him, my expression blank. “No rush.” He mistook my detachment for lingering anger and quickly tried to smooth things over. “Fair enough, no rush. We can take our time after the wedding madness is over and do a really special shoot. Just the two of us.” I offered a faint, polite smile and said nothing. Tonight was supposed to be our joint single’s party—a big, combined bachelor and bachelorette celebration we had planned months ago. Friends from out of town had taken time off work and flown in for it. I couldn’t just cancel on them and ruin their trips. The lounge was loud, filled with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Everyone was reminiscing about college, talking about the old days, letting the alcohol flow freely. Late into the night, one of Chase’s old college buddies—decidedly drunk—slapped Chase hard on the shoulder. “Man, Chase!” the guy yelled over the music, slurring his words. “I swear to God, back in the day, I thought for sure you were gonna marry Piper!” The room fell into an uncomfortable lull, but the guy kept rambling. “Remember that time your current girlfriend had that awful stomach ulcer thing and fainted at her desk? You couldn’t stay to take care of her, but then a day later you flew all the way out to Aspen with Piper just to see the snow! Man, who would’ve guessed you guys wouldn’t make it to the finish line?” The entire VIP room went dead silent. The guy’s eyes suddenly widened as the alcohol seemed to clear from his brain. He gasped, waving his hands frantically in the air. “Whoa, wait! Shit, I’m wasted! Ignore me! I’m talking out of my ass—totally making things up!” Everyone hastily chimed in, tossing out loud jokes to bury the slip-up. I slowly turned my head to look at Chase sitting beside me. I knew his body language better than anyone. Whenever he was hiding something or feeling utterly guilty, his hand would instinctively go to his face. Right now, his fingers were stiffly pressing against the bridge of his nose, his eyes darting toward the floor, completely avoiding mine. I remembered that week clearly. I had collapsed at my desk from severe gastric spasms and a bleeding ulcer. My coworkers had rushed me to the ER, where the doctor admitted me for three days of observation. During those three days, I dragged myself down three flights of stairs with an IV pole just to buy a piece of dry toast from the hospital cafeteria. Chase had told me he was stuck on an emergency corporate retreat—a mandatory trip that meant his promotion. I had felt so guilty for bothering him while he worked hard for our future. It turned out our relationship hadn’t started rotting yesterday. It had been decaying from the inside out for years. I had just been too trusting to notice the smell. Chase cast a quick, nervous glance at me. I kept a pleasant, calm smile on my face and continued chatting with the girl sitting next to me. Seeing that I didn’t blow up, he visibly relaxed, assuming I hadn’t believed his friend’s drunk rambling. A few minutes later, I stood up and walked to the quiet hallway near the restrooms. I pulled out my phone and dialed my parents. “Mom, Dad,” I said quietly into the receiver. “Cancel the wedding tomorrow. Tell the caterers, and take down the banners at the house.” There was a long, heavy silence on the line. My parents didn’t ask what happened. They didn’t demand an explanation, nor did they scold me for ruining a event that had cost thousands of dollars. Finally, my father’s calm voice came through. “Honey, if you’ve made up your mind, that’s all that matters.” My mother took the phone. “We don’t care about a wedding, Camille. We only care about your happiness. Whatever you need, we’re behind you.” The last lingering weight holding my chest down collapsed into dust. I didn’t go back to the apartment with Chase that night. He didn’t find it suspicious—it was custom for the bride to sleep at her parents’ home the night before the wedding anyway. … The next morning was supposed to be the most important day of my life. Chase stood outside my parents’ front door wearing a crisp, bespoke tuxedo. He held a massive bouquet of long-stemmed red roses, surrounded by his groomsmen, a photography crew, and family members carrying traditional gift boxes. He was beaming, ready to claim the woman he had dated for four years. He knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Silence from inside. “Come on, Chase, put some elbow into it! The bridesmaids are playing hardball today!” one of the groomsmen teased, clapping him on the back. “Yeah, Camille’s not gonna make it easy for you after all these years!” Chase chuckled, his eyes glowing with genuine excitement. He really thought this was just a playful door-game. He knocked louder, calling out, “Camille! Open up, sweetie! Everyone’s waiting!” Still, no sound came from inside the apartment. The groomsmen started chanting. “Send in the envelopes! Pay the ransom!” Chase grinned, pulling a stack of red cash envelopes from his pocket and sliding them one by one through the crack under the front door. “Camille! I’m here! Open the door!” He knocked again and again, his voice rising, calling my name over the sound of the corridor echo. But no matter how hard he knocked, the heavy oak door remained shut. The commotion finally brought out the neighbors. The door across the hall swung open, and an elderly woman stepped out, her face twisted in annoyance. “Are you out of your mind?!” she snapped, glaring at Chase. “Banging on the door at seven in the morning! People are trying to sleep!” Chase’s grin faltered slightly, though he quickly put on his most polite smile. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I’m here for the bride. It’s my wedding day.” The woman stared at him, stunned for a second, before letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Bride? Son, you’ve got the wrong day or the wrong address. That entire family packed up their bags and headed to the airport for Maui first thing this morning!” A loud, metallic ring echoed in Chase’s ears. The bouquet of red roses slipped from his numb fingers, crashing onto the cold floor.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556424”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was the D-list drama queen of the Hollywood scene, backed by Darren Ashford, the undisputed entertainment titan of the West Coast. No one knew that I was also the orphan student he had secretly funded for ten years—all because my face was a striking seven-tenths copy of his untouchable first love, Valerie Croft. Valerie was the darling of the industry, the pristine starlet everyone adored. But last night, paparazzi snapped her outside a luxury hotel alongside pop megastar Landon Perry. To protect her image, Darren ordered me to leak my own upcoming music video teasers with Landon, taking the hit for her secret rendezvous. This time, I didn’t throw a fit. I picked up my phone, tapped the screen, and sent the files. He blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking his composure. “What’s this? Are you aiming for the cover of “Vogue” next month, or the lead role in the upcoming indie feature?” Just then, glowing, translucent commentary hovered right before my eyes: [Don’t feel bad, sweetie! You’re the actual female lead of this showbiz story! Valerie is just the toxic side character!] [Thirteen years of companionship—how could he not feel anything? Darren is just looking at Valerie through nostalgia filters. He stopped loving her ages ago.] [He loves you without realizing it! Just give him a little more time~] I looked at the floating text and smiled a tired, quiet smile. I didn’t want a movie role. And I wasn’t going to give him any more time. I was just waiting for my contract to expire. This game of love between him and Valerie? I was officially opting out. … “Darren? Did she post it?” Valerie’s voice came through the speaker, sweet, high-pitched, and laced with gentle grievance. “Please don’t misunderstand. It was just the cast wrap party, and we were leaving the hotel when the paparazzi caught us. Landon and I are nothing.” Darren held a lit cigarette between two slender fingers. The dark, intimidating gaze he’d aimed at me seconds ago melted into instant softness. “Yeah. She posted it. Don’t worry about it, go to sleep early.” “Next time there’s a dinner,” he added softly, “let me pick you up.” I stood near the floor lamp, feeling lightheaded. The last time he had spoken to me in that gentle tone was three years ago. Three years ago, Valerie was caught in a scandal involving a shady producer at a private club. It was Darren who found me—then a quiet second-year law student—and asked me to pose as an ambitious starlet desperate for a director’s attention, taking the fallout for her. That night, my name flooded every gossip blog in the country. I knew Darren bought those front-page headlines specifically to shield Valerie. From that day on, the public branded me a shameless, clout-chasing D-lister. The very next day, he signed me to his agency, Astra Media, pushing me into the spotlight as Hollywood’s favorite villain. No one remembered Valerie’s scandal anymore. And no one knew I was the student he had funded from high school through my master’s degree. Even fewer knew that on the countless late nights when he returned home drunk and sleepless, I was the woman lying in his bed. I had once dreamed of becoming a trial lawyer. But because of him, I willingly stepped into the entertainment industry to serve as a hidden shadow. The turning point came two years ago after a near-fatal car crash. Darren was critically injured and urgently needed a rare blood type. Without a second thought, I gave a massive transfusion, collapsing right outside the trauma room. When I woke up, I had been rewritten in Valerie’s narrative as a greedy opportunist who demanded lead roles in exchange for saving his life. Valerie had wept to him, claiming she selflessly gave up her lead role just to convince me to save his life. Darren never checked the hospital logs. He believed every word. From that day forward, his warmth evaporated. He gave me orders, never tenderness. The floating text suddenly flickered rapidly: [Sweetie, don’t be sad! He just thinks you helped him for money and got his heart broken!] [Valerie is a complete fake! She flirts with multiple guys behind his back!] [Darren is just stubborn! Since he broke up with Valerie, you’re the only woman around him. He already has you in his heart!] [Yes! He even prepared a surprise gift for you at the end of the reality show!] My thoughts snapped back as Darren hung up the phone. He looked up at me cold-eyed. “So,” he said, flicking his ash. “What do you want this time?” “When my contract ends,” I said calmly, “give me my ten-million-dollar severance, and I won’t renew.” His brows drew together tight. “Found another agency?” “Is there any agency in the city bigger than Astra Media?” he sneered. “With your reputation as a toxic clout-chaser, who else would take you?” “You don’t need to worry about that, Mr. Ashford. Just prepare the money.” I draped my coat over my arm and turned toward the bedroom. “Are you staying tonight? If not, lock the door on your way out.” His face darkened completely. He let out a cold laugh. “Fine. Walk out of Astra’s doors, and don’t ever think about crawling back.” He snatched his tailored suit jacket and slammed the door behind him. I had secretly hoped for the fairy-tale endings those floating texts promised. But I couldn’t bear another round of heartbreak. I had been seeing those floating comments ever since that blood donation two years ago. At first, I foolishly trusted them. Back then, even though Darren believed Valerie’s lies, he still had his private doctor deliver three doses of rare blood-replenishing medication to my room. Yet he never stepped foot into my hospital room himself. The comments had flashed across my vision back then: [Look, sweetie! He cares about you! His mother forced them to break up years ago, so he feels guilty toward Valerie, but you’re the one he loves! The original plot says he’ll pick you up from the hospital and confess once he finds out the truth!] I waited by the hospital door until night fell, but he never came. Later, when I went home, I saw the news. He was attending Valerie’s premiere party. The hashtag “#DarrenAndValerieReunited” topped the trends all night. I collapsed on the hardwood floor with a severe fever. It wasn’t until the cleaning lady arrived the next afternoon that anyone lifted me up. When the cleaning lady mentioned it to him, he only offered a dismissive laugh: “She got her movie role. Passing out for a bit isn’t going to kill her.” Over three years, things like this happened countless times. When Valerie threw diva tantrums on set, I took the blame and got torn apart online. When Valerie got caught secretly meeting male fans, I was the one who wore the “clout-chaser” label to draw the fire away. I survived again and again relying on the hints from those floating texts. And through every single choice he made in Valerie’s favor, my love for him was scraped away until nothing remained. …… The next morning, I followed the address sent by the production team to the location of the slow-paced reality show, “The Country Escape”. It was a show where Valerie and I were both regulars. During the filming of the first episode, Darren’s text messages to me had been endless. Valerie couldn’t cook, so he forced me to prepare a six-course meal two hours in advance, only for the editors to cut the footage to make Valerie look like a master chef. When Landon Perry’s luggage was accidentally knocked into a ravine by Valerie, Darren called me immediately, forcing me to take the blame publicly—even making me wear a low-cut top to apologize to Landon so the media could spin a “desperate starlet targeting pop star” story to clear Valerie’s name. But this time, the address sent to my phone led to a desolate, abandoned trail deep in the hills. By the time night fell, I still hadn’t found my way out. My palms were scratched and bleeding from sharp branches, and my ankle was badly sprained. I called Darren more than ten times. Every call went straight to voicemail. He was the executive guest star for this episode. The floating text later informed me: [His phone is on silent because he’s helping Valerie rehearse her lines.] When I finally managed to contact the producers, I realized no one on the crew had ever sent me that address. [Valerie used a burner phone to fake the text! She did it on purpose to sabotage you!] [Darren actually asked the director where you were just now! He is thinking about you~] I ignored the glowing messages and limped toward the actual filming compound. As I reached the rustic courtyard, I heard Valerie’s soft, airy voice chiming in: “Please don’t blame little Callie, everyone. She’s young and headstrong, it’s normal for her to throw a little temper. I’ll apologize on her behalf.” The host turned to Darren, the special guest. The entire internet was obsessing over their “reunited lovers” dynamic. “Mr. Ashford, Callie Lawson is an artist under your agency. What do you think about her missing the shoot without notice and playing the diva?” Darren held a glass of ice water. His eyes scanned the courtyard gate for the third time, his brow furrowed tightly. “She doesn’t know the rules. When we get back, I will discipline her according to company protocol.” The moment his words landed, I pushed the wooden gate open, dragging my injured leg behind me. Ignoring the cameras, I marched straight toward the lenses, holding up my phone to display the fake address message sent under the show’s name. Seeing me, Darren’s instinct was immediate—he stepped forward, subtly shielding Valerie behind his shoulder. “Callie,” he snapped in a low, stern voice. “We are filming right now. If you want to cause a scene, pick the right time and place.” I stared at his protective stance over her, and a laugh escaped my throat. I raised my phone, my voice flatter than it had ever been in my life. “Who said I was causing a scene? I came to apologize.” “I took a wrong turn on the way here and delayed the shoot. I’m sorry to keep everyone waiting.” He froze instantly. The arm he had raised to block Valerie remained suspended mid-air. He had probably never seen me like this. No screaming, no tears, no demands, no coaxing. Not even a single word of self-defense. I was obedient to a fault, distant, like someone who was never coming back. The moment the behind-the-scenes footage leaked, the media exploded. “#CallieLawsonDivaBehavior” “#DarrenProtectsHisMuse” “#CallieLawsonLeaveShowbiz” The trending topics were stacked back to back. I scrolled through my screen without a hint of emotion. Over three years, I had gone from crying myself to sleep over public hatred to feeling completely numb. Fifteen more days. Once the contract expired, I would walk away for good. My phone vibrated. It was a text from Darren. Four words: “Backyard. Now. Come out.” The text overlays flashed instantly: [Darren is heartbroken seeing you like this! He asked the crew to pause filming just to see you in private!] [Valerie asked him to go stargazing in the mountains, but he refused! He stayed behind just for you!] [Sweetie, explain it to him! He will definitely believe you!] I dragged my sprained ankle to the back patio, the hem of my pants stained with mud. Darren leaned against a wooden pillar. His eyes swept over my blood-caked palm and my heavily swollen ankle. His brows slammed together, and he took a half-step toward me before forcing himself to halt. “How did you end up like this?” His tone carried a strange, agitated edge. “Are you completely directionless? You can’t even read a map address?” “I was running through the script with Valerie earlier and had my phone on silent, so I missed your calls…” He paused, his jaw tightening. “Next time, I’ll set a special ringtone for you.” “Valerie sent me that address impersonating the crew,” I interrupted flatly. His expression turned icy in a split second. “Impossible. Valerie wouldn’t do something like that.” “Callie, while I still have patience, don’t push your luck.” I let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Of course.” The hope that the floating comments had tried to plant in me shattered completely, once again. “Is that why Mr. Ashford called me out here?” I asked. “If you have instructions, just give them.” A flicker of anger flashed in his eyes. “You delayed the shooting schedule by being late. Valerie doesn’t know how to cook, and the whole crew is waiting for dinner.” “Go to the kitchen and make the meals.” I held up my hand, showing him the scraped flesh and blood dried over my skin. “My hand is torn up, and my ankle is sprained. You still want me to cook?” His throat moved as he swallowed, a moment of hesitation clearly crossing his face. “Fine. I’ll order catering and say Astra Media is treating the crew.” Just then, Valerie ran over, her eyes glistening with tears. She wrapped her arms around his elbow, her voice trembling gently. “Darren… if you order catering, won’t everyone find out I can’t cook?” “I have several cookware brand endorsements in negotiations right now. My ‘domestic goddess’ image can’t break…” She turned to me, looking utterly fragile. “Callie, if you have any conditions, just name them. I’ll give you whatever I can.” I smiled faintly. “Ten million dollars.” Darren stared at me, his voice devoid of warmth. “Are you insane? Ten million dollars for a single meal? Callie, your greed is getting disgusting.” “Then cook it yourself,” I said softly. He held my gaze, his voice chillingly cold. “Fine. I’ll wire it to you.” “Thank you, Mr. Ashford. Wire it now, please.” “Callie,” he sneered, leaning in close, “you should be grateful that you have that face. It’s the only reason you’re qualified to negotiate with me.” The words hit like fine needles thrust deep into my chest. I clenched my fists, forcing back the burning tears, and turned toward the kitchen. Inside, the exhaust fan hummed loudly. As I chopped the vegetables, my mind drifted. Thirteen years ago, my father died in a tragic construction accident. My mother and I had stood outside Ashford Properties holding a banner, begging for an explanation. Darren was twenty-six then, having just taken over the family empire. He had crouched down and lifted my chin to look at me. With that single glance, I became his charity case. He funded my education from high school through my master’s degree. I should have understood long ago that every ounce of kindness he ever showed me was solely because of this face. How else could a girl raised in the mud like me have stayed by his side for thirteen years? Distracted by my thoughts, a burst of boiling oil splattered out of the pan, searing the back of my hand. I gasped from the sharp pain. Suddenly, a firm hand caught my wrist, pulling me back into a chest that smelled of cool pine. “Why are you being so careless?” It was Landon Perry. I immediately took a step back, pulling myself out of his arms. Landon was the top-tier pop star and a fellow regular on this show. When I first arrived at the compound, the crew had sent him to town for groceries, and he had just returned. He took the spatula from my hand. “Let me handle it.” I blinked. “You? The pop prince knows how to cook?” “I studied abroad when I was younger,” he said, rolling up his sleeves with smooth, practiced movements. “You learn to do everything yourself.” “No need,” I said. “I’m getting paid ten million for this. I can’t let you do my job.” He chuckled softly, and without taking no for an answer, he gently nudged me down onto a small wooden stool nearby. “Your hand and foot are wrecked. If you keep pushing it, tomorrow’s headline will be “Callie Lawson Plays Diva and Delays Production On Purpose”.” I stared at his profile, a trace of suspicion in my eyes. “You’re not sent by Valerie to set me up, are you?” After all, the paparazzi scandal outside the hotel was just two days ago. He only gave a light laugh without answering, his movements over the stove fluid and effortless. When the food was ready, Valerie walked into the kitchen and saw Landon at the stove. Her expression darkened instantly. “Landon! Why are you helping her cook?” she whined softly. “Did you forget how she knocked your luggage into the ravine last time and purposefully wore a low-cut shirt to get close to you?” “Your fans hate scheming, greedy women like her the most.” Landon turned off the burner and plated the dish without looking up. “Who actually knocked my luggage down the slope last time—are you sure you want to talk about that?” “I only kept quiet because my manager pushed me to,” he raised his eyes, looking at her with cold indifference. “Besides, I’m terminating my contract with the agency soon to start my own studio. I don’t have much to hide anymore.” I stood to the side, completely stunned. Valerie flushed with anger, grabbed the dishes, and walked out. Landon walked over to his room, retrieved a first-aid kit, and pulled my injured wrist toward him to apply medicine. The moment his fingertips touched my wound, another grip slammed down onto my wrist, pulling me back with fierce force. Darren stood at the kitchen doorway, his face darker than a storm cloud. “Landon. She’s an artist under Astra Media. It’s not your place to play the gentleman here.” Landon didn’t let go. He met Darren’s gaze with a smirk. “Mr. Ashford certainly cares for his employees. Her hand is burned, her ankle is swollen, and you’re forcing her to cook for your sweet muse?” Landon turned his gaze to me. “Callie, your contract is expiring soon, right? Why don’t you come to my studio? You can pick whatever projects you want.” “She will renew,” Darren said, his grip on my wrist tightening until it bruised. “I haven’t said I’m letting her go.” He pulled me out toward the quiet corner of the backyard, stopping only when we were completely alone. “Is Landon Perry the new backer you found?” His voice was laced with suppressed fury. “Did he offer you more than I did?” My wrist throbbed with pain. I tried to pull away twice but couldn’t. Exhaustion and absurdity washed over me. “Mr. Ashford, can you stop assuming the worst of everyone? I’m tired.” “I don’t want to spend my life as Valerie’s stand-in, and I certainly don’t want to be your secret mistress.” “I will not renew this contract.” The floating text exploded before my eyes: [Darren is panicking! Look at his eyes!] [Sweetie, wait a little longer! He specifically negotiated the lead role in that major legal drama film you always wanted to star in!] [He’s just bad with words! He doesn’t know how to express his feelings!] Darren’s throat rolled. His voice softened, carrying a rare note of coaxing. “Callie, I was going to tell you after the show finished.” “I know you’ve always wanted to play a lawyer. I secured the female lead in a top-tier legal film for you.” “Even with that, you still refuse to renew?” My heart gave a sudden, sharp thud. Becoming a great attorney had indeed been my dream for years—a dream I had completely abandoned for his sake. Seeing my silence, he took half a step closer. “Give me your answer tomorrow.” “In all these years, you are the only woman who has been by my side. Do you really still not understand my heart?” Understand what? Understand that I was a shadow meant to take the blame whenever called upon? I didn’t answer, but my mind was in turmoil all night. Early the next morning, as soon as I finished washing up, I refreshed my feed and saw Valerie’s latest post on social media. It was a photo of a script cover, captioned: “Lawyer Queen, coming soon~” I took my phone and went to find Darren, wanting a straight answer. He looked subtly uncomfortable. “Valerie thought the movie was a birthday gift from me and posted it prematurely.” His explanation felt rushed. “I prepared a different lead role for her, but she got confused. Callie… let Valerie have this lead role first.” The text overlays were screaming with rage: [Sweetie! Valerie overheard you guys and posted it first on purpose! She’s so toxic!] [Don’t be angry, sweetie! We don’t need this one movie!] [Just wait for the next one, Darren has tons of resources!] I looked at him, and suddenly, I laughed. The very last flicker of hesitation in my heart vanished, leaving behind total clarity. “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Ashford.” “I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving the industry.” His face changed instantly. “Callie Lawson, you still have half a month left on your contract with Astra. The penalty for breach of contract is fifty million…” “I’ll pay it,” I interrupted him cleanly. “With the ten million you wired me yesterday, I have enough saved to cover it.” I turned around, walked past him, and stepped right in front of the main camera crew set up in the courtyard. Looking directly into the lens, I spoke clearly: “I, Callie Lawson, am officially retiring from the entertainment industry today.” “As for this show—I’m done filming.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556440”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After the miscarriage, insomnia became my shadow. I watched the sunrise every morning with hollow, burning eyes while my body deteriorated from the inside out. When my husband took me to a psychiatrist, the doctor diagnosed me with severe depression following pregnancy loss. “What’s the treatment plan?” I asked softly. “Family support. He needs to be present, deeply involved—” Before the doctor could finish, Dean’s phone buzzed on the glass desk. The caller ID popped up with a photo of his young secretary, Ashley. Dean stood up like a Pavlovian response. “Admit her,” he commanded the doctor, his eyes already fixed on the door. “Use your best equipment, your top specialists. Whatever it takes to fix her mental state.” He turned to me, offering a rushed, practiced excuse. “If I hadn’t taken time off to bring you here, I wouldn’t have left Ashley to handle that meeting alone. She’s trapped out at the golf course in a torrential downpour. I have to go get her.” He grabbed his coat. “Stay here and get better. The second you’re cured, I’ll bring you home.” He vanished down the hallway before I could draw a breath. He seemed to have forgotten why I fell in the first place—because Ashley had spilled scalding broth right beneath my feet. And now, because of her, he was handing me over to a psychiatric ward. In that quiet, terrifying moment, I finally understood: the child I had nearly destroyed myself to conceive meant far less to him than bringing an umbrella to his secretary. … “Laura,” the doctor said after Dean left, his voice filled with gentle sympathy. “Honestly, you don’t need to be hospitalized. I’ll write you a prescription to help you sleep. Once your body recovers, we can discuss resuming IVF treatments.” “No need for the prescription,” I said, staring at the sterile floor. “And I won’t be doing IVF anymore.” The doctor blinked, taken aback. “Giving up? But… you and Mr. Mitchell won’t be able to have children naturally.” “Then we won’t.” I didn’t tell him the rest. I had options if I truly wanted a child. Because the infertile one wasn’t me—it was Dean, diagnosed with severe oligospermia. To protect his ego and secure his position as sole heir to Mitchell Corporation, I had guarded his secret with my life. I had even bribed a fertility specialist during his routine executive checkup to harvest his sample. After enduring over two hundred agonizing hormone injections, we finally yielded a single, viable embryo. A miracle, the doctor had called it. And the day after my positive test, that miracle was erased by Ashley. The doctor had warned me that cultivating a second embryo was mathematically near-impossible. That baby was almost certainly our only chance. Which meant Dean wasn’t just losing a child. He was about to lose his kingdom. The irony was almost poetic. I had driven myself to the brink of a breakdown worrying about his legacy, while he slept peacefully every night—waking up only to worry about his secretary’s comfort. If he didn’t care about the ground crumbling beneath his feet, why should I burn myself alive to keep him warm? The suffocating knot in my chest suddenly snapped. A strange, cold clarity washed over me. I walked out of the clinic and called my attorney, asking him to draft divorce papers immediately. When I arrived home, my mother-in-law, Margaret, seized my wrists, her face pale with rage. “Your father-in-law is handing thirty percent of the company shares to that bastard son of his!” she hissed. “All because that boy’s wife is pregnant with twins! Give me a straight answer, Laura—when are you and Dean going to get pregnant again? If you don’t produce an heir right now, the Mitchell empire goes to that illegitimate mongrel!” The “bastard” she referred to was Ian Mitchell—Richard’s secret son. I offered a faint, bitter smile. “Mom… Dean and I can’t have children anymore.” Before I could mention the divorce, Margaret’s expression turned terrifyingly stern. “If you can’t carry a child, then someone else will!” I froze, staring at her in disbelief, then let out a soft laugh. “Whatever makes you happy.” Margaret’s fury instantly evaporated into a bright, chilling smile. “Laura, I always knew you were a sensible girl! Once Ashley gives birth, you’ll raise the baby as your own. Consider it a reward for your generosity.” It took me several seconds to absorb the words. “Ashley is pregnant.” My hands trembled as I pulled up my email inbox. Days after my miscarriage, Ian had sent me an email with the subject line: “Look at the man you married.” At the time, drowning in grief and suspicious of his motives, I hadn’t even opened the attachment. Now, my fingers shook as I clicked it. It was a year’s worth of Ashley’s corporate expense reports for luxury hotel stays. Over half the dates overlapped precisely with Dean’s business trips. While I was pumping my body full of hormones and weeping through sleepless nights, Dean was busy building an affair behind my back. But as the shock settled, a question emerged: Was the baby in Ashley’s womb actually Dean’s? The fertility specialists had made it clear—the odds of Dean conceiving naturally were zero. I let out a cold, involuntary laugh. Margaret misread my reaction, thinking I was masking my heartbreak. She squeezed my hand, offering a soothing, hypocritical tone. “I know it’s hard to swallow, sweetheart. But endure it for Dean’s sake. Once he secures the shares and locks in the chairman position, you can punish Ashley however you like. You know how much I despise mistresses, but desperate times call for desperate measures.” Mother and son were truly cut from the same cloth. Dean used to tell me that the one thing he hated most in this world was unfaithful men, swearing he would never become like his father. Yet here he was, following in Richard’s exact footsteps—using a mistress to manufacture an heir. And Margaret, who had suffered a lifetime of infidelity, was now asking me to silently suffer the exact same torture. She might be willing to swallow poison with a smile, but I was done. As soon as she left, I called my lawyer back. “Redraft the agreement. I want him left with absolutely nothing.” Dean walked through the front door an hour later with Ashley trailing right behind him. She was draped in his tailored suit jacket, her skin glowing—looking remarkably untouched by any rainstorm. Dean led her toward me, his face a calculated blend of guilt and affection. “Laura, Mom told me you were thrilled about the news and that your depression cleared up instantly. If I’d known you’d be this understanding, I wouldn’t have kept Ashley’s pregnancy from you!” There wasn’t a shred of genuine remorse in his eyes. The sight of him made stomach acid rise in my throat, and I choked back a dry heave. “Laura! If you’re feeling unwell, don’t force yourself—” I thrust the divorce papers directly into his chest. “Sign this, and I’ll be completely cured.” He glanced at the title page, his eyes widening in shock. “Divorce? Absolutely not—” Before he could finish, Ashley let out a soft, delicate sneeze. Dean’s brow furrowed instantly. His tone turned sharp, dripping with impatience. “Laura, Ashley was stuck in the rain because of you today and almost had a panic attack that threatened the baby. If you have an ounce of decency left, stop throwing tantrums at a critical time like this.” When I was lying on the floor bleeding through my white dress, he shielded Ashley, calling it an accident and telling me to be magnanimous. Now, a single sneeze from Ashley made me look like a monster. Love and hatred were laid bare in an instant. Yet a foolish, dying spark of curiosity forced me to look into his eyes and ask a humiliating question: “Dean… our baby died. Did you care? Even a little?” He hesitated for a second, then snapped, “I told you, that was an accident! Why do you keep clinging to the past? We’re getting a baby anyway! And you don’t even have to go through the pain of childbirth this time!” Ashley cradled her flat stomach, offering a meek, sugary smile. “Laura, the doctor said your body was just too weak, which is why a minor tumble caused the miscarriage. Once I give birth, I’ll hand the baby right over to you as my apology.” Dean didn’t object. Instead, he handed me an itinerary. “You and Ashley are flying to France tomorrow. We’ll tell the public you’re taking time off abroad to nurture a high-risk pregnancy. After you care for her through her term and postpartum recovery, we’ll register the birth under our names. My father won’t stand a chance with Ian’s twins.” He was ordering me to serve as his mistress’s personal nurse through her pregnancy and confinement. I stared at the man in front of me, utterly speechless at his audacity. “Are you certain,” I asked softly, “that Ashley’s child is yours?” “Of course it’s mine! It happened on the very first try—unlike with you,” Dean blurted out, dismissive and cruel. He didn’t bother explaining the affair, instead barking an order: “Go to the kitchen and make Ashley some warm ginger tea. She caught a chill today.” I didn’t move an inch. He glared at me for a full minute, realizing I had no intention of obeying, before turning and storming into the kitchen himself. I stared at his retreating back. Years ago, when he was head over heels in love with me, he had sworn that I was the only person he would ever cook for. Even his mother had never tasted a meal made by his hands. And now, Ashley had broken that rule with a fake sneeze. I pulled out my phone and quietly saved the video recording. Whether the baby was his or not, the footage I had just captured was more than enough to strip him of his assets in court. Ashley stepped closer, sliding her prenatal checkup slip onto the table before me. The date stamped on the document was three days “before” my miscarriage. In an instant, the truth slammed into me: the spilled soup hadn’t been an accident. It was a calculated attack. Before I could speak, Ashley leaned down, whispering in my ear. “You’re useless, Laura. You couldn’t even protect your own womb. If you had any dignity left, you’d sign those papers and step aside instead of clinging to a man who doesn’t want you.” She was waiting for me to snap, waiting for me to raise a hand so she could play the victim. I forced my knuckles white, staying completely still. I needed this unborn child intact—it was the ultimate key to making Dean a laughingstock. “I’m not playing your game,” I said quietly. “If you convince him to sign, you get what you want. Otherwise, I won’t hesitate to let him know you deliberately murdered my child.” Gazing at my phone’s recording icon, Ashley showed no panic—only smug arrogance. “You think you can walk away? This whole ‘divorce’ act might work on Dean, but it doesn’t fool me. And guess who he believes—you, or me?” Without warning, Ashley threw herself backward onto the hardwood floor, screaming dramatically, “Laura, please! I begged you not to post my private photos online! Why did you push me?!” Dean burst out of the kitchen at the sound of her shriek. Ashley scrambled onto her knees before me, weeping hysterically. “Laura, please, I’m begging you…” Dean shoved me aside, scooping Ashley into his arms and frantically inspecting her for injuries. Then he turned on me, his eyes burning with fury. “Laura Mitchell! Have you completely lost your mind?! Hand over your phone!” I watched the performance with a terrifying, numb silence. “Believe whatever you want.” Recognizing the strange stillness in my tone, Dean softened slightly. “What did you record?” As I pulled out my phone, Ashley broke free from his grip, sobbing violently. “Laura, do you hate my baby so much that you want to kill it?!” Dean lunged, snatching the phone from my hand and slamming it onto the tile floor with all his strength. The screen shattered into a web of black glass. “Laura!” Dean roared. “This baby is going to call you mother! How could you be so evil to your own child just because you didn’t give birth to it?!” Ashley, unsatisfied, suddenly bolted toward the front door. “If Laura hates this baby so much, I’ll go get an abortion right now!” She didn’t even make it across the foyer before slipping and falling hard near the threshold. Only then did I notice a subtle slick of oil smeared across the doorway floor. Ashley clutched her stomach, gasping. “Why… why is the floor so slippery?!” Dean spotted the sheen on the tiles, his head snapping toward me with venomous fury. “Laura! How could you be so twisted?! How many times do I have to tell you that Ashley dropped that soup because the bowl was hot?!” Ashley groaned loudly, curling into a ball. “My stomach… it hurts so bad…” Panicked, Dean lifted her in his arms and sprinted out the door. Before slamming it shut, he threw an icy look back at me. “You better pray Ashley and the baby are fine. Because if anything happens to them, I will make you pay.” I stood alone in the quiet hallway. Looking down at the shattered fragments of my phone, a sudden, wild laughter bubbled up from my chest. He was right about one thing: my baby was gone. And I wasn’t going to let either of them off the hook. I took the smashed phone to a specialized repair shop. Luckily, the internal memory was intact, and every frame of video was recovered. My lawyer, Mr. Scott, reviewed the footage and nodded grimly. “This is more than enough to secure a complete asset forfeiture against Dean. We can also file criminal charges against Ashley for assault and battery.” “Proceed with everything, Mr. Scott,” I said. My phone buzzed. It was a message from Ian Mitchell: “Are you really going to spend the rest of your life suffering under a fraud?” I frowned, typing back: “Aren’t you the one born out of wedlock?” Ian called me immediately. “Let me tell you the real story.” Years ago, Ian’s mother, Helena, was Richard Mitchell’s lawful first wife. She had poured her entire inheritance into funding Richard’s startup. But once he achieved massive success, Richard orchestrated a fraudulent divorce under the guise of buying tax-exempt real estate—only to turn around and marry Margaret, who was already pregnant with Dean. When Helena discovered the deception and tried to fight for her rights, Margaret publicly branded her a gold-digging mistress and ruined her reputation. The truth was the exact opposite of what Margaret had fed me for years. Sensing my silence, Ian sighed over the line. “You don’t have to trust me blindly, Laura. I just don’t want to see another innocent woman destroyed by that family.” I ran a background check through a private investigator. Every word Ian spoke was true. Before I could process it, Dean burst into my apartment and grabbed my wrist, forcibly dragging me toward his car. He shoved me into a hospital room. “Apologize to Ashley!” “I did nothing wrong,” I said coldly. Disgust flickered in his eyes. “You almost killed her child! Laura, look at what you’ve become! How am I supposed to stay married to you?!” When Ashley caused my miscarriage, he hadn’t offered a single word of reprimand, let alone demanded an apology. I looked up at him and smiled softly. “Then don’t stay married to me.” He stiffened, his face turning rigid. “Your parents’ manufacturing company relies entirely on Mitchell Corp as its primary client. If you divorce me, they go bankrupt overnight.” My parents’ factory was their life’s work. When Dean was courting me, he had personally awarded my father our largest supply contract. I had thought it was an act of love, a sign that he respected my family. Now I realized it was just a leash he kept wrapped around my neck. Seeing my silence, his tone softened. He stepped forward, reaching out to touch my hair. I flinched away. He pulled back his hand without anger, sighing like an indulgent adult. “As long as you cooperate, your parents’ factory will keep its contract forever. Ashley’s baby will be legally yours. You get to be a mother without enduring ten grueling months of pregnancy or labor pains. Tell me, Laura—haven’t I been good to you?” “Good to me.” I stared into the eyes that had once looked at me with unconditional warmth. Now, they held only cold calculation and arrogance. He was right about one thing: my parents’ livelihood depended on the Mitchell supply chain. But if the head of Mitchell Corp changed, his threat would instantly evaporate. Under the table, my fingers typed a message to Ian: “I can help you reclaim what’s yours. On one condition.” Ian replied instantly: “I’m abroad. Landing tomorrow—we’ll talk then.” I locked my phone, met Dean’s gaze, and spoke with absolute certainty: “We’re getting a divorce.” A flicker of confusion and deep-seated unease crossed Dean’s eyes. “Laura… I’ve never wanted to divorce you…” Suddenly, Ashley gasped from the bed, tears streaming down her pale face. “Laura, why won’t you just leave us alone?!” Dean glanced down at her phone, his face darkening as he dialed a number. “Send the team up.” A bad premonition spiked in my chest. I turned to leave, but Dean stepped in my way. “Selling Ashley’s private photos on the dark web is a felony,” he said smoothly. “Because you’re my wife, I’ll convince Ashley not to press criminal charges. But your mind is unstable, Laura. You need professional help.” Four burly men in scrubs marched into the room. “Mrs. Mitchell, please come with us quietly,” one said. I thrashed wildly, but Dean stood by with cold detachment. “You know you’re sick, Laura. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I spoke with the clinic director. Cooperate with the treatment, and you’ll be home soon.” The men pinned my arms behind my back. Dean reached into my bag and confiscated my phone. As they dragged me out, Ashley silently mouthed three words to me from the bed: “You lost.” At the private psychiatric facility, two nurses pinned me down and forced a bitter liquid down my throat. Within minutes, my limbs grew heavy and numb. They strapped my wrists and ankles to a metal chair. As the heavy electrical treatment began, sensory overload tore through my nerves, and the world faded to black.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556425”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My separation anxiety wasn’t just a quirky personality flaw—it was a crippling, suffocating panic that clawed at my chest the moment I was left alone. For five years, Lester and I had lived in different cities, separated by hundreds of miles. Every single night without fail, I needed to hear his voice on the phone just to fall asleep. No matter how exhausted he was, no matter how early his morning alarm was set, he always stayed on the line until my breathing turned slow and even. Until last night. I was walking home late after pulling an involuntary shift at the office. The streetlights along the alley were dead, leaving the narrow passage draped in pitch-black shadows. Terrified, I called him, hoping his voice would be my shield against the dark. Instead, I was met with icy, restless irritation. “Bonnie was right about you,” Lester snapped, his tone heavy with exhaustion and contempt. “You’re suffocatingly clingy, Cathy. I’m doing this for your own good—if I don’t force you to figure this out, you’re never going to learn how to be an adult.” I clutched the phone tighter, my knuckles white. “Lester, please, it’s pitch black out here—” “And Bonnie is a light sleeper,” he cut in coldly. “She needs her rest. From now on, let a sleep-tracker AI talk you down at night.” Bonnie was my childhood best friend—and his self-proclaimed “one of the guys.” She had recently fallen on hard times and moved into his apartment temporarily. What Lester didn’t know was that the very second he hung up on me, a thick, calloused palm slammed over my mouth from behind, dragging me backward into the dark. … “What did I tell you? I knew Cathy couldn’t handle a single night alone. She’ll pull whatever pathetic stunt she can think of to trick me into running back.” When Lester finally arrived at the precinct after the officers called him, his first words weren’t a desperate “Are you okay?” They were a sneer. Bonnie let out a theatrical sigh, reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. “Fine, fine. You really do know her inside out. Here’s your money.” I sat frozen on a cold metal chair in the station lobby, my hair matted, my clothes torn, my eyes staring blankly at the scuffed linoleum floor. To them, my terror was nothing more than the punchline to a casual bet. Lester walked over, his shadow looming over me, his face dark with annoyance. “You’re not a toddler anymore, Cathy. Claiming you were almost assaulted just to get the police to play along with your little drama? Don’t you think that’s a bit childish?” He gestured vaguely between himself and Bonnie. “Making us drive three hours in the middle of the night just to humor you? If you don’t want to sleep, does that mean no one else gets to?” Bonnie stepped in immediately, stepping into her favorite role as the gentle mediator. “Alright, Lester, take it easy on her. Cathy is just attached to you—what’s so wrong with that?” As she spoke, she casually reached for the black velvet scrunchie wrapped around Lester’s wrist, using it to gather my disheveled hair into a ponytail. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it had started, but over the past few months, Lester had formed a habit of carrying women’s essentials with him wherever he went. Hair ties, tampons, an extra cardigan in his backseat. But without exception, every single item was tailored specifically to Bonnie’s tastes. When we finally walked out of the precinct, muscle memory took over. I walked toward the passenger side of Lester’s car and pulled the handle. The door swung open, revealing an interior completely overhauled in soft pastel pink. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Bonnie slung an arm around Lester’s neck, flashing me a triumphant, dazzling smile. “We made a bet last weekend, he lost, and he actually re-did the whole interior just like I told him to.” I stared at the pink leather, a cold sensation spreading through my chest. I had asked him dozens of times over the years to change the depressing slate-gray interior of his car to pink. Every time, he had shot me down, calling it tacky and impractical. “Besides,” he used to say, “you barely sit in my car a few times a year. Stop trying to control everything.” He was a man who despised boundary-crossing and hated change. Yet now, he wore Bonnie’s backseat-driving like a second skin. Bonnie slid effortlessly into the front passenger seat. I stood on the pavement for a long, quiet second before opening the rear door and slipping into the back. Throughout the drive, the two of them filled the front seat with animated chatter—debating the tragic ending of a movie they had watched together, arguing over which high-end bistro had the best brunch. The speakers hummed with an indie-pop playlist that Bonnie had dropped into our group chat days ago. It wasn’t even the genre Lester usually listened to. Meanwhile, the foreign folk album I had recommended in that same chat weeks ago still sat there, unacknowledged, without a single reply. They had driven all this way under the pretense of picking me up, yet I had been relegated to invisible background noise. Neither of them noticed that in the dark of the backseat, my head was bowed over my phone, my thumb flying across the screen: “Mr. Becker, I’ve changed my mind. Is that overseas project in London still available?” When the car finally pulled up to the curb outside my apartment complex, the laughter in the front seat slowly tapered off. Lester glanced into the rearview mirror, his brow furrowing with impatience. “Well? Why aren’t you getting out?” My voice was flat, hollowed out. “You didn’t unlock the doors.” Lester blinked, caught off guard. Bonnie slapped her forehead, turning around to flash me an apologetic, playful pout. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry! We were so caught up talking, I completely forgot. Opening it now!” She pressed the unlock button on the dash with the casual authority of a woman operating her own vehicle. I didn’t move immediately. Bonnie glanced at Lester, making a dramatic show of unbuckling her seatbelt. “Cathy looks completely exhausted. Lester, you should go upstairs with her. I can just call a cab and stay at a hotel nearby.” “A young woman staying in a hotel alone at this hour? Are you insane?” Lester instantly reached out, grabbing her arm and pulling her back into her seat. He turned his head to glare at me in the back. “Cathy, you’ve dragged us through enough drama tonight. You can handle sleeping alone for one night. I’m going to go stay at the hotel with Bonnie to make sure she’s safe.” Bonnie couldn’t possibly stay in a hotel alone. But I had lived completely by myself for five years, and not once had he considered that unsafe. Before I could say a word, Lester was already unlocking his door, stepping out, and firmly escorting me out of the vehicle. I stood on the curb, watching the taillights of the car fade into the darkness, the bitter taste of betrayal coating my tongue. That car was supposed to be his dream gift to me. Years ago, when he was grinding through eighty-hour workweeks, he promised that once he bought it, he would drive me to work every single day so I’d never have to cram into a crowded subway again. Later, watching him burn out trying to save up, I emptied my own savings account to bridge the gap. Five thousand dollars wasn’t a fortune, but it was every cent I had painfully scraped together from working graveyard shifts. And now, another woman sat in the passenger seat I had paid for. It wasn’t until the following morning that Lester returned. He walked into my apartment carrying a bag of fresh pastries, stepping up behind me where I stood by the kitchen counter and wrapping his arms around my waist. “I was just worried about your friend last night, that’s why I stayed at the hotel with her,” he murmured gently, resting his chin on my shoulder. “I did it so you wouldn’t have to worry about her either. Don’t overthink it, babe. A tomboy like her isn’t even my type—she’s built like a teenage boy.” A flash of memory hit me like a physical blow—a story Bonnie had posted on Instagram at two in the morning. It was a photo of Lester asleep, his messy dark hair splayed across her arm. Her caption had read: “Some people have no shame. A giant king-sized bed and he STILL insists on crowding into my space!” My mind snapped back to the present. I stared at his reflection in the windowpane and asked quietly, “You say she’s built like a boy. Have you seen her?” The air in the kitchen instantly curdled into a suffocating silence. It grew so quiet I could hear the faint, uneven rhythm of his breathing. I reached down and peeled his hands off my waist. The moment his grip slipped, he exploded. “Catherine! I brought you breakfast, I’m trying to talk to you nicely, what more do you want from me?!” he yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You lied to drag us three hours out of our way, and now you’re interrogating me? You don’t have separation anxiety—you’re completely unhinged!” The word hit me like a slap to the face. My eyes widened, staring at him as if he were a complete stranger. My separation anxiety hadn’t come out of nowhere. It was born on the night my mentally unstable mother murdered my father right in front of my eight-year-old eyes. I had watched the life leave his body, and from that terrifying moment on, sleeping alone in the dark became a living nightmare. When Lester first learned my story, he had wrapped me in his arms and wept with me, whispering again and again: “I will never leave you. I will never abandon you…” I had built my entire life around his promises. I had cherished his love like a sacred truth. And in the end, all it bought me was his disgust. I stared at him, the words “We’re done” rising from the depths of my heart, gathering at the back of my throat. But before I could speak them, his phone chimed loudly with an incoming call. He snatched it out of his pocket and answered immediately. Within seconds, the dark storm on his face evaporated, replaced by an easy, relaxed smile. He hung up, paused at the door, and casually tossed an instruction over his shoulder: “Tomorrow, the three of us are flying down to Austin for a quick weekend trip. Make sure you book your flight. Bonnie’s extending an olive branch here, Cathy—just take it and drop the attitude.” Not a single apology. Not a shred of comfort. He was simply notifying me of my place in his schedule, as he always did. It was always the same routine: the two of them would chatter and plan, settle every detail, and then passively inform me of the final itinerary. I was nothing more than an inconvenient, budget-friendly pack mule brought along to carry their luggage. And in the end, they still found me too burdensome to deal with. So I didn’t buy a ticket to Austin. Instead, I booked a one-way international ticket to London. Lester didn’t realize I wasn’t on the plane until he landed in Texas. When his calls started coming through, I declined them one by one. He sent me a string of furious texts accusing me of being a “buzzkill,” but my absence didn’t do a single thing to dampen their vacation. Bonnie’s social media feed updated relentlessly. They took a cable car up the mountain to a famous shrine. Lester—a devout atheist who usually scoffed at spiritualism—paid a hundred and fifty dollars to buy her a personalized love-fortune charm. Lester—who hated being in front of a camera—gladly posed for four separate photo grids, smiling softly as Bonnie snapped picture after picture. Whenever I had begged him to take photos with me on our trips, he would click the shutter once with a scowl, complaining, “I don’t get why women need to document every useless second.” Then, Bonnie posted a link to an event hosted by a high-end mall in downtown Austin: a “Couples Endurance Hug Challenge,” where the pair that held on the longest won a giant, limited-edition designer plushie. The cover photo showed Lester and Bonnie holding the massive stuffed bear, beaming radiantly at the camera. I clicked the “like” button under the post. A split second later, Lester’s call flashed across my screen. I answered. “We only entered that stupid contest to win that doll for you, Cathy!” Lester snapped defensively before I could speak. “Twenty minutes of standing there holding her—you have no idea how agonizing that was for me.” Bonnie immediately grabbed the phone from him, her voice dripping with playful complaint. “Cathy, I swear he was squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe! If it weren’t for my favorite girl in the world, I would “never” have let a smelly guy hug me for that long!” “For me.” Always under the grand banner of doing things “for my sake”, they crossed every line of respect and fidelity. Lester had taken Bonnie into his home without my consent “so I wouldn’t worry about her.” Bonnie attached herself to his hip twenty-four hours a day “to help me keep an eye on my boyfriend.” And now, they had wrapped their bodies together in public for twenty minutes for a toy I had never even asked for. The suffocating pressure that had been building in my chest finally ruptured. “Lester,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let’s break up.” Silence deadened the line. Lester’s tone turned from defensive to utterly incredulous. “Are you seriously breaking up with me over a twenty-minute hug? What kind of joke is this, Cathy? We’re practically brothers!” In the background, Bonnie snatched the phone back, her voice suddenly fragile and innocent. “Cathy, please, we’re just good buddies! I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad at Lester…” “Why are you apologizing to her?!” Lester’s voice boomed through the receiver, sharp and vicious. “She’s constantly paranoid, looking for monsters under the bed! She’s inherited every last drop of her mother’s lunacy—stop walking on eggshells around her!” “Click.” The line went dead. In over eighteen hundred nights, he had never been the one to hang up first. I turned around, pulled my heavy suitcase off the top shelf of the closet, and began tossing my clothes inside. As I cleared off my desk, a folded piece of paper slipped out from beneath a stack of books. It was an official corporate transfer approval form from five years ago. It clearly stated that Lester’s company had approved his request to transfer to my city back then—with his salary, benefits, and seniority completely intact. My heart hammered against my ribs. On a strange, desperate whim, I dialed his regional supervisor’s direct line. When the man answered, his response knocked the breath right out of me. “Oh, Lester? I signed off on his relocation transfer five years ago, Ms. Whitlock. Full pay, great package. But he turned it down at the last minute. Said he had to stay behind for someone incredibly important.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Five years ago, I had sat on the floor of my apartment holding my mother’s psychiatric admission papers, sobbing, begging Lester not to leave me, begging him not to do long-distance. He had packed his bags anyway, not even turning back as he walked out the door: “The salary package here is three times higher, Cathy. I’m doing this so we can buy a home and get married faster. Just hang in there a little longer.” I had ground myself to the bone, working endless overtime to build up my own savings, desperate to give him the financial security to come back to me. I had no idea that the “someone important” keeping him there was Bonnie. All those agonizing nights I had spent crying myself to sleep, clinging to his voice on a cell phone—they had been a lie from the very beginning. Five hours before my flight was scheduled to depart, I was packing my last bag when my phone buzzed with an urgent notification. A banking alert flashed across the screen: “$800,000.00 transferred out of account ending in 4092.” My brain went completely numb. I opened my mobile banking app with trembling hands. My remaining balance read: “$0.21.” That was my mother’s long-term care fund. It was also the money I had painstakingly saved over half a decade to build our future together. Only two people in the world had the password to that joint account: Lester and me. My fingers shook so violently I could barely dial the recipient details listed on the transaction receipt. It belonged to a high-end luxury real estate agency downtown. “Yes, ma’am,” the agent answered politely. “Mr. Payne just finalized the closing paperwork on a brand-new two-bedroom condo with us.” I took a cab straight to the sales office address. When I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the unit, Lester and Bonnie were bent over the kitchen island, their heads touching as they flipped through interior design catalogs. Lester pointed to the spacious master suite on the floor plan. “This bedroom is yours, Bonnie. That way, after Cathy and I get married, whenever you come over to stay, it’ll be super comfortable for you. Plus, it’s right next to your office—aren’t you going to thank me?” Bonnie squealed with excitement, launching herself into his arms and planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek. My footsteps echoed hollowly against the bare floorboards. My voice was stripped raw. “Who gave you permission to touch that money?” Lester froze, awkwardly setting Bonnie back down on her feet. He straightened his collar, adopting a cool, reasonable tone. “Cathy, we’re getting married soon anyway. We needed to secure a proper home. Isn’t that what a marriage fund is for?” Buying a marital home—without the bride’s knowledge or consent. I swallowed the burning bile in my throat, forcing my voice to stay steady. “My mother needs that money for her psychiatric care. You didn’t leave a single penny?” A flicker of guilt flashed across Lester’s eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Bonnie stepped forward, reaching out to gently touch my arm. “Cathy, please don’t be mad. We bought the place on a whim today, we haven’t even had time to walk you through it! If it bothers you that much, we can just cancel the purchase and refund it…” My eyes drifted down to the deed agreement resting on the kitchen island. Printed clearly on the line designated for the primary property owner was Bonnie’s name. Seeing where I was looking, Bonnie’s face flushed with mock embarrassment. “Oh dear… it looks like the title deed is already finalized. I don’t think we can refund it now…” Lester immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her behind his broad shoulders as he glared at me. “Putting it under her name just gives her a sense of security while she stays here! What difference does a name make on a piece of paper? We’re trying to build a future, Cathy—why are you so obsessed with dividing assets before we even walk down the aisle?” “I am not walking down the aisle with you,” I said, every word dripping with absolute exhaustion. “I am never marrying you.” Lester’s eyes widened in genuine shock. His mouth opened, but before he could say a word, Bonnie took an anxious step forward, her shoe catching on a decorative brass candle stand burning nearby. The stand tipped over. “Clatter.” The open flame ignited a stack of flammable designer wallpaper samples piled on the table. Within seconds, a wall of bright orange fire roared to life, sending thick, acrid black smoke billowing toward the ceiling. I choked, my lungs burning as if they were tearing apart. And in that split second of chaotic danger, the man who had sworn to protect me with his life instinctively lunged in the opposite direction—away from me. “Bonnie! Are you hurt?!” Bonnie coughed weakly, clinging to his shirt. “It’s all my fault… I ruined your home… Cathy is going to hate me forever…” “Who gives a damn about a house right now?!” Lester barked, scooping her up into his arms. He cast a hasty, careless glance back into the smoke toward me. “Cathy, get your ass out of here, move!” Before the words had even finished echoing, his figure vanished into the hallway, carrying Bonnie out to safety. I collapsed onto the floor, choking on the smoke, my tears finally breaking free and scalding my cheeks. After crawling my way out of the burning building, I didn’t look back. I hailed a cab and headed straight in the opposite direction. While sitting in the departure lounge at the airport, my phone buzzed incessantly. Caller ID: “Lester.” I declined every single call. One minute before boarding my flight to London, I opened my social media page and posted a single, public update. Once it was sent, I popped the SIM card out of my phone, walked over to the nearest trash receptacle, and tossed it deep inside. …… At the emergency room, Lester finally let out a long breath of relief after the doctor wheeled Bonnie out of the examination room. He turned around to check on his girlfriend, expecting to see her sitting on one of the waiting room chairs. The hallway was empty. Catherine hadn’t followed them. His heart violently skipped a beat. At that exact moment, a notification popped up on his phone—an update from Catherine’s account. He unlocked the screen, and as his eyes processed the words written there, his hand went completely limp. The phone slipped through his fingers and shattered against the floor.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556441”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Eight years of marriage, and Samantha had established one non-negotiable rule. We shared a high-yield savings account, and the money inside was reserved strictly for catastrophe. Neither of us was allowed to touch a single cent without absolute, mutual consent. A month ago, my dad needed emergency heart surgery. The hospital required a thirty-thousand-dollar deposit before they would put him on the surgical schedule. I begged Samantha to pull the money from our account. Instead, she slipped the platinum debit card into her personal wall safe and turned the dial. “Doesn’t your family have relatives you can borrow from?” she’d said, her voice completely devoid of warmth. “Stop eyeing our safety net every time something goes wrong. When are you going to grow up, Seth?” In the end, I sold my grandfather’s vintage gold Omega watch—the only heirloom I owned—to cover the deposit. Tonight, Brad invited us to a housewarming party at his brand-new high-rise condo downtown. His father raised a glass of scotch, beaming as he publicly thanked Samantha for putting up the hundred and twenty thousand dollars for their down payment. And there, sitting casually on the sleek glass coffee table, was the platinum card from our joint account. Brad put on his signature wounded look, his eyes welling up with practiced grief. “Please don’t be mad, Seth. Ever since my divorce, my dad and I haven’t had a real place to live. Sam was just looking out for us.” Samantha stepped in front of him, her brow furrowed with deep irritation as she faced me. “Money can always be made back,” she said, her tone sharp and dismissive. “They needed a place to live. Waiting a few extra days for your dad’s surgery didn’t kill him, Seth. Don’t go rubbing salt in Brad’s old wounds on his big night.” I looked at her, and suddenly, I didn’t even have the energy to argue. I had spent years believing that account was our shared shield against the storms of life. Now I realized it was nothing more than her secret safety net for another man. She broke the rule she swore was sacred. Which meant I was officially done holding this marriage together. … Inside Brad’s condo, the lights were bright, filled with the warm, easy laughter of Samantha’s inner circle. Someone complimented the city views; someone else praised Samantha for being such a loyal, selfless friend. That debit card remained on the coffee table, a gleaming silver monument to how much of a fool I had been for eight years. I set my glass down, turned, and walked toward the front door. Before the elevator doors could slide shut, Samantha caught up. She slammed her hand against the sensor, her face twisted in frustration. “Seth, are you seriously doing this right now?” “Doing what?” “Throwing a childish tantrum! Today is a major milestone for Brad. Who are you trying to play the victim for?” I stared at her hand resting against the elevator frame. That was the same hand that had pressed cold washcloths to my forehead when I had a fever years ago. It was also the same hand that had clicked the safe door shut while my dad was lying in a hospital bed. “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “Then why are you leaving?” Her eyes burned with accusation. “Brad’s family and friends are all in there. When you pull a face like this, how is he supposed to hold his head up?” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my chest. “How he holds his head up is his problem, isn’t it?” Samantha’s expression hardened into ice. “Stop being so cruel. Brad has had a terrible year. He’s taking care of his sick father after a messy divorce without a roof over their heads. I just gave him a hand.” I nodded slowly. “A hundred and twenty thousand dollars for a down payment. That’s quite a hand, Sam. You’re remarkably generous with everyone except me.” I raised my left wrist for her to see. It was completely bare. The gold Omega watch my grandfather gave me was gone, transformed into a string of medical codes on a hospital billing statement. She glanced at my wrist for a fraction of a second, her impatience flaring. “Are you really bringing up that watch again? I told you a hundred times, it wasn’t that I didn’t care about your dad. It was about protecting our emergency fund. You sold that watch out of impulse. How is that my fault?” I looked at her, genuinely unable to process her words. “If I hadn’t sold it, my dad would have been wheeled right out of the surgical unit!” “Doesn’t your family have relatives?” she snapped, cutting me off before I could finish. “Seth, you can’t just run to our joint savings every time a bump in the road happens. That was our ultimate security. I just wanted you to be mature about it.” “Ultimate security.” Hearing those words come out of her mouth felt like a sick joke. Eight years ago, on the day we got married, she had slid that card into my palm and smiled. “Seth, no matter what life throws at us, we’ll always have this.” It turned out “no matter what” didn’t include my father’s life. Brad came hurrying out into the hallway, holding an umbrella, his eyes rimmed with red. “Seth, please don’t blame Sam. It’s all my fault. My dad’s knees are ruined—he couldn’t stay in that dark basement apartment anymore. If this makes you uncomfortable, I’ll put the condo on the market tomorrow.” The moment the words left his mouth, Samantha stepped protectively in front of him. “You will do no such thing. The place is bought. You don’t just sell a home because someone is having a mood swing.” She turned back to me, her tone dropping an octave, heavy with command. “Seth, your dad’s surgery is already over. The whole thing is behind us. Brad’s father has severe rheumatoid arthritis; he can barely get out of bed on rainy days. Can’t you show a little basic empathy?” In that quiet hallway, everything finally crystallized. It wasn’t that Samantha lacked empathy. She had plenty of it. She just saved every drop for someone else. I stepped out of the building into a heavy downpour. Brad held the umbrella out toward me. “Seth, take this. It’s pouring. You’ll get soaked.” I ignored him. Behind me, Samantha’s voice cut through the rain. “If you walk away tonight, Seth, don’t expect me to come begging you to come home!” I kept walking. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from my dad. “Seth, the physical therapist helped me walk a few steps today. Sam works so hard at her firm, make sure you don’t fight with her on my account.” Rain drops hit the glass screen, blurring his words into a streak of light. I stood under a street lamp and dialed a number I’d saved earlier that afternoon. “Hi. That one-bedroom unit with the elevator near the old district? I’ll take it.” “Can I sign the lease tonight?” … The new rental was on the edge of the historic quarter. Small, but it had an elevator and plenty of afternoon sun. I put down three months’ rent upfront, then stopped by a pharmacy to pick up sterile dressings, antiseptic, and nutritional supplements. First thing the next morning, I took a cab to pick up my dad. He had been staying in a tiny, dilapidated ground-floor unit on the outskirts of town. The hallway was barely wide enough for one person, the paint flaking off in grey patches, mold creeping up the corners of the baseboards. When I pushed the door open, he was sitting on the edge of the narrow twin bed, mending an old canvas jacket with a needle and thread. The lights weren’t on. The window was blocked by the brick wall of the adjacent building, casting the room in a permanent, gloomy dusk. Hearing me come in, he frantically shoved the needle and thread under his pillow, looking like a child caught doing something wrong. “Seth! What are you doing here?” He forced a smile. “I’m doing fine here. You shouldn’t keep running over. Sam will get annoyed.” I didn’t answer. I knelt down and gently rolled up his pant leg. The surgical incision was red around the edges, the gauze underneath completely soaked through with sweat and fluid. “The doctor said you have to keep this clean and dry,” I said, my voice tight. “Why didn’t you call me?” “It’s nothing.” He quickly pulled his pant leg back down. “It’s just been humid with all this rain. Once the sun comes out, it’ll heal right up.” On the small folding table sat half a bowl of plain oat porridge. No vegetables. No protein. The small electric desk fan was unplugged, its plastic blades coated in a layer of dust. “Why isn’t the fan on?” Dad smiled sheepishly. “Electricity adds up…” He trailed off, catching the look on my face, and quickly added, “Besides, I’m not hot.” I didn’t press him. Asking more would only make me hate myself even more for letting him live like this. I unzipped my duffel bag and began packing his medications, his clothes, and his meager belongings. Panicking, Dad pushed himself up from the bed, using the frame for balance. “Seth, what are you doing? I’m fine here! It’s cheap. Don’t go throwing money away!” “I leased an apartment,” I said, packing a stack of his undershirts. “We’re moving today.” “Does Sam know?” My hands paused on the zipper. “She doesn’t need to know.” Dad’s expression shifted instantly. He grabbed my wrist, his eyes turning red with panic. “Did you two fight again? Seth, my life was saved by the surgeons—don’t go ruining your marriage over me!” Before I could reply, heavy footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway. Samantha appeared in the doorway, a set of valet car keys dangling from her fingers. Her eyebrows were drawn together, her nostrils flaring slightly as if the damp air of the building was physically repulsive to her. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” she demanded. “I need that vendor contract file. Where did you leave it?” The moment my dad saw her, he stood up straight, painfully anxious. “Sam! You’re here? Have you eaten? Let me get you some water.” His leg hadn’t healed, and he stumbled after taking just two steps, catching himself on the edge of the table before reaching for a plastic cup. Samantha instinctively took a step back, dodging the cup he held out. “No thanks. I’m not thirsty.” She held a hand up near her nose, her disgust barely concealed. “You need to wrap things up and come home, Seth. It smells terrible in here. I don’t know how anyone lives like this.” Dad’s hand froze in midair, holding the cup. I stepped forward, took the cup from his hand, and set it back on the table. “Yeah,” I said softly, looking her dead in the eye. “You’re right. It’s no place for a human being.” Samantha caught the venom in my tone, her face darkening. “Don’t take that tone with me, Seth. Your dad chose this place himself. I didn’t put him here.” “And why did he have to choose this place? Do you really not know?” “What am I supposed to know?” She threw her hands up, as if I were being completely delusional. “All I know is that every single time something goes wrong in your life, you find a way to make it my fault.” Right then, her phone buzzed. Samantha glanced at the caller ID, and the sharp edge in her voice evaporated instantly, replaced by a soft, tender warmth. “Brad? What’s wrong?” I couldn’t hear what he said on the other end, but Samantha walked over to the window, lowering her voice into a soothing murmur. “The new mattress feels too firm for your dad? Okay, don’t worry. I’ll order an imported latex topper right now.” “We’ll get the plush high-end one. His back is bad; he shouldn’t have to settle.” The small room fell dead silent. Dad lowered his eyes, quietly smoothing out the wrinkles on his thin sheet. The bed he was sitting on was an old, creaky wooden frame left behind by the landlord. The thin foam pad underneath was so worn down you could feel the slats pressing into your ribs. He had spent the last three days lying on that frame, enduring the pain after a major operation, afraid to say a word to me because he didn’t want to be a burden. Samantha hung up the phone, her face perfectly composed. “Where is the file?” “In the second drawer of the study desk,” I said flatly. She turned to leave, but her eyes caught my left wrist again. “Did you really sell your watch?” I didn’t answer. Her tone softened slightly, as if offering me a peace token. “When my quarterly bonus hits next month, I’ll buy you a new one. A better one. Stop letting this hang between us. Couples shouldn’t hold grudges.” “If you want to move your dad into a better place, go ahead and manage it. Just don’t come back complaining later that I didn’t help.” The door clicked shut behind her. Dad stood there for a long time before slowly sinking back onto the bed. He reached under his pillow and pulled out a thick wad of bills—tens and twenties, neatly folded and smoothed out. He pressed them into my hand. “There’s eight hundred dollars here,” he whispered. “You didn’t use Sam’s money for the surgery, but that watch was yours. Consider this me paying you back, bit by bit.” I looked at the wrinkled, sweat-stained bills in my palm. A lump lodged in my throat so tight I could barely breathe. Outside, thunder rumbled across the dark sky. I folded his fingers back over the money and squeezed his cold hand. “Dad. You don’t owe anyone a single cent.” … The night I settled my dad into his new apartment, he slept soundly through the entire night for the first time since his surgery. Before falling asleep, he kept mumbling, “This place is too nice, Seth. The rent must be crazy. Let’s break the lease tomorrow…” I tucked the blanket around his shoulders and stroked his graying hair. “Sleep, Dad. I’ve got it covered.” By the time I drove back to our house, it was past midnight. The living room lights were blazing. Samantha wasn’t home. On the glass coffee table lay a framed photo—a selfie from Brad’s housewarming party. Samantha was standing between Brad and his father, beaming at the camera, looking like part of a happy, perfect family. I walked into the study to find my passport and personal documents. Lying on the desk was Samantha’s iPad, its screen still lit. I swiped the screen. It wasn’t password-protected. A bank statement application was still open. I froze, then began scrolling down. It wasn’t just the hundred and twenty thousand dollar down payment. Over the past six months, Samantha had made multiple large transfers to Brad from our joint emergency account. “Physical therapy package: $1,800.” “Custom furniture balance: $6,500.” “Memo: Brad’s backup fund: $4,000.” I sat in the desk chair, reading every single transaction line by line. I thought I had grown numb to the pain. But sitting there in the quiet room, a surge of cold nausea rushed up my throat. On the third day after my dad’s surgery, the chief surgeon had recommended a high-grade imported anti-inflammatory regimen to prevent infection. It cost five hundred dollars. I had called Samantha to ask if we could charge it. She had said on the phone: “Generic medicine works just fine, Seth. Don’t go demanding the most expensive option for everything. You have zero financial discipline.” Yet the statements proved that the very next day, she had authorized an eighteen-hundred-dollar physical therapy package for Brad’s father. The front door lock chimed. Samantha walked in, carrying the faint, sweet scent of wine. When she saw me sitting in the dimly lit study, her steps faltered for a second, her brow instantly furrowing. “Are you going through my things again?” I turned the iPad toward her. The screen was still displaying the list of transfers. “When were you planning on telling me about these?” She glanced at the screen, snatching the tablet away with a flick of her wrist. “I don’t need to report every single routine expense to you.” “Routine expenses? You transferred tens of thousands of dollars from our joint savings to Brad!” “So what?” Her face turned cold and defensive. “We’ve been married for eight years, Seth. Do I not even have the right to manage our money?” A cold laugh escaped my lips, though my throat felt raw. “My dad needed thirty thousand dollars for life-saving surgery, and you called that account an ‘untouchable security fund.’ But the second Brad calls, you empty it out without batting an eye.” She rubbed her temples, looking at me as if I were a child throwing a irrational fit. “Brad’s situation was a genuine emergency! Their landlord broke the lease without warning. They were about to be put on the street. His father is ill—he couldn’t handle sleeping in a car!” “And my dad lying on an operating table wasn’t an emergency?” She sighed, softening her tone slightly, adopting a tone of patronizing patience. “Seth, it’s not that I didn’t care about your dad. I just knew your family had relatives to rely on to scrape the money together. Brad has nobody.” “Except he has you.” The moment those words left my mouth, her expression shifted dramatically. “Do you really have to make everything sound so disgusting?” “Is it disgusting? You were bold enough to do it, but you can’t bear to hear it out loud?” She stood there, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Seth, I work sixty hours a week. I am exhausted. I come home, and instead of peace, I have to deal with you putting me on trial over every petty detail.” “I spent money, and I will earn it back. Stop acting like a debt collector in your own home.” I chuckled, a sound entirely devoid of humor. “Right. Wanting my own money back makes me a debt collector.” She choked on her words, unable to find an immediate reply. After a long silence, Samantha spoke again, her tone carefully measured. “Seth, I know you’re bitter about selling that watch. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the jeweler. We’ll buy a new one—whatever brand you want.” “Let’s stop fighting over outsiders.” I didn’t answer. I stood up, walked over to the filing cabinet, and pulled out my birth certificate and our marriage license. She frowned. “What are you doing with those?” “Seth, if you’re trying to scare me by packing up and playing missing husband, I don’t have the energy for your games.” I slid the documents into my leather briefcase. “Don’t worry. Nobody is playing games with you.” Her phone rang again. A voice memo from Brad echoed clearly in the quiet room: “Sam… my dad says his chest feels really tight. I’m scared. Can you please come over and check on him?” Samantha looked at me, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. But it lasted only a second. She reached for her coat on the chair. “Brad needs help. I’m going over for an hour. Stay here and cool off.” The door closed with a firm click. I sat back down at the computer, opened a browser, and typed into the search bar: “Marital Asset Division Agreement – Dissolution of Marriage.” … Over the next few days, I stopped arguing with Samantha entirely. I hired a family law attorney and began organizing our joint bank statements and financial records. Samantha started coming home later and later. Occasionally, when she caught me reviewing spreadsheets at the dining table, she would stop and ask, “Still pouting?” I would close the laptop. “No.” She would let out a sigh of relief and nod. “Good. Married couples shouldn’t keep dwelling on old mistakes.” One evening, she brought home a takeout container of artisanal hot dumplings from a little shop in Chinatown. She set it in front of me. “You used to love these.” I stared at the discount sticker on the plastic box. My mind drifted back to the first year of our marriage. It had been pouring rain, and she had stood in line for forty minutes to buy me a box of those exact dumplings. Back then, she barely had a hundred dollars left in her checking account, but she had slid the last dumpling into my bowl, smiling as she insisted she wasn’t hungry. It turned out that some fires only stay warm for a short season. … The following afternoon, a medical supply truck delivered a heavy-duty oxygen concentrator to the house. Dad’s lung capacity was weak post-surgery, and the cardiologist had strongly advised keeping a medical-grade unit at his place. I had researched models for days before dropping fourteen hundred dollars on this specific unit. It was the last major expense I could afford out of my personal salary this month. I left the machine boxed up in the entryway, intending to hire a van to haul it to Dad’s apartment that evening. I was finalizing the driver’s arrival time when the front door opened. Samantha walked in, trailing Brad and his father. Brad held a designer gift bag, offering a timid, polite smile. “Seth… we just came to pick up a few boxes Sam let me store here. I hope we’re not interrupting.” I ignored him, stepping past them to wheel the oxygen concentrator toward the hallway. Brad’s father suddenly caught sight of the heavy silver unit, his eyes lighting up. “Oh, what’s this? Looks like high-tech medical gear.” “An oxygen concentrator,” Samantha answered offhandedly. The old man reached out, running his hand over the slick plastic casing. “Lately, I’ve been feeling so short of breath at night. My chest gets so tight… I wonder if a machine like this actually helps?” Brad hastily pulled his father’s arm back. “Dad, don’t touch that. That’s Seth’s.” “I was just asking,” his father said with a faint, self-pitying chuckle. “An old chronic case like me isn’t worth using fancy gear like that anyway.” Samantha looked at the old man, a sudden decision flashing across her eyes. “If you like it, Uncle, take it home.” I froze, turning to look at her in disbelief. “What did you just say?” “It’s just sitting here anyway,” she said, reaching out to grab the handle of the unit. “I’ll help them load it into the car.” I stepped in front of the machine, slamming my hand down on the frame. “I bought this for my father’s post-operative recovery. I am taking it to him tonight.” Samantha’s face turned sour. “Isn’t your dad walking around fine now? It’s not like he needs oxygen twenty-four hours a day.” “Seth, stop buying expensive medical toys on a whim. Money doesn’t grow on trees.” I stared at her, a cold, empty smile creeping onto my face. “Buying this for my dad is throwing money away… but the second his father says his chest feels tight, you just give it to him?” Brad’s face turned pale. He frantically shook his hands. “Seth, no, really, we don’t want it! Sam, stop it, my dad isn’t that bad off—” Samantha’s voice dropped into a dark, warning register. “Seth, Brad’s father is standing right here. Don’t make a scene and embarrass me.” “I’ll buy your dad another one tomorrow.” “It’s just a few hundred bucks. Do you really have to be this pathetic and stingy?” I pulled the machine back half a step. “This isn’t about the money. Nobody is taking this machine today.” Samantha lost her temper entirely. She stepped forward, grabbed my wrist, and forcefully shoved me out of the way. The sudden push caught me off guard. My back slammed hard against the wooden edge of the entryway shoe cabinet. A dull, throbbing pain shot up my spine, and my grasp slipped—knocking over a brass tray. Keys spilled across the hardwood floor with a sharp, deafening clatter. The room went instantly dead silent. Samantha stood frozen for a second, staring down at her own hand, her mouth parting as if she wanted to say something. But Brad spoke first, his voice trembling dramatically. “Seth! Are you okay? Sam didn’t mean to shove you—it’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have brought my dad here!” Samantha immediately turned her attention to him, her tone softening with comfort. “Don’t cry, Brad. None of this is your fault.” Without giving me another glance, she grabbed the handles of the heavy oxygen concentrator, turned, and carried it out the door. I stood in the entryway, making no move to stop her. As Brad’s father walked out, he cast a lingering look back at me. “Seth, modern marriage requires flexibility. A woman willing to spend money on outsiders just proves she has a good, charitable heart.” The heavy front door clicked shut. The house was left in silence, save for the scattered keys lying around my feet. I knelt down slowly, picking them up one by one. House key. Garage opener. Mailbox key. And the last one—a tarnished brass key to a matching pair of novelty couple’s padlocks Samantha and I had bought during our sophomore year of college. It was covered in rust. I gathered them all together and placed them neatly on the glass coffee table. Next to them, I laid down three items: The signed divorce petition. My wedding ring. And the receipt for the fourteen-hundred-dollar oxygen concentrator. At nine o’clock that evening, I pulled my suitcase out the front door. As the elevator doors slid shut, my phone screen lit up with a text from Samantha: “Uncle is hooked up to the oxygen now. His breathing is much smoother. He feels a lot better.” I pressed the side button, darkening the screen. It felt like watching the very last ember of my marriage flicker out into pitch-black ash. A second later, another text popped up from her: “Stop being dramatic. Go cook some soup at home and wait for me to get back so we can talk.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556426”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel