Category: English

It was the third year since Talia’s borderline personality disorder had clawed its way back to the surface. And it was the third time she had put me in a hospital bed. When I finally drifted awake in the sterile, white room, the space beside my bed was empty. A familiar, cold spike of anxiety shot through my chest. I scrambled out of bed, my limbs heavy and trembling, and limped out into the corridor to find her. Instead, as I approached the heavy fire doors of the stairwell, I heard a voice. It was Cody, my best friend, his tone low but vibrating with a suppressed, furious roar. “You almost choked him to death, Talia! Do you even realize what you did?” A heavy silence followed, thick and suffocating. “The first time you spiraled, you shattered his left ankle,” Cody continued, his voice cracking with emotion. “He’ll never run again because of you. The second time, you scalded his hands so badly he can barely hold a pencil. And now, this? You almost took his life!” “Why won’t you just divorce him? Why won’t you let him go?” I crept closer, my breath catching in my throat. Through the narrow pane of the reinforced glass, I watched them. Talia didn’t answer with words. Instead, she leaned in, her movements desperate and starved, and pressed her lips against Cody’s. It was a long, agonizing kiss. When she finally pulled back, her face was a mask of torture. “You know what this disease does to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It only destroys the people closest to me. If I divorce him and marry you… I’ll just end up hurting you, Codes. I can’t do that to you.” “I just can’t…” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I stood frozen in the hallway, the sterile smell of bleach suddenly making me violently ill. Right then, my phone vibrated in my hand. It was a FaceTime call from an unknown number. Mechanically, my thumb swiped the screen. The face that appeared on the screen made my breath hitch. It was Talia. But not the Talia in the stairwell—this was Talia at eighteen, her eyes bright, her face free of the heavy, manic shadow that would later consume her. “I’m the eighteen-year-old Talia, the one who finally got cured,” the girl on the screen said, her voice bubbling with a sweet, youthful hope. “You’re twenty-eight-year-old Jesse, right? Tell me, did we get married? Do we have kids?” “And Cody… that annoying shadow of a best friend, he didn’t keep ruining our dates, did he?” A sharp, physical pain bloomed in my chest. Slowly, silently, I angled the phone’s camera toward the glass window of the stairwell. “See for yourself,” I whispered. … Talia’s eyes were filled with a burning, desperate intensity as she looked at Cody. “Three years ago, when I relapsed for the first time… it was because I saw you accept a drink from another woman at our wedding reception,” she confessed, her voice hollow. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I had to take it out on Jesse.” My hand tightened around the phone, the metal casing digging into my palm. I remembered our wedding night. Talia had spent it huddled in the dark corner of our bedroom, staring at me like a predator cornering a rabbit. She had picked up a heavy wooden chair and hurled it at my shins, her eyes wild and bloodshot. “If I break your legs, you’ll never be able to run away from me, will you?” she had screamed. I had blacked out from the sheer agony. When I woke up, there was a steel rod holding my left tibia together. My athletic career, my scholarships—gone in an instant. And only now did I learn the truth. I had spent seven years helping Talia manage the illness she thought she had beaten at eighteen. But all it took was Cody showing a little warmth to someone else for the madness to drag her back under. Cody turned his face away, tears spilling over his eyelashes. Talia reached out, her fingers trembling as she cupped his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “The second time I snapped… it was because you wrote a birthday card to a female colleague. What was I supposed to do? I had to find Jesse. I had to let it out.” The color drained from my face. My whole body began to shudder. After losing my athletic career, I had tried to rebuild myself, teaching myself digital design. I remembered the afternoon I had finally finished a major portfolio piece for a client. I had been so proud. Talia had walked into the study, carrying a kettle of boiling water. Without a word, she had poured it over my hands. “You’re working so hard,” she had whispered as I screamed in agony. “Are you trying to build a life without me? Just let me take care of you. Stay here.” Though she had panicked and driven me to the emergency room herself, the third-degree burns had already done their damage. My fingers were permanently stiffened. Even holding a stylus was an exercise in frustration. Cody shook his head desperately, trying to pull away from her touch. “Stop… please, Talia, just stop…” But she wouldn’t. “And this time? You texted me saying you were leaving the country. You were going to cut me out of your life forever.” I stumbled backward, my shoulder hitting the wall. Last night, I had spent hours cooking a beautiful dinner, waiting to celebrate her twenty-eighth birthday. She had burst through the door, her face dark with fury. “You made all this food, put on this little show… is this your grand farewell?” she had hissed. “You’re never leaving me.” She hadn’t listened to a single word of explanation. She had dragged me from my chair, slapped me repeatedly until my face was numb and swollen, and then wrapped her hands around my throat. Just before the darkness took me, I had seen Cody burst through the door, sinking his teeth into her arm to pull her off me. For years, I had blamed myself. I thought my own inadequacies, my obsession with my work, had triggered her anxiety. But it had never been about me. Every single time she broke me, it was because of Cody. Cody was sobbing openly now. “I give up. I won’t leave. I’ll stay. Just… please don’t hurt Jesse anymore.” On my phone screen, the eighteen-year-old Talia’s eyes had gone completely wild. Tears of rage and horror streamed down her youthful face. “I’m going to kill them,” she hissed, her voice a terrifying whisper through the speaker. “How could they do this to you? How could I do this to you?” I let out a weak, broken laugh, leaning my head against the cold wall. “Don’t,” I whispered to the screen. “I don’t want revenge. I just want the eighteen-year-old you… to let the eighteen-year-old me go.” The young Talia froze. Her lips parted, trying to form words, but only a desperate sob came out. “Wait for me,” she finally managed, her voice cracking. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again. Not even myself.” The screen went black. I dragged myself back to my hospital room, feeling like a ghost inhabiting a broken shell. A few minutes later, Cody walked in, his eyes red and swollen. Seeing me awake, he rushed to my bedside, his hands hovering over my bandaged neck. “Jesse, you’re awake,” he breathed, trying to look into my eyes. “I… I gave her a piece of my mind. She won’t lay a hand on you again.” I flinched away from his touch, staring blankly at the ceiling. “You told me last week you were moving to Chicago. When’s your flight?” In the corner of the room, Talia, who had been quietly peeling an apple, froze. The paring knife nicked her finger, but she didn’t seem to notice the blood dripping onto the fruit. Cody’s smile turned stiff. “I’m not going anymore. Not with Talia in this state.” When he saw me frown, he quickly added, “Jesse, we’ve been brothers since we were kids. I’ve always had your back. If I leave, who’s going to protect you from her?” Looking at his tear-stained, earnest face, I felt a sick sense of wonder. How had he kept up this lie? They had been sleeping together behind my back for at least five years. My mind drifted back to the first day I met Talia. She had been huddled on the curb, bruised and crying after her stepfather kicked her out. I had stolen my dad’s first-aid kit to clean her scrapes. I had brought her into my home, shared my life with her. And in return, her attachment to me had grown into something suffocating. When we were kids, if I accepted a candy bar from another classmate, she would bite my arm until it bled. In high school, if I whispered to a female lab partner, she would drive a pencil into my palm. Once, she had even held a small pocketknife to my ribs, forcing me to let her scratch her initials into my hip. And every time she crossed the line, Cody would step in. He would scream at her, fight her, put himself between us. He had always been my protector. “She’s out of her mind, Jesse! She’s a psycho!” he would tell me. And Talia, after every episode, would dissolve into a puddle of weeping remorse. “Jesse, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m just so scared you’re going to leave me like everyone else did.” When we graduated high school, I had stolen money from my parents’ safe to take her to a private therapist. That was when we first heard the words: Borderline Personality Disorder. My parents had found out about the money and beaten me within an inch of my life. I remembered Talia kneeling beside me, her hands hovering over the welts on my back, weeping because she was too afraid to touch me. “Jesse… you’re the only person in the world who truly loves me,” she had sobbed. “I believe you now. You’ll never leave me.” After that, her symptoms seemed to vanish. We went to college together. She worked herself to the bone to build a successful career, desperate to prove to my parents that she was worthy of me. Three years ago, we got married. And on our wedding night, the nightmare started all over again. Cody had arrived at the hospital back then, silent and pale, staying by my side until I was discharged. I had thought he was just being a loyal friend. But now I understood. I was the anchor that kept her stable, and Cody was the tempest that tore her apart. I took a deep, agonizing breath. I looked directly at Cody and let out a cold, humorless laugh. “You don’t need to worry about protecting me anymore,” I said. “I’m divorcing her.” Talia stiffened. The paring knife clattered against the linoleum floor. “Divorce?” she whispered, her voice dangerously quiet. “You want to leave me? Just because of one bad night?” If we were eighteen, Cody would have jumped for joy, telling me I had finally gained some sense. But now, he only looked at me with a heavy, patronizing sigh. “Jesse, don’t talk in anger,” Cody said softly. “You two have been through hell and back for a decade. You can’t just throw that away. She only lost control because she was terrified of losing you. Tell you what—I’ll move into your guest room. I’ll help you keep an eye on her.” I pushed his hands away, a wave of pure disgust washing over me. “She almost killed me, Cody! If one of us has to die for this marriage to work, why does it have to be me?” Talia’s face darkened, the violent, erratic energy rolling off her in waves. She forced a tight, chilling smile and handed me the blood-speckled apple. “But you’re still breathing, aren’t you? You’ve survived worse. Don’t be so dramatic.” “Dramatic?” I threw the apple against the wall, where it shattered into wet pieces. Before they could stop me, I ripped open my hospital gown, exposing my chest and torso. “Look at me, Talia! Look at my arms, my legs, my ribs! Is there a single inch of my skin that doesn’t carry a scar from one of your ‘episodes’?” “I gave you everything. And what did you give me?” For a second, she looked at my ruined body, and a flicker of something close to disgust crossed her face. My voice cracked, tears finally spilling over. “I’m done. We’re divorcing. If you don’t sign the papers, I’ll let my lawyer handle it.” Talia slammed her fist into the drywall, leaving a dent. She took a step toward my bed, but Cody jumped in, his face pale as he pushed her back toward the door. “Get out,” Cody told her, his voice tight. “Let me talk to him first.” Once the door clicked shut behind her, Cody let out a long breath and turned to me. “Jesse, before you married her, I asked you if you were sure. You swore to me, on your life, that you would protect her forever…” “When did it start?” I interrupted, my voice barely a whisper. He froze. “What?” I looked him dead in the eye. “Was it after college, when you suddenly turned down that stable state job your dad got you, just to move to our city? Or was it when we were getting my tux fitted, and Talia insisted you try one on too?” The color drained from his face. “You… you know?” his voice shook, the self-righteous anger vanishing instantly. “Jesse, I… I did it to protect you. After high school, I went to the same college just to make sure she wouldn’t hurt you again. We were always together, the three of us. And then, graduation night… we both got so drunk, and it just… happened.” He bit his lip until it bled. “But I’ve been in agony, Jesse! Every single day for the past three years, I wanted to end it. But Talia…” The betrayal felt like a physical blade twisting in my chest. I grabbed my pillow and hurled it at his face. “Get out!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “Get the hell away from me! Don’t you ever look at me again!” Cody choked back a sob, turned on his heel, and ran out of the room. I lay back, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling as the silence of the room closed in on me. A text buzzed on my phone. It was from the unknown number again. “Almost there… just hold on a little longer, Jesse. You’re going to be free soon.” I closed my eyes, my head throbbing with a brutal, blinding pain. Suddenly, a violent force grabbed my wrist. Before I could process it, I was dragged off the bed and slammed onto the hard floor. A sickening crack echoed through the room as my left leg—the one with the steel rod—twisted unnaturally. White-hot agony flared through my body. I looked up, gasping for air through the sweat dripping into my eyes, and saw Talia. Her eyes were completely black with rage. “What did you say to Cody, Jesse?” Ignoring my screams, she grabbed my collar and began dragging me down the hall. My elbows and knees banged violently against the metal doorframes, then against the concrete steps of the stairwell as she hauled me upward. By the time she threw me onto the gravel of the hospital rooftop, I was barely conscious. I forced my eyes open. Cody was standing at the very edge of the roof, his back to the drop. He looked down at my bruised, shivering form and screamed at Talia. “How could you do this to him? You promised me you’d never lay a hand on him again!” Cody turned to me, his eyes filled with a desperate, tragic guilt. “Jesse… I’m sorry. I ruined everything. I’ll give her back to you now. I’ll make it right.” I let out a bloody, bitter spit onto the gravel. “Is this a joke to you, Cody? Are you trying to play the tragic hero now? I treated you like a brother, and you crawled into my wife’s bed. Now you want me to bless your drama?” Talia glared at me, her chest heaving. “Shut up! Jesse, you’re the one who should feel guilty! If you hadn’t forced your way into my life, if you hadn’t taken the title of my husband, he wouldn’t be like this! He’s been depressed for years because of us!” She grabbed me by my torn gown and shoved me toward the ledge, right next to Cody. “If you can’t convince him to step down, then you can go down with him!” I lost my footing, my bad leg giving out. The cold night air rushed past my back as I began to tilt over the edge. But just as gravity took hold, a small, incredibly strong hand clamped onto my forearm. “I’ve got you,” a voice gasped. I was violently pulled back onto the gravel. I looked up, panting, and froze. Standing there, holding my arm, was the eighteen-year-old Talia. She was breathing heavily, wearing the vintage denim jacket I remembered from high school. I looked over at the twenty-eight-year-old Talia and Cody. To my horror, their bodies were beginning to flicker. They were turning translucent, like fading ink on wet paper. “What… what is happening?” Cody gasped, looking down at his hands as they began to dissolve into the night air. I looked at the young girl beside me. “What did you do?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465199”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the six years we were together, I was never given a nickname. To Galen, I was either “hey,” “babe” when he was distracted, or my full name: Sally Foster. He always claimed he was a creature of habit, that he kept everyone in his contacts saved by their formal, full names. I believed him. Until the day he asked me to reply to a client text while his hands were full, and I saw the contact pinned to the very top of his list. Molly. Her profile picture was a cute, fluffy Shiba Inu. I tapped on the chat thread. The most recent message was from him, sent at two in the morning: “Insomnia again? Warm up some milk and try to get some sleep. Don’t push yourself.” Meanwhile, the day before, when my fever spiked to 102 degrees, his only text to me was: “Drink water.” I scrolled back through two years of their history. He had sent Molly sunrise greetings, late-night lullabies, and curated gift lists for every minor holiday. For me, his replies were a predictable rotation of Yeah, sure, okay, got it. The longest text he had sent me in months was a reminder to pay our shared utility bill. Everyone in his life was filed away by first and last name. Only Molly was pinned to the top, defying his own rules. That night, I opened my laptop and accepted the transfer assignment from the Vienna headquarters. He gave me the cold dignity of my full name; I would return the favor with a clean, silent exit. …… “Sally, where did you put my grey silk shirt?” The bedroom door flung open. Galen stood in the doorway, his forehead creased in a tight frown, a half-knotted tie dangling from his hand. My 102-degree fever had finally broken, but my head still throbbed with a dull, stabbing pain. I propped myself up against the headboard, feeling entirely drained. “It’s in the garment bag on the second rack of the closet,” I said, my voice raspy. He strode over, rummaged through the hangers, and yanked the shirt out with a sharp tug. “Why isn’t it ironed? I have a major pitch meeting this morning.” His voice carried a sharp edge of irritation. “I had a high fever yesterday,” I said, looking at him. “I couldn’t get out of bed.” He paused mid-button, casting a brief, assessing glance over his shoulder at me. “It’s just a cold. Take some Tylenol and you’ll be fine,” he muttered, turning back to the vanity mirror. “Drink plenty of water. Don’t just lie there all day; it only makes you weaker.” Drink water. Six years of partnership, and that was the extent of his concern for a partner burning up with a severe fever. I turned away and reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a notification from the HR director at the Vienna office. “Hi Sally, the transfer agreement has been sent to your inbox. We’ve booked your flight for next Friday. Does that timeline work for you?” I typed a single word in response. “Yes.” Galen adjusted his tie in the mirror and turned around. “Are you taking the day off?” “Yes.” “Great. Can you drop my car off at the dealership for its scheduled maintenance?” He tossed the car keys onto the foot of the bed. “I’m running late, so I’ll just call an Uber to the office.” “I’m still dizzy from the fever. I shouldn’t be driving.” I didn’t reach for the keys. Galen’s eyebrows knitted together again. “Why are you being so delicate lately? The dealership is barely a mile away. How hard is it to just drive it over?” I stared at his face, struck by the casual entitlement written across it. Over the last six years, he had gradually shifted all of his mundane errands onto my shoulders—picking up his dry cleaning, managing his packages, paying the bills, scheduling his car maintenance. He had stopped treating me like a girlfriend and started treating me like an unpaid personal assistant. “Galen,” I said quietly. “What?” He glanced at his watch, clearly impatient. “Where were you last night?” I asked. “I called you in the middle of the night, but it went straight to voicemail.” His eyes flickered with a brief shadow of hesitation before smoothing over. “Working late at the office. My phone was on silent.” Working late. I unlocked my phone, opened the photo gallery, and pulled up a screenshot from the previous night. It was a photo of the chat log from his backup phone, which he had accidentally left on the coffee table. “Is Molly having trouble sleeping again?” “Yeah, I went over to check on her and made her some warm milk. She’s always struggled with sleeping in a new place.” I turned the screen toward him. “Does your company’s late-night consulting work involve driving across town to make warm milk for Molly?” Galen’s face instantly paled. He took two quick strides toward the bed, snatched the phone out of my hand, and stared at the screen before throwing it back onto the mattress. “Sally, you went through my phone?” his voice rose, sharp and defensive. “You asked me to use your backup phone to send a presentation file to a client. The notification popped up on the screen.” My voice was entirely flat. “This is what you’re making a big deal out of?” He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Molly just moved into her new place yesterday. She was scared, alone, and couldn’t sleep. What’s wrong with me going over to support her as a friend?” “A friend,” I repeated, letting the word hang in the air. “So your ‘friend’ gets a cute nickname pinned to the top of your chat, and your girlfriend of six years is saved under her first and last name.” “Are you seriously still on about this?” Galen was thoroughly exasperated now. “Sally, you know I don’t care about cheesy contact names. I’ve always been that way. Are you really picking a fight over a contact card?” “No, I’m not picking a fight over a contact card,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I’m looking at the facts. I had a 102-degree fever, and you told me to drink water. She had insomnia, and you drove across the city in the middle of the night to make her milk.” I paused. “Galen, is that what you call friendship?” “She’s young, Sally. She’s on her own in this city and it’s hard for her,” Galen said, his tone thick with defensive protectiveness. “You’re different. You’re independent, you can handle yourself. Why do you have to be so jealous of a kid?” Independent. Because I was strong, I didn’t deserve to be cared for. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me, accompanied by a faint sensation of nausea. “I’m not jealous.” I pulled the duvet back over my shoulders and closed my eyes. “Just go. Don’t miss your meeting.” Galen stood by the bed for a long moment. My unusual lack of anger seemed to throw him off balance. “Don’t be passive-aggressive,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “Look, I’ll come home early tonight and we can go out for dinner, okay?” “No need,” I said, my back turned to him. “I have plans.” “Suit yourself.” His patience evaporated. He grabbed his coat and slammed the bedroom door behind him. By afternoon, my fever had completely subsided. I got out of bed and began clearing out the apartment. The closet was packed with clothes, but only a small section on the left belonged to me. I dragged out a large suitcase and began folding my things inside. Since Vienna would be cold, I packed all of my heavy winter coats and sweaters. At the bottom of my dresser drawer, I found a small velvet box. It contained a heavy, incredibly gaudy gold heart necklace that Galen had given me for our third anniversary. I had never worn it once. I was highly sensitive to cheap metals, and the design was entirely incompatible with my professional wardrobe. When I had asked him back then why he chose it, he had shrugged and said, “I just grabbed something at the mall. Gold holds its value.” I dropped the box into a trash bag. The bag was already half-full of other thoughtless, last-minute gifts he had bought me over the last six years. Around five in the evening, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Molly. “Sally! I heard you were sick! Hope you’re feeling better!” The tone was as bubbly and familiar as if we were best friends. A second later, an image notification popped up. It was a photo of Galen with his sleeves rolled up, standing in front of a kitchen sink, fixing a pipe. The photo was taken from behind with a warm, cozy filter. The caption read: “Gav is such a lifesaver. Thank god he’s here, or my new place would be completely flooded!” I looked at the timestamp. Galen had claimed he had an incredibly important proposal to pitch and promised to come home early to take me to dinner. It was now 5:00 PM. His priority was fixing Molly’s plumbing. Without replying to her, I opened my chat with Galen. “Where are you?” Ten minutes later, he replied. “Still stuck at the office. The proposal had some last-minute edits. I probably won’t make it back in time for dinner, grab some takeout.” I stared at the screen and let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Okay, don’t work too hard.” A few moments later, Molly texted again. “Sally, please don’t be mad at Gav. He’s just incredibly sweet and treats me like a little sister. If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll stop asking him for help.” So sweet. So considerate. She had laid out a perfect trap—if I expressed any discomfort, I was the petty, overbearing girlfriend. I typed a quick reply. “I don’t mind at all. Once he’s done with the pipes, have him mop the kitchen floor too.” I locked my phone and tossed it aside. At 8:00 PM, I was sitting alone at the dining table, eating takeout out of a plastic container, when I heard the front door unlock. Galen walked in, looking exhausted. “I thought you weren’t coming back tonight,” I said, chewing my food. He paused while taking off his shoes. “The proposal got approved early, so I managed to head home.” He walked over to the table and glanced at my takeout box. “Why are you eating this? I thought you had plans.” “I got stood up,” I said casually. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and picked up my water glass to take a sip. “I’m exhausted. Today was a nightmare, I didn’t even have time to grab a drink of water.” I stared at the glass. It was the one I had been using while sick. “Did you just come from the office?” I asked. “Yeah, where else?” He didn’t look up, already scrolling through his phone. “I see,” I nodded. “Is Molly’s apartment on the company payroll now?” Galen’s thumb froze on his screen. He snapped his head up, staring at me. “Are you tracking me?” “She sent me the photo herself.” I unlocked my phone, brought up the image, and turned it toward him. “It’s a nice shot. Very domestic.” Galen’s face flushed a deep crimson. He pushed the phone back toward me. “I just went over to help her out. It took fifteen minutes. Do you really have to interrogate me like a detective?” “Fifteen minutes?” I let out a cold laugh. “From your office to her apartment, and then back here—even without traffic, that’s a two-hour trip. What happened to your late-night proposal?” “Sally, can you stop nagging me like a bitter, insecure housewife!” He slammed his palm on the table and stood up. “I only lied because I didn’t want to deal with your endless drama. Do you have to make a federal case out of everything?” “No,” I said, packing up my takeout container and throwing it into the trash can. “I really don’t.” My quiet composure seemed to unnerve him. He softened his posture slightly, trying to sound reasonable. “She’s a young girl, Sally. Her pipe burst and her kitchen was flooding. As a friend, how could I just ignore her?” “Doesn’t her building have maintenance? Aren’t there plumbers in this city?” I looked into his eyes. “Galen, the world keeps spinning without you, but apparently, Molly can’t survive basic adulting unless you’re there to hold her hand.” “Don’t be so venomous,” he frowned. “We grew up together. She’s like family to me. Why do you always have to paint it as something sordid?” “Family?” I smiled. “Then tell her to start calling you ‘brother’ instead of ‘Gav’.” “What’s the difference?” “A big one,” I said, turning to walk toward the bedroom. “A brother is family, Galen. You’re just her favorite safety net.” “Sally!” he yelled after me. On Saturday, one of Galen’s college roommates, Jared, came back to town and organized a get-together at a local restaurant. Jared was one of the few people in Galen’s circle who had always been polite to me. Around three in the afternoon, Galen was in the bedroom picking out his outfit. “Hurry up and get changed. Jared put this dinner together, it would look bad if we didn’t show up.” “I have some work to finish. I’ll take an Uber and meet you there later.” I sat in front of my laptop, reviewing my apartment lease agreement for Vienna. He glanced at my screen, which was covered in German text. “Why do you spend so much time on that stuff? It’s not like they’re giving you a raise for it,” he scoffed, pulling on his jacket. “Just don’t be late. Don’t embarrass me.” The front door clicked shut. I signed the digital contract, letting out a long, slow breath. My flight was next Friday. Five days left. At seven, I arrived at the restaurant. When I pushed open the door to the private dining room, the noisy chatter instantly quieted. About a dozen people were gathered around the long table. Galen sat near the head of the table, and to his right sat Molly. She was wearing a loose, oversized black shell jacket. The sleeves were rolled up twice, hanging loosely on her frame to give her a fragile, delicate look. I recognized the jacket instantly. It was the expensive Arc’teryx shell Galen had bought last winter. “Sally’s here!” someone called out. Galen looked up at me. He didn’t stand, but merely pointed toward an empty chair at the far end of the table. “Sit down over there.” It was the seat furthest from him, right next to the kitchen service door where servers hurried in and out. I walked over and sat down. Molly turned to look at me, offering a sweet, innocent smile. “Sally, you made it! I’m so sorry about the jacket. It was freezing outside, so I borrowed Gav’s shell. You don’t mind, do you?” She placed a delicate emphasis on the word borrowed. “I don’t mind,” I said, pouring myself a glass of water. My voice was perfectly steady. “I wouldn’t mind if a stray dog wore it to keep warm, let alone you.” The entire room went dead silent. People exchanged uncomfortable glances. “Sally, what the hell is wrong with you?” Galen slammed his fork onto the table. “Molly was cold and borrowed a jacket. Why are you being so vicious?” Molly’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She reached out and timidly tugged at Galen’s sleeve. “Gav, it’s okay. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have worn your jacket. I’ll take it off right now.” She made a show of slipping the jacket off her shoulders. “Keep it on!” Galen pressed his hand over hers to stop her, before glaring across the table at me. “Did you forget to take your meds today? Why are you trying to humiliate me in front of my friends?” Jared quickly stepped in to defuse the tension. “Hey, come on, guys. It’s no big deal. Sally was just joking. Let’s get a round of drinks, come on!” The atmosphere slowly recovered, but I could feel the pitying, amused glances from around the table. Throughout the dinner, Molly was highly attentive. She put food on Galen’s plate, poured his drinks, and intercepted shots on his behalf, showing off her intimate knowledge of his preferences. “Oh, wait, keep the cilantro away from that side. Galen can’t stand it on his fish,” Molly laughed, stopping the lazy Susan. Someone across the table joked, “Molly, you know Galen better than his own girlfriend. Talk about a perfect match.” Molly’s cheeks flushed, and she playfully nudged the speaker’s shoulder. “Stop saying stupid things. We’re just childhood best friends, right, Gav?” Galen chuckled, taking a sip of his beer without denying it. “She’s always been like this. Just one of the guys.” I sat at the very edge of the table, a complete outsider, watching their cozy performance. I felt a sudden, profound sense of absurdity. What exactly had I been holding onto for the last six years? Midway through the dinner, Molly got up to go to the restroom. I stood up and followed her. At the vanity mirror, Molly was touched up her lipstick. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, she didn’t stop her movements. “Sally, you really don’t need to be so threatened by me,” she said, pressing her lips together and smiling at her reflection. “If Galen and I were going to happen, we would have years ago. You wouldn’t even be in the picture.” I turned on the faucet and washed my hands. “Do you think wearing his jacket makes me angry?” she turned around, leaning against the marble counter, her eyes filled with unshielded triumph. “I just wanted to remind you who has actually been by his side through everything.” I pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and dried my hands. “Molly, do you actually find some kind of cheap thrill in trying to play house with someone else’s boyfriend?” I tossed the paper towel into the bin. “I’m not playing anything,” she shrugged, wearing an innocent expression. “Galen chooses to take care of me. If you have an issue with that, take it up with him. Why are you projecting your insecurities onto me?” “You misunderstand,” I said, turning to look her straight in the eye. “I’m not angry. I just think you’re incredibly pathetic.” Her smile faltered. “What do you mean?” “Playing dumb and acting helpless just to survive on the scraps of another woman’s boyfriend.” I offered her a polite smile. “If you want him so badly, take him. I was getting tired of holding onto garbage anyway.” Three days left. My luggage was completely packed. Three large suitcases stood quietly in the corner of the guest bedroom. Galen had been incredibly busy lately, leaving early and returning late, so he hadn’t noticed anything missing from the apartment. He likely assumed I was still just giving him the silent treatment. On Wednesday morning, my phone rang. It was the primary care physician at the hospice facility where my grandmother was staying. “Ms. Foster, your grandmother’s condition has deteriorated rapidly. We need an immediate family member or her designated emergency contact to sign the end-of-life care authorization. We haven’t been able to reach your mother. Can you get here as soon as possible?” My mind went completely blank. My grandmother was my only real family left in the world. “I’m on my way!” I grabbed my bag and rushed out the door. When I reached the street, I realized a torrential storm was raging outside. The ride-share apps showed a waitlist of over three hundred people, and there wasn’t a single empty taxi in sight. With trembling fingers, I dialed Galen’s number. In this city, he was the only person I could turn to. It rang for a long time before he finally picked up. The background was loud and chaotic, sounding like a busy clinic. “What is it?” his voice was tense and impatient. “Galen, where are you? Can you drive me to Memorial Hospital? Nana is in critical condition, and they need me to sign the papers immediately,” I gasped out, my voice cracking with panic. The line went quiet for a second. “Memorial? In this weather? The highway is going to be completely flooded.” “Please, Galen, I can’t get an Uber,” I cried, tears mixing with the rain pouring down my face. “Fine, just wait for me. I’ll take care of something here and head over.” He hung up immediately. I stood in the pouring rain, staring toward the direction of the hospital, clutching my phone like a lifeline. Ten minutes passed. Thirty minutes. An hour. Galen’s car never showed up. I called him again. His phone was turned off. The rain poured heavier, soaking me to the bone. Cold and shivering, a dark, suffocating despair swallowed me whole. Finally, an empty taxi pulled up in front of me. I scrambled inside, completely desperate. “Memorial Hospital, please. As fast as you can.” When I finally reached the ICU doors, the doctor was already stepping out. Looking at my drenched, shivering state, he let out a heavy sigh. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Foster. She couldn’t hold on long enough.” In that moment, the world fell away. I couldn’t hear the doctor’s condolences, nor the frantic hum of the hospital corridor. Everything turned into a silent, blinding white. I didn’t even cry. I simply signed the documents, completed the paperwork, and handled my grandmother’s final arrangements like a lifeless machine. By the time I walked out of the crematorium carrying her urn, it was late at night. My phone finally regained signal, and several notifications popped up on my screen. It was an Instagram post from Molly. In the photo, Galen was completely drenched, holding a muddy, shivering Shiba Inu in his arms. Molly stood beside him, carefully drying the dog’s fur with a towel. The caption read: “So thankful Gav braved the storm to help me find Waffles. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. You’re the best.” The post had been published at the exact hour I was standing in the freezing rain, waiting for him to save my grandmother. I stared at the photo. A single tear slipped down my cheek, blurring Molly’s triumphant smile on the screen. My grandmother was dying, waiting for my signature. And he was out rescuing Molly’s dog. I didn’t scream. I didn’t send a furious text. I simply tapped the heart icon to “like” her post. Then, I went home. Back in the apartment that still carried his scent, I pulled out one last cardboard box. I gathered every single thing he had ever given me over our six years together and threw them inside—the cheap gold necklace, the generic mug bought on sale, the cheap plush toys from arcade dates. I lined up my three large suitcases by the front door. Then, I slipped off the $30 silver band I wore on my finger—the ring he had bought me from a street market when we were broke college students—and placed it precisely in the center of the coffee table. Beside the ring, I placed my set of keys. At 5:00 AM, as the sky began to turn a faint grey, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Galen. “My phone died yesterday. Molly’s dog got out and I had to help her find him. The storm was so bad we got stuck at the 24-hour vet clinic. How is your grandma? I’ll try to find some time to drop by today.” How laughable. Find some time. I gripped the handle of my suitcase, took one last look at the apartment I had shared with him for six years, and opened the door. It was over. I typed out my last message to him and pressed send. “No need. We’re done, Galen.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465184”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had spent two grueling months running myself ragged on these godforsaken missions. And there I was, sitting in the velvet shadows of a private VIP lounge, slipping a six-carat diamond proposal ring onto my finger for the eighth time. I smiled to myself, thinking, This is it. I’ve got these boys wrapped around my finger. Easy money. But when I pulled up the system interface, the progress bar was sitting at a flat, mocking zero percent. I completely lost my mind. I mass-texted all eight love interests at once: Is your love even real, or is it just a copy-paste job? You don’t care about me at all! That very night, a pair of strong hands pressed a chloroform-soaked cloth over my face. I blacked out, waking up locked in a pitch-black room. Beside me, a man loomed in the darkness, his jaw clenched, his voice dripping with venom. “Baby,” he growled, “you let me propose to you eight times. I thought it was some kind of twisted foreplay. I had no idea you were just face-blind.” Adam Peterson wrapped his arms around my waist, his breath hot against my skin. “You can’t tell us apart with our clothes on? Fine. Let’s see if you recognize me with them off.” 01 In the lightless bedroom, Adam’s lips slammed onto mine. My brain stalled. The only thing registering in my vision was the pale, sculpted curve of his abdominal muscles shifting in the dark. Adam seemed entirely out of patience. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my skin in a sharp, possessive bite. “Do you see me now? Do you know who I am?” His voice carried a dangerous, upward tilt at the end, his eyes flashing with raw irritation. My focus was completely shattered. I couldn’t even form words. I tried to roll over and bolt, but Adam let out a low hum, hooking his fingers around my ankle and dragging me back under him. He pinned me down, a solid, immovable weight. Panic clawed its way up my throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was supposed to be a cozy, reverse-harem dating sim where I was the pampered main character. How the hell did I end up in a dark, obsessive captivity novel? Just two months ago, I was standing on the rooftop of my office building, screaming curses at my boss after he denied my raise. In my blind fury, I took a step too far and tumbled off the edge. When I woke up, a cold, mechanical System informed me it had saved my life—for a price. “Host,” the voice had droned in my head, “because the original protagonist was incompetent and failed her missions, you have been brought in as the stabilizer. You must successfully capture the hearts of this world’s eight male leads before you can return to reality.” At the time, my heart skipped a beat. Did “success” mean early retirement, unlimited wealth, and getting rid of an annoying boss forever? With visions of a billion-dollar payout dancing in my head, I readily agreed. And so, for two months, I threw myself into the role of a professional siren. Every single day was a blur of outfit changes, sweet-talking, shifting venues, and more sweet-talking. It was a non-stop, exhausting cycle. To be fair, at first, it felt like playing a real-life otome game. It was actually kind of fun. But after two solid months of it, my brain was completely fried. I couldn’t even remember the names of the eight male leads. I could barely distinguish them by their personal styles, and I almost called them by the wrong names multiple times. Eventually, I gave up trying to keep track and just called every single one of them “Babe.” They were all incredibly sweet, wildly clingy, and practically threw money at me. Within a month, I was dripping in Prada and driving a custom Lamborghini. I secretly congratulated myself on being a natural-born player. Riding that high, I decided to push for the finish line and drop hints about marriage. The boys took the bait beautifully. Each one of them bought a massive, glittering rock and dropped to one knee to propose. When I got home that night, my smile was practically splitting my face. The mission was as good as done, and I had walked away with eight priceless diamond rings. Licking my lips in anticipation, I opened the system interface to check my progress. And saw that big, fat, humiliating zero. 02 I deflated like a popped balloon, collapsing onto the sofa and glaring at my phone screen as I typed out the angry text to all eight of them: Is the rock-sized diamond a copy-paste job? Is your love just a template too? Your affection is completely fake! Careful as ever, I staggered the sending times. Even in my fury, I was a professional. I had to make sure the messages didn’t arrive at the exact same moment. But God, it hurt. I had worked so hard, and these useless men hadn’t given me a single point of genuine affection. Disgusting. I took a few deep breaths and immediately went to my closet to pull out the ultra-sexy dress the System had rewarded me with. Its item description claimed it boosted my charisma by eighteen points. That evening, I squeezed into the dress and scheduled a date with one of the male leads at a quiet, upscale bar. Yes, I was a coward who accepted defeat quickly, ready to drag myself back to the grindstone and try again. I stared at the prompt on the system screen: Invite any male lead to a quiet bar. Initiate physical contact to deepen his impression of you. Recommended steps: hand-holding, playing intimate games. I sighed. I had done this exact routine dozens of times over the past two months. Even if they weren’t tired of it, I was. Sure enough, the elegant, aloof heir sitting across from me looked thoroughly confused. “Sweetheart,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly, “isn’t this the exact same game we played when we first met?” “Why do you suddenly want to play it again…?” I forced a bright, celebrity-grade smile, burying the urge to roll my eyes. Why? Because of you hypocritical bastards, that’s why! I sneaked a glance at the subtle contour of his chest muscles beneath his shirt. Well, for the sake of those abs, I could play nice. I fluttered my false eyelashes, keeping my expression sweet and sincere. “I stayed up all night thinking about us,” I lied smoothly. “It feels like we’re moving way too fast.” “A guy as amazing as you shouldn’t be pressured into a proposal so quickly. So, I was thinking… what if we start over?” I reached across the table and took his hand, looking up at him like a devout worshiper. “Let’s act like we just met today. We can take our time~” The man’s gaze darkened slightly. The denim jacket he wore pulled tight across his shoulders as he leaned back heavily into his chair. I got the distinct feeling he was angry, though I couldn’t fathom why. Don’t men hate commitment and prefer strings-free fun? He remained silent for a long moment, slowly pulling out a cigarette. “Excuse me for a moment, baby.” With that, he headed toward the restrooms. I vented my frustration by aggressively eating all the desserts on the table, muttering under my breath, “Hmph, who does he think he is, catching an attitude? I’m the one who should be mad here!” “None of you actually love me, yet you all put on this devoted act. Hypocrites, the lot of you!” As I was cursing them, a pair of large hands suddenly clamped over my mouth from behind. Before I could scream, the world went black, just like a scene from a horror movie. The memory faded, and reality rushed back as Adam suddenly pinned me against the headboard. My wrists were bound tightly above my head, leaving me completely helpless. His fingers slowly traced down from my temple, lingering on my lips. He leaned down, his kiss so fierce and desperate it nearly stole the air from my lungs. “I’m Adam,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a dark edge. “Remember it.” I nodded numbly. I knew from experience that if I didn’t answer him correctly in a few minutes, he would find a highly creative way to punish me. The heat of our bodies and the slick sheen of sweat mingled in the dim light. I looked up into his eyes, which were dilated with naked obsession. As I marvelled at his sheer stamina, a terrible realization slowly dawned on me. I had caught a glimpse of the wall clock a moment ago. It was exactly 9:30 PM. The exact time I had scheduled my first angry mass-text to go out. The messages were set to send in five-minute intervals. Five of those targets would be receiving them right about now. Right on cue, my phone on the nightstand lit up with an incoming text alert. But that wasn’t all. Inside the closed nightstand drawer, several other distinct notification chimes began to ring in rapid succession. My pupils dilated as the pieces fell into place. Beside me, Adam let out a dark, mocking laugh, his jaw tight. “Baby,” he growled, “you had me propose to you eight times. I thought it was some kinky roleplay. I didn’t realize you were just face-blind.” He slid his hand down to my waist, his grip tightening until it bruised. “Did you really think a change of clothes meant a change of person?” “You can’t tell us apart with our clothes on? Fine. Let’s see if you recognize me with them off.” Oh, dear God. My mind reeled. I hadn’t seduced eight different men. I had seduced the same man in eight different outfits! I stared at Adam’s ridiculously handsome face, so angry I couldn’t breathe. I lunged forward, scratching at his back and screaming, “You absolute bastard! Why do you have to be so versatile? You completely tricked me!” “How is one person allowed to be a tech CEO, an investment mogul, and a brand ambassador all at the same time?! You set me up!” An amused smile played at the corner of Adam’s lips as he pressed his face against mine, murmuring, “I thought you liked the multiple personas, so I gave you a new one every time.” “Besides, is it a crime to model for my own companies?” I gasped for air, absolutely livid. “Conceited jerk,” I hissed. Adam seemed to enjoy the insult. He pulled the comforter over us, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist. Terrified that he would start another round, I quickly squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to fall asleep. Seeing that I was genuinely exhausted, he finally relented. He quietly reached down to massage my aching lower back. I fought the urge to kick him out of bed and screamed for the System in my head. System! Get out here right now! If Adam Peterson isn’t one of my targets, who the hell is he? The System’s voice echoed in my mind, cold and entirely devoid of empathy: Host, Adam Peterson is the ultimate villain of this world. … My mind shrieked in horror: Why didn’t you warn me about something this important?! Do you have any idea how much time I wasted on him?!

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465200”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On our wedding anniversary, my husband gave me a secondhand designer bag. Inside, wedged deep in the lining, was a plastic claw clip that had belonged to its previous owner. “Buying secondhand is the new sustainable chic,” he said, his face a picture of absolute, unbothered logic. “Besides, it’s practically brand new. It suits you.” I forced a tight, empty smile and thanked him. But minutes later, when I opened the resell app on his phone, I found a transaction history that made my blood run cold. Auctioning my wife’s free time this Friday afternoon. Starting bid: fifty dollars. Buyer can choose which coffee shop she goes to. Auctioning a high-res photo of my wife cooking from behind. I stared at the screen, my hands shaking. To him, I wasn’t a partner. I was just another piece of pre-owned inventory, waiting to be marked up and sold to the highest bidder. 1 I held the cheap plastic claw clip between my fingers. My fingertips were numb. A few stray, unfamiliar hairs were still tangled in the teeth of the clip, and if I looked closely, I could see tiny flecks of someone else’s dandruff. A wave of intense, physical revulsion hit me, rising from my stomach and settling like lead in my throat. “Well? Do you love it, babe?” Derek’s voice drifted in from the kitchen, dripping with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he deserved a medal. “That bag is easily three grand retail. I snagged it on a resale app for a hundred and fifty bucks. Practically mint! Think of how much money I just saved us.” He stepped into the living room, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and leaned in to inspect how the bag looked draped over my shoulder. He nodded, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Look at that. It was made for you. Tell me I don’t have the best eye.” I looked at his face, glowing with the pride of a cheapskate who had successfully gamed the system. My throat felt incredibly tight. The smile on my face felt like dry plaster, ready to crack. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I… I love it.” “Glad to hear it. Now, how about we get dinner started? I’m starving.” He patted my shoulder—a quick, transactional gesture—and vanished into the bathroom, humming a tune under his breath. A moment later, the shower started running. On the sofa, his phone vibrated. The screen lit up with a notification from a local marketplace app. New activity on your listed item: “Wife’s Idle Time”! I stood there for a long moment before my feet moved on their own. I walked over to the sofa and picked up his phone. The passcode was my birthday. I used to think that was romantic. Now, it just felt like a cruel joke. I unlocked the phone and tapped on the marketplace app. His profile page popped up instantly. His avatar was our wedding photo. His username: Derek’s Curated Finds. But as I scrolled past the listings for used golf clubs, old iPhones, and gently worn jackets, I saw dozens of listings that had nothing to do with electronics or clothes. They were about me. Auctioning my wife’s free time this Friday afternoon. Starting bid: fifty dollars. Buyer can choose which coffee shop she goes to. Sold for: $150. Buyer Review: She’s even prettier than her pictures, though she was a little quiet. Can you ask her to smile more next time? Auctioning a high-res photo of my wife cooking dinner from behind. Sold for: $30. Buyer Review: Incredible waistline. Makes you want to reach out and grab her. Auctioning a photo of my wife’s wet hair right after a shower. DM for details. Sold for: $80. Buyer Review: So sweet and innocent. Can you get a shot of her legs next time? Will pay extra. I scrolled down, further and further, my hands trembling so violently I could barely hold the device. In his direct messages, the filth spilled across the screen like cheap ink. Hey man, can you get her to wear yoga pants next time she goes to the grocery store? I’ll give you three hundred to auction her shopping trip. When does her period start? I want to see a photo of her looking pale and vulnerable. It’s a specific vibe, you know? Are you ever going to auction a full dinner date with her? I’ll start the bidding at five hundred. Every private, quiet moment of my life had been sliced into pieces, given a price tag, and displayed in a digital shop window for anonymous men to drool over. “What are you doing?” Derek’s voice cut through the apartment like a gunshot. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping from his hair. In three quick strides, he snatched the phone out of my hand. When he saw what was on the screen, his expression hardened. “You’re snooping through my phone?” I looked up at him, my body completely drained of warmth. “What is this, Derek?” My voice cracked. “What the hell is this?” He glanced at the screen, and instead of looking guilty, he let out a dry, dismissive laugh. He walked over to the kitchen island, poured himself a glass of water, and sat down on the sofa, spreading his legs comfortably. “What does it look like? I’m monetizing some of your spare time and a few harmless photos. What’s the big deal?” He looked at me with an agonizingly casual indifference. “You’re overreacting. It’s not like I’m asking you to sleep with anyone.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. “That is my time, Derek! My photos! My life!” “Who gave you the right to sell me? Did you ever stop to think about asking me?” “Oh, here we go,” Derek said, slamming his water glass onto the coffee table. “Don’t start acting all high and mighty, Maggie. If it weren’t for my side hustles, do you think we’d be living this comfortably?” He stood up, pacing the room, his voice rising as if he were the one who had been wronged. “So what if I sell a little bit of your time? Does that money go to waste? No, it goes right back into this household. Do you have any idea how hard it is to manage a mortgage, car payments, and utilities every month? I’m doing this for us.” “For us?” I stared at him, disgusted. “The down payment on this apartment was paid entirely by my parents. The deed is in my name. And we split the mortgage fifty-fifty. I have never missed a single payment, Derek.” “Your ‘contribution’ to this household is turning me into a commodity on the internet so a bunch of creeps can talk about my body!” My words hit a nerve. His face flushed red with embarrassment, which quickly curdled into rage. Smash! He grabbed the glass from the coffee table and hurled it against the wall. Shards of glass rained down onto the hardwood floor. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Maggie?” he spat, pointing a finger at my face. “I married a wife, not an accountant! You’re being completely unreasonable.” He grabbed his leather jacket and his car keys, storming out of the apartment and slamming the door behind him. The force of it shook the frame, leaving a ringing silence in my ears. I looked at the shattered glass on the floor, and then at the secondhand bag with someone else’s hair clip sitting on the counter. Slowly, I slid down against the wall, pulled my knees to my chest, and let out a quiet, strangled sob in the dark. 2 Derek didn’t come home that night. I sat on the sofa until the sky outside turned a bruised grey, the chill from the window pane seeping deep into my bones. When I looked in the mirror, my face was washed out, my eyes hollow. But life didn’t stop because my marriage was a lie. I still had to go to work. I applied a thick layer of makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes and caught the morning subway. The train was packed, a sea of shoulders and briefcases. As I squeezed into a corner, I felt a sudden, prickly sensation on the back of my neck. I felt like I was being watched. I turned my head quickly. Several men immediately looked down, their thumbs moving rapidly across their phone screens. Was I losing my mind? Was it just paranoia? When I arrived at the office and sat down at my desk, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my best friend, Natalie. It was a screenshot of a group chat called The Leisure & Time Exchange. And there, right at the top of the thread, was Derek’s avatar. He had posted a new listing. Auctioning the right to care for my wife while she’s weak on her period. Starting bid: twenty dollars. She’s not feeling well today, very pale and quiet. Perfect for anyone who likes the delicate, vulnerable type. You can easily find her at the convenience store downstairs from her office building around noon. Beneath it, a string of vulgar comments followed. Oh, Derek’s got a new listing! This is hot. I love the delicate ones. I’ll bid forty. Can I buy her a hot tea and hold her hand? Bidding eighty! My hands went entirely numb. I was on my period, and my lower abdomen had been aching all morning. It was a deeply personal, intimate detail of my health, and he had turned it into marketing copy, throwing me to a pack of online hyenas for pocket change. A wave of nausea hit me. By lunchtime, the cramps were so bad I could barely stand. I decided to quickly slip down to the convenience store on the corner to grab a sandwich and some pain relievers. The moment I stepped inside the store, that heavy, suffocating feeling of being watched returned. A man in a flannel shirt was standing near the snack aisle, but his eyes weren’t on the shelves. They were on me. When I picked up a bottle of water, he moved closer. When I went to the checkout counter, he lined up right behind me. He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. I glanced at the metallic reflection of the soda fridge. He was holding his phone up, and on the screen was a photo of my face. He was comparing the photo to the back of my head. A jolt of pure panic shot through my chest. I snatched my bag, abandoned the sandwich on the counter, and bolted out of the store, running back to the office lobby. I locked myself in the women’s restroom, leaning over the sink, dry-heaving. Nothing came up but stomach acid. Looking at my pale, terrified face in the mirror, I realized there was no safe place left. There were invisible eyes everywhere, waiting to see how I would react, waiting to consume my misery. By late afternoon, the sky had turned ink-black, and a torrential downpour began to beat against the high-rise windows. When the clock struck five, the storm showed no signs of stopping. The rideshare apps were completely backed up, showing over a hundred people ahead of me in the queue. I didn’t have an umbrella. I stood under the narrow awning of the supermarket next to my office, shivers running down my spine as the wind blew the rain onto my damp clothes. Then, a man carrying a large black umbrella stepped out of the rain and walked directly toward me. He was short, with slightly greasy hair and a nervous, oily smile on his face. “Maggie? Right?” I took a sharp step back, my shoulder hitting the cold brick wall. “You have the wrong person.” “No, I don’t think I do,” he said, his grin widening to reveal slightly yellowed teeth. He pulled out his phone, pulled up a screenshot, and thrust it in front of my face. It was a transaction receipt from Derek’s account. Auctioning an accidental meeting and umbrella-sharing with my wife Maggie. Rainday exclusive. Sold for: $100. The buyer’s username matched the man standing in front of me. “I paid a hundred bucks for this,” he said, shifting the umbrella so it covered my head, stepping closer into my personal space. “Come on, let me walk you home, beautiful.” A visceral disgust washed over me. I shoved his chest with all the strength I had left. “Get away from me!” I screamed it, the sound swallowed by the thunder, and then I sprinted directly into the freezing rain. The downpour blinded me, soaking through my coat and jeans in seconds. I didn’t care. I ran through the sheets of water, my tears mixing with the rain, leaving the man’s angry shouts far behind me. I don’t know how long I ran, but by the time I let myself into my empty apartment, my muscles were shaking from exhaustion. I locked the deadbolt, threw the safety latch, and closed every single curtain in the house. I slid down against the front door, pulling my wet knees to my chest, and wept in the silence. This apartment wasn’t a home. It was just a display case where Derek kept his most profitable commodity. 3 I couldn’t stay there. Every breath of air in that apartment felt contaminated. Late that night, I called an Uber and made the journey back to my parents’ house in the suburbs. Standing on the familiar porch, looking at the peeling paint on the doorframe, I felt a fleeting sense of safety. I rang the bell. It took a long time for the door to open. My mother stood there in her pajamas, her face pinched with annoyance. “Maggie? What on earth are you doing here in the middle of the night?” She looked at my soaking-wet clothes, but instead of reaching out, she sighed. “Do you have any idea how early your brother has to be up for school tomorrow? You’re going to wake the whole house.” My heart sank a little. “Mom, I’m sorry, I just…” “Just come inside. Go change into something dry before you ruin the hardwood floors.” She stepped aside, already reaching for a mop to clean up the water I had dripped onto the entryway. I sat on the edge of the living room sofa, my body still shivering. Once she finished mopping, my mother sat down across from me. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The words spilled out of me in a ragged, tearful rush—the listings, the photos, the creepy men following me, the complete betrayal of my privacy. I expected her to be furious. I expected her to reach for her phone and call Derek to scream at him. But she didn’t. She just looked down, her eyes darting nervously around the room, before she quietly pointed toward the kitchen. “You know,” she murmured, “Derek brought over a brand-new Dyson vacuum cleaner last week. He said he got it on one of those resale apps for barely a hundred dollars. It works wonderfully.” Just then, my teenage brother, Tyler, walked out of his bedroom, rubbing his eyes. When he saw me, he yawned, then tapped the screen of the sleek Apple Watch on his wrist. “Hey, Maggie,” he said, completely unfazed by my tears. “Check out what Derek got me for my birthday. The latest series. He said he found it on some bidding app for half price.” I stared at them, the air leaving my lungs. “Mom… Tyler…” My voice was barely a whisper. “Do you have any idea how he got the money for those things?” I stood up, my whole body trembling. “He sold me. He sold your daughter’s safety, your sister’s dignity, to buy those cheap pieces of plastic.” My mother’s face shifted—not with anger, but with an awkward, defensive irritation. “Maggie, let’s not be dramatic,” she said, her voice taking on a sharp, lecturing tone. Tyler rolled his eyes from the hallway. “Seriously, Maggie. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s just a few pictures and some coffee dates. It’s not like he sold you into slavery. Look at all the cool stuff we got out of it. Don’t be so ungrateful.” I stared at my own brother, my flesh and blood, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. My mother stood up and took my hand, her voice softening into that manipulative, motherly tone she used whenever she wanted me to fall in line. “Maggie, sweetie, listen to me. It’s not easy for a young man to support a household these days. The pressure on husbands is immense. You need to have some compassion.” “A marriage takes compromise. If you keep throwing tantrums, you’re going to drive him away. What is a divorced woman in her thirties supposed to do? Who’s going to want you then?” “Besides, he’s sharing the wealth. He bought Tyler that watch, and he brought me the vacuum. It shows he cares about this family.” I looked at my mother’s face, full of practical, selfish calculations. I looked at Tyler, holding his wrist up like a trophy. And slowly, piece by piece, my heart went entirely cold. To them, I wasn’t a daughter or a sister. My safety and my body were worth less than a refurbished vacuum and a used smartwatch. Derek had already bought their loyalty with the very blood money he made off of me. I didn’t say another word. Slowly, gently, I peeled my mother’s fingers off my hand. Under their bewildered stares, I turned around, opened the front door, and walked back out into the cold, silent rain. This time, I didn’t cry. 4 With nowhere else to go, I used the cash in my purse to check into a dingy, low-budget motel on the edge of town. Lying on the stiff, synthetic sheets, I stared at the ceiling until the morning light began to seep through the plastic blinds. I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t shed a single tear. When you reach the absolute bottom of despair, you don’t cry. You plan. I bought a burner SIM card, registered a new, anonymous account, and quietly slipped into the Leisure & Time Exchange group chat. The group was in the middle of a feeding frenzy. Hundreds of men were eagerly discussing the next big event. Derek’s profile picture flashed as he posted a pinned announcement. The Ultimate Auction: This Friday night, a private candlelit dinner with my wife at the exclusive Moonlight Bistro downtown. The winning bidder gets to sit directly across from her, enjoy premium wine, and experience a truly romantic evening. Starting bid: $500. Highest bidder takes all! The comments went wild. Seven hundred! I’m in! Nine hundred! I want to watch her pour my wine. One thousand! I’m going to make her look me in the eye all night. The price climbed steadily until a user with a solid black avatar and the handle Abyss locked it in at two thousand dollars. Derek proudly announced the winner in the main chat. Congratulations to user Abyss! Friday night at seven, The Moonlight Bistro. Don’t keep her waiting! He immediately sent a direct message to Abyss with the restaurant details and a recent photo of me. I watched the screen, my grip on the phone so tight my knuckles turned white. There was no fear left in my chest. Only a cold, razor-sharp focus. You dug this grave, Derek. Now you’re going to lie in it. Over the next few days, I didn’t go back to the apartment, and I didn’t reply to any of Derek’s increasingly frantic texts. I simply ceased to exist. Until Friday afternoon, when my phone rang from an unknown number. It was Derek. He had used a different phone to bypass my block. When I answered, his voice was sickeningly sweet, dripping with forced affection. “Maggie, babe, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” “I’m so sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I want to make it up to you.” “I booked a table at The Moonlight Bistro tonight. Let’s celebrate our anniversary properly. Just the two of us. What do you say?” I listened to his lie, my voice completely flat and cooperative. “Okay.” “Awesome! Wear something really nice, babe. Be there at seven sharp. I’ll have the host guide you to the table.” “I’ll be there.” After I hung up, I looked at myself in the motel bathroom mirror. I put on a face of makeup I had never worn before—vampy red lipstick, sharp winged eyeliner, bold and dangerous. I wore my most expensive black velvet slip dress and a pair of four-inch stilettos. At exactly seven o’clock, I walked into the dim, mahogany-paneled dining room of The Moonlight Bistro. The soft strains of a cello filled the air. The hostess led me to a secluded booth near the window. A bottle of expensive cabernet was already breathing on the table, next to a single flickering candle. I sat down gracefully, my eyes scanning the room. It didn’t take long to spot him. Behind a heavy velvet partition a few tables away, a figure was crouching nervously, holding a phone level with the gap in the fabric. It was Derek. He was live-streaming me. I picked up my water glass, took a slow sip, and let a cold, dark smile play on my lips. The heavy glass doors of the restaurant swung open, the brass bells chiming. A man walked in. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a perfectly tailored black charcoal suit. He carried an air of absolute, terrifying authority. His eyes swept the room once before locking onto my table. His leather dress shoes made a slow, deliberate thud, thud, thud against the hardwood floor as he approached. He pulled out the chair directly opposite me, sat down heavily, and leaned forward. His lips curved into a sharp, knowing grin. “Good evening, Maggie. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” “Your husband sold you to me.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465185”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day I turned thirteen, I finally got the call. A heart was waiting. A second chance at a life that had barely begun. But ten minutes before they were scheduled to wheel me into the operating room, the dream evaporated. A nurse walked in, her face pale, and told us the donor heart had been “requisitioned” for an emergency. The recipient was the only daughter of Chicago’s most powerful billionaire. I watched my parents fall to their knees, their spirits breaking right there on the sterile linoleum. They sobbed, pressing their foreheads to the floor. “If she doesn’t get that heart, our little girl will die!” my mother shrieked, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation. “Please, we’ll do anything. Just give us back the heart!” I will never forget the way that billionaire couple looked down at us. It wasn’t just indifference; it was a quiet, chilling disgust. “Does a piece of gutter trash really compare to my precious daughter?” the woman said, adjusting her designer coat as if my family were nothing but a smudge on her sleeve. “If she dies, she dies. Stop making a scene.” I didn’t die. I clung to life on heavy experimental drugs for three agonizing months, dragging myself through the dark until, by some miracle, another heart became available. Twenty years later, I became the leading cardiothoracic surgeon in the country, specializing in complex heart transplants. And then, on a Tuesday afternoon, the hospital chief walked into my office, personally delivering an urgent surgical request. I looked at the signature on the consent form, and a slow smile crept over my face. I tossed the paperwork onto the desk. “I’m not taking this case,” I said. 1 The smile on Chief Baldwin’s face froze. “Grace, this is incredibly urgent,” he said, taking a step closer to my desk. “You know as well as I do that you’re the only surgeon in the country who has successfully performed this kind of redo-transplant with complex reconstruction.” I flipped open my schedule, not looking up. “My schedule for today is fully booked. If they want me to operate, tell them to get in line.” I was trying to give him a polite out, but Baldwin took it as a sign of flexibility. He leaned in, his voice taking on a desperate, pleading note. “We can hand off your later surgery to someone else! I’ll arrange it right now.” I raised my head, locking my eyes onto his. “Someone else? Who exactly do you plan to put on that case, Chief?” He choked on his words. He knew the answer. Everyone in the department knew. The surgery scheduled for this afternoon was one that only I could perform. But unlike the file on my desk, that one was a charity case. The patient was a nine-year-old boy named Jamie, who was suffering from end-stage dilated cardiomyopathy. He had survived on the transplant list for two agonizing years before a donor heart finally became available. But his father had recently died in a construction accident, and his mother, who ran a small food stall, couldn’t afford the exorbitant post-operative care fees. I had personally fought to get Jamie approved through our hospital’s charity care program. I felt a cold laugh bubble up in my chest. Twenty years had passed, and yet the world hadn’t changed a bit. The lives of the poor were still treated as currency to be traded away at a moment’s notice. Baldwin’s expression soured. He abandoned his gentle approach and threw his hands up. “You don’t understand who the patient is, Grace! She’s the only daughter of the Mercer family. Her mother’s family, the Kingsleys, have dominated Chicago for three generations. Their influence is absolute.” He leaned over my desk, tapping his finger on the mahogany. “Her father runs the largest medical capital conglomerate in the world. Half of our hospital’s research grants are funded directly by the Mercer Foundation!” I let out a sharp laugh. “So, because they have money, their lives are worth more?” Baldwin’s face flushed. “That is not what I meant.” “Then what did you mean?” I stood up, leaning forward until we were eye-to-eye. “On one hand, you have a child from a struggling family who has waited two years for a chance to live. On the other, you have a billionaire’s daughter. You didn’t even hesitate, Chief. You wanted me to toss that boy aside. Tell me, how much are they paying you?” “Dr. West!” Baldwin’s voice boomed, his face turning a deep crimson. “Watch your tongue! You are stepping way out of line.” I offered him a tight, humorless smile, sat back down, and pulled my afternoon charts toward me. I was finished talking. The silence in the office stretched, heavy and suffocating. Realizing anger wouldn’t work, Baldwin let out a long sigh and softened his tone. “Grace, you’re a smart woman. The Mercers have promised that if the surgery is successful, they will fully fund the expansion of our cardiac center next year. On top of that…” He held up five fingers. “They’re offering you five million dollars. Personally.” He paused, letting the number hang in the air. “They also have immense pull with the International Medical Association. I know you’ve been trying to get nominated for the Lifetime Achievement Award in Transplantation. A single phone call from Charles Mercer will do more for your career than ten years of grinding.” I listened quietly, finding a grim amusement in the irony of it all. Twenty years ago, they used their power to steal my heart. Twenty years later, they wanted to use their wealth to buy my hands and my conscience. “My answer is still no,” I said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Chief, I have a surgery to prepare for.” Baldwin’s chest heaved. He pointed a trembling finger at me, trying to find the words to curse me out, but ultimately slammed his hand on the desk, grabbed the folder, and stormed out. Through the heavy oak door, I could hear him apologizing profusely to someone waiting in the hallway. A few minutes later, the door flew open again. Baldwin rushed in, sweat slicking his forehead, and thrust his phone toward my face. “Dr. West, Mr. Mercer wants to speak with you directly.” A strange, dark curiosity washed over me. I took the phone and placed it to my ear. “Dr. West,” a smooth, baritone voice spoke from the receiver. “I know that adding a last-minute surgery is a massive imposition, but my daughter’s condition is critical. I must ask you—” Before he could finish, a sharp, piercing female voice drowned him out. “Why are you wasting your breath begging her? She’s just a doctor! Who does she think she is?!” 2 I narrowed my eyes. It was Katherine. Her voice was just as arrogant and razor-sharp as I remembered, dripping with an unearned superiority. It was the exact cadence of her mother’s voice from twenty years ago. I heard a rustle of clothing, and then Katherine’s voice came through clearly, as if she had snatched the phone from her husband’s hand. “I am ordering you to schedule my daughter’s surgery immediately! We are paying you to do a job. Don’t flatter yourself by thinking you have a choice!” I smiled. Leave it to the ultra-rich to demand a favor with a knife to your throat. When my parents had begged for my life, how had they acted? They had stripped away every shred of dignity they possessed. They had pressed their faces to the cold floor, begging for mercy. I still remembered the day my parents found out my donor heart had been given away. They ran through the hospital corridors, begging doctors, department heads, the previous chief—anyone who would listen. Finally, a sympathetic resident admitted that a VIP patient had pulled strings to redirect the organ. The hospital couldn’t fight them. My parents had blocked the operating room doors, weeping. “Please, Mrs. Kingsley… your daughter is stable. But if our girl doesn’t get this surgery, she won’t survive the week! We will work for your family for the rest of our lives. Just please, let her have the heart…” They begged until their foreheads bled against the floor. Katherine’s mother had simply pulled her designer skirt away from my mother’s grasping hands, looking at her with pure disgust. “Is a piece of gutter trash really comparable to my precious princess? If she dies, she dies. Stop making a scene.” Mr. Kingsley had stepped forward then, tossing a check onto my mother’s bleeding head. “You only have yourselves to blame,” he had said, his voice flat. “Your child was born to inherit your poverty and insignificance. Here is fifty thousand dollars. Take it, shut up, and accept your daughter’s fate.” My parents had torn the check to pieces. But I refused to accept that fate. I refused to let them have the satisfaction of my death. I fought the reaper every single day. A month later, after another massive heart failure, I lay in the ICU, surrounded by tubes, unable to even whisper. And then, I saw her. Katherine, looking healthy and radiant in a pink princess dress, stood outside the glass doors of my room. Her parents had taken her on a stroll around the ward before her discharge, specifically pausing to let her look at me. “Katherine, look closely,” her father had said, pointing at my gasping form. “This is what happens to the lower classes. You were born to be a princess. You never have to care about people like this. They don’t matter.” Katherine had tilted her head, her eyes wide and curious. “Daddy, why isn’t she dead yet?” I had carved that memory into my soul. It was the burning hatred for the Kingsley family that had kept me breathing when my lungs wanted to collapse. “Hello?! Are you listening to me?!” Katherine’s screeching voice pulled me back to the present. “Talking to people like you is such a chore. Zero manners.” I let out a soft, cold chuckle. “Mrs. Mercer. Is this how you ask someone to save your child’s life?” She laughed, a dry, mocking sound. “Ask? You think highly of yourself, Dr. West. You’re just a girl with a scalpel. The Mercers and the Kingsleys chose you because you’re supposed to be the best. You should be honored. We don’t actually need you.” “Is that so?” I replied, my voice dripping with honeyed malice. “If you’re so confident, Mrs. Mercer, I suggest you find someone else.” I hung up. I handed the phone back to Baldwin and gestured for him to leave my office. The truth was, they did need me. The specific redo-transplant their daughter required was a highly specialized procedure that only a handful of surgeons in the world could perform, and none of them were in the state. Furthermore, the girl’s cardiovascular system was too unstable to survive a long-distance flight, and flying an international specialist in would take months of bureaucratic approvals. They were out of time. For twenty years, I had dreamed of getting even with the family that had nearly killed me. I just never expected them to hand me the knife. 3 Predictably, three days later, I returned to my office after a consultation to find Katherine and her husband waiting for me. Charles Mercer stepped forward first, his demeanor far more polished than his wife’s. “Dr. West,” he began, offering a polite nod. “Please accept my apologies for my wife’s outburst the other day. She was distressed. I wanted to personally bring her here to apologize, and to see if we could find some common ground regarding our daughter’s surgery.” In the next instant, Katherine burst into tears. “Dr. West… I am so sorry,” she sobbed, clutching a lace handkerchief. “I was out of my mind with worry. My daughter is only eight years old. She is everything to us. Please, don’t let a mother’s foolish mistake cost an innocent child her life. I beg of you, save her…” She wept beautifully, her shoulders trembling. To anyone else, she would have looked like a desperate, loving mother. But I saw the truth. I saw the cold, calculated venom in her eyes when she lowered her handkerchief to wipe her face. I watched her performance with an icy calm. “Mrs. Mercer, the hospital has strict protocols. Every patient must wait their turn.” Katherine’s crying stopped instantly. “But my daughter doesn’t have time! She is in critical condition!” I nodded smoothly. “I understand. Every single patient under my care is in critical condition. If you want me to perform the surgery, please submit the standard paperwork, and my office will schedule you for the next available slot.” A shadow crossed Katherine’s face. She raised her voice, letting it carry out into the hallway. “Dr. West, are you really going to just stand there and watch a child die? Where is your medical ethics?!” I noticed a few people lingering outside my open door, whispering. Someone was holding up a phone, recording. A setup. They wanted to paint me as the villain. I didn’t flinch. I stepped closer to the doorway, ensuring my voice was loud and clear for the camera. “Your daughter is precious, Mrs. Mercer. But so is every other child in this hospital. You are asking me to violate protocol and push your daughter to the front of the line. What about the child whose spot she takes? Do they just die so yours can live?” I leaned in, staring directly into her eyes. “Or do you believe that because your daughter is a Mercer, her life is inherently more valuable than a normal family’s child? Do you believe ordinary children should step aside and die for yours?” The murmuring in the hallway shifted. The relatives of other patients waiting in the corridor began to glare at Katherine. This was the cardiothoracic unit. Almost everyone standing out there had a loved one clinging to life. The idea of a billionaire family using their wealth to cut the line didn’t sit well with them. The atmosphere grew incredibly tense. Charles Mercer’s polite smile vanished. He understood the public relations nightmare unfolding before him. If Katherine continued to push, she would essentially be admitting that the ultra-rich viewed the public as expendable. Charles quickly signaled his security detail. “Clear the hallway. No recordings.” The bodyguards immediately stepped out, shutting the door and pushing the onlookers back. Once the room was quiet, Charles took a deep breath, smoothing his tie and reassuming his gentlemanly facade. “Dr. West, you misunderstand. We have no intention of disrespecting other patients. If those are the hospital’s rules, we will respect them. We will find another way. Apologies for the intrusion.” He grabbed Katherine’s arm, pulling her toward the exit. Katherine looked as though she were about to explode. She whipped her head around, glaring at me with raw hatred. “You’ll regret this, West,” she spat. 4 I simply watched them leave, a small, cold smile playing on my lips. For once, the tables had turned. And I held all the cards. But the next morning, as I was scrubbing in for Jamie’s transplant, the head nurse stopped me. Her expression was deeply troubled. “Dr. West… Chief Baldwin needs you in the executive conference room immediately.” I frowned, holding my hands up. “The patient is prepped. We’re about to open.” She looked away, unable to meet my eyes. “The surgery has been put on hold.” I froze. When I pushed open the conference room doors, the room was packed. Chief Baldwin, the board of directors, the head of public relations, and legal counsel were all seated around the long table. Charles and Katherine sat at the far end, looking like the aggrieved parties. Baldwin slid a document across the table. Notice of Temporary Suspension of Clinical Privileges for Dr. Grace West. I flipped through the pages. I almost wanted to laugh. They had suspended me from all of my major upcoming surgeries, including Jamie’s charity transplant. Furthermore, my upcoming promotion to department chair, my international travel grants, and my federal research funding were all “indefinitely deferred.” I looked up. “On what grounds?” The PR director handed me a tablet. “See for yourself, Dr. West.” On the screen was a video from yesterday’s confrontation. It had been heavily edited. In this version, Katherine was sobbing, begging me to save her dying daughter, while I stood over her, looking cold, arrogant, and entirely unsympathetic. The headline was designed for maximum outrage: Genius Surgeon Refuses to Save Dying Eight-Year-Old: Tells Billionaire Family to ‘Wait in Line and Die.’ The comment section was a toxic wasteland of public anger. Who does this doctor think she is? Playing God? Emergency cases are supposed to take priority! She’s doing this out of spite. The Mercers were so polite, and she treated them like garbage. Strip her license! Baldwin sighed, a performative gesture of regret. “Grace, the public backlash is too severe. The hospital has to protect its reputation. We had no choice but to suspend you.” He paused, glancing at the Mercers. “But… there is a way to resolve this.” Charles Mercer sat in silence, his expression smug and victorious. Katherine, playing her part, wiped a tear from her eye. “Dr. West… I don’t know why you harbor so much resentment toward me,” she whispered. “But if you agree to perform the surgery on my daughter, we will release a statement clearing your name. We will make this all go away.” The board members immediately began to chime in. “Grace, just take the deal.” “A doctor’s duty is to save lives, after all.” “Think of the child.” “This is the best outcome for everyone.” Their words were empty, wrapped in a thin veneer of morality. They wanted me to bow down, to believe that my defiance was a failure of character. I smiled. I stood up and walked slowly toward Katherine. I reached into the pocket of my white coat and pulled out a red surgical marker. Katherine flinched, her eyes darting to the pen. “What are you doing?” I leaned down, pressing the tip of the marker directly over her left breast, right where her heart was beating. “Does it beat well, Katherine? The heart you’re wearing?” I whispered, my voice cutting through the room like dry ice. “How could the girl whose heart you stole twenty years ago ever look at you with anything but hatred?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465201”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I found my husband’s journal by accident. The latest entry was from yesterday: “Another fight with her. Suddenly, I miss Maeve so much. If it were Maeve, she’d probably just laugh and say, ‘Let it go.’” I flipped back a page. “Passed by the bakery today. They discontinued the chestnut tarts Maeve loved. I felt this sudden, hollow ache.” I kept flipping. Page three, page four, page five. In the entire journal, her name—Maeve—appeared one hundred and forty-three times. My name appeared eight times. And five of those times, it was followed by the word again. “Rachel forgot to take out the trash again.” “Rachel missed my call again.” “Rachel brought up having kids again.” On the last page, right beneath yesterday’s entry, he wrote: “I treat Rachel well. But ‘being good to someone’ and ‘loving someone’ are two entirely different things. I know the difference.” He hadn’t even tried to hide it. The journal was just lying there, splayed open on the mahogany desk like a written confession. As if to say… I didn’t cheat. I haven’t contacted her. You can’t blame me for my thoughts. I closed the leather-bound book, picked up his fountain pen, and wrote a single line in the blank space at the bottom of the page: “Thank you for being honest with me.” Then, I dragged my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet and began packing. In the adult world, nobody actually dies from a broken heart. Besides, we hadn’t had a real, screaming argument in a very long time. … 1 I stood up, grabbed my purse, and walked out the door. I was alone in the elevator. The mirrored walls caught my reflection—the faint, bluish shadows bruised under my eyes. One hundred and forty-three times. I repeated the number in my head like a student obsessively checking a math problem they knew they’d gotten wrong. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gavin. “What do you want for dinner? I can pick something up on my way home.” I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then typed back: “Whatever.” He replied instantly: “How about that Thai green curry fish you loved last time?” You see? He really was good to me. He remembered what I liked, even from a passing comment I’d made weeks ago. But his journal said… They discontinued the chestnut tarts Maeve loved. I felt this sudden, hollow ache. He remembered my favorite foods, but they never left him hollow. At the office, my coworker Diane strolled over with a mug of coffee. “You look exhausted. Up late again?” “No, just didn’t sleep well.” “Your husband is so sweet, though. Remember when he dropped off lunch for you last month? The whole floor was jealous.” I offered a tight, polite smile and let the comment hang in the air. Good. Sweet. Since last night, those words had started to grate on my nerves like sandpaper. During lunch, I skipped the cafeteria and sat at my desk, aimlessly scrolling through my phone. For some reason, my fingers drifted to Gavin’s Instagram profile. He rarely posted. His most recent update was from three months ago—a photo of his cluttered desk late at night, captioned: “Another productive night.” I kept scrolling. Two years back, there was a shared link to an old song. There was no caption, just an ellipsis: “…” I clicked it. “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. In the comments, someone had written: “Who are you missing?” He had replied with a single word: “Yeah.” The person who asked had a profile picture of a white gardenia. Her username was Maeve_In_Bloom. I pressed the power button, plunging the screen into blackness. At three in the afternoon, Gavin texted again. “Leaving early today. Want me to pick you up?” “No need. I’ll take the subway.” “What’s wrong? You okay?” “I’m fine.” “I’ll come anyway. It’s on my way home.” That was just who he was. You tell him no, and he does it anyway. You tell him you’re fine, and he insists on digging. But the things you actually need him to notice? He remains utterly blind to them. At five, his car was idling by the curb outside my building. He rolled down the window and waved me over. I climbed into the passenger seat, the click of the seatbelt sounding incredibly sharp in the quiet cabin. “You look pale. Did you skip lunch?” “I ate.” “Liar. Diane told me you didn’t go down to the cafeteria.” I turned my head to look at him. “When did you exchange numbers with Diane?” “When I brought you lunch that one time. She was really friendly.” He brushed it off, casually turning the steering wheel as we merged into the evening traffic. “Rachel.” “Yeah?” “Is there something you want to tell me?” I watched the streetlights flicker past outside, one by one, looking like cigarettes being stubbed out in the dusk. “Gavin, who is Maeve?” The car jerked violently. He hit the brakes, prompting an angry honk from the SUV behind us. “Why are you asking about her all of a sudden?” “Just curious.” He was silent for a few seconds before accelerating again, his voice slipping back into its usual, gentle cadence. “Just someone from college. We lost touch after graduation.” Lost touch. Yet she lived in his journal, occupying one hundred and forty-three pages. I didn’t say another word. The car grew so quiet that the only sound was the low hum of the AC. When we got home, he went into the kitchen to heat up the curry fish. I stood in the doorway of the study. The journal was gone from the desk. I opened the bottom drawer—it was buried beneath a thick stack of tax documents. He had hidden it. “Rachel! Dinner’s ready.” I pushed the drawer shut and walked over to the dining table. He had plated the fish perfectly, even taking the time to skim the crushed spices off the top. “Try it. It’s from that new place downtown. The reviews are incredible.” I took a small bite. “Good?” he asked. “It’s good.” He smiled, a look that was warm, comforting, and utterly practiced. Suddenly, his own words echoed in my head: I treat Rachel well. But ‘being good to someone’ and ‘loving someone’ are two entirely different things. A tiny bone caught in my throat. I coughed. “Slow down. No one’s going to steal it from you.” He handed me a glass of warm water. His fingers brushed against mine, radiating a quiet warmth. I took the glass and drank. The bone dislodged, but the phantom tightness in my throat remained. 2 “Rachel, there’s a college reunion this Saturday. Do you want to come with me?” Gavin asked the next morning while adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. I was brushing my teeth, my voice muffled. “What classmates?” “The college crew. We haven’t caught up in years.” The toothbrush froze in my mouth. College crew. “You should go,” I said, spitting out the foam. “I think I’ll skip it. I wouldn’t know anyone.” “Come on, it’ll be fun. I want to introduce you to everyone.” “No, really. You go ahead.” He didn’t press the issue. He grabbed his briefcase and left. The moment the front door clicked shut, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A college reunion. Would Maeve be there? He said they had lost touch. But reunions had group chats. People showed up. What was I even doing? He hadn’t cheated on me. He hadn’t contacted her. It was written in black and white in his private diary. What right did I have to police his thoughts? On Saturday, Gavin tried on three different shirts before leaving. He finally settled on a light blue linen button-down I’d bought him for his birthday last year. “How does this look?” “Great.” “I’m heading out, then. Might be a bit late.” “Okay.” After he left, I sat on the sofa for a long time, staring into space. Eventually, I picked up my phone and texted Diane. “Hey Diane, random question—does your husband have someone named ‘Maeve_In_Bloom’ on his social media?” Diane replied instantly: “No, don’t think so. Why?” “Nothing, just curious.” I opened Gavin’s Instagram again and scrolled down to that post from two years ago. I tapped the gardenia profile icon. The page was completely blank—This account is private. He claimed they didn’t talk. Yet, she was still sitting right there in his followers list. At nine that night, Gavin sent a photo. A group of people was raising their glasses around a long wooden table. He was sitting at the far end, laughing heartily. “Pretty lively! You definitely have to come next time.” I pinched the screen to zoom in, studying the faces one by one. There were eight people—five guys, three women. One of the women sat directly across from him. The photo caught her in profile: long hair, wearing a white knit sweater. In front of her plate sat a small slice of cake. A chestnut tart. I zoomed back out. I texted back a single word: “Nice.” He got home at eleven, smelling faintly of beer. “Didn’t drink much,” he said softly, kicking off his shoes. “Just a couple of IPAs.” He went into the bathroom to shower, leaving his phone on the nightstand. A moment later, the screen lit up with a text notification. I didn’t touch the phone. But the preview text was bright and clear against the dark glass: Gavin, I had such a wonderful time tonight. It’s been so long since we— The rest of the message was cut off. The contact name was simple: Maeve. He had told me they didn’t contact each other. The shower cut off, and the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of warm steam. Gavin walked out, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. He noticed me sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Still awake?” “Can’t sleep.” “Want me to warm up some milk for you?” “No, thank you.” He picked up his phone, scanned the screen without a flicker of emotion, and casually flipped it face-down on the nightstand. “Get some rest. I’m taking you out for brunch tomorrow.” He climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. In the darkness, his breathing soon settled into a slow, steady rhythm. I stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. We lost touch. It’s been so long. I had a wonderful time. The fragments pieced themselves together, developing in my mind like a Polaroid. I rolled over, turning my back to him. In his sleep, his arm draped over my waist, pulling me closer as he mumbled something incoherent. I couldn’t make out the words. Maybe it was “Don’t kick the blanket.” Or maybe it was a different name entirely. The next morning, he kept his promise and took me to a trendy spot downtown. He ordered my favorites—smoked salmon Benedict and lemon-ricotta pancakes—and even asked for a pot of jasmine green tea. “Good?” he asked, watching me. “Yes.” “Have you been unhappy lately?” I looked up. He was carefully placing a piece of smoked salmon onto my plate. “No, I’m fine.” “Good,” he smiled, looking relieved. “I was worried you were mad at me.” “Why would I be mad?” “I don’t know. You just seem quieter these past few days.” He had noticed. But his perception always stopped at the surface. “Gavin.” “Yeah?” “Who ended up showing to the reunion yesterday?” His fork paused for a fraction of a second. “Brian, Dave, and a few others you wouldn’t know. Why?” “The girl sitting across from you. Who was she?” “Which one?” “In the white knit sweater.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, his voice perfectly casual. “Oh, that was Phoebe. We were in the same major. Her husband couldn’t make it, so she came alone.” Phoebe. Not Maeve. “Why the sudden interest?” he asked with a playful grin. “Are you jealous?” “No. Just wondering.” He reached across the table and lightly pinched my cheek. “Don’t worry. I only have eyes for you.” It was a beautiful line. So beautiful that I almost allowed myself to believe it. 3 “Rachel, your mom called. She wants us over for dinner this Sunday,” Gavin said on Wednesday evening, handing me his phone. I took the phone. It was a voice message from my mother. “Okay. Let’s go.” “Perfect. I bought her a heated back massager a while ago, but I kept forgetting to give it to her.” He pulled a beautifully wrapped box from the closet shelf and tapped it. “Got it last month, actually. Just slipped my mind to tell you.” See? He was incredibly thoughtful, even to my mother. But I had memorized his journal entries. Out of his one hundred and forty-three mentions of Maeve, one read: “Today is Maeve’s birthday. I wonder how she’s doing.” That date was our wedding anniversary. When we visited my parents on Sunday, my mother couldn’t stop singing his praises, patting Gavin’s hand. “Gavin is such a wonderful young man. So attentive, always thinking of others.” “Of course, Mom. It’s the least I can do,” Gavin replied, flashing a warm, perfectly rehearsed smile. At the dinner table, he served my mother and kept my father’s glass filled with bourbon. He didn’t speak excessively, but every word he uttered was polite and charming. After two drinks, my dad patted his shoulder. “I can rest easy knowing Rachel is with you, Gavin.” Gavin glanced at me. “I’ll always take care of her, Dad.” Take care. Good. There was that word again. After dinner, I helped my mother clear the table. She leaned in close, lowering her voice. “Are you two doing okay lately?” “We’re fine.” “Good. Gavin is a steady, reliable man. Don’t go looking for problems where there are none, Rachel.” I placed the plates in the sink and turned on the faucet. The rush of running water drowned out whatever I might have said in response. On the drive home, Gavin hummed along to a classic ballad playing on the radio. Suddenly, he stopped. “Do you know this song?” “No.” “It was huge when we were in college,” he murmured, his voice softening. “Back then, we used to… actually, never mind. It’s nothing.” Back then, what? Back then, did Maeve love this song too? I didn’t ask. When we got back, I took a shower first. When I came out, he was sitting in the study, hunched over his laptop. “What are you working on?” “Just clearing out some emails,” he replied without looking up. “Go ahead and sleep first.” I walked past the desk, my gaze catching the edge of his screen. It wasn’t his email inbox. It was an instant messaging app. I couldn’t read the name at the top of the chat, but I saw the last message he had sent: “Do you still remember that song?” I pulled my gaze away and stepped back. “Rachel?” “Yeah?” “Can you close the door for me?” I pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind me. Standing alone in the dim hallway, I could hear the rapid-fire tapping of fingers on a keyboard from the other side. Fast, relentless, like rain striking a windowpane. That night, I dreamed of Gavin standing under a dogwood tree heavy with white blossoms, holding a chestnut tart. He smiled at me and said, “I bought this for you.” But when I reached out to take it, the tart crumbled, turning into loose sheets of journal paper that scattered into the wind. Every single page was covered with the same name. And it wasn’t mine. When I woke up, the sky was still a bruised indigo. Gavin was sleeping soundly beside me, his chest rising and falling in steady intervals. I turned my head to look at his face—his sharp jawline, his long eyelashes, the faint upward curve of his lips as if he were dreaming of something beautiful. Who was in his dreams? I slid quietly out of bed and padded down to the study. The leather journal was still buried at the very bottom of the drawer. I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to. Even if I read it a hundred more times, the math wouldn’t change. One hundred and forty-three versus eight. That was the raw, unvarnished math of our marriage. Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the counter with a text from an unknown number: “Hi, is this Rachel? I’m Phoebe, one of Gavin’s friends from college. He mentioned you at the reunion, and I’d love to connect if you’re open to it!” Phoebe. The girl sitting across from him in the photo, the one with the chestnut tart. I stared at the message for a long time. Then I typed back: “Sure.” 4 Phoebe added me. Her profile picture was a silhouette of her in profile against a golden sunset. Her first text included a smiley face: “Hey Rachel! I’m Phoebe. My boyfriend used to room with Gavin back in college, so we all ended up becoming close friends.” I wrote back: “Hi.” “We missed you at the reunion! Gavin said you were resting at home. You definitely have to come out with us next time.” “I’d love that.” She was incredibly warm, texting me every other day about mundane things—the best local bistros, sales at the mall, occasionally sending photos of lipstick shades to ask for my opinion. I kept my replies polite but detached. On the fifth day, she sent an old photograph. It was a group photo from college. Seven or eight of them were standing on a grassy campus lawn. Gavin was on the far left, looking much leaner, with a shy, boyish grin. Standing right next to him was a girl with a ponytail and a plain white t-shirt, her eyes crinkling into half-moons as she laughed. Phoebe’s caption read: “Found this in my old drive! We were all so young.” I zoomed in on the girl next to Gavin. Her hand was resting naturally on his shoulder, and his body was angled slightly toward her, as if drawn by an invisible gravity. “Who is the girl standing next to Gavin?” I messaged back. Phoebe replied almost instantly: “Oh, that’s Maeve. She was the star of our creative writing program. Everyone called her Mae.” Maeve. The phone nearly slipped from my numb fingers. “Does she still keep in touch with everyone?” I asked. “Yeah, she actually lives in the city! She came to the reunion the other night.” She was at the reunion. Gavin had told me Maeve wasn’t there. He told me the person sitting opposite him was Phoebe. “Are you doing okay, Rachel? Why the interest?” “Oh, no reason. They just looked really close in the photo, so I got curious.” Phoebe sent a string of laugh emojis: “Haha, yeah, they were practically joined at the hip in college. They never officially dated, though. Maeve got married right after graduation, but she got divorced recently. She’s single now.” Joined at the hip. Never dated. Single now. I set the phone face down and took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady the shaking in my chest. When Gavin got home that evening, I was in the kitchen prepping dinner. He slipped off his shoes, walked up behind me, and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Smells amazing. What are we having?” “Braised ribs.” “My favorite. No one makes them like you do.” I held the spatula still, staring at the sizzling pan. “Gavin, did Maeve show up at the reunion last weekend?” The arms around my waist stiffened instantly. “How do you know that name?” “Phoebe told me. We connected on Instagram.” He let go of me, taking a step back. “Phoebe talks too much.” “So she was there?” “Yes,” he said, leaning against the refrigerator, his tone carefully neutral. “It was a standard reunion. She was in our class, Rachel. It’s not like we could ban her from coming.” “You told me she wasn’t there.” “I never said that. I said Phoebe was the one sitting across from me.” “Then where did Maeve sit?” “I don’t know, I don’t remember. Rachel, what is this really about?” A sharp edge of irritation crept into his voice. I switched off the burner and turned around to face him. “I want to know if the Maeve in your diary is Maeve Warren.” The air in the kitchen turned instantly frigid. Gavin’s face drained of color, his annoyance morphing into shock, and then into a look I had never seen on him before—the raw panic of a man caught red-handed. “You read my journal?” “It was lying wide open on the desk. I didn’t search for it. You left it there.” His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Rachel… those were just private thoughts. Things I wrote for myself.” “One hundred and forty-three times,” I said. “You wrote her name down one hundred and forty-three times.” He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even try to explain. He just stood there, watching me, waiting for the inevitable explosion—for me to scream, throw things, or break down in tears. But I didn’t do any of those things. I simply untied my apron, folded it neatly, and set it on the counter. “The ribs need about ten more minutes. You can plate them yourself.” I walked past him. As I cleared the kitchen doorway, he reached out and caught me by the wrist. “Rachel, I haven’t contacted her. I swear to God.” “I know.” “Then why are you…” “Gavin,” I said gently, pulling my wrist from his grasp. I looked directly into his eyes. “You treat me well. But ‘being good to someone’ and ‘loving someone’ are two entirely different things. You wrote that yourself.” His face went completely ash-white. I walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind me. The suitcase was still sitting on the floor, half-packed. I knelt down and began placing the remaining clothes inside. As I was pulling the zipper closed, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t Gavin. It was Phoebe. “Rachel, I just had lunch with Maeve. She told me something, and… honestly, I think you deserve to know.” “What is it?” “She said Gavin texted her last week. He asked her to meet up for dinner. He said there were things he needed to say to her in person.” My hand froze on the zipper. “She said she turned him down, but Gavin insisted…” The message cut off there. Phoebe’s next text didn’t come. I stared at the screen, my fingers turning icy cold. Outside the door, I heard Gavin’s footsteps approaching, heavy and hurried. Then came a sharp knock. “Rachel, open up. We need to talk.” “I just called Maeve. I made it clear to her that we can’t contact each other anymore, that we’re completely…” His voice died in his throat. Through the crack at the bottom of the door, the wheels of my suitcase were clearly visible.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465186”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Since I was a kid, I’ve been a golden retriever in human form—blessed with a rare, relentless brand of optimism. A walking dopamine machine. That was until Wyatt Landry, a billionaire worth hundreds of billions, signed me to live in his sprawling estate. My daily allowance was one hundred thousand dollars. My sole KPI? Just stay happy. You see, Wyatt suffered from severe, treatment-resistant clinical depression. He lived perpetually on the edge of a precipice, always one bad day away from the roof. But somehow, our emotions became linked. As long as I was giggling, he felt the world was worth living in. The moment my mouth curved downward, he was looking for a rope. Last month, the male lead in my favorite TV drama died, and I let out a couple of genuine, heart-wrenching sobs. At that exact moment, in the middle of a high-stakes board meeting, Wyatt broke down in uncontrollable tears. The terrified executives spent three hundred million dollars overnight just to force the production team to shoot an alternate resurrection ending. From that day on, my happiness became the company’s highest classified secret. Until Wyatt went on an overseas business trip. That was when Isabel Caldwell—who fancied herself his rightful fiancée—marched into my walk-in closet with a flock of bodyguards. “What kind of garbage are you to spend Wyatt’s money just to keep yourself amused? It’s time someone taught you some manners!” She sneered, snatching a rare, limited-edition figurine from my hands and smashing it to pieces. Then she reached for the front-row concert tickets of my favorite artist, preparing to rip them to shreds. Staring at the broken pieces on the floor, I broke down and sobbed. The second my tears fell, I could almost hear the heavy, exhausted sigh from across the ocean—Wyatt stepping onto the ledge of a skyscraper, completely done with this world. Oh, God. This woman wasn’t just destroying my toys. She was about to destroy her future husband’s life. 1 I forced myself to stop crying. As soon as the first tear escaped, my entire body went rigid. Wyatt was wishing for death again. I reached down and clamped my nails deep into the flesh of my inner thigh, hard enough to draw blood. I gritted my teeth and forced a stiff, unnatural grin onto my face. “What are you smiling at?” Isabel demanded. She ground her designer stiletto heel into the shattered remains of my collectible figurine, the plastic crunching under her weight. “I smash your things and you laugh? Are you mocking me? Laughing because you think I don’t have the authority to put you in your place, or because you think I can’t touch you?” I’m trying to save your fiancé’s life. But I couldn’t say it. I just kept up my stupid, vacant smile. The emotional link was a Tier-S classified secret, a clause baked into my contract with Wyatt. If the public found out, the entire Landry corporate empire would implode overnight. “Miss Caldwell, you’ve got it all wrong,” I squeaked. “Wyatt and I… we don’t have that kind of relationship.” “He lets me live here because—” “Because why? Because you’re cheap?” Isabel spat, stepping closer. “Wyatt and I grew up together. Our families have had an understanding since we were children. Who do you think you are? A nobody with no family name, living in his mansion and spending his money?” She waved a manicured hand toward the closet. “Pack up everything she owns. Every single thing. Throw it in boxes and get it out of here.” “Don’t leave a trace.” Four hulking bodyguards in dark suits pushed past her, tearing through my drawers and cabinets. I didn’t try to stop them. Clothes could be replaced. A life couldn’t. “Miss Caldwell, I strongly suggest you stop this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “If you make me unhappy, something terrible will happen to Wyatt.” Isabel blinked, stunned for a fraction of a second, before bursting into a harsh, mocking laugh. “Oh, please! Listen to yourself. He’ll get hurt if you get upset? Who do you think you are? You think you control his heartbeat?” She rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable. The lies you gold-diggers spin get more pathetic by the day.” I thought back to a company retreat last year. A vice president named Mr. Gallagher had made a snide remark, calling me a useless trophy ornament. It was a single sentence, but it made my eyes sting with tears for all of three seconds. Just three seconds. Wyatt had smashed his glass in his office, stormed out, and confronted Gallagher directly. By that evening, Gallagher was committed to a psychiatric facility, stripped of every asset and title. His entire family spent two days kneeling in the rain outside the Landry headquarters, begging for mercy. “Cut the act,” Isabel said, snatching the concert tickets from my hand and ripping them down the middle, letting the confetti-like pieces flutter down onto my face. “I am the sole heiress to the Caldwell Group. My father holds fifteen percent of Landry stock. You think a creature like you can compete with me?” She leaned in, her breath cold against my ear. “I’m cleaning house for Wyatt today. If you have any sense left in that empty head of yours, you’ll pack up and crawl out of here on your own. Otherwise, I will make your life a living hell.” Suddenly, the sound of frantic, heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. “Miss Caldwell! Stop! Please!” 2 Franklin, Wyatt’s chief of staff, burst into the room, drenched in sweat, his tie completely askew. The moment his eyes found the tear track on my cheek, his face drained of all color. In his trembling hand, his phone screen flashed with real-time biometric data streamed from overseas. Wyatt’s heart rate had plunged to forty-two beats per minute. “Miss—Miss Caldwell, you can’t touch Nora. I beg of you,” Franklin panted, practically gasping for air. “If she’s unhappy… Mr. Landry… he really will…” “He’ll what? Fly back across the ocean to strike me?” Isabel raised an eyebrow, amused. “He barely even looks at you people. You think you can use his name to scare me?” “No, you don’t understand—” Franklin’s face flushed a deep, terrified purple. His lips trembled, but the words died in his throat. He couldn’t break the non-disclosure agreement. “I’m begging you.” With a dull thud, Franklin dropped to his knees, his forehead hitting the marble floor. “Just let Miss Webb watch a funny video. Ten minutes. That’s all she needs to reset. Please, Miss Caldwell, this is a matter of life and death.” Isabel looked down at him, a slow, cruel smirk spreading across her lips. “An employee, kneeling on the floor, begging me to let some mistress watch comedy videos? What exactly is the relationship between the two of you?” “Are you sleeping together? Huh? Shacking up in Wyatt’s mansion behind his back?” “No! That’s not true! Don’t say such things—” “I’m lying?” Isabel kicked Franklin away. “Wyatt goes out of town and you show up. She cries and you’re on your knees. Who would believe you’re innocent?” She nodded toward her bodyguards. “Break his leg. Use that golf club over there.” One of the guards reached into the umbrella stand and pulled out a carbon-fiber driver. Franklin didn’t run. He couldn’t. The club swung down, connecting with his shin with a sickening crack. He collapsed, letting out a guttural scream of pure agony. “Stop! Please, stop!” I lunged forward to intervene, but a bodyguard shoved me back. My head struck the sharp corner of the wardrobe. The pain was instant. Fresh tears welled up in my eyes. Franklin lay on the floor, his face covered in blood, panting heavily. He didn’t beg for himself. Instead, he threw his arms around the bodyguard’s leg to hold him back, turned his swollen, bloodshot eyes toward me, and gasped out: “Nora! Think of something happy! I beg you! Anything! Just smile!” Isabel frowned. “Psycho,” she muttered. She knelt down, tapping Franklin’s bloody cheek with two fingers. “Since you’re so eager to protect this trash, you can join her.” She stood up and smoothed her cuffs. “Drag them both down to the basement storage room. Lock them in.” “Not a drop of water, not a scrap of food, until I say so.” 3 The basement storage room was deep underground, damp, dark, and smelling of rust and mildew. The guards threw me onto the cold concrete floor and slammed the heavy iron door shut, bolting it from the outside. Instantly, we were plunged into pitch-black darkness. I had been terrified of confined spaces since I was a little girl. My heart began to hammer against my ribs; my breathing grew shallow and rapid, and my hands turned ice-cold. My panic and despair were radiating straight across the globe to Wyatt. Right now, he must be standing somewhere high, the wind whipping around him, looking down at the pavement. No. I shoved my hand into my mouth, biting down on my own skin to stifle the tears. You can’t be afraid. You can’t cry. If you cry, he dies. CLANG. The iron door was kicked open a crack, letting in a sliver of blinding light. It was Dr. Evans, Wyatt’s private psychiatrist, clutching a medical kit. “Nora’s emotional telemetry has bottomed out!” he yelled, trying to push his way in. “If we don’t intervene now, Mr. Landry’s heart will stop!” But before he could take another step, the head housekeeper, who had been bribed by Isabel, blocked his path. “Who let you down here? Miss Caldwell gave strict orders. No one gets near them.” “She’s going to die! Mr. Landry is going to die!” Dr. Evans was shaking with rage and fear. The housekeeper pushed him back with cold indifference. “I don’t dare disobey Miss Caldwell. Your threats don’t work on me.” The door slammed shut again. The chains rattled into place. Darkness once more. I don’t know how much time passed before the door opened for the third time. Isabel walked down the stairs, her heels clicking softly. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Well, this filthy hole certainly suits someone of your background.” Behind her, the housekeeper held a stainless-steel dog bowl. Inside was sour, leftover food, gray gravy skin forming on top, with flies beginning to circle. “I heard you lose your mind if you miss a meal?” Isabel knelt, catching my chin in her tight grip. “Eat up. Consider it a gift.” She shoved the bowl toward my face. The rancid smell hit my nose, and I gagged, tears spilling over. “Crying again?” Isabel scoffed. She stood up and dusted off her hands. “If you think I’m treating you poorly, let me add a little garnish.” The housekeeper grabbed the back of my head and slammed my face down into the bowl. The sour, rotting liquid rushed up my nose and into my mouth. The taste of decay filled my throat. I thrashed, choking and gasping for air, as my vision began to vignette. Just then, a loud crash of breaking glass echoed from upstairs. It was Dr. Evans’ voice, shrill and completely hysterical: “The team overseas just called! Mr. Landry is on the roof!” “They said he’s already slapped himself seventeen times! His face is unrecognizable!” “If we don’t stop this, he’s going to jump!” A cold dread washed over me. Seventeen times. I lifted my head, staring at Isabel through the grime. “You think you’re torturing me,” I whispered. “But you’re killing Wyatt.” “If he dies, you have nothing.” Isabel tilted her head, cupping her ear. “What was that? Speak up, I can’t hear you.” “I said—” A heavy, stinging slap cut me off. “Don’t you dare speak his name, you filthy bitch!” Isabel’s eyes were bloodshot, filled with a wild, manic rage. “He was perfectly fine before he met you! If anyone should die, it’s you!” She stood up, her stiletto heel coming down hard on my fingers, grinding them into the concrete. “Tomorrow, I’m bringing people over to see what kind of creature Wyatt has been keeping.” “I want everyone to see what you really are.” She patted her hair into place. “Wash her up. Put her in something presentable.” “I want my friends to see exactly how cheap Wyatt’s little pet really is.” 4 The next morning, the sun was bright, but not a single ray reached the basement. When the housekeeper dragged me up to the living room, the space was already filled with people. Seven or eight young heiresses, dressed in designer clothes, sat around the coffee table, which was laden with fruit platters and afternoon tea. “This is her? This is the woman Wyatt Landry has been hiding?” A girl with dusty-pink hair leaned forward, looking me up and down with a sneer. “She looks like a stray. Even my cleaning lady dresses better than this.” Another girl, wearing oversized sunglasses, laughed as she cracked open a melon seed. “I heard she didn’t even finish high school. Used to sell roasted sweet potatoes on the street corner.” “Oh my god, seriously? When did Wyatt’s taste get so… municipal?” I stood in the center of the room, my head hung low, letting them dissect me. Isabel sat in the center of the plush sofa, her legs crossed. She beckoned me with a finger. “Come here.” “Kneel.” I didn’t move. “Are you deaf?” A bodyguard kicked me hard from behind, right in the back of my knees. I crashed onto the marble floor, the impact sending a shudder of pain through my kneecaps. Isabel smiled thinly. “Girls, Wyatt was so insistent that I take good care of her while he was away. And you know what? The more he talked about her, the more curious I got.” She leaned forward, her voice carrying across the room. “Whoever makes her cry and beg for mercy today gets the exclusive shipping contracts for the Caldwell Group’s southwest region next year.” Silence fell over the room for a brief second. Then, the pink-haired girl stood up. “Mind if I go first?” Isabel waved her hand generously. “Be my guest.” The girl walked over, stared down at me for a moment, and delivered a sharp slap to my left cheek. The sharp edge of her diamond ring sliced my skin. A bead of blood welled up and ran down my jawline, dripping onto my collar. I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t dare. If I cried, Wyatt would break down sobbing in some high-profile international boardroom. The European investors, waiting for any sign of weakness, would realize that the head of the Landry empire was unstable. I had to endure it. The slaps kept coming. When one grew tired, another took her place. They slapped my face, pinched my arms, and jabbed the backs of my hands with dessert forks. I clamped my jaw shut, absorbing the pain, refusing to let a single tear fall. But then, the girl in the sunglasses reached for the faded, dirty string around my neck. My pupils dilated. Attached to the string was a small, tattered rag doll, its paint long since peeled away. My grandmother had sewn it for me from scraps of old cloth before she passed away. Inside its belly, instead of cotton, was a tiny, cheap recording chip. Before she closed her eyes for the last time, she had pressed the record button one last time: “Don’t cry, my sweet girl. Grandma will always be here to make you smile.” It was the only thing I had left of her. It was the sole anchor of my happiness. “What is this garbage?” the girl sneered, ripping the doll off my neck. “Just a filthy piece of trash. Throw it away.” She tossed it casually. It flew through the air and landed right at Isabel’s feet. “No!” I lunged forward, my knees scraping against the marble, leaving a smear of blood behind. But just as my fingers brushed the string— Isabel’s stiletto heel came down on the doll. “So precious to you?” She picked it up by the string, pressing its belly. My grandmother’s raspy, tender voice drifted out of the worn fabric. “Don’t cry, my sweet girl. Grandma will always be here to make you smile…” “Oh my god, that is so tacky!” “Creepy!” “Please,” I sobbed, dropping my forehead to the floor. I banged my head against the marble over and over, the sound echoing through the room as blood began to trickle down my face. “That’s from my grandmother. It’s all I have left of her. Please, take anything else. Just leave me that.” “I’m begging you.” Isabel looked down at my bleeding forehead, her expression entirely devoid of warmth. “You know, an orphan looks quite beautiful when she’s begging.” She smiled. And then, right in front of my eyes, she ground her heel down into the doll’s chest. CRACK. The fabric tore. The stuffing spilled out onto the floor, and the tiny voice chip was crushed into plastic dust. The gentle voice—”Don’t cry, my sweet…”—cut off mid-word. I froze. The sound was gone. The light was gone. The warmth was gone. The part of me that was capable of feeling joy withered and died in that exact second. Isabel looked at me, hollowed out and limp on the floor, and clapped her hands together. She turned to a tripod setup nearby, waving at the live broadcast stream on her phone. “See, girls? She’s nothing but a cheap toy. Wyatt really lost his mind—” Before she could finish, a deafening roar shook the villa. A helicopter was hovering dangerously low outside. Heavier than the wind, the grand double doors and the massive floor-to-ceiling glass panes shattered inward. Before the shards even touched the floor, a man covered in dried blood, his designer suit shredded with blade cuts, charged through the cloud of dust. Wyatt. The heiresses shrieked, scattering in terror. Isabel froze, then quickly tried to put on a worried face, stepping toward him. “Wyatt! You’re back! Oh my god, you’re bleeding! Who did this to you—” Wyatt didn’t look at her. His bloodshot eyes were locked entirely on the motionless, bloody figure in the center of the room. He shoved Isabel out of his way. He didn’t yell. He didn’t strike anyone. His legs shook violently as he walked toward me. And then, with a heavy, hollow sound, he fell to his knees. The master of a multi-billion-dollar empire, kneeling before a broken girl covered in blood and filth. With a trembling, bleeding hand, he reached behind his back and drew a silver utility knife. He pressed the blade directly against his own throat, right over the pulsing carotid artery. Wyatt looked up at me, his face drenched in tears. His body was shaking with uncontrollable tremors. He looked into my empty, hollow eyes, and forced his lips into a wide, terrifyingly distorted smile. “Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Smile for me.” “Or… just kill me.” “I can’t… I can’t hold on anymore…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465202”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

During the wedding toasts, my wife’s guy friend, Chase, looked at me with a sly, knowing smirk. “Hey, man. Looking good. Great build.” I assumed he was complimenting the bespoke charcoal suit I was wearing. Squeezing Helena’s hand, I gave him a shy, grateful smile. “Thank you.” The next second, the entire table erupted into booming laughter. Chase leaned over, tossing an arm around Helena’s shoulder. “Don’t thank me. Honestly, we should be thanking Helena. She’s the one who gave us the grand tour. Who knew she’d be willing to share those private bedroom photos with the group chat?” A cold dread washed over me, freezing the blood in my veins. I turned slowly, my eyes searching Helena’s face for some kind of denial. She was quiet for a beat. Then, she reached down and gently rubbed my knuckles, her touch meant to soothe but feeling entirely hollow. “It was just a game of Truth or Dare, Ian. I lost. You couldn’t expect me to back out and let everyone think I’m a sore loser.” I stared at her, completely numb. It hit me all at once: my private, intimate photos had been passed around among her friends like a cheap joke. Even though I was fully dressed in a tailored suit, I felt utterly naked under their gazes. Chase scoffed, his tone dripping with thin, condescending pity. “Oh, come on. You literally sold your body to save Helena back then. Don’t tell me you’re getting touchy over a couple of bedroom pictures now.” The wound I had spent years trying to bury was ripped wide open, and the pain left me gasping for air. Suddenly, the illusion shattered. The prestige, the wealth, the grand wedding—it all felt incredibly pathetic. I reached down, slowly slid the platinum band off my finger, and placed it on the white tablecloth. “I’m done, Helena. The wedding is off.” … Helena’s brow furrowed, her expression tightening with irritation. “Ian, have you lost your mind?” “I told you I don’t care about your past. I kept my promise and married you. What more do you want?” My mother came shuffling over to our table, her steps weak and trembling, her face etched with deep worry. “Ian, sweetie? What’s going on?” She had just finished another grueling round of chemotherapy, and her skin looked paper-thin and ghostly pale. Helena immediately stepped in front of me, her sharp edge instantly melting into a warm, reassuring smile. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom. We’re just teasing each other.” I looked past her shoulder, watching my frail mother and my father, who sat paralyzed in his wheelchair a few yards away. I swallowed the burning humiliation in my throat and forced a tight, artificial smile. “She’s right, Mom. It’s nothing. Helena was just joking around.” My mother let out a soft sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Helena, our Ian is a gentle boy. Please don’t tease him too hard.” Helena smiled warmly, nodding. “Of course, Mom. You know I cherish him too much to ever hurt him.” From across the table, Chase let out a quiet, mocking snort. “Spoken like a true housekeeper’s son. He’ll swallow any amount of dirt just to marry into a family like ours.” Someone next to him quickly nudged his arm, whispering, “Chase, shut up.” But Chase just mumbled, “What? I’m not wrong…” Hours later, the reception finally ended, and the guests scattered into the night. We returned to the bridal suite, where the king-sized bed was sprinkled with red rose petals—a classic, romantic touch. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my chest tight, wanting to talk to Helena about the photos. But before I could speak, she leaned down, capturing my lips in a deep, heavy kiss that drowned out my words. “Let’s not ruin our wedding night with arguments, Ian,” she murmured against my skin. After a chaotic, exhausting hour, Helena slipped out to wash up. I lay there with my eyes closed, waiting for the heavy silence to settle over me. Suddenly, the closet door clicked open. Chase stepped out, holding a digital camera, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “Incredible! Absolutely stellar! Helena, you’ve still got those moves!” My breath hitched. Panic seized me as I frantically clawed at the duvet, dragging it up to cover my bare body. “What the hell are you doing in here? Get out! Get the fuck out!” Chase rolled eyes, casually tossing the camera in his hand. “Relax, man. It’s just a wedding night prank. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Helena walked back into the room, wearing a silk robe. She leaned down and pressed a casual kiss to my exposed shoulder, then looked up at Chase with a soft, indulgent smile. “Alright, Chase, that’s enough. Get out before your brother-in-law actually loses his temper.” I froze, staring at her in absolute disbelief. “Helena… you knew he was in there?” Before she could answer, Chase interjected, “Don’t overthink it, Ian. It’s a tradition in our circle. I film it for every friend who gets married. Just a harmless joke. Helena only went along with it because she didn’t want to be the boring one. You wouldn’t want her to be an outcast, would you?” A suffocating wave of shame washed over me. The humiliation was so heavy it felt physical. I couldn’t hold back the rage tearing through my chest. “What kind of sick joke is this? You record your friends having sex for your own amusement? Helena, you are disgusting!” I lunged forward to slap the smug look off Chase’s face, but Helena intercepted me. She grabbed my wrist mid-air, her grip like iron, looking down at me with cold, piercing eyes. “Disgusting?” she asked, her voice dropping to a freezing whisper. “Personally, I think the dirty, broken version of you is much harder to look at.” She threw my hand back, sending me sprawling across the bed. Without another word, she grabbed Chase’s wrist and walked out of the suite. As they left, Chase turned his head and flashed me a triumphant, mocking grin. Lying there in the dark, the past rushed back in terrifying, vivid flashes. It was five years ago. Helena had been kidnapped by one of her family’s bitter business rivals. To save her, I had willingly offered myself up as a hostage. I remembered the cold metal of the gun pressed against Helena’s temple as the kidnapper sneered at me: “One of you has to pay a price to leave this room alive today. You choose.” I hadn’t hesitated. Not even for a second. I would have given anything to keep her safe. What followed was a nightmare of blunt force and cruelty. Fists and wooden bats rained down on me, shattering my bones and my dignity. Helena had been forced to watch every single second of my torment. Her eyes had gone bloodshot, screaming like a wild animal: “Stop it! Touch me instead! Kill me! Just leave him alone!” Her desperate screams eventually dissolved into broken, hysterical begging, and finally, into quiet, helpless weeping. After several days of agony, I finally managed to steal a key and help us escape. Helena was returned to her wealthy world unharmed, but I was entirely broken. The day the doctors told me the physical trauma had left me permanently sterile, a heavy, suffocating depression settled over me. I tried to hang myself. I slashed my wrists. I wanted to escape my own body. For months, Helena couldn’t sleep. She stayed by my side day and night, watching my every move. But when the news of my condition and my suicide attempts reached my parents, it destroyed them. My father suffered a massive stroke that left him paralyzed and half-dead. My mother’s health deteriorated rapidly from sheer grief and worry. They resigned from their positions at the Caldwell estate, planning to take me far away so we could heal in obscurity. But Helena had thrown herself at their feet, kneeling on the hard floor and weeping until her forehead was bruised and bleeding. “Mr. and Mrs. Ward, please,” she had sobbed. “I can never repay what Ian did for me, but I swear on my life I will cherish him. I swear to you, I will spend the rest of my days loving him and only him.” A shrill, frantic ringing shattered my thoughts. I fumbled for my phone. My father’s voice came through, thick with panic. “Ian… Ian, it’s your mother. She’s collapsed again. I don’t know what to do…” I sat up instantly, adrenaline surging through me. “Dad, breathe. Stay calm. I’m finding a doctor right now!” My mother’s rare condition could only be treated by the specialists at the Caldwell family’s private medical facility. I threw a robe over my shoulders and repeatedly called Helena, but the calls kept going straight to voicemail. Then, I heard a faint ringing nearby. I followed the sound down the hallway of our massive apartment. As I approached the guest suite, a soft, muffled sound drifted through the door—the unmistakable, intimate rhythm of heavy breathing. I pushed the door open. Helena was leaning back in a plush armchair, her expression relaxed and indifferent. Chase was kneeling on the floor between her thighs. My mind went entirely blank, a white-hot fury vaporizing whatever sanity I had left. I lunged forward, trying to tear them apart. “What are you doing? What the hell is this?!” Chase gasped in surprise, violently shoving me back. “What is wrong with you? Ian, seriously? You’re making a scene over nothing. We didn’t even go all the way.” I couldn’t speak. The rage was a physical block in my throat, hot tears blurring my vision. Helena calmly adjusted her robe and stepped forward, reaching down to help me up. “Ian, are you okay?” I violently slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me! You make me sick!” Helena’s hand froze in mid-air, her eyes darkening. “Ian, if you hadn’t thrown a tantrum on our wedding night, I wouldn’t have been stressed enough to seek a distraction. Have I not done enough for you? You were broken by those men, and ever since, I’ve had to hold back, catering to your delicate physical state. I have compromised my own needs for years. Is that still not enough?” I shook so hard my teeth rattled. “Helena… you are absolutely shameless.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Shameless? Ian, if I’m so disgusting and shameless, why are you standing in my room right now? What does that make you? A beggar?” The last trace of color drained from my face. But then I pictured my mother, gasping for breath on a cold floor, and I forced myself to swallow the bitter humiliation. I grabbed Helena’s sleeve, my voice cracking. “Helena, please… my mother is dying. I beg you, for the sake of what I did for you back then, please call the private hospital. Send the doctors to her!” Helena’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “Ian, okay. Don’t worry, I’ll call them right now.” She pulled out her phone to dial the private line. But Chase stepped in, snatched the phone directly from her hand, and stepped back. He knelt down in front of me, tilting his head with a mocking smirk. “Wow, Ian. You really know how to find an exit strategy, don’t you? Using your own mother’s health to guilt Helena on your wedding night? It’s been five years, and you’re still playing the martyr card to keep her chained to you.” I choked back a sob. “I’m not lying! Helena, please, you have to believe me… I’m telling the truth.” Helena stared at me, her eyes unreadable, but she remained silent. Chase grabbed me by the collar of my robe. “But we still have the issue of you trying to hit me earlier. We can’t just overlook that. Just because your parents were servants doesn’t mean you can act like a savage. I think you owe me an apology. Down on your knees. Press your head to the floor three times, and maybe I’ll give Helena her phone back.” I turned to Helena, pleading with every ounce of my soul. “Helena, please… my mother doesn’t have time. Tell him to give you the phone. Please!” Helena looked away, quiet for an agonizing moment, before she spoke in a flat, detached voice. “Ian… you really shouldn’t have put your hands on Chase. You do owe him an apology.” I stared at her, a hollow, broken laugh slipping from my lips. My mother was dying, and here I was. I slowly let my knees drop to the cold hardwood floor. Looking at Chase, I whispered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Chase, please forgive me.” I forced my forehead down onto the hard floor, again and again, until a sharp pain flared and warm blood began to trickle down the bridge of my nose, blurring my vision. I looked up at Helena, my face smeared with red. “Is that enough? Can we save my mother now?” The bright red blood dripped down my forehead. Helena’s chest heaved, her fists clenching at her sides as if a sudden spike of guilt had finally pierced through her cold facade. “Enough!” she snapped. Chase smiled, thoroughly pleased. He stopped the video recording on his phone and patted my bloody cheek condescendingly. “There. All forgiven.” He stared at the screen, admiring the footage of my utter humiliation. “Man, you really have no dignity, do you? I wonder how your sweet parents would feel seeing you like this. The things you’ll do to secure a spot in a rich family.” He tilted his head, a cruel thought lighting up his eyes. “Actually, if your sick mom saw this, she’d probably die of shame before the doctors even got there.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, suppressing the urge to tear him apart. Just then, my phone buzzed again. My hands shook so violently I dropped it twice before successfully sliding to answer. “Ian!” my father sobbed, his voice cracking with sheer terror. “Someone… someone just sent your mother a video of you… of you begging on your knees, bleeding… She started choking, Ian… she’s coughing up blood! Why… why would you do that to yourself? What did they do to you?” The world went entirely silent around me. I scrambled to my feet, my legs buckling beneath me. Helena reached out to steady me. “Ian, what’s wrong?” I threw her off with all the strength I had left and ran for the door like a madman. Helena looked bewildered and took a step to follow me, but behind her, Chase suddenly collapsed onto the floor with a dramatic groan. “Helena! My ankle… it hurts so bad! I think I broke it when he pushed me!” Helena hesitated for a fraction of a second, but ultimately turned back to help Chase. I didn’t wait. I ran all the way back to my parents’ small apartment down the street, bursting through the front door, gasping for breath. “Dad! Mom! I’m here! Where are you?” But the apartment was dead silent. The wheelchair was overturned near the balcony door, the sheer curtains fluttering wildly in the cold night air. A sickening dread pooled in my stomach. I rushed to the balcony. There, on the ledge, was my father. With his paralyzed legs, I couldn’t even comprehend how much agonizing effort it must have taken for him to drag his body up onto the high sill. He was leaning out into the open sky, teetering on the edge. My heart hammered violently against my ribs. “Dad! No! Please, stop!” He turned his head and looked at me, a gentle, heartbreaking smile on his worn face. “Ian… my brave boy. I’m so sorry. I can’t let us be a burden to you anymore…” “Dad!” I screamed, lunging forward and grabbing his arm. “I’ve got you! Just hold on! Give me your other hand!” But my fingers slipped. With a sickening rush of air, he fell. I was left gasping on the ledge, staring down at his prosthetic leg, which had come loose in my desperate grip. “Dad!” I shrieked, my voice tearing. I leaned over the balcony, but the sight below made my vision swim. A dark pool of crimson was already blooming on the pavement below. Suddenly, a loud, heavy crash echoed from the bedroom. I froze. My chest felt hollow, as if my heart had been ripped out of my ribcage. The short walk from the balcony to the bedroom felt like a mile-long march to the gallows. I pushed the bedroom door open. My mother was hanging from the ceiling fan, suspended by a bedsheet. Her face was pale, her lips a terrible shade of blue. She wasn’t breathing. “Mom! No, no, no!” I screamed, rushing forward and wrapping my arms around her legs, trying to lift her up to take the pressure off her neck. But my body was exhausted, my muscles failing. I strained on my tiptoes, desperately clawing at the knot, but I couldn’t reach high enough to loosen it. My footing slipped, and I collapsed heavily onto the floor, weeping in absolute defeat. Right by her feet lay a crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up with trembling hands. It was her handwriting: My darling boy, do not let us hold you back anymore. Be free. Live a life of your own. I clutched the note to my chest, a gutteral, agonizing sob ripping from my lungs. “Dad… Mom… please come back. Don’t leave me here alone. Please…” That was when the Caldwell family’s private doctor finally arrived, panting from the climb. He took in the chaos of the living room and asked cautiously, “Mr. Ward, where is your mother?” I didn’t say a word. I wiped my tears, my expression turning utterly blank, and pointed toward the bedroom. The doctor walked in, and a second later, a horrific scream tore from his throat. His heavy medical bag slipped from his hand, sending bottles and instruments clattering across the floor. He spun around, wide-eyed with terror, only to see me standing on the edge of the balcony railing. I carefully folded my mother’s suicide note and slipped it into my pocket. Then, looking out at the endless night, I closed my eyes and let myself fall backward. Mom, Dad, wait for me. I’m coming. The doctor’s panicked scream faded as the wind rushed past my ears, a roaring, comforting embrace. And then, the world went quiet. Shaking violently, the doctor fumbled for his phone and dialed Helena’s number. “Ma’am…” Helena answered, her voice carrying a trace of lazy, arrogant amusement. “Well? Is his mother stable? Has Ian realized how foolish he’s being yet?” The doctor collapsed onto the floor, his lips trembling. “Ma’am… they’re gone. Ian… his whole family… they’re all dead.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465187”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When Zachary Cross sat down for his first major television interview, the atmosphere in the studio was warm, almost reverent. The host smiled warmly, shifting her notes before bringing up a love letter he had written ten years ago. She quoted a few lines—gorgeous, devastatingly romantic prose that read like poetry. It was entirely at odds with his reputation as a cold, ruthless venture capitalist. Zachary remained silent for a long, heavy moment. He didn’t deny writing it. “What you all see as a romantic tragedy of youth,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth, “was actually nothing more than a rich girl’s cruel little game. Back then, she deigned to date me. I was naive enough to think she actually loved me, while she was busy humiliating my poverty in front of everyone we knew.” The moment the interview aired, the internet exploded. I was dragged to the very top of the trending topics, vilified by millions of strangers. But before any public apology or defense could be mounted on my behalf, my death certificate found its way online. “Stop hounding her. Isabel Mercer died three years ago.” In his sleek, modern kitchen, Zachary had just finished preparing a quiet dinner. When the notification flashed across his screen, his face twisted into a look of pure, cynical amusement. He pulled up the contact info for the number he had blocked a decade ago and typed out a message: “Isabel, is this your latest performance? Do you honestly expect me to buy this?” … After hitting send, Zachary stared at the screen, momentarily lost in thought. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed with a reply. “Who is this? You’ve got the wrong number. My name isn’t Isabel.” Zachary’s brows knit together. A flash of familiar impatience crossed his features as his thumbs flew across the keyboard. “You’ve used this number since middle school. Don’t play games with me.” The reply came almost instantly: “Look, you definitely have the wrong person. The previous owner deactivated this line. I registered this number three years ago.” A cold sneer settled on Zachary’s face. “Do you really think I’m that gullible? Ten years later, and you haven’t changed at all. Still lying through your teeth.” I floated near the ceiling, suspended above the brass chandelier, looking down at the bitter hatred burning in his eyes. I remembered a rainy afternoon during our sophomore year. We had watched a girl hand a beautifully folded letter to a boy in the courtyard. Zachary had caught the faint, wistful look in my eyes. He had laughed, pulling me close under his umbrella, and promised he would write one for me, too. “Whatever other girls have, my girl gets too,” he had whispered. The absolute sincerity in his eyes back then was something I had carried with me to my grave. I never expected that the reply letter I spent weeks drafting would be intercepted and swapped for a cruel, mocking forgery—one that exposed his deepest insecurities and made him the laughingstock of the entire campus. I had grabbed his hand, desperate to explain, but I was met only with an icy wall of resentment. He became entirely convinced that our three years together had been nothing but a wealthy girl’s twisted amusement. Seeing that no further messages were coming through, Zachary tossed his phone onto the counter with an irritated sigh and carried the plates over to the dining table. Courtney Lane walked into the dining room, her eyes flickering when she noticed the dish—shrimp scampi. She hid her brief grimace behind a bright, practiced smile and leaned down to press a soft kiss against his cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. You went to so much trouble.” She pulled out her chair, keeping her tone light. “Though, you know I don’t really eat shellfish. I heard your first love was obsessed with shrimp, though. I saw the trending topics today… you aren’t still holding onto her, are you?” Zachary’s posture stiffened for a fraction of a second. Without a word, he scraped the entire plate of scampi directly into the trash can. “That was a lifetime ago,” he said, his voice level. “I forgot her years ago.” Seeing the lingering pout on Courtney’s face, he sighed softly and drew her into his arms. “Don’t let her ruin our evening. What if she was my first love? You’re the one who stood by me when I had nothing. You’re the only one who matters now, and the only one who will be here in the future.” Courtney flushed with pleased embarrassment, playfully swatting at his chest. Zachary smiled, reaching into his pocket to produce a small velvet box. He slipped a brilliant emerald tennis bracelet onto her slender wrist. “Stop being jealous,” he murmured. “A little gift. Do you like it?” Courtney leaned her head against his shoulder, admiring the heavy, glittering stones. “I suppose I can forgive you this once. Honestly, I don’t believe for a second that she’s actually dead. She probably ran off with some older, wealthy businessman after her father’s company went under, and she’s too embarrassed to show her face. It wouldn’t be the first time she lied to escape a mess.” She giggled, her fingers tracing the clasp of the bracelet. “Actually, I should probably thank her. If she hadn’t walked away from you back then, I wouldn’t have this beautiful life today.” Zachary’s gaze drifted toward the dark window, his jaw tightening slightly as he suppressed whatever thought had just crossed his mind. Courtney pulled up her phone, looking at their high school alumni group chat. A notification had just been pinned by the class president regarding their ten-year reunion. She smiled up at him. “Don’t think about it anymore. I’ve already hired a personal stylist for us for the reunion. We are going to make sure everyone sees exactly how far you’ve come.” Zachary didn’t refuse. Watching the two of them try on their elegant, custom-tailored outfits, a dull, familiar ache bloomed in my chest. When we were young, Zachary came from nothing. Dating me had earned him endless whispers and cruel jokes about climbing the social ladder. Now that he was a self-made billionaire and my family was bankrupt, it was only natural for him to want to show off his success. It was a pity I wouldn’t be there to give him the satisfaction. When Zachary and Courtney arrived at the private dining room of the upscale downtown restaurant, the class president rushed over, his face flushed with excitement. “Mr. Cross! Courtney! Look at you two—absolutely stunning. The perfect couple.” The surrounding classmates nodded eagerly, their voices thick with flattery. “Seriously, Zachary. To achieve this much success at your age and marry the prettiest girl from our class… you’ve truly won at life.” It was a stark contrast to the sneers and mocking laughter they had directed at him a decade ago. Looking at Zachary’s impeccable suit and quiet authority, one of the alumni sighed wistfully. “It really goes to show you should never underestimate a poor kid with drive. I wonder if Isabel regrets her choices now.” “I heard that after her dad’s business collapsed, she was left with mountains of debt. If she hadn’t broken things off with Zachary…” At the mention of my name, the lively chatter in the room came to a grinding halt. Our relationship had been loud, passionate, and heavily scrutinized. Most of our peers had bet on our downfall, but none of them had anticipated it ending in such an ugly, public ruin. Zachary set his wine glass down with a slow, deliberate click. “Why are we bringing her up?” he said, his tone dripping with indifference. “It’s bad luck.” Eager to please him, a man sitting across the table scoffed openly. “Exactly. A superficial gold-digger like Isabel never deserved you anyway, Zachary. Word on the street is she got herself a sugar daddy to pay off those debts. Some old guy who used to work with her father. If her dad knew, he’d be turning in his grave.” Several people chimed in, offering sycophantic smiles to Courtney. “Courtney was always the elegant, sensible one. She stayed by your side through everything. You two are a match made in heaven. She’s ten times the woman Isabel ever was.” Zachary idly toyed with Courtney’s fingers, offering a faint, polite smile under the weight of their approving gazes. “Marrying Courtney was the best decision of my life,” he murmured. Courtney’s cheeks pinked, and she tugged at his sleeve with a hushed whisper. “Let them have a little fun at her expense later to get some payback for you. Don’t go soft on us.” Zachary pinched her cheek affectionately. “Whatever pleases you, darling.” Just then, the heavy double doors of the private dining room swung open. Zachary’s shoulders tightened instinctively. But when he saw Jared Campbell walk through the door, a flicker of disappointment crossed his eyes. Jared paused just inside the entryway, taking in the cruel laughter and the mocking comments about me. His expression hardened. “You don’t need to wait around for her,” Jared said, his voice cutting through the noise. “Isabel isn’t coming. She passed away three years ago.” He walked closer to the table, his gaze sweeping over the classmates. “And that rumor about a sugar daddy is complete garbage. Her father’s debts were settled by a longtime family friend who couldn’t bear to see her drown.” Zachary tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Jared. A cold, mocking smile touched his lips. “I didn’t realize you were so intimately acquainted with her financial affairs, Jared.” The room erupted into knowing, suggestive snickers. An alumnus who had clearly had too much to drink leaned forward, shouting, “Hey, Jared, you were always trailing after her. You weren’t her little sidepiece, were you?” “Right? No regular classmate gets this defensive. I bet behind closed doors…” Listening to the crude remarks echoing around the table, Jared’s eyes turned murderous. He slammed his hand against the wood. “Shut up. All of you, shut your mouths.” His chest heaved as he stared down the room. “You pathetic, spineless hypocrites. How many of your families did Isabel’s father help when they were on top? The second they went under, you couldn’t wait to kick her. You spread lies to make sure she couldn’t keep the only decent job she managed to find.” Jared’s voice cracked with a mixture of rage and grief. “And now she’s dead, and you’re still dragging her name through the mud. Every single person in this room who gossiped, who stood by and watched, who turned their backs—you all have her blood on your hands.” A classmate scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, come on, Jared. Stop trying to scare us. How much did Isabel pay you to put on this little show?” “Yeah, remember when you claimed she was terminally ill and tried to guilt-trip us into a GoFundMe campaign? Turned out her mother had died and she just wanted cash for a burial. What’s the scam this time?” Jared took a long, shaking breath. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of medical files, tossing them onto the table. “You want to know why I know everything? Because I was her primary oncologist. If you don’t believe me, read it yourselves.” He slid the death certificate and the biopsy reports across the polished mahogany. The classmates glanced at one another, hesitating, before silently nudging the documents down the table until they rested directly in front of Zachary. Zachary stared at the medical paperwork, his eyes widening slightly. His hand trembled as his fingers closed around the edges of the death certificate. Sensing his sudden shift in composure, Courtney quickly wrapped her arms around his bicep, offering a dismissive laugh. “Zach, sweetheart, who knows if this is even real? Remember how she swore up and down that the letter she sent you was a fake, too?” At the mention of the letter, Zachary’s expression darkened into a mask of pure fury. He swept his arm across the table, violently knocking the files to the floor. “Get this garbage out of my sight.” I didn’t miss the flicker of smug satisfaction in Courtney’s eyes. When Zachary and I had been together, nobody supported us. Yet, we had held onto each other for three years despite all the rumors and disapproval. When he promised to write me a love letter, I had been overjoyed. He had begged me, with bright, hopeful eyes, to write him one in return. I had spent days choosing the perfect stationery, drafting countless versions, and placing his favorite dried pressed flowers inside the envelope. I never could have imagined that Courtney, who had harbored a silent, obsessive crush on him for years, would swap my letter for a cruel forgery—or that she would arrange for it to be opened and read aloud in front of the entire class. In that fake letter, “I” had mocked his deceased parents, ridiculed his dreams, and told him a poor orphan would never be anything more than a footnote in my life. It was a calculated strike designed to shred a proud, sensitive boy’s dignity. Our classmates, eager to see him fall, had distributed copies of the letter. The humiliation became unbearable. When his elderly grandmother, who had raised him, came to the school to bring him lunch, she walked into a group of boys jeering at him. The shock and distress triggered a massive heart attack, and she died right there on the pavement. I had run to him, desperate to explain, only to receive a phone call that my father’s company had filed for bankruptcy. By the time I managed to return to school to clear my name, Zachary’s eyes held nothing but absolute, freezing hatred. “Is it fun, Isabel? Playing with people’s lives?” “If you looked down on me, you could have just broken up with me. You didn’t have to drag my dignity through the dirt. You killed the only family I had left.” I had wept, falling to my knees and begging him to listen, but he had simply wrenched his hand away and walked out of my life. A few weeks later, while trying to secure an evening shift at a diner to help with our living expenses, I was cornered in a dark alleyway by three debt collectors. As their hands tore at my jacket, panic seized me. In a desperate, blind instinct, I dialed Zachary’s number. “Zachary, please… there are men cornering me behind the campus diner… please help me, I’m so scared…” The sound of fabric tearing and the men’s coarse laughter echoed clearly through the receiver. But all I heard in response was Zachary’s laughter. Cold, sharp, and empty. “Isabel, when you were destroying my life, did you ever stop to think about what it felt like? This is your karma. Enjoy it. I’ll be sure to call the police for you when you’re done.” The line went dead. My screams were swallowed by the shadows of the alley. When I finally dragged my bruised, shivering body back to our apartment, I arrived just in time to see my father leap from the roof of our building. His body hit the pavement with a sickening thud, his warm blood splashing across my shoes. My mother, witnessing the fall, suffered a severe stroke that left her partially paralyzed. To pay off the loan sharks and keep up with her medical bills, I dropped out of college. I worked eighteen-hour days, but every cent I earned was stripped away by the collectors before I could even buy groceries. Eventually, because we couldn’t pay the hospital bills, my mother was wheeled out onto the street. That was when I ran into Jared. Out of pity for an old classmate, he quietly arranged for her transfer to a hospice facility and helped me apply for medical grants. But the debt collectors still found us, threatening to dismantle the facility if they didn’t get their money. Just when we had reached the absolute end of our rope, an old business associate of my father’s stepped in, quietly clearing the outstanding balance out of respect for my father’s memory. But just as things began to quiet down, I started coughing up blood. Biopsy results: advanced gastric cancer. I looked at the double-digit balance in my bank account and smiled weakly at Jared. “I’m not doing the treatments. Just… don’t tell my mother.” Jared refused to give up. He badgered me daily to fight, and even tried to organize a quiet fundraiser at our old university. But my mother found out anyway. She sat by my bedside, weeping, telling me she was nothing but a burden dragging me down. That night, she slipped out of her room and threw herself into the river. When the rescue team finally recovered her body and wheeled her towards the municipal crematorium, Zachary’s brand-new luxury sedan pulled up alongside the curb. He rolled down the window, a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills clutched in his hand. He threw them carelessly out the window, letting the green paper flutter down onto my face and my mother’s cheap shroud. He looked at me with a lazy, satisfied smirk. “I heard your mother died and you couldn’t even afford a pine box. Consider this my charity.” Then, he stepped on the gas and left me in a cloud of exhaust. After my mother’s death, I lost any remaining desire to fight. The chemotherapy was a quiet, agonizing torture that left me too weak to swallow water. Whenever I felt myself slipping, Jared would sit by my bed and tell me about Zachary’s rising success in the business world. Strangely, it was my lingering, stubborn love for him that kept me breathing through those final months. Until the afternoon I saw him walk into our hospital wing, holding Courtney’s hand as they headed toward the executive suite for their pre-marital health screenings. Seeing the heavy platinum band on his ring finger, a violent spasm wracked my chest. I choked, vomiting dark blood onto my sheets. That night, I quietly packed my few belongings and checked myself out. By the time Jared tracked me down, I was sitting in a small, empty cemetery plot I had purchased with the last of my savings. Before I took my final breath, I wanted to close the book. I dialed his number one last time. When the call connected, a tiny, foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. But it was Courtney’s voice that answered, dripping with venom. “Isabel, today is my wedding day. If you’re going to die, go do it somewhere quiet. Don’t ruin our night.” The joyful brass music of their reception drifted through the speaker. The phone slipped from my numb fingers, shattering against the cold grass. My chest went entirely still. As the darkness took me, I fancied I could see my mother and father standing at the edge of the woods, waiting to walk me home from school, just like they used to. A loud argument snapped me back to the present. Jared was staring at Zachary with absolute disgust, ignoring Courtney’s frantic attempts to dismiss him. “The truth is right there on the floor,” Jared spat. “Believe it or don’t. Isabel left a package for you before she died, but honestly? You don’t deserve to touch it.” The reunion ended in a tense, uncomfortable silence. When Zachary returned home that night, he was quiet, his eyes unfocused. Just as he sat down in his study, an unknown number flashed on his phone. He answered it on autopilot. “Hello, is this Mr. Cross? This is the administration office at Oakwood Memorial. The lease on Ms. Isabel Mercer’s plot is up for renewal. Would you like to handle the payment?” Zachary’s brow furrowed in deep confusion. “You have the wrong number. Nobody in my family has a plot there.” Frustrated, he hung up, burying his face in his hands. Three days later, Jared walked up the winding path of Oakwood Memorial, only to find Zachary standing near the entrance, looking lost. Seeing the large bunch of baby’s breath in Jared’s hands, Zachary’s jaw clenched. “You’re bringing baby’s breath? Don’t tell me you’re visiting Isabel.” Jared didn’t answer. He simply nodded. The mocking retort died on Zachary’s tongue. He knew—he remembered—that baby’s breath had been my absolute favorite flower. He stared at the delicate white blossoms, a sudden, wild panic flickering in his dark eyes. Jared let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Are you brave enough to come see her, Mr. Cross?” I was buried in a modest plot next to my parents. The headstone was simple, bearing a engraved photograph of me at eighteen. I had chosen that photo because I wanted them to remember me when I was still whole, before the world broke me. Zachary stared at the headstone, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He forced a harsh, defensive laugh. “You really think a fake stone and an old photo are going to make me believe this elaborate stunt?” Jared placed the flowers at the base of the stone, his hands shaking with suppressed fury. “The letter you received ten years ago was swapped by Courtney. She hired someone to mimic Isabel’s handwriting. You spent a decade hating the girl who loved you, while sleeping next to the monster who ruined her.” Jared stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Isabel never owed you a thing, Zachary. It was your own blind, arrogant pride—and the woman you married—that destroyed her life.” Jared pulled a thick manila envelope from his coat and shoved it against Zachary’s chest. I watched, holding my breath, waiting to see how Zachary would react. But Zachary barely looked at the envelope. He glanced at my smiling face on the headstone, his features hardening into a mask of denial. He tossed the envelope onto the dirt and ground his heel into it, twisting his shoe until the paper tore. “Isabel was a liar and a cheat. Don’t you dare compare Courtney to her.” Watching his stubborn defense of the woman who had ruined us, a familiar, dull ache settled deep in my spirit. If he had trusted me even a fraction as much as he trusted her, would we have ended up here? But there were no second chances in the dark. Jared’s eyes turned blood-red with anger. “Isabel called you when she was dying. She took her last breath listening to the music from your wedding reception. Every single time you celebrate your anniversary, you are celebrating the day she died. She left this world with nothing but your hatred.” Zachary froze. His hands began to tremble violently. A low, ragged laugh escaped his throat. “If she’s really in there… then dig it up. Dig up the grave and prove it to me.” “Are you insane, Zachary?” Jared roared. But Zachary had already signaled his security detail. At his command, three large men stepped forward, shoving Jared back. They brought out shovels, striking the earth with brutal, systematic force. The headstone was tipped over. The soil was torn away. Within minutes, they reached the small, simple urn. In their haste to pull it out, it slipped, crashing against the concrete edge of the burial vault. The ceramic shattered. My ashes scattered into the cold wind, drifting over the grass like grey snow. Jared let out a raw, agonized scream, throwing himself onto the ground to gather what he could, but the wind was too quick. I reached out, trying to touch my own remains, but my fingers simply passed through the dust. I tried to cry, but my eyes remained dry. I had forgotten how to weep a long time ago. Zachary stood over the mess, his face pale but his eyes wild. He pulled out his phone and dialed my old number once again. “Isabel! Stop playing dead! I’ve dug up your grave!” he screamed into the receiver, his voice cracking. “Your parents are right next to you. If you don’t show up here in thirty minutes, I’ll have their graves dug up too!” The voice on the other end erupted in terror and fury. “Are you a fucking psychopath? I told you, I am not Isabel! You dug up a grave? I’m calling the police!” The line went dead. Zachary stared at the screen, his face turning an ash-grey. By the time the police cruisers arrived, the cemetery was a scene of utter ruin. The lead officer looked at the scattered ashes and the shattered urn, his expression turning grim as he recognized Zachary. “Mr. Cross,” the officer said, his voice heavy with authority. “We’ve pulled the vital statistics and social security records. Isabel Mercer was officially pronounced dead three years ago.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465203”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

All because I was trying to be helpful and washed my boss’s coffee mug. His wife threw a cup of scalding hot chai latte right in my face, soaking my clothes. She shoved me against the wall, her face contorted with rage. “Look at yourself! You really think you have what it takes to seduce my husband?” The hot liquid blistered my hands instantly. I tried to shake my head, to wave my hands in desperate denial, but she wouldn’t stop screaming. “No wonder your mother is rotting away in a hospital bed! She’s probably dying of shame from raising a pathetic, fatherless mistake like you. I hope she dies sooner so she’s out of her misery!” I gripped the dish towel in my hands, a white-hot fury pushing me to the brink of sanity. Then, her eyes caught the glint of the silver ring hanging from my neck, slipped beneath my collar. Her face twisted into something truly monstrous. “You’re wearing a ring with my husband’s initials? What lie are you going to spin now, you home-wrecking bitch?” She snatched the chain, ripping the ring from my throat, threw it onto the floor, and ground her heel right into it. That was when my boss pushed the door open. He didn’t even glance at his wife. He walked straight toward me. Kneeling down, he reached for the warped silver band. His hands were shaking. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with tears. And then, he whispered a name I hadn’t heard in twenty years. 1 At dawn, the hospital’s billing department woke me with a call. The voice on the other end was cold, dripping with professional impatience. “You’re five hundred dollars short on this month’s payments. If you don’t clear the balance by the end of the week, we’ll have to suspend your mother’s dialysis.” My mom lay sleeping beside me in our cramped apartment, her face pale and sunken. I gently touched her cheek, my voice hushed as I whispered into the receiver, “I’ll get the money. I’ll find a way, I swear.” I rushed through my morning routine and headed to the coffee shop where I worked. As I wiped down the wooden tables, my mind kept running the numbers over and over again. Twelve thousand dollars. That was what the surgery cost. On my meager hourly wage, even if I stopped eating entirely, it would take years to save that much. The weight of that figure felt like a mountain crushing the breath out of my lungs. I took a deep breath, forcing the tears back. When you’re poor, you don’t have the luxury of crying. You just don’t have the time. Just then, Sylvia, the boss’s wife, walked in, her stilettos clicking sharply against the tile. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the cafe like radar, looking for any flaw. From my very first day, she had hated me. She always found a reason to pick at me, to make my life difficult. I hoped I could fly under the radar today, but my heart sank as she marched straight toward me, holding up a custom ceramic mug. “Who told you to touch my husband’s mug?” I squeezed the wet rag under the running water, keeping my voice as polite and small as possible. “There were coffee stains on it. I just wanted to clean it for him.” She grabbed another stained mug from the counter and slammed it onto the table. “These are matching couple’s mugs. You wash his and leave mine dirty? You think I’m stupid? You did this on purpose.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it,” I replied, biting my lip. “Oh, so you’re just ignoring me now? Trying to push my buttons?” Without warning, she grabbed a freshly made hot chai latte off the pickup counter and flung it over me. I instinctively held up my hands to shield my face. The hot liquid splashed over my knuckles, immediately searing my skin into angry, red blisters. “Sylvia, please… I’m just trying to do my job.” She didn’t listen. Hysterical, she slammed me against the wall. “Look at yourself! You really think you have what it takes to seduce my husband?” I shook my hands, trying to explain, but she kept spitting insults. “No wonder your mother is terminal. She’s probably dying of shame from raising a pathetic, fatherless mistake like you!” Rage surged straight to my brain. “You can say whatever you want about me,” I whispered, my voice trembling, “but do not talk about my mother.” Sylvia blinked in surprise, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, you’re talking back now? I’ll say whatever I want! I hope she dies sooner so she’s out of her misery. Think of this drink as an early wake for her!” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. But in the end, I let go. I couldn’t afford to lose this job. I couldn’t risk it. Every dollar I made was keeping my mother alive. I hung my head, utterly defeated. As I slumped, the silver ring I wore on a chain slipped out from the collar of my uniform. The metal was worn, but if you looked closely, you could see the faint engraving of an ‘S’. For Sullivan. When Sylvia saw it, her face darkened instantly. “You’re wearing a ring with my husband’s initials? What lie are you going to spin now, you home-wrecking bitch?” She kicked me hard in the chest. I collapsed onto the sticky, sweet puddle on the floor. As Sylvia bent down to rip the chain from my neck, the door opened. My boss, Robert Sullivan, stepped in. Taking in the mess and my bruised state, he yelled, “Sylvia, stop! What the hell do you think you’re doing in my shop?” 2 In an instant, Sylvia’s eyes welled with tears. She threw herself into Robert’s arms, her voice cracking with performative distress. “Oh, Rob, thank God you’re here! She tried to attack me!” She held up her wrist, pointing to a faint red mark she must have pinched into her own skin. “I was just trying to give Lucy some feedback about her performance, telling her to stop slacking off, and she just flew off the handle! She screamed at me and threw hot coffee all over herself just to make me look bad!” Robert’s gaze shifted past Sylvia, landing directly on me. More specifically, his eyes locked onto the silver ring resting against my collarbone. When he realized what it was, a visible tremor ran through his entire body. As if trying to hide his shock, he quickly turned and retreated into his office. He threw a cold, brief remark over his shoulder: “I’ll handle this.” The way he had looked at me… it was strange. It lingered in my mind, but I was too shaken to dissect it. Sylvia had a spa appointment, so she grabbed her purse, giving me one last venomous glare before leaving. “We aren’t finished,” she whispered. During the lunch lull, Robert approached my station. He quietly slipped an envelope into my hand. “Lucy, this is the Employee of the Month bonus. It’s five hundred dollars in cash.” I stared at the envelope. I had only been working here for three months. I was clumsy, broke things, and made mistakes. How could I possibly deserve Employee of the Month? I opened my mouth to protest, but Robert gently patted my shoulder. “You’re a good kid. If you ever need anything—any help at all—just ask. I mean it.” His voice was thick with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. But I couldn’t bring myself to hand the money back. Because five hundred dollars was exactly what I needed to keep my mother’s dialysis going. By the afternoon, Sylvia returned and ordered me to haul heavy crates of milk and syrup into the basement storage. Usually, it took three of the baristas to do this over several hours. But she forbade anyone from helping me. “Consider this your punishment for yesterday’s little stunt with my husband. You don’t leave until it’s done.” I hauled the heavy crates for two agonizing hours. By the end, my lower back felt like it was splitting in two. I hid in the staff bathroom, trying to massage the ache away. Suddenly, my phone began buzzing frantically. It was the store’s group chat. Sylvia had pinned a long, public message: [Just a reminder to everyone, this cafe is a place of business.] [Some people have twisted ideas about how to get ahead, thinking they can sleep their way to a promotion.] [I suggest everyone keep their distance from certain toxic people unless you want to get dragged down with them.] The other employees instantly chimed in, eager to kiss up to the boss’s wife: [You’re so right, Sylvia! Some people have no dignity. It’s disgusting.] [Don’t worry, Sylvia. If I see anyone acting shady, I’ll call them out myself!] [Message received. Keeping my distance starting now.] At the very end, Sylvia tagged me directly: [@Lucy, if I ever see you sniffing around my husband again, you’re fired on the spot.] The digital venom felt like physical needles piercing my skin. Every second I spent in that shop was becoming a living nightmare. I was about to wipe my eyes and force myself back to work when my phone rang again. It was the hospital. The lead physician’s voice was grim. My mother had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Her kidneys were failing rapidly, and her heart was starting to show signs of strain. “We need to schedule the surgery immediately, Lucy. We can’t wait anymore. If we don’t operate this week, I’m afraid she won’t make it.” I leaned against the cold bathroom tiles and slowly slid to the floor. I buried my face in my hands and let out a broken, quiet sob. I allowed myself exactly five minutes to cry. Then I wiped my face, swallowed my pride, and went to find Sylvia to ask for a salary advance. She was lounging in the office chair, legs crossed, casually painting her toenails a vibrant crimson red. I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to build up the courage. And then, I spoke. 3 “Sylvia, is there any way I could get an advance on my salary? Just a few months. My mom’s condition worsened, and she needs emergency surgery…” Sylvia blew on her wet toenails, not even bothering to look up. She let out a sharp scoff. “Are you daydreaming? First you try to steal my husband, and now you’re trying to steal my money?” I bowed my head, my voice cracking with desperation. “I’m not joking. My mother is in the ICU. She needs this surgery to survive.” “If you can help me with the advance, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll work overtime for free, I’ll sign a contract—I’ll work the next three years without pay if I have to!” “Why the hell should I care about your mother?” She rolled eyes and stood up to leave. Desperate, I stepped into her path, blocking her way. “Please. I’m begging you…” “Get out of my face!” She swung her hand wildly. The heavy glass bottle of nail polish slipped from her grip and struck me hard across the forehead. A warm, thin trickle of blood immediately began to slide down my temple. She sat back down, crossing her arms, her smile dripping with malice. “Your mother’s life has nothing to do with me. Shouldn’t you be begging your father for the cash?” “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You don’t have a father. Your mother chose to raise a bastard child, and now you’re just following in her footsteps.” “Otherwise, why would your father leave your mother to rot while you’re out here selling yourself to other women’s husbands?” The blood in my veins ran hot, rushing straight to my ears. I stared at her, my eyes burning with a raw, painful fury. “That is enough. That is the second time you’ve insulted my mother.” She stood up slowly, stepping into my personal space until we were nose-to-nose. “You dare glare at me? I could fire you right now and leave you with absolutely nothing.” She spat her words in my face. “The nerve of you, asking me for money after trying to sleep with my husband. One more word and I’ll dock your entire paycheck for the month.” In that moment, I realized how easily poverty can strip away a person’s dignity. I covered my mouth, bolted from the office, and hid in the breakroom, weeping silently. I squeezed the silver ring around my neck, its cold metal pressing hard against my palm. Where are you, Dad? How could you just leave us like this? How could you let her suffer? I tried to gather myself, trying to stop shaking so I could go back to the floor. But before I could open the door, Sylvia and a group of employees blocked my way. “Lucy, don’t move.” My heart plummeted. “What’s going on?” Sylvia sneered. “The register is short five hundred dollars. What do you think is going on?” A cold dread washed over me. “I’ve been hauling crates in the basement all afternoon. I haven’t even been near the cash register!” She arched an eyebrow. “How do we know you didn’t sneak up here when no one was looking?” “I didn’t!” I protested, tears stinging my eyes. “Check the security cameras! The footage will prove I wasn’t anywhere near the counter!” Sylvia let out a mocking laugh. “Oh, what a shame. The cameras conveniently went down this afternoon. Not a single thing was recorded. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” A chill went down my spine. Because in my pocket, I was carrying exactly five hundred dollars. 4 “If you have nothing to hide, let us search you,” Sylvia demanded, stepping closer. “If we don’t find the money, you’re clean. If you refuse, you’re a thief.” I stared at her in disbelief. “You have no right to search me.” Sylvia laughed hysterically. “Either we search you, or I call the police. And when you go to jail, your pathetic mother will be left to die alone in that hospital bed.” The mention of my mother sent a sharp spike of terror through my chest. If I was arrested, there would be no one left to save her. I squeezed the envelope in my pocket, my palms slick with sweat. The five hundred dollars in that envelope had been given to me by Robert. If they found it on me now, there would be no way to explain it. But if I didn’t let them search me, they would call the cops. I was trapped. Two security guards stepped forward, grabbing me firmly by the arms. I thrashed against their grip, but it was useless. Sylvia reached straight for my pocket. “Get your hands off me!” I screamed, breaking one arm free. Slap. Sylvia struck me hard across the cheek. My face burned with a stinging heat, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in the corner of my mouth. She yanked at the pocket of my uniform. The white envelope slipped out, hitting the floor. Crisp hundred-dollar bills spilled across the tile. A collective gasp echoed through the room. Sylvia snatched up the cash, waving it in front of the crowd. “Exactly five hundred dollars! She stole it from the register!” “I didn’t!” I cried, shaking my head frantically. “Mr. Sullivan gave me that money! He told me it was an employee bonus!” Sylvia scoffed as if I had just told the most ridiculous lie. “An employee bonus? We’ve never had bonuses like that. Why would my husband just hand you cash? What exactly are you doing for him?” She leaned in close, lowering her voice to a venomous whisper. “I wonder how your sick mother would feel if she knew you were selling your body to your boss just to pay her medical bills. Would she die of a broken heart?” She straightened up, raising her voice so everyone could hear. “Oh, I get it now! Was this hush money? Did my husband pay you off to keep you away from me?” I was shaking so violently I couldn’t even form words. Suddenly, her eyes locked onto my neck, and her expression shifted to vicious glee. “And what about this?” She lunged forward, ripping the chain off my neck and holding up the silver ring. “This ring has my husband’s initial on it. She must have stolen it from him, keeping it like some sick trophy!” “Give it back!” I screamed, throwing my weight forward. That ring was the only thing my father had left my mother. It was our only connection to him, our anchor. Sylvia’s face was completely heartless. With a cruel grin, she dropped the ring onto the floor. And brought her stiletto heel down hard. I let out a raw shriek, diving for the floor to claw at the metal, but I was a second too late. A sickening, metallic crunch echoed through the room as the band warped under her weight. She lifted her foot, adjusted her balance, and stomped down again. The sharp point of her heel drove into the back of my hand. A white-hot agony flared up my arm. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead, soaking my uniform as I gasped for air. Sylvia didn’t hesitate. She ground her heel into my hand, twisting it slowly. She looked down at me, her expression a mix of threat and triumph. She tapped the toe of her shoe against my cheek. “Kneel and beg for my forgiveness. Maybe if I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you off the hook. Otherwise, I’m calling the police. Three, two, one…” In that moment, every ounce of my pride, every shred of my strength, shattered. I wasn’t afraid of prison. I was terrified that if I went to jail, I would never see my mother alive again. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.” The humiliating words scraped past my throat, barely audible. Tears mingled with the blood on my face, dripping onto the tile. I grabbed Sylvia’s ankle, pressing my forehead against the floor right next to her dusty shoe. “Please… don’t call the cops.” I’m sorry, Mom. This is the only way I can protect you. I pressed my forehead against the hard floor again and again. A satisfied smirk finally spread across Sylvia’s face. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She kicked my hands away as if I were a piece of garbage. “Don’t worry. Even when you’re locked up, I’ll be charitable enough to send some flowers to your mother’s grave.” Just as the words left her mouth, the front door of the cafe slammed open. Robert stood in the doorway, staring at me as I knelt on the floor. Sylvia’s face transformed instantly into a mask of fragile distress. “Oh, Rob, you came at the perfect time! This little thief stole five hundred dollars from the register. I was just about to call the police!” My ears were ringing, and the room was spinning. I saw Robert’s lips moving, saying something to me, but I couldn’t hear the words. And then, the entire room went dead silent as he spoke the words that changed everything.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “465188”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel