I walked out of the airport, jet-lagged after a month-long business trip, only to find a colossal, sparkling “Mr. & Mrs.” decal plastered across the front door of my condo. Outside the threshold, two pairs of men’s shoes—one expensive, one cheap and worn—sat like sentinels. I was reaching for my phone, sure I had the wrong floor, when the door swung open from the inside. Maddie’s younger brother, Brandon, was standing there, holding a trash bag. He looked perfectly calm, almost bored. “Oh, hey, Ryan. Back already?” He saw the question in my eyes. “Oh, yeah, about this,” he gestured vaguely at the gaudy decal. “Wedding was last week. They didn’t have a place, so Maddie—uh, your fiancée—said they could crash here. Just for a bit. You don’t mind, right?” 1 I stared at Brandon. He casually pulled the door shut behind him, not making any move to invite me inside, or even let me put down my carry-on. A slow-burning fuse lit inside my chest. I swallowed the fire. “You got married a week ago? I hadn’t heard anything from your sister.” Brandon scratched his head. “Yeah, well, you were out of the country, man. Maddie said there was no point telling you until you got back.” He then lifted his phone. “Oh, and by the way, don’t forget to Venmo the gift money. Maddie said you’re family now, so anything less than ten grand would be pretty cheap.” The elevator dinged down the hall. Brandon practically shoved himself toward it. “Gotta run, man. Meeting someone. Catch you later. Don’t forget the check.” As the polished steel doors slid shut, the full, absurd gravity of the situation hit me. They had commandeered my home. Where was I supposed to live? I walked to the door, my heart pounding in my ears, and typed in my old security code. ACCESS DENIED. Of course. I was a fool. They had occupied my house; they had changed the locks. I kept my hand pressed to the cold steel of the door and dialed Maddie’s number. She answered on the third try, her voice sharp with irritation. “What is it?” “Maddie. Did you loan our engagement condo to your brother?” My voice was tight. “How could you do something this big without discussing it with me?” “And, since they’re in my house, where, exactly, am I supposed to be staying?” My rapid-fire questions were met with a minute of dead silence. Finally, she spoke, her tone defiant. “It needs discussion? Brandon’s my brother. He’ll be your brother-in-law. He needed a place for the wedding. What’s the big deal?” “And besides, you’ve been out of town. How was I supposed to tell you?” That was laughable. I’d been on a business trip, not in prison. We had video-chatted nearly every night, and not once had she mentioned Brandon’s wedding, let alone the notion of giving him the keys to the condo. “Look, stop making a fuss. Doesn’t your company have some temporary corporate apartment for you? Just stay there for a few days.” Before I could protest, she claimed she had a meeting and hung up, leaving me standing alone, amidst the discarded cardboard boxes and the mocking sparkle of the “Mr. & Mrs.” decal. 2 Maddie and I had been together for two years. I knew she had a younger brother. But she had always distanced herself from the archetype of the Brother-Martyr—the woman who drains herself financially and emotionally for an entitled sibling. She used to talk about how she couldn’t respect women like that—the ones who allowed their hard-earned money to disappear into a black hole of brotherly need. I’d never once worried she was that woman. Until now. I let out a bitter, exhausted laugh. This condo—my parents had bought it for me outright. I had spent the last year overseeing a forty-thousand-dollar renovation, pouring money into the absolute best, most modern finishes, all based on her exacting tastes. I remembered the tour we gave her friends when the renovation was finished, Maddie clutching my arm, eyes shining as she pointed and planned. “We’ll put a cozy reading nook here, with that velvet chaise, and an espresso bar over there. The third bedroom is going to be the perfect nursery one day.” I was happy, filled with a simple hope for our future. I never imagined that instead of planning our wedding, I’d be dealing with Maddie loaning out my property to her brother—and then expecting me to downgrade to a corporate extended stay. A shared, temporary apartment—a grim place only interns or people running from financial disaster ever used. I owned a gorgeous condo. Why the hell should I go sleep on a pull-out sofa somewhere else? I couldn’t take it anymore. I hailed a cab and headed straight to Maddie’s office, determined to wait for her to clock out. 3 My timing was perfect. I was barely out of the car when Maddie and a colleague emerged from the lobby, laughing brightly. The smile evaporated the moment she saw me. She strode up to me, her expression hardening into a frown. “What are you doing here? I thought you were exhausted from your trip. Why aren’t you at that corporate place unpacking?” I grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly toward an alcove by the building’s side entrance. “How could you loan my condo to your brother without my consent? It’s my name on the deed. He and his fiancée can’t afford a place? Fine. Tell his parents to buy one. Why is he living in mine?” Maddie yanked her arm back, her eyes wide and disbelieving. “Ryan! Do you hear yourself? He is my brother! He came to me, his sister, because he was in a bind, and of course I was going to help! It’s only temporary! It’s not like they’re keeping it, so why are you making such a scene? And why are you coming down to my office to yell at me?” Temporary loan? I laughed, a raw, humorless sound. “Did I say he could borrow it? Did I agree to loan it?” Maddie rolled her eyes, the sheer contempt on her face making my stomach clench. “It’s our engagement condo, Ryan. If I agree, that’s all that matters.” Her arrogance was staggering. The condo cost over half a million. My parents paid 100%. The renovation was forty thousand—I paid 100%. Maddie had contributed nothing but endless, expensive opinions. She had zero financial stake. On what basis did she believe she could make this decision for me? “Maddie, I don’t care what bind your brother is in. You have three days to get him and his new wife out of my condo. If they are not gone by then, I will call the police to have them removed.” “Ryan, are you insane? That’s my brother! Are you actually trying to sabotage his marriage?” “Do you even want to marry me?!” Hearing her furious roar, a strange, cold calm washed over me. The emotional storm faded into clear, logical certainty. This marriage, definitely, wasn’t happening. 4 It was the first time I had ever left a fight with Maddie—just turned my back and walked away while she was still yelling. I took a cab to a clean, mid-tier hotel near my office. This would have to do for a few nights. On the way, my phone was blowing up. Call after call from Maddie—I ignored them all. Then came the barrage of texts. [Ryan, are you seriously sick? He’s my brother! His fiancée said they had to have a place. Are you trying to make him homeless?] [Ryan, he’s my brother, and he’s your brother! What’s wrong with giving your own family a hand?] [We weren’t getting married for a while anyway! They’ll be out long before we ever set a date.] *[I put so much work into that place—the designs, the endless hours picking materials. How dare you say it’s only yours?] * [I knew you were cold, but this is a new low! If you try to remove my brother, we are over!] She also left several sixty-second voicemails. I didn’t listen to them. I put her on Do Not Disturb. I honestly didn’t understand. She had seemed normal for two years. A model partner. Why had she transformed into this irrational, entitled stranger the moment I left town? I finally collapsed onto the crisp hotel bed, the exhaustion of the trip and the confrontation hitting me at once. I was asleep instantly. It was a deep, quiet sleep that only ended when my alarm clock went off. I reached for my phone. 99+ messages. Over 100 missed calls. All from Maddie, her mother, and her father. The family siege was in full swing. As I was getting ready to start the day, another call came in. Brandon. I sighed, but answered. 5 A roar erupted from the speaker. “Ryan, what the hell is wrong with you? My sister lent me this place! It was her wedding gift from you! And now you’re trying to take it back?” “Why the rush? You and Maddie aren’t getting married for years! You have a massive income, man! Just get a rental! Are you seriously telling me you can’t afford a security deposit?” “My sister spent all that time and effort decorating that place! And you just walk in, claiming it’s yours? You have no shame! Maddie was blind to pick a guy like you!” “And don’t think you can threaten us with the cops. We’re not scared of you!” “I’m not moving out! You call the police, I dare you!” He hung up before I could utter a single word. I shook my head, setting the phone down. They truly believed they were entitled to stay. They would not move voluntarily. I showered and headed into the office. I met with my director and reviewed my successful trip. My boss was thrilled. “Great work, Ryan. Mr. Zhang is retiring next quarter. The position is yours. You’ll be the new Department Head.” I felt a surge of adrenaline, pushing the domestic drama out of my mind. My income was about to double. I nodded, suppressing a smile. A much-needed victory. I spent the next three days in a productive frenzy, working late and sleeping at the hotel. Maddie didn’t contact me again, nor did she show up. I knew why. In the past, no matter who was at fault, I was always the one who eventually gave in and apologized. She was the woman, after all. She had told me countless times that a man needed to coax and pamper a woman, regardless of the issue. Now I knew better. She wasn’t just “sensitive.” She was utterly shameless. 6 On the evening of the third day, I sent Maddie a single text. [The three days are up. I will be at the condo tomorrow to take possession. If your brother has not vacated the premises, do not blame me for the consequences.] The phone rang instantly. It was her. “Ryan, are you trying to ruin everything? I told you, he’s my brother! What’s wrong with him using our engagement condo for a little while?” “It’s only for two or three years! They’ll definitely give it back when we get married!” “Why can’t you just see reason? We aren’t rushing to the altar, and the condo is just sitting there empty. Why can’t we let him stay?” Empty? I was supposed to be living there! And the timeline was a complete reversal. I had told her the plan was to get married as soon as the twelve-month curing period for the renovations was complete. She had agreed. Now she was pushing it back three years? I was thirty-three, she was thirty. How long was she planning to drag this out? [I’m done discussing this. If the condo isn’t vacant tomorrow, face the consequences.] “Ryan, what the hell is your game? Are you seeing someone else? Is that why you’re picking a fight?” “I knew it! You suddenly start traveling for a month? You were probably shacking up with your little girlfriend!” “Listen to me, Ryan. If you broke up with me because you cheated, you have to walk away with nothing! This condo is mine!” My mind short-circuited. My native language was suddenly speechless surprise. I travel for work, therefore I’m cheating. And because I cheated, I have to forfeit the house my parents paid for. I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. Thank God we hadn’t made it to the altar. My life would have been ruined. 7 I simply couldn’t continue the conversation. After a few more futile seconds, I hung up. Why hadn’t I seen this level of irrationality and self-serving entitlement before? The next morning, I checked out of the hotel and drove to my condo. The garish decal was still on the door. The two pairs of shoes were still outside. Clearly, they had dismissed my warning entirely. I knocked. No answer. They must have gone to work. I pulled out my phone and dialed the non-emergency police line. Two officers arrived quickly. I explained the situation: people were squatting in my property, they had changed the access code, and they refused to leave. I presented the officers with the deed to the condo, clearly showing my name as the sole owner. One officer frowned and called Brandon’s number. Brandon hung up, thinking it was a scammer. The officer then called Maddie’s mother. She sounded terrified when she heard the police on the line and arrived within minutes. When she saw me standing next to the two officers, she lunged, her face contorted with rage. “You ungrateful—! Your brother-in-law needed a place for his wedding! Why use the police? Haven’t you any shame?” I leaned in, meeting her glare. “Go ahead, hit me. Do it right here, in front of the officers. I’d love to have you spend the night in a holding cell.” She stomped her foot, defeated, and pulled out her phone to call Maddie. “Get over here now! Your husband is calling the police on your brother! If you don’t come, your brother and I are going to jail!” The call ended. The officer instructed her to open the door. Reluctantly, she entered the code. The door opened, and the sight inside made the blood drain from my face. 8 My custom-made, twelve-thousand-dollar Italian leather sectional was gone, replaced by a cheap, uncomfortable corduroy sofa. The expensive cashmere-blend throw I’d bought was swapped for a thin, polyester knock-off. The eight-thousand-dollar custom stone dining table was replaced by a flimsy wooden one. The high-end, ergonomically designed dining chairs were plastic stacking stools. As I walked further in, the rest of the condo was the same: the high-end robot vacuum, the expensive washer-dryer set, the smart refrigerator, the motorized bed, even the smart toilet—all replaced with the cheapest possible, off-brand alternatives. My temples throbbed. I pointed to the room, my voice shaking with cold fury as I looked at Maddie’s mother. “Where are the appliances and furniture I bought? The original ones?” Maddie’s mother avoided my eyes, muttering guiltily. “How should I know? You’re the one who bought them!” “Don’t lie!” I shouted, the sound echoing in the half-stripped condo. I remembered the renovation. I had suggested buying cheaper items because I was running low on cash after paying for the build-out. Maddie had insisted on the most expensive options, saying, “We’ve spent this much, what’s a little more? It has to be perfect.” But when I asked her to pitch in for the furniture, she’d scoffed, claiming it was tacky for a man to ask his fiancée to furnish a house that was solely in his name. I did it her way. Now, my entire condo had been stripped and replaced, and I hadn’t even spent a single night here. I turned to the police. “I want to press charges. The value of the items they removed and sold is easily over one hundred thousand dollars. They either return them immediately, or they pay me the equivalent value.” Maddie’s mother tried to grab my face again, but I backed away, two steps, out of reach. These people were immune to shame. Half an hour later, Maddie arrived, breathless. She saw me, saw the police, and her face immediately twisted in annoyance. “Ryan, how long are you going to keep this up? I told you, my brother is only using it temporarily. They’ll move out before the wedding.” I laughed, the sound cold and dangerous. “Oh, and when is that? When are we getting married?” Maddie held up five fingers, then hesitantly tucked two back. “Three years. We’ll get married in three years.” “Ryan, you’re in a serious career-building phase. You need to focus on your job, not on settling down. A man needs to prioritize his career!” I couldn’t believe her audacity. I was thirty-three, soon to be thirty-four. I had worked tirelessly, saving up a substantial sum before I even turned thirty. I had bought and renovated this house for our marriage. And now, she was saying I had to wait three more years—during which I would lend my property, rent-free, to her entitled family. Was I a complete idiot? 9 I looked at Maddie, immaculate in her work clothes, perfectly made up, and felt a profound sense of alienation. She was a stranger. She shifted under my cold stare. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Maddie,” I said quietly, “I bought and renovated this house to get married.” She sighed, exasperated. “I said we’d get married! We’re just pushing the timeline back. Why are you so desperate to tie yourself down?” I was desperate. I craved stability. I was a traditional man at heart—I wanted a wife, kids, and a warm home. I worried that if I waited much longer, I might miss my chance. Seeing my silence, Maddie seemed to think she had won. She took a step back, folding her arms. “Fine! We’ll get married sooner, alright? But Brandon just got married, so this place is off-limits for his first few years.” “Here’s the deal. This condo stays Brandon’s for a while. You go tell your parents to buy another one for us. You can take out a mortgage; you have the income to handle the payments.” I actually burst out laughing. My parents buy another condo? Were they running a private mint? Maddie’s mother immediately jumped in. “Ryan, see? My daughter is compromising! Why are you still holding out?” “A house is just a thing. You can live anywhere! If your parents don’t have the money, they should borrow some!” “Also, remember the dowry we agreed on? Twenty-eight thousand dollars, plus you pay for the venue and all the liquor. We’ll discuss the ring later.” “If you agree to all this, call your parents now. Once you have a second condo for us, we can talk about a date.” The calculation, the naked greed on both their faces, made me nauseous. Even the police officer standing nearby shook his head. “Ma’am,” the officer interjected, “you’re asking your daughter’s fiancé to give up his home, and asking his parents to buy another one. Houses aren’t that easy to buy.” Maddie’s mother sniffed. “He wants to marry my daughter. Of course, it costs money! You don’t get a wife for free!” At that moment, Brandon returned. He saw the open door and the two officers, and he charged at me, landing a hard punch to my jaw. “You sick son of a—! You actually called the cops!” I fell back, stunned. The two officers immediately grabbed Brandon and pinned him to the wall. “Assaulting someone in front of officers! You’ve got nerve!” Brandon fought them, yelling obscenities at me. “Ryan, if you let my wife find out this isn’t my house, I will end you! This is my sister’s engagement house! What’s wrong with me staying here?” “What’s wrong,” I gasped, rubbing my jaw, “is that it’s my house. And my name is on the deed!” I glared at Brandon. “Where are the original electronics and furniture?” Brandon looked genuinely confused. “How would I know? When I moved in, it was all this stuff!” My eyes flicked to Maddie. She looked down instantly, avoiding my gaze. The confirmation I needed. She had insisted on the most expensive stuff, not because she loved it, but because she planned to flip it for profit the moment I left. I pointed at them both. “Officers, I am not accepting mediation. Brandon broke in, refuses to leave, and now he’s assaulted me.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389892”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I found the old phone at the very bottom of Peter Montgomery’s safe. It didn’t even have a password. It took three seconds to boot up. But those three seconds were enough to smash my seven-year marriage into dust. The wallpaper wasn’t our wedding photo, but a candid shot of a young woman. She was sitting at a piano, her profile soft, almost luminous. Peter was standing in the shadows behind her, the deep affection and painful restraint in his eyes so potent they were enough to drown in. That was a Peter I had never met. The woman was Delilah Finch, a scholarship student Peter and I had quietly supported for years. My hands and feet went numb. I opened the Notes app. [2018: I married Aurora. She’s stable, suitable. Good for the family legacy. But God… do I love my little protégée?] [2020: Delilah’s back. We talked. It’s mutual. Seeing her cry broke me.] [2023: If Aurora gets pregnant, Delilah will be crushed. We won’t have kids. I need to make sure.] The phone slipped from my fingers. I finally understood why, in seven years of marriage, I had only conceived once—a loss I grieved alone—and then never again. 1 When Peter walked in, I was still kneeling on the hardwood floor, clutching the old phone in my hand. He was carrying a box from the bespoke bakery downtown, the warmth of the house instantly chased away by the cold air he brought in. His motion of kicking off his shoes froze when he saw the object in my hand. The small, practiced smile of tenderness on his face cracked, shattering completely. “Aurora,” he said, his voice flat and cold, “who gave you permission to go through my things?” No explanation. No panic. His first word was an accusation. I lifted my head. My eyes were dry and burning, but not a single tear would come. “Peter, seven years.” My throat was desperately dry. I pointed to the screen. “Is everything written here true?” Peter strode over. He grabbed my wrist, twisting the phone out of my grip. He quickly powered it down and slid it into his coat pocket, his brow deeply furrowed. “Everyone has a past, and things they don’t want people to know. Aurora, you went too far.” I almost laughed. My heart was a tight knot of sickening pain. “Things you don’t want people to know? Hiding your feelings for another woman inside our marriage—you call that going too far?” “You married me just to satisfy your family? You prevented me from having a child because you thought Delilah would be sad?” “Peter Montgomery, you are disgusting.” “Enough!” He roared the word, tossing the cake box onto the marble coffee table. It landed askew, and the buttercream smeared across the polished surface. He took a deep breath, visibly trying to contain his fury, and instantly reverted to that cruelly rational demeanor I knew too well. “Delilah has always been delicate, you know that. She can’t handle stress or surprises.” “If I was going to be with her, it would have happened ages ago. I married you because you were suitable, and because…” He paused, a flash of irritation in his eyes. “Because I didn’t dislike you. Haven’t I been a good husband? You have the Montgomery name, unlimited credit cards, anything you wanted, I provided.” I looked at the man standing over me. Only yesterday, he would wake up no matter how deep his sleep was if my leg cramped in the middle of the night, massaging it until I fell back asleep. He always drove the car to the shallowest part of a puddle on a rainy day, lifting me and carrying me across the curb so my expensive Italian shoes wouldn’t get wet. I had believed that was love. It turned out, it was all an act. “I didn’t dislike you…” I whispered the words, a piece of my soul feeling like it had been violently ripped out. “Peter, is that your answer to seven years of my life?” He rubbed his temple, reaching out to take my hand. “Stop the drama, Aurora. Delilah had a tough day at the gallery and is upset. I need to go check on her.” “You stay here. Cool off.” “When you’ve collected yourself—when you know what questions are appropriate and what aren’t—then we’ll talk.” With that, he turned to leave. The hem of his cashmere coat brushed my cheek, carrying a wave of cold air. “Peter Montgomery!” I yelled at his retreating back. “If you walk out that door right now, we’re getting a divorce!” He stopped at the threshold. But he didn’t turn around. “Aurora, don’t try to use divorce to scare me. You think you can live like this without the Montgomery name? Don’t be childish. Grow up.” 2 I woke up with a fever. It must have been the stress, or sitting on the cold floor all night. My temperature hit 103°F. I felt like I was burning alive and freezing to death all at once. In a daze, I instinctively called Peter’s phone. Before, if I felt the slightest bit ill, he would stop a transcontinental conference and rush home. But this time, the phone rang for a long time. “Hello?” The voice that answered wasn’t his. It was Delilah’s. Soft and cloying, with the lazy, breathy purr of someone just waking up. “Oh, it’s Aurora? Peter is in the shower right now.” The shower. At Delilah’s place. In the early morning. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to hold on to my last shred of composure. “Tell him to pick up the phone.” “Oh, Aurora, don’t be angry.” Delilah giggled softly. “I accidentally spilled coffee on him yesterday. You know how he is about his clothes, so he had to spend the night in the guest room. He’s such a thoughtful caregiver… I was so exhausted last night. Thank God he was here.” Each word was a scalpel blade to my chest. “Delilah,” my voice was trembling uncontrollably. “Put him on the phone.” “What’s wrong?” Peter’s low, just-woken-up voice came through the line. Then Delilah’s saccharine whine: “Peter, Aurora’s calling to check up on you. She sounds mad.” “Aurora?” Peter’s voice instantly went cold. “What are you causing trouble about this early?” Hot tears streamed down my temples, soaking into my hair. “Peter, I have a fever. I’m really sick… I need to go to the hospital.” Even after reading those notes, even after the explosive fight yesterday. In that moment, I still clung to that ridiculous sliver of hope. Seven years. You’d have some kind of bond with a houseplant. The line was silent for two seconds. Then I heard the sound of fabric rubbing together, and Peter’s tone softened slightly. “How high is the fever?” “One hundred and three.” “Take some Tylenol first. Have the driver take you.” His voice was still agonizingly calm. “Delilah hasn’t finished hanging her pieces yet, and she can’t reach. I’ll come back once I help her finish.” The painting wasn’t finished. I was burning up, close to passing out, and my husband was helping another woman hang a painting. “Peter,” I gasped weakly. “If I don’t get to the hospital, I could die… I’m allergic to penicillin. The at-home meds are…” “Ah!” A sudden yelp from Delilah interrupted me. Then, the crash of something hitting the floor. “Delilah! What happened?” Peter’s voice was instantly filled with a panic and urgency I had never heard him use for me. “My hand… Peter, the frame fell on my hand! It hurts so much…” Delilah sobbed. “Don’t move! Let me see! It’s bleeding… Hold on, I’m wrapping it up and taking you to the clinic immediately!” Chaos erupted on the other end. I was completely forgotten. “Peter…” I tried to speak, to tell him that I was hurting, too—that my heart was bleeding. But the line was dead. I held the phone, staring at the glittering chandelier on the ceiling, my vision blurring. In his world, a scraped finger on Delilah Finch was a catastrophe. My life-threatening fever was just me “causing trouble.” I forced myself to stand up, swaying as I tried to get downstairs. Halfway down the stairs, a wave of blackness crashed over me. My body tilted, and I fell, rolling uncontrollably down the steps. Excruciating pain. In the last moment before I lost consciousness, I thought I saw eighteen-year-old Peter. He was wearing a white shirt, carrying me on his back across the school track because I’d twisted my ankle, his face drenched in sweat. He had said, “Aurora, don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll never let you get hurt.” Liar. Peter Montgomery, you are a complete and utter liar. 3 When I woke up again, I was in a hospital room. I wiggled my fingers; my entire body felt like shattered glass. “You’re awake?” Peter was sitting by the bed, peeling an apple. Seeing my eyes open, he cut a small piece and held it to my lips, his expression as gentle as if yesterday had never happened. “How could you be so clumsy? Falling down the stairs?” “Mild concussion and a fractured right tibia.” “Aurora, you’re an adult. Can you stop causing me so much stress?” His tone was half-reproach, half-weary exasperation. That same condescending tone of high-status inconvenience. I turned my head away, avoiding the piece of apple. “Is Delilah’s finger wrapped up?” I asked, staring out the window, my voice hollow. Peter’s hand stopped mid-air. Then, he tossed the apple into the trash can. “Aurora, how long are you going to keep this up?” “Delilah was injured while hanging a piece of art! Her hands are her life! She’s an artist! You? You had a fever. Did you really need to put yourself through this to fish for sympathy?” Fish for sympathy? I turned my head and stared him down. “Peter, was it my choice not to go to the hospital?” “I begged you to come home, and you said you had to help her hang a painting!” “When I was rolling down the stairs, nearly breaking my neck, you were busy coddling her and telling her to stop crying!” “Fishing for sympathy? You don’t deserve my sympathy, even if I was dying!” Peter’s face went instantly dark. He stood up, looking down at me. “Watch your tone, Aurora.” “I’m your husband.” “Not for long.” I met his gaze without flinching. “I’ll have the divorce papers sent over.” “You wouldn’t dare!” Peter gripped my chin, his fingers digging in so hard I thought my jawbone would snap. His eyes burned with rage and a disbelief that I had actually defied him. “Aurora, if you divorce me, where will you go? Back to the Hale family who haven’t given a damn about you in years? Or sleep on the street?” “Everything you have was given to you by me! Your design studio, your contacts, every piece of clothing on your back!” “Without Peter Montgomery, what are you, Aurora Hale?” I was once the most promising architecture student in my Ivy League program. I had won international design awards. But for him, to be a ‘good’ Montgomery wife. I had turned down project after project, dimmed my own light, and centered my world on the kitchen and the home. Now, he was asking, What are you? “We’ll see about that.” I pulled my chin out of his grip, every word clipped and firm. “Let’s see if I starve to death without you, Peter.” “Fine. Very well.” Peter laughed, a tight, angry sound, and smoothed the wrinkle on his sleeve. “Since you have so much backbone, let’s see you stand tall.” “Cut off all her credit cards,” he instructed the assistant standing by the door. “Pull all the funding from her little studio projects.” “I want to see how long you last.” He slammed the door shut on his way out. Outside, Delilah’s voice drifted in. “Peter, don’t be angry. Aurora is just sick and confused… I made you some soup…” “You’re the only one who’s sensible.” Peter’s voice softened instantly, and the sound of their footsteps faded away. I closed my eyes. Two lines of tears ran down my face. 4 No one came to pick me up on the day I was discharged. I leaned on my crutches, slowly making my way out of the hospital. The cards were stopped. My phone couldn’t pay for a ride. I searched my pockets and found only a few crumpled dollar bills. I flagged a taxi and took it back to the house Peter and I had shared. If I was going to leave, I needed my ID, and the few things my parents had left me. I pushed open the door. The living room was filled with laughter. Delilah, wearing my silk monogrammed robe, was curled up on the sofa, feeding Peter grapes. Peter was looking at his laptop, occasionally opening his mouth to take a grape, his eyes filled with a doting affection. Seeing me, Delilah startled, trying to stand up, only to “accidentally” tumble into Peter’s arms. “Oh! Aurora… you’re back?” Peter casually wrapped an arm around her waist, looking up at me. His eyes were cold, like I was a stranger. “Decided to come home? I thought you were going to be a martyr forever.” I ignored his sarcasm and walked past him, crutches tapping the floor, heading straight for the master bedroom upstairs. “Stop.” Peter’s voice was frigid. “Who said you could go up there?” I paused, turning around. “I’m here for my things.” “You don’t have anything here.” Peter toyed with a strand of Delilah’s hair. “I had someone throw out all your things.” My entire body went rigid. I stared at him in disbelief. “Threw them out? Peter, those were my parents’ relics! And all my original design blueprints!” “And so what?” He sneered. “I told you, this house doesn’t keep dead weight. We needed the closet space. Your junk was taking up her dressing room.” Junk? My parents’ only keepsake, a vintage pocket watch, and the blueprints I had pulled countless all-nighters to perfect. In his eyes, they were trash, disposable, to make room for Delilah’s clothes. Rage roared in my head. I threw my crutches aside and scrambled toward the stairs like a madwoman. The dressing room was empty. The closets that had held my custom-tailored suits were now packed with Delilah’s airy, bohemian dresses. My drafting table, my easel—all gone. In their place was a pristine white grand piano, Delilah’s favorite. I rushed to the balcony, looking down. Next to the industrial-sized trash cans in the yard, a pile of black garbage bags lay open. I could faintly see the edges of familiar sketch paper. Soaked through by the rain, they were beginning to dissolve into a sodden mess. Ignoring the agonizing pain in my leg, I stumbled down the stairs and rushed outside. I dove onto the wet grass, tearing open the bags in the mud. It was all ruined. Every piece. I clutched the shattered pocket watch, kneeling in the cold mud, sobbing uncontrollably. “Peter! You’re not human!” “Give them back to me!” Footsteps sounded behind me. Peter stood under the portico, holding an umbrella, Delilah wrapped in his arm. He frowned, as if my anguish was simply an unpleasant noise. “Aurora, stop acting like a fishwife.” “A few pieces of ruined paper, a broken watch—what’s the value? I’ll write you a check.” Delilah shrunk into his chest, murmuring. “Peter, Aurora looks so pitiful… Did I do something wrong? I shouldn’t have moved in…” “Nonsense. This has nothing to do with you.” Peter lowered his head and kissed her hair. “She brought this on herself. A woman this ungrateful needs a serious dose of reality.” He looked up at me, his eyes glacier-cold. “Aurora, for the sake of the last seven years, I’m giving you one final chance.” “Right now, apologize to Delilah.” “Say that you’ll never pull this stunt again and that you’ll be the compliant wife I expect.” “I’ll let you back in this house to be Mrs. Montgomery.” “Otherwise…” He kicked at the mud near my feet. “Take your trash and roll out of my life.” The rain intensified. The fracture in my leg must have reopened. The pain was searing. But I no longer felt the cold. My heart was utterly, completely dead. Slowly, I stood up from the mud, still clutching the broken watch. I wiped the rainwater from my face and looked at the perfectly matched pair in front of me. I smiled. “Peter Montgomery.” “You think I actually want to be your wife?” “You think I’ll starve without you?” I walked toward them, dragging my injured leg, step by step. Peter instinctively recoiled, startled by the intensity of the hatred in my eyes. “What are you doing?” SLAP! I used every ounce of my remaining strength and slapped his face with brutal force. His head snapped sideways. The imprint of my fingers immediately bloomed on his cheek. Delilah shrieked, “You hit Peter!” “Shut up! No one asked you!” I turned and slapped Delilah across her face. She was stunned, clutching her cheek as she tumbled backward into the dirt, crying. Peter finally reacted, raising his hand in a furious rage. “Aurora! You’re asking for a death wish!” I lifted my chin, staring hard at his descending hand. “Hit me then!” “Peter, if you don’t kill me today, I swear I will make you and her kneel before me. I will pay back every single ounce of pain I’ve carried, a hundredfold!” His hand froze in the air. He looked into my eyes, and a flicker of genuine fear crossed his face. I stared at him coldly, spitting a mouthful of blood and rainwater onto the ground. “Peter Montgomery, remember what you said today.” “I am ungrateful. I am asking for trouble.” “From this moment forward, I am cutting all ties with you, and with the Montgomery name.” 5 The rain, mixed with mud, streamed down my pants. I dragged my throbbing right leg, step by agonizing step, out of the Montgomery estate gates.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389890”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was on a business trip, stuck on the eleventh floor of a bland hotel in Phoenix, when the call came through late—well past midnight my time. It was Patricia, my mother-in-law. “Landon, your father is terminally ill. The doctor said the only chance is immediate surgery followed by a course of aggressive, specialty medication.” I listened, numb, as she detailed the estimated cost: everything combined would run into the millions. I spent the rest of the night setting up a mortgage on the Aspen condo and the lake house. By dawn, I’d drained all my savings, accumulating nearly four million dollars. My plan was to go straight to the hospital the next morning. But first, I checked the accounts. The entirety of the funds I had painstakingly gathered was gone. Wired out in a single transaction. “Blake told me his new venture was short on seed money—a crucial, one-time investment. Naturally, I wired it to him.” I fought to keep the rage from my voice. “Do you even know what that money was for? It was for your father’s treatment, Maddie. He has Stage IV cancer!” My wife, Madeline, scoffed over the phone. “Landon Cole, stop making up melodramatic B-movie plots. My father is perfectly healthy. Don’t you dare curse him for cash.” 1 I sat on the sofa, staring at the dead screen, the silence in the hotel room heavy with disbelief. First thing in the morning, I called Howard, Archway Tech’s CFO. “Howard, do me a favor. Check the project accounts.” I kept my voice neutral, professional. “Has Blake Harrington submitted any formal request for project development funding recently?” The reply was quick. “No, Mr. Cole. Nothing for R&D. Though Ms. Price did approve a three-hundred-thousand-dollar allocation for a ‘team-building retreat’ last week. That’s already cleared.” Three hundred thousand for team building? I thought back to the background noise from last night’s call—the house-music thrum and the drunken, knowing laughter. My heart began to sink, a heavy stone dragging through cold water. I called Maddie again. It rang several times before she answered. This time, the background was soft, almost placid—a distant, classical piano piece, a stark contrast to the party chaos of a few hours ago. “What is it now?” Her tone was laced with faint impatience. I took a breath, trying to be as clinical as possible. “The four million. You need to pull it back today. The company has no new R&D project, and your father…” “Landon, are you seriously doing this again?” Madeline’s voice sharpened, rising several octaves. “Blake explained it perfectly. It’s a highly confidential, preparatory investment for a completely new direction. Of course, it’s not going to be on a publicly filed ledger.” She accused me: “Are you so petty you can’t stand to see someone else succeed?” I managed a bitter smile. What I felt wasn’t bitterness, but pity. “The financials have no record. Ask him now. Have him produce the project prospectus, even a rough draft. If he can show me that, I’ll drop it.” “How dare you interrogate him? Who are you to audit him?” Maddie’s voice was now a full-blown scream. “My father gave you the seed money to get Archway off the ground. Now, Blake is helping me protect my legacy! You’re always out of town. Have you cared about the company in years?” “The money is mine to move. I take responsibility!” Her claim of responsibility was the punchline of this dark joke. Yes, Richard had helped me start the company years ago. That’s why I was willing to mortgage everything to save him. Yet, the life-saving funds were handed by his own daughter to an outsider. “You can come to the hospital yourself. I’ll text you the address…” Maddie cut me off with a dismissive, cynical laugh. “Please. I know my father’s health better than you do. Blake told me we’d see the preliminary feedback in a few days. Then you’ll see who the liar is.” She hung up again. I lowered the phone, staring at her contact photo. For the first time, I looked at the face of my wife and felt a profound sense of alienation. I went to the hospital and stood next to Patricia, giving them the brutal details. Richard, pale and drawn in the bed, simply sighed, shaking his head. Patricia, however, was incandescent with fury. “That spoiled, thankless brat! We raised her so well, and she won’t even check on her dying father. She gave his emergency funds to a stranger? No. I have to call her and set her straight!” I had hoped the truth would come from them. Patricia dialed. As soon as Maddie picked up, she launched into a complaint. “Mom, I’m in the middle of something. Can we talk after I’m done?” Patricia, silenced, had the phone hung up on her ear without saying a word. 2 Patricia stared at the phone, stunned. The sheer audacity was unbelievable. She immediately hit redial. This time, it rang for a long, agonizing minute before Maddie finally answered. “Mom, I told you I’m busy! I have a major, major meeting! Why are you two calling relentlessly? What can’t wait?” Maddie’s voice was brittle with annoyance. Patricia could no longer contain her fury. “Wait? Does it have to wait until your father is dead before you stop and talk to us properly?!” The line went silent for a few seconds. Then Maddie’s voice returned, ice cold. “What is that supposed to mean? Did Landon come to you?” “Yes, Landon is right here,” Patricia said, her voice trembling as she looked at her husband’s sickly face. “He told us everything, Maddie. Your father…” “Mom.” Maddie cut her off directly. “Are you going to tell me next that Dad is gravely ill in the hospital, desperate for a massive sum of money that I just happened to wire to Blake?” Her pace was slow, deliberate, each word dripping with irony and disbelief. Patricia, who had harbored some sliver of doubt about my account, finally realized the depth of her daughter’s cynicism. Her heart began to freeze. “What are you talking about? It’s the truth! Your father is truly sick!” Maddie was entirely unconvinced. “I thought Landon was just being cheap, making up stories to claw the money back. I never imagined you two would conspire with him to pull off this elaborate, ridiculous lie for four million dollars.” “Mom, when did you become so gullible?” I stood there, watching Patricia’s face flood with helpless shame and frustration. “That money is the critical start-up capital for Blake’s new initiative. He’s a professional, and I’ve seen all his plans and projections,” Maddie continued, her voice gaining confidence. “If this project hits, the company’s valuation will multiply. Dad gets an executive physical every year. He’s fine! Stop trying to manipulate me with this fake illness, it won’t work!” Cough, cough… cough, cough, cough… Richard, silent until now, suddenly coughed violently. A dark, rusty splatter appeared against the white hospital sheet. He looked at his wife’s phone, his eyes filled with absolute despair. “Richard!” Patricia scrambled forward. “Nurse! Get a doctor!” The blood spreading across the white linen terrified Patricia, who was on the verge of collapsing. It was my first clear, terrifying understanding of the disease’s severity. The doctors confirmed he was already in an advanced stage. Survival required immediate, high-risk surgery and expensive, long-term imported medication. The cost was prohibitive for anyone without vast resources. Maddie, still on the phone, heard the sudden chaos. She hesitated, about to ask, when Blake Harrington’s voice cut in. “Maddie, Marcus is here. We’re about to close this deal.” She paused for a beat—a beat where the life of her father hung in the balance—and then chose Blake. Richard’s condition was critical, aggravated by the emotional shock. It took over an hour of intervention to stabilize him. He was immediately moved to the ICU. The fees would now climb even higher. Patricia stood outside the ICU door, frantic. She tried calling Maddie repeatedly, but the phone went straight to voicemail. To save Richard, I made a final decision. “I’ll sell Archway Tech. I can probably liquidate it for twenty million. That should cover the surgery and the long-term medication.” The marriage had become a travesty, but the man lying in the ICU was a good man. I was an orphan; since marrying Maddie, Richard and Patricia had treated me like their own son. Patricia looked at me, her eyes wet. “But Landon… that’s your life’s work. Your company. Are you… are you really willing to do that?” “It’s better than watching him fade out when I could have done something,” I told her. “Companies can be rebuilt. A life can’t.” 3 I returned home and immediately started compiling all the corporate materials. As I worked, the absurdity of the situation struck me. Archway Tech started with a single check for a million from Richard. I clawed and fought for every project, every expansion, building it into the successful, mid-size entity it was today. Now, to save the life of its first investor, I had to sell it. The next day, I contacted a few investment brokers. The process was smoother than expected; the company was clean, its profits consistent. I quickly settled on a cash offer of eighteen million dollars. The price was lower than I’d hoped, but the immediate liquidity was the priority. I rushed back to the hospital. “I found a buyer, Mom. We sign the agreement tomorrow. It’ll take a few days for the funds to transfer, but the money is coming.” I tried to sound calm and reassuring. Patricia looked at the tightly sealed ICU door, then at me. Tears streamed down her face. “Landon… I’m so sorry. You worked so hard for that company…” I cut her off. “Mom, it’s fine. I can open another company. We can’t get Dad back if he’s gone. We save him first, no matter what.” She squeezed my hand, a silent, grateful nod. The following afternoon, I was at a midtown law office, ready to sign the intent-to-sell agreement. The buyer’s representation and the lawyers were there. I had a trusted friend reviewing the paperwork. Everything was proceeding smoothly—documents were in order, terms were agreed upon. Just as the pen was poised above the signature line, the buyer’s lawyer, Mr. Davies, answered his phone. His face shifted, growing strained and slightly pale. He walked away from the table, speaking in low, urgent tones with the buyer. The buyer immediately frowned. My friend nudged me. “Landon, what’s going on?” Mr. Davies walked back to the table, holding a faxed document. “Mr. Cole, I apologize, but we may have to pause this process.” He looked uncomfortable. “I just received a call, and this fax. According to the Delaware corporate registry, the full equity of Archway Tech Solutions was transferred three days ago.” My mind went completely blank. “That’s impossible. I am the sole shareholder and CEO. An equity transfer cannot happen without my signature and notarized proof.” The lawyer turned his phone screen toward me. “Our information shows a complete change of record. The reason for the transfer is listed as a ‘Gift.’ The Giver is Madeline Price.” I stared at the screen, my eyes locked on the name. Madeline Price. In the space for the Statutory Agent and Sole Shareholder, my name had been replaced with Blake Harrington. The conference room door burst open. Madeline walked in, high heels clicking sharply on the marble floor. She was dressed impeccably, a cold, scornful look fixed on her face. “Well, this is a cozy little gathering.” She smiled faintly, walking up to the table. “I was wondering where all the important files went. Were you planning to sell my company behind my back, Landon?” I wasn’t angry yet, just staring at her with profound disappointment. “Do you understand what you are doing? This was your father’s life-saving money!” Madeline’s voice turned sharp. “Landon Cole, I truly underestimated you. Not only do you use my parents to spin some pathetic tale for cash, but now you try to steal the company completely? I’m lucky Blake had the foresight to see your panic. I signed Archway over to him to hold in trust. I trust him to protect my legacy much more than I trust a man trying to strip my family bare!” Blake Harrington was standing right behind her, a smug look of victory in his eyes. He stepped forward, offering a dramatic sigh. “Landon, I’m only going to say this once. You and Maddie are husband and wife. You should talk through your problems. To design such a ridiculous scheme, just to ensure Maddie is forced out with nothing—your heartlessness is truly remarkable.” My sudden contempt for this woman was a physical ache. “Heartless? Scheme?” I repeated the words, my voice dangerously low. I lunged forward, grabbing Madeline’s wrist and pulling her toward the exit. “What are you doing?!” “Let go of me, you thug!” I ignored her screams. “You don’t believe me, do you?” I dragged her past the bewildered lawyers. “Then we’re going to the ICU right now. We’re going to look your father in the eye! We’re going to see if your four million dollars and your supposed legacy are worth more than your own father’s life!” 4 Blake Harrington rushed forward, pushing hard into my shoulder. I blocked him with my free arm, speaking slowly, deliberately. “Stay out of this, Blake. This is between my wife and me. Get lost.” The office security team burst into the room and struggled to separate us. As I was pulled away, Blake intentionally swung his leg. I tripped over his foot, and my lower back slammed hard against the sharp corner of the mahogany conference table. A wave of black rushed behind my eyes, and I couldn’t move. Madeline, finally free, grabbed a heavy glass paperweight from the table and threw it. It hit me squarely on the forehead, sending a geyser of hot blood streaming down my face. She immediately spun around, rushing to Blake, her voice soft and frantic. “Blake, are you okay? Does it hurt? Did he injure you anywhere?” Her anxious, tender tone was unlike anything she had ever used when I was sick. Blake shook his head, looking down at me. “I’m fine, Maddie, but Mr. Cole…” He trailed off with faux concern. Madeline finally looked at me, and her concern immediately turned to sheer fury. “Landon Cole, have you completely lost it? Assaulting people in a professional environment? Look at yourself! You look like a street thug! You’re going to jail! Apologize to Blake right now!” I wiped the blood from my brow, clearing my vision. I managed to pull my lips into a self-deprecating smile. Was there any deeper punchline to my entire marriage than this moment? “Apologize? To him?” I looked up at Blake, who was giving me a triumphant, pitying smirk. “Yes! Now! Immediately!” Madeline insisted, completely convinced of her righteousness. I ignored her. I bent down, ignoring the throbbing pain in my back, and collected the scattered documents from the floor. “Mr. Davies,” I said to the buyer’s attorney, my voice flat. “Please handle the paperwork from here.” I limped out the door, staggering slightly. “You’re not going anywhere until you apologize! Landon, stop!” I didn’t stop or look back. Apologize? What was there left to explain? My father-in-law was still in the ICU, needing money. The company was gone. I had to find another way. I took a deep breath, pushing the rage and pain into a cold, hard corner of my mind. I called a few old friends—people who owed me big favors. I didn’t give details, only the amount and the urgency. By evening, I’d pieced together over $1.2 million. It was enough for the immediate surgery. I rushed to the hospital. My phone rang. It was Patricia. I answered instantly. “Mom, I’ve got some money. I’m almost there.” “It’s too late…” Patricia’s voice was terrifyingly calm. “Your father… he’s gone.” “What? Mom, tell me what happened! The doctors said he was stable this morning!” Patricia’s composure finally fractured, giving way to a desperate, wrenching sob. “He pulled his own tubes… the monitor alarm went off… but by the time they got to him… he was… gone…” I was paralyzed. I never imagined Richard would take his own life. The next few days were a blur of handling the arrangements. I asked Patricia if we should call Madeline. She shook her head, her face cold and distant. “I have no daughter. I don’t want her anywhere near this.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389889”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At the victory party for my fiancé, his assistant got wasted. She staggered over to me and, with a clumsy sweep, knocked the glass of juice in front of me to the floor. “You malicious bitch! Mr. Peter is allergic to mango—were you trying to kill him?” “Chug three shots of tequila, and I’ll tell Mr. Peter to forgive you.” Her entitlement was staggering, yet her devotion to Hudson Peter was absolute. It made Hudson laugh. He pulled her into his arms and looked at me with a practiced, weary expression. “She’s totally tanked, Ari. Don’t hold it against her. When she sobers up, I’ll make her apologize.” But the little assistant, Talia, wasn’t done. She protested she wasn’t drunk, not yet. She insisted she needed to see me drink the shots—something stronger than juice—to be satisfied. Finally, Hudson sighed, sounding like the put-upon hero. “Ariel, just take one shot to humor her. Please.” 1 Hearing Hudson’s words, I thought he’d lost his mind. I’m not a patient person. But tonight was his celebration. He’d barely slept in six months to secure the Beaumont Deal, and this victory was hard-won. I hadn’t wanted to cause a scene. So I endured his showing up with the young assistant. I endured their vaguely inappropriate intimacy in front of our guests. But now, to indulge her, he was asking me—someone with a severe, potentially life-threatening alcohol allergy—to drink hard liquor. I couldn’t endure that. I wouldn’t. Smash! The crystal decanter full of expensive Scotch collided with the side of Hudson’s head. The glass shattered instantly, leaving a ragged, crimson gash above his temple. Blood mixed with the amber liquor flowed down his face. “Oh my God! What did you do?!” Talia was sober in an instant. She fumbled wildly to wipe the blood away but only managed to push a sliver of glass deeper into the cut. “Shit,” Hudson hissed, his face draining white from the pain. I ignored them both. I picked up a linen napkin and carefully wiped the droplets of Scotch from my fingers. I tossed the napkin onto Hudson’s chest. “You’re my fiancé, Hudson. Consider that your portion.” Hudson bit his lip, letting the blood obscure his vision. He seemed to be only just realizing exactly who I was. The celebration was already a disaster. Staying would only turn me into a punchline. I grabbed my clutch and mumbled an apology to the room—I have to take an urgent call. But before I could turn, Talia blocked my way. “You can’t leave! You assaulted Mr. Peter! I’m calling the police!” Her drunken swagger was gone, replaced by a reckless, sober ferocity. “Talia. Come here.” Hudson’s voice was low and tightly controlled. “She hit you, and you’re just going to let it go?” “I said, come here.” Hudson’s hands were fisted, his words ground out between his teeth. Talia finally stomped her foot, but before retreating behind him, she pointed a finger directly at my face. “So what if you’re his fiancée? He’s a person, not a dog you keep on a leash!” “You old hag! If I ever see you lay a hand on him again, I swear I’ll—” Slap! My patience evaporated. I delivered a swift, ringing backhand across her cheek. “Try pointing that finger at me one more time, and I’ll see to it those fingers never dial a phone again.” 2 I’d met Hudson’s assistant a few times. Young, pretty, enthusiastic. The first time, my friends had joked. “Putting someone that attractive next to your fiancé? You’re not worried he’ll wander?” I told them I wasn’t. I had confidence in Hudson. We weren’t a typical couple. In business, we were a unified force. Our engagement was a strategic alliance layered with a thousand financial entanglements. As the illegitimate son his family had largely ignored, he knew better than anyone that he needed the foundation of the Maxwell Corporation behind him. I wasn’t worried because he couldn’t afford to be unfaithful. But I’d forgotten the classic male flaw. Achieve a little success, and suddenly you forget who brought you to the dance. Those constant ‘Mr. Peter’s from Talia made him forget he wasn’t a self-made man. No matter. I was here to remind him. Hudson cupped Talia’s face. She was stunned into silence, tears welling up in her eyes. I could see the anger—the protectiveness—surging through him. The veins in his forehead were visibly throbbing. “Ariel Maxwell, you’ve gone too far!” I raised an eyebrow. Too far? I was just getting started. Spencer and Brooks, who were sitting near me, finally decided they’d seen enough drama and stood up to mediate. “Hey, come on, you two. Don’t fight over an outsider.” Spencer stepped between us. “Yeah, Hud, you know Ari’s temper. Don’t make us watch this circus.” Brooks followed suit. They were our mutual friends, or at least, they were part of the inner circle. We’d been neighbors since I was fifteen, when the whole generation of the city’s top entrepreneurs moved into the exclusive hilltop community. But they were also the ones who most wanted to see Hudson fail. They resented the bastard son sitting at their table. Their ‘mediation’ was clearly meant to fan the flames. Spencer played the role of the sympathetic advisor, leaning into me. “Look, Ari, a guy having a little female companion is normal. You can’t be this jealous before you’re even married. What will you do afterward?” Brooks spoke to Hudson. “And you, man, you know the Maxwell temper. Just apologize before she really blows up. After all, without her, you wouldn’t have The Beaumont Deal.” Hudson’s lips tightened, his gaze dark and unreadable. Normally, he’d shoot back a quick retort. But he was drunk, bloody, and had just watched the woman he was protecting get slapped by his fiancée. He was beyond swallowing his pride. 3 He threw a hand up, adopting the pose of the wounded, self-respecting man. He pointed at me. “Ariel, apologize to Talia. If you don’t, I’ll—” Slap! “I’ll—” Slap! “I—” Slap! Three sharp slaps, one after the other. My palm was tingling. I looked at Hudson’s swelling, red face and smiled faintly. “Or what, Hudson? You’ll call off the engagement?” He fell silent. The words cancel the engagement were ones he couldn’t afford to utter. In his hesitation, Talia made the choice for him. “Cancel it then! You just look down on Mr. Peter for being a bastard anyway!” she screamed, still hiding behind him. “Well, I’ll tell you something! Who says an illegitimate son can’t achieve greatness?” A deathly silence fell over the room. Hudson was brought into the family at thirteen, but Victor Peter (his father) had always covered it up, calling him a “younger cousin” or “my youngest son.” Only a handful of insiders, like those of us at this table, knew the truth. This was a victory party, packed with business rivals Hudson had invited to gloat over. Now, thanks to his faithful assistant, his secret—and his biggest weakness—was exposed. I couldn’t help but laugh, watching the speculative, judging eyes in the room turn toward him. What a spectacular blunder. Talia’s face turned scarlet. She learned quickly, hiding further behind Hudson, but she kept shouting at me. “Don’t pretend! You and Mr. Peter are only a business deal; there’s no love! Have you ever truly cared for him? Where were you when he was lonely? When he was heartbroken? I was the one who was there, who helped him through the rough times!” I stared at her excited face. I didn’t understand why enduring ‘rough times’ with him was a point of pride. But if they loved ‘rough times’ so much, I decided to be generous. They were about to have more than they could handle. I pushed past Spencer, who tried to restrain me, and, under the gaze of everyone eager for a show, I pronounced Hudson’s doom. “The engagement is off, Hudson.” “The Beaumont Deal is collapsing, your stock is about to tank, and you’re going back to being the nobody you started as. That’s the agony a thankless bastard like you deserves.” 4 From the hotel, I drove straight to the office. The top floor of the Maxwell Tower was alight. I sat in the executive chair, listening to my secretary’s report. “Madam Maxwell, releasing the Peter Group’s current scandals gives us an 80% chance that the Beaumont will replace their primary partner.” I had first brought the Beaumont project to the Peter Group three years ago. I had just taken over Maxwell Corp and wasn’t ready to absorb a project of that magnitude. Hudson was the perfect buffer. If he succeeded, we both won. If he failed, he was ruined, and I had minimal losses. But things were different now. I had cemented my position. I could swallow any project I wanted. The market has no morals. Hudson wasn’t the only one who could burn bridges. Within half an hour, my private investigator had compiled everything on Hudson and Talia. She came from an impoverished background, dropped out of high school, and worked as an orderly. A year ago, Hudson’s biological mother was transferred to her hospital for chemotherapy. Hudson frequently visited, and they grew close. His mother was suffering from advanced gastric cancer. He was low, vulnerable. I understood, and I ran interference with the Peter family so he could spend time with her. And in that time, they started their affair. Hudson had covered his tracks meticulously. Before the Beaumont project was secured, he wouldn’t dare bring her out in the open. I don’t know if he felt secure enough to finally defy me, or if he genuinely believed he could manage both of us. Either way, he would regret that choice forever. The news of the cancelled engagement was released. Thirty minutes later, the simultaneous leak of Hudson’s affair and his illegitimate status hit the wires. My PR team was relentless. The scandals dominated every major publication. In this day and age, no one cares about ‘true love conquers all’ when corporate power is on the line. The official Peter Group social media was flooded with vitriol. Public opinion was universally against him. I sat in my office, watching the Peter Group stock ticker. The night was young. Plenty of people were more anxious than I was. The first person to burst in was my father, Robert Maxwell. We hadn’t seen each other in six months. He was currently distracted by a mistress younger than me, a young woman who’d successfully eroded what little common sense he possessed. “Ariel, what the hell are you doing now?!” he bellowed, charging into my office. I took a slow sip of coffee, waved the secretaries out, and looked at him. “Dad, I’m not playing games. I’m dissolving a liability and securing the maximum benefit for Maxwell Corp.” “Bullshit!” He slammed his hand on my desk, the dull thump echoing in the silence. This wasn’t the first time he’d accused me of “playing games.” When I initiated massive corporate reform, he slapped me. When I fired his leech-like friends from the board, he trashed my office. Here we go again. “What maximum benefit? Ariel, you think just because you’ve run the company for a few years, you understand the world? This isn’t how you do business! Not on the street!” “Recall every announcement now and come with me to apologize to the Peters. Old Man Peter has called me a dozen times! Also, your brother just graduated. I’m putting him in the company to keep an eye on you. This company cannot be run by your whims anymore!” I looked at him calmly. “I’m an only child, Dad. Where did I get a brother?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389888”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night I woke up back inside my mother’s womb, Grant Harrington was choking her, his voice a low, vicious snarl. “Whose bastard is this?” Beside him, Delilah Stone—his untouched, golden-girl ideal—stood with a hand resting softly on her own swollen belly, her voice a fragile whisper. “Grant, please, don’t blame Jules…” In the last life, he believed Delilah’s fake paternity test. He drove my mother to suicide the day after I was born and snatched my custody. He let his illegitimate son, the one Delilah bore, terrorize and bully me. On my eighteenth birthday, that boy drugged me, took humiliating photos, and threw me off a high-rise. I died a horrible death. This time, I’d spent a century’s worth of accrued merit to grant my bastard father a “Clairvoyance of Paternity.” Seven days from now, the grotesque new sight would activate. It would let him see the biological father of every child he looked at. … 1 Grant snatched his hands away. My mother slammed hard onto the floor. She clutched her stomach, her face bone-white, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her lips trembled, but no sound came out. Delilah walked over, looking down at my mother with an expression of feigned pity. “Grant, even if Jules won’t admit it, the solution is simple. An amniocentesis will reveal the truth.” “No… no penetration…” My mother struggled to sit up, her voice a desperate shake. “It’s too dangerous, the baby might…” “A bastard? It’s better off flushed down the drain!” Grant cut her off, his eyes arctic cold. My mother tried to plead again, but I timed it perfectly, yanking hard on the umbilical cord. Her body instantly seized up, and she began to dry-heave, violently. Grant wrinkled his nose in disgust and motioned impatiently to the housekeeper. “Get her upstairs and out of my sight. Now.” The door shut behind them, and my mother collapsed onto the edge of the bed, her shoulders heaving with silent, agonizing sobs. Suddenly, a tiny, high-pitched voice broke the silence. “Mama.” My mother stiffened, sitting bolt upright. She instinctively shielded her belly. “Who?! Who said that?” “It’s me! Your little baby inside!” I kicked my leg, letting her feel my presence. “Baby? You… how can you…?” She was incoherent, her hands tightening on her abdomen. Then, she broke down, tears gushing out. “I’m so sorry, my baby. Your mother is useless. I can’t protect you… If anything happens to you because of that test, I won’t live, either…” “Don’t be scared, Mama. Just do exactly as I tell you, and you only need to hold on for seven days.” “Seven days?” “Yes. After seven days, Grant Harrington will get a special… ability. He’ll see exactly who’s carrying a bastard, and who’s not.” I wriggled inside her womb. “Trust me, Mama. Grant’s retribution is coming. He might even end up on his knees begging you.” My mother stopped crying, biting down on her lower lip until she tasted blood. She pressed her hands tightly against her belly. “Okay.” Her voice was raw and hoarse. “Mama will do everything you say. I’ll hold on for these seven days.” The next morning, my mother found Grant. “I agree to the amniocentesis.” 2 Delilah, perched comfortably on Grant’s lap, quickly suppressed the upturn of her mouth, instantly reverting to her look of gentle compassion. Grant’s eyebrows locked tight. He stared at my mother. “You’ve thought this through? If it is a bastard, waiting another week isn’t going to change that. It won’t become my child.” He leaned forward, his voice dangerously low. “When the results come back—and if it proves you right? Ha. I’ll have it printed on flyers. I’ll make sure everyone sees exactly what garbage you, Jules Kingston, have been carrying.” Delilah gently set down her teacup, her tone soft. “Grant, don’t talk like that. How could Jules betray you? I’m sure she’s innocent.” She turned to my mother, her face full of sympathy and encouragement. “Jules, don’t worry. Grant has a sharp tongue, but I’m sure he’ll find the most reputable expert to give you and the baby the fairest result.” She stood up and approached my mother, reaching out to take her hand. It was then that Delilah let out a sharp cry of pain. She clutched her stomach, swayed, and looked moments from collapsing. “Delilah!” Grant launched himself across the room, shoving my mother hard out of the way. My mother stumbled backward. The sheer force of his push sent her reeling, and her hip bone slammed into the sharp corner of the dining room table. She gasped, doubling over in pain, her face draining of color. Grant didn’t spare her a glance. He swept the moaning Delilah into his arms, his face etched with panic. “To the hospital, now!” He carried Delilah straight out the door. My mother gripped the table’s edge, slowly straightening up. She bit her lip until it was raw, determined not to make a sound. That evening, the bedroom door was kicked open. Grant burst in, radiating cold fury, his eyes bloodshot. He stormed straight to the bed, grabbed my mother’s arm, and brutally yanked her onto the floor! She was still on the carpet when Grant, frenzied, flipped the entire mattress. Beneath it, a cloth effigy—a handmade voodoo doll—was revealed, covered in sharp pins. Scrawled on its chest were Delilah’s name and birth date. Grant’s breathing turned ragged. He spun around and glared at my mother, his face a mask of pure hatred. “It wasn’t me…” My mother saw the object and quickly shook her head. “You bitch!” Grant roared, raising his hand and smashing a blow across my mother’s face! She reeled from the impact, blood instantly blooming at the corner of her mouth. She clutched her rapidly swelling cheek, tears streaming, her voice trembling. “It’s really not me… I don’t know where that thing came from…” “Still lying?!” Grant leaned down, seizing her hair and forcing her to look up at his twisted face. “No wonder Delilah suddenly had stomach pains this afternoon! You’re pulling low-class tricks! You tried to kill her and my son, didn’t you?!” “I didn’t…” My mother’s scalp was screaming. Tears blurred her vision. Grant pointed a shaking finger at her face, his words spitting with venom. “Jules Kingston, you listen to me. If Delilah and that baby suffer any harm, I will make sure you, and your entire family, pay the price!” Hearing her family was implicated, my mother’s eyes widened in panic. Ignoring the throbbing pain in her face, she lunged forward, grabbing the hem of his trousers. “Grant! Please, no! Don’t involve my father! I swear, I didn’t do this! You have to investigate…” Grant’s face was nothing but revulsion. He kicked out violently at her stomach. “Get off me!” My mother curled into a ball, groaning in pain. Grant threw the effigy down beside her, then stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls rattled. The moment Grant was gone, my mother’s sobs ceased. She moved to the corner of the room, reaching up to the vase, and flipped the switch on the miniature spy camera hidden inside. Then, from the folds of her nightgown, she pulled out several custom-made, thick padding cushions. My mother gently touched her belly. “Baby, four more days.” The next morning, there was a commotion downstairs. The bedroom door was thrust open, and Delilah swept her eyes across the room, finally resting them on my mother. She raised her chin and ordered the staff behind her. “What are you waiting for? Throw everything in this room—everything that belongs to her—out into the hall!” The housekeepers rushed in, roughly grabbing my mother’s clothes and belongings and tossing them onto the carpet outside the door. Delilah, holding her side, slowly walked closer, meeting my mother’s gaze. “This master suite is mine now.” 3 My mother was relocated to the tiny storage room. Grant stood in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the meager light. “Your father’s private jet lost contact over the Atlantic. Three days of searching, and nothing. Kingston Corp. is headless. The stock is tanking, and the old board members are in chaos.” He took a step closer. “Jules, I’ve had my eye on your father’s new materials company for a long time. Your old man was too stubborn to let go.” My mother shot her head up, her face draining of color. Her lips trembled. “You… what are you planning?” “Strike while the patient’s dying.” Grant pulled his mouth into a cruel half-smile. “The time for a hostile takeover is now. The resistance is minimal, the cost negligible. In a few days, that company will be a Harrington asset.” “Grant Harrington!” My mother struggled to her feet and lunged, grabbing his arm. “That’s my father’s life’s work! You can’t do this! For the sake of our years together, for the sake of the baby in my…” “The sake of what?” Grant flung her hand off. My mother stumbled back. “The identity of the thing in your belly is still questionable. You want to talk about ‘sake’ with me, Jules?” Delilah’s sweet voice suddenly chirped from the hallway. “Grant! My stomach is hurting so badly…” Delilah leaned against the doorframe, tears welling instantly. Grant looked back at my mother, his eyes full of nothing but frigid disdain. “You curse! If Delilah or the baby suffers the slightest complication, ten of your lives won’t be enough to repay it!” Delilah nestled into his arms, breathing softly, but her eyes flickered toward my mother, a flash of victory in their depths. Grant tightened his embrace. “Jules, starting today, you will serve Delilah. You will do whatever she asks. When her mood is light, when her stomach no longer hurts, that’s when I’ll consider going easy on your father’s affairs.” My mother stood frozen, swaying slightly. The light in her eyes extinguished, leaving behind only the dead gray of utter desolation. “All right.” She heard her voice—dry and cracked. Delilah’s mouth, almost against her will, curved into a triumphant smile. The orders began immediately. In the dead of winter, Delilah had the staff bring a huge basin of steaming hot water, then poured in enough cold water to make it painful. She pointed to a mountain of baby clothes. “Hand-wash them. The machine doesn’t clean them thoroughly enough, and it’s bad for the baby’s skin.” My mother rolled up her sleeves and plunged her hands in. Her skin instantly flushed red, then turned an agonizing blue-white. She grit her teeth, scrubbing one item after another. Delilah sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, sipping hot tea, watching leisurely. A few days later, Delilah “heard” that a historic St. Jude’s Chapel on the ridge outside the city was the most miraculous for blessing an unborn child. “Jules, why don’t you make the pilgrimage for me? It has to be sincere. A kneeling walk, all the way from the base to the chapel doors. Only then will the blessing work.” My mother glanced at the miniature spy camera hidden in her clothes. Slowly, she answered, “I will.” The mountain wasn’t Everest, but for a pregnant woman, every step was torturous. My mother, dressed in heavy clothes, struggled to bend, kneel, rest her forehead on the frozen ground, and then brace herself up to take three small steps forward, repeating the agonizing process. Her forehead was soon streaked with dirt. Her knees ached and bruised even through the thick fabric. Several hikers stopped, staring, whispering. Someone even filmed it and posted it online. That evening, my mother dragged her exhausted body back. Before she could sit, a teacup flew past her head. She didn’t manage to duck. A sharp pain bloomed above her eyebrow. She clutched her bleeding temple and looked at Grant, who had just walked in. Grant frowned, glancing at the shattered porcelain on the floor and the cut on my mother’s head. “What happened here?” “She hurt herself! She wasn’t careful!” Delilah rushed to Grant, crying theatrically. “I just asked her if it was cold on the mountain. She stood up too fast and hit the corner of the table… and she glared at me! Grant, I’m scared. Does she hate me? Does she hate our baby?” Grant held Delilah close, comforting her. When he looked at my mother, only ice remained. “Clumsy fool. You’ve upset Delilah. Go clean that wound up, and stop standing there, you’re an eyesore.” My mother lowered her gaze, saying nothing. She silently turned to look for the first aid kit. It was then her phone rang. The voice on the other end was heavy and urgent. My mother’s face grew paler and paler. She hung up and turned to Grant. “My father… the authorities have virtually ruled out a rescue. My uncle needs me to return to the estate… for the wake.” Delilah lifted her head from Grant’s chest, her eyes darting quickly. She spoke in a delicate whisper. “Grant, going back to her family now… but Jules still hasn’t taken the paternity test.” Grant’s face darkened at once. “Jules, you are not going anywhere! You wait for the test in three days! Going home now? What, do you think your bastard will suddenly become legitimate if you leave?” “That is my father!” My mother’s voice trembled. “And?” Grant was utterly indifferent. “You step outside that door, and you don’t come back. I’ve already secured the arrangement with the Kingston board; your father’s company will be mine soon enough. What could you possibly change by going back?” My mother covered her face, her shoulders shaking violently, tears leaking through her fingers. Delilah watched her completely shatter, then plucked a grape from the nearby fruit bowl. After carefully peeling the skin, she held it out in front of my mother’s head. “Catch, now. Don’t want you staining the rug.” My mother’s body froze. The crying stopped instantly. A few seconds later, she opened her palm. At the exact same moment, a text message arrived on her phone. “Jules, are you sure Dad’s ‘death’ will flush out the corporate traitor? And will anyone really want to buy that failing company we set up?” Inside the womb, I stretched out a tiny limb. Of course they will. 4 With three days left, and my mother’s “excellent performance,” Delilah was feeling entirely secure and began acting as the future Lady Harrington, arranging everything for her new role. My mother, in turn, began offering “caring” suggestions. “I heard there’s an auction tonight for a Ming Dynasty scroll. It would look perfect in the future master suite.” “The new penthouse development on the East Side has an incredible view. It’s worthy of your status.” “The latest limited-edition sports car has just arrived. It would suit you perfectly.” Delilah was giddy with flattery, spending money hand over fist. My mother pressed her advantage. “Delilah, once I sign the divorce papers, you’ll be the legal Mrs. Harrington. Everything of Grant’s belongs to you and your future young master, doesn’t it? What’s a little spending now?” Delilah wholeheartedly agreed, signing credit card slips and wire transfers without a second thought. What she didn’t know was that the scroll was a masterful forgery, the penthouse developer would file for bankruptcy next week, and the dealership was about to implode due to a liquidity crisis. My goal was to drain every last drop of her available cash. Eight hours remained. During the day, my mother went for the amniocentesis. By evening, Grant returned to the mansion, his face dark with rage. He held the paternity report—the one Delilah had arranged long ago—in a death grip, and kicked open my mother’s door. The bang was deafening. As my mother sat up in bed, the report was hurled, hitting her face. Grant violently dragged her from the bed onto the floor, his eyes blazing with fury. “What excuse do you have now?! Whose bastard is in your belly?!” He was choking her, and my mother’s breath came in ragged gasps. Her face turned bluish-green. Just then, I distinctly heard a low, electronic chime. Grant’s body went rigid. His gaze was still locked on my mother’s face, but deep in his eyes, something was shifting. His eyes seemed to flicker with a grotesque, digital overlay—a stream of bizarre data. He stared at my mother’s abdomen. The rage on his face dissolved instantly, replaced by a profound, bewildering astonishment. He slowly released his grip, then sprinted into the bathroom as if possessed, staring wildly at the space above his own head in the mirror. Then he burst out, grabbing the frightened, trembling old butler in the hall. “What is your father’s full name?! Tell me!” “Benson… Wallace,” the butler stammered out. Grant released him and seized the terrified nanny. “Your father’s name! Hurry!” “Ed… Felix…” Grant staggered back two steps, hitting the wall. His chest heaved, his eyes glazed with confusion and shock. A noise. Delilah, sleepy-eyed, walked out, asking softly, “Grant, what is it? Why are you so angry?” She glanced at the paternity report on the floor, a sliver of a triumphant smile on her lips. Grant suddenly spun around, his gaze falling squarely on Delilah’s heavily pregnant belly. A muscle in his face twitched violently. His pupils constricted. Above Delilah’s abdomen, a line of stark, bright text floated into his vision: [PATERNITY CONFIRMED: BIOLOGICAL FATHER – DOMINIC PRICE.] Dominic Price. His business rival. His father’s illegitimate son. His own “dear” half-brother.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389886”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Texting my advisor, practically in tears, to subtly guilt him into processing my stipend. To make my plea extra pathetic, I tossed in a casual exaggeration: “My boyfriend is dead from starvation.” His reply was instantaneous: “Boyfriend is dead?” “Understood. I’ll send him this afternoon.” I thought he meant the money. Instead, that afternoon, Professor Harrison Stanford led his prodigal, recently returned-from-overseas son straight to my office. His son, who was also my… ex-boyfriend, who I’d told everyone had been dead for two years. … 1 The ridiculously tiny grad student stipend was, yet again, weeks past due. I’m a coward. Give me ten times the guts I have, and I still wouldn’t dare ask Professor Stanford directly. My only option was to use the classic “send a desperate text to my mom, but send it to the professor instead” strategy. I typed it out: Mom, I’m skipping the holidays. Tuition money is gone, my Venmo is overdrawn, my boyfriend is dead from starvation, and Professor Stanford is too senile to remember the payroll deadline. Guess I’ll be staying here, living off instant ramen and sheer willpower. Professor Stanford replied with a single, damning question mark: ? My phone nearly flew out of my hand. Panicking, I immediately tried to backtrack: I am so sorry, Professor! Wrong person! Please ignore that! Professor Stanford: Your boyfriend is dead? Professor Stanford: Understood. I’ll send the boyfriend this afternoon. My brain short-circuited. What? We were supposed to get paid at the start of the month. It was almost Christmas break, and I hadn’t heard a single clink of a coin. Professor Stanford is a brilliant man, but he’s pushing sixty and his memory is shot. I knew exactly what happened: he forgot to submit the payroll form to the Bursar’s Office. Again. Normally, a month’s delay is inconvenient. But now? The entire administration was about to shut down for two weeks. This meant a two-month delay, minimum. How was I supposed to live? I needed that money just to buy a plane ticket home and look halfway respectable. I needed to remind him, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Just yesterday, I had sent him the initial draft of my thesis—a piece of writing that I knew, deep down, was utter garbage. I sent it, then stuffed my phone into my roommate’s laundry hamper and spent half an hour in the common room doing interpretive dance to relieve the anxiety. I knew the paper was trash, and sending it was basically giving him an aneurysm. His reaction was immediate and brutal: “Piper, try shaking your head and listen. Do you hear the faint sound of the ocean?” I obediently shook my head, then realized a moment too late that he was calling me brain-dead. “Next time, write more. I was only halfway through this comedic masterpiece.” Me: “…” “Well, at least my academic rivals are probably toasting my failure right now, knowing I have a student like you.” I managed a weak smile. At least my thesis had achieved a level of lethal impact. Then the phone calls started, a solid thirty minutes of me being verbally destroyed. He ended the call with a simple: “Piper Maxwell! Be ready for the seminar next week!” See? After being flayed alive yesterday, how was I supposed to demand money today? But pride is a small price to pay for survival. The Professor might hate me, but my bank account shouldn’t have to suffer. If the hard way failed, I’d try the soft way. If the direct route was closed, I’d take a detour. As I was stewing, my mom messaged me: “Sweetheart, when are you heading home?” A flash of inspiration. My fingers flew across the screen, typing out the perfect, melodramatic plea. Copy. Click on the Professor’s contact. Paste. Send. One smooth, flawless motion. I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. One minute later, the Professor sent that fatal question mark. I quickly tried to delete the message and play dumb: Oops! Sorry Professor! Hand slipped! Please pretend you didn’t see that! “I saw it.” Yes! My inner self was throwing a ticker-tape parade. The money was secured! Then he replied: Your boyfriend is dead? Understood. I’ll send the boyfriend this afternoon. 2 I was completely bewildered. Was that the point?! Of that entire rambling block of text, the only true parts were that I hadn’t been paid and the Professor had forgotten! The rest was pure fiction! He was sharp as a tack when it came to critiquing my work, but now he was taking this one bizarre detail literally? I wanted cash. Why was he sending me a boyfriend? Could I eat a boyfriend? I collapsed onto my bed, convinced that life was one gray, endless spiral. I texted back resignedly: Okay, thanks, Professor. A boyfriend was unnecessary baggage. I was too broke to feed myself, let alone another person. A massive plate of greasy Chinese takeout for lunch—a complete carb overload—had put me into a deep, food-induced coma. I slept through the early afternoon, only waking up as the sky darkened, jolted awake by my phone vibrating. It was the Professor. I assumed he’d invented some new, truly horrifying epithet for me, so I took a deep, steadying breath before answering. “Hello, Piper? What are you doing? Why aren’t you answering?” “Um… Professor, I was revising the thesis…” “Stop revising and get down to that trendy Sichuan Hot Pot place downtown.” I assumed he needed me to pick up a package or run an errand, yawning as I said, “Professor, Natalie has the external hard drive.” He sounded impatient. “I know! Just get down here. Someone’s offering a free meal, and you’re going to pass that up?” I froze. A free meal? I absolutely had to go! Professor Stanford always paid well when he hosted. I needed to eat back all the stipend he owed me. I rocketed off the bed, threw on a random puffy coat over my pajamas, didn’t bother fixing my rat’s nest of hair, grabbed my fuzzy Crocs, and pedaled a shared bike straight to the restaurant. I looked a little rough, but who cares when it’s hot pot? If my thesis was good, he’d be happy even if I wore a burlap sack. As soon as I walked in, I heard the Professor’s signature booming laugh. The steam from the bubbling chili oil immediately fogged up my glasses. I squinted, navigating my way toward the sound. I could vaguely make out that he wasn’t alone. The Professor spotted me and waved me over, telling me to sit across from him. As the fog cleared from my lenses, I saw Mrs. Stanford sitting next to him. I’d been to their house several times, so we were friendly. I squeezed out a sweet smile. “Mrs. Stanford! So good to see you.” She smiled back warmly. “June! Come on, sweetheart, sit down, sit down.” Looking at the couple, I couldn’t help but ask the question burning in my mind. “Professor, I thought this was a group dinner. Why did you just call me?” He huffed, took a sip of tea, and gave me a look that was needlessly cryptic, clearly too important to bother with an answer. He always had to be the mysterious one—just like my ex. I turned to Mrs. Stanford instead. Before she could speak, someone sat down next to me. A clean, expensive note of cedar and leather hit my nose—one of those high-end, bespoke scents. This guy was seriously dressed up. Wasn’t he worried about ruining his clothes in a hot pot joint? I hadn’t even turned my head yet. Mrs. Stanford pointed a chopstick at the person next to me, chuckling. “Well, here he is! The replacement boyfriend, delivered as promised. Go on, check the merchandise.” 3 I turned my head, curiosity instantly turning into whiplash. I looked, and then I snapped my head back, slamming my hands over my face and vigorously rubbing my eyes. No. No, no, no. I must have been groggy from my afternoon nap, or maybe I’d hit my head on the way over. It had to be a hallucination. How could my ex-boyfriend possibly be here?! “Dad. Mom.” That deep, low, magnetic voice—it was exactly the same as the one etched in my memory. Damn it. Not a hallucination. “Linc, quickly, introduce yourself to June. You two need to get acquainted.” Lincoln didn’t speak immediately. I just felt two intense gazes, like high beams, fixed on my face. Stiffening my neck, I slowly turned my head back. He was in a perfectly tailored black wool coat over a charcoal turtleneck—looking impossibly sharp, almost clinically clean. Two years had stripped away the last traces of boyishness, leaving a man who was undeniably sexier, but still utterly reserved. His hair looked carefully styled, every single strand immaculate. He had clearly dressed for a serious meeting. And me? Pajamas under a puffy coat, a rat’s nest for hair, and fuzzy Crocs. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Lincoln West stared at me, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth and spoke, his tone flat. “Lincoln West. Twenty-six. Six-foot-one. Just back from London.” I nodded rigidly, a pathetic sound escaping my throat: “Uh-huh.” Could you tell me something I don’t already know? Seeing me turn into a mute, Mrs. Stanford prompted me again: “Well, June? What do you think? Satisfied?” How could I possibly answer? If I had known this was a blind date, that the date was the ex-boyfriend I’d dumped, and that the ex-boyfriend was Professor Stanford’s own son… I would have starved to death in my dorm room before stepping foot outside the gates. This dinner was clearly a strategic ambush to couple us up. Lincoln was dressed so meticulously that he must have taken the introduction seriously. And now he looked up, saw me, and his emotional damage was probably large enough to eclipse the entire restaurant. I strained to keep my face muscles from spasming, trying to hold a polite, slightly awkward smile. The older couple, completely oblivious to the radioactive tension between us, were just happily watching the pot boil. I lowered my head, frantically picking at my fingernails, while Lincoln sat beside me, slowly sipping his tea. Though we were inches apart, the emotional distance between us was wide enough to fit another person. Mrs. Stanford suddenly piped up, “I was right there when you texted Harry this morning. You said your boyfriend starved to death, and oh, that sounded so sad… But the old must make way for the new, right? So we sent you a new, very much alive one!” I wished for immediate death. Professor Stanford sighed, joining in on the public shaming. “I remember you mentioning once that you had a first love back in sophomore year. But you haven’t dated anyone since, so I figured you broke up—I never imagined he’d passed away. You should have told me! I wouldn’t have been so hard on you.” Aaaah! Stop! Please! Lincoln was my first love! I had casually invented the “he died” story years ago to stop people from asking nosy questions about the breakup! Professor Stanford seemed to realize I hadn’t actually given an introduction and tapped the table. “Linc, stop being so aloof. Don’t you have anything to ask Piper? You young people should talk.” Lincoln set his teacup down. He turned his body toward me, those impossibly gorgeous eyes fixed on mine. Then, his thin lips parted, and he slowly, deliberately delivered the sentence that shattered my soul: “So… after we broke up, you’ve just been telling people I died?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389885”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had been Gemma Hawthorne’s shadow for a decade, her personal coach and confidant as she struggled with her severe stutter. Every day, I sat with her, rehearsing sounds, going over articulation diagrams, and running through psychological grounding exercises. It was my life’s work. Yet, when Beckett Rhodes publicly shamed her, mimicking her speech in front of a crowd, she didn’t turn to me. She walked straight up to him and asked him for help. From me, she only had a single, cold line of gratitude: “Jasper, you’re too patient. So patient that you make me feel like a child who’s never allowed to grow up, like an idiot who’ll be stuck here forever.” In that moment, I realized that the real idiot wasn’t her. It was me—for sacrificing my academic future to stay and save her. 1 “This is the application you’re submitting to the club?” I pointed to the wrinkled sheet of paper on her desk. Gemma’s name was scribbled on it, awkwardly filling the blanks for the Westwood High Debate Team. She didn’t look at me. She was busy in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of her uniform, trying to emulate the sharp, confident look of the senior girls on the team. “Y-Y-Yes. It is.” She managed to force out the words, her face burning crimson with the effort. In the past, when I first saw this form, I had lost it. I tore the paper to shreds and stormed into the Debate Club office, confronting Beckett. He and his cronies had humiliated me, accusing me of stifling Gemma’s freedom. Gemma herself had cried, accusing me of trying to lock her in a cage. This time, I slipped my hands into my pockets and took a deliberate step back. “Good for you.” Gemma froze, looking at me in genuine surprise. “W-W-What did you s-say?” “I said, ‘Good for you.’” I repeated the words, turning to gather the worn books scattered across my desk. The Fluency Handbook. Clinical Anatomy for Speech. The Stutterer’s Guide to Mindful Speaking. The spines were broken, the pages dog-eared. They were dense with my own frantic notes and countless red-ink annotations—a blueprint for every conversation, every panic attack, every step of the decade-long recovery I’d mapped out. “Beckett w-was right,” Gemma rushed to say, suddenly eager to justify her choice. When she hurried, the veins in her neck strained, and her mouth opened wide, but the sound wouldn’t come out. I stood there, not doing what I always did—reaching out to smooth her back or gently guiding her to slow down. I just watched, a quiet, cold observer. “He s-said y-y-your whole slow-and-steady method w-w-was useless.” She finally got the sentence out, exhaling sharply, a hint of triumphant pride even managing to surface on her face. “He c-can force me t-t-to talk.” I walked over to the waste bin and dumped the stack of textbooks inside. “Then I wish you success.” Gemma noticed the movement. She stared for a moment, then scrambled toward the bin. “W-W-What are you d-doing?” “Throwing out the trash.” I slung my backpack over my shoulder. I even bent down to smooth out her Debate Club application and placed it prominently on her desk. “If Beckett’s methods are so much more effective, there’s no point in keeping these things around.” I tapped the desk. “They’re just taking up space.” Gemma’s hands hung suspended in mid-air. She must not have expected this. The Jasper who had once treasured her every tear and triumph was throwing out everything connected to her with such ruthless efficiency. “J-J-Jasper, are you… mad?” She tentatively pulled on the edge of my sleeve. In the old days, that look, that tiny gesture, would have melted me. I would have instantly compromised, apologized, and offered unconditional support. Now, I just found the tug annoying. “No, I’m not mad.” I gently, deliberately, pulled my sleeve from her grasp. “I just feel like it’s time for me to have my own life.” I paused, letting the silence fill the space. “After all, I can’t babysit an adult who chooses to be an idiot for the rest of my life, can I?” That last phrase—an idiot—was what Beckett had called her yesterday. It was also the word she had used to describe how she felt around me. Gemma’s face instantly went white. “I d-didn’t m-m-mean it like t-that.” “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I checked the clock on the wall, cutting her off. “Beckett’s club activity is about to start. Shouldn’t you be going?” The mention of Beckett immediately shifted her focus. She looked frantically at the time, snatched the application, and bolted for the door. She stopped at the threshold, turning back to offer me a dazzling, hopeful smile. “J-Jasper, when I’ve p-p-practiced enough, I’ll talk to you all the t-t-time.” She was radiant with anticipation for a future I was no longer a part of. I watched her retreating back, a blur heading straight toward Beckett. Talk to me all the time? No need. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for my guidance counselor. “Hello, Dr. Evans, I’d like to apply for the closed-door Physics Intensive next month.” “Yes, the one outside the city.” “I won’t need to look after Gemma anymore. She’s found a better coach.” 2 The cafeteria was loud, buzzing with the after-school rush. I took my tray to an empty corner table. I’d barely taken a bite of the tough, overcooked General Tso’s chicken when a burst of laughter erupted from the next table. “Alright, Gemma, let’s hear that tongue twister for the crowd.” Beckett’s voice was loud and laced with a theatrical sneer. “P-P-Peter P-P-Piper picked a p-p-peck…” Gemma stood in the center of the Debate Club table, her face scarlet, her mouth contorted with effort. The club members around her were howling with laughter. Some had their phones out, filming. “Ha, ha, ha! She didn’t pick a peck of peppers, Beckett, she’s choking on the sound!” “Dude, your method is brutal, look how red she is.” Beckett leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up, twirling a pen between his fingers. “It’s called desensitization therapy, you morons. Look it up.” He tapped the end of the pen against Gemma’s forehead. “Keep going, don’t stop. You don’t eat until you finish the whole thing.” Gemma’s eyes were glistening with tears, and her body was visibly trembling. But she didn’t resist. Instead, she pushed herself harder to produce the sound. “P-P-Peppers…” The exertion was too much, and a thin line of saliva traced the corner of her mouth. The old me would have been on my feet, lunging at Beckett, dragging Gemma away. I would have whispered that we’d take it slow. The new me simply lowered my head and chewed the tough chicken. It was getting stuck in my teeth. “Hey, Jasper!” One of Beckett’s lackeys spotted me and yelled across the room. “Your little childhood friend is getting roasted! Aren’t you gonna step in?” All eyes swiveled to me. Gemma looked over too. She quickly wiped the drool from her mouth, a flicker of shame in her eyes. But just as quickly, she straightened her spine. She wanted to prove herself. Beckett gave me a challenging, smug look and draped his arm possessively over Gemma’s shoulder. “Step in? Why would he? Jasper the Great is too busy chasing scholarships. He doesn’t have time for our messy little affairs.” He gave Gemma’s cheek a rough squeeze. “Besides, Gemma’s making progress, right?” Gemma flinched but nodded into his hand. “Y-Y-Yes. B-Beckett is… is d-doing it for my own g-good.” She looked directly at me, the words tumbling out in a rush. “J-Jasper, you… you just m-mind your own business.” Mind your own business. The phrase landed like a slap in the face. A round of jeers and whistles went up around them, mocking my former devotion. I placed my chopsticks down and wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. “Carry on.” I picked up my tray and stood. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt the training regimen.” I walked past their table without even slowing my pace. Gemma’s expression was frozen. She had expected me to be furious, to be jealous, to spring to her defense and cradle her safely away from the danger. But I didn’t. I genuinely didn’t care. Behind me, Beckett’s laughter grew louder and more reckless. “See that? That’s what they call moving on! Alright, Gemma, to celebrate your independence, ten more times. Now!” “T-T-Ten times?” Gemma’s voice was wet with tears. “What? Backing out?” Beckett’s voice dropped, ice-cold. “Then go back to your Jasper-nanny and be a stuttering, useless waste of space.” “N-N-No! I w-w-will do it!” Her desperate cry pierced through the noise of the cafeteria. I dumped my leftover food into the disposal chute, listening to the agonizing, broken, and placating sounds of her struggle. The last sliver of guilt I held in my heart drained away with the spoiled food. Back in the classroom, I pulled out a mock exam for the state Physics Olympiad. The first problem was a beast. I worked through it twice before the solution clicked. The moment I solved it, a profound sense of lightness washed over me. Spending energy on my own life, I realized, was yielding immediate, high-rate returns. Unlike my decade-long investment in Gemma. Ten years of my youth, now a complete write-off. 3 The evening study hall was quiet. Gemma’s desk was empty. This was the third night in a row she’d skipped. Mr. Davies, the head teacher, stopped by my table and tapped his knuckles on the wood. “Jasper, where’s Gemma? Do you know?” I didn’t look up, my pen flying across my scratchpad, working through the derivation of a difficult equation. “No, I don’t.” Mr. Davies paused, clearly taken aback by my curtness. “But you two are inseparable. Her parents can’t reach her. Could you just…” “Mr. Davies.” I put down my pen and looked up at him. “We are not attached at the hip.” “Where she goes is her own business. I am not obligated to monitor her twenty-four hours a day.” He was speechless, sighed, and walked away. In my past life, I faced the same questions. That time, I searched the entire city and found her, drunk and crying, in a back room of a dingy bar. Beckett and his friends were egging her on, forcing her to sing a love song with her stutter. She had cried the whole time, yet when she saw me, she threw a glass at my face. “G-G-Go away! W-W-Who asked y-y-you to come!” That night, I carried her home, reeking of vomit, only to be chastised by her parents for not having watched her closely enough. Thinking back, I was an absolute fool. The final bell rang. I packed my bag and headed out. Just outside the school gate, under the harsh glow of the streetlamp, I saw Gemma and Beckett. Gemma was holding a boba tea, struggling to suck up the last pearls. Beckett was leaning against his motorcycle, a vape pen hanging from his mouth, looking impatient. “Hurry up. Quit stalling.” He took a drag. “Finish that and I’ll take you somewhere fun.” Gemma choked on a pearl and started coughing violently. Beckett didn’t help. He just laughed, doubling over in amusement. “C-C-Cough… Cough…” Gemma’s face was beet red, tears streaming from her eyes. She looked up and saw me. In that instant, her eyes lit up. She instinctively moved toward me—a decade of habit. When she was in pain, I was the one who always had the water and the tissue. I stopped. I reached into the side pocket of my backpack and pulled out a small tin of soothing lozenges. I always carried them; her throat was delicate and prone to inflammation when she coughed. Gemma’s eyes brightened even more when she saw the tin. She took another step toward me. “J-Jas—” I tore the plastic wrapping off the tin and poured the entire contents—a couple dozen sweet, white lozenges—into the nearby public trash can. Clatter. Clatter. Clatter. The sound was sharp and final. Gemma stopped dead. She stared at me, her lips trembling with disbelief. “W-W-What are you d-d-doing?” I crushed the empty tin in my hand and tossed it in after the lozenges. “They expired.” They were bought yesterday. “And you probably don’t need them anymore anyway.” I glanced at the vape pen in Beckett’s hand. “Secondhand smoke and sugar. Sounds like a pretty effective new treatment plan.” “It’s the desensitization therapy, right?” Beckett blew a cloud of vapor directly into Gemma’s face. “Hear that? Even Jasper says my method is working. Come on, let’s go for a ride. Really loosen up those vocal cords.” Gemma coughed again, but she didn’t push Beckett away. She just stared at the trash can. “J-J-Jasper, you’ve changed,” she accused, her voice raw. “Y-You never… you never used to l-l-leave me alone l-like this.” “People change.” I tightened the strap on my backpack. “Especially when the investment no longer justifies the return.” “Gemma, you’re an adult now.” I looked her straight in the eye. “Adults have to pay for their own choices.” 4 It was the school’s 50th-anniversary celebration, and they were holding auditions for the event host. Logically, Gemma had no business auditioning. Clear, articulate speech was the primary requirement. But Beckett had signed her up. “This is your chance to break free!” Beckett announced to the entire class. “We are going to fight the discrimination! Who says a stutterer can’t be a host?” “Gemma, you have to prove to everyone that you’re not useless!” The classmates cheered and clapped. Everyone was caught up in the performative, feel-good rhetoric. Only I knew it was a meticulously planned form of psychological warfare. In my past life, she did this, too. On stage, she was so nervous she couldn’t even complete her self-introduction. The hissing, the jeers, the laughter—it drowned her. She had a full-blown panic attack and lost control of her bladder in front of thousands of people. It became her life’s darkest memory, and the moment she completely attached herself to Beckett and began to hate me. Because Beckett told her: “You weren’t brave enough. Jasper protected you too well, and now you can’t handle the real world.” This time, I was still sitting in my corner, doing practice problems. Gemma walked up to me with the audition script. “J-Jasper.” She slapped the pages onto my desk. “Y-You n-need to h-help me edit the s-script.” The request was so entitled, so completely devoid of any acknowledgment of our previous tension. “I don’t have time.” I pushed the papers back. “I have to prep for the Physics Olympiad selection exam.” Gemma’s face crumpled in frustration. “Y-You’re just j-jealous!” “J-Jealous that B-Beckett is n-n-nice to me!” “You w-want me t-to fail!” Her voice was so loud the entire class fell silent. Beckett strolled over and casually draped an arm around Gemma’s shoulders. “Gemma, don’t beg this bookworm. What does a science nerd know about the art of public speaking?” He gave me a condescending look. “I’ll write your script. I guarantee you’ll blow the audience away.” Gemma’s eyes welled up with grateful tears. “B-Beckett, you’re so good to m-me.” She turned her venom on me again, her face contorted with malice. “J-Jasper, you d-don’t deserve to b-be my friend.” “When I get that hosting job, you b-better stay out of my business!” I capped my pen and stood up. My gaze swept over Gemma’s distorted face and settled on Beckett’s gleeful, malevolent smirk. “Duly noted,” I said, giving a curt nod. “Make sure you remember that, Gemma.” “Don’t come near me.” The day of the selection ceremony arrived. The auditorium was packed. I was outside, tossing my packed bag into the trunk of a shuttle van heading for the state-level Physics Intensive. Walking past the rear doors of the auditorium, I heard the announcer’s voice. “Next up, from Grade 12, Class 2, please welcome… Gemma Hawthorne.” A burst of applause. It was the sound of encouragement for the underdog, but underneath it, I could hear the anticipation of a trainwreck. I peered through the door crack. Gemma was wearing an ill-fitting evening dress, and her makeup was overdone. She stood alone on the huge stage, the spotlight making her look small and absurd. Beckett was lurking behind the curtain, filming her on his phone. He was laughing, making mocking hand gestures, mimicking her shaky posture to the friends beside him. Gemma took a shaky breath and grabbed the microphone. She believed this was the start of her new life. She believed this was her moment to prove me wrong. She had no idea that Beckett had rigged the microphone for maximum feedback and ear-splitting squeals. She had no idea the script he’d written was full of complex, tongue-twisting vocabulary and convoluted phrases. “H-H-Hel-Hello… Ev-Everyone…” The piercing feedback scream tore through the auditorium. I let go of the door handle and walked toward the waiting shuttle bus at the main gate. The moment the bus doors hissed shut, a colossal wave of hysterical laughter erupted from the auditorium.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389884”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Everyone in Manhattan high society knows that Adrian Sterling, the billionaire CEO, has a “little princess” he spoils rotten. She’s his adopted daughter. Sheltered, bratty, and utterly entitled. Even at our wedding. She showed up in a white dress that looked suspiciously like a bridal gown. Standing there, she made me, the actual bride, look like a joke. I played the part of the gracious wife until my family and I dismantled Adrian’s empire piece by piece. When he was ruined, that little princess finally knelt before me, begging for forgiveness. I just laughed coldly. “Didn’t you want to be Adrian’s bride so badly?” “I hope you two enjoy your happily ever after—in prison.” 1 As I walked down the aisle in my custom Vera Wang gown, my eyes drifted up. There she was. Standing on the mezzanine balcony. A girl in a white dress that was basically a wedding gown, minus the veil. Her eyes were filled with tears as she stared down at my fiancé, Adrian Sterling. And Adrian? He was looking right back up at her. It made me, the woman walking toward him, look like a total clown. My father, walking me down the aisle, clenched his fist in anger. I squeezed his arm, silently telling him to calm down. The whispers from the guests were loud enough to hear: “Who is that girl? Wearing white to a wedding? Tacky much?” “Shh! That’s Adrian’s ward. He’s raised her since she was a baby. They’re… close.” “Everyone knows she’s obsessed with him. But Old Lady Sterling hates her guts. That’s why she forced Adrian to marry the Sinclair heiress.” Finally, under the withered glare of Adrian’s mother, Old Mrs. Sterling, Adrian reluctantly tore his eyes away. The girl on the balcony was dragged away by staff. Forced to change before being allowed near Adrian again. I smiled perfectly, the picture of a dignified socialite. I took my place beside Adrian. I let him slide the diamond ring onto my finger. I said my vows in front of the priest, all while staring him in the eye. I could see the girl in the front row, her eyes getting redder by the second. Adrian looked like he was at a funeral. I watched coldly, a smirk hiding behind my veil. Heartbroken for her, are you? Good. Let me make it worse. Just before the girl could storm off in tears, I grabbed her hand. I beamed at her with the warmth of a loving stepmother. “You must be Seraphina. From today on, I’m your new mom.” The crowd froze. Then, they erupted into laughter. I kept my smile plastered on, looking at her “lovingly.” “They say a daughter is a father’s lover from a past life. Looking at you two, I’d say that’s spot on!” The girl looked like she’d been stripped naked in public. Her darkest, most shameful secret had just been laid bare. She turned beet red and ran out of the hall, humiliated. Adrian tried to go after her. But I gripped his arm with a strength he didn’t expect. I smiled, my voice low and dangerous. “Honey, for the sake of the Sterling-Sinclair merger, I suggest you stay right here and finish the toasts.” Adrian glared at me. His eyes burned with rage. But he swallowed it. He forced a smile and walked with me to greet the guests. 2 The wedding was perfect. It signaled that the alliance between the Sterling and Sinclair empires was stronger than ever. After the wedding, Adrian was busy dealing with my family’s overseas expansion. He didn’t have time to mediate between his new wife and his little princess. So, I had to handle it myself. When my car pulled up to Adrian’s private estate in the Hamptons, I saw my luggage scattered across the lawn. Seraphina stood on the porch. Chin high. Acting like she owned the place. I grew up a Sinclair. I wasn’t exactly known for my patience. My personal bodyguard cracked his knuckles, ready to teach her a lesson. I stopped him. I walked over and picked up a diamond necklace lying in the dirt. Straightening up, I looked at Seraphina with a mocking smile. “Do you have any idea how much this costs?” She tossed her hair. “Only poor people care about price tags. I don’t want your trash!” “I have a drawer full of jewelry Adrian bought me! Want me to toss you a few scraps?” I didn’t say a word. I just nodded at my bodyguard. He stepped forward and slapped her across the face. Hard. Seraphina clutched her cheek, staring at me in shock. “Who do you think you are?!” she shrieked. My bodyguard sneered. “Watch your mouth when you speak to Mrs. Sterling.” On my signal, he pinned her arms behind her back and forced her to kneel at my feet. I lifted her chin with one hand, examining her delicate, pampered face. Then I slapped her. Twice. Smack! Smack! The sound echoed across the manicured lawn. Neighbors were starting to peek out from their hedges. I laughed. I’m a Sinclair. We hold grudges. You make me unhappy, I make your life hell. I stepped on her hand with my stiletto heel, grinding it into her manicured fingers. “Seraphina, I know Adrian raised you for eighteen years.” “But let me be clear. Know your place.” “There is only one Mrs. Sterling. If you have the skills to make him marry you, go ahead. If not, shut up and stay out of my way.” “Keep your little fantasies to yourself. Or I’ll beat you until you learn.” She opened her mouth to scream insults. I slapped her again. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She finally shut up. Suddenly, a young man vaulted over the hedge from the neighboring estate. He grabbed my raised hand. “Victoria! That’s enough! She’s just a kid!” I looked at him. Tyler Vance. The neighbor’s son. Without missing a beat, I slapped him too. He stumbled back, clutching his face in disbelief. I sneered. “Tyler, stay out of this.” “Seraphina is eighteen. She’s an adult. If you want to play house with her, fine.” “But I am the mistress of this house. Disciplining an unruly daughter is family business. It’s none of yours.” Tyler’s face turned red with anger. I silenced him with one sentence. “My family just acquired 30% of Vance Industries. We’re your biggest shareholder.” “If you don’t want to explain to your daddy why his stock tanked, get lost.” He froze. Then he turned and walked away without a word. I signaled my bodyguard. He grabbed Seraphina by the hair and dragged her into the house like a sack of trash. 3 There was no blood relation between Adrian and Seraphina. But he truly treated her like a treasure. Her bedroom was right next to his. According to the maids, she had “nightmares,” so being close made it easier for Adrian to comfort her. I laughed out loud when I heard that. The staff, knowing my reputation, shrank away. “So,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I guess I’m the third wheel in this house?” “Am I interrupting their little roleplay?” The butler understood immediately. He ordered the staff to move Seraphina’s things to the guest room on the first floor. I watched her belongings being carried downstairs, my expression cold. I didn’t care what Adrian and Seraphina did in the past. But if she thought she could disrespect me in my own house, she was wrong. With the Sinclair merger on the line, no one dared to cross me. Hearing his precious princess was being bullied, Adrian came home that night. At dinner, I wore a pale green qipao-style dress, looking every bit the elegant wife. I ladled soup into his bowl with a smile. Adrian looked at me, sneered, and swept the bowl off the table. Scalding soup splashed onto my hand. The skin turned red instantly. Seraphina, sitting opposite us, hid a smirk behind a mask of pity. Adrian laughed coldly. “Now you know how it feels?” “Did you think about Seraphina’s pain when you hit her this morning?” “Victoria, did I give you too much freedom?” Seraphina stood up, playing the peacemaker. “Uncle Adrian, it’s my fault. Please don’t fight.” I slowly stood up. The elegant wife mask dropped. I looked Adrian dead in the eye. Then I slapped him across the face with everything I had. “Adrian Sterling, right back at you.” “Did I give YOU too much freedom to speak to me like that?” The imprint of my hand bloomed on his face. My diamond ring had cut his cheek. Seraphina screamed. She rushed to him, touching his face with trembling fingers. “Uncle Adrian! Are you okay?” I watched them clinging to each other. Then I picked up a porcelain plate and smashed it on the floor. Shards flew everywhere. One piece nicked Seraphina’s eyelid. She shrieked and covered her eye. Adrian lunged at me, but my bodyguard stepped in, blocking him like a wall. I picked up a sharp shard of porcelain. And walked toward Seraphina. 4 “Victoria! Don’t you dare!” Adrian roared, struggling against my bodyguard. I ignored him. I nodded to my bodyguard. He grabbed Seraphina’s wrist with an iron grip. I took the shard and slashed it across her cheek. Twice. Her flawless face was now a ruin. Seraphina screamed and scrambled backward. I stood there, arms crossed. I picked up my wine glass and raised it to Adrian in a mock toast. Looking at his twisted, furious face, I smiled. “Adrian, if you had the guts, you shouldn’t have married me.” “You needed the Sinclairs. You brought me into this house. That means I make the rules.” “Who is Seraphina to give me attitude?” I smoothed my dress and stood up gracefully. “Consider this the price for her disrespect.” “Next time, I won’t stop at a scratch. I’ll make her blind or deaf.” I nodded politely at him and walked out with my entourage. While we were arguing, my maid had already called Old Mrs. Sterling. She reported that Seraphina had disrespected me and that Adrian was siding with her against the Sinclair heiress. The merger was in its early stages. Mrs. Sterling was terrified I would blow it up. She sent a car immediately. By the time I finished threatening Adrian, the Sterling limousine was waiting. I left without looking back. That night, Mrs. Sterling spent hours comforting me. She wanted to storm over and discipline Seraphina herself. But I played the “magnanimous wife.” I told her Seraphina was just a child and not to worry. Mrs. Sterling was moved by my “generosity.” She gave me a set of vintage emeralds on the spot.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389883”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Five years ago, due to a “mistake” in my hypnosis session, Julian’s first love, Vivienne, lost all her memories. I became the villain. Every day, I had to endure malicious hypnosis sessions conducted by the therapists Julian hired. “If it weren’t for you, how would Viv lose her memory? How would she forget me? How would she leave me and run off to Europe?!” I was tortured until I was barely human, my spirit shattered. I knelt and begged him to stop. But he just grabbed my neck, screaming until his voice broke. “This is what you owe me! What you owe Viv! You tore us apart! You have no right to beg for mercy!” My heart finally died. I hypnotized myself, erasing everything related to Julian. Later, on my wedding day to another man, Julian jumped from the 18th floor right in front of me. 1 Even when I regained consciousness, my body wouldn’t stop trembling. Meeting Julian’s dark, abyssal gaze, I suppressed the stabbing pain in my brain and rasped out: “Just kill me.” His eyes flickered slightly. Then, he pinched his cigarette, his face twisting into a mocking sneer. “Want to die? You think you deserve that release? You haven’t finished atoning for your sins.” I looked at him calmly, my eyes like dead water. Suddenly, he snapped. He lunged forward, strangling me. His eyes were filled with rage. “What right do you have to die?! You made me and Viv separate! You made her lose her memory and forget me! This is your karma!” I smiled bitterly, a dense, prickling pain spreading through my chest. Tears rolled down from the corners of my eyes into my hair. Yes. This is all my karma. Five years ago, Vivienne was almost assaulted. She had nightmares every night. My boyfriend, Julian, suggested I hypnotize her to make her forget that night. I hesitated. There are always uncontrollable risks. But Julian hugged me and begged. “Zoey, after this, I’ll cut ties with Viv, okay? I just see her as a sister. When we get married, she’ll be your sister too.” I couldn’t refuse him. I agreed. Everything went smoothly. But when Vivienne woke up, she had forgotten everyone. She even screamed and dodged when Julian tried to hug her, then secretly fled the country. Julian blamed it all on me. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You knew I only saw her as a sister! Why did you tamper with her mind and wipe her memory? How could you be so vicious?” I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen. “Stop lying! I promised I would marry you! Why did you do this to Viv? She’s innocent! Don’t you have any empathy?” The final straw was when he failed to bring Vivienne back and learned she had gotten married overseas. He went mad. He imprisoned me, got my medical license revoked, and destroyed my career. Every day, he brought different hypnotists to perform varying degrees of hypnosis on me. For five whole years. I couldn’t distinguish reality from dreams. I was nearly driven insane. My thoughts snapped back as Julian suddenly threw me aside. “Zoey, admit it! You thought if you erased Viv’s memory and drove her away, I’d fall in love with you?” “Dream on! Never! I will never love a vicious, manipulative woman like you! Looking at you makes me sick!” I pulled at the corners of my pale lips. My heart was already blurred with pain. Julian, I regret it. I shouldn’t have loved you. I stared blankly at the ceiling, muttering to myself. “I admit it.” Julian froze, looking at me with dark eyes. I didn’t care. I repeated it wearily. “I admit it. I hurt Vivienne. I plead guilty.” “Julian, can you kill me now?” 2 Bang! The door slammed shut. Julian left without a word. Only when the room was completely silent did I give in to the splitting headache, curling up and clutching my head. For so many years. Living hasn’t been any better than dying. In the middle of the night, I developed a high fever. When I woke up, I was in the hospital. Julian was sitting by my bed. I don’t know how long he’d been there. There were faint shadows under his eyes. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I was confused. He wasn’t angry. His voice was hoarse. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a fever? Do you want to die that badly? Zoey, you haven’t finished paying for your sins. What right do you have to die?” I stared blankly into his eyes. I saw a flash of concern. Before that incident, he used to care about me too. Because of my job, I often had to work late or travel. Sometimes I had to rush to patients’ homes in the middle of the night. He hated seeing me lose sleep. “Why don’t you quit, Zoey? I can support you. We’ll be married soon. You don’t have to work this hard. It hurts me to see you like this.” I refused. So he started accompanying me on house calls, staying up late with me, learning to make soup. “If I’m with you, you’ll feel better. If you’re working hard, I shouldn’t be sleeping peacefully.” “Remember, no matter how late you work, I’ll be home waiting for you. You’re not alone.” Once, I had a fever, but a patient was in critical condition. I rushed out without taking medicine or telling Julian. After stabilizing the patient, I fainted on the way home. Julian spent the whole night searching for me, step by step, until he found me and saved my life. When I woke up, he cried. “Zoey! Do you know how scared I was? I was terrified I wouldn’t find you. Are you stupid? You don’t care about your life for others? What would I do if something happened to you?” I had never felt two hearts could be so close. I thought we would love each other forever. Even our skeptical friends had to admit he really loved me. But I forgot. Hearts change. By the time I realized it, I was already sinking into the mud. Thinking of this, I looked out the window, my voice calm. “It would be better if I died. Why didn’t you just let the fever take me?” That year, when I fainted on the road. I wish you hadn’t found me. I wish I had died that day. Anything is better than this living hell. Julian’s face instantly darkened. His voice was cold. “Zoey! I told you! You don’t deserve to die! You haven’t paid your debt! Why should you die? I want you to live and suffer! I want you to regret everything you did to Viv!” My expression didn’t change. I even smiled. “Yeah. Whatever.” 3 Julian was acting weird. During my hospital stay, he watched me constantly. Probably afraid I’d commit suicide before I could finish “atoning.” It doesn’t matter anymore. On the day I was discharged, Julian came to pick me up. He was in a great mood, smiling the whole way. But the car wasn’t heading to the villa. We arrived at the airport. When I saw Vivienne throw herself into Julian’s arms, I finally understood. “Julian! I missed you so much! After all these years, I finally remembered you. I was so scared you wouldn’t want me anymore. I didn’t mean to leave you and get married five years ago, I just forgot everything…” Julian held Vivienne, soothing her gently. If this were the past, seeing this would have suffocated me with pain. But not anymore. Vivienne cried for a long time before calming down. Then she saw me getting into the car. Her face went pale instantly. She stumbled back, tears welling up in her eyes. But where Julian couldn’t see, she flashed me a malicious smile. “Julian, why is she here? I don’t want to see her! She made me lose my memory and separated us for so long. I don’t want to see her! I’m really scared.” Julian’s face went cold immediately. His eyes were full of disgust as he looked at me. “Zoey! This is all your fault! And you still haven’t apologized to Viv? You unrepentant witch!” With that, he threw me and my luggage out of the car. He got in with Vivienne and drove off. Before leaving, he dropped a cold command. “Walk back home before dark and kneel at the gate! Kneel until Viv is happy and satisfied! You should have thought about the consequences when you hurt her!” I pretended not to hear. I left my luggage and ignored the stares of passersby. With a pale face, I walked aimlessly, step by step. Until it was completely dark. My phone in my pocket kept ringing. I checked it. It was calls and messages from Julian. [Zoey! It’s late, why aren’t you back yet? Do you expect me to pick you up? You wish!] [Are you playing hard to get? Or are you doing this on purpose because Viv is back? You’re disgusting. Do you think I care?] I walked to the riverbank and sat down carefully, dipping my blistered feet into the water. The burning pain subsided instantly. I didn’t plan to reply. I sat there until late at night. Under a familiar tree, I dug up an old pocket watch. Julian gave it to me. I once joked, “If you ever betray me, I’ll use this watch to hypnotize myself and forget you forever!” What did he say back then? “Zoey, that day will never come.” But that day has come, hasn’t it? Fireflies began to light up around me, flying one by one. Memories flooded back. I loved fireflies, but they were hard to catch. When Julian found out, he secretly spent a week catching them, staying out all night. I didn’t know why, so I had a huge fight with him. He didn’t get angry. He took me to a hot spring resort he bought. We waited until late at night, and countless fireflies lit up around us. I saw the dark circles under his eyes. My eyes reddened, and I threw myself into his arms. “Zoey, you like fireflies, right? It’s warm here by the hot spring, they can survive even in autumn. Do you like it? Don’t be mad, okay? I didn’t stay out on purpose.” That year, I caught a firefly. I thought I kept the summer. But I forgot. That day was already the start of autumn. “Zoey.” 4 “What are you doing here in the middle of the night instead of crawling back home? Looking for death?” Julian’s voice suddenly sounded behind me. I stiffened. I turned around, but didn’t see the gentle gaze from the past. A wave of disappointment hit my heart. Then I laughed at myself. He hasn’t been him for a long time. Right? I should have known. “Zoey! Did I give you permission to die? Didn’t I tell you to kneel at the gate! What are you doing now! If you wanted to die, why didn’t you jump earlier!” “Are you just waiting for me to find you? Are you trying to compete with Viv now that she’s back? Is it fun for you? Aren’t you tired? Are you that cheap?” Julian marched forward and yanked me up. He didn’t speak again the whole way back. I watched the fireflies receding outside the car window. The last shred of affection in my heart disappeared completely. Julian. I want to forget the past. I don’t want you anymore. At the villa, I was forced to kneel at the gate. My knees hit the ground hard. The sound was so loud even Julian flinched for a second. “Zoey, stay here on your knees! Get up when Viv is in a good mood and forgives you.” “I’m warning you, don’t even think about bullying Viv again! You owe her this!” I nodded obediently. Ignoring the momentary stun in his eyes. Until Vivienne ran to the door, smiling and kissing Julian on the lips. He finally snapped out of it and patted her head fondly. I had seen this scene before. Back when I first sensed something was wrong, I caught them kissing in a bar. Julian didn’t care. Even when I made a scene, he looked impatient. “We lost a game, it was just a dare! We didn’t sleep together, stop making a big deal out of it! Besides, I just see Viv as a sister! Are you crazy?” Until my birthday. Friends pressured me to drink a few too many. In a daze, I saw them kissing passionately. Vivienne confessed with red eyes. “Julian, I really like you. Just let me stay by your side, I don’t ask for much. Don’t reject me, please?” Julian was silent for a moment, then hugged her back. How much it hurt then. Is how little it matters now. He loved her. I knew that long ago. Late at night, the lights on the second floor finally went out. Shivering, I pulled the old pocket watch from my chest. It was the perfunctory birthday gift Julian gave me that day. Now it was useful. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The watch swung before my eyes. My vision began to blur. Just as I was about to fall asleep, a shocked voice came from not far away. “Zoey! What are you doing?” What am I doing? I closed my eyes wearily and muttered to myself. “Forget you. Forget Julian.” “In every life, I never want to remember Julian again.” The next second, I fell into complete darkness.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389881”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Days before the Victoria’s Secret final casting. My husband, a celebrity plastic surgeon who swore he adored me, told me I had a flaw. He personally operated on my face to “fix” it. When the anesthesia wore off, I went to find him. I overheard him whispering sweet nothings to my runway rival. “The surgery on my wife is done. Your only competition is gone. Happy now?” The woman giggled, her voice sickly sweet. “Why didn’t you just disfigure her completely? Then I’d feel safe forever.” Ethan’s veins popped on his forehead. “Don’t push it. She’s the woman I love. Don’t you dare touch her!” “Okay, okay, I was just joking. Gentle…” The sounds of their heavy breathing filled the room. I felt like I had fallen into an ice cave. Since he changed my face without my consent, I decided to change my identity too. To the ends of the earth, he will never find me again. 1 I lay on the cold hospital bed, waiting for the nurse to remove the bandages. They chattered non-stop. “Dr. Sterling is taking his wife out for her birthday tonight. I heard he bought out the city’s fireworks display. So romantic!” “That’s nothing. Mrs. Sterling is a supermodel. Dr. Sterling designs her skincare routine personally. It takes so much effort.” They didn’t recognize that the patient in front of them was the envied “Mrs. Sterling.” To become a Victoria’s Secret Angel, I endured hardships Ethan knew better than anyone. Yet, to help Chloe, he changed my face! The nurse handed me a mirror. The face reflecting back was strange. It disgusted me. I never imagined the husband who treated me like a treasure would be cruel enough to slice open my face. I remembered when Ethan knelt on one knee, crying like a child. He said he would spoil me forever and send me to the international stage. He said my wish was his wish. Now it seems it was all just a painful lie. My knuckles turned white gripping the mirror, my eyes red. Hot tears streamed down my scarred face. I didn’t know which hurt more, the wounds or my heart. Just then, Ethan rushed into the room, scolding the nurses. “My wife is delicate! Why isn’t she in the VIP suite for the unveiling? If there’s any infection, you’re all fired!” The nurses finally realized who I was. They looked awkward and panicked. I dug my nails into my palm, tears falling uncontrollably. “Ethan, why did you touch my face?” He knelt quickly, coaxing me in a low voice. “I just wanted you to be even more beautiful, so your career would be smooth sailing.” He held the mirror up again. “Look, isn’t it great?” He was clearly proud of his work. But my original face was favored by international brands. It was crucial for my casting. Now, with this “youthful” face, my career was over. Ethan, who dealt with models daily, knew this perfectly well. He wiped my tears and kissed my forehead. “Alright, baby, don’t cry. You’re breaking my heart.” He didn’t even notice Chloe’s lipstick still on his lips. Sticky and disgusting. Or maybe it was just because this man was rotten to the core. I pushed him away gently. A nurse poked her head in. “Dr. Sterling, Miss Chloe’s facial treatment is due. Should we…” Ethan snapped his head back, annoyed. “Can’t you see I’m comforting my wife? Tell her to come another day!” I almost laughed. “Go. Work is important.” Ethan didn’t hesitate. He winked at me. “Okay, wifey. I’ll take you home when I’m done.” He didn’t notice how hurried his steps were. But I couldn’t wait any longer. “Sarah, are you sure you want to come to Milan as a mentor?” I touched my stinging face. “I can’t walk the runway anymore, so I’ll help others. But…” “I need you to help me erase my identity. I want to live with a brand new face.” The betrayed suffer so much. How can the betrayer sleep soundly? From now on, even if I stand right in front of Ethan, we are strangers. 2 Ethan rushed home. Seeing me on the sofa, he hugged me as if he’d lost and found a treasure. “You scared me, honey. I looked everywhere at the hospital. My heart almost jumped out.” He put my hand on his chest. His heart was pounding. If I hadn’t seen the message Chloe sent me, I might have believed him. [Sister Sarah, do you know what the best skincare product is? It’s a lover’s care. Dr. Sterling and I unlocked so many poses just now. My skin feels so smooth.] I looked up. The hickeys peeking out from Ethan’s collar screamed at me. He nuzzled into my neck. “Treatments are so tiring, but I promise I’ll make more time for you. You’re the love of my life.” Tiring, but pleasurable, right? I was numb. Ethan picked me up and put me in the car. “The hospital has been busy. We haven’t been to our favorite restaurant in ages. It’s your birthday, perfect timing.” My nerves twitched. I realized it had been a long time since we went out. But at the restaurant, the receptionist said his membership card balance was low. I remembered he topped it up with fifty grand last time. The waiters looked at us strangely. Ethan was flustered, his smile awkward. Our first meal was here. He proposed here. Ethan winked at the receptionist and hurriedly topped up the card. He forced a smile and led me to the window seat. The same seat where I said yes. He ordered a cake to change the subject. [Happy Birthday Miss Chloe] When the cake arrived, Ethan froze. He slammed the table, calling the waiter back. “Is this a mistake? My wife’s last name is Miller! This is disrespectful!” The waiter looked closely at my face and realized. “Sorry, we misread. We thought it was Miss Chloe from last time…” Ethan’s face darkened. He insisted they made a mistake. “Honey, we’re never coming back here.” “Just eat a bite. I’ll take you to see the fireworks.” Bitterness welled up in my heart. He organized fireworks for me. He brought his mistress to our special place. Ethan, you feel like a stranger. He dragged me excitedly to the rooftop by the river. He used to spend a fortune just to make me smile. He still did, just not the same him. Ethan hugged me from behind. “Look, baby! Fireworks! Happy?” In the flashing lights, tears streamed down my face. His phone beeped. He frowned. “The hospital again. I don’t care. Today is for my wife.” He hung up several times, but finally answered. “I said stop calling!” The other side didn’t speak, just sent a photo. Ethan’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His anger vanished. I waved my hand. “Don’t delay work for me.” Ethan sighed, pretending to be torn, saying he’d be back soon. But I received a message from Chloe: [Dr. Sterling is so easy. A new bikini sets him on fire. Borrowing him for a bit~] 3 It was laughable. The stickers Chloe sent were the same ones Ethan had been spamming lately. He used to hate “childish” things. I stood in the cold wind, watching the fireworks alone. My auction agent called. “Ms. Miller, the couple rings you wanted are up for bid. Should I go for it?” Days ago, I wanted the “Sapphire Destiny” rings for our tenth anniversary. Now, I didn’t want them at all. I was silent. The agent sighed regretfully. “Too bad. A Mr. Sterling lit a sky lantern and put the ring directly on a beauty’s hand. So romantic.” “Must be his wife.” I suppressed the pain in my heart and forced a smile. “Forget it then.” Those rings were engraved with “Forever Love.” Inappropriate for us now. Next second, I saw Chloe’s post. Two hands clasped tight, wearing the rings I dreamed of. [This ring stole my heart. Luckily, my lover lit a lantern for me!] I just sighed. Ethan took such good care of Chloe. Even her fingertips were smooth. Ethan was texting me too, trying to cover his guilt: [Wifey, I bought you so much jewelry! Coming home now.] The two messages side by side were ironic. The housekeeper served me rice and paused. “Madam, don’t cry. Sir will be heartbroken if he sees.” “Is the food bad?” I shook my head. The food was fine. The person was wrong. In the dark kitchen, messages kept popping up. [Sister Sarah, I didn’t want to fight you, but Dr. Sterling is too clingy.] [When you had appendicitis, when you were in America, when you got plastic surgery…] [I didn’t do much. Just hooked a finger, and he lost control. We tried everywhere. Oh right, including your bed while you were unconscious.] … Chloe recounted their affair for me. I had no energy to care. But one thing was new. My favorite wonton shop was downstairs from Chloe’s apartment. Ethan brought me wontons almost every day. I thought he was sweet. He was probably celebrating. Another excuse to drive miles to see his lover. And his wife would reward him with a kiss. “Delicious. Thanks, hubby.” My stomach churned violently. I ran to the bathroom and retched. Just as I was about to collapse, strong arms caught me. Ethan was sweating, eyes red. “Honey, you look so pale. You scared me…” He carried me out and scolded the housekeeper. He didn’t realize how stupid his act was. He put the jewelry from the auction on me. To me, it was just Chloe’s leftovers. Seeing my lack of interest, he coaxed me to sleep. Until I vaguely saw him hand a packet of powder to the housekeeper. “After I leave tomorrow, boil this for Madam.” 4 I knew I wouldn’t play along. Tomorrow was the casting day, and the day I left. Ethan was drugging me to stop me from blocking Chloe’s path. I swallowed the bitterness and slept until dawn. I made breakfast for my husband of ten years. The last meal. Ethan hugged me from behind. “Whose wife is so good? I’m envious of myself.” I kept flipping the eggs. “Today is the casting. Who do you think will win?” Ethan froze, laughing awkwardly. “Who cares? When your face heals, the champion will be you.” I smiled mockingly and plated the eggs. Ethan’s eyes darted over my face, guilty. “Honey, while your face heals and you can’t work, let’s have a baby?” “Imagine a daughter as beautiful as you. I’d be so happy.” He held me tight, whispering sweet nothings. All I saw was the matching ring on his finger. I responded faintly. His phone rang as soon as the food was served. Before he could speak, I smiled. “Hospital emergency? Go.” He always answered Chloe immediately. “Wait for me, wifey. I’ll miss you.” I didn’t nod. I wouldn’t be waiting. After he left, I gave the food to the housekeeper. I told her I knew about the drugs. “It’s okay. I can handle it.” I sent her away and packed everything. I went to the airport alone. Meanwhile, Ethan walked into the venue with Chloe on his arm. A news segment played on the wall. “Milan’s top agency hired a young new mentor named Sarah Ye.” “Must be talented.” Ethan frowned. His wife’s name was Sarah too. A bad feeling rose in his chest. He looked up at the screen.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389880”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel