Category: English

1 My wife had postpartum depression. The day she stood on the edge of the rooftop, ready to throw herself off, I didn’t reach out to pull her back. Instead, I dragged a five-year-old boy out from behind me, pointed at her, and sneered. “Go on, jump. Do it quickly.” “The second you hit the pavement, I’m bringing this boy into our home. He’ll take your place.” “He’ll live in your house, spend your money, and beat your precious daughter.” On cue, the little boy looked up at me with wide, timid eyes and called me “Daddy.” The dead, hollow look in my wife’s eyes instantly erupted into a blazing fire of pure fury. She climbed back over the safety railing, stormed over to me, and slapped me across the face with everything she had. “Robert! You absolute monster! I’ll go to hell before I let some bastard child take over my home!” She packed up our baby daughter and left for her parents’ house. For the first time in six months, she had fire in her eyes. I touched my stinging, hot cheek and stood in the cold wind, laughing out loud. But the moment her taxi disappeared around the corner, the smile melted off my face. A sudden surge of metallic heat rushed up my throat. I doubled over, clutching my chest as a violent cough racked my body. A small hand reached up, offering me a crumpled tissue. Nick patted my back gently. “Mr. Robert, did I do good? Did I sound like a real actor?” I took the tissue, wiping the blood from my lips, and squeezed it tight in my fist. “You did great, Nick. Better than an Oscar winner.” Nick looked toward the empty railing, his brow furrowing. “But the lady… she looked like she really wanted to jump.” My heart squeezed, a pain so sharp it stole the air from my lungs. She did. Ten minutes ago, half of her body was already dangling over the edge. Those beautiful, bright eyes of hers had been completely empty. She couldn’t even hear our daughter crying in her bassinet inside. The psychiatrist’s words echoed in my mind: Unless she experiences a massive emotional shock, whether it is love or hate, something to trigger her survival instinct, she won’t make it. My love could no longer save her. For the past six months, I had knelt on the floor, begging her to eat a single bite of food. I had held her through sleepless nights, but she only wept, staring into the void. And I was running out of time. I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the crumpled medical report. Late-stage pancreatic cancer. I was going to die. How could a dying man use love to save someone who wanted to join the dead? If I died while she was still in that state, she would surely follow me without hesitation. So, it had to be hate. A deep, burning hatred was the only thing that could force her to survive, to fight for revenge. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Miss Ward, yes, I’ve transferred the funds. Proceed with the plan.” I hung up and looked at the lock screen photo of Grace. It was taken right after our wedding, her eyes curved into beautiful, happy crescents. Grace, please don’t hate me. If keeping you alive means sending me to hell, I’ll gladly burn. When I got back, the house was dead silent. I marched straight into the nursery. The pink wallpaper, the white wooden crib, the drawers stuffed with tiny clothes, every single thing in this room had been chosen by her hand. It was the sanctuary of her motherhood. And it was the first place I had to destroy. I dismantled the crib, tore down the pastel wallpaper, and stuffed the baby clothes into heavy black trash bags. Then, I took the action figures, toy trucks, and plastic robots Nick had brought and scattered them across the floor. The delicate nursery was gone, replaced by a messy boy’s playroom. Standing in the doorway of the ruined room, my chest throbbed with a suffocating pain. But I forced my hands to stop shaking long enough to snap a picture and post it to my social media feed. The caption read: Finally, no more sickeningly sweet pink stuff. Welcome to your new playroom, son! Go wild! My fingers trembled as I hit post. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a bank alert. Grace had just transferred exactly half of our joint savings into a private account. I stared at the screen, tears spilling over my cheeks as a laugh escaped my throat. That’s my girl, Grace. She was fighting back. She was protecting what was hers. That was her survival instinct kicking in. She could take every penny to buy a weapon to kill me, as long as she stayed off that rooftop. Suddenly, a heavy pounding rattled the front door. I wiped my face, letting my expression freeze into a cold, arrogant sneer. I opened the door, ready to deliver another cruel insult, but stopped. Three police officers in uniform stood on the landing. “Robert Sinclair? We received a domestic abuse report. You need to come with us to the station.” She had called the police. The quiet, fragile Grace who used to hide under the covers and cry had learned to use the law to strike back at me. Good. Beautifully done. I calmly held out my hands to be cuffed, silently cheering for her in the dark. 2 Without any physical injuries or medical reports, I kept my story simple, calling it a heated domestic argument. The officers gave me a stern warning and released me after a few hours. When I unlocked the front door, the apartment was fully lit. Grace sat on the living room sofa, holding our baby daughter Emma. Her older brother, Thomas, stood beside her, his face dark with fury. Nick was sitting on the rug, playing with a toy car, though the tension in the room was thick enough to cut. Grace raised her head, her eyes shot through with red veins. She stared at me, her gaze cold enough to freeze water. I kicked off my shoes, picked Nick up, and kissed him on the cheek. “Hey there, buddy. Still awake? Did you miss Daddy?” Nick wrapped his arms around my neck, executing his role perfectly. “Daddy, can we get pizza tomorrow?” “Of course! The biggest, most expensive pizza in town!” Thomas’s face turned purple. He lunged forward, ready to swing. “Robert! You absolute piece of garbage! Your wife gave birth barely six months ago, and you bring your bastard into her home?!” I sidestepped his fist, letting out a mockery of a laugh. “Thomas, watch your mouth. What do you mean, bastard? This is the heir to my family name!” “Besides, it’s not my fault Grace’s body couldn’t even produce a son. I had to secure my legacy somehow, didn’t I?” Grace began to shake violently. She handed Emma to her brother and bolted toward the nursery. A few seconds later, a bloodcurdling scream echoed from the room. She had seen the trash bags of baby clothes. She had seen the broken crib. “Robert!!!” She charged out of the room, throwing herself at me, her nails raking across my cheek. A sharp sting flared across my face. But that physical pain was a relief. It was a distraction from the agony inside. I grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back. Her back hit the entryway cabinet with a dull thud. My heart stopped. My hand instinctively twitched, wanting to reach out and catch her, but I forced my arm to stay down. Instead, I pointed a finger at her and sneered. “You crazy bitch! You dare touch me?” “That slap just cost you every single penny of child support I was planning to throw your way!” “If you’re going to stay here, you learn your place!” “You want a divorce? Fine! Go ahead and sue me! You’ll leave this house with nothing, and the kid stays with me!” Grace clutched her bruised shoulder, panting heavily. She raised a hand to stop her brother from lunging at me again, using the cabinet to support herself as she stood tall. The wild, screaming rage in her eyes slowly hardened into a cold, unbreakable steel. “Thomas, go home,” she said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Grace! How can you stay here with this monster? Pack your things and come with me!” “I’m not leaving.” She stared directly into my eyes, speaking each word with deadly precision. “This is my home. I paid for half of this apartment. If I walk out now, I’m just clearing the way for this trash and his whore.” “I’m not going anywhere.” “I am going to stay right here, and I am going to watch the universe tear you to pieces.” Thomas couldn’t convince her. With a few final curses directed at me, he took his coat and left. The moment the front door clicked shut, Grace took Emma from the stroller, walked into the guest room, and locked the door behind her. Hearing the lock slide into place, my chest tightened. She was staying. For the sake of her daughter and her own pride, she had chosen to fight. And as long as she was willing to fight, she wouldn’t try to die. Late that night, I locked myself in the master bathroom, kneeling over the toilet bowl. My stomach twisted in agonizing knots, the brutal reality of the chemotherapy and the cancer spreading through my abdomen. I flushed away the crimson fluid, staring at the ghost looking back at me in the mirror. Sunken cheeks, dark hollows under my eyes. I looked like a corpse. Through the thin wall, I could hear her muffled, suffocating sobs. I pressed my forehead against the cold bathroom tiles, tapping my head against them until the skin broke and bled, desperate to let the physical pain drown out the screaming guilt in my mind. Don’t cry, Grace. Please, save your tears. Hate me. Want to destroy me. That is the only way you’ll have the strength to live. The next morning, the living room was a disaster zone. Nick’s expensive new toys were completely ruined, his plastic action figures smashed and piled high in the trash bin. Grace sat at the table, quietly feeding Emma some formula. She didn’t even look up when I walked in. “I cleaned up some of the trash around here,” she said, her tone light and conversational. “From now on, if I see any of that bastard’s things in my sight, they go straight into the garbage.” I looked at her tired but stubborn face, a smile almost breaking through my mask. Instead, I kicked the trash bin over, sending the broken toys scattering across the floor. “Grace, do you have a death wish?” I barked. “Clearly, you have too much free time on your hands!” “Since you love cleaning so much, you’re the maid now. You do all the housework.” “And if my son isn’t fed and cared for perfectly, you won’t see a single cent of allowance!” Grace finally looked up, her lips curving into a dry, mocking smile. “Robert, you think you can control me with a few dollars?” “Just wait.” Later that morning, Grace put on a tailored trench coat, applied a light layer of makeup, and walked out the door. She was going to meet with a divorce lawyer, and she was looking for a job. My Grace was finally baring her teeth to survive. But finding a job after a long gap and during a transition period wasn’t easy. It wasn’t enough to turn her into iron. I needed to add more fuel to the fire. And that fuel’s name was Gwen. 3 When Grace walked through the door that evening, she froze. Gwen was lounging on the living room sofa, wearing Grace’s favorite silk robe while applying a face mask, her bare feet propped up on our mahogany coffee table. Nick was riding on my shoulders as I chased him around the room, laughing loudly. The color drained from Grace’s face, her leather handbag slipping from her fingers and hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud. That silk robe was the one she had bought for our honeymoon, a piece she cherished like a treasure. And now, a strange woman was wearing it. Gwen peered up from her mask, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Oh, is the wife back?” “Sorry about the robe, sweetie. I needed something to wear.” “Though, looking at how much your figure has stretched out, I doubt you could even fit into this anymore anyway.” Grace’s eyes locked onto Gwen. Before anyone could react, she stormed over, grabbed Gwen by her styled hair, and dragged her off the sofa. “Get out! Get the hell out of my house!” “Who gave you permission to touch my things? Take it off!” Gwen let out a dramatic shriek, deliberately falling into my arms as she began to sob. “Robert! Look at her! She’s completely insane!” I pushed Grace away, standing firmly in front of Gwen. “Grace! What the hell is wrong with you?” “This is Gwen. She’s going to be the new lady of this house. We’re all going to be living under the same roof from now on, so you better start showing her some respect!” Grace stared at me, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with disbelief. “The new lady?” “Robert, we aren’t even divorced! You dare bring your mistress into our home?” I let out a harsh laugh, pulling out my phone. I deliberately tapped the screen to initiate a bank transfer. The automated voice on the speaker announced: Transfer of fifty-two thousand dollars to Gwen Ward completed. When Emma was born, Grace had suffered from severe postpartum hemorrhaging, and she had hesitated for hours before asking me to spend a few hundred dollars on her recovery medication. And now, I had just casually handed fifty-two thousand dollars to another woman. I wrapped my arm around Gwen’s waist, looking down at Grace. “That’s some pocket money for Gwen, and child support for Nick.” “You kept complaining about me holding back money? See this? I have plenty of cash. I just don’t want to waste it on you.” “That’s what happens when you can’t even give me a son.” Grace stared at the transfer confirmation, tears pooling in her eyes. But she forced them back, refusing to let them fall. She turned around and marched into the study. A moment later, the hum of the printer started. She was printing her resume. And she was printing her divorce petition. Over the next few weeks, the torment continued. Gwen monopolized the bathroom, dumped out Grace’s skincare products, and blasted the television at all hours. And I took Gwen’s side every single time, without exception. Grace lived like a ghost in her own home, but she didn’t cry again. Her eyes grew colder, her movements sharper, and her resolve harder. Secretly, I was working behind the scenes. I called in favors from old business associates to ensure she got job interviews, quietly clearing the obstacles from her path. I was paving the way for her escape. One weekend, Nick snatched a small stuffed tiger from Emma’s hands, the toy she used to soothe herself to sleep. Emma burst into a loud, frantic wail. Annoyed by the noise, Nick grabbed Emma’s baby bottle and smashed it onto the floor. “Stop crying, you worthless girl!” Seeing this, Grace snapped. She rushed forward, shoved Nick to the ground, and slapped him hard across the face. Nick gasped in shock, and Gwen let out a piercing scream, lunging forward. “You dared to touch my son? I’ll kill you!” The two women began to claw at each other. I stepped in, shielding Gwen, and swung my hand back, striking Grace hard across the face. Crack. The room fell into a dead silence. Grace stumbled back, her hand clutching her cheek, which was already swelling into a bright red welt. The very last trace of affection in her eyes died in that instant. “Robert.” “That slap just ended everything we ever had.” “From this day on, you are not my husband. You are my worst enemy.” I looked into her dead eyes, swallowing down the lump of raw grief in my throat as I spat out my rehearsed venom. “What we had?” “You think you deserve to talk about that?” “Since you want to lay hands on my son, don’t expect me to play nice.” “Take your useless daughter and get the hell back to your room!” “If I ever see you touch Nick again, I’ll make sure you regret it!” Grace gave me one final look, cold and hollow, before picking up Emma and retreating to her room. That night, I kept my hand submerged in a basin of ice water to stop the shaking. But in my heart, I knew it was worth it.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458728”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I went to the airport to help my fangirl best friend welcome her idol, but ended up falling hard for his manager instead. While the rest of the crowd was screaming at the celebrity, I let out a loud, shameless catcall directed straight at the man in the suit. “Hey handsome, how long are you?” The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how incredibly wrong they sounded. Frantic to save face, I stumbled over my words to fix it. “I meant your height!” The manager: … After chasing him for nearly a month, he gently but firmly shut me down. “Don’t waste your time on me. I have no plans to get into a relationship anytime soon.” Taking the hint, I decided to move on and started focusing on a new indie musician. But the man who claimed he had no plans for love ended up pinning me against a cold brick wall in a dark, empty alleyway. “Weren’t you dying to know how long I am? Measure it yourself.” 1 At the end of the chaotic VIP arrivals terminal, my best friend, Gloria, grabbed my arm and shook it so hard my teeth rattled. “Oh my god, he’s here! He’s actually here!” I stood on my tip-toes, trying to peer through the sea of heads blocking my view. “Where? I don’t see him. Which one?” Gloria let out a sharp squeal, taking a brief second to point my blind eyes in the right direction. “Right there, at your eight o’clock. The most handsome guy in the room.” I nodded, squinting toward her finger. A man dressed in black had just rounded the corner of the corridor. A pair of elegant, gold-rimmed glasses rested on the high bridge of his nose. He had one hand shoved into his pocket while the other held a phone to his ear, his sleeve shifting just enough to reveal a sleek mechanical watch. “The guy in black? Wow, you weren’t kidding. He’s gorgeous.” The moment the words left my mouth, several fans standing nearby glared at me and pointedly took a few steps back. “No, idiot!” Gloria hissed. “The guy in black is Marcus, Ashton’s manager. I can’t believe Marcus is actually traveling with him today!” There must have been an emergency on the phone. Marcus gestured to a few assistants and slowed his pace, falling to the back of the group. A half-dozen assistants swarmed around a tall, masked figure, guiding the star forward like a protective shield. The crowd of fans immediately surged ahead to follow them. I dragged my feet, lingering at the back. Marcus hung up the call, frowning as he checked his watch. I stared at his collarbones, which were partially visible beneath his slightly loosened collar, and my brain completely short-circuited. In the midst of the deafening cheers and screams ahead, a sharp, clear whistle cut through the air. “Hey handsome, how long are you?” The bustling corridor fell into a sudden, agonizing silence. Marcus’s fingers trembled against his phone. Behind those gold-rimmed lenses, his narrow, dark eyes slowly squinted in my direction. He pressed his lips together, his earlobes turning a brilliant, unmistakable shade of crimson right before my eyes. My hands flew to cover my mouth. Catching Gloria’s horrified expression, I frantically tried to salvage the situation. “I, I mean, I was asking about your height!” Marcus pushed up his glasses, his expression turning completely blank as he noticeably quickened his pace. Not far ahead, Ashton, who was busy signing autographs, noticed the commotion. The eyes beneath his baseball cap curved into amused crescents. He tossed an arched brow at Marcus, clearly enjoying the free entertainment. “Hey, boss,” Ashton drawled, prolonging the syllables. “Someone’s asking you a question.” Marcus shot him a freezing glare, his voice low with warning. “Shut up.” An eagle-eyed fan page happened to capture the entire exchange on video. It stayed pinned to the top of the trending charts for three solid days. The question of just how long Ashton’s manager actually was became the internet’s favorite unsolved mystery. “So, what do you actually know about Marcus?” I asked, tossing my phone onto the couch and looking at Gloria with wide, hopeful eyes. “Are you seriously crushing on him?” I nodded sheepishly. “Well, you’ve picked a tough one,” Gloria sighed. “The guy is a total mystery. All I know is that he’s the industry’s ultimate ice king, a literal work machine. Just last month, he personally sent a whole group of obsessive stalkers straight to jail.” I let out a heavy sigh, wondering if I should just give up. But my mind kept drifting back to his sharp, cold face and the way the tips of his ears had flushed red in the airport. Since Gloria couldn’t offer much help, I took to the internet. Unfortunately, details about him were scarce. Aside from his professional reputation as a top-tier manager, there was practically nothing. “How can someone be this hard to find?” I muttered to myself. Just as I was about to dig deeper, my phone vibrated. It was my brother, Nathan, asking me to pick him up. The background noise on his end was loud, filled with the clinking of glasses and muffled laughter. With a heavy sigh of resignation, I grabbed my coat and headed out the door. When I arrived at the bar and pushed open the door to the private room, the first thing I saw was Nathan’s flushed, glassy-eyed face. “Hey! Over here!” he waved. I frowned and walked over, preparing to lecture him, but stopped dead in my tracks. Sitting right across from Nathan was Marcus. He was wearing the same clothes from earlier today. Perhaps the room was too warm, because he had undone the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. When he saw me, a faint eyebrow arched in surprise. “This is my sister, Vivian,” Nathan slurred, gesturing wildly at me. “She’s a total bookworm, very quiet, basically lives under a rock.” I nearly tripped over my own feet, keeping my head down and not daring to make eye contact. Nathan, you idiot. Your sister reads romance novels with very vivid descriptions, and she only stays home during the day so she can sneak out at night while you’re asleep. “Quiet?” Marcus let out a soft chuckle, taking a slow sip from his glass. His gaze lingered on me for a few agonizing seconds before he quietly looked away. 2 Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I quickly tried to steer the conversation. “Nathan, you’ve had too much to drink. Let’s go home.” Nathan waved me off. “No rush. Sit down for a bit.” With no other choice, I sat down and stole a quiet glance at Marcus. He was leaning back against the leather sofa, his unbuttoned collar exposing the elegant lines of his collarbone. In the dim amber light of the bar, his profile looked incredibly sharp and effortlessly attractive. “Nathan,” I whispered, tugging gently on my brother’s sleeve. “Is he your friend?” “Yeah,” Nathan muttered, nodding. “How come you’ve never mentioned him before?” I pressed. “What do you mean? I talk about him all the time. He’s the guy you called a pretentious prick at dinner last week…” “You are definitely drunk!” I lunged forward to cover his mouth, but the damage was already done. Nathan was close enough to Marcus that his voice hadn’t been quiet at all. To make matters worse, he pointed a finger directly at Marcus to make sure there was no confusion about who we were talking about. Suddenly, every eye in the room turned to us. My face burned with a fierce heat. I waved my hands frantically in denial. “No, that’s not true! I didn’t say that! Don’t listen to him!” Marcus let out a low laugh and set his glass down, staring at me with an amused, knowing look. Feeling the urge to crawl into a hole and die, I decided to throw my drunken brother entirely under the bus. “He made me say it!” My betrayal was so seamless that the rest of the table burst into laughter. I wanted to apologize to Marcus, but as I stood up, my high heel caught in a gap in the thick rug. I lost my balance entirely. As the room spun, a warm, firm hand caught me securely by the waist, steadying me. My mind went completely blank. I found myself staring directly at a tiny, dark mole just beside Marcus’s Adam’s apple. The room became so quiet I could hear the faint thrum of the bass from the main floor. Then, a groggy voice broke the silence from below. “Huh? Why am I on the floor?” Nathan rubbed his forehead, swaying as he struggled to his feet. “Vivian, why is your face so red?” “Thank you, I have to go!” I squeaked out. It was the perfect opportunity to make a connection, but I cowardly chose to run. It wasn’t until we got home that I realized I had completely forgotten to ask for Marcus’s number. As I lay in bed, my mind was filled entirely with his face, the scent of his cologne, the tiny mole on his neck, and the faint, teasing smile at the corner of his lips. I buried my face in my pillow and groaned. I was completely, utterly doomed. Suddenly, I sat up in bed. I walked down to the kitchen, warmed up a glass of milk, and knocked on Nathan’s door. “Nathan, are you asleep?” Ignoring his steady, quiet breathing, I shook his shoulder until his eyes fluttered open. “What is it?” He reached for his glasses on the nightstand, looking thoroughly disoriented. “You drank a lot tonight, and I was worried you wouldn’t sleep well. So I made you some warm milk.” Nathan stared at me. “Vivian.” “Oh, were you asleep? Your eyes were closed, so I wasn’t sure.” Nathan: … “Here, drink your milk,” I said, offering the glass with my most innocent smile. Nathan let out a long sigh and held up three fingers. “I’m giving you three seconds. If you don’t tell me what you want, get out and close the door.” I bit my lip, lowering my voice. “You haven’t texted Marcus to let him know we got home safely.” Nathan let out a dry, mocking laugh. He grabbed his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and shared Marcus’s contact card with me. The bright light of the screen was blinding in the dark room. My heart hammered against my ribs as I looked at the contact details. My thumb hovered over the add button, trembling. “It’s so late. Do you think he’s asleep?” Nathan rolled over, turning his back to me. “He’s an iceberg, completely ruthless. Don’t go looking for trouble.” Ignoring his warning, I clutched my phone like a prize and hurried back to my room. 3 The phone vibrated in my hand, and I practically bounced off the bed. After screaming silently at the ceiling, I opened the message with trembling fingers. Hi Marcus, this is Vivian. Nathan and I made it home safely. Thank you for catching me tonight, otherwise I would have ended up with a massive lump on my head. I immediately flipped the phone face down onto my chest, holding my breath. It took three long minutes before the screen lit up with his reply. K. Outside, the wind rustled the leaves against my window, creating a restless pattern of shadows. I rolled over, determined to keep the conversation going. When you helped me earlier, I think some of my lipstick got on your white shirt. Can I pay for the dry cleaning? Or maybe I could buy you dinner to make up for it? Also, about what happened at the airport today, I’m really sorry. This time, I waited a full five minutes. No need. It is late, and I am about to take a shower. Goodnight, Miss Bennett. How was I supposed to reply to that? I quickly opened a guide Gloria had sent me titled The Fine Art of Flirting, and typed out a confident response. A shower?! Sending me a text like that in the middle of the night makes me feel like things are getting a bit intimate between us. The message had barely sent when the screen showed typing… A minute later, Marcus retracted his previous message. It is late, and I am going to boil some water. Goodnight, Miss Bennett. I stared at the screen. Well played. He had officially caught my attention. I spent the rest of the night drafting a master plan. Using Nathan’s connections, I managed to secure an internship at Marcus’s agency. The tantrums and begging I had to go through to get Nathan to agree weren’t worth mentioning, but the result was all that mattered. I stared at my new ID badge, tracing the letters of my name, and let out a long breath. Today happened to be the monthly evaluation for the agency’s trainees. A group of teenagers was currently performing, and Marcus stood at the front, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed in a deep frown. “Stop,” he barked, tapping his fingers sharply on the desk. “Your transition in the chorus sounds like a choking goose. And you, cut down on the excessive gestures. It just looks cheap.” When I pushed the door open, a dozen pairs of eyes immediately locked onto me. Nathan must have warned him beforehand, because Marcus didn’t look surprised to see me. “Everyone, this is Vivian Bennett. She’s our new intern.” Marcus nodded and pointed to the empty chair right next to him. “Sit here.” He then turned to the rest of the staff. “She’ll be shadowing me for the foreseeable future.” The staff nodded, though the looks they exchanged were incredibly strange. I was confused at first, assuming they were just annoyed by a nepotism hire. But within thirty minutes, I understood completely. Those looks weren’t annoyance. They were pure pity. Marcus was absolutely terrifying at work. He ran the office like a highly precise, unforgiving machine, delivering sharp, brutal criticism without sparing anyone’s feelings. “You call this dancing? A elementary school play has better coordination than this.” “Is this agency a farm? If you keep gaining weight, are you planning to star in a documentary about lost muscle definition?” “Who approved this proposal? Are you being paid just to produce generic garbage?” Under the bright fluorescent lights, the trainees looked incredibly pale. The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Fortunately, since it was my first day, none of the fire was directed at me. I carefully slipped my phone out under the table and started texting Gloria. Marcus looks exactly like an Angry Bird when he’s mad. He’s so hot. I want to kiss him. I am absolutely going to make him mine. [Cute cat heart meme] Gloria, who usually replied within seconds, didn’t text back. I looked up in confusion, only to find the entire room staring at me with wide, shocked eyes. Following their gazes, my eyes landed on the massive presentation screen at the front of the room, which was currently displaying the cute cat heart meme. My stomach dropped. In my rush, I had clicked the very top conversation in my chat list, entirely forgetting that my last interaction was with Marcus. I had sent the message directly to him, and since his phone was currently cast to the main screen for the presentation… Now I knew why Gloria hadn’t replied. She never received it. I shrank back into my chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. “The resemblance is actually quite striking,” Ashton commented from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a massive grin. “Good description, Vivian, though your taste in men could use some work.” I buried my head even lower. “That’s enough for today,” Marcus announced, completely ignoring Ashton’s teasing. Everyone in the room let out a collective sigh of relief. As they began to filter out, I remained frozen in my seat. Marcus turned to look at me. “Are you coming?” “Oh, right,” I muttered, quickly gathering my things to follow him. The steady click of his leather shoes on the marble floor sounded like a countdown timer. I kept my eyes glued to the pattern on the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs. Suddenly, he stopped and turned. I walked straight into his chest. “Miss Bennett.” The scent of cedarwood and faint amber washed over me. I stumbled back a step, but Marcus caught me by the elbow to steady me. Looking up, I could see his throat shifting as he swallowed. We were so close I could see my own reflection in his glasses. “Does your plan to pursue me include following me into the men’s restroom?” I scrambled back another step, finally noticing the sign on the door behind him. “Sorry, I was distracted.” “My office is that way,” Marcus pointed down the hall. I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me. “Miss Bennett, I have schedules to manage, brand deals to secure, and teams to run. I really don’t have the time to play romance games with you.” I squeezed my hands into fists, my knuckles turning white. His voice was low, carrying a rich, resonant tone. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air between us. Marcus clearly thought his blunt rejection would send me packing, but he had no idea that I hadn’t processed a single word he said. I was too busy staring at the tiny mole on his neck. “Miss Bennett, do you understand?” Marcus’s cold voice finally brought me back to reality. “I didn’t hear a word,” I whispered. “But I really want to kiss you.” Marcus: …

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458744”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My husband lived two entirely different lives. During the day, his face was a mask of cold stone. He rarely spoke more than three words to me at a time. “Ate.” “No.” “Go to sleep.” But the moment the clock struck eleven at night, he became someone else entirely. He would wrap his arms around me from behind, burying his face in the crook of my neck, whispering how desperately he had missed me all day. I checked, over and over. He was not faking. He genuinely had no memory of a single thing he said or did after midnight. The doctor called it a mild case of dissociative identity disorder. The nighttime version of him was clingy, childish, and possessively intense. And I, craving whatever warmth I could get, began to live for the dark. Until one morning, he found my phone. It was filled with late-night photos and voice recordings of us. He stared at the screen for a long time before looking up at me, his eyes devoid of emotion. “You saved so many of these,” he said, his voice flat. “Why isn’t there a single one of me during the day?” “Because the daytime you isn’t worth saving.” The moment the words left my mouth, Gary’s pupils contracted. He tossed the phone onto the coffee table with a heavy, hollow thud. “Eve, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” I gripped the hem of my pajamas, forcing myself to look straight into his cold eyes. “It means, Gary, that you are a ghost in this house during the day. You brush me off with three-word sentences, as if looking at me is a waste of your precious time. All your warmth is reserved for Daisy on the other end of your phone.” His jaw clenched. “Don’t start this again. Daisy is practically family. She’s fragile, she needs looking after. Aren’t you a bit too old to be throwing tantrums over a little sister?” Too old. I was barely two years older than Daisy, yet in his mouth, I sounded like an ancient, bitter crone. I pulled a receipt from my pocket and slapped it onto the table. Gary’s gaze fell on the slip of paper, his breath hitching. The receipt was crystal clear. Yesterday, from two in the afternoon until seven in the evening, he had spent five hours at a home decor boutique with Daisy. And during those exact five hours, I was burning up with a fever so high I nearly blacked out. I had texted him, begging for help. He had ignored every single message. “We were just buying furniture,” he said, raising his voice, though his eyes darted away. “Our families have been close for decades. What’s wrong with helping her pick out a sofa? Stop overthinking everything.” “Five hours,” I whispered. “You spent five hours picking out a sofa for her. I asked you to buy me medicine, and you didn’t even bother to read my texts.” Gary looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I didn’t see them.” “You did,” I said, my voice dropping to a flat, dead calm. “Because at exactly 7:03 PM, you replied to Daisy’s voice note, telling her you’d just finished up and would see her tomorrow.” Left without an excuse, Gary sank heavily into the sofa, looking sullen. I turned on my heel and walked back to the bedroom. Lying on the bed, the image of his defensive, guilty face replayed in my mind. The clock ticked away. Eleven. Twelve. At one in the morning, the bedroom door clicked open. I had forgotten that locking it from the inside was useless; he always knew where the spare key was kept. Gary slipped under the covers, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist, burying his face against my back. “Eve… I missed you so much today.” His voice was muffled, thick with a childlike vulnerability. “Why did you lock the door? Are you mad at me?” I didn’t move. I didn’t say a word. He nuzzled closer, squeezing me tighter. “Please don’t be mad… I’ll be good, I promise.” My fingers slowly traced his soft hair, my eyes staring blankly at the dark ceiling. He didn’t remember a thing about the day. He was just acting on pure instinct, seeking me out, clinging to me. But this stolen warmth of the night could never heal the deep, bleeding wounds of the day. Gary mumbled against my skin, his voice drifting off. “Eve, can you stay home tomorrow? Just stay with me…” I closed my eyes and offered no reply. Because I knew that the moment the sun rose, the man who said those words would vanish. 2 The next morning, the sweet, heavy scent of boiling porridge woke me. For a fleeting second, I wondered if Gary had actually found a conscience. But when I walked into the kitchen, I froze. Daisy was standing there in a floral apron, carefully pouring hot porridge into a ceramic bowl. “Gary, look, it’s ready. Come taste it.” Gary took the spoon, sliding a bowl covered in crushed peanuts onto the dining table. He saw me standing in the doorway, but his eyes quickly darted away. “Daisy came over early to make breakfast,” he said coolly. “If you want some, get it yourself.” I stared at the bowl. The layer of crushed peanuts was thick and unmistakable. Just two weeks ago, I had been rushed to the emergency room due to a severe peanut allergy, spending a terrifying night under observation. On the day I was discharged, the doctor had explicitly warned Gary, right to his face, that every trace of peanuts had to be cleared from our home. He had nodded. He had promised. And now, here was this bowl, sitting right in front of me. “Gary,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “There are peanuts in that.” He frowned, looking mildly annoyed. Daisy immediately shrank back behind Gary’s shoulder, her eyes turning red as she squeezed out a tear. “Eve… I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were allergic. I just wanted to make Gary some breakfast… please don’t be mad at me.” Her voice was soft, trembling with practiced innocence. Gary’s face darkened, and he instinctively stepped in front of her to shield her. “Eve, she went out of her way to make breakfast, and this is the attitude you show her?” “Gary, my allergy is life-threatening.” “Then just don’t eat it,” he snapped. “Is it really worth making a scene? Lose the dramatic princess act, it’s getting old.” Daisy peeked from behind his shoulder, her eyes watery, but the corners of her mouth twitched into a tiny, triumphant smirk. I didn’t argue. I walked past them into the bathroom and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. My toothbrush and toiletries had been swept into a messy pile at the bottom, my toothbrush bent out of shape. In their place on the counter stood a neat row of imported skincare products, each bearing a little label written in Daisy’s neat handwriting: Daisy’s Only. I stared at the little labels, a sudden, cold laugh escaping my throat. I went back to the bedroom, pulled out a suitcase, and packed a few changes of clothes. When I walked back through the living room, Gary was placing food onto Daisy’s plate, never once looking up. Daisy, however, watched me with a sweet smile. “Are you heading out, Eve? Have a safe trip.” I dragged my suitcase to the entryway. Before opening the door, I pulled out my phone and dialed the wedding planner. “Hello, this is Eve.” “I need to cancel the wedding ceremony scheduled for next Wednesday.” Behind me, the clink of chopsticks and the shared laughter of Gary and Daisy filled the apartment. Neither of them heard a word I said. The planner confirmed the cancellation and promised a refund of the deposit within three business days. I hung up, walked out, and let the door slam shut behind me. 3 By the weekend, it was time for the weekly family dinner at the Harrington estate. I hadn’t wanted to go, but Gary’s mother had called three times, her voice growing icier with each ring. “Eve, you are Gary’s fiancée. Skipping a family dinner is unacceptable.” When I arrived, the dining table was already crowded with relatives. Gary’s mother seated me at the very end of the table, right next to the drafty kitchen door where the servers passed through. Daisy, meanwhile, sat in the seat of honor right next to Gary’s right hand. His mother was beaming, placing freshly peeled lobster meat into Daisy’s bowl. “Eat up, Daisy. You’re so thin, it breaks my heart. A daughter raised right really is the sweet one. You always know exactly what I like.” Daisy smiled sweetly. “You’re so good to me, Auntie, of course I want to take care of you.” The relatives around the table chimed in with warm laughter. I quietly ate my greens, keeping my eyes down. Halfway through the meal, Daisy suddenly clutched her chest and let out a soft cough. “Gary… I feel a bit dizzy.” Gary immediately dropped his utensils and turned to me. “Eve, go to the kitchen and whip up some hangover soup for Daisy.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order. My fingers tightened around my spoon until my knuckles turned white. Last winter, when I had a high fever coupled with acute gastroenteritis, I had curled into a ball on the bed, sweating and shaking from pain. Gary had stood at the bedroom door, looked at me, and said, “Take a cab to the hospital yourself, I have a meeting.” Then he closed the door and left. And now, because Daisy coughed twice, he expected me to play her maid. I let go of my spoon. It fell onto the small plate with a sharp clatter. The entire table fell silent, every eye turning toward me. “I’m not doing that.” Gary slammed his palm onto the table. “Eve! What is wrong with your attitude?” He pointed a finger at my face. “No manners, no breeding. How did someone like you even think about marrying into this family?” Daisy gently pulled at his sleeve. “Gary, don’t be angry, I’m fine…” His mother sneered. “Eve, if you don’t want to be here, leave. Stop embarrassing us in front of the guests.” I stood up, ignoring his mother, and looked straight into Gary’s eyes. “Gary, what day is next Wednesday?” He waved his hand dismissively, his face twisted in annoyance. “The wedding? Do you have to keep nagging about it? Get out of here, you’re ruining everyone’s appetite.” I let out a cold laugh and nodded. “Don’t regret this, Gary.” As I turned to leave, I caught Daisy lowering her head to take a sip of her soup, a smug grin playing on her lips. I walked out of the Harrington estate into a cold, drizzling rain. The drops hit my face, shocking me into absolute clarity. My phone buzzed. It was a confirmation email from the wedding planner. Dear Ms. Eve, the wedding reservation has been successfully canceled. Your deposit will be refunded within three business days. I stared at the screen. Next Wednesday was supposed to be our wedding. He didn’t remember. Or rather, he simply didn’t care. I typed back a single word: Acknowledged. 4 Next Wednesday arrived. I sat in the middle of my cleared apartment, looking at the empty closets. Every trace of my existence had been packed away into storage. There was nothing left of me here. My phone screen lit up with a text from Gary. Daisy is sick and needs someone with her. I’m staying at the hospital tonight. If you don’t apologize for your behavior at dinner, the wedding is postponed. Think it over. I stared at the words, whispering them to myself. Think it over. Because Daisy was sick, he was going to spend the night by her side. Which meant even the nighttime version of him, the one who held me and whispered that he loved me, was being locked away. I opened social media and saw a post Daisy had uploaded just a minute ago. It was a selfie of her smiling at the camera, with Gary asleep against the side of her hospital bed in the background. The caption read: He put our big day on hold just to stay by my side~ I’m so touched. Gary is the absolute best. The comments below were already piling up. Oh my god, he’s so devoted! True husband material. Is he a protective big brother or a boyfriend? Haha. Won’t his fiancée get jealous? This seems a bit much right before the wedding. Daisy had replied to the last one: Eve is very understanding, she wouldn’t mind at all! I slowly set my phone down. I opened my gallery. Inside were thousands of photos and hundreds of voice notes. All of them were of Gary. Selfies of him smiling foolishly while holding me at two in the morning. Voice recordings of him sleepily whispering “Eve, I love you so much.” Videos of him resting his head on my lap, begging for cuddles. I used to cling to these like a lifeline. No matter how much he ignored me during the day, no matter how much he hurt me, I would tell myself it was fine, because the nighttime version of him truly loved me. But now, his willingness to throw away those nights proved that even that part of him was just an inconvenience to him. I selected all the files. Every single photo, every single recording. Delete permanently. When the confirmation prompt popped up, I didn’t hesitate. Five years of late-night devotion dissolved into digital dust. I placed the apartment keys on the entryway table and dragged my suitcase out. Inside the elevator, I sent Gary one final text. “The wedding isn’t postponed. I canceled it five days ago.” Then, I deleted the chat, blocked his number, and turned off my phone. By three in the afternoon, Gary was jolted awake by a barrage of frantic calls from his relatives. He threw on his coat and rushed to the hotel. But when he arrived, the grand ballroom lobby was completely empty. No welcome signs, no floral arches, no guest registry. He ran inside, grabbing a passing manager by the arm. “Where is the Harrington wedding? Which hall is it in?” The manager flipped through his tablet and looked up with a polite, puzzled expression. “Sir, Ms. Eve canceled the entire venue booking five days ago. The catering, the decorations, the party favors, everything was canceled.” Gary stood frozen in the center of the grand lobby, the world spinning around him. He checked his phone frantically, but every call to Eve went straight to a dead-end busy tone. He was blocked. Just then, his mother’s voice pierced through the murmurs of the gathered relatives. “Gary! Where on earth is Eve? We went to pick her up, but her apartment was completely empty!” Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his veins. He opened his social media feed, his eyes landing on Daisy’s gloating post: He gave up his wedding for me~ Right beneath it, a newly added comment from a mutual friend stared back at him: So the bride ran away to let you two be together? Honestly, congrats!

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458729”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 As New Year’s Eve fireworks lit Monaco Harbor, Preston proposed to me before thirty thousand people. Tears streamed down my face when I said yes. By morning, gossip headlines told another story: Crawford Heir Caught on Yacht with Mysterious Woman—His Fiancée’s Best Friend? The video showed him at the stern of a luxury yacht, arm around my best friend, her dress whipped by the sea breeze. Timestamp: one hour before he proposed. I checked it three times. He’d stepped off her yacht, crossed straight to the plaza, and knelt before the salt on his trousers had even dried. Harper’s message appeared seconds later: “Taken out of context—we were just talking.” “Help Preston with the PR mess first. I’ll explain once it blows over.” “If his reputation tanks, your families’ merger is finished.” I locked my phone and tossed it onto the sofa. Salt-bitter harbor wind poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Our engagement gala was in three days. I dialed the Lancaster heir—the Crawfords’ fiercest rival. He picked up on the second ring, as if expecting me. “Mr. Lancaster,” I said evenly, “are you open to a marriage of convenience?” … “Did you post the clarification statement?” Preston pushed open the door to my penthouse suite. He did not even bother taking off his coat. Harper trailed in right behind him. They both carried the distinct, damp scent of the ocean. I sat motionless on the sofa, my fingers still wrapped around the phone I had just used to call Roman Lancaster. “The PR department drafted a statement.” Preston walked over and casually tossed a few sheets of paper onto the coffee table. “Just say the three of us went out on the yacht together yesterday afternoon. Tell them the video is maliciously edited.” His tone was flat and commanding. He expected me to fall in line, just like I always did. I lowered my eyes to the crisp white paper. “The three of us?” “Obviously.” Preston frowned in annoyance. “This stupid rumor has been trending all morning. The Crawford stock is already taking a hit.” Harper stepped out from behind him. Her eyes were red and swollen. “Cici, I am so, so sorry.” She took a hesitant step forward. “I was in a really dark place yesterday. Preston was worried I might do something drastic, so he took me out on the water to clear my head.” She reached out to grab my hand. I shifted my weight and dodged her touch. Her hand froze in midair. She bit her lower lip and looked up at Preston with wide, helpless eyes. “That is enough, Cici.” Preston’s face darkened instantly. “Harper came all the way here to apologize to you in person. Who exactly are you giving attitude to?” I slowly raised my head and locked eyes with him. “One hour before you proposed to me, you were on her yacht. You ran over to the plaza and got down on one knee while your clothes were still damp from her boat?” A flicker of guilt flashed through Preston’s eyes, but it was quickly swallowed by his usual arrogant defense. “I was talking her down!” he snapped. “She was recently diagnosed with mild depression. She was standing at the edge of the deck saying she wanted to jump. Was I supposed to just let her die?” The louder he spoke, the more righteous he sounded. He made it seem like I was the cold-blooded monster for even questioning him. “I calmed her down, and I rushed straight to the plaza to see you without wasting a single second. I did not even stop to change my clothes just so I would not miss the countdown. What more do you want from me?” Harper sniffled. A single, perfectly timed tear rolled down her cheek. “Cici, please don’t be mad at him. It is all my fault. I had no idea there were paparazzi watching us. Your official engagement party is in three days. Please don’t let a pathetic, single girl like me ruin your mood.” She aggressively wiped at her eyes and forced a pitiful smile. “I will go post a video right now. I will tell everyone the woman in the video is not me.” “Come back.” Preston grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind him. He turned his cold, furious gaze back to me. “You know her startup is in the middle of a crucial funding round. If she gets labeled as a homewrecker, her entire career is over.” I stared at his hand. His fingers were wrapped so tightly around Harper’s delicate wrist. “So her life is over if she gets labeled a homewrecker,” I said quietly. “What about me? I am supposed to issue a public statement admitting I am completely blind? That I am perfectly happy playing the fool in your little twisted love triangle?” Preston let go of Harper and ripped at his tie in frustration. “Do you have to be this unreasonable? You know exactly how much money is riding on this marriage between our families. Now is not the time to throw a jealous tantrum.” He grabbed a silver pen from the table and practically shoved it into my hand. “Sign the authorization form. Let the PR team post the statement from your account.” The tip of the pen pressed into the paper, bleeding a small black dot into the white page. I looked up at the man I had loved for five years. Five years ago, he dragged me through the pouring rain across three city blocks just to buy me a freshly baked almond croissant because I was having a bad day. Back then, he told me he would never let the world give me a single ounce of grief. Now, he was telling me I was just throwing a tantrum. I gripped the pen and signed my name on the dotted line. Preston’s rigid posture relaxed slightly. “There. That is the sensible Crawford bride I know.” He checked his watch. “I have a dinner meeting tonight. You should take Harper to the boutique to pick out the bridesmaid dress she is going to wear for our party.” I dropped the pen and pulled a wet wipe from the dispenser to clean my fingers. “No. I am tired.” Preston’s brow furrowed again. He opened his mouth to argue, but Harper quickly tugged on his sleeve. “It is fine, Preston. I can go by myself. Cici had a shock today. Let her rest.” Preston let out a heavy sigh and patted the back of her hand. “You are always so considerate.” He looked back at me, his eyes turning icy once more. “You better spend the night reflecting on your attitude. Do not even think about bringing this mood to the engagement party.” The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind them. I picked up the signed authorization form, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash can. My phone screen lit up. It was a text from an unsaved number. “City Hall. Tomorrow morning at nine.” 2 “Since the misunderstanding is cleared up, lend your tiara to Harper for the day.” Preston’s voice crackled through the phone speaker. In the background, I could hear the fawning voices of luxury boutique attendants. My hand froze around my water glass. “Excuse me? What did you just say?” “I said, Harper is trying on bridesmaid dresses right now, but none of the boutique’s accessories look right on her.” His tone was casual, completely devoid of empathy. “I remembered you sent your diamond tiara in for polishing. Let’s just pull it out so she can wear it for the fitting.” That tiara. It was a diamond necklace, the only thing my mother left me before she died. When Preston was preparing to propose, he hired a master jeweler from Milan to dismantle the necklace and reset the diamonds into an intricate, breathtaking tiara. When he placed it on my head, he had looked into my eyes and whispered, “This is your mother’s blessing. I want you to wear it and be the most beautiful bride in the world.” And now, he wanted to casually toss that blessing to Harper. “No.” My voice came out cracked and hollow. “Cici, why are you starting drama again?” Preston’s voice immediately dropped into a harsh growl. “She is just borrowing it for one day to take some photos. It is not like she is keeping it.” “Harper has suffered so much online abuse lately. What is the big deal if I try to make her feel a little better?” I took a deep breath. My stomach churned with violent nausea. “If she feels wronged, you can buy her the most expensive piece of jewelry in that entire store. But you have absolutely no right to use my dead mother’s memory to play the generous savior.” The line went dead silent for two seconds. Then, Harper’s soft, fragile voice filtered through. “Preston, just forget it. I knew Cici would be angry. It is her mother’s heirloom. Someone like me does not deserve to touch it.” That was all it took to ignite Preston’s fury. “Cici, you are crossing the line! I was just informing you out of courtesy. I already sent my assistant to the jeweler to pick it up. Do you genuinely enjoy making things so ugly between us?” I slammed my glass down onto the marble counter. The sharp crack echoed through the kitchen. “Preston, if your assistant touches that tiara, this wedding is off!” The line clicked. He hung up on me. I stared at the black screen, my fingernails digging so hard into my palms that they threatened to draw blood. He always did this. Every single time Harper shed a tear, he abandoned me without a second thought. Six months ago, I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis. I was writhing in bed, drenched in a cold sweat. When I called him, his first words were, “Harper’s apartment lost power and she is terrified of the dark. I have to stay with her.” I was in so much pain I nearly blacked out. I had to call an Uber to the emergency room alone. When I finally walked out of the hospital at three in the morning, I saw his newest post on social media. It was a picture of Harper sleeping peacefully with her cat. The caption read: “The poor thing is finally feeling safe.” Back then, I asked myself why I kept swallowing the pain. I did it because the very next morning, he showed up at my bedside with my favorite breakfast, his eyes red with guilt, begging for my forgiveness. He swore Harper was just a sister to him. He swore I was his only love. I was so desperate to hold onto the warmth he used to give me that I hypnotized myself into believing him. I picked up my phone and called the jewelry boutique. “I am so sorry, Miss,” the manager said apologetically. “Mr. Crawford’s assistant picked up the piece twenty minutes ago.” I ended the call and sank to the floor. It was all just so utterly absurd. Half an hour later, Harper updated her Instagram story. In the photo, she was wearing a spectacular white gown. Resting perfectly on her head was my mother’s diamond tiara. Under the boutique’s bright lights, the diamonds sparkled like shattered glass. Preston was the first to like the photo. His comment was just three words: “Perfect for you.” I stared at the picture for a long time. Then, with a numb, terrifying calm, I took a screenshot and saved it to my camera roll. A sharp cramp suddenly twisted my stomach. I curled into a ball on the rug, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. A sharp knock at the door broke the silence. Assuming it was the concierge, I forced myself up and dragged my feet to the entryway. I opened the door to find a tall, unfamiliar man in a sharp black suit. He was holding a velvet box trimmed in gold. “Miss Cici, Mr. Lancaster requested I deliver this to you.” I clutched my stomach, my voice weak. “Who?” “Mr. Roman Lancaster,” the man replied, bowing his head respectfully. “Mr. Lancaster said he does not want you wearing anything that another woman has tainted.” He popped the velvet box open. Resting inside was a ruby crown. It was heavier, bolder, and a hundred times more radiant than the tiara in Harper’s photo. “Tomorrow,” the man said softly. “He expects you to wear this when you meet him.” 3 The night before the engagement gala. I received a cold summons to the Crawford family estate. The moment I stepped into the grand living room, I saw Mrs. Crawford sitting rigidly on the vintage leather sofa. Preston stood stiffly beside her. Harper was curled up in an armchair, her eyes red and puffy. The atmosphere was as oppressive as a criminal tribunal. “Kneel.” Mrs. Crawford did not even lift her eyes. She just coldly spun the diamond ring on her finger. I stood exactly where I was. I looked at them with ice in my veins. “Excuse me, Mrs. Crawford. What is the meaning of this?” “What is the meaning?” She slammed her hand down on the coffee table. “You have the nerve to ask me that?” “You hired a troll farm to drag Harper’s name through the mud! You paid people to call her a homewrecker online! The entire city is tearing the Crawford family apart, and our stock dropped another three percent today!” She stood up, pointing a trembling finger at me. “How could our family ever accept such a vicious, toxic woman through our doors?” I furrowed my brow and looked directly at Preston. “I never hired any internet trolls.” Preston let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Still lying?” He threw a stack of printed bank transfers onto the floor at my feet. “My PR team tracked the payments. The account that wired the money to the troll farm belongs to your former assistant!” Preston’s eyes were blazing with self-righteous fury. “I know you are jealous of how much I care about Harper. But you do not get to use my family’s reputation to vent your pathetic, personal rage!” I glanced down at the papers. The name on the account did belong to my old assistant. But I had fired that assistant three months ago for stealing from my purse. And from what I heard, she immediately got a job at Harper’s startup company. I shifted my gaze to Harper. She was staring at the floor, wiping away invisible tears, her shoulders trembling. She looked like the ultimate, helpless victim. “Do not bother investigating,” I said, pulling my gaze away. “If you are determined to convict me, evidence does not matter anyway.” “Shut your mouth!” Mrs. Crawford screamed. “Tomorrow is the engagement gala. The only way to fix this nightmare is for you to start a live stream right now. You are going to apologize to Harper in front of the entire internet!” “You will tell the public that you manufactured this entire scandal out of jealousy. You will tell them the three of you are best friends!” I stared at her in absolute disbelief. “You want me to publicly apologize to her? To confess to something I never did?” My voice was dangerously low. “I am supposed to be the future bride of this family, and you want me to bow my head to a suspected mistress?” “She is not a mistress!” Preston roared, cutting me off. “Harper is an innocent girl, and you have ruined her life so badly she cannot even leave her house!” He stepped toward me, his face twisted in anger. “You apologize right now. If you refuse, do not even expect a single member of my family to show up at the gala tomorrow!” It was a threat. A blatant, ugly threat. They thought they had me cornered. They knew I had no parents, no powerful backing. They knew I had compromised my pride a thousand times over the last five years to keep this relationship alive. They firmly believed that the moment they threatened to cancel the wedding, I would crumble and obey. I looked at Preston’s furious, entitled face. He looked like a complete stranger. “Fine,” I heard myself say. My voice was completely devoid of emotion. “I will do the live stream.” A fleeting, triumphant smirk danced across Harper’s lips. Ten minutes later, the PR team had the camera set up. The moment the stream went live, hundreds of thousands of people flooded the broadcast. The comments were a wall of pure hatred aimed right at me. [The official girlfriend finally speaks? She definitely took a payout.] [God, she is so disgusting. How can a woman have zero self-respect?] Preston stood just behind the camera lens, glaring at me. “Read the script.” I looked dead into the camera lens and took a deep, steadying breath. “Hello everyone. My name is Cici.” “Regarding the recent rumors circulating online, I am here today to make an official statement.” Harper leaned close to Preston and whispered softly, “Preston, isn’t this too hard on her? I really don’t mind taking the blame.” “Ignore her. She owes you this,” Preston muttered back. I watched the vile, insulting comments rolling across the screen. The corners of my mouth curled into a cold, empty smile. “I am here to officially say to Miss Harper…” “Congratulations.” The entire living room went dead silent. Even the rapid-fire comments on the screen seemed to freeze for a split second. Preston’s face drained of color. “Cici, have you lost your damn mind? What the hell are you saying?” I ignored him entirely and kept my eyes on the lens. “Congratulations. You finally got what you wanted. You have officially made Preston your personal property. Your relationship is far too crowded, and I am officially done being the third wheel.” “Tomorrow’s engagement gala is cancelled.” The moment the words left my mouth, I reached over and yanked the power cord from the wall. The camera died instantly. A sharp, violent slap echoed through the room. My head snapped to the side. Preston was shaking uncontrollably, his eyes completely bloodshot. “Cici! Do you have a death wish?!” My cheek burned like fire. I tasted copper in the back of my mouth. I did not even raise a hand to touch my face. I just looked at him with dead eyes. “That slap repays you for the croissant you bought me in the rain five years ago. From this second on, we owe each other nothing.” As I turned on my heel and walked toward the door, Mrs. Crawford’s hysterical screaming echoed behind me. “Let her leave! I dare her to walk out that door!” “Even if she crawls back tomorrow on her hands and knees, I will never let her step foot in this house again!” I pushed through the heavy front doors and stepped out into the cold night air. The wind whipped my hair across my face. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Roman. “The mark on your face. Tomorrow, I will help you collect the debt.” 4 At nine o’clock the next morning, the marble halls of City Hall were dead quiet. Roman Lancaster sat across from me. He was wearing an impeccably tailored black suit. His cufflinks were deep crimson gemstones that radiated a quiet, suffocating authority. He did not ask about the faint red mark still lingering on my cheek. He simply slid a thick legal folder across the table. “Sign the papers, and you are officially Mrs. Lancaster.” “Every single resource the Lancaster family owns is yours to command.” His voice was a low, smooth baritone. It carried absolutely no emotional fluctuation. I picked up the pen and signed my name without a single second of hesitation. When the clerk stamped the official seal onto the documents, I stared at the marriage certificate. A bizarre, profound sense of peace washed over me. Five years of swallowing my pride. Five years of silent suffering. It was all finally over. “Miss Cici. Apologies. Mrs. Lancaster.” Roman stood up, smoothly sliding his copy of our marriage certificate into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Let’s go. It is time to attend your engagement gala.” I blinked in confusion. “The gala?” After the absolute chaos of last night, I assumed the Crawfords would have canceled the venue and notified all the guests. Roman looked down at me, the faintest ghost of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Preston did not cancel anything.” “He posted on his social media this morning. He claimed his fiancée suffered an emotional breakdown last night due to stress, but that today’s event will proceed exactly as planned.” “He is absolutely certain you will go crawling back to beg for his forgiveness.” My fingers curled into tight fists. The sheer arrogance was mind-boggling. Preston’s ego was so bloated, so completely detached from reality, that he truly believed I was a dog who would come running the moment he whistled. “Then let’s go,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I would hate to miss a good show.” At noon, the grand ballroom of the Crawford family’s seven-star hotel was packed with Manhattan’s elite. The air buzzed with gossip and the clinking of champagne glasses. I was not wearing the custom white gown I had spent months designing. Instead, I wore a stunning, blood-red evening gown. Resting perfectly on my head was the ruby crown Roman had sent me. As I walked down the carpeted hallway toward the main ballroom doors, I heard voices drifting from the VIP lounge. The door was cracked open. “Preston, is she really going to show up?” It was Harper. Her voice was dripping with fake anxiety. “There are so many reporters out there. If she ghosts you, you will be a laughingstock.” Preston’s voice was laced with arrogant impatience. “She will be here.” “A woman like her cannot survive without me. Last night was just a pathetic temper tantrum. When she gets here, give her the cold shoulder. Let her learn her lesson.” Harper let out a soft, breathy laugh. “And… what if she actually does not show up?” “Then you step in,” Preston said casually. “You already tried on the bridesmaid dress, and it fits you perfectly. I have no problem swapping the leading lady today.” I stood perfectly still in the hallway, listening to their banter. Whatever tiny, lingering trace of anger I had left completely evaporated. All that remained was pity. This was the man I gave five years of my life to. He treated my dignity like dirt to be trampled on, using my public humiliation as a cheap bargaining chip to flirt with another woman. I turned away from the lounge and walked straight to the massive double doors of the main ballroom. The security guards stationed at the entrance stared at me in shock. “Miss Cici… what are you wearing?” They had obviously never seen a bride show up to her own engagement party in a red dress and a ruby crown. I ignored them entirely and pushed the heavy oak doors open. The spotlights instantly swiveled to hit me. The low hum of conversation in the massive room died instantly. Preston’s parents were seated at the head table. When Mrs. Crawford saw my outfit, her face turned a violent shade of purple. “What kind of garbage are you wearing?!” she shrieked, shooting up from her chair. “Are you here for an engagement or a funeral?!” I did not even look at her. I walked straight down the center aisle, climbed the steps to the stage, and calmly took the microphone from the stunned MC. “I apologize for the interruption, everyone.” My voice echoed through the high-end sound system, crystal clear in the dead silence. “Today’s engagement gala is officially canceled.” The ballroom erupted into chaotic gasps. The door to the VIP lounge violently banged open. Preston stormed out, his face a mask of dark, murderous rage. “Cici! Have you lost your damn mind again?!” He took the stage two steps at a time and lunged to rip the microphone out of my hand. I took a quick step back, dodging his grasp. “I am perfectly sane.” I looked him dead in the eye and spoke clearly into the mic. “Preston, I am not marrying you.” Preston froze, his hand still hovering in midair. He honestly looked like his brain could not process the words. In his warped reality, this was just an extreme tactic to get his attention. “Do you have any idea what you are doing right now?” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice a venomous whisper. “Get off this stage and go change your clothes. If you do it right now, I will pretend this never happened.” “Oh?” A low, bone-chilling voice suddenly cut through the tension. It came from the main entrance of the ballroom. “Does the Crawford heir have an issue with my wife?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458745”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Sid. Harvard Law valedictorian at twenty. By twenty-five, an undefeated corporate legend who could spot loopholes in his sleep. Yet for three years as an assistant at a top firm, I copied papers and fetched coffee. Senior Partner Harrington loved his patronizing sermons: “Sid, shredding builds character. We’re a family. Respect seniority. I’m shielding you from high-stakes cases so you don’t get reckless.” The others laughed while I bowed, thanking him. I was done being a workaholic; a stress-free life as a glorified copy boy was my dream. Until today. Our biggest client faced a hostile takeover. The opposition dropped a devastating $2 billion poison pill. Harrington was cornered, silent. He shoved a pen at me. “Sid, be a team player. Sign this as the minute-taker. We’ll say you grabbed the wrong draft. You’ll be fired, but you’ll save us all!” I sighed, tore the $2 billion contract in half, pulled out the head chair, and sat. “Forget taking the fall, Harrington,” I said. “Let me show these kids how it’s done.” ……. 1 My name is Sid. First in my class at Harvard Law at twenty. An undefeated corporate legend by twenty-five. It wasn’t an exaggeration. Even the most sophisticated cross-border acquisition traps, those poison pill clauses buried deep within a five-hundred-page contract, nested inside three layers of subordinate clauses, I could point to the fatal flaw with my eyes closed. Back then, I was a high-speed money-printing machine, billing by the minute. But after watching a senior colleague, barely past thirty, drop dead of sudden cardiac arrest right onto the negotiation table of a fifty-billion-dollar merger, I had an epiphany. To hell with the industry legends. I wanted to live. I wanted to keep my hair. So, I vanished from the scene, resigned, and returned home. To completely escape the hyper-competitive sharks of Wall Street, I put on a faded, cheap suit, donned a pair of thick, non-prescription black-rimmed glasses, and buried all my sharp edges. I plunged into a top-tier white-shoe firm as a bottom-tier assistant, living on a flat salary and leaving exactly at five. For three years, my daily routine had nothing to do with studying case files. My day consisted of making copies, replacing shredder bags, taping receipts to expense sheets, and perfectly memorizing the exact coffee orders of all eight people in our department. Who wanted oat milk, who wanted half-sweet, whose iced Americano could only have exactly three ice cubes. I was done being a high-powered workaholic. Now, being a stress-free copier mechanic and leaving on the dot to grab a steaming bowl of double-pork belly ramen at the little shop down the street was my ultimate dream. My direct boss, Harrington, was a greasy, master-class workplace gaslighter. His actual legal acumen was thoroughly mediocre. He couldn’t even read a basic foreign transaction agreement without Google Translate. But when it came to stealing credit and shifting blame, he was absolute world-class. This morning, I had just finished wrestling with a jammed copier tray, my hands covered in black toner dust. Harrington sauntered over, holding the hot Americano I had just sprinted two blocks to get, his beer belly leading the way. He began his daily show. “Sid, I noticed you took twenty whole minutes to fix that copier?” “Young man, you’re still too slow. In this business, efficiency is everything.” He took a sip, frowned as if the temperature wasn’t quite perfect, and smacked his lips. “Do you feel resentful? Do you think having you shred papers, tape receipts, and fix machines is beneath your talents?” “Don’t feel victimized, Sid. This is about building your character and testing your attention to detail. We’re a family here. Without eating some dirt first, how can you expect to fly?” He tapped his finger on my desk, looking down at me with supreme condescension. “These core cases involve hundreds of millions. If something goes wrong, can an assistant on base pay afford to cover the damage? I’m doing this to protect you. Don’t let my mentorship go to waste.” I pushed up my heavy glasses, bowed my head, and offered the timid, simple-minded smile I had spent three years perfecting in front of the mirror. “Thank you for the guidance, Mr. Harrington. I understand completely. I’ll go grab everyone’s lunch deliveries now.” They could laugh all they wanted. As long as I didn’t have to pull eighty-hour weeks analyzing garbage contracts, they could call me whatever they liked. But I never expected my peaceful slacker paradise to be shattered so violently. At three in the afternoon, the silence of the executive suite was broken by hurried footsteps. Our biggest client, Mr. Bennett, rushed into the VVIP conference room at the end of the hall, visibly sweating and panicking. Behind him came the hostile acquisition team. Leading them was a man with slicked-back hair and gold-rimmed glasses named Christian Crane. In our industry, he was known as “The Viper.” He specialized in using highly obscured contract loopholes and short-selling mechanisms to choke and swallow local businesses that didn’t know the international rules. As the lowest-ranking assistant, I was naturally hauled in to pour water, set up the projector, and take minutes. After serving the drinks, I retreated to a folding chair in the far corner, shrinking my shoulders and turning my recording pen, doing my best to look like furniture. The atmosphere in the room was suffocating. Crane sneered, throwing a massive English agreement onto the table right in front of Mr. Bennett. The heavy thud made Bennett flinch. Crane’s eyes were filled with the contempt of a predator cornering its prey. “The joint venture agreement you signed with us last month,” Crane said, leaning forward. “As of this morning, it has officially triggered the hidden cross-default provisions.” “Under the joint and several liability clauses, you have two choices.” Crane held up two fingers. “First, immediately hand over sixty percent of your voting shares, giving us absolute control. Second, face a two-billion-dollar punitive cash penalty.” He didn’t give Mr. Bennett a chance to breathe. “We’re not here to negotiate. This is an ultimatum. I guarantee that within a week, your cash flow will dry up, and you’ll be forced into bankruptcy and liquidation.” Mr. Bennett’s face went white. His lips trembled. He turned, grabbing Harrington’s arm like a drowning man clutching a straw. “Harrington! You audited this entire acquisition agreement! You charged us millions in legal fees and swore to me it was bulletproof! Where the hell did this cross-default clause come from?! Fix this!” Cold sweat instantly burst across Harrington’s forehead, dripping down his jowls. His hands shook as he flipped open the English supplemental agreement. His eyes bulged as he stared at the pages for three solid minutes. Sitting in my corner, I saw his hands trembling violently. He couldn’t read it. “This… this isn’t right…” Harrington stammered, offering a pathetic, useless defense. “Mr. Crane, this is fraud! You buried a landmine in the text!” “Are you trying to make me laugh, Harrington?” Crane burst into a cruel, unprompted laugh. He tapped the contract with a manicured finger, his eyes dripping with disdain. “Is this your professional level? You’re a joke to the entire bar association.” Harrington slumped into his chair, completely defeated. He knew the fire had reached his own house. As the lead partner on this project, he would face massive malpractice claims, lose his license, and likely end up in a federal penitentiary. In a state of pure panic and desperation, Harrington’s eyes darted around the room. He needed a scapegoat. A low-level sacrificial lamb to take the fall for this multi-billion-dollar disaster. Suddenly, his gaze locked onto me, sitting quietly in the corner with my notepad. “Mr. Bennett! Mr. Crane! Wait! This is all a misunderstanding! A colossal administrative error!” Harrington suddenly shouted, bolting upright and storming over to me. He grabbed my collar, forcing a heavy executive pen into my hand. With a red-faced, self-righteous roar, as if he were making a heroic sacrifice, he announced to the entire room: “I remember now! Mr. Bennett, when we went to execute the documents last week, it was my intern assistant, Sid, who copied and collated the final files!” “He must have been incredibly careless, swapping the final negotiated version with a rejected draft sent by the opposing side!” “This is a grave individual error on his part! It does not reflect the professional standards of our firm!” Mr. Bennett stared, and Crane narrowed his eyes. Harrington turned his back to them, pressing down hard on my shoulders, whispering in a vicious, urgent hiss that only I could hear: “Listen to me, Sid. This is your chance to pay me back. I’ve kept you around despite your incompetence. The firm has fed you for three years.” “Now, we’re in a crisis. As a team player, you have to make a sacrifice. Sign this confession, take the blame, say you mixed up the drafts. If you don’t, I will use every resource I have to ensure you never work in this town again. I’ll sue you for every penny you have!” The conference room fell into a dead, chilling silence. Every eye in the room turned to me, filled with shock, pity, confusion, or amusement. Mr. Bennett was stunned. He was desperate, but he was a seasoned CEO, not an idiot. Making a six-thousand-dollar-a-month assistant take the blame for a two-billion-dollar disaster? Crane burst out laughing, leaning back in his leather chair like he was watching a circus performance. “Harrington, are you insulting my intelligence, or the law itself? Throwing an assistant under the bus? This is pathetic, even for you.” But the other associates in the room, eager to save their own skins, quickly chimed in. “Sid, Harrington has been so good to you. He tolerated all your mistakes. If you don’t step up for the team now, who will?” “Think of the firm, Sid! Sacrificing one person to save the reputation of the entire practice is a noble thing!” Their twisted, greedy faces, desperate to avoid responsibility, looked utterly grotesque under the harsh fluorescent lights. This was the loving family they always bragged about. I sat on my cheap folding chair, holding the cold pen, keeping my head down. Harrington thought I was paralyzed by fear. He reached out a sweaty hand, trying to grab the back of my neck to physically force my hand to sign the paper. “Sign it! What the hell are you waiting for? Sign!” Harrington hissed, his voice a vicious snarl. I let out a quiet sigh. I had wanted to remain a soulless copier mechanic in my quiet corner. Earning a modest living, clocking in and out on the dot. I didn’t want to care about multi-billion-dollar cash flows or navigate devious commercial traps. Why? Why did you have to force my hand? Why did you have to push a max-level, fully geared legendary player who just wanted to grow crops in the starter village back into the arena, forcing me to toggle the slaughter mode? I slowly raised my head. The submissive, vacant, easily manipulated look in my eyes vanished instantly. In its place was a cold, razor-sharp presence that commanded absolute authority. I didn’t look at Harrington’s terrified, distorted face, nor did I pay attention to the buzzing of the other associates. I simply reached out with my right hand, the hand that usually fixed jammed paper trays, and precisely pinched the two-billion-dollar ultimatum contract that Crane considered his masterpiece. While everyone watched in stunned silence, a clean, sharp sound shattered the quiet. Riiiiip. Without a shred of hesitation, I tore the hundred-page, multi-billion-dollar agreement right down the middle, directly in front of Crane’s face. With a casual flick of my wrist, I tossed the torn pages onto the polished mahogany conference table like a pile of rotting garbage. The paper settled like falling snow. The entire room froze. The air seemed to be sucked out of the room. Mr. Bennett’s jaw dropped. Crane’s confident smirk shattered instantly, his eyes wide behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Harrington looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. His face turned a deep, angry purple. Pointing a shaking finger at the shredded paper, his voice cracked like a strangled rooster. “Sid! Are you insane?! Are you out of your mind?! Do you have any idea how much that contract is worth?! I’ll destroy you! I’ll throw you in prison!” I stood up slowly from my folding chair, casually brushing a speck of dust off my cheap, faded suit. Then, I brushed past Harrington’s wild, flailing arms, walked directly to the head of the conference table, pulled out the heavy leather executive chair, and sat down. I laced my fingers together on the table, leaning forward slightly, exuding an aura of absolute dominance. I looked at Crane, my voice calm, flat, but carrying an undeniable weight that filled the room. “Forget taking the fall, Harrington,” I said. “Let me go show these kids how it’s done.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458730”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Under her best friend’s expert guidance, my wife finally divorced me. The day she slammed the door and walked out, my only real reaction was a sigh of relief: I finally had sole custody of the TV remote. It didn’t take her long to realize that the guys sweet-talking her on the dating scene were all talk and no commitment. They wanted a free trial, not a subscription. But what truly broke her was discovering that her dear best friend, the very one who had coached her into signing the divorce papers, was currently marching over to my apartment with a hot tray of homemade lasagna. When Brooke slammed the divorce papers onto the dining table, I was deeply engrossed in a food delivery app, trying to decide on a new fried chicken combo. “Tedd, sign it.” I looked up at her, glanced down at the papers, and then looked back at my phone. “Hang on a second. This coupon expires in three minutes.” Brooke’s face flushed, shifting from a pale white to a deep, furious crimson. To be honest, I wasn’t surprised we had reached this point. Her best friend, Amber, had a mouth that acted as a catalyst for disaster. Since last year, Amber had been practically living at our place, showing up every few days like she was reading from a script. “Babe, you deserve so much better.” “Tedd is just a mid-level corporate drone. What kind of future do you have with him?” “There are plenty of wealthy, single guys out there driving luxury SUVs, just waiting to treat you like a queen.” At first, Brooke would defend me. But over time, her defenses grew quieter. Eventually, she stopped defending me altogether. And finally, it led to this. I placed the order for the chicken, picked up the pen from the table, and flipped to the signature page. “How are we splitting things?” Brooke blinked, clearly caught off guard by how cooperative I was. “The house… my dad paid the down payment—” “Fine. The house is yours.” “The car… we bought it after we got married—” “Take the car too. I can bike to work. It’s better for the environment anyway.” Brooke’s expression turned incredibly complex. She had probably rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head. She might have pictured me begging on my knees, crying, pleading for another chance. What she hadn’t anticipated was me ordering takeout while signing away our marriage. “That’s… that’s it?” I signed my name, slid the folder back to her, and capped the pen. “What else do you want?” “Aren’t you even going to try to save this?” I thought about it for a second. “If you can waive the delivery fee on my chicken, I might consider it.” Brooke took a sharp, ragged breath. She snatched the papers, turned on her heel, and marched toward the door. Just before leaving, she looked back, her eyes rimmed with red. “You’re going to regret this, Tedd.” The front door slammed shut. The apartment suddenly felt empty. Truly, physically empty. Brooke had cleaned out all her clutter, her towering shoe racks, and her endless supply of skincare products. I sat down on the sofa, picked up the remote, and pressed the power button. The sports channel flared to life. For three years, I hadn’t been able to watch a single game without sitting through hours of mindless reality TV first. The doorbell rang. Dinner was here. I opened the door, and the delivery guy handed me a steaming bag of fried chicken. “Big meal for one, man?” I took the bag and smiled. “Just got divorced. Treating myself.” His look of pity instantly morphed into pure envy. “Man, you are the happiest-looking divorcee I’ve ever seen.” He didn’t get it. It wasn’t just happiness. It was the feeling of a bird seeing the cage door open after three years of confinement. Once I finished the chicken, I shot a text to Marcus. It’s done. Signed. Three seconds later, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from him. “What do you mean, done? She actually went through with it?!” “Yeah.” “How are you holding up? Where are you? Are you okay? Bro, I’m coming over right now.” “I just finished some fried chicken. Grab a six-pack of beer on your way.” A brief silence stretched over the line. “Are you sure you just got divorced and didn’t win the lottery?” “Honestly, it feels about the same.” Marcus hung up. Twenty minutes later, he kicked open my door carrying a case of IPA. First thing he did was look around the living room. “Damn. She really cleared the place out, huh?” “Yep.” “The vanity desk?” “Gone.” “That massive shoe rack?” “Gone.” Marcus’s eyes lit up. “Your living room literally looks twice as big!” He collapsed onto the sofa, popped a beer, and tossed it to me. “Bro, let me be real with you.” “Go ahead.” He began counting on his fingers. “First, no more handing over your paycheck to a shared account. Second, no more playing mind reader when she’s mad. Third, no more getting kicked out of bed at two in the morning because she had a dream that you cheated on her.” I choked on my beer. “How do you know more about my marriage than I do?” “Are you kidding? You called me at three in the morning crying because she dreamed you were eating tacos with another girl, and she made you sleep on the freezing living room floor. You forgot about that?” “Can we please strike that from the record?” Marcus took a slow sip of his beer. “Never. I still have the voice memo of you crying. I play it whenever I have a bad day. It’s better than therapy.” I seriously considered dumping the rest of my beer on his head. But since he bought it, I let it slide. Around midnight, Marcus let out a soft burp and got unusually quiet. “Seriously though, what’s the plan now? Living solo?” “What else?” “Just watch your back. Newly single guys are prime targets. Some women smell the freedom and pounce.” I laughed. “Pounce on what? I’m a mid-level IT guy making ninety grand a year. Who’s targeting me?” Marcus shook his head, looking incredibly wise. “You don’t get it. Some women aren’t looking at your bank account.” At the time, I brushed it off. It wasn’t until later that I realized Marcus had actually been far too conservative with his warning. 2 Three days after the divorce, my life took a massive turn. Not for the worse—for the better. It was so good I started wondering if I’d spent the last three years in a white-collar prison. First of all, my bank account didn’t hit zero at the end of the month. When we were married, my paycheck would clear, and a chunk went to Brooke’s allowance. Then she’d want a new designer bag—money transferred. Then she’d have brunch with her girls—money transferred to cover her share. Yes, you read that right. I was covering her portion of those endless lunches with her friends. Now, that money stayed right where it belonged. Looking at the balance, I felt a sensation I hadn’t experienced in years. I had to search my vocabulary for the word: wealthy. Second, I suddenly had an abundance of time. Our old weekends used to go like this: morning shopping trips, afternoon movies, dinner dates, followed by late-night drinks with her friends. And then, I’d have to drive her friends home, only to get grilled by Brooke on why I dared to look at Amber through the rearview mirror. My new weekends looked like this: sleeping in, playing video games, ordering takeout, and playing more video games. Marcus warned me I was going to turn into a vegetable. I told him that being a vegetable was a luxury he couldn’t comprehend. Just as I was settling into this peaceful routine, Amber reached out. Yes, Amber. The very same best friend who had spent years telling my wife to “find herself,” “aim higher,” and “know her worth.” The architect of my divorce. She sent me a text. Hey Tedd. I heard about you and Brooke. Are you holding up okay? I stared at the screen for ten seconds. The sheer audacity was almost impressive. I replied: I’m fine. Amber: Make sure you’re eating well. Takeout is terrible for your stomach. You should have some real food. Tedd: Sure. Amber: Why don’t you come over tomorrow? I’m making a batch of homemade lasagna. Tedd: Can’t. Got plans with Marcus. Amber: How about I drop some off at your place then? I hesitated. Free lasagna. Only an idiot turns down free lasagna. Tedd: Alright. The next afternoon, Amber showed up at my door holding a heavy, foil-wrapped glass dish. Objectively speaking, Amber was attractive. Slender, nice style, always wore perfect makeup. But today, she had definitely dialed it up. Her makeup was heavier, and she was wearing a low-cut sundress that left very little to the imagination. When she bent over to set the dish down on the kitchen counter, well… let’s just say I kept my eyes on the counter. “Just put it on the table,” I said, grabbing a fork. Amber hovered by the entryway. “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down?” “Oh. Yeah, come in.” She stepped inside, looking around the living room. “You keep this place pretty clean for a bachelor.” “Fewer people, less mess.” She smiled, taking a seat on the couch. I dug into the lasagna. She watched me quietly. “How is it?” “Really good.” “I made it with three types of cheese, just the way you like it.” I paused mid-chew. How did she know I liked three-cheese lasagna? I’d only ever mentioned that to Brooke. I looked up. She was smiling sweetly. I shrugged and kept eating. Whatever, the lasagna was incredible. When I finished, Amber insisted on washing the dish. When she came out of the kitchen, her sleeves were rolled up, and her hands were still slightly damp. “Tedd, you’re almost out of dish soap. You need to replace it.” “Yeah, I’ll grab some.” “I can bring some over next time I visit.” “Oh. Sure, thanks.” Amber smiled again, this one lingering a bit longer. After she left, I texted Marcus. Amber just dropped off lasagna. Three seconds later, he sent a flurry of texts. Are you an idiot?! Why is she bringing you food?! Have you lost your mind? You don’t think that’s incredibly shady? I replied: The lasagna was spectacular. Marcus: I hate you. I tossed my phone aside. Marcus was a good guy, but he was paranoid. Amber was probably just being nice, checking in on her friend’s ex out of basic human decency. Even when she posted a photo of the lasagna on Instagram later that evening with the caption “Simple joys,” I didn’t think much of it. People post photos of food all the time. I chose to believe in the basic goodness of people. 3 A week after the divorce, I saw from Brooke’s social media that she had officially entered the dating market. She posted a heavily filtered selfie with the caption: “New beginnings, new me.” Her friends flooded the comments with praise. Amber’s comment was right at the top: “Babe, you look stunning! You deserve the world!” I scrolled past it. Honestly, Brooke wasn’t a bad catch. She was pretty, had a decent job, and was generally pleasant when she wasn’t being influenced by her friends. In a normal dating pool, she’d do fine. The problem was the criteria Amber had set for her: a guy with a luxury SUV, a six-figure salary, a degree from an Ivy League school, and standing at least six-foot-two. Brooke made forty-five thousand a year. That wasn’t dating; that was fantasy. How did I know all this? Because of Mrs. Gable, our neighborhood gossip. She lived down the hall, knew everyone’s business, and loved sharing it. Ten days after the divorce, she cornered me near the mailboxes. “Tedd! Have you heard about Brooke?” “No, what?” “She went on a blind date last weekend! The guy claimed he owned a tech startup. Took her to a high-end steakhouse downtown.” “And?” Mrs. Gable slapped her knee. “After a hundred-and-fifty-dollar dinner, the guy said he forgot his wallet in his car. He walked out to get it.” “Did he?” “Did he hell! He bolted! Left her with the bill! Your ex-wife had to pay the whole thing herself.” I just stared. I wasn’t hurting for Brooke, but I felt a phantom pain in my own wallet. In the past, that would have been my money. Mrs. Gable leaned in closer, dropping her voice. “But that’s not even the worst part.” “What happened?” “On her second date, she met a guy who actually seemed legitimate. Nice sports car, expensive watch. They went out three times. After the third date, he vanished. Blocked her number, ignored her texts.” I sighed, leaning against the mailboxes. “She was crying to her friends about it. Apparently, the guy just wanted a quick hookup. He had no intention of taking her seriously.” Mrs. Gable shook her head. “Essentially, he wanted the free trial, not the subscription.” I kept quiet. Even though we were divorced, hearing about her getting treated like that felt a bit uncomfortable. Not out of lingering affection, just human empathy. But it wasn’t my problem anymore. Our paths had diverged. A few days passed, and Mrs. Gable caught me again. “Tedd! You won’t believe this!” I sighed. “What now?” “Brooke’s third date! This one was set up by Amber herself!” My eyebrows twitched. “Amber set it up?” 4 “Yeah! Supposedly some big-shot venture capitalist, making millions. Want to guess how that turned out?” “How?” “Married. With a wife and kids. Just looking for a side piece.” I gripped the keys in my hand a little tighter. “Your ex-wife got so angry she threw a glass of water right in his face. And the guy just laughed and said, ‘I like them feisty.’” I didn’t say anything. No matter how things ended between Brooke and me, she was still my wife once. Hearing someone treat her like that was irritating. But what bothered me more was something else. The guy Amber set her up with was married. Did Amber not know? Or did she know and do it on purpose? A picture flashed in my mind: a wolf standing guard at the chicken coop, smiling warmly. But I brushed the thought away. After all, Amber’s lasagna was really good. That was enough of a reason to suspend suspicion for now. People are simple creatures. Sometimes, a warm plate of food is all it takes to keep your mouth shut. How pathetic. 5 Amber’s visits shifted from once a week to three times a week. Monday was lasagna. Wednesday was slow-cooked ribs. Friday was beef stew. My fridge had never been this well-stocked. Honestly, I started feeling guilty. Groceries cost money, and I couldn’t just keep accepting her charity. So every time she brought food, I tried Venmoing her. She declined it. I tried again. She declined it again. “You not taking my money is making me feel bad,” I told her. Amber blinked, her long lashes fluttering. “Then how about you buy me dinner?” “Sure.” I took her to the cheap taco truck down the street. Two street tacos and a soda. Total cost: twelve dollars. My treat. Amber sat on the metal stool, looking at the paper plate of greasy tacos. Her lip twitched. “You… normally eat here?” “Yeah, best tacos in the city. The salsa is homemade, and the meat is incredibly tender.” “You said you’d buy me dinner, and you brought me here?” “Is this not dinner?” Her mouth twitched again. I took a massive bite of my taco, juice running down my hand. “Eat up before they get cold.” She stared at her plate for a few seconds. Then, she picked up a taco and took a bite. As we walked back to my apartment, she suddenly spoke up. “Tedd, you know you’re different from other guys.” “Different how?” “You’re just… real. Genuine.” “Is that a compliment or an insult?” “A compliment.” Back home, Marcus called again. “Did you go out with Amber again today?” “How do you know?” “She posted on her Instagram. A photo of the taco truck with the caption ‘Simple joys’.” “It’s just a taco truck. Why is she posting about it?” Marcus’s voice cracked. “Are you dense? She’s clearly into you!” “No way. She’s my ex-wife’s best friend.” “That’s exactly why it’s terrifying! Think about it—” “I’m hanging up. I have a raid in ten minutes.” Marcus was a great friend, but his paranoia was exhausting. Amber was just a nice person who felt bad for a guy living alone. And as for the Instagram posts… maybe she just liked the aesthetic of street food. Over the next week, Amber’s routine changed. She wasn’t just bringing food anymore. She started helping me clean. She washed my curtains. She bought me a new set of bedsheets. She even put a vase of fresh baby’s breath on my coffee table. I stared the flowers for a long moment, a vague sense of unease settling in my chest. But I couldn’t put my finger on why. The most obvious shift happened last Saturday. She came over wearing a thin slip dress. It was November. It was forty degrees outside. The dress was incredibly short, revealing a fair amount of smooth, pale leg. She sat on my sofa, crossing her legs, letting one high heel dangle from her toes. I looked at her, then silently walked into my bedroom and grabbed a thick fleece blanket. “Here, drape this over yourself,” I said, handing it to her. “The draft in here is pretty bad. Don’t want you catching a cold.” When she took the blanket, her fingers brushed against my palm. My skin tingled. Probably just static electricity. That night, Marcus texted: Did she come over today? Yeah. She helped me put up the new curtains. And you still don’t think she has an angle? She’s a five-foot-five girl. What kind of angle could she possibly have? Marcus sent a link to an article titled: When a Woman Starts Cleaning Your House, It’s Time to Worry. I replied: Get help. Then I blocked him. I unblocked him two seconds later, of course. I still needed him to carry me in our game tomorrow.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458746”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 The streets finally caught up with me. The doctors gave me a few days, maybe a week, before my body completely shuts down. Nobody cared. The only reason I was even in the hospital was because a Vice detective felt sorry for me and called 911. I lay in the drafty hallway, my trembling fingers dialing my little sister’s number. I had to hit dial three times before it went through. She is the youngest judge in the city circuit. She absolutely despises women like me, women who sell their bodies to survive. But she does not know that every single penny that put her through law school was earned on my back. The line connected. I wanted to tell her that her big sister would not be an embarrassment to her anymore. But old habits die hard. The words that came out of my mouth were completely different. “Hey, little sis. I am a bit tight on cash. Care to toss a few bucks my way?” A cold, mocking scoff echoed through the receiver. “You are not dead yet? What do you need money for, an urn?” I laughed so hard that tears and snot streamed down my face. My sister was always the pragmatic one. She even figured out I would need someone to cover my funeral costs. The amount she would probably send could buy me a gold-plated one. What a way to go out. A second later, my phone buzzed with a bank notification. Three thousand dollars. The memo attached to the transfer read: Buy your urn and stay the hell away from me. I stared at the screen and let out a genuine chuckle. A young nurse nudged my shoulder, looking annoyed. “What is so funny? Go pay your bill. You are making the whole hallway smell.” I pressed the phone against my chest. “Honey, this is the smell of money. You just do not get it.” Right after I paid the hospital fees, Marcus walked in. He was the detective from Metro Vice. He tossed a warm foil-wrapped deli sandwich onto my lap. “Roxy, where is your family?” I took a massive bite, speaking with my mouth full. “Dead to me.” “Thanks for this, by the way. Have not eaten in two days. This hits the spot.” Marcus furrowed his brow, looking irritated. “I heard that phone call.” “Was that your sister?” I flashed him a bright, greasy grin. “That was my creditor.” “You have no idea. I owe her so much, I could not pay it back if I worked ten lifetimes as a dog.” Marcus clearly did not buy it. His eyes drifted down to my badly infected, bruised legs. “The doctor said you need a family member to sign off on the surgery, or they cannot save that leg.” I swallowed the last bite of the sandwich. “Then let them chop it off. It is not like I need to spread my legs for business anymore anyway.” Marcus choked on his breath, his face turning a deep shade of red. “Roxy, I read your file. You came from a decent home. You had good grades.” “How the hell did you end up in the gutter like this?” “You are a human being. Have some damn self-respect!” I gave him a playful wink. “Detective, if you feel that bad for me, why do not you become a patron? Help a girl make a living.” Fifteen years ago, when I willingly walked into that cheap neon-lit motel to scrape together Sophie’s tuition, my self-respect was the first thing I left at the door. A bitter laugh scraped my throat. “Look, Officer, with the state my body is in right now, I probably could not even service you right. Just do me a favor and give me a cigarette.” Marcus let out a heavy sigh, pulled out a pack, and lit one for me. Through the curling gray smoke, I narrowed my eyes. I thought about Sophie when she was little. She did not hate me back then. She used to wear her hair in two messy braids, following me everywhere like a shadow. She would look up at me with her big, innocent eyes and say, “Roxy, when I grow up and make lots of money, I will make sure you get to eat a huge meal every single day. And I will never let anyone hit you again.” Well, she grew up. She made her money. And she bought me a coffin. I smiled, feeling completely hollow. “It is fine.” “My little sis keeps her promises.” My phone buzzed again. A text from Sophie. [Do not ever call me again. I have a massive trial tomorrow. Stop making me feel sick to my stomach.] I stared at the glowing letters, my fingers shaking as I typed a reply. [You got it, Judge. Wishing you a bright and shiny future.] I hit send. Then I transferred the three grand to my checking account and permanently blocked her number. I blew a smoke ring toward Marcus. “Detective, I am not fixing the leg.” “Just do me one last favor. When I kick the bucket, cremate me and dump the ashes in whatever trash can is closest.” “Just do not tell my sister. She thinks I am dirty.” 2 Clutching a plastic bag of painkillers, I limped my way to the steps of the District Courthouse. I just wanted to see Sophie one last time. I huddled behind a bus stop across the street, shivering in the morning chill. Just one look, I told myself. Then I will find a quiet corner to crawl into and wait for the end. Just as the sky began to turn a pale gray, a sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the courthouse steps. Sophie stepped out. She looked stunning. Cold, sharp, radiating an untouchable arrogance. The man stepping out behind her screamed old money and elite education. He thoughtfully placed a hand over the car door frame to protect her head, a soft, doting smile on his face. “Take it easy in court today, babe. I will come pick you up tonight.” Sophie gave him a sweet, genuine smile. “They look perfect together,” I muttered to myself. I drank in the sight of her profile, greedy for every detail. This was the life I bought for her. Clean. Respectable. Loved. She would never have to be like me, pinned under sweaty strangers in cheap motels for a handful of cash, forcing a smile and telling them they were the best she ever had. I was staring so hard I completely forgot where I was standing, and my bad leg gave out. I stumbled out from behind the glass partition. “Who is there?” The man’s voice was sharp with instant suspicion. He immediately stepped in front of Sophie, shielding her. “Come out! Stop hiding!” I panicked, desperately pulling my dirty jacket collar up to hide my face. “Sorry… just passing through, just walking by.” The man marched over and his polished leather shoe stomped down hard on my hand. “Ah! Damn it!” I could not hold back the scream. “Get off, I am not trying to do anything!” He pulled his foot back with a look of utter disgust. “Where did you crawl out of? Peeping around here at this hour?” I kept my head glued to the pavement. “Let it go, Preston. Do not waste your breath on trash like that.” It was Sophie. “We are running late.” She did not recognize me. Thank God. I was just about to drag myself away when I felt her gaze burn into the back of my neck. “Your voice… sounds familiar.” The air in the street instantly turned to ice. “Roxy?” Her voice spiked an octave. “Look up at me.” I froze. Every muscle in my broken body began to violently shake. “I said look at me!” The moment Sophie saw my face, the shock in her eyes morphed into absolute venom. “It is you.” Her face flushed a deep, furious red. “You actually have the nerve to show your face here?” “What do you want? Come to extort me in person?” She fired the questions like bullets, every single syllable ripping through my chest. Preston looked completely lost. He glanced between Sophie’s furious face and my pathetic form on the ground. “Babe, who is this? Is this your sister?” Sophie took a sharp breath and took a deliberate half-step backward. “No.” “I do not have a sister like her.” Her voice was like shattered glass. “She is just a stray mutt my father picked up off the street.” 3 I dragged myself up from the concrete, letting out a dry, rattling laugh. “The Judge is right.” “I am just a mutt.” I brushed the grime off my ripped jeans. “I am just passing through. Leaving right now.” I needed to get away before she could smell the stench of decay on my clothes. “Stop right there!” Sophie closed the distance in three strides, blocking my path. “Do not think I do not know what you are playing at, Roxy.” “You begged for money last night, and today you are stalking my workplace.” “You think because I am a judge, I am afraid of a scandal? You think you have leverage over me?” She unzipped her designer purse and yanked out a wad of cash. Smack. She slapped the bills directly across my face. “Take it and get out of my sight!” “If I ever catch you within five hundred yards of me again, I am calling the cops!” “I will have you locked up for extortion and harassment!” I slowly crouched down and picked up the scattered bills from the dirty pavement. Three hundred bucks. Add that to the three grand from last night, and I could live like a queen for the few days I had left. I shoved the money deep into my pocket and gave Sophie the most pathetic, obsequious smile I could muster. “You have a busy day, Your Honor. I will not get in your way.” “Wishing you two… a very happy life together.” I turned my back on them and limped away as fast as my ruined leg could manage. Behind me, Sophie’s voice dripped with raw disgust. “Absolutely hopeless.” “Trash belongs in the trash.” I ducked into a narrow, piss-smelling alleyway and leaned heavily against a dumpster, gasping for air. The tears I fought so hard to hold back finally broke loose. I fished out my phone, thinking I should text Marcus and tell him to call off his wellness checks. Otherwise, the poor guy would have to scrape my corpse off the pavement somewhere, and that was just too much paperwork. But then, a chillingly familiar voice echoed from the mouth of the alley. “Well, well, if it is not my favorite, dutiful daughter.” The sound of that voice made my blood turn to ice. I slowly turned my head. It was my father, Frank. His face was bloated, lined with years of cheap liquor and bad bets. “Heard you are finally dying, kid?” “Sophie sent you an allowance, right? Cough it up. I need it.” He advanced on me, his eyes gleaming with pure greed. “Hand it over.” He demanded it like it was his divine right. “That is my pension money from Sophie. You are about to drop dead anyway, what do you need cash for?” I clamped my hands fiercely over my pockets. “Back off!” “You will not get another cent from me, Frank! This is my money for my painkillers!” Frank let out a raspy sneer and flicked his cigarette butt at my feet. “Painkillers? Look at you, you are rotting from the inside out. What is there left to save?” “Just give me the cash. I will hit the tables, win it back double, and maybe I will buy you a decent plot of dirt to rot in.” He lunged at me, tearing at my coat. I fought back like a cornered animal. I scratched, I bit, I kicked wildly. But he was heavier. He drove his heavy boot right into my stomach. The white-hot agony instantly drained every ounce of fight out of me. I curled into a tight, trembling ball on the filthy ground. Frank dug his filthy hands into my pockets and yanked out the cash. A massive, rotten grin spread across his face. “That is a good girl.” “Listen to me. You were born to be nothing but a dirty mattress.” “Your job was to pave the way for your sister and buy your old man a drink.” “That is your destiny, kid. Better learn to accept it.” 4 Before he left, Frank spat a thick wad of phlegm onto my jacket. “Useless trash. Do not die in public, find a hole somewhere.” I lay there, broken and bleeding, staring up at the thin sliver of gray sky between the brick buildings. Screw destiny. I refuse to accept it. I am going back to Sophie. I am going to look her in the eyes and tell her the truth. I am going to tell her that the money that bought her textbooks, paid her rent, and put her in those tailored suits did not come from Frank’s hardworking hands. It came from me. From the hundreds of times I lay on my back in the dark so she could walk in the light. I dragged my shattered body back to the courthouse steps. When the security guards tried to chase me off, I screamed, cried, and caused a massive scene, shouting that I was the Judge’s sister. Half an hour later, Sophie marched out the doors. There was pure murder in her eyes. “Roxy, what the hell is wrong with you?” “Look at yourself!” “Are you not ashamed? Stop ruining my life!” She hissed the words, terrified her colleagues inside might hear. I looked at her perfectly manicured face, the tears streaming down my own bruised cheeks. “Sophie, I need to tell you something.” “About Dad. About where all that money came from…” “Shut your mouth!” Sophie glared at me like I was a diseased rat. “Do not you dare bring up Dad! You do not have the right to even say his name!” “Dad worked construction in the dead of winter, breaking his back just to pay for my tuition! He ruined his spine for me!” “He survived on two pieces of cheap bread a day just so I could buy law books!” “And what did you do?” “You were out whoring yourself, hooking up with every scumbag on the block! What did you ever do for this family?!” I felt the breath leave my lungs. I remembered standing outside the motel in the freezing snow, my hands covered in bleeding chilblains, trying to flag down cars. “Did Dad tell you that?” My voice was barely a whisper. “Does he even need to?” Sophie let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Every time he sent me a check, he told me it was his blood, sweat, and tears.” “He told me you were out living the high life, draped in cheap gold, not giving a damn about us.” “Roxy, how can you be this shameless?” “Now that you are sick and broke, you suddenly remember you have a family?” “Remembered you have a sister you can leech off of?” I opened my mouth to explain. But my throat locked up. A massive, suffocating weight crushed my chest, and I could not form a single word. Frank suddenly appeared out of nowhere. He rushed over and positioned himself squarely between me and Sophie. “Sophie, baby! Do not listen to a word she says!” “Is this con artist trying to shake you down again?” “Go back inside! Do not let her toxic garbage ruin your day!” Frank turned his head and shot me a look of pure, unadulterated malice. He slipped a switchblade out of his pocket, holding it down by his hip where Sophie could not see, and subtly aimed the point at my stomach. He mouthed the words silently: Say a word, and I will gut you. I watched as Sophie gently touched Frank’s arm, her voice softening completely. “Dad, are you okay? Did she hurt you?” “I am fine, sweetheart. Your old man is tough.” Frank put on a flawless performance of a humble, hardworking father. “Roxy, I know life has been hard on you, but you cannot drag your sister down into the mud with you.” “She is a respected woman now.” “All those dirty things you did… I kept them a secret to protect you.” “How can you bite the hand that feeds you?” Watching this sickening display of a loving father and a devoted daughter, the last shred of warmth in my heart turned to ash. I reached inside my torn jacket. I pulled out a thick, weathered stack of papers. Fifteen years of Western Union receipts, bank slips, and the letters I had secretly written to Sophie but never mailed. “Sophie… just take this…” I offered it to her. But before she could even raise her hand, Frank snatched the bundle away. “What kind of infected trash is this? Do not touch her things!” Without even glancing at the papers, he ripped them to shreds, tossing the pieces into the wind. “Dad! No, that is—” I lunged forward, desperately trying to catch the falling pieces. Frank swung his arm in a vicious backhand, striking me across the jaw. I collapsed backward, my head smacking hard against the concrete. Sophie just frowned, looking completely exhausted. “Are you done throwing your tantrum, Roxy?” Her voice was devoid of all emotion. “If you are done, then go die.” “Stay far away from me.” “The fact that you are even breathing the same air as me is an insult.” I lay on the freezing ground, staring up at the absolute resolve in my sister’s eyes. “Okay.” I whispered the word to the wind. “If you really want me dead that badly.” “I will go die somewhere far away.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458731”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Devin guarded his boundaries fiercely. Three years of dating, and I’d never set foot in his apartment—his so-called sanctuary. I wasn’t allowed near his phone, not even to check the time. At group dinners, he always made sure I sat at the far end of the table. I told myself he just needed space. Then, the night before our wedding, I got a location pin from him. Thinking he was finally letting me in, I went to his building. The door was unlocked. Inside, a woman curled up on his sofa in one of his oversized shirts. Her bare legs draped over his thighs as she giggled, whining for a calf massage. Devin looked up, startled—then his expression cooled. “What are you doing here?” “I meant to send that to Valerie,” he said. “I was rushing and tapped the wrong name.” “Renee, you need to learn boundaries. Don’t come running every time I share a location.” A hollow laugh caught in my throat. He was draped over another woman, yet demanding space from his fiancée. I didn’t argue. I looked down at my phone and accepted the overseas transfer my manager had sent earlier. If he wanted distance, I’d give it to him—so much that I’d vanish from his world entirely. … I clicked accept. A confirmation message appeared on the screen. “Transfer Period: Three Years. Destination: London Branch. Please report to your new location this Saturday.” Today was Wednesday. There were exactly three days left until the wedding, and three days left until my flight. Devin saw me staring at my phone, his brow furrowing deeper. “Renee, I’m talking to you.” I locked my screen and looked up at him. “I heard you.” He hadn’t expected me to be this calm. The lecture he had prepared seemed to get stuck in his throat, and his expression soured even further. Valerie, who was still draped over his lap, finally slid her legs down. She adjusted the hem of the black t-shirt, which I recognized as Devin’s favorite, and looked up at me with a shy, fragile expression. “Dev, is this Renee?” Dev. We had been together for three years, and I had almost always called him by his full name. When we first started dating, I had suggested we use cute nicknames for each other, but Devin had shut it down immediately. He said those sweet, clingy names made his skin crawl. Now I realized he didn’t hate nicknames. He just hated them coming from me. Valerie stood up from the sofa, holding onto the armrest for support. “Renee, please don’t misunderstand. I sprained my ankle, and Devin was just helping me massage the swelling.” I looked down at her feet. She was wearing a pair of plush pink slippers with little rabbit ears. On the coffee table rested a cute, star-shaped mug filled with warm milk. On the sofa, the cushion she had been leaning against was a limited-edition Disney design. None of these items belonged to Devin. And they certainly didn’t belong to me. It was almost comical. The very first time I stepped into my fiancé’s home, I felt like an intruder walking into a cozy nest he had built with someone else. Seeing my silence, Valerie’s smile faltered slightly. “Renee, Dev and I were born in the same year and grew up together. We’ve always been this close. We don’t really do boundaries.” I turned my gaze to Devin. He stood there with a frown, clearly seeing absolutely nothing wrong with her words. Yet for three years, he had enforced our boundaries with a cold, almost clinical precision. I was forbidden from entering his apartment. I was forbidden from touching his phone. I was excluded from his social circles. He had even scolded me once when I accidentally adjusted the air freshener in his car, telling me he hated when people messed with his things. The strict rules he had created to keep me at a distance simply did not exist for Valerie. I offered a small, quiet smile and looked at her. “Valerie. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Devin’s face darkened instantly. “Renee, what is with that sarcastic tone?” I looked at him, genuinely surprised. I wasn’t being sarcastic at all. I really had heard her name countless times before. The first time was on my birthday. I had booked a reservation at a high-end restaurant weeks in advance, but Devin cancelled at the last minute because Valerie had watched a horror movie and was too terrified to sleep. He had to go over to her place to tuck her in. The second time was when I had a high fever. I called him, asking if he could drive me to the urgent care clinic, but he refused, saying Valerie wanted lemon tarts from a bakery uptown and he had to go buy them before she started crying. The third time was the day of our wedding dress fitting. He showed up two hours late, his cuffs stained with coffee. He told me Valerie had lost her cat and had been crying hysterically, so he had spent the entire afternoon helping her search the neighborhood. Through all of those moments, I had never truly lost my temper. I had assumed that the girl who required so much of his patience and care was a young, helpless teenager. I had even resolved to be kind to her after we got married, knowing Devin didn’t have much family left. But standing here today, I realized Valerie wasn’t a child. She was twenty-eight years old, two years older than me. Valerie bit her lower lip, her eyes turning shiny with tears. “Dev, I don’t think Renee likes me very much.” She reached for her coat on the sofa. “Maybe I should leave. I don’t want to be the reason you two fight.” Before she could touch the fabric, Devin caught her wrist. “Why should you be the one to leave?” he said coldly. “The uninvited guest is the one who should leave.” A sharp, cold ache bloomed in my chest. I forced a quiet laugh. “Fine. I’ll leave.” I turned around and walked out the door. As I waited for the elevator, I realized this was my very first time visiting Devin’s apartment. And it would be my last. 2 I returned to my own apartment near midnight. I had bought this place with my own savings, and Devin had never spent a single night here. Even when I was down with severe cramps and called to ask if he could drop off some pain medication, he had simply declined over the phone. “Renee, we aren’t married yet,” he had said. “A man and a woman spending the night together in an apartment ruins a woman’s reputation.” At the time, I was actually touched by his old-fashioned chivalry, believing he was simply looking out for me. Only tonight, seeing Valerie lounging in his clothes on his sofa, did I realize the truth. His chivalry was nothing more than an excuse to keep me at arm’s length. I forced the thoughts from my mind and pulled my suitcase out to begin packing. Halfway through, my hand brushed against a heavy garment bag at the back of my closet. Inside was the wedding dress I had paid for with my own money. Throughout our wedding preparations, Devin had been entirely hands-off, though he was generous with the budget. He paid for the finest venue, the most expensive catering, and hired a tailor to hand-craft his own Italian suit. But when it came to my dress, he had shrugged. “Just rent one,” he had said. “You’re only going to wear it once. There’s no need to waste money.” On the day of our fitting, when he finally showed up two hours late, he had casually pointed at a basic, off-the-rack dress. “Just take that one. Let’s not make a big deal out of this.” But I didn’t want to compromise. I wanted to look beautiful for the man I loved, so I had gone back to the boutique alone and bought the most elegant dress they had. Now, it would never be worn. I took a few high-quality photos of the dress and posted them on a wedding consignment app. “Brand new, never worn. Selling at a discount.” Almost as soon as the listing went live, a notification popped up on my phone. A social media friend request. The profile picture was a woman standing by the sea, her back to the camera. The image looked incredibly familiar. It took me a moment to realize that the sea in her photo was the exact same background Devin used for his own landscape avatar. He had simply cropped her out of the shot. I accepted the request. A message arrived immediately. “Renee, I am so incredibly sorry about today. I didn’t mean to cause any misunderstanding.” “Please let me buy you dinner tomorrow to make it up to you.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I typed “No need,” but before I could hit send, another message popped up with an address. “This is my absolute favorite restaurant. Let’s meet there tomorrow at five.” I stared at the address, a dull ache settling in my chest. That was the exact restaurant Devin had taken me to for almost every date during our three years together. I had never really liked it; the food was too sweet, and the lighting was far too dim. But because Devin always insisted on going there, I had assumed it was his favorite. During those dinners, he would usually be buried in his phone, handling work, while I sat quietly across from him, cutting my steak. I had convinced myself that this quiet, domestic routine was a form of happiness. How incredibly foolish I had been. I decided to go. The next afternoon, I walked into the restaurant at precisely five. Sitting by the window, Devin and Valerie were already seated side by side. I walked over and sat down across from them. Valerie offered a playful, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Renee. I wanted to come alone, but Dev was so worried about me that he insisted on tag-along.” Worried about what? He was simply terrified that I might make her uncomfortable. I remembered my second year of dating Devin. A major client had a reputation for getting handsy with the female employees after a few drinks. After our team dinners, my colleagues’ boyfriends would always show up to drive them home safely. I had asked Devin to pick me up once. He had simply replied over the text, “I trust you. You’re an incredibly capable woman, Renee. I’m sure you can handle a client.” Love is defined by the exceptions we make. He was terrified of letting Valerie have a simple dinner with me, but he had been perfectly content to let his own girlfriend fend for herself against a predatory client. 3 The dishes were already ordered, and the server began bringing them out. As the plates filled the table, a cold realization washed over me. Almost every dish was seafood: butter-poached lobster, Chilean sea bass, oysters Rockefeller. The menu was nearly identical to our wedding reception menu. During our wedding planning, I had questioned Devin about the catering. “I have a severe seafood allergy, and you aren’t particularly fond of it either. Why did you choose so much seafood?” He hadn’t even looked up from his tablet. “The guests prefer it.” I hadn’t thought much of it then. Now, looking at the table, I finally understood who that specific “guest” was. Throughout the dinner, I didn’t touch a single piece of food, only playing with a few spears of steamed asparagus on my plate. Valerie, on the other hand, was in high spirits, happily shelling shrimp and chatting about their childhood memories. At one point, she naturally picked up a piece of crab meat with her fork and held it out to him. “Dev, try this. It’s incredibly fresh.” My hand froze on my fork. Devin had scolded me more than once for trying to share food with him, telling me he hated when people fed him. Yet now, he simply leaned forward and ate the crab meat directly from her fork, his expression perfectly relaxed. I felt completely invisible, like an uninvited stranger gatecrashing an intimate dinner. I set my fork down and stood up. “Enjoy your dinner. I have some things to take care of, so I’ll head out first.” Devin finally looked up at me. “Renee, what are you throwing a tantrum for now?” I didn’t answer. I turned and walked out of the restaurant into the cool evening air, feeling a sudden, lightness in my chest. The suffocating weight I had carried for three years seemed to vanish. I pulled out my phone and sent Devin a text. “Let’s cancel the wedding. I’ll be at the hotel tomorrow morning at ten to handle the cancellations. Please join me if you’re free.” After sending the message, I hailed a cab and went home. Devin didn’t reply that night, and I didn’t waste my time waiting for one. I completed my transition paperwork for the London branch, took a warm shower, and went to sleep. The next morning, I arrived at the hotel lobby right on time. I waited for half an hour, but Devin never showed up. I called his number. It rang twice before he answered, his voice dripping with irritation. “My mother wants us to come over to finalize some wedding details. I’m already at her place. Just take a cab and meet us here.” I stared at the phone in silence. He either hadn’t read my text, or he had simply chosen to ignore it, assuming I was just throwing a minor fit. “Fine,” I said softly. I would tell him face-to-face, in front of his family. Devin’s family, much like Devin himself, were people who valued their boundaries. Despite the upcoming wedding, I could count the number of times I had visited his mother’s house on one hand. Every visit had been defined by a polite, chilly distance; his mother would offer me a cup of tea, and his father would remain buried in his newspaper. We were about to become family, yet we felt like strangers behind a glass wall. But today was different. As soon as my cab pulled up to the driveway, I could hear bursts of laughter coming from inside the house. When I opened the door, I realized Devin hadn’t come alone. Valerie was sitting right next to Mrs. Ross, her arm looped affectionately through the older woman’s. “Auntie, you need to talk to Dev,” Valerie pouted, leaning her head on Mrs. Ross’s shoulder. “I wanted to wear my favorite skirt today, but he made a huge scene and forced me to change.” Mrs. Ross laughed warmly, patting Valerie’s cheek. “I think Devin was right. That skirt was far too short. Let’s go shopping this afternoon and buy you some beautiful new dresses.” “Auntie, you’re the absolute best,” Valerie giggled. My own mother had passed away when I was young, and when I first started dating Devin, I had truly hoped to build a maternal bond with Mrs. Ross. I bought her thoughtful gifts for holidays and brought back souvenirs from every business trip. I had carefully invited her out for lunch and shopping. But she had never worn the silk scarves I bought, and the skincare sets ended up gifted to her housekeeper. Every invitation was met with a polite, vague “Let’s do it another day” or “When I have some free time.” I had assumed she was simply a busy, reserved woman. Now I understood that when someone truly wants to see you, they give you a specific date. They don’t push you away with empty promises of “another day.” The laughter in the living room died the moment they noticed me standing in the doorway. Mrs. Ross’s face quickly smoothed into that familiar, polite mask of distant hospitality. “Renee, you’re here. Please, have a seat.” I walked over and sat down in the armchair furthest from them. I looked at Devin. “Did you see the message I sent you last night?” Devin frowned. “What message?” He pulled out his phone. “Why can’t you just say whatever you need to say to my face instead of sending…” He stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing. 4 “The entire conversation thread is gone. What happened?” Valerie quickly slid off the sofa and ran over to Devin, clasping her hands together in a pleading gesture. “Dev, I’m so sorry! I was playing a game on your phone last night and must have accidentally deleted Renee’s thread. It wasn’t anything important, was it?” Devin let out a soft, indulgent chuckle. “It’s fine. You formatted my entire phone once and I didn’t scold you, did I?” Valerie giggled and trotted back to Mrs. Ross’s side. I sat in my chair, my fingers turning cold. He wouldn’t even let his own fiancée touch his phone to check the time, yet he was perfectly fine with another woman deleting his messages and formatting his data. Devin turned back to me. “What did you text me? Just tell me now.” I looked at him, and the desire to explain myself suddenly vanished. For three years, he had never treated me with the basic respect a girlfriend deserved. Why should I waste my energy offering him a formal, polite notification of our split? I lowered my eyes. “It was nothing important.” Devin shrugged and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Mrs. Ross offered a pleasant smile. “Renee, how are the bridesmaid arrangements coming along? Is there a spot left for Valerie?” She patted Valerie’s hand affectionately. “Devin spent the entire evening helping her choose a gorgeous bridesmaid dress. She’s absolutely dying to wear it on Saturday.” I curled my fingers into my palms. Devin had never found the time to accompany me to a single bridal boutique, but he had spent an entire evening helping Valerie select her dress. But since there would be no wedding, who cares who the bridesmaid was? “Sure,” I said quietly. I stood up. “I have some urgent work to handle at the office. I’ll take my leave.” Mrs. Ross didn’t even offer a polite attempt to keep me for lunch. I left the house and took a cab straight back to the hotel. The event manager’s face fell when I told him I was canceling the wedding. “Ms. Reynolds, the ceremony is scheduled for this Saturday,” he said, looking at me with concern. “Canceling now means you’ll lose almost the entire deposit.” “I understand,” I replied, my voice steady. “Just process the cancellation.” He looked at me standing alone at the reception desk and didn’t press further. He had worked with countless couples, and he knew how rare it was for a bride to handle every single wedding arrangement completely on her own, without a single member of the groom’s family ever showing up to help. By the time I signed the final cancellation forms, the sun had set. As I walked out of the revolving doors, my phone buzzed with a notification from the consignment app. “Hi, is this dress still available? I’d love to purchase it.” The buyer had already processed the payment. Almost immediately, a long message followed. “I’m so sorry to message you so late. My fiancée and I have been together for three years, and our wedding is this Saturday. I don’t make a lot of money, and we couldn’t afford to buy a proper dress, so we had planned to rent a simple one. She kept telling me she didn’t mind, but I know she secretly wanted a beautiful dress of her own. When I saw your listing at such an incredible price, I wanted to surprise her. Thank you so much.” Standing on the chilly street corner, my eyes welled with sudden, warm tears. Three years of dating. A wedding on the exact same Saturday. One man was willing to stretch his modest budget to give his bride a beautiful surprise, while another man, despite having a massive budget, couldn’t care less about his fiancée’s wedding dress. I typed a quick reply. “I hope you have a beautiful wedding.” He sent back a smiling emoji. “Thank you! I wish you all the happiness in the world, too.” I stared at his blessing for a long time before offering a soft, quiet smile. I would find my happiness. It just wouldn’t have anything to do with Devin. Back at my apartment, I carefully pulled the wedding dress from its garment bag. The delicate white fabric flowed across my bed, shimmering softly under the light. It was breathtakingly beautiful. I had once imagined how wonderful it would feel to walk down the aisle toward Devin in this dress. Now, I was simply relieved that I had never worn it for him. The courier arrived twenty minutes later. I handed the large box to him and watched the elevator doors close. When I stepped back into my apartment, the silence felt incredibly peaceful. I didn’t delay any further. I grabbed my packed suitcases, turned off the lights, locked the door, and walked out of the building. My ride was already waiting at the curb. The driver loaded my bags into the trunk and looked back at me. “Heading to the airport, miss?” “Yes,” I replied. “JFK.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458747”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Joey snatched my wrist as I plunged into the Antarctic crevice, gripping it white-knuckled. “I’ve got you, Julie! I’m never letting go!” But my name isn’t Julie. Rescued, I asked who Julie was. He looked away, voice strained. “You misheard.” I dismissed it as terror-induced hallucination until midnight. Waking to an empty bed, I found Joey’s pack overturned, papers scattered. Kneeling, I froze at a five-year-old accident report. Victim: Julie Coleman. Death: fall into Antarctic crevice. Beneath it, travel photos of a girl identical to me—same poses, clothes, locations as Joey and I had shared. Under those, today’s topographic map of our location, covered in calculations of my weight and terminal velocity. Handwritten at the bottom: This time, I will save her. Joey pushed me. I was his dress rehearsal to rewrite his trauma. Numbness hollowed my chest. Trembling, I texted our coordinator: Arrange transport out tomorrow. Don’t tell Joey. Antarctica faces months of total darkness. Joey’s world would be endless polar night. Mine was finally breaking dawn. I’m so sorry, Sylvia, the coordinator’s reply came a few minutes later. It’s peak season, and all transport is booked. The earliest boat we can get to you is in three days. Okay, I replied. Our trip was scheduled for five days. As long as I could leave before Joey noticed, I could survive three days. I tucked the photos back into his pack, smoothing the canvas to make it look untouched. But sleep was gone. The silence of the cabin pressed too hard against my ears, so I wrapped myself in a coat and walked out. At the cabin entrance, I saw Joey through the frosted glass. He was crouching in his heavy winter gear, painstakingly planting red roses into the pristine, powdery snow. In that blinding white wilderness, the crimson petals looked shockingly bright. To me, they looked like drops of fresh blood spilled from my own chest. “Julie, I brought your favorite roses,” he whispered to the wind. When Joey first pursued me, he brought me red roses every single week, without fail. I thought it was a symbol of his burning devotion. I never realized that intense, fiery love belonged to someone else. “It’s a pity I never got to capture your face when you saw them back then,” he murmured. “But I’ll make sure to capture it today.” Joey turned and caught my eyes. His frame went rigid for a fraction of a second before a smooth, easy smile slid onto his face. “Hey, why are you awake?” I forced my lips to curve. “Couldn’t sleep. Needed some air.” He sighed, a look of playful defeat in his eyes. “I wanted to surprise you, but you caught me.” If I hadn’t seen those files, if I didn’t know the ugly truth, I would have been a fool, weeping tears of gratitude at this romantic gesture. Roses in the snow, how poetic. But they were never meant for me. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m still surprised.” Joey didn’t seem to register the coldness in my tone. He waved me over. “Come out here. Let me take a picture of you.” “No, it’s too cold.” He unzipped his thick outer parka. “Take mine. I’ve already warmed it up. It’ll only take a second.” I shook my head. “No.” A faint, almost imperceptible frown creased his brow. He walked toward me, bringing a gust of freezing air with him. He reached for my hand, but I stepped back, repelled by his chill. He blinked, stunned. “What’s wrong? I thought we promised to document every beautiful moment.” We did promise. The last time I had refused to take a photo, Joey had thrown a tantrum and left me stranded on a street corner in a foreign city. I didn’t speak the language, got horribly lost, and was nearly dragged down an alley by a vagrant. Joey had shown up at the last second to rescue me. His explanation back then was simple: I just want to keep these memories for when we’re old. When you refuse to take photos, it feels like you don’t want a future with me. I had melted, blaming myself for not loving him enough, and swore I would never reject his camera again. Now I knew the truth. It wasn’t about our future. It was my punishment for failing to play Julie well. I looked at him, my expression blank. “I don’t think a face frozen red with snot is particularly beautiful.” “Sylvia!” Joey’s patience was wearing thin. I let out a soft, mocking laugh. “What? Are you going to abandon me in the middle of Antarctica this time?” He flinched, his voice softening in an instant. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just… it wasn’t easy to bring these roses all this way. You’re being a bit of a buzzkill.” A buzzkill. So be it. I wasn’t Julie. I didn’t love red roses, I didn’t love traveling, and I hated this bone-chilling cold. “The biggest buzzkill, Joey, is forcing someone to do something they hate.” Without waiting for his reply, I turned and walked back to our room. He followed me, but I picked up my pace, slipped inside, and locked the door. He knocked repeatedly. “Sylvia, open up. Let’s talk this through.” I leaned against the heavy wood, my body trembling uncontrollably. It was too cold here. I wanted to go home. “Get another room,” I yelled through the door. “We both need to cool down.” The knocking stopped. I didn’t care if he stayed outside or went down the hall. I crawled into bed and shut my eyes. The night was a restless blur. When I opened the door the next morning, Joey slumped forward, falling right into the room. I gasped, stepping back. He lay on the floor, blinking sleepily at me. “Morning, Sylvia.” I frowned. “Did you sleep outside my door all night?” He pushed himself up, offering a tired smile. “Yeah. I couldn’t leave you alone.” A tiny, traitorous part of my heart twitched. Joey wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his voice turning soft and pleading. “Yesterday was my fault. I shouldn’t have been so pushy. Don’t be mad, okay? This is the last leg of our trip. Let’s make it perfect.” I let out a bitter, silent laugh. I was actually feeling touched by his little performance. The rescue was done, the path was halfway walked, and he was so close to healing his old wounds. He had to bow his head to keep his perfect puppet in line. After a long pause, I forced a single word past my lips. “Okay.” Not because I wanted to finish the trip, but because I decided to play my part in his theater one last time. Before we set out, Joey draped a heavy winter parka over my shoulders. One of our tour group members looked over, confused. “Isn’t that jacket style from five years ago?” Joey’s hand hesitated on the zipper. “I just think the older designs look better.” It wasn’t about the design. It was because Julie had worn it. “Joey, you know I don’t like blue,” I said. “You look great in blue. It brings out your eyes.” “But I don’t like it. You said you wouldn’t force me anymore.” “There’s no time to go back and change now. Let’s not keep everyone waiting.” There were still ten minutes before departure. Changing would have taken two. But to keep his perfect Julie fantasy alive, he chose to paint me as the selfish one. Today’s itinerary was to see the penguins. But I have a phobia of birds with sharp beaks. The moment we got out of the vehicle, I instinctively shrank behind Joey. But he didn’t notice. Instead, he pushed me toward the colony. “It’s a rare chance. Go get a photo with them.” “Joey, I’m scared.” He looked baffled. “Scared of what? You love penguins.” I wanted to scream that I wasn’t Julie, that he needed to stop forcing her dead ghost onto my living body. But I kept my voice low. “Joey, I hate sharp-beaked animals.” He froze, a flash of deep disappointment crossing his eyes. While the others were soccer-mom excited, snapping photos, Joey looked at me, then at the penguins, clearly unwilling to give up. He softened his voice. “Let’s just take one together. Just one. I’ll protect you.” Before I could object, he handed his camera to our guide and pulled me close in front of the flock. My skin crawled. I stared stiffly at the lens. The shutter clicked, and Joey immediately let go. “Stay there. Let me go see how it looks.” He abandoned me to check the camera. Suddenly, one of the penguins waddled toward me. Panic surged. I tried to run, but my boot slipped on the ice, and I tumbled backward toward the freezing lake. “Ah!” My scream made Joey’s face pale instantly. He whipped around and sprinted toward me, catching my falling body. The world spun, and I crashed into his chest. He was shivering violently, terrified. “Sylvia, are you okay?” His voice cracked with unshed tears. I looked up and saw his eyes were rimmed with red. “Joey, are you that afraid of me dying?” He went rigid. “Don’t say that word, Sylvia. I don’t want to hear it. You’re going to live a long, long life. We’re going to be together forever.” But he had written those exact words on the back of his photo with Julie. Who did Joey actually want to be with? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care anymore. Because my future would no longer include him. Due to an approaching blizzard, we were forced to stay in the cabin. Joey’s mood was visibly low. He was distracted during dinner. I thought he was still shaken by the morning’s near-accident. But when I leaned closer, I heard him whispering to a travel brochure. “What a shame. We can’t go after all.” He wasn’t traumatized. He was disappointed. Disappointed that the places he couldn’t reach five years ago would remain unvisited. A wave of cold mockery washed over me. I looked away and focused on my food. Joey suddenly turned to me. “Sylvia, are you disappointed we can’t make it to the polar coordinates today?” I never cared about that place. I wanted to say it, but instead, I murmured, “I never expected much from it anyway, so no.” Joey stared at me, his mouth opening and closing. I knew he wanted to call me a buzzkill, or lecture me on the beauty of the polar circle. But in the end, he only said, “Right. Everyone is different.” It was the first time he acknowledged my individuality. But it was far too late. That night, the heater in my room broke. Since it was late and no technician was available, I was forced to share Joey’s room again. His mood shifted dramatically. He pinched my cheek playfully. “Want a warm foot soak?” I wiggled my freezing toes and nodded. He beamed, rushing around to find a basin and fill it with hot water. He even bought dried roses from a lady next door at an exorbitant price. Our group chat was filled with envious comments about how attentive he was. As the hot water warmed my skin, the icy wall around my heart softened just a fraction. Until Joey pointed his camera at me. My body tensed. My mind flashed back to the photos in his bag. Julie had a photo just like this, soaking her feet, smiling at the camera. Every mundane detail of their lives had been lovingly recorded. And the warmth I was feeling now was just a cheap copy of that happiness. I had almost let my guard down over a basin of hot water. My face went cold. Joey noticed. “What’s wrong? Is the water cold?” I pulled my feet out. “No, I’m warm enough.” “Oh.” He looked crestfallen as he carried the basin out. As I dried my feet, I noticed a velvet box peeking out from under his pillow. Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled it out and opened it. Inside was a large, brilliant diamond ring. I slipped it out and saw the engraving on the inner band: S.Y.—Sylvia Young. He was going to propose. But I knew he wasn’t marrying me. He was marrying the vessel that looked like Julie. Hearing footsteps, I quickly put the ring back and pretended nothing had happened. Joey walked in, took off his coat, and lay down beside me. He wrapped his arms around me, smiling. “Sleep early tonight. The guide said the blizzard will clear tomorrow, and we can head to the polar spot.” “I’ve got a surprise waiting for you there.” My heart rate didn’t even flicker. Because tomorrow, I was leaving. The coordinator had messaged me that a spot on an earlier ice-breaker had opened up. No matter how grand Joey’s surprise was—even a proposal—I didn’t want it. The next morning, the storm had cleared. Joey got up early to prepare, trying to keep quiet, but I was already awake, pretending to sleep. Once the door clicked shut, I sat up and packed. There wasn’t much. Most of the gear was bought by him. I only took my own clothes and my passport. I left the blue parka behind. Anything he had bought me on this trip, I left. Within minutes, I was done. My eyes fell on Joey’s backpack. A sudden urge took hold of me. I zipped it open and pulled out the bundle of photos tied with a rubber band. The top photo was Julie at the South Pole, head tilted, flashing a silly peace sign. On the back, it read: Julie said this was the happiest day of her life. Me too. But beneath it, there was a new note written in Joey’s hand: Julie, this is the final stop. I’m here to say goodbye. From now on, there will be no more replacements. I’m going to love someone new. Her name is Sylvia Young. My hands shook slightly as I read the words. My phone lit up: The car is ready to pick you up. Can we head out? I hesitated for two seconds before replying: Yes. So what if Joey had finally woken up? Three years of deception wouldn’t magically vanish. Every moment he loved me as a ghost had grown into a thorn in my flesh, impossible to pull out, impossible to digest. I stuffed the photos into a small grey canvas bag and left it on the corner of the table. Joey came back to the room to get me. We ate breakfast, put on our coats, and walked toward the waiting vehicles. After a few steps, I stopped and pulled his arm. “Joey, I forgot something in the room. It’s in a grey canvas bag. Could you get it for me?” He blinked. “Is it important?” “Very important,” I nodded. He patted my head. “Alright, you scatterbrain. I’ll get it.” The moment he turned back toward the lodge, I took off. I ran like my life depended on it toward the black SUV parked in the distance. The freezing wind rushed down my throat like a mouthful of knives, but I didn’t stop, and I didn’t look back. The door of the SUV was open. The driver looked shocked as I bolted toward him. I threw myself into the back seat, scraping my knee hard against the doorframe. Tears stung my eyes from the pain. “Drive!” I screamed. “Wait, is there anyone else—” “Drive!” The engine roared to life, and the vehicle lunged forward. The cabin, the snow, and Joey all shrank into a tiny dot, dissolving into the white horizon. The suffocating weight on my chest finally began to lift. Back at the cabin, Joey searched the room frantically. When he finally spotted the grey bag in the corner, he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t open it. He just wanted to get back to me. But when he stepped outside, the spot where I had been standing was empty. His heart skipped a beat, but he quickly reassured himself: Sylvia must have gotten too cold and went to the car. He ran toward the tour vehicle. The guide rolled down the window. “Where’s your girlfriend?” Joey’s face drained of color. “She isn’t in the car?” “No!” Joey’s hand lost all strength. The grey canvas bag slipped from his fingers, hitting the hard pack. The contents spilled across the snow. “Hey! Your things!” the guide called out. Joey looked down, and his world began to spin. The pristine white snow could no longer hide his filthy secrets.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458732”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My college alumni group chat suddenly exploded with activity over two major pieces of news. First, the famous actress, Nicollette Cross, had officially announced her divorce. Rumor had it that a top-tier lawyer had handled her case, securing a massive victory in court and winning her half of her cold-hearted ex-husband’s fortune. Second, that very lawyer was none other than her college sweetheart, Luke Bennett. “He handled his first love’s divorce case? That is literally the plot of a romance novel!” “Please tell me they’ll get back together. They were the ultimate couple back in the day!” During our university years, Luke and Nicollette had sat firmly at the top of the campus couple rankings. Countless people had witnessed their passionate, whirlwind romance. Including me. I looked up at our wedding photo hanging on the wall, staring at Luke’s cool, sharp eyes. A quiet, heavy sadness settled over me. “Luke Bennett usually only takes on high-stakes corporate cases. He never touches ordinary lawsuits. Why would he make such a massive exception for a divorce?” “Because Nicollette is special to him, obviously. He used to spoil her rotten back then. Of course he would break his own rules for her.” “But he’s a senior partner at a top-tier firm now. Is it possible he already has a family?” The chat went quiet for a few seconds after that question. Then, someone quickly replied. “No way. If anyone actually managed to marry Luke Bennett, they’d be bragging about it all over social media. You couldn’t keep something like that a secret.” “Besides, knowing how intense Luke is about his feelings, he’s not the type to settle for a marriage of convenience.” Everyone in the chat simply assumed Luke was single, and the matchmaking comments grew even more frantic. “Back then, it was the spoiled rich girl and the brilliant, low-income law student. Now, it’s the gorgeous starlet and the elite law partner. How do these two always look like they walked straight out of a best-selling romance novel?” “Look at this photo of them leaving the courthouse. Just standing next to each other, the tension is unreal!” I remained silent, staring at the screen. The image in the chat was a paparazzi shot of Luke holding an umbrella over Nicollette as she walked out of the court wearing a mask and sunglasses. His own shoulder was completely soaked by the rain. Their eyes met under the dark canopy of the umbrella. They weren’t saying anything, yet it felt as though they were saying everything. It was a simple tabloid photo, but it captured an intimacy that rivaled the private picture Luke kept hidden. Once, while cleaning his study, I had found a photo tucked away in the deepest corner of his desk drawer. Nicollette was smiling beautifully at the camera. Luke wasn’t looking at the lens; his head was turned toward her, his eyes filled with a quiet, deep tenderness. If you looked closely at the blurred crowd in the background of that photo, you could see my shadow. But Luke’s eyes had never held room for anyone else. He had probably never even noticed I was there. A light knock on the bedroom door pulled me back from my thoughts. “Are you having breakfast?” Luke asked, leaning his head in. 2 The door wasn’t locked. But given the polite, careful distance that defined our marriage, he still knocked out of habit. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint, sharp outline of veins on his forearms. He looked effortlessly handsome. “Yes, thank you,” I said, getting out of bed. Breakfast was simple: warm milk and toasted bread. Luke had always disliked bread crusts. He would always tear them off and leave them on the side of his plate, and because I hated wasting food, I would eat them. Over the past two years, this silent exchange had become a routine. Today, he automatically placed his discarded crusts onto my plate. I stared down at them, my fork suspended in the air. Actually, I didn’t like crusts either. But I wasn’t Nicollette, and Luke had never bothered to ask about my preferences. I still remembered seeing him standing outside Nicollette’s dorm building during our college days, holding a bag filled with half a dozen different breakfast options. “My beautiful, stubborn girl,” he had said with an indulgent smile. “You didn’t finish your breakfast last time because you said it tasted awful. Surely one of these will please you today?” Living in the room next to Nicollette’s, I had occasionally been on the receiving end of those leftover breakfasts, thanks to her casual generosity. Luke sat across from me now, eating with the same meticulous, deliberate grace he displayed when dissecting an opponent in the courtroom. He glanced up at me, his voice calm. “Why aren’t you eating?” I pushed the plate aside. “I’m not very hungry.” Luke turned a page of his newspaper. “You should at least drink some milk.” “Luke,” I interrupted him, “did you take Nicollette’s divorce case?” I had never asked about his clients before. This was the first time. Luke paused for a brief second before speaking in a low, level tone. “She married the wrong man. As an old classmate, it was only right to help her out. Besides…” Besides, their relationship went far deeper than mere classmates. They had occupied the absolute center of each other’s lives for four years. I didn’t want to hear the rest of his explanation. Before he could finish, I stood up from the table. “I’m heading to work.” My focus was entirely gone that day. I moved through my tasks like a ghost, feeling a dull, hollow ache in my chest. During a team dinner that evening, I remained quiet, trailing behind my colleagues as we walked through a high-end restaurant downtown. Suddenly, a coworker grabbed my arm, her voice buzzing with excitement. “Oh my god! Isn’t that the famous corporate litigator, Luke Bennett?” I looked up sharply. A few yards away, Luke was standing by a table, his suit jacket draped casually over his forearm. Sitting across from him was a woman in a tailored cashmere coat. Even from behind, I recognized the elegant, familiar slope of her shoulders instantly. 3 I tried to quicken my pace to pass them unnoticed. “The woman sitting across from him… is that Nicollette Cross? Oh my god, Hazel, we just stumbled onto some major celebrity gossip!” my colleague whispered loudly, using my English name. Luke looked up from the menu, his sharp eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. His eyes had always been his most striking feature, intense and deep. Now that he was older, that gaze had only grown more refined and cold. “Hazel,” Luke called out. I froze, turning around slowly to meet Nicollette’s gaze. She was still as radiant and breathtaking as ever, the kind of beauty that made everyone else in the room feel invisible. She rose from her seat with a polite, hesitant smile. “…Hazel? From our class?” Luke’s eyes drifted over me as he gave a soft nod of confirmation. He didn’t offer any explanation about who I was to him, nor did he look particularly guilty about being seen with her. I wasn’t surprised. But a bitter, heavy ache still swelled in my chest. Nicollette looked me up and down. “I remember you. You were always so quiet and small back in college. You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman.” Her words instantly dragged me back to those suffocating college days, when I was a painfully self-conscious orphan, ignored and pushed to the margins of every social circle. I forced a tight, polite smile. “I should get back to my colleagues.” I turned and walked away, finally escaping the weight of their presence. During the dinner, my coworkers couldn’t stop asking questions. “You never told us you went to college with a superstar and a celebrity lawyer! That is so cool!” “We weren’t very close,” I replied quietly. “That’s a shame. Our company tried to hire Luke’s firm for a major restructuring contract last quarter, but the boss couldn’t find anyone to get us a meeting. His rates are astronomical.” “But why are those two dining together? Do you think they’re having a secret affair?” I let out a silent, bitter laugh. Luke’s secret spouse was sitting right here at this table. If he were with Nicollette, he would probably want the entire world to know he had finally married the love of his life. I shook my head and remained silent for the rest of the night. When our group went to pay the bill, the receptionist informed us that a Mr. Bennett had already settled our tab. My colleagues immediately began speculating again, wondering if Luke and I had been close friends in college. I couldn’t tell them the truth, so I simply offered a vague response. “He has always been generous.” Nicollette was generous too. Later that evening, she shared a photo of her dinner with Luke in our alumni group chat, delighting the gossips and triggering a fresh wave of excitement. “Oh my god, I didn’t think Luke even looked at this chat! Seeing the two of you together again makes my heart so happy.” “Luke looks even more handsome now. Honestly, Nicollette is the only woman who could ever stand beside him.” As the messages scrolled rapidly down my screen, my chest tightened. When I arrived home, the house was dark except for a single, warm floor lamp in the living room. Luke was sitting on the sofa, a nearly empty bottle of Romanee-Conti resting on the table in front of him. He was drinking heavily and quickly. For a man who was normally the definition of discipline and control, he only ever lost his composure when it came to Nicollette. My heart ached sharply. I wondered if I needed to see a doctor about this physical pain. From the shadows of the sofa, Luke’s cold voice cut through the quiet room. “Do you have nothing to say to me?” 4 The question was so sudden that I stood frozen for a moment before replying. “No.” Ours was a marriage of quiet convenience, built on polite distance. What right did I have to demand explanations? I knew better than anyone that Luke did not love me. But Luke didn’t let it go. He stood up, walked over to me, and pulled me into his arms. Before I could react, his lips pressed against mine in a sudden, desperate kiss. I went completely stiff, my mind racing. Before I could even raise my hands to push him away, he pulled back. His voice was rough and strained. “We need to talk.” Talk about what? A divorce? Was this kiss just a parting favor, a sweet transition before the end? Panic flared in my chest, and my instinct was to run. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to sleep.” Luke didn’t try to stop me. But that night, as I lay in bed, he reached out from behind and pulled me against his chest, whispering a quiet, heavy “I’m sorry” into the dark. A man only says he is sorry when he knows he has done something wrong. It was the last thing I wanted to hear. The sharp pain in my chest flared up again. It was strange how simple, quiet words could cause such physical damage. The next morning, I woke up early and went to the clinic for a full check-up. The results showed that I was perfectly healthy. Confused and seeking peace, I decided to visit Luke’s grandmother at her estate on the outskirts of the city. The villa was vast and quiet. Luke and I had met because of his grandmother, and our marriage had been put together largely through her gentle matchmaking. She had always treated me with immense kindness. The moment she saw me, her wise eyes softened with concern. “Hazel, sweetheart, did you and Luke have a fight?” I shook my head. We didn’t fight. We didn’t even have disagreements. “That boy has no idea how to cherish a young woman,” she sighed, patting my hand. “I’ll have a serious word with him.” I knew his grandmother had never met Nicollette. She had no idea how incredibly attentive Luke could be when he actually cared. During our university years, Luke was the most photographed student on our campus confession boards. He was lean, sharp-featured, and carried himself with a quiet, scholarly distance. Even in a simple, faded t-shirt, he looked like a prince who had stepped out of a classic tragedy. He was the unattainable, intellectual crush of every girl on campus, keeping everyone at a strict, polite distance. Yet, he had completely surrendered himself to the school’s most notoriously demanding drama queen. He had met Nicollette’s every whim with absolute devotion. He would eat nothing but plain bread for two weeks just to save up enough money to take her to a high-end restaurant she had mentioned in passing, even if she only took a single bite for a social media photo. He had once skipped a final exam to carry her to the campus clinic when she faked an illness just to get out of a physical fitness test. I had never had the luxury of being high-maintenance. I had learned at a very young age that nobody has patience for an orphan’s tantrums. So I grew up quiet, polite, and accommodating. After marrying Luke, I became even more careful. I knew I wasn’t Nicollette. I knew he wouldn’t tolerate my moods. “Luke does love you, sweetheart,” his grandmother said, her eyes filled with gentle sincerity. But I felt only a cold, creeping dread. If Luke truly loved me, why was I constantly living in fear? At that moment, the physical pain in my chest finally made sense. I was terrified.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458748”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel