Two years ago, my childhood best friend’s catering business was on the brink of collapse. I ignored every internal warning and channeled my company’s entire cafeteria contract his way. It was a lifeline—a stream of over a million dollars in annual revenue. I believed that debt of gratitude would last him a lifetime. It wasn’t until an anonymous recording landed in my inbox that I learned how wrong I was. It was his wife’s voice, sharp and venomous: “Her? She’s just getting her cut, after all the kickbacks she takes from us. Don’t fall for her holier-than-thou act.” I finished listening and simply smiled. I didn’t call. I didn’t demand an explanation. Three days later, the contract was awarded to the one catering company his wife publicly hated. When my friend called, hysterical, I replied with just three words: “Look inward, Jason.” 1 It was a Friday afternoon, the sun streaming through the panoramic windows, but a chill had settled deep in my bones. An anonymous email sat in my inbox, the subject line a curt, unsettling command: Listen. Attached was an audio file. My fingertip hovered over the mouse button, a cold, unmistakable premonition seizing my heart. I clipped on my headphones and hit play. After a moment of ambient office chatter, a woman’s voice—sharp, grating, and dripping with smugness—pierced my eardrums. It was Britt Slater. My childhood friend Jason Keller’s wife. “Evelyn Reed, you’d think she was high and mighty, wouldn’t you? All those tailored suits and that pristine office.” “But don’t kid yourselves. She only gave us the contract because of the cut she takes on the backend. The kickbacks.” “A million dollars a year in business, and she’s not lining her own pockets? Is she running a charity? Come on.” “It’s only because Jason is such a sweetheart that he let her have the deal. Otherwise, she’d be out in the cold. She’s a butcher, whispering ‘help’ while her hand is on the knife, carving us up slice by slice.” “If she wasn’t bringing in the money, who the hell would want to deal with her?” The recording wasn’t long—three minutes and twenty seconds. I listened, my expression impassive, then again. And again. Each repetition of that petty, vicious tone was like a handful of steel needles driven into my skull. I peeled off the headphones. The quiet of my executive office was broken only by the low hum of the HVAC. The manufactured cool air seemed to flow down my neck and settle in my feet. My mind, against my will, flashed back to two years ago. The Keller Hearth, Jason’s family restaurant, was drowning. Payroll hadn’t been met in months, and the bank was ready to foreclose. He came to my apartment, a grown man in his late twenties, and cried like a child. “Evie, please. You have to help me. This place is Dad’s whole life. It can’t just disappear.” We had been inseparable since kindergarten. You can’t just stand by and watch that kind of history drown. I fought for him. I spent weeks battling senior members of the board. I slammed my fist on the table in the executive meeting, staking my reputation and my position as Director of Administration on the promise that The Keller Hearthcould deliver quality service. Finally, I secured the exclusive catering contract for our entire corporate campus. It was enough to resurrect his business and ensure him a stable, seven-figure revenue stream. The day we signed the contract, Jason squeezed my hand, his eyes even redder than before. “Evie, I’ll never forget this. My life belongs to you now.” Standing beside him, Britt had swapped her usual icy detachment for a sickly, sycophantic smile. “Evie-sis,” she cooed, fetching me water and rubbing my shoulders like I was her favorite aunt. “You are our angel. We’ll be your loyal servants forever.” The contrast between the false sincerity of that memory and the poison in the recording made my stomach clench. Two years. In just two years, the generous, unconditional safety net I had thrown them was, in their eyes, reduced to a cheap transaction—a dirty kickback that they could use to flaunt their inflated status and smear my name. A wave of purely physical revulsion washed over me. I didn’t succumb to the anger they’d anticipated. There was no point in calling to argue. Debating with an ungrateful parasite only soils your own mouth. I downloaded the audio file and the anonymous email, placing them securely inside a password-protected folder. Then, I closed my email and, as if nothing had happened, opened the company’s internal vendor database. I typed in two words. Quinn’s Table. The screen light reflected coldly off the gold wire-rims of my glasses. I spent the rest of the afternoon exactly as planned: processing pending work, drafting my weekly report, and organizing next week’s meeting agenda. Five thirty PM. I clocked out precisely on time. As I walked out of the towering corporate building, the city’s evening lights began to flicker on, painting the rush hour traffic in an urban glow. But that human warmth couldn’t reach me. The air felt still. The calm before the storm. 2 Saturday morning. I didn’t have to be at the office, but my internal clock still pulled me awake at seven. Outside, the sky was a bruised gray, hinting at rain. I didn’t linger. I showered, dressed, and made myself a simple avocado toast. My phone vibrated. A company group chat—just a few close departmental colleagues—was lighting up. “Seriously, did anyone eat that pot roast yesterday? It was so greasy I nearly gagged.” “Greasy is an understatement. I think they spilled an entire salt shaker into the mashed potatoes. The quality has been diving for months.” “Shhh, keep it down. Don’t forget, that’s Evie Reed’s friend’s place. We can’t say anything.” “Friend or relative, I don’t care. We pay for this food. A decent fast-food chain would be an upgrade from this slop.” The phrase, “Evie Reed’s friend’s place,” was a tiny, sharp splinter in my eye. I put down my toast, my appetite gone. For Jason’s sake, my professional reputation had been subtly, irrevocably damaged. To my peers, I was now the executive who prioritized personal favors over employee well-being. I opened my social feed and scrolled. Britt Slater’s profile picture was the top post. A heavily filtered selfie. The background featured the steering wheel of a brand-new, cherry-red sports car, the luxury logo gleaming. On her wrist was the latest model of a designer bag. The caption read: “All our hard work pays off, babe! You deserve the best!” The boastful, barely concealed triumph was nauseating. I tapped the picture, zooming in on the car emblem and the designer tag. So glaring. I let out a single, cold laugh. Their “hard work,” I realized, meant talking trash behind my back and slowly strangling the staff’s lunch budget to finance their lavish lifestyle. Underneath the picture, Jason’s comment was first: A heart emoji followed by: “Whatever makes my queen happy.” So harmonious. So devoted. My finger slid up, scrolling through their posts over the last two years. The gradual shift from cautious optimism to unbridled arrogance. The new house, the extravagant European trip, the endless luxury purchases. Britt’s feed was a master class in nouveau-riche vulgarity. And me? I glanced down at my own phone, a model I’d kept for three years, its screen edges showing faint scratches. In the past two years, to ease The Keller Hearth’s cash flow, I’d argued with finance countless times to shrink their payment cycle from quarterly to monthly. The extra reports, the added bureaucracy—it was all for them. Did they forget? No. They simply decided that everything I did was an entitlement. Something owed to them. The suppressed furnace of rage finally found its chimney. I was not running a foundation. My kindness, my loyalty, and my professional credibility were not commodities for them to exploit and discard. I closed the social media app and opened my contacts, finding a name I hadn’t dialed in over a year. The contact read: Quinn’s Table – Zara Quinn. I dialed the number. “Hello, you’ve reached Zara,” a crisp, professional voice answered. “Zara, hi. It’s Evelyn Reed.” My voice was even, devoid of the morning’s chill. “I’d like to schedule a meeting with you. I’m interested in discussing a potential long-term corporate catering contract. Do you have time tomorrow?” 3 I met Zara Quinn at a downtown café. She arrived before me. When I walked in, she was sitting by the window, intensely focused on a laptop, her fingers flying across the keys. She was impeccably dressed in a fitted cream suit, her hair pulled back in a sharp, professional bun. She radiated competence. Seeing me, she immediately closed the laptop, stood up, and extended her hand. “Ms. Reed, it’s a pleasure.” Her handshake was warm, firm, and direct. Her eyes were bright and steady. “Ms. Quinn, the pleasure is mine.” We sat down, skipping the small talk. Zara immediately pulled a thick binder from her briefcase and slid it across the table. “Ms. Reed, this is Quinn’s Table’s preliminary proposal and quote, tailored specifically for your company’s needs.” I picked it up and began flipping through the pages. The proposal was meticulous. It covered everything: detailed nutritional balancing, a weekly rotating menu with no repeats for seven days, custom options for holidays, and clear sourcing reports for every ingredient. The kicker? Her quoted price was ten percent lower than Jason’s Keller Hearth, even with the demonstrably superior quality. I looked up, meeting her gaze. Zara didn’t flinch. She simply offered a calm, professional truth. “Ms. Reed, I won’t lie to you. Britt Slater and I have a history.” She stated the fact plainly, without malice or exaggeration. “She poached my sous chef with triple pay, and he took several of our signature recipes with him. After that, she spent months spreading rumors that Quinn’s Table used stale ingredients and failed health inspections.” I listened silently. I had heard whispers of the local catering feuds, but hearing it directly added a layer of context. Zara’s face showed no resentment, only the cool, hard logic of a true businessperson. “So, if your company chooses to give me this opportunity,” she continued, her voice clear and certain, “I am willing to offer an additional two percent discount on this quote. Furthermore, I will personally sign an unlimited liability food safety guarantee with your legal department.” “I want this contract. Not just for the profit, but to prove, definitively, that Quinn’s Table is better.” In her eyes was a burning, unconquerable ambition. It was a stark contrast to Jason’s spineless reliance and Britt’s narrow-minded vanity. I admired her. This was what a reliable adult, a trustworthy partner, looked like. “Ms. Quinn.” I closed the binder and leaned forward, meeting her eyes. “Your professionalism and your candor are what sold me.” “You can keep the discount. We’ll go with this quote.” “I only have one requirement: From the first day, I want my employees to eat the best corporate lunches in the city.” Zara’s eyes lit up. She nodded firmly. “Ms. Reed, you have my word. I stake my reputation on it.” We drafted a letter of intent on the spot. As we shook hands to leave, Zara said, “Thank you, Evelyn.” I smiled. “You should thank your own professionalism, Zara.” I drove back to the empty corporate campus, sat down at my desk, and opened my computer. First, I drafted a formal report recommending the immediate termination of the catering contract with The Keller Hearth. The report was entirely factual, devoid of personal emotion. I attached screenshots of all the internal forum complaints, the negative data, and the anonymous feedback spanning the last three months. Employee satisfaction had plummeted from 90% two years ago to under 30%. It was appalling. Next, I drafted the second report: a proposal to publicly tender the new contract to Quinn’s Table. I inserted a clear comparison chart: Zara’s proposal and price versus The Keller Hearth’s current service and cost. The difference in value was undeniable. All the documentation was saved on my desktop, labeled: Final Solution. The sky outside had darkened. I looked at the cold, clinical text on the screen, a profound sense of calm washing over me. Everything was ready. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day. 4 Monday, nine in the morning. A terse, official-sounding email from the Administration Department—Notice Regarding Change of Corporate Caterer—hit every employee’s inbox and was posted on the internal bulletin board simultaneously. The corporate language acted like a depth charge in a still lake. The entire company exploded. Break rooms, open-plan offices, and departmental group chats were instantly flooded with shouts of “Yes!” “Finally!” and “Admin is brilliant!” One colleague even posted a screenshot of the notice on social media with the caption: “Best news of the day. No more eating actual garbage!” Ten-thirty AM. The Keller Hearth’s delivery van, driven by Jason’s cousin, rolled casually up to the company’s loading dock, only to be stopped by security. “Sorry, sir. As of today, we have a new vendor. Your vehicle is not permitted to enter the property.” The driver froze, then immediately called Jason. Jason, who likely thought it was a simple mistake, hung up and started calling me. Once. Twice. A third time.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389780”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Watching an ad play out before my show, I scrolled through a viral TikTok reel—a nostalgic video about a guy and his ex-girlfriend. “Five years since we broke up, and she’s never let my premium streaming subscription lapse.” The top comment, from a burner account, was brutal in its sweetness: “I’m the creator’s ex. The subscription is linked directly to his phone number, and he has never asked me for a penny.” “He was a great friend and lover. It was my genuine pleasure to pay for him.” “This is all my personal choice and has nothing to do with him. Please go easy on the comments—it hurts me to see people criticize him.” The replies were a deluge of heartbreak: “Ugh! She saw people saying bad things about him and exposed her own secret account just to protect him! I’m crying!” I instinctively tapped on the small account’s profile. A wave of profound, icy absurdity washed over me. The deeply devoted, heartbroken woman was Victoria “Tori” Bellweather, my fiancée—the woman I was set to marry in two days. I stared at the screen, and the five-year-old anchor of my love—the one I’d clung to like a shipwrecked man—snapped. The feeling was gone. If she wasn’t mine to have, I wouldn’t try to take her anymore. It was over. The video’s like count kept climbing. Someone in the comments soon doxxed the ex: “OMG! I know these two! Tori was obsessed with Brock!” “They were high school sweethearts all the way through sophomore year of college—never fought! He only had to wish for the stars and she’d give them to him! We were all so jealous!” “They broke up because Tori’s parents didn’t approve of Brock’s career path, I think.” “But now Tori has a fiancé she’s been with for five years. Rumor has it they were set up. No love, just ‘suitable.’” As I read that last comment, the ad finally transitioned to the payment page. Renew Premium. I suddenly realized. Tori had forgotten to renew my subscription. She could remember to pay for her ex-boyfriend, Brock Tanner, for five years straight, but she couldn’t remember the one for the man whose name was on her wedding invitations. My knuckles tightened around my phone. My chest ached, a heavy, suffocating weight. The comment was right, in Tori’s mind, anyway. We were introduced through a family friend. She didn’t know I had been silently in love with her for years—ever since she offered me a seat in the back of her senior-year Calculus class. When we met that day, I was so determined to finally be near her that I pushed for a quick engagement, believing that maybe, just maybe, I could earn her love over time. But all I’d done was self-deceive. A sound at the door—Tori. She glanced at me, noting I was still awake, and a faint, familiar weariness crossed her features. “I didn’t check my phone, which is why I didn’t text you back.” Any other night, I would have understood her demanding job in corporate law and shaken my head, telling her it was fine. But her comment on Brock’s video was only minutes old. She was probably still messaging the trolls on the ride home. Our chat log, meanwhile, was an eternal stretch of my own green bubbles. I lifted my gaze to meet her face—as impassive as always—and spoke softly: “You forgot the streaming service again. I just sat through a thirty-second commercial.” She paused, then a flicker of annoyance, barely concealed, tinged her voice. “Couldn’t you just pay for it yourself, Evan? I’m working eighteen-hour days. Am I supposed to keep a mental note of your entertainment subscriptions?” A fresh wave of sorrow rose, but I managed a bitter smile. Always the same excuse. Forgetting our anniversary, rescheduling the meeting with my parents, and zero involvement in any of the wedding planning—it was all attributed to “work.” I had been naive enough to believe her. Now I saw the truth: she wasn’t busy. She just wasn’t in love. This time, I didn’t argue. I just nodded, calm and detached. “You’re right.” “The membership’s covered. And, actually, you don’t need to worry about the wedding, either.” Tori froze, her expression shifting from impatience to confusion. “What do you mean?” Our eyes met. There was no fear in her gaze, only a deep-seated irritation. The last, faint trace of hope in my heart evaporated. Before I could answer, she scoffed. “You’re going to throw a fit and break up with me—all because I forgot your subscription?” “Evan Black, you’re becoming absolutely unreasonable.” “Do whatever you need to do.” She spun on her heel and slammed the bedroom door so hard the framed art rattled on the wall. I stood there for a long time, numb, before wiping the cold dampness from my cheek. From the balcony, I heard her on the phone, her tone airy and unconcerned: “Yeah, we fought again.” “Don’t worry, Mom. The wedding is still on. He’ll get over it in a couple of days. That’s how the last five years have gone, hasn’t it?” I clenched my fists and then slowly opened them, taking a self-mocking breath. I picked up my phone. I canceled the wedding. Then, I bought a one-way ticket to California. We slept in separate rooms that night. It was the first time I hadn’t groveled first. Tori seemed genuinely thrown off. In the morning, she stared at me with unconcealed astonishment. “You didn’t make my breakfast?” I nodded, my voice flat. “I have to go to the office too, Tori. I didn’t have time to cook for two.” She watched me for a moment, then gave a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Fine. Keep sulking, Evan. It’s boring, but fine.” As she stormed out, a cloud of perfume wafted behind her—a sophisticated, musky scent. We’d been together for five years, and she had never worn perfume. It must be an important date, I thought, fighting the urge to ask. I forced down my food and went to the office to finalize my transfer papers. I was scheduled to leave in three days for a new role on the West Coast. My colleagues decided to host an impromptu dinner party that night to celebrate my promotion. Midway through the meal, Tori texted me: “Working late. Not coming home.” I didn’t reply. I excused myself to the restroom. As I dried my hands, I heard a chorus of excited cheers erupt from the VIP room next door. “I can’t believe we get to see Tori and Brock together again after five years! They belong together!” My heart stopped. I edged toward the door crack and peered through. All the blood in my body turned to sludge. Tori and Brock Tanner were sitting side-by-side, both wearing smiles I had never been granted—a look of genuine, easy joy. Brock’s loud, confident voice came through the door. “Keep it down, guys. The fiancé will be pissed if he finds out.” He turned to Tori, eyes wide with false innocence. “Does your fiancé know you’re out with us tonight? Why isn’t he here?” Tori’s friends immediately erupted in derisive laughter. “Oh, please. ‘Fiancé’? If it weren’t for Mrs. Bellweather finding him ‘suitable,’ he wouldn’t have a chance! He’s just a placeholder, Tori’s safety school!” “Brock, she’s been waiting for you all these years.” “Why do you think Tori’s been working so hard? To break free from her mother’s control and marry you, dummy! Ha!” I blinked, fighting the sudden, sharp sting behind my eyes. Tori was smiling, a silent, damning confirmation. I thought of the night I had almost given up on us, the night she had wrapped her arms around me, eyes glistening from wine. “I’m working to make money so we can have a better life, Evan.” Just as I lost myself in the memory, the door to their room flew open. Brock stood there, looking at me with feigned surprise. He flashed a knowing, smug grin. “Oh? Is this the waiter? Sorry, buddy, we’re all set for service in here!” The room went silent for one agonizing second before erupting into boisterous laughter. “Haha! Brock, you’re killing me! That’s Tori’s fiancé!” “Wait, he’s not wrong, though! Isn’t Evan basically the Bellweather’s personal assistant?” They didn’t even bother to lower their voices now. Their mockery was open, cruel, and unanimous: I was nothing more than a social climber, a fixture Tori’s mother approved of. My nails bit into my palms, the pain the only thing keeping me from running. Brock feigned an embarrassed shrug. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry, Evan! My mistake. Did you come here because you saw my video last night?” I frowned, confused. He pulled out his phone, clicking on his profile. His latest post was a selfie of him and Tori. I shook my head. “I haven’t seen—” Brock cut me off, laughing, and clicked on the viral reel from last night. He winked innocently. “That video, Evan? I set the privacy to ‘Only Viewable by You.’ It’s only been one night, and the views went from 100k to 110k! Were you up all night watching it? Hope I didn’t mess up your sleep schedule, pal!” My mind went instantly blank. My throat closed up. The shame was a burning oil poured over my skin, and the laughter from the room swelled around me. I couldn’t move. My feet were cemented to the floor. Tori finally stepped forward, giving Brock a look of fond exasperation before gently flicking his ear. “Still playing these silly games, Brock?” Brock laughed, an open, unrepentant sound. “It’s fun!” he chirped. “I’ve posted tons of ‘Only You’ videos over the last five years. You watched every single one hundreds of times.” He turned to me, his smile dropping slightly. “Hey, no hard feelings, Evan. I only posted that one for nostalgia. Tori and I are just friends now—” Tori cut him off, finally looking at me, her expression flat. “Don’t bother explaining. People with dirty minds see dirt everywhere. A simple video, and he has to throw a tantrum.” I stood rigid, watching the two of them play the perfect couple. “Evan? What are you doing here?” a familiar voice shouted. It was my colleague. “Hey, isn’t that your fiancée? She knows you’re going to California—” “Let’s go back,” I interrupted, turning sharply and walking away. Brock followed me out. “We’re done, too! Let’s walk out together!” He rushed past and paid for our table—the one with my colleagues. When I went to protest, he looked back at me and chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, man. I put it on the credit card Tori gave me. Her ‘Family Card,’ you know? Ha ha!” I remembered the time I’d innocently asked her for a joint account card. Tori had shaken her head, expressionless. “What’s a ‘Family Card’? I don’t know how to set that up. Just tell me how much you want, and I’ll transfer it.” I had thought she was merely clueless about finance. She wasn’t. I nodded, said nothing, and walked away. It was impossible to hail a cab in the winter chill of Manhattan. After my colleagues had left, the wait time on the ride-share app was over an hour. A long, black Bentley pulled up to the curb. Brock, still grinning, opened the passenger door, then paused with exaggerated politeness. “Oops! Almost forgot. After you, Evan!” I bit down on my lip, looking at Tori, who wouldn’t meet my gaze. My voice was dangerously quiet. “You told me your mother died in a car crash. You said you were terrified of driving.” Brock threw his hands up in mock exasperation. “Tori! Did you actually tell him that?” He shook his head, looking at me with pity. “Five years ago, when we were dating, I taught her to lie about that so she wouldn’t have to drive other guys around. Made sure everyone thought she didn’t have a car. Can’t believe she never told you in five years. Her mother died of a stroke, man, not a crash.” Tori finally looked away, fiddling with her purse. “I just… forgot to mention I had a car. I don’t drive it often.” She sighed. “Brock lives downtown, Evan. It’s not on your way. Just take a cab.” Brock offered me a final, false apology, then hopped into the car. The Bentley sped off, leaving me choking on exhaust fumes. The sky, which had been clear, suddenly opened up. A heavy, ice-cold rain began to fall. The restaurant had closed, and there was nowhere to take shelter. My body and soul froze in the downpour. I stood there, letting the rain soak me completely, before finally getting a cab two hours later. Tori still wasn’t home. Her mother, however, was texting me frantic questions about the wedding arrangements. I took a deep breath and told her the truth. Minutes later, Tori called. Her voice was sharp with fury. “Evan, are you completely insane?!” “Why would you take a private fight to my mother? Now she knows about Brock and is demanding I cut him off! She’s even calling him to yell at him!” “You have gone too far!” I hung up, unwilling to argue. I quickly packed a suitcase, intending to spend a couple of nights at a hotel before my flight. Tori walked in just as I was heading for the door. She grabbed my arm, her face dark with anger. “Are you done with this childish tantrum yet?” Just then, a stooped, hateful figure darted out from behind her. A stinging slap landed across my face, the sharp sound splitting the air. “Evan Black! You think you’re a big man now?!” I froze, looking up at the man who was legally my father—the man who had nearly sold me off a decade ago. He was as tyrannical as ever, his face twisted in a sneer. “You finally found a good woman to marry, and you’re throwing a fit? I should’ve sold you to that crew out West back then! It would have been worth as much as the dowry!” “Don’t think you can hide from me! If Tori hadn’t told me you were getting too big for your britches, I wouldn’t even know what you were up to!” The familiar curses and the physical violence instantly dragged me back into that unbearable past. Only Tori’s cold, detached eyes brought me back to the present. Years ago, when she learned about my past, her eyes had been red-rimmed. “We won’t acknowledge him as your father anymore,” she’d promised. “I’ll be your family.” Now, she stood behind him, chin lifted. “Evan, you should have known there would be consequences for trying to hurt Brock.” “I think you’ve lost your bearings, Evan. Let your father teach you a lesson.” I stood there, rigid, letting my father’s open palm land on my face and body. The physical pain was nothing compared to the sickening, agonizing wrench in my heart. Finally, my father stopped, smirking, and pulled out an old, velvet-lined box. His face held the vile pleasure I remembered from my childhood. “You’re just like your useless mother!” “If she hadn’t stopped me from selling you off, you wouldn’t have the balls to pull this stunt!” He raised his hand, ready to smash the urn containing my mother’s ashes. The frozen blood in my veins suddenly erupted. I lunged to grab the box, but Tori was faster. She snatched the urn, turning it over in her hands with a knowing smile. Her voice was almost gentle. “Do you understand your mistake now, Evan?” I looked up at her, disbelief chilling me to the core. My voice was a choked tremor. “I understand.” “I was wrong. I apologize. I shouldn’t have picked a fight with Brock.” “I—” Before I could finish, Brock rushed back into the room. He snatched the box, turning it over with a look of distaste. “What is this thing?” Tori frowned slightly. “It’s a nasty thing, Brock. Don’t touch it.” Nasty thing. The words were a direct hit to my heart. I saw a quick flash of the two of us kneeling together at my mother’s grave, Tori gently wiping the dust from the photo. She turned her sharp gaze back to me. I bit down on my teeth, forcing the words out. “I’m sorry, Brock—” Clatter. The urn dropped to the polished hardwood floor. Brock recoiled, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Ugh! What the hell? It’s an ashes box? That’s disgusting!” He stepped back, covering his mouth and nose, then looked at me, a wide, innocent smile on his face. “What did you just say, Evan? I didn’t hear you.” I stared blankly at the dust motes of my mother rising into the air. My father, cackling, began to scrape the remains with his foot. “Good riddance! Filth!” Tori watched me, her face changing slightly. Her voice was suddenly raw. “Brock didn’t mean it. It was an accident. Don’t blame him.” I bent over, painstakingly pinching the ashes from the floor and dropping them into my pocket. My tears and the fine gray powder mixed together. I could almost smell the familiar, comforting scent of the old woman who had loved me. Tori waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Dad, you should leave now.” “The wedding is still on. I’ll invite you.” She slipped a large red envelope into my father’s hand, then turned and put her arm around Brock. She looked down at me, still kneeling. “All right, enough of the drama. I told you Brock didn’t mean it.” “I don’t need you to apologize to him again. That should be enough, right?” “You handle the wedding details for the next two days. Brock wants to go to Disney, and I need to take him.” “I’ll be there for the ceremony. Don’t cause any trouble before then.” With one last look of utter disdain, she turned and walked away. Brock’s delighted voice echoed down the hall. “Tori! You remembered you promised me Disney!” Their happy, carefree voices faded. I don’t know how long I stayed there, picking up every last speck of dust, which I finally placed in my pocket before leaving. I canceled every final wedding detail. Then, I blocked and deleted Tori’s number. On the way to the airport, my boss called. “We have a sudden issue with the supply chain over here in the States. You’re the only one who truly understands the New York market. I need you here immediately.” “I know your wedding is in two days, Evan, but this is an emergency. Can you—” “The wedding is canceled, Mr. Rogers.” “I’m already en route to the airport. I’ll make the flight. Don’t worry. I’ll solve it.” My boss let out a sigh of relief and hung up. I watched the clouds drift past the window, then closed my eyes and pulled the SIM card from my phone. As of this moment, I was completely untethered from Victoria Bellweather. Two days later, Tori arrived at the venue to find a different couple’s wedding announcement on the display board. She frowned, her face pale. She called Evan. The automated voice response sent a spike of ice through her. “The number you have dialed is not in service.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389779”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It happened at the company holiday gala: I threw up all over the CEO’s most important investor. My colleagues scattered as if a bomb had gone off, and even my boss, Gabe Holloway, had to personally step in and apologize for me. Yet, the investor didn’t look angry. In fact, he looked mildly concerned, telling Gabe, “Her tolerance is terrible. You should keep an eye on her.” Gabe’s jaw practically hit the floor. As soon as the banquet ended, my co-workers swarmed me, desperate for gossip. “That was Cole Grayson,” someone hissed. “The Cole Grayson. How do you know him?” Cole—Grayson—paused mid-stride in the crowd and glanced my way. I looked past him and forced a hollow laugh. “I don’t. We’re not friends.” After all, three years ago when we broke up, the only thing Cole had asked was that I never mention we’d been together. 1 The noisy room fell silent for a beat. A few seconds later, someone spoke up, skepticism thick in their voice. “No way.” “His suit alone was six figures. You’re telling me he wouldn’t raise hell, and he’d actually tell our boss something like that, if you weren’t close?” Tell him what? I had been genuinely drunk and hadn’t quite caught what Cole had said. I could only shake my head and repeat, “We’re really not close.” “Mr. Grayson probably let it slide because of our boss, Gabe.” Everyone knew Gabe Holloway had a wide social circle. His relationship with Cole Grayson was certainly deep enough to warrant a courtesy pass. “Really?” I met the curious gaze of the woman who asked. After studying my face for a long moment, she convinced herself. “You’re right.” “It has to be Gabe. If Rhea Sutton actually knew someone like that, would she be here grinding out hours in a cubicle farm like the rest of us?” “Still, I heard Cole is getting engaged at the end of the month. Maybe he’s just in a good mood.” That tidbit seemed to satisfy most of my colleagues. The only person who didn’t buy it was Gabe himself, who I rarely saw on the floor. He stood with a cigarette between his fingers, his eyebrow arched in a silent challenge—I’ll just stand here and watch you squirm. 2 I calmly shifted my gaze away. I hadn’t exactly lied. Three years was a lifetime; we were strangers now. More to the point, Cole had made his boundaries clear back then. I wasn’t even allowed to speak his name. The party wrapped up. Cole walked toward the exit with Gabe. As he passed me, he turned his head and gave me a long, deliberate look. I maintained the expression of a polite stranger, not even lifting my eyes. Only after the two men left did the atmosphere in the room lighten up again. Gossip about Cole Grayson immediately resurfaced. When someone mentioned his fiancée, a colleague sighed. “Blythe Prescott. The trust fund baby. The only thing she’s ever struggled with is deciding on a coffee order.” “Born with a silver spoon, and Cole’s childhood sweetheart to boot. The diamond in her engagement ring alone is terrifyingly expensive, not to mention the fleet of gifts he’s been showering her with.” “Little bird told me this, so don’t quote me,” a voice lowered conspiratorially, “but apparently, Cole once dated a poor girl for two years. He cut her off the very next day, just because she made the precious Miss Prescott cry once.” “Two years just gone? That brutal?” “Brutal? I heard that to appease Blythe, he even made sure the girl was run out of Westwood. But honestly, the girl came from nothing, had a bad reputation anyway. She was probably just after his money.” A chorus of sighs followed. I lowered my eyes, hearing the fragments of their conversation. The rumors were half-truths. It was true that Cole broke up with me because of Blythe. But he didn’t throw a tantrum that day, and he certainly didn’t run me out of town. He simply decided I was beneath him, flew abroad, and never even looked at me again. Two years of my life ended with a humiliating voicemail. I couldn’t listen anymore. As I picked up my bag to leave, I heard someone ask, “Two years. Didn’t he feel any regret at all?” 3 No. Cole was ruthless. For a long time after we split, I found myself wondering if the polite, warm Cole Grayson I first met was even the same person as the man who dismissed me. Later, I realized. Cole changed around the time Blythe returned to the City. He took me to meet his friends. They were all people he’d known since prep school. I exchanged polite hellos with everyone. Except Blythe. She scanned me from head to toe. It was the first time I’d ever seen her—gorgeous, and utterly unapproachable. We didn’t exchange a single word the entire night. Until the end, when she finally spoke her first words to me: “What a coincidence.” “I heard your mother was sick and you were in desperate need of money right around the time you met Cole. Is that true?” I froze. Cole had helped me pay for a medical bill once. But I had already paid him back. The night I accepted Cole’s proposal, I’d regretted it almost instantly. Cole Grayson, the darling of Westwood society, was never meant to be with a scholarship kid. But then Cole had buried his head into my shoulder, his voice muffled as he asked, “Are you sure you want to break up with me?” All the words I’d prepared disappeared. My heart hammered in my chest. I realized, with devastating clarity, that I had no control over the way I felt about him. After that, I made a conscious effort not to accept gifts from Cole. His gifts were expensive, items I could never hope to repay. But how did Blythe know about the bill? Before I could reply, Blythe smiled again, changing the subject with a flick of her hand. “It doesn’t matter, really. It was only a little money.” “I just said it out loud. Don’t worry about it.” I stood there, watching Blythe. Cole lowered his gaze and gave her a light, dismissive glance. They didn’t speak, but I could feel the silent communication passing between them. Even then, I felt the first faint shift. As Blythe started showing up more frequently, that unspoken, insidious feeling intensified. Later, while shopping with them, I saw a pair of earrings. They were perfect for my mother. I stared, lost in thought, until Blythe called my name. She looked at the earrings and commented, “They’re very pretty.” “Do you like them?” “Then just have Cole buy them for you.” At her words, their tight-knit group—the ones who had grown up together—let out a quiet, shared laugh. The light streamed through the glass, dividing the world into bright and dark. They stood bathed in the light. And I stood alone, outside of it. I distinctly felt the difference this time. I looked up at Cole. I couldn’t describe the feeling, but I was utterly desperate for him to step in, to say one word on my behalf. To say, Rhea has never asked me for anything. To say, Rhea is not the person you think she is. I watched Cole. Blythe watched him, too. Time seemed to freeze for an eon. After what felt like forever, Cole finally spoke. He turned, his eyes casually sweeping over the earrings. He spoke flatly: “If you like something, just ask next time.” “Anything else catch your eye? Go on and choose.” The world tilted. I clutched the counter and stared at him, trying to see the truth behind his unruffled expression. All I saw, eventually, was the same look in his impossibly handsome eyes that I’d seen in Blythe’s. Pitying. Superior. They were no different. 4 After that day, we entered a subtle, cold war. I stopped reaching out to Cole. But Blythe came looking for me. “I forgot to give you the earrings you were looking at last time. Cole asked me to bring them.” Then, she looked past me at my mother and smiled. “So, this is your mother.” “The one you used as an excuse to borrow money from Cole in the first place, isn’t it?” “What will the reason be next time? Surely ‘sickness’ is a little cliché?” “Perhaps you two should discuss it. I’m sure your mother has more experience…” Every single word landed precisely in my mother’s ears. With each sentence, her face grew paler. Before Blythe could finish, I shoved her. “What are you saying?” Blythe stumbled and fell. Her wrist scraped against something, and tears instantly welled up in her eyes. Her friends arrived that very evening. Familiar faces blocked my doorway, demanding an apology. My throat tightened. “Blythe insulted my mother first. Why should I apologize?” “Fine. We can discuss it nicely,” a guy leaned against the wall, sizing me up. “No apology, then pay us.” He laughed at his own joke. “But can you even afford it?” Unlike the first time we met, they were brutally honest. “Look, you’re just after Cole’s money. Was Blythe wrong?” “Just tell us the truth. How much do you and your mother want? We’ll give it to you. Just stop clinging to Cole.” I was shaking with rage. I was about to speak when Cole arrived. The moment he appeared, his friends scattered. As the footsteps faded, the hallway returned to silence. Blythe must have called him. Was Cole here to make me apologize, like them? Or was he here to mock me, too? I gripped my sleeve, staring at him motionlessly. But Cole didn’t mention Blythe. There was no confrontation, no anger. He spoke, his voice unusually gentle, asking, “I heard your mother isn’t well?” “Do you need funds?” The tone was mild, but the underlying cruelty was identical to his friends’ words. At that moment, I wondered if I had never truly known Cole in those two years, or if he had simply changed. Seeing my silence, Cole pressed something cold into my palm. I knew what it was. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.” My mother was sitting on the sofa, listening to every word. Her fingers dug deep into the cushion. My body was rigid. I didn’t dare look back at my mother’s face. I could only squeeze out a single word from my throat: “Get out.” I threw the card and him out the door. The talk ended badly. Cole didn’t send me another card, but he began sending a relentless stream of things via courier. When I got home one night, my door was open. A neighbor, stepping out, remarked, “Your daughter is something else, isn’t she? So pretty, getting all these expensive things. She really is making a good life for you, just like she said.” I froze instantly. I slowly lifted my eyes to the living room. The table was covered with luxury goods and jewelry. The living room was terrifyingly quiet. My mother sat on the sofa. She didn’t ask or speak. She just stared silently at the things. After a long while, she closed her eyes and whispered: “Rhea, I keep thinking, I wish I hadn’t survived that accident all those years ago.” My eyes immediately filled with tears.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389778”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I’m a simple person. A practical person. I could never be the “Vicious Second Lead” my system demanded. That’s why I was genuinely pleased when Grayson Pierce, the second male lead in this absurd little drama, asked me to marry him. It meant I would finally be free of the system’s ridiculous missions. Five years into our marriage, we were a portrait of polite domesticity. We were also roommates. Grayson had an allergy—not to me, specifically, but to women in general, or so I assumed, given he had never touched me. It was New Year’s Eve. I was busy prepping vegetables in the massive, sterile kitchen, when I overheard the staff talking. “I’d love to switch to the main house and look after her,” one maid whispered, her voice conspiratorial. “I heard the bonus is hundreds of thousands.” “That’s the heir’s golden girl, though,” the other replied. “They’ll only hire experienced baby nurses for her.” I chimed in, setting down the peeler. “Wait, seriously? That much? I’d apply for that job myself.” The two women froze, their faces draining of color as they stammered out, “Mrs. Pierce.” A long-dormant roar echoed in my mind. It was the System. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?! I am furious with you. Absolutely livid. I’m binding you to a new system.” In three days, I would activate the Heroine Power-Up System. 1 Grayson found an excuse to leave the moment dinner was served. “Emergency call with the London office,” he muttered, picking up his car keys. His father, Mr. Pierce, immediately challenged him. “I personally signed off on a company-wide holiday memo—no one is allowed to work tonight.” “Fine. A friend is having a crisis. Needs me to talk him off a ledge.” My mother-in-law, Mrs. Pierce, shot back, “Which friend? Give me the number. What kind of person doesn’t call their own mother on New Year’s Eve?” Grayson shot me a look of frantic, silent appeal. I knew the drill. “It’s my fault,” I interrupted smoothly. “I asked him to go.” My sister-in-law, Penelope, narrowed her eyes. “And what could you possibly need?” I pressed a hand to my stomach. Every eye at the table immediately swung to me. “Finally… is it true?” Five years of marriage and no pregnancy had been a constant source of anxiety for Mrs. Pierce. She secretly suspected her son had a congenital defect. “I’m starving,” I said, shattering the tension. “I want those little dumplings from the shop downtown, and they close early. I sent him to get them.” “Are you kidding me? This table is piled high with food! Sit down!” Mrs. Pierce was indignant. But Grayson didn’t sit down. He took advantage of the chaos, bolted out the door, and didn’t look back. The roar of his imported sports car outside was deafening. I let out a slow, quiet breath of relief. That was worth at least ten grand of my annual allowance. “He wouldn’t be going to see your sister, would he?” Penelope’s voice was laced with suspicion. The “sister” she referred to was Lila Vance, the girl my parents adopted, and the official heroine of this story. Lila was the ultimate package: the sweet-faced, well-educated darling, fluent in five languages, an accomplished artist, and blessed with the requisite, world-stopping beauty. The moment I, the biological daughter, was brought home, I knew I was just filler—a plot device. But the System insisted I bind to the Vicious Second Lead module. I’m a simple person. I couldn’t do it. The System ordered me to push Lila down the stairs. Before I could even raise a hand, I tripped over my own feet, tumbled down the staircase, and broke my leg. Before I could even cry, Lila was already weeping torrents of sympathetic tears. Everyone assumed I’d tried to push her and failed miserably. They blamed me. But the System was the only one who didn’t buy it. It would administer an electric shock every time I failed a “vicious” mission. The past was truly exhausting. I quietly stood up to wait on my mother-in-law, pouring her water. “Don’t get upset, Mom. Getting angry only hurts yourself.” Mrs. Pierce glared at me. “On a holiday, Cassidy, maybe just keep your mouth shut.” I obediently closed my lips. Suddenly, I heard a ping in my mind, a sound I hadn’t heard in five years. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “Ping—System online!” “Host, five years, and you are still so stup—id. I can’t take it anymore!” I immediately apologized in my mind. “Please, I really don’t want to be the Vicious Second Lead.” The System went quiet for a long time. Long enough for me to sit down and finish a whole section of the New England lobster platter. “Fine. This time, I’m giving you the Heroine Power-Up System.” “Will it let me eat well, drink well, and play well?” “Yes. And sleep well, too.” 2 The System informed me it would need three days. The Main God system required multi-layer approval. “No problem,” I replied. “Take your time. You’re the professional.” The System flashed a hot red. “Can you please be a little more assertive?” I was lying down on my comfortable, three-meter bed. The slick silk sheets were perfectly smoothed by the maids, without a single wrinkle. “I’m quite comfortable with my life right now.” “Host! You are hopeless! Your husband ran off to see his golden girl on New Year’s Eve, the same girl who stole your parents and your fiancé. And you’re perfectly calm?” I padded barefoot across the plush carpet. Chewie, my little golden retriever, whined, rubbing against my leg, following me into what had once been a small reception room, now my personal study. I picked up a heavy tome and opened it randomly. “The life I have now is more than I ever dreamed of back then,” I said. “I’m perfectly satisfied.” And I truly was. Grayson didn’t love me, but the money was guaranteed. The Pierces didn’t like me, but the money was guaranteed. My ex-fiancé, now my brother-in-law, didn’t like me, but he paid me off. The money was guaranteed. My parents thought I was a bad seed who tormented their adopted daughter, but I still held stock shares and received dividends. The money was guaranteed. “System, I’m just a simple person.” “Unacceptable. You wait. Your power is coming soon.” 3 Grayson didn’t return all night. New Year’s Day was the family’s annual pilgrimage to the Ancestral Temple. At 5:00 AM, still dark out, Mrs. Pierce woke me and ordered me to find him immediately. “Otherwise, don’t think about showing your face at the Temple!” I didn’t bother to remind her that in five years, I had never once been invited to the Temple. By 6:00 AM, I was waiting outside Lila Vance’s house, having a thorough conversation with the security guards. Through my persistent efforts, Brendan Sterling, my ex-fiancé, finally stumbled out the front door, looking disheveled. “When Grayson married you, you promised you’d stop making trouble,” Brendan said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s the drama now? Lila was upset all night and just finally got to sleep.” Brendan’s gaze softened slightly. “It’s New Year’s Day. Why aren’t you with the Pierces? Are you… are you remembering our old promise?” I vaguely recalled him promising that if I didn’t want to spend New Year’s Day with the Vances, he would take me to see the ocean and the sunrise. But honestly, I’d never held onto that promise. I shook my head. “What promise? No idea. I’m just here to deliver a message to Grayson. His mother wants him home for a meal.” Brendan looked stunned. “That’s it? You waited at my gate for two hours just for that?” I put down the book I’d been reading, realizing the sky was fully bright now. “Yep. Brother-in-law, can you pass the message along? I won’t go inside. I wouldn’t want Lila to catch a whiff of my presence and have a respiratory episode.” Lila had a chronic condition: she claimed to be allergic to me. Since she refused to take allergy medication, there was little I could do. I rolled down the window and told the driver to pull out. I had completed the mother-in-law’s mission. The heat in the car was starting to feel oppressive. But the driver didn’t move. He never listened to me. Five minutes later, Grayson rushed out in a pair of sweatpants, yanking the car door open. “Let’s go. Don’t wake Lila.” I politely inquired about Lila’s health. He immediately tensed. “You said the System would be gone after we got married. What are you planning to do to Lila now?” They always saw me this way, and I found it exhausting. If Lila hit a wrong note on the piano, it was because I had sneezed. I got it. She was the destined heroine. I sighed and picked up my book again. “I told you, I’m a simple person. I’m not doing anything.” 4 Once they had all left for the Temple, I was home playing the “carrot and tissue” game with Chewie. My dog always ignored the carrot and tried to steal the beef jerky I held in my hand. As the sun began to set, a flurry of people rushed into the house. I offered to take their coats and fetch them hot tea and biscuits. “We’re taking your dog,” Grayson announced. “Lila wants him for a few days. She says her house feels dull.” I tensed, holding Chewie tighter. “No.” Grayson tried to pry my hands open. “Let go. It’s just for a few days. What are you afraid of? You think I’ll eat him?” “You can take me over to keep her company, but you cannot take my dog!” Lila had already stewed the turtle I’d raised, butchered the rabbit I’d bottle-fed, and killed my bird, Gugu. I said seriously, “You won’t eat him. But Lila will.” Grayson signaled someone to bind my hands while he forcefully took Chewie from my embrace. “You killed Lila’s turtle, let her parrot go, and cooked her rabbit. And she never said a single bad word about you. Now she asks to borrow your dog, and you throw a fit? You should be taking this up with your System. You’re the Vicious Second Lead, the bad seed.” “Why won’t you believe me? I am just a simple person.” Grayson glared at me with disgust. “Lila is pregnant. For the sake of her child, I’m letting this go. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be so easy on you. I thought these five years would have taught you a lesson.” I lunged forward and wrapped my arms around Grayson’s leg. “I’m begging you for one thing. Don’t take Chewie.” He pried my fingers apart. My hands had lost their strength, having been broken three separate times. The fight was over. I lowered my head. “My allowance for the month, and the fee for helping you run off on New Year’s Eve. Settle it now.” Grayson muttered a curse and transferred a check for a hundred thousand dollars to my account. “You will bring Chewie home, or I will not let this go.” Chewie whimpered at me as he was carried out. Once they left, Grayson locked me in the house. I immediately divided the money among several orphanages and remote education funds, a small New Year’s gift for the kids. Then I pulled out the dense book I hadn’t finished. “See, System?” I said to myself. “My life is actually quite comfortable.” 5 My childhood wasn’t comfortable. I grew up deep in the mountains. I had three older sisters and one younger brother. A classic, poor family structure. My sisters were married off young for dowry money. The chores all fell to me, and my parents’ only outlet for frustration was me. I desperately wanted to go to school, but I had neither the time nor the money. I barely scraped by until I was eighteen, covered in bruises and scars. Luckily, the Vances found me before I was married off. That was the first time I ever left the mountains. “So, System, they’ve at least given me money now. What could I possibly have to complain about?” I finished a compressed food bar and fell asleep in the rocking chair. When I woke up again, Grayson was lightly slapping my face. “Lila is here to see you.” I blinked sleepily and smelled the distinct aroma of cooked meat. I shot up, my forehead cracking against Grayson’s chin. He yelped in pain. “Chewie! Where is Chewie!” Grayson rubbed his jaw, annoyed. “The dog is with Lila. What’s wrong with you?” Lila approached, holding a steaming bowl of food. “Cassidy, I saw you hadn’t eaten all day. I brought you some late-night stew.” I lunged, grabbing the bowl and frantically sifting through the meat chunks with my bare hands. I didn’t stop until I saw a few unmistakable strands of golden fur. “You killed him! Give me back my Chewie!” Grayson wrapped his arms around my waist and restrained me. “Are you out of your mind? I personally watched the cook make that lamb stew! Lila was right—you’re still the same crazy person you were five years ago.” Lila stood at a distance, laughing softly. She mouthed a word at me: Idiot. I collapsed onto the floor. “Chewie is okay. That’s all that matters.” “It’s just a dog! If he was stewed, he was stewed. Don’t you dare glare at Lila! If you scare her, you don’t have enough lives to pay for the baby in her belly!” “Lila, let’s go. This crazy woman isn’t worth your time.” Lila hooked her arm through Grayson’s and they walked away. “System, now that I have the Heroine System, will Chewie come back to me?” “Absolutely!” 6 On New Year’s Day, the Pierces were waiting in the grand hall for distant relatives to visit. Mr. Pierce, in a traditional suit, was enthroned in the center, leaning on his elaborate cane. I was “rewarded” with a bright red dress and stood near the back, serving as background décor. Grayson sat dutifully next to his father, trying to sweet-talk him. “Dad, you promised me two condos in the downtown building. Why haven’t the deeds been transferred? Lila has been asking for a place to store her clothes.” Mr. Pierce threatened to strike him with his cane. “Once your wife gives me a grandchild, then you can go back to spoiling your mistress. Until then, I won’t interfere.” But his father still had a soft spot for Lila, the girl he’d watched grow up, and eventually agreed to transfer the properties. When all the guests had arrived, Mrs. Pierce pointed at me and ordered me to play the piano for entertainment. I looked at my hands, the fingers that had been broken three times, and silently sat down at the grand piano. “That’s awful,” a distant aunt whispered. “Isn’t she Lila’s sister? Lila plays so beautifully.” Mrs. Pierce shot me a disgusted look. “Exactly. And she can’t even hold a pregnancy.” At that moment, Grayson’s young cousin ran up to me, asking where Chewie was. Before I could answer, Lila appeared. She cupped her hands over her stomach and smiled sweetly. “He’s in her belly, silly.” The child screamed and burst into tears. The adults swarmed around, accusing me of terrifying the boy. I kept quiet; I knew that if I opened my mouth, they would only double down on their accusations. I quietly tried to sit down, but Mrs. Pierce pointed toward the kitchen, demanding I go help out. I sighed. The kitchen was fine. It was quiet. Grayson grabbed my arm. “With all these relatives here, where do you think you’re running off to be lazy?” Grayson’s younger male cousin darted out and started snapping photos of me on his phone. “I’m putting this online! Let everyone see this high-society wife, ha ha ha, who behaves like this.” Grayson snatched the phone and slammed it to the ground. “Stop taking pictures! That’s your sister-in-law!” The small child was crying, the older one was shouting, and the supposedly pregnant woman was clutching her stomach. The room descended into chaos. I bent down to pick up the expensive camera, thinking it was a shame to waste such a good item. The cousin stomped on it. At that moment, the System announced: “Host! Your system has been approved!” The front doors of the hall burst open, and bright winter sun streamed in. “My child! You’ve suffered so much. We finally found you!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389777”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

“Congratulations, Cass. You’ve hit the bottom tier.” Brenda, my manager, slid the annual review form across the conference table, her smile saccharine and slow. I looked down. Composite Score: 50 points. Ranking: Last in Department (8th). Notes: Recommended for reassignment or termination. I glanced back at the sales leaderboard displayed on the wall. My name was at the very top. Revenue: $8.7 Million. I smiled. “Perfectly noted.” Brenda froze. She hadn’t expected the calm, the quiet certainty in my voice. She’d expected tears, or panic, or maybe a desperate, rookie plea. I stood up, folded the assessment neatly, and tucked it into my laptop bag. “I’ll be there for the Executive Review Session, then. On Friday.” 1. Brenda’s expression shifted, a flicker of something sharp in her eyes. “Cassidy, what is that supposed to mean?” I slung my bag over my shoulder, my tone light, almost dismissive. “It means exactly what it says. You’ve ranked me last, so last I am.” “See you at the hearing.” I turned to leave. Behind me, Brenda’s voice pursued me, low and warning. “Cass, don’t think for a minute that strong numbers trump everything. This company assesses comprehensive performance, not just the column totals.” I didn’t look back. “I know.” As I stepped out of the conference room, I heard the hushed, urgent voices inside. “Brenda, do you think she’ll cause a scene?” “A scene? By a junior who’s been here three years? What’s she going to do, upend the whole system?” I let a small, private smile curl the corner of my mouth. Three years. It had been exactly three years. When I started at Sterling & Co., there were eight of us in the department. Brenda was the Director, and she had her two trusted inner-circle lieutenants—Jenna and Dustin. The other five of us were the workhorses. I was the best horse they had. In my first year, I closed $3.8 million in new business. It was the biggest deal the department landed that year. But at the Annual Summit, Brenda stood on the stage and announced— “This deal was a victory for the whole team, the result of a unified effort.” “Jenna was crucial to the initial client follow-up, Dustin handled all the logistical support, and I, of course, orchestrated the overall strategy.” “Cassidy was instrumental in the execution phase. Great job.” The room erupted in applause. Jenna beamed, her eyes sparkling. Dustin gave me a thumbs-up. Only I knew the truth: I’d pitched, negotiated, and closed that deal entirely on my own. Jenna? She barely remembered the client’s name. Dustin? He never once set foot on the client’s campus. But what could I say? I was a rookie, fresh out of college. Who would believe me over the Department Director? That year, Jenna got an $80,000 bonus. Dustin got $60,000. I got $20,000. Brenda patted my shoulder and said, “Cass, you’re young. Your time will come.” I smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Brenda.” In the second year, my revenue hit $5.2 million. Still the top performer. Yet my overall score dropped to fourth place. Brenda cited “issues with professional demeanor.” What issues? She called me “too isolated.” “Cass, look at Jenna and Dustin. See how well they network? You just put your head down and work, all day, every day. You haven’t learned how to be part of the team.” I said, “Brenda, I’m number one in revenue.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Revenue isn’t everything. The company assesses your composite value. Strong performance means you can do the job. It doesn’t mean you’re a fit for this team.” That year, Jenna got a $100,000 bonus. Dustin got $80,000. I got $30,000. I didn’t argue. But from that day on, I started doing one thing religiously. I started recording. Every meeting, every private conversation, every time Brenda stopped by my cubicle for a “coaching session,” my phone was recording. It wasn’t because I wanted to complain. It was because I knew, instinctively, that without evidence, some stories can never be proven. The third year, this year. My revenue is $8.7 million. Not only first in the department, but third in the entire company. And today, Brenda gave me a 50. Bottom tier. Recommended for termination. By the time I left the office building, it was already dark. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Honey, it’s your end-of-year review, right? How did it go?” I stood under a streetlamp, taking a long, cold breath. “It went great, Mom.” “That’s wonderful. Just focus on your work and don’t make trouble for anyone.” “I won’t.” I hung up and stood there for a moment, watching the headlights sweep across the pavement. Three years. I’d endured for three years. It wasn’t weakness. It was patience. I was waiting for the right opportunity. Now, the opportunity was here. Back at my apartment, I logged onto my computer. On the desktop was a folder labeled Operation Record. It contained three years of recordings—87 files in total. It held all my email correspondence, chat logs, and performance reports. I opened a document. The title was: Formal Complaint Regarding Equity and Ethical Standards in the Sales Group Two Performance Review Process. I’d been working on that letter for six months. Dozens of revisions. Every data point was sourced. Every conclusion was backed by evidence. I looked at the date. Friday was the Executive Review Session. At that hearing, every employee ranked in the bottom tier had to stand before the company’s senior leadership and explain why they were “unfit.” If they failed, they were terminated on the spot. Brenda thought I was going to show up and embarrass myself. She was wrong. On Friday, it would be her turn to be embarrassed. I lit a cigarette. Yes, I’d picked up smoking. These three years had taught me so much. Smoking was the least of it. The most important lesson was this: Always secure the evidence. 2. The next morning, I went into work as normal. The atmosphere in the office was immediately off-kilter. Jenna eyed me with a sideways glance. “Well, look who decided to show up, Cass.” I set down my bag. “Why wouldn’t I?” “I heard you were put on the low-performer list. I figured you’d be packing your desk.” I smiled slightly. “The low-performer list isn’t a termination notice. Why would I leave?” Jenna scoffed. “True. But after the hearing on Friday, you won’t have a choice.” I ignored her. I opened my laptop and began sorting through my active client pipeline. At ten, Brenda called me into her office. “Cass, have a seat.” I sat. Brenda’s face was arranged in a placid, concerned expression. “Cass, about yesterday, don’t take it personally.” “I haven’t taken it personally.” “Good.” Brenda picked up her tea mug. “The truth is, I gave you that low score for your own good.” I looked up. “For my good?” “Yes, absolutely.” Brenda sighed, leaning forward. “Look at you. Great numbers, but you’re too blunt. In the corporate world, execution isn’t enough; you have to learn the soft skills.” “I put you in the bottom tier because I want you to understand that sheer ability is insufficient. You need to focus on internal networking, on deference, on aligning with your leadership.” “Do you understand?” I nodded slowly. “I do.” “Good.” Brenda set down her mug. “Then you won’t need to attend the hearing on Friday.” I blinked, feigning surprise. “Why not?” “It’ll just be humiliating for you. Instead, I’ll talk to HR myself and have you quietly reassigned to another department. A fresh start, a clean slate. Wouldn’t that be better?” I stared at her. Her eyes were wide and sincere. If I didn’t know everything I knew, I might actually believe her selfless concern. But I knew. Transfer? What a joke. She was terrified that I would say something at the Executive Review Session. “Brenda, I appreciate the offer.” I stood up. “But I have to attend the review.” Her composure cracked again. “Cass, what is your issue?” “No issue at all. I was ranked in the bottom tier, and I’m required by process to go and explain why. It’s protocol, and I intend to follow it.” “You—” I didn’t wait for her to finish. I turned and walked out. Behind me, I heard the sharp, metallic clang of a mug being dropped onto the desk. Back at my desk, I went back to work. At three, Dustin sidled over. He pulled up a chair and leaned in conspiratorially. “Cass, can we talk strategy?” “About what?” “About your future.” Dustin lowered his voice. “You know Brenda is out to get you, right?” “I’ve noticed.” “So why are you pushing back? Do you have any idea that if she decides to blackball you, you’re done in this company?” I paused my typing. “Dustin, why are you telling me this?” Dustin sighed. “Because I hate to see talent wasted. Cass, your performance is stellar, but you don’t know the rules. Brenda has been here fifteen years. She’s entrenched. You can’t win this fight.” “I’m not trying to fight her.” “Then why are you ignoring her advice? A transfer is a lifeline! A quiet move to a different team is better than this corporate bloodbath.” I looked at Dustin. His eyes held a trace of genuine anxiety, but there was something else, too—a restless, probing curiosity. I realized: He wasn’t here to counsel me. He was here to find out what I knew. Brenda had sent her scout. “Dustin, thank you for your concern,” I said, offering a bland smile. “But I’ll manage my career myself.” His face fell slightly. “Cass, don’t be foolish. I’m trying to help you.” “I know.” “So you’re still going to—” “I thought about it all night,” I cut him off. “I’m going to the Executive Review Session on Friday. I’m going to clearly explain why I was ranked last.” “The outcome after that is up to the company, not me.” Dustin stared at me for a few tense seconds. Then he stood up and gave my shoulder a patronizing pat. “Fine. Just make sure you know what you’re doing.” He left. I continued working. My mind was clear, peaceful. Three years ago, when I first started, I was naive. I thought effort was the only currency. I was wrong. The first time Brenda stole my credit, I thought it was an accident. The second time, I thought I’d failed to communicate properly. The third time, I finally understood. It wasn’t an accident, and it wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was the system. In this department, Brenda was the system. If she said you were worthy, you were. If she said you were a low performer, you were. Revenue? Ability? Irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was compliance. I didn’t want to be compliant. But I wasn’t going to be a martyr, either. So I chose the third path. Patience. Wait until the evidence was ironclad. Wait until the timing was perfect. Wait for the killing blow. That night, back home, I opened the folder again. 87 audio files. 312 email screenshots. Three years of performance reports. And the complaint letter. I printed the letter out. Fifteen pages, stapled cleanly. I signed the last page, then took my phone. I opened the corporate website. Under the “Ethics & Compliance” section, I found the address for the Compliance Department Whistleblower Inbox. I bundled the complaint letter and all the supporting evidence into a single, encrypted file and attached it. Send Successful. I stared at the words on the screen and exhaled slowly. Three years. The wait was over. Brenda, are you ready? 3. Early on Wednesday, the third day, I sensed the shift the moment I walked in. The receptionist’s gaze was strange. The colleagues I passed in the elevator went silent when they saw me. I allowed myself a small smirk. Word travels fast. When I entered the bullpen, Jenna was the first to react. “Cassidy Rhodes, what did you do?!” I set down my bag. “What did I do?” “You—,” Jenna pointed a shaking finger at me, “—you blew the whistle on Brenda?!” The office went dead quiet. All eyes were on me. I sat down and logged into my computer. “Yes.” “Are you insane?!” Jenna shrieked. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? You’re committing career suicide!” “I know exactly what I’ve done.” “You—” “Jenna.” I finally looked up. “I didn’t just blow the whistle on Brenda.” Jenna’s face instantly went white. “W-what does that mean?” I just smiled. “You know what it means.” Jenna stood paralyzed. Dustin strode over, his face flushed with panic. “Cass, we need to talk in private!” I didn’t move. “Say what you need to say, Dustin. There’s no need for privacy now.” Dustin’s complexion deepened to a fiery red. “Did you include us in your complaint?” “I filed a complaint regarding inequitable performance evaluations,” I corrected him. “Whether or not you were complicit is for the Compliance Team to determine.” Dustin pointed, his lips trembling. “You—you just wait!” He spun around and stormed off. He was definitely running to Brenda. I continued working. Ten minutes later, Brenda appeared. She stood over my desk, her face a mask of iron-gray fury. “Cassidy Rhodes. My office. Now.” I stood up. I followed her into the small conference room. The moment the door shut, Brenda’s façade completely collapsed. “Cassidy, what is your endgame here?” I looked straight at her. “My endgame is a fair performance review.” “Fair?” Brenda sneered. “You’re a good performer, yes, but do you think strong numbers are the only currency in business?” “The score I gave you was based on a composite evaluation. You have ability, but you have no polish. What’s wrong with that assessment?” I nodded. “Fine. Then let me ask you this—” “That $3.2 million deal I closed last year with The Pinnacle Group—why did the credit end up going to Jenna?” Brenda hesitated. “That was team collaboration—” “Jenna never met the client once. I negotiated the contract, I chased the final payment, I managed the post-sales support. Where was she?” Brenda’s color was draining away. “And another thing.” I kept going. “In April, I spearheaded the Centennial Industries project, worth $1.8 million. You said the scope was too big for me and ‘assigned’ Dustin to ‘assist’ me. The result?” “Dustin never sent a single email or made a single call, yet after the contract was signed, he took a 40% commission split as his ‘assistance fee.’” “Brenda, do you think that’s fair?” Brenda was silent for a few beats. Then she spoke, her voice lower. “Cass, you’re too young. The corporate world isn’t black and white. Jenna and Dustin have been with me for years. Is it wrong for me to look out for them?” “I’m aware of your performance. But you’re too much of a lone wolf, too adversarial. I scored you low because I wanted you to learn to compromise.” “This was for your own good.” I looked at her. “Brenda, do you honestly believe that?” “Then let me tell you my version of ‘good’—” “In three years, I’ve closed $17.7 million in business. My total bonuses add up to less than $100,000. Jenna, who has closed less than $3 million in three years, has banked almost $300,000.” “Is that what you call looking out for me?” Brenda’s face darkened completely. “Cassidy Rhodes, stop being naïve. I saw your little complaint letter. It’s all petty squabbles and minor grievances. Do you really think the corporate office cares about that?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389776”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Five years ago, I ruined my life. It was a high-profile case—a sensational, ugly rape and murder—and I mounted a defense that got me disbarred, branded a felon, and sent to prison for faking evidence. Now, I’m a ghost, a “Rope Access Technician,” dangling like a spider outside the glass walls of the Ares Tower. Two hundred meters above the city, my single hand gripped the lifeline, and through the thick, mirrored curtain wall, I saw her. Camilla Shaw. She was the legal world’s darling, the one they called the “Goddess of Corporate Justice,” and she was the Chief Legal Officer of this entire real estate conglomerate. She was flanked by a group of nodding, deferential executives. My foreman’s voice screeched in my earpiece, harsh and tinny: “Cole! Ms. Shaw took pity on you, man. She specifically requested you clean the entire Ares Tower for the year. Get a move on! Go on, give her a courtesy bow through the glass, show some gratitude!” I tightened my grip on the squeegee, looking at her inside the conference room. Designer suit, surrounded by light, the center of their universe. It was utterly laughable. No one knew that the person who swapped out the key evidence, who threw me under the bus and into a cell for five years—all to clear her mentor—was the very “Goddess of Justice” behind that bulletproof glass. … “I said, give Ms. Shaw a damn bow!” Static buzzed in the receiver. As if sensing the commotion, Preston Maxwell, the CEO of the group and my former mentor, turned his head. He saw me, a filthy silhouette suspended against the azure sky. He raised a hand and pointed at the window. I watched his lips move. I could read the words through the glass: “That’s the counter-example.” A wave of laughter erupted in the conference room. Camilla followed his gaze, and our eyes locked. Five years. She was more beautiful, sharper. The girl who used to pout in our tiny apartment over five dollars of grocery money was now wearing a custom suit that cost more than my annual wages, idly twirling a Montblanc pen. A flicker of shock crossed her face, quickly replaced by something cold and unreadable. Preston walked up to the window. That well-maintained face of his—the one the magazines loved—pulled into the familiar, sickening mask of feigned benevolence. He waved, his mouth exaggerated, a theatrical mockery: “Jeeen-sen…” In my earpiece, the foreman was still barking: “Jensen Cole, are you deaf? Ms. Shaw is watching! You need this contract, man! Good behavior means a six-month paycheck! Bow, dammit! At least nod your head!” I plunged the squeegee into my bucket. The dirty water streamed down the glass, directly over Preston’s face on the other side. I lifted the squeegee and, with all the venom I could muster, scraped it hard across the glass, right over his image. Screeeech! The ear-splitting shriek of the rubber against the double-paned glass seemed to drill into the bones of everyone inside. They clapped their hands over their ears. Preston’s smile froze. I saw Camilla slam the Montblanc pen onto the table. She stood up, her ten-centimeter heels clicking against the polished stone, and walked toward the glass. She stopped inches from the wall, less than a foot from me. Only this unbreakable layer of glass separated us. She looked at me. There was no remorse in her eyes, nothing close to the guilt I’d imagined for five years. The earpiece went silent. Camilla had picked up the internal line on the table. Seconds later, a small section of the window silently retracted. The high-altitude wind rushed in, carrying her voice, cold and flat: “Jensen Cole. Get inside.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order. Ten minutes later, I stood in Camilla’s enormous corner office. The carpet was thick, and my dust-caked rubber boots left a series of damning, muddy prints with every step. Camilla sat in a massive, ergonomic leather chair. “Jensen, did you really have to be so disgusting?” She pulled a wad of fresh hundreds from her purse and tossed them onto the floor. The red currency scattered near my mud-spattered trousers. “That’s severance. Take it and get out.” “Don’t let me see you on this tower again. You’re an embarrassment.” I bent down, one by one, to pick up the bills. Not out of subservience, but because I needed to eat. Camilla watched my actions, her face a mask of disappointment, the sort of pain a parent feels for a wayward child. “Look at you, Jensen. Look at the mess you are.” “If you hadn’t faked that evidence, you wouldn’t be here today, picking up my scraps.” “Do you know how hard it is for me to sit in this chair because of your mistake? Everyone is watching me, waiting to laugh and say my ex-husband is a felon!” She adopted the pose of the victim, as if she were the one who had served five years in a state prison. I finished picking up the money. I took two twenties out of the stack, placing the rest neatly on the corner of her desk. “Twenty bucks a pane. That’s what I’m owed.” I turned to leave. A stack of papers slammed onto the desk behind me. I opened the door and walked directly into my parents. George and Carol Cole. They were dressed in their best clothes, being guided by a staff member to some corporate event. They froze when they saw me—filthy, holding a squeegee, carrying a bucket. The look on their faces was instantaneous. My mother instinctively recoiled. The staff member immediately apologized: “So sorry! This is an outsourced cleaner. He’ll be gone immediately.” My father gave me a look of pure, cold contempt, then turned to the staffer: “Get him out of here fast. We don’t want him bumping into Preston’s important guests.” They pretended not to know me. As they passed, I heard my mother whisper: “Such bad luck.” “Thank God no one recognized him. Imagine what that would do to Preston’s reputation.” The elevator doors closed. I touched the two crumpled twenties in my pocket. Two hundred meters of open air hadn’t made my legs weak. But in that moment, my heart plummeted. The next day, the foreman called me aside, his face uneasy. “Jensen, the top brass sent word. Today, you’re on the C-Wing.” The C-Wing. The tower’s auxiliary building. Because of a flawed architectural design, its exterior walls were studded with sharp, decorative metal strips. It was the unwritten “Black Zone” for every rope access worker. One wrong move, and the safety line would be sliced clean through. “Important inspectors are visiting today,” the foreman muttered, patting my shoulder awkwardly. “Do a good job. Don’t embarrass Ms. Shaw again.” I said nothing, silently hoisting my gear. On the roof, my phone rang. It was Camilla. Her voice was, surprisingly, soft. “Jensen. The C-Wing job was a special arrangement for you.” “Preston says if you perform well today, we might consider moving you to the logistics department. No more wind and sun.” “Don’t be ungrateful.” She hung up. I looked down into the seemingly bottomless abyss of the C-Wing. A chance to prove myself? More like a chance to die. I checked my equipment. The main safety lock had several fresh, deep gouges on the metal. They glinted faintly in the sun. Someone had tampered with it. I didn’t make a sound. I pulled a spare climbing rope from my bag, tied a tight, hidden figure-eight knot, and clipped it to an inner D-ring on my belt. It was my secret lifeline. I hit the fiftieth floor when the wind suddenly roared. I swung violently in the air. As expected, the main safety lock gave out with a sickening ping! It snapped. My body instantly went weightless, plummeting rapidly. The wind screamed in my ears; the glass facade flashed past. In that fraction of a second, I kicked hard against the wall, using the leverage to swing myself sideways. The backup line snapped taut, digging brutally into my hip. I used the momentum to grab the edge of a permanently ajar air-conditioning vent. An ordinary person would have been a smear on the pavement right now. But I was ready. My fingers clawed into the narrow gap. Skin tore, blood welling up. But I held fast. I rolled into the ventilation shaft, gasping, sucking air into my lungs. Two hundred meters up, I had cheated death. When I got back to the ground, the foreman stared at me as if I were a zombie. “You… How did you get down?” I threw the severed lock at his feet. “Is this your company’s safety standard?” The foreman’s face turned sickly pale, but he recovered quickly, shifting to angry denial. “You broke that equipment yourself! Don’t you dare blame the company!” “Jensen Cole, you’re fired! All your pay this month is forfeit, and you’ll be billed for the ruined equipment!” I knew this was Preston’s doing. A choice: either fall to my death or starve to it. Just then, a black Rolls-Royce Ghost pulled up. Camilla stepped out in her high heels. She looked at my filthy, disheveled state. “What happened to you?” She waved off the security guard who was about to grab me. She pulled a file from her briefcase and handed it to me. “For old times’ sake.” “Preston is being generous. He won’t press charges for your ‘safety violation.’” “The Group Security team needs a doorman. Five grand a month, room and board included.” “Sign this, and you start immediately.” I looked at the title of the document: Plea of Contrition and Statement of Guilt. The content was a complete confession: I admitted that I, Jensen Cole, had falsified evidence in the case five years ago purely for money and that no one else was involved. It concluded by thanking Preston Maxwell for his magnanimity in giving me a second chance. “I won’t sign.” Camilla’s expression hardened. “Jensen, how much longer are you going to be stubborn?” “Your parents’ retirement fund isn’t enough to cover their medical bills, and your uncle just lost another huge bet. He owes everyone. If you don’t have a job, they’ll be out in the cold.” Seeing I was unmoved, she pulled out her phone and started a video call. On the screen, my parents were sitting in an exclusive, high-end restaurant. Preston was pouring them wine. “Dad, Mom, please eat up,” Preston said, his smile radiating faux-warmth. My mother beamed at the camera: “Oh, thank you, Preston! You’re the only one who takes care of us now.” Preston took the phone, raising an eyebrow at me through the screen. “Buddy, your folks haven’t been well lately. They need stability.” He turned slightly and whispered, though the mic picked it up: “If you sign this, they eat here every night. If you don’t…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the camera caught a brief flash of several large bodyguards standing just behind him. I clenched my fists. Faced with this open blackmail. “I’ll sign.” Preston smiled, satisfied. “That’s the spirit.” “A compliant dog is always better than a dead man.” That night, my parents called. “Jensen! You finally learned your lesson!” “Being a doorman for Preston is a blessing! So many people would kill for that! You work hard, you thank Preston for the opportunity, and you stop embarrassing us!” I hung up, staring out at the city lights. My hands, still gripping the signed confession, slowly relaxed. The Group Legal Gala was held at the most luxurious hotel in the city. “Dress nicely. Don’t shame the company.” Camilla had tossed me a cheap suit. My job: a waiter in the ballroom. I moved through the crowd, tray in hand, serving my former colleagues and adversaries. “Hey, isn’t that Jensen Cole?” “The disgraced lawyer? Reduced to clearing plates?” “Shhh. I heard Preston kept him on purpose. Something about a chance for redemption.” The whispers buzzed around me. I kept my face expressionless, mechanically pouring champagne and taking empty glasses. On the main stage, the lights were dazzling. Preston, in a custom tuxedo, looked like the king of the world. He held the microphone, expounding on “The Ethics and Conscience of the Legal Profession.” The crowd erupted in applause. Camilla sat in the front row, watching him with an almost worshipful gaze. “And tonight, we have a very ‘special’ guest.” Preston’s tone shifted, his eyes scanning the crowd, landing precisely on me. “Jensen Cole. My former protégé. Once the ‘Wunderkind Lawyer.’” “Come up, Jensen. Tell everyone your ‘journey.’” A spotlight instantly pinned me to the floor. I was holding a tray, exposed and unprepared, like I’d been stripped naked in front of an audience. Someone pushed me hard from behind. “Go on! What are you waiting for!” I set the tray down and walked, one step after agonizing step, toward the stage. Every inch of my neck felt burned under the scrutiny. Preston handed me the microphone, his phony, gentle smile making me sick. “Don’t be nervous, buddy.” “Why don’t you read the statement you prepared for us?” On the massive screen behind us, the Plea of Contrition and Statement of Guilt was projected. My signature and fingerprint were stark, damning black on white. A gasp went through the room. “Did he really do it?” “Gave up his ethics for a payout. Disgusting.” “I actually thought he’d been framed.” My hand holding the microphone trembled. Not from fear. I saw my parents sitting in the back corner. They were wearing the new clothes Preston had bought them, wiping away manufactured tears for the cameras. “Thank God for Preston’s generosity, giving our boy a job,” my mother sobbed into a reporter’s microphone. “It was our family’s tragedy. We raised a social degenerate.” I took a deep breath, trying to steady the raging storm in my chest. “I, Jensen Cole…” I began to read. Every word was a lie, a betrayal, and an act of self-hatred. Preston stood beside me, nodding in appreciation, as if admiring a masterpiece. Camilla stepped forward and, in front of everyone, straightened the worn tie I was wearing. Her eyes, however, were ice. She leaned in, her voice low enough only for me to hear: “Jensen. Just keep obeying. I’ll keep you for life.” Then she turned back to the audience, her eyes glistening with crocodile tears. “Jensen made a mistake, but our corporation is offering him a chance for full rehabilitation.” “This is the compassion of the law, and it is the culture of our company.” The room exploded with applause. Camilla and Preston stood side-by-side, soaking up the adulation. Preston seized the moment, announcing the creation of the “Integrity and Ethics Fund.” “Jensen Cole will serve as its counter-ambassador, a warning to future generations.” I stood in the shadows, accepting the applause that was actually directed at my destruction. After the event, I was in the hotel alley, emptying a trash bin. A black sedan was parked nearby. The window was slightly lowered, and I saw Preston’s profile. He was on the phone, his stage persona completely gone. “Did you get the victim’s family agitated?” “Yes. Do it today.” “Let them raise hell. The bigger the mess, the better.” “Make sure he’s ruined. This time, he won’t ever stand up again.” The next morning, Camilla’s calls blew up my phone. Her voice was panicked, frantic. “Jensen, where are you? Get down to the South End demolition site immediately!” “The victim’s family from the old case—they’re on the roof of a condemned building, threatening to jump!” “They’re demanding you. Calling you the corrupt lawyer, saying you owe them a life!” My heart dropped. It was the setup. It had finally arrived. “I won’t go,” I said, cold and dead. “I’m a doorman now. This is a police matter.” “You have to go!” Camilla shrieked. “The media is there! If anyone dies, the company’s reputation is finished!” “That’s your problem.” “Jensen Cole! Do it for your own redemption, then! If you don’t go, your parents are already on the scene. The family is hysterical. If they hurt them…” I hung up immediately and hailed a cab toward the South End. My mother called moments later. Wailing hysterically. “Jensen! You have to fix the mess you made!” “Don’t drag Preston and Camilla into this! Get down here! They have knives!” I gripped the phone hard. I knew it was a trap. But I had to go. Not just for my parents, but for the victim’s family. For five years, I had tried to reach them. Preston, to escape, had not only falsified evidence but had also paid them a fortune to point the finger at me as the orchestrator of the frame-up. When I arrived, it wasn’t a demolition site. It was an abandoned psychiatric facility. There was no media, no crowd. As soon as I stepped into the main lobby, the heavy iron door slammed shut behind me. Several large men in white orderly uniforms emerged from the shadows. They held stun batons and restraints. The man leading them was familiar. Ronan Miller. The victim’s older brother. He was heavier than five years ago, his face scarred, his eyes full of malice. “Mr. Cole. Long time no see.” He grinned, tapping the stun baton against his palm. “Ronan, how much did Preston pay you this time?” I stared at him, keeping my voice steady. “Pay?” Ronan spat on the floor. “Preston says you’re trying to overturn the case, trying to dirty his name again.” “But… he says you’re probably insane. Mentally ill. And in need of ‘treatment.’” I took a step back, my spine against the damp wall. “You believe that? You know the truth, Ronan. You always did.” “Truth?” Ronan charged me, slamming the baton into my shoulder. A muffled cry of pain escaped me. I dropped to one knee. “The truth is my sister is dead! And you, the accomplice, are still breathing!” The other orderlies swarmed me, pinning me to the floor. Restraint cuffs were cinched tight around my wrists and ankles. “Let me go! This is unlawful detention!” I struggled. “Unlawful?” Ronan held up a document, shaking it in my face. Mandatory Commitment Consent Form. My mother’s signature was scrawled at the bottom. “Your own mother signed it. Says you’re a severe schizophrenic with violent tendencies. We have full authority to ‘treat’ you.” Ronan put his phone on speaker and dialed a number. My mother’s voice came through, loud and chillingly clear: “Yes. Just keep him locked up. Don’t let him cause any more trouble.” “Preston’s company is going public soon. We can’t have him around.” “I’ll pretend I never had this son. It’s the least I can do for the family.” In that moment, a despair settled over me. It was heavier than the guilty verdict five years ago. “Hear that, lunatic?” Ronan sneered, pulling out a syringe. The needle glinted under the weak light. “This is a custom sedative. One shot, and a god could be reduced to a vegetable.” The instant the ice-cold fluid plunged into my neck, my vision blurred. My consciousness began to splinter. I tried to bite my tongue, to stay awake, but it was useless. In the haze, I saw a hallucination: my father stroking my back. My mother wiping away a tear. “It’s okay, my little boy…” I nodded silently, a small, sad smile touching my lips. “Jensen Cole… Jensen Cole…” Someone was calling my name. The sound was distant, yet close. Just as I thought I would fall into the darkness forever. BANG! A shattering sound ripped through the desperate silence.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389775”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When Rhett Maxwell won his Academy Award for Best Actor. A headline instantly went viral: #RhettMaxwell:ThePlatonicIdeal? The top comment read: Oh, please. Don’t make Rhett laugh. The accompanying photo was his notoriously predatory stare at his co-star, Stella Reed, during their press tour. Even I was dragged back into the conversation, cornered by a reporter: “As the lead actress in Rhett Maxwell’s breakout series, do you think he’s the Platonic Ideal?” I hesitated, then gave a vague, harmless answer: “I… guess so. He’s a genuinely good person and always respectful of his colleagues.” For that, their fans flooded my social media with tens of thousands of hateful comments, calling me a D-lister riding coattails, clearly just jealous of their perfect romance. Later, on a reality show, the question was inevitably brought up again by a host looking for a soundbite. This time, I had the perfect, non-committal answer ready: “Oh, I really wouldn’t know anything about that.” But Rhett slowly lifted his eyes, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “Whether I’m Platonic or not, you honestly don’t know?” 1 #RhettMaxwell:ThePlatonicIdeal? The hashtag shot up the trending list. The comments were a unified wall of mockery: Oh, please. Don’t make Rhett laugh. Can we stop pushing this ‘pure fantasy’ narrative on our guy? Rhett: ‘Platonic—what’s that even look like?’ I bet Rhett is the type who’ll romance you but never stop. Lies. He’s the type who doesn’t romance you and still won’t stop! My agent, Celia, expressionless, clicked on the second trending topic and shoved the phone in front of me. I paused, slowly scrolling through the thread. I’m done. Rhett’s eyes on Stella Reed practically screamed ‘I want to devour you.’ And people are still calling him Platonic?? Clearly some washed-up ex-cast member is jealous… I’m so disgusted. I actually shipped those two back when she was the lead in his very first show, the one he did at nineteen. Now I feel like I ate dirt. That was years ago. Look at Rhett’s status now. That woman is going to be on the same reality show as our Rhella (Rhett + Stella) couple. I beg her not to interrupt their moment… She absolutely will. She’s going to try to stir up some ‘old flame’ drama. “You have two options right now,” Celia said, her voice tight with disapproval. “You can either lean into the hate and ride the ‘Black and Red’ route, like they’re suggesting. Or, you can tuck your tail and fade into the background around Rhett Maxwell and Stella Reed. Minimize your existence.” I let out a soft “Mmm.” Celia ground her teeth. “Did you not think before you answered that reporter?” I sighed. “What was I supposed to say? ‘No, Rhett Maxwell is absolutely not Platonic’?” She stared at me, speechless. “You say you don’t know, you aren’t sure, it’s none of your business. Isn’t that enough?” I froze for a moment. Right. It was precisely because I knew the truth so clearly that a neutral answer hadn’t even registered as an option. The first thing I reached for was a lie. “Forget it,” Celia waved a dismissive hand. “It’s the journalists looking for clicks who are the real problem.” Rhett Maxwell’s career had been on a meteoric rise since he was nineteen. Now, he was an A-list star whose name was synonymous with box office gold. But every time the media discussed his love life, I was inevitably dragged out. He had always maintained easy, professional relationships with all his leading ladies. Except for me. The lead in his first series at nineteen, I was the one he’d had a messy, public fallout with. But as the years passed, even the lingering hatred had faded, leaving us as two strangers with a shared, distant, emotionally flat public history. That was until Rhett and Stella’s latest blockbuster hit the theaters. They were electric on screen—not lovers, but the connection between their characters was undeniable. It had earned them a legion of passionate fans. To capitalize on the buzz, they were appearing on a low-key, slice-of-life reality show. And as luck would have it, I’d been invited, too. 2 In the sprawling, high-end villa. I sat quietly in a corner, waiting. The room stirred when Rhett Maxwell and Stella Reed entered last, the undeniable main event. Everyone stood to greet them, and I followed suit, but kept my mouth shut. Stella, however, walked straight over to me, extending her hand. “You must be June Hall, right? I’ve heard so much about you.” The atmosphere immediately stiffened into something awkward and forced. I managed a slight smile. “Hello.” Rhett glanced over nonchalantly, then took a seat on the diagonally opposite side of the large living space. He wouldn’t acknowledge me, and I certainly wouldn’t acknowledge him. Stella gave a brief nod, then turned and sat down next to Rhett. I clung to Celia’s instructions. Do not look at Rhett. If necessary, be a cheerleader for his and Stella’s interactions, just to avoid being branded a jealous villain by the viewers. One of the other actresses, who seemed to be close to Stella, gave me a saccharine smile. “So, June, what’s your best-known work?” My best-known work? I had a new series premiering in the fall, but it hadn’t aired yet. Before that— The breakout streaming show with Rhett seven years ago had amassed astonishing viewership. Even after seven years of living and working abroad, I knew a lot of people still remembered my name because of it. “Nothing, really,” I said calmly. Silence fell across the room. I felt a heavy, weighted gaze land on me. I smiled again, forcing a lightness. “I have a new series coming out this fall, but before that, I haven’t really had a ‘best-known’ one.” I knew the script. The moment I mentioned Rhett Maxwell’s name or that old show, the fans would crucify me for trying to ‘steal their thunder.’ Stella unconsciously glanced at Rhett. Seeing no reaction, she smiled brightly. “We’ll definitely be sure to support it when it comes out.” “That’s very kind of you,” I replied politely. Stella didn’t pursue the conversation, instead turning to Rhett to share a quiet word. The other guests were already wearing that ‘OMG, I’m watching a rom-com’ expression. The cameras were, as expected, locked on them. I finally let out a silent breath, using the opportunity to discreetly study him. Seven years on, Rhett hadn’t changed much physically, but he carried a deeper sense of maturity. Yet, that undercurrent of casual arrogance still defined his every move. When he wasn’t smiling, there was an aggressive edge around his eyes. Like now. I could tell instantly that he was in a genuinely terrible mood. But Stella said something, and the tension around his jaw softened, just for a moment. Stella was called ‘Rhett Maxwell’s Perfect Leading Lady’ for a reason. She had that beautiful, delicate, ‘white rabbit’ quality. They certainly looked the part of Hollywood’s golden couple. I pulled my gaze away. 3 The first day of shooting felt like a success, for me anyway. I’d survived. But before the second day, I checked the comments for the first episode. I am so over June Hall. Can she stop with the playing coy routine? Who doesn’t know about that one show she did with Rhett? Just trying to get Rhett’s attention, obviously. Honestly, no one cares. LOL, June Hall trying to generate heat. Did you see the look Rhett gave her? Pure disgust and total annoyance. He probably just knows his perfect little show is about to be ruined. Thank God for our beautiful, sweet Stella for even bothering to talk to her. …I had miscalculated. I was still getting eviscerated. I was invited by the director! I was there for the paycheck, the show was there for the ratings. I wasn’t there to destroy their perfect celebrity romance! Seeing the frustration harden on my face, Stella walked over. Her voice was soft, but direct: “Since you left the industry, why did you decide to come back now?” Her voice was just low enough for only the two of us to hear. I paused, recognizing the sharp edge of her hostility. I answered honestly. “I’m not trying to take Rhett from you. Our history is actually pretty toxic.” Her smile faltered, her light-colored eyes fixed on mine. “Take him?” she whispered. “Honey, you flatter yourself.” She turned and walked away. Watching her back, I met Rhett’s eyes across the room. He didn’t look away. His dark, unwavering gaze swept over me. It settled, completely empty of emotion. Only when Stella spoke to him did he finally break the connection. … The theme for today’s shoot: The Cozy Villa Life: Truth or Dare. I had a terrible feeling about this. Sure enough, the game started. Stella lost several times, and each time, she was asked about her first impression of Rhett, or funny anecdotes from their set. I was starting to relax. My name probably wouldn’t even come up. Until Rhett lost. One of the male actors chuckled. “Truth or Dare, Rhett?” Rhett answered coolly, “Dare.” A low wave of excitement rippled through the room. He was the first to choose Dare. The actor didn’t make up a challenge; he drew a pre-written card. [Choose one person of the opposite sex present and hold a stare for ten seconds.] Everyone cheered. I laughed along, until I realized Rhett was looking at me. Me: “…?” The corner of his eye lifted, his gaze light and detached on my face. I froze. Just as his thin lips parted to speak. I shot to my feet. “Excuse me, I need the ladies’ room. Sudden stomach ache.” I hurried out. I knew he wouldn’t actually pick me. But my heart had skipped a beat, and I reacted entirely on instinct, needing to escape. I returned ten minutes later. They had moved through several more rounds, and I assumed Rhett and Stella had already done their ten-second stare. I let out a shaky sigh. Of course, the very next hand, I lost. I immediately chose Truth. I couldn’t risk some ridiculous Dare that would make me a spectacle. The very next second. The actress who was close to Stella smiled innocently. “So, June, about that interview you gave where you called Rhett ‘Platonic’? Why exactly did you say that?” Her curiosity was disarmingly fake. I stiffened. She was intentionally bringing up the thing that had gotten me publicly shamed, setting me up to be dragged through the mud again. I stayed silent for a moment, then shook my head. “I was misquoted. I didn’t clearly hear the word ‘Platonic’ and answered too quickly.” She wasn’t letting up. “Well, you’ve heard it clearly now. What do you think?” No one jumped in to save me. Even the camera crew nearby waited for my answer, hungry for the high drama and high ratings it would bring. I gave them a smooth, objective, and utterly cold smile. “Regarding that, I really wouldn’t know anything about it.” She scoffed, obviously disappointed. The other guests who were hoping for some gossip also looked deflated. Stella maintained a polite, placid smile, saying nothing. Just as I let out a breath, believing the ordeal was over. Rhett slowly lifted his eyes, settling on me. “Whether I’m Platonic or not, you honestly don’t know?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389774”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was Christmas Eve, and I was watching the snow fall with my daughter when my phone vibrated. “Aubrey.” The long-lost sound of that name—my name—made the knife I was using to slice oranges stop dead in mid-air. Five years ago, my parents and my brother had conspired to kick me out of the house, all to appease their precious adopted daughter, the fake Harrington princess. They’d even publicly disowned me. I couldn’t fathom why Garrett Harrington, the golden boy, the high-and-mighty prince of the entire dynasty, would condescend to call me now. “Who is this?” I asked, my voice flat. Silence stretched for a moment, then his voice came back, thick with a pathetic sob and a plea. “I’m at your gate, Aubrey. The snow is heavy. Please… just see me, big brother. Just for a minute.” “Mom is dying. She wants to see you one last time.” My gate? I peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our den. Beyond the elaborate iron gates of our estate, the man who had once been the most arrogant person I knew was kneeling in the snow. He was covered in a fresh layer of white, utterly humbled. I saw the purple tinge of his exposed skin, but all I could feel was the echo of my own despair on the night they drove me out. I turned, letting my husband pull me into a hug, and spoke into the phone with a chilling lack of emotion. “My apologies, but you know I haven’t had a family for a very long time.” With that, I yanked the heavy velvet drapes shut, obliterating the image of the man kneeling in the storm. Done. Cut him out. 1 “Who was it, Aubrey?” My husband, Damon Blackwell, walked over and held a perfectly peeled orange slice to my mouth. I bit down. The sweet, sharp burst of citrus in my mouth was just strong enough to suppress the strange, almost unwelcome flicker of anxiety in my chest. “Insurance,” I lied casually, placing the phone face-down on the marble counter. The snow outside was growing heavier, turning the glass into a thick, white canvas. That figure, kneeling beyond the gates, was now just a blurry black dot. But I knew Garrett Harrington was still there. The same brother who had pushed me down a flight of stairs while I had a 104-degree fever, just because his precious Joss was having a tantrum. The same one who had pointed a finger at my face and called me a “cuckoo snake that had taken another’s nest.” Now, he was kneeling like a whipped dog at my door. “That’s a persistent insurance agent,” Damon murmured, glancing toward the window. His eyes narrowed slightly. He walked to the window, lightly nudged a gap in the curtain. “Looks like this salesman is planning to freeze to death on our property.” I barely shrugged, changing the channel to a holiday movie marathon. “Let him. It’s bad luck, yes, but we can just sell the house next year.” Damon let out a soft laugh and returned to my side, his long arm wrapping around me. “Whatever my wife wants.” My phone vibrated again. A tireless death knell. Exasperated, I picked it up, ready to block the number. A message popped up—a photo attachment. It was a picture from an ICU. Eleanor Harrington, once the picture of polished, aristocratic grace, was now skeletal and connected to a web of tubes. Her face was the color of old parchment. Garrett’s subsequent message flashed: “Aubrey, Mom really is fading.” “The doctor says tonight is it.” “Joss isn’t here. Mom keeps calling your name. She wants you.” “I’m begging you. Just come and look. After that, you can take any revenge you want.” My finger hovered over the screen. Revenge? I was long past that age. Five years ago, on a night as snowy as this one, I was thrown out of the Harrington estate. Penniless, burning up with a monstrous fever, I slept under a bridge. That night, I left every tear, every bit of Aubrey Harrington I used to be, freezing on that pavement. “Mommy, I want that red candy!” My daughter, Hazel’s, soft voice yanked me back. I put the phone down, smiling as I unwrapped a candy and fed it to her. Looking at her innocent face, I realized that, yes, some things did need closure. Not just for me, but to truly put the ghost of the Aubrey who died in that snow five years ago to rest. I stood up and reached for the coat hanging on the rack. Damon didn’t ask a single question. He simply picked up his car keys, helped me into my coat, and wrapped my scarf carefully around my neck. “Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s see what kind of a performance they’re putting on.” The heavy door swung open. A blast of cold air and snow hit us. Garrett was frozen stiff. Hearing the sound, he lifted his head with agonizing slowness. His eyebrows and lashes were thick with white frost. The moment he saw me, his previously dead eyes flared with a desperate light. “Aubrey…” He tried to stand, but his legs were frozen and numb. He pitched forward, falling face-first into the snow. The same man who had been the swaggering, untouchable Harrington heir. The man who had slapped me in public to defend Jocelyn. Now, he didn’t even have the strength to stand up. I looked down at him, my expression utterly devoid of warmth, like I was staring at a broken piece of rusted metal. “Garrett.” My voice was quiet, cutting clearly through the howling wind. “Lead the way.” If they wanted to play the dutiful son and the repentant mother, I’d indulge them. This was the final, ugly curtain call the Harringtons owed me. 2 The hospital corridor reeked of acrid antiseptic. Garrett was shaking the entire way—I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the proximity of death. Damon walked beside me, his hand clasping mine, his palm dry and warm, an anchor in the sterile cold. We stopped outside the VIP suite. Garrett turned to me, his eyes wide with pathetic supplication. “Aubrey, when we go in… please don’t upset Mom.” “She can’t take any stress right now.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed. In the dead quiet of the hallway, the sound was harsh and brittle. “Garrett, are you missing the point?” I smoothed the cuff of my coat, looking at him with detached boredom. “You’re the one who was kneeling in the snow begging me to come.” “I’m not here to play the role of the devoted daughter. If you want a performance, that’ll cost you. And it’s a price you can’t afford.” Garrett’s face drained of color. His lips trembled, but he didn’t have a single word of rebuttal. He pushed the door open. The room was warm, almost oppressively so. The rhythmic beeping and dripping of various machines wove together a soundtrack of finality. On the bed, Eleanor Harrington was gasping, struggling for air. Hearing the door, she labored to turn her head. When her cloudy eyes landed on me, they actually welled up with tears. “Aubrey… my Aubrey…” She stretched out a skeletal hand, grasping for empty air. “My… daughter…” To an outsider, the scene would have been heartbreaking. But I was Aubrey. I was the daughter she had called a “bad omen,” the one she’d locked in the basement for three days and nights just to humor her precious adopted girl. I stood at the foot of the bed, unwilling to move closer. I was looking at a stranger about to die. “I’ve seen the person,” I said, turning my gaze to Garrett. My voice was cold. “Anything else? If not, I’m leaving. We have a holiday dinner to make at home.” Before Garrett could speak, a person stood up from the sofa in the corner. The lighting had been dim, and I hadn’t noticed her. The woman sitting in the shadows, peeling an apple. Jocelyn. The usurper, the fake princess, the one who had ruined the first half of my life. She was wearing a long, simple white dress, her eyes red, as if she’d been crying for hours. “Sister.” Her voice was soft and weak, melting like sugar. “How can you speak to Mom like that?” “She’s so sick, can’t you just let go of the past?” “It was all my fault before. I made you angry. If you want to blame someone, blame me, but please don’t stress Mom…” As she spoke, she started to drop to her knees. It was the same manipulative performance she’d perfected five years ago. The moment she knelt and cried, the whole family would immediately conclude that I was the aggressor. And sure enough. Garrett, who had just been wallowing in guilt over me, instinctively lunged forward to catch her. “Joss! Your health! Don’t move!” That sudden, unfeigned concern and worry—it wasn’t an act. I watched the ridiculous scene, only feeling amusement. This was Garrett’s claim that “Jocelyn isn’t here”? This was the “just see you one last time” plea? Damon suddenly stepped in front of me. He didn’t even look at Jocelyn. He spoke directly to Garrett, his voice laced with ice. “Since your devoted daughter is here to fulfill her duties, my wife is no longer needed.” “Aubrey, we’re leaving.” Damon put an arm around me, ready to turn. “Stop right there!” A furious roar came from the adjoining suite in the room. Arthur Harrington, the head of the family, my biological father, strode out. He was still well-preserved, his authority intimidating. But the look in his eyes when he saw me was the same blend of contempt and disdain. “Since you’re here, who told you you could leave before finishing what you came for?” Arthur pointed at me, his tone as commanding as if he were addressing a disobedient subordinate. “Your mother held on just to wait for you.” “If you have a shred of decency left, you’ll go sign the papers now!” Sign? I frowned. What papers? A will? A DNR? Garrett’s eyes suddenly darted away, unable to meet mine. Jocelyn lowered her head, a strange, faint smirk playing on her lips. A wave of dread washed over me. “Sign what?” I asked. Arthur scoffed and slammed a document down from the bedside table. SMACK. It landed right in front of me. “The Organ Donation Consent Form.” 3 The room instantly fell into a terrifying silence. I looked down at the document on the floor. The bold typeface of the title seemed to twist into a malicious grin. Living Kidney Donor Consent Form. In the space for the recipient, two names were starkly written: Jocelyn Harrington. I snapped my head up to look at Eleanor. She was still crying. But in her eyes, there was none of the remorse or motherly love she had manufactured moments ago. Only an intense, greedy, almost crazed desperation. “Aubrey…” Her voice trembled as she spoke the most cruel words imaginable. “Jocelyn… she has kidney failure…” “The doctors say… your kidney is the best match…” “Mom is dying… I’m leaving you…” “Can you… can you take care of Jocelyn for me? For your mother?” “Give her your kidney… Just this one thing… to fulfill my last wish…” Boom. Something detonated in my skull. So that was it. That was the whole plan! The deathbed repentance, the kneeling in the snow, the last-gasp plea for a reunion. All of it was a lie. All of it was bait. They hadn’t tricked me into coming home for love. They had tricked me into coming back to harvest my organs. What was I to them? A standby blood bank? A mobile organ depot for Jocelyn? Five years ago, she needed blood, and despite my own weak state, I gave her 400cc. She repaid me by claiming I pushed her down the stairs. Now, five years later, they wanted to lie and manipulate me onto an operating table for her! I turned to Garrett. The man who had knelt in the snow for three hours, claiming, “Please see your brother.” He was now staring intently at the tips of his own shoes. “You knew?” I asked him. My voice was quiet, like a dissipating wisp of smoke. Garrett flinched violently and finally raised his head. His eyes were red, and his response was full of self-pitying justification. “Aubrey, Joss is so young…” “She can’t let her life be ruined like this.” “You’re the older sister. You’re healthy. Losing one kidney won’t kill you.” “And… and if you agree, I can split my Harrington Corp. shares with you! Dad and Mom will forgive your mistakes and let you back into the family trust!” Ha. Ha, ha. I laughed until tears stung my eyes. Back into the family trust? Who the hell wanted a place on that decaying, toxic ledger? “Garrett Harrington.” I walked toward him, one deliberate step after another. With every step, a final thread of whatever biological kinship I still felt snapped. “When you were kneeling in the snow, were you thinking, ‘Once I get her inside, she can’t escape’?” “When I opened the door, were you laughing at my stupidity?” Garrett’s face was chalk-white, and he instinctively backed away. “No, Aubrey… I really wanted you to come home…” “Home?” I snatched the document off the floor and slammed it, hard, into his face. The sharp edge of the paper sliced his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. “This is your welcome-home gift?” “Cut a piece of my body out to give life to your precious little sister?” “Garrett, you disgust me.” On the bed, Eleanor suddenly broke into a violent, rattling cough. The monitors let out a shrill alarm. Jocelyn shrieked and rushed to the bedside. “Mom! Mom, don’t stress!” She spun around, tears streaming down her face, and pointed a condemning finger at me. “Aubrey Harrington! Do you want to kill her, too?” “It’s just one kidney! How can you be so selfish?” “Mom is dying! This is her one final wish! Can’t you grant her even that?” Arthur, shaking with rage, raised his hand and charged at me. “You wicked brat! I’ll beat you, you ungrateful daughter!” “If you won’t sign it, then don’t blame me for using force!” “Guards! Tie her down and get her onto an operating table!” With his shout, four burly men burst through the door from the hallway. This was clearly an ambush, a setup. If the soft approach failed, they were prepared to use force. Garrett stood by, closing his eyes, tacitly consenting to the coming assault. “Aubrey, don’t blame your brother.” “Joss really can’t wait.” The four bodyguards closed in. I stood my ground, unmoving. Because I knew I didn’t have to move. A long, elegant hand shot out and caught Arthur’s descending palm in a vice grip. Damon stood in front of me. He was a mountain, utterly impassable. He applied a tiny bit of pressure, and Arthur cried out in pain, stumbling backward in an undignified mess. “Touch my wife?” Damon’s voice was no longer the gentle one I knew. It was utterly devoid of warmth, radiating a chilling, predatory threat. He scanned the room. Where his gaze landed, the four bodyguards froze, unwilling to take another step. “It seems, Arthur, that your business hasn’t been doing well these past few years.” “But you’ve certainly mastered the methods of a common thug.” Arthur clutched his wrist, staring at Damon in shocked disbelief. “Who the hell are you? Do you think you can interfere with Harrington family business?” “Who am I?” Damon gave a slow, chilling smile. He deliberately pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped the hand that had touched Arthur. Then, he dropped the cloth into the waste bin. “Allow me to introduce myself.” “I’m Damon Blackwell.” “I am also the largest shareholder in this hospital.” “And I am… the ‘mysterious buyer’ who is currently acquiring, and about to dismantle, Harrington Corporation.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389773”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After Declan Rhys cheated, I returned the favor. He would publicly make out with his latest fling in tabloids; I would stage a highly suggestive paparazzi shot with a young, impossibly handsome actor. The intimate photos of him and Sally Adler would fly around the dark web; I’d send him a chillingly realistic deepfake of me in a luxury resort suite. Declan barely contained his fury, his eyes simmering with a cruel amusement as he finally walked up to me. “I’m taking Sally out tonight. It’s her birthday. Go on, find someone to celebrate your own birthday with,” he challenged, his voice dangerously low. “If you end up sitting alone tonight, don’t even try to pretend you’re above me.” I meticulously applied a deep crimson lipstick, my hand steady. I met his gaze in the mirror, letting my casual tone be the final insult. “Don’t worry about me. He’s already on his way to pick me up.” That person was him. The eighteen-year-old version of him. The one who put me first, who was pure devotion, the boy who would undoubtedly agree to my ultimate birthday wish. … 1 The sickening thwack of the glass, followed by the sickening sound of my ornate vanity mirror shattering into a spiderweb of cracks, jolted me. Before I could process the shock, Declan’s hand clamped down on my wrist, his grip bruising. “April Hale, are you done? Does getting back at me make you feel this good?!” Maybe it did. After all, Declan found a new woman when he drank, another on a business trip, and yet another when he went on vacation. He was relentlessly, exhaustingly unfaithful. My calm expression seemed to drive him past the breaking point. He gritted his teeth, his jaw ticking. “Who is he?” “Someone you wouldn’t recognize.” The very words he’d used to push me to the edge of sanity, I could now deliver with an icy detachment. A cold, humorless laugh escaped him. “Perfect. You’re really proving you’re capable of anything.” The next second, his strained patience snapped. He roared, “Where did he touch you? Tell me!” Declan began tearing at my cocktail dress, his eyes scanning my body like I was a piece of incriminating evidence. “Here? Was it here?” I wrenched myself free and slapped him across the face, the sound echoing in the silent room. “Declan, you bastard!” It was only when he saw the involuntary, purely physiological tears welling in my eyes that his feverish rage subsided, softening his tone to something darkly paternal. “If you’re only inventing these stories to anger me because I’m missing your birthday, you’re being tragically petty.” He pulled a silk-lined velvet box from his suit pocket. As he did, a small, soiled piece of lace lingerie fluttered to the floor. I was used to it. I’d found used contraceptives under our sheets, and strange, novelty items in the kitchen drawer. This scrap of underwear was minor, a footnote to the rot. A flicker of panic crossed Declan’s face, but he quickly smoothed it over, pretending nothing had happened. “Here. Happy birthday.” He shoved the box at me. “Take it and stop being so dramatic.” I took the box, a tiny, foolish seed of hope—for a normal moment, a normal gift—sprouting in my chest. But when I opened it, nestled against the silk lining was a grotesque, decaying dead rat. The putrid smell hit me instantly. I screamed, dropping the box. “It’s Sally’s idea of a prank,” he said dismissively, not even looking at the box. “I’ll get you a proper diamond later.” Replacing my prenatal vitamins with miscarriage-inducing medication was her “prank.” Tampering with the brakes on my car was her “prank.” The excuse was worn and rotten, much like the gift. I grabbed disinfectant wipes and furiously scrubbed my hands. My voice was dull. “You don’t need to explain. I didn’t say I wanted your gift.” That simple statement seemed to ignite a fresh, uncontrollable blaze of fury in him. He swept his arm across a nearby table, sending expensive porcelain crashing to the floor. “So you expected the other man to buy you one! April Hale, stop this pathetic act! You’re putting on this show just to get me to settle down and come home! Well, dream on!” With that final, explosive declaration, he grabbed a bulk box of contraceptives from a drawer and stormed out, not looking back. The water I had spilled on myself was scalding, but I barely noticed the burning. I stood amidst the wreckage, my heart a heavy, sinking weight. Eighteen-year-old Declan would never have done this. He had given me a huge bouquet of baby’s breath—my favorite—and, like a giddy teenage boy, showed me the tattoo of my name on his collarbone. He had held me close, a desperate, fearful devotion in his eyes. “April, I promise. I’ll grant you any birthday wish you have.” Eventually, I pulled back from the boy’s embrace and looked him dead in the eyes. “My birthday wish is to divorce your future self.” 2 Staring at the stark white divorce papers, the eighteen-year-old Declan’s eyes welled with tears. “Did… did he hurt you?” The boy in front of me couldn’t possibly imagine. Seven years ago, we were sharing a cramped studio apartment, looking at the city lights and dreaming about our future. I witnessed him earn his first serious capital. Later, Declan exploded onto the real estate scene, eventually making it to the top of the Forbes list. In his acceptance speeches, he always thanked the “fierce and gentle April Hale from my youth.” The social circle called us a fairytale couple. When did that love curdle into this poison? It was the night he got blackout drunk and called me from another woman’s bed. I listened, self-destructively, to the sickening sounds all night. I found the courage to ask him, my eyes swollen and raw after three days of him being gone: “You promised you’d never change…” Declan, reeking of cheap perfume, gently embraced me. “I haven’t broken my promise. I still love you.” He paused, then added, “But Savannah, and Tiffany, and Lexi—they’re all waiting for me too. They’re crying just as hard as you.” I naively tried to fight them off, thinking if I just chased away these women, the marriage would be safe. I was delusional. Those women were just the tip of the iceberg. Declan grew steadily worse, sleeping with my college friends, my work colleagues, and even close acquaintances. Before I could confront him about the extent of his betrayal, Declan delivered a chilling warning, his voice disturbingly calm: “If you keep digging, you’ll only make this marriage uglier. Don’t humiliate yourself further.” Then came the clincher. “Your mother’s private medical care is a sensitive subject.” It was an undisguised threat. That was the first time I realized with utter terror that the twenty-five-year-old Declan was entirely disconnected from the boy he used to be. The young Declan wiped the tear from my cheek and, with a trembling hand, signed the divorce papers. He wept, apologizing for the monster he would become seven years later. I blew out the candles on the cake he had brought, and felt a profound, exhausted sense of release. I should have done this a long time ago. On every massive digital billboard in the city, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY Sally ADLER were scrolling. Paparazzi had captured Declan and Sally kissing in the panoramic window of a waterfront penthouse, then taking her to an exclusive, high-roller auction where a multi-million-dollar drone light show exploded over the city skyline. I looked at the putrid, rotting rat on my floor and offered a dry, self-deprecating smile. The wives in my circle would soon be mocking me. “Can’t even hold onto her own husband. Such a defeat.” “Sally must be his ninety-ninth conquest, right? April is still the undisputed champion of the Cuckold Club.” “Well, her uterus is useless. No babies, no leverage.” … Every word on the screen felt like a fresh sting. When I had the car accident and lost my ability to have children, I had managed to frantically dial Declan’s video phone. The first thing I saw was Declan, draped around my closest friend, impatiently snapping, “Stop checking up on me! All it does is make me sick to look at you!” He hung up, and I lost my chance at a family. He had once picked out the names “Milo” and “Stella” for our future children. I only learned from Sally’s Instagram that those were the names he’d given her two Pomeranians. Declan had been hinting at the end for a long time. That evening, I was packing my suitcase when the door violently crashed inward. Declan stood there, his face thunderous, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “April Hale! You drug Sally and then try to run? You have a death wish!” 3 Before I could react, a sudden, blinding slap across my face made my head swim. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood and sneered, “Is this the new foreplay?” Declan scoffed, then threw a pile of glossy photographs at my face. The pictures showed Sally half-dressed, dancing suggestively with other men. In one shot from the auction, she was on a stage, allowing herself to be publicly bid on. “You knew I was taking Sally to that private auction, and you had the audacity to drug her! You ruined her reputation!” Declan’s veins were bulging on his forehead. I remembered when a client had groped my leg at a business dinner, and Declan had only advised me to “be subtle” for the sake of the deal, never offering an explanation or apology. But Sally merely suffered a public embarrassment, and he was completely unhinged. I pressed my lips together, fighting the bitter burn. “I have better things to do than to orchestrate your mistress’s humiliation.” Just then, Sally rushed out of the car, dissolving into a theatrically shaky, tearful mess. “Mrs. Rhys, the server said you bought me the drinks! I didn’t know you’d hurt me like this! Waaaah… I can’t face anyone now! Just put me out of my misery!” She grabbed my hand and started hitting herself with it. Declan looked at me with pure, unadulterated contempt. “April, what do you have to say for yourself now?” “I’ve spoiled you rotten! First, you fabricate a lover to provoke me, and now you attack Sally. You are truly hopeless!” His cold stare pierced me, leaving me feeling utterly exhausted. “I said I didn’t! I don’t care what games you play outside! I stopped caring a long time ago!” A flicker of surprise crossed Declan’s face. Then, Sally opened her phone and began a live stream, making a show of ripping her clothes. “That’s right! I lied! I falsely accused Mrs. Rhys! I’m the one who’s trashy and wants to sell myself! I’ll start now!” Her performance of faux desperation instantly flustered Declan. He grabbed her arm tightly, his face etched with genuine, sickening concern. “I know it’s not your fault, Sally. Don’t do anything crazy.” The next second, his lethal gaze landed back on me. “You are the one who messed up! Why don’t you stream yourself taking your clothes off? One piece, ten thousand dollars.” I stared up at him, my voice a painful rasp. “You want me to live-stream a striptease?” “Declan Rhys, dream on! I don’t need your dirty money!” Declan let out a cold laugh, pulling out his own phone and performing a quick transaction. Immediately, my mother’s hospital called, their tone frantic. “Mrs. Hale, our system is showing your account is frozen. We can’t delay your mother’s procedure any longer!” 4 The world stopped. I felt a seismic shift under my feet, unable to believe what I had heard. I looked up at Declan’s triumphant, sickeningly smug expression. “How about now? Tell me, do you need my money now?” I was petrified, every breath shuddering out of me. “Declan Rhys, you’re despicable! You’re lower than dirt!” The man who, when he became successful, couldn’t wait to lavish me with the world’s most precious gifts. He used to say, “You’re more valuable than my life. These jewels can’t compare to you.” Now, he was using a bank account to choke the life out of me. With the sound of the hospital’s desperate calls ringing in my ears, I finally broke. I bowed to the ugly reality. Facing Sally’s live camera, I numbly began to unbutton my coat. The live chat was a torrent of vile comments. “She’s gotta be a D-cup! Never looked like this on TV!” “The CEO’s wife? Never thought she’d stoop this low.” “All that high-class pretense, just to put on a show for us average guys in the end!” … The crowd around us—full of local wealthy socialites and their entourage—grew. As I shed the next layer of clothing, a collective gasp went up. My skin felt exposed and cold. The snickering, the pitying, the leering eyes—they pinned me in place like a thousand sharp needles. “That’s what happens to a woman with no spine. Worse than being the mistress.” “A disgrace to the Billionaire Wives’ Club. Pathetic.” … Declan had elevated me to the First Lady of the city’s elite, and now he was degrading me into their worst joke. He stood there, perfectly composed, only the rapid flicker in his eyes betraying his internal strain. Sally eagerly zoomed the camera in, offering an invasive, close-up view of my exposed body. “Look at all the big spenders sending gifts, Mrs. Rhys!” “Don’t worry, Mrs. Rhys, I’ll cash it all out and give it to you. You’ve earned it, darling.” I was trembling violently. Just as the last piece of fabric slipped away, Declan moved with lightning speed, throwing his jacket over my shoulders. “Are you really this cheap, April?!” Then, he sharply leaned in and inhaled. His brow furrowed in instant confusion and distaste. “This scent…” “April, I can’t believe this! You actually went out and found a man?!” It was the first perfume eighteen-year-old Declan had ever bought me with his meager savings. He had completely forgotten. Before I could react, Declan violently ripped his jacket off me, leaving me utterly naked and exposed. “If you want to degrade yourself, fine! I’ll help you!” Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t care how many eyes were on me anymore. Finally, he tossed a bank card at me like a scrap of meat and threw all my clothes into the river. “Good job. Tell your mother I said hello.” He smugly put his arm around Sally and walked away. The next second, my phone rang—it was the hospital with my mother’s death notice. The last of the strength holding me upright instantly evaporated. As I stumbled to my feet, a sudden blow from a blunt object sent me into darkness. I was dragged into a pitch-black space. Men’s cruel laughter surrounded me. “She’s already naked, might as well be ours!” “It’s the CEO’s wife, after all. Gotta see what she tastes like.” I clawed desperate, bloody streaks across the floor, until I lost the strength to fight back… Declan called my phone repeatedly, only to get no answer. The next second, a video link popped up on his screen: “Metro’s Must-Try List” He clicked on it against his better judgment. The explicit, violent images that filled his screen instantly made his eyes turn crimson.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389772”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The whole family was filming a secret reality series without telling me. They’d convinced me I was the fake son—a narrative they planned to drop with maximum drama. After the official announcement that my blood didn’t run through their veins, they all started stealing glances at me, stifling smirks as they waited for my meltdown. My reaction, I must admit, was violent. Tears streamed down my face. I was overcome with absolute, joyous relief. I lunged across the room and pulled my sister, Delaney, into a crushing hug. “Delaney, we can finally be together!” The entire room went silent. My parents froze. Delaney stiffened. What the hell? 1 The comments section of the private livestream must have been going wild. I could practically hear the feed: [Gothic. We’ve got the forbidden romance right here! ~] [The Stone family’s faces are priceless. Who’s pranking whom, LMAO?] [This aristocratic scandal is way better than the actual prank!] If I hadn’t glanced at someone’s tablet, left open to a private streaming room, I wouldn’t have known I was about to be made a fool of on camera. Delaney’s face flushed crimson. She glared at me, spitting the words: “What are you talking about, Ashton? Stop!” My mother looked utterly appalled. “Don’t be ridiculous!” My father’s discomfort was even more pronounced. “We raised you all these years, and this is how you betray us?!” “Betrayal?” I blinked at him innocently, leaning closer to Delaney, who was trying to push me away. “Well, since you’ve confirmed we’re not biologically related, doesn’t that mean… now I can really love my sister?” I gazed at Delaney with the most sickeningly romantic devotion I could muster. She shoved my face away hard before I could actually kiss her. 2 Seeing her momentary panic, I knew I was right. This whole setup must have been her idea. She wanted my shares in the family trust, and decided a public shaming was the cleanest route. She probably expected me to throw a fit, to rage and whine like the spoiled brat she thinks I am. But I wasn’t that easy to play. If they wanted a show, I’d give them a tragedy. “Falling for my sister is clearly my sister’s fault.” I stared right into her eyes, deepening my dramatic commitment. “I used to think our connection was a fluke of genetics, running thick and slow in our veins… but today, I realized. That connection is a literal red string of destiny. My sister is my born-to-be lover.” Delaney’s face was turning the color of a stop sign. I nearly broke character and laughed. I didn’t get to recite any more of my ‘forbidden love’ manifesto, though. In the next moment, my fiancée, Kendall Shaw, walked in, sobbing dramatically, her hand tightly clasped by another guy. My internal script vanished. My mind briefly blanked. This wasn’t just a prank. This was a demolition. 3 The moment they entered, Delaney’s agitation instantly evaporated. She was now observing me with a smug, vindictive curiosity. The guy with Kendall slowly lifted his head. Oh. It was Jasper Cole. I remained frozen in place. Delaney’s sneering voice cut through the silence: “Meet my actual, biological brother. Given your new status, do you really think you’re in a position to ‘like’ me?” She was aiming the insult at me, yet it was Jasper’s face that turned paler. I almost put my head in my hands. …What an idiot. Why would you say that in front of the person you’re actually interested in? 4 Jasper’s appearance confirmed my suspicions about Delaney’s motive: she wanted the freedom to be openly intimate with him. She’d always been slow to act, but I knew about her crush. But what about Kendall? She wasn’t the type to agree to a reality show on a whim. My eyes met hers. It was like she’d received a cue. Her expression was rehearsed, and the words she spoke were designed to shatter me: “Ashton Reid, since the truth is out, our engagement is over.” I was momentarily stunned. Our engagement party was scheduled for next week. Now, she and Delaney stood, one on each side of Jasper, placing them squarely in opposition to me. I knew the camera was giving the livestream audience a close-up of my face. So, I closed my eyes, and collapsed dramatically. 5 I felt someone rush toward me. A faint scent of gardenia and expensive rose. I sighed inwardly with disappointment. Of course, it’s my sister. The moment she hoisted me up, she must have heard my tiny exhale of frustration. Her body stiffened for a second. She scoffed but held firm, dragging me away. “Mom, where should we put him? The maid’s quarters?” Delaney, you are so dead. 6 I timed my revival perfectly. Couldn’t keep the family in the streaming room waiting for too long. I opened my eyes. Well, this was the first time I’d ever been in one of the house’s small, forgotten guest rooms. A faint, lonely pang of sadness hit me. “You’re awake.” My former fiancée, Kendall, was looking at me with feigned concern. She moved to check my temperature, the old familiar gesture of pressing her forehead to mine. I flinched, pulling back. “Ms. Shaw, please maintain a respectable distance.” Kendall looked like she wanted to say a thousand things. Finally, she just gazed at me intensely: “We need to give Jasper back what we owe him, and then we can talk about us.” I stared at her, genuinely confused, until the meaning of her words sank in. I looked up abruptly, tears stinging my eyes, struggling to keep them from falling. I forced a look of wounded, exhausted innocence that I knew the camera would eat up. I fought back. “I don’t owe him anything!” Kendall held my gaze for a long time, then sighed, shaking her head as if I were a clueless child. “Eight years ago, Ashton. That fire. How are you living with yourself and still claiming innocence?” “This is everyone’s chance to help you repent.” When she finished, my tears finally fell. My face felt hot with shame, but my heart was cold with clarity. This was their ultimate purpose. Not a prank. A televised confession and execution. 7 Kendall, who hates watching me silently weep and stubbornly deny, left quickly. I waited until my composure returned, then went downstairs. They were already eating dinner. No one had waited for me. Without me, the table was all warmth and easy laughter. Everyone was clustered around Jasper like he was a visiting dignitary. My mother was serving him; my father was relaxed and smiling more genuinely than usual. Kendall, who only ever sat next to me before, was now guarding Jasper’s side. Even Delaney was distracted, glancing at him repeatedly. The smart move would have been to retreat, but Mother noticed me first. Her voice was soft. “Ashton, you’re up?” I nodded woodenly. I stared at her, motionless, looking like a abandoned stray dog, hoping for a sign of affection. She simply gestured. “You’re not feeling well, so take a seat. Don’t be shy, this is still your home.” But her eyes didn’t meet mine, and her emotional detachment fueled my panic. If this was still a prank, she was too deep in character. Jasper smiled cheerfully and pulled out the seat right next to her. “Big Brother, let’s try to get along from now on, okay?” I wanted to scream, to completely lose it. When I hesitated, Kendall moved as if to speak, perhaps to help Jasper or me. I beat her to it. I had to salvage some dignity, to appear less pathetic. I stopped just behind Delaney. Then, as everyone watched in stunned silence, I took a deep breath, leaned down, and wrapped my arms around her neck from behind. My voice trembled with theatrical desperation: “Since the engagement is off and the bloodline is broken, I won’t be the son of this family anymore… I—I want to be Delaney’s groom!” 8 The entire room froze. Delaney’s chopsticks clattered onto the table. Kendall frowned. “Ashton, if you’re angry, don’t use this to lash out. Our engagement is just a temporary measure…” My father cut her off, slamming his own chopsticks down, clearly enraged by the recurring ‘incest’ plotline. He bellowed at me: “Did you already know your trust shares were transferred to Jasper?” My mother, ever composed, corrected him, though her tone was brittle: “It wasn’t all transferred, Ashton. But he will permanently hold one percent more than you.” The hands I had wrapped around Delaney’s neck went rigid. She, too, forgot to push me away. It was then she felt the heat of my tears on her hand. This time, they weren’t for the lost money or the power struggle. They were for the symbol of that extra one percent—the scale that had been publicly and flagrantly tipped against me, toward another man. My mother seemed satisfied with my distress. She spoke with a strained patience: “If you just apologize for what happened back then, we can discuss the shares again.” “People are allowed second chances, Ashton. You can start over.” I took a deep, shaky breath, but before I could speak, Jasper suddenly erupted into sobs, completely losing control. “Mom, please don’t say any more… I don’t want to remember what happened that year!” My mind went blank. My throat was tight with bitter reality. This wasn’t a prank show. This was a televised trial. It wasn’t just my family watching; thousands of eyes were on the screen, waiting for my judgment. The second I slipped up, I would be replaced. 9 The irony was that even before the switch, Jasper’s life wasn’t bad. Few people knew he was our adopted son. His mother—a wonderful woman whom both our family and the Shaws had desperately tried to hire—had ultimately become our live-in caretaker. She died tragically in an accident. My mother, distraught, adopted Jasper immediately. We were praised as philanthropists, people of class and charity. Yet, everyone who knew the details of the accident always said it was my fault. 10 Eight years ago, when I was sixteen, a fire broke out in our home library. Jasper, coming home from school, found it first. He fought his way through the flames and managed to rescue my mother. It wasn’t until later he realized his own mother was still inside. By the time he tried to go back, it was too late. That day, the boy who lost his mother cried himself unconscious multiple times. The entire family felt a profound mix of gratitude and guilt. We announced his adoption immediately. He would have everything I had. Then, slowly, it changed. He had to have more than me. The fire investigation concluded the cause was a diffuser—a candle that had burned out and fractured. And that diffuser had been mine. 11 I’d explained my innocence countless times. I still remember every devastating word spoken. My father looked at me with cold disappointment: “I didn’t think you were such a sore loser! You lost the student council election to Jasper, didn’t you? His mother was trying to manage your feelings and didn’t even help him celebrate. And now you pull this?” Jasper, who had been withdrawn and quiet for weeks, heard his mother’s name and lifted his head, eyes red. “I was ready to leave on my own,” he whispered. “Why—why did you have to punish me like this?” “No!” I shook my head desperately. “It wasn’t me, I swear. We can check the security footage!” “The security system was destroyed by the flames,” Kendall said, having rushed over as soon as she heard the news. I turned my desperate eyes to her. Since childhood, she was always the first to defend me. But this time, she didn’t meet my gaze. She only stated the cold, objective facts: “That diffuser was a one-of-a-kind birthday gift from me. I told you specifically, Ashton, it has to be used with the electronic warming plate. You can’t just light the wick.” I stared at her, aghast. “I never took it to the library!” Delaney, who had flown back from college abroad as soon as she heard, interjected. She looked at Kendall. “Ashton has always been terrified of fire. He has never lit anything on his own.” A flicker of hope returned to my eyes. I was about to thank her, when my mother suddenly gave a cold, sharp laugh. “Shows how determined he was, doesn’t it?” My lips parted, then closed. I lowered my eyes in defeat. I realized Delaney’s interjection wasn’t a defense. It was just a way to add extra weight to the accusation, to show the depth of my alleged malice. No one. No one believed me. Their eyes were filled with the smug certainty of people looking at a murderer. 12 I tried to fight it. I contacted the driver and other staff to confirm my alibi. But everyone who spoke up for me was immediately fired. I hadn’t intentionally hurt anyone, but this incident had caused innocent people to lose their livelihoods. I sank into a permanent state of isolated despair. Perhaps she couldn’t stand it. One day, Delaney remembered the footage from the pet monitor, which recorded the main hallway. We watched as the housekeeper—Jasper’s mother—lit the diffuser herself and carried it into the library. Silence descended. Jasper was the first to react. He covered his mouth, weeping hysterically. “Mom never touches anyone else’s things…” Then, as if reaching a decision, he forced himself to accept it. “It’s okay. It must have been an accident… I believe you, Ashton. It had nothing to do with you.” Everyone’s pity only deepened for his noble resilience. While the evidence supported my innocence, no one seemed to care. The chasm of suspicion was already too wide. There were even whispers among the staff that the housekeeper had spoken to me right before she lit the candle, suggesting I had misled her. They said I thought I was only trapping Jasper and his mother, and accidentally put my ownmother’s life at risk. They decided I was a cold, venomous child. They theorized my motive: Was it losing the student council position? Was it Mother always choosing to attend his parent-teacher conferences to save face? Was it that my straight-A report card wasn’t valued as much as his hard-working spirit? Or did I want revenge for him accidentally feeding my cat’s litter of kittens the wrong food, leading to their death? They found a thousand reasons to cement their belief in my long-simmering resentment. Trying to ignore the gossip, I headed out immediately to thank Delaney. She had found the crucial footage. She still believed in me, my own sister. I was just about to approach her when I saw Jasper pull her into a tight embrace. “Sister… can I call you that? Can I move into the room next to yours? I’d feel so much safer. Everyone is saying Ashton is… I’m just terrified.” The room next to hers was a small space I had specifically reserved for a new pet. And she had literally just defended me. She had to believe me. I stood there, heart pounding, waiting for Delaney to refuse. But she didn’t. She nodded. “Yes. You can have it.” Jasper grinned, delighted. “I thought you hated me!” Delaney’s expression was unreadable. “You have to understand, Ashton cannot become a liability to this family. If you run into any trouble, come to me. I’ll solve it.” “Thank you, Sister!” The fragile hope I’d just recovered shattered again. Delaney wasn’t taking my side. She just saw me as a problem and was ready to exchange brothers. I wanted to run. Turning in a panic, I crashed right into Kendall. I grabbed her arm, instinctively clinging to her. She had been misled initially, but she had watched the footage closely. I needed one single ally. I looked at her, pleading. “Kendall, you’ll stand by me, won’t you?” After a long pause, Kendall gave me a light, soft laugh and patted my head. “Of course, Ashton. I’m always on your side.” 13 Kendall talked to my parents, and shortly after, our families officially announced our alliance through an engagement. The fire incident was publicly closed. My relationship with my parents improved slightly. I continued to visit the caretaker’s grave every year. Thinking of her kindness always left me aching. Jasper caught me there once, watching me with a strange look. He spoke coolly: “Shouldn’t you just be offering your condolences, instead of all this sadness?” Kendall stepped between us. “Jasper, would you like to watch the security footage again?” Jasper lowered his head. He said nothing. I tightly held Kendall’s hand, locking eyes with Delaney in the distance. It felt like I was declaring that I, too, had someone who would stand firmly by me. But I missed the tiny tremble in Kendall’s eyelashes that mirrored the shake in Jasper’s shoulders. Later, Kendall came over with gifts. She bought something for everyone but seemed to forget Jasper. I felt a surge of secret glee. I wanted to tell Delaney, See? She can be openly biased, too. The next moment, Kendall apologized, took off her expensive wristwatch, and gave it to Jasper. I froze, feeling the blood drain from my face. Even Delaney noticed and glanced over at me. My memory is excellent. Kendall had only started wearing that watch a week ago, but I knew it was a slightly masculine design. She had gone to all that trouble, thinking she was being discreet, only to give the best gift to Jasper. My heart crumbled. I finally understood: deep down, Kendall pitied Jasper, too. I remembered a picture book Delaney used to read to me when I was little, Guess How Much I Love You. “I love you right up to the moon—and back.” That night, I sent a text to Kendall: Are you coming back from the moon? She was mystified. Delaney, however, seemed to pity me. My birthday was approaching. She asked, “Do you want a watch? But you always finish your exams so early, you don’t need to rush.” I sneered. “Yeah, who needs one.” The next day, Delaney bought me a watch. The dial had a tiny, glistening silver moon inside it. 14 I felt utterly adrift and alone. I didn’t know whom I could truly trust anymore. My family, my fiancée—everyone made me paranoid. They believed they owed Jasper a debt. So, they loved him unconditionally and chose to selectively see me. His grief over his mother was understandable, and their partiality was human. But that partiality was built, time and again, on my pain and isolation. Everyone had tacitly agreed to move past the incident. Jasper was sent to Europe, and a fortune was spent on his art education. I still received the best schooling and opportunities—I even held my own against Delaney in the trust battles. But the secret festered for years beneath the veneer of peace. The truth was, the surface calm was just preparation for today’s reality show. I gave a bitter laugh. Hate doesn’t just disappear. It had simply gathered into a razor-sharp blade, ready to strike me down. 15 My gaze swept over the dinner table. Jasper, sensing the moment, spoke up again, tears welling in his voice: “Honestly, I still miss my mom so much… I only ever wanted one simple apology. Is that so difficult?” My parents were moved. My mother hugged him, her voice soothing. “It’s okay, Jasper. We are going to make Ashton understand today that his malice must have consequences.” “If he doesn’t come to his senses, the price won’t be just one percent anymore.” My father glared at me, his voice sharp. “Apologize now! Aren’t you ashamed of how you’ve lived? Everyone is watching you right now, waiting for you to redeem yourself.” My mother softened her tone, hinting: “If you apologize, we can arrange another DNA test, just to make sure there wasn’t a mistake about your parentage…” I instantly understood her subtext. My apology was the price of my legitimacy. I stared blankly at these strangers I called my family. The eight years of being constantly doubted rushed back, overwhelming me. “You never believed me…” Grief and despair finally snapped the last thread of sanity in my brain. This time, I genuinely passed out. But Delaney always hated the boy-who-cried-wolf story. I doubted she’d catch me a second time. Just before my head hit the polished wood floor, a large hand caught me. “Don’t lose.” I faintly heard someone whisper the words to me. Who was that? Who hadn’t given up on me?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389771”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel