Category: English

Wren’s POV I dragged Hazel out of a rogue camp and lifted to High Priestess and tonight I caught her naked in my mate’s bed. The smoke hits first. Then the scent. Sweat, slick, heat — and underneath it, my mate’s mark layered all over another she-wolf’s skin. Neither of them even moves. Hazel sees me first. She screams, white as bone. “Wren —” Caden turns his head. His eyes find me. And before I’ve moved an inch, before I’ve made a sound, his body shifts — instinct, pure instinct — to put hers behind his. He shields her. From me. I stand there breathing through my mouth. I watch him pick her clothes off the floor. One piece at a time. Soft, practiced hands. He dresses her like she’s made of glass. He walks her to the door and murmurs, “There’s someone waiting for you outside. I’ll deal with this.” I haven’t lifted a finger. He’s already afraid I’ll go feral. The door clicks shut. It’s just me and him now. I stare at the face I’ve known since I was a pup. The boy who used to chase me through these woods. Now, it’s a stranger’s face. The past few moons, I’ve been too busy to date Caden. The moonlit hunt I won at the warriors’ draw, the festival passes I bought for the two of us, the private dinners he booked at the Ridge — every single one I had to cancel for a healing or a late shift. Hazel always offered to step in. “Don’t let them go to waste, Wren.” Honestly, I was grateful. And my mate never made me feel guilty. “I support your work, Wren. However long it takes, I’ll wait.” That’s what he told me. Always in that low, patient voice that wraps around my ribs. I never thought twice when I told Caden and Hazel to have fun. And lately, something had been off in my chest. A dull ache right under my ribs. A pull in the bond. Some nights it twisted hard enough to wake me up. I figured it was the workload. Not enough sleep. Now, I finally get it. My wolf knew. She knew before I did. Caden lights a black-leaf roll, takes a slow drag, then finally looks at me. “Got nothing to say?” He’s the one who broke the bond. So why am I the one with my hands shaking? “Caden. Are you serious right now?” He flicks ash onto the floorboards. Voice flat. “I’ll own my part. But Wren — be honest with yourself. What have you given me these past few years?” “You’re always too busy. Always a healing. Always rounds. I asked you to share a meal — you had a patient. I asked you to a hunt — you had a shift. I have to schedule a fight with you three days in advance.” He says it with a hint of self-pity. Like I’m the one who climbed into another wolf’s bed. “Hazel’s different.” His voice softens around her name. “She listens. She remembers what I say. She actually shows up. Every date you couldn’t make — she made them with me. In her heart, I come first.” Every word cuts straight through my chest. “Caden, I’ve been like this since the day you met me! I never changed!” His brow knits like I’m slow. “I know. You haven’t. But I’m done waiting.” I cross the floor and slap him. “How dare you do this to me! Don’t forget I’m your fated mate!” He doesn’t dodge. The roll falls from his fingers, sparks scattering across the bed. He looks up. Finally — finally — there’s something in his eyes. “You done? Hit me again if you need to. Just don’t take it out on Hazel.” I open my mouth. The pack mind-link pings, sharp and loud. [Healer Sutton. Emergency surgery. Thirty minutes. ] Caden laughs. Soft. Quiet. It threads into my ear like a needle. “Off you go, Ms. Healer. Your mate just bedded your best friend, and you’re running back to save a life. You’re the patientest she-wolf I’ve ever known.” My claws dig into my palms. I turn around before he can see the tears.

Wren’s POV The healing-lamps burn too bright tonight. I clench my jaw and bury the tears behind my teeth. My hands stay steady. The blade stays steady. Nobody in this room would guess that thirty minutes ago I caught my fated mate sleeping with my best friend. When the patient stabilizes, my wrists ache so deep I can barely lift them. “Healer Sutton — I haven’t congratulated you yet.” The junior healer grins as he scribbles down vitals. “Six moons of leave for a Mating Ceremony! The whole infirmary’s been talking. Alpha Caden sends flowers to you every single day— guess he finally got you to say yes.” The clay cup creaks in my grip. These last few moons I burned every favor I had to earn that leave. Every off-day. Every emergency shift I could swap forward. I went down once in the changing room, low blood, knees buckling. I drank a vial of honey-water and walked back into surgery. Caden picked me up that night. Saw my white lips and frowned, rare as a winter sun. “Could you maybe — just once — be kind to yourself?” I smiled. “Worried about me, my Alpha?” He pulled me into his chest. “Wren. I want to bring you home and keep you somewhere safe.” His arms had already held another she-wolf by then. Every drop of sweat I bled was a joke. “Mm,” I tell the junior. One syllable. Any more and I’ll crack. I slip into the changing chamber. The bolt slides shut. I slide down the door. My shoulders shake. The tears finally fall through my fingers and there is nothing — nothing — I can do to stop them. Caden has been my shadow since I was nine. Wherever I went, he went. One winter I snapped at him, “Could you stop following me?” He’d ducked his head. “I want to be your shadow. Where you go, I go.” At eighteen he slipped me a folded leaf. “I don’t want to be your shadow anymore. I want to stand at your side.” I said yes. Eighteen to twenty-eight. Ten years. Every promise — kept. Late healing? He waited at the gate. Sick? He took leave to nurse me. Every word I ever spoke, he stored like a sacred thing. The whole pack said it: That’s what a mate bond is supposed to look like. I believed it. I scrub my eyes and push to my feet. Two voices drift from the corridor — junior healers, low. “You hear? Emergency came in. She-wolf, three moons gone. Her Alpha mate took her too rough — she’s bleeding out.” “Pup’s holding. But the male—bad news. Came in barking orders, said if his pup dies, he’ll burn this infirmary down.” “Power-drunk man, I swear…” “That’s not the bit. The bit is — he looks exactly like Healer Sutton’s mate.” “Goddess! You don’t think she’s the mistress, do you?” The footsteps fade. I lean against the door, ice running down my spine. My claws split skin. Blood trickles through my fingers. I shove the door open and run.

Wren’s POV Through the glass of the chamber I see them. Caden’s voice is honey. “Slow down, sweetheart. It’s hot.” I push the door open. Hazel sees me first. “W-Wren.” Caden’s head snaps around. The instant his eyes land on me, his body shifts — automatic, animal — to put Hazel behind him. His voice ices over. “I told you. Leave her alone.” I stare at Hazel’s flat stomach. “Pup?” Tears spill down her cheeks. She turns away. She can’t look at me. “Yes,” Caden answers for her. “Mine. Three months.” Three months. Three moons ago Caden was at the border, hunting rogues. The raid hit and the bond went silent. No mind-link. Nothing. I begged for leave and tore down the trail in wolf form. Halfway there a second wave of rogues hit the road. I was thrown. My ribs slammed a stone. I hadn’t even told him about our pup, and I lost him right there on the forest floor. When Caden finally found me he knelt by the cot and crushed me to his chest. His voice was shaking. “I’m sorry, Wren. We’ll have another. I swear we’ll have another.” First time I ever saw him cry. I stroked his hair and said, “You’re alive. That’s enough. We’ll have more.” He wasn’t at the border. He was with Hazel. They made their pup that week. “Wren.” Hazel’s voice drags me back. Her eyes are red, her chin trembles. Picture-perfect. “A pup needs his father… please. Bless this for us.” Crack. My palm meets her cheek so hard my whole arm sings. The chamber freezes. Then she’s sobbing into her hands. Caden surges to his feet and locks his hand around my wrist. “Wren. Enough. You got something to say, you say it to me.” His eyes are full of fury. In twenty years he’s been angry with me — what — three times? Every single time because I worked too hard and didn’t eat. Now he’s furious. For her. “Say it to you? Caden, what makes you think you’re worth saying it to?” I rip my arm free and step back. Something slips from my pocket and clatters onto the floor. A silver dagger. He and I both go still. Three years ago on the night of our promising he slid the mate-pendant onto my throat — and pressed this dagger into my hand. “Wren Sutton. Under this moon, I swear it — you’re the only Luna I’ll ever choose. If I ever betray you, take this blade and drive it through my heart.” I stare at the silver dagger. My inner wolf is roaring. I bend down and pick it up. Something black and enormous rises through my chest. My eyes burn. My wolf is howling. I want to drive it in. I want him to feel what I felt — your own wolf clawing you apart from the inside. Hazel screams and throws her arms wide in front of him. “Wren! It’s me! It’s all me — leave him alone!” I take one step toward them. Just one. Caden’s eyes change. He yanks Hazel behind him and his hand shoots out — palm to my chest — and shoves. The back of my head cracks against the stone floor. My ears ring like bells. When my vision clears he’s wrapped around her, his voice low and tender. “Did he hit your belly? Are you alright?” She shakes her head, weeping. He never once looks at me. The corridor outside is full of pack-folk now. “Goddess! Healer Sutton!” “She’s the quiet one. What is she now, feral?” I lie there. My head throbs. I was eight when my mother handed me to my drunk, fanged father and walked off. I knelt in the dirt clutching her ankle and screamed why until I passed out. After that I never broke for anyone again. Not when I failed my first naming-trial. Not when I lost a patient on the table. Not even when I lost our pup on that forest road. It took Caden twenty years to break that shell off me, piece by piece. He’s the one who taught me a she-wolf could be loved. And now he’s the one who turned me into a feral thing on the floor. I push up onto my hands. My knees lock under me. I make it to my feet. I walk out. It’s just me now. That has always been enough.

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260718g4IhtTgqhr 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni790387”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

My three blood brothers are going to shatter my legs and trade me to the enemy Alpha for the Omega they all share as a mate. And right now — I was tied to my own bed. The taste of the farewell drink is still on my tongue — bitter, herbal, wrong. My wrists are bound. My ankles are bound. The silver in the ropes burns my skin and keeps my wolf locked deep inside me, silent, useless. Caelan stands at the foot of my bed with a silver-laced iron rod in his hand. Marek is pinning my shoulders. Sable is pinning my legs. “Raven,” Caelan says, “don’t hate us. Elara can’t be the one they take.” He swings. The rod comes down on my right leg. My bone snaps. I’m going to hear that sound for the rest of my life. Silver bites into the break. My wolf screams inside me and can’t get out. I don’t scream. I won’t give them that. “So it should be me,” I say through my teeth. Blood is filling my mouth from where I bit my tongue. Marek’s grip on my shoulders tightens until I feel something crack in the joint. He won’t look at me. His jaw is locked so hard it’s shaking. “Raven, this is for the pack.” “This is for her,” I spit. Sable’s hands tighten on my ankles. His eyes — usually the warm ones, the laughing ones, the brother who used to braid my hair before patrols — are cold as winter stone. “You’re the Iron Wolf,” he says quietly. “You’re worth more alive than dead. They might not kill you.” “Might not.” I laugh, and it sounds like something dying. The rod comes up again. I see Caelan’s hand on the grip, steady. The crack is louder this time. Sweat soaks through my shirt. My vision tunnels. I hear, very far away, Caelan drop the rod. I hear him wipe my blood off his face with his sleeve. Slow. Careful. The way our mother taught him to clean a hunting knife. He leans over me. His hand brushes my hair back from my forehead like I’m a pup again. “Sleep, little wolf,” he murmurs. “When you wake up, Elara will be home.” I dig my nails into the bed frame. I find the last scrap of breath in my body. “Caelan.” He stiffens. “Marek. Sable.” I make them hear their names. I make them hear them in my voice — the voice that called for them when I was six and lost in the north woods, the voice that howled their victory after Bonecrag’s first defeat. I smile. Blood bubbles between my teeth. “You’re going to regret this. All three of you. For the rest of your lives.” Caelan’s face does something then. Something small. Something that breaks. But he turns away. Marek lets go of my shoulders. Sable lets go of my legs. They line up behind their oldest brother like soldiers, like strangers, like three men who have already buried me in their heads. They walk out without looking back. The door closes. The lock turns. Click. And just like that, I, the Iron Wolf of Ashfall Pack, become a broken thing chained in my own bedroom, waiting to be delivered.

They put me in an iron-barred cage and roll me toward Ghostfang Ridge. Seven days. Seven days of every rut in the road splitting my legs open again. The bandages soak through by the second day. By the fourth, the cloth has fused to the wound and I can smell my own blood going wrong in the heat. The warrior driving the cage is one of Sable’s. Young. Loyal. He keeps his head down the whole ride. When my lips crack from thirst, he passes a waterskin through the bars without looking at me. “Forgive me, Commander.” He says it every time. I drink. I don’t answer. I have no hate left for him. I’m saving all of it. On the seventh night, the cage stops. I smell the border before I see it. Pine. Cold stone. Old blood in the dirt where Ashfall and Bonecrag have been killing each other for a hundred years. Ghostfang Ridge. Two Bonecrag warriors haul me out by the arms. My legs drag behind me like meat on a hook. They drop me in the dirt between the two pack lines. I lift my head. And there he is. The reason. Elara Wren. She is wrapped in a thick fur cloak that I have seen before — Caelan’s cloak, the one our mother wove for him the year he became Enforcer. Marek is already pressing a steaming waterskin into her hands. Sable is brushing snow off her hair like she’s made of glass. She is unharmed. Not a bruise. Not a scratch. Not a single hair out of place. Beyond her stands Alpha Yvarn — in full battle leathers, his new Beta at his shoulder like a shadow. He looks down at me the way a man looks at a wolf he’s been hunting for years and has finally cornered. His smile is a slow, hungry thing. “So,” he says. “The Iron Wolf. Crawling in my dirt.” His warriors laugh. My brothers don’t say a word. Caelan steps forward and bows his head — bows it — to the Alpha who slaughtered our patrols for three winters. “Alpha Yvarn. We’ve brought her. May we take Elara home?” His voice is careful. Almost begging. I have never heard my brother beg. Yvarn laughs out loud. He points his riding crop at me. “This?” he drawls. “This is the Iron Wolf of Ashfall? She can’t even crawl.” His men howl. My brothers’ faces go red with shame — and still, still, none of them speak. They just close ranks tighter around Elara, like she’s the one who needs protecting from the humiliation. And then Elara peeks out from behind Caelan’s shoulder. She looks down at my legs. At the bandages. At the blood frozen black on my trousers. There is no guilt in her face. There is something else. Her lips curve. Just slightly. Just for me. A small, perfect, secret smile. A winner’s smile. I have known Elara since she was a pup. I carried her on my back through the first snow she ever saw. I let her cry into my fur the night her parents died. I gave my brothers permission to court her, all three of them, when the bond first sparked between them. And this is what she gives me back. A smile. I press my forehead into the cold dirt and I laugh. Quiet. Bloody. Real. I am going to live until I take it off her face myself.

Yvarn flicks his wrist and his warriors release Elara. She gathers her skirts and runs to my brothers. “Caelan!” She throws herself into his chest, sobbing like a pup who’s been beaten. Caelan catches her and wraps his cloak tighter around her shoulders. His mouth presses into her hair. “You’re safe, little moon. You’re safe now. We’re going home.” Marek closes in on her other side, hands cupping her face, checking, checking, checking. “Did they touch you? Did they hurt you? Tell me, Elara —” Sable’s hand is at the small of her back, steady, possessive, the way a mate’s hand sits on his mate. Three brothers. One Omega. One mate-bond strong enough to break a sister’s legs over. Nobody looks at me. Not one of them. I lie in the dirt at the edge of their circle. The trade is done. I’m just the broken thing they left behind. My wolf is silent. My legs are screaming. And I have never seen anything in my life uglier than this — the way my brothers fuss over her while their own blood bleeds out four feet away. Yvarn watches it all. He’s enjoying himself. “Take her,” he says. Two Bonecrag warriors hook their hands under my arms and start dragging me toward their line. My legs leave two long red trails in the snow. As they pull me past my brothers, I turn my head. I use the last of my strength. “Caelan Ashwood. Marek Ashwood. Sable Ashwood.” Three names. Three blows. All three of them go still. Elara, tucked safe in their arms, looks at me over Caelan’s shoulder. Her smile widens. “You traded me,” I say, and my voice carries across the snow like a death-howl, “for an Omega who can’t fight her way out of a den.” Caelan’s hand fists in Elara’s cloak. “One day,” I tell them, “Ashfall lands will burn. Bodies will line every border. And it will be because of what you did here today.” Marek will not meet my eyes. Sable’s face has gone dead white. “Get her out of here!” Caelan roars. Not at me. At Yvarn’s warriors. “Get her out of here.” They drag me faster. The Bonecrag line closes around me. The Ashfall gates groan shut behind me. I hear them lock. My pack is gone. They bring me to Yvarn’s war tent. He is already seated when they throw me down on the rugs. The tent smells of pine smoke and oiled steel. He’s cleaning his curved silver blade, slow, the way Caelan cleaned my blood off his face. “Three winters ago,” he says, not looking up, “at Stonehollow Pass, you killed ten thousand of my warriors. You took my Beta. He was my brother.” He lifts his eyes. They are pale and flat and full of something patient. “I swore on his bones I would make you wish you’d died on that field.” He stands. He walks to me. He crouches. The silver blade comes up under my chin and he tips my face toward his. His smile is gentle. That’s the worst part. “And now, little Iron Wolf,” Alpha Yvarn murmurs, “I have you.”

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260718VzFCY660wO 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni402279”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

I spent five years with Isaac. He was one of the top astrophotographers in the world. But I never once asked him to take me with him on a shoot. I stayed behind because of the rule he constantly hammered into me: “The absolute law of astrophotography is zero light pollution. A single flash of a phone screen can ruin an entire night’s long exposure.” So for five years, I never dared to send him even the simplest text. Not even a “Did you make it?” I was terrified that the screen’s brief glow would destroy his masterpiece. I just waited at home. Every time he set off for some frozen mountain or barren desert, I folded a paper star. Inside each strip of paper, I scribbled the quiet, anxious thoughts I was too afraid to send him. “Bundle up, it’s windy.” “Come home safe.” Five years. One thousand and ninety-six stars, filling three glass jars. He never opened a single one. Last week, his name was announced as a finalist for the International Astrophotography Awards. I was so happy for him. I went to the official website to look at his entry. The photograph was titled “Light”. Right in the center of the frame stood his assistant, Daphne. She was wearing a bright red parka, holding a sparkler, her laugh loud and uninhibited. The judge’s commentary read: “The photographer knowingly abandoned a once-in-a-lifetime comet to dedicate the entire exposure to the subject in the frame.” It turned out his world wasn’t hostile to light. It just didn’t have room for mine. That night, I poured all one thousand and ninety-six stars out of their jars. I unfolded them, one by one, and read every single word out loud. I read them to myself. And then, I burned them. When dawn broke, I washed those three glass jars until they were spotless and lined them up neatly on top of his hard-shell lens cases. The universe was meant to hold ten thousand tons of starlight. I shouldn’t have spent my life waiting on the periphery of someone else’s lens, hoping for a stray beam. …… The next day, Isaac’s interview was scheduled for three in the afternoon. That morning, he set up his backdrop fabric and meticulously arranged his high-end lenses on the wall by focal length. “National Geographic is coming to do the profile,” he said, not looking up. “Clear the clutter out of the living room.” The clutter was my books. And those three empty glass jars. I carried my books to the bedroom. When I walked back out, he had already shoved the three jars into a dusty corner, his face tight with irritation. “Why are we keeping these cheap jars anyway? They look awful. I don’t want them in the frame.” “Just leave them for now,” I said softly. He didn’t ask again. The journalist arrived at exactly three. Isaac had changed into the black button-down I’d ironed for him last week and sat down at his workstation. I sat at the kitchen island, wrapping my hands around a mug of tea that had already gone cold. “Isaac, “Light” has stunned everyone. Can you tell us about the night you captured it?” the reporter asked. Isaac leaned back, his posture relaxing as his voice took on a slow, practiced cadence. “The ideal viewing window that night was supposed to be for a comet that only passes Earth once every seventy years. But it was freezing on the summit—well below zero.” “My assistant, Daphne, was shivering so hard she could barely stand. She lit a sparkler just to feel some warmth. And the moment that spark flared, I suddenly realized… those dead rocks in the sky, tens of thousands of light-years away, couldn’t compare to the warmth of the living light right in front of me.” The reporter let out a soft gasp. “But everyone in the industry knows you have a golden rule. Absolute zero light pollution.” Isaac smiled, his eyes softening with a tenderness I had never seen directed at me. “Rules are just concepts. When that light illuminated her face, I was more than willing to break every single one of them.” Five years. I had kept watch through over a thousand pitch-black nights. Yet, because someone else was cold, he had willingly ignited the brightest, most piercing spark. The reporter flipped through her notes, her eyes drifting over to me. “And what does your partner think of your career, Isaac? I imagine it takes an incredible amount of understanding to support this kind of lifestyle.” Isaac followed her gaze, his expression instantly flattening back into indifference. “She doesn’t really understand photography, or how demanding this life can be. But she’s quiet. She knows how to stay out of the way.” Beneath the kitchen island, my right hand curled into a tight, trembling fist. Five years ago, my own portfolio of deep-space photography had won a national gold medal. I, too, had once hauled heavy telephoto lenses through blizzards, keeping watch until dawn. But then he told me that a home didn’t need two photographers. He said he needed a solid anchor. To preserve his “pure, uncompromised art,” I locked my camera in a cabinet. I shrank myself, fading into the background to become the live-in housekeeper he now dismissed as “clueless.” He had truly forgotten. After showing the reporter out, Isaac paused at the door of his study. “Upload the photos from the external hard drive to the cloud tonight. Daphne needs them for the upcoming gallery book.” He shut the door before I could answer. I opened my laptop and plugged in the drive. My phone buzzed. An email from the “Icelandic Observatory Journal”. “Dear Iris, we recently revisited your early portfolio. Your intuitive eye for the cosmos is exactly the creative soul we have been searching for. The position of Chief Astrophotographer remains yours if you want it. Have you given it any more thought?” I stared at the screen, my fingertips turning cold. Someone half a world away still recognized my light, while the man who slept beside me saw me as nothing more than a convenient maid. I bypassed the cloud drive link and clicked reply. “Thank you for keeping the offer open. Please give me three days, and I will have my decision.” The next morning, Isaac tossed a Manila envelope onto the dining table. “The publisher needs twenty select photos for a special feature. Pull them from the drive for me.” “You want me to choose?” “You took those photography classes back in the day, didn’t you? You know the basics of composition and lighting. I have to coordinate with the award committee, I don’t have time.” I opened the drive. The candidate folder contained over three hundred photos. Every single one of them was of Daphne. No star trackers, no celestial charts. Just Daphne wrapped in a sleeping bag watching the sunrise. Daphne kneeling by a stream to wash her hands, her profile bathed in golden hour light. Each shot was meticulously color-graded. I knew photography. I knew exactly what went into these. These three hundred images had been captured with profound, aching devotion. In our five years together, Isaac had never taken a single photo of me. He always said his lens was not meant for portraits—only the cosmos. I spent two hours selecting the twenty most technically perfect shots. Isaac came out of his study and flipped through my selection. “Good. These are exactly the angles I would have picked.” He grabbed the drive and headed for the front door, stopping at the threshold. “Oh, by the way, each photo needs a brief caption for the book. Draft them up for me, will you? Daphne isn’t great with words.” He wanted me to write the love letters to another woman’s portraits. “Sure,” I heard myself say, my voice entirely flat. He closed the door behind him. I opened the first file. It was a high-altitude plateau, deep winter, below zero. Daphne stood in the snow. Isaac had slipped his own heated gloves onto her hands. She was laughing, her face bright and untroubled. I stared at those gloved hands, then slowly looked down at my own right hand. The knuckles of my index and middle fingers were swollen, slightly deformed, marked by two dark purple patches of frostbite scar tissue that would never fade. Four years ago. Denali, Alaska. A blizzard screaming at thirty below. To make sure he didn’t miss a rare meteor shower, I had clawed through knee-deep snow with my bare hands to dig out his buried spare batteries. The wind was so fierce I slipped and fell, my hand instinctively pressing my phone screen. It flared for a fraction of a second. Isaac had rushed over from yards away, screaming into my face. “Do you have any concept of light pollution? I waited four hours for this shot, and you just ruined it!” I had sat there in the freezing snow, my hands entirely numb, suffering the permanent nerve damage that still haunted me. I placed my scarred fingers back on the keyboard. Staring at Daphne’s beaming face, I typed the first caption: “In the silent expanse of the frozen wild, she is the only color more precious than the stars.” There was no bitterness as I typed those words. Only a profound, heavy sense of absurdity. The great master who built his entire career on the sacred purity of the dark night was now eager to broadcast his surrender to a cheap flare of light. I would give him exactly what he wanted. I wanted these hypocritical captions permanently printed in his monograph. It was my parting gift—a quiet footnote to his ridiculous, compromised faith, written by someone who actually understood the art. Late that night, I sent the twenty captions to Isaac. He replied with a single word: “Fine.” I smiled, closed the document, and opened my email inbox. “I accept your invitation,” I wrote to the journal. “I will arrive in Reykjavik on the 15th to begin my duties.” Seven days until the 15th. Three days until the awards gala. The next afternoon, the doorbell rang. It was an express international package. The envelope was unsealed, and the gilded certificate slid out easily. “International Star Registry.” Right under the precise coordinates—RA 18h 36m 56s, Dec +38° 47′ 01″, Lyra—was a line of elegant calligraphy: “Daphne Wells”. The date of the registration matched the exact night he had abandoned the comet to capture “Light”. Tucked at the bottom of the frame was a handwritten note from Isaac: “Stars burn for billions of years. This one is your permanent exposure.” I stared at the elegant script. He had paid thousands of dollars to buy a named star in the constellation of Lyra, near Vega, just for her. I had folded one thousand and ninety-six paper stars, and he hadn’t even erred on the side of opening one. Clearly, folded paper didn’t carry the same weight as a star in the heavens. I placed the frame back in its box, sealing it perfectly, and left it dead center on his desk. When Isaac returned that evening, his eyes snagged on the package. His face tightened for a fraction of a second before he quickly threw a heavy art book over it. “The committee wants a five-minute acceptance speech,” he said, his voice forced. “Since you have some free time, write it for me.” “What do you want to say?” “Write about the photographer’s commitment to absolute darkness. Talk about what it takes to banish light pollution, about the sheer discipline of the craft.” I picked up a pen and let the words flow. It was easy. For five years, I had been the one shivering beside him in that absolute darkness, the one whose light he had systematically banished. The next morning, Isaac taped a printed itinerary to the whiteboard in the hallway. “I’m flying to Iceland right after the ceremony.” My hands paused over the sweaters I was folding into my suitcase. “Iceland?” “The final window of the aurora season. Daphne and I have been planning this for three months. There’s a perfect remote observation site there—zero light pollution.” It was exactly where I was headed. “How long?” “Ten days.” My eyes drifted to the red text scrawled on the final day of the schedule: “Aurora portrait session with Daphne—continuation of the Light series.” “Isaac,” I said, keeping my back turned to him. “You promised we would go to Iceland to see the northern lights together.” He stopped packing his gear, his brow furrowing into a deep, irritated line. “Iris, why are you bringing up ancient history? It’s twenty below zero over there. Your hands flare up the second they get cold. Going there would just be torture for you.” “Isn’t Daphne going to get cold?” “She’s a professional assistant. It’s different. Please, don’t start drama right now.” “I understand,” I said, turning away so he couldn’t see my face. I pulled my carry-on bag out from under the bed. I slipped in my passport, my visa, and a few heavy wool sweaters. The apartment was spacious, but everything I owned barely filled half of a single suitcase. The night of the awards gala. Instead of sitting in the VIP section, I used a staff pass to slip into the shadows at the very back of the auditorium. The spotlight focused on the center stage. On the massive screen overhead, “Light” was projected in high definition, Daphne’s face glowing in the sparkler’s fire. Isaac, sharp and handsome in a tailored suit, stepped up to the microphone with his trophy. He pulled my drafted speech from his pocket and read the opening line. “Astrophotography is a pilgrimage through the dark. We spend our entire lives chasing absolute zero light pollution…” He paused. A heavy silence stretched over the crowd of thousands. Then, slowly, Isaac folded the paper in half and slid it back into his breast pocket. “Actually, this speech feels a bit too formal. Tonight, I want to speak from the heart.” He looked up, his gaze locking directly onto Daphne, who sat in the second row. “Those who know me know that my absolute, non-negotiable rule is zero light pollution. For the sake of my exposures, I used to demand that anyone near me barely even breathe.” Standing in the back row, I listened to him describe the very collar he had kept fastened around my neck for five years. “Today, many people asked me why I chose to walk away from a comet we only see once every seventy years.” He paused, his gaze drifting over the crowd back to that cream-colored dress in the front rows. “Because comets always return. Even if it takes seventy years, they eventually cross our sky again.” “But some people aren’t comets. They are shooting stars. You don’t know when they will ignite, and you don’t know if they’ll ever shine again.” “So the moment she appeared, I shut off my trackers, threw out my plans, and pointed my camera, my night, and the entire sky directly at her.” His voice softened, carrying a rare vulnerability. “In that moment, I understood. The stars in the sky are dead. They travel millions of years just to reach us, completely cold. True light is the warmth you feel when you turn your head in the middle of a frozen wilderness and see someone standing right beside you.” He looked down at Daphne, whose face was already wet with tears. “So, I broke my golden rule. Because light pollution only exists when the light is in the wrong place. Daphne, thank you for lighting up my universe.” A wave of thunderous applause swept through the hall. Daphne covered her mouth, rising under the gaze of thousands to run toward the stage. He had used my five years of absolute devotion in the dark to build his reputation. Then, with a single sparkler, he used Daphne to prove his love. I didn’t stay to watch them embrace. As the applause peaked, I turned and walked out of the auditorium. I caught a cab back to the apartment we had shared. I rolled my small suitcase to the door. Then, walking over to the shelving unit, I took down the three spotless, dust-free glass jars. I arranged them side by side on top of his $20,000 camera rig. No notes. No lingering regrets. One thousand and ninety-six silent nights, completely emptied out. I grabbed my suitcase, opened the front door, and let it click shut behind me. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. A text from Isaac: “Daphne had a bit too much to drink at the afterparty, so I’ll be back late. Go to sleep, don’t wait up.” I stared at the screen, pulled the SIM card I’d used for five years out of the tray, snapped it in half, and dropped it into a trash can on the street. The taxi sped down the highway. The city’s neon lights blurred past, a brilliant, chaotic wash of light pollution. He always complained that you couldn’t see the stars in this city, that he had to go to the ends of the earth to find them. But he never realized that the photographer who had once dimmed her own light to let him shine had vanished into the night. Isaac, your world doesn’t need to be dark anymore. And as for me, I am going to find my own universe.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516772”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day before the Paragon Guild audition, I found out the selection was already over. My mind went blank as I picked up the acceptance list my mentor had thrown at my feet. Under the slot for the Principal Romantic Lead, the name “Lucas Ward” stared back at me in bold letters. My phone buzzed, group chat notifications lighting up the screen: [Congrats, Lucas! Getting into the Paragon Theater is huge! You’re buying drinks tonight!] [They only took one lead this year, and you snagged it. Incredible!] [Hey, where’s our resident award-winner? Why is he so quiet all of a sudden?] [Probably too embarrassed to speak after pulling out of the auditions at the last minute.] My forehead creased, and my thumbs hovered over the keyboard to fire back a reply, but a private message from my girlfriend popped up. [I’m the one who submitted your withdrawal form. Don’t make things difficult for them in the group chat.] [Lucas really needed this chance, Alex.] [You’re so talented. You can always audition again next time.] As I stared at her words, the blood in my veins turned to ice. A single, silent tear slipped down my cheek. There wouldn’t be a next time. Before the auditions, my father and I had made a deal: if I didn’t make it, I had to pack my bags and come home to take over the family business. It wasn’t just my theater career that was over. She and I were over, too. 1 “You skipped the first two years of auditions, and this year you just… withdraw?” My mentor, Laurence, stood before me, the wooden stage-baton trembling in his grip. “Your junior, who started training years after you, got in on his very first try last year.” “If you didn’t want this, you should have told me sooner!” He slammed the baton onto the hardwood floor. The sharp crack echoed through the empty rehearsal hall. “Don’t call me your mentor anymore. I don’t have a student this spineless.” Laurence gave me one last look of utter disappointment, threw his coat over his shoulder, and stormed out. The spots on my back where he’d snapped the baton earlier throbbed with a burning heat, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Limping, I bent down to pick up the discarded baton. Before I could reach it, a pale, soft hand swept it off the floor. Then, she reached out to steady me. I looked up. It was Debby. “Did Laurence hit you?” Her eyes softened with concern, her lips parting as if she wanted to say more, but no sound came out. After a long, heavy silence, she murmured, “I’m sorry, Alex.” My fists clenched tight, then slowly released. The ocean of resentment building up inside me finally distilled into a single, quiet question: “Do you regret it?” Debby paused, looking away. “No.” “Lucas comes from nothing. This was his only chance to change his life.” “He can’t rely on me forever.” “But you… you’re different.” A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my throat as I pulled my hand from her grip. My eyes burned with unshed tears. Two years ago, she told me Lucas wanted to audition for the Paragon Theater. She asked me to give him a head start and skip registering. I was soft-hearted. I faked an illness to Laurence, sitting out the season. Lucas failed the audition anyway. Last year, she took me white-water rafting right before the audition week. We hit a nasty rapid; I was thrown from the raft, fracturing my leg. I spent a month in a hospital bed, watching the audition window close. Lucas failed again. This year, I refused all her invitations, practically living in the studio, perfecting every monologue, every movement. The competition was so fierce that other actors withdrew rather than go up against me. But Debby quietly accessed my phone, deleted my call-time notifications, and submitted a formal withdrawal on my behalf. She even used a burner number to text me a fake audition schedule. There was only one slot for the leading man. And only one candidate left. She had orchestrated this entire tragedy for Lucas, completely disregarding my life, my hard work, and my future. Debby stepped closer, wrapping her arms around me. “Don’t be bitter, babe. You’re so talented. You’ll have plenty of other opportunities.” “Even without the Paragon, you’ll still be the best actor of our generation.” She leaned up, kissing my cheek. “Let’s go home. I’ll make your favorite dinner tonight.” I closed my eyes in absolute despair. She had no idea that the Paragon Theater wasn’t like other ensembles. They had a strict age limit of twenty-five for new recruits. Since graduating college, an actor got exactly three chances. I turned twenty-five this year. There were no more chances. “Just be reasonable,” she whispered. “Stop trying to compete with Lucas.” The dam of suppressed agony broke. I shoved her away. Ignoring her startled gasp, I pulled up my sweatpants. My shins and calves were covered in deep purples, faded yellows, and old scars. “I started training when I was three years old. I haven’t taken a single day off in twenty-two years.” “I gave up spicy food, cold drinks, alcohol—everything—just to protect my voice.” “Everything I did was for the Paragon.” My voice cracked, the veins in my neck bulging. “You destroyed my career to build his!” “Every single sacrifice I made… wasted!” Debby’s expression hardened. She watched my outburst with a chilling, detached calm, looking at me as if I were a stranger throwing a tantrum. After a moment, she spoke. “Are you done?” “Does it absolutely have to be the Paragon? Are other theaters beneath you?” I stared at her, utterly shell-shocked. “What did you just say?” She knew the Paragon was the holy grail for classical actors—the Juilliard of professional ensembles. Thousands of actors across the country fought for barely a dozen spots. In my specific category, it was a one-in-ten-thousand shot. She had sabotaged me so Lucas could steal it. And now she was telling me to just go somewhere else. “Don’t you just want a big stage?” she asked, her tone dry. “I can fund a theater for you. The biggest one in the city. I’ll hire a professional production crew and a cast to back you up. You can perform whatever you want, for as long as you want.” A profound sense of exhaustion washed over me. “Not everything can be bought with your money, Debby,” I whispered. “I love the art of theater. I don’t want a vanity project—” A sharp ringtone cut me off. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. “Lucas.” As she answered, her voice softened instantly. “Yeah. I’m on my way.” Before leaving, Debby cast a heavy, lingering look at me. “The results are locked in, Alex. Throwing a fit won’t change them.” “Take this year to prepare, and just audition again next year.” The door clicked shut. I was left alone in the vast, quiet studio. The crushing weight of reality finally broke me, and I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing into my hands. My phone vibrated. A message from my father appeared: [Alex, I’m sending a car to pick you up the day after tomorrow.] With trembling fingers, I typed out a single word: “Okay.” Right as I hit send, a text from Lucas flashed across the screen: [Hey Alex, I tagged you in the group chat but you didn’t reply.] [You have to come to my celebration dinner tonight! I couldn’t have gotten into the Paragon without your help!] 2 Lucas’s celebratory dinner was held at the most exclusive penthouse restaurant downtown. I didn’t need to guess who was paying. It was Debby’s doing. Lucas was a kid Debby had practically rescued from the streets years ago. Back then, his parents had passed away, and his relatives had kicked him out. Homeless and desperate, he was sleeping under a bridge. Debby’s own younger brother had died of an illness when he was ten. For years, she had been trapped in that grief. Until she met Lucas, who shared her brother’s expressive eyes and gentle demeanor. She transferred all the love and indulgence she had harbored for her late brother onto Lucas. He had no place to live, so she bought him a condo in the city. He wanted to study acting and go to the same university as me, so Debby didn’t even blink before donating ten million dollars to the school’s theater department to secure his admission. “Mr. Ross, right this way, please.” The hostess’s polite voice pulled me from my thoughts. I followed her to the private dining room. Even through the heavy mahogany door, the loud, grating laughter inside was unmistakable. “Honestly, I thought Alex Ross was some kind of prodigy. Turns out he didn’t even have the guts to show up for the audition.” “Running away at the last second… If I were him, I’d be too embarrassed to show my face in the industry again. Total joke.” “Right? I remember people switching specialties just to avoid competing with him. What a waste.” The laughter grew louder. My fingers tightened on the door handle. “Do you think his awards were bought? His mentor is pretty influential, after all.” When I pushed the door open, the room fell dead silent. Lucas’s friends froze, their smiles hardening into awkward grimaces. I looked at Debby, who was sitting next to Lucas. She didn’t look back; she simply raised her wine glass and drank it in one slow, deliberate motion. As if I were a stranger. “Alex! Come sit!” Lucas pulled out a chair next to him, acting as if we were best friends. From the moment I walked in to the moment I sat down, Debby didn’t spare me a single glance. “Alex, since I’m starting at the Paragon next week, could you help me run through the classical repertoire over the next couple of days? I really want to make a good impression on the directors.” Lucas slung his arm over my shoulder. Getting accepted into the Paragon Theater didn’t guarantee a permanent contract. To prevent nepotism and bribery, the company held a final board review. They would invite the new recruits under the guise of an “informal meet-and-greet,” only to ask them to perform their audition pieces on the spot. If their technique didn’t hold up under scrutiny, the acceptance was revoked. Clearly, neither Lucas nor Debby knew about this. I gently pushed his arm off my shoulder. “I don’t have time.” I was leaving the day after tomorrow. In college, I was the one who spent nights drilling him so he wouldn’t fail his classes. But this was different. The Paragon’s board review was notoriously ruthless. For those who earned their spot, it was a mere formality. But for someone like Lucas, who got in through backroom deals, it would be his undoing. He had no real passion for classical theater, no natural instinct, and zero work ethic. Even if I poured my soul into training him, I couldn’t turn him into a lead classical actor in forty-eight hours. A heavy wine glass was slammed onto the table. The sudden noise startled everyone. The room fell into a tense, suffocating silence. “Alex, when did you become so cold-hearted?” Debby’s voice cut through the quiet. “Lucas is begging for your help, and you won’t even give him the time of day.” “It’s not like you have an ensemble to prepare for anyway. You have nothing but time.” My nails dug deep into my palms. “I said, I don’t have time.” Debby let out a cold, mocking laugh. “You always have time to tutor your junior students.” “You’re just jealous because Lucas is going to the Paragon and you aren’t.” Looking at her, I felt a strange sense of detachment. The lips that had once whispered sweet promises were now spitting words meant to pierce my heart. The woman who used to have infinite patience for me was now looking at me with pure disdain. It felt like I was seeing her clearly for the first time. Or maybe, I never knew her at all. A dull, throbbing ache bloomed in my chest. Lucas tugged on Debby’s sleeve. “Debby, please don’t argue with Alex because of me.” Debby’s brow furrowed, her eyes scanning me with cold annoyance. “Are you going to help him or not?” I straightened my posture, meeting her gaze head-on. “No.” “I won’t.” Lucas’s eyes welled with tears as he stood up. “Are you looking down on me, Alex? Just because I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon, you think I’m beneath you, don’t you?” Debby’s glare turned hostile. Lucas wiped a tear from his face and ran out of the room. “Lucas!” Debby called out, immediately chasing after him. “I don’t know why he thinks he’s so special.” “Seriously, acting like he’s too good for us.” “Pathetic pride.” Once again, everyone left, leaving me alone in the freezing room. Maybe the air conditioning was set too low, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I dragged myself back to our apartment and began packing. Just as I snapped my suitcase shut, Debby walked in. She was carrying a takeout bag of my favorite food. “You didn’t eat anything tonight—” 3 Her eyes locked onto the suitcase on the floor. The takeout bag was thrown into the trash can. Debby marched over, unzipped the suitcase, and began throwing my clothes onto the bed in a frantic, angry heap. “Alex, what is wrong with you?” “Throwing a tantrum and moving out over something this petty?” I stood there, watching her quietly. She took a sharp breath, trying to rein in her temper. “I’ve clearly spoiled you too much.” I didn’t answer. I just bent down to gather the clothes she had scattered. She grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Do you really have to do this to spite me?” “What’s the big deal about letting him have this one spot? You can easily get in next time.” I gently but firmly pried her fingers off my arm. “Didn’t you used to hate cheaters, Debby?” Debby froze. Back when we first started out, she used to follow me to every performance. She would guard my dressing room, watch over my costumes, and handle my props with meticulous care. She knew how ugly the industry could be. She was always terrified someone would ruin my wardrobe or pull strings to steal a role that belonged to me. She used to protect my career because she loved me. But now… Debby looked away. “Lucas’s situation is different.” “And besides, your talent is undeniable. You’ll get in eventually.” The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Debby pressed her lips together, her expression shifting to something complicated. “Go to sleep.” The moment she turned her back, a hot, silent tear fell onto the palm of my hand. The next morning, I bought some premium tea and pastries and went to Laurence’s office to apologize. Usually, he arrived early, but today his desk was empty. After waiting for half an hour, I realized he wasn’t coming. He hadn’t forgiven me. He didn’t want to see my face. A wave of profound grief washed over me. I left the tea and pastries on his desk and walked over to the rehearsal wing. I unlocked my personal locker. And my heart stopped. The locker was completely empty. My performance costumes were gone. If it were any ordinary wardrobe, I could have them remade. But one of those costumes was a historic piece gifted to me by Laurence. It was a genuine vintage piece, hand-embroidered with real gold thread, passed down through generations of classical actors. It was irreplaceable. My face went pale as I tore the rehearsal space apart, checking every single closet, but there was no sign of it. Then, a memory flashed in my mind—something Lucas had said to Debby when they thought I wasn’t listening: “Alex’s costumes are so beautiful and expensive. I wish I could wear something like that on the Paragon stage.” Rage surged from the soles of my feet to the top of my head, making my entire body shake. When I arrived at the studio, Lucas had already put on the vintage costume Laurence had given me. Nearby, on the dirty floor, the rest of my carefully maintained wardrobe was piled up like rags. Lucas paled, startled by my sudden entrance. “Alex…” I marched toward him, but before I could reach him, Debby grabbed my wrist, pinning me in place. She shielded Lucas behind her. “Take my costume off. Now.” Debby’s brow furrowed, her voice dripping with annoyance. “You don’t even have a performance coming up. What’s the harm in letting Lucas borrow it?” I struggled against her grip, but her hold was ironclad. Rage boiled over, and I screamed, “He doesn’t deserve to touch it!” “Slap.” The stinging heat on my cheek made my mind go blank. Debby stared at her own palm, a sudden wave of panic and guilt crossing her face. “Debby, please don’t fight. I’m scared,” Lucas whimpered, shrinking behind her. The guilt in Debby’s eyes vanished, replaced instantly by cold hostility. “I’ll write you a check for a million dollars. Consider the costume bought.” Her sheer arrogance made me feel like I was looking at a complete stranger. “It’s not for sale.” I lunged forward, grabbing Lucas’s sleeve. “Take it off!” Debby grabbed Lucas’s shoulder, pulling him back into her chest. “Is this old rag really worth this much drama?” “Five million.” “I said, it’s not for sale!” We were both pulling, and Lucas was caught in the middle. “Debby, he’s hurting me! He’s pulling too hard!” Lucas cried. Debby’s gaze turned murderous as she stared at my hand on his sleeve. “Let him go, Alex.” “Give me back my costume first!” Debby gritted her teeth, using all her strength to yank Lucas toward her. Seeing the antique fabric stretch precariously, panic seized me. “Stop pulling! The fabric is going to tear!” “Let go then!” I couldn’t risk ruining the heirloom. I tried to release my grip. “Riiiiip.” The exquisite outer layer of the costume tore completely in half. 4 Debby stared in shock at the shredded antique costume in her hands, then slowly looked up at me. “Debby, I don’t want it anymore,” Lucas said, his eyes red as he tugged at her coat. “I can wear a cheap costume. Please don’t fight with him because of me.” The anger that had briefly subsided in Debby flared right back up. Her face turned pale with rage, and she ground her teeth. “Fine. I won’t argue with him.” She threw her coat over Lucas’s shoulders. “Go. Change out of it.” When Lucas finished changing, Debby took the ruined, torn costume and threw it directly at my face. “Fine, Alex. Keep your useless rags.” “Come on, Lucas. I’ll take you to get some custom-made pieces.” She took Lucas’s hand and walked out. Before they turned the corner, Lucas glanced back over his shoulder, flashing me a triumphant, mocking smirk. I sat on the floor, staring blankly at the torn fabric in my lap. My phone rang, breaking the silence. It was my fellow student, Felix. “Alex, it’s about Laurence…” My chest tightened. “What happened to him?” “Laurence went to see his old rival—the artistic director of the Paragon Theater. He’s begging him to give you a special audition slot.” I couldn’t speak through the sudden lump in my throat. My mentor, a man too proud to ever bow his head to anyone, was swallowing his pride to beg his lifelong rival for my sake. Tears poured down my face. I don’t remember how I got back to the apartment. I sat on the sofa, clutching the ruined costume to my chest. “We’re done.” I tried to send the text, but it failed. A red exclamation mark popped up. Debby had blocked my number. A hollow laugh escaped me. Seven years of devotion, ended like a childish game of house. When the game was over, everyone just walked away. At dawn, the family chauffeur arrived. “Young Master, the car is ready.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516788”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Since I was a kid, I’ve been able to share my best friend’s vision. To see exactly what he saw, through his eyes. I’d always thought it was a useless superpower. A party trick without a party. Until the night of his wedding, when he vanished. Every shred of evidence pointed to a classic runaway groom—that he’d packed up and fled with a mistress. His fiancée, Patricia, cried like her entire world had crumbled into ash. Even his own parents cursed him, calling him selfish and ungrateful. Our friends tried to console her, murmuring the usual hollow platitudes: “You deserve better. He wasn’t worth it. There are other fish in the sea.” I didn’t say a word. Instead, I closed my eyes and connected to his sight one more time. And what I saw was… The dark, putrid depths of a riverbed. 1 It started when I was about seven or eight. I discovered that if I covered my eyes and conjured his face in my mind, the world would shift. When I opened my eyes, I’d be looking at a reality that wasn’t mine. The first time it happened, I saw a messy, illegible handwriting on a lined notebook. I blinked, pulled my hands away, and looked to my right. There was Wyatt, my childhood best friend, sitting at the kitchen table, struggling with his spelling homework in that exact same messy scrawl. It was thrilling. We spent years treating it like our own secret playground. Whenever the teacher called me to the blackboard to solve an equation I didn’t know, Wyatt would quietly open his textbook to the correct page under his desk, guiding my hand through his eyes. During neighborhood games of hide-and-seek, I always knew exactly which oak tree or dusty basement corner he was hiding behind. During midterms, I’d peek at his answers—though honestly, it didn’t do us much good. We were both mediocre students at best. Two failing grades don’t make an A. I used to tease him, wishing he’d been born a genius so I could at least pass calculus. But we never figured out why I could only connect to Wyatt. Nobody else. Just him. After years of trying to make sense of it, we finally chalked it up to something simpler, maybe even a little sentimental: we were just soulmates of a different kind, bound by a frequency only we could hear. Then we grew up. And Wyatt got his first real girlfriend. I remember him texting me at one in the morning: “Hey, Jesse. Guess what I’m looking at right now?” I closed my eyes. “A cheap motel room,” I muttered into the phone. “And?” “A bathroom mirror. Steam.” “Get specific.” “…Definitely not PG-13.” I snapped my eyes open, my heart hammering against my ribs, and literally fell off my bed with a loud thud. On the other end of the line, Wyatt laughed so hard he sounded like he was choking. I cursed him out, calling him a maniac. But he just chuckled, his voice warm through the receiver. “Hey, you’ve been piggybacking on my eyes for tag and pop quizzes since we were kids. Fair is fair. You still got the guts to spy on me?” From that night on, Wyatt set a hard boundary. Unless he explicitly asked me to, I was banned from logging into his sight. I understood. Love requires privacy. But if I’m being entirely honest, I never liked Patricia. It wasn’t because she was mean. It was because she was too good to him. Devoted to a fault, perfect to the point of clinical. She was the textbook definition of the selfless, long-suffering partner. But to me, a woman who loves without boundaries, who accommodates every flaw without a single flicker of human irritation… it felt unnatural. It defied human nature. I kept my skepticism to myself. Whenever I dropped a hint, Wyatt would just laugh and tease me about being perpetually single. “You’ve never been in love, Jesse. When you find it, you’ll get it. Patricia is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Because he was happy, I swallowed my doubts. Right up until their wedding day. The ceremony Patricia planned was lavish, flawless in its execution. She handled every vendor, every minor crisis, shielding Wyatt from the stress. All Wyatt had to do was show up in his tuxedo and look handsome. Despite my reservations, seeing him smile at the altar made me genuinely happy. I wanted him to have the life he envisioned. That night, after a grueling day of playing best man, I should have collapsed into sleep the second my head hit the pillow. Instead, I tossed and turned, a strange, restless energy humming under my skin. I wanted to see how he was doing. Just a quick peek into his wedded bliss. So, I let myself slip into his eyes. But the perspective was wrong. It was jarring, violent, tilting wildly in the dark. A cold shiver raced down my spine. What is he doing? A second later, Patricia’s face filled his field of vision. It was too close, her features distorted by the proximity. “Wyatt,” she whispered, her voice dripping with something heavy. “I am going to love you forever.” I sat frozen in the dark, my breath caught in my throat, trying to rationalize it. Just some weird, intense wedding-night intimacy, I told myself, my cheeks burning. I quickly severed the connection, feeling like an intruder. But there was a detail I failed to process in my embarrassment. Throughout the entire exchange, Wyatt hadn’t spoken a single word. He hadn’t even breathed. It wasn’t until the next afternoon, when the police knocked on my door to report Wyatt Cooper missing, that the icy reality finally settled into my bones. It wasn’t a romantic wedding night. I had just witnessed his murder in real-time. Wyatt. My brother in everything but blood. I had been right there. I had the keys to his eyes. I could have saved him if I hadn’t been so blind, so stupidly polite. Instead, I watched him die and felt embarrassed. That realization became a physical ache, a self-loathing so sharp it made me sick. 2 Everyone was drowning Patricia in sympathy. The local media painted her as the tragic heroine, the devoted first love abandoned at the finish line. The Nation’s Most Heartbroken Bride, one headline read. Wyatt’s father bowed his head in shame, his voice cracking as he spoke to Patricia. “My son is a coward. I am so sorry for what he did to you.” His mother, consumed by rage and humiliation, disowned him on the spot. “He is selfish. Ignorant. I don’t have a son anymore.” Patricia merely offered a sad, martyr-like smile, shaking her head. “Mrs. Cooper, please don’t say that,” she murmured, her voice soft and trembling. “Wyatt didn’t do anything wrong. He just didn’t love me enough. If running away makes him happy, that’s all that matters to me. You will always be my mother.” Wyatt’s mother clutched her hands, weeping. “You sweet girl. He didn’t deserve you.” Standing in the corner of their living room, my stomach churned. He didn’t deserve her? How could she stand there and put on this grotesque performance? Without a word, I turned on my heel and walked straight to the precinct. Detective Briggs was heading the missing persons case. “Patricia killed him,” I told him, my hands gripping the edge of his desk. “On their wedding night. He didn’t run away. He’s dead.” Briggs stared at me for a long beat, his expression a mix of pity and exhaustion. “Do you have evidence?” The word died in my throat. How could I tell him I saw it through a psychic link? He’d have me committed before I could finish the sentence. “Just trust me,” I pleaded. “She killed him. I know it.” Because a report had been filed, Patricia was called in for questioning. When she saw me sitting in the waiting area, her eyes widened in soft surprise. “Jesse?” “She did it!” I yelled, stepping toward her, my voice cracking. “She’s the one!” Detective Briggs sighed, stepping between us. Patricia looked at the detective with an apologetic wince. “I’m sorry, Detective. I didn’t mean for him to cause a scene.” She reached out to touch my arm, but I violently yanked it back. “Don’t touch me! Get away from me!” She didn’t get angry. Her eyes remained swimming with gentle, maternal tolerance. “Jesse, I know you’re worried about Wyatt. I wanted nothing more than to marry him, to build a life together. But we can’t force him to stay. If he wanted to leave, we have to let him go.” I stared deep into her eyes. “I know what you did.” She froze for a fraction of a second. Around us, the whispers started. “Isn’t that the groom’s best friend? Why is he acting like a lunatic?” “Must be in denial. His buddy ditched his bride, and now he’s trying to blame her.” “Some friend.” Wyatt’s mother suddenly pushed through the crowd, her face twisted in fury. She shoved me back, stepping protectively in front of Patricia. “Is this your doing?!” she shrieked at me. “You’re the one who convinced my son to run, aren’t you?!” “I know you’ve always hated Patricia! You’ve been trying to poison his mind against her for years! Did you help him pack? Did you drive him to the airport?!” The crowd’s stares turned venomous. “Unbelievable. He’s trying to frame the poor girl to cover his own tracks.” “With friends like that, who needs enemies?” My body went rigid. “No, Mrs. Cooper, that’s not true—” She poked her finger hard into my chest. “My boy was gentle. He would never have had the guts to pull a stunt like this on his own! You whispered in his ear! You destroyed his life! Give me back my son!” Wyatt’s father stood behind her, his gaze cold with disgust. “Unprincipled,” he spat. Patricia sighed, her eyes welling with fresh tears. “Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, please. Don’t blame Jesse. He was Wyatt’s best friend. He’s just fiercely loyal to him. I understand.” On the surface, it was an act of grace. But in reality, she had just cemented my role as Wyatt’s accomplice. She had painted a narrative where I helped him flee and was now desperate to deflect blame onto her. A bystander scoffed. “Some people have no shame.” Patricia lowered her head, looking utterly defeated. “I don’t hold a grudge, Jesse. But please, stop wasting the detective’s time.” My fists clenched so hard my knuckles turned white. “You’re a phenomenal actress. But I will find the proof.” She had fooled everyone. Everyone except me. Wyatt’s mother grabbed my collar, her face inches from mine, trembling with rage. “Have you no shame? When will you stop torturing this girl?” “You ruined his wedding, you helped him abandon his life, and now you want to drag her name through the mud?” She broke down, sobbing hysterically. “If it wasn’t for you, my son would be happy right now! You ruined everything! What did we ever do to you?!!” I looked at her, the words of explanation dissolving on my tongue. Wyatt’s father pulled his wife back, his eyes dead as he looked at me. “We took you in like a second son, Jesse. We were wrong about you. Don’t ever speak to us again.” The words felt like a physical blow. The Coopers had practically raised me. Every birthday, every holiday, I had a place at their table. Now, that door was slammed shut forever. Detective Briggs placed a heavy, sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “That’s enough, kid. Go home.” The security footage from the gated community showed Wyatt leaving on foot in the middle of the night. He was wearing a hood, carrying a duffel bag, and getting into an unmarked cab. His passport, his credit cards, his watch, the family gold—all gone. He had even left a typed note of apology. It was a textbook runaway-groom scenario, perfectly packaged and ready for a file cabinet. Briggs sighed. “I know you’re hurting. But theories aren’t evidence.” Fine. If theories weren’t evidence, I would have to go out and dig up the truth myself. 3 Back home, I locked myself in my room and closed my eyes. I replayed the memory of that night. Once, twice, forty-eight times. On the forty-ninth time, a tiny detail clicked. The timestamp in my head was roughly 11:10 PM. But in Patricia’s official statement to the police, she claimed she was in the main ballroom of the hotel, making rounds and drinking champagne with her extended family. Yet, I had seen her face through Wyatt’s eyes. I sat up straight, my heart racing. Her alibi was a lie. But how had she pulled it off? The ballroom was packed. How did she slip away unnoticed, and how could she have been in two places at once? I paced the hardwood floor of my apartment, my thoughts spinning. The first step was finding Wyatt. Or rather, his body. Without a body, Patricia was untouchable. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. A barrage of notifications flooded my screen. Someone had filmed the confrontation at the police station and posted it online. The comments were brutal: “Look at this guy, blindly defending a cheating coward.” “Birds of a feather. He’s probably just as toxic.” “Enabling his friend’s affair and then gaslighting the heartbroken fiancée? Disgusting.” “This is why men’s friends are the worst. They hate seeing their buddies settle down with a good woman. He was probably jealous of how perfect Patricia was.” I swiped the screen black, ignoring the noise. I closed my eyes and focused, conjuring Wyatt’s face in the dark. The vision returned. The murky, foul-smelling water. This was where she had put him. The water was thick with silt and algae, tiny fish darting through the gloom. It was impossible to see anything clearly. Where was he? I pulled up a map of the county, drawing a ten-mile circle around the wedding venue. For her to slip out of the reception, kill him, dispose of him, and get back without raising suspicion, the location couldn’t be far. The storm drains? Too easily searched. The popular hiking trail along Whispering Pines? Too much foot traffic. My pen hovered over the final option. The Stillwater River, running behind the ridge. Secluded. Unmonitored. Empty at night. My throat tightened. I grabbed my keys and went back to the precinct. “I need to file a report.” 4 Detective Briggs rubbed his temples, looking thoroughly annoyed as he pulled out his notepad. “What is it this time, Jesse?” I kept my voice steady. “I know where she put the body.” Briggs’s pen paused. He gave me a sharp, warned look. “Making false reports is a felony.” “I know. But I’m telling the truth.” His jaw tightened. “Alright. Where?” I took a deep breath and laid out my deductions, pointing to the specific, secluded bends of the Stillwater River. A junior officer nearby let out a sharp chuckle. “Nice story. Very cinematic.” A young clerk rolled her eyes. “He thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes. Probably wants to take the police report to get clout on social media. I’ve seen this a hundred times.” I ignored them. I grabbed Briggs’s hand, my fingers digging into his sleeve. “Just check. Please. Just one look.” “It’s right down the road. If I’m wrong, what do you lose? A couple of hours?” “Instead of assuming I’m crazy, go look! That is a human being we are talking about! Why won’t you just look?!” The clerk started to snap at me, but Briggs raised a hand, silencing her. He stared at me, a mixture of pity and resignation in his eyes. “One last time, Jesse. That’s it.” 5 By the riverbank. A dozen officers and search-and-rescue K9 units combed the muddy banks of the Stillwater. Minutes stretched into hours. My anxiety flared. Why hadn’t they found him? I closed my eyes. The vision was still the same—dark, murky water. He was definitely in the water. Suddenly, headlights cut through the dark. Car doors slammed, and Patricia and Wyatt’s mother came rushing down the bank. Before I could even speak, a sharp, stinging blow landed on my cheek. My face burned, my vision blurring for a second. Wyatt’s mother was shaking with rage. “Are you happy now?!” “Are you going to stop when you’ve gotten Patricia fired from her job? When you’ve completely ruined her life?!” “If you have any respect left for this family, you will tell the detective to drop this ridiculous search right now! And you will get on your knees and apologize to her!” Patricia’s eyes flickered, a dark, calculating glint passing through them. “Mrs. Cooper, please. It’s okay. Jesse is just confused by grief.” I spat a copper taste of blood onto the grass, locking my eyes onto Patricia. “You know he’s down there,” I whispered. “That’s why you brought her here. To make a scene and stop them from digging. Am I right?” At the word water, a micro-expression of panic flashed across Patricia’s face. It was incredibly brief, but I caught it. She’s terrified. Just then, Detective Briggs walked back up from the riverbank, the search dogs trailing behind him. I looked at him with desperate hope. Patricia, too, turned to watch him. But Briggs’s face was grim, his eyes carrying a cold, dismissive pity. My stomach dropped. “Nothing,” Briggs said, his voice flat. “We dragged the riverbed. There’s nothing down there.” I saw Patricia’s shoulders visibly drop, a subtle sigh escaping her lips. “That’s impossible!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Did you actually search? You couldn’t have!” The junior officer scoffed, stepping forward. “How many times do we have to humiliate ourselves for you, kid?” “If you’re so sure, why don’t you dive in yourself? We shouldn’t have wasted our time on a lunatic.” Briggs’s expression hardened. “Mr. Jesse, we searched the entire stretch. There isn’t a body. There isn’t even a stray tire. There’s nothing.” “We’re packing up.” As the officers walked past me, one of them intentionally clipped my shoulder. “Nice try, kid.” My mind scrambled. I couldn’t understand it. The murky water. The weeds. The silt. I had seen it. I know it was water. How could he not be there? Where did I go wrong? I sank to my knees, clawing at my hair in frustration. Think, damn it, think! “He’s completely lost his mind,” someone muttered in the distance. At those words, I froze. A sudden, violent realization hit me like a physical blow. The fog in my mind vanished, leaving a terrifying clarity. Of course. Why the river was empty. Why Wyatt had vanished. How Patricia had bypassed the cameras. I let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “Stop!” I yelled, standing up. “Stop acting! I know where he is!” “He’s been right in front of us the entire time!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516773”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At the party, my fiancé lost the drinking game. I asked him, for the tenth time, where my dog had actually gone. He didn’t answer. Instead, his “girl best friend,” Bridget, leaned across the table to bail him out. “I ate him, Norma,” she said, her voice dripping with a lazy, drunken giggle. “Honestly, you raised him so well. The meat wasn’t tough at all.” She flashed a bright, mocking smile. “Look, it’s just a dog, right? Tomorrow is your wedding. Why don’t we have Justin dress up as a puppy to make it up to you? Consider the debt settled.” The room erupted into a chorus of raucous laughter. Bridget laughed so hard she practically collapsed into Justin’s chest, her hand trailing down his collarbone. “You guys have no idea. When Justin plays the good boy, he’s absolutely adorable.” Among the drunken roars, someone threw out a crude joke. 1 “How does he play dog for you, Bridget? Does he wear a collar? Or does he get down on all fours and lick your hand?” Bridget’s eyes lit up. She grabbed the speaker’s tie, pulling him close. “You dirty dog, you just want all the details tonight, don’t you?” The guy, clearly wasted, challenged her. “Come on, rock-paper-scissors! If you lose, you have to tell us exactly how sweet Justin is when he’s begging.” Bridget’s cheeks flushed pink. She grinned and threw her hand out. More cheers. More drunken shouting. Suddenly, Bridget shrieked, “Damn it! I actually lost to you!” The group leaned in, reeking of cheap beer and expensive champagne, swaying on their feet. “Spill! Spill! How does he do it? How sweet is Justin when he’s on his knees?” The men roared. Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but a large hand clamped over her lips, pulling her back against a broad chest. “Cut it out,” Justin said, his voice low but firm. “You’ve had too much to drink. Stop making those kinds of jokes.” The room went quiet, though eyes continued to dart back and forth. Some of the guys exchanged whispered chuckles, sharing a silent, knowing look that excluded me entirely. I stood up and grabbed Bridget’s arm, pulling her wobbly, drunken frame upright. She looked at me, a sloppy grin spreading across her face. “Norma… what’s the matter? Want to know the details too?” The next second, a deafening crash shattered the tension. Someone in the back yelled, “Holy shit!” Bridget hit the floor hard. A pool of blood and spilled champagne began to snake across the tile, glittering under the dim bar lights. Justin’s eyes went wide, the alcohol instantly draining from his system. He threw himself onto the floor, pressing his hands against her bleeding temple. “Call 911! Get an ambulance!” he screamed, his voice cracking. Then he glared up at me, his face twisted in fury. “Are you fucking insane, Norma? A blow to the head could kill her!” I didn’t blink. I picked up the last unbroken champagne bottle from the table, pointing the jagged neck directly at his face. “Tell me,” I whispered, my voice trembling but cold. “How did my dog end up in her mouth?” 2 For a long time, Justin was the only other person who had a key to my apartment. When I went on a two-week business trip six months ago, I gave him my spare so he could check on Winston, my Bichon Frise. But when I came back, the apartment was silent. The only thing left of my dog was his favorite squeaky yellow duck, sitting lonely on the living room rug. Justin had stammered through an explanation. He claimed Winston had slipped past his legs when he opened the front door, running off into the night. He said he had searched the neighborhood for hours but couldn’t find him. During those weeks, I nearly lost my mind. I printed hundreds of flyers, plastered them on every lamppost, and spent my nights wandering the dark streets, calling Winston’s name until my throat was raw. My grief had blinded me. I never noticed the gaps in his story. Until tonight. Earlier in the evening, Bridget had casually mentioned how much she loved exotic game. Then, wrinkling her nose, she added, “It’s a shame most dog meat is so tough. You really need one that’s been pampered and fed high-quality kibble to get that tender, savory flavor.” At that moment, a jagged line of suspicion began to connect in my mind. As the night wore on and the drinks kept flowing, their filters crumbled. When I finally asked the question I had buried deep in my chest, I felt the sudden, rigid tension in Justin’s posture. Now, the room was in chaos. They scrambled to lift Bridget, rushing her out the door. Someone shoved me hard in the rush, sending me stumbling back against the wall. Even as the wailing of the ambulance faded into the distance, Justin never answered me. But the silence was its own confession. Winston. My sweet, gentle Winston. Had Justin deliberately handed him over to Bridget to be slaughtered? 3 The party dissolved, but I didn’t go back to my empty apartment. Instead, I drove to the new townhouse we had just bought—the place we were supposed to move into after our wedding tomorrow. His parents were there, setting up decorations. They looked up in surprise when the door slammed open. “Norma? What are you doing here at this hour?” his mother asked, holding a roll of silk ribbon. I didn’t answer. I walked straight into the kitchen, bypassed her, and picked up a heavy, twelve-inch chef’s knife from the block. His parents gasped, backing away. “Stop, stop! Norma, what is wrong with you? Where is Justin? Shouldn’t he be with you?” But the grief and white-hot rage burning in my chest stripped away any capacity for politeness. I swung the knife, forcing them to retreat into the hallway. The first slash went directly through our giant, glossy engagement portrait hanging in the living room. The canvas ripped with a satisfying, screeching tear. The second strike chopped into the custom-engraved wooden sign bearing our initials and tomorrow’s wedding date. Third strike. Fourth strike. I poured every ounce of my physical strength into destroying the brand-new velvet sofa, the mounted television, the pristine coffee table. I smashed, kicked, and hacked until the living room was a battlefield of stuffing, shattered glass, and splintered wood. His parents were shaking, huddled by the front door. “Norma, what did Justin do to you? Tell us!” His father frantically dialed Justin’s number, but the calls kept going straight to voicemail. His mother wrung her hands, staring at the ruin. “The house… our beautiful house is destroyed! How are you two supposed to get married tomorrow?” “We aren’t,” I said. My voice was a hollow, raspy whisper. I let the knife clatter to the hardwood floor and walked past them, stepping out into the cold night. Just as I crossed the threshold, his father’s phone finally connected. “Dad, why the hell do you keep calling me?!” Justin’s voice blasted through the receiver, frantic and angry. “Bridget is hurt! Norma cracked her head open with a bottle! Nothing is more important than Bridget right now!” “Justin, Norma is here! She’s lost her mind! She destroyed the townhouse!” his father yelled. There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. “Good,” Justin said, his voice dropping into a hard, venomous register. “Tell her to get to the hospital. She owes Bridget a formal apology, and she’s going to give it to her tonight.” 4 I sat on the curb under a flickering streetlamp, lighting a cigarette. It was the first time in my life I had ever smoked. I had Winston for seven years. I got him when he was just a tiny, white puffball that could fit in the palm of my hand. He was incredibly intuitive. Every time I had a bad day, he would sit quietly by my side, tilting his little head, watching me with those big, dark eyes. The moment I would look up at him, he would jump into my lap, frantically licking away my tears. He was my shadow, always waiting by the door, resting his chin on my palm the second I walked through. And six months ago, he was suddenly gone. I had blamed myself. I thought I shouldn’t have gone on that trip. I thought it was a terrible stroke of bad luck. But it wasn’t an accident. It was a cold-blooded sacrifice. All because Bridget wanted to satisfy a sick, twisted craving. By the time I finished my eleventh cigarette, my fingers were numb. I stood up, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and felt my phone vibrate. Justin’s voice was sharp with irritation. “Where are you? Bridget is awake. Do you have any idea how close you came to killing her? It was a joke, Norma. You’re an adult—since when can’t you take a joke? Get over here right now, apologize, and maybe we can salvage this.” I remained silent, listening to the ambient noise of the hospital wing over the line. “Norma?” Justin’s voice grew suspicious. “Are you listening to me?” He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “You’re really not speaking? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum? Over a dog?” I finally smiled. The sound that came out of my throat was dry and hollow. “Which hospital? I’m coming.” 5 But Justin was cautious now. He hesitated for a long time before asking, “Where are you? Let me come pick you up instead.” He arrived in a taxi twenty minutes later, still reeking of stale champagne and sweat. I stood under the streetlamp, my face a completely blank slate. He climbed out of the cab and studied my expression warily. “Norma… are you really this angry?” I looked up, locking my eyes onto his. “Winston was in my apartment. How did he end up in her kitchen? Did you take him, Justin?” His face went pale. He shifted his weight, refusing to meet my gaze. “It happened six months ago. Why are you still obsessed with this?” He waved his hand dismissively. “If you love dogs that much, I’ll buy you a new one. A white one, a black one, whatever pedigree you want.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a soft, placating tone. “He was just an animal, babe. Is he really worth throwing away our future over? You made a massive scene tonight. Bridget wanted to call the police the second she woke up. I had to agree to some ridiculous terms just to get her to wait for your apology. Come back with me, Norma. Don’t make this uglier than it already is.” I tilted my head. “Ridiculous terms? Like what? Promising to do her laundry for a month? Or giving her strip dances whenever she gets bored?” Justin’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “Stop… don’t be disgusting. I’m trying to save our wedding. If she files an assault report, how do we get married tomorrow? You created this mess.” He let out a long, heavy sigh. “Whatever. I don’t entirely blame you. The guys drank too much and took the jokes too far. But… Bridget did say that after we’re married, she doesn’t want you coming to our group hangouts anymore.” 6 His phone buzzed. Justin pulled it out, and as he read the screen, the color drained completely from his face. “Norma… did you destroy the townhouse?” I stared at him, my voice flat. “You should be glad I didn’t see you when I had that knife in my hand.” His face went from pale to a mottled, angry red. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Over a fucking dog, you’re ruining our lives?!” “Tell me,” I demanded, stepping closer. “How did Winston end up on her plate?” Justin closed his mouth. For a long time, he couldn’t find his voice. Finally, he muttered, “I thought your first question would be whether I was sleeping with her. I guess I really matter less to you than a dog.” He kicked a plastic orange traffic cone on the curb, looking at me with deep, bitter disappointment. “Since you’ve decided to make a disaster of this, I guess the wedding is postponed.” 7 I went back to my old apartment. Sitting alone on the edge of my bed, I sent a mass text to every single wedding guest, letting them know the ceremony was canceled. When I put the phone down, the silence of the dark room pressed in on me. The guilt and grief were suffocating, wrapping around my throat like a vice. Suddenly, my phone buzzed, the bright screen cutting through the darkness. An instinctual wave of dread washed over me. It was a friend request from an unlisted number. I accepted it, and a message immediately popped up. [Wow, Norma. You really are pathetic.] [Justin has been playing ‘good boy’ for me since before you two even started dating. Technically, I’m your predecessor.] [You’re petty, sensitive, and completely dramatic. You never fit in with our group anyway.] I read the texts, but I didn’t reply. My gut told me there was more. I tapped on her profile, scrolling back through her archives. Sure enough, I found a post from exactly six months ago. The background was unmistakably my kitchen. On my counter sat a simmering Dutch oven. The caption read: [The little Bichon Justin prepared for me. Way sweeter and more tender than some stray mutt~]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516789”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Theo Prescott drew the Dare: Hand over your phone. The question was simple, cruel, and designed for a crowd: Who in your contacts has received the most ‘I love you’ texts from you? The queen bee of our senior class: 3 times. Me: 972 times. The raucous cheering in the VIP room died instantly. A suffocating vacuum of silence took its place. Kennedy Nathan’s eyes welled with tears. Theo didn’t even blink. He pulled up my contact right there in front of everyone, hit Delete, and then leaned in, a soft, indulgent smile playing on his lips as he coaxed Kennedy. “Is that really worth crying over?” he murmured. “You already knew. I only played house with her for three months. None of those words meant a damn thing.” Those nine hundred and seventy-two I love yous had been sent on a night Theo was blackout drunk. He had crouched on the curb outside a diner, refusing to let his friends pull him up. He just kept his head down, his thumbs flying across the screen, firing those three words to me over and over again. “If I send 999 of them,” he had typed. “The bet is off. We do this for real. Please.” 01 When Theo deleted my number, he didn’t look in my direction. Not even once. The atmosphere in the private karaoke room was eerily quiet. People exchanged complicated glances, their eyes darting toward me with a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. Kennedy’s soft sobs began to quiet down. “Did you… did you really not like her at all?” Theo reached out, his thumb gently catching a tear on her cheek. He let out a low, breathy laugh. “What are you talking about? I told you, it was just a game.” “Then why did you send her all those messages… You guys were only together for three months.” A microscopic shift occurred in Theo’s expression. His tone cooled, flattening out. “I was wasted. I don’t even remember doing it.” That was all it took. Kennedy was thoroughly appeased. Tonight was the Class President’s birthday bash. After that display, the energy in the room was irrevocably dead. We all forced our way through the cake cutting, and the second it was done, everyone scrambled for excuses to leave, bolting like they’d been pardoned from death row. 02 The venue wasn’t far from my house. I decided to walk, the cool night air biting at my cheeks. As my sneakers hit the pavement, my mind drifted to those 972 texts. Two of them were sent right after we started dating. The other 970 were all sent on the exact same day. The day Theo got drunk. Back then, I didn’t know that my entire relationship was born from a dare. A bet between him and Kennedy. They were childhood friends, running in the same wealthy, country-club circles. He had always loved her, had confessed to her more times than anyone could count. But Kennedy liked keeping him on a leash. She thought a face like Theo’s was too dangerous, too much of a flight risk. She told him he couldn’t give her security. So, six months ago, when he confessed his love yet again, she casually pointed across the classroom to me—the quietest, most invisible girl in our AP Calculus class. “If you really want me,” she had said, “prove it. Date someone random for exactly three months. Don’t catch feelings. The second the clock runs out, you dump her. You pull that off, and I’m yours.” The night Theo got drunk, we had been together for a little over two months. We were at a diner with his friends. One of his buddies was scrolling through TikTok, scoffing at his screen. “Can you believe people actually fall for this manifestation crap? Look at this—it says if you send the person you like 999 ‘I love you’ texts in under fifteen minutes, the universe locks you together forever.” Under the table, Theo squeezed my hand. He took another shot, his face completely unbothered. But the moment we stepped out of the diner, he dropped to a crouch by the curb. His fingers flew across his screen. None of his friends could drag him to his feet. I stood there, looking down at my phone as the screen lit up with notification after notification. I love you. I love you. I love you. I sighed, feeling a helpless sort of fondness. I squatted down beside him, keeping my voice gentle. “Let’s go home, okay? The temperature is dropping. If you stay out in this wind, you’re going to catch a cold.” “Why are you buying into something so childish anyway?” I whispered. “We’re already together.” The harsh, artificial glow of the phone screen illuminated his face. His expression was intensely focused, his thumbs never stopping. “Josie, if I finish all 999 in fifteen minutes,” he typed. “The bet is off. We do this for real. Please.” I was just about to ask him—what bet?—when a voice cut through the night air. “What are you guys doing out here?” For ten minutes, nobody had been able to make Theo stop. But the second that feminine voice rang out, the typing ceased. The last message hovered in his text box, unsent. Kennedy strolled over, her gaze drifting leisurely between Theo and me. “Man, Theo’s being a crazy drunk tonight,” one of his friends groaned. “Nobody can talk sense into him. Good thing you showed up. You’ve known him forever—you give it a shot.” Theo stared at his screen for a second longer. Then, he deleted the unsent text. He locked the phone. The light reflecting in his eyes extinguished instantly. He stood up, his eyelashes lowering, casting long shadows over his cheekbones. “I’m sober,” he muttered. When I instinctively reached out to take his arm, he smoothly, imperceptibly stepped away, dodging my touch. “Let’s go,” he muttered to me. “I’ll take you home.” After that night, he never mentioned those 970 texts again. It was as if the moment had been erased from time. Two weeks later, on my birthday, Theo dumped me. He confessed the whole truth about the bet. I slapped him across the face. He didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, wearing that devastating, bastardly face, and said in a deadpan voice, “Hit me until you feel better. Then we’re even.” 03 The memory severed itself the moment I reached my apartment building. Theo was standing a few yards away. His eyes, dark and bottomless beneath the messy fringe of his hair, were fixed quietly on me. We held each other’s gaze for two agonizing seconds before he looked away. “Oh,” he said, his voice flat. “Took a wrong turn.” I didn’t say a word. I just sidestepped him and kept walking. “Josie.” The faint, unmistakable scent of mint and stale nicotine drifted from his black hoodie. He called out again, stopping me in my tracks. “A month ago… the last time you called me. What did you want to say?” I didn’t answer his question. I only looked at him and said, “We were even the day you let me hit you. From now on, unless it’s strictly about school, it’s best if we pretend the other doesn’t exist.” Theo let out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. “Right. We’re just classmates who don’t even have each other’s phone numbers anymore. Sorry to bother you, Miss Evans.” His footsteps grew fainter. The streetlight stretched his tall silhouette into a long, distorted shadow against the pavement until, bit by bit, it melted entirely into the dusk. When the cliff-drop breakup happened, I spent days wandering around like a ghost. I spent most of my classes staring blankly out the window. To make matters worse, my period had come early that month. The cramps were blinding, radiating a heavy, dragging pain through my abdomen, triggering a brutal migraine. I had stayed after school for cleanup duty, and by the time I finished, the entire wing was completely deserted. I collapsed onto a desk, paralyzed by the pain. In a state of pure, thoughtless desperation, I dialed Theo’s number. “Hello?” It was Theo’s voice—clear, familiar, sending a pathetic jolt of relief through me. But then, immediately after: “Theo, let me answer it for you, okay?” A second later, the girl’s voice filled the speaker. “Josie, right? Did you need something from Theo? He’s right here beside me. You can just say it, he’s listening.” It was Kennedy. The fog in my brain vanished, replaced by a bucket of ice water. I hung up the phone without a word. I lay my head on the cold desk, riding out the wave of pain until I could finally force myself to stand up and walk out. The campus security guard looked at me in shock as I limped toward the gates. “Still kids here at this hour?” I tried to force a polite smile. I couldn’t make my mouth work. 04 The Class President’s party had been on a Friday night. I genuinely thought the sting of being publicly deleted from his phone would haunt me for weeks. In reality, I woke up Saturday morning and barely thought about it. Monday rolled around. Before first period, I stopped at my usual neighborhood coffee cart near the school for a bagel and a latte. The owner, a sweet older man, peered over my shoulder and teased, “Morning, kiddo! Brought the boyfriend around for coffee again, I see.” I froze. “What?” I followed his line of sight. I ended up staring dead into Theo’s eyes. Kennedy popped her head out from behind his shoulder, beaming. “You guessed wrong, sir! He’s my boyfriend.” The owner looked at me, then at Theo, clearly mortified. Kennedy, sensing the awkwardness and thriving in it, offered a sickly-sweet explanation. “You definitely misunderstood before. That little thing they had going on? It was just a game of Truth or Dare. Totally fake. I’m his one and only.” “Oh, you kids!” The owner laughed nervously, desperate to change the subject. “Well, last time Theo brought me a coffee from your competitor down the street, and honestly? Mine’s better.” Kennedy immediately charmed him. “Of course yours is! I told my dad to order a hundred of your pastries for his corporate office just to let them taste real quality.” The owner waved his hands, entirely won over. “You’re too kind, sweetheart.” That was Kennedy’s superpower. She wasn’t just stunningly beautiful. Despite being born into massive wealth, she played the approachable, down-to-earth girl perfectly. She was bubbly, understanding, and completely magnetic. Half the boys in our senior class were in love with her, and the girls fought viciously for a spot in her inner circle. I grabbed my latte, tapped my phone to pay, and turned to leave. Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my wrist, yanking me backward. Right in front of me was the espresso machine’s steaming wand. A violent hiss of boiling water shot out, hitting the exact empty space where my arm had been a split second before. Theo’s grip on my wrist tightened. His eyes were dark, almost stormy. “Still haven’t fixed that habit of walking without looking?” Kennedy’s smile turned brittle. I snatched my arm back. “Thanks.” Then I walked away, leaving them both behind. 05 The only thing worse than not being able to avoid Theo in the hallways was being forced to sit next to him in AP Bio. I had barely settled into my seat when Theo and his crew walked into the classroom. Catching him in my periphery, I kept my head down, pushed my chair in, and made myself as small as possible so he could slide past me. He slipped into the seat beside mine. For the entire duration, we didn’t exchange a single glance. Kennedy strolled over, leaning heavily against the edge of our lab table. “Theo, the seating chart changes next week. Let’s grab that table by the window in the third row, yeah?” Theo was rhythmically tapping his pen against the black countertop. He didn’t stop. “Sure,” he muttered, sounding completely indifferent. Kennedy turned to me, offering a painfully dramatic sigh as she patted my shoulder. “Oh, Josie. I have the worst news. I just found out everyone else in the class has already paired up. And since we have an odd number of students… it looks like you’re going to be sitting all by yourself for the next two months.” The tapping of Theo’s pen came to an abrupt halt. I didn’t look up. I just kept erasing a mistake on my worksheet and said softly, “That’s fine.” A few minutes after Kennedy flounced back to her seat, Theo suddenly reached over and violently shoved the window next to us wide open. The guy sitting behind us, our varsity track captain, let out a yelp. “Bro! What the hell? You just blew my notes everywhere!” Theo let his heavy eyelids drop, his expression bored. “It’s too suffocating in here.” 06 I was counting the seconds until the seating chart changed. When Friday finally arrived, I let out a massive breath of relief. During the passing period, the entire school was buzzing with a single topic: the new transfer student. “Who transfers in the middle of senior year?” “I don’t know, but I overheard them talking in the main office. It’s a guy, and I saw a glimpse of his file. Holy shit, he is gorgeous.” “Gorgeous how? Better-looking than Theo?” “Honestly? It’s a tight race.” “Wait, if we have a new guy, that makes the class numbers even. Nobody has to sit alone.” I tuned it out. As long as I was far away from Theo, I didn’t care if I was seated next to a serial killer. By the time the final bell rang, the oppressive grey sky had finally broken, unleashing a torrential downpour. It was my turn for homeroom cleanup duty, so I left the building nearly an hour after everyone else. When I reached the main double doors, the rain was coming down in sheets. I didn’t have an umbrella, so I stood in the vestibule, waiting for a break in the storm. Theo and Kennedy jogged into my line of sight. They were sprinting back from the parking lot. Theo had his varsity jacket draped over Kennedy’s head to shield her from the rain. She pulled a few tissues from her bag and stood on her tiptoes, carefully dabbing at his soaked hair. “I am so, so sorry. This is all my fault. I just had to go feed that stray cat near the bleachers, and now you’re freezing.” Theo tilted his head slightly away from her touch. “It’s fine. I got it.” The rain was only getting heavier. The security guard came jangling a massive ring of keys, shooing us out. “Shift’s over, kids. Building’s getting locked. Time to head home.” The bus stop was a solid ten-minute walk from the campus gates. Making a run for it meant getting drenched to the bone. My eyes landed on the small security booth by the front gates. The roof had a slight overhang—just enough space to huddle under and stay dry. I hugged my backpack tight against my chest and bolted into the rain. “Josie.” 07 I thought I heard Theo call my name. But the roar of the rain swallowed it up instantly. I figured I must have imagined it. It was rush hour. The absolute worst time to try and get an Uber. The app told me I was 57th in the queue. I let out a miserable sigh, praying the wind wouldn’t pick up. If the rain started coming in sideways, this little overhang wasn’t going to save me. A moment later, Kennedy and Theo walked over. Theo had apparently dug a spare rain poncho out of his locker. As if on cue, the wind began to howl. Icy, needle-like rain slanted viciously under the awning, hitting my legs and arms. Even with my back pressed flat against the brick wall of the security booth, my clothes were quickly soaking through. Theo looked up, his eyes landing on me. Without a word, he started to shrug off the poncho. He took two steps in my direction. Then, behind him, came the sharp, unmistakable sound of plastic tearing. Kennedy blinked, looking the picture of innocence. “Oh no! I accidentally ripped my umbrella on the gate. Theo, let me wear the poncho, please? I’m so cold.” Theo’s back went rigid. He stood frozen for a few agonizing seconds, his knuckles white as he gripped the plastic. Then, he handed it to Kennedy. “You’re the absolute best boyfriend!” she cooed. “I’ll just wrap the broken umbrella around my shoes so they don’t get ruined. Puddle water is so gross, I can’t bear to let it touch me.” She bundled herself up tightly, fully protected from the elements. Then she turned to me with a brilliant, sympathetic smile. “Do I look like a giant marshmallow?” she giggled. “Josie, you should really press yourself further back against the wall. That way you won’t get too wet.” 08 The sky looked like it was trying to drown the city. My phone screen was slick with rain. My fingers were blue and stiff with cold as I wiped the glass against my damp shirt and unlocked it. Seven people left ahead of me in the queue. I couldn’t stop shivering. I finally just dropped into a crouch, hugging my knees to conserve whatever body heat I had left. Kennedy wrapped her arms around Theo from behind. “If I stand like this, I can block the wind for you. Then you won’t get as wet.” Theo peeled her arms off him. “I’m fine. Just stand on your own so you stay dry.” He stood perfectly still, his eyes locked onto the misty, unrelenting downpour. The rain battered his shoulders, the water sliding down his pale skin and dripping rhythmically from his fingertips. A few minutes later, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb. It wasn’t my Uber. It was the Prescott family’s private driver. Theo turned to look at me. “Get in. We’ll drop you off.” Kennedy let out a soft, dramatic sound of disappointment. “It’s already so late. And Josie lives so far out of the way. I really just want a hot shower.” Theo’s eyes snapped to her. “Kennedy. She’s been in our class for three years.” Stung by the sharpness in his gaze, Kennedy forced a tight laugh. “I didn’t say we couldn’t take her! I just never knew my boyfriend was such a bleeding heart for his classmates.” Headlights pierced the rain in the distance. I squinted at the license plate as it approached. It was my ride. I stood up, my joints popping in the cold. “No thanks. My car is here.” Without looking back, I ran for the silver sedan and pulled the door shut behind me. As the car pulled away, Kennedy’s airy voice drifted through the rain. “Well, looks like she doesn’t care much for your charity.” By the time I got home and took a scalding shower, I had two missed calls from an unknown local number. A second later, the same number called again. I answered. Theo’s voice came through the receiver. “I’m downstairs.” I marched over to my bedroom window and looked down at the street. “Why are you here?” “I brought you cold medicine.” “I don’t need it. I can buy my own. Go home. I’m hanging up.” Theo’s tone didn’t shift. “Or, I can just come up to your door.” It was late, and my parents were in the living room watching TV. Panic flared in my chest. I threw on a hoodie and practically sprinted down the stairs. I pushed open the lobby doors. Theo tossed a pharmacy bag at my chest. I caught it by reflex. “Josie,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint, bitter smirk. “Didn’t you say you just wanted to be ordinary classmates?” He stepped closer. “Do you run away from all your classmates like they’re a plague?” Before I could even process the audacity of the question, he turned and walked away. I stood under the flickering awning light, staring at his retreating back, utterly baffled as to why he was the one acting angry. 09 Monday morning. I walked into homeroom and dropped the unopened bag of cold medicine squarely onto Theo’s desk. Our homeroom teacher had already taped the new seating chart to the whiteboard. Following the diagram, I packed up my things and began migrating my books across the room before the bell rang. Everyone was settled into their new spots by the time the morning announcements crackled over the PA. Our teacher stepped up to the podium, clapping her hands. “Alright, listen up. We have a new student joining us today. Come on in, Kieran.” A guy walked through the door. A collective, suppressed gasp rippled through the room. “Holy shit…” someone whispered behind me. “He’s even better looking than the picture I saw on the counselor’s desk.” The teacher scanned the room and pointed to the empty desk right beside me. “Kieran, you can take that seat. If you have any questions about the syllabus, just ask your partner.” He dropped his bag and slid into the chair. I stared at the side of his face for two full seconds. He looked… intensely familiar. 10 Kieran and I didn’t exchange a single word all morning. He exuded an aura of chilled exhaustion, practically radiating a “Do Not Disturb” sign. The last period before lunch was P.E. Kieran was immediately recruited by the varsity guys to play a pickup game of basketball. I sat on the bleachers a little ways off, my eyes involuntarily tracking him across the court. The longer I looked, the more the pieces clicked together. I didn’t even notice how seamlessly he was passing the ball to Theo. Then, like a lightning strike, it hit me. The day I had my excruciating period cramps. The day I called Theo, only to hear Kennedy’s voice. After leaving the school that day, I was completely drained. I managed to drag myself onto a crowded city bus. The driver slammed on the brakes, and my knees nearly gave out. I would have hit the floor if a hand hadn’t shot out and grabbed my arm. A guy stood up from his seat. “Here. Sit down.” “Thank you,” I had mumbled. My vision was swimming, and I hadn’t even looked at his face. A few stops later, a middle-aged man boarded. He stood directly in front of me, his stomach bulging so far out it threatened to pop the buttons off his shirt. I had to press my spine flat against the window just to avoid touching him. Seeing this, the guy who gave up his seat smoothly maneuvered himself right into the gap between me and the older man. The suffocating smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol was instantly replaced by the clean, sharp scent of pine and fresh laundry. I had gently tugged at his sleeve. He tilted his head down to look at me. I offered him a sincere, exhausted “Thank you” again. He just gave a low “Mm,” turned back around, and kept scrolling on his phone. Now, watching him shoot a three-pointer on the court, I realized that guy was Kieran. Later on that bus ride, the crowd had gotten denser. My eyelids felt like lead, and I ended up dozing against the glass. When the bus stopped a while later, Kieran had straightened up. I assumed he was getting off. I forced myself awake. “Are you tired? You can take your seat back. Thanks for letting me rest.” I had tried to stand, but Kieran just pressed a hand to my shoulder, gently forcing me back down. “Don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep.” I did. I slept through most of the route, waking up groggily a few times, always seeing him standing there, standing guard. By the time we reached the end of the line, the bus had emptied out, and he was gone. 11 I decided I needed to buy Kieran lunch to properly thank him. The lunch bell rang, and I practically jogged over to the gym doors to catch him. He was surrounded by a crowd. Theo tossed a bottle of water to him. “Man, it’s been way too long. Dinner tonight? On me.” Kennedy leaned in, handing Kieran a fresh towel. “Dinner is on us, actually.” She heavily emphasized the us. Kieran caught the towel, wiping the sweat from his neck. “Oh, you two finally made it official? Couldn’t really tell.” I froze in my tracks. It felt like someone had shoved a fistful of wet cotton down my throat. For a second, I literally couldn’t breathe. Kennedy spotted me hovering near the doors. She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Josie? Are you looking for someone?” Every eye in the group snapped to me. I opened my mouth, struggling to find my voice. “No. Nobody.” I turned on my heel and walked away as fast as dignity allowed. Seeing Kennedy and Kieran chatting so comfortably, with such easy familiarity… it triggered something awful in me. Like emotional PTSD. My hands started shaking. I thought back to the bus ride. The coincidence of it all. My mind went to the darkest possible place. Was it planned? Was he like Theo? Did he like Kennedy too? Was this just another game, another dare orchestrated by her to make a fool out of me? I would never, ever forget the day Theo broke up with me. The utter devastation of him sitting there, telling me it was a prank. I had begged him, reached for his hand, told him not to joke like that. He had yanked his hand away. He said I was delusional. He told me he was doing a chore. “Dating you was literally a homework assignment for me,” he had said. “The three months are up. Assignment submitted. Now let’s be adults about this—how much do you want? What kind of compensation is going to make you go away?” The memory violently pulled me back to the present. I looked down and realized my fists were clenched so tight that my fingernails had drawn half-moon crescents in my palms. Once the panic subsided, only one clear thought remained in my head: Stay the hell away from Kieran Maxwell.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516774”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Thomas was the bridge between Lauren and me. I’d known him for three years before I ever met her. After Lauren and I broke up, Thomas was caught in the middle, entirely unsure of which side to take. Neither of us was willing to let go of him. On holidays, we would both reach out to him separately, and on birthdays, we’d use him as a proxy to pass along wishes. Neither of us wanted to be the first to say it out loud: “We are two parallel lines now, and we’ll never cross again.” Lauren finally broke the stalemate on a completely ordinary Tuesday night. Her text was brief: “Thomas can’t keep being there for both of us. Let him go.” I didn’t reply. I thought she was like me—just clinging to the long, beautiful history the three of us had built together. Then, last night, she called. Her voice sounded more exhausted than I had ever heard it. “I know how much Thomas means to you, Natalie. But there are things I can’t explain right now. I just… I need him here with me.” I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, there was a rustling sound on her end. Then came Thomas’s voice, calling her name. It was soft, incredibly gentle, the kind of tone that only comes from deep, quiet familiarity. Lauren immediately whispered back, “Just give me a second. I’m almost done.” I stood there on the balcony for a long time, the phone pressed to my ear, frozen. I had spent so long believing Thomas was “our” best friend. But he wasn’t anymore. He was hers. “Fine,” I murmured to the empty room. “I’m out, Lauren.” … Lauren and I were together for five years. We’d been broken up for a year and a half. The reason we ended was painfully cliché—she said she was exhausted, and I said I was too. There was no dramatic cheating, no screaming matches. We had just let our relationship turn into a stagnant pool of water, and neither of us had the energy to throw another stone to make a ripple. But even after the breakup, there was still a bridge between us. Thomas. He’d been my best friend since high school, three years before Lauren ever entered the picture. During college, I introduced them, and from that moment on, we were tethered. Every holiday, every late-night phone call, every major milestone—it was always a package deal for three. When Lauren and I split, we had a silent agreement not to make Thomas choose. I’d grab lunch with him on Fridays and casually ask, “Is Lauren still staying up late? Her stomach has been giving her trouble.” Thomas would pat my hand and smile. “Don’t worry, I lectured her last week and made sure she ate on time.” Hearing that always brought a quiet wave of relief. And on Lauren’s end, Thomas would occasionally bring back messages for me. “She asked if you finished that big project. Said not to push yourself too hard.” You see, we were still watching each other, using Thomas as our window. Last Wednesday was my birthday. Lauren didn’t text me, but at lunchtime, Thomas showed up at my office with a bouquet of white roses. “Guess who told me to bring these?” he asked, a knowing grin playing on his lips. My heart skipped a beat as I took them. “She remembered I only like white ones.” “Of course she did,” Thomas said, helping me put them in a vase. “Five years is a long time. She told me to tell you happy birthday, and to stop sleeping so late.” That night, I took a photo of the roses and saved it to my camera roll, keeping it to myself instead of posting it on social media. I thought we had an unspoken understanding—that we both still cared, we were just too proud to take the first step back. Until yesterday. Lauren’s text came out of nowhere: “Thomas can’t keep being there for both of us. Let him go.” I stared at the screen for a long time, unable to reply. I thought she was just testing me. At eleven that night, she called. Her voice sounded heavy, stripped of its usual sharpness. “I know how much Thomas means to you, but there are things I can’t explain. I just need him with me right now.” I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat— On the other end, there was a soft rustle of sheets, and then Thomas’s sleepy voice. “Lauren… you still awake?” It was so soft, thick with sleep. Lauren’s voice instantly softened into a tenderness I had never heard from her before. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ll be right there.” I stood out on the balcony for a long time, letting the cold wind numb my face. So that was what she meant by “needing him with her.” I didn’t break down right away. I even went to work the next day, sat through meetings, and submitted my reports as if nothing had happened. At noon, a text from Thomas popped up: “Friday at our usual spot? A new ramen place just opened downtown, everyone’s raving about it.” I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering. He didn’t know I’d heard him. He probably had no idea Lauren had even called me. I typed back: “Sounds good.” On Friday, I arrived ten minutes early. Thomas rushed in right on time, unraveling his scarf before he even sat down. “Oh my god, you have no idea what my manager did yesterday—” He launched into a rambling rant about work, and I just listened, offering a quiet laugh here and there. When the steaming bowls of ramen arrived, he ladled a piece of tender chashu pork into my bowl. “Your favorite part.” “Thanks,” I said. “Oh, by the way,” he whispered, leaning in. “Lauren mentioned last week that she was craving that homemade lasagna you used to make. I told her she should learn how to make it, but she refused, saying she could never get the sauce right.” My fork paused. A few weeks ago, a comment like that would have warmed my chest, making me think she was still missing me. But now, it tasted different. Why was she talking about my cooking to Thomas? Was she reminiscing about an ex, or was she flirting with the man next to her? “What’s wrong?” Thomas asked, noticing my silence. “Nothing. Just tired lately.” “You work too hard,” he said, reaching over to playfully tap my forehead. “How many times have I told you to stop pulling overtime? Lauren said so too—” He froze mid-sentence. I looked at him. He avoided my eyes, picking up his glass of water and taking a slow sip. “Never mind. We’re just both worried about you.” His ears were slightly flushed. In that split second, a quiet truth crystallized in my mind. It wasn’t that Thomas didn’t care about me. It was just that alongside his care for me, a different kind of feeling had taken root. And that feeling required him to start keeping secrets from me. After lunch, as we stood at the crosswalk waiting for the light to change, he suddenly looped his arm through mine. “Natalie, no matter what, you know you’re always going to be my best friend, right?” Looking into his earnest eyes, I wanted so badly to ask: “If I’m your best friend, why didn’t you tell me?” But I didn’t. I just smiled. “I know.” The light turned green. He let go of my arm and jogged across the street, turning back to wave. “See you next week!” I stood on my side of the road, watching his back fade into the crowd. Ten years. My best friend and the person I loved most had chosen each other. And they didn’t even know how to tell me. On Sunday afternoon, I went to the grocery store alone. I was pushing my cart around the corner of the snack aisle when I ran straight into Lauren. She was wearing a black hoodie, holding a bag of Sumo oranges. She froze when she saw me. “…Natalie?” “Hey. What a coincidence,” I said, forcing a small smile. She tried to smile back, but her eyes flickered away. “Are you alone?” “Yeah, just stocking up for the week. You?” “Same, just grabbing a few things.” We walked side by side for a moment, the silence between us heavy and awkward. She finally broke it. “Thomas mentioned you’ve been working a lot of overtime. Take care of yourself.” “Yeah, the project is wrapping up.” Another few seconds of silence. Then she said, “About that text I sent the other night… don’t take it to heart. I was just talking nonsense.” I looked at her. The text that read: “Thomas can’t keep being there for both of us. Let him go.” Nonsense? “It’s fine, I didn’t think twice about it,” I lied, keeping my voice light. “Thomas is our mutual friend. Nobody needs to let go of anyone.” Her shoulders visibly relaxed, as if a massive weight had been lifted from her chest. “Good,” she said. “You two have such a tight bond. I shouldn’t have said that.” I nodded, my gaze falling on the bag of Sumo oranges in her hand. Those were Thomas’s favorite. I used to love them too, but only because Thomas had introduced them to me. She was buying them for him. “I should get going,” I said, nudging my cart forward. “See you around.” “Yeah.” She stood there, then suddenly called out, “Natalie.” I turned back. Her mouth opened, but she hesitated before finally saying, “Take care of yourself.” “You too.” I turned and walked away, keeping my spine perfectly straight. As I rounded the corner, I caught her reflection in the glass of a freezer door. She was pulling out her phone, looking down to type. I didn’t need to guess who she was texting. It was either “Just ran into Natalie at the store” or “She seems okay.” Either way, the recipient was Thomas. And I was no longer part of that closed loop. At eight that night, right on cue, a text from Thomas arrived: “Hear you ran into Lauren today? She said you’ve lost a lot of weight. Have you been eating properly?” I stared at the message, finding the whole thing absurd. They were reporting back to each other about me. Like two worried parents discussing a troubled child. Except they were a couple now. I replied with a quick “Yeah, I’m eating fine” and set the phone face down. Later that night, I lay in bed scrolling through my phone and accidentally found our old three-person group chat. The last message was from six months ago. Thomas had texted: “Escape room this weekend, who’s in?” Lauren had replied: “In.” I had replied: “Count me in.” That was the last time the three of us had gone out together. I remembered screaming in the dark of the escape room, Lauren stepping in front to shield me, and Thomas wrapping his arms around me from behind. Afterward, we had crowded into a booth at a greasy late-night diner, Thomas stealing fries from my plate while Lauren silently slid half of her burger over to me. On the walk home, Thomas had walked in the middle, his arm looped through mine on one side, his hand resting on Lauren’s shoulder on the other. “We’re going to be this close forever,” he had said. “Forever.” I exited the group chat and locked my screen. In the quiet dark of my room, I made a decision. My company was looking for someone to relocate to our Seattle office. It was a minimum six-month assignment, and nobody wanted to take it. I went straight to my manager the next morning. “Natalie, are you sure? You were just promoted to team lead here.” “I’m sure. I just need a change of scenery.” He studied my face for a moment, didn’t press, and signed the papers. I spent the next week handing over my responsibilities, ending my lease, and packing up my life into boxes. Before I left, I did one last thing—I invited Thomas and Lauren out for dinner. It was the first time the three of us had sat at the same table since the breakup. The atmosphere was delicate, fragile. Thomas sat in the middle, with me on his left and Lauren on his right. He took on the burden of keeping the conversation alive, cracking jokes and laughing the loudest. Lauren would chime in occasionally, her eyes naturally drifting to him. And in the middle of Thomas putting food on my plate, his elbow brushed against Lauren’s arm. It was light, unthinking, completely natural—the kind of touch born from daily habit. They probably didn’t even realize they were doing it. But I saw it. “You’ve really lost too much weight, Natalie,” Thomas said, placing a piece of chicken in my bowl. “Eat up. Stop trying to look like a runway model.” “Exactly,” Lauren agreed, a rare moment of alignment. “You always hated that bony look. What did you used to say? Starving yourself isn’t a lifestyle.” I offered a faint smile. “You have a good memory.” The comment seemed to catch her off guard, and she quietly sipped her wine. Near the end of the meal, I raised my glass. “To both of us.” They both froze. “Thank you for looking out for me this past year,” I said softly. “Seriously.” Thomas’s eyes welled up with tears. “What are you talking about? We’re family.” Lauren didn’t speak, but she clinked her glass against mine. When dinner ended, we stood outside the restaurant for a moment. The winter wind was biting. Thomas shivered, pulling his collar up, and without a word, Lauren took off her scarf and wrapped it around his neck. The gesture was seamless, as if she had done it a thousand times. Thomas caught himself, casting a fleeting, guilty look at me—full of panic and apology. But he didn’t take the scarf off. I looked at them, and a strange, profound stillness washed over me. “I’m going to head out. You guys should get home.” “I can drive you,” Lauren offered. “No need. I’ll call an Uber.” Thomas stepped forward and hugged me, squeezing tightly. “We’re still on for next week, okay?” I patted his back. “Yeah.” My ride pulled up. I opened the door, got in, and waved. As the car pulled away, I looked in the rearview mirror. Lauren had turned toward Thomas, whispering something, and he smiled down at her. Then, they turned and walked away together, side by side. Walking in the same direction. Heading to the same home. I pulled my eyes away, leaned my head against the cold window, and closed my eyes. Three days later, I pulled my suitcase through the airport. No grand farewells, no final texts, no warning. I simply, quietly, vanished from the city. I didn’t turn my phone back on until the evening after I landed in Seattle. The moment the signal caught, messages flooded in, making the phone buzz frantically against the nightstand. I leaned against the headboard of my hotel bed, scrolling through them one by one. The earliest was from Friday afternoon at five-thirty. Thomas: “What are we doing for dinner? I found this amazing Thai place downtown!” Five-forty-five: “? Where are you? Off work yet?” Six-ten: “Natalie???” At six-thirty, three missed calls. At seven, a voice memo from Thomas: “What’s going on? Did work melt your brain? Call me back.” At eight, two more missed calls. At eight-twenty-three, a text: “I went to your apartment. You’re not here? Why is there a ‘For Rent’ sign on your door???” Eight-twenty-four: “Natalie, did you move?? When did you move?? Why didn’t you tell me???” At eight-thirty, a forty-seven-second voice memo. I didn’t play it. But I knew exactly what it would sound like—his voice cracking, panicked, on the verge of tears. At nine, Lauren’s first message appeared. It was blunt: “Natalie, Thomas can’t reach you. Where are you? Just reply.” At nine-thirty, another flurry from Thomas: “I asked your neighbor. He said you moved out last week??? Where did you go? Why aren’t you answering?” At ten, Lauren again: “I called your office. The receptionist said you took a transfer to Seattle. Where? When did this happen?” At ten-fifteen, the messages from Thomas suddenly stopped. There was a stretch of silence for forty minutes. Then, at ten-fifty-six, his final text arrived: “Natalie… you know, don’t you?” No question mark. It was a statement. I stared at those words for a very long time. Lauren’s third text came at eleven-forty-seven: “Was it the phone call the other night?” No question mark there either. The last message came from Thomas at eleven-forty-seven: “Where are you? Please just tell me. I’ll come to you, I’ll explain. Whatever you heard, let me explain it in person… Please, Natalie. Don’t just disappear like this…” The messages stopped there. Nothing new after that. I suppose they finally realized I wasn’t going to reply. I locked my phone and set it on the nightstand. The hotel curtains weren’t fully closed, letting the soft, amber glow of the Seattle streetlights seep through the gap, drawing a long, thin shadow across the carpet. I didn’t cry. I just sat there in the quiet, watching that sliver of light for a long, long time.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516790”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On New Year’s Eve, I spent hours in the kitchen preparing a table full of her favorite dishes, waiting for Lauren to come home. She didn’t even glance at the spread. She just walked past it, heading straight to the bedroom to pack her suitcase. Her voice was cold, almost detached. “I can’t spend New Year’s with you this year.” I didn’t say a word. I just sat down alone and started eating. Right at the stroke of midnight, her first love posted on Instagram. In the photo, Lauren was leaning intimately against his shoulder, the city skyline behind them exploding with brilliant, cascading fireworks. The caption read: “She said as long as I need her, she’ll leave everything behind to be by my side.” I didn’t call her screaming this time. I didn’t demand answers. I just quietly tapped the heart icon to leave a like. A second later, my phone rang. Lauren’s voice was breathless, panicked. “Jesse, please don’t be mad. I promise I’ll make it up to you next year…” I let out a soft, self-mocking laugh. “Too bad we don’t have a next year.” 1 By the time Lauren finally came back, the holidays were long over. In the past, I would have waited for her down in the lobby, eager to help with her bags. This time, I stayed upstairs. Her text popped up: “Where are you?” I took a slow bite of my lunch and typed back: “Come up. I’m eating.” A few minutes later, while I was rinsing my plate at the sink, the front door clicked open. Lauren rolled her suitcase into the kitchen, looking exhausted and out of breath. She leaned against the counter, watching my back. “I haven’t eaten all day. Can you make me some pasta?” Normally, I would have dropped everything to cook for her. But today, I didn’t even turn around. “I don’t have time. Grab something downstairs.” Lauren’s eyes flared with irritation, but she forced herself to keep her voice level. “I know you’re still throwing a fit about New Year’s, Jesse, but can we please not do this right now? I’m genuinely starving.” I dried my hands on a dish towel. “I’m not throwing a fit. And I’m not mad.” She rolled her eyes, clearly not believing me. “Chase was entirely alone in this city during the holidays. Regardless of what we used to be, I couldn’t just leave him like that. It was the decent thing to do.” My voice remained flat. “Right. I get it.” She stared at me, trying to read my face, searching for some crack in my armor. Finally, she let out a weary sigh. “You make this so exhausting. Can you please stop acting like a child?” I looked back at her. “I’m not. You don’t have to explain anything to me.” She stared at me in silence for a long moment before unzipping her suitcase. She pulled out a model airplane and handed it to me. “New Year’s gift,” she said, her tone carrying a familiar trace of condescension. The model had no wrapping paper. The cardboard box itself was dented and creased at the corners—a stark contrast to the beautifully wrapped packages Chase had flaunted on his feed. I didn’t feel a spark of joy, but I kept my voice polite. “Thanks.” And then I went back to cleaning the kitchen. A flash of annoyance crossed Lauren’s face. “That’s it?” she asked, her voice rising. “That’s it,” I replied quietly. Her face tightened into a hard, rigid line. She held her hand out in front of me. “Where’s mine?” The realization hit me, and I felt a brief pang of sheepishness. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot. Tell you what—I’ll Venmo you, and you can buy whatever you like.” I pulled out my phone and sent her the transfer. Lauren’s eyes widened, genuinely stunned that I had forgotten. Exchanging gifts on New Year’s had been our sacred tradition for years. I had never missed it, always spending weeks finding the perfect, thoughtful present for her, even in the years she completely forgot about me. The silence in the kitchen became suffocating. I grabbed my jacket off the sofa and headed for the door. Lauren called after me, her voice sharp with sudden panic. “Where are you going?” “Out for drinks with friends,” I said. I closed the door behind me, shutting out the sound of her calling my name. Ever since I started dating Lauren, I had completely given up drinking because she once mentioned she hated the smell of alcohol. My friends eventually stopped inviting me, labeling me as the guy who was whipped, the one whose girlfriend kept him on a tight leash. But tonight, I just wanted to feel something else. I wanted to drink until I couldn’t think anymore. 2 Three drinks in, my friends were already slapping my shoulder and complaining. “Man, we thought you completely forgot about the guys once you got a girl. You can’t keep disappearing on us like this.” I raised my glass, offering a genuine smile. “I won’t. From now on, whenever you guys plan something, just tell me. I’ll be there.” Looking back, it was embarrassing how much of my life I had sacrificed. I had made Lauren the absolute center of my universe, revolving my career, my schedule, and my identity around her, while letting my own friendships fade to nothing. It was a pathetic, foolish way to live. I glanced down at my phone. A notification showed that Lauren had declined the Venmo transfer. By the time I stumbled back home, it was past one in the morning. I flipped on the living room light, only to find Lauren sitting upright on the sofa. For a second, I thought the alcohol was making me hallucinate. She didn’t stand up to help me balance. Instead, she stared at me with a look of deep, curdled disappointment. “Jesse, can you have some self-respect?” she said, her voice dripping with disgust. “If you’re jealous, just say it. Drinking yourself into a stupor like this only makes me lose what little respect I have left for you.” My head was spinning. I reached out, steadying myself against the back of a dining chair, and slowly sat down. Lauren caught the scent of alcohol and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Didn’t I tell you I hate when you drink?” She took a deep breath, trying to control her temper. “Chase and I aren’t what you think we are. Right now, we are just friends. There is absolutely no reason for you to do this to yourself over him.” I rested my heavy chin in my hand, my vision blurring. “You’re… overthinking it. I didn’t drink because of him. I drank because… I was happy.” Lauren’s voice turned sharp, cutting through the quiet apartment. “Enough! I’ve given you an out, Jesse. What more do you want from me? Don’t push my buttons. I have limits, too. I’m not some saint who can spend forever catering to your insecurities.” My head throbbed, her voice ringing like a siren in my ears. I rubbed my temples, barely able to keep my eyes open. “Don’t get worked up. I’m going to bed.” She let out a long, heavy sigh. Her posture softened slightly, and she reached out to steady me as I stood up. But with the last shred of my sobriety, I stepped back, avoiding her touch. I wobbled down the hallway into the guest bedroom, shut the door, and turned the lock. I ignored the sound of her hand knocking against the wood, closed my eyes, and fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. It was the most peaceful night I’d had in years. When I woke up the next morning, Lauren was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. Her expression was icy, the silence in the room heavy with her anger. I knew she was waiting for an apology. But I didn’t give her one. I simply washed up, grabbed my keys, and walked out the door. 3 I drove straight to my office and handed in my resignation. The only reason I had taken this job in the first place was because the office was just a ten-minute walk from Lauren’s building. Now, that proximity felt meaningless. My manager tried repeatedly to convince me to stay, offering a raise, but I remained firm. Just a few days ago, I had received an email response to an international application I’d submitted on a whim. I was hired. The position was with a firm that had been my absolute dream since college. Back then, I had turned down their initial offer because Lauren didn’t want to relocate. It felt poetic that the dream was still waiting for me, proving it wasn’t too late to start over. After finalizing my resignation, I spent the afternoon transitioning my projects and called a close friend to share the news. He was thrilled for me, though a quiet beat stretched over the line before he asked, “What about Lauren? Is she moving with you?” I let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “No. Just me. We’re pretty much done.” Once my paperwork at the office was finished, I spent the rest of the day gathering the documents I would need for my visa. Both of my parents had passed away years ago; the only things anchoring me to this city were a handful of friends and Lauren. I used to believe that home was wherever she was. But now, I had no home. I was just driftwood, ready to float wherever the current took me. When I finally returned to the apartment, Lauren was getting ready to head out. Her makeup was immaculate, her legs looking impossibly long in a pair of fitted denim shorts. She was carrying a beautifully packaged birthday cake from an upscale bakery. Of course. It was Chase’s birthday. She was on the phone, her voice light and bubbly. “Stop guessing! If I tell you what the surprise is, it ruins the fun. Just make sure you’re ready when I get there.” Someone on the other end said something that made her let out a bright, genuine laugh, showing her dimples. It was a beautiful smile, the kind of easy warmth she almost never shared with me. She was always ready to give him whatever he wanted, yet she begrudged me even a passing smile. The moment her eyes met mine, her expression instantly went cold. She didn’t say a word, looking away with a flicker of annoyance as she slipped into her heels. The heavy thud of the front door closing echoed through the quiet apartment. I knew what this meant: the silent treatment had officially begun. We had played this game countless times before, and it was always sparked by Chase. In the past, I would have panicked, spending the next few days desperately trying to win back her favor, sending text after text even if she ignored them all. Instead, I sat down at the kitchen island, opened my laptop, and started looking up local recipes from the country I was moving to. I figured I should start practicing now. I needed to get used to the taste of my new life. 4 Later that night, as I lay in bed, I scrolled past a post from Chase on social media: “So grateful that through all the twists and turns of life, you’re still the one by my side.” In the comments, Lauren’s best friend, Chelsea, had written: “This makes me want to cry. I’m just so happy to see Lauren happy.” All of Lauren’s friends had liked the post. They had never hidden their disdain for me; in their eyes, I was merely the inconvenient obstacle standing between Chase and Lauren. They believed she would be infinitely happier if I just vanished from the picture. Then I saw Lauren’s own comment on the post: “Everything is exactly as it’s meant to be.” I stared at their public display of affection, feeling absolutely nothing. Beneath Lauren’s comment, another one of her friends had replied: “Shh, don’t post too much. We don’t want Jesse seeing this. You know how he is—he’ll throw a massive fit.” In the past, whenever I had gently asked Lauren to keep some boundaries with Chase out of respect for our relationship, her friends would label me as petty, controlling, and insecure, accusing me of stripping away her basic right to have friends. Lauren had always stayed silent during those attacks, implicitly agreeing with them, before turning around to tell me I needed to grow up and be more secure. I didn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction. I quietly closed the app, tossed my phone onto the nightstand, and fell asleep. Hours later, the bedroom door slammed open. Lauren stood in the doorway, her face flushed with anger as she shook me awake. “Jesse, your girlfriend is out in the middle of the night and you don’t even care?” she demanded, her voice shrill. “My friends’ boyfriends have been calling them non-stop to make sure they’re safe. And you? Not a single text, not a single call. What is wrong with you?” 5 I stared up at her, utterly bewildered by her sudden outburst. When I used to call her during her nights out, she would snap at me: “I’m not a child, and I’m not a tool to satisfy your control issues. Give me some space, Jesse, I’m suffocating.” Now, when I finally gave her the freedom she had begged for, she accused me of neglect. I truly had no idea what she wanted from me anymore. But I didn’t want to waste my energy dragging up old arguments. I just pulled the blanket up and said quietly, “You were out celebrating with your friends. I didn’t want to ruin the mood by calling constantly. Besides, you were with Chase. Why wouldn’t I trust you?” Stunned silence hung in the room. She looked at me, her eyes wide, clearly shocked to hear me mention Chase’s name with such casual indifference. She quickly recovered, her expression softening into something defensive. “That post… it was just a trip down memory lane. It didn’t mean anything. Don’t read into it.” I shook my head, about to tell her it was fine, but she cut me off, her defensive walls rising. “What? Are you saying I shouldn’t have gone to his birthday? Jesse, we’ve known each other for ten years. Yes, we dated briefly a lifetime ago, but now we are just good friends. It’s his birthday. It would have been incredibly rude of me not to show up.” I nodded, my voice completely devoid of sarcasm. “I understand. Truly. It’s late, Lauren. You should go get some rest.” Lauren froze. She stared down at me, her eyes searching my face, desperately trying to find a trace of hidden anger or resentment. When she found nothing but empty calm, she slowly reached down, attempting to wrap her arms around my waist. I quietly rolled over, pulling myself out of her reach. Without looking back, I asked, “Are you sleeping in here, or should I take the guest room?” 6 A flicker of hurt and disbelief crossed her features. She wasn’t used to me rejecting her affection; for years, I had been the one begging for even a fraction of her attention. With a sharp, angry huff, she grabbed her pillow, stomped out of the room, and slammed the guest room door behind her. Once she was gone, I drifted off to sleep almost instantly. It was amazing how easy it was to sleep when your mind was finally quiet. The next morning, I received a phone call from my old college mentor, Professor Ward. Somehow, he had caught wind of my plans to move abroad. He insisted on hosting a farewell dinner for me, and though I tried to politely decline, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, proposing a small reunion with a few classmates instead. With the invitation extended so warmly, I couldn’t find a graceful way to refuse. But I never expected Lauren to be there. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised; she had been one of Professor Ward’s favorite students, too. What did surprise me was Chase, who was sitting right next to her. It seemed there was no event too personal or exclusive for her to drag him along. When Lauren saw me walk into the restaurant, she immediately caught my eye and gestured toward the empty seat next to her. I pretended not to see, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table instead. They looked perfectly matched, sitting side-by-side. I had no desire to interrupt. Chase met my gaze, giving me a small, smug smile before quickly masking it with a look of polite concern. “Hey, Jesse,” he said, loud enough for the table to hear. “Sorry for crashing your class reunion. I was just feeling so bored at home, and Lauren was sweet enough to insist I come along.” 7 Lauren opened her mouth to speak, looking nervously at me, but the words seemed to catch in her throat. I raised my glass to Chase, offering a polite, easy smile. “If the Professor doesn’t mind, why would I?” I took a sip of my wine and set the glass down. Throughout the dinner, my phone kept buzzing in my pocket. I finally pulled it out to check. They were texts from Lauren: “I only brought him because he was lonely. Please don’t be mad.” “If it really bothers you, I won’t bring him next time.” The final message read: “Let’s drive home together after this, okay?” I cleared my throat, typed a quick response, and hit send: “No need. Go ahead and take Chase home. I drove myself.” I put my phone face down on the table and focused on my dinner, ignoring the subsequent vibrations in my pocket. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of warm nostalgia. Everyone was laughing, sharing stories of our university days. Professor Ward, his cheeks flushed from the wine, stood up and raised his glass directly to me. “Jesse,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Back in college, you were the brightest student in my department. Your dream was always to go abroad, to build a career on the global stage. I was heartbroken when you suddenly decided to stay in the country after graduation.” He paused, smiling warmly at me. “But thank goodness, life has a way of sorting itself out. You’re finally going! You’re finally chasing the dream you always deserved. I couldn’t be prouder of you. Let’s raise a glass to Jesse—wishing you a safe journey, a brilliant career, and a future as bright as you are!” I smiled, deeply moved, and stood up to clink my glass against his, draining it in one go. Across the table, Lauren sat frozen, the color completely draining from her face, as if she had just heard something utterly impossible.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516775”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For three years, I lived a double life. Married, a baby, a cozy home it was a sweeter slice of heaven than I ever deserved. The only catch? My mother didn’t have a clue. And who is my mother? Victoria Langford, the undisputed matriarch and CEO of Langford Enterprises. A corporate titan, ruthless and absolute. If she cleared her throat in the boardroom, thirty executives would instantly applaud the melody. Her blueprint for my life was pristine: an Ivy League degree, a prestigious European internship, a strategic marriage to Charlotte Mercer heiress to the Mercer shipping empire and eventually, taking over her throne. But my actual life path? I came back to the States, quietly slipped a ring onto Maeve’s finger, had a son, and spent my nights stumbling out of bed at 3 a.m. to mix baby formula. Today, those two paths collided. Head-on. And everything shattered into a million pieces. … At exactly 7:12 a.m., my son, Ollie, woke up burning hot. 103 degrees Fahrenheit. Maeve had tried calling me six times. I missed every single one. My phone was on silent, and I was dead to the world, trying to catch up on sleep on the Amtrak Acela. I wasn’t slacking off; I was actually on a business trip. A high-stakes deal in Chicago. My mother was pulling the strings from Boston, and I was her boots on the ground. The moment I woke up and saw the six missed calls, followed by Maeve’s texts, I bolted upright so fast I nearly hit the ceiling of the train. The texts read as follows: “Willy, Ollie’s fever is at 103.” “The ER queue is a three-hour wait minimum.” “Your phone is dead.” “I’m taking him to the office.” “If you aren’t back today, don’t bother coming back at all.” The last message was from ten minutes ago. I stared at my screen, my brain scrambling to process the impending disaster. Maeve was bringing the baby to the office. Maeve worked at Langford Enterprises in the design department. The CEO of Langford Enterprises was my mother. My mother didn’t know Maeve was my wife. My mother didn’t know she had a grandson. In my head, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony started playing. “Dun-dun-dun-dun.” I frantically dialed Maeve’s number. No answer. I tried again. Still nothing. My hands began to shake. Look, I’m not a coward. Okay, maybe I am. But anyone who knows Victoria Langford knows she’s the kind of woman who can reduce a sixty-year-old board member to tears without raising her voice. Keeping a secret marriage and a child from her wasn’t just a minor omission; it was dancing on a landmine. I desperately rebooked my ticket to the next train heading back to Boston, then typed out a message to Maeve: “Maeve, please, breathe. Whatever you do, do not go near my mother. I’m on my way back right now.” The status bubble popped up: “Read.” No reply. Just “Read.” Those four letters made my skin crawl far more than Ollie’s 103-degree fever. Meanwhile, in the design department on the fourth floor of Langford Enterprises. Maeve cradled a flushed, sluggish Ollie in her arms, her face pale with exhaustion. Ollie’s cheeks were bright red, his little body limp against her shoulder, letting out occasional, pathetic whimpers. Her original plan had been simple: leave him tucked quietly in the stroller next to her desk, finish the final rendering on her design pitch, submit it, and sprint out the door. Diane, her senior colleague, leaned over, her voice a hushed, panicked whisper. “Maeve, are you out of your mind? Bringing a baby to the office? If HR or corporate sees this, they’ll dock your performance bonus in a heartbeat.” Maeve expertly patted a cool fever patch onto Ollie’s forehead. “The clinic has a three-hour wait list. His father’s phone is completely dead. And if I don’t turn in this layout today, the whole team loses their quarterly bonus.” Her voice was steady, but Diane could hear the tremor beneath it the quiet, dangerous calm before a hurricane. “Where is your husband? Where the hell is he when you need him?” “Out of town,” Maeve said, forcing the words through clenched teeth. Diane didn’t dare push further. Honestly, things could have gone smoothly. Maeve’s design was ninety percent complete, and Ollie was resting quietly, barely making a sound. And then Trevor walked in. Trevor was the newly appointed executive secretary to the Chairwoman. An Ivy League graduate in a bespoke navy suit, with every strand of hair gelled into submission. He’d only been with the company for two weeks, but he had already managed to make the entire administrative pool despise him. He had one defining trait: he was an absolute master at sucking up to upper management. And his favorite way to do that was by throwing his subordinates under the bus. As he strutted past the design department, he caught sight of the stroller through the glass wall. Ollie was inside, sleepily chewing on his own toes. Trevor’s eyes lit up. It was the look of a predator who had finally found the perfect victim to exploit for a gold star. He pushed open the heavy glass door, his leather oxfords clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. “Whose kid is this?” The room fell dead silent. Everyone looked up from their screens. Maeve’s fingers paused over her keyboard. “Mine,” she said. Trevor walked straight to her desk, pulled a sheet of paper from his leather portfolio, and slapped it down right in front of her. “Suspension notice.” Maeve looked down at the paper, then raised her head. Her eyes were chips of dry ice. “Excuse me?” Trevor raised his voice, ensuring his authority echoed across the entire floor. “Maeve, is it? Design department? What do you think this place is? A daycare?” He glanced down at Ollie in the stroller, his lip curling in disgust. “Bringing your little bastard to a corporate office. Unbelievable.” The word “bastard” hung in the air. The temperature in the design bay plummeted to freezing. Diane’s mouth fell open. Across the aisle, another designer accidentally spilled his iced coffee directly onto his mechanical keyboard. A bastard. He had actually called him a bastard. Maeve’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. Anyone who truly knew Maeve knew that when her eyes narrowed like that, someone was about to get a metaphorical throat-slash. But Trevor didn’t know her. He kept riding his high horse. “Think of the optics. Look at the rest of your colleagues ” Maeve stood up. Her ergonomic chair rolled back violently, clattering against the filing cabinet. She bent down and lifted Ollie from the stroller. He was burning up, mumble-whimpering into her neck. “Suspension, is it?” Maeve’s voice was barely a whisper. “Fine.” She picked up the suspension notice, folded it neatly into a tight square, and slid it directly into the breast pocket of Trevor’s designer suit. “Hold onto this. You’re going to need it.” Then, she turned and walked toward the executive elevators, cradling the baby. Trevor frowned, his face flushing. “Where do you think you’re going?” Maeve didn’t turn around. “To talk to your boss.” 2 Five minutes later. The executive suite. Victoria Langford was in the middle of a high-level meeting with three senior vice presidents. She sat in her black leather executive chair, twirling a classic Montblanc pen, marking up the quarterly reports. At fifty-five, she was immaculate. Her presence alone had a physical weight that made people unconsciously hold their breath. No one dared waste her time. Last month, a department head had used the word “basically” three times during a pitch, and she had immediately reassigned him to logistics. “Our Q3 margins are unacceptable,” Victoria said, flipping a page. “VP Harrison, I’d love to hear your explanation.” The executive opened his mouth to speak. “Bam!” The double doors didn’t just open they were kicked. A heel had slammed into the wood, sending the brass handles rattling against the wall. Every head in the room whipped around. Maeve stood in the doorway, holding a flushed, half-awake baby. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her breathing shallow, but her gaze was rock solid. The Montblanc pen in Victoria’s hand froze. “Who are you?” Maeve didn’t answer. She walked straight past the VPs, stepped up to the mahogany desk, and laid Ollie gently on top of the polished wood. Gently. Firmly. As if she weren’t placing a two-year-old child down, but a ticking bomb. “Mrs. Langford,” Maeve said, her voice quiet but heavy enough to crack the floorboards. “Your grandson is sick.” The air in the office died. The three vice presidents exchanged looks of sheer, unadulterated terror. Victoria blinked. Once. Twice. “What did you just say?” “The son you raised so well,” Maeve said, her words dropping like lead weights, “hasn’t been home in three months. His son has a 103-degree fever, and his phone is completely dead.” She took a step back, locking eyes with the matriarch. “This is your mess now. Deal with it.” Silence. A suffocating, five-second void. Ollie stirred on the mahogany desk, blinking sleepily at his surroundings. He looked up at Victoria. In his feverish haze, his tiny hands instinctively reached out to the nearest adult. “Up…” Victoria didn’t move. Her eyes traveled from Ollie’s face, down to his small hands, and back up. The shape of his eyes. The curve of his nose. He looked exactly like Willy had at that age. Victoria’s knuckles turned white around her pen. Then, she did something the vice presidents would talk about for the rest of their corporate lives. “VP Harrison, VP Miller, VP Cole,” she said, her voice cold enough to freeze water mid-air. “Get out.” The three men practically fell over themselves running for the exit. The moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut, they huddled in the hallway. “Did I hear that right?” Harrison whispered. “Did she say grandson?” “The Chairwoman’s grandson?” Miller swallowed hard. “Does that mean Willy…?” Cole was already pulling out his phone. “I need to call my wife. This is too big to keep to myself.” Inside the office, Victoria stared at Maeve, her gaze sharp enough to pierce steel. “What is your name?” “Maeve. Design department.” “And you expect me to believe this is my grandson?” “We’re legally married.” Maeve reached into her tote bag, pulled out a manila folder, and laid two sheets of paper on the desk. A copy of their marriage certificate. A copy of Ollie’s birth certificate. Victoria looked down. On the certificate: “Spouse A: Willy Langford. Spouse B: Maeve Langford.” Date of registration: Three years ago. On the birth certificate: “Oliver Langford.” Victoria stared at the name for ten seconds. “Willy picked the name?” “Yes. But we call him Ollie at home.” Victoria took a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. She stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and turned her back to Maeve. A thirty-second silence filled the room. Maeve didn’t budge. On the desk, Ollie began to squirm, his little hand grabbing the Montblanc pen and shoving it straight into his mouth. “Let me ask you something,” Victoria said, her voice low and dangerous. “You married him three years ago. Which means that idiot never actually left the country.” It wasn’t a question. It was a fact. “He did go to London,” Maeve corrected calmly. “But only for six months. Once we got married, he stayed right here in Boston.” “Then what about the photos he sent me every month? The academic symposiums? The dinners with his advisors?” “Photoshopped,” Maeve said, completely unfazed. “I edited them for him.” Victoria whipped around. Her expression was a magnificent tapestry of shock, fury, disbelief, and a tiny, stubborn spark of curiosity she refused to acknowledge. “You helped him lie to me?” “He begged me.” “And you just did it because he begged?” Maeve’s lips pressed into a thin line. “When I married him, he swore on his knees he’d tell you within a year. But one year turned into two, and two turned into three. Every time I threatened to come clean, he’d literally cling to my legs and cry.” Victoria’s eye twitched. Her son. The handpicked heir to Langford Enterprises. Her pride and joy. Clinging to his wife’s legs and sobbing. Victoria marched back to her desk, picked up the landline receiver, and dialed with enough force to crack the plastic. It rang. Once. Twice. He picked up. “Willy,” Victoria said, her voice deceptively calm. On the other end, Willy was sweating profusely, standing between the train cars on the Amtrak. “Mom…” “Where are you right now?” “I’m… on my way back.” “How long?” “An… an hour…” “I’m giving you forty minutes.” She slammed the receiver down and immediately picked up her personal cell, speed-dialing her driver. “Hank, take the car to South Station. Pick up my idiot son. Tell him if he isn’t in my office in forty minutes, he shouldn’t bother showing his face in this city again.” Standing nearby, Maeve watched the execution of orders. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips. It wasn’t a smile of joy; it was the look of a woman who had finally found someone capable of bringing her husband to heel. Just then, Ollie spit the Montblanc pen out onto the desk. Saliva coated the gold-plated cap. Victoria looked down. That pen was a limited edition. One of only a hundred in the world. Her eye twitched again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516791”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel