Category: English

I was terrified. Every time I thought about my ending in the book, I couldn’t stop shaking. It turned out I was the product of my mother’s affair. Such a soapy, twisted plot. According to the novel, my older sister, Abby, was abused by my mother her entire childhood, both physically and mentally. This trauma turned her into a twisted, ruthless, and cold-blooded villainess. The first thing she did after taking control of the family was expose my true parentage. She threw my mother and me out onto the street and spent the rest of her life torturing us. But after I transmigrated into this world, I realized something shocking: this older sister was actually the female lead of the story. My mother kept her locked in the attic, feeding her only once a day. My scumbag father, after bringing her home, completely ignored her existence. It wasn’t until I was five years old that I even knew I had an older half-sister. My playboy father only cared about his own pleasure; he never gave a damn about his kids. 1 My mother left the house right after finishing breakfast with me. At my age, I should have been in kindergarten, but because of my weak constitution, I was kept at home to rest. I sneaked into the kitchen and asked Mary, our cook, for another plate of soup dumplings and a glass of milk. Mary looked down at me, surprised. “Leo, are you still hungry?” I tilted my head back, my neck aching a bit from looking up at her. “I need to eat more to grow tall.” And just like that, I got my second breakfast. Holding the small tray, I refused Mary’s help and wobbled my way down to the end of the hallway. I struggled to turn the doorknob, pushed the door open, picked up the tray again, and walked in. Abby’s room wasn’t spacious—it was actually smaller than my walk-in closet—but it was clean and well-lit. She was sitting on the floor by the window, reading a book. She didn’t react at all when I walked in. I set the tray down. “Sister, eat.” I remembered the book saying that my mother starved her, giving her only one meal a day. This eventually caused the female lead to develop chronic stomach issues. Although her stomach pain later became a plot device to bring her and the male lead closer, I mentally apologized to him—he was the male lead, he could find another way to spark romance with her. But I was different. I was just a vicious male supporting character destined to die a horrible death. Abby stared at me blankly, her eyes ice-cold. I wiped my hands, picked up a dumpling, ate one myself, and then grabbed another and shoved it directly toward her mouth. The dumpling was honestly too big for me, and I nearly choked to death on the first one. Abby had no choice but to pat my back and feed me a sip of milk. Once I finally caught my breath, I looked at the glass—I had chugged more than half of the milk. I felt a pang of guilt. “Mom’s not home,” I explained softly. “I told Mary I was still hungry, so she gave me this.” Nobody else knew, but Abby was only seven years old. No matter how powerful she became later in the story, right now, she was just a starving child. She lowered her eyes and slowly, silently, finished the dumplings. At the very end, without any hesitation, she drank the rest of the milk I had started. Watching her, I felt a spark of hope for my future survival. I waited a while before taking the empty tray back. Mary just assumed I was a growing boy with a big appetite and didn’t suspect a thing. My mother didn’t come home for lunch either. Mary made me tomato noodles with a bunch of colorful, kid-friendly toppings. “Mary, can you make a little extra?” I asked. Mary smiled. “Leo is eating so well today.” I thought to myself, I’ll probably be eating this much every single day from now on. I actually had a very small appetite. Looking at the heavy tray, I thought for a second, then stood up wobbly. “Mary, Leo wants to eat in his room.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry that for you?” she asked. “Leo can do it himself,” I insisted. I had a playroom filled with Legos where I spent most of my time, so it wasn’t weird for me to walk in that direction. I walked right past my playroom, straight to the end of the hall. “Sister, open the door!” I called out. I was using every ounce of strength to hold the heavy tray. If I put it down, I probably wouldn’t be able to pick it back up. Thankfully, Abby opened the door just in time and took the tray from my shaking hands. I sighed in relief. But when I looked at the table, my expression froze. There was a bowl of plain noodles sitting there. Not a single vegetable, no meat, nothing. It was a miracle the female lead managed to grow tall eating such garbage. I walked over, pushed the plain noodles aside, and slid my tray into the center. “Sister, eat this.” Abby looked at the colorful, rich tomato noodles, then at me. “Did you eat?” My stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly. I yelled, “Sister, you eat first!” Keeping the female lead fed was my top priority. Plus, I remembered I had an entire cabinet of snacks in my room. Abby stayed silent for a moment. She picked up a pair of chopsticks, scooped a small bowl of noodles, sat in front of me, and held some up to my mouth. “I’m not hungry. You eat.” I shivered slightly and obediently opened my mouth. I always felt that she didn’t seem like a female lead at all; she felt more like the ultimate villain. She was only seven, but she was already terrifying. I took a few bites and was instantly full, just chewing without swallowing. Abby glanced at me. “Full?” I nodded rapidly. Only then did she begin to eat the rest of the noodles from the tray. This time, I didn’t take the tray back to the kitchen. I left it in my playroom, knocked it around to make it look messy, and then told my nanny to clean it up. That night, both my father and mother came home together. My eyelid twitched. When these two were in the same room, it was usually like Mars colliding with Earth. My mother patted my head and went straight upstairs. My father, however, knelt down and looked at me. “Did Leo have fun playing today?” I nodded. “Yes.” My father actually cared about his son at this point. He held me and talked to me for a good while. My heart skipped a beat. I just hoped that when this cheap dad found out I wasn’t his biological son, he would still speak to me this gently. Even Abby was called down for dinner that night. I quickly realized that when my father was around, my mother didn’t dare go too far. Our family sat around the dining table, putting on a fake show of harmony, eating in complete silence. My father cut the steak on my plate into tiny pieces and handed it back to me. “Does Leo want to go to kindergarten and make some new friends?” I completely froze. I blinked my big eyes at him. “Leo doesn’t want to go to school. Leo wants to stay home.” My father and mother exchanged a look. When it came to me, they were actually on the same page. “How about we invite your cousin from your uncle’s house to come play with you?” my mother suggested. It took me half a minute to remember who she was talking about. It was a minor bully character who tormented the female lead in the book. “I want that huge Lego set! I want to play by myself!” I quickly said, using my hands to gesture how big it was. After a lot of frantic hand waving, my mother finally understood. My father laughed. “Alright, Daddy will buy it for you.” It was obvious my father didn’t want me interacting too much with my mother’s side of the family either, so the conversation hit a dead end. After a while, my mother put down her silverware and went upstairs. My father wiped his mouth and said, “Leo, keep eating with your sister.” I nodded. “Okay.” Once my father was out of sight, I looked around to make sure the coast was clear. I grabbed a spoon, scooped up a massive piece of my favorite stir-fried meat, and stretched my little arm across the table. “Sister, this is really good.” Abby watched my shaking hand. Seeing that the meat was about to fall off the spoon, she sighed softly, picked up her plate, and caught it. I finished my dinner feeling incredibly satisfied. I firmly believed that the bond we were building, meal by meal, would eventually convince the female lead to spare my life. The childhood phase that passed by in a single blink in the novel, I had to survive day by day. My fake parents actually treated me really well. Even though they were rarely home, they never deprived me of anything material. This made it easy for me to secretly take care of Abby. But every time my mother came home, it was absolute torture for me. I wanted to be close to her, but I was also terrified of her. As the mother of my original character, I had thought about trying to pull her back from the edge—at least save her from her miserable fate in the book. But whenever she looked at Abby, she turned into a monster. She used every excuse to torment the girl, venting all her hatred for my father onto this innocent child. Once, I was so terrified by one of her cruel punishments that I developed a high fever in the middle of the night and started hallucinating. The next morning, when Abby and I saw each other, it was hard to tell who looked worse. I couldn’t change my mother’s mind, so I just focused on making Abby’s life a little more bearable. I even managed to skip grades so I could be in the same class as the female lead. From elementary to middle school, my father arranged for both of us to attend the same elite private academy. My mother threw a fit at first, but eventually, for some reason, she agreed. Having read the book, I knew exactly why. Because everyone knew Abby was an illegitimate child hated by her own family. The kids at the academy came from wealthy, powerful backgrounds, and they loved bullying her for entertainment. Although the novel only mentioned it briefly, I could imagine the absolute hell she went through at school. One Monday morning, I sat in the car, fighting back yawns. As soon as Abby got in, I hit the button to raise the privacy partition between us and the driver. Then, I pulled a bag of cookies and a carton of milk out of my backpack. “Breakfast. You have fifteen minutes.” In the original novel, my character inherited my mother’s nasty temper and kicked Abby out of the car on the very first day of school, forcing her to walk. Abby had to walk for an hour and obviously arrived late. After that, she woke up before dawn every single day to walk to school, until our elderly butler finally took pity on her and secretly lent her his son’s bicycle. But now? I was terrified of not treating her well enough. There was no way I’d let her walk. Abby ate quietly. Right as the car pulled up to the school gates, I grabbed the empty wrappers, shoved them into my bag, and hopped out of the car pretending nothing had happened. “Sister,” I whispered, “if anyone bullies you, tell me. I’ll beat them up.” At school, I always pretended not to know her well. That was, until the day I saw three kids cornering her, digging through her books, and shoving her shoulder. As I got closer, I heard their ugly laughter. I couldn’t take it. I had no idea how Abby managed to stay so expressionless through it all. I marched right up and kicked the lead kid’s desk as hard as I could. It flipped over with a massive crash, scattering textbooks everywhere. I sneered at them. “No matter what, her last name is still the same as mine. Who gave you the right to teach her a lesson?” Even though I was short, my cold voice and aggressive entrance terrified the entire classroom into dead silence. The boy leading the group started to get angry, but his friend pulled his sleeve. They muttered under their breath, flipped the desk back over, and slinked away. The kid’s last name was Vance. His family did a lot of business with my mother’s side, so he didn’t dare cross me. Abby quietly picked up her books from the floor without saying a single word. When I sat down, I realized my foot was throbbing in pain. Thinking about my fragile glass-doll body, I fell silent. Eventually, I begged my mother to let me take taekwondo classes. She agreed and hired a private coach to train me at home. Because of that, Abby heard me screaming in pain on a regular basis. She looked at me with very complicated eyes back then, but ultimately just patted my head. During lunch break, I sat on the school roof with the massive bento box delivered from home, waiting in absolute boredom. Just as I was starting to panic that she hadn’t seen the note I slipped her, she finally appeared. I scratched my head. “I thought you didn’t see the note.” She explained that she got held up by something. My internal alarms instantly went off. “Did they bully you again?” Ever since I kicked that desk, nobody had dared touch her. She shook her head. “No.” Then I noticed the apple in her hand, and my brain started spinning. Who else would give the female lead an apple at school besides the male lead? Before high school, their interactions were supposed to be minimal, but the plot always found a way to push them together. The male lead was smart, handsome, and incredibly kind. He stepped up to help her multiple times, acting as the single ray of light in her childhood outside of her mother. This was all laying the groundwork for them to meet, understand each other, and fall in love. I relaxed and opened the food container. Mary knew exactly how much I “ate.” Every single box had two massive layers—way more than both of us could finish. The school cafeteria had amazing food, but I remembered a scene from the book where someone dumped a tray of food all over Abby, leaving her starving after she had to change clothes. I was not letting her suffer that indignity. After we finished eating, Abby packed up the containers for me and left the apple behind. I stared at it. “This apple…” “What?” she asked. “You don’t want it?” “It’s not that I don’t want it,” I mumbled. Abby turned to leave, her face blank. “If you don’t want it, throw it away.” I stared at the apple in a daze. The novel spent so much time describing her intense control issues and possessiveness—especially when it came to the male lead and anything related to him. Did this apple really mean absolutely nothing to her? This was a gift from your childhood crush! I didn’t dare eat it. I just packed it in my bag, figuring that if she regretted it later, I could give it back. But days passed, the apple started to rot, and she never brought it up again. I chalked it up to the timeline. They were still kids. Their real romance didn’t blossom until high school. During my last year of middle school, my mother’s side of the family took a massive financial hit. Whenever my parents were home together, it was a warzone. Back when our family was struggling, my mother’s family helped a lot. Now that they were crashing, my father refused to lift a finger. Their screaming matches echoed from the second floor all the way down to the living room. I sat on the couch with my earbuds in, calmly doing my homework. Abby raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried?” I pulled out an earbud. “What?” She pointed toward the ceiling. I shrugged. “Adult problems. Kids shouldn’t get involved. Besides, I know her family will take a hit, but they won’t go bankrupt.” They were stepping stones for the female lead. Until she grew powerful enough to crush them, they couldn’t fall. As long as her family stayed afloat, my secret parentage wouldn’t be exposed, and everything was manageable. I smiled. “I need to finish this fast so I can watch TV.” I was obsessed with a new drama and needed to catch up on the latest episodes. That day, my father slammed the front door and left. My mother threw an absolute fit. That night, my mother claimed she lost an expensive necklace and “found” it in Abby’s room. She accused Abby of stealing and forced her to kneel outside in the snow for two hours. It was the dead of winter. Abby knelt in the snow wearing nothing but thin pajamas. I was so anxious I was on the verge of tears, but one sharp look from Abby forced me to stay calm. My mother did it on purpose. Whether a maid actually stole it and hid it, or my mother orchestrated the whole thing, she just needed an excuse to punish her. Abby’s existence was a thorn in her side, and my father’s refusal to help her family today had driven that thorn even deeper. I sat on the stairs, hugging my knees, looking out the window at the frail girl kneeling in the snow. I felt like I had tried so hard for years, but nothing had really changed. The next morning at school, I tracked down the male lead, Ethan, and asked him to help me buy some medicine. He looked confused. “Doesn’t the school clinic have that stuff?” I lowered my head, looking embarrassed. “I got frostbite playing in the snow, and I don’t want my mom to know. If I go to the clinic, they’ll log my name and call my parents.” Ethan immediately understood. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” I sighed in relief. This was the safest way I could think of. I knew the male lead was a good guy, and it was a great excuse to earn some favor with him. That night, my mother thankfully wasn’t home. I breathed a sigh of relief and snuck into Abby’s room with my backpack. She was sitting up in bed, reading. Her face was frighteningly pale, but her expression was perfectly calm. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “I asked Ethan to buy some medicine,” I said softly. “Do you remember him? The guy in the white shirt who smiles with his eyes?” Abby gave a faint “Mm.” I reached out to roll up her pajama pants, but she grabbed my wrist. She looked a bit uncomfortable. “I can do it myself.” I obediently let go. “I’ll go check what’s for dinner.” When I came back with the tray, she had finished applying the ointment and was out of bed. Usually, I was the one keeping the conversation going, but I was in a terrible mood today, so we ate in silence. I pulled a test paper out of my bag. “They handed this out today. With your grades, it doesn’t matter if you don’t do it.” Abby was a master at hiding her true potential. She purposely kept her grades slightly above average—not terrible, but never standing out. She took the paper from me and coughed twice. I stared at her pale face, feeling my chest tighten. “Are you sick?” The moment I asked, I felt stupid. Who wouldn’t be sick after kneeling in the freezing snow for two hours? “I’m fine,” she said flatly. I didn’t believe her. I ran to my room and grabbed the first-aid kit. Unsurprisingly, she was running a high fever. Thank god we had the right medicine in the box. Looking at her miserable state, my nose started to sting. I tried to hold it back, but I couldn’t. Fat tears started rolling down my face. For the first time, Abby looked panicked. “What’s wrong?” I shook my head. “Nothing. I just feel so useless.” In the beginning, I only took care of her to save my own skin. But after spending so many years together, I truly saw her as my family, my friend. Yet every time she suffered, I was powerless to stop it. I could only stand by and watch. Abby shifted on the bed. She reached out and placed her hand gently on my head. “I don’t blame you. Stop crying.” Hearing that made me want to cry even harder. I couldn’t help it—I lunged forward, wrapped my arms around her, and sobbed for a good ten minutes. She froze completely, her body rigid, but she didn’t push me away. When I finally stopped crying, I realized what I had just done and was too embarrassed to look her in the eye. “Get some rest,” I mumbled, scrambling toward the door. “I’m going to do my homework.” The next day, her fever was worse. I woke up extra early to sneak her some breakfast and medicine, only to find I couldn’t even wake her up. My eyes got hot. I took a deep breath, blinked hard, and forced myself to act completely normal. I packed away the food and medicine, made sure my face wasn’t red, and walked out to the dining room for breakfast. I frowned, putting on my best annoyed brat act. “Is she not going to school again today?” Mary paused while serving porridge. “I think she’s still feeling unwell.” I scoffed loudly. “Get a doctor to look at her. If something happens to her, Dad is just going to come home and scream at Mom again.” Mary nodded quickly. “You’re right. I’ll let the butler know right away.” I let out a breath. If the butler knew, my father would find out, and there was no way he would let her die of a fever. I spent the entire day at school completely distracted. I kept staring at her empty desk, wondering if the doctor ever showed up. I prayed her brain didn’t get fried by the fever. It wasn’t until I rushed home and saw her sitting on the couch that my heart finally settled back into my chest. Thank god she was alive. I rushed over, worried. “Why are you out of bed?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418522”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At my father-in-law’s funeral, the grieving family could hardly conceal their delight. My mother-in-law, adorned in jewels, held her chin so high it was as if her husband had not just passed away. This was all because the old tycoon had left them an inheritance of nearly a billion dollars. In my previous life, I discovered the truth as he lay on his deathbed. His investments had collapsed long ago, leaving him with nothing. His extravagant lifestyle was sustained only by a web of high interest loans from online lenders, all to feed his vanity. Yet, seeing him so frail, I kept the secret, hoping he could pass in peace. After his death, my mother-in-law worked me relentlessly. The funeral was my first chance to rest. I had intended for us to face the debt together as a family. Instead, she publicly tried to force me into a divorce, demanding I relinquish any claim to the inheritance. I refused, for I still loved my wife. But my refusal only convinced her I was after a share of the money. That night, as I slept, she crept into my room and murdered me with a knife. She then greeted my wife, who had just returned, with a chilling smile. “Don’t worry, dear. I took care of that useless trash for you. He won’t lay a hand on your money, or my grandson’s inheritance. You must sort out the marriage papers quickly. I won’t have my grandson born a bastard.” As a spirit, I watched my wife and her mother dispose of my body. They wove a tale for the police, painting me as an abusive monster and claiming she had killed me in self defense. Amid a firestorm of online hatred directed at me, my wife signed a letter of forgiveness for her mother. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back at my father-in-law’s funeral. This time, I will not hesitate. I will agree to the divorce and sign whatever they put before me. Let them enjoy the tens of millions in debt he left behind. 1 “Alex, get this dress to my sister, now. She needs to change soon.” A dress was shoved into my hands, and I looked up into the sharp, critical face of a woman. I was dazed. “Don’t just stand there spacing out. Can you try to be useful for once? No wonder my sister can’t stand you.” The familiar words sent a jolt through me. I whipped my head around, taking in the scene. She was still rambling. “I have no idea what kind of dumb luck you stumbled into to marry Isabelle. I’m telling you, she could do so much better. A small-timer like you doesn’t deserve…” Before she could finish, I threw open the door and ran. It was real. I was back. Thank God. I found my mother-in-law, Meredith, holding the dress. She had been chatting cheerfully with a guest, but the moment she saw me, her face soured. She snatched the dress from my hands and shot me a venomous glare. “Have you no sense at all? Can’t you see I’m with a guest?” “Just wait for me by the door of the changing room.” I offered her my arm to help her, a cold sneer hidden deep inside. It was her husband’s funeral, yet she’d already changed her outfit three times. Was she really oblivious to the strange looks the other guests were giving her? After she changed, I was gathering her discarded clothes when I caught her staring at me with a calculating glint in her eye. My heart steeled itself. Here it comes. “Alex,” she began, her voice dripping with condescension, “now that your father-in-law is gone, Isabelle is the pillar of this family. I’m sure you understand what I mean.” “I’ve been more than generous, letting a good-for-nothing like you stick around for this long. But this family will not be dragged down by a man like you.” “So, know your place. Get the divorce done with Isabelle, and do it now.” I feigned shock, lowering my head and mumbling, “Meredith… I know I’ve let Isabelle down. But… what does she think about this?” Meredith let out a scornful laugh. “You think she’s going to plead your case? Let me tell you, this is my decision, and it’s final!” “I’ll get her in here right now. I’ll make you give up, you pathetic worm!” A few moments later, Isabelle pushed the door open. Her expression was calm. She first offered me a soft, gentle smile before turning to her mother with a look of confusion. “Mom, what’s wrong? Why did you call me over in such a rush?” “How could I not rush? This man is going nowhere, and today is the day. We’re settling this divorce!” “Mom!” Isabelle’s voice was sharp, as if trying to cut her off. Meredith pulled her aside, and they began whispering furiously. I watched as a cascade of emotions washed over Isabelle’s face—shock, anger, conflict—before finally settling into a mask of profound sorrow. “Mom, could you leave us for a minute?” she said, her voice heavy. “I’d like to speak with… Alex… alone.” 2 Meredith shot me a cold, triumphant smirk before closing the door behind her. Isabelle walked toward me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She reached out, her hand gently caressing my cheek. “Alex… I… I have no choice,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’ve already lost my father. I can’t lose my mother, too.” “She has a heart condition, you know. She can’t handle any stress. I can’t be selfish… I can’t put my love for you before her health.” “Let’s just… let’s just get a divorce for show. Once I’ve calmed her down, we’ll get married again, I promise. You’re the only one I’ve ever loved!” She delivered the lines with such heartfelt passion, you’d think she was a tragic heroine from some old play, forced to abandon her love by a cruel matriarch. But I wasn’t her fool anymore. I knew exactly who she was. In my last life, I had truly believed she loved me, that all the trouble we had was just Meredith’s doing. It was only after I was dead, after I’d heard her conversation with her mother, after I’d seen the cold, detached look in her eyes as she stared at my corpse, that I finally understood. She knew everything. She had let it all happen. In fact, she had been the one to push her mother to kill me. She was the one who wanted the divorce. She was the one who wanted me dead. I dropped my gaze, hiding the mockery in my eyes. “I know… I understand, Isabelle. I’ll… I’ll divorce you.” The moment the words left my mouth, Meredith burst back into the room. “Let’s go, now! We can make it to the courthouse before it closes. Let’s get this done.” “Wait!” she added, her eyes narrowing. “First, you have to sign a waiver to the inheritance. Isabelle, this boy is sneaky. We can’t let him get a penny of your father’s money!” Her hand clamped down on my arm, her nails digging into my flesh as if she was afraid I’d make a run for it. Isabelle looked away, her eyes darting around the room, unable to meet mine. “…Fine. I’ll sign it. I won’t touch a single cent of your family’s money.” I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles turned white, fighting the urge to laugh out loud. I had waited so long to say those words. Once I sign this paper, all that debt has nothing to do with me. Isabelle must have mistaken my trembling for grief. A flicker of pity crossed her face. “Mom, maybe we should just let it go. It’s not like we can’t afford to support one more person.” My expression tightened, but Meredith’s reaction was far more extreme. “What are you talking about? Isabelle, you have no idea how much trouble a man can cause! Besides, you have a child to think about now!” At the mention of a child, Isabelle’s eyes flickered, and she fell silent. I obediently signed the waiver, then followed Isabelle to the courthouse to file for divorce. We would have to come back in a month to finalize it. As we left the building, she seemed to want to say something more, but I couldn’t stand another second of her hypocritical performance. I turned, hailed a cab, and left her standing there. In the cab, I saw messages from my parents asking if I was coming home for dinner. With a sigh, I told the driver a new address. When I got home, the table was filled with all my favorite dishes, a rare sight. I picked at my food, my appetite gone, and then quietly announced the news. “We’re getting a divorce.” I braced myself for the storm, the screaming and shouting. After all, they had always been so proud that I’d married into a wealthy family, constantly reminding me to suck up to them, caring more about Isabelle than they ever had about me. But this time, there was no anger. They exchanged a look, a flash of unconcealed joy passing between them. My mother even put a chicken wing on my plate. “Oh, Alex, don’t be sad. It’s trendy to be single these days. Mom thinks it’s perfectly fine to be on your own.” I nodded, a small part of me touched. Maybe they finally understood. I was about to tell them about the family’s financial situation after dinner, but just then, my brother, Kevin, walked in. As he passed me, a familiar scent hit me, and I froze, the realization striking me like a bolt of lightning. I finally understood why my parents weren’t upset about the divorce. 3 I have an extremely sensitive nose; the scent of most commercial perfumes is overwhelming to me. That’s why I had personally blended a unique fragrance for Isabelle, with Blue Tansy as the main note. It was a scent unlike any other. And right now, that was the exact scent I smelled on Kevin. So, Isabelle’s affair was with my brother. No wonder my parents weren’t upset. In their minds, only their precious younger son deserved to marry into money, even if it meant he had to steal his own brother’s wife. I’d always known they favored him. My birth name, the one they gave me, was a cruel joke, a pun on the word for “failure.” I changed it myself when I got older. Growing up, I did all the chores while Kevin lounged on the sofa, ordering me around. New clothes and toys were always for him; I only got his hand-me-downs when he grew tired of them. Even after I got a good job at a prestigious firm and sent them money and gifts every month, they still doted on Kevin, who did nothing but leech off them. And now, they had helped him steal my wife, too. My mother glanced at my brother with a look of pure adoration before placing another chicken wing on my plate. “Alex, honey, your brother has found someone special. But you know our family’s situation… I’m worried her family will look down on him. Do you think… maybe you could help him with half of the down payment for a house?” I kept my head down, shoveling food into my mouth in silence. Suddenly, my father slammed his hand on the table. “All you do is eat! Your elders are talking to you. Have you no manners?” “Your brother is getting married! As his older brother, it’s your duty to contribute!” I set down my chopsticks and looked up, meeting their eyes directly. I hadn’t even realized tears were streaming down my face. “Married? To who? Isabelle?” I watched the color drain from their faces and let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “He’s the homewrecker who stole his brother’s wife, and I’m supposed to buy them a house? Am I just a complete joke to you?” “Who are you calling a homewrecker? You useless bastard, it’s your own fault you couldn’t keep her!” Kevin roared, lunging at me, his fist aimed at my face. We tumbled to the ground, trading blows. When it was clear Kevin was losing, my father bellowed, “That’s enough!” He and my mother rushed over to pull me off. He pinned my arms while she held me down, allowing Kevin to land several solid punches, splitting my lip and drawing blood. “You’re the older brother! Why can’t you just let him have his way for once? How dare you raise a hand to him, you animal!” my father yelled, his hand swinging back before connecting with my cheek in a series of sharp, stinging slaps. I collapsed onto the floor, watching my mother coo over Kevin, fussing over a scratch on his hand, while my father stood over me, his face contorted with rage. A wild, broken laugh escaped my lips. “I have to let him have whatever he wants? If he wanted to murder someone, should I hand him the knife?” “Why are you so biased? Why do you hate me so much? Sometimes I really wonder if I’m even your biological son!” I screamed the words, a desperate attempt to vent the years of resentment. I never expected to see a flash of pure terror in my mother’s eyes. Before I could process it, my father lunged, his hands closing around my neck, squeezing tight. “You ungrateful whelp! After everything we’ve done for you, you dare to scream at us!” “You’re not setting foot in this house again until you’ve learned to reflect on what you’ve done!” He dragged me out of the house and slammed the door shut. I covered my face with my hands, silent sobs shaking my body as tears slipped through my fingers. So it was true. I wasn’t their son. And in my past life… they must have been a part of my death, too. In the chaos of the fight, I had managed to grab a strand of hair from the floor. I sent it to a lab for DNA testing. While I waited for the results, I went to a real estate agency. Thank God I had resisted Meredith’s pressure to hand over all my savings back then. Now that I had nowhere else to go, I at least had enough to buy myself a home. After looking at a few places, I made up my mind. I was just about to confirm the purchase with the agent when I heard a familiar, sycophantic voice behind me. “Sweetheart, I want a villa with a garden. We can plant those roses you love.” I turned and saw him: Kevin, with his arm wrapped possessively around Isabelle. They saw me at the same time. Isabelle’s face went rigid, but Kevin strode over, a smug, triumphant grin plastered on his face. “Bro, I’d start thinking about your future if I were you. It’s tough for a divorced guy to find someone new. If you blow what little money you have on a house, how are you going to live?” “Not like me, of course. I’ve got a rich family to back me up. You should probably just go apologize to Mom and Dad.” 4 The real estate agent’s eyes lit up. She’d overheard Kevin mention buying a villa and immediately hurried over to them. “Sir, perhaps you’d be interested in one of these properties? They have large, beautiful gardens. This one, in fact, comes pre-planted with a full rose garden, perfectly suited to your lovely partner’s tastes.” Kevin’s eyes gleamed, but Isabelle hesitated. The inheritance hadn’t been settled yet; she didn’t have the cash on hand. “Kevin, we said we were just going to look today. We can buy it once the money comes through…” Hearing her whisper, I decided to pour some fuel on the fire. “What’s the matter, Kevin? You went to all that trouble to seduce your brother’s wife, and now she won’t even buy you a house?” The agent’s expression shifted as she took in this juicy piece of gossip, her eyes darting between the three of us. Kevin’s face turned beet red. He looked at Isabelle, his eyes pleading. She hardened her resolve. “We’ll take it,” she said, her voice sharp. “We’ll pay right now. For the one Kevin likes.” She pulled out her phone and, with a few taps, secured a multi-million dollar online loan. Then she shot me a look of pure venom. “Alex, when my father’s inheritance comes through, you’d better not regret this. You have disappointed me so much today!” “Why? Were you planning on having both of us, Isabelle? A little brotherly sharing?” My sarcastic retort made her face go pale. I guessed it pricked whatever was left of her conscience. She always did this—put on a show of being soft-hearted while doing the most monstrous things. Kevin, who obviously knew her well, tightened his grip on her hand and placed his other hand on her stomach. “Honey, the baby just kicked. I think he’s angry, too.” “I’m not a useless man like my brother. You and I are going to have lots of children together, Isabelle.” Isabelle’s face lit up with a look of genuine surprise and delight. She placed her own hand on her belly, not sparing me another glance as she walked away, clinging to Kevin’s arm. Watching her dig herself into an even deeper hole, I smiled and called the agent over. I bought the small apartment I’d had my eye on, paying in full. Back at my temporary place, I was planning my move when my parents called. I answered, and was immediately met with a torrent of abuse. “Alex, you’ve really grown a backbone, haven’t you? How dare you publicly call your brother a homewrecker! Do you have any idea that his wife is pregnant? What if the stress caused a miscarriage? How can you be so vicious?” Listening to them, I thought with a detached sense of irony, Wow, Kevin really tattles fast. “Did I say anything that wasn’t true? He is a homewrecker. What, do you expect me to babysit the child they conceived behind my back?” “You… Alex! You get over here and apologize to Kevin right now! If you don’t, we’ll go to your office and make a scene until you get fired!” The absurdity of it made me laugh, but a chill ran down my spine. “Fine. Go ahead. After you’re done and I’ve lost my job, I’ll make a scene of my own. I’ll make sure the whole world knows that Kevin is a snake who seduced his own sister-in-law.” “I have nothing left to lose. I’ll just drag my feet on finalizing the divorce, and Kevin’s precious child will be born a bastard.” The other end of the line went silent. I pressed my advantage, my voice low and menacing. “Don’t push me. I don’t mind taking you all down with me. If I’m going to be miserable, so is everyone else.” I hung up and blocked all of their numbers. The call served its purpose. For the next few weeks, they left me alone, and I moved into my new apartment without any trouble. When the one-month waiting period was over, I arrived at the courthouse on time. My threat had clearly worked; Kevin was already there, anxiously waiting with Isabelle by his side. The moment the divorce certificates were in our hands, he couldn’t resist a final jab. “Hey, bro, if you get on your knees and apologize, maybe I’ll let a little cash slip through my fingers for you. We’re talking about a billion dollars here. You couldn’t earn that in ten lifetimes!” I was about to fire back a cold retort when Isabelle’s phone rang. It was Meredith, her voice frantic and laced with panic. “Isabelle, it’s… it’s bad! There are… there are people here demanding money! They’re saying… they’re saying your father took out loans from loan sharks!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418538”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was a freezing Sunday morning, and I was lighting a fresh memorial candle at my daughter’s grave. My son-in-law, Oliver, suddenly broke the silence, asking if I knew where Sweetpea lived. He told me that before Lily died, she constantly talked about someone named Sweetpea, calling this person her savior. He said he wanted to pay them a visit to show his gratitude. My hand froze in midair. I almost dropped the lighter. Sweetpea wasn’t some stranger. It was the embarrassing childhood nickname I had given my daughter. When Lily grew up, she thought the name was incredibly childish and absolutely forbade me from ever saying it out loud. A cold knot formed in my stomach. Why on earth would she tell her husband that Sweetpea was her savior? 1 My daughter was brutally murdered in a dark alleyway three months ago. She was eight months pregnant at the time. The killer showed absolutely no mercy, taking her life and the life of her unborn baby in one horrific act of violence. When the police called and I rushed to the scene, the sheer trauma of seeing what was left of her made me pass out on the wet pavement. Oliver was completely destroyed. He sat by her body in the freezing rain, weeping until his voice gave out. The shock and grief were so profound that streaks of silver appeared in his hair overnight. The crime shocked the entire city. Everyone was disgusted by the killer’s cruelty and heartbroken over Lily’s fate. The police department immediately set up a special task force. But because Lily died in a blind spot without a single security camera, there were no witnesses. It was pouring rain that night, washing away any footprints or DNA. The killer vanished like a ghost. The task force worked around the clock for days but came up completely empty. Refusing to let the monster walk free, Oliver publicly offered a massive million-dollar reward. He went on every local news station, begging the public to help find the person who slaughtered his family. For a while, the whole country was obsessed with the case. But three agonizing months passed. Every lead turned into a dead end. Just yesterday, the department officially disbanded the special task force. The million-dollar reward sat unclaimed. The murder of my daughter was officially a cold case. I honestly thought the truth would stay buried forever. But right now, hearing Oliver’s question, a sharp tremor went through my heart. I looked up at him, studying his face. “When exactly did Lily say Sweetpea was her savior?” Oliver thought for a few seconds, his expression completely serious. “Just a few days before she was killed.” Something was wrong. Something was horribly, twistedly wrong. I kept my eyes locked on his face. “What were her exact words?” Oliver met my gaze, his eyes pooling with sadness. “She said if it wasn’t for Sweetpea, she wouldn’t have survived this long. She called Sweetpea the greatest blessing of her life and made me promise to repay the favor if we ever got the chance.” He took a shaky breath. “I kept asking her who this person was and where they lived. She just smiled and said she would introduce me after the baby was born. I never thought she wouldn’t make it to that day.” His voice cracked as he spoke, dropping into a devastated whisper. But down by my side, my fingers were digging into the cold wet dirt. I called her Sweetpea because she was such a tiny, chubby, sweet-smelling baby. Later, when she started dating, she specifically warned me. She told me if she ever got a boyfriend or got married, I was never allowed to utter that nickname around him. She was terrified of being teased. From that day on, Sweetpea became a banned word between us. Lily hated that nickname so much. There was absolutely zero chance she would willingly bring it up to Oliver. And there was definitely no way she would call Sweetpea her savior. So who was lying to me? 2 While my mind was spinning, Oliver spoke again. “Mom, it was just the two of you growing up. Do you have any idea who this Sweetpea is?” I chose not to tell him the truth. Instead, I looked at him, let two seconds of heavy silence pass, and calmly shook my head. “Never heard of them.” A flash of disappointment crossed Oliver’s eyes. “I really wanted to thank them. Just to fulfill Lily’s last wish. But if you don’t know them either, I guess I’ll have to let it go.” I didn’t say a word. I just looked down and fixed the flowers. But the suspicion in my chest was growing into a raging fire. My husband died when I was young, and I raised Lily all by myself. Working double shifts while being a single mom was hell, but Lily was an angel. She never caused trouble. She was so gentle that she had never even been in a shouting match with anyone, let alone made mortal enemies. That was exactly why the cops were so stumped. She had no enemies. Oliver and Lily met in college. They dated for five years and had been married for three. For eight whole years, Oliver treated her like royalty. Every time Lily called me, she was bragging about him. “Mom, Oliver just signed up for a culinary class so he can make me healthy meals every night.” “Mom, I coughed twice this morning and Oliver dragged me to the clinic for a full checkup. He’s such a worrywart.” “Mom, a huge stray dog charged at me today. Oliver threw himself right in front of me and fought it off barehanded. He was bleeding everywhere but didn’t even care. He just cried because I scraped my knee falling down.” “Mom, I’m pregnant! Oliver is over the moon. He just booked the most expensive maternity clinic in the city. He swore he would protect us with his life.” She was so incredibly happy. As a mother, I could see the glow radiating from her. And I genuinely believed Oliver loved her with everything he had. That was why he aged ten years overnight when she died. For the last three months, he hadn’t slept a full night. Once the million-dollar bounty went public, his phone rang off the hook. If a caller spotted someone suspicious across the state, he would drive there immediately. Once, at two in the morning, someone called saying a creepy drifter was following pregnant women in the next county. Oliver threw on a jacket, drove four hours in the pitch black, and found nothing. This happened every single day. People told him to rest. He would just grit his teeth and shake his head. “I am not missing a single chance to get justice for Lily.” When the task force shut down, he begged them on his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Please, keep looking. My wife and baby can’t die for nothing.” I was hospitalized for shock after the funeral. I refused to eat. I wanted to die. Oliver was the one who stayed by my bed day and night, talking me off the ledge. He held my hand and cried. “Mom, you are the most important person in Lily’s world. If she looks down from heaven and sees you like this, it would break her heart.” If it wasn’t for Oliver, I would probably be in a psychiatric ward right now. Because I knew exactly how good he was, I was losing my mind trying to figure out who was lying. If Oliver was lying, how did he find out about the nickname, and why spin this weird story? If Lily was lying to Oliver, what was the point of telling him that? Was she trying to send a message? Right when I felt my head was about to split open, my cell phone buzzed. It was Detective Garrett, the head of the disbanded task force. As soon as I answered, his voice came through completely breathless. “Sarah, someone just anonymously leaked a hidden camera video of the alley from the night your daughter died.” 3 My knees gave out. I had to grab the gravestone to keep from falling. Oliver, who had heard the voice through the speaker, went wide-eyed. He leaned in and yelled into the phone. “Detective! Are you serious?” Garrett cleared his throat, his tone dead serious. “Dead serious. How fast can you two get down to the precinct?” We both nodded aggressively, practically screaming into the receiver. “We are on our way!” Oliver drove like a maniac. His hands were physically shaking on the steering wheel, and he had the gas pedal slammed to the floor. He looked like a man desperate to rip the killer apart with his bare teeth. We burst into the station a few minutes later. Detective Garrett was waiting in the conference room with a laptop open on the table. He skipped the pleasantries. “Tech guys already verified it. The footage is raw. No deepfakes, no edits. I need you both to watch this closely and tell me if you recognize the guy.” He hit play. It was nighttime. The alley was dark, lacking streetlights, so the footage was incredibly grainy. But I instantly recognized the brick walls. It was the alley. On the screen, my pregnant daughter was walking slowly in the rain, holding an umbrella. Two seconds later, a man stepped into the frame. He was wearing a black hoodie pulled up tight, a baseball cap, and a medical mask. He kept a steady distance, about ten feet right behind Lily. You couldn’t see a single inch of his face. But you could see his build. He was short, almost skeletal. And he walked with a severe, heavy limp. A few seconds later, Lily turned the corner into the blind spot. The man paused at the mouth of the alley, looked left, looked right, and followed her into the dark. The video cut to black. Detective Garrett paused on the frame of the man, zooming in on his hunched, limping figure. “Have either of you ever seen this man in your lives?” I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. I shook my head. “Never.” Oliver’s face was completely drained of color. “I have no idea who that is.” Garrett played it again, this time at half speed. He pointed at the screen with a pen. “Based on the coroner’s timeline, your daughter was attacked the moment she entered that blind spot. This man is our prime suspect.” Knowing I was staring at the monster who butchered my baby made my blood boil. I leaned in, practically pressing my nose against the monitor, praying to recognize something. But he was completely covered. The only thing visible was his eyes, caught for a split second reflecting the distant streetlamp. For some inexplicable reason, those eyes gave me a weird, prickling sense of deja vu. But my mind was blank. I couldn’t place them. Garrett looped the video a dozen times. No matter how hard we looked, we had no names to give him. The room fell dead silent. Finally, I looked at Garrett. “Is that the only clip?” He nodded, looking exhausted. “I was packing up my desk yesterday. Then this morning, this file drops into my inbox. And it wasn’t just me. The sender mass-emailed it to every single officer in the building, plus three local news anchors.” He sighed heavily. “It’s all over the internet now. The public is out for blood. The mayor just called and forced the department to reopen the case. Everyone wants this guy’s head on a spike.” Something didn’t sit right with me. “Why did the sender wait three months? Why wait until the day after your team officially shut down to make a huge spectacle out of it?” It made zero sense. This was the golden ticket. If the person who filmed this had turned it in on day one, they would be a millionaire right now thanks to Oliver’s reward. Why hide, ignore the money, and wait until the cops gave up to drop a bomb? Garrett rubbed his temples. “We think they wanted to cause maximum panic. They want a media circus. We tried tracking the IP address, but it bounced through ten different countries. The sender is a ghost.” Oliver slammed his hands on the table. “Can’t you track him through other street cameras? He didn’t just teleport there! Pull the footage from every block in a five-mile radius!” Garrett looked over at Toby, the tech guy at the corner desk. Toby typed frantically. “We are pulling all commercial and traffic cameras from the night of the murder. We are through seventy percent of the footage, but there is no sign of…” Before Toby could finish, Garrett’s radio crackled loudly. “Boss, patrol unit three. We are doing a sweep of the lower east side. We just spotted a guy matching the suspect’s description. Same hoodie, same heavy limp.” Garrett shot out of his chair like a rocket. “Do not engage. Keep eyes on him. We are on our way right now!” 4 Oliver and I jumped into the back of Garrett’s unmarked cruiser. Twenty minutes later, tires screeching, we pulled up outside a decaying, rundown apartment complex on the edge of town. Several plainclothes officers were already waiting by the dumpsters. They jogged up to Garrett. “Boss, asked around. Neighborhood kids call him Limping Jack. He’s a drifter, collects cans for cash. Wanders the streets all day. He went into the ground floor unit right there and hasn’t come out.” Garrett drew his weapon and signaled the men to move quietly toward the peeling wooden door of the apartment. I stayed close behind Garrett, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Oliver was pacing behind me, aggressively twisting his wedding ring. “Lily… we are finally going to get him. We are finally going to make him pay.” His voice was vibrating with emotion. He had been waiting for this exact moment. Garrett knocked sharply on the door. “Gas company. We have a reported leak, open up.” Footsteps shuffled inside. A heavy deadbolt clicked. The door swung open. Standing there was a frail, hunched man. Half of his face was covered in horrific, melted burn scars. And his eyes… they were the exact same eyes from the grainy video. Seeing the badges instead of gas workers didn’t shock him. Limping Jack stared at the cops, paused for two seconds, and actually smiled. “Took you long enough.” His voice was calm. Unnervingly calm. Like a man waiting for a dinner guest. Garrett instantly sensed danger and tackled the man to the ground. Two other cops piled on, pinning his arms. Jack didn’t even try to fight back. With his face pressed against the dirty linoleum floor, he kept laughing. “I waited three whole months for you guys. Finally. Hahaha!” That laugh sent a block of ice sliding down my spine. Feeling sick, my eyes wandered past the scuffle and into his cramped apartment. What I saw made the breath leave my lungs. Every single inch of his four walls was plastered with photographs. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. And they were all of my daughter. There was a picture of her as a toddler in the park, wearing pigtails. There was her in middle school, carrying a heavy backpack. Her sitting in the college library, chewing on a pencil. Her in a wedding dress, holding Oliver’s arm. There was even a recent one, her heavily pregnant, watering plants on her balcony. The pictures documented her entire existence. From a little girl to a grown woman. A complete timeline of my baby’s life. I was paralyzed. Oliver froze in the doorway. A second later, a guttural scream ripped out of his throat. He lunged forward, grabbing Jack by the collar and hoisting him up. “You sick, twisted freak! You’ve been stalking her for years?!” Jack didn’t flinch. He let his head hang back and let out another raspy laugh. “That’s right.” “I killed her.” The moment the words left his mouth, Oliver’s fist connected with Jack’s jaw with a sickening crack. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!” It was the first time I had ever seen Oliver lose his mind. He was a wild animal, raining punches down on the frail man, his eyes bloodshot, fully ready to murder him right there on the floor. Garrett and another cop had to physically put Oliver in a chokehold to drag him off. Oliver was still thrashing wildly, screaming at the top of his lungs. “What did she ever do to you?! Why did you have to hurt her?!” Jack wiped the blood from his mouth. He completely ignored Oliver. Instead, his eyes found mine, locking onto me from across the room. He spoke softly. “I confess. Take me away.” Garrett holstered his weapon and gestured to his men. “Get him in the car.” They slapped the cuffs on him and hauled him up. Again, no struggling. Jack actually walked toward the police cruiser faster than the cops pulling him. He was desperate to be arrested. Watching his hunched back and heavy limp as he walked away, an overwhelming sense of wrongness washed over me. Nothing made sense. Who was this man? Why did he photograph my daughter for twenty years, only to brutally murder her right before she gave birth? Why would he pick a perfect blind spot to commit the murder, completely avoiding detection, but then leave his front door unlocked and practically beg the cops to arrest him? Why say he waited three months? And the video… if he filmed it himself, why wait? Why turn down a million dollars just to send an anonymous email to the news? And what about Oliver? Why did he lie about Lily mentioning Sweetpea? My brain felt like it was trapped in a blender. Everything was spinning out of control. I leaned against the wall to keep from collapsing. As I did, my gaze drifted to the dirty window of the apartment. Sitting on the windowsill was a small, potted sunflower. It was completely dead. Withered and black. The moment I saw it, my heart stopped. A terrifying, earth-shattering realization hit me like a freight train.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418523”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My adopted brother, Peter, was allegedly allergic to lies. He claimed that whenever he heard one, he would break out in hives, sneeze uncontrollably, and his eyes would stream with tears. On the very first day I returned to my biological family, Peter immediately suffered a massive allergic reaction. His skin turned bright red and swelled up, his eyes and nose running non-stop. From that moment on, my entire family branded me a pathological liar with zero morals. Later on, my grandmother, who was paralyzed from a severe stroke, was pushed down a flight of stairs. When they asked me, I simply shook my head and said, “It wasn’t me.” The very next second, Peter went into anaphylactic shock and collapsed right in front of everyone. My father was furious. My mother screamed and cried at me. My older sister, Jacqueline, slapped me across the face so hard my vision went black. “How could our family produce such a toxic, venomous snake like you?!” I was humiliated, tortured, and relentlessly punished. It wasn’t until the moment I died that I finally discovered Peter’s true secret. 1 On my very first day back at the Starzyk estate, I didn’t hesitate. I poured myself a glass of boiling hot water and drank it straight down. Only when I felt that agonizing, burning pain searing my throat did I finally relax against the leather seats of the family’s Porsche. In my past life, the second I was reunited with my biological parents and my sister, I had hugged them, my eyes red and brimming with tears of joy. My mother’s voice had choked with emotion as she told me they had finally found me. Peter, standing off to the side, had looked down at the floor and muttered, “I’m so sorry, brother. I’ve been occupying your rightful place all these years. Now that you’re back, I should give everything back to you.” Jacqueline had immediately frowned, reaching out to gently stroke his hair. “Don’t say such silly things. Ethan won’t mind.” I had quickly nodded in agreement. “Of course not. I consider you my real brother. We’ll always be a family.” It was supposed to be a warm, welcoming reunion. But the moment the words left my mouth, Peter started furiously rubbing his nose. He sneezed violently, over and over, his hands frantically scratching at his arms, which were rapidly breaking out in angry red hives. Jacqueline’s face immediately darkened. She barked at the maids to fetch his antihistamines. My parents subtly pulled their hands away from mine. The warm, loving looks they had just given me were instantly replaced by cold, calculated scrutiny. I was terrified. I couldn’t understand how a genuine, heartfelt sentence could trigger such a catastrophic reaction. I had heard rumors before. The adopted son of the Starzyk family had a bizarre medical condition. He was supposedly allergic to lies. The story went that shortly after he was adopted, Peter had a severe allergic reaction to a loyal, longtime nanny. After a thorough investigation, the family discovered that the nanny was actually a corporate spy hired by a rival firm to steal the Starzyk Corporation’s trade secrets. Another time, during a massive charity gala, Peter couldn’t stop sneezing while my father was negotiating with a prominent investor. Later, they found out the investor was secretly bankrupt and the entire partnership was a massive Ponzi scheme designed to steal their money. The most famous incident happened at Jacqueline’s engagement party. The moment Peter shook hands with her fiancé, he broke out in full-body hives and ran a dangerously high fever. Furious, Jacqueline hired a private investigator. She discovered her seemingly perfect fiancé was actually sleeping around and had contracted multiple STDs. Incident after incident elevated Peter to the status of a holy oracle within the Starzyk family. He was their precious, untouchable little prince. They trusted him implicitly. And they absolutely refused to let anyone or anything harm him. Because of him, they instantly threw up their walls against me, their own biological son who had just returned home. My mother looked incredibly awkward. She forced a stiff smile and asked me how I had been living all these years. Thinking back to the brutal beatings at the orphanage, the relentless bullying at school, and having to scrape a living off the filthy streets, I offered a bitter, honest smile. “It was hard, but I survived.” Hearing that, a flicker of genuine heartache finally crossed my mother’s face. But to everyone’s shock, Peter’s condition didn’t improve even after taking his medication. In fact, his arms flared up with massive, swollen welts. My mother panicked and immediately called for the family doctor. The look she shot me was entirely hostile and guarded. In her mind, I was obviously lying, playing the victim just to garner sympathy. Right on cue, Peter played the role of the incredibly reasonable martyr, insisting that he had to pack up his things and give his master bedroom back to me because it “belonged to the rightful heir.” 2 I felt like I was sitting on a bed of nails. I immediately shook my head and said, “I could never take your room. I didn’t come back here to steal anything from you.” That single sentence acted like a lit match to gasoline. It triggered the most violent reaction yet. Peter started gasping for air, clutching his chest, making horrific wheezing sounds like he was suffocating. Jacqueline lost her mind. She shoved me hard against the wall, screaming at me to stay away from him. My father’s face was completely black with fury. “That’s enough for today,” he snapped. “Maria, go prepare a guest room for him. Get him out of my sight.” I stood there, completely paralyzed, watching them swarm around Peter in a panic. I had no idea what I did wrong. Just like that, the family I had spent my entire life dreaming of finding completely rejected and despised me. From that day forward, the Starzyk family never gave me a single kind look. I would hide in the hallways, listening to the maids gossip about how the “newly found young master” was a vicious, pathological liar. They whispered that a piece of trash dragged out of the slums could never compare to their elegant, pampered Peter. I could only keep my head down, forcing myself to become completely invisible in my own home. The incident that sealed my absolute destruction happened late one night. The family had gone out for a walk. I was in my room, studying. Suddenly, a deafening crash echoed from the hallway. I rushed out of my room, only to see my grandmother—who had been paralyzed by a stroke—tumbling violently down the grand marble staircase, wheelchair and all. I screamed in horror and rushed toward the stairs to help her. But right at that exact moment, the front doors opened. My family walked in, witnessing the entire scene. A maid collapsed onto the floor in absolute terror, pointing a trembling finger directly at me. “Master Ethan said he was going to take the Madam to the gardens for some fresh air! I don’t know what happened, he just suddenly pushed her down the stairs!” Jacqueline broke down instantly. Our grandmother was the person she loved most in the world. My father’s hands shook uncontrollably as he dialed 911. Outside the emergency room, the surgeon told us the prognosis was incredibly grim. Tears streamed down my face. I shook my head frantically. “Please, you have to save her! I don’t know why this is happening. I didn’t do it!” But the moment the words left my lips, Peter, standing nearby, went into a severe asthma attack. His face drained of all color, and he collapsed into anaphylactic shock right there in the waiting room. The chaos exploded. Peter was rushed into the ER on a stretcher. My father grabbed me by the collar, his teeth bared in pure, unfiltered rage, roaring at me to shut my mouth. My mother sobbed hysterically into her hands, praying for her mother-in-law and her precious son. Jacqueline’s hair was a mess. Her eyes were bloodshot. She marched up to me and delivered a brutal, ringing slap across my face. “How many people do you have to kill before you’re satisfied?! How did our bloodline produce such a toxic, venomous bastard?! Is there a single ounce of truth in your filthy mouth?!” I was knocked straight onto the linoleum floor. My mind went completely blank. I didn’t know why this was happening. I wanted to know how any of this was possible too! I literally did nothing, yet I was instantly condemned as the family’s ultimate villain! My grandmother died that night. Peter was transferred to the ICU. The Starzyk family completely gave up on me. My mother wanted to throw me back onto the streets and severe all legal ties. But Jacqueline refused. Her voice was pure ice. “A life for a life. He murdered Grandma. I will make sure he suffers for the rest of his pathetic existence.” From that day on, my life became a living hell. I was locked in the dog kennels or strung up by my wrists from the second-floor balcony. Jacqueline tortured and humiliated me on a daily basis. My parents turned a completely blind eye. I spiraled into total despair. My will to live slowly drained away. One day, the groundskeeper “forgot” to feed the family’s massive Tibetan Mastiff. Starving and rabid, it sank its teeth deep into my calf. I just lay there on the grass, watching it tear into me, bite after bite. Eventually, I closed my eyes, letting the agonizing pain drag me down into the abyss. Remembering every brutal detail of my past life, I clenched my fists tightly. This time around, I absolutely refused to be their punching bag. I was done living like a coward! 3 Just like in my previous life, the moment I walked through the door, my family pulled me into a tearful embrace. And right on cue, Peter delivered his exact same rehearsed line: “I’m so sorry, brother. I’ve been occupying your rightful place all these years. Now that you’re back, I should give everything back to you.” This time, however, I didn’t say a single word. I just stood there, staring at him in dead silence. His eyes quickly turned red, acting as if my silence was somehow bullying him, and he just kept frantically apologizing. Seeing this, my family naturally started throwing annoyed, judgmental glances my way. I looked at them with wide, pitiful eyes. I pointed to my throat and opened my mouth. My throat was severely blistered, red, and covered in raw ulcers from the boiling water. Their faces instantly changed. They immediately called for the family doctor. After a quick examination, the doctor confirmed it was a severe burn, stating that with medication, I wouldn’t be able to speak for at least a week or two. My mother finally let out a sigh of relief. But then, the doctor frowned heavily. “The young master is covered in scars, both old and new. It looks like he has lived a very brutal life out there.” Hearing that, my mother pulled out a silk handkerchief and dabbed at her tears. A massive wave of guilt and heartbreak washed over her, making her voice tremble. “Oh, Ethan… you’ve suffered so much. I promise, Mommy will never let anyone hurt you ever again.” My father stood nearby. His eyes lingered on the jagged scars cutting across my arms, and he let out a heavy sigh. “From this day forward, no one will ever dare lay a finger on the heir to the Starzyk family!” The muscles in Jacqueline’s jaw tightened. A flicker of genuine sympathy crossed her normally icy eyes. Peter was completely blindsided by this sudden shift in the atmosphere. No one was paying attention to him anymore. He stood frozen in the corner like the main character who just had his spotlight stolen. At that moment, I looked over and saw my grandmother sitting silently in her wheelchair. My nose stung. I walked over and dropped to one knee beside her. In my past life, my soul had lingered after I died, desperately trying to figure out what had actually happened. I followed Peter around like a ghost. That was how I discovered the truth. He wasn’t allergic to lies at all. His “medical condition” was a complete fabrication. His real secret? He could hear people’s inner thoughts. Whenever he heard someone thinking something different from what they were saying, he would fake an allergic reaction. He used this “power” to build an untouchable persona of pure, infallible honesty. But the most terrifying secret I learned was straight from his own thoughts. Years ago, my grandmother had actually tracked down my location. She was overjoyed and immediately started making arrangements to bring me home. But Peter read her mind. Terrified of losing his status and inheritance, he deliberately unchained the rabid guard dogs and set them loose on her. The sheer terror triggered a massive stroke, paralyzing her and rendering her speechless. And the only reason she never recovered? Peter had spent years bribing the household staff. The daily “medication” she drank every night wasn’t curing her. It was a slow-acting poison designed to keep her trapped in her own body. For years, my grandmother had been fully aware of every evil thing Peter had done, but she couldn’t move a muscle or speak a word. She was trapped, forced to watch him destroy her family while she slowly waited for death. I pressed my face gently against my grandmother’s frail hand. Hot tears poured down my cheeks. She was the only one who genuinely loved me, but in my last life, I failed to save her. I even took the fall when Peter’s bribed maid pushed her down those stairs to silence her forever. This time, I swore on my life, I was going to pull her back from the edge of the grave! Even though she couldn’t move, I saw a faint glisten of moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. Jacqueline watched us, clearly moved, and quickly turned her head away. My parents exchanged a look filled with profound relief. Only Peter was left standing in the distance, entirely shut out of the family’s warmth. Round one. Victory was mine. That night, Peter slipped into my room, his face twisted in a dark, venomous sneer. “Don’t get too comfortable. My eighteenth birthday is exactly one month from now. Dad already promised to transfer his shares to me as a coming-of-age gift. The Starzyk empire belongs to me.” One month? I let out a low, silent chuckle. I was going to make sure his eighteenth birthday was an event he would remember for the rest of his short, miserable life.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418539”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Of all the contacts on my phone screen, nearly seventy percent were tagged “Vincent – Client.” My fingertip froze on the glass. Moments ago, in the parking garage of St. Jude’s Women’s Center, I had watched my husband, Vincent, carry a pink prenatal bag for another woman, the hospital’s logo burning into my vision. I called his name. He turned, showing no panic, still holding the woman’s hand, and only frowned as if I were an interruption. “Sophia,” he said, his tone more distant than with clients. “What are you doing here?” My eyes were fixed on their entwined hands, on the halo of diamonds glittering on her ring finger. “My annual check-up,” I replied, fighting to steady my voice. He nodded dismissively. “Well, don’t let me keep you.” Then he looked down at her and offered the same gentle smile he once gave me ten years ago. As they walked away, I heard her ask softly, “Who was that?” Vincent’s quiet reply echoed off the concrete walls: “She’s nobody.” He paused, then added, “She can’t hold a candle to you.” The engine started and faded. I stood alone, every ounce of strength gone. 1 A fluorescent light in the garage ceiling was failing, flickering on and off in a frantic, dying rhythm. I don’t know how long I stood there. Three minutes, maybe thirteen. It wasn’t until a black Audi, reversing, nearly clipped me and the driver honked twice that my feet finally moved. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t name the feeling. It wasn’t heartbreak; heartbreak was supposed to ache, but I was completely numb. It was like a machine humming along for a decade, and someone had just yanked the plug. Every gear seized at once. The silence was terrifying. I walked to my car, pulled the door open, sat down, and buckled my seatbelt. Then I opened my contacts again. Mr. Redmond – Dad’s Golf Buddy, Chairman of Redmond Properties. In the winter of 2016, after dinner with my dad at the country club, I had casually placed Vincent’s business card by Mr. Redmond’s hand. “My husband just started his own practice,” I’d said. “If you ever have any legal needs, maybe you could throw some work his way.” Mr. Redmond had smiled and pocketed the card. The following year, Redmond Properties moved its entire legal portfolio to Vincent’s firm. The annual retainer was $1.2 million. Arthur Cole – Mom’s College Friend’s Son, President of Apex Investments. In the summer of 2017, at my mother’s birthday party, I made a point of inviting Arthur and seating him next to Vincent. Six months later, Apex Investments tasked Vincent with the legal due diligence for three major acquisitions. The fee for the largest of those deals was $4.6 million. Mark Marston – Tech CEO I’d met at an industry conference. In 2019, I had dinner with him twice. On the third, I brought Vincent along. Later, when Mark’s company went public, Vincent’s team handled all the legal work. That one deal brought the firm $8 million. I scrolled down, one name after another. Franklyn Bell. David Shaw. Peter Quinn. Behind every name was a dinner, a round of golf, an evening where I had smiled until my face ached. Seventy percent. Seventy percent of his firm’s core clients were people I had brought to him. Today, Vincent Croft stood as a partner in one of L.A.’s top three commercial law firms. He wore $3,000 bespoke suits and spoke eloquently on legal talk shows. Every stepping stone beneath his feet was one that I had laid. And just a few minutes ago, he had told that woman, “She can’t hold a candle to you.” I put my phone away and started the car. As I drove out of the garage, the sunlight stabbed at my eyes, and I squinted. I was home. I put the key in the lock, turned it twice, and the door swung open. The living room was just as we’d left it that morning. His jacket was slung over the sofa, his half-finished coffee sitting on the table. I folded his jacket and hung it in the closet. I took the coffee cup to the kitchen and washed it. Then, I started making dinner. My hands were steady as I chopped the vegetables. Tomatoes into perfect, even cubes. Eggs whisked until frothy. Green onions sliced paper-thin. The oil sizzled in the pan. I poured in the eggs, stirring them with a spatula. Everything was exactly as it had been for the past ten years, on any given evening. At 8:40 p.m., Vincent came home. He’d changed his suit and his tie. “A frittata?” he asked offhandedly. “There was nothing else in the fridge,” I replied. “Get some steak tomorrow,” he said, sitting down and taking a bite. “Okay.” He glanced at me, detecting nothing unusual. Of course he didn’t. My expression hadn’t changed at all. After dinner, he went to his study to work. I cleared the dishes, wiped the table, and scrubbed the last water spot from the kitchen counter. Then I went to our bedroom and picked up my phone. There was a number in my contacts I’d saved six years ago but had never once dialed. Rebecca. My college roommate. After graduation, she’d moved to New York to become a trial lawyer. She had just moved back to L.A. last year to start her own firm. At a reunion last month, she’d complained about how hard it was to find clients, joking that the stress was turning her hair gray. I stared at her number for a long time. I didn’t call. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I wasn’t ready yet. Outside, a string of lights along the distant coastline blinked on. We bought this condo in 2018. The down payment was $480,000, paid for by my father. Vincent said he would handle the mortgage, but after the first year, I was the one making the payments. $3,200 a month. I turned off the lights and lay down in bed. In the darkness, I replayed the scene from the parking garage. He hadn’t said, “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t said, “I can explain.” He had said, “She can’t hold a candle to you.” In front of a total stranger, he had taken ten years of my life, my effort, my everything, and crushed it into dust with seven words. I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I had to remember to buy steak. 2 The next day, I went to the law firm. It was my Thursday routine, helping Vincent organize client files and coordinate with the administrative staff. No one paid me a salary. Vincent called it being “partners in life and work.” I pushed open his office door. The young woman at the front desk greeted me with a bright, “Morning, Sophia.” I smiled back. Vincent wasn’t in. His assistant, Jenna, told me he was out meeting a client and wouldn’t be back until the afternoon. I sat down in his large leather chair and started sorting through the month’s case files. A stack of invoices sat on the corner of his desk. I picked them up and idly flipped through them. Most were for routine office expenses—printing, couriers, travel. But I stopped on the twelfth one. An invoice from a furniture store. Modern Living Furnishings. The total was $37,800 for one item: a three-seater leather sofa. The delivery address was listed as: The Pacific Crest, Unit 1204, Santa Monica. That wasn’t our address. I took a picture of the invoice with my phone, then placed it back exactly where I’d found it. Next, I opened his laptop and pulled up his email. He never changed his password. It was six digits, our wedding anniversary. In the search bar, I typed “The Pacific Crest.” Three seconds later, four emails appeared. The first: a notification for payment of HOA fees, billed to Vincent Croft. The second: a quote from an interior design company for a full furnishing package. Total price: $186,000. The third: confirmation of a new broadband internet installation. The fourth: a forwarded email. The original sender was a woman named Paige. The message was short. Vince, I went with the cream-colored curtains. Let me know if you like them. An image was attached. Sunlight streamed through the cream curtains, illuminating brand-new hardwood floors. The living room was spacious, with that $37,800 sofa sitting right in the middle. On the wall hung a large abstract painting. I recognized it instantly. It was a print I had helped him pick out at an art fair last year. He told me he loved it. Turns out, he was buying it for someone else. I closed the email client. The screen reverted to the login page. With a single click, I cleared the browsing history. Jenna came in with a cup of coffee. “Sophia, Mr. Croft said a client will be here at three. He asked if you could get the conference room ready.” “Which client?” “Mr. Wallace, from the Wallace Group.” Wallace. I pressed my lips together. “Of course. I’ll get it ready.” I wiped down the conference room table twice, set out eight bottles of mineral water, and calibrated the projector. At ten past three, a man in his fifties walked in. Michael Wallace, Chairman of the Wallace Group. He was a client I had introduced to Vincent at a Chamber of Commerce gala last year. When he saw me, he shook my hand warmly. “Sophia, good to see you. How has your father been?” “He’s doing well, thank you for asking, Michael.” Vincent walked in behind him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Michael, sorry to keep you waiting.” He glanced at me. “Sophia, could you get us some coffee?” Michael Wallace frowned for a split second. He knew exactly who I was. But Vincent had already started his presentation. I turned and walked to the kitchenette. As I was pouring the coffee, my phone buzzed. It was an alert from a real estate app linked to Vincent’s credit card. “The property you are tracking, The Pacific Crest, Unit 1204, Santa Monica, has completed its title registration.” Property Owner: Vincent Croft. Purchase Price: $1.8 million. One point eight million dollars. I was paying our $3,200 mortgage every month. And he had taken that money and bought another woman a house. The coffee was ready. I carried the tray back into the conference room and placed a cup in front of Mr. Wallace. “Michael, please.” Then I turned, walked out, and gently closed the door behind me. The moment the door clicked shut, I could hear Vincent’s voice, confident, steady, and professional. “Now, Michael, the risk factor in this clause is…” Ten years ago, he couldn’t even draft a simple contract properly. It was my father who had taught him, line by line, how to do it. I stood in the hallway, leaning against the cool wall. The faint sound of traffic drifted up from the street below. I took out my phone and stared at Rebecca’s number for three long seconds. Then I put it back in my pocket. It wasn’t time yet. 3 In the days that followed, I started to notice. It wasn’t that I was actively looking for clues; it was more that things I had been blind to before were now screamingly obvious. The collar of his shirt would occasionally carry the scent of a perfume that wasn’t mine. Nothing expensive, just the cloyingly sweet, fruity kind you smell at department store counters. His arrival time home shifted from 8:30 to 9:30, then from 9:30 to 10:00. The excuse was always the same: “Working late at the office.” On Saturday, he said he was going to play golf, but the clothes in his bag were bone dry when he returned. But the thing that stuck with me the most was small. The milk in the refrigerator. I only drink skim; he drinks whole. Last week, I found a carton of strawberry-flavored yogurt in the fridge. I don’t like strawberry. Neither does he. The next day, it was gone. I didn’t ask. Even if I did, he’d have a hundred plausible excuses. He was a lawyer. Making up stories was his profession. Life went on. On the surface, nothing had changed. I still went to the firm on Thursdays, cooked dinner every night, and paid the mortgage every month. Only one thing was different. At night, I started going through my contacts. Not Vincent’s. Mine. I went through every client’s name, reliving how we met, where we had dinner, what I had said to convince them to give their business to Vincent. On the fourth night, I had a final count. Of the firm’s twelve core clients, eight and a half were mine. Why half? Because one of them was a client Vincent had technically landed himself, but the introductory dinner had been hosted by my father. My father had no idea. He thought it was just a casual get-together with friends. For ten years, I had been his unpaid business development manager. I smiled, made small talk, remembered every client’s wife’s birthday, and knew what grade their children were in. Mr. Redmond’s wife loved a specific type of white tea, so every spring, I would send her a tin of the finest Silver Needle. When Arthur Cole’s mother was hospitalized, I visited her three times, each time bringing her favorite osmanthus cakes. When Mark Marston first moved to L.A., he didn’t know a soul. I was the one who helped him find an apartment, recommended a dentist, and even found the international school his son now attended. Did Vincent know about all this? Yes. And what did he say? “Sophia, you’re a natural at this stuff. You’re better than any business assistant I could ever hire.” Better than an assistant. That’s what I was to him. A useful tool. So useful that he didn’t even feel the need to hide his affair, because tools don’t have feelings. “She can’t hold a candle to you.” He wasn’t insulting me. He was stating what he believed to be a fact. In his world, I truly couldn’t compare. I wasn’t as young. I wasn’t as pretty. I didn’t fawn over him. And as for my network, my resources, my connections? He had long ago claimed them as his own. They were as natural and essential to him as the air he breathed, and who ever stops to thank the air? On Saturday afternoon, Vincent’s mother called. “Sophia, dear, has Vincent been busy lately?” “He has been, Mom.” “Well, you two have been married for ten years now. Isn’t it about time you had a child?” “We’re planning on it.” “You’re not getting any younger, you know. You should hurry up.” “I will.” “I heard a new maternity center opened up near your neighborhood. Do you want me to go take a look?” “That’s not necessary, Mom. We’ll see when the time comes.” After hanging up, I sat on the sofa. The TV was on, playing some legal talk show. On screen, Vincent was wearing a sharp gray suit, sitting on the expert panel. The camera zoomed in for a close-up. Comments scrolled across the screen: “Vincent Croft is so handsome,” “So professional and charming,” “Where can I find a husband like that?” I turned off the TV. In the blank, dark screen, I saw my own reflection. Thirty-four years old. Fine lines at the corners of my eyes. Lips a little pale from years of not wearing lipstick. She can’t hold a candle to you. He was right. But do you even know whose ground you’re standing on? Vincent didn’t come home that night. He sent a text: Urgent case at the office. Pulling an all-nighter. I used to reply, Take care of yourself. This time, I sent back a single word. Okay. Then, I dialed Rebecca’s number. It rang three times before she picked up. “Sophia? Why are you calling so late?” “Rebecca,” I said, my voice even. “Your firm. Are you still looking for clients?” There was a two-second pause on the other end. “Always. What’s up?” “I might have a few to send your way.” “…How big are we talking?” “Big enough to set you up for the next three years.” Rebecca went quiet again. “Sophia,” she said, her voice now serious. “Are you sure about this?” I looked out the window at the glittering ribbon of the coastline highway. “Let’s meet next week and talk in person.” 4 I met Rebecca on Tuesday afternoon. We chose a private dining room in a small, out-of-the-way restaurant in Marina del Rey, a place where we were unlikely to run into anyone from our circle. Rebecca was thinner than I remembered from college, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail, wearing a tailored navy-blue suit. Her firm, Shoreline Law Group, currently employed six lawyers and mostly handled small-scale cases. “Were you serious on the phone?” she asked, her chopsticks hovering mid-air. “I was.” “How many clients?” “Let’s start with three.” I wrote three names on a piece of paper and slid it across the table. Redmond Properties. Apex Investments. Marston Technologies. Rebecca glanced at the list, and her expression changed completely. “Sophia, the combined annual legal spend for these three is at least twenty million dollars.” “I know.” “And you’re certain you can convince them to switch firms?” I took a sip of my tea. “I personally introduced every one of these clients to Vincent. Mr. Redmond is my father’s golf partner. Arthur Cole is the son of my mother’s best friend. Mark Marston is someone I cultivated a relationship with myself.” “What about their personal relationship with Vincent?” “It exists,” I said, setting my cup down. “But it’s not as strong as he thinks it is.” “Rebecca, do you understand the relationship between a lawyer and a client?” “Of course.” “Most of the time, the client isn’t loyal to the lawyer. They’re loyal to the person who made the introduction.” Rebecca stared at me, slowly lowering her chopsticks. “What’s your plan?” “We take our time. One by one.” I took out my phone and opened a document. “We start with Redmond. His daughter is getting married next month. I’ve already prepared a gift. I’ll deliver it in person and casually bring up the subject of consolidating family enterprise legal services.” “What kind of consolidation?” “I’ll tell him that my family’s trust is restructuring and requires an independent legal team, separate from Vincent’s firm, to avoid any potential conflicts of interest.” “Is that a solid reason?” “It is. Mr. Redmond is a businessman. The words ‘conflict of interest’ are more persuasive to him than any piece of gossip.” Rebecca was silent for a moment. “Sophia, what on earth happened between you and Vincent?” I didn’t answer her question. “Rebecca, all you need to do is be ready to take on these clients. Your team’s work has to be impeccable. No screw-ups.” “You can count on me for that.” “One more thing.” “What is it?” “Until this is done, no one can know that I’m involved. Not even the people at your firm.” “How long will this take?” “Two months.” By the time I left the restaurant, it was already dark. The streetlights stretched my shadow long and thin behind me. Before getting in my car, I glanced back to make sure I wasn’t being followed by any familiar vehicles. Then I drove away. With my hands on the steering wheel, I felt something I had never felt before. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t relief. It was clarity. Ten years of marriage had been like a veil over my eyes, and now, a hand had violently ripped it away. My entire world looked different. On the way home, I stopped at the supermarket and bought two pounds of steak. Vincent had mentioned he wanted some the other day. When I walked in, he was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. He looked up at me. “What’d you get?” “Steak.” “Good.” He went back to his phone. A notification popped up on his screen. I caught a glimpse of a pink profile picture. I went into the kitchen and put the steak in the fridge. Then I started making soup.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418524”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 It was past ten at night by the time I finally left the library and drove home. As I turned onto Oakwood Avenue, a narrow one-way street, headlights blinded me. A sleek black Porsche was barreling straight toward me, going the wrong way. I laid on the horn, hoping the driver would realize his mistake and back up. Instead of stopping, the Porsche’s engine roared. The driver hit the gas and aggressively aimed his grille right at my hood. Blinded by his high beams, I yanked the steering wheel hard, slamming on the brakes. My tires screeched, stopping barely two feet from his bumper. Before I could even catch my breath, the Porsche’s door flew open. A heavyset, bald man stepped out. He was gripping a heavy steel crowbar. “You blind, stupid bitch! Do you have eyes in your thick skull? Learn how to drive!” Panic spiked in my chest. He was completely unhinged. In my absolute terror, my foot slipped off the brake and hovered over the gas pedal. … “Honk at me again! I dare you! Do you not see the badge on this car?” He marched up to my beat-up Honda Civic and kicked the side panel violently. With one swift motion, he swung the crowbar and smashed my side mirror clean off. “A piece of trash Honda trying to block my road. I could total ten of these junkers and pay for them in cash!” His face, heavy with fat and flushed bright red, pressed against my driver-side window. He pounded his meaty fist against the glass. “Back the hell up! I swear to God, I absolutely hate entitled female drivers like you.” He kicked my door again. The deafening thud made my entire body violently shake. Tears of frustration and fear welled up in my eyes. “You’re the one who isn’t looking! Can’t you see the giant one-way sign?” I shouted through the glass. “You were driving on the wrong side! I honked to warn you, and you just flashed your brights and sped up!” “If I hadn’t slammed on the brakes, someone could have died!” “Die then! It’s what you deserve!” The bald guy hammered his fists against my window a few more times. Still unsatisfied, he reached into his car, grabbed a steaming cup of takeout coffee, and hurled it directly at my windshield. The sticky brown liquid smeared across the glass. I flicked on the wipers and fumbled for my phone to call 911. The second the dispatcher picked up, the glass shattered. The steel crowbar pierced straight through the driver’s side window, stabbing brutally into my stomach. Agony ripped through me. I curled inward, dropping my phone onto the floorboard. Choking back a sob, I threw my arms over my head and screamed my location at the fallen phone. “Oakwood Avenue! Third traffic light on the one-way strip. A Porsche driver is attacking me. His plates are…” The man kept swinging. The windshield spiderwebbed into a million jagged lines. The hood of my car was a landscape of deep, brutal dents. Shards of glass sliced into my palms. The sight of my own warm blood made my mind go completely blank. When I looked up and saw him raising the heavy steel bar for another swing at my face, pure survival instinct took over. I needed to reverse. I needed to get away. But my trembling foot missed. I slammed down on the gas. The Honda lurched forward with explosive force. The bald man, trapped right between the two bumpers, was crushed against his own Porsche. A blood-curdling shriek ripped from his throat. It sounded like an animal being slaughtered. “My legs! My fucking legs are broken!” He collapsed onto the asphalt, his previous arrogance entirely vaporized. A crowd had already gathered. An older gentleman standing on the sidewalk started clapping. “Good! You served him right. God, that felt good to watch.” A younger woman rushed over to my window. “Don’t be scared, honey. I’ll testify for you. He attacked you first.” She held up her smartphone. “I got the whole thing on video. He was going the wrong way, running his filthy mouth, and smashing up your car for no reason.” As the adrenaline began to fade, a repulsive stench hit my nose. I recoiled in disgust. “He reeks of liquor.” The woman with the phone pointed at the groaning man on the pavement. “You can smell him from a mile away. He’s completely wasted, throwing a drunken tantrum and treating you like an easy target.” When the cops arrived, the woman practically shoved her phone into the officer’s hands. With the video evidence, the situation was crystal clear. An ambulance hauled the drunk driver away, and the police arranged a ride for me to the nearest ER. On my second day in the hospital, the bald man’s wife called me. She introduced herself as Brenda. She sounded soft-spoken and reasonable, asking if she could visit. Assuming she wanted to apologize, I agreed. She walked into my room carrying a basket of expensive-looking apples. She immediately grabbed my hand, her face a picture of exaggerated sympathy. “Sweetheart, how are you feeling? Seeing you hurt just breaks my heart.” Her warm attitude made me drop my guard a little. I shook my head. “The doctors said the glass didn’t cut too deep. I’ll be discharged in a couple of days.” “Oh, thank God. Since you’re not badly hurt, let’s just get this settlement agreement signed right now.” Her tone shifted slightly, growing a bit more urgent. “My husband Boris is the sole provider for our family. He brings in about eight grand a month.” “Now that both of his legs are shattered, our rent, utilities, and the boys’ private school tuition are all depending on this settlement money.” “Settlement money?” I stared at her, thoroughly confused, and looked down at the document she pushed onto my lap. The very first clause was highlighted. Party A voluntarily agrees to compensate Party B with the sum of one million dollars, exclusive of hospital fees. Under Party B was the name Boris. 2 “A million dollars?” My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. Brenda just waved her hand dismissively. “Honestly, a million is cutting you a deal.” “You broke my husband’s legs. You owe us a decade’s worth of living expenses for my entire family.” She leaned closer. “Considering you’re just a college student, I’m taking pity on you and only asking for a million. Otherwise, the tuition for my kids alone would be way more than that.” As if worried I wouldn’t believe her, she whipped out a crumpled report card. “Both of my boys are Ivy League material. They’ll definitely be getting full rides to the best universities in the world.” “Ivy League? With a 2.0 GPA? Lady, are you drunk too?” I shoved the paper filled with red ink away, offering her a cold, empty smile. “Your husband drove drunk. He drove the wrong way. He publicly demolished my car while bragging that he was rich enough to smash ten of my Hondas and pay for them in cash.” “He was acting like he owned the universe when he was swinging that crowbar. And now you’re sitting here trying to play the sympathy card, expecting me to fund your entire family for the rest of your lives?” Wow. Birds of a feather really do flock together. I grabbed the basket of apples, ready to kick her out. As I picked it up, a vile, rotting stench hit me. Beneath the perfectly polished apples on the top layer, the rest of the fruit was entirely rotten. Some were literally crawling with maggots. “It’s just a trashy little Honda! Why are you being so vindictive?!” Brenda’s polite mask completely slipped. “My man just put a few dents in your car. You crippled him! You turned him into a useless cripple stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life!” Seeing that I wasn’t going to sign, she forcefully shoved a pen into my palm. She grabbed my wrist with surprising strength, trying to physically force my hand down onto the signature line. Her violent pulling yanked the IV needle in the back of my hand. Blood immediately started backing up into the tube. I slammed my free hand down on the nurse call button. The pen dragged across the paper, leaving a jagged streak of ink. I grabbed the basket of rotting apples and slammed it directly into Brenda’s face. I ripped her precious settlement agreement in half right in front of her. “Take your garbage paper and get the hell out of my room.” “With the repulsive way you people act, I wouldn’t settle with you if you paid me a million dollars.” “You broke his legs! That million dollars is a debt you owe my family!” The bruised, mushy apples had completely ruined Brenda’s makeup. She frantically wiped her face, getting mashed fruit and wriggling maggots all over her hands. The nurses rushed in with hospital security. They grabbed Brenda, who was still trying to lunge at my bed, and practically dragged her out into the hallway. “Fine, you little bitch! You want to do this the hard way? I’ll show you the hard way!” My phone buzzed with a text from her number. I immediately blocked it and grit my teeth while the nurse reinserted my IV. After I was discharged, I went to the impound lot to take one last look at my totaled car. It was a gift from my dad for my eighteenth birthday. The day I got my license, this was the car I drove. I ran my fingers over the deep, brutal dents in the hood. I uploaded the dashcam footage to my cloud drive, untied the lucky charm hanging from the rearview mirror, and headed to the police precinct to give my official statement. I figured it would just be a formality. The evidence was rock solid. But the moment I walked into the precinct, I saw Brenda. Her frizzy hair was a mess. She slammed a USB drive onto the front desk, her nose pointed up in the air with unbearable arrogance. “Watch this. Ironclad proof. That little tramp provoked him first.” Her so-called ironclad proof was a deepfake video. On the monitor, “my” face was twisted in a grotesque sneer. “I” was violently pounding on the Porsche’s window, revealing a mouth full of rotting yellow teeth. “I can total ten of your junk cars and pay for them in cash,” the fake version of me spat. The AI rendering was terrible. The facial proportions were completely warped. Only someone as delusional as Brenda would think her amateur editing skills were flawless enough to fool law enforcement. “See?! My husband drives a Porsche! A custom paint job alone costs thousands! This psycho woman was trying to smash his windows in. My husband was simply defending himself with that crowbar.” She even pulled out her phone, showing the officer a chat log with some “expert” online lawyer, trying to pressure them. “The legal experts online already confirmed this is textbook self-defense. That bitch deserved to get her car smashed.” She shot me a venomous glare, covering her nose like I was a walking biohazard. The disgust on her face was theatrical. “She reeks of cheap perfume. Just look at the way she dresses. Does that look like a decent girl to you?” “She’s a cheap piece of trash turning tricks. She crippled my husband. If you cops don’t lock her up immediately, what, are you waiting to become her regular customers?” 3 “Ma’am, we deal in actual evidence here. Our tech department ran the video you submitted. It’s heavily altered. The original audio and actions belong to your husband, Boris.” The desk sergeant looked at her with pure exhaustion. “You submitted fabricated evidence, perjured yourself, and publicly slandered another citizen. We are officially placing you under arrest for criminal obstruction and defamation.” “Arrest me? On what grounds?!” The moment Brenda realized she was actually going to be detained, she lost her mind. She started sweeping everything off the precinct’s front desk, screaming at the top of her lungs. “That little whore definitely paid you off! You’re protecting a murderer! You’re bullying a helpless family! Does the law even exist in this country anymore?!” She grabbed a paper cup of water and threw it directly into an officer’s face. When two cops moved to restrain her, she threw herself onto the floor in a theatrical swoon. She threw herself down a little too hard, and the back of her head cracked against the tile floor, drawing a thin line of blood. The second she felt the blood, she started wailing, rolling around on the floor. “I demand to see the captain! I’m taking this to the supreme court!” Her tantrum was a well-oiled machine. It was obvious she had used this exact method to bully people into submission her entire life. Unfortunately for her, she was throwing her fit in the middle of a police precinct, directly under a 4K security camera. No amount of screaming was going to save her from the handcuffs. When two officers hauled her up by her armpits like a dead fish, Brenda actually looked confused. She genuinely seemed baffled that her foolproof strategy had finally landed her in jail. By the time reality set in, she was crying, begging them to believe that someone else gave her the video and she had no idea it was fake. The officer just twisted her arms behind her back. His voice was completely devoid of sympathy. “Too late for that. Enjoy your cell.” They hauled her off to the medical ward to check the cut on her head. I watched the chaotic mess left behind on the floor and sighed. “You might want to book her a psych evaluation while you’re at it.” “She seriously needs her head checked.” Brenda tried to play hardball and ended up deepfaking her way into a jail cell. Now, the son was paralyzed in a hospital bed, and the daughter-in-law was locked in county jail. Boris’s elderly parents panicked. They hired a legal proxy to meet with me, begging me to sign a letter of forgiveness so they could bail Brenda out. “They’re a hardworking family. Boris is in sales. He has to drink with clients to close deals. He just had a little too much that night.” “Brenda is busy with the kids, and Boris wanted to save a few bucks on an Uber. He thought the streets were empty and he knew the neighborhood well. It was just a momentary lapse in judgment.” The slick lawyer pushed his glasses up his nose, his tone deeply serious. “The family is willing to cover the damages to your vehicle. But they ask that you show some grace. Sign the settlement so Brenda can go home and care for her children. And please, drop the charges so Boris doesn’t get a permanent record. It could ruin the kids’ future college applications.” The lawyer was a smooth talker. He booked a table at a high-end steakhouse and ordered their signature dishes just to butter me up. But the moment he slid that exact same absurd settlement agreement across the table, I stood up from my chair. “They owe me for the car and my three days of medical bills regardless of any agreement.” “From start to finish, Boris is at fault. Why the hell should I pay the price for his stupidity?” “You saw the dashcam footage. He literally said I deserved to die. Losing his legs is karma. I am not paying a single cent.” “You’re being incredibly vicious for a young woman. You crushed his legs. Even just out of basic humanitarian decency…” The lawyer furrowed his brow, trying to shame me. I just laughed. “Humanitarian decency only applies to humans. Not rabid animals.” “Being this stubborn isn’t good for your health, kid.” The lawyer sighed heavily, slipping the paper back into his briefcase. He shook his head. “Boris is the golden boy of that family. You turned him into a cripple. Their resentment toward you is massive.” “You ruined their son’s life, and now you refuse to pay a dime. When the payback finally catches up to you, it’s going to cost you a lot more than a million dollars.” The payback arrived faster than I expected. After the incident, my dad called my college advisors to get me a temporary leave of absence. He wanted me to stay home until the legal drama officially concluded. “Boris’s family are the neighborhood bullies. Now that you’ve hurt him, they’re definitely going to come looking for trouble,” my dad warned me. “They already did. One of them is already in a cell.” My dad, Arthur, ran a very popular local deli. Weekends were packed, so I was helping out behind the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the front door swing open. “Welcome! Menus are on the tables, or you can scan the QR code to order.” An elderly woman waddled in. Her face was heavy with loose flesh, a massive knock-off designer bag slung over her shoulder. Trailing behind her were two chubby boys waving plastic action figures around, violently smacking them together. They nearly knocked over a glass bottle of hot sauce on the nearest table. I quickly caught the bottle before it shattered. The old woman’s narrow, beady eyes locked onto me. She flipped aggressively through the menu before pointing a bony, wrinkled finger at my face. “Your sign outside says unlimited soup refills if we order a large bowl, right?” “Yes, ma’am. Free refills on the broth.” The old woman had a dark mole on the corner of her mouth. I remembered seeing the exact same mole on Boris’s face.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418540”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the city’s elite circles, my brother Danny Sinclair was known for obsessively doting on me. Yet that night, he was holding another girl’s hand, his gaze soft as he guided her to cut the birthday cake meant for me. The girl looked exactly like me—even the burn scar on her wrist was identical. I was about to storm the stage when lines of glowing text suddenly appeared before my eyes: [Look at the adopted stand-in. She doesn’t even realize she’s fake, jealous of the real heiress.] [Spoiler: She’ll go insane trying to win his love. He’ll break her legs and lock her in a psych ward. Total karma.] My blood ran cold. Danny spotted me, immediately shielding the girl. His face hardened as he scolded me for making a scene. He declared Sylvia was his real sister and said he’d explain later. Sylvia. Same face, same scar. I was just a crafted replica. He’d spent millions on this lavish coming-of-age gala for me, yet earlier that day, he’d locked me in a dark room upstairs. I’d smashed the lock, bleeding, and raced into the hall—only to see this. Holding back tears, I gave him a hollow smile. Since the real one was back, the understudy could bow out. I pulled out the limitless black card he’d given me and waved it. “Consider this my final performance fee.” 1 Leaving Danny and the bewildered guests completely frozen in place, I turned on my heel and walked straight out of the grand banquet hall. The mirrored walls of the lobby caught my reflection. The exquisite silk of my designer gown was torn at the seam, the hem dragged with dirt, and my meticulously styled hair had mostly fallen out of its pins. I looked like an absolute wreck. [Wait, what? She’s just leaving?] [Yeah, I was totally waiting for her to throw a tantrum and get humiliated by the male lead!] [This is weird. The villainess isn’t supposed to act like this.] If I hadn’t seen those bizarre, floating comments, I probably would have stormed that stage. I would have stood in front of that towering, three-tiered cake and screamed at the top of my lungs in front of hundreds of aristocrats. I would have yelled that I was the real Sinclair heiress and that the girl beside him was an imposter. And then, just like the floating text predicted, Danny would have shattered my legs and locked me away in an asylum. I quickened my pace. Pushing through the revolving glass doors, a blast of cold, post-rain wind hit my face. I flagged down a passing taxi. “Take me to the nearest luxury shopping district.” As the car accelerated, the blurring city lights outside the window felt like the last eighteen years of my life being rapidly rewound and erased. I pulled out my phone and opened my email. Sitting at the very top of my inbox was an acceptance letter from the Paris Institute of Design. It had been sitting there for exactly seven days. A week ago, when I first received this email, I was ecstatic. I had sprinted straight into Danny’s private study. He was signing documents, not even bothering to look up. “Danny! I got accepted into the Institute in Paris!” The tip of his fountain pen paused. He finally raised his eyes, his gaze as tepid and clear as a glass of water. “Paris.” “Yes! They only accept thirty students globally…” “It’s too far.” He looked back down at his paperwork, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. “I don’t feel safe letting you go abroad alone. I will arrange a prestigious academy for you here in the city.” I stood frozen on his Persian rug. “But…” “Sienna.” His voice was incredibly gentle, yet coated in an irresistible, crushing authority. “Be a good girl. Listen to me.” And I did. I listened to him. I shoved my wildest dreams into the deepest drawer of my desk, brainwashing myself into believing he had his reasons. He was only doing what was best for me. Only now did the ugly truth sink in. He wasn’t afraid of the distance. He was afraid I would escape. How could the perfect replica he spent eighteen years meticulously carving be allowed to leave the stage before the authentic masterpiece was safely brought home? I tapped the screen, hitting the “Accept Offer” button at the bottom of the email. Eighteen years of living as a caged songbird. Deleted with a single click. [Holy crap, she’s actually leaving?!] [Wait, isn’t she afraid her ID is going to be deactivated? Her entire legal identity belongs to the female lead!] [The villainess suddenly grew a brain. I can’t predict this plot anymore.] My fingers subconsciously brushed against the raised, jagged scar on my wrist. I couldn’t remember much of anything before the age of five, but one specific, horrifying memory constantly played on a loop in my nightmares. Danny tightly gripping my tiny, fragile wrist. A small, custom-made iron, glowing red-hot, being pressed directly into my skin. The sickening smell of burning flesh. The white smoke curling into the air. And that agonizing, soul-piercing pain. Every single time the nightmare reached that point, I would wake up screaming. I once asked him about it. “Danny, what is this scar?” He stayed silent for a very long time before pulling me into his chest, resting his chin heavily on the top of my head. “It’s a mark.” “It’s the absolute proof that you are my little sister.” What a beautiful, twisted lie. It wasn’t a special bond. It was a brand. Arriving at the shopping district, I quickly bought a change of clothes. A black oversized hoodie, loose jeans, and a pair of canvas sneakers. Stripping off the blood-stained couture gown, I gripped the handle of my newly purchased forty-eight-inch luggage and headed straight for the bank. Inside the VIP lounge, the branch manager took one look at my limitless black card and treated me with the reverence usually reserved for royalty. “Please withdraw two hundred thousand in cash for me.” The manager blinked in shock for a fraction of a second, but his intense professional training instantly kicked in. “Right away, Miss Sinclair. Please wait just a moment.” [Hahahaha is the villainess afraid the male lead is gonna freeze her accounts?!] [Honestly, you have to respect the hustle. Secure the bag before he cuts her off.] [What is two hundred grand gonna do? That card has a limit of at least a hundred million.] [Yeah, but anything over two hundred thousand requires a three-day advance notice. She’s smart.] I sat on the plush leather sofa, watching the manager disappear behind the vault doors. My phone screen lit up. A text message from Danny. “Where are you.” 2 Three words. No question mark. It was a direct order. I ignored it. Thirty seconds later, a second message appeared. “Come home. Don’t make me worry.” I swiped the notification away and opened my airline app, checking for the fastest flight out of the country. I typed in my ID number. When it came time to input my birth date, my fingers hesitated over the screen. That birthday didn’t belong to me. March 21st was the birth date of the biological Sinclair daughter. When was my actual birthday? I had no idea. Every single birthday cake I ever had was decorated with candles spelling out those numbers. I had closed my eyes and made a wish on those specific candles for eighteen years. And every single year, my wish was the exact same. I wished to be Danny’s little sister forever. The irony was suffocating. I pressed confirm and paid for the ticket. The electronic boarding pass popped up. Flight to Charles de Gaulle, departing tonight at nine-thirty. Direct. Now, I just had to make it onto that plane before my legal identity was completely wiped from the system. An hour later, the bank manager handed me a heavily weighted duffel bag. “Miss Sinclair, would you like me to arrange a security escort for you?” I offered a polite, hollow smile. “No thank you. I have my own security waiting.” Dragging my suitcase out of the bank’s glass doors, the biting autumn wind slipped down my collar. I hailed another cab. “To the international airport.” Once the car merged onto the highway, I powered my phone down entirely and shoved it deep into the hidden compartment of my luggage. [The villainess is leaving so decisively, it actually makes me a little sad.] [Obviously she has to leave now. Once her ID gets flagged, she won’t be able to step foot outside the city limits.] I leaned against the cold leather of the backseat, watching the metal guardrails of the highway blur into a continuous gray ribbon. The sky gradually darkened into pitch black. In the distance, a massive commercial jet drifted down the runway, its navigation lights blinking rhythmically against the night. Inside the terminal, the wait became agonizingly boring. Against my better judgment, I pulled my phone out and turned it back on. The second the screen illuminated, news notifications flooded my screen like an avalanche. #SinclairHeiressFound #StandInSisterKickedOut #HeartbreakForTheFakeSister #ColdBloodedSinclairGroup I tapped on the top trending hashtag. There was a high-resolution photo of me stumbling out of the hotel, wearing that torn, blood-stained dress, bending down to get into a taxi. The caption attached to the photo was pure, inflammatory gasoline. “The real heiress returns and instantly forces the innocent stand-in out onto the streets. Getting kicked out of the Sinclair mansion on the night of her 18th birthday, without even getting a slice of her own cake. The absolute cruelty of the wealthy.” The post had over three hundred million views. My pupils constricted. Who took that photo? Who wrote that incredibly specific caption? I clicked over to the official Sinclair Group corporate account. A freshly pinned PR statement sat at the top of their feed, its phrasing sterile and clinical. “Miss Sylvia Sinclair, who tragically went missing at the age of three, has been safely located. Due to his profound grief over the years, Mr. Danny Sinclair adopted an orphan bearing a physical resemblance to his sister. Now that the true Miss Sinclair has returned, the adopted individual has been appropriately relocated and compensated. We urge the public not to spread baseless rumors.” The comment section was a war zone of public outrage. “Appropriately relocated? You mean thrown out onto the street in a torn dress?” “The real heiress is ruthless. She couldn’t even tolerate a girl who kept her brother company for fifteen years?” “Danny Sinclair is a monster. He raised her like a pet and discarded her the second he didn’t need her anymore.” “My heart breaks for the stand-in. Brainwashed into thinking she was family, only to be kicked to the curb.” My fingers went completely numb. The holographic comments flared to life in front of my face, scrolling frantically. [Here we go! The villainess is making her move!] [Playing the ultimate victim to cyberbully the female lead. This is diabolical.] [I actually thought she changed her ways for a second. Guess a leopard never changes its spots.] [She’s just trying to use public pressure to force the male lead to beg her to come back. Classic manipulation.] I stared blankly at the glowing text. No. I didn’t do this. I didn’t have the time, the energy, or the vast network required to pull this off. A trending topic with three hundred million views doesn’t just spontaneously generate in twenty minutes without a professional, highly paid PR firm orchestrating it behind the scenes. My phone vibrated violently in my palm. A name flashed across the screen. Danny Sinclair. Staring at those letters, it felt like a physical hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart. I was terrified to answer. But I knew exactly what would happen if I didn’t. He would unleash his private security to lock down the entire city. And then, just like the floating text predicted, my legs would be broken and I would be thrown into a padded cell. I knew Danny better than anyone. To the outside world, he was a refined, elegant aristocrat. But beneath the tailored suits, he was a deeply obsessive, terrifyingly controlling megalomaniac. This PR disaster was currently roasting his entire corporate empire over an open flame. He was absolutely furious. The phone rang for the fourth time. Taking a shaky breath, I pressed accept and held the phone to my ear. “Sienna.” His voice was dead calm. Too calm. It was the eerie, suffocating stillness right before a hurricane makes landfall. “Where are you.” I didn’t speak. “I asked you where you are.” He repeated it, his voice dropping an octave, sounding like a violin string stretched to its absolute breaking point. “The airport.” I didn’t bother lying. It was pointless. If he wanted to find me, his tech team could trace my GPS coordinates in under five minutes. Silence heavy with static filled the line. Then came the strike. “This circus online. You paid someone to orchestrate this?” It wasn’t a question. It was a guilty verdict. Every single syllable sounded like it was being ground between his teeth. My stomach plummeted. Just as I thought. He was entirely convinced I was the mastermind. 3 “It wasn’t me.” “Not you?” He let out a low, humorless scoff. “Then who else could it possibly be? Sylvia?” My heart skipped a beat. That actually wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility. “I need you to come back here. Right now.” It was an absolute, unyielding command. “I just told you I didn’t do it.” “Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” he cut me off. “Sienna, I know exactly how your mind works.” “You’ve been playing these games since you were a child. Whenever you felt slighted, you never threw a tantrum. You just quietly manipulated things in the dark so everyone else would fight your battles for you.” A bone-deep chill washed over me. So that was how he truly saw me. “This situation has spiraled entirely out of control.” His voice lowered again, thick with the effort of suppressing a violent outburst. “Do you have any idea how Sylvia feels right now? My actual, biological sister?” “She just finally made it home. She hasn’t done a single thing wrong, and the entire country is currently tearing her apart, calling her a jealous, vindictive monster.” “She is only eighteen years old.” Listening to the slow, measured sound of his breathing through the speaker, a bitter laugh bubbled in my throat. He was so deeply heartbroken because she was only eighteen. What about me? I was eighteen too. When he branded my flesh with red-hot iron, I was only five. I glanced up at the digital clock on the terminal wall. My flight was boarding in less than fifteen minutes. “Fine. I’ll come back.” [Wait, what?! Why is she caving so easily?] [Are you kidding me? She’s just going back to beg for forgiveness?] [Hold up, she keeps checking the departure screens. She’s just stalling for time!] There was a fraction of a second of stunned silence on his end of the line. “Are you truly willing to issue a public clarification?” A microscopic trace of hesitation had crept into his tone. He genuinely couldn’t believe I was complying this easily. “I didn’t buy the trending tags, but I will gladly stand in front of the press and clear Sylvia’s name for you.” He didn’t respond immediately. He was carefully calculating whether my promise held any weight. “Which terminal are you in? I will have my security team pick you up.” “That won’t be necessary.” “Sienna Sinclair.” He used my full, fake name. It was the ultimate warning sign. “If you dare try to run…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the sheer, paralyzing threat bled through the receiver, sliding into my brain like a silver needle. I knew exactly what the rest of that sentence entailed. [The male lead is terrifying. Is he raising a sister or a prisoner?] [Run, girl, run!] [She can’t! He’s already on his way. He’s stalling for time too!] [WARNING: System navigation indicates the male lead is less than fifteen minutes from the airport!] Less than fifteen minutes! I violently whipped my head toward the departure screens. Twelve minutes until the gate closed. I could make it. As long as I could drag this out for twelve more minutes, I could vanish into the sky. Suddenly, the overhead PA system chimed. “Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you…” My heart stalled in my chest. “…that Flight AF1502 to Paris has been canceled due to severe weather conditions at the destination. Passengers are advised to proceed to the customer service desks for rebooking. We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience.” Canceled. [Canceled?! You have got to be kidding me!] [Even the universe is siding with the male lead. This is way too dramatic. RIP to the villainess.] I practically leaped out of my seat, grabbing my luggage handle and sprinting toward the premium customer service counter. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. Rebook. I just needed to rebook any flight. Anywhere. As long as the plane left the tarmac before Danny arrived. I slammed my passport and ID card onto the polished counter. “Rebook me. Any destination in the world. Whatever flight is leaving next.” The ticketing agent jumped slightly at my intensity but maintained her pristine, professional smile. “Right away, ma’am. Please give me one moment to check the system.” Every single keystroke felt like an eternity. “There is a flight to Seoul departing in ten minutes.” “I’ll take it.” The agent swiped my ID card through the reader. She frowned. “I apologize, ma’am. The system indicates your identification profile is currently undergoing a mandatory update. This card has been flagged as invalid.” Flagged as invalid. Those words crashed over me like an avalanche of ice. I stared down at the small plastic card on the counter. For eighteen years, my entire existence in the world was anchored to that piece of plastic. And now, the real Sienna Sinclair had returned. My borrowed life was being systematically deleted from the database. “Ma’am? Ma’am?” The agent looked at me with growing concern. “Your passport is also showing up as…” [It’s over. It’s so over. She literally can’t escape.] [I called it. Her entire identity belongs to the female lead. How was she supposed to run?] [The male lead is probably pulling up right now. Good luck, girl.] I took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly pulled my passport and ID back across the counter. “Never mind. Thank you.” The second I turned around, gripping my luggage handle, my phone illuminated in my pocket. A text from Danny.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418525”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For our third wedding anniversary, my husband Dominic gave me an unforgettable gift: an admission letter to The Rosewood Institute. It was a place notorious among the city’s elite, a glorified black site where high society sent disobedient women to be broken and tamed. “You have deeply disappointed me, Vivienne,” Dominic said, pinching my chin, his eyes twisted with disgust. “For three years you’ve tried to copy Audrey, yet you still lack even a fraction of her grace.” Audrey was his soft, gentle ideal. I was the untamed one he was determined to break. He was sending me away to learn how to be a good girl. “Go and be rehabilitated. Once you learn to act like her, I might consider bringing you back.” Two large bodyguards dragged me away in the dark. The instructors were brutal, using electric shocks, ice water cages, and solitary confinement to grind down my pride and mold me into a docile substitute. Two weeks later, Dominic came to inspect my progress. I was covered in deep bruises, my eyes hollow. He looked thrilled. “Have you learned your mistakes? Are you a good girl now?” I looked at his handsome face and let out a dry, rasping laugh, tears streaming down my dirty cheeks. “Dominic, you really do look just like him.” He froze, his smug smile faltering. I tilted my head, locking eyes with him. “Who do you think you are? You’re nothing but a cheap stand-in I bought to replace Rowan.” 1 For our third wedding anniversary, my husband Dominic gave me an unforgettable gift. An admission letter to The Rosewood Institute. The place was notorious among the city’s elite. It was a glorified black site, a dumping ground used by high society to break and domesticate disobedient women. “You have profoundly disappointed me, Vivienne.” Dominic pinched my chin between two fingers, applying enough pressure to bruise the bone. His face, so strikingly familiar to the man I actually loved, was twisted with undisguised disgust. “You’ve been imitating Audrey for three years, and you haven’t managed to learn a single ounce of her gentle grace.” He sneered, his eyes raking over me. “Look at yourself. You don’t possess a shred of elegance. You act like an absolute lunatic.” His precious first love, Audrey, was currently tucked against his side. She was wearing a custom haute couture gown I had ordered just last month. Her face was a perfect mask of delicate concern and manufactured pity. “Dominic, please don’t be so harsh with Vivienne. She’s just going through a rough patch.” She turned her big, doe-like eyes to me, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Please don’t be mad at him, Vivienne. He’s doing this for your own good. The instructors at Rosewood are highly professional. Once they teach you proper etiquette, he’ll bring you right back home.” “Exactly,” Dominic agreed. The contempt in his voice felt like a serrated knife. “Go there and get thoroughly rehabilitated. Once you’ve learned to be as sweet and obedient as Audrey, I might consider letting you back into my house.” I watched the two of them perform their little duet. It felt like watching a terribly written soap opera. Sweet and obedient? When he pulled me out of the abyss three years ago, he was drawn to my wild, untamable nature. He liked me because my absolute refusal to bow to anyone reminded him of my dead fiancé. And now, he wanted to personally grind those sharp edges into dust. “I’m not going.” I spat the words out, syllable by syllable. A flash of triumphant glee sparked in Audrey’s eyes, but she instantly buried it under a watery, trembling pout. “Vivienne, how can you be so incredibly selfish? Dominic has poured so much time and energy into you. Can’t you just be considerate for once?” “Considerate?” I let out a dry, barking laugh. “You want me to be considerate of the fact that he turned our wedding anniversary into a farewell party for a concentration camp?” “Vivienne!” Dominic roared, his patience entirely exhausted. “It seems you really won’t shed a tear until you see the coffin.” He snapped his fingers. Two massive bodyguards dressed in black stepped out of the shadows, grabbing me roughly by both arms. “Dominic, no!” Audrey made a pathetic, half-hearted gesture to stop them. “She’s going to get hurt!” Dominic pulled her securely into his chest. His movements were sickeningly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence he was inflicting on me. “Audrey, you are simply too kindhearted. You can’t show mercy to a woman who doesn’t know her place.” He looked at me like I was a broken appliance waiting for the scrapyard. “Take her inside. Tell the Headmistress to use the strictest methods available. I want her completely stripped down and rebuilt.” I didn’t waste my energy struggling. Because I knew something he didn’t. The moment he made the decision to lock me in that hellhole, our three-year game of playing pretend was officially over. It was time for the hunter and the prey to switch places. 2 The heavy iron gates of The Rosewood Institute slammed shut behind me, completely cutting off the afternoon sun. Waiting for me in the dim corridor was a middle-aged woman with a face carved from stone. She was the senior disciplinarian. Everyone just called her The Matron. “Number 037. Welcome to your rebirth.” In this place, names did not exist. You were nothing but a barcode. My rehabilitation started the very second my boots touched the floor. Lesson one. Walking. A rigid wooden crossboard was strapped tightly against my spine. The side pressing into my skin was lined with sharp, rusted tacks. If I slouched even a fraction of an inch, the metal bit deep into my flesh. The Matron’s voice hovered right by my ear. “Rule number one. A lady’s spine is always perfectly straight.” My heel caught on the uneven floorboards and I stumbled. A sharp, agonizing sting ripped across my shoulder blades as the tacks dug in. Lesson two. Dining. A bowl of gray, unidentifiable sludge was tossed onto the concrete floor. Right next to it sat a rusted metal dog bowl. “Rule number two. A lady’s appetite is always under absolute control.” The Matron tapped the toe of her sensible leather shoe against the dog bowl. “Eat it from the floor. Or starve.” I hadn’t eaten a single thing in three days. My stomach was a twisting knot of pure acid, but I just knelt there, locking eyes with her in dead silence. My defiance seemed to flick a switch in her brain. “It appears you need a session in the Isolation Tank to reflect on your attitude.” The Isolation Tank was a pitch-black, freezing water cell barely the size of a closet. The filthy, ice-cold water reached right up to my collarbones. Unknown things brushed against my legs in the darkness, biting at my raw skin. I was locked in that freezing void for twelve straight hours. At first, the violent shivering tore my muscles apart. By the end, there was nothing but a cold, heavy numbness. They wanted to grind down my pride. They wanted to shatter my psychology until I was nothing but an empty, obedient puppet. Sensory deprivation, starvation, calculated humiliation. The kind of psychological torture you only ever read about in classified military dossiers became my daily routine. Fifteen days. I honestly don’t know how I survived it. When they finally dragged me out of solitary confinement to prepare for Dominic’s grand inspection, I caught a glimpse of myself in a cracked mirror. My skin was sallow, my cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and my body was painted in a tapestry of deep purple bruises. I barely recognized the ghost staring back at me. The Matron looked at my hollow eyes and nodded in deep satisfaction. “Number 037, remember your place in the world. You are nothing but a shadow of Miss Audrey. A cheap replacement. Your only value on this earth is to mirror her perfection.” She grabbed my chin. “When Mr. Dominic arrives, do you know exactly how to behave?” I forced the corners of my cracked lips upward into a stiff, dead smile. “I know.” I was going to give him exactly what he came to see. And then I was going to make him pay the most catastrophic price imaginable for his blinding arrogance. 3 When Dominic walked into the room, I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the filthy floorboards with a ragged piece of cloth. He stood directly in front of me, looking down from his ivory tower. He was wearing a bespoke charcoal suit, his Italian leather oxfords polished to a mirror shine. He looked utterly alien standing in this dungeon of filth and despair. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks. He looked a little thinner, a faint trace of exhaustion resting between his eyebrows. But the second he saw me kneeling at his feet like a broken dog, that exhaustion melted into a sickening wave of pure euphoria. “Have you finally realized your mistakes?” His voice was dripping with the fake mercy of a benevolent god. “Have you learned how to be a good girl?” I stopped scrubbing. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, I raised my head. I looked at his face. That perfectly structured face I had spent three years and millions of dollars polishing into the masterpiece it was today. And then, I smiled. I smiled until tears spilled over my eyelashes. I smiled until my bruised ribs shook. “Dominic.” My voice was a dry, rasping whisper, yet it rang through the silent room with terrifying clarity. “You really do look just like him.” Dominic’s eyebrows pulled together. He completely missed the context of my words. “What kind of lunatic nonsense are you talking about?” “Nonsense?” I pressed my raw palms against the wet floor and pushed myself up, swaying slightly before locking my knees. I took a slow, deliberate step toward him. I was dressed in filthy rags. I was covered in wounds. Yet the sheer, suffocating gravity rolling off my body forced him to take an involuntary step backward. I leaned in, my lips hovering mere inches from his ear, and whispered. “Who exactly do you think you are?” “Dominic, you are nothing but a prop. A fake, pathetic counterfeit I bought to stand in for Rowan.” Boom. I watched the blood drain from his face in a single, violent rush. His untouchable composure, his arrogant control, completely vaporized in the span of a heartbeat. “What… what did you just say?” I ignored his stuttering shock, letting my mind drift back to the beginning. Three years ago, I found him bleeding out in a filthy alleyway. He had been beaten half to death by loan sharks, curled up next to a dumpster like a stray mutt. And I chose him. Right there on the spot. Not because he had some hidden genius. Not because he was special. I chose him because when he turned his bruised face to drink from a dirty puddle, the stubborn line of his jaw looked exactly like my Rowan. I dragged him out of the gutter. I paid off his debts. I funneled endless resources and capital into his hands, bought him a company, and crowned him as the glittering CEO everyone worshiped today. I dressed him in Rowan’s favorite suits. I made him wear Rowan’s cologne. I bought him Rowan’s dream sports car. I practically held his hand in the boardroom, teaching him how to be as ruthless as Rowan, how to smile over a glass of whiskey with Rowan’s exact effortless charm. He was a fast learner. And a greedy one. He genuinely believed I was just a desperate, lovesick woman who worshipped the ground he walked on. He thought he was the shining sun of my universe. It was hilariously pathetic. He was just a tool I used to look at a dead man’s ghost. He was a low-budget knockoff. 4 “Impossible!” Dominic snapped out of his shock, letting out a raw, cornered roar. “Vivienne, you have lost your damn mind! You’re just spinning these psychotic lies to get back at me!” He reached out, trying to grab my collarbone, but I casually stepped out of his reach. “Lies?” I tilted my head, my smile turning sharp and vicious. “Then tell me, Dominic. Three years ago, who dragged your bleeding carcass away from the cartel’s debt collectors?” “Who handed you your first ten million in startup capital when your own family kicked you out onto the street with absolutely nothing?” “And who fed you every corporate playbook, destroyed your rivals, and physically placed you on that CEO throne?” With every question I fired at him, his face grew a shade paler. Those were the darkest, most humiliating secrets of his past. The dirty stains he could never wash off his tailored suits. He always convinced himself I did all of that because I was blinded by devotion. “You did it because you loved me!” he barked, desperately trying to glue his shattered ego back together. “Love?” The word tasted like ash in my mouth. “Dominic, do you honestly think you’re worthy of that word?” “I was just feeding a stray dog. A dog that happened to share a passing resemblance to someone I actually cared about.” “But now, the dog has forgotten its place and is trying to bite the hand that holds the leash.” My words were dipped in venom, slicing his fragile masculinity into ribbons. “Shut your mouth!” He completely lost his mind, raising his hand to strike me across the face. But his wrist was caught mid-air. Not by me. By Audrey, who had just hurried into the room. She was dressed immaculately, as always. The second she saw the tension, she threw herself against Dominic’s chest, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. “Dominic, stop! Please calm down! Can’t you see her mind is completely broken from the stress? Don’t sink to her level!” She turned to me, playing the heartbroken saint perfectly. “Vivienne, how could you say such vile things? Dominic has given you the world, and you repay him with these toxic delusions?” “Look at that. The dog got backed into a corner and called its little lapdog for backup.” I completely ignored Audrey’s theatrical performance. My eyes stayed dead locked on Dominic. I reached into the pocket of my ragged uniform and pulled out the crumpled admission letter to The Rosewood Institute. While Dominic and Audrey stared at me in absolute bewilderment, I slowly, methodically tore the heavy parchment into tiny, jagged pieces. “Dominic, let me make this official.” “Our little game of dress-up is over.” I reached into the hidden lining of my bra and pulled out a microscopic burner phone I had smuggled in on day one. Right in front of his face, I dialed a number. The line connected almost instantly. “Uncle Robert.” My voice shed the hoarse weakness of a victim and returned to its natural, commanding absolute zero. “It’s time to put the stray down.” “Freeze every single asset under Dominic’s name. Liquidate his accounts and forcefully recall all executive shares of Zenith Corporation.” “You have exactly thirty minutes.” “Drag him out of the clouds and throw him right back into the filthy sewer where I found him.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418541”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had been married twice before, and I told Oliver everything before we wed. My first marriage was to help my childhood friend Carter with an inheritance, the second to help Sebastian avoid a forced marriage. I made it clear both were purely transactional. Oliver, with teary eyes, swore he believed me and asked that I only have eyes for him. After marrying, he treated me like royalty but seemed to despise my ex-husbands. Everything changed when I came home early and overheard them laughing together. They joked about my “rich divorce experience” and planned for Oliver to hand me divorce papers on April Fools’ Day as a prank, then coax me back afterward. The three had made a pact in high school: to attend a party for Vanessa, the girl they all orbited, as single men. So when Oliver gave me the papers, sighing that my exes bet I wouldn’t sign, I calmly took the pen and signed. By the time he came looking for me, I was six months pregnant. I told him he was right about one thing—I do take things too seriously. I took his April Fools’ joke very, very seriously. … I sat in the coffee shop across from our gated community for a full hour. I waited until I saw Carter and Sebastian leave the premises before I finally dragged my suitcase toward home. Hearing the door open, Oliver put down his phone and hurried over to take my luggage. “Why didn’t you text me? I would have picked you up from the airport.” He took the suitcase with one hand and smoothly wrapped his other arm around my waist. He was the picture of a doting, gentle husband, exactly the same as always. “Did you grab something to eat?” he asked. “I ate.” He nodded, then acted as if a thought had just casually crossed his mind. “Right, honey, there’s something we need to talk about.” I put down my purse and turned to look at him. He let out a heavy sigh and pushed a thick folder across the kitchen island. “The company hit a bit of a rough patch recently. We need to do some asset protection. The lawyers suggested we file for a quick divorce, just as a formality.” I glanced down. It was a separation agreement. He had prepared it all so incredibly fast. “Once this storm blows over, we’ll get remarried immediately.” He reached out and squeezed my hand, his voice dripping with sincerity. “It’ll only be for a few months.” I stayed completely silent. “I know it’s sudden.” He rubbed the back of my hand, lowering his voice to sound defensive and slightly aggrieved. “But Carter and Sebastian called me today. They were making snide remarks, saying how you bent over backwards to help them with no questions asked, but when it comes to me, you wouldn’t dare.” “They even laughed and said a woman who has been divorced twice wouldn’t have the guts to do it a third time. They said you couldn’t handle the heat.” “So I figured it out. Tomorrow is April Fools’ Day. Let’s just go file the papers tomorrow… and then we’ll slap the certificates right in their arrogant faces. Let’s scare the hell out of them and see if they ever look down on you again.” “Besides, it’s April Fools. You can play anything off as a joke. Once the company’s financial heat dies down, we’ll legally tie the knot again. Nobody will bat an eye.” He stared into my eyes, his expression a perfect mix of grievance and hopeful anticipation. “Honey, you aren’t really going to let them look down on me, are you?” I looked into his eyes. I looked for a very long time. They were so incredibly affectionate, flawlessly devoted. Yet these were the exact same eyes that had just been crinkling with laughter as he clinked glasses with those two men, boasting, “She won’t make a fuss.” “No, I won’t,” I replied, giving him exactly what he wanted. A visible wave of relief washed over him, though he quickly masked it as pleasant surprise. “Then go get some rest. Tomorrow is the first of the month. After we sign, we’ll head straight to…” I picked up the pen, flipped directly to the last page, and signed my name with sharp, fluid strokes. “Give them a call,” I said, dropping the pen and offering him a soft smile. “Tell them to stop running their mouths.” Oliver froze for a second. He clearly had not expected me to be this agreeable. He recovered quickly, tucking the documents away with a grin, and leaned in to kiss my cheek. “You’re the best wife in the world.” I let him kiss me. Inside, my heart felt like a hollowed-out stone. He took the folder into the study to make his phone call. He kept his voice low, but through the heavy oak door, the words still bled through. “She signed it.” Carter’s voice drifted through the receiver, faint but unmistakable. “Told you so. Josie is the easiest person in the world to coax.” “Alright, keep Vanessa distracted for me. I’ll head over as soon as I wrap things up here.” I sat alone in our bedroom for a very long time. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Sebastian. [Long time no see. Want to grab a drink and catch up?] I stared at the glowing screen. In the past, I would have eagerly typed back “Yes.” I would have spent an hour agonizing over my outfit and makeup. I would have strategized on how to defend Oliver’s pride in front of them, wanting them to know how wonderfully he treated me. I would have begged them to stop picking fights with him. After all, on one side were the boys I grew up with, and on the other was my deeply loved husband. They were all so important to me. I hated the thought of them being enemies for the rest of our lives. But now, I could not even muster the energy to type a single letter. I tossed the phone face-down on the coffee table and walked out to the balcony to gather the laundry. Passing by the study, I heard Oliver still on the phone. His tone was hushed, but there was a distinct, relaxed drawl to his voice that I had never heard before. It was the sound of a man who no longer had to pretend, no longer had to act like the perfect husband. It suddenly hit me that in all our time together, he had never once spoken to me with that level of unfiltered ease. The wind on the balcony was biting. I took the clothes off the hangers one by one, folding them mechanically and dropping them into the wicker basket. As I pulled down the last shirt, my phone lit up again. This time, Carter. [Heard you’re getting divorced again? Oliver is absolute trash. He doesn’t deserve you, don’t let it get to you.] [Your grandfather’s 80th birthday gala is coming up. Sebastian and I will be there to celebrate. Let’s hang out properly then!] A dry laugh escaped my lips. He sounded so incredibly sweet. As if he had not literally been sitting in my living room hours ago, masterminding this exact scenario. I pressed the power button until the screen went black and slipped the phone into my pocket. For a fleeting second, I wondered what kind of woman Vanessa actually was. What was it about her that made these three men scheme so ruthlessly to keep a teenage promise? What made her worth treating me like a disposable pawn? But the thought vanished as quickly as it came. It didn’t matter anymore. I picked up the laundry basket and headed back inside. Walking past the study, my footsteps did not falter. Warm amber light spilled from the crack under the door. This light, this house, this man. Starting tomorrow, none of it would have anything to do with me. Just as I set the basket down, the doorbell chimed. I went to answer it, but Oliver beat me to it. The woman standing on the porch had flushed cheeks and reeked of sweet, stale liquor. The moment she saw Oliver, her face lit up. “I knew you’d still be awake.” Oliver instinctively glanced back at me before hissing in a panicked whisper, “What are you doing here?” She ignored him, stumbling past the threshold. She only paused when she noticed me standing in the center of the living room. “Oh, the missus is home.” Carter, hovering right behind her, grabbed her arm to steady her and quickly offered me an apologetic look. “Josie, she had way too much to drink. We were dropping her off, but she insisted on swinging by to see the place.” Sebastian stood stiffly in the doorway, shooting me an unnatural look. His gaze then shifted to Oliver, his tone turning sharp and defensive. “Oliver, your wife is standing right there. Don’t you know how to keep your distance?” Oliver bristled, his brow furrowing. “You get her blackout drunk, dump her at my house, and then tell me to keep my distance?” “I got her drunk? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you just posted about being a single man again!” Sebastian sneered, stepping aside with a look of utter disdain. “Fine, play the saint. The girl who drank herself silly crying over you has been delivered. Deal with it yourself.” The two men stood on opposite sides of the entryway. The air between them felt thick with frost. Caught in the middle, Carter let out an awkward cough. “Alright, cut the crap, both of you. Vanessa was just in the neighborhood…” I stood perfectly still, watching this theatrical masterpiece unfold from start to finish. Their chemistry was flawless. If I had not heard them clinking glasses and laughing earlier, I would have bet my life they hated each other. For the longest time, I genuinely believed my bond with Carter and Sebastian was impenetrable. Back when we were at our most loyal, I had literally married both of them just to bail them out of trouble. My parents died when I was young, and my grandfather was always busy running his empire. It was Carter and Sebastian who filled the gaps in my childhood and teenage years. Whenever I cried, Carter was the one making stupid faces to cheer me up. Sebastian once took a knife to the arm trying to protect me from a mugger. To me, they were closer than blood. When exactly did our ironclad trio rot into this? Probably during our freshman year of high school, the year Vanessa transferred in. Suddenly, a new inner circle formed. I was slowly pushed to the edges, becoming the forgotten leftover. They only ever remembered my worth when they needed a pawn to make someone else jealous. I pulled my gaze away from the doorway. Certain cracks do not just form overnight. Today was simply the day I finally chose to look at them. “You’re all here just in time. I need witnesses.” I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the separation agreement. “Two copies. I’ve already signed. Since everyone is gathered, you might as well take a good look.” Oliver’s expression shifted slightly, but a flicker of smug satisfaction quickly masked his surprise. In his mind, my pulling out the divorce papers in front of Carter and Sebastian was a declaration of love. It was me proving how far I was willing to go for him. “Josie,” he stepped forward, his voice taking on a soothing, patronizing tone. “We can handle this privately, you don’t need to…” “Well, since your wife brought it up,” Vanessa suddenly slurred, tilting her head, “do you mind if I ask… when exactly are you moving out?” The living room plunged into dead silence. Oliver winced. Vanessa did not even look at him. She stared straight at me, her face the picture of drunken innocence. “The deed to this house is in my name, you know. You can’t exactly squat here forever.” I froze. The house was in her name? My eyes darted to Oliver. He looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. He did not say a word to deny it. In that split second, a tidal wave of memories crashed over me. The day we moved in, he held my hand and whispered, “This is our sanctuary.” When we bought it, he smiled and said, “I’ll handle all the boring legal paperwork, don’t stress yourself.” I had spent weeks happily picking out the velvet curtains, the linen sofa, the mahogany dining table. Every single piece of furniture was something I had personally hauled back from designer showrooms. Every corner of this house was meticulously decorated to suit his exact tastes. Coming from wealth, I never cared whose name was stamped on a piece of paper. But never in my wildest nightmares did I imagine that my marital home belonged to another woman. I looked down at the divorce papers in my hand and let out a soft, sharp laugh. “I’ll leave right now.” “Josie…” Oliver took a step toward me. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. City Hall.” I did not look back. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase, walked to the door, swapped my slippers for heels, and walked out into the night. The hallway lights flickered on, then dimmed. As I waited for the elevator, muffled voices seeped through the heavy wooden door behind me. “Damn, you really pulled a fast one! She signed faster than when I begged her to marry me!” The bursts of laughter and clinking glass hit my back like shrapnel. I stood by the elevator, listening to the punchline of a joke I was never in on. I caught my reflection in the polished steel doors. I looked much calmer than I felt. It was only when I was sitting in the back of a taxi that my phone buzzed. A text from Oliver. [I will explain the house situation to you…] [Be good, just find a hotel for now. I’ll come pick you up in a few days.] I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then flipped the phone over on my lap. Outside the window, the streetlights blurred into streaks of yellow. Come pick me up in a few days? He talked as if I had just run to the grocery store and would be right back to cook him dinner. I leaned my head against the cold leather seat and closed my eyes. Save it, Oliver. You won’t be picking me up ever again. … At nine o’clock the next morning, I arrived at the county clerk’s office. Oliver was already waiting by the curb. He was leaning against his car, but the moment he saw my cab pull up, he dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his leather shoe, and walked over. “Where did you stay last night?” he asked. “My grandfather’s.” He nodded. His eyes lingered on my face for a second. He reached out, instinctively wanting to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, but I tilted my head away. His hand hung in the empty air for a moment before he slowly pulled it back. “Josie,” he murmured, his tone thick with an infuriatingly confident warmth. “I know you gave me face in front of Carter and Sebastian last night. I appreciate it.” “As for the house…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Vanessa needed to establish residency in the city, and she needed property under her name to do it. I figured it was just a name on a piece of paper. You come from old money, you’ve never cared about trivial things like that. I didn’t think it was worth bothering you over.” I looked him straight in the eyes. I did not speak. Trivial things? He gifted the home we built together to his first love. And he brushed it off with a casual “you’re rich, you wouldn’t care.” It wasn’t that he thought I wouldn’t care. It was that my feelings were completely irrelevant to him. “Anyway, you still have tenant rights!” he insisted, completely misreading my silence. “After we file the paperwork, just stay out of the house for a little bit. Once I sort out the corporate mess, I’ll bring you right back home.” I almost laughed out loud. Even now, he truly believed I was just playing my part in his little theatrical production. “Let’s go,” I said, ignoring his pathetic speech entirely and turning toward the imposing glass doors. “Let’s get this over with.” He hurried to keep up with me. The bureaucratic process was surprisingly fast. Signatures, thumbprints, submitting the IDs. The clerk brought down the heavy metal stamp with a sharp, resounding clack. The final decree of divorce was handed to me. It was just a few sheets of thick paper, not so different from our marriage license, just with a much colder weight to it. Oliver glanced down at his phone, his brow furrowing instantly. “I need to take this,” he told me, already stepping away. “Wait right here for a minute, I’ll drive you back.” He walked a few yards away and answered the call. His voice was hushed, but the wind carried a single name back to me. “Vanessa…” I stood rooted to the polished marble floor, quietly watching his broad shoulders retreat. He hung up and jogged back, looking stressed. “Something urgent came up. Take a cab home for now, I’ll call you later tonight.” I waited until he rushed out the front doors. Only then did I slowly turn around and walk in the opposite direction, straight toward the marriage license window. … By the time Oliver walked out of City Hall, the morning sun was glaring. He glanced at his divorce papers, then checked the date on his phone screen. April 1st. April Fools’ Day. Perfect. He had pulled it off. The tight coil of anxiety in his chest finally loosened. His phone rang again. It was a major client. He took the call, pacing the sidewalk for nearly ten minutes. When he finally hung up, he threw a glance back toward the towering doors of City Hall. Why hadn’t Josie come out yet? He hesitated, then started walking back toward the entrance. He figured he should at least go back in and give her a concrete timeline for when they would “remarry,” just so she wouldn’t start overthinking things. He had barely taken two steps when a man pushing his way out of the heavy doors collided squarely with his shoulder. The man’s folder slipped, papers fluttering toward the concrete. Oliver’s own divorce decree slipped from his fingers. “My apologies,” Oliver said out of habit, bending down to help. The two documents landed side by side. One was his fresh divorce decree. The other was a brand new marriage license. A gust of wind caught the cover of the marriage license, flipping it open just enough to reveal the corner of the couple’s photo inside. Oliver’s hand froze in mid-air. “No problem,” the stranger said smoothly, snatching up the marriage license before Oliver could react. His voice was cool, like ice water over glass. Oliver looked up. The man standing over him was tall and imposing, dressed in a sharp, slate-gray trench coat. His expression was completely unreadable. “Congratulations. Tying the knot today,” Oliver offered, a polite, empty platitude. The man briefly let his eyes drop to the divorce decree still in Oliver’s hand. “Congratulations to you too,” he replied flatly. Oliver blinked, the sarcasm flying entirely over his head. The man had already slipped the marriage license into the inner breast pocket of his coat. His gaze swept past Oliver, utterly dismissive, and he turned on his heel to walk away. Oliver stared at the man’s retreating back. A bizarre, nagging thought began clawing at his brain. It’s April Fools’ Day. Who in their right mind chooses to get married today? And that voice… the cut of his shoulders… Oliver felt an eerie sense of familiarity. “Hey, hold on!” Oliver called out. The man in the gray coat stopped and turned slightly, his face still an expressionless mask. “Do we—” Oliver’s phone violently vibrated in his palm. He glanced down. Sebastian. He hesitated for a split second, looking up to say “just a minute,” but the man in the gray coat had already vanished around the street corner. Oliver ignored the call. He was just about to head inside to find Josie when his phone buzzed again. Carter had sent a GPS pin, followed by a frantic text: [Hurry up! We need to reach the island before sunset.] Oliver stopped dead in his tracks. The island. He suddenly remembered the promise Vanessa made on the beach the night they graduated high school. She had sworn that before she ever got married, she would drag all of them to that specific private island to party for three days and three nights, cashing out the very last drops of their youth. Back then, everyone treated it like the most romantic, sacred vow in the world. Now, she was supposedly getting married. It was time to cash in. But the luxury resort on that island was notoriously exclusive. It didn’t take public reservations. You needed a heavy-hitting sponsor just to get past the dock. Among their little group, Oliver was the only one with enough corporate weight to hold a membership. If he was late, none of them were getting in. If he went back inside to find Josie, she might start crying or asking questions, and he would miss the ferry entirely. He shoved his phone into his pocket, turned his back on City Hall, and jogged toward the parking garage. When his car pulled up to the private marina, the whole crew was already standing by the pier with their weekend bags. Vanessa stood at the very front, wearing a fluttering white sundress. The sea breeze whipped her hair around her face. Oliver stared at that dress, his breath catching in his throat. It was the dress he had bought her for her seventeenth birthday, using three entire months of his saved-up lunch money. “Oliver!” Vanessa ran toward him, her skirt billowing, her eyes shining bright. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting forever!” She linked her arm through his. “You’re taking three penalty shots for this, no backing out!” The soft, warm press of her body against his arm sent a jolt through him. He looked down at her. She was tilting her head back, laughing, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. Exactly the same as she was in high school. “Fine. Pour ’em,” he grinned. The group erupted into cheers. “Oliver always spoils Vanessa rotten!” Vanessa laughed and playfully pushed one of the guys. “What, are you jealous?” …

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418526”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the compliance notice from the Labor Board dropped, I agreed to it without a single second of hesitation. After all, nobody could have predicted that my highly progressive flex-time policy would end up with a Gen Z employee dragging my name to the top of the trending charts at three in the morning. The internet mob even reported me to the regulatory authorities. Their main argument was that I maliciously blurred the lines between working hours and personal time. But the truth was, I never forced anyone to adhere to a specific schedule. As long as their total required hours were met by the end of the month, I didn’t care when they clocked in. After agreeing to the mandated changes, I immediately sent a blast to the company group chat. From this moment on, we are strictly enforcing a nine-to-five schedule. If you are one minute late, your pay will be docked. After five o’clock, the company will automatically cut the power and the Wi-Fi. Less than a minute after I hit send, the entire chat absolutely exploded. 1 To accommodate the diverse lives and responsibilities of everyone in the company, I had introduced an extremely liberal flex-time system. No mandatory clock-in times. We simply tally the total hours at the end of the month. As long as you hit your quota, you are fine. When I first announced the new policy, the entire office cheered. Once the room quieted down, I added a few caveats. If a project is urgent, you can apply for overtime, and you will be compensated strictly according to the law. But if your monthly hours fall short, your salary will be docked proportionally. That completely wiped out any lingering doubts. The parents who needed to do school drop-offs, the veteran employees who despised the brutal morning rush hour, and the young night owls who struggled to wake up early were practically jumping out of their seats. “Sam is an absolute legend!” “Best CEO ever. This is a dream company!” “Thank God. I never have to sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic for an hour again.” “Traffic is nothing. This is a lifesaver for us insomniacs. I can finally have a normal life.” Seeing them so thrilled made me genuinely happy. I understood that everyone had a life outside these walls. I never wanted work to turn their personal lives into a chaotic mess. As long as the job got done, creating a win-win situation for both the company and the staff was the best possible move. A few months into the new system, the mental health and general vibe of the office drastically improved. Company revenue went up significantly. The high-efficiency employees scored better performance reviews and took home fatter bonus checks. The staff juggling personal issues finally had the breathing room to get their lives in order. Everything was perfect. Until the end of this month, when Zoey, our youngest junior associate, posted an update on her social media at three in the morning. The photo showed the office brightly lit in the dead of night. The caption read: Flex-time is just a trap for capitalist exploitation. The company deliberately blurs the boundary between off-hours and work so we spend twenty-four hours a day stressing over our jobs. The post struck a massive nerve online. By the time the sun came up, I was public enemy number one. “Sam! You need to look at Twitter right now!” Brenda, our HR Director, practically screamed through the phone, dragging me out of a deep sleep at 4:17 AM. I opened the app. Sitting right at the number five trending spot was a glaring hashtag. #FlexTimeIsCorporateGaslighting. I clicked on it. Zoey’s 3:00 AM office photo had been quote-tweeted by a career influencer with three million followers. The influencer added their own commentary. Just another sweatshop hiding behind the mask of humanized management. The reality of flex-time is being on call twenty-four seven. The reply section was a complete warzone. “Bosses like this make me sick. They pretend not to track your hours, but they secretly force you to grind at 3 AM.” “Report them to the Labor Board immediately.” “Already reported.” I kept scrolling. Those two words were repeated hundreds of times in a dense, suffocating wall of text. Already reported. Already reported. Already reported. Brenda was still talking on the other end of the line. “Zoey also leaked screenshots from the company group chat. It’s the message you sent last week when you were dealing with that late-night client revision. But she cropped out all the context. She only left the half where you asked her to fix the proposal at two in the morning.” “What was the original text?” “She cropped out your opening line, ‘If you have time tomorrow,’ and your closing line, ‘No rush at all.’ All she left was ‘Take a look at this proposal for me.’ The timestamp clearly shows 2:03 AM.” I stayed silent for a few heavy seconds. “Have you pulled her timesheet for this month?” “I did.” Brenda’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “Up until today, Zoey’s actual logged hours are only at sixty percent of the standard requirement. She spent most of the month out of the office. She’s only pulling all-nighters right now to artificially inflate her hours before the payroll deadline.” “So the picture of the brightly lit office at 3 AM was just her sitting there running out the clock.” “Exactly.” I put the phone down and rubbed my temples. She slacked off all month. Now that she was about to get her pay docked for missing her hours, she camped out in the office to cheat the system. When she realized she still wouldn’t hit the quota, she played the victim online to farm sympathy. When daylight broke, the situation showed zero signs of improving. When I arrived at the lobby, Jenny the receptionist hurried over looking completely overwhelmed. “Sam, there are four different reporters waiting downstairs, and some guy with a selfie stick is live-streaming right outside our glass doors.” “Ignore them.” “Also… the Labor Board called. They said they received a massive influx of civilian complaints and are requiring our full cooperation for an audit.” I barely stepped into my office before my phone buzzed again. It was a text from Greg, one of my middle managers. “Sam, I really think you need to make a public statement. The narrative online is turning incredibly toxic.” “I’ve been in this industry for over a decade and never seen anything like this. If you need me to step in and do some damage control, just say the word.” Before I could even type a reply, another message popped up. This one was from Kyle. “Sam, the clients on my three active projects are definitely going to have concerns about this. Do you want me to ask my mentor to smooth things over? He has a solid relationship with their reps.” I stared at the two messages. Something felt incredibly off. Greg had been with the company for eight years. His absolute best skill was delegating all of his actual work to his subordinates. Kyle was the protege Greg had personally trained. Last year, Kyle’s mother was hospitalized with a severe illness. Because of our flex-time policy, he was able to spend every morning at the hospital and work in the afternoons. I clearly remembered him shaking my hand and telling me he would follow me to the end of the earth for giving him that flexibility. Now, the mentor and the student were perfectly coordinating their texts to me. It wasn’t normal. Half an hour later, I found out why. Brenda pushed my door open, her face completely pale. “Sam, you need to check Twitter again.” Greg and Kyle had both posted their own lengthy statements. Greg went first. “As a veteran employee who has been with this company for eight years, I feel the need to speak the truth. Flex-time sounds beautiful on paper, but the invisible pressure is very real. When the boss texts you in the middle of the night, do you ignore it? If you ignore it, you get put on a blacklist. If you reply, your personal time is destroyed. I don’t want to make enemies, but facts are facts.” Kyle’s post was right beneath it. “When my mom was hospitalized last year, the company did let me adjust my schedule, and I am grateful for that. But gratitude doesn’t mean the system isn’t broken. A lot of coworkers complain about this in private, but nobody has the guts to speak up. Zoey finally said what we were all thinking. She took a bullet for all of us.” Both essays were tagged with the same trending hashtag. #FlexTimeIsHiddenOvertime. “Sam, what are we going to do?” I placed my phone face down on my desk. “When is the Labor Board coming?” “They said tomorrow morning.” “Good.” I stood up. “Let them come.” “But what about Greg and Kyle…” “Ignore them. Let the bullets fly for a bit.” I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down. The livestreamers were still down on the sidewalk, pointing their cameras directly up at our corporate logo. My phone vibrated one more time. It was an email. Sender: Victor Blackwood. He was the lead investor currently finalizing a massive capital injection into our company. The email contained exactly one sentence. “Sam, I am closely monitoring this situation.” 2 “Sam, the inspectors are here.” The next morning at exactly nine o’clock, Brenda walked into my office followed by two men in official windbreakers. The man in the lead looked to be in his forties. His badge read Inspector Marcus Cole. “You must be the CEO. We received a significant volume of complaints stating that your company is using flexible working hours as a disguise to force uncompensated overtime.” “Please, have a seat.” I poured him a glass of water before speaking again. “I am aware of the allegations online. What materials do you need from me?” “No rush. Take a look at this first.” Marcus pulled a thick stack of printed screenshots from his briefcase. “These are the chat logs circulating online. They clearly show you demanding revisions from an employee at 2:00 AM. Furthermore, multiple staff members have publicly confirmed that invisible overtime is an ongoing issue here.” “Multiple staff members?” “Yes. Aside from the original poster, Zoey, a manager named Greg and an employee named Kyle have both issued public statements verifying the claims.” I nodded slowly. I pulled a thick, perfectly organized binder from my drawer and slid it across the desk. “This contains the comprehensive time logs, backend server attendance data, and signed overtime request forms for every single employee over the last six months.” “Every single hour of overtime is verified and signed by the employees themselves. The corresponding overtime pay stubs are attached to each file.” Marcus took the binder and flipped through a few pages. His brow furrowed. “This employee, Zoey… her actual logged hours for this month are this low?” “Correct. Our flex-time policy does not dictate when people arrive or leave, but we do require a baseline quota of hours by the end of the month.” “If they fall short, their salary is prorated. Every employee signed a contract agreeing to those terms.” “Then why was she in the office at three in the morning?” “Because she rarely showed up to work at the beginning of the month. Realizing she was going to face a massive pay cut, she tried to artificially inflate her hours at the last minute. She sat in the office until dawn just to run out the clock, took a photo, and claimed we force her to be on standby twenty-four hours a day.” The junior inspector sitting next to Marcus leaned over to look at the data. The two men exchanged a quiet glance. Marcus cleared his throat. “What about the chat log where you demanded revisions at two in the morning?” I flipped the binder to a specific tab and pointed at the page. “Here is the unedited server log of that conversation.” “She cropped out the beginning and the end of my message when she took the screenshot.” Marcus read the complete transcript. He sat in total silence for about fifteen seconds. “Sam, objectively speaking, based on the documentation you’ve provided, your company’s flex-time policy is entirely legal and strictly compliant.” “However.” He shifted in his chair. “The social impact has already occurred.” “We have over three hundred formal complaints lodged in our system. We cannot just walk away and do nothing. I strongly suggest your company implement some performative corrective measures to give the public a satisfactory narrative.” “What kind of performative measures?” “For example, abolish the flex-time policy. Revert to a standard, rigid attendance system. At the very least, you need to show the public that you are making drastic changes.” I leaned back in my chair and looked at him. “Inspector Cole, what you are saying is that my policies are flawless, but because the internet threw a tantrum, I have to punish my entire company?” Marcus let out a heavy sigh. “Sam, I’m just a guy doing his job. I completely sympathize with your position. But with the optics being this bad, if you don’t do something drastic, my hands are tied.” After the inspectors left, Brenda was fuming. Her face was flushed with pure frustration. “Sam, it’s so obvious Zoey manipulated the narrative. Why should we be the ones forced to change—” “Make the change.” Brenda froze. “Sam?” “He was right. The narrative is already set.” “How drastic do you want the changes to be?” I pulled my keyboard toward me and started typing. “The absolute strictest version possible.” Ten minutes later, an announcement popped up in the main company chat. “As mandated by the Labor Board, all flex-time policies are permanently abolished effective tomorrow. Every employee will strictly adhere to a 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM schedule. At exactly 5:00 PM, the building’s network and power will be cut, and the premises will be locked.” The chat went dead silent. Then, it erupted like a string of firecrackers. “What?! My son gets out of school at 4:30. I have to leave at 3:30 every day to pick him up. What am I supposed to do now?” “I live in the suburbs. If I have to badge in right at 9:00 AM, I have to leave my house at 6:30. That’s a four-hour daily commute.” “Cut the power and network? What if I’m in the middle of a deployment? If we delay a software patch, the clients are going to murder us.” The messages scrolled by at lightning speed. I placed my phone face down on the desk. A knock came at the door. Greg pushed his way into the office. “Sam, don’t you think this decision is… a little too impulsive?” I stared at him without saying a word. “Canceling flex-time is going to devastate morale. Can we at least discuss this? I really think I can represent the team and negotiate a better compromise with the Labor Board—” “Negotiate what?” “You know… find a middle ground.” “Greg, your little essay online made your stance perfectly clear, didn’t it?” The muscles in his jaw twitched. “Now that the strict rules you advocated for are here, you should be thrilled.” His lips parted, but no words came out. “Sam, Greg makes a fair point. Shouldn’t we reconsider?” Kyle had quietly slipped into the doorway. “My decision is final. Everyone badges in at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. If you are one minute late, you will be penalized according to the new company bylaws.” I walked toward the door, slipping past them. Greg’s face had turned completely green. 3 “Zoey, come here.” I was standing by the reception desk bright and early the next morning. Almost everyone walking through the glass doors wore the exhausted, resentful expressions of people who had fought through peak subway rush hour. Sarah’s eyes were red. As she swiped her badge, she was muttering to a coworker. “My kid was sobbing this morning begging me not to leave so early.” Dave dragged his heavy backpack through the doors, his hair completely windblown. He must have sprinted from a rental bike after getting off the train. Zoey strolled in casually at 8:59 AM. She even flashed me a smug little smile. “Morning, Boss.” “My office.” She followed me inside. I didn’t offer her a seat. “That post you made—” “Oh, that.” She slipped her designer bag off her shoulder. “I only posted the truth. The office was lit up at 3 AM, and I was sitting at my desk working.” “The server logs prove you barely set foot in the office for the first three weeks of the month.” “It was flex-time. You were the one who made the rule saying we didn’t have strict hours.” “Your total hours were drastically below the legal requirement.” “That’s just because nobody assigned me enough tasks. Isn’t that a failure of management?” I looked at her, and she stared right back. Her gaze was incredibly unsettling. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew exactly what she was saying. “You intentionally cropped out the beginning and the end of my text message in your screenshot.” “I just kept the relevant parts.” She tilted her head. “Sam, you can’t deny the fact that you texted an employee at 2:00 AM, right? It doesn’t matter how many times you say ‘no rush.’ Do you really think a low-level worker can just ignore a midnight text from the CEO?” Her talking points were entirely too polished. “Who fed you that script?” Her eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. “Nobody. I thought of it myself.” “Your post was immediately amplified by an influencer with three million followers. Do you know them?” “Never heard of them. Anyone can retweet anything on the internet.” I didn’t press the issue. “Get back to your desk.” She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “Just a friendly reminder, Sam. The entire internet is on my side right now.” “If you try to retaliate against me in any way, the backlash will destroy you.” The door clicked shut. Brenda stormed out of the adjoining conference room, literally shaking with rage. “That arrogant little brat! Sam, are you just going to let her—” “We don’t touch her. Not yet.” “Why?” “Because she’s right. If I fire her today, it looks like illegal retaliation.” I sat back down and woke up my computer. There was an unread email waiting in my inbox. The second message from Victor Blackwood. “Sam, I have noted that your employees are publicly alleging toxic management practices. Concurrently, there are rumors that your major clients are reconsidering their contracts. As the lead investor conducting due diligence, we must evaluate this instability carefully. Please keep the lines of communication open.” I read the email three times. I had dealt with Victor twice before. He was ruthlessly pragmatic and never wasted a single syllable. Sending this specific email was his way of telling me: How you handle this crisis determines if you get my money. At 2:00 PM, a much larger disaster struck. Richard, the lead executive for our biggest corporate client, called my cell. “Sam, I’ve seen the news regarding your internal issues. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but our conglomerate has strict risk-assessment protocols for PR nightmares. With your company sitting on the trending list for labor exploitation, I can’t sign off on the new contract. We are pausing the deal until the dust settles.” “Richard—” “Sam, don’t put me in a bad spot. The board made the call. I can’t change it.” He hung up. That contract was worth ten million dollars. It was the cornerstone of our entire quarterly revenue. I sat alone in my office, watching the sky outside the window slowly turn dark. At exactly 5:00 PM, the main breakers tripped. The Wi-Fi routers died. A wave of chaotic footsteps and loud groans instantly filled the hallway outside my door. Coders screamed that they hadn’t pushed their commits. Account managers complained that their emails were trapped in the outbox. “Sam, Greg just pulled a bunch of people into the breakroom for a quick huddle.” Brenda whispered from the doorway. “What is he saying?” “He’s telling them that letting things burn is actually a good thing. He said it might finally force you to wake up and see reason.” I let out a soft laugh. “Sam, what’s so funny?” “I’m laughing because he forgot one very important detail.” “What’s that?” “He’s just an employee here.” 4 “Listen up. I know the last two days have been incredibly difficult.” On the third afternoon, I gathered every department head in the main conference room. “I called you here to announce two things.” “First, starting next Monday, your attendance records will be directly tied to your performance bonuses.” “Anyone who is late more than three times will automatically be downgraded one performance tier for the month.” Dave opened his mouth to object but quickly shut it. “Second—” Greg suddenly interrupted me. “Sam, let me just jump in here. Can we be a little flexible with this? Maybe implement a ten-minute grace period? A lot of people commute from the outer suburbs. Things happen on the train—” “Greg, when we had flex-time, you were the loudest voice complaining about it. Now that we have strict hours, you want to introduce a grace period to blur the lines again?” The conference room was dead silent for two seconds. “That was a totally different situation—” “Were you hitting your required monthly hours back then?” He didn’t answer. He just tapped his fingers nervously against the mahogany table. “The second item.” “I have handed the legal issues regarding Zoey over to corporate counsel. Her social media posts contained deliberate omissions and fabricated narratives that caused severe reputational damage and direct financial losses to this company. The lawyers are currently drafting the cease-and-desist and preparing a defamation suit.” Kyle looked up, shooting a panicked glance at Greg. “Sam, isn’t that going a little overboard? Zoey is just a fresh graduate. She probably just acted out of impulse—” “Kyle.” “When your mother was in the hospital last year, I let you work half-days without docking a single cent of your pay. You were the biggest beneficiary of the flex-time system. But in your little viral essay, you wrote—” “A lot of coworkers complain about this in private, but nobody has the guts to speak up.” “Kyle, who complained? Give me one name right now.” His face flushed a deep, humiliating red. “I… I wasn’t thinking straight when I typed that.” “When you typed that, you were thinking about internet clout.” “Your post has twenty thousand retweets. The entire comment section is a mob calling for my head. Do you think that mob helped anyone?” “Did it help you? Did it pay your mother’s medical bills? Did it help Zoey, who barely scraped together sixty percent of her required hours?” He hung his head. Greg finally stopped tapping the table. “Sam, people vent online. There’s no need to turn this into a witch hunt.” “Greg, when has a manager ever texted you in the middle of the night?” “When have you ever received a midnight text from me? Show me the screenshot.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I was speaking generally…” “Generally about what? Do I need you to teach me how to run my company?” Nobody in the room dared to breathe. “That’s all for today.” “Starting tomorrow, the new rules are absolute. No grace periods. No exceptions. Meeting adjourned.” The room slowly emptied out. I stayed seated at the head of the table for another five minutes. Brenda walked in holding a freshly printed document. “Sam, Victor Blackwood just sent another email.” “Sam, my team and I have conducted a preliminary review of the current situation. Frankly, this PR crisis and the subsequent internal fallout have raised serious concerns about your management team’s resilience under pressure and overall cohesion. We are recalibrating the risk coefficient of this investment. Our final decision will be based entirely on your company’s performance over the next two weeks.” Brenda watched my face, asking tentatively, “Sam, how important is Victor’s capital injection?” “If his check doesn’t clear, half this company will be laid off by next year.” Brenda inhaled sharply. I folded the email and slipped it into my pocket. My phone buzzed. A WeChat message from Zoey. It was a screenshot of her latest tweet. “Just found out the company is sending me a legal threat. The capitalists have finally taken their masks off. If you want to frame someone, you can always find an excuse. Worker’s lives matter.” She added one word to the text message. “Scared?” Brenda saw the screen and literally trembled with anger. “This little girl is a completely different breed of toxic—” “She’s not a mastermind.” I shoved the phone into my pocket. “She just thinks that because she hijacked the sympathy of a few hundred thousand strangers, she earned a seat at the table with me.” “So what’s the plan?” I pushed the conference room doors open. “Let the storm get a little wilder. I’ll play her game.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418527”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel