Category: English

1 As the top search-and-rescue diver in the country, I was used to high-stakes calls, but the one that came in on a rainy Tuesday morning made my blood run cold. A ten-year-old boy had gone missing at Savage Cove—the same place where my little sister, Grecia, drowned ten years ago. Back then, Nora, my girlfriend and captain of the rescue squad, promised she’d bring Grecia back safe. Instead, she cut my sister’s safety line to hand the rescue credit to her partner, Victor. Grecia was swept into the abyss. Victor became a national hero, while I spent the next decade diving into the dark more than two hundred times, pulling 193 people back to life. I mapped Savage Cove’s deadly depths until I knew every current—so no one else would be left waiting in the dark. But today, when dispatch sent the missing child’s photo, I froze. Behind him stood the boy’s mother. Her face was one I would never forget. I turned the phone face down on the desk. “I’m not taking this dive.” “Sean, you’ve got to be kidding me, right?” The dispatcher laughed, assuming it was a joke. “Last year during the peak flood season, you dove forty meters into near-zero visibility mud to pull a trapped kid out of a shipwreck. You hold the active recovery record. If you say you can’t do it, nobody else in this country can.” “I’m not joking,” I replied. “Sean…” “I’m serious. I can’t take this. Coordinate with another team. Don’t waste any more time.” I hung up. But before I could zip my gear bag, the door slammed open. Chief Harrison practically fell into the room, drenched in sweat. “Sean,” he panted, gripping the doorframe to steady his breathing. “Don’t leave yet. Just hear me out.” “Chief, there’s nothing to discuss.” “The conditions at Savage Cove are a nightmare,” Harrison urged, shutting the door behind him and blocking it with his body. “Our regular guys have been down there for two hours. Three rotation teams, and they haven’t found a single trace.” He lowered his voice, stepping closer. “The boy who went under is Victor’s son. Yes, that Victor, the owner of the biggest commercial diving firm in the state. His wife is Nora, the former rescue captain. If it weren’t for their massive donations over the years, we wouldn’t even have half of this high-tech equipment.” “Then use the equipment to find him,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “If the gear is so advanced, you don’t need me.” Harrison lunged forward, grabbing my arm with white-knuckled desperation. “We tried! The sonar can’t see past the blind spots in the underwater crevices. We need eyes down there. We need hands. Sean, I wouldn’t swallow my pride to beg you if there were any other way.” I remained silent. Harrison stomped his foot in frustration. “Are you worried about safety? I know Savage Cove is a death trap, but I swear to you, we have the best support on the shore. Dry suits, backup tanks, comms, whatever you want. I will guarantee your life with my own!” “It’s not a safety issue, Chief.” “Then what is it?” “Personal reasons.” “Personal reasons?” His voice cracked, rising in pitch. “Sean, there is a ten-year-old boy suffocating at the bottom of a river, and you’re telling me about personal reasons?” By now, the news of my refusal had leaked. Several rescue team members gathered outside the open door, whispering. “Sean, you’re the backbone of this team,” one of them called out. “If you won’t go, who will?” “Some hero he is,” another muttered, loud enough for me to hear. “Just a coward who’s afraid of a little current.” The insults started to pile up. I kept my face blank and checked my watch. “Chief, you just wasted another five minutes. I’m not taking the job. Call someone else. Time is running out.” I brushed past him, but a voice from the back of the crowd cut through the tension. “Your sister died in Savage Cove, didn’t she, Sean? Is that why you’re being so heartless? You’re just going to let a kid die?” I went rigid. My heart felt as though it were being squeezed by a freezing hand. My phone screen lit up on the desk behind me. The ten-year-old boy in the photo had a bright, gap-toothed smile. He was the exact same age my sister had been when she died. I closed my eyes. If Nora hadn’t unclipped her line ten years ago, would my sister be alive today? A sudden commotion at the entrance broke my thoughts. A man in a sharp, tailored suit strode through the crowd. He didn’t even look me in the eye. Instead, he snapped open his wallet and began throwing thick stacks of cash at my chest. “What do you mean, you won’t dive?” he sneered. “You want money? Here. Name your price.” Victor turned to Chief Harrison, his lip curled in disgust. “This is the savior you insisted on? Some legendary rescue diver? He’s nothing but a mercenary holding a dying child hostage to inflate his fee.” He stepped closer to me, pulling out his phone. “Still not enough? I can wire you a hundred thousand right now. Five hundred thousand? Name it. Just get my son out.” The onlookers gasped at the sheer amount of money being thrown around. I didn’t move. My eyes were locked on the silver service medal pinned to his lapel. Ten years. He was still wearing the honor he had bought with my sister’s life. Seeing where I was looking, Victor let out a cold, mocking laugh. “What? Jealous? I’m not like you, mercenary. I earned this medal with my life.” He puffed out his chest, playing the martyr for the crowd. “Ten years ago, right here in Savage Cove, the visibility was practically zero. My wife and I didn’t hesitate for a second. We dove straight in. Unlike some cowards who sit on the shore and bargain with a child’s life.” I stared at him, my throat tight. “Did you save her?” Victor’s smug grin faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered. “In those conditions, no one could guarantee a miracle…” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “So, you didn’t save her.” “I am indeed different from you,” I said, stepping closer to force him to look at me. He had clearly forgotten my face, forgotten the broken brother who had stood on the shore ten years ago. “I don’t dive unless I am absolutely sure. And I never give a grieving family false hope, only to drag them into a deeper despair.” Flustered and angry, Victor grabbed me by the collar. “Who cares if we couldn’t save her? At least we didn’t hide like cowards! You won’t even wet your feet. What right do you have to judge me?” The murmurs from the crowd grew louder, turning hostile. “He’s right. At least Victor tried ten years ago. Sean is just a greedy coward.” Their judgmental eyes stung like needles. They thought I was selfish, cold, and demanding a payout. I didn’t care to explain. Then, a woman stumbled through the doorway. Her hair was a messy nest, and her expensive makeup was smeared with tears. Ten years had passed, but her face was still instantly recognizable. The woman who had promised to bring my sister back, only to push her into the abyss, was standing right in front of me. My fists clenched so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. She didn’t look at my face. She shoved Victor back and threw herself toward me. “Please,” she sobbed, grabbing my hand. “The Chief says you’re our last hope. I don’t know you, but I trust you. My baby is down there. He’s only ten. He’s terrified of the dark. He can’t sleep without hearing my voice.” Her tears fell onto my shoes. “If you go down, I’ll give you anything. Whatever you want. Just save my boy.” I took a slow, deep breath, feeling the decades of suppressed rage boiling in my chest. If they knew the real price of this rescue, would they still ask for it? “I will go to the site,” I said quietly. Nora gasped with relief, squeezing my hand. “Thank God! Thank you, Mr… Mr. Shaw? Whatever your name is, my husband and I will never forget this.” “Don’t misunderstand,” I interrupted, pulling my hand away. “I agreed to go to the site. I didn’t say I would dive.” 2 Ten years later, I stood on the banks of Savage Cove once more. The shore was packed with state-of-the-art equipment. High-powered sonar scanners, massive underwater floodlights, three top-tier rescue boats idling in the water. A dozen experts hovered over a folding table, analyzing underwater topographical maps. “This is Victor’s son,” one coordinator shouted. “Spare no expense! Get him up!” Standing on the periphery, a bitter taste filled my mouth. Ten years ago, my sister had slipped into these exact same waters. Back then, there was only one cheap inflatable dinghy, a couple of standard nylon ropes, and Nora’s empty promise. But today, because the boy in the water belonged to a wealthy, influential family, an entire command center appeared within two hours. What was my sister’s life to them? A stepping stone. A sacrifice to polish their public image and pave the way for their lucrative diving empire. Even though they had only brought back a cold, lifeless body, they still wore the crowns of heroes, using that fake glory to build an empire. A technician rushed over to the Chief, his face pale. “Based on the water pressure and the boy’s tank capacity, the survival window is down to twenty minutes. His oxygen is almost gone. If we don’t get a diver down there right now, he’s dead.” “Sean, please,” Harrison urged. “You’re already here. Put on the gear.” I shook my head. “You have the most advanced sonar in the state, a top-tier medical team, and a dozen specialists. Besides, the boy’s parents are decorated rescue heroes from these exact waters. Why should I be the one to go down?” Nora flinched, not expecting me to bring up the past. Her lips trembled as she looked up at me. “Yes, we went down back then, but we were injured in that rescue! We retired to administrative roles years ago. Our physical condition isn’t up to a deep-dive recovery anymore!” Perhaps driven by a guilty conscience, she suddenly fell to her knees. Her knees hit the gravel with a sickening thud. “Mr. Shaw, I beg you! I admit we aren’t as good as you. We don’t deserve the hero titles. But my son is innocent! Please, if you go down, I’ll do anything. I’ll admit whatever you want!” She began to desperately knock her forehead against the rocky ground, bruising her skin. “Please! Save my son!” Her agonizing cries ignited the anger of the crowd around us. “Sean! Are you even human? How can you torture a grieving mother like this?” “You’re disgusting! She’s on her knees, and you’re still playing games!” A couple of angry young divers lunged forward, grabbing my arms and shoving me toward the water’s edge. “You’re going down today, whether you like it or not!” The waves of hostility pressed in from all sides. I let out a raspy, dry laugh. “You all want me to dive that badly?” I looked at Victor, then at Nora. “But even if I go down, even if I find your boy… how do you know I won’t just unclip his safety line and let him drift away?” “What did you just say?” Victor’s face contorted with rage. He yanked out his phone and made a rapid call. Within minutes, a flock of local reporters who had been waiting nearby rushed past the barricades, pointing cameras and microphones at us. Victor stood before the lenses, squeezing out tears of outrage. “I didn’t want to make this a public spectacle, but my son has been trapped underwater for over two hours. His oxygen will run out in ten minutes. And yet, this man, who claims to be the best rescue diver in the country, refuses to save him.” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “I offered him money. My wife fell to her knees to beg him. We’ve done everything. My son is dying, and this man is using a child’s life to settle a personal grudge. Does a monster like this deserve to be called a savior?” The live feed exploded. Online headlines began flashing: Top Rescue Diver Refuses to Save Drowning Ten-Year-Old. The comments sections flooded with venom, calling for my head. Losing his mind, Victor lunged forward, grabbed me by the hair, and dragged me toward the river’s edge. Taken off guard, I lost my footing. He shoved my head violently down into the freezing water. The biting cold rushed into my nose, my eyes, and my ears. The crushing pressure of the river seized my skull, and a familiar, terrifying suffocation washed over me. I closed my eyes. The memory of ten years ago rushed back. I remembered standing on this very shore, watching Nora and Victor climb out of the water, packing up their gear to leave. I had fallen to my knees, begging them. “Nora, please, she’s only ten! Just try one more time! Please!” And she had looked at me with cold, distant eyes. “I’m sorry, Sean. We did our best. The current is too strong. A layman like you wouldn’t understand the danger down there. We’re lucky to have made it out alive ourselves.” My sister must have felt this exact same terror. The water filling her lungs, believing she was saved, only to be cast back into the dark. Just as my vision began to fade into black, Victor yanked me out of the water by my hair. I collapsed onto the mud, coughing violently, my lungs burning. My ears buzzed with the sound of rushing water, but Victor’s triumphant sneer cut through the noise. “How does it feel to almost drown?” he hissed. “My son is feeling that every single second! And you stand here doing nothing!” No one in the crowd showed a shred of sympathy. “Serves him right! If he had just done his job, Victor wouldn’t have had to do that.” “He had it coming.” I wiped the remaining water from my eyes, staring at the couple through a blurred, bloodshot gaze. “You want to know why I won’t go down?” I rasped, my voice dripping with venom. “Because I’m afraid.” “I’m afraid that if I go down there, I’ll become just like you.” Victor’s face lost all color. “Ten years ago, in these exact waters,” I said, rising slowly to my feet. “You found her. But on the way to the surface, you unclipped her safety line.” Nora gasped, her body violently trembling as she stared at me. “You… you’re… Sean?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453913”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 On the day of our wedding anniversary, I brought a homemade, carefully packed lunch to my wife’s corporate headquarters. The receptionist froze for a solid three seconds when she saw me. “Nolan, Ms. Whitmore isn’t in today. she started her maternity leave.” I stared at her. I told her I had no idea my wife was pregnant. All the color drained from the receptionist’s face. She immediately backtracked, stammering that she must have remembered the schedule wrong. A cold chill crept up my spine. I pulled out my phone and remotely accessed the dashcam footage from Kate’s luxury SUV. The live feed showed a man carefully supporting my wife by the arm as they walked into the doors of an exclusive private maternity clinic. Their body language was undeniably intimate. When the man turned his head in the footage, my stomach dropped. I recognized him instantly. It was my best friend, Joshua. Three years ago, when I was hospitalized after a severe car crash, Joshua had visited me every single day. Back then, my wife used to tease me, saying my best buddy pampered me more than my own mother would. I dialed Kate’s number. The background noise on her end was loud and chaotic. “What is it, honey? My meeting hasn’t wrapped up yet.” The words of confrontation hovered right on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to scream and ask her why. But I swallowed the bile down. “Nothing. I just missed you.” I hung up the phone. If these two pieces of trash wanted each other so badly, I would let them rot together. I sat in the pitch black living room, my eyes locked on the front door as it finally swung open. “Kate, was your corporate board meeting held at a maternity clinic today?” The motion sensor lights in the entryway flickered to life. Kate’s hand was still resting gently on Joshua’s forearm. At the sound of my voice, her entire body went rigid. Joshua instinctively shrank back, hiding slightly behind her. He gripped the lapel of Kate’s tailored blazer, his eyes instantly welling up with tears. “Kate, I told you I shouldn’t have let you accompany me. Nolan is definitely misunderstanding this.” His voice was a fragile whisper, dripping with manufactured victimhood. Kate furrowed her brow, stepping slightly to the side to shield his body with her own. She tossed her car keys onto the credenza. The metal smacked against the wood with a jarring clatter. “Nolan, what kind of psychotic episode are you having tonight? Are you spying on me?” She marched toward me, her tone laced with heavy impatience. I tossed my phone onto the glass coffee table. The screen was frozen on a screenshot from that morning, showing her delicately helping Joshua out of the passenger seat right in front of the clinic. “I went to your office to bring you lunch. Your receptionist told me you were on maternity leave.” I kept my voice deadpan. “I didn’t even know my own wife was pregnant, yet another man is already escorting you to your prenatal checkups.” Kate glanced at the glowing screen. For a fraction of a second, guilt flashed across her face. But she quickly squared her shoulders, her arrogance returning in full force. “Joshua has a weak constitution. He actually fainted a few days ago.” “I took him to the clinic for a full blood panel, and I just happened to get my checkup done while we were there.” She looked down at me as if I were a speck of dirt on her designer shoes. “When you were in that car wreck three years ago, he practically lived at the hospital taking care of you.” “Now that he’s unwell, what is wrong with me, as your wife, stepping up to repay that debt of gratitude?” Her self righteous speech actually made me laugh out loud. “Repay my debt? So you kept it a total secret from me, took time off work, and hid your pregnancy just to keep him company?” Joshua stepped out from behind her, fat tears rolling down his pale cheeks. “Nolan, please don’t be mad at Kate. I begged her to keep my health issues a secret. I didn’t want to worry you.” He took a step forward, reaching out as if to grab my hand. I sidestepped, refusing to let him touch me. Without my support, he dramatically stumbled forward, collapsing onto the plush living room rug. Kate’s face twisted in pure rage. She immediately dropped to her knees to help him up. “Nolan! What the hell is wrong with you! You know his health is fragile, he can’t handle this kind of stress!” She roared at me, the veins in her neck bulging. I looked down at my hands. I hadn’t even made physical contact with the man. “Are you legally blind, Kate? I never even touched him.” Joshua leaned his weight heavily against Kate’s chest, shaking his head weakly. “Kate, I’m fine. I just lost my balance. It’s not Nolan’s fault.” “My chest just feels a little tight. I think I’ve been standing for too long today.” Kate wrapped her arms protectively around his shoulders, whipping her head around to glare at me with absolute venom. “Look at how bitter and toxic you’ve become. Where is the refined gentleman I married?” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger right at my face. “Let me make this perfectly clear. If anything happens to Joshua’s health, I will hold you personally responsible.” I stood there, quietly watching her unhinged display. This was the woman who had once sworn to love me for the rest of her life. Now, she was verbally eviscerating me over the pathetic lies of another man. I took a deep breath, swallowing the intense nausea churning in my gut. “Kate, take him and get out of my house.” She froze, clearly stunned that I had the nerve to kick her out. She let out a sharp, condescending laugh, her eyes sweeping over me with utter disgust. “Get your facts straight, Nolan.” “This house might have been left to you by your dead parents, but I am the one making the money to keep the lights on.” “You sit around here all day doing absolutely nothing. What right do you have to kick me out?” My fingernails dug so deeply into my palms that the skin nearly broke. Joshua gently tugged at her sleeve. “Kate, I should just go. I don’t want to be the reason you two fight. I can just stay at a cheap motel, it’s fine.” Kate grabbed his hand, her voice softening into a sickly sweet croon. “Your body is far too weak to stay in some rundown motel.” She turned back to me, her eyes hardening into ice. “Joshua’s current apartment has a terrible mold problem. He is going to stay here with us for a few days, at least until I can find him a suitable luxury rental.” I stood my ground, staring directly into her eyes. “Absolutely not.” My defiance clearly infuriated her. She took a threatening step toward me, radiating oppressive authority. “I wasn’t asking for your permission, Nolan. I was notifying you.” “If you refuse to apologize to Joshua right now, I won’t be coming home for the next few days. You can sit here and reflect on your toxic behavior.” 2 “Do whatever you want.” I looked at her, my voice completely dead. Kate’s face turned a mottled shade of purple. She probably expected me to compromise, to grab her arm and beg her to stay like I used to. But she calculated wrong this time. She ground her teeth, wrapped her arm securely around Joshua’s waist, and marched toward the front door. “You’re going to regret this, Nolan.” The heavy oak door slammed shut, the sheer force of it rattling the walls. The living room fell back into a suffocating, dead silence. I collapsed onto the sofa, my mind instantly drifting back to her pregnancy. That was my child growing inside her, yet she chose to have another man by her side during the ultrasounds. A wave of bitter acid burned my throat. My phone screen lit up on the table. It was a text message. From Joshua. [Nolan, Kate insisted on booking me a suite at the Four Seasons. She said she absolutely refuses to let me suffer.] Attached was a photo taken from behind, showing Kate standing at a marble concierge desk, handing over her platinum credit card. I saved the screenshot to my cloud drive and immediately blocked his number. The next morning, just as I finished a tasteless cup of black coffee, the doorbell rang. It was Kate’s executive assistant, Rachel. “Nolan, Ms. Whitmore sent me to pick up a few things.” Rachel kept her eyes glued to the floor, actively avoiding my gaze. Behind her stood two burly corporate bodyguards. They walked straight past me and headed directly for the climate-controlled storage room. A moment later, they started carrying out the premium reserve tonics and imported truffles my parents had left me before they passed away. I stepped firmly into the hallway, blocking their path. “Who gave you permission to touch those?” Rachel wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “Nolan, Ms. Whitmore said Joshua’s body is incredibly fragile and he needs high-end nourishment.” “She mentioned that these items were just gathering dust in here anyway.” I let out a harsh, barking laugh. She wanted to take my deceased parents’ legacy to feed her pathetic little sidepiece? “Put them down. Tell her to come get them herself if she wants them so badly.” The words had barely left my mouth when Kate’s icy voice echoed from the open doorway. “Excuse me? Am I no longer allowed to make decisions about the inventory in my own home?” She was wearing the exact same designer suit from yesterday. She clearly hadn’t come home last night. Kate strode into the foyer, waving her hand to signal the bodyguards to continue carrying the boxes. “Nolan, you can’t possibly consume all of this by yourself.” “Joshua is recovering, and his body needs these exact nutrients.” She walked right up to me, holding out an open palm. “Give me the keys to your loft studio in the South End.” My head snapped up. I stared at her in utter disbelief. That studio was my sanctuary. It was my private creative base where I worked under my secret illustration pseudonym, “Ronin”. Every inch of that space held my blood, sweat, and artistic soul. “Why the hell do you need the keys to my studio?” Kate spoke as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “Joshua says the recycled air in the hotel suite is making him claustrophobic. It’s bad for his recovery.” “Your studio has great natural light and a private courtyard. I’m lending it to him for a while.” She paused, a mocking smirk playing on her lips. “It’s not like you’re doing anything important there anyway.” “Those messy little sketches of yours don’t bring in a dime. We might as well put the real estate to some practical use.” I stared at her, my blood boiling. “That is my workspace. It’s not a halfway house for your stray trash.” Kate’s eyes darkened instantly. “Watch your mouth, Nolan. Since when did Joshua become trash?” Without warning, she lunged forward and grabbed the canvas tote bag resting on the entryway console. “Give that back!” I lunged to grab it out of her hands. Using her height advantage in heels, she held the bag high out of my reach with one hand. With her other hand, she ruthlessly tipped it upside down, dumping the contents all over the hardwood floor. Keys, my phone, and my hand-drawn conceptual drafts scattered everywhere. My heart skipped a beat. I immediately dropped to my knees to rescue the delicate drafting paper. But Kate was faster. She stepped forward, the sharp stiletto heel of her shoe planting directly in the center of my artwork. She bent down and snatched the keyring holding the studio keys. “You’re an unemployed bum who paints to kill time, and you actually think you’re some kind of tortured artist?” She tossed the keys in the air and caught them, her lips curling into a cruel, satisfied smile. “I’m taking these.” “You better stay out of trouble for the next few days. If you go to the studio and harass Joshua, I’ll make you regret it.” I stared at the crumpled, dirt-stained paper trapped under her heel. It was a commercial piece I had spent three agonizing months perfecting. My chest physically ached, my heart contracting in sharp, jagged spasms. “Kate, if Nolan really doesn’t want me there, we can just forget it.” “I really don’t want to be the wedge that drives your marriage apart.” Joshua’s fragile, breathy voice floated in from the front porch. 3 “Why wouldn’t he want you there? I’m the one paying the lease on that property anyway.” Kate turned her head, her voice melting into absolute honey as she spoke to the man outside. She didn’t even bother to give me a second glance as she turned to leave. I scrambled up from the floor and blocked the doorway. “Give me the keys.” I stared into her eyes, emphasizing every single syllable. Kate scowled, her patience completely evaporated. “Are you psychotic, Nolan? It’s just a dusty old room. Are you seriously going to throw a tantrum over this?” Joshua stood on the porch, looking at me with wide, pitiful eyes. “Nolan, I know you hate me, but I really am sick.” “I just wanted a quiet place to breathe and rest.” “Drop the act,” I snapped, pointing a finger at him. “You know exactly what you’re doing, you parasite.” Joshua’s face went chalk white. He swayed dramatically, stumbling backward two steps as if he had been physically struck. Kate exploded. She shoved me with both hands, her strength fueled by sheer fury. “That is enough!” Her push caught me completely off guard. I lost my footing, stumbling backward. The base of my spine slammed violently into the sharp, solid edge of the heavy oak shoe cabinet. A blinding, agonizing pain ripped through my lower back, shooting down my legs. I gasped, instinctively clutching my spine as my legs gave out. I slid down the wooden cabinet, collapsing onto the floor. Cold sweat instantly soaked through my shirt, sticking to my skin. Kate stood over me, looking down without a single ounce of pity in her eyes. “Stop playing dead. If you want to fake an injury, at least try to make it look convincing.” She grabbed Joshua’s arm, supporting his weight, and walked right out the door. The heavy front door clicked shut once again. I lay curled on the cold floor, the agony in my spine so intense I couldn’t even draw a full breath. My hands shaking violently, I dug my phone out of my pocket and dialed for an ambulance. Hours later, in a sterile hospital room. The emergency room doctor held up my X-ray scans, his face grim. “Mr. Whitmore, you’ve sustained severe trauma to your lumbar vertebrae.” “You are going to need strict bed rest for the next several days. Absolutely no physical strain, or you risk permanent nerve damage.” I lay flat on the stiff hospital mattress. My mind drifted to the artwork destroyed under her designer heel. Then to the child, my child, growing inside her womb. A hollow, rhythmic pain pulsed in my chest. I lay in that hospital bed for an entire day. By nightfall, the acute, stabbing pain in my back had dulled to a heavy ache. Suddenly, panic set in. I realized my finalized commercial commission, a massive canvas piece, was still sitting on an easel in the South End studio. If Joshua ruined it, the breach of contract penalty would completely bankrupt me. I ripped the IV needle out of the back of my hand. Ignoring the bleeding, I forced myself upright, gritting my teeth against the pain, and hailed a cab to the studio. The front door of the loft was unlocked. I pushed it open, and the sight before me nearly tore my soul apart. Tubes of my imported, custom-mixed oil paints, worth tens of thousands of dollars, had been slashed open and stomped into the floorboards. In the center of the room, Joshua was standing with a pair of heavy fabric shears, carving jagged gashes into my nearly finished masterpiece, The Cosmos. “What the hell are you doing!” I roared, lunging forward and ripping the scissors out of his grip. He shrieked, instantly dropping to the floor. He curled into a ball, clutching his chest and wailing at the top of his lungs. “Ah! My chest! It hurts so much. Nolan, why did you shove me?” The rapid clicking of heels echoed from the hallway. Kate burst into the room. Seeing Joshua writhing on the paint-stained floor, her eyes turned bloodshot. Without asking a single question, she spun around and delivered a brutal, ringing slap across my face. The crack of her palm against my cheek echoed in the empty loft. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My head snapped to the side, and the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. “You absolute psycho! You know how weak his heart is, how could you be so vicious?” I clutched my stinging, swollen cheek, pointing a trembling finger at the shredded canvas on the easel. “He destroyed my life’s work! He is playing you for a total fool!” “Why are you defending him? You didn’t even ask what happened before you hit me!” Kate didn’t even glance at the ruined painting. She dropped to her knees, carefully gathering Joshua into her arms. “Are a few sheets of trash paper more important than a human life?” “I am warning you right now. If Joshua’s condition worsens, I will make you pay with your life.” She practically carried him out of the room, rushing down the stairs. I slumped against the wall of my ruined sanctuary, surrounded by the wreckage of my art. My phone buzzed in my pocket. The caller ID showed Kate’s name. I pressed answer. “Nolan, you terrified Joshua today. His heart rate is highly irregular.” “He’s hooked up to an IV right now. You better drag yourself down here and apologize to him on your hands and knees.” 4 “My spine is injured. I can’t make it.” My knuckles were white as I gripped a torn shred of my canvas. My voice trembled with exhaustion. A sharp, mocking scoff echoed through the phone speaker. “Your spine? Nolan, if you’re going to lie to get out of trouble, at least invent something creative.” “Tonight is the Whitmore Group’s annual anniversary gala. Even if you have to crawl on your hands and knees, you will show up.” She paused, her tone dropping into a sinister, icy threat. “The tabloids are already spinning rumors that our marriage is falling apart. If you don’t show up tonight to play the loving husband and save our stock prices.” “Tomorrow morning, I will permanently cancel the maintenance funds for your parents’ cemetery plot.” My fist clenched so hard my fingernails drew blood. My parents were buried in the most exclusive, expensive memorial park in the city. It was the ultimate leverage she had over me, and she knew exactly how to use it. “Send the address,” I ground out between clenched teeth. An hour later. Wearing a loose-fitting black suit to hide my stiff posture, I walked into the grand ballroom of a luxury downtown hotel. My face was pale, my movements slow and calculated. The ballroom was an ocean of designer gowns, champagne flutes, and blinding camera flashes. Kate was wearing a breathtaking custom haute couture gown, radiant and glowing as she mingled with corporate elites. And standing right beside her, wearing a bespoke tuxedo and a sickeningly smug smile, was Joshua. Gleaming on his wrist was a limited edition luxury watch. The exact watch Kate had gifted me for my birthday last year. I stared at the scene, the nausea churning violently in my stomach. Kate spotted me from across the room. Her smile faltered, and she marched over, her brow heavily furrowed. “You look like you’re attending a funeral. Are you deliberately trying to embarrass me?” She hissed the warning under her breath. I ignored her completely, walking straight past her to sit at an empty table in the corner. The throbbing pain in my lumbar spine was intensifying by the minute. I needed to conserve every ounce of energy just to stay upright. The host took the stage, tapping the microphone and inviting Kate up to give the keynote address. Kate stood bathed in the spotlight, pulling Joshua up to stand right beside her. “Tonight, as we celebrate the anniversary of the Whitmore Group, I have a very special announcement to make.” Her voice boomed through the high-end sound system, commanding the room. “Mr. Joshua here will officially be joining the Whitmore Group as our new Executive Art Director.” “Furthermore, he will be the sole creative force behind the highly anticipated ‘Cosmos’ illustration exhibition opening next month in the city center.” The ballroom erupted into thunderous applause. I sat frozen in my chair, feeling as if a lightning bolt had struck me directly in the chest. That was my exhibition. I had spent six grueling months planning it. She hadn’t just shredded my original drafts. She had taken my blood, sweat, and tears, and slapped her lover’s name on all of it. I slammed my hands onto the table, forcing myself to stand. I shoved my chair back and marched toward the stage. “Kate, what gives you the right to hand my life’s work over to him?” I pointed directly at the two of them, my voice shaking with pure, unadulterated rage. The applause died instantly. Every single eye in the ballroom snapped toward me. Joshua immediately shrank behind Kate’s back, his eyes widening in performed terror. “Nolan, what are you talking about? I painted every single piece for that exhibition with my own two hands.” Kate’s face turned completely purple. She glared at the security detail standing near the stage. “Are you idiots deaf? Drag this lunatic out of here right now!” Four massive security guards in black suits rushed forward. Two of them grabbed my arms, twisting them painfully behind my back. “Let go of me!” I thrashed wildly against their grip. Kate walked down the steps of the stage, stopping inches from my face. “Nolan, are you so consumed by jealousy that you’ve lost your mind?” “You are a useless leech who can barely hold a paintbrush straight. You honestly expect these people to believe you created art of that caliber?” She looked down at me, her eyes filled with absolute venom and disgust. “Get on your knees and apologize to Joshua this instant. If you refuse, I promise you won’t walk out of here tonight.” The surrounding guests began to whisper, the gossip spreading like wildfire. “Mr. Whitmore is acting like a hysterical madman.” “I heard he’s incredibly paranoid. He attacks any young artist Ms. Whitmore decides to sponsor out of pure jealousy.” The guards shoved my shoulders down, kicking the backs of my knees to force me to the floor. The violent downward pressure triggered an explosive, blinding agony in my injured spine. My vision whited out, my consciousness slipping away. I squeezed my eyes shut in total despair. Just as my knees were about to hit the cold marble floor. The heavy double doors of the ballroom were violently kicked open with a deafening crash. A low, glacial female voice sliced through the silence of the room. “Whoever dares to touch him will lose their hands tonight.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453914”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 For years of our marriage, my husband Johnny built his entire persona around being entirely unbothered by the world. When I woke up at dawn to make him elaborate breakfasts, he would merely offer a brief nod. When I camped out overnight on the pavement to buy his favorite limited edition sneakers, he just gave a faint smile and moved on. Even when I lost our baby, he simply patted my shoulder, his voice laced with mild regret, telling me it was fine, we would have another, and we shouldn’t dwell on the past. He even had the audacity to stand outside my recovery room, checking his watch, informing me he truly had no time to stay and look after me because a business trip awaited him. I always convinced myself that this was just who he was. I rationalized it, telling myself that people simply have different ways of expressing emotions. That was until the day he walked through the front door, his eyes alight with a joy I had never seen before. He pulled a piece of stationery from his pocket, grinning from ear to ear. “Look at this,” he said, his voice practically vibrating. “Sophie brought it back from Europe. She said the texture of the parchment over there is entirely different from ours. I need to take a closer look at this.” Sophie was his childhood best friend. She had moved back to the States a month ago and conveniently landed a job at Johnny’s research institute. I stared at him. Then I smiled, reaching into my own bag to hand him a piece of paper. “The texture of this paper is quite unique too. I’d appreciate it if you could study this one just as closely.” I had never seen him wear his heart on his sleeve like that. He held that single sheet of stationery as if it were a rare, priceless artifact. In his rush to get through the door, he had even stepped on the heels of the exact limited edition sneakers I had painstakingly scrubbed clean that morning. Before my gasp of dismay could even leave my throat, he was already standing right in front of me. On the dining table sat his absolute favorite meal, a rich, slow simmered beef curry. He was completely blind to it. His mind, his eyes, his entire being were consumed by that single piece of paper. “Look at this,” he repeated. “Sophie said this parchment absorbs even the heaviest fountain pen ink without bleeding. The detailing on the edges is gorgeous, isn’t it? It looks like an old European castle. So elegant. We went to Europe for our honeymoon, why didn’t we think to buy something like this as a souvenir?” He rambled on and on, the words spilling out of him until the curry on the table grew cold. I finally couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Are you still eating dinner?” He didn’t even turn his head as he walked toward his study. “Oh, I already ate. Sophie mentioned the new bistro downstairs from our building was fantastic, so we went to try it out today. She was right.” My chest tightened, and my voice pitched higher than I intended. “Then why didn’t you tell me earlier? When I texted you, you said you were coming home for dinner. I spent hours simmering this curry.” He only paused when his hand was on the study doorknob. He glanced back, his expression returning to its usual flatline. “Sorry, Hazel. I forgot to text you back. It was a spur of the moment decision. I’ll definitely eat with you next time.” Next time. Over the past month, I had been force fed too many “next times”. Next time I’ll let you know in advance. Next time I’ll buy your favorite takeout. Next time I won’t forget our plans. Johnny, life doesn’t always offer a next time. And I had a feeling he was going to learn that lesson very soon. Johnny was my father’s star pupil at the university. The first time he visited our house for a holiday dinner, I fell for him instantly. I have always been the kind of woman who fights tooth and nail for what she wants. So, from the moment I laid eyes on him, I pursued him relentlessy. They say a woman chasing a man is as easy as piercing a veil of silk, but that rule clearly skipped Johnny. Most of the time, he gave me nothing but cold indifference. But he treated everyone else with the same frosty detachment, so I chalked it up to his personality. I told myself I had just fallen in love with a stone, and I fully believed I possessed enough warmth to melt it. It took me six years of trying. Eventually, he nodded. He agreed to be mine. A year into dating, we tied the knot. My father was absolutely thrilled. He adored Johnny, and because of that, he pulled countless strings to pave the way for Johnny’s academic career. Sometimes it felt like my father and my husband had more to talk about than Johnny and I did. Our marriage was respectful, quiet, and mostly harmonious. But the coldness radiating from him was far deeper than I ever anticipated. I changed up the breakfast menu every single day, yet not once did a word of praise cross his lips. When I heard about the release of those sneakers he obsessed over, I flew to Paris, abandoning my own shopping plans to sit on the pavement all night. When I handed him the box, he just offered a polite smile. Not a single word of genuine gratitude. When I unexpectedly lost our baby, he stood by the hospital bed and told me the timing was wrong anyway. I went through the trauma alone, bleeding and terrified, while he simply called once to ask if the procedure was done. If this was simply who he was, I thought I could swallow the bitter pill. Love is supposed to be tolerant. It celebrates the virtues and forgives the flaws. But then he walked back out of his study, holding that piece of stationery again, a genuine smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I just ordered a few more sets online. The patterns are different, but they should be just as beautiful. I really need to spend some time looking into this.” Snap. The invisible string keeping my sanity intact finally broke. His behavior over the past month had been a glaring, neon sign, reminding me that he wasn’t inherently cold. He just never wanted to spend his warmth on me. I smiled at him. I reached into my bag and pulled out a document I had prepared three days ago. I finally found the courage to hand it over. “The texture of this paper is quite unique too. I’d appreciate it if you could study this one just as closely.” It was a divorce agreement. 2 When Johnny saw the bold letters at the top of the page, a flicker of genuine shock finally cracked his composed facade. Thank God he didn’t look completely dead inside, otherwise I really would have felt like the punchline of a terrible joke. He furrowed his brows, looking genuinely bewildered. “Why bring up divorce out of nowhere? If there’s something I’m doing wrong, you can just tell me. I didn’t think we had any real issues.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Sophie came back a month ago, didn’t she?” His frown deepened, confusion shifting into mild annoyance. “Are you throwing a tantrum over Sophie? I told you about that later, didn’t I? I was busy sorting out her employment, so I forgot to mention it to you. Is it really that big of a deal?” I genuinely didn’t want to come across as an aggressive, bitter woman. But he clearly mistook my years of patience for a lack of a spine. “Did you forget to tell me, or did you actively hide it from me? Because that position she just got was supposed to be mine, wasn’t it?” I took a step closer, my voice dangerously soft. “You know damn well that if it were a fair fight, her resume belongs in the trash compared to mine. On academic merits alone, I would crush her.” “You knew that if you didn’t pull the strings in the shadows, she wouldn’t stand a chance. You were terrified I would step in and ruin her little dream job.” “Darling, you really outdid yourself. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that someone would plot against me so meticulously. And to think, that someone is my own husband.” A heavy silence fell over the room. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose before finally speaking. “You don’t need this specific job. Professor Bennett will arrange something else for you.” I nodded slowly, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Right. Who needs a husband when they have a father? So let’s get this divorce over with. That way, you can go back to being someone else’s lapdog without any distractions.” Mentioning the divorce seemed to finally inject some color into his pale face. His tone lost its usual detached calmness. “At the end of the day, you’re just jealous that I helped Sophie get a job. Since you insist on dragging this out, let me explain it to you.” “Sophie came back to the States because her mother is sick. Her mom is receiving treatment at the university hospital. Getting her that specific role means she can just walk across the campus to visit her mother after work.” “I even asked your father, and he agreed this role wasn’t the best fit for your long term career goals. My mother also begged me to do this favor for Sophie.” Before he could finish his pathetic defense, I cut him off. “You thought about Sophie. You thought about her mother. You thought about your mother. You even factored in my dad. But did you, for a single second, think about your wife?” He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. I couldn’t tell if he was out of excuses or just deemed me unworthy of one. It didn’t matter anymore. When I walked into the bedroom to pack my suitcases, he stood leaning against the doorframe, watching me in silence. He suddenly asked, “Why are you being so absolute about this? When a couple hits a rough patch, aren’t they supposed to work through it? You bring up the issue, I fix it. Who just skips straight to a death sentence?” I stopped folding my clothes. I turned to look at him, enunciating every single word. “I gave you chances.” “An entire month’s worth of chances. If, even once, your priority had been me, maybe I wouldn’t be packing right now.” “But every single time, you told me ‘next time’. Right up until ten minutes ago, when you missed what was supposed to be our breakup dinner. I figured you wouldn’t show up, so I put the leftovers in the fridge.” Before grabbing my coat, I reached out and patted his cheek twice. It was the most disrespectful thing I had ever done to him, but I no longer had to play the role of the perfect, obedient wife. “Don’t look so miserable, honey. I always preferred you when you looked entirely unbothered by my existence. Keep up the good work. I’m leaving.” 3 I was never his first choice. Everything and everyone had to step aside for Sophie. Just like this time. Johnny had everything perfectly wrapped up for her before he even bothered to drop the news on me. By the time he confessed, she had already been back in the country for two weeks. But the truth was, I knew the very day she landed. Because that was the first time Johnny ever broke a promise to me without a logical excuse. Johnny was a man ruled by his calendar. If he couldn’t make a dinner date, he would call hours in advance to reschedule. When he didn’t show up, I called my dad, since they worked in the same building. My dad sounded surprised over the phone. “Johnny said he was going to the airport to pick up an old friend from his hometown. Why didn’t you go with him?” Who said I didn’t? I tracked his car’s GPS straight to the upscale steakhouse we always went to for our anniversaries. Standing outside the floor to ceiling windows, I saw the two of them. My stoic, unsmiling husband was sitting there, his eyes entirely soft, meticulously cutting a piece of steak for another woman. We had eaten at that exact table dozens of times. Not once had he ever unfolded my napkin or offered to cut my food. I remembered one specific night vividly. The kitchen had overcooked my steak, and the knife they gave me was completely blunt. Feeling romantic, I had leaned over and playfully asked him to help me cut it, hoping for a cinematic, sweet moment. He didn’t say a word. He just slid his sharper knife across the table toward me. I had laughed it off, assuming he was just blind to romance. But he wasn’t blind. He knew exactly how to be romantic. From that day until now, for a full month. I turned into a stalker, haunting the edges of their lives, desperately trying to force my presence onto Johnny. I was looking for proof that I was loved. Instead, all I found was the humiliating, undeniable evidence that I wasn’t. 4 After serving the papers, I moved out of our house immediately. Then Johnny started acting completely out of character. He began texting me morning and night. Whenever he had a free moment, he would send me updates about his day at the lab. He even actively started networking to find me a new job. When I shut him down for the fifth time, his voice on the phone dripped with exhaustion. “Hazel, I am really trying to fix this. Even a man on death row gets a chance to appeal, doesn’t he?” I replied without missing a beat. “Too bad you’re not on death row. The comparison doesn’t work.” I thought a response that icy would finally force him to back off. Clearly, I underestimated his persistence. This time, he booked a dinner with a senior faculty member who had deep ties to my father. My usual excuses for declining wouldn’t work without offending the older professor. So, I had to show up. “You finally decided to give me a chance.” Johnny smiled at me across the private dining room. I just looked at him. He was wearing his usual crisp suit, his hair perfectly styled. But beneath the polish, there was a deep, bone weary exhaustion. The dark circles under his eyes told me his life hadn’t been easy lately. “Let’s talk after dinner,” he said softly. “Cards on the table. At least let me understand why I’m dying.” But the appetizers had barely arrived when his phone started buzzing. It rang so relentlessly that even the senior professor cleared his throat. “Johnny, my boy, it sounds like an emergency. You better take that. Don’t let me keep you from important business.” Johnny looked mortified. He glanced at me, then firmly shook his head. “It’s nothing important, Professor. Please, let’s continue.” To prove his point, he reached into his pocket and powered the phone off completely. I raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. Because in the second before he turned the screen away, I had seen the caller ID. It was Sophie. I knew better than anyone just how deep his bias for her ran. Hanging up on her was probably a first in his entire lifetime. Just as I was starting to wonder if I had misjudged him, if he was actually capable of change. The dining room doors swung open. Sophie stood there, her eyes red, tears spilling silently down her cheeks. She didn’t say a word. She just looked at him, turned on her heel, and ran. Johnny’s carefully constructed calm shattered instantly. He didn’t even pause to offer an apology to the senior professor. He bolted out of the chair and chased after her, leaving me and the old man staring at each other in stunned silence. “What… what on earth was that?” the professor stammered, clearly bewildered by the soap opera playing out in front of him. I shook my head. I should have known better. Johnny was exactly the man he had always been. Sophie was his absolute baseline, his one non negotiable. Thank God I hadn’t fallen for his little redemption act. I would never be foolish enough to believe him again. I picked up my glass of red wine and drained it in one smooth motion, swallowing down the last bitter traces of my past with Johnny. Because starting tomorrow, my life belonged entirely to me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453915”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My dad was a violent drunk. Every time he went off the deep end, his fists would find my little brother and me. When the dust settled, he’d always toss a few crumpled bills my way as a twisted apology. I took the cash without a word. I even used it to buy his favorite greasy pork ribs and the cheap, burning moonshine he loved. The neighbors tried to call the cops for us, but I always shook my head, rubbing my bruised arms with a quiet, knowing smile. If he beats me, Bobby gets a break. But that was before the night he lost his mind completely and pushed Bobby off the edge of that unfinished high-rise at the construction site. Frank’s backhand caught me hard across the jaw. I heard the sickening crack of my teeth colliding, and my cheek instantly flared like it was on fire. The taste of copper flooded my mouth. A crumpled fifty-dollar bill fluttered down, landing near my boots. “Take it! Pick it up, you useless brat!” “Consider it a tip from your old man. Go get yourself something to patch that ugly face of yours!” Frank’s neck was thick and flushed red, his chest heaving as he spat the words, spraying warm saliva all over my face. I said nothing. I just knelt down, using my swollen, throbbing fingers to pry the bill off the dusty floorboards. It was stained with a mixture of my blood and Bobby’s. But I knew money was the only way out. I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth with my sleeve, slowly lifting my eyes to stare at him. “What are you looking at? Keep staring like that and I’ll gouge those eyes out and pickle them in a jar!” “Get the hell out of here and buy me my liquor!” He roared, slumping his heavy frame into the creaking, stained armchair. The worn leather groaned under his weight. In the dark corner of the kitchen, Bobby was curled up behind the rusty stove, trembling. His skinny arms were swollen, covered in angry red and purple welts from the leather belt. I walked over and knelt beside him, gently touching his burning skin with my cold fingers. He flinched, looking up at me with eyes filled with pure, unadulterated hatred. “Nora… it hurts…” he whimpered. “Bite your tongue,” I whispered directly into his ear, my voice entirely devoid of warmth. “It’s almost over.” I stood up, clutching the fifty dollars tightly in my fist, and stepped out into the howling, dusty wind. The cheap liquor store down the road smelled of stale beer and old cardboard. I slapped the bills onto the counter. “Ten pints of your strongest moonshine, Mr. Higgins,” I said. “The kind that burns right through your stomach.” Higgins looked at the fresh bruise blooming on my cheek and sighed. “Oh, Nora, sweetheart… why do you keep doing this to yourself?” “He beats you half to death, and you still run errands for him?” A regular sitting near the door, nursing a cheap beer, chimed in. “Frank’s a damn animal. If I were you, kid, I’d have slipped some rat poison into his glass a long time ago.” I ignored them, my face a blank mask as I watched the clerk pour the cloudy, amber liquid into a plastic jug. Next door, I bought two pounds of thick, fatty pork belly, dripping with grease. By the time I got back to the trailer, Frank was passed out on the table, his snores rattling the thin windowpanes. I slammed the heavy jug onto the wood. The thud startled him awake. He bolted upright, blinking wildly. “My drink! Where’s my damn drink!” “Did you steal a sip of it, you little thief?” He snatched the jug, ripped the cap off with his teeth, and guzzled it down. The cloudy liquor spilled down his stubble, soaking his dirty undershirt. “Here’s the pork, Dad. Eat it while it’s hot,” I said, my voice dripping with sweet obedience. “Nice and greasy, just the way you like it.” I pushed the plate toward him. He grabbed a handful of the glistening fat, shoving it into his mouth, grease smearing across his chin. “Yeah… Nora’s a good girl… not like that worthless brother of yours…” “That kid is a curse… a goddamn curse…” Suddenly, he stopped, raised his calloused hand, and delivered a violent slap to his own face. The sharp crack echoed through the cramped room, making Bobby flinch in his corner. “I didn’t have a choice… I really didn’t…” He broke down, sobbing hysterically, snot and tears mixing with the grease on his face. I stood in the shadows, watching him with cold, calculating eyes. I reached into my pocket and touched a neatly folded piece of paper, the accidental death insurance policy. Under the dim, flickering light bulb, I mentally counted down the days until it took effect. Just three more days. If I could survive three more days, his miserable life would finally be worth something. Once Frank finished crying, he took another massive swig of the moonshine and exhaled a hot, boozy breath right into my face. “Drink up, Nora… take a sip… it makes the pain go away…” “Drink it, and you’ll see your mother again…” He shoved the jug toward me, his bloodshot eyes boring into mine. I stared at the thick vein pulsing erratically on his neck. I wondered how many more times that vein would beat before it went still forever. “I’m fine, Dad. I don’t hurt,” I said softly. Inside the damp, sweltering trailer, the air was heavy with the stench of sweat and cheap alcohol. I quietly rubbed soothing liniment onto Bobby’s back. With every touch, his muscles tensed, but he bit his lip, refusing to make a sound. 2 “Nora, I want to kill him.” Bobby spoke suddenly, his voice chillingly flat. My hand froze. A drop of the dark red liniment fell onto the worn mattress, blooming like a fresh drop of blood. “Shut your mouth,” I hissed, keeping my voice low. “You go to prison for murder. We are going to survive this, Bobby. We have to live.” “Then how much longer?” He turned his head, his dark eyes locked onto mine. “Soon.” I pulled his shirt down, covering the raw welts. “Just wait for the date. Once it comes, we’re free.” Outside, Frank’s booming voice carried through the thin walls as he bragged to his drinking buddies. “I’m telling you, having a daughter is like sitting on a goldmine! When she’s old enough, I’ll marry her off to the highest bidder. Twenty grand, minimum!” “Quit dreaming, Frank. That girl of yours is as skinny as a stray cat. Who’d pay for that?” “Shut your mouth! She’s delicate, that’s what! Besides, she’s obedient. She does exactly what I tell her to do!” A chorus of crude laughter echoed outside. My chest remained completely hollow. No anger, no sadness. Just empty. At dinner, I took a bottle of his blood pressure medication and slipped in a few crushed tablets of Disulfiram, a severe alcohol-deterrent drug. I’d read about it online. On its own, it was harmless, but when mixed with alcohol, it triggered violent, terrifying psychotic episodes within minutes. Frank didn’t suspect a thing. He tossed the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a heavy swig of moonshine. “Why’s this stuff taste so bitter?” He grimaced, wiping his mouth. “It’s the new imported stuff, Dad. It’s supposed to work better,” I lied without blinking. A few minutes later, the reaction hit. Frank became wildly erratic. He started pacing the trailer, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. “Ghosts! There are goddamn ghosts in here! She’s back!” “She’s come to drag me to hell!” He screamed, pointing his empty jug at the empty corner, swinging it wildly. Bobby and I huddled together on the mattress, watching him lose his mind. The drug was working perfectly. The next morning, Bill, a local subcontractor who doubled as a sleazy matchmaker, knocked on our door. “Listen, Frank, Nora is getting older,” Bill said, leaning against the doorframe. “Lame Pete down the road is willing to pay five thousand dollars cash for her…” The shirt I was washing slipped from my hands. But to my surprise, Frank flew into a violent rage. He grabbed Bill’s bottle of whiskey and smashed it on the floor. “Get the hell out of here, you old leech!” “Who said I’m selling my girl? She’s going to college!” He grabbed a rusted shovel and swung it at Bill’s head. Bill scrambled out of the trailer, cursing and running for his life. I stood frozen, staring at my father. Late that night, a strange, metallic scraping sound woke me. Bobby was sitting upright at the edge of the mattress. Under the pale moonlight, he was holding a pair of rusted sewing shears, tracing the air right behind Frank’s sleeping head. I lunged forward, ripping the shears from his hands and covering his mouth. “Are you insane? We agreed I would handle this!” I whispered fiercely. Bobby looked at me, his eyes filling with a strange, childlike hurt. “Nora, I don’t want to wait anymore. What if he sells you? I don’t want to be left alone.” I pulled his frail body into a tight hug, my tears finally spilling over. “He won’t. I will never leave you, Bobby. I promise.” The next afternoon, Frank woke up sober. He sat on the edge of his creaking bed, staring at an old, faded photograph of Bobby and me. We were laughing in the picture, back when Mom was still alive. A heavy tear fell onto the plastic frame, right over Mom’s face. “Nora… look after your brother… I’m a piece of garbage…” “I’m so sorry…” he muttered, his voice cracked and hollow. I stood by the doorway, listening to his pathetic confession, my mind entirely focused on the poisoned liquor waiting in the cupboard. The sky outside turned a bruised, heavy purple as a storm rolled in. Up on the construction site, the wind howled through the skeletal steel structures. The thirty-story unfinished building had nothing but a few loose metal pipes acting as a guardrail. Frank was on the night shift, guarding the materials on the roof. Using the excuse of bringing him dinner, I slipped past the broken security cameras with Bobby in tow. By the time we climbed thirty flights of stairs, my legs were shaking violently. “Nora, this is it,” Bobby whispered, pointing to the loose guardrail at the edge of the abyss. He reached into his backpack and handed me a heavy wrench. 3 “Do it, Nora. Just loosen it a couple of turns.” “Nobody will ever know. It’ll look like a tragic accident.” I took the wrench, my palms slick with sweat. I knelt on the cold concrete, forcing the wrench onto the rusted bolt holding the guardrail together. The metal was seized. I pulled so hard my fingernail cracked, a thin line of blood oozing onto the gray steel. “Let me do it,” Bobby said, pushing me aside. He wedged a small pry bar into the joint. With a sharp metallic pop, the weak weld snapped. The guardrail wobbled slightly. Then, we smeared a thick layer of discarded motor oil over the concrete near the edge. Bobby looked at our trap, a quiet, eerie smile spreading across his face. We packed up our tools, ready to slip away unnoticed. But as we reached the stairwell of the second floor, a dry cough echoed from the shadows. “Who’s there? Trying to steal my steel, you rats?” “Stop right there!” It was Frank. I grabbed Bobby’s hand, ready to bolt. “Nora? Bobby? What the hell are you two doing here?” Frank stepped out of the darkness, shining a flashlight directly into our faces. The blinding light made me wince. I instinctively shifted my weight to hide the backpack behind my frame. “Dad… I… it looked like it was going to pour, so we brought you a thick jacket,” I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs. Frank eyed us suspiciously, his flashlight lingering on our mud-caked boots. “Why didn’t you call me first?” “This place is a death trap at night. You could have broken your necks!” He muttered a curse, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small plastic bottle, shoving it into my hands. “Take this. It’s calcium vitamins for the kid. He’s too damn small for his age.” I squeezed the plastic bottle, still warm from his body heat. “Thanks, Dad. Just… be careful up there. The wind is bad.” “Don’t drink too much.” “Yeah, yeah. Get the hell home and do your homework! You’re both a pain in my ass!” He waved us off, turning to make the long climb up the stairs. His back looked so bent, so fragile in the dark. I watched him go, the heavy wrench in my backpack pressing hard against my spine. At midnight, the storm hit with full force. Lightning fractured the sky, and thunder drowned out the world. Bobby and I, wrapped in dark raincoats, made our way back up to the roof. Inside the makeshift guard shack, Frank was sitting near the edge, a bottle in hand. It was the bottle of moonshine I had heavily spiked with Disulfiram. The burning, cheap alcohol had completely masked the bitter drug. He had drunk nearly the entire bottle. His eyes were bulging, his face twisted in a manic frenzy. “Drink! Everybody drinks!” “Just you and me tonight, sweetheart! Let’s drink to the end!” Seeing us walk in, he slammed the bottle onto the table. “Nora! Bobby! Perfect timing!” “Look! Your mother is here to take us home! She’s flying up there!” He pointed a trembling finger into the dark, stormy sky, his face contorted in a grotesque grin. Suddenly, his expression shifted, turning dark and feral. “Wait… no! You cheating whore! Who is that man with you?” “You brought your lover to my house?” He grabbed a wooden stool and smashed it against the empty air. Splinters flew everywhere. He spun around, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Bobby. “It’s you! You little bastard!” “You ruined her! You’re not my son, you’re the product of her filthy secrets! You’re trying to destroy me, aren’t you?” He lunged forward, clutching a broken wooden leg from the stool. “Run, Bobby! Run!” I screamed, shoving my brother toward the edge of the platform. Bobby shrieked, stumbling backward in the mud and rain. “I’m cleansing this house tonight!” Frank roared, chasing after him. “Both of you are going to burn!” Bobby slipped near the loosened guardrail, his feet sliding on the motor oil. He fell backward, his lower half dangling over the thirty-story drop. “Help! Nora, help me!” Bobby screamed. Frank reached the edge, his manic rage instantly freezing into pure horror as he saw Bobby slipping. “Bobby!” Frank bellowed, dropping the wooden club and lunging forward without a second thought. He grabbed Bobby by the collar, throwing his entire weight backward to pull his son up. But the guardrail couldn’t hold them both. The metal pipe tore free with a violent snap. Frank lost his footing, his body rolling over the slick concrete and slipping over the edge. But the momentum of his desperate pull threw Bobby forward, back onto the safe concrete of the roof. Bobby lay there, panting, his eyes incredibly cold and calm. Frank, however, hadn’t fallen yet. He was dangling from the edge, his thick, calloused fingers desperately gripping a rusted rebar hook. The torrential rain beat down on his face. “Nora… save me… pull me up…” “Please, Nora…” He saw me walking toward the edge, a flicker of desperate hope igniting in his eyes. I knelt on the wet concrete, looking down at him. Rainwater ran down my hair, stinging my eyes. I slowly reached out, placing my hands over his trembling fingers. “Dad, didn’t you say living was too hard anyway?” I whispered. Frank froze, his eyes widening. “Nora… what are you doing… I’m your father…” “I’m your dad…” “I know,” I said, a faint smile breaking across my face. “That’s why I’m sending you to Mom. She’s been waiting for you.” I began to pry his fingers away from the steel, one by one. But just before his grip broke, a sudden, ice-cold shiver ran down my spine. Through the heavy curtain of rain behind me, I heard a sound. A tiny, faint footstep. Frank’s eyes bypassed me, staring directly into the shadows over my shoulder, his face contorted in absolute terror. “Run!” he screamed. The next second, before I could even push him, he let go of the rebar himself.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453916”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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