Category: English

The night before getting my marriage license, I had a dream. A woman who looked exactly like me swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills with a pale face, then stared at me intently. I asked her in a trembling voice who she was. The woman smiled grotesquely. “I’m you seven years from now, Chloe. You’re a complete fool! Played like a dog by Ethan and Lily, and you’re willing to accept it all.” “The one Ethan really wants to marry is his foster sister. He’s only with you because the Johnson family won’t approve of them being together. Your marriage to him is fake, and you’re still overjoyed, taking care of Lily with him.” “You couldn’t even protect your own child, and ended up raising Lily’s child for six years.” “In the end, when Ethan’s parents died, they didn’t need you as their shield anymore. They kicked you out without giving you a single penny, and you had no choice but to swallow pills and kill yourself like me!” She finally coughed up blood that sprayed onto my face. I jerked awake, my back soaked in cold sweat.

The moonlight outside the window was like gauze, layer upon layer pressing down on me until I could barely breathe. I clutched my chest and took deep breaths for a while before I felt like I’d come back to life. Ethan, who should have been lying next to me in bed, was nowhere to be seen. The sheets were cold as ice. He’d been gone for quite a while. My mind still echoed with my future self’s desperate screams—that Ethan married me not out of love, but to use me as a shield for his affair with the Johnson family’s foster daughter, Lily. My heart grew cold. This was too much of a coincidence. Ever since Lily came home from college for break and moved into the new house Ethan and I shared, he’d been disappearing at night. I used to ask him where he was going. Ethan would smile and pinch the tip of my nose. “Just going out for a smoke. You have rhinitis and can’t stand the smell, and I can’t bear to make you uncomfortable.” The hand he reached out indeed carried a faint scent of tobacco. Usually at times like this, I’d be deeply moved, thinking Ethan was gentle and considerate. But now… I quietly got up, pushed open the master bedroom door, and approached Lily’s guest room, trying to hear something that would confirm the prophecy my dream-self had given me. There was no sound at all, only the hum of the refrigerator still running in the deep night. “Chloe, what are you doing?” A voice suddenly sounded behind me. I shuddered all over and turned to see Ethan standing in the shadows holding the inner pot of a rice cooker, his expression unclear. I clenched my fists to suppress my heart that nearly jumped out of my chest, and slowly spoke. “I had a nightmare and woke up scared. When I didn’t see you, I came to find you.” “Silly girl, dreams are fake.” Ethan chuckled lightly, walked out from the shadows, and stood in front of me with gentle eyes, raising his hand to ruffle my hair. “At dinner you said you wanted eight-treasure porridge for breakfast. I forgot to set it before bed, and only remembered while smoking in the middle of the night, so I rushed to program the rice cooker for tomorrow’s breakfast. That’s why I was late getting back.” “You go back to bed first. I’ll come back after I put the pot away. Don’t be scared.” I lowered my eyes and indeed saw rice with water added in the rice cooker. Because I didn’t like peanuts, Ethan had even carefully picked out the peanuts that came pre-mixed with the rice. Just a casual remark, yet someone had taken it so seriously to heart. My nose stung, and I felt very guilty. It was just a dream, yet I’d started suspecting my lover of having an affair with his foster sister. Ethan’s kindness to me was the kind that everyone who heard about it would envy. Whenever I needed him, he’d appear by my side immediately—whether I had menstrual cramps or when my car got scratched and a male driver stood outside my car pointing at my nose and cursing. I only needed to call Ethan. “Ethan, I’m so scared.” He would always respond with two words. “Wait for me.” So as long as I was with Ethan, I had endless security. He was also very generous with me. When gold prices were at their highest, I casually mentioned wanting a gold bracelet. The next day, that bracelet would appear on my wrist, along with a matching necklace and ring. When I said it was too expensive, moved, Ethan would hold me and comfort me indulgently. “As long as Chloe is happy, these pieces of jewelry have value.” And in my impression, although Ethan doted on his foster sister Lily, he’d always maintained clear boundaries with her. I’d seen their chat records—they were all very mundane, like his parents calling him home for dinner, or Lily wanting him to bring something home, ending with a “thank you.” When eating at the Johnson house, the shrimp Ethan peeled would first appear in my bowl, with Lily getting the second one. Even when alone together in the same room, every time I pushed open the door, I’d see them sitting far apart. I once jokingly teased them. “Why are you sitting so far apart? You’re not strangers.” Afterward, Ethan pulled me into his arms and explained carefully. “Men and women should maintain distance. What’s more, Lily is just my foster sister—I need to keep even more distance from her. Besides, wouldn’t you be jealous if Lily and I sat close together? Don’t tell me my little jealous baby wouldn’t cry about it later.” My heart warmed, and I pouted, saying I wouldn’t be jealous at all. Lily was also very polite to me. Every time we met, she’d call me “sister-in-law.” Even if she wanted to go out to eat alone with Ethan, she’d tell me in advance. So when she suggested staying at Ethan’s and my new house for a while during her break, I agreed without hesitation. Perhaps dreams and reality really are opposites.

I bit my lip, lifted my head to kiss Ethan on the lips, then nodded while yawning. “Okay, I’ll go back to bed and wait for you.” But the moment I closed the door, my legs gave out and I collapsed on the floor. After a long while, I raised my trembling hand. My fingertip brushed across my lips, where a bit of rose-scented lip balm stuck to it, sticky and nauseating. I didn’t wear lip balm at night, and neither did Ethan. Only Lily, because she was prone to cheilitis, would apply a thick layer of lip balm to her lips every night. That lip balm was even a birthday gift from me. I’d specifically asked Ethan. “What should I get Lily for her birthday? Give me some recommendations.” Ethan had answered without hesitation. “Lip balm. She has cheilitis and needs to use it often.” Then I carefully selected a rose-scented lip balm and gave it to Lily. But I never imagined it would end up on Ethan’s lips today. My heart felt like it was being squeezed. I covered my stomach and dry-heaved a few times, even bringing moisture to the corners of my eyes. But years of feelings still made me immediately reject my own thoughts. I shook my head frantically, murmuring to myself. “It can’t be, it can’t be.” Yet my body stood up and walked toward the master bathroom window, which was very close to the kitchen window. Usually it was closed, but when opened, you could hear sounds from the kitchen. I slowly placed my hand on it. After a long while, I finally worked up the courage to push it open. “Mmm~ Brother.” A suppressed moan reached my ears. The color drained from my face instantly. It was Lily and Ethan. “Lily, if you can’t hold back, you can bite my shoulder.” “Do you… do this with… sister-in-law too?” “Every night… ah… do you… bully people like this?” Lily was clearly being pushed too hard, her voice carrying a sob, yet she was still jealous of me. Ethan gave a muffled laugh. “If it weren’t to keep her from getting suspicious, I wouldn’t even want to touch her. Lily, you’re the only one I like. Once Mom and Dad are too old to control me, I’ll kick Chloe out.” No wonder Ethan only agreed to be with me once a month. No matter how I tried to seduce him the rest of the time, he remained unmoved. I thought he had a low sex drive, but it turned out he was using all his energy on Lily. The things I’d done in the past were like slaps to my face, drowning me in shame and humiliation. “Lily, we’ll be together forever.” Lily answered softly. “Okay, brother, we’ll be together forever.” I dug my nails into my palms until they turned white, yet calmly ended the recording on my phone. In my past life, they not only used me as a shield to avoid suspicion, but also caused the death of me and my child. This couldn’t just be forgotten. I lowered my eyes and stiffly lay back in bed. I don’t know how long passed before someone rustled into bed beside me. I forced down my nausea and kept my eyes open until dawn. Early the next morning, I went to eat the eight-treasure porridge Ethan had used as an excuse, sporting two dark circles under my eyes. The temperature was neither too hot nor too cold—just right for eating. Ethan was always so considerate, which was also why I fell in love with him and was willing to marry him. But this consideration had now become the sharpest knife, cutting me to pieces. I stared blankly at the food in front of me, forcing myself not to cry. “What’s wrong, Chloe? Are you not feeling well? Do you need to go to the hospital?” Ethan leaned over and reached out to feel my forehead. I instinctively dodged and lowered my head to make an excuse. “Last night’s nightmare kept me from sleeping well. It’s nothing, I don’t need to go to the hospital.” As I spoke, Lily opened her door and walked out, though her posture was a bit awkward. This time I knew the reason. Many times before, Lily would stiffen when I touched her. I used to think she didn’t like being touched by people, but now I knew it was because Ethan had loved her too intensely. I didn’t turn my head and continued picking up my chopsticks to stir the eight-treasure porridge in my bowl. Seeing this, Ethan immediately stood up and got a cushion, placing it on the chair. Through the reflection on the kitchen glass door, I saw Lily pinch Ethan’s arm in embarrassment. Ethan immediately raised both hands in surrender and gently rubbed her waist. Only then did Lily give a light huff and sit down. Everything was so natural. Their distance in front of me had all been an act. In places I couldn’t see, the two were intimate and sweet, like a pair of natural lovers. I couldn’t help it—a bitter smile appeared at the corner of my mouth, a self-mocking one aimed at myself. Mocking myself for being fooled like an idiot for so many years, dying unjustly in the end. Even my soul after death couldn’t rest, crossing time to warn myself in a dream to stay away.

“Sister-in-law.” Lily called me sweetly, looking completely innocent. No one would know that last night she was still jealous about her brother’s intimate moments with me. I gave a very light “mm,” and Lily continued speaking. “Sister-in-law, don’t be too nervous. Ethan is a good person. After you get your license today, you’ll definitely be happy together.” Her eyes looked at me brightly. “Mom said that tonight after getting the license, both families’ parents should have dinner together. Uncle and Aunt have already been picked up and brought to the house. Mom said sister-in-law hasn’t replied to her messages, so she asked me to tell you.” Mrs. Johnson. I’d almost forgotten about her, and remembered how more than once, she’d hinted to me. “Chloe, what do you think of Ethan and Lily’s relationship?” At that time, I couldn’t hear the probing behind those words and answered honestly. “Lily and Ethan have a very good relationship and are very proper with boundaries. Mrs. Johnson, your two children are both excellent.” She looked at me for a long time, staring until I felt confused, before nodding lightly. “Yes, they’re both excellent. Chloe, thank you for being willing to marry Ethan.” So she’d known the truth all along and had been testing me repeatedly. Knowing that her foster daughter and son had an unspeakable secret, she still couldn’t bear to send either of them away. Instead, she dragged me into this quagmire, ultimately leading to my death. I gripped my chopsticks tightly, then looked up with a gentle smile on my lips. “Okay, I happen to have a surprise I want to give Uncle and Aunt.” “Mm!” Lily nodded vigorously. After she finished eating, Ethan drove both Lily and me to the civil affairs bureau. When we got out of the car, Lily waved at us. “Ethan, sister-in-law, you go get your license. I’ll wait for you in the car.” Ethan nodded and told her not to wander off, then took my hand into the civil affairs bureau. When taking photos, he cupped my face, his eyes full of tenderness. “Chloe, I’m really so happy.” “We can be together for a lifetime from now on. Live together, die together, never parting until our hair turns white.” I looked into his eyes. My face was clearly smiling, but my throat was filled with countless bitter feelings, choking me until I could barely speak. I desperately bit my tongue to avoid showing anything unusual, and responded lightly. “Mm, never parting until our hair turns white.” Just not with me as the partner. The staff brought over two forms. I filled them out in order, verified them at the window, and Ethan helped me to a seat to rest. “Chloe, you don’t look well. I’ll go get the marriage certificates. Just wait here for me.” My hand gripping his sleeve tightened and loosened repeatedly. After a long while, I finally let go and smiled. “Okay.” I didn’t wait long before Ethan came back with two red booklets. I opened them to look—the official seal was clear, and the photo was the one we’d just taken. Very authentic. But no matter how real a fake looks, it can never be genuine. I lowered my head and suddenly spoke. “Ethan, I want to use the restroom. Can you wait for me in the car?” He agreed without hesitation. Only after I couldn’t see his back anymore did I return to the window with the marriage certificate, determined to see the final truth with my own eyes. I couldn’t give up until then. The staff member took what I handed over and looked at it carefully for a while before stating with certainty. “Although it looks very similar, this marriage certificate is fake. In the system, Mr. Ethan Johnson’s registered spouse is Miss Lily Johnson. Miss Chloe, I think you’ve been deceived.” The staff member looked at me with pity. I felt all the strength drain from my body and slumped in the chair, my face wet—tears were falling uncontrollably. Yes, I’d been deceived. My body felt like it had been torn into pieces by my feelings for Ethan. The pain made my face turn pale, but after the pain came relief and a sense of liberation. At least I wouldn’t be fooled again. The staff member quickly handed me tissues. I thanked them hoarsely, forced myself to calm down, used cold water to reduce the redness in my eyes, and then returned to the car. Ethan drove back to the Johnson house. Mrs. Johnson enthusiastically came up to me, holding my hand and praising me as a good girl. My parents stood behind, looking at us with relief. Mom even wiped the corner of her eye. My throat tightened—I felt I’d let my parents down. This dinner was destined not to go well. She pulled me into the living room. The table was filled with foods I liked to eat—you could tell the Johnson family had put in great effort. After we all sat down, Mr. Johnson raised his wine glass and happily announced. “From today on, the Johnsons and the Parkers are one family!” “In-laws, rest assured, from now on we’ll love Chloe like our own daughter and absolutely won’t let her suffer any grievance.” Mrs. Johnson said with a smile. “If Ethan makes you angry, Chloe, just tell us. Mom and Dad will back you up.” My parents also immediately stood up, smiling and nodding. “It’s Chloe’s blessing to marry Ethan. We just hope that in the future, the young couple will have a happy and fulfilling life.” Lily also congratulated me, but I heard a trace of jealousy in her voice. “Sister-in-law, happy wedding.” Ethan raised his wine glass, looking at me affectionately. “Chloe, from now on, I’ll walk the road ahead with you.” Everyone looked at me, their faces wearing real or fake smiles. Only I sat steadily in my chair, surveying everyone present, and gave a light laugh. “Uncle, Aunt, you’re calling the wrong person.” In the suddenly quiet air, only my voice continued calmly and unhurriedly. “Ethan’s legal wife isn’t me, but your other child—Lily.” As soon as the words fell, a moan came from my phone.

That suppressed moan was exactly what I’d recorded last night by the bathroom window. Ethan’s coaxing, Lily’s moans—in the silent living room, they were particularly jarring. Ethan’s face instantly turned deathly pale. The wine glass in his hand crashed onto the table with a clang. “Chloe! Have you lost your mind? Where did this nonsense come from!” He shot to his feet, his eyes filled only with panic and violence. Lily was scared into trembling all over, her face paler than paper. She grabbed Ethan’s arm hard, her eyes brimming with tears, her voice carrying a sob: “Brother, it’s not true. Sister-in-law is slandering us. We didn’t…” My parents’ faces turned ashen. Dad clenched his fists. Mom stepped forward and grabbed my hand, her voice trembling: “Chloe, what’s going on? Explain this clearly!” Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had also lost their earlier enthusiasm. Mrs. Johnson forced herself to stay calm and sternly rebuked me: “Chloe, stop this nonsense! Ethan and Lily are siblings. How can you fabricate such filthy lies and ruin their reputations!” I gave a cold laugh, released Mom’s hand, pulled the fake marriage certificate from my bag, and slammed it hard on the table. “Nonsense?” I picked up the marriage certificate and flipped to the page with the official seal: “At the civil affairs bureau earlier, the staff clearly told me this is fake! Ethan’s registered spouse in the system is Lily, not me!” I clicked on the recording on my phone again and continued playing it. The later content was even more explicit—Ethan saying “once Mom and Dad are old, I’ll kick Chloe out,” and Lily’s coquettish jealousy, all clearly audible. The living room fell into complete silence. The Johnson family’s faces turned alternately green and white. Mr. Johnson was so angry his whole body shook. He pointed at Ethan, unable to say a word for a long time. Seeing she couldn’t hide it anymore, Lily simply gave up, released Ethan’s arm, and cried out: “So what if it’s true! Brother and I are in love! If you all hadn’t disagreed, we would have been together long ago!” “Chloe is just a shield! A tool you use to deal with outsiders. Why should she get to stand openly by my brother’s side while I have to hide in the shadows?” Ethan stopped pretending too and glared at me viciously: “Chloe, since you know everything, I won’t hide it anymore. Lily and I truly love each other. Marrying you was just a stopgap measure. If you’re smart, you’ll bow out voluntarily. Don’t force me to be rude to you.” Looking at this pair of scum in front of me, I felt nothing but disgust. I raised an eyebrow: “Why should I bow out? You deceived my feelings, used me as a shield, even plotted to kick me out once Mr. and Mrs. Johnson died. Did you really think I was a soft persimmon you could squeeze?” I turned to look at my parents, my eyes reddening: “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry for disappointing you. I almost jumped into this fire pit. But please believe me—today I will get justice.” Dad patted my shoulder, his eyes firm: “Chloe, don’t be afraid. Mom and Dad are here. No one can bully you! The Johnson family deceived you like this—we absolutely won’t let this go!” Seeing this, Mrs. Johnson immediately softened her tone and grabbed my hand pleadingly: “Chloe, Aunt was wrong. We were confused. Please forgive Ethan and Lily just this once, okay? We’ll compensate you. Any amount of money is fine.” I shook off her hand: “I was deceived by you all for so many years. Can money make up for the feelings and sincerity I gave? Seven years from now, you drove me to swallow pills and kill myself. I couldn’t even protect my own child. How will you repay this debt?” This statement was like a thunderbolt, shocking the Johnson family speechless. Ethan’s face changed dramatically: “You… how do you know all this?” I didn’t answer him. I just took out my phone and clicked on the recording I’d prepared earlier. It was the civil affairs bureau staff member’s confirmation, plus the confession I’d just recorded from Lily and Ethan. “Today, either you publicly apologize and compensate me for my emotional damages, or I’ll hand over these recordings and the fake marriage certificate to the media and let everyone see the Johnson family’s true face!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “407872”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

My desk was occupied by someone else. On the last day of my maternity leave, I came to the office early to report back. When I pushed open the project department door, a woman with a ponytail was typing at my computer at my workstation. The desk nameplate had been changed. Three words on it—Vivian Moore. Below it was a smaller line: Project Director. Before my maternity leave, I had been Project Manager. I’d never heard this name before. **1.** I stood at the entrance to the project department, carrying the celebration cookies I’d brought for my colleagues. The nameplate was newly made—the plastic cover still had its protective film on. My personal belongings—my mug, photo frame, desk calendar—had been packed into a moving box and tossed in the corner of the break room. A sticky note on the box read “Emma Sullivan · Personal Items · Awaiting Pickup.” The handwriting belonged to Lisa, the receptionist. I didn’t touch the box. I turned and headed to HR. Rachel was inside. The company’s HR Director, in her early forties with pearl earrings, always spoke with a smile. “Emma! You’re here? Sit, sit, sit.” She poured me a glass of water. I said, “Someone else is sitting at my desk.” She smiled slightly. “The company did a restructuring in Q3. Your position was consolidated.” “Consolidated?” “The Horizon Project now reports to Vivian Moore. She’s our new Project Director. Your Project Manager position has been eliminated.” I stared at her. “The employment contract I signed before my maternity leave listed my position as Project Manager.” “Contracts can be amended.” Rachel pulled a document from her drawer and pushed it toward me. “The company has arranged a new position for you—Administrative Support Specialist. Take a look.” I looked down at the transfer agreement. Monthly salary: $6,500. Before my maternity leave, my monthly salary had been $18,000. I said, “My position is Project Manager with a salary of $18,000. It’s clearly stated in my employment contract.” Rachel’s smile faded. “Emma, let me be frank. You’ve been gone for 98 days. The company doesn’t support freeloaders. Projects can’t stop, clients can’t wait. During the three months you were away, the team has established a new rhythm.” She pushed the transfer agreement closer to me. “Administrative Specialist is also a formal position. It’s stable, no overtime, suitable for your current situation.” “What situation?” “You just had a baby.” She smiled. “Managing projects is stressful. What if your milk supply—” I didn’t let her finish. “When did I sign a position change notice?” “Well…” “When did the company consult with me about the transfer?” “We’re consulting now, aren’t we?” “Consulting isn’t notifying me of a decision that’s already been made.” Rachel’s smile remained, but her eyebrow twitched. “Emma, don’t take this so seriously. The transfer is based on the company’s business needs. Look over the agreement and consider it.” I didn’t take the pen. I pushed the agreement back, untouched. “I’ve considered it.” “Yes?” “I’m not signing.” I stood up. Before leaving, I took out my phone, opened the recording app, and pressed pause. The recording had been running since the moment I entered HR. This was a conversation I participated in. I had the right to record it. Walking to the break room, I crouched down and opened the box. My mug was still there. On the bottom of my cup was a small note I’d stuck there before my maternity leave—with the phone number of my college friend, Michelle Chase. Michelle, a labor attorney. During my third trimester, we’d had dinner and she said something: “If the company messes with your position when you return from maternity leave, call me immediately.” I’d laughed at her for being paranoid then. I dialed. She answered after three rings. “Michelle, I’m back from maternity leave. My position is gone.” “Did you record it?” “Yes.” “Did you sign the transfer agreement?” “No.” “Good.” Her voice was steady. “Photograph the agreement and send it to me. I’ll review it tonight and call you back.” After hanging up, I moved the box to the cabinet at the back of the break room. I didn’t take it with me. I walked back to the project department. The woman named Vivian Moore was still typing at my workstation. I didn’t look at her. I opened my phone and logged into the company’s project management system. Horizon Group Smart Logistics Platform Project—the project I’d led for eight months. I clicked on the project details page. The project lead section had a different photo. An unfamiliar face. Below it, the name: Vivian Moore. **2.** I sat in the coffee shop on the ground floor of the office building and took screenshots of the project system pages. Sent them to Michelle. Then sent another message: “I managed this project from initiation to contract signing. $3.8 million.” Michelle replied with three words: “Keep digging.” I opened WhatsApp and searched for the project group chat. “Horizon Group Project Team”—I’d been removed. When I tried to access it, there was only one gray line: “You have been removed from this group by the administrator.” I checked when I’d been removed. April 17th. Day 15 of my maternity leave. That was three days after I’d left the postpartum care center. My phone vibrated. Jenny. Jenny was a junior project manager in the project department. I’d mentored her for six months. Before my maternity leave, she’d helped me follow up on the final payment confirmation for the Horizon Project. The message was brief: “Emma, you’re back? Can we talk?” I replied: “I’m at the coffee shop downstairs.” Five minutes later, she came down. She sat down, stirring her coffee, not looking at me. “Emma, there’s something I don’t know if I should tell you.” “Tell me.” She opened her phone, searched for a while, then pulled up a photo and handed it to me. It was from last Friday’s project review meeting—a photo of the projection screen. The PPT cover read: **Horizon Group Smart Logistics Platform Project Review Report** The bottom right corner credited: Project Director Vivian Moore I said, “Scroll through.” She flipped to page 7. Client pain point analysis diagram. I’d drawn it. A month before my maternity leave, I’d worked from home until 2 AM, creating three versions in Visio before settling on the third. Flipped to page 12. Technical solution comparison matrix. Every vendor’s score, weight, and unit price—I’d filled them in line by line. Flipped to page 23. Project Phase II expansion plan. I’d written this during my last week before maternity leave. I finished at 3 AM. Contractions had already started. Every page had the same credit in the bottom right corner: Vivian Moore. Jenny didn’t dare look at me. “At the review meeting, Vivian presented everything. Deputy Director Anderson sat below, nodding the whole time.” “During the presentation, did she mention my name at all?” Jenny shook her head. “What about the others?” “Nobody mentioned you.” I handed her phone back. “Emma, what are you going to do?” “Can you do me a favor?” “Name it.” “The review meeting PPT—can you get me the electronic file somehow?” Jenny hesitated, then said, “It’s archived in the meeting system. I don’t have access… but I can photograph all the projected slides for you.” “That’s enough.” I continued, “One more thing.” “Yes?” “You’ve worked in the project department for six months. You followed the Horizon Project from initiation to contract signing. You know who wrote the proposal?” “Of course you wrote it.” Jenny said, “Every time we revised the proposal, you sent it to me to verify the data. I still have all the versions you sent in my email.” “Keep those emails safe.” “Emma…” “I’m not asking you to pick sides. I only need one fact—who created this proposal? If one day you need to tell the truth, would you be willing?” Jenny looked at me for three seconds. “Yes.” I got home, nursed the baby, and put her to sleep. I opened my personal email account. Before my maternity leave, I’d forwarded all Horizon Project correspondence to my personal email. Not because I anticipated today. But because after working on a project for eight months, these materials felt like a diary to me. I opened the first email. Date: July 6th, last year. Subject: Horizon Group Smart Logistics Platform Project · Initiation Application. Sender: Emma Sullivan. Recipients: Deputy Director Anderson, CEO Shaw from Horizon Group. This email was dated eight full months before Vivian Moore’s hire date. I opened the last email before my maternity leave. Date: March 12th this year, 2:07 AM. Subject: Horizon Project Phase II Expansion Plan (Final Draft). Sender: Emma Sullivan. Recipient: CEO Shaw, Horizon Group. CC: None. Three days later, I started my maternity leave. I sorted all the emails by timestamp and took screenshots one by one. Then I opened the photos of the projected PPT and looked for the file properties. Jenny had photographed carefully. The file properties showed one line: Created by: Emma Sullivan. Last modified by: Vivian Moore. Modified date: May 20th. Day 35 of my maternity leave. She’d changed my attribution, used my proposal, and reported my achievements. I packaged all the screenshots and sent them to Michelle. Michelle replied ten minutes later: “The evidence chain is basically formed. But I need you to confirm one more thing—can you still log into your company email?” I tried. Password incorrect. Tried again. Account locked by administrator. My heart sank. I immediately opened my personal email and searched for all the forwarded Horizon Project emails. They were all there. Not one missing. But the original emails in my company account were now inaccessible. Someone with administrator privileges had accessed my email. **3.** Michelle said, “You’re certain all the emails you forwarded before maternity leave are intact?” “All there. My personal email has complete forwarding records with complete timestamps.” “Good. Don’t make a fuss about the locked company email yet. You need to do something now—check your company email login records.” “I can’t log in anymore.” “You don’t need to log in. Log into the WhatsApp admin backend and check the operation logs using your employee ID. Your ID hasn’t been deactivated, right?” I tried. My employee ID was still active. I navigated to the company email operation logs. April 18th, 10:14 AM. Operator: System Administrator. Operation: Batch delete emails (filter condition: contains keyword “Horizon”). Number deleted: 47 emails. I stared at that number. 47 emails. From project initiation to contract signing, all correspondence. All deleted. The operator was System Administrator. Only two people in the company had company email administrator privileges—IT Manager Ryan Lee and HR Director Rachel. I took a screenshot. Then scrolled down. April 18th, 10:31 AM. Operator: System Administrator. Operation: Changed password for user “Emma Sullivan.” April 18th, 10:33 AM. Operator: System Administrator. Operation: Locked company email for user “Emma Sullivan.” Seventeen minutes total. Delete emails, change password, lock account. Day 16 of my maternity leave. That morning at ten o’clock, I’d been at the postpartum center changing my baby’s diaper. Michelle said, “Send me the screenshots. This operation record itself is evidence—it shows the other party deliberately destroyed your work trail.” “But the administrator privileges belong to the IT manager and HR. How do I prove who ordered it?” “You don’t need to prove who ordered it. You only need to prove two things: First, 47 work emails were deleted from your company email without your knowledge. Second, your personal email has complete forwarded backups with timestamps earlier than the deletion time.” “What does that prove?” “It proves someone systematically erased your work trail during your maternity leave. Combined with the position adjustment, project attribution changes, and salary reduction, this is a coordinated attack.” I put down my phone. The baby slept peacefully beside me. I picked up a pen and wrote a line in my notebook: “Day 15 of maternity leave: removed from project group. Day 16: email deleted and locked. Day 35: PPT attribution changed. Day 98: workstation gone.” Four timestamps. One line. This wasn’t “restructuring.” This was a pre-planned purge. The next day I went to the company. Didn’t go to the project department. Went straight to the IT department in the administrative building. Ryan was at his workstation. I didn’t mention the email issue. I smiled and said, “Ryan, I can’t log into the system after returning from maternity leave. Could you check my employee ID status?” Ryan clicked his mouse a few times. “Your ID is still active, but your email is locked.” “Who locked it?” Ryan hesitated. “It was an administrator operation. I can’t see from here whose directive it was.” “Did you do it?” He shook his head. “Not me. I was on a business trip for a week during that time. I gave my password to administration.” “Who in administration?” “Someone from Rachel’s team.” I didn’t ask more. I thanked him and left. Downstairs, I documented Ryan’s words in text, noting the date, time, and location. Sent it to Michelle. Michelle replied with one word: “Solid.” That evening, Jenny sent me a new screenshot. It was from an internal department group chat. Date: April 15th. Day 13 of my maternity leave. Deputy Director Anderson had posted a message: “All of Emma Sullivan’s project permissions are transferred to Vivian Moore, effective immediately. All future Horizon Group coordination will be handled by Vivian Moore.” Below, Rachel replied: “Processed.” Further down, Vivian responded with a “received” emoji. In the entire message chain, no one mentioned “whether Emma knows.” No one mentioned “handover.” Nobody @’d me. Because I’d already been removed from that group. **4.** I didn’t act immediately. Michelle said to gather all evidence first and not alert them. I spent three days doing one thing. I compiled all my work from the eight months before maternity leave. Every email, every version of the proposal, every client meeting minutes—I had forwarded backups in my personal email. 47 emails total. Additionally, I pulled up my SnapChat conversation history with CEO Shaw from Horizon Group. From our first meeting to contract signing, all communication was here. CEO Shaw had only worked with one person throughout—me. I didn’t contact CEO Shaw. Not the right time. I was doing something else. I looked up Vivian Moore’s hire date. The company intranet directory still showed it. Vivian Moore, hire date: March 8th. My due date was March 22nd. I started maternity leave on March 15th. Which meant— Vivian Moore was hired during my last week at the office. She was hired while I was still working at the company. I recalled the situation during that last week. March 12th, I sent the Phase II proposal final draft at 2 AM. March 13th, I had my last project briefing with Deputy Director Anderson before maternity leave. That day, Deputy Director Anderson said: “Don’t worry about the project while you’re on leave. I’ll keep an eye on it.” March 14th, I organized handover documents at my workstation. That afternoon, an administrator brought a new person to the project department. Ponytail, polite smile. “This is our new hire, Vivian Moore. She’s getting familiar with the environment.” I nodded at her. Didn’t think much of it. I assumed she was a new project assistant. March 15th, I started maternity leave. Looking back now— Vivian Moore hired March 8th. Deputy Director Anderson tells me on March 13th “I’ll keep an eye on the project.” I leave March 15th. April 15th—day 13 of my leave—Deputy Director Anderson posts in the group that project permissions are transferred to Vivian Moore. April 18th, my email is wiped. May 20th, PPT attribution changed. July 1st, I return. My workstation is gone. The entire timeline was crystal clear. This wasn’t a “temporary arrangement” after I left. This was arranged before I even left. I organized the timeline into a table and sent it to Michelle. Michelle sent back a long message: “This is worse than I anticipated. This isn’t simple maternity leave discrimination. This is premeditated position replacement. They arranged someone to be hired, waited for you to leave, then transferred permissions, deleted traces, changed attributions, and finally forced you to transfer or resign. The evidence chain is sufficient to initiate labor arbitration, but you still need one key piece of evidence—motive. You need to figure out Vivian Moore’s background and why Deputy Director Anderson would do this.” That evening, Jenny sent me another message. “Emma, I found something out.” “What?” “Vivian Moore used to be a project assistant at Prosperity Tech. The VP at Prosperity Tech is college friends with Deputy Director Anderson.” “You’re sure?” “Positive. At the department dinner last month, Vivian got drunk and said it herself. She said she got this job because ‘Director Anderson put in a good word.’” I closed my eyes. Deputy Director Anderson brought in his own person, pushed me out of my position, and used my project achievements to elevate her. I’d been set up. From the day I got pregnant.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “407873”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

“Congratulations, you’ve been optimized.” When HR said this with a smile, I was still trying to decide between a sandwich or salad for lunch. I’d spent five years at this company. N+1 severance. Out by the end of the month. As I was packing up my box, my mom called— “Perfect timing—you’re free now. Go collect rent from those tenants at our business park who are behind on payments.” I looked at my termination letter, then at the list of delinquent tenants she’d sent me. Third on the list was the company that had just fired me. Three months overdue. Eight hundred and seventy thousand dollars. I lit a cigarette and stood at the bottom of the office building, laughing for a good while. **Chapter One** “Congratulations, you’ve been optimized.” When Hayley Chase said this, the curve of her smile was precise enough to have been measured. Eight teeth showing. Exactly like the day she interviewed me five years ago. So this smile comes as a package deal, I guess. One when you enter, another when you leave. “N+1. Just finish the exit procedures before the end of the month.” She slid the agreement across the table, her fingernail tapping the signature line. “Sign here, Ethan.” I’d worked at Apex Interactive for five years. We specialized in short video content operations. After Series B funding, we never secured Series C. Translation: we were running out of money. “Optimization” had become the company’s most frequently used word this year. More than “let’s go,” more than “hit those targets,” more than the “conserve paper” signs in the bathroom. Last month, half of marketing got cut. The month before, customer service was completely eliminated. I’d always thought that as a five-year veteran, I’d at least be in one of the last batches. Turns out I was first. The door opened. Marcus Hayes, the Operations Director, walked in carrying an americano. His tie was impeccably knotted, his hair slicked back enough to use as a mirror. “Ethan, thanks for everything, man.” He patted my shoulder. His tone had that tragic quality of sending a comrade to his death. I glanced down at his hand. It was shaking. You patted my shoulder, you made the face, but the trembling hand is a bit much. A month ago, I’d pulled two all-nighters on a user growth proposal. He copied it word-for-word into his weekly presentation. The cover read “Operations Director Marcus Hayes” in 48-point font, bold, centered. My name appeared on page thirty-seven in the bottom right corner. Six-point font. Light gray. You’d need to zoom in 200% to even see it. He won Best Manager of the Quarter with that proposal. Twenty thousand dollar bonus. Not a cent of it came my way. Then at the layoff committee meeting, he was the first to raise his hand. His reasoning: “This position has low output. Eliminating it won’t significantly impact the department.” I knew why he was so eager to kick me out. Keeping me around meant keeping a witness. If I ever let something slip, the whole proposal situation would come out. “Just sign.” He crossed his legs and sat on the sofa. “The company’s compensation package is very generous. N+1.” I looked at the agreement. N+1, five years of service—theoretically six months’ salary. But after deducting perfect attendance bonuses, downgrading performance coefficients, and something called an “optimization contribution fee”— I’d get four and a half months. “What’s this ‘optimization contribution fee’?” I asked. Hayley didn’t even look up. “Company policy.” So I’m getting laid off and still have to pay into it? Should I thank the company for firing me while I’m at it? I didn’t argue. I picked up the pen. Signed. There was no point arguing. I’d seen this play out before. Back at my desk to pack up. The entire floor was as quiet as a morgue. About twenty people, none of them looked up. The clatter of keyboards filled the air as everyone pretended to be busy. An intern snuck a glance at me, got elbowed by the person next to him, and quickly ducked his head back down. Doug from the next cubicle reached over with his hand, a crumpled paper ball in his palm. I opened it. “BBQ tonight, my treat. Don’t be down.” Below it he’d drawn a pile of poop and a stick figure flipping the bird. I pocketed the note. With that artistic ability, his optimization is just a matter of time. I didn’t have much. A thermos, a dying succulent, a USB drive. Five years. This was all I’d accumulated. I carried the box toward the elevator. Passing Marcus’s office, the door was half-open. He was on the phone, voice low, but I could hear clearly— “Handled. No drama. People like that, just throw enough money at them…” I didn’t stop. When the elevator doors closed, I was alone inside. Walking out of the building, the sunlight made me squint. The twenty-six-story glass facade gleamed in the sun. The sign at the entrance read: Kingston Tech Park, Building A. Standing there, I felt like expired bubble tea that had been thrown out. Unwanted, but somehow not really a big deal. My phone rang. My mom. “Sweetheart! What are you up to?” “Just… got off work.” “Perfect!” Her tone was suspiciously excited, like she’d been waiting for this. “Your dad’s back is acting up. Some tenants at the park are behind on rent. Go collect it for us.” “What park?” “The one where you work! Kingston Tech Park! We own it!” I looked at the building in front of me. Then down at the box in my hands. “…Mom, say that again?” “Kingston Tech Park! Your dad bought it fifteen years ago. You rode a tricycle around the construction site when you were little! I’ve told you this eight hundred times, but every time you just go ‘uh-huh’ and keep playing video games—” “Wait.” I opened my messages. Scrolled to the family group chat, “The Shaw Family Circle.” Three days ago, my mom had sent a spreadsheet. My response below it— “Got it, thanks.” It was an auto-reply. I’d set up keyword triggers. I opened the spreadsheet. Delinquent tenant list. Seven companies total. Third row. Three months overdue, totaling $870,000. Company name: Apex Interactive Technologies, Inc. Legal representative: Richard Kane. I stared at that name for ten seconds. Then put down the box. Pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. Took a drag. Another drag. Then, cigarette between my fingers, I tilted my head back and looked up at that twenty-six-story glass facade— And laughed. I actually laughed out loud. Fired by my own family’s tenant. **Chapter Two** 7:30 PM. BBQ joint. Doug slammed two beers on the table, his face screaming “Bro, don’t be sad, Doug’s here for you.” I chewed on a lamb skewer and played my mom’s voicemail on speaker. “Your dad took you to see it when you were little! You drew Sun Wukong on a pillar in the Building A lobby with crayons—it’s still there!” “Don’t remember.” “Of course you don’t, you were only four. But the pillar’s still there! Go to the lobby tomorrow and look, third one on the left—” I paused it. Doug’s skewer dropped half its meat onto the table. He stared at me, mouth open, a piece of asparagus dangling from his lip. “Your… your family owns it? All of Kingston Tech Park?” “My mom says so.” “All of it? Not just a small office?” “All of it.” “Building A, B, and C? Plus the cafeteria in the middle?” “Plus the parking lot.” He chugged his beer. “Ethan, what the hell were you doing working at that company for five years?” “I only found out today too.” “Your parents didn’t tell you?” “They did.” I showed him the chat history. “My mom sent a voice message last year, forty-seven seconds. I replied with ‘okay.’” “Did you listen to it?” “No. Forty-seven seconds was too long.” Doug slammed his chopsticks on the table. “You deserved to get optimized.” Thanks, man. Really appreciate you giving me the most honest assessment at my most vulnerable moment. He spent five minutes processing this, chugging three beers before finally accepting reality. Then he leaned forward, lowered his voice, eyes gleaming— “So what are you going to do?” “Collect rent.” “And then?” “No ‘and then.’ My mom asked me to collect rent, so I’ll collect rent.” “You’re not going to get revenge? That bastard Marcus stealing your proposal—” “That’s separate. I’ll be a good landlord first.” Doug stared at me for a few seconds. “You’re scheming something.” “I’m eating BBQ.” That night when I got home, my mom had already prepared everything. Property deed, lease agreement, property management authorization—all neatly arranged on the coffee table. Next to them sat a bowl of white fungus and lotus seed soup. My dad was on the sofa watching TV, a medicated patch on his back. When he saw me, he said one thing— “Don’t be too aggressive collecting rent. Business is about relationships.” My mom shouted from the kitClark: “What relationships! Debts must be paid! You’re too soft—three months overdue and you haven’t said a word!” She poked her head out. “Son, when you go tomorrow, stand tall. You represent the Shaw family!” I flipped through the contracts and found Apex Interactive’s. Monthly rent: $290,000. Three-year lease, expiring next June. But they’d stopped paying three months ago. The contract clearly stated: consecutive non-payment exceeding two months gives the lessor the right to unilaterally terminate the agreement. I stared at that clause. Thought back to Marcus’s phone call in his office today. “People like that, just throw enough money at them.” I turned to page two of the property management authorization. It bore the seal of Shaw Property Management, Inc. The agent line was blank. My mom handed me a pen. “Fill in your name.” I did. As the pen touched paper, I suddenly found it oddly fascinating. Yesterday I’d been the lowest-level operations specialist in that building. Tomorrow I’d walk in as the landlord’s representative to collect rent. I leaned back in my chair, looking out at the night. “Mom, besides this park, do we have other properties?” “Sure, your dad has two mixed-use buildings in the south district. Why?” “…Nothing.” “Oh right, you know about your grandmother’s situation, right?” “Doesn’t Grandma run a grain and oil shop?” Two seconds of silence. “Well… sort of.” She carried a plate back to the kitClark, her voice fading. “Sort of.” That hesitant “sort of” gave me a vague sense of unease. That night I had a dream. I was in Apex Interactive’s lobby. On the third pillar from the left, there was a crayon drawing of Sun Wukong. The lines were crooked. Marcus stood nearby, holding a rag, trying to erase it. In my dream, I said one thing— “Don’t erase it. That pillar is mine.” **Chapter Three** The next day, 10 AM. I wore a white dress shirt, carried a briefcase, and stood in the Kingston Tech Park Building A lobby. Looked down. Third pillar from the left. Near the bottom, there was a faint crayon mark. If you didn’t look carefully, you couldn’t tell it was supposed to be Sun Wukong. It looked like melted ice cream with two legs. I confirmed it. It really was my drawing. Deep breath. Walked toward reception. The receptionist was Emily Lane. Started last year. I knew her. She knew me too. “E… Ethan?” Emily’s eyes widened, bouncing between my face and briefcase. “Weren’t you yesterday…” “Laid off yesterday, yes.” I smiled and handed her my business card. “Here in a different capacity today. Shaw Property Management Company. I’m Ethan Shaw, the property owner’s representative.” She took the card. Looked at it for three seconds. Looked at me for three seconds. “…You’re joking, right?” “Contract number JH-2022-A1703. Your company leases the entire 17th floor of Kingston Tech Park Building A. Monthly rent $290,000, three consecutive months overdue, totaling $870,000. I’m here to discuss this matter. Please notify Mr. Kane or whoever handles administration.” Emily’s hand hovered over the phone, frozen. Her expression was like watching a cat walk in and claim to be checking the water meter. “You’re… serious?” I placed the authorization and property deed copies on the reception desk. “Could you make the call? I’m not in a hurry.” Five minutes later. The elevator opened. Hayley Chase walked out in high heels, wearing her standard HR smile. But that smile, the instant she saw me— Cracked. Yes. Like a perfect mirror that suddenly went “crack” down the middle. “Ethan?” “Hi, Hayley.” “What are you… doing here?” “Collecting rent.” Her footsteps stopped. Her heel made a sharp “click” on the marble floor, then silence. I handed her the authorization. She didn’t take it. Her eyes focused on the header—”Shaw Property Management, Inc.”—then moved to the agent signature—”Ethan Shaw.” Read it three times. “This is…” “Your company’s overdue rent. Three months. $870,000 total. Per contract, consecutive non-payment exceeding two months gives the lessor the right to terminate. I’m not discussing termination today—just when you can settle the debt.” I paused, adding with a smile, “For now.” Hayley’s hand holding the document trembled slightly. Not from fear. It was that involuntary muscle response when someone’s worldview suddenly collapses. She opened her mouth to speak. The first-floor lobby was very quiet. Emily pretended to look at her computer, eyes practically flying toward me. Hayley took a deep breath. “Wait here. I need to… notify management.” She turned toward the elevator. Her heels clicked rapidly and erratically. Two steps away, she glanced back at me. That look was complex. Translation: “Are you seriously not messing with me right now?” I nodded at her. Expression sincere. She got in the elevator. After the doors closed, Emily finally couldn’t hold it in. She covered her face with a folder, peering at me from behind it. “Ethan…” “Yeah?” “Did you know yesterday?” “Found out last night.” She swallowed hard. “When you signed the exit agreement yesterday…” “I didn’t know.” “When you came to collect rent today…” “I knew.” She lowered the folder. Face flushed red. Couldn’t tell if she was excited for me or scared for the company. “Badass.” She said. Voice very small. But I heard it. **Chapter Four** Five minutes later, the elevator opened again. Hayley led the way, followed by someone else. Marcus. He strode over, suit crisp, chin raised—the same posture as when he’d patted my shoulder yesterday. Only difference: he wasn’t holding an americano. He was gripping a document. “Ethan?” He stood before me, looking me up and down. A smirk played at his lips—the kind of smile someone in power gives to a farce. “You got laid off and came back to scam us?” “Mr. Hayes.” I handed him the authorization. “Please review this.” He took it and glanced casually. Then a second glance. The second took much longer. “What is this?” “Property deed copy, property management authorization, my identification. Your company owes three months’ rent on Kingston Tech Park. I’m here on behalf of the owner to negotiate.” Marcus flipped it over to check the back. Flipped back to the front. His eyes bounced between “Shaw Property Management, Inc.” and “Agent: Ethan Shaw” at least four times. He laughed. But the laugh sounded wrong. “Your last name is Shaw, the company’s name is Shaw, so it’s your family’s?” “The name on the property deed matches my father’s identification. The authorization bears the corporate seal and notary stamp. If you have doubts, you can verify at the Real Estate Registry.” My tone was calm. Like presenting a PowerPoint—though all my previous PowerPoints had been stolen by him. Hayley stood nearby, hands wringing together. She interjected: “Mr. Hayes, this document… I did a preliminary check. It appears legitimate.” Marcus’s expression looked like he’d swallowed a live fly. And the fly was still buzzing. “Are you kidding me?” He stared at me, voice rising half an octave. “Fired yesterday, today you show up claiming this building is yours? If you’re going to make up a story, at least make it believable—” “Mr. Hayes.” I cut him off, pulling another document from my briefcase. “This is the lease agreement your company signed three years ago. Lessor: Shaw Property Management, Inc. Lessee: Apex Interactive Technologies, Inc., legal representative Richard Kane. Monthly rent $290,000, three months’ deposit plus one month advance.” I turned to the last page. “The seal here matches the seal on my authorization. You can compare them yourself.” The lobby went silent. Marcus stopped talking. The document in his hand was shaking. Subtle, but I could see it. Hayley stole a glance at him, then at me. Emily pretended to answer a call, holding the receiver upside down. About ten seconds of silence. The elevator chimed again. This time Richard Kane emerged. Mr. Kane. Apex Interactive CEO. Forty-five, slightly overweight, balding. Always wore a gray polo shirt. Today: gray polo shirt. As he approached, his face radiated that “I’ll handle everything” executive aura. “Hayley, what’s going on?” Hayley opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Marcus opened his mouth. Nothing came out. I answered for them. “Hello, Mr. Kane. I’m Ethan Shaw. I left your company yesterday. Here today about the rent. Your company is three months overdue, totaling $870,000.” Kane’s steps faltered. He looked at me, then at the document in Marcus’s hand, and took it. He read much more slowly than Marcus. Page by page. At the property deed, his brow furrowed. At the authorization, it knotted into a tight ball. He looked up. This was the first time in five years Richard Kane had truly looked at me. “Ethan.” Five years. First time calling me “Ethan.” Not “what’s-his-name,” not “that operations kid.” “Ethan.” “This matter…” He rolled up the documents, gripping them, and forced a smile. “Let’s go upstairs to talk. Not convenient in the lobby.” He turned toward the elevator. Passing Marcus, he tapped his arm with the rolled documents. “You come up too.” Marcus’s face turned ashen. I followed them into the elevator. The instant the doors closed, I saw Hayley’s reflection in the polished walls. She was biting her lip. Biting it white. Emily finally put down the upside-down receiver. I heard her murmur behind me— “Ethan, you really did come back from the dead.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “407874”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

The air in the suite was still heavy with the scent of expensive lilies and the lingering hum of the reception downstairs. It was my wedding night—the beginning of everything I had spent years dreaming of. But when I reached for my wife, she pulled away with a coldness that made my skin crawl. I thought she was just exhausted. The wedding had been a marathon of high-society expectations and forced smiles. I reached out again, trying to pull her into my arms, ready to make a joke to break the tension. “It’s actually pretty boring being with you,” she said. Her voice was flat, as if she were discussing the weather. She gestured toward the nightstand, where a box of condoms sat. My best friend, Dexter, had handed them to me earlier that day with a wink. “Before the ceremony, he and I were together all night,” Monica said, her tone light, almost conversational. “That box? It’s empty. We used them all.” The room seemed to tilt. I felt the blood drain from my face, but she wasn’t finished. “When I was late to the toasts? It wasn’t because I felt faint. We were in the dressing room for another round. That’s why my legs were shaking when I finally came out.” A small, reminiscent smile played on her lips. “To be honest, being with him is the only thing that makes me feel alive. He knows exactly how to handle a woman. He gave me a pleasure I didn’t know existed.” She looked at me then, her eyes sharp as glass. “Something you could never do.” Her words were like serrated blades carving through my chest. I stood there, frozen, my mouth opening and closing as my throat tightened, sealing off any sound. Monica sighed, a soft sound that held a hint of apology but far more relief. “Logan, I’ve said what I needed to say. Whether we keep this farce going or not… that’s up to you.” 1 I stared at her, listening to the casual cruelty of her voice. I forced every ounce of my remaining strength into three raspy words. “Why? Just… why?” Monica paused, her gaze drifting back to me with utter indifference. “Why what? Why did I sleep with him? Or why am I telling you now?” The silence that followed was suffocating. She let out a short, mocking scoff. “Logan, every time we tried, you always had an excuse. ‘Not in the mood,’ ‘Not feeling right.’ If you’re broken, is it really my fault for looking elsewhere? I wasn’t going to tell you—Dexter was worried about losing his ‘brother’—but three years is a long time to play pretend. Hiding every time we wanted to touch each other was getting exhausting.” My heart hammered against my ribs. “Three years?” Monica nodded, her expression thoughtful. Then, she let out a genuine laugh. “Yeah. Three years ago, at your parents’ funeral. After you passed out from crying so hard, we went into the room next door. It was the first time. We were so reckless I ruined my dress. You thought it was my period, remember? You spent the whole day taking care of me. You even hand-washed the silk, thinking you were being so sweet, not realizing you were scrubbing his fluids out of my skirt.” Seeing that malicious glint in her eyes, I reached my breaking point. I didn’t think; I just reacted. My hand swung out, and the crack of the slap echoed through the room. “Have you no shame, Monica? Have you no soul?” The despair felt like a black hole opening up inside me. It dragged me back to when I was eighteen. My father’s business had collapsed into a heap of debt and scandals. I watched him walk off the edge of a rooftop. I came home to find my mother being tormented by creditors—men who stripped her of her dignity until she, too, followed him into the abyss, dying right in front of me. I lost everything in a single night. The depression that followed wasn’t just sadness; it was a physical weight that crushed the life out of me. During those dark years, Monica and Dexter were my anchors. They were the ones who stayed. I worked three jobs, destroying my health to pay off the debts my father left behind. Every time I felt like I was slipping into the dark, Monica would hold me, whispering into my ear, “Don’t be afraid, Logan. You have me. I’m never leaving.” Even last night, she had called me, her voice trembling with what I thought was joy, calling me “husband” over and over. Remembering how raspy her voice had sounded on that call, the realization hit me like a physical blow. She wasn’t crying because she was happy to marry me. I was just the audience for their twisted foreplay. My stomach churned. I lurched off the bed, stumbling toward the bathroom, and began to retch violently. My strength evaporated. A shadow fell over me. Monica stood in the doorway, looking down at my trembling body. For the first time in years, she didn’t reach down to hold me. She just watched me, her face a mask of boredom. Finally, she pulled a tissue from the box and dropped it near my hand, like she was feeding a stray dog. “Clean yourself up. A grown man acting like this… it’s pathetic.” 2 The disdain in her voice acted like a trigger. I shoved the tissue away, my voice cracking. “Don’t touch me. We’re done, Monica. I want a divorce.” My vision swam with black spots. I scrambled toward the nightstand to find my medication, but my hands were shaking so violently that the bottle shattered against the floor, spilling pills everywhere. Monica chuckled, picking up a single pill and rolling it between her fingers. “Divorce?” she asked, her voice mocking. “Logan, look at yourself. You’re a wreck. Without me, without my family’s influence, you wouldn’t last a week in this city. You’d be back in the gutter where I found you.” Her eyes began to blur as my consciousness flickered. As I slipped into the dark, memories flashed like a frantic montage. The years of heavy medication just to keep my heart beating. The relatives who vanished the moment the money did. The funeral where no one showed up except for them. Monica, the spoiled rich girl who didn’t know how to boil water, had spent months learning to cook just to make sure I ate. When the medication made my hair fall out in clumps, she didn’t hesitate—she cut her own long, beautiful hair off to match me. And the last time I tried to end it all… when I stood on that window ledge… she had climbed out right next to me. “If you jump, Logan, I’m right behind you. I don’t want a world without you.” The sweetness of the past felt like poison in my veins. The image shifted—distorted. I saw them together, laughing at me. I bolted upright in a hospital bed, gasping for air. A muffled, rhythmic sound came from behind the thin curtain of the room’s partition. Groans. Whispers. I froze. I wasn’t dreaming. I forced myself out of bed, my legs like lead. I stood outside the heavy door of the private suite’s sitting area. The sounds from inside made the bile rise in my throat again. I pushed the door open and vomited right there on the polished floor. The room went silent. Dexter, fully dressed but with his shirt tucked in haphazardly, rushed over to help me. I looked up at him, my eyes bloodshot and stinging. I saw the marks on his neck, then looked past him at Monica, who was adjusting her skirt with a look of pure guilt. I swung. My fist connected with Dexter’s jaw, fueled by years of misplaced gratitude. “How could you?” I screamed. “You’re supposed to be my brother!” Before I could land another blow, I was shoved hard. I hit the floor, the world spinning. Monica was standing over Dexter, shielding him, her face contorted with rage. “What is wrong with you, Logan? Are you insane?” She frantically checked Dexter’s face for bruises. Dexter looked at me, then at her, his expression shifting to one of feigned regret. “Mo… you told him? I told you not to tell him.” He turned to me, his voice smooth and manipulative. “Logan, look, it was an accident. Just let me explain.” 3 “An accident?” I stared into Dexter’s eyes, searching for a shred of the friend I thought I knew. “Fucking my girlfriend at my parents’ funeral was an accident? Sleeping with my wife for three years was an accident? Monica said you were together all night—she was still on top of you while she was supposed to be changing for our wedding toast! Are you two really that desperate? That pathetic?” My words stung. Dexter’s face darkened. “Logan, we’ve been friends since we were kids. Don’t make this uglier than it has to be.” Monica let out a sharp, cold laugh. “Logan, watch your mouth. Don’t talk about ‘affairs.’ To be honest—” “Monica, don’t,” Dexter snapped, cutting her off. I looked at her, at the way she looked at him, and I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up. “Did I say something wrong? You two are the ones doing the dirty work, yet you want to keep your hands clean? I didn’t realize how truly disgusting you both were.” Monica snapped. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Disgusting? You want to talk about disgusting? Dexter and I might be a lot of things, but we aren’t so pathetic that we watched our own mother get ruined until she jumped off a building. You want to talk about ‘dirty’? Look in a mirror, Logan!” The world stopped. Dexter’s face went pale. He immediately grabbed her, covering her mouth. “Monica, shut up!” She realized what she’d said. She looked at me, at the way the light had completely vanished from my eyes, and a flicker of remorse crossed her face. She opened her mouth to apologize, but I didn’t give her the chance. I grabbed a heavy gift basket from the table—something Dexter had brought—and hurled it at them with every bit of strength I had. “GET OUT!” “Monica, watch out!” Dexter lunged in front of her. The wicker and glass shattered against him, slicing into his arms. “Dexter!” Monica screamed. Seeing the blood blooming through his shirt, her guilt vanished, replaced by a white-hot fury. She marched over and slapped me, hard. “You’re out of your mind! You know Dexter has a coagulation disorder! Are you trying to kill him?” Dexter held her back, playing the martyr. “Mo, it’s fine. I deserve it. He’s sick, don’t let him get to you.” His “noble” act made me look like the villain. It worked. Monica’s rage doubled. “Sick? He’s plenty strong when he’s attacking people! Why is it that everyone else gets better, but you just stay ‘sick’? You’re faking it, Logan. You just love the attention!” I stood there, paralyzed. Ever since I proposed to Monica, I thought I was cured. I thought I had finally found the light. I didn’t realize that to her, my survival was just a long, boring performance. “Ms. Thorne, Mr. Brooks is losing too much blood. He needs an immediate transfusion,” a doctor said, rushing in after hearing the commotion. “But he’s O-negative, and the hospital bank is low.” Monica didn’t hesitate. She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. “He’s the same blood type. Take it from him.” I tried to fight, but the Thorne family bodyguards were already there. They pinned me down and dragged me into a procedure room. A sedative hit my veins. My resistance died. Monica forgot one thing. Dexter had a clotting issue, yes. But after years of illness and malnutrition, I was severely anemic. By the time they were done, I was hovering on the edge of a blackout, unable to even lift my head. Monica never came back to my room. Instead, Dexter sent a flurry of “apology” texts in the middle of the night. I didn’t read them. I blocked his number. At dawn, I checked myself out. I limped to the city hall, the marriage certificate clutched in my hand. I couldn’t bear to be tied to her for another second. But when I handed the papers to the clerk, she looked at them, then at me, with a strange, pitying expression. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hunter. This certificate is a forgery.” I stared at her. “That’s impossible. We signed it three months ago. Monica Thorne. Look again.” The clerk sighed and pulled up the records on her screen. “Ms. Thorne is indeed married, sir. But her husband’s name isn’t Logan Hunter. It’s Dexter Brooks.” 4 I walked out of the government building, the useless piece of paper fluttering in my hand. I started to laugh, and the laughter turned into ragged, choking sobs. So that’s what she was going to say in the hospital. It wasn’t an affair. I wasn’t the husband being cheated on. I was the mistress. I was the side-show. I was the third wheel in my own life. I was wandering aimlessly when a black SUV screeched to a halt beside me. Two men jumped out and threw me into the back seat. Monica was there, her eyes red and swollen. “Logan! I told you to stay away from Dexter! Are you trying to destroy him?” She shoved her phone into my face. SCANDAL: Brooks Heir Caught in BDSM Affair at Funeral; Brooks Group Stock Plunges. The video on the screen was a grainy, hidden-camera shot. The background was unmistakable: it was the funeral home where my parents had been laid to rest three years ago. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Dexter’s father had a heart attack. The family had him whipped—he’s in the ICU right now! He worked for years to become the heir, and you ruined it in a second!” I stared at her, bewildered. I was so sick back then; I barely remembered the funeral. How could I have filmed anything? “You think I did this?” Monica’s fury spiked. “Who else would want to hurt him like this? You’ve pushed me too far, Logan.” She tapped her phone and sent a file. Then, she ordered the driver to the city center. “Dexter and I got married a year ago,” she said, her voice trembling with a cruel sort of triumph. “He’s my legal husband. Out of pity for you, he let you have the ‘wedding.’ He was willing to be the invisible man just so you wouldn’t break. And this is how you repay him?” “You like posting videos?” she hissed. “Fine. Let’s see how you like this one.” We pulled up to the tallest skyscraper in the city, the one with the massive LED screens. My heart stopped. On the giant screens, visible to thousands of commuters, a video began to play. It was my mother. The night of the bankruptcy. The men who had broken into our house were humiliating her, laughing as she begged for mercy. It was the deepest, most private trauma of my life. “Stop it,” I whispered. “Monica, stop it!” But she wasn’t done. The car sped toward the outskirts, toward the abandoned apartment building where my parents had jumped. Monica’s smile was demonic. “Since you love funerals so much, why don’t we visit them one last time?” Several of her family’s men were already on the roof. They were holding two ceramic urns. My parents’ ashes. “No! Stop! Please!” I tried to lunged out of the car, but the guards pinned me to the pavement. I watched, screaming, as they tilted the urns. A gray cloud of ash spilled into the wind, scattering over the trash and the dirty concrete of the alleyway. “Drag him up there,” Monica commanded. “Lock him in that building until Dexter wakes up. Let him think about what he’s done.” By the time they dragged me to the roof, the urns were empty. I fell to my knees, clawing at the dust and gravel, trying to find any trace of them, let alone a goodbye. I let out a sound that wasn’t human—a raw, broken howl of agony. In the car below, Monica’s assistant winced. “Ma’am… is this too much? He’s unstable. If he has an episode…” Monica scoffed, her eyes cold as she watched the building. “There are no ‘episodes.’ It’s just fake ash—I had the urns swapped. It’s a lesson. He needs to learn that for every action, there’s a consequence. Dexter is the victim here.” Her phone rang. It was the hospital. Dexter was awake. Without another look at the building, she ordered the driver to go. She spent the night by Dexter’s side, managing the PR crisis and ensuring the scandal was buried. Only when his vitals were stable did she finally relax. “The heat is off Dexter,” she told her assistant. “Call the guys at the apartment. Tell them to bring Logan here. He’s going to apologize to Dexter on his knees.” Just as the assistant reached for his phone, the hospital’s waiting room TV flashed an emergency bulletin. “Breaking News: A man has just jumped from the roof of the Willow Street Apartments. Witnesses say he was clutching two empty urns. The victim was pronounced dead at the scene. Viewer discretion is advised…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452016”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My best friend, Jackson, had been stood up by his bride-to-be, and there he was on his wedding day, tears streaming down his face, begging me for a favor I never thought I’d have to grant. My fiancée, Michelle, patted his shoulder with a confident smile, trying to soothe him. She told me they had grown up together, that their bond was thicker than blood, and that stepping in today was just a formality—a way to save face for his family. “Besides,” she’d laughed, her eyes bright and teasing, “we’re getting married next week anyway. Think of this as a dress rehearsal. We can get the jitters out of the way early.” Out of respect for our years of friendship, and despite the knot of unease tightening in my chest, I gritted my teeth and agreed. I had no idea that my fiancée, the woman who was supposed to be the maid of honor, would actually step into that white gown and become Jackson’s “bride.” At the altar, Michelle’s arm was hooked firmly through Jackson’s. The look in her eyes as she gazed at him wasn’t the look of a friend performing a favor; it was a raw, unshielded adoration I hadn’t seen in years. When the officiant asked if she would take him to be her husband, her “I do” was sharper, more certain than it had been when I’d proposed to her on a rainy night in October. I stood there, a glorified extra in my own life, telling myself it was just an act. Don’t be the jealous guy, Theo, I whispered to myself. It’s just a performance. The ceremony moved to the exchange of rings. Everything was going according to the script—until the officiant smiled and announced, “The groom may now kiss the bride.” The guests began to cheer and hoot. Jackson actually had the nerve to walk over and clap me on the shoulder first. “Don’t worry, Theo,” he whispered, a smug glint in his eye. “We’re just going to fake it. Camera angles, you know?” Like a fool, I believed him. But a second later, Michelle didn’t just lean in. she stood on her tiptoes, pulled Jackson down by his lapels, and lost herself in a deep, lingering French kiss right in front of everyone. … 1 The moment their lips met, the room erupted. It wasn’t a “stage kiss.” It wasn’t a peck on the cheek. It was a hungry, desperate entanglement of lips and tongues. I froze, the blood draining from my face until I felt as pale as the tablecloths. Beside me, one of the bridesmaids whispered, “Oh my god, are they still acting? That looks… really intense.” Intense. Yeah, that was one word for it. They looked like the only two people in the world. The applause thundered like a physical blow. Someone shouted, “One more!” Jackson finally pulled away, his face flushed as he glanced toward me. He looked like he was about to say something, but Michelle didn’t let him. She hooked her arm around his neck and pulled him back down for a second round. I looked down at my groomsman’s tuxedo, feeling the sheer absurdity of the situation. When the kiss finally ended, Jackson hurried over to me. “Theo, man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think she would—” He didn’t finish. Michelle grabbed his wrist, pulling him behind her as if she were protecting him from me. “Theo, it’s just a show,” she said, her voice ringing with a terrifyingly calm authority. “You’re the one who gave us the green light. Don’t take it out on Jackson.” She sounded so righteous, so logical, that for a split second, I felt like the one being unreasonable. Jackson chimed in, “Seriously, Theo. There’s nothing going on. Michelle loves you. You’re her world.” Her world? She knew how much this would hurt me, and yet she chose to devour another man’s mouth in a room full of our peers. I didn’t say a word. I threw the boutonniere I was holding onto the floor and turned, running out of the banquet hall into the biting afternoon air. In the past, Michelle would have chased after me. She would have apologized until she was blue in the face, begging for my forgiveness. But today, I stood in the cold for thirty minutes, smoking through two cigarettes, and she never came. Finally, I crushed the second butt under my shoe and walked back inside. As I passed the hallway leading to the bridal suite, I noticed the door was cracked open. A soft, rhythmic sound caught my ear. I stopped. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Through the gap in the door, I saw them. On the velvet sofa, Michelle and Jackson were a mess of limbs and white lace. Her gown was pushed up to her waist, her breath coming in jagged, rhythmic gasps. She let out a soft moan and playfully slapped his chest. “Jackson, are you crazy? What if Theo sees us?” Jackson didn’t flinch. He let out a low, dark chuckle. “Michelle, babe, we’ve been sneaking around for two years. If he was going to find out, he would’ve done it by now.” He gripped her hips, pinning her deeper into the cushions. “Besides, we just signed the papers. Is it a crime to sleep with my own wife?” Two years? Signed papers? I felt like I’d been plunged into a frozen lake. My lungs burned as I tried to draw air. Michelle didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I only signed those papers because of the baby, Jackson. I’m supposed to marry Theo next week, and I still haven’t figured out how to break it to him…” My fingernails bit into my palms, drawing blood. The baby. The pregnancy she’d announced three weeks ago—the one that had me crying tears of joy, the one that had me rushing to finalize our wedding plans. It wasn’t mine. Jackson leaned down, his voice dripping with a tenderness he’d never shown me. “We’ll just get a fake marriage certificate for the Theo wedding. He’s so gullible, he’ll never check the registry. Even after you marry him, you’ll still be mine…” “Careful,” Michelle whispered, her voice breathless. “Think about the baby.” “I’m being careful. I’ll be so gentle…” The sounds that followed—the wet, sickeningly intimate noises of a couple in love—made the world tilt on its axis. I stumbled back, leaning against the cold wallpaper, gasping for air. One was my best friend of ten years. The other was the woman I’d loved for five. The two people I trusted most in the world had been using the “best friend” label as a cloak for their filth. Eventually, they emerged from the room, hand in hand. When they saw me standing there, the blood drained from their faces. Jackson was the first to react. He rushed forward to grab my arm, but all I could see was the fresh, red hickey blooming on his neck. “Theo, look, I’m sorry,” Jackson stammered. “Michelle lost her head for a second, but I’ve already talked to her about it. I told her she needs to be more careful.” He glanced back at Michelle, a silent command in his eyes. “Tell him you’re sorry, Michelle.” Michelle stepped forward, putting on that sweet, pouty face she used whenever she wanted something. “Theo, honey, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking about how it would look to you.” I looked into her eyes. They were the same eyes that, just minutes ago, had been clouded with passion for a man who wasn’t me. I balled my fist, the rage finally overriding the shock. I swung at Jackson’s smug face, but Michelle was faster. She grabbed my wrist and shoved me back with a strength born of pure adrenaline. “Have you lost your mind?” she screamed. I didn’t fight back, terrified of hurting her—or the child I still, for some stupid reason, felt a protective instinct toward. I hit the wall hard, stars dancing in my vision. “Michelle,” I rasped, “is he just a friend? Tell me the truth.” 2 Panic flickered in Michelle’s eyes, but she smothered it instantly, replacing it with a look of offended confusion. “Are you seriously questioning me right now?” she snapped. “Jackson and I grew up together. Sometimes we get a little too comfortable, sure, but it’s not what you’re making it out to be. You’re being paranoid.” She wouldn’t admit it. Not even now. Looking back, the breadcrumbs were everywhere. I had just been too blind to follow the trail. Ever since I started dating Michelle, we were a trio. Everywhere we went, Jackson was there. She could never remember my birthday, but she always had a midnight surprise ready for his. I can’t eat spicy food—it triggers my ulcers—yet she always ordered the spiciest dishes on the menu because “Jackson loves the heat.” When Jackson felt a cold coming on, Michelle would tell him to take the day off work. When my stomach was cramping so hard I was curled on the floor, she told me to “tough it out” and reminded me not to be late for our board meeting. We had started our company together—the three of us. But after we went public, Jackson’s salary was mysteriously double mine. I’d complained. I’d been jealous. But Michelle always had the same answer: “Jackson has been in my life forever, Theo. He’s your brother. I can’t treat him like a stranger.” Brother? The way she looked at him wasn’t sisterly. It was the look of a woman who had found her home. Michelle told me to go home and “calm down,” practically shoving me into an Uber. But as soon as we reached my apartment, she didn’t get out. She kept the engine running. “Jackson’s bride leaving him really messed him up,” she said, not looking at me. “After that scene you just caused, he’s probably drinking himself into a hole. I’m going to go check on him for you.” She didn’t care about my state of mind. She didn’t care that my world had just collapsed. Her only concern was the man she’d just been tangled with on a locker room sofa. Once I was inside, I found myself pacing the living room like a caged animal. I stumbled upon a leather-bound journal tucked behind some cookbooks. Every page was a log of flights to London. Below the dates were her notes in cramped, neat handwriting. [Jackson moved to the London branch. I can’t breathe without him. I have to go.] [Three days in London. I told Theo it was a tech conference. In reality, I just needed to feel Jackson’s skin against mine.] I flipped to the entry from our three-year anniversary. My vision blurred with hot, angry tears. [I finally told him. I confessed. It turns out he’s loved me since we were kids. I can’t let him go. Jackson doesn’t want to lose Theo as a friend, though. He told me not to break up with him. I agreed. It hurts, but as long as I get to keep them both, I’ll play the part.] [We finally did it. Compared to Theo, my body just… responds to Jackson. He knows exactly how to touch me.] That night, on our anniversary, I had called her a dozen times. She’d declined every one. Finally, she’d sent a cold text: Busy. Stop bothering me. She wasn’t busy. She was busy sleeping with my best friend. I reached the last page. It was dated from three days ago. [Jackson tried to find some random girl to marry to keep up appearances. I told him no. He’s the father of my child. I won’t let him go. I’ll find a way.] Tucked into the back of the journal was a prenatal report. Under “Father’s Name,” the name Jackson Vane was printed in cold, black ink. I crumpled the paper, my fingers shaking. The day Michelle found out she was pregnant, she’d flown to London. She’d even given me time off work, telling me to “help Jackson with his wedding planning” while she “handled business.” She had orchestrated the “runaway bride” herself, just so she could have an excuse to stand at that altar with him. My phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Theo, honey! When are you and Michelle coming home? The whole family is waiting for the big day!” “Mom,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. “I’m not marrying Michelle.” Before she could protest, I added, “But don’t worry. The wedding is still happening. I’m just changing the bride.” 3 I spent the entire night reading that journal. Two years. Over a hundred flight stubs. Every single word was a testament to her devotion to Jackson. By sunrise, I was standing at Jackson’s front door. Michelle’s designer heels were in the entryway. The sound of light, melodic laughter drifted from the kitchen. Michelle, who had never cooked a meal for me in five years, was wearing an apron, stirring a pot of soup for him. Jackson wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. “You should probably go check on Theo. He’s definitely spiraling.” Michelle’s voice was cold, indifferent. “Why should I care if he’s sad? I’m the one who’s pregnant, and he hasn’t even asked how I’m feeling. He expects me to coddle him?” She sighed, leaning back into Jackson. “I don’t think I ever really loved him, Jackson. Not like this. Not in any way that matters. He’s just… less than you. In every way.” The words were a physical serration across my heart. Five years. I helped her build her company from a garage startup to a multi-million dollar IPO. And all it was worth to her was “less than.” The rage finally broke through. I didn’t think; I just moved. Before I knew it, my palm had connected with Michelle’s face. “It’s over, Michelle. I’m done. You two deserve each other.” Jackson jumped in front of her. “Theo, wait! You’re misunderstanding—” I threw the prenatal report and the journal into his face. “The baby is yours. You’re both disgusting. Why even pretend anymore?” Michelle slowly knelt to pick up the papers. When she looked up, her expression was terrifyingly calm. “So what, Theo? Our wedding is next week. If you bail now, how are you going to explain it to your parents? To the board? To the press?” Jackson looked down, his voice thick with fake guilt. “I’m sorry, Theo. I’ll take her to the clinic today. We’ll take care of it.” Michelle gripped his arm, glaring at me. “No! I’m not terminating this pregnancy.” She looked at me with pure venom. “Theo, let’s be honest. You’re the one with the ‘issues.’ It took us years and we never conceived. This baby is a miracle. You should be thanking Jackson.” She smirked. “I’ll play along for the wedding. It’s the least I can do. After all, with your reputation, who else would ever want you?” Jackson tried to cover her mouth, but the damage was done. I stood there, paralyzed. She had gone for the jugular. When I was nineteen, an ex-girlfriend of mine got pregnant. She was terrified, and the timing was all wrong. I did the “honorable” thing and went with her to the clinic. But when we got back to campus, the rumors started. People whispered that I was “unclean,” that I was a predator who got girls pregnant and then forced them into procedures. I was blacklisted, bullied, and spat on. I almost didn’t make it through those years. Jackson was the only one who stood by me. He was the one who pulled me back from the edge. And then he introduced me to Michelle. She claimed she never believed the rumors. She fought people who spoke ill of me. The day we went public with our relationship, the university was in an uproar. Why would the campus golden girl date a “tainted” loser like me? She had squeezed my hand and said, “Theo is the best man in the world. I want to give him everything.” I believed her. But now, the person who pulled me out of the abyss was the one kicking me back in. “Michelle,” I whispered, looking into her eyes. They used to be so warm. Now they were just glass. “You said you only believed in me. Was that all a lie?” She didn’t answer. Her silence was the loudest thing in the room. Jackson saw the look on my face—the look of a man who had nothing left to lose—and he panicked. “Theo, don’t listen to her, she’s just upset—” He reached out to grab my shoulder, and I shoved him away with every ounce of strength I had left. He tripped, his head slamming into the corner of the marble dining table. He collapsed, clutching his bleeding forehead, his face going ghostly white. Before I could even process what happened, a force slammed into me. Michelle shoved me against the table. A glass vase shattered under my weight. Shards of glass sliced into my palm, but I didn’t feel the pain. She rushed to Jackson, cradling his head, screaming at me. “If anything happens to him, Theo, I will destroy you! And don’t even think about the wedding. It’s off! You’re nothing without me!” She didn’t look back as she helped him out the door. I stayed there, kneeling in the mess of glass and blood. Michelle didn’t realize one thing. Even without her, the wedding was going to happen. 4 I flew back to the city that night. As soon as I landed, I sent a text to a number I hadn’t dialed in years: I’m back. Let’s get the license tomorrow. The reply came instantly: Okay. Michelle had dumped all the wedding planning on me months ago. She said she was too busy with “work,” and told me to make all the executive decisions. So, I did. I changed the name on the marriage license. The morning of the wedding, I was in my tuxedo, heading downstairs to the car. A black sedan was idling at the curb. Michelle stepped out, holding a bouquet of red roses. Her expression was softer than it had been, almost nervous. “Theo, look. About the other day… I was out of line. I’ll do whatever you want today. I’ll be the perfect bride, okay? Let’s just get through this.” Before I could speak, she added her terms. “But you have to promise me you won’t make things hard for Jackson. He’s still your best friend, even if we messed up. We can still be a family… the three of us.” She said it like she was doing me a favor. Like she was a queen granting a pardon. I just shook my head slowly. “No thanks, Michelle.” She assumed I was just being stubborn. She grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me toward the car. “Come on, Theo. Don’t be a child.” “Michelle, let go—” She didn’t listen. She signaled to her driver to help her force me into the back seat. I pounded on the window. “Michelle, what the hell are you doing? Let me out!” “Theo, it’s our wedding day! Do you really want to make a scene?” “You don’t understand, Michelle. The bride isn’t—” My words were cut off by the shrill ring of her phone. Jackson’s voice, panicked and weak, filled the car. “Michelle… I’ve been in a wreck. I don’t think I’m going to make it to the ceremony…” Michelle’s entire demeanor shifted. The color drained from her face. “I’m coming! Hang on!” She slammed the car into gear and pulled a jagged U-turn, flooring the accelerator. Rage and grief boiled in my throat. I hammered on the glass until my knuckles were raw and bloody. “Michelle, let me out! I have a wedding to get to!” She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. “Jackson might be dying and you’re worried about a party? The wedding is canceled, Theo! How can you be so cold-blooded when your best friend is hurt?” I stared at her, my voice rasping. “I don’t care if he’s dead or alive, Michelle.” She didn’t say another word. She just pushed the car faster. The speedometer hit 80, then 90. She took a sharp turn, and my head slammed against the window. Blood started to trickle down my forehead. She glanced at me, but she didn’t slow down. “I told you to sit still! Stop acting like a psycho!” The world was turning red as blood ran into my eye. The speedometer hit 110. Desperation is a powerful thing. It makes the impossible seem like the only option. “You aren’t going to let me out, are you?” I whispered. “Not until we see Jackson. And when we do, you’re going to apologize to him.” I took a deep breath and reached for the door handle. “Theo, what are you—” I didn’t give her time to finish. I threw the door open. The roar of the wind filled the cabin, whipping my suit jacket around. Michelle’s eyes went wide with pure terror. “Theo, don’t!” I jumped. For a second, I was weightless. Then, the world became a symphony of pain and screaming wind, followed by the distant, haunting sound of Michelle’s voice. “THEO!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452017”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was only when the invisible hand of grief tightened around my heart that I realized the crushing weight of the ultrasound report I’d been trying so hard to ignore. My wife and daughter were famous for their icy temperaments—polished, professional, and emotionally distant. When the news of a third child arrived, I allowed myself to hope. I thought, finally, the frost in our home might thaw. During dinner, my daughter, Sophie, leaned over and whispered in my ear, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Dad, I’m going to have a little brother.” I looked at my wife, Isabelle, and her slightly rounded stomach. I suppressed the urge to grin, pretending I was hearing this “surprise” for the first time. I was ready to celebrate, ready to tell her how happy I was. But before I could speak, Isabelle’s voice cut through the air, cool and clinical. “The child isn’t yours.” She set her fork down with a delicate click. “The amniocentesis results came back yesterday. It’s a boy.” She added, with a nonchalance that made my blood run cold: “A younger man’s genes are simply superior. The child will be sharper, more resilient. It’s better for the family legacy.” The words felt like shards of ice driven into my chest. I sat there, paralyzed, my hand still hovering over my wine glass. The warm, domestic future I’d been picturing—the “happily ever after” I’d spent fifteen years building—was nothing more than a carefully constructed lie. … “Why?” I forced the word out, my voice cracking under the weight of a decade and a half of devotion. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Isabelle, the woman I had loved since we were penniless students, was casually announcing her infidelity over a steak dinner. She didn’t look away. She never did. “Six months ago, at that gala in the Hamptons. Someone spiked my drink. I ended up spending the night with a college kid.” “I took the morning-after pill, obviously,” she continued, a faint, almost predatory smile touching her lips. “But apparently, his constitution was too strong. I conceived anyway.” She looked at our daughter. “When Sophie heard it was a boy, she begged me to keep him. You have no idea how happy she was that day, Daniel.” Isabelle’s laugh was light, melodic. To me, it sounded like a funeral dirge. I turned to Sophie, expecting to see a shred of guilt or confusion on her face. Instead, she looked at me with the same detached calculation as her mother. “I’ve always wanted a brother,” Sophie said firmly. “I don’t care who the father is, as long as he’s Mom’s.” I felt a sickening vertigo. My wife, who I thought loved me more than life itself; my daughter, who I had raised with every ounce of my soul—how could they turn into strangers in a single heartbeat? Isabelle sighed, pulling a silk handkerchief from her pocket and offering it to me. “Don’t be dramatic, Dan. People in our circles… this happens. I thought you were more sophisticated than this.” “Don’t worry,” she added, as if she were discussing a business merger. “Once the baby is born, I’ll set the boy up with a trust and send him abroad. He won’t threaten your position in this house.” I shoved her hand away. Yesterday, I was the man everyone envied. The loyal husband to a titan of industry. The father to a child prodigy who was already being scouted by Ivy League recruiters. Today, the floor had dropped out from under me. “This isn’t real,” I whispered, rubbing my eyes until they burned. “This is some kind of sick joke.” Isabelle reached out, pinching my chin and forcing me to look at her as she wiped a stray tear from my cheek. “Enough, Daniel. Only a few close friends know. To the rest of the world, you’re still the father. You’ll always be my husband. I promise. Okay?” It felt like a slap. The fog in my brain suddenly cleared, replaced by a sharp, jagged reality. My gaze fell on the ultrasound photo—the tiny life that represented my utter humiliation. When Isabelle tried to pull me into a compensatory hug, I recoiled, shoving her back with a force that surprised us both. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me! You’re disgusting!” She held up her hands, stepping back with a frown. “Fine. I’ll give you space. Maybe Sophie can talk some sense into you?” Tears hit the back of my hand. I stood up so abruptly I sent my chair flying, then gripped the edge of the table and heaved. The expensive dinner, the crystal, the flowers—everything crashed to the floor. “I want a divorce,” I snarled. “I will not raise another man’s bastard. Not in a million years.” The room went deathly silent. The warmth vanished from Isabelle’s eyes, replaced by a terrifying, flinty hardness. Sophie looked at me with pure disappointment. “Dad, if you want a divorce, go ahead,” Sophie said. “But I’m staying with Mom. And if you walk out that door today, Uncle Tyler will be my new father by tomorrow.” The strength left my legs. I grabbed the edge of the sideboard to keep from collapsing. “Who? Who did you just say?” Tyler. Tyler Mathew. He was a student in my architecture seminar, a boy who had dropped out because his “girlfriend” got pregnant. I remembered the day he left; he’d been gloating, practically vibrating with excitement. I had tried to give him a fatherly lecture about finishing his degree, about responsibility. He had looked at me with such disdain. “Please, Professor,” he’d said. “My girl has more money than God. She can afford ten kids. I’m just going to let her take care of me.” I had felt sorry for him at the time. I never imagined the “girl” was my wife. My vision blurred with hot, angry tears. “Why… why did it have to be my student, Isabelle?” Isabelle rubbed her temples. “It wasn’t intentional. I went into the wrong suite that night. I didn’t realize who he was until I woke up.” She paused, her eyes roaming over my face with a cruel kind of hunger. “But I can’t say I regret it. The stamina of a twenty-year-old is… refreshing.” A roar started in my ears. I snapped. I grabbed a porcelain vase, a book, a heavy crystal decanter—anything within reach—and hurled them at her. I screamed until my throat was raw. Isabelle didn’t flinch, didn’t even move as things shattered around her. When I finally slumped against the wall, exhausted, she stepped over the wreckage. “Are we done with the tantrum now?” she asked, her voice weary. She reached out to touch my shoulder. “Get out!” I threw the last wine glass at her feet. The glass splintered, a stray shard slicing my own palm. Isabelle’s expression darkened. She grabbed my wrist, her grip like a vice, forcing me to hold still while she inspected the cut. “Since you’re so well-informed now,” she said, her tone conversational once more, “I’ve decided to move Tyler in. The doctor says the baby needs to be near his father for ‘bonding.’ While you’re taking care of me and Sophie, you can look after Tyler too.” I looked at her, horrified. “What… what did you just say?” Isabelle twisted her wedding ring, then reached up to pinch my cheek. “Be a good boy, Dan. Tyler moves in tonight. You’ll be looking after him for the next few months. I’ve already called the university and put you on a sabbatical. You won’t have to worry about work.” “You’re sick,” I spat, my voice a broken whisper. “You want me to serve your… your boy toy? Isabelle, have you lost your mind?” She chuckled, pressing a finger to my lips. “Shh. Lower your voice. You wouldn’t want your mother to hear about this, would you? She’s still in the cardiac unit. Stress is a silent killer for women her age.” The threat hit me like a physical blow. I went cold. “If you don’t play along, Daniel,” she whispered, her smile never reaching her eyes, “I can’t guarantee that someone won’t ‘accidentally’ mention my pregnancy and your impending divorce to her. Do you think her heart could handle that?” I shook with rage and helplessness. My mother. She had been the only one to support our marriage when Isabelle was a nobody with nothing but a dream. My mother had given Isabelle her first five thousand dollars to start her firm. My eyes welled up again, but Isabelle had lost her patience. She checked her Rolex and sighed. “Tyler will be here in five minutes. I’m giving you five minutes to pull yourself together and decide if you want your mother to live through the night.” My fists clenched and unclenched. Finally, defeated, I nodded. She gave me a peck on the cheek as a reward before heading to the front door to welcome him. Sophie pushed past me, her eyes bright with an excitement I hadn’t seen in years. She didn’t even look back at me. The door opened. My eyes met Tyler’s. He looked around the penthouse with the grin of a lottery winner, then looked at me, his former professor, with naked triumph. “Professor,” he smirked. “I look forward to our time together.” I didn’t say a word. Sophie walked over to him. “Dad, you need to move your things out of the master suite so Tyler can have it. You’re old; you can sleep in the guest room or the den. It doesn’t matter.” “Fine,” I said, my voice hollow. If my wife and daughter were gone, what did a room matter? Isabelle looked surprised. She expected more of a fight—the Daniel she knew never backed down. I ignored her and turned to leave. “Not so fast,” Isabelle said, her eyes narrowing. “Since you’re being so accommodating, why don’t you finish cleaning up this mess you made? Then go upstairs and pack your things properly. I want the room ready for Tyler in an hour.” Tyler stepped forward, grabbing my hand in a mock-friendly shake. “Thanks, Professor. I’m sure you’ll keep everything spotless for us.” He was treating me like a servant. And Isabelle and Sophie just stood there, watching. I wrenched my hand away. “There are cleaners for that. They’re professionals.” Isabelle’s voice dropped an octave, cold and dangerous. “Don’t test me, Daniel. You can walk out, but think about your mother. If you won’t do the work, maybe she’s healthy enough to come over and scrub the floors for me?” The air left my lungs. I turned and went into the master bedroom. I started throwing my clothes into a suitcase, but Sophie came in a moment later. She began grabbing my things—my books, my framed photos—and tossing them out into the hallway. Glass shattered. “You’re too slow, Dad,” she said. “Besides, all this stuff is old. It belongs in the trash anyway.” Isabelle walked in and tried to put a hand on my back, a hollow gesture of comfort. “Look, Dan. I’ve bought those beach properties in Malibu you liked. I’ll put them in your name. You love the ocean. You can spend your time there once the baby is born.” The hypocrisy made me want to vomit. I moved away from her touch. Once I cleared the room, I walked out, needing air. Thirty minutes later, a scream echoed from the master suite. Security guards—men I’d known for years—grabbed me and hauled me up to the second floor. Tyler was sitting on the edge of the bed, trembling. Isabelle was holding a long, wicked-looking sewing needle she’d found under the pillow. “Isabelle, I’m so scared,” Tyler whimpered. “That needle was right where I was going to lay my head. If it had hit my eye… if it had hit my heart… I might never have seen our baby.” Isabelle glared at me, her face contorted with disgust. “Daniel, how could you be so petty? So cruel?” “You’re a teacher, for God’s sake! Where is your dignity? I told you Tyler wasn’t a threat to you, and yet you try to kill him? Because I’m having his child? If you weren’t so useless in bed, I wouldn’t have had to go elsewhere to ‘seed’ the family!” The insults rained down on me, but I was too stunned to speak. I hadn’t put a needle there. Suddenly, Sophie lunged at me. Before I could react, a sharp pain exploded in my right wrist. She had grabbed the needle from Isabelle and jammed it into my arm. My hand went numb instantly. But she wasn’t done. She hit me, her small fists thumping against my chest. “Bad Daddy! Bad Daddy! You tried to hurt Tyler, so I’m hurting you back!” The physical pain was nothing compared to the sound of her voice. I had always worried Sophie was too mature, too much like her mother. I had prayed for her to show some emotion, to be a “real” child. I never imagined that the first time she’d throw a tantrum, it would be to defend a stranger against me. I looked at Isabelle, the last shred of my love for her dying in my eyes. “Do you honestly think I did this?” Isabelle didn’t answer. Tyler groaned. “Isabelle, my head… I feel dizzy. What if I’m dying? I can’t die before the baby is born.” Isabelle turned her back on me to comfort him. “This was your fault, Daniel. You deserved whatever Sophie did to you. Stop being a child.” She looked at my bleeding wrist with total indifference. “It’s a scratch. Fix it yourself.” “And don’t worry about your mother,” she added as she led Tyler toward the door. “The medical team is with her 24/7. She’s fine. Just… try to be better, Daniel.” They left. I sat on the floor, clutching my numb hand. “Sophie,” I croaked, reaching out. My daughter looked at me with pure loathing and shoved me away before running after them. I tumbled backward, my forehead cracking against the sharp corner of the coffee table. Blood began to pour down my face, stinging my eyes. “Sophie!” I screamed with the last of my strength. “Sophie, stop! If you walk out that door, you are no longer my daughter!” She paused. For a second, hope flared in my chest. “Call 911,” I whispered. “Please.” She turned, a mocking smirk on her face. “Fine. I don’t need a useless father anyway. I’ve wanted a brother forever, and you couldn’t do it. Tyler did it in one night. You’re pathetic.” She walked out. Eventually, it was the housekeeper who found me and called an ambulance. I woke up in the hospital to the sight of a sympathetic doctor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stanley. You were brought in late. The wound on your forehead… it’s going to leave a significant scar. With cosmetic surgery later on, we might—” I shook my head. I didn’t care about the scar. The man I used to be was already dead. I fell back into a restless sleep, only to be awakened by a notification on my phone. An anonymous email. I opened it, and my heart stopped. Photos. Documents. The truth about Isabelle’s pregnancy. A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips. I reached for the phone to call Isabelle, to tell her exactly what kind of viper she’d invited into her bed, when the hospital’s internal line rang. “Mr. Stanley? You need to come to the ICU. Your mother… she’s crashing. This is it.” The world tilted. I ripped the IV out of my arm and sprinted toward the elevators, stumbling, my gown stained with blood. I found my mother in a hallway on a gurney. There was only one intern with her. “Where is everyone?” I grabbed the nurse’s shoulders. “Where are the doctors? Where is the surgical team?” “I don’t know!” the nurse cried. “The CEO’s husband had some kind of ’emergency’ upstairs, and she ordered the entire cardiac and trauma team to her private suite to check him.” My mind went blank. I dialed Isabelle’s number. I dialed ten times before someone picked up. It was Sophie. “What, Dad? Stop being annoying.” “Give the phone to your mother,” I gasped, my voice shaking. “Now!” “Mom’s busy,” Sophie snapped. “Tyler’s having his ultrasound and she’s holding his hand. Don’t call again.” She hung up. My mother’s breathing was becoming ragged, shallow. I called Isabelle’s assistant and screamed until he patched me through. “Daniel, what is it now?” Isabelle’s voice was full of disdain. “I’m in the middle of a procedure.” “Isabelle, please,” I sobbed into the phone. “My mother is dying. Send the doctors back down. Please. I’m begging you.” Isabelle let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Daniel, give it a rest. I’m pregnant with another man’s child, and this is how you react? Faking a medical emergency for your mother? You are truly pathetic. The team is exactly where I want them. Stop being jealous.” “Isabelle, I’m not lying! She’s dying! Please!” “Then let her die,” Isabelle said, her voice like steel. “Maybe then you’ll finally shut up.” Click. The line went dead. I watched the heart monitor flatline. I watched the nurse pull the white sheet over my mother’s face. I didn’t even have the strength to cry. Hours later, Isabelle called back. Her voice was light, almost cheerful. “How’s your mother? The medical team I sent should have her stabilized. I even had some specialists flown in from Germany.” “I’m willing to overlook your behavior today,” she continued. “It’s Sophie’s birthday dinner tonight. Come home. She wants you to bake that chocolate cake she likes.” I stared at the white sheet. “Okay,” I said. My voice was a ghost. I hung up and walked to a 24-hour print shop near the hospital. I printed every file from that email. I put them in a gift box. Then I called a courier. I handed him my black Amex. “Deliver this to Isabelle Stanley at the Pearl Room tonight. Make sure she opens it in front of everyone.” Isabelle, I hope that when you find out the truth, you can still stomach the child you’re carrying. At the gala, Tyler was preening, trying to play the part of the doting father-to-be. Sophie was looking around, impatient. “Where’s Dad? Why isn’t he here yet?” Isabelle checked her watch. “He’s probably still sulking. He’ll be here.” The courier arrived. Isabelle frowned, stepping back, but when she heard my name, she took the box. A faint, smug smile touched her lips. “He always makes such a fuss over a cake. Fine, I’ll forgive him this once—” She opened the box. Her face went ashen.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452018”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Human nature is a fickle, terrifying thing. There was a time, not too long ago, when I genuinely believed Wesley and I would spend the rest of our lives locked in a blood-drawn, scorched-earth war. I thought we would fight until one of us was entirely consumed. But then death stepped into the room, and suddenly, the idea of tangling with him just felt profoundly exhausting. On the day we buried Cassidy, I went back to her parents’ house to help box up her life. By the time I returned to the home Wesley and I shared, his first love had already moved in. As it turned out, on the exact day Cassidy’s heart gave out, the ghost of Wesley’s golden youth had flown back from Europe. A paparazzi photo of their tearful reunion at the arrivals terminal had been trending online all afternoon. The truth is, Wesley was terrified of me. He was terrified that the feral, unhinged version of his wife would rear her head and tear his precious girl to shreds. So, he had taken precautions. Two private security contractors in dark suits were stationed in our foyer, ready to tackle me to the hardwood the second I snapped. 1 When I walked through the door, Wesley and Gemma were sitting at the long mahogany dining table, eating dinner. Gemma was just as I remembered. Effortlessly beautiful, bathed in this soft, untouchable grace. She offered me a slight nod and a tentative, apologetic smile. “Megan. It’s been a long time.” My gaze slid right past her face, landing heavily on Wesley’s hand. He was using his own fork to place a piece of glazed salmon onto her plate. He was so quiet. Quietly chewing, quietly serving her, quietly refusing to look in my direction. I blinked, severing the visual tie, and took a step forward. Instantly, the two men in suits shifted. They stepped directly in front of Gemma, forming a human barricade between her and me. I paused, a dry chuckle catching in my throat. Ah. They’re here for me. I glanced around the room. The heavy crystal vases that usually sat on the console tables were gone. I realized then that if I marched into the kitchen, I probably wouldn’t find a single chef’s knife left in the blocks. Wesley really had thought of everything. I couldn’t even blame him. Given my track record, grabbing a kitchen knife or smashing a vase over someone’s skull wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility. If Cassidy were still alive, Gemma wouldn’t have made it through the front door without losing half a limb. But Cassidy was dead. Just the thought of her name made my lungs seize, a thousand microscopic needles piercing my chest with every inhale. I didn’t have the energy to waste on them. I bypassed the human shield and headed straight for the stairs. Wesley froze. I didn’t have to look back to know his brow was furrowed, his jaw locked as he watched my retreating back. No matter how nonchalant he tried to act, I knew his muscles had been coiled wire since the second the front door opened. He was waiting for the explosion. The screaming, the shattered glass, the hysteria. He had probably rehearsed a dozen cold, cutting monologues in his head, ready to put me in my place. But he got nothing. Not a single violent gesture. Not a single word. And somehow, I knew that didn’t bring him relief. Instead, it sat in his chest like a damp clump of cotton—suffocating, immovable, impossible to swallow. 2 I packed a single suitcase and carried it down the stairs. Wesley and Gemma had migrated to the living room. As I approached, the security guards stiffened, adjusting their stances. I stopped a few feet away. “I’m going away for a few days,” I said, my voice flat, scraped hollow. “You can use the time to have your lawyers draft the divorce papers. I’ll sign them when I get back.” Wesley sat frozen on the leather sofa. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes heavy, staring at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “What did you just say?” I tipped my chin toward Gemma. “A divorce. You moved her in. Isn’t that the endgame here?” Gemma scrambled to her feet, her hands waving in a frantic, delicate panic. “Megan, please, you misunderstand! I’m only staying here temporarily. Just until my new apartment is renovated, I swear I’ll move out.” Gemma’s greatest weapon had always been her weaponized innocence. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and opened my messages. “I’m coming back because I want to fight for myself this time, Megan. You can’t force love. You know that better than anyone. I hope you can find it in your heart to step aside for Wesley and me.” I looked up, meeting Gemma’s wide, trembling eyes. “You sent me this two days ago.” All the color drained from Gemma’s face. She swayed slightly on her feet, a masterclass in fragility. “Wesley, I…” Wesley stood up abruptly, positioning his body in front of hers, shielding her. He glared at me, his face an ice-cold mask of hostility. “What exactly are you trying to prove?” I pressed two fingers to my throbbing temples. “Just that since we’re on the same page about the divorce, I’d appreciate it if you expedited the paperwork.” 3 Gemma was Wesley’s first love. The first person you give your heart to when you’re young and invincible is always the hardest ghost to shake. We were all in high school back then. I remember walking past the abandoned annex behind the gymnasium and seeing Gemma backed against the brick wall, wrapped in Wesley’s arms, up on her tiptoes, kissing him. I saw them. And when Wesley opened his eyes, he saw me. Wesley and I belonged to two completely different stratospheres. We never should have intersected. But he had saved me once. A group of girls had cornered me by the dumpsters, dragging me by my backpack, threatening to strip my clothes off. Wesley had appeared out of nowhere, his fists doing the talking, scattering them like roaches. I had never been a lovable girl. My mother died when I was young, and my father married a woman who made it her life’s mission to break me. She stole my lunch money, spoke to me exclusively in venom, and hit me when she thought no one was looking. Growing up in a house thick with that kind of poison, I developed an armor made of pure defiance. I was cynical, gloomy, and mean. I hated everyone equally. I pushed everyone away equally. So even after Wesley saved me, I didn’t offer him a shred of gratitude. I remember him stepping forward, his designer sneaker coming down hard on my fingers as I tried to push myself off the asphalt. He smiled, a cold, empty thing. “You don’t have the teeth to bite, yet you still bare them at me?” he murmured. “Smile. Or I’ll break your hand.” Wesley treated me the way someone might treat a rabid stray dog they found in an alley. When he was in a good mood, he’d pull me into his inner circle, a vicious kind of protection. When he was in a bad mood, we could pass each other in the hallway and he’d look right through me like I was made of glass. He was volatile, moody, and entirely heartless. So, knowing all that… when I eventually cornered him into a position where his only option was to marry me, just imagine how much he must have hated me. 4 By the time I walked out of the house, my assistant was already idling in the driveway. My skull felt like it was fracturing. I climbed into the backseat and immediately squeezed my eyes shut. The compounding debt of weeks without sleep was finally cashing in. My assistant unscrewed a bottle of water and handed it to me along with two painkillers. “Are you okay, Ms. Kimberley?” “I’m fine. Just drive to the airport.” Cassidy was a beautiful lunatic. A few years ago, she went backpacking and bought a dilapidated piece of land in the absolute middle of nowhere. She used to rave about it. A standalone plot, surrounded by water on all four sides. Just one winding dirt road in and out. It’s so quiet, Megan. It’s the perfect place to disappear. “Once I make enough money at the firm,” she’d say, her eyes practically glowing, “I’m going to build a proper cabin out there. Stock the pond with fish. Plant a vegetable garden. Build a wooden gazebo, lay down a cobblestone path… and Megan, when it’s done, you’re going to live there with me. Okay?” But corporate law never sleeps, and there was never enough money. Six months ago, Cassidy was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. She shaved her head before the chemo could take it, wearing a bright yellow beanie, sighing with this heartbreaking disappointment. “If I had known, I would have just built the damn house first.” “Megan, I left the deed to you. Go look at it for me.” She used to tell me I carried the stench of the grave on me. That for a girl in her twenties, I seemed more dead than she did, and she was the one actively dying. She made me promise to get out. To walk around and realize the world was so much bigger than the cold walls of Chicago. “Once you get out there,” she had whispered, her grip on my hand terrifyingly weak, “you’ll realize Wesley is nothing but a speck of dust.” Cassidy was a lawyer to her bones; she tied up every loose end. She transferred the deed before she passed, and even hired a local guide to help me navigate the rural county. I called the guide before boarding my flight. He promised to be at the arrivals gate. When I emerged from the terminal, I spotted a man standing way in the back, holding up a piece of printer paper with “MEGAN KIMBERLY” scrawled on it in black marker. I stared at him for a long moment before approaching. “Hi. I’m Megan.” The man was mid-yawn. Hearing my voice, he snapped his jaw shut, his eyes watering from the suppressed reflex. He looked at me, then looked down at my large, hardshell suitcase. “Right. Let’s go.” It wasn’t until we walked out to the parking garage that I understood his look of pity regarding my luggage. His car was essentially a glorified golf cart with doors. If my suitcase had been a fraction of an inch wider, it wouldn’t have fit. The suspension was a myth. Every pothole felt like a spine adjustment. Within ten minutes, the nausea hit me like a tidal wave. The man driving looked utterly exhausted, his face an emotionless mask. Without taking his eyes off the road, he blindly reached into the center console and tossed a brown paper bag of oranges onto my lap. “Smell the peels if you’re gonna puke. Eat one if that doesn’t work. If you’re still dying, I have some Ambien in the glovebox. Pop one and sleep it off.” What phenomenal hospitality. I forced a tight, rigid smile. “I’m fine. Thank you.” The metal tin can rattled for thirty minutes, taking us from the sprawling highway out into the rural suburbs, and then onto a two-lane blacktop that wound its way into the mountains. With every turn, the trees grew denser, the road narrower. Just as I was calculating the odds of this being an elaborate kidnapping, we finally pulled into a gravel lot. A grinning man jogged up and yanked the passenger door open. “Ms. Kimberley! So nice to meet you. I’m Toby, your actual guide.” I stared at him, then pointed a numb finger at the driver. “Then who is he?” Toby blinked, looking confused. “Did he not say? That’s my buddy. I had a family emergency this morning, so I dragged him out of bed to do the airport run.” Toby glared at the driver. “Dude, what is wrong with you? You couldn’t have introduced yourself?” The man turned his head. He looked murderous. “I pulled an all-nighter, Toby. I went to bed at two in the afternoon, and you dragged me out of it at four. I’ve had exactly three hours of sleep. Push me, and I will actually run you over.” Toby shrank back, quickly grabbing my suitcase from the trunk. “Okay, okay, moving on! Let’s go, Ms. Kimberley, the man’s got waking nightmares.” 5 The sun was dipping below the tree line by the time Toby dropped me off at the only inn the town had to offer. “You can crash here for the next few days, Ms. Kimberley. I’ll swing by tomorrow morning and we can head up the mountain to see the property.” “Do you want me to help you check in?” I shook my head and stepped out of the car. Toby meant well, but he talked too much. On the ride over, he had given me an unsolicited oral history of the county’s logging industry and a Yelp-style review of every diner within a twenty-mile radius. My migraine was now screaming. I walked into the inn and let the receptionist show me to my room. I couldn’t do it. The room was cramped, the air smelled heavily of mildew and damp carpet, and the bedsheets felt clammy to the touch. Wesley used to mock me for it. He couldn’t comprehend how someone who grew up eating government cheese and sleeping on a deflated air mattress could develop germaphobia. No matter where I traveled, I brought my own silk bedsheets. No matter where I ate, I obsessively wiped down the table and requested boiling water to scald my silverware. Was it OCD? Cassidy said it wasn’t. “You just feel entirely unsafe in environments you can’t control,” she had told me. “And so what if you do? Why does he have to make you feel broken for wanting clean sheets?” I walked out of the inn, standing on the edge of the cracked sidewalk, scrolling blindly through my phone, looking for another hotel that didn’t exist. Logically, I should have called Toby. But I physically did not have the energy to form sentences anymore. I stood there for a few minutes until my legs gave out. I crouched down. A few minutes after that, I tipped my suitcase onto its side and just sat on it. A black SUV drove past me, its taillights flaring red. A few seconds later, it threw it in reverse and backed up to where I was sitting. The passenger window rolled down. “Ms. Kimberley?” It was Toby. And sitting in the driver’s seat, now wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, was the man from the airport. I squinted at them through the glare of the streetlamp. And then, the world went completely black. 6 The year Wesley’s father died, Wesley wasn’t even eighteen. He wasn’t legally or practically equipped to take over the family empire, so his uncle staged a boardroom coup and took everything. His mother suffered a total psychological break and was locked away in a private psychiatric facility. Wesley was essentially exiled—shipped off to a university in London to keep him out of the way. But he had one demand before he got on the plane: he was taking me with him. He was completely isolated. Everyone in his social circle dropped him overnight like a bad habit. Even Gemma’s wealthy parents forced her to break up with him immediately, severing all ties. He lost everything. But he demanded me. Why? His uncle didn’t care why. To his uncle, Megan was a nobody. A girl from the trailer park with a dead mom and a deadbeat dad. I had zero pedigree, zero influence. I was a stray ant he could step on if he needed to. But I cared. I asked Wesley why. He told me he would pay for my tuition, my living expenses, give me the best resources, and guarantee me a high-paying corporate job the second I graduated. “But why me?” I had pressed. “Because you know how to starve,” he said coldly. “You have no baggage, no family that cares about you, no attachments. And you’re ruthless.” I was ruthless. My grades were flawless; even Wesley couldn’t beat me academically. And I held grudges with a biblical vengeance. I was the reason my deadbeat dad got fired. I was the reason my stepmother ended up with a fractured skull, and why her precious golden-child son got expelled. Wesley said I was a useful weapon. And similarly, he was useful to me. It was a transactional exchange. Nothing more. For three years in London, we were each other’s entire world. He was plotting his return, building his own capital to crush his uncle. The rich are a fascinating breed; even in “exile,” Wesley never truly knew what it was to be poor. But to me, as long as I didn’t have to worry about the electric bill or where my next meal was coming from, I was living in paradise. I became his attack dog. Wherever he pointed, I bit. I never hesitated, never flinched. Ironically, it was Wesley who frequently had to pull me back by the collar, telling me to stop being so recklessly cutthroat. Then came the winter he got sick. A severe viral infection. His fever spiked dangerously high, leaving him delirious. I had tucked the blankets around him and turned to leave the bedroom to get ice, but his hand suddenly shot out, gripping my wrist like a vice. “Don’t go,” he whispered, his eyes unfocused. I stood by the bed, staring at him for a long, long time. Then I sat down on the edge of the mattress. I sat there from dusk until the sun came up. When I woke up the next morning, slumped against the nightstand, Wesley was already gone. We never spoke of it. We pretended the moment didn’t exist. But I knew the truth. I wanted him. I was an anomaly. Bizarre, abrasive, totally isolated. I had no friends, no family, no lovers. But I was still human. And there isn’t a human being on earth who doesn’t secretly fear the dark, who doesn’t crave the warmth of another heartbeat. I was no different. Wesley was the one who reached into the dark and pulled me out. And because of that, I decided I was going to chain him to me. I was going to tie him to my life, permanently, no matter the cost.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452019”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The truth is, I’ve always been a bit of a vacancy. Those glowing credentials—the Ivy League degree, the classical piano trophies, the ballet awards—were all carefully curated illusions. My parents spent a fortune to build a gilded cage of a life that my slow, wandering mind could never have built for itself. While traveling abroad with my boyfriend, Toby, his personal assistant, Lena, insisted on sleeping in the same bed as us. She claimed the hotel was overbooked, her voice a fragile trill of anxiety. In the dead of night, she suddenly clutched her chest, turning to Toby with a pained whisper. She told him her cat, Lilly, was pregnant back home, and through some mystical “soul bond,” she was experiencing sympathetic engorgement. She was in pain, she said. She needed relief. Without a second thought, Toby disappeared under the duvet. I heard the wet, rhythmic sounds of him “relieving” her. I watched, paralyzed by my own slowness, and asked why a cat’s pregnancy would make her chest hurt. Toby popped his head out from under the covers, his expression intensely earnest. He explained that Lena had raised Lilly since she was a kitten, that their bond was so deep it manifested as a psychosomatic resonance. It was science, he claimed. Lena chimed in, her voice breathless, telling me he was just being a supportive boss and that I shouldn’t overthink it. I nodded, a dull, obedient motion. My mother always told me: When you don’t understand, just nod. That night, I heard Lena whispering to something she called “The System.” she wanted to trade her IQ for mine. She said with my “genius” and her ambition, she would finally become the goddess everyone envied. The System’s voice was a cold, metallic hum in the dark. It said the transfer would be permanent in seven days. She actually thought she was stealing brilliance. She had no idea she was trading her cleverness for a void. … 1 The chime signaling the completed transfer echoed in the back of my skull. Suddenly, the fog that had blanketed my mind for twenty-four years began to thin. The world felt sharper, the edges of the room less blurred. Beside me, Lena moans grew louder, more theatrical. “Oh… Toby… that feels so good…” She caught her breath, letting out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Janice really does love you. Look at her. She isn’t even angry.” Toby’s voice came from the depths of the blankets, heavy with a lazy, post-coital satisfaction. “Everyone thinks I’m the one who slaved away to win her over. Hah. They don’t know shit.” “From the start, she’s been nothing but a dog. Throw a bone, and she’ll fetch. If I tell her to move East, she wouldn’t dare look West.” “I don’t believe you,” Lena teased, her tone lengthening into a dare. Toby raised his voice, an edge of command cutting through the air. “Janice. Get me a glass of warm water.” I stood up. I walked to the table. I poured the water, tested the temperature against the side of my thumb, and handed it to him. Toby took a sip, looking at Lena. “See?” “Try something else,” Lena urged, her eyes gleaming with malice. Toby poked his head out again. “My underwear fell on your side of the floor. Pick it up and bring it here.” I nodded. I knelt on the floor, fumbling in the dark. Once I found it, I handed it over. Toby smirked. “Told you. A well-trained pet.” Lena voice was a cocktail of shock and pure, unadulterated disdain. “She looks so cold and untouchable, but she’s really just your little slave, isn’t she?” I wasn’t “cold.” Since I was a child, my parents had one rule for me: Speak less. They said that if I opened my mouth, I’d lose everything. They told me I wasn’t bright, and that silence was my only armor. Every time we went out, I stood there like a beautiful, hollow statue. Before this trip, Toby had reminded me: “Just follow me, keep your mouth shut, and don’t embarrass me.” When they told me to sleep on the sofa that night, I did so without a word. I stayed far away from that bed. I didn’t want to be near them. They made my skin crawl. The next morning. Toby leaned against the headboard, sticking his bare foot out from under the duvet. He shook it slightly. “Put my shoes on for me.” I stared at his foot. Suddenly, my brain felt like a dam breaking. Memories flooded in—vivid, stinging, and nauseating. I saw myself kneeling on the floor, massaging Toby’s feet while he laughed, rubbing his toes against my face like I was a common rag. A wave of visceral disgust washed over me. What a pathetic piece of trash. Seeing me frozen on the sofa, Toby’s voice dropped an octave, turning threatening. “Get over here. On your knees. Change them.” “Don’t make me lose my temper, Janice.” I set my face into a mask, staring at him. Toby lifted his chin, his expression darkening, his eyes full of a cruel, predatory hunger. I picked up his leather loafer from the floor. Then, I slammed it directly into his open mouth. “Mmph!” His eyes went wide, bulging as he tried to spit it out. Before he could move, I lunged forward. I put every ounce of strength I possessed into a kick aimed squarely at his groin. “AAAAAGH—!!!” Toby curled into a fetal ball, clutching himself. His face contorted, a high-pitched, pig-like squeal ripping from his throat. “You! You stupid bitch! How dare you hit me!” I stood there, watching his agony. I let out a soft, vacant giggle. “Toby, I saw a new cartoon recently. Was that funny? Did I play right?” Lena woke up then, rubbing her eyes. “What is all this noise so early?” Toby’s body went rigid. He threw a poisonous look at me, then took a ragged breath, forcing his voice into something resembling a normal tone for Lena sake. “Nothing. She’s just throwing a tantrum. She wants to go home.” His face was ghostly pale, but he didn’t say more. He couldn’t risk the world knowing he was tethered to a “slow” girl just for her inheritance. Toby reached out, trying to pull me into a forced embrace, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. “Going home early is a good idea. We need to get the wedding back on track anyway.” 2 After we returned to the States, Toby said he wanted to take me to meet his “inner circle” at the country club. Before we left, he grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. “Remember: shut up. Don’t humiliate me.” Toby was wearing a bespoke suit my mother had paid for, driving my limited-edition supercar. When we arrived at the golf club, the usual crowd swarmed us. “Wickham! Look at you!” A guy in a loud Hawaiian shirt whistled, his eyes raking over me. “This the fiancée? She’s even more stunning than the photos!” “Stunning? She’s a work of art. Toby, you lucky bastard!” I saw Lena in the crowd. She was wearing a delicate white sundress, standing on the periphery, her eyes locked on me. “If you guys ever want to relax here, just give them Janice’s name,” Toby bragged, slapping his friends on the back. “She’s an SVIP. Membership was nearly two hundred grand. Open bar, everything’s on the house.” “Damn! Two hundred grand? You’re really bleeding her dry, aren’t you, Toby?” “Bleeding her? No, he’s just a world-class gold-digger!” The guy in the Hawaiian shirt laughed, elbowing Toby. The laughter exploded around us. “Toby isn’t the gold-digger.” Lena voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade. The laughter died down. She took a step forward, her eyes fixed on mine, her voice dropping into a slow, deliberate honey. “Janice is the one who’s desperate.” “Really?” Hawaiian shirt leaned in, looking from Toby to me. “So, is it true, Janice? Toby says ‘jump’ and you ask ‘how high’?” Toby’s smile flickered, but he recovered quickly. He turned to me, gesturing toward Lena. “Janice, that bag you’re carrying is new, isn’t it? A limited edition?” He paused, his tone casual, almost bored. “It’s Lena birthday today. Why don’t you give it to her as a gift?” I blinked, looking at Lena. “Is it really your birthday today?” Lena froze. Her brow furrowed suddenly. “Wait… when is my birthday? I… I can’t remember.” She shook her head, her fingers pressing hard against her temples. “My head. It hurts. It hurts so much.” I watched her struggle, then asked with a look of pure, innocent concern: “Lena, is it happening again? Is it the sympathetic engorgement?” “Maybe Toby should help you ‘clear the blockage’ again. He’s so good at it. He really knows how to use his mouth to make the pain go away.” “Holy shit, what?” Hawaiian shirt’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He whirled toward Lena. “You’re pregnant?!” “I am not!” Lena face went translucent. She denied it with a shriek. I stepped in to clarify. “No, no. Lena cat is pregnant. They have a soul bond. She gets congested when the cat does.” “Toby is such a kind boss. He climbed right under the covers to help her out so she wouldn’t suffer. Right, Toby?” “What the hell are you babbling about?!” Toby lunged, cutting me off. “It was a joke! Can’t you tell when someone’s joking? We were just messing with you! Jesus, you’re so dense.” “Yeah, Janice, it’s a misunderstanding! Totally a joke!” “Toby’s a saint to his staff, but it’s purely professional!” The others rushed in to smooth things over, patting Toby’s shoulder and throwing me wary glances. I nodded slowly. “Oh. Okay. I’m not mad.” Toby didn’t let go of my arm. He squinted at me, his eyes searching my face. “Janice, you’re acting… different today.” Before I could answer, Lena snapped. She lunged forward, snatching the bag off my shoulder with a violent tug. I stumbled back as she gripped the leather like a lifeline. She whirled toward Toby, stood on her tiptoes, and planted a heavy, desperate kiss right on his mouth. “Toby! I love you!” Her voice was high and manic. She clutched the bag, her eyes wild. “Thank you for the birthday gift! I love it so much!” The silence was absolute. Toby’s face turned a bruised shade of purple. He shoved Lena away so hard she nearly hit the grass. “Lena! Are you insane? What the hell is wrong with you!” Lena stumbled back, clutching the bag, her expression dazed, as if she didn’t quite know what had just possessed her. Then, the tears started. She turned and fled. Toby shot me one last murderous look before chasing after her. The rest of the crowd exchanged awkward glances and began to dissipate. I stood there, feeling the fog in my head clear a little more. It was like a window that had been caked in grime for years finally having a small corner wiped clean. I walked into the clubhouse, heading for the private suite my parents kept on retainer. Inside the bedroom, Lena was huddled against Toby’s chest, completely unclothed, a look of pure, delirious ecstasy on her face. They saw me. But they didn’t care. To them, I was just a dog that didn’t know how to bark. I took out my phone. I recorded the video. I uploaded it to the cloud. My brain was still a bit fuzzy, but one thought was crystal clear: This will be useful later. 3 My parents sat Toby down to talk about the wedding. “Toby, let’s be blunt,” my father said, leaning back in his leather chair. “Janice is our only child. One day, everything the Emerson family owns will belong to the two of you.” Toby’s fingers twitched, but his face remained a mask of humble sincerity. “Sir, I promise you, my feelings for Janice are genuine.” My father raised a hand, cutting him off. “We want to believe that. But rules are rules, for everyone’s protection.” “Before the wedding, you’ll need to sign a voluntary waiver of marital property. You will have a management role in the Emerson Group, but ownership and final authority will remain solely in Janice’s name.” “We will provide you with a generous salary and an allowance—let’s say, a hundred thousand a month—as a gesture of our trust.” Toby’s knuckles turned white. Then, he looked up, his eyes glistening with faux emotion. “Sir, Ma’am… I can’t accept that.” “I didn’t pursue Janice for her money. My family might not have what yours does, but I have my own two hands. I love her for who she is—simple, pure, and kind. I don’t want the management rights. I don’t want the allowance. I just want her.” He spoke with such conviction, his eyes clear and honest. I saw my father’s stern expression begin to melt. “Good lad! You’ve got spine. I feel better knowing Janice will be in your hands.” As soon as we were upstairs, Toby’s face went cold. He spent an hour furiously typing on his phone. When he went to shower, I opened his laptop. To “prove” his love, he had set all his passwords to my birthday. I saw the pinned chat at the top. [Did you see that movie about the guy who killed his wife? Men are so brutal. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?] [When those old fossils kick the bucket, the idiot gets everything. And she’s so obsessed with you, it’s basically yours anyway.] [Haha. Killing her would be a waste. Much easier to just get rid of the two old ones first.] I never imagined he was the one orchestrating the long game. 4 Today is the seventh day. The day of our engagement gala. In the mirror, I am a vision in white—a custom couture gown, my hair pinned up, crowned by a shimmering diamond tiara. The face in the mirror is beautiful, certainly. Perfectly arched brows, a delicate nose, rose-red lips. But the eyes were still vacant, lacking that vital spark. The fog had thinned significantly over the last few days, but everything still felt slightly muffled, like I was watching the world through a veil of silk. But I remembered one thing: I cannot marry Toby Wickham. My mother came in, smoothing my hair. “My beautiful girl.” I grabbed her hand, and tears began to spill. “Mom, I don’t want to get married.” She froze, then pulled me into a hug. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s just nerves. Toby is so good to you. He’ll look after you when we can’t.” “We checked everything, Janice. His family is respectable—both parents were teachers. He’s a good man.” “You’ll have a peaceful, safe life. That’s all we want.” I marveled at how well Toby had fabricated his “wholesome” background to win them over. I cried harder. I didn’t know how to explain it. The thoughts in my head were like small fish—darting close, then scattering into the deep. I couldn’t catch the words. My mother just assumed I was scared and continued to soothe me. The gala was spectacular. The ballroom was a sea of glittering lights and expensive perfume. Toby, looking sharp in his tuxedo, stepped toward me. He dropped to one knee and produced a ring. “Janice Emerson, marry me. I promise to cherish you for the rest of my life.” The crowd erupted in applause, chanting, “Say yes! Say yes!” I looked at the sparkling diamond, then at Toby’s smiling face. Suddenly, I remembered his voice in the dark hotel room. “…she’s nothing but a dog.” I took a step back. I shook my head. “No.” It wasn’t loud, but in the sudden hush, everyone heard it. The smile on Toby’s face curdled. “Don’t be silly, Janice. Everyone is watching. Be a good girl.” I looked up at the massive LED screen at the front of the hall. “Look there,” I whispered. I had intended to play the video of him and Lena. But that wasn’t what appeared. The screen showed photos of Toby bringing me water, Toby draping his jacket over my shoulders, Toby smiling at me with “devotion.” The MC’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, look at these precious moments—a testament to the unwavering love Toby Wickham has for Miss Emerson.” Toby leaned in close, a cold, mocking smirk playing on his lips. His voice was a low hiss, meant only for me. “I knew you were up to something. I swapped the files hours ago.” He looked at me as if I were a disobedient pet that had failed a simple trick. “Once we’re married, no more cartoons. No more trying these pathetic little stunts you learn online.” “And no more phone. Do you understand?” I stared at his smug, triumphant face. Suddenly, there was a literal thrum in my brain. The fog that had muffled my world for eighteen years vanished in a heartbeat. It was as if someone had shattered the glass. Everything became blindingly, piercingly clear. I opened my mouth to speak. But a scream from the crowd beat me to it. “AHHHH—!!” A woman in a low-cut cocktail dress burst onto the stage. At the same time, a family of four stood up from the VIP table, their faces twisted with frantic energy.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452004”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was at the clinic for my second-trimester checkup when I ran into my husband’s mistress. The color drained from her face the second she saw me. I didn’t even blink. I barely registered her presence. After all, Justin had cycled through three or four women in the past few years. What was one Daphne Shaw in the grand scheme of things? If I allowed myself to get worked up over this kind of cliché, I probably wouldn’t live long enough to see this pregnancy through. What I didn’t expect was for Justin to be the one throwing a tantrum when I got home. “I told you from the beginning, everything in the Crawford empire belongs to you and the kids. Did you really have to go out of your way to harass Daphne?” he demanded, hurling a Baccarat crystal vase against the hardwood floor. I sat on the velvet sofa, my hands resting instinctively over the slight swell of my stomach. I didn’t say a word. I just watched him storm out, slamming the door so hard the hinges rattled, undoubtedly running straight back into Daphne’s waiting arms. The housekeeper stood in the corner, wringing her hands, completely entirely at a loss. Without a word, I pulled out my phone, snapped a photo of the shattered crystal scattered across the floor, and texted it to my mother-in-law. Emma, take a look at what Justin is doing now… Barely two minutes after the message delivered, my phone screen lit up. It was an alert from my Chase Private Client app. A wire transfer of fifteen million dollars had just cleared into my account. 1 In the beginning, when Justin first started cheating, it didn’t take money from his mother to fix it. I would scream. I would cry. I would point a shaking finger at his face and tear him apart, demanding to know how the boy who was my first love, the man I had been married to for a decade, had turned into such absolute garbage. When did the screaming stop? I think it was right around the time Daphne Shaw entered the picture. She had shown up at a charity gala wearing a simple white silk dress, looking impossibly sweet and unassuming. And just standing there, she looked at least seventy percent like a younger version of me. When I saw Justin wrapping an arm around her waist, parading her in front of our entire social circle without an ounce of shame, something inside me just… snapped. The fire went out. I didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. My only thought was: Let’s just get a divorce. It was Emma who talked me out of it. She sat me down in her Upper East Side penthouse and told me that while she didn’t necessarily adore me, I came from a legacy family. Our backgrounds matched. “Since your mother passed away, your stepmother has taken over the Stratton estate,” Emma had said, her voice cool and pragmatic. “A divorce will only give her a reason to laugh at you. Justin might be a disaster in the romance department, but his earning power is undeniable. The dividends on your shares alone yield eight figures a year. A divorce means liquidating assets. It’s bad for Crawford Industries, and frankly, Gemma, it’s a massive loss for you.” She leaned in, her eyes hard. “Women need to wake up. Stop filling your head with fairy tales.” I was too stubborn to understand it at first. I swallowed the humiliation for six months until I spiraled into a severe clinical depression. But then, after getting caught in a torrential downpour and surviving a fever that nearly landed me in the ICU, something broke open in my brain. It was as if the fever burned away the last of my delusions. From that day on, I took Emma’s advice. I recalibrated my expectations of Justin. She also made me a promise: anytime Justin caused me public or emotional distress, she would compensate me accordingly from the family trust. So, today, for the sheer inconvenience of being falsely accused of harassing his mistress, I was fifteen million dollars richer. I moved the funds into my high-yield investment portfolio, then walked into the en-suite bathroom to wash my face, calling out to the housekeeper to have the living room cleaned up. When I came back out, I realized my son, Theo, was home from school. He walked right past the swept-up glass, utterly blind to the chaos of our household. His eyes were glued to his iPad. I rested a hand on my lower back and called down the stairs. “Theo. You’re back.” He flicked his gaze up to me for a fraction of a second. “Yes, Mother.” Polite. Cold. Distant. He was exactly like his father. I didn’t push it. I poured myself a glass of warm milk and turned to head back upstairs. “Mother,” Theo called out. “There’s a parent-teacher conference tomorrow. Do you have time to go?” “I’m pregnant, Theo. The doctor wants me resting,” I said softly. “Have your father send someone.” The “someone” Justin would send was, without a doubt, his executive assistant. Sure enough, the next morning, Daphne Shaw stood on my front porch, her own pregnant belly pressing against her trench coat. She looked terrified, yet she forced herself to stand tall. “Mrs. Crawford.” I gave a curt nod. “Miss Shaw. I’ll leave my son in your hands today.” Daphne offered a painfully awkward, fragile smile. “Oh, yes. Please don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve been to his school many times.” I knew. From the moment she and Justin got together, I knew about all these little domestic boundary-crossings. But I was too exhausted to ask, and I certainly didn’t care to listen to the excuses. Later, as I was walking toward the home gym for some light stretching, Theo crossed my path. For once, he hesitated. “Mother?” “Hmm?” “Why couldn’t you come with me? Miss Shaw is pregnant too, and she’s going.” I looked at my twelve-year-old son, my expression flat. “Because I’m spoiled, Theo, and I don’t like being inconvenienced.” I paused, letting the silence stretch before delivering the final blow. “Besides, you said it yourself—you think Daphne is gentle and sweet. You like having her at your school. I’m just doing what makes you happy.” Theo’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He stood frozen in the hallway, his dark eyes dimming as he watched me walk away. 2 I stayed home, prioritizing my peace and my pregnancy. The doctor had confirmed it was twins. Two girls. I needed to keep my stress levels at absolute zero. I ordered a year’s supply of premium, custom-blended prenatal supplements, overhauled my maternity wardrobe with the new season’s designer collections, and after a long spa day, I met my best friend, Penny, for lunch at a Michelin-starred spot downtown. Across the table, Penny looked at me, her eyes rimmed with red. “Gemma, I haven’t seen you since you got sick.” I swirled the sparkling water in my glass. “It’s been almost six months.” That illness had lingered, a stubborn shadow, until quite recently. “How are things with you and Justin?” she asked, her voice hushed. “Great. He treats me very well.” “Very well?” She looked like she wanted to scream. “Gemma, I heard he’s bringing her to the country club mixers now.” I smiled. “I know. But my mother-in-law gave me a fifteen-million-dollar apology.” Penny blinked. “…I guess that is pretty great.” “Penny, I’ve realized something,” I said, leaning forward. “I was wrong all these years. When I married Justin, I shouldn’t have just been thinking about love.” She looked at me like I had lost my mind. “But you guys met in middle school. You started dating in high school. You were completely obsessed with each other. Isn’t it normal to expect a marriage built on love?” “Hearts change.” I took a sip of my drink. “It’s like how I used to strictly drink Diet Coke, and now I actually prefer fresh juice.” A profound sadness washed over her face. It was the same look the rest of my old friends gave me when they came to visit me during my breakdown. They all believed that the death of an earth-shattering romance required lifelong mourning. I used to think so, too. But I figured it out. Eighteen-year-old Justin promised to love eighteen-year-old Gemma forever. But twenty-eight-year-old Justin never renewed that vow. It’s pointless to trap yourself in the past. I patted my stomach. “Look. There are two babies in here now.” Penny’s jaw dropped. “You’re having more kids with him?” “Why wouldn’t I? Emma promised me a twenty-million-dollar trust allocation and a two-percent equity bump in Crawford Industries per child.” Say what you will about Justin, the man was a corporate shark. And Theo had inherited his genius IQ. When my mother died, she left me an eight-figure inheritance, which I poured entirely into Crawford stock. Fast forward a few years, and my net worth had crossed the billion-dollar mark. Why on earth would I walk away from an incubator made of solid gold? Penny went quiet for a moment. “But Daphne is having a baby, too. When her kid is born, Justin is going to be distracted. If he rewrites his will, you might lose out.” “I thought about that,” I replied evenly. “That’s why I’m having two more. It’s a numbers game, Penny. I’m diluting her equity.” 3 When I got home that evening, the living room had been entirely restored. The Baccarat vase had been replaced with an identical piece. That was the beauty of extreme wealth. Nothing was ever truly lost. As long as you had the capital, even the rarest things could be seamlessly replaced. I sat in the cavernous, eerily quiet living room, a sheet mask cooling my face, sipping warm milk and listening to the wind rattling the massive bay windows. Justin wasn’t home. Neither was Theo. My private investigator had just texted me an update: the three of them were having dinner at a high-end Italian place. The photos loaded on my screen. Justin wore a soft, genuine smile. Theo’s eyes were bright and engaged. It was fascinating, really, how much the two of them adored Daphne. Aside from the fact that she shared my coloring and bone structure, we were entirely different species. She came from a working-class background and wasn’t particularly bright. Her sole currency was her endless patience and docile sweetness. I, on the other hand, had been a firecracker since birth. My relationship with Justin had started over a stupid high school misunderstanding. One of my friends got her heart broken by a guy named “Crawford.” Thinking it was Justin—the undisputed king of the prep school—I cornered him in the parking lot and tore him a new one in front of half the lacrosse team. After my tirade, my friend nervously whispered that it was his cousin, a completely different Crawford. Justin had glared at me, his jaw tight. “You just humiliated me. How are you going to fix this?” My brain short-circuited. I pushed my shoulders back and blurted, “Can I take you to dinner to make up for it?” He blushed scarlet. Our love story had played out like an indie coming-of-age movie. Everyone knew how obsessed Justin was with me. At our wedding, he choked on his vows and cried so hard he almost passed out. When my mother died, he held me on the bathroom floor for hours, weeping into my hair, swearing he would protect me until his last breath. But the shelf life of true love is notoriously short. Five years into the marriage, he had his first affair. Then came the second. The third. And finally, Daphne. Watching the photos of them, I felt a strange sense of vertigo. It felt like I was watching eighteen-year-old Gemma and twenty-eight-year-old Justin falling in love all over again. Around ten o’clock, the front door opened. Justin had dropped Theo off. He had cooled down from the morning’s rage. Seeing me on the sofa, he even mustered a semblance of domestic care. “How are the babies?” “Fine,” I said. “The checkup?” “Normal.” Justin fell silent, looking away. I didn’t say anything either. I just swiped to the next photo on my iPad. He lingered in the foyer. After a minute of silence, he spoke up. “I just wanted to drop Theo off. I’ll head out now.” I didn’t even look up. “Okay. Drive safe.” The silence stretched. I didn’t hear the sound of his footsteps leaving. I finally looked up. He was still standing there. “Did you need something else?” He pressed his lips together. “You… you look really good tonight.” Is he out of his mind? “Thanks,” I deadpanned. 4 I assumed Justin would make himself scarce for a while, but to my surprise, he was still there the next morning. We hadn’t interacted peacefully in months. Except for our anniversary a few months ago—we had both drank too much, a bizarre, manic energy had taken over, and we ended up tangled in the sheets for the night. Any other time we saw each other, we barely spoke. And when we did, it ended in a screaming match. The fact that he was voluntarily initiating conversation meant nothing good was coming. Sure enough, he cleared his throat. “Daphne is due soon.” “And?” I asked, sipping my coffee. “I wanted to ask you about those luxury postpartum wellness retreats. You have a lot of experience researching them.” His tone was perfectly even. He was asking me a genuine, earnest question. If this man wasn’t my husband, I might have applauded his sheer sociopathy. I was pregnant with his children, and he was asking me to play concierge for his mistress’s recovery? He was practically shoving my face into the dirt. A cold laugh escaped my throat. “Are you underpaying your executive assistants? They can’t Google a spa?” Justin shifted uncomfortably. “My EA is doing the work of two people right now. Besides, he’s a guy. He doesn’t understand these things.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Daphne… she said you’d know best. It’s her first baby, and she’s terrified. That’s why I’m asking.” He sighed, his voice softening. “She’s been crying non-stop. It reminded me of how scared you were when you were pregnant with Theo. I figured you, of all people, would understand how she feels.” I didn’t understand. And I didn’t want to. No matter how “enlightened” I had become about this marriage, I wasn’t about to act as a maternity consultant for the woman sleeping with my husband. “Do your own research, Justin. If you’re that worried, just throw money at the most expensive one you can find.” Justin’s brow furrowed in irritation. “Gemma, look at you. You’re doing it again. The second something doesn’t go your way, you get hostile.” He shook his head, looking at me like I was a petulant child. “You have such a toxic temper. Who else but me could tolerate you?” He let out a long, heavy sigh. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked. I already looked at the brochures you bookmarked on the iPad for your own retreat. I’ll just book that suite for Daphne. You’ve already vetted it, so it must be top-tier.” He kept talking, oblivious to the ice forming in my veins. “You’re only in your second trimester anyway. You have plenty of time to find a different place. Or, honestly, you could just take the suite after Daphne moves out. The timing works out perfectly.” Without another word, he picked up his briefcase and walked out the door. I sat frozen at the kitchen island, a sharp, white-hot pain suddenly twisting in my abdomen. 5 Some money is just too dirty to swallow. After Justin’s little stunt, Emma wired another two million into my account. But looking at those sterile digits on my banking app, I couldn’t find a single ounce of joy. I realized that some indignities couldn’t be papered over with cash. I needed to breathe. I called an Uber and headed to my father’s estate in Westchester. Pulling up to the sweeping driveway, I noticed the old oak tree my mother had planted was gone. My stepmother had finally had it uprooted. The massive hole left in the manicured lawn felt exactly like the crater in my chest. Upstairs, my father looked frail but alert. He was confined to his bed, but his eyes lit up when I walked in. “Gemma, sweetheart. You’re home. I’ve missed you.” I glanced around the lavish, empty room. “Where’s Eleanor?” “Out shopping,” he chuckled weakly. “You know how it is. Ever since I got paralyzed, she can’t sit still in this house.” I sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled the cashmere blanket up to his chest. “Do you ever regret it? Cheating on my mother when she loved you the most?” He looked at the ceiling. “What’s the point of regret? What’s done is done.” He was right. Hindsight morality didn’t change the past. My dad looked at me, a knowing glint in his eye. “Let me guess. Justin is pulling his usual stunts?” “Yeah,” I breathed out. “He knocked up his secretary. She’s in her third trimester.” My dad started coughing violently, his face turning red. “That… cough… how dare he?” “Why wouldn’t he dare? His father-in-law set a shining example.” The truth was, it wasn’t just my dad or Justin. It was an unspoken rule in our social echelon. Once a man acquired enough wealth and power, fidelity became an inconvenience. It was a silent, suffocating agreement we all lived under. My dad finally caught his breath. He stared at me for a long time. “So what are you going to do? Are you leaving him?” I shook my head. “I don’t know. But… I’m pregnant again. Twins.” This time, genuine shock washed over his weathered face. “What are you thinking, Gemma? Why aren’t you cutting your losses?” “Because his mother offered me tens of millions and an equity bump if I give birth to them.” “But you already have Theo.” “Money is money, Dad.” His lips trembled. He couldn’t speak. My parents had built their real estate empire from the ground up. By the time they hit eight figures, my dad had already started looking elsewhere. Justin was wealthier, more ruthless, playing in the billion-dollar leagues. Following in my dad’s footsteps probably felt like a given to him. My father closed his eyes, squeezing back the wetness pooling in them. “Gemma… I know it sounds hypocritical coming from me.” His voice cracked. “But from the day you were born, all your mother and I ever wanted was for you to be happy.” He reached out, his frail, shaking hand gripping mine. “We supported you marrying Justin because you loved him so fiercely. If that love is gone, you do not need to subject yourself to this for a payout.” “I might not be the man I should have been,” he whispered. “And I might not have Crawford money. But my eighty percent stake in Stratton Estates, this house, and the twenty million I have in liquid assets—it all goes to you. I promised your mother that.” Tears finally spilled over his wrinkled cheeks. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t use this marriage to punish me, or to punish a man who doesn’t love you anymore. If your mother were here to see what you’ve become, it would break her heart.” “If you don’t love him anymore, just leave. Please stop letting them tear you apart.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452020”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The notification pinged on my phone: New photos added to the family album. I tapped it idly, and there it was—a group photo from a corporate gala. I was sitting dead-center at the head table. The nameplate pinned to my chest was unmistakable: Beckett Pierce, Co-Founder. In my living room, several suitcases stood by the door, already packed and zipped shut. Less than three seconds after the photo uploaded, my mother-in-law’s name flashed on the screen. I answered. “Beckett! What the hell is this photo?!” Erica’s voice was a jagged blade of interrogation. I couldn’t help but smile. I’d kept this secret for five years. Five years of playing a role, all undone because I forgot to turn off the auto-sync on a shared cloud account. The truth was out, stripped bare by a single digital upload. Honestly? It was a relief. It saved me the breath of an explanation. The moving truck was ten minutes away. 1 My name is Beckett Pierce. I’ve been married for five years. In the eyes of my wife, Mallory, and her entire family, I am a low-level administrative assistant at a mid-sized firm, pulling in fifty grand a year. That “fact” was the foundation of our marriage. Every rule we lived by was built on that lie. “We do a proportional split,” Mallory had declared before we even walked down the aisle. “I make $180,000. You make $50,000. It’s only fair we split expenses based on our income. I’ll cover seventy percent; you cover thirty.” On paper, it sounded progressive. Logical. In practice, it was a slow-motion execution. The mortgage on our Brooklyn condo was $6,000. She paid $4,200; I paid $1,800. The car lease was $800. She paid $560; I paid $240. Groceries? Every man for himself. Dining out? Separate checks. I wasn’t allowed to touch her credit cards. She wouldn’t dream of touching mine. “With your credit limit? What could you even buy?” she’d say, her voice laced with a casual, devastating pity. Our first anniversary trip to Miami: she booked a suite at the Edition, $1,200 a night. “Your share is $360 a night,” she told me. I Venmoed her the money without a word. At dinner, she ordered the Wagyu and the lobster. “I’ll get the check this time,” she’d say, her tone less like a partner and more like a philanthropist donating to a soup kitchen. I stayed silent. Our second year, her mother’s birthday dinner was at a high-end steakhouse. Twelve people at the table. When the bill came, Erica looked directly at me. “Beckett, we’re doing the proportional split for this, too. Pay your share.” The total was $2,400. My “share” for the table was $200. Mallory didn’t even look up from her phone. Two hundred dollars. For my mother-in-law’s birthday. Later, I found out Erica told the rest of the family: “The poor guy can’t even afford to take us to dinner. We have to let him pay in installments basically.” She didn’t mention it was her rule. She only mentioned I was “too broke” to be a man. For five years, the chorus of my life was: You don’t earn enough. Those four words were the yardstick Mallory used to measure my worth in this house. You earn less, so you do the chores. You earn less, so you listen when your mother-in-law belittles you. You earn less, so the cooking, the dishes, the vacuuming, and the laundry are your domain. “A cleaning service? Do you have any idea what a housekeeper costs in the city?” Mallory would roll her eyes. “Just do it yourself. You’re home by five anyway.” I was home by five. That part was true. What she didn’t know was that before I walked through the door at five, I had chaired three board meetings, signed two multi-million dollar contracts, and greenlit four global projects. There was so much she didn’t know. Like the fact that my monthly income wasn’t four thousand dollars. It was closer to eighty thousand. 2 Eighty thousand. To be precise, my base salary was twenty thousand, but with my founder’s equity and quarterly dividends, it averaged out to nearly a million a year. In a good month, it was more. In a bad month, it never dipped below forty. Why did I hide it? It started as a test. The year I met Mallory, I had just been named co-founder of my tech firm. We met through friends. she was polished, sharp, a rising star in a state-owned utility firm making good money. On our third date, she took me to meet her mother. Over coffee, Erica asked three questions: “What do your parents do?” “Do you own property?” “What’s your current salary?” I told her my parents ran a small hardware store in a small town, that I was renting, and that my salary was… “Fifty thousand,” I said. I had intended to tell the truth. But as I was about to speak, Mallory went to the restroom, and Erica took a call from her sister in the kitchen. She didn’t close the door. “The specs are average, but he’s handsome, tall, and seems easy to handle,” I heard Erica whisper. “The family has nothing. He won’t have any leverage. It’s better this way—my daughter needs someone who’ll listen, not someone with too much money and an ego.” Easy to handle. Those three words stayed with me. So, I stuck with the fifty thousand. I wanted to see what would happen if I was only “worth” that much. I watched for five years. The answer was crystal clear. The “fifty-thousand-dollar” Beckett was a second-class citizen in the Pierce-Vane household. At Christmas, Erica would give Mallory’s sister’s husband a Rolex and then turn to me with a $50 Amazon gift card: “I know things are tight for you. Don’t feel like you have to reciprocate.” When Mallory went to galas or industry mixers, she never invited me. “Why would you go? You wouldn’t even understand what they’re talking about.” I spent my holidays cooking for three, cleaning up after three, and listening to Erica complain about my seasoning. “Look at Mark—Mallory’s colleague’s husband—he’s an MD at Goldman, makes half a million, and he still manages to be a gourmet cook. What’s your excuse?” Mark. I’d hear that name a lot. But not because of his cooking. Every month, my actual pay—the real money—went into an account Mallory didn’t know existed. Over five years, I used that money to buy three properties in cash. A condo on the Upper West Side. A townhouse in Brooklyn Heights. A penthouse in Long Island City. All of them were registered under my pre-marital holding company. Clean. Untouchable. Mallory didn’t know. Erica didn’t know. They only knew the man who “managed” to pay his thirty percent on time. They only knew the man they had “graciously” allowed into their lives. 3 By the third year, it wasn’t the “proportional split” that hurt. It was the way Mallory looked at me. It was the look you give a coat you bought on clearance—functional, but not something you’re proud to wear. When people asked what I did, she’d say, “He’s in admin. You know, nine-to-five stability.” Then she’d give a tight little smile that meant don’t ask follow-up questions. She was ashamed of me. Once, her company had a retreat that allowed spouses. She didn’t take me. “The VPs’ husbands are all hedge fund guys or partners at law firms. What are you going to talk to them about?” I just looked at her. She didn’t even see the insult. To her, it was just a fact. In the fourth year, Mallory got a promotion. Her salary jumped to $220,000. Her ego followed suit. “I’m making nearly a quarter-mil now,” she’d boast on the phone to her friends. “In this economy, that puts me in the top tier.” She’d hang up and see me chopping vegetables in the kitchen. “Keep at it, Beckett. Maybe you’ll hit sixty grand by the time you’re forty,” she’d say, patting my shoulder like I was a slow student who’d finally learned to tie his shoes. I kept my head down. That month, my dividend check was $110,000. That was also the year Mallory’s performance skyrocketed. She landed a massive account: Skyline Tech. That one deal secured her bonus for the year. She was ecstatic. “Skyline Tech! Do you have any idea who they are? They’re a two-billion-dollar company. Their Director of Procurement reached out to me personally.” “Impressive,” I said. She didn’t catch the dryness in my voice. The Director of Procurement at Skyline was Jack Kerwin. My college roommate. I was the one who told Jack to throw her the bone. Mallory thought it was her brilliance. She used that “success” to take up even more space in our marriage. “This family runs on my back,” she’d say. “But don’t feel bad. Some people are just earners, and some are… supporters. I don’t hold it against you.” I don’t hold it against you. That was the moment I started planning my exit. Not because of the money. Not because of her mother. But because of that phrase. When a wife describes her husband as something she “tolerates,” the marriage is already a ghost. 4 In the fifth year, I found the other thing. It wasn’t a grand detective moment. It was a push notification on her iPad while I was paying the utility bills. I knew her passcode—her birthday plus 123. She never bothered to change it because she didn’t think I was smart enough to be curious. The credit card statements were normal at first. Gas, SoulCycle, salads. But then I saw it. On the 15th of every month: a $5,000 Zelle transfer. The recipient’s nickname: Babe. At first, I thought maybe it was for her mother. But Mallory called her mother “Erica” or “Mom.” Never “Babe.” I scrolled back. January. February. March. April. Eight months in a row. Forty thousand dollars. I didn’t recognize the account number. I took a screenshot and stayed quiet. That night, Mallory came home in a radiant mood. “Had dinner with the Skyline team. Tyler was there.” “Tyler?” “I’ve mentioned him. Tyler Stone. The new project manager at Skyline. He’s… brilliant.” She didn’t look at me when she said it. She was staring at her phone, a tiny, ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “What’s he like?” I asked. “Oh, nothing special. Just very competent. It’s nice to work with someone on my level for a change.” She went to shower. I picked up her phone. Passcode: same. Pinned at the top of her iMessage: Tyler. The last message was a selfie. Not of Mallory. It was a man—square-jawed, gym-shredded, wearing a heavy silver chain. The text: Missing you. Mallory’s reply: A kissing emoji. Sent at 3:17 PM. Three hours ago. I put the phone down. I went back to the kitchen. The soup was simmering. I turned off the burner. I stood there in the silence of the kitchen for a long time. Then I pulled out my own phone and texted Jack: Check on a guy named Tyler Stone at Skyline. I want everything. Background, finances, the works. Jack replied instantly: On it. Give me forty-eight hours. I sent another: That contract renewal for next month? Stall it. Copy that. The soup went cold on the stove. I wasn’t in a hurry. 5 Two days later, Jack sent me the file. Tyler Stone. 28 years old. Hired last September. Education: A degree from a generic online university. Background: Parents are blue-collar. No family money. I paused. Mallory had told me a different version of Tyler Stone. “Tyler comes from a very wealthy family,” she’d offhandedly remarked a month ago. “His father owns a private equity firm, I think.” His father worked at a textile mill in the Midwest for thirty years. Jack included screenshots of Tyler’s Instagram. The persona was a masterpiece of “New Money” fiction. Designer watches, afternoon teas at the Baccarat Hotel, photos at exclusive golf clubs. Everything screamed wealth. But Jack added a note: His salary account balance as of last Friday? Twelve hundred dollars. The watches are high-end fakes. The afternoon tea photos are from “split-the-bill” influencer meetups. He doesn’t even have a membership at that golf club—he sneaks in as a guest of a guest. Twelve hundred dollars. With a fifteen-thousand-dollar monthly salary, after NYC rent and maintaining a fake lifestyle, he was barely scraping by. The five thousand Mallory sent him every month wasn’t “pocket change.” It was his rent. Then came the internal Slack and text leaks Jack pulled from company devices. Tyler and his buddy. Tyler: She’s decent. A little stingy with the cash sometimes. Buddy: She got money? Tyler: Makes about two-fifty. Married. Buddy: So what’s the play? Tyler: She says her husband is a loser. Some admin guy. She’s going to dump him soon. Once she divorces him, the condo and the car are hers. She’s already promised to put my name on the deed. Buddy: Lol, you’re just waiting for the seat to open up. Tyler: I told her my dad owns a firm. She swallowed it whole. She thinks we’re “social equals.” Buddy: Women are so easy. Tyler: Once she clears the dead weight, we’re golden. I put the phone down. I poured a glass of water. Five years of marriage. To her, I was “dead weight.” I was the “admin guy” she had to “tolerate.” Tyler was the “social equal.” The “rich guy” she deserved. The irony was delicious. She looked down on the man with the actual millions to chase a man who couldn’t afford his own shoes. I wasn’t angry anymore. I was beyond that. I made a call. “Sandra, it’s Beckett. I need the divorce papers ready.” Sandra was another college friend, a top-tier matrimonial attorney. “Assets?” she asked. “She keeps what’s hers. She doesn’t touch what’s mine.” “The three properties are under the pre-marital corp, right?” “Yes.” “Then she has no claim. Do you have proof of the affair?” “Everything. Bank records, Zelle transfers, texts, and hotel receipts. Jack helped.” Sandra whistled. “You’ve been thorough.” “I’ve had five years to watch her. I’m just finishing the job.” “Alright. I’ll have the draft in three days. How do you want to play this?” I looked out the window at the Brooklyn skyline. “I’m going to wait for her to ask. I want her to think she’s winning until the very second she loses everything.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452005”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel