Category: English

1 I was born with a crying reflex I cannot control. The moment someone raises their voice, even slightly, my tears start falling before my brain can even process why. It isn’t out of self-pity, and I’m not trying to play the victim. My tear ducts simply have a mind of their own. Before I turned eighteen, my family kept me wrapped in a protective bubble. My parents and my older brother, Nathan, always told me: “Crying is never a mistake, Sienna. The only mistake is when people use your tears for their own amusement.” But when it was time for college, I insisted on living in a standard four-person dorm. I wanted to prove I could survive on my own. My roommate, Chelsea, was a rising lifestyle influencer. On our very first night, she accidentally knocked my water glass off my desk. Before I could even open my mouth to say it was fine, a fat tear rolled down my cheek. Chelsea froze, staring at me for a few seconds. It was as if she had just discovered a cheat code for viral content. From that day on, she made a game of catching me off guard. She filmed me when she startled me, recording my tears. She filmed me when she accidentally locked me out on the balcony, and she filmed me when our other roommates crowded around, asking if I was just faking it for attention, while I sobbed too hard to breathe. Using those clips, her follower count exploded by over a hundred thousand, and she even applied for the university’s prestigious Digital Creator Scholarship. On the day of the awards ceremony, my tear-stained, trembling face was projected onto the massive auditorium screen. Chelsea stood on stage, smiling warmly into the microphone. “I believe in capturing raw reality. I’m just trying to help my roommate grow.” The next moment, the guest presenter walked onto the stage. “You used my sister’s pain to apply for the scholarship I funded?” The polite applause in the auditorium died instantly. The smile on Chelsea’s face froze, but she was quick on her feet. After a brief second of panic, her eyes welled with tears. “Mr. Brooks, there must be a misunderstanding,” she said, clutching her certificate as her voice trembled. “Sienna and I are roommates. We’re actually very close.” “She’s new to campus and was having a hard time adjusting to dorm life. I was only trying to help her break out of her shell.” She turned her head to look down at me in the audience. That single, heavy look made my fingers tighten around my skirt. I knew exactly what she was silently demanding. Our academic advisor, Ms. Gable, rushed onto the stage to smooth things over. “Mr. Brooks, I believe this is indeed a minor misunderstanding,” she said, her smile tight but her tone deliberately soothing. “Chelsea is an excellent student, and her social media reach has been wonderful for our school’s public image.” “The engagement on her videos was highly successful, though her methods might have been a bit unconventional. But college is a transition, and Sienna is away from home for the first time. It takes some students longer to adjust.” Before I left for college, my father had asked me repeatedly if I wanted them to purchase an apartment near campus. My mother had agreed, saying there was no need for me to live in a crowded dorm. But I had refused. I didn’t want to spend my entire life hiding behind my family’s wealth. Even with my involuntary crying reflex, I wanted to prove I could stand on my own two feet. Yet, only a month into the semester, I had made a complete mess of things. The entire student body knew me as the girl who couldn’t stop crying. Online, strangers called me dramatic, pathetic, and a spoiled rich girl. If Nathan pushed this matter further today, tomorrow the rumors would only claim that Sienna Brooks couldn’t survive a single day without her family fighting her battles. I didn’t want that. When I stood up from the back row, my knees were shaking. With every eye in the auditorium locked onto me, my tears began to flow automatically. “The videos… I knew about them,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. My brother’s brow furrowed, his eyes filling with immediate, protective concern. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I kept my head down, staring at the tips of my shoes. “I am new here, and I’ve been having a hard time adjusting to dorm life.” As soon as the words left my mouth, a wave of low murmurs rippled through the crowd. Chelsea let out a highly visible sigh of relief. Ms. Gable quickly chimed in. “You see, Mr. Brooks? Even Sienna says it was just a minor roommate dispute. We will make sure to facilitate better communication moving forward to prevent any future misunderstandings.” Nathan didn’t say a word to the advisor. He stepped down from the stage and walked straight toward me, stopping right in front of my row. “Sienna.” He rarely used my full name like that. My tears fell faster, but I refused to look up. As he draped his heavy coat over my trembling shoulders, I reached out and squeezed his sleeve. “Nathan, please, let it go,” I whispered, keeping my voice low enough so only he could hear. “I don’t want everyone to think I can’t survive without my family the second I start college.” He stared at me for a long time. His jaw was clenched with anger, but he slowly forced his breathing to calm down. “Only this once,” he said quietly. I nodded. The ceremony ended abruptly. Chelsea’s scholarship was temporarily withheld, pending further administrative review. Ms. Gable instructed us to return to our dorm, specifically warning me not to blow things out of proportion and damage roommate relations. The moment we stepped back into our room, Chelsea tossed her certificate onto her desk and turned to me with a sharp, mocking smile. “Sienna, I had no idea. You really are a little princess, aren’t you?” I backed up until my shoulders hit the door, my fingers gripping the edge of Nathan’s coat. Chelsea took a step toward me, her presence radiating hostility. “You knew what would happen, didn’t you? If you let your brother ruin me, everyone on campus would hate you even more.” “Spoiled, dramatic, abusing your family’s influence. Don’t you think those labels fit you perfectly?” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but no words came. Only more tears. Watching my face, Chelsea pulled out her phone. “Sienna, your brother put on quite a show today, but in the end, he couldn’t actually touch me, could he?” “So you’re going to be a good girl now and help me record a clarification video.” I shook my head. Her expression darkened instantly. “Sienna, don’t be ungrateful.” “You’re the one who told the school I didn’t bully you. Who’s going to believe you if you try to take it back now?” My tears flowed faster. Chelsea looked at her screen, her harsh expression suddenly melting into a satisfied grin. “Perfect. Keep crying just like that.” “It makes the apology look much more sincere.” 2 On the screen, my eyes were swollen and red, tears still streaming down my face. Chelsea stood beside me, one arm wrapped tightly around my shoulder, looking for all the world like a caring friend offering comfort. But beneath her warm pose, her fingers were digging painfully into my collarbone. “Go on,” she muttered through her teeth, her bright smile never wavering for the camera. I stared at the lens, my throat feeling as though it were blocked by stone. Our other two roommates, Becca and Ashley, crowded around us. Becca leaned against the ladder of her bunk, whispering, “Sienna, just say it. This whole drama is making the entire dorm look bad.” Ashley nodded in agreement. “Exactly, it was just a silly misunderstanding. Chelsea worked so hard to build her platform, and your brother’s little stunt made her look terrible.” I stared at them, completely stunned. So Chelsea was the victim here? Not me, the girl who had been filmed without her consent. Not me, the girl who had spent the last month trapped in this room while they laughed and asked if my tears were just a performance. Seeing my silence, the warmth drained from Chelsea’s face. “Sienna, I thought you wanted to fit in.” “Now the entire dorm is being dragged into this mess because of you. Don’t you think you owe us at least this much?” My fingers trembled. I remembered the day we moved in, when Nathan had carried my heavy suitcases to the threshold of the room. He had stood in the busy corridor, looking down at me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get you a private studio?” I had shaken my head, insisting I wanted to try. I wanted to experience normal college life, with roommates, late-night chats, and shared takeout. Nathan had stared at me for a long time before gently patting my head. “If anyone treats you poorly, you come home. I’ll always be here.” But now, I couldn’t run back. If I ran back now, it would prove I was exactly as fragile as everyone thought. More tears fell. “The videos… I knew about them,” I heard myself whisper to the camera. Chelsea’s eyes lit up, and she brought the phone closer to my face. “So your brother just misunderstood the situation today, right?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted metal. “Yes.” “I wasn’t bullied.” Each word felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. “I was just having a hard time adjusting to dorm life.” “Chelsea didn’t mean any harm.” Satisfied, Chelsea lowered her phone, immediately releasing her grip on my shoulder. She sat down at her desk to start editing. Within ten minutes, the video was live. She had placed the clip of me crying and defending her at the very beginning of the video, followed by the footage of Nathan confronting her in the auditorium. Her caption read: I hope we can stop letting privileged backgrounds ruin the hard work of ordinary students. The comment section exploded. [So she’s the board member’s sister? Figures. Trying to ruin someone’s life over nothing.] [Poor Chelsea. Capitalists almost took away her hard-earned scholarship.] [A rich girl sheds a couple of tears, and an ordinary student’s future is nearly destroyed.] I stared at the screen, the room suddenly feeling suffocatingly small. At eleven o’clock that night, my phone rang. It was Nathan. I stared at his contact name for a long time, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. A moment later, a text popped up. Sienna, did you record that video of your own free will? My tears splashed onto the screen as I tried to type. I wrote and deleted several responses before finally sending three words. Yes, I did. The second the message sent, Chelsea reached over from behind and snatched my phone from my hand. She glanced at the screen and let out a sharp laugh. “Sienna, you really are a good girl.” I reached out to grab it back, but she easily hid it behind her back. “I’ll keep this for now,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Just to make sure you don’t change your mind in the middle of the night and complain to your brother.” My eyes welled with tears again. “Give it back.” Chelsea raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “Say it louder.” “In fact, keep crying.” “I can film another video tomorrow: The board member’s sister throws a midnight tantrum in the dorm.” 3 I forced myself to look up, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling. Chelsea spun her chair around, crossing her arms as she stared down at me. “Sienna, didn’t you just tell your brother you wanted to handle things yourself?” “If you want to be independent, stop pretending to be strong while secretly running to your family for protection.” The words hit me like a slap to the face. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. She was right. I had promised my family I could handle college, but the moment things got difficult, my first instinct was to look for Nathan. The mockery in Chelsea’s eyes deepened. “Do you know what people are saying about you online?” She unlocked her own phone, opening her comment section and reading the words aloud. “The board member’s sister is so fragile, the whole school has to tiptoe around her.” “People like her should just stay locked in their mansions instead of ruining other people’s lives.” “Sienna, your brother might look powerful, but do you really think he can fight the entire internet for you?” I lowered my head, my tears falling silently onto my sleeve. Becca sat at her desk, staring at her computer in silence. Ashley pretended to study, refusing to look up. Chelsea set her phone down, her tone softening slightly, though her words remained sharp. “Your brother might defend you in public, but don’t you think he’s getting tired of your drama?” I snapped my head up. “Nathan would never feel that way.” “Are you sure?” she countered with a smug grin. “Of course he comforts you. You’ve been coddled your entire life.” “But you’re eighteen now, and you can’t even handle a simple roommate dynamic without your big brother rushing the stage to save you.” She paused, her eyes scanning my face. “Sienna, don’t you find that embarrassing?” The color drained from my face. A cold wave of dread washed over me. What if Chelsea was telling the truth? What if Nathan was tired of constantly managing my emotional sensitivity? What if my parents had spent eighteen years protecting me, only to realize I couldn’t even survive a normal university dorm? I clenched my fists so tightly my knuckles turned white. “They don’t think I’m a burden,” I whispered, my voice trembling. Chelsea let out a quiet laugh. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She stood up and walked over to me, looking down at me with disdain. “I’m not like you, Sienna. I built my platform from nothing. Do you have any idea how many sleepless nights I spent, how much hate I had to endure to get here?” “I finally earned my followers and my scholarship, and you almost ruined all of it with a few cheap tears.” “My brother funded that scholarship to reward real creativity, not exploitation,” I managed to say. Jealousy and resentment flared in her eyes. “And what do you have, Sienna? Aside from your constant crying?” “If your last name weren’t Brooks, do you think a single person on this campus would care about you?” I couldn’t find the words to reply. Three days later, the university scheduled a formal review of the scholarship. Chelsea had stopped filming me, but our academic advisor, Ms. Gable, called me into her office. “Sienna, I know you are a sensitive girl, but Chelsea has worked incredibly hard for her achievements.” “The public backlash against her is growing, and the administration wants to resolve this quietly. We need to make sure the situation doesn’t escalate.” She slid a document across the desk toward me. I, Sienna Brooks, hereby confirm that the videos filmed by Chelsea were entirely voluntary roommate logs, and no coercion, threats, or harassment took place. I stared at the print, my vision blurring as tears pooled in my eyes. My hand shook so violently I could barely hold the pen. Ms. Gable let out a long sigh. “You said you wanted to integrate into campus life, didn’t you? It’s best not to burn bridges with your peers.” In the end, I didn’t sign it. When I returned to the dorm, Chelsea’s face was dark with anger. From that night on, she placed that document on my desk every single evening. I could barely swallow any food. The sound of a phone notification made me physically nauseous. Whenever I managed to fall asleep, I dreamed of standing in that massive auditorium, with hundreds of faceless students staring at me while I sobbed. The days blurred together. On the night before the final review hearing, Chelsea pushed the paper in front of me once more. “You’re going to read this tomorrow.” I looked at my name on the page, my tears dripping onto the paper and smudging the signature line. Chelsea leaned down, her whisper cold against my ear. “Sienna, if you want to prove you can survive in the real world, stop running to your brother like a child.” 4 On the day of the review hearing, Chelsea dressed in a conservative, light-colored suit. She tied her hair back neatly, presenting herself as a diligent, hardworking student who was being unfairly targeted. The public online consensus had shifted in her favor, many arguing that an ordinary student’s future shouldn’t be destroyed just because her roommate had a wealthy family. Reading those comments had restored Chelsea’s confidence. She even offered me a mocking smile before we left the room. “Your brother made a big scene, but in the end, the school still has to follow procedure.” “So, Sienna, don’t assume your family can control everything.” “Even they have to respect public opinion.” Becca helped adjust Chelsea’s collar, whispering, “Her engagement metrics are real. A hundred thousand followers is a big deal.” Ashley agreed. “And Sienna won’t dare to lie on the record.” Chelsea smiled, clutching her portfolio to her chest. “I just hope the committee evaluates my merit fairly.” She looked at me, her eyes entirely devoid of fear. I sat on the edge of my bed, clutching the crumpled statement in my hands. After staring at it for what felt like hours, I finally spoke. “I’m not going to read this.” The room fell into an instant, icy silence. The smile vanished from Chelsea’s face. “What did you just say?” My tears were already falling, but I kept my head high, shaking it. “I told you to stop filming me. You all heard me.” Chelsea slammed her portfolio onto her desk. “Oh, now you remember you didn’t want to be filmed?” “Who recorded that clarification video, Sienna? Do you think the real world functions like your mansion, where everyone bows down the second you shed a tear?” She took a slow step toward me, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Your brother is going to be in that room today. You better think carefully. If you keep changing your story, do you think he’ll still view you as an innocent victim, or just a constant source of trouble?” My face went completely pale. Her grin returned, sharp and malicious. “People like you are the worst. You pretend to be normal when you can’t handle a single thing.” “If I were you, I’d run back to my family and stay locked inside so you don’t ruin everyone else’s lives.” I squeezed the paper in my hand, crushing it. Becca glanced at my pale face and frowned slightly. “Chelsea, that’s enough. She looks really sick.” Chelsea let out a cold laugh. “She’s great at crying. She can go find a corner to sob in and come back when she’s done. Isn’t that her specialty?” She shoved the statement back into my hands. “Read it exactly as it’s written.” “If you miss a single word, I’ll make sure the entire campus knows how the board member’s sister uses her family’s wealth to bully ordinary students.” “Let’s see how your family’s business handles that kind of press.” When I stood up, my legs felt hollow, barely able to support my weight. Holding the paper, I walked out of the room and down the long corridor. When the elevator doors opened, several students inside noticed me and immediately began whispering. “That’s her, right? The crying rich girl.” “Poor Chelsea. Imagine having a roommate who can destroy your future with a single tear.” I lowered my head, my tears dripping onto the paper in my hand. When the review hearing began, Chelsea sat before the committee, her posture perfect and her voice calm. “Administrators, I welcome this review and any constructive feedback. But I hope my merit won’t be dismissed simply because of my roommate’s family background.” She turned her gaze toward Nathan, who sat near the head of the table. “Mr. Brooks, you established this scholarship to encourage authentic student creators. I believe my engagement metrics speak for themselves.” Nathan’s face remained completely expressionless. Just as the committee was about to play her submission materials, the heavy doors of the conference room were pushed open. A campus security officer, pale and out of breath, ran inside. “We have an emergency.” “Sienna Brooks is missing.” Nathan stood up instantly, his chair scraping violently against the floor. The officer gasped, his voice trembling. “The security camera last caught her entering the door to the media building’s rooftop.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453917”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My husband Jim clung to life in the ICU after a plane crash. I refused to sit by his bedside, and I flatly declined to sign his emergency surgery forms. “Dad is dying! How can you just sit there eating?!” My ten-year-old daughter Annie slammed her hand down, knocking my rice bowl off the counter. I only offered a faint smile. “Food is fuel. If I don’t eat, how will I have the energy to bury your father?” Clutching a glass jar of origami stars, her eyes swollen, she screamed, “Shut up! Everyone knows how much Jim loves you!” Sobbing, she pulled out the stars, reading the tiny notes inside. “Elena rarely smiles, but when she does, it ruins me.” She read over a dozen, but when my face stayed blank, she broke. “Is money all you care about?! If Dad dies, you get the whole company!” I looked at her, my heart still. “Annie, I’ve never kept my hair long because it gets in the way of work.” She froze. “What?” “And I am not the only Elena in his life.” 1 “Look at my hands, Annie. They are meant for digging dirt, planting vegetables, and feeding livestock. Long hair would only get in my way.” In the mirror, my short hair looked sharp and practical. My skin, weathered from years of working under the sun on a rural farm, was dry and rough. I reached out and took her small hand, letting her feel the thick, scratchy calluses on my palm. “As for that glass jar…” I glanced at the colorful paper stars scattered on the table. “Those love letters weren’t written for me. They were written for Vivian.” Annie yanked her hand back instantly, as if my skin had burned her. She couldn’t comprehend it. To her, I was Mrs. Gifford, the woman Jim had officially married, and her biological mother. Vivian was just the beautiful lady in our family photo albums, the one her father always referred to as his sweet little sister. “Because Vivian’s birth name was also Elena.” “She was the real princess of the family, the one who was supposed to be pampered and loved.” And I, Elena, was nothing more than the abandoned biological daughter, brought back from the countryside to fill the void after the adopted princess left. I was just a duty, a substitute Jim despised with every fiber of his being. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the hospital. “Mrs. Gifford, your husband’s condition has taken a turn for the worse. He needs an emergency craniotomy to relieve the pressure on his brain. The risks are incredibly high. We need you here immediately to sign the critical consent forms.” As a prominent figure in the business world, Jim’s accident had drawn massive media attention. Reporters were already swarming the hospital gates. As his wife, I had to show up. I had to play the part of the devastated, fiercely loyal spouse. Annie clutched the hem of my shirt, her small face covered in tears. “Mom, please, we have to go! Dad needs you!” Her entire world was crumbling, and her eyes were filled with a terrifying vulnerability. I gently patted her head. “Alright. Let’s go.” When we arrived at the hospital, the camera flashes were blinding. I let my eyes redden on cue, walking with a slight, calculated stumble, leaning heavily on my assistant’s arm. I gave them the perfect performance of a fragile woman on the verge of collapse. The board members of Gifford Enterprises treated me with immense respect. “Ma’am, please stay strong. Mr. Gifford is a resilient man. He will pull through this.” I nodded quietly, keeping my head low to hide the absolute lack of emotion in my eyes. Through the heavy glass of the ICU window, I saw Jim. He was hooked up to countless machines, his once handsome, arrogant face completely devoid of color. I should have felt a sense of vindication. I should have hated him. Yet, looking at his broken body, a strange, suffocating weight settled in my chest. Ten years. Marrying him had felt like serving a ten year prison sentence. I thought my heart had turned to stone a long time ago, but there was still a lingering ache. Jim’s personal secretary, Mr. Carter, walked over and spoke in a hushed tone. “Mrs. Gifford, your husband flew out of the country to secure a crucial business partnership. No one could have predicted this tragedy.” My lips curved into a cold, private smile. A partnership? I knew exactly why he had boarded that private jet. It was Vivian’s birthday. For the past ten years, no matter how busy he was, he always flew across the ocean on this exact day to celebrate with her. Nothing could ever stop him. Only this time, the universe decided to intervene. A nurse rushed out of the operating room, looking panicked. “The patient’s heart rate is dropping rapidly! We must perform the craniotomy immediately to clear the blood clot! We need a family member to sign these papers right now!” Every eye in the corridor turned to me. I held a handkerchief to my face, pretending to sob, but I didn’t take a single step forward. Annie grabbed my hand, weeping. “Mom, please! Save Dad! Just sign the paper!” I looked at the bold letters on the form, specifically the line that read Authorized Family Signature. Images of the humilating nights I had endured flashed through my mind. The times he came home reeking of alcohol, pinning me down while whispering Vivian’s name over and over again. The way he kept Vivian’s portrait proudly displayed on his desk, while our wedding album was locked away in the darkest corner of his drawer. The times he threw entire plates of food against the wall because my cooking didn’t suit his taste, while he happily spent hours in the kitchen preparing elaborate meals for Vivian. I slowly raised my head, meeting the desperate, urging gazes of everyone in the room, and quietly shook my head. “I can’t sign this.” 2 A suffocating silence descended upon the hallway. Sarah, a senior executive who had harbored a crush on Jim for years, was the first to react. She stared at me, her voice shrill and trembling. “Elena! Have you lost your mind?!” “That is your husband! Are you really going to stand there and watch him die?!” Annie’s crying escalated into screams. She began hitting my knees with her tiny fists. “You’re a horrible mother! I hate you! Why won’t you save my dad?!” I let her strike me, keeping my gaze steady as I looked at every person standing in that corridor. I spoke slowly, making sure every syllable was crystal clear. “We are divorced.” “Legally, I am no longer his spouse. I have no right to sign those papers.” The revelation hit the crowd like a physical blow. Yes, we were divorced. We had quietly finalized the paperwork and received our dissolution certificates the day before he left for Vivian’s birthday trip. Our ten years of marital misery had officially ended. No one else knew. We had kept it entirely between us. Looking at Jim through the glass, a sudden, dark sense of relief washed over me. I pulled a physically exhausted Annie toward the benches at the end of the hall, forcing her to sit. She ripped her hand away from mine, staring at me as if I were a monster. “Mom, why did you divorce him?” “Did you… did you ever even love him?” Looking into her innocent, devastated eyes, my heart twinged with guilt. How could I explain it to her? Her birth had been a complete accident. Her father had never wanted her to exist. And her mother had spent a decade having her dignity ground into dust. My memory drifted back to ten years ago. I was twenty four when the wealthy Gifford family dragged me out of that impoverished mountain village. They claimed I was their long lost biological daughter. And Vivian, the girl they had pampered for over two decades, was actually the child who had been switched at birth. I foolishly believed my life was finally beginning. I had no idea I was simply stepping into a different kind of cage. Vivian threw tantrums, cried, and screamed, but her parents ultimately sent her abroad with a massive trust fund as compensation. She graciously relinquished her title as the eldest daughter of the family. Everyone praised her for being mature and understanding. Meanwhile, I stood in their opulent mansion, wearing cheap, ill-fitting clothes and carrying the scent of soil and hard labor. I was a laughingstock. My biological parents felt guilty, but their interactions with me were stiff and awkward. They didn’t know how to talk to me, so they simply threw money at me to clear their consciences. And Jim, who had been betrothed to the daughter of the family since childhood, suddenly found his fiancée switched from Vivian to me. I fell in love with him the moment I saw him. But he despised me. He believed I had robbed Vivian of her rightful life. On our wedding night, Jim drank until he could barely stand, throwing me onto the bed. There was no warmth, no gentle touch, only a brutal assertion of ownership. He ripped my clothes apart, destroying any lingering hope I had for our marriage. The heavy smell of whiskey mixed with his expensive cologne made my stomach turn. And right before he drifted into a drunken sleep, I heard him whisper that name. “Vivian…” In that moment, whatever love I had for him died. From then on, I was nothing but a ghost in his grand estate. He rarely came home, and when he did, it was only to satisfy his physical urges. He never took me to social events; my existence as his wife was confined to legal documents. He knew every single detail of Vivian’s preferences, but he couldn’t name my favorite meal if his life depended on it. On my birthday one year, I gathered my courage and spent hours cooking a elaborate feast, trying my best to follow his favorite recipes. When he returned, he only gave the table a cold, disdainful look. “I don’t eat spicy food.” With that, he walked out, slamming the door behind him. I sat alone before the beautiful dishes, tears streaming down my face. I had forgotten that Vivian was raised in high society, accustomed to mild, delicate flavors. I, however, had spent eighteen years in a rural town where every meal was seasoned with heavy spices. My pregnancy was another accident. 3 He had come home late that night, carrying the distinct scent of a woman’s expensive perfume. I don’t know who he pictured in his mind when he pulled me close. I only knew that he was unusually gentle, sharing a warmth that belonged to someone else. The next day, I found a ticket to Paris in his coat pocket, alongside draft messages wishing Vivian a happy birthday. I realized his tenderness was merely the lingering warmth of his affection for another woman. When I handed him the positive pregnancy test, his face didn’t register joy. Only disgust. “Get rid of it.” He spoke those words with a terrifying coldness, as if he were discussing discarding a piece of trash. “Why?” I asked, clutching the paper until my knuckles turned white. “Don’t forget your place, Elena.” He grabbed my jaw, his grip so tight I felt the bone groan under the pressure. “You think you deserve to carry my child? You’re not worthy.” That was the first time I stood my ground against him. I kept Annie. In return, he moved his things to the guest room, and we began living completely separate lives. He grew more vicious. He would openly bring different women to the house, flaunting them in front of me. He insulted my background and my manners at the dinner table. He was trying to force me to file for divorce. But I couldn’t leave. My foster parents back in the village were chronically ill, and they relied entirely on the money I sent them. And Jim gave me plenty of money, even if it came with endless humiliation. I was like a weed trapped in a gilded pot, looking green on the outside but rotting at the roots. Without his money, I had nothing. So, I endured. I swallowed the humiliation, the tears, and the anger. Until a month ago, when a routine checkup revealed I had a serious heart condition that required an incredibly expensive surgery. I finally asked him for the funds. He only looked at me with deep amusement. “Another game, Elena? You want that much cash? Fine. Sign the divorce papers.” He thought that would be the final blow to my spirit. He thought I would beg him, that I couldn’t survive without his shadow. He had no idea how long I had been waiting for those words. “Deal,” I said, without a second of hesitation. We signed the agreement. I walked away from the marriage with nothing but a massive lump-sum settlement. It was more than enough to fund my surgery and secure a comfortable future for my daughter and me. Jim actually smiled when the ink dried on the papers. He was finally free to go to his white swan. Remembering those years still brought a dull ache to my chest. “Mom!” Annie’s voice pulled me back from the past. She was kneeling on the cold floor, wrapping her arms around my legs. “Please, Mom! Save him! I don’t want to lose my dad!” I looked down at her, a sharp pain squeezing my heart. “Annie, your father never wanted you. I have sole custody of you now.” She stared at me, her mind unable to process the words. “Doctor,” I said, turning to the bewildered physician. “Legally, I have no relation to this man. His survival is out of my hands.” 4 Just as I was about to pull Annie away from the crowd, the elevator doors opened. A woman dressed in a tailored Chanel suit, her makeup flawless and her heels clicking loudly against the tile, marched into the corridor. It was Vivian. She had rushed back. Her eyes locked onto me instantly. “Elena, you pathetic peasant! Jim is lying in there dying, and you’re still playing your pathetic, stubborn games?” She walked straight past me, snatching the consent forms out of the doctor’s hands. “If she won’t sign, I will!” She carried herself as if she were already the matriarch of the household. The whispers around us grew louder, the onlookers eager to witness the unfolding drama of high society. I watched her silent performance with cold detachment. But Annie, like a threatened cub, leaped forward to block her. “Don’t you dare yell at my mom! You’re a bad woman! Dad belongs to Mom!” Vivian looked down at the child, who bore a striking resemblance to Jim, a flash of pure malice crossing her eyes. “Move, you little mistake!” She raised her hand to push Annie aside. I stepped in instantly, grabbing Vivian’s wrist mid-air. “Don’t you ever touch my daughter,” I warned, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. Over the years, I had tolerated their insults for the sake of my family. But my daughter was the one boundary they could never cross. Vivian tore her wrist from my grip, letting out a sharp laugh. “Your daughter? Elena, let’s be real. If I hadn’t chosen to leave the country back then, Jim would never have laid a finger on someone like you.” “Every single time he touched you, he was picturing my face!” The words were designed to cut deep, but I didn’t flinch. Instead, a quiet laugh escaped my lips. “Is that so? Then why are you standing out here while he’s fighting for his life? Go on, go inside.” “Oh, I forgot. The hospital only accepts signatures from immediate family.” “Unfortunately, I’m no longer his wife. And you, Vivian… what exactly are you to him?” Vivian’s face turned a violent shade of red. “The patient’s intracranial pressure is rising! We need to operate now!” the doctor yelled, his patience entirely gone. “The risks of permanent paralysis, a vegetative state, or death are extremely high! Someone needs to sign this form!” No one stepped forward. If Jim died on the operating table, whoever signed that paper would be held responsible by the board and the public. The executives quietly shuffled backward, avoiding the doctor’s gaze. Just then, Mr. Carter ran down the hall, followed by two city registry officials. “Mr. Gifford has no other living relatives… Mrs. Gifford, would you consider an immediate remarriage to save his life?” I took a step back, shaking my head. “No.” Carter turned toward Vivian. “Miss Lin, you can choose to marry Mr. Gifford right now.” Vivian hesitated, her confidence suddenly faltering. “I…” “Please decide quickly,” Carter added. “Mr. Gifford drafted a will last month…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453918”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first thing I did when I clawed my way back to consciousness after the craniotomy was open my chat history with Rebecca. [Rebecca, my brain surgery is tomorrow.] [They just handed me the critical condition notice.] [If I open my eyes and you’re not here, we are done.] A full day had passed. No response. I scrolled up. It was the same story before every single operation. [Can’t make it. I’ll have someone sign it for you.] [Busy.] [Don’t bother telling me in the future.] Eventually, she stopped reading my messages altogether and assigned a personal secretary to me. His sole job was to sign my surgical consent forms, my critical condition notices, and every other document that required a spouse’s signature. Yet, the woman who was always too busy to reply was currently lighting up someone else’s social media feed. A grid of nine photos. A tropical beach in Maui. Golden sand, crystal water, and two figures standing so close their shoulders brushed. The caption read: He keeps pulling these sweet little stunts to make me smile, over and over again. It was posted exactly two hours before I was wheeled into the operating room. I sent a brief text to the secretary: [You don’t need to come anymore.] Then, I dialed my lawyer. “Draft a divorce agreement for me.” 1 As the anesthesia wore off, the pain at the incision site flared up, sharp and relentless, keeping sleep far out of reach. This craniotomy only had a one-in-three chance of success. When my mind had been slipping into the darkness of the anesthetic, I couldn’t help but wonder: if I never woke up, when would Rebecca actually find out? Probably only when the morgue called her to collect my body. After all, she never had any time or energy to spare for me. Around dusk, the heavy door of the recovery room creaked open. Rebecca walked in, carrying a thermal bag. “How are you feeling?” “Fine.” “Good.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out a food container. “I brought you some soup.” I looked at it. Seafood chowder. Shrimp, crab, a slick layer of oil shimmering on top. I am severely allergic to shellfish. Austin, however, loved it. “Austin got a terrible sunburn at the beach,” Rebecca said, setting the bowl down. “I brought him to the clinic downstairs to get him checked out. His back is completely raw.” “I see,” I murmured. “Why aren’t you drinking it?” She leaned in closer, and a cloying, fruity scent washed over me. Instead of answering, I asked, “Did you change your shampoo?” She blinked, then smiled faintly. “Austin recommended it. It’s actually pretty good. If you like it, I can have him grab a few bottles for you.” We had been together for eight years. She should have remembered that I couldn’t stand heavy fragrances. She should have seen that my head had been shaved completely bald before they cut into my skull. But she noticed nothing. Or maybe, since the last time she stepped foot in our house was six months ago when I still had a full head of hair, she had simply forgotten. Time had washed those details away. Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, until the sharp chime of her phone broke it. “Oh, right,” Rebecca said, staring down at her screen. “Carter said you told him not to come back?” “I won’t need him to sign anything anymore.” “Well, as long as you’re recovering.” I lightly touched my bare, stitched scalp. “I’m not. The tumor is back. I could go under the knife again at any moment.” She didn’t lift her gaze. I took a slow, shallow breath. “Do you still want this marriage, Rebecca?” Suddenly, a man’s laughter spilled from her phone speaker, bright and clear. “Rebecca, look at this video! It’s hilarious” She quickly muted the volume and finally looked up at me. “What did you just say?” The heart monitor beside me beeped in a steady, cold rhythm. “Did you enjoy Maui?” I asked quietly. “Are you done with your work there?” Her expression remained perfectly calm. “Austin had been begging to go to the coast for months. It coincided with a resort project I needed to inspect, so I brought him along.” She looked down at her phone again, typing a quick reply before standing up. “If you want to go, I’ll take you once you’ve recovered.” There was a knock on the door, and my neurosurgeon walked in to discuss the next steps of my treatment. Rebecca checked her watch, grabbing her coat. “I’ll leave you two to it. Austin should be done with his examination by now.” She always slipped away like this, rushing back to Austin’s vibrant, colorful world. Nothing about me could ever hold her interest. Once the door clicked shut, the doctor handed me my charts. “Mr. Kelly, the recurrence is aggressive this time. I strongly advise you to seek specialized treatment in London.” Three years ago, a previous surgery had put pressure on my optic nerve, leaving my left eye completely blind. I stared at the medical report for a long time, the words blurring through my single functioning eye. “Please set it up.” On the day of my discharge, Rebecca texted saying she would pick me up. I sat on a wooden bench outside the hospital clinic, waiting. A single canvas duffel bag sat by my feet, packed with discharge papers, medical records, and a mountain of prescription bottles. I pulled out my phone and scrolled. Austin’s feed had been updated. 7:00 AM. A photo of two silhouettes running into the sunrise, one tall, one slightly shorter. Caption: Early birds get the best views. 8:00 AM. A photo of a steamed-up glass shower door with a smiley face drawn in the condensation. Caption: Someone’s waiting for me to clean up. 8:30 AM. A sunny balcony breakfast with two place settings. Caption: Mornings are better when you’re being pampered. The woman who had promised to take me home was entirely occupied living a cozy, quiet life with someone else. At ten o’clock, Rebecca’s sleek black sedan finally pulled up to the curb. The passenger window rolled down, revealing Austin’s grinning face. “Hey, Oliver! Rebecca is dropping me off at work on the way.” My legs were stiff and numb. Grabbing my heavy bag, I stood up, but my balance faltered, and I swayed. Rebecca stepped out of the driver’s seat and opened the back door for me. “Traffic was a nightmare,” she said. I didn’t argue. I just carried my medicine over. Austin leaned over the console, his eyes locking onto my face. “Oliver, what’s wrong with your left eye?” He tilted his head, inspecting me. “It looks… a little vacant? That’s so weird.” He waved his hand right in front of my face. “Can you see this? How many fingers am I holding up?” Rebecca cut in, her voice dismissive. “He’s just near-sighted.” “Oh…” Austin pulled his hand back. I had lost vision in my left eye three years ago. I had told Rebecca at least a dozen times. She still didn’t remember. Austin pushed his door open and hopped out, bustling over to my side. “Oliver, what are all these pills? Can I see?” He reached out, grabbing at my canvas bag. I instinctively flinched away to protect my medicine. But the bag wasn’t zipped. As I jerked back, his hand caught the edge, and the contents spilled across the pavement. Bottles and cardboard boxes scattered. Tiny white and yellow pills rolled into the cracks of the concrete stairs and slid under the car tires. Rebecca frowned, looking away in mild annoyance. “Can’t you even hold a bag straight?” I got down on my knees, slowly searching the ground. My stitches had only been taken out a couple of days ago. Lowering my head sent a rush of pressure to my brain, making my vision swim with dark spots. Austin knelt beside me. “Oliver, let me help” In his clumsy rush, his palm came down hard, crushing several loose tablets into powder. “Oh no, they broke! I’m so sorry, Oliver…” Rebecca reached down, pulling Austin up by his elbow. “Don’t worry about it. They’re just cheap pills. Leave them.” I slowly pushed myself up to a standing position. “Yeah. Cheap.” I looked at Rebecca. “Then let him go back inside and get the pharmacy to refill them for me.” She glanced at her watch, her brow furrowing deeper. “Don’t be dramatic. He didn’t mean to do it. Just go back and get them yourself later.” “Austin is going to be late for his shift. I need to drop him off first. I’ll call an Uber for you.” Austin was already back in the passenger seat, waving cheerfully through the window. “See you later, Oliver!” Rebecca didn’t even look back as she got in and drove away. I thought I would cry. But my eyes remained dry, and my chest felt remarkably still. Watching her taillights disappear felt no different than watching a stranger drive by. I had finally reached the point where it didn’t hurt anymore. The moment I got back to the empty house, I pulled the divorce papers from my bag and signed my name on the dotted line. Then, I packed. A single medium suitcase was more than enough to hold the remnants of our eight years together. On the bedside table sat a framed photograph of Rebecca and me. It was taken at a gallery gala three years ago. Back then, I still had my hair, styled neatly, and she wore a soft cream dress, smiling up at me with real warmth. I picked up the frame and turned it over. On the cardboard back, someone had scrawled in black sharpie: *Austin was here! ~* I stared at it for a few seconds, then placed it face down on the nightstand, right on top of the divorce agreement. His laughter had frozen in our life three years ago, and my hair had stayed there too. My phone rang. It was Rebecca. She rarely called me unless she needed something. I picked up. Loud, pulsing music blared in the background. She was at a lounge. Before she could speak, I said, “Rebecca, the divorce” “Austin saw that painting of yours from the biennial exhibition,” she interrupted. Of course. It was always about Austin. I paused. “It’s not for sale.” “He really loves it, Oliver. I’ll write you a check for a hundred grand.” “I don’t like him. I’m not selling it to him.” The line went silent for a moment. “Name your price.” I let out a soft, hollow laugh and set the phone face down on the table, leaving her talking to an empty room. I pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand. Our marriage certificate was inside. But my face on the document had been covered by a glossy photo sticker of Austin’s face. In the sticker, he was flashing a cute, peace-sign grin. My own face was completely buried beneath it. I remembered the day we took that photo. My hair had been thick and healthy, and Rebecca had held my hand so tightly, her eyes full of devotion. When I had first discovered what Austin did to our marriage certificate, I had confronted Rebecca in a fury. She had barely glanced at it, offering a dismissive promise to get it replaced. “It’s just a piece of paper, Oliver. Don’t make a scene.” “Austin is young and foolish. Just let it go.” Three years had passed, and she had never found an hour to go to the registry office with me to print a new one. From the speaker on the desk, her voice drifted over the music: “Austin is basically a kid, Oliver. When he doesn’t get what he wants, he throws a fit. Why can’t you just indulge him for once?” “Since you want to play hardball over a painting, I guess you don’t need your art studio open either. I’ll have the lease suspended until you clear your head.” My lips curved into a cold smile. “Do whatever you want.” The line clicked shut, and the dial tone echoed in the quiet bedroom. The left side of my vision was a blurry, gray fog, like a winter storm that would never clear. A slow, familiar ache crept back into my chest. When Rebecca first pursued me, everyone told her she was out of her mind. I had a chronic illness that could return at any moment, an unpredictable temperament, and a cold disposition. I was the furthest thing from boyfriend material. But she had insisted it didn’t matter. She said she loved my quietness, my distance, everything. For the first time in my life, I believed I could actually love someone back. But what happened to that girl? She got busier and busier, always promising she would make time for me once the next deal closed. Gradually, the look of terror and heartbreak she used to have whenever I went into surgery hardened into exhaustion, then apathy, until she stopped showing up altogether. She stood me up so many times, yet every single time, I told myself: Next time will be different. She’ll be there next time. Until the night I almost died on the operating table. As my consciousness drifted, I remember thinking: I’m never going to see Rebecca again. I would never again feel the warmth of the girl who used to look at me like I was her entire world. When I woke up, the urge to see her was overwhelming. I spent twenty agonizing hours on a flight to France where she was on a business trip. When I finally tracked down her hotel suite, I found her blow-drying Austin’s hair, the two of them giggling and teasing each other like high school sweethearts. In that single second, the illusion shattered. She wasn’t too busy. She hadn’t lost her capacity to care or share her life with someone. She just didn’t want to do it with me anymore. That was the first time in my life I completely lost my mind. I ripped the hair dryer out of the wall, slapped Austin across the face, and smashed every glass and vase in the room. “Why are you doing this to me?! I almost died! Do you even care?!” Shards of glass sliced into my bare ankles, but I couldn’t feel the warmth of the blood pooling on the carpet. “Do you think I’m some kind of joke?!” Rebecca had stood there like a spectator, calmly picking up Austin to carry him away from the mess. “Are you done throwing your tantrum? Calm down.” “You look pathetic right now.” I had stood shivering in the middle of the wreckage, gasping for air. The hope that had carried me through twenty hours of travel right after major surgery dissolved into ash. From that day on, Rebecca rarely came home. She put my notifications on mute, and I had to rely on Austin’s social media just to know where my wife was sleeping. Yet, a person starved of affection will cling to the memory of love like a lifeline. It was like holding a piece of expired candy. The wrapper had melted, leaving a sticky, toxic mess in your palm, but you couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. Because you had been hungry for so long, and you still remembered how sweet it tasted in the beginning. So you keep your fist clenched, holding onto it until the last drop of sugar drains through your fingers. Until one day, you simply don’t have the strength to hold on anymore. Three days later, I received a text from Rebecca. [Company gala tonight at eight. Be there.] She never read my messages, and she still hadn’t touched the divorce papers. After a moment of thought, I decided it was best to end this face-to-face. I put on a realistic wig, slipped the signed divorce agreement into my bag, and left. The ballroom was spectacular, lit by massive crystal chandeliers, filled with the clinking of champagne flutes and soft jazz. Near the entrance, I spotted Rebecca. Austin was at her side. They were slow-dancing in the center of the floor. He was a clumsy dancer, repeatedly stepping on her toes, but Rebecca only leaned in and whispered something that made them both laugh. I watched them for a quiet minute before walking into the crowd. Austin leaned in close to her ear, his voice carrying over the music. “You shut down Oliver’s studio because of me. Won’t he be furious?” Without missing a beat, Rebecca gave his waist a playful tap. “He’s desperate for attention. A little sweet-talking, and he’ll fall right back into line.” I stood right at the edge of the dance floor. The guests around us began to whisper, their eyes darting between me and the dancing couple. “Is that Rebecca’s husband? I haven’t seen him in forever. Did he come to catch them?” “With how much she spoils the new kid, who knows who actually holds the power in that house.” The music faded to an end. Rebecca noticed me and stepped away from Austin. “What are you doing here?” Austin wrapped his hand around her arm, giving me a smug, sweet smile. So he was the one who sent the text from her phone. I looked at Rebecca. “I need a word with you.” Austin tugged her arm. “Rebecca, the next dance is starting” She frowned slightly. “Whatever it is, it can wait until after the party.” Suddenly, the overhead lights flickered once and plunged the entire ballroom into pitch darkness. A wave of confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. In the dark, a hand reached out from behind, grabbing my hair with a violent yank that sent a shooting pain straight through my healing scalp. Then, the emergency lights flared back on. I looked down. My wig lay on the polished floor. My head was covered in nothing but a rough, uneven buzz cut, dominated by a thick, angry red surgical scar stretching across my skull. The room went dead silent. A hundred eyes locked onto me. “Oh my god, that’s horrifying…” “No wonder Rebecca never brings him out. If my husband looked like that, I’d throw up just looking at him.” “What kind of disease is that? Is it contagious?” A camera flash went off. Someone was recording me with their phone. Austin had a tiny, satisfied smirk on his lips as he quickly knelt down to pick up the wig, holding it out to me. “Oliver, I’m so, so sorry… It was dark, I couldn’t see…” I stood frozen, unable to reach out and take it. Rebecca grabbed my wrist and began pulling me out of the hall. Bald and exposed, I was dragged through the staring crowd. The cruel whispers slowly faded behind us. Neither of us spoke a word on the drive home. The streetlights flashed past the windows, throwing alternating shadows across the car interior. My mind felt completely blank, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It had been years since I last thought about those dark, terrifying days. The endless chemo, the constant vomiting, the bald reflection in the mirror, and the way everyone avoided me like I was a walking plague. But back then, Rebecca had shaved her own head, stood between me and the world, and held me close. She had told me: Don’t be scared. I’m right here with you. And now, she was the one who had thrown me back into that living hell. When we stepped into the house, Rebecca poured a glass of water and set it in front of me. “I’ve already had the photos and videos from tonight deleted.” I said nothing. “Don’t let it get to you. I’ll make sure nobody talks.” I blinked slowly. “Does that include Austin? He’s the one who sent the text.” She frowned. “The lights went out, Oliver. He couldn’t see what he was grabbing.” “He isn’t malicious.” I didn’t bother arguing. My eyes fell on her wrist. She was wearing a red braided string. It was a matching protection charm she and Austin had gotten together at some temple. “Are you really this blind, Rebecca, or do you just choose to be?” I asked. “A brilliant businesswoman like you, and you can’t see through a cheap trick like that?” The living room fell into a heavy silence. Then, her phone rang. In the quiet room, the weeping voice on the other end was perfectly audible. “Rebecca… Is Oliver mad at me? I really didn’t mean to do it… I’ll go apologize to him tomorrow, okay? Please don’t be mad… I’m so scared…” “Don’t cry,” Rebecca said softly. “Nobody is blaming you.” She hung up and looked at me. “He’s hysterical over there. I need to go check on him.” “You said you had something to tell me. Wait until I get back, and we’ll have a real talk.” She walked to the entryway, grabbing her keys and slipping into her shoes. “Rebecca.” She paused. “You keep telling me you’ll come back and talk. When have you ever actually come back?” She didn’t turn around. She opened the door, letting the bright hallway light spill into our dark foyer. “I’ll be back in an hour.” The automatic hallway light clicked off, plunging the doorway into darkness. I walked into the bedroom, placed the divorce papers under the framed photo, and dragged my suitcase out. I called a cab to the airport. By 1:00 AM, I was boarded on a flight to London. Three hours had passed since Rebecca’s promised “one hour.” As the plane began taxiing down the runway, I switched my phone to airplane mode. Right before the signal cut out, a notification from Rebecca popped up: [What is the meaning of this divorce agreement?] A second later, the screen went black.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453919”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Brenda slammed the manila folder onto the mahogany conference table. “Starting this month, all unofficial stipends across the administrative department are canceled.” The dozen or so people in the room went dead silent. I sat in the furthest corner, my pen stalling for a fraction of a second on my legal pad. Brenda was our newly minted Director of Administration. Word was she’d been parachuted in from corporate headquarters in New York, eager to light a few fires and mark her territory. The first match, it seemed, was being tossed right at my feet. “Nora.” She flipped open the employee roster, making a point to lift her chin and meet my eyes when she read my name. “That five-hundred-dollar monthly translation stipend you’ve been drawing? It stops today.” “Brenda,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly level. “That stipend was approved by our CEO three years ago because I manage all the French documentation and handle the VIP European delegations—” “I am aware.” She cut me off, holding up a manicured hand. “But your official title is Administrative Assistant. Translation does not fall under your job description. You’ve been doing it for six years, yes, but no one has ever issued you a formal, sanctioned work order for translation services. Correct?” “There are no formal work orders, but I have exclusively handled every French-related corporate asset since—” “Exactly.” She leaned back in her ergonomic chair, spreading her hands in a gesture of mock helplessness. “No work order means it’s not an official duty. The company is under no obligation to compensate you for voluntary extracurriculars. It’s a matter of corporate policy, Nora. Nothing personal.” Beside me, David, a senior admin who had been here since the dawn of time, shot me a pained look. He opened his mouth, then closed it. I didn’t say another word. After the meeting, David caught up to me in the hallway. “Nora, don’t let her get in your head. She’s new. She doesn’t understand the ecosystem here.” “She understands perfectly.” I hugged my clipboard to my chest. “She pulled my personnel file on her first day. She knows I’ve been the sole translator for six years. She’s making an example out of me to establish dominance.” David sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “But the French accounts… what about the translation work?” “She said it herself. It’s not an official duty.” I gave him a tight, close-mouthed smile. “So, I won’t do it.” David’s expression twisted into a knot of anxiety, but he didn’t argue. Back at my cubicle, I woke up my monitors. Sitting in my inbox were three emails from our French partners—final legal confirmations for our upcoming engineering contracts. In the past, I would have processed them by lunch, translating the dense legal-structural jargon and forwarding them to the Project Management team without a second thought. I highlighted all three, marked them as Read, and closed Outlook. If it wasn’t my job, I wasn’t doing it. At 4:00 PM, Sarah from Project Management trotted over to my desk, looking frantic. “Hey, Nora, did you see those emails from Paris? We need the English copies ASAP.” “I saw them.” “Great, so the translations—” “You’ll need to submit a formal work order request to Brenda for approval,” I said smoothly. “Once she assigns it to me, I’ll get right on it.” Sarah blinked, entirely derailed. “Wait, what? But you usually just shoot them over to us.” “That was before.” I offered her a polite, apologetic smile. “Brenda made it very clear today. Without a work order, it’s not an official task. I’m just an administrative assistant, Sarah. I can’t be overstepping my role.” Sarah stood there for a long moment, mouth slightly open, before pivoting on her heel and marching toward Brenda’s office. At 7:00 PM, I was packing my tote bag to leave when my phone buzzed. A text from David: Just heard the news. Sylvie is flying in at the end of the month. A three-day site visit. She needs a full-time bilingual escort. I stared at the glowing screen for three seconds before slipping the phone into my trench coat pocket. What did that have to do with me? I was just an admin. By the next morning, the news about the French VIP had saturated the office. Sylvie. Executive Vice President of Groupe MBT, the French construction conglomerate that held Pinnacle Engineering’s largest overseas contract. We were talking about a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar deal. Every year, she flew to Chicago for a site inspection. Every year, for six years, I had been her shadow, her voice, her cultural liaison. Six years. Zero mistakes. “Nora, step into my office.” Brenda was standing in her doorway. I followed her inside, and she clicked the door shut behind me. “I assume you’ve heard about Sylvie’s visit at the end of the month.” “I have.” “You’ll resume your duties as her primary interpreter.” I looked at her. Really looked at her. “Brenda, you explicitly stated yesterday that translation is outside my job description.” A flicker of irritation crossed her face. “This is an exceptional circumstance requiring an exception to the rule. She is our most critical international client—” “Will my stipend be reinstated, then?” She paused, her jaw tightening. “Company policy has been updated. We cannot make financial exceptions for one employee. Consider this mandatory overtime. I’ll authorize a few days of comp time for you afterward.” Comp time. I let the words hang in the sterile air of her office. Six years. Thousands of technical documents. Dozens of VIP receptions. High-stakes negotiations where a single mistranslated technical term could cost the company millions. All of it, worth a few days of comp time. “Brenda, I strongly suggest you hire an external translation agency.” “Excuse me?” “My French is getting a bit rusty,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I’d hate to jeopardize a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar account.” Brenda’s face flushed an ugly, mottled pink. “Are you giving me an attitude right now, Nora?” “Not at all. I am an administrative assistant. Translation is not my job. Those were your exact words.” She glared at me in suffocating silence for five long seconds. “You’re dismissed.” I walked out. The moment I sat down at my desk, David wheeled his chair over. “What did she want?” “She wants me to translate for Sylvie.” “And?” “I declined.” David nearly dropped his Yeti mug. “Are you insane? That’s Sylvie! That’s a hundred and fifty million dollars!” “It could be a billion dollars, David, and it still wouldn’t be my job.” “So what the hell is Brenda going to do?” “She said she’s hiring an agency.” David stared at me, his eyes wide. “There isn’t an agency in this city that can handle structural engineering and architectural French on three weeks’ notice. You know that.” “I know.” “Then why—” “I also know she would rather die than reinstate my stipend and admit she was wrong. So, it’s out of my hands.” Over the course of the afternoon, a parade of people filtered in and out of Brenda’s office. I could hear her voice through the frosted glass, growing increasingly shrill. “What do you mean you don’t have anyone available? It’s Chicago! You can’t find one technical interpreter?” “Price isn’t the issue—wait, twelve thousand dollars for three days? That’s extortion!” “What? Next Wednesday is too late! She lands on Monday!” I heard the distinct sound of a phone receiver being slammed down. I kept my eyes on my spreadsheet, calmly formatting cells. Not my problem. By day three, Brenda’s failure to secure an agency had reached the ears of Evelyn, our CEO. First thing in the morning, I was summoned to the executive boardroom. Evelyn sat at the head of the table, radiating the kind of terrifying, absolute authority that only comes from decades in male-dominated corporate engineering. Brenda sat to her right, looking slightly shiny with sweat. The heads of Project Management, PR, and Legal were all there. And there was a man I had never seen before. He was maybe twenty-eight, wearing a suit that was a little too tailored, a little too loud. Evelyn didn’t waste time. “Sylvie arrives Monday. We are finalizing the interpretation protocol right now. Brenda, give us the update.” Brenda cleared her throat. “Evelyn, I reached out to three top-tier agencies. Specialized technical French interpreters are currently in high demand, making scheduling and budget alignment difficult. However—” She gestured to the man beside her. “I have found a superior internal solution. This is Spencer. He has a Master’s from ESSEC Business School in Paris. He lived and worked in France for three years. His French is totally fluent. I actually hired him into our admin department last month.” Spencer stood up, offering the room a blinding, confident smile. “Good morning, everyone. Yes, three years in Paris. Conversational and business French is second nature to me. I’ve handled plenty of executive hospitality, so you’re in good hands.” Evelyn scrutinized him. “Are you familiar with structural engineering terminology?” Spencer faltered, just for a second. “I… I can certainly prep for it.” Evelyn turned her piercing gaze to Brenda. “Didn’t Nora always handle this? She’s done it for six years. She knows the French team inside and out.” Brenda sat up straighter. “Evelyn, Nora is an administrative assistant. Translation is technically outside her purview. The previous arrangement was… unstructured. I’ve simply streamlined our protocols. Besides, Spencer has an actual degree from France. His formal qualifications far exceed Nora’s.” Evelyn looked at me. “Nora. What do you have to say?” Every eye in the room shifted to me. I stood up. “Evelyn, Brenda is entirely correct. Translation is not my job. I did it for six years because the company needed me to, and I was happy to help. But Brenda has restructured the department, and given that Spencer spent three years in Paris, I’m sure his French is far more sophisticated than mine.” A smug, fleeting smile crossed Brenda’s face. Evelyn frowned, clearly sensing the subtext, but she didn’t have the time to dissect admin drama. “Fine. Spencer, you’re up. Nora, assist him. Give him all your old glossaries and translation files so he can prep.” “Of course,” I said. After the meeting, Spencer intercepted me in the hallway. “Hey, Nora. If you could shoot those files over to me before lunch, that’d be stellar. I need to get familiar with the vibe.” His tone was perfectly polite, but his eyes held that specific, condescending gleam of a man who thought he had just effortlessly usurped a lesser woman’s role. “I’ll have them to you by this afternoon,” I said. He chuckled, leaning against the wall. “Hey, don’t take it personally, alright? Nobody is trying to steal your thunder. Brenda just felt it was unfair to make a secretary do heavy-lifting translation work. I’m just here to take the load off.” I looked at him. “Do you have your ATA certification?” He blinked. “My what?” “American Translators Association. Are you certified?” “I went to business school in Paris. I don’t need a certificate.” “What about AIIC? Conference interpreting?” “I do business translation, Nora. It’s mostly just chatting—” “Sylvie is flying in to finalize a joint R&D agreement on pre-stressed, ultra-high-performance fiber-reinforced concrete structures. The meetings will cover sheer load capacities, tensile stress mechanics, and proprietary curing methodology.” I watched, fascinated, as the color drained from his face, leaving him looking slightly green. “Spencer,” I asked softly, “do you know what béton précontraint means?” He stared at me, mute. “Study hard,” I said, and walked away. Back at my desk, David leaned over, whispering furiously. “Why the hell are you helping him? Let him crash and burn!” “I didn’t help him.” “You just warned him about the vocabulary!” “I didn’t warn him. I let him know he’s going to drown.” David paused, a slow realization dawning on his face. I pulled open my bottom drawer and lifted out a heavy, black binder. Six years of accumulated knowledge. Glossaries, meeting minutes, phonetic guides, stylistic preferences. Hundreds of pages. That afternoon, I handed Spencer the photocopies. The originals, I locked back in my drawer. Spencer spent the entire afternoon staring at the papers on his desk. From my peripheral vision, I watched his posture slowly collapse. Six years of architectural and engineering French. Over three hundred highly specific technical terms. And it wasn’t just the words—every entry had contextual notes and warnings about Sylvie’s personal idioms and speaking pace. You can’t flashcard your way through that in a weekend. The next morning, Spencer arrived with dark, bruised-looking bags under his eyes. He slowed down as he passed my cubicle, but kept his mouth shut. At 10:00 AM, Brenda called him into her office. She didn’t close the door all the way. “How is the prep coming?” I heard her ask. “Brenda, there is so much technical jargon here, I—” “You lived in Paris for three years!” “I studied marketing! Not industrial load-bearing dynamics!” “Then why didn’t you mention that when you assured me your French was flawless?” Spencer’s voice dropped to a frantic whisper, and I couldn’t hear the rest. Ten minutes later, he emerged, his eyes red-rimmed, and practically collapsed back into his chair to stare at the glossary. At lunch, David slid into the booth across from me with a fresh piece of gossip. “Brenda called two more agencies today. One quoted her twenty grand. The other laughed and said they don’t do structural engineering.” “Did she authorize the twenty grand?” “Nope. Evelyn capped the emergency budget at eight. Brenda is trapped.” David leaned in closer. “But get this. Brenda told Evelyn this morning that Spencer is doing great and is fully up to speed.” I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth. “She knows he’s going to fail.” “Of course she does. But if she admits he can’t do it, she’s admitting she screwed up by taking you off the account. Her ego won’t let her back down.” “So she’s gambling a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar deal on her ego.” David didn’t have an answer for that. Later that afternoon, Mark, the Deputy Director of Project Management, came to my desk. He was the guy who actually built the things we signed contracts for. “Nora, I’m going to be straight with you. Spencer is going to get us slaughtered in there with Sylvie.” “I know.” “Can you just—” “Mark, Brenda assigned Spencer. I’m just an admin. I can’t go rogue.” Mark ran a hand over his face. “This isn’t about office politics! Sylvie is here to finalize the Phase Two technology transfer. The technical appendix alone is eighty pages of dense French legalese. You expect Spencer to translate that on the fly?” “Take it up with Brenda.” “I did! She told me to trust the process!” “Then trust the process.” Mark looked at me for a long time. “You’ve changed, Nora.” “I haven’t changed, Mark. I was just recently informed that my labor has no value here.” After he left, I opened Excel and started formatting a supply inventory. For six years, I had never been late, never made a translation error, and never asked for a single dollar of overtime. The only acknowledgment of my dual role was a measly five-hundred-dollar stipend. And Brenda had taken even that away. Fine. Let them see what the market rate for loyalty actually was. That night, in the quiet of my apartment, I went to my closet and pulled down a velvet-lined memory box. Inside were four pristine certificates. My ATA Certification for English-to-French translation. My ATA Certification for French-to-English translation. A Master’s degree in Applied Linguistics. And my badge from AIIC—the International Association of Conference Interpreters. There were fewer than a hundred active AIIC-certified French interpreters in the country. I closed the box and pushed it back onto the shelf. No one at Pinnacle Engineering knew about these. In six years, no one had ever thought to ask. Friday arrived. Sylvie was due in three days. Spencer looked like a walking corpse. His desk was a blizzard of post-it notes. I knew exactly what he was doing wrong. He was trying to memorize the English equivalent of every French term without understanding the underlying engineering concepts. Translation isn’t a math equation. Especially technical interpretation. You have to understand how the concrete cures, how the steel bends, to accurately convey the concept when the speaker inevitably changes their phrasing. Around 11:00 AM, Spencer finally broke. He walked over to my desk. “Nora. Can I ask you a question?” “Shoot.” “This term. Béton fibré à ultra-hautes performances. The notes say ‘Ultra-high performance fiber-reinforced concrete.’ But Google Translate says ‘high-performance fiber-enhanced cementitious composite.’ Which one is it?” “They’re both technically correct.” “So which one do I use?” “Depends on the context. If they’re discussing raw material properties, use the latter. If they’re discussing pouring methodology, use the former. Also, Sylvie usually just calls it BFUP. If she uses the acronym, just say UHPFRC.” He scribbled frantically on his legal pad. “Okay, and what about—” “Spencer.” I stopped him. “You don’t just need to memorize the dictionary. You need to memorize Sylvie. She speaks fast. She uses Parisian idioms. She’ll drop a dry joke right in the middle of debating a liability clause. If you miss the joke, the room goes cold.” All the blood drained from his face. “What am I going to do?” “I suggest you go to Brenda and tell her the truth.” “I can’t.” He swallowed hard. “She told me if I blow this, I’m fired.” I didn’t say anything. Spencer stood there for a moment, looking like a little boy lost in a nightmare, then trudged back to his desk. At 3:00 PM, the bomb dropped. Sylvie’s office sent over the official itinerary for the visit. Four pages, entirely in formal French. Brenda printed it out and slapped it on Spencer’s desk for translation. An hour later, Spencer handed in his work. Thirty minutes after that, Brenda dragged him into her office. The door was shut tight, but the walls were thin. I heard the smack of a hand hitting a desk. “You translated clause de résiliation as ‘resolution clause’?! It means termination clause! It’s a kill switch, you idiot!” “I’m sorry, Brenda, I just thought—” “And this! Garantie décennale. You translated it as a ‘ten-year warranty’? It’s a mandatory ten-year decennial liability insurance under French building law! Do you know nothing about business?” When Spencer emerged, he looked like he might throw up. He stopped at my desk. “Did you read the itinerary when it came into the general inbox?” he asked, his voice trembling. “I did.” “You knew I was going to fail.” I looked up at him. “That document is written in strict French legal terminology. They don’t teach that in a study-abroad marketing seminar.” His hands curled into fists. “You did this on purpose. You set me up.” “Spencer, let me give you a piece of advice.” I kept my voice perfectly flat. “There are no shortcuts in this industry. Living in Paris for three years doesn’t make you an interpreter, any more than owning a scalpel makes you a surgeon. You thought my job was just talking.” He bit his lip, unable to formulate a comeback, and walked away. David rolled his chair over. “Nora, isn’t that a little brutal?” “It’s the truth. I know exactly what he’s feeling. Six years ago, the night before I first interpreted for Sylvie, I didn’t sleep a wink.” “So you feel bad for him?” “The difference is,” I said, looking back at my screen, “I spent four years passing the hardest certification exams in the world before I ever walked into that room.” David stayed quiet. At 8:00 PM, while I was at home reading, my phone vibrated. A text from an unknown international number. Nora, bonjour. It’s Luc, Sylvie’s assistant. Sylvie asked me to tell you she is very much looking forward to seeing you. She wants to know if we can go back to that incredible heritage seafood place in the West Loop you took us to last year. I stared at the text, a small smile touching my lips. Six years. On the final night of every trip, I took her to that quiet, old-school Chicago steak and seafood joint. She remembered. I deleted the text. I didn’t reply. Saturday came. Spencer came into the office. I knew, because he was desperately messaging the department Slack channel, begging for someone to help him cross-reference the engineering appendix. No one replied. Project Management didn’t know French. PR only knew Spanish. Aside from Brenda, no one else in Admin touched the international files. I stayed home. I deep-cleaned my apartment, made a pot of coffee, and read half a novel. My phone rang three times. First was David, whispering that Brenda was having a meltdown in the office, screaming at Spencer behind closed doors. Second was Mark, begging me to “just come in and save us.” Third was Luc. Nora, change of plans. Sylvie is arriving early. We land at O’Hare Sunday evening. Has the company arranged a car? He had cc’d the main company inbox, but he added a private follow-up just to me. Sylvie says not to bring a whole entourage to the airport. Just you is fine. I didn’t reply. Sunday morning, Brenda sent an urgent mass email to the department. Tonight, 7:00 PM. Sylvie lands at O’Hare. Spencer will conduct the airport greeting. Wear a suit. Bring the official welcome letter. At the very bottom, a single sentence was appended: Nora is not required to attend. When David called me, he sounded panicked. “Nora, she’s icing you out completely.” “Let her.” “But when Sylvie gets off the plane and doesn’t see you, isn’t she going to freak out?” “Yes.” “And then what?” “And then she’s going to ask where I am.” David was silent for three seconds. “And then?” “And then we’ll see how good Brenda is at improvising.” At 8:30 PM Sunday night, I was on my couch watching a documentary about the Chicago culinary scene, right when they were showcasing a beautiful, dry-aged prime rib. My phone erupted.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453904”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After years of marriage, when my critical illness notice was issued, Matt didn’t hesitate to propose mortgaging our house. To pay the massive medical bills, the once proud and aloof man dragged himself through the mud, working day and night. Not wanting to be a burden, I was ready to give up treatment. But then, a financial headline froze me in place. The Pierce Family Heir Returns for Love! Reclaiming a Billion-Dollar Empire to Save His Beloved’s Life! The photo accompanying the article showed Matt’s exhausted yet deeply affectionate profile. I trembled, thinking this was his final fight for me. But as the camera panned, the woman in the sterile hospital gown was revealed to be the girl from the faded photo in his wallet. And I, like an idiot, actually believed he loved me. 1 Matt walked into the room, bringing with him the sharp chill of the late-night air. He took off his cheap jacket, his face lined with deep fatigue. “How are you feeling today?” He poured a cup of warm water and handed it to my bedside. I shook my head, lacking even the strength to speak. He sat on the edge of the mattress, checking my temperature with his hand. “The doctors say the prognosis isn’t great. But don’t worry, Valerie. I’ve taken care of the money.” He pulled a document from his coat, carefully unfolding it. “I… mortgaged our house.” My heart seized. “You…” “Don’t say anything silly,” he interrupted, as if assuming I’d be moved to tears by his sacrifice. “Nothing is more important than you. If it means you get better, I’d gladly sleep under a bridge.” He spoke so earnestly, with such deep affection. If I hadn’t seen the news hours ago, I would have believed him. Matt Pierce, heir to the Pierce fortune, my husband of five years, had been playing the role of a penniless working-class guy in front of me. “Matt, do we… really have to do this?” I asked, my voice dry. He fell silent for a moment, then pulled out another document: a voluntary organ donation agreement. “Valerie, the doctor said we need to prepare for the worst.” His voice was soft, but every word stabbed my heart. “I know how kind you are. The doctor told me today that there’s a young woman, Stella. She has been waiting for a matching heart for a very, very long time.” Stella. Finally, he said the name. The girl in the faded photo hidden in his wallet. “She’s so tragic. Her health has been failing since she was a child. She has lived in constant agony.” He narrated her story calmly, as if my life and death were just a backdrop for her salvation. “If… I mean, if you donate your heart to her, it’s a way for your life to continue, isn’t it?” I looked at this man. His patience was wearing thin; he didn’t even bother to craft a better lie. He knew I was terminally ill and couldn’t afford the treatment. He was certain my deep love for him would make me grant his every wish. “So, mortgaging the house was to prepare for her surgery fees?” I asked directly. He froze, taken aback. Then, a sorrowful expression took over. “Valerie, how could you think of me like that? I did it for your treatment!” He turned back into the doting husband. “But your illness… you know the chances are slim. I just thought, if we fail, we could save another life, keeping a part of you alive. For my sake, please? Sign it first, and then we’ll fight this together.” I pulled my cold hand away. “I’m tired. I want to sleep.” A flicker of impatience crossed his face, quickly masked by tenderness. “Okay, rest up.” He placed the agreement and a pen on my nightstand, right where I would see it the second I opened my eyes. He put his jacket back on to leave. At the door, he turned back. “The doctor let me meet Stella. She’s in the VIP penthouse suite. If you want, I can arrange for you to meet. She’s a lovely girl.” The door closed. I stared at the agreement. It felt like a blade slicing through my chest. 2 The next day, a young nurse came to change my IV. She was chatty and quick with her hands. “Ms. Lin, you really need to take care of yourself. Your husband is an angel.” I closed my eyes, not wanting to engage. “He’s here every day, running around for your bills. We’re all so jealous.” Jealous? How ironic. “The girl in the penthouse suite is rich, but so tragic,” she gossiped, lowering her voice. “Her boyfriend is the heir to the Pierce Group! But honestly, he doesn’t seem that devoted. He’s always busy with work, only visits occasionally. Not like your husband, who practically lives by your side.” Her words sent my mind drifting back to our early years. We had started dating when Matt was a broke student. He once worked a week at a part-time job just to buy me a designer lipstick I wanted. When I make it, I’ll give you the world, he had promised. After graduation, he turned down high-paying corporate jobs for a simple clerk position. I don’t want to be tired, he had said. I just want to come home and cook for you. I believed it all. But he wasn’t humble; he was just biding his time, playing a part to keep me isolated and waiting for my heart to fail so Stella could have it. “Ms. Lin? Are you okay?” the nurse asked. “I’m fine, just thinking.” She packed her things. “Your husband called. He said he’ll be late tonight.” I knew he wouldn’t come. Stella’s condition must have deteriorated, making her far more urgent than his backup organ donor. By evening, Matt indeed hadn’t shown up. I sat up slowly. The nightstand still held the agreement and a poetry book Matt gave me as our first gift. To my lifelong love, Valerie, the inscription read. The door opened, and Matt walked in, smelling of expensive cologne and red wine, sharp against the sterile air of my room. He didn’t ask if I had eaten. He walked over, picked up the poetry book, flipped through it mindlessly, and finally asked, “Valerie, did you hear some gossip?” He was still trying to play the soothing husband. “Hospitals are full of rumors. Don’t take them to heart.” “Who is Stella?” I asked, gathering all my courage. He froze, then closed the book. “She’s just a friend.” “A friend who needs my heart to live?” The air turned to ice. Matt’s tender mask cracked. “Yes,” he admitted. “She’s suffered since childhood. Don’t you have any compassion?” “Why should I sacrifice my life for her compassion?” My chest throbbed with a sharp pain. “Valerie!” he raised his voice, his impatience fully bared. “What is this attitude? I’m discussing this with you, not begging! Are you losing your mind because of your illness? Since when did you become so selfish?” Selfish. I had given up career opportunities for him, lived in cheap clothes, squeezed onto crowded buses, and spent five years counting pennies. And now, he wanted my life for another woman, calling me selfish. “Matt Pierce, you disgust me.” With a loud slap, he threw the poetry book onto the floor, the pages scattering. 3 “Valerie, don’t push your luck!” His chest heaved. “You think you’re in a position to negotiate? Without me, you can’t even pay for tomorrow’s medicine!” He was threatening me with money. He pointed at the scattered pages. “A dying person has no right to hold onto these things. Can’t you show some gratitude for our past?” My heart was completely torn apart. I was just a dying object to him. “So, you’re threatening to stop my treatment if I don’t sign?” He looked momentarily taken aback by my calm, but quickly recovered his cold demeanor. “I’m just making you see reality. Signing is best for all of us.” “All of us” meant him and Stella, never me. His phone rang, and his face tensed. “What? Her condition is worsening? I’ll be right up!” He hung up, glaring at me with raw hostility. No more love, no more warmth. He stepped closer. “Valerie, sign it. Now!” I looked at him coldly. He was losing his composure because his precious Stella was running out of time. “And if I don’t?” “You have no choice.” He hissed. “Don’t force my hand. Stella can’t wait. Help her, and you help me.” He finally admitted it. It wasn’t about charity or keeping a part of me alive. It was to save his true love. “I spent five years of poverty with you, Valerie. Even if you don’t care about yourself, think of what I gave up! Do you know what I sacrificed? I, the heir of the Pierce family, lived in a cramped, moldy apartment with you for five years! I’ve done more than enough!” The ugly truth was out. “I did it all for Stella! Approaching you, marrying you, tolerating you, it was all for this day! The doctor said your body was weak and you wouldn’t live long, so I patiently waited! I thought when you died, I’d naturally get your heart. I didn’t expect you to drag this out so long!” My entire existence was a carefully orchestrated five-year trap to harvest my heart. Seeing my silence, he thought he had been too harsh. He thrust the agreement and pen into my hands. “Sign it. This is the last thing you can do for me. If there’s anything you want me to do after you’re gone, I’ll make sure it’s done.” I looked at the donor page: Donor: Valerie Lin. Recipient: Stella Su. My hands shook. Matt leaned down, whispering in my ear, “Be good, sign it, and I’ll remember your kindness.” His breath made me sick. I gripped the pen, looked up, and smiled at him. Before he could react, I didn’t write. I tore the agreement in half. The tearing sound was incredibly sharp in the silent room. I tore it again and again, throwing the pieces to the floor. I dropped the pen; it rolled to his feet. “Matt Pierce, in your dreams!” Before, I would have given up because I was broke and hopeless. But now, Matt had reclaimed his inheritance for Stella’s sake. Legally, half of that wealth belonged to me as his wife. Why shouldn’t I fight to live?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453920”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My husband cheated on me, so I dropped the receipts online. Every dirty text, every hotel lobby snapshot. His response? He sued me for defamation and invasion of privacy. And the judge actually ordered me to post a public apology every single day for a month. I stood on the courthouse steps, gripping the freshly printed court order. The ink spelled it out crystal clear. [Cindy Blake is hereby ordered to issue a continuous thirty-day public apology online for violating the privacy and reputational rights of Mr. Arthur Harrington and Ms. Serena Dupont.] Arthur was waiting for me right at the bottom of the steps. He wore a sharp, tailored suit, looking every bit the triumphant CEO. He snatched the paper from my hands, skimming it with a smug smirk. “You wanted an audience so badly, Cindy? Congratulations. Now you get to perform for them. Thirty days. Don’t skip a single one.” He did not even care about the whispers from the strangers walking past. If anything, he stood taller, soaking in the attention. I looked right into his eyes and gave him a bright, genuine smile. “You got it.” He scoffed, clearly thinking I had just rolled over and given up, then turned on his heel and walked away. He wanted to see me broken. He wanted tears and public humiliation. He had no idea that my apologies were going to ruin his life. … The second I got back to my apartment, I registered a new account across every major platform. The handle was simple. Cindy’s Apology Log. My bio read, [Just a law-abiding citizen, apologizing on company time for the next 30 days.] I set up my ring light, adjusted my phone on the tripod, and made sure my makeup looked just the right amount of devastated. I held the court document right up to the lens, zooming in on my name and the mandatory thirty-day clause. Then I sat back, plastered a deeply apologetic, almost sickeningly sweet smile on my face, and began my first act. [Hi everyone. My name is Cindy. According to a totally fair and just court ruling, I will be using this space to publicly apologize for the next thirty days.] [First and foremost, I want to say sorry for my impulsive behavior. I never should have acted out after discovering intimate, undeniably romantic photos of my husband, Arthur Harrington, and another woman named Serena Dupont.] [It was wrong of me to post those photos online. I absolutely violated the privacy and ruined the sterling reputations of both Arthur and Serena.] [I was wrong. I was so caught up in my own silly little heartbreak that I completely forgot how much stress it would cause them to be exposed as cheaters. I didn’t even consider they would drag me to court over it.] [So, to Arthur Harrington and Serena Dupont, I offer my deepest, most sincere apologies.] [I will spend the next twenty-nine days reflecting on my terrible actions. Please, hold me accountable.] I finished the video with a textbook, perfectly stiff bow. Less than an hour later, my phone was running so hot from notifications I could have fried an egg on the screen. I left it face-down on the kitchen island, letting it vibrate itself half to death. By the time I stepped out of the shower, my inbox was a complete war zone. [Girl, you are an absolute icon. I am taking notes.] [An apology? Nah, this is a public execution warrant! She just dropped their full names AND the cheating allegations all over again!] [Let’s review the tape. ‘My husband Arthur’ and ‘intimate photos’ with ‘Serena’. The absolute shade. I am living for this.] [If day one is this brutal, I am clearing my schedule for the next twenty-nine.] [Ladies, drop your ideas in the comments. We need to help her make tomorrow’s video even more unhinged.] [You should apologize from the exact hotel where they hooked up. Do a vlog tour of the lobby!] Scrolling through the comments, a real laugh bubbled up in my chest. Good to know the internet still hates a cheater. My screen suddenly flashed with an incoming call. It was Arthur. I swiped to answer but kept my mouth shut. Heavy, furious breathing echoed through the speaker. “Cindy, what the hell is your problem? Haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough?” I wandered over to the living room window, watching the city traffic crawl below. My voice was light, airy. “Embarrassed? I am just being a law-abiding citizen, Arthur. I’m following the judge’s orders. Every single word I said was an apology.” “You call that an apology? You practically broadcasted my name and Serena’s name to millions of people. You are trying to destroy me.” “You’re the one who sued me, sweetheart. The court ordered the apology. I am just complying. Did I stutter in the video? Or are you suddenly questioning the integrity of the justice system?” That choked him up. He sputtered for a good five seconds before roaring, “Take the video down right now!” “Can’t do that. That would be contempt of court.” I hit end call and immediately blocked his number. Sinking into the plush cushions of my couch, I went back to the comment section. I found a winner and pinned it to the top. My reply: [Great idea. Consider it done.] The pinned comment read: [Babe, for tomorrow’s apology, you should knit him a massive red flag. Tell everyone you’re making him a cozy blanket because he clearly loves collecting them.] The next morning, I woke up with the sun. I hit up the local craft store and bought the most violently crimson, heavy-duty yarn they had in stock. Back home, I set up the camera right in front of my massive indoor plant collection. The morning light hit the green leaves perfectly, making the whole scene look incredibly wholesome. I sat right in the middle of my indoor jungle, picked up my knitting needles, and held up the beginnings of a giant, bright red tapestry. I flashed the camera a dazzling smile. 2 [Day Two Apology: I am so sorry. I apologize because the photos I posted yesterday were terribly grainy. They really did not do justice to the other woman’s looks.] [I need to set the record straight today. Serena is much younger and prettier in person. She obviously has far more charm than I do. Otherwise, why would my husband be so utterly obsessed with her?] I lowered my head and started aggressively knitting the red yarn, letting the camera roll in complete silence for the rest of the minute. The video was short, but the message was lethal. When I hit publish, the algorithm picked it up even faster than the first one. [I am declaring Cindy the undisputed champion of the internet today.] [100/100 apology. I’d give her extra credit but I don’t want her to peak too early.] [This isn’t just an apology. She is literally dancing on Arthur’s grave.] [The visual of her peacefully knitting a red flag while her husband is out ruining their marriage… cinematic perfection.] As the view count skyrocketed into the millions, an unknown number flashed on my screen. “Cindy, you need to stop this right now!” It was Serena. The sweet, innocent, breathy voice she used whenever Arthur was around was completely gone, replaced by a frantic screech. I adjusted my pillows and stretched my legs out. “Serena. To what do I owe the pleasure?” “Why are you doing this to me? Arthur and I are genuinely in love! You ruined my life by posting those pictures, and now I have thousands of people harassing me online!” “Genuinely in love?” I let out a dry chuckle. “Well, your epic romance is built on the ashes of my marriage, so forgive me if I don’t send an edible arrangement.” “You are actually psychotic! Arthur doesn’t even love you anymore. What is the point of clinging to the title of his wife?” “Whether there’s a point or not really isn’t your business. Listen, Serena, instead of wasting your breath screaming at me, maybe you should go cry to your Prince Charming. Tell him to figure out a way to shut me up.” I could hear her hyperventilating on the other end, her voice trembling with sheer rage. “You just wait. Arthur is going to end you for this!” “I’ll leave the porch light on.” I tossed the phone onto the coffee table, feeling fantastic. If the mistress was losing her mind, today’s apology was a massive success. A few minutes later, my phone rang again. This time, it was my mother. Her voice was thick with worry. “Sweetheart, I saw those videos on the internet. What on earth are you doing? You are playing with fire. You know how Arthur gets. He’s going to find a way to hurt you.” Hearing my mom’s voice melted away the cold armor I had been wearing all morning. “Mom, please don’t worry. I know exactly what I’m doing. I spent years being the quiet, accommodating wife. I am done playing nice.” “But honey, you’re all alone in this…” “I’m a grown woman, Mom. He made his bed, and now I am making sure the whole world watches him lie in it.” After calming her down, I opened a delivery app and ordered myself an absurdly expensive, premium sushi platter. This show was just getting started. I needed to keep my energy up for the next act. By day three, I didn’t even have to brainstorm a new concept. Arthur handed me the material on a silver platter. First thing in the morning, the HR Director at my marketing firm called and asked me to come in immediately. When I walked onto the floor, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. My coworkers awkwardly averted their eyes, pretending to type furiously on their keyboards. I walked into the HR office, and the director was rubbing his temples, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. “Cindy, look. This whole situation with your personal life… it’s getting very loud.” I nodded slowly. “I understand. I’m sorry if it’s causing a distraction.” “It’s not just a distraction.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Arthur called the CEO this morning. He put the squeeze on us. You know our agency relies heavily on his company for our quarterly accounts.” I understood perfectly. I was the sacrificial lamb to protect the company’s profit margins. “So, what is the official word?” The director cringed. “The board wants to place you on indefinite unpaid leave. Just until the dust settles at home. It’s not a termination, officially. But… well, you know how these things go.” I did know. It was financial strangulation. Arthur wanted to starve me out until I deleted the videos. I looked the director dead in the eye. “Fine. I accept.” I walked out of the office, but I didn’t go straight home. I stopped by a local print shop. I scanned my official suspension notice, along with a copy of the front page of the vendor contract between my agency and Arthur’s corporation. Back in my apartment, I set up the camera in my study. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind me gave off a very rational, intellectual vibe. Perfect for dropping a bomb. I hit record and held up the suspension notice. [Day Three Apology: I am sorry. I apologize for being a regular person who actually needs a paycheck to survive.] [Because of my inability to handle my husband’s infidelity quietly, I have embarrassed his corporate partners. Namely, the agency I work for. Because of this, I was put on unpaid leave today.] [I have reflected deeply on this. If I were just a trust-fund baby who didn’t have to worry about paying bills, we wouldn’t be in this mess. So I want to apologize to Arthur once again. I am sorry that I failed to control my emotions, and I am sorry that I couldn’t even keep my own job. I know my sudden unemployment is a terrible look for you.] I looked dead into the lens and offered another stiff, mocking bow. The moment the video went live, the internet caught fire. 3 [Wait, WHAT? This trash bag of a man cheated, got caught, and then used his corporate leverage to get her FIRED?!] [This is pure evil. This is actual corporate bullying! Sister, do not back down. We are going to ruin his business.] [Arthur Harrington? Let’s find his LinkedIn. Let’s review-bomb his company. Make him bleed where it hurts!] The narrative completely shifted. It wasn’t just messy relationship drama anymore. It was a war against an abusive, corrupt executive. Right as I was reading the comments, my doorbell buzzed. I checked the security monitor. It was Arthur’s parents. Taking a slow, calming breath, I unlocked the door. “Cindy! Have you completely lost your mind? Are you going to drag our family name through the mud until there is nothing left?!” My mother-in-law shrieked the second the door swung open, pointing a shaking finger at my face. My father-in-law stood right behind her, his face purple with rage. “I always knew you were a mistake. Delete that garbage off the internet right now!” I walked over to the kitchen, poured two glasses of iced water, and set them on the coffee table. “I’m not the one dragging the family name through the mud. Your son did that all by himself.” “He had a momentary lapse in judgment! He’s a man under a lot of pressure. Men stray, it happens! Why do you have to be so hysterical and broadcast it to the whole world?” Her voice was so shrill it made my teeth ache. “Look at you. You have forgotten your place. A good wife supports her husband, she doesn’t destroy him!” Watching these two elderly people twist reality to protect their golden boy was genuinely hilarious. “Did he remember his place when he was taking her to a luxury hotel?” I asked, my voice deadly calm. “Did he remember I was his wife when he sued me? Did he remember I was his wife when he called my boss this morning and got my paycheck cut off?” They stood there in stunned silence. Realizing that screaming wasn’t going to work, my mother-in-law suddenly switched tactics. Her face crumpled into a mask of exaggerated grief. “Cindy, honey, I know you are hurting. But marriage is about forgiveness. If you keep pushing him like this, how are you two ever going to fix things and move on?” “Move on?” I stared blankly at her. “The second he handed me those lawsuit papers, this marriage was dead and buried.” “What do you want from us?!” She realized the soft approach was failing, so she resorted to full-blown theatrics. She dropped to the floor, slapping her thighs and wailing. “Lord, what did we do to deserve this nightmare of a woman? Where is the justice?!” I leaned against the counter, watching her performance with zero expression. Now I knew exactly where Arthur got his dramatic flair. Seeing that I was entirely unfazed, my father-in-law pointed at me. “Listen to me, Cindy. If you don’t take those videos down, we will take you to court for elder abuse! You are causing my wife severe emotional distress!” I let out a genuine laugh. “Please, go ahead. I would love to see the look on the judge’s face when you explain how you tried to intimidate your daughter-in-law to cover up your son’s affair.” Realizing I was a brick wall, they exchanged a nervous glance, scrambled up, and stormed out. Before the door slammed, my mother-in-law spat out one last threat. “You are going to regret this!” Not even an hour later, the main event arrived. Arthur used his old key to get in. He looked completely unhinged. The perfectly groomed CEO from three days ago was gone, replaced by a sweaty, frantic man with a loosened tie. I sat on the couch, staring at the man who had once promised to love me forever. He looked pathetic. “Cindy, what is your price to stop this apology crap?” He was desperate, grasping at straws. “Just name your price! How much cash do you want?” I slowly shook my head. He froze, his eyes darting around in confusion. “Then what the hell do you want?” I stood up and closed the distance between us. “My terms are very simple. If you want the apologies to stop, I need two things.” I paused, letting the silence stretch to make him sweat. “First, you will take my place. You will film a public apology to me.” “And you will post it every single day for the remaining twenty-seven days. You don’t get to skip a day either.” “You write the script. You film it. And the only topic allowed is how you betrayed me, how you destroyed our marriage, and what a coward you are.” All the blood drained from Arthur’s face. “Are you insane?” he roared. “You want me to publicly humiliate myself? That will destroy my career!” “Destroy your career?” I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “Did you care about my reputation when you sued me?” “Did you care about my career when you had my HR department suspend me this morning? Don’t stand in my living room and cry about your ruined life, Arthur. It’s embarrassing.” I watched him struggle to breathe, then offered my alternative. “Or, there is option B.” “You sign the deed of this house over to me. Today. One hundred percent ownership.” “And then you release a public statement admitting that you surrendered the property as compensation for your infidelity.” “Two options, Arthur. Pick one.” I didn’t wait for his answer. I turned my back on him, walked over to the armchair, and sat down.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453905”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At Nolan’s birthday party, I called off our engagement. He only offered a faint, dismissive smile. But his friends immediately erupted into loud laughter. “Since when did you learn to play hard to get, Audie?” One of the guys winked at Nolan’s childhood sweetheart, Hailey. “Princess, your turn to shine.” Hailey rolled her eyes playfully, walked over to me, and smiled. “Audie, don’t say things in anger. How did Nolan annoy you this time? Tell me, I’ll beat him up for you.” The routine was all too familiar. Every time Nolan and I had a disagreement, the moment she stepped in to mediate, he would swallow his pride. This time was no exception. He walked over with a helpless expression, not even bothering to ask what was wrong. “Okay, it’s all my fault. Stop making a scene, Audie. I really don’t want to get beaten up by her.” He exchanged a quick, knowing look with Hailey, a silent signal that said, got her. The laughter swelled around us, easily swallowing my quiet, building grief. I tilted my head back slightly, forcing the tears back from my eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Nolan. And I’m not making a scene.” As I turned, my phone buzzed in my palm. A flight notification popped up: Your flight departs in three hours. 1 My wrist was suddenly grabbed. “Come on, everyone is having a good time today. Can you stop throwing a tantrum?” I turned to look at his handsome face, feeling a strange sense of detachment. “I said, I’m not throwing a tantrum.” Hailey stepped in, wrapping her hands around Nolan’s neck from behind. “Who told you to make Audie mad? Believe it or not, I’ll choke you to death!” He laughed, letting go of my wrist to pull her hands down. “Alright, with your tiny arms? Please.” Hailey squealed playfully. “Nolan, you’re bullying me again! I’ll scratch your face so no one will want you…” Her fingers fluttered over his face, messing up his carefully styled hair. Laughter erupted around them. Ever since Hailey returned from Europe, this scene had played out countless times. No one in his circle found it weird. After all, in the years before I entered his life, they had always been this close. The passenger seat of his car had practically become her designated throne. The dashboard was cluttered with her cheap knickknacks. Nolan would complain about her terrible taste but warn me not to touch her things. Meanwhile, my things began to vanish. “Where’s the safety charm I hung here?” “Oh, Hailey said the color clashed with the interior so she took it down. I’ll ask her where she put it later.” He had completely forgotten. Three years ago, I had climbed ninety-nine hundred steps to St. Jude’s Chapel on the Peak just to get him that blessing. My legs were so sore I could barely stand for days. Later, when I asked her about it, she gave a careless shrug. “Oh, I thought it was some cheap street-vendor junk, so I tossed it out the window. My bad, Audie.” I had stared at her, unable to accept her apology. “It’s your fault for not stopping me!” she had laughed, nudging Nolan. “You’ve always been a hurricane, how could I stop you?” Nolan replied. Every single time, the script repeated itself. If I showed the slightest hint of discomfort, they would start roughhousing. Then someone would say how sweet and understanding I was, how I wouldn’t mind. My boundaries were slowly eroded until they ceased to exist. Even now, remembering it brought a dull sting of pain. Hailey smeared a dollop of cake frosting onto his hair. He merely laughed, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “The only one nobody wants is you, Hailey. I’m an engaged man, unlike you, still single after a tour of Europe.” He glanced down at me. “Look at my Audrey. Gorgeous, sweet-tempered. Nothing like a wild cat like you.” A shadow crossed Hailey’s eyes, but she instantly recovered, wrapping her arm around mine. “Audie, are you still mad about our anniversary the other day? I only called Nolan away because of a dare…” 2 I instinctively pulled my hand back. Her smile froze. That day, I had spent four hours in the kitchen preparing his favorite dishes. Seven years was a significant milestone. It meant we had survived the seven-year itch. If he had spent that night with me, I would have wiped the slate clean of all the times he ignored me for Hailey over the past year. But he didn’t. He hadn’t even sat down for a minute when Hailey’s call came. “Nolan, do you like me?” He smiled. “What kind of game is this?” “Our old spot in ten minutes. If you don’t show up, I have to take a penalty drink.” “You’re always a headache. Wait there.” He grabbed his keys. He didn’t notice the fresh burn on my hand from the stove. He didn’t see the light die in my eyes. “Nolan, when will you be back?” He paused for a fraction of a second. “Soon. Hailey got caught in some stupid drinking game, I have to go bail her out.” It was always the same excuse, and it always worked on him. At that moment, I realized that holding on any longer was just humiliating myself. “Alright, Audrey, it was just a game of Truth or Dare. I was just playing along. Besides, we have anniversaries every year, it’s nothing special. Making a scene over this is really childish.” Nolan’s tone sharpened when he saw Hailey’s awkwardness. But he used to be so different. He used to cherish every milestone. He would book my favorite restaurant a month in advance, plan elaborate lantern displays. “Every anniversary reminds me that I’ve been lucky enough to have you for another year, Audie. I’m the luckiest man alive.” Later, those grand gestures went to Hailey. “She’s been stealing my things since we were kids. It’s a bad habit she can’t shake. Audrey, we’re an old married couple now, we don’t need those silly teenage rituals. Besides, what’s mine is yours, why bother wrapping it up?” The tension in the room grew heavy. Someone tried to clear the air. “Audie’s too sweet to get mad over something like that.” “Yeah, Nolan, just give her a cuddle. If you don’t know how, let Princess Hailey give you some tips.” Hailey’s eyes welled with tears. “Audie, I’m so sorry. Nolan and I have just always been this way. I didn’t think about boundaries. I won’t do it again.” Her voice trembled, making her look like the victim. I hadn’t even uttered a word, yet the gaze of the people in the room shifted. “Audie, don’t blame Hailey. We’ve all grown up together, it’s not that serious.” “Exactly, we never had these issues before. Why are we suddenly talking about boundaries?” “If that’s the case, I guess none of us have boundaries.” “It’s Nolan’s birthday, everyone was having a blast, and now it’s ruined…” Once, Nolan had organized countless dinners just so I could fit into his circle. Now, he stood by, silently agreeing as they picked me apart. I had no desire to watch their play continue. “I’m sorry for ruining the mood. It won’t happen again.” I looked at Nolan, whose face had darkened. “The engagement is off. We’re done. There won’t be a next time.” As my hand touched the brass doorknob, Hailey suddenly lunged forward, pushing me aside, and ran out sobbing, her hands covering her face. “Hailey!” The crowd rushed out after her. In the chaos, I was knocked to the floor, my fingers stepped on multiple times. The fresh scrapes flared with pain, mingling with the sting of the old burns. Nolan turned back to look at me, his eyes filled with profound disappointment. 3 “She’s always had fragile pride. You deliberately brought up breaking the engagement just to hurt her, to paint her as the homewrecker. If anything happens to her, Audrey, I will never forgive you.” The tears I had held back finally spilled over. He walked away without looking back. I returned to our shared townhome, bandaged my fingers, and picked up the suitcase I had packed days ago. As I reached the front door, Nolan walked back in. His eyes fell on my suitcase, his brow furrowing. “Are we still doing this? Are you trying to drive her to the edge? Audrey, when did you become so utterly unreasonable? You used to be so understanding…” “Nolan, do you not understand plain English? I said we are over. What the two of you do is none of my business.” I tried to step around him, but he grabbed my arm. “Come with me to Hailey’s. She’s in a terrible state. You’re going to apologize to her, clear the air, and we can put this behind us.” “Let go of me, Nolan! I have a flight to catch…” Ignoring my protests, he dragged me to his car, locked the doors, and drove off. He hauled me into Hailey’s living room. She was curled on the velvet sofa, sobbing softly. Her friends surrounded her, wiping her tears, offering to take her on trips, while throwing venomous glares at me. “Stop crying, Hailey. I brought Audrey to apologize.” Nolan looked at her with pure tenderness. I kept my lips pressed tight. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Everyone was waiting for my submission. “Go on, apologize!” “Look at what you’ve done to her. Just say you’re sorry.” “Apologize!” I clenched my fists, my body swaying slightly from exhaustion. “I did nothing wrong. Why should I apologize?” Hailey burst into fresh wails. “Stop it, guys! It’s my fault. Audie has every right to be mad… I should never have come back…” Suddenly, a girl stepped out of the crowd and slapped me across the face. “She has never had to take this kind of abuse!” It was Becca. Two years ago, when she wanted to host her first art exhibition, she had begged me to bring Nolan to boost her profile, even tagging me in posts as “the future Mrs. Nolan” to draw a crowd. Nolan flinched when the slap landed, reaching out toward me instinctively, but Hailey’s renewed sobs pulled him back. I remembered how, when we first started dating, a tabloid had written a nasty article about my background. The next day, the publisher was shut down, and no one in his circle dared to speak a word against me. Now, they stood united against me, their faces twisted with satisfaction. “If I apologize, can I leave?” I asked, my voice flat. My pride had finally been ground into dust. Nolan nodded. “Once you apologize, everyone will move on. We can go back to how things were.” Back to how things were… I let out a hollow laugh. “Fine.” I gave Hailey a polite bow. “I’m sorry. I was petty, jealous, and malicious. I caused you distress. Please forgive me.” She blinked, wiping her eyes. “As long as you don’t misunderstand Nolan and me anymore, Audie.” “I won’t,” I said, looking at the floor. I turned and walked out. Nolan followed me to the porch. “I’ll drive you home.” “No need. Go back and comfort her.” He sighed. “This is over now. Don’t let it happen again, Audrey. I still prefer you when you’re sweet and understanding.” “Understood. It won’t happen again.” I went back to the house, rescheduled my flight to Sedona for the next morning, and sat on the edge of the bed with an ice pack on my cheek. I opened my phone and saw Hailey’s social media update from five minutes ago. 4 It was a screenshot of a group chat. I used to be in their circle’s group chat, but ever since Hailey returned, the main chat had gone dead. This was a separate group, one without me. [Becca: @Nolan, Hailey took such a hit today. How are you going to make it up to her? Don’t think a cheap apology from you-know-who cuts it.] [Nolan: Seven-day trip to Cabo. My treat, for everyone.] [Friend A: Wow! Classic Nolan. You’re the best!] [Friend B: Thanks to Princess Hailey, we get a free vacation!] [Hailey: Is Audie coming?] [Becca: Why would we invite that wet blanket?] [Friend C: Seriously, if she goes, she’ll just ruin the vibe.] [Nolan: She’s not coming.] [Friend A: Awesome! Can’t wait!] [Becca: She’s just green with envy because of Hailey.] [Friend B: You guys always said she had a sweet temper, but she’s actually so toxic.] [Friend C: Makes sense, she’s not from our world. She’s probably terrified Nolan will dump her, so she acts out.] [Nolan: Don’t say that in front of her.] [Becca: Nolan, you spoil her too much.] The screenshots went on for nine pages. I scrolled through them, feeling entirely numb. There was no anger, only a strange, calming sense of finality. Hailey’s caption read: And here I thought someone would choose his girl over his friends. My bad! Nolan had commented: Pack your bags, and don’t forget your essentials this time. Remember to bring your heating pad, your cycle is due. Hailey replied: I’m stealing all your sweaters anyway! What’s yours is mine! When Nolan returned home, I was still holding the ice pack. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I’ll be back in a week,” I said. “Okay.” I didn’t look up from my screen. I could feel his gaze lingering on me. “Audrey, aren’t you going to ask me where I’m going?” I looked up, my eyes blank. “What?” Nolan hesitated, then knelt in front of me. “Does it hurt?” It took me a second to realize he was asking about my cheek. “Oh. It’s fine.” I went back to scrolling through travel guides for Sedona. “I’m going to Cabo with Hailey and the guys. When I get back, we’ll take our engagement photos.” “Sounds good. Have fun.” “Audrey…” I let out a soft laugh at a travel video on my feed, typing a quick comment. Nolan stood up without another word and went to pack his bags. A few minutes later, he called out, “My flight is at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.” “Okay. Mine is too… I mean, have a safe flight.” That night, I curled up on the very edge of the mattress. Nolan wrapped an arm around my waist, whispering in my ear: “We won’t see each other for a week. Tonight…” I sat up abruptly. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood.” “Is it your period?” “Yes.” I lied. He had forgotten anyway. “Alright,” he said, his disappointment clear. The next morning at the airport, I spotted their group near the boarding gates. “Is our Princess happy today?” “How could she not be? Nolan left his future bride behind just to keep her company.” “Oh, stop it, you guys…” Nolan smiled, though he looked distracted. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with his call. “Audrey, it’s going to get cold this week, make sure to turn on the heater. Look over those dress designs, when I get back…” Just then, the airport intercom crackled to life: Passengers boarding flight 402 to Sedona, please proceed to gate twelve… The announcement played through the receiver and in the physical terminal at the exact same time. Nolan’s breath hitched. “Audie… where are you?” I raised my eyes, my gaze colliding with his across the crowded terminal. He was looking around frantically. Nolan’s eyes widened. I hung up the call, stepped forward, and handed my ticket to the gate agent. Suddenly, a loud shout echoed behind me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453921”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 I had just wrapped up a grueling week-long business trip out of state. The moment I was off the clock, I jumped into my car and sped back home to celebrate my mother-in-law’s birthday. But as I was sitting at a red light, something completely impossible happened. A string of glowing, semi-transparent text materialized out of thin air, floating right in front of my windshield. [Do NOT go home! If you walk through that door, you are a dead man walking!] [Your mother-in-law is going to fall off the balcony the second you step inside!] [Your fingerprints are all over her. You will be framed for murder, and your wife will take the massive life insurance payout to live happily ever after with your best friend, Marcus!] I froze. A few seconds passed as my brain struggled to process the absurdity of what I was seeing. But a primal instinct kicked in. I decided to trust the floating text. I was going to gamble my life on it. The light turned green. The car behind me honked. I slammed my foot on the gas pedal. I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right and drove my car straight into a massive concrete barrier on the side of the road. Today was Martha’s sixty-fifth birthday. My wife, Sarah, had told me she wanted to keep things simple and celebrate her mother’s birthday with a quiet dinner at home. So the second my business trip concluded, I hit the highway, desperate to make it back in time. I was cruising down the familiar streets of my neighborhood. I was only three intersections away from my apartment complex when it happened. The floating text had appeared out of nowhere, scrolling across my field of vision like a live chat feed on a streaming site. My jaw dropped. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me from the exhaustion of the trip, so I rubbed them hard. But the glowing letters remained securely anchored in my line of sight. They didn’t fade a single bit. The text kept updating, flashing frantic warnings at me. [Oh no, the protagonist is almost home! He is walking right into the trap!] [Dude, your wife is going to make up an excuse to leave you alone with her mom just to frame you! Do not open that front door!] [At exactly 7:10 PM, your mother-in-law will be pushed off the balcony! And you will go down as the prime suspect!] [Watch your back. Your so-called best brother Marcus has been sleeping with your wife. They planned this whole thing to get rid of you.] My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Why would Martha suddenly fall off a balcony? Why would Sarah and the guy I considered my brother want to frame me for murder? A million terrifying questions churned in my stomach, leaving my mind completely blank. Right at that moment, my phone buzzed on the center console. It was a string of texts from Sarah. [Hey honey, are you almost home?] [My boss just called. There is a massive emergency at the office and I have to go in to handle it right now.] [Just go ahead and cut the cake with Mom when you get back. I will head straight home as soon as this is sorted.] The moment I read those three messages, the blood in my veins turned to ice. Could this really be a coincidence? She chose the exact moment I was minutes away from home to conveniently vanish. If I followed the narrative hovering in front of my eyes, the second I walked through that door, I would be entirely alone with her mother. When Martha went over the railing, every single piece of circumstantial evidence would point directly at me. The fingerprints meticulously planted at the scene would be the final nails in my coffin. I could scream my innocence until my lungs gave out, and no one would believe a word of it. I did not dare to think any further. The implications sent a violent shudder down my spine. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but I didn’t type a reply. I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 6:40 PM. There were exactly thirty minutes left until Martha was supposed to fall. As the traffic light turned green, I made my choice. If this mysterious text was right about the setup, then I had to create a bulletproof alibi. I was going to bet everything on a crash. 2 As long as I didn’t step foot in that apartment tonight, they couldn’t pin this on me. I gripped the leather steering wheel until my knuckles turned white and took a deep breath. I pressed my foot down hard. The engine roared as the car lurched forward. I aimed the hood of my car directly at the thick, unyielding concrete barrier separating the lanes. A deafening crunch of metal exploded in my ears, and the entire chassis violently shuddered. A split second later, the airbags deployed with a concussive pop, pinning me firmly against my seat. My head snapped back against the headrest. A wave of intense, sickening dizziness washed over me. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my skull. My vision blurred into a dizzying mess. Soon, I felt a warm, sticky liquid trickling down my forehead. Through my half-open eyes, I could vaguely see a crowd of bystanders rushing over. People were pulling out their phones, recording videos, and dialing 911. A few figures wearing neon reflective vests pushed through the gathering crowd and rushed to my shattered window. “Sir, are you okay? Can you hear me?” A police officer’s muffled voice filtered through the cracked glass. I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t force a single sound out. Shortly after, paramedics loaded me onto a stretcher. Once I was absolutely certain I was safely inside the ambulance, I finally let my eyes slip shut and allowed myself to drift into a brief state of unconsciousness. When I arrived at the ER, the doctors quickly stitched up the laceration on my forehead. By then, my mind was much clearer. I quietly opened my eyes just a fraction and glanced at the digital clock mounted on the pristine white wall. It was exactly 7:00 PM. I closed my eyes again, telling myself I just needed to hold out for ten more minutes. While lying there, I mentally reviewed everything the floating text had revealed about their sick plot. It turned out Sarah and Marcus had been sleeping together for a long time. Sarah wanted to bleed me dry and kick me to the curb, but she could never find a legally sound excuse to ruin me in a divorce. To make matters worse, Martha had recently been diagnosed with early-stage dementia. To Sarah, her own mother was nothing but a financial drain and a massive inconvenience. So the two sociopaths hatched a truly venomous scheme. According to the original timeline, once they put me on trial, Sarah was supposed to cry hysterically on the witness stand. She would tell the jury that I physically and verbally abused her mother behind closed doors, claiming I had repeatedly wished the old woman would just die. She would successfully manipulate the media and the public. Thousands of outraged citizens would sign petitions demanding I be put on death row. The prosecution would then pull the security footage from our apartment complex. The cameras would clearly show me driving into the underground garage at 7:00 PM and taking the elevator up to the tenth floor. To make it worse, neighbors would testify that they heard me brutally screaming at Martha through the front door. Ten minutes later, a loud thud would echo through the courtyard as Martha fell from the balcony right on schedule. Dead on impact. With all that manufactured evidence, the judge would sentence me to the harshest penalty under the law. Meanwhile, Sarah and Marcus would eliminate the burden of caring for Martha, pocket a massive life insurance payout, and inherit all my assets while I rotted in a cell. Reading those floating words made my blood run completely cold. All this time, I had been sleeping next to a monster and drinking beers with a predator. I didn’t know exactly how they managed to fake the crime scene or how they planned to make my supposed arrival look so convincing. But right now, all I could do was wait patiently in this hospital bed. 3 Every single second of pretending to be unconscious felt like an eternity. It wasn’t until the clock ticked past 7:10 PM that I finally let out a long, silent exhale and slowly opened my eyes. Right on cue, the door to the curtained bay was pushed open. Seeing that I was awake, the attending physician ran a few basic neurological checks. Thankfully, my car had an excellent safety rating, and I hadn’t been going fast enough to cause fatal damage. I only suffered some minor lacerations and bruising. The CT scan of my head came back completely clear. A few days of rest and I would be perfectly fine. After the doctor left, two traffic cops in uniform walked in, holding clipboards. “Sir, how are you feeling? Are you up for answering a few quick questions about the accident?” I rubbed my bandaged forehead, putting on my best dazed and confused act. “Thank you, officers. I feel a bit better, just a little dizzy still.” I paused, pretending to struggle with my memory. “I was stopped at the intersection waiting for the light. My phone buzzed, and when I reached over to check it, my foot slipped and hit the gas pedal by mistake. Before I knew it, the car just surged forward.” The cops diligently wrote down every word. One of them looked up from his notepad. “We inspected the scene. It looks like a straightforward single-vehicle accident. Luckily, no other cars or pedestrians were involved. However, the city will likely bill you for the damage to the concrete barrier.” “Also, your front end is completely totaled. We already had a tow truck haul it to your dealership’s collision center.” I nodded weakly, forcing a bitter smile. “I understand. I will cover the damages. Thank you so much for your help, officers.” Sure, I lost a perfectly good car and my body was covered in bruises. But it was entirely worth it. There were cops, paramedics, and a massive crowd of eyewitnesses at the scene. They had unknowingly built me an indestructible alibi. The officer handed me back my phone. The screen was completely spider-webbed, but it could still turn on. I signed the accident report, paid my hospital co-pay, and hurried out the sliding glass doors of the ER. As I walked out into the cool night air, I checked the time. It was pushing 7:30 PM. I flagged down a taxi at the corner. But the moment the cab pulled up to the gates of my apartment complex and I pushed the door open, my heart sank straight to the bottom of my stomach.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453906”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My husband’s childhood sweetheart always had a knack for taking things that belonged to me. After being reborn and realizing I would only end up dead if I kept fighting her, I decided to put a clear price tag on every single piece of my personal property. Claiming she suffered from severe motion sickness, she insisted on riding in my husband’s passenger seat every single time. I simply pasted a laminated payment code on the dashboard with a note: Passenger Seat Subscription. Fifteen thousand dollars a year. Renewals get a twenty percent discount. When she took a fancy to my quarterly project proposal, my husband knocked on my office door to plead her case. I didn’t even bother looking up from my laptop. “Seventy-five thousand dollars. The moment the wire transfer clears, I’ll take my name off the cover page and put hers.” On our son’s birthday, I cleared my schedule and rushed to his preschool to pick him up. But when the teacher brought him out, he looked up and told her, “She is not my mommy. I am not going with her.” As we stood there in a tense standoff, his favorite aunt, Rosemary, arrived late, clutching the expensive toy I had personally bought and wrapped for him. Toby immediately threw his arms around her legs, looking up at his teacher. “See, Ms. Jennings? This is my real mommy.” My husband, Hank, stepped forward to explain, but I cut him off. I held out my hand toward him, my face entirely blank. “One million dollars, and I will sign the legal custody transfer papers today.” Hank stared at me in absolute disbelief. “Alicia, are you seriously taking your anger out on our own son?” he hissed. “He is only four years old! You need to stop this nonsense!” Toby flinched slightly at my words, but his face quickly flushed a deep, angry red. He clung to Rosemary’s designer coat even tighter. “One million is fine! I don’t want a horrible mommy like you anyway!” So that was it. In his eyes, the mother who woke up two hours early every morning to prepare fresh, organic breakfasts, the mother who turned down a major promotion just to have more time to tuck him in, was nothing but a horrible nuisance. Rosemary played the gentle saint, patting Toby’s head. “Toby, sweetie, I told you it’s bad manners to speak to adults like that.” Toby pouted, pointing a finger at me. “But she has bad manners first! When Daddy was spending time with you the other day, she kept calling and calling to ruin his mood! You taught me that we have to give bad people a taste of their own medicine!” Hank’s face suddenly went pale. “Alicia, that night was only because Rosemary’s car broke down…” I raised a hand, cutting off his pathetic excuse. “You spent our wedding anniversary with her. That counts as an extra service. You owe me for that, too.” Hank froze, looking at me as if I had suddenly transformed into a stranger. After a long, heavy silence, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an elegant black card, and threw it onto the concrete. “Alicia, when even your own flesh and blood can’t stand you, maybe you should look in the mirror and figure out what’s wrong with yourself.” He guided Rosemary and Toby toward his car, leaving me to breathe in a cloud of exhaust fumes. I didn’t argue. I simply bent down and picked up the sleek plastic card. The sharp corner bit into my palm, but the physical sting only cemented my resolve. In my past life, when Hank let Rosemary strip away everything I owned, I had sobbed, screamed, and clawed for my dignity. My hysterics had earned me nothing but his disgust. He had eventually even given away my mother’s burial plot to Rosemary, just so she could bury her golden retriever. In a fit of blind rage, I had slapped Rosemary across the face and demanded a divorce. I thought taking a stand would make him realize his mistakes. Instead, to punish me, he agreed instantly. He hired the most ruthless corporate lawyers to exploit every legal loophole, ensuring I was cast out on the street without a single penny to my name. Days after the divorce, I was diagnosed with acute cardiomyopathy. I was so broke I couldn’t even afford the ambulance ride, forcing myself to crawl to the hospital. Desperate to survive, I swallowed my pride and called Hank over and over. He never picked up. Instead, Rosemary sent me a voice note from his phone. “Alicia, you gave this man up of your own free will. There are no refunds in this game.” While waiting for life-saving money that would never arrive, all I received were photos of her gloating. In the final moments of my life, I stared at my phone screen, watching Rosemary lounging in my silk pajamas, wearing my favorite perfume, and kissing my husband on the fresh, clean sheets I had washed myself. Reborn into this life, I knew love was a luxury I couldn’t afford. But money, cold and hard, could keep me alive. I just hadn’t expected the son I had cherished so deeply to turn against me so easily. Before the cold sadness could settle into my bones, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was the hospital. “Ms. Archer, we have excellent news. A donor heart has successfully matched with you. We can schedule your transplant surgery for next month.” The news hit me like a physical wave. My knees buckled, and I had to lean against the brick wall of the preschool to keep from falling. This time, I wouldn’t die in a dark, sterile hospital corridor. The moment I hung up, a text from Hank popped up. “I lost my temper earlier. I know I promised you a proper wedding ceremony back then. The designer just delivered your custom gown to the estate. Why don’t you come home and try it on?” I didn’t reply, but I didn’t refuse either. When I married Hank five years ago, his family’s shipping empire had just collapsed. He was so poor we couldn’t even afford a simple registry wedding. Back then, I believed in his brilliance. I knew he would build his way back to the top and give me the dream wedding he always promised. But when he finally regained his fortune, Rosemary came crawling back, stealing his attention, his warmth, and my son’s love. The wedding I had waited half a decade for had never materialized. When I pushed open the front doors of our penthouse, the first thing I saw was Hank and Toby circling Rosemary, who was draped in the cascading white silk of my custom wedding gown. They were showering her with praise. Noticing my presence at the door, the smile on Hank’s face instantly withered. He walked over to me, reaching out to wrap an arm around my waist, but I stepped back. “Alicia, listen to me…” he began, his voice laced with practiced guilt. “Rosemary’s mother is in the final stages of cancer. Her dying wish is to see Rosemary walk down the aisle. Rosemary doesn’t have a partner, so I thought we could do a mock wedding first, just to give her mother some peace of mind. Your ceremony will just have to be pushed back a little longer.” I stared past him at Rosemary. The gown, which had been meticulously tailored to my exact measurements, somehow fit her shorter frame perfectly. Rosemary looked down, biting her lower lip in mock hesitation. “Hank, maybe we shouldn’t. Alicia has been looking forward to this for five years. I feel terrible.” She made a show of trying to unzip the back, but Toby lunged forward like a little bullet, slamming his small body directly into my stomach. “You mean woman! You’re just jealous because Aunt Rosemary looks like a beautiful fairy in that dress! Your stomach is all wrinkly like old tree bark, you look ugly in everything anyway!” The force of his impact knocked me flat onto the hardwood floor. A sharp, searing pain flared in my chest, leaving me breathless and dizzy. Seeing me curled up on the floor in agony, Toby shrank back, a flicker of guilt crossing his face, though he still kept his chin stubborn and high. Hank rushed over, trying to pull me up. “Toby! How could you push your mother like that?” His eyes fell on my midsection, where the faint stretch marks from carrying Toby remained, and a shadow of shame crossed his face. “Alicia, if you really mind this, I can find someone else to play the groom…” I shook off his hand and pushed myself up, dust clinging to my clothes. “I don’t mind,” I said quietly. I pulled out my phone and opened the calculator app. “On top of the venue and the dress, we need to factor in the rate for the wedding night. If you’re playing the husband, you need to pay for the full package.” Before I could finish typing the numbers, Hank slapped the phone out of my hand. It clattered loudly against the floor. “Alicia, are you insane? Toby is standing right here! Rosemary and I are completely innocent! I don’t know what kind of demon has possessed you to make you this greedy!” I looked up, meeting his furious gaze. “She wants to take everything I have, and I can’t stop her. Is it really a crime to ask for financial compensation?” Hank choked on his words, his chest heaving with rage. “I am not doing this with you,” he spat. He pulled out his phone, typing furiously. A second later, my phone vibrated with a bank notification. The deposit was massive. “I must have been completely blind when I married you!” he yelled. He grabbed Rosemary and Toby, guiding them out of the apartment and slamming the heavy oak door behind them. The noise echoed through the empty penthouse. I stared at the long string of zeroes on my screen, fighting back the hot tears stinging my eyes. When Hank and I started out, he had nothing. We used to share ten-dollar takeout boxes and live in a damp, moldy basement apartment. He felt so guilty about our poverty that he would take night shifts delivering food just to buy me the pastries and boba tea he saw other girls enjoying. Once, when I offhandedly complained about how hard it was to dry clothes in the damp basement, he spent half his monthly earnings on a small, portable dryer for me. When I caught him drinking cold tap water in the middle of the night to quiet his hunger, I cried, holding him tight. He had wept into my hair, promising me that once he made it, he would spend the rest of his life making it up to me. Yet every single promise he fulfilled was handed directly to Rosemary. And now, when I demanded the only thing that could actually save my life, I was told he was “blind to marry me.” I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to distract myself by scrolling through social media. But my feed was entirely dominated by Rosemary’s posts. Hank had taken her to the wedding planner’s office. The digital mock-ups of the venue she posted were the exact designs I had spent months curating down to the last detail. The wedding I had dreamed of for five years was being handed to another woman. I squeezed my phone, ready to block her account, when a flash of silver on her wrist caught my eye. When I realized what she was wearing, the blood rushed to my ears. I grabbed my keys, looked up her tagged location, and drove there like a woman possessed. “Give me my bracelet back!” I lunged toward Rosemary the moment I burst into the bridal boutique, reaching for her wrist. That bracelet was the only keepsake my mother had left me. For years, I had kept it safely tucked away in a velvet box, barely brave enough to touch it myself. And now, it was resting on Rosemary’s wrist. Before I could touch her, Toby threw himself in front of her, shoving me back with all his might. “This is my gift to Aunt Rosemary!” he shouted, blocking her like a tiny shield. “Just tell me how much you want! I’ll pay you right now!” He held up his smart watch, tapping the screen to bring up his digital allowance wallet. The sheer shock of it numbed the physical pain of my fall. I stared at my four-year-old son, my limbs turning utterly cold. “Toby, what did you just say?” Toby rolled his eyes. “I asked you how much. You sell everything for money anyway, don’t you? Name your price.” My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t draw breath. When he was barely old enough to speak, I had shown him that bracelet. I had told him it was the only piece of his grandmother I had left, the only thing keeping her memory alive. Back then, he had buried his face in my neck, whispering in his sweet, baby voice, Mommy still has Toby. Now, using the very smart watch I had bought him for his birthday, he was trying to buy my mother’s final keepsake to give to another woman. Rosemary made a show of slipping the silver band off her wrist. “I’m so sorry, Alicia. Toby told me you never wore it, so I assumed you didn’t want it anymore.” Hank, who had been discussing the catering details nearby, hurried over when he heard the commotion. Seeing Rosemary taking off the bracelet, he glared at me. “Alicia, what are you making a scene for now?” “It’s just a piece of old jewelry. Your wrists are too thick to wear it anyway. What’s the harm in letting Rosemary borrow it for a few days?” I lost all control. “It is my mother’s heirloom!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Rosemary, you steal everything from me! Aren’t you afraid my mother’s ghost will come for you tonight?” My scream drew looks from the boutique staff, making Hank’s face darken with embarrassment. “Give it back to her, Rosemary,” Hank said stiffly. “I’ll buy you a brand new one. Wearing things from dead people is bad luck anyway.” Toby chimed in immediately. “Yeah! Let Daddy buy you a bigger, prettier one!” With those words, he snatched the silver bracelet from Rosemary’s hand and flung it directly at me. “Don’t!” I shrieked. I scrambled forward, reaching out desperately, but my fingers only brushed the cool silver before it hit the tiled floor. It shattered into three jagged pieces. In that split second, a part of my own soul seemed to break with it. I fell to my knees, blindly gathering the sharp fragments, my tears splashing hot against the cold marble. “Stop making a scene,” Hank muttered. Seeing the blood dripping from my palm where a sharp edge had sliced my skin, he reached down to pull me up. “It’s just an object. Is it really worth all this drama?” I slapped his hand away with all the strength I had left, my eyes burning red. I reached into my bag, pulled out the divorce papers I had carried with me, and hurled them directly at his face. “We are done, Hank. We are divorcing…” Hank, however, barely glanced at the document, assuming it was another asset transfer agreement. He caught the papers, his face turning incredibly cold. “Alicia, so cash isn’t enough anymore? Now you’re trying to leverage my company’s shares?” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “You probably told Toby to throw that bracelet just so you could use my guilt to extort more assets from me, didn’t you?” He pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled his signature on the back page without even reading it. “You’re incredibly calculating, Alicia. I’ll sign it this once out of pity, but don’t think you can play this card a second time.” He tossed the papers onto my bleeding hands and walked away without looking back. Sitting on the floor, surrounded by the ruins of my mother’s keepsake, I let out a soft, hollow laugh. He didn’t realize there wouldn’t be a second time. I didn’t want him, and I didn’t want our son. For the next few weeks, I lived entirely in the hospital. The money Hank had transferred to my account was more than enough to cover the transplant surgery, the private suite, and years of post-operative care. With a new heart, I would finally put the tragedy of my past life behind me and begin again. On the morning of the surgery, as the nurses prepped me for anesthesia, the lead surgeon suddenly walked into the room, pulling off his sterile gloves. “I am terribly sorry, Ms. Archer. We cannot proceed with your surgery today.” My heart did a terrifying flutter. “What do you mean? Why can’t we?” Despite the expensive therapies I had been buying, my cardiomyopathy was advancing rapidly. During my brief hospital stay, I had suffered three separate cardiac episodes. The most severe one had landed me in the ICU for twelve grueling hours. Only my sheer, stubborn will to live had pulled me back from the brink. My body simply did not have the time to wait for another match. The surgeon looked incredibly uncomfortable. “The donor heart that was matched to you has just been reassigned.” I clutched my chest, panic clawing at my throat. “Reassigned? To whom? Is it a matter of money? I can pay double, triple, whatever they want!” The doctor avoided my eyes, pulling his surgical mask up as if trying to shield himself from my desperation. I swung my legs off the operating table, stumbling after him, my voice rising in a frantic pitch. “You know my condition! I won’t survive another waiting list! How can you just take it away? This is murder!” My screams echoed down the sterile hallway, drawing the attention of patients and staff alike. “Who took my heart?” I shrieked, tears streaming down my face. “Do the wealthy get to decide who lives and who dies?” The gathering crowd began to murmur in sympathy, and a sympathetic nurse quietly pointed toward the executive wing. I ran down the corridor, ignoring the nurses calling after me, only to freeze when I saw the figure standing guard outside the VIP operating theater. It was Hank. He was standing like a sentinel, blockading the doors. Rosemary, who was sobbing softly in a nearby chair, looked up and saw me. She immediately ran over, grabbing my wrists. “Alicia? Are you saying my mother stole your heart?” She sank to her knees, weeping against my shins. “I was wrong to take your things, Alicia. I’ll apologize, I’ll give everything back! Just please, don’t take this chance away from my mother!” Hank’s face contorted with disgust. “Alicia, just because your own mother is dead, you want to drag Rosemary’s mother to the grave with her? How can you be so utterly malicious?” My fingernails dug deep into my palms, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth as I bit my lip. “Hank, her mother has terminal, systemic cancer! A heart transplant won’t save her! Rosemary is doing this on purpose just to—” Before I could finish, Rosemary began frantically bowing, her forehead cracking against the linoleum. “I’ll give you all the money you want, Alicia! I’ll pay you back for the heart, just please let my mother live!” A cold sweat broke out across my body, my chest tightening so painfully I could barely form words. “I don’t want your money! I want my match! Give me back my heart!” “That is enough!” Hank roared, grabbing my arm and yanking me away from Rosemary. “You’re faking a heart condition just to spite Rosemary’s mother, using people’s pity to cause a scene in a hospital! Alicia, you have crossed the line!” He signaled the security guards, who quickly seized my arms. I thrashed against their grip, but my weak, oxygen-deprived body was no match for them. My heart began to beat in a chaotic, erratic rhythm, a crushing pain blooming behind my ribs. By the time they threw me out onto the asphalt of the hospital driveway, the suffocating grip of death was already closing in on me. I reached out a trembling hand toward the onlookers, silently begging for help, but the crowd simply sneered and turned away. “Disgusting woman, trying to steal a dying old lady’s chance at life. Still acting even now.” My hand fell limp against the cold pavement. As the darkness swallowed my consciousness, my final, fading prayer was that in my next life, I would never, ever cross paths with Hank again. Meanwhile, inside the hospital, the transplant surgery went ahead. Shortly after, Hank hurried through a hasty, lavish wedding ceremony with Rosemary. But as he stood at the altar, preparing to exchange rings, Alicia’s pale, sweat-streaked face kept flashing behind his eyes. She had looked so incredibly fragile at the hospital. “I’m sorry, Rosemary,” Hank muttered, suddenly pulling his hand back. “Let’s pause the ceremony here. Your mother is still heavily sedated anyway, she won’t notice.” Without waiting for her response, he tore off his boutonnière and walked out, dialing his assistant. “Check Alicia’s medical records at the hospital. Now.” Ten minutes later, his assistant called back, his voice shaking with terror. “Sir… the records show Mrs. Archer was diagnosed with acute, end-stage cardiomyopathy. Her transplant surgery was scheduled for exactly one week ago…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453922”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three months into our marriage, my husband, Alfredo, died in a horrific car crash. I was kneeling at his funeral, on the verge of fainting from sheer grief. Suddenly, a stream of glowing bullet comments flashed across my field of vision. [Don’t cry, girl! Your husband isn’t dead. The one who died was actually his older brother, Thomas.] [He only swapped identities because he was terrified his pregnant sister-in-law, Winnie, wouldn’t survive the shock of losing her husband.] [Even though he’s holding Winnie in his arms right now, his heart is actually secretly breaking for you.] [Once Winnie gives birth to his brother’s child, he’ll reveal the truth to everyone.] I stared at the man across the room, who was so carefully massaging my sister-in-law’s legs. A strange, cold clarity washed over me. I stood up, turned around, and walked straight to the hospital. “I don’t want this baby anymore.” 1 Three months into our marriage, my husband, Alfredo, died in a horrific car crash. I was kneeling at his funeral, my vision blurring, on the verge of fainting from sheer grief. It had been three days since the accident. My tears had completely run dry, leaving only a hollow, throbbing numbness in my chest. Beside me, my mother-in-law held her head in her hands, her loud, agonizing wails echoing off the walls. My hand drifted to my coat pocket, where my positive pregnancy test lay. I had only received the results three days ago. I was about to pull it out and show it to his mother when a row of glowing, translucent words suddenly flashed across my field of vision. [Don’t cry, Sienna! Your husband isn’t dead. The one who died was actually his older twin brother, Thomas.] [He only swapped identities because he was terrified his pregnant sister-in-law, Winnie, wouldn’t survive the shock of losing her husband.] [Even though he’s holding Winnie in his arms right now, his heart is actually breaking for you.] [Once Winnie gives birth to his brother’s child, he’ll reveal the truth to everyone.] My hand froze in my pocket. I slowly turned my head. Standing next to Winnie was the man everyone believed to be Thomas. He wore a crisp black suit, his face pale and exhausted. When he looked at me, his eyes held a deeply buried, agonizing tenderness. With that single look, my world fractured. The glowing text was right. The man holding Winnie, whispering soft comforts into her ear, was indeed my husband, Alfredo. 2 [Poor guy, watching the woman he loves suffer so much and unable to say a word…] [Well, Alfredo knows Sienna is strong and can get through this. But Winnie is fragile, plus she’s carrying his brother’s child.] [Don’t worry, Sienna. He’ll make it up to you later…] The comments continued to float before my eyes. I slowly forced myself to stand, but my knees, numb from hours of kneeling, buckled beneath me. Alfredo instinctively lunged forward to catch me, but he forgot he was holding Winnie’s hand. The sudden pull caused Winnie to stumble with a soft gasp. Alfredo immediately let go of his direction toward me, turning back to wrap his arms around her waist. “Are you alright, Winnie?” Winnie’s face flushed as she shook her head, whispering, “I’m fine. My foot just fell asleep, and I lost my balance.” Hearing her discomfort, a flash of deep worry crossed Alfredo’s face. “Don’t be foolish. You’re pregnant. Why didn’t you say something if you were feeling unwell?” Without a second thought, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to a padded chair by the wall. He knelt before her, gently sliding off her shoe, and placed her foot on his knee to massage it. “Is that better?” Winnie blushed, looking up at me with embarrassment. “Alfredo… I mean, Thomas, Sienna is still here…” Hearing my name, Alfredo froze. He stood up stiffly, his eyes darting toward me, wanting to say something. But my vision went black, and I collapsed onto the floor. 3 When I woke up, I was in the master bedroom of the family estate. The lights were dimmed. Alfredo and his mother were standing near the window, their backs turned to me, speaking in hushed whispers. “Alfredo, are you really going to keep Sienna in the dark?” my mother-in-law asked, her voice trembling. “You… you don’t still love Winnie, do you?” There was a long silence before Alfredo spoke. “That’s in the past,” he said, his voice flat. “But Winnie is too delicate, and she is carrying Thomas’s only child. I can’t risk her health. Sienna has always been strong. She will get through this. Once Winnie’s baby is born and I’ve settled her, I’ll tell Sienna the truth. She will understand.” A cold, sharp pain pierced my chest. I had met Alfredo when his relationship with Winnie was at its absolute worst. Winnie had just been announced as Thomas’s girlfriend, and Alfredo had treated her with such hostility that he refused to be in the same room as her. I had spent so much of our relationship trying to play the peacemaker, coaxing him to be kinder to her, wondering why he harbored such deep resentment. Now, the pieces fell into place. He didn’t hate her. He loved her, and he hated that he couldn’t have her. 4 Hearing his explanation, my mother-in-law let out a long sigh. “You’re right. Winnie is the one who is suffering the most right now. Go back to her room, Alfredo. She shouldn’t be alone. I will stay here and watch over Sienna.” “Okay.” Alfredo turned, throwing a long, lingering look toward the bed. I kept my eyes tightly closed, forcing my breathing to remain steady, while my fingernails dug deep into my palms. A wave of bitter nausea rose in my throat. I had been nothing but a second choice, a safe harbor. And all those times I had tried to comfort him and patch up his relationship with Winnie, he must have looked at me and thought I was a pathetic joke. For the past three days, I had blamed myself for his death. I thought he had died because he drove out in the middle of a storm to buy my favorite breakfast. It was all a lie, a carefully orchestrated performance to protect his true love. 5 The pregnancy test in my pocket felt heavy against my skin. I pulled the slip of paper out, staring at the black ink: Intrauterine pregnancy, approximately 6 weeks. This paper was supposed to be my saving grace, my light in the dark. But now, it was a mockery. Alfredo’s words echoed in my head, cold and hollow. Sienna has always been strong… I can’t risk Winnie’s health… I looked at the tiny, blurred image of the scan. I gripped the edges of the paper. Rip. One tear, then another, until the medical report lay in a dozen neat pieces in my hand. I dropped them into the wastebasket beside the bed. There was no room in this world for a child born of a lie, and there was no room in my heart for him anymore. 6 [Sienna, don’t be sad! He really does love you!] [He just wants to give his past love a safe, quiet closure. You should try to understand his position!] [Are you people blind? He knelt down to rub her feet. That’s disgusting.] [I feel so sorry for her. She deserves so much better.] Ignoring the comments, I stood up and walked downstairs. In the dining room, Alfredo was sitting at the table, carefully picking the bones out of a piece of fish and placing the meat into Winnie’s bowl. I sat down opposite them. My pale face immediately drew their attention. A flash of guilt crossed Alfredo’s eyes. He silently deboned another piece of fish and placed it on my plate. “Eat something, Sienna. You’ve lost too much weight.” Suddenly, Winnie let out a soft retch. Alfredo immediately pulled a napkin, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to guide her to the kitchen sink, helping her wash up without a single second of hesitation. I looked at my plate, the appetite completely gone from my body. My mother-in-law walked in, quickly placing a bowl of warm soup in front of me. “Sienna, drink some soup. You need to keep your strength up.” “Thank you, Mother.” I sipped the soup, but my chest remained cold. When Alfredo and Winnie returned to the table, Winnie looked at me, her eyes red. “Sienna, does it hurt to look at Thomas’s face? He looks so much like Alfredo. I’m sorry… I don’t want to make you sad.” My mother-in-law dropped her spoon. The sharp clink of metal against porcelain echoed in the quiet room. Alfredo kept his eyes on his plate, silent. “So, sister-in-law, are you asking me to leave the house?” I asked plainly. Winnie looked startled, her lower lip trembling. “No! I didn’t mean that at all! I only thought… if it were Thomas who died, and I had to watch Alfredo and you together every day, I would die of grief. I only wanted to care for you, but I’m so clumsy with my words…” Alfredo’s initial irritation at her words quickly melted into a soft, protective guilt. He was relieved. He was glad it was me who had to suffer this grief, and not his precious Winnie. “You’re right,” I said, putting down my spoon. “The living must move on.” “I am moving out of the house today. If I decide to remarry in the future, I wouldn’t want my new husband to feel uncomfortable.” The room went dead silent. Alfredo slammed his hand on the table, standing up so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. “Sienna! My brother only died three days ago!” 7 “And?” I looked up, my eyes meeting his. Alfredo’s hands clenched into tight fists, a sudden, sharp panic flashing in his eyes. I laid my napkin on the table. “Thomas, you don’t actually believe you have the right to demand I remain chaste for your deceased brother, do you?” He choked on his words, his face turning red with frustration. He couldn’t argue. To the world, he was Thomas. My mother-in-law quickly tried to play the peacemaker. “Sienna, where would you go? This is your home!” “Looking at Thomas’s face only reminds me that my husband is dead,” I said, standing up. “He is dead, and he is never coming back.” I looked at her, my expression calm. “Thank you for everything, Mother. But I am leaving today.” “Sienna!” Alfredo stepped forward, reaching out to grab my arm. But Winnie suddenly gasped, clutching her stomach as she leaned against the table. “Thomas… my stomach… it hurts a little…” Alfredo froze. His body reacted before his mind could, spinning around to catch her, his voice filled with a desperate panic. “Winnie! Where does it hurt? Should I call the doctor?” That was a level of concern he had never shown me in all the days since the accident. I didn’t look back. I walked upstairs to pack my things. 8 There wasn’t much to pack. I folded my clothes and packed my essentials, stripping away my presence from the room like peeling off dead skin. My mother-in-law followed me into the room, her eyes red as she took my hand. “Sienna, I beg you. For Alfredo’s sake, stay with us. Just until your sister-in-law gives birth, please?” “Does Alfredo really love only me, Mother?” I asked, looking her in the eye. She flinched, her gaze darting away. I let go of her hand, pulling the zipper of my suitcase shut. “Take care of yourself, Mother. From now on, pretend you never had me as a daughter-in-law.” I wheeled my suitcase out of the room. 9 In the living room, Winnie was resting on the sofa. Alfredo was kneeling beside her, holding a cup of warm water and speaking to her in a low, soothing tone. They both looked up when they heard the wheels of my suitcase against the hardwood floor. Winnie pushed the cup away, her eyes filling with tears. “Sienna, please don’t go. I didn’t mean to drive you away…” Alfredo stood up, his face dark with anger as he grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, almost painful. “Sienna! Stop this!” he growled, a faint trace of panic hidden beneath his anger. “Where do you think you’re going? You aren’t well, and you’re making Mother cry!” “Let go, Thomas,” I said, my voice empty. “Have some self-respect.” “I have my own life to live. I won’t stay here and be an eyesore.” “What are you talking about?” Alfredo’s voice rose. “Winnie is pregnant and emotional! Even if she said something insensitive, can’t you be the mature one? You used to be so sensible!” “Sensible?” I let out a dry laugh. “Thomas, my husband has been dead for three days. And you want me to be understanding toward a pampered woman whose every need is met? Her pain is real, but mine is just a tantrum?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453907”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel