The Elite Scion of the city’s most powerful family and I had signed our marriage certificate in the morning. By the afternoon, he was bringing me back to sign the divorce papers. I stood frozen, gripping the red and green folders—marriage and divorce—while his friends’ cruel laughter echoed around me. “Ryder King, you actually married and divorced the heiress just because Willow Lane asked you to?” “Haha, look at the big sister’s face! She’s pale. Is she going to cry?” Ryder, however, slipped his arm around Willow, the girl he’d been raised with, and spoke in a gentle, almost caressing tone: “We have both certificates now. Will you finally smile for me?” Willow let out a soft gasp of laughter, and a rare smile blossomed on her delicate, cool face. I tried to storm forward and demand an explanation, but my three older brothers held me back, their grips like steel manacles. Asher, the CEO and my oldest brother, frowned down at me: “Willow only smiles when Ryder teases her. Just show some restraint, Sierra.” Jax, the Movie Star and my second brother, actually shoved me back, making me stumble onto the pavement: “She’s had a tragic life. You have everything, you don’t lack a single man.” Owen, the Biology Professor and my third brother, his face grim: “Ryder should have married her years ago. Stop trying to come between them.” They physically forced me into the back seat of the car, forbidding me from interfering with the happiness of the woman they considered their Golden Girl. The system, which had been silent for an eternity, finally pinged in my mind: [Host, detection complete! The Capture Mission is a success! Return to the real world immediately?] I sat in the back, staring out the window with a look of feigned melancholy, and nearly burst out laughing. The tragic play I’d been acting for this mission was over. Their tangled web of love and resentment? I was done with it forever. 1 [Detection complete: Capture Value with the Mills brothers and Male Lead has reached 95%! Marriage to Male Lead Ryder King complete! Congratulations, Host, on completing the mission!] [Upon the physical death of the Host body, you will return to the real world and receive the one-hundred-million-dollar reward! Your bone cancer will be cured!] I swallowed the ecstatic scream that built in my chest. Finally. I was going home. Asher and Owen stayed behind with Willow. Jax was tasked with driving me back to the family estate. I glanced over at Jax. He’d had a thunderous expression since we got in the car, clearly resentful of the assignment. It wasn’t until Willow texted him that a slight, unwilling smile finally touched his lips. Catching my eye, he immediately turned off his phone, scowling: “What? Still clinging to hope? Still thinking about going back to ruin things for Ryder and Willow?” “Willow is young, and she’s suffered so much. Why can’t you just let her have this?” I dug my nails into my palms and managed a self-deprecating smile. I was actually a year younger than Willow. Perhaps seeing my expression, Jax sighed suddenly: “Apologize to Willow for all of this, and don’t be so dramatic.” He reached out a hand, intending to pat my head, but I subtly pulled away. “Why do I have to apologize? What exactly did I do wrong?” His hand froze, and he snapped back, impatient: “Sierra Mills! Don’t be so ungrateful!” I closed my eyes. Even though it was for a mission, I’d developed some genuine affection for them over the years. There were times when their coldness had truly wounded me. But now, it was all over. “After Willow’s competition is finished, you’ll come with us and apologize to her.” I didn’t reply, focusing instead on confirming something with the system internally: [As soon as this body dies, I can leave, right?] [Affirmative.] I slowly exhaled and observed my surroundings through the window. Certain that I wouldn’t harm any innocent bystanders, I flicked the door lock and abruptly yanked the car door open. Jax, who had been rambling on, screamed: “Sierra, what are you doing!” I ignored him, throwing myself out without hesitation. The frigid wind tore across my face, and a massive sense of freefall overwhelmed me. I clenched my eyes shut, completely unafraid. But the next second, a strong arm clamped brutally around my waist. I was shielded in someone’s embrace as we tumbled violently toward the roadside scrub. As the world spun, I heard a muffled grunt. We rolled a few times, a desperate, clumsy mess, and finally stopped. The person holding me was bleeding profusely, scratched up by the branches, but I was completely untouched. I looked up, meeting Jax’s horrified face, and spoke calmly: “Let go.” Jax stared at my indifferent expression and roared: “All I did was criticize you a little! You jump out of a moving car over something so small? We’ve spoiled you rotten!” “Is this another one of your stunts for attention? Cut the manipulation!” I tuned out his ranting and peeled his hands off me. Standing up, I looked around and spotted a black SUV speeding toward us. “I’ll hit it myself. Remember to pay for the damages to the car.” I tossed the words over my shoulder and lunged into the path of the oncoming vehicle. “Sierra!” Jax shrieked in utter despair, scrambling to his feet, but it was too late. I was full of hope, anticipating death. Even though I’d eventually die in the real world, too, I didn’t want to spend another second in this one. The screech of tires was deafening. The black SUV managed to slam to a halt just inches away. I staggered back a few steps and fell right into Jax’s arms as he dove toward me. “You’re insane! Sierra Mills, are you actually insane?” His eyes were bloodshot. His fingers frantically traced my face, my shoulders: “Did you hit anything? Are you hurt? Tell me!” Disappointed that I hadn’t died, I lowered my gaze. I saw the pooling blood soaking Jax’s pants. His injury was clearly severe, still dripping blood onto the asphalt. If this had happened before, I would have been sobbing uncontrollably, wishing I could take his place. Now, I merely looked away with indifference. “What? I need your permission even to die?” 2 Jax froze, looking utterly incredulous. I scoffed, walked around him, and approached the driver of the black SUV, who was still muttering angrily: “I’ll transfer the compensation money to you later.” Jax stood rigid, his fists clenched, the corners of his eyes turning red. I was surprised, then realized: “Oh, I meant I’ll use my own money, not the family’s…” “Sierra!” He cut me off, unable to contain his frustration. But then, I saw a flicker of genuine hurt—even whininess—in his expression. “You are the only daughter of the Mills family! Even if I gave you the entire family fortune, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second!” I found this ridiculous. I looked him dead in the eye: “Is that so?” His body jolted, as if the reality of his own words had just struck him. The nominal “Mills family daughter” right now was Willow Lane. And I, the true Mills heiress, was nothing more than a disgraced, delusional attention seeker! I laughed, a harsh, unrestrained sound, even as tears unexpectedly spilled down my cheeks. I used to be inseparable from Jax; he’d even take me to movie sets. But now, he would only look at me with a cold face and order me to always yield to Willow Lane. Jax dragged me back into the car, his head bowed. “When Willow gets her Physics Prize, we’ll announce that you’re the true Mills heiress… “Everything before was just a misunderstanding…” I couldn’t be bothered to respond, turning my face toward the window. The scenery rushed by, a fleeting blur. Before I crossed over, I was an orphan. A routine check-up had revealed bone cancer. I had been lying in the hospital, blacking out from the agonizing pain. When I woke up, the system had sent me into this world, into the body of a six-year-old child. A voice had spoken in my mind: [Achieve an 80% Capture Value with the Mills brothers and Male Lead Ryder King, and marry Ryder King, to receive the one-hundred-million-dollar reward and return to the real world.] After that, there was a burst of static, and I thought the entire thing might have been a hallucination. Still, a chance at a healthy body and a second life wasn’t bad. The car drove steadily. Jax was still gripping my wrist fiercely. His fingertip gently stroked the back of my hand—the way he used to soothe me when I couldn’t sleep. As an orphan, I had desperately craved this favoritism. I’d even considered abandoning the mission and staying. But once Willow, the orphan I brought home, appeared, all that gentleness became her exclusive property. I went from pouting and sulking to desperate hysterics. The only reply I ever received was: “Stop being so dramatic. Look at how pathetic you are.” The car stopped at the Mills estate gate. I snatched my hand away from Jax and got out. Jax called after me, disbelieving: “Sierra, I’m hurt. It was for you…” I interrupted him, my expression blank: “If you’re hurt, go see a doctor. What good does telling me do?” I pushed open the front door. The first thing I saw was Willow, seated on the sofa, the center of everyone’s doting attention. Asher’s face was stern. He gave Ryder a hard punch on the shoulder: “Willow hasn’t been able to eat or sleep properly for three days because of you! How could you be so careless with her?” Willow quickly tried to intervene: “Asher, Owen, I’m really fine. It was all a misunderstanding. It’s all sorted out now.” I stood in the doorway, admiring their sibling devotion. [Host, dopamine levels are dropping…] The system’s inorganic voice sounded unusually subdued: [So, Host, are you feeling very sad right now?] 3 The system’s question nearly broke me. I hastily wiped the dampness from the corner of my eye. Jax walked up beside me. Before he could speak, Willow cried out and rushed toward him: “Jax, why are you so badly hurt? You…” Her sentence was cut short by my hand slapping across her face. Willow clutched her red, swollen cheek, staring at me in disbelief. Almost instantly, a powerful, open-handed blow sent me sprawling onto the floor. Asher pointed at me, his face alight with fury: “Sierra Mills! We have truly spoiled you beyond measure! Apologize to Willow!” I scrambled up from the floor, spitting out a thin trail of blood: “Apologize? What did I do wrong? I’ve become a discarded second-hand wife, and I’m not allowed to hit the homewrecker?” Asher grew even angrier, his voice spiking: “What nonsense are you spewing? Willow and Ryder were always meant to be together! You were the one who forced your way in!” “How can I have a sister as shameless as you?!” I laughed out loud: “Shameless? Ryder King was my fiancé! And now I’m the one who forced my way in!” Ryder stared at me, his voice glacial: “Our engagement was called off ages ago! The King family would never want a woman with your reputation!” Owen grabbed me and hauled me up off the ground: “Sierra Mills! Apologize!” I said nothing, my eyes scanning the faces of the men before me. Asher’s gaze was cold, Owen’s filled with disgust, and Ryder looked like he wished I would just drop dead. Jax frowned, his lips moving, but he ultimately remained silent. It was exactly like a year ago, when Willow, frequently seen with Jax, was mistaken for a stalker fan by the media. Unable to bear it, Jax revealed on social media that Willow was the Mills family daughter. And I, the true heiress, was forced to take the fall and shoulder all the online abuse for Willow. “You have bodyguards wherever you go. Willow is all alone!” I had been shocked, resistant, and had cried and screamed. The way they looked at me then was exactly how they looked at me now. All I felt was an overwhelming fatigue. I didn’t even have the energy to argue anymore. I yanked my arm out of Owen’s grasp, walked into the living room, and picked up a fruit knife from a nearby table. Jax, horrified, tried to rush over, but Willow clung to his arm: “Sierra, what are you doing?!” I looked at Willow, a wide, distorted smile stretching across my face: “I’m apologizing!” I didn’t look at Asher, Owen, or Ryder, who were all standing as if preparing for battle. I raised the knife and decisively plunged it into my chest. A chorus of screams erupted. I laughed, and I cried: “I’m paying her back with my life. Is that enough?” “Are you satisfied now?” Warm, viscous blood surged out. The dizziness from blood loss made me sway. Through my blurring vision, and amidst a chaotic roar of voices, I saw pure terror on the men’s faces. Jax threw himself at me, clutching my body, and screamed like a maniac: “Call an ambulance!” I woke up to the heavy, sterile scent of disinfectant. The blinding white room made me slightly giddy. Had I succeeded? Had I returned? I turned my head and met Asher’s bloodshot eyes. Annoyed, I closed my eyes. Asher’s hoarse voice sounded shrill and irritating for the first time: “Sierra Mills! Who taught you to try and kill yourself just for attention!” I felt even more irritated. Something hard was digging into the back of my head. I reached up and pulled it free: a small, slightly worn Silver Saint’s Medallion. I remembered it instantly. When I was twelve, I had a high fever for a week, and the hospital issued three critical condition warnings. Owen had climbed a thousand steps, kneeling for every one, to retrieve this exact medallion for me. Later, when Willow was injured, Owen gave it to her. Now, it was back in my hands. I only found it bothersome. I lifted my hand and tossed it away. Owen had just walked into the hospital room. He watched, stunned, as the medallion clattered onto the floor. He looked up, glaring at my face: “Sierra Mills, you just threw away that medallion?” 4 I frowned, my voice flat: “It’s a dirty object. What, am I not allowed to get rid of something I don’t want?” Owen’s chest heaved violently. His eyes were filled with rage and a strange, sharp pain. He abruptly lifted his foot and stamped down on the medallion, grinding it under his heel, before sneering in mockery: “Sierra Mills, you truly are spoiled and heartless! You’re an ungrateful viper!” “No wonder Ryder chose Willow over you. You…” “Owen!” Asher cut him off, his tone heavy. Owen’s eyes were red. He stared intensely at me, searching for any hint of sadness or regret on my face. But all he found was my face, calm as still water. Owen shook with rage, a low, guttural growl escaping his throat: “Sierra Mills! That medallion belongs to Ryder. It was only loaned to you! Who are you to throw it away!” A strange calm settled over me. I replied simply: “I’ll pay him back.” My placidity enraged Owen completely. He pointed at me and yelled: “Stop pretending! If that’s your attitude, then go get a new medallion right now! One thousand steps—if you miss even one, it doesn’t count!” Asher tried to object, but Owen silenced him with a look. Clearly, Asher also saw this as a perfect opportunity to force me into line. My knife wound wasn’t life-threatening; they were certain this was just another performance for attention. When I arrived at the mountain temple outside the city, it suddenly began to rain. The thousand stone steps were slick with rain and freezing cold. I knelt directly onto them. My wound soaked in the rainwater, and a bone-deep, excruciating pain spread through my body. But I felt nothing, telling myself over and over: This is the last time. This is me paying Owen back. I don’t know how long I knelt, but I finally received the new medallion. I was soaked to the bone, my head swimming and burning with fever. I pushed open the Mills front door and walked directly into a bustling celebration. Willow was the center of attention, holding a Physics Prize trophy, her face radiant. My entrance instantly shattered the warm atmosphere. Asher was the first to frown and scold me: “Sierra Mills! Look at the state of you! You look nothing like a Mills heiress!” Everyone’s eyes darted toward me—some with disdain, others with impatience. Not one person showed concern. I ignored them, walked straight to Willow, and placed the medallion in her hand. Willow flinched back, feigning modesty, though a flash of triumph crossed her eyes: “Sister Sierra, please don’t do this. I don’t blame you…” I couldn’t stand her manipulative act. I turned to leave. I heard the angry voices of Asher and Owen behind me. I pretended not to hear a thing and walked straight into my room, locking the door behind me. I pulled out the razor blade I had prepared in my drawer and slashed my wrist without hesitation. The moment the blood gushed out, I felt a lightness I hadn’t felt before. Jax’s voice was outside the door, knocking: “Sierra, open up. I need to talk to you.” I was fading, too weak even to speak. Owen’s impatient voice followed: “Ignore her! She’s just throwing another tantrum for sympathy. We’ve enabled her for too long!” Jax finally gave up. I heard their footsteps retreating. I finally closed my eyes, content, and my soul lifted lightly from my body. Just as my spirit hovered in the air, the door was violently kicked open. Asher stormed in, his face livid, followed by Jax and Owen. “Sierra Mills, you’re not going to…” His voice died instantly. The crimson scene on the floor filled the room.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388839”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Our wedding night was barely over. Rhys held me, still warm from our bodies, and then he said it: “I have a mistress, and it’s her birthday tonight. I need to go be with her.” My mind went numb, my ears ringing with a sharp, high-pitched static. “If you love someone else, why did you marry me?” He got up and began to dress. The hickey I’d left on his neck was still raw. “Ava, I love you the most, but she’s new.” “We’ve been together too long, sweetheart. I needed the edge, the thrill.” My throat tightened, my voice trembling. “So, on our wedding night, you’re leaving me to go celebrate with another woman?” “The act of the wedding night is officially over,” he corrected me. He bent down and gently pinched my cheek. “She’s young, she’s dramatic, and she needs constant attention. You’re Mrs. Lockwood now. You need to be the bigger person.” “And if I can’t be the bigger person?” He looked like he’d been waiting for that question. He smiled faintly. “Then we divorce. But you walk away with nothing but the clothes on your back. Think about that, hmm?” I collapsed onto the messy sheets, the evidence of our recent passion still heavy around me. The silk wedding banner hanging on the wall was a violent, angry red—like a slap across my face. 1 Perhaps the despair on my face was too profound, because Rhys sighed and gently stroked my hair. “Remember the day you tried on your dress? I was in the fitting room right next to yours. That’s when I took her virginity.” “She was so scared to make a sound, she just choked on it—a tiny, pathetic sound like a kitten. That kind of heat, that forbidden rush—you couldn’t give me that. Do you understand?” The blood in my veins seemed to turn to ice, yet the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. That day, I had been overflowing with joy, floating in the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen. I came out, looking everywhere for him, but he was gone. When I called him, his voice was tight. He said he had an urgent deal he couldn’t put off. I thought he was stressed, and I stupidly comforted him, telling him not to work too hard. Rhys caught one of my tears on his thumb, his voice sickeningly soft. “I didn’t want to miss a second of you in that dress, but that little firecracker was too clingy. We didn’t get out of bed for a full day.” I stared blankly at the ceiling, unblinking for so long my eyes dried out. Rhys clicked his tongue, took my hand, and kissed my palm. “I’m sorry, Ava. I know you’re hurt. If we have to divorce, I’ll give you a mansion downtown as compensation.” “But if you stay, if you tolerate this for me, everything I have is yours. My life, my wealth, and yes, even my heart.” Today was supposed to be the single happiest day of my life. I had married the man I’d loved for eight years—a century-defining wedding, a million-dollar ring. It was a fairy tale five minutes ago. Now, I was a crying mess, asking him like an idiot: “Why did you tell me? Why tonight?” Rhys gently wiped my tears, his eyes filled with something close to pity. “My sweet girl, because I feel awful for you. I know I’m rotten, but since we’re married, I owe you the truth.” He paused, then suddenly chuckled. “Of course, there’s another reason. I was so looking forward to this moment. Seeing you broken, just like this. It makes me feel… protective. It makes me want to make it up to you even more.” “So, don’t divorce me, okay? I’ll still love you just like before, hmm?” I slapped him. Hard. Then I grabbed anything I could reach and threw it at him, screaming until my lungs burned. “Get out! Get the hell out!” Rhys tilted his head, wiped the corner of his mouth, and stood up, still smiling a little. He smoothed his collar and walked toward the door. “Ava, just cool down.” “I’m going to go celebrate with the girl now.” The door shut softly. I saw my reflection in the diamond on my hand—a raging lunatic. I curled up in the corner of the bed, tearing at my own hair, banging my head against the wall until the pain blurred and consciousness finally retreated into darkness. The instant my eyes closed, I was eight years younger. In a cramped room, Rhys stood between me and my abusive father, shielding me completely. His back was a bloody mess, and I screamed for them to stop. The police siren finally blared. Rhys was missing a tooth, but he still smiled at me. “Don’t be scared, Ava. No one will ever hurt you again.” We lived under a bridge, scavenged for food, and his thin back was my only bed. Later, he worked construction and sales until he could finally afford a tiny one-bedroom walk-up. He held me tight and whispered, “Ava, we have a home.” Those memories were so beautiful, they kept me sinking into the dream for too long. I woke up to my best friend’s text messages blowing up my phone. “Ava! This has to be fake news! Rhys loves you too much, it’s a total lie!” I numbly clicked the link she sent. One glance was all it took. My entire body went rigid. Rhys and his mistress had been caught having sex in an upscale rooftop restaurant. Hundreds of people saw. It was a global trending topic. My hand shaking, I called him to demand an explanation. His voice was hoarse. “That? Yeah, we got a little carried away. Didn’t want you to see it. The trending topic is a pain to get removed, too. If it bothers you that much, maybe you can help figure out a solution?” Like a zombie, I used the last of my strength to drive to the address he’d sent me. A flicker of memory: early in his career, he was courted by the heiresses of both a real estate magnate and a foreign trade giant. Everyone in the city was betting on which family he would marry into. But Rhys shocked them all. He paid hundreds of media outlets to run one single quote: “I have a girlfriend. I love her, and only death will part us.” From that day on, the world knew Rhys loved me. Which is why his betrayal today felt so much more spectacular to the entire world. I found Rhys’s second home. Outside the door, I ran into his assistant. The man’s gaze was so full of pity, my breath hitched. I pushed the door open. Clothing was strewn everywhere. Rhys was sprawled on the sofa, clutching a woman. He heard me and patted the woman’s back. “Get dressed. My wife is here. Show some respect.” The woman slowly pulled on her dress, pouting for him to zip the back. She turned to me and stuck out her tongue. “Oopsie, so sorry, Sis. I really didn’t think Rhys would actually ditch you to be with me for my birthday. I got so excited, we just went a little crazy.” She blinked, then gasped as if remembering something. “Oh, right, we didn’t use protection. But I’ll take the pill, okay? Don’t be mad.” I clamped a hand over my mouth. My stomach churned, and I bent over, dry-heaving violently. Rhys’s face darkened. He immediately jumped up to support me. “Ava? What’s wrong? Are you sick? I’m taking you to the hospital!” I shoved away his arms, trying to embrace me. Tears and the acidic taste of vomit mixed in a miserable, humiliating rush. Rhys’s face hardened. He snarled at the mistress. “Get out!” She stomped her foot and whined. Rhys frowned, but still leaned in to kiss her softly. “Stop, baby. I’ll have the assistant get your pill. And I’m yours again tonight, okay?” She finally looked satisfied, tossing her lace underwear onto his shoulder before glaring at me and leaving. Rhys carelessly flicked the scrap of fabric onto the sofa. He turned back, his tone shifting to concern, gently rubbing my back. “Ava, feeling better?” “I know this is hard to accept right now. I get it. So, if you want a divorce, I won’t blame you.” I wiped the mess from my mouth and looked up, staring at him with eyes that were swollen and raw. “Rhys, I’m not divorcing you.” I couldn’t explain what I was thinking. Disgust, yes. Fury, absolutely. But mostly, it was refusal. I didn’t want to cut my losses. I was like a gambler who’d lost everything, frantically clutching at the one remaining chip: the belief that he still loved me. I cried, I screamed, I even held a knife to my own neck to threaten him. Rhys finally caved, promising to cut ties with the other woman completely. See? He still cared. If he loved me, maybe we could still go back. But the retribution was swift. One month later, on my own birthday, intimate office photos of him and my best friend, Tatum, went viral. The double betrayal was a dull knife to the throat. I physically retched and coughed up blood. I spent all my energy writing scathing online posts and paying off media to ruin him. But Rhys crushed my entire struggle with one casual move. He produced a fabricated psychological evaluation and announced to the world that I was mentally unstable. At the same time, he sent Tatum to a top overseas university with a huge donation, telling reporters: “Tatum is an exceptional woman, and I look forward to her returning home a master of her field.” I was a public joke, a cautionary tale. When the spotlights went out, Rhys took my hand, his voice laced with patronizing fondness, as if soothing a difficult child. “Ava, you threatened your life last time. I was not happy. Sleeping with your best friend was just a small lesson for you.” He sighed. “I understood, and I tolerated your moods, but I waited an entire month to get something new. You can’t stop a man’s nature.” “I thought you two were close. I’m a little disappointed you made such a scene. Don’t push me like this again. You’ll regret it.” The next day, he found a college student. To show how much he adored her—and to warn me—he sold our original one-bedroom walk-up. That apartment held all our youthful memories. The tiny place where we once shared one cup of instant noodles, dreaming of a perfect future. He promised he would never fail me. I fell to my knees, begging him. I told him he could take everything, just leave that one apartment. I failed. The money went to the student’s expenses. She lasted two months, then he traded her for a restaurant hostess. My mind started to unravel. I shuffled between psychological clinics and alternative medicine practitioners, often leaving acupuncture treatments looking like a human pin cushion. One day, I came home early and found Rhys coupling with yet another woman in our matrimonial bed. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, but it was the first time I’d seen it with my own eyes. I lost it. I attacked them both, striking him, then hitting the woman until she had to go to the emergency room. To appease his new conquest, Rhys had me committed to a psychiatric hospital. Three days of electric shock therapy. The day I came home, the bedroom door was locked. I could hear his strained breathing from inside. “Ava, wait out there for a second. We’ll be done in a minute.” I waited from afternoon until deep into the night. When Rhys finally emerged, I had already slit my wrists with a kitchen knife. I woke up in a hospital bed. He was by my side, eyes dark with exhaustion. He clutched my hand, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry, Ava. I went too far this time.” “But how can you use your life to make a point? If you truly can’t handle this, you can file for divorce. I promise to give you a generous settlement.” In our eight years, we hadn’t been strangers to hardship. But he had suffered more than I had. I was fed; he starved. He collapsed at construction sites, by the side of the road, right in front of me. That year, terrified that I would starve him to death, I tried to break up with him. I staged a hunger strike. That was the first time he ever cried, begging me not to leave. “Ava, don’t go. If you leave, I really won’t make it.” Now, lying in this bed, I gently touched his face and asked seriously: “Rhys, do you still love me?” He squeezed my hand fiercely and kissed my palm again and again. “My sweet girl, how could I not love you?” During my hospital stay, he was like the Rhys of old—the man who loved me most. We held hands, embraced, and made love, giving ourselves fully to each other. But it was fleeting. He soon had someone new. A fragile, youthful girl in a summer dress, who stood behind him and shyly called me “Sister.” I had a flash of déjà vu when I looked at her. But Rhys wouldn’t let me get a closer look. He completely shielded the girl, and the look in his eyes—for the first time—was protective and wary. “Madi is innocent, a simple soul. I had to chase her down. Any complaint you have, you direct it to me. She doesn’t understand anything. I have to protect her.” In that moment, I knew. If I still held three percent of his heart, Madison owned the other ninety-seven. He protected her completely; the media never got a photo of Madison. He, who had always hated spicy food, accompanied her to eat an entire pot of blazing hot chili oil, clutching his stomach all the way to the emergency room. He told her he couldn’t give her a title, so he transferred ten percent of his company stock to her. On their hundred-day anniversary, he bought out the city’s fireworks show and set them off all night long. I stood by the window, watching the dazzling display, my heart tearing apart. I remembered years ago, when we were huddled under the bridge. We found discarded fireworks in a dumpster. He always gave them to me first. I never lit them right away; I saved them for my birthday or a special occasion. A small spark flared in the darkness, a poor, lonely flower bursting open. Rhys would hold me tight from behind, his voice choked with tears. “I’m sorry, Ava. This is the best I can do for you now.” “I swear, one day, I will show you the grandest, most beautiful fireworks the world has ever seen.” Later, we had money. Our wedding was extravagant. But I never saw a single firework. I thought he’d forgotten. He hadn’t forgotten. He just took the light and gave it to another woman’s night sky. The final blow was the wedding he orchestrated for Madison. Every detail was planned by him. He invited all his closest friends and announced that Madison was his true love, the one he’d waited for all his life. In that moment, seeing Madison in her white dress, the image of her merged with a shadow in my memory. I went insane. I ran into the wedding, holding a knife, and screamed at him. “Rhys! Why don’t you love me anymore?! Isn’t she just the ghost of the girl you shattered?!” His first reaction was to shove Madison behind him. Then, he grabbed my arm and threw me down the grand staircase. I collapsed on the ground, blood immediately soaking through my clothes. I woke up in the hospital again. Rhys was standing nearby, his white shirt stained with dried, dark blood. His face was a mask of pain. The doctor told me I’d lost the baby. I couldn’t remember which one it was anymore. The third? The fourth? I only remembered the beginning: too poor for decent birth control. Then, two ambitious young people sacrificing their bodies for their business. The first child was lost to malnutrition. The second, an accident after exhaustion. The doctor had gently told me then that it would be difficult to conceive again. Rhys had hugged me, his eyes red. “It doesn’t matter, Ava. We’ll be child-free. I only need you.” Now, this accidental child was gone, lost in this brutal way. Rhys collapsed beside my bed, his shoulders shaking. He cried, swearing: “Ava, I’m so sorry. I’ll protect you. I won’t let you suffer another moment.” But my soul had already drifted away with that unformed life. He didn’t leave to be with Madison, but she showed up at the hospital herself. She carried a fruit basket. When she heard I’d lost the baby, her tears streamed down her face. “Sister, I didn’t want to tell you now. I was scared you’d be sad.” “But… I’m pregnant.” The wire that had been stretched to the absolute limit finally snapped. I grabbed the water cup on the bedside table and hurled it at her, screaming with all the air in my lungs: “Get out!” Rhys instantly shielded her. The cup shattered against his back. He spun around and roared at the nurses rushing in. “Give her a tranquilizer!” “You couldn’t keep your own child! Don’t you dare take it out on Madi!” “I told you, take your anger out on me!” The cold drug was pushed into my vein. The world began to spin and blur. But I felt it clearly: the last shred of dignity that had kept me going until now had completely dissolved. I stared at the ceiling blankly, silent tears streaming down my face. Rhys let go of Madison. He looked at me with an expression of deep anguish, reaching out to embrace me like he always had. The moment his hand touched my shoulder, I said: “I agree.” He froze, confused. “I said, I agree to the divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388838”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was notorious among the Manhattan elite for being a certified nightmare. When it came to my fiancé, Declan Thatcher, I was accustomed to screaming demands and snapping orders. If I was even slightly put out, I could turn the Thatcher penthouse into a five-alarm disaster zone. Until last night. I had a dream. In the dream, I was the villainess in a novel, and because I was so high-maintenance, I finally exhausted Declan’s patience. He tossed me out. The ending was grim: my family, the Ashworths, lost everything, and I was left homeless, fighting stray dogs for a moldy piece of sourdough on the street. The fear woke me up in a cold sweat. My silk pajamas were soaking wet. Clutching my wildly beating heart and staring at the sprawling, several-thousand-square-foot master suite, I made a solemn vow. I had to change. For the sake of my couture wardrobe, my platinum Amex, and, most importantly, for avoiding sour bread. I would become the ideal partner: thoughtful, gentle, and utterly compliant. Even if it was all an act, I’d commit to the role for life. 1 Today was the perfect testing ground. Declan was flying to Europe to finalize a major corporate merger. This was usually peak hour for my dramatics. I cornered him in the walk-in closet as he was fastening his cufflinks. He was wearing a dark gray bespoke suit, his posture impeccable, his expression cool and distant. He didn’t even lift his head when I walked in, just offered a noncommittal grunt. Normally, I would have ripped his tie off and—as I’d once threatened—strangled him with it. But today, I practiced restraint. I took a deep breath and shoved my phone under his nose. The screen displayed a stunning pink diamond necklace, something only seen at a private, high-end auction. “Declan Thatcher, you are to buy this for me during your trip. No excuses.” My tone was still demanding, but my heart was hammering. This was the test. The book said a man who was still willing to spend lavishly had not yet abandoned you. Declan paused his movement. He finally looked up, his eyes devoid of any discernible emotion. “Understood.” That was it? That flimsy? I pouted in dissatisfaction, the urge to lash out a physical ache. I stepped onto my toes, leaned in close to his ear, and let out a petulant huff. “Declan, do you even love me anymore?” The cufflink snapped shut. The next second, he leaned down, his warm lips falling precisely onto the corner of my mouth for a quick peck. “Yes.” “I’ll buy it.” “Be good while I’m gone.” His voice was even, but I was entirely mollified. I released my grip on his tie, bestowed upon him a charitable kiss on the cheek, and released him to his private jet. During Declan’s week-long absence, I stayed true to my Queen of Drama professional code. I sent him dozens of voice notes daily, all about mundane nonsense. “I’m craving the limited-edition black truffle macaroons from La Belle Pâtisserie in the Village. Bring me a dozen when you land.” “My new dress looks awful, and it’s your fault for not being here to give me fashion advice.” “What time is your flight getting in, exactly?” One night, at three in the morning, I couldn’t sleep and suddenly felt an overwhelming need to see the European night sky. I video-called him immediately. It was evening for him, and he answered on the first ring. The background was an ornate conference room filled with a group of sharply dressed foreign executives. Declan raised a hand, signaled a ‘pause’ to the room, and walked with his phone over to a massive floor-to-ceiling window. “What do you want to see?” The European cityscape was muted and brilliant in the lens. The executives in the meeting room exchanged priceless, bewildered glances. I felt zero guilt, only critique. “It’s nothing special. Not nearly as good as the view from our penthouse.” Declan let out a low chuckle. “Agreed. I’ll show you the one at home.” When I hung up, my best friend Sutton’s text immediately popped up. “Stella, you are reaching peak diva status. Declan is an Ice King, the epitome of the untouchable enigma. You’re going to push him away eventually.” I looked at my dazzling reflection in the mirror, tossing my hair with supreme confidence. “Men line up for me from Manhattan to Monaco. Declan Thatcher is lucky I chose him.” Sutton sent a string of ellipses. I ignored her, but a faint flicker of unease crossed my mind. Declan’s love had always felt so restrained, so controlled. He was utterly compliant, but I always felt like something was missing. Lately, a new social climber named Wren had popped up. She constantly tried to mimic my style, bought my exact designer bags, and was constantly maneuvering to get near Declan. I didn’t pay her any mind. I’d seen a thousand of her before. Until someone sent me a photo. At a corporate gala, Wren, wearing a little white dress, had ‘accidentally’ spilled red wine on Declan’s bespoke suit. She was holding a handkerchief, practically plastered to his chest, looking utterly fragile. And Declan didn’t push her away. A hot, sharp fire shot straight to my brain. I immediately drove to Declan’s corporate tower, my heels clicking like machine-gun fire on the marble floor. Bang! I slammed my phone down on his massive executive desk. “Declan Thatcher, I demand an explanation.” He was signing a document and looked up, glancing at the photo. He didn’t even flinch. He picked up his desk phone and immediately dialed his Chief of Staff. “Pull all quarterly collaborations with the Ashworth Group. Effective immediately.” “Also, send a memo: I never want to see that woman at a corporate event again.” The action was swift, cold, and brutal. He hung up and looked at me, his gaze entirely calm. “Are you satisfied?” His ruthlessly efficient response was exactly what I needed. The fury instantly vanished, replaced by smug satisfaction. I blew him a kiss, happily spun around, and grabbed his corporate Black Card to go shopping. I thought the incident was over. But that night, I had another intensely vivid nightmare. In the dream, I was the same high-maintenance wife in a novel called The CEO’s Substitute Sweetheart, and my continuous, unreasonable demands had finally depleted all of Declan’s love and patience. Wren became his “North Star,” the ideal woman, while I faced family ruin and homelessness. During a torrential downpour, soaked and pathetic, I knelt on the pavement, begging him. Dream-Declan stood over me, shielded by a black umbrella, his eyes arctic and unforgiving. He said one thing: “Stella, I’m done with you.” That line pierced my heart, and I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, my pajamas plastered to my skin. The fear of being abandoned was so real it made me physically tremble. Clutching my racing heart, I came to a decision. I absolutely could not let the dream come true. I had to secure my fortune and, more importantly, secure my Declan. I had to change! Stella Ashworth, the certified nightmare, was dead. Long live Stella 2.0: The Stepford Wife. I was going to be a gentle, thoughtful, and kind sweetheart! To implement my new, perfect-partner persona, I began a difficult withdrawal. For three agonizing days, I refrained from sending Declan a single harassing text. My fingers were crawling with the itch, and several times, I opened the chat box, typed out a furious string of “Declan, are you dead? Why aren’t you answering?”—only to delete it, tearfully, character by character. Finally, I replaced it with something new. “Work hard, darling. Don’t forget to take care of yourself. xoxo” I added a sickeningly cute emoji. I gave myself goosebumps just looking at it. On Declan’s end, the chat bubble showed, ‘Declan Thatcher is typing…’ I stared anxiously at the screen. Ten minutes later, he finally replied. A period. “.” My inner response: “…” Hold it together, Stella! This is normal for a high-powered CEO! You cannot lose your cool! I threw the phone to the side and burrowed under the duvet, rolling and thrashing until the urge to smash the device subsided. Finally, the day Declan was due to return arrived. I specifically dug out a soft, white cotton dress from the back of my closet. I even, for the first time in our relationship, decided not to send his driver to the airport, choosing instead to wait patiently at home. At 8 PM, I heard the faint click of the lock. Declan walked in, winded and slightly disheveled, bringing a trace of the chill air with him. I immediately rushed over, beaming what I thought was a sweet, welcoming smile. “Welcome home, darling.” I crouched down, pulled out his house slippers, and carefully positioned them by his feet. Up until now, he had always been the one to fetch my slippers. Declan’s body stiffened visibly. He stared at me with the strangest expression. I stood up, eyes filled with expectation, and glanced meaningfully at the suitcase his assistant was wheeling in, mentally flashing the image of my pink diamond necklace. Declan froze. He avoided my gaze and offered an awkward explanation. “There was a hiccup at the auction. A Middle Eastern oil magnate suddenly jumped in and drove the price up too high. It was snatched.” “I’ve already instructed my team to contact the buyer. We’ll try to acquire it at a premium…” My heart sank instantly. In the past, the nearest decorative throw pillow would already be airborne and aimed at his face. But the terrifying dream flashed in my mind, that chilling phrase: “I’m done with you.” I inhaled deeply. Then again. I forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “N-no big deal.” “It’s just a necklace, truly. If you couldn’t get it, forget it.” “I… I have plenty anyway. I didn’t really want that one anymore.” The air instantly went dead silent. I could hear every intake of breath. Declan was stunned, staring straight at me. Then, his already pale complexion turned instantly chalk-white. The next second, he violently grabbed my wrist, his grip terrifyingly strong, as if he meant to crush the bones. “Why don’t you want it anymore?” His voice was tight, carrying a tremor I had never heard before. “You always said you had to have it.” “Stella, are you looking for an excuse to leave me?” His eyes were filled with panic and a touch of deep paranoia, fixed on me. “Are you trying to draw a line between us?” “Or have you already found someone else?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388837”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Five years. Five years since Rhys Harrington and I lost our son, Leo, in a car accident. He was across the country, escorting his mistress for the birth of their child, and didn’t even attend Leo’s funeral. Now, after years of silence and survival, I found him again. In the cemetery. I was holding a mini-cake, ready to spend a quiet afternoon talking to my son. Instead, I saw Rhys setting a limited-edition sports car—the one Leo always wanted—at the headstone. Beside him, a small boy burrowed into his side. “Daddy, do you think big brother will like the gift I picked out?” 1 The autumn air carried a sharp, desolate chill through the cemetery. Rhys bent down, patiently zipping the boy’s jacket all the way up. That was the careful, solicitous kind of fatherly love my Leo never knew. The boy noticed the mini-cake I held, which had a tiny race car drawn on the frosting. He peered up at me, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Auntie, it’s my brother’s birthday today. Are you here to celebrate him, too?” I turned my head, pretending not to hear. I used a moist wipe to clean the dust from the photo on the headstone, then placed a small candle on the cake. My Leo. His life frozen at five years old. The boy looked at the cake, then up at Rhys, and finally back to me. Silently, he picked up the sports car he’d brought and placed it next to the tombstone. A haze of disorientation washed over me. The boy—tall for his age, with deep, perceptive eyes—shared a strong resemblance to Leo. They both carried the dominant Harrington genes. If I didn’t know exactly who his mother was, I might have been tempted to pull him into my arms, a desperate, flawed solace for the wave of grief that constantly crashed back over me. The cold wind sliced in from all directions. I tried several times to light the candle, but my hand was shaking too badly. Rhys reached out naturally, taking the lighter from my grasp. For a fleeting second, our skin touched. The proximity of his scent, his body heat, the things I once clung to, now made my stomach churn with pure revulsion. I snatched the lighter back, my movement violent enough to make him stumble a few steps. The boy cried out defensively, shielding his father. “You shouldn’t push people! You need to apologize to my Daddy.” 2 “Finn Harrington, that is enough.” Rhys’s voice was low and heavy, utterly lacking the gentle patience he’d shown moments before. The boy’s face crumpled with offense, a look that painfully mirrored his mother’s pride and stubbornness. It was impossible not to recall Seraphina Maxwell, flaunting her pregnancy in front of me years ago. “Genevieve Hartley,” she’d sneered, “if fate hadn’t gotten in the way, Rhys would have met me first. He would never have needed to marry a spoiled, clueless debutante like you.” Rhys crouched down, touching the boy’s pouting cheek. “Don’t you love your big brother most? This is his mother. If you’re too loud, it will make your brother sad.” I gritted my teeth. How dare Rhys? How dare he let Seraphina’s son call my Leo “brother,” and use a name—Finn—that felt so deliberately resonant, designed to replace the Huai character that was part of my son’s Chinese name? I had no intention of lingering. I was back in New York to finalize the process of having Leo’s remains moved. I needed to speak to the cemetery director. Rhys followed, still holding Finn. When he heard my request, his voice was thick and hoarse. “Genevieve, you haven’t visited Leo in five years. And the moment you return, you want to take him away?” “He is my son. I won’t allow it.” I let my eyes trail over Rhys with a cold, dismissive look. He was still the impeccably tailored man I remembered, tall and commanding in his expensive suit. The tie he wore—that signature burgundy red, almost certainly chosen by Seraphina—spoke of power, warmth, and quiet strength. Five years after losing Leo, Rhys Harrington was still thriving, still on top. I, on the other hand, had a few strands of gray at my temples. Leo would have worried about me. But he was gone. I tilted my head back, a bitter, icy smile touching my lips. “I’m not asking for your permission. You didn’t even attend his funeral. You forfeited the right to discuss this with me.” 3 Rhys seemed to be fighting back a response, but his phone lit up. Finn, who was pale and slender, spoke in a thin, childish voice. “It’s Mommy calling! Is the new baby in her tummy being naughty again?” Rhys turned his back to take the call. Finn, undeterred by my obvious detachment, leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m going to be a big brother soon, just like my other big brother! Daddy is really excited about the baby, and I’m going to share all my toys.” The papers I was skimming paused in my hands. Rhys and Seraphina—a picture of a successful marriage, professionally and personally. Two children in five years. Their son looked perfectly cared for and shielded. My face felt tight and cold, but Finn wasn’t afraid. My Leo was different. Before he was three, his father was too busy building his empire to spend time with him. After he turned three, Rhys fell in love with Seraphina. He grew to resent me, and by extension, the child I’d given him. Rhys stopped coming home for Leo’s birthdays and holidays. That last, rainy night, Leo insisted on waiting for his father. He said Daddy had promised to bring him a sports car from out of town. In that one blink of an eye, my Leo ran into the street and was hit by a car. 4 Rhys hung up. I was about to sign the transfer papers with the cemetery director. He grabbed my wrist, his composure barely holding. “I told you, you are not taking Leo away.” I stood perfectly still, my expression blank. “Then you can tell my son that yourself, in the grave.” Rhys’s grip tightened, digging into my flesh. It hurt. There was a time when this man would have been near tears if I scraped my knee. When I was giving birth to Leo, he was beside himself with fear and guilt, promising through sobs that he would never put me through that again, that he couldn’t bear to lose me. He broke that promise, of course. Not a thousand days into our marriage, he was already rolling around in his penthouse office with Seraphina. I fought. I screamed. I made a spectacle. All that got me was Seraphina’s ever-increasing encroachment on my life. With Rhys’s tacit permission, she eventually pushed me out of the company altogether. 5 The contract was ripped into pieces, scattering across the wet grass. Rhys’s jaw was a tight knot. He signaled to Walter, his long-time driver, to take Finn to the car. Walter caught sight of my face, and a flicker of panic crossed his features. “M-Miss Genevieve!” Walter had worked for the Hartley family when Rhys was a struggling young man. He’d seen me argue with my stepbrother, Connor, to invest in Rhys. And he’d also helped Seraphina cover up the lipstick she dropped in Rhys’s car. It was the rich man’s world: the patrons change, but the driver stays the same. Rhys’s eyes were black, bottomless pools. The aura of a man in charge surged around him. He turned to the cemetery director, his voice menacing. “If my son’s rest is disturbed, I will ensure you understand the true meaning of consequences.” The director gave me a helpless look and quickly retreated. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I raised my hand to slap him. But I didn’t land it. My hand was captured in his vise-like grip. Rhys spoke with a low, desperate ferocity. “Gen. You want to sever every connection we have, even Leo.” “You hate me, don’t you?” He closed the distance, pinning me against the cold, gray stone wall, fine dust particles settling on my coat. I took a deep breath. “Why waste the energy to hate you? Does someone keep a score of every dog that has ever bitten their family, just so they can remember to look after it forever?” Given Rhys’s current wealth and standing, the Hartley family at its peak couldn’t compete. I’d made too many futile attempts to fight him. I’d lost too much. He had no qualms attacking my family for Seraphina. I learned to accept the harsh, unpredictable reality of life. I just wanted to take my Leo home. 6 A layer of autumn rain, a layer of cold. It was clear I wouldn’t finish the paperwork today. I started to leave. Rhys glanced at my light trench coat, and the ingrained habit surfaced: he took off his six-figure Kiton coat, ready to place it over my shoulders. “Where are you going? I’ll take you.” I slapped the coat to the ground. The top-tier Neapolitan brand, famous for its flawless tailoring, instantly soaked up the wet mud. I used to love dressing Rhys. Dressing the man I loved in the way I loved. Rhys let out a low, self-deprecating laugh. “When I first met you, you were still the fierce, defiant socialite.” “I wanted so badly for you to hold on to that high-and-mighty position forever.” “But you destroyed me, didn’t you?” “I…” His usually calm voice held a subtle, nearly imperceptible hint of panic. Dark clouds approached, and the sky grew heavy. My ride-share car arrived. Ignoring Rhys’s outstretched arm, I got into the back seat. Less than two minutes later, the driver looked in the rearview mirror and whistled. “Ayo. Is that guy trying to pull a move from an action movie? He looks like he’s trying to box us in.” I looked back. Rhys’s large, black SUV was aggressively tailing us. It quickly pulled up right next to my side window. Rhys rolled down his window, his lips moving as if shouting something. Finn was strapped into his booster seat, a look of small, frightened confusion on his face. I stared straight ahead. The driver, however, was clearly invested. “That’s your husband and kid, right? Is he trying to mess with you even at a time like this? The spirits won’t rest easy if he keeps pushing you around!” “Don’t worry, Sis. I used to race cars. I’ll make sure we lose this tail.” He gripped the wheel, floored the gas, and sped past the SUV. Almost simultaneously, I received two text messages. Give me another chance. Let’s talk this through properly. Gen, Dr. Andy is a leading neurosurgeon. He’s arriving in the city this weekend. Perhaps there’s hope for Connor. 7 The first message was, without a doubt, from Rhys. I had blocked his number, changed mine, and disappeared five years ago. He was resourceful enough to find it in mere hours. The second was from my brother’s friend, Dr. Daniel “Dan” Cross. He’s a physician, a neuro specialist who studied abroad. Connor sustained severe brain trauma in the accident, resulting in significant memory loss. I’d spent the last few years in Europe with him, focusing on rehabilitation, with frustratingly little success. Dan’s text was likely meant to reassure me, to give me something to hold onto. I reached the hospital, paid the driver a generous tip, and he drove off happily, wishing me a good life. A life like that—simple, predictable, with minor worries—always seemed so appealing. I was born a Hartley, and I had seen the heights of power. I once had a pair of red party heels that cost more than some people’s annual salary. But the bloom on the rose is fleeting. After my father died, Connor inherited the family business. He faced down a pack of greedy relatives with ruthless efficiency. But he couldn’t refuse my tearful pleas to invest in Rhys. Rhys Harrington was at his lowest point, facing complete financial ruin. I found him in a dive bar, being force-fed liquor by his old rivals. I couldn’t stand to see my moon dragged through the mud. I pestered Connor until he agreed to pay off Rhys’s staggering debt. He resisted, so I used the one thing I knew he couldn’t deny—the fact that my father had found him in an orphanage and brought him home. Finally, he conceded. “Gen, the Hartley name and everything that comes with it is yours. You make the call.” The tragedy of my life began when I poured everything I had into that love. Rhys accepted my help, and promised on my parents’ graves that he would never betray me. Yet, history proved that once a man becomes a power unto himself, he subtly rewrites his origin story, re-casting the help that sustained him as a flaw that needed to be overcome. 8 In the VIP room, I was helping Connor practice making tea, breaking down the steps into simple actions. His mental capacity was regressed to that of a five or six-year-old. He’d suffered from selective mutism and was prone to emotional outbursts. Dr. Cross entered, looking frustrated. “Dr. Andy was just taken by Mrs. Harrington. She claims her mother has a severe migraine and needs the most authoritative specialist immediately.” Seraphina had a pattern of this. Years ago, on a snow-laced night, Leo was running a high fever. I called Rhys, but Seraphina answered, informing me that my husband was in her shower. I screamed at her, calling her a gold-digging predator. Seraphina simply arranged for Rhys to turn off his phone and stay out all night. I drove slowly through the snow, Leo sleeping fitfully in the back seat. I nearly spun out multiple times, but he still murmured a warning. “Mommy, the road is slick. Please be careful. It would make me sad if you got hurt.” Now, empowered by her title as Mrs. Harrington, Seraphina would only escalate her cruelty. My anger flared, and I marched to the room next door. 9 Seraphina was draped in a mink coat and heavy jewelry, projecting an image of effortless wealth. A faint, arrogant smile played on her lips, the same haughty demeanor of the brilliant young woman I’d met years ago. She was exceedingly thin, however, which made her very pregnant belly seem grotesquely out of proportion. I had heard Seraphina’s name long before I saw her. Rhys mentioned her several times after the Harrington company stabilized and he decided on a pivot. He’d found a brilliant programmer—an overseas graduate whose vision aligned perfectly with his. A primal sense of alarm made me jealous. Rhys rubbed my hugely pregnant stomach, gently flicking my nose. “Talent isn’t gendered. If you’re worried, I’ll report my whereabouts from the office every day.” The next day, he installed real-time monitoring in his conference room, allowing me to check in at any time. Later, when a piece of core technology was leaked, costing the company millions, Seraphina implied the monitoring system had been compromised, suggesting that my hands had reached too far. Rhys publicly dressed her down, asserting I was the owner’s wife and would never betray the company. I didn’t care to get involved. Once Leo was born, all my focus went to him, and I lost the will for such trivial fights. Seraphina took advantage of the gap, using the excuse of “expanding their empire” to travel constantly with Rhys. Their shared mission, their close proximity, and their similar ambition—the perfect conditions for the heat to ignite quickly. Postpartum hormones made me demanding and irritable. I constantly asked Rhys to check in. He stopped wanting to come home, barely finding time for our adorable, soft Leo. I suggested divorce several times. Rhys vehemently refused, insisting he couldn’t live without me, and I didn’t want Leo to grow up in a broken home. I agreed to hold off, on the condition that he limit his contact with Seraphina. In the end, I lost everything. 10 I walked up to Dr. Andy, who was patiently explaining something to Seraphina’s mother in English. The older woman was clearly fine. Seraphina was simply trying to spite me. Five years ago, she did the exact same thing, spiriting away Leo’s pediatrician overseas to protect her own delivery. I explained the situation to Dr. Andy. He smiled warmly, thanking me for funding his student’s lab a year ago. As he prepared to leave with me, Seraphina gave her mother a sharp look. The older woman, Mrs. Maxwell, blocked the doorway like a street fighter. “He was brought here by my son-in-law! You cheap little hussy, you have no right to take him!” I didn’t spare her a glance. I forcibly pulled my arm free from her chicken-claw grip. Seeing her mother pushed aside, Seraphina seemed to find her justification. She raised her hand to strike me. But the years of physical therapy I’d done with Connor had given me significant strength. I caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted, and pinned both her arms against the wall. The esteemed Mrs. Harrington’s face was pressed against the cold wall in a ridiculous, absurd “wall kiss.” “Genevieve Hartley, how dare you touch me? Rhys won’t let you get away with this!” I leaned in close to her ear and spoke clearly, every word a deliberate weapon. “I haven’t even come for you yet, and you seek me out. Aren’t you afraid that the details of the car accident you arranged five years ago will be revealed? That you and your mother will go to jail?” Seraphina’s face instantly drained of color. 11 After Leo’s funeral, I was a shell of a person. I planned to drive to the cemetery myself, but Connor, seeing my fragile state, insisted on taking the offerings and Leo’s new toy car instead. On the way, he was hit by a truck. The initial investigation concluded the driver was drunk and he was jailed. The back-to-back tragedies destroyed me. I filed for divorce immediately. At the time, Finn Harrington had just been born. Rhys, unwilling to let his beloved mistress’s child be labeled illegitimate, immediately agreed to the terms. I took Connor abroad for treatment, desperate to catch the six-month golden window for recovery. When I finally recovered enough to look into the truck driver’s background, I found an unusual wire transfer to his account. All the evidence, however, had been expertly erased. The cover-up was meticulous. I only found the trail leading to Mrs. Maxwell—Seraphina’s mother—a year ago. Mrs. Maxwell, seeing that Leo’s death hadn’t made Rhys divorce me, had contacted a distant relative in a remote town, who then hired the truck driver. It was a convoluted plot designed to remove me so her daughter could take my place. Rhys might not have known about the plot initially, but he protected his wife and covered up the scandal, burying the truth deep in the ground. … A moment later, Seraphina’s composure returned. “You don’t have proof, or you would have used it already.” “Poor Connor Hartley. He loved you all those years, only to end up with no dignity left.” She let out a cruel, pitying laugh. “I hear he can’t even use the restroom without wetting himself. Everything has to be taught from scratch. It’s pathetic.” It brought me back to years ago, when she would whisper in my ear. “Poor Miss Hartley, you can’t even hold onto your husband’s heart.” She’d follow up by texting me photos of herself in lingerie, lying next to Rhys. I raised my arm, ready to finally land a blow on her despicable face. But I failed again. Rhys arrived. He seized my wrist with punishing force, his eyes threaded with blood. Finn’s small voice piped up. “Mommy, is this the bad lady who was bullying you?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388836”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night before I was set to sign the marriage license, the sales associate at Veridia told me my fiancée had purchased a limited-edition ‘Midnight Reindeer’ holiday lingerie set. I froze for a few seconds, then my heart hammered against my ribs. I thought, foolishly, that she was finally touched by my ten-year pursuit—that this was a special wedding surprise just for me. But on the day of the wedding, I waited until the last guest had left and she still hadn’t appeared. The only thing I saw was a celebratory post on her intern’s social media: “My CEO Queen said she refuses to let an old, linked-up dude take her first kill, lol, so I got to put my stamp on it first.” “Who cares if someone used their family name to force a ten-year engagement? One tear from me, and she ditched the entire wedding.” “And she promised me that for every time she has to sleep with the old man in the future, she’ll compensate me twice with me~” The accompanying photo showed him, Spencer Reed, with a light, mocking finger hooked through the lacy strap of the lingerie set she had bought with my money. The hickey-covered skin visible on Genevieve’s chest in his arms felt like a physical chill spreading through me. Everyone was betting on what I’d do: Would I retaliate against the intern, or would I swallow the humiliation for the sake of Genevieve Sinclair? No one expected that I, Ashton Pierce, who had chased her for a decade and never considered giving up, would go straight to the official media to announce: Engagement voided. Genevieve’s call immediately came through, her tone icy: “Ashton, why are you starting a fight with a kid like Spencer? He doesn’t have any experience with… you know, relationship stuff. I was just worried he’d be at a disadvantage later, so I put it on as a demonstration. It wasn’t like we actually did anything! The social media post was just a penalty for losing a round of Truth or Dare!” “Besides, that outfit didn’t show a single scandalous thing. Do you really need to make such a big spectacle? No wonder Spencer calls you an archaic Puritan!” “Delete that post immediately before my parents see it! Do you have any idea how much capital is involved in our families’ joint ventures? We’re talking hundreds of millions; you can’t just joke about that!” “After you apologize to Spencer and get his forgiveness, we can reschedule the wedding and go to the courthouse.” I held the phone, my voice flat. “It makes no difference.” “You’re not the only alliance available to Pierce Holdings.” 1 Genevieve clearly paused, the sheer annoyance in her voice practically spilling out of the receiver. “Ashton Pierce, are you seriously making a federal case out of this?” “Spencer and I drank too much at the bachelorette party last night and slept in; it’s not like I deliberately stood you up. We can just have the wedding another day, can’t we?” “The alliance was settled by our parents years ago. Trying to leverage a non-existent slight like this, just to play the victim… how childish are you?” Listening to her, I felt a burning rush of blood to my head, and I nearly shouted into the phone: “A ‘non-existent slight?’ You call ditching the wedding a ‘non-existent slight?’ Our parents, the entire upper echelon of Westfield’s business partners, and all our friends were waiting there, dressed up, for hours! You call that a ‘non-existent slight?’ Or how about the fact that you, a woman set to be married tomorrow, took pictures like that with Spencer Reed and posted them online? You call that a ‘non-existent slight?’” I inhaled deeply, forcing down the lump in my throat, the words catching as I demanded: “Genevieve, what exactly counts as a big deal to you?” Maybe Spencer Reed’s slightest frown was the biggest deal in the world to her. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have abandoned a few hundred people at the wedding venue just because of one of his crocodile tears. I didn’t give her a chance to argue, immediately hanging up. My mother stood beside me, her eyes red, waiting for an answer. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, my voice was as calm as frozen water: “Mom, please contact the other potential alliances.” “But you waited for Gen for ten years, maybe if you just wait for the next…” “I’m done waiting,” I cut her off, wiping away the last hint of dampness from my eye. “She is not worth it.” I sat down, alone, on the day of my thirtieth Christmas Eve, and for the first time, I took a serious look back at my life. The most golden decade of my life, from twenty to thirty, was spent waiting for Genevieve to turn around. For her sake, I managed Pierce Holdings while constantly bailing out the Sinclair Group’s crises. I once drank so much blocking drinks for her that I landed in the emergency room with a bleeding ulcer; I stayed up all night rewriting proposals, treating liver supplements like meals; and when her father fell critically ill, I stepped in to manage their operations. I even personally led the team that took the Sinclair Group’s overseas division public over three grueling years. I worked so hard that some people suspected I was trying to stage a corporate takeover. Only I knew the truth: I just wanted her to finally see me. That I was worthy of her, and strong enough to support her entire world. A month ago, after the overseas division’s successful IPO, she finally accepted my proposal, scheduling the high-profile Christmas wedding everyone in the city was talking about. I was ecstatic. I thought she had finally recognized my efforts. I oversaw every detail of the wedding myself and even rented all the city’s outdoor billboards to broadcast the ceremony live. I wanted the entire city to witness that I had finally won. But in the end, the guests left, and my parents were humiliated. Calls to Genevieve’s parents went unanswered until the phones were practically melting. I got nothing but a social media post from Spencer Reed, who displayed their intimate photos and scornfully mocked my ten years of waiting. The moment I saw that photo, I expected to collapse, to go mad, or, as in the past, to make excuses for her, to live in denial. But there was nothing. Only an empty, desolate void in my heart. The truth was, not all waiting yields a result. Some people will simply never turn back. My phone vibrated again. I assumed it was Genevieve, still relentless, and was about to turn it off. But the text I saw made my eyes snap wide open. 2 Genevieve didn’t stoop to a petty, private spat like blocking me. She sent a formal letter directly to Pierce Holdings, unilaterally announcing the termination of all joint ventures. This was immediately followed by an Equity Redemption Notice. The basis was an agreement I had signed years ago to give her peace of mind: I agreed that the Sinclair Group could, at any time, buy back the shares I held as collateral—shares I had acquired when the company faced a cash-flow crisis—at 30% below market price. I had liquidated all my personal assets to keep the Sinclair Group afloat during her father’s illness; the value of those shares had now multiplied several times over. I never intended to profit from them. That agreement was meant as a promise to her: Look, I will never use your vulnerability against you. Now, it had become the knife she used to stab me. “Ashton Pierce, you asked what a big deal was? Now you know,” the text read. “This is the price of your impulse. Enjoy it.” I stood blankly, my eyes blurring with tears. Suddenly, I was transported back to that late night many years ago. Her father had collapsed, and she, new to the corporate world, was terrified and called me, crying, completely out of her depth. I postponed three vital meetings during my business trip and took a redeye flight to pick her up. She was curled up in the passenger seat, eyes swollen, quietly asking: “Ashton, will you always be this good to me?” I said, “Yes.” She buried her face in her knees, her voice muffled: “Then you can’t ever leave me.” But the one who always left first had been her. That promise… I refused to keep it any longer. 3 I left the empty ballroom, needing to rush back to the office to deal with the inevitable fallout from her legal actions. I looked up and froze. The city’s massive outdoor screens, the ones that were supposed to be broadcasting our wedding, were now showing Spencer Reed’s face, a look of profound “regret” plastered on it. Genevieve had handed the live broadcast rights of our wedding over to him. I dug my fingertips into my palm, the cold metal edges of my car key pressing painfully into my skin. I could almost hear the sound of my blood running cold. On screen, Spencer’s face was appropriately contrite. He managed a smile that suggested he was bearing the weight of the world’s misunderstanding. “Mr. Pierce, I couldn’t get a hold of you, and I was genuinely worried that the misunderstanding was deepening… I had no choice but to use this public platform to explain.” “Last night’s bachelorette party was certainly my oversight. I shouldn’t have pressured Gen to drink so much, but it was just harmless fun between young people, nothing scandalous. I had no ill intention, I truly didn’t think you would be so upset that you would cancel the engagement… isn’t that a bit rash?” “You’ve pursued Gen for so many years, but hasn’t she also remained unmarried for ten years? She finally decided to trust you, and you make such a massive scene.” He sighed, his gaze sincere and worried: “In a relationship, there’s more than just right and wrong; there should be understanding and compassion, don’t you think? I know I’m saying too much, but I’m just concerned for Gen. She carries the weight of a massive company on her shoulders, and now even her marriage can’t give her peace…” Just then, Genevieve’s figure strode into the frame, pulling Spencer behind her. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were sharp and cold, as if they could pierce the screen and pin me in place. “Why are you apologizing to him?” Her voice was clear, laced with unconcealed disdain. “Ashton Pierce is just a prude; he really thought he could control me, didn’t he?” “Let me make this perfectly clear. The fact that you caused a spectacle over a single piece of sexy lingerie only proves how twisted your mind is! I don’t need you begging me to marry you!” “Listen up: I’m sending my assistant to buy two thousand of Veridia’s holiday limited-edition sets right now and pile them up outside the Sinclair Group headquarters! They’ll be free to take until the last one is gone! The moment the final piece is taken, Spencer and I are getting married! And every person who takes a piece of lingerie is invited to my wedding!” The live feed abruptly cut out. Almost simultaneously, my phone buzzed, pushing the breaking news story that the live broadcast had ignited. “Spencer is so classy, doing a city-wide broadcast to explain, but Ashton Pierce shutting off his phone is just dramatic…” “Ashton is definitely being a sore loser. It was just a game between young people, why is he so triggered by a single piece of lingerie?” “Gen is such a boss! She looks incredible in Veridia! The old man really doesn’t deserve her! So, where exactly are they handing out the free lingerie at Sinclair HQ? Asking for a friend!” “He put up with ten years of everything, but one piece of lingerie breaks him? Why wait so long? Is he planning something sneaky?” “LOL, who else would marry a relic like Ashton Pierce if it weren’t for the Sinclair alliance? Get a grip, old timer!” … I sat in my car, my expression numb. I remembered when Spencer Reed first interned at the Sinclair Group; Genevieve had been dismissive of him, finding his smile too ingratiating. I, recalling that they were from the same business school, covered for Spencer several times and even genuinely taught him a few things, hoping he would become an asset to Genevieve. When did things change? Perhaps it was when he “casually” mentioned the fragility of growing up in a single-parent home. Or the lonely, deep-fried wisdom he “just happened” to post on social media after a late night at work. Or maybe when Genevieve was drowning in a project, and he “just happened” to show up with her favorite coffee at the perfect temperature, accompanied by a few words of carefully targeted “admiration.” Later, when I felt uncomfortable with his little schemes and gently suggested Genevieve keep her distance, she shot back: “Spencer is just young and eager to prove himself. Can’t you stop being so petty?” “Besides, what kind of relationship do we even have that gives you the right to be jealous? Stop being so nitpicky, you’re a grown man.” Yes, nitpicky. As if their total disregard for my feelings could be excused by their “openness,” and any discomfort I felt could be simply dismissed as “petty.” Just like today, they had conspired to destroy my ten years of hope, our families’ reputation, and a city-wide celebrated wedding. And my response—canceling the engagement—was small-minded, a display of archaic puritanism. The familiar ache started in my chest, but it was light, almost a phantom pain. I took a deep breath, merging the car into the flow of traffic. Worrying about whether a woman who never loved me felt any remorse was futile. Getting to the office to manage the fallout from this absurd spectacle was clearly more important. 4 The lights in the Pierce Holdings penthouse office were blazing. The team was supposed to be finalizing plans for a lucrative post-alliance partnership. Instead, they were tackling the public relations disaster caused by Spencer Reed’s “City-Wide Apology.” My secretary, Martha, looked at me with open sympathy. “Ms. Sinclair might just be acting out of anger, Mr. Pierce. Perhaps if you speak to her first…” “No need.” My voice was so calm it surprised even me. “I appreciate your concern, Martha, but the partnership is beyond saving.” “Her secretary informed me that she is already processing the paperwork to transfer the Sinclair shares she bought back from me… directly to Spencer Reed.” Martha’s face fell, and she clearly wanted to say more. I shifted the conversation back to the crisis at hand. I looked up later, and the night outside was thick and black. My phone rang in the silence, the flashing number so familiar it was a searing pain. I watched it ring for a long time, picking up at the very last second. The voice that came through was not the cold mockery I expected. It was Genevieve, slurring, with a thick, drunken sob. “Ashton Pierce, you’ve got… you’ve got nerve. I waited for your call all night…” She cried intermittently, her voice laced with a drunken vulnerability I had never heard before. My heart softened automatically, but then she continued: “You… you need to come and get me… we’re going home… to that penthouse you bought for us… Spencer said… he loves the rooftop infinity pool and the view… Will you just sign the deed over to him? As… as your apology gift… and then we can call it even…” Every word was a bullet, precisely hitting the last nerve in my body. That penthouse was a custom design I had sketched out myself, taking a full year to build. It was exactly what she had once said she wanted: a home with a view of the entire city’s lights and the stars above. And now, she was casually demanding I sign it over to Spencer Reed as my “apology?” My fingers were ice-cold as I gripped the phone; I could taste rust in my throat. “Genevieve, that apartment was prepared for my future wife. It has absolutely nothing to do with you or Spencer Reed. You have no right to ask, and certainly no right to demand its disposal.” Without waiting for another word from her, I hung up and immediately blocked the number. A text from my mother arrived promptly: “Ashton, Alexandra Albright, the daughter of the Albright Industries family in North City, just returned from overseas. She mentioned wanting to meet you, said you two knew each other from before? What do you think… about that?” I didn’t hesitate: “Yes, Mom. Please arrange it.” “Wonderful, I’ll have Lexi text you directly.” Alexandra Albright. We had met at a project competition during graduate school. Her presentation was flawlessly logical, and her business acumen was astonishing. The Albright family had subtly expressed an interest in an alliance afterward. But at the time, Genevieve was all I could see. I was entirely focused on helping her stabilize the Sinclair Group. Though Albright Industries offered much more assistance, I had politely declined the offer then. Now, a decade of deep affection felt like a long, painful dream. It was time for me to start living for myself again. 5 Meanwhile, Genevieve and Spencer Reed’s relationship began to dominate media coverage. She went with him to ride the city’s highest rollercoaster, something she had refused to do with me countless times, citing a fear of heights. She wore revealing dresses and shorts, styles completely opposite to her usual elegant attire, and partied with Spencer in nightclub dance halls. She even hosted a lavish ceremony for the transfer of the Sinclair Group’s overseas shares, introducing Spencer to the entire upper circle. The things she had once told me were “too immature” or “unbefitting of her status.” Now, she did them for another person, clearly finding pleasure in every moment. I knew these updates were deliberately pushed into my feed. Including the massive Christmas tree outside the Sinclair Group building, which was tracking the lingerie giveaway. A giant LED screen displayed the remaining quantity: 1998. 1523. 876. 332. I knew Genevieve wanted me to watch, to force me to regret, to make me grovel. But this time, I only felt a calm, mocking amusement. I occasionally scrolled through the comments on the news articles, a sea of schadenfreude: “Countdown to 100 sets! Is Ashton Pierce crawling to Gen to beg for forgiveness yet, LMAO?” “Waiting for Gen and Spencer’s wedding of the century! Live slap in the face for the old man!” “Ashton must be crying under his duvet right now, right? Ten years as a loyal lapdog and now he has nothing, serve him right!” I pressed the screen of my phone, which had lit up again with an alert showing a new intimate photo of them, and turned it off. I picked up my teacup and nodded to Lexi Albright across the table. “Please thank your mother for me. The tea is excellent.” Her smile was serene, yet there was a sparkling light in her eyes as she looked at me. “You’re welcome. If you like it, come by my place next time. I have something even better.” Her direct gaze made my cheeks heat up. My ears were still hot when she drove me back to my villa. However, the moment of relief was abruptly extinguished when I unlocked my front door. A bucket of ice water was dumped over my head. “Are you awake now, Ashton Pierce?” Genevieve’s voice was frigid. “I left you alone for all this time to reflect, and you got a little too big for your britches, didn’t you, coming back so late!” I wiped the foul-smelling water from my face. “Who let you in?” My attitude seemed to infuriate her; she slammed the bucket onto the hardwood floor with a deafening clatter. “Didn’t you say this house was bought for your wife? That would be me! I’ll come in whenever I want!” She lifted her chin. “The password is still the date of our first meeting. Ashton Pierce, is that all you’ve got?” I clenched my fist, annoyed at myself for forgetting to change the code. She pulled a tablet from her designer bag and violently threw it at me. The screen lit up, showing a live stream. The background was the lingerie Christmas tree outside the Sinclair Group, the camera focused on the remaining few items. “Do I need to remind you? They’ve taken 1,990 of those sets downstairs already!” “Only ten sets are left.” Her voice was sharp with excitement. “Ashton, don’t you get it? You’re the one looking at things through a filthy lens! It’s the 21st century; absolutely no one thinks this kind of clothing is scandalous anymore!” I looked down at the face I had loved for ten years, now twisted by rage and triumph, a stranger to me. “I’ll give you one last chance. Give up the deed to this house today, and get down on your knees and apologize to Spencer! I want you to stream the apology so the whole city can watch!” Every word was a poisoned needle. “Otherwise, when the last piece of lingerie is gone, I will marry him!” The live stream on the tablet continued. The excited voice of the host blared through the speaker: “Down to the last five sets! Folks! We are moments away from history!” The comments section was a frenzy: “Where’s Ashton Pierce?! Why hasn’t he shown up?!” “He’s probably on his way to beg! His wife is about to be gone!” “Waiting to see Mr. Pierce on his knees!” “CEO Gen is amazing! This is how you handle an old prude!” Genevieve shoved the tablet closer to my face, her finger practically touching the screen: “Do you see? Everyone is waiting for you to admit your mistake! If you go apologize to Spencer now, and give me ten percent of Pierce Holdings’ shares, we can still have our wedding…” I looked calmly at her face, which was contorted into a smug mask of victory. Then, softly, almost absurdly, I chuckled. That small sound completely enraged her. On the tablet, the host was excitedly counting down. “Three sets remaining!” “Two sets!” “Only one left!!!” With every number, Genevieve’s smile widened. When the last set remained, no one stepped forward. At that moment, I pushed her hand away with a neutral expression and slowly walked toward the door. Genevieve’s triumphant smile spread across her face. “What’s the matter, finally admitting defeat?” “Spencer is at the bar we were at that night. You better hurry! If that last set is taken by someone else, not even kneeling will change my mind!” She watched smugly as I sped out of the parking garage like a shot arrow. She was just about to text Spencer that he should have the journalists on standby to capture my groveling from every angle. But the next second, the host’s excited and then terrified shout came through her phone’s speaker. “The Christmas tree is empty!!” “The two-thousandth piece of lingerie has been claimed!” “Let’s congratulate the lucky… Ashton Pierce! Wait, it’s you!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388835”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The New Year’s Day family gathering. The kids convinced my son to wear the bulky Red Pony costume. They rode him, kicked and beat him, and finally buried him alive in a snowdrift. I went hysterical, screaming for someone to call the police, only to have my relatives accuse me of harming my own child. My husband stood right there, trying to talk me down. “Just sign the waiver, Amy. It was an accident. We can’t let the kids face charges and ruin their futures.” After they successfully framed me, I broke. I remember walking into traffic and the sudden, blinding impact. The next time I opened my eyes, I was back. Back to New Year’s Day. I immediately called my mom, urging her to come get my son. “Leo, you’re sleeping at Grandma’s tonight. Don’t come back.” They had just cleared the gates of our Stone Creek Estates community when I turned and saw the red pony costume. My heart seized. I scanned the yard. All the cousins, my in-laws’ children, were accounted for. Every one of them was here. So, the costume that had appeared out of thin air… who was inside it? 1 The pony costume staggered forward, and a muffled voice called out. “Daddy.” I whipped my head around. The costume was facing my husband, Ryan Foster, who was standing with a few male relatives, smoking and laughing. I quickly checked the yard again. My sister-in-law Savannah’s son was building a snowman, my Aunt Carol’s twins were having a snowball fight, and the others were playing in small groups. All accounted for. Did… did Leo sneak back home? The thought sent a shudder of icy terror through me. “No, no,” I whispered to myself, fumbling for the phone in my pocket. I had to call my mother, to be sure. Suddenly, a large hand shot out and snatched the phone away. “The guests are here, Amy. What are you doing, standing around like a ghost?” Ryan had walked up behind me without me noticing. “Go greet people. Did you check on the stew in the kitchen?” I was about to speak when my sister-in-law, Savannah, hooked her arm through mine, leaning in with a sickeningly familiar intimacy. “Hey, sis. Come inside for a minute. I need to talk to you, just a heart-to-heart.” This was too familiar. In the last life, Savannah had used this exact “heart-to-heart” excuse to lure me into a guest room and lock me in for nearly an hour. When I finally got out, I only saw the children throwing snowballs at the snowman. My son, trapped inside that red costume, was already dead. That memory ripped through me. I violently yanked my arm free from Savannah and bolted toward the pony costume. But before I could take two steps, Aunt Carol and two other female relatives closed ranks around me. “Whoa, Amy, what’s with the attitude?” Aunt Carol’s heavy frame blocked my path. She smiled, though her eyes were hard. “Savannah wants to chat, and you’re acting like this?” “Seriously, it’s New Year’s. We rarely get the whole family together,” Tiffany, my cousin-in-law, grabbed my other arm. “Come on, let’s go inside and catch up. It’s freezing out here.” They were a human wall, pushing me back toward the house. I struggled, but the combined strength of the three women made me completely immobile. I twisted my head back toward the yard. The children had surrounded the pony costume. “Ride the pony! Ride the pony!” Savannah’s son shouted the words first. Several boys rushed the clumsy costume, shoving it down onto the snow, then climbing on top. One, two, three… they all piled on. The costume struggled feebly in the snow, unable to get up. “Stop it!” I shrieked, shoving Aunt Carol out of the way with every ounce of strength I had. “Get off! All of you! You’re going to hurt him!” Ryan intercepted me, his expression annoyed. “They’re just playing, Amy. Why are you making such a big deal out of nothing?” “It’s a holiday, don’t be a buzzkill.” My mother-in-law, Helen, walked over, her face set in a frown. “Let Leo play with his cousins. It’s for his own good; he needs to integrate into this family. If you hover like this, how will he ever bond with his extended family?” “That’s not…” I wanted to scream that wasn’t my son, but the two sisters-in-law were now ‘supporting’ me, one on each side. They were smiling, but their grips were firm and painful, and they steered me back inside, forcing me down onto the living room sofa. “Just relax, Amy. Take a seat.” I was breathing hard, not from effort, but from sheer terror. The current scene was a perfect, chilling echo of the last life. The same blocks, the same excuses. I forced myself to calm down. I retrieved my phone and quickly typed a message. “Mom, where are you and Leo now?” A moment later, my mother replied. I tapped the voice note and held the phone to my ear. It was Leo’s voice. “Mommy! Grandma and I just got home!” “Grandma says she’s making dumplings tonight! When are you coming back?” I slumped back against the sofa, relief washing over me in a dizzying wave. Thank God. It wasn’t my son in the costume. But then, who was lying out there in the snow? 2 The pony costume began to shake again, and a muffled, frantic sound came from inside. “Let me go, let me go…” Savannah’s son shrieked with excitement. “Bury him! Bury him up to his head!” The children obeyed instantly. Snow chunks quickly covered the pony’s back, then its legs. The costume was still struggling, but the movements were becoming weaker and weaker. Even though it wasn’t my son, it was still a person. My conscience wouldn’t allow me to stand by and watch. “Make the children stop! Burying someone in the snow is dangerous!” I jumped up and yelled, but everyone around me simply laughed it off. Aunt Carol nonchalantly cracked a sunflower seed. “Oh, come on. What kind of trouble can kids get into? We all played like this when we were little.” Tiffany handed me a cup of hot tea, her smile sweet and gentle. “Leo isn’t even asking them to stop, Amy. Why are you so worried? Let them have their fun.” Helen gently patted my shoulder. “Amy, your mother-in-law needs to say this. Boys need to be toughened up; don’t make him so soft. Look at Ryan when he was a boy—all that roughhousing, and he turned out fine.” Every word was so familiar. They had said the exact same things in the previous life. Ryan sat down next to me, lowering his voice in a warning tone. “Amy, if you make a scene, you’re embarrassing me. It’s a holiday; don’t ruin the party for all the relatives.” I stared at him, feeling utterly disconnected. His eyes held no concern, no urgency, only impatient, cold reproach. “Aren’t you worried?” My voice was trembling. “What if something goes wrong? That’s your son.” Ryan chuckled, a dismissive, dry sound. “You’re too stressed. Nothing is going to happen.” A deep, chilling thought began to take root in my mind. From Savannah pulling me away, to Aunt Carol and Tiffany blocking me, to Helen’s dismissive advice, and now Ryan’s heavy-handed control. It was too smooth, too coordinated. It felt like a perfectly rehearsed play, where everyone knew their lines and their positions. Could they be doing this on purpose? The idea was terrifying, and I shivered uncontrollably. Outside, the snow was still falling, and the pony costume hadn’t moved in a while. Savannah glanced at the clock and called toward the yard. “Okay, time’s up… everyone come back inside for lunch!” The children ran back toward the house. Taking advantage of the sudden chaos, I darted outside. Hold on, kid. You’ve got to hold on. I prayed silently. I clawed the snow away with my bare hands. A small arm slid out of the costume’s sleeve. The hand was tiny, about the size of a seven or eight-year-old’s. It lay limply on the snow, the skin a disturbing blue-tinged purple. The relatives immediately gathered around, and when they saw the scene, a stunned silence fell over them. Someone finally whispered. “Is… is he dead?” 3 Savannah, being a nurse, knelt down and felt for a pulse. Everyone held their breath, waiting for her verdict. After a few seconds, she slowly let go of the arm. The small hand flopped lifelessly back onto the snow. “No pulse. He’s gone.” A wave of children’s screams immediately broke the silence. The adults rushed to comfort their own kids, their faces pale with panic. In the confusion, Ryan’s voice cut through the noise. “Jason, lock the front gate.” “Don’t let the neighbors hear anything. It’s the New Year. We don’t need gossip.” His brother hesitated for a moment, then hurried toward the yard gate, sliding the heavy security bolt shut. Ryan’s gaze swept over the bewildered children. “Everyone inside. Upstairs. Go to the game room. Remember, you didn’t see anything today. You were just playing in the snow, understood?” His tone was not a suggestion; it was an order. The children exchanged glances. A few of the younger ones were already crying, but the older kids pulled them along, and they soon disappeared up the staircase. I finally managed to gather my wits. My trembling hand reached for the pony costume’s head. I had to see who it was. Suddenly, Ryan shoved me hard. I stumbled and fell onto the frozen ground. His face was a mask of artificial grief and fury. “Now you care? Why didn’t you watch him earlier? Now that something has happened, it’s all your fault!” Helen’s wailing followed, perfectly timed. “How many times did I tell you, with all these people here, don’t let the kids run wild! You didn’t listen! Now this happens, are you satisfied?” The others quickly joined the chorus of accusation. “That costume is so hot and stuffy! I told you not to let him wear it! Why didn’t you, as his mother, listen to us?” “That’s right, we all said it was dangerous, but you said it was ‘festive’ and ‘just a game’…” One after another, the relatives acted out their parts like actors following a script. Each face held the same expression of sorrowful blame. I understood now. They were re-enacting the script from my previous life, determined to pin the blame for “my son’s death” entirely on me. I struggled to my feet, glaring at the group. “You’re twisting the truth! You did this. You all killed him!” They immediately looked irritated. Ryan grabbed me and dragged me back inside the house. “Amy, you are primarily responsible for this.” Savannah had already printed a document and now handed it to me. Ryan jammed a pen into my hand, pointing to the paper. “Just sign it. We can’t let the children get criminal records because of an accident.” My eyes fell on the paper. It was a Waiver of Liability for Accidental Death. I hereby acknowledge that due to my own negligence, the child suffered an accidental death during play, and I voluntarily waive the right to pursue any responsibility from family or friends, committing not to call the police or file a lawsuit… I looked up at him, my expression cold. “You know perfectly well it wasn’t me.” Ryan lowered his head, patiently trying to persuade me. “The child is dead, Amy. Do you really want to drag the whole family down with you?” The relatives nodded and sighed in perfect unison. Helen gripped my hand, her face full of false pity. “Amy, your son is gone, I know you hurt. But don’t make the other children suffer permanent psychological damage. They’re just so little, you can’t ruin their lives…” Aunt Carol chimed in. “We’re all family. Going to court would be a terrible spectacle for everyone. The child’s soul wouldn’t want to see the family tear itself apart.” When I didn’t react, Ryan’s voice went flat and hard. “If you don’t sign, you are the murderer who killed your own child. Everyone here will testify that you made him wear the costume. That you killed him.” I shifted my gaze from their faces back to the snowdrift in the yard. In the struggle, a corner of the costume had flipped up, revealing a sneaker. Dark blue running shoes with a white stripe on the side. Not Leo’s shoes. I raised my head, looking at my so-called ‘family’ one by one. “Are you all so sure the person who died is my son?” Everyone froze for a second, then they burst into relieved, condescending laughter. “Who else would it be?” Savannah’s eyes were still red from the forced tears, but her voice was back to normal. “Didn’t you bring the costume? Didn’t you put it on Leo?” Helen wiped her eyes, nodding firmly. “Yes, we all saw you put it on him with your own hands.” A lie repeated a thousand times had become their truth. They had convinced themselves of the story they invented. I looked at Ryan. His gaze flickered, but he quickly regained his composure. I took a deep breath and asked the question that had haunted me for two lifetimes. “Ryan Foster, because Leo isn’t your biological son, you don’t care that he’s dead. Is that it?” The air in the room solidified. Everyone knew Leo was my son from my first marriage. In the year since I married Ryan, he had played the part of the perfect stepfather. I knew he was a mama’s boy and overly devoted to his sister, but for a second marriage, I was willing to tolerate those flaws as long as he was good to my child. I never imagined he would become this. Ryan stared blankly, his eyes wide. He violently shook his head. “Amy, you’re distraught! Don’t say such crazy things!” But his panic was all the proof I needed. Helen was the first to react. She suddenly spun around and rushed into the kitchen, returning with a knife. “Are you signing or not? Sign it, and this goes away. Don’t sign…” Her eyes were fixed on my hand. I remembered the last life. When I refused to sign, she had hacked off two of my fingers. They had told the police I was mentally disturbed and had self-mutilated during an argument with my son. Everyone backed up the story. This time, I didn’t resist. I gave a small nod. “I’ll sign.” 4 A collective sigh of relief filled the living room as I finished the signature. Ryan patted my shoulder gently, a look of satisfied relief on his face. “There. It’s over. Let’s clean up and… handle the body.” The word ‘handle’ sounded as casual as if he were talking about cleaning up a dead fish. My eyes involuntarily drifted toward the window. “I want to see…” I took a step toward the door. Ryan’s arm quickly blocked my way. “Don’t look.” His voice dropped low. “It will only make it harder. Let Sav and them handle it. She has experience.” Has experience. That phrase made my stomach clench. I looked up at him. “Can we call the police now? A child is dead. We have to report it.” Ryan’s expression froze for a moment. He then put his arm around my shoulder and guided me back to the couch. “Amy, you just signed the waiver, remember? It was an accident. We can manage this ourselves; why make a public spectacle?” He paused for a heartbeat, his voice dropping even lower. “The accidental death policy for Leo… are you the beneficiary?” My breath hitched. He hadn’t asked that question in the previous life. Last time, I was too busy screaming and trying to call the police, and they were busy restraining me and managing the scene. But now, Ryan brought it up. I looked into his eyes, which were too close, and saw the cold, calculated gleam of an opportunist. “Yes.” I nodded slowly. “I’m his birth mother. Of course, I am.” Ryan’s eyes immediately brightened. “The payout should be around eight hundred thousand dollars. I need you to promise that once you receive the money, you’ll transfer it to Sav.” Ryan’s tone was utterly entitled. “She found a perfect condo in a great school district, but she’s just short on the down payment. We’re family, we have to support each other.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388834”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My wife’s startup failed. It wiped out everything we owned. I’ve been chaining three jobs together, working triple shifts, just to ease the burden on her. I was suspended thirty stories up, scrubbing the glass facade of The Pinnacle, while inside, a lavish birthday celebration was underway. I glanced through the window, a flicker of professional envy mixed with exhaustion, and then I saw her—my wife, Sienna. She was pushing out a towering cake made of cash, presenting it to the elderly woman seated in the center. The muffled chatter of the guests drifted through the glass, loud enough to catch: “The location alone is impossible to book, but Ms. Sienna rented the entire executive floor for her mother-in-law’s birthday!” “She must have scattered millions in those cash packets at the entrance alone!” Suspended in the air, I froze. Nobody knew that Ms. Sienna’s mother-in-law had died in a hospital just yesterday. When my own mother, Georgia, was sick, lying in her hospital bed, she kept gripping my hand and begging me. “Son, stop the treatments. I don’t want to be a burden to you and Sienna anymore.” I frantically called Sienna, desperate to ask her to let me use my payroll card—the card she managed—to pay for Mom’s treatment. When I turned back, Mom was gone. She had jumped from the floor above. She had neatly folded her jacket, and on top, a small stack of bills. I picked it up, my hands shaking. It was a mix of crumpled singles and tens, all folded together. Fifty-three dollars and change. I couldn’t find Sienna, so I rushed through the necessary arrangements for my mother’s funeral and then hurried to my window-washing gig. Three hundred dollars an hour. It used to be enough to feed our family of three for days. Seeing Sienna, the woman inside the opulent five-star hotel, caused a visceral, unreal sense of dissonance. Was the woman casually dropping millions inside really my wife, who just yesterday wore patched jeans and shared a simple bowl of broth and pasta with me? 1 The cold wind roared, and I shivered, finally shaking myself out of the stupor. Mechanically, I pulled out my phone to call Sienna. No answer, again. My foreman spotted the phone and signaled to the crane operator to pull me up. The moment my feet touched the ground, a helmet was thrown at my face. “Using a phone during work! Are you trying to get yourself killed? You’re fired!” The helmet grazed my forehead, leaving a thin trail of blood. It hurt. This wasn’t a dream. Lost, I stumbled toward the lower floors, where I ran into a throng of excited hotel staff. “Ms. Sienna is handing out cash packets! All you have to do is say one nice thing!” The ballroom was decked out in a staggering display of wealth—a million dollars just for the floral arrangements, people were whispering. I pulled my mask tighter over my face and followed the crowd toward the noise. When it was my turn, I stared at Sienna—resplendent in a deep-red silk designer gown and expensive jewelry—and the guest of honor. My throat closed up. “I… I wish you a long life. Happy sixtieth birthday,” I mumbled, the words feeling like ash. If my mother hadn’t died, she would have turned sixty this year. Just last week, I was telling Sienna how I wanted to take Mom out for a nice dinner. Mom just squinted at me and shook her head, saying that paying off our debt was the best gift of all. Now, we were separated by life and death. Sienna didn’t recognize my voice. She smiled warmly and handed me an envelope. “Here you go. Best wishes.” My hands were trembling as I took the thick packet. I could feel the substantial wad of cash inside. This amount, which could have saved my mother’s life, Sienna was handing out to hundreds of strangers without a second thought! Someone jostled me in the scramble for more packets, and I stumbled. In front of everyone, I, in my filthy work uniform, fell to the floor. A thousand judgmental, pitying eyes turned my way, and I felt a wave of humiliation wash over me. As I struggled to get up, a hand reached down to me. “Are you alright?” I looked up. It was the other man of the hour: the mother-in-law’s son. Owen. The very friend Sienna said she’d invested with, the one who led to her ‘failed startup.’ The man who had supposedly caused us to lose everything. Now, I knew the truth. We were the only ones who had lost everything. A flicker of malicious pleasure crossed his eyes, too quick to fully register. I flinched away from his hand, intending to stand on my own, but the next second, someone kicked me. I fell, splayed out like a turtle on its back, instantly drawing all attention. Even Sienna was looking our way. She started walking toward us in her heels, but I scrambled up immediately and fled. I couldn’t let her see me looking like this. Not now. Stepping out of the building, my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. I accepted, and a video immediately loaded. It was Sienna and Owen, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Owen’s low voice cut through the silence. “How long are you going to keep up the game with that fool?” Sienna let out a light, cold laugh. Her words echoed in my ear, brittle and cruel: “If you hadn’t bet me, I wouldn’t have lasted this long.” “The old woman is sick. If he knew I had money, he’d find a way to ask me for it.” My mind went blank. Sienna knew. She knew my mother was sick! She had seen every one of my frantic texts begging for money, and she had ignored them. I stumbled home, into the cramped, dark basement studio, and laughed a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. Was I supposed to admire her dedication? She lived in this dingy hole with me for three years. She had played her part perfectly. She was always smiling and attentive to my mother, even sharing our roof. She’d told us her parents were gone and she cherished the feeling of ‘home’ she found with us. After her ‘failure,’ I sold our house to cover the debts. Even Mom sold her most treasured possession, the jade bracelet inherited from her own mother. I’ll never forget the way Sienna cried with gratitude when she took the money, promising she was done with ventures and would settle down with me. Her tear-stained face was utterly unrecognizable from the beaming, victorious woman I’d just seen. Staring at the four walls of the narrow room, I finally lost control and screamed, then sobbed. Before Sienna, I was doing well. I was the first in my family to make it to the city. I brought my mother here, vowing to give her a good life. I met Sienna at a company dinner. She was in a cheap, faded work dress, timidly enduring harassment from a senior executive. I used a toast as an excuse to pull him away, earning a grateful look from her. Later, when Mom brought me lunch at the office, she found Sienna sadly eating a dry bun with cold water. After that, Mom always insisted I bring an extra meal for Sienna. Things progressed naturally. Our wedding was simple, but Sienna swore it was the happiest day of her life. Then came the startup, the failure, and the debt. We were her rock. It was all a game. A cruel, elaborate game between wealthy people. I was the only one who had loved her truly. My mother, who loved her like a daughter, paid for that love with her life. Before I could even dry my tears, the hospital called. “Mr. Han, your mother signed an organ donation agreement before her passing. We’ve found a match. Could you come and say your final goodbye?” Organ donation? When had my mother signed such a thing? I rushed to the hospital, only to collide with Sienna and Owen as they were pulling out of an ambulance! Sienna was rushing in her high heels, her voice strained with urgency. “My mother-in-law is O-negative, and she suddenly collapsed. I’ve mobilized all the O-negative blood in the city! Do everything you can to save her!” I stood frozen, watching Sienna brush past me. If she’d just looked up, she would have seen me, witnessed the entire scene. But she didn’t. Even knowing my mother was sick and waiting for the money she never sent, Sienna’s entire focus was on Owen’s mother. I walked the heavy steps toward the morgue. A doctor and nurse were waiting. They showed me the signed donation papers. The doctor patted my shoulder. “Mr. Han, your mother was a deeply noble person. She is performing a great act. Her organs will save three families.” I ran my fingers over the signature Georgia had carefully written. My mother, the small-town woman, who barely knew how to read, had practiced for a long time to learn how to write her name. Now she was gone forever. Her body… the wounds were too severe. I couldn’t bring myself to look again. I finally let the tears fall, shaking with uncontrollable grief. The doctor’s eyes were wet. He just squeezed my hand. After a long moment, I wiped my face and looked at the medical team. “I’m sorry. I won’t hold you up. Please don’t waste any more time.” “I know Mom will be happy knowing she saved so many people.” They bowed in unison, a gesture of profound respect for my mother. Just as they prepared to load the organs for transport, a man rushed over. “Who is the donor’s family? Our CEO, Ms. Sienna, is offering a high price for the donor’s heart as a backup!” he announced, his eyes locking on me. He launched into a condescending explanation. “Sir, I have great news for you. Our CEO’s mother-in-law is having some minor heart issues, and we need a backup. Ms. Sienna is willing to pay five million dollars for that heart. Are you interested?” To him, it was a massive stroke of luck. No one turns down that kind of money. But I shook my head. “It’s already matched with the right person. You could give me ten times that, and I wouldn’t sell.” I looked pointedly at the ambulance that had been stopped. “My mother’s life may not be as ‘precious’ as Ms. Sienna’s mother-in-law’s, but you’ll have to find someone else.” I still couldn’t believe Sienna would go to this length for Owen’s mother. Five million dollars for a backup heart. I recalled the pathetic desperation of my attempts to borrow money, nearly bowing down to strangers. I gave a bitter laugh. Sienna, what other insane depths can you sink to? The assistant’s face paled, but he immediately pulled out a stack of cash and shoved it into my hand. “Money is no object! Everyone knows our CEO is the city’s top female entrepreneur!” I paused, adding a silent amendment to his boast: and the woman who played me for a fool. I shook my head again. The donation was Mom’s last wish. I had to fulfill it. As we were locked in a standoff, the transportation doctor hurried out, his face grim. “Mr. Han, I’m sorry. We just received notice that your mother’s donation may have to be temporarily delayed.” Before I could react, I was struck by something and fell backward. When I looked up, dollar bills were raining down on me. The assistant’s voice was full of contempt. “Your kind is no match for Ms. Sienna’s power! Mr. Owen is the love of her life, and his mother is family. This money buys your mother’s life many times over—never mind just a heart.” I sat on the floor, my tears mixing with the bitter smell of money. Buy my mother’s life? It would have taken so little. Less than a single packet of cash Sienna had handed out at the door. The assistant, carrying the cooler containing my mother’s heart, started to walk away. I lunged, grabbing his leg. “That’s my mother’s heart… you can’t take it!” My mind was a white blur. I only knew I had to protect her last possession. He kicked me, trying to wrench the box free. I held on tight, not letting go even as blood streamed from my head. My mother’s organ was not Sienna’s commodity to buy and sell! It was meant to save a life, not be a backup for Owen’s mother. Just then, Sienna’s voice, accompanied by the click of high heels, drifted closer. “Little Zhang, you still haven’t gotten rid of the heart’s family?” I froze. I wanted to call out to her. I wanted to ask what she needed to do to finally leave my mother in peace. “Si—” The assistant immediately silenced me with a glare and pulled me into a dark corner. “You think you can complain to the CEO?” He sneered, kicking me again for good measure. “Drag him away quickly! Ms. Sienna shouldn’t have to see this mess.” I struggled violently, shouting, “I’m her husband! Ask Sienna! Ask her whose name is on the marriage certificate!” “Ask her how she has the gall to steal her own mother-in-law’s heart!” The air went silent for a moment. Then the assistant burst into contemptuous laughter. “Everyone at Sterling knows Ms. Sienna loves Mr. Owen like life itself. She gifted him half the company shares without blinking!” “And you,” he scanned my battered, pathetic figure, “even the security guards at Sterling wear custom suits. How am I supposed to believe you’re the CEO’s husband?” “Get real!” He waved his hand, and several men dragged me away. Separated by a single wall, my tears poured out as I heard Sienna sharply demanding to know why the simple matter wasn’t resolved. “Do they want more money? Give them more! Whatever the cost, get that backup heart secured!” The assistant immediately bowed and apologized. “Ms. Sienna, a lunatic was here claiming to be your husband…” “He also said…” The assistant hesitated under Sienna’s fierce gaze, then forced the words out. “He said… that heart belonged to your mother-in-law.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388833”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night of my adopted sister Savannah’s seventeenth birthday. Dad blew off a major corporate dinner, and Mom gave her the vintage diamond tennis bracelet she’d been saving. Savannah wore the princess gown I’d bought her. She scolded the catering staff for unsteady hands, after a few drops of soup splattered on her hem. The server bowed low in a pathetic apology, and I smoothly played the role of the good-natured older brother. “It’s alright, she just has a stomach ache and wasn’t steady. Don’t worry, Princess.” “Your brother will buy you two more dresses tomorrow.” The server looked up gratefully, and I froze. Her face was Mom’s face. It looked exactly like my little sister, who’d gone missing twelve years ago, would look now. 1 The girl, Chen Yue, had a tiny mole on her earlobe. Her features were uncannily like Mom’s. The instant I saw her, I was certain. My biological sister, gone since she was five, was found. The moment the DNA results came back. Mom gripped her rough hands, tears streaming. “Ellie, it’s really you, we’ve been looking for you for twelve years!” Dad’s eyes were full of aching pity. “It must have been so hard for you all these years.” Savannah sat in the corner, staring at Chen Yue. Her faded, ill-fitting clothes squeezed Chen Yue’s round, slightly heavy figure. The rubber soles of her cheap sneakers were worn thin. She stood there, awkward and constrained, twisting her fingers, looking blank and bewildered. A sharp pang of sorrow hit me. Little Ellie had been like a pure, white snow-bunnly. She loved clinging to me. The first word she ever learned, when she was barely talking, was “Leo.” My own sister, reduced to this. I placed the investigation report on the coffee table, my heart heavy. “Dad, Mom, just read it for yourselves.” Chen Yue—Ellie—had been abandoned by the traffickers when she developed a high fever on the road at age five; they thought she was going to die. She was picked up by a woman, but the woman’s husband was a monster. He was an abusive alcoholic who killed his wife last year and was sentenced to death. Since then, Ellie had been completely alone. To support herself while still trying to go to school, she had worked every possible low-wage job—waitress, cleaning crew, delivery driver. She’d even lugged supplies at a warehouse construction site. Mom and Dad read the report, biting back tears, damning her adoptive father as less than human. They pulled her into a hug, softly patting her back. “Ellie, don’t be afraid. Dad is here. We’ll change your name this week and enroll you in the best private prep school. No one will ever hurt you again!” “My poor daughter, I’m so sorry we let you suffer for so long! It’s all my fault, my fault…” Ellie’s, no, Elena’s, eyes reddened too. She stiffly managed to say, “Mom and Dad.” My eyes felt hot. “Ellie, I’m your brother, Leo. From now on, I’m your protection.” We were immersed in the joy of finally having her back, lost and then found. Until Savannah, pale-faced, brought over a platter of sliced fruit. The girl who was normally so delicate had a testing look on her face. “Have some fruit, everyone.” “Mom, please stop crying. You just had that expensive eye treatment yesterday.” Mom wiped her eyes and playfully glared at her. “I never thought I’d live to see the day you cut up fruit for us.” Savannah had been in the kitchen maybe a handful of times her entire life. She’d never had to lift a finger; everything was done by Mom or the staff. She clenched her hand, pouting slightly. Mom’s sharp eyes spotted the blood. She quickly walked over and took Savannah’s hand, instantly worried. “What happened to your hand?” “I touched the blade when I was cutting.” “Why are you so careless? Rick, quick, get the first-aid kit.” Dad was instantly concerned and hurried into the house. I got up to check the knives in the kitchen, worried she’d left them lying around without common sense, like she sometimes did when she was younger. The three of us fussed over Savannah for a good while. Once a colorful bandage was applied, we remembered Elena, who was still sitting silently nearby, her eyes empty. The atmosphere turned strangely awkward. I explained, “Ellie, this is Savannah. When I was looking for you all those years ago, I heard a baby crying and found her abandoned in a box. She’s like you, she’s had a tough start. Now you’re sisters. Look out for each other.” Savannah put on a friendly smile, walked over, and extended her hand. “Welcome home, big sister. My room gets the best light, so I’ll move out tonight and let you have it.” “And you can pick whatever you want from my things. Though I don’t think my clothes or shoes will fit.” She looked Elena up and down, then playfully stuck out her tongue. “You’re bigger than me, sister, and your feet are huge, so I guess I can’t share those.” “Ah, but maybe that means you haven’t had it too bad all these years. Otherwise, why the happy weight?” Elena’s face flushed crimson. After a long pause, she managed two clipped words. “I don’t need it.” I felt a prickle of discomfort. Why was she so cold to Savannah? Before I could speak, I heard Mom say, “Ellie, you need to be polite.” “Savannah, there’s plenty of room in this house. There’s no need to move around.” In the end, Elena was placed in the room next to mine. It was always cool and had previously been Savannah’s storage room. It was the only available space for now, and I was sure Elena would understand. Elena only brought two things from the run-down apartment: a photo of her and her adoptive mother, and a scruffy orange mutt. Mom and Dad instantly frowned. Dad was a stickler for cleanliness and didn’t like animals inside. Mom wrinkled her nose at the sight of a common stray. But, considering Elena’s feelings, they said nothing. Savannah hugged her arms, fear flickering in her eyes. “I’m scared of dogs.” When did she become afraid of dogs? I didn’t dwell on it. Elena held the dog tightly, her head bowed, looking vulnerable but resolute. “I only want him.” Dad and Mom looked displeased. Savannah said, with a hint of something unreadable, “Sister, you said you couldn’t afford food, but you had money left over to keep a dog?” I intervened, easing the tension. “Savannah, don’t talk nonsense. This dog must be very important to Ellie.” “There’s a small utility room behind the backyard gazebo. We can keep him there.” Elena’s eyes lit up, and she looked at me with gratitude. We spent the day getting new things for Elena. That evening, I brought a box of limited-edition chocolates I’d bought on a business trip to talk to her. “Ellie, are you settling in okay?” “Yes,” she nodded obediently. I wanted to run my hand through her hair but stopped myself, noticing how coarse and split the ends were. “Dad pulled some strings, and the papers are rushed. You and Savannah will start school together tomorrow.” “The private school curriculum is different, and the pace is faster, so Mom hired a tutor for you.” “If you need anything at all, just tell me. Your brother is always here for you.” Elena nodded sincerely. “Thank you.” My gaze drifted to the utility room in the backyard. “Is the little dog special?” Elena glanced at me shyly and explained, “His name is Gus. He was always with me.” “When I was completely broke, he wandered into a diner. The owner thought he was cute, gave me a meal, and let me stay to wash dishes.” “He’s my family.” My heart felt heavy. If she hadn’t been lost, she would be as confident and bright as Savannah. How could she have been left to starve and freeze? I wanted to console her, but looking at her thick frame, I suddenly couldn’t find the words. Savannah’s voice echoed in my ear. Someone who was truly suffering—would they be that heavy? From that day on. Dad went back to his normal work schedule, and I continued my internship at the company. Mom attended her regular society luncheons, dividing her time to care for us all. Elena and Savannah took the same car to and from school. Savannah was openly solicitous of Elena, always deferring to her. She’d help her with missed homework packets, wait for her after school, and put her favorite dishes on her plate at dinner. But Elena never returned the kindness. She never touched the food Savannah served her. She would constantly come home late, claiming someone had blocked her, locked her in the bathroom, or mocked her. She even said Savannah had deliberately hidden a test paper. I didn’t believe Savannah would bully her, but I worried about Elena being a target. Mom and Dad consulted the teachers, who confirmed nothing of the sort had happened. I picked Elena up a few times myself. Each time, her classmates were nothing but friendly. It was Elena who seemed like a porcupine—isolated, irritable, and quick to anger. We reluctantly held a small family meeting. Dad looked at Elena with disappointment. “Ellie, why did you lie?” “I didn’t lie.” Elena was frantic, sweat beading on her round, slick face, her fringe sticking together in strands. I felt a twinge of mild disgust. I turned to look at the clean, composed Savannah, and my eyes felt better. “They knew you were coming to pick me up, so they pretended to be nice!” “Are you saying Savannah alerted them? And the teachers are covering for them?” Elena stubbornly thrust out her neck, admitting it by silence. Savannah trembled, biting her lip, swallowing her pride. “If Sister says so, then it must be true. I apologize, I’m sorry.” A surge of anger rose in me. Since Elena came back, Savannah had been nothing but warm, only to be met with constant coldness. My cherished little sister—why should she be unhappy because of her? Mom was heartbroken. “You’re such a good kid, Savannah. What if she keeps bullying you?” She looked at Elena, her face hardening. “Ellie, we’ve indulged you because you suffered for over a decade. We understand you want family love and attention.” “But there’s a limit to how spoiled you can be. No well-raised child would slander her sister out of jealousy.” “We’ll let this slide, but I expect you to change. Don’t act like those bad kids.” Mom and Dad didn’t want Savannah to be sad, so they took her to an amusement park and asked me to drive. When I came back down with the car keys, the living room was empty except for Elena, sitting alone, clutching her stomach. She seemed to be in pain. “Leo, do you believe me?” I didn’t turn around. “Ellie, senior year is important. Focus on your studies.” “We treat you and Savannah exactly the same. Don’t overthink things, and don’t make trouble.” I couldn’t indulge her anymore; she had to learn. I hardened my heart and strode out, faintly hearing a choked gasp. Elena did change. She stopped accusing Savannah. When she came home late, she only said she was studying. She spent more time with Gus in the garden. Dad decided it was unfair for Savannah to have to wait for her every day, so he hired another driver. A week passed smoothly. But Mom and Dad weren’t happy. Thanks to Elena’s resemblance to Mom, when they met neighbors, everyone was shocked that the biological daughter of the Sullivans looked the way she did. No self-control, no grace, no style, timid and silent. She was leagues behind the poised and elegant Savannah. Mom was subtly mocked a few times and felt humiliated. She complained to us privately. “I wish Savannah were my real daughter.” I saw a shadow flicker outside the door but said nothing. Elena started dieting. She ate only one small meal a day, always boiled vegetables. She often stared blankly at Savannah. Savannah was surprised. “Sister, do you want to be as thin as me? But I was born this way; I can eat anything and not gain weight.” Mom didn’t stop Elena’s diet; she even gave her advice on losing weight. But I saw Elena drag her exhausted body back from school every night, and I hesitated. “Maybe take a break, Ellie. High school students need nutrition for all the studying.” Her dark, deep-set eyes looked up at me. “Isn’t this what you wanted, Leo?” I was suddenly speechless. … Elena’s weight loss made no progress; she was even heavier, and her health was visibly worse. Standing next to Mom, she looked like an older, worn-out helper. Her face was sallow, and she kept to herself, knowing her place. To try and please us, she started getting up early to make breakfast. Mom and Dad didn’t touch it, saying it wasn’t hygienic to mix dough without gloves. Mom complained that she had no concept of ‘luxury’ or ‘quality.’ Elena looked deflated and stopped. The high-end gated community always held an annual Owners’ Gala. It was a chance to network and scout business opportunities, and our family attended every year. This year, because of a rainy July, it was set for August. Mom often dragged Savannah along to pick out dresses. She kept choosing, but nothing felt special enough. She wanted bespoke, vintage-inspired gowns and suits. The tailor’s schedule was booked for over a month. When Mom sighed in frustration, Elena spoke up hesitantly. “Mom, I can make them.” Mom was skeptical. “My… my foster mother was a tailor. I learned from her since I was little. I can make gowns.” Mom gave a strange little laugh. “Fine. You make them, then. The whole family is counting on you.” Afterward, Mom complained to me bitterly. “Her personality is bad enough, now she’s a liar, too. Let’s see how she gets out of this one.” I knew Mom just wanted to teach her a lesson. I did, too. Her opportunistic character would lead to trouble later. Better for us to correct her now than for society to beat her down. But Elena was more serious than we imagined. She took measurements, bought sewing tools, and the best fabric she could afford. Except for tutoring and walking Gus, she locked herself in her room, sewing day and night. Several times, she was found asleep, clutching her stomach and slumped over the sewing machine. There were pain pills nearby. Probably her period, I thought. I told the housekeeper to take up some ginger tea. The night before the Gala, her hands dotted with tiny needle pricks, she presented two gowns and two suits. Her eyes were bright, full of expectation. “Mom, they’re finished.” There was a moment of stunned silence. Mom took them, her expression complex. “You actually… well, thank you.” Elena twisted her fingers, her voice surprisingly light. “As long as you like them, Mom.” I noticed the count was wrong. “Why are there only four? What about yours?” Elena clutched the hem of the suit, lowering her gaze. “…I didn’t have time. You all go, I’ll stay home to study.” Mom looked relieved, yet regretful. “That’s right, your test scores last semester weren’t great. You should focus on your work.” Elena nodded obediently and returned to her studies. I watched her retreating back, lost in thought for a long moment. I’d seen it. The fifth outfit was done, a matching family set. The neckline embroidered with cherry blossoms. But, her not going was the better choice. It was always painful to be mocked. The next day, Mom gave us the clothes. But they weren’t the ones Elena made. “I didn’t even look at them. She’s so young; what quality could she produce?” “Everyone at the Gala wears custom designer items. How could I possibly wear something from an unknown source?” Mom sighed, her voice low. “It’s her fault, too. She couldn’t read between the lines, forcing me to be the villain and turn her down.” Savannah twirled in the gauze dress she was wearing, doing a graceful little dance. “Mom, my taste is good, right? I told you, you get what you pay for. You have to spend money for true luxury.” Dad and Mom praised her. I was also cheered by her lighthearted spirit. As a family, we headed to the Gala. I glanced back once, seeing a lone figure slumped by the upstairs window, a collar embroidered with cherry blossoms just visible. I flashed on her sleepless, dark-circled eyes, and felt a brief moment of unsettling guilt. Savannah sweetly took my arm. “Leo, why don’t we invite Sister? Other people’s opinions don’t matter, family unity is what’s important.” “No need. She said she didn’t want to go. You’re too kind, Savannah.” That day, we posted a nine-photo grid on social media. Elena did not like the post. Mom laughed, calling her petty. Elena spent even more time locked in her room studying. Savannah, however, was always dressed up and going out. She’d sometimes laugh out loud while looking at her phone at the dinner table. She also started asking for more money. We always gave it to her—girls in her social circle had to keep up appearances. She went on a half-month trip with her friends. Mom and Dad missed her terribly. When they tried to video call, she hung up impatiently, saying she was busy. I laughed, comforting my disappointed parents. “It’s your fault for spoiling her, she’s always been dramatic.” Mom glared at me. “You haven’t exactly held back on spoiling her either.” Savannah lowered her head, quietly eating her rice. Summer flew by. Just before school started, Savannah sought out Mom, Dad, and me, her face grave. “Dad, Mom, Leo, Ellie is my sister. I’ve thought hard, and I can’t cover for her anymore.” Her eyes darted around the room. “Yesterday, I went with my friend to a clinic for a routine checkup, and I saw Sister going into the Women’s Health department…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388832”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My husband, Lucas, posted a baby announcement on Instagram before I’d even gone into labor. The caption read: Seven pounds, six ounces. Mother and son are doing great. Relatives and friends immediately flooded my phone with congratulatory calls, but I just stared at the screen, utterly baffled. It wasn’t until I zoomed in on the photo’s corner that I saw it: a woman’s hand, resting delicately near the baby, wearing a gleaming sapphire bracelet—the kind Lucas had sworn was too extravagant. I was about to storm out and demand an explanation when our mutual friend’s comment popped up. Dude, you forgot to switch accounts. Lucas’s post vanished faster than a cheap magic trick. No explanation. No apology. Not even a quick text to ask how I, his heavily pregnant wife, was doing. I was strangely calm. There was no screaming, no hysterical phone call. I just endured the wrenching pain of the contractions alone and walked into the delivery room. Two hours later, my daughter was born. I mimicked Lucas’s original post, snapping a photo of her tiny hand clutching my finger, and posting it with the caption: Seven pounds, one ounce. Mother and daughter are doing great. Immediately, Lucas’s calls started flashing across my screen. But this time, I let the phone ring until it went silent. 1 Perhaps he was furious I hadn’t answered, because Lucas didn’t contact me for two full weeks. Then, one afternoon in the recovery suite, just after I’d finished feeding my daughter, my phone buzzed again. Savannah—Lucas’s so-called childhood friend—had posted five consecutive videos, a full showcase of parent-baby interaction. In every clip, Lucas was looking down at the infant in his arms, his eyes soft and entirely devoted. They looked like the perfect, effortless family portrait I’d always dreamed of. In that moment, a thousand tiny, sharp blades pierced my chest. I looked at my daughter’s pink, vulnerable face. My poor baby girl hadn’t even met her father. My fingers twitched. I called Lucas. He finally answered on the fifth try. “The baby has a check-up tomorrow. Pick me up.” I heard a small, impatient sigh. “The center has private transport. Why can’t you just ask them?” Yes, the birthing center offered private transport—but only for the Deluxe Wing. Lucas had been so convincing when he swore the premium suites were booked solid and only a standard room was available. I’d believed him, of course, and hadn’t pressed. Then, just two days after I checked in, his Savannah, the ‘childhood friend,’ moved into the Deluxe Wing upstairs, immediately posting a high-profile thank you note that named Lucas specifically. I was his wife, and I was the fool. The words of protest died in my throat. What was the point of saying it? He wouldn’t hear me. My silence only seemed to irritate him. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll come back. What time?” “Tomorrow.” “Tomorrow! You nag constantly. You’re going to push away all our good luck. I swear, Harper, I’m going to divorce you!” I don’t know when the word divorce had become his favorite threat. I remembered a time, when we were dating, that a simple cold look from me would send him scrambling to apologize. He had changed. I had changed too. I used to rage, to grab his collar and demand to know the truth. But now, I just felt bone-tired. “Lucas, hurry! The baby just threw up all over me!” A woman’s light, breathy voice called out from his end. Beep. Beep. The call ended. 2 The day of the scheduled check-up, it rained heavily. I called and messaged Lucas starting at nine a.m., but everything went into a black hole. He had lied to me, again. I remembered how clumsy and heavy I’d felt when I was pregnant. I had once fallen and started bleeding on my own, alone on the way to a prenatal appointment. The nurse helped me call him. He’d promised to rush over, but he only arrived three days later. He had the nerve to blame me for being overly dramatic and wasting his time. Since then, I’d stopped calling him as often. We were the closest of spouses, yet we’d slowly become strangers. After the rain stopped, I still couldn’t reach him. I took a cab to the clinic. The doctor said the baby was thriving, but recommended I get checked out; my own pallor concerned her. I thought of the subtle ache in my abdomen before delivery, an ache that was becoming more pronounced now. I looked at my daughter, peacefully sucking her thumb in her stroller. I’ll come back next month, I thought. As I exited the elevator, I walked directly into Lucas and Savannah. Savannah was wrapped in Lucas’s arms in a theatrical, princess-carry position. “Harper, is that you? You look… different. Pregnancy certainly changes a woman, doesn’t it?” Savannah’s eyes darted past me, and I could feel her smug challenge. I was long past caring about her petty jabs. I’d worried about her too many times; now I was simply indifferent. I pushed the stroller forward, my tone flat. “I brought the baby for a check-up. I won’t interrupt you two. I’m leaving.” “Wait, Harper, don’t misunderstand!” Savannah struggled gently in Lucas’s arms. “I broke my ankle in the shower yesterday, and Lucas stayed up all night with me! You know we’ve been like family since kindergarten, and I’m a single woman, Harper. Who else is he supposed to call? If this upsets you, I won’t ask him again.” Lucas patted her rear end, his voice a soft, low register of resigned affection. “You’re a mother yourself, Sav, stop being so dramatic!” Then his gaze hardened on me, his voice sharp with blame. “Harper, you need to lighten up. Savannah broke her ankle. She’s fragile. She has no one here to help. Can you at least speak to her without that passive-aggressive tone?” I looked at Lucas and let out a short, hollow laugh. “I’m basically a widow, Lucas. Should I go find a man to take care of me too?” His pupils visibly contracted. I turned and pushed the stroller away. That evening, Lucas returned, his face set in a cold mask. “I just saw your calls, Harper. Standing you up was wrong. I apologize.” He sighed, his tone instantly shifting to annoyance. “But you are being ridiculous. You have the center’s car—why do you insist on using mine?” At the mention of the car, I looked up from folding the baby’s blankets. “The center’s car is for the Deluxe Wing, Lucas. I was in the standard room.” The room fell silent. Lucas, realizing he had no ground to stand on, pulled a small, palm-sized box from his pocket and placed it on the table. “The room was my mistake. Let’s drop it.” He slid the box toward me. “I brought you a gift. An apology. Go on, open it.” I opened the box. Inside was a pair of dull, barely-jade earrings. They looked like something you’d find in a dusty rack at a drug store. They were a pathetic contrast to the sapphire bracelet he’d bought Savannah for her birthday just two months ago. In Lucas’s mind, Savannah deserved the stars, and I was only worthy of the dirt he casually tossed my way. I closed the box and pushed it back. Lucas frowned. “You don’t like it?” I nodded, meeting his eyes. “No. It’s cheap, and I’m not interested.” I used to be a different woman. I’d worried about his earnings and happily accepted any small token he offered. I’d even pretended a bag of fruit he bought on the street was a grand gesture. But that was before I knew he was lavishing jewelry on another woman while being utterly stingy with me. In five years of marriage, I didn’t own a single piece of real jewelry from him. Seeing my rejection, Lucas grabbed the small box and hurled it against the wall. The fragile case shattered, spraying the cheap jade onto the rug. “I work my ass off to support you! And you walk around giving me that face every damn day! Am I supposed to kiss your feet? You’re a curse, Harper!” Lucas pointed at me, his face twisted in a snarl. “Since you want to be so dramatic, fine. I’m done. I’m not coming back. You can live alone.” I watched him put on his jacket and walk toward the door. Just as his hand reached the knob, I spoke. “Lucas.” He stopped abruptly. He turned back, the rage instantly replaced by a look of forced calm. “See? Why make a scene? You didn’t like the gift, right? Fine, I’ll take you shopping. We’ll buy something better.” He strode back into the room. “Now, go make some dinner. And pack a portion for Savannah. She said she was craving your lentil soup.” He was talking, rambling on, not listening to a word. I waited until he ran out of breath. “Lucas,” I said softly. “When you said you were going to divorce me earlier, were you serious?” He froze, then let out a cold laugh. He tossed his jacket onto the sofa. “What are you saying, Harper? You want to divorce me?” “You’re still upset about Savannah taking the Deluxe Wing, aren’t you?” he went on, not waiting for an answer. “I promised her that suite. I’m not going back on my word for you. If you can handle it, then stay. If you can’t, then we’re getting divorced!” 3 I was about to agree, but Lucas spun around and walked out, slamming his foot against a single armchair near the door. The loud thud woke my daughter. I rushed back to the nursery. I was determined to get divorced, but every time I contacted Lucas to discuss the arrangements, he was unreachable. I finally saw him on the day I moved out of the recovery suite. He was helping Savannah move her things. Two nannies followed him, pulling 26-inch suitcases. Savannah was sitting in the back seat of a luxury SUV, shielded from the sun. I, meanwhile, was sweating, struggling to push and pull my own meager belongings. The contrast was stark. Yet, I felt nothing. Perhaps the certainty of divorce had given me a strange sense of euphoria. Savannah waved. “Harper! Going home today too?” “Why don’t we just give you a ride? You don’t have much stuff, you won’t take up any space.” She sighed dramatically. “It’s all Lucas’s fault. I was only here for thirty days, but he bought me a year’s worth of clothes. Now I’m exhausted from packing.” She spoke with a false tone of complaint, her eyes sparkling with pride and display. I ignored her. The dull ache in my abdomen returned. I fought through the sharp stab and loaded my bags into the taxi trunk with the driver’s help. Before getting into the cab, I looked at Lucas, who hadn’t spoken a word. “Be home tonight. I need to talk to you.” Ten minutes later, Savannah’s new post popped up on my feed. It was a photo of a property deed. The caption was bold and exaggerated: A Childhood Sweetheart trumps a Husband. With my Lucas, I’ll always have a place to call home. #NewBeginnings #BFFs I stared at the bright red deed for a long time. The feeling in my stomach was not bitterness, but a deep, cold irony. Lucas and I had met in college. Everyone said we were meant to be. Later, I’d chosen to move to the city to help him start his business. We could only afford a damp, cramped basement apartment. I got terribly sick in that awful environment, running a high fever. Lucas, that big, tough man, had knelt beside the bed and cried. He’d sworn that every house we ever bought, every deed, would have my name on it. Men’s promises, apparently, were just smoke. I screenshotted Savannah’s post and sent it to my lawyer, asking if I could use it to claim the house. That night, Lucas didn’t come home. I didn’t care. My daughter cried for three hours because of the change in environment. The pain in my abdomen started up again. I crouched down by her crib until the pain subsided. The next morning, I asked my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Davis, to watch the baby and went to the hospital alone. The doctor’s expression was serious. “Ms. Vance, you have a tumor on your abdomen. We don’t know if it’s benign or malignant yet, but given the time you’ve been experiencing pain, it’s growing rapidly. I recommend scheduling surgery as soon as possible.” I left the hospital and sat on a bench, my trembling hands clutching the medical report. As my fingers gradually steadied, I looked down at the diagnosis. I made a decision. I was about to text the doctor when a voice called my name. I looked up. It was Tess, the wife of one of Lucas’s business partners. “Harper! What are you doing out here? It’s freezing! Come up, Lucas and the guys are having a get-together upstairs.” She was loud and warm, pulling me up with a force that allowed no refusal. 4 I decided not to resist. This was as good a time as any to discuss the divorce. The private room was loud, full of excited shouts and laughter. The moment I pushed the door open, I saw Lucas and Savannah interlocking arms, drinking a shot of whiskey. A dozen people cheered them on. “That’s too easy!” someone yelled. “Lucas, hold Savannah and do a kiss-and-shot!” Savannah blushed, and Lucas made a show of playfully resisting. I watched, an icy detachment settling over me. Then Savannah saw me standing in the doorway and feigned surprise. “Oh, Harper! Did you come to spy on us? Seriously, you have to give a man some space. Who could live like that?” Lucas frowned, his voice cold. “What are you doing here?” I stopped the person next to me who was trying to explain on my behalf. My gaze lingered on Lucas and Savannah, and a slow smile spread across my face. “If I hadn’t come, Lucas, how would I have known the kind of games you two play behind my back?” “Harper, are you insane?!” Lucas roared. Savannah defiantly lifted her chin, ensuring I saw the dazzling, purple-hued bracelet on her wrist. I knew instantly it was Lucas’s latest gift. Someone in the room shouted, “Finish the shot!” Savannah quickly poured two more, handed one to Lucas, and held the other. She looked at me. “You’re not jealous, are you, Harper? It’s just friends having fun.” My expression was calm. I spoke only to Lucas. “If you drink that, we are done. There is no going back.” Lucas’s response was to immediately scoop Savannah into his arms. “Don’t embarrass yourself, Harper. It’s a shot. Who are you threatening?” Then, they both intertwined arms and drank. The room erupted in applause. “That’s our Lucas!” “A real man!” I watched their intimate posture, their intertwined hands, and the last fragments of my heart turned to stone. The long-suppressed rage welled up, too violent to contain. I grabbed the heavy ceramic teapot filled with scalding hot Earl Grey and hurled it at them. “Agh!” Both screamed. Savannah, her face distorted in a grimace of pain and fury, lunged and pushed me hard. “You psycho!” My abdomen slammed into the corner of the table. A fire erupted where the tumor was. The agonizing pain stole my breath. Before I could get up, Lucas grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me across the floor until I was kneeling in front of Savannah.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388831”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I drove home on New Year’s Day, the air thick with the inevitable. My mother, Eleanor, her voice paper-thin from the late-stage cancer, had summoned the whole family. The agenda: a public, final division of the estate. “The doctor gives me a month, tops,” she said, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’m settling the estate now to save everyone the trouble later.” “The house, the stocks, everything has been liquidated. I’ve wired the funds to your individual accounts. Check your balances.” My sister-in-law, Brooke, and my younger brother, Trevor, were instantly rewarded with a flurry of dings—deposit notifications flooding their phones. A substantial check even went to Mom’s long-time nurse. But my phone, sitting cold and dark in my hand, was a tomb of silence. Mom didn’t argue. She took the money she’d set aside for her own burial plot and, in front of everyone, initiated a second transfer to me. Moments later, the bank’s customer service called, confirming the successful transaction. Yet, my account remained chillingly, impossibly empty. The relatives’ faces twisted instantly. They pointed, shouting that I was a greedy viper, trying to steal my dying mother’s last cent and staging an elaborate act. I was physically thrown out of the house. Wandering the street, numb and lost, I was struck by a piece of falling debris and killed instantly. My final, suffocating thought was the mystery: The transfers were confirmed. Why did only my money vanish? I opened my eyes. I was back. The rewind button had been pressed, dropping me into the minute before my mother finalized the transfers. 1 My phone screen was blank, utterly devoid of the notification I was waiting for. I pinched my thigh, hard. The jolt of pain was a searing, unmistakable confirmation. I was here. Just as in the first life, Mom, frail and barely propped up against the pillows, her skeletal fingers trembling, pressed the final button on her tablet. That transfer was the sum of her life’s work, and in the last timeline, it had been the countdown to my death. Ding. Brooke’s phone shrieked. She let out a laugh so sharp it sounded like fingernails scraping a chalkboard. “Oh my God, Mom! A million dollars! You are a goddamn saint!” She held her screen high, making sure everyone saw it. But her eyes were fixed on me, the corner of her mouth curling into a sneer of pure mockery. Ding. Next was Trevor, my younger brother. He was practically kissing his phone screen, his mouth watering with anticipation. “I’m back in the game! I can finally double up the principal! I’m rich!” he babbled, consumed by his usual gambling fantasies. The entire crowd of relatives shifted their focus to me. The air solidified. I stared at the phone on my lap. As expected, no vibration, no sound, the screen dark and utterly still. A dead silence. I’d already confirmed the account details were correct. Mom would never intentionally exclude me. It wasn’t a mistake on her end. Mom struggled to lift her eyelids, her voice weak as a falling leaf. “Sierra, did you get yours?” I took a deep breath and deliberately turned my screen toward the room. “Zero balance.” The two words were heavy, dropping into the silence like stones. The relatives erupted in a low, poisonous murmur. “How is that possible? Everyone else got it.” “She’s obviously pulling a stunt. Trying to get Mom to give her an extra cut later.” “Told you she was never as meek as she looked. She’s got too much nerve.” The low whispers pricked my skin like a thousand needles. Mom frowned and opened her banking app for everyone to see. She handed her tablet to my older brother, Marcus, to display the receipt. The successful transfer notification was clear, undeniable. The room buzzed. Brooke crossed her arms, her tone dripping with passive-aggression. “Sierra, come on. That’s pathetic, even for you. The money’s gone through. Are you going to keep this act up until Mom hands you the money for her casket, too?” Trevor, his eyes glittering with contempt, immediately backed her up. “Sis, just ask for more if you need it. There’s no need for this elaborate show—it’s embarrassing. Mom is sick, and you’re putting on this act? Have you lost your conscience?” I clenched my fists so tight my nails dug into my palms. Again. In the last life, they had drowned me in their collective scorn, one lie after another. Mom cut them off, dissolving into a hacking cough. “Cough, cough… Stop fighting… There might be a delay. Don’t accuse Sierra.” “Sierra, call the bank and confirm.” Trevor scoffed loudly. “Mom, you always favor her! Why are you still defending her? You wouldn’t give me a dime when I was getting squeezed by loan sharks, but she’s clearly pulling a fast one, and you’re making excuses!” I shot to my feet, pointing a trembling finger at Trevor. “You’re unbelievable! Is there a limit to how low you’ll sink? Your debt was your own fault! Mom was trying to teach you a lesson—not ‘playing favorites’!” Trevor lunged at me, but our cousin, David, grabbed him just in time. I knew from my past experience that a phone call to customer service would lead nowhere. I grabbed my purse, my gaze sweeping the room, ice cold. “No need to call. I’m going to a branch right now. I’ll check the account at the teller.” “I’m going to prove I’m not lying.” We descended upon The State Trust like a vigilante mob, half-crusade, half-public-shaming. I slapped my debit card onto the glass counter. “I need a balance check, a full transaction history, and I need you to confirm there are no third-party deduction agreements.” The teller, a young woman, was clearly rattled by the crowd. She quickly began typing. The clicking of the keyboard echoed loudly in the silent lobby. A minute later, she looked up, her expression strange. “Ma’am, I’ve checked three times.” “The account status is totally normal—no freezes or flags. No third-party deductions.” “The one-million dollar wire transfer is showing as successful.” I leaned in. “What about the balance?” The teller swallowed hard. “The balance… is zero.” The entire lobby went dead quiet. Brooke was the first to break the silence, a cold, mocking laugh ringing out. “Oh, Sierra. I never knew. When did you get your hack-of-the-year certification? You can trick the bank’s system? The money went in, but the balance is zero? Where the hell did it go? Did you eat it? With this kind of genius, maybe the whole family should start depending on you to make a fortune!” The relatives’ eyes narrowed. I was no longer a greedy sister; I was a high-IQ criminal, an avaricious freak. Marcus pulled Brooke back, frowning at me. “Don’t be an idiot, Brooke. Sierra wouldn’t do that.” He pulled out his phone. “Sierra, I’ll send you a hundred dollars right now. Let’s see if you can even get that.” Ding. Marcus’s phone showed a successful deduction. The teller refreshed the page. “Funds received.” I pointed to the screen. “The balance.” The teller gulped. “The balance… is still zero.” Now even Marcus looked stunned. “Are you kidding me? What the hell is going on?” The branch manager, a harried man in a suit, rushed over to check personally. The sender’s account (Marcus) was fine. The receiver’s account (Sierra) was fine. The manager patted his chest, guaranteeing on his career that the system was incapable of “losing money.” Brooke and Marcus’s faces flushed with alarm. Brooke suddenly shrieked. “Give me back my money, Sierra! Give us back that hundred dollars! That was my son’s allowance! No, give us back two hundred, with interest!” I refused to believe it. I pulled a thick stack of cash—ten thousand dollars—off the supply money for my seafood restaurant, The Catch. I normally used this for cash transactions with older vendors. “Deposit cash, please.” The sharp whir of the counting machine sliced through the quiet tension of the lobby. The screen confirmed the deposit. I stared at the teller. “The balance.” Her hands were shaking. She performed the transaction and her face instantly turned ghost-white. “Ms. Ellison…” “The balance… remains zero.” She stammered, “The system… I think the system is haunted…” That ten thousand dollars had been dropped into a bottomless well. It vanished without a ripple. Trevor suddenly leaped forward, shouting and pointing at me. “I know what this is! You bribed the teller! You’ve got an offshore account! You’re so greedy, Sierra! You’d pull this high-tech garbage just to get more of Mom’s estate!” Brooke joined in, her voice booming. “Everyone look! She’s colluding with the bank to steal money! The greedy viper! Stealing her own mother’s life savings!” Other customers gathered, whispering and pointing fingers. I was shaking with rage, tears blurring my vision. “Fine! I don’t want the estate! Keep the money! I don’t want a single penny!” Brooke put her hands on her hips, spitting mad. “You don’t want it? You don’t get to say that! Spit out the money you swallowed! That was Mom’s money, which makes it our money!” Just then, my phone rang. It was the home nurse. Her voice was strained and tearful: “Sierra! Get back here! Your mother’s crashing!” We rushed back to the hospital. Mom was already in the ICU, unconscious. The doctor pulled off his mask, his face grim. “Her condition is critical. We need emergency surgery immediately.” “The surgery and post-op care will require an immediate deposit of at least thirty thousand dollars.” The air went silent. Thirty thousand dollars. It wasn’t a fortune for a family that had just liquidated millions. All eyes landed on Marcus and Trevor, the two who had received their wire transfers. Mom had always handled her own medical expenses. Now that the estate was divided, this was the children’s responsibility. Brooke stepped forward, clutching her chest for dramatic effect. “Oh, it’s not that we won’t help, but you know how expensive raising a child is, right?” “My son, Aiden, is starting kindergarten next fall. We just put down a non-refundable deposit on a starter home in the school district. If we touch that cash, we lose the house, and Aiden’s whole future is ruined!” Marcus lowered his head, not saying a word, clearly acquiescing to his wife. I turned to look at Trevor. He stiffened under my gaze. “Don’t look at me, Sis.” “Kelly and I are getting married soon. The wedding, the venue, the rehearsal dinner—it’s all paid for with that money. And Kelly’s father is sick. I have to buy him that experimental foreign drug to show my respect. Otherwise, how can I marry into the family?” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that nearly brought me to tears. I pointed at Marcus. “Marcus, look at your conscience! Mom drank herself sick doing favors just to get you that City Hall job! She worked three jobs in the freezing cold to get you your down payment and your wedding budget! Her hands were raw, like red meat!” Then I turned to Trevor. “Trevor, you’re a monster! You were always sick as a child, and Mom gave you everything. One time, we all had the flu, and she went to her knees begging for money from neighbors just to buy you medicine! She slipped and sliced her leg open carrying you through the rain to the hospital, and that scar is still there! You’re going to spend her life savings on your fiancée’s father’s imported meds?” Trevor was silent for a moment. Then he lifted his chin, his voice suddenly self-righteous. “The past is the past! Get over it! You look ahead! And besides, Mom will only last another month, tops! What’s the difference?” Pause. “Might as well get it over with.” SMACK! I surged forward and slapped Trevor across the face with all my strength. “You absolute animal! How dare you say that!” Trevor clamped his hand over his cheek, his eyes bloodshot. “You hit me?” “You’re single, you have no financial stress. If you want to pay for the surgery, you pay for it! Don’t play the good child on my dime!” Brooke jumped in, her tone scathing. “Exactly, Sierra! You were so tough at the bank! You said you didn’t want the estate, so now fork over the cash! You don’t have a husband or kids, what are you saving it for? To take it to the grave?” I squeezed my fists, my nails drawing blood from my palms. “Fine.” “Since neither of you will pay.” “I’ll pay.” But I had no money. I slumped down in a corner of the hospital hallway, a stray dog, utterly defeated. I thought about the last few years, the hard work I’d put into my own business. I’d opened my little restaurant, working dawn to dusk, and never asked for a penny from the family. But the economy was bad, and I was barely surviving. That ten thousand dollars I’d deposited—the last of my working capital—had vanished along with Mom’s inheritance. I was officially broke. Utterly confused, I called the police. They listened to my bizarre story and agreed to open an investigation, but told me it would take time. Time? Mom didn’t have time. The doctor returned, holding the consent forms. “Ms. Ellison, the OR is ready. But the anesthetist won’t proceed until we have the deposit.” I stared at the long line of zeros on the form, feeling suffocated. I couldn’t just sit here. Saving her was paramount. I gritted my teeth and gripped the doctor’s sleeve. “Please, doctor, start the surgery! I beg you!” “I guarantee the full thirty thousand will be paid within three days! You have my word!” The doctor looked at my pleading, tear-filled eyes, and sighed. “Alright. I can tell you’re serious. Special circumstances. But I can only give you three days.” I went home and immediately gathered the employees of my restaurant. “I’m so sorry, but I have to close the restaurant.” “Your final paychecks will be wired in three days. I promise I won’t stiff you.” My staff was sad but understanding. I then called the greasy developer, a guy named Mr. Kress, who had been circling my lease for months. “Mr. Kress, I’ll transfer the restaurant to you.” “But I have one condition: I’ll drop the price by twenty percent if you pay me in cash, right now.” Mr. Kress was ecstatic. “Well, Sierra, why didn’t you say so sooner? No problem. I’ll have my accounting team wire the money immediately.” A sudden memory of my account, the financial black hole, hit me. “No! Absolutely not! No wire transfer!” “It has to be cash! I need the cash!” Mr. Kress looked at me like I was insane. “Sierra, are you feeling alright? Who uses hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash? Besides, I’d have to reserve that much at the bank. It can’t be done today.” I was insistent. “It has to be cash! I’ll take a bigger cut on the price!” Reluctantly, Mr. Kress agreed. “Fine, fine, you’re crazy, but I’m in.” He called his accountant. “Hey, Louie, go pull the cash…” Mr. Kress’s face changed. He looked at me with a panicked expression. “Sierra, I’m sorry. It’s too late. The accountant said they wanted to show good faith and wired the money already.” My brain went numb. The blood drained from my body. My hands trembling, I opened my banking app. The refresh icon spun like my life ticking down. The refresh completed. Balance: 0. I refreshed again. Still 0. My heart sank into a pit of despair. The phone slipped from my grasp, hitting the floor. This was Mom’s deposit! It was the last chance I had, the final straw I’d paid for with my entire life’s work! Just then, my phone rang on the floor. It was an unknown number. I picked up numbly.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388830”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel