Category: English

I woke up in the middle of the night, starving and unable to sleep, so I gave in and ordered some delivery. Because I was pregnant, I specifically added a note: [Pregnant and really craving pickles. Please add extra, thank you!] Not long after, there was a relentless knocking at my apartment door. Annoyed, I messaged the Dasher: [Just leave it at the door. Please don’t knock.] The Dasher replied: [I like knocking. What are you going to do about it?] The knocking continued for almost ten minutes. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and decided to go out and confront the driver. Just as I reached the door, a few lines of text floated across my vision: [This pregnant woman has no idea, does she? That’s not a person outside at all! It’s a black cat that’s turned into a monster. If she goes out, it’s going to rip her stomach open and she’ll die a horrible death!] [It’s purposely trying to lure the woman out. After all, a fetus is the most tender meat, perfect for it to feed on.] [Ugh, targeting pregnant women. She has it the worst; she’s the first victim.] 1 My whole body trembled, and the hand I had reached out to the doorknob fell back to my side. A black cat turned monster? That sounded completely absurd! But… I suddenly remembered something. I took a few steps back, pulled out my phone, and scrolled through the neighborhood Facebook group chat from a few days ago. Someone in the group had posted a “Lost Cat” flyer. They said their black cat had suddenly gone missing and asked everyone to keep an eye out for it. I remembered when I tapped on the photo in the chat, it had actually startled me. Because the cat was twice the size of a normal cat. And while its body and limbs were black, its face was much paler. Even worse… The cat’s facial features were incredibly eerie. Looking closely, it almost looked human. The cat in the photo seemed to be smiling. The more I looked at it, the creepier it got. I immediately closed the group chat. More text floated across my vision like comments on a livestream: [Why hasn’t she opened the door yet? I remember the first victim opened it without hesitating.] [Did she realize something?] [No way. Animals that turn into monsters look almost identical to normal humans from the outside. How could she tell?] [I can’t watch this part. Her stomach gets ripped open while she’s still alive!] These words filled me with panic. Meanwhile, the knocking at the door hadn’t stopped. I instinctively rubbed my belly and called my husband. He answered quickly. I stayed silent for a moment, took a deep breath, and kept my voice very low so whoever was outside wouldn’t hear: “Honey, when are you getting off work? I’m scared. There’s a delivery guy at the door who won’t stop knocking.” My husband replied, “It’s just a delivery guy! What’s there to be scared of? I’ll be home in 5 minutes! If he’s still there, I’ll chase him off.” I said urgently: “No, no, honey, do you remember what I told you? The black cat that apartment 501 lost, the one with the human-like face. I suspect the thing outside our door is that black cat, and it’s turned into a monster! It wants to eat our baby!” My husband suddenly burst out laughing: “Hahahaha, they say pregnancy makes you lose your mind, and you haven’t even had the baby yet but you’re already talking crazy! They found the cat from 501 ages ago. You’re overthinking things. If you’re scared, just stay put and wait for me to get home.” I wanted to say more, but he had already hung up. I slapped my forehead. He was right. If someone told me an animal had turned into a monster to hurt people, I’d just think they were running a fever. But right now, I was truly seeing these words hovering in the air. For my husband’s safety, I had to lie: [This delivery guy looks like he knows how to fight! Bring the security guard with you. One person might not be able to handle him!] Seeing my husband reply “okay,” I finally let out a sigh of relief. The comments: [She actually figured it out! But this cat monster just transformed and desperately needs nutrients. She definitely won’t escape.] [Ugh, she’s just minor cannon fodder. If she doesn’t die, how does the plot move forward?] [Yeah, there are no security cameras in this old apartment building. When she opens the door, the cat monster will rush in, bite her so she can’t move, and when her husband gets home, he’ll only find an empty stomach and his dead wife. Because the only evidence left will be cat prints, it’s too bizarre, so the FBI’s paranormal division gets involved, and the real story begins.] I finally grasped the gist of what these comments were saying. My death was just a plot device to introduce the paranormal division and get the case solved. So I was just the blurred-out corpse at the beginning of a crime show! I closed my eyes, trying hard to accept this reality. Suddenly, everything grew unusually quiet. I swallowed hard. The relentless knocking had stopped. I slowly stood up and walked to the door, wanting to see if the person outside had given up and left because I wasn’t answering. But when I pressed my eye to the peephole. All I could see was pitch black. That was weird. This peephole had night vision. Even if the hallway was dark, it shouldn’t be this black! Just as I was feeling confused, a voice sent a chill down my spine: “Ma’am, you’re pregnant, right? I was just joking with you earlier. Hehe, did I scare you?” 2 The person outside continued: “I hope I didn’t scare the baby. If the baby wants extra pickles, you should definitely eat more. I left the food at the door, come out and get it. I’m leaving now, got another delivery to make.” I heard clear footsteps walking away from my door. Once the footsteps faded away, I checked the peephole again. Still pitch black. The comments suddenly flooded in: [So scary! A cat’s pupils fully dilate when it’s excited or stimulated! She’s staring right into the cat’s pupil!] [So creepy! Cats really are liquid. Even after taking human form, it’s still so flexible.] [The cat monster’s head is pressed against the peephole, but its body is walking backward! Its neck is stretched out so long!] [What a smart monster. It even knows how to fake footsteps to trick the pregnant woman into coming out.] [This thing’s teeth and claws are incredibly sharp!] My eyes widened in terror. I shot back, getting as far away from the door as possible. My palms were drenched in sweat, and my heart was pounding furiously. A skritch, scratch sound came from outside the door. That thing was scratching at the door! Thinking about the comments saying the cat could stretch its neck, all the hair on my body stood on end. I kept telling myself to stay calm, preparing to dial 911 so the police could handle this. [Give it up, calling the cops is useless. They’ll just think it’s a prank call and won’t come.] [Look! It’s scratched deep gouges into the door! It’s getting impatient!] [Looks like it’s going to try a different way to get to the pregnant woman!] 3 I swallowed hard. A different way? What way? I was terrified and anxious. Why couldn’t the comments be more specific! Tap, tap, tap, tap. A hurried sound of footsteps suddenly appeared outside. I gathered my courage and moved closer to the door. If what the comments said was true and the black cat had other ways to get me, would I be safer if I took the opportunity while it was away from the door to escape outside the apartment building? After all, there were several BBQ places open downstairs. It was late, but there were still a lot of customers. But this time, I still wasn’t sure if those footsteps were meant to trick me… Just as I was thinking, I suddenly heard my husband’s voice: “Honey, open the door quickly! Your food is getting cold. Why didn’t you bring it inside?” My heart skipped a beat. I cautiously asked: “Did you see the delivery guy at the door? Did he leave? Also, didn’t I tell you to come up with the security guard? Where is he?” There was a few seconds of silence outside: “I didn’t see a delivery guy! He probably left a long time ago. I didn’t bring the security guard because I didn’t think it was necessary. Your husband is a big, strong man! What’s there to be afraid of?” I carefully checked the peephole. It was indeed my husband outside. Could those footsteps earlier have been him? I pressed my husband: “FaceTime me on WhatsApp right now. Show me that there’s no danger outside, and then pan the camera from your head to your toes.” I wasn’t going to overlook even the slightest abnormality with him. I quickly checked my messages, waiting for my husband to report back. My husband suddenly sighed: “Maya, what is going on with you the past few days? First you said someone else’s cat looked like a human, and now you’re saying a cat turned into a monster! Can you stop being so paranoid all the time?! I ask you to open the door, and you’re dragging your feet.” Before I could fully process this. I heard the sound of a key turning the lock on the front door. The comments floated by: [That should be her husband, right? I saw the cat crawl away when her husband showed up.] [That thing is way too fast. If a cat doesn’t want to make a sound, its footsteps are super light. It was gone before I could even see it clearly!] [Regardless, the pregnant woman is still in the most danger. She better hide. The black cat monster is definitely not interested in her husband.] Seeing the lock turning. I quickly ran into the bedroom, locked the door, and hid inside the closet. I covered my mouth, feeling my heart pounding violently. Whether my husband believed me or not. I had to make sure I was safe. Through the closet door, I heard my husband washing up while complaining about how I didn’t appreciate him. Listening to his voice. I gradually calmed down inside the closet. I even started to doubt myself a little. Was there really something wrong with my brain? I hadn’t seen the black cat with my own eyes. And the comments had vanished again. I had run away in such a panic earlier that I forgot to grab the spare bedroom key from the living room. I clung to a sliver of hope. Maybe it really was because my morning sickness had been so bad lately, causing me extreme anxiety, which led to hallucinations. When I saw my husband later, if there was nothing wrong with him, I would apologize to him. Not long after. My husband knocked on the bedroom door impatiently, then went to find the key to open it. I left a tiny crack in the closet doors, focusing all my attention on observing the outside. The door opened. Seeing nothing unusual behind my husband, I patted my chest, jokingly thinking to myself that maybe I really did need to see a doctor. I reached out, intending to push the closet door open and get out. A few comments flashed by: [You guys are so heartless! I can’t watch this! Don’t go out! That black cat followed your husband in!] [To the person above, didn’t we agree not to say anything? What’s wrong with you? Everyone else is discussing it elsewhere. That woman can probably see the comments.] [Exactly, we said the monster was looking through the peephole, and she backed away. We said she better hide, and she actually did!] My face went deathly pale. Because at this very moment, I saw a bizarre figure behind my husband. That thing clearly had human facial features, but its expression was vacant, and its limbs were twisted. Every time my husband took a step, it would crawl one step behind him, matching his footsteps perfectly. 4 If you didn’t listen carefully, you’d have no idea there was a second set of sounds in the house! I almost screamed out loud. My husband walked into the bedroom, still calling out for me: “Maya? What’s wrong? Where are you?” I didn’t dare answer him directly. Instead, I used my phone to warn him: [Don’t move! That thing really did turn into a monster!] [It’s right behind you! Don’t come near the closet, it’s looking for me!] [Take a few steps back, and it will step back with you. About three steps. After three steps, it’ll be outside the bedroom. Lock the door immediately!] The notification sound dinged a few times in my husband’s pocket. He pulled out his phone. He rolled his eyes in an exasperated way, then turned around. Then, a blood-curdling scream pierced my ears. I was so terrified tears streamed down my face. My husband is 6’0″. But when that thing locked eyes with him, it let out a bizarre cat yowl, then lunged, landing squarely on his back and latching onto his neck in a death grip. I originally wanted to go out and help him! But in that split second of hesitation and fear, my husband couldn’t break free. A chunk of flesh was torn from the right side of his neck. He clutched his neck, collapsing heavily onto the floor, blood gushing out. His eyes stared blankly at the closet, unmoving, as if accusing me of not saving him. My entire body shook uncontrollably. All I could do was watch helplessly as the monster used its claws to slice open his stomach. It was rooting around for his internal organs. What do I do? What do I do? Why did I have to encounter this kind of monster! I pinched my thigh hard. It hurt. It wasn’t a dream. I wanted so badly to escape, but my husband was lying dead right at the bedroom doorway, and the monster was chewing right next to him. [It’s over! Is this a dead end? Now she can only wait to die!] [Only the people from the paranormal division have the skills to subdue the monster. She definitely has no way of contacting them.] [It took the division a long time to figure out this was actually a house cat.] [This black cat monster is starving. Plus, since the guy saw its face, it wanted him dead. Sigh, if the pregnant woman had just waited to die obediently, her husband wouldn’t have died. Add her to the mix, and that’s three lives lost!] I bit my finger, forcing my eyes away from my husband’s torn stomach, and quickly typed out an emergency text to 911. To make the police believe me, I said a murderer had broken into my house and I was about to be killed. I had been misled by the comments earlier. Why would calling the police be useless? If the police witness what this monster looks like, it will trigger the paranormal division’s involvement. As soon as the text went through, a few messages popped up in the neighborhood Facebook group chat. It was the woman from 501: [Has anyone seen my cat?] [He snuck out to play and hasn’t come back for a long time. I’m worried he was taken by cat stealers. Please let me know if you see him! Thank you!] This message gave me a flash of inspiration. The comments said the paranormal division took a long time to realize the black cat was a pet. Could it be that the black cat monster, in order to better hunt for food, deliberately avoided exposing itself in front of its owner? I immediately messaged 501 privately: [The cat ran into my apartment! And it refuses to leave! Hurry up and come get it!] 501 showed as typing. I was burning with anxiety. Hurry up! Why is she typing so slowly! I urged her again: [Someone in my house is allergic to cats! Please hurry!] After sending the message, I looked up. Through the crack in the closet doors, I met a pair of entirely black eyes. It stared at me dead on, still chewing on something. My gaze shifted slightly downwards. I saw a piece of intestine dangling from its mouth. 5 My attention had been entirely on my phone. I hadn’t noticed it discovering me at all. My mouth fell open involuntarily, taking huge, greedy breaths of air, trying to make myself less afraid. But it was useless! I watched as it reached out and pried open the closet door. I pushed off with my feet and sprinted out as fast as I could. Before I could take more than a few steps, the thing had crawled right in front of me. It advanced on me step by step, continuously letting out a “meow, meow” sound. This cat’s meow was completely different from a normal cat’s. It sounded drawn out and chilling. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and started screaming at the top of my lungs. The “meow, meow” sounds grew more frequent. I took a step back, lost my footing, and slipped hard onto the floor. My stomach hurt terribly, but I had no time to worry about that. I tried to push myself up, but my hands slipped again. My hands were covered in bloody water… The monster had crawled onto me. I could even feel its breath. I turned my head away, unwilling to look. But my eyes met my husband’s. He still had a faint trace of life left. He moved his eyes to stare at me. I was so terrified I whipped my head back around. The next second, a gaping maw, dripping with blood, lunged at my neck. I fought back desperately, trying to pull the monster off. But I never expected this monster to be so incredibly strong. I couldn’t move it an inch. In the end, I could only watch as it ripped my stomach open. I was suffocating from the pain. Using the last ounce of my willpower, I uttered my final sentence: “No, don’t… please, spare my baby.” The agonizing pain made my eyelids heavy. Soon, everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I heard the relentless knocking at the apartment door. My phone also displayed a reply: [I like knocking. What are you going to do about it?]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407071”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My husband is a world-renowned scientist. When asked about his personal life in an interview, he said: “I don’t consider myself a qualified partner.” “Under no circumstances will I put romance first.” “I only wish to use my limited time pursuing the endless frontiers of science.” After the program aired, the whole country praised his fearless pursuit of knowledge. I, however, quietly put away my medical report. I had cancer. Terminal. The days he spent in London receiving his award. Were my last days in this world. 01 The last thing I saw before my consciousness faded was the blinding glare of the surgical lights. But when my spirit left my body, allowing me to see the entire operating room. And when I saw the heart monitor next to the bed pull into a flat line. I suddenly realized. I seemed to be dead. 02 I don’t know why, but I turned into a spirit, floating around. Just this morning, I was feeling okay. I even spoke a few words to Elias. He had an overseas symposium to present his research at, and his flight was this afternoon. So I woke up at seven to make him breakfast. Elias looked like someone who didn’t care about anything, but he was incredibly picky about his food. The toast had to be toasted just a tiny bit crispy, and the milk had to be exactly 80% warm. In our son’s words: “Mom, you’ve spoiled Dad’s taste buds.” I didn’t disagree. After taking meticulous care of him for twenty or thirty years, even the most troublesome things become habits. 03 “Elias, I heard there’s a sudden temperature drop in the UK due to some air mass.” “I packed an extra down vest for you.” “The gum is in the left pocket of your backpack. You always get earaches on flights; chewing a piece will help.” “Don’t stay up too late at night. Has your heart been bothering you lately? Go to bed early…” “It’s a polar continental air mass.” My words were abruptly cut off. I looked up dully and met his clear eyes. The saying “time is kind to beauties” fit Elias well. His brow bone was still sharp, and even nearing fifty, the years seemed to have left no mark on him. So the coldness he carried since his youth could still pierce straight to the bottom of my heart. He was correcting the inaccuracy of my first sentence. “Some air mass in the UK” is a “polar continental air mass.” But I just wanted to care for him. I lowered my eyes. And straightened his tie for him. “I know.” “Have a safe trip, Elias.” He turned sideways and walked past me. He thought I had nothing going on this afternoon. Actually, I did. He was going across the Atlantic to attend a scientific symposium. I also had a meeting to attend. My pre-op consultation. The doctor said the success rate of this surgery was only twenty percent. 04 When the doctor informed me that the stomach cancer was discovered too late and the cancer cells had already metastasized throughout my body, I sat in the hospital corridor for an entire afternoon. The TV hanging in the corner was playing Today’s Interview. It was the interview Elias was invited to a few days ago. The man with the cold eyes didn’t want to waste much time on anything other than scientific research. Even when asked about his wife, he just brushed over it. “I’m a blockhead.” “I don’t understand romance. A wife… to me, is more of a responsibility.” “Celebrate anniversaries? That’s formalism. Instead of spending time preparing for that, I’d rather do a few more experiments.” It sounded exactly like something Elias would say. Forget anniversaries; he didn’t even celebrate birthdays. When I was younger, I used to pester him to celebrate, hoping that one day he would appear before me holding a bouquet of vibrant roses. But I never received a single bouquet of roses. A brain that could memorize countless data points simply refused to remember the four digits of my birthday. Later, I would just sit alone at the table, make myself a bowl of longevity noodles, and consider the day celebrated. Elias was an iron tree; he couldn’t bloom. It took me over twenty years to finally accept this truth. So in recent years, I slowly started to feel that I wasn’t quite right. Call it exhaustion, or call it giving up. The funny thing was, he was him, and I was me. The path he had laid out plainly before me decades ago, I only understood now. I crumpled the medical notice, stuffed it in my pocket, and only called my son’s number. 05 Liam was close to me. Because Elias didn’t like kids, and his only son was completely inept at scientific research. After listening to my emotionless account, Liam’s voice choked up. “Mom…” “Did you and Dad…” “I didn’t tell him.” I lowered my eyes, staring at the granite floor. “I don’t want to tell him.” He is him, and I am me. Besides, what difference would it make if he knew I was sick? Would he drop the scientific research he was so obsessed with day and night to take care of me? “Liam.” “Mom doesn’t know how much longer she has.” “If Mom dies one day, don’t tell your dad.” I looked down and smoothed out the hem of my shirt. Why bring something Elias didn’t care about to him and cause him trouble? “Okay.” Liam replied on the other end of the phone. “Mom, to be honest, Dad doesn’t deserve it anyway.” “He really doesn’t deserve someone as good as you.” … 06 My spirit drifted through the hospital corridors. I saw the doctor walk out of the operating room, shake his head regretfully, and Liam lay by my bed crying. He picked me up and brought me to the hospital in the afternoon, waited outside the operating room until evening, but his mom disappointed him and didn’t open her eyes. He was crying so heartbrokenly. I hovered anxiously around him, but he couldn’t see me. I wanted to hug him so badly, to coax him to stop crying like I did when he was little. Liam worked very hard. Even though he didn’t become a scientist like his dad expected, his paintings were loved by many people, and he had an exhibition opening in Italy in the second half of the year. I sat next to him, looked up at the stars in the night sky, and sang him a song like I did to coax him when he was little. He couldn’t hear me, but I felt like this way, he would know Mom was right by his side. … I was suddenly transported very, very far away by a gust of wind. The senses of a spirit after death are truly miraculous. I could perceive what happened in the hospital after I died. And at the same time, I arrived at the venue where Elias was having his meeting. His meeting was supposed to last for seven days. The man in the sharp suit easily became the center of attention. Young, handsome, with a resume that was unprecedented and probably unrepeatable. Actually, speaking of Elias, he was probably the center of attention from childhood to adulthood. In college, the girls who liked him were like a school of fish crossing a river. In that era, which still retained some traditional thinking, girls brazenly chased him all the way to the bottom of his dorm building. Every time, he looked at them with a gaze that kept people thousands of miles away. Wearing the most ordinary white shirt, books tucked under his arm, he looked down at people with restrained aloofness: “I’m sorry, I don’t like you.” His words were exceedingly merciless. The “popularity” that many men would be immensely proud of was nothing more than a pure annoyance to him. At that time, he had already won national awards until his hands went soft. His name frequently popped out of the teachers’ mouths. At that time, I was just one of the students looking up at him, the most marginalized kind. I only dared to secretly catch a glimpse of the corner of his shirt when exiting the cafeteria. Elias absolutely didn’t know that before our blind date, I had secretly had a crush on him for three or four years. He also absolutely wouldn’t know that three years after graduation. The blind date my family arranged for me was him. “I won’t have anyone I like.” That was what Elias said to me the first time he met me. “If I have to say I like something, I like doing experiments, doing math—in short, nothing to do with people.” He frowned slightly; even so, he couldn’t hide his dazzling good looks. He concisely and clearly explained himself. “We are not discussing love.” “We are just ensuring we have a descendant. Do you understand?” … Actually, back then, Elias made it very clear. It was me who thought I could accept it; it was me who wanted to be with him. I always thought we had plenty of time. I always thought that one day, his clear, unwavering gaze would settle on me. I always thought he— Would fall in love with me. Should I say I overestimated myself, pinning my day-and-night dedication on the so-called “love grows over time”? My spirit drifted to his side. Watching him converse with the scholar across from him with a serious expression. The man had a tall, slender build, aloof and elegant. “Was I pretty stupid?” I leaned against his pocket, looking at him. “They say people with high IQs look at normal people the way normal people look at fools.” On the other side, my body was sent to the hearse from the funeral home. The academic symposium was buzzing with voices. “Elias, did you think I was pretty stupid?” 07 Elias took a picture of the London night view with his phone and sent it to me. Of course, I could never reply. Liam really didn’t tell his dad about my death. He didn’t even unblock Elias to send the obituary he posted on my WeChat. This was good. I bothered him too much while I was alive; I didn’t want to trouble him and make him change his flight after I died. Besides, I didn’t think he would want to see me one last time anyway. The London night view was pretty, but for some reason, that day, he stared at his phone and looked out from the windy balcony for a long time. I leaned over to look and finally understood. In the past, when he sent me messages, I almost always replied instantly. When he went on business trips abroad before, he would casually snap a few photos and send them to me. I would reply with the emojis I saved from Liam: a thumbs-up, or two thumbs-up, with “Awesome!” written on them. This time, he waited a long time, and I didn’t reply. “Professor Vance, it’s raining outside again.” “Come back inside, don’t catch a cold.” A young female voice sounded behind him. She was his student. In academic circles, some things are tacitly understood. The girl stepped forward somewhat intimately to drape a coat over him, but he pushed her away. 08 “Fish and chips.” “Disgusting.” Elias sent me a picture of a restaurant. My body was pushed into the incinerator. “It’s raining again.” Elias sent me a picture out the window of the hotel he was staying at. Relatives and friends attended my burial ceremony. “Presenting results tonight.” “Flight back tomorrow.” Elias stood at the podium, cameras pointed at him. With my broken English, I understood a little. His results seemed to add another significant stroke to human development. He, standing under the spotlight, in the field he excelled at, unfailingly radiated light and heat. I think this was why I loved him for so many years. But it was me who loved him, not him who loved me. In the drizzling rain of April, as my ashes were buried beside a square tombstone, I finally understood this truth. 09 That night after the meeting ended, when Elias called my phone for the third time and it didn’t go through. He changed his flight to the early hours of the morning. On the plane, he frowned the whole time, his face even colder than usual. It makes sense. After being at his beck and call for so many years, suddenly losing contact must be something he wasn’t used to. Actually, every time he came back from abroad, I would go to the airport to pick him up. And I would definitely arrive at least two hours early, just waiting for him at the airport. These were all habits. People can’t let the ones they hold dear suffer any grievances; I always did everything in my power to make him comfortable. But this time, he had to walk through the empty waiting hall alone and then hail a high-priced taxi at four or five in the morning. When he got home, it was 6 AM. He knocked first, and when no one answered, he unlocked the door with his fingerprint and pushed it open. The house was empty. Everything was the same as when he left: the sink was spotless, the dining table empty. Only the slippers I usually wore were placed at the entryway. He unbuttoned the coat he hadn’t had time to change out of because he left in such a hurry, walking around the unlit house, circle after circle. Bedroom, balcony, bathroom. Finally, he opened the washing machine door. … Finding nothing, he paused and pulled out his phone to call me. He waited for a long time; it went straight to voicemail. He took a deep breath and slid his thumb to the other number on the list. Liam’s. The relationship between the two men had been very tense since before Liam became an adult. Over the years, when Liam came home, it was only to see me; he never thought of interacting with his dad. Elias’s attitude was even worse. He was obsessed with academics, which meant: don’t make him raise kids. He was absent during the most important stages of his son’s growth, so his son naturally never spoke to him kindly. “What?” “Where’s your mom?” Both of their tones were aggressive, but Liam paused. Then came a very strange laugh, a feeling I can’t describe, as he murmured and repeated it. “Where’s my mom?” “My mom is gone.” “Where did she go?” Elias’s frown deepened. The first light of dawn happened to fall on his brow. I heard the son on the other end of the phone, his voice suddenly going blank. “Not gone somewhere.” “Mom passed away, Dad.” 10 A very long silence pierced both ends of the phone. From my angle, Elias’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone. “You’re this old and still making cheap jokes with other punks?” A lecturing tone. He didn’t take it seriously. It seemed that the idea of me dying and not even notifying him of the funeral was something that simply wouldn’t compute in Elias’s mind. Liam went silent on the other end of the phone. After a long while, he let out a scoff with a tone of release. “Dad.” “I haven’t joked with you since I was in the sixth grade.” Liam hung up. The phone beeped on Elias’s end. I thought it was strange; Elias seemed frozen in place, standing there maintaining the posture of holding the phone. Slowly, he sat down on the sofa in the house. Elias was rigorous and serious in his academic work, but his personal life was exactly the opposite; he was casual to the extreme. So the house was always cleaned by me. His study was often piled high with manuscripts, and he wouldn’t allow me to touch them. I had been scolded by him more than once for this kind of thing. Thinking about it now, I really wasn’t a good match for him. He probably needed a female scientist who could chat with him about the vast universe of academia. Not a third-rate magazine editor who only knew how to wash sofa covers until they were faded and didn’t even know what a polar continental air mass was. A tiny bit of light leaked into the room. I saw him touching the lace edge of the sofa cover. Rubbing the lace, which had already accumulated a little dust. Over and over again. 11 The front door opened. Elias snapped his head to look. He moved so forcefully I was afraid he’d sprain his neck. As a result, it was Liam standing outside, jingling the keys in his hand. “Dad, you’re here. Good.” “Where did Mom keep her ID and the family register?” “I have to go to the police station…” Elias’s knuckles, which were rubbing the lace edge, stopped moving and stiffened. “To cancel her residency.” “…” In the cabinet below the TV, there were some personal documents belonging to me and Elias. He was the kind of person who threw these things around after taking them, including some of his award medals, so I carefully put them away for him every time. He didn’t care about these things at all, but I would always gently stroke them with joy. “What’s the point.” He didn’t understand why I was happy because he won an award. I would just smile and link arms with him. “Because you’re my husband, and of course I’m happy when my husband wins an award.” When I was young, I still had moments of pestering him and acting cute. Later, washed by the years, I restrained myself a lot. Elias was gripping our marriage certificate and wouldn’t let go. The photo on the marriage certificate didn’t turn out well either. After all, the corners of his mouth weren’t raised even a millimeter, while I smiled as if it were a grand wedding that belonged only to me. Liam found my ID and turned to see Elias holding the two bright red booklets. Staring at who knows what. “Dad, don’t worry.” “Mom is gone, so your marriage to my mom is naturally dissolved.” “You’re not her husband anymore, never will be.” “Happy? You can freely fall in love with those young female students you mentor.” This tone of obvious sarcasm. Normally, Elias would flip out if he heard his son say this. But this time, he didn’t make a sound for a long time. It was more like he had been lost in thought for a long time. He just slowly stood up and then picked up his trench coat hanging on the sofa. “I’ll go with you.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407056”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I woke up with a baby in a swaddle right next to me. A mechanical voice, buzzing with excitement, echoed in my head. “You must abandon her! Leave her to her alcoholic, abusive father. She will grow up through endless hardship. Then, like a resilient wildflower blooming in adversity, she will catch the eye of the heir to the Sterling Group. Once they get married, you can return to acknowledge her as your daughter, and you will live the rest of your life in absolute wealth and luxury!” I stared at the baby, who was currently giggling at me, and remained silent for a long time. “What if I don’t abandon her?” The System froze, seemingly shocked that anyone would even ask that question. Quickly, its tone turned mocking: “Then she will become the most ordinary, average person. She will go to a normal college, get a normal job, and she will never attract the attention of a billionaire CEO.” I smiled. “That sounds like a pretty good life, doesn’t it?” If the only purpose of her suffering was to attract the attention of some man… Then avoiding all that suffering was a much better deal, wasn’t it? 01 I kept Lily. No, maybe I should call her Aurora now. Ignoring the System’s protests, I changed her original, cliché novel name. She now shares my last name. I hated how in those romance novels, the female leads could never escape those repetitive, overly sweet names—always something delicate, soft, or weak. Meanwhile, the male leads always had names carefully selected by the author to sound powerful, profound, and dominant. I liked the name Aurora. Dawn’s light, standing strong and facing the sun. I wanted my daughter to escape the fate of depending on others. I wanted her to live independently and freely. 02 When Aurora was seven, she started elementary school. She had a bright and cheerful personality, loved by both her teachers and classmates. Until one day, she came home crying. The pigtails I had carefully braided for her were messy and undone. I asked her what happened. She sobbed, “Tommy keeps pulling my hair during class.” I knew Tommy. He was the boy who sat right behind her. I had seen him at the parent-teacher conference. He was a scrawny, overly energetic kid. I frowned. “Did you tell the teacher?” Aurora nodded. “I did, but…” She hesitated. “But the teacher said Tommy only pulls my hair because he has a crush on me.” I didn’t lose my temper in front of my daughter. Instead, I knelt down gently and said to her: “Let’s go talk to Ms. Patterson together, okay?” In the classroom, the teacher, wearing thick red-rimmed glasses, looked up from her lesson plans with a teasing smile. She pointed her chin toward my daughter, whom I had seated a short distance away. “Aurora is a very pretty girl. A lot of the little boys in class have a crush on her. You know how it is—boys at this age don’t know how to express their feelings, so they act out. They tease her a bit, pull her hair a bit.” She seemed to want to use that subtle, knowing smile to group us into the same category. A category of women who had experienced the same “affectionate harassment” and were supposed to feel flattered by it. But in the face of my stony silence, her smile slowly froze. I said flatly, “I don’t understand. All I know is that my daughter is being harassed. This is school bullying.” The teacher seemed taken aback, as if the severity of the word “bullying” had offended her. She set her thermos down with a thud and sat up straight. “Aurora’s mom, you’re being a bit unreasonable. They’re just little kids, what do they know about bullying? They’re just playing around.” “Playing around?” I repeated her words. “If it’s just ‘playing around,’ then how about we move Tommy to sit right behind your daughter?” It was an open secret that Ms. Patterson’s daughter was also in this class. The teacher, who had been arguing so righteously just a second ago, suddenly went mute. I understood perfectly. It wasn’t that she didn’t know this behavior was wrong. It was just that she couldn’t be bothered to deal with it. Just like so many unspoken rules in our society. We all know it’s wrong, but for hundreds of years, no one has ever stood up and said “No.” Because breaking the mold is infinitely more troublesome than just conforming to it. It’s so much easier to wave it off as “just playing around” than to put in the immense effort required to teach little boys to respect women from a young age. But I was going to break the mold. For my daughter. And for the countless girls in the future who would get their hair pulled. To tell them: This is not a crush. This is harassment. This is bullying. “Ms. Patterson,” I snapped her back to reality. “You have two choices right now. First, move Tommy to sit behind your daughter. Second, separate my daughter and Tommy immediately, and teach the boys in your class that the correct way to show you like someone is never to bully them, but to respect and care for them.” The teacher deflated like a popped balloon. “I’ll choose the second option.” I took my daughter’s hand and walked out, satisfied. As we reached the door, Ms. Patterson couldn’t resist calling out bitterly, “Aurora’s mom, interfering this much is going to affect your child’s normal socialization with her peers.” I didn’t even turn my head. My tone was absolute. “That is none of your concern.” On the way home, I shared my concerns with Aurora. “Sweetie, if Tommy refuses to play with you anymore because of what Mommy did today, will you be sad?” Over the years, my daughter and I had an agreement: we always spoke our minds and never kept things bottled up. Aurora thought for a moment, then asked timidly, “Does that mean Tommy will never pull my hair again?” I nodded. “That’s right.” My daughter instantly threw her arms around me, her eyes sparkling. “Then you are the best mommy in the whole wide world!” Wrapped in her warm, soft little arms, all my doubts vanished instantly. I thought, This is truly the greatest compliment in the world. 03 That night, after my daughter fell asleep, the System popped up. Ever since I unilaterally decided to keep Aurora, it had rarely shown itself. It was its form of silent protest against my actions. But to ensure we completed our overarching mission, it would occasionally pop up to remind me. Like today— “Host, our ultimate goal is to get the Female Lead’s Happiness Meter to 100%. You really need to step it up.” I was suddenly curious. “According to the original plot, when exactly does her Happiness Meter hit 100%?” System: “When she marries the heir to the Sterling Group, obviously.” I asked again: “And what about after the wedding? What is her happiness level then? Did your creators ever check?” The System suddenly went silent. I knew it. They never checked. It’s just like the end of a fairy tale: it always stops at “and the Prince and Princess lived happily ever after.” But what happens next? Does the Princess ever get homesick? When she’s forced to learn suffocating royal etiquette, does she miss the days she ran free in the forest? Does she get dragged down by in-law drama? Does the Prince ever fall in love with someone else? All of this… no one cares. If happiness is fragile and constantly at risk of being lost, it cannot be called true happiness. Because something fleeting cannot support a lifetime. I asked again, “What is Aurora’s Happiness Meter at right now? Can you check?” I wasn’t asking out of a player’s ambition, but out of a mother’s genuine curiosity. My daughter… is she happy right now? The System disappeared for a moment, probably checking the data. A few seconds later, it returned, its mechanical voice glitching and screeching in disbelief. “54%… How is this possible?! This is the level of happiness she’s only supposed to reach after enduring unimaginable suffering and being saved by Arthur Sterling during their first encounter! What on earth did you do?!” I looked down at my sleeping daughter and smiled. “I just did what a mother is supposed to do.” Facts prove that the one who saves the Princess isn’t always the Prince. It can also be the Queen. And I believe that in the near future, the one who saves the Princess… will be the Princess herself. 04 A few years later, Aurora entered high school. Her grades were excellent, especially in STEM subjects, where she showed incredible talent. She was almost always ranked number one in her grade for math. But one day, she came home looking incredibly defeated, not saying a word. I immediately sensed something was wrong and asked: “Are you upset about your scores on the midterms?” Her voice instantly cracked. “A new transfer student came to our class. He took first place on the very first midterm. Even in math.” I understood her frustration. It’s a terrible feeling to be beaten by someone in the very field you excel at. So I asked gently, “How many students are in your grade?” Aurora thought for a second. “Six hundred and forty-five.” I smiled. “See? You didn’t lose to one person. You beat six hundred and forty-three other people. That is incredibly impressive.” Hearing my comfort, her mood visibly lifted. But she still looked a bit down. “Mom, our math teacher said that girls just aren’t naturally good at STEM. Even if my grades are good now, once we hit senior year, the boys will eventually overtake me.” I kept my smile and asked, “And which teacher made that brilliant deduction?” Again. Which. Teacher. My daughter sighed. “Our math teacher. He’s also the Vice Principal.” The System chimed in my head, gloating. “Uh-oh. This one isn’t going to be so easy to deal with.” I ignored it and thought for a moment. “Sweetie, do you want to transfer to a better private school?” Private schools have exorbitant tuition fees, but the upgrade in educational resources is undeniable. Most importantly, instead of treating students just as students, they treat students (and their parents) as clients. If anyone dared to say “girls aren’t suited for STEM” there, I would have the absolute leverage to demand they be fired. But to my surprise, the one who reacted most violently wasn’t Aurora, but the System. It screamed in my head: “Absolutely NOT!!!” I closed my eyes in exasperation. “Why are you freaking out?” The System frantically explained: “That transfer student is the Male Lead #2! He is a literal genius. He takes first place without even trying. At first, the Female Lead is crushed by this, but eventually, she starts looking up to him as a role model, and their relationship slowly heats up!” I was genuinely confused. “And?” The System sounded like it was pulling its hair out. “Do you not get it? He’s supposed to be the beacon of inspiration on her path forward!” I maintained my confused tone. “Using your rival as motivation is just good sportsmanship. That just means my daughter has a great mindset. What does the specific identity of the rival have to do with anything?” The System seemed to choke. “But… but…” It stammered for a long time but couldn’t form a coherent argument. I continued calmly: “Making the Female Lead suffer setbacks just so she can ‘grow’ isn’t loving the Female Lead. On the contrary, it’s just a cheap plot device to give Male Lead #2 a chance to show off. The underlying logic is still heavily male-centric. “True love means paving a smooth road for her, allowing her to step on everyone else as she climbs to the top.” The System fell silent for a long time before finally saying weakly, “But in all the missions I’ve overseen, the plots are always like this. The Female Lead must be misunderstood, framed by villains, and endure every possible hardship before she can rise from the ashes and truly find happiness.” I shook my head, pointing out the glaring flaw: “Then think back to the Male Leads in those stories. Don’t they always come from generational wealth? The greatest hardship they ever experience in their entire lives is a mild stomach ulcer. The Female Lead’s entire happiness relies solely on his love. What happens if he withdraws that love? She is left with absolutely nothing.” I concluded: “These stories are categorized as female romance, but at their core, they are just male power fantasies.” The System finally stopped arguing. It had been completely dismantled by my logic. After a while, it sighed. “But if she leaves Male Lead #2, that’s another plot point missed that could have raised her Happiness Meter. How is the story supposed to progress now…” I didn’t answer it. Because right at that moment, Aurora had finished thinking. Her eyes were dancing with excitement, though she hesitated. “Really? Can we really? But private school tuition is so expensive.” I smiled and ruffled her hair. “Of course we can! Mommy has made quite a bit of money over the years.” Over the years, aside from raising my daughter, I had been diligently running my own business. I hadn’t just sat around waiting for my daughter to marry a billionaire so I could ride her coattails, like in the original plot. Aurora’s eyes grew red, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She hugged me tightly. “Thank you, Mom. I know you’re doing this to give me a better environment. I promise I will study so hard. I won’t let you down!” In that moment, I thought: My daughter has truly grown up. In the past, I’d seen parents who loved “hardship education,” constantly reminding their kids how hard they worked and how much they sacrificed for them. But what’s the point? It just breeds unnecessary guilt. If you genuinely care for your child, they will naturally feel it. I wrapped my arms around Aurora. “Mommy’s biggest hope isn’t that you get perfect grades. It’s that you are truly happy.” 05 The transfer process went incredibly smoothly. With the dark cloud lifted from her mind, she became even more focused on her studies. I also hired a private math tutor for her. She was a female instructor who had graduated from the math department at MIT. Perhaps, currently, there are relatively fewer women who reach the absolute pinnacle in STEM fields. But that doesn’t mean “women are naturally unsuited for STEM.” On the contrary, it’s precisely because there are so many voices of doubt on this path that girls become increasingly discouraged. More than just tutoring, my main goal in hiring this specific instructor was to provide a role model. Even if very few people walk this path, as long as someone has walked it, it proves the path is viable. If someone else can do it, I believe my daughter can do it too. Because she is so brilliant and so resilient. … The day Aurora finished her SATs and college applications, my company was officially incorporated. Standing outside the testing center waiting for her, I asked the System: “Can you check Aurora’s current Happiness Meter?” The System replied: “One moment.” A few seconds later, it gasped in shock: “76%!” I didn’t understand. “Is that high?” The System’s voice was practically trembling. “Very high! Out of all the hosts who started missions at the same time as us, your score is the highest!” Just then, Aurora came skipping out of the testing center. She grabbed my arm, beaming. “Mom! The exams went so well! I’m confident—I guarantee you’ll be getting an acceptance call from MIT!” I smiled and took her backpack. “Oh my goodness! Then I really am riding my little Aurora’s coattails.” In the original novel, the Female Lead had to work multiple part-time jobs just to scrape together tuition while attending college. Despite working incredibly hard, she was still inevitably dragged down by external drama. In the end, she only managed to get into an average state college. In this life, I cleared every obstacle in her path so she could study in peace. And she was able to unleash her full potential, securing a spot at the most prestigious university in the country. The path of her life visibly widened. Even if she never married into a billionaire family, she now had the power to build her own empire. The System sighed in my head. “Host, perhaps your choice was correct. You really did change the trajectory of her life, and you changed my perspective too.” I smirked slightly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. 06 Aurora was accepted into the math department at MIT, just as she hoped. She was invited back to her high school to give a speech. On the auditorium stage, Aurora was radiant. After sharing her study tips, she concluded: “…And finally, I want to say this to all the girls here today. If a teacher ever tells you, ‘Girls aren’t suited for STEM,’ or ‘The boys will eventually overtake you,’ please, absolutely do not believe them. “I am standing here today hoping that in the future, when you start to doubt yourselves or your abilities, you might think of me. Think of the person who got accepted into MIT’s math program. And remember… she was a girl, too.” When she finished, the auditorium erupted in thunderous applause. I saw with my own eyes several girls who had been staring at the floor with bored expressions suddenly snap their heads up, their eyes shining with a fierce light. I also saw the Vice Principal who had once belittled my daughter. His face was a sickly shade of green. The Principal standing next to him suddenly looked like he had an epiphany. As if he finally understood why, no matter how hard he tried to convince us to stay, he couldn’t change my daughter’s determination to leave. I don’t know, nor do I care, how furious that Principal must have been at losing a brilliant student destined for MIT. Because we had already crossed mountains and sailed far beyond them. 07 After Aurora went to college, I fully dedicated myself to my business. We were both fighting hard in our respective fields. Some nosy acquaintances would tell me: “Why are you working so hard? You have a daughter, not a son. It’s not like you have to buy her a house or pay for a wedding.” I would just smile faintly. “Then it must suck to be your daughter. My daughter is lucky. The harder I work now, the less she has to suffer in the future. Everything I have is hers, and it’s definitely not going to be limited to just a house or a measly wedding fund.” The person’s face would sour, and they’d quickly shut up. After they left, the System asked me: “Host, I don’t really understand human emotions. Did she say that because she has a son?” I shook my head. “No. She has a daughter too. An only child.” The System was surprised. “Then why did she say that to you? Does she not love her own daughter?” I fell silent for a long time, unsure how to explain the complexities of human nature to a machine. “Maybe she does love her. But clearly, even though she gave birth to a daughter, she still values sons more.” The belief that you have to grind and hustle if you have a son, but you can kick back and relax if you have a daughter… It’s an insidious form of deeply ingrained sexism. In their hearts, they probably hold more affection for the imaginary son they never had. And because of that, they project those feelings onto sons-in-law or nephews. So, is it love? Maybe it’s love, but it’s a very conditional love. After all, “put your money where your mouth is” is the eternal, unchanging truth.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407072”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On a community forum I frequented, a girl posted a listing: “One mature, steady Golden Retriever.” “Unable to keep him due to personal reasons.” “Any ladies interested, DM me. First come, first served!” Knowing how much my husband loved Golden Retrievers, I immediately sent her a private message. The next day, I showed up at the address she gave me. I had barely knocked when the door clicked and swung open a crack. A man wearing a plush Golden Retriever mask was on his hands and knees. He nudged his head affectionately against the girl’s hand, rubbing his face into her palm. “Stacey, I’m your dog. Only yours. You can’t give me away.” “I’m not married. That marriage certificate is a fake.” The girl whimpered softly, looking incredibly wronged. “What does it matter if the certificate is fake?” “You’ll still live with her. You’ll have children together.” The man’s face tightened with panic. He hurriedly reached up to wipe away her tears. “I slipped her something. She can’t have kids.” “As soon as my company goes public, I’ll leave her.” The girl’s tears vanished, replaced by a radiant smile. She mentioned hearing my knock and urged him to open the door fully. When the door swung wide, I froze. My husband was playing dog for another woman. 1 The air went deathly quiet. A flash of shock and sheer panic seized Carter’s face. He lunged to slam the door, but I grabbed the handle, my knuckles turning white. “Carter, you…” I stared at him, my vision tunneling. Before I could finish, the girl stepped into the entryway. “You must be the lady who messaged yesterday about picking up the dog.” “I am so sorry about this.” “My boyfriend and I had a fight. The Golden Retriever I posted about… is actually him.” She looked at me, her expression practically dripping with apologetic sweetness. “We made up today. I completely forgot to tell you not to come.” My gaze darted back and forth between Carter and the girl. My mind was a screaming blank. I couldn’t process a single word she was saying. I opened my mouth, desperate to form a sound, but Carter shot me a warning glare that cut me to the bone. Seeing me speechless, the girl playfully punched Carter in the chest. “This is all your fault. You made this poor woman come all the way out here for nothing.” Carter soaked up her touch like a sponge. He immediately wrapped his arms around her waist, his voice dripping with indulgent affection. “Stacey, you’re right. It’s all my fault.” “Punish me however you want, but please, don’t give me away.” “I’m your dog. I only answer to you.” I snapped back to reality, a plastic, strained smile stretching across my face. Stacey unclipped a slender silk scarf from her handbag and held it out to me. “Here, to make up for the trouble, take this.” Before I could react, she took a step forward and deftly looped the fabric around my neck. “It’s a Hermes Twilly.” “We went out on December 3rd and my boyfriend was late, so he bought this for me to hit the quota for a bag.” I stopped breathing. The silk was cool against my skin, but my neck burned as if scorched by an iron. December 3rd was my birthday. Carter had been out of state, supposedly drowning in meetings for the IPO. He had offered to fly back just to celebrate with me, but, worried about him taking a red-eye flight, I had told him: “You’re working too hard, honey. We can celebrate when you get back.” Right after we hung up, a small silk scarf had been delivered to our apartment. The exact same scarf now tied around my neck. I had held that little piece of silk like it was a holy relic. I stared at it until my eyes blurred, terrified of ruining it. I had silently vowed, right then and there, to do whatever it took to help him get his company off the ground. Only now did I realize that the gift I cherished like a treasure was nothing more than a leftover consolation prize he had bought for his mistress. Before I could find my voice, Stacey chimed in with breathless enthusiasm. “You must be a massive dog lover to drive all the way out here.” “My boyfriend loves dogs too. Golden Retrievers are his favorite.” “If you ever find a real one, you have to send me a picture!” My face felt entirely drained of blood. Carter cleared his throat softly. “She came a long way. It wasn’t an easy drive.” “It’s getting late. We should let her head home.” Stacey gave a theatrical, exaggerated pout. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say.” “You men are so clueless. You don’t understand girls at all. You’re so annoying!” As she pushed the door shut, Stacey leaned up and planted a quick, echoing kiss on Carter’s cheek. Listening to their muffled laughter from behind the closed door, my gaze dropped to my stomach. Tears finally breached the dam, blurring my vision. No wonder we hadn’t been able to conceive all these years. I pulled the IPO application files out of my tote bag. I stared at the thick stack of paper. For months, I had been quietly working behind the scenes, untangling the legal red tape for his company. This final application was all that was left. It was supposed to be my grand surprise for him. But now, there was no point. I tore the documents down the middle, again and again, until my hands ached, and shoved the pieces into a nearby trash can. As I walked out of her apartment complex, my phone buzzed. A text from Carter. [Wait for me. Let’s go home together. I’ll explain everything.] 2 I didn’t reply. He fired off three more texts in rapid succession. I powered off my phone. When I finally got back to our apartment, I turned it back on. A notification popped up immediately. [‘Golden Retriever Breeder’ has followed you back.] It was Stacey. She had followed my social media account. We had been together for eight years. Married for six. Driven by a morbid, masochistic curiosity, I tapped into her profile. [May 20, 2021: Met my absolute crush today. Should I make the first move?] [May 20, 2022: Finally dating my crush! I went for it, and I got him.] [May 20, 2023: One-year anniversary! He got me a Hermes bag. Beyond happy!] May 20th. Our wedding anniversary. It was also the day Carter started his relationship with another woman. The dates burned my eyes. I realized, with a sickening jolt, that we hadn’t actually celebrated our anniversary in years. On May 20, 2021, Carter was in the early, desperate stages of his startup. I had attended a grueling dinner with potential investors on his behalf, drinking until I vomited blood and ended up in the ER with a gastric hemorrhage. On May 20, 2022, I worked a double shift to cover our rent. Walking home in the dark, I was harassed by two men and narrowly escaped being assaulted. When I called Carter, trembling and terrified, he told me he was busy and hastily hung up. On May 20, 2023, he finally promised we’d have time to celebrate. I waited up until past midnight. I got a phone call instead of a husband. I ordered a plain bowl of noodles and ate it alone at the kitchen counter to ring in our third anniversary. And the years after that… 2024, 2025… I barely even remembered them. Six years of marriage. Five years of infidelity. A wave of sheer, suffocating despair crashed over me, pulling me under. Late that night, Carter finally came home. Seeing me sitting barefoot on the hardwood floor, his brow furrowed in that familiar, protective way. He scooped me into his arms. “You’re going to catch a cold sitting on the floor like this.” “Chloe, you’re doing this just to make me worry, aren’t you?” Tears spilling down my cheeks, I shoved him away with all my strength. “Stop acting. Do you really give a damn about me?” “Drugging me. Cheating on me for five out of our six years of marriage.” “That was all you, wasn’t it?” “Oh, wait. We aren’t even married, are we?” Huge, heavy tears dropped from my face, splashing onto the wood. It felt like someone was physically tearing my heart in two. Carter lunged forward and grabbed me in a tight embrace. “Chloe, calm down. It’s not what you think.” “My future was so uncertain back then. I didn’t want you gambling your life on me. I didn’t want to trap you in a marriage.” “As for Stacey… once the company goes public, I promise I’ll give you a proper explanation.” My control shattered. Ignoring the sharp, twisting pain flaring in my stomach, I screamed at him. “Do you think I’m that pathetic?” Carter’s face darkened with anger. He opened his mouth to snap back, but his phone started ringing frantically. He answered it. Stacey’s shrill, furious voice echoed from the speaker. “Carter, are you with that old woman right now?” “I knew you were lying to me earlier.” Carter looked momentarily annoyed, but his voice instantly dropped into a soft, coaxing purr. “I’m not with her.” “I’m out taking care of some business. I’ll be right back.” Listening to him lie so effortlessly, a bitter, breathless laugh escaped my lips. Five years. Countless days and nights. This was exactly how he had been lying to me. Stacey’s voice spiked in volume. “That old hag is right there next to you!” “Carter, you’re still lying to me!” Carter froze, realizing what she meant. His voice turned ice-cold. “How do you know that?” Stacey broke into dramatic, heaving sobs. “You installed spyware on my phone to make me feel ‘secure,’ remember?!” “And now you’re mad at me!” She sounded like she was on the verge of a total breakdown. “Carter, I trusted you! How could you lie to me?” “You come back here right now, or I swear to God, I’ll jump off the balcony!” Right at that moment, a cold sweat broke out across my body. The pain in my stomach exploded into agony. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the floor. Carter caught me just in time. His face was a mask of sheer panic and conflict. “Stacey, Chloe just collapsed.” “I think she’s really sick…” Before he could finish, a photo came through. Stacey, sitting precariously on the ledge of a high-rise window. “Carter, if you aren’t here in five minutes, I’m jumping.” Carter bolted for the door. Just before I lost consciousness, I heard him say: “Chloe, call an ambulance.” “I know Stacey. If she doesn’t see me, she’ll actually do it.” 3 When I opened my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room blinded me. I forced myself to sit up, my mouth dry as dust. “Where’s my laptop bag?” The doctor standing near the bed sighed in exasperation. “You young people treat your bodies like garbage.” “You nearly went into hypovolemic shock from a severe gastric bleed, and the first thing you ask about is work?” His words dragged me fully back to reality. I used to work myself to the bone just to ease Carter’s burdens. Now… now it all felt like a sick, twisted joke I had played on myself. The doctor gave me a few stern instructions and left the room. As the door swung shut, I caught the hushed gossip of two nurses passing by in the hallway. “It’s crazy how different patients get treated.” “The girl in Room 3 with the stomach bleed? She almost died.” “When we called her husband, he actually told us gastric bleeding only happens from binge drinking and told her to stop faking it.” “But that young girl in the VIP suite? She just scraped her knee.” “Her boyfriend completely lost his mind. Demanded a consultation from every department head in the building.” “I heard he’s the CEO of the Carter Group.” “God, she’s so lucky. That’s the kind of man you want to marry.” I rolled over, curling into a tight ball, clutching my aching chest. The man who had brought me stomach medicine yesterday, gently scolding me to eat on time. Today, he was the hospital’s shining example of a perfect, devoted partner to someone else. Carter. You made my entire existence feel like a punchline. Before I could dwell on it, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. “Did you start those rumors online about Stacey being a homewrecker?” “Her DMs are flooded with death threats.” “She’s just a young girl, Chloe. She can’t handle this kind of abuse.” “You’ve gone too far this time.” The interrogation hit me like a physical blow. Carter’s rage was palpable through the speaker. Cheated on for years. Robbed of my ability to have children. And now, branded a cyberbully. I couldn’t stop myself from defending what little dignity I had left. “Carter, I wouldn’t waste my time doing something like that.” “If you don’t believe me, hire someone to trace the IP address.” He let out a harsh, dismissive scoff. “The truth doesn’t matter anymore.” “Stacey is hysterical. You need to apologize to her, publicly.” My voice shook. “Why the hell should I?” Tears slipped silently onto my pillow. A memory flashed in my mind—Carter at twenty years old. We were so broke back then. Working back-to-back shifts just to survive. Once, my boss at the convenience store grabbed me inappropriately. When I told Carter, he didn’t say a word. He just marched down to the store and laid the guy out with two punches. He ended up in a holding cell that night. But when I visited him, he wasn’t scared. He just cupped my face through the bars and said so softly: “Chloe, don’t cry. It’ll be okay.” “I swear, I will always protect you. I’ll never let anyone hurt you.” Eight years. In just eight short years, the boy who swore to protect me had become the man destroying me. Carter laughed, a cold, empty sound. “Fine. Don’t apologize.” “But it’s going to be a real shame when all of your sister’s academic research mysteriously goes up in smoke.” A wave of pure, paralyzing terror washed over me. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. “Mia and I only have each other. You know she has Asperger’s.” “Her biology research is her entire world. If you ruin that, you ruin her life.” Carter’s voice was utterly devoid of emotion. “Whether Mia is hailed as a brilliant young scholar or exposed as an ‘academic fraud’ who slept her way to the top… that’s entirely up to you.” “Make your choice, Chloe.” I choked back a sob, my nails digging into my palms until they bled. “I’ll apologize.” 4 Following Carter’s orders, I walked into Stacey’s VIP suite. It was massive—a full bedroom and a sprawling lounge area. The lounge was packed wall-to-wall with reporters, their camera lenses trained like weapons. Carter pulled me aside, his grip bruising my arm. His eyes were dark with warning. “Apologize properly. Once Stacey forgives you, this all goes away.” I looked up at him, my vision swimming with tears. “How exactly do you want me to apologize so that ‘Miss Stacey’ is satisfied?” “Do I say I made it all up? Or do I admit that I am the actual mistress?” A flicker of hesitation—maybe even guilt—crossed Carter’s face. “You don’t have to call yourself a mistress. That’s a bit…” Stacey strolled into the lounge, cutting him off effortlessly. “Of course she has to admit she’s the mistress. I want her to know exactly how it feels.” She didn’t look remotely surprised to see me. She practically melted into Carter’s side. “Carter, I need her to admit she’s the other woman. It’s the only way I’ll feel better.” “Otherwise…” She didn’t finish the threat, but Carter’s posture instantly went rigid. His face hardened into stone. “Do what Stacey says.” The reporters readied their mics. The live streams were up. Thousands of people were pouring into the feeds. Standing in the center of that room, under the glare of the ring lights, I felt myself free-falling into an abyss. I opened my mouth. “Hello, everyone. I am the person who spread the malicious rumors about Miss Stacey being a homewrecker.” “I am here to apologize to Miss Stacey.” “I apologize for being with a man for six years, only to be cheated on for five. I apologize for being handed a fake marriage certificate. And I apologize for letting a monster secretly drug me until I was permanently infertile.” Chaos erupted. The live stream chats exploded with hashtags: #[StaceyHomewrecker], #[StaceyApologize]. Stacey’s phone began pinging incessantly, a relentless barrage of incoming hate. Carter Group’s stock price immediately began to tank in real-time. Carter scrambled, screaming at the media to cut the feeds. He turned to me, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. “Chloe, are you really forcing my hand?” A second later, my phone rang. It was Mia. She was sobbing hysterically. “Chloe, everyone at school is looking at me weird.” “They’re calling me a fraud. They’re saying I slept with the professors to get my papers published.” “Why are they saying that, Chloe?” “Did I do something wrong? Did I make them mad?” “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” I could hear the sickening thud, thud, thud of Mia hitting herself in the head. Every strike felt like a sledgehammer to my own skull. Mia’s world consisted of two things: her biology research, and me. If they took her research, she wouldn’t survive it. I hadn’t expected Carter to pull the trigger so fast. “Mia, sweetie, listen to me. They’re just jealous of how smart you are. I’m going to fix this right now, okay?” I fought to keep my voice steady, bolting toward the hospital doors as I spoke. But before I even made it to the lobby, Carter’s security team intercepted me. They dragged me backward, locking my arms behind my back. As the minutes ticked by, I felt the true, chilling extent of Carter’s cruelty. “Carter, I’m sorry. Please, let my sister go.” “I’ll go back out there right now. I’ll say I’m the mistress.” He let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “Five minutes. You cost my company millions in five minutes.” “If you want to apologize now, you have to tell them you suffer from severe schizophrenia.” “I think you know exactly what story to tell to make the internet believe you.” I knew exactly what he meant. It was my deepest, most agonizing scar. I had only ever told one person in my entire life. Carter. And now, he was taking that secret, sharpening it into a blade, and plunging it into my chest. My entire body shook violently. My fingernails bit into my palms, slick with my own blood. “I know.” In the center of the lounge, the cameras were back on. “Hello everyone. I am Chloe. I am an employee of the Carter Group, and I am the one who fabricated the rumors about Miss Stacey.” “I confess that everything I said about her was a lie.” “When I was a child, I was sexually assaulted by my cousin. It caused me to develop severe schizophrenia. Mr. Carter saved my life once.” “I fell in love with him. Because my feelings were unrequited, I grew insanely jealous of Miss Stacey and tried to ruin her reputation.” “I sincerely apologize to Mr. Carter and Miss Stacey.” I forced every word out of my throat. Within a minute, the narrative flipped. The internet rallied, branding me a delusional, ungrateful psychopath. And worse—someone leaked Mia’s condition. The mob demanded a full investigation into the “mentally ill” sister’s academic credentials. I used every ounce of strength I had left to dial Carter’s number, but it rang out. I needed him to retract the fake evidence against Mia, but his and Stacey’s suite was heavily guarded. No one was allowed in. His voice drifted through the heavy wooden door. “You can leave when Stacey decides she’s ready to forgive you.” The guards forced me to my knees in the hallway. Finally, someone picked up my phone. “Are you the next of kin for the deceased? Please come down to the precinct to identify the body.” The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the floor. The voice on the other end kept talking, but I couldn’t hear the words anymore. I threw my entire body weight forward, violently breaking free from the guard’s grip. I sprinted toward the window at the end of the corridor. And I jumped. Carter. In this life or the next, I hope to God I never see your face again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407041”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My husband didn’t ask for my permission. He just took it—a vial of my blood, stolen while I slept, to see if I was a match for his “One Who Got Away.” That night, he came home practically vibrating with a manic sort of joy. He pulled me into a crushing hug, his breath smelling of expensive scotch and desperation. “Elena, it’s a miracle. You’re a perfect match. You can save Serena. You can give her the bone marrow she needs.” I looked into Miles’s eyes, searching for a flicker of the man I thought I’d married three years ago. All I saw was a stranger obsessed with a ghost from his past. I placed a hand on my stomach and whispered, “Miles, I’m pregnant.” His expression didn’t even soften. “We can have another baby later,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, manipulative register he used when he wanted a deal closed. “But if Serena misses this window, she’s gone. She’ll never recover.” He gripped my shoulders, his fingers digging in. “Elena, if you ever truly loved me, don’t make me live the rest of my life with this regret. Don’t let her die.” I looked at him for a long beat, the silence stretching between us like a physical chasm. Finally, I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.” ………… “Have you lost your mind? You’re seven months along, Elena. You’re talking about terminating a third-trimester pregnancy for a transplant?” Dr. Joanna Miller slammed her water glass onto the mahogany desk, the sharp crack echoing through the sterile private clinic. Joanna had been my mother’s best friend for decades; she’d seen me through every scraped knee and every heartbreak. Now, she looked at me with a mixture of terror and fury. “This isn’t just irresponsible to the baby,” she hissed, her eyes bright with tears. “It’s a death wish for you. You’ve always had a delicate system. An induction this late? You’re looking at permanent infertility, or worse. Hemorrhage, sepsis—the risks are astronomical.” I sat on the edge of the examination table, my fingers tracing the hem of my maternity top. I felt hollow, as if the soul had already left the room. “I don’t want the baby anymore, Joanna. Just… please. Help me end it.” Joanna slumped into her chair, her face aging a decade in seconds. She didn’t say another word; she just picked up the phone and dialed my mother. A moment later, the door swung open. Miles marched in, checking his Rolex with an air of clinical impatience. “Are we done yet? How long does a simple procedure take? Serena’s vitals are dipping. She needs that marrow yesterday.” Joanna’s head snapped up. She took in Miles’s expensive suit and his callous expression, and the pieces clicked together. “Elena, tell me you aren’t doing this for her,” she whispered. “Tell me you aren’t sacrificing your child for his mistress.” I kept my head down, staring at my shoes. Miles let out an exasperated sigh. “Are you going to perform the surgery or not, Doctor? If you’re too ‘emotional’ for the job, stop wasting our time. There are plenty of other clinics in the city.” “I will not be a party to this butchery,” Joanna said, her voice trembling with cold rage. “Fine. Expect a formal complaint for patient abandonment,” Miles snapped. He turned on his heel and stormed out. As the door swung, I saw the faces in the waiting room. They had heard the shouting. I saw the way they looked at Miles—pure, unadulterated disgust. Then they looked at me, and their pity felt like acid on my skin. One older woman even stepped forward as Miles disappeared down the hall. “Honey,” she whispered, leaning into the room. “Don’t do this. That man… he isn’t worth the dirt on your boots.” “Is it true?” another woman chimed in from the hallway. “You’re giving up your child for his ex? That’s not love, sweetie. That’s… well, it’s pathetic.” I swallowed hard, my voice a mere ghost. “You don’t understand him. He’s just… stressed.” Joanna stood up and slammed the door shut, cutting off the whispers. She grabbed my shoulders, checking my arms, my neck, her eyes searching for bruises. “Elena, look at me. Is he hurting you? Is he blackmailing you? I will call the police right now.” I shook my head, a small, jagged smile playing on my lips. “I just want him to be happy, Joanna. If he’s happy, nothing else matters.” Before I could finish the lie, a sharp, stinging pain erupted across my shoulders. I spun around. My mother, Katherine, was standing there in her wheelchair, her face a mask of grief and fury. She was gripping her cane, her knuckles white. She swung it again, hitting my arm with a desperate, clumsy force. “I’ll kill you myself!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “I’ll kill you before I let you be this foolish! You disgraceful, spineless girl!” I stood there and took it. I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. I was an only child. Three years ago, my parents were involved in a horrific car accident while scouting a new location for our family’s textile empire. My mother lost the use of her legs. My father ended up in the ICU, clinging to life by a thread. On his deathbed, Miles had proposed to me. He had knelt by the beeping monitors and sworn to my father that he would take my name, protect our legacy, and care for my mother until her last breath. My father, moved to tears, changed his will. The company went to Miles and me. My mother was left with the real estate, but she didn’t care. She just wanted me to be loved. She wanted a grandchild to fill the silence of the house my father left behind. And today, I was destroying everything she lived for. “Get on your knees,” my mother sobbed. I sank to the floor. She cupped my face with her trembling hands, her tears falling onto my cheeks. “Why, Elena? If he has something on you, tell me. I’ll give him everything. I’ll give him every house, every cent, just tell me the truth. Don’t do this.” “Mom,” I whispered, my heart feeling like it was being squeezed by hot pliers. “I just love him. I’d do anything for him.” Her hand came down across my face—a sharp, ringing slap. Miles burst back into the room then, grabbing my arm and yanking me up. He stepped between us, shielding me from my mother. “Katherine, enough! You’ll bruise the donor site. She has a procedure to get to.” My mother looked like she was having a heart attack. Her finger shook as she pointed at him. “You think we don’t know? Everyone knows you’ve been sneaking around with Serena Vance for months. But I never thought you were a monster, Miles. This is your child. Your son.” Miles’s face darkened, turning into a mask of cold arrogance. “Katherine, Serena and I are friends. If you keep spreading these sordid rumors, you’re only embarrassing your daughter. Not me.” He looked at me then, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He knew he had me. He had always known. I was the rich girl who had chased him, the “trophy husband” from the wrong side of the tracks. I had spent our entire marriage trying to prove I wasn’t looking down on him, and in doing so, I’d given him the whip to lash me with. “Elena,” my mother begged, grabbing my hand. “Leave him. Divorce him. Have this baby. He can have the Lynn name, he can be our legacy. Just don’t do this.” I pulled my hand away slowly. “I’m an adult, Mom. Let me make my own choices. If you keep pushing me… I’ll have to cut you out of my life.” The color drained from her face. She looked like she had aged twenty years in a heartbeat. Just then, my mother-in-law arrived. She didn’t even look at me; she just grabbed the handles of my mother’s wheelchair and started pushing her toward the exit. “Oh, hush now, Katherine. They can have another one. A baby is just a baby. I had four miscarriages and three abortions trying to get a boy before Miles came along. It’s no big deal.” “Stop! Let go of me!” my mother screamed. In her desperation, she tried to hurl herself out of the moving wheelchair. She hit the floor hard, her cane skittering across the linoleum. Her designer handbag fell open, and out tumbled a pair of tiny, hand-knitted baby booties and a small, quilted blanket. She had spent months on them. She told me that a baby who wears shoes knitted by their grandmother will always find their way home… Now, they were just trash on a hospital floor. My mother crawled toward me, holding up one of the tiny blue booties. “Elena, please. Look at these. Do you really have the heart?” I bit my lip until I tasted blood and turned away. I looked at Joanna. “Do it, Joanna. I won’t go to another doctor. I want you to do it.” I grabbed the consent forms and scrawled my signature before anyone could stop me. “Elena…” my mother gave one last, haunting cry before she fainted. Joanna sighed, a sound of pure defeat. She knew if she didn’t do it, Miles would take me to some back-alley clinic where I’d likely bleed out. I lay on the cold operating table, the induction medication coursing through my veins. The pain was unlike anything I’d ever imagined—as if my body was being physically ripped in half by a dull blade. I drifted in and out of consciousness, sweat stinging my eyes. Then, a sudden, sickening lightness. Something was gone. I heard the nurse whisper, her voice thick with pity. “It was a boy. Perfect little thing. What a waste…” A single tear slid into my ear. After the procedure, I was a ghost. I was weak, hollowed out, but Miles didn’t care. He had me transferred to another hospital within hours. Serena was there. Waiting for my marrow. I didn’t see Miles for those three days. I didn’t see Serena. My mother sat by my bed in her wheelchair, her eyes red and swollen. She didn’t tell me what was happening, but I heard the nurses gossiping in the hall. Miles had apparently been screaming at the surgeons to operate the moment I arrived. But the doctors refused. They told him I was too weak, that I might die on the table if they harvested the marrow now. He had spent those three days in Serena’s room, holding her hand, whispered sweet nothings while I recovered enough to be harvested. I stared at the ceiling, feeling nothing. No anger. No sadness. Just a cold, dead vacuum where my heart used to be. My mother went to get some soup, leaving the room silent. I closed my eyes, trying to disappear. “Elena? Hey, big sister. We came to say thanks.” I opened my eyes. Miles and Serena were standing there, their fingers interlaced. Serena was glowing. She was wearing full makeup and a silk robe that had clearly been tailored to look like a hospital gown—flirty, delicate, seductive. She didn’t look like someone on the brink of death. She looked like she was at a spa. Compared to her, I was a wreck—pale, hair matted with sweat, smelling of antiseptic and grief. Miles didn’t even look at me. His eyes were glued to Serena, as if she were the only source of light in the world. He didn’t notice the door was open, or the freezing draft from the hallway that made me shiver under the thin sheets. “Get out,” a voice cracked like a whip. My mother was back. She used her cane to shove Miles away from the bed, and then she threw the container of hot soup right at Serena. Serena shrieked, ducking behind Miles. The soup splashed harmlessly on the floor, but she acted as if she’d been doused in acid, clinging to Miles’s chest. “I’ve tolerated your disrespect because you’re family,” Miles growled at my mother, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. “But if you touch Serena again, I don’t care how old you are. I’ll make you regret it.” My mother began to sob, the sound raw and broken. Then, a tall, imposing man stepped into the room. He moved with a quiet authority that instantly changed the air. He stepped next to my mother, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. “Is there a problem here, Miles?” he asked. “Are you really threatening a woman in a wheelchair?” It was Arthur Bennett. My father’s oldest friend, the COO of our company, and a man who had known me since I was in diapers. He set a bag of groceries on my nightstand, his eyes softening as he looked at my pale face. He walked over and firmly shut the door. Miles cleared his throat, clearly intimidated but trying to hide it. “Serena has something to say to Elena.” Serena reached into her designer bag and pulled out a stack of legal documents. She handed them to me with a shy, faux-innocent smile. “Elena, please don’t take this the wrong way. But I’ve read stories online… about donors who give once and then refuse to help if there’s a relapse. For my peace of mind, could you sign this? It’s just an agreement that if I need another transplant in a few years, you’ll be there for me.” My mother began to cough violently, her face turning purple with rage. Arthur looked like he wanted to throw Miles out the window. I looked at the papers, then at Miles. I smiled—a small, chilling thing. “Of course. I’ll sign. I’m happy to help.” Arthur froze. My mother looked at me with pure despair. “I should have died with your father,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have lived to see this.” My chest tightened, but I didn’t stop. I signed my name in a firm, clear hand: Elena Lynn. Miles’s face lit up with greedy satisfaction. He pulled out another folder. “Since you’re going to be recovering for a while, Elena, you won’t have the energy for the company. I’ve prepared some documents to give me full power of attorney over your shares. It’ll make things easier.” Arthur slammed his hand down on the papers. “Elena, don’t. I came here to tell you—this boy has been draining the company accounts for months. He’s stripping the assets, moving them into shell companies. If you sign this, the Lynn legacy is gone. He’s gutting us.” I looked at Arthur, my expression serene. “Arthur, you’re being paranoid. Miles loves me. He’s my husband. Why would he hurt me? It doesn’t matter whose name is on the paperwork, right?” I signed the second set of papers. Arthur slumped into a chair, a mountain of a man reduced to tears. “Oh, Edward… I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save your home.” The moment the ink was dry, Miles grabbed the folders and headed for the door. In the hallway, I heard him barking at a passing doctor. “Start the harvest! Now!” “But Mr. Scott, her vitals are still—” “I said now! If she dies, she dies. Just get the marrow!” I went under the knife in a haze of betrayal. I didn’t see Miles again after the surgery. Two weeks later, while my mother was finalizing my discharge papers, I slipped out of the hospital and took a cab to our house. When I walked through the front door, I stopped. Miles was on the velvet sofa, Serena curled up in his lap. They were laughing at a comedy special on TV. Miles looked up, his brow furrowing as if I were a telemarketer who had interrupted his dinner. “What are you doing here?” I smiled. “I missed you.” He rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t have called? You’re ruining the mood.” Serena ran a hand down Miles’s arm. “Oh, don’t be grumpy, babe. It’s fine that Elena’s back. I’ve actually been craving her signature seafood chowder.” Miles glanced at me. “Well? You heard her. Go on.” I was ushered into the kitchen like a servant to cook for them. I listened to their laughter echoing from the living room. That night, Miles took Serena into our master bedroom. I lay in the guest room, staring at the wall, listening to the sounds of their intimacy through the thin drywall. They weren’t even trying to be quiet. Eventually, I got up, threw on a robe, and knocked on their door. Miles ripped the door open, looking like a feral animal. “Are you insane? It’s two in the morning! What is wrong with you?” I looked at him, my voice flat. “I lost my baby and gave up my health for your girlfriend. And this is how you treat me?” Miles let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “You’re barren now, Elena. The doctors said the induction did too much damage. I need an heir. Serena told me that when she has my baby, she’ll let you be the godmother. You should be thanking her for being so generous. Without her, you’d die alone in a gutter with no one to claim your body.” “And what am I to you?” I asked quietly. “What is she?” He sneered. “I knew your ‘kindness’ was an act. You’re finally showing your true colors, trying to cling to a title you don’t deserve. You Lynns always looked down on me. The ‘charity case’ husband. Well, I’m done. Get out.” He reached into a drawer and threw a packet of papers at my chest. “I don’t want anything from your pathetic family.” I looked at the papers. In the divorce settlement, I got the company back. He kept everything else—the real estate, the liquid cash, the cars. He had already finished the asset transfer. He had left me a hollowed-out shell of a business. Without a word, I signed. He signed: Miles Scott. The second the ink dried, Serena’s “sweet girl” persona vanished. She stood up, her eyes gleaming with malice, and began throwing my clothes and suitcases out onto the driveway. “Now,” she spat. “Get the hell out of my house.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407042”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had been following a popular home-renovation influencer online, and on a whim, I brought up the idea of finally fixing up the house my late parents had left me. My husband shut it down immediately. “We already have a nice place to live. Why would you waste time renovating that old house?” Without his support, I let the idea die. Until this weekend. I was walking past my old neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to film a quick video of the exterior. The front door swung open, and a woman and I locked eyes. Behind her, the home I had lived in for over twenty years was completely unrecognizable. And I knew this woman. She was the exact home-renovation influencer I had been following. 01 I stared at the brass numbers on the door, checking them three times just to be absolutely certain I hadn’t made a mistake. But how could I? I had lived in this house for over two decades. You don’t forget the geometry of your own childhood. A hot spike of anger shot through my chest. “Who are you?” I demanded. “Is this your house?” The woman looked at me like I had lost my mind. She cleared her throat, shifting her weight defensively. “If it isn’t mine, is it yours? Back off, lady. You’re acting crazy.” Before I could utter another word, she slammed the door in my face. I stood frozen on the welcome mat, the blood turning to ice in my veins. A rapid-fire montage of every single video this influencer had ever posted flashed behind my eyes. In her polished, aesthetically pleasing clips, she constantly talked about her husband. Her eyes would crinkle with that saccharine, newlywed sweetness. I vividly remembered one specific video where she mentioned her husband had a severe mushroom allergy. I had even left a comment: Wow, what a small world! My husband has a severe mushroom allergy too! Small world. Right. After my parents passed away in quick succession, my husband, Ryan, had taken over the management of their estate. I couldn’t bear to go back—the grief was still too raw, the ghosts too loud—and between the heavy fog of mourning and raising our toddler, I had simply trusted him. I never imagined that my childhood home was being handed over to someone else. I wandered back to our apartment in a daze. I collapsed onto the bed, my eyes burning holes into the ceiling. When Ryan got home from work, the apartment was dark. I hadn’t cooked dinner. I had even called my cousin to come pick up our daughter, Sophie, for the evening. He walked into the bedroom, his voice sharp with entitlement. “Why isn’t dinner ready? Where’s Sophie?” His tone was so incredibly presumptuous. Normally, that edge in his voice would flood me with guilt. He worked so hard for our family, I would tell myself. The least I could do was be a flawless, supportive backbone. But today, I felt nothing. I just looked at him, my voice eerily flat. “I didn’t cook today. Someone else is watching Sophie.” That was when Ryan finally noticed the absolute deadness in my eyes. His posture shifted instantly, his voice dripping with sudden, practiced honey. “What’s wrong, Rach? Are you not feeling well?” He walked over, his hands warm as he gently pushed my shoulders back against the pillows. “You just rest. I’ll take care of dinner.” He even pulled the duvet up to my chin, tucking me in like a child. A little while later, he carried a tray of food into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the mattress and trying to feed me spoonful by spoonful. “I’m sorry, babe,” he murmured, kissing my forehead. “I had a bad attitude when I walked in. Long day. That’s on me.” I chewed the food he fed me, but all I could see was the woman in the doorway. If I recalled correctly, she and I were exactly the same age. But standing face-to-face with her, I looked a decade older. I swallowed hard, finally breaking the silence. “I really think I want to renovate my parents’ old house.” A flicker of raw panic crossed Ryan’s face. The hand holding the spoon trembled, just for a fraction of a second, before he forced his features into a mask of casual concern. “Why are we bringing this up again?” he asked lightly. “I just think it’s a waste to let it sit empty,” I said, holding his gaze. “Might as well update it.” He sighed, setting the bowl down and taking my hand. “I just don’t want you dwelling on the past. You’ll go in there and get swallowed by the grief again. Plus, you have your hands full with Sophie. You don’t have the bandwidth for a massive project. And honestly? We just don’t have the spare cash for a renovation right now.” It was the exact same script he had used two years ago. Back then, I had swallowed every word, entirely convinced he was fiercely protecting my mental health. But now, the ugly, glaring truth was sitting right in front of me. How could I ever look at this man and believe a single syllable out of his mouth again? When I didn’t reply, he let out a heavy, self-deprecating sigh. “Look, I know it’s my fault. I’m just not successful enough yet to give you and Sophie the lifestyle you deserve.” He was playing the pity card. In the past, that specific line would have shattered my heart. I would have rushed to comfort him, to build his ego back up. But tonight, it just made my skin crawl with irritation. He kept rambling, oblivious to the shift in the tectonic plates of our marriage. “I promise you, I’m going to grind even harder at work. I’m going to give you guys the best life. Once I secure the bonus on this next project, I’ll personally hire a designer for the house, okay?” I didn’t offer him the reassurance he was fishing for. I just gave a hollow nod. The man I had shared a bed with for five years suddenly felt like a total stranger. 02 The next morning, right after dropping Sophie off at preschool, I got on the subway and headed straight for the old house. For the entire forty-minute ride, I aggressively scrolled through the influencer’s social media. Her handle was Lexi’s Home Diaries. She had over three hundred thousand followers. The engagement on every single post was massive. I scrolled back chronologically, dissecting every perfectly color-graded frame, hunting for the ghosts of my life. August of last year: She posted a video of the newly renovated master bedroom. The caption read: Hubby is obsessed with this color palette. December of last year: A video of a sprawling, gourmet dinner spread. The caption read: Waiting up with late-night cravings for my guy after his overtime shift. Her husband never showed his face in the videos. But in one clip, a pair of masculine hands was unboxing a package. On his left wrist was a silver watch. It was the exact watch I had bought Ryan for our third anniversary. I had skipped lunches and hoarded grocery money for months to afford it. How had I not recognized it? It wasn’t that I hadn’t recognized it; it was that my brain had absolutely refused to make the connection. For the last seven years, I had poured every ounce of my soul into my family. When he worked late, I kept dinner warm in the oven. When he went to networking events, I left the porch light on. Whatever he said, became my gospel. Including the lie that the house needed to stay empty to protect my heart. The automated subway voice announcing my stop snapped me back to reality. I walked into the familiar gated community. Stan, the elderly doorman, was still working the front gate. He blinked in surprise when he saw me. “Well, if it isn’t the Mitchells’ girl! Haven’t seen you around here in ages.” I forced a tight smile. “It’s been a few years, Stan.” He leaned on his podium, conversational. “Your husband comes by all the time, though. Just saw him a few days ago. Said he was keeping the place up for you.” I had expected that answer, but it still felt like a physical blow to the ribs. Armed with my property deed, I marched straight into the HOA management office. “I’m the owner of Unit 502 in Building 3,” I said smoothly. “Some things have gone missing from my property, and I need to review the elevator security footage for the past six months.” The property manager glanced at me, then down at the name on the deed. A deeply uncomfortable, knowing look flickered across her face. I nodded, sliding my ID across the desk. “I appreciate your help.” She hesitated, but policy was policy. She pulled up the archives. Ryan’s face was everywhere. Last Wednesday. The night he claimed he was stuck at the office until 2:00 AM. On the screen, Lexi was leaning her head against his shoulder. They looked ridiculously, sickeningly domestic. She took a sip of her iced boba tea, then held it up to Ryan’s lips. He leaned in and drank from the exact same straw without a second thought. I kept scrolling back. February 14th. Valentine’s Day. He walked into the elevator carrying a massive, ostentatious bouquet of red roses. When the camera caught him leaving hours later, the flowers were gone, and his tie was undone. January 1st. New Year’s Eve. He had told me he got too drunk at the company party and crashed at a coworker’s place. On the screen, he was carrying two bags of takeout. Lexi, wearing a silk nightgown, opened the door, jumped into the air, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Every frame was a scalpel, meticulously carving out my heart. I wrote down every single date, thanked the manager, and walked out of the office. When I got home, I sat on the living room sofa, completely paralyzed. My fingers were still trembling. My phone was heavy with the photos I had taken of the security monitors. I had documented everything. Hours later, Ryan walked through the door carrying several plastic bags. “Hey! I passed by that organic market and saw they had the first strawberries of the season. Got you a box,” he called out cheerfully. “I know how much you love them.” He walked into the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and began washing them with agonizing care. I stared at the back of his head, a wave of pure, unadulterated nausea washing over me. In five years of marriage, this man had rarely bought me fruit unprompted. Looking at it now, I realized the truth: he was simply taking the overflow of the romantic energy he poured into his mistress and tossing the scraps to his wife. He walked over, holding the bowl, and picked up the largest, reddest strawberry, offering it to my lips. I turned my head away. His hand hovered in mid-air. A flash of profound irritation tightened his jaw, but he quickly smoothed it out into a look of saintly patience. “What’s going on, Rach? Still feeling sick? Do we need to go to urgent care?” Looking into those deep, concerned eyes, a chill ran down my spine. How was he this good at acting? I stood up. “I’m fine. I’m going to go pick up Sophie.” He gently caught my shoulder, pressing me back down. “Let me do it. You stay here and rest. You’ve looked so pale the last few days, don’t push yourself.” Once, this kind of tender micro-management would have made me feel so intensely loved I could cry. Now, I just felt like the punchline to a sick joke. “No,” I said, sidestepping his touch. “I’ll go get her.” 03 For the next few days, I performed my role flawlessly. I didn’t let a single crack show in my facade. But at night, while he snored softly beside me, I would lie completely paralyzed, staring into the dark, replaying the footage behind my eyelids. The way she jumped into his arms. The effortless, joyful way he caught her. That was the kind of electricity we had when we were twenty-two. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his touches had devolved into obligatory hugs and sterile, schedule-mandated kisses. I had foolishly believed it was just the natural progression of a long-term marriage. I didn’t realize his passion hadn’t faded—it had just been relocated. On the fourth night, during dinner, his phone rang. He took the call in the hallway, then came back with a heavy sigh. “Corporate is sending me out of state for a site audit. It’s probably going to take a month.” I kept my eyes on my plate, pushing some rice around. “Okay.” “The reception out by the site is supposed to be garbage, so don’t panic if you can’t reach me right away, alright?” “Okay.” He genuinely believed I was still his blind, devoted, easily managed little wife. But the script had changed. The morning of his “business trip,” he pulled me into a tight embrace by the front door. “I’ll bring you back something nice, I promise,” he whispered. I smiled beautifully. “Sounds great.” The absolute second the deadbolt clicked into place, my smile vanished. I called an Uber and headed straight to the old house. Standing in front of the door, I took a deep, steadying breath, and leaned on the doorbell. Lexi opened it. She looked just as flawless in person as she did on Instagram. Her loungewear was impeccably steamed, her hair loosely pinned up with a silk scrunchie. When she recognized me, she paused, her perfectly threaded brows pulling together. “You again?” I didn’t say a word. I just pushed past her into the foyer. She grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging in. “Excuse me? What is wrong with you? This is trespassing!” I calmly reached into my leather tote, pulled out the official property deed, and held it inches from her face. “Read it carefully,” I said, my voice lethal. “The sole legal owner of this property is Rachel Mitchell.” All the color drained from her face. But she recovered quickly. A slow, mocking smirk spread across her lips. “So what?” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You have a piece of paper. Big deal. Your husband gave this place to me.” She said it with such brazen entitlement it almost took my breath away. I stared dead into her eyes. “How long has this been going on?” She inspected her nails, utterly unbothered. “About two years.” She leaned back against the entryway console. “He said the place was just sitting here rotting, and it would be perfect for my content studio. Honestly, since you never showed up, I assumed the two of you were already legally separated.” 04 Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days. Every single night he was “stuck at the office.” Every “emergency site visit” on a weekend. He was here. She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes raking over my body with undisguised pity. “Look in the mirror, lady,” she sneered. “Just look at yourself. The bags under your eyes are practically bruised. Your hair is completely fried. And what even is that outfit? Target clearance?” With every syllable, I felt myself shrinking an inch. “Why do you think your husband came looking for me?” she asked, tilting her head. “He told me that after you had the baby, you just gave up. You stopped dressing up, you obsess over mundane household chores, and the only things you ever talk about are the grocery bill and preschool. He said he has absolutely nothing in common with you anymore.” She took a step closer, twisting the knife. “He said just looking at you exhausts him. But he can’t say anything, because the second he does, you start crying, and it’s suffocating.” Every single word was a bullet to the chest. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but the air was trapped in my throat. Because she was right. I had become that woman. I had stripped myself of my own identity to keep the machinery of his life running flawlessly. Seeing me paralyzed, her smugness amplified. “So why are you here? You want money? You want him back? Do you really think you have what it takes to keep him?” She let out a sharp laugh. “Trust me. Even if you made him choose right now, he’d pick me.” I gripped the property deed so hard the heavy paper crumpled. “This is my house. Get out.” She laughed again, a bright, chiming sound. “Your house? Honey, you need to wake up. Your husband gave this to me. He promised me this house would officially be ours eventually. As for you…” She paused, her eyes glittering with malice. “…he’s just waiting until you’re no longer useful with the kid. Then he’s filing the papers.” A loud, high-pitched ringing erupted in my ears. My knees buckled. I had to throw a hand against the hallway wall just to stay upright. She watched my devastation like it was an entertaining movie, casually adding the final blow. “Oh, yeah. He also mentioned you were incredibly naive. Said you’ll believe literally anything he tells you.” She smiled. “He said being married to you is like having a golden retriever. Low maintenance.” My fingernails bit so deeply into my palms they almost broke the skin. It hurt. But it was absolutely nothing compared to the agony tearing through my chest. Before I could speak, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Ryan appeared at the top of the landing, dragging a sleek aluminum suitcase. The absolute second his eyes locked onto mine, he froze like he’d been struck by lightning. “R-Rach… what are you doing here?” I didn’t speak. I just stood there, staring at the man I had given my twenties to. “Rach, baby, please, just let me explain…” I cut through the air with a voice I didn’t recognize. “Explain what? Explain how keeping me around is as low maintenance as a golden retriever? Or explain how this house is ‘eventually going to be yours’?” The terrified, placating smile died on his lips. He dropped the suitcase and rushed toward me, reaching out to grab my hands. I took a sharp step back, dodging him like he was diseased. His hands hung suspended in the empty space between us, pathetic and trembling. “Rach, I swear to God, she’s lying! She’s crazy, I would never say anything like that! You are my wife, you’re the mother of my child—” I let out a harsh, broken laugh, pulling my phone from my pocket. I swiped open the photo album and shoved the screen an inch from his nose. I looked at him, enunciating every single syllable with lethal precision. “Ryan. I know everything.” The last remnants of color vanished from Ryan’s face. He looked like a corpse. “No… no, it’s not what it looks like… Rach, please, just listen to me…” I pulled my lips into a grotesque, devastated smile, my eyes locked on his. “There is absolutely nothing left for us to say to each other.” I took a deep breath, feeling the last thread tying us together permanently snap. “We’re getting a divorce, Ryan.” I turned my gaze slowly back to Lexi. “And by the way. Thank you so much for the free renovations. With all these trendy updates, my property value just skyrocketed. It’s going to sell for a fantastic price.” Lexi’s face went ghost white. 05 Ryan looked completely destroyed. He opened his mouth, desperately trying to formulate a sentence, but all that came out was a pathetic, broken stutter. It was Lexi who recovered first. She let out a harsh, derisive scoff, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, crossing her arms like she was watching a bad reality TV show. “Wow, so we’re just throwing around the D-word? You better think this through, honey. Where exactly are you going to go? You have a kid, you have a massive gap in your resume, and you have zero income. How are you going to survive?” Her eyes raked over me again, looking at me like I was a piece of trash left on the curb. “Ryan is a Senior Project Manager now. He’s clearing over a hundred and fifty grand a year. You divorce him, you’ll be on food stamps by next month.” I didn’t even blink at her. I kept my eyes entirely focused on Ryan. “Is that true? You’re making a hundred and fifty thousand a year?” The “allowance” Ryan transferred into my account every month to manage the entire household was exactly two thousand dollars. If he had a particularly good quarter, he would generously bump it to twenty-five hundred. He constantly told me his company was struggling, that budgets were frozen, and that we should just be grateful he hadn’t been laid off. He stared at the hardwood floor, refusing to meet my eyes. The silence was a confession. A manic urge to laugh bubbled up in my throat. For five years of marriage, I had coupon-clipped, shopped exclusively at discount racks, and agonized for days over buying a thirty-dollar sweater for myself. I had saved for months in secret to buy him that watch. I never once complained when we sent generous checks to his mother for the holidays. I truly, deeply believed we were in the trenches together. Building our future, sacrificing together, surviving together. Turns out, I was the only one making sacrifices. When I didn’t engage with her taunting, Lexi snapped. “Hello? I’m talking to you. Are you deaf?” I finally turned my head to look at her, my expression utterly void of emotion. “What’s your full name?” The abrupt shift in my tone caught her off guard. “Lexi. Lexi Davis,” she answered defensively. I gave a curt nod. “I will be reclaiming possession of this property through my attorney. As for whatever is going on between you and my husband, I couldn’t care less. I’m out.” Her smug demeanor cracked. “What the hell does that mean?” “It means,” I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying calm, “I don’t want either of you.” Ryan’s head snapped up, his eyes wild with panic. “Rach! No! You can’t do this! Think about Sophie! She needs her dad—” I let out a cold, hollow laugh. “Sophie has a dad. And starting today, her dad is going to wire his child support payments on the first of every single month.” I turned on my heel and walked toward the stairs. After two steps, I paused. I looked back at the door—the door to the home where I had spent twenty years of my life. “Oh, one more thing. I expect this house to be restored to its exact original condition.” “Everything my parents left behind, every single wall you knocked down, every tile you replaced. I want it put back exactly the way it was.” Lexi practically shrieked. “Are you out of your mind?! I paid for all of this! Do you have any idea how much those custom cabinets cost? Fifteen thousand dollars!” I smiled. A genuine, terrifying smile. “That sounds like a ‘you’ problem. Did you get written consent from the legal property owner before initiating construction?” “No? Then you’ll be ripping it all out and restoring the property. Otherwise, I’ll see you in court.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407043”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother told me the will had nothing to do with me. On the other end of the line, her voice was as flat as if she were deciding what to have for lunch. “Your father’s estate is a family matter. We’ll sit down and divide it ourselves. You just stay busy with whatever it is you do.” Family. I’ve lived as a member of this family for thirty-eight years. But in my mother’s vocabulary, “family” has never included me. I didn’t say anything. “Did you hear me?” she pressed, her tone sharpening. “The lawyer notified me,” I said. “I’ll be there.” There was a beat of silence. “Lawyer? What lawyer?” “The one Dad hired. He said I’m required to be present for the reading.” Three seconds of dead air. Then, she hung up. 1. When I arrived, the living room was already packed. My brother, Ben, and his wife, Jessica, were on the main sofa. Ben had his arm draped over the backrest, legs crossed with an air of casual ownership. Jessica was busy peeling a tangerine, giving me a brief, wordless glance before looking away. My younger sister, Melanie, sat in the armchair, her eyes rimmed with red. She clutched a ball of damp tissues, sniffing occasionally. My mother, Martha, sat dead center. On the coffee table before her sat a spread: tea, a fruit platter, and a box of Kleenex. When I walked in, nobody moved to make room. The sofa was full, and two dining chairs had been dragged over—one for my Uncle Joe and one for Aunt Sarah. There wasn’t a seat for me. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds. Then, I walked to the utility closet and pulled out a dusty metal folding chair. Nobody seemed to find this strange. I set the chair at the very edge of the room. I sat down. My mother glanced at me, said nothing, and then turned to Uncle Joe. “Mr. Marshall said he’d be here by two.” Mr. Marshall was the attorney. My father had hired him privately before he passed. Only my mother had known about his existence, but until I mentioned it on the phone yesterday, she hadn’t realized the truth—that this lawyer wasn’t just a formality. “When did your father hire a lawyer?” she had posted in the family group chat last night. No one replied. No one knew. At 2:03 PM, the doorbell rang. Mr. Marshall walked in. He was in his mid-forties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and carrying a weathered leather briefcase. “The reading of David Miller’s last will and testament requires all legal heirs to be present,” he announced. He scanned the room. “Mr. Benjamin Miller.” “Here,” Ben said, straightening his posture. “Ms. Katherine Miller.” “Here.” “Ms. Melanie Miller.” Melanie sniffed. “Here.” “Mrs. Martha Miller.” My mother gave a curt nod. Mr. Marshall opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. “The will is four pages long. I will read it in its entirety.” My mother took a sip of her tea, her expression composed. She wasn’t nervous. To her, this was just a hurdle to clear. She already knew how things were “supposed” to go. “With your father gone, I’m the one in charge of this house,” she had told Ben over the phone two days ago. I heard her. Not because I was eavesdropping, but because Ben had her on speakerphone. He hadn’t realized I was in the next room, packing up the last of Dad’s clothes. Mr. Marshall flipped to the first page. “Article One: The residence located at 412 Sycamore Street, including all real property, is bequeathed to Benjamin Miller.” Ben nodded. His expression was one of quiet, expected triumph. “Article Two: The savings account at Chase Bank, totaling one hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars, is bequeathed to Melanie Miller.” Melanie sniffed again. This time, her face twisted slightly—maybe she thought a hundred and fifty grand wasn’t enough. “Article Three: All family jewelry and the cash contents of the home safe are bequeathed to Martha Miller.” My mother set her teacup down, nodding slightly. The first three items were done. The room fell silent for a moment. Then my mother spoke up. “Fine. If that’s everything—” “I’m not finished.” Mr. Marshall turned the third page. “There is one final page.” My mother’s hand froze in mid-air. “What?” Mr. Marshall didn’t look up. “Article Four.” He paused. “This section is extensive and includes an addendum. Please allow me to finish before commenting.” The living room went deathly quiet. Even Melanie forgot to wipe her nose. I sat there on my cold metal folding chair at the edge of the room. No one looked at me. It felt exactly like every other day of the last fifteen years. 2. I don’t remember exactly when I became invisible. Maybe I always was. When I was little, we took family portraits. My dad would be holding Melanie, and my mom would have her arm around Ben. I’d be standing off to the side. The photographer would say, “Everyone, squeeze in tight!” My mom would pull Melanie closer to the center. I’d lean in, trying to catch the edge of the frame. But when the photos were developed, I was always on the far left, my arm half-cropped out. That photo hung in the living room for ten years. Eventually, they replaced it with a newer one. I was in that one, too. Still on the edge. This time, I was barely a sliver of a shadow. At Thanksgiving, the house was always full. Uncle Joe’s family, Aunt Sarah’s family, all of us. There would be ten places set at the table. When I arrived, I’d count the silverware. Always nine sets. I never said anything. I’d just go to the kitchen, grab a plate and a fork, and find a small stool to squeeze into a corner. The stool was too low, so I’d have to hunch over just to reach the turkey. It wasn’t a one-time mistake. For seven years straight, there was one place setting missing. They didn’t do it on purpose. They just… forgot. They forgot I needed to eat, too. On Christmas, the checks were handed out. My mom would pull them from her purse. One thousand dollars for each of Joe’s kids. One thousand for Sarah’s. Two thousand for Ben’s son, Leo, followed by a coo: “Grammy loves you most, Leo!” Melanie wasn’t married and had no kids yet, so she got her own “special” gift. I was married. I had a daughter, Sophie. My mom finished handing out the envelopes and zipped her purse. I waited. “Mom… what about Sophie?” She blinked, looking genuinely startled. “Oh.” She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a stray envelope that looked significantly thinner. “Here.” Sophie took it and went to the other room to open it. Two hundred dollars. The other grandkids got one or two thousand. My daughter got two hundred. Sophie left the check on the table. She was eleven; she understood the math. “Mom, why is mine the smallest?” “Grandma was in a rush,” I told her. “She probably just made a mistake.” She didn’t ask again. But she was quiet the rest of the night. So was I. On my twenty-sixth birthday, there was no cake. No phone call. Not even a text. On Melanie’s twenty-first, my mother threw a gala at a country club for eighty people. She posted a gallery of nine photos on Facebook with the caption: “My baby girl, forever my little angel.” On Ben’s birthday, she Venmo’d him three thousand dollars with the note: “Happy birthday to my favorite son.” My birthday is in October. In our house, October has no meaning. For nine years, no one remembered. In the tenth year, I decided to cook dinner for everyone on my birthday. I made everything they liked: roast beef, garlic mashed potatoes, honey-glazed carrots. I set the table. “Dinner’s ready.” Everyone sat down. My mother served a prime cut of beef to Melanie. “Eat up, sweetie, you look too thin.” Nobody said thank you. Nobody asked what the occasion was. After dinner, I cleared the plates. I washed the dishes. I wiped the counters. Then I went to my room. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my daughter. “Happy birthday, Mommy.” Followed by a cake emoji. I stared at that emoji for a long time. I typed back, “Thanks, baby.” I put the phone down and went to the laundry room to fold the towels. 3. The phrase my mother used most was: “Can’t you just step aside?” When we were kids, Ben wanted to go to an elite summer camp. It was expensive. I wanted to go to a local art program. “Can’t you just step aside? Ben is the boy; he needs the networking for his future.” I stepped aside. Later, Melanie wanted private piano lessons. “Can’t you just step aside? Melanie is delicate; music is good for her soul.” I stepped aside. When Ben went to college, the family paid for everything—tuition, housing, his fraternity dues. The summer I graduated high school, my mother said, “Your father’s health isn’t great. We can’t afford two tuitions. Your grades are… fine, but maybe you should just go to community college and get a job sooner.” I had a 4.0 GPA and a 1500 SAT score. Ben’s SAT had been a 1080. I didn’t argue. I went to community college. I worked as a bookkeeper during the day and studied at night. I paid for my own bachelor’s, then my master’s, then my CPA exams. It took me six years. My family didn’t contribute a single cent. When Melanie went to college, they didn’t just pay her tuition; they gave her a three-thousand-dollar monthly allowance. My mother told the neighbors, “Melanie is at NYU. The city is so expensive, but as a mother, how can I let her struggle?” I listened. I said nothing. The gap in the money only grew. When Ben got married, the family gave him eighty thousand for a down payment, not counting the rehearsal dinner. When I got married, my mother gave me two thousand dollars. Two thousand. She handed it to me in an envelope the night before the wedding. “You know how things are. We spent so much on Ben’s wedding last year. You’re successful now, so don’t be petty about it.” I took the envelope. “Okay.” At the wedding, my mother sat in the front row. She didn’t cry. She didn’t look sentimental. But on Melanie’s wedding day (whenever that would happen, my mom was already saving), she’d be a wreck. Actually, what did Melanie get for her engagement? A hundred-thousand-dollar trust fund and a new Lexus. Same mother. Same father. When Ben bought a bigger house, they gave him another fifty thousand. “Ben needs the space for the baby. Can’t you just step aside?” I never asked them for a dime when I bought my house. I knew the answer before I could finish the question. My husband and I saved for four years for our down payment. Our mortgage is four thousand a month. After that, things are tight. But every month, I still sent my parents a thousand dollars. I started doing that the year I got my first real job. Fifteen years ago. One thousand, times twelve, times fifteen. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. That was just the base. The holiday gifts, the birthday checks I sent them, the designer clothes for Mom, the premium health supplements for Dad—I never tracked it. But my father did. 4. Two years ago, Dad was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. The doctors said it was treatable, but the costs were astronomical. The immunotherapy alone was ten thousand a month. My mother sat outside the ICU for an hour, then called Ben. “Your father is in the hospital. Give him a call so he knows you care.” She called Melanie. “Your father is sick. Don’t worry too much; your sister is here.” “Your sister.” In her mouth, that was always my name. My function. Ben, who lived three states away, called once. “Hey, Dad. Hang in there.” The call lasted ninety seconds. Melanie, who was “too stressed” by her new baby, sent a text. “Get well soon, Daddy!” with a heart emoji. And that was it. For the next twenty-two months, I was the one. I woke up at 5:00 AM to prep his meals. I drove forty minutes to the hospital before work. I fed him. I cleaned him. I talked to the doctors. I signed the forms. I took three months of unpaid leave, losing nearly thirty thousand in salary and bonuses. At home, I still had to be a mother to Sophie and a wife to my husband. My husband helped as much as he could, but in that hospital room, it was always just me. After the first round of treatment, my mother invited the whole extended family to the hospital to “visit” Dad. Uncle Joe, Aunt Sarah, all the cousins. My mother stood by the bed and said, “We’re so lucky to have Ben. He calls every single day to check on his father. And Melanie is such a sweetheart, always sending her love.” I was standing in the corner, holding a tray of ice chips. Nobody mentioned me. Uncle Joe glanced my way. “Kate’s been working hard, too, Martha.” My mom blinked, as if suddenly remembering I existed. “Oh, right. Well, she lives close by. It’s just easier for her to drop in.” Drop in. For twenty-two months. Every single day. I put the ice chips on the nightstand. “Drink some water, Dad.” My father looked at me. His lips moved, but no sound came out. But his eyes… his eyes were different from everyone else’s in that room. The bill for the first round was twenty-four thousand. I wired it to my mother. The second round was twenty-six thousand. I paid that, too. The third was eighteen thousand. Totaling the specialty drugs and the home care, I had spent over sixty thousand dollars out of my own savings. My mother told the family, “Ben sent so much money home to help his father.” She even sent a voice note to the family group chat: “Ben is so busy with his business, but he’s the one making sure his father gets the best care.” I stared at that message for a long time. How much did Ben actually give? Five thousand. One time. He told her it was for “Dad’s comfort.” I didn’t say anything in the chat. I put my phone down and went back to the kitchen to make the bone broth I’d be bringing to the hospital the next morning. 5. My father passed away at 3:00 AM on a Tuesday in September. I was the one who got the call. When I arrived, my mother was already there, sitting by the bed. Ben caught the first flight out and arrived by evening. Melanie drove in with her kids. I handled the funeral. I chose the cemetery. I ordered the flowers. I wrote the obituary. I organized the wake. My mother was “too distraught.” Melanie couldn’t stop crying long enough to talk to a caterer. Ben said he’d “handle the costs.” He gave five thousand. Again. The funeral was packed. I stood at the door of the chapel, greeting every guest. I handed out programs. I said thank you for coming a hundred times. I stood from 8:00 AM until 2:00 PM without a sip of water. When it was over, I went back to Dad’s house to pack his things. His suits. His reading glasses. The chess set he loved. In the bottom drawer of his desk, there was a small metal lockbox. The key was on Dad’s keychain. I opened it. Inside was a thick manila envelope. On the front, in Dad’s steady, familiar handwriting: “For Kate.” My hands shook. I didn’t open it there. But I did find something else in the box—a ledger. I flipped to the first page. It was filled with tiny, meticulous numbers. Dates, amounts, sources. “March 2010. Kate wired $1,000.” “June 2010. Kate paid electric bill. $340.” “Sept 2010. Kate bought formula for Ben’s baby. $680.” Every single cent. He had recorded everything. I flipped through page after page. Fifteen years of my life, documented in his handwriting. His script started clear and bold, then became shaky, then nearly illegible toward the end. The last few pages were from his time in the hospital. The lines were crooked, but the numbers were firm. “Jan 2024. Kate paid $24,000 for hospital. Martha told the family it was Ben. It wasn’t. It was Kate’s money.” I sat on the floor, the ledger heavy on my knees. I stared at it until the room went dark. Then I put it back in the box, locked it, and took it home. 6. Three days after the funeral, Ben and Melanie were still at the house. I knew what they were waiting for. They were waiting for the spoils. My mother knew it, too. But she hadn’t mentioned a will because she didn’t know one existed. Until I made that phone call. “The lawyer notified me.” That was the first time she realized that Dad—the quiet man she thought she controlled—had gone behind her back. “When did this happen?” she asked at dinner that night. Ben shrugged. “Don’t worry, Mom. Having a lawyer is better. It keeps things clean.” What he meant was: Legality will ensure I get my share. Melanie said nothing, but she kept glancing at me. Her look was suspicious, as if she were thinking: What do you know that I don’t? I knew plenty. The ledger was in my bag. But I hadn’t opened the letter yet. Dad had marked it “For Kate,” and I wanted to wait until the reading of the will to see what it meant. Maybe it was connected to the estate. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, it was the only thing Dad had left specifically for me. In fifteen years, this family had given me a two-thousand-dollar check, a few holiday dinners, a thousand “step asides,” and a folding chair. Now, I had a metal box. I took it with me and went home. 7. The day of the reading. Today. Mr. Marshall has just finished the first three items. The house goes to Ben. The cash goes to Melanie. The jewelry goes to my mother. It’s exactly what everyone expected. I’m sitting on my folding chair, my face a mask of calm. This is my life. Fifteen years of being the backup. Ben stands up, ready to shake the lawyer’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Marshall. I think that covers everything—” “I’m not finished,” the lawyer repeats. He turns to the final page.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407044”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After realizing I was nothing but a disposable background character in someone else’s grand romance, I pivoted. I became the female lead’s absolute best friend, and when she inevitably left the country, I gladly took her brooding, wealthy, hopelessly devoted runner-up of a suitor off her hands, ensuring she and her bad-boy soulmate could ride off into the sunset. But ten years later, she returned. She announced her newly single status to the world, and in our long-dormant college alumni group chat, she dropped two simple texts. [I’m back. Let’s all get together soon.] [@Colin, you’ll be there, won’t you?] The group chat instantly exploded. Everyone remembered Vanessa. She was the radiant, untouchable IT girl of our graduating class. The fact that she had walked away from Colin—the brilliant, ice-cold valedictorian who had spent four years worshipping the ground she walked on—was a tragedy our classmates still gossiped about. I looked down at Colin sleeping soundly beside me. I raised a single eyebrow. I felt a little tragic about it too. After all, his assets weren’t entirely in my name yet. 1. [Colin has to go, right? The man waited ten years for Vanessa. That’s some Gatsby-level devotion!] [Seriously! The guy hasn’t even been spotted with another woman. He’s the ultimate romantic.] [I could obsess over this dynamic forever. It’s too good.] I stared at the screen as the notifications rolled in, my fingers unconsciously tightening around my phone. My gaze drifted back to Colin. He slept so peacefully. His breathing was steady, the sharp, handsome lines of his profile softened by the amber glow of the nightstand lamp. Fifteen years. It had been exactly fifteen years since my senior year of high school, when I had that sudden, shattering epiphany. I realized I was living in a world where I was a nameless extra, a girl destined to fade into the wallpaper of Vanessa’s spectacular life. The moment I got to college, the first thing I did was orchestrate a way into her orbit. Vanessa. The dazzling protagonist of our universe. Relying on my uncanny intuition of how “her story” was supposed to go, I appeared exactly when she needed someone. I said the exact words she craved when she was crying. Seamlessly, inevitably, I became her absolute best friend. Everyone used to say, Claire, you’re so lucky to be in Vanessa’s inner circle. Only I knew the truth. I was just basking in her main-character aura, using her blinding light to carve out a slightly easier path for my own life. For four years, I shadowed Vanessa to every exclusive party and elite networking event. That was how I met everyone in her world. Including Colin. He came from old money. He had a razor-sharp intellect. But his eyes only ever saw Vanessa. Until graduation year, when Vanessa chose Tristan, the notoriously wealthy, rebellious trust-fund kid, and moved to Europe with him. Before she left, she took my hands in hers. Her smile was as blinding as ever. “Claire,” she said, “Colin is a truly good man. You two should be together. I’d feel so much better knowing you’re with him.” I looked at her radiant face, knowing the truth better than anyone. Colin only loved her. And I knew that according to the invisible script of our lives, ten years from now, Vanessa would return, and Colin would scoop up our child and run straight back into her arms. But so what? Colin’s family pedigree, his Ivy League credentials, his relentless capability—these were stepping stones a girl from a blue-collar background like me could never reach on my own. Marrying him meant I could climb. I could access a higher echelon of society, build my own wealth, and secure my future. As for love? I never expected it. I never even asked for it. So when Vanessa played matchmaker, I accepted Colin’s proposal without a second thought. At the time, I was as cold and calculating as a corporate merger. I had mapped out every single step. I would use Colin’s resources to launch my own startup. I would build my capital. And when Vanessa finally came back and Colin inevitably cheated, I would file for a very public, very lucrative divorce, take half of everything, and walk away a queen. But I had calculated everything except the treacherous, softening nature of the human heart over time. By our third year of marriage, my company was taking off, largely due to the quiet, subtle ways Colin funneled industry contacts my way. By our fifth year, our son, Noah, was born. Colin was the one clumsily learning to change diapers. He was the one waking up at 3:00 AM to warm bottles. He memorized my coffee order, remembered I hated cilantro, and always knew to keep a heating pad ready when my cramps were bad. By our eighth year, when my company faced a brutal financial crisis, he liquidated his own personal portfolios without a word to pull me back from the brink. Ten years. Everyone told me, Claire, you married a saint. And God help me, I almost fooled myself into believing it. I almost believed that living like this forever wouldn’t be so bad. But now, Vanessa was back. The plot was finally snapping back into place. Watching the alumni chat light up, the last, pathetic remnants of my hesitation were ruthlessly crushed by my own logic. Fine. I would give him one last chance. If he chose me, if he chose this family, I would pretend none of this ever happened and we would carry on. But if he chose Vanessa… Then it was time to execute the exit strategy. 2. The next morning, pale sunlight spilled through the gap in the curtains. Colin was already awake. He was lying on his side, watching me. When my eyes fluttered open, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing the hair from my face. His voice carried that deep, gravelly rasp of sleep. “Morning.” “Morning,” I murmured. I stretched, feigning a casual yawn. “Oh, by the way, the college group chat was losing its mind last night. Vanessa is back in the States. She’s talking about a reunion this weekend. Are you going?” His hand paused in my hair. Just for a fraction of a second. Then he rolled onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. His tone was perfectly flat. “No.” “Why not?” I propped myself up on one elbow, studying his profile. “I mean, back in the day, you guys—” “There’s no point,” he cut in, turning his head to meet my eyes. His gaze was steady, unblinking. “It’s all in the past. Besides, those things are exhausting. A bunch of people pretending to still be close, inflating their resumes. I’m not interested.” I didn’t say anything. I just waited. He reached out, pulling me down by the waist until my head rested on his chest. He pressed his chin against the crown of my head. His voice vibrated against my ear, sounding slightly muffled. “You shouldn’t go either.” “Why?” “Noah has his ballet evaluation this weekend. He needs one of us there. If you go play catch-up, who’s going to take care of him?” I lay against his chest, listening to the rhythmic, steady thud of his heart. I let the silence stretch for a few heavy seconds before I spoke. “You’re right. I’ll skip it.” Colin pulled me tighter, pressing a long kiss to my forehead. “Good girl.” Friday night, Colin came home earlier than usual. At dinner, he plated a piece of salmon for me, his voice light and affectionate. “By the way, I’m going to have to go into the office this weekend. We’ve got a massive push for the new acquisition.” My fork hovered over my plate. I looked up at him. “Both days?” “Yeah. It’s going to be a late one, too,” he nodded, pouring himself a glass of water. “I’m going to drop Noah off at my parents’ place tomorrow morning. Let them spoil him for the weekend. You should just rest. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends lately.” I looked at his face. It was the same gentle, trustworthy face I had woken up to for a decade. I forced a soft smile and nodded. Deep inside my chest, the last glowing ember of hope hissed and went dead. “Okay. Don’t work yourself to the bone. Make sure you actually eat something.” Colin looked at me, his eyes softening with what looked incredibly like love. “What would I do without you?” Saturday morning, Colin slipped out of bed with the practiced silence of a considerate husband. I kept my eyes shut, breathing deeply. I felt the mattress shift as he leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. He tucked the duvet securely around my shoulders, then tiptoed out of the room. The moment I heard the heavy thud of the front door closing, my eyes snapped open. Ten minutes later, dressed in a nondescript trench coat, a baseball cap, and oversized sunglasses, I was sitting in the back of an Uber, trailing Colin’s Audi. He didn’t take the highway toward the financial district. Instead, the car wound its way toward the east side of the city, pulling into the manicured driveway of a highly exclusive, private country club. I told my driver to idle across the street. Through the tinted window, I watched my husband step out of his car. And then, I saw her. Vanessa. She was wearing a striking crimson dress, her dark hair cascading in perfect waves over her shoulders. She stood near the ivy-covered entrance, laughing. A bright, intoxicating laugh. Ten years hadn’t touched her. She was still the breathtaking, radiant girl who owned every room she walked into. Colin walked toward her. Vanessa met him halfway, seamlessly slipping her arm through his. She tilted her head back, smiling up at him, her lips moving as she whispered something meant only for him. Colin looked down at her. The sharp angle of his jaw caught the morning light—the exact, tender expression I knew so intimately. Then, Vanessa unspooled her arm from his, stepping fully into his space, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Colin froze. His whole body went rigid. But he didn’t push her away. They stood there, wrapped in each other in front of the club, like two star-crossed lovers reuniting after a lifetime apart. I sat in the back of the idling Uber, perfectly still. My heart wasn’t racing. I didn’t feel the urge to cry. There was only a cold, sweeping expanse of clarity. That pathetic, fragile expectation I had harbored? Extinguished. Gone. I pulled out my phone, zoomed in on the two figures, framed the shot perfectly, and tapped the shutter button. “Sir,” I said to the driver, my voice steady. “Take me to the financial district. I need to see a lawyer.” 3. The air conditioning in the law firm’s conference room was running too high. The air was frigid. I slid my phone across the polished mahogany table. On the screen was the crisp, high-resolution photo of Colin and Vanessa embracing outside the club. My lawyer, Diane, was a sharp, pragmatic woman in her late forties. She adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, examining the photo with professional detachment before looking up at me. “Claire, a single photograph of a hug is circumstantial at best. If you’re looking to leverage adultery for a heavily skewed asset split, the court requires a much higher burden of proof. We’re talking explicit photos, undeniable text threads, or—even better—a paper trail of marital assets being spent on the affair.” I smiled faintly and took my phone back. “The evidence will come. Diane, I want you to start drafting the paperwork. My terms are very simple: I am surrendering primary physical custody to him. In exchange, I want every single cent of my rightful half of the marital estate. No negotiations.” Diane raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the sheer lack of emotion in my voice, but she nodded sharply. “Understood. I’ll get the initial drafts moving. But honestly, if you can secure harder evidence of infidelity, especially financial infidelity, it puts us in a much stronger negotiating position.” “I know.” I stood up, smoothing the front of my coat. “Email me the drafts when they’re ready. I’ll be waiting to sign.” By the time I left the firm, it was early afternoon. I didn’t go home. Instead, I went to Newbury Street. I spent an hour browsing a high-end boutique and bought a beautiful, ridiculously expensive silk dress. Then I treated myself to a two-hour facial. It was past four when I finally walked through my front door, shopping bags in hand. The house was dead quiet. Predictably, Colin wasn’t home. I made myself a simple bowl of pasta. I had just taken the last bite when my phone buzzed on the counter. An incoming multimedia message. From an unknown number. I opened it. It was a ten-second video. The lighting was dim, clearly a private booth in a lounge. Colin had Vanessa pressed against his chest. His head was bowed, his lips moving against hers with a desperate, reverent kind of hunger. The resolution was sharp. You could see the exact contours of his face. You could see the faint trembling of his eyelashes as he kept his eyes squeezed shut. As soon as the video ended, a text bubbled up from the same number. Claire. I really think a marriage only works when a man actually loves his wife. Don’t you agree? I saved the video to a secure cloud folder. Then I took a screenshot of the text message and saved that, too. At 7:00 PM, my phone rang. It was Colin. “Hey, honey,” his voice filtered through the speaker. The background was strangely quiet. No clinking glasses, no restaurant chatter. “I got dragged into a vendor dinner. It’s going to run late. Don’t wait up for me.” “Okay,” I said, my voice smooth and perfectly pleasant. “Don’t drink too much on an empty stomach.” I hung up. I moved to the living room, curled up on the sofa, and turned on a random movie. It was a terrible movie. I fell asleep halfway through. Sometime in the middle of the night, I felt the mattress dip. Someone was slipping into bed, moving with agonizing slowness. He smelled faintly of expensive gin and someone else’s perfume. Colin reached out in the dark, pulling my back flush against his chest. He buried his face into the crook of my neck, breathing in my scent. Then, barely louder than a whisper, he murmured: “I’m sorry…” I didn’t move a muscle. I kept my breathing deep and even, playing the part of the sleeping wife. But in the dark, my mouth twisted into a bitter, silent laugh. What was this? A sudden strike of conscience after sleeping with his true love? Or did the guilt just make him want to throw me a crumb of counterfeit tenderness so he could sleep better at night? Colin held onto me for a long time. Eventually, his breathing leveled out, and he fell asleep. I opened my eyes, staring at the moonlight cutting across the bedroom floor. My chest felt completely, utterly hollow. 4. Over the next few weeks, Colin’s “late nights at the office” multiplied exponentially. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays—he always found a flawless excuse not to walk through the front door until well past 10:00 PM. “We’re pushing to meet the Q3 deadline.” “Client dinner ran long.” “Mandatory team-building drinks.” The excuses were varied, but the outcome was always the same. He was gone. And Noah, who usually only spent one night a week at his grandparents’ house, was suddenly spending three or four nights there. Every time Noah came back home, the way he looked at me shifted. The coldness in his little eyes grew sharper, the disdain more pronounced. “Mom, why are you always in such a bad mood? You look crazy.” “Mom, why are you never home? Is it because you don’t love me?” “I hate you! You’re a bad lady! Go away, I don’t want you here!” …I knew exactly what was happening. Vanessa had started spending time with him. The plot of the book was unfolding, practically word for word. Colin was going to take our son, and together, they would run into Vanessa’s waiting arms to form their perfect, fated family. And me? The stepping-stone wife? It was my cue to exit stage left. But I refused to leave this stage without taking every single prop I was owed. I hired a private investigator to do a deep forensic dive into Colin’s assets. The results made my blood run cold. In the span of just one month, the deeds to three of our investment properties, shares from two shell companies he operated, and the bulk of our liquid savings had been quietly siphoned offshore. The name on the receiving account? Vanessa. But the final nail in the coffin was the corporate account. Colin had diverted over three million dollars in company funds—embezzlement, plain and simple—directly into Vanessa’s offshore trust. I methodically took photos, downloaded PDFs, and archived every single wire transfer, deed transfer, and falsified invoice. I compiled it all into a massive, encrypted dossier. I sent the file to Diane. Thirty minutes later, my phone rang. Her voice was pure, lethal professionalism. “Claire. Your husband isn’t just breaching his fiduciary duty by dissipating marital assets. The corporate embezzlement is a federal crime. This is wire fraud territory. The evidence you’ve provided is enough to strip him of everything in civil court, and practically guarantees he’ll be facing criminal prosecution.” “I strongly advise we file for divorce immediately and file an emergency injunction to freeze all his accounts.” “I know.” I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. My voice was a calm, steady hum. “Diane, draft the final injunctions. I have a specific date in mind. I’ll tell you when to pull the trigger.” “When are you planning to serve him?” I paused, a specific chapter from the original novel floating into my mind. Vanessa’s birthday was coming up. In the book, she throws a massive, opulent gala at a country estate. And during that party, overcome by the sheer magnetism of their fated love, she and Colin sleep together in one of the VIP suites. In the novel, that gala is the climax of their reunion arc. It’s where she publicly announces her divorce, her return to high society, and her rekindled romance with Colin. “Give it a few days,” I told Diane. “Right after her birthday party.” I hung up the phone. I pulled up my desk calendar and stared at the date circled in red ink—three days from now. Vanessa’s birthday. I traced the red circle with my fingertip, a slow, freezing smile pulling at my lips. Vanessa. I really hope you like the gift I got you.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407029”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The high school alumni group chat started pinging in the dead of night. Someone, probably bored and nursing a drink, threw out a prompt: “Three keywords to describe your high school experience. Go.” The chat, which had been dormant for years, suddenly saw a name pop up that made my heart skip a beat. It was Camille—Camille Sterling—the undisputed prom queen of our graduating class. “Vibrant,” she wrote. “Passionate.” Then, after a deliberate pause, she added one more: “And Nate.” The chat exploded. Even after a decade, they were still the “it” couple of our high school’s tragic lore. The rebellious, wealthy bad boy and the ethereal, gentle honor student. They had loved each other with a raw, burning intensity that everyone envied, only for it to end in a messy, rain-soaked heartbreak the summer after graduation. Every person in that chat had been a witness to their epic saga. Including me. I shifted my gaze to Nate, who was sleeping soundly beside me. The jagged edges of the boy I once knew had been smoothed over by time and tailoring. Nathaniel Vance was no longer the leather-jacket-wearing delinquent; he was my husband. Distinguished. Composed. And completely, utterly indifferent to me. That old thorn, the one I’d pushed deep into my skin years ago, began to throb with a dull, familiar ache. 1 It seemed the onlookers were more invested in the ghost of their relationship than the actual people involved. “Camille’s Instagram says she’s single. But Nate… does anyone actually know?” “He went dark after the breakup. Dropped out of the loop completely. Now the only place I see him is on Bloomberg.” “Please, the man is a machine. No scandals, no tabloid shots, just work. There’s no way he has a girlfriend.” “Makes sense. When you lose the love of your life that young, everyone else is just… noise.” “Why did they actually break up, anyway?” “Classic ego. She wanted to head to the Sorbonne, he was being a prick about it. They both leaned into the drama instead of the compromise.” “Ugh, it’s like a second-chance romance novel waiting to happen. I’m obsessed.” They kept spinning the fantasy, and I kept my mouth shut. I stared at the ceiling, wondering if I was the “noise.” Was I just the compromise he made when he realized he couldn’t have the real thing? I reached over to turn off the lamp, but Nate’s phone lit up on the nightstand. [Unknown]: I’m back, Nate. There was no contact name. But I didn’t need one. Only Camille called him “Nate” with that specific, casual intimacy. He was out cold, his hand resting instinctively over my stomach as it often did in his sleep. His wedding ring, cold against my skin through my silk nightgown, felt heavier than usual tonight. A wave of nausea hit me. My thumb hovered over his screen, wanting to delete the message before he could see it. I knew his passcode—579579. It was a pattern on the keypad, a sequence I’d long convinced myself was a code for their names or some anniversary. I stared at the lock screen for two full minutes, my heart hammering against my ribs, before I finally set it down. Going through his phone felt beneath me. Besides, Nate didn’t indulge me the way he’d indulged her. I remembered a day in tenth grade when Camille had been fuming because a freshman girl wouldn’t stop texting him. Nate had just laughed, sliding his phone across the desk to her. “You jealous, babe?” he’d whispered, his eyes dancing. “I already blocked her. But go ahead. Check the logs. Delete anyone you don’t like. I’m all yours.” Thinking about it now kept the sleep away. I stayed awake until seven, when the light finally started to bleed through the curtains. 2 Nate’s internal clock was usually surgical. He was a man of routines—gym, shower, black coffee, office. But today, he stayed in bed. He stared at his phone for a long time, his thumbs moving slowly as he typed. He didn’t get up until eight. “Nate,” I called out as he stood by the dresser. “Yeah?” “The high school centennial is this weekend. Are you going?” We weren’t the kind of couple that shared everything. We shared a bed, a mortgage, and a quiet life, yet I had to find out about the biggest event of the year from a group chat while he slept inches away. He paused, adjusting his cufflinks. “Yeah. Are you?” I shook my head. High school wasn’t a highlight reel for me. For most people, it was a place to visit old haunts and mentors. For me, it was a museum of humiliations. He didn’t push. He probably didn’t want me there anyway. I glanced at my own phone. The group chat was at 100+ notifications. Camille had finally emerged from the shadows. “Just woke up! Can’t wait to see everyone next week.” The replies were instantaneous. “The Queen has returned!” “Did you see all the stuff we were saying last night? I thought you’d muted us!” “I feel like a fan caught stalking a celebrity…” Camille sent a playful winking emoji. “It’s fine. I found it… interesting.” That word felt like a weight in my gut. Interesting. “So, is Nate actually coming? He’s always flying off to Tokyo or London. Does he even remember us mere mortals?” “I can’t believe the guy who used to set off illegal fireworks for Camille is now a boring CEO.” “Is he even coming? Can anyone confirm the legend will be there?” Camille’s reply popped up a second later: “Don’t worry. He just texted me. He’ll be there.” 3 “Claire.” Nate was standing in the doorway, checking his watch. “Aren’t you getting up? You’re going to be late.” Eight-thirty. I scrambled out of bed, forcing the phone out of my mind. I had a nine o’clock appointment to play chess with Mr. Jackson at the retirement villa. I’m a stickler for time. I hate being late. It’s a habit born from a lifetime of trying to be invisible. Except for that one time in junior year. A massive pile-up on the highway had stalled the bus. I’d jumped out and ran the last half-mile, gasping for air as I reached the school gates. I had one minute left before the bell. Nate was there, too. He was leaning against the brick wall, leisurely eating a breakfast burrito. He could have made it easily, but he just stood there. He even bent down to slowly tie his shoe, watching the clock tick down. He waited until he saw Camille jogging up from the parking lot, breathless and beautiful. He hadn’t been late because of the traffic. He’d stayed outside to be late with her. I looked at him now, sitting at our breakfast table, sipping his coffee and reading the Journal. On a whim, I decided to test the waters. “Nate, I’m running behind. Do you think you could drop me off?” He didn’t look up from the paper. “I have a meeting at ten. I’ll have my driver take you.” I blinked. “Right. Thanks.” “No problem.” “Thank you” and “No problem.” That was the vocabulary of our marriage. We were polite. We were considerate. We were strangers who knew how each other liked their eggs. The driver got me there on time. Mr. Jackson was already waiting in the gazebo, his eyes twinkling. He was a grumpy old man who cheated at chess and talked too much, which was why no one else would play with him. We’d become unlikely friends over the years. At the time, I hadn’t known he was Nate’s grandfather. To me, he was just Arthur, the man who complained about his “stubborn, blockhead grandson.” “Claire, dear,” Arthur said, waving a hand in front of my face. “You’re miles away today. You just walked right into a scholar’s mate.” I looked down. The board was a disaster. I forced a smile. “You got me, Arthur. I’m off my game.” He studied me, his eyes sharp. “Did you and Nate have a fight?” I shook my head. We didn’t fight. We didn’t have enough friction to spark a flame, let alone a fire. “That boy,” Arthur sighed. “He’s always been emotionally stunted. I’ll have a word with him.” The idea of Nate being “stunted” was almost funny. In high school, he was the definition of “soulful.” He was a romantic extremist. He’d bought roses for every girl in the senior class just so Camille wouldn’t feel singled out by her strict parents. He’d braved a suspension to light up the sky with her name. I’d seen the roses. I’d seen the fireworks. I was just the girl in the background, benefitting from the fallout of his love for someone else. The realization hit me then, sharp and cold. I was afraid. 4 I have spent my life waiting. Waiting for the 50% off stickers at the grocery store. Waiting for the last bus in the rain. Waiting in the foster system for a family that never came. I was falling into the old habit again. I was waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for Nate to realize he still loved her. Waiting for the “we need to talk” conversation. Waiting to be discarded. Usually, the waiting was a numb, dull thing. But this time, it hurt. I decided, for the first time in my life, to be brave. I went to Nate’s office. I rehearsed the questions in my head the whole way there. Do you still love her? Are we over? I didn’t even make it past the lobby. The receptionist gave me a polished, pitying smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Vance, but Nate is in a closed-door session. Unless it’s an emergency?” I wasn’t even sure if Nate wanted his employees to know he was married to someone like me. I hadn’t pushed for a public profile. “It’s fine,” I said. I pulled out my phone to call him, just as the elevator dinged. Nate walked out, surrounded by a phalanx of VPs. He looked at his phone, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but he didn’t answer. I hung up instinctively. He was walking slower than usual, leaning back to listen to someone behind him. As they cleared the corner, I saw her. Camille. She looked exactly the same—the kind of timeless beauty that didn’t need filters. She was walking beside him, her hand occasionally brushing his arm. “Is that the same ringtone?” she asked, her voice carrying across the lobby. “I can’t believe you still use that piano track. It was my favorite.” Seventeen-year-old Nate listened to nothing but grunge and heavy metal. But Camille loved Chopin. Nate had changed his entire world for her. Apparently, he’d never changed it back. The receptionist cleared her throat. “See? I told you he was busy.” “Right,” I whispered. “Thank you.” I went home and crawled into bed. I just wanted to sleep it off, but the group chat was a wildfire. “OMG guess who I just saw at Le Bernardin? Nate and Camille!” “It’s happening. The endgame is finally here.” “@Camille, give us the tea! Is the flame back on?” Camille posted a photo. A view of the city, a glass of expensive red, and a man’s forearm resting on the table. You couldn’t see his face, but I knew those veins, that watch, those fingers. “The food here is still incredible,” she captioned it. I zoomed in on his hand. The hand I’d held every night for two years. His wedding ring was gone. 5 Nate came home early. He didn’t come to the bedroom. He went out to the balcony and lit a cigarette. He’d quit the day we got married. Seeing her had clearly broken his resolve. When he finally came inside and showered, he climbed into bed and pulled me against him. It was a rare gesture of affection outside of our sex life. “Claire,” he whispered into my hair. “We should talk.” About what? The divorce? The fact that you’re moving her into my spot? My breath hitched. I felt my body go rigid. “Never mind,” he sighed, sensing my tension. “Why did you call me today? You never call the office.” “It was an accident,” I lied. “A pocket dial.” “Oh. I figured.” That night, he was different. He kissed me with a slow, agonizing tenderness that felt like a goodbye. I’d always preferred it when he was a little rough, a little wild. In those moments, I could see the ghost of the boy he used to be. I knew he was capable of passion—I’d seen him fight for her, seen him laugh until he couldn’t breathe. With me, he was always so… quiet. I realized then that I couldn’t do this anymore. I didn’t have a family to turn to. I only had Arthur. The next afternoon, I sat with Arthur at the chessboard. I stared at the pieces, unable to see a way out. The first rule of chess: if you’re in a losing position, don’t play for a draw. Fold. “Arthur,” I said softly. “I don’t think I can solve this one.” He looked at the board, then at me. He reached out and swept the pieces into a messy pile. “Then start over,” he said. He was right. The seasons were changing. I didn’t bother swapping my summer clothes for winter ones. I didn’t restock the pantry. I started packing my books into cardboard boxes. Nate found me in the study, looking at the half-empty shelves. “Where are your books?” “I’m donating them,” I said. Another lie. I just didn’t want to be scrambling when the time came. I’d rehearsed my speech a hundred times. I walked to his home office that night and stood outside the door, taking three deep breaths. I turned the handle. Nate was at his desk, one hand over his eyes, the other holding his phone. “Camille, I can handle the logistics on this end,” he was saying, his voice weary but soft. “It’s been too long. I don’t want to wait anymore.” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I backed away and closed the door. He was in more of a hurry than I was. He was just waiting for the right moment to “handle” me. That night, I didn’t wait for the perfect moment. I chose the most abrupt one. As he leaned in to kiss my neck, I pulled away. “Nate,” I said, my voice steady. “I want a divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407045”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was known across the internet as the ugliest daughter of Hollywood royalty, the grotesque shadow standing behind my universally adored, drop-dead gorgeous younger sister. When my parents first brought my sister home—born with a severe facial deformity—they wept over her suffering and begged me to step back from the spotlight, to hand over my modeling contracts and acting roles so they could build her up. I did. But slowly, terrifyingly, my own skin began to break out in weeping, cystic pustules. Meanwhile, my sister’s birthmarks faded. Her features sharpened into something breathtaking. She even snatched the exclusive global beauty campaign right out from under my fiancé’s nose. In the dressing room before a major gala, my makeup artist looked at the surgical mask hiding the lower half of my face and sighed. “It’s just the genetic lottery, honey. Your sister has a perfect canvas. Try not to let it eat at you.” I forced a smile, my voice muffled by the fabric, trying to explain that we shared the exact same genetics. The makeup artist’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Then how on earth did your face end up rotting like that?” The words were a physical blow. I thought I just wasn’t trying hard enough. I went home and subjected my skin to brutal chemical peels, aggressive anti-aging lasers, and even rigorously applied a bespoke, holistic poultice my sister had sworn by. Now, fresh off the operating table from a desperate jaw-shaving surgery, my face swathed in bloody bandages and my body trembling from the anesthesia, I looked up at the television in the recovery room. There was my sister—the girl doctors once said would never have a normal face—clutching the trophy for a massive, televised international beauty pageant, smiling with practiced, flawless grace. 1 I slumped against the sterile leather of the recovery room chair, feeling the warm, metallic seep of blood against my bandages. I pressed a trembling hand to my jawline, gasping as a sharp, electric pain shot through the fresh incisions where the surgeon had shaved down the bone. My eyes were glued to the flat-screen mounted on the wall. Blair Montgomery stood center stage, bathed in the blinding glare of the pageant’s spotlights, a diamond crown nestled in her hair. She was my biological sister. When our parents finally tracked her down and brought her into the Montgomery estate two years ago, her face had been a map of twisted cartilage and deep, sprawling discoloration. The Blair on the screen today possessed a complexion like poured cream and features carved by an absolute master. The camera cut to the judges, their microphones picking up breathless whispers. “Utterly flawless. That right there is a generational beauty, given straight from God.” A live feed of social media reactions scrolled rapidly across the bottom of the screen. [Oh my god who is this absolute goddess!!!] [Blair Montgomery is the IT GIRL! The real Montgomery heiress hits different!] [Where’s her sister though? Heard she botched her face trying to keep up lmaooo] I gripped the edge of my hospital gown, my knuckles bleeding of color. Two years ago, when Blair first stepped foot into our Bel-Air mansion, a dark, bruised-purple port-wine stain had consumed the entire left side of her face, dragging from her temple down to her jaw. Her nasal bridge was collapsed, her eyes spaced unnervingly far apart. I still remembered the top Beverly Hills plastic surgeon sliding the scans across his mahogany desk, his voice laced with pity. “It’s a congenital bone and vascular malformation. The probability of surgical correction is next to zero.” Slowly, I raised my hand, my fingertips grazing the swollen, throbbing mass of flesh beneath my bandages. I used to be the beautiful one. The golden child. By eighteen, I had locked down three international luxury campaigns. The tabloids called me the undisputed muse of young Hollywood. Then, a year ago, the nightmare started. My skin erupted. Deep, painful cysts colonized my forehead and cheeks. I flew to the top dermatologists in New York, underwent the most excruciatingly expensive laser treatments, and took every experimental pill they threw at me. Nothing worked. My face decayed a little more every day. And every day, Blair’s face healed. My phone buzzed against my thigh. A text from my mother, Evelyn. [Blair won the crown! She is the pride of this family! Stay at the clinic and rest, Camilla. Don’t come out and make a scene.] I stared at the glowing pixels until they blurred, rubbing the heel of my hand against my eyes. I let my head fall back against the wall, the memories from a year ago rushing in to fill the quiet, sterile room. It was shortly after Blair had moved in. My father, Richard, had sat across from me in his study, staring at his scotch glass. “Camilla, your sister has survived a lifetime of cruelty out in the real world,” he had said, his voice heavy. “That face of hers… people stare. They point.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “I’m asking you for a favor. Step out of the limelight for a bit. Hand your current PR resources and brand contacts over to her. Let her build some confidence. Once she finds her footing, I swear to you, I’ll make it up to you tenfold.” My mother had been sitting on the velvet sofa, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “Your sister is so broken, Camilla. You’re the older sister. Is it really so hard to share?” I had caved. I thought bleeding myself dry was the price of a whole, happy family. The moment I stepped back, Blair consumed it all. She took my agents, my campaigns, and eventually, she even moved into the master suite that had been mine since childhood. I opened my eyes and pulled up Blair’s Instagram on my phone. Her latest post was a candid shot of her with Tristan Croft. Tristan’s arm was wrapped possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The caption read: [My Blair. The most beautiful girl in the world.] Tristan was my fiancé. A tremor started in my fingers and quickly hijacked my entire hand. I remembered the first time Tristan had met Blair. He hadn’t even bothered to shake her hand. Later, in the privacy of my car, he had shuddered. “Your sister,” he had muttered, adjusting his Rolex. “Christ, she’s hard to look at.” Now, he couldn’t take his hands off her. Another notification slid down my screen. A text from Blair. [Cam! I won! I’m still shaking! Btw, are you still applying that botanical poultice I gave you?] [My holistic guru just gave me an upgraded formula, I’ll overnight it to you. You HAVE to keep applying it every night! Love u ~ ] I stared at the little pink heart, biting the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper. The door to the recovery room clicked open. My surgeon walked in, holding a manila folder, his expression grim. He pulled off his reading glasses. “Camilla… I’m incredibly sorry,” he started, his voice adopting that quiet, devastating professional tone. “The post-op tissue rejection from the jaw-contouring is much more aggressive than we modeled.” He hesitated. “We are seeing signs of localized nerve necrosis in your lower face.” “Meaning?” I whispered, my voice scraping like sandpaper. “Meaning, if the necrosis spreads… your face will never return to a baseline state of normalcy. The damage is permanent.” I didn’t move. I just sat perfectly still against the leather chair, while on the screen in my hand, my sister continued to smile. 2 Three days later, I walked into the hospital lobby to pick up my pathology reports. I kept my head down, the oversized sunglasses and medical mask hiding the fact that the skin around my jaw was peeling in angry, red flakes. I hadn’t looked in a mirror since the surgery. I was just turning the corner toward the elevators when I heard a familiar voice echoing off the marble. “Hey, slow down. You’re going to twist an ankle in those heels.” I froze. It was Tristan. I glanced over my shoulder. Blair was walking down the sunlit corridor, her arm threaded through Tristan’s. He had one hand hovering protectively over the small of her back, the other carrying her Chanel bag. This was the man who used to let heavy glass doors slam in my face because he was too busy checking his emails. “Are you tired, B?” Tristan murmured, leaning in close. “Want me to carry you to the car?” “Stop it, Tristan, you’re being embarrassing,” Blair giggled, shoving his shoulder playfully. Then, she looked up. Her eyes locked onto me, standing like a ghost in the shadows of the alcove. The flirtatious smile vanished, instantly replaced by wide-eyed, theatrical concern. “Camilla!” She let go of Tristan and practically sprinted over, her eyes raking up and down my form. “Are you here for your follow-up? How is the healing going?” She leaned in, her gaze dropping to the visible edges of my ruined skin, her pupils dilating with something that looked sickeningly like hunger. I quickly shoved the manila folder containing my necrosis diagnosis behind my back. “…Fine.” “Oh, thank god! I’ve been making myself sick worrying about you.” She reached out and grabbed my free hand, squeezing it tight. Tristan strolled over, his gaze sweeping over me with barely concealed pity, before his lips pressed into a tight, strained line. “Camilla,” he said, giving me a stiff nod. The elevator pinged. The steel doors slid open, revealing my parents. My mother’s face immediately soured the second she saw me. “What are you doing out of the house?” she snapped. “I told you to stay out of sight until you healed.” But the moment her eyes shifted to Blair, her entire posture softened into mush. She pushed past me and grabbed Blair’s hands. “Blair, darling! Oh, look at that dress on you. You could wear a trash bag and make the cover of Vogue!” “Mom, I just came for a routine check-up,” Blair said, resting her head on Evelyn’s shoulder. Tristan chimed in, practically preening. “Evelyn, Blair has a global shoot for LUMINE next month. They’re flying her to Paris. The creative director personally requested her.” He offered my mother a deferential, charming smile. “It’s going to be massive for the Montgomery name.” Evelyn beamed, showing all her teeth. “Well, obviously! Blair is the face of this family now. She’s our little miracle.” My father stood a step behind them, nodding emphatically. “Damn right. She’s doing us proud.” I stood three feet away, entirely invisible, listening to them build a world I was no longer a part of. After a long moment, Evelyn finally turned back to me, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “Camilla, have those disgusting cysts cleared up yet?” A few nurses walking by turned their heads at the volume of her voice. I swallowed a thick knot of humiliation. “…No. Not yet.” Evelyn’s brow furrowed, her mouth pulling down into a harsh scowl. “Do you know how much money we’ve burned on your dermatologists? Does any of it actually work? It’s like you’re not even trying—” My father sighed, adjusting his golf polo. “Tristan has that charity gala next week. He’s expecting you to be on his arm. You can’t go looking like… that.” I gripped the edge of my medical file so hard the paper tore. I didn’t say a word. Blair tugged gently on our mother’s sleeve. “Mom, leave her alone. She’s trying.” She turned to me, tilting her head with an innocent blink. “Speaking of trying, Cam… have you been using that bespoke botanical poultice I sent you? The one from the apothecary?” I opened my mouth, the memory of that thick, foul-smelling paste rising in my throat. I had been slathering it on twice a day, exactly as she instructed. “…Yes. I use it.” “But it doesn’t work. If anything, the breakouts are spreading, and my skin feels like it’s burning.” Blair’s eyes widened to comical proportions. She looked down at her own porcelain, flawless hands, and then back up at the raw, angry skin peeking out from my bandages. “Really? That is so weird…” she murmured. “Whenever I use it, my skin feels like silk.” She tilted her head, her gaze locked onto mine. “Maybe your genetics just… reject it? I’ll ask my guru if there’s a modified batch he can make—” “Don’t bother.” I cut her off, taking a step backward. “I need to go.” I turned on my heel and power-walked toward the lobby doors. Behind me, I heard my mother’s voice, sharp and embarrassed. “Look at her attitude! You try to help her, Blair, and she acts like a petulant child.” Blair let out a soft, forgiving sigh. “She’s just hurting, Mom. Don’t be mad at her…” Just before the heavy glass doors swung shut, I caught a glimpse of Blair in the reflection. She wasn’t sighing. The corners of her mouth were curled up in a triumphant, razor-sharp smirk. 3 I walked into the ground floor of a high-end luxury department store. My doctor had prescribed a specialized neuro-repair serum to slow down the nerve death, and the only place that stocked it was the clinical beauty counter here. As I approached the cosmetic aisles, a massive, backlit billboard caught my eye. It was Blair. Printed in elegant, minimalist font in the bottom right corner were the words: [LUMINE Global Ambassador: Blair Montgomery.] That contract had been mine a year ago. I tore my eyes away, ducking my head and walking faster toward the pharmacy section. I barely made it two steps before someone screamed. “THAT’S HER!!!” A teenage girl, clutching a glossy magazine with Blair’s face on it, lunged out from behind a display counter. Before my brain could even register the movement, the girl reached out and violently ripped the mask off my face. I let out a choked gasp, throwing my hands up to cover my cheeks. The cool, air-conditioned air hit the raw surgical incisions and weeping pustules. It burned like battery acid. The girl blocked the aisle, putting her hands on her hips, and screamed at the top of her lungs. “HEY EVERYONE! Look! It’s Camilla Montgomery!” “Blair’s psychotic older sister! The one who’s trying to sabotage her contracts and steal her campaigns!” All the color drained from my face. “What are you talking about—” “Don’t play dumb! We know everything!” The girl spat, her eyes wild. “We know you’ve been calling the brand reps behind Blair’s back, trying to tell them you deserve the LUMINE deal! You’re so jealous you’re actually sick. It’s pathetic!” “I never did that! I’m just here to pick up a prescription!” The girl sneered, her eyes dropping to the manila folder I had instinctively tucked against my stomach. “Medicine? What kind of medicine does a botched plastic surgery freak need? What’s in the folder? Show us!” “No—” I tried to twist away, but she was faster. She yanked the pathology report right out of my hands. Her eyes scanned the bold text at the top of the page, and a malicious bark of laughter erupted from her throat. She waved the paper in the air, turning to the crowd of shoppers that had started to gather. “Oh my god, you guys, she’s actually trying to surgically copy her sister’s face! She got her jaw shaved and the surgery failed!” “She’s got facial nerve necrosis! She’s literally a rotting, stitched-together Frankenstein!!!” The crowd closed in. Phones were whipped out, camera lenses pointing at my face like the barrels of guns. I heard the rapid-fire click-click-click of shutters. “Jesus, that’s her sister? The genetic drop-off is insane…” “Trying to look like her little sister? That is profoundly unhinged.” “Karma, honestly. Blair is a natural beauty, and this girl is just butchering herself.” The whispers hit me like physical blows. I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails broke the skin of my palms. “It’s not true! I wasn’t trying to look like her! I—” The girl took a step closer, shoving her phone camera right into my face. “You’re what?” she sneered. “If my face looked like roadkill, I’d blow my brains out. Do us all a favor and drop off the grid. You’re disgusting.” I curled my shoulders inward, a violent tremor wracking my body. “That is quite enough!” I was about to scream when a hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. It was Evelyn. She pulled me behind her, her face dark with fury, though not at the crowd. At me. “Stop making a scene!” she hissed in my ear. “Are you trying to humiliate us? Get in the car, now!” “Mom—” “Do not call me Mom right now!” Evelyn stepped into my personal space, her voice a venomous whisper. “Look at you! Everywhere you go, you drag drama behind you like a stray dog! Your sister is finally at the peak of her career, and you’re out here getting photographed looking like a leper! Are you trying to drag her down with you?” I bit down on my trembling lip, the metallic taste of blood returning. Suddenly, Blair appeared from the crowd, looking like a distressed angel. she reached out and gently gripped my arm. “Cam, it’s okay. Ignore them.” She turned to face the mob of onlookers, offering them a deeply apologetic, sorrowful look. “Please, everyone, stop taking photos. My sister… she’s struggling right now.” She paused, letting a perfect tear well up in her eye. “She’s had a really hard time processing some… cosmetic procedures that didn’t go as planned. Her mental health hasn’t been stable. Please, just give her some grace, okay?” She pressed her palms together, bowing her head in a gesture of pure, saintly humility. Someone in the crowd murmured, “Blair has such a big heart… having a toxic sister like that must be exhausting.” The fight drained out of me completely. My arms fell limp at my sides. I shook Blair’s hand off my arm, turned around, and walked away. I made it all the way to the underground parking garage before my legs gave out. I collapsed into a crouch behind a concrete pillar, pressing my face into my hands, choking on my own tears. Then, a voice echoed from the stairwell. “Yeah? Hey B, it’s done. I did exactly what you said…” I froze. “Yeah, tore the mask off, grabbed the medical records. She was literally sobbing in the middle of the store…” “Mhm, don’t worry about it, B. The crowd was mostly the extras I hired off Craigslist…” “Two grand, right? Perfect. I’ll text you my Venmo.” It was the girl from the department store. I knelt there in the oily darkness of the garage, holding my breath. I did exactly what you said. Extras I hired. Slowly, I lowered my hands. I wiped the tears from my ruined face, my fingers curling into tight, cold fists. 4 I pushed the heavy oak door of the house open, my face completely blank. The foyer was dark, save for the ambient light bleeding in from the street. A figure rose from the living room sofa and walked toward me. “Camilla?” Damon Royce frowned as he took in my appearance, his hands coming up to gently grasp my arms. “What happened? You look like you’re going to pass out.” Damon was my husband. To the world—and to my family—he was just a nobody. A guy with no money and no pedigree who married into the Montgomery wealth because I had insisted. Nobody knew he was actually the sole heir to the Royce conglomerate, an empire that could buy and sell my father’s company ten times over. He kept his identity hidden and endured my family’s constant belittling because of a promise he made to me years ago. But right now, I didn’t have the mental capacity to think about his secret billions. “It’s nothing,” I lied, dropping my gaze. “Just came from the doctor. He said healing takes time.” Damon studied me for a long moment, seeing right through the lie. Without a word, he pulled me flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. “Whatever it is,” he murmured into my hair, “I’ve got you.” I leaned my weight against him, burying my face in his shirt, and finally let out a long, shaky breath. Hours later, fresh out of the shower and lying in the dark, I stared at the ceiling. I mentally rewound the tape of the last twelve months. That bespoke botanical poultice Blair sent me. The smell was vile—like iron, rotting flowers, and old copper. Every time I put it on, it felt like my skin was in a frying pan. When I told Blair, she assured me it was “cellular purging” and that the toxins had to come out before the skin could heal. I had religiously applied it for three months. For three months, my face decayed at an accelerated rate. But the morning after I applied it, Blair would always wake up looking positively radiant. Glowing. Buzzing with energy. None of it made sense. Blair survived on a diet of vodka, sugar, and late-night Taco Bell runs. She slept three hours a night, never washed her makeup off before bed, and baked in the sun without a drop of SPF. With a lifestyle like that, her skin should have been a wrecked, inflamed mess. But she didn’t have a single pore out of place. Meanwhile, I lived like a monk. No dairy, no sugar, gallons of water, sleeping by ten PM, slathering on the most expensive barrier-repair creams money could buy. And my face was literally rotting off my skull. I sat up slowly in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs. A terrifying, impossible thought clawed its way into my brain. What if her beauty wasn’t hers? What if she was stealing it from me? I turned my head. Sitting on my nightstand was the fresh jar of the poultice Blair had just overnighted to me. The thick, black paste sat behind the glass, radiating that faint, sickeningly sweet, metallic smell. My phone lit up. A text from Blair. [Cam! Did the new batch arrive? You HAVE to put it on tonight! This one is ten times stronger than the last! Put on a thick layer! Sweet dreams ~] Followed by three pink heart emojis. A year ago, that text would have made me smile, grateful that my sister cared. Tonight, it made the blood in my veins run cold. I threw the blankets off, marched over to my vanity, and grabbed a heavy-duty trash bag. I swept every single glass bottle, serum, prescription cream, and chemical exfoliant off the marble into the bag. Then, I picked up the jar of the ancient poultice, unscrewed the lid, and dumped the foul, black sludge directly into the trash can. I didn’t even flinch at the stench. I picked up my phone, opened Postmates, and ordered eighty dollars’ worth of greasy fried chicken, loaded fries, and a massive chocolate milkshake. Damon, who had been leaning against the bedroom doorframe watching my manic purge, raised a single, dark eyebrow. “Going scorched earth, I see?” “If my face is going to rot, I might as well enjoy the ride,” I mumbled around a mouthful of a crispy chicken thigh twenty minutes later. “I haven’t eaten a carb in three years. This is so f*cking good.” After I ate, I stayed up until 4 AM playing Call of Duty, eventually passing out and sleeping until noon. For the next seven days, I abandoned everything. I threw away my diet. I ate jalapeño poppers and drank cheap wine. I stayed out late with Damon at dive bars. I stopped washing my face. I stopped moisturizing. I stopped avoiding the sun. On the night of the seventh day, my phone began to vibrate violently. The screen flashed Blair’s name. Over and over. I ignored the first three calls. On the fourth, I hit accept. “CAMILLA! What the hell have you been doing for the past week?!” Blair’s voice was frantic, breathless. I took a bite of a spicy barbecue wing, dragging out my chew before answering. “Eating ribs. Why?” “No—what about your poultice?! Mom told me she saw you throw all your skincare away! Have you lost your mind? Your face is literally falling apart and you’re just going to give up?!” Her voice hit a shrill, hysterical pitch that I had never heard from her before. Hearing the absolute, naked panic in her tone, I smiled. I finally had her.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “407030”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel