Category: English

Only one-seventh of Damian belonged to me. Every Wednesday, like clockwork, he would call. “Mal,” he’d ask, his voice smooth and measured through the speaker, “how has your week been?” It was always Wednesday. Only Wednesday. On Monday, a drunken stranger spent ten excruciating minutes kicking at the front door of my rented apartment. I hid inside the closet, my limbs shaking violently as I dialed his number. “The phone you are trying to reach is turned off.” On Tuesday, I was admitted to the hospital with acute pneumonia. The nurses needed a family member’s signature before administering the heavy-duty IV. I called him five times. “Line busy.” Outside of Wednesdays, his phone was a black hole. And every Wednesday, his excuse was as smooth as river stones: “I’m slammed at the clinic, Mal. My phone stays on silent most of the day.” “If you feel unsafe, move to a better building. If you’re sick, ask a coworker to sit with you.” “The situation is already over. There’s no point in transferring your anxiety onto me.” I genuinely believed he was just under immense pressure at work. Until this Wednesday. Wanting to surprise him, I saved up three days of paid leave and flew five hundred miles to his city. Standing in his home office, I found his leather-bound planner lying open on the desk. Every line was filled with neat, precise handwriting. “Monday: Escort Serena to her follow-up appointment.” “Tuesday: Serena is feeling down. Drive her to the coast to clear her mind.” “Thursday: Adopt a kitten with Serena.” The remaining days revolved entirely around her name. Only Wednesday had a faint, offhanded circle drawn around it, with a single initial scrawled in the margin: “M.” One-seventh of him was mine. Six-sevenths belonged to Serena. Suddenly, I didn’t even want that single seventh anymore. Something that isn’t whole isn’t worth keeping. … I tried dialing Damian’s cell again, but it went straight to voicemail. That was the rule of our relationship: the line only connected when he initiated the call on Wednesdays. When I called him, his phone was either turned off or permanently busy. The front desk assistant pushed open the heavy oak door of his private practice, offering me a tight, professional smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Ma’am, this is Dr. Ellis’s private therapy suite. Unauthorized guests aren’t allowed in here,” she said, motioning toward the hallway. “If you’d like to book a consultation, you can step up to the front desk. Please don’t linger.” I carefully placed the planner back where I’d found it. “I’m Damian’s girlfriend.” The assistant blinked, startled for a fraction of a second, before letting out a soft, amused laugh. “You must be joking. We all know Dr. Ellis’s girlfriend.” She leaned against the doorframe. “Miss Serena comes by the suite every week. Two days ago, she fell asleep on the lounge sofa, and Dr. Ellis made all of us hold our team meeting in the conference room on our feet so we wouldn’t wake her.” She pointed a polished nail toward the kitchenette. “You see that glass tea kettle over there? Dr. Ellis bought it specifically to brew herbal tea for Miss Serena’s stomach ulcers. He used to be a strict black coffee drinker—now he’s swapped out all our coffee beans for decaf.” I followed her gaze. On the granite counter sat two matching mugs. One was Damian’s usual cool gray ceramic. The other was a pastel pink glass shaped like a cat’s paw. Last month, he’d mentioned that the clinic had ordered a batch of customized couple’s mugs, including one in pink—my favorite color. I had foolishly assumed it was meant for me. The assistant pulled out her phone and slid it across the desk toward me. “If you still don’t believe me, take a look for yourself.” It was Damian’s social media page. Damian—a man who used to insist that spending time in the kitchen was an inefficient waste of energy—was wearing a dark apron, carefully monitoring a pot of slow-simmered broth on the stove. His caption read: “Cooking homemade soup for a special someone.” I lowered my head and opened my own phone. When I tapped into his profile from my account, there was nothing but a cold, blank divider. He had restricted me from seeing his posts. “All right,” I whispered. “I’ll go.” I turned and walked out of the practice, stepping onto the sidewalk and looking up blankly at the gray overcast sky. In this unfamiliar city, I had nowhere to go. I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address to Damian’s high-rise apartment. I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. With numb, freezing fingers, I typed my birthdate into the digital keypad. “My passcode will always be your birthday, Mal. You can come home whenever you want.” That was what he had told me the day he moved in. I entered the six digits three times. Each time, a harsh, mechanical chime buzzed back at me. The lock had been changed. So I stood there in the drafty hallway for two full hours, the chill seeping through the soles of my shoes. Until the elevator signaled with a soft “ding”. Serena stepped out, wrapped in an oversized cream cashmere coat that clearly belonged to Damian. She carried a tote bag filled with fresh groceries. Seeing me, a flicker of surprise crossed her eyes, quickly replaced by a soft, delicate smile. “Mal? Why are you standing out in the cold? Come on in.” She casually punched in a long string of numbers. The lock chimed softly. “Welcome home, Serena.” The door swung open, releasing a wave of central heat. Serena turned to me, resting a delicate finger against her lips. “Try to keep your voice down, Mal. Damian stayed up all night helping me through a panic attack. He didn’t fall asleep until dawn, so let’s not wake him.” She slipped her feet into a pair of plush pink rabbit slippers and offered me a pair of disposable ones from the closet. Inside the shoe rack, the light-blue slippers that had once been reserved for me were nowhere to be found. Damian came downstairs half an hour later. When his eyes fell on me, his steps faltered, and the faint relaxation around his mouth vanished completely. “Why didn’t you give me a heads-up before flying over here?” “I tried calling you,” I said softly. “Your phone was off.” “Are you blaming me again?” His voice instantly hardened. “I’ve explained this to you dozens of times—when I’m working with clients, I need absolute, undivided focus.” I gripped the hem of my sweater, the fabric bunching under my fingers. Serena stepped forward, pressing a mug of warm water into his hands. “Damian, don’t be so harsh. Mal just missed you.” Damian took a sip, his posture softening slightly, though his tone remained dry. “I’m not being harsh. I just wish she would learn to be a little more independent.” He turned his gaze back to me. “Mallory, you’re twenty-eight years old. Stop pulling these surprise drop-ins to check up on me. It’s exhausting and meaningless.” “Independent.” The word sank into my chest like a jagged shard of glass. I used to suffer from severe separation anxiety. When we first started dating, I couldn’t even walk down to the corner store at night without holding his hand. On stormy nights, I would burrow into his chest, refusing to sleep unless his arm was around me. In the dead of winter, I’d shove my ice-cold hands directly under his collar to steal his warmth. Back then, he would wrap his arms tightly around me with a gentle, exasperated laugh. “What are you going to do if I’m not around to take care of you?” But then he changed. My desire for closeness became a constraint; my reliance on him, a burden. “Mal, we both need breathing room,” he had told me when he decided to take the position in Chicago while leaving me behind in Charleston. “A long-distance dynamic will be good for us. It’ll force you to grow up.” So he left me alone in Charleston and built a life here, where Serena lived. During the first six months apart, I would sit in my empty living room after work, staring at the walls in total silence. I suffered from insomnia night after night, only able to drift off if I buried my face into an old button-down shirt he’d left behind. In the beginning, he called every night to talk me to sleep. Then it stretched to every two days, then every three. Until finally, it settled into Wednesdays. Until I was left with only one-seventh of a man. I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “You changed the passcode on the front door.” Damian pinched the bridge of his nose. “The system went through a security update two days ago, so I updated it while I was at it. Do you really need to make an issue out of something so trivial? You could have just rung the bell.” “I stood out there ringing it for ten minutes.” “Then I didn’t hear it. What do you want me to do about it now?” “Change it back.” “Fine,” he said without hesitation. “When I have a moment.” At ten that evening, Serena changed back into her street shoes and left. Finally, the apartment belonged to just the two of us. I showered and pulled the comforter up to my chin. Damian slid into bed behind me, his long arm draping over my waist. “You’re so rigid, Mal,” he murmured, his jaw resting in the curve of my shoulder. “You’ve changed so much. You used to curl up right against my chest before you could sleep. Why are you acting like a stranger?” I stared down at his forearm resting against my stomach. The silver promise ring I’d bought him years ago was missing from his wrist and fingers. “If I hadn’t forced myself to get used to sleeping alone,” I said quietly, “I would have lost my mind to insomnia a long time ago.” On those endless nights, I had stared at the ceiling until dawn broke through the blinds. Every text I sent him dissolved into silence, met only with an offhanded “Sorry, didn’t see this” on Wednesday evening. If I hadn’t learned to put myself to sleep, I would have burned out completely in the waiting. The arm around my waist stiffened. Damian let out a weary sigh. “Do you really have to bring up such depressing topics on the one night we actually get to see each other?” He pulled me an inch closer. “I know the distance hasn’t been easy on you. You’ve always wanted a pet, right? Once this busy stretch at the practice winds down, I’ll take you to pick out a kitten.” “I don’t like cats.” “Stop being difficult, Mal.” “I like dogs,” I said, my voice steady. “My whole life, I’ve only ever liked dogs.” He frowned into the darkness. “What’s the difference?” I reached down and firmly pried his hand off my waist. “There’s a massive difference. Your planner was very clear: on Thursday, you’re taking Serena to adopt a kitten. You got the person wrong, Damian. And you got the preference wrong.” He sat up abruptly, the warmth leaving his voice. “You went through my private belongings? Mallory, when did you turn into the kind of person who snoops through someone else’s office?” I felt the last thread of fight leave my body. The word that used to terrify me slipped out effortlessly. “Damian, let’s break up.” He stared at me in disbelief. “Break up? Because I misremembered whether you preferred cats or dogs?” He took a deep breath, deliberately dropping his pitch to a soft, therapeutic tone. “Mal, Serena has severe clinical depression. Her ex abandoned her, and she’s had intense suicidal ideation—you know how deep the cuts on her wrist were.” “She requires my professional intervention. As a healthy, functional adult, do you really lack this much basic empathy?” I couldn’t survive without him, so I was forced to become independent. Serena couldn’t survive without him, so she was granted his presence. My fingernails bit into the palms of my hands until my skin stung. Damian reached over, pulling me against his chest and lightly patting my back. “All right. Don’t cry. I promise you, once her condition stabilizes, I’ll wind down our private sessions and set firm boundaries, okay?” On the nightstand, his phone suddenly vibrated. It was Serena’s custom ringtone. He answered instantly. “Serena? What’s wrong? Hey, take a deep breath. I’m coming right over.” He didn’t even put on socks. Barefoot, he walked to the closet, pulling on a pair of slacks and a dark button-down shirt with practiced haste. “Serena is having a panic episode. I have to step out. Get some sleep.” After the front door clicked shut, I reached under my pillow and picked up my phone. I dialed my mother’s number. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat. “Mom… I’m thinking about moving back home soon.” My mother let out a bright, surprised laugh on the other end. “Really? Are you coming back to start planning the wedding with Damian? I’ll take off work tomorrow and start repainting your bedroom… We need to start looking at caterers…” “Mom,” I cut her off gently. “We broke up.” Silence stretched over the line for a long moment before my mother spoke again, her tone instantly softening into something tender and fierce. “Did my girl get her heart broken?” she asked softly. “It doesn’t matter what happened. Home is here. When you get back, I’ll make that crab bake you love.” Damian didn’t come back all night. By morning, I realized I had left my handbag at his clinic the previous afternoon—it had my driver’s license and my house keys inside. I called his phone. Unanswered. I gave a self-deprecating laugh, got dressed, and took a cab straight to his suite. Inside the consultation room, Serena was draped over the reclining leather armchair, her hair slightly tousled, her skin flushed. Damian was kneeling beside her, holding one of her wrists in his palm while using a soft towel to gently dab the perspiration from her forehead. They were so close their shoulders touched, wrapped in an intimacy that looked effortlessly natural. “Damian… you stayed with me all night. Won’t Mallory be upset?” “Even if she is, I couldn’t just leave you when you were in crisis.” I pushed the heavy oak door open. It swung inward with a low squeak. Damian looked up, his expression freezing for a brief second. “What are you doing here?” He stood up smoothly. “Serena just had a severe episode. She’s still emotionally unstable, so I’m stabilizing her. Don’t overthink this.” Serena’s eyes flushed red. “Mal, please don’t misunderstand… Damian is just far too responsible…” “I came to get my bag,” I said, walking past them toward the shelving unit. Before my hand could reach the leather strap, violent shouts echoed down the hallway outside. “Quack! Get out here!” A man with bloodshot eyes burst through the doorway, clutching a small glass prescription bottle. He pointed a trembling finger at Damian, screaming at the top of his lungs. “What kind of sleeping medication did you prescribe my wife yesterday?! She swallowed it and went straight into comatose shock! The ER doctor said the dosage was three times the maximum limit!” Serena let out a sharp shriek, shrinking into the corner of the room, trembling violently. “It was you!” the man roared, his eyes locking onto the corner. “You handed her the bottle yesterday!” He raised his arm, preparing to hurl the thick glass bottle with all his strength. It happened in the span of a single heartbeat. Damian suddenly grabbed my arm and shoved me violently into the space between the man and the corner. He stepped back, covering Serena with his body. “It wasn’t her!” Damian shouted at the man. “You’ve got the wrong person! The girl who handled the medications yesterday wasn’t her—it was this one!” He was pointing at me. A high-pitched ringing echoed in my ears. The heavy glass bottle left the man’s hand, flying through the air and smashing directly against my collarbone and hand. A sharp, searing pain exploded down my nerve endings. I remembered a time when I had nicked my finger slicing an apple, and Damian had turned the apartment upside down looking for the first-aid kit, his hands shaking as he bandaged a tiny one-centimeter cut. Now, to shield another woman from a mess of his own making, he had thrown me into the line of fire. Security guards rushed through the door, tackling the enraged man to the floor. The police arrived shortly after, cuffing him and leading him away. The consultation room was left in ruin. Once Serena’s hysterical crying finally settled into quiet sniffling, Damian seemed to snap back to reality. He rushed toward me, dropping to his knees on the carpet. His face drained of color as he saw me sitting on the floor, my hand soaked in crimson. His hands hovered over my wound, trembling, afraid to touch me. The panic on his face looked almost comical. “Mal… I…” “I was just trying to de-escalate him,” he stammered, his voice tight. “I didn’t think he’d actually throw it. Serena can’t handle any physical trauma right now, so I had to secure her first.” “I’m her therapist first, Mal, before I’m your boyfriend. You understand that, right?” The cut throbbed painfully, but inside my chest, everything had gone eerily, terrifyingly quiet. Blood was seeping into the cuff of my sleeve. I forced myself to stand up, ignoring the sharp pang in my shoulder. “No, Damian. I don’t.” He reached out to support me. “Mal, let me take you to the emergency room.” I took a step back, dodging his reach. “No need. I can go myself.” As I turned toward the door, Damian called after me, his tone laced with mounting frustration. “Mallory!” “You didn’t use to be like this! You used to need me to hold your hand just to get a routine flu shot! You wouldn’t even look at the nurse! You needed me to bandage a tiny cut on your finger!” I stopped at the threshold and looked back over my shoulder. “Damian,” I said quietly, “you got what you wanted. I’m independent now.” Behind me, Damian’s breath hitched sharply, accompanied by Serena’s muffled, theatrical weeping. I didn’t turn back. I walked out of the building and made my way to the urgent care clinic down the street. After the doctor stitched and bandaged my hand, I headed straight to the station and bought a one-way ticket back home.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554448”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My best friend and I didn’t just transmigrate—we dropped straight into a trashy billionaire romance novel. She landed the jackpot as the pampered, treasured wife of a ruthless CEO. I got stuck as a bottom-tier, D-list starlet who almost ended up as the late-night snack for a lecherous old Hollywood executive. Fortunately, my best friend barged in just in time to pull me out of the fire. To make up for my narrow escape—and to ensure I finally experienced some physical bliss after being single for two whole lifetimes—she arranged a shotgun marriage between me and her husband’s childhood friend: a broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted crime boss with a body carved out of granite. At the time, drool practically spilled from the corner of my mouth. Waking up every night buried in those rock-hard abs and sculpted hips seemed like a dream come true. Except we’ve been married for a full year now, and every single night I throw myself at him, I don’t get so much as a single crumb of action. I finally broke down and cried to my best friend. “He has a physical issue! It doesn’t matter how starving I am, the man is broken!” She pulled me into an embrace and burst into tears too. “Well, my idiot husband can’t produce an heir! I’m losing my mind over here!” We both thought about the original plot of the book—specifically, the saintly main heroine who was due to return from abroad any day now to kick off the story’s main drama. We looked at each other, our necks suddenly feeling very cold. “So… run away overseas?” “Hell yes. Foreign male models sound a lot better anyway!” A few days later, a tragic accident off a mountain cliff took the lives of the CEO’s wife and the mob boss’s bride. Meanwhile, far across the ocean, two newly minted wealthy divorcées were sitting poolside, surrounded by sun-kissed, broad-chested eye candy. … When my best friend found me, my sleazy talent manager was in the middle of delivering me like a wrapped present onto an old man’s bed. I was staring up at a seventy-year-old studio executive, watching his fake teeth glint in the dim lighting as he leaned in for a kiss. The book, the plot, my meta-knowledge—everything vanished from my brain. I was utterly terrified. Was the innocence I’d guarded across two lifetimes really going to be ruined right here? Suddenly, the door was kicked off its hinges. My best friend burst in like a storm, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Get your hands off her!” She marched over and kicked the old creep so hard he tumbled off the mattress, knocked out cold on the carpet. Before I could process what was happening, she grabbed my trembling, barely dressed self and shoved me straight into the arms of the towering, sharp-jawed man standing beside her. He immediately stripped off his tailored wool coat—still holding his body heat—and wrapped it tightly around me, pulling me flush against his chest. In that fleeting second, my heart genuinely skipped a beat. Fast forward to tonight, though? All I want is a divorce. Another failed attempt. This was the three hundred and sixty-fifth night of our marriage, and my three hundred and sixty-fifth consecutive rejection. “What exactly are you trying to do?” Damian stood by the edge of the bed, looking down at my slumping, defeated form. His expression was icy, tinged with a sharp edge of impatience. I swallowed hard, the words “I’m trying to sleep with you” dying right on my tongue. Based on my deductions over the past year, he was almost certainly suffering from severe erectile dysfunction. I mean, what kind of alpha mob boss with an eight-pack and a lethal waistline can resist a woman throwing herself at him night after night? Any normal man would have snapped. Yet Damian remained utterly untouched. Every night, no matter how late his business ran—whether he was handling dark-alley negotiations or corporate takeovers—he flew back home just to sleep in the same bed with me. Even if he only had fifteen minutes to spare before dawn, he came back. At first, that quiet dedication made my heart flutter. But his subsequent coldness slowly turned that warmth into ice. It didn’t matter how sheer my lingerie was, or that I had secretly laced his dinner with an extra-strength male enhancement supplement tonight. He remained an impenetrable fortress. Without a single word, he simply pushed me aside and retreated to the master bathroom for another freezing shower. Tonight, my frustration finally boiled over. I ripped off my sheer lace nightgown and silk stockings, marched over, and planted myself angrily on his lap. I balled up my fists and feebly beat against his solid chest muscle. “Do you just find me repulsive?” Damian’s dark eyes turned dangerously stormy, like a caged predator fighting against the iron chains of its own restraint. A surge of hope spiked in my chest. I grabbed his hand, guiding it toward my inner thigh— The moment his skin brushed mine, he flinched as if struck by lightning, turned on his heel, and fled the room. The triumph on my face withered before it even fully bloomed. My mouth trembled, and the tears came spilling out. It had been a whole year. You could thaw a block of ice in a year. Yet this stubborn man had never shown me a shred of genuine affection beyond showing up to share a mattress. When I had an emergency appendectomy a few months ago, he wasn’t there. I had to call an Uber to the hospital by myself in the middle of the night. His underlings knew I was just a trophy wife with zero standing; none of them ever showed me an ounce of respect, never even calling me “ma’am.” Thinking about the flashier, glamorous socialites who constantly hovered around him, I made up my mind. Why stay tied to a man who didn’t even view me as his real wife? I picked up my phone and called my best friend. “Macy… I want a divorce.” Macy didn’t even ask why. She immediately launched into a thirty-minute profanity-laced tirade against Damian, berating him until my sniffling turned into quiet giggles. Once she was sure I wasn’t weeping anymore, she ordered her driver to pull up to my estate in her Bugatti. The moment she stepped into my dressing room, she wrapped me in a fierce hug. “Maeve, look at you. You look exhausted. Has Damian been neglecting you this whole time?” She immediately pulled out her phone, intending to demand her husband haul Damian back home by his collar. I panicked and grabbed her wrist. Compared to the multi-million-dollar deals Damian and her husband threw around every hour, I was a nobody. I didn’t dare test my weight against his empire. Neglect didn’t even cover it. Aside from those few silent hours in bed each night, Damian was a ghost. Half his time was spent overseas or dealing with turf wars in dangerous corners of the world. Sometimes he’d slip into bed at three in the morning, and if I didn’t catch the familiar scent of his cologne, my half-asleep brain would assume an intruder had broken in. When I first transmigrated into this world, I was constantly on edge. The trauma of being drugged and nearly sold off by my former manager had left me jumpy, terrified of the dark. It took months before I stopped flinching every time a man stepped into my personal space. Thank God Macy had shown up that night. After our tearful reunion back then, Macy explained the terrifying reality: we were trapped inside a dramatic billionaire romance novel. She was currently playing the role of the male lead’s adored wife, but her reign was temporary. The moment the author’s official “golden girl”—the sweet, innocent Kinsley—returned from her studies abroad in a year’s time, Macy would be cast aside. Desperate to build a safety net, Macy had begged her husband to introduce me to his wealthy, feared childhood friend. We had been so naive. We thought with my hourglass figure, killer curves, and striking looks, wrapping him around my finger would be a breeze. In my past life, I was notoriously difficult to win over; a line of suitors had pursued me endlessly, only to be turned down flat. I was picky. Across two lifetimes, I had only ever let my guard down once. Damian had agreed to marry me, but he treated our marriage like a chore he was legally obligated to check off a list. I let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. “My husband has a bit of a… functional issue. I was too embarrassed to tell you before.” I gathered every ounce of my courage and rushed through the rest: “It’s been a year, Macy. I’m practically starving to death in a desert here. Would you hate me if I divorced him?” Macy’s usually bright, expressive face went completely blank. “Wait… what do you mean starving? Are you short on money?” I winced, glaring at her through flushed cheeks. Understanding slowly dawned on her. Her face cycled from pink to pale, until finally, tears welled up in her large eyes, and she burst into heavy sobs. My head throbbed. I leaned in, gently patting her back to soothe her. “Hey, I’m the one divorcing my husband! Why are you crying harder than I am?” She choked back a sob, hesitation written all over her face before she finally confessed. “You don’t understand… Calvin has an issue too. He can’t have children. I’ve been wanting to tell you for months.” She wiped her cheeks, her voice dropping into an angry whisper. “I want a divorce too. Honestly, I’d rather go hire a dozen European male models.” She blinked her tear-stained eyes, her anger flaring up. “You know how much I wanted a family, Maeve. Ever since we landed in this world two years ago, I’ve been trying everything. Hormones, painful IVF injections, acupuncture—I went through hell! And I just found out last week that the medical issue was “his” all along! He let me suffer through all those procedures without saying a word!” Macy and I had grown up together in the same underfunded orphanage, leaning on each other to survive. Though she looked like a glamorous, head-strong diva on the outside, she was deeply gentle at heart, craving the warmth of a real family more than anything. In our past life, she had been naive enough to trust the wrong men—once even losing a pregnancy late in the term because of an abusive ex. Having a child of her own was her deepest, most tender wish. And I, having witnessed the dark side of humanity far too often, had spent my youth avoiding romantic entanglements entirely. Who could have guessed that after two years in a romance novel, she still couldn’t have her family, and I was still a total virgin? “Look,” I nudged her shoulder gently, trying to offer a silver lining. “Calvin is going to cast you aside once Kinsley gets back anyway. When that happens, you can find whoever you want to build a family with. The main priority right now is getting me out of this marriage smoothly.” Macy’s weeping grew louder. “Even if he sets me free, he’s too possessive! He’d never let me have a child with another man!” She wiped her face, looking utterly bewildered. “I don’t get it. He has no problem fulfilling his ‘marital duties’ every single night like clockwork, so why is he infertile? And how is your massive, six-foot-two mob boss husband unable to even get off the ground?” I sank into a deep funk. Calvin—a guy who spent eighteen hours a day sitting behind an executive desk—could perform daily, but Damian, built like a brick wall with peak physical conditioning, couldn’t manage a single move? Macy dried her tears, her expression turning surprisingly solemn. “I know you actually fell for him, Maeve. Are you really sure about the divorce?” I nodded without a second thought. “Then I’m leaving too!” She threw her arms around my waist, clinging to me like a koala. I gave her a deadpan look. “Since when do people do joint divorces?” “Calvin’s control issues are insane,” I added, trying to be realistic. “He’ll never just sign a paper and let you walk.” A dark, beautiful smile spread across her face. “Who said anything about signing papers? Let’s just run away.” Running away was a territory we were both intimately familiar with. In our past life, whenever a stalker or an abusive ex became too dangerous to handle, we used the exact same tactic. We quickly hammered out the details. We would meet three days from now at the St. Jude Cliffside Sanctuary—a secluded mountain retreat tucked far away from the city center. I would secure international plane tickets, untraceable offshore accounts, and most importantly, brand-new legal identities that would allow us to settle quietly in a picturesque European town for the rest of our lives. I also reminded Macy repeatedly to keep an eye on Kinsley’s arrival schedule. Stirring up buzz about Kinsley’s return would keep Calvin distracted, drawing his obsessive focus away from Macy’s day-to-day movements. My end was simpler. Damian didn’t care enough about my daily routine to monitor me anyway. Macy’s eyes brimmed with tears again as she nodded dutifully. Looking at her soft, vulnerable expression, my own throat felt tight. We had never hurt a soul across two lifetimes. Why was it so hard for us to get the simple happiness we wanted? When Calvin’s head housekeeper arrived at the front gate to remind Macy it was time to return home, she pulled herself together, adjusted her oversized designer sunglasses, and slipped into the back of her town car. I turned back into the silent house and sank into the middle of our cold, three-meter-wide king bed. Somewhere in the haze between sleep and waking, I felt a familiar warmth against my side—the firm contour of broad chest muscles—and heard a faint, barely audible sigh near my ear. I forced my eyelids open. Damian was actually back, lying right beside me. Sensing my movement, he opened his eyes, his dark gaze instantly locking onto mine with its usual sharp intensity. But a fraction of a second later, as he realized I was awake, a flicker of profound tenderness softened his features before vanishing just as quickly behind a mask of indifference. A heavy ache settled in my chest. “I must be hallucinated,” I thought. “How could a man like him ever look at me with tenderness?” Still, I couldn’t stop staring at him, desperately searching his face for any sign that I hadn’t imagined it. Damian’s brow furrowed, his expression darkening slightly. I jerked my head away, suddenly self-conscious. My eyes were probably swollen into tiny slits, my nose bright red from crying earlier. I must have looked terrible. “I… I was watching a sad movie with Macy earlier,” I muttered, scrambling for an excuse as I tried to sit up. “It was a real tearjerker. I’m going to get some ice for my eyes.” “Don’t bother.” Damian’s hand shot out, catching my wrist. With a gentle pull of his long arm, I nearly tumbled right back against his chest. My body went rigid. I scrambled backward, putting a clear three feet of distance between us on the mattress. A flash of genuine surprise crossed his dark eyes at my sudden retreat. Usually, the moment he stepped into this room, I was hanging off him, running my hands over his abs, his chest, his shoulders—taking whatever physical contact I could get. He stared at me, his voice low and unreadable. “What were you and Macy talking about for so long?” “She was asking me if your physical dysfunction means you’re soft, small, or just fast,” I thought bitterly. But there was no way I was brave enough to voice those lethal words out loud. I let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, nothing much. She was just asking how I was feeling.” “Was she criticizing me for letting you go to the hospital alone that night?” Damian’s gaze drifted down to the distinct line of empty space I had deliberately maintained between us. Before I could come up with a polite response, his tone turned clipped and cold. “The estate has a full staff and a resident physician on call twenty-four hours a day. You chose to cause a scene and take a cab to an emergency room yourself.” They treated me like an invisible ghost! Who was I supposed to command? Remembering how completely he had ignored my existence during those terrifying hours, anger flared in my chest. “Why do you even care? It’s not like my health matters to you anyway!” His dark eyebrows pulled together. “I don’t care?” He let out a cold, sharp breath. “What kind of wife spends every waking hour avoiding her own home, constantly running off to stay with Macy?” I mumbled under my breath, “If I don’t hang out with my best friend, who else am I supposed to talk to? You’d probably lose your mind if I started hanging out with other men instead.” He didn’t catch the full sentence, assuming I was simply submitting to his lecture. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. Knowing that in forty-eight hours I would be on a flight to Europe surrounded by handsome strangers, I decided to let the anger go and just play along. I offered him a sweet, entirely fake smile. “Right. Understood, my dangerous boss. I won’t go over there anymore.” Damian looked visibly caught off guard by my sudden compliance. A faint, telltale flush crept up the back of his neck, though his voice remained stern. “Good. As long as you understand.” I rolled over, turning my back to him and letting out a quiet sigh. Deep down, I understood why he was so paranoid about my connection to Macy. But understanding a man’s paranoia and living under it were two entirely different things. I still vividly remembered our wedding night. I had expected sparks, passion, maybe even a little danger. Instead, he had stood at the foot of our flower-covered bed, wrapped in a cold aura, and dropped a single instruction: “Now that you’re my wife, minimize your contact with anyone associated with Calvin’s company. That includes Macy.” Then he turned and walked out, leaving me sitting alone on the massive red duvet in utter disbelief. He didn’t return until well past midnight, slipping under the covers without touching me. I had held a grudge over that night for months. It was only later that I pieced together the brutal reality of his world. His relationship with Calvin was nowhere near as friendly as it appeared on the surface, and Macy’s family carried massive corporate ambitions of their own. The three powerful factions were locked in a constant, high-stakes battle over the same lucrative markets. Accidents happened all the time. Damian’s right-hand man had mysteriously vanished during a maritime operation two years ago, and no one had ever found out who ordered the hit. I had tried to tell him that Macy would never be involved in something so sinister, but he refused to take the risk. In the dark room, he let out a quiet cough, reaching out to gently encase my small hand in his large palm. “Just stay safely at home from now on, okay?” I smiled into the darkness, leaving the question unanswered. Kinsley was flying back into the country the day after tomorrow. I wouldn’t be trapped in his house much longer anyway. The sheer excitement of escaping with Macy kept my brain buzzing, making sleep impossible. I lay there in the quiet room, mentally reviewing every step of our escape plan. It was only when his breathing turned deep and rhythmic beside me that I realized Damian had fallen asleep. In his sleep, the terrifying mob boss dropped his sharp, guarded edge. His facial features relaxed, making him look surprisingly approachable, almost gentle. Suddenly, he shifted in his sleep, his long arm sweeping across the mattress and pulling me firmly into his chest. The movement was so natural, so fluid, it felt like something he had done ten thousand times in his dreams. Wrapped against his radiating warmth, resting against the solid expanse of his broad chest, an undeniable sense of safety washed over me. It had been two years since Macy and I landed in this world. During that first year in the entertainment industry, I had fought through the mud, seeing the absolute worst of human greed. As a gorgeous, unprotected D-list actress, I was constantly sabotaged by rivals and cornered by sleazy executives. That terrible night in the old producer’s room hadn’t even been the only close call. It had left me with severe nighttime anxiety. For months, the moment darkness fell and I was left alone, terror would grip my chest, leaving me shivering under the covers until dawn. Yet ever since I married Damian, despite my constant complaints about his coldness, he had been there every single night. I had never voiced my fear of the dark to him, but without realizing it, his quiet, constant presence had cured my insomnia. I hadn’t shivered alone in the dark once since the day I wore his ring. Maybe my quiet shifting woke him. His deep, gravelly baritone vibrated against my ear, low and dark with sleep. “Cold?” My heart slammed against my ribs. I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be fast asleep. He gently reached down, pulling the duvet higher over my shoulders and tucking it securely around my back before drawing me even closer. Resting his chin lightly atop my head, his warm, steady breath fanned across my hair, making my face burn red. Truthfully, we had never been this physically intimate during our waking hours. The intense, comforting heat of his body created a faint, dangerous lingering ache in my chest. I shook my head internally, forcefully clearing the thought away. “There are plenty of strong, warm men in the world,” I reminded myself sternly. “Why waste your life obsessing over a man who refuses to give you his heart?” Now that I was leaving, I shouldn’t let his physique confuse my mind. Though… I couldn’t help wondering if other men would have chest muscles this firm, or shoulders quite as broad and protective as Damian’s… Lost in my chaotic thoughts, I eventually drifted off to sleep. By noon the next day, I had gathered my personal savings—several property deeds and a set of untraceable global black cards I had painstakingly accumulated over the years. Under the guise of a weekend mountain getaway, I drove deep into the remote wilderness, following a winding trail to a secluded cabin where Ryder was waiting. When I handed him the satchel containing my assets, Ryder looked at me, his sharp, dark eyes entirely clear and calm. “Are you absolutely sure you want to walk away from him?” Ryder was a former military contractor, only three years older than me, but remarkably precise, quiet, and reliable. We had met a year ago when he was hired to protect a high-profile film lead. During a chaotic security breach, I had managed to pull him away seconds before a vehicle exploded. Ever since, he had held a strict personal debt of honor to me, promising to grant me one favor, no questions asked. When I first suspected Damian’s physical issues months ago, the idea of fleeing had taken root. I just hadn’t possessed the courage to execute it until now, waiting until the book’s original plot forced my hand. “Yes,” I said quietly, nodding once. I quickly reviewed the final rendezvous details for our destination overseas. “On September tenth, Macy and I will head up to the St. Jude Cliffside Sanctuary under the pretense of praying for good fortune…” Ryder nodded calmly, reassuring me: “Everything for your new identities is ready. Once the two of you go over the overlook cliff, my team will secure you at the base and transport you directly to the airfield.” Once every detail was locked in, Ryder paused, asking a surprisingly personal question. “Can you really let him go?” I gave a bitter, quiet smile. It wasn’t a matter of wanting to let go; it was simply that my heart had finally run out of hope. That night, Damian came home late again. He carried the faint scent of damp night air mixed with his familiar cedar-and-citrus body wash as he slid into bed beside me. Knowing this was one of the very last nights I would ever spend beside him, a sudden wave of reckless emotion washed over me. I rolled over, pressing myself tightly against his firm chest, my arm wrapping around his solid waist. Driven by a mix of desperation and curiosity, I let my hand slide lower, reaching past his waistline… In an instant, his breathing hitched, turning harsh and heavy. My face burned with shame, but I didn’t pull back. As bold as I had been over the past year, this particular area had always been an absolute off-limits zone. I had been terrified that if I exposed his secret, he would eliminate me to protect his pride. Suddenly, a scorching, incredibly massive ridge hardened violently beneath my fingertips, surging against my palm with undeniable force.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554432”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother owned a camera that could take pictures of the future. When I was born, she snapped a photograph of me and my older sister, Megan. In the picture, I was supposed to encounter a kidnapper years later. I escaped safely, but Megan died saving my life. From that day on, I became the family’s sinner. At mealtimes, I squatted in the corner of the kitchen, picking through Megan’s lukewarm leftovers. At night, I slept in the cramped utility closet right next to Megan’s princess-themed bedroom, so I’d be close enough to turn off her light, fold her clothes, and fetch her water whenever she called. The night I caught a fever, my head spun so badly I couldn’t hear Megan asking for a fresh glass of water. Mom dragged me out of bed and locked me outside the front door. “You’re going to cost your sister her life one day,” Mom snapped through the crack in the door. “The least you can do right now is serve her to pay off your debt.” “You’re just being lazy,” she added coldly. “Stand in the draft for a while. The cold wind will freeze that fever right out of you.” I stood outside in the dark hallway until dawn. I didn’t push the door open until it was time to start preparing Megan’s breakfast. That was when I overheard my parents speaking in the kitchen. “Margo, she’s only four years old,” Dad said softly. “Don’t you think you’re going a bit too far?” Mom let out a heavy sigh. “When we had Megan, we decided she would be our only child, blessed with our undivided love. Then Sadie came along by accident. We betrayed Megan the moment Sadie was born.” She paused, setting down a mug. “Making Sadie yield to Megan helps ease the guilt in my heart. Besides, it’s not like that camera actually predicts the future. Once Sadie grows up and realizes that photograph was photoshopped, we’ll start treating her normally.” My breath hitched. The photograph that had made my entire life a nightmare—the reason I had suffered every single day—was fake. I walked into the living room, my legs numb, staring blankly at the framed picture hanging on the wall. Suddenly, the figure in the photo moved. The masked kidnapper turned his head, his raspy voice echoing inside my small storage room. “Are you willing to die in place of your sister?” … The photograph was real after all. I really was going to meet the kidnapper. My eyes lit up, and I nodded frantically. “I am!” A dark, unsettling smile curled under the kidnapper’s mask. “In three days, I will come for your life.” The voice faded, and silence swallowed the closet again. The photograph hung on the wall, still and lifeless. But I knew everything in our house was about to change. In three days, I would be dead. Megan would return to being the adored, only child of the family. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to carry that heavy guilt anymore, and they wouldn’t have to feel like they were betraying Megan every time they looked at me. Overjoyed, I ran straight into Mom’s bedroom to share the wonderful news. “Mom! Mom! The man in the picture talked to me! He said I could die in Megan’s place, and I said yes!” I looked up at her, beaming. “You and Dad can give all your love to Megan now!” Mom didn’t look happy like I thought she would. She looked down at me, her brow furrowing into deep, angry lines. “What ridiculous nonsense are you spewing now? How could a piece of paper talk?” She shoved me aside. “Talking about dying first thing in the morning—do you have to bring such foul luck into this house? What if you curse your sister?” “I’m not making it up,” I whimpered, feeling a lump rise in my throat. She didn’t believe me. Just like last week, when Megan accidentally dropped a porcelain bowl and blamed it on me. I had tried to explain, but Mom called me a dirty little liar and struck me with the kitchen broom. My arm was still purple and green from the bruises. I opened my mouth to explain again, but my stomach let out a loud, hollow growl. From the time my fever started last night until now, I had been standing in the cold hallway without a single bite to eat. Holding my flat belly, I summoned every ounce of courage I had. “Mom… since I’m going to save Megan’s life soon, can I please have a piece of bread?” Whenever we sat down for meals, Mom always heaped the best dishes onto Megan’s plate, reminding me that Megan was my future savior, so I needed to eat less to show my gratitude. Afraid Mom would refuse, I pointed to the stale, half-eaten roll Megan had left on the table yesterday. “I can just eat that one. I’m really, really hungry.” Usually, whatever Megan didn’t finish was thrown straight into the trash. I had cried once, asking why good food was thrown away instead of given to me, but Mom had just glared at me with deep annoyance. “I bought those snacks for your sister. What she does with them is none of your business,” she had scolded. “Your sister is going to sacrifice her life for you one day, and here you are, picking fights over a few crumbs? Get into the utility room and think about what you’ve done, or I’ll give you something to cry about!” I stared longingly at the dry piece of bread. “Since I’m saving her now,” I thought, “maybe Mom will let me have it.” The next second, a hard palm cracked against my cheek. The force knocked me off my feet. I crashed onto the hardwood floor, my cheek burning red and a sharp ringing filling my ears. “You played this whole ghost story act just because you were greedy for food?” Mom towered over me, her voice shrill. “Every single day you try to steal from your sister! How many times do I have to tell you before it sinks into your stupid head?” When she saw the bright red mark on my face, Mom’s body stiffened slightly. Instinctively, her tone softened just a fraction. “Stop lying on the cold floor pretending to be hurt. If you’re hungry, hurry up and go make breakfast so it’s ready when your sister wakes up.” I stared at the dusty floorboards. None of it—not the food, not the love, not the kindness—would ever belong to me. Understanding that truth made a sharp ache blossom in my chest. At preschool, when the other children talked about their favorite candies, I never knew what to say. I didn’t have any friends. I wondered if I died and went to heaven, would I still have nothing to talk about with the other child ghosts? I tried to push myself up, but my arms felt like wet noodle ribbons. “Why are you still playing dead?” Mom growled. “I barely touched you. You’ve taken harder hits than that and bounced right back…” She grabbed my small arm to yank me up, her long acrylic nails digging deep into my skin. A sharp sting ran up my shoulder, but then she abruptly froze. She looked down at me, finally noticing something was wrong. “Why are you so hot?” I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, forcing my heavy eyelids open. “My head… it’s hurt since last night…” Mom let go of me like I had burned her. She grabbed the forehead thermometer from the nightstand and pressed it against my skin. The device let out a sharp, red warning beep. “104 degrees…” Mom muttered under her breath, a flash of genuine panic flickering in her eyes. Just then, Megan’s sweet voice drifted in from the hallway. “Mommy! I woke up all by myself today!” The worry on Mom’s face vanished instantly, replaced by a radiant, proud smile. “My precious girl! You are so amazing!” I envied Megan so much. She could sleep in until eight, brush her own teeth, and Mom would shower her with praise. But if I was even a few seconds slow getting dressed in the morning, Mom would snap at me, calling me an ungrateful brat who couldn’t even follow simple orders to serve my sister. “Wait in the living room, baby,” Mom called out sweetly. “Mommy’s coming to put you in your pretty dress.” Before stepping out, Mom cast a quick glance back at me. “Stay in this room and don’t come out, do you hear me? Don’t you dare pass your sick germs to your sister.” I gave a small nod, crawling onto the damp, mildewy mattress on the floor. It didn’t matter anyway. I didn’t have the strength to leave. I waited a long time, but Mom never came back to tell me what to do about the fever. Outside my door, the house was filled with the warm, joyous sounds of Mom, Dad, and Megan laughing together. Sometime later, a light knock sounded against the thin door of my closet. “Sadie, we’re taking Megan to the amusement park. Do you want to come?” It was Dad’s voice. From the hallway, Mom let out a sudden gasp. “Oh! I completely forgot Sadie was sick.” She pushed open the door, placing a glass of tap water and two pills on the small wooden crate I used as a nightstand. “She’ll be fine. She just needs to take this fever reducer and sleep it off.” Dad stepped inside, his brow furrowed with mild concern. “How high was her temperature? Maybe we should take her to the urgent care clinic first.” Mom shook her head impatiently. “Megan has her dance recital at the park today. She practiced all night. If we cancel now, our sweet girl will be heartbroken. Do you really want to ruin her special day?” Megan’s tearful, whining voice echoed from the living room. “Daddy, I rehearsed a solo dance just for you and Mommy! I want to go!” I swallowed the bitter pills with a gulp of water, feeling heavier and sleepier by the second. I tried hard to stay awake, forcing out a small whisper. “Daddy… take Megan to play. Sadie is okay.” If I ruined Megan’s mood, Mom would punish me later. Dad hesitated, looking down at me, but Mom was already tossing his coat over his shoulders. “Let’s go, we’re going to be late. We’ll just come back early and take Sadie to the clinic then. Sadie, stay home and be a good girl. Mommy will buy you a pretty dress on the way back.” The closet in Megan’s room was packed with beautiful dresses. Whenever Megan wore them, she would twirl around in front of me, the colorful skirts flaring out like a fairy’s wings in a cartoon. I was only allowed to wear Megan’s old, outgrown clothes. But even those were far too big for my tiny frame, hanging off me like loose flour sacks. I remembered how nervous I used to get, tugging at the oversized fabric to make it fit better, while Megan pointed at me and laughed hysterically. Once, I couldn’t resist the temptation. While Megan was taking an afternoon nap, I secretly slipped into one of her frilly pink dresses. I stood in front of the mirror, pretending that I was a little princess held in the palms of my parents’ hands, just like Megan. Mom had caught me. She flew into a terrifying rage, pulling off Dad’s leather belt and whipping me until my skin bled. She shouted that I was a born thief, that I’d grow up to rob banks and end up shot dead by the police. She reminded me, over and over, that Megan was going to lay down her life for me, and that I was a horrible monster for betraying her. It was Dad who had woken up later, snatched the belt away, and carried me to the emergency room when I couldn’t stand up anymore. I lay back down on my damp mattress, a tiny smile touching my lips. “Bye, Mommy. Bye, Daddy. I love pretty dresses. I want the blue one with the small flowers, just like Megan’s.” Mom gave a relieved nod and turned away. Dad lingered at the doorway, looking at me with a complicated expression, but he didn’t say anything. He picked Megan up in his arms and walked out. The front door clicked shut. I closed my eyes and fell fast asleep. When I woke up again, it was because my stomach felt like it was tearing itself apart from hunger. I slid off the bed, intending to creep into the kitchen, only to find the closet door locked from the outside. Mom didn’t want me coming out. She was afraid I’d contaminate the house. I searched around the small room until my eyes landed on the trash can in the corner. Inside was a plastic cup containing a few sips of spoiled boba tea. Megan hadn’t finished it yesterday. Mom had tossed it into my room’s trash so the smell wouldn’t bother Megan in the main living space. Usually, I took out all the heavy trash bags every morning when I left for preschool. But today, because of the fever, I hadn’t been allowed out. I carefully picked up the plastic cup. I remembered Mom always telling Megan that eating spoiled food would make her sick. “Does that mean I shouldn’t drink this?” But I quickly pushed the thought away. I ate leftover food that had been sitting out for days all the time, and I was fine. I put the straw to my mouth and took a sip. It tasted sharp and sour, like something fermenting. I winced, my face twisting at the horrible flavor. But as it went down, there was a faint, lingering hit of sugar. I hadn’t tasted anything sweet in so long. I didn’t hesitate anymore. I gulped down the rest of the liquid until the cup was completely empty. With my stomach no longer completely hollow, I lay back down on the bed to wait for Mom. Before Mom came back, the stomach pain hit. It was a sharp, searing pain that made me curl into a tight ball. I clutched my stomach, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I tapped the screen of the cheap kid’s smartwatch on my wrist to dial Mom’s number. I almost never called her. Last year, on Megan’s birthday, Mom took her to the store to buy a smartwatch. The store was running a promotion: buy one, get a basic model for twenty dollars. The clerk talked Mom into it, and Mom grudgingly paid the extra money, tossing the cheaper watch at me. “Look how good your sister is to you,” Mom had grumbled. “She’s saving your life in the future, and now you get a watch because of her. You can keep it on so when your sister wants a snack or water while you girls are playing, she can just call you. But don’t you dare place random calls yourself. I’m not wasting money on your phone bill.” I knew Mom’s money was reserved for Megan. Every single day after work, Mom brought home a little gift for Megan, never missing a day. The phone rang for a long time before someone finally picked up. The background was loud and chaotic—cheering crowds and merry-go-round music. They were still at the park. Mom’s voice was sharp with irritation. “Didn’t I tell you to stay home? If you don’t feel good, take the medicine!” “Your sister is finally performing on stage and you’re calling to ruin her moment? Is this how you repay her for saving your life?” My lips trembled, cold sweat pouring down my forehead. “But Mommy… my tummy hurts so bad…” “What? Speak up!” Mom yelled over the noise. I didn’t have the energy to scream. I tried again, my voice barely a squeak. “Mommy…” “It’s too loud out here, I can’t hear a word!” she cut me off impatiently. “Just tough it out. We’ll head home after your sister’s show… David! Hurry, get a photo of Megan!” “Click.” The line went dead. When I tried to dial back, an automated female voice informed me the phone was switched off. I tried calling Dad’s phone, but nobody answered. Maybe he couldn’t hear it over the noise. I didn’t want to be a burden anymore. Shaking, I crawled out of bed and found the remaining blister pack of pills Mom had left on the crate. But my stomach hurt even worse now. “Is it because I didn’t take enough?” Mom had said to take medicine if I felt sick. I had to be a good girl and listen to Mom. I popped all the tiny capsules out of their foil slots. Since there was no water left, I forced them down my dry throat one by one. The medicine was so bitter. Tears spilled down my cheeks. I dragged myself back to the mattress. My vision blurred, and the sharp pain in my stomach gradually faded into a dull, distant numbness. Darkness crept in from the edges of my eyes, and I lost consciousness completely. …… When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a hospital bed. Mom was sitting by my bedside, her eyes bloodshot and swollen. “You ungrateful little brat!” she hissed the moment she saw me blink. “We leave you home for one single day, and you take a whole bottle of pills to threaten us?” “Your sister is willing to lay down her life for you, and you can’t even stand to see her have one happy day?” I clutched my dull, aching stomach, shaking my head with all the strength I had left. “No… I want Megan to be happy. I already agreed to let the kidnapper take me instead. I’m the one who’s going to die…” “Shut your mouth!” Mom grabbed a glass off the nightstand and slammed it violently against the floor. Shattered glass sprayed everywhere. “I sat by your bed for an entire day, and the first thing you say when you wake up is that you want to die?” “Then go die right now!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Go ahead! That way your sister won’t have to! I never wanted you in the first place—having Megan is more than enough for me!” “Margo!” Dad roared from the doorway. Mom snapped her mouth shut, turning her back to me to wipe away her tears. When she turned around, her face was cold and detached once again. “We need to go home and make dinner for Megan,” she told Dad, her voice lifeless. “Let’s go. The doctors are monitoring her anyway.” “If we aren’t home tonight, Megan will be scared.” Dad picked up his car keys, looking down at me briefly. “Sadie, if you feel bad, press the call button or dial our phones.” “We’ll come see you tomorrow after we drop Megan off at school.” I gave a small nod. I was used to spending the nights alone. I wouldn’t be scared. I just guessed that Mom had forgotten about the blue dress she promised me again. …… Early the next morning. A stranger suddenly appeared in my room. He wore a dark tactical mask over his face, looking exactly like the kidnapper from the photograph. “The three days are up,” his voice rumbled. “Have you really made up your mind?” My voice was weak, but firm. “Yes.” The only regret I had was that in my short four years, I had never tasted a delicious snack or worn a pretty dress that was truly mine. The man reached out, his hand resting gently against my throat. In an instant, my body dissolved into thin air. The hospital bed was empty, save for the old photograph resting on the white sheet. Mom and Dad walked into the room carrying a breakfast container, arriving just in time to see the air swallow me whole. “Sadie!” Mom screamed, lunging forward to grab the photograph off the bed. The kidnapper was still in the picture. But the positions had changed. I was the one lying on the cold ground under the sharp blade, covered in bright red blood. Megan stood off to the side, completely unharmed. “Sadie…” Mom’s face drained of all color in a fraction of a second. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the floor.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554449”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My ex-husband was on the phone, begging me to save his son. His opening line was a thirty-million-dollar offer. Even after fifteen years, I recognized David’s voice instantly. “You’re just a academic,” he said, his tone as insufferably arrogant as ever. “Could you make thirty million in a lifetime?” Fifteen years ago, David decided I wasn’t pretty enough or rich enough. Worse, he couldn’t stand our chronically ill daughter, viewing her medical bills as an anchor dragging him down. So he walked out and married into old money. Then, when his new wife’s child needed a heart, David took our daughter’s. I spent the next decade and a half buried in research, driven by a quiet, burning obsession. I finally conquered the hereditary degenerative gene disease that had rendered me helpless as a young mother. I published my findings, offering full technical protocols to any patient in need, free of charge. Until the boy who stole my daughter’s heart was diagnosed with the exact same condition. When David submitted a request for my treatment protocols, I tore the paperwork to shreds and rejected him on the spot. On the phone, his voice bristled with entitlement. “Name your price. We don’t need your charity. As long as my son recovers, no amount is too much.” I let out a cold laugh, staring at the framed photograph of my late daughter resting on my desk. “Anyone else,” I whispered. “Never him.” … The second I hung up, I submitted my resignation. And I demanded to take the proprietary gene-recombination protocols with me. Mark, the head of the research facility, sat behind his mahogany desk, his mouth slightly agape. “Dr. Sullivan, that boy meets every single criteria for your free technical support program,” Mark said, his voice laced with disbelief. “Why are you refusing him? And why walk away with the technology now?” I kept my face entirely impassive. “Mark, my only condition when I partnered with this institute was that I retained one hundred percent authority over the gene-recombination technology. I know my refusal puts the institute in a difficult position with high-profile donors. That’s why I’m leaving.” I laid my formal resignation letter on the blotter and turned to walk out. Behind me, Mark’s voice rose in frustration. “You’ve approved every single patient without hesitation. Why is this boy any different?” I didn’t turn around. “Because it’s him,” I answered silently. “Only him.” My mind drifted back to the formal medical request David had submitted—the desperate, blood-soaked entreaties typed onto heavy cardstock. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I rushed into the executive restroom and dry-heaved over a porcelain sink. David Vaughn calling himself a father who would give everything for his child? It was laughable. It was sickening. Years ago, when he abandoned me for lack of money, I didn’t hold a grudge. When he resented our sick daughter, I told myself that prolonged illness wears down even the strongest bonds. I didn’t curse him then. But he sacrificed my little girl to save another woman’s child. Back then, he had looked me in the eye and said, “Joy was going to die anyway. Giving up her heart means saving a life.” I splashed ice-cold water over my face. Turning off the faucet, I looked into the mirror, but the cold water did nothing to extinguish the rage burning inside my chest. In this world, I would save anyone. Except them. Holding a box of my personal belongings, I walked out through the main gates of the institute. Engine roaring, a crimson sports car suddenly slammed its accelerator, barreling straight toward me. I couldn’t dodge in time. My foot caught on the curb, and I tumbled hard onto the asphalt. The car screeched to a halt less than two feet from my legs. The driver’s side window slid down, revealing a face etched with cruel amusement. “I told you on the phone, Dr. Sullivan. Refusing to save my son won’t end well for you.” I would know that voice anywhere. David. Seeing him again after fifteen years made my fingers clench into tight, trembling fists. He didn’t even bother getting out of the car. He sat behind the leather wheel, dripping with arrogance. “The board just ousted you,” he sneered. “I wrote the institute a check for thirty million. My son will be receiving the gene-recombination therapy tomorrow.” He leaned closer to the window, his eyes narrowing. “As for a heartless doctor like you who lets a child suffer—I’ve made sure no medical institution in Seattle will ever employ you again. You’ll be driven out of this city like a stray dog.” I let out a low, dry laugh as I pulled myself up off the pavement. “Is that so? Then I wish your son a speedy recovery.” Hearing my voice, David paused. He stared at me intently, his eyes tracing the contours of my face. But in the end, he didn’t recognize me. A severe chemical exposure in the lab years ago had severely burned my face, leaving it swollen for nearly a year. By the time the skin healed, my features had completely altered. And my name had changed, too. David stroked his chin, confused by the unfamiliar face, before trying a different angle. “Dr. Sullivan, I hear you’ve been looking to buy a specific burial plot overlooking the ocean, but the current owners refuse to sell.” He paused, a smug smile touching his lips. “I also hear your late daughter wished to rest near the water. We bought that plot for you. Save my son, and you can finally fulfill your daughter’s dying wish.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. He had actually dug into my past. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have taken Joy to see the ocean while she was still breathing. What use was an empty piece of land now? “Mr. Vaughn,” I said, my voice dripping with disdain. “You certainly go to great lengths for an adopted son.” “I have always considered him my flesh and blood,” David snapped, his voice tight. “Try to understand a father’s heart, Dr. Sullivan. I would tear the world apart for him.” “Tear the world apart?” It was sickening. Watching David’s eyes turn slightly bloodshot with dramatic emotion, I felt the thin thread of my sanity fraying. If I stayed here a second longer, I would strangle him with my bare hands. “Never,” I spat out, turning on my heel and walking away. That evening, my phone buzzed again. It was David. He was breathing heavily, his voice trembling with unbridled rage. “Hannah Sullivan! You’re a medical researcher—how can your heart be this cold? You’d rather ruin your career than save a boy? You took the technology and walked away—are you trying to let my son die?” I let out a cold smirk. “Mr. Vaughn, instead of wasting your breath yelling at me, you ought to look for another way to save him. He wasn’t diagnosed until fifteen. At that age, the genetic mutation spreads dozens of times faster than in toddlers. By now, he can’t even swallow solid food on his own, can he?” David gritted his teeth, his tone lethal. “Just you wait.” I hung up and brushed the call aside. Yet early the next morning, I received a call from Professor Reynolds. He had been my mentor during my doctorate studies, a legendary figure in genetic research who had long since retired and rarely meddled in institutional affairs. For him to reach out directly meant David had pulled massive strings. I walked into Professor Reynolds’ home study. Sitting opposite him was a woman draped in an immaculate designer suit. She turned around, her sharp eyes sweeping over me with cold evaluation. “Dr. Sullivan, let me introduce you,” Professor Reynolds said gently. “This is Victoria Prescott, CEO of Prescott Capital.” David’s wealthy wife. I had seen her face in financial journals over the years. Professor Reynolds started to say more, but Victoria cut him off with a swift wave of her manicured hand. “Dr. Sullivan, let’s skip the pleasantries. Fifty million, wired directly to your personal account. Save my son.” Money really was power in her world. Just like years ago, when she wanted a matching heart for her boy, she simply reached out and took another child’s life. Unfortunately for her, I didn’t care about money. “Mrs. Prescott, save your breath. I can’t help your son.” “Eighty million,” she countered immediately, her eyes locking onto mine. “Plus a hundred million in direct funding for your next private research project. I hear you’ve been looking for backers.” The offer was so absurdly generous that even Professor Reynolds looked visibly shaken. He stepped forward and tapped my arm gently. “Hannah, that boy is Victoria’s whole world. He was born with severe congenital heart disease and barely survived infancy. They finally found a matching donor for a transplant, and now this genetic nightmare hits him.” He searched my eyes. “Have a heart for a grieving parent. You used to be the most empathetic researcher I knew.” I pulled my arm back from Professor Reynolds’ touch, keeping my voice as level as possible. “I can’t save him. I’ve left the institute, and I am stepping away from medicine permanently.” Professor Reynolds frowned deeply. Victoria stood up from her leather chair, the cutthroat instinct honed by decades in corporate boardrooms radiating from her. “You “can’t” save him, or you “won’t”?” she demanded, her voice dropping an octave. “You offer this technology to complete strangers for free, yet when it comes to my son, you make endless excuses. You are doing this on purpose!” Her knuckles turned white as she clenched her fists. I let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Mrs. Prescott, money can’t buy everything. Fate has a way of balancing the scales.” I stepped closer, meeting her gaze. “Years ago, you bought a heart with money. Today, no amount of cash will buy my technology.” Victoria went completely still. Her eyes narrowed into deadly slits, probing my face. “Dr. Sullivan,” she said softly, a dangerous edge to her words. “You’re just a bookworm who spends her life in a lab. Do you have any idea what happens to people who cross me?” I tugged at the corner of my mouth. “I don’t. But instead of wasting your time threatening me, you should probably spend it buying him another miracle.” Victoria swept out of the office, her heels clicking angrily against the hardwood floor. Silence settled over the study. Professor Reynolds looked at me, his expression torn. “Hannah, what is going on with you? Saving lives was the whole reason you developed this therapy.” He paused, searching my face. “Do you have a personal vendetta against Mrs. Prescott? Or against that boy?” I took a quiet breath. “Both.” I knew David wouldn’t let it go. The next afternoon, he cornered me outside my apartment building. “Dr. Sullivan!” He bowed his head low the moment he saw me. “I was out of line last time. I apologize. Please, I beg you, save my son.” I walked past him without a word. “I made myself clear to Mrs. Prescott.” As I reached the street, David let out a desperate shout: “Dr. Sullivan! I’m begging you!” He rushed forward and threw himself onto his knees right beside my feet. The tears came on cue. Instantly, a crowd of reporters and photographers—clearly tipped off in advance—swarmed from behind the parked vans, lenses trained directly on us. “Dr. Sullivan, please, save my boy!” David sobbed, his voice carrying down the street. “He’s only fifteen. I can’t sit here and watch him die!” He looked up at the cameras, his face twisted in agonized grief. “Everyone calls you a saint! You never turn down a patient who asks for help. Why are you letting my son die?” He slammed his hands onto the pavement. “I’ll kneel, I’ll beg, I’ll be your servant—just save him!” He made a grand gesture of bowing his head toward the concrete. I took three quick steps back, watching his performance with cold disgust. I caught the subtle glance he threw toward the camera crew behind him. A second later, the media pack descended on me like vultures. “Dr. Sullivan, why won’t you treat this child? Is it because they didn’t offer enough money?” “Is your ‘charity work’ just a publicity stunt to build your brand? If you’re so compassionate, why leave this father to suffer?” “Refusing care when you hold the cure is morally monstrous! You’re essentially committing murder!” Facing the barrage of hostility, I dropped a single sentence before pushing through the crowd: “I have resigned. What happens to patients is no longer my responsibility.” By the next morning, photos of David kneeling on the pavement had exploded across news outlets and social media. My quote was plastered across major headlines, framed as the cold-hearted demand of a greedy scientist trying to extort the Prescott family. The internet tore me apart, labeling me a fraud, a hypocrite, and a monster trading on human life. Mark pounded furiously on my front door later that afternoon. “Hannah, what do you actually want? Just tell me!” he pleaded, his voice ragged with anxiety. “Do you have any idea what people are saying about you? About our institute?” He paced my small living room. “No PR firm will touch this. Public opinion is entirely against you! You spent fifteen years building a flawless reputation—do you really want to end up an outcast?” I looked out the window at the paparazzi parked down the street, my answer unchanged. “I won’t do it.” Mark left in a fury. Professor Reynolds came by later, offered a long, heavy sigh, and left as well. Alone in the quiet apartment, I brushed my fingers over the framed photograph of my daughter. I swore to her in the silence of the room: No matter what they did, I would never save that boy. David needed to taste the exact, unadulterated hell he had put me through. I just didn’t realize how filthy his tactics would get. Late that evening, David sent me a text, instructing me to open an attached video link. As the video loaded, a cold dread crept up my spine. “Dr. Sullivan,” David’s voice echoed from the speaker. “I heard your daughter died of the exact same disease. I thought I’d pay her a visit today.” In the frame, David and Victoria stood inside the wrought-iron gates of Blue Ridge Cemetery, right in front of Joy’s small marble headstone. Behind them stood several men holding shovels and power drills. David stood under an umbrella, a sneer twisting his face. “I just wanted to save my son, Dr. Sullivan. But you refused to play nice. So don’t blame me for what happens next.” He tilted the camera toward the headstone. “You might not know this, but Blue Ridge Cemetery is owned by a subsidiary of Prescott Capital. If you’re heartless enough to let my son die, I have no problem digging up your daughter.” Panic seized my chest. I ran to my car, my hands shaking so violently I could barely fit the key into the ignition. I dialed David’s number as I sped toward the highway. He didn’t pick up until the third call. “David!” I screamed into the receiver. “If you touch my daughter’s grave, so help me God—” There was a brief pause on the line. He sounded startled by the way I addressed him. “Dr. Sullivan, if you won’t save my son, I don’t have many options left.” Victoria took the phone from him. Her voice was icy and controlled. “Agree to perform the procedure, and I’ll order them to stop immediately. I’ll even deed that oceanfront plot to your little girl.” “We are both mothers, Hannah,” she added smoothly. “I save my son, and you fulfill your daughter’s memory. Isn’t that a win-win?” “A win-win?” When my daughter was cremated, her tiny body didn’t even have a heart inside it. With proper care, Joy could have survived long enough for me to complete the gene-recombination research. She could have lived to be fifteen, twenty-five, thirty-five… And these monsters stole her life so their boy could thrive. How could I ever say yes? Why should I? I slammed the phone down, pulled over, and hastily pulled up a contact in my phone—a former investigative journalist turned independent media broadcaster. “Dr. Sullivan? You’re the biggest story in the country right now—” “Do you want to know why I refused to save that child?” I cut in, my voice dead serious. “Are you offering an exclusive? When? Where?” “Blue Ridge Cemetery,” I said. “Go live right now.” My contact moved fast. By the time my car screeched to a halt at the cemetery gates, his crew had already deployed their mobile streaming gear. The notification had gone viral instantly. Dozens of local reporters and independent streamers had scrambled to the location, their cameras pointed at the scene. I sprinted down the paved path toward Joy’s burial site. Ahead, David was holding his phone, recording as a worker pushed Joy’s headstone, topping it into the grass. My friend’s livestream room hit hundreds of thousands of viewers in seconds. “What the hell? They’re desecrating a grave? Who does that headstone belong to?” “Is that the doctor’s kid? I heard her daughter was buried here.” “Serves her right for letting a child die for money. Her kid probably can’t rest in peace anyway…” I walked slowly toward the couple, the crowd of cameras following my every step. I pointed directly at the faded picture of the little girl on the fallen stone, my voice echoing cold across the cemetery. “David Vaughn. It’s been fifteen years—do you really not recognize your own daughter?” “Have you forgotten how you stole her heart and handed it to Victoria Prescott’s son?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554433”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the eve of our honeymoon, Garrett suddenly canceled our flights to Svalbard and rebooked everything for Egypt. I was standing in the middle of an outdoor gear store, holding a heavy down parka, when the automated confirmation text flashed on my phone screen. Before I could even process the notification, Garrett’s call came through. His voice carried that familiar, detached composure. “Mallory said she wants sunshine,” he said smoothly. “The Arctic is too cold for her.” I looked down at the receipt in my hand. The transaction for the cold-weather jacket had just gone through. A heavy silence settled between us. Mallory was my cousin. She was also Garrett’s first love. “Cass,” Garrett said, his tone softening in a rare effort to soothe me. “Mallory saved my life back in the day. If it weren’t for her, I might not even be standing here. Be reasonable. I’ll take you to the Arctic next time.” A bitter taste spread across my tongue. Three years ago, Mallory had casually handed him a packet of over-the-counter cold medicine when he was running a fever—a gesture Garrett had managed to canonize into an insurmountable life debt. Meanwhile, I had spent three months pleading with him just to secure this honeymoon, only for him to alter our destination at a single word from her. A sudden, dull exhaustion washed over me. “Okay,” I whispered. I hung up, turned around, and placed the down jacket back on the display rack. “Ma’am?” the cashier called out, looking at me in confusion. “Are you not taking the jacket?” I offered a small, polite smile and shook my head. “No. I don’t need it anymore.” I didn’t need the jacket. And I didn’t need Garrett anymore, either. … The moment I stepped out of the shopping center, a light rain began to fall from the overcast sky. The damp, chilly air made me exhale in subconscious relief. But as soon as I caught myself feeling grateful for the gloom, my steps faltered. There was a time when I loved the sun, too. Five years ago, to help Garrett gather field research data for his breakthrough biology dissertation, I spent six months tracking desert lizards under the unforgiving sun of the Mojave. That half-year left me with severe photodermatitis and irreversible skin damage. Since then, direct sunlight had become my body’s worst enemy. I remembered how Garrett—always so controlled, so emotionally distant—had touched my peeling, raw skin with trembling fingers, his eyes red with unspoken anguish. “Cass,” he had whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I swear on my life, I will never let you down.” In the five years we had been together, that was the first time Garrett had ever expressed such fierce, undivided affection. I was so overwhelmed with joy that I completely brushed off the dermatologist’s somber warning that I could never stand under a clear sky again. Back then, in my foolishness, I wore those permanent scars like a badge of honor—proof of my love. Now, standing in ninety-degree summer heat wrapped head-to-toe in heavy, UV-protective layers, I felt utterly pathetic. Garrett had probably forgotten all about it. That was why he had so carelessly allowed Mallory to pick Egypt—a place where the ultraviolet radiation would effectively trap me indoors. Ten years of devotion, reduced to nothing against Mallory’s simple preference. The rain began to fall heavier. I hadn’t brought an umbrella, so I waited under the awning for a ride-share. Half an hour passed, but no drivers accepted the request. My phone screen remained parked on Garrett’s contact page, but I never pressed call. It wasn’t pettiness. It was simply that over all these years, Garrett almost never picked up my calls anyway. His phone was permanently set to Silent, except for a custom alert list that bypassed his settings. And the only person on that priority list was Mallory. I used to cry about it. I used to confront him. But he would only knit his brows in irritation and say, “Cass, you know the nature of my research. It’s inconvenient to take calls. Just leave a text on messaging, and I’ll reply when I see it.” My grievances were always buried beneath his dismissive, logical tone. On our anniversary two years ago, a sudden bout of acute gastroenteritis had left me curled on the floor in unbearable pain. I had instinctively dialed his number, only to be met with his cold, automated voicemail. By the time a kind neighbor found me and rushed me to the emergency room, I woke up in a hospital bed to a text from him: “Didn’t I tell you not to call? Leave a message if it’s important.” So, I slowly learned to stop calling. I learned to eat alone, sleep alone, and navigate hospital hallways alone. Even our wedding photos had to be digitally composited by the photographer because Garrett missed the appointment due to a last-minute lab emergency. A sharp honk pulled me back from my thoughts. I looked up and saw a familiar black sedan idling near the curb. It was Garrett’s car. And sitting in the passenger seat was Mallory. “Cass!” Mallory rolled down her window, waving enthusiastically at me before playfully nudging Garrett’s shoulder. “See? I told you she was still here! You insisted she’d already left. If I hadn’t made you drive over, she would’ve gotten completely soaked!” She turned to Garrett, teasing, “Go get my sister! Do you want me to beat you up?” Garrett let out a soft laugh, reaching over to fondle Mallory’s hair with fond indulgence. But when his gaze shifted toward me through the rain, his brow immediately furrowed. “The rain’s getting heavy,” he called out through the open window, his tone clipped. “Just run over.” Mallory frowned at him. “What are you doing? She’ll get drenched!” “She’s wearing enough layers,” Garrett replied indifferently. “She’ll be fine.” I stood silently under the awning, watching the cozy, comfortable chemistry between them inside the dry vehicle. A young woman standing beside me, also waiting out the storm, sighed in quiet envy. “Your sister is so sweet,” she murmured to me. “Having her boyfriend come pick you up in the rain like that.” A sharp, suffocating ache twisted in my chest. The humiliation was so acute I wanted to turn and run, but my feet felt glued to the pavement. “She’s sweet, alright,” I said softly, not looking at the stranger’s startled face. “Except the man in the driver’s seat is my husband.” Without waiting for her reaction, I stepped out into the pouring rain. Throughout the drive, Mallory chattered endlessly about her travels. As a moderately successful travel blogger, she was adept at uncovering off-the-beaten-path destinations. Early on, she used to invite me along, but my demanding corporate job made it difficult to take spontaneous time off. After I declined a few times, she stopped asking. Then, a week later, Garrett began appearing in her travel photos. That was the first time I had ever truly fought with Garrett. “Why does your mind always have to be so filthy?” he had snapped, his eyes flashing with disgust. “Mallory is your cousin. Do you honestly think something is going on between us? Cass, stop making a scene. You are exhausting me.” The look of profound irritation on his face back then had cut me to the bone, making all my valid questions feel absurd. I couldn’t understand why, in all our years together, Garrett had never once taken a vacation with me. Every time I eagerly took leave and planned an itinerary, he would cancel at the last minute citing lab priorities. I had complained, but I had always forced myself to be understanding of his career. Yet, Mallory was always the exception. “Cass, why aren’t you saying anything?” Mallory’s playful voice brought me back to the present. I looked out the window and realized the car had pulled up in front of a high-end luxury boutique. “Cass, what is wrong with you now?” Garrett’s scolding voice broke in, sharp with displeasure. “Mallory is talking to you. Can’t you hear her?” “Garrett, don’t,” Mallory chimed in softly. “Cass is probably just tired.” She turned back toward me, offering a sweet smile. “Cass, Garrett said my top got a little wet from the rain, so he wants to take me inside to pick out a new shirt. Do you want to come in with us?” She dabbed at a few imperceptible drops of water on her collar, her tone dripping with subtle coyness. “Don’t bother with her,” Garrett said, shooting me a cold, dismissive glance in the rearview mirror. “She’s throwing another one of her princess tantrums, expecting everyone to cater to her.” He pulled a soft tissue from the box and carefully dabbed at the faint dampness on Mallory’s hairline, his touch remarkably tender. “If we hadn’t stopped to pick her up, you wouldn’t have gotten wet in the first place. Let’s go get you changed before you catch a cold.” Mallory gave an embarrassed giggle. “Well… alright. Cass, if you change your mind, come inside. Garrett and I will be waiting.” They got out, and the engine cut off. I sat alone in the backseat, wearing my damp, heavy clothes, watching them walk into the boutique arm in arm. With the engine off, the air conditioning quickly died. The sweltering nineties heat outside, combined with the humid rain, rapidly turned the interior of the car into a suffocating sauna. Within minutes, sweat drenched my skin all over again, mixing painfully with the damp fabric of my clothes. I reached for the door handle to get out, only to find that Garrett had locked the doors from the outside. I pulled out my phone and sent Garrett a message: “When are you coming back?” Ten minutes passed. No reply. I sent another text. Still, silence. After thirty minutes of suffocating in the trapped heat, my pulse began to race with heat exhaustion. I dialed emergency services. When the police officer managed to unlock the car and pull me out, Garrett was just strolling back toward the vehicle, holding an umbrella over Mallory. I was soaked through with sweat, my limbs trembling as the female officer supported my weight. “Cass, are you out of your mind?” Garrett’s voice was icy as he approached. Mallory looked at the broken window in shock. “Cass, if you wanted to come inside to buy clothes, you could have just texted Garrett! Why did you have to call the police on Garrett’s car? This is an official vehicle assigned by his research institute!” It took me a long moment to clear the dizziness from my vision. I raised my head and looked at Garrett, who was still instinctively sheltering Mallory under his umbrella. A hollow laugh escaped my lips. “Did you really think I didn’t text you?” Garrett’s expression froze. His hand tightened around his phone. He knew he had seen the notifications—he had simply chosen to ignore them. The female officer’s face darkened as she looked at them both. “Leaving someone locked inside a sealed vehicle in this heat can be fatal!” she scolded sharply. “As family, do you have no basic common sense?” Mallory’s face paled slightly, and she cast a nervous glance at Garrett. For the first time, a flicker of genuine guilt crossed Garrett’s eyes. He took a step toward me, reaching out a hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Cass, I… I didn’t check my messages in time…” I pulled back, avoiding his touch entirely. I didn’t offer a single word of explanation to him. I simply thanked the officer softly and stepped into the back of the police cruiser. By the time I finished making my statement at the station and returned home, it was past eight in the evening. The house was pitch black. Garrett had likely gone back to the research institute. In our ten years together, aside from occasional visits to see our parents, he spent almost all his time in the lab. After taking a hot shower, I gathered my damp clothes to throw them into the washing machine. As I emptied the hamper, a pair of black lace underwear fell onto the floor. It wasn’t mine. Because of my severe skin sensitivities, I hadn’t been able to wear anything other than pure, un-dyed cotton for years. At that exact moment, voices echoed from the hallway outside the master bathroom. “Garrett, I think I left my underwear here last time? Did you see it?” “If you dropped it, it’s gone. I’ll buy you new ones…” “Stop it! You didn’t keep it, did you?” “Do I look like a pervert to you?” “Please, you were way more shameless than that when we were in bed…” I froze, my hand clutching the wet clothes so tightly my knuckles turned white. My gaze locked onto the sliver of light beneath the bathroom door. My heart felt as though it were being crushed under a heavy weight, making it impossible to breathe. “Enough, Mallory,” Garrett’s voice came through, laced with a clear cough. “Stop playing around. We broke up years ago. Cass is my wife now.” His words sparked a faint, treacherous flicker of hope in my chest. Did he still care about me? Was I still his priority? But Mallory’s tone instantly dropped into a cold, sharp blade. “You only got close to Cass in the first place to make me jealous and force me back to you, didn’t you? Professor Mercer, don’t tell me you actually fell in love with her?” The blood drained from my face. Memories flooded back—specifically, the night Garrett had confessed to me in college. We had attended the same university. I was an English major, while he was the celebrated prodigy of the Department of Biological Sciences. With his striking looks and brilliant academic record, he was the quiet obsession of half the women on campus. I had been one of them, though I never entertained the foolish dream that our paths would cross. Until one night during my sophomore year, when I found him stumbling drunk near an off-campus bar district. Driven by a quiet, hidden devotion, I had managed to pull him into a nearby hotel, staying by his bedside through the night to make sure he didn’t choke. When he woke up the next morning, he looked at my exhausted, anxious eyes and suddenly smiled. He was breathtaking when he smiled. I had been so spellbound that I barely heard the words coming out of his mouth. I just nodded blankly. It wasn’t until he leaned in and kissed my forehead that I snapped out of my trance, pushing him back with a bright red face. “What’s wrong?” he had murmured softly. “My little girlfriend?” That was how it started. I should have asked questions; I should have been confused. But my heart was so full of naive joy that I simply buried my head and accepted it. It wasn’t until much later that I learned the truth: he had officially broken up with his first love—Mallory—that very afternoon. His heartbreak, his rare display of vulnerability—it had all been because of Mallory. He had approached me, asked me out, solely because my facial structure bore a thirty percent resemblance to hers. And his subsequent coldness over the years was simply because my personality was nothing like hers. Mallory was vibrant, demanding, and dramatic. I was quiet, steady, and mundane. I was never her. “If you’ve really fallen for her, I’ll leave right now,” Mallory’s voice snapped, sharp with anger at Garrett’s sudden silence. “I’ll disappear from your life forever!” A sharp slap echoed through the hallway, followed by her furious tone. “In that case, I wish you and my sister a long and happy marriage!” She turned to leave. Garrett instinctively grabbed her wrist, his voice taking on a desperate, pleading note. “Mallory, you know that’s not…” Through the gap in the doorway, I watched Garrett—a man who had always been so proud, so emotionally distant in front of me—bow his head, carefully soothing Mallory with frantic humility. And I, his newly wedded wife, was hiding in the shadows like a trespasser in my own home. What had I been to him all these years? A wave of bitter humiliation washed over me, urging me to burst out and confront them both. But cold, harsh logic pulled me back. What would confronting them achieve? It would only be another opportunity for them to humiliate me. I pulled out my phone and composed a text to a family law attorney: “Hello. I need your assistance in drafting a divorce agreement.” I had finally seen the truth. Ten years of my life, wasted on a shadow. By early the next morning, the attorney sent over the draft. “Ms. Callahan, given that your spouse has been unfaithful during the marriage, you are legally entitled to claim a significantly larger share of the marital assets. Are you sure you only want a fifty-percent split?” “I’m sure,” I replied. To give Garrett credit, he had never been stingy with money. Outside of his endless hours at the research institute, he appeared to be an ideal partner on paper. Gift boxes arrived predictably on every major holiday, and whenever my parents fell ill, he would send high-end wellness supplements to their house. He maintained a squeamish distance from other women at work, even bluntly turning down a junior researcher who had confessed to him at the lab. To an outsider, he was a flawless partner. But I knew the truth now. The holiday gifts were managed through an automated store subscription he had set up years ago—always flowers and the exact same silver necklace. I had received nearly twenty identical necklaces over the years. And his “attentiveness” toward my parents only occurred because their town happened to be on the driving route to the resorts he visited with Mallory. I had known all of it deep down. I had tried to walk away before, but every time I pulled back, he would offer a sudden, fleeting glimpse of tenderness that re-ignited my foolish hopes. Now, my hope was entirely exhausted. The day before our scheduled departure for Egypt, I texted Garrett, asking to meet at a quiet coffee shop near our old campus. For the first time in ten years, he replied instantly with a single word: “Okay.” A small, stupid ripple went through my heart, only to be crushed when I sat alone in that coffee shop for seven hours, leaving only when the barista politely informed me they were closing for the night. The signed divorce agreement remained in my bag, undelivered. That night, I hired a moving crew to clear out every single item I owned from the apartment. Two years ago, my company had established an overseas division in London and had repeatedly offered me a transfer to lead the team there. I had turned it down time and again because I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Garrett. Last week, I submitted my application. Given my credentials, the paperwork was approved in less than seven days. My departure date was set for the exact day Garrett and I were originally supposed to fly out for our honeymoon. I placed the signed divorce agreement alongside the black lace underwear on the master bedroom nightstand. Then, I turned to look at the apartment I had lived in for years. It was empty, looking as though no one had ever inhabited it. The heavy knot that had lingered in my chest for years suddenly loosened. My phone chimed with a text notification. It was from Garrett: “Why are you taking so long? The flight is boarding. Mallory and I are boarding first. Book the next flight and come over yourself.” I pulled up social media. Ten minutes ago, Mallory had posted an update: “【So excited for Egypt! Someone once told me that no sun in the world shines hotter than I do】” I pressed the like button on her post. Then, I replied to Garrett’s text: “I’m not coming. Have a great trip.” After hitting send, I removed the SIM card from my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash can alongside the wreckage of our ten-year relationship.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554450”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The booking window for the Thanksgiving holiday express trains was set to open in sixty seconds. Duke and I had agreed weeks ago that we would head back to my hometown together. With one minute left on the countdown, his phone rang. It was his executive assistant, weeping into the receiver. “Duke, what do I do? My mom sprained her ankle, but my cell signal here is so spotty, I can’t get the app to load…” I kept my eyes glued to my screen, double-checking our passenger details in the final thirty seconds. Suddenly, Duke snatched the phone right out of my hand. His thumbs flew across the glass, wiping out my passenger information and pasting in his assistant’s driver’s license number instead. By the time he tossed the phone back onto my lap, the confirmation screen flashed green. He and his assistant had secured two tickets to her hometown. Every other seat on the train was sold out. “Are you insane?” My voice trembled. “You promised my grandmother—” “Her family lives out in the countryside, Leila. She can’t afford to wait,” he cut in, not looking at me. “I’ll explain things to your grandmother later.” I sat there, completely paralyzed. My grandmother was in critical condition in the ICU. Her final wish was to meet the man I was going to marry. I had to beg Duke three separate times before he reluctantly agreed to come. And now, he wasn’t going with me. He had taken the ticket meant for me and handed it to another woman. I took a slow, deep breath, opened my messages, and pulled up a contact I hadn’t texted in months: “Come pick me up. Grandma wants to see you.” 1 I kept refreshing the app, refusal after refusal, until every single route flashed red with the word “Sold Out”. The cushion beside me sank as Duke sat down, setting a freshly poured glass of tea on the coffee table. “What’s the rush? Just try booking again tomorrow.” “Duke, Thanksgiving travel is peak season,” I said, keeping my voice level despite the tightness in my chest. “Once the tickets are gone today, that’s it.” His fingers stiffened around his mug. It seemed to finally hit him, and he leaned over to pull my phone from my hand, tapping mindlessly against the glass. No matter how many times he refreshed, every train heading toward my hometown for the entire five-day holiday was completely booked. The living room fell into a heavy silence. After a few excruciating seconds, he set the phone back on the table without looking me in the eye. “I panicked. I thought you’d be able to grab another one right after.” “I told you half an hour ago that the transit authority was releasing all holiday tickets at once today, not in batches.” Duke let out a heavy sigh, stood up, and walked out onto the balcony to make a call. “Fine. I’ll call a few contacts and see if anyone has spare passes.” I watched his silhouette through the glass door as he made several calls. When he finally came back inside, he tossed his phone onto the table and deliberately avoided my gaze. Whatever tiny sliver of hope I had left vanished instantly. Both of our phones buzzed at the exact same moment. On my screen was a text from my parents, asking if we’d managed to get our tickets. On his screen was a booking confirmation for him and Brianna. Duke cleared his throat softly. “Brianna’s mother sprained her ankle. She really needs to get home. As for your grandmother… I’ll go visit her with you after the holiday rush and explain everything in person.” My hands curled into tight fists. “Grandma is on life support in the ICU. How is she supposed to wait for your ‘next time’?” Duke’s brows pulled together in a deep frown. “Leila, does your grandmother even know you’re using her like this?” I froze. “What is that supposed to mean?” He leaned back against the sofa, his tone souring with impatience. “You tell me she’s dying, you nag me three separate times, and the second I say yes, you force me to book travel. Honestly, it feels like you’re exaggerating her health just to guilt-trip me into going back home to rush a wedding.” A cold numbness crept from my chest all the way down to my fingertips. “You think I’m lying about my grandmother dying just to trap you into marrying me?” He didn’t answer, but the hard angle of his jaw said enough. “Duke, she has acute heart failure,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “She’s in intensive care, staying alive on intravenous medication. I showed you the video my dad sent from the hospital.” Duke turned his head toward the window. “Anyone can fake a video. Brianna told me she heard from someone at work that your cousin pulled the exact same stunt to trap some wealthy guy.” My arms dropped limply to my sides, and a bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. He didn’t believe the video my father had shot inside the ICU. But he believed office gossip passed along by Brianna. The doorbell rang. Duke immediately got up to answer it. The moment the door opened a crack, Brianna threw herself into his arms. “Duke! You actually got me a ticket!” I stood up slowly and watched as Duke casually wrapped a hand around her waist to steady her. “Yeah. I’m taking the drive back with you in three days.” A spark of victory lit up Brianna’s eyes, though she quickly replaced it with a look of hesitant concern. “You’re coming with me? But… weren’t you supposed to go home with Leila?” Duke answered carelessly, giving me the briefest side-glance. “She didn’t get a ticket.” The hesitation on Brianna’s face disappeared instantly. She forced down a smile, put on a flustered expression, and stepped back from Duke. “I’m so sorry, Leila… I had no idea that ticket was meant for you…” She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying over the screen. “Let me Venmo you for it right now! It was six hundred dollars, right? I’m sending it over!” I didn’t say a word. Duke reached out and caught her wrist, stopping her. “Why are you paying her back?” He turned a sharp look toward me. “You’re not hurting for cash, Leila. There’s no need to nickle-and-dime a girl who just graduated.” I hadn’t said a single word. Meeting my eyes, Brianna shrank back slightly, letting her hand drop to grasp the hem of Duke’s sleeve in a pathetic display of meekness. I didn’t care about the six hundred dollars. Money wasn’t what I was looking for. I looked straight into Duke’s eyes, forcing myself to remain unnervingly calm. “Duke, if I tell you right now that my grandmother really is dying… what are you going to do?” He paused for a fraction of a second. “Leila, for your grandmother’s sake, watch your tongue. I already told you—once the holiday weekend passes, I’ll take time off to go see her with you.” He still didn’t believe me. Without another word, I turned and walked into the bedroom. When the door clicked shut behind me, the large, framed engagement portrait hanging on the wall vibrated softly. We had held our engagement party a year ago, and taken those photos six months back. But Duke had found reason after reason to delay setting an actual wedding date. I pulled out my phone and tapped open the chat window. “Come pick me up. Grandma wants to see you.” A reply came back within seconds, just four words: “Leaving right now. Wait.” I took a long, shaky breath and closed my eyes. This wedding—the one I had spent months holding my breath for—was over. 2 When I stepped out of the bedroom, Duke and Brianna were gone. I packed my essential clothes into a cardboard box and scheduled an express courier service to ship everything straight to my parents’ house. At eight that evening, while I was pouring a glass of water in the kitchen, I heard Brianna’s high-pitched voice coming from the foyer. “Duke, isn’t this way too much? My parents are just simple working-class people. They’ve never even seen designer brands like this before.” Duke pushed the front door open, his voice carrying clearly into the kitchen as he caught sight of me. “People who live honest lives without constantly playing mind games aren’t simple, Brianna. They’re genuine.” I could hear the bitter bite in his words. He was taking a shot at me. But since I had already decided to leave, I didn’t care to explain myself anymore. I glanced casually at the dozen luxury shopping bags stacked near the entrance, then turned back toward my room. Brianna suddenly jogged over, a sweet, eager smile pasted across her face. “Leila! I picked this out specifically for you! You can wear it when you head back home!” She held out a cheap, bright red dress. The fabric felt synthetic and scratchy, the pattern looked thirty years out of date, and the hem was embroidered with sloppy, crooked floral patterns. The clearance tag was still attached, glaringly obvious: “$15.00”. My fingers tightened around my glass, my tone turning cold. “I don’t want it.” Brianna’s eyes instantly flooded with tears, her voice trembling. “Leila, I just wanted to buy you a present with my own hard-earned money… I didn’t mean to pick something so cheap. Please don’t be mad at me…” Duke stepped in instantly, pulling her behind his back like a shield. “Don’t push it, Leila. Brianna’s an entry-level assistant. This is the best thing she can afford right now.” “The best she can afford?” Earlier today, she had offered to casually transfer six hundred dollars without blinking an eye. Now, a fifteen-dollar bargain-bin dress was the best she could do. I met Duke’s defensive glare head-on. “My grandmother is lying in an ICU bed. You think it’s appropriate for me to wear a bright red dress back home?” His gaze flicked across my face before turning away, looking utterly exhausted by me. “You don’t need to bring her up every single minute.” “If you were truly in such a desperate rush,” he added, “you would have driven back days ago instead of waiting around for my approval just to book a train.” I stared at him, incredulous. “Duke… do you honestly not know why I didn’t drive back earlier?” His back went rigid. He stared blankly at the wall beside us. When my father first called me from the hospital, I had panicked and sprinted toward my car. But my dad stopped me on the phone. He told me that during Grandma’s brief moments of consciousness, she kept whispering for her future grandson-in-law. She was the woman who had raised me. I couldn’t bear the thought of denying her last wish. So I humbled myself. I begged Duke three times over two torturous days before he finally gave me a nod. And the moment he agreed, he immediately claimed he was too busy with work and couldn’t leave a day earlier than the first afternoon of the holiday weekend. I knew interstate traffic during the holiday rush would be a nightmare, which was why I spent days stressing over train schedules. I was terrified Grandma wouldn’t hold on, yet I spent every hour trying to be understanding of his busy work schedule. Only today did I realize he was never busy at all. He had simply fed into Brianna’s poisonous little rumors, decided I was a liar, and deliberately dragged his feet to teach me a lesson. The phone in my pocket vibrated against my thigh. I set my water glass down on the counter. Before turning around to leave, a sudden memory crossed my mind. “Duke, at our engagement party last year, Grandma handed you an antique pocket watch.” I looked at him. “It belonged to my grandfather. Give it back to me. I’m taking it home.” Duke didn’t answer right away. He walked over to the counter, picked up my water glass, took a slow sip, and tossed out a careless reply. “Brianna liked it. I gave it to her.” My brain went completely blank. Before I could even process his words, Brianna let out a soft, horrified gasp from behind him. “I… I had no idea that watch was so important, Leila! I think… I think I lost it.” 3 I snapped a step forward, my voice dropping an octave. “Lost it? Where did you lose it?” Duke caught my shoulder, his brows knit tightly. “What are you screaming for? It’s just an old watch.” The air in the living room plunged to sub-zero. Brianna lowered her head, her shoulders shaking as she began to sob in earnest. I whipped my head around to stare Duke down. “That isn’t just a watch! It’s the only heirloom my grandfather left behind!” “I know,” he snapped back, his voice rising. “But when your grandmother handed it over, she said it was for her grandson-in-law. Once she gave it to me, it became my property. I can give my things to whoever I want.” I couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. I braced my stance, my hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists. “We haven’t signed a marriage license yet, Duke. That means it isn’t yours. Give it back to me.” “And if you can’t,” I added quietly, “then the engagement is off.” Duke’s face drained of color, turning a mottled, furious grey. “Leila, you’re actually going to throw a massive fit over a damn watch?” “Brianna didn’t lose it on purpose! There’s a limit to how unreasonable you’re allowed to be!” Brianna’s tears streamed down her cheeks in heavy streams. “Duke, please don’t fight with Leila because of me… It’s all my fault. I was careless…” Duke turned to give her a reassuring glance. “This has nothing to do with you. Once a gift is given to me, it’s mine. If I pass it along to you, it becomes yours. If it’s lost, it’s lost.” I stared at his cold, dismissive expression. “Duke, my grandfather’s final keepsake is gone. And your response is ‘if it’s lost, it’s lost’?” “What else do you expect?” he barked. “She’s a young girl, what do you want her to do about it now? Don’t cross the line, Leila.” “Cross the line.” My grandfather’s legacy was gone, and he was accusing “me” of crossing the line. In that quiet second, I realized just how much he had changed. He hadn’t always been like this. During our first year together, when my grandmother heard I was dating someone, she hand-knitted a pair of thick wool gloves and mailed them to him. When he picked up the package, he was so thrilled he posted photos online, claiming he couldn’t bear to wear them out because they were too precious. When my aunt sent jars of pickled vegetables from her garden, he ate them with every meal and even proudly brought them to his corporate office. If a colleague tried to take a bite, he’d guard the jar, declaring it was proof that my family truly approved of him. Back then, he cherished every single detail that came from my home. But ever since he hired Brianna as his personal assistant, he stopped letting my family send anything. He claimed regional food was unrefined and made the apartment smell. Whenever good wine or gourmet snacks arrived at the house, he reserved them all for her. If I uttered a single word of protest, he’d accuse me of being petty and jealous. And now, without my knowledge, he had given away my grandfather’s antique watch. And when Brianna lost it, he turned around and blasted me for being difficult. Or maybe he hadn’t changed at all. Maybe it was just that I had stopped mattering to him a long time ago. “Duke, I’m not joking around with you,” I said softly. “The watch is gone. So are we.” He stared down at me, a thick vein bulging along his temple. “Leila, are you genuinely telling me you want to break off our engagement over a watch?” “I told you. It was never just a watch.” “Have you had enough yet?!” He slammed his hand down onto the entry console with a deafening crack. Brianna flinched, stumbling back a step in terror. She clutched the cheap fifteen-dollar dress against her chest, crying pitifully. “Duke, please stop fighting… Leila, how much was the watch worth? I’ll repay you, okay? I’ll figure out a way to borrow the money right now…” I stood frozen in place. “I am not throwing a tantrum.” Duke’s entire face stretched tight, his teeth grinding so hard I could hear the enamel scrape. He gave me a single, slow nod. “Fine. You want to break off the engagement? Then pack your shit and get the hell out of my apartment.” 4 My heart gave a violent, painful thrash against my ribs. “His apartment.” We bought this place together, splitting the down payment fifty-fifty. I spent months overseeing the contractors, picking out every tile, every light fixture, every piece of furniture. On the day we moved in, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, refusing to let go. We stayed up late talking about where we’d plant hydrangeas on the balcony, where we’d set the dining table, which room would belong to our future child, and which small room we’d turn into a shared study. Back then, he pressed his lips to my temple and whispered, “This is our home.” Now, he called it “his” apartment. And he was telling me to get out. I swallowed down the burning lump in my throat, turned away, and walked over the scattered glass shards on the floor to get to the bedroom. The main boxes were already with the courier. Only a small leather shoulder bag remained on the bed. As I packed my phone charger and wallet inside, Brianna’s tearful voice echoed through the crack in the door. “Duke, Leila definitely doesn’t want to leave… You should go stop her. She’s just speaking out of anger…” Duke’s tone was dripping with dark irritation. “She won’t leave. She’s obsessed with me. She’s just taking advantage of my soft heart, using her grandmother as an excuse to force me into giving her a wedding date.” “If I don’t break this pathetic habit of hers today,” he added, “she’ll think she can manipulate me into anything.” Brianna sniffled softly. “But… what if she actually walks out…” Duke let out a cold, confident scoff. “She doesn’t have the guts. She’ll sleep in some cheap hotel for a couple of days to make a point. Once she cools off, she’ll be on her knees begging me to take her back.” I knelt beside the bed, slipped the diamond engagement ring off my finger, and set it softly on the nightstand. I remembered the day he proposed. It was snowing heavily outside, but he was so nervous his neck was flushed bright red. Our friends were cheering around us while he dropped to one knee, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold the velvet box. “Leila, I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy. Will you marry me?” I had cried so hard my makeup ran down my face. And today, he claimed I was manipulating him into marriage. Eight years of loving him. This was the first time he had ever told me to get out. And it would be the last. I picked up my leather bag, opened the door, and walked straight out. Brianna was still sitting on the sofa dabbling at her eyes while Duke handed her tissues, rubbing her shoulder with gentle, rhythmic strokes. He raised his eyes, caught sight of my small shoulder bag, and a smirk spread across his face—an unmistakable “‘I knew it’” look. I didn’t stop for a fraction of a second. Inside the elevator as it descended, my phone buzzed in my hand. “I’m downstairs. Waiting at the curb.” I walked out of the lobby and opened the passenger door of Glenn’s SUV. He immediately leaned over to take my bag and click my seatbelt into place. “If we bypass the main interstate and stick to the state routes, traffic shouldn’t be too bad,” Glenn said softly, his voice a steady anchor in the dark. “We should reach the hospital before dawn.” I gave a low murmur of assent, pulled out my phone, opened the transit app, and canceled both of the holiday express tickets. A few seconds later, the app flashed green—cancellation successful. Six hundred dollars was refunded straight back to my bank account. I refreshed the screen a second later. The two seats were snatched up instantly by other travelers. Glenn pulled a warm fleece blanket from the back seat, draped it gently over my shoulders, and turned the heater up a notch. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when we pull into the hospital lot.” “Okay.” The car glided smoothly out of the residential complex. Looking through the side mirror, I watched the warm yellow lights of the balcony grow smaller and smaller. Until the car rounded the corner, and everything dissolved into the pitch-black night. On the official morning of Thanksgiving weekend, Duke loaded up his SUV. The trunk was crammed full of high-end wine, imported tea sets, and luxury gift baskets meant for Brianna’s family. He hadn’t slept well over the last two days. When Leila walked out that night, she had actually left. He was so infuriated that he couldn’t bring himself to step foot inside the primary bedroom, choosing instead to crash on the hard mattress in the guest room. Brianna was worried about driver fatigue, repeatedly reminding him to take it easy on the road. But Duke didn’t want to slow down. He wanted to drop Brianna off at her home, spend a day there, and hurry back. He figured after giving Leila another forty-eight hours to stew alone in a hotel room, she’d finally come back with her head bowed, ready to apologize. When they pulled up to the local station to drop off some paperwork before taking the highway, Duke tried to print a confirmation receipt at the kiosk. The machine beeped red. A station attendant walking past took one glance at the red error screen. “Sir, that prompt means your tickets were canceled and refunded.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554434”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The crystal chandeliers of the grand ballroom cast a golden glow over the evening, illuminating the culmination of my life’s work. Tonight was the night my son was officially taking the reins of the Morton Corporation. Then, my husband stepped up to the microphone and apologized to the crowd. “The truth is,” Richard’s voice echoed through the hushed room, trembling with perfectly rehearsed sorrow. “The boy Coral raised isn’t ours. He is the posthumous son of my late brother. The real heir—our biological child—is the one who suffered severe brain damage from an untreated fever years ago.” A collective gasp swept through the city’s elite. “I couldn’t bear to see my brother’s child grow up without a father,” Richard continued, looking at me with mournful eyes. “And since you and my sister-in-law went into labor on the exact same day… I made a choice. I had no other option.” Right on cue, his widowed sister-in-law, Monica, rushed forward. Tears spilled over her perfectly contoured cheeks as she grabbed my hands, apologizing frantically, swearing up and down she had absolutely no idea her child had been swapped with mine. My mother-in-law, Helen, immediately stepped in to play the peacemaker, feigning utter shock before pivoting to cold, hard pragmatism. “Well, Coral, since your biological son is mentally incapacitated and cannot inherit the company, giving the empire to your nephew still keeps the wealth within the family. It’s a blessing in disguise.” I just stood there. Silent. Unmoving. Taking my silence as submission, Richard turned to my son and his new wife, demanding they call Monica “Mom.” “Your biological mother has suffered so much for you,” Richard urged, his voice thick with guilt-tripping authority. “She endured the agony of being separated from her flesh and blood because of my actions. You owe her. As for the woman who raised you, she will take her disabled son and live a quiet life. She’ll be fine.” Anyone with a pulse could see this for what it was: a meticulously orchestrated coup. But as the victim of this grand conspiracy, I wasn’t angry. Not in the slightest. Instead, I smiled, reached out, and gently helped Richard to his feet. “Isn’t that a coincidence, Richard?” I murmured, my voice carrying effortlessly over the dead-silent room. “You spent so much time crying over your brother’s fatherless baby back then… that I decided to swap the infants, too.” 1 Just moments before, Thomas and his wife, Jessica, had raised their champagne flutes. Surrounded by our closest friends, board members, and industry titans, my son had publicly thanked me. “Thank you for your relentless guidance, Mom,” Thomas had said, his eyes shining. “Jessica and I promise to take Morton Corp to new heights.” I had been holding back tears, nodding with overwhelming pride. That was when Richard sighed heavily, stepping in to shatter the moment. “Thomas,” he said, his tone thick with condescension. “The person you should really be thanking is your Aunt Monica. If it weren’t for her, you would never have had the chance to sit in the CEO’s chair.” The room flatlined. Everyone knew Thomas was the heir to the Morton empire simply because he was my son, Coral Morton’s son. What on earth did my husband’s tragic, clinging sister-in-law have to do with it? Before the crowd could process the absurdity, Richard dropped to his knees in front of my custom gown. “Coral, I’m so sorry.” He looked up, a picture of tortured nobility. “Thomas isn’t our son. He belongs to my brother and Monica.” The impact of the words hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled back two steps, the breath knocked from my lungs. Jessica caught my arm instantly, guiding me into a velvet chair. She and Thomas flanked me like bodyguards, radiating a fierce, protective energy that steadied my racing heart. Thomas’s jaw was clenched tight. He glared down at his father. “What the hell are you talking about, Dad?” Richard had clearly anticipated the resistance. He waved it off, keeping his sorrowful gaze fixed on me. “You both gave birth on the same day in the same hospital,” Richard explained, his voice projecting for the audience. “My heart broke knowing Thomas would grow up without his father. So, I switched the bassinets in the nursery.” He paused, letting the tragedy marinate. “But now… Jessica is pregnant. You’re starting your own family. I have to confess. My brother’s only child already took your last name, Coral. I cannot allow my brother’s grandchild to carry the Morton name as well. If I let that happen, how could I ever face my brother in the afterlife?” 2 To ensure his narrative stuck, Richard motioned to the AV team. The massive screens, previously showing the Morton Corp logo, flickered to display a grainy, decades-old security video from the maternity ward, supposedly proving he had swapped the newborns. The ballroom erupted. Whispers turned to harsh murmurs. For twenty-five years, society had viewed Richard as the fortunate man who married into the Morton dynasty, a man who swallowed his pride for a corner office. Now, the room was convinced this “trophy husband” had spent two decades playing a long, venomous game of chess, waiting for the exact moment the inheritance was finalized. The judgment in the room was palpable; people were openly sneering at him. Seeing the tide turning against him, Monica immediately activated her performance. She gasped, a delicate hand flying to her mouth, her eyes widening in a flawless cocktail of shock and maternal joy. Anyone looking at her would think she was furious at Richard’s rogue actions, yet profoundly overwhelmed to discover her biological son was this brilliant, handsome CEO. It was a masterpiece of a reaction. She must have rehearsed it in her vanity mirror for months. “Richard, what have you done?!” Monica wailed, her voice trembling. “You felt sorry for your nephew, yes, but to steal a child? To me, the boy I raised is my son, no matter what. But Coral… she is a businesswoman. How could a woman like her ever accept something so horrific?” Helen, my mother-in-law, was practically pinching her own leg to stop herself from smiling. “What’s done is done,” Helen announced, waving a dismissive hand. “There’s no point pointing fingers now. If you ask me, this is a blessing. Coral’s biological child is severely disabled and cannot run a corporation. Thomas is brilliant. It’s a perfect fit. And since the Mortons and our family are united by marriage anyway, the money stays in the same house. What’s the difference?” My parents, the formidable founders of Morton Corp, were trembling with rage. My father stepped forward and delivered a resounding backhand across Richard’s face. The smack echoed like a gunshot. “Do not insult our intelligence, Richard,” my father hissed. “Drop the martyr act. You swapped those boys to hijack the Morton empire. If this was about a guilty conscience, you would have confessed years ago. You waited specifically for the day Thomas took full legal control of the trust. You make me sick.” 3 Richard cradled his red cheek. Even now, the ingrained fear of my father’s authority kept him from yelling back, but a sneer of impatience leaked into his voice. “Coral, tell them to calm down. You’re all misunderstanding me,” Richard pleaded, playing the misunderstood saint. “I just wanted to do a good thing. I planned to tell you the truth once you and Thomas bonded. But then… our biological baby was diagnosed with severe cerebral palsy. You were still recovering from a difficult labor. If I had told you your real baby was broken, you would have lost your mind.” But the confession wasn’t landing the way he planned. Not just with me and my parents, but with Thomas and Jessica. My son looked at the man who raised him with unadulterated disgust. This was the variable Richard hadn’t accounted for. Since Thomas was a toddler, Richard had constantly fed him stories about how wonderful, brave, and tragic Aunt Monica was. He had been laying the groundwork for this very night. But he grossly underestimated my son. Frustration bled through Richard’s carefully crafted facade. “Thomas, you may go by Morton, but you have my family’s blood in your veins. Monica’s blood. Don’t act like an ungrateful brat just because the Mortons have deeper pockets.” Richard pointed an accusing finger. “Don’t forget, your biological mother and Coral are the victims here. You are the only one who profited. You control the company now. You can take care of both of your mothers. Just… in different ways. Blood is thicker than water, Thomas.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Monica threw herself onto the floor at my feet. “Coral, to you, Thomas was just a pawn to inherit your company,” Monica sobbed, clutching at my skirt. “But he is my flesh and blood. All these years, I thought my son was disabled. I bathed him, fed him, suffered through the endless agony. I took your punishment, Coral! But I forgive you. I just beg of you… give my boy back to me. Keep your company. Thomas doesn’t need it.” 4 A cold, razor-sharp smile touched my lips. Nothing happening tonight surprised me. Not a single thing. And Monica’s little speech about not wanting the money? Pure garbage. She wasn’t stupid. Changing the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate isn’t like swapping out a dining chair. Thomas had spent years building his loyalties within the board. I couldn’t just fire him with a snap of my fingers, even if I wanted to. Attempting to sever Thomas from Morton Corp would tank the stock and incite a shareholder revolt. Furthermore, if I brought my disabled “biological son” into the spotlight, the world would know the Morton dynasty had no viable successor. At my age, having another child was a medical impossibility. The wolves on Wall Street would smell blood in the water. Rivals would initiate hostile takeovers before the week was out. Richard and Monica knew this. They knew my only logical move to save my family’s legacy would be to swallow the bitter pill, accept Thomas as the heir, and beg him to have children who would carry the Morton name. Either way, they would have me by the throat. But I didn’t address them. I simply turned my head and looked at the young man standing beside me. “Thomas,” I said softly. “What do you make of all this?” Thomas had reached his breaking point. I had raised him to be a shark in the boardroom, not a fool. He saw the exact same extortion play I did. They timed this perfectly. And in Thomas’s eyes, I was his mother. The only one that mattered. His voice was like ice. “I don’t believe a word of this.” He glared at Richard. “You’re trying to extort my mother and hijack her company. It all makes sense now. I always thought it was sick how you acted. Mom suggested years ago that Monica should remarry, and you fought tooth and nail to keep her in our guest house.” Thomas stepped in front of me, shielding me. “And for the record, Mom has loved me unconditionally since my first breath. Even if she knew about the swap, it just means she wanted to protect me from your toxic, plotting family. You sicken me.” 5 Thomas’s words ripped the elegant mask right off their faces. Monica scrambled up, shaking her head frantically. “No, no, baby. I was only kind to you because I thought my own son was broken, and seeing a healthy boy like you… it was like looking at what I lost. It was just a mother’s intuition drawing me to you.” It was a lie so vile it made my stomach turn. Especially because I knew the truth. After my traumatic delivery, I had been bedridden for weeks. But once I recovered, my mother had sat me down and told me what really happened to the other baby. “You and Monica delivered on the same day,” my mother had said, her voice tight with disapproval. “We paid for her to have the VIP suite and the same elite neonatal nurses you had. But Monica and Helen chased the medical staff out. They refused to trust the doctors.” “There was a heatwave,” my mother had continued, her eyes dark. “The baby spiked a massive fever. Instead of calling the nurses, they refused to turn on the AC and wrapped him in thick blankets, claiming some old wives’ tale about sweating out the toxins. By the time our security forced the door open and got the doctors, the baby’s brain was practically boiling. The damage was permanent.” Looking back at them now, the puzzle pieces snapped together with horrifying clarity. It wasn’t ignorance. It was intentional. They tried to render my child brain-dead so I would have no choice but to rely entirely on theirs. Helen, oblivious to the fact that I knew their dark secret, rushed over to stroke Thomas’s arm. “Your real mother is a gentle soul, Thomas,” Helen cooed. “Not like Coral. Coral only cares about profit margins. Your mother would love you rich or poor. Don’t side with the Mortons just because they can buy you nicer things.” She shot me a venomous look. “Coral might be a victim, but she’s hoarded another woman’s son for decades! Any pity I had for her is gone. We don’t want the Morton money, Thomas, but if they give it to you, it’s merely compensation for what she stole from us!” 6 The ballroom devolved into absolute chaos. Security was scrambling. My father was clutching his chest. “Not a single dime of Morton money will ever go to parasites like you! I’d burn it to the ground first!” Fear spiked in my chest. My parents were healthy, but they were older. I urgently signaled my assistant to bring the concierge doctor over to them. Jessica and Thomas tried to move toward my parents, but Monica and Helen physically blocked them, clawing at Thomas’s tuxedo jacket. “Look!” Monica cried hysterically. “The Mortons don’t even care about you! You control the company now, Thomas! Change your last name! Give my grandchild his rightful name!” Richard stood by, pretending to mediate while throwing gasoline on the fire. He looked at me with cold reproach. “If you weren’t such a ruthless, calculating woman, I wouldn’t have feared for my nephew’s life,” Richard said, loud enough for the press to hear. “The fact that I swapped them and you didn’t even notice proves you’re a terrible mother. He’s just an asset to you. Give him back to the woman who actually loves him.” Over the din of shouting, Thomas finally roared. “ENOUGH!” The room jolted into silence. “I don’t care about your sob stories,” Thomas snarled, his chest heaving. “This is a hostile takeover disguised as a family tragedy. If you’re telling the truth, and I’m not a Morton, then fine. I resign. I’ll hand the keys to a trustee until Mom’s real son can be cared for. I won’t take a single red cent of this company.” A profound warmth bloomed in my chest. Twenty-five years of sleepless nights, of fiercely protecting and educating this boy… it was worth every second. My son was a king. My parents let out a collective breath. Thomas was a man of his word. The legacy was safe from vultures. But the sheer heartbreak of the situation still hung heavy in the air. The boy we loved with every fiber of our beings was supposedly a stranger’s blood. 7 While my heart found peace, Richard and his cabal completely panicked. The facade shattered. Richard lunged forward, grabbing Thomas by the lapels. His voice dropped to a vicious, guttural whisper meant only for us. “Listen to me, you little fool,” Richard hissed. “Your disabled ‘cousin’ is chemically castrated from the medications. He will never have kids. You either keep the Morton name, take the CEO spot, and make sure your child inherits it all… or you watch the Morton legacy die today.” Monica leaned in, her eyes manic. “If you don’t publicly acknowledge me as your mother right now, we go to the press tomorrow. We’ll tell the world you’ve known for years. We’ll say you stayed with Coral out of pure greed. We will destroy your reputation, Thomas. We have nothing to lose.” Thomas was so angry his hands shook, speechless at the sheer depravity of his own blood. I took a slow, deep breath, smoothing the fabric of my gown. The quiet moment had passed. It was time. “Richard. Monica,” I said, my voice calm, cutting through their hysteria like a scalpel. “That’s quite a compelling threat.” “But I’m afraid I have to decline. Because…” Before I could finish, Monica threw herself onto the marble floor again, sobbing violently. “I don’t care about the last name anymore!” she wailed, pivoting her strategy. “Just let Jessica’s baby carry our blood! We can all live together! We won’t bother you, Coral! We just want to be a family!” Richard dropped back to his knees beside her, his head bowed. “Coral, think about it,” he muttered darkly. “We either rise together, or we burn this whole empire to the ground.” I stepped forward. Slowly, delicately, I reached out and pulled them both to their feet. “Will you two at least give me the floor for a moment?” I asked pleasantly. “I’ve been trying to tell you… things are a bit more complicated than your little narrative.” I looked Richard dead in the eye. “Years ago, when your brother died, Monica was threatening to get an abortion. You spent hours, sometimes entire days, locked in her bedroom, ‘comforting’ her.” “I was willing to adopt the child. But I didn’t want to upset my parents. So, lying in that hospital bed, I did something foolish.” I smiled. A real, genuine smile. “When the nurses took the babies to the nursery on the second night… I sneaked in. And I swapped them back.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554451”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend was picking me up after work. When I pulled open the passenger door, a young woman was already sitting inside. She gave me a sweet, practiced smile. “Hey, I get terribly carsick,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial innocence. “You don’t mind if I take the front seat, do you?” I didn’t answer. I shut the door quietly, walked around the hood, and stopped right beside the driver’s window. Dean looked up at me, his eyes full of sheepish apology. “It was on the way,” he began. “I was just giving her a—” I reached through the open window and slapped him across the face. “If she’s that delicate,” I snapped, “don’t put her in your car. I’d hate for her to bleed all over your leather.” 1 When Dean came to pick me up, I had rushed down the elevator, clutching my tote bag, terrified of keeping him waiting. It was our seventh anniversary. We had planned this night for months—a quiet dinner at an impossible-to-book restaurant downtown, followed by drinks at the lounge where we had our first real date. Seven years. Four in college, three in the real world. A lifetime of shared jokes, late-night dinners, and quiet promises. I hurried toward his sedan, opened the front passenger door, and nearly tossed my bag right into the lap of the girl sitting there. She didn’t even flinch. She looked at my bag, then up at me, blinking her wide, painted eyes. “Hi!” she chimed sweetly. I stood frozen in the muggy evening air. I tilted my head, looking past her to Dean in the driver’s seat. His posture was stiff, his mouth open, searching for the right words. Before he could speak, the girl leaned forward. “Hey, I get terribly carsick,” she said smoothly. “You don’t mind if I take the front seat, do you?” I looked at Dean again. I saw the guilt flickering in his eyes, but underneath it, something worse: permission. He had allowed her to sit here. He had chosen to give away the space that belonged to us. I didn’t dignify her question with an answer. I stepped back and closed the door with a dull thud. Noticing my reaction, Dean quickly hit the unlock button for the back doors. But I didn’t head for the back. I walked around the front of the car and stopped by the driver’s side window. We had been together for seven years. He knew me better than anyone in the world, just as I knew the subtle shifts in his posture when he was hiding something. He knew I was furious. He rolled down the window, his voice cautious. “It was on the way, Lola. I was just giving her a—” I didn’t let him finish. I leaned in and slapped him across the cheek. The crack echoed in the quiet drop-off zone. The air turned instantly brittle. The sweet smile froze on the girl’s face, crumbling into sheer disbelief. Dean stared at me, his hand flying to his reddening cheek, utterly stunned. “Lola, stop,” he stammered, his voice dropping an octave. “She’s not just a rider. She’s my new intern, Kayla Davis. The restaurant we’re going to is right near her apartment complex. I just thought it made sense to drop her off.” I followed his words and turned a cold, deliberate gaze back onto Kayla. The slap had come out of nowhere, and Kayla’s face was pale now, her eyes darting frantically between Dean and me. I didn’t know what she was so afraid of. If I were going to slap her, I’d need hand sanitizer afterward. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I said, my tone smooth and venomous. “I’m not going to hit you. I wouldn’t waste the effort.” When she spoke again, all her polished composure had vanished. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling. “I really do get nauseous in the back…” Her eyes darted to Dean, looking for protection. But her protector was already unbuckling his seatbelt, preparing to step out of the car to placate me. I reached through the window and planted a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder, pressing him firmly back against his seat. “Stay put,” I said. The tension inside the cabin was unbearable. Kayla quickly unbuckled her belt, opening her door with a frantic movement. She looked at Dean, her eyes welling with tears. “Dean… Mr. Prescott, please don’t fight with your girlfriend because of me. I… I can sit in the back. It’s fine.” She stepped out, her movements exaggerated, playing the martyr for Dean’s benefit. “Lola,” she said softly, “you take the front.” I looked at her with faux concern. “Are you sure, Kayla? What if you get sick back there and vomit all over his seats?” Her foot halted mid-step. She stood stranded on the pavement, unable to get back in the front, unwilling to take the back seat, pinned under the spotlight of her own lie. I leaned back down toward Dean. “What do you think?” He caught the hard edge in my voice. The awkwardness hit him all at once. He cleared his throat, unable to meet Kayla’s eyes. “Kayla… maybe you should just call a ride. There isn’t really room in here tonight.” Four seats in the car, and not enough space for a couple and a girl trying to play the delicate victim. Kayla looked around the desolate corporate park. Her face twisted in genuine dismay. Our office complex sat on the edge of the industrial district, miles from the nearest subway station, where rideshare drivers rarely lingered. It was the exact reason Dean picked me up every evening. A single, dramatic tear slipped down her cheek, though she forced a brave, forgiving smile. “It’s fine, Mr. Prescott. You two go ahead. I could use a walk anyway—I’ve been sitting at my desk all day.” I didn’t say a word. I walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, got in, and pulled it shut. Dean was still staring into his side mirror, watching her figure shrink in the dusk, his expression lingering on pity. “Drive,” I said, my voice ice. “Take me home. I’m not hungry anymore.” The entire mood of our anniversary was ruined, tarnished by a cheap, transparent game. Dean pulled out of the parking lot, taking a deep breath before speaking. His tone turned soft, condescendingly affectionate. “She’s just a kid fresh out of college, Lola. She doesn’t know any better. Was it really necessary to make such a scene over a ride?” I didn’t care about the seat. I wasn’t twenty-two anymore; I didn’t measure love by who sat in the front of a vehicle. What bothered me was her calculated testing of my boundaries—and Dean’s quiet permission. He hadn’t pushed back. He hadn’t drawn the line. That was the real issue. 2 When I remained silent, Dean reached into the center console and produced a small, velvet-wrapped box. He held it out toward me. “Your anniversary present,” he whispered. “Part one.” I didn’t reach for it. At the next red light, he brought the car to a complete stop. He held the box in both hands, leaning over to rest his forehead gently against my upper arm, swaying slightly like he used to do in college when he knew he was in the doghouse. “You already slapped me,” he murmured softly. “I know I screwed up. But the gift didn’t do anything wrong. Please… don’t take your anger out on the velvet.” Dean wasn’t conventionally striking in a harsh, angular way. He had a clean, classic boyishness—bright eyes, soft hair, and a warm smile. When he dropped his eyelids and put on that puppy-dog expression, it was almost impossible to stay mad at him. Especially when the right side of his jaw was already swelling red from where my palm had landed. I took the box and snapped it open. Inside lay a simple, unadorned silver bangle. It wasn’t designer. It looked remarkably like the silver bracelets young girls received from their families when they were growing up—plain, timeless, polished to a mirror shine, only sized for an adult wrist. My throat tightened. My eyes burned. He remembered. Growing up, my parents had made it abundantly clear that my brother came first. Every milestone he hit was celebrated; every need I had was an inconvenience. No matter how successful I became as an adult, no matter how much money I saved in my bank account, I always carried a quiet, ache-filled regret: I had never been given the simple, cheap silver bracelet that every other little girl in our neighborhood wore. Dean looked sideways at me, noticing the soften in my features. He seized the moment instantly. “Lola, I booked that corner table a month ago. Just give the chef a chance, okay? Do it for the ribeye, if not for me.” A small, involuntary laugh escaped my lips. It was a minor incident, I told myself. A misstep. I could let it go. Except those minor incidents didn’t stop. They multiplied. Three weeks later, Dean mentioned a department dinner. Spouses and partners were invited. He promised to swing by my office to pick me up, but half an hour before we were supposed to leave, he called to say something came up and he couldn’t make the drive. Through the receiver, I could hear loud laughter, clinking glasses, and the ambient roar of a crowded restaurant. A subtle, cold knot tightened in my stomach. I took a rideshare to the steakhouse downtown. When I pushed open the doors to the private dining room, I immediately understood where that cold knot had come from. Dean was surrounded by his junior team, laughing as they cheered him on to take another shot. Sitting directly to his right was Kayla. She was leaning in, her eyes wide with starry-eyed admiration, watching him with an expression that went far beyond professional respect. As Dean drained his glass, Kayla naturally reached over and handed him her tumbler of fruit juice. Without skipping a beat, Dean took it from her hand and drank it all down. The interaction was smooth, practiced, completely instinctual. “Come on, Boss!” one of the guys chimed in, laughing. “You can’t keep taking drinks for the intern!” Dean waved a hand defensively, like a mother hen guarding a chick. “Kayla can’t drink heavy liquor, you guys know that. Stop pressing her. Anything you want to pour for her, pour for me instead. One of hers equals three of mine!” Watching them from the doorway, my stomach churned. My instinct was to turn around, walk out, and spare myself the headache. But as my hand rested on the brass door handle, a cold, sharp anger took over. Why should I retreat? I smoothed my skirt and walked straight into the room. Dean caught sight of me and immediately stood up, clearing his throat to introduce me to the table. “Everyone, this is Lola. My girlfriend. We’re getting engaged next month.” A chorus of polite “Nice to meet you” and “Welcome, Lola” filled the room. I smiled, my voice calm and clear. “Hi, everyone. I’m Lola Cross. Dean’s girlfriend.” I shifted my gaze toward Kayla, letting my eyes linger on her pale yellow dress before looking back at the group. “Though, to be precise, I’m the girlfriend who might actually become a wife—not a ‘female friend’ like Kayla, who’s setting herself up to never get married at all.” The room plunged into absolute silence. Colleagues glanced awkwardly at one another, suddenly deeply interested in their cloth napkins. I had been brutal. Usually, women preserved decorum in professional settings, saving the confrontation for the car ride home. But I was tired of playing nice. If I swallowed this rage, I wouldn’t sleep tonight. And if I couldn’t sleep, why should anyone else enjoy their evening? Kayla’s face flushed crimson, then drained to an ash-white. Dean blinked, visibly flustered by my lack of tact. He tried to laugh it off, waving his hands. “Lola has a very dry sense of humor, everyone! Please, sit down, babe, sit down.” I took a chair directly across from Kayla. I leaned forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I heard you don’t drink,” I said quietly. Kayla kept her head down, her hands tightly clutching her napkin. “Lola… I’m just fresh out of school. Strong alcohol doesn’t really agree with me…” I reached for the decanter in the center of the table and poured two full glasses of cabernet, filling them nearly to the brim. “How about I teach you?” I said, sliding one glass across the wood toward her. The air in the room was suffocating. Under the weight of everyone’s eyes, Kayla didn’t dare refuse. “Okay…” she whispered weakly. She reached out a trembling hand, lifted the glass, and braced herself to swallow it down. Before the rim reached her lips, I reached across the table, plucked the glass right out of her hand, and set it down in front of Dean. I smiled sweetly at her. “On second thought, sweetheart, if you end up in the ER tonight, I’d have to deal with the paperwork. Your life might be cheap, but my time isn’t.” The insult hung in the air like smoke. Kayla’s pathetic facade wobbled. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of pure, dark malice flashed in her eyes. Her fingers curled into tight fists against her lap, knuckles turning white. I waited for her to snap. I wanted her to. Instead, Dean snapped first. He grabbed my wrist, yanked me out of my chair, and pulled me toward the hallway.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554435”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first time I found a men’s luxury watch wedged under the passenger seat of my fiancée’s car, her father called me directly. “Larry, son, you’re misunderstanding Jess,” he’d said, his voice dripping with easy paternal warmth. “That’s my watch. I dropped it when she picked me up for lunch yesterday.” The second time, it was a pair of movie ticket stubs for a midnight showing on a Tuesday when she was supposedly working late. Her best friend tagged me in our group chat before I could even ask: “Larry, don’t overthink it! I had Jess buy those for me on her app.” The third time, the fourth time… Every single time I picked up a stray piece of evidence, someone was always standing by, ready with a seamless explanation. Until the ninth time. I pulled a silk designer tie from the gap between her seats, holding it up in front of her face as she idled at a red light. “Whose is this, Jess?” Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel, a microscopic tremor passing through them before she smoothly tapped her car’s console to make a speaker call. “Hey, guys,” she said into the air. “Who left a tie in my car?” The call was answered immediately by my sister, Rachel, and my supposed best friend, Mark. “Jess? Oh, thank god!” Rachel’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Mark’s been tearing the house apart looking for that tie. But honestly, Larry, are you being paranoid again? What did we tell you at the dinner last week? If you keep making these ridiculous scenes, you two shouldn’t even get married.” Mark chimed in, chuckling dryly. “Seriously, Larry. Jess treats you like royalty, man. You’ve been acting completely out of line lately.” The line went dead. Jessica turned to me, her big brown eyes wide with practiced innocence. “Satisfied? Can you stop doubting me now?” She sighed, tapping her acrylic nails against the wheel. “This is the ninth time, Larry. If you’re going to throw a tantrum over every little thing, maybe we shouldn’t even bother with the wedding…” I looked at her—really looked at her—and smiled. “You’re right,” I interrupted softly. “Let’s not bother. The wedding is canceled.” What Jessica didn’t know was that the tie didn’t belong to some secret lover. And it certainly didn’t belong to Mark. I had bought it myself two days ago and dropped it beneath her seat. It was a bait line thrown into dark water, meant to catch every single person who was helping her cover up her affair. … “I’ve already called the venue and canceled the reservation,” I said, my tone as flat as a straight-line EKG. “You should probably let your family know.” Jessica slammed on the brakes, pulling hard onto the shoulder. “Larry, are you out of your mind?!” She spun in her seat, her face darkening. “What is wrong with you? You don’t even believe your own sister and your best friend now? You seriously need to see a shrink. Normal people don’t behave like this in a relationship.” She grabbed my arm, her knuckles white. “If you can’t even trust Rachel, how am I supposed to prove my innocence? What’s the point of getting married if there’s zero trust between us?” Before I could answer, her phone buzzed on the dashboard. The screen lit up with a caller ID that made her expression shift instantaneously. The harsh edge in her eyes vanished, replaced by an unmistakable, tender softness. “I have something urgent to deal with,” she said, her voice dropping back into that cool, patronizing tone. “Go home and calm down. I’ll pretend this conversation never happened.” She unlocked the doors, practically shoving me out into the humid evening air, before her black Mercedes roared away down the avenue. I stood on the curb for a second, feeling the cold wind bite through my shirt. Then I flagged down a yellow cab. Thirty minutes later, the GPS tracker I’d installed on her car led me to a high-end waterfront restaurant downtown. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, a party was in full swing—a lavish, opulent first-birthday celebration for a little boy. The room was packed with familiar faces. At the center of the room stood a handsome man holding a toddler. On his wrist was the exact luxury watch I’d found in Jessica’s car months ago. Fastened to his French cuffs were the obsidian cufflinks I’d picked out of her coat pocket three weeks back. When he turned to laugh at a joke, the light caught his face, and the last shred of my composure shattered into dust. “Justin Bradley.” A month ago, during a routine IV line change at the hospital where I worked as a general surgeon, a minor valve fault caused a brief backflow of blood in a patient. It caused zero harm, but Justin’s wealthy family used it as leverage, filing a massive formal complaint against me with the hospital board for “patient abuse.” During the confrontation in the administration office, Justin’s bodyguard had shoved me against a marble counter. My right wrist snapped on impact. My surgical license was temporarily suspended, my career put on ice pending an investigation. And right now, standing beside Justin, was my sister Rachel—the hotshot attorney who was supposedly burning the midnight oil fighting that lawsuit for me. She was laughing, cheerfully taking drinks on Justin’s behalf. Across the room was my best friend Mark—the man who claimed he had nearly gotten fired standing up to the hospital board for me. He was busy greeting guests, playing the perfect co-host for Justin’s event. And Jessica? Jessica was the punchline. “Jess, you’re late!” someone shouted from the head table. “Don’t you think you owe your husband a sweet welcome?” Without a second thought, Jessica wrapped her arms around Justin’s neck, leaning in to press a long, intimate kiss onto his lips as the room erupted into cheers and applause. It felt like a physical blow to the head, a white-hot flash of agony radiating through my skull. They weren’t just helping her cheat. “They were his family.” They were the ones who had blown that minor medical error out of proportion, ruined my reputation, and broken my hand—all to tear me down while keeping me completely in the dark. My phone vibrated in my pocket. An automated email notification from the hospital HR portal popped up: [Dr. Hall, your request for transfer to Oakridge Medical Center has been approved. Please report for your shift in three days.] I stared at the glowing screen, a dry, bitter laugh catching in my throat. “Good,” I thought. There was nothing left in this city worth saving anyway. In three days, I’d be gone, and Jessica, Rachel, and Mark would be a bad memory. I turned on my heel, ready to walk away from the nauseating display. But as I reached the sidewalk, the glass doors swung open behind me. “Dr. Hall?” Justin’s voice called out, surprisingly warm. “Are you here for Toby’s birthday party?” He trotted down the steps, catching up to me with an easy smile. “I thought you were still holding a grudge against us. Look, don’t blame my family for the lawsuit—they were just worried about me. Today’s a great day to put all that behind us. Come on, let me introduce you to everyone so we can clear the air!” He grabbed my arm—the left one, thankfully—and steered me back inside before I could pull away. “Hey, everyone! Look who made it!” Justin announced, his voice carrying over the music. The room fell dead silent. Jessica, Rachel, and Mark froze in place, the color draining from their faces like water down a drain. “This is my buddy Mark,” Justin said, pointing at my best friend. “He works in your hospital’s psych department. You guys have run into each other, right?” Mark’s eyes darted wildly. “Dr. Hall… nice to meet you,” he muttered, his voice stiff and completely detached, as if we were total strangers. Justin didn’t notice the tension and dragged me over to Rachel. “And this is my college bestie, Rachel. She’s the idiot lawyer who filed the complaint against you, but I gave her an earful already, so don’t hold it against her.” Rachel’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. “Larry…” she whispered, her voice swallowed by the hum of the room. Finally, Justin pulled me toward Jessica, slipping his arm around her waist. “And this is my wife, she’s—” “Jessica Morgan,” I interrupted smoothly, looking straight into her panic-stricken eyes. “The owner of this restaurant.” Justin blinked, looking between us. “Wait, you two know each other?” I smiled, stepping closer as Jessica flashed me a desperate, pleading look. “Of course we do. She’s my fiancée. We’ve been together for seven years, and up until an hour ago, we were planning our wedding.” I looked around the room, letting my voice carry. “She even bought me this restaurant for my twenty-sixth birthday. Remember, Jess? I said I wanted to sit by the water every day, and you handed me the deed the next morning. You told me you sold it six months ago to fix a company cash-flow issue… but I guess that was just another lie, wasn’t it?” “Dr. Hall, what the hell are you talking about?!” Justin’s face flushed red. “We got married a year ago! How could she be your fiancée?!” “Justin, let me explain—” Jessica stammered, reaching for him. My heart felt hollow, a barren wasteland. I felt no rage, only a cold, venomous clarity. I leaned in, laying out the truth piece by piece. “She has a surgical scar on her lower back—got it four years ago when an erratic patient tried to stab me, and she jumped in front of the blade. She wears a silver blessed medallion under her clothes—I hiked up to a mountain monastery in a snowstorm to get it for her when she was sick.” I looked Justin up and down. “So, congratulations. You’re the side piece she’s been keeping in the shadows.” “Larry, that is ENOUGH!” The three of them shouted in unison. Jessica stepped in front of Justin, shielding him with her body, her eyes suddenly icy cold. Mark took a step forward, his jaw tight, while Rachel glared at me as if “I” was the monster who had just broken into their home. “Is anything I said untrue?” I asked softly, sweeping my gaze over them. “Jessica, Mark, Rachel—are any of you brave enough to admit what you’ve done?” “Larry, Justin didn’t know anything about this!” Jessica snapped, her voice trembling with protective fury. “If you want to be mad, take it out on me! Don’t you dare talk to him like that!” Mark sneered, taking a menacing step closer. “Jess doesn’t love you anymore, Larry! She and Justin are the real deal now!” My own sister stepped up beside him, her words slicing into me without a trace of mercy. “Larry, now that you know, just let it go. Jess literally risked her life to give Justin that baby. No matter how much of a scene you make today, you can’t break up a real family.” The sheer audacity of it hit me like a physical blow. My hands began to shake violently. “So that gives you the right to destroy my career?” I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of seven years of trust burning to ash. “That gives you the right to have someone break my hand?!” I stared at Justin, then at my sister, then at my best friend. “He’s a home-wrecker, and you two are his accomplices. Did I miss anything?” Before the last word left my mouth, a glass of ice water was thrown straight into my face. The freezing liquid drenched my hair and soaked through my shirt. “Snap out of it, Larry!” Mark yelled, grabbing my collar and yanking me toward the stairs. “You’re the one who got replaced! Get over it!” He dragged me up to the restaurant’s private second-floor lounge—a space that used to be our sanctuary. Back when I worked thirty-hour shifts at the trauma center, Jessica would bring me here, packing warm meals into thermal bags and setting up a massage chair so I could rest my aching back. I used to think those tiny, thoughtful gestures were proof of an unbreakable love. Now, the room had been completely gutted. It was a nursery. Cribs, changing tables, and stuffed animals covered every inch of the floor, erasing every single trace of the life we’d shared. “She loves Justin,” Mark growled, shoving me against the wall. “As for you? She only stayed because she felt obligated to you for curing her heart condition years ago.” I froze. “What are you talking about?” Mark didn’t answer. He just looked at me with a sickening expression of pity, pulled down a projector screen on the far wall, and clicked a remote. The screen lit up with hundreds of photos. Jessica and Justin skiing in Aspen. Jessica and Justin holding hands along the Amalfi Coast. Jessica and Justin laughing on a private boat in Venice. “They’ve been together for three years,” Mark said flatly, pointing at a central photo of a breathtaking wedding ceremony in the French countryside. “Last year, on your birthday? Jess wasn’t on a business trip. And Rachel and I weren’t on vacation. We all went to France for their wedding. We were there when the baby was born.” He stepped closer, leaning in. “Even that patient attack four years ago? Jess staged it. And we kept Justin’s identity from you because we knew if you found out who he was, you wouldn’t perform his father’s surgery with everything you had.” I stared at Mark, feeling like I was looking at a complete stranger. I remembered his wedding to my sister six months ago. I remembered how he’d handed the bouquet directly to Jessica and me, raising his glass to toast our future. He’d even pulled Jessica aside, threatening to “kick her ass” if she ever broke my heart. And all the while, he’d been orchestrating my downfall. A single tear slipped down my cheek, hot against my freezing skin. My heart didn’t just break; it ground itself down into fine powder. The door swung open, and Jessica walked in, followed by a pale, shaken Justin. “Larry…” Justin began. “What do you think you’re doing?” Jessica demanded, her voice tight with anxiety. I looked at them, my breath hitching once before a strange, eerie calm washed over me. I reached down to my left hand, slowly pulling off the platinum band I’d worn for three years. I took Justin’s hand and dropped the ring into his palm. “You can have her,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I hope you three have a wonderful life together.” Mark and Rachel stood paralyzed in the corner. Jessica opened her mouth, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something, anything. But I didn’t care anymore. I turned my back on them and walked out into the night. The next morning, Jessica burst through the front door of our townhouse, her eyes wild after receiving an alert from her realtor that the property had been listed for immediate sale. She grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me away from my half-packed suitcases. “Larry! Are you insane?! You’re selling our home?!” The months of suppressed rage finally broke through my cold exterior. I swung my hand back and slapped her across the face with everything I had left. “SLAP.” Her head snapped to the side, red marks blooming across her cheek. “Our home?” I spat, my voice dripping with disgust. “You have the nerve to use that word, Jessica? Did you have fun turning me into a fucking idiot for three years?” She didn’t get angry. Instead, she did what she always did whenever we had a fight—she softened her tone, stepping closer to put her hands on my chest. “Are you done?” she asked gently. “Did that get the anger out? Look, I know I lied, and I’m sorry. But we’ve been together for seven years, Larry. You can’t just throw us away over this.” She tried to rest her head against my shoulder. “My life belongs to you. You saved me. How could I ever truly abandon you?” I tried to push her off, but she wrapped her arms around my waist, holding on with suffocating strength. “Justin’s father was the vice chairman of my company,” she rushed out, her words desperate. “When he died, he begged me to take care of Justin. I made a mistake… I slept with him. I tried to end it, I swear! But Justin has severe separation anxiety—every time I mention breaking up, he hurts himself! I couldn’t just let him die!” She looked up at me, tears streaming down her face. “Larry, I never wanted to lose you. You and Justin… you’re both good men, and I care about both of you. Why can’t we just keep things the way they were? I’ll give you everything you want, I’ll be a perfect fiancée to you, and you can just pretend you don’t know about him. Please?” I felt a wave of profound nausea roll through my stomach. Seeing that I wasn’t responding, she assumed I was giving in. She squeezed my hand and headed toward the kitchen. “You haven’t eaten all day. I’ll make that slow-cooked beef stew you love.” She didn’t make it two steps. “BANG!” The front door was kicked off its frame, slamming against the wall. Rachel strode in, followed closely by Mark, whose face was contorted in a mask of pure rage. Before I could react, Mark lunged forward, his fist crashing into my jaw. I hit the floor hard, tasting blood instantly. “Larry! Where the fuck did you put Toby?!” Mark screamed, standing over me. Justin ran in right behind them, collapsing onto his knees beside my prone body. “Dr. Hall, please! I’m begging you, give my baby back! You can have Jessica, you can have everything, just don’t hurt my boy!” The domestic warmth in Jessica’s eyes vanished, replaced instantly by an ugly, lethal suspicion. “What did you say? Toby is missing?” “Justin took Toby for his shots an hour ago!” Rachel yelled, her eyes bloodshot. “Right after he paid at the clinic desk, someone snatched the stroller! Who else would kidnap a child out of revenge?!” Jessica turned to me, her face twisting into something terrifying. She lunged down, wrapping her fingers around my throat and squeezing with all her might. “Did you take him, Larry?! ARE YOU CRAZY?!” Air left my lungs in a desperate gasp. I clawed at her hands, my vision turning dark around the edges. “I… I didn’t… I’m a doctor… I would never…” “Please, Dr. Hall!” Justin sobbed on the floor, banging his head against the tile. “If anything happens to him, I’ll kill myself!” Jessica slammed my head back against the floor. “TELL US WHERE HE IS!” “I don’t have him!” I choked out. “Why won’t you listen to me?!” Rachel stepped forward, her face a mask of ruthless indifference. “Larry, if you don’t start talking right now, I’m calling the police and pressing kidnapping charges. You’ll spend the rest of your life in a cell.” When I kept shaking my head, Mark snapped completely. He dragged me by my collar into the back storage room, kicking the door shut behind us. He ripped open a medical storage kit on the shelf, grabbing a portable automated external defibrillator (AED) unit we kept in the house. “I trusted you, Larry!” Mark roared, slapping the adhesive pads onto my bare chest. “Toby is a baby! How could you do this?!” He knew about my intense, phobic terror of high-voltage electrical shocks—a lingering trauma from an accident during my residency. He knew exactly how to break me. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to force it out of you?!” “I didn’t do it!” I screamed, tears spilling over my cheeks. “I didn’t take him!” “You brought this on yourself,” Mark muttered coldly. He pressed the charge button. A high-pitched whine filled the small room, followed by a violent, agonizing surge of electricity tearing through my chest cavity. My body arched off the floor like a snapped puppet before slamming back down. The back of my head struck the sharp corner of a wooden cabinet with a sickening “CRACK”. Bright white light exploded behind my eyes. Warm, thick blood began to pool beneath my neck, soaking into the hardwood floor. “Larry…?” Mark stammered, his hand hovering over the device, suddenly looking horrified. Before anyone could move, a phone rang loudly in the living room. Rachel answered it on speaker. “Mr. Travis? This is the police department. We found the baby! A confused elderly patient walked off with the stroller at the clinic. Please come to St. Jude’s Hospital immediately!” The tension in the house snapped instantly. A collective gasp of relief echoed from the hallway. Without a single glance back into the storage room, without checking if I was breathing, the four of them scrambled toward the front door, shouting with joy as they rushed out to get the child. Not one of them looked back. I lay in the dark, watching the crimson puddle expand beneath my head, listening to the silence of the empty house as my consciousness slowly slipped away. Hours later, the front door unlocked again. Jessica walked in, holding a container of beef stew she’d picked up from our favorite diner as a peace offering. But as she stepped into the foyer, her eyes fell on the dark, dried pool of blood leading from the storage room, and the shiny black USB drive resting quietly on the center console table. The container slipped from her fingers, crashing onto the floor.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554436”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My eight-year-old daughter was leaning against her hospital pillow, playing a game on my phone. I leaned in, and my eyes caught a trending viral post on the screen: “What’s the single dumbest woman you’ve ever met?” The top-voted comment read: “Probably my husband’s ex-wife. Her daughter has leukemia, and she’s working three shift jobs, living on tap water and stale bread, genuinely believing my husband is sleeping in a construction trailer on some remote job site, slaving away to earn money for the girl’s medical bills.” “In reality, he just dropped half a million dollars to rent out the entire theme park just to throw our son a birthday party.” “Two days ago, that woman posted on Facebook saying that as long as her daughter lives, any amount of suffering is worth it. I’m dying laughing.” Attached was a photo: a grand fireworks show lighting up the night sky, and the back of a man holding a little boy in his arms. My daughter pointed at the silver medallion hanging from the man’s neck and whispered, “Mommy… that looks just like Daddy’s.” The blood in my veins went ice cold. Today was my daughter’s birthday. It was also the final deadline the hospital had set for her life-saving treatment bill. My hands shook violently as I dialed my husband’s number. The phone rang for a long time before he finally picked up. His voice sounded raspy, heavy with exhaustion. “Honey, I’m still at the construction site laying concrete. I’m taking the night shift tonight so I can make an extra hundred bucks. It’s Lucy’s birthday—buy her a little cupcake first, okay? As soon as the contractor pays me out tomorrow, I’ll rush over to pay the hospital…” In the background, there was no sound of wind, no heavy machinery, no construction noise at all. There was only the booming voice of an event host shouting through a microphone: “Let’s all raise a glass and wish our little prince a very happy fifth birthday—!” I clamped my hand over my mouth, the tears spilling silently down my face. My daughter wasn’t running out of time because we couldn’t afford her treatment. Her biological father was taking the money meant for her life and using it to buy another woman’s child the world. … After the line went dead, I stood outside the hospital room for a long time, unable to move. Inside, Lucy had already fallen asleep. She had just finished another round of intense treatment earlier today. Her face was paper-white, so fragile she looked as though she might shatter at the lightest touch. Today was her eighth birthday. And it was the hard deadline for the hospital’s final overdue payment. Yet only an hour ago, she had tugged gently on my sleeve and whispered, “Mommy, it’s okay if the cake is really small. As long as Daddy comes back to blow out the candle with me.” I looked down at her small, frail frame, a hollow ache tearing through my chest. She didn’t know a thing. She didn’t know that the father she had spent the entire day waiting for was currently holding another woman’s son under a sky full of fireworks, playing the perfect husband and the perfect father. A nurse walked over and called my name softly. “Olivia, we can only hold off the accounting department until tomorrow morning at the very latest.” I nodded numbly. The nurse looked at me, a flicker of hesitation and pity in her eyes. “A woman came by earlier with a little boy. They stood outside your door for a while and left a cake. Said it was for the birthday girl.” My entire body went stiff. Beside the doorway sat an elegant cake box. Pressed underneath it was a small card. “Happy Birthday to the little star.” Below it, written in fine, delicate handwriting, was a second line. “Pity that not every child is born deserving of fireworks.” I crumpled the card into my palm, my fingernails digging so deep into my flesh that they drew blood. I didn’t feel a thing. Compared to everything I had endured over the past few years, what was a little physical pain? What truly bled was the realization that hit me in that quiet, terrible moment. Every single sleepless night my daughter and I had suffered through was nothing more than a joke. All those days I skipped meals, worked three jobs back-to-back, lived on tap water and cheap bread, sleeping standing up on the bus—to them, it was just free entertainment over afternoon tea. And my husband, who swore he was breaking his back on a dirt-filled construction site to save our daughter’s life, was spending hundreds of thousands of dollars throwing a lavish party for someone else’s child. I turned back to look at Lucy. Her sleep was fitful. She stirred slightly, her pale lips moving in a faint murmur. “Daddy…” That single word struck me like a blade through the ribs. I leaned over, pulled the thin blanket up around her shoulders, and spoke in a low, trembling voice. “Mommy is going to bring Daddy back.” By the time I reached the theme park, night had fallen completely. The parking lot was packed with luxury vehicles. A plush red carpet stretched all the way from the grand gates into the venue, lined with banners displaying the boy’s name. How extravagant. How generous. I stood at the perimeter, looking down at myself. A faded, washed-out jacket. A pair of worn jeans. Shoes with soles peeling at the edges. My hands still carried the faint, indelible scent of hospital antiseptic from wiping Lucy down earlier—a smell that no amount of scrubbing could ever wash away. Memories of the past few years rushed back in a suffocating wave. In the dead of summer, I had scrubbed dishes in the back kitchen of a restaurant, steam scalding my face until I could barely breathe. In the depths of winter, I washed vegetables outside a breakfast diner, my hands cracking open from the cold, agonizingly tender whenever the hot water touched them. I had never complained. I kept telling myself that once Lucy was cured, everything would be okay. Once Duke made enough money, everything would be okay. Once we got over this hurdle, life would finally turn around. Now I knew there was no ‘afterward.’ I slipped past the front gates by following a crew of catering staff carrying wrapped gifts. The venue was crowded, but I spotted Duke instantly. He was wearing a tailored charcoal suit, standing under the bright event lights. For a second, I almost didn’t recognize him. Because he wasn’t the Duke I knew. The man I knew was always complaining over the phone about how exhausted he was, how dusty the site was, how freezing the trailer got at night, begging me to hold on just a little longer until the next payout came through. The man standing before me showed no trace of hardship. He was down on one knee in front of a little boy, patiently adjusting a glittering birthday crown on the child’s head. The boy threw his arms around Duke’s neck, and Duke scooped him up seamlessly, kissing his cheek with tender affection. Laughter echoed around them. Guests joked about how much the birthday boy looked like his father. I stood a short distance away, my mind going completely blank. When Lucy was five, she ran a fever so high she became delirious, calling out for her father over and over. When I called Duke back then, he told me he was working on a high-rise scaffolding, that he couldn’t afford to be distracted, and told me to figure out a way to get her to a clinic myself. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be distracted. He simply refused to spare a single drop of his heart for Lucy. “Olivia?” I looked up to see a woman walking toward me. She wore an expensive designer dress, her makeup immaculate, her hair falling softly over her shoulders. In her hand, she held the little boy from earlier. She stopped in front of me, scanned me from head to toe, and then let out a soft, amused smile. It was a faint smile, but it hit me harder than a slap to the face. “You actually came.” I stared at her, my voice tight and raw. “You posted that thread? The cake at the hospital—that was you, too?” She chuckled quietly. “You deserved to know the truth, didn’t you?” “The truth.” She said it so casually, so effortlessly. I glared at her, my eyes burning. “My daughter is lying in a hospital bed waiting for money to stay alive. How could you do something like this?” She acted as if she had just heard the funniest thing in the world. Turning her head slightly toward Duke, she spoke with a calm that verged on sadistic. “Where a man chooses to spend his money, and who he chooses to give his time to—doesn’t that already tell you everything?” A sharp pain seized my chest. She was right. What was left to ask? The answer had been standing right in front of me all along. Just then, Duke turned and saw me. The easy, affectionate smile wiped off his face in an instant. He marched over, grabbing my wrist with enough force to crush the bone. “Who told you to come here?” I looked up at him, suddenly struck by how unfamiliar he seemed. So utterly unfamiliar. Even the way he looked at me was dripping with annoyance and guarded hostility—as if I weren’t the woman who had stood by him for eight years, not the mother of his child, but an embarrassing nuisance threatening to ruin his public dignity. “I thought you were at a construction site,” I said quietly. His expression flickered, but he quickly recovered, his tone turning cold and aggressive. “I’m entertaining clients. Do you really have to make a scene in a place like this?” “Entertaining clients.” I looked past his shoulder toward the massive LED screen on the main stage. A birthday tribute video was playing. Photos slid across the screen, one after another. The beach. Luxury shopping malls. Fine dining restaurants. Theme parks. Camping trips. Ski resorts in the mountains. Duke was in every single one of them. There were shots of him holding that boy, laughing freely, and photos of the three of them posed closely together like a picture-perfect family. While they were making those memories, I was sitting in a dark basement apartment holding a feverish Lucy through endless, sleepless nights. I was waiting until the end of the day at the farmer’s market to buy bruised, discounted vegetables just to save three dollars. I was sitting beside a hospital bed, staring at medical bills, terrified to let a single tear drop because I couldn’t afford to break down. And while I drowned, he was living a golden life beside another woman and another child. “This is what you call entertaining clients?” I asked, my throat tight with a burning ache. Duke didn’t answer. The woman behind him stepped forward, her voice smooth. “Olivia, why haven’t you figured it out yet? If he comes back to you, it’s out of charity. If he doesn’t, it’s his right. Who told your daughter to have such terrible luck?” I froze, the blood rushing to my head. “Terrible luck.” An eight-year-old girl was clinging to life by a thread, and this woman dismissed it with a wave of her hand, calling it ‘terrible luck.’ I looked at them, and in an instant, any lingering desire to hold onto my pride evaporated completely. “Today is my daughter’s birthday,” I heard myself say. My voice was quiet, but it trembled violently. “She’s in the hospital right now waiting for life-saving funds. And you spent half a million dollars putting on a fireworks show for this boy.” The moment the words left my mouth, a hush fell over the surrounding crowd. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Duke cared about his image more than anything. Having his private dirt aired out in public made his face turn instantly thunderous. “Olivia, that’s enough! The kid getting sick is an unfortunate accident. I’m not God—I can’t magically cure her! You can’t expect me to let you drag me down for the rest of my life!” I stared at him, my heart turning to ice, degree by degree. “Drag you down?” I whispered. “She is your biological daughter.” Pushed past his patience, he leaned in and lowered his voice, his words dropping like icicles. “So what if she’s my daughter? Leukemia is a bottomless pit. You can throw millions in there and it’ll never be enough. I’m not going to ruin my entire life for a girl who might not even survive.” I stood there, frozen. A deafening ring buzzed in my ears. Right then, the little boy ran over, tugging on Duke’s pant leg. He looked up with wide, bright eyes. “Daddy, when are the fireworks starting?” Duke looked down at him, his harsh tone softening instantly. “Very soon, buddy. Daddy’s coming with you.” How absurd. My daughter was fighting for every breath, holding on just to blow out one birthday candle with him. And he was rushing off to watch fireworks with someone else’s child. I laughed. I laughed until tears spilled over my lashes. “So her life isn’t even worth a fireworks show to you.” Duke frowned, looking like he couldn’t be bothered to argue with me any longer. The woman stood beside him, letting out a soft, mocking laugh. Something inside me snapped. I turned toward the crowd of onlookers gathered around us. “The little girl lying in the hospital ICU right now is his biological child!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the venue. “This party tonight is being paid for with my daughter’s life!” The crowd erupted. Whispers, gasped reactions, the quiet click of phone cameras recording—it turned into an instant chaotic roar. Duke’s face paled, then flushed with rage. He lunged forward to grab me. He shoved me backward so hard I lost my footing. My foot caught the edge of the concrete steps, and I tumbled backward, crashing hard down the flight of stairs. When my lower back slammed into the iron railing at the bottom, agony exploded through my spine, blinding me for a second. I forced myself to look up at him. I wanted to see if there was even a fraction of a second where he looked terrified for me. Just a second. There was none. The little boy had started crying from the sudden commotion, and Duke immediately turned around to comfort him. As I lay on the cold ground, I heard his voice ring out, ice-cold and detached. “Get her out of here. Don’t let her ruin the night.” By the time someone dragged me up off the ground, the excruciating pain in my lower back made it impossible to stand. I ignored it. I frantically reached into my coat for my phone, wanting to pull up the video Lucy had recorded earlier. I wanted Duke to look at it—to look at the child he deemed ‘not worth it’ and see just how sensible and good she really was. Before I could grab it, a hand snatched the phone away. The woman stood over me, looking down with absolute disdain. She handed the phone directly to Duke. The screen happened to be paused on the video. In the clip, Lucy was wearing a paper birthday hat I had folded for her. Her face was tiny, her chin pointed, her eyes looking unnaturally large because of how much weight she had lost. She smiled sweetly into the camera. “Daddy, I turned eight today.” “Can you come back and blow out the candle with me?” “I was really good today. I didn’t even cry when they put the IV in.” “It’s okay if the cake is really small.” When she finished talking, she raised her thin hand and gave a gentle, tentative wave at the camera. As if she truly believed he was coming back. Watching the screen, tears flooded my eyes. She had practiced those words for an hour before recording. Because her breathing was so weak, she had to pause after every few words. We recorded it over and over, but she refused to complain or say it hurt. She was only afraid that she wouldn’t say it well enough—that her dad wouldn’t like it. Duke stared at the screen. For a brief second, his face went rigid. Only for a second. The woman lightly tapped his arm, whispering softly, “Noah was really scared just now.” Duke tossed the phone back into my lap, his tone cold and dismissive, as if he were looking at a ridiculous joke. “Stop using the child to manipulate me.” I sat frozen on the ground, my heart dying completely. She was his daughter. Even now, he still thought I was just trying to manipulate him. At that moment, my phone rang. It was the hospital. The nurse’s voice was trembling with urgency over the speaker. She said Lucy’s stats had plummeted unexpectedly. They needed to administer an emergency round of specialty medication immediately, or she wouldn’t make it through the night. My entire body locked up. “Won’t make it through the night.” Those words hit me like a sledgehammer, sending dark spots dancing across my vision. I scrambled to get up to run, but the moment I took a step, I froze. I turned back to Duke. In that moment, pride, resentment, dignity—none of it mattered anymore. I walked up to him and spoke in a voice that was almost a whisper, practically begging. “Can you please just give me a portion of the money you brought today? Just enough to save Lucy—just enough to get her through tonight.” “Duke, please. She’s really not going to make it.” He looked at me, his brow furrowed tightly, his patience visibly exhausted. “The money is already spent. I can’t just pull it back.” I grabbed his sleeve, holding on with everything I had. “Then lend it to me! Just a little bit—it’s enough! I’ll pay you back! I’ll take out loans, I’ll sell my blood, I’ll do whatever it takes! Just save her first!” One by one, he unclasped my fingers from his coat, his expression emotionless. “Didn’t the doctor tell you a long time ago that her chances were slim anyway?” “It’s a black hole, Olivia. A sick kid isn’t worth throwing all my money into.” Right then, the woman clutched her stomach, leaning into his chest with a soft wince, claiming she wasn’t feeling well. Duke’s expression shifted instantly. He wrapped an arm around her waist, calling out to his staff to pull the car around. I watched the scene unfold, a wave of sickening absurdity washing over me. My daughter was fighting for her life in an ICU, and he begrudged every dollar. This woman winced, and he looked as if the sky were falling. Duke seemed to remember I was still standing there. He cast a brief look over his shoulder. “Stop throwing a tantrum. Once I’m done wrapping things up here, I’ll give you a check.” I looked at him, my tears long dried. I turned and started walking away. Two steps in, the world spun wildly around me. The impact from falling down the stairs earlier, combined with the absolute limit of my physical and emotional endurance over the past eight hours, finally broke me. My legs buckled, and I collapsed heavily onto the hard pavement. Shouts of alarm broke out around me. Someone shouted to call an ambulance. Through the haze of my fading consciousness, I thought I saw Duke take a step toward me. But in the next second, the woman grabbed his wrist. And he stopped. As I lay on the freezing ground, my vision dimming, I heard his muffled voice speak to a security guard nearby. “Just take her to a local clinic. Don’t let her die here.” I closed my eyes, feeling an overwhelming, bone-deep exhaustion settle over me. It was so tiring. All these years, I had nearly destroyed myself trying to preserve a home for my daughter. In the end, all I had preserved was a punchline. Before my mind slipped completely into darkness, the screen of my phone, resting on the pavement a few inches away, lit up one last time. Displaying three words: [CRITICAL CONDITION NOTICE]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “554437”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel