It had been three years since I walked away from Alma, and today, my father decided to mark the occasion by cooking her favorite meal: Wellington Steak. “Don’t start a fight with Max, now that he’s here, Ash.” Max Stone was the prized protégé—the scholarship student—my father loved like a son. Alma Vance was the girl I had loved for ten years. I sat in my wheelchair, silent. My father, Walter James, raised his voice, a desperate attempt to drown out his own guilt. “Max changing your college application was for your own good. But becoming a war correspondent? That was your choice. No one else is to blame for what happened.” I just offered a small, detached smile. “Right,” I said. “The past is over. But I still have to move forward, don’t I?” 1 My father was clearly unnerved that I hadn’t succumbed to the familiar, hysterical rage he expected. He pressed on, his voice a low warning. “Max and Alma are happily married. You are not going to be the wedge that breaks them apart. I won’t be embarrassed by my own son.” It was vintage Walter. Always siding with the outsider. Always treating his own flesh and blood like a potential adversary he needed to keep in check. Alma met me first. We were neighbors, the textbook definition of childhood sweethearts. We grew up hand-in-hand. I still remembered the exact spot under the blooming jacaranda tree where she’d kissed me and told me she loved me. She swore she’d marry me. But then my father, a high school guidance counselor, brought Max home. From that day forward, Max was everywhere—a permanent, uninvited fixture in the perfectly crafted world Alma and I shared. My father made sure of it. He’d insist I bring Max along to the library, to the mall, even to our quiet weekend trips. He even stood up as their wedding officiant. I tore open a bag of dill pickle chips, my gaze distant. “Dad, if you’re so worried about me, why did you pressure me to come back to Richmond to recover?” “You brat. You think you’re so grown up you can talk to me like that?” He raised his hand, the habitual gesture of violence he’d used for two decades, aiming for my forehead. I barely tilted my head, letting the air rush past. Then, the front door’s lock code beeped. Walter’s face instantly softened into a saccharine mask, and he rushed to greet them. 2 Max and Alma stepped inside, their fingers tightly laced. “Mr. James, I smell dinner already! I hope we aren’t too late to help.” Max’s voice was the perfect pitch of polite concern. “Nonsense, son, come in. I made Alma’s favorite Wellington Steak, and the smashed potato you love.” They finally noticed me in the living room. Max involuntarily flinched, pulling Alma back slightly, as if I were some creature he’d once thought extinct. My father glared at me, a sharp order to put on a polite face for his guests. I didn’t move. Alma’s eyes, however, immediately fixed on the thick, heavily bandaged cast on my leg. Her tone was tight with practiced care. “Ash. How is your injury? Are you healing well?” I gave a curt, formal nod. At the table, Walter strategically seated them both at the positions best for serving, then directed me. “Ash, get up and bring the lemonade from the fridge. Alma loves it.” Max shot me a look of feigned distress. “Mr. James, please, don’t bother him.” “Worried about his leg? Don’t be. It’s what he gets for running off to that godforsaken place. He brought this on himself.” “No, it’s not that,” Max rushed to correct him, a triumphant lilt in his voice. He gently placed his hand on Alma’s lower abdomen. “Alma can’t have anything cold, and she won’t be having any crab cakes tonight. We’re three months along.” My father was more excited than Max himself, bombarding Alma with attention and suggestions, practically insisting she move in to be closer for her prenatal care. “I still have Max’s old room here. Since Alma’s busy at the office, you should bring her over for lunch and a nap every day.” It was a small three-bedroom condo. The day Max moved in, my father, citing Max’s supposedly tough childhood, gave him the sunny master bedroom—the one that had always been mine. For four years of college, even when I came home, I stayed in the windowless den, while Max, attending a university locally, came and went as he pleased. When no one moved, Max cautiously addressed me. “Ash, you’re home for good this time, right? Mr. James pretends he doesn’t care, but he’s always looking at your photos on social media.” He paused, leaning into Alma. “I really envy you getting to photograph the scars of war in those Syrian ruins, chasing militants in the Libyan desert. Unlike me, I’m just Ah-Alma’s little house-husband. I feel so guilty that I can only be a pampered failure after all the special tutoring Mr. James and Alma gave me in high school!” 3 I used to be so easily provoked by Max’s particular brand of soft-spoken, self-effacing aggression. My father’s favor for him was a constant, sharp reminder that Walter had a capacity for gentleness and encouragement—a side he’d never once shown me. I’m severely allergic to onions. My father loves them. One summer, as a lesson in obedience, the menu consisted of only rice and various dishes cooked with onions. Even the normal meal had a few wedges tossed in. I was ten then. I was born to a single father and had never known my mother. Walter absolutely forbade me from ever speaking her name. The rule was simple: bring her up, and he’d hit me. So I learned to suffer my indignities in silence, only finding comfort in Alma. During that miserable summer, Alma’s parents were out of town. She’d sneak me out and her grandmother would make me comforting fried rice. I became her little beggar. Her pockets were always full of milk, strawberry shortcake, and candy bars, keeping me fed and sane. We made a pact: we would both go to Columbia, graduate, get married, and give her grandmother grandchildren. Then Max arrived. He was from a poor, rural town, and my father admired his grit. Walter canceled my art classes and extracurriculars, pouring all the savings into Max’s tutoring and tuition. I resented Max instantly—the way he played on my father’s sympathy. I refused to speak to him. Alma stroked my head and promised she would always be on my side. Until that day after school. She saw Max sitting alone on the bleachers, eating a cold slice of pizza and a can of cheap soup. Her expression was complicated: shock, followed by a heavy, self-righteous pity. Max was living with us, and my father was cooking him lavish meals. He wasn’t starving. Alma chose her words carefully, as if for my benefit. “Ash, don’t you think you’re being a little small-minded? Your dad is great to everyone but you. Maybe you should look at yourself?” Long years of my father’s verbal abuse had done their work. I actually paused to consider if I was the problem. Meanwhile, Alma began ditching me, claiming my father insisted she help Max study. She once canceled my birthday celebration because Max had never been to an amusement park. At the time, I was clueless, otherwise, I wouldn’t have spent four years in a long-distance relationship with her. The truth exploded on graduation day. I came back to Richmond early with my luggage and walked into Max’s sun-drenched room to find him and Alma, clothes slightly rumpled, tangled up on the bed. My entire world shattered. I cried all night, my faith—my foundation—gone. Alma had flown out to visit me countless times, vowing we’d be “graduates and spouses.” How had everything changed overnight? I screamed at them both, demanding Max leave. My father slapped me so hard my ears rang. He told me it was his house, and I had no right to tell anyone who could stay. In a white-hot rage, I broke up with Alma and applied to be a war correspondent overseas. My father didn’t even blame Max; he tried to legally adopt him. Only Max’s parents’ refusal stopped it. 4 I barely picked at my food, the taste like ash in my mouth. I wheeled myself back to the windowless den. Behind me, I heard my father’s familiar, angry rant and Max’s soft, almost inaudible words—the perfect, controlled amount of fuel for the fire. Alma eventually brought me a bowl of strawberries. I ignored her. “Ash, are you still mad at Max? If you don’t speak to him, you’ll just sit here and stew over it.” The old me would have screamed: Shouldn’t I be mad? He sabotaged my application, stole my girlfriend, and my father protected him, forbidding me from even calling the police. But it took a shrapnel wound and the smell of my own burnt flesh for the truth to finally sink in: when someone fundamentally doesn’t care about you, your words—your rage, your pain—they simply hit dead air. I was silent. Alma, mistaking my quiet for passive aggression, started to explain. “I always knew you picked Columbia because you wanted to escape your dad.” “Max just didn’t want to see you two completely estranged, so he… accidentally used your password and changed it.” Yes. His good intentions had rerouted me from a top-tier Economics program at Columbia to a niche journalism school two thousand miles away. Alma was still rambling. “Ash, even if we had both gotten into Columbia, I would have convinced you to change your major anyway.” I was tired of the noise. I looked at her, flatly. “Did you deliberately do poorly on your exams so you could stay here and be near Max?” Her voice snapped off, like a bird suddenly choked mid-song. She had no idea how I knew that. She’d never truly understood how calculating Max was beneath his facade of an innocent, sweet boy. After graduation, when he no longer needed my father’s tuition money, Max had sent me a barrage of texts. He detailed how he and Alma had secretly gone to the amusement park and the cinema we were supposed to go to, and how she used the hotel curtains as an excuse whenever I called her while she was on weekend trips with him. 5 I spent years after the betrayal drowning in the pain of being abandoned by three people at once. I used the raw reality of the war zone as my personal rehab. I slapped myself. I used a utility knife to cut myself. My entire life, my father had used emotional oppression, then used his status as a “hard-working single dad” to guilt and control me. Max made it clear I was unloved by everyone, including my only parent. He told me Alma leaving me was the right choice. He even said someone like me didn’t deserve to live. My father’s texts were just as brutal, saying he’d wasted twenty years raising me. That I wasn’t running to NYC, but running away from a minor disagreement. Alma had sent only three words: I am sorry. I didn’t want to hear them. I just kept running, using the sheer terror of facing death, the empathy for the displaced refugees, to bury the pain. I almost died several times. The last time was the worst. If someone hadn’t pulled strings at the embassy, I would have died there, unknown. I glanced at my phone. A flicker of complex emotion crossed my face. A text message waited for me. “Ash, is the paperwork done? I can have the chopper ready.” I politely typed a reply. “Three more days, Mom.” 6 Under my father’s suffocating control, I never imagined my mother was a real person. I certainly never imagined the Sterling family, the dynasty she belonged to, held such immense power in the NYC financial world. She didn’t know I existed in this quiet corner of the country. My father had kept my birth a secret. Fate, however, has a sick sense of humor. The Sterling family saw me—Ash James, the driven, exhausted war correspondent—on a news report. The resemblance between me and my aunt, my mother’s younger sister, was unmistakable. When they learned my name was James, my mother, Eloise Sterling, felt a chill. Two decades ago, when my father was a handsome, ambitious university student, he and Eloise had a brief, cross-class romance. The Sterlings valued bloodline above all else. When Eloise heard that I’d been severely injured while saving a small boy in a chaotic war zone and was clinging to life, she acted immediately. She contacted the embassy and used a military-grade transport to have me repatriated. Everything else fell into place. The DNA results confirmed it that very day. I was her son. 7 I hadn’t told my father about my mother. He would never have been able to handle it. As a child, when I was foolish enough to ask about her, I was met with hard slaps and days locked in my room without food. Once, when he was drunk, he grabbed my wrist, his eyes so full of malice he looked like he might eat me whole. “Why was I so blind as to have a lowlife like you!” he had hissed. “I should carve those eyes out, so I don’t have to look at them anymore!” That vile mantra haunted me for years. I learned to keep my head down and never mention my mother. It was only after meeting her that I understood the root of all my misery: I looked too much like a Sterling, especially my eyes. My leg injury was severe. Eloise had to pull a lot of strings to get me in with Dr. Alistair Smith, the renowned orthopedic surgeon. I had to wait a month for his schedule. I suggested returning to Richmond first. My father, having only seen the news of my injury, simply called me ungrateful, saying I went off to die in such a distant place just to spite him and burden him with the cost of a coffin. I knew if I didn’t come back, he would cause a scene at my unit, demanding my supervisors be held accountable. I was here to quit my job and finalize my paperwork—to formally move my residency. My leg would require extensive treatment in NYC. When Eloise learned my application had been changed, robbing me of my preferred major, she promised to help me finish my degree. I refused to let false sentimentality stop me. Having almost died, I finally understood: following your own heart is more important than anything else. 8 I needed to leave early for a follow-up appointment. My father made no move to help me to the car. “Your leg is a write-off,” he said with contemptuous certainty. “No doctor can fix this. You need to accept it.” “The unit will fire you now. I don’t raise trash. You listen to me from now on, and maybe I’ll see about getting the school to let you process files.” He taught at a private high school. He’d never lifted a finger to help me before, saving all his influence for Max, even accepting bribes from parents on Max’s behalf. I swallowed the pain radiating up my leg, the bite of ten thousand ants. “What if there’s a great surgeon in New York who can fix my leg?” I asked. His face contorted. “I’m the only parent you have. As long as I’m alive, you will not set foot in New York City.” “Even if I have to be in a wheelchair forever?” “Yes.” He spat the word out, as if I had committed the ultimate transgression. I knew he would react this way. But the sting still landed. Nothing—not my future, not my injury—mattered more than his control. 9 Getting around with a severe leg injury was a nightmare. I paid the cab driver triple the fare. He stopped his grumbling long enough to help me into the car and fold the wheelchair into the trunk. “Looks like a bad one, son. Blood is already seeping through the bandage. Why didn’t you bring a family member?” I stayed silent. The driver glanced into the rearview mirror, shaking his head. “No folks, huh? Rough luck.” He helped me out, pulled out my wheelchair, and even gave me a bottle of water. I wheeled myself down a hospital corridor. Alma was there, peeling an orange for Max, who sat next to her. Her eyes were only for him. She didn’t even notice me in the wheelchair a few yards away. My father hurried over from the billing counter, showering Max with concerned questions, promising to make him his favorite Coke Chicken Wings for lunch. It was a scene of domestic bliss, as if Max were the son he’d always wanted. “Mr. James, you treat me better than my own father.” “You worked so hard to climb out of that small town, son. If I don’t look out for you, who will?” Watching my father and Max together, I suddenly felt a profound, absurd sense of clarity. They were the true father and son. I smiled, a real smile. Letting go, I realized, wasn’t nearly as hard as I’d been conditioned to believe. 10 I turned my chair toward the elevator. My father’s smile froze. “Don’t you see your elders? You can’t even say hello? What kind of manners are those?” I ignored him. Max tugged on my father’s arm. “Mr. James, don’t be angry. It’s my fault. I forgot Alma had a day off, so you had to come with us. Ash must have misunderstood—” My father’s face darkened, his voice immediately hardening toward me. “Ash James, stop throwing a fit! I purposefully didn’t come with you to the appointment.” “Your leg is broken. You might never walk again. You need to learn to be independent now. You can’t expect people to wait on you for the rest of your life!” Alma stepped in, the eternal peacemaker. “Uncle Walter, please don’t be angry. Ash just got back from the war zone; he needs time to adjust.” Watching her comfortably soothe my father, I felt a familiar, sickening combination of absurdity and irony. Max let go of my father’s hand, his voice trembling with manufactured distress. “Alma, it’s my fault—” “It is not your fault!” My father cut him off, turning to glare at me. “Look at you! You’ve made Max cry! Now go home! Don’t embarrass me here!” I let out a cold laugh, meeting his gaze directly. “This hospital isn’t yours. You have no authority to kick me out.” My defiance was a match to his fuse. Perhaps it was the utter lack of fear in my eyes. He froze, then his face exploded in rage. He stepped forward and delivered a hard, stinging slap across my face. “What? You think just because you’re crippled you can disrespect me? What good are you, you useless burden, except to embarrass me?” “You had to be a war correspondent, and now look at you—you’re nothing but a cripple! You brought this on yourself!” He loomed over me, his gaze dropping to my trembling, injured legs. His voice was pure venom. “Limping trash. Get used to dragging yourself through life. Throw a fit again, and I’ll throw you out on the street to beg like a stray dog.” I was numb. Completely, beautifully numb. I didn’t speak again. I just looked at him, one long, deep stare, before turning my chair and rolling out of the hospital. 11 Alma caught up with me as I struggled to flag down a cab, sweat stinging my eyes. Seeing my difficulty, she looked frustrated, rushing to justify her father-in-law. “Ash, don’t blame Uncle Walter. You left without a word, didn’t come back for the holidays… he truly cares about you.” I smiled, a purely cynical twist of my lips. “My home has been redecorated to Max’s taste. My small room is stacked with his old clothes and shoes. Do you really believe my father misses me? Doesn’t your conscience bother you?” She lowered her eyes, a flush of shame creeping up her neck. “Max’s family is poor. He had no one in Richmond. Uncle Walter treats him like a son.” She was pleading now. “I never meant to betray you. Your dad insisted I look after him.” Listening to her frantic self-exoneration, I spoke quietly. “So, you and Max sleeping together in your bed—that was my dad’s doing, too?” She flinched. “No! It wasn’t like that! I had too much wine that night, and Max had just confessed his feelings to me for the twenty-ninth time. I lost control in the moment…” I turned to stare out the window. When I was planning our wedding, her heart had already chosen another man. When I remained silent, her voice became a whisper. “Can’t we just call a truce, Ash? Forget the past? You’ll need a lot of support and care. There’s no reason to hold onto your dad’s and Max’s small mistakes.” I scoffed. “Is that a threat?” “Of course not!” she insisted, then the true motive slid out. “It’s just… you’re in no shape to work right now. And Max is very interested in your unit. We were hoping you could put in a good word with your supervisor.” “Your father agrees. He thinks the unit is partly responsible for your injury, and this is your chance to demand compensation for Max.” They were planning to drain me dry. I immediately ordered the driver to stop, dumping Alma on the roadside. I then changed the cab’s destination to my office, where I filed my resignation. 12 Back home, I started clearing out my belongings. My primary goal was to get rid of the gifts Alma had given me. We had loved each other once. It was a truth that filled a large, heavy box. For four years, she’d chased me down, traveling thousands of miles by train, accompanying me to dive bars, dragging me to cheap movie theaters where we’d fall asleep on the couches. She sent me postcards from every city. She never missed a birthday, always with a small, handmade gift. I lived in a warm, deluded bubble, convinced we would go from the college library to old age together. Then I realized that Max had been with her through most of those trips. Including the pair of small, hand-painted clay figurines she’d sworn were made just for me. One of the figures bore the clear imprint of a man’s thumbprint—Max’s, he’d later gleefully confessed. When I’d initially confronted her, she lied, blaming the shop owner and buying me a replacement set of coffee mugs. It was hard to reconcile how Alma could whisper sweet things to me while secretly flirting with and caring for another man. Betrayal taught me the harshest lesson of love: some people enter your life only to teach you that love is just a temporary port, never a final harbor. 13 When I wheeled a large, empty box back into the house, my father scowled. “You’re a wreck. Instead of trying to mend things with Alma and Max, you’re throwing a tantrum. Are you planning to sell scrap metal, or do you expect me to support you forever?” His contempt was heavy. He already saw my life as a complete failure. He then began pressuring me to get Max a job at my coveted broadcasting unit, suggesting that Max’s future children might even take care of me someday. I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Is the pie Max is baking you that sweet, Dad?” “In college, his mind wasn’t on his studies. It was on charming you with homemade bread and getting side jobs to buy Alma gifts. He scraped into a mediocre university, begged you for tuition money, then blew it. After college, he quit the low-paying substitute teacher job you found him, and Alma’s been bankrolling him ever since.” “Now, he wants my connections to get into the best radio station in Richmond.” “So, all the good fortune in the world has to go to Max? Everyone else is just a stepping stone for him?” My father stared at me, his eyes blazing. “Max saved my life! You compensating him is the least you can do.” I shot back: “If Max hadn’t been so far behind, and his parents weren’t forcing him to quit high school, would you have even driven out to his village, where you conveniently fell into the water and were rescued by him?” “No matter what, he saved my life! I could sign the house over to him, and it still wouldn’t be enough.” My father had said that before. The house was his most valuable asset, his constant leverage. He’d only paid for my first year of college, using Max’s expensive community college fees as an excuse to cut me off. But this time, my expression was completely neutral. “Do what you want.” “Ash James, you’ll regret this!” “Dad, Max has two younger brothers back home. Whether he’s manipulating you or you’re blind, once you give everything away, don’t look to me for help in your old age.” “Pah! A useless burden like you? I’d be lucky if you don’t leech off me first.” 14 The day I was scheduled to leave, a knock came early. I assumed it was my mother’s transport and grabbed my small suitcase. It was Alma. She was breathless, carrying a large cardboard box. “Ash, is this true? I saw this by the dumpster last night! Why did you throw away everything I gave you?” “I tried to find you yesterday, but you blocked my number, and Max wasn’t feeling well.” I glanced at my watch, utterly unconcerned. “Trash belongs in the bin. There is no other reason.” “Do you have to be so cruel?” She pulled out a thick stack of train tickets—the proof of her journeys to see me—and the two clay figurines. “And these! I made them just for you.” Her voice caught, her eyes red-rimmed. It wasn’t just me who loved then. I couldn’t resist twisting the knife one last time. “What did you expect? You slept with my father’s favorite student. Should I have kept them so my dad could constantly accuse me of lusting after another man’s wife?” “But you can’t throw them all away! They’re the evidence that we loved each other.” I looked at her, deadpan. “The moment you chose Max, they became meaningless.” Alma opened her mouth to argue, but the front door opened, and a woman in a perfectly tailored business suit stepped inside.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389285”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Alison, my wife, had rules. Strict, non-negotiable rules. I couldn’t use the private bathroom tucked into the corner of her executive suite, and I definitely couldn’t leave a single one of my personal items—not even a jacket or a pen—on her desk. It was about control, not cleanliness. I knew it, but after seven years, I’d learned to live with it. Then her little assistant, Alan, managed to spill coffee all over his pristine white shirt. Before I could even register the mess, Alison was ushering him into the restricted bathroom, telling him to shower. Not only that, she walked straight to a discreet drawer in her desk, pulled out a pair of men’s underpants, and handed them to him. My own pair. The expensive brand I only bought in New York. I felt a violent spike of pure, distilled rage. I grabbed her wrist—hard. “Clean freak? You won’t let me leave a pencil here, Alison! You won’t even let me kiss you during sex! But him? He gets to use your private shower and wear my boxers?” My voice was raw, boiling with years of forced distance and unanswered longing. A laugh, sharp and mocking, sliced through the tense air from inside the bathroom. “Because she loves me more than she ever loved you, big brother!” Alison yanked her arm out of my grip as if my touch was acid. She immediately began rubbing the spot I’d touched with a paper napkin. She didn’t offer a single word of explanation—only that familiar, frozen silence and a look of cold, contemptuous distaste. Then, right in front of me, she walked toward the bathroom door and casually began chatting with Alan, their voices light and conspiratorial, filtering out into the otherwise silent office. I pulled off my wedding ring—seven years of gold—and flicked it into the waste bin. “We’re done,” I said, my voice dangerously even. “Divorce. I don’t need a wife whose ‘cleanliness’ is just a weapon against me.” Inside, Alan’s laughter died instantly. The air thickened into something brittle and silent. I turned, ready to walk away forever, just as a group of sales associates, weighted down with massive shopping bags, hurried through the outer door. “Mr. Thorne, good afternoon!” “These are the new designs Mrs. Thorne commissioned for you. You are truly a lucky man, sir. Mrs. Thorne clearly adores you.” “Honestly, she wouldn’t even let us touch the bespoke items with our bare hands, said you don’t like anyone touching your things.” The sales staff, rushing to gently arrange the expensive luxury bags on an empty console, beamed at me with practiced deference. My heart was a block of ice. In seven years of marriage, Alison had never bought me a single gift. The brand was one I’d explicitly told her I didn’t like. I knew, with absolute certainty, that every single one of those luxury items was meant for her little assistant. Right on cue, Alison and Alan emerged from the bathroom. Alan was wearing a crisp white shirt and a pair of trousers that, infuriatingly, fit him perfectly. He carried an air of impish, feigned innocence. He walked past me and snatched one of the leather shopping bags the saleswoman was about to hand me. “These are for me,” Alan announced, his voice dripping with triumphant spoiled entitlement. “They’re from Alison. Not for any other man. You people are blind if you think otherwise.” The scene instantly froze. The sales team stared, shocked, from me to Alison. When they saw the soft, almost maternal affection in Alison’s usually icy gaze as she looked at Alan, they snapped their mouths shut. She truly never cared about my face. She would happily stomp my dignity into the dirt in front of anyone. “Do you like them all, Arlo?” she asked, using her pet name for Alan. “I do, but my place is too small for all this, I can’t put it…” “Then leave them here,” Alison interrupted smoothly. “If you want to wear them or change, don’t ask my permission. Just come in and take what you need.” Alan grinned, a bright, smug expression. He darted a sidelong, challenging glance at me. He expected me to erupt, to throw a jealous, impulsive tantrum like I had in the past. But this time, I didn’t. This time, I was simply done with Alison. The sales associates held their breath, terrified. The expensive goods were not for the powerful husband, but for the wife’s lover. “Look at you,” Alison said, her tone softening with mock exasperation. “Your collar’s still crooked. You’re like a child.” She raised her hand, pale and elegant as porcelain, and adjusted the lapel of Alan’s freshly laundered shirt. They were standing so close, leaning into each other, a tableau of domestic bliss meant only for him. The sales people muttered quick goodbyes and practically ran from the room. They couldn’t get out of there fast enough. And I knew, in that instant, the news of my public emasculation would be all over the city by the end of the day. “Why don’t you two just strip naked and make out?” I asked, my voice dangerously low and coated in ice. “Wouldn’t that be more comfortable?” At the sound of my biting sarcasm, Alison pulled away from Alan, her face contorting with anger as she whirled around to face me. “Christian Thorne, that is enough!” she snapped. “I have put up with you for long enough.” “What’s wrong with you? Do you have nothing better to do than follow me around, looking for a fight?” I tugged hard at my tie. I worked twelve-hour days. I barely had time to eat, let alone “follow her around” to start trouble. “You’ve got it backward,” I corrected her. “I’m the one who’s put up with you. I’m beyond done. I’m finally accommodating your ‘cleanliness,’ and I’m walking away so you and your little boy toy can parade your affection in peace.” “Divorce. That’s all I want.” Smash! Enraged, Alison snatched the heavy, crystal paperweight from her desk and hurled it at my head. I didn’t have time to duck. The impact was immediate. Blood warmed my face, dripping steadily from a gash above my brow. Neither of us spoke. We simply stood there, glaring at each other through the chilling silence and the smell of fresh blood.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389284”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I walked up to them with a heavy wooden club in my hand, right as Alexander Knight and the younger Eliza Thorne were about to share a private moment. “If you dare take her out again, I will break your leg.” “Excuse me, who the hell are you?” They both turned simultaneously, Alex’s arm instinctively shooting out to shield Eliza. The memory of that protective gesture—a gesture he would repeat countless times in our life together—flickered violently through my mind. The club was trembling slightly in my grip, but my voice was unnervingly calm. “Me? I’m Eliza Thorne, eight years from now.” Alex laughed. It was that familiar, condescending chuckle I knew so well. “You’re crazy.” He reached for his phone to call 911. But Eliza’s hand shot out, pressing his down. She peered around his shoulder, her eyes wide with a hesitant curiosity. “Eight years from now?” I looked at the girl standing before me, twenty years old, her eyes bright enough to hold starlight, every strand of her hair practically humming with life. Of course, without a closer look, she wouldn’t recognize the shell of a woman who stood before her—the 28-year-old version. A woman whose eyes were dull and lifeless, whose body was soft and out of shape from pregnancy and childbirth, and who reeked of exhaustion and resentment. “The scar on your knee? You got that falling off your bike trying to grab an ice cream cone when you were seven. Your journal is hidden beneath the mattress in your bedroom. And you always use your left hand to push the front door open when you come in.” I spoke slowly and clearly, each word a cold, hard fact. Alex glanced from her to me, then back to her, pulling her close to his side. “Liz, honey, is this some crazy relative of yours? Let’s just go. Don’t pay her any attention.” But Eliza’s feet were rooted to the pavement. She shook off Alex’s hand and took a step toward me, beginning a detailed examination of my face, searching my eyes. Eight years can change a lot, but some things time can’t erase: the curve of the brow bone, that tiny, almost invisible scar on the lower lip, the faint mole at the corner of the left eye. None of it had changed. Her breathing hitched. “Are you really me, eight years from now?” “No way, Liz, you actually believe her? She’s clearly a scammer.” Alex looked utterly exasperated, reaching out to pull her away again. “We are calling the police right now.” I looked at Alexander Knight, this still-green man who would instinctively protect me, and forced a smile. “Alex, you saved up three months’ worth of pocket money to buy the ring. It’s sitting right now in your left pant pocket, and you planned to give it to her tonight, didn’t you?” The hand he was using to pull the twenty-year-old version of me away froze, then unconsciously, and with utter disbelief, reached to cover his pocket. The next second, he looked at my hand and challenged me. “If you’re the Liz from eight years in the future, then why aren’t you wearing a ring?” “Maybe because, later on, we never actually stayed together?” I countered, staring him down. “We will.” Alex’s denial was immediate and resolute. He squeezed Eliza’s hand tightly. “I love Liz. I will only ever want her for the rest of my life, and she feels the same way. We will be together, we’ll get married, we’ll have a kid, and we’ll live happily ever after.” Twenty-two-year-old Alex Knight: his love was hot, bright, and utterly blind, convinced of a future paved in gold. And he was right. We did love each other. We did walk down the aisle. We did have a child. As for the happily ever after? I ran a thumb over my left ring finger. Now, there was only a pale scar. A scar I got in the second year of our marriage, when Alex scratched me with the very ring he had given me. Our daughter, Maya, liked the ring—an eight-year-old style that had long been discontinued. So, he came to demand it from me for her. He’d said then, “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Maya have it?” I refused. He tried to grab it, and in the struggle, he tore the sharp edge across my finger. “Who is Maya?” I asked, looking at the young Eliza, whose hand was still tightly held by Alex, their bond already palpable. “Maya is the woman who will eventually sleep in your marital bed, wear your wedding ring, and call me a crazy bitch.” The color drained from Alex’s face. “That’s impossible.” I thought so too. Alex was obsessed with me. I was the center of his universe. He was terrified of me ever feeling wronged. How could he possibly fall in love with someone else? So, when I first saw the cute little bunny charm dangling from the rearview mirror of his car, I didn’t question it. I assumed it was a new prototype from his design studio. Twenty-nine-year-old Alex had opened an independent design studio, specializing in lifestyle and artistic products. He was constantly busy with new product development, production, and networking events. My life, meanwhile, was consumed by our infant daughter—a relentless cycle of formula, diapers, and screaming fits. My sleep was fragmented, and the thought of finding time to look in the mirror felt like a luxury. But trust was the bedrock of our relationship. I trusted him as I trusted myself. Until later, when I reached into the narrow gap between the passenger seat and the center console and felt a long strand of auburn hair. I pinched the strand, holding it up in the gloom of the underground parking garage. “Whose is this?” He barely glanced at it, not a single muscle in his face twitching. “Oh, I gave Summer a ride home today. It must be hers.” “Who is Summer?” Alex slapped his forehead, feigning annoyance at his own forgetfulness. “I’ve been so busy lately, I forgot to tell you. I hired a new junior assistant. Her name is Summer.” I silently dropped the hair out the window. The next day, I made an effort to get myself ready, then took our daughter to his studio. In the office, a young, pretty girl was leaning over the computer screen, debating the curve of a certain design line with Alex. As she spoke, her auburn hair would occasionally brush against his cheek. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” The two of them sprang apart as if electrocuted. Alex awkwardly tugged at his tie. “What are you doing here?” I shifted our daughter in my arms. “You haven’t been home for a few days. We missed you, so we came to visit.” Alex came over and took Maya from me, a look of guilt washing over his face. “That’s my fault. I’ve been swamped. As soon as this new collection launches, I promise I’ll make it up to you both.” I glanced at the computer screen. It displayed two stylized human figures. “What’s the name of this collection?” “A Lifetime Too Late.” The girl answered brightly. I looked at the vibrant, spirited girl. “You must be Summer. Did you just graduate from college?” “I’m twenty.” Alex chimed in casually, “Summer looks exactly like you did when you were twenty.” In some quiet corner of my heart, something went ping. The sound of ice cracking—the first, impossibly fine line in a frozen expanse. The twenty-year-old Eliza in front of me asked, “What happened after that?” I rubbed the small of my back. Since the birth of our daughter, it was a constant, dull ache. I slowly walked over and sat on a nearby bench. The wind swept between the three of us, seemingly carrying the heavy burden of those eight years. After that? After that came countless nights of self-doubt. I blamed the grind of motherhood, believing that I had become too suspicious, too unlovable. I tried not to check his phone for text messages, I stopped questioning his late nights. I desperately tried to make myself attractive again. Until the day I brought our daughter home a day early from the hospital—she’d been running a high fever—and found them, naked, in our bed. Clutching my daughter, who was asleep from the medication, my arm went stiff and a cold chill ran up my spine. I pushed open the door to the nursery and gently settled Maya into her crib. Turning to walk toward the bedroom door, the floor felt like a swamp. Each step was too heavy to lift. Alex was habitually leaning back against the headboard, smoking a cigarette. Summer was nestled into his arms. “I just wish I’d met you sooner, before that old woman hogged all this time.” “Don’t be silly.” Alex smiled, full of sickening indulgence. “How old were you when I met her? It’s not too late. We’re starting now.” Alex turned his head, his gaze colliding with mine in the narrow crack of the door. The hand holding the cigarette paused, a minuscule, tell-tale twitch. Summer finally turned and saw me, letting out a sharp gasp, immediately grabbing the duvet to wrap around herself. I looked at the king-sized bed we had picked out together, at the scrap of lacy lingerie that wasn’t mine carelessly tossed on our wedding portrait. A thousand words condensed into one quiet question. “Why?” Thirty-year-old Alex draped his arm around Summer’s shoulder and said calmly, “Because I love her.” Before me, twenty-two-year-old Alex’s face instantly darkened. He unconsciously gripped the young Eliza’s hand tighter, his voice strained with disbelief. “That’s not right. I would never do that to you. I would never love anyone else.” See? Even his younger self couldn’t comprehend or accept the cruelty of the man he was destined to become. How could he possibly love someone else? I went insane, lunging forward to claw at Summer, only to be shoved violently back onto the floor by Alex. He looked down at me, utterly devoid of warmth. “Don’t blame Summer, Liz. I’m completely in love with her.” His eyes dropped to my left hand. “Give me the ring. Summer really likes this style.” I refused. It was the one thing I cherished, the symbol of the very beginning of our love story. He lunged for it, his fingers digging into the metal band, and yanked hard. The ring snapped and flew off, leaving behind this permanent scar on my finger. “It’s just a ring, Liz. You’ve worn it for seven years. What’s the big deal about letting Summer have it?” It was true. A person’s heart really could change. It could become so cold, so ruthlessly final. In a single moment, everything we built was pulverized. The twenty-year-old Eliza broke free from Alex, rushing forward to hug me. “It must have hurt so much.” The tears I had been holding back finally broke free. My body shook uncontrollably. “It hurt, baby. It hurt so much that I became a crazy woman.” I compiled their filthy secret into short videos, added desperate captions, and posted them on every social media platform I could find. I printed out banners and hung them outside our condo complex and his studio. I clung to our marriage certificate, refusing to sign the divorce papers, hoping to forever nail Summer to a pillar of shame—a forever-unseen mistress. But in the dead of night, I would still break down and text him, demanding to know why he had betrayed me. None of it worked. Alex easily had my videos deleted and my accounts suspended. The building security guards politely, but firmly, escorted me away when I showed up with my banners. Finally, Alex looked at my hands, which were shaking from the medication I was on, his eyes filled with only deeper contempt. “Stop making a scene, Liz. All you’re doing is making me look down on you even more.” Then, he delivered the final, most devastating blow. One afternoon, while I was passed out from exhaustion and a mental breakdown, he and Summer returned and took my daughter. “Your current mental state makes you completely unfit to raise a child.” His voice was cold, flat, through the phone line. “I’m applying to the court. From now on, you can only see Maya once a month.” “Or, you can sign the divorce papers quickly, and I might consider relaxing the visitation terms. You choose.” In the end, I compromised. I signed the divorce agreement. “And after that? Why did you come here?” The day I signed the divorce papers, Alex’s studio officially launched its new collection with great fanfare: “A Lifetime Too Late.” A massive banner, bearing a romanticized quote about fated, timeless love, was plastered across the venue. At the product launch, they unveiled two giant, special edition sculptures: a fox tightly embracing a small, delicate pink bunny. Alex and Summer attended, each wearing matching fox and bunny lapel pins. Under the flashing cameras, Alex’s gaze rested softly on Summer. “I’m ten years her senior. When we met, she was in the absolute prime of her youth, and I thought my life was already set in stone,” he said to the crowd. “She always tells me, ‘A lifetime too late.’ It was that pure, passionate sentiment that struck me. She is my muse.” He put an arm around Summer. “Today is not just the launch of my new series, but the beginning of a new chapter in my life. This collection is the testament to our story. I hope everyone, after all the detours, finally finds their true love.” The room erupted in applause. And I? I was lying in a bathtub, watching the water slowly turn red. On my phone screen, I watched the thirty-year-old Alex’s face warp and rewind, settling back into the twenty-two-year-old version I now stood before. He said he would love me forever. Then, I heard a voice asking if I wanted a chance to go back. I said yes, without a second thought. I wiped a tear and looked at the speechless Alexander Knight. “That is why I’m here.” The twenty-year-old Eliza spoke softly, lifting a hand to stroke my hair with genuine sorrow. “You must be so angry.” “It’s not anger,” I heard myself say, my throat tight. “It’s just that the ache lasted too long.” The club slipped from my grasp, hitting the ground with a deafening CLANG. Tears streamed down my face simultaneously. “Changing others is too hard,” I said. “We can only try to stop the us who was rushing headlong into this.” “So, the choice is yours now. The future depends entirely on you. Do you want to try and choose a different future for yourself?” The twenty-year-old Eliza’s hand froze mid-air, beginning to tremble slightly. Twenty-two-year-old Alex suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the young Eliza by the shoulders, his knuckles white. “Something must have gone wrong!” His voice was frantic, carrying the conviction of his age. “I swear, I truly love you, Liz. Only you. I’ve never even heard of a ‘Summer.’ I would never want anyone but you.” He cupped the young Eliza’s face, forcing her to look at him, his eyes blazing with an intensity and sincerity that the thirty-year-old man had long lost—only complete devotion and pleading. “Don’t listen to her, honey.” “Don’t leave me. We will have a different future. I promise I’ll do better. I’ll protect you forever. We won’t turn out like she says, absolutely not!” His vows, carried on the evening breeze, sounded both profoundly earnest and tragically fragile. But then again, he’d sounded just as resolute before. Love and neglect, deep affection and brutal betrayal, could apparently coexist in the same man. I looked down at my watch. “Eliza, you have ten minutes to think. After that, I will disappear. You might remember today as a strange event, or maybe just a blurry dream.” “But your choice, it has to be made in these ten minutes.” From far away, the indistinct noise of traffic and the city’s low hum drifted toward us, as if a parallel universe was operating as normal. Twenty-two-year-old Alex was still desperately pleading, trying to control the present with his unrestrained love. And the twenty-year-old Eliza? Her gaze was fixed on my face. She looked at the ugly scar on my ring finger, at the sheer exhaustion and despair radiating from me. Then, just as I faded from existence, she finally spoke. I opened my eyes in a hospital room.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389283”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day of the accident, my husband’s assistant, Tiff Monroe, used a fabricated excuse about crippling period pain to divert all the specialized medical teams. I watched, numb with panic, as a shard of glass dug deeper into my abdomen. With the last of my breath, I screamed at Pierce Hollingsworth. “Pierce! Get a surgeon in here now, or my family will absolutely destroy you!” For five years, I had kept Pierce from meeting my family, always claiming they were doing complicated business abroad. He had no idea that I was the only seemingly ‘normal’ one in the entire Caldwell clan. My mother is a calculated killer. My father is pure antisocial personality. And my younger brother is a brilliant, terrifying sadist. But Pierce just clamped his hand around my face, his fingers digging into my jaw. “Stop with the crazy talk!” “You have no family, Sutton! All of it was a lie! I took you in, an orphan, and married you! Now you’re trying to pull a stunt just to compete with Tiff? Do you have any idea how many millions we’d lose if she had any kind of setback?” With that, he signaled his guards to fall back. “Since your supposed ‘family’ is so powerful, it looks like you don’t need me after all!” “Let’s go!” I watched him walk away and sank into utter despair. I used the final reserves of my strength to send a text to our group chat: Caldwell: Family First. Pierce didn’t know it, but with that single message, he had just forfeited his last hope of survival. 1 In our five years together, he never believed a single word I told him about my family. My stuttered warnings, the veiled hints that my loved ones were dangerous—to him, they were all just the neurotic theatrics of a woman trying to cling to him. The alarm on the cardiac monitor began to shriek, faster and faster. Mac, Pierce’s most trusted bodyguard, stood motionless at the door. He’d known me for five years, but he just silently watched the blood pool and spread beneath me. I knew, given the severity of my injuries, I wouldn’t last long enough for my mother and the rest of the family to arrive. “Mac…” I spoke with difficulty, my voice thin. “Please, just call any doctor. Any one at all.” He shook his head, his voice a dry rasp. “Mr. Hollingsworth’s orders, Mrs. Hollingsworth. The medical team is solely focused on Ms. Monroe’s treatment.” “He said your injuries weren’t life-threatening.” Not life-threatening. I looked down at the large shard of glass lodged in my abdomen, feeling my life force drain away with the warm rush of fluid. Of course. His mind was already consumed by someone else. How could he possibly care about my fading pulse? The phone was still clutched in my hand, the screen glowing with the chat log of Caldwell: Family First. My brother’s last message read: “Sis, we just boarded the private jet. Two hours out.” The accompanying picture was of my mother, Vivian, in a sleek airport boutique, browsing kitchenware. The caption was chilling: “Grabbing a little something for Sutty. She keeps complaining her paring knife is dull.” My fingers trembled as I typed. “Hurry. I’m dying.” The moment the message went through, Mac’s phone rang. He answered it while still trying to pacify me. “Mrs. Hollingsworth, just listen to Mr. Hollingsworth. Apologize to Ms. Monroe.” “Mr. Hollingsworth only has eyes for Ms. Monroe now. You need to accept the new reality.” I gave a weak shake of my head, signaling for him to take the call. I don’t know what Mac heard. The elderly man’s single remaining eye—his left one, the right had been a gift to my father years ago—widened. His pupil shrunk to a pinprick, and he snapped his head up to stare at me. “Mrs. Hollingsworth… your maiden name… it’s Caldwell?!” 2 The name Caldwell yanked me back into the vortex of old memories. When school ended, all the other kids rushed home. I was the only one who desperately wanted to stay. When my mother picked me up, she would flash that gentle, practiced smile. The first thing she did when we got home was make me put on a mask. There were always different strangers sitting at our dinner table. The only thing they had in common was that they had stopped breathing. “Sutty, darling, Mommy has to slice up this gentleman now. Why don’t you go study in your room? The smell of iron will get a bit strong.” She always had a reason. This man, she’d explain, had abused his wife for years, driving the poor woman and her child to jump into the sea at dawn. So, she had to punish him on the wife’s behalf. I never saw my father, Arthur, commit the act, but in his bespoke, sterile workshop, I saw every variety of human organ imaginable. For over a decade, the decorative door handle to his lab hadn’t changed: it was Mac’s left eye, perfectly preserved. My younger brother, Spencer, was the most unnerving of all. If ever a weaker person was bullied, the perpetrator would, within a day, somehow end up committing an inexplicable suicide. “Sister, I don’t want you to live in a world with these kinds of pathetic human trash.” In time, I developed an aura, a certain cold energy that naturally pushed people away. No one wanted to be my friend. Except Pierce. When the entire class ostracized me, he was the first to step up and help me carry my books, laughing. “It’s not an aura, Sutton. It’s just unique personal charisma.” When a detailed anatomical diagram accidentally slipped out of my backpack, he calmly picked it up. “Your little brother’s comic book art is really professional.” I thought he was the only person who could see me, Sutton, through the shadows of the Caldwells. He once asked, full of genuine curiosity, “What does your family do abroad?” I clutched the hem of my shirt, giving him a half-truth. “International imports and exports.” He never once questioned it. “That must be exhausting.” “From now on, you have me. You won’t have to carry that burden alone.” That day, with the sunset painting the sky, he knelt and proposed, solemnly promising to protect me for the rest of my life. I believed him. That’s why I defied my family’s direct orders and ran off with him to this new city. Mother said, “Sutty, you should never trust a man.” Father said, “You don’t have to inherit the business, but don’t dishonor the Caldwell name.” Spencer said, “Sister, if he ever disobeys you, I’ll make him compliant.” I dismissed all their warnings as old-world nonsense. I thought Pierce was different. But the moment Tiff Monroe appeared, he changed, so easily, so completely. He wouldn’t even investigate this car crash, simply because Tiff was the prime suspect! I nodded at Mac’s horrified expression. “If you don’t want to end up blind, you will go get a doctor now!” Finally, just before my consciousness completely slipped away, a doctor was rushed in, dragging me back from the edge of the grave. 3 I lay in the trauma bay, the heart monitor finally showing a steady, hopeful wave pattern. A doctor had just started an IV drip of blood plasma when the door was brutally kicked open. Tiff, wearing a flimsy hospital gown and a crooked bandage on her hand, stormed in. Her voice was quiet, but the doctors immediately stopped working. “Everyone out.” “Ms. Monroe, the patient just regained a pulse. We must start the transfusion immediately…” “I said, out.” She tilted her head. Two large bodyguards instantly ushered the medical staff out. Tiff walked to my bedside, stared at my face, and then offered a sudden, unnerving smile. “Sutton Caldwell. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this day?” I weakly managed one word. “Go.” “Go?” She raised her hand and slapped me across the face. The fresh sutures in my abdomen screamed in protest, and a trickle of blood ran down my chin. “Did you honestly think Pierce would believe your insane ghost stories?” She laughed, leaning back. “He thinks you’re delusional!” “The accident was your doing.” I stared at her. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. She leaned close to my ear, her voice a soft, vicious whisper. “That’s right.” “I had the brake lines cut. The timing was perfect. I was hoping you’d be dead on impact. Didn’t expect you to be quite so resilient.” My fingers twitched. I wanted to grab her hair, but my body refused to obey. “He finds out… he’ll kill you.” “Who? Pierce?” She brushed my hand away dismissively. “He’s still too busy arranging my birthday gift. Besides, dead women can’t talk.” Mac, standing by, cleared his throat, his voice halting. “Ms. Monroe, you can’t kill the Mrs.!” Tiff gave a careless laugh. “And who are you to give orders here?” I waved a hand, signaling Mac to back off. Suddenly, a wave of blinding pain tore through me. “Ah!” “Does that hurt?” Tiff’s polished fingernail pressed directly onto the wound on my side. “It’ll stop hurting soon.” Mac tried to lunge forward but was pinned instantly by the guards. Tiff leisurely untied my gown, her eyes lingering over me like she was examining a piece of meat at the butcher’s shop. “I actually had myself secretly tested.” “Three months ago, during your annual physical, Pierce sent me all your data.” “Your kidney and mine? They’re a perfect match.” My pupils constricted. So that was it. This accident, this entire spectacle, had all been meticulously orchestrated for this very moment. “You’re insane…” My breath was so faint it was barely a thread. “Illegal organ harvesting. You think you’ll get away with this?” “Illegal?” “Pierce will have all the paperwork ready. We’ll just say you died from severe trauma in the crash and voluntarily donated your organs.” “As for your family…” She leaned back in. “They won’t even find a body to mourn.” The bodyguards pushed me onto a gurney and into a makeshift operating room. Tiff snapped on a pair of surgical gloves, watching me with cold indifference next to the doctor. She wasn’t a nurse, but she was right. Pierce would clean up all the loose ends for her. I felt the ice-cold surgical steel slice across my skin and heard her humming a tune, as if she were enjoying a lavish dinner. Mac’s mouth was taped shut; only strangled, muffled cries came out. My wrists were tied to the table, the restraints chafing my skin, but nothing could compare to the ripping agony in my core. My cell phone vibrated violently on a nearby counter. Messages from Caldwell: Family First flooded in. “Sister, we’re entering the city limits.” “Sutty, don’t be scared. Mommy’s debating whether to drain one liter of blood from his body or two.” But they were too late. I felt something being violently torn from my body, and the world began to spin uncontrollably. The surgeon placed the bloody organ into a chilling cold-storage container. Tiff patted my cheek. “Thanks for the gift.” As she turned to leave, the operating room door was kicked open again. Pierce stood in the doorway, his face the color of ash. 4 Pierce stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes sweeping down to my bloody, gaping side. “Sutton! Who did this!” “Who dared!” I sagged with relief, managing to point a shaky finger at Tiff. “Pierce, honey.” Tiff instantly burst into tears, her voice weak and on the verge of collapsing. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was so scared…” “Sutton is still trying to manipulate you.” She stumbled toward him, her practiced fragility making her collapse perfectly into his chest. “She crashed the car deliberately to try and kill me, and just now on the table, she threatened to tear me to pieces.” “I only came to check on her injuries, and she went absolutely insane, ripping at my bandages. Look at my hand.” She held up her wrapped hand. Small, perfectly art-directed drops of blood seeped through the snow-white gauze. It was nothing but a slight abrasion from when I had struggled. But Pierce’s expression instantly hardened. He withdrew the pitying look he’d given me. He wrapped his arms around Tiff, his eyes overflowing with genuine concern. “Don’t worry, I’m here.” He looked up at me, his gaze reverting to the pure disgust of someone looking at trash. “Sutton, you absolute monster!” I forced out the last sliver of strength I had, my voice hoarse. “Pierce, she admitted it! She had the brake lines cut! She wanted my kidney…” “Enough!” Pierce cut me off, pressing his hand dangerously close to the edge of my fresh incision. “Sutton, how long are you going to keep lying?” “Tiff is suffering from crippling kidney pain—and you just happened to be a match? Is that a coincidence?” “You investigated her, didn’t you? You knew she needed a donor.” “So you deliberately rigged your medical reports, hoping to use this as leverage over me. Isn’t that right?” I was stunned into silence. The sheer narcissistic delusion left me speechless. Behind Pierce, Tiff flashed me a triumphant, hateful smirk. “Pierce.” She spoke softly, her finger gently tugging at his cuff. “The doctor said one kidney might not be enough. My rejection rate is… severe.” “If I had two, the success rate would be much, much higher.” The air thickened, turning solid. Pierce didn’t even look at me. He just stared at the surgeon. “Will she die?” I fought against the searing post-op pain, screaming instinctively. “Pierce Hollingsworth, are you even human?!” “Without two kidneys, how could I possibly survive? Where is your mind?!” Tiff pressed her body against his. “Pierce, darling, she won’t die.” “The mortality rate is only one percent. Giving me the kidney secures you that multi-billion dollar contract.” Pierce stood silent for a long moment. Then, he spoke. “Do it.” “Sutton, if the surgery is a success, I’ll take you to Iceland to see the Aurora Borealis, just like you always wanted. Would that be enough?” My heart died entirely. I watched the surgical blade approaching, closing my eyes. And I shouted one name. “MOM!” The very next second, the operating room door was violently kicked off its hinges. The door frame splintered and flew off like a flimsy sheet of paper. Three people stood in the frame. My mother, Vivian, in a perfectly tailored black suit, carrying a sleek presentation box of professional knives she’d bought at the airport duty-free. Her smile was soft and elegant. My father, Arthur, in a crisp, old-school Mandarin-collar jacket, casually playing with a small scalpel. A bodyguard lay in a bloody mess at his feet. My brother, Dr. Spencer Caldwell, wore a pristine white lab coat and thin gold-rimmed glasses. He looked handsome and harmless, like a mild-mannered resident. He adjusted his glasses, his eyes, however, sweeping over me on the table with cold menace. Finally, he looked at Pierce, his voice as gentle as a dinner invitation. “Brother-in-law. Excuse the intrusion.” “Tell me, what method of death would you prefer?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389282”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I hadn’t even driven my new Glacier Blue Aston Martin GT, a half-million-dollar masterpiece, out of the Sterling Motor Group dealership lot when my phone buzzed. It was Chad Dillon, my sales consultant. He sounded clipped, a little rushed. He claimed the onboard diagnostics system needed an urgent, mandatory offline patch, an “emergency software update.” Could I please leave the key with him for thirty minutes? Half an hour later, I saw my car. It wasn’t parked in the service bay. It was plastered all over the Instagram story of some heavily filtered blonde sales associate named Brittany Wells. Chad, my grinning, overconfident salesman, had his arm draped around her, one hand on the steering wheel of my Glacier Blue GT. The caption read: “Fresh whip! Taking my babe for a spin.” I didn’t call, didn’t text, and didn’t leave a comment. I simply opened the Aston Martin’s companion app on my phone and, with a few taps, remotely locked the vehicle down. Engine ignition disabled. Doors bolted. The GPS showed them static, deep in the hills on the Sunset Canyon Loop, twenty miles outside of Palm Springs. Two hours later, the call came—not from the dealership, but from the Palm Springs Police Department. The tone, though slightly distorted by the phone line, carried the unmistakable, unyielding weight of official authority. “Mr. Alexander Derrick? Is that correct?” I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the dealership’s waiting lounge, watching the evening traffic stream past. I kept my voice steady. “It is.” “This is the Palm Springs PD Command Center. We’ve received an urgent 911 call. Two individuals are reporting that they are trapped inside a blue sports car, license plate number [Placeholder for Plate Number], on the Sunset Canyon Loop.” 01 I’d only just selected that plate number half an hour before. “The caller alleges the owner, you, deliberately initiated a remote lock, confining them inside. Sir, we have a report of Unlawful Confinement.” The voice on the line paused, then sharpened, cutting through the sterile silence of the lounge. “We are instructing you to immediately, and I mean immediately, disable the vehicle lock and proceed to the nearest precinct for questioning.” Unlawful Confinement. The charge hit my ears like a pair of icy handcuffs snapping shut. I didn’t immediately explain or erupt in indignant rage. I just felt a strange, absurd humor rise in my chest. I could almost see the officer on the other end: a bored cop envisioning me as a jealous ex-boyfriend, using a tech trick for a melodramatic act of revenge, or maybe just some spoiled, clueless tech bro who’d accidentally played with his expensive new toy too hard. My fingertips traced the cool metal frame of my Tom Ford glasses. My gaze remained level, calm as a lake in the shadow of a mountain. Was this the tax of being a victim in the modern world? To be questioned as the perpetrator simply because I possessed the means of the offense? It was certainly a novel experience. I took a deep breath, letting the low hum of the city filter out. My voice, when it crossed the wire, was clear, unhurried, and devoid of any tremble. “Officer.” Another pause from the other end. “I have a preliminary question.” “Go ahead.” “If a person steals your property while attempting to move it,” I began, my tone measured, as if debating a point of law, “and you, the owner, use entirely legal, pre-installed technology to track that property and prevent its further movement… is that still considered a crime?” The air of unshakeable authority from the police department seemed to crack just a little. “…What are you implying? You need to state your situation clearly, Mr. Derrick.” The officer’s voice softened, now tinged with confusion instead of command. I allowed a faint, satisfied half-smile to touch my lips. That was the response I needed. “The situation is perfectly clear,” I said. “First, the blue sports car—license plate [Placeholder for Plate Number]—is my legal property. I, Alexander Derrick, purchased it in full for cash at 3:15 PM today from the Sterling Motor Group. I can email the contract and wire transfer receipt right now.” “Second, the caller, if I am correct, is your dealership’s sales consultant, Chad Dillon. He obtained my key less than an hour ago under the false pretense that the vehicle needed an ‘emergency offline system update.’” “Third, his ‘update’ was, in fact, taking my brand new, unregistered vehicle, with his accomplice, Brittany Wells, on an unauthorized joyride and photo shoot to the Sunset Canyon Loop.” I narrated the facts as if reading a dry deposition. As I spoke, I pulled up the high-resolution screenshot I’d already taken of Brittany’s Instagram story. The photo was a parade of poor judgment: Chad, in a cheap knock-off designer shirt, smugly steering with one hand, the other around Brittany, who was pouting for the camera. The background was the desolate, rocky outline of the Sunset Canyon highway at dusk. The caption: “Fresh whip! Taking my babe for a spin.” The geotag was brutally specific: Sunset Canyon Loop, Mile Marker 11. “I have already forwarded this time-stamped, geotagged evidence, along with my proof of ownership, to your department’s designated investigation email address,” I informed him. I then opened the companion app again. The crimson dot of my Aston Martin was motionless on the digital map. I clicked the share function. “Furthermore, to fully cooperate with your investigation, I have temporarily granted your department real-time access to the vehicle’s GPS data and the cloud-stored footage from the dashcam and interior security camera.” My voice dropped, taking on a cool edge. “You can now see everything happening inside. Let me be clear. This car is my full-cash, legally-acquired property. It contains unopened personal items. My remote lock is a rational and legal act of loss prevention, taken to secure my assets against unauthorized and frankly criminal misuse. I see no issue with this course of action.” A long, heavy silence followed. I could hear muffled, confused voices on the other end—a low, chaotic murmur. “…He can do that?” “…The evidence trail is airtight.” “…That salesman has some nerve.” I waited. I didn’t need to push. I was the master of the long game. Meanwhile, I activated the app’s interior camera feed—a premium security feature I’d paid extra for. The small window showed a dim, claustrophobic scene, illuminated only by the faint glow of the dash. Chad Dillon’s formerly cocky face was a mask of panic and raw desperation. He was frantically pulling at the door handle. The car was dead; the mechanical locks were useless. He started smashing at the double-layer acoustic glass—with his elbow, his fist, even the heel of his shoe—the thick glass absorbing the impacts with dull, sickening thuds. Each impact was a direct, sickening blow to my chest. This was my new car. The one I’d waited six months for. The one where I hadn’t even pulled the protective plastic film off the seats yet. The girl, Brittany, was hysterical. Her carefully applied makeup was ruined, black streaks running down her cheeks like war paint. She was slumped against the passenger seat, chest heaving, clearly hyperventilating from fear and the enclosed space. Watching their pathetic display, the furious heat in my chest didn’t flare; instead, it subsided, transforming into a deep, chilling reservoir of resolve. Finally, the police officer’s voice returned, the tone utterly transformed. “Mr. Derrick, we have a preliminary understanding of the situation.” “Thank you for your cooperation.” “We require you to report immediately to the Westside Precinct to file a detailed statement. As for the individuals in the vehicle…” He chose his words with care. “We will dispatch a unit immediately to the scene for their ‘extraction’ and to have them ‘transported’ for questioning.” Extraction. Transported. The change in terminology was everything. My victim status was now officially recognized. My suspicion had been cleared. “I’ll be there momentarily.” I hung up. My finger lingered on the screenshot of Chad and Brittany’s smiling, arrogant faces. The curve of my own mouth tightened into something cold and dangerous. The game had just begun. The Westside Precinct was bathed in the harsh, white light of fluorescent bulbs, a place that smelled faintly of stale coffee and industrial-strength sanitizer. I arrived moments before Chad and Brittany were brought in by the patrol car. They were draped in thick, beige police-issue blankets, clutching Styrofoam cups of lukewarm water, playing the role of the traumatized victims. The moment they saw me walk through the door, their eyes flashed with raw hostility. Not guilt, but pure, unadulterated venom. I, the man whose property they had stolen, was, in their minds, the villain. I met their gazes without flinching, my Tom Ford lenses shielding any hint of emotion. The officer who’d taken my call—a Sergeant Miller—gestured toward an empty chair. “Mr. Derrick, please take a seat.” Before I could settle, Brittany’s high-pitched, frantic wail sliced through the station’s quiet hum. “Officer! That’s him!” She pointed a trembling finger at me, tears streaming down her face. “He deliberately tricked us into going out there and then locked us in! He… he had malicious intent!” She gasped, dramatically clutching her chest. “We almost died in there! We were hyperventilating! We were running out of air!” The sheer audacity of turning a theft and joyride into a case of sexual predation and attempted homicide stunned me. 02 To accuse the victim of being the aggressor. It wasn’t just a lie; it was a character assassination. I didn’t dignify the outburst with anger. My expression remained impassive. I watched her performance like one might watch a particularly bad high school play. Chad immediately chimed in, his voice hoarse from shouting and panic. “Exactly, Officer! We were just borrowing the car! You know, friends hanging out, having some fun! Kids being kids!” He attempted to frame his crime as a simple, harmless “borrow.” Then, he wheeled on me, eyes blazing. “And because of his recklessness, Brittany is severely traumatized! Her heart is pounding! I’m telling you, Alex, this isn’t over! We will press charges for reckless endangerment and deliberate emotional distress!” Their coordinated attack was seamless. They banked on the age-old courtroom trick: whoever cries the loudest and throws the dirtiest mud first often wins the jury. I ignored their hysterics. From my leather briefcase, I methodically began to take out a stack of documents. I placed the printed, signed purchase contract on the metal table. I placed the wire transfer confirmation for the full $485,000 on top of it. I placed the enlarged, high-resolution printout of Brittany’s Instagram screenshot, with the time stamp and geotag visible, next. One sheet. Two sheets. Three sheets. My movements were slow, deliberate, each quiet rustle of paper sounding like a slap in the tense silence. Their frantic shouting began to falter. Finally, I took my phone, tapped the screen, and played an audio recording. “Hey, Alex, so here’s the thing. The car’s backend is showing an urgent offline system update is required. It’s a mandatory patch. It’ll only take half an hour. Could you leave the key, and I’ll handle it in the bay?” Chad’s oily, familiar voice echoed clearly in the precinct. “It’s quick, just grab a coffee in the lounge, and it’ll be done before you know it.” The recording ended. The silence that followed was absolute. Chad’s face drained from red to white, then to a sickening shade of gray. He gaped, struggling for air, a trapped, terrified animal. Brittany stopped sobbing, her eyes wide with incomprehension and dawning horror as she looked from Chad to me. At that moment, the door burst open. In strode a man in a too-tight suit, a comb-over barely concealing a receding hairline, and a stomach straining against his belt—Hank Peterson, the dealership’s General Manager. He locked onto me immediately. A forced, practiced smile, like wrinkled cellophane, plastered itself onto his face. He rushed over, grabbing my hand in a sweaty, aggressive handshake. “Mr. Derrick! My God, Mr. Derrick! I am so, so sorry! This is a terrible misunderstanding! Absolute carelessness on the part of some young, foolish employees! I apologize for the trouble!” He shook my hand vigorously, as if we were long-lost fraternity brothers. I calmly, smoothly, extracted my hand. Hank didn’t miss a beat. He turned to Sergeant Miller, his tone instantly shifting to dismissive corporate charm. “Officer, thank you for your service. This is an internal matter, really, a simple misunderstanding between the dealership and a valued customer. We’ll take care of it ourselves and won’t waste any more of your valuable public resources.” He was trying to immediately classify the crime as a “minor internal incident.” He pulled me aside, lowering his voice into a confidential, oily whisper. “Alex, look, here’s what we’ll do. The kids were idiots, they’re already suspended. To make this right, I’m personally authorizing two years of our top-tier, all-inclusive service package—that’s a five-thousand-dollar value! Plus, a set of genuine Aston Martin custom floor mats! They’re German leather! Thousands of dollars!” He leaned in closer, reeking of cheap cologne and desperation. “Let’s just let this go, okay? The car is fine, no harm done. Blowing this up helps no one—not you, not us. We’re offering a great resolution. Deal?” I looked at his face—a landscape of feigned solicitude and practiced opportunism. I listened to his condescending offer, a pittance meant to buy my silence. I smiled then. The warmth did not reach my eyes. I addressed Hank, but my voice was clear enough for everyone to hear, especially the officers documenting the case. “Mr. Peterson.” “Do you know why I waited six months for this specific car?” “Do you know the premium I paid for that exclusive Glacier Blue finish?” “Do you know that car was not just transportation; it was a trophy—a personal symbol of years of brutal work and sacrifice?” I paused, locking eyes with him. “And now?” “Now, that car means only one thing to me.” “An insult.” The insult of being deceived. The insult of having my property treated with such reckless disrespect. The profound insult of being offered the equivalent of table scraps for my silence. Hank’s corporate smile froze, melting like low-grade butter. He hadn’t expected this level of pushback from a “regular customer.” My refusal to accept his small-time bribery instantly shifted his expression to wounded, simmering rage. I ignored his anger and addressed my demands clearly to the room, ensuring the police record was perfect. “Mr. Peterson, I must correct you.” “This is not a ‘misunderstanding,’ and it is certainly not a ‘minor internal incident.’” “It is Grand Theft Auto, and it is Systematic Fraud.” The words Theft and Fraud hit Hank like a gut punch. His face was now a tight, angry red. I continued, my voice measured and unwavering. “Therefore, I will not be accepting any form of private settlement.” “I am formally presenting my demands to the Sterling Motor Group.” I held up one finger. “First, the compromised vehicle is unacceptable. I require either a full, immediate refund, or a replacement—a brand new, equivalent specification, zero-mileage vehicle, air-freighted directly from the factory line.” I held up a second finger. “Second, the employees responsible for the theft and the subsequent slander in this precinct—Chad Dillon and Brittany Wells—must be immediately and publicly terminated.” I held up a third finger. “Third, the Sterling Motor Group must purchase a full-page advertisement in the LA Times and publish a corresponding, unedited public apology on its corporate website, addressed specifically to me, Alexander Derrick.” My demands were absolute. The precinct was utterly silent. Chad and Brittany’s faces were ghostly white. They had finally grasped that their little “spin” had consequences far beyond a verbal warning. Hank, now a furious shade of eggplant, stared at me for a few long seconds, then let out a cold, venomous laugh. “Ha. A full-page ad. You’ve got nerve, kid.” The professional “Mr. Derrick” was gone, replaced by the condescending “kid.” His posture shifted from conciliatory to confrontational. “The car is registered to you; it’s off the lot. A replacement? That’s not happening. An apology? Who do you think you are?” He turned to the officer. “Officer, you see? He’s being completely unreasonable, demanding the world. This is purely a civil matter, and we’re willing to compensate. He’s refusing. I suggest you close the case.” Sergeant Miller pushed his glasses up, maintaining his neutrality. “Mr. Peterson, we are still investigating the criminal nature of Mr. Dillon’s actions. However, Mr. Derrick’s civil claims fall under mediation. We advise you to proceed with that.” Hank realized the police wouldn’t back his bullying. All his fury turned back to me. 03 He took a menacing step closer, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure malice. “Alex, listen to me. I’m giving you one last piece of advice. In this business, you leave a little room for error. The Sterling Motor Group has deep pockets, and we have people. The owner is Mr. Sinclair—the biggest name in California real estate development.” “You make us an enemy over a set of floor mats, and I guarantee you won’t be able to turn a corner in this city without running into a problem. Think carefully.” It was an open, ugly threat. The arrogance of the corporate bully was on full, brazen display. He assumed that I, a successful but ultimately singular young man, would fold under the pressure of local political and financial muscle. He assumed wrong. I looked directly into his venomous eyes and spoke one slow, even word. “Really?” “Then today, I guess I’ll have to see just how unbearable you really are.” I didn’t wait for his response. I calmly reached into my suit pocket, took out my phone, unlocked it, opened my call recorder app, and pressed the bright red “Record” button. I placed the phone gently on the table, screen up, pointed directly at Hank Peterson.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389281”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After Rebirth, the second time my husband’s consigliere—the woman who would eventually replace me—slid a leather leash around my neck while I slept, I didn’t reach for the gun beneath the pillow. I didn’t scream, didn’t shatter the crystal, didn’t lose control and threaten to burn the estate down, the way I had the last time when Dante defended Zara Bellwether in front of the entire family. Instead, I gave Dante a brittle, empty smile. “She has nerve. You two enjoy the game.” I let the words hang there, heavy and final. “Consider our ten-year anniversary party cancelled. I’ll be leaving now.” I pulled on the trench coat draped over the foot of the bed and walked out of the estate without a second glance. I couldn’t afford to be the old me. The fallout from my past rebellion against Dante Rossi had been a cold, surgical execution. He hadn’t just divorced me; he’d erased me. Every account was frozen overnight. The best under-the-table lawyer in the city only secured a settlement check for $50.00—a final, deliberate insult. Just outside his territory, I was diagnosed with late-stage glandular cancer. When the pain became a white-hot, constant agony, I abandoned every shred of dignity I had left and crawled back to the gates of Dante’s estate. He let Zara grind the heel of her stiletto into my hand while I lay freezing on the gravel, and didn’t send a single guard to let me in. I was broke, alone, and I died of exposure right outside the iron gates of the home I had spent ten years nurturing. Pride is a luxury for the living. What I didn’t expect was for Dante to follow me. He stopped me at the end of the long portico. “Listen to me, Anya. Zara is young, careless. It was a stupid joke with a leash.” “She has no malice. Her father and mine were blood brothers. She grew up here, always getting away with things. You’re my wife, damn it. Rise above it.” He’d said those exact words the last time. Then, I was already shaking with rage after Zara had intentionally burned me with the family-crested lighter—a symbol of my own fading power. Hearing Dante’s placid defense, I’d shattered. I fired three shots into the marble floor at his feet, yelled, “We are done, forever!” and fled the estate in a storm of fury. I was a fool. I thought breaking him would break the Capo. But I walked through the winter rain for hours in a flimsy coat, my high heels slicing the skin on my ankles, until I collapsed with a fever. As I lay dying in the safe-house apartment, Dante didn’t send a search party. That night, he took Zara to Monte Carlo. The next morning, the pictures were all over the family’s private network: him adjusting the small-of-her-back holster, her standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It was too much. A cold, bitter laugh escaped me. The next second, Dante gripped my wrist, his voice tight. “How many times do I have to explain this? Zara is my godfather’s daughter. I am responsible for her. It’s a damn scratch, put some cream on it.” His voice hardened. “Can you stop this pathetic speculation? This petty, baseless jealousy?” The sudden, chilling rage in his eyes made my chest ache. It wasn’t for him. It was for the girl I used to be. That girl, in her last life, suffered the most excruciating form of cancer. She cried and begged to die early. When she ran out of money, she once pressed a utility knife into her rail-thin arm just to shock herself unconscious and escape the pain for a moment. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to sell the wedding band he’d given her—the one set with a black diamond, engraved with the family crest. A month before the end, she dragged her wasted body back to him. He had promised her forever, kneeling in a pool of her parents’ blood after their assassination. But when she knelt outside his estate, begging the guard on the intercom to send a message, Dante’s voice came back cold and final: “Anya, you chose to leave. Leaving means there are no ties left. Don’t contact me again.” The line went dead. I collapsed at the iron gates. In my last moments, I watched him and Zara kissing in the rose garden I had personally curated, drinking wine from the crystal stemware I had chosen. The memory was a physical chokehold. I choked it down, regaining my composure. “Dante, I’m not jealous, and I’m not angry with Zara.” “I’m just tired. I’m going home. Go back to your party.” A flicker of genuine shock crossed his face. I didn’t look back. I walked away, found a cab, and retreated to the safe-house apartment downtown. I bolted the door. The first thing I did was call a private medical center. I scheduled a full diagnostic screening for the morning. This life, I only wanted to live. As soon as I hung up, Dante walked back in. He tore off his tie, his brow furrowed with familiar impatience. “What was that stunt in the hallway? Anya, stop sulking.” Ever since Zara became his executive assistant, Dante had grown progressively colder and more critical. His dramatic shift, coupled with Zara’s constant needling, was what had driven the former me to constantly escalate and lose control. I swallowed the tight, aching knot in my chest. “Believe me or not, I’m not angry, I’m not sulking, and I’m not throwing a fit.” “Look.” I held up my hand. “The scratch is already disinfected. I truly am not holding a grudge against you. And I certainly wouldn’t dare cross Zara.” I retreated to the bathroom and locked the door. When I came out, Dante was gone. My encrypted burner phone was flashing relentlessly. It was Zara’s ritual: any time she was with Dante, she’d flood my inbox with real-time photos. She was using me as her cloud album. In the past, these images would send me into hysterical fits or on a raging charge back to the estate. Now, I looked at the new photos. I didn’t curse her. Instead, I sent a thoughtful reply: “Shooting angle is all wrong, Dante’s profile is better from above. Try holding the phone higher next time.” “Also, too much negative space in the frame. Doesn’t read as intimate enough.” Zara fired back instantly: “Did your account get hacked?” I sent a smiley face emoji. “Nope. Just letting you know he’s all yours now.” Then, I blocked her. This triangle dynamic suits me: I want the Capo’s wife title and the limitless black card; Dante’s body and heart? Zara can have them. Unlike the fool I was, I just want to survive. After dispatching Zara, I lay down to sleep. But even with a second chance, sleep eluded me. I was still plagued by the ghosts of the past, just like when I was sick in the last life. When we were kids, Dante, solitary and sharp-edged, faced the brutal discipline of the previous Capo—his father. I would sometimes wake up long after midnight and hear the crack of a steel whip from the training grounds—a penalty for failing a drill. Living across the yard, I felt sorry for him. I used to sneak out and slip a piece of candy—a salted caramel—into the pocket of the jacket he left hanging by his door, along with a tiny note: “When it hurts, eat one.” The first time I did it, he cornered me, his ears bright red. “…I don’t like sweets.” I only laughed, waving my hand dismissively. “Dante, you should talk more. You have a good voice.” It became our ritual. The boy who walked alone began to wait for me, began to expect the warmth of the caramel in his pocket. We walked that dark alley in our neighborhood together for countless nights. When he was eighteen, just before he was sent to a closed academy in Switzerland as the heir apparent, he found me and pressed a card into my hand. “I checked the security level of this art college. It’s high, and it’s not far from my academy. Your grades are weak for undergrad, but you could try the pre-program.” I never told him my parents could have afforded any art school in the world. Instead, I secretly changed my plans and applied to the school closest to his. I took my father’s predictable fury without regret. Soon, we were in the same city. Freed from his father’s direct supervision, Dante was transformed: the thick glasses were gone, replaced by contacts; his hair was clipped short; he wore custom suits; he even taught himself Chopin. I never knew why, until one night, as I cheered in my studio for an upcoming exhibit, he grabbed my wrist, his eyes burning. “I’ve become everything you wanted. Can’t you finally just look at me?” The word ‘wanted’ hit me like a bullet. Even across campuses, his legend was growing: purging a family traitor at sixteen, taking over half the business by eighteen, and generally acknowledged as the next Capo by twenty. Countless women documented his “glow-up” in private forums. I thought a world of blood separated us, yet he was confessing his feelings. The always-reckless me kissed him on tiptoes without a second thought. Later, we were a couple. I spent my days researching how to brew his coffee, choose his cufflinks, and select his records. My life had no plan, only him. Dante’s life, however, kept soaring: he consolidated power, eliminated rivals, and was crowned Capo at twenty-three. The contrast with my own life was a cruel joke. I gave up my sketchbook for a life of selecting his cufflinks, choosing his wine, and planning his menus. My only self-worth was in being his appendage. Even the parents who loved me most were killed by rivals in a car bombing on the way to see my first solo show. As an orphan, I wept over their few remaining possessions until I passed out. Dante knelt before their wake, in defiance of his father’s icy glare, and swore he would protect and care for me for the rest of my life. We married. I had multiple miscarriages, and my health failed. Then Dante met Zara. He began to find me empty. All I ever asked was what he wanted to eat, or what he wanted to wear. Unlike Zara, who could talk to him about arms deals, territory mapping, and accompany him into any blood-soaked negotiation. My eyes were stinging. I opened them. Morning light filtered through the window. The pillow was soaked with tears again. A text message from Dante came in: “Visiting my father at the sanitarium this afternoon.” I replied calmly: “I have an appointment today. I can’t make it.” His call came in instantly. “What appointment?” “Anya, I’ve told you—Zara and I are nothing. Why do you always choose to make a crisis out of a trifle?” Hearing him bring up Zara again felt farcical. Dante was notoriously a man of few words. This was the most he’d ever explained himself over any one thing. Was he trying to convince me he hadn’t fallen for her, or himself? Or was he easing his own guilt? My chest tightened, but I kept my tone flat. “Dante, I’m unwell. I have a full medical workup scheduled. I can’t go with you today.” “Besides, your father has a heart condition and has always disliked me. Isn’t it better if I don’t upset him? Didn’t he always say that only a woman of Zara’s pedigree was fit to stand beside you? Take her instead.” It was genuine advice. Dante exploded. “Anya, stop with the drama.” The line went dead. I heard the dial tone and let out a cold chuckle.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389280”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Everyone agreed on one thing: I was the unwanted kid. My parents divorced when I was small. My father vanished, my mother remarried, and the only person who ever cared for me, my grandmother, passed away. The year she died, she left me a run-down shack and exactly $214.37. I survived on the kindness of neighbors to walk out of the deep country, and I financed my education with student loans. During my internship, I worked myself into the ground and secured a decent job, which turned into a full-time position upon graduation. I’ve been hustling ever since. This year, with the final holiday bonus check, I finally paid off every last debt. I had saved my very first nest egg. As the clock struck midnight and the fireworks exploded outside, ushering in the New Year, I made a promise to myself. My rotten life was over. The good one? It was finally my turn. 1 The day they buried my grandmother, everyone in Black Creek assumed my mother would take me with her. After all, I was only thirteen. In this world, outside of her, I had no one left. I thought so too. I packed my worn backpack and stood by the door, waiting for her to tell me it was time. Instead, she shouldered her suitcase, walked straight past me, and boarded the Greyhound bus. She didn’t look back until the bus vanished around the last dusty bend in the road. It was as if my arrangements—my life—had never once crossed her mind during her entire visit. I walked back into the small, dimly lit house and, by pure instinct, called out: “Grandma, I feel sick.” The house answered with a dead, hollow silence. That was the moment the realization hit me: Grandma was buried under the cold, hard dirt. From now on, I was the only thing breathing in this house. Fear, cold and sharp, rushed in like a tidal wave. What was I supposed to do? I sat on the front porch stoop all night. When the sun finally rose, I grabbed my backpack and went to school. My eighth-grade history teacher, a kind woman from the city, once told me that education was the only road out of the mountains. If my mother wouldn’t take me, I would walk myself. My classmates looked at me strangely. “Why are you still here, June?” “Are you really just… alone?” I didn’t want their pity, and I definitely didn’t want their mocking faces. I stood taller than my five feet and lied loudly. “Mom says pulling me out of Northwood Middle now would mess up the transfer credits. I’ll finish eighth grade here, then she’s moving me to the city.” It was a dignified lie. It sealed their lips. Life had to continue. I learned to build a fire in the old iron stove and cook for myself. I learned to haul water from the well to water the meager vegetable patch. I survived day after day on the last of Grandma’s flour and the sweet potatoes from the field. Until one night, I heard the sound of shattering porcelain from next door. My neighbor, Bella, was crying, and her father was yelling. They were fighting over the $100 needed for her GED study materials. I huddled against the wall, listening, a creeping dread chilling me to the bone. In two years, I would be going to high school. High school was in the county seat, and it wasn’t free. I had to pay tuition and buy books. If I couldn’t come up with the money, would I be stuck here? What then? Bella gave me the answer. The next morning, before the sun cracked the horizon, she was gone. She carried the faded backpack that used to hold her textbooks. Today, it held her few clothes. She was heading south to work in a construction site—to earn money for her family, specifically the money for her younger brother’s eventual wedding down-payment. Watching her silhouette disappear into the fog felt like a raw wound inside me. I couldn’t follow her path. I wanted to read. I needed to learn. But where would the money come from? The $214.37 Grandma left wouldn’t last the year. The only person who could help was my mother, Brenda. I remembered the time my little brother, Caleb, hugged my stepfather, Roy, begging for a new remote-control truck after getting a perfect score on a quiz. Mom’s eyes crinkled with love, and the next day, he had the most expensive toy on the market. What if I got a perfect score? What if I was the top student in the entire school? Would Mom, just for the sake of appearances among the extended family, throw a little tuition money my way? It was a lifeline, and I grabbed it with both hands. I attacked my books like a madwoman that semester. I studied during class, and at night, I did problem sets by candlelight. When I felt my eyes close, I pinched myself hard. At the final exams, I really did earn the top spot. The villagers were stunned. “The wild child with no oversight, pulling first place?” “Working the field and hitting the books—the girl’s got fire in her bones.” Marge Dawson, the mayor’s wife, a kind neighbor, leaned on the fence, cracking sunflower seeds. “Take that award to your mom, June. Maybe she’ll finally buy you a new coat for Christmas.” I looked down at myself. I was wearing Grandma’s patched-up, black denim jacket. The sleeves were frayed at the cuffs, the lining peeking out. I hadn’t had a new item of clothing since I was six, before Caleb was born, when Mom used to bring me a bright red dress for the holidays. It was long gone now. I had relied on hand-me-downs from cousins for years. But Grandma’s death had severed those family ties, too. I was facing the winter wrapped only in a dead woman’s clothes. As the holidays approached, the migrant workers started coming home. Bella returned, too, looking polished and wearing expensive-looking clothes. I spent every afternoon waiting beneath the old oak tree at the edge of the village. 2 On Christmas Eve, the snow was thick and heavy. My fingers and toes were numb. My eyelashes were covered in ice crystals. Finally, I saw a familiar, yet distant figure walking toward me, trudging through the snow. She was leading a small, neatly dressed boy. “June? Wake up.” My eyes snapped open. A blast of icy wind rushed down my collar. There was no mother. No brother. No new clothes. Only Bella’s anxious face. It had been a fever dream. I had been squatting too long in the cold and had caught a nasty bug. Bella sighed, pushing a few white pills into my hand. “Take these. For the fever. You can’t die out here, June. No one will even know to look.” I swallowed the bitter pills and looked out at the distant mountain range. “Bella, is the outside world beautiful?” Her eyes flashed with a brief, painful light before darkening. “For the rich, it’s gorgeous. Neon lights and endless parties.” “But for us? It’s shift work, assembly lines, and aching feet. Still better than begging the dirt for a living, though.” She looked at me, her expression serious. “June, don’t bother with high school. Come back to the construction site with me. They’re hiring, and they pay for room and board.” I clutched the rough fabric of Grandma’s jacket and shook my head. “I want to read. I want to go to school.” Bella chuckled, a dry sound. “With what money? No cash, no classroom, June.” I dropped my gaze. I didn’t want the construction site. Every girl who went to the construction site from our village came back two years later to marry and have kids. Bella was the same. The man she brought back would be her fiancé after the New Year. Once a girl married here, she was trapped. I refused to accept that fate. I wouldn’t trade one cage for another. Seeing my silence, Bella sighed again and walked back home. On New Year’s Eve, the sound of firecrackers shook the village. I sat alone in the empty house until the night was black, but my mother never showed. The last of the rice was gone. My stomach burned with a hunger that felt like fire. The scent of BBQ drifted over from the neighbor’s house, hooking into my soul like a claw. I pushed the door open and stumbled out. In the alley, a mangy stray was hunched over, tearing at a piece of bone with strips of gristle and meat still clinging to it. I stared at that bone. My throat tightened. I couldn’t stop the saliva from pooling in my mouth. My rational mind screamed at me that it was dog food. But instinct drove me. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then lunged forward, snatching the bone right out of the dog’s mouth. “June? What in God’s name—!” Marge Dawson, the mayor’s wife, had come out with a bucket of slops and saw the entire thing. I froze, the saliva-coated bone still gripped in my hand. My face was instantly on fire. I threw the bone back down in a panic, desperate for a hole to swallow me whole. Marge stood there for a long moment, then sighed, a sound heavy with sorrow. She went back inside and returned with a large bowl heaped with smashed potatoes, topped with a slab of sausage. “Eat,” she commanded. I forgot all pride and dignity, taking the bowl and devouring the food. After I ate, Marge led me straight to the mayor’s house. “This child has been alone for nearly six months, Mayor. I checked her pantry today—it’s empty. What is she going to do? You have to figure something out.” Mayor Dawson studied me, his face etched with concern. Finally, he spoke: “I’ll call her mother to come get her.” My heart seized up. I immediately stood straighter. What would Mom say when she picked up the phone? 3 The mayor dialed the number, but a moment later, the loud, tinny voice of the automated service filled the room: “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service…” I stood there, stunned. My mother had changed her number. She had finally, irrevocably, cut the cord. The mayor put the phone down, looking troubled. “June, the Township Aid funds are limited.” “We have elderly folks who would starve without it. You don’t have local ties, and you’re an out-of-towner; the money… it’s hard to justify.” The room fell into a heavy silence. Finally, Marge spoke up. “Tell you what. If this girl agrees, she can come to my house every day for a bowl of smashed potato and gravy, and then she can visit the other homes for a side dish of vegetables or meat.” “There are dozens of families in this village. We won’t let her starve.” I sank to my knees and bowed my head to the floor. “Thank you, Ma’am. I will.” As long as I could live, as long as I could study, I would beg. For the next year, I carried my container through every alley and to every kitchen door. I learned to read faces. When someone was reluctant, I would politely accept the bread and eat it alone. By the time the next New Year came, I had learned not to expect anything. My life was a cycle of books and begging. On the day the high school acceptance letters were posted, my hands were shaking as I held the envelope. I got into the best high school in the county. But I couldn’t smile. Tuition plus room and board was over two thousand dollars a year. For a girl who survived on handouts, it was an astronomical sum. I sat on the stoop, staring at the letter. Give up? Never. Just as I ran out of hope, my mother came back. 4 My mother, Brenda, set down her suitcase and looked me over. “I can’t believe how tall you’ve gotten,” she said flatly. No matter how high I had built the walls around my heart, hearing that one familiar sentence caused them to crumble. Tears poured down my cheeks. I rushed over and wrapped my arms around her waist, trying to expel two years of loneliness and hurt in one massive sob. “Mom, I missed you so much.” Her body went rigid. She neither pushed me away nor hugged me back. When I finished crying, I wiped my eyes. My hand trembled as I pulled the warm, folded acceptance letter from my jacket pocket. “Mom, I got into the best high school.” “Could you… lend me the tuition? I promise, I’ll pay you back double when I start working.” She took the letter, glanced at it, and her face tightened. “What’s a girl need books for? Girls who read too much get ideas, and what good is an idea when you’re just going to settle down and raise a family?” A wave of cold dread washed over me. I stared at her, disbelieving. She lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. “I’m here to sell your grandmother’s shack. Your brother needs a down-payment for a starter home in a good school district.” “Money’s tight, June. You’re grown up now. It’s time to help out.” “Pack your things. My boss at the textile mill needs hands. I told him about you, and he agreed to hold a spot.” She hadn’t come back to help me read. She had come back to sell my inheritance to finance my brother’s education and then sell me into construction site labor. I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. “I won’t go! I’m going to school!” My mother’s brow furrowed into a tight knot. She slapped her hand on the table. “You won’t go to the construction site? What, are you going to be a princess? Where do you think I’ll get the cash to indulge you?” I froze, completely helpless. The yard gate suddenly flew open. Marge Dawson strode in and immediately pointed a finger at my mother. “Brenda, have you no shame?” “This child grew up here like a stray dog, and you didn’t check on her once. Now you think she can earn a wage, you remember you have a daughter?” My mother scoffed, flicking her cigarette ash. “All the girls around here end up in the construction site. It’s the way of things.” Marge gave a nasty laugh. “But the other girls weren’t eating my pot roast!” “Other workers send money home. You disappear the moment your own mother dies. You just waited for this child to grow big enough to become your cash cow, didn’t you?” Marge planted herself in front of me, like an angry old hen protecting her chick. “You want to take her? Fine. Pay me back two years of food and support. I won’t charge interest. Just two thousand dollars.” My mother angrily stubbed out the cigarette, her face pinched. “I don’t have that kind of money right now.” Marge pointed to the door. “Then get out!” Neighbors, drawn by the yelling, started to gather, whispering and pointing fingers. My mother’s face turned the color of beet-red. She shot me a look of pure hatred, grabbed her suitcase, and scurried away. Watching her retreating back, I burst into tears again. Marge knelt down, patting my back. “June, don’t blame me for running off your mother.” I shook my head, wiping my face. “I don’t blame you, Ma’am. She was the one who abandoned me first.” In that moment, I finally accepted the cold, hard fact: I was an unwanted child. Marge sighed, looking at the acceptance letter in my hand, her face full of worry. “But June, I can’t help you with the tuition either.” “This village relies on what the land gives us. We only bring in about six thousand a year. Your uncle, the mayor, gives most of that to the families who need it more.” I stopped crying, my mind a terrifying blank. The tuition. Two thousand dollars. It was enough to crush an adult, and it was certainly enough to crush a thirteen-year-old girl. Just then, Bella came out of her house. She leaned against the doorframe and said in a low voice: “I have a way. It just depends on whether you’re willing to go through with it.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389279”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I slammed my two-week notice onto the conference table, right as my fiancé was idly twirling a wadded ball of black stockings between his fingers. He glanced dismissively at the word “Resignation” on the paper, a familiar, easy smirk curving his lips. “Sutton Reid, what new drama are we stirring up now?” My knuckles were white against the copy of the Due Diligence report I clutched behind my back, but my voice was unnervingly steady. “I’m waiving all claims to company shares and any accrued bonuses. My official departure paperwork has already been submitted to HR.” The twirling motion of his fingers paused for a beat, the dismissiveness in his eyes replaced by mild shock, then a swift turn to biting sarcasm. “Babe, I told you weeks ago, we’re holding off on releasing that report because we need the Prescott Group’s leverage to finalize this transition. Do you really have to be so difficult about every little thing?” “Just until things stabilize, then I’ll make our relationship public, hmm?” He reached out to cup my cheek, a gesture he’d used countless times to soothe the “irrational” me. But I turned my head, dodging his touch. All I wanted now was to be completely, irrevocably done with him, and with this entire enterprise built on calculation and deceit. 1. Blake Harrison let his hand drop, the black stockings still dangling from his index finger. His tone was laced with an almost charitable arrogance. “Sutton, stop acting like a child. Without me, where would you have gotten access to those core resources? How would you have led three hundred-million-dollar deals in three years?” He rose and walked toward me, looking down. “If you walk out now, you’re gutting your own career.” I looked up at him, my eyes empty of any emotion. “My career has never been a gift from anyone.” “Those project proposals? I spent countless all-nighters rewriting them. Those client resources? I flew across the country to lock them in. Even the core technology this company is built on? I led the team that cracked the code.” “Blake, what makes you think I can’t survive without you?” He froze. He hadn’t expected this. The Sutton he knew was always compliant, always agreeing to his version of the future. For five years, I had compromised again and again for the sake of his so-called ‘shared future.’ He said the startup phase required low visibility, so I was content to be the woman behind the man, pushing all the credit to him at celebration dinners, despite being the project’s main architect. He said he had to play the game with the Prescott heiress, Sarah, so I ignored the scent of a cheap, unfamiliar perfume on his jacket, and the telltale ping of flirtatious texts on his phone. I believed that once the company was stable, he would fulfill his promise: give me a public role, a clean slate, and an honest love. It wasn’t until last week, when I found the DD Report—the one he’d buried for three months—stuffed in the back of his private office drawer, along with intimate photos of him and Sarah Prescott, and their vulgar chat logs, that I finally woke up. The Due Diligence report clearly stated that Prescott Enterprises’ funding was already a dead end. The so-called ‘leverage’ was nothing but Blake’s scheme to exploit Sarah’s feelings, using her investment to plug the gaping holes in his own company’s finances. His promise to me was a lie from the very beginning. “The client only recognizes you, Sutton. The projects aren’t finalized. If you dare walk away, I’ll personally make sure you never work in this industry again.” Blake’s face darkened, a flicker of something truly ugly crossing his eyes. He was adept at using this kind of threat; he knew my professional reputation meant everything to me. “Oh, really?” I pulled out my phone and tapped the play button on a call recording I’d prepared long ago. Blake’s voice, smug and confident, filled the air. “Sarah is a complete fool, she thinks a few pieces of jewelry and some sweet talk are enough to reel her in. Once I get her investment, I’ll cut her loose. As for Sutton, she’s just a tool, a knife in my hand. Once it’s served its purpose, you throw it away…” Before the clip even finished, Blake lunged for my phone, his face absolutely ashen. I was ready. I sidestepped him easily and slipped the phone back into my bag. I sneered, throwing the copy of the DD Report onto the table in front of him. “Did you think I wouldn’t keep leverage of my own?” “The evidence of you falsifying revenue data and defrauding investors? I have all of it. If I choose to expose you, forget me not being able to find another job—you and your company will be facing hard time.” The office was dead silent. Blake’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. He stared at me, his eyes promising violence. “Sutton Reid, are you threatening me?” “It’s not a threat. It’s a notification.” I bent down, retrieved my notice, and gently patted the dust from it. “I’ve already accepted an offer from Vantage Capital. I start next week as Vice President of Projects. As for your mess with the Prescotts, you clean it up yourself.” Vantage Capital—the gold standard of investment firms, and the very partner Blake had been desperately trying and failing to secure for years. He never imagined I would be headhunted by them. 2. Just then, Blake’s phone chimed. It was Sarah Prescott. He checked the screen, his expression growing even more toxic, but he answered it anyway. “Zeyan, when are you coming over? My father has approved the investment, he’s just waiting for you to sign the contracts…” Sarah’s overly sweet, hopeful voice filtered from the phone. I didn’t wait to hear their saccharine exchange. I turned and walked out of the office. The afternoon sun streamed through the glass windows of the hallway, warm and bright on my skin. My phone vibrated. It was a text from Gavin Wells, the CEO of Vantage Capital. “Sutton, welcome aboard. Your talent and integrity are more valuable than any resource.” I smiled faintly, tapping out a reply. “Looking forward to it.” Back at the empty apartment, I collapsed onto the sofa, the tension I’d held for months finally bleeding away. This apartment—Blake had bought it, putting the deed in my name as a “guarantee.” Now, staring at the high-end finishes, all I felt was bitter irony. Five years of my youth, five years of complete devotion, all for a perfectly executed con. I walked to the balcony, watching the traffic ebb and flow far below. My mind drifted back five years. Blake was a hungry, broke kid then, pitching a half-baked business plan out of a university incubator. I had just received my acceptance letter to Columbia for my Master’s, but his plea—*“Sutton, stay and help me. We’ll build our future together”—*made me abandon the chance without a second thought. I remember us crammed into a tiny, ten-by-ten studio. In winter, when the heater broke, he’d tuck my hands into his jacket to warm them. In summer, without air conditioning, he’d stay up all night fanning me. Once, when the company hit a funding crisis, he came back defeated, held me, and cried, apologizing for putting me through hardship. “Sutton, once the company is stable, I’ll marry you. I’ll buy you the biggest house, the best car. I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world.” His eyes had been so earnest. I gave him everything. To cut costs, I took on tutoring gigs after my full-time work. To land our first major client, I practically lived in their lobby for a week until they finally relented. To solve the core technical challenge, the team and I pulled an all-nighter for a month straight, often passing out at our desks. Blake did succeed, fueled by my proposals and the clients I secured. The company grew from a cramped workshop into a minor industry player. But as the company grew, he changed. He started attending endless networking events, coming home later and later, smelling of increasingly unfamiliar perfumes. When I asked, he always waved it off: “It’s just business, Sutton. I have to play the part.” I chose to believe him. Until the first time I found a stick of lipstick that wasn’t mine in his suit pocket. It was a shocking, seductive red, a color I would never wear. I held it up to him. He paused, then casually dismissed it. “Must have brushed against a client’s purse.” I looked at his open, seemingly candid expression, and swallowed the accusation that was burning in my throat. Trust him. Support his career. But once a crack appears in trust, the foundation never returns to its original integrity. The incidents grew more frequent. His phone was suddenly password-protected. His schedule became opaque. His attitude toward me grew distant and perfunctory. I hadn’t quite given up. But a month after leaving him, I discovered I was three weeks pregnant. 3. I was holding the sonogram report, walking toward the office to tell Blake, when I saw him kissing a stranger outside the building. I recognized the woman instantly: Sarah Prescott, the heiress to the Prescott Group. It felt like a physical blow. I stood frozen as the prenatal report fluttered from my trembling hand to the ground. Blake saw me. His face went instantly pale. He pushed Sarah away and rushed over, trying to physically pull me away. “Sutton, let me explain. It’s not what you think…” “Then what is it?” I bent down, picked up the paper, and thrust it at him, my voice cracking. “Blake, we’re having a baby. Is this how you treat me? Is this how you treat our child?” He looked at the report, his eyes a confusing mix of shock, guilt, but mostly impatience. “Sutton, this isn’t the time for this. Sarah and I are only business partners. I’m doing this for the company, for our future.” “For our future?” I laughed, the sound brittle as tears streamed down my face. “Does your future include me? Does it include this baby? Or just your company and your bottom line?” We had a devastating fight that day. He called me unreasonable. He said I didn’t understand the sacrifices he had to make. And from that moment, I quietly began building my own escape route. I contacted my former professors and meticulously mapped out a new career path. I gathered every shred of evidence of Blake’s illegal operations, ensuring I had leverage. I even consulted a lawyer, Ms. Anya Sharma, about property and cohabitation rights. The child, that tiny life, ultimately did not make it. The doctor said the prolonged stress and anxiety had caused poor fetal development. A natural miscarriage. On the day of the procedure, Blake was at a black-tie event with Sarah Prescott. I called him. He cut me off quickly: “I’m busy, Sutton. Whatever it is, talk later.” Then he hung up. Lying on that cold operating table, feeling the quiet, irreversible loss of that small life, my heart was shredded. In that sterile silence, I knew. There was absolutely no turning back with Blake. 4. I loaded the last box of my belongings into my car. I gave the apartment, once filled with all my love and hope, one final look, locked the door, and descended the stairs. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I pulled out my phone and opened a hidden, encrypted folder. Inside lay years of evidence: Blake’s misappropriation of company funds, the theft of my design patents, even the plan he devised with Sarah to ultimately strip-mine Prescott Enterprises. Every contract copy, every secretly recorded call, every dubious wire transfer—all meticulously organized. My finger hovered over the send button for three seconds, before I pressed it, sending these career-ending files, word-for-word, to the legal counsel for Blue Ridge Tech, Prescott’s largest competitor. The ‘Sent Successfully’ notification popped up. I managed a thin, cold smile. I started the car, floored the gas pedal, and drove away from the place I once believed was my sanctuary, without a single glance in the rearview mirror. Meanwhile, at The Fairmont Grand in Midtown, the ballroom was awash in the glow of crystal chandeliers, roses, and champagne. Elegant guests mingled, their conversation a soft, sophisticated buzz. Blake Harrison stood center stage, his custom black tuxedo fitting his frame perfectly. He had carefully wiped away his usual flippancy, replacing it with an air of refined, gentle charm. He held Sarah Prescott’s hand, his finger idly caressing the massive diamond on her ring finger, a picture of tender affection. The officiant, microphone in hand, was booming out the praises of the engaged couple: Blake Harrison, the up-and-coming business star about to become the son-in-law of Prescott Enterprises, and Sarah, the cherished family heiress. Sarah looked up at Blake, her eyes shining with the starry-eyed belief of a woman deeply in love. Her voice was a low whisper, edged with barely concealed eagerness. “Zeyan, after the ceremony, is Dad going to transfer that capital injection to your account?” Blake lowered his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead, but his grip on her hand subtly tightened. His voice was brimming with total confidence. “Of course, darling. Once I have that money, Sutton’s pathetic little percentage of company shares will be worthless. And her so-called patents…” He chuckled, a dark, fleeting shadow crossing his eyes. “I made sure to set a trap in that partnership agreement five years ago. Even if she tries to sue, she won’t stand a chance.” Sarah instantly lit up, cuddling into his side, her voice syrupy sweet. “I knew you were the smartest. Once we’re married, you’ll be the Prescott heir. Then we’ll see what that woman, Sutton, can do to compete with me.” “Compete?” Blake’s scoff was pure contempt. “She was nothing but a knife for me to use. Once you’re done with a tool, you discard it. That apartment of hers must be cleared out by now. She’s probably hiding in some corner, crying into her pillow.” Just as a wave of agreeing laughter swept through the guests, who raised their glasses to toast the ‘perfect couple,’ no one noticed the group of figures in official uniforms swiftly entering the ballroom. Their leather shoes hit the polished marble floor with a synchronized, heavy thud, an oddly ominous sound that cut through the celebratory noise. Blake was raising his champagne glass to accept the crowd’s acclaim when a strong hand clamped down on his wrist. The grip was so forceful that he instinctively winced. He turned impatiently, but the moment he saw the figures, the smile froze on his face. The color drained from his cheeks…

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389278”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Six years. Six years after the ink dried on the divorce papers, I ran into Miles Kingston at The Sweet Spot Bakery. The cashier greeted him with a familiar, easy smile. “Professor Kingston, back for the strawberry shortcake for the wife? The usual, right? I’ll have it boxed up for you.” Miles gave a curt nod. He glanced at the two Mango Dream cakes I was having packaged, then turned back to the cashier. “Add hers to my tab.” I politely refused, already pulling out my phone to pay. But he was faster. His card was swiped before I could object. “Those cakes are ninety-eight dollars apiece, Anya,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar, condescending tone. “You used to have to save up for ages just to treat yourself to one slice. I’m a university professor, I’m doing a little better financially than you are. Don’t be stubborn.” I still wouldn’t accept it. He surveyed my attire—a faded, borrowed trench coat—and sighed. “Anya, it’s been this long. Are you still holding a grudge?” I offered a thin, level smile. “You’re overthinking it.” My fingers traced the large, cool stone of the wedding band resting on my left hand. I had a new husband and a daughter I loved. I didn’t have the time or the energy to hold a grudge against him, or any other man, anymore. Miles’s movements were too fast; he’d already paid. I insisted on paying myself. The cashier gave a flustered, apologetic laugh. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The Professor already took care of it. Maybe you can just transfer to him?” I turned to Miles, my voice clipped but polite. “Open your Venmo, please. I’m paying you back.” Miles sighed, a show of long-suffering patience, and gently pushed the packaged cake box into my hands. “Anya, just take it.” “Your birthday is in three days. Consider these two cakes my gift to you.” His tone was unexpectedly sincere. I ignored his words, my payment app still open. “Just scan my code.” “I don’t want to owe anyone.” Especially not him, and especially not over two cakes meant for my daughter’s afternoon snack. Seeing my stubborn refusal, Miles stood silently for a long moment before finally pulling out his phone. “You haven’t changed at all.” I kept my eyes down, initiating the transfer. He gently stopped my hand. “Anya, you don’t need to be so aggressive about this.” His gaze flicked over my worn jacket again, and he hesitated, a look of pity darkening his features. “I don’t miss a couple hundred dollars. You’d be better off using that money to buy yourself some new clothes.” I paused, then laughed a little. I’d been volunteering at the shelter today and had lent my own thick wool coat to a young woman who was bleeding through her clothes. It was autumn, and the air was getting chilly, so I’d borrowed the first spare jacket I found—a tired, heavy thing that belonged to a facility staff member. Miles clearly thought I was destitute, struggling to make ends meet. I didn’t bother to explain. “Thank you,” I said flatly, and turned to walk away. But his hand shot out and grabbed my arm. “Let me drive you.” My body went rigid. I immediately yanked my arm free. “No need.” “Your wife might misunderstand.” Miles’s hand froze mid-air. He knew. Dahlia—his small, spoiled wife who was eight years his junior—was the master of petty drama and theatrical jealousy. “Anya…” He pressed on, gripping my wrist again. “How about we exchange numbers?” I looked down, silent. Six years ago, the divorce had been a disaster. We hadn’t just deleted and blocked all contact; we had sworn an oath of mutual destruction. I shook my head. “Let’s not.” “You don’t have to hold a grudge anymore, Anya. So much time has passed. I just want to know that you’re doing okay…” He insisted he wanted to add my number so he could Venmo me some money. “Consider it… compensation for the past.” I felt a sudden, sharp urge to laugh. Years ago, I’d fought tooth and nail, sacrificing every shred of my dignity, and hadn’t gotten a single cent of compensation. Now that I no longer needed him, he was running after me, offering a payout. “Honey, I called you! Why didn’t you answer? Who are you talking to?” Just as I was reeling, a young woman in a flashy pink coat skipped over and looped her arm through Miles’s. Seeing me, her smile faltered for only a second before snapping back into place. “Anya! It is you. What a coincidence! It’s been ages. We’ve been trying to find you for years, but no one knew where you went. Even your old colleagues thought you moved out of the country. Where have you been?” I looked at Dahlia Reed, quietly taking in the changes. I could barely recognize her. The needy, timid scholarship student with the frazzled hair and guarded eyes, who once wore plain, ill-fitting clothes. Six years of Miles’s careful cultivation had transformed her into a blinding, fiery red rose. My smile was cordial but distant. “I was abroad, yes.” Dahlia’s eyes widened in theatrical surprise. “Really?” “But Anya, I stopped by a few times after you left. They told me you were going to move back to the boonies, to your hometown…” She was a motor-mouth, but Miles cut her off before she could finish the jab. “Sweetheart, let’s leave the past where it is,” Miles said, giving her hair a familiar, indulgent ruffle. “Your cake is here. It’ll melt if you don’t eat it soon.” Dahlia nibbled on her small cake, talking through a mouthful. “Anya, we finally ran into you! Let us treat you to dinner.” “I know you hate us for what happened back then, but you helped me so much. You sponsored my four years of college. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you…” Dahlia sounded genuinely earnest, as if refusing her would be the height of poor manners. I glanced at my watch. The afternoon was still young. “Fine. I have an hour and a half.” They chose the restaurant. On the way, Dahlia chattered incessantly, occasionally even feeding Miles bits of cake from her mouth. Miles, aware of my presence, looked slightly stiff. He caught her hand when it reached his lips. “Behave, sweetheart. Anya is watching.” Dahlia gave a playful pout and stuck out her tongue. “Sorry, Anya! We’ve been married for a few years, and we’re just used to being like this. Sometimes we can’t even help kissing right in the middle of the street. Please excuse us.” I watched the flicker of smug triumph in her eyes and simply smiled. “Don’t worry about it,” I said calmly. “I got used to more intimate displays of affection back when you were in college—remember the study sessions in our home office? I learned to tune things out a long time ago.” The atmosphere instantly froze. Miles and Dahlia’s faces both paled. I continued walking ahead, my expression utterly serene. Before reaching the restaurant, we passed a fireworks shop. Dahlia immediately lit up. She dragged Miles inside. “Honey, you said you were going to set off fireworks across the whole city for my birthday in three days, didn’t you?” “I want to pick out the design first… You don’t mind, do you, Anya?” I smiled. “I don’t mind.” Miles, though, gave me a strange, complicated look before starting to browse the displays. “I’ll take this one,” he finally said. “The Sapphire Weeps.” I froze. Long-buried memories, things I thought I’d successfully forgotten, rushed back into my mind. Miles had truly loved me once. We had dated for four years and been married for six. Everyone in our circle said he was a legendary doting husband. He was a university professor, yet he always refused to socialize outside of work, and he would coldly turn down female students who asked for his number. Among the stacks of dense academic texts he had published, there was one slim volume titled A Declaration of Love. It was written just for me. The entire campus of Crestwood University celebrated our perfect, storybook romance. Even on my birthdays, he would orchestrate a huge, public fireworks display over the city skyline. But then, one day, while tidying his bookshelf, I accidentally found a hidden, intimate photo tucked inside his book. The girl was young, wearing a micro-mini skirt, sitting astride his lap, smiling at the camera. I recognized her instantly. It wasn’t just anyone. It was Dahlia Reed, the sweet student who always called me “Sister Anya,” the impoverished girl I had personally sponsored for three years. She was also his student. I had saved her once, on a rainy day, when she was cornered and harassed by a group of thugs in a dark alley. I brought her home, let her shower, and gave her dry clothes. She was initially terrified of Miles. I laughed and reassured her. “Don’t worry. Professor Kingston won’t bite.” She slowly grew bolder. She even began to cautiously seek Miles out in his study to ask for help with her coursework. Seeing them interact so easily made me feel a warm, maternal pride. Until I found the photos on Miles’s computer. After that discovery, I charged into the study, shrieking, hysterical. Sure enough, the student and the professor—the two who were supposed to be discussing academics—were intertwined, lost in each other on his desk. They scrambled, horrified, trying to cover themselves as I burst through the door. My dignity, my manners, everything was gone. I was screaming like a lunatic, demanding to know how he could cheat on me right under my own roof. Miles’s only concern was shielding the woman beside him. He covered her completely, then looked up at me, his eyes cold and furious. “Get out!” “Anya Lane, have some decency! We do!” I realized then that men are inherently cruel and heartless creatures. When they love you, they would give you their life. But when the love is gone, they’ll strip the skin from your bones. I smashed everything in the room I could get my hands on. I refused to believe it. The man I had loved for nearly ten years, and the girl I had sponsored and treated like a younger sister—they had been blatantly carrying on in my study, while I was downstairs cooking dinner. They were using the pretense of academic discussion to commit their sordid acts. I was trembling violently, my eyes bloodshot. I couldn’t accept any of it. Miles looked at me with open disgust, always shielding Dahlia behind him. “Anya Lane, you’re acting like a psychopath!” “You need to calm down. If you dare hurt Dahlia in any way, I will make you regret it.” Dahlia peeked out from behind him, sobbing uncontrollably, the red marks on her neck still visible. “Sister Anya, I’m so sorry. I know this is wrong…” “I know it’s immoral, but Miles and I truly fell in love…” “Please, I don’t need a title. I don’t want anything. Just let me be with Miles, please?” I was stunned into silence. “Don’t you know you’re the home-wrecker? The mistress?” “I don’t care!” Dahlia yelled back, as if she were fighting for her own life. “We have a physiological connection, Anya. Even if you hadn’t saved me, I already had feelings for the Professor at school, and he felt the same…” Watching her desperate, brave display, I recalled the rainy night I’d found her. Because I saved her, the thugs had targeted me for weeks after, until the police finally got involved. I had never regretted saving Dahlia. But that night, I hated myself for being so naive. Why had I ever given another woman the chance to get close to my husband? Ten years. I’d given him ten years. I couldn’t accept reality. I became disheveled, a frantic mess, endlessly demanding to know when it had started. Looking back, I was so foolish. What was the point of knowing the details? But then, I was only consumed by the white-hot rage of betrayal. “Anya, stop making a scene.” “Dahlia needs to focus on her studies. She won’t try to take your place. She doesn’t want your title. You will remain Mrs. Kingston.” Miles, now dressed, said this to me with a stunning lack of accountability. “You won’t have to sponsor Dahlia anymore. I’ll take care of her tuition now.” Dahlia never came to the house again. But their rendezvous spots grew bolder: coffee shops, restaurants, the library, and then hotels… I started tracking them like a stalker. Miles never worked on Saturdays, but after Dahlia came into his life, he was at the university every weekend. I followed him in a taxi. I found them in the parking lot, kissing passionately. Unable to control themselves, they crawled into the back seat of the car—the car I had bought him for his birthday. A few minutes later, the car began to shake with a slow, rhythmic motion. That time, I stormed up and smashed the windshield. It caused a huge scene, humiliating them both. But Miles was determined to protect her. He treated me like a mental patient and had campus security drag me away. For a long time after, I caused endless, undignified scenes. I put up banners at the university where Miles taught and even found Dahlia’s classroom. I wanted the whole world to know she was a homewrecker. She was the student I had sponsored; the person I had loved like a sister—I hated her with the same intensity now. I couldn’t understand why she had to fixate on my husband. I wanted everyone to know she was an ungrateful viper and Miles was the lowest kind of liar. Our love had become utterly unrecognizable. Afraid I would jeopardize Dahlia’s reputation and studies, Miles hired security guards to keep me under soft confinement. I self-harmed many times. The feeling of being discarded by the world was unbearable; I needed an outlet for the misery that was choking me. Miles used to worry if I got the smallest cut. But now, he grew increasingly impatient. Seeing the gashes on my arms, he would only shout at me with disgust. “Enough! If you’re going to kill yourself, do it somewhere else. What is this, some kind of pathetic plea?” “Anya Lane, I never intended to divorce you. If you had just looked the other way, like before, you could have been Mrs. Kingston for life.” “But now, I’m afraid you are no longer fit for the role.” Finally, I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. I was rushed to the hospital but survived. When I woke up, I was suddenly lucid. I signed the divorce papers. Six years, just like that. My thoughts snapped back. Dahlia had finished choosing the fireworks. “I want these, the Sapphire Weeps!” “Honey, I want the same kind you used to set off for Anya, the one that writes out the name when it explodes in the sky. I want you to write ‘Dahlia I Love You’…” Miles smiled indulgently, agreeing to every detail. They quickly selected a restaurant near Crestwood University. “Anya, this place is amazing. Miles and I come here all the time. I bet it’s been a while since you’ve had food this good, hasn’t it?” Dahlia held the menu up, excitedly pointing out dishes. I kept my polite, thin smile. “I’ve had enough Western food while I was abroad. Just order whatever you like.” I heard that Dahlia struggled to find work after graduation. Miles used his connections to secure her a low-level administrative position at the university. Everyone praised them as a model couple. I heard the gossip and just smiled privately. People’s words were cheap. Dahlia’s eyes swept over my jacket with a complex mixture of pity and contempt. “Anya, what kind of work are you doing now?” I paused, then answered truthfully. “I’m not currently working.” Dahlia gave a look that said, I knew it. She sighed. “We really are sorry about the past, Anya. If you don’t have a job, Miles and I could help. I heard Crestwood University is hiring janitorial staff. I think you’d be a perfect fit…” Miles frowned slightly. “Dahlia!” “What, Honey? Did I say something wrong?” Dahlia’s face was innocent. “I’m just trying to be nice. Anya hasn’t been doing well, clearly. I want to help her.” Since I didn’t deny anything, Miles didn’t press. He just turned to me. “Dahlia can be thoughtless sometimes. Try not to take it personally.” I gave a half-smile. “Thank you. But you really don’t need to worry about my life.” Just then, my husband, Lincoln Caldwell, called. “Lan-Lan, I just picked up Autumn from school. Where are you?” “Didn’t you say you were craving hot pot? Autumn and I will come meet you.” My voice softened. “Okay. I’m at the bistro across from Crestwood University.” I hung up, and they both stared at me, suspicious. “Anya, you don’t have any family in the city anymore, do you? Who was that on the phone?” I smiled. “My husband.” The two of them froze. Dahlia gasped, standing up in shock. “Anya! You got married?” Miles’s face suddenly went ghostly pale. “Anya Lane, you don’t have to be this dramatic. You are not married. Don’t lie to me.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389277”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night before my wedding, I slept with the woman I’d loved for ten years. When the dawn light spilled across the deep crimson stain on the white sheets, I knew I was ruined. A day later, I broke my vow, canceling the society wedding of the year in front of a ballroom packed with every friend and family member we knew. Everyone was waiting—waiting for Sarah, my fiancée, to slap the arrogance right off my face. But she didn’t. She simply walked toward me and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Gabe,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “You have to be happy.” I had no way of knowing then, standing numb on the stage, that this hurried, forgiving hug would become a luxury I would spend the rest of my life desperate to touch again. 1 The snap of a lighter breaking the silence woke the woman sleeping next to me. Emily Hale rolled off the bed, stumbling as she scrambled to find the heap of tangled clothes on the floor. “Gabe…” Her voice trembled. “We were drunk last night. We have to bury this, okay? Just go. Please, I’m begging you.” The smoke curled up, weaving a translucent curtain between us. I looked at the woman I had loved—unconditionally, obsessively—for a decade. From eighteen to twenty-eight. My gaze, my heart, every single sober and hazy thought I’d ever had, they all pointed back to her. She had no idea the kind of seismic damage she was capable of. Just standing there, pulling on a shirt, she was more potent than everything else in the world combined. I stubbed the cigarette out in the saucer and gripped her wrist, her pulse fluttering beneath my fingers. “Do you want to leave with me? Right now.” “You’re out of your mind…” Her pupils reflected a kind of wild-eyed panic I’d never seen from her before. “Yes, I am. I don’t want to spend the next few decades regretting why I didn’t take you with me today.” I picked up my phone and dialed Cameron Foster’s number. His laugh was quick and easy on the receiver. “You finally picked up! I just dropped the fireworks off at the hotel. The crew is leaving for your place any minute. Get ready, man, don’t hold up the motorcade.” My hand was sweating around the phone, my throat constricted. The practiced speech I’d rehearsed in my head suddenly felt impossible to deliver. “Cam,” I cut him off. “The wedding… can we stop it now?” The line went silent for two agonizing seconds. “…What are you talking about?” “I said, I want to cancel the wedding. Is it too late?” “Gabriel Ashton!” Cam’s voice became immediately grave. “Where the hell are you right now? Your parents are here, Sav’s parents are here, all your family, every friend you’ve ever had! This is not the time to debate whether you’re in love! You chose the date, you sent the invitations, you proposed! This is about responsibility! This is a commitment to everyone! Whatever massive crisis you’re having, deal with it after the ceremony! Get your ass home now!” “I cheated.” The other end went dead quiet. “What?” “I cheated on Sav.” I repeated it, the words tasting like ash. “I can’t lie to her anymore. And I can’t lie to myself.” “Gabe… you selfish son of a bitch!” Cam’s voice twisted with fury. “You’ve been distracted since you took that goddamn phone call at the bachelor dinner last night! I shouldn’t have let you leave! I can’t fix this! You need to go talk to the bride!” He slammed the phone down. Sarah. The bride today. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t even bring myself to scroll to her contact. “Stop, Gabe. Just stop.” Emily’s voice sounded, closer now. She was fully dressed and standing by the door. “Last night was… an accident. Neither of us meant for it to happen. I don’t need you to be responsible for me, and I certainly don’t need you to destroy your life as penance.” She lowered her gaze. “This is where it ends. I’m leaving.” Before I could process it, she opened the door and hurried out. “Emily… don’t go!” I frantically scrambled on the carpet, gathering my clothes. When I charged down the stairs, throwing on my jacket, the street was already empty. She was like a cool gust of wind through a hallway, vanishing before my eyes yet again. The sudden chime of my phone made me jump. It was Sarah. My fiancée. My finger hovered over the screen, but I hit Decline. I immediately pulled up Emily’s number. Before I could dial, a text from Cam slid across the screen: Sav is here. My heart plummeted. “Where?” At your place, the reply came. She said she couldn’t get hold of you all morning, worried you were too stressed with planning, so she came herself. Gabe, I’m giving you one last piece of advice. Don’t choose the path that will make you regret everything. The phone slipped from my sweaty palm and clattered at my feet. Regret? Yes. I’d regretted this wedding since the day I first said yes to it. 2 Emily Hale was the only light that had ever pierced my dark years. I was eighteen. My parents had just finalized their vicious divorce, and I was diagnosed with severe depression. Our first meeting was at a specialized treatment facility outside the city. She was a volunteer. I was a patient. She carried a unique, steady energy. I found that just being near her could quiet the frantic static in my mind. She was patient and relentlessly genuine. She possessed a kind of raw vitality that felt utterly out of place in the sterile environment. But I was too broken then to understand what love really was. Two years later, my condition stabilized. My father pulled me out and transferred me to a new prep school. We parted abruptly, without even exchanging numbers. We didn’t meet again for five years. It was at a stuffy business dinner—a blind date set up by my father—where I was a customer and she was a waitress. The moment I saw her face, my breath hitched. I stood up and pulled her straight out of the restaurant. That night, we talked for hours in the old parking lot of the treatment center, trying to piece together the five years we’d lost. The news eventually reached my father. After a thunderous rage, Emily disappeared from my life a second time. To the outside world, I was the gilded heir—great family, smooth path ahead. But only I knew I had no right to choose the woman I slept beside. Sarah Reed entered my life around then. She was intelligent, graceful, and impeccably mannered. Her family’s pedigree and social circle were flawless. Everyone—especially my father—agreed she was the perfect match. But I didn’t love her. Had Emily never existed, perhaps I would have eventually fallen for this kind, gentle woman. But then, the night before our wedding, she showed up. “Gabe!” A sharp shout came from behind me. It was Cam. “What are you doing here?” Before I could finish, he grabbed my collar. “You’re going straight back home to kneel and apologize! Sarah will forgive you for the sake of the family!” I forcefully pushed his hand away. “Cam, don’t casually interfere in someone else’s karma. I will never forgive you if you do.” I still remember saying that. They say a man is a boy until he dies. But the truth is, the path you didn’t take in your youth becomes the root of every regret and every fantasy for the rest of your life. As we stood there, deadlocked, my father arrived. He shoved me into his car and drove me directly to the hotel ballroom. I was pulled into a tux, had my tie straightened. A puppet pushed onto a stage. The moment the spotlight hit me, I was utterly disoriented. Then, the crystal doors opened slowly. Behind the lace, I was hoping to see a different face. A voice screamed in my head: You’ve lost her forever. This is your last chance. The officiant’s voice cut through the silence. “Whether in poverty or wealth, in sickness or in health, do you, Gabriel, take Sarah…” “No!” I cut him off. “I do not.” I pulled back the ring I was about to hand over. “I’m sorry, Sav. This ring… it’s waiting for its true owner. The person I love has never been you.” The ballroom fell into a suffocating silence. Everyone was waiting for it—waiting for the loud, satisfying slap to connect with my cheek. But the predicted blow never landed. She simply walked toward me and pulled me into a gentle hug. “Gabe, I’ll handle the aftermath. Use the side door.” She paused, her breath warm against my ear. “Promise me you’ll be happy.” 3 Time stopped right then. I looked down at her, dumbfounded. Maybe, in the last three years, I’d never truly understood the woman standing in front of me. The crowd began to stir. I didn’t think twice. I ripped the boutonniere from my lapel and ran, not looking back, toward the exit. “You idiot! Where are you going?” My father’s enraged roar followed me. I stopped, turning to face his livid expression. “Dad! I refuse to repeat the tragedy you and Mom created. This time, please let me choose for myself. For better or worse, I will take the full blame.” Then I turned and walked away. Outside, the skies were dark with storm clouds. I pressed my hands to my chest. My heart was pounding like a drum. It was that long-lost, visceral feeling of being truly alive. My first destination was the small town in the Asheville region. Emily had vaguely mentioned she was going back to visit her mother, who was ill. Just before takeoff, my phone rang again. It was Cam. I took a deep breath before answering. “No scolding, brother. Just wish me luck. I finally did one thing for myself in this life. Please, handle the fallout at the hotel for me. Tell everyone I’m truly sorry. I’ll compensate for all the losses, double.” Cam was silent for a few seconds. “What about Sarah? How will you compensate her?” “…Sav?” “She’s standing right outside the hotel, bowing and apologizing to every single guest who leaves.” His voice was heavy with disappointment. “Gabe, you have no idea what you just threw away.” My breath caught in my throat. The image of her gentle hug flashed in my mind. I closed my eyes. “Sav… I’m leaving her in your hands.” I hung up and set my phone to silent. No one and nothing would stop me from chasing that guiding light now. The plane landed, and the humid, earthy air of the South hit me. The moment I powered up my phone, a photo popped up. It was a desolate silhouette. A girl in a wedding dress, barefoot, walking through the rain, holding her high heels. The hem of the beautiful gown was stained with mud. I knew that dress. A couture gown, a limited-edition piece flown in from Milan. The wedding dress Sav had been most excited about. A dull ache started in my chest. I immediately called Cam back. “Why didn’t anyone get her? How could you let her walk alone in the rain?” “Let her vent. After this, she’ll forget you.” Cam’s voice was flat. “Gabe, as of today, we are no longer friends.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose, frustrated. “Cam, you’ve never truly loved anyone, so you don’t get it. When you meet the person who makes your heart ache down to your bones, you throw everything away. She is the only reason you have to live.” “No, I don’t want to hear your philosophy right now.” He cut me off. “From now on, I’ll be the one protecting Sav. Which is why we can’t be brothers anymore.” “…What did you just say?” 4 He hung up instantly. I stood there, turning in a slow circle, phone in hand. Cam loved Sav? Since when? A spot in my left ribcage suddenly felt impossibly heavy. I dialed Sarah’s number, almost by instinct. She answered a few seconds later. “Where are you?” “Huh? Me… I’m almost home.” Her voice was muffled, wrapped in the sound of wind and rain. “Look behind you. Is Cam there?” Silence fell on the line. Then, I heard her quietly draw a shaky breath. “Gabe, did you find her?” “…Who?” “That girl in your heart. I’ve handled everything else, don’t worry. You might need to spend some time calming your uncle down, though. Anyway, I have to go. I’m almost home.” I could hear her faint shivers in the background. I could picture her soaked to the bone, standing in the cold rain, looking miserable. The words of apology caught in my throat. The most important thing now was to find Emily. I finally reached the small town Emily had described just before nightfall. When I went to pay the taxi driver, I found my bank account had been frozen. My father’s revenge. My first thought was to call Cam, but his attitude had infuriated me. After much hesitation, I had no choice but to call Sarah. The line was silent for a long time. “…Fine. I understand.” Soon, a text message came through. I accessed the account number she provided and quickly paid the fare. “Sav, thank you. I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” “No need. That money was your initial down payment to my family. Transfer it to a secure card as soon as you can. Then, we’re even.” Even? “Are you still mad at me?” “Gabe, I haven’t blocked you because those three years weren’t entirely a lie. But that doesn’t mean you get to hurt me endlessly. Go after the happiness you want. If we keep talking, we’ll both just get hurt more.” The cursor blinked in the empty input box. I didn’t send anything. She was right. A greedy man doesn’t deserve a full life. I took a deep breath and continued my search. After half a night bouncing around in an old pickup, I finally found the village Emily had mentioned. The moment I saw her, bending over a well in a dilapidated courtyard, drawing water, a sharp pang hit me. “Emily!” The sound was a raw, unfamiliar croak. She straightened up and looked over. “How… how did you find me?” How did I find her? I didn’t know myself. Later that night, we held each other, exchanging whispered confessions. But somehow, the solitary image of the girl in the ruined wedding dress, walking barefoot in the rain, intruded into my mind without warning. I froze, and my voice caught. “Gabe,” Emily’s voice was unnervingly clear in the quiet. “Do you… regret it?” I unconsciously tightened my embrace. “Of course not. I’ve waited for this day for ten years.” From eighteen to twenty-eight, nearly all my love, my devotion, my fixation, had been poured into the woman in my arms. But why was that lost, desolate silhouette flashing in my mind right now? After Emily fell asleep, I sat on the stone steps outside for half the night, smoking, ash accumulating around my feet. The burning heat of the reckless courage that brought me here seemed to have suddenly extinguished. I found her. Now what? A new, cold wave of confusion washed over me. My phone screen was still paused on Sarah’s contact. I wanted to call. Even just to hear her breathe, or to say I was sorry. But what right did I have? Perhaps, the moment I turned my back and ran, I lost all claim to comfort her. The next morning, I hired a car and took Emily and her mother to the nearest regional hospital. The diagnosis was mid-stage liver cancer. The cash I had quickly ran out. The bank accounts were still frozen. With nowhere else to turn, I had to swallow my pride and open Sarah’s chat window again. “I’m sorry to bother you again… Are you liquid right now?” She skipped the small talk. “How much do you need?” “Half a million. Emily’s mother was diagnosed with liver cancer. The surgery and follow-up care need immediate funding, so…” “Okay.” “Sign the authorization papers for the marital condo and send them to me. The wedding jewelry should liquidate to about two hundred thousand. I’ll wire you that this afternoon. Take care of yourself out there.” The text on the screen made my chest clench with a terrifying emptiness. I was watching her systematically, cleanly, and with the utmost dignity, erase every trace of our shared past. Soon, the condo we’d decorated together was swiftly listed on a real estate site. The first person to contact me about it, however, was Cameron. I answered the call. No pleasantries. “Give me the jewelry, and give me the condo. From now on, you will not have any contact with Sarah.” “Why?” “Because she’s my girlfriend now.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389276”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel