“What kind of career is that? Playing on your phone?” My mother, Carol Jensen, lobbed the question across the heavy linen tablecloth, and the sudden quiet made me feel the weight of twenty-something pairs of eyes settling on me. I set down my chopsticks. I didn’t say a word. This was the annual, obligatory family dinner. Aunts, uncles, cousins—we were packed into a private room at a mid-tier catering hall. My mother lived for these gatherings. The larger the audience, the grander her performance. “Look at your sister, Jessica,” she declared, pointing to the woman seated next to the head of the table. “A civil servant. Stable. Dependable.” She gestured toward me with a practiced flourish. “And you? You quit a real job three years ago. Now you just sit home all day, staring at that screen.” I glanced at the small, sleek metal trophy sitting on the bookshelf back in my apartment. It was the top industry award I’d won last year. She thinks it’s an online-ordered knick-knack. “Mom,” I smiled softly. “Let’s just eat.” My phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it. 1. “Posting videos is hardly what I’d call ‘work,’ Carol.” My cousin, Jessica, picked up the thread, her tone laced with that familiar, saccharine superiority. She was wearing a new, creamy ivory trench coat today, a designer piece that probably cost upwards of a thousand dollars. The kind of coat that screamed I have arrived. “Our city planning department is hiring for a new digital media role. It’s a competitive process. You need a top-tier degree, a solid background…” She trailed off, letting out a small, pitying laugh. “But never mind. It’s not your thing.” Aunt Lena chimed in from across the table. “Jessica’s right, Stephanie. You’re not getting any younger. It’s time to find something legitimate.” I didn’t engage. From childhood, I’d been the one to be weighed, measured, and found wanting. I came in second in the class; Jessica came in fifth. Mom said, “Your sister is strong in the humanities. Math is just pulling her down.” I got into the state’s flagship university; Jessica went to a local college. Mom said, “The school name isn’t everything. Your sister has better people skills.” The day I quit my corporate job three years ago, all the relatives happened to be visiting. My mother railed at me in front of everyone, calling me “crazy,” “ungrateful,” and “an embarrassment.” That night, alone in my tiny studio apartment, I launched my first live stream. Seven viewers. It seems darkly funny now. “So, Stephanie,” Aunt Deb leaned in conspiratorially. “How much do you actually make with these… videos? A month?” “Enough,” I said. “Enough is what? A few thousand?” “Mmm.” I took a long drink of water, deciding against any form of explanation. It wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t believe that someone who “plays on their phone at home” could earn a living. Just as my mother wouldn’t believe that the “decoration” on my shelf was the highest award in my industry. Mark, my husband, sat beside me. He hadn’t said a single word in my defense. His eyes, when they met mine, held the same look as theirs. My phone vibrated again. I hit the mute button and kept eating. 2. Three days later, Jessica called. “Stephanie, I need a favor.” I was in the middle of editing a video, my own voice playing back in my headphones as I meticulously smoothed out the audio. “What is it?” “My department is doing a new promotional video, and my boss put me in charge. You know how to do all that techy stuff, right? Just whip it up for me. Think of it as practice.” I stopped the mouse cursor mid-screen. “Jess, I have work.” “What work? Posting videos? How busy can you possibly be?” She let out a small, dismissive laugh. “I won’t make you do it for free, of course. I’ll take you out to dinner when it’s done.” In the background, I heard my mother’s voice bleed through the phone. “Stephanie, what’s the big deal? Just help your sister. Her job is demanding. You’re just sitting around anyway.” I stared at the timeline on my screen. I’d been editing this one four-minute video for four hours straight. “Fine.” I hung up after the single word. That evening, Jessica forwarded the assets. It was a total mess: no script, no storyboard, and the camera work was shaky and poorly lit. I reorganized, edited, color-corrected, added subtitles, and sourced royalty-free music. It took me two days. I sent the final cut. Her reply: “Got it.” No ‘thank you.’ No ‘great job.’ Nothing. Late that night, I opened my dashboard. Followers: 3,847,521. The comment section was buzzing: “Where’s Stephanie? Missing my dose of wisdom.” “Waiting for Stephanie, can’t sleep.” “Take care of yourself, Queen. No rush.” I stared at the screen for a long time. Three million people were waiting for me. My family thought I was “sitting around.” I offered a dry smile, changed the project’s status to “URGENT,” and kept working. 3. The following weekend, Mark and I went to his parents’ house for dinner. Mark’s mother, Barbara Grant, pulled me into a long hug the moment I walked in, immediately followed by a meticulous inspection. “Stephanie dear, what have you been up to lately?” “Working,” I said. “Working? Still doing that…” She mimed a slow, lazy swipe of a screen. “That thing?” Mark was changing his shoes by the door. He interjected without looking up. “Mom, it’s just a hobby. Something she does to pass the time.” I shot him a look, but he didn’t meet my gaze. “Stephanie, I’m going to be honest with you.” Barbara guided me to the couch, her tone heavy with concern. “A woman needs a proper, stable job. Look at Mark. He works so hard, busting his butt for over eight thousand a month. What kind of example are you setting, playing on your phone at home?” I said nothing. “Find an office job. Even if the pay isn’t great, it’s respectable.” She patted my hand. “If you keep this up, think of the stress you’re putting on Mark.” Mark walked over from the entryway and stood beside his mother. “She has a point, Stephanie. Why can’t you just get a real job?” I looked at him. This man, who had stood before me two years ago and promised, “I support whatever you choose to do.” “I understand,” I said. That night, back home, my best friend Sasha texted me. Stephanie, you seriously need to tell them what you’re doing. No need, I replied. How is there no need? You make more money than their entire family combined. Why are you letting them talk to you like that? I stared at the text and didn’t reply. Why? Because they had never once asked what I was doing, choosing instead to only see me “staring at a phone at home.” And mostly, because I didn’t feel like explaining. Explaining to people who have already decided they won’t believe you is the most pointless waste of energy. 4. A month later, the promotional video I’d made for Jessica’s department went viral. It hit two million views. Her department head praised her by name, saying she “hired a very professional team.” A team. I sat at my computer, reading the text from my sister: The boss praised me today! Said the video was fantastic and put me in charge of all future projects. No “thank you.” No “you did this.” Not a single mention of my name. I scrolled up the messages. When she’d sent the assets, she’d said: “You help me whip it up.” I helped her whip it up. To her boss, it was her credit. At the next family dinner, my mother brought it up again. “Your sister’s video! Over two million views! Her boss says she’s talented, and they’re grooming her for the next promotion.” Her voice was bursting with pride. Jessica, sitting next to her, smiled and waved a hand dismissively. “It was nothing, Mom. Just a really good agency.” “An agency?” Aunt Deb asked. “The team I hired,” Jessica said. My hand froze, clutching a fork. She looked at me quickly. There was a flicker of guilt in her eyes, but mostly a smug certainty—you won’t say anything anyway. My mother went on. “Stephanie, look at your sister. That’s what I call ambition. You, on the other hand, sitting around…” “Mom,” Jessica interrupted, cutting her off. “It’s fine. Don’t say anything.” What was that tone? It was protective. Like she was saying, don’t pick on the poor, unemployed little sister. But I had spent two all-nighters creating that video. “I’m finished,” I said, putting down my fork. “You’ve barely touched your plate,” my mother frowned. “Something came up. I have to leave.” I stood up and pulled my car keys from my purse. Mark grabbed my arm. “What is with the attitude?” I looked at him. His eyes said it all: Don’t make a scene. Give me face. Can’t you just suck it up for an hour? “I don’t have an attitude.” I removed his hand, turned, and walked out. Behind me, I heard my mother’s voice: “Honestly, that child is becoming impossible.” The elevator door closed, and my phone vibrated. Caller ID: Mr. Alistair. 5. Mr. Alistair’s call was about the upcoming annual gala. “Stephanie, next Friday. The company awards show. You’re the anchor for the evening.” I was standing alone in the parking garage. My voice was calm. “Okay.” “Did you check the numbers? You’re number three on the annual earnings list.” He chuckled. “The top two are massive content houses. You’re a solo creator. That’s huge.” “I know.” I hung up and sat in my car for a long time. Number three. Annual income: two million dollars. I had never told any of them this number. They didn’t ask, and I didn’t say. What difference would it make? Would my mother suddenly change her tune and say, “My daughter is successful”? No. I started the car and drove home. The next day, my mother-in-law called again. “Stephanie, what exactly do you make a month?” Her tone was more direct this time. “I asked Mark, and even he couldn’t give me a straight answer. Is this job even reliable?” I gripped the phone, looking out the window. “Enough.” “Enough is not enough. I need to know the figure, Stephanie.” She stressed the last word. “It’s hard enough for my son to support you. You can’t be so vague.” Support me? I laughed inwardly. We’d been married for two years, and we were strictly splitting the bill. His salary was his savings; my income was my expense. He didn’t know what I saved; I didn’t know what he saved. “Barbara,” my voice was flat. “I support myself.” “Don’t take this the wrong way, but is this video-posting thing going to last forever?” I didn’t answer. “You should find a proper, stable job while you’re young. Even a low-paying office job. Staying home all day… when the neighbors ask, I don’t even know what to tell them.” I listened to her ramble for ten full minutes. “I understand,” I said. I hung up and looked at my dashboard data. The video I’d posted yesterday had 17 million views. One comment read: “Stephanie is the most insightful person I’ve ever watched.” I swiped the screen and exited the app. Insightful? If I were truly insightful, I wouldn’t let these words still sting. 6. On Wednesday, Jessica showed up at my door. This time, she didn’t call. She just appeared. “Stephanie, big news.” She pulled me inside, her eyes gleaming. “My department has a huge new project this year, and my boss put me in charge of the entire communications strategy.” I poured her a glass of water. “And?” “The last video did so well, he thinks I have a real knack for this.” She paused. “This project is massive. State-level visibility. If I pull this off, I’ll be promoted to Director of Communications.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390833”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After Sylvia’s accident, the grief was a vacuum, and in a spectacular display of misplaced devotion—or maybe just sheer, spectacular madness—I turned to the only thing left: her ex-boyfriend, Nathan Ronald. “Sylvia, I need to tell you something. Please, try not to be mad…” “Nathan and I are a thing now!” Standing by her headstone, a shy blush warming my cheeks, I confessed. “I said so many awful things about him before, but I was wrong. Once we were together, I finally saw how truly good he is.” “I can’t stay long, though. Nathan doesn’t like me to be out for too long.” “Oh! Before I go, tonight, you absolutely have to send me the next Powerball numbers in a dream. That way, my sweet Nathan can save up the down payment for a house and finally marry me!” “Promise you’ll come through! I miss you so much down here.” My best friend, Sylvia Bell, was nothing if not dependable. 1. That very night, she broke into my dream, driving a massive semi-truck that pinned me down and proceeded to roll over me—again and again. “I didn’t see you, my bad,” she muttered. “Thought it was a speed bump.” “You are so clingy, Lucy Moore. Try sticking to my tires one more time, I dare you.” “Why are you using your face to collide with my axle?” “If you ask me, someone else deserved to die. Someone is being shady as hell, and you’re being incredibly obtuse.” She sounded furious, but I didn’t feel any pain. When she finally paused, exhausted from the metaphysical vehicular manslaughter, I wriggled out from underneath, grabbed her hand, and squealed with delight. “Sylvia, Sylvia, it’s really you! God, I missed you!” She let me rush her in a clumsy hug. Her perfect, winged brows were slightly furrowed, but she didn’t pull away, letting me clutch at her like a frantic puppy. “Sylvia, Sylvia, pop quiz! Guess who showed up right after your… crash?” I rushed the answer before she could speak. “It was Nathan, your ex! He came straight to my company building and waited for me. He wouldn’t leave until I saw him—three whole days he stood there!” Sylvia’s face darkened. “He had the audacity to seek you out?” “Why wouldn’t he?” I said, confused. “He did more than that. He proposed! He told me he was one of the people who missed you the most, and one of the only people who truly understood me. He said he was willing to inherit the legacy you left behind in this world, and that legacy is me!” “He promised to be devoted to me for life, to take care of me in your place, and never, ever stray. Where do you find a man with that kind of old-school loyalty these days? I said yes!” Sylvia’s composure finally snapped. She slapped my hand away, her beautiful eyes wide and blazing, exactly the way mine used to be. “Lucy Moore! Do you know that some things that look dirty actually require a certain status? If a man is chased by thousands and stays faithful, that’s character. If a nobody is ignored by everyone and stays faithful, that’s just incompetence!” “If the field is empty, does the goalkeeper still get credit for a shutout?” “He’s nearly forty and not married. Does that tell you he’s got no ambition, or something else is structurally unsound?” 2 She rattled off a complex, winding argument. I blinked at her. “But I thought it was incredibly romantic. It felt… fated.” “Besides, in ancient times, didn’t women in prominent families share husbands? It’s practically a time-honored tradition—” “I’m talking to a wall,” Sylvia hissed, placing her hands on her hips. “Did it ever occur to you how a poor guy with average looks, no money, no power, and no college degree climbed his way up to be a hotel general manager?” She pointed to herself, then jabbed a finger at my forehead. “It was because of what?!” I thought for a long moment, then whispered, “Because of love?” “I spit on that!” “It was because of scheming! He is obviously manipulating us, manipulating our friendship, Lucy!” “But why would he only manipulate us?” I wasn’t buying it. I leaned in, serious. “Out of all the people in the world, why did he pick me from the crowd?” “It means I am the most suitable partner for him! We are a match made in heaven, Sylvia. Why can’t you just be happy for me?” “Unless…” I narrowed my eyes. “Unless you’re still in love with him!” “Your words still love him, your tone still loves him, and the only reason you’re stopping us is because you still love him!” My eyes welled up. I felt like I had uncovered a heartbreaking truth. “Oh, Sylvia, if only you were still here, the three of us could have made it work. That would have been better than anything…” “I could throttle you right now!” Sylvia roared, jumping up to furiously pinch the soft flesh on my side. “You idiot! You moron! You’d be sold into slavery and still thank the auctioneer! Nathan is not a good guy! My accident was because he—” Her eyes were burning red with fury. But the words caught in her throat, as if a spectral hand had clamped down on her windpipe. Her pretty face flushed scarlet, and she couldn’t complete the sentence. I was instantly scared. I reached out to soothe her. “I know, I know. You were going to say your accident happened when you were rushing out to meet him after he suddenly broke up with you, right?” “But you can’t blame him for that. That semi blew a red light, and the driver tried to swerve but couldn’t avoid it…” “Forget it. Dream time is short. Do you have anything you want me to tell your parents? Hurry up and tell me.” 3 The alarm clock blared, shattering the dream. Fearing I would forget, I grabbed a notepad and a pen to write down everything Sylvia had said. Halfway through, I slapped my forehead. “That deadbeat didn’t give me the Powerball numbers!” As I scribbled furiously, a stream of floating text began refreshing rapidly above my head, a constant, ugly intrusion on my reality. This was the Scrolling Commentary. [LOL the Second Female Lead finally bites it. Serves her right for looking down on the hero and trying to force him to be a live-in husband. She deserves to die!] [Exactly. So what if her family owns a hotel? Does that give her the right to look down on a man? Forcing a man to move in is like rubbing our male dignity in the dirt!] [The car crash was a soft death, honestly. At least he let her keep a whole corpse.] [Heh heh, how else is the New Female Lead going to move up? Speaking of which, the New Female Lead’s body is fire. Big tits, tiny waist, plump ass. Perfect for a launchpad.] [Ah, another day of wishing I could possess the hero!] [But her nails are so long and bedazzled. She looks like a high-maintenance gold-digger.] [Who cares? Once the hero gets power, he’ll tell her to cut them, and she will. It’s just one sentence!] My hand froze. I put the pen down, pulled on a robe, and checked my phone. A string of missed calls, all from Nathan, all around midnight. He stopped calling after that, but two hours later, at 2 AM, he sent a text: “Baby, I love you the most, boo hoo hoo.” Then at 4 AM: “Sweetheart, you know I love you, right? Muah muah muah!” What was that about? I frowned in confusion. The Feed scrolled past at lightning speed: [Idiot. Should’ve kept your sound on. The hero was drugged by a rival at a dinner party last night. He was burning up. He wanted you to save him, but you didn’t come through!] [This New Female Lead is totally dropping the ball. Our hero, in his semi-conscious state, stumbled right into the suite of Victor Kane, the City Titan! The Titan liked the taste, apparently. Nailed him seven times in one night.] [Eh, it was a blessing in disguise. Now the Titan can’t forget him. He’ll find him again later and use his connections to boost the hero’s career.] [You have to pay the cost to succeed. Who understands the tragedy of us working-class men!] [Say no more, brothers. It’s all in the wine!] 4 I texted Nathan, but he didn’t reply. He finally picked up around noon. His voice was rough, weak, and thick with congestion. “I’m fine, baby, I just drank too much last night… No, no need to pick me up. I’m already out of the hotel—I mean, out of the house. On my way to work.” “By the way, baby, tonight is a major gala. Damon Shaw, the City Scion, is hosting it himself. Come with me, you might even be able to drum up some new investors for your family’s business.” I happily agreed. Nathan might have been from a small town, but he had an uncanny social antennae for elite events, a sharp sense of which rooms held opportunity. His decisions were usually sound, which was why Sylvia’s father had trusted him with the hotel business. Except he got one thing wrong. It wasn’t him bringing me to the party; it was me bringing him. The Feed flashed: [Here we go! This is the party! The New Female Lead gets drugged, meant to be sent to some fat cat CEO, but she accidentally ends up in the Scion’s room! The Scion has a good time and, in return, throws a huge chunk of investment money at her family’s company!] [HAHAHA, the New Female Lead, meanwhile, still thinks she slept with the hero, and stays loyal, giving him everything he wants. Before she dies, she writes him into her will, leaving him all her shares, massively expanding his empire!] [I love the leverage. Let all those snobs look down on the hero—he used her family to lift himself up anyway!] [But seriously, brothers, she’s so hot, is it a waste to pass her around?] [My brother, you can’t be so short-sighted. When the hero is rich, he can have any woman! A man must endure what others cannot and tolerate what others will not! He has to sacrifice even himself to succeed, let alone a woman! The New Female Lead is the best stepping stone for the hero to enter the A-list circle!] Before the gala, Nathan repeatedly instructed me not to reveal our relationship. When I asked why, he put on a thoughtful expression. “Baby, people will think you’re too consumed by love and your professional ability is lacking. We don’t want that.” Sounded reasonable. I nodded. Night fell. The party was held at the Shaw family estate—a place of opulence, shimmering with chandeliers and clinking glasses. I wore a black-and-gold velvet sheath dress and stiletto sparkle heels, elegant but body-hugging. I drew plenty of attention the moment I walked in. A flicker of resentment crossed Nathan’s eyes. But it was instantly replaced by a gentlemanly smile. He confidently took my arm, waiting at my side for me to introduce him. Seeing his practiced composure, the look of a confident social climber, I couldn’t help but think… It must have been the same before. Nathan was always this gentle and harmless, a deadly vine silently climbing onto warm, living flesh. The only difference was that the woman standing beside him wasn’t me. It was Sylvia. 5 “Ms. Moore, and who is this gentleman?” Everyone in the inner circle knew I never brought dates to these events. The sight of a grown man at my side naturally sparked curiosity. I offered a polite nod and explained, “This is Nathan Ronald, my… personal assistant.” The guests, all social veterans, read the ambiguity in my tone and offered a noncommittal hello. The warm greetings Nathan expected died in the air. He cleared his throat and smoothly retracted the hand he’d offered, replacing it with a gentle, attentive touch as he draped a shawl over my shoulders. He whispered that he was going to fetch me a drink, and then gracefully walked away. The Feed was less composed. They were absolutely livid, shouting obscenities: [New Female Lead, I advise you to be kind! Don’t push your luck!] [The most important thing for a man is his face! If you don’t respect him now, he’ll make your life a living hell later!] [The husband is the lord of the wife! How dare she speak to her heavenly protector like that! She’s going to start a revolt!] [Hmph. I’m exactly like this. I can joke around most of the time, but if you disrespect me, I will show you true darkness! I wanted to be a saint to everyone, but some people force me to unleash the demon inside. I ask you: can you control a demon once it is set loose?!] [Women always get wild once they see the outside world. She needs to be taught a lesson. Slap her twice, first!] [Don’t worry, everyone. The hero has already slipped the drug. He was going to take it easy on her since it was her first time, but now, he’s putting the whole thing in!] [To destroy her, one must first make her insane. Be arrogant while you can, New Female Lead. You’ll be begging for mercy soon enough!] While Nathan was gone, I slipped out onto the balcony. The deep winter night was cold and severe. The sky was a heavy, lightless canvas, hiding the moon. A moment later, the cold air beside me shifted, and I caught the scent of warm gardenia. “And who are you, sister? I haven’t seen you around.” The voice was laced with easy mockery. I rolled my eyes. “Damon Shaw, what is your deal this time?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390832”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother always called me her “favorite girl,” her “little sweetheart.” She loved to tell everyone that my brother, Jace, wasn’t half as thoughtful as I was. Friends and relatives repeated the sentiment: My mom, Shelly, loved me the most. It was because of my severe childhood allergy to all red meat and seafood proteins. She was tireless, they’d say, constantly making special meals just for me. She’d spend hours online researching recipes for safe, nutritious snacks, terrified that I’d feel deprived. The problem was, Mom was a terrible cook. Everything she made was dry, overcooked, and bland. My father, Gary, worked construction contracts out of state most of the year, leaving Mom to handle Jace and me. If I ever complained to him, he’d just tell me, “Your mother is working so hard taking care of both of you. You need to be more understanding.” So, I endured. I always had. Then came my eighteenth birthday. My mother presented the cake she’d made herself. It wasn’t made with cream or flour. It was constructed from cubes of stale bread. Staring at that lopsided, garishly-colored mockery of a dessert, I finally broke. I lifted the corner of the dining table and sent everything crashing to the floor. “I just wanted a damn cake! Was that too much to ask?” The room erupted. My relatives instantly condemned me as an ungrateful brat. My father, his face purple with fury, slapped me. My mother just stood there, tears streaming down her face, insisting it was all her fault, that she was only worried about my allergies… As the accusations rained down, something snapped. In a blind rage, I grabbed a handful of the leftover beef steak and shrimp from the overturned table and shoved it into my mouth. Everyone froze. … The moment my mother triumphantly carried out the “cake,” my body went rigid. It wasn’t a cake. It was cubes of dry, day-old bread, patched together with sickeningly bright, chemical-tasting frosting. It looked lumpy and grotesque. My mother was beaming, trying to sell the lie. “You know you have such a sensitive system, Maya, you can’t have dairy. This is special, just for you.” She nudged it closer. “Don’t look at it, taste it. It’s actually very good!” I just stared at it, unable to move. My Aunt Elise nudged my arm, her expression tight. “Your mother is talking to you. Think about it, Maya. You’re allergic to everything. Only your mother has the patience to prepare separate meals for you all these years, and now a special birthday cake. See how much she loves you?” Mom’s smile grew wider. “It’s what I should do. Maya is my little sweetheart. Who else would I spoil?” She pushed the foul centerpiece toward me again. The sugary stench, mixed with the stale, yeasty smell of the bread, hit me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I shot my hand out and slammed it against the plate. The bread structure hit the floor with a dull thud. “After all these years, all I wanted was one normal birthday cake! Was it really that difficult?” The sudden silence in the room was deafening. Every smile froze. My mother’s eyes instantly welled up. “Maya, I didn’t mean… I was just so worried about your allergies…” Aunt Elise stepped in quickly. “Maya, your mother is trying her best. You can’t speak to her like that.” I dug my nails into my palms. “If you didn’t want to buy me one, I could have bought my own! I’m a legal adult! I’m not spending your money!” I fought back tears of frustration. “This is my eighteenth birthday. I just wanted a good memory! Just stop pretending to be a good person, okay?” The relatives turned on me, their faces sour. “That little girl is so ungrateful!” “You’ve been allergic to every protein since birth! Your mother had to nurse you like this, or you would have starved!” “She’s a spoiled brat. And to be so cruel on your birthday? A total shame.” “Honestly, daughters are just a burden. A son is the only one who takes care of you in the end.” My father, Gary, who had taken unpaid leave to be here, looked mortified. He glared at me. “Maya! How dare you talk to your mother that way! She’s been running herself ragged, she bought you new clothes, a new phone! Apologize. Now!” Mom was weeping silently by the counter. My heart twisted. I snatched the cheap, plastic phone he mentioned—the basic brick phone—and hurled it to the floor. “Who wants this junk?!” “I’m in college now! Why would you buy me a prepaid burner phone?” Everyone paused at the sight of the cheap device. It was the kind of basic model you’d only find in a forgotten corner of a convenience store. But someone always defends Shelly. Aunt Elise shot me a look. “What’s wrong with a simple phone? It’s for calling and emergencies, isn’t it?” “Exactly!” a cousin chimed in. “We never had anything like this when we were young!” Mom quickly scooped up the phone, wiping it clean with a desperate tenderness. She pulled Elise closer, then looked at me with a lost, helpless expression. “Maya, I’m so sorry… Your father works so hard, and expenses are high. We don’t have the money… It’s my fault. I’ll apologize. Next time, when I save up a little more, I’ll buy you a better one. I promise.” Looking into her swollen, red eyes made my chest tighten with a suffocating, familiar rage. My voice came out in a desperate, sharp squeak. “Buy it now, or stop with the performance!” Mom flinched, her hands shaking. “I… I don’t have any cash right now…” I leaned in, aggressive. “Didn’t Dad deposit thirty thousand dollars into your account when he got back? Where is the money?” Her gaze flickered away. “There are so many things the family needs. You don’t manage a household, you don’t understand the costs… Besides, it’s snowing outside, it’s cold. Maya, why don’t you wait? I’ll go later, okay?” Elise gave me a hard stare. “It’s just a phone. When does it have to be bought? You haven’t always been like this, Maya. Why are you acting so materialistic?” The relatives chimed in with fresh condemnations. Mom wiped her tears and tried to play the peacemaker. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Maya is just stressed. Don’t scold her.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small bag of candy. “Here. I specifically bought you some chocolate. Have something sweet to tide you over, don’t starve yourself.” Dad and Aunt Elise stared at me, daring me to protest. “Look how good your mother is to you!” I felt the bag in my hand. It was soft and sticky—the cheap, pre-packaged chocolate had completely melted. My eyes burned with fresh anger. I threw the sticky bag down. “Who needs your cheap pity?” “If you truly loved me, you’d go out and buy me the newest phone and the best cake! If you can’t, then stop talking!” “You spoiled little brat!” Dad’s face went green. “Your mother bought you a treat because she knows you like sweets, and this is how you act?” “She can’t buy me a cake or a phone, but she shoves this cheap candy at me and tries to look like a saint? Go buy a decent cake and a decent phone!” I jutted out my chin and slammed my fist on the counter. My mother began to sob harder. Elise hurried over to comfort her, then looked at me with deep disappointment. “Maya, you’re becoming unrecognizable. How can you treat your mother like this? Your father is never home, she raised you, she sacrificed everything. Forget about repaying her—can’t you even acknowledge her efforts? Over a phone and a cake? Is it really worth it?” Dad’s face was steel. “Don’t bother reasoning with her!” “She’s spoiled rotten! I’m going to teach her a lesson right now!” He raised his hand. “No, stop! Don’t hit her! It’s her birthday!” My mother threw herself against him, hugging his waist. She looked at me, pleading. “Maya, please, don’t be upset. I promise I’ll buy it later.” “We have so many relatives here. Let’s not talk about this now. I made all your favorite dishes. You love fish, remember? I bought a huge salmon and stewed it. Let me go get it…” She rushed into the kitchen and returned with a platter of fish. It looked well-prepared. She forced a smile. “Maya, come try this.” She tugged Dad’s arm, gesturing for everyone to sit down. I fixated on the fish. She used chopsticks to gently place a piece of meat into my plate. The sight of it made every hair on my body stand on end. I grabbed the entire plate and dumped it into the garbage can. “A piece of fish, and you act like it’s a lifetime of devotion! Stop the performance!” My father finally lost control. He lunged across the table and struck me across the face. “You ungrateful viper! I should just kill you!” The relatives joined the chorus of outrage. “Her mother is so good to her! She doesn’t know how lucky she is!” “This kind of child will never be loyal. A complete waste of effort!” “Honestly, why even pay for her college? She’s useless!” I covered my burning cheek, the verbal abuse washing over me. “Look at you! What kind of person are you? I’m going to discipline you properly!” Dad was volcanic. He ripped off his belt and coiled it. My mother rushed back, hugging his waist tightly. “No, no, please, not today! It’s Maya’s birthday. Everything is my fault, not hers!” Dad was beside himself with impotent rage. “Look at you! You’re still protecting her! Does this viper care about you at all?” Elise pulled Mom back, agreeing with Dad for the first time. “He’s right, Shelly! You indulge her too much! She needs a lesson!” Mom looked at me with a pained expression, tears streaming, but still defended me. “Maya is still young. When she’s older, she’ll understand…” Dad and Elise glared, shaking their heads. The relatives sighed. “Look how much your mother loves you…” “She’s still defending you now. Don’t you feel any shame?” Mom sniffled, forcing a breezy lightness. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Everyone stop talking about Maya. I’ll get another cake and another dish.” She bent down to pick up the scattered bread pieces. I couldn’t stand it. I ran forward and kicked the mess of bread aside. “I don’t want your fake goodness!” The room went completely silent. Dad froze for three seconds, then snapped back to reality. The belt lashed out, catching my forearm. A searing, hot pain. “You wicked girl! Who do you think your mother does all this for?” He was beyond reason, whipping the belt down again and again. Mom tried to stop him but was held back by Elise. She just covered her face and sobbed. Soon, a stinging line of blood appeared on my face. I cried out, touching my cheek. My fingertips came away slick. The sight of the blood on my face startled Dad. He paused. I let out a harsh, cold laugh, pushed past him, and kicked over the dining table again, harder this time. “You abandoned me my whole life! What right do you have to hit me?” Seeing my hysteria, Dad’s chest heaved. He spat the words out. “You’re crazy! A total lunatic!” “I knew you were an ungrateful brat! All these years wasted raising you!” “If you’re so unhappy with us, fine! We’ll disown you! I can’t live with this shame, but I can certainly get rid of you!” The relatives, seeing the situation spiral, rushed to mediate. Elise insisted I apologize. I stood completely still. I stared at my father for a long moment. Then, my voice hoarse, I spoke. “Fine. Let’s do it. Disown me.” Dad had only meant to scare me. My immediate acceptance stunned him. Mom rushed to intervene. “No, Maya, your dad just said that in the heat of the moment. Please don’t…” “Don’t speak!” I cut her off, refusing to look at her red eyes. I spoke slowly, deliberately. “Whether he means it or not is irrelevant. I mean it.” Dad felt cornered. He was shaking with rage. “Fine! Fine! You want to be disowned? I’ll sign the papers!” He yelled for my brother. Jace, who had been pretending to hide in his room, came out, shot me a gleeful, spiteful look, and ran out to print the document. He returned quickly, triumphantly handing the paper to Dad. Dad grabbed a pen and signed with a flourish. “From today forward, you are no longer my daughter! You will never see a dime of my money! We won’t pay another cent of your college tuition!” “You hate us so much? Sign this and get out of my house!” The relatives tried to calm us both down. Elise held my hand, pleading for me to say something soft. “Come on, Maya, don’t be dramatic! You’re an adult now, you need to be sensible!” “Life is hard; your mom is under so much pressure. Apologize to her, and your dad will calm down!” I stayed silent. I pulled my hand from hers, picked up the pen, and signed the document decisively. Mom wailed, “Maya, don’t be rash! Don’t do this!” But my pen didn’t stop. Beside my father’s name, I cleanly, forcefully wrote my own. I was done with this house. Seeing my signature, Mom’s sobs grew louder, filled with guilt and self-reproach. She even slapped herself across the face. “It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have made that cake…” Dad and Elise watched, their faces grim. I just smiled. “Yes, it is your fault.” Dad’s eyes flashed with fresh anger, and he lunged. I pushed him away and ran into the kitchen. I grabbed the rest of the cooked beef and shrimp, the forbidden food Mom had prepared. In front of the horrified crowd, I began to shove the meat into my mouth. Everyone was shocked. Elise reacted first, trying to pull me away. “Maya, are you insane?! You’re allergic! This could kill you!” I shoved her back, staring hard at my mother, chewing mouthful after mouthful. With every bite I took, my mother’s face went a shade whiter. The relatives were terrified. Someone was yelling for an ambulance. My father stood paralyzed. In just a few minutes, I finished the entire plate of beef and seafood. The paramedics rushed in. The doctor, hurried and worried, asked who had the allergic reaction. All eyes turned to me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390831”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was scrolling through a private, dark corner of an online pet forum when the headline stopped me cold. “5 Days Left. How do I say goodbye so she won’t break?” Below it, another line. “Should I just vanish? Pretend I ran off and die somewhere private?” The comment section was full of little dog avatars. “No, seriously, don’t do that,” one replied. “Your human will spiral. Last time I accidentally slipped my leash, mine took two weeks off work to hunt for me. Don’t you dare leave her with that guilt.” “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” another chimed in. “If only we could talk, we could ask them how they want us to go.” I froze, hovering over the screen. 1 I typed a reply, stepping outside the ‘dog voice’ everyone else was using. “If I were the owner,” I wrote, “I’d want a fur-ball, maybe one of those tight little tumbleweeds they make. Something I could keep, a tangible relic, for when the ache hits.” The original poster immediately thanked me. “That’s perfect! But I don’t have time to wait for the natural shed. I’ll have to pull the hair off my tail, then.” Moments later, my dog, Jet, padded onto my bed, a familiar black, felted ball clutched gently in his mouth. The sight of his tail—bare, patchy, almost raw—froze the blood in my veins. “Are you really sick, OP?” a user asked. “Why do you only have five days left?” “If you’re hurting, just whine and refuse food. Humans always panic and take us to the vet then.” “I’m not sick,” the poster replied. “I’m just old. I’m dying of old age.” A Golden Retriever avatar urged: “You still have to tell her, you need to give her a heads-up. She’s devoted her life to you. If you just disappear, she won’t cope.” The poster replied with a sad emoji. “I just want to keep her from crying.” “And I’m scared. I’m really scared she’ll lose it after I go and follow me.” This caused an immediate uproar in the thread. “Bullsh*t. Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve been a good boy for twelve years and I’ve never heard of a human dying for a pet.” “Right? You think you’re that important? Stop spouting nonsense just because we can’t bite you through the screen.” The insults grew angrier, but the poster patiently replied to each one. “I’m not lying. Mom had a really bad sickness years ago. When she was sickest, she always held me and said that if I wasn’t around, she wouldn’t want to live, either.” “So, I made sure to eat every meal and run every day, just to stay a little longer for her. But I really am too old.” He sent a big crying emoji. “I just really want my Mom to be okay and live a happy life.” I had been scrolling through the thread while riding home with my best friend, Zoe, after booking a ridiculously expensive luxury dog resort for Jet’s birthday. “Jet hit the jackpot when he picked you,” Zoe said, keeping her eyes on the road. “Fifteen hundred dollars a day for a ‘Pet Playhouse’ and you didn’t even blink. What dog gets a birthday like that?” I laughed weakly. “He saw other dogs playing on TV last week and got so excited. I just thought, if other dogs have it, my dog should, too.” “But yeah, it hurt. Two months’ rent, gone.” Zoe rolled her eyes. “Stop pretending. You’d sign the papers again in a heartbeat.” The landscape blurred outside the window. “Time flies,” she murmured. “Can you believe Jet is turning fourteen?” I nodded, but my gaze was fixed on the thread, specifically the poster’s original question: “Should I just vanish? Pretend I ran off and die somewhere private? Will that make it easier for her?” A cold dread settled in my stomach. I thought of Jet, my sweet, gray-muzzled old man. I posted a reply to the question. “Please don’t do that. Your owner will be devastated.” “I have a dog. If it comes to that day, I want him to be in my arms, peaceful. Not somewhere awful and alone where I can’t find him.” I paused and typed the advice I’d already given. “If you truly want her to be less sad, the fur-ball idea is good. A memory object, something to hold on to. A touchstone for when she misses you.” As soon as the message went through, I got a flurry of question mark emojis from the other avatars. I realized my mistake—I was the only human voice in a dog forum. I went to delete it, but the original poster replied. “You’re right! I’m going to make one for my human right now.” “I don’t have time to collect the shed hair, though. I’ll just have to pull it off my tail.” He sent four or five happy, bouncing emojis. I sent him a quick ‘Good luck’ and then pulled up my contact list, inviting all of Jet’s dog park friends to a surprise party five days from now. The group chat exploded with happy replies, but I couldn’t focus. I kept refreshing the forum, needing to know what ‘the poster’ was doing. It was the fact that I had an old dog, too. Even knowing it had to be a human behind the keyboard, I couldn’t help but superimpose the situation onto Jet. Zoe burst out laughing. “Your Jet? An old dog? Cass, that animal runs faster than the two-year-old Labs at the park. He’s a tank. Stop projecting, you’re making yourself miserable.” Her words made me smile, and I shook my head. She was right. Jet still ate like a horse. Just last week, when I’d jokingly asked him how long he planned to stay with me, he’d nudged my hand for the answer ‘ten more years.’ My boy didn’t lie. A wave of warmth washed over me. I squeezed the new chew toy in my hand, desperate to fly through the door and hug him. But when I opened the door, Jet was sitting there, a black, palm-sized fur-ball in his mouth, which he immediately shoved into my hand like a proud offering. My body went rigid. Why was his tail bald? My phone vibrated. It was a DM from the poster. “I’m sorry, I don’t think my human liked the fur-ball. When I bring her a toy, she always praises me and gives me kisses. But she’s just standing there, frozen, with a weird look on her face.” The aggressive Mastiff avatar replied: “I bet you were too scared to pull the hair out yourself, liar!” The poster shot back, sending a photo. “Look! You see that hair in my Mom’s hand? Is that mine?! I’m dying, you think I care about a little pain?!” I looked at the image, and a cold, suffocating terror gripped my chest. The photo showed a black fur-ball the size of a golf ball resting in a pale palm. But the one thing that stole my breath: the tiny, cherry-red mole on the center of the palm. I slowly brought my own hand up, my eyes locked on the spot. A bald tail, an identical fur-ball, and now… that red birthmark. Coincidence was dead. My heart felt like it was being crushed by an invisible hand. I immediately clicked on the poster’s profile. “I bit an old man today. Mom was furious. But he was taking pictures up her skirt! She misunderstood me.” “Grandma and Grandpa are gone. They were never nice to Mom, but she’s still crying every night. When I found her, she just cried harder and said all she had left was me. She told me to stay with her forever. But I’m so old, too. Sigh…” I checked the date on the post: June 28th, 2024. The month my parents died in a car accident. I checked the biting incident: October 2nd, 2024. Last October, Jet had indeed bitten someone. It cost me two thousand dollars in settlements. My hands started to shake uncontrollably. Before I could dig any further, the poster messaged me directly. “Hello. My name is Jet.” “Excuse me, but… are you human?” He quickly added, as if worried about offending me: “This is a special forum for us dogs. Usually, only dogs talk here, but the way you type sounds like a person.” “I’m sorry for asking. You don’t have to reply if you’re busy.” My eyes stung. I typed a shaky reply. “Why are you named Jet?” The reply was instantaneous: “Because when Mom found me, I had a broken leg. She said she wanted me to live a happy, full life even if I only had three working legs. She wanted me to always be ‘jetting’ around.” Tears instantly splattered on the screen. I typed another command, desperate for final confirmation. “Go right now and bring your human your absolute favorite toy.” I watched Jet. He cocked his head, thought for a second, then spun and limped toward the toy basket, snatching up his favorite, battered yellow duck. He was missing his back right leg, but he ran straight toward me, his face alight with a happy, goofy grin. The last nerve holding me together snapped. Jet was the reason I didn’t end my life after my parents pushed me to—the day I found him, a man was savagely stabbing a tiny puppy with a box cutter on the side of a bridge. The puppy was no bigger than my palm, and the tendons in his back leg were severed. I’d never considered myself an animal person, but in that moment, watching Jet tremble but refuse to cry out, I knew I had to save him. I spent the last of my savings, three hundred dollars, to buy him from his attacker and rush him to the vet. I was clinically depressed then, often crippled by physicalized anxiety, barely able to move. Every time I managed to crawl to the kitchen and reach for a knife, Jet’s sharp, desperate cries would start, reminding me that a tiny, three-legged thing was waiting for its bottle. I never thought he’d live. I just thought I’d care for him until I couldn’t anymore. But his insistent, needy cries forced me to put down the knife, crawl to the fridge, and feed him. And he lived. He thrived. He was ridiculously perceptive, too. When my mood was low, or when my parents would call and tear me apart, he would wobble over and gently nudge his tiny head against mine, making silly, heartbreaking faces. He followed me through college applications, grad school, and starting my career. He was a non-stop, social machine. Because of him, I had to drag myself out every night, even after working ten hours, for his mandatory hour-long run. Through him, I was forced to talk to people, to join dog parent groups, to keep going. No matter how hard or terrible my life got, the thought of that enthusiastic little creature waiting for me at home always made me feel like things were manageable. I looked at Jet, who was now nudging the yellow duck against my feet, waiting for praise. Tears streamed down my face. I had known he was aging. I had prepared for the day he’d be too weak to walk, too frail to chew his food, when he’d finally pass in my arms. I hadn’t prepared for this. For him to be so healthy, so vibrant, and then just die. I frowned, picking up my phone. “Aren’t dogs who die of old age supposed to be weak and starving? You were planning on running away—that means you’re healthy. What did you really die of?” The reply was slow in coming. I looked over at Jet, who was staring at me, whimpering softly. He was worried—I hadn’t cried in front of him in years. I quickly wiped my eyes and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay, Mom’s fine. Just a rough day at work. I’m just letting it out. Don’t worry.” Jet studied my face intently until my tears stopped. Only then did he lick my cheek, tasting the salt. Then, the message came through. “I actually died of cardiac arrest.” “I died five days ago. The only reason I can talk to you is I made a trade with The Ferryman. He gave me ten more days.” He sent a sad emoji. “I was scared that if I died while Mom was working late, she’d blame herself. I was even more scared she’d lose it and try to follow me.” “Even if Mom had been home and rushed me to the animal ER, I wouldn’t have made it. I was just too old.” I remembered the night I worked late. Jet had suddenly appeared on the pet cam, howling uncontrollably, then collapsing in violent spasms. When I’d flown home, he was bouncing around like nothing happened. I had been so relieved that I never considered the darker possibility. My heart felt like it was being torn into shreds. I choked down the metallic taste of blood in my throat. I asked him, my hands shaking: “What did you trade? Why not trade for more time?” He sent a happy emoji. “I traded all the good luck and happiness of my next life. The Ferryman only grants ten days maximum for that kind of deal. It’s short, but I think it’s a steal.” “I just wanted to come back and say a proper goodbye. I need her to know she has to keep living, even without me.” He sent a dog-with-droopy-ears emoji. “She kept saying she wouldn’t live without me. When I was a puppy, I thought it was sweet. I thought I was the luckiest dog in the world.” “But as I got older, I started hating it. Humans live a long time. I watched her work so hard, go through so much. Now that things are finally better, she can’t throw it all away for an old mutt like me.” “So, I came back. I’ll die in a way she can accept, maybe then she won’t follow me.” I clutched the phone, collapsing onto the floor in a fit of uncontrollable sobbing. I had always been a child starved for love. Because of my parents, my only goal in life was to hear one word of praise. But all I ever got was, “Why don’t you just die? You’re an annoyance.” It was Jet who taught me I could be loved fiercely and unconditionally. Now, because of me, a dead dog had gambled away his next existence out of fear for my own self-destructive tendencies. I was a failure of a mother. I squeezed Jet tightly, about to tell him I knew everything. The phone buzzed. A new DM. It was from the user The Ferryman. “Do not leak the secret.” “Since you have found out, I urge you to release Jet to the Underworld quickly. The price for this return is not as ‘light’ as he claims. The longer he stays, the worse the cost in his next life.” “I have never seen a creature brave the cost of ten days. Do not betray his sacrifice. Send him on, or his suffering will be pointless.” He paused, then added: “If you understand, send him now. Remember, the secret cannot be shared. He must willingly choose to go.” The messages came in fast. Before I could reply, the account switched to a series of error characters, indicating it was deleted. But in that split second, The Ferryman’s profile picture turned into an image of Jet’s Book of the Dead, a silent emphasis that everything he said was real. My heart was a tight, painful knot. I glanced at the wall clock and quickly typed a message to Jet. “Your human says she is going to live a long, happy life! So you must go to the Underworld and reincarnate now!” He sent a happy dog emoji. “How do you know?” I typed frantically: “I posted a poll on a human forum asking what people would want to do if their pet died. A dog avatar that looked exactly like you replied, choosing the ‘keep living’ option.” I chose a picture of him and sent it. Jet barked with delight in my arms. “That’s me! That’s great news! See? I told you!” “But I’m not in a hurry to go. I want to spend a few more days with Mom.” Jet snuggled into my neck, clearly pleased with himself. Panic flared. I gave him a dozen reasons, but he stubbornly refuted every one. “I have to stay with Mom.” The second hand on the clock ticked. Every beat was a hammer blow to my chest. Jet, however, found a comfortable spot on the sofa and promptly curled up to take a nap. I lost it. I shoved him off me, hard. “Just go die already! You pathetic, needy old mutt! I’m sick of looking at you!” Jet hit the TV stand with a soft thud. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with shock. My heart shattered. I rarely raised my voice at him. Even when he was bad, a stern voice was enough. I had never touched him in anger. But I knew it wasn’t enough. I had to make him believe I truly didn’t want him anymore. He had to be convinced to leave. I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragging him to the front door. I pulled him outside and, once we were off the property, I kicked his one good back leg. “I’ve been waiting to tell you this! I don’t want you anymore! I found a cute new puppy, so go wherever you want, but don’t follow me!” I spun around and walked away without looking back. Jet was terrified. He wanted to follow, but he was afraid of my anger. He trailed a few feet behind me, letting out tiny, wounded whimpers. I gathered every ounce of strength I had, and screamed at him. “Stop! Just go! Don’t you know how annoying it is to care for an old dog? I’m replacing you! Now be smart and get lost!” Jet froze. He stood like a statue, staring at me in complete disbelief. My heart felt as though it had been flayed open and rubbed with salt. Jet was fiercely possessive. Since he was a puppy, he never allowed me to pet another dog or even feed one of his dog park friends. If I showed the slightest bit of affection to another animal, he would pout, go silent, or even refuse to eat. The only exception was strays, but even then, he’d watch me like a hawk, ready to nip my hand if I dared touch them. I knew that statement had gone straight to the core of his biggest insecurity. He was truly broken now. Tears streamed down my face as I walked back into the complex. This time, Jet didn’t follow. I hid behind the wall, watching him, and messaged him again, begging him to go to the Underworld. He didn’t reply. He just stood there like a stone sculpture, looking in the direction I’d left. He stayed that way until the neon lights of the street flickered on. Then, a light rain began to fall. Just as my shirt was becoming soaked, I got a reply. “I understand. Thank you.” I watched him drop his head and slowly limp away, heading in the opposite direction from the apartment. Immediately, Zoe messaged me. “I got him. Don’t worry.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390830”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Eight. Eight toilets in this house, and I was on my hands and knees in the last one, the sickly-sweet scent of bleach and raw sewage clinging to my uniform T-shirt. My phone buzzed on the floor, pushing a forum post to the top of my feed. “Second marriage to a wealthy man, how do I deal with a bratty stepdaughter?” The suggestions flew fast, but one comment, already flagged with 9,999 downvotes, snagged my eye. “Establish dominance. Go hard on your own kid—make an example of him. She’ll fall in line fast.” I instinctively tapped the downvote button to push the number past ten thousand. No father could be that cruel, I thought. Just as I set the phone down to scrub the final bowl, the bathroom door was kicked open. My father, Gavin, stormed in. Without a word, he grabbed the heavy leather belt I used to hold up my too-big shorts, and the pain began, lashing across my back and legs. “Did you break my razor? You can’t even clean a toilet without messing up. What good are you, you little waste of space!” “No… Dad, I didn’t…” I knelt on the cold tile, begging, but his strikes only grew harder, fueled by a rage I didn’t understand. Through the doorway, my stepsister, Patricia, stood, her face chalk-white, as she timidly called out, “Daddy?” The fleeting, ugly spark of pleasure on Gavin’s face was sickening. “It’s okay, Patricia. Your brother messed up, and he needs to face the consequences,” he said, his voice suddenly thick with false concern. Then he grabbed a fistful of my hair, dragged me toward the washing machine, and shoved me inside the drum. As he walked away, a small, black and white cat named Snowball, who had been hiding behind the hamper, crept onto the touch control panel of the machine. 1 I slammed my palms against the thick glass door of the washer. “Dad! The machine started! Let me out!” “The water is coming in! Dad, please!” I watched the doorknob turn. I clung to the glass, a surge of desperate hope flooding my chest. I knew he loved me. He couldn’t possibly let me drown in here. “D—Dad…” Click. The lock engaged—a sharp, final sound. Gavin’s roar followed instantly. “Still lying! You’ll invent any garbage story to escape punishment, won’t you?” “You’re going to stay in there and reflect on what you’ve done! You come out when you realize your mistake!” The water level rose frighteningly fast, already sloshing above my waist. My forehead cracked against a sharp plastic ridge, and everything went black for a second. “It hurts… Dad… I’m really hurt…” I sobbed, the cold water mixing with my tears and flooding my mouth. Outside, I heard Patricia’s muffled, crying voice. “Daddy, I hear water…” “Don’t listen to him, Patricia!” Gavin’s voice was suddenly loud, the tone laced with concealed satisfaction. “Your brother is a drama queen. He’s an expert at faking distress to get pity. You must never be like him.” The water passed my chest, then reached my neck. I clawed at the drum seal, struggling to gasp for air. “Dad… please… just look…” If you just looked, you’d know I was dying. But all I heard was my father’s sweet, gentle tone. “Patricia, you’ve been so good today. Daddy is going to reward you with some gourmet ice cream.” Their footsteps receded. In that moment, a raw, wrenching scream tore itself from my throat—a sound no one heard. I don’t know how long passed. Just as the frigid water was about to submerge my head, my pocketed phone flickered to life. I grabbed it, adrenaline giving me a last burst of strength, desperate to dial 911—even a one-in-a-million chance. My finger hovered over the screen when a new reply to the forum post popped up. “That ‘make an example’ trick works wonders!” “I locked my son in the washing machine, and the kid quieted down instantly. He even called me ‘Dad’ nicely afterward!” The comment section immediately exploded. “Are you insane? This is sick! That’s actual child abuse!” “He’s sacrificing his own son to please a woman?” “I’ve called the police! Get ready for jail, dude! Who puts a person in a washer?” My father’s panicked reply appeared instantly. “What do you know? It’s easy to judge when you’re not in my shoes!” “Do you know how hard it is to live with a piece of baggage like him? If I don’t please this woman, my son and I will be homeless!” “He can take a little pain so we can have a good life. What’s the big deal?” I stared at the words on the screen, and the hand I’d raised to call for help froze mid-air. In my father’s eyes, I was just baggage. A piece of dead weight. That’s what I was—the poor, disposable kid you see in old movies. I had no strength left to type. I simply stared at those three words. I thought: If I’m not here, you’ll be much happier. Then, Dad, I’ll grant you that wish. A small smile touched my lips. Air bubbles gurgled from my mouth. I remembered when I was five, burning up with a hundred-and-four-degree fever. Dad carried me on his back, running two miles straight to the emergency room. I was scared of the needle, clutching the fabric of his shirt. He squeezed my hand, his palm warm. He said, “Sammy, be a good boy. Listen to your father. You have to live.” But Dad, I can’t listen to you anymore. My body slipped down with the current, curling up at the bottom of the drum. The only sound was the deep, terrifying roar of the machine’s turning drum. My awareness began to fade. The drum lurched, flipping my body violently. The back of my head smashed against the metal wall. But I felt no pain. I sat up in the water, only to realize I was floating in the air. Looking down, the washing machine was still spinning, filled with murky water and foam. A small, thin body was curled inside, bobbing with the current. Was that… me? I reached out to touch the glass door, but my hand passed right through. 2 Fear made me instinctively search for my father. I floated out of the bathroom and into the first-floor living room. No matter how many times I apologized or called out, my father only had eyes for Patricia. “Why aren’t you eating, sweetie? It’s your favorite strawberry flavor.” Gavin stroked her hair. “Daddy will buy you this every day, as long as you promise to be a good girl.” Patricia burst into tears, dropping the ice cream cup onto the floor. “Daddy, I promise I’ll be good. Don’t lock me in the washing machine… I’m scared…” Seeing the ice cream fall, I lunged to catch it, but my hand passed straight through the cold cup. Gavin picked up the fallen ice cream, his smile growing. “Patricia is so good. Daddy cherishes you too much to ever punish you like that.” Patricia nodded furiously, snot and tears smearing her face. Standing behind them, I asked my father sadly, “Dad, didn’t you say you cherished me, too?” He didn’t seem to hear me, simply wiping Patricia’s tears with tender care. Just then, the sound of a key in the lock signaled the return of my stepmother, Tracy. Normally, Patricia would rush to Tracy for hugs and demands, but today, she just called out timidly, “Mom.” Tracy paused. “The sun’s coming up in the west? Why isn’t this kid throwing a fit?” Gavin rushed to meet her, taking her designer handbag. “Honey, I told you I had a handle on things. Kids just need the right guidance.” Tracy kicked off her shoes and walked to Patricia, reaching out to pinch her cheek. Patricia flinched but didn’t dare pull away. “Well, I’ll be. You actually did a flip. I didn’t think you could manage her,” Tracy said, a rare satisfied smile on her face. “You really know how to discipline her. She’s usually wild.” Hearing the affirmation, Gavin beamed. This was what all of it was for. The three sat down to dinner, the atmosphere unnervingly harmonious. On the table was the sweet and sour pork ribs—my favorite, which Dad had promised to make for me if I finished cleaning the toilets yesterday. Tracy paused, glancing around the room. Her brow furrowed. “Where is he? Why isn’t that kid eating?” My heart leaped. I drifted closer to Tracy. Aunt Tracy, I’m right here. I’m watching you eat. Gavin paused while scooping soup. “He messed up today. Broke my electric razor and then denied it.” “I locked him in the washing machine to reflect. A little starvation will sort him out.” Tracy looked toward the bathroom, then sniffed the air, her frown deepening. “What is that smell?” Our laundry machine was a wash-dry combo. With hot water and the dryer setting running, my body had already begun to putrefy. Tracy put down her fork and started walking toward the bathroom. “I’ll check the toilet. That smell is way too strong. It must be clogged.” Smack. Gavin slammed the ladle down on the table. “What else could it be! It has to be that brat doing it on purpose!” “Tracy, don’t go. Don’t spoil your appetite. The little monster actually relieved himself right there as a protest!” He started walking toward the second-floor bathroom. “We are eating! Are you deliberately trying to gross us out? You think shitting yourself is going to get you out of this? It won’t!” I frantically waved my hands, trying to dissipate the stench of decay. “It’s not that, Dad! I didn’t relieve myself!” “That’s the smell of Sammy decomposing… Dad, please don’t go near it.” Hearing no response from the bathroom, Gavin was instantly enraged. “Fine. Playing mute, are we? You think if you don’t talk, I’ll forget about this?” “If you like the smell of rotten filth so much, then you can stay in there and enjoy it!” He grabbed a can of air freshener and sprayed the hallway outside the door aggressively. “I was planning to let you out tomorrow morning. Now you’ve earned another twenty-four hours!” Tracy wrinkled her nose in disgust. “He’s getting completely out of hand. A boy that age, pulling stunts like this.” “Forget it. The house smells awful. I can’t eat here.” She smiled at Patricia. “Since Patricia was so good today, let’s go out for a seafood buffet.” Gavin’s eyes instantly lit up. He put away the air freshener and angrily glared at the bathroom door. “He can stay in there and reflect. Let’s see if he ever pulls a stunt like that again!” Watching them put on their shoes to leave, I spun in the air frantically. “Don’t go… Please don’t go…” “Don’t leave me alone in the house. It’s so dark in the bathroom. I’m scared…” But my father couldn’t hear me. Because I was already dead. 3 The next afternoon, they returned. I floated in the foyer, watching Dad take Tracy’s shoes, his face covered in a placating smile. “Honey, what do you want for dinner? I’ll cook whatever you want.” Tracy was in a good mood, humming as she walked toward the bedroom. “Anything. Just don’t let the house smell like it did yesterday.” Gavin’s face tightened, and he quickly laughed it off. Patricia followed, excitedly holding the huge box of Legos Tracy had bought her. Clatter. The Lego box was too big, and Patricia fumbled it, knocking over the large decorative vase in the entryway. The sound of ceramic shattering was deafening. “What was that noise out there!” Tracy’s angry shout instantly echoed from the bedroom. Gavin’s face went white. He clapped a hand over Patricia’s mouth and shouted toward the bedroom. “Nothing, Honey! Just my clumsy hand! I knocked over the vase by accident!” “Stop being so careless! Keep it down!” When Tracy didn’t appear, Gavin finally let out a long sigh. Patricia’s eyes were filled with tears, about to burst into wails. “Daddy, I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! Don’t lock me—” Gavin clamped his hand over her mouth again, whispering fiercely. “It’s okay, Patricia, you’re fine. Daddy would never lock you up.” He peered at Tracy’s closed door, then pulled Patricia toward the second-floor bathroom. “Come on, let’s go check on your brother.” I floated behind, watching Patricia’s face contorted with fear as Gavin pressed her against the bathroom door frame. The foul stench wafting from the crack under the door was stronger than yesterday. It was the smell of advanced decomposition. Gavin covered his nose in disgust and slammed his fist on the door. “You brat! Still playing dead, are we?” “It’s been a day, and you still haven’t cleaned up your mess? Making a stench like this—you deliberately don’t want to come out, do you!” The bathroom was silent. After a few more angry curses, the lack of movement made Gavin’s brow furrow, a flicker of panic in his eyes. “Did he pass out from hunger?” But just as he unlocked the door and prepared to push it open, Snowball, startled by the noise, jumped back onto the touch panel. This time, the small cat paused right on the Heavy Duty button. The clear, electronic chime of the machine starting up rang out. The washing machine violently shuddered, and the drum began to spin at high speed. Gavin froze, shocked by the sudden noise. When he realized it was the washing machine running, his panic instantly turned to blind fury. “Oh, you think you’re clever, you little bastard! I call for you, and you don’t answer, but you can start the machine yourself?” Seeing the machine whirl, I cried out in despair. “It wasn’t me, Dad! I didn’t start it!” “My body is already falling apart!” “Please, open the door and stop the machine!” But my father couldn’t hear my cries. He slammed the door shut and locked it again. Then he picked up Patricia and walked quickly toward the living room. “Patricia, you must never be naughty like your brother. Otherwise, you’ll have to be punished too.” Patricia trembled, nodding her head vigorously. I floated in the air, watching the wildly spinning machine with hopeless dread. The drum speed increased. The body, already badly swollen, was being crushed and distorted by the sheer force of the centrifuge. Finally, a strange gurgling sound came from the drainpipe. That was the sound of me clogging the drain. 4 Back in the living room, Tracy was on the sofa, her brows deeply furrowed. “Still not finished? What is that awful smell in this house?” She covered her nose, turning up the volume on the TV impatiently. “You can’t even manage one child. I have to live with this stench every day.” Gavin’s face instantly paled. He feared nothing more than Tracy thinking he was incompetent or that we were a burden. “Don’t worry, Tracy. It must be the sewer backing up. That kid was too lazy to clean the toilet.” “I’ll clean it! I’ll be good!” Patricia jumped off the sofa. She was terrified of being locked inside that roaring metal box. To prove herself, she stumbled toward the downstairs bathroom. “Clean it… If I clean it, the smell will go away…” Patricia muttered to herself, stirring the water in the toilet bowl with the brush. A gurgling sound came from the sewer. Patricia pressed the flush button. Whoosh. A reddish-brown liquid backed up and overflowed. “Why won’t it flush…” Patricia was nearly crying, afraid that failing at this simple task would lead to her own punishment. Suddenly, a fleshy, rounded object floated up with the churning water. Patricia froze, then her eyes lit up with excitement. “An action figure! It’s a superhero!” She screamed with joy. She thought this was a reward from the heavens, confirmation that she was a good girl for cleaning the toilet. She reached out her small hand, grabbed the object, and ran out. “No! Patricia, drop it! That’s not an action figure! That’s…” I lunged, trying to knock the object from her hand, but I passed through her body again and again. In the living room, Tracy listened to the scrubbing sounds from the bathroom and looked satisfied. “See? She has a sense of responsibility now. She’s proactively helping out. Much better than before.” Gavin’s lips curled into a smile. “Of course. Who do you think trained her?” Just as he spoke, Patricia’s excited voice rang out. “Daddy, look! The toilet flushed out a superhero!” “I cleaned it really well. This is my reward!” Gavin looked at Patricia. The next second, his face turned ghastly white.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390829”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother always said: A plant that isn’t pruned will grow wild and useless. I was the tree they pruned down to a stump. From the age of five, I learned to keep my joy locked down—it was “getting ahead of myself.” I couldn’t cry when I was bullied—because, as my father said, “Flies only land on open sores.” If I scored an A- on an AP exam, my parents would only ask, “Where are the other two points? Are you getting lazy?” When relatives praised me for being quiet and polite, my parents would publicly cut them off: “She’s acting. At home, she’s as lazy as a pig. Don’t let her fool you.” Over time, I learned to bury every single emotion, becoming the perfectly polished product they demanded. The year I turned nineteen, my Aunt Carol secretly slipped me a crisp envelope. “You’re grown now, Jamie,” she whispered. “You need to start learning to manage your own money. For college.” It was two thousand dollars. For the first time in my life, I didn’t immediately hand over a gift. That night, I woke to the sound of metal scraping metal. My father, Robert Davies, was using a screwdriver to pry the lock off my desk drawer. He snatched the envelope, his eyes blazing with the satisfied triumph of a detective: “I knew it. I knew you were acting strange. You’re learning bad habits.” My mother, Amelia Davies, then took a picture of the cash and posted it to the family group chat, “The Davies Family Circle.” “Jamie was caught trying to steal money from her aunt. This cash is tainted. Our family values won’t allow it. We are distributing it to everyone here as an apology for her disgrace.” The screen lit up with scrolling “Thank yous” and praises like, “Amelia, you know how to discipline a child!” I looked at the phone and smiled. I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I ever smiled in that house. … “Smile? You have the audacity to smile?” My father’s hand came down, a wind-cutting whip against my cheek. I didn’t feel the pain right away. All I heard was the high, sharp whine of the slap echoing in my eardrum. I stared, transfixed, at the phone on the coffee table. The family group chat was still refreshing. Aunt Leah: Your family’s discipline is so strict! Kids shouldn’t have cash, it just leads to trouble. Uncle Brian: Wow, I snagged thirty bucks! Thanks, Amelia! But Jamie seemed so sweet. Guess she had a sneaky side. Cousin Sam: Thanks, Auntie! I’m using the money to buy a new skin for my game! The screen was a carnival of digital congratulations and animated cheers. They were happily snatching up their share, chatting away. “See this, Jamie? Open your eyes and look!” My mother thrust the phone inches from my face. “They’re all laughing at you! Hiding a little nest egg, like some kind of delinquent? That two thousand dollars wasn’t a gift from Carol—it was a test!” Her spittle flew as she spoke, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. “If we hadn’t found it, what would you have done? Used it for drugs? Gone out and done something truly shameful?” I leaned against the corner of the wall. My cheek was burning, and the whole side of my face felt numb. “Mom…” I tried to speak, my voice dry and scratchy, like swallowing sandpaper. “Aunt Carol said it was for college expenses. I just… I wanted to be independent. I wanted to stop asking you for things.” “Lies!” My father kicked over a small side table, unbuckled his leather belt, and snapped it through the air. “What kind of education does a morally corrupt person like you need?” His chest heaved violently. “You plot against your own parents! What’s next, murder? Are you going to come back and kill us in our sleep?” I instinctively hunched my shoulders and protected my head. “Rob, not the face,” my mother said coolly. She took a step back, giving my father enough room. “It’s New Year’s Day tomorrow. I don’t want to answer questions about a black eye in front of the neighbors. It reflects poorly on me.” “I know.” My father answered, and the belt rose high, coming down in a sharp, stinging arc. One. Two. The metallic buckle smacked against my back with a sickening, muted thud. I didn’t make a sound. I just kept my eyes wide open, fixed on the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. The light was a harsh, sickly white, like a spotlight in an interrogation room, illuminating every wretched corner of this home. When he was tired, my father tossed the belt onto the sofa, pointing a finger at my face. “Did you learn your lesson?” I slowly lifted my head to look at him. Sweat and panic glazed his face. His eyes held the exhausted satisfaction of a violent release. “Yes,” I answered mechanically, opening my mouth. “What was your mistake?” “I shouldn’t have hidden the money. I shouldn’t have had private thoughts…” I paused, and then added quietly, softly. “I shouldn’t… exist.” My mother, hearing the answer she wanted, kicked my leg. “Go write a full report. Two thousand words. You will detail where the money came from, why you hid it, and you will post it to the family group chat to apologize to all your relatives. If it’s not heartfelt, you won’t eat tonight.” I held my phone, the screen light illuminating the swelling, bruised purple of my hand. Suddenly, a new message popped up in the group. Aunt Carol: Rob, Amelia, what are you doing? I gave Jamie that money. The very next second, the group admin, “Family Peace is Success,” muted the entire chat. Group admin “Family Peace is Success” removed “Aunt Carol” from the conversation. My mother scoffed, putting her phone away. “Your Aunt Carol is an emotional fool. Enabling a child is killing a child. We will minimize contact with her. We don’t need her bad influence.” A deathly silence returned to the living room. My parents went into the kitchen to eat. The clatter of their silverware sounded warm and domestic. I knelt on the cold floor, staring at the notification that my only ally had been ejected. I felt something deep inside my body shatter, completely and irrevocably. My finger hovered over the screen for a long time. I typed a line of text. Dad, Mom. You can keep the money. I don’t want my life anymore. My fingertip hesitated on the ‘Send’ button. I could hear their easy laughter from the kitchen. “The pot roast is perfect this year.” “Did you remember to set out the gift baskets for the neighbors?” Why? Why should I die, while they continued to live, peaceful and justified? I deleted the message. I posted a new one to the group: Mom and Dad were right to discipline me. I was wrong. The money will be used to buy everyone some snacks. Happy New Year. The moment I sent the two-thousand-word apology, the group un-muted. The blinding stream of “thumbs-up” emojis and “such a responsible child” praise felt like a series of sharp slaps against my remaining sliver of self-respect. My mother held her phone, admiring her trophy. “See? Everyone forgives you.” “Jamie, I only do this for your own good. You hate us now, but when you’re older, you’ll realize no one in the world will teach you responsibility like your own parents.” “Alright, stop kneeling,” my father said, sitting on the sofa, fiddling with the screwdriver. “Go eat. You made a mistake, but we’re not going to starve you.” I stood up stiffly and walked to the dining table. All that was left was a single bowl of plain pasta piled high with the leftover fatty scraps of the pot roast. It was all the grease, the white, trembling fat that they had picked off their own plates. “Eat it,” my mother said coldly. “Don’t waste food.” I looked at the plate and felt a spasm of nausea in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten fat since I was a child; it always made me sick. But I dared not protest. When I was five, I separated a piece of fat onto the table, and my father pressed my head down and forced me to swallow it back. He said: “Picky eating is being spoiled. No one in my house is allowed to have bad habits.” I picked up the bowl, used my fork to stab a block of cold fat, closed my eyes, and put it in my mouth. I fought back the urge to vomit and swallowed the greasy chunk whole. “Eat slower. You look like you’re starving,” my father said with disgust. “Zero table manners. You’re an embarrassment to take out in public.” I forced down the last bite of fat, suppressing a violent retch. “I’m done.” “Good. Now, go make the appetizers. We have company tomorrow, so you need to finish the whole batch tonight.” I ignored the throbbing pain in my back and walked to the kitchen counter. I picked up the fragile wrapper, trying to pinch the edges shut. But my hands were shaking. My palms were swollen like over-proofed dough, my finger joints were stiff, and my nerves were frayed. The slightest pressure, and— “Pop.” The wrapper tore. The ground meat filling squished out, coating my hands in a slick film of oil. “Clumsy!” My father exploded. He slammed the TV remote onto the table. “You can’t even make a simple appetizer! Useless at everything you try, except stuffing your face!” He rushed over, grabbed the broken wrapper, and violently threw it into the trash can. “Are you doing this on purpose? Huh? Trying to spite me?” “Look at your hands! As fat and useless as a pig’s hoof! Did reading all those books rot your brain? You can’t even fold dough! What good are you?” I lowered my head, staring at my swollen, trembling hands. He was right. I was useless. I wasn’t worthy of the lean meat, I wasn’t worthy of a gift, I wasn’t worthy of a secret, and I wasn’t even worthy of preparing a holiday meal. “Get out of here!” My father pushed me away in disgust. “Don’t stand here contaminating the rest of the ingredients!” I stumbled backward, hitting the refrigerator. “I’m sorry,” I apologized out of habit, even though the fault wasn’t mine. “Go to the porch and reflect! Don’t come back inside until midnight!” My father waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly. I turned and walked toward the sliding door. The moment I pushed it open, the biting chill of the winter air slammed into my neck, making me gasp. But a small part of me felt a sudden rush of relief. Finally, I didn’t have to smell the sickening odor of rendered fat and stale discipline. I slid the door shut, isolating myself on the freezing porch. Inside, the lights were bright. My parents were wrapping the appetizers and watching a New Year’s special on TV, laughing heartily. Outside, it was pitch black, and the cold wind howled. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. Eleven fifty PM. Ten more minutes until New Year’s Day. Dad, Mom. You hated that I was useless. So I’m going to be useful one last time. I’m going to prepare your New Year’s gift. Seven AM, New Year’s Day. “Jamie! Come cut the fruit!” My mother’s voice cut through the door. I closed my English vocabulary book. The book was merely a prop. They loved to see me looking productive and ambitious. “Coming.” Several neighbors who’d come to exchange holiday greetings were sitting in the living room. The coffee table was littered with snack wrappers. Mrs. Rodriguez smiled warmly: “Oh, look who it is! Jamie’s out! It’s been a year, and you’ve gotten so tall. You’re such a handsome young man.” “Handsome? He’s a block of wood,” my mother said, smiling as she handed Mrs. Rodriguez the largest, shiniest apple. “The boy’s a fool. He’s useless at everything except burying his nose in a book.” Mrs. Rodriguez nervously tried to smooth things over: “Being quiet is a sign of maturity.” “Maturity, my foot! He’s just sullen!” My father sat in the armchair, crossing his legs. “Look at the expression on his face, like we owe him a fortune. Just last night I had to discipline him for stealing. He’s a wolf cub we raised that’s ready to bite the hand that feeds him.” The smile on Mrs. Rodriguez’s face froze. She gave me a look of pity. “Rob, he’s a grown boy. You have to save face for him…” “Save face? Does he deserve it?” My father snorted, his eyes filled with contempt. “Go pour Mrs. Rodriguez some tea. Fill it to the brim. Don’t be stingy.” I picked up the teapot. My right hand was still swollen, and my fingers were stiff and unresponsive. I trembled slightly. Hot tea sloshed onto the tabletop. “Useless!” My father lunged up, slamming the back of my head with his hand. “DONG!” My head hit the sharp edge of the table. My vision blackened. The teapot slipped from my grasp. Scalding water splashed onto my bruised hand, the pain sharp and sickeningly familiar. I didn’t move or cry out. I just bent down to grab a rag and wipe up the spill. “You can’t even pour a cup of tea correctly! What good are you?” “We’d be better off keeping a dog. At least a dog wags its tail when guests arrive. You? Making a miserable face on New Year’s, who is that supposed to be for?” Mrs. Rodriguez stood up in alarm, her face pale. “That’s enough, Rob. Please don’t hit the boy. I… I have something on the stove. I need to leave.” She practically fled out the door. The moment the door closed, the air solidified. My mother glanced at me with distaste, taking the plate of peeled apples away. “Worthless. You can’t even manage to greet a guest properly. Clean up the mess and get back to your room. Stop being an eyesore.” I picked up the broom, bent my back, and began slowly sweeping the wrappers. “Oh, wait,” my father suddenly said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Clear out your locked cabinet in your room.” I stopped. “Why?” The lock was already broken, but the cabinet was still the only private space I had in this house. It held my journals, my sketchbooks, and the letters from Aunt Carol. “Why what?” My father glared, annoyed. “Your cousin Sam is coming to stay for a few days. He said he likes that cabinet. He’s going to use it for his transformers. Get your junk out of there and put it in a box.” “That’s my cabinet,” I said, tightening my grip on the broom handle. It was the first time I had contradicted him. “Yours?” My father threw the remote, walking toward me. His finger poked my forehead again and again, forcing me to back up. “What in this house is yours? I bought the house, I bought the cabinet, and I gave you the very life you breathe! What right do you have to claim anything?” “Clear it out now! Don’t force me to lose my temper on New Year’s Day!” I was pinned against the wall, nowhere left to retreat. “Fine,” I heard myself say. He was satisfied and went back to the TV. One last time, I thought. I just have to hold on a little longer. After tonight, I’ll give you the cabinet. I’ll give you my life, too. I crouched in front of the cabinet and reached for the door. I wanted to take out the journals and letters, at least destroy them myself so they couldn’t be left here. But when the cabinet door swung open, my blood ran cold. It was empty. The stack of journals I cherished, the sketchbooks where I’d drawn my future, Aunt Carol’s letters… they were all gone. I scrambled out of the room like a madman. “Where are my things?!” This was the first time in nineteen years I had yelled at them. My parents were nestled on the sofa, laughing at a show. Hearing my scream, they paused for half a second before their faces hardened. “What are you shrieking about?” my mother frowned. “My journals! And the letters in my cabinet! Where are they?” I rushed to the coffee table, my whole body trembling. My father slowly peeled an orange, not even looking up. “Oh, that trash? I told your mother to toss it.” “Tossed?” Something in my brain snapped. “Where did you toss it?” My mother shrugged dismissively: “The bin downstairs. Who can remember?” “Those journals were full of depressing, dark garbage—all that talk about being ‘suppressed’ and ‘wanting out.’ It was a bad omen. And Carol’s letters were poison, telling you to break away from us.” “That was my life…” I whispered, tears suddenly flooding my eyes. Those journals were the only confidants I had in countless silent nights. Those letters were the last bit of warmth I had to cling to. “Your life?” My father flew into a rage, throwing an orange peel that hit my face. “Your life belongs to us! You dare to yell at your own father over a few notebooks? You’re out of control!” He grabbed the solid wooden folding chair from the corner. “Rob! Not his head!” my mother screamed. I didn’t move to dodge. This scene was too familiar. At six, I ate candy given by a neighbor and was beaten until my nose bled. At ten, I got second place and was forced to kneel in the snow all night. At fifteen, I defended myself from a bully and was made to apologize to the aggressor. The stool came down. The pain blinded me. I curled up on the floor, hearing his ragged, angry breaths and his curses. “I’ll teach you to yell! I’ll teach you to stare! I am your father!” My mother finally walked over and pulled him back. “That’s enough, Rob. Look at this.” She picked up my phone, grabbed my hand, and unlocked it. In the notes app was a draft I hadn’t deleted: Want to apply for grad school in Aunt Carol’s city. Get far away. My mother stared at the line, then squatted down and shoved the screen in my face. “You wanted to run? You wanted to go to Carol? You wanted to abandon us?” She looked back at my father: “Rob, the boy’s heart is poisoned. He’s not going to college.” My father, breathing heavily, nodded. “Study so much you think you can run? You’re going to stay here and get a factory job!” My mother dialed my college advisor right in front of me. “Hello, Professor Thompson? Happy New Year. This is Jamie Davies’ mother.” Her voice was tragically sorrowful. “We need to withdraw Jamie… Yes, a mandatory leave. He’s had a complete psychotic break—stealing, violence against his parents. A severe mental crisis.” I lay on the floor, desperately trying to reach for the phone, wanting to scream, “I didn’t! She’s lying!” But no sound came out. My throat was raw with blood, and my shoulder was too broken to move. “We’re afraid he’d hurt the other students if he went back… Expulsion is fine. His life is ruined anyway.” She hung up the phone. Then, she opened the college Facebook group. “This is Jamie Davies’ mother. Jamie was caught stealing property and physically abusing his parents. He has extreme psychological issues and has been brought home for forced treatment. Please excuse any debts or improper behavior. We apologize for the trouble he has caused.” Send. The screen immediately exploded with a stream of “???” and shocked emojis. In that single moment, the carefully constructed facade of a normal, capable student I had built at school was shattered by her foot. If I ever went back, I would be the violent, thieving lunatic. She tossed the phone onto the coffee table and looked down at me. “Did you hear that? You’re going to stay right here, close to us. You won’t go anywhere.” “Oh, and tomorrow, we’re removing the lock from your bedroom door. You don’t need privacy.” They turned off the lights and went to bed. The room was plunged into darkness. Only the fireworks outside flashed intermittently. You want me to stay in this house forever? Fine. I crawled, piece by piece, back to my room. I pulled out the red hoodie Aunt Carol had bought me last year from under my bed. I’d never worn it because my mother said red was too flashy and “unseemly.” I pulled it on. In the mirror, my face was ghost-white, but the vibrant red gave me a fleeting moment of life. I sat at the desk, spread a sheet of white paper, and wrote one line: Dad, Mom, I finally became the child you always wanted: Quiet, obedient, and never leaving this house. I took the utility knife and walked into the bathroom. I turned on the water. The water in the bathtub rose over my bruised shoulders and my chapped, cracked hands. It felt wonderful. I raised the knife. I didn’t hesitate. There was even a thrill of impatient relief. I didn’t feel the pain. I only felt my body getting lighter, little by little. The rules, the accusations, the beatings, the sheer weight of being their child—it was all draining away through the wounds. Outside, fireworks exploded. It was morning. It was the second day of the New Year. Happy New Year, Jamie.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390828”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The guy from the mountains the Ronald family sponsored finally made it into graduate school. He was ecstatic, sharing his rags-to-riches story on social media—the journey from his small town to the city. He included a photo of himself looking up at Julia, and a caption that hit me like a physical blow: [My patron saint, my cornerstone, the most unique presence in my life~] The comments were a chorus of adoration. [Seriously, you’re so inspiring! I’m taking notes!] [Those eyes aren’t exactly professional, are they? Ship it! I’m officially a shipper!] (Liked by the original poster) [OMG, invite me to the wedding, I’ll put my entire savings into the red envelope!] (Liked by the original poster) [Isn’t that Crestwood U’s youngest Master’s supervisor? Being the academic workhorse for your savior—that’s one hell of a way to repay a debt!] … Jasper Cole pinned his own comment: [Thanks for all the well wishes! Hoping to pick up a second certificate (a marriage license) after graduation~.jpg] I stared at the screen, then scrolled to his most recent update. It was a few screenshots of Jasper’s thesis and the full Acknowledgments section. Every line mentioned Julia’s all-nighters, her patient guidance, and her encouragement. I lingered over the images. I recognized the content. I’d seen those exact drafts on Julia’s laptop. She’d told me the paper was critically important to her work. I had run a high fever, staying up late to help her review it, only to find out I was dressing up a borrowed bride. In that instant, I finally understood that even the most meticulously engineered life—the most solid marriage—could develop a fatal fissure. 1 When I walked into the house, I froze. A guy in a tank top, wearing my personalized house slippers, was busy chopping fruit in the kitchen. When he saw me, a flicker of irritation at being interrupted crossed his eyes, quickly masked. “Ezra? I’ve seen your picture. You’re even handsomer in person.” He came out, holding the fruit bowl. He was completely at ease, as if he owned the place. Julia was sitting on the sun-drenched balcony, absorbed in her laptop, so focused she hadn’t even registered my arrival. The academic exchange I was on wasn’t supposed to end until two days from now, but my section was complete, so I’d flown home early. “I’m Jasper, Ezra. Gen must have mentioned me.” He set the bowl down and then lifted his gaze to Julia with an intensely devoted look. “I’ve been writing my thesis these past few days. My dorm was so loud, I just couldn’t sleep, so Gen invited me to stay here for a bit. “Don’t worry, Ezra. I can handle all the chores. You just focus on your job. I’ll take care of Gen.” My brow furrowed instinctively. Because his dorm was too loud, Julia brought him home? That was a difficult justification to swallow. Julia and I grew up together. She wasn’t the kind of person to abandon basic boundaries out of simple pity. The reason I agreed to marry her in the first place was that we knew each other’s blueprint. We were intellectual equals, a formidable pair. Even if we couldn’t be a passionately romantic couple, we certainly wouldn’t become bitter enemies. Besides, in many marriages, a perfect fit matters more than mere feeling. Julia was devastatingly smart, gorgeous, came from old money, and had no bad habits. The Kane and Ronald families were long-time business partners. It wasn’t a dramatic corporate merger, but it was a clear symbiosis. As a marriage partner, there was no better choice. But more than that. We did like each other, fiercely, beyond all the careful calculations. To this day, the memory of her believing I was going on a blind date—flying across two continents from an academic conference to appear on my doorstep—could still make my chest ache. Julia Ronald, always so composed and aloof, had been a beautiful mess that day. Her hair was wind-bitten, her clothes were wrinkled from a night of anxiety, and her red-rimmed eyes showed the strain of sleepless nights. “Ezra Kane, if you want to get married, will you marry me?” I stood in the doorway, holding two heavy bags of trash, completely stunned. Julia was a pure scientist. She wasn’t good at expressing emotion; she’d never once told me she loved me. Even her attempts at comfort were awkward. When I lost the top spot in a class competition, she poked my head and mocked, “You’re pathetic. Try to catch up next time.” Then she’d grab my test paper and dissect all my mistakes. She never once considered missing a question just to make me feel better. … We married naturally, becoming everyone’s definition of the ‘Perfect Equation.’ I remember the night before I left for my overseas fellowship. After we made love, she tucked her head into my chest, a rare moment of vulnerability. “Ezra, let’s have a baby.” I softly agreed. Barring any unforeseen event, we were supposed to be endgame. But now, it seemed complicated. 2 My face set into a hard mask, and I walked straight past Jasper, my leather soles hitting the freshly polished wood floor. “Wait, Ezra, I just mopped this morning! Couldn’t you change your shoes…?” Jasper gasped in alarm, which finally drew Julia’s attention. I gave him a cold look. “Slippers are personal items. I don’t like wearing what other people have worn.” The guest slippers in our house are completely different from that pair. More importantly, Julia and I wear matching couple’s slippers. They were clearly visible by the door. Jasper froze. He had assumed I would endure his presence, given that the Ronalds sponsored him and Julia brought him here. He thought I’d be forced to swallow my anger. But I didn’t care about those politics. He quickly peeled off the slippers and put them in front of me, sounding flustered. “I—I’m so sorry. Where I grew up, a lot of people share one pair of slippers. I didn’t realize you had so many rules… and I’ve never seen slippers this nice.” Julia came in from the balcony with her water glass. Jasper glanced up at her, his eyes full of unspoken appeal for rescue. The woman he saw as his savior didn’t immediately take the bait. When Julia saw me, the coolness in her eyes softened. “You finished early? Why didn’t you tell me so I could pick you up?” I tossed my carry-on bag onto the sofa, about to speak, but Jasper’s choked voice cut me off. “Gen, I’m so sorry. I think I made Ezra mad. I truly didn’t know I couldn’t wear his slippers… I’ll buy you a new pair to replace them…” Julia looked at him, then shifted her gaze back to me. “This is Jasper Cole. I mentioned him to you—he just started grad school. His dorm situation is pretty bad, so he’s staying here for a few days.” I knew the Ronald family sponsored numerous students. Jasper Cole was one of them. He had four sisters and a younger brother. Jasper was the eldest. Without the Ronalds, he likely would have ended up like his three sisters, married off right after turning eighteen. I knew of him. But I hadn’t known that, in the single month I was away, he had moved into my home, wearing my footwear. “Ezra, I’m just a small-town guy. I don’t know any better. Please don’t hold it against me. Now that we’ll be living together, maybe you can teach me the house rules…” Small-town guy? Living together? I gave a harsh laugh. “What about the watch on your wrist? And the cologne you’re wearing? I keep those in the master bathroom, next to the shower. We may not have house rules, but didn’t your school teach you not to take what isn’t yours?” I scoffed, picked up my slippers, and tossed them straight into the trash can. There were four pairs of perfectly clean guest slippers in the rack by the door. He deliberately chose Julia’s and my couple’s set. Julia frowned slightly, looking exasperated. “We’ll go out and buy a new pair after dinner. It’s just a pair of slippers, Ezra.” I rejected the idea flatly. “I’ve been awake for fifteen hours. I don’t have the time or the energy to go out just to replace a pair of slippers.” Julia opened her mouth but said nothing. The pressure in the room was suffocating. Jasper tugged at his pants, looking miserable, and meekly apologized. “I’m sorry, Ezra. I’ll mop the floor until it’s spotless. And I’ll buy the slippers.” “We have a robot vacuum. Don’t put on a performance of unnecessary suffering in front of me.” I walked straight back to the bedroom. Behind me, I heard a stifled, humiliated gasp. 3 By the time I’d washed up and come out, Jasper Cole had already packed his bags and left. Julia was leaned against the sofa, her eyes lowered. Her profile was soft yet cool, her eyelashes thick and dark. “You’re angry. What is the reason for the anger?” We had agreed when we married that clear communication was paramount. Say what you mean directly; it saves time wasted on speculation and second-guessing. We weren’t going to test our relationship with the silent treatment. “Professor Ronald, bringing a grown man to live in our home? That’s not a choice you would make.” I was blunt. She covered her mouth and let out a light laugh, her eyes shining with warmth. “Are you jealous, Ezra? I thought you didn’t care about me anymore.” I paused. The flattery was tempting— But it was clearly not the answer I was looking for. “He’s just a student sponsored by the Ronalds. He needs a temporary place to stay because of the dorm environment and social issues. “The apartments my parents offered were either too far or needed to be cleaned…” I smirked. “Julia, without the Ronald family, without you, would those ‘difficulties’ even register as problems? The complaints about not being used to dorm life, or being scared to talk to roommates? Those are not the words of a young man from an impoverished background. “And he’s twenty-seven, not seventeen.” He spent two years retaking the college entrance exam and three years trying for grad school. Julia might believe his flimsy excuses, but I wouldn’t. Didn’t those constantly updated videos and commented replies speak volumes about his intentions? You didn’t need a man’s intuition to see it; anyone with eyes could tell. “I know. That’s why I told him to go back.” She sat next to me and rested her head on my shoulder. “I’ve been so exhausted lately. I can’t even sleep soundly when you’re not here… “Julia Ronald can live without anyone, but she can’t live without Ezra Kane. “You have to trust me.” I thought for a moment, then nodded. If twenty-plus years of friendship and marriage could be shaken this easily, what did my absolute commitment to Julia mean? I still believed she was fundamentally a good person. Even if we lacked fiery romance, she wouldn’t do anything dishonorable. The next morning, I drove to the lab in Julia’s car as usual. She still brewed my herbal tea before dawn, preparing my day’s vitamins and fruit with meticulous care. Nothing seemed to have changed. During my lunch break, I checked my phone. The algorithm immediately served up Jasper’s latest plog: [I must fly like a bird toward my mountain. Thank you to my Goddess!] The first picture in the album was of my favorite book. When Julia and I first got married, I used to hold her and ask her to read it to me every night. But the copy she gave to Jasper? It had the author’s signature. My hand felt stiff as I scrolled down. Below the book was a screenshot of her chat history with him. Gen: [Don’t dwell on such small matters.] Gen: [If you’re upset, go to the lab. You shouldn’t waste your energy on something like slippers.] World’s Cutest Stud: [Well, why can someone else waste theirs?] Gen: [I can’t control others. I don’t allow you to waste yours.] World’s Cutest Stud: [Hehe, I’m honored~ Yes, ma’am! Salute.jpg] … I slid through the comments, feeling the blood drain from my entire body. [OMG, what kind of angelic supervisor is this? She is so protective!] (Liked by the original poster) [The domineering CEO-style mentor. And her face is absolutely right for the role.] (Liked by the original poster) [I’m obsessed. Is it too late to go back and get a grad degree?] [Don’t be delusional, commenter above. The supervisors we get are like mine: three sentences, and two of them are about how bad my paper is. Must be original content.] [Keep the updates coming! I love shipping you two in my free time!] (Liked by the original poster) … Distracted, I took the list a colleague handed me. “Ezra, this is the list of students Crestwood U selected for the project. Want to take a look?” I nodded, signing my name without looking. This was a joint project between our lab and CU. The CU contact hoped we could give their students some exposure. Our project team agreed to let them send resumes for screening. We planned to keep about ten students. I drove home that night. Julia had already cooked dinner. I changed into the new slippers she had bought for me and put my phone in front of her. “Why didn’t you bring back a signed copy of that book for me?” She didn’t like social media; she preferred phone calls for communication. I needed to make her see how Jasper interpreted her every action. And how everyone else perceived their relationship. Her frown deepened, and she put the phone down, her voice tight. “I understand.” Julia explained the signed book was a gift she asked a contact to bring back for a group of her students, not just Jasper. I didn’t get one because, she claimed, I preferred the content to the celebrity. As for Jasper, she said she would handle it. I looked at her and gave a slow nod. “Okay. I trust you.” One last time. 4 Life resumed its routine. The lab project got underway. Just as I was preparing to pull an all-nighter, Julia called. Professor Ronald, who usually preferred home-cooked meals, was actually taking me out on a dinner date. I looked at the empty lab and readily agreed. It was the familiar old restaurant, one Julia and I had frequented since high school. They made the best smoked and cured meats in the city. Just as we sat down, a familiar figure appeared nearby. It was Jasper Cole. He was carrying a tray, pouring water and taking orders for a newly arrived table. When he saw us—no, when he saw Julia—his eyes immediately brimmed with tears. He lowered his head, trying to hide his distress, his hand gripping the order pad so tightly his knuckles turned white. I swirled the drink in my glass, watching him in silence. Julia looked at him, a flicker of concern crossing her features. “Did the Ronald family stop your funding?” Jasper took a deep breath, trying to control his voice, but it still trembled. “I’m grateful to Mr. Ronald and to you for your help and care. But I think I should rely on myself and work my way through school now.” He stole a cautious glance at me, adding pointedly, “That way, I won’t upset Professor Kane anymore.” I lifted my head, my gaze piercing. “You want to work? With your master’s degree, you could tutor privately or teach at an agency. There are plenty of options.” “But you chose to work as a server at a restaurant we frequent. I wonder what your intentions are.” Jasper reacted as if I’d stepped on his tail, quickly defending himself. “It was just a coincidence. Gen brought me here once before, and I saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign. I just want to earn more money…” I smiled faintly. Earn money? What part-time job pays less than waiting tables for a Crestwood University graduate student? “A student should look and act like a student. I’d prefer to see ‘clear stupidity’ in your eyes than so much obvious calculation.” He suddenly stopped moving, his voice choked. “Mr. Kane, not everyone is as articulate and bold as you are.” “I came from a small town. I’m slow-witted. I didn’t even know you couldn’t share a pair of slippers, and I’m terrified of dealing with powerful people. All I know is that all work is the same. You earn money in your glamorous lab, and I earn money serving here.” “I know you look down on me, but you can’t repeatedly humiliate me!” Julia turned her head, her gaze resting lightly on me. “Ezra, don’t push a young man when he’s already down.” Jasper stood next to Julia, his eyes red and his posture trembling. He gave me a sincere bow. “Professor Kane, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown off the little kindness Gen gave me, and I shouldn’t have made you unhappy. I formally apologize. I’ll delete all the videos.” “And please, stop making things difficult for me!” “How have I made things difficult for you?” 5 Jasper looked mournfully at Julia, then bit his lip and spoke in a repressed, heavy tone. “The lab project you’re running… I applied for that, too… “I know you don’t like me, but I worked so, so hard. Why would you deny me that opportunity?” It suddenly dawned on me. Ah, so this little performance was all for this. A few days ago, the selected CU students started reporting to our lab. As fate would have it, three of the four students in Jasper’s dorm room were selected. When they returned to school, they couldn’t stop talking about our lab. “The most heavily funded lab in the state! Mom and Dad, I finally made you proud!” “Turns out, being a workhorse depends on where you’re working—a golden cage is better than a doghouse, and this is like a diamond mansion…” “The cafeteria food is amazing, and it’s free!” “Highlight of my resume. I hear the husband of one of our professors works there!” “Our supervisor, Professor Kane, is incredible. Young and brilliant. I love him almost as much as I love Brad Pitt!” … I had reviewed the resumes of every accepted student, but Jasper’s had never reached my desk. I immediately messaged the colleague in charge of selection, asking for Jasper’s resume. I opened it and glanced at the contents. “Before asking others why, ask yourself why not.” Julia stared at me silently, her eyes devoid of any softening. I knew she was angry. “Ezra, don’t play with someone else’s future.” I felt a prick of surprise, followed by a wave of self-mockery. I laughed at how, after all these years, I still hadn’t seen her clearly. I laughed at how, after all these years, she still hadn’t known me. Otherwise, why would she believe a stranger over me? Seeing Julia defend him, Jasper’s voice grew even more pitiful. “Professor Kane, I know I’ve made mistakes, but I’m not blaming you. Getting into that lab is just a word from you—” “Stop. I don’t have the power to control everything, and if I did, I wouldn’t waste it on you.” Julia seemed unconvinced. “I asked about the project. You’re the lead coordinator. “I know it was a joint decision, so I didn’t plan to interfere, but today, you’re being overly aggressive.” I let out a cold laugh. “I’m being aggressive? “Out of respect for you, I accepted his resume after the submission deadline. “How can a student who hasn’t even passed his English proficiency exam have the basic ability to read technical documents? “Or should I show you the resumes of the other students?” Jasper forgot to act wounded, looking anxiously at Julia, clearly terrified she would blame him. “Gen, you know I don’t get along with my roommates. They didn’t want to tell me about the opportunity. By the time I found out, it was too late…” I was beyond anger, I was amused. How could one person shift all responsibility onto others? “The project announcement was posted everywhere on your campus. If you missed it, fine. But what obligation did your roommates have to notify you personally?” “But I have a paper!” A sudden spark of defiance lit up Jasper’s eyes. “My paper is higher quality than the research of the students who have been here for two or three years!” “Ah, yes. The paper. It is quite important.” I nodded slowly. “But the first three thousand words of that paper alone required me to send you over thirty major revisions. Is that what you’re bragging about?” What a twist of fate. The thesis he was so proud of was the one I’d spent an all-nighter fixing. … Dinner was abandoned. Or rather, my dinner was abandoned. As I left, Julia ran after me and grabbed my arm. “He’s just a student, Ezra. You don’t need to humiliate him in front of all these people.” I yanked my arm away, looking at her coldly. “And you, Julia Ronald? When you publicly accused me of targeting him, did you think about how I was supposed to navigate that? “In the three years we’ve been married—no, since we met—have we ever fought over a person this insignificant?” The answer was never. Why now? “Ezra, he is my student.” And what does that have to do with me? 6 Julia didn’t come home that night. Some so-called ‘insider’ posted the video of the restaurant confrontation on Crestwood U’s campus gossip page, along with screenshots of Julia’s social media posts. [The so-called ‘Inspirational Male Student’ everyone loves is actually abusing the kindness of his supervisor’s family. He cooks, wears the husband’s slippers, uses his cologne, and clings to the supervisor. All I can say is that Professor Ronald’s husband is too good for this to work. This Jasper guy is trying to be the mistress and failing! He looks shy and sweet, but secretly, he’s garbage.] The comment section exploded, and the post went viral. Julia was virtually immune, but Jasper became the target of the entire school’s outrage. [Wait, isn’t he from my dorm building? I wondered why he was always sleeping out—guess my dorm couldn’t support His Majesty’s palace life~] [Even though all the videos were deleted, he clearly branded himself as an ‘Inspirational Blogger.’ Do those words even apply to him?] [Why not? Trying to inspire others to be a side-piece is a type of inspiration, too~.jpg] [Let’s see how the school handles this. Who wouldn’t love a young, successful Prof Ronald? Some people have no shame.] [I remember he’s not exactly young. Prof Ronald is only five or six years older.] [Disgusting. Entering someone’s home without permission and wearing the husband’s slippers. Imagine the foot fungus.] [That’s what you get from guys with no manners. The OP said he used the man’s cologne too. Just trash.] [He must have thick skin. I still draft my messages to my own supervisor in a blank document first…] [Fellow cowards, assemble here!] … I sat in my study, staring at the photo frame on Julia’s desk. It was our first photo together. It was right after our first high school midterm. We had tied for first place, and the teacher insisted on a joint photo. I remembered her muttering before the flash went off: “Finally, someone who can compete. You’ve earned the right to stand next to me.” I scoffed, looking at her. “Next time, it’ll be a solo shot for me, Your Highness. You can stand in the shade.” “Dream on, Kane.” … Just like that, we became each other’s sole measuring stick throughout high school. “Julia, what did you get for the last question?” “I’m too lazy to tell you.” “Whatever.” … “What did you translate that English word to?” “Call me ‘Big Sister’ and I’ll tell you.” “Get lost.” … “Julia, which one do you want: Harvard or Stanford?” “Which one are you going to?” “Harvard.” “Then I’ll go to Harvard, too.” After our results came out, I went to Yale and she went to MIT. We saw each other every year, fought every time, and were constant companions. Finally, as everyone predicted, we became a powerhouse couple. … My phone suddenly vibrated wildly. It was Julia. The moment I answered, her voice, completely devoid of its usual composure, came through the line. “Ezra Kane, how could you spread such malicious rumors? He is still a student! Are you trying to destroy his life? He never did any of those things!” Facing Julia’s baseless accusation again, I was unnervingly calm. But why did my chest hurt so badly? I felt like I was suffocating. “What happened?” I tried to keep my voice steady, though my hands were shaking. “Stop acting innocent! I’m starting to doubt if I chose the right person three years ago!” Smash— My hand twitched slightly, and the photo frame crashed to the floor. Shattered. Perhaps it wasn’t just the frame that was broken.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390827”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The accident cost my daughter and me our memories. The cost to my wife, a licensed therapist, was apparently irrelevant, as she immediately prioritized an international healing journey with her depressed high school crush and his daughter. When our memories finally returned, she was surprised to find us quiet, cooperative, and incredibly independent. We no longer cried out for her attention, no longer needed her exhausting, forced comfort. At first, she was pleased, convinced she had managed to perfectly balance her professional duty and family life. That illusion shattered on New Year’s Eve, when she came home early and paused outside the door, listening to my conversation with our daughter. “Daddy, is that woman really my mom? Every time I call her that, it just feels weird.” I nodded. “I feel the same way. She doesn’t seem like my type at all. How did I even end up marrying her?” My daughter’s voice grew conspiratorial. “Daddy, your type is Ms. Simon, right? Every time she sees you after school, her ears turn bright red, and she always finds an excuse to drive us home… I think you have a shot!” My face was heating up, but before I could answer, my daughter leaned in close, offering a suggestion in a volume she clearly thought was a whisper—but was loud enough for anyone outside to hear: “Daddy, maybe… we should just get a new mom?” 1. Dinner was an intense affair. I’d ordered two platters of insane hot wings, and my daughter and I were sweating, our faces smeared with red grease, happily demolishing the feast. A voice, familiar yet somehow estranged, cut through the noise behind us. “You didn’t wait for me?” We both flinched. Turning around, we saw a beautiful woman standing in the doorway, radiating a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. Her eyes were similar to Zoe’s. It was Caroline Jennings. My wife. My daughter’s mother. She walked closer, her gaze immediately landing on our sticky faces and the carnage of chicken bones. Her perfect brows furrowed. “Six years, Noah. You know I have a stomach condition. I can’t eat spicy food.” Zoe, still sucking the last bit of flavor off a bone, spoke without thinking. “We didn’t order any for you. This is for us.” Cara froze. I offered a weak, forced laugh and scrambled to cover the awkward silence. “Well, uh… I saw a photo on your feed. You and Garrett and Ruby were at the amusement park. I figured you’d have dinner there…” “Noah Miller.” She cut me off, her tone the usual blend of cool impatience and patronizing correction. “I’ve explained this. Garrett and Ruby Price were abandoned by his wife, and he’s battling severe, treatment-resistant depression. I am a doctor. I am fulfilling my professional duty.” She took a slow, deliberate breath, her voice turning heavy with accusation. “And what about you? As a husband and father, you didn’t just make a scene at my workplace, you taught Zoe to be manipulative and jealous.” She paused for effect. “And then you caused a car crash. Hasn’t any of that made either of you stop and think about your actions?” A tide of memories crashed over me. I remembered the moment I discovered her continuous, day-and-night ‘professional care’ was actually for her high school crush, Garrett. I’d taken Zoe and shown up at his apartment, convinced I was catching them. Cara had just pulled us aside, her expression one of weary resignation. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d overreact. I am a doctor. To abandon my patients now would be unprofessional and irresponsible.” She’d looked down her nose at us. “Don’t you dare bring my daughter here and act hysterically in front of my patients.” Her cool, measured tone made Zoe and me feel like two hysterical fools. In a fit of desperate rage, I hired someone to hang a giant banner outside her hospital: GARRETT PRICE IS SEDUCING MY WIFE. Zoe, armed with a tiny megaphone, had chased Ruby Price around the preschool playground, yelling, “She’s a mistress’s daughter! Don’t play with her!” Eventually, Garrett and Ruby were threatening self-harm. Cara, to force us into submission, got me fired and ensured Zoe was ostracized at school. I completely broke down and threatened divorce. Only then did she finally concede, promising to keep her distance from the Prices. Zoe and I believed her. We had even booked a long-anticipated trip for our fifth anniversary, counting the days until her rare vacation. We went to the hospital, elated, to pick her up. Instead, all we got was a chilling phone call. “Emergency consultation. The trip is postponed.” Dumbfounded, we left the hospital. But as we turned the corner, we clearly heard her colleagues chatting, laced with knowing amusement: “Dr. Jennings is so committed to Mr. Price. She’s taken a half-year sabbatical to accompany them on their recovery journey!” “I know. I heard she’s already on her way to the airport. A specialized escort, apparently.” My ears started ringing. My heart felt like a piece had been surgically removed. Before the tears could fall, I looked down at Zoe’s pale face. Fat tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her voice trembled. “Daddy… does Mommy really not want us anymore?” That single question shattered my remaining sanity. I immediately grabbed Zoe’s hand and ran, chasing after Cara’s car. We needed an answer! We needed to know if she still wanted this family! We never caught up. We crashed instead. Waking up, the world was a blank slate. We didn’t remember her, only each other. And she, in turn, had conveniently put us on a shelf. My memory snapped back to the present. Zoe and I exchanged an awkward glance. The memory had returned, but the love hadn’t. In fact, I couldn’t understand why we’d ever been that hysterical. I quickly assured Cara that we truly wouldn’t interfere again. Cara’s expression darkened further. After a long moment, she regained her usual air of control. “Tomorrow, I’m taking them to Redwood Park for a therapy session. Make sure you pack three identical lunches.” She looked at Zoe. “Zoe, make sure you put together an extra set of your class notes for Ruby.” She turned to leave, adding a cool, final word. “Do as you say. Don’t do anything else… embarrassing.” The door closed. Zoe and I looked at each other and simultaneously shrugged. Then, I pulled out my phone and ordered a gourmet meal for three for later. Zoe messaged her teacher, politely asking for a digital backup of the class materials. As for tomorrow? We already had plans to go hiking with Ms. Simon. Who had time to worry about them? 2. Early the next morning, I heard Garrett’s gentle voice from the living room. “Cara, is it just the three of us going? Maybe… maybe we should still invite Noah and Zoe? I worry they might misunderstand. I’d be fine, but Ruby is still so fragile. She can’t handle the stress…” Ruby’s small voice piped up in agreement. “Daddy, I’m okay. Little Zoe… she didn’t mean to be mean.” Cara’s voice, soft and reassuring, followed. “Ruby, sweetie, don’t worry. If I bring them, who knows what kind of scene they’ll make. It’s not good for your treatment.” I sighed, rolled over, and drifted back to sleep. The next thing I knew, a rough force yanked me from the bed. Cara practically dragged me into the living room. “Look at the daughter you’re raising!” Her voice was a low snarl of fury. “Look at what she did to Ruby!” Garrett was holding a sobbing, trembling Ruby, who was covered in streaks of food and sauce. His eyes were red-rimmed. Zoe was sitting amidst a disastrous mess, tightly clutching three insulated lunch boxes, her small face red with effort, tears splashing onto the floor. “I didn’t push her!” Zoe cried out. “She’s a thief! She stole the lunch Daddy made for me! I just wanted it back!” Cara didn’t even look at her. She was carefully wiping Ruby down with a damp cloth, murmuring soothing words to Garrett. Only when that was done did she turn to me, her eyes holding a familiar, exhausted I knew it look. “Noah Miller, are you this resentful just because I asked you to make a few extra lunches? So you taught your daughter to pull this vile stunt?” She leaned in, her voice cold. “You promised last night. Are you going back on your word already?” I took a deep breath, patiently attempting to explain. “I didn’t teach her anything, and I believe Zoe. Your lunches were on the counter—Garrett’s family’s food. Ruby probably just picked up the wrong one by mistake…” “Stop.” Cara cut me off, her face tight with annoyance, as if watching a terrible, familiar play. “Don’t act surprised. I haven’t forgotten what you two are capable of. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Noah. You need to take a long, hard look at how to be a responsible father.” The words choked in my throat. Before the memory loss, we had an agreement: if she kept her distance from Garrett and Ruby, we would have peace. Cara did start coming home on time and checking in. But the moment Ruby got a scrape at preschool, Cara would materialize, dragging Zoe to apologize without hearing her side. When Zoe tried to defend herself, Cara would look at me and say, stone-cold: “Noah Miller, is your word that cheap? Don’t make a scene. Don’t push my patience and love to the breaking point. If you do, there’ll be nothing left to talk about.” The worst time, she’d dropped a line that was still scorched into my memory: “A child with a malicious heart like that? I don’t want her.” My young daughter couldn’t handle that. She chased Cara out of the house barefoot, running until her feet were bloody, grabbing her skirt and confessing to every false crime. “Mommy! I’m sorry! It’s all my fault! I won’t ever do it again! I apologized to Ruby!” “Please don’t leave Daddy and me!” Since then, Zoe never dared to defend herself again. I sighed softly. What was the point of explaining? In Cara’s eyes, we were already convicted, repeat offenders. I pulled Zoe close, my voice low and calm. “Zoe, give them the lunches.” My daughter’s small body stiffened, but then she aggressively wiped her face, gave up the argument, and silently pushed the tightly protected lunch boxes across the floor. Cara didn’t look at us again. She bent down, lifted Ruby into her arms, and shielded the two of them with her body. She turned to leave. Slam! The door closed with a sharp, final sound. The house instantly became terrifyingly quiet. It was just Zoe and me, and the wreckage on the floor. I quietly picked up a rag and started cleaning. Zoe squatted beside me, helping pick up the scattered mess. After a long moment, I asked softly: “Zoe, if one day, your father and mother separated…” “Who would you want to live with?” I’d asked her that when things were at their absolute worst with Cara. Then, she’d cried hysterically. “I don’t want you to split up, I want us to be a family forever!” Now, she didn’t hesitate. She looked up at me, her eyes clear and determined. “I’m staying with Daddy.” “No matter what happens, I’m only staying with Daddy.” I looked at her and felt a smile break across my face. The last sliver of coldness in my heart instantly melted away, replaced by a profound warmth. I stroked her hair. “Okay.” If that was the case, there was nothing left to fear. 3. Just as I finished clearing the last bit of the mess, the doorbell rang. “Mr. Miller? Zoe? Are you home?” Zoe’s eyes lit up. “It’s Ms. Simon!” She ran to the door. Outside, a bright, kind young woman bent down and embraced the child who flew into her arms. Seeing Zoe’s red, puffy eyes, Juliet Simon’s voice immediately softened. “Zoe, what happened? Have you been crying?” My daughter buried her face in Juliet’s shoulder, whimpering miserably. “The lunch Daddy made… someone took it…” “It’s okay,” Juliet said, gently patting her back. “Ms. Simon made new food. Everything that you and your daddy love.” She had a genuine knack for comforting the child. With just a few words, Zoe’s tears turned to laughter. Juliet finally looked up at me, offering an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Noah. I called but couldn’t reach you. I got worried, so I just came over.” “Ms. Simon, please don’t apologize,” I quickly said. “You’re Zoe’s and my lifesaver. Please, call me Noah.” Half a year ago, it was Juliet who had pulled us from the wreckage of our crushed car, racing us to the hospital. Later, when she heard we had partial amnesia and were struggling with day-to-day things, she spontaneously began dropping off meals and taking Zoe to and from school. When our memories returned, she carefully retreated to a respectable distance. But soon after she heard the full story of our crash, she suddenly became Zoe’s new preschool teacher. Juliet’s ear tips turned slightly pink. She spoke quietly. “Noah, I’ve planned the entire hiking route. Shall we head out?” She was as good as her word; everything was perfectly organized. When Zoe got tired on the trail, Juliet immediately crouched down. “Zoe, hop on.” I felt a pang of guilt. “Don’t spoil her. You’re already carrying so much, Ms. Simon.” She just smiled, reaching out a hand to lightly brace herself on my arm. “It’s fine. I work out regularly. I’ve got the strength.” For some reason, watching her clear-cut profile, my heart started to beat erratically. Even when we reached the rest area and she took Zoe to buy water, that strange feeling hadn’t subsided. Just then, a small, familiar voice drifted from behind us. “Mommy! Let’s run!” It was followed by Garrett’s laughing voice. “Ruby, slow down. You’ll fall.” Finally, Cara’s voice, also tinged with warmth. “Ruby, Mommy’s going to catch you!” I turned my head and met the gaze of the three people not far behind me. The air solidified. Garrett’s face went white. He violently pulled Ruby into his chest, his voice trembling. “Mr. Miller… are you—are you stalking us again? Cara and I really aren’t doing anything, Ruby only calls her Mommy because she misses her mother so much… please, take whatever you have out on me, but don’t hurt the child…” Cara instantly stepped forward, completely blocking Garrett and Ruby from view, as if I were some kind of monster. Her jaw was tight, her eyebrows fiercely furrowed. “Noah Miller, I told you this is treatment. Their emotions are fragile; they cannot handle stress. How many times do I have to tell you to cure yourself of this paranoia?” I looked at the familiar, yet strangely foreign, faces before me, and the scene that had, in the past, caused me so much loss of control and misery. Now, my heart was completely calm. In fact, it felt a little ridiculous. You can’t even truly empathize with your past self. What exactly was my feeling for this woman now? If I loved her, I should be furious. Instead, I waved a casual hand. “I understand. It’s your duty as a therapist. You don’t need to explain it to me.” “I’m just here for a hike. We just happened to run into each other. Please, continue. Pretend I’m not here.” Cara clearly froze, her eyes locked on mine. “Ruby called me Mommy. You’re not angry?” I was genuinely confused. “Angry about what?” She stared at my face, searching for any sign of pretense, but found nothing. Her expression grew uglier, and the chill around her deepened. After a long silence, she seemed to come to a conclusion. Her voice was cold, and utterly convinced. “Don’t try to act, Noah Miller. I know you’re sulking. We’ll talk about this later. But for now, you need to go home. I won’t hold this against you this time.” I was about to respond when a clear, pleasant woman’s voice came from behind me. “Noah, what’s going on?” Cara’s head snapped up. She saw Juliet, and her entire body instantly locked up. “Is everything okay?” Juliet, holding a daughter whose face was sticky with sugar, quickly walked over to my side. I met her halfway. “What took so long? Did Zoe convince you to buy extra?” Catching Zoe’s pleading eyes, Juliet smiled to cover for her. “Just one tiny extra marshmallow to replenish her energy. This is yours.” She presented a much larger marshmallow, like a magic trick. I instinctively smiled. Just as I was about to take it— “Noah Miller,” Cara interrupted, her voice sharp and cold. “Who is she?” Ruby, peeking out from behind Cara, mumbled, “Why is Ms. Simon here?” I paused, realizing that since Garrett and Ruby had entered our lives, Cara had never once visited Zoe’s school or bothered to ask who had helped us after the accident. This was the first time she had seen Juliet Simon. “This is Ms. Simon,” I introduced her. “She was the one who pulled Zoe and me from the car after the accident six months ago.” As I moved to introduce Cara, Juliet had already extended her hand, smiling naturally. “You must be Ruby’s mother, then? It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 4. The instant the words left Juliet’s mouth, Cara’s face went dark, a deep, ugly red spreading beneath her skin. She looked at Zoe and me, seeing our complete lack of reaction, and her voice dropped even colder. “I am Zoe’s mother. And Ms. Simon, why exactly are you with my husband and daughter?” “Ms. Simon is here hiking with us!” Zoe wrapped her arms around Juliet’s neck, her voice overflowing with affection. “She’s super strong! She carried me for ages and isn’t even tired!” Cara seemed to be fighting to suppress her rage. She withdrew the arm that had been guarding Garrett and Ruby, took a step forward, and held out her hand to Zoe. “Come here, Mommy will carry you. Don’t bother strangers.” Zoe’s smile instantly froze. She twisted her face away, burying it tightly in Juliet’s shoulder. “She’s no trouble at all,” Juliet said, her grip on the child firm, her smile still gentle. I spoke softly. “Don’t you need to continue your session with Garrett and Ruby? Don’t let us delay you. Zoe understands.” But Cara was rooted to the spot. No matter how much Ruby tugged on her sleeve, she didn’t move. She just stared at me, her eyes filled with a furious disbelief. “Noah Miller,” her voice was raw. “You’re just… completely indifferent?” “Work is important,” I replied blandly. Cara laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. “Fine. Don’t you dare regret this.” Seeing this, Garrett’s eyes immediately welled up. He pulled his daughter closer, his voice laced with a familiar tremor. “Cara, please don’t do this… Noah and Zoe must still be angry at us. Go spend time with them. Ruby and I… we can just go home by ourselves…” “There’s no need.” Cara scoffed dismissively, but when she turned to Garrett, her tone softened immediately. “Didn’t you say you learned a new recipe? I want to try it. And I can stay and paint with Ruby.” With that, she naturally took Ruby’s hand. Before turning away completely, she looked at me one last time. “I’ll be home late tonight. Don’t call and interrupt us.” I was very obedient. I didn’t call once. It wasn’t until late that night that my phone screen lit up with her message: “Noah Miller. Good. You are very good.” Then, Cara didn’t come home for two weeks. Her social media, however, was flooded with vacation photos of her, Garrett, and Ruby. The location tags showed they were in the Maldives—the very place we were supposed to go for our anniversary trip, the trip she had postponed indefinitely. The scenery was undeniably beautiful. I absentmindedly tapped the ‘Like’ button. In the middle of the night, Cara’s call came through, laced with a repressed, yet undeniable, smugness. “Noah, don’t pout. I saw your like. Isn’t it Zoe’s birthday in two days? I’ll buy her gifts and rush back.” I was half-asleep. “Don’t bother. Zoe’s birthday was two days ago. Ms. Simon celebrated with her and gave her a lot of gifts.” A heavy silence fell on the line. “I… I mixed up the dates,” her voice was strained. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll throw her a make-up party.” I was about to refuse, but she hung up before I could. I decided not to push it. She was still the child’s mother. The next day, I took Zoe to the hotel Cara had sent the address for. The event was grander than any birthday party Zoe had ever had. Cara rushed forward, bending to hug Zoe. “Zoe, happy belated birthday. Mommy sent all your gifts home. Do you like them?” Zoe instinctively sidestepped her embrace, nodding. “Thank you. I like them very much.” Cara’s outstretched arms froze mid-air, a flash of genuine loss crossing her face. She led us into the ballroom. On the giant screen, photos of Ruby Price were scrolling. Cara quickly explained. “It’s Ruby’s birthday, too. I thought we could celebrate both children together. You know, her mother abandoned them right after she was born…” “It’s fine,” I cut her off. “I understand.” Ruby’s party was scheduled first. She wore an expensive, limited-edition princess dress and danced on the stage, taking the microphone to thank Cara for filling the void left by her mother. I looked down at Zoe, who was just intently eating her cake, completely unaffected. I smiled lightly, wiping a smudge of frosting from her mouth. Before it was Zoe’s turn, Garrett pulled me aside to the hotel’s pool deck. His usual frail demeanor was gone, replaced by a smug smirk. “Noah Miller, did you see that? Even after six years of marriage and a daughter, the moment I show up, you and your daughter will always be second to us in Cara’s heart.” “Whether it’s the trip you always wanted or your daughter’s birthday… Guilt isn’t love, Noah. It’s just pity.” “Are you suggesting I divorce her?” I asked calmly. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to bring it up.” He was stunned for a moment. “You’d give up? You sacrificed your chance to study abroad just for her.” I vaguely recalled college. Cara was the queen bee—beautiful and accomplished. But she wasn’t truly my type. Then, I was jumped and beaten, and she braved the situation to call the police for me. After that, I was obsessed. I chased her relentlessly, right through graduation. I’d fought bitterly with my parents and abandoned my career prospects, desperate to marry her. Yet, recalling it now, my heart was utterly still. I even felt a little foolish, like the twenty-year-old me had read too many romance novels. I shook my head, my voice sincere. “It’s nothing. If you want her, you can have her.” “Noah Miller, what did you say?!” Cara stood behind us, her face pale with fury, her eyes bloodshot. Garrett glanced over my shoulder, then let out a low, cold sneer. “Keep up the act. I’ll make sure you give up eventually.” Before I could react, he suddenly fell backward! I instinctively reached out to grab him, but the momentum dragged me along, and we both plunged into the cold pool! “Noah!” “Daddy!” The cold water flooded my nose and mouth, and I struggled violently. Through my blurry vision, I saw Cara hesitate for a split second, then swim toward… Garrett. The water fully closed over my head, muffling all sound. In the chaos, a small, weak hand suddenly grabbed me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390826”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The fever was a furnace, spiking past 104 degrees, and in that blurring, sweat-drenched state, I dreamt. My closest friend, Ashton, was there, clutching a bottle of pills, his face a landscape of absolute despair. He wept, repeating that he couldn’t go on. I tried to tell myself it was just the fever talking—a horrifying nightmare brought on by the exhaustion of the last few days. Then the call came. Ashton was dead. A suspected suicide by overdose. The scene, described in the sterile language of the precinct report, was an echo of my fevered vision. Identical. That same night, the fever returned. This time, I dreamt of my father-in-law, Robert Vaughn. A man whose health was robust, a man who never missed a morning at the gym. In the dream, he suffered a sudden cerebral hemorrhage and died instantly, his face a bruised mask of agony. I woke up, heart hammering, just as my wife, Tracy, answered a frantic call from her neighbor. Bob had collapsed in the produce aisle of the local market. We rushed to the county hospital, but the diagnosis was a chilling confirmation: a massive stroke. We were too late. My reality splintered. After Tracy and I navigated the dark, surreal logistics of the funeral, the high fever refused to break. I collapsed into a deep, drug-induced coma. And this time, the dream was of me. I was in a frenzy, emotions beyond my control. I held a machete, and I was hacking at Tracy’s body, reducing her to unrecognizable pieces before discarding the remains carelessly in the wild, overgrown fields outside the village. I jolted awake, drenched and gasping, the dream’s violence a sticky film on my skin. Terror seized me. I instinctively reached for the other side of the bed. It was empty. … 1 “Tracy?” Clinging to the headboard to steady myself against the vertigo, I scrambled off the mattress and slapped the light switch. “Tracy Blair! Where are you?” “Don’t do this to me!” The second shout was a desperate croak, tears already prickling my eyes. A deep, primal fear rose from my gut, clenching my diaphragm and making me dry-heave. Silence. The rented house was a void. In a blind panic, I fumbled under my pillow for my phone and dialed her number. It rang, but only met the steady, infuriating click of voicemail. I wrenched the bedroom door open and stumbled into the yard, screaming her name into the pre-dawn air. The only reply was the disturbed flutter and squawk of unseen birds. A sudden, cold gust of wind brought a flicker of clarity, pulling my thoughts back to the terrifying loop of the dreams. Could it be… The anxiety, the dread, and the crushing sense of fate tightened around my chest. “911, what is your emergency?” It wasn’t until the operator’s voice cut through the silence that I realized I’d called the police purely on instinct. She repeated the question when I failed to speak. “Sir? Are you there?” “I—I am.” I pressed the phone hard against my ear, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I… I need to report a missing person.” “My wife is gone.” The operator seemed to register the raw edge of my distress. She spoke softly, then followed up with procedure. “When did you last see her?” I lifted my arm, squinting at the dim glow of my wristwatch. 4:32 AM. “Three hours ago. That was the last time.” “Sir, we typically can’t take a missing persons report until twenty-four hours have passed,” she said, her tone reverting to standard protocol. Then, a touch of humanity returned. “Is it possible she just stepped out? Maybe she didn’t want to wake you, given the circumstances of the funeral?” I nodded stupidly into the phone. “Right. Okay.” The line went dead. I lowered the phone and looked around. It was pitch black, alienating. It was the day after Bob’s burial. Tracy had insisted we stay one night in the village, near her family plot. I’d been running on pure adrenaline and Tylenol for three days, my fever a constant companion. The moment the funeral director closed the casket, I’d crashed. And then… that third, most terrible dream. The thought of it sent a fresh spike of pain through my skull, so sharp it dropped me to my knees. I shook my head violently, then, in a morbid curiosity that felt utterly foreign, I opened my phone’s browser and typed: Do dreams come true? The logical answers were obvious and unsatisfying. The operator’s gentle reminder echoed: “Maybe she just went somewhere and didn’t tell you?” A sudden location sprang to mind. I scrambled up, half-crawling to the door, and got in the car. I didn’t stop to dress properly, driving straight for the cemetery where we’d laid Bob to rest. It’s a lie. The dreams are lies. It won’t happen. I repeated the mantra until my throat was raw, but it did nothing to stop the cold sweat from soaking the collar of my T-shirt. The village roads were silent and deserted. I drove fast, arriving at the cemetery in less than five minutes. In the distance, I saw it: a few faint, pulsing lights near the grave markers. A rush of desperate relief surged through me. I leaned out the window, waving and shouting Tracy’s name. No response. I slammed the brakes. My headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating the stone—Bob’s new headstone. And just as clearly, they showed that no one was there. She wasn’t at the grave. Where was she? Did she just go home, back to the city? A new flicker of hope ignited. I spun the car around and sped toward the highway. But on the way, I passed a vast, empty stretch of scrubland, the kind of untamed terrain that lined the outskirts of the village. The details of the location clicked, slowly, sickeningly—they matched the disposal site from my dream. I jammed the brake pedal, the tires screaming in protest. I stumbled out of the car, breathing in ragged, choked gasps. The first pale light of dawn was just touching the horizon. I walked into the dense, thorny field, scanning wildly. Nothing. No disturbance. No body. Thank God. The dream was just a dream. It wasn’t real. A fragile sense of calm returned. I got back in the car, feeling lighter, and drove home. I pulled into our driveway at 6:12 AM. The result ripped the air from my lungs again. The house was still empty. Frantically, I started calling Tracy’s friends. They were all confused, insisting they hadn’t seen her and didn’t know where she’d gone. Riley, her oldest friend, tried to soothe my rising panic. “Cass, please, don’t spiral. You know Tate. Since she was a kid, when she’s really overwhelmed or upset, she just disappears. She has to go somewhere quiet and digest it alone.” “She’ll show up. Just relax. Give her a couple of hours.” 2 I hung up, but couldn’t sit still. I’d checked every place I could think of, called everyone in her life. Tracy, a fully grown woman, had simply vanished. I sank onto the sofa, my head leaning heavily on the armrest. In the dead silence of the living room, I forced myself to slow my breathing, and the images of last night’s dream flooded back. No. Impossible. It can’t be. I opened my browser again, searching for the same questions, over and over, desperately trying to affirm my sanity. I didn’t kill my wife. I couldn’t have. We’d been married for ten years, childless but happy. We were the couple that everyone pointed to, the “Model Millers,” who never seemed to fight. I rubbed my face hard, feeling the sting of the stubble, trying to push away the creeping sensation that I was losing my mind. While searching for articles about premonition, my phone’s default system suddenly flashed a recommendation: “If you are experiencing intrusive or distressing thoughts, seek professional help.” The suggestion was a punch to the gut, but it also jarred me into action. I pulled up a map and found the closest clinic, then booked the earliest appointment. The psychologist, Dr. Helena Ross, looked about my age and maintained a studied, gentle smile as I entered. “Mr. Miller, you mentioned chronic nightmares? This could be due to extreme stress, anxiety, or—” “No!” I cut her off, my voice loud and desperate. “My dreams, Doctor. They’re predictive.” Dr. Ross froze, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, what exactly do you mean?” I pressed my lips together. “It sounds insane. I know. But it’s already happened. Twice.” “Five days ago, I dreamt my best friend, Ashton, was going to kill himself…” In the dream, Ashton, my friend of twenty years, was utterly broken. He cried, recounting his failed relationships, then, in a terrifying, decisive movement, he opened a bottle of pills and swallowed the entire contents. The worst part was that I simply stood there, watching him die with a cold, almost detached expression. “Doctor, you have to understand. I woke up, and he really was dead. He swallowed pills. It’s what killed him.” Dr. Ross’s face had gone pale, her mouth slightly ajar. “It sounds like a terrible… coincidence, Mr. Miller.” I closed my eyes, and a single tear slipped down my cheek. “That’s what I told myself, too.” After Ashton’s funeral, the fever had hit, and consumed by grief and illness, I took a strong dose of flu medicine and passed out. “The second time, I dreamt of my father-in-law. Robert Vaughn. I saw him die from a stroke.” In that dream, Bob’s face was dark and congested. He was clutching his chest, pleading with me for help. But in the dream, I ignored his helplessness, even cracking a bizarre, chilling smile as he expired. “And in reality, your father-in-law…?” she prompted, her voice barely a whisper. I nodded slowly. “He died. A cerebral hemorrhage. Just like in the dream.” When we got the call, we rushed to the hospital in the next county, but the doctor met us in the waiting room. They’d worked on him, but the EMTs had brought him in too late. Dr. Ross was clearly rattled now. Her professional composure was cracking. She leaned forward, her expression tight. “Mr. Miller, I need you to tell me about the third dream.” I took a long, shaking breath. “I dreamt… I killed my wife.” The words were out, and the doctor gasped, leaping from her chair. Her eyes were wide, and she instinctively backed away, putting distance between us. “And your wife… she’s dead?” I immediately shook my head, my voice erupting into a shout. “No! She’s not dead!” “I didn’t kill her! I would never kill Tracy!” CRASH! The door suddenly burst open. A team of plainclothes officers streamed in. “Cass Miller! You are under arrest in connection with a homicide investigation. You need to come with us.” 3 I became hysterical, shaking and thrashing, only able to repeat the same phrase: “I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t kill anyone!” “Officers, my wife is missing! You need to help me find my wife!” Dr. Ross was utterly terrified. She pointed a trembling finger at me, thrusting a small recording device toward the lead officer. “I’m reporting him! He’s a psychopath! I’m certain he did it!” I was forced into the back of an unmarked police cruiser. The fever had returned with a vengeance, blurring my vision and making the lights swim. The officer beside me, Detective Morales, noticed me nodding off. He barked a single, sharp sentence that cut through the haze. “Cass Miller, this morning, in the scrubland near your father-in-law’s village, we recovered the remains of your wife, Tracy Blair.” I stared at him, my mouth opening, wanting to deny it, but no sound would come out. The sudden, brutal shock sent a wave of nausea washing over me, and a jet of something metallic and hot sprayed from my mouth. The officers immediately diverted to the emergency room. Once I was stabilized and hooked up to an IV drip, Detective Morales began the preliminary interview. “We’ve listened to your conversation with the psychologist. Your claim is that you’re having premonitions of the future?” I nodded weakly, meeting his gaze. “Detective, I need to ask you something. What… what did they look like? Her remains?” Morales’s face was dark, his eyes unreadable. He didn’t answer right away, simply boring into me, evaluating every twitch of my expression. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and heavy. “She was dismembered. We recovered the torso and all four limbs.” He paused, letting the word dismembered hang in the air, a cold, hard echo of my dream. “The killer took great pains to clean up any identifying information. Except…” He leaned closer, his eyes locked on mine. This was the test. Every minute micro-expression I made would be cataloged. “The killer made one mistake. At the scene, we found a severed thumb, dropped near the shallow grave site.” “Fingerprint match confirmed the identity of the victim.” “It’s your wife, Tracy Blair.” My heart seized up. My thoughts were stuck on the three words: dismembered. The remains. Again. It’s exactly the same. The emotional floodgate broke, but Morales pressed on, ignoring my grief. “The autopsy report is preliminary. Time of death is estimated between 1:30 AM and 4:30 AM this morning.” “We also have a record from the county dispatch. At 4:31 AM, you called 911.” “Reporting your wife missing.” His voice was distant, confusing. I nodded, running on autopilot. “Yes. I was jolted awake by that terrible dream, and I realized she was gone.” “I looked around, couldn’t find her, so I called.” The clarity returned in a shocking flash. “Detective, you said my wife is dead?” “Who killed her? Who is the murderer?” I was sinking into a well of anguish, blind to the detective’s tightening, cynical gaze. He let out a short, cold laugh, then slammed his hand on the arm of my hospital bed. “Miller, we have an eyewitness report. Someone saw you at the disposal site this morning.” “Tell me, who do you think the killer is?” 4 The silence that followed was thick, a physical weight pressing on my chest. I repeated his question, confused. “I… I don’t know who the killer is.” Morales didn’t waste another second. He had me discharged and taken immediately to the interrogation room at the station. Before the formal questioning, however, he insisted I undergo a full psychiatric evaluation. He returned, pulling out a folder filled with papers. “This morning, when we were canvassing the area for the missing body parts, we spoke to a resident.” “They placed you at the scrubland location. Why were you there?” My hands were balled into fists in my lap. “Yes! I went to those fields!” “Because in my dream, I remembered leaving the body there! I went because I was curious, I was terrified that the dream had come true!” I cut myself off, realizing instantly that every word I spoke was only tightening the noose. “Detective, I swear I didn’t kill her.” “She’s my wife! We’ve spent a decade together, through thick and thin!” “I loved her! Why would I kill the woman I love?” Tears were streaming now, blurring the edges of the sterile room. But this wasn’t a therapy session; it was a police interrogation. Tears only registered as manipulation. Morales watched me until I was finished, then leaned forward. “You told the psychologist that you dreamt of killing your wife, dismembering her, and dumping the body in the village fields.” “Cass Miller, can you distinguish between fantasy and reality?” His words struck a chord of ice in my stomach. But he didn’t give me a chance to reply. “Our intelligence suggests you’ve been taking strong medication for days.” “I had a high fever. I was taking antibiotics and fever reducers.” He tapped the table rhythmically with his index finger. “But we ran a preliminary check. Your medication contained trace amounts of a powerful psychotropic agent.” I grabbed the edge of the small, metal table. “Detective, you’re operating with a preconceived notion!” “I did not kill my wife! I told you, it was a dream!” The door opened, and a young officer slipped in, handing Morales a report. “Detective, the psychiatric evaluation came back. He is of sound mind. No mental illness.” I let out a breath of relief. “Thank you. I’m telling you the truth!” “I didn’t kill her! I’m being framed!” “You suspect me of murder. Show me the evidence! Where is the motive?” Morales narrowed his eyes. “How was your relationship with your wife, really?” “Excellent!” I shot back, without hesitation. “Since we got married, we never even raised our voices at each other.” “You’re lying.” He suddenly slammed his hand down, hard, rattling the pens in the metal tray. “You’re lying, Miller!” “We spoke to your neighbors. Just last week, you had a violent, screaming argument that ended in a physical altercation.” “Do you need me to refresh your memory?” My hands clenched into painful knots. His words plunged me back into a painful, confused memory. “Tell me. What was the fight about?” Before I could answer, a loud, familiar scream erupted from outside the interrogation room. “I’m calling the police! My son didn’t kill himself! He was murdered!” I spun to look at the door. Two familiar, heartbroken figures were being restrained in the hallway. Ashton’s parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Reid?” The instant I spoke, Ashton’s father broke free, lunging across the hall and slapping me across the face with stunning force. “You bastard! You killed my son!” “You deserve to die! Die!” Officers rushed to pull the frantic man away. Detective Morales quickly slammed the door shut, then fixed me with a sharp, sweeping glare. He said nothing, only turned and walked out. He returned half an hour later, slamming a fresh file folder onto the table with an air of absolute fury. “Cass Miller. We now suspect we are dealing with a connected, serial murder case.” “And you are the prime suspect.” “I didn’t kill anyone!” I yelled, my voice booming. That slap had cleared the last of the fever fog from my mind. All the bizarre, disjointed facts suddenly snapped into place. “I know what happened.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390825”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

New Year’s Eve. For the third year in a row, my parents had left me alone in the house, chasing that sweet triple-time pay. Thinking about the last twenty years of quiet, solitary holidays, I couldn’t bear the thought of another cold night alone. I packed up a container of homemade lasagna and set out to find them. I didn’t expect to see them, the couple who always preached about saving every dime, stepping out of a black Range Rover, laughing and hand-in-hand with a girl my age, before disappearing into the gilded entrance of The Grand Metropolitan. “Mom, Dad, is it really okay to leave Dec alone at home?” the girl, radiant and oblivious, asked. My mother, Caroline, barely glanced up, her voice light and dismissive. “It’s fine. He’s used to it.” My father, Robert, scoffed good-naturedly. “He can’t compare to you, Scarlett. You’re our star, our heart.” I turned and walked away, the lasagna suddenly heavy in my hands. They were rich. They had been lying to me, pretending poverty to justify their neglect. I no longer wanted their company. Back at our cramped, old duplex, I dumped the expensive meal I had planned to share into the trash. In the past, I would never have dared to waste food. 1 For as long as I could remember, I understood that we were struggling. Everything I had, my parents claimed, came from their backbreaking sacrifice. I rarely owned anything new. Every few months, my mother would bring home a trash bag of used clothes. “These belonged to a colleague’s son,” she’d insist. “They’re perfectly clean, Dec. No need to waste money on new things.” My entire childhood was spent dragging around ill-fitting, faded clothes. Kids at school called me “The Rag Man.” It pushed me to bury myself in books, clinging to the hope that one day, I could earn enough to buy a brand-new t-shirt. On holidays, I dutifully handed over every dollar of gift money I received, believing I was easing their burden. But there was no burden. I looked up the Range Rover’s license plate. It was registered to Holloway Enterprises. I recognized the company; its heiress, Scarlett Holloway, was often in the gossip columns. I even recalled a story about her driving that very car while on a date with a C-list actor. The face in those old tabloid photos was the girl I’d just seen. I was a Holloway. I was a millionaire’s son. The realization was a punch to the gut, followed by a rush of cold, bitter laughter. I wiped my eyes and went straight to my parents’ room. Perhaps they were so arrogant in their deception, so certain of my naive loyalty, that they grew careless. I found it quickly. A contract, hundreds of millions of dollars on the dotted line, signed by Robert Holloway. Tucked inside the papers was a Montblanc pen, not a cheap giveaway, but a piece of serious luxury. The last vestige of hope shriveled up and died inside me. I restored everything exactly as it was, returned to my room, and pulled the covers over my head. I prayed that I would wake up and discover it had all been a terrible nightmare. The next morning, Mom and Dad were already busy in the tiny kitchen. I watched them, then looked at the breakfast laid out on the table. Who eats Smoked Salmon and Caviar Benedict on a weekday morning? The aroma—rich, buttery, and utterly decadent—was identical to a dish my professor had treated us to at a high-end brunch spot last semester. I glanced at the overflowing trash can near the back door. Sure enough, high-end packaging confirmed my suspicion. “Mom, Dad, did we suddenly win the lottery?” My mother’s face registered a flicker of panic. “Dec, what are you talking about?” “The breakfast. That’s seriously expensive. How can we afford this?” I pointed at the trash bag, and my mother’s color drained. My father offered a breezy chuckle. “It’s nothing, son. I was running an errand for the boss last night, and he gave me a massive takeout order. I didn’t have the heart to eat it alone, so I brought it home for us.” “Your mother and I couldn’t afford this with our combined weekly pay!” I nodded, pretending to believe the lie. I ate the exquisite breakfast, my mind a churning mess. Smoked Salmon Benedict, I thought, sixty dollars a plate. Last night’s dinner likely cost more than my entire semester’s tuition. If they were truly poor, this meal would taste like love. Now, it tasted like ash. I finished two bites and pushed the plate away. “I’m full.” “Dec, that’s hardly anything. Are you feeling sick?” My mother’s concern looked real, and it almost broke me. I shook my head, managing a smile. “No, I’m great. Aren’t we going to see Grandma and Grandpa later? I’m saving room for a good lunch!” At that, my mother visibly relaxed. My father’s face was etched with guilt, but before he could speak, his phone rang. I saw the caller ID: My Little Girl, Scarlett. Scarlett, his heart. And me? Dad quickly retreated to the balcony. Mom followed, and I could faintly hear her whispering about being discreet, about not letting me find out. A profound, bone-deep chill settled in my heart. They hadn’t just accidentally kept a secret; they had conspired, together, to maintain the fiction. I felt like an actor trapped in The Truman Show. But they were devastatingly real. 2 After hanging up, Dad came back into the living room and pulled a crisp $50 bill from his wallet. “Dec, I have a last-minute emergency at work. I have to go in.” Mom stepped up. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll take you to the Pierces’.” I nodded, took the $50, and stuffed it directly into the pocket of my jeans. Then I got ready to leave with Mom. When we arrived at the Pierces’ old, run-down apartment in the industrial section of the city, my grandfather immediately pulled me into a hug. “Dec! Come in, you look frozen!” His hands, when they gripped my arm, were soft and smooth. Not the calloused hands of a retired steel factory worker, which is what they claimed he was. He looked well-fed, well-rested, and entirely too pampered. Grandma, seeing me, quickly handed me a red envelope. “Happy New Year, sweetheart.” I took it, thanked her, and put it straight into my pocket. My mother froze. In the past, I would immediately hand the money over to her. She’d always coo, “Dec is such a good, responsible boy.” This time, I defied the ritual. Grandma paused, then chuckled. “Oh, our Dec knows how to squirrel away his cash now!” I raised an eyebrow and smiled. “It’s not squirming, Grandma. Mom said a new year means a new start. I figured I’d keep some of my own spending money.” “That’s right,” Mom jumped in quickly. “Dec is so responsible. He even pays his own tuition and living expenses from his part-time jobs.” I knew the red envelope probably contained fifty bucks, max. Compared to my massive student loan debt and the money I earned tutoring to survive, it was a joke. They were so obscenely wealthy, yet they maintained this Performance of Poverty only for me. I couldn’t understand why I was the only one subjected to this cruel education. Grandma didn’t press it. She retreated to the kitchen. The food she brought out—the roast, the perfectly formed sides—looked exactly like the dishes I had glimpsed on the buffet line at The Grand Metropolitan the night before. I took two bites and lost my appetite completely. I was certain now. The entire family, from my parents to my grandparents, were rich, and they were all performing an elaborate lie. After lunch, Mom got a hushed phone call and then announced she had to go to work. The grandparents suddenly started yawning, claiming they were exhausted. I took my cue, politely excused myself, and left. But I didn’t go far. I circled back and hid behind a large oak tree around the corner. Sure enough, less than twenty minutes later, a stretched Lincoln Town Car pulled up. Grandpa and Grandma, looking energized and impeccably dressed, were ushered into the luxury vehicle by an entourage, without a backward glance. I took a deep breath, pulled up my hood, and walked towards the apartment. A few cleaning ladies were already starting the tear-down. One of them sighed to the other. “I don’t get these people. They come here one day a year, cook one meal, and leave.” “And they pay a fortune for the cleanup,” the second one replied. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. They’ve been doing this for twenty years. They own a mansion up in Blackwood Heights. This is just rich people role-playing.” My heart turned to granite. Role-playing. Blackwood Heights. I knew the name—it was where the city’s elite lived. I rode my beat-up cruiser bike until I reached the guarded gates. The mansion sat on the highest ridge, a fortress of glass and white marble. Security guards patrolled the perimeter. I must have looked like a stray dog; one guard immediately barked, “Hey! Beat it, kid! You’re not allowed here!” I was about to turn away when a blur of sound and chrome roared past me. I recognized the model—a limited edition Ducati, nearly two hundred thousand dollars. Riding it was Scarlett Holloway. 3 She noticed me, too. She slammed the brakes and eyed me, a sneering look of amusement crossing her face. “Well, look at you. Not so slow after all. You managed to find your way here.” I froze. She knew. She had known all along. “Why?” I whispered, the word hollow. “What is this? Am I adopted? Is this some sort of psychological project, and I’m the test subject?” Scarlett shook her head, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “No, Dec. You’re theirs. Biologically. You want to know why you were raised in that dump? Because I am the sole heir of Holloway Enterprises.” She revved her engine, the sound ripping through the silence. “This isn’t your place. Go home.” She leaned down, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “And don’t look so pathetic. Mom and Dad did put a lot of ‘heart’ into raising you. Oh, and one more thing: stop going to see the Pierces. They’re getting too old to keep up the performance.” Scarlett sped through the gate. I stood there, watching the taillights disappear, finally understanding the true dynamic. My existence threatened her claim to the inheritance. What had I done wrong? All I ever wanted was a genuine, non-monetary, honest love. They had lied for two decades, yet somewhere in that lie, I knew they had cared for me. But now, looking at the mansion and hearing Scarlett’s cold, cruel words, I questioned every shared moment. I turned and walked away. Before I reached the main road, I called my father. “Dad? Are you coming home for dinner tonight?” His voice was strained but insistent. “No, Dec. Triple pay, remember? I’m working late tonight. Your mom is, too.” But cutting through his words, faint yet undeniable, was the distant roar of a high-performance engine. I simply said, “Got it.” My mind was already made up. I went back to the old duplex and started packing. I also emailed the faculty advisor for the university’s special research grant—a three-year, fully isolated deep-field project out in remote Montana. No contact, no interruptions. When I was done, I printed the photo I’d secretly taken of Scarlett’s retreating back, framed it, and placed it on my nightstand. A silent declaration. That night, they didn’t come home. The house was mine. I called Dad one last time, but it went straight to voicemail. At that exact moment, I saw a flurry of activity on social media. Employees of Holloway Enterprises were posting photos, thanking their bosses for massive holiday bonuses. One employee, who described himself as mid-level, showed off a three-thousand-dollar check. Other photos showed the company’s New Year’s gala. My parents were on stage, my dad in a custom tuxedo, my mom in an elegant gown, looking impossibly regal. Scarlett was basking in the limelight below. The family portrait was prominently displayed—only three people in it. My parents were certain I was too busy working to pay attention to gossip. They forgot I was just a kid, raised to be poor, which meant I was hyper-aware of everything around me, including the internet. A reporter interviewed them about their holiday plans. My father, looking directly into the camera, said, “Our daughter, Scarlett, turns twenty-two this year. We’re taking her on an extended luxury trip starting tonight.” My stomach plummeted. I was twenty-two, too. The farthest I’d ever been was a school field trip to the local zoo. I let out a harsh, dry laugh. I retrieved my birth certificate, running my fingers over the paper. When I started college, my parents had insisted on moving my registration to the school. They claimed I was an adult now and needed to be responsible for my own affairs. Now, that small bureaucratic action was my ticket out. I grabbed my duffel bag and walked out. Robert, Caroline. Goodbye.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390824”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel