Category: English

The Vance family’s generosity was the only reason I was standing on the manicured lawns of Atherton University instead of waiting tables back home. My scholarship, their name on the letterhead. I felt a profound sense of obligation, a debt that couldn’t be repaid with a simple thank-you note. I had to find their son, Caleb Vance, and thank him in person. I found him holding court by the basketball courts, the afternoon sun glinting off his perfect teeth. He was surrounded by a crew of guys who all looked like they’d stepped out of a cologne ad. Unsure which one was him, I approached the group cautiously. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice smaller than I’d intended. “I’m looking for Caleb Vance.” A wave of smirks went through the circle. “Another one, Cal,” someone drawled. “You’re in demand.” A guy in a crisp white jersey, lazily spinning a basketball on his finger, finally turned his attention to me. “What’s your business with him?” “I’m… I’m a scholarship student. The Vance family is my sponsor,” I explained, the words feeling clumsy as their eyes scanned me from head to toe. I suddenly felt hyper-aware of my secondhand clothes, the worn fabric of my jeans. “Without them, I couldn’t be here. I just wanted to thank him.” The guy in white—Caleb, I presumed—didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on my faded jeans for a moment too long, a flicker of something dismissive in his eyes. “I’m not him,” he said flatly. He jerked his chin toward a figure sitting alone on the bleachers, away from the group. “That’s Caleb Vance.” I turned. The man he pointed to was tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of quiet intensity that seemed to repel the boisterous energy of the others. His dark hair fell over a pair of cool, distant eyes. A thin, white scar cut from his jawline down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. He looked… dangerous. Not at all what I had pictured. Still, this was my benefactor. I walked over and gave a small, respectful bow. “Thank you,” I said earnestly. “For everything your family has done for me. If there is ever anything I can do to repay your kindness, please, don’t hesitate to ask.” Behind me, the group of guys erupted into laughter. I flushed, confused. Had I said something wrong? “What’s your name?” the man—”Caleb”—asked. His voice was a low rumble. “Ava. Ava Monroe.” “And you want to repay this debt?” “Yes. Absolutely.” “Alright,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Give me your number.” The laughter from the court instantly died. Everyone fell silent. The real Caleb narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing, man?” “Just in case I need her,” the scarred man replied without looking up. “Whatever, dude.” Caleb shrugged and jogged onto the court. A moment later, a basketball came flying directly at my head. I was still typing my number into the phone and didn’t see it coming. There was no time to react. Suddenly, a strong arm yanked me backward, pulling me flush against a hard chest. The man who called himself Caleb raised his other arm, and the ball slammed into his forearm with a sickening thud. The real Caleb froze, his face paling. “Julian… man, you okay?” “I’m fine,” the man—Julian—said, his voice tight. He shook his arm out. “Watch your aim.” “My bad, my bad,” Caleb said, then he glared at me. “And you, didn’t you see it coming? Learn to duck.” “Excuse me?” I bristled, stepping out from behind Julian. “You’re blaming me for your terrible throw? How about you learn some accountability?” Caleb stared, clearly shocked that I’d talked back. Beside me, I heard Julian let out a low, muffled chuckle. But when I glanced up at him, his face was as cold and unreadable as before. The sound must have been my imagination. “Are you sure you don’t need to see the nurse?” I asked him, concerned. “I’m fine.” He rotated his arm to prove it. “Thank you,” I said, my gratitude deepening. “Your parents gave me an education, and now you’ve saved me from a concussion. I’m even more in your debt.” From the court, the real Caleb let out a derisive snort. What a jerk. After confirming Julian was really okay, I left. But I didn’t go far. I went to the campus store and bought a bottle of water, planning to bring it back as a small gesture. I took a shortcut and came up behind the bleachers, where I could hear them talking before they could see me. “Why’d you lie to her, Caleb?” someone asked. Caleb, the real Caleb, answered with a bored sigh as he bounced the ball. “It’s a hassle. If she knew who I was, she’d be latching on, trying to ‘repay’ me 24/7. It’s exhausting.” I froze, hidden behind the metal frame. “But Julian’s different,” Caleb continued, a cruel amusement in his tone. “He’s intense. He scares everyone. She’ll be so intimidated, she’ll be gone within three days.” The group laughed as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever heard. “I’ve seen her type a million times,” Caleb said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Poor, calculating. She says ‘thank you,’ but she means ‘how can I sleep my way into your bank account?’ Pathetic. Not my scene.” He paused, and his next words felt like a slap. “Ava Monroe, right? I remember the name. My dad transferred an extra grand to my account before the semester started, told me to add it to her meal card. I never did.” “Why not?” “Campus food is already dirt cheap. If you can’t even afford that, what are you doing at Atherton?” Caleb said with a shrug. “Besides, the money’s gone. I used it for that tasting menu at The Laurel last night.” “Hell yeah, thanks for that, man!” “All good,” Caleb said. He sank a three-pointer with effortless grace. “And she wears that mask all the time. Bet she’s hiding a face only a mother could love.” I unconsciously touched the surgical mask I was wearing. The truth was, I’d had an allergic reaction to the city’s pollen, and my face was covered in a rash. “Caleb’s the pickiest bastard I know,” one of his friends chimed in. “That’s why he’s still single. No one’s good enough for him.” Caleb just laughed, then turned to the silent man on the bleachers. “Sorry to dump that on you, Julian. Feel free to delete her number right now. Get her off your hands.” The man who had saved me, the one I thought was my benefactor, finally spoke. His voice was quiet but carried an undeniable weight. “I don’t find it a hassle.” Back in my dorm, a quick search on the university’s student portal confirmed everything. The arrogant jerk was Caleb Vance. His friend, the one with the scar, was Julian Croft. “Ava, how do you know Julian Croft?” my roommate, Chloe, asked, her eyes wide with alarm when I mentioned his name. “What’s wrong with him?” “He’s… intense,” she said, lowering her voice. “The Crofts are one of the most powerful families in the state. Rumor is they have ties to… well, everything. People say Julian put a guy in the hospital last year. He’s the one person on this campus you do not want to cross.” My blood ran cold. Maybe I should just delete his number and disappear. Just as the thought crossed my mind, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. Julian Croft: We need to talk. Dinner tonight. I wanted to say no. I wanted to block him. But then I remembered the solid feel of his arm shielding me, the deafening impact of the basketball. He had protected me. The least I could do was hear him out. I had no idea what I was walking into. The first words out of his mouth when we sat down at a quiet off-campus diner were not what I expected. “First,” he said, his voice as cool and crisp as a mountain stream, “I need to apologize. I’m not Caleb Vance.” He met my gaze directly, and the intensity I saw there made it hard to breathe. “I thought it was better to clear this up in person. My name is Julian Croft. The guy in the white jersey today, that was Caleb.” I tucked my chin down. “I… I know.” “When did you find out?” he asked, one eyebrow raising slightly. It felt like an interrogation. How could one person command so much presence without even trying? “I asked Chloe when I got back to the dorm. She showed me a picture.” “Are you afraid of me?” Yes, who wouldn’t be? I thought, but I didn’t dare say it aloud. “You weren’t so timid when you were telling Caleb off today,” he observed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Was he here to punish me on Caleb’s behalf? I immediately panicked. “I’m so sorry! It won’t happen again!” “That’s… not what I meant,” Julian said, looking slightly frustrated. He reached for a pack of cigarettes in his jacket, glanced at me, and then shoved them back into his pocket. “Look, my advice is to forget about Caleb. The people who sponsored you were his parents. If you feel a sense of gratitude, direct it toward them.” “I understand,” I mumbled, focusing on pushing my food around my plate. The scar on his jaw seemed more pronounced in the diner’s low light. It was intimidating. After a long silence, he said my name. “Ava.” I jumped. “Yes!” “If you’re so scared of me, why did you agree to come tonight?” He had me there. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small box. “I almost forgot. This is for you. It’s a muscle relief balm. And… thank you, for today.” He took the box, looking surprised. “For me?” “Yes.” “That’s thoughtful.” I took a deep breath. “If there’s nothing else, I should probably get going…” “I’m not finished.” “Oh. Okay.” “I saved you today,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “Doesn’t that mean you owe me a debt, too?” “Y-yes, of course. What can I do?” Julian leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Go out with me.” The walk back to my dorm was a blur. It felt like I was floating in a dream. Julian was a campus legend, and walking beside me, he drew stares from everyone we passed. I became an object of intense curiosity. When we reached my building, I turned to him, my posture stiff. “Well, I’m heading up.” I started to turn away, desperate to escape into the safety of the dorm. “That’s it?” Julian’s voice stopped me. “Not how a girlfriend is supposed to act.” My head whipped around, and I frantically scanned the area. Thankfully, no one was around to hear him. Yes. I had said yes. I’m still not entirely sure why. Maybe it was the startling sincerity in his eyes when he asked. Maybe it was because I genuinely wanted to thank him. Or maybe, just maybe, it was a way to prove to myself, and to the ghost of Caleb’s cruel words, that I had no intention of seducing anyone. Whatever the reason, the word had just… fallen out of my mouth. “How am I supposed to act?” I whispered, my cheeks burning. “I’ve never… done this before.” He took a step closer and tapped his cheek. “Kiss me goodnight.” I froze. “No? Alright,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “My turn, then.” Before I could process what he meant, he closed the distance between us, tilted his head, and pressed his lips to mine. My brain short-circuited. My lips were sealed shut, my body rigid with shock. But he wasn’t demanding. He simply moved his mouth against mine, a soft, exploratory pressure, as if savoring a dessert. It was surprisingly gentle. After a few moments, my knees started to feel weak. When he finally pulled back, I heard him let out a soft, satisfied sigh. “Been wanting to do that,” he murmured. “…What?” “Nothing.” He reached up and gently wiped a trace of moisture from my bottom lip with his thumb. The simple, intimate gesture scrambled my thoughts completely. He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear. “Next time, Ava,” he whispered, “open your mouth.” Julian, it turned out, moved at his own pace. Every day, a “good morning” text, a “good night” call. He’d let me know where he was going, as if I were already an integral part of his life. But he never pushed for more. I appreciated the rhythm, the space he gave me. He was probably just amusing himself, I thought. When he got bored, he’d dump me, and my debt would be paid. Simple. Except it wasn’t. He deposited ten thousand dollars onto my meal card. Ten thousand dollars. For cafeteria food. The number was so absurd it didn’t feel real. I was so confused. Who was repaying whom here? I never sought out Caleb again. I decided I would repay his parents directly, once I had a job and my own money. A month passed. The rhythm of university life became familiar. Just before the fall break, the Fashion Design department put out a call for models for a small student showcase. The rumor was that the catering was amazing, so Chloe and I went to the tryouts on a whim. It was simple enough. Put on the student-designed dresses, let them see how they looked. My rash had finally cleared up, and Chloe had worked some magic with a little makeup. I stepped out from behind the screen in a simple, elegant evening gown and saw him immediately. Caleb Vance. He was sitting on a table, tossing a basketball against the wall. “Wow, that dress looks incredible on you!” one of the senior students exclaimed. Her voice made Caleb turn his head. He stopped bouncing the ball. He just stared. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for his verdict. Caleb had secured the funding for the show, so his word was law. And his standards were notoriously high; he’d rejected every girl who had tried out that morning. He stared for so long the basketball rolled off his lap and across the floor, unnoticed. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked abruptly. “That’s none of your business.” “It is if I want to ask you out,” he said with a charming, confident smile. The words hung in the suddenly silent room. I just looked at him like he was an idiot. “You don’t even know my name.” “A name’s not important. The feeling is.” “And yet,” I said, my voice level, “my name is Ava Monroe.” His smile froze, cracking at the edges. “…What did you say your name was?” “Ava Monroe,” I repeated, tapping my temple. “About a month ago, you almost sent me to the ER with that basketball. Don’t you remember?” His face went from confusion to dawning horror. A forced, awkward laugh escaped him. “Oh. Right. It’s you.” “It’s me.” “The sun was in my eyes that day,” he stammered, scrambling for an excuse. “I was in a bad mood. I’m sorry.” I ignored him. He was in full damage-control mode now. “Seeing you in that dress… you look incredible. It would be an honor to have you model for us.” “I haven’t agreed to anything.” “Is it the time commitment? The show is on a weekend, it won’t conflict with your classes.” “It’s not about the time,” I said, turning back toward the dressing room. “It’s about the fact that I don’t want to.” I changed back into my own clothes and handed the gown back to the stunned senior. Caleb looked completely thrown. “Wait, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m the real Caleb Vance.” He actually pulled out his student ID to show me, as if that would change anything. “The guy you met that day was my friend. He can be… intense. If he scared you, I apologize on his behalf. I’m the one you were looking for.” He really thought that flashing his name, his status, would make me melt. He was wrong. “I know who you are,” I said calmly. “Tell me, Caleb. How was the food at The Laurel?” His expression soured. “What are you talking about? If you want to go, I can take you.” “I’m not interested. I’m just curious. A ten-thousand-dollar dinner for you and your friends… must have been delicious, right?” “Did Julian tell you that?” “No,” I said, meeting his panicked gaze. “I heard it myself.” I told him then. That I had come back to the court. That I had heard every single word he’d said about me. I repeated them for him, one by one. “Poor.” He winced. “Calculating.” His jaw tightened. “A face only a mother could love.” The blood drained from his face. “I didn’t know you then,” he pleaded. “It was wrong of me to judge you like that. It won’t happen again.” “No,” I said. “It won’t.” I grabbed Chloe’s arm and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. The next day, twenty thousand dollars appeared on my meal card—more than his parents’ original scholarship stipend. I had the university finance office reverse the transaction immediately. He somehow got my number and started flooding me with texts and showing up wherever I was on campus. I ignored him completely. But Caleb didn’t give up. That weekend, I was working my shift at The Alibi, a popular off-campus bar that a lot of students frequented. My manager approached me. “Hey Ava, a fruit platter for the VIP room. Can you take it in?” “That’s not my section,” I said. “I know, but they asked for you by name. Must be some of your friends.” I didn’t think much of it and pushed through the door to the private room. It was packed with about a dozen people, men and women. And right in the center, a smug-looking Caleb Vance. He was looking right at me, a lazy smile playing on his lips. If I didn’t know what a shallow person he was, I might have found him handsome. “Everyone,” he announced, “this is Ava Monroe.” Because of his very public, very one-sided pursuit, my name was now campus gossip. A chorus of knowing “ooohs” went through the room. I said nothing, my eyes scanning the smoky haze until they landed on a figure in the corner. Julian. I don’t know when it happened, but things with Julian had deepened. He wasn’t the terrifying figure from the rumors. Our conversations had evolved from stilted and awkward to easy and open. We could talk about anything. He knew I hated being the center of attention, so our dates were always somewhere quiet, away from prying eyes. We held hands. We kissed. He loved kissing me, long, slow kisses that left me breathless. But that was as far as it went. I was a slow burn, and he was a gentleman. The moment he sensed me pull back, he would stop. He never once made me feel less than because of where I came from. He treated me with a respect I’d never known. It was impossible not to develop feelings for a man like that. And there he was, sitting in the corner. A cigarette was burning between his fingers, but the second I walked in, he stubbed it out. “Ava,” Caleb called out. “I’ve already cleared it with your manager. You’re off the clock. Hang out with us, you’ll still get paid.” “I’d rather work,” I said flatly, setting the platter down and turning to leave. Just then, my phone rang. It was my manager. “Ava, just hang out with them for a bit. It’s part of the job tonight. Caleb’s dad is one of our biggest investors. Don’t piss him off.” Trapped, I slumped into an empty seat. It was a Caleb-curated crowd, all from the same silver-spoon background. They talked about Aston Martins and buying investment properties in London. It was a language I didn’t speak. At one point, someone turned to me. “What do you think of the new Aston Martin, Ava?” “I’m sorry,” I said, my cheeks flushing. “I don’t really follow celebrities.” The table went dead silent. “It’s a car,” a girl finally said, her voice dripping with disbelief. “You’ve never heard of Aston Martin?” The silence that followed was even more mortifying. Julian’s low voice cut through the tension. “It’s normal not to know if you’re not into cars.” The girl wasn’t done. “So what do you drive, Ava?” “She doesn’t,” someone else chimed in. “She’s the scholarship kid Caleb’s parents are sponsoring.” The atmosphere shifted instantly. The looks they gave me were a mixture of pity and suspicion. Now I understood why Caleb’s first assumption was that I was trying to seduce him. In their world, it was the only logical conclusion. I felt like an insect under a microscope. I reached for my glass of water, but a hand shot out and grabbed my arm. “Hey, Ava,” the guy said, his eyes wide. “That bracelet you’re wearing… isn’t it the same as Julian’s?” He pushed up my sleeve, revealing the simple, beaded bracelet Julian had given me weeks ago. “Whoa, it is! It’s identical!” “Let me see, Julian!” Someone grabbed Julian’s arm and held it up to the light. His bracelet was the same, just with slightly larger beads. The soft, dark wood gleamed under the track lighting. “They’re a matching set,” someone whispered. The air in the room became thick and heavy. Caleb wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes were cold, fixed on our wrists. “A matching set?” he said slowly, his gaze shifting from me to Julian. “What’s the story, man?” Julian said nothing. His silence was an answer in itself. The pressure was suffocating. “I just bought it at a street market,” I blurted out. “It’s just a coincidence.” “Really?” “Yeah, they’re everywhere.” You could feel the collective sigh of relief in the room. Caleb’s smile returned, and he started pouring drinks, trying to force the mood back to what it was. But Julian’s face was unreadable. He looked down, his expression hidden in the shadows. Oh, God. He was angry. The noise in the VIP room was giving me a headache. I mumbled an excuse about the restroom and slipped out into the concrete stairwell for some air. I’d only been sitting on the steps for a minute when Julian followed me out. Before he could say a word, I surrendered. “I can explain! I didn’t deny it because I don’t like you, I denied it because of what I told you before. I hate being talked about. You’re a big deal on campus, Julian. If people knew we were together, it would be a thousand times worse than it already is.” It was the truth. Ever since Caleb had made a public spectacle of “chasing” me, my life had become a fishbowl. Professors would call my name in lecture halls and a wave of whispers would follow. People took pictures of me in the library. I hated it. Julian was silent for a long time. The stairwell was even darker than the lounge, and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could feel a coldness radiating from him. “All those words,” he said finally, his voice flat. “But what it boils down to is, you don’t have feelings for me.” “No, that’s not it at all!” “It’s been a month, Ava. If you haven’t been moved by now, you never will be.” I didn’t know what to say. “A month,” he said quietly. “That was the deadline I gave myself. You’re free.” “Wait… are you breaking up with me?” “Yeah.” He turned to go. I don’t know what came over me, but I acted on pure instinct. I grabbed his arm, stood on my toes, and pressed my mouth to his.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394227”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The moment I found my boyfriend’s private account, he had just posted a new thread: What are some good cities for a couple’s getaway? As a joke, I anonymously recommended a historic town upstate that I’d always wanted to visit but had never gotten the chance. Ten minutes later, he replied to my comment. “Thanks, but my little girl and I already went there for the midsummer festival this year.” “She didn’t like it.” 1 My finger froze over the screen. I clicked again on the profile picture—a jumble of random numbers and code—and scrolled through his feed. There weren’t many posts, but every single one was undeniable proof that this was my boyfriend, Bob. The custom watch I’d given him. The unique hydroponic plant on his office desk. My own hand, wearing our anniversary ring, from a photo taken on our fifth year together… I took a steadying breath and reread his reply. My little girl. I was two years older than Bob. He had never, not once, called me his little girl. And the midsummer festival… This year, during the festival, he and his team were on a business trip. He’d been so busy he hadn’t even called. I calmly messaged my assistant, asking her to pull the list of everyone from the tech department who went on that trip. Three minutes later, I had my answer. Chloe. The only female intern on the list. A “little girl” who had just graduated from college a year ago. Of course, it was her. My mind flashed back to last night, when I’d brought up taking a vacation next week to unwind. The massive project he was leading was finally wrapping up, and the coming week was supposed to be his first real break. But before I could even finish my sentence, he’d looked up from his computer screen and said flatly, “I have another business trip next week. No time.” “If you want to go, just go with your friends.” In six years together, it was the first time he had ever refused to take a vacation with me. Ever since we started working at the same company, we had always synced our annual leave. And until I found his private account, until I saw that post, I had clung to a sliver of hope that he was just planning a surprise for me. “Director Hayes, VP Barry submitted his vacation request three days ago,” a colleague from HR informed me. “Also on leave next week are the VP of Operations, someone from Legal, and… Chloe, the intern from the tech department. She’s taking a week of sick leave.” A bitter, silent laugh escaped my lips. Whenever Chloe’s name came up, people would pause, their voices trailing off. The day she started, rumors that she was the niece of a board member at corporate headquarters had spread like wildfire. Everyone treated her like a princess just there to pad her resume. Only Bob had put on a show of impartiality when he mentioned her to me. “She’s just an intern. They’re all the same in my eyes.” But over the past year, the “special treatment” he gave her had become painfully obvious. He’d worn the red string bracelet she gave him behind the custom watch I’d gifted him, claiming she’d gotten it blessed at a monastery and it was just for good luck. He’d placed the stuffed animal she gave him in the most prominent spot on his desk, insisting that everyone in the department got one and he didn’t want to be accused of singling her out. He forgot our six-year anniversary for the first time, yet he remembered that the next day marked Chloe’s 100th day at the company and had already booked a table at her favorite restaurant. And every time I questioned him about these things, he would dismiss it as me being paranoid. “Given who she is, it’s only natural for me to look out for her a little more.” “It’s just office politics, Claire. You’re a director, you should understand how this game is played.” It was because I understood all too well that I had let it slide, again and again. Until today, when I saw this post—this irrefutable proof. If before I had only sensed his heart slowly drifting away, now, I knew it was time to make a clean break. I sat in my office, numb, for the rest of the afternoon, then went home to wait for Bob to finish his overtime. “I saw your leave request at HR,” I said, lounging on the chaise. I heard his footsteps halt just inside the door. “You were investigating me? That’s my private information.” His voice was laced with anger. “Is it?” I said without looking up. “Does your ‘private information’ also include your little girl?” 2 In the six years we’d been together, I had rarely used such a tone with him. I remember when he first joined the company. I was already a team lead, having built a reputation for being efficient, decisive, and for keeping my professional and private lives strictly separate. Back then, he would hold me and laugh, saying that everyone else only saw my tough exterior, but only he knew my softer, more passionate side. From college until now, I had given him so much of that softness. So much that, eventually, he started to take it for granted. Since he no longer valued it, I no longer needed to offer it. “What’s the matter? You have the guts to do it, but not to admit it?” I stood up, facing the man I had loved for six years. The air grew thick with tension. Bob turned his face away, refusing to meet my eyes. “Next month, there’s a chance I could be transferred to the corporate headquarters overseas.” After a long silence, he finally spoke. I raised an eyebrow, setting my water glass down. “And what does that have to do with you cheating?” Bob’s brow furrowed in annoyance, clearly displeased with my choice of words. “What does it have to do with it? Claire, this is a special promotion, a once-in-three-years opportunity. Do you have any idea how much effort I’ve put in just to get on Chloe’s good side?” He sighed, his voice taking on a martyred tone. “Can’t you be more understanding for once? Can’t you see how tired I am?” What a magnificent, self-serving excuse. He wanted to use Chloe and her board-member uncle as his personal rocket to the top, but he also didn’t want the stain of being a cheater. So he was still trying to argue his way out of it. “In that case, you should go straight to your ‘little girl’ and ride your coattails to success,” I said with a faint smile. “Bob, I wish you all the best.” “Claire, you—!” His face flushed with humiliation, but as his eyes met my unflappable expression, he faltered. There wasn’t a single trace of sadness on my face. Just the calm, detached air of someone tossing out a bag of trash. I knew exactly what he was thinking. My indifference was bruising his ego. “Do you really not know why I’ve been trying so hard to get close to her?” he finally spat out, trying to regain control. “I can put up with it for the sake of our future, but you’re getting hung up on every little thing.” “Claire, you’re just too controlling,” he said, his eyes scanning me critically. “It was just a private account, a few lines I wrote to play the part. Is that really worth interrogating me like this?” He was desperately trying to save face, to provoke a reaction from me. Every word was designed to paint me as the suspicious, unsupportive partner, while he was the one making noble sacrifices. Too bad for him, that act didn’t work on me. The word “understanding” was not in my vocabulary. “Controlling,” however, suited me just fine. “You’re right, I am controlling,” I said. “Controlling enough that I can no longer tolerate my cheating ex-boyfriend standing in the house I paid for in full.” “Bob, get out. The moving company I called will be here soon. You’re welcome.” And so, against the backdrop of the wind howling outside and Bob’s furious curses, my apartment was finally quiet again by three in the morning. To avoid office gossip, Bob had never made our relationship public. I’d understood his reservations at the time, but looking back, it was clear he had never considered me his only option. Sure enough, three days after I unilaterally ended things, Bob and Chloe started appearing together everywhere, making no effort to hide their new relationship. It was like a declaration of war. Then, right on schedule, a box of candy appeared on my desk—the brand Bob always ordered for me. I have severe hypoglycemia and tend to get dizzy when I overwork myself. It used to worry him sick, so every month, he would have a box of my favorite candy delivered directly to my office. I looked at this ghost of our dead relationship, sighed, and was about to put it away when Chloe pushed my door open and walked in. “Director Hayes, sorry, but it looks like a delivery was sent to the wrong person.” She sauntered in, her eyes glinting with triumph. “Those are the announcement gifts Bob is giving out to our colleagues. Can I have them back?” 3 In all my years, I’d never heard of an “announcement gift.” The way she was acting, you’d think they were getting married tomorrow and were rushing to hand out wedding favors. It was so brazen it was almost comical. “I see. Well, go ahead and take them,” I said with a flick of my chin toward the box, then turned back to my computer. She froze, clearly taken aback that her provocation had completely failed to land. “I know you’re Bob’s ‘ex-girlfriend,’” she said, putting heavy emphasis on the last word. “But he’s mine now. So, Director Hayes, please learn to keep your distance. Don’t try to take what isn’t yours.” So young, I thought to myself, a wry smile playing on my lips. “Miss Shen, are you aware that when he asked you out, he was still in a relationship with me?” Chloe’s face went pale. So, she knew. Of course, she knew. “And you think,” I continued, my voice level, “that I would actually fight you for a man who cheats on his girlfriend and then has the audacity to beg for a gift back to use as an ‘announcement present’ with his new flame?” I shook my head slowly. “A man like that is beneath me.” Her expression turned ugly. She opened her mouth to say something else, but I cut her off. “And frankly, Miss Shen, so are you. Barging into a director’s office without knocking shows a profound lack of professionalism and basic manners.” “How did someone like you even get hired here? Tina,” I called to my assistant, “please show her out.” I think Chloe was crying as she ran out of my office. I didn’t particularly care. I had more important things to deal with. Later, Sarah, the general manager of the tech department and a personal friend, came to see me. She brought up the overseas promotion, her voice hesitant. The tech department had two Vice Presidents: Bob and a woman named Diane, who was equally qualified and also eager for the transfer to headquarters. “I thought it would be a fair competition between them,” Sarah said, “but now with Bob being so public with Chloe, he must have everything locked down. It’s disgusting watching him get his way like this.” She pursed her lips in distaste. “Claire, I know tech talent is a priority, but you’ve been here for seven years. Based on seniority alone…” Sarah knew about Bob and me, and she knew the advantage Chloe gave him. Her words were a mix of concern and indignation on my behalf. “It’s fine. I trust that headquarters will make a fair decision,” I said calmly, flipping through a file. “Besides, I’m not in the running for that position, so there’s no conflict.” We chatted for a few more minutes before I dove back into my work. A little later, I happened to see Bob’s new post on my social feed. A picture of the entire tech department, each person holding a gift, celebrating his new relationship. Most of the comments were congratulatory, people being polite after receiving a gift, but I could only imagine what they were really thinking. A flood of messages came in from friends who knew the real story, all asking what had happened. I gave them a brief rundown, and just before leaving for the day, I called my assistant in to book a flight for me. The words had barely left my mouth when, just like Chloe, Bob threw my door open without knocking. “Why are you booking a flight there? Are you trying to go to headquarters too?” He stood there, aggressive and greedy, a bitter glint in his eyes. He looked nothing like the earnest, handsome young man who had pursued me all those years ago. “You’re not actually thinking of competing for the promotion, are you?” His gaze turned pitying. “Claire, headquarters just promoted your predecessor last year. There’s no way they’d choose you again this year.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You embarrassed Chloe today, and now she’s throwing a fit, saying she needs to ‘reconsider’ who gets her uncle’s support. Just play along with this, Claire. As soon as I get the transfer, I’ll dump her. Don’t you want to work at headquarters? Once I’m in, I can pull some strings and get you in, too. It’ll be easy.” He paused, a look of magnanimous compromise on his face. “Just bear with it a little longer. For me.” 4 He looked so self-satisfied, as if he were bestowing upon me some great act of charity. I felt like I was watching a monkey perform at a circus. It was utterly baffling. Bring me in? The moment his plane touched down overseas, I’d be getting a breakup text. I had no doubt about that. “Next time, install a new keycard lock on my door. I’m tired of uninvited people barging in,” I instructed my assistant before finally turning my gaze to Bob. “Bear with it?” I repeated. “VP Barry, are you suggesting I should stay here and ‘bear with it’ so I have a front-row seat to your cheating scandal? Or perhaps so I can broadcast it to the entire company?” “I told you, I’m not cheating!” I noticed that whenever I used the word “cheat,” he would have an outsized reaction. If he had just been honest and admitted he was dumping me to climb the corporate ladder, I might have respected his candor. But this—this was just pathetic. “Not cheating? You and Chloe have booked hotel rooms dozens of times in the past six months, and just last week you were looking at villas to live in together overseas.” I smiled, a cold, sharp thing. “Bob, did you really think you could fool me?” The color drained from his face. He had no idea I’d dug that deep. “Fine, Claire. If this is how you want to end our relationship, then there’s nothing more to say.” His tone suddenly shifted, becoming threatening. “I admit, I approached Chloe with a goal in mind. But after getting to know her, I’ve realized she’s so much better than you.” He puffed out his chest, a final, swaggering display of power. “You’re just pushing me to make our act a reality. And you… the next time you come to headquarters, you’ll be the one knocking on my door.” “You’re going to regret this.” I watched him walk away and simply laughed. After the holidays, headquarters sent formal invitations to both Vice Presidents, Bob and Diane, to attend a farewell banquet for the outgoing Director of Technology. Everyone knew it was more than just a farewell party; by the end of the night, the successor would be unofficially crowned. When I entered the venue, Bob was on Chloe’s arm, gliding through the room, schmoozing with executives, a confident smile on his face. The other candidate, Diane, stood off to the side, looking isolated and alone. “Claire? What are you doing here?” Bob finally spotted me, his hand tightening around his wine glass. I ignored his question, exchanging pleasantries with a few senior managers. Just days before, right before his flight, he’d sent me a text message. It was a long, patronizing farewell, saying he was off to a new life overseas and that I should learn to let go. He really thought I’d booked my flight just for show. Chloe’s expression soured when she saw me, but she whispered something to Bob, and soon the confident smirk returned to his face. The banquet began. My position as a director was higher than his, so my seat was naturally closer to the head of the table. After a few rounds of drinks, the outgoing director finally raised the topic on everyone’s mind. “So, have we decided on the new transfer from the branch office? Will they be my replacement, or are we promoting internally and bringing someone up from another department?” Bob froze, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. A strange, unsettling feeling began to creep over him. Could it be? Is Claire actually here to compete with me? He sat up straighter, his posture rigid with tension. Just then, the General Manager, seated next to me, spoke up. “Of course, we’re prioritizing talent from the tech department. We have two excellent candidates this year.” The GM smiled warmly in my direction. “Besides, our chairman’s own daughter has been overseeing the domestic branch. She’s been there long enough to have a sharp eye for talent, and she’s the one who recommended this year’s candidates.” He then turned directly to me. “So, Claire. Have you chosen a worthy successor for your father?” There was a sudden, sharp CRASH from Bob’s direction as his wine glass slipped from his hand. He had it all wrong. I wasn’t there to compete with him. I was there to decide his fate. Smiling, I nodded at the GM. “I have. And my father has already reviewed my choice. He approves.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394244”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Over Memorial Day weekend, I discovered an old, unfamiliar photo in our attic. It showed a strange boy with his arm around my younger self, both smiling. The back read in faded ink: With cousin Adam, Memorial Day 2010. But I had no memory of any “cousin Adam.” “Mom, who is this?” I asked, bringing the photo downstairs. She glanced at it, frowning. “What do you mean, honey? That’s just a picture of you.” I grabbed it back—the boy had vanished. Stranger still, at dinner that night, my father asked, “When is Dana’s cousin Adam arriving? We should make sure he stays longer this time.” Everyone nodded in agreement, as if this unknown cousin were perfectly familiar. I froze, fork in mid-air. “Cousin Adam?” I repeated, searching my memory and finding nothing. My mother felt my forehead. “Dana, are you feeling okay?” “I… don’t remember a cousin named Adam,” I said carefully. The table went silent. My parents and my aunt exchanged a strange look. “Oh, you,” my aunt chuckled. “What kind of joke is that? Adam practically grew up with you. You two were inseparable, thick as thieves.” “Exactly,” my father added, tapping his bowl with his chopsticks. “He comes to stay for a couple of weeks every summer. Last year he taught you how to make those amazing sweet and sour ribs, remember?” A wave of confusion washed over me. I had no memory of any of this, but they described it all so vividly, as if it were undeniable fact. “I really don’t remember,” I insisted. “So… which side of the family is he from?” Another strange silence descended. “He’s…” my mother started, then paused, her brow knitting in thought. Her voice became uncertain. “He’s from your aunt’s side, isn’t he?” “No, that’s not right,” my aunt immediately countered, waving her hand. “He’s not one of mine. Adam is from your uncle’s family.” “I thought he was your brother’s kid,” my father chimed in, though he didn’t sound sure of himself. “Tall kid, taller than his own dad. Must be six-three, at least.” The three of them looked at each other, the atmosphere growing tense and awkward. “So none of you are sure whose relative he is?” I asked, a sliver of unease creeping up my spine. “We’re just getting old, I guess,” my mother said with a strained laugh, quickly changing the subject. “Right, for the family reunion tomorrow, make sure you get that new dress ready.” After dinner, I went to my room and pulled out my phone, scrolling through my photo library. If Adam was as close to me as they claimed, there had to be pictures of us together. But after searching through years of photos, I found nothing. Not a single image that included anyone who could possibly be “Adam.” I opened my contacts and searched for his name. No results. This was too weird. A cousin who supposedly grew up with me was a complete ghost in both my memory and my digital life. Puzzled, I decided to ask more of the family. I called my cousin on my uncle’s side first. “Dana! What’s up?” she answered cheerfully. I got straight to the point. “Hey, can I ask you about someone? Do you know a cousin named Adam?” “Adam?” she repeated. “Of course, I know Adam. Isn’t he always over at your house?” “Can you tell me whose kid he is?” The line was silent for a few seconds. “He’s…” Her voice suddenly lost its certainty. “Hang on, let me think…” A few more seconds of silence. “That’s so weird, I can’t seem to place him,” she finally said. “But he’s definitely one of ours. Why are you asking all of a sudden?” “No reason, just popped into my head,” I said evasively. “Can you describe what he looks like?” She laughed. “Oh, Adam’s a little butterball! Short, round face, the kind of guy who’s always smiling. Super cheerful!” A chill went down my spine. My father had just described Adam as a tall guy, over six feet. My aunt had described him as a cheerful, short, and stout kid. After hanging up, I called a few more relatives. The answers were all disturbingly similar—everyone “remembered” cousin Adam, but no one could confirm his exact identity. And when it came to his appearance, every single description was different. The next morning, I rummaged through my grandfather’s old study, hoping to find a family tree or some record of a Adam. The heavy, leather-bound book chronicled generations of our family, but after flipping through every page, I found no mention of his name. “Dana, what are you looking for?” My aunt’s voice behind me made me jump. “Just looking at the family tree,” I said, closing the heavy book. “Auntie, do you remember what Adam was like as a kid?” She smiled. “Of course! He was such a little rascal. Always following your dad around, trying to copy everything he did. Never sat still for a second.” “Do you have any pictures of him?” Her smile froze. “Pictures? I… I probably do somewhere…” She pulled out her phone and swiped through it quickly. After a moment, it became clear she wasn’t finding anything. “There are just too many pictures on here,” she said with a weak laugh. “I can’t find one right now.” “Where is he now?” I pressed. “Why haven’t we seen him in so many years?” Her expression grew even more confused. “What are you talking about? We see him all the time. He was just here this past summer, wasn’t he?” “But I have no memory of it,” I insisted. “And I’ve looked through every photo I have. He’s not in a single one.” My aunt was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Dana, have you been working too hard? How could you suddenly forget someone so close to you?” I didn’t say anything else. Clearly, everyone was convinced that cousin Adam existed. I was the only one with no memory of him. That afternoon, the whole family went to the cemetery for our annual visit to the family plot. On the way home, my little niece suddenly piped up, “Mommy, when is Uncle Adam coming? He promised he’d teach me how to make paper airplanes.” My sister stroked her daughter’s head. “Soon, sweetie. He’ll be here in a few days.” “He called me yesterday,” my niece said matter-of-factly. “He said he’s bringing me a present.” My sister and I exchanged a look. Her expression told me she knew nothing about any such phone call. “When did you talk to him?” my sister asked. “Last night, when you and Daddy went out,” my niece replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Uncle Adam said he misses us a lot and he’s coming home soon.” That night, back at the old family house, the place was packed with relatives for the reunion. There were eleven adults and three small children. During dinner, I asked casually, “Does anyone know what Adam is doing for work these days?” My uncle-in-law took a sip of his wine. “Isn’t he a long-haul trucker out west? I heard he was about to finish his training and go independent.” My third uncle looked confused. “No, Adam’s a programmer in the city.” My great-aunt put down her chopsticks. “Eh? I thought he was working in a factory down south.” Everyone looked at each other, bewildered. I pressed my advantage. “Why don’t you just ask him? Someone give him a call.” Everyone pulled out their phones and started scrolling through their contacts. After a moment, a chorus of confused murmurs filled the room. “I know I had his number. I can’t find it.” “Mine’s gone too.” “That’s not right, I’m sure I talked to him just last week…” Eleven relatives, and not a single one had Adam’s phone number. At that point, even the least perceptive person in the room could tell something was deeply wrong. My uncle-in-law put down his glass. “Alright,” he said gravely. “Let’s all sit down and figure this out. Who, exactly, is Adam?” The room fell silent. My great-aunt and my aunt took the three little ones upstairs to bed. The men cleared the dining table and set out eleven cups of tea on the coffee table. Half an hour later, we were all gathered in the living room. My uncle-in-law took a sip of tea, assuming the air of a seasoned expert. “I’ll start. I’m positive about this. Adam is thirty-five, a tall guy, drives a truck. Last year, at the reunion, he was asking me all about the northwestern routes, complaining about the road conditions and how much fuel he was burning.” My third uncle pushed his glasses up his nose, frowning. “That can’t be right. Adam is definitely not thirty yet. He’s a programmer, wears black-framed glasses, very thin. He was complaining to me a few months ago about working too much overtime.” My great-aunt shook her head, her expression certain. “Good heavens, you must have it all wrong. Adam is thirty-two, a line supervisor at an electronics factory in Austin. He’s fair-skinned, a bit chubby, and a real smooth talker.” I silently jotted down the contradictory descriptions, my heart pounding. How could one person have so many different ages, jobs, and appearances? It was my aunt’s turn. She thought for a moment before speaking. “I remember Adam being very shy as a child. He was always quiet, reading a book by himself. Never caused any trouble.” My father immediately objected. “No way! Adam was a little terror as a kid. Always climbing trees and raiding birds’ nests. There wasn’t a place in this town he didn’t get into mischief.” “I remember him being an only child,” my cousin chimed in. My great-uncle waved his hand dismissively. “No, he has a sister.” My third aunt corrected him. “A brother.” The atmosphere grew thicker with strangeness. I looked around the room. Every face was etched with confusion and unease. “Who are his parents?” I asked, hitting the crucial question. “They’re…” my aunt began, then stopped, her brow furrowed. “They’re related to your third aunt.” My third aunt immediately shot back, “No, he’s not from our side of the family.” No one could answer. Eleven relatives stared at each other, the air thick with tension. I broke the silence. “When was the last time you saw Adam, and where?” My father recalled, “It was this past summer. He came over and taught Dana how to make those ribs. We were in the kitchen together all afternoon.” “Impossible,” I countered immediately. “I was in Europe all summer. I wasn’t even home.” My father stared at me, the memory clearly conflicting with the fact. My great-uncle spoke up. “He was at my house last weekend. Fixed my computer. We had a few beers.” I looked at my great-aunt. “Is that right?” She shook her head, confused. “We were at my mother’s all last weekend. We weren’t home.” My great-uncle’s face went pale. “That’s not right… I distinctly remember…” “Let’s try drawing him,” I interrupted. “Everyone, draw the Adam you remember.” Eleven pieces of paper were soon filled with eleven completely different portraits. Some were tall and brawny, others short and wiry. Some wore glasses, one was bald. Some had beards, others were clean-shaven. The drawings had absolutely nothing in common, as if they depicted eleven different men. “This is impossible,” my uncle-in-law muttered, staring at the disparate sketches. “How can we all have completely different memories of the same person?” Suddenly, my great-uncle’s eyes lit up. “I remember! Adam knows magic tricks! Every year at the reunion, he’d always put on a little magic show for everyone.” “Yes! He does do magic!” several people exclaimed in unison. It seemed to be the only detail everyone could agree on. As the eleven of us fell back into a stunned silence, we heard a noise from the staircase. My cousin’s daughter was tiptoeing down the stairs, clutching a bag of chips. My cousin stood up immediately. “Sweetie, I thought you were asleep.” The little girl held up the bag. “Uncle Adam woke me up and gave me some chips. Do you want one, Mommy?” Adam was here? Upstairs? We were all stunned. I looked around at the others. “We need to check on the kids.” My great-aunt and my cousin nodded, quietly following me up the stairs. As we rounded the landing, we could hear laughter coming from the children’s room. We pushed open the door to find two of the children sitting on the floor, playing with toys that didn’t belong to them, toys that shouldn’t have been in this house. “Where’s Adam?” my great-aunt asked, scooping up her grandson. “He went to the bathroom,” the boy said, refusing to let go of his new toy. My cousin and I exchanged a look and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. The door was open. No one was inside. We checked every room upstairs. There was no sign of Adam. The three of us went back downstairs with the children. The other relatives were still in the living room, deep in discussion about Adam. “Did you find him?” my father asked, looking up. My cousin shook her head. “He’s not up there. Just some new toys we’ve never seen before.” It was then that I noticed the cups on the coffee table. I counted them once. Then again. My voice trembled. “There are twelve. There are twelve cups. There are only eleven of us.” Even more unsettling, every cup showed signs of use, including the extra one. I looked at the sofa and saw twelve distinct impressions in the cushions, arranged in a circle, just as we had been sitting. “Was he… was he here with us the whole time?” my aunt whispered, her voice shaking. No one answered, because no one remembered. Panic began to spread. We split up and searched the old house, trying to find any trace of Adam. In the study, we found a book left open, with fresh, unfamiliar handwriting in the margins. In the kitchen, there was a recently washed coffee mug in the sink, but no one in our family drinks coffee. In the backyard, a clear set of footprints led across the lawn to the fence, where they simply stopped. The most chilling discovery came when we returned to the living room. The extra cup was gone. And there were only eleven impressions on the sofa cushions. “What in God’s name is happening?!” my great-uncle cried, on the verge of hysteria. In the thick, fearful silence, there came a soft knock at the front door. “Who is it?!” my third aunt shrieked. A voice answered from outside. “It’s me… Adam.” My uncle-in-law and my great-uncle walked slowly to the door. They exchanged a look, took a deep breath, and each grabbed one of the heavy wooden handles. They pulled the doors open together. There was no one there. “But how…” my great-uncle stammered. “I heard him…” “I heard him too,” my father said, peering out into the darkness. Everyone had heard the knock, and everyone had heard Adam’s voice. But the doorway was empty. My great-uncle shut and bolted the doors, then sank back onto the sofa, running his hands through his hair. In the eerie quiet, more memories of Adam began to surface. “Oh my God,” my aunt whispered. “One time, I woke up in the middle of the night, and Adam was standing by my bed. Just… watching me. When I asked what he was doing, he said he just wanted to make sure we all still remembered him. I nearly had a heart attack!” “I’ve had experiences like that too,” my great-uncle said, his voice low. “Sometimes I can feel him right behind me, feel his breath on my neck, but when I turn around, there’s nothing there.” My third uncle was trembling. “Last year he gave me a clock,” he said, speaking quickly. “It keeps strange time. Sometimes it’s fast, sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes it even runs backward.” “The book he gave me,” my father added. “The words change. Every time I open it, the story is different.” As the night deepened, so did the fear. No one dared to be alone. We huddled together in the living room with every light in the house turned on. The only ones unaffected were the children. They played with the toys Adam had brought, occasionally talking to the empty air as if he were right there beside them. We decided to stay awake until morning and then go to the police together. No one slept. We took turns keeping watch, making sure everyone was accounted for. Every gust of wind that rattled a window sent a jolt of terror through the room. Trips to the bathroom were made in pairs. It was the longest night of our lives. Just as the first light of dawn broke, we began to gather our things, ready to leave. And then, the doorbell rang again. Everyone froze.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394260”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I spiraled into a deep depression after my cat of five years passed away. Then, two months later, I received a friend request on Instagram. “Mom, send money.” “I met this gorgeous calico up here in heaven. Been chasing her for ages, but she’s playing hard to get.” “Burn me some more of those chicken and salmon pâté cans and some freeze-dried treats. She loves those.” “Love, your cat.” 1 When I first saw the message, I thought it was a hallucination brought on by grief. My cat had been gone for two months. How could a cat, of all things, use a phone, let alone add me as a friend on Instagram and send me a message? But for some reason, after a moment of hesitation, I accepted the request. Maybe I wanted to see who this person impersonating my cat was, and what they wanted. Or maybe it was for the tiny sliver of hope flickering in my own heart. The profile picture was a blur of white. I had to squint to realize it was a close-up shot of a white cat, its eyes narrowed to slits. The fur was matted and dull. It was, frankly, hideous. I shook my head. Definitely not my cat. Before I could even back out of the profile, a flood of messages came pouring in. “Mom, why aren’t you saying anything?” “Mom, I learned how to take selfies! I made it my profile picture. Do I look good?” “Mom, it’s me! It’s Jasper!” I frowned. Scammers were getting more and more sophisticated these days. They even knew my cat’s name. “Mom, don’t you recognize me?” “It’s really me! I can prove it!” “I saved you from drowning!” “And when your scent started to fade, I helped you re-mark everything!” I paused. Those things… did happen. Sort of. “Drowning” was me taking a bath. Jasper had been wailing outside the door, and in a fit of panic, he’d launched himself into the tub, then immediately freaked out and scrambled onto my neck for safety, leaving three permanent scars. And as for “re-marking” my scent… I gritted my teeth and typed. “You peed on my brand-new sheets and you have the audacity to bring that up?” Silence for a few seconds. Then, another close-up cat selfie. “Don’t be mad, Mom. Look at my new picture.” The more I looked, the angrier I got, and the angrier I got, the more I wanted to cry. I ended up clutching my phone, sobbing uncontrollably. “Is it really you, Jasper? Is it really you?” This time, instead of a text, he sent a voice message. A string of familiar meows filled the air. That only made me cry harder. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” He typed back. “You’re a silly goose, Mom.” “I said, ‘Don’t cry, Mom. I’m always here.’” 2 I looked at Jasper’s pictures over and over again. His once-soft, pristine white fur was now matted and tangled. His round belly was sunken, and one of his beautiful, mismatched eyes was swollen shut. After I asked him what happened several times, he finally, reluctantly, answered. “I got bullied.” “They don’t like me ’cause I’m a white cat. They won’t let me eat, and they steal the crunchy birds and little treats you burn for me!” “It makes me so mad!!” “That’s my stuff from my mom!” My heart ached. “How could there be such mean cats?” Jasper sent a smug-faced emoji. “Don’t worry, Mom. I fought back.” “And Rosie licked my wounds for me.” He followed it up with a dreamy-eyed emoji. “Rosie is the sweetest, most beautiful girl cat in the entire world!” That’s when I remembered the original friend request. “Jasper, how are you even able to use Instagram? And is Rosie the little calico you like?” He sent a nodding emoji. “Yep! I’m trying to win her over!” “I joined the Cat Crew recently. We do volunteer work in heaven.” “Animals who do a good job get a special phone to talk to their parents!” “I missed you so much, Mom. I had to save up a lot of points to be able to talk to you.” He sent a sad-cat emoji. I couldn’t help it; my eyes welled up again. Jasper was the laziest cat I knew. If he could lie down, he wouldn’t sit. If he could sit, he wouldn’t stand. I couldn’t imagine how much effort he must have put in just to talk to me. As if he could read my mind, he sent a three-second video. Another close-up selfie. In the video, he meowed twice and then gently patted the camera lens with his paw. He didn’t type anything this time, but I knew what he was saying. He was saying, “Don’t cry, Mom.” 3 Jasper continued typing. “I have another surprise for you!” “I helped one of the old ladies in heaven catch her chirpy bird, and I got a reward!” I praised him out of habit, then remembered to ask what the reward was. But he was being mysterious. “I’m not telling!” “Go to bed early tonight! You’ll find out when you’re asleep!” “My phone time is almost up! I have to go.” I quickly sent a few messages asking for more details, but they all came back with a red exclamation mark. I tried a dozen more times. Same result. I stared at my phone, stunned. It had all happened so fast. Was this a hallucination? Maybe I’d forgotten to take my medication again. But what if it was real? What if I could really see Jasper again? My eyes drifted to the pill bottle by the bathtub. I stood up, twisted off the cap, and swallowed a few pills before lying down on the sofa. For a long time after Jasper died, I hadn’t been able to sleep. I would only pass out from sheer exhaustion, and even then, my dreams were filled with images of him in his final moments. I had grown to fear sleep. But this time was different. As I lay on the sofa, feeling the drowsiness creep over me, I felt a flicker of anticipation. 4 When I opened my eyes again, it was dark outside. I was still on the sofa. Nothing had changed. It felt as if the whole thing had been a bizarre dream. I sat up and stared blankly at the coffee table in front of me. And then, I heard a familiar meow from beside the sofa. I whipped my head around. A white cat with one swollen, mismatched eye leaped onto the sofa, its tail held high, and wiggled its way into my lap. I gasped, reaching out a trembling hand to stroke his head. “Jasper?!” The white cat purred, then rolled onto his back, exposing his belly. “It’s me, it’s me!” “I missed you.” “Did you miss me, Mom?” I scooped him up and hugged him tight. “I missed you, I missed you so much, my baby, my sweet boy, I missed you so, so much!” Jasper let out a little meow and pushed his paws against my forehead. “Mom! I can’t breathe!” Feeling his familiar warmth and softness in my arms, I started to cry again. He lifted a paw and gently wiped my face. “Aren’t you curious how we can see each other?” “This is the reward I was talking about!” “The old lady in heaven rewarded me with one visit to your dreams. I had to fight really hard for this chance!” I kissed his little paw. “Jasper is the bravest kitty.” But at that, his face fell, and he slumped onto my lap. His voice was small and sad. “I also made an enemy of Scar.” “He was already bullying me.” “And this time, I snatched this mission right out from under his nose. He threatened to beat me to a pulp when I get back.” My eyes widened. There was bullying in heaven? That wouldn’t do. Jasper, being a white cat, was already an easy target. And “Scar” sounded like a tough customer. What if Jasper got hurt? “What can we do? Is there anything I can do? Should I go to the temple and ask one of the gods to look out for you?” Jasper shook his head. “We’re animals. Humans can’t interfere with our affairs.” Then, an idea seemed to strike him. He looked up at me, his eyes shining. “I’ve got it!” “Scar is terrified of July. If you help July with something, he’ll protect me!” I nodded seriously. I would do anything to keep Jasper safe. “That’s a great idea! But who is July? And what does he need help with?” Jasper leaped onto the coffee table and panted, his tongue lolling out. “July is a husky! He looks like this!” I couldn’t help but laugh. “He looks so goofy.” “So what’s his wish?” Jasper licked his paw and then pulled out a picture of a bone from behind his back. “July lived with his grandparents. He was worried they would miss him after he passed away, so he buried his favorite big bone by the front door.” “His wish is for you to find the bone and throw it through his grandparents’ window.” I looked at the picture and nodded. That didn’t sound too hard. “Oh, and July said his grandparents live on the seventh floor,” Jasper added, still licking his paw. I froze, then slowly looked up. “What did you say?” Throw a bone from the ground up to a seventh-floor window? Jasper just looked at me and nodded, his expression full of unwavering confidence. “That’s right.” “I believe in you, Mom! My life is in your hands!” 5 Standing in front of the apartment building, staring at the goofy-looking husky sitting serenely in front of me, I felt a profound sense of despair. To make this whole thing easier, Jasper had made a deal with the old lady in heaven. He’d catch mice for her for a month, and in return, she’d given me a potion that would allow me to hear the spirits of animals for a short time. At this moment, however, I deeply regretted drinking it. “Where did you say you buried the bone?” I asked. July trotted in a few circles, then plopped down on the asphalt curb. “I remember burying it right here! Why is it gone?” He suddenly looked up, his small, blue eyes fixing on me. “Did you steal it?” I was speechless. “I got here at the same time you did! When would I have had time to steal it? And why would I steal a bone?” But he wasn’t listening. He lowered his head and prepared to charge. Even though I knew a ghost couldn’t touch me, I still took a step back from the sheer madness in his eyes. Just then, he froze, his gaze fixed on something behind me. His tail started wagging furiously. I turned around and saw an elderly woman carrying a basket of groceries walking toward the building. July looked like he was about to explode with joy. “Is that your owner?” I asked. He nodded vigorously. “Grandma!” I looked from the ecstatic husky to the approaching woman. This was probably a better bet than relying on the husky’s memory. My heart pounded as I approached her. “I can see your dead pet” was not exactly a great opening line. But with July’s hopeful eyes boring into my back, I pulled down my sleeves to cover the old scars on my wrists and took a deep breath. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I began. “Did you, by any chance, have a pet named July?” She looked at me, confused, but she answered. “Yes, I did. But he passed away. How did you know?” Seeing July’s tail now spinning like a helicopter propeller, I pushed on. “He… he came to me in a dream. He said he buried a bone for you by the front door and wanted me to give it to you.” The woman’s expression froze. After a long moment, she pulled out her phone and showed me a picture. “You don’t mean this toy bone, do you?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief. “It was his favorite. I found it under the doormat outside.” A slow smile spread across her face. “He came to you in a dream to find his bone? He always was a forgetful boy. Silly dog.” She gazed at the photo with such love, it was as if she could see the goofy husky right through the screen. Finally, she looked up at me. “Would you… would you like to come up and see him?” I glanced at the grinning, panting dog behind her and nodded. 6 The grandmother lived on the seventh floor. The doormat had a giant picture of a dog’s face on it. “I had this made after he passed,” she explained as she unlocked the door. “I just miss him so much.” I helped her with her groceries, and July squeezed through the door behind us. The apartment was filled with pet supplies. At first, I thought she had other pets, but then I saw July excitedly pounce on a toy ball. “Mine! All mine!” The grandmother brought me a cup of tea and then showed me July’s toy bone. “This was his favorite,” she said, stroking it fondly. “He’d been chewing on it since he was a puppy.” “Grandma,” I asked gently, “doesn’t it make you sad, having all of his things around?” She nodded, then shook her head. “July was a rescue. I found him in a dumpster. He was so sick, no one thought he would make it. But he did. He lived for many happy years.” “When I took him in, I knew I would have to say goodbye to him someday. So, while he was alive, I spoiled him rotten. That way, when he was gone, I wouldn’t have any regrets.” “Seeing his toys… it used to make me sad. But now, it just reminds me of all the happy times we had. You have to move forward. I know that if July were here, he wouldn’t want me to be sad.” As soon as she said that, July leaped forward in a frenzy. I instinctively moved to block him, forgetting for a moment that he was a ghost. The grandmother stared at me, then her eyes widened in understanding. “He’s here, isn’t he? July is here.” I looked at the husky, who was ecstatically licking and nuzzling his owner, and nodded. Tears welled up in her eyes. “July… how is he? What is he doing? Is he eating well? Is anyone bullying him?” I took her hand. “He’s doing very well,” I said softly. “He’s right here next to you. And he misses you very much.” She covered her eyes. “I miss him too.” … When I left, July was still overjoyed, letting out happy little yips. I walked him to the curb to wait for the spirit shuttle. Before he left, he rubbed against my leg. “I’m so glad Grandma isn’t sad anymore,” he said. “Thank you.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394277”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My brother gave me a diary in which he could see everything I wrote. In my first life, that diary was filled with my love for him, with all my depravity. He despised me, abandoned me, and as I stood on the ledge of a twenty-eighth-floor rooftop, he demanded I wish him a “happy wedding.” Reborn into this life, I’ve learned my lesson. The day I got the diary, I wrote: 【I hate my brother so much. I wish he would just disappear from my life.】 But later, my brother knelt before me, stripped bare. “Everyone else has a sister who loves them. I’m the only one who doesn’t.” “Stella,” he begged, “can’t you find it in your heart to feel just a little bit sorry for me?” … I can’t remember the last time my brother, Leo, smiled at me. I remember even less the last time he held me. The weight of the diary in my hands feels impossibly heavy. Leo is wearing a blue floral apron, cinched tight around his slender waist. He looks as though he could snap in two. “What, cat got your tongue?” he teases. “I know you like it, but don’t…” His playful tone falters. Because I’ve launched myself at him, burying my face in his chest. My fingers clutch the fabric of his apron, still warm and smoky from the kitchen. I’m trembling. In my last life, at some point I can no longer pinpoint, my brother suddenly began to distance himself from me, to despise me. On the day of his wedding, I stood on the rooftop of a twenty-eight-story building. The moment I leaped, he shielded me with his own body. He shattered on the pavement before my eyes. As we fell, he had held me just like this, so tightly. Even the warmth of his body and the faint scent of cedar are the same. I’ve returned to ten years ago. It’s a miracle. Ten years ago, my brother isn’t dead. And he doesn’t yet know about the obsessive, twisted love I have for him. Just two hours ago, I was at my brother’s funeral. The woman who was supposed to be my “sister-in-law” was weeping hysterically. The moment she saw me in the memorial hall, she looked like she wanted to shove me into the coffin with him. “Stella, who else but you would have such a disgusting obsession with your own brother!” What kind of sister tries to kill herself on the day her brother is closest to happiness? That would be me. I couldn’t stand to see him happy, because the person standing beside him wasn’t me. She had thrown out the wish diary my brother gave me ten years ago. It was filled with every one of my vile thoughts. 【I love my brother so much. Can he stay with me forever?】 【Sometimes I wish my brother were blind, so his eyes would never hold another woman. Is that so wrong?】 【He’s starting to avoid me. I won’t allow it.】 【Just die! Everyone should just die!】 He gave me that diary ten years ago. From the moment I wrote the first word, he began to hate me, to avoid me, to resent me. But the one thing I could never understand was why. After so many years of loathing me, why did Leo abandon his own grand wedding to come find me? He was the only one who died in that fall. His skull shattered. He was always so composed, so immaculate. But when he ran up those twenty-eight flights of stairs, his hair was matted to his face with sweat. The moment he grabbed me, he whispered, “Stella, if there’s a next life, don’t do this again.” I knew what he meant. If there’s a next life, don’t cross that line. Don’t let your love for me become something more than what a sister should feel. My old, stubborn self would never have agreed. But now, looking at my brother—alive, breathing, human enough to reach out and wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, to gently scold me, “Crying again. Stella, what did I do in a past life to deserve you?”—I feel something shift. I push him away, turn, and close the door behind me. Tears fall freely, uncontrollably. I uncap the pen and write. 【I hate him. I hate my brother so much.】 【Can he just disappear from my life completely?】 I’m lying. I would rather never see my brother again for the rest of my life than watch him die so horribly on his wedding day. My brother was adopted. My parents brought him home from an orphanage. He wasn’t the child they had intended to choose. But I pointed at the gloomy boy in an apron, baking cookies by the oven. “Mom, Dad,” I said, “I want him to be my brother.” Leo was stunned. He had a limp. He didn’t know how to say the right things to charm adults. His only handsome feature, his face, was hidden behind a curtain of long hair. He just stammered. My almost pathological fascination with him had already begun. Even when the director of the orphanage insisted he wasn’t the right child, I clung to his leg and refused to let go. “He is. He’s beautiful.” My parents couldn’t win against my stubbornness. They agreed to take him home for a “trial period.” That’s how adults are. They weigh the pros and cons, hoping everything comes with a return policy. But my brother is a person, not a product. I would never let them send him back. In three months, I transformed him. I secretly slipped notes under his door with hints about my parents’ preferences. I spoke the words he couldn’t say, building him up in their eyes. By the time I was twelve, we finally looked like a real family of four. But our happiness was short-lived. My father was laid off, and my mother was scammed out of all our savings. One night, they turned on the gas. My brother, always the lightest sleeper, pulled me from my room just in time. My parents were gone. My brother became my father and my mother. After the funeral, he had only twenty dollars to his name. When I cried that I was hungry, he bought a can of peaches from a corner store. It was a big can. He held my hand and told me, “Stella, wait for me. I’ll come back and we’ll leave this place together.” I waited for three days. Everyone told me he had abandoned me. They said he was heartless, that I shouldn’t wait. I didn’t believe them. When I was hungry, I ate the canned peaches. Three days later, my brother returned, walking through a gauntlet of cold, judgmental stares. His fingernails were black with coal dust. In his pocket was the fare for a train to the city. He lifted me onto his back. He limped, his steps unsteady, but he refused to put me down. After that, taking care of me became a part of his DNA. In my last life, the first wish I wrote in that diary was: 【I want my brother to be with me forever.】 He quit a high-paying job in City A without telling me. He bought a large apartment near my university and started his own business. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, my favorite dishes were always on the table. And so was he. He was like a magical wishing tree. Whether I wanted newly released shoes and bags, or a 4.0 GPA for the semester, he always found a way to make it happen. I suspected. I even asked him. “Leo, do you sneak into my room and read my diary when I’m not here?” He just tweaked my ear and replied shamelessly. 2 “Who do you take me for? Can’t it just be that your brother is your soulmate?” I was a freshman in college that year. Boys and girls, fresh out of their simple high school lives, were all falling in love. Someone cornered me once. “Stella, don’t you want to date someone?” “All you ever talk about is your brother, your brother. Don’t you get sick of it?” When Leo came to pick me up, I took the gift bag a boy who was pursuing me had offered and dangled it in front of him. “Leo,” I asked, “do you think I should date him?” His hand on the steering wheel tightened. His face darkened. “That piece of trash thinks he’s good enough for you?” That night, I read a steamy romance novel. The heroine was pressed against the hood of a car, ravaged by the male lead. The face that appeared in my mind was my brother’s. My love for him was anything but pure. I wanted his love to be mine and mine alone. The diary was like a subtle, hidden metaphor. A thin veil over a truth about to be exposed. I remember that night, my brother made crispy sweet and sour pork. I believed that any wish made in the diary would come true. I was naive, and with a heart full of love, I wrote: 【I want to fall in love. With my brother.】 Outside my door, I heard the crash of a shattered bowl. Things spiraled out of my control. He started avoiding me. He started to despise me. For ten long years. I had noticed it, of course. When I wrote something like that, he wouldn’t show up the next day. He had always prioritized me above everything else. But I never thought he would be so absolute. At the dinner table, my best friend Ruby, who he had asked to be my roommate, asked me softly, “Stella, did you and your brother have a fight?” “He bought a ticket for a red-eye flight to City A. He told me he’d be busy with work from now on and couldn’t come back often, so he asked me to stay with you.” My brother had fought tooth and nail to afford this apartment. But now, just to put distance between us, he was starting over in a new city. Sometimes I really wondered. He was willing to give up everything important in his life for me. So why couldn’t he just love me? But I will never forget the time in my last life when, emboldened by alcohol, I sat on his lap and swayed against him. “Brother,” I’d whispered, “help me, please?” “I’ll do anything. Anything at all.” He had dragged me by the wrist and shoved me under a cold shower. He hadn’t been drinking. He wasn’t sick. He just stood there with me, under the freezing water, for what felt like hours. He cupped my face. “Are you sober now?” “Look at me, Stella. See who I am.” Fueled by desperation, I’d laughed. “But you’re the one I want, Brother.” After that, my brother moved out. He never spent time alone with me again, not even for holidays. The fastest way to push him away was to tell him I hated him. The second fastest way was to tell him I loved him, that I was going crazy with it. Now, I’ve tried both. My relationship with my brother seems to be a dead end. But hating him seems to offer a longer-lasting existence in this life than loving him. My brother let me live on my own. But I think he overestimated me. He overestimated the body that had been so coddled under his care that it would collapse at the slightest breeze. When the thermometer spiked to 102 degrees, my vision blurred. I knocked over the glass of water on my nightstand. Ruby was out on a date with her boyfriend. I was home alone. My insides felt like they were on fire. On instinct, I fumbled for my phone and called my brother. It rang twice before he picked up. I heard him say my name. “Stella?” “Mhm,” I managed. In my last life, after he moved out, he rarely answered my calls. When he did, it was usually just three short phrases. “Busy.” “In a meeting.” “I’ll call you back.” He had gotten very used to using those lines on me. I deserved it. But there were times when the medicine didn’t work. I once ran to his office building in a downpour, clutching a can of peaches. He always worked late. Perhaps that was how he’d climbed to the top so quickly. He’d looked at me coldly, not even offering me an umbrella. He watched as I struggled to open the can. Rainwater dripped into the syrup. I held it up to him. “Leo,” I said, “have some.” He didn’t take it. He pushed me, not hard, but enough to make me collapse onto the wet ground. Covered in mud, I held my arms out to him. “Brother,” I pleaded, “look at me.” “You used to love me most. And you loved canned peaches most.” He didn’t turn back. A black car pulled up in front of him. Its tires sent a spray of water arching through the air. When the silence returned, the ground was littered with scattered slices of peach. Burning with fever, I can’t tell if the sound outside my window is the rain from that night or if this is the present, before the final break with my brother. I mumble into the phone, my voice thick and slurred. “Leo, you finally decided to answer my call?” “You used to go out and buy me peach nectar every time I had a fever.” “Leo, you’re not home. I’m scared.” On the other end of the line, I imagine his fingers tightening around his phone. Slowly, I lose my strength. The phone slips from my hand and lands on the pillow beside me, my breathing heavy. In my dream, it feels like the front door opens. It feels like my brother came back. When I open my eyes again, there are two cans of peach nectar on my nightstand. Ruby is looking at me with a pained expression. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a fever?” My nose is so stuffy. I can’t tell if the faint scent of cedar is in the air. Clutching a can, I ask Ruby, “Was my brother here?” She shakes her head instantly, frowning. “Are you delirious? He’s in City A. By the time he bought peach nectar and brought it here, you’d have burned to a crisp.” From City A to my home is a four-hour train ride, not counting travel time to and from the stations. And I had called him at three in the afternoon. It’s now seven. Even if he flew, he couldn’t have made it that fast. But I can’t risk even that sliver of a possibility. I throw both cans into the trash can and wash my hands. My face is cold as I tell Ruby, “Good. I don’t like canned peaches anymore anyway.” “It’s a poor man’s food. Too pathetic, too sweet.” She just stares at me, stunned. Autumn in City B is long. To break free from the withdrawal symptoms of my separation from my brother, and to completely extinguish any desire to disturb his life again, I dress warmer than anyone else. I go to bed early and wake up early. I eat three meals a day on time. I will not get sick again. I will not be vulnerable again. I will not instinctively reach for my brother in moments of powerlessness. But I never expected the university to invite him back as a distinguished alumnus to give a speech. All freshmen are required to attend. I can’t escape. He’s on stage, seated in a chair that hides his limp. Questions, interviews—he answers them all fluently. Many in the audience are just staring at his face. The host guides him toward an interactive session. His dark eyes sweep silently across the thousands of seats below. I shouldn’t think he’s looking for me. I shouldn’t think he’d be able to spot me in this crowd. But the girl who gets called on is sitting just in front of me. She clutches the microphone, her voice trembling with excitement. “Leo,” she asks, “are you single?” The entire hall erupts. 3 My brother freezes for a moment, his gaze flickering over me. When I was eighteen, he had promised me. “If you ever want to date someone, you have to get my permission first, Brother.” He had laughed at me then. “In that case, I’ll probably have to be single for the rest of my life.” On stage, he stands up. He takes a few steps, deliberately slow, his gait uneven. This is my brother. While nodding, he is also clearly telling everyone: I am flawed. I have a limp. It is a polite, distant refusal, one that lays his own imperfection bare. As if it doesn’t hurt him at all. The girl in front of me sits down with a sigh, but the girl next to me grows even more excited. “Oh my god, don’t you think that kind of beautiful, broken vulnerability is the most attractive thing ever?” she whispers. “I am definitely getting his number after this.” Someone reminds her that I am Leo’s sister. A note is passed into my hand. “Come on, you wouldn’t say no, right?” She tilts her chin confidently, a proud, radiant girl. “I mean, there aren’t many girls as great as me out there,” she says. “If your brother dates me, I’ll treat him really well.” It takes all my strength not to crumple the note and throw it away. In my last life, this girl wouldn’t have even had the chance to talk about my brother in front of me. My brother deserves the best in the world. But after a moment of consideration, I nod slowly. “My brother doesn’t just add anyone. I’ll take you to him later.” “Great!” After all, the person standing by his side… It can be anyone but me. It has been almost three months since I last saw my brother. The auditorium is vast. As the crowd disperses, he stands quietly on the stage, waiting, his back straight. But I know his leg must be killing him. I find a pain-relief patch in my bag. Timing it perfectly, I lead the girl to him. “She has something to say to you.” My brother looks down, his long lashes casting a shadow. He didn’t sleep well last night. But when he sees the patch in my hand, a faint smile touches his lips. “Go on.” “Leo, you’re single, and I’m single,” the girl says, straight to the point, holding up her phone with a QR code. “Any interest in dating?” My brother’s eyes look past her, to me. There’s a stunned, cold emotion in his gaze. It reminds me of the time in my last life when I deliberately accepted a gift from another man in front of him. He finally speaks, his brow furrowed. “Is this what you want?” I dig my nails into my palm, look away, and nod. “Sure, why not? You’re all alone anyway.” “It would be good to have some…” Before I can finish, Leo takes out his phone, scans the girl’s code, and walks away. The lights of the long corridor illuminate his hasty, almost comical retreat. One by one, the lights in the auditorium go out. The girl beside me is practically jumping with excitement. “Thank you so much! When I become your sister-in-law, I’ll treat you to dinner.” I am silent, my fists clenched. Because I heard the words “sister-in-law,” and because… My brother is angry. I’m sure of it. What is he angry about? He has to find a girlfriend eventually. He can’t be my brother forever. What is he angry about? My brother stops coming to see me completely. Even on the anniversary of our parents’ deaths, all I ever see is the bouquet of flowers he leaves at their grave. No matter how early I go, hoping for even a glimpse of him, he is never there. Gifts for every holiday still arrive at my doorstep. Ruby stays over more and more often, becoming a sort of stand-in for “him.” But in the dead of night, I still dream of those misty, haunted eyes. Of him shattering a glass, grabbing my collar, and demanding, “Stella, look at me! See who I am!” In my dreams, I am always silent. I know that if I speak, even the chance to see him in my dreams will be gone. He will slam the door and leave, again and again. … The next time I see my brother is four years later. I think if he had known I would be at that party, he wouldn’t have come. He has changed a lot. His limp is almost unnoticeable. Broad shoulders, long legs, the ends of his hair slightly curled. With a face so cold and indifferent, it’s hard not to stare. And his power in City A is even more captivating than his face. My supervisor during my internship pushes me towards him, whispering urgently, “Go on, offer him a toast. That’s Mr. Leo Lin.” “An intern like you might not get another chance to meet him for years.” I lower my head, a sour feeling rising in my nose. It’s true. It takes a long time to see my brother now. My wine glass trembles, finally meeting the man’s palm. My brother’s Adam’s apple bobs before he says, “Don’t force her.” He is different in public than he is with me. The authority he exudes is suffocating. So when my supervisor asks in surprise, “Do you know him?” I answer instantly, “No.” The atmosphere in the private room chills. I see my brother raise an eyebrow at my words. He puts down the wine glass he had just lifted, and the already tense air practically freezes. Coincidentally, someone asks him, “Mr. Lin, I heard your sister is also studying in City B. Why didn’t you bring her along?” My brother looks down, his dark gaze sweeping over me. The straight line of his knuckles seems to suddenly lose its strength. “She hates me,” he says, his voice low and heavy. “She hates me very, very much.” Sometimes, all it takes to break a person is a single look, a single sentence. I suspect if I stay in this room any longer, if I see that cold, shattered look in his eyes again, I might just rush over and kiss him, and explain everything. Tell him all those ugly words I wrote in the diary were lies. But in the end, I can’t forget the black-and-white photo from his funeral. My fingernails dig into my palms. I stand up. “I’m going out for some fresh air.” I have this habit of smoking whenever I think of my brother. I don’t know when it started. It’s as if the nicotine can numb me, let me live in a haze where I can pretend he loves me. A small point of fire is extinguished between someone’s fingers. When I come to my senses, my brother is standing by the window. Four years. His features have matured, and his words have grown sharper. “Is this your idea of ‘fresh air’?” I choke, my eyes instinctively drawn to his curled fingers. “Does it hurt?” He laughs, his thin lips twisting into a cold arc. “Don’t we not know each other?” “Why would you care if I’m in pain?” He’s still holding a grudge about what I said in the private room. I stammer an explanation. “I don’t want to use your name to get ahead…” He cuts me off, his voice laced with irritation. “Got it. You still hate me.” “But can I ask why?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394293”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I’m a relationship coach who streams online, the person women call in the dead of night to help them navigate the wreckage of their hearts. That night, a young woman called in. She claimed she’d been a billionaire’s mistress for seven years and now wanted out. She wanted to go back to her small town, get married, settle down. But he was threatening to kill himself if she left. I gave her my standard, professional advice. “You want to be free? Go to his wife. Tell her everything. Confess your mistake and return every single thing he ever gave you.” Three days later, a box arrived at my door. Inside was the deed to a house, keys to a dozen luxury cars, and what looked like a hundred designer handbags. At the same time, a notification lit up my phone: a wire transfer for $850,000. The attached note read: “Thank you for the advice. I’m returning everything to its rightful owner.” I stared at the name on the deed, my husband’s name, and that night, I started my livestream. “Tonight,” I said, my voice hollow, “I’m going to tell you all a joke. And the punchline is me.” 1 “Remember that girl from the other night? The one who’d been a billionaire’s mistress for seven years, asking me how to break free?” I was walking through the villa, the one from the deed, my phone still streaming live. I felt pathetic. Even now, in the moment I discovered my husband’s affair, my first instinct was to turn my own humiliation into content, into traffic. All to pay for my father’s astronomical medical bills. A lump formed in my throat. “Do you want to know what happened next?” I continued, my voice tight. “Well, it turns out… I’m the wife.” The comment section exploded. Digital gifts, animated supercars, a flood of notifications. But before I could say another word, the front door of the villa was thrown open. “Stop following me! I told you, we’re over!” It was a woman’s voice. The exact same voice from my livestream three nights ago. My heart seized in my chest. And then I saw him. Ethan. He followed her inside, his face a mask of desperation. She wrenched her arm from his grasp, and his expression darkened. “Mia, baby, don’t joke like that.” Her voice was muffled. “I’m not joking… My mom set me up with a really nice guy back home. I’m going back to marry him.” A switch flipped in Ethan. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, pacing like a caged animal before finally kicking the glass coffee table, shattering it across the marble floor. “Who is he? What could he possibly give you that I can’t?” The crash made the girl—Mia—flinch, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “You’re an asshole, Ethan… you…” He closed the distance between them, his anger melting away as he tenderly kissed the tears from her eyes. “If you don’t want me to die right in front of you,” he whispered, his voice raw, “then don’t leave me. Please.” She pushed him away, her voice rising to a shout. “Then what am I supposed to do? You can’t give me a ring, but you won’t let me go!” She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs. In our seven years of marriage, Ethan had always been the epitome of cool control, a man of unshakable composure. I had never seen him like this—unhinged, frantic, utterly consumed by a love that wasn’t for me. My hand went slack, and the selfie stick clattered to the floor. The camera angle shifted wildly, sending the live chat into another frenzy. [Wait, did I just see the other woman’s face? Someone screenshot that!] [OMG this is the messiest, most incredible drama ever. Live front-row seats to the husband’s epic breakdown!] [That guy is hot, though. NGL.] [CHLOE! What’s happening? Pick up the camera!] The sound of the phone hitting the floor finally drew their attention. They both looked up and saw me standing on the landing of the staircase. Mia’s eyes lit up with a desperate hope, as if I were her savior. “You’re here! You actually came!” She rushed up the stairs and grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “The house, the cars, I don’t want any of it! Please, just talk to him. Tell him to let me go. You said… you said if I gave it all back, I could walk away. Right?” I stood there, frozen, the blood draining from my face. I couldn’t form a single word. But Ethan’s shock had already curdled into rage. He stormed up the stairs, grabbed me by the throat, and slammed me against the wall. His eyes were cold and dark. “When did you find out about Mia?” His gaze dropped to the deed in my hand, and his fingers tightened around my neck. “Did she make you give the house back? Huh?” I couldn’t breathe. It was Mia who pulled at his arm, her voice panicked. “No! I brought it to her myself! Stop it, you’re hurting her!” Ethan finally released me. He turned back to Mia, his hand instantly finding hers, his voice dropping to a soft, pleading whisper. “What if I said I could give you the title? Mrs. Blackwood. Anything you want, Mia. I’ll give it all to you.” I squeezed my eyes shut, a wave of bitter resignation washing over me. The title I had held for seven years, offered up like a party favor. In the ringing silence, Mia slowly let go of my arm. She looked down at the floor and whispered, “…Okay. I’ll give you three days. If you can’t do it in three days, you have to let me go.” 2 After Ethan left with Mia, I bent down and picked up my phone. I was stunned to see that over a hundred thousand people were watching the stream. The comments were all screaming the same thing: Read the diary! I looked over to where my phone had fallen. Next to a pile of Mia’s luggage, a small leather-bound journal lay open on the floor. My hands trembling, I did what my audience demanded. I opened the diary. With every page I turned, the world tilted further off its axis. March 18th, 2018 We’ve been together for three years, but today, he got married. He promised me she was just a business arrangement, a tool for an alliance. He said I was the only one he loved. We cried and made love all night, desperate and broken… My wedding night. The night Ethan told me he had an urgent business trip, leaving me to sleep alone in our cold, empty bed. April 4th, 2019 He swore he didn’t love her, but now she’s pregnant. He was furious, his eyes red. He promised me, he swore on his life, that she would never have his child before I did. I’d been pregnant six times in seven years. Every single time, I lost the baby to a freak “accident.” The first, a hit-and-run. The second, a mugging that went wrong. The third, a severe case of food poisoning. …I felt a cold dread creep up my spine. I didn’t dare think about the others. June 19th, 2021 The storm was terrible today. I was so scared of the thunder, I lost control of the car and hit something. I’m so glad he was here to hold me. That was the day my mother died. It was pouring rain. I had collapsed on the pavement, sobbing until I passed out, miscarrying our fourth child. He had told me he was stuck in a meeting, unreachable. He’d been with her. All night. May 14th, 2025 My family is pushing me to get married. I tried to break up with him for the first time. He gave me 10% of his company’s stock. He said it was my security, my power. Tucked into the page was a stock transfer agreement. I read the document, and the air left my lungs. My entire body went numb. This May, just a few months ago, my father’s tech company had faced a catastrophic cash flow crisis. It was on the verge of bankruptcy. I had begged Ethan, pleaded with him for a bridge loan, for any kind of help. He’d told me his assets were tied up, that his hands were tied. The assets that were “tied up” had been transferred, without a moment’s hesitation, to Mia. My father’s company went under. He had a massive stroke and ended up in the ICU. I couldn’t control it anymore. My hands shaking violently, I ended the livestream and finally, finally let myself break, my body wracked with silent, gut-wrenching sobs.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394309”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For eight years, I was the perfect wife to a man who claimed he never wanted children. Then I found out he had a six-year-old son, born on our anniversary, and his entire family was in on the lie. They thought I would crumble. They thought I would cry. They forgot that my name is on the door of the most ruthless divorce law firm in the state. And I’m about to take on my most personal case yet. 1 On our eighth wedding anniversary, Ethan’s text arrived like a predictable weather forecast: Stuck at the office. Raincheck? For a moment, disappointment flickered. Then, with a familiar, practiced motion, I cancelled the reservation at Per Se. He was always busy. We hadn’t properly celebrated an anniversary in years. It was almost a relief when my paralegal knocked on the doorframe. “Ava, that new client is here. The one who insisted on you.” I settled back behind my desk. The woman who walked in had a smirk playing on her lips before she even sat down. “Our son is six now,” she began, without any preamble. “And everyone knows that children born outside of a marriage still have inheritance rights. So, you tell me, what’s a wife who can’t even produce a child still clinging to a dead marriage for?” She slid a file across the polished surface of my desk. “Honestly, we had a ceremony years ago, abroad. If his wife wasn’t such a ball-busting lawyer, we’d have a marriage license by now.” I opened the folder. The name on the intake form was Ethan Hayes. A jolt went through me, but I dismissed it. A coincidence. A common name. Because everyone knew my Ethan was child-free by choice. He didn’t just dislike kids; he claimed to loathe the very idea of them. But then she pushed a photo from her purse and laid it on the desk. My breath caught. It was like looking at a childhood picture of Ethan. The same unruly brown hair, the same shape of the eyes. Before I could process it, she produced another photo. This one made the world tilt, then shatter. It was Ethan, my Ethan, his head bent with a look of intense, gentle focus, carefully pulling a tiny sock onto a small foot. So, he didn’t hate children. He just hated the idea of having children with me. The realization hit me with such force that a wave of nausea washed over me, and I had to swallow down a gag. The woman across from me simply arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “So, Ava,” she said, my name a poison dart from her tongue. “Are you going to take the case?” … I stared at her, my hands trembling under the desk. My throat felt like it had been clamped in a vise. I couldn’t speak. On my phone, a text from Ethan an hour ago still glowed: Got a surprise for you for the anniversary, babe. Later. A bitter laugh tried to crawl up my throat. Some surprise. This was the kind of gift you only wanted to receive once in a lifetime. The woman, Sophia, let out a soft, mocking laugh and stood up, placing her phone face-up on my desk. She looked down at me, savoring the pale shock on my face. “Did you know,” she said, her voice a confidential purr, “that ever since my son was born, Ethan has never once spent an anniversary with his wife?” She leaned in closer. “Because my little boy was born on your wedding day. Of course, he wants to be with us, to celebrate his son’s birthday.” “You tell me, Ava,” she whispered, “a woman who stays in a marriage like that… does she have some kind of humiliation fetish?” She laughed outright at that, a bright, cruel sound. My fingers dug into the edge of my mahogany desk, the polished wood biting into my skin. I was trying to stop the shaking, but my nails scraped against the wood until I felt a sharp sting. A lawyer’s first rule is to maintain a poker face. Never let them see your weakness. But my face had drained of all color. I was broken. So that was it. That was why he was always “working late” today. I pushed the feeling down, crushed it into a tight, manageable ball in my chest until I could force words out. “Is it possible,” I heard myself say, my voice thin and reedy, “that he’s never actually asked his wife for a divorce?” Sophia feigned a gasp. “Oh, of course not. He wouldn’t want to hurt her poor, fragile feelings.” She paused, her eyes glittering. “But you’d think a woman would take a hint, wouldn’t you? I mean, from what I hear, they haven’t had… you know… a real marriage in years.” Her voice dropped again, laced with venomous pity. “He told me that after all this time, the thought of her body just… bores him to tears. He said he couldn’t imagine being saddled with a boring woman who would only produce a boring child. That would be the end of his life, he said.” She sighed dramatically. “It’s why he’s always so… energetic with me. Making up for lost time.” A thousand tiny needles pricked at my heart. My vision had gone numb, fixed on the photo on her phone. I burned the image into my memory, a self-inflicted wound I would revisit again and again. Ethan and I were the cliché. Childhood sweethearts. We’d grown up together, our hands always finding each other. He proposed a year after we started dating, desperate to lock it down. At first, he said he didn’t want kids because he was afraid they would steal my love from him. The one time I pushed it, he got so angry he slept in the guest room. “Now you know what it feels like to not have me in your bed because of a kid!” he’d yelled through the door. I’d laughed then, thinking it was just him being childish. I respected his choice. The box of condoms in our nightstand was always replenished before it was empty, just in case. Not that we’d used one in years. Eight years of marriage. I thought we’d dodged the seven-year itch. Even as he got busier with his company, he was never impatient with me. He’d just ask for my understanding, quoting some tired line about how a man’s thirties are his new sixties. I believed him. But the reality was a six-year-old boy. I didn’t even know when it started. When he had started living this entirely separate life. Just then, Sophia’s phone screen lit up with a notification. The profile picture was the same one I had saved in my contacts. The same man who, just this morning, told me he was swamped with work. The message preview read: Hey baby, on my way up. A polar vortex of ice swept through my veins. Sophia picked up her phone, her expression a mask of pure scorn. “It seems the great Ava Harrison isn’t so great after all.” She slipped the phone into her designer bag. “My husband is here to pick me up. We’ll talk later.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394325”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day Cole Donovan brought his ghost home, I was standing in the marble entryway, spatula in hand, about to ask if he wanted me to add another course to dinner. Then I saw her. The ghost. She pointed a trembling finger at me, her eyes welling with cinematic tears. “I knew it!” she cried, her voice cracking with practiced despair. “It’s always true, what they write in the novels! The second I go abroad, you find a replacement and install her in your house!” A replacement? 1 I glanced down at my stark white chef’s coat, the grease-resistant clogs on my feet, and the silicone spatula I was still holding. If this was a casting call for a stand-in, nobody had bothered to give me the script. Before I could process the sheer absurdity of it, the woman—Claire Sterling, I’d soon learn—doubled down. “No wonder you’ve been so distant these past few years, barely a word while I was away. You had a new toy to play with. You threw me away, your first love, like I was nothing.” Her voice rose to a dramatic crescendo. “And now that I’m back, you can’t even bear to send her away. Fine. If that’s how it is, I’ll leave. I’ll leave you two to your happiness!” Watching her, a fragile porcelain doll on the verge of shattering, I was utterly dumbfounded. What in the Lifetime movie was happening? Wasn’t I Charlotte Hale, the chef Cole Donovan had personally headhunted and offered a one-million-dollar annual salary to manage his gastritis with my culinary skills? How did I get promoted from private chef to home-wrecking doppelgänger? Cole himself looked pained, a deep furrow forming between his brows. “Claire, what on earth are you talking about? You were gone for three months, and I flew to Paris to see you every other week. How is that ‘barely a word’?” He gestured toward me, his hand slicing through the thick tension in the air. “And this is Charlotte Hale, my chef. She’s not… whatever it is you’re imagining.” “A chef?” A single, perfect tear traced a path down her cheek. “Since when are chefs young and… and look like that?” “I like to wear white,” she choked out, pointing at my uniform coat. “And she’s wearing white. If that’s not a sign, what is? Cole, darling, you don’t have to lie to me.” I looked down at my functional, double-breasted cotton coat, then at her ethereal white silk dress that probably cost more than my first car. The only thing they had in common was the absence of pigment. An involuntary twitch started at the corner of my eye. I sighed, deciding to intervene with logic—a futile weapon, I’d soon discover. “Ms. Sterling, I really am the chef. If you don’t believe me, you can come to the kitchen. There’s a chicken soup simmering on the stove right now.” She clapped her hands over her ears and stomped a stiletto-clad foot. “I’m not listening! I’m not! And even if there is soup, you probably just put it there to trick me!” Cole looked utterly exhausted. “Claire, what will it take for you to believe that Charlotte is just the chef?” “Get rid of her,” she said instantly, a triumphant glint in her teary eyes. “Then I’ll believe you.” She crossed her arms, looking like a detective who had just cracked a case wide open. “I’ve read this story a hundred times. The First Love and the Stand-In can’t coexist under the same roof. It’s only a matter of time before she schemes her way into my place. I won’t lose you, Cole. She has to go.” Hearing this, Cole’s frown deepened. He shot a hesitant glance in my direction. His gastritis had only just started to improve under my care; he was nowhere near ready to go back to takeout and bland protein shakes. But it was clear Claire wasn’t going to back down. After a moment that stretched into an eternity, he made his decision. He walked over to me, lowering his voice. “Charlotte, I know our contract is for a live-in position, but given the… situation, I’m going to have to ask you to move into my penthouse downtown.” My ears perked up. “I’ll cover the commute, of course—double the rate for your trouble. And I’ll add a three-month salary bonus as compensation for the inconvenience. How does that sound?” My eyes lit up like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. Cole’s downtown penthouse was a five-minute drive from the estate. Not only would I get a paid commute, but I’d also bank an extra quarter of a million dollars? Just for moving my suitcase? This was more than a win. This was a lottery ticket. I nodded so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “No problem at all, Mr. Donovan. Do you need me to move out right now?” I already had my phone out, ready to call a moving service. Cole seemed taken aback, probably expecting me to put up a fight or burst into tears. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, but he just nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice flat. “That would be best.” The movers were surprisingly fast. As I directed them with my luggage, Claire sauntered over in her heels, looking down at me from her self-appointed pedestal. “See, Charlotte? You can sneak in while I’m gone, but it doesn’t matter. In the end, you’re the one being shipped out. In Cole’s heart, I’m the only one who matters. No matter how hard you try, a replacement will always be a replacement.” Just then, my phone buzzed. A notification from my bank. The seven-figure wire transfer for my “inconvenience” was shining on the screen. Suddenly, Claire’s face seemed almost angelic. She was my benefactor, the catalyst for this beautiful windfall. I smiled at her, a wide, genuine smile. “You’re absolutely right. You’re the most important person to Mr. Donovan. I could never compare.” She sniffed, mollified. “At least you know your place.” She turned and clicked away on her heels. In the distance, I heard Arthur, the house manager, asking where she’d like to stay. Her reply was loud and clear. “I’ll take the room Cole keeps locked, the one filled with my photos that he uses to remember me by.” Arthur sounded bewildered. “Ma’am, I don’t believe such a room exists.” Her voice shot up an octave. “How could it not? In the stories, after the First Love goes away, the CEO always keeps a locked shrine for her, a room no one is allowed to enter! If you don’t know about it, just say so. Don’t tell me it doesn’t exist!” Her voice faded as she walked further into the house. I just shook my head and offered a silent, two-second prayer for Arthur. He was going to need it. 2 Life in the penthouse was, for a time, blissfully quiet. My duties were simple: three times a day, Arthur would pick me up and sneak me onto the estate, steering clear of Claire’s line of sight, so I could prepare Cole’s meals. The rest of the time was my own. I felt my energy returning, the color coming back to my cheeks. Arthur, on the other hand, looked like he was wilting. Each day, the dark circles under his eyes grew more pronounced. One morning, during our clandestine hand-off, I couldn’t help but ask. “Arthur, is everything okay? You look like you haven’t slept in a week.” He let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “Don’t get me started, Ms. Hale. That Ms. Sterling is going to be the death of me.” He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Her first day here, she demanded that Mr. Donovan fire me. The reason? Because I failed to inform her that she was the ‘first woman he had ever brought home.’” My eyebrows shot up. “Then, the next day,” he continued, “she asked me if it was true that Mr. Donovan ‘hadn’t smiled in the ten years’ since she left. I just showed her a press photo from his interview two days prior—he was smiling in it. She got so angry she threw my phone against the wall.” It was as if a dam had broken. Arthur unleashed a week’s worth of grievances, detailing every bizarre, novel-inspired demand Claire had made. Listening to him, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I had dodged a cannonball. If I had stayed, I would’ve been a cast member in her daily melodrama, and I was pretty sure that kind of stress shaves years off your life. But my relief was premature. My peaceful existence came to a screeching halt a few days later when my doorbell began ringing with the frantic, insistent rhythm of an alarm bell. I opened the door, and Claire shoved past me, storming into the apartment. She surveyed the space like a conquering general, her eyes sweeping over the floor-to-ceiling windows and designer furniture before landing on me with a triumphant sneer. “I should have known you’d leave so willingly,” she said, her voice dripping with accusation. “Cole had another house to hide you in all along!” A headache was already forming behind my eyes. I wanted her gone. “Ms. Sterling, I’m a chef. That’s it. If you don’t believe me, I can show you my employment contract.” I retrieved the document from my desk. Her eyes scanned the page, then widened in shock as they landed on the salary figure. “A million dollars?!” she shrieked. She snatched the contract from my hands and slammed it down on the coffee table with a laugh that was more of a sneer. “No chef makes that kind of money. This isn’t a salary, Charlotte. This is what he pays to keep you!” That was it. I earn my living with my own two hands, with years of training and skill. Her words were a direct insult to my professionalism. My patience snapped. I pulled out my phone and dialed Cole. “Mr. Donovan,” I said, my voice tight, “could you please come and manage your… First Love?” A heavy sigh came through the receiver. “She’s there? Put her on.” Claire took the phone, her face a mask of contempt. But as she listened, her expression began to shift. The color drained from her cheeks. She shot me a venomous glare, muttered a curt “I understand” into the phone, and hung up. Drawing herself up, she regained her haughty posture. “You got lucky today. But don’t think this is over. Cole might be blinded by you for now, but he’ll come to his senses soon enough. He’ll see that a cheap imitation can never compare to the real thing.” With that, she stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls vibrated. I stood there, phone in hand, seriously contemplating billing Cole for emotional damages. To avoid another confrontation, I stopped going to the estate altogether. I prepared Cole’s meals in my own kitchen and had Arthur pick them up in insulated containers. A few days later, Arthur arrived not just with empty containers, but also with a thick, cream-colored envelope. It was an invitation to a welcome-home party for Claire. I stared at the gold-embossed calligraphy, and the throbbing in my temples returned. I was about to refuse when Arthur added the crucial detail. “Mr. Donovan said Ms. Sterling has been… insistent. He said if you attend, he’ll pay you ten times your daily rate for overtime.” He gave me a look that said, Some people have all the luck. My attitude did a complete 180. “Overtime pay? Don’t be silly. When Mr. Donovan needs me, I’m there for him. It would be my honor to attend.” The party was held at Cole’s estate. When I arrived, Claire was at the grand piano, bathed in a soft spotlight, looking for all the world like the ethereal ‘First Love’ she claimed to be. The moment I stepped into the room, several of the city’s most prominent figures—heirs to old money and titans of industry—left their conversations and gravitated toward me. “Charlotte, my dear! Does your presence here mean you’re catering tonight? My evening just got infinitely better.” “Are you considering any new offers, Charlotte? My mother has been practically begging me to poach you. Name your price.” The piano music stopped abruptly. Every head in the room turned toward Claire. She rose, picking up a microphone, her eyes blazing as she stared at the circle of influential people surrounding me. “For those of you who don’t know,” she announced, her voice amplified throughout the silent room, “I am Claire Sterling. Cole’s one true love. The woman you are all fawning over is nothing but a cheap, classless replacement.” Her voice dripped with scorn. “You’d be wise to choose who you associate with. Backing the wrong horse can be… costly.” A few people exchanged bewildered glances, but then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they turned back to me and resumed their pleasantries. Claire was seething. She clearly believed I had somehow brainwashed the city’s elite in her absence. But then, a new thought seemed to occur to her, and a cruel, mocking smile spread across her face. She glided over, her dress shimmering. Her voice was sickly sweet. “My performance was adequate, I suppose. But I’ve heard, Charlotte, that you are an even more accomplished pianist. Why don’t you play something for us? Unless, of course, you think you’re too good for our guests.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394343”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

“In the aftermath, we all got our Talents. Some could conjure fire, others could command the tides. My Talent? I can take away the power of anyone named John Smith. That’s it. That’s the whole damn thing. Only people with that exact first and last name. Three years went by. Not only had I never met a single John Smith, but my useless Talent had made me a target. A punching bag. A Blank. Then, one day, while I was scavenging in the filth of the Warren, I found my best friend again. She was begging for scraps. We held each other and just sobbed. Through her tears, she wailed, “”Why did everyone else get something so damn cool? Why is my only Talent… renaming people John Smith?”” I froze. “”What did you say?”” 1. After the world ended, I made a living picking through the garbage heaps of the Warren. My days were a blur of wind, rain, and a gnawing hunger that came and went like a stray dog. Getting robbed was just part of the routine. I watched the rat-faced man snatch the stale protein bar I’d just unearthed. My feet felt like they were encased in concrete, immovable. That was his Talent. He kicked me over with a laugh. “”Can’t believe there are still Blanks out there. How the hell are you still alive?”” A retort died on my lips. It wasn’t worth the beating. I scrambled to my feet, forcing a grin that felt like cracking plaster. “”That’s an amazing Talent, man. Seriously. What do they call you? I find anything good from now on, I’ll save it for you.”” “”Smart girl,”” he sneered. “”If you find anything, bring it to the alley behind the old pharmacy. And the name’s John… Strong.”” My eyes shot wide. “”…Strong.”” After the son of a bitch swaggered off, the tears finally came. When the Change happened, the world went crazy. Animals mutated, plants turned predatory, and every surviving human woke up with a Talent. Society recalibrated itself overnight, with the powerful at the top and everyone else at the bottom. Some Talents were god-tier, like pyrokinesis or weather control. Others were mundane, like duplicating paper clips or moving small objects with your mind. And then there was mine. The power to strip any man named John Smith of his Talent. Three years. I hadn’t met a single one. That was the closest I’d ever come, but of course his name had to be John Strong. What good was a Talent like that in this eat-or-be-eaten world? Before the Change, I was a graphic designer in a high-rise. Now, I was less than nothing. I didn’t know how much longer I could last. Cursing under my breath, I started back toward my shelter—a collapsed corner of a bus station, open to the elements. As I left the alley, I saw a bag someone was carrying tear open. A box of Pop-Tarts tumbled out. My eyes lit up. I dove for it, my fingers just brushing the cardboard when someone else lunged from the other side, grabbing the other end. Neither of us let go. Suddenly, the other person let out a desperate howl. “”Please, just let me have it! I haven’t eaten in five days, I’m going to die!”” That voice… I looked closer. The person in front of me—hair matted, face gaunt and smudged with dirt, reeking of stale sweat—was my long-lost best friend. “”Anna?”” Her eyes widened. “”Chloe?”” We fell into each other’s arms, the stupid box of Pop-Tarts forgotten as we cried. “”Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you!”” I sobbed into her shoulder. “”Some group grabbed me,”” she gasped. “”For research. They let me go when they decided my Talent was useless.”” Anna explained her ordeal while demolishing the stale pastries. Shortly after the Change, some shadow organization started kidnapping people to study their Talents. But Anna’s was so pathetic, they deemed it worthless and threw her out. I had a hard time believing that. More pathetic than mine? “”Don’t say that,”” I said, trying to comfort her. “”No matter how useless your Talent is, it can’t be worse than mine.”” She shook her head emphatically. “”Impossible.”” “”Trust me,”” I insisted. “”No, you don’t get it. Mine is the bottom of the barrel.”” We were still arguing about who was the bigger loser when a little kid floated past us down the street. Actually floated. Flight. That’s when Anna completely broke down, snot and tears and pastry crumbs flying from her mouth. “”Why?! Why does everyone else get to be a goddamn superhero, and all I can do is rename people John Smith?!”” The hand patting her back stopped dead. My whole world tilted on its axis. “”What did you say?”””

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394361”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My sister died, and then she moved in. Not into her old room, but into my body. At first, my parents didn’t believe me. Then, they got used to the switch. And then, they found a hypnotist to erase me. 1 I destroyed the living room. Anything I could lift, I threw. Anything I could break, I shattered. The floor glittered with a thousand pieces of my soul, each one a silent scream. Mom covered her mouth, tears tracking through her makeup. Dad’s face was a mask of fury, but he didn’t stop me. “Why?” I screamed at them, my voice raw. “It’s my body! Why do I have to give it up for her?” Dad pressed the heels of his hands into his forehead, a gesture of someone who has finally made a terrible decision. “We saw a therapist, Chloe. This… arrangement. It isn’t working. Neither of you can live a full life this way. We have to choose.” He tried to soften his voice, but it was rough with false pity. “This is tearing us apart. You’re our daughter, too. We wouldn’t do this if there were any other way. You have to understand.” I snatched a water glass from the end table and hurled it at his feet. It exploded, and he flinched back. He opened his mouth to yell, then shut it, remembering he needed something from me. “I understand you,” I spat, the words tasting like poison. “But who understands me? You’re in pain? You have no other choice? So I’m the one who has to die? This was always my body. If anyone should disappear, it should be her. It should be Stella.” Rage and despair were a storm inside me. Just days ago, they had been my parents, the people who loved me. Now they were my executioners. My words made Mom sob harder. But Dad’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “Don’t be so dramatic. Stella will live on through you, using your body. And it doesn’t matter if you agree. The decision has been made.” He had no more patience for this. He took Mom’s arm and pulled her out of the house, leaving me in the wreckage. After another fit of destruction, I collapsed onto the floor, a single question echoing in the ruins of my mind. Why me? 2 I had a sister, Stella, three years older than me. I was six when she died. Mom and Dad came home late that night, their faces hollowed out by grief. Mom saw me, crumpled to the floor, and pulled me into a suffocating hug. “Stella’s gone, sweetie,” she choked out. “Chloe, you don’t have a sister anymore.” I didn’t understand, but her grief was contagious, and I started to cry, too. Through my tears, I pointed to a pile of dolls in the corner. “But she’s right there.” At first, they didn’t believe me. They scolded me for making things up, for being cruel. But then I started repeating conversations they’d had in private, whispered behind their bedroom door. They accused me of eavesdropping, but over time, they realized I couldn’t have heard. They finally accepted the truth. I wasn’t lying. Stella was always there, a shimmering outline only I could see. She slept in her old room, walked to school with me, and told me everything our parents said. She knew she was dead. But when I told other people, they looked at me like I was broken. “The Millers?” I heard a neighbor whisper once. “Such a shame. One daughter dead, the other one crazy.” Friends at school called me a liar, an attention-seeker. They’d play with me on the playground, then I’d hear them laughing about me behind the slide. Stella would fly at them in a rage, but she was only a ghost. The most she could do was make them sneeze. Eventually, I stopped talking about her to anyone but my parents. At home, life went on, a strange new normal. They got used to me speaking for her, a living telephone to the dead. They couldn’t see her, but they would buy two of everything—one for me, one for the ghost of their other daughter. No distance, not even death, could stop them from loving her. I was their bridge, the translator for their grief. Then, on my sixteenth birthday, she vanished. I couldn’t see her anymore. At the same time, I lost two days. One moment it was Tuesday, the next it was Thursday. Mom and Dad explained it to me later. Stella had woken up. Inside me. The two days I couldn’t remember were the days she had been living in my body. After that, it became a regular thing. I’d go to sleep and wake up days later, with no memory of what had happened. We shared a life, documented in a spiral-bound notebook, leaving notes for each other about where we’d been and who we’d seen. We lived like that for three years. I never imagined that in just three years, my parents would decide she was worth more than me. 3 Maybe it was the pure force of my resentment, but I could feel Stella deep inside me, sleeping soundly. It was a relief, but then I remembered my parents’ words, and the air I’d just inhaled caught in my throat. After yesterday’s explosion, my mind was unnervingly clear. I’m not explosive by nature; that’s Stella’s territory. The rage was an aberration, born of pure terror. I showered and dressed, knowing what I would see when I went downstairs. The disappointment. I steeled myself and opened my bedroom door. And there it was. In the instant they saw it was me, Chloe, the hope in their eyes died and was replaced by a flat, weary resignation. To be rejected by your own parents is a unique kind of pain, a blade that twists in your very core. The wreckage from yesterday was gone. The house was clean, broken things replaced with new, unfamiliar ones. I walked downstairs, trying to look calm. Dad snorted and turned away, staring pointedly out the window. Mom opened her mouth to speak, then just sighed. My nose stung. And beneath the smell of my own silent grief, another scent filled the air. Flowers. There was a vase of lilies on the dining table. Another on the coffee table. More in the bathroom, and even a small bouquet on the kitchen counter. Lilies everywhere. Stella’s favorite. It was a passive-aggressive welcome mat for a ghost, and a clear message for me: You are not the one we want. I could almost hear the sound of their love for me cracking, the sound of my own heart breaking right alongside it. The cloying, funereal scent and the suffocating silence were too much. I grabbed my bag and ran. It wasn’t until I was outside the neighborhood gates that I realized my face was wet with tears. I got on the bus for school automatically, my body moving while my mind was stuck. Sobs shook my shoulders as I watched the scenery blur past the window, a perfect metaphor for the last three years of my life. When I walked into my art history lecture, my classmates stared. “Chloe? What are you doing here? We heard you transferred.” In that moment, a fire I didn’t know I had burned away the last traces of love I felt for my sister. 4 My academic advisor said it was too late. My major, a specialized fine arts program, was impossible to transfer back into once you’d left. I walked to the Business School in a daze. I sat in a cavernous lecture hall, listening to jargon about market caps and shareholder equity that sounded like a foreign language. The room buzzed with the chatter of strangers. I felt like I was on another planet. I endured the class and then, with the sun still high in the sky and no desire to go home, I just walked. I wandered the campus aimlessly, my thoughts a tangled mess. But one thing was clear: Stella had been planning this. That’s why her journal entries had become so sparse. She didn’t want me to know what she was doing. My legs ached. I sank onto a bench, exhausted, with no idea what to do next. On one side was a major I knew nothing about. On the other, a family who wanted to steal my life. I leaned back, letting the sky fill my vision. And then I saw it. Three words carved above a stone archway: University Library. By the time I left, my arms loaded with books, the sun had set. When I got home, Mom was setting the table. She saw the stack of business textbooks and her expression flickered with guilt. She knew. Of course she knew. It was probably her and Dad’s idea. Dinner was silent and heavy. I picked at my food, only taking a few bites of the roasted fish, one of my favorite dishes. Mom forced a laugh, trying to break the tension. “Look at that, honey. Chloe’s just like us, loves fish. Stella never would touch anything from the water.” Her words made it worse. The silence that followed was even more profound. Dad put down his wine glass. “I hear you got some business books. So you know Stella switched your major. Just listen to me, Chloe. Stella’s brilliant. She has the mind for this, for helping me at the company. You, even if you started now, you’d be in over your head. You wouldn’t be any help. You understand what I’m saying.” I nodded, pushing a few grains of rice around my plate. Seeing my compliance, they brightened. “So you’ve come around?” Dad said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “Good. I’ll call the hypnotist in a few days. Finally, you can have a normal life.” I looked up, my eyes meeting his directly. “Will I be normal, Dad? Or will Stella?” He frowned for a second, then his smile returned, slick and practiced. “She’s your sister. You share a body. Her being normal is you being normal.” I nodded again. Then, as they beamed at me, I spoke each word with cold, clear precision. “I would burn this body to the ground before I let her have it.” The sound of his wine glass shattering against the wall echoed my father’s rage. He pointed a trembling finger at me, sputtering, too furious to form words. Mom rushed to his side, stroking his arm and glaring at me. I couldn’t stay here. Living with two people who were actively plotting my demise would drive me insane. I packed a small bag and moved into the dorms that night. 5 Campus life became my sanctuary. I spent my days in lectures and my nights devouring knowledge in the library. Dad always thought Stella was the genius, but he never noticed my gift: a nearly photographic memory. If I wanted to learn something, I only needed to see it once or twice before it was permanently etched in my mind. Mom called repeatedly. At first, she pleaded. Then, she accused me of being ungrateful. I didn’t understand. All I wanted was to live. We were both their daughters, but because Stella had died once, their guilt demanded a sacrifice. My sacrifice. When pleading failed, they sent in someone I couldn’t refuse. Leo. My childhood friend. The boy I’d had a hopeless crush on for years. “Chloe, please,” he said, his voice strained. “Just give her back to me.” A chill shot up from the soles of my feet. My own voice was a trembling whisper. “What do you mean… your Stella?” He didn’t seem to notice my shock. “I’ve known for a while, Chloe. About you and her. And I knew you wouldn’t agree to this. That’s why I’m begging you. I can’t lose her again. You’ve had all these years to live, but Stella… she died so young. She’s only had three years in your body, and who knows when she might disappear again. The thought of it… I can’t breathe, Chloe. So please, just agree. Your body, her soul… you’ll be one. Why are you being so selfish?” I was too stunned to speak, the world tilting on its axis. He pressed on. “We grew up together, Chloe. I’ve never asked you for anything. I’m asking now. Do you need me to kneel?” And then he did. He dropped to one knee on the damp grass. My hand trembled as I reached for him, but he grabbed it, his grip surprisingly strong. His eyes were bloodshot. “Chloe, just say yes.” His ferocity scared me. I tried to pull away, but he held fast. Panic clawed at my throat, and the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “You’re trying to kill me, too! All of you! Well, you won’t. I won’t die. Stella’s the one who should be dead!” I regretted it instantly. The words were a stupid, brave mistake. Leo’s handsome face twisted into something ugly. He stared at me with pure venom. “Then you leave me no choice. I will not lose her.” The last thing I felt was his hand, hot and heavy, clamping over my mouth. We were in a secluded corner of campus. No one could hear my muffled screams. No one saw as my world faded to black. 6 Leo looked down at the unconscious girl in his arms, a flicker of remorse in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I’ll spend the next life making it up to you.” He carried her out of the school gates and into a waiting car. The room was dim, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood. The gentle hiss of a white noise machine seemed to smooth the deep furrow in the sleeping girl’s brow. Mr. and Mrs. Miller sat nearby, their anxiety a palpable force in the room. They didn’t dare make a sound. Leo stood frozen, his eyes glued to the figure on the recliner. Time crawled by. The hypnotist’s voice was a soft, continuous murmur. Outside, it began to rain. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and in the following clap of thunder, the girl’s eyes slowly opened. She sat up, her gaze clouded with confusion. The three of them surrounded her. Their hands were trembling, betraying a mix of hope and terror. They were afraid of being disappointed, terrified that the person they wanted was not the one who had woken up. The girl on the recliner looked at their tense faces, and the fog in her eyes cleared. A bright, infectious laugh filled the room, a sound like sunshine breaking through clouds. “Dad? Mom? Why so serious? What day is it? And where are we? Leo, you look terrible.” The words were a release. The three of them sagged with relief, a collective, shuddering exhale. Mrs. Miller burst into tears. “Oh, thank God. Stella, you’re back. Don’t you ever leave me again.” Leo’s face was a study in adoration. But Stella looked confused. “Mom, what are you talking about? Was I asleep for a long time? When… when was the last time I was awake? I can’t remember.” As she tried to think, a sharp pain shot through her head, and she cried out, clutching her temples. The sound made her mother jump back. Leo rushed forward, pulling Stella into his arms. “Shh, it’s okay. Don’t try to remember. It’s okay.” Mr. Miller looked at the hypnotist, who offered a placating explanation. “We have effectively erased a personality. Given the long-term alternation, her own psyche was already unstable. This process can cause some memory fragmentation. It may come back over time, or it may not.” That was good enough for Mr. Miller. He could live with gaps in her memory. Stella was brilliant. She learned everything so quickly. He could reteach her whatever was lost. She was his daughter, after all. She would not disappoint him.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394378”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel