Category: English

After signing the divorce papers, I went back to Ethan’s to pack. He leaned in the doorway, smirking, as I boxed every pot and pan I’d ever bought. “For someone getting divorced, you look more like you’re looting the place,” he sneered. “What’s next? The toilet?” He always spoke with such venom. I used to shout back, but not anymore. We were done. My silence seemed to infuriate him. He turned and yelled into the house, “Rick! Get your piggy bank—your mother bought that too.” Soon, little footsteps approached, and a boy ran out holding a ceramic pig. He held it out to me. “Mom,” he said flatly, “I know you’re broke. Take this for bus fare. But promise you won’t come back. Don’t bother me, Dad, or Aunt Beth.” Hearing my son mention his father’s mistress used to feel like a knife to the gut. But now, I just smiled, knelt, and ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry,” I said softly. “Even if you came back begging on your knees, I would never return.” 1 After I spoke, I took the piggy bank from Rick’s hands. Then, I simply let it slip from my fingers. The ceramic shattered on the hardwood floor, a perfect metaphor for the five years of love I’d poured into my son. He came from my own body, yet our bond had rotted to the core. Rick stared at me, his eyes wide with shock. I just offered him a cold, mocking smile. Grabbing my suitcase in one hand and the heavy box in the other, I walked out of that house for the last time. As soon as I reached the street, I hailed a cab and headed for the train station. On the way, the kid-friendly smartwatch I’d bought him started calling me, over and over. I had no idea what he wanted. It used to be that no matter what I was doing—in a meeting, in the bathroom, fast asleep—I would always answer his call. This time, I blocked his number. What was there to talk about? I remembered his fifth birthday like it was yesterday. His face was aglow with excitement as he made his wish. “Mommy,” he’d said, “you know how you read in that picture book that you’d make any wish of mine come true? Is that right?” “So for my wish,” he’d continued, his eyes sparkling with innocent cruelty, “I want a new mom. I don’t want you anymore. I want Aunt Beth to be my mom. Can you do that?” The color drained from my face. Beside him, Ethan let out a derisive laugh. “See, Amy? You’re just so unlikable, even your own son wants to trade you in.” He’d grinned. “You should be grateful I stuck with you for seven years without doing the same.” His words had felt like stones in my throat, and I’d fought back the tears that threatened to spill. Then Rick, my own son, had twisted the knife. “Dad, why are you even talking to her? A nagging woman like her doesn’t deserve to be loved by anyone.” So, a child like that? Why would I ever want him back? Besides, at the end of the long journey ahead of me, Rick was gone. And another child, one who also called me “Mommy,” was waiting. 2 The journey was grueling. An eight-hour train ride, a four-hour bus journey, and the last thirty minutes on the back of a sputtering motorbike. I finally arrived at my destination. But just as I was about to push open the gate to find the little girl, my phone rang. It was Ethan. My first instinct was to hang up. But he was relentless. I’d decline the call, and he’d immediately call back. Finally, I snapped and answered. His angry voice shot through the receiver. “Amy, what the hell are you doing? Why did it take you so long to answer? Rick has a fever!” Hearing those words—Rick has a fever—my heart clenched instinctively. A mother’s reflex, buried deep. I remembered when I was pregnant with him. Ethan’s business had just collapsed, and he’d sunk into a deep depression. I spent my days fending off his creditors and my nights trying to manage his dark moods, my own body flooded with anxiety. As a result, Rick arrived early, at thirty-five weeks. My water broke first. I was frantic, pounding on Ethan’s bedroom door, but he was lost in his illness, refusing to answer or open up. So I had to grab the hospital bag myself, stumble down the stairs with amniotic fluid soaking my legs, and hail my own cab, all while enduring the rhythmic agony of contractions. But I was too late. Rick nearly suffocated inside me. The doctors performed an emergency C-section and saved him, but he still spent a month in an incubator. Even after he came home, his premature birth left him fragile. He was constantly sick, his tiny hands, feet, and head a roadmap of needle pricks from IVs. Every time he cried in pain, I felt a wave of guilt so profound I wished it were me lying there instead. Over the years, worrying about him, hurting for him—it had become part of my very bones. So even though I wanted to scream back at Ethan—We’re divorced, remember? You have full custody. You’re the one who added that clause to the papers saying I couldn’t see him unless it was an emergency, so his fever is your problem!—the words got tangled up with that deep-seated maternal instinct. What came out instead was a sigh. “Ethan, take his temperature. If it’s over 101.5, give him the children’s ibuprofen.” My voice was automatic, tired. “It’s in the living room cabinet, third shelf. The dosage is on the bottle, follow it exactly.” “If it’s not that high, there are cooling patches on the same shelf. Stick one on his forehead and wipe him down with a lukewarm cloth.” “After that, give him 10ml of the cold medicine from the orange box. No more than 10ml.” “And if his fever spikes to 103 tonight, you have to take him to the hospital.” I was meticulous, first because Rick’s weak constitution meant a small mistake could make things much worse, and second, because I hoped that if I taught Ethan how to do it this one time, he would never have to call me again. But my careful explanation only fueled his anger. “You think I’m a damn doctor? You think I can just follow a list of instructions?” he roared. “And what kind of mother are you, giving orders over the phone instead of getting your ass back here to take care of your son?” His shouting was so familiar. I squeezed the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure. This wasn’t the first time. It was an old, ugly pattern. After his business failed and depression took hold three years ago, he’d refused to work, refused to earn a single dollar. To keep us afloat and care for a baby, I started running food deliveries by day and ghostwriting academic papers by night. I even timed my deliveries so I could race home every two hours to breastfeed. But even in those two-hour windows, Ethan wouldn’t watch Rick. I’d come home to his bitter reproaches and a baby wailing in a diaper heavy with his own filth, his little hands red from chewing them in hunger. After eight months of this hell, I finally broke. One day, I came home to find Rick screaming, a terrible rash blooming from a soiled diaper Ethan hadn’t bothered to change. In a blind rage, I slapped him. Hard. “You have depression, Ethan, you’re not a paraplegic!” I’d shrieked, my voice raw and hysterical. “Your son is starving to death! Can’t you at least stir some formula or change a damn diaper?” He never forgave me for that slap. He stormed out and didn’t come back for a week. When he did, he started looking for work, eventually starting another business that succeeded. But from that day on, he hated me. Every word he spoke to me was either a criticism or a thinly veiled insult, as if forcing a man with depression to provide for his family was the most unforgivable sin in the world. For years, I put up with it, all for Rick, for the idea of a complete family. But we were divorced now. And still, he felt entitled to berate me. I was about to unleash years of pent-up fury, to finally tell him where he could go. But before I could get a word out, another voice cut through the line—a soft, gentle one. “Ethan, I’m here,” it said. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this. Rick will be fine.” The sound of that voice sent a familiar shard of ice through my heart. It was Beth. Ethan’s therapist during his depression. His affair partner. The woman my son wished was his mother. I was the one who found her for him, scouring listings and reviews for the best psychologist. Each session cost a thousand dollars, money I scraped together from the very bottom of our savings. But did Ethan appreciate my sacrifice? No. He saved all his gratitude for Beth, the woman who had “extended a hand of friendship and pulled him from the depths of his despair.” After his business took off again, he showered her with gifts: limited-edition handbags, expensive jewelry. A single phone call from her, and he would drop everything and run. Even when I caught them together in a five-star hotel room, he had dressed himself with infuriating calm. “Amy, what’s the big deal?” he’d said, buttoning his shirt. “When I was at my lowest, you were pushing me to go out and work. If it wasn’t for Beth, I’d probably be dead. Now get out. Beth and I have dinner reservations.” And Rick… Rick was just the same. He was a naturally mischievous kid, so I was strict with him. When he did something wrong, no amount of crying or tantrums would stop me from disciplining him. But Ethan couldn’t stand it. “All you ever do is lecture him,” he’d grumble. “Come on, Rick, ignore your mother. Dad will take you to see Aunt Beth.” And off they’d go, father and son, leaving my half-finished lecture hanging in the air. They’d go to Beth’s, and the three of them would act like a perfect little family, eating McDonald’s and KFC and doing all the things I’d forbidden. Because of that, Rick decided I was the bad mom. Only Beth was worthy of the title. The memory of it all was suffocating. As Beth’s voice soothed Ethan, I heard Rick in the background. “Mommy Beth, you’re here! I missed you so much!” Then, the line went dead. I listened to the dial tone, and a bitter laugh escaped my lips. My fault, I thought. For daring to care. Just as that familiar, needle-like ache for Ethan and Rick began to prick at my heart again, a small, timid voice drifted from the dilapidated country house in front of me. “Hello? Who are you looking for? What are you doing outside our house?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384343”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was reborn at my first birthday party. Endowed with the powers of a lucky charm, I ignored my parents’ hopeful plea. In my past life, I used my abilities to help my parents become the richest people in the country. My eldest brother became a business tycoon, my second a renowned surgeon, and my third a pop superstar. Only my adopted sister, Julia, received no benefit from my powers due to our lack of a blood connection. She failed her college entrance exams at eighteen, was kidnapped at twenty, and died in an accident at twenty-five. Before she died, she tearfully said, “It’s not Mia’s fault. I was always an outsider. It makes sense she wouldn’t help me.” My entire family believed I had let her suffer out of jealousy. They imprisoned me, conducted horrific experiments to channel my luck and resurrect Julia, and tortured me until I died. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at my first birthday party. My father was smiling down at me. “My darling daughter,” he cooed, “do you think Daddy should sign this ten-million-dollar project?” I blinked once, then smeared a handful of mud right across his face. 1 The entire room fell silent. I gripped another handful of wet soil from a nearby flowerpot and slapped it onto my father’s cheek. The hands holding me went rigid, his expression on the verge of crumbling. Guests exchanged uneasy glances. Only Julia, my adopted sister, had a flash of triumph in her eyes before she let out a piercing shriek and rushed forward, her face a mask of concern. “Daddy, are you okay? Oh, Mia is being such a handful!” My father wiped furiously at the mud, then shoved me into a nanny’s arms in disgust. “The mystic clearly said she had a lucky charm aura, that she was born lucky! Why is she acting like a little demon?” Julia bit her lip and whispered, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “She’s been with us for a year now, and it’s not like she’s brought us that much good fortune. Maybe it’s not real?” She added, “I was taking care of her the other day, and she bit me. She’s not some child prodigy, she’s more like…” My eldest brother snorted. “A demon child is more like it.” “Mia has done nothing but torment us since she was born,” he said coldly. “Because of her, Julia has been neglected and suffered so much.” “I think this whole lucky charm thing is a scam. She’s nothing but a debt collector sent to ruin us!” My mother studied me with a frown before finally sighing. “She’s just a one-year-old. What does she know?” “Still,” she mused, “the company did go public right after she was born. Maybe throwing the mud was her way of stopping you.” My father paced anxiously. “Fine. I won’t sign the project. We’ll see if she’s really got the magic touch or not.” With that, he hurried off to change, and my first birthday party came to an abrupt, messy end. The moment my parents were gone, Julia’s mask dropped. Her eyes turned venomous as she stared at me. “You really are a lucky charm, little sister. Daddy is such a neat freak, and he didn’t even punish you. I guess blood really is thicker than water.” My eldest brother immediately walked over, casting a disdainful glance at me. “Don’t be sad, Julia. We only see you as our sister.” “If that mystic hadn’t said Mia could bring us good luck, Mom and Dad would have never had her.” “If she ever tries to compete with you for their affection, we’ll always be on your side.” My other two brothers nodded in agreement, taking Julia’s hands to comfort her. In my past life, my parents had given up on having a daughter after three sons and adopted Julia. They had a deep bond. My three biological brothers saw me as an accident, an afterthought, and treated me with absolute indifference. Because my luck never extended to Julia, they were convinced I was deliberately harming her. I was so naive then. I thought that if I just showered them with good fortune, they would finally love me. Instead, I was tortured and dismembered. Watching them now, a happy, loving family unit, I opened my mouth and let out a piercing wail. Julia shot me a cold look and raised her hand, ready to pinch me. “So annoying!” But just then, my father ran back into the room, his face alight with excitement. He swept me into his arms, interrupting her. “The lead company for that project just skipped town with the money! The entire thing was a scam!” He held me tight. “We were saved! Mia, you really are my lucky star!” 2 My father roared with laughter, ordering the butler to have a solid gold security pendant made for me. “We can’t neglect my little lucky star! From now on, the best of everything is for Mia!” My brothers and Julia stared, their eyes wide with shock. My third brother cried out, “Dad, how can you be so biased towards Mia? Julia is our sister!” Julia’s eyes reddened on cue, and she lowered her head, a picture of silent, stoic suffering. My father immediately put me down and cleared his throat. “Now, now. I’ve treated Julia like my own daughter for years. How could I be biased?” He quickly added, “Didn’t Julia have her eye on that twenty-million-dollar necklace the other day? I’ll have it delivered to the house today.” Julia’s tears vanished. She ran over to him, beaming. “Oh, Daddy, you’re the best! I was so worried that after Mia was born, you wouldn’t care about me anymore.” He stroked her hair lovingly. “Silly girl. You’ll always be Mommy and Daddy’s little princess.” She turned and shot me a triumphant smirk. I didn’t understand why Julia was so hostile towards a one-year-old, but it was clear she was determined to crush me from the start. My father often asked for my “lucky” input on his decisions, but I didn’t always oblige. Whenever they tried to make me use my luck for Julia’s benefit, I would burst into tears. And for the following month, bad luck would plague the entire family. My parents’ business would suffer. My eldest brother would be sabotaged by a competitor. My second brother would swear he saw a ghost in the hospital morgue. My third brother would think he’d been discovered by a talent scout, only to be scammed out of all his money. After this happened a few times, they noticed the pattern but couldn’t figure out the cause. I was not yet two, barely able to string a sentence together, so I just pretended not to understand them. Julia’s expression grew uglier by the day. Now, anyone would connect the family’s misfortune directly to her. The breaking point came when another of my father’s business decisions failed catastrophically, nearly bankrupting the company. Julia collapsed into tears, covering her face. “It’s me! The bad luck only affects me! It’s because Mia doesn’t like me.” “I should just leave,” she sobbed. “I can’t drag Mom, Dad, and my brothers down with me.” They all rushed to her side, their faces etched with panic. “Julia, it’s not your fault! You’re our daughter! This will always be your home!” “That’s right! If anyone’s to blame, it’s Mia! She’s stealing our good luck, that’s why everything has been going wrong!” At my second brother’s words, my mother’s gaze turned to me, full of resentment. “I wish Julia were my biological daughter. She’s so sweet and obedient, not like this little monster who’s been causing trouble since she was two.” My father made a decision. He was calling the mystic back. “He said Mia would bring us good fortune! I want to ask him why she’s been doing nothing but cursing us!” When the mystic arrived, he observed me for a long time. I pointed a chubby finger at Julia and managed one, babyish word: “Dark… dark…” My eldest brother’s face darkened. “Julia is fair and beautiful. Mia is already spouting nonsense. No wonder she’s been cursing us.” The others looked displeased, their hearts aching at the sight of Julia’s wounded expression. But the mystic stroked his beard and spoke. “This has nothing to do with Miss Mia. The source of the recent misfortune… is Miss Julia.” 3 The word had barely left his mouth before they all shouted in unison, “Impossible!” My third brother’s voice was shaking with rage. “You’re a fraud! A liar! Julia has lived with us for over a decade. How could she possibly bring us bad luck?” He looked ready to punch the man, but my father held him back. My father’s eyes were narrow and suspicious. “Master,” he demanded, “you told me my daughter would bring good fortune, but you never said Julia would be cursed. Now my entire family is suffering because of Mia. You owe me an explanation.” My mother, her eyes red, pulled Julia into a protective embrace. “Master, please, you have to do something! You have to break this curse!” The mystic simply shook his head. “Mia’s luck can only affect her blood relatives, and she is only two years old. It is likely that your attempts to force her to channel her luck for Julia have caused a backlash. It has turned your good fortune into a curse, and now Miss Julia is shrouded in a dark, malevolent aura.” He gave them a long, meaningful look. “I have said all that I can. The rest is up to you.” With that, he turned and left. Julia let out a choked sob. “I’m just an adopted daughter. I should have never been greedy for the Shaw family’s wealth. Then Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t have been cursed.” She straightened her shoulders. “It’s better to sacrifice me, so that my parents and brothers can have their good fortune back.” Her speech was so noble that, of course, they refused. They swore they would never let her suffer alone. My eldest brother’s voice was firm. “It’s not your fault, Julia. It’s Mia. She’s been biased against you from the start. We will not give in to a toddler’s whims.” My third brother added wistfully, “If only Julia were the lucky charm.” They all nodded in agreement. I wanted to roll my eyes. Julia’s gaze towards me was now laced with fear, and in private, she became even more vicious, pinching me and withholding food. But I wasn’t a real child. Whenever she hurt me, I made sure the whole family paid the price. The Shaws’ attempts to get lucky now only worked one or two times out of ten. After every failure, they would rack their brains, trying to remember if they had accidentally mentioned Julia. And so it went until I was five. My parents’ company was still floundering. My three brothers were still failures. And Julia had hit rock bottom, failing her exams so badly she couldn’t even get into a community college. The night the results came out, she cried all night, the entire family gathered around to console her. When she saw me, she lunged, her sharp nails leaving red scratches on my face. “It’s all your fault! Why wouldn’t you give me your luck?” My third brother, startled, moved to stop her. “I can’t even go to college!” she shrieked. “Can’t I even take my anger out on the person who caused it? Don’t you even care about me anymore?” My parents said nothing, turning a blind eye to the scene. My eldest brother took Julia’s hand. “Don’t worry, Julia,” he whispered. “We’ll get back at her for you.” That night, my three brothers dragged me out of the house, blindfolded me, and dumped me in a dark, deserted alley. “Julia, we’re leaving her here to teach her a lesson. This is for you.” I cried out for them, but they never looked back. They left, laughing, on their way to take Julia to an amusement park. The moment the light from their car disappeared, my heart turned to ice. They wanted to punish me, but they forgot one thing. I was a lucky charm. As I stumbled out of the alley, I cashed in all the good luck I had been withholding from my family for years, all for a single wish. Moments later, a car pulled up beside me. “Whose child is this? Are you lost?” I looked up and recognized her instantly. It was Mrs. Sterling, one of the most powerful and philanthropic women in the city. Tears streamed down my face. “My brothers…” I sobbed, my voice trembling. “They’re throwing me away.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384360”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first day of preschool. My darling boy was clinging to a police officer, bawling his eyes out. “Help me! I don’t wanna go to school!” Sigh. I stepped forward to pry my son off the poor man, and then… I froze. Because this wasn’t just any cop. It was my damn ex. 1 I’ll admit, a man in uniform has a certain appeal. My son, Theo, was attached to him like a little koala, his arms and legs wrapped tight. His little nose and eyes were red and puffy from crying, his breath catching in hiccuping sobs as he buried his head in the officer’s neck, completely secure. The officer, however, looked anything but secure when he saw me. His face changed instantly. My own heart lurched. Four years since the breakup, and of all the places to run into him, it had to be here. All I could think was, what rotten luck. I’d sworn four years ago that if I ever saw him again, I’d be struck by lightning. Looks like my karmic retribution was just around the corner. But before divine justice could smite me, I had to get my son back. “Theo, honey, come here. You’re getting the nice officer’s uniform all dirty,” I tried, hoping a little white lie would do the trick. The little traitor didn’t even spare me a glance, having already defected to the enemy. Chace’s eyes, sharp and intense, were fixed on me. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was staring at me like he was aiming a sniper rifle right at my soul, and it was making my skin crawl. I just prayed my son would get the telepathic message and come to me. “No,” Theo mumbled, tightening his little arms. He looked at me with tear-filled, mournful eyes. “I…” Forgive my inner brute, but at this rate, I’d never get this kid into school. This… this little rebel! He was forcing my hand. “Listen up, kiddo. Police officers are here to catch naughty little boys. You want a shiny pair of silver bracelets? A nice, hard bed at the station? Little Joey from next door has been eyeing your Super Wings collection for a long time. The second you’re hauled away, I’m giving it all to him.” It wasn’t just Theo; Chace’s expression darkened even further. His handsome face was like a storm cloud rolling in. He always looked like that when he was angry. I used to be able to gauge the exact level of his fury by the shade of his scowl. Right now, we were at DEFCON 1, probably because I was slandering his entire profession. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to use police officers to scare children. But I was desperate. “Officer, do you really arrest little kids?” Theo asked, cupping Chace’s face with his chubby hands, his eyes brimming with pitiful tears. “No,” Chace answered firmly. Excuse me?? Alright, fine. So much for my authority. I glanced at my watch. If I didn’t get Theo into that school soon, I was going to be late for work, and there went my perfect attendance bonus for the month. “But,” Chace added, his tone softening, “officers don’t like boys who don’t behave. Are you a good boy?” My little fool nodded obediently, his voice milky. “I am. Theo is the bestest boy.” “Good. Then I’ll take you inside,” Chace said, his voice shifting. With a single fluid motion, he strode past me, carrying Theo into the preschool. I scurried behind them, marveling at how easily he’d handled it. A kid was just a kid. How could he possibly outsmart Chace? The memory of how thoroughly Chace used to run circles around me still brought a sting to my eyes. 2 After dropping off Theo, I’d have to hit every green light to make it to work on time. But it was rush hour. Getting a ride wasn’t going to be easy. “Where are you going?” Chace asked, his voice cold. “To work,” I said evasively. It was awkward enough running into an ex, let alone one with our history. “I’ll give you a ride,” he stated, his face a blank mask. “Using a public vehicle for personal business on company time…” I clicked my tongue, my face a picture of disapproval. Even on the verge of being late, a taxpayer had to defend her rights. Chace pressed a button on his key fob, and a black SUV parked nearby beeped. I jumped. He got in, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You seem to know a lot. I just finished the night shift. I’m on my way home to sleep, and this is my personal car.” “Oh.” Mortified, I quickly looked down at my phone. The rideshare app was useless; not a single car was available. “Scared to get in? Zara, you used to be so brave. You think I’m going to eat you?” Chace rested his arm on the open window, his expression openly challenging. I have many virtues, but resisting a dare is not one of them. “Scared of you? Please…” I opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. “102 Lakeside Drive. Thanks.” Chace hit the gas, and the SUV pulled out into traffic. It was like the traffic gods were smiling down on me. We didn’t hit a single red light. I clenched my fists in excitement. My perfect attendance bonus was safe. “Why are you shaking?” Chace glanced at me from the corner of his eye. His profile was chiseled, like something out of a sculpture gallery, flawless from every angle. “I’m not shaking,” I said stubbornly, quickly placing my hands primly on my knees. “Is Theo your son?” Chace asked. “Would he be calling me ‘Mom’ if he wasn’t?” I shot back. I was surprised. He was the one who left me. Why did he care now if Theo was my son? It was none of his business. “You’re married?” His voice was low, betraying no emotion, but it sent an uncomfortable chill down my spine. I suddenly pictured him in an interrogation room, questioning a suspect. He was questioning me the same way. “Yes.” That should have been the end of it. But I forgot that Chace wasn’t a normal person. The conversation only ended when he decided it was over. A guy with his personality would never find a girlfriend in today’s world. I must have been blinded by his looks back then, falling for his tricks before I knew what was happening. Later, when his interest faded, I had enough self-respect to leave quietly. “Where is he? Why didn’t he come with you to drop Theo off today?” Chace was relentless. Once he wanted to know something, he wouldn’t let it go. “That’s my private business,” I protested. “When was Theo born? What month, what year?” I… 3 If we weren’t in his car, I would have cursed him and his entire family tree. But I knew him. The more I tried to hide things about Theo, the more suspicious he’d become. Fine. I’d fall back on a classic cliché. That would shut him up and stop him from demanding to meet my “husband.” “Since you’re so concerned about your ex-girlfriend, and it’s not like it’s some dark secret… after we broke up, my family set me up on a blind date. My husband was very wealthy, a big deal in business. We were always apart because of his work, and then… he died in a car accident before Theo was even a year old… I’ve been raising Theo by myself all these years, doing everything for him, being both a mother and a father…” I covered my face, my head bowed in sorrow. You have to commit to the performance. It worked. Chace stopped asking questions. But the veins on the back of his hands stood out against the steering wheel. The atmosphere in the car instantly tensed, the temperature dropping by at least ten degrees. Since he didn’t respond, I couldn’t muster any real tears. I kept my face hidden and turned to look out the window. Through the gaps in my fingers, I watched the city blur past, desperately wishing, Are we there yet? I knew it. I would have rather lost the bonus than get in this car. “I’m sorry.” What? I thought I’d misheard. “What did you just say?” I asked. “I don’t repeat myself.” I shot him a dirty look. What was he apologizing for now? Just then, his phone rang. It sounded like a call for backup. He exchanged a few brief words and hung up. He pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned to face me. “Your office is just around the corner. You can run from here. I have to go, I’m needed on a call.” “Okay,” I said, getting out. I watched him speed away without a second glance back. The same person, the same situation. It was like we were back four years ago. During his second year as a cop, he was always on call. No matter where we were or what we were doing, one phone call and he was gone. I understood all of it. I never threw a fit or gave him a hard time. But he never knew how hard the lonely nights were, how much I worried every time I watched him leave. Well, that was all over now. I had Theo to keep me company. As for Chace, some other woman could worry about him now. I clocked into work with one minute to spare. With that kind of luck, it was bound to be a great day. Or so I thought. Just as I was about to clock out, my boss dropped an urgent task on my desk. Damn it. I had to rush. I had promised Theo I’d be the first one to pick him up today. After finishing my work, I sprinted out of the office faster than anyone. By the time I reached the preschool, I felt like I was half-dead. And I was still too late. Parents were already leaving with their children. Theo was probably standing by the gate all by himself again, waiting for me. I was still trying to figure out how to explain being late when I looked up and saw Chace. He was here again. And he was holding my son. 4 He’d changed out of his uniform and was wearing casual clothes. His arms, exposed below the short sleeves, were a sun-kissed bronze, all corded muscle. The simple t-shirt clung to his broad chest, looking even better than the uniform. He was holding Theo with one arm. At six-foot-one, with broad shoulders and long legs, he cut an impressive figure. Every young mother and pretty teacher that walked by did a double-take. Figures. The man was still a walking hazard. “Mommy!” Theo reached his little arms out for me. That sweet little voice melted my heart. “Mommy’s here,” I said, taking him from Chace and hugging him tight, planting a big kiss on his forehead. I hadn’t seen him all day, and my eyes started to sting. “Theo saw me when I got here and started crying for me, so I brought him out,” Chace explained. “Right. Thanks.” After I answered, it hit me. Are cops really this free? Why was he hanging around a preschool? “Wait, what are you doing here?” I asked, looking at him suspiciously. He wasn’t planning something, was he? Chace’s lips curved into a smile. He reached behind him and pulled out a little girl, hoisting her into his arms. “Picking up my kid.” I had been so focused on Theo that I hadn’t even noticed the little girl hiding behind his leg. I felt like a complete idiot. So much for thinking I was special. Four years was plenty of time for him to get married and have a child. We were broken up. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But a tidal wave of emotion washed over me—disappointment, hurt, a suffocating tightness in my chest. “We’re going now. Goodbye,” I said, my eyes downcast. I hugged Theo tighter and walked away quickly. Chace called my name from behind, but I ignored him. “Mommy, the officer is calling you,” Theo reminded me. “Don’t listen to him.” The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I had spent the last four years thinking about him, and now it was clear he’d probably forgotten all about me. If not for this chance encounter, we might have never seen each other again. “Good boys don’t lie. You heard him. And the officer said I’d get a present if I was good,” Theo argued, his loyalty clearly misplaced. His world now revolved around the police officer. “You want a pair of silver bracelets?” Theo burst into tears. I was completely caught off guard and had to spend the next few minutes hugging and soothing him. That night, Theo had a nightmare, mumbling about not wanting silver bracelets in his sleep. I was filled with regret. I had to stop scaring him like that. It was bad for both of us. The apartment was quiet, but I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the day’s events in my mind, thinking of Chace, of the little girl by his side, and my heart ached with a familiar sourness. 5 We got together because I was completely powerless against his good looks. Chace was at the police academy, and I was at the art school right across the street. It was like the two universities had planned it. Every day, droves of pretty art students would gaze across the street at the handsome future police officers, and the police cadets would shout their drills extra loud to attract the attention of the delicate young women. The fact that Chace and I hit it off stunned a lot of people, including me. I wasn’t anything special. I had a reasonably pretty face and a talent for drawing. For four years of college, Chace was my exclusive model. He seemed to enjoy it. He was a quiet person; when he wasn’t exercising, he was staring into space. He always corrected me, insisting he was “thinking,” not “spacing out.” I would just laugh and tell him his defensiveness was a dead giveaway. After graduation, he was assigned to a local precinct, and I found a job as a design assistant. As rookies in the professional world, we barely had any free time. Chace rented an apartment near my office and asked me to move in with him. It was only later that I realized he did it so I could sleep in a little longer in the mornings. I was terrible at waking up, often pulling all-nighters to finish projects. Those extra minutes of sleep were precious. Everything seemed to be moving in the right direction. We would be like most couples: save up some money, get married, have kids, and live a quiet life. But in his second year on the force, things changed. He was always working overtime, always taking calls. The rare date we had would inevitably be cut short by some emergency. I was committed to him, so none of that mattered. He was a cop; I understood the nature of his job. But some things you can’t fight. Love, like the tide, comes in and goes out. It was a harsh reality, but one I had to accept. Chace spoke to me less and less. We saw each other less and less. His coldness and avoidance felt like he was trying to push me into being the one to say it was over. I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t going to beg. After all those years together, I deserved better. It’s strange, but the day we broke up was the only time we were ever truly intimate. And I initiated it. I don’t know if that’s something to be proud of or sad about. I’d had a few drinks. I kicked open his bedroom door and pounced on him. He tried to resist, so I just grabbed his collar, buried my face in his chest, and cried. In the end, I got what I wanted. But the feeling between us was gone. If there was no feeling left, why cling to a one-sided love? I left quietly while he was away on a business trip. What happened next was like a cosmic joke. That one time… I got pregnant. Without a second thought, I had Theo and raised him by myself. As for Chace, it never even crossed my mind to tell him. In my sleep, I heard Theo whimpering about not wanting to go to preschool tomorrow. I turned and wrapped my arms around his small, soft body. When I touched my own face, I realized it was wet with tears. “I don’t want to go to preschool either. I’ll have to see him,” I whispered. I hoped Chace wouldn’t be the one dropping off his kid tomorrow. I sighed, found a comfortable position, and closed my eyes. 6 Well, damn. The next morning, I woke up sick. My usually indestructible body had finally given up. I was a mess, sniffling and weak. I was afraid of getting Theo sick, so I asked my friend Chloe to watch him for a few days. She was his godmother, a single woman with a hopeless weakness for adorable little boys like mine, but a deep-seated disdain for me. She was always telling me to find a good man and settle down. I always brushed her off. Good men weren’t exactly easy to find. Even though I was sick, I still had to work. How else was I going to support the two of us? Finally, my boss couldn’t take it anymore. I think the sight of me trying to give a presentation while simultaneously blowing my nose, wiping my eyes, and speaking in a hoarse croak was too much for him. He mercifully gave me two days off. Sleeping in on a workday was pure bliss. The sickness came on strangely, but it left just as quickly. After a few days of rest, I was mostly better. I called Chloe to arrange picking Theo up, only to find out she was at a birthday party! “Where is my son? What did you do with him?” Chloe was full of apologies. “Just tell me where he is! I’m going to get him!” Could a best friend be any more unreliable? She hemmed and hawed, but I finally cornered her until she confessed. “23 River Road, Apartment 5-3-202.” I froze. I would never forget that address. It was where Chace and I had lived four years ago. A dark premonition washed over me. This was not going to be simple. “Chloe, I swear I’m going to kill you!” I was at my wit’s end. “Now, Zara, don’t be like that. You’ve been raising Theo alone for all these years, for what? Chace is his father, and he hasn’t done a single thing. What’s wrong with him watching his own son for a few days? Why are you so stubborn? If you ask me, you never should have hidden it from him. Maybe you two would have never broken up.” Was I wrong? No. You can’t force someone to walk the same path as you. He was married with a child now. I couldn’t be the one to wreck his family. “It’s impossible for Chace and me. He’s married,” I sighed. Chloe started to say something else, but I hung up, grabbed my bag and coat, and headed out to get my son. I hailed a cab, but the traffic was a nightmare. I’d hit rush hour again. The scenery was mostly the same as it had been four years ago. Chace had rented this place because it was close to my office. After we broke up, I moved out and never came back. I now lived in a small loft apartment that I’d bought outright. It was a bit out of the way, and I spent almost an hour commuting each day. But I bought it because it was far away. Far enough to avoid him. To never see him again. And now, after running in circles, I was right back where I started. I took a shaky breath, stood at the door, and rang the bell. 7 The doorbell was the same one I’d programmed. When you pressed it outside, a recording of my voice would play inside: “Chace and Zara, you have a visitor!” What was once sweet was now excruciatingly awkward. Why hadn’t he changed it?! The door opened. Chace was in loose-fitting loungewear, with Theo perched on his shoulders. Their faces were smeared with face paint, and they were holding toy guns. They had clearly been playing soldiers. Theo’s eyes were shining with an excitement he couldn’t hide. I could see he liked Chace. Did he even want him to be his father? I quickly squashed the ridiculous thought. Chace was married. Theo and I couldn’t become a joke. “Mommy! The officer and I are playing guns! We’re special forces! Come in, Mommy!” Theo tugged on my arm, but I remained rooted to the spot outside the door. The excitement on Chace’s face faded. “Come in,” he said. “It’s not Chloe’s fault. I was the one who asked to have Theo over.” I scoffed. “Don’t you have to work?” “I took some vacation time. I haven’t had a vacation in four years,” he said, his eyes fixed on me. The words were loaded. He deliberately emphasized four years. We had been apart for exactly four years. “Well, thanks for the trouble. I’m here to take Theo home.” My gaze shifted past him to my son. “Theo, go get your backpack. We’re going home,” I said, bending down to urge him. Theo looked reluctant, glancing back and forth between me and Chace. He clearly wasn’t done playing. I grabbed his little arm, my face hardening. “Theo, be a good boy and come home with Mommy. It’s not nice to bother people.” “But Mommy, you said if we’re in trouble, we should find a police officer. He’s not people,” he said, then looked up at Chace and smiled. My patience was wearing thin. I scooped him up in my arms. “Let’s go!” Theo immediately started to cry, reaching for Chace. “I don’t wanna go! I wanna play with the officer…” he wailed, just like he had at the preschool gate. The sound echoed through the hallway, making my ears ring. Chace grabbed my arm, his face grim. “Don’t make him cry. Give him to me, I’ll calm him down.” A fire ignited in my chest. “I’m his mother. I don’t need you to teach me how to raise my child!” My shout only made Theo cry harder. “Let go!” Chace’s expression grew even darker. His grip on my arm tightened. With a struggling son in my arms and his demanding father by my side, the situation was spiraling out of control. I could feel sweat trickling down my back. A few neighbors walked by with their groceries. “Oh, dear,” one of them said. “A little lovers’ quarrel, upsetting the child. Just take her inside and make up, dear.” 8 Before I could explain that he wasn’t my husband and we were not a “little couple,” the world tilted. Chace had swept both me and my son up into his arms and carried us inside. His strength was impressive, but I felt like I was sitting on pins and needles. Everything in the apartment was exactly as it had been four years ago. From the big things, like the sofa and table we’d bought online together, to the small things, like the ceramic rabbits from the night market and the stuffed animal he’d won for me playing darts—everything was in its original place. It was like time had rewound. Chace stood before me, hands on his hips, and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. It was still cut short, stiff and a little severe. “We need to talk about this from the beginning,” he said, watching my expression carefully. “That day at the preschool, Theo saw me and ran right into my arms. Chloe was there too, but he wouldn’t go with her, so I brought him home for a few days… I’m on vacation, anyway.” He was explaining, but I found the whole thing ridiculous. I smirked. “What are you smiling at?” he asked, frowning. “Nothing.” I didn’t want to say it. How could he come up with such a lame excuse? Instead of spending his vacation with his wife and child, he was babysitting mine for free? Wasn’t his wife jealous? “Are you hiding something from me?” Chace blocked my path, his gaze darting between me and Theo. I froze. My worst fear was coming true. I was going to kill Chloe when I got my hands on her. “I think that’s my line,” I retorted, referring to the little girl, Amy. If he was married, he should act like it, and stop playing these games. Chace’s eyes dropped, like a student caught cheating. “I want to talk to you. Just the two of us. A real conversation,” he said, his voice almost pleading. “There’s no need. You two live your lives, and don’t bother me and my son. We’ll be fine,” I said, getting up to leave. Chace frowned, a look of confusion on his face. I snorted internally. Men. Always wanting what they can’t have. Chloe had once told me that once a woman sleeps with a man, he subconsciously considers her his. Chace was clearly suffering from a case of that delusion. Get a grip! I was my own person. He was his. And more importantly, he was married. I had no interest in being a homewrecker. I picked up Theo and left without a second thought. The sound of the door closing behind me felt like it was finally severing the last ties of those four years. Chace watched us go, looking dejected. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he said. Back home, I asked Theo about his time there. He excitedly told me about all the games he played and the food he ate at the officer’s house, and that his godmother had visited him. The mention of Chloe reignited my anger. I called her. She was on a business trip in some far-off country. I yelled at her for a solid twenty minutes before she even mentioned she was abroad. I was so mad I started crying, which only made me madder when I realized I was ruining my expensive makeup. How many freelance gigs would it take to replace that? “Mommy, why are you crying?” Theo came over with his favorite Super Wings toy and wiped my tears with his chubby little hand. I sniffled and pulled him into a hug. If it weren’t for this little guy, would I be working myself to the bone like this? Sometimes I thought about finding a man and settling down. But who could guarantee that marriage would make life easier? It would just be a different set of problems. Besides, my first love had set the bar too high. After Chace, no one else seemed to measure up. It was my own mess to clean up. I just had to suck it up and deal with it.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384376”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For the new dating reality show, my agent, Dana, told me to play the part of the pretty airhead. So when I showed up hauling a chef’s case as tall as my hip, the live chat crucified me for being a diva. “Who brings a butcher’s block to a desert island?” But when a freak storm cut off our supplies, the A-list actor was so hungry he was chewing on tree bark. That’s when I set up my little charcoal stove and started simmering a fish soup. The award-winning actor, Bob Vance, squatted by my pot, practically begging for a second bowl, while the pop idol, Leo Nash, tried to snatch a fish right out of the broth. It wasn’t until a Michelin-starred chef crashed the livestream, dropping a fortune in virtual rockets, that everything changed. [That knife work, the kind needed for a perfect micro-brunoise… in the entire world, only a disciple of the great August Thorne could pull that off!] The chat exploded. [Thorne? As in, THE August Thorne? The grandfather of modern gastronomy?] The director, trembling, held up the heavy case I’d left behind. “Ms. Thorne,” he stammered, “The name ‘August Thorne’ is carved into the bottom of this case. Who is he to you?” I wiped my hands on my jeans. “My grandpa. He said the case was old and told me to just do whatever I wanted with it.” 1 The day the show’s promotional posters dropped on Instagram, I was staring down the behemoth in the corner of my tiny apartment. It was an ebony wood case that came up to my hip, bound with brass corners and heavy enough to be filled with lead. Dana’s voice memos blew up my phone like a string of firecrackers. “Scarlett! Are you out of your goddamn mind? I get you a spot on a dating show so you can look pretty, act a little dumb, and win over some fans for a comeback, and you’re planning to show up with a coffin? Are you moving in?!” My phone screen was still lit, showing the promo shot of me with a sweet, vacant smile—a perfect porcelain doll. The top comment, liked into oblivion, read: [Who is this girl? Some nepo baby? Get the bimbo off the show!] A long chain of “+1”s followed. I scrolled past it, feeling nothing. I was used to it. In this industry, being irrelevant is the original sin, especially for a former rising star like me who’d fizzled out and was now, years later, still a nobody. Dana was right. This was my last shot. A reality show about hot people falling in love on a deserted island. All I had to do was be beautiful, be stupid, and be good background scenery. After all, a pretty vase makes the best foil for Bob Vance’s icy charisma, Leo Nash’s sunshine-boy charm, and that sweet new ingénue Lily Winters’ delicate innocence, right? Easy enough. Less work for me. “Dana,” I said, kicking the heavy case with the toe of my boot. It answered with a dull thud. “It was my grandpa’s,” I lied smoothly. “His pride and joy. Told me I had to keep it with me always. For luck.” I let my voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll nail the ‘dumb but beautiful’ role. I’ll be the damsel in distress, the one holding everyone back. I won’t steal anyone’s spotlight.” Dana’s voice was a shriek. “Scarlett! It’s a desert island! A survival-themed show! You’re taking an antique chest to a desert island?! Do you want the internet to tear you to shreds?!” I hung up and dragged the case to the door. It was so heavy it screeched against the floorboards. On the lid, a single, ornate ‘T’ was carved into the wood, its edges worn smooth by time. My grandfather’s voice, old and stubborn, echoed in my memory. “Scarlett, a chef’s tools are their courage. You never leave them behind, no matter where you go.” I sighed. Fine. Grandpa’s courage, my burden. 2 Azure water, white sand, swaying palms—the island filming location was straight off a postcard. The moment the helicopter’s rotors slowed, a wave of hot, salty air slapped me in the face. The cameras were already rolling, the livestream broadcasting across every major platform. The chat instantly flooded the screen: [OMG BOB!!! I’M WEAK!] [LEO BABY, MOMMY’S HERE FOR YOU ~~~] [Lily is a literal angel on earth today!!!] I was the last one off the helicopter. When two crew members, grunting and straining, hauled my massive ebony case off the aircraft and dropped it onto the sand with a heavy thump, the air seemed to freeze for a second. The next second, the chat went nuclear. [Wait, what the hell did she just bring with her?] [HOLY SH*T?? Is that her suitcase? What’s in there, a whole cow?] [LMAO, bringing a trunk that big to a survival show? Is that where she keeps her giant ego?] [Certified Diva! We knew it!] [RIP to the crew members who had to carry that…] [Did this bimbo bring her brain? Is this a dating show or a moving company?] The camera cleverly caught the expression on the face of the ingénue, Lily Winters. Dressed in a flowing white sundress, her makeup was flawless and ethereal. She glanced at my case, then at her own chic, 24-inch hot pink suitcase. Her lips pursed for a fraction of a second before she plastered on a perfect, sweet smile and playfully stuck her tongue out at the camera. “Wow, Scarlett, you really came prepared! Unlike me, I just brought a few changes of clothes.” The chat immediately erupted with praise: [Lily is such a sweet angel.] [See, that’s how a normal person packs.] [I feel so bad for Lily, having to film with a diva.] Leo Nash, the pop idol famous for his sunny disposition, bounced over, his bleached-blond hair catching the light. He gave my case a curious pat. “Scarlett, what’s in the treasure chest? A pop-up tent? An inflatable raft? Don’t tell me you brought a mini-fridge.” His tone was light, playing it up for the cameras, but his eyes held a hint of condescending curiosity. Bob Vance stood a little further away, his sunglasses hiding most of his face, leaving only a glimpse of his sharp, sculpted jawline. He stood with his arms crossed, an effortless portrait of cool detachment, as if the chaos around him was nothing more than background noise. Did his gaze, hidden behind those dark lenses, flicker over to my case? I couldn’t tell. He was like a perfect marble statue, radiating an unapproachable aura. A bunch of phonies, and he’s the phoniest of them all, I thought to myself. Braving the storm of judgmental stares, I turned to the main camera and offered up a perfect, innocent, and sufficiently stupid smile. My voice was a soft, slow drawl. “Oh, this? It’s just… some things for cooking. The director said we had to make our own food, right?” I fluttered my eyelashes, trying to look as clueless as possible. The chat was instantly flooded with “LMAO” and “???”: [Cooking?? Is she for real?] [Cooking on a desert island? I’d believe a frying pan, but a chest this big? Did she pack the entire kitchen from a Michelin restaurant?] [There’s a limit to how much you can fake it for the camera! I’m gonna be sick!] [I predict this woman will single-handedly drag down the quality of the entire show…] [Just a casual viewer here, but I’m already feeling second-hand embarrassment for the other contestants…] Just off-camera, the director’s face twitched. He forced a smile and tried to smooth things over. “Haha… well, Scarlett is certainly… creative. Alright everyone, welcome to Heartbreak Island! For the next seven days, this beautiful island will be your home!” He paused, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Of course, you’ll have to work together to find your own food, water, and shelter! Now, please open your luggage. Other than clothing and basic toiletries, any unnecessary items will be confiscated by the production team!” Lily and Leo obediently opened their suitcases, revealing neatly folded clothes, sunscreen, and small bottles of skincare products. The chat immediately filled with compliments like [So organized!] and [She gets it!]. Then it was my turn. Every camera, every pair of eyes, zeroed in on my ebony case. I slowly crouched down, undid the brass latches, and lifted the heavy lid. Inside, packed tightly and gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen, was an arsenal of… knives. Knives of every conceivable shape and size. Long slicers, short paring knives, heavy cleavers, serrated blades… There were also strange, nameless metal tools, a few cast-iron pans of varying thickness, and a full set of wooden-handled spatulas and ladles. Tucked in a corner was a small, hand-cranked stone grinder and several oil-paper packets filled with mysterious powders. The sunlight hit the blades, reflecting a blinding glare. Silence. A dead, absolute silence. Even the ever-present live chat went blank for several seconds, as if the sight of my murderous collection had crashed the servers. A few seconds later, the screen was completely submerged in a tidal wave of comments: [WHAT THE F*CK?!!!] [KNIVES? A WHOLE CHEST OF THEM???] [This girl isn’t here for a date, she’s here to dismember someone!] [DEAR GOD! Someone call the police! There’s a psycho on set!] [Bringing a case of knives to a survival show, what kind of performance art is this?!] [DIVA! She’s the queen of all divas! Kick her off the show!] [The other contestants need to run! Get away from the crazy person!] The director’s smile was frozen solid on his face, his lips twitching uncontrollably. He pointed a trembling finger at the case, his voice cracking. “Scar… Scarlett! Th-these… you can’t have these! It’s too dangerous! This is… this is insane!” He was nearly incoherent. I put on my most innocent expression and pointed to the oil-paper packets in the corner, my voice a meek whisper. “Director, those are just spices. Some ground peppercorns, star anise, and this is a special powder I made from dried bark for flavor. That’s not against the rules, is it?” My voice grew quieter and quieter, perfectly playing the part of a clueless idiot. “AGAINST THE RULES! ALL OF IT! CONFISCATE IT! IT ALL HAS TO GO!” the director roared, waving his crew forward. They scrambled to slam the lid shut and carted my armory away as if it were a ticking bomb. The chat cheered: [FINALLY!] [Good job, director!] I watched my case disappear with a hint of regret, then shrugged and sighed. Alright, Grandpa. It’s not that I didn’t want to bring my courage, but the enemy’s firepower was just too strong. I subtly patted the inner pocket of my jacket, feeling the outline of the small, ebony-handled knife, carefully wrapped in thick leather. It was no longer than my palm. The blade was razor-thin, and as I traced its shape through the fabric, I felt a whisper of its cold, sharp edge. Heh. Good thing I had a backup. We were on a desert island, after all. You can’t do everything by hand. 3 The show’s version of “island survival,” of course, wasn’t designed to actually starve the contestants. The initial supply pack contained protein bars, crackers, a few bottles of water, and a basic fishing kit. The shelter consisted of several pre-pitched, sturdy-looking tents. The real challenge was for the contestants to source and cook their own food, creating entertaining, primitive-living content for the cameras. The first two days were a chaotic mess. Leo volunteered to go fishing. After striking a series of cool poses on the rocks, he returned with a handful of tiny fish, barely enough for a single bite. Lily, in all her delicate grace, attempted to start a fire. She ended up choking on smoke, tears streaming down her face, creating a viral meme of her looking like a cute, soot-covered kitten. Bob, the A-list actor, was the most composed. Using the simple tools provided, he sharpened a stick into a spear and tried to catch fish in the shallows. His movements were clean and efficient, but his success rate was just as dismal as everyone else’s. For the most part, we subsisted on the initial supply of crackers, and everyone’s faces started to take on a pale, hungry look. And me? I perfectly followed Dana’s instructions: the clumsy, useless beauty. They asked me to gather firewood? Sure. I returned with a bundle of damp, rotting branches that successfully extinguished the tiny flame Lily had worked so hard to create. The billowing smoke sent everyone into a fit of coughing and crying. The chat went wild: [Hahaha, what a useless bimbo.] [Just as I thought. Nothing but a pretty face.] [Can someone please just tell her to sit down and not touch anything?] They asked me to help clean the few tiny fish Leo had caught? I held one of the fish, fumbling awkwardly. I barely managed to scrape off a few scales before I nearly sliced my own finger off. The chat was merciless: [Is she trying to descale the fish or perform surgery on herself?] [Production needs to get her some extra insurance, stat!] [Did she learn her knife skills from a bear?] Lily timed her entrance perfectly, holding out a cracker, her voice dripping with gentle concern. “Scarlett, honey, just stop, you’re going to hurt yourself. Here, have a cracker. It’s not much, but it’s better than losing a finger, right?” Her eyes were filled with pity, but I caught the fleeting glint of superiority in them. I took the cracker and gave the camera a grateful, slightly wounded, simpleton smile. “Thanks, Lily. You’re so sweet.” Inside, I was rolling my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. If my grandfather saw me butchering a fish like this, he’d probably rise from his grave just to call me a disgrace. Occasionally, Bob would look my way. Across the flickering firelight, with his sunglasses now off, his deep-set eyes were as unreadable as the night sea. But when his gaze swept over my sand-covered fingers clutching the cracker, it seemed to linger for a split second. Was it curiosity? Or was he just annoyed by the sight? I couldn’t tell. An A-lister’s thoughts were probably as complex and layered as my grandpa’s signature bone broth. The internet’s animosity towards me continued to build: [Daily question: Has Scarlett been kicked off the show yet?] [I can’t even watch her eat. She’s such a burden!] [Did the producers bring her on just to make everyone else look good by comparison?] [Is it just me, or does her stupidity seem… intentional? Like she’s acting…] [Get real. You think she’s smart enough to act this dumb?] Yep. The pretty airhead persona was holding strong. Dana would be thrilled. 4 Everything changed on the evening of the third day. The island weather turned on a dime. The sky went from clear to a bruised purple in minutes. A violent wind ripped through the camp, followed by a torrent of rain that hammered down on us. “Typhoon! It’s a typhoon! Get back to the tents! Get the equipment inside!” The director’s panicked shouts were barely audible over the storm. We scrambled back to our tents just in time to hear a series of loud cracks and the desperate cries of the crew outside. The mooring lines for the small supply boat tethered to the makeshift dock had snapped under the force of the waves. The boat, along with the backup generator and the next batch of supplies, vanished into the churning, black ocean. Inside the tent, there was a dead silence, broken only by the howling wind and raging storm outside. The faint glow of the emergency light illuminated several pale, frightened faces. Lily hugged her knees and began to sob quietly. “What are we going to do? The boat is gone… the food is gone… Are we going to starve to death?” Leo ran a hand through his soaking wet blond hair, trying to maintain his sunny persona, but his voice trembled. “D-don’t be scared, Lily! The crackers… we still have some, right? We just have to hold on until the storm passes!” He rummaged through the supply pack, and his face fell even further. After two days, only a few crackers were left—barely enough to last one more day. Bob leaned against a tent pole, his eyes closed. Rainwater trickled down the sharp line of his jaw. He didn’t say a word, but the tight set of his lips and the shallow rise and fall of his chest betrayed his inner turmoil. The production crew was in chaos. Their walkie-talkies crackled with static and broken calls for help. It was clear their communications were down. A palpable sense of despair seeped through the screen, reaching every viewer watching the livestream. The chat was in a frenzy: [HOLY CRAP! This is real?!] [The boat is gone?! The supplies are gone?! This just got serious!] [Oh my god, this is terrifying! What are the contestants going to do?] [Production needs to do something! Safety first!] [Praying they all stay safe!] [Where’s that diva Scarlett? I bet she’s not acting up now. Probably scared silent.] I huddled in a corner of the tent, wrapped in a thin blanket provided by the show. My wet hair was plastered to my face, and I looked even more shaken than Lily. No one noticed that, under the blanket, my fingers were gently tracing the ebony handle of the small knife in my inner pocket. Its cool, solid feel was strangely calming. My grandfather’s voice echoed in my head again, his tone calm and knowing. “What are you panicking for? The heavens won’t starve a stray sparrow. You live off the land, you live off the sea. As long as you have a blade in your hand and a plan in your head, a true craftsman will never go hungry.” Somehow, the storm outside didn’t seem so terrifying anymore. 5 The typhoon raged for a full night and the following day before finally moving on. The rain stopped and the wind died down, but the island was a wasteland. Broken branches, uprooted bushes, and scattered coconuts littered the beach, along with a mess of debris washed ashore by the waves. Our tents were still standing, but they were soaked through, cold, and smelled of mildew. The most critical problem was the complete lack of food. The last of the crackers had been divided up during the panic of the previous night. Leo, sporting a pair of dark circles under his eyes, paced around the campsite like a starved golden retriever. He rummaged through the fallen bushes, his eyes glowing as he stared at some strange-looking wild berries and mushrooms. “This red one looks edible, right?” he mumbled to himself. “It’s so… vibrant.” Just as he reached for it, a hand shot out and yanked him back. It was Bob. The actor’s face was pale, but his eyes were sharp and steady. “Don’t touch it unless you want to die,” he said, his voice hoarse. He pointed to the brightly colored berries. “First rule of survival: if you don’t recognize it, you don’t eat it.” Lily was curled up on a relatively dry rock. Her face was sallow, her lips cracked and peeling. She didn’t even have the energy to cry anymore, just weakly whispering, “Hungry… so hungry…” The director and his crew were in a similar state of despair. Communication was still spotty, and a rescue boat wouldn’t arrive until the next day at the earliest. The livestream faithfully captured every moment of their misery. The chat was filled with worry: [They haven’t eaten in over 24 hours… this is hard to watch.] [Bob’s right! Don’t eat wild berries!] [Leo, don’t do it! Wait for rescue!] [Lily looks so weak, my heart breaks for her…] [Where’s that diva Scarlett? Still playing dead?] I slowly rose from my corner. The blanket slid off, revealing a face that was just as tired as everyone else’s, but calm. Ignoring the others, I walked to the edge of the camp, toward a pile of wrecked, rain-soaked bushes. The camera followed me. The viewers watched as I knelt and started picking through the muddy, worthless-looking leaves and branches. I pulled off a few specific leaves. Chat: [What is she doing? Making mud pies?] I dug around a rotten root and pulled off a few pieces of bark. Chat: [???? Is she so hungry she’s going to eat bark?] I pushed aside a fallen bush and carefully dug up a few dirt-caked tubers that looked like small, lumpy potatoes. Chat: [WTF! What are those things! You can eat that???] I carried my meager haul back to a dry patch of ground in the center of the camp. In the middle of the soggy ashes of our old fire, I reached into my own suitcase—the one everyone had mocked as a symbol of my vanity. From inside, I pulled out a small, folded piece of sheet metal. With a few quick snaps, a simple charcoal stove, no taller than two bricks, stood steady on the damp ground. The chat stuttered for a half-second before erupting in a tidal wave of question marks: [???] [A STOVE? She had a stove in her suitcase this whole time?] [I AM LITERALLY DEAD! Is her suitcase a Mary Poppins bag?!] [Wait! Those leaves and bits of bark she just gathered… you don’t think…] Before the chat could process it, I continued, my movements fluid and practiced. Like a magician, I produced a thin iron pan from a hidden compartment in my luggage. Chat: [A PAN???] I opened the oil-paper packets, revealing my secret stash: the umami bark powder, coarse sea salt, wild peppercorns, and a small, solidified block of rendered seabird fat. Finally, my hand went to the inner pocket of my jacket. The leather-wrapped, ebony-handled knife slid free. The blade was no longer than my palm, thin as a dragonfly’s wing. It caught the sun and flashed with a cold, sharp light. The chat completely lost its mind: [A KNIFE!!! SHE STILL HAS A KNIFE!!!] [WTFWTFWTF! She hid a weapon! Isn’t that illegal?!] [Production, do something!!!] [Wait… what is she going to do with it?] The camera zoomed in, focusing tightly on my hands. I walked to the water’s edge, where the tide was receding from the murky, post-typhoon shore. I waded into a shallow tide pool and, with movements almost too fast for the camera to follow, snatched two dull, grey-scaled fish that were thrashing in the shallow water. Each was about the length of my hand. I also grabbed a few small, feisty crabs. Back at the stove, I pinned one of the fish to a flat rock. My left thumb held it firmly behind the gills. With my right hand, I brought the thin blade to its belly and, with a delicate flick of the wrist, made a single, swift cut. Zip. A hairline incision appeared on the fish’s underside. My wrist moved in a blur, the knife a flash of silver. There was no hacking, no bloody mess—just clean, efficient motion. In seconds, it was over. The fish lay still. The scales were gone, the rock beneath it clean except for a few drops of water. The gills and guts had been removed in one clean piece and discarded. What remained were two perfect, snow-white fillets of fish, trembling slightly in the sunlight, completely deboned and free of any blood. The entire process was silent, precise, and carried an air of cold, detached grace that was a world away from the clumsy idiot who’d nearly chopped her own finger off. A dead silence fell over the camp, broken only by the rustle of the wind through the trees. Lily had stopped crying, her mouth hanging open in a perfect ‘O’. Leo’s eyes were wide enough to fall out of his head. Even Bob, who had been resting with his eyes closed, suddenly opened them. His dark pupils contracted sharply, his gaze locking onto my hand, the knife, and the two flawless fillets. From the direction of the production crew, there was a collective gasp and the clatter of a walkie-talkie hitting the ground. After a moment of stunned silence, the live chat exploded again: [!!!!!!!!!!!] [WHO AM I, WHERE AM I, WHAT DID I JUST SEE???] [That knife work?? Is this f*cking magic!] [That’s better than any Michelin chef I’ve ever seen, holy sh*t!] [What just happened? Did I blink and miss it?] [Did… did the fish just fillet itself?] [SOMEONE PINCH ME! I think I’m hallucinating from hunger!] [Is this the same bimbo who couldn’t even hold a fish properly?] [The whiplash… my brain is broken…] [It’s scripted! It has to be! The producers set this up!] [Set what up, you idiot? You couldn’t create that with CGI!] I ignored the shocked stares and the mental image of the exploding chat. In my world, there was only the food in front of me and the small, struggling flame in my stove. I heated the pan, slicked it with the seabird fat, and an intoxicating, savory aroma filled the air. I sprinkled in the greyish bark powder. With a sizzle, a complex fragrance—a mix of earthy wood and subtle spice—cut through the camp’s damp, musty smell. Lily unconsciously sniffed the air. Leo’s stomach let out a loud, pathetic gurgle. The fish fillets went into the pan. The thin slices of fish hit the hot oil and instantly curled at the edges, turning a beautiful, opaque white. With a flick of my wrist, the fillets danced in the air. I tossed in a few crushed wild peppercorns, and their sharp, tingling scent exploded from the pan. Finally, I crumbled in a small piece of the last cracker to act as a thickener and poured in half a bottle of mineral water. My movements were seamless, imbued with a strange, natural rhythm, as if I weren’t cooking on a makeshift stove but conducting a symphony I knew by heart. Steam billowed from the pan, carrying with it a rich, impossibly delicious aroma that settled over the entire camp. It was a fusion of the fish’s sweetness, the bark’s unique fragrance, the peppercorns’ tingle, the richness of the fat, and the subtle, toasted flavor from the cracker. “Gulp…” The sound of someone swallowing hard came from the direction of the production crew. Leo’s eyes were glued to the small pan of bubbling, milky-white soup, his Adam’s apple bobbing uncontrollably. His pop-idol image, his sunny persona—all of it crumbled in the face of pure, primal hunger. He took a few involuntary steps forward, inhaling deeply as if the scent alone could sustain him. Lily watched, her eyes wide, unconsciously licking her cracked lips. And Bob Vance, the stoic mountain of a man, finally moved. He was suddenly at my side, his intense gaze fixed on the pan. The broth was simmering, its creamy white liquid coating the tender, curled pieces of fish. I picked up a clean half-coconut shell to use as a makeshift bowl, filled it with the steaming soup and a few pieces of fish, and handed it to the person closest to me: Bob. He was clearly taken aback. He probably expected me to serve the crying Lily, or the starving Leo, or even the director. A flicker of surprise crossed his dark eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He didn’t refuse, nor did he say thank you. He simply reached out with those long, elegant hands—the same hands praised as works of art in countless cinematic close-ups—and took the simple coconut bowl from me. Our fingers brushed, his cool to the touch. He looked down at the creamy soup in his hands, the steam blurring the sharp lines of his face. He stood there for a moment, then lowered his head, blew gently on the surface, and took a large sip directly from the edge of the bowl. The camera caught the movement of his throat as he swallowed. And then, time seemed to stop. Bob froze, his head still bowed over the bowl. After a few long seconds, he slowly, very slowly, raised his head. He had forgotten to manage his expression. Unconsciously, his tongue darted out to lick a stray drop of soup from the corner of his lips. It was an instinctive, almost boyish gesture. Then, the god-like A-lister leaned in, bringing that face, insured for millions and worshipped by fans worldwide, close to mine—the face of the girl the entire internet had labeled a useless diva. His voice was still low and deep, but now it held a new, barely concealed urgency. He looked at me, his gaze terrifyingly focused. “This soup…” He paused, as if searching for the right words, but in the end, all the complexity boiled down to a single, direct question. “Can I have another?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384392”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In my last life, we went skiing in the Swiss Alps for my sister-in-law’s birthday. But when the avalanche hit, my husband, Anthony, reached past me without a second’s hesitation and grasped his sister-in-law’s hand. I was left alone on the mountain, to die a hopeless death in the swirling blizzard. It was only then that I finally understood. To him, Claire wasn’t just his brother’s wife. She was the one who held his heart. So, this time, during a formal family dinner, I calmly asked for a divorce. The smile on his face froze, then twisted into a cold sneer. “You’d better not regret this.” He was so certain I was just throwing a tantrum. With a flourish of his pen, he signed the papers, looking at me as if he had me completely cornered. But this time, I was truly done with him. 1 “I will never regret it.” My words were sharp and final. The atmosphere at the dinner table plunged to freezing. Anthony’s hand, holding his fork, was trembling, his eyes locked on me. Through it all, my expression remained a perfect mask of calm. Finally, he slammed his silverware down with a clatter, snatched the divorce agreement, and scrawled his signature before hurling it, along with the pen, directly at me. The sharp corner of the paper sliced a thin line across my left cheek. The pen, a fountain pen, burst upon impact, and a dark bloom of ink spread across my white dress. No one had expected a family dinner to explode like this. Anthony spat out two parting shots: “I’ll see you at City Hall tomorrow. If you don’t show, I’ll have you dragged there.” “Mia, I’m dying to see just how tough you really are.” With that, he stormed out. Claire instinctively moved to follow him, but Anthony’s mother slammed her hand on the table. “Sit down!” she barked. “Eleanor, Anthony’s furious. He needs someone right now—” “Even if he needs comfort, it won’t come from you!” The matriarch’s tone was glacial, her eyes filled with a loathing for Claire she no longer bothered to hide. It was true that Claire had grown up in the Vance household; her mother had been their housekeeper for nearly thirty years. Out of respect for her long service, Eleanor Vance had funded Claire’s education and ensured she never lacked for anything the two Vance sons had. But Claire had crossed a line. At eighteen, she drugged the eldest son, Chris, and climbed into his bed. To protect her reputation, Chris had no choice but to marry her. But because of it, he voluntarily renounced his position as the heir to the Vance fortune and joined the military. He was gone for five years, returning only when both his legs were ruined. The golden boy of New York society was dragged into the mud, his future shattered. If Claire had remained loyal, Eleanor might have eventually forgiven her. But she didn’t. She set her sights on Anthony, and for that, Eleanor had come to despise her. She’d never said it aloud, but tonight, the facade was finally cracking. “Claire, you may be able to fool Anthony with that little act of yours, but don’t think for a second that I can’t see right through you.” “Even if Mia and Anthony divorce, you will never have a place by his side.” Claire’s fingers clenched into tight fists, her face draining of color. She bit her lip, her eyes shooting daggers of pure hatred at me. I simply met her gaze, offered a small, dismissive smile, and carefully folded the signed divorce agreement. Then, I picked up my fork and knife. And continued eating my dinner. The twisted, toxic game she and Anthony had been playing? I was no longer a participant. After a moment, Claire took a deep breath, her voice softening into a placating tone. “Eleanor, my feelings for Anthony are purely that of a sister-in-law for her brother. Nothing more.” “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be heading up to my room.” Eleanor let out a cold, humorless laugh and turned away, refusing to grant her another word. Claire excused herself from the table. When the dinner finally concluded, I was about to leave with the agreement when Eleanor called out to me. “Mia.” I paused but didn’t turn around. “I can see you’re serious about this. As Anthony’s mother, I should probably try to talk you out of it. They say you shouldn’t let the sun go down on an argument, but—” “This time, I won’t.” A flicker of surprise went through me. That was unexpected. I turned to face her, meeting her sharp, appraising gaze. The Vance family was one of New York’s most powerful dynasties. After her husband’s death, relatives had circled like vultures, but Eleanor had single-handedly secured her position. She was a woman of decisive action, always putting the family’s interests first. I had been certain she would oppose the divorce. Yet, here she was, not just allowing it, but seemingly supporting it. “What are your plans, after you leave Anthony?” I considered it. When I was first reborn, all I wanted was to go home—back to San Francisco, to leave New York forever. But then I thought, why should I be the one to leave? I aced my SATs to get into Columbia at eighteen. I spent a decade building my empire in this city. Why should I throw away everything I had fought for, all for a man? Finally, I answered, “I’m cutting all business ties with him.” From this day forward, our paths would never cross again. 2 Anthony and I were never a match of equals. To be precise, I married down. After I graduated high school, my father began introducing me to the world of business, taking me to all sorts of galas and events. I met Anthony at an auction in San Francisco. He was there with his mother. Throughout the entire event, his face was a stoic mask, cold and distant, as if nothing in the world could capture his interest. That is, until my father outbid his mother for a collector’s grade military combat knife, forcing her to pay a staggering thirty million. For the first time, a storm of emotion flickered in Anthony’s eyes. It was a complex mix of envy and resentment as he stared silently at his own mother. At first, I thought the knife held some special meaning for her. Later, at the reception, I found Anthony alone in the gardens. He was just standing there, lost in thought. I watched as he ripped a peony from the soil, root and all, and began tearing it apart, petal by petal, as if asking the flower, or maybe himself: “Why can’t she love me a little more? Why does she only have eyes for my brother?” “She was so proud when Chris got into his first-choice college. When it was my turn, it was like she’d been doused with cold water.” “I got into the best school, the best program. Everyone praises me, but why can’t she see it?” His silhouette was etched with a profound loneliness. He even began to curse his own existence, asking the heavens why, if they had already created his perfect older brother, they had bothered making him at all. And if he had to exist, why couldn’t he be treated with the same fairness? He was crying, silently. In that moment, though I couldn’t fully comprehend his pain, I didn’t approach him. I just stood there, a quiet presence in the shadows, keeping him company. My father had hoped I’d stay in California, go to Stanford. But some strange impulse pulled me to New York, to Columbia. My father was surprised, but he didn’t try to stop me. He told me, “You only get so many days on this earth. If you want something, you go after it. You fight for it, you take it.” So I did. I introduced myself to Anthony. I deliberately stepped into his world. We met at eighteen. We were married at twenty-two. We were together for a decade. For ten years, whatever Anthony wanted, if I could give it, I gave. If I couldn’t, but he still wanted it, I fought to get it for him. I knew his childhood was a void, devoid of sweetness. He once told me that in the past, relatives, even his own parents, would bring gifts specifically for Chris. He was always an afterthought, the one who got something “by the way.” Except for Claire. His so-called childhood friend, Claire. The candy she gave him was just for him. Even if it was expired, it became the only glimmer of light in his bleak childhood. That was why, time and time again, he would abandon me for her. I used to tell myself, “Claire is just a symbol of his childhood comfort. The way he treats her has nothing to do with love.” But I overestimated my own strength. When I was burning up with a fever, Claire happened to twist her ankle. Anthony chose her. When I needed a date for a gala, so did she, because Chris couldn’t go. Anthony chose her again. Birthdays, anniversaries… he’d make a promise every time, and he’d break it every time. There were times I couldn’t take it anymore. “Are you my husband, or are you Claire’s?” I’d demand. And every time, his response was a dagger of disappointment. “Chris is injured. He doesn’t want to see anyone. His wife is already going through so much. Can’t you just be a little more understanding?” In those moments, the words would die in my throat, my heart constricting with a pain so sharp it stole my breath. Anthony’s friends would tell me to be more generous. “If he had feelings for Claire,” they’d say, “he never would have let her marry his brother in the first place.” And Claire was always there, playing the part of the innocent peacemaker. “There’s nothing between Anthony and me. We’ve never crossed any lines. You shouldn’t overthink things. I will always be your sister-in-law.” But is an emotional affair not still an affair? This marriage became a crucible of pain and torment. I thought about divorce countless times. But I could never bring myself to do it. I couldn’t sever the bond. I couldn’t let go of Anthony, the boy whose loneliness had captured my heart at first sight. A decade of love had woven itself into the very fiber of my being. Until my last life, on Claire’s birthday. Until the avalanche hit, and he reached past me to grab her hand, leaving me to die on that mountain. He didn’t hear my desperate cries for help. He didn’t hear me scream, “I can’t see the path!” He didn’t hear my sobs. And in that final, freezing moment, I found a strange sense of release. You only get so many days on this earth. There was no point in clinging to this any longer. I’ve been given a second chance. And I will not walk the same path again. 3 Eleanor urged me to think carefully. Even with a divorce, business was business, and personal ties were personal ties. After six years of marriage, our financial interests were deeply entangled; nearly every one of our major projects was a joint venture. Untangling them now would be catastrophic. Besides, at this moment, the only company with the capacity to absorb my corporation’s partnerships was Anthony’s. I just smiled. They all seemed to have forgotten one crucial fact: Anthony was never my only option. I chose him simply because I loved him. After leaving the Vance estate, I received a text from an unknown number with a San Francisco area code. “Heard you’re divorcing Anthony?” My eyebrow arched. I stared at the message for a long moment before deleting it, blocking the number, and calling my father. I asked him for the name of the best lawyer in San Francisco. Leo. The next day, I had just arrived at City Hall when Anthony’s car, a black sedan, pulled up behind me. Claire was in the passenger seat. She rolled down the window, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. “Mia, don’t get the wrong idea.” “I was running a little fever last night. Anthony just took me to the hospital, that’s why…” I didn’t bother dignifying her with a response, walking straight past the front of their car. Her expression instantly soured. Anthony’s brow furrowed in disapproval. “Mia, didn’t you hear your sister-in-law talking to you?” “When are you going to drop that spoiled rich girl attitude?” A sharp laugh escaped my lips. I turned, my smile dripping with sarcasm. “You know, Anthony, I’m genuinely curious. Your brother’s legs are ruined, but he’s not dead. Are you sure he doesn’t mind you being so eager to take care of his wife?” “Or is this some kind of threesome thing you all are into?” Anthony’s face flushed with rage, his hands balling into fists. “Mia, what the hell are you talking about!?” “I have no feelings for Claire! I’ve only ever seen her as my sister-in-law! When is this going to end?” “You’re going to divorce me because I peeled a shrimp for her?” “If you’re this crazy, maybe I should check you into a—” CRACK! The crisp sound echoed in the quiet morning air. I had stepped right up to him and slapped him, hard, across the face. His words died in his throat. He stared at me, his expression a mixture of disbelief, confusion, and something that looked almost like hurt. Claire scrambled out of the car, rushing to his side to inspect his face, where the red imprint of my hand was already starting to bloom. Her eyes welled with tears as she stood between us. “Mia, how could you hit him?” “What did he do wrong? If you have a problem, take it out on me… but how could you…” Her voice broke into a sob, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. I scoffed. Strangely, Anthony ignored Claire completely. His eyes, full of a complex storm of emotions, remained fixed on me. Inside the clerk’s office, just as I was about to sign the final application, Anthony suddenly grabbed my hand. The tips of his fingers trembled, almost imperceptibly. “Mia, are you sure you want to keep this up?” “You know I won’t back down. And I will never, ever beg you to come back.” “When the thirty-day cooling-off period is over, I won’t be coming back to cancel this.” He spoke each word with deliberate weight, as if reminding me—and himself. Once these papers were signed, there was no turning back for either of us. He was betting. Betting that I couldn’t live without him. Betting that this was just a tantrum. Betting that deep down, I still loved him. But this time— I smiled, and then, with slow, deliberate care, I signed my name to the divorce application. Thinking back, if I hadn’t come to New York, if I hadn’t been the one to walk into his life, we probably never would have happened at all. Now, all I was doing was returning things to their natural state. A few moments later, I held the receipt for the thirty-day cooling-off period in my hand. Anthony’s gaze was so intense it felt like it could burn a hole through me. His voice was laced with ice. “Mia, you’re the one who can’t leave me. Don’t come crying to me when you want to cancel this.” With that, he took Claire’s hand and walked away. I stood my ground, silently watching his back as it receded into the distance. No, I thought. That day will never come.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384408”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was once the proudest daughter of a titan of history; I became the disgrace who stained his name. After seven years in the black market, I finally sent our national treasure home, but my own body was left for dead in a foreign land. My soul returned, just in time to hear him roar to the world: “That degenerate daughter’s death is the greatest contribution she could have ever made to our culture!” Dad, the honor you built your entire life upon? Your daughter guarded it for you with her life. 1 On my twenty-fifth birthday, my father told me over the phone that he wished I would die. It was because I had fallen. Fallen from a journalist who wouldn’t bend the truth an inch, to someone who ran with the jackals and thieves of the black market antiquities trade. This was my seventh year in the shadows. Seven years to finally work my way into the core of the smuggling syndicate. My old mentor from J-school had disowned me, calling me a disgrace blinded by greed. My former colleagues scoffed at the very mention of my name, considering me a stain on the profession. I remained unmoved, a solitary figure walking through filth. I hadn’t had a single night of peaceful sleep in seven years. Three days ago, it ended. After sending the final location of a priceless national artifact, I was discovered. My body was dumped at some forgotten ruin in a foreign country. My soul, it seems, hitched a ride back with the recovered artifact, returning at last to my father’s side. I hadn’t seen him in years. Frost had claimed the hair at his temples. The back I remembered as straight as a pine was stooped now, and behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes held a weariness that never left. He was a titan in the field of history, yet he looked as though he were being crushed by an invisible mountain. He was at a symposium. In the audience, his academic rival, Dr. Alistair Finch, saw him and rose to his feet, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes plastered on his face. “Samuel, my dear friend. There’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.” My father, his expression grim and focused, flinched almost imperceptibly. Finch’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried through the auditorium with practiced ease. “I hear your daughter is making quite a name for herself in the antiquities black market. A real natural, they say. I was just wondering… is that what you’d call ‘a family tradition’?” He drew out the final words, each syllable dripping with unconcealed mockery. The color drained from my father’s face. He gripped the edge of the lectern, his knuckles showing white. He took a deep, steadying breath, and when he spoke, his voice was as cold and hard as frozen earth. “I, Samuel Croft, have built my entire life on two things: scholarship and integrity.” He paused, his eyes sweeping the room. “I have no daughter.” As if that wasn’t enough, he straightened his slightly stooped spine, his voice suddenly raw with a final, desperate hatred. “That degenerate who shamed my name should have died out there seven years ago!” he roared. “Her death would be the greatest contribution she could ever make to my family—and to the world of culture!” A pain, sharper than the cold river water that had filled my lungs, tore through my spectral form. The few times I had tried to come home over the years, I was met with the same venom. “You’re a parasite on the academic world. How dare you show your face here?” “Get out! You don’t belong here!” “Dad, I came all this way. Please, just let me in for a glass of water.” “I’ll leave right after, I promise. I won’t stay.” I would grab his arm, trying to find a flicker of the father I knew, begging for just a few more moments in his presence. But his face would darken, and one time, he snatched the rare 18th-century manuscript rubbing I’d found for him and hurled it into the fireplace. The flames devoured the fragile paper, and with it, the last light in my eyes. “The Croft family does not accept stolen goods!” Guests at his party would stare and whisper. “Poor Samuel. A lifetime of renown, only to raise a daughter like that.” “I know. I heard she deals in all sorts of dirty, back-alley trades. No questions asked.” My face would burn with shame. I would look at my furious father, say nothing, and turn to leave. I’d spend the night on the cold stone steps outside, covered in soot and ridicule. I was hurt, but I never blamed him. My father’s life was his work. He valued integrity and a clean name more than life itself. Growing up, the one thing he always told me was, To be a great scholar, you must first be a great person. You must answer to history, and you must answer to your conscience. To live up to that, I devoured books. I made him proud, graduating from one of the top J-schools in the country, determined to become a journalist who exposed the truth. The sound of snickering in the auditorium pulled me from my thoughts. I looked at the smug faces of my father’s colleagues. They were enjoying this. Everyone in their circle knew the story: Samuel Croft’s brilliant daughter, kicked out of journalism for a falsified report, her promising career destroyed. The man who was once so proud of me had become their favorite punchline. Especially for Finch, who had spent his youth in my father’s academic shadow and had resented him ever since. His words were designed to kill. Hearing my father’s declaration, Finch feigned surprise. “Oh, Samuel, you shouldn’t say that,” he said, his eyes glinting with triumphant scorn. “No matter how she turned out, she’s still your blood. Your daughter. You can’t escape that. It’s in your bones.” My father’s chest heaved. He clenched his jaw, using every ounce of his strength to remain standing. “I have no such daughter. The things she’s done are an insult to our ancestors!” he seethed. “God himself will see that animal punished one day!” He couldn’t stay a moment longer. He turned and practically fled from the stage, his retreat looking almost like a panicked escape. A wave of stifled laughter filled the hall. I floated beside him, my form nearly transparent with grief. In his prime, he commanded respect wherever he went. Now, in his twilight years, he had to endure this humiliation. Because of me. I watched as his tightly pressed lips began to tremble, as the rims of his eyes slowly turned red. It felt like a thousand steel needles were piercing my soul. I knew he couldn’t hear me, but I stood there beside him and whispered the words I had held back for seven long years. “Dad, I’m sorry.” Back home, he collapsed into the mahogany chair in his study, gasping for air. A sheen of cold sweat covered his forehead. The defiant stand he’d taken at the symposium had drained him completely. After a moment, his hand trembling, he reached for the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a locked rosewood box. The keyhole was slightly rusted, a sign it hadn’t been opened in a long time, yet the wood around it was worn smooth from years of being touched. He carefully unlocked it. I froze. It was my first published academic paper, from when I was sixteen. An analysis of oracle bone inscriptions from the Shang Dynasty. Over a decade had passed. The once-crisp pages of the journal were yellowed and brittle. But my father put on his reading glasses, sat up straight, and turned to the title page. There, in his own elegant script, was a dedication written with his Parker fountain pen. The strong, sure strokes were a reflection of the man he used to be. For my daughter, Claire—May your pen be your sword, and may you spend your life guarding the light of history. His voice, barely a whisper, was choked with a sob he could no longer contain. A tide of sorrow crashed over me, my entire being consumed by it, leaving me breathless. The memory was so vivid. A fall afternoon, the sun slanting through the library windows, casting golden dust motes in the air. I had sprinted all the way home, the freshly printed journal clutched in my hand like a holy text. “Dad! It’s published! Dad, they published my paper!” I shouted it all the way up the stairs of the faculty housing, startling the whole building. My father was in his prime then, full of life. He rushed out of his study to meet me, his face alight with a joy he couldn’t hide. He pulled on a pair of white gloves before taking the journal from me, his hands reverent. He looked at it, then looked at it again, the light in his eyes brighter than the autumn sun. “My brilliant girl,” he’d said, his voice thick with emotion. “You are your father’s pride. I am so proud of you.” He had gripped my shoulders, the first time I’d ever seen him so openly emotional. I remember he canceled all his meetings that day. He showed the journal to everyone he met, thumping his chest with pride. “My daughter, Claire. Sixteen years old. Wrote this analysis of oracle bones all by herself.” Every colleague who passed by gave a thumbs-up, their praise genuine. “A lioness from a lion’s den!” “Samuel, she’s surpassed you already. The sky’s the limit for this one.” No one could have imagined that just a few years later, I’d be excommunicated from the world of journalism for one “falsified” report. The day I came home with my luggage, his eyes were bloodshot. It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry. He was holding a wooden ruler. He struck me with it once, then couldn’t bring himself to do it again. Instead, he whipped it down hard across his own palm. “I didn’t teach you right,” he’d choked out. “There is something wrong with the heart of this family!” That night, we sat back-to-back in his study in silence until dawn. From that day on, my father held his head low in the academic world. The straight spine began to curve. He locked himself in his study, no longer attending the salons and conferences he once loved. He was terrified of anyone mentioning me, of hearing their pity or their thinly veiled scorn for how I’d “lost my way.” Seven years passed like that. And I had walked a path in complete opposition to his dreams, mingling with criminals in the dark underbelly of the world. At first, he yelled, he hit me, he quoted every classic text he could think of to try and make me repent. But when he saw I was “unrepentant,” he fell into despair. He changed the locks. He cut off all contact. Even when I waited all night on his doorstep, all I received was a look of pure hatred. We were no longer father and daughter. We were strangers, colder than ice. So, to see that he had kept this paper, treasured it all these years… I couldn’t believe my eyes. A bitter sorrow, one my father had buried for seven years, wrapped itself around me. I could see him, in the dead of countless lonely nights, holding this paper and weeping in silence. My fall from grace had shattered his pride; the image of his secret tears was like a bullet to my soul. He stroked the line of his dedication again and again, until his own tears blurred the lenses of his glasses and he could no longer see the words. He took off the glasses, squeezing his eyes shut in pain as he leaned back. After a long time, he opened them again. From a hidden compartment in the box, he pulled out a newspaper clipping. It was an op-ed he had written a few years ago, denouncing the chaos of the black market and publicly calling me out by name—a greedy, soulless disgrace to my ancestors. He placed the clipping next to my award-winning paper. One was the beginning of his pride. The other was the end of it. He stared at the two artifacts, his clouded eyes filled with an unspeakable, wrenching conflict. I knew then: the depth of his hatred for the woman I had become was born from the unwavering love he held for the girl I once was. Time ticked by. He sat there, motionless, from dusk until deep into the night. It was the rumbling of his own stomach that finally broke the spell. He rose unsteadily and went to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for a few withered vegetables. I stared. Those were the ones I had secretly bought for him three days ago. Maybe it was a sixth sense, but three days prior, I’d been overcome with an intense, inexplicable urge to go home. I bought a trunk full of his favorite foods and, while he was out giving a lecture, I stocked his fridge. When he came home and saw me, his face twisted into the familiar mask of disgust. “Take your things and get out!” he had roared. “The Croft name stands for integrity and learning! I don’t want these things in my house! They’re dirty!” His words were harsh, but I was used to it. “If you think they’re dirty, just wash them a few times,” I’d replied quietly. “They’ll come clean.” I carried the groceries into the kitchen and cooked him a meal of all his favorite dishes. Then I forced a smile. “Dad, we’ve never really had a drink together. Have one with me tonight?” For some reason, that day, he didn’t throw me out immediately. He sat down at the table, his face a thundercloud. Father and daughter, closer than anyone, yet separated by a wall of ice. I poured the wine myself, glass after glass, until my head started to spin. Then I looked at him. “Dad, it’s been seven years. I know I’ve been a disgrace to you.” My voice was thick. “But whether you believe me or not… I have never done a single thing… against my conscience. I… I really had my reasons.” His hand, holding his wine glass, froze. Before the rim could touch his lips, he slammed it down on the floor. It shattered. “Reasons? I may be old, Claire, but I’m not blind!” he spat. “What reason could make you abandon your journalistic ethics to write false reports? What reason could make you stay away from home for seven years, running with scum in the black market? What reason could make you a dealer in stolen history, a degenerate who has forgotten everything she was taught?” Shame made my blood run cold. I couldn’t utter a single word of defense. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t fallen, that I was undercover. But the oath of my mission was a lock on my lips. His hand, withered and thin, slammed down on the table. A glint of moisture, a final flicker of hope, shone in his eyes. “Tell me! If you have a reason, can’t you even tell your own father?” My silence was my confession. He took it as guilt. With a roar of fury, he flipped the table. Food and sauces splattered all over me. He glared, his eyes burning with betrayal, his voice cracking with every word. “I ask you, what did I teach you when you were a child?” he cried, his voice breaking. “‘To build a heart for the world, to secure a destiny for the people, to carry on the lost teachings of the past, and to create peace for all generations!’ Have you forgotten it all?” He pounded his own chest, the thuds echoing in the silent room. “And what have you done? Can you truly say you have no regrets? That your conscience is clear?” Then, he slapped me. Hard. A ringing filled my ears, and seven years of buried grief erupted. I shot to my feet, screaming, losing control for the first time. “I, Claire Croft, have no regrets about anything I’ve done! My conscience is clear!” My father stared at me, his body trembling, his eyes filled with utter disappointment. He staggered back. I moved to steady him, but he shoved me away. “Dad…” He just shook his head, looking at me as if I were a monster. “Don’t call me that. You are not my daughter,” he said. “My daughter died seven years ago.” He looked right through me, and with every ounce of strength he had left, he forced the final words through his teeth. “You killed her.” Then he pushed me out the door and slammed it shut. My vision blurred. I ran, fleeing into the darkness below. My hand, cold and shaking, dialed the number I knew by heart. I didn’t wait for him to speak. “Chief, please,” I sobbed into the phone. “I don’t want to be undercover anymore. I just want to be a real journalist again. After this mission is over, please, can you give me my life back?” A heavy sigh on the other end. A long pause. “Claire, you know you’re the only one who’s gotten inside the syndicate’s core…” “Just one more year. We’ll wrap this up in one more year…” “One year, then another year, then another!” I shrieked, my voice filled with despair. “I was twenty-two, Chief. I’m twenty-nine now. It’s been seven years. I’m so tired.” I hung up before he could reply, collapsed under a tree, and wept. … The memory faded. Watching my father pull those shriveled tomatoes from the fridge, about to cook a sad, lonely bowl of noodles, my heart ached. A sudden, sharp knock echoed from the front door. He glanced at the door, then at the pot on the stove, and quickly dumped the tomatoes into the trash. He took a few deep breaths, straightened his clothes, and walked over to open it. “You degenerate! I told you, you are not a Croft anymore!” he yelled as the door swung open. “Don’t you ever come back here again!” He stopped. Standing on his doorstep were several uniformed police officers and a solemn-faced, middle-aged man. My father blinked in confusion. The man in the lead—my Chief—snapped to attention. His eyes were red. His voice was heavy. “Dr. Croft,” he said. “We’re… we’re here to bring Claire home.” My father’s brow furrowed at the sight of the police. “What has she done now?” he demanded, trying to peer past them into the hallway, searching for me. “I’ve already disowned her. The Croft family has no place for such a stain on its name. You don’t need to bring her here. This isn’t her home.” His face was flushed with anger, and he tried to slam the door. The Chief gently blocked it with his hand. He shook his head. He tried to speak, but his eyes welled up first. He looked at my father, his voice trembling uncontrollably. “Dr. Croft, we’re… we were Claire’s colleagues.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384424”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I got tired of being an NPC in a horror game. The jump scares lose their novelty after the thousandth time. So I slipped out. Broke the code and went looking for a real life, and maybe, a real love. A year later, my boyfriend Caleb’s childhood sweetheart dragged us both back into the game. And to save her, he shoved me into a sacrificial coffin. “Chloe,” he’d said, his voice tight with a pathetic excuse for regret. “Ashley’s not built for this. Just… take her place for a little while. I promise I’ll come back for you.” Before I could even scream, a low, contemptuous chuckle echoed from the darkness above me. “Seriously? This is the man you picked out in the human world? What a fucking animal.” 1 It started because Caleb’s precious Ashley got tagged by the game. She came to him, naturally, a mess of perfectly orchestrated tears and trembling lips, begging him to save her. What she wanted was for me to give her my Mercy Pass. “Caleb, please,” she whimpered, her wide, innocent eyes flicking toward me. “I know her pass is for a low-mortality instance. Please.” She turned the full force of that gaze on me. “Chloe… you wouldn’t just let me go in there to die, would you?” Caleb ran a hand through his hair, the picture of tormented nobility. “Chloe, just give the pass to Ashley. She’s slated to go in tonight.” I stared at him, my own expression unreadable. “Give it to her? And what about me? I only have one. What happens the next time I get chosen? How do I know I won’t get thrown into a death match?” His patience snapped, the noble facade cracking. He yanked at the collar of his shirt. “And what if Ashley gets thrown into a death match?! God, Chloe, why are you being so vicious all of a sudden? You just can’t stand that she’s sweeter and kinder than you, can you? You’d rather see her die.” Right on cue, Ashley’s waterworks started up again. “Caleb, don’t say that. Chloe’s just… scared. I’m not afraid to die.” She bit her lip, her face so pale it looked like it might shatter. “I just… the thought of never seeing you again… it hurts.” Caleb’s jaw clenched, his heart practically breaking for her. “Ash, don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Without another word to me, he dragged her into my bedroom. He pulled the Mercy Pass from under my pillow and scribbled Ashley’s name on it. She shot me a triumphant, venomous little smirk over his shoulder, sticking her tongue out. “Sorry, Chloe. I’ll be sure to thank you properly when I get back. I’ll even buy you dinner. And I’ll be cheering for you when it’s your turn to go in!” Caleb shot me a glare, though his voice softened slightly. “Why are you looking at her like that? She said she’d buy you dinner. Stop being so dramatic. I’ll get you another pass when I get the chance, okay?” I just folded my arms, a humorless smile playing on my lips. For a normal person, getting a Mercy Pass was harder than winning the Powerball. I’d had to claw my way out of a nightmare to earn this one. I was done with them. I grabbed my bag and walked out. I hadn’t even made it to the end of the block when a searing pain flared in the palm of my hand. The binding mark. A line of blood-red text flashed in my mind. 【FABLEGATE – 10-PLAYER INSTANCE. LEVEL: UNKNOWN.】 Damn it. This was my instance. My pass. I sprinted back to the apartment. Ashley was curled up in Caleb’s arms, cooing at him. Caleb had the decency to look guilty, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, Ashley was too scared to go alone, so we’re all going in to help her. It’s a ten-person instance anyway. Better to be bound with people you know than with strangers.” He squared his shoulders, trying to sound reasonable. “Chloe, you’re both women. You should be supporting each other, not being so petty.” Rage, pure and hot, flooded my system. I wanted to tear them both apart. I was an NPC, yes, but I was AWOL. The Boss was probably going to kill me for this… The thought of the Boss, angry, sent a genuine shiver of fear down my spine. Adrenaline surged. I lunged, my hands closing around Ashley’s throat. “Are you insane? Why would you write my name down?!” Caleb tried to pull me off, and I spun, slapping him hard across the face. “You pathetic bastard! You want to protect your little princess? Fine! But what the hell does that have to do with me?!” 2 That night, I was pulled into the game. I scanned my surroundings, a small, unimpressed frown on my face. A year away, and Fablegate looked exactly the same. So much for the Boss’s promises of a complete overhaul. Just as I was thinking that, a familiar, saccharine voice squealed from behind me. “Wow! A fairytale instance is so different! It’s so beautiful!” Ashley cooed. “Caleb, after we clear this, can we stay and explore for a bit? Like a little vacation?” A bald, heavily muscled guy nearby snorted. “A vacation? You think this is a f—ing theme park? What kind of idiot newbies did we get matched with?” Caleb puffed up his chest to argue, then seemed to think better of it when he saw the sheer size of the other man. Ashley just stomped her foot, pouting. A moment later, two more people materialized. Caleb’s friends, Mark and Liam. Ashley’s loyal guard dogs. They were already puffing out their chests, promising they’d see her through to the end. 【All players have arrived. Please proceed to the town square to receive your objective.】 It was only then that the group seemed to notice me standing apart from them. Ashley trotted over, grabbing my arm. “Chloe, why are you walking so fast? Don’t worry, these guys are super strong. They’ll make sure we all get through this. You can stop sulking now.” I ignored her. Caleb, predictably, got annoyed. “We’re already here, Chloe. Can you drop the attitude? We’re a team now. We have to help each other.” The bald guy—I decided to call him Brock—stepped forward. “Alright, cut the crap. I’ve cleared three instances. You all know this one, right? The mortality rate is practically zero. You want to live? You listen to me.” Since no one else seemed to have his track record, he quickly became the de facto leader. Caleb tugged on my sleeve. “Stop messing around, Chloe. The most important thing is helping Ashley get through this. And what’s with the getup? You trying to hide your face because you’re embarrassed?” 3 To avoid being recognized by any of my old colleagues, I’d wrapped a scarf around the lower half of my face and put on a pair of dark sunglasses. When we reached the assembly point, the town’s “Mayor” kept glancing at me, his eyes lingering just a little too long. It made the hairs on my arms stand up. Finally, he cleared his throat and began the mission briefing. “Welcome, travelers, to the lovely town of Fablegate! Your tour will last for seven days. Please, enjoy yourselves! Our residents are all so very… hospitable. Today’s special attraction is the town’s most famous landmark, Blackwood Castle!” He went on for a while before pressing a single finger to his lips, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A word of advice. When you sleep tonight, you must remain perfectly silent. The master of the castle despises the sound of conversation.” After the Mayor shuffled away, everyone stood frozen. “What the hell was that?!” Brock muttered, looking like he wanted to spit but didn’t dare. “When did the instance change?!” Behind my sunglasses, my eyes were wide. So the Boss really had been overhauling the game. That must be why the level was listed as ‘Unknown.’ But I hadn’t heard any whispers of this over the past year. This instance used to be a three-day cakewalk. The castle was the final night. You just had to survive one evening, and as long as you didn’t break any rules, you were golden. But now… there were barely any rules at all, just one vague warning about being quiet. And the final destination was now the first. Ashley’s bravado vanished. She clung to Caleb’s arm, her knuckles white. “Caleb… d-don’t tell me the difficulty increased. I’m so scared.” Caleb’s own face was as pale as parchment, but he managed to pat her hand. “It’s okay, Ash. Maybe they just changed the location. The core difficulty probably hasn’t changed.” His words seemed to soothe the group, a collective sigh of relief rippling through them. Ashley was no longer in the mood for sightseeing, her fingers clutching Caleb’s sleeve. I pulled my scarf up a little higher. I really hoped I wouldn’t run into the Boss. The doors of Blackwood Castle creaked open, releasing a wave of bone-deep cold that washed over us. Ashley’s knees buckled, and she nearly collapsed. Brock shot her a look of pure disgust. “Alright, if the Mayor didn’t give us any rules, that means we have to find them. It’s not dark yet, so we should be safe. Pair up. Don’t wander around in a big clump.” Caleb supported the whimpering Ashley, then looked at me hesitantly. “Ashley’s too scared to be alone. I’ll team up with her. It’s a ten-person instance, you’ll find a partner.” I gave him a cold smile. Ten people, sure. But one group was a family of three who were sticking together. I was the odd one out. I didn’t bother replying, just turned and headed up the grand staircase. I checked the rooms where the rules used to be hidden, searching every nook and cranny. Nothing. Half an hour later, we regrouped in the main hall. Every face was pale. No one had found a single rule. Caleb took a deep breath, trying to be the voice of reason. “The first day is always the easiest. Maybe the only rule really is to be quiet while we sleep.” Brock snorted. “Shut up, you clueless idiot. Go comfort your crybaby girlfriend.” Ashley’s face flushed. “I’m not his girlfriend,” she mumbled, but no one was listening. The light outside was fading fast. Brock suggested everyone go to their rooms and stay put for the night. But no one had noticed the woman who had appeared at the foot of the stairs. Her makeup was exaggerated, theatrical, like a porcelain doll cracked down the middle. She pressed her fingers to her lips, her voice a high, sharp trill. “Oh, my! We have guests!” She counted us with a long, manicured finger. “One, two, three, four… ten! Exactly ten! What a delightful coincidence! Now, everyone, come and choose your number card!” She curtsied. “By the way, you may call me Corinne. I am the castle’s housekeeper. If you have any questions at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.” With that, she became a statue, a standard NPC waiting for players to approach. My temple throbbed. Wasn’t she the Boss’s older sister? What was she doing playing housekeeper? Brock glanced at one of Caleb’s friends, Liam, and jerked his chin. “You. Go get a card. And see what you can find out.” Liam didn’t dare refuse. He went up and, to everyone’s surprise, struck up a lively conversation with Corinne. Ashley clasped her hands together. “Wow, Liam is so amazing. He’s such a charmer, he can even flirt with an NPC.” Five minutes later, Liam returned, beaming. “The number cards are fine. They’re for a prize drawing tomorrow. And the lady is super nice. I asked about the rules, and she confirmed the only one for tonight is no talking.” “A prize drawing?” Brock asked. “What’s the prize?” Liam shrugged. “She wouldn’t say.” With the immediate danger seemingly gone, everyone went up to get their cards. They all came back with the same information as Liam. No one could figure out what the prize was. When it was my turn, Corinne didn’t even give me a second glance. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Corinne had the sharpest eyes of anyone. If she didn’t recognize me, no one would. There were ten rooms. Nine were on the right side of the staircase. Only one was on the left. And its number, 4, was painted a sickening, visceral blood-red. 4 Corinne leaned against the newel post, a malicious grin stretching her painted lips. “My dear guests, all of our rooms must be occupied. The master of the house gets so upset when he finds an empty room, and believe me, you do not want to see him when he’s upset.” She gestured gracefully. “As for how you choose… well, that’s up to you. But I should mention, the room on the left can only accommodate a single guest.” Brock stroked his chin. “All the other rooms are on the right. In these games, the majority path is usually the safe one. The left…” A heavy silence fell over the group. Everyone understood. Whoever stayed in that room was probably going to die. A blood-red room number was a universal sign for death in these instances. He flexed a bicep. “To be fair, we’ll draw lots. The nine of you. Whoever draws ‘Left’ gets that room.” Caleb bristled. “What about you? You should be in the draw, too. How is that fair?” Brock actually laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. He shot forward, grabbing Caleb by the collar and lifting him slightly off the ground. “How is it fair, you little shit? You want to know how it’s fair?” He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “I’ve cleared three of these goddamn games. How many have you amateurs cleared? None? That’s what I thought. You want to live, you do what I say. Otherwise, you can f— off and die on your own.” He dropped Caleb in a heap and spat on the floor near his head. “Any other objections?” Heads shook like a field of bobbleheads in an earthquake. Ashley helped her fallen hero up, whispering reproachfully, “Caleb, why did you have to say anything? It’s a one-in-nine chance. It probably won’t be one of us. It’ll be some other unlucky person.” Her eyes flickered in my direction. Caleb glared at me. “Chloe, you’re not even going to help me up? Ashley’s a better friend to me than you are. Why didn’t you back me up just now? I’m your boyfriend! You just stood there and watched him humiliate me?” I shrugged. “I agree with Brock. Why would I back you up?” Besides, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be the unlucky one. And even if I was… so what? I wasn’t afraid. Okay, that was a lie. I was terrified. I had a horrible suspicion that the Boss himself was staying in that room. The draw began. Every hand holding a slip of paper was slick with sweat. I opened mine. Right. I let out a long, slow breath. A moment later, a sharp gasp cut through the silence. The unlucky one was Ashley. The paper fluttered from her grasp as fat, silent tears began to fall. “H-how… how could it be me? Caleb…” She turned to him, her face a mask of despair. “Caleb, you won’t let them do this to me, will you?” The color drained from Caleb’s face. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Brock just sneered and turned to leave, claiming what he deemed the best room on the right. The others quickly followed suit, scurrying away. Ashley’s silent tears turned into gut-wrenching sobs. “Caleb, I’m going to die tonight! I know it! You all said you’d protect me! Are you just going to stand there and watch me die?” Caleb looked away. His friends, Mark and Liam, suddenly found the floorboards and the ceiling fascinating. Then Mark’s eyes landed on me. “Chloe,” he said, his voice wheedling. “You’ve always been the brave one. Why don’t you switch with Ashley?” My eyes narrowed. I laughed. “What, the three of you big, strong men are less brave than me? Why don’t you switch with her?” His face tightened. “You know how dangerous the castle is at night,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We need to stay in the rooms next to hers to protect her.” He turned to Caleb. “Caleb, talk to her. It’s just the first night. Nothing serious ever happens on the first night.” Caleb’s expression was grim. He looked at me, then back at the sobbing Ashley. He sighed. “Chloe, just switch with her. She’s not strong like you. If she starts crying in the middle of the night, it’s over. It’s probably just a guess that the room is dangerous anyway. Go on. It’ll be fine.” 5 I laughed, a cold, sharp sound that echoed in the hall. I looked my boyfriend of one year up and down. “Caleb, who exactly is your girlfriend here?” I asked. “If it’s ‘just a guess,’ why don’t you switch with her? You piece of shit.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, scratching the back of his head guiltily. “I can’t. Ashley will be too scared without me nearby. What if she has a panic attack? Chloe, you’ve always been the reasonable one. Look, when we get out of here, I’ll take you to meet my parents. We can finally get engaged. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” A smile touched my lips, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Caleb. First, I am not giving my room to Ashley. Second, I would rather die than marry you. We’re done. Go protect your useless, crying waste of space.” As the last word left my mouth, a deep bell chimed through the hall. Eight o’clock. Corinne’s red lips stretched into an impossibly wide grin, her voice trembling with barely concealed excitement. “Eight o’clock! The master of the house is getting hungry! Any guests not in their rooms in five minutes will be considered… part of the menu.” The color drained from their faces. I didn’t hesitate. I spun and ran for an empty room on the right. A powerful hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me back. The world spun. When it stopped, Caleb had me pinned against the door of the blood-red room on the left. “Quick! Get Ashley to her room!” he yelled to his friends, his voice shaking. He turned back to me, his face close to mine. “Chloe, stop it. I know you don’t want to break up. You’re just angry. I swear, when we get out, I’ll take you home to meet my parents. Please, just be good. It’s only for one night. Nothing is going to happen.” To prove his sincerity, he leaned in to kiss me. A wave of nausea washed over me. I twisted my head away, and in that split second, Caleb wrenched the door open and shoved me inside. “Chloe,” he gasped, his voice full of false sincerity. “You have to survive.” Click. The door slammed shut. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of another door locking from the other end of the hallway. Hilarious. They were afraid I’d come out and fight them for their rooms.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384440”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Scarlett Crane and I have been mortal enemies since childhood. In kindergarten, she humiliated me by pulling down my pants; I ripped the gold star off her chest. She dumped chalk dust in my backpack; I filled her ballet slippers with sand, spraining her ankle. In high school, she took my toughest classes just to outscore me. “No fun if I can’t crush you,” she smirked. So I pinned her love letter to the bulletin board, getting her a week of detention. After 15 years of rivalry, I grew tired. I fled to a southern university, avoiding her entirely. As I left, she called me a coward: “Drop dead and never come back.” Five years later, at our alma mater’s gala, she mocked my worn jacket: “Just a handyman now? Without me, you’ve let yourself go.” But I wasn’t a handyman—the gala was a fundraiser to save my life. 1 Scarlett’s arrival was a spectacle. The school grounds were swarmed by media, turning the event into a circus, all for her. She’d turned down every interview, all so she could come back here and flaunt her victory over me. “Scarlett, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not working here, I—” She cut me off, her voice brutal. “Ethan, when are you going to finally admit you’re weaker than me? That stubborn pride of yours hasn’t changed a bit!” She was no longer the girl from high school, her features sharpened by success, but the fire in her eyes was the same. She still needed to conquer me, to be better in every conceivable way. I remembered winning the state-level design award in high school. She claimed I only won because one of the judges was a distant relative. I remembered choosing a design program in the south. She said it was because I was terrified of competing with her in the north, too spineless to face a real fight. “Admit it, Ethan,” she taunted, her smile dripping with arrogance. “You just can’t measure up to me.” I stared into the familiar, ferocious competitiveness in her eyes and felt the corner of my mouth twitch into a smirk. Yeah, I was dying. We’d been fighting for fifteen years. How could I not play the final round? I lifted my head, my gaze locking with hers, and pointed to a poster on the bulletin board for an international design competition. “Scarlett, what makes you so sure that just because I’m standing here, I’ve lost?” She blinked, caught off guard by my sudden defiance. Then she scoffed. “You? You think you’re qualified to enter a competition of that caliber?” “On what grounds? Isn’t it obvious?” she continued, spreading her arms wide, a gesture for the whole world to see. “Because I’m a rising star in the design world. And you’re just some manual laborer.” Our old classmates started to gather around us, their whispers like a swarm of bees. “Is that Ethan Hayes? Wow, he really fell off.” “He used to be a legend back in the day. What a shame.” Scarlett’s smirk widened, laced with pity. “Oh, you guys don’t know the half of it. He insisted on going south for design school, swore he’d start his own brand. Five years later, he doesn’t even have a proper job.” In front of everyone, our teachers and our peers, she seemed determined to rip away my last shred of dignity. My knuckles turned white as I clutched the application for severe illness assistance the principal had given me. A bitter taste filled my mouth. 2 “Ethan, my boy, have you finished filling out that grant application?” Principal Thompson spotted me and walked over, his face etched with concern. A hot wave of shame washed over me. I didn’t want anyone to know, especially not her. But before I could hide it, Caleb Moss, the same campus heartthrob from high school, snatched the form from my hand and started reading it aloud. “Ethan Hayes… ALS? A fundraiser?” As the words left his lips, a ripple of derisive laughter spread through the crowd. “ALS? You? You don’t look sick. Can’t even fake an illness properly.” Caleb shot me a look of disgust, as if I were something he’d scraped off his shoe. Scarlett’s pupils contracted. She strode forward, grabbed the diagnostic papers and the application, and scanned them intently. Caleb sneered. “Seriously, Ethan, you’ve really hit rock bottom. Trying to scam the school for donation money?” He jingled some coins in his pocket. “If you’re that desperate, get on your knees and beg. I might toss you a few quarters for old times’ sake.” Hearing that, the tension in Scarlett’s shoulders eased. Her expression hardened into cold contempt. “Ethan,” she said, her voice dripping with disgust, “you’re pathetic.” My heart pounded as I watched her tear the application form to shreds, piece by piece. The money I’d earned from my small design studio over the years was almost gone, drained by medical bills. If I hadn’t run into Principal Thompson at the hospital last month, I would have given up completely. The only reason I could still walk and talk was because of the initial funds raised by the faculty. I’d tried to tell him it was pointless, that this disease was a bottomless pit. I told him not to bother the alumni. But he insisted, saying they had to save me, and that sliver of hope he gave me was now being ripped apart. He said I had been the pride of the school once, and they wouldn’t just let me fade away. I began to shuffle toward the campus lake, my legs already stiffening, each step clumsy and comical. Suddenly, Caleb shoved me hard from behind. I stumbled, my body refusing to catch itself, and pitched forward into the muddy grass. I writhed on the ground, trying to get up, but my body wouldn’t obey. I was just a mess of mud and humiliation. Scarlett’s fingers twitched, but her face remained a mask of indifference. “Don’t think you can scam the school just by putting on a show, Ethan.” “You’re a disgrace,” she spat, her voice laced with venom. “You don’t deserve an ounce of pity.” She then announced to the stunned crowd, “You want money? Fine. My studio, Crane Designs, will donate ten million dollars to our alma mater!” A wave of gasps and applause erupted from the onlookers. Caleb immediately sidled up to her, puffing out his chest, his eyes full of adoration. Scarlett ignored him, her gaze fixed on me. “But this donation,” she declared, her voice ringing with finality, “is specifically for underprivileged students, to upgrade the cafeteria and dorms.” She ground her heel into my jacket, her face a mask of contempt. “You, Ethan, won’t get a single cent.” “No, Scarlett, please, you have to listen,” Principal Thompson pleaded, trying to explain. But she was already walking away, surrounded by a crowd of admirers. 3 “Ethan, my boy, I’ll figure something else out,” Principal Thompson said, his voice choked with urgency. “Your health… maybe you should pull out of the design finals next week…” Everyone knew. Designing a new academic building for our school had been a shared dream for Scarlett and me. Our old building was a wreck, with peeling paint we’d cover with old newspapers and homework assignments. The windows rattled in their frames with every gust of wind. Back then, we’d both sworn that the day we became architects, we would design a new building for our school—one that was beautiful, functional, and built to last. We’d stay up late after study hall, secretly competing, sketching out one naive blueprint after another, dreaming of the day they’d become real. I brushed the dirt from my jacket and forced a weak smile. “I only have a month left. Scarlett did the right thing. Those kids need the money more than a dying man.” “Thank her for me,” I added. Principal Thompson’s lips trembled, and he let out a long, heavy sigh. I dragged my stiffening limbs off the school grounds, the harsh afternoon sun making me dizzy. By the time I reached the bus stop, the world tilted and went black. I hadn’t eaten all day. My blood sugar plummeted, and my legs gave out from under me. I collapsed. “Ahh! That man is dead!” a little girl shrieked. My forehead had smashed against the curb, and blood was now streaming down my face. She was so startled she dropped her can of soda, which fizzed and spilled all over the pavement. I desperately needed sugar. My body shaking, I propped myself up on my hands and began to crawl, licking the sticky, sweet liquid off the dirty concrete. At that moment, only one thought consumed me: I couldn’t die before the finals. “Heh. Ethan, look at the state of you. Licking soda off the ground?” A sleek Maybach had pulled up to the curb. Through the tinted window, I could see Scarlett’s silhouette. “And you thought you could compete with me?” Her voice was smug, but her eyes held a flicker of something complex, something I couldn’t decipher. All I could do was focus on the soda, trying to bring my body back from the brink. “First, you try to scam the school, and now you’re begging on the street? To think I ever considered you my rival.” Scarlett’s face was a mixture of disappointment and rage. She tossed a wad of cash out the window, the bills fluttering down onto the pavement. “Take the money and get lost. Don’t embarrass the school any further!” My hands moved numbly, gathering the bills. With this, I could buy more paper, more time to perfect my design. But my actions only fueled her fury. “Ethan, have you no shame?” she roared. “Do you really want to be a dog?” “If you’re so determined to be a dog, then be my dog!” She started to open her door to grab me, but Caleb stopped her. “Scarlett, maybe Ethan is just going through something. I’ll talk to him,” he said smoothly. “Don’t you need to study Aether’s past works? I heard he’s participating in this competition. You go study the master’s designs. I’ll take care of Ethan.” At the mention of the name Aether, Scarlett’s expression softened into one of pure reverence. “To see Aether’s work in person… I could die happy.” She shot me one last cold glare. “This pathetic waste of space isn’t worth my time.” “You should get on your knees and thank Caleb, Ethan.” As the car pulled away, Caleb’s face twisted into a cruel mask. He crouched down, grabbing my chin, his eyes filled with menace. “If you hadn’t posted Scarlett’s letter on that bulletin board and gotten her in trouble, we would’ve been together years ago.” I laughed, a dry, rasping sound. Scarlett had trailed after him like a lost puppy for an entire year, and he’d never given her a second glance. “Who was it that said a desperate girl’s love isn’t worth a damn?” I taunted. “Who was it that smashed the gifts she gave you in front of the entire school, humiliating her?” “Now that she’s successful, you’re blaming me? You’re disgusting.” “Shut your mouth, you son of a bitch,” he snarled, his anger finally boiling over. He stomped his leather shoe down hard on the back of my hand. A sickening crack echoed in the silence, followed by a wave of blinding pain. He leaned in, his smile chilling. “You like soda so much?” “Don’t worry, old friend. I’ll make sure you get your fill.” A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I tried to fight back, but my muscles were frozen, unresponsive. Caleb had his friends pin me down as they brought over an entire case of soda. “Pour it all down his throat. My treat.” The cold, fizzy liquid flooded my mouth and nose, burning its way down my throat. My stomach felt like it was being shredded by a thousand needles. I choked and coughed violently, spitting up mouthfuls of blood. I tried to stand, to push myself up, but my arms and legs were no longer my own. Again and again, I struggled, only to collapse back onto the pavement. Finally, I couldn’t hold on any longer. The world dissolved into darkness. 4 The doctor’s face was a portrait of sorrow. “Mr. Hayes, your condition has deteriorated rapidly. Today’s… incident has caused significant trauma.” When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. “I’m afraid… you have less than a week.” “If you have any last wishes, now is the time.” He couldn’t bear to look at me any longer. He turned and left in silence. Wishes? An image of the crumbling school building flashed in my mind, followed by the coldness in Scarlett’s eyes as she walked away. My resolve hardened. At the very end of my life, I was going to win. One last time. I painstakingly uncurled my fingers. Tucked in my palm were the few bills she had thrown at me, now stained with my own blood. I didn’t want to die indebted to her, but it was all I had. I asked a nurse to buy me drawing supplies, and I continued to work. The horror of ALS is how it devours you, piece by piece. I could no longer walk, so I drew from a wheelchair. Soon, my right hand went numb. So I used my elbow, my teeth, whatever it took to keep the pencil moving. The day before the finals, as I painstakingly signed the name “Aether” in the corner of the final drawing, a wave of relief washed over me, and I smiled. I looked at my completed design, and I laughed and cried all at once. This was the last piece of me I could leave in this world. I prayed it would continue to provide shelter for the children long after I was gone. Determined to attend the finals the next day, I gritted my teeth and went to handle my discharge paperwork. That’s when I saw her. Scarlett was at the hospital, helping Caleb with a follow-up appointment. “Don’t blame Ethan,” Caleb was saying, putting on a pitiful display. “He was just in a bad mood. He had every right to hit me.” He pointed to his slightly sprained ankle. “He almost crippled me, but Scarlett, please don’t confront him for my sake. We’re all old friends. I don’t want to see you two fight.” Scarlett’s face was a thundercloud. I scoffed. He’d twisted his ankle when he lost his balance stomping on my hand. But I didn’t have the time or the energy to waste on him. I was running out of both. I turned to leave, but her voice, sharp as a whip, cracked through the air. “Ethan! Get over here. Now.” I ignored her and kept moving, but she grabbed my wheelchair, forcing it to a halt. “Ethan, I am so disappointed in you,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “Caleb was trying to help you, and you attacked him? Do you have a conscience? Did your parents raise a monster?” “Apologize to him! Right now! Or I swear I will call the police and have you thrown in jail.” Looking at that familiar yet alien face, I couldn’t help but laugh. The victim, forced to apologize to his abuser? “In your dreams,” I spat, and tried to wheel myself past her. But Caleb snatched the portfolio containing my design from my lap. “Ethan, I don’t blame you for hurting me, but what are you doing at the hospital? Couldn’t scam the school, so now you’re stealing things?” Panic seized me. “Give it back!” I reached for it, and Caleb dramatically fell to the ground. “Ethan, stealing is wrong! You can beat me to death today, but I won’t let you go down the wrong path!” Whispers erupted around us. The hallway filled with pointing fingers and ugly words. “That’s mine! Give it back!” I lunged forward, trying to grab it, but a firm hand shoved me back into my chair. It was Scarlett. She was flipping through my sketches, her expression growing darker with every page. When she finally looked up at me, her eyes were filled with pure disgust. “Ethan, I was so wrong about you.” “Scarlett, listen to me, that’s really—” “Enough!” she roared, flinging the stack of drawings at my chest. “Do you have any idea whose work you’ve stolen? Do you know what Aether means to me?” “He is a god in my eyes, and I will not let you defile his work with your filthy hands,” she seethed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I was trying to give you a chance, a way to redeem yourself! I convinced Caleb not to press charges for what you did to him! But you’re just… rotten.” “Since you have no shame, I’ll expose you for the fraud you are!” She grabbed my bandaged hand and began to tear viciously at the gauze. “You love to act, don’t you? You love playing the victim to get money! Well, act now! Keep acting!” A white-hot pain shot up my arm, and the world began to fade to black. I slumped to the floor, my body giving out. But in the next instant, Scarlett froze. Beneath the bandages on my hand was a bloody, gaping wound.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384456”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The moment the plane’s engines sputtered and failed, the flight attendants handed out paper and pens for us to write our last words. Right in front of me, my wife, Luna, wrote down another man’s name. “Rich,” her pen whispered across the page, “it took me half a lifetime to realize… you were always my one true moon.” “If this plane goes down, and they’re lucky enough to find the wreckage, let my ashes be returned to Rich’s side.” Rich. My adoptive brother. The one who shattered my mother’s ashes. As fate would have it, the crisis was a false alarm. The plane landed with no casualties. Back home, Luna invited me to a dinner party to celebrate our survival. I handed her a set of divorce papers instead. “Sign them,” I said. “It’s time you went to find your real moon.” … Luna just stared at me, her expression blank for a second. “Alex, I’m busy right now. I don’t have time for your jokes.” “Tonight’s party is important. It’s not just for us—it’s a chance to see friends and family we haven’t connected with in ages.” Friends and family, or just Rich? She’d spent two hours in front of the mirror this morning, cycling through outfits. I hadn’t missed the engagement ring she’d prepared, tucked away in its box. The one engraved with the initials “R.V.” for Rich Vance. This party wasn’t a celebration of life. It was just an excuse to see him again. “Could you move? That table isn’t set yet,” Luna said, her voice soft but strained. I didn’t budge. My hand, holding the documents, was unyielding. “Just sign it.” Her brow furrowed. “Alex, do you really have to be like this?” “Yes.” She sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Look, I know you’re still angry about what I wrote on the plane.” “But we thought we were going to die, Alex.” “I was just writing whatever came to mind. I didn’t think you’d take it so seriously…” I shrugged her hand off. “Let’s get a divorce.” Before we were together, Luna had pursued me relentlessly. She used to say my quiet, reserved nature was what drew her in, that she’d never met a man like me—cool and distant, like the moon in the sky. But after I accepted her proposal, I suddenly became boring. Stale. Five years of marriage, and my quiet nature had turned into a flaw. Countless times, I’d overheard her telling others: “I just feel like my life wasn’t supposed to be… this.” “Alex is so rigid and dull. It’s like we’re from different worlds.” “Rich is different. He’s vibrant, passionate, and so kind.” “He’s like… a ray of moonlight that brightens everything.” In those moments, my nails would dig into my palms, a dull, crushing ache spreading through my chest. She knew. She knew exactly who Rich was to me. If he hadn’t hidden that venomous snake in my mother’s trunk, she never would have crashed on the freeway. If he hadn’t intentionally caused a scene at her funeral, her urn wouldn’t have been shattered, her ashes scattered and lost. Rich and I were sworn enemies, bound by a debt of blood. And Luna had chosen his side. Guests were beginning to arrive. Not wanting to prolong the scene, she snatched the pen from my hand in a fit of pique. “Fine! You want a divorce? I’ll sign it!” Without even a glance at the contents, she flipped to the last page and scrawled her name. Then she threw the papers in my face. “There. Are you happy now?” Expressionless, I picked them up from the floor, checked the signature, and tucked the folder safely into my bag. This party might have been to celebrate our survival, but as far as I was concerned, it had nothing to do with me. I grabbed my coat to leave, but a low voice stopped me from behind. “Big brother, leaving so soon? You only just got here. Did I do something to offend you?” “Look, I even brought you a gift.” Rich stood there, a smirk playing on his lips, dressed in a sharp red suit and holding a gift-wrapped box. The sight of his perfectly innocent face made my entire body go rigid. My hands clenched into fists. An image flashed in my mind: my mother’s funeral. Rich, pretending to trip, sending her urn crashing to the floor. Then, “accidentally” knocking over a vase, soaking her ashes, rendering them unsalvageable. And through it all, his face, streaked with crocodile tears, insisting it was all an accident. The memory made me sick. I turned to walk away. A hand grabbed my arm, hard. “Alex, don’t be childish,” Luna hissed. “We’re the hosts tonight. At least have the decency to stay.” “What will it look like if you just walk out?” I shook her off, my patience snapping. The sound of my palm connecting with her cheek echoed in the sudden silence. “Luna, I’m not in the mood for your little play. And in case you forgot, today is the anniversary of my mother’s death.” I shot a venomous glare at Rich. “I find it disgusting to breathe the same air as a murderer.” “Don’t you dare use that word to describe him!” Luna shrieked, her eyes turning red as she rushed after me. “I told you, it was an accident!” I didn’t bother to respond. I made it to the parking lot, ready to drive off, but my pockets were empty. No keys. “Looking for these?” Luna stood behind me, dangling my car keys from her fingers, her smile devoid of any warmth. “Give them back.” In the next second, she tossed them, and they clattered into a storm drain. “You want to leave? Fine. After the party’s over.” “You know what they’ll say about Rich if you’re not here. The gossip will hurt him.” I stared at her, a bitter, self-mocking laugh catching in my throat. “He deserves it.” She knew full well the cloud of suspicion that had hung over Rich since my mother’s death. She just wanted me there as a prop, to create the illusion that we were all one big, happy family. But I refused to play along. I wouldn’t accommodate a killer. No keys, no car. Fine. I turned and started walking toward the main gate. This was a private estate in the hills. Just driving down the mountain took half an hour. Laughter echoed behind me. “Brother, are you really going to walk? You won’t get down until the sun comes up!” Rich called out. “Luna, darling, don’t worry about me. You should go drive him down. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to him…” In the reflection of a parked car, I saw the adoring, gentle look Luna gave him. “Forget him,” she said. “Let’s go back to the party.” I don’t know how long I walked along that winding mountain road. Blisters formed and burst on my feet. I finally took my shoes off, carrying them in my hand as I limped forward. At least it wasn’t too late. I could still make it to the cemetery for my mom. Just as my energy was completely gone, a car horn blared behind me. “Get in.” The window rolled down, revealing the sharp, elegant face of Victoria Frost. “Victoria?” I stopped, stunned. “When did you get back from overseas?” “Landed yesterday.” Yesterday. The same day my flight nearly went down. Before I could process it, Victoria was out of the car, scooping me up in her arms as if I weighed nothing. “What in the world happened to you?” she murmured, her voice a mix of warmth and concern. Inside the dimly lit car, her face was close, her voice a soothing balm. For some reason, I felt a blush creep up my neck. “Nothing. Just got divorced.” Victoria’s gaze was intense. “Divorced?” “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Decided it was time to let myself go.” We drove in silence for a while, her thoughts seemingly a million miles away. It wasn’t until we reached the bottom of the mountain that she spoke again. “Straight to the cemetery? I already have the cake.” A lump formed in my throat. Someone else remembered. I nodded. “Thank you, Victoria.” When we arrived, I carefully placed the cake on the cold stone and lit the candles. My mom had always loved sweets. I’d never missed her birthday, but this year, I’d almost been too late. As I stood up, a sharp pain shot through my stomach, making me freeze. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. Noticing my distress, Victoria draped her jacket over my shoulders. “Stay here. I’ll go get you some medicine.” I just nodded, my head bowed. As she drove off, I watched her car disappear, a strange warmth spreading through my chest, like something had gently nudged my frozen heart. The candlelight flickered, dancing like fireflies before my mother’s grave. I was talking to her, telling her about my day, when a line of cars pulled up nearby. “Brother! I knew I’d find you here. Lucky guess.” Rich’s cloying voice drifted through the night air. I looked up, my body tensing in alarm, only to meet Luna’s disapproving glare. “This is all your fault,” she snapped. “You ruined a perfectly good party with your tantrum. It was Rich’s thoughtful idea for all of us to come and keep you company.” I ignored her, my voice dangerously low. “All of you, get out.” But they paid no attention, instead wandering around the grave, pointing and commenting. “Wow, Alex is cheaper than I thought. This plot is tiny. The feng shui must be terrible.” “They say he’s such a devoted son, but if he really cared, wouldn’t he have found the killer by now?” Rich listened to it all, a smug smile on his face. My fists clenched. I had been so close to putting him in prison, but at the last minute, Luna had secretly submitted a letter of forgiveness on my behalf, derailing the entire case. “Alex, your mother’s crash was just an accident,” she had insisted. But looking at the triumphant smirk on Rich’s face now, I knew that was a lie. I took a deep breath, about to order them out again. But before I could, Rich leaned forward and, with a playful puff, blew out all the candles on the cake. He blinked his big, innocent eyes. “That looked fun, so I did it for you, brother. You don’t mind, do you?” Without a second thought, I grabbed the cake—wax from the freshly extinguished candles and all—and shoved it squarely into his face. “How about this? Is this fun?” Rich froze for a second, then let out a theatrical wail. “Luna! I was just trying to be nice! Why is he always so mean to me?” he cried, burying his face in her shoulder. Luna frantically wiped the frosting from his face, her voice a furious roar aimed at me. “Alex, what is wrong with you? You’re a monster!” “The candles were still on the cake! You could have hurt him!” I laughed, a cold, empty sound. “He deserved it.” He came here, to my mother’s grave, to taunt me. “Rich is your brother, for God’s sake! All he did was blow out a candle. You can’t be this petty!” “Get out,” I repeated, my voice like ice. “Luna…” Rich whined, clinging to her arm, their bodies pressing together in a way that was far too intimate. Luna, for her part, seemed to be enjoying it. “See? He just doesn’t appreciate me. I only wanted to help celebrate his mom’s life… Did I do something wrong again? It’s all my fault…” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “My mother never gave me a brother.” Rich was a stray my family took in, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. At my words, his eyes filled with fresh tears. “I know you’ve never accepted me as family, brother, but you don’t have to be so cold every time you see me…” I stared him down. My gaze must have been colder than the grave itself, because he trailed off, shrinking back behind Luna like a frightened child. “Luna, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault…” “GET OUT!” I roared, my patience gone. I closed my eyes, trying to regain control. “Never in history has a murderer dared to be so arrogant in front of his victim. Rich, are you testing my limits, or are you just begging to die?” “Alex!” Luna cut me off, her patience finally snapping. “Watch your words! I’ve told you, the crash was an ACCIDENT.” “Rich is so gentle and kind he wouldn’t even step on an ant. How could he possibly harm your mother?” I sneered. “An accident?” “Then how do you explain the highly venomous snake that just happened to crawl into her trunk?” I had the surveillance footage. The dashcam video. It clearly showed Rich buying the snake and hiding it in her car in the middle of the night. But when I presented the evidence in court, it had mysteriously vanished. Wiped clean, with no backups. “Alex, your mother is dead! What’s the point of all this drama?” Rich sobbed, wiping at his eyes. “You’re such an unlovable man. What is your problem?” He then pulled a portable speaker from one of the cars and blasted cheerful, upbeat music. “I know you’re still mad about the funeral,” he said, his voice laced with false sincerity. “So I’m here to apologize.” On the anniversary of my mother’s death, he was playing “Celebration.” A white-hot rage burned through me, and the pain in my stomach intensified. “Do you want to die?” I gritted out. “What will it take for you to forgive me, brother? Should I get on my knees and beg…?” He made a show of starting to kneel, but Luna caught him before his knees could touch the ground. “You did nothing wrong. You don’t have to apologize to him.” Then, in a move that stunned me, Luna knelt before Rich on one knee and pulled out a ring box. “Rich, even the master jewelers said the gem was one of a kind. I had it recut and set for twenty million dollars. A unique gift, for a unique man.” A searing pain shot through my eyes. Even though the setting was different, I recognized it instantly. The ring was forged from my mother’s heirlooms. “Oh, Luna, thank you! You’re too good to me!” Rich exclaimed, slipping the ring on and rushing over to flaunt it in my face. “Look, brother! Isn’t it beautiful?” He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “You know what your mother said, right before she died? She said she was sorry. To you. Hahahaha, can you believe it? Dying, and still thinking of you. So touching…” That was it. I lunged, grabbing a fistful of his hair and slamming him against the cemetery wall. “Alex!” someone screamed. “Let him go!” Luna shrieked, her eyes wild with panic, her voice raw. “What do you want? Just tell me! Alex, I’ll give you anything!” I pulled a knife from my pocket. And pressed it to Rich’s throat. “Anything?” A bloody, feral grin spread across my face. I probably looked completely unhinged. The crowd of onlookers, who had been enjoying the show, scrambled backward, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. I turned my attention back to the terrified man in my grasp. “Just because I didn’t send you to prison doesn’t mean you’re not a murderer.” “As long as I’m alive, you will never know peace.” If he’d just stayed away, he might have been safe. But he had to parade himself in front of me. If he died on my blade tonight, he’d have brought it on himself. “You… you wouldn’t dare, brother,” Rich stammered, though his eyes held a flicker of defiance. “You’re just trying to scare me…” I pushed. The blade sank into his shoulder. He let out a bloodcurdling scream. “Luna, help me! He’s a psycho! Alex is a goddamn psycho!” “Get him!” Luna commanded. She had come prepared. She shot me a look of pure loathing and kicked me hard in the chest. “Did you really think I’d let you hurt Rich again, you lunatic?” The kick was thrown with her full force. I stumbled back, landing hard on the ground, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. Rich was clutching his bleeding shoulder, but Luna was already at his side, gently supporting him. “Quick! Get the first aid kit from my trunk!” she ordered her bodyguards, her eyes filled with nothing but adoration for him. She had long since stopped hiding her true feelings. She began cleaning his wound while another guard called for an ambulance. “It’s okay, Luna, I’m fine…” Rich gasped, waving the guard away. “It’s just a scratch. The knife… it cut him too when he stabbed me.” He leaned against her, then glanced at me, a sly look in his eyes. “You know, Luna, I think brother’s gone crazy from being so lonely.” “I mean, we’re both men, I get it. You haven’t been… intimate with him in years. He’s probably desperate for a woman’s touch…” At his words, Luna stroked his cheek tenderly. “You’re always so thoughtful.” “As for Alex,” she said, her voice dripping with disgust, “I wouldn’t touch a vile, pathetic man like him with a ten-foot pole.” She pulled out a checkbook and waved a check at a group of female bodyguards. “You girls are up.” “Keep Mr. Collins here… entertained,” she instructed them. “You’ll all be well compensated.” The women’s eyes widened at the amount on the check. Greed won over professionalism. They began shrugging off their jackets, advancing on me. “Sorry about this, Mr. Collins. We’ll be sure to take good care of you…” Luna stepped back, wrapping an arm around Rich, and let out a low whistle. “Now the real show begins. Everyone get your phones out. You won’t want to miss this.” They moved to tear at my clothes, but one of the women paused, looking at the jacket Victoria had left on the ground. “Ms. Vance, this jacket… it looks like a woman’s.” “Who cares where he picked it up? Get on with it!” Luna snapped. But before another hand could touch me, the roar of a high-performance engine cut through the air. A sleek, black luxury car screeched to a halt beside us. The door opened, and a woman stepped out. The aura of power that radiated from her silenced the entire cemetery. Her voice, when she spoke, was low, calm, and terrifying.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384472”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first time my mother looked at me, her eyes were filled with sorrow. She wouldn’t hold me, wouldn’t feed me. She just let me wail until my throat was raw. I was born with all my memories, so I knew that in my last life, she had loved me more than life itself. But when I was three, I died in a fall from our balcony. The tragedy shattered her mind, and she lived out the rest of her days in a fog of pain. Reborn, my mother had chosen a different path. A quick, sharp pain now was better than a long, drawn-out agony later. She was going to let “fate” take me, just as it had before, before I could become the flesh and blood she couldn’t bear to lose again. But she didn’t know the truth. My fall wasn’t an accident. I was pushed by our nanny. And in this life, that same nanny was about to walk through our door. 1 I was born in the dead of winter. The delivery room was heated, but I was cold. A chill that seeped into my very bones. It came from my mother, Rachel. The look she gave me was a mask of grief and despair. A nurse cleaned me, swaddled me up like a tiny burrito, and presented me to her, beaming. “Congratulations, she’s a beautiful little princess! Here, hold your daughter.” My mother flinched as if she’d been burned, snatching her hand back and turning her head away. “I don’t have the strength,” she whispered, her voice weary and hoarse. The nurse’s smile faltered for a second before she quickly recovered. “Of course, you must be exhausted after everything.” She turned her attention to the man waiting anxiously at the door—my father, Jacob. He rushed in, a goofy grin plastered on his face. He took me from the nurse’s arms with a clumsy reverence, as if he were holding the most precious thing in the world. “Rachel, you did it! You were amazing,” he breathed. “Look at her, she’s the spitting image of you! Especially her eyes.” He held me up for my mother to see, his face glowing with pure joy, waiting for her to share it. But Rachel only gave me a fleeting glance before shutting her eyes. A single tear escaped and traced a path down her temple, so fast you could have missed it. The smile vanished from my father’s face, replaced by a look of helpless confusion. He looked from me to my mother, his voice dropping to a concerned whisper. “Rachel, what is it? Are you in pain?” “Just tired. I need to sleep,” she replied, her voice utterly flat. Dad didn’t press her, but I felt his arms tighten around me. Cradled in his embrace, I looked at the woman on the bed. I knew she wasn’t just tired. Her heart was already dead. In my last life, her love for me was a force of nature. She’d given up a flourishing career to be a full-time mom, to be there for every moment. She told the best bedtime stories, made my baby food into tiny works of art, and would celebrate my smallest milestones as if I’d conquered the world. Her love was an all-consuming fire, a promise to give me everything. Then came that sunny afternoon when I was three. I fell from our apartment balcony and died on impact. That day marked the beginning of my mother’s tragedy. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping. She’d spend entire nights clutching my old clothes, her sobs echoing in the silent apartment. Her world had crumbled into dust. My father and grandmother took her to countless doctors, tried endless medications, but nothing could piece her back together. She withered away, consumed by a grief that finally stole her life. And now, she had returned to the day of my birth, dragging all those memories with her. She was terrified. She was terrified of feeling that soul-crushing grief again, of pouring all her love into me only to watch me walk toward my “destined” end. But Mom, you don’t understand. My death wasn’t an accident. I was pushed. Pushed by the nanny who had seemed so simple and trustworthy. 2 “Waaaaah!” I let out my first cry, pouring every ounce of my strength into it. It was a long, loud wail, thick with desperation and a sense of betrayal. Dad immediately went into a panic, patting my back awkwardly. “Rachel, she must be hungry. Is it time to feed her?” My mother’s body tensed, but she still didn’t turn around. “I don’t have any milk,” she said. “How can that be? The doctor said…” Dad started, but he was cut off by an older, eager voice. “Jacob, let me hold my sweet granddaughter!” Grandma was here. She wore a dark blue quilted jacket, her hair neatly pinned up, her face radiating pure joy. She took me from my father’s arms, cooing “my precious girl,” and “little darling.” Grandma’s embrace was warm and soft, smelling of sunshine and soap. It was a small comfort, and my tiny, tense body relaxed a little. “Oh, listen to you cry! My poor baby must be starving,” she said, her voice full of sympathy. She looked at my mother. “Rachel, dear, you should feed her. That first milk is liquid gold.” My mother slowly turned over. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow as she looked at me, as if I were a complete stranger. “Mom, I told you, I don’t have any.” “Nonsense! What mother doesn’t have milk?” Grandma’s brow furrowed, her tone sharpening. “Or is it that you don’t want to? Let me tell you, Rachel, this child is your own flesh and blood. You can’t just—” “Mom!” Dad cut in, placing a gentle hand on Grandma’s shoulder. “Rachel just gave birth. She’s exhausted. Let’s not pressure her. I’ll go mix up some formula.” He hurried out with a bottle and a can of formula. The room fell silent, the only sound my soft, hiccuping sobs. Grandma sighed, her voice softening as she looked at my mother. “Rachel, I know this is hard. But the baby is innocent. Look at her, she’s so tiny, so helpless.” My mother’s lips parted as if to speak, but she said nothing. She just turned her head back toward the wall. I knew she had milk. She just refused to create that bond with me. Nursing is the most intimate connection between a mother and child. Once it’s forged, it’s nearly impossible to break. She was afraid of a love she couldn’t sever. Soon, Dad returned with a warm bottle. The formula trickled down my throat, and I slowly stopped crying, my hunger overriding everything else. Full and exhausted, I drifted into a hazy sleep. For the rest of our time in the hospital, my mother barely touched me. Feeding, changing, and soothing me were all handled by Dad and Grandma. She would only watch me from a distance, her eyes shadowed with that same sad detachment. Sometimes I’d wake to find her sitting by my bassinet, staring at me with a turbulent, unreadable expression. But the moment our eyes met, or if I made the slightest sound, she would recoil like a startled animal, looking away as if the sight of me physically pained her. Things didn’t get any better when we went home. We lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment. To make sure my mother could rest, Dad set up my crib in Grandma’s room. At night, my cries were always answered by Grandma, never my mother. The door to the master bedroom remained firmly shut. I knew that behind that door, my mother was lying awake, just like me. Her attempt to find peace was just another form of self-torture. A few days later, Grandma’s old back injury flared up, a slipped disc from the strain of caring for me. She was in so much pain she couldn’t get out of bed. As if on cue, Dad was called away on an urgent, week-long business trip. Suddenly, our home was in crisis. Before he left, Dad looked at Mom, his face etched with worry. “Rachel, it’s all on you for a few days. The baby…” “Hire a nanny,” she said, cutting him off before he could finish. Her voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of urgency I couldn’t miss. Dad was taken aback for a second, then nodded. “Okay, that’s a good idea. It’ll be easier on you and Mom. I’ll call an agency right now.” My heart sank like a stone. She was coming. 3 The next afternoon, a woman in her forties appeared at our door. She wore a plain gray coat and had an anxious, eager-to-please smile on her face. “Hello, the agency sent me. My name is Brenda.” It was her. In my last life, this woman, Brenda, had been our nanny for three years. She was efficient and quiet, with a harmless, salt-of-the-earth look. Dad and Grandma sang her praises, and Mom trusted her like family. No one could have ever guessed what a venomous heart beat beneath that unassuming exterior. A tremor of fear shot through my body, and I let out a terrified wail. From her bed, Grandma heard me and called out, “Rachel, is that the nanny? Let her in, the baby’s probably hungry.” My mother stepped aside to let Brenda in, never once looking her in the eye. She gestured vaguely toward Grandma’s room. “The baby and my mother-in-law both need care. She’ll give you the details.” With that, she turned to go back to her room. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Brenda called out, her smile fixed in place. “I’m here for the interview. Don’t you want to see my ID and health certificate? Or ask me any questions?” “If my mother-in-law is happy, that’s all that matters,” Mom said, and shut her bedroom door. Brenda’s smile twitched. A flicker of something dark—annoyance? malice?—crossed her eyes before it was replaced again by her folksy demeanor. She walked into Grandma’s room and expertly took me from her arms, patting my back and humming a tuneless lullaby. “There, there, little one. Auntie Brenda’s got you. No more crying now.” Her voice was gentle, but the moment I was in her arms, I was hit by that familiar, nauseating smell of cheap soap. The terror of my final moments from my past life seized me, and I screamed even louder, thrashing my arms and legs, trying to escape the devil’s embrace. “Oh dear, she’s a bit shy with strangers,” Grandma said apologetically. Brenda just chuckled. “Don’t you worry, ma’am. All babies are like this. We’ll be best friends in a few days. I’ve cared for babies much fussier than this little one.” Her easy confidence soothed Grandma’s concerns. She mixed my formula, tested the temperature on her wrist, and placed the nipple in my mouth. I fought back, pushing it away with my tongue and turning my head, my cries my only form of protest. “Well now,” Brenda said, her voice taking on a strange, theatrical tone of concern. “The little thing won’t even eat. Do you think… do you think she might have some kind of developmental issue?” 4 Brenda’s words were like a shard of poisoned ice, stabbing straight into my infant heart. Fear and despair washed over me, and I started screaming again, a raw, gut-wrenching sound of pure agony this time. But the harder I cried, the wider her smile became. She held me, rocking me gently, murmuring empty words of comfort while her eyes remained as cold and hard as a snake’s. “Go on, cry it out,” she whispered, for my ears only. “You’ll tire yourself out soon enough.” She placed me in my crib and left me there, turning to start dinner in the kitchen. My cries woke Grandma in the next room. “Brenda?” she called out weakly. “What’s wrong with the baby?” Brenda’s head popped out of the kitchen, her voice pitched with just the right amount of helplessness. “I’ve tried everything, ma’am! But her mother won’t hold her, and she just won’t stop crying.” Grandma sighed and fell silent. I cried until my throat was hoarse, until my whole body was trembling and my hands and feet were ice-cold. This couldn’t go on. My tears wouldn’t earn me any sympathy; they only delighted my enemy. I had to find another way. After dinner, Brenda came to feed me again. I was exhausted and starving after my afternoon of hysterics. This time, I didn’t fight. I drank the milk quietly. Brenda seemed surprised but didn’t think much of it, assuming I had simply worn myself out. When I finished, she lifted me to her shoulder to burp me. And that’s when I saw my chance. With my face pressed against her shoulder, I summoned every ounce of strength I had, opened my toothless mouth, and clamped down on the soft flesh of her shoulder. I had no teeth, but I used all my might, grinding my gums into her skin with the same desperate force I used to nurse. “Ah!” Brenda shrieked in pain, her immediate instinct to throw me off her. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact. It would hurt, but it was a risk I had to take. I had to create evidence that she was a danger to me. But just as I felt myself falling, a pair of strong, trembling hands caught me, securing me in a steady grip. My eyes flew open. I was staring up into the frantic, worried face of my father. He was back. He had come home early. “Jacob? What are you doing home?” Grandma called out in surprise. My father’s expression was grim. He held me tightly, his gaze fixed like a laser on the terrified nanny. “The project wrapped up early. I walk in the door and I see you about to drop my daughter! Brenda, what the hell are you doing?!” Brenda’s face went white as a sheet. She clutched her shoulder, stammering. “Mr. Miller, no, it’s a misunderstanding! It was the baby… she bit me, out of nowhere! It hurt so much, my hand just slipped… I didn’t mean to!” She was already tearing up, putting on a masterful performance of a wrongly accused victim. “She bit you?” Dad frowned, looking down at me. I immediately played my part, opening my mouth to give him a gummy, innocent, and completely harmless smile. What kind of damage could a newborn possibly do? Dad was clearly thinking the same thing, and his suspicion of Brenda deepened. “Let me see the wound.” Brenda’s face grew even paler. “It’s nothing, Mr. Miller, really. Just a little red mark, it’s fine…” she stammered, covering her shoulder. Her reluctance only made my father more determined. He took a step forward, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Move your hand.” Terrified, Brenda flinched and dropped her hand. Dad pulled back the collar of her shirt. There on her shoulder was a clear, angry red mark, already starting to purple at the edges. It looked… exactly like a bite mark. A vicious one. How was that possible? I didn’t have any teeth. My heart sank. I knew instantly what had happened. In my past life, Brenda had a strange habit of drinking a specific herbal tea, claiming it was for her “health.” I remembered knocking her cup over once, and she had completely panicked. That tea. It had to be the cause. It must have made her skin hypersensitive, so fragile that the slightest pressure would leave a terrible bruise. She had been planning this all along. 5 Dad’s brow was furrowed in a deep line, the anger in his eyes slowly giving way to confusion. He looked down at me, a helpless infant. How could I have possibly caused an injury like that? Seeing his hesitation, Brenda burst into a flood of tears, sobbing as if her heart would break. “Mr. Miller, I swear I didn’t do it on purpose. This baby… I don’t know what it is, but she’s been hostile to me from the moment I arrived. Nothing I do can soothe her; she just cries and fusses. Just now, after her bottle, I was burping her and she just… she lunged at me, like she was trying to hurt me. It was such a shock, I almost lost my grip.” She punctuated her story with sobs, sneaking glances at my father’s face. “Her grandmother can vouch for me! I’ve been working so hard these past few days. I would never, ever do anything to harm a child!” From her bed, Grandma chimed in. “She’s right, Jacob. Brenda has been wonderful. It’s the baby who’s been unusually difficult. Maybe… maybe she and Brenda just don’t get along.” My father stood there, holding me, trapped in silence. On one side was the seemingly honest, deeply wronged nanny. On the other was his own daughter, who was indeed acting strangely. He couldn’t make sense of it. Just then, the master bedroom door opened again. My mother emerged, drawn out by the argument. Her gaze swept over the scene—Brenda’s tear-streaked face, me in my father’s arms, his own conflicted expression. “What’s going on?” she asked. Dad quickly explained what had happened. Rachel listened without a flicker of emotion on her face. When he was done, she gave Brenda a cool, appraising look. Brenda immediately saw her as a potential ally. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry. Maybe… maybe it’s best if you just let me go. I’m so afraid I might accidentally hurt the baby if I stay.” There it was again: her signature move, feigning retreat to gain ground. Everyone looked at my mother. As the lady of the house and my mother, her word was final. I watched her, my tiny heart pounding in my chest. Who would she believe? In our last life, she had trusted Brenda implicitly. In this one, she treated me with nothing but cold indifference. The answer seemed painfully obvious. My mother was silent for a long moment. Just as I braced myself for her to agree with Grandma and ask Brenda to stay, she said something that stunned everyone. “Since it’s not working out, she can leave.” Her voice was quiet, but it was laced with steel. The room fell silent. Brenda’s tears froze on her cheeks. She stared at my mother, utterly baffled. “Ma’am, you…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384488”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel