Category: English

At my sister’s wedding, I fell in love with her bridesmaid the second I saw her. I blew through three thousand dollars in a single month trying to win her over. When I finally asked her to be my girlfriend, she said yes. I thought I’d struck gold. I bragged about her to anyone who would listen. Then, I started my internship at my sister’s company. And I watched my sister—the most stubborn, iron-willed woman I knew—bow her head and hand her a folder with absolute deference. She walked over, coffee in hand, and arched an eyebrow at me. “Hey, intern. Your paycheck this month—should we deposit it into your account, or mine?” I froze. 01 On the day of my sister Lauren’s wedding, I was stationed by the entrance of the venue, handing out custom favor boxes to the guests. A sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and a girl stepped out of the back seat. She was wearing a lavender bridesmaid dress. Her hair was swept up in a loose twist, exposing the delicate line of her neck. As she gathered her skirt to step over the threshold, she looked back. Just a quick glance. But that was all it took. The favor box in my hand slipped and crashed to the floor. My mom, standing right next to me, smacked the back of my head. “Pick it up. Stop embarrassing us.” I knelt down to gather the scattered boxes, my chest hammering in a rhythm that felt entirely wrong. Before the ceremony started, I cornered Lauren in the bridal suite. “Who’s that bridesmaid?” Lauren was touching up her lipstick. She glanced at me through the vanity mirror. “Which one?” “The one in the lavender dress. Short hair, up-do.” “Maeve.” “What does she do?” Lauren capped her lipstick. There was a brief, deliberate pause. “She’s a colleague of mine.” “Does she have a boyfriend?” Lauren turned around to face me. I still remember her expression. It wasn’t the look a sister gives a younger brother. It was the look you give someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re getting themselves into. But she didn’t say any of that. She just muttered, “I don’t know. Ask her yourself.” During the ceremony and the reception, I barely looked at the altar or the head table. I was sitting in the third row, two tables away from the bridal party, my eyes locked on Maeve. She sat perfectly straight. She barely touched her food, occasionally lifting her glass for a polite sip. When the person next to her spoke, she offered a faint, elegant smile but didn’t lean into the conversation. My mom nudged my elbow. “Eat something.” “I’m not hungry.” “If you’re not hungry, why are your eyes glued to that table?” I ignored her. When it was time for toasts and table visits, I grabbed a glass of champagne and navigated my way across the crowded room, making a beeline for the bridesmaids’ table. I raised my glass. “Hey, ladies. I’m Luke, Lauren’s brother. Thanks so much for being here today.” The other bridesmaids smiled and clinked their glasses with mine. Maeve was the last to raise hers. She looked at me, holding her glass near her lips for a second. “Your sister looks beautiful today.” “She looks beautiful every day.” She let out a soft laugh, said nothing, and took a sip. My heart did a violent flutter. Near the end of the reception, I waited for her in the hallway. When Maeve finally walked out, she had changed into a crisp white shirt and black trousers, carrying her bridesmaid dress in a garment bag. I stepped into her path. “Can I get your Instagram?” She stopped, studying me. “How old are you?” “Twenty-two. Senior in college.” “I’m older than you.” “By how much?” “Guess.” “Twenty-four?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled out her phone, opened her Instagram QR code, and held it out. Once I scanned it, she tucked her phone away and stepped past me. As she brushed by, she said, “Make sure you DM me your name. I don’t keep random accounts.” I stood in the hallway, watching her walk away until she disappeared into the elevator. My phone buzzed. She had accepted my request. I sent my first message: I’m Luke, the guy who did the awkward toast earlier. Lauren’s brother. She replied with three words: Got it, Luke. I stared at those three words for five solid minutes. My mom walked up from behind. “Come on. Your dad had too much to drink. Help me carry him.” I slipped my phone into my pocket and went to help her. On the way to the car, my dad draped a heavy arm over my shoulder, his speech slurred. “Your sister is married now. You’re next, bud.” I smiled. “Working on it.” My dad blinked, and my mom stared at me in surprise. I didn’t offer any explanation. That night, lying in bed, I scrolled through her Instagram page over and over. She only had three posts. All landscapes—no selfies, no location tags. It was too clean, almost sterile for a girl her age. At the time, I thought, Man, she’s so cool. Looking back, it wasn’t about being cool. She was just someone who didn’t need to curate an online persona. Because her real-life persona was far too large to fit into a feed. It existed elsewhere. 02 After we connected, I sent her a “Good morning” text every single day. For the first three days, she ignored me. On the fourth day, she replied: Hey. On the fifth, I sent her a photo of my sad attempt at breakfast—two severely burnt fried eggs. I captioned it: See? I can’t even handle eggs, let alone someone like you. She replied with a single word: Ha. Just one syllable. But it made me jump out of bed with a grin. After that, I went all in. During the first week, I ordered a bouquet of flowers to be delivered to her office building. I had no idea what floor she worked on, so I just put her name on the card and told the florist to leave it at the reception desk. That evening, she messaged me: Got the flowers. I replied: Are they pretty? She said: They’re fine. Left them at reception. Everyone saw them. I teased: Even better. Now everyone knows someone is chasing you. It took her a long time to reply to that one. You’re bolder than you look. By the second week, I asked her out to dinner. It took three attempts before she finally agreed. She picked the spot—a quiet, upscale sushi restaurant inside a downtown shopping center. I showed up thirty minutes early, memorized the menu, and mentally prepared myself for the prices. When she arrived, she was wearing a tailored grey coat. She slipped off her scarf and draped it over the back of her chair with effortless grace. “Grey looks good on you,” I said, trying to sound casual. She picked up her menu. “Let’s order.” She didn’t talk much during dinner. She listened to me ramble, offering occasional nods or short comments. But her timing was always perfect. She never made me feel like she was tuning me out, yet she didn’t seem overly enthusiastic either. She kept me at an exact, calculated distance. When the bill came, I practically snatched it. Two hundred dollars. My monthly budget as a student was only six hundred. She watched me pay, making no move to stop me. As we walked out, she said, “You don’t need to choose places like this. It’s unnecessary.” “I’m chasing you,” I said. “Since when does a guy worry about the budget?” She paused under the streetlights outside the mall. She looked at me and smiled. It wasn’t the polite smile from the wedding. This one had a different edge to it—something quieter, more deliberate. I couldn’t quite place it. In the third week, I bought her a gift. A designer scarf I spent two days picking out online. It cost me a hundred and fifty dollars. She sent me a photo when she received it. The scarf was neatly folded on her desk. I noticed how incredibly sparse her desk was—just a sleek laptop and a simple mug. No photos, no knick-knacks, no personal touches. I messaged: Your desk is so empty. Let me buy you a little desk plant or a cute ornament. She replied: No need. I don’t like clutter. In the fourth week, I confessed. It was eight o’clock on a freezing Tuesday evening outside her office building. I knew she was working late, so I waited by the entrance for over two hours. I stood there, clutching a massive bouquet of red roses, shivering uncontrollably. When she finally walked through the glass doors, she froze. “Luke?” “Maeve, I really like you.” “How long have you been standing out here?” “It doesn’t matter. I just need an answer.” She looked at the roses, then up at my face. The wind whipped a strand of hair across her eyes, but she didn’t brush it away. “Okay,” she said. Just one word. It took me a solid two seconds to process it. “Did you say okay?” “Your hearing is fine, Luke.” “Seriously?” “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” I stood there, my mind erupting like a fireworks show. I handed her the flowers. She took them, leaning down to take a soft breath of their scent. Then she looked back up. “Come on. Walk me to my car.” As we walked side by side, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. And it wasn’t from the cold. From that day on, I told everyone. When my roommate, Kyle, asked what I was doing for the weekend, I told him I was spending it with my girlfriend. When my mom called, I proudly announced I was in a relationship. In the background, my dad shouted, “Bring her over for dinner!” When Lauren called to check in on me, I couldn’t wait to tell her. “I’m dating your colleague.” Silence stretched over the line for three full seconds. “Which colleague?” “Maeve. Your bridesmaid.” Another three seconds of absolute silence. “Are you serious, Luke?” “Of course I’m serious. I spent a whole month chasing her.” Lauren sighed. “Luke, listen to me.” “What?” “Do you actually know anything about her?” I laughed. “Lauren, come on. She’s your coworker—how could she be a mystery? She’s great. Sweet, elegant, down-to-earth.” Lauren didn’t reply right away. After a long pause, she said, “Fine. Do whatever you want.” I hung up and brushed it off. I figured it was just the classic overprotective sister act—feeling the need to vet anyone I brought into my life. When I went out with my friends, I pulled out my phone to show them her picture. “Holy crap, Luke. Where did you find her?” “Met her at Lauren’s wedding. Took me a month, but I won her over.” “She looks so classy. What does she do?” “Just a regular corporate job. She works with my sister.” “Lucky bastard.” I put my phone away, feeling an immense wave of pride wash over me. Since my senior year classes were light, I managed to see her at least three times a week. Over that first month, between dinners, flowers, and gifts, I blew through nearly three thousand dollars. It was almost everything I had saved from my summer job, but I didn’t care. I felt like I had somehow managed to punch way above my weight class. It gave me a swagger I’d never had before. 03 Shortly after we made things official, I suggested she meet my parents. She thought about it for a moment, then agreed. That weekend, I brought her home for Sunday dinner. My mom had started preparing two days in advance, cooking a massive spread and even putting out her best tablecloth. My dad dragged his finest button-down shirt out from the back of the closet and meticulously combed his hair. When Maeve arrived, she was carrying a beautifully packaged box of artisanal teas. She greeted my parents warmly the moment she stepped through the door. My mom immediately took her hands. “Oh, sweetheart, you are absolutely gorgeous.” “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Miller. You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.” “Oh, it’s no trouble at all! Eat as much as you like, make yourself right at home.” During dinner, Maeve was perfect. She accepted whatever food my mom offered, listened intently when my dad spoke, and smiled at all the right moments. She wasn’t overly eager to please, yet she wasn’t distant either. She balanced perfectly on the line of polite warmth. My dad, after a couple of beers, started asking questions. “So, Maeve, what do you do for work?” “I’m in corporate,” she said smoothly. “Mainly management-related stuff.” “Management is great. Stable career path.” “It has its moments. It keeps me busy.” My mom chimed in, “Do you work a lot of overtime?” “Sometimes.” “Well, make sure you take care of yourself.” Throughout the entire meal, Lauren barely said a word. She sat across from us, staring down at her plate, moving her fork around without actually eating much. I nudged her foot under the table. “Lauren, why so quiet?” She looked up at me, then glanced over at Maeve. Maeve happened to be looking right back at her. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second. Lauren immediately looked down, stuffing a roasted potato into her mouth. Maeve took a calm sip of water, her face completely expressionless. For a brief second, the air in the room felt thick and strange. But I brushed it off. After dinner, while my mom pulled Maeve into the living room to chat, I went into the kitchen to wash the dishes. Lauren slipped in right behind me. She shut the door quietly and lowered her voice. “Luke.” “What?” “Are you really planning on staying with her?” “Duh. I brought her home, didn’t I?” “Do you have any idea what her position is at the company?” I wiped down a plate. “You said she was your colleague, didn’t you?” Lauren stared at me. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but she hesitated and shut it. “What? Just say it.” “I can’t.” “What do you mean you can’t?” “I just can’t,” she whispered, stepping closer. “But I’ll tell you this much: the money you’ve been spending on her? To her, it’s pocket change. It means absolutely nothing.” I set the plate down. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Nothing. I just want you to be prepared.” “Prepared for what?” Lauren looked at me, her eyes suddenly shining with unshed tears. “I’m just afraid you won’t be able to handle it when you find out.” I thought she was being completely ridiculous. “Are you just jealous that my girlfriend is prettier than anyone you’ve ever dated?” I shot back. Lauren choked on her words, looking at me as if I’d slapped her. She stared at me for five agonizing seconds, then turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Later that night, I walked Maeve down to her car. As we reached the street, she asked quietly, “Did Lauren say something to you?” “No, she’s just overcomplicating things like she always does.” “What did she say?” “It doesn’t matter. I know how to make my own judgments.” Maeve stopped and looked back at me. Under the dim streetlights, her expression was hard to read. “Luke, what would you do if you found out one day that I’m not who you think I am?” “What do you mean by that?” “Just what I said.” “You’re you. No matter what, I spent a month chasing you. It’s not like I can return you for a refund now.” She let out a soft laugh, but there was a weight to it. It wasn’t happy, nor was it sad. It felt like some form of quiet confirmation. “Okay. Remember that.” She got into her car and rolled down the window a crack. “You start your internship next month, right?” “Yeah, Lauren helped me get a spot at her company.” “Right. I know.” The window rolled up, and she pulled away. Standing on the curb, I felt a slight chill. Her last words—”I know”—felt a bit odd. How did she know about my internship? I hadn’t mentioned it to her yet. I pulled out my phone to text her, but deleted the draft before sending it. Whatever, I thought. Lauren probably mentioned it to her at work. They are colleagues, after all. I shoved my phone into my pocket and walked back inside. The night air was crisp, but my chest felt warm. I was already looking forward to next month, imagining how great it would be to see her every day, get lunch together, and walk out of the office hand-in-hand. I had no idea that the moment I stepped into that building, every single thing I thought I knew about her would be utterly shattered. 04 On my first day of the internship, I wore a brand-new white button-down. I adjusted my collar three times in front of the mirror. My mom called out from the living room, “Seriously? It’s just an internship, not a blind date.” “My girlfriend works there. I have to look respectable.” My mom chuckled but dropped it. Lauren left thirty minutes before me. As she was putting on her shoes at the front door, I walked out of my room. She looked up at me, her expression unusually tense. “When you get to the office today, keep your head down. Don’t wander around, and don’t say anything stupid.” “I’m not a kid, Lauren.” “I’m serious, Luke.” Her tone was off. It wasn’t the usual bossy nagging of an older sister. It was a plea, heavy and desperate. “Yeah, yeah. Got it.” I shrugged it off. I arrived at the building at nine. It was a sleek, modern high-rise with glass walls, the lobby buzzing with people in sharp business suits. I checked in at reception, and an HR coordinator escorted me up to the twelfth floor. My internship was in the marketing department, and my cubicle was at the very end of the hall, right next to a window. My supervisor, Greg, was in his early thirties, wore glasses, and spoke at a rapid-fire pace. “Your sister is on the fifteenth floor in accounting,” Greg said. “Keep your visits to her to a minimum. We don’t want anyone whispering about favoritism.” “Got it, Greg.” “Just get settled today. We don’t have much for you yet, so just read through these training materials.” I sat down and flipped through the documents for half an hour, but my mind was miles away. I was wondering which floor Maeve was on. Since she was in management, she had to be in this building somewhere. I pulled out my phone and texted her: I’m here! What floor are you on? She didn’t reply. At ten-thirty, Greg asked me to go up to the fifteenth floor to grab a budget sheet from my sister. I took the elevator up. The accounting department was on the left side of the hall, the doors wide open. Lauren’s desk was near the back of the room. She was typing furiously. I walked over and tapped on her desk. “Hey. Greg sent me for the budget sheet.” Lauren looked up, her face pale. She grabbed a folder from her drawer and shoved it toward me. “Take it and go.” “What’s the rush?” “Just leave, Luke.” Her eyes kept darting toward the end of the hallway. Frowning, I turned to look. At the far end of the floor was a spacious corner office. The door was shut, and the blinds were drawn halfway. “Whose office is that?” Lauren shot up from her chair, grabbed my arm, and began pushing me toward the exit. “Stop looking. Go back to your desk.” “What are you doing? Stop pushing me.” “Luke, please,” she whispered, her voice visibly trembling. “Just go.” She pushed me all the way to the elevators, and when the doors slid open, she practically shoved me inside. “Don’t come looking for me at lunch. I’ll find you.” The elevator doors slid shut. I stood inside, clutching the folder, my mind reeling. That wasn’t just typical sisterly irritation. It was fear. What on earth was she so afraid of? Lunchtime came and went, but Lauren never showed up. I sat at my desk eating a takeout sandwich when my phone buzzed. It was a text from her: There’s an all-hands meeting at two. Just follow Greg and keep your mouth shut. I replied: What kind of meeting? No response. At two o’clock, Greg led me up to the eighteenth floor and into a massive conference room. There was a long mahogany table, a projector screen, and about twenty-five people already seated. I slipped into a chair in the back corner. Greg leaned over and whispered, “Quarterly review. Every department is here. Just listen and take notes.” “Who’s running it?” “The VP.” The meeting began. The first few departments took turns presenting their slides, reciting numbers and throwing up complicated charts. I understood about half of it, and my eyelids were already growing heavy. Then, the heavy double doors of the conference room swung open. A sudden, absolute silence fell over the room. A woman walked in, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and a black leather folder in the other. She wore a crisp white blouse. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and her stride was measured, confident. The sharp click of her heels echoed against the hardwood floor, cutting through the silence. She walked straight to the head of the long table, set down her coffee, and flipped open her folder. I froze, paralyzed in my seat.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521162”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The ceremony was scheduled for exactly four o’clock, but when the music began, my groom, Zach, was nowhere to be found. At that exact moment, my mother sent a video to our family group chat. In the clip, Zach was down on one knee, proposing to my cousin, Cindy. The living room in the video was packed with relatives cheering and clapping. My father stood right beside them, his face stretched into a wide, beaming grin. I pulled off my veil, my chest tight, ready to demand an explanation. But before I could take a step, a notification popped up in the chat. My mother had tagged me. “Naomi, Cindy is your cousin. She’s spent her whole life letting you have the spotlight. It’s your turn to step aside and let her have this.” My hands shook so hard I could barely dial her number. When she answered, I demanded to know why everyone had kept this from me. My mother’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if she were explaining the weather. “Because you’ve always been so narrow-minded, sweetie. If we told you beforehand, how would those two ever have had their happy ending?” “Just listen to me. You’re smart, you have your own business, you’ll find someone else. We’re family. Let’s not make a scene over some man.” My throat closed up. I couldn’t squeeze out a single word. It wasn’t just my engagement that was a lie. My entire family was a fiction. … I stumbled back into the bridal suite. I sent a short text to Zach: The wedding is off. The phone rang almost instantly. “Naomi, have you not thrown enough of a tantrum?” Zach’s voice was sharp, laced with irritation. “Cindy literally just slit her wrists. And you’re sitting there obsessing over a ceremony?” I stared at myself in the vanity mirror. The pristine silk of my hand-embroidered wedding dress mocked me. Seven years. Seven years of my life, reduced to a bad joke. When I didn’t answer, Zach let out a heavy sigh, his tone softening just a fraction. “The doctor says she’s severely depressed, Naomi. Her only obsession, her only tether to this world, is to wear a wedding dress just once. To marry me, just once.” “You’ve always been the strong one, the sensible one. Can’t you just help Cindy through this crisis?” “It’s just a ceremony. It’s not legally binding.” “As soon as she’s stable, I’ll take you to the courthouse tomorrow to sign the papers.” I looked at the silver band waiting on the velvet tray. I said nothing. Zach huffed, his patience wearing thin. “Hello? Naomi? Are you even listening?” Finally, I spoke. My voice was eerily quiet. “Zach, today is our seventh anniversary. We spent six months planning this wedding.” “I know that,” he cut in. “But this is life or death. You’re strong, Naomi. You’re mentally stable. Even if we don’t do the ceremony today, you’re still my fiancée.” “But Cindy has nothing. She only has me.” “If you really loved me, you’d understand what I’m going through.” Then, over the receiver, I heard my mother’s voice in the background. “Zach, why are you wasting your breath on that ungrateful girl?” “She just can’t stand to see her cousin happy.” “Cindy grew up without parents, living under our roof. I always said we should treat her like our own blood.” “This wedding is happening for Cindy today.” “If Naomi dares to make a scene, she is no longer my daughter.” I hung up. Carefully, methodically, I unzipped the dress. I let the heavy silk pool at my feet and threw it onto the velvet sofa. My bridesmaid, Becca, pushed the door open, looking at me with wide, anxious eyes. “Naomi… the guests outside are starting to ask where the groom is.” “He’s not coming,” I said, picking up a cotton pad and soaking it in micellar water. “What?” Becca gasped. “He’s in the grand ballroom next door. Proposing to Cindy.” I slowly wiped away the crimson lipstick from my mouth. The girl in the mirror looked paper-pale. My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Zach. Naomi, Cindy said she absolutely loves that custom embroidery on your gown. Can you unzip it and send it over? Seeing her in it will help her recover faster. I stared at the screen. I stared at it for what felt like an eternity. I had spent three grueling months hand-stitching the intricate lace on that gown. My fingers had been pricked so many times they were raw, just to get the delicate floral patterns perfect. Zach had held my hands back then, kissing my bandaged fingertips, promising he would make me the most beautiful bride in the world. Now, he wanted me to hand it over to Cindy. I typed back a single word. Okay. Half an hour later, carrying the gown in a garment bag, I walked into the grand ballroom next door. The space was buzzing with life. Zach, looking sharp in his tuxedo, was gently wiping tears from Cindy’s face. My mother held Cindy’s hand, her face crinkling with joy. “Oh, Cindy, you look absolutely breathtaking today.” “And Zach is such a responsible, wonderful man.” “You two build a beautiful life together. I’ll even help watch the kids.” Aunt Carol, chewing on a candied pecan, spoke up loudly. “Cindy is the lucky one, after all.” “Naomi is just too overbearing. What man can stand that?” “Exactly. Always so competitive, trying to steal everything from Cindy,” my cousin Chelsea muttered, rolling her eyes. “Zach did the right thing. Real men protect the vulnerable.” I stood in the shadows, watching this family of mine. Zach looked up and caught my eye. His brow furrowed, and he walked over quickly. “Why did you bring it yourself? You couldn’t have just hired a courier?” There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “Are you trying to make Cindy feel guilty?” I handed him the bag. “The dress.” Zach let out a sigh of relief, taking the bag. His voice softened again. “Thank you. Don’t worry, once Cindy is better, I’ll throw you a much grander wedding.” He took two steps, then turned back. “But since you’re here, just grab a seat. If you leave, Cindy might think you’re angry, and it’ll trigger her.” The cold appetizers had already been served. I picked up a glazed pecan and put it in my mouth. It was sweet—so sweet it tasted bitter. Zach brought the dress to Cindy, who squealed with delight and ran to the dressing room to change. When she emerged, the room erupted into applause. The gown had been tailored specifically to my measurements. Cindy was shorter and thinner than me. The dress hung loosely on her, the hem dragging on the floor. But Zach looked at her with pure adoration. “Cindy, you’re stunning.” My mother dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Thank God. I can finally look your late mother in the eye.” Cindy held up the skirt, leaning shyly into Zach’s chest. “Zach… do you think Naomi is mad at me? This was supposed to be my wedding. I feel like I’m stealing her place.” Zach stroked her hair, his voice tender. “Of course not. Naomi isn’t petty like that. She knows you’re sick, so she willingly gave up the wedding for you. Look, she even brought the dress over herself.” Zach pointed toward me. Every eye in the room turned my way. Cindy covered her mouth, her eyes welling with tears. “Naomi, do you really not blame me?” My mother rushed over, snatching the fork out of my hand. “Today is your cousin’s special day. Why are you sitting here with a face like a funeral? Since you’re here, raise a glass and wish them a lifetime of happiness.” I looked at my mother. “Mom, today was supposed to be my special day too.” My mother froze for a second, then waved her hand dismissively. “You and Zach have been together for seven years. Why do you care about these empty formalities? Don’t you know how severe Cindy’s depression is? The doctor said she could hurt herself at any moment. You’re healthy, Naomi. What’s wrong with letting her have this? Do you want to drive her to the edge?” Aunt Carol stepped in, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Naomi, I’m not trying to criticize you, but you have your own business, you’re successful, you don’t lack anything. Cindy only has Zach. Women should support women. Just be kind.” “Exactly. We’re family. Don’t make a scene over a man,” Chelsea chimed in. I looked at these relatives. They demanded I give up my fiancé, my wedding, my hand-stitched dress—all because I was strong, because I had “everything.” Zach walked over, looking down at me with a tight frown. “Naomi, what is wrong with you today? You’re usually so reasonable. Cindy is about to cry. Just apologize and tell her you’re not angry.” I stared at Zach. We had been together for seven years. He knew I had pulled eighty-hour weeks for a month to prepare for this wedding. He knew my greatest dream since childhood was to have a home of my own. Yet here he was, demanding I apologize to the woman who had stolen my groom. I stood up. I picked up a glass of red wine from the table. Zach’s face paled, and he instinctively stepped in front of Cindy. “Naomi, what are you doing? Don’t make a scene.” He thought I was going to throw it. He was protecting her from me. I looked at him and felt a sudden, profound emptiness. I raised the glass and drank it in one draft. “May you live happily ever after.” I set the glass down and walked out. Behind me, I heard Cindy’s timid voice. “Zach, is Naomi still mad at me? Maybe I shouldn’t wear this dress…” Zach cooed in response. “Don’t worry about her. She’s just being stubborn. She’ll get over it in a couple of days.” Leaving the hotel, I went back to the townhouse Zach and I had bought together in Charleston. We had picked it out together, split the down payment fifty-fifty, and I had personally spent weekends at hardware stores selecting every tile and light fixture. I pushed the door open. My pink slippers at the entryway were gone. In their place sat a pair of floral-patterned slippers—Cindy’s favorite style. In the living room, the potted ivy I had nurtured for six months was stuffed into the trash can. The coffee table was cluttered with Cindy’s prescription bottles and her favorite anime figurines. The bedroom door was half-open. Zach’s best friend, Parker, was directing movers, packing my clothes into bags. “Hurry up, throw these old clothes into the guest bedroom. Change the master bedsheets to the floral ones Cindy likes.” I stood in the doorway, watching quietly. Parker turned around and saw me. The awkwardness on his face lasted only a second before his defensive posture took over. “Hey, Naomi. Don’t get the wrong idea.” “Zach said Cindy’s been having terrible insomnia. This place has great natural light, which is good for her recovery. Zach wants her to move in for a bit.” I walked to the sofa and stared at the cheap plastic bags holding my belongings on the floor. “Why wasn’t I told about my own things being packed?” Parker scratched his neck. “Zach said you were busy and didn’t want to stress you out. Plus, you’re always so generous, Naomi. You wouldn’t mind a small favor like this, right?” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Look, we all know Zach only loves you. But he’s a responsible guy. He can’t just abandon Cindy in her state. Just swallow your pride for a bit. Once she’s better, the house is yours again.” I looked at Parker. Just last week, he was calling me “sister-in-law” and begging to come over for dinner. Now, he was helping Zach throw my life into the trash. “Where is Zach?” I asked. “He took Cindy to buy new furniture. Said he wanted to make her feel safe here.” Parker reached into his pocket and pulled out a jewelry box. “Oh, right. Zach wanted me to give you this. He knows today was rough on you. Think of it as an apology.” I took the box and opened it. It was a necklace. Extremely expensive. But I have a severe contact allergy to metals. Zach and I had been together for seven years, and he had never bothered to remember. He only knew that money could solve problems. I tossed the box onto the coffee table. “Come on, Naomi, don’t be like that,” Parker frowned. “Zach went to three different boutiques to find this. Cindy wanted it, but he insisted on saving it for you.” I knelt down and unzipped one of the plastic bags. Inside was my favorite dress, crumpled and dusty. Next to it was the hand-carved wooden comb Zach had given me for our anniversary. He had told me it symbolized a lifetime of devotion. I pulled out the comb. One of the teeth was already broken. I walked into the kitchen and tossed the comb into the trash bin, burying it beneath the sour smell of discarded food. Parker shouted from behind me, “Naomi, what are you doing? Zach spent hours carving that for you!” I didn’t answer. I picked up my heavy bags and walked out of the townhouse. Behind me, I heard one of the movers ask, “Should we let her just leave like that?” Parker’s voice was dismissive. “Ah, don’t worry about it. Naomi can’t live without Zach. He’ll buy her some flowers in a couple of days, and she’ll be fine.” The next morning, Zach texted me. Naomi, Parker said you were upset yesterday? The townhouse is just a temporary place for Cindy to stay. Don’t be so petty. I’m free this morning. Didn’t we promise to visit our old high school teacher today? Yes, we had promised. After the wedding, we were supposed to visit Mrs. Gable. I stared at the screen and didn’t reply. But I got up, washed my face, changed my clothes, and took a cab to the school anyway. Not to give him another chance. But to put a definitive period at the end of these seven years. At nine o’clock, I sat in front of Mrs. Gable. She looked at me with warm, motherly eyes. “Where is Zach? You two have been together for so long, and now you’re finally married.” She smiled, drifting into memories. “I remember when that boy worked his head off just to catch up to you academically. If he hadn’t, I would have definitely stepped in to break you two up. You must be so happy.” I managed a tight, bitter smile. Nine-thirty. Zach hadn’t arrived. Ten o’clock. My phone finally rang. I could hear the rumbling of thunder in the background. “Naomi, are you there yet?” His voice sounded panicked. “Yes.” “I’m so sorry. Cindy is terrified of thunder. There was a huge clap just now, and she’s hiding in the closet, refusing to come out. I can’t leave her.” “Just apologize to Mrs. Gable for me. We’ll go see her together next time.” I kept quiet. Through the receiver, I heard Cindy’s whimpering voice. “Zach, I’m scared…” “Don’t worry, I’m right here,” Zach murmured softly. Then he spoke back into the phone. “Naomi, don’t throw a fit. Be sensible. Cindy is in a really bad place right now, and I don’t have the energy for your drama.” The line went dead. Mrs. Gable looked at me. “Naomi, dear, what’s wrong?” The tears finally fell. “Mrs. Gable… I’m done with Zach.” I didn’t go back to my embroidery studio. I went straight to the station and bought a one-way ticket to Taos, New Mexico. While waiting for the train, I opened our family group chat. Zach had posted a video. In the video, Cindy was huddled on the sofa with a warm mug of milk. Zach was gently blow-drying her hair, his movements incredibly tender. His caption read: Taking care of my fragile little bird. Hoping the storm passes soon. Beneath it, a parade of relatives had left likes. My mother replied: Zach is such a good man. I can rest easy knowing Cindy is in your hands. Aunt Carol: Now this is what a real family looks like. I stared at the words, feeling absolutely nothing. I tapped on Zach’s profile and deleted him. Then I left the family group chat. I blocked every single relative’s number. Finally, I took out my SIM card and tossed it into the trash can. The boarding announcement echoed through the station. I picked up my suitcase and walked onto the platform without looking back. That evening at eight, after finally calming Cindy down, Zach returned to my studio. He was holding a strawberry shortcake—my favorite. “Naomi, I came to make it up to you,” he said, pushing the door open. But the studio was completely empty. Only a discarded design sketch lay on the work table. The smile on his face slowly froze.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521178”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My wife, Rebecca, was a saint. Or at least, that’s what the internet called her. She made ten thousand dollars a month, and every single dime of it went straight to charity. Meanwhile, the mortgage, my in-laws’ mounting medical bills, and our son’s preschool tuition fell entirely on my shoulders. My own paycheck was stretched to its absolute limit, leaving us constantly on the brink. One night, drowning in bills, I finally tried to talk to her. “Could you maybe keep just a fraction of your salary this month? Just to help with the house?” Rebecca didn’t even look up from her phone. She scoffed, her voice dripping with irritation. “I work hard for my money, Sean. If I want to donate it, that’s my choice. Since when do you get to micro-manage my life?” My in-laws, sitting across the room, immediately chimed in. “Sean, you’re really in the wrong here,” my mother-in-law, Martha, said, her tone heavy with disappointment. “Our daughter is a renowned philanthropist. Instead of being proud, you’re trying to scheme for her money and ruin her reputation? How can a grown man be so selfish?” Even Toby, our five-year-old son, glared at me from the carpet. “Daddy is trying to stop Mommy from being a good person! Daddy is bad!” I looked at their united front, nodded slowly, and stopped arguing. The very next day, I accepted my company’s offer for a six-month, off-the-grid leadership training program at corporate headquarters. I wanted to see how this family of saints would survive without the selfish villain holding them up. … On payday, Rebecca came home from work and immediately posted on Instagram: “Thirty-five thousand dollars donated this month. Just doing my small part to make the world a better place. ” She had attached screenshots of her bank transfer and a digital certificate of appreciation from a prominent children’s foundation. She had donated her entire monthly salary along with her quarterly performance bonus. The comments section flooded with praise almost instantly. “You are an inspiration, Rebecca! Giving away your bonus too? A true angel.” “The world needs more selfless people like you. Sending so much love!” “An absolute saint.” Martha and her husband, George, were quick to double-tap and comment: “So proud of our incredible daughter!” I sighed, closed the app, and opened my budget spreadsheet. This month, Toby’s preschool tuition was due. I also had to pay for George’s cardiac medication, Martha’s diabetes supplies, the mortgage, and the credit card bill from last month’s groceries. Even if I poured every cent of my own paycheck into the account, we were still fifteen hundred dollars short. It was always like this. Every month at this exact time, the bills felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest, slowly crushing the air out of my lungs. I took a deep, shaky breath and looked over at Rebecca, who was still lounging on the sofa. She was scrolling through her feed, a small, self-satisfied smile playing on her lips as she bathed in the digital adoration. Hesitating, I finally spoke. “Rebecca, we need to talk.” “Go ahead,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving her screen. “There are too many expenses this month,” I said, keeping my voice as calm and gentle as possible. “Even with my entire paycheck, we’re fifteen hundred dollars short. Going forward, could you please stop donating literally everything? Just keep a small portion for the household?” Rebecca’s thumb froze on her screen. She slowly raised her head, looking at me as if I had just suggested something utterly monstrous. “I work forty hours a week for that money, Sean. What I do with it is my business. Since when do you get to control me?” “I’m not trying to control you,” I explained, fighting the rising panic in my throat. “I’m just asking you to contribute to your own home. Your dad’s heart condition requires constant maintenance, your mom needs her insulin, Toby has school, and we have a mortgage. The cost of living is too high for one person to carry alone.” Rebecca let out a cold, mocking laugh. “If you can’t afford it, maybe you should work harder.” “What?” “If I keep my money for myself, my reputation is ruined,” she said, entirely serious. “The only reason people respect me is because I give everything away. Why should I compromise my calling just because you want to be lazy?” I stared at her, completely speechless. To keep this family afloat, I routinely worked sixty-hour weeks. I hadn’t slept a full eight hours in years. I worked through migraines, through fevers, terrified of what would happen if I took a single sick day. I had sacrificed my health, my hobbies, and my peace of mind, only for my wife to tell me I was lazy. Before I could find my voice, the guest bedroom door clicked open. George and Martha walked into the living room. They had clearly been listening. “Sean, Martha is right,” George said, crossing his arms. “I’ve never met a man so incredibly selfish. Rebecca has worked so hard to build her platform as a philanthropist. Asking her to keep money for the house is practically sabotaging her name. You should be supporting her, not dragging her down over a few dollars.” “George is right,” Martha added, waving her hand dismissively. “You’re just using our health as an excuse because you’re tired of working. We can manage our own health. You’re just being dramatic.” “Martha, George,” I stammered, my chest aching. “Rebecca is a part of this family. I’m not asking for myself. George, your imported heart medication is six hundred dollars a bottle. Martha, your insulin is almost out. If I don’t have the money, I literally cannot buy them for you.” “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” George snapped. “Stop using us to guilt-trip our daughter. It’s pathetic.” Watching the three of them stand shoulder-to-shoulder, looking down at me like I was a parasite, felt like a physical blow. The fog in my mind suddenly cleared, leaving behind a sharp, cold reality. When Rebecca and I first married, she had cried, saying she couldn’t bear to leave her aging, ailing parents behind in their small hometown. Out of love for her, I had agreed to let them move in with us. For years, while Rebecca spent her weekends at charity galas and volunteer drives, I was the one driving her parents to doctor appointments, managing their prescriptions, and rushing back to the office during my lunch breaks to make up for lost time. Back then, Martha would squeeze my hand and say, “Sean, Rebecca has her head in the clouds with her charity work, but you’re the anchor. We’d be lost without you.” George would pat my shoulder. “You’re a good man, Sean. If Rebecca ever treats you unfairly, you come to us. We’ve got your back.” And Rebecca used to hold me close at night, whispering, “I am the luckiest woman in the world to have married someone so supportive. I promise I’ll make all your hard work up to you, babe.” They had sounded so sincere. And I had believed them. I had carried the weight of the world on my shoulders, telling myself that they appreciated it, that they loved me, and that eventually, once Rebecca’s charity foundation was established, she would step back and share the load. But standing there in the living room, I realized how incredibly foolish I had been. Their gratitude was nothing but a transactional performance. They didn’t want a husband or a son-in-law; they wanted a silent, compliant beast of burden. As long as I paid the bills, took care of the chores, and never complained, I was a saint by extension. But the moment I asked for help, the moment I showed weakness, I became the villain. “Daddy is a bad guy! I hate Daddy!” Toby ran over from the balcony, his small face contorted with anger. He threw his arms around Rebecca’s legs, refusing to look at me. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. I had raised this boy. Because Rebecca was always busy with her charity, I was the one who fed him, bathed him, and stayed up with him when he had night terrors. I knelt down, trying to meet his eyes. “Toby, why would you say that?” “My teachers and friends say Mommy is a hero because she helps poor people,” Toby yelled, pointing a tiny finger at me. “You’re trying to stop her! You’re a bad guy! Go away!” Rebecca smiled, a look of pure triumph washing over her face. She smoothed Toby’s hair and looked up at me, her chin tilted high. “See? Even a five-year-old understands basic morality, Sean. You really need to look in the mirror. All you care about is money. It’s honestly embarrassing.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I stood up, looked at Rebecca, and asked one final time, “So, you are absolutely refusing to contribute even a single dollar to this household?” Martha’s insulin was empty. George’s heart medication was down to the last three pills. Toby’s tuition was overdue. My bank account was at zero. “Since you’re so obsessed with my money,” Rebecca said, her eyes flashing with disdain, “I’ll make sure you never have to ask again.” She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen rapidly for a few moments, and then turned the screen toward me. “There. I just linked my direct deposit permanently to the foundation’s trust account. It’s a locked agreement. I can’t change it for the next three years. My salary will go directly to charity before it ever touches a personal account. You can officially give up on trying to leech off of me.” Martha clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, Rebecca, that is wonderful! A true commitment to the cause!” George nodded proudly. “Well done, sweetheart. Unlike some people who only care about pennies, you have a grand vision. Some people are just destined to stay small-minded.” “Mommy is the best!” Toby cheered. They stood there, a perfect, righteous family, looking at me with nothing but disgust. It was almost comical. Rebecca, who had contributed absolutely nothing to the daily survival of this household, was their savior. I, who had bled myself dry for them, was the enemy. “Okay,” I said quietly. “If that’s what you want, I hope you can maintain it.” Rebecca frowned, slightly thrown by my lack of anger. “I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason. It’s a privilege to be married to someone like me. If we’re short on cash, just pick up some freelance work or put in some overtime. Stop being so lazy.” I smiled, turned around, and walked into the bedroom. I pulled out my phone. Three days ago, my regional director, Mr. Evans, had sent me a text: “Sean, there’s an opening for a six-month intensive leadership training program at our corporate headquarters in Chicago. It’s fully paid, and upon completion, you’ll be promoted to Regional Director with a major salary bump. I know you work incredibly hard, and the board agrees you’re the perfect candidate. What do you think?” I had replied: “Thank you, Mr. Evans, but my in-laws are in poor health and my son is still very young. I don’t think I can leave my family for that long.” The program was fully closed—six months of intense, isolated study with no personal phones, no internet, and no outside contact allowed. I had worried that without me, the house would fall apart. I had worried about George’s medicine, Martha’s checkups, and Toby’s school. What a fool I had been. I opened the chat and typed a quick reply: “Mr. Evans, I’ve reconsidered. I would love to take the opportunity. When do I start?” His response came almost instantly: “Fantastic! I was hoping you’d say yes. The flight leaves tomorrow morning. I’ll have HR send over the paperwork tonight.” The next morning, before the sun had even risen, I packed a single suitcase. While my wife and her parents were still fast asleep, I slipped out of the house, got into an Uber, and headed to the airport. By the time my flight landed in Chicago, it was mid-afternoon. The moment I turned on my phone, a deluge of missed calls and frantic texts from Rebecca flooded the screen: “Sean, where are you?” “My parents’ prescriptions are empty and they’re feeling dizzy. Get back here and buy them now!” “The preschool called. Today is the absolute final deadline for Toby’s tuition. If we don’t pay by five o’clock, they’re going to expel him!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521163”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The cramping in my abdomen was so blinding, so all-consuming, that I couldn’t even pull myself out of bed. To distract myself from the physical agony, I unlocked my phone and tapped open the Instagram account I’d been following for three years. It wasn’t a viral page, just a quiet, cozy corner of the internet. A digital scrapbook documenting a long-distance relationship between a girl and her boyfriend who lived an ocean away. I scrolled down to a familiar post, rereading the story of how she had caught a terrible flu, offhandedly mentioned she missed him, and within twenty-four hours, he had flown halfway across the world just to show up at her hospital room. I was touched by it. I always was. It was the kind of fierce, unapologetic love that felt increasingly rare. I pulled down to refresh the feed. A new post popped up. [I need to see him. Even if it takes an eight-hour flight to get to his city, I have to see him.] [But during those eight hours in the air, while I was disconnected from the world, he confessed everything.] [He told me he has a fiancée of ten years. They are getting married this year. He begged me not to come looking for him.] The comment section exploded within sixty seconds. Her small, dedicated following couldn’t fathom that the epic romance they had been deeply invested in was built on an affair. Notifications rolled in like a slot machine—people begging the blogger to just call him, to clear up what surely had to be a terrible misunderstanding. In the next second, the man sitting on the edge of my bed—my fiancé—abruptly rejected an incoming call. … “Who was that?” I asked, my voice tight from the cramps. Colin glanced at his screen, hit the side button to black it out, and slid it casually into his sweatpants pocket. “Just a telemarketer.” He slid his hand back beneath the duvet, his warm palm resting against my lower abdomen, massaging with the perfect amount of pressure. On my screen, the blogger uploaded a new slide. It was a screenshot of a text thread. Her boyfriend had refused to pick up the phone. [He won’t answer. He says his fiancée is having a terrible endometriosis flare-up, and he needs to stay and take care of her.] [But I need him right now, too… I just sat on a plane for eight hours, just for the chance to look him in the eye.] The tone in the comments shifted from disbelief to profound pity. They called her a victim of manipulation, urging her to hold her head high. [Oh honey, don’t be stupid. A man like that isn’t worth your tears!] [But she flew eight hours! How can he just throw her away after all that?] [Replying to the above: Because he has a fiancée of ten years, and they’re getting married. That’s how.] Amidst the chaos of the comment section, I lay perfectly still, staring blankly at the screenshot. The profile picture of the boyfriend had been blurred out. But the chat background hadn’t been. It was a photo of a couple, holding each other close. The man in the background picture was a mirror image of the man sitting next to me. I turned my head slowly. I looked at Colin, right there on the edge of my mattress. Noticing my gaze, his brow furrowed in that gentle, concerned way I loved so much. “Is the pain getting worse?” he asked softly. I shook my head. Under his perplexed stare, I held out my hand. “Your phone,” I said. “Let me see it.” He froze. Just for a fraction of a second, but I saw it. “What?” We had been together for ten years. I had never once asked to check his phone. He had never checked mine. It was an unspoken pact of absolute trust. But right now, the air in the room felt terribly thin. I needed to see it. He looked at me. I looked at him. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, before Colin softened his tone, letting out a small, affectionate sigh. “Have you been reading those toxic relationship threads again?” he asked, his voice entirely reasonable. “You’re not feeling well. Don’t go down a rabbit hole, Nico. It’s not good for you.” “What toxic threads?” I asked, my voice eerily calm. “You know… those pop-psychology influencers who tell women to constantly audit their boyfriends’ phones.” He stood up, smoothly changing the subject. “Be good. I’m going to go make you some chamomile tea and get the heating pad.” He walked out. On my screen, the post was gaining traction, hitting the algorithm and pulling in outsiders. The blogger was still typing. [He just texted back. He said he only added me on social media back then because he was bored. That flying across the world to see me every month was just a distraction.] [He broke up with me. He said he loves his fiancée deeply, and begged me not to ruin their life together.] […But what about me? I know he loved me too. I felt it.] More and more people flooded in to comfort her, telling her to just book a hotel and get some rest. But she was spiraling, trapped in the agonizing loop of wondering why she wasn’t the one he chose. Finally, she wrote: He said his fiancée comes from a good family, that she’s established. But I have a great career too.] [Why am I the collateral damage?] My mind began to rewind violently, tape snapping and spooling backward. Three years ago. Colin and I had just hit our seven-year mark. Maybe it was the seven-year itch, but he had completely forgotten our anniversary, even after I had gently reminded him twice. I had cried out of sheer frustration; he had accused me of making a mountain out of a molehill, calling me petty. On the third day of our cold war, my appendix ruptured. I called him. He didn’t answer. I had to bite down on my own lip to keep from screaming as I ordered an Uber, rode to the ER alone, and signed my own surgical consent forms with a trembling hand. It was that exact night, lying alone in a sterile hospital bed, that I had stumbled upon this newly created Instagram account. It only had one post back then. The caption read: He flew 6,000 miles to see me.] The story was so simple. She was studying abroad, got hospitalized with a severe infection, and casually texted a guy she’d recently met online, saying, I wish you were here.] She thought it was a joke. They barely knew each other, and half the globe separated them. But at dawn the next day, he walked through her hospital room door. [He didn’t even bring a suitcase. He just grabbed his passport, his phone, and got on a plane, she had written. I hadn’t showered, I had no makeup on, but he pulled my hands away from my face and told me I was beautiful.] There were only a handful of comments on that post, but I read it over and over in the dark of my own hospital room. It made me realize that if a man loved you enough, with enough fire, he would treat your throwaway wishes as gospel. Eventually, I was discharged. Colin and I made up. The forgotten anniversary was swept under the rug. But I kept following her account. She posted rarely, maybe once every few months, but every single caption dripped with quiet, undeniable joy. It was a small community of followers, all of us collectively agreeing this was the purest love story on the internet. Whenever I saw her updates, I used to leave a joking comment: Your long-distance romance is so much better than my same-city one! Thinking back on it now, the irony tasted like ash. I didn’t know who to pity more—the girl who had been fed a fairy tale for three years, or the woman who had been living with a ghost for ten. My phone buzzed. She had tagged her location. She was at the airport. It was a photo of the arrivals terminal. [I’ve been waiting for hours. He didn’t show up.] [I told him if he doesn’t come, I’m going straight to his office. I need to look him in the eye when he says it.] The comments lost their collective minds. [Girl, NO! He has a fiancée! She doesn’t deserve this mess!] [What are you even going to achieve? You’re just humiliating yourself at this point.] [Honestly, I think she’s brave. I wouldn’t have the guts.] I traced the edge of my phone case with my thumb, then closed the app. “Tea is ready.” Colin walked back into the bedroom, holding a steaming mug. “Careful, it’s hot. Let it sit for a minute.” His eyes flicked away from mine, landing somewhere on the wall. “Hey, babe, something urgent just came up at the office. I actually need to head in.” “Take care of yourself, okay? If the cramps get unbearable, just call me.” I looked up at him. He was already shrugging into his jacket. “Colin,” I said. He paused in the doorway. “Yeah?” I wanted to say a hundred things. I wanted to scream. But the words turned into lead on my tongue and sank to the bottom of my stomach. “Nothing. Drive safe.” The moment I heard the front door click shut, the blogger posted again. [True love doesn’t care who came first. If he ever truly loved me, he will come see me.] This time, the tone in the comments took a sharp, brutal turn. [Wait, so you know he’s engaged, but you’re still trying to destroy a 10-year relationship?] [Yeah, the moment you started bringing up how your career was just as good as hers, the vibe shifted. Screams internalized misogyny.] [Honestly, if you marched up to him and slapped him, I’d cheer for you. But this pathetic whining? I’m over it.] [I felt bad for you before, but now you’re just being the other woman on purpose.] But she still had her defenders. [Who cares if it’s been ten years? The one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel.] [She flew eight hours for love, and she just wants closure. Why are y’all tearing her apart?] [Wow, gotta love how everyone is demanding the victim be perfect while the man is entirely invisible. Hilarious.] Someone even asked if she was going to go on Instagram Live. I backed out of the post, but I didn’t close the app. Like a masochist, I began scrolling back. I looked at every single post, every single photo she had uploaded over the last three years. Back then, I only saw the sweetness. Now, every post was a surgical blade, carving me open. My eyes were bone dry. No tears. Maybe it just hurt too much. A pain so profound that my body didn’t know how to metabolize it into crying. I took a deep breath, steadying my shaking hands, and screen-recorded and saved every single post and photo to a secure cloud drive. Then, I dialed Colin’s number. “Nico?” he answered. “What’s wrong? Is your stomach killing you again?” “Colin,” I asked softly. “Where are you?” “I told you, I’m at the office. We’re in the conference room. That software rollout hit a massive snag. I’m probably going to be here late.” He lowered his voice to a perfect, hushed, I’m-in-a-meeting whisper. He sounded so incredibly authentic. “Can we FaceTime?” I said. “I just… I want to see your face.” Silence on the line for two beats. “Why do you want to FaceTime? I’m in a room full of people, babe. It’s not a good time.” “Just for a second,” I pressed. “I feel awful. I just want to see you.” “Nico, stop being difficult,” he said, a thread of strained patience weaving into his voice. “I’m dealing with a crisis here. Be good, alright? I’ll come home and hold you as soon as this is handled.” “Just one second, Colin.” “I said it’s not a good time!” His voice flared with sudden irritation. “Are your hormones just all over the place right now? Stop overthinking. Drink your tea and go to sleep, please.” “Then I’ll come to the office.” I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting copper. “Nicola!” His voice spiked. “What the hell is going on with you? I am working! If you come down here, I won’t even have time to look at you!” I listened to the cadence of his voice, picturing the expression on his face. Was he panicking? Or just annoyed that I was stepping out of line? “Colin,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Why are you so afraid to turn on your camera?” Another beat of silence. Then, the line went dead. He hung up. A moment later, a text came through. [Nico, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.] [I really can’t leave this room right now, but if you want to come down, you can. You can wait in my office.] [Take an Uber, don’t drive. Let me know when you’re downstairs.] I stared at the glowing text bubble. And I smiled. He thought I’d take the bait. He thought that if he rushed to his office building and sat behind his desk waiting for me, he could patch this lie right up. I didn’t move. Because I realized there was no point in going. What would I even say? Confront him? He had a hundred silver-tongued excuses locked and loaded. Show him the Instagram posts? He would tell me it was a bizarre coincidence, or that someone had photoshopped it to extort him. Ten years. I knew the architecture of his mind perfectly. Unless I handed him ironclad, undeniable proof, he would twist reality until black was white, until I was the one apologizing for being a hysterical, paranoid fiancé. I sat back against the headboard, pulling my knees to my chest, staring at the screen. It dimmed, then brightened. Dimmed, then brightened. No new texts from him. But the blogger posted again. [I saw him.] The comments instantly lost their minds. [Holy shit! You actually went? What happened?!] [Girl, talk to us! Where is he?] [Please don’t tell me you guys got back together.] The blogger replied to one of the comments: [He came out to see me. But he only stayed for twenty minutes.] [He said his fiancée is waiting for him at home and he had to go back.] [I begged him to stay just a little longer. He said he couldn’t. She’s having bad cramps and he was worried about her.] The comment section practically caught fire. [I am losing my mind. This guy is a sociopath.] [So he’s literally bouncing between the two of you? Putting out fires on both sides?] [WAKE UP GIRL. He’s never going to pick you!] Another update from the blogger. [He left in a panic because he got a phone call. I think it was his fiancée. I heard them arguing on the phone.] [I’ve mailed him packages before. I know his home address.] [I’m getting an Uber. I’m going to talk to her.] Panic erupted in the comments. [NO! DO NOT DO THAT! If you go there, you are officially the homewrecker!] [Girl, breathe! This isn’t her fault! The MAN lied to you!] [Yeah, take it up with him, why are you bringing the fiancée into this?!] [Oh my god, this is going to be a bloodbath.] My phone vibrated in my hand. The final update. [I’m outside her house. She deserves to know the truth.] [Whatever happens, at least I fought for this.] The very next second, my doorbell rang.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521179”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the diagnosis came back as terminal leukemia, my dad and I scrambled, begging anyone we knew for a loan. But my mother, her mind warped by a lifetime of reading dark billionaire romance novels, was absolutely convinced she was the tragic heroine in a grand, twisted love story. She was certain my dad was actually a billionaire in disguise, pretending to be broke. “What’s the rush?” she’d tell me, her voice airy and detached. “Your father is a secret heir to billions. He’s just putting me through this angst to punish me. Once he realizes he’s about to lose me, he’ll regret everything. He’ll drop the act, pay for the treatment, and save me.” I stood there, frozen. To afford her chemotherapy and prep for a potential bone marrow transplant, we had sold everything we owned. My dad was working three jobs a day, his hands permanently stained with grease and concrete. A secret billionaire? It was a sick joke. I spent an entire week crying, begging, and screaming at her until she finally agreed to the surgery. I thought she had finally woken up from her delusions. But on the morning of the operation, she vanished. “The patient left a note and disappeared,” the doctor said over the phone. “Her condition is critical. If she doesn’t get this transplant today, she’s not going to make it.” 1. The doctor’s call left me paralyzed in the hospital lobby. To raise enough for her down payment, I had skipped my own high school graduation party. While my classmates were planning beach trips and dorm decor, I was working double shifts. Busboy at a diner by day, dishwasher at a greasy night-market stall by night. My dad had stripped our lives bare. He sold his wedding ring, our old station wagon, and every piece of furniture that wasn’t falling apart. Working three jobs, he had withered into a fragile, hollowed-out old man before my eyes. We had bled ourselves dry to scrape together the deposit, and by some miracle, a matching donor had been found. And she ran? I bolted out of the hospital like a madwoman, my chest burning as I searched the surrounding streets. Finally, I found her in a small pocket park behind the clinic. She was sitting on a wooden bench, wearing her oversized hospital gown, staring into the wind with tears streaming down her face. “Mom, have you lost your mind?” I sprinted over and grabbed her arm. “The doctor said if you don’t do this transplant today, you’re going to die! What are you doing out here?” Months of exhaustion, fear, and suppressed rage boiled over. I couldn’t stop myself from screaming. She jolted slightly as I pulled her, turning her head to look at me. To my horror, she was smiling. It was a soft, patronizing smile, the kind a mother gives a child who doesn’t understand how the world works. “Becca,” she murmured. “Did your father send you to find me?” “No! I found you because the hospital called me panicking!” I tugged her arm. It was so thin, my fingers easily wrapped around her wrist. “Mom, please. Just come back inside. We have to go.” She shook her head, pulling away. “You don’t understand, Becca. This is his test.” “What test?” “It’s how these stories always go,” she said, her eyes shining with a frightening clarity. “The male lead makes the heroine suffer first. He pushes her to the absolute brink, and only when she’s on her deathbed does he finally show up. He’ll throw millions at the doctors, fall to his knees, and beg for her forgiveness.” I stared at her, the air leaving my lungs. Every word she spoke was English, but it felt like an alien tongue. “Mom, Dad works construction. He drives an Uber all night. He is not a billionaire.” Instead of answering, she broke into a violent, hacking cough that shook her fragile frame. She pulled a piece of crumpled tissue to her mouth. When she pulled it away, it was stained with bright, metallic-smelling blood. My heart cracked. The anger drained out of me, replaced by a desperate, aching pity. “Mom, please,” I begged, my voice cracking as I sank to my knees before her. “Just come back with me. If we miss this donor window, we can’t afford to find another one. Do you know how much a match costs? Twenty thousand dollars just for the procurement and prep. We don’t have it. We literally have nothing left.” But my mother shoved my hands away. She gasped for air, her face pale, but her eyes burned with an almost religious fervor. “What do you know? You’re just a kid! This is all part of his game!” I was numb. “What game?” “He’s trying to break me! To make me crawl back to him!” She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “He isn’t broke, Becca. He’s the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar empire. He’s just hiding it to punish me!” 2. I felt a wave of absolute defeat wash over me, heavy and cold. “Mom, Dad drives Uber at night,” I whispered. “Do you know what that’s like? He carries dozens of people in his car. Men, women. When they get out, their perfume lingers. That’s why he smells like that.” “He’s never home because he’s working three jobs. He doesn’t want to be away. He’s trying to keep you alive.” My words didn’t touch her. There was no realization, no guilt. Instead, her eyes flared with a desperate, triumphant spark. “Oh? And the perfume? How do you explain that? Go ahead, defend him!” I opened my mouth, but the sheer exhaustion of the last six months stopped me. “People get in and out of his car all day,” I said, tears blurring my vision. “Last week, his car smelled like takeout. Mom, please.” I tried to pull her up, but she clung to the armrest of the park bench with terrifying strength. Our struggle began to draw a crowd. Passersby slowed down, staring. “What is wrong with that girl? Yelling at her sick mother like that.” “I know, the poor woman looks like she has one foot in the grave.” Sensing the audience, my mother immediately leaned into her role. She slumped back against the bench, dabbing at her eyes, projecting her voice just enough for the onlookers to hear. “Don’t blame my daughter, everyone. It’s my husband. He’s the one doing this.” She sniffled, looking up with a perfectly practiced expression of tragic endurance. “I’m dying of cancer, and he’s still playing his little game, pretending we’re destitute. It’s a sham marriage. He’s trying to kill me.” The crowd gasped. Whispers rippled through the onlookers. “My God, what a monster.” “He’s literally letting his wife die to save a buck.” Listening to their outrage, my mother wept harder, but as she lowered her head, I saw the fleeting, smug curl of her lips. She was enjoying this. She had fully cast herself as the martyr of a tragic romance, basking in the sympathy of strangers and the twisted thrill of being “abused” by her fictional billionaire husband. A cold dread settled in my stomach. “Cynthia!” A voice cracked through the park like a gunshot. My dad pushed his way through the crowd. He was wearing his faded, plaster-stained work pants and a frayed t-shirt. His hair was dusty and graying, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. When he was young, my dad had been incredibly handsome—sharp jaw, striking eyes. It was the sole reason my mother had fallen for him so hard, and why she was now so stubbornly convinced he was a hidden prince. But the crushing weight of reality had bent his spine and carved deep lines into his face. He looked ten years older than his forty-five years. He was dripping with sweat, having run all the way from the job site. He had clearly heard her dramatic monologue. He was shaking with rage. “Are you out of your mind? Get back to the hospital right now!” He reached for her arm, but she shrieked and recoiled as if he were a monster. “Stop acting, Tom! I know the truth!” She pointed a trembling finger at him, her face a mask of tragic betrayal. “You’re doing this because of Jane! You’re punishing me because I broke the two of you up in college!” “I’m dying, Tom! And you still won’t drop the act?” She looked at me, her voice dripping with artificial sorrow. “And you… you brainwashed our daughter to lie for you, to help you torture me!” My dad closed his eyes, taking a long, ragged breath. “Cynthia, for the last time. I am a normal guy. We were barely middle class on our best days.” “We are completely broke because of your medical bills!” “And Jane? That was twenty years ago! I don’t even remember what she looks like!” My mother stood up abruptly, her eyes wild. “You’re lying!” she shrieked. “You even named our daughter after her! Her middle name is Jane!” 3. I felt a ridiculous, hollow sense of futility rise in my chest. “Mom, Grandma gave me my middle name!” I cried out, my voice cracking. Before she passed, my grandmother had told me a dozen times how she had spent days looking through family bibles to find a name she liked. How had that become proof of a decades-old romantic conspiracy? My dad stood there, his calloused hands hanging uselessly at his sides. “Even if it is,” his voice was hoarse, thick with a deep, bottomless fatigue. “What does that prove, Cynthia? If I had billions, would I be hauling concrete? Would I be driving twelve hours a night?” The onlookers, who had been glaring at my dad, looked closer. They saw his dirt-crusted work boots, his frayed clothes, and my faded, cheap t-shirt. They saw the raw, unpolished grief in our faces. The tide of sympathy began to shift. “He doesn’t look like a billionaire…” “Yeah, no CEO is going around smelling like wet cement.” Realizing she was losing her grip on her audience, my mother snapped. She lunged at my dad, grabbing the pocket of his cargo pants. With a loud rip, the fabric tore open. A sleek, silver watch tumbled out and landed in the grass. My mother gasped, snatching it up like a trophy. She held it high in the air, her face ecstatic. “You’re broke? Then explain this!” She looked manic, convinced she had finally uncovered his secret life. “This is a Patek Philippe! It’s a limited edition! It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars!” “How does a construction worker get something like this?” My dad’s face went white. He lunged to grab it back. “Don’t touch that! If you scratch it, we’re ruined!” His voice was shaking. “An Uber passenger left it in my back seat last night. He was drunk.” “I’m supposed to hand it in to the police precinct today. The guy called me through the app last night and promised a massive reward if I kept it safe.” He scrambled to pull out his phone. “Look, I have the call logs. I have the messages from the Uber app. I’ll show you!” He tried to unlock his cracked screen to show her. But she didn’t want to see it. She wanted the billionaire. She wanted the tragedy. “Smack.” She slapped the phone out of his hand. The cheap, old phone hit the concrete path. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of black lines, the display flickering before dying completely. “Keep lying!” She threw the luxury watch at his chest and covered her face, sobbing hysterically. “You’ll regret this! You will regret what you did to me!” She turned and fled into the crowded streets, disappearing before we could catch her. The onlookers slowly dispersed, leaving only my dad and me. My dad knelt down on the grass, his hands trembling as he wiped the dirt off the expensive watch. Then, he picked up his broken phone. “Dad…” The tears finally spilled over. “The doctor said… the donor marrow is a rare match.” “If we don’t check her in within forty-eight hours, they have to give it to the next patient on the list.” My dad’s hand froze over the broken screen. He kept his head down, but I saw a single, heavy tear slip from his cheek and splat onto the shattered glass. “We have to keep trying,” he whispered, his throat tight. “She’s your mother. It’s her life.” 4. I went back to my shifts at the upscale downtown restaurant. I wore the crisp, clean uniform, carried trays of expensive food, and smiled politely at wealthy couples. But inside, I felt like I was being boiled alive. Every chance I got, I hid in the staff bathroom to call my mother. I sent texts, voicemails, emails. I begged her, cried until I choked, swore to her on my life that we had no secret trust funds, no hidden estates. My dad barely slept. He ran between his shifts, checking every diner and park she frequented. He left her messages telling her he loved her, that he couldn’t live without her, even kneeling in the street at one point when he thought he saw someone who looked like her, begging her to come back. Finally, on the evening of the final deadline. She answered. “Fine,” she said, her voice dripping with the haughty condescension of a queen granting a pardon. “Since you’re begging so desperately, I’ll allow you to take me to the hospital.” My dad and I collapsed into each other’s arms, sobbing with relief. We thought the nightmare was over. The next morning, we took off work and gently guided her toward the hospital clinic. As the sliding glass doors drew near, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I thought we had finally made it to the other side. But right at the entrance, my mother stopped. She pulled out her phone and opened a live-streaming app. She aimed the camera directly at my dad and me. Her face was deathly pale, but her eyes held a manic, feverish excitement. With people constantly streaming past us, she raised her voice, drawing a small crowd. My stomach dropped. “Mom, what are you doing? Put that away!” I lunged for the phone, but she dodged with surprising agility, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Don’t touch me!” Viewers began flooding into the live room, drawn by the public scene. She sobbed into the camera, her voice dripping with theatrical tragedy. “I have terminal leukemia, and my husband—who is actually a billionaire CEO—is pretending we are bankrupt to punish me!” “He wants me dead so he can bring back his first love!” “Today, I am going to make him admit the truth in front of all of you!” She spun around, glaring at my dad. “Tom! If you don’t admit who you are right now, and get down on your knees and apologize…” “I will not walk through those doors!” “I will let myself die, and my blood will be on your hands forever!” My dad froze, his lips trembling violently. He stared at the woman he had loved for twenty years, who now looked like an absolute stranger. The light in his eyes slowly, completely went out. “Cindy, please… stop this, I’m begging you…” His voice was a broken whisper, his knees buckling as if he were about to collapse onto the pavement. “The doctors are waiting. The marrow won’t keep!” “Don’t try to scare me with your lies!” she snapped. “Admit it, or I don’t go in.” Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. With shaking fingers, I pulled it out. It was a message from her primary oncologist. It was a single sentence, but it felt like a physical blow to my chest. “Becca, I am so sorry. Because you didn’t arrive, and the donor’s window has closed, the marrow has been reallocated to the next critical patient on the list.” The world spun. The sounds of the traffic and the crowd faded into a dull, underwater hum. Seeing my face, my dad snatched the phone from my hand. As his eyes scanned the text, he went entirely rigid. He stared at the screen, his eyes bloodshot, veins bulging in his neck as if his chest were about to burst. “No…” A guttural, primal scream tore from his throat. My mother flinched, startled by the sheer violence of his grief. My dad slowly turned his head to look at her. The desperation, the begging, the humility—all of it vanished from his face, replaced by a hollow, chilling emptiness. He wiped the sweat and tears from his face with the back of his hand. He looked at my mother, then at the camera lens she was holding up, and a terrible, exhausted smile crept onto his lips. “Fine,” he whispered, taking a step toward her. “You’re right.” He walked up to her, his eyes dead. “I’ve been lying the whole time.” “I’m a billionaire.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521164”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On our anniversary, Williams spent a small fortune to plaster my name across every digital billboard in the city. I watched the neon glow of my own name reflecting in his eyes, so moved that I let tears slip down my cheeks. That night, I officially declined my offer for an Ivy League graduate program, choosing him over my own future. But today, the building administrator came by for a routine residency check. She looked at me with a soft, pitying expression. “Mrs. Calloway, according to our system, this penthouse belongs to Camille Weaver. And the woman registered as your husband’s legal spouse is also her.” “As far as the building records are concerned, you’re just a temporary guest.” I pushed open the heavy double doors of Williams’s private office at the Calloway Group. He was leaning over his mahogany desk, his lips pressed softly against Camille’s ring finger. When I demanded an explanation, his brows furrowed, and his face hardened with immediate frustration. “Camille grew up without parents, Isabel. She has no sense of security. It’s just a deed and a marriage certificate—I only gave her those titles to put her mind at ease.” “I gave you a million-dollar wedding that the entire city envied. I gave you all the public dignity any woman could ask for. Is none of that enough for you?” Camille leaned back against his chest with a soft, mocking smile. “Don’t be angry, Isabel. I only wanted the title. At the end of the day, he still comes home to your bed to play the husband, doesn’t he?” I looked down at the diamond ring on my finger. Suddenly, its sparkle felt blindingly cheap. I slid it off and placed it quietly on his desk. I turned and walked away, pulling out my phone to text my father. Three words: I’m coming home. … “Miss Calloway, I’m so sorry, but Ms. Weaver submitted a request to revoke your long-term access permissions. If you plan to continue staying here, we’ll need to re-file your temporary residency paperwork.” The building manager stood in the hallway, looking deeply uncomfortable. I stared at the smart-lock screen. Biometrics not recognized. My finger hovered in the air, frozen. “Temporary residency?” I repeated, the words tasting like ash. “Yes, ma’am.” The manager pulled up the digital portal on her tablet and gently turned it toward me. “The sole owner of this property is Camille Weaver.” “According to the building’s HOA policies, anyone who is not the deed holder’s legal spouse or direct relative must be registered as a temporary occupant.” The bright blue light of the screen made my eyes sting. Owner: Camille Weaver. Spouse: Williams Calloway. The digital file was stark, clear, and utterly devoid of misunderstanding. I pulled my hand back, my voice barely a whisper. “I understand. Thank you.” She gave me one last pitying look before stepping back into the elevator. The hallway fell dead silent, save for the low buzz of the motion-sensor lights. I pulled out my phone and dialed Williams. It rang for a long time before he finally picked up. The background was quiet, the faint rustle of documents the only sound. “What is it, Isabel?” His voice was deep, smooth, carrying that effortless composure I had fallen in love with. “I’m locked out of the penthouse,” I said, staring at the matte-black door. There was a brief pause on the other end. “Camille mentioned she’s been feeling anxious about privacy lately,” Williams sighed, his tone adopting a patient, soothing cadence. “She wanted to audit the security permissions. She must have cleared your biometrics by mistake.” He let out a soft breath, trying to placate me. “Just use the keypad for now. The code is still the same—my birthday.” “Isabel, don’t take this to heart. I’ll handle it.” I lowered my gaze to the tips of my shoes. “Williams, the building manager told me I’m registered as a temporary guest.” Silence stretched over the line for two agonizing seconds. Then, he let out a low, weary laugh. “Isabel, didn’t you make enough of a scene at the office today?” “I already explained it to you. Camille grew up in the system. She’s an orphan. She has a desperate need to feel like she actually belongs somewhere, that she has a home of her own.” “Putting her name on the deed was just to give her some security.” “You got the wedding of the century. Everyone in Chicago knows you’re Mrs. Williams Calloway.” “You live in that penthouse. Who would dare call you a guest?” In his mind, it was a neat equation: love and public prestige belonged to me; the legal titles and real estate belonged to Camille. “And the marriage license?” I asked, my fingers tightening around the phone until my knuckles turned white. “You kept telling me the county system was experiencing a backlog, that our certified copy was taking longer to process.” “But in the city registry, she is your legal wife.” Williams’s voice dropped, cold and sharp. “Isabel, what has gotten into you? You’ve never been like this.” “Whose home do I return to every single night? Whose hand did I hold in front of the entire city on our anniversary?” “A piece of paper doesn’t change how I feel about you. You are more important to me than any document.” “I will sort this out. I just need a little time.” I didn’t answer. A dull, sickening ache bloomed in my stomach. “Alright?” Williams’s tone softened again, returning to his familiar coaxing rhythm. “I have a client dinner tonight, but I’ll be home late to make it up to you. Don’t overthink things. We’ll talk tonight, okay?” The line went dead. I stared at the blank screen, then reached out and punched in his birthday. Beep. The lock clicked open. In the foyer, the fresh lilies I had arranged yesterday were still blooming. But on the marble coffee table in the living room sat a stack of cardboard moving boxes. I walked over and lifted the lid of the top box. Inside was the hand-lettered parchment of our wedding vows. Beside it lay my dried bridal bouquet. Yesterday, I had proudly displayed them on the mantel. Now, they had been packed away like junk. I walked into the master bedroom. I pulled open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Our marriage certificate lay inside. On our wedding day, Williams had handed it to me, calling it the ultimate proof of our commitment. I pulled it out and opened the folder. Our names were printed in elegant calligraphy, but the space for the official court seal was entirely blank. It was nothing more than a souvenir prop. With my fingernail, I pried at the adhesive lining of the leather certificate holder. A small, glossy photo slipped out. In it, Williams wore a crisp white shirt, his smile bright and unburdened. Camille was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes curved with pure joy. I stared at the photograph for a long time. Then, I slid it back into the hidden sleeve and placed the folder back in the drawer. I pulled my suitcase from the closet. I folded a few essential pieces of clothing and packed them inside. Just as I zipped the suitcase shut, the doorbell rang. I walked back to the foyer and pulled the door open. Camille stood in the hallway wearing a camel trench coat. Behind her stood a man in a sharp gray suit, flanked by two movers in uniform. “Isabel, I had a feeling you’d still be here,” Camille said, her smile sweet and guileless as her eyes swept past me into the apartment. “What are you doing here?” I blocked the threshold, making no move to let her in. The man in the suit stepped forward, offering me a business card. “Good afternoon, Miss Calloway. I am Ms. Weaver’s legal counsel.” “This property is registered as Ms. Weaver’s personal asset under her marriage settlement. She has requested to begin redecorating and taking possession of the premises.” “We ask for your full cooperation.” Camille sighed, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Don’t misunderstand, Isabel.” “I just find the current minimalist style a bit too cold. I want to bring in some warmer furniture.” “After all… this is Williams’s and my home now.” She let the words Williams’s and my home linger in the air. “I don’t mind that you’ve been living here. I just need you to vacate the master bedroom so I can move in.” I looked at her face, and suddenly, the anger drained out of me, replaced by an overwhelming sense of futility. “There’s no need to clear anything out,” I said, stepping aside. “I’m leaving.” Camille’s eyes lit up with a flash of triumph. She immediately turned and gestured for the movers to bring in the boxes. Just then, the elevator doors chimed open. Williams strode out, his brow furrowed in a deep, tense line. “Camille, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice sharp with frustration as he approached her. Camille’s eyes welled with tears instantly. She grabbed his sleeve, looking up at him. “Williams, I just wanted to see our new home. But Isabel seems so angry with me.” “Did I do something wrong?” Williams patted her hand gently, then turned his gaze to me. His eyes fell on the suitcase at my feet. His expression darkened. “Isabel, are you seriously doing this right now?” “I told you, the code hasn’t changed. You are welcome to stay here.” I looked at him, my voice completely flat. “Your legal wife is here with her attorney to claim her property, Williams. What exactly would I be if I stayed?” “Your tenant? Or your mistress?” Williams’s face turned ash-gray. He stepped forward and gripped my wrist. His grip was tight, but his thumb reflexively stroked the delicate skin over my pulse point. “Isabel, don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re better than this.” “I told you, I love you. A legal title for Camille doesn’t change what we have.” “She’s had an incredibly hard life, and I couldn’t let her bear the brunt of public scrutiny.” He glanced at the quiet, sniffling Camille, then back at me. “I’m not trying to excuse her, Isabel. I just don’t want any more misunderstandings.” “Go stay at a hotel for a few days.” “Once things settle down here, I’ll come and bring you back myself.” I looked down at his hand gripping mine. His fingers were long, his knuckles elegant and familiar. This was the same hand that had held me so desperately at O’Hare airport. I had just received my Ivy League acceptance letter. He had pulled me into his chest in the middle of the crowded terminal, his eyes bloodshot, whispering: Isabel, stay. Let me build a life for us. And I had stayed. Now, he was asking me to pack up my things and move into a hotel. I reached down and, finger by finger, peeled his hand off my wrist. “Okay,” I said. I picked up the handle of my suitcase and walked toward the elevator. Williams froze, clearly taken aback by how easily I was giving in. He took two quick steps after me. “I’ll have my assistant book your usual suite at the Peninsula. I’ll order some warm soup for you—your stomach has been acting up.” “Don’t bother.” I pressed the elevator button. “Isabel,” Williams’s voice took on a firmer, authoritative edge behind me. “The Calloway Group’s annual charity gala is in three days.” “Get yourself ready. I need you to attend with me.” I turned my head to look at him. “In what capacity?” Williams frowned, as if the question itself were absurd. “As my wife, of course.” “The entire city knows I married you. If you don’t show up, the media will tear Camille apart.” Three days later. I had no intention of going to the gala. But Williams’s assistant was waiting in the lobby of my hotel four hours before the event. He brought a team of stylists and a garment bag holding an exquisite haute couture gown. “Miss Calloway, Mr. Calloway wanted me to remind you that tonight is critical for the firm’s image. Please, keep the bigger picture in mind.” The assistant’s tone was polite, but his stance was unyielding. I looked at the dress. Before our wedding, Williams had spent hours watching me try on gowns. He had touched the silk of this very dress and said, Isabel, this was made for you. You will never have to envy anyone else. I put on the dress and got into the town car. When we arrived at the venue, the red carpet was already lined with flashing cameras. Williams was waiting for me at the end of the carpet. He looked striking in his black tuxedo. The moment my door opened, he stepped forward, wrapping his hand possessively around my waist. “You look breathtaking,” he murmured in my ear. “Just bear with it tonight, Isabel. As long as you stand by my side, you are the only Mrs. Calloway they see.” I remained silent, letting him guide me through the grand doors. But the moment we stepped into the ballroom, a sudden murmur rippled through the crowd. I followed the direction of everyone’s gazes. Camille was standing near the champagne tower, a glass of sparkling cider in her hand. She was wearing the exact same gown. Except hers had been altered at the waist, draped in a way that made her look fragile, almost ethereal. She raised a hand to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. On her ring finger, the diamond wedding band caught the light of the crystal chandeliers, sparkling mockingly. The guests began to whisper. “Is that a wardrobe clash?” “Wait, isn’t that his executive assistant? Why is she wearing his wedding band?” “Who did Williams actually marry?” A few reporters quickly converged on her. “Ms. Weaver, is your dress tonight a coincidence?” “Does the ring on your finger mean there’s an announcement coming soon?” Camille shrank back, looking appropriately startled. She cast a timid, helpless look toward Williams. Then, speaking softly into a reporter’s microphone, her voice trembled. “Please, don’t misunderstand.” “Williams and I are legally married. It’s just that Isabel… she really wanted the dream of a grand wedding, so Williams threw that ceremony for her to keep her happy.” The ballroom erupted. In an instant, every lens swung around, targeting Williams and me. The barrage of flashes was blinding. “Mr. Calloway, is what Ms. Weaver said true?” “The public registry confirms Camille Weaver is your legal spouse. Where does that leave Isabel?” “Miss Calloway, did you knowingly enter a relationship with a married man, or were you deceived?” Microphones were thrust into my face. The crowd pressed closer, and someone shoved me from behind. Williams instinctively pulled me against his chest, his palm shielding my lower abdomen. His expression turned lethal as he glared at the press. “Step back,” he commanded. The reporters retreated slightly, intimidated by his tone, but the cameras kept clicking. “Mr. Calloway, please give us a direct statement.” I turned my head to look at Williams. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes filled with a turbulent mix of emotions. I waited for him to speak. I waited for him to clear my name, to tell the world that this was all a terrible mistake, that I was not an interloper in my own life. But he only tightened his grip around my waist. “Everyone in this room knows who my wife is,” he said to the cameras, his voice flat and controlled. “Tonight is a charity event. Our focus should be on those we are here to help, not my private affairs.” It was a non-answer, and the press knew it. Their questions grew sharper, more vicious. Camille, her eyes red, walked over and stood on Williams’s other side. “Please, stop pressing him. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Williams reached out, steadying her shoulder and pulling her half-behind him. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” he whispered to her. Then he looked back at me, his brow furrowed, his voice urgent. “Isabel, stay steady.” “I’ve got this.” I stared at his face. He was telling me to stay steady. Yet, in the very moment I was being branded a home-wrecker to the world, his words of protection were entirely empty. The ballroom air conditioning was blasting, but I felt cold from the inside out. My phone buzzed in my clutch. I didn’t need to look to know the internet was already exploding with the story. I reached down and pushed Williams’s hand off my waist. I took a step back, separating myself from him. “Williams.” My voice wasn’t loud, but in the sudden hush of the ballroom, it carried clearly. “If you stand in front of these cameras right now and tell them I am not a mistress…” “I will believe you. One last time.” The reporters fell silent, thrusting their recorders forward. Williams’s face went pale. He lowered his voice, his tone laced with mounting panic. “Isabel, calm down.” “This isn’t the time or the place. I will explain everything to you once we get through tonight.” “If you say anything now, it will only make things worse.” I ignored his warning, my eyes locked onto his. “Do you dare tell them that you never legally married me?” “Do you dare admit that the wedding you gave me was nothing but a sham?” Williams went silent. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His gaze flickered frantically between me and Camille. He couldn’t do it. He was terrified that if he clarified the truth, Camille would be branded a homewrecker. He was terrified of the fallout to his own pristine reputation. His silence was the final, fatal blow. Seeing his hesitation, Camille suddenly let out a sob. She broke away from Williams and stepped in front of me. And there, in front of every media outlet in the city, she fell to her knees. “Isabel, I’m so sorry,” she wept, grabbing the hem of my gown. “I know how much you love Williams. I shouldn’t have been greedy for a title.” “I’ll sign the divorce papers tomorrow. I’ll give him back to you. Just please, don’t force him into a corner like this.” The flashbulbs went wild. The whispers around us morphed into outright condemnation. “The poor wife… reduced to begging on her knees.” “How shameless can a mistress get?” I looked down at Camille kneeling on the floor, and a wave of pure nausea washed over me. I reached down to yank my dress out of her grasp. “Let go of me,” I said. But Camille held on tight, looking up at me. Behind her tear-stained eyes, I saw the cold, sharp glint of malice. Suddenly, using the momentum of my pull, she threw herself backward. “Ah!” she gasped. Williams’s face drained of color. He lunged forward, catching Camille before she hit the floor. But in the split second she fell, Camille’s hand shot out from beneath her sleeve, giving my knee a sharp, deliberate shove. I was already off-balance in my heels. The force of her push sent me staggering backward. Behind me was the towering pyramid of champagne flutes. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the ballroom like gunfire. I hit the hard floor. A deluge of crystal and alcohol rained down on me, cutting into my skin. The room went completely still. I lay in the wreckage, my palm pressed against a jagged piece of glass, but I couldn’t feel the pain in my hand. Because a sudden, tearing agony in my lower abdomen eclipsed everything else. It felt as if my insides were being violently ripped apart. A warm, thick tide of fluid began to seep down my thighs, staining the pristine silk of my gown with a rapidly blooming circle of crimson. Williams was still holding Camille in his arms. But when he turned his head and saw the pool of blood spreading beneath me, every ounce of color vanished from his face. “Isabel!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521180”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

A system glitch. That’s the only explanation for how I, a ruthless, take-no-prisoners protagonist from a revenge-thriller universe, ended up trapped in the body of a pathetic, doormat heroine in a tearjerker family drama. It happened right after the childhood-sweetheart-turned-golden-boy told me, with a face like ice, to give up my graduation dress to the family’s “fake” daughter. I couldn’t hold it in. Right then and there, I broke character. “If it kills you so much to see her wronged, why don’t you buy her one?” “You haven’t spent a single dime, yet here you are, banging the gavel like a judge.” “Outsourcing your grand romantic gestures—you’ve really got this whole deep-devotion thing figured out, haven’t you?” 01 The entire room froze in stunned silence. No one could have anticipated this. The biological daughter, who just yesterday had been shrinking into herself, desperately swallowing her pride to please this family, had suddenly snapped. I looked down at the faded t-shirt and cheap denim I was wearing. Then, I glanced at the mirror, taking in the hunched, cowering posture born from years of systemic submission. The original host of this body was the true, biological daughter of the Crawford family. Yet, she had to walk on eggshells just to buy a hair tie. Meanwhile, the adopted daughter—the golden child they had raised before finding her—had a walk-in closet bursting with this season’s haute couture. And yet, she absolutely had to steal this one specific dress. It was pathetic. Utterly, suffocatingly pathetic. “Valerie, how… how could you say such a thing?” my father stammered, his eyes wide with shock. I whipped my head toward him. “Then what should I say? Should I bite my lip, dig my nails into my palms, and whisper, ‘I understand’? And then show up to the senior formal in my jeans so my classmates can laugh me out of the room?” My mother’s face went from paper-white to a furious red. “It’s just a piece of fabric! What is the harm in letting Natalie wear it?” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You said it yourself—it’s just a piece of fabric. So what’s the harm in letting me wear it?” I gestured wildly to the opulent room around us. “Look at yourselves. You’re worth hundreds of millions, and you have your two daughters fighting like dogs over a thousand-dollar dress. Does that sound right to you?” “And if you were only going to buy two dresses, why did you buy one in pink and one in blue? Were you terrified we wouldn’t have something to fight over? Doesn’t anyone with two daughters know you have to buy the exact same thing to avoid this?” My mother puffed up her chest, indignantly. “How were we supposed to know that!” “If you don’t know, then learn! You spend all day scrolling through TikTok laughing at mindless drama, but you don’t have basic common sense? What, just because being a parent doesn’t require a license, you think you can just drive blindfolded and wreck people’s lives?” My older brother, Connor, slammed his hand on the mahogany table and shot to his feet. “Watch how you speak to Mom and Dad!” “You’re being incredibly selfish!” he barked. “If Natalie’s dress hadn’t been ruined, she wouldn’t have even asked for yours.” “Ruined? Three loose threads count as ruined now? By that metric, the thrift-store garbage I grew up wearing was straight-up post-apocalyptic survival gear.” Standing off to the side, Natalie twisted her fingers together, looking like a wounded fawn. “Valerie, please don’t be mad at Mom, Dad, or Connor. It was my fault. I said if we bought two colors, we could swap… Mom, Dad, Connor, blame me. I was being thoughtless. Let’s just go, we’re going to be late—” Smack! I shook out my stinging palm and looked at her coldly. “You’re right. You were being thoughtless. Did you hear that?” “If you hadn’t pulled this pathetic little stunt, we would have been out the door twenty minutes ago!” “Valerie, please don’t be angry. I just thought you looked so much prettier in the blue…” Natalie covered her cheek, tears welling up, hovering perfectly on her lower lashes without falling. “Since you like the pink one so much, I’ll give it back to you.” “I know everything in this house was supposed to be yours. No matter how hard I try, I’m just an outsider. I can never make everyone happy. I should just leave the Crawfords and go back to my real home. I… I miss my real mom and dad.” Smack! I backhanded her right on the other cheek. “Thanks for reminding me! You’ve threatened to go back to the trailer park eight hundred times. So go! You’ve been playing the ‘adopted outsider’ card for five years. The stray dogs in your old neighborhood wouldn’t even recognize you anymore. Your biological parents have been dead for years, and you haven’t visited their graves once. Don’t stand here and play the filial orphan! Drop the fragile act before I slap you into a spinning top.” Beside her, Declan Mercer’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple. He stepped forward, fists clenched. I shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “What are you looking at? The stage has collapsed, are you still trying to get into character?” “She’s still your sister, how could you lay your hands on her—” Smack! Another sharp slap echoed in the room. “I won’t just hit her, I’ll hit you too!” I spat. “You think your hands are clean? If you hadn’t been fanning the flames, standing there whispering about how good she looked in the pink, would she have thrown a tantrum for it?” “You get a real rush out of watching the two of us fight over your table scraps of affection, don’t you?” My brother Connor opened his mouth, ready to play the white knight. But he saw my hand raise again, and he clamped his jaw shut, swallowing his words. I rounded on him. “What are you looking at! Stand up and you’re shorter than a tombstone. Lie down and you look like a feeding trough. I’ve seen overnight maxi-pads with more length and definitely more spine than you.” “You—!” “You what?! You should be on your knees thanking God you share my bone structure, because your personality is garbage.” “…You… you are completely unreasonable!” Declan touched his cheek, his eyes wide with utter disbelief. I stared him down. “Then leave! Don’t you have your own house? You’re here every other day.” “You don’t contribute a cent to this family, but you love standing around dictating our lives.” “Who made you the moral arbiter of this house? God hasn’t retired yet, so stop auditioning for the job.” “God! I hate pretentious pricks!” 02 After my indiscriminate artillery fire, I got exactly what I wanted. I wore the pink dress to the senior formal. Truth be told, I didn’t even like the color pink that much. But Natalie said she liked it. Which meant she absolutely wasn’t going to get it. That’s right. In my original universe, I wasn’t some flawless, morally pure protagonist. I was sharp-tongued, selfish, and a little bit wicked. Bottom line: I am not obligated to be anybody’s doormat. Snapping back to the present, I spotted Natalie in the center of the ballroom, clinging to Declan’s arm, looking utterly tragic. She had somehow dug up a vintage, oversized dress from nowhere. The ill-fitting, baggy cut made her look incredibly fragile, like a delicate flower battered by a storm. If we were following the original plotline, she had already done her rounds, crying to our classmates and playing the victim. Right on cue, just as I picked up a flute of champagne, a swarm of Natalie’s loyal lackeys marched over, cornering me aggressively against the wall. “Valerie Crawford, you actually have the nerve to show your face? You stole Natalie’s dress and forced her to wear that awful old thing. Do you have no shame?” “Exactly. And I heard you hit her? If Natalie wasn’t so kind and forgiving, allowing you back into this family, you’d still be feeding pigs out in the sticks!” The surrounding students began to point and whisper. Countless stares laced with contempt locked onto me. Declan and Natalie slowly approached, parting the crowd like royalty. Natalie’s eyes were red. She grabbed her lead lackey’s arm, her voice so weak and trembling it was barely a whisper. “Please, stop. It was my fault for being thoughtless. Valerie loved the dress, it’s only right I let her have it. Please don’t fight with my sister over me…” The manipulation was so thick I could practically choke on it. I pinched the bridge of my nose. In the original book, this was the exact moment the original host would turn pale, dig her nails into her palms, and run away in tears under the crushing weight of their judgmental stares. But I am not the original host. 03 I turned my gaze to Lackey A, who was leading the charge. “Natalie told you that she allowed me back into the family? Out of the goodness of her heart?” The girl stood her ground, arrogant. “Isn’t that the truth? You’re just an illegitimate charity case. The whole school knows you’re the fake daughter!” Hold on a second. The original host was brought back to the Crawford family in middle school. How on earth had this ridiculous rumor survived for four or five years? Did I miss something in the prologue? Or is the system broken and rewriting the plot on the fly? The system, glitching and stuttering like a busted PowerPoint presentation, finally responded in my head: [N-no, not a rewrite. The doormat protagonist staying silent for years is… is standard operational procedure.] Me: [Why the hell would anyone write it like that?] [Three hundred chapters of suffocating misunderstandings, followed by the family groveling in regret. It builds suspense. It… it sells really well.] Ah. I see. I steadied my breathing, gave a tight smile, and curled my index finger, motioning the girl closer. Lackey A eyed me warily. But her teenage curiosity won out, and she leaned in. I lowered my voice. “She lied to you.” “Impossible! I don’t believe you!” she snapped back. “I have the DNA reports confirming my relationship with my parents. She is the fake daughter. The kind with absolutely zero Crawford blood in her veins.” The girl’s face shifted, a flicker of doubt crossing her eyes. I took my time, letting the words drip slowly. “Also, I happen to know that the surplus inventory sitting in your father’s factory relies entirely on Crawford Industries’ purchasing order next quarter to stay afloat.” “It doesn’t matter if you believe me right now. But you’re in an awful rush to offend me when you don’t even have your facts straight. What if I am telling the truth? How exactly are you going to explain your family’s bankruptcy to your father tomorrow?” I smiled sweetly, then turned to Lackey B and curled my finger again. Having just watched Lackey A’s face drain of all color, Lackey B swallowed hard. Trembling, she leaned in. My lips curled up. “And you. I heard your family just submitted a massive partnership proposal to the Crawfords last week?” “Is that true?” She gasped, staring at me in horror. “How do you know that?” I didn’t answer. I just gave her a deep, knowing smile. How did I know? I made it up, obviously. In these types of melodramas, side characters in the city don’t exist unless their families are financially dependent on the main family’s corporation. Within three minutes, the aggressive pack of wolves that had cornered me was thoroughly defanged. I had hit every single one of their weak spots. They didn’t even dare to ask for confirmation. Their faces were uniformly ashen. Natalie hurried over, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “Please, whatever you do, don’t argue with my sister for my sake. If she insulted you, please don’t be angry with her. She’s just… rough around the edges.” But the girls acted like they couldn’t even hear her. Their eyes darted nervously, and they instinctively took two large steps back, creating a physical distance between themselves and Natalie. Natalie, who had been waiting for the grand spectacle of my public humiliation, suddenly found herself standing alone in an empty circle. She looked completely, utterly bewildered. 04 When we got home that night, Natalie cried in the living room for two solid hours. Which meant my mother lectured me for two solid hours. She berated me for speaking out of turn at the formal. For threatening my classmates. And worst of all, for exposing the truth about Natalie’s adoption. My father sat in his armchair, silent. My brother Connor pointed a finger at me. “You went way too far! You completely destroyed Natalie’s social circle today. How is she supposed to face anyone at school now?” I let out a cold laugh. “Face anyone? When she was spreading rumors about me, did she ever stop to think about how I would face anyone?” The original host had endured that slander for nearly five years. Talk about an absurd tolerance for pain. I rolled my eyes. “Besides, college applications are already locked in. Once September rolls around, everyone’s going their separate ways. Does she really think she’s the gravitational center of the universe? That people are just going to orbit her forever?” Natalie lifted her tear-streaked face. “B-but I’m staying in the city to attend Atherton University!” I shot her a look of pure disgust. “And everyone else is leaving! I’m leaving! Who is forcing you to stay?” Declan, seemingly materializing out of thin air, frowned deeply. “Valerie, the three of us agreed we were all going to apply to Atherton. Where else are you going?” I rubbed my temples, completely out of patience. “Bro, why are you literally everywhere?” The system panicked: [Because he’s the male lead!] I ignored it. “Do you know what time it is? Why haven’t you gone home? Go home, kid. Seriously, just go home.” I took a deep breath and looked directly at my parents. “And let me clarify something right now. I never, not for a single second, planned on going to Atherton with these two.” Declan’s expression shattered. Because I had derailed the plot so drastically, his face cycled through the male lead’s classic micro-expressions of disbelief, shock, and profound hurt at triple speed. The system’s glitchy voice was screaming like a fire alarm in my head: [Ahhh, Host! You said it too early! Too early! You’ve completely shattered the narrative arc! This is going to spawn new settings and fatal bugs!] Me: [I’m sorry, I literally couldn’t hold it in.] My mother’s posture went rigid. “Absolutely not! You will attend Atherton! The three of you staying local means you can look out for each other.” I laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. “I scored a 1540 on my SATs. She scored an 1100. Am I out of my mind? Why would I stay at a mediocre local college just to ‘look out’ for her?” Hearing this, Natalie sobbed harder, tears and snot running down her face. “Valerie, I know you hate me… but Mom and Dad arranged this for us…” “Well, at least you’re self-aware enough to know I hate you.” She choked on a sob. I turned my fire back to the two architects of this nightmare. “Why would you arrange that? With my scores, do I look like I need you to arrange my future? You’re actively trying to sabotage my life!” “If you’re going to play favorites, at least use a little logic. Make it make sense!” I was genuinely baffled. The system chimed in weakly: [The original host was only found in middle school. The fake daughter is manipulative and good at acting. The parents raised her for eighteen years, and terrified that the adopted daughter would feel insecure, they overcompensated by neglecting the biological one.] Me: […] Right on cue, my questioning triggered a primal switch in my mother. She became instantly hysterical. “How dare you look down on Atherton! You only scored thirty points higher than their cut-off last year anyway! Natalie only got in because the arts program had a lower threshold!” “Exactly!” I shot back. “Atherton is fine. But I don’t want to go because you people are in this city, and she is going to be on that campus! Do you understand now?” “Why are you always so selfish?! Getting into Atherton was a miracle for Natalie. As her older sister, making a small sacrifice for the greater good of this family is the least you could do!” “Greater good?” I scoffed. “Since when does her academic failure constitute the ‘greater good’ of the Crawford family?” “What, did she build a nuclear submarine for the country? Did she ring the bell at the Stock Exchange for Crawford Industries?” “Her ‘miracle’ acceptance is the absolute ceiling of her intelligence. It shouldn’t be the ceiling of my future.” “Get it through your heads.” “She’s eighteen years old, and you still refuse to cut the cord. Fine! Let her be your precious daughter! Why the hell did you even bother bringing me back?” My mother’s finger trembled as she pointed at the door. “Fine! Get out! Get out of my house right now!” “I will pretend I never gave birth to you!” Hearing those words, I pressed my hands together in a posture of deep prayer and bowed. “Oh, my sweet mother!” “Those are the words I’ve been waiting for!” Before anyone could react, I snatched up the original host’s little pink backpack and bolted out the front door. Just as I reached the main gate, my father chased after me. With a complicated expression, he shoved a credit card into my hand and lowered his voice. “Valerie, your mother is just speaking out of anger. There’s a thousand dollars on this card. Find a place to stay for a few days. Be a good girl. Come back when she’s cooled off.” In the original host’s memories, this was how it always played out. Every time she was abused or wronged, he would swoop in. Hand her some cash. Say a few soft words. And the original host would clutch onto it like a lifeline, convincing herself that at least her father loved her. I looked at the plastic card in my hand and let out a soft, mocking scoff. … Back inside the house, after I left, Natalie’s pitiful voice drifted through the foyer. “How is Valerie going to survive out there all alone… Declan, please go find her. Tell her to come back.” “You did nothing wrong, Nat,” Declan said, stopping her. The young man stared out the door where I had vanished, his voice thick with frustration. “Mr. and Mrs. Crawford, please don’t be upset. She’s just been spoiled.” Natalie wept beautifully. “It’s all my fault. I’ll go beg her. If it comes down to it… I’ll just leave the house.” “But Mom, Dad, please don’t worry. When you’re older, if Valerie refuses to take care of you, I promise I will always be here to support you.” Natalie was the picture of tragic devotion. Her earnest, tear-soaked promise brought both parents to tears. Mrs. Crawford wiped her eyes. “I raised you for eighteen years. You’ve been my real daughter for a long time. How could I ever let you suffer out there? In my heart, no one comes before you. Not even Valerie!” “Mom!” Natalie cried out, throwing her arms around the woman. Mr. Crawford rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. “If Valerie had even half of your empathy, this house wouldn’t be a war zone. Let her stay out there for a few days! It’s been too long since we’ve had the peace and quiet of our family of three.” Connor gritted his teeth. “Exactly! Let her leave! Don’t give her another dime. Let’s see how long she lasts without the Crawford name!” “She’s gotten used to the luxury of being a rich kid. Give it a few days. When she’s broke and starving, she’ll come crawling back on her knees begging us to let her in!” 05 In my original universe, my boss-babe revenge plot was at 99% completion. If the system hadn’t glitched out, I wouldn’t have been shoved into this literary garbage fire. A psychotic brother. A toxic, biased mother. A manipulative, green-tea antagonist. And a spineless original host. Getting hit with a bug was already annoying enough! And the first thing I had to deal with when I opened my eyes was that absolute moron of a childhood sweetheart. It was infuriating. Initially, I had hesitated about flipping the table so early in the story. But I had no choice. According to the original plot, tonight was the night Natalie secretly logged into the state college portal and altered Valerie’s university preferences. Applying to her dream school was the first, and only, time the original host had ever stood up for herself and made a decision for her own life since returning to the Crawfords. But when her parents discovered the sabotage later, instead of punishing Natalie, they coldly told Valerie to “be the bigger person” and to “understand their difficult position as parents.” That was the exact moment the original host finally realized her parents would never, ever love her. Devastated and completely broken, she tore up her acceptance letter and threw herself off a highway overpass. If I hadn’t gone scorched earth the second I arrived, deliberately provoking the parents until I got myself kicked out of the house… considering my lack of synchronization with this new body, I might have just fast-tracked myself to the protagonist’s suicide! Besides, before I started my rampage, I had discreetly checked my System Inventory. And I made a staggering discovery. 06 I found out the system bug wasn’t just affecting the characters. When I glitched over, the system accidentally brought my entire financial portfolio from my previous universe with me, entirely intact. The city in this novel was framed as an economic powerhouse. But a quick search showed its annual GDP was only around 90 billion dollars. Meanwhile, my bank account had exactly 100 billion dollars sitting in it. Buying out Crawford Industries would be easier than buying a pack of gum. Pfft. Crawling back and begging them? Not in this lifetime. The System stammered: [H-host… you might have misunderstood something.] I raised an eyebrow. [Misunderstood what?] [The exchange rate between the two universes. It’s… vastly different.] My heart skipped a beat. A profound sense of dread washed over me. [Wait, explain yourself! What do you mean exchange rate?] I demanded. [How much of a difference are we talking about?] 07 System: [Roughly… 100,000,000 to 1.] [A HUNDRED MILLION TO ONE?!] I literally screamed out loud in the street. Cold, hard math spun wildly in my brain. The color drained from my face. Trembling, I did the calculation over and over in my head. 100 billion… divided by 100 million… One… One thousand dollars?!

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521165”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The moment I discovered I didn’t share a single drop of blood with my parents, I stopped being Manhattan’s most reckless, spoiled heir. Instead, I became the quietest, most compliant boy in the room. When Christian wanted my tailored suits, I let him have them. When he ruined my twenty-first birthday party, I didn’t say a word. Even when he smiled and told me he had fallen in love with Serena—my girlfriend of four years—I simply nodded, swallowed my pride, and stepped aside. But the next day, Serena cornered me against the brick wall of the corridor, her eyes bloodshot as she demanded, “Why are you acting like this? It’s just a piece of paper. Does blood really matter that much to you? Are you really going to just throw me away?” I looked at her, at the raw desperation in her face, and felt nothing but a hollow confusion. She was acting as if she wasn’t the very one who had forged the DNA test proving I was the “fake” son in the first place. … She stood there, her eyes brimming with tears, waiting for an answer. I gently pushed her hands off me and stepped past her. “You should be inside with Christian, Serena. He needs you.” “My graduation ceremony starts in an hour,” I added, my voice flat. “Please let me through.” Christian had only recently woken up from his comatose state. He was fragile, clinging to Serena like a lifeline. And in this house, my needs would always, without fail, be pushed to the very bottom of the pile if Christian was in the equation. Serena froze, but she wouldn’t let it go. “Jace, you promised you’d want me by your side today.” I kept walking without looking back. “I don’t have the luxury of wanting things anymore.” Walking out of the estate, my father’s town car was parked by the driveway. My parents, Richard and Linda, were standing by the car, dressed in elegant formal wear. “Even though we aren’t biologically related,” Richard said, adjusting his cuffs, “we raised you for over twenty years. That bond doesn’t just disappear. We’re going to your graduation.” Linda smiled warmly. “We won’t miss any of your milestones, sweetheart.” Suddenly, she stopped. Her gaze drifted past my shoulder, landing on the front doors of the villa. Christian was standing under the portico, tears streaming down his face. Before anyone could speak, he turned and bolted back inside. My parents’ faces fell instantly. Forgetting all about their expensive attire and the dignity they usually guarded so fiercely, they dashed after him. I could hear Christian’s hysterical cries echoing from the hallway. “Are you going to leave me alone again? The hospital room was so cold, so dark… I don’t want to be alone!” Two minutes later, Richard and Linda emerged, holding a trembling Christian between them. Linda gave me an apologetic, strained smile. “Christian never got to finish college because of his accident,” she said. “We’re going to bring him along so he can see what it’s like. It’ll make up for what he lost.” I murmured a soft agreement, keeping my face entirely blank. I knew the truth. The moment Christian was involved, I became the afterthought. The “along for the ride” guy. I used to fight it, but every time I did, I only ended up looking pathetic. Everyone in our social circle whispered the same thing: if Christian hadn’t gotten into that car crash and ended up in a vegetative state, the Kingsleys would have never adopted me to fill the void. I was just the placeholder. Now that I knew my place, I didn’t fight. Whatever Christian wanted, he could have. At the graduation venue, my classmates crowded around me, trying to take pictures. Then Christian appeared beside me, wearing an expression of pure, innocent wonder. Instantly, the attention shifted. “Oh, who’s your friend, Jace? He’s gorgeous. Can we get a picture with him?” one of the girls asked. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words died in my throat. There was no need for introductions. Christian was already smiling warmly, stepping into the frame. “Of course! But I’m not just his friend. I’m actually his parents’ biological son.” The implication hung heavily in the air. My classmates’ faces went through a rapid succession of shock, gossip-fueled realization, and pity. Within seconds, they had swept Christian away, laughing and chatting with him as if they’d known him for years. When they looked back at me, their gazes had changed. Just like that, with the effortless grace of a true heir, Christian took my friends, just as he had taken everything else. I stood alone in the center of the lawn, the space around me suddenly vast and empty. Linda walked over, stopping exactly three paces away. That was the “safe distance” Christian had established. “After graduation, we’ll put out a formal press release,” she said quietly. “We’re going to legally adopt you as our son. You won’t have to worry about being a ‘fake’ anymore. You will officially be a Kingsley.” Any foster child or adoptee would have wept with gratitude. I just shook my head and smiled softly. “Don’t go to the trouble, Mom. Just having you here today is enough.” Once graduation was over, it would be time to sever the ties completely anyway. My phone buzzed with a message from the class president, telling us to gather for the group photo. I hurried back to the car to grab my cap and gown, but when I zipped open the garment bag, it was completely empty. A short distance away, by the ivy-covered brick wall, Christian was wearing my gown, posing for couple’s photos with Serena. Their fingers were tightly intertwined, their bodies pressed close. Their graduation caps bumped together, and they both burst into laughter. Those caps were custom-made. I had spent three months designing them myself—a matching pair for Serena and me. Sensing my gaze, Christian’s laughter faltered. Serena frowned, stepping defensively in front of him. “Christian just wanted to feel what it’s like to be a graduate, Jace. It’s just a piece of fabric. I’ll have my assistant send you another gown.” The words “don’t bother” were still on my tongue when Christian noticed the crowd gathering for the group photo. Curious, he drifted toward them. Serena followed him closely, acting like his personal protector. Christian whispered something to the class president, then stepped onto a chair, taking the very spot in the center that had been reserved for me. I could already picture it: years from now, when my classmates looked at the graduation photo, their fingers would rest on my spot, but all they would talk about was Christian. And I would leave no trace behind. Linda, who had been watching Christian with a tender gaze, noticed my silence. The warmth vanished from her face, replaced by a tense, guarded look. “Jace, I know you love taking portraits on special occasions. How about the whole family goes to the studio tonight? We’ll take ten different sets of portraits with you.” To them, this was a generous peace offering. But to me, it felt like damage control. They were bracing themselves, waiting for me to lose my mind and throw a tantrum, to claw for my place against Christian like I used to. But I had no leverage left. Why would I be foolish enough to challenge the real heir? I shook my head gently. “I’m not a Kingsley by blood. Even if I go far away, no one will miss me. There’s no point in taking portraits.” “And besides, it’s just a graduation photo. It doesn’t matter.” Christian had completely stolen the spotlight of my graduation. Linda froze, her smile completely fading. A complex, unreadable shadow fell over her eyes. Christian walked back over, cradling the bouquets of flowers my classmates and friends had bought for me. “Happy graduation, Jace,” he said, beaming. He reached into one of the bouquets, plucked out a single, green filler leaf, and handed it to me as a graduation gift. My parents watched us intensely. I quietly accepted the leaf. “Thank you.” Christian’s smile turned slightly mocking. He turned to Richard. “Dad, didn’t you get Jace a graduation gift? Don’t leave him out just because of me.” The air went dead silent. Because before Christian woke up, my parents had indeed prepared a graduation gift: a ten percent share in the family enterprise. It was even more than what they had given my eldest sister, Delia, who was running the branch office in London. But since Christian’s recovery, no one had mentioned it. Seeing my parents struggle to find words, I offered a reassuring smile. “I don’t deserve something that valuable, Dad. Only Christian does.” As for Serena, she had planned to propose to me today. But now, the ring I had dreamed of for over a decade was already sitting snugly on Christian’s ring finger. I realized then that I had absolutely nothing left to lose. Years ago, to stay close to my family and Serena, I had turned down an offer to pursue my master’s at Oxford. Now, it was time to get my life back on track. When we returned home, I immediately locked myself in my room and began contacting my old advisor. As I sat at my desk, a burst of laughter erupted from downstairs. Delia was back. When I was a child, I was clingy, and I practically grew up in her arms. But after she moved to London to manage the firm, she became so busy she barely had five minutes to reply to my texts. A few months ago, I had asked her if she could come back for my graduation. That email had gone unanswered. I wasn’t naive enough to think her sudden return today was a surprise for me. Sure enough, through the crack in my door, I saw Delia affectionately ruffling Christian’s hair, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry I’m late, sweetie. I can’t believe I missed taking photos with you today. I deserve to be punished.” Christian wrapped his arms around hers. “Then your punishment is no work for the next three months. You have to stay here and play with me.” Delia agreed instantly, without a shred of hesitation. That ease, that deep-seated affection… it was something I had never received once I grew up. I used to think Delia had just grown distant with age, until the night I accidentally overheard Linda on the phone with her. Linda had casually asked why she used to adore me so much as a child, yet practically fled the country to avoid me later. There was a long, heavy silence on the line. Then Delia’s voice crackled through the speaker, raspy and raw: “Because when Jace was little, he looked exactly like Christian.” Those words shattered me. Delia had sighed deeply. “I don’t want to treat them differently. But every time I look at Jace’s healthy, smiling face, all I can think about is Christian lying cold and motionless in that hospital room. It’s just not fair.” I had cried myself to sleep that night. I couldn’t understand why a tragedy I had no part in was being taken out on me. I refused to accept it. So, I did everything I could to fight Christian for my place. Until that forged DNA report was dumped on my desk. I hadn’t believed it at first. I had secretly run another test on my own, which confirmed that I was indeed Richard and Linda’s biological son. But looking at how they chose to believe the fake report just to appease Christian, I gave up. I stopped fighting. I let Christian have my clothes, watching quietly as he shredded them in front of me. I let him ruin my birthdays. I even let him have Serena. Because the moment my family decided to sever their biological ties with me just to make Christian feel secure, I knew I had already lost. I pulled myself out of the memory as Christian’s laughter rang out from the hallway. “Alright, I’ll give you one chance to make it up to me. Let’s go take our family portrait.” “Serena, you come too!” Everyone scrambled to cater to his whims. A second later, Christian let out a dramatic gasp. “Delia! The watch you sent me is gone! I wanted to wear it for the portrait! I know I put it in the pocket of the graduation gown. It must be Jace. Why would Jace take my watch?” Christian began pounding on my bedroom door, sobbing. “Jace, please give it back. That was the first gift Delia gave me after I woke up. If you think I took all the attention away from you, I promise I won’t talk to Mom, Dad, Delia, or Serena ever again. Just please give it back!” Inside my room, I was in the middle of packing my bags. The real DNA test—the one proving I was their biological son—was sitting on my desk. Hearing Christian’s dramatic cries, I froze. Before I could open the door to explain, the lock clicked violently as Delia forced her way in. “Jace, hand over the watch.” But I hadn’t touched his watch. No one believed me. Linda glared at me, her eyes flashing with disappointment. “We thought you had finally grown up because you’ve been so quiet lately. It was all a front, wasn’t it? You just wanted us to let our guard down so you could steal the one thing Christian treasures most!” I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug deep into my palms. My voice felt dry, like sand. “I didn’t take his watch.” Christian slumped, looking as if he were about to faint from crying. Serena caught him quickly, shouting at me in a rage. “Jace, when is this going to end? All we asked was for you to be the bigger brother! Are you so consumed by jealousy that you’re trying to kill him?” I shut my mouth. The defense died in my throat, cutting me open from the inside out. Suddenly, Christian lunged at my packed suitcase, ripping it open and tearing through my things. In the chaos, the paper on my desk—the real DNA report—was knocked to the floor. Then, Christian’s hand reached for my Oxford admission letter. My heart stopped. I lunged forward, screaming, “Don’t touch that! Stop!” Oxford’s registration process was incredibly strict; the physical copy of the admission letter was irreplaceable. But I was too late. Christian shredded the document in one swift tear. My mind went completely blank. As he leaned down near me in the scuffle, Christian whispered in my ear, his voice dripping with malice: “Your little classmate was right—you were planning to run off to grad school abroad. Want to escape? No way. I’m going to make sure you spend the rest of your life in my shadow.” “I never lost any watch, by the way. I just needed an excuse to destroy your ticket out of here. Oops.” A spark of raw fury ignited in my chest. Losing all control, I shoved him away hard and dropped to my knees, desperately trying to piece the torn fragments of my letter back together. Christian hit the floor, sobbing hysterically. Delia grabbed my arm roughly, her mouth opening to scold me, but then she stepped on something. She looked down. Right there, under her shoe, the words [RELATIONSHIP: BIOLOGICAL SON] stared back at her in cold, bold print.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521181”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the police showed up at my door, I was running the final test on my latest lines of code. Three officers stood on my threshold—two women, one man—their expressions carved from stone. “We received a report of child abuse at this address.” I blinked, sliding one ear of my headphones back. “I don’t have children.” “We need to take a look around.” They swept through my four-hundred-square-foot studio apartment. The living area, the bedroom nook, the bathroom, the tiny balcony. No child. No pets. Not even a second pair of slippers. The male officer looked at me. “Are you certain no child has been staying here?” “Positive,” I said. “I’m single, I live alone, and I can barely keep a succulent alive.” He frowned. I suddenly remembered something and asked, “How many times does this make?” “What?” “The reports,” I said. “This month, how many times has this happened?” 1 The male officer’s frown deepened, but it was the young female officer beside him who spoke up. “Fiona, right? We’re responding to a citizen’s report. We need you to cooperate.” Her tone carried a sharp edge of impatience, as if my question was entirely out of line. I nodded, stepping back to cede the space. “I am cooperating. Please, look around. If you need me to open a cabinet or move something, just say the word.” My attitude was as accommodating as possible. I knew better than to argue. This was the third time this month. The first time was at eleven on a Tuesday night. Someone had reported hearing a child screaming in my apartment. I had my noise-canceling headphones on, racing to meet a project deadline; let alone a child crying, I wouldn’t have heard a thunderstorm outside. They did a quick sweep, apologized politely, and left. The second time was last Thursday afternoon. The accusation had escalated to child imprisonment. That search was far more invasive; they made me open my closets and check under the bed. The result, of course, was the same. My apartment was cleaner than my conscience. Now, child abuse. The allegations were growing heavier with each call. And I already had a very good idea of who was behind them. The male officer—let’s call him Detective Garrett—seemed to have more miles on him. He moved slowly through my apartment, his eyes taking in every detail. His gaze drifted over my bookshelves, heavy with texts on system architecture and programming algorithms. Then over to my desk, where three monitors glowed with dense, nested lines of code. Finally, he looked out at the balcony. I’d turned the balcony into a small reading nook: a single beanbag chair and a low side table. On the table sat a ceramic ashtray with a couple of cigarette butts. “Do you work from home?” Garrett asked. “Yes. I’m a freelance game developer.” “You live alone? Rarely go out?” “Mostly just for groceries, or when I need a walk to clear my head.” He nodded, taking another look at the room, which was tidy to the point of obsession. “Can you tell me who filed the report?” I finally asked. Garrett looked at me, silent. The young officer spoke up again. “We can’t disclose that. We’re legally obligated to protect the caller’s anonymity.” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. “Right. I understand.” Of course I understood. But the anger inside me was starting to claw at my ribs. The calls were anonymous, but it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. This was a high-end building. The residents were generally professional and kept to themselves. Everyone maintained a polite, unspoken agreement to mind their own business. Everyone except him. My neighbor across the hall, Connor. A handsome single father with a five-year-old daughter named Mia. The same man who, on my second week here, had knocked on my door holding a warm bowl of homemade soup and a dazzling smile. “Are we done here?” I asked. “If so, I’d like to get back to work. I have a client waiting on this build.” Garrett exchanged a look with his colleague. “We’re done for today. Sorry for the disruption, Fiona. But we do advise you to remain mindful. Multiple reports usually mean there’s some kind of smoke.” The young officer’s words felt like a deliberate needle. “Some kind of smoke?” The anger I’d been suppressing flared white-hot. “Officer,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, “are you suggesting that despite three empty searches, I’m still a suspect in abusing a child who doesn’t exist?” “That’s not what I meant,” she said, her cheeks flushing slightly as she realized she’d crossed a line. “Then what did you mean? You show up at my door, disrupt my work, and violate my privacy. My time is money, and my reputation isn’t a playground. Or is a single woman living alone simply an easy target for suspicion?” The young officer’s face turned bright red under my gaze. Garrett stepped in to smooth things over. “Fiona, let’s take a breath. We understand your frustration, but we have a duty to investigate. We’ll look into the origin of these calls. If we establish that this is a case of malicious harassment, we will take appropriate legal action.” He handed me a business card. “If anything else comes up, or if you remember any details, call me directly.” I took the card. “Detective Shane Garrett”, followed by a direct phone number. “Thank you.” I escorted them to the door. The moment it clicked shut, the adrenaline drained, leaving me hollow. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood, listening to their retreating footsteps. Then, through the peephole, I caught the briefest flicker of a shadow disappearing behind the door across the hall. I sat back down at my computer, but the code on the screen had turned into an illegible blur. My chest felt tight, like it was stuffed with wet cotton. I picked up my phone, opened an online retail app, and typed into the search bar, letter by letter: “Miniature, high-definition, night-vision camera.” And then: “High-sensitivity directional microphone.” If reason couldn’t reach him, I’d have to speak a language he understood. Three times this month. I swore to myself, it would be the absolute last. 2 My new neighbor, Connor, had moved in three months ago. The move-in day had been loud. Even with my headphones on, I could hear the heavy thuds in the hallway and the high-pitched giggles of his daughter, Mia. Out of basic neighborly courtesy, I opened my door to check. He was standing in the corridor, directing the movers. He wore a crisp white linen shirt, his hair styled in a neat crop, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked flustered, but still effortlessly handsome. When he saw me, he paused, then offered a warm, apologetic smile. “Hey, neighbor. I’m Connor, just moving in. Did we wake you? I’m so sorry about the racket.” His voice was smooth and gentle, like a warm breeze. “It’s fine,” I said, preparing to close the door. “Wait,” he called out. “I didn’t catch your name.” “Fiona.” I gave him my name, figuring that was the absolute limit of my social obligation. I had no idea it was only the prologue. From that day on, my doorbell rang almost daily. “Fiona, sorry to bother you, but our Wi-Fi went down. Could you take a look? My daughter needs it for her online preschool.” “Fiona, my hallway lightbulb burned out. Do you have a spare ladder?” “Fiona, I made some pork rib soup. I brought over a bowl for you. A single girl shouldn’t rely on takeout all the time.” At first, trying to be a decent neighbor, I helped him out. Fixing his router or lending a tool took only a few minutes. But gradually, the boundaries started to blur. He began using these favors as an excuse to linger in my apartment. “Your place is so immaculate,” he’d say, trying to step past the entryway. “Unlike mine. Mia leaves her toys everywhere.” Then came the prying questions. “Fiona, a successful woman like you… how are you still single? Your standards must be sky-high.” The breaking point was the text messages. He started texting me at all hours. Sometimes it was late at night—complaints about how exhausting it was to be a single father, always accompanied by a post-workout selfie. Other times, right when I was in the zone coding, he’d send unsolicited short videos or memes. I am someone who hoards her solitude. I need large, uninterrupted blocks of time to think. Connor’s presence was like a persistent car alarm outside my window, shattering my focus. So, I started drawing lines. “Sorry, I’m working.” “I don’t really know much about appliances. You should call a professional.” “Thanks, but I don’t eat soup.” My rejections were polite but blunt. I figured any reasonable adult would recognize the cold shoulder and back off. I was wrong. With every polite refusal, Connor’s demeanor shifted. The warmth in his eyes hardened into something sullen and resentful. Soon after, the building’s leasing office called me. They claimed they’d received complaints about my mechanical keyboard. Apparently, my late-night typing was keeping my neighbors awake. For the record, my keyboard uses silent red switches. Then came the first police visit. After the officers left that night, I went out to throw away the trash and ran into Connor and Mia coming back from the elevator. He avoided my eyes, a tight, artificial smile plastered on his face. “Fiona, what a coincidence.” But Mia, cradled in his arms, pointed a finger at me and piped up. “Daddy, that’s the lady. The one with the crying in her apartment.” In that single second, the puzzle pieces clicked together. Connor’s stiff smile looked suddenly grotesque. He had stopped knocking on my door. Instead, he had found a far more insidious way to force his way into my life. He wanted to break me. I closed the shopping app on my phone, a wave of nausea washing over me. I walked over to the window and lit a cigarette. Down in the courtyard, Connor was watching Mia ride her scooter. He wore a casual t-shirt, laughing and wiping sweat from her forehead. Passersby smiled warmly at them, offering looks of quiet admiration. What a devoted father. Strong, optimistic, doing it all on his own. Who would suspect the rot festering beneath that handsome veneer? I took a long drag of my cigarette, letting the nicotine settle the static in my head. I wasn’t going to pack up and move. I had done nothing wrong. Why should I run like a stray dog? Besides, with a man this obsessive, a new zip code wouldn’t protect me. He’d find a way to trace me. Running solved nothing. When dealing with a lunatic, you can’t rely on sanity. You either have to out-crazy them, or out-calculate them. I chose the latter. I stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. I sat back down at my desk and opened a fresh document. I titled it: “The Counterattack.” 3 The delivery arrived the very next morning. Four pinhole cameras, two button-sized microphones, and a high-capacity external hard drive. I spent the afternoon setting up the network. I’d taken a minor in cybersecurity during college, so handling the hardware and routing the feeds was second nature to me. I installed the first camera directly inside my door’s peephole. From the outside, it was completely undetectable. From the inside, a micro-thin data cable ran along the frame, feeding a live view of the hallway straight to my desktop. The second camera went onto my living room window frame, disguised as an ordinary mounting screw. Its wide-angle lens captured the entire courtyard and the main entrance of our building. The third and fourth cameras were placed on opposite ends of my balcony. One pointed at my AC condenser, and the other faced Connor’s balcony. Our balconies were barely three feet apart. There was a metal divider, but a grown man could easily vault over it if he wanted to. I had to prepare for the possibility of him doing something desperate. The microphones required a bit more finesse. I mounted the first one at the very top of my door frame, near the ventilation intake. The second one was trickier. Late that night, when the building was silent, I used an extendable rod to slide it behind the metal grates of Connor’s balcony AC unit. It was perfectly concealed, and close enough to his sliding door that if he left the window cracked, I’d hear everything. I knew this was a massive invasion of privacy. But honestly, to hell with his privacy. When someone uses systemic lies to dismantle your life, playing by the rules of polite society is a fool’s errand. I wasn’t doing this to cause harm. I was doing this to survive, to build a fortress of evidence. Every feed was routed to an old, dedicated PC in my study, recording 24/7. The data auto-saved to an encrypted external drive. Once the system was live, I felt like a hunter who had finished setting her traps. Now, all I had to do was wait for the prey to take a step. I forced myself back into my routine. Coding, debugging, testing. The only difference was that I spent an hour every evening reviewing the previous day’s footage at double speed. For a few days, it was quiet. No police. No texts. Even when we crossed paths in the hallway, Connor kept his head down and brushed past me as if I were a stranger. For a brief, fleeting moment, I wondered if I’d overreacted. Maybe he’d given up? Then I watched the footage from Friday night. I’d stayed up late trying to squash a stubborn bug in my code. The timestamp on the recording read 2:14 AM. My front door didn’t open, but a shadow crossed the frame. Slowly, silently, a black trash bag was slid through the narrow gap beneath my door’s heavy seal. Then, the shadow vanished. I stood up from my chair and walked to the entryway. There it was. A small, black plastic bag sitting on my welcome mat. I put on a pair of latex gloves and carefully opened it. Inside was a wet slurry of rotting food scraps and potato peels. The stench was immediate and foul. Instead of getting angry, I smiled. “Finally.” The mask was coming off. I took high-res photos of the bag, stored them, and threw the trash into the hallway chute. Back at my computer, I clipped the video segment and saved it under a new folder: “Exhibit 1: Midnight Delivery.” I knew this was just the appetizer. The real feast was on its way. 4 Over the next week, Connor’s petty campaign escalated into something almost theatrical. On Monday, he coated my doorknob in industrial superglue. If I hadn’t made it a habit to check the hallway camera before leaving, my hand would have been fused to the brass. “Exhibit 2: Sticky Note.” On Wednesday, an empty cardboard delivery box I’d left outside my door to take down later was defaced. Someone had drawn a giant turtle across the front in black Sharpie, with the word “COWARD” written in block letters. “Exhibit 3: Masterpiece.” By Friday—today—it got worse. While I was downstairs picking up a food delivery, he used red spray paint to deface my door. A single, dripping word: “DIE”. The peephole camera captured the entire performance. He wore a black hoodie and a surgical mask, thinking he was anonymous. But he’d forgotten about the wide-angle lens. The feed showed him slipping out of his own apartment, painting the door, and then retreating back into his unit, looking around like a thief in the night. Watching his frantic, self-satisfied little scurrying on screen, I didn’t feel rage. Only pity. How hollow does a thirty-something man’s life have to be for him to dedicate this much energy to schoolyard vandalism? I didn’t scrub the paint off. In a way, I liked it. It was a badge of honor, a testament to his unraveling. I saved the clip as “Exhibit 4: Death Threat.” I was perfectly calm. I coded, I reviewed my feeds, I compiled my evidence. I felt a strange, quiet thrill. I was waiting to see what his next move would be. All I had to do was sit back, watch the show, and hit record. It was a beautiful feeling.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521166”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Seven years after my death, the boy I grew up with became the biggest movie star in the country. Taylor was the darling of the silver screen, a man with a golden future, a stunning fiancée, and a life everyone envied. Then, during the live broadcast of a popular celebrity couple’s reality show, he found my diary. Inside were ten years of my unrequited love for him, and the quiet, agonizing details of the nights I was bullied by his fiancée. The very last page read: “My world is about to rain. Can you come and hold an umbrella for me?” The date at the bottom was the day before I jumped from the rooftop. And then, he went mad. … I have been dead for seven years, my spirit tethered to Taylor’s side, forced to watch him. Today, he brought his fiancée, Carlin, back to the old Victorian house where we had grown up together. The yard was packed with heavy camera rigs, filming a live-streamed dating show that was currently broadcasting to millions of viewers online. On the screen of a nearby production monitor, the live chat was scrolling at a dizzying speed. [user_9921: OMG Taylor and Carlin are finally on a show together!] [golden_hour: True love is real. Get married already, we’ve got the marriage license ready for you!] Carlin pushed open the door to my old bedroom. She immediately covered her nose with an exaggerated, delicate pout, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Oh, Taylor, it smells so musty in here. Like cheap, old dust. It’s suffocating.” Taylor stood in the doorway, the harsh midday sun casting a shadow that cut his face in half—one side bright, the other cast in darkness. He looked down at Carlin, his eyes filled with a tenderness that seemed almost performative. He reached out, playfully pinching her nose, and smiled for the cameras. That smile was once the brightest light of my entire youth. “Lucy was always a slob,” he said, his voice light and dismissive. “Don’t go in. You’ll ruin your shoes.” He had forgotten. This room was the one he had spent weeks painting and decorating for me when he was seventeen, using the very first paycheck he earned from his summer job. Now, I was just “that slob, Lucy.” My spirit stood directly in front of him, separated by the seven-year chasm of my death, watching the casual disgust pooling in his eyes. The live chat immediately exploded at the mention of my name. [cozy_vibes: Who is Lucy? Sounds like she had history with him?] [pop_culture_nerd: Are you new here? Just some clingy neighbor girl from back in the day. Taylor mentioned her in an old interview once—said she was a total parasite.] [sweet_pea: I hate the childhood-friend trope. Who did she think she was, trying to compete with our Carlin?] [chloe_fan_page: Look at Carlin’s face. She looks so uncomfortable. This Lucy person must have been trash.] Carlin glanced at the production monitor, saw the comments, and her eyes welled with instant, practiced tears. She leaned into Taylor’s chest, looking up at him with a helpless, fragile expression. “Taylor, tell them not to say things like that… Lucy… she was just the girl next door. Maybe… maybe she was just a little too intense sometimes, but she didn’t mean any harm.” It was a masterclass in manipulation. With just a few soft words, she painted me as a desperate, boundaries-crossing stalker, while simultaneously establishing herself as the saint who pitied me. Taylor let out a cold laugh, tightening his arm around her waist. He looked directly into the camera lens, his voice steady, deliberate, and cruel. “She was a selfish, cold-blooded leech who would do anything for a handout. It’s been seven years, and she hasn’t called once. We don’t talk about her. She’s bad luck.” My ghost stood close enough to touch him, staring at the sheer aversion etched into his features. “It’s been seven years, Taylor. How was I supposed to call you?” “Should I have burned letters to the grave? Or should I have crawled into your bed at midnight to ask you if, in all these years, you ever woke up in the dark and thought of me, even once?” To keep up her image of the perfect, dutiful fiancée for the cameras, Carlin offered to help clean up the dusty room. “Taylor, this is where you grew up. It’s full of your history,” she said, her voice soft. “Let’s clean it together. Consider it… a way to say a proper goodbye to the past.” Still wearing her four-inch designer heels, she swayed gracefully into the room. Her eyes scanned the floor and locked onto a dusty, weathered cedar chest tucked beneath the bed frame. She walked over, pretending to lean down to move a side table, but as she did, her expensive heel “accidentally” slipped. With precise, heavy force, she kicked the wooden latch of the old chest. With a loud crack, the fragile, dry wood of the old chest splintered. The contents spilled out across the floorboards. There were old, scratched CDs I had saved up for weeks to buy; the hollow shell of a tiny turtle we had raised together; and… A faded, lock-bound diary. The diary rolled out from the pile of clutter, stopping right at Taylor’s feet. A tarnished, faded teddy bear keychain hung from its lock. That keychain was a cheap trinket Taylor had pulled from his pocket on his sixteenth birthday. I had saved up for months to buy him a pair of limited-edition sneakers, and he had felt so awkward about not having a gift for me that he tossed the keychain in my lap. He had said, “Here. Consider yourself lucky.” Taylor’s gaze froze on the diary. He bent down and picked it up, his fingers lingering on the worn cover. Carlin immediately chimed in, her laughter sharp and high-pitched. “Oh, what’s this?” She covered her mouth, giggling. “Don’t tell me it’s Lucy’s diary. Do you think it’s full of love letters to some random guy? Taylor, open it! Let us see what kind of terrible taste she had!” The moment the words left her mouth, Taylor’s expression darkened. His fingers gripped the small, fragile brass padlock. The veins in his hand bulged, and with a sudden, violent wrench, the metal snapped. He tore the diary open, flipping to the very first page. The paper held my neat, youthful handwriting. “September 3, 2008. Sunny. Taylor talked to the girl in the class next to ours again today. My chest felt tight. I hate that I’m like this.” Taylor read it and let out a dry, mocking laugh. Without a second thought, he turned the diary toward the camera crew following him. “Come on, let’s give the audience a laugh,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “A little adolescent melodrama to liven up the stream.” My spirit froze in the air. He was going to take the quietest, most vulnerable pieces of my soul and turn them into a punchline for millions of strangers. The live chat went wild. [user_4431: LMAO Taylor is savage! Public execution!] [drama_mama: Who is this Lucy? The thirst was real. How embarrassing to be exposed like this.] [hater_blocker: I bet ten bucks the rest of this diary is just her scheming to trap him.] Encouraged by the surge in live viewers, Taylor continued to flip through the pages, his tone theatrical and mocking. “June 7, 2012. Pouring rain.” “To make sure I get into the same college as Taylor, I haven’t gone to sleep before two in the morning for a year. My head feels like it’s splitting open. The exams are finally over today. I hope we both get what we want.” He looked up at the camera, raising an eyebrow. “Pure self-martyrdom,” he scoffed. “My grades were perfect back then. I didn’t need her staying up late to ride my coattails.” Carlin laughed, leaning against his shoulder. “Wow, she was really playing the long game, wasn’t she? Trying to guilt you even back in high school. Taylor, you must have been so exhausted dealing with her.” But he had forgotten. That was the year he had become addicted to online gaming, and his GPA had tanked. He had forgotten the storm-ravaged night he stood on my porch, his eyes red and swollen, gripping my hands like a drowning man, begging me. “Lucy, please. Help me. I don’t want to go to some community college. Please, you’re the only one who can help me pass.” It was for him that I stopped sleeping. I spent every night summarizing his textbooks, highlighting formulas, predicting exam questions. That was the year my health began to fail. That was the year I developed the chronic insomnia and the stomach ulcers that would never truly heal. He flipped the page to our sophomore year of college. “October 1, 2014. Overcast.” “Taylor has a girlfriend now. It’s the beautiful transfer student, Carlin. He told me he loves her. He said he’d do anything for her. Tonight, my pillow felt wet, like the rain from the window had leaked inside.” Taylor’s face flushed with a smug, victorious satisfaction. He turned around, and in front of millions of viewers, he pressed a deep, lingering kiss to Carlin’s forehead. “Sorry to disappoint you, Lucy,” he murmured into the microphone, his voice dripping with romantic charm. “But my eyes have only ever been on Carlin. As for you… you were just an anchor I wanted to cut loose.” The chat erupted into a frenzy of swooning fans. The hashtag #TaylorTheUltimateFiancé began trending nationally. I looked at his face, feeling a wave of nausea. I remembered the night he got blindingly drunk, sobbing under my dorm window. He had held me so tight I couldn’t breathe, crying into my shoulder, “Lucy, she said I’m not famous enough. She said I don’t fit in her world and she wants to break up. Lucy, don’t you ever leave me. I’m so scared.” But the next morning, sober and cold, he had taken Carlin’s hand and told me, “Lucy, stay away from me. Carlin gets upset when she sees you around.” It was terrifying how easily a person’s memory could be rewritten to fit their own convenience. Because of this impromptu reading, the stream’s viewership hit an all-time record for the platform. The hashtags #LucyTheManipulator and #LucyTheParasite were pushed to the top of the trending topics by Taylor’s public relations team, marked with a stark, deep red “Popular” tag. He was using my dead, silent heart to build a pedestal for his own career. He kept flipping pages, determined to tear down whatever shred of my dignity remained. But as the dates in the diary progressed, the tone of the entries grew heavier, darker, and more suffocating. The smirk on Taylor’s face slowly began to fade. “December 24, 2015. Snowing.” “It’s Christmas Eve. Carlin and her friends dragged me to the abandoned cold storage unit behind the dining hall. When they left, they locked the heavy iron door from the outside.” “It’s so cold. Taylor, where are you? I’ve called you twenty-three times. Why won’t you answer?” The atmosphere in the live chat suddenly froze. The stream of comments stopped for several long seconds, leaving a bizarre, empty void on the screen. Then, the tide turned. [user_112: Wait… what? Locked in cold storage? Is this… is this real?] [west_coast_girl: Holy crap. That’s not drama, that’s straight-up assault and kidnapping. Is Carlin a psycho?] [melancholy: Twenty-three missed calls… Oh my god, she must have been freezing to death.] [watcher_7: I don’t think this diary is a joke anymore.] Carlin’s face turned paper-white. She threw herself into Taylor’s arms, her tears flowing instantly, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “It’s a lie! Taylor, she’s lying! I would never do something like that! She was jealous of me, she made up these awful stories to ruin my life! She’s sick!” Taylor looked like he had been struck. He stared at the shaking woman in his arms, then at the rapidly shifting comments on the monitor. He pulled Carlin behind him, shielding her from the camera, and spoke with forced conviction. “Lucy was a compulsive liar,” he said, his voice tight but loud. “She’d say anything for attention. This is just some cheap, fictionalized diary she wrote because she couldn’t stand seeing us happy!” He was so certain. He didn’t hesitate to defend her. My ghost floated closer, screaming into his ear with every ounce of my non-existent voice. “Look at my hand, Taylor! Look at it! Did you forget that the index finger on my right hand is missing a joint because of severe frostbite?” “You were the one who drove me to the emergency room! You signed the consent forms for the amputation! How could you forget?” But he couldn’t hear me. He only remembered that when I had tried to tell him what happened back then, he had looked at me with nothing but exhaustion and disgust. He had said, “Lucy, you’d seriously mutilate yourself just to make me hate Carlin? You make me want to throw up.” The diary went on. “March 11, 2016. Overcast.” “The doctor says I have clinical depression. Severe.” “I can’t stop doing it. I take the blade to my wrist, drawing line after line after line…” “When the blood flows, the hollow ache in my chest doesn’t hurt as much.” Taylor stared at the page, a flicker of irritation passing over his face. He scoffed at the camera, his voice cold and dismissive. “Depression? Right.” “Back then, she’d take a tiny razor and scratch her skin just to show up on my doorstep crying, claiming she couldn’t go on.” He paused, a flicker of pride returning to his eyes as if he were recalling some great achievement. “I didn’t fall for it. I took an utility knife from my desk, threw it at her feet, and told her if she wanted to die, she should do it right instead of using cheap tricks to get my attention.” “I told her I don’t tolerate threats.” The live chat, which had briefly wavered, swung back in his direction. [fan_boy_9: King behavior! That’s how you handle toxic, manipulative exes!] [cloud_nine: People use ‘depression’ as an excuse for everything. She was just obsessed.] [dark_knight: She should have just gone through with it instead of ruining Taylor’s life.] The words on the screen mirrored the very comments I had seen online before I died. Behind Taylor’s back, Carlin let out a tiny, triumphant smile, her eyes filled with malice. Taylor turned the pages faster, desperate to find more proof to show the world that I was a lunatic, a liar, a parasite who deserved no pity. Finally, he reached the last page. The final entry was short, only a few lines of text. The handwriting was smeared and blurred by heavy water stains—the dried remnants of my tears. Taylor had to lean close to the paper to make out the words. He read them aloud, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Taylor, my world is about to rain. Can you come and hold an umbrella for me?” “It hurts so much. The pills aren’t working anymore.” “Please answer the phone. Just once.” Suddenly, his voice caught in his throat. His eyes locked onto the date at the bottom of the page. “December 24, 2016. Christmas Eve.” A memory, sharp and violent, crashed into his mind. That night, to give Carlin the perfect, grand proposal, he had rented out the most expensive plaza in the city center, setting off a massive display of custom fireworks that lit up the winter sky for hours. While the fireworks surged, his phone had vibrated relentlessly in his pocket. He had found it annoying. He had declined the call over and over again. Carlin had giggled in his arms, saying, “Who is that, Taylor? They’re ruining the moment. Just block them.” So, when the twenty-fourth call came through, he had finally swiped answer. His first words to me—and his last—were: “Lucy, are you out of your mind?” “Why don’t you just go die and stop tracking me like a rat in the sewers?” Then, he had blocked my number. He had personally extinguished the very last thread of hope I had left. On the live stream, everyone noticed the sudden, drastic shift in Taylor’s demeanor. His face had gone entirely pale, and the fingers holding the diary were trembling uncontrollably. Carlin felt a cold dread sink into her chest. She quickly stepped forward, trying to break the tension with a sweet, innocent tone. “Taylor, don’t let her play with your head. She was always such a good actress. Why don’t you just call her right now on speaker? Let’s show everyone she’s perfectly fine, probably living comfortably somewhere, laughing at how she tricked us all.” She wanted to destroy my memory completely. Even after death, she wanted to drag my name through the dirt. Taylor seemed to snap out of his daze. Desperate to push down the suffocating, inexplicable panic rising in his chest, he gritted his teeth and pulled out his phone. “Fine. I’ll call her. I’ll make her apologize to you on camera.” In front of millions of viewers, he went into his blocked contacts, found the number that had lain dormant for seven years, and pressed dial. He put it on speaker. The long, drawn-out ringback tone echoed through the silent house, heavy and metallic. “Ring…” “Ring…” The silence in the room was absolute. Just as Taylor was about to let out a breath of relief, the line clicked. It connected. The entire audience held its breath. But the voice that came through the speaker wasn’t mine. It was a deep, stern, official-sounding voice of an older man. “State Police, Records Division. Who is calling, and what is your relationship to the registered owner of this number, Lucy?” Taylor froze, his voice faltering. “I… I’m looking for Lucy. Put her on the phone.” The voice on the other end went entirely cold. “That is impossible.” “The registered owner, Lucy, committed suicide by jumping from an abandoned building in the south district at 3:00 AM on December 25, 2016. She was pronounced dead at the scene.” “Who are you? And why are you only calling now, seven years later?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “521182”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel