Ethan is five years older than me, but I never called him “brother.” I watched him go through girlfriend after girlfriend. With every single one, I’d politely call them “sister-in-law.” On my twenty-second birthday, I waited all day. Ethan never showed up. I made a wish: to never, ever like him again. After my birthday ended, I went downstairs to throw out the trash and saw a familiar silhouette. It was Ethan’s best friend, Liam. “Liam? What are you doing here?” “Ethan couldn’t get away. He asked me to drop off his present for you.” “Oh. Thanks. Where’s yours?” He smiled. “I brought two. I’ll decide which one to give you after you answer my question.” “Autumn, liking him must be exhausting, right? How about you try someone else? Be my girlfriend.” 1 I stared at Liam in shock. When did he find out I liked Ethan? I thought I had hidden it perfectly. I never showed a hint of jealousy in front of Ethan. “Liam, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pressed his lips together. He was smiling, but there was a visible tension in his eyes. “Let me rephrase that, then.” “Autumn Miller, I like you.” “I wanted to ask… would you give me a chance? Will you go out with me?” But he was Ethan’s best friend. When I first met Ethan at five years old, Liam was standing right next to him. Thinking about it, I had known Liam for seventeen years, too. I stared at his face, suddenly remembering the wish I had made tonight. Liam chuckled under my intense gaze. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Do you think I’m causing trouble for you?” I shook my head. It wasn’t trouble, just… surprising. Liam was different from Ethan. In all the time I’d known him, I don’t think I’d ever seen him date anyone. For a brief, confusing period, I had even considered him a romantic rival for Ethan’s attention. Meanwhile, Ethan always had a woman by his side. Thinking of that felt like a needle pricking my heart. After the sharp sting faded, I looked up at him and said: “It just so happens I wished for a boyfriend tonight, and here you are, delivering yourself to my doorstep.” “Liam, you must have been sent by fate.” “So, I’ll go along with the universe. Yes, let’s date!” Liam froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to actually say yes. He studied me for a moment, then a slow smile broke across his face. He turned and pulled a beautifully wrapped gift box from his car, handing it to me. “This one is for my girlfriend.” 2 I opened it right in front of him. It was a delicate necklace studded with crushed diamonds. It looked incredibly expensive. “Isn’t this a bit too much?” I knew his family was wealthy, but his past birthday gifts had always been on par with Ethan’s. And I always got him something similar for his birthday. Liam stepped closer and gently ruffled my hair. “For you? It’s not expensive.” As he leaned in, a faint scent of cologne drifted into my nose. It was different from Ethan’s. His was cooler, crisper—like bitter lemon packed with ice. I took a subtle step back, creating some distance. Just as I was trying to figure out how to politely decline the gift, Liam’s phone rang. “Liam, did you drop off the gift?” The night was quiet, so Ethan’s voice carried clearly from the receiver. Along with the unmistakable sound of a girl laughing in the background. “Yeah, delivered.” Liam kept his eyes fixed on me as he spoke. I suddenly felt incredibly awkward. I looked away, but my ears were still glued to the conversation. “Good. I tried calling Autumn earlier but she didn’t pick up. Thought she might be mad at me.” Liam let out a low chuckle. “She’s not. She went downstairs to take out the trash and forgot her phone.” “Makes sense. She’s too soft; she never gets mad at me.” “Wait a minute. How do you know she doesn’t have her phone? Is she right there with you? Put her on.” I snapped my head back, terrified Liam would hand me the phone. I had just agreed to be his girlfriend. Talking to Ethan right now… the thought alone made me cringe. To my surprise, Liam turned slightly away, lowering his voice. “It’s not a good time for her. Just tell me what you want to say, I’ll pass it on.” “Just tell her happy birthday, and that she needs to find a boyfriend this year. Every time I take her out to eat, I have to waste breath explaining she’s not my girlfriend so people don’t get the wrong idea.” Ethan’s teasing, flippant tone laid my humiliation bare. I curled my hands into tight fists, my nails digging into my palms. Liam lowered his voice even further and gave a soft, dry laugh. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore.” Ethan paused for two seconds, his tone turning cold. “What do you mean? Is she seeing someone?” Liam stepped forward, using his free hand to grab mine. I froze, instinctively trying to pull away, but he intertwined his fingers tightly with mine. Liam looked down, locking eyes with me, and said into the phone: “Yeah. She’s with me now. She’s my girlfriend. If there’s nothing else, I’m hanging up.” 3 He hung up, but Liam didn’t let go of my hand. “Do you have any plans tomorrow?” I stared at the pavement and mumbled, “No.” “Then I’ll pick you up tomorrow and we’ll go out. It’s getting cold, you should head back up.” I nodded. The second he released my hand, I practically sprinted toward my building. Liam called out from behind me: “Autumn, you aren’t going to back out, right?” I stopped but didn’t dare turn around. “I won’t.” “Good. Because if you do, I’m going to become a very persistent stalker.” My face burned. I walked into the elevator without looking back. Once inside my apartment, I saw several missed calls from Ethan. And a barrage of text messages. [Happy birthday, Autumn.] [I got tied up with work. Liam was passing by your area on a business trip, so I asked him to drop off your gift.] [Are you and him together?] [Since when?!] [Why didn’t you tell me?] [I never even see you two talk. How are you suddenly dating?] [Did he pressure you and you were too scared to say no? Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him for you.] I stared at the messages. My chest felt tight. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what I was feeling. The thrill of petty revenge? Guilt toward Liam? Or was it lingering resentment and grievance? After deliberating for a long time, I just replied with a simple “Yeah.” Ethan immediately tried to call me. I didn’t want to talk to him. I hit decline. Another text popped up. [Autumn, have you really thought this through?] I have. I’ve thought through the fact that I don’t want to like you anymore. Another message arrived. [Do you even like him?] I didn’t know. The Liam I knew always maintained a polite, distant aura at our gatherings. But with his striking face and cool demeanor, he constantly attracted attention. Tonight, he was the one who confessed to me. Alongside the surprise, I felt a little panicked. Now that I was calm, I realized agreeing to date him had been impulsive. But Liam might not be a bad choice. When I didn’t reply, Ethan called again. I accidentally answered it. “Autumn, are you really with Liam?” Ethan’s voice was laced with panic. So he can panic too? I gave a low “Mhm.” I heard him curse in frustration. “He forced you, didn’t he? That bastard knows you’re basically my sister, and he still made a move!” “Autumn, you don’t need to be afraid of him. I’ll go talk to him—” I cut him off. “I’m not afraid of him. He said he liked me, so I said yes.” And you have never once said you liked me. So, why are you so angry? Ethan’s tirade stopped abruptly. Followed by the sound of something shattering. Then, a woman’s startled scream in the background, asking him what was wrong. Suddenly, all the complicated emotions swirling inside me just… vanished. Ethan could belong to any woman. But he would never belong to me. I should have seen that clearly a long time ago. I looked down at the necklace Liam had given me. I spoke softly into the phone: “Ethan, I thought you would be happy for me.” I used to call him by his full name, Ethan. And he would scold me for being disrespectful. He complained about why I called Liam “Liam” but just called him “Ethan.” But now that I was finally addressing him properly, he was still unhappy. There was rustling on the other end, and Ethan’s voice was strained. “Autumn, wait for me. I’m driving back right now. We’ll talk face to face.” Right as the call ended, a text from Liam arrived. [Autumn, if Ethan comes looking for you, don’t go soft on him, okay?] [Do me a favor. Just date me for a week, at least.] I imagined the expression on Liam’s face as he typed that. Probably a mix of helpless exasperation and a faint, indulgent fondness. I couldn’t help but smile. I typed back a single word: [Okay.] 4 The next morning, around nine, Liam called to ask if I was awake. I was still half-asleep. “What’s up, Liam?” I heard a soft chuckle through the speaker. “You slept and forgot everything already?” The memory of agreeing to our date hit me like a ton of bricks. I shot up in bed. “Ah! I didn’t forget. I’m getting up right now!” Liam’s laugh deepened. “It’s okay, no rush. Just let me know when you’re ready.” After hanging up, my heart was racing. I covered my face, groaning in regret. Every other time I had seen Liam, Ethan had been there. Oh right. Ethan. He said he was coming back to see me today. The more I thought about it, the more chaotic my brain felt. I didn’t know what had possessed him to react so violently to the news of me dating Liam. It wasn’t like he liked me. Why did he care who I was with? Especially when I clearly heard another woman’s voice next to him on the phone last night. I took a deep breath, adjusted my mindset, and muted Ethan’s notifications. I forced myself to stop thinking about him. Since I had agreed to date Liam, I needed to focus on Liam. When I finally got dressed and went downstairs, I saw Liam’s car parked out front. He was leaning casually against the door frame. Wearing a tailored cashmere coat, his posture was relaxed and elegant. His typically stoic face broke into a warm smile the second he saw me. He walked toward me. “Liam, I’m so sorry. I overslept.” He gave a noncommittal hum. “So, how are you going to make it up to me?” I definitely hadn’t expected him to say that. I froze. “Uh… I’ll buy you lunch?” He smiled and reached out to take my hand. “Sure. But I’d rather you agree to another condition.” I had no idea what condition he was going to propose. But showing up late to our very first date was incredibly rude. I braced myself and agreed. “Alright, tell me. As long as it’s something I can do.” “Change how you address me. Stop calling me like we’re just friends.” “Huh? What should I call you then?” “Liam.” (In a more intimate, affectionate tone) After he said it, he looked down at me. His face held a faint, eager anticipation. I repeated his name in my head. But when it came time to say it out loud, it felt like the word was burning my tongue. “L-Liam.” My voice was barely a whisper. But he heard it. The smile on his lips grew wider, and he responded with utmost seriousness. “Yeah. I’m here.” Putting our new “relationship” aside for a second… Liam’s smile was lethally attractive. Especially when you knew he was smiling because of you. It made me incredibly shy. My face flushed, and I quickly changed the subject. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.” Without another word, Liam took my hand. He seemed to really like intertwining our fingers. He had held my hand the exact same way last night when I agreed to date him. I still wasn’t quite used to it. After lunch, Liam took me to an art exhibition. “Liam, aren’t you here on a business trip? If you’re busy with the company, we don’t have to do this. You can head back.” His family wanted him to take over their corporation. But he had insisted on starting his own business first, before he turned thirty. At past gatherings, he would always just drop in for a bit and leave early. Even while he was there, he was constantly replying to emails and taking calls. In my mind, he was a CEO who worked harder than a pack mule. But during lunch today, he hadn’t checked his phone once. And now he was taking me to an art gallery. To my surprise, Liam casually mentioned that he had finished all his work last night. His time today belonged entirely to me. I blushed, pretending to be unbothered. “Liam, I’m not a kid. You don’t have to babysit me.” “Oh. Well, I am a kid. And I need you to babysit me.” God, my face is on fire.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391413”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was the glitch in a family of masterpieces. My parents and sister treated my existence like a long-running inside joke. My mother called me her “little eyesore,” and my sister once suggested I start a TikTok channel dedicated to “ugly-girl transformations,” minus the transformation part. Even the relatives couldn’t help themselves during the holidays: “Are you sure she’s yours, Robert? She doesn’t have a single one of your features.” For twenty-three years, I played the part of the family clown because it was easier than being the family disappointment. I worked three jobs, saved every cent, and finally scraped together twenty thousand dollars for the corrective jaw surgery and orthodontics I’d needed since middle school. I went to the clinic to finalize the surgery date, my heart light for the first time in my life. But the receptionist looked at me with a mix of pity and exhaustion. “Ms. Miller, your mother came in this morning. She caused such a scene we couldn’t even open the doors for two hours.” I froze, the blood draining from my face. “She demanded a refund on the grounds that you’re a minor—which we told her you aren’t—but then she started screaming about malpractice and ‘scamming a girl who’s beyond help.’ To get her to leave, the manager processed the refund. The twenty thousand is back in her account.” I called her, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. My mother’s voice was breezy, as if she were discussing the weather. “Oh, Casey, let’s be real. No surgeon can fix what nature messed up. That money was better spent on something that actually appreciates in value. Your sister needed a new bag for her firm’s gala—something that actually matches her face.” The call ended. My reflection stared back at me from the darkened phone screen. The harsh truth finally sank in: in this family, if you weren’t beautiful, you weren’t a daughter. You were just an expense. 1. “Look, Casey, your mom was a nightmare. We just couldn’t handle it,” the receptionist said, her eyes darting away. She looked at me like I was a contagion she might catch if she stayed too close. I couldn’t even process the words. My vision blurred, and the first tear hit the counter with a quiet thud. “Please, don’t start crying here,” she whispered, her voice sharpening with disdain. “She already chased off three of our high-end clients this morning, yelling about how ‘ugly people shouldn’t bother trying.’ We’re the ones who should be crying over lost commissions.” She took two steps back, a clear gesture of social distancing from my misery. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her that it was my money, my sweat, my blood. But my parents’ voices, echoes from a thousand childhood dinners, choked me: “Stop making those faces, Casey. When you cry, you look even more hideous.” The shame was a physical weight, dragging my shoulders down. I didn’t fight. I just turned and fled. On the Uber ride home, I opened Instagram. My sister, Madeline, had posted a new photo. Heart-shaped face, doe eyes, skin like filtered silk. She was radiant, the kind of beauty that made the vintage Chanel bag on her arm look like a mere accessory. She was sandwiched between Mom and Dad, all three of them beaming. The caption read: “Twin-check! Can you even tell who’s the mom and who’s the daughter? #FamilyGenes #GalaReady” The comments were a sea of fire emojis and heart-eyes. “God really has favorites,” one read. “That bone structure is elite.” Then, I saw Madeline’s reply to a friend who asked if there were any more of them at home: “You wouldn’t say that if you met my sister. We have one little genetic glitch in the basement! ~” She had attached a “throwback” photo of us from last Christmas. She had her arm around my neck, pulling me into the frame. I looked trapped. My skin was sallow, my jaw was noticeably misaligned—a pronounced underbite—and my eyes were puffed from a secret cry in the bathroom. Standing next to Madeline, I didn’t just look plain. I looked like a cautionary tale. In a family of high bridges and wide eyes, I was the anomaly. Every time we went out, strangers would stop my mother to gush over Madeline. “She’s a doll! She took the best of both of you.” Then their eyes would slide to me, and the smile would falter into a confused, polite grimace. “And… is this the younger one?” My parents’ faces would drop. My dad would let out a dry, forced chuckle. “Yeah, this one? We don’t know who she took after. If I hadn’t been in the delivery room, I’d swear there was a mix-up at the hospital. We just call her the ‘Little Eyesore.’” As a child, I didn’t understand the concept of aesthetics. I just knew that I was the only one kept out of the light. “Don’t eat that, Casey. You’re already an eyesore; being fat will just make it a tragedy.” “You want to take ballet with Madeline? You’d look like a toad hopping around. Let’s not embarrass ourselves.” “That pink dress looks garish on you. Keep it for the house. Don’t go outside and shame me.” They said these things with a smile, like they were doing me a favor by being “honest.” When I was fifteen, I saved up my allowance to buy some drugstore makeup. Madeline caught me trying to cover my acne and contour my jawline. She took photos of me mid-blend, laughing until she cried. “Look at you! You look like a clown in a horror movie. It actually makes it worse!” My mom walked in and swiped the products off the vanity, throwing them into the trash. “Focus on your grades, Casey. You don’t have the face for vanity. Next month’s allowance is cancelled since you want to waste it on trash.” Belittlement, insults, mockery… I had lived in that cold shadow for twenty years. I had worked myself to the bone to save for this surgery, thinking I could finally start my real life. The Uber pulled up to our driveway. I was still crying, but the sorrow was being overtaken by a white-hot, jagged rage. I marched toward the front door, ready to demand my life back. But as I reached the door, I heard laughter coming from the living room. “You guys won’t believe it,” my mother’s voice rang out, bright and amused. “Our little eyesore actually thought she could ‘fix’ herself. She’s been hoarding money for plastic surgery!” 2. The living room was full of people. A few aunts and cousins had stopped by for a pre-holiday drink. My mother was leaning back, wine glass in one hand, gesturing dramatically with the other. “The poor thing. I told her, ‘Honey, even a master sculptor couldn’t find a jawline in that mess.’ Thank God I caught it before she threw twenty thousand dollars down the drain!” An aunt chimed in, “I always wondered why she was being so stingy lately. To think, surgery! It’s so dangerous, moving bones around. She’s already… well, plain. Imagine if they messed up and her face stayed paralyzed? It would be a disaster.” Another aunt, Sarah, tried to play the diplomat. She cleared her throat awkwardly. “Oh, come on, Diana. Casey isn’t… I mean, she’s very… hardworking. She has a very ‘salt of the earth’ look. The kind of girl who’s built for a long, quiet marriage.” The room went silent. Aunt Sarah looked down at her drink, sensing she’d failed to find a genuine compliment. Then, my parents and the other relatives exchanged looks and burst into laughter. “‘Salt of the earth’!” my mom wheezed, slapping her knee. “That’s one way to put it! She’s always been our little comedy act.” I stood in the doorway, the air in my lungs turning to ice. My blood felt like it was rushing backward, pounding against my skull. This was the family ritual. Madeline was the trophy to be polished; I was the punchline to be shared. “How are you so different from the rest of them? Were you a changeling?” the relatives would ask me every Thanksgiving. And my mom would lean in, whispering just loud enough for everyone to hear: “Don’t tease her, she knows. She knows she’s the ‘special’ one. She tries so hard, though. Last week she tried to style her hair like Madeline’s. It was like putting a tiara on a gargoyle.” Every year, my pain was served as an appetizer. I couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped into the room, my voice a raw, jagged edge. “What gives you the right? That was my money. Give it back to me!” Every head turned. The silence was deafening. I felt exposed, like they were stripping me bare with their judgment. The old, familiar inferiority began to coil around my throat, choking me. “Oh, look at that,” my mother said, her smile not wavering. “Our little eyesore is growing a backbone. Don’t be so sensitive, Casey. We’re just talking.” The aunts crowded around me, their eyes sparkling with that fake, performative concern. “So, what were you going to get done, honey? Tell us. You can’t just go doing these things in secret. You’ll get scammed without us to look out for you.” Madeline came down the stairs then, humming a tune. She saw the scene and smirked. “She wanted to get her jaw broken and reset. She thinks if her teeth are straight, she’ll suddenly be a Hadid.” “Surgery for your teeth?” one cousin asked. “But Casey, your teeth are… fine. They’re functional. Your sister, now, she had that slight overlap when she was ten—remember, Diana? You spent a fortune on those specialized Swedish braces. Good thing you did, look at her now.” The conversation immediately pivoted back to Madeline. They circled her like she was a holy relic, praising her smile, her skin, her “perfect” recovery from a minor childhood flaw. I stood there, tears streaming down my face. My voice was a hoarse whisper. “The doctor said… he said my underbite could have been fixed with a simple retainer when I was seven. It would have cost almost nothing back then.” But you never looked at me. You never cared. When Madeline’s teeth were even a fraction of a millimeter out of alignment, it was a family emergency. Countless specialist visits, thousands of dollars. But with me, they just watched as my face grew lopsided, my jaw protruding more every year. They didn’t feel pity. They didn’t feel guilt. They just felt amused. “You’re getting weirder looking every year, Casey.” “Little Eyesore, that nickname really fits you more and more, doesn’t it?” 3. The years of accumulated bitterness finally overflowed. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, but the tears kept coming. The relatives started to look uncomfortable. They shifted in their seats, offering half-hearted, patronizing comforts. “Oh, Casey, you’re not ugly. You’re… unique. Don’t cry. It makes your face all blotchy.” They nudged each other, their eyes full of that cruel, “can you believe this drama?” sparkle. My mother’s patience snapped. She let out a sharp tsk. “What is this performance? Who are you trying to impress with these theatrics? It’s the holidays, for God’s sake. Don’t be embarrassing.” “Why?” I sobbed, my ability to think rationally gone. I just needed to bleed the pain out. “Why do you always call me that? Why have you spent my whole life making sure I knew I was the ‘ugly’ one?” My mom actually laughed. She looked at my dad, then back at me. “Are you serious? Look in a mirror, Casey. Have you no self-awareness? Madeline, go get a mirror. Let’s let her stand next to you and see if she still has questions.” She didn’t stop. She kept twisting the knife. “Look, we’re just being honest. We’re trying to give you a sense of reality so you don’t go out there making a fool of yourself. Look at what you’re wearing—that sweater makes you look lumpy. When you’re… aesthetically challenged… you have to work harder at your style, not just give up. People will laugh at you.” I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My chest was a hollowed-out cavern. “Yes,” I choked out. “I hate you. I hate both of you.” I hate the casual way you crushed me. Since I was a toddler, they treated Madeline like a porcelain doll. If she walked across the room, they’d rave: “Look at Madeline’s posture! She’s like a little swan.” I could be sitting perfectly still, and my father would look at me with a sneer. “Look at her, slouching. With that face, the least she could do is sit up straight so she doesn’t look so… pathetic.” The word “ugly” was my shadow. In high school, while Madeline was the homecoming queen, I was the girl with the cystic acne and the oily hair. My parents didn’t buy me skin treatments; they bought me a lecture. “My god, what is happening to your face? It’s genuinely hard to look at. What are we going to do with you?” “Casey, get some bangs. Cover that forehead.” “Just wear your oversized hoodies. At least they’re neutral.” I listened to them. I believed them. I developed a permanent slouch. I kept my head down. I wore masks long before the pandemic, just to hide. I wanted to disappear. My adolescence wasn’t a time of “firsts” or “memories”; it was a long, dark tunnel of dysmorphia. I assumed every laugh I heard in the hallway was directed at me. I assumed everyone saw the “eyesore” my parents saw. When I went away to college, three states away, I started to breathe. New friends would pull my hair back, or ask why I always wore a mask. “You’re not ugly, Casey. You’re just… tired. Let’s try some tinted moisturizer.” Encouraged, I tried. I grew out the bangs. I learned to use a brow pencil. But even when I felt “pretty,” the ghost of my mother’s voice was there. If a group of girls laughed at a nearby table, I’d spiral. Is my foundation too thick? Can they see my jaw? Are they laughing because the ugly girl is trying too hard? The insecurity was in my marrow. I once worked up the courage to post a selfie on Instagram—heavily filtered, carefully angled. I’d forgotten to block my family. Madeline’s comment was the first one: “Oof, Casey, that makeup isn’t doing what you think it’s doing. Aren’t you afraid people will see you in person and be shocked? #Catfish” My mom’s follow-up: “You’re trying too hard to be ‘glam.’ Makeup just clogs your pores and makes your skin worse. Stick to the basics, honey.” I deleted the photo. I threw away the makeup. When I came home for the summer, my mother didn’t even say hello. She just looked at my plain face and smirked. “Oh, good. You stopped wearing that ‘slutty’ makeup. You finally realized it was a losing battle?” Madeline chimed in, “You need to lose ten pounds before you try wearing a sundress like that again, Casey. Some clothes require a certain… face… to pull them off.” 4. Little Eyesore. The “Glitch.” The “honest” advice that felt like lead weights. I looked at them—my beautiful, perfect parents and my radiant sister. They were a united front of aesthetic superiority. “You call me ‘small-minded’ and ‘antisocial,’” I yelled, my voice cracking. “But you made me this way! You told me my smile was hideous, so I stopped smiling. You told me I moved like a toad, so I stopped dancing. You told me I looked like a joke in a dress, so I stopped trying to be pretty.” Every time I tried to climb out of the hole, they stepped on my fingers. “I hate you! I hate that you did this to me!” The room went dead silent. My mother blinked, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her face, followed quickly by indignation. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “We gave you everything. You’ve never wanted for food or a roof. And this is the thanks we get? Because we were ‘honest’ about your looks? A stranger would have been much crueler.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood. “I didn’t want honesty! I wanted a mother! I wanted someone to tell me I was smart, or kind, or anything other than a disappointment to the family photo album!” “Oh, please,” my mother scoffed. “You’ve had a perfectly fine life. Stop acting like a martyr.” I wanted to laugh. A fine life? Madeline’s closet was a boutique. Mine was a collection of hand-me-downs and clearance-rack neutrals. Madeline had private coaches for everything—piano, dance, tennis. I was told we “couldn’t afford” the extracurriculars I wanted, while Mom bought Madeline a four-thousand-dollar gown for a debutante ball she didn’t even win. I walked to school alone from the age of six because Madeline told my parents, “She’s so weird looking, people will think she’s my maid or something. It’s embarrassing to be seen with her.” I spent twenty years walking in the rain while they picked her up in a warm car. I spent twenty years being the “before” picture in their minds. “You’re biased!” I screamed. “You’re so obsessed with her beauty that you’ve treated me like trash for two decades! Why? Just because of a jawline? Just because I didn’t get your nose?” The relatives began to whisper. My parents were starting to look rattled by the public spectacle. “Go to your room, Casey,” my dad said, his voice a stern rumble. “You’re making a scene.” “No! Give me my money! You stole twenty thousand dollars from me to buy a bag for the daughter you actually like!” Slap. The sound echoed like a gunshot. My mother had swung with everything she had. My head snapped to the side, and my ear began to ring. “I didn’t raise a thief,” she spat, though she was the one who had taken my funds. “I raised a daughter. If you want to act like a stranger, then leave. Get out of my house.” I looked at her. Even in her rage, she was stunning. My father stood behind her, his handsome face set in a mask of cold disappointment. Madeline stood to the side, her arms crossed, looking bored. They were a set. And I was the packing material. “Fine,” I said, my voice finally steadying into something cold and dead. “Keep the money. Consider it the ‘ugly tax’ I’m paying to finally be rid of you. I’m leaving. And you never have to worry about your family photos being ruined by me ever again.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391412”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The daughter I raised with my own two hands stood in the center of the ballroom at my husband’s sixtieth birthday gala and announced to the three hundred guests: “Starting today, my son’s legal surname has been changed to Miller. He’s officially a Miller now, just like his father!” A tomb-like silence swept through the hall. Beside me, my husband, Arthur, gripped his wine glass so hard his knuckles turned a ghostly white. Our daughter, Mia, seemed utterly oblivious to the atmospheric shift. She leaned into her husband, Nathan Miller, clinging to his arm with a saccharine smile. “Dad, Mom, you aren’t upset, are you? Nathan is an only child. The Miller legacy needs an heir, too.” Nathan—the man I once thought was a humble, steady soul—looked at us with a glint of predatory triumph in his eyes. It wasn’t an explanation; it was a coup. I slowly set my silverware down. The clink of porcelain against the table sounded like a gunshot. “Mia,” I said, my voice as steady as a deep, dark lake. “Are you absolutely sure you’ve thought this through?” She flinched slightly under my gaze but quickly puffed out her chest. “Of course! Mom, it’s the twenty-first century. Does it really matter whose name the kid carries?” [Does it matter? Of course it matters.] [She was telling me that my grandson no longer belonged to our family.] [She was telling everyone in this room that the legacy Arthur had built from nothing—a name that stood for integrity and power—stopped with us. She was declaring us a dead end.] 1 The atmosphere of the gala plummeted from celebratory to sub-zero in the span of a single sentence. Around us, our friends and business associates exchanged looks. The whispers began to swarm like hornets. “Wait, what’s happening? Wasn’t the boy named after Arthur?” “How incredibly disrespectful… to do this in public, on his sixtieth? It’s a slap in the face.” Arthur’s face had gone from a flushed red to a sickly, ashen grey. He was a man who had fought his way to the top of the tech industry, a man defined by his dignity. He had never been humiliated like this, let alone by the daughter he worshipped. His hand trembled, the red wine in his glass rippling dangerously. Mia, however, kept pouring gasoline on the fire. She nudged Nathan playfully. “Oh, Dad, don’t be like that. You’re acting like we committed a crime. Nathan and I talked it over—it’s what’s best for our little family. Besides, I’m still your daughter, and Leo is still your grandson. That never changes.” [Never changes?] [No. Starting tonight, everything changes.] Nathan finally spoke. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, the light reflecting off the lenses to hide his calculated expression. He addressed us with a performative respect that didn’t reach his eyes. “Exactly, Arthur, Evelyn. Mia is a Miller now. It’s only natural for our son to carry my family name. We’re all one family, after all. What’s mine is hers.” [One family?] [You live in a house we bought. You work a high-salaried “consultant” job at Arthur’s company where you do nothing. You drive a hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche that I signed for. And now you’re systematically stripping the “Arthur” name away from the next generation to claim the inheritance for your own bloodline?] I saw it clearly now. This wasn’t a discussion. This was an ambush. They had chosen his sixtieth birthday, in front of every influential person we knew, to nail us to the pillar of “the end of the line.” They gambled that we would swallow our pride to save face. They thought that because Mia was our only child, we would eventually roll over. They thought we had no other choice. My fingertips went numb with rage. A dizzying heat rushed to my head. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I took a slow, deep breath, pushing the tidal wave of emotion back down. And then, I smiled. It was a soft, thin laugh that sliced through the murmurs, silencing the room instantly. Mia and Nathan’s smug expressions faltered. I stood up slowly, raising my glass to the room. “Tonight is about celebrating Arthur’s sixty years of life and legacy,” I said, my voice carrying clearly to the back of the hall. “Thank you all for being here.” I paused, my eyes locking onto theirs. They were starting to look uneasy. “And just now, our daughter and son-in-law announced a ‘joyous’ development. They’ve decided to focus entirely on the Miller legacy. As parents, we are… enlightened by this news.” I leaned into the word enlightened. “Since you two have made such clear plans for your ‘little family’s’ future, it’s only fair that we start making clear plans for our own.” The color drained from Mia’s face. I didn’t look at her. I turned to Arthur. His eyes were a storm of fury and hurt, but beneath it, I saw him catch my drift. I gave him a small, resolute nod. “Arthur, dear? I think it’s time we took back the keys to that new Cayenne we got for Nathan.” The room was so quiet you could hear the air conditioning hum. “Since Leo is a Miller heir now, destined to build the Miller empire, it would be embarrassing for him to be driven around in a car paid for by the family he’s disassociated from. People might think the Millers are struggling if they have to rely on their in-laws for a ride.” I paused for effect. “And we should probably deactivate the business credit cards. A grown man building his own dynasty shouldn’t be using his mother-in-law’s platinum card for his lunches, right?” Nathan’s polished mask shattered. He looked like he’d been stripped naked in public. His face turned a bruised shade of purple. Mia gasped, her voice trembling. “Mom… what… what are you saying?” What am I saying? I’m speaking English, Mia. Keep up. [You wanted the title? Fine. But you don’t get the perks that come with the name you just threw away. If you’re going to stab us in the back, don’t expect us to keep sharpening the knife for you.] I walked around the table until I was standing directly in front of them. Nathan was vibrating with suppressed rage. I held out my hand, my expression perfectly neutral. “The keys, Nathan. Now.” 2 Nathan froze. His hand instinctively went to his pocket, where the heavy fob of the Porsche sat. That car was his trophy. It was his ticket into the country clubs, his proof that he had “arrived.” Taking it back here, in front of everyone, was a social execution. “Mom…” Mia scrambled toward me, grabbing my arm, her voice thick with tears. “What are you doing? It’s just a name! Is it really worth all this? You’re humiliating him!” [Humiliating him? He spent weeks planning this “Red Wedding” of a birthday announcement. He humilated your father in front of his peers. Where was your concern for our dignity then?] I shrugged her hand off coldly. “I’m doing this out of respect for the Miller name,” I said. My eyes were twin needles, sewing Nathan to the floor. “Mr. Miller, do I need to call security to assist you?” “You—!” Nathan’s composure evaporated. The venom in his eyes was naked now. The guests were breathless. This was no longer a party; it was a televised war. I could feel the weight of their stares—some sympathetic, some hungry for the drama. I didn’t care. Reputation is earned, but respect is enforced. If they were bold enough to stage a coup at a birthday party, they would be bold enough to start counting down the days until we died so they could claim the estate. Arthur stood up. He walked over and took my hand, his grip a solid anchor. “My wife is right,” he said, his voice echoing with the authority of a man who had led thousands. “The keys. Give them back.” Nathan’s jaw worked, a vein throbbing in his temple. He looked like a cornered animal. Finally, under the crushing weight of three hundred pairs of eyes, he reached into his pocket. With a jerky, violent motion, he slammed the keys into my palm. I didn’t even flinch. I gripped the keys and turned to the room, giving a polite, shallow bow. “I apologize for the family drama. It seems the celebrations must end early. Arthur and I will make it up to you all soon.” I tucked my arm through Arthur’s, and we walked out of the ballroom without a single look back. Behind us, Mia’s hysterical sobbing and Nathan’s muffled roar of frustration echoed against the gold-leafed ceiling. We didn’t stop. The drive home was a haunting silence. Arthur’s hands were clamped onto the steering wheel, his knuckles white. I could feel the tremors of his heart through the seat. He was holding it in—the betrayal of his only child, the public shaming. I tossed the Porsche keys into the center console and pulled out my phone. “Mr. Higgins? It’s Evelyn. Deactivate every supplementary credit card under Arthur’s account immediately. Yes, all of them. Effective five minutes ago.” I hung up and turned to my husband. “Arthur. Let it out.” The light turned red. The car came to a halt. Arthur slumped over the wheel, his broad shoulders shaking. This man, who was a mountain to the world, let out a low, broken sound—a wounded animal’s cry. I didn’t try to stop him. I just rubbed his back. I knew that the house we had built—the home filled with laughter and memories of a “sweet” daughter—was gone. After a long while, Arthur looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “Evelyn… I failed. I spoiled her until she turned into this.” “We both did,” I corrected him. “We thought giving her everything would teach her gratitude. We forgot that greed is a beast that only gets hungrier the more you feed it.” The light turned green. Arthur shifted the car into gear, but his expression had shifted, too. The grief was still there, but it was being paved over by a cold, hard resolve. “You’re right. If they want to play dirty, they’ve picked the wrong opponents.” He picked up his phone and dialed. “Mr. Whitaker? This is Arthur. I need you at the office tomorrow at 9:00 AM. My wife and I need to restructure everything—assets, trusts, the whole estate. We’re starting over.” [Plan B was officially in motion.] 3 The next morning, before we could even leave for the lawyer’s office, the doorbell started ringing like a fire alarm. I knew exactly who it was. Arthur’s face darkened. He started toward the door, but I blocked his path. “Don’t,” I said. “Let them ring. Let them wear themselves out.” [Opening that door would bring the battlefield into our sanctuary. I wasn’t going to let their hysterics stain my floors.] Through the heavy oak door, Mia’s muffled screams were audible. “Dad! Mom! Open up! You can’t do this to us!” “We made a mistake! Let’s just talk! Please!” That was Nathan, sounding significantly less like a conquering hero this morning. I led Arthur to the breakfast nook. We sat there, sipping coffee and eating toast with practiced nonchalance, as if the circus on our porch didn’t exist. Arthur looked at me, his nerves finally beginning to settle. He took a bite of toast, though I could tell he couldn’t taste it. “Your composure is terrifying,” he managed a weak smile. “It’s not composure, Arthur. It’s the coldness of a heart that’s finally seen the truth.” I took a sip of my latte. “Remember: as of yesterday, we are no longer their parents. We are their creditors. And they owe us a debt they can never repay.” My phone buzzed on the table—a number I didn’t recognize. I hit speaker. “Hello? Is this Mia’s mother?” A sharp, screeching female voice pierced the air. I frowned. “Who is this?” “This is Nathan’s mother! My son and daughter-in-law are standing on your doorstep in the freezing cold! How can you be so heartless? What kind of parents are you?!” Ah, the mother-in-law. The cavalry has arrived. I kept my voice flat. “Mrs. Miller, I think you’re confused. First, this is my home. Who I allow in is my prerogative. Second, they are adults. If they’re cold, they can go to a cafe. Third, and most importantly: your son has been living off my wealth, driving my cars, and occupying a ghost position at my husband’s firm for years. As his mother, you should be embarrassed, not indignant. Where did you get the audacity to call me?” There was a stunned silence on the other end. She clearly hadn’t expected me to bite back. A few seconds later, she shrieked, “How dare you! Nathan is a brilliant man! He’s the father of your grandson! So what if he changed the name? It’s just a name! You have so much money—why are you being so petty? You’re just trying to humiliate us because you’re bitter you don’t have a male heir of your own!” Clang. Arthur slammed his fork onto the table. That last line—”no male heir”—hit him like a poisoned dart. I squeezed his hand and leaned into the phone, my voice dropping an octave. “Mrs. Miller, thank you for the reminder. Whether or not our legacy continues is none of your concern.” “Furthermore, I’m giving you formal notice. Your son has forty-eight hours to vacate the apartment we provide for him. If he’s not out, I’ll have the sheriff’s department handle the eviction.” “And as for his job? He’s fired. Tell him not to bother showing up today. Or ever.” I ended the call and blocked the number. One clean motion. Arthur stared at me. There was shock in his eyes, but mostly, there was a sense of liberated relief. “Evelyn… you really did it.” “I did what we should have done years ago.” I stood up. “Let’s go. Mr. Whitaker is waiting.” We drove out through the garage, never opening the front door. In the rearview mirror, I saw Mia and Nathan chasing the car, their faces twisted in panic. Behind them stood a frumpy, middle-aged woman—presumably the mother—shaking her fist at our departing taillights. I looked away. [This is only the beginning.] At the law firm, Mr. Whitaker listened to our story with a grim expression. “Arthur, Evelyn… are you certain about this? Setting up a living trust, moving all assets into it, and leaving the primary beneficiary… blank?” “Yes,” Arthur said, his voice like iron. “My daughter has proven she isn’t fit to steward a single cent of what I’ve built.” “And the secondary beneficiary?” Whitaker asked. I looked at Arthur. He looked at me. We shared a silent, secret smile. I turned to the lawyer. “Mr. Whitaker, I also need you to contact the best reproductive health clinic in the city. I want an appointment with their head of department for a full evaluation.” Whitaker froze, adjusting his glasses as if he’d misheard. “Evelyn, are you saying…?” “I’m saying,” I said calmly, “that my husband and I are going to have another child.” “A child who will actually carry the name. A child who will be raised to know the value of a legacy.” 4 The silence in Whitaker’s office was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the HVAC system. He looked at us, his eyes traveling from shock to confusion, and finally to a strange kind of respect. “I understand,” he nodded, asking no further questions. “I’ll set everything in motion. The trust documents will be ready for your signatures by the end of the week.” When we stepped out of the office, the sun was blindingly bright. Arthur took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a breath he seemed to have been holding for decades. “Evelyn… I never imagined we’d end up here.” “Neither did I,” I said, tucking my arm into his. “But now that we are here, we walk forward with our heads held high.” [Better to build a new world from scratch than to drown in the mud of the old one.] By that afternoon, the clinic had already called. They were efficient, which I appreciated. When we returned home, the porch was finally empty. Mia and Nathan must have retreated to lick their wounds. But the house felt different—hollow, echoing with the ghosts of yesterday’s screams. I went straight upstairs to Mia’s old room. It was still the “princess suite” we’d designed for her, filled with expensive gifts we’d brought back from every corner of the globe. Arthur followed me, his eyes dimming as he looked at the childhood mementos. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled several large packing boxes out of the closet. “Clear it out,” I told him. He blinked. “Evelyn… everything?” “Whatever doesn’t belong here needs to go.” I started grabbing designer dresses and handbags from her closet, tossing them into the boxes without looking at the labels. These things were worth a fortune. They were monuments to how much we had adored her. [Now I realize they weren’t gifts of love. They were just kibble for a parasite.] As I cleared her desk, I knocked over a stack of books. A pink leather journal fell to the floor. I picked it up. It wasn’t locked. Driven by a dark curiosity, I opened it. Arthur leaned in over my shoulder. The handwriting was unmistakably Mia’s. The most recent entry was dated two days before the gala. [Nathan’s mom is nagging again. She says Leo is almost three months old and we can’t wait any longer on the name change. She’s right. My parents only have me; everything they own will be mine eventually anyway. If we change it now, it’ll make Nathan and his mom feel secure. He’s an only child, too—he needs to feel like he’s providing a legacy.] [I’m a little worried Dad will be mad, but Nathan says, “What can they really do?” We have their only grandson. They won’t cut us off for real. They’ll throw a tantrum for a few days, and then we’ll bring the baby over, let them hold him, and they’ll melt. Then we can ask for the seed money for Nathan’s new firm. No one will look down on him then.] [Nathan has a plan. He’s going to announce it at the gala. In front of all those people, my parents will have to play along for the sake of their reputation. Nathan is so smart. He really knows how to handle them.] Every word was a serrated blade, sawing through what was left of my heart. It wasn’t a whim. It wasn’t a “misunderstanding.” It was a calculated siege. We weren’t parents to them; we were livestock to be harvested. They wanted our money, our status, and finally, they wanted to erase our name while keeping our gold. [Feeding on the legacy. The phrase turned to ash in my mouth.] Arthur was shaking with such fury he snatched the journal from my hands and ripped it into shreds. “Animals! They’re both animals!” His eyes were bloodshot, like a wounded lion. I didn’t stop him. I just pulled out my phone and took photos of the torn pages before they hit the floor. I sent them to Whitaker. [Mr. Whitaker, can these be used as evidence of “subjective malice” or intent to defraud?] He replied instantly. More than enough. Rest assured, I will handle this. I deleted the photos, tucked my phone away, and went back to packing. My movements were faster now, sharper. The last shred of maternal guilt had evaporated the moment I read those words. [Perfect. Now I don’t have to feel bad about what comes next.] [Mia, Nathan… you didn’t just close the door. You burned the house down yourselves.] 5 The next day, Arthur and I were at the fertility center. The lead specialist was a woman in her fifties, Dr. Chen. She was calm, clinical, and didn’t judge. She reviewed our medical histories and current physicals. “Arthur, Evelyn, based on your labs, you’re both in remarkably good health for your age,” Dr. Chen said, looking at me. “Specifically you, Evelyn. At fifty, your ovarian reserve isn’t completely depleted. That’s rare.” Arthur and I shared a look. A spark of hope ignited in the dark. “What are our chances, Doctor?” Arthur asked, his voice tight. “IVF at this age is a mountain to climb,” Dr. Chen said honestly. “The hormone cycles, the retrieval, the implantation—every step is a gamble. And a geriatric pregnancy carries significant risks. You have to be prepared for a war of attrition.” “We’re ready,” I said, not missing a beat. “Whatever it takes.” [I’d sign a contract with the devil himself for a fresh start. A medical battle is nothing.] Dr. Chen nodded. “Very well. Then we begin immediately. Evelyn, you’ll need to follow a strict regimen. Supplements, diet, no stress. We’ll start the first round of stimulation tomorrow.” The following weeks were a blur of needles and vials. Every day, I injected myself with hormones. I took a pharmacy’s worth of pills. My abdomen turned black and blue from the bruising. I was nauseous, exhausted, and my mood swung like a pendulum. Arthur cancelled every non-essential meeting. He was home every day by four, cooking specialized meals, rubbing my feet, and walking with me in the garden. We spoke less, but we were closer than we had ever been. we were soldiers in a trench, fighting for a common goal. Meanwhile, Mia and Nathan were spiraling. After being barred from our house, they tried the “family guilt” card. They started calling my extended family, my siblings, my cousins—anyone who would listen. “Evelyn, have you lost your mind?” my sister called to berate me. “Mia is your only child! How can you be so cruel over a surname?” “The poor girl is struggling! Nathan lost his job! They have a baby!” I didn’t engage. I gave everyone the same answer: “This is a private matter. If you wish to support them financially, feel free. Otherwise, stay out of it.” Then they tried to use the baby as a weapon. Mia sent me photos and videos of Leo every single day. [Mom, Leo smiled today. He misses his grandma.] [Mom, I’m sorry. Please. Don’t you want to see him?] [Mom, if you keep ignoring me, I don’t know what I’ll do. I might just take Leo and jump off a bridge!] I looked at the photos of that innocent child—a child I once would have died for—and felt a wave of physiological revulsion. [Using your own son as a ransom note. You really are a piece of work, Mia.] I blocked her on everything. But they didn’t stop there. Since Nathan had been fired and the apartment had been seized, they had to move into Nathan’s parents’ cramped, dated house in a mediocre suburb. The transition from luxury to “normalcy” was brutal. When you’re used to spending without thinking, poverty feels like a cage. And the bars were starting to rattle.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391410”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I opened my eyes, I was holding a checkbook. I looked up at the girl standing across from me—the quintessential “innocent victim” type, eyes brimming with tears and righteous indignation. “Please, Mrs. Sterling! Just let us be together! I love Chase with all my heart!” It hit me like a physical blow. I had transmigrated. I was trapped in one of those classic, trashy billionaire soap operas, and I had landed right in the shoes of the “Evil Mother-in-Law.” According to the script, this was the part where I was supposed to sneer and toss a million dollars at her, telling her to stay away from my son. But a sudden, frantic thought stopped me: Wait, do I even have that kind of money? I hesitated, my pen hovering over the paper. I scribbled a number and slid the check across the polished marble table. “Um… is five thousand dollars enough?” 1. “Mrs. Sterling! I will never leave Chase! Our love isn’t for sale!” Maya—that was her name—stared at me with unwavering resolve. “Mom! Maya and I are a package deal! You can’t put a price tag on what we have!” A handsome, sharp-jawed man stepped into view, shielding the girl behind him like a human fortress. This, I presumed, was my CEO son, Chase. Suddenly, a cascade of glowing text—like a live-stream chat—scrolled across my vision. [The classic ‘break-up-the-happy-couple’ trope. You love to see it.] [I’m trash for this drama. Feed me more.] [Come on, Evelyn! Slap her with the five million! Do it!] Five million? That sounded like a lot. Did my bank account actually have that many zeros? Better to play it safe while I figured out my net worth. I had to maintain the villain persona, but I was on a budget. “I’m not budging,” I said, trying to sound cold. “I’ll give you… twenty thousand. Final offer.” Chase looked at me, his jaw dropping. “Mom? Is your only son really worth that little to you?” [LMAO! Twenty thousand?!] [Chase’s face is priceless. He’s offended by the low-ball offer!] [Is this a parody? Since when is the evil matriarch this stingy?] A heavy silence filled the room. I cleared my throat, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “Fine. Whatever. You want to be together? Fine. But you won’t get my blessing that easily. I’m going to put you to the test!” “I’ll do it!” Maya stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “Whatever it takes to prove my love, I’ll do it!” [Here we go. The ‘test’—which is really just an excuse for a massive public humiliation.] [Poor Maya. She’s going to suffer so much for him, and he won’t even know the half of it.] [The wicked mother-in-law is burning every bridge she has. Just wait until Chase disowns you, Evelyn. Then you’ll be sorry!] Disown me? No, thank you. I hadn’t even had a chance to enjoy the mansion yet. I shifted my focus and pointed my finger—not at her, but at Chase. “I’m not testing her. I’m testing you.” Chase blinked, confused. “Me?” “Question one: What’s the first thing you do when you get your paycheck?” “Um… deposit it into our joint account?” Chase answered tentatively. “Who’s the first to apologize after an argument?” “Me! Always me!” “And who handles the chores when the housekeeper is off?” “I do! I’ll do all of it!” I took a slow, satisfied sip of my Earl Grey. “Excellent. You passed. You have my blessing.” “Wait, really? Oh, Maya! We did it!” Chase pulled her into a crushing hug. Maya looked stunned, her head spinning. “I… I feel like I didn’t actually do anything…” [??? That’s it?] [Did the villain just glitch?] [She skipped the entire second act! Where’s the suffering?!] Why bother with suffering? Life is short, and I’m rich. Let’s just be a happy family and move on to the brunch portion of the day. “Just don’t go breaking each other’s hearts,” I started to say, but I was interrupted by the doorbell. “Who’s that? My DoorDash?” I walked to the foyer and pulled open the heavy oak door. A man stood there, draped in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, radiating power and a faint scent of sandalwood. “And you are…?” I asked. The man’s brow furrowed into a deep V. “Your husband.” 2. The man didn’t wait for an invitation. He brushed past me and stepped into the foyer with the air of someone who owned the atoms in the room. [Enter the Patriarch. The real final boss.] [He’s definitely going to shut this down. Poor Maya, she survived the mom only to hit a brick wall with the dad.] So, this was Dominic Sterling. The father. In the original story, the parents were a classic “marriage of convenience”—zero love, a son born purely for the sake of the dynasty, and a husband who was always “on business.” I’d almost forgotten he existed. “I’ve only been away for eleven months, Evelyn,” he said, his voice like velvet over gravel. “Have you really forgotten what I look like?” “Of course not!” I let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh. “You just… changed your suit. I barely recognized you in that color.” [Rule number one: If you don’t know the answer, don’t keep talking. You’re making it worse.] [Lol, they are such strangers.] [Eleven months on a business trip? Someone call HR. Oh wait, he is HR.] “Father, you’re back,” Chase said, appearing from the kitchen, oddly enough, holding a bowl of soup. Dominic’s eyes traveled from Chase’s pink floral apron to the girl standing awkwardly by the sofa. “Why are you dressed like a domestic worker? And who is this?” “This is Chase’s girlfriend, Maya,” I said cheerfully, stepping in. “You’re just in time. We were about to have dinner.” “From which family?” Dominic asked, his tone icy. “I’m not… from a ‘family,’ sir,” Maya whispered, her knuckles white. “I’m just… me.” “Evelyn,” Dominic turned to me, his gaze stern. “This is your son’s choice? Since when do you allow ‘ordinary’ into this house?” “Oh, stop being such a buzzkill, Dom,” I said, waving him off. “They’re in love. It’s sweet. Maya, honey, come try this soup. Chase actually made it himself!” I completely ignored the radiating heat of Dominic’s disapproval. [Dominic: ‘Hello? Is anyone listening to me?’] [Evelyn: ‘Interrupting your monologue to talk about soup.’] [I’m uncomfortably attracted to the dad’s confused silence.] “It looks and smells great! Let’s eat!” I chirped. I ushered the kids to the table. Dominic stood frozen for a moment, then, with a resigned sigh, followed us and sat at the head of the table. I caught myself stealing glances at him. I thought the ‘CEO Dad’ trope usually involved a beer belly and a receding hairline, I thought. This guy is actually… a total smokeshow. I’ve got a billionaire husband who’s never home, a handsome son, and a bank account that refills itself. This transmigration thing might actually be a win. “Why are you staring at me, Evelyn?” Dominic asked, pausing with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “I was just thinking you’re very handsome,” I blurted out. [BAM! Just like that?] [I thought they hated each other? What is this energy?] My brain caught up with my mouth a second too late. Dominic started coughing violently, nearly choking on his soup. “Are you okay?” I jumped up and reached over to pat his back, but he recoiled as if I’d tried to brand him. His neck was a deep, embarrassed red. It took him a long moment to find his voice. “I… I’m full. I have work to attend to.” He practically bolted up the stairs. [Is he… blushing? Is the cold CEO actually a shy boy?] [Okay, I’m shipping the parents. I don’t care about the leads anymore.] [Everyone gets a romantic subplot. Even the ‘villain.’] I stood there, my hand still hanging in mid-air, blinking at the empty chair. “Wow, Mom,” Chase said, looking impressed. “You and Dad seem… really close lately.” “It’s a grown-up thing, Chase. You wouldn’t understand.” Did I break him? Should I go check on him? [He’s not shy, he’s probably just furious.] [Taking notes on ‘How to make your rival flee the room in ten seconds or less.’] I finished my dinner in a daze. 3. Whatever, I thought, stepping out of the shower. It’s not like he can actually fire me from being his wife. Then I saw him. Dominic was lying on the bed, propped up against the headboard with a tablet in his hand. I clutched my towel tighter, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance. “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “We’re married, Evelyn,” he said, flicking his eyes toward me before quickly looking back at the screen. “Where else would I be?” “Right. Of course.” I climbed into bed, keeping as much distance as possible. The air was thick enough to carve with a knife. [Look at those abs peeking through the robe. That’s not an accident.] [Dominic Sterling still has it.] [Things are getting spicy.] I couldn’t help it. My eyes drifted. The black silk of his robe didn’t leave much to the imagination. The original book didn’t detail their marriage much, only that they loathed each other. Evelyn thought he was a bore; he thought she was a shallow, irresponsible socialite. In the original timeline, Evelyn eventually cheats on him and leaks corporate secrets, leading to a brutal divorce and her dying penniless on the street. I shuddered. Not on my watch. I needed to stay on his good side. “How much longer are you going to stare at me?” Dominic asked, his voice strained. “Oh! Sorry. My bad.” I looked away, staring intensely at the floral wallpaper. “We need to talk about Chase’s little ‘girlfriend,’” he said, setting the tablet aside. “They love each other, Dom. Let them be.” “You can play your games with the household staff, but this is the family legacy,” he said firmly. “Tomorrow, I’m arranging a dinner with the Harrington heiress for him.” I sat bolt upright. “You can’t do that! You can’t just go around breaking people’s hearts because of some business merger! Chase won’t be happy with someone he doesn’t love.” Dominic went quiet. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable. [Ouch. Right in the trauma.] [She’s basically describing their own marriage.] [Countdown to her getting kicked out…] Crap. I didn’t mean to make it personal. “I didn’t mean… us,” I stammered, waving my hands. “I just want him to have what we… don’t. I mean, I want him to be happy! You’re great, really. You’re handsome, you’re smart, you’ve got great… chest muscles…” Before I could finish the sentence, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me down toward him. [Keep talking, Evelyn. Your dignity is leaving the building.] [Why is the middle-aged romance more interesting than the main couple?] [Can I see the rest of this for free?] My heart was thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird. His face was inches from mine. “Wait!” I squeezed my eyes shut, turning my head away. He froze. The heat of his breath lingered on my skin for a second before he pulled away entirely. His face was darker than before. “If you don’t mean those things, Evelyn, don’t say them. It’s exhausting.” He stood up, tightening the belt of his robe. “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight.” I touched my burning cheek, watching the door click shut behind him. 4. The next morning, my phone shrieked on the nightstand. “Hey, beautiful… Why haven’t you called me lately?” A wave of literal nausea rolled over me. I remembered now—the original Evelyn had a boy toy on the side. A guy named Casper. “I’ll be there soon. Same place?” I hung up immediately. If Dominic found out about this, I wouldn’t just be sleeping in separate rooms—I’d be living under a bridge. [Is the villain finally getting caught?] [Why did she hang up? She’s panicking.] [Of course she has a side-piece. The ‘Hot Dad’ was too good to be true.] Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I hurried downstairs, thinking Dominic had forgotten his briefcase. “Did you forget your—” I stopped. Standing there was a man who looked like a literal peacock. Loud prints, too much cologne, and a smirk that made me want to reach for a can of Mace. “You hung up on me, babe,” Casper said, sliding through the door before I could block him. “Are you mad at me? Have I been neglecting you?” “Something like that,” I said, trying to keep a neutral face. [I thought she’d changed! She’s still the same!] [Trading a billionaire for a budget model? Evelyn, honey, no.] [Dominic is going to walk in and it’s game over.] “Babe,” Casper said, reaching for my waist. “You said you were going to leave him. When is the divorce happening?” I ducked his touch. “Did I? I must have been drunk.” “And what about the files? The ones from his safe?” He lowered his voice, looking around. “I’ve been waiting a long time for those. You give me those, and we can run away together. You’ll never have to deal with his coldness again.” He lunged for a hug. I leaped behind the sofa. “No!” I shouted. “Absolutely not.” I smoothed my hair, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “Listen. I’m done. I have a husband, I have a son, and I’m actually quite fond of my life. Here’s a check for twenty thousand dollars. Consider us even. Don’t call me again.” Casper didn’t take the check. His face twisted. “Twenty thousand? You think you can buy me off? You’re clearly just playing hard to get. I’ll give you some time to cool off, and then I’ll be back.” He smirked and strolled out the door. “That… could have gone better,” I whispered. [What is she up to?] [She’s probably just bored of him and looking for a new one.] I looked at the hateful comments scrolling past and sighed. I just want to be a rich, retired lady. Why is that so hard? 5. Casper hadn’t even made it to the end of the driveway before two large men in suits stepped out from between the hedges and hauled him into a black SUV.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391409”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day Madison found out she was pregnant, she nearly broke my ribs with how hard she hugged me. Her eyes were rimmed with a fierce, watery red. “Miles,” she whispered, her voice thick with a solemn promise. “I’m going to do this right. I’m going to bring our baby into this world and give them everything.” To everyone we knew, Madison Miller worshipped the ground I walked on. They called her a “husband-spoiler,” the kind of woman who treated her partner like a prize. That lasted until I saw the video. It was an intimate, lingering clip followed by a string of photos, sent from her first love. I watched her for a moment. She was standing in the middle of the half-finished nursery, adjusting the rails of the crib we’d picked out together. I walked up to her, my voice unnervingly steady. “Don’t have the baby, Madison.” I felt her entire body go rigid, the air in the room suddenly turning cold. “Madison,” I added, the words tasting like ash. “I want a divorce.” … The wooden rattle Madison had been holding slipped from her fingers, thudding softly against the plush nursery rug. She looked up at me, her face a mask of pure bewilderment. “Miles?” She stepped toward me, reaching out to catch my hand. “Is this a joke? Because it’s not funny.” She looked so earnest, so genuinely pained, that for a second, I almost believed I was the center of her universe. I could feel her hand trembling against mine. “Miles, stop it. You’re being dramatic.” She thought I was throwing a tantrum. I felt a hollow, bitter chill settle in my chest. “I’m not joking.” I pulled my hand back, a dull ache throbbing behind my eyes. “I’m dead serious.” “Madison,” I said, my voice rising just enough to tremble. “You told him you wanted to give him a baby. You told him that if it was a boy, you’d name him Beckham, and if it was a girl, she’d be Becca…” I was trying to stay calm. I really was. I wanted a clean break. I wanted us to end things with the same grace we’d supposedly lived by. But looking at her face, all I could think about was the night we conceived. How she’d curled into me, flushed and breathless, looking at me with those same expectant eyes and saying, “Miles, if we have kids, I want one of each. A boy named Beckham and a girl named Becca.” I’d asked her why those names. She’d just smiled and said she liked the rhythm of them. I hadn’t pushed. I thought they were beautiful. Now, the irony felt like a physical weight, crushing the air out of my lungs. “It wasn’t because you liked the rhythm, Madison,” I said, my teeth chattering as a chill took over my entire frame. “It’s because his name is Beckett.” “The one who got away. The one you’ve been pining for since you were nineteen.” “It’s not what you think!” Madison’s eyes welled up instantly, her voice desperate. “Then what is it?” I screamed, the dam finally breaking. “If you love him so much, just tell me! I would have let you go! Do you think I’m the kind of man who begs to stay where he isn’t wanted?” I grabbed a stuffed animal from the crib and hurled it at her. It hit her shoulder and fell, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around me, squeezing so hard I could barely breathe. “No! No, Miles!” she sobbed into my chest. “I’m sorry. I messed up. I know I messed up, but please—” I wanted the divorce. I wanted to walk away with a shred of dignity. But Madison didn’t let it happen. Instead, she called in the reinforcements. By that evening, our spacious living room was packed. Both of our families were there, sitting in a semi-circle like a tribunal, staring at me as if I were the one who had committed a felony. Madison’s aunt leaned back, eyeing me with naked contempt. “You’ve got quite the nerve for a guy who lives on his wife’s paycheck,” she sneered. “Madison works her tail off every day to provide for you and that baby. You’re sitting here in a house she bought, acting like a child.” Madison’s mother reached over and squeezed my hand, her voice a poisonous blend of sympathy and manipulation. “Miles, honey, Madison isn’t the type to cheat. Why would she have married you if she didn’t love you? She’s devoted to you. She wouldn’t have asked us all here if she wasn’t desperate to save this marriage.” She looked at my mother, who nodded sharply. “Miles! Stop this nonsense right now!” my mother snapped. “You won’t find another woman like Madison. She’s stable, she’s loyal, she’s a provider. What more do you want?” My father didn’t even look at me. He just stared at the floor, his voice gruff and final. “Forget about the divorce. If Madison says she wants to stay, you stay. If I hear you bring this up again, I’ll personally make sure you regret it.” I sat there, surrounded by the people who were supposed to love me, being torn apart by a pack of wolves while the woman who had betrayed me sat quietly at the center of it all. Finally, Madison spoke. “Miles, I never wanted to lose you.” She took my hand in front of everyone. “I can explain everything. I’ll show you.” To prove her “sincerity,” she pulled out her phone and called Beckett on speakerphone. She demanded he tell me the truth—that they were “just friends,” that nothing happened. “My husband is trying to divorce me because of you!” she shouted into the phone. “Tell him the truth, Beckett!” On the other end, Beckett let out a bored, sharp laugh. “I was just messing with him, Maddie. Is he really that sensitive? What a head case.” Then his voice shifted, turning cruel as he addressed me directly. “Look, man, I dated her for years. Everyone has a past. You expect her to be a blank slate? You think you’re so clean?” The room went silent. I felt the pressure in my chest reach a breaking point. After hours of being bombarded by my parents and hers, after watching Madison play the victim, I snapped. I lunged for the phone. I was going to tell him exactly what I thought of him. I was going to end this. Slap. The sound echoed through the room. My head snapped to the side, my cheek stinging with a heat that radiated down to my jaw. I looked at Madison, stunned. She was trembling, her hand still raised, her face a mask of panic. “Miles, I… I didn’t mean to—” “Hah! Did she just hit you, Miles?” Beckett’s voice crackled through the phone, laughing. “I’m telling you, man, Madison is my dog. She does what I want. She gives me the confidence to say this to your face—you’re nothing.” “Go ahead,” Beckett challenged. “Tell your wife to come over and give me what I deserve. Oh wait, she already does that in bed—” “Enough!” I roared. But Beckett wasn’t done. A moment later, a text came through. It was a photo of our living room. My living room. “I like the way the place looks, Miles,” he’d messaged me earlier that day. “It’s exactly what I asked for.” I froze. Beckett’s voice came through the phone again, smug and oily. “Did Madison let you help with the decor? Probably not. Because I told her years ago that if we ever got a place, I wanted the Hamptons-chic look. The navy accents, the crown molding. It’s all for me.” He then sent a photo of Madison as a teenager, glowing with happiness, holding a specific pair of his-and-hers keychains. I looked at the bowl by our front door. The same keychains were sitting there. “She made those for me,” Beckett said. “And she kept them for you.” I looked at Madison. She was crying now, reaching out for me with a hand that had just struck me. It was pathetic. It was nauseating. “What are you even pretending for, Madison?” I whispered. “If you love him this much, why did you ruin my life?” I turned to my parents, to the aunts and uncles who had gone silent. “Are you still going to tell me I can’t leave?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Are you blind? Can’t you see? I don’t exist in this house. I’m just a placeholder for a man she actually wants.” The tears started then, hot and uncontrollable. I couldn’t stop them no matter how hard I rubbed my eyes. I was breaking down, right there in the center of the room. Madison dropped to her knees. She grabbed my legs, sobbing. “Miles, please. Hit me. Just hit me back! Do whatever you want, just don’t leave me!” She was wailing, a sound of pure, selfish desperation. “I love you! I won’t let you go!” I thought it couldn’t get any worse. But as she knelt there, my mother-in-law stepped forward and slapped me again. “How dare you humiliate my daughter!” she screamed. “She’s been nothing but good to you!” Madison’s aunt grabbed my hair, yanking my head back. “You’re a parasite! You’re a curse on this family! Men like you should just crawl into a hole and die!” I was being pulled, scratched, and screamed at. My scalp burned, my face throbbed, and my soul was being crushed under the weight of a dozen people telling me I was the villain for being betrayed. My own mother was crying. “Miles, every woman makes mistakes! No one stays with just one person forever. Don’t be so arrogant!” “A divorced man is damaged goods,” she sobbed. “Who’s going to want you after this? You’ll be alone forever!” My father stepped into my line of sight, his face purple with rage. “No one in this family gets a divorce. I won’t have the Miller name dragged through the mud because you can’t handle a little drama. You want to leave? Fine. Go die then. It’d be less of an embarrassment.” Their words were Madison’s shield. She crawled back to me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Miles, I’ll block him. I’ll never speak to him again. I promise! We have a baby coming! Please, forgive me!” The noise was deafening. The screaming, the crying, the accusations. It was a suffocating wall of sound, stealing the oxygen from the room. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. “Why?” I screamed, a raw, primal sound that tore through my throat. “Why me?” The night ended in chaos. The stress was too much; my heart skipped, then hammered, then felt like it was being gripped by a frozen hand. I collapsed. I spent a week in the hospital. Madison was nowhere to be found, but Beckett’s social media was a goldmine. There was Madison, helping him pick out furniture for his new “bachelor pad.” There was Madison, laughing as they cooked a steak dinner together. There was Madison, smiling in a flower-arranging class, holding a bouquet that matched the one from a photo of them ten years ago. Beckett had posted a side-by-side: a grainy photo of them as teens and a high-def shot of them now. The caption read: True love always finds its way back home. Madison had liked the post. The doctor stood by my bed, looking at my chart. “Mr. West, your heart attack was stress-induced. You need to keep your emotions stable. I suggest a change of scenery. Get away for a while.” My phone buzzed. A text from my mother: Madison bought your brother that new iPhone he wanted. It was over a thousand dollars. How can you say she doesn’t love you? She’s so good to this family. Stop being difficult and come home. Then a message from Madison’s mother: I talked to a psychic. She says it’s a boy. Stop this nonsense. You’re our only son-in-law. Finally, a text from Madison herself: Hey baby, I’ll be back tonight. I cut my business trip short. I miss you. My parents’ indifference. Her family’s pressure. And Madison’s clumsy, transparent lies. She thought that because she’d deleted Beckett’s number in front of me, I wouldn’t know she was still with him. She thought I was a fool. “Miles, what do you want for dinner?” she texted. “I’ll bring it to the hospital.” At the same time, a DM from Beckett: “Maddie says she’s tired of taking care of a sick dog. She’ll wait until the baby is born, then she’s kicking you to the curb. Enjoy being the nanny for my kid.” That was it. The last straw. I looked at the screen until my vision blurred. A sad, jagged laugh escaped my lips. I typed back to Madison: [Madison.] [I want those soup dumplings from the place you took me on our first date.] I’d never been in love before her. I’d never been cherished. My parents’ love was like sand—it always slipped through my fingers. But that day, years ago, watching her blow on the hot dumplings, pushing the best ones toward me with a goofy grin… I thought I’d finally found a home. I thought I was enough. I waited until midnight. Madison never showed up. Instead, I got a text from Beckett: “Give us thirty minutes. We’re almost finished. Then I’ll let her go.” My heart felt numb. The pain had moved past hurting; it was just a cold, dead weight now. I walked up to the hospital roof. I sat on the ledge, dangling my feet over the edge, watching the parking lot. A familiar black Audi pulled in. I dialed Madison’s number. I watched her step out of the car, looking panicked, rushing toward the hospital entrance while pressing the phone to her ear. “Miles? I’m almost there, I’m so sorry, the traffic—” “Madison,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Look up.” The wind whipped around my ears. Madison paused, her head tilting back. She saw me—a thin, fragile silhouette against the night sky, looking like I could be blown away by a stiff breeze. Her heart must have stopped. I heard her scream through the phone, a raw, guttural sound. “NO! Miles, don’t!” She sprinted for the doors, but she was too late. The sound of the impact was like a crack of thunder, shattering whatever was left of her soul.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391408”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On my birthday, my husband insisted on “christening” our brand-new G-Wagon with a bit of backseat reckless abandon. The result? A dented fender and a very expensive repair bill. I was so livid I kicked him out of the master bedroom. Little did I know, the man—in all his dramatic glory—decided to log onto his company’s official social media account to lament his plight: “Accidentally wrecked the wife’s new ride and now I’m banned from the bedroom. Any advice, guys?” I was somewhere between laughing and rolling my eyes, ready to let him back in, when the notification on my phone changed everything. In my department’s intern Slack group, a new girl tagged me. Her message was a public interrogation: “Nora, why are you posting photos of my car? Is the jealousy that bad? Are you really trying to clout-chase off my life?” I realized then that in my rush to get to work, the photo I meant to send to the dealership for repairs had ended up in the group chat. Before I could even type a response, she fired off a barrage of photos—her hand on the wheel of a G-Wagon, various videos proving it was “hers.” Then came the venom: “Some people are truly shameless. You think taking a sneaky pic of a car you can’t afford makes you the next Mrs. Montgomery? Poor thing. It’s pathetic.” I frowned, looking at the man sleeping on the sofa next to me. “Cyrus,” I muttered. “Is there a second Mrs. Montgomery I should know about?” 1 Because I was late for my shift at Metropolitan General, I’d accidentally dropped the photo of my damaged fender into the intern mentorship thread instead of the private message to my mechanic. By the time I noticed, the chat was already a dumpster fire. “Holy crap! A custom G-Class with a starlight headliner? The mods alone cost six figures. Dr. Nora, you’re low-key loaded!” “I had no idea our lead resident was a trust-fund kid. Respect.” “What do your parents do, Nora? That’s a five-hundred-thousand-dollar beast.” The messages scrolled by at lightning speed—dozens of questions about my family, my salary, my life. A few male interns even slid into my DMs asking to “grab dinner and talk shop.” I sighed, typing out a quick, weary explanation: “I’m not a trust-fund kid. It was just a birthday gift from my husband. Let’s get back to the patient charts, everyone…” I hadn’t even hit send on the follow-up when Hailey, the newest intern, exploded onto the screen. “Nora, why are you posting photos of my car? Are you that desperate for attention?” “‘Birthday gift from your husband’? Are you really trying to LARP as a billionaire’s wife right now?” “I knew I shouldn’t have driven that car to the hospital. Having people like you sneak photos of it just to flex is so trashy. Gross.” I stared at the screen, genuinely bewildered. “Are you talking to me, Hailey?” I typed. “You must be mistaken. Maybe our cars just look similar?” She didn’t reply for a few seconds. Instead, she flooded the chat with selfies of her in the driver’s seat of a G-Wagon, videos of her hand on the steering wheel, and shots of the custom interior. Her tone turned even more mocking: “My starlight headliner is a bespoke one-of-one design. You’re a resident on a hospital salary—how do you have the nerve to say it looks ‘similar’?” “Following my car to take a photo just to claim it’s yours? Why stop there? Go take a selfie in front of the White House and tell everyone you’re the President.” The shift in the group chat was instantaneous. The same interns who were praising me seconds ago turned on a dime. “Dr. Nora, this is… yikes. If you’re broke, just be broke. You don’t have to do all this.” “The second-hand embarrassment is real. Imagine getting caught by your own intern.” “I didn’t realize vanity was a side effect of residency. Is she going to teach us how to lie to patients next? Lol.” The comments became increasingly snide. Someone even tagged me, demanding I apologize to Hailey for “stealing her content.” I gritted my teeth and tagged Hailey directly: “How did you get inside my car? When were these videos taken?” I had personally helped design the starlight pattern in my car. It was unique. The moment Hailey posted those clips, I knew she was sitting in my vehicle. Hailey: [Can you have some dignity? You’re still claiming it’s yours? Do I need to drive it to your face and honk the horn for you to shut up?] “If it’s really your car,” she challenged, “tell everyone what color the interior is right now.” “Gray,” I replied confidently. It was the color I’d chosen when we bought it. The next second, Hailey posted a selfie. She was lounging in the passenger seat, and the leather was a bright, obnoxious bubblegum pink. She practically laughed through the text: “Like I said, trashy people always trip over their own lies! It was gray when you took your little stalker photo, but I had the entire interior redone in pink yesterday.” “What’s the matter, Nora? Can’t find a pink version on Google Images fast enough?” The chat erupted. Everyone was convinced. “Dr. Nora looks so cold and professional, but she’s actually a total clout-demon. I feel bad for whoever she’s mentoring.” “Taking photos of a girl’s car and lying about it… I wonder if her medical degree is fake too. You hear about these female doctors sleeping their way to the top all the time, right?” The rumors were spiraling into disgusting territory. I was about to fire back when a nurse tapped my shoulder—emergency in the OR. I didn’t have time for interns. I locked my phone and ran. 2 By the time I stepped out of the OR, it was late afternoon. As I walked into the main lobby, I saw a delivery guy struggling with a massive, overflowing bouquet of yellow roses. He was shouting over the crowd: “Delivery for Mrs. Montgomery! Is there a Mrs. Montgomery here? Flowers from Mr. Montgomery!” A small smile tugged at my lips. Cyrus and I had bickered this morning, and we’d been in a cold war all day. Yellow roses meant friendship and an apology. It was his way of saying I’m sorry for being a brat. I started toward the delivery guy. “I’ll take those. I’m Mrs. Mon—” “Don’t you dare touch my flowers!” Before I could reach the bouquet, Hailey lunged forward, shoving me aside. She glared at me with pure vitriol. “Nora, do you have any shame at all? First you try to steal my car’s identity, now you’re trying to claim my flowers? Get a life!” I stumbled back, my patience finally snapping. “Hailey, stop this. Those are my flowers.” “Hahaha!” Hailey’s little clique of interns—the same ones from the chat—gathered around her, pointing and laughing. “Seriously, Nora? Give it up. A bouquet that size costs more than your monthly rent. Only Hailey’s billionaire husband could afford this. You think anyone is sending you flowers? In those orthopedic shoes?” “It’s honestly sad. The way she just tries to insert herself into Hailey’s life. It’s pathetic.” “Hailey is being so graceful about this. If it were me, I’d have called security by now.” Hailey blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, stop it, you guys. I told Cyrus to keep our marriage private, but I guess he just can’t help himself.” “My husband is the heir to the Montgomery Group,” she added, her voice loud enough for the whole lobby to hear. “He’s very high-profile. He gets hounded by people constantly, which is why I try to keep a low profile at work.” I was staring at her, genuinely worried she was having a psychotic break. “If your ‘husband’ is so powerful, why are you an intern? And why is he letting you drive someone else’s car?” “What would you know?” Hailey snapped, stepping closer. “I’m building my own career. I’m independent.” “Independent?” I scoffed. “You’re a fraud. If you were a Montgomery, you wouldn’t be stealing my car for TikToks.” “You want to hear his name?” Hailey’s face was flushed. “It’ll give you a heart attack. My husband is Cyrus Montgomery.” I froze for a heartbeat. “Cyrus Montgomery?” “Exactly! Don’t you ever speak his name again.” I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. “Did you marry him in a dream, Hailey? Or was it a hallucination?” “How dare you!” She shrieked. “My husband will ruin you for this!” I cut her off, my voice turning ice-cold. “I don’t know who you’re talking to, but I know one thing: Cyrus Montgomery is my husband. And if you don’t stop using his name to scam people, he won’t be the one you need to worry about. I will.” Hailey’s face went from red to purple. “You’re delusional! I’m calling him right now. I’m going to have him come here and personally fire you!” She pulled out her phone and hit speaker. “Hey, baby,” she cooed into the phone. “Can you come to the hospital? There’s this psycho doctor here who’s harassing me and claiming she’s your wife. It’s so scary, please hurry…” A man’s voice came through the speaker—deep, arrogant, and vaguely familiar. “Who the hell thinks they can touch my woman? I’m ten minutes away. I’ll handle it.” Hailey hung up and smirked at the crowd. “Nobody leave. When my husband gets here, there’s going to be a reckoning.” I looked at Hailey’s smug face and then down at my own phone. I sent a quick text to the real Cyrus: Get to the hospital lobby. Now. There’s a comedy show you don’t want to miss. Cyrus replied instantly: On my way. I leaned back against the reception desk. This was going to be interesting. 3 While we waited, Hailey’s ego reached a fever pitch. She clutched the yellow roses like a trophy and walked up to me. “Nora, I get it. You’re from some middle-class background and you’re desperate for status. But lying about my marriage? That’s a bridge too far.” “You’re going to get down on your knees and apologize. And you’re going to sign a statement saying you’ll never use my name for clout again, or my husband will sue you into the dirt.” I almost choked on my own tongue. “You want me to kneel?” The other interns chimed in like a Greek chorus of idiots. “Hailey, you’re too nice. Only an apology? She should be banned from the medical board!” “Seriously, Nora, the Montgomerys aren’t people you mess with. Just kneel now before Mr. Montgomery gets here. Maybe he’ll show mercy.” “I heard he hates the spotlight. The fact that he’s coming here for Hailey proves how much he loves her. You’re done, Nora.” It was true that Cyrus avoided the press. He was private, almost reclusive, which apparently gave these people the perfect cover to build this fantasy. “I’d love to see who exactly isn’t going to show me mercy,” I said, crossing my arms. The lobby suddenly went quiet. The hospital director and several board members were rushing toward the entrance. “Mr. Montgomery! Sir! We had no idea you were coming!” The director was practically bowing. “What a surprise! Thank you again for the thirty-million-dollar equipment grant. The whole hospital is in your debt.” I looked toward the door. It was Cyrus. He was wearing a charcoal suit, looking every bit the formidable billionaire he was. He strode into the lobby, his expression unreadable. Hailey’s friend, Sarah, scurried forward to greet him. “Mr. Montgomery, you really do adore your wife. The moment you heard she was upset, you flew here!” She pointed excitedly at Hailey. “Look! She’s been waiting for you!” Cyrus glanced at Hailey for a split second, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then his eyes found mine. “Wife,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Come here.” The lobby went dead silent. Everyone turned to Hailey, waiting for her to move. 4 Hailey stood frozen. Her face had gone from smug to a ghostly, sickly pale. The director, thinking Hailey was just starstruck, gently nudged her toward Cyrus. “Go on, Hailey! Don’t be shy. Mr. Montgomery is calling you.” He looked at Cyrus with a sycophantic grin. “We had no idea your wife was one of our interns! Dr. Hailey is—well, she’s certainly made an impression. Why, just yesterday she—” “Who the hell is she?” Cyrus’s voice cut through the air like a blade. He didn’t even look at the director; his eyes were locked on me. “Nora, I’m talking to you. Why are you standing over there?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391407”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My name is Maya, and I’m ten years old. I don’t have a father. It’s always just been me and my mom, clinging to each other in our quiet little house. Not long ago, I discovered her secret: I might not be the only child she has. 1. The Strange Mother I love my mother. I love her with a fierce, desperate intensity. But my mother isn’t like the other moms in the neighborhood. I first realized this during a Creative Writing workshop at school. Our teacher, Mrs. Gable, gave us a prompt: My Mother. This is what I wrote: “My mom hits me and screams at me, but she’s still the best mother in the world because she loves me in her own way. She gives me all the candy I want—sweet, sticky Skittles and chocolate bars—because she says sugar is love. She lets me eat tubs of Ben & Jerry’s for dinner. She lets me watch cartoons until my eyes burn and play video games until my fingers ache. She hands me everything she thinks is good in the world, piled high on a silver platter. So when she hits me, I’m not even mad. Besides, she only does it when I mess up my piano practice. I’m just too stupid to get the notes right, so I deserve it. But I like my mom best when she’s been drinking. When she’s drunk, she holds me tight and whispers that she loves me. The hitting-and-screaming mom is okay, but the hugging-and-kissing mom is my favorite. There’s one weird thing, though. When she’s been drinking, she cries. She asks me why I hate her when she loves me so much. I want to tell her I don’t hate her. I love her. When she cries, my heart breaks into a million pieces. I try to hug her back, but she pushes me away. She looks at me like I’m a stranger. Like I’m not her daughter at all. It scares me. I reach for her, but she walks away. I’m terrified she’s going to leave me behind. I want this essay to tell her: Mom, I don’t hate you. I love the candy. I love the games. I even love the hitting and the screaming, because it means you’re looking at me. I am your child. I will take whatever you give me. I love you.” When I finished reading my essay, the classroom went silent. Mrs. Gable and my classmates stared at me with these hollow, horrified expressions. It was like they were looking at a ghost. Then my desk mate, Madison, read her essay. Madison’s mom was perfect. Her mom wouldn’t let her have candy because it rotted her teeth. Her mom limited her screen time to protect her eyes. Everything in Madison’s life had a boundary, and every boundary was framed as an act of protection. I sat there, stunned. My mom never said no. I did whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. But looking at the faces in the room, I realized that Madison’s mom was the “normal” one. That was the moment the seed of doubt was planted. Was something wrong with my mother? Or was something wrong with me? After class, a crowd gathered around my desk. “You seriously get to eat candy for dinner?” one boy asked, eyes wide. “Can you really stay up all night playing Call of Duty and she doesn’t care?” They were jealous. They asked a dozen questions, and when I confirmed it all, they sighed with longing. “Your mom is the coolest,” they said. “I wish my mom was like that.” I felt a rush of relief. See? My mom wasn’t a problem. She just loved me more than their moms loved them. But then Madison spoke up. Madison was the class president, the kind of girl who always had her hair in perfect braids and never missed a comma. “Maya, that isn’t love,” she said, her voice sharp and clinical. “That’s indulgence. A mother who actually loves her child wants them to grow up to be someone. She wouldn’t let you rot your brain and your body like that.” I wanted to argue, but the words got stuck in my throat. I didn’t know how other mothers loved; I only knew mine. “Don’t listen to her, Maya,” another girl whispered. “Madison’s mom is a drill sergeant. She’s just jealous.” “I’m not jealous,” Madison snapped. “Haven’t you heard the saying? To spare the rod is to spoil the child. Real love has discipline. Ask your moms tonight—would they ever let you do what Maya’s mom lets her do?” The envy in the room evaporated instantly. Everyone looked down at their shoes. Madison smirked, leaning in. “Only a mother who doesn’t care about the future lets a kid run wild. My aunt is a stepmother, and she treats her stepson exactly like that. She lets him do whatever he wants because she wants him to fail. My mom calls it ‘killing with kindness.’ It’s the easiest way to get rid of a kid you don’t want. Maya, are you sure she’s even your real mom?” Before I could think, my fist collided with Madison’s eye. “Your mom is the fake one!” I screamed. We went down in a tangle of limbs and hair. By the time the teachers pulled us apart, Madison had two black eyes that were already beginning to swell like bruised plums. I was barely touched, just a few stray hairs out of place. I stared at her, dazed. Was I really that strong? The school called our parents. The moment Madison’s mom walked in, she let out a sob and gathered Madison into her arms. “Oh, my baby! My poor, sweet girl! Who did this to you?” My mom arrived a few minutes later. She glanced at me once, but she didn’t rush over. She didn’t hold me. She just stood there, looking tired. Madison’s mom turned on me like a whirlwind, pointing a manicured finger at my face. “You! You little monster! You hit my daughter? I’m calling the police. I’m not letting this go!” She looked like she wanted to tear me apart. I shrunk back. Finally, my mom spoke. “What happened, Maya?” Tears pricked my eyes. I reached for her hand. “Madison said… she said you weren’t my real mom. She said you didn’t love me.” Madison’s mom shrieked, “So you assault her? There is no excuse! You need to apologize right now!” “I shouldn’t have hit her,” I fired back, my voice trembling. “But she shouldn’t have lied about my mom. She said only a stepmother would treat a kid like you treat me. She insulted you! She should apologize first!” My mom’s expression shifted. It was complex, unreadable. “Mom,” I whispered, “you love me, right? She said you didn’t, and I just… I couldn’t handle it.” My mom smiled then. And for the first time in my memory—while she was completely sober—she wrapped her arms around me. “Oh, my silly, silly Maya,” she murmured into my hair. “Of course I love you. You’re the only thing in this world I love.” I felt a warm drop of water hit my shoulder. She was crying. A sudden, overwhelming wave of sadness crashed over me. A voice in the back of my mind whispered: When Mom is sad, give her a Love-Hug. I followed the impulse. I squeezed her tight. “When Mom is sad, give her a Love-Hug,” I repeated. My mother stiffened. She shoved me away so hard I nearly fell. The tears were still on her cheeks, but her eyes had turned back to ice. If I couldn’t still feel the heat of her skin on mine, I would have thought the hug was a hallucination. “Are we done with the melodrama?” Madison’s mom snapped. “I want an apology.” “Maya did nothing wrong,” my mom said, her voice flat. “She won’t be apologizing.” My heart soared. She was on my side! She did love me! I looked at her with pure adoration, but her eyes weren’t on me anymore. She was looking through me, staring at a ghost standing right behind my shoulder. Mrs. Gable cleared her throat. “Maya’s mother, I have to be honest—I disagree with your parenting style. I know being a single mother is hard, especially… well, at your age. But this level of indulgence is damaging. You’re raising a child who thinks violence is the answer and who has no self-control. You’re the one who will suffer for it in the end.” She went on and on about how my mom was failing me because we were poor, or because she was “older.” I didn’t care about the money. But looking at my mom standing next to Madison’s mom, I noticed it for the first time. My mom looked ancient. She was probably the same age as Madison’s mom, but she looked twenty years older. Madison’s mom had glowing skin and perfect highlights. My mom was gray, her face etched with deep, permanent lines around her mouth and forehead—the kind of lines you get from a lifetime of frowning. She looked miserable. And it was my fault. I wasn’t good enough, or smart enough, to make her happy. “Maya’s mom, are you even listening?” Mrs. Gable asked, her patience wearing thin. My mom remained silent. She was enduring this lecture for me. She didn’t want me to apologize because she wanted to protect me. But I couldn’t let her stay in the line of fire. “Mrs. Gable,” I interrupted. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit Madison. I apologize.” I turned to Madison and gave her a stiff bow. Then, I reached for my mom’s hand. But my mother snapped. She whipped her hand away and glared at me with pure, unadulterated venom. “Who told you to apologize?” I froze. “I… I just didn’t want you to get in trouble, Mom. I’m sorry—” She didn’t listen. She erupted like a volcano that had been dormant for a thousand years. She started kicking me, slapping my face, her voice rising to a frantic shriek. “Who told you to apologize? Why can’t you just listen? Why do you always have to make me angry? Why are you so disobedient? Just die! Why don’t you just go and die!” The blows rained down on me, and my brain went numb. I didn’t know why she was angry, but I knew I had failed her again. I curled into a ball, sobbing, “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.” In that moment, I wasn’t a person to her. I was a punching bag. A vessel for all the rage she couldn’t point at the rest of the world. The teachers eventually pulled her off me. Madison’s mom had pulled her daughter into a corner, shielding her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the carnage. That image hurt more than the slap across my face. That was real protection. Tender. Careful. My mother had never once looked at me like that. “This is domestic abuse!” Mrs. Gable yelled. “I’m calling the police!” “Call them!” my mom screamed, her face a mask of indifference. “She’s my daughter. I’ll raise her how I want!” Then, she grabbed my wrist. “Get up. We’re going home.” My face was burning and my ribs ached, but the moment she touched my hand, the pain vanished. Her hand was the only source of warmth I had. I followed her out of the office, glancing back at Mrs. Gable with a look of apology. My mom is just tired, I wanted to say. She has so little in this world. She was trying to protect me, and she didn’t know how. I understood her. But the teachers just watched me go with pity, as if I were a stray dog being led back to a cage. On the walk home, she didn’t say a word. Her jaw was set tight. I knew she was feeling guilty—she always got quiet after she hit me. Later, she would get drunk and hold me and tell me she loved me. I didn’t want her to get drunk tonight. “Mom,” I said softly. “I’m not going to eat candy anymore. Or ice cream. I won’t watch cartoons or play games. I’ll be a good girl. I won’t fight. If being a ‘good girl’ means not doing those things, then I’ll stop. I won’t let anyone say bad things about you ever again.” She stopped in her tracks. She looked at me for a long time, then reached out and ruffled my hair with a forced smile. “Maya, I don’t need you to be a good girl. Just be yourself.” I shook my head firmly. “No. I want to be your good girl.” Her face twisted back into that terrifying, manic mask. She raised her hand again. “I said I don’t need a good girl!” I flinched, my voice breaking. “Okay! Okay, Mom! I’m sorry! I won’t be a good girl! I’ll be whatever you want!” The hand lowered. She stroked my head affectionately. “That’s my girl.” It was so confusing. What kind of mother didn’t want a “good” child? But I told myself she was just being selfless. She had so little to give me that she wanted me to have all the small joys, even if they were bad for me. But I made a secret vow. For her sake, I would be a good girl in private. When we got home, she went to the kitchen to cook. She dumped a pile of candy and a bowl of ice cream on the table. “Eat up, Maya.” I didn’t touch them. When she came back and saw the melted ice cream and the wrapped candies, her face darkened, but she didn’t scream. She just looked… hollow. During dinner, I ate every bit of the broccoli and chicken she cooked. “This is a million times better than candy, Mom,” I said. She started to smile, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. After dinner, she handed me the iPad. “Go watch your show.” I watched for exactly fifteen minutes, then turned it off. Madison said fifteen minutes was the limit for “good” kids. My mom’s knuckles turned white. She handed me her phone. “Is the show boring? Play your game then.” I shook my head. “I have homework to finish. No games tonight.” She balled her fists. I instinctively tilted my head, waiting for the blow. It didn’t come. She just turned and walked into her bedroom, slamming the door. Through the thin walls, I heard her sobbing. I stood outside her door, paralyzed. I didn’t mean to make her cry. I was trying to save her! Suddenly, the door flew open. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the dining table. She unwrapped a piece of taffy and held it to my lips. Her eyes were wide, pleading, and terrifyingly soft. “Maya, baby, I’m sorry I hit you. I won’t do it again. You can do whatever you want. Look, your favorite candy. Eat it. Eat as much as you want. Mom will unwrap them for you, okay?” She had never been this gentle while sober. I swallowed the candy. It was so sweet it made my throat ache. She unwrapped another. Then another. Five. Ten. Twenty. There was only one left on the table. She was grinning now, a frantic, shaky mess of a smile. But I felt like I was dying. When she reached for the last one, I shook my head. “Mom, I can’t. I’m full.” Her smile froze. “Why? Don’t you want to be Mom’s good girl?” That’s not it! I thought. Good girls don’t eat twenty pieces of candy! “Other moms—” I started. “OTHER MOMS?” she shrieked. “Are you my daughter or theirs? I told you to eat it! EAT IT!” I knew if I just took the candy, she’d be happy. She’d hug me. But something inside me broke. I realized then that she didn’t love me. She only loved the version of me that obeyed this specific, weird rule. I fought her, but she was stronger. She forced my mouth open and shoved the twenty-first piece of candy down my throat. Only when I swallowed did she calm down. “There,” she whispered, stroking my cheek. “Wasn’t that sweet, Maya? Isn’t it delicious?” I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t answer her. Because that candy tasted like poison. She stared at me for a minute. “It’s just sugar. Why are you crying?” But as she said it, her own eyes filled with tears. She turned and ran out of the house, leaving me alone in the silence. The house felt like a tomb. I sat on the sofa, watching the clock. Every tick felt like a heartbeat fading away. What if she never came back? I’d have no one. I regretted everything. Why did I care if she loved me “properly”? If she stayed, I would be whatever she wanted. I would be a monster if it made her smile. I ran out to find her. I found her by the river near our house, standing on the edge of the embankment. She looked so small against the dark water, like she was ready to let go of the world entirely. I threw my arms around her waist. “I’m sorry! I’ll do whatever you say! I’ll only listen to you! I’ll be your version of a good girl forever! Just don’t leave me!” She looked down at me with such profound grief. She pulled me into a crushing hug and howled into the night. “Maya, I’m so sorry. I’m a horrible mother.” “No,” I whispered, wiping her tears. “You’re the best mom in the world.” She only sobbed harder. 2. Have I Lost My Mind? After that night, everything changed. Mom got busy. She started working extra shifts, and she stopped hovering over me while I ate candy or played games. I kept doing it, though. I ate the sugar. I watched the screens. I followed her “rules” religiously because I wanted her to be happy when she got home. One night, she came home very late. She seemed surprised to see me up. “Why aren’t you in bed?” she asked. “Mom, we’re out of candy,” I said, waiting for her to praise me for finishing it. She blinked. “Oh. Okay. I’ll buy more tomorrow.” She didn’t care. The disappointment was a cold weight in my chest. It felt like she had given up on me. Desperate to win her back, I started practicing the piano. I practiced the only song she ever taught me: Für Elise. I didn’t have a teacher. My mom was my only instructor, and she’d only ever taught me this one piece. I knew it by heart, except for the very last movement. I could never get the phrasing right. Whenever I played, Mom would look happy—until I reached that final part. Then she’d explode. “Why are you so stupid? It’s so simple! Why do you keep torturing me with that mistake?” I wanted to make her proud, so I went to the music teacher at school. I told her my story—well, a version of it. I told her I wanted to surprise my mom. “I don’t have money for lessons,” I said, “but I’ll clean your classroom for a year if you just show me how to play the end of Für Elise correctly.” The teacher, Ms. Adler, gave me a sad smile. “You don’t have to clean anything, Maya. Just play it for me.” I played. When I finished, she looked puzzled. “Maya… you played that perfectly. There were no mistakes.” I stared at her. “Really? But my mom says I get the end wrong every time.” Ms. Adler laughed gently. “Maybe your mom’s memory is just a little rusty. You go home and tell her that a professional says you’re a natural. I’ll vouch for you.” I was ecstatic. I wasn’t stupid! I was doing it right! That night, I sat at the piano and waited. The moment I heard her key in the lock, I struck the first note. Für Elise filled the room. Mom walked over, her face softening, her eyes misting over as she listened. She was completely under the spell of the music. Then, I reached the final movement. I played it exactly as Ms. Adler had taught me. Mom’s face contorted. “The music teacher at school taught me,” I said, still playing. “She said I’ve been doing it right all along! Isn’t that great, Mom? I’m not stupid!” Mom lunged. She grabbed me by the ear and yanked me off the stool. She threw me to the floor and started kicking. “Who told you to go to a teacher? Who gave you permission?” She was a whirlwind of violence—slapping, kicking, pulling my hair. She treated me like a ragdoll she was trying to rip apart. “Who told you to go to a teacher? Answer me!” “I just… I wanted you to be happy!” I sobbed, the air leaving my lungs. “I thought if I played it right, you’d be happy!” She froze. Then she collapsed onto the floor, wailing. “God! Why am I so poor? Why do I have to suffer like this?” I watched her, bruised and broken, and I realized I didn’t understand anything. Why did she want me to play the “wrong” note? Why did my fingers insist on playing the “right” one even when I knew it would hurt me? I was a failure. I would never make her happy. Why are you so stupid? Why don’t you just die? Her words echoed in my head. Maybe she was right. If I couldn’t make her happy, maybe I shouldn’t be here at all. The thought took root. If my absence was the only thing that could give her peace, I would go. But I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I went into her room to write her a letter. I wanted to be surrounded by her scent while I said my final words. While looking for paper, I found an old, yellowed photo tucked inside her journal. It was a picture of me, Mom, and a man I’d never seen before. We were all smiling. We looked like a real family. But something was wrong. Mom looked young and vibrant in the photo. But I looked exactly the same as I do now. If this was an old photo, I should be a baby. But I looked ten years old. And I had no memory of that man. No memory of that day. I realized then that I must have amnesia. That was why I was “stupid.” That was why Mom was miserable. There was a hole in my life where a father and a past used to be. If I could find the missing pieces, maybe I could fix her. I didn’t care about having a dad, but if he was the key to Mom’s smile, I had to find him. 3. Who is the Other Child? Mom grew more distant. She took on a third job at a warehouse. She came home smelling of cardboard and exhaustion. I wanted to help. I found a job handing out flyers after school. Thirty dollars for three hours. If I did it every day, I could give her nine hundred dollars a month. The boss only hired me because I told him it was a surprise for my mom’s birthday. I worked like a demon, dodging the truant officers, imagining the look on her face when I handed her the cash. Then came the day of the storm. The air was thick and humid. The swallows were flying low. Mom always told me never to go out in the rain. But I had one last stack of flyers. If I finished them, I’d have the full nine hundred. I stayed out. The rain started as a drizzle and turned into a deluge. My head started to throb. My breath came in ragged gasps. Don’t get sick, I told myself. Sick kids cost money. I woke up in a hospital bed. Mom was asleep in the chair next to me. I reached out and touched her face, feeling a strange, hollow sense of peace. I hadn’t been this close to her in weeks. She woke up, her eyes bloodshot and weary. “Mom, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have been in the rain. I wasted your money.” She looked at me with that unreadable, complex gaze. I braced for the anger. But she just sighed. “Don’t do it again, Maya.” We were okay. For a while, we were actually okay. While I recovered, she brought me treats and stayed by my side. I ate everything she gave me. I even asked for candy and ice cream. “You don’t have to eat those anymore,” she said quietly. “From now on, do what you like.” I didn’t have things I liked. I only liked her. But the fact that she gave me permission to be “normal” felt like a miracle. I thought she finally loved me for me. When I went back to school, Madison turned her back on me. “Liar,” she hissed. “What?” I asked. We had been on okay terms since the fight. “You said your mom lets you eat whatever you want. You’re such a fake, Maya.” “She does!” “Liar. I saw you at the mall this weekend. Your mom bought an ice cream cone and let you have one bite. You asked for more, and she said, ‘Good girls don’t overindulge.’ And you just stood there like a little robot.” The mall? This weekend? “Madison, I was in the hospital this weekend.” “Likely story.” She pulled out her phone and showed me a photo. “I took a picture because I knew you’d lie. Look.” It was my mom. And it was “me.” The girl in the photo looked exactly like me. Same hair, same height, same face. But it wasn’t me. My heart felt like it had been hollowed out with an ice cream scoop. Mom didn’t stop giving me candy because she loved me. She stopped because she had a new “good girl.” A version of me that didn’t need to be forced. After school, I followed my mom. I waited outside her factory and trailed her bike at a distance. She didn’t go home. She went to the hospital—the same one I’d just left. I followed her up to the third floor. I peered through the window of a private room. Inside, Mom was dressing a girl in a beautiful, sparkling dance leotard. The girl—the one who looked just like me—did a few clumsy pirouettes. Mom started to cry. But they weren’t the bitter tears she shed with me. They were tears of pure, radiant joy. I didn’t go in. I didn’t ask who she was. I just knew. She was the “real” Maya. My twin. My sister. Maybe Mom and Dad split them up, and Mom kept me while Dad kept her. But Mom clearly loved her more. Mom was miserable with me because I wasn’t her. I watched the girl dance. If I could dance like that, would Mom love me too? I used my flyer money to buy the exact same leotard. I practiced the girl’s movements in the park until my legs shook. I memorized every tilt of her head. Then, I performed it for Mom at home. She didn’t clap. She didn’t smile. “Where did you get those clothes?” she hissed. “Who told you to dance like that? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?” She beat me again. But this time, I didn’t cry. My heart was already empty. There was nothing left to bleed. I had to find the man in the photo. I had to give the “other” girl back to Mom and find a way to disappear. As long as Mom was happy, I didn’t matter.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391406”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After the breakup, I got a small black snake tattooed on my hip. That night, I dreamed of a serpent coiling around my arm. It transformed into a man with a lethal smile and a body carved from marble. In the haze of the dream, I wrapped my arms around his waist and called him “husband.” The next day, a high-level executive from the corporate headquarters was fast-tracked to our office. I froze the moment I saw him. His face was a perfect, terrifying match for the man in my dream. While the rest of the team buzzed with excitement, I kept my head down, my face burning as I joined the chorus of greetings. “Welcome, Mr. Blackwood.” Later that afternoon, he cornered me in the breakroom, a playful, knowing glint in his eyes. “Not going to call me ‘husband’ today?” 1 My ex, Harrison, was the golden boy of our university. When we graduated, I landed a steady job, but he said he wanted to pursue his Master’s. As his girlfriend, I did what any supportive partner would do: I stepped up. That “support” lasted three years. For three years, I was the sole breadwinner, paying for his life while he studied. Every time the exam results came out and he fell short of the cutoff, he’d complain about the “unfairly high standards” before looking at me with those puppy-dog eyes, dripping with guilt. “I’m so sorry, babe. I let you down again.” “Just give me one more chance.” Looking at the shattered light in his eyes, I’d always remember him on the debate stage in college—ambitious, brilliant, untouchable. He used to say that a young man’s dreams shouldn’t be shackled by reality; that we had to fight the world to stay true to ourselves. Back then, he radiated a kind of energy that made me feel like anything was possible. That was the version of him I loved. So, I’d grit my teeth and nod. I can work a few more hours, I told myself. I can handle the stress. I lived a life of extreme frugality. I became the office martyr, taking every overtime shift and every thankless task, just to ensure he had a quiet, comfortable environment to study. Whenever he saw me coming home exhausted, he’d stroke my hair. “Once I get into grad school, I’m going to make it all up to you. I’ll give you the life you deserve.” 2 I wanted to believe him. I had fought so hard to get him in the first place. Back in college, I was the one chasing him—bringing him breakfast, running miles beside him at the gym, standing in the rain with an umbrella just to make sure he stayed dry. I loved every second of it. When he finally asked me to be his girlfriend on my birthday, I felt like I’d won the lottery. My roommates used to tease us, saying we were like a couple straight out of a romance novel. I believed them. I thought I was the heroine who had finally won over her cold, brilliant hero. But novels are smart; they end at the wedding or the grand confession. They stop before the credits roll on the mundane, soul-crushing reality of what comes after the “happily ever after.” 3 In the third year, he finally did it. He got into his dream program. The day he received his acceptance letter, I was genuinely ecstatic for him. I was beaming, my heart light for the first time in years. He looked at me and asked, “Are you just happy because you don’t have to support me anymore?” I blinked, the smile faltering. I was happy because his dream had come true—not because of the money. Harrison saw my stunned expression and let out a sharp laugh. “Just kidding. Let’s go get a steak.” I tried to shake off the unease and forced a smile. Later, I realized that people often use “just kidding” as a shield for the truths they’re finally brave enough to say. What followed wasn’t the reward he’d promised. It was the “Slow Fade.” The cold shoulder. The emotional desert. 4 Eventually, I couldn’t take the silence anymore. I drove down to his campus and found him walking with a beautiful girl from his cohort—Bridget. He was leaning toward her, his expression softer and more attentive than he’d been with me in years. I confronted him, tears streaming down my face, asking if he’d moved on. Harrison just smiled—that same “ambitious” smile that used to inspire me, but now felt like ice. He told me to go back to work. My tears didn’t move him. He was gentle, but it was the kind of gentleness a surgeon uses before an amputation. “We just aren’t on the same frequency anymore, Elena. You have to understand.” When he was drowning, I was the life raft he clung to. He whispered sweet things to keep me paddling. But now that he’d reached the shore, he didn’t need the raft. He wanted to push it back into the current and watch it sink so he wouldn’t have to be reminded of how wet he’d once been. I wiped my eyes and turned away, my heart hardening. “I loved you, Harrison. But I don’t have to love you.” If he wanted to play games, he could play them with someone else. I might have been a “lover girl,” but I wasn’t an idiot. 5 I spent the walk back to my car cursing his name. I passed a tattoo parlor with a neon sign: REBIRTH STARTS WITH INK. 50% OFF. It was a tacky slogan, but I found myself walking in anyway. Why not? I’d spent three years being the “perfect, supportive partner.” I’d never done anything rebellious. The artist was a rugged guy with a thick beard and a heavy Midwestern accent. “Looking for something special, honey?” He pointed to a classic black rose. I made a face. Too cliché. Then, my eyes caught a flash of something else. A small black snake. It was elegant, mysterious, and looked dangerous in a quiet way. “I want that. On my hip.” The artist looked at me, surprised, then shrugged. “Bold choice. Let’s do it.” 6 I walked out an hour later, the skin on my hip throbbing with a dull, radiating heat. That same afternoon, I quit my dead-end job and sent my resume to Summit Media, the biggest firm in the city. By evening, a chill set in. My body felt like it was humming with a fever. I crawled into bed, exhausted from the crying and the adrenaline, and fell into a deep, heavy sleep. In the haze, I felt someone sitting on the edge of my bed. A man. “So foolish…” he whispered. It sounded like a sigh of exasperation, or maybe… heartbreak. I looked up and saw a face like something out of a dream—sharp, ethereal, hauntingly familiar yet completely unknown. Driven by some primal instinct, I whispered, “Husband…” I reached out and pulled him toward me, crying into his chest. The next morning, I woke up feeling like a total lunatic. Clearly, I’m more traumatized by the breakup than I thought, I told myself. It was just a dream. Then, the luck started. My resume didn’t just get a look; I got an interview. Then, I got the job. Summit Media. A Fortune 500 company. I threw myself into the work. I worked hard for three months, ignoring the lingering headaches and the weirdly vivid dreams, until… “What’s the gossip today?” I asked, stirring my coffee in the breakroom. My coworker, Sarah, leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “Didn’t you hear? The new Managing Director from HQ is here today. Rumor has it, he’s a total smoke-show.” I was half-listening until the elevator doors opened. A man in a charcoal-grey suit stepped out, followed by a phalanx of executives. I nearly dropped my mug. That face. It was him. The “husband” from my fever dream. The man with the washboard abs and the voice like velvet. Life is a cruel, cosmic joke. I ducked my head, my face turning a violent shade of red, trying to disappear into the carpet as we all chimed in, “Welcome, Mr. Blackwood.” Dominic Blackwood didn’t acknowledge me specifically. He just gave a curt nod, offered a few corporate platitudes, and walked toward the corner office without a second glance. But that night, he was back in my dreams. He pinned me against the wall of a darkened hallway, his lips inches from my ear, his voice a low, teasing vibration. “Why didn’t you call me ‘husband’ today?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391405”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was killing time on the drive back to my hometown for the holidays, scrolling through TikTok, when I hit a post that made my blood boil. “How to handle your ‘needs’ during the holidays back home, girls? Watch and learn.” The video was a series of text overlays: “Step one: Pick a target and start a rumor. Everyone’s back in town—friends, family, the whole neighborhood. His parents will be so obsessed with their ‘reputation’ that they’ll practically gift-wrap him for me.” “Result? A free space-heater for my bed, and I don’t even have to pay for dinner. Absolute perfection.” In the comments, someone asked: “But Tiff, are you actually gonna marry him?” The creator replied: “LMAO. You know me. I’m all about that new-car smell. Once the holidays are over, he’s trade-in value.” I felt a surge of genuine disgust. I closed the app, trying to shake off the ick. But the moment I stepped through the front door of my childhood home, I didn’t get a “Welcome Home.” My father was standing in the foyer, his face a dark, stormy mask of resentment. “I didn’t think after a few years in the city you’d turn into such a degenerate,” he spat, his voice trembling with shame. “Living with a woman, getting her pregnant, forcing her into a back-alley clinic?” I froze, my suitcase halfway over the threshold. “What are you talking about?” “Don’t play dumb!” he roared. “You’re moving into her place tonight. You’re going to make this right before the whole town finds out what a coward I raised.” My heart did a slow, sickening thud against my ribs. Wait. Why did this script sound so familiar? 1. My head was spinning. Was I… was I being set up? The absurdity of it almost made me want to laugh. Almost. “Dad, you can’t seriously believe that crap,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. He stepped toward me, his jaw set. “It’s not ‘crap’ when the whole parish is talking about it! Besides, why would a woman like her—a successful CEO—make something like that up?” CEO? “Her?” I asked, squinting. “Are we talking about Tiffany Snyder? Tiffany is a CEO now?” How long had I been away? Had I missed a total shift in the space-time continuum? My father’s face reddened further. “You’re supposed to be the one with the college degree. We worked ourselves to the bone to send you off to school, and what do you have to show for it? Nothing. Tiffany barely finished high school and she’s already buying property in the city. And look at you. You’ve been ‘grinding’ for years and you can’t even afford a decent car.” The contempt in his eyes was a physical weight. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have wasted a dime on your tuition. I should’ve just put you to work and saved my money.” My sister, Lexie, didn’t even look up from her gaming headset on the couch. “Told you, Dad. You should’ve bought me that high-end PC instead. I could’ve been a pro-streamer by now. Investing in Brooks was a total loss.” My father nodded in grim agreement. “I expected you to be our ticket out of this place. Now, after this scandal, I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to pay her family to take you off my hands. Your mother should have listened to her gut when she was pregnant with you.” The cruelty of it hit me like a physical blow. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but my father cut me off. “I’ve already called her. You’re heading over there tonight.” “Excuse me?” I stood up, my pulse hammering in my ears. “What choice do we have? You think you have options after what you did? She’s willing to take you in despite the disgrace. You should be thanking your lucky stars.” I felt like I was losing my mind. Was I back in the nineteenth century? Some woman spreads a baseless lie about me, and my own family decides to sell me into domestic servitude to save face? I pulled out my phone. Tiffany’s TikTok had just updated. “Update, girls! He’s coming over today. Get ready for some ‘content.’” She panned the camera to a sheer, lacy nightgown laid out on her bed and added a suggestive, greasy smirk. “If you know, you know~” The comments were flooding in: “God, I wish I had your moves!” “Doing the Lord’s work for us single girls!” “Don’t forget to livestream the good parts!” I gripped my phone so hard I thought the screen might crack. This was not happening. 2. My first instinct was to grab the tire iron from my trunk and go settle this the old-fashioned way. But I stopped. That’s exactly what she wanted. If I showed up screaming, it would just look like a lover’s quarrel. It would validate her narrative. I took a deep breath and opened a burner account on TikTok. I commented: “How are you so sure he’ll show up? This sounds like slander. He could literally call the cops.” Tiffany replied almost instantly: “Sweetie, you clearly don’t know how small towns work. Let me educate you.” She was so arrogant she didn’t even realize she was talking to her target. “His dad is a widower who lives and dies by what the neighbors think,” she wrote. “And it’s the holidays. The pressure is ten times worse. Unless his family wants to be pariahs, they’ll practically force-feed him to me. News travels faster than a wildfire here.” Then she added: “Besides, I’m ‘rich’ now. People around here worship anyone with a dollar. My word is gospel.” The sheer, calculated coldness of it made my stomach turn. “I tap a few keys, tell a few stories, and a man gets delivered to my door for free. No dating apps, no effort. Maximum ROI.” I was shaking with rage. Tiffany sent one more message to the thread: “You want in on this, girlie? Venmo me $500 and I’ll coach you on how to land a ‘Holiday Rental’ of your own.” Before I could reply, my father came behind me with a broom, literally shooing me toward the door. “Move! You’re bringing bad luck into this house just standing there!” Fine. I’d go. I wanted to see this train wreck with my own eyes. I pushed open the front door and was hit by a blast of freezing wind and sleet. My shoes were soaked through within seconds. I cursed Tiffany Snyder with every step. If it weren’t for her pathetic little scheme, I’d be curled up by the fireplace with a beer and a book, not trudging through the slush. I hit a hidden pothole, and freezing water filled my shoe. My phone buzzed. “Breaking News: The ‘husband’ has arrived on foot! Look at that charm.” I clicked the link. She had filmed me from her window—stumbling, soaked, and looking utterly miserable. “He couldn’t wait to get into my bed. Look at him running to me in the cold. That’s the Snyder Magic™.” The comments were a cesspool of admiration. “Iconic.” “Queen behavior.” “Post the bedroom pics later!” I was vibrating with fury. It felt like she had stripped me naked in front of the whole world. But then, I noticed something in the background of her video. One of her followers had commented: “Umm, forget the guy, is that a Porsche in the driveway??” “Is that the new Taycan? That’s like a hundred-thousand-dollar car!” “Tiff, how are you so loaded? Teach us your secrets!” The car. I stopped in the middle of the slushy road and squinted at the sleek, matte-pink vehicle parked in front of Tiffany’s house. I rubbed my eyes. I knew that car. I snapped a photo and messaged my Head of Operations at the firm. “Is this the car you just bought? The one you were bragging about in the Slack channel?” I’d recognize those custom neon-pink brake calipers anywhere. A minute later, the reply came: “Yeah, that’s mine! How’d you see it? I’m back home for the break, so I put it on a luxury rental app for the week to cover the insurance. Some girl paid a premium for it.” A rental. I felt a slow, predatory smile spread across my face. Oh, this was going to be fun. 3. The anger was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. I pushed open Tiffany’s front door without knocking. Inside, the house smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap perfume. Tiffany was sprawled on a velvet sofa, wearing a tight, ill-fitting designer blazer. She had a massive, obviously fake Rolex on her wrist. “You’re here,” she said, her voice dripping with mock-boredom. “I knew you couldn’t stay away.” She looked at me with a greasy, self-satisfied grin. “Brooks Miller. Long time no see. Remember when I used to chase you in high school and you acted like you were too good for me? Look at us now. One little ‘update’ and you’re right where you belong.” I stared at her. “You know exactly what you’ve done, Tiffany.” She shrugged, checking her nails. “So I used a little leverage. Big deal. I’m a success story now. You’re lucky I’m even interested. If you play your cards right and keep me happy, maybe I’ll let you ride in the Porsche.” She looked down at her phone, and a second later, the TikTok updated: “Training the husband. He’s so obedient, he’s afraid to even breathe without my permission.” ‘Husband’? I felt a wave of nausea. “Don’t just stand there,” she barked, pointing to a corner. “Grab the broom. My relatives are coming over soon, and I need this place spotless. Then you’re starting on dinner.” She kicked off a boot and peeled off a damp sock, tossing it at my feet. “Wash these, too. By hand.” She immediately went back to her phone: “Having a man around is so convenient. He’s already doing my laundry. Life is good.” The comments hailed her as a ‘General’ and a ‘Boss Babe.’ It was surreal. This woman was a slob, a liar, and a thief of other people’s reputations. And her family was just as bad. Her mother walked into the room, looking at me like I was something she’d found on the bottom of her shoe. “Well, at least he’s pretty,” the mother said. “Even if he is a little tramp. I don’t know why my daughter wants a ‘used’ man like you when she’s a CEO.” “Exactly,” her father added, stepping in from the kitchen. “She’s a world-class executive. Look at her clothes—high-end custom couture. You better count your blessings.” These people were delusional. They were clearly reciting the script Tiffany had fed them. I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms. “So, Tiffany is a ‘big boss,’ huh?” The mother puffed out her chest. “The biggest. She owns a Fortune 500 company.” I almost laughed. “Is that so? Which one?” Before she could answer, the front door swung open. A group of extended relatives filed in, buzzing with excitement. They were all gravitating toward Tiffany, kissing her ring, acting like she was the Second Coming. “Brooks, what are you waiting for?” Tiffany’s father hissed. “Get to the kitchen and start the appetizers! Don’t embarrass us!” The audacity was breathtaking. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to my Head of Ops. “I need a favor. I’m about to dismantle a fraud. Give me full access to the rental logs and the employee database. Now.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391404”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day I was pushed down the stairs—the day my left kidney ruptured and had to be surgically removed—was the same day Margot called me, her breath hitching in that way it only did when she was with him. “Are you dead yet?” her voice rasped through the speaker. “If not, get over here. Bring a fresh set of Egyptian cotton sheets and sign the divorce papers.” She paused, a sharp, triumphant exhale following. “I’m pregnant with Dominic’s baby. I won’t have my son born a bastard. It’s time to give them the legal status they deserve.” I stared at the address she’d texted. In the past, I would have been blinded by a white-hot rage. I would have called my lawyers, gathered my pride, and stormed that penthouse to catch them in the act. Instead, I felt a strange, hollowed-out calm. I typed back a single word: Okay. Margot had no idea that in the original script of this world, she was nothing more than a minor character destined to die young from a terminal illness. She was only breathing because I—a traveler from another reality—had shielded her with my “Guardian Halo,” a cosmic tether that kept death at bay. And her precious little lover? He wasn’t the soulmate she thought he was. He was a “Virus” sent by the System to correct the timeline and drag her back to her grave. Now, the shield was shattered. Margot, my love, you have no idea how little time you have left. … When I reached the address Margot gave me, my legs were still shaking from the surgery. My face was a mask of cold sweat, and every breath felt like a serrated blade twisting in my side. The door swung open, revealing Margot’s face—sharp, beautiful, and twisted with immediate irritation. She glanced at the haphazard bandages on my elbows and knees, where blood was already seeping through the gauze. There wasn’t a flicker of concern. No softening of her eyes. Just a deepening scowl. “What took you so long?” she demanded. “You weren’t answering your phone. And these sheets… I told you Dominic likes the midnight blue set, not this charcoal grey.” She stepped back, letting me into the foyer. “He’s sleeping on the sofa now because I was afraid he’d catch a cold on the damp bed. I had to let him settle for a nap.” I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow and forced a thin, fragile smile. “My phone died. The boutiques were closed. This was the only new set we had left at the house.” I leaned against the doorframe, my vision swimming. “I would’ve been faster, but when Dominic pushed me down the stairs at the mall, my kidney ruptured. I had to have it removed. It took some time.” The truth was, I’d seen them earlier that afternoon. I’d caught them coming out of a high-end baby boutique, hand-in-hand, glowing with the secret of her pregnancy. I hadn’t even opened my mouth to confront her before Dominic started his performance. “Oh, God, Miles! Please don’t hit me!” he’d shrieked, cowering like a kicked puppy. In the chaos that followed, I felt a violent shove. The world tilted, and I tumbled down the concrete steps. As I lay broken at the bottom, I heard Dominic sobbing, “Margot, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was just so scared. I know I’m just the other man, and I deserve whatever he does to me, but I couldn’t let him hurt our baby. Even if the world never knows he’s ours, I have to protect him.” Because of the countless times I’d tried to “save” our marriage by confronting her affairs, I already had a reputation in our social circle as the jealous, unstable husband. I looked down to see a pool of red spreading beneath me. I clutched my stomach, gasping Margot’s name, pleading for her to look at me. But she didn’t. She simply wrapped her arms around Dominic’s waist, her eyes filled with a fierce, protective love I hadn’t seen in years. “I know,” she whispered to him. “Don’t be afraid. I’m going to give you and the baby a real name. A real life.” I watched her pull a diamond the size of a postage stamp from her pocket. In front of a crowd of strangers, she dropped to one knee and proposed to her side-piece while her husband bled out ten feet away. I blacked out to the sound of people cheering for their “true love.” A stranger called the ambulance. Margot never even looked back. And now, here she was, remembering I existed only because I was an obstacle to her new family. I reached out for the divorce papers. As I tried to step into the living room to sign them, my knees buckled. I tripped over the threshold and slammed onto the floor. “Argh—” The pain was blinding. Huge drops of sweat rolled down my face as I lay there, unable to get back up. Margot’s first instinct wasn’t to help me. She whipped her head around toward the sofa, checking if the noise had woken Dominic. When she saw he was still asleep, she turned her venom back on me. “Seriously? Stop it,” she hissed. “Don’t think you can win me back with a pity play. Even if you were dying, I wouldn’t change my mind about this divorce.” She stepped over my legs as if they were trash. “And even if you had both kidneys, I never wanted a child with you. Dominic doesn’t want anyone competing with our baby for the estate. Don’t worry, though. For the sake of the years you spent following me around, I’ll give you a settlement. It’ll be enough for you to live out the rest of your pathetic life.” I stared at the jagged scar on my wrist, a relic from a darker time. I felt surprisingly… hollow. Margot wasn’t lying. She’d made her stance on “our” children clear years ago. When I first caught her cheating, I’d spiraled. I thought my death would finally make her regret hurting me. I’d slit my wrists in the bathtub, the water turning a sickening crimson. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Adler, had screamed for Margot. Margot had merely leaned against the bathroom doorframe, exhaling a thin cloud of cigarette smoke. “Miles, give it up,” she’d said, her voice devoid of warmth. “When I loved you, a single sneeze from you felt like a knife in my heart. But seeing all this blood? It just bores me. Honestly, I’m mostly annoyed that you might ruin the dress I bought for my date with Dominic tonight.” She’d looked at me with pure clinical detachment. “Get the message. When it’s over, it’s over.” That night, while I was being resuscitated in the ICU, Margot was at a rooftop garden restaurant, singing love songs and celebrating her “three-month anniversary” with Dominic. That was the moment I stopped fighting. I stopped trying to pull her back. Margot didn’t realize that she was a glitch. She was supposed to die at twenty-three. I was the one who cheated the System, giving her my “Guardian Halo” to keep her heart beating. But Dominic was the Virus. Every time they slept together, the Virus ate away at her protection. The moment I’d gone under the knife for my kidney, a cold, synthesized voice had echoed in my mind: [Guardian Halo compromised. Virus integration: 90%. In thirty days, Subject Margot will succumb to terminal brain cancer.] A ballpoint pen clicked near my ear, snapping me back to the present. Margot was looking down at me, a mocking tilt to her head. “What? Do you need me to carry you to the table to sign? Get up. Honestly, every time I touch you, I feel like I need a shower.” She leaned in, her voice a cruel whisper. “I never wanted to carry your child. Having a baby with a man like you… I’d rather be dead. So stop stalling. Sign the papers before I lose my patience and decide you don’t get a dime.” She was referring to the years I’d spent working three jobs—including a stint as a host at a high-end club—to fund her first startup. She called me “dirty” because I’d let women touch my arms and flirt with me to earn the tips that paid her medical bills. I was an accidental traveler in this world. The System had told me I’d be sent home once the “narrative” was repaired. Until then, it gave me the Halo to survive. But I’d arrived with nothing. I was a nobody in a cold city. When I was cornered in an alley by thugs years ago, before the Halo could even trigger, it was Margot—then just a scrappy girl working construction—who had saved me. She’d cracked a lead pipe over a man’s head and dragged me back to her crumbling studio apartment. She’d fed me ramen. She’d given me a place to sleep. She wore patched-up overalls so she could buy me decent clothes. When she got extra meat in her lunchbox at the site, she’d save it for me, tucked away like a treasure. One night, she’d bought me a ring with three months’ worth of savings. “Miles,” she’d said, her eyes shining in the dim light. “You don’t have anyone. I don’t have anyone. But together? We’re a family. I’m going to give you the world.” Back then, the System had already warned me of her fate. She was sick. She fainted constantly. I lied to her, told her it was just low blood sugar, while I worked myself to the bone to pay for treatments she didn’t know she was receiving. I’d endured the wandering hands of club patrons, the humiliation, the exhaustion—all to keep her alive. But she kept fading. Finally, I’d found a loophole. I permanently transferred my Guardian Halo to her. It was an irrevocable gift. The price? I lost my ticket back to my real world. I thought it was worth it. I was an orphan anyway. Wherever Margot was, that was home. With her health restored and the business insights I provided from my knowledge of this “story,” she climbed from a construction worker to a CEO. And then… she met Dominic. Her “pure, clean” assistant. When I finally caught them in a hotel room, she didn’t even flinch. “Miles, back then, I didn’t have choices. You were the best I could do,” she’d said, buttoning her shirt with casual grace. “But now? I have everything. Every time I look at you, I think about how you sold yourself to get the information that built this company. You’re tainted.” She’d laughed when I tried to tell her the truth about being a traveler. “You think I’d believe that fairy tale? You were a broke nobody. You got those tips by sleeping around. Dominic is different. He’s innocent. He’s fresh. Being with him makes me feel like life is actually beautiful.” So, I’d learned to be silent. I’d watched her leave me on our anniversaries. I’d ignored the stray items left in her car. I waited, teeth grit, for the Virus to finish its work. The System had made me a new deal: Once Margot died and the timeline reset, I could finally go home. And as a final severance package, I could take every asset she owned with me. I pulled myself up using the doorframe, the pain a dull throb now. I took the pen and signed the papers with a steady hand. The moment I finished the last stroke, the lights flickered and died. A power outage. Dominic appeared from the darkness of the living room, holding a flickering candle. He walked toward me with a sweet, nauseating smile. “Mr. Sterling, I’m so sorry you had to make this trip. The sheets got… well, quite messy,” he said, his voice dripping with false modesty. “But since the power’s out, the elevators won’t work. You’ll have to take the stairs.” He paused, tilting his head. “I’d offer you a flashlight, but everything in this house was bought by Margot and me. I’d hate for a stranger to walk off with our things. Sorry~” He took the sheets from my hand and leaned into Margot, circling her waist with his finger. “Margot, babe… I’m awake now. And I’m feeling lonely again.” Margot’s breath hitched. She leaned in, devouring his lips, and slammed the door in my face. In the suffocating dark of the hallway, listening to the muffled, rhythmic sounds of her betrayal, I began the long, agonizing trek down forty-six flights of stairs. By the time I made it back to our—her—estate, I could barely stand. My clothes were shredded from a few stumbles in the dark. Mrs. Adler, the housekeeper, gasped when she saw me. She rushed to help me onto the sofa and ran for the first aid kit. I plugged my phone in, and almost immediately, it began to ring. It was the hospital. “Mr. Sterling? We have Mrs. Sterling’s lab results. It’s… it’s not good. Early-stage glioblastoma. Brain cancer.” The doctor sounded confused. “That’s strange. I looked at her file this morning and it seemed perfectly clear… but these new markers are aggressive.” Margot hated administrative “nonsense,” so I was the only one on the contact list. “Luckily, we caught it early,” the doctor continued. “Please, make sure she comes in for a follow-up immediately. We might still be able to save her.” I stared at the wall. Save her? Not a chance. I wanted her to spend every waking second with Dominic. I wanted them to “love” each other ten times a day until the Virus reached her brainstem. And she complied. Margot stopped coming home entirely. She was too busy flying Dominic to Paris for custom suits, or spending millions on pink diamonds at auctions, designing a wedding ring that made our marriage look like a footnote. I became the city’s favorite punchline: the discarded husband of the Year. I didn’t care. I sat in my quiet house, listening to the System’s daily reports on her deteriorating cells. Until her lead assistant called me in a panic. Margot had been arrested. She’d physically assaulted a high-profile client at a gala because the woman had made a comment about Dominic being a “kept man” who didn’t belong at the table. The client’s husband was a shark; he wasn’t just suing—he wanted her destroyed. When I arrived at the precinct, Margot was standing in front of a red-eyed, sniveling Dominic, shielding him with her body as she glared at the client’s husband. “Sue me,” she spat. “I’ll go to jail before I let anyone disrespect my man.” I froze for a heartbeat. Years ago, in a smoky club, she’d stood in front of three men who were trying to drag me into a car. She’d been beaten bloody that night, but she never moved an inch. “I’ll die before I let them touch my Evan!” she’d screamed back then. The names had changed. The sentiment remained the same. I stepped forward to offer an apology to the client, Mr. Harrison, but he wasn’t interested. He threw his lukewarm coffee directly into my face. “God, Sterling, aren’t you pathetic?” he sneered. “Your wife treats you like gum on her shoe, parades her boy toy around, and you’re still playing the martyr? You’re lower than the side-piece.” He turned back to the officers. “My wife is in the ER. Unless this bitch and her lapdog give a public apology and a full confession, we’re going to trial. I want her in a cell.” Margot watched me wipe coffee from my eyes with a chilling indifference. A faint, mocking smirk touched her lips, as if laughing at my meddling. But when Harrison insulted Dominic again, her face went dark. She lunged, and it took two officers to hold her back. I didn’t care about her reputation or the insults. But if Margot went to prison, the company’s stock would tank, and that would hurt my eventual inheritance. I wiped my face and leaned into Harrison’s ear, lowering my voice so only he could hear. “Mr. Harrison, we both know your wife started that fight. A public trial drags everyone’s laundry out. Margot isn’t a soft target.” I paused, my voice turning cold. “But if you trust me, I can give you something better. Give me one month. I guarantee you that both she and her company will disappear from this world.” Harrison looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “You? The man who can’t even handle a twenty-two-year-old intern?” I pulled up Margot’s digital lab report on my phone and slid it toward him. “You’ve seen how fast this company grew,” I whispered. “It wasn’t Margot’s ‘intuition.’ It was me. I know about a project—a massive acquisition—that no one else has touched yet. If you move now, your net profit by next year will be nine figures.” I looked him in the eye. “Sign the waiver for Margot. I give you the data. You can choose to fight a dying woman, or you can choose to be the richest man in the state. Your call.” Everyone in the city knew the Sterling Group’s meteoric rise was legendary. They just didn’t realize when the “magic” had stopped. It stopped the day I caught her in that hotel room. Harrison was a shark, and sharks know when to bite. He signed the release. As he left, he gave me a long, contemplative look. “Margot is a fool. To have a weapon like you and waste it on a boy like that…” He shrugged. “When the divorce is final, call me. I have a daughter who actually knows the value of a partner.” I smiled politely and said nothing. He didn’t see me as a person; he saw me as an asset. Just like Margot had. I remembered the way she’d looked at me once the money started rolling in. “Miles, if I hadn’t pulled you out of that alley, you’d be dead or worse by now. You don’t get to tell me what to do.” I didn’t need a “home” from her anymore. I just needed the cash. I drove back to the villa, but as I went to unbuckle my seatbelt, a pair of blinding high beams flooded my vision. A car roared toward me. CRASH. The impact shattered the night. Even with the airbag, I felt the warm slip of blood down my temple. My ribs screamed. The door was ripped open. Margot grabbed my collar and hauled me out of the wreck, her face twisted in a mask of fury. “You disgusting, pathetic snake!” she screamed. “You signed the papers, and then you went behind my back to have Harrison’s wife humiliate Dominic again? Do you know how hard he’s been crying?!” She shook me, her nails digging into my skin. “How did you get to Harrison? Did you sleep with him too? Do you think destroying Dominic’s reputation will make me come back to you? You make me sick. I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last man on earth!” Mrs. Adler ran out of the house, sobbing at the sight of my bloodied face. “Oh my God! Mr. Sterling! Come inside, let me help you—” “Don’t you dare call him that!” Margot roared. “From now on, there is only one master of this house, and it’s Dominic!” She turned her cold eyes on me. “This is my house. I bought it. You have no right to step foot inside. Mrs. Adler, Dominic is distraught. He hasn’t eaten. Go fix him some soup. If I see you helping Miles, you can pack your bags and leave with him!” Mrs. Adler looked at me, her hands trembling in her apron. I gave her a small, reassuring nod. It’s okay. After she went inside, I tried to reach for my phone to call 911. Margot snatched it out of my hand and hurled it into the lake. “I built this empire,” she said, her voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet chill. “I didn’t need your ‘tips.’ I did this myself. So stop pretending you’re a martyr. I owe you nothing.” She stepped toward the door. “Since you wanted to play games with the divorce, consider this your punishment. The car, the phone, the house—they’re mine. I’ll burn them before I let you have a cent.” She disappeared inside. A second later, the electronic lock chimed. Code changed. The night air was freezing. My lungs felt like they were filled with glass. I thought about how she used to say that everything she had was mine. How she just wanted me to stay home and be happy. Since her word meant nothing now, I supposed it was time to take back the life and the fortune I’d lent her. The door opened again. Mrs. Adler rushed out and pressed a roll of cash into my hand. “Mr. Sterling, please. It’s my salary from this month. I withdrew it yesterday. Take it, get a taxi, go to a doctor.” She was shaking. “She’s… she’s just confused. When she calms down, she’ll fix this. I know she will.” As the words left her mouth, a pile of clothes and objects were hurled from the second-story window. Our wedding photos. My suits. The hand-painted gifts I’d given her for every birthday. “Margot, please… I’ve never done it in your house before,” Dominic’s voice drifted down from the balcony, a playful, suggestive whine. “I want to do it in the bedroom, and on the stairs… I want every corner of this place to smell like us.” There was a pause, then Margot’s voice, husky and raw. “Whatever you want, baby. Anything.” “Silly girl,” Dominic chirped. “This is our home now. For our baby. We’re going to be together forever.” As they spoke, one last item was tossed into the dirt. My heart twinged for a second when I saw what it was. Before I’d given her the Halo, when she was still weak and terrified of dying, she had climbed three thousand stone steps to a mountain shrine on her hands and knees. She’d brought back a hand-carved wooden plaque with our names on it. “To Miles: May we grow old together in peace and happiness.” Now, the wood was splintered. The names had been gouged out with a knife. It was just a piece of trash. Mrs. Adler went silent, looking at the wreckage of my life. I patted her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Adler. I’ll pay you back. I promise. Many times over.” Good people deserve a reward. And the heartless? Well, they don’t get to grow old. Six hours after I left the ER with a row of stitches in my head, the System pinged. Margot had been trying to “celebrate” with Dominic on the balcony. A sudden, blinding migraine had struck. Her vision went black. She’d tumbled over the railing and fallen two stories to the pavement.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391403”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel