My sister and I were twins. But from the moment we were born, she was the beautiful one. The sweet one. The day the earthquake hit our summer cabin, the ground violently tearing itself apart, my mother grabbed my sister. My father grabbed my sister’s dog. I was left buried under the rubble for twelve suffocating hours. I nearly died in the dark. When they finally pulled me out, my parents didn’t hold me. They warned me. “Josie, don’t make a scene,” they said, their voices tight. “If you throw a tantrum over this, we will beat you half to death.” My childhood felt like one long, unyielding season of rain. Right up until the day my sister’s biological parents showed up at our front door, explaining that there had been a mix-up at the hospital. In that fractured, surreal moment, a laugh actually bubbled up from my throat and spilled into the room. My mother grabbed me by the hair. She slapped me across the face. Then again. And again. She leaned in, delivering that same, familiar warning. “Josie, don’t make a scene.” “If you cause trouble now, I swear to God, I will end you.” 01 My mother was a tenured high school principal. She didn’t usually hit her children. And on the rare occasions she did, the apologies followed swiftly. Like right now. My cheek was still throbbing, swollen hot and tight, but she had already said “I’m sorry” three times. “Josie, honey, you know it breaks my heart to lay a hand on you.” “It hurts me more than it hurts you.” “But you cannot be cruel to your sister. It breaks her heart.” Her apology sounded fiercely sincere. But a sudden, visceral wave of injustice washed over me. I lifted my chin, staring right back at her, and forced the words out. “No. That’s a lie. Sabrina isn’t my sister.” “She’s someone else’s kid. She has nothing to do with me.” Yesterday, two strangers—a weary-looking man and woman—had sat in our living room. They explained that fifteen years ago, a nurse had handed them the wrong baby. They said Sabrina was actually their only daughter. I was only stating a biological fact. Yet, my mother raised her hand again. Her face went entirely dead. “Josie, you are incredibly ungrateful.” I was terrified of my mother’s hands, but the suffocating weight of the unfairness was heavier than the fear. Just then, Sabrina emerged from the hallway. She had thrown a fit yesterday and refused to come down for dinner. Now, her eyes were brimming with delicate, crystal-like tears. The thing about beautiful children is that even their grief is aesthetically pleasing. “Mom, please don’t hit Josie,” Sabrina cried softly. “This is all my fault.” And because Sabrina cried, my mother’s palm cracked against my skin once more. Summer clothes are thin. My mother’s acrylic nails were sharp. Angry, crisscrossing red welts began to rise along my arms. In the Gallagher household, the cardinal rule was this: when an adult disciplines you, you do not cry. But the sting was blinding. And Sabrina was still talking. “Mom, please. Don’t let yourself get so worked up. It’s bad for your blood pressure.” It was a dance we had perfected over a lifetime. The more Sabrina begged for mercy on my behalf, the harder my mother struck. Tears finally broke free, streaming down my face. Eventually, my father intervened. He was my rescuer. But all he did was wipe my cheeks with a rough thumb before pulling Sabrina securely into his chest. “Alright, that’s enough. No one is crying anymore,” he declared. “Sabrina is our daughter. Period.” “Anyone who makes her feel otherwise will have to answer to me.” In that moment, the tears just stopped. They dried up in my throat. Yet my parents still felt the need to instruct me. “Josie, you need to be kinder to your sister.” “Imagine how she feels. If she feels alienated in her own home, with no one to talk to… how heartbreaking would that be?” They truly, deeply loved her. I looked at them, my vision blurry, and asked a quiet question. “What about my real sister?” “If she feels alienated in someone else’s home, with no one to talk to… isn’t that heartbreaking, too?” The words hung in the air. I watched the color drain completely from my mother’s face, leaving it the color of ash. My father raised his hand. “Josie,” he said grimly. “You just never learn.” 02 Sabrina was the golden child of the neighborhood. Heart-shaped face, porcelain skin, doe eyes. The neighbors used to coo over her, telling my parents she was going to be a movie star one day. When I was little, I used to tug on their sleeves and ask, “What about me?” “Can I be in movies too?” The adults would offer me polite, pitying smiles. “Sure, sweetheart. Sure you can.” But as I got older, they stopped pretending. To my face, and behind my back, they were casually brutal. “Josie just doesn’t have the look.” I used to fight back. They would actually hold a mirror up to my face and educate me: “Look at your sister. She has a delicate, heart-shaped face. That is beautiful.” “You have a strong, square jaw. That is not.” “Your sister’s skin is pale and flawless. That is beautiful.” “You are dull and tanned. That is not.” They were so earnest in their cruelty. Once, I slapped the mirror out of an aunt’s hand. It shattered on the floor. I put my hands on my hips, glared at the room, and yelled, “You’re! All! Full! Of! Shit!” After that, the extended family mostly ignored me. Only one uncle, a soft-spoken man who liked kids, bothered to pull me aside. “When you pick out a puppy, you want the prettiest, most obedient one. People are the same way,” he told me gently. “Josie, since you aren’t the pretty one, you have to be the sweetest. The most thoughtful.” “Otherwise, your parents are only going to love Sabrina, and there will be nothing left for you.” He genuinely thought he was helping me, and a dark part of my child-brain suspected he was right. But my mother overheard. She stepped in, her voice dripping with maternal nobility. “I have two daughters, and I will always keep the scales perfectly balanced between them.” My uncle flushed red. “Of course. How shallow of me. You’re an educator, you know best.” But my uncle didn’t know the second half of my mother’s philosophy. She explained it to me privately, years later. “It’s hard to keep the scales perfectly balanced,” she had said, brushing my hair with rough strokes. “So, I tip them toward the older sister. Because a good older sister will balance them out herself.” “Josie, I “have” to give Sabrina more love.” “That’s the only way she’ll learn to share it with you.” And that was how it worked. On our birthday, the artisanal, twelve-piece chocolate truffle box was handed to Sabrina. She would eat her fill, then push the half-empty box across the table to me. When they bought us matching dresses, Sabrina got first pick of the colors. Whatever she discarded became mine. I wasn’t allowed to complain. If I did, my mother would sigh. “There were twelve chocolates. Sabrina gave you six. Isn’t that perfectly fair?” “What more do you want, Josie? Do you want seven? Nine? All twelve? What is your sister supposed to have?” Sabrina would look at me with weary exasperation. “There are only two dresses. If I pick pink, you throw a fit because you want pink. If I pick white, you want white.” “Josie, why are you always trying to compete with me?” “When are you going to realize that because you aren’t pretty, it doesn’t matter what color you wear?” 03 No one could have predicted that Sabrina wasn’t my parents’ biological child. But my parents strictly forbade me from ever bringing it up again. After breakfast that morning, they packed Sabrina into the SUV and took her to the amusement park to “clear her head.” They left me with a dining table full of dirty plates. In the span of twelve hours, they had hit me three times. All because of Sabrina. I quietly gathered the plates and carried them to the sink. The house was empty, so I let my tears drop straight into the dishwater. And then, an idea sparked, bright and sharp in my chest. If my parents wouldn’t send Sabrina back, I would do it myself. I remembered the strangers saying they had taken a Greyhound bus into the West Side Terminal. I dropped the sponge. I grabbed my stash of allowance money and bolted out the front door. But the bus terminal was a sprawling, chaotic mess. There were hundreds of people. I searched for hours until my feet ached, finding absolutely nothing. I trudged home, thoroughly defeated. The whole walk back, my stomach tied itself in knots, dreading my mother’s wrath over the unfinished dishes. But the house was still dark and empty. There was a post-it note stuck to the front door. “Josie, your mother texted. They decided to stay at a hotel tonight. Come down to our place for dinner.” I recognized the handwriting. It was the neighbor from the first floor. A tiny drop of sweetness bloomed in my chest. The neighbor was a terrible cook—I usually only managed to choke down a few bites of her dry casseroles. But her son was Tyler. Tyler’s family had only moved into the building this year. He was a year older than me. It took exactly one minute for us to become best friends. He was different from the other kids in the complex. Unlike them, he actually preferred hanging out with me over Sabrina. When Sabrina’s name came up, he was entirely unimpressed. “She always has a whole mob of people around her, making so much noise,” he’d say, kicking a pebble. “Those guys are so basic, just trailing after the pretty girl like lost puppies. I’m not like them.” That was how my trust in him was forged. I gave Tyler all my loyalty. I told him all my secrets. I told him that Sabrina would beg for a white dress, wear it twice, decide she hated it, and demand a new one. “She’s so dramatic,” he’d say. I told him how Sabrina hated pain, how she’d scrape her knee and cry for three hours. “She’s so high-maintenance,” he’d say. I told him how Sabrina would have a nightmare, get depressed, refuse to eat, and send my mother into a panic. “Wasting food is a sin. What a brat,” he’d say. Tyler always said exactly what I needed to hear. So now, I couldn’t wait to tell him the biggest secret of all. “Sabrina isn’t my sister. She’s leaving.” Tyler froze. “What? How did that happen?” I lifted my chin, feeling a surge of pride. “Because I’ve been praying to the moon every night,” I said. “And my wish finally came true.” 04 Last summer, we rented a cabin up in the mountains to escape the heat. That was when the earthquake hit. My mother grabbed Sabrina. My father grabbed Sabrina’s golden retriever. In the chaos, they completely forgot about the sleeping girl in the back bedroom. Me. I was trapped under shattered beams and drywall for twelve hours. By the time the rescue team pulled me out, my vocal cords were shredded from screaming, and my arm was broken. My parents were highly educated, rational people. So they sat by my hospital bed and delivered a very rational apology. “We are sorry.” “But you have to understand, if we had a third arm, we would have grabbed you too.” “Josie, you are not allowed to be angry about this.” “If you throw a tantrum, we are going to be very disappointed in you.” I hadn’t intended to forgive them. But they brought me chocolate. So I swallowed the bitter, jagged question burning in my throat: “Why did Dad use his arms for the dog?” “Is it because keeping the dog alive made Sabrina happier than keeping me alive?” Most days, living with my family felt like living in a coastal fog. Stifling. Humid. But never, ever warm. My childhood was just an endless, dreary downpour. But ever since that day in the rubble, I started looking up at the night sky, whispering to the moon. “Make them love me a little more.” “Make them love Sabrina a little less.” It was the kind of magical thinking you see in old fantasy movies. I didn’t have the flowing gowns or the magic wands, but somehow, my wish had worked. I was pacing Tyler’s room, my voice rising with adrenaline. “My dad says they aren’t going to swap us back.” “But that’s not going to fly.” “As soon as I find her real parents, I’m giving Sabrina back to them, and I’m bringing my real sister home.” Tyler usually agreed with everything I said. But right now, his face was drawn and serious. “Are Sabrina’s real parents richer than yours? Will they treat her right?” he asked. I thought about it. “My parents said they run a fish hatchery. They probably don’t have a lot of money.” Tyler exhaled a long, heavy sigh. “Josie, you can’t be this selfish.” “If Sabrina goes out to the country, what is she going to eat? Where is she going to sleep? What if she wakes up crying in the middle of the night?” “Didn’t you tell me she can’t even eat when she has a nightmare?” “She’s too beautiful to be scooping fish guts on a farm.” In that split second, all the blood in my body rushed to my ears, a deafening roar. I slammed my hands onto his desk. “Whose side are you on?!” Tyler scowled. He shoved my shoulder, pushing me back. “You are actually so toxic, Josie,” he spat. “No wonder your parents don’t love you.” I felt a sudden, freezing draft in my chest, like a window had just shattered wide open inside my ribs. But I locked my jaw. I did not let the tears fall. I looked Tyler dead in the eye, my voice eerily calm and distinctly clear. “I am not toxic.” “You are.” “You only pretended to be my friend so you could get closer to Sabrina.” “You’re a hypocrite, Tyler. And you’re pathetic.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “531007”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I’ve always been able to see exactly how much people despise me. It hovers over their heads like a digital readout, a raw metric of their secret resentment. Five years of marriage, and tonight was the first time Victoria didn’t come home. No answered calls, no returned texts. It wasn’t until the sky began to bruise with the pale light of dawn that the front door finally clicked open. I hurried to the foyer, my chest tight with worry. “Where were you?” She offered a soft, rehearsed explanation, her voice as gentle as it had always been. “Emergency at the office, sweetheart. I had to put my phone on silent.” But my eyes were locked on the space just above her head. My heart bottomed out. Since our wedding day, her disdain meter had been a solid, reassuring zero. But in that exact second, the number flickered. It jumped to 5. Panic set in. I was about to ask if I’d done something wrong, if I’d somehow hurt or annoyed her, when her phone buzzed on the entryway console. An incoming text. Behind a playful cartoon avatar, the sender’s contact name read “Brody”. Victoria instinctively turned her shoulder, shielding the screen from my view. But as she looked down, the faint reflection of her smiling lips caught in the windowpane. And right above her, the harsh red numbers surged again. “Disdain Level: 50.” … A single text. A forty-five-point leap into pure contempt. I clutched the medical scan results in my palm, my fingers going numb. I didn’t need to ask. I already knew the answer. Victoria turned back around. Seeing the color drain from my face, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around me with a familiar, practiced tenderness. She tilted her chin up to press a soft kiss against my cheek. “Hey, stop worrying,” she murmured. “Work has just been insane lately. I should have texted you beforehand.” “Next time I have to stay late, I promise I’ll let you know.” I didn’t say a word. I was staring at her left hand. Her ring finger—where her wedding band usually sat—was bare. There was only a faint, pale indentation left in the skin. She noticed my gaze. Her hand instinctively curled into a tight fist, hiding the empty finger. “I took it off when I was washing my hands yesterday,” she said, her voice smooth but slightly too fast. “I think it slipped down the drain. It was getting old anyway. We can go buy a new one whenever we have some free time.” That ring. I had forged it myself when we got married. I had spent weeks in a local metal workshop, sweating over the forge, ending up with blistered, calloused hands. Back then, Victoria had cried when she saw it. She’d gently applied ointment to my burned skin, her voice thick with tears: “This is the most precious thing I’ve ever received. I’ll never take it off. I’ll never lose it.” For five years, even during the winters when her fingers swelled slightly and the band pinched, she’d never taken it off. Not once. And now, she was telling me it was gone with the casual indifference of a misplaced set of keys. Victoria was a terrible liar, though she probably didn’t realize it. Whenever she fabricated a story, she had a nervous habit of tightly pressing her lips together. I saw right through it. But I didn’t call her out. I walked over to the kitchen, tossing the medical report into the trash can on the way. There was no point. Sensing that I wasn’t going to press the issue, Victoria let out a quiet sigh of relief and headed into the master bathroom. As the hum of the shower started up, her phone buzzed again on the coffee table. The same cartoon avatar. As if possessed by someone else, I walked over. I punched in my birthday—the passcode we’d shared for years. The screen unlocked instantly. The boy was a new assistant in her department. Brody. Twenty-one years old. They had only been connected on the app for less than a week, yet the thread was an endless scroll. There were more messages here than Victoria and I had exchanged in the last five years of our marriage. A hot, blurry haze filled my eyes. I tried to read the words, but my tears kept falling onto the glass, smudging the screen. One tear fell directly onto Brody’s profile picture. I tapped it, and his social media feed opened up. And there, beneath the glare of the screen, was Victoria’s “lost” wedding ring. In the photo, the boy held the silver band in his open palm, grinning boyishly at the camera. The caption read: “I casually mentioned how much I liked it, and Ms. Crawford literally took it off her finger and handed it to me lol. If this isn’t being spoiled, I don’t know what is.” My fingers began to shake violently. A sharp, suffocating ache bloomed in my chest, so intense it made my knees weak. I had to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing. I had prepared myself for a lot of scenarios. But I never imagined this was how she had “lost” her ring. I remembered the night I met Victoria. My father had kicked me out of the house, stripping me of everything. I was sitting on a cold curb, without enough change to buy a cheap cup of instant ramen. She had stopped in front of me, handing me a bag of groceries and a warm carton of milk while I sobbed so hard I could barely breathe. Victoria, with her endless capacity for sympathy back then, couldn’t bear to leave me there. She took me back to her cramped, rented studio apartment. People always talk about the light that saves you from the dark—the savior trope. For years, Victoria was mine. She had literally pulled me out of the mud and built a home with me. Back then, I thought I was the luckiest man alive. Even if my own blood rejected me, I had found a woman who wanted to build a life with me. Who would have thought that before we even reached our seven-year itch, our marriage would disintegrate like this? “What do you think you’re doing?!” A sharp yell shattered my thoughts. Before I could even process the sound, Victoria lunged forward, ripping the phone out of my hands. She used so much force that I stumbled backward, my leg scraping hard against the sharp edge of the coffee table. A thin line of blood welled up instantly. When I looked up, the red numbers hovering above her head were blinding. “Disdain Level: 55.” “Jesse!” It was the first time she had ever used that cold, sharp tone with me. Her face was twisted in a look of pure disgust. “Snooping through my phone is incredibly toxic. There are boundaries, Jesse.” Then her eyes flicked down to the scrape on my leg. Her tightly knit brow softened, just for a fraction of a second. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you.” “I just… I really don’t appreciate you invading my privacy.” I swallowed the lump in my throat, my voice barely a whisper. “We’re married, Victoria.” Her frown returned, deeper this time. “Even married people need space, Jesse. We need to respect each other’s boundaries.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked into the home office. Before I could say another word, the heavy wooden door clicked shut. She locked it from the inside, shutting me out entirely. On the stove, the pot of sweet corn chowder—her favorite—was sizzling furiously. The bottom had scorched, filling the small kitchen with a bitter, burnt smell. I walked over and quietly turned off the burner. In the early days of our marriage, Victoria wasn’t like this. She had climbed her way up to the executive suite through sheer grit, becoming one of the most respected directors in her industry, yet she had always been incredibly tender toward her ordinary, quiet husband. Our friends used to tease me, saying marrying her was the single greatest stroke of luck in my life. Maybe I had listened to those compliments for too long. Maybe I had been naive enough to believe she was different from everyone else. Now I knew. She wasn’t different at all. I changed my clothes and went to work, keeping my head down. I didn’t call her, and I didn’t send a single text. Stepping back wasn’t just a tactical retreat; it was a matter of basic dignity. I knew when I wasn’t wanted. Maybe she felt a twinge of guilt, or maybe it was just a passing whim. Late that afternoon, a text from Victoria popped up on my screen. “Hey babe, let’s not fight. I booked a table at that new Italian place downtown to make it up to you.” Part of me wanted to refuse, but I knew we needed to talk. We couldn’t keep living in this suffocating silence. I agreed to meet her. When I arrived at the restaurant, I spotted her immediately through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She had an effortless, regal elegance that didn’t rely on designer labels. Even in a simple white linen dress with no jewelry, she commanded the room. But then my gaze shifted to the young man sitting next to her, and my throat tightened. He was holding a boba tea, taking a happy sip before smiling and pressing the straw directly to Victoria’s lips. Victoria laughed, leaning in to take a sip herself. The same cup. The same straw. There was no hesitation. The movement was so fluid, so casual, like a pair of college sweethearts in the middle of a honeymoon phase. Victoria had always been a germaphobe. She never shared food or drinks with anyone. Even if I offered her a bite of my food, she would politely but firmly decline. Yet here she was, drinking after another man without a second thought, her eyes sparkling with laughter. I stood outside the glass doors, my teeth clenched so tightly I could taste copper on my tongue. Even before I saw his face clearly, I knew. It was Brody. As if sensing my presence, Victoria looked up. Our eyes locked through the glass. The laughter vanished from her face instantly, replaced by a sudden, fleeting look of guilt. She stood up and hurried to the entrance, pulling me toward the table. “This is Brody, the new associate in my department,” she said quickly. “He didn’t have any dinner plans, so I told him he should tag along.” “The more the merrier, right?” With that single, breezy sentence, she effectively choked out any questions I might have asked. I forced my lips into a polite line, trying to keep my composure. A three-person marriage is certainly crowded, but it is anything but merry. Like the small round table before us, it was built for two. A third person meant someone was always squeezed out. Brody leaned back in his chair, offering a lazy, confident smile. “You must be Jesse. Wow, you look… a lot older than Victoria.” “Sorry for crashing your date night, man. I promise I’ll try not to be too much of a third wheel.” The mockery in his eyes was naked, a childish but deliberate provocation. The urge to turn around and walk out was overwhelming, but Victoria caught my arm, forcing me down into the chair beside her. “Come on, sit down. Brody’s just teasing you.” “He’s young, Jesse. Don’t be so sensitive. Let it go.” She smiled warmly, but above her head, the vivid red numbers flared. “Disdain Level: 65.” I hadn’t said a single word, yet my mere presence had cost me another five points of her respect. The waiter approached, placing a menu in front of Victoria. “Ma’am, the couples’ tasting menu you ordered last time is off the menu today, but you and your boyfriend can look at our new seasonal selections.” He handed the second menu to Brody. Brody didn’t bother correcting him. He just pointed at the page. “Sure, let’s do the new couples’ menu. It looks great.” Only after the waiter walked away did Brody look at me with a performative gasp of realization. “Oh, shoot. I’m so sorry, Jesse. I totally forgot you were here.” “But don’t worry, the portions are huge. Honestly, I have a tiny appetite. Last time, Victoria had to finish half of my plate anyway. We can just share.” Victoria tapped Brody’s forehead with a playful, reprimanding finger. “Stop misbehaving,” she chided softly. “You can’t offer Jesse your leftovers.” It was a scolding in theory, but her tone was soaked in affection. There was no real bite to it. “Jesse,” she said, pushing her menu toward me. “See if there’s anything else you want to add.” I didn’t take it. I just shook my head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Victoria opened her mouth to argue, but Brody beat her to it. “I don’t blame you, Jesse. Honestly, if I showed up to a place like this wearing rack-discount clothes, I’d probably lose my appetite too.” “Oh, by the way, when I closed that big account last week, Victoria bought me a couple of designer suits. I have way too many now. You should come over and pick one out.” Before I could find my voice, Victoria leaned over and draped a soft cashmere wrap over Brody’s lap. “Don’t worry about it. What’s bought for you is yours. Besides, those cuts wouldn’t really suit Jesse anyway. He doesn’t really have the frame for it.” “He’s… different from you guys.” My hands balled into fists under the table, the nails biting deep into my palms. Different. Of course I was different. I was thirty years old. And Brody was barely twenty-one, in the absolute flush of his youth. The warm amber light from the chandelier washed over Victoria’s face. She looked so perfectly casual, completely oblivious to the casual cruelty of her words. While I sat there frozen, the food arrived. Two beautifully plated steaks. One was placed in front of Victoria. The other went to Brody. I couldn’t breathe. I stood up, turned on my heel, and walked out. Just as the glass doors swung shut behind me, I caught a final glimpse of her through the window. She hadn’t stood up to follow me. Above her head, the numbers shifted. “Disdain Level: 70.” Victoria didn’t come home until long after midnight. The moment she stepped through the door, her phone rang. It was a custom ringtone—the one she had recently assigned specifically to Brody. She answered it almost instantly. “Brody? What’s wrong?” Through the receiver, his voice sounded fragile, trembling with a quiet sob. “Victoria… there’s someone walking around outside my apartment building. I’m really scared…” Victoria’s face went entirely pale. “Stay inside,” she said, her voice tight with panic. “Lock your doors. I’m coming right now.” She kicked her shoes back on and grabbed her keys. As she turned toward the door, I finally spoke. “Victoria.” She stopped. Her back was to me, her shoulders stiff. “Just because I don’t say anything doesn’t mean I’m blind,” I said quietly. “Please don’t treat me like an idiot.” For a long moment, she didn’t move. She stood perfectly still in the entryway. But she didn’t explain. She didn’t look back. She opened the door and hurried out into the night. Before the door clicked shut, the red numbers above her head flashed one last time. “Disdain Level: 75.” The door slammed shut. The apartment fell back into a heavy, suffocating silence. She had left in such a rush that she hadn’t even taken her coat. Another night alone. I didn’t call her, and I didn’t text. The next morning, I took a cab to a lawyer friend’s office. I asked him to draft a divorce agreement. My friend stared at me, trying to talk me out of it. “Jesse, are you sure? Women like Victoria—successful, brilliant—don’t come around often. You should be fighting to pull her back, not just handing her over to some kid.” “Ending a five-year marriage like this… it’s a waste.” I took a slow sip of my black coffee, letting the bitter taste settle on my tongue. I didn’t offer an explanation. Walking away was painful, yes. But holding onto something that was already dead was worse. Our marriage had cracked open, and once the foundation of trust was gone, the rest of the house was bound to collapse anyway. There was nothing left to salvage. Sometimes, letting go is the only way to save yourself. A few hours after the papers were drafted, my phone rang. It was Brody. “Let’s meet up,” he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “I have some things I think you’d love to see.” He was young and reckless, clearly riding high on the victory of the night before, eager to rub my face in it. I didn’t back down. I agreed to meet him at a quiet park nearby. The moment I arrived, Brody pulled out his phone and thrust the screen in front of my face. It was a photo of the two of them. They were in his bed, tangled in the sheets, pressed close. Victoria was looking at him with a look of soft, dizzying adoration I hadn’t seen on her face in years. “Victoria spent the whole night in my bed,” Brody sneered, his eyes narrowed with triumph. “She promised me she’d give me everything I ever wanted.” “To her, you’re just a glorified housekeeper who cooks her meals and does her laundry. I’m the one who actually belongs by her side.” I stared at the screen. A dull, heavy ache settled in my chest, but I forced my expression to remain entirely flat. “Good for you,” I said, my voice steady despite the tightness in my throat. “I hope you two are very happy.” Brody’s smile faltered, irritated by my lack of reaction. He grabbed my wrist, his grip surprisingly tight. “Oh, come on, Jesse. A simple blessing isn’t enough.” Before I could pull away, his face twisted into a performance of sheer terror. He grabbed my hand and yanked it toward his own cheek, striking himself hard. “Ah! Victoria, help!” Before I could comprehend what was happening, a violent force shoved me from behind. I stumbled backward, my head colliding hard with the stone base of a nearby statue. A sharp, blinding pain exploded at the back of my skull. Through the high-pitched ringing in my ears, Victoria’s furious voice cut through the air. “Jesse! If you have a problem with me, take it out on me! Don’t you dare touch Brody!” Warm blood began to trickle down my neck, dripping onto the concrete. I forced the words past my lips. “Victoria… call an ambulance.” Even though I wanted a divorce, I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live my life. But Victoria’s attention was entirely consumed by Brody. “Victoria, I was just trying to apologize to him…” Brody whined, clutching his cheek. “It hurts so bad. Do you think it’ll scar?” Victoria held him close, her voice thick with worry. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m taking you home right now to get some ice. It’ll be fine.” She didn’t look back at me. Not once. She helped Brody to his feet and hurried him toward her car. In my fading consciousness, I saw the crimson numbers above her head spike to their absolute limit. “Disdain Level: 98.” I let out a bitter, silent laugh. Summoning the absolute last of my strength, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. An hour later, after Victoria had dropped Brody off at his apartment, her phone rang. It was the hospital. “Is this Victoria Crawford? Your husband, Jesse Crawford, was admitted with severe head trauma resulting in an intracranial hemorrhage. He is currently in emergency surgery. We need you here immediately to sign the consent forms.” Her breath caught. The world seemed to stop spinning. “Intracranial… hemorrhage?” When reality crashed back in, she ran out of the building, driving like a maniac toward the hospital. At that exact moment, the bright red numbers above her head plummeted for the first time in months. “Disdain Level: 20.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “531006”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I can see how much people love me. Literally. When my lab partner asked to copy my homework and I refused, his number plummeted to zero in a blink. The day I caught my boyfriend cheating, his stat took a nose-dive off a cliff. The only number that ever truly terrified me was my mother’s. I lived in constant dread of watching her percentage drop. Fortunately, for eighteen years, the flashing neon digits above her head remained a steady, unwavering 100. She was the kind of mother who would sever ties with judgmental relatives just to shield me, who would bring home the absolute best of everything and lay it at my feet. Countless times, I whispered a silent prayer of gratitude for having the best mother in the world. Until two weeks ago. She came to visit me at school. I looked up, and a sharp, blinding glare pierced my eyes: [85]. My chest tightened as if squeezed by an invisible fist. Panic set in. I spent the next fortnight in a manic spiral, picking apart every conversation, every grade, desperately searching for what I had done to disappoint her. Until today. Today, she brought home a girl. A girl in faded, oversized clothes, with large, trembling eyes. The biological daughter. Switched at birth eighteen years ago in a chaotic county hospital. My mother held my hand so tightly my knuckles turned white. Tears streamed down her face as she swore to me, “Diana, don’t be afraid. Even though she’s back, you will always, always be my favorite girl.” But the exact millisecond the word “favorite” left her lips, the digits above her head flickered violently, tumbling downward like a malfunctioning stock ticker: [20]. Looking up at that bleeding, crimson number, a strange, quiet relief washed over me. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been good enough. It was simply that I didn’t belong here anymore. … I gently pulled my hand from my mother’s grip. “Mom, I’m fine.” The girl stood in the marble entryway, looking so fragile and raw it made my heart ache. Her name was Bella. Eighteen years ago, in a busy hospital ward, a tired nurse on shift-change mixed up our ankle bands. Bella and I were sent home with the wrong families. My adoptive parents eventually struck gold in real estate, moving us into a sprawling estate in Westchester, while Bella stayed with my biological parents in a rundown Appalachian town, scraping by through eighteen years of poverty. “Come in, Bella. Come,” my mother said, her voice dropping to a soft, reverent whisper, as if she were handling blown glass. “This is your home now.” Bella stepped over the threshold. Her eyes darted from the ten-foot oil painting in the foyer to the dripping crystal chandelier, then down to the polished marble floors. Her fingers instinctively clawed at the frayed cuffs of her sweater. My mother noticed. She leaned down, closing her manicured hands over Bella’s rough ones. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. All of this… it’s yours now.” It was an exquisitely tender gesture. I stood frozen in the hallway, trying to remember the last time she had held my hand with that kind of desperate, protective warmth. I couldn’t. After dinner, my mother led Bella upstairs. “Bella, I’ve put together a room for you. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” She threw open the double doors of the south-facing guest suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a soaking tub. It was the crown jewel of our guest wing. Bella hovered at the threshold, shifting her weight. “This… this is too big. I don’t think I can sleep here. Just give me a small closet or something.” Her voice was thick with genuine, overwhelming humility. My mother pulled her into a tight embrace. “You’ve suffered for eighteen years, my sweet girl. I want to give you the world to make up for it.” She guided Bella through the room, sweeping open the double doors of the closet. “Tomorrow, we’re going to Fifth Avenue. We’ll get your measurements taken, and we’ll have your wardrobe custom-tailored every season.” Bella didn’t say a word. She bit her lower lip, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. That was all it took to break my mother. She pulled Bella to her chest, her own voice cracking with a maternal agony. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry I let you suffer out there for so long.” Bella buried her face in my mother’s shoulder, her frame trembling with quiet sobs. I leaned against the doorframe, watching the tableau play out. Above my mother’s head, the red numbers flickered again. From [20], they ticked down to [17]. I turned on my heel and walked back to my own room. Before bed, there was a soft knock on my door. “Diana,” my mother murmured. She sat on the edge of my mattress, taking my hand in hers. “I know this is incredibly hard on you. But Bella… she’s had such a brutal life. I have to make it right.” She looked at me, her eyes still red and swollen. “You’re the older sister here. Can you help me look after her? Please?” “Of course, Mom.” When I said yes, the number above her head didn’t budge. A cold, static [17]. She let out a long sigh of relief, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “My good, sensible Diana. I knew I could count on you.” She stood up and left. Her soft footsteps padded down the hallway, but instead of turning toward the master wing, they veered off, slipping into Bella’s room. Through the thin drywall, her muffled voice carried over to me. “Bella, sweetheart? Are the blankets warm enough? Do you want me to stay with you tonight?” I stared blankly at the ceiling. Quietly, without my permission, tears began to track down my temples. A week after Bella arrived, my mother enrolled her in my school. Oakridge Prep was the most prestigious private academy in the state, boasting a tuition of forty thousand dollars a year, populated entirely by the heirs of old money and political dynasties. The rumors had spread faster than wildfire. When I walked into homeroom on Monday morning, every eye in the room locked onto me like heat-seeking missiles. The first one to say something to my face was Brittany. She sat directly behind me; her father was a ruthless real estate mogul, and she had inherited his sharp, cutting tongue. “Well, well. If it isn’t Diana Westbrook,” Brittany drawled, propping her designer boots onto her desk. “So, word on the street is you’re a counterfeit. I heard the real Westbrook daughter actually has some decent genes.” I ignored her, unpacking my binder. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that,” she whispered, leaning over my shoulder, her perfume cloying and suffocating. “What does that make you now? A squatter? You’ve been sitting in her throne for eighteen years. Don’t you think it’s time to pay rent?” “Mind your own business, Brittany.” “Just making conversation.” She smirked, leaning back in her chair. “It’s just that your social stock just took a major hit. We all need to know where we stand with you now, right?” I gripped my pen so hard the plastic groaned under my knuckles. Between periods, the whispers in the hallway were intentionally, performatively loud. “Did you hear? Her biological parents are literally blue-collar townies in West Virginia.” “So those Chanel bags and Saint Laurent boots she wore last semester… she bought all of that with someone else’s trust fund?” “Ugh. If I were her, I’d have crawled into a hole and died of embarrassment by now.” I quickened my pace, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor, pretending the words weren’t tearing through me. But the real blow didn’t come from the bullies. It came when I realized my best friend had already jumped ship. Her name was Lauren. We had been inseparable since sixth grade. Seven years of sleepovers, shared secrets, and late-night panic attacks. On Wednesday, I went to find her at lunch. From across the cafeteria, I spotted her sitting at our usual table by the window. Sitting across from her was Bella. They were laughing. Lauren’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second when she saw me approaching. “Diana! Hey! Come sit down.” I slipped into the booth beside her. Bella offered me a soft, timid smile. “Hi, Diana.” Lauren pushed her plate of chicken tenders toward Bella. “Eat up, Bella. You’re practically skeletal. We need to fatten you up.” She turned to me, her expression a mix of guilt and forced cheerfulness. “Bella doesn’t really know anyone yet. I figured I’d show her around, help her get adjusted.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Sure.” Throughout lunch, Lauren kept her focus entirely on Bella, asking about her life in West Virginia, her favorite music, whether she wanted to go to the mall this weekend. Bella answered every question with a quiet, fragile gratitude. “You’re so nice to me, Lauren. I’ve never been to a place like this. I feel so out of my depth…” Lauren beamed, practically glowing with the satisfaction of being a savior. She threw an arm around Bella’s shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about it. If anyone gives you trouble, you come straight to me. I’ve got your back.” I sat beside them, chewing on dry food that tasted like cardboard. By the time the bell rang, Lauren hadn’t directed more than three sentences to me. That afternoon, I texted her: “Hey, still down for the gallery opening this Saturday?” Her reply came back almost instantly: “Actually, I promised Bella I’d take her shopping this weekend. Next time!” She had never canceled on me before. Never. On Friday, I stood by the school gates, waiting for our family driver. Bella came jogging up behind me, breathless, her cheeks flushed pink. She reached out and lightly caught my sleeve. “Diana, wait. Lauren is taking me to get a new phone tomorrow. Can you please come with us?” Her face was a mask of sweet, earnest pleading. But as she let go of my arm, I caught the tiniest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her lips. A flicker of triumph. I kept my voice flat. “I have plans.” “Oh. Okay,” she said softly. She didn’t press. Instead, she spun around and skipped back toward Lauren, who was waiting near the parking lot. They linked arms and walked away. I climbed into the back of the town car and closed my eyes. I could feel my life, my relationships, slipping through my fingers like dry sand. No matter how hard I clenched my fists, I couldn’t hold onto any of it. On Monday, I finally received the recommendation letter I had been dreaming of. My gut instinct, a relic of eighteen years of habit, was to share the joy with my mother. I had been preparing my application for Oxford University since my sophomore year. I had taken the SATs twice, completed two research programs with Columbia professors, and won awards in four national academic competitions. And now, I had the golden ticket: a personal recommendation letter written by the headmaster himself. Only one student per graduating class received it. When I got home that evening, the excitement was practically vibrating under my skin. But when I walked into the living room, my mother was already waiting for me. The sealed envelope containing my letter was resting on the marble coffee table. “Diana, sit down. I need to talk to you about something,” she said, her expression tight and conflicted. “Bella’s education in West Virginia was… lacking, to say the least. She doesn’t have the grades to get into a top-tier state school here. I want to send her abroad, but she has no extracurriculars, no research papers, nothing.” She looked up at me, her eyes pleading. “Diana… can you let Bella have this recommendation letter?” I stared at her, convinced I had misheard. “Mom, I’ve spent two years building my portfolio for this.” “I know, I know,” she said, catching my hands. “But you’re brilliant, Diana. Your SAT scores are perfect. You could get into any Ivy League school on your own merit. Bella isn’t like you. Without this letter, she has no shot at a future.” “This is my dream, Mom. I earned this.” “Diana, please. It’s not that I don’t care about your hard work—” “Then don’t ask me to give it away,” I snapped. It was the first time in my life I had ever spoken back to her. My mother’s expression instantly hardened. The warmth vanished from her eyes, replaced by a cold, sharp distance. “Diana Westbrook,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “Even if you keep that letter, who do you think is paying your tuition? Fifty thousand dollars a year. Do you have that kind of cash lying around?” I froze. My throat closed up. “Every single thing you’ve eaten, worn, and used for eighteen years was paid for by our money. Bella is my biological child. She suffered in poverty while you lived in luxury. If I want to give her a chance at a real education, is that really so terrible of me?” The look she gave me was stripped of all maternal warmth. It was the gaze of a creditor collecting a debt. “If you feel so hard done by, then fund your own life.” I stood there, the blood draining from my face. My whole body went numb. “Fine,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “If you think you’re so independent, then don’t touch a single dime of our money,” she said, standing up and pointing a perfectly manicured finger toward the foyer. “Get out. Don’t come back until you’re ready to apologize.” I looked up. The number above her head had dropped to a sickening, bleeding [6]. I swallowed the tears threatening to spill, grabbed my backpack, and walked out into the cold night. I spent that night huddled on a bench in a public park, shivering. The next afternoon, a text came through from my mother. “Diana, I was too harsh yesterday. Come home. Bella’s welcome-home party is tonight, and I want you there. We’re a family, we can work this out.” My resolve crumbled. I told myself she was still my mother, that eighteen years of love couldn’t just vanish. I went back. The party was an extravagant affair at a luxury hotel, with over two hundred guests from Westchester’s elite. Bella stood on the elevated stage, draped in a custom-designed silk gown, bathed in a warm spotlight. My mother held her hand, raising it slightly as she addressed the crowd. “This is my biological daughter, Bella. Today, she is finally home.” The room erupted into thunderous applause. I stood in the dim shadow of the back corner, wearing a simple black dress I’d hastily pulled from my closet. Up on stage, my mother was practically glowing with pride, her arm wrapped tightly around Bella’s shoulders. The number floating above her head was [5]. Halfway through the evening, I went to the restroom to escape the noise. But as I pushed the heavy door open, I froze. Resting on the marble vanity was a delicate diamond necklace. It was a Tiffany pendant—the very one my mother had given me for my seventeenth birthday. I knew I had left it in my jewelry box at home this morning. How was it here? Suddenly, a sharp gasp sounded behind me. “Oh my god!” Bella stood in the doorway, flanked by three of our mother’s wealthy friends. Her eyes were wide, staring at the vanity. “Diana… that’s the necklace Mom gave me as a welcome gift. Why do you have it?” “What?” “I left it in the powder room earlier, and when I went back, it was gone. I’ve been looking everywhere for it…” Bella’s eyes welled with tears, her voice trembling. “Diana… did you… did you take it by mistake?” She didn’t use the word “stole.” But she didn’t have to. The silent accusations from the women standing behind her were loud enough. “I didn’t touch your necklace,” I said, my voice hardening. “This is my—” “What’s going on in here?” my mother’s voice cut through the tension. She walked in, her gaze darting from the diamond pendant to Bella’s tear-stained face. “Diana, why do you have Bella’s necklace?” “This isn’t her necklace, Mom. This is the one you gave me last year—” “Don’t lie to me!” my mother snapped, her brow furrowing deep. “I bought this piece last week specifically for Bella.” She snatched the necklace off the counter and flipped the pendant. Engraved on the back was a small, delicate letter “B”. Not my initials. Bella’s. It wasn’t mine. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Bella whispered, “Maybe Diana just got confused… it’s okay. Please don’t be mad at her.” The more gracious Bella tried to appear, the sharper the glares from the onlookers became. My mother handed the necklace back to Bella, then turned her full attention to me. There was no rage in her eyes. Instead, there was something far worse, something that suffocated me from the inside out: utter disappointment. “Diana, is it really so impossible for you to share this life with her?” she asked, her voice quiet but heavy. “I am so incredibly disappointed in you.” Above her head, the digital display flickered violently, crashing from [6] straight down to [1]. I stared at that [1]. A cold, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. I spun around and walked out of the restroom, and then out of the hotel. When I reached the lobby, I stopped and looked back one last time. The heavy oak doors of the ballroom were shut, but the muffled swell of classical music and polite laughter leaked through. Bella was in there, basking in the light and the blessings of my former life. And I was out here in the dark. No longer a Westbrook. That night, I packed a single suitcase of my own belongings. I spent the night at a cheap motel near the highway, and the next morning, I bought a one-way bus ticket to West Virginia. It was a grueling six-hour ride. The highway eventually gave way to winding mountain roads, the lush pine trees of the Appalachians closing in around us. My phone signal steadily dropped from four bars to one, before blinking out entirely. The bus sputtered to a halt in a fading, dusty mining town. I paid a local guy twenty bucks to take me the rest of the way on the back of his pickup truck. When we pulled up to the edge of the dirt road, I saw a middle-aged woman standing by a rusty mailbox. Her skin was deeply tanned and weathered from years of outdoor work, her hands rough and red. She was wearing a bright red winter coat that was clearly brand new; the paper price tag was still dangling from her sleeve. She was clutching a wrinkled school portrait—my photo. She kept looking up from the paper, frantically scanning the road. The moment our truck stopped and I climbed down, she froze. The photograph slipped from her fingers, fluttering into the dirt. “Diana?” she breathed, her voice cracking. I looked up at her head. Above her weathered hair, a soft, warm green number hovered: [83]. We had never met. Not once in eighteen years. Yet her love for me was already at eighty-three percent. “Mom,” I said. The word felt heavy and foreign on my tongue. Martha Greer’s tears spilled instantly. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around me and pulling me against her chest. There was no expensive French perfume. No soft cashmere. She smelled of cheap laundry detergent, woodsmoke, and sweat. “My baby… my baby is home,” she sobbed, her entire body shaking. Her calloused hands cupped the back of my head, holding me so tightly as if she feared I might evaporate if she let go. Their house was a small, wood-plank cottage with a tin roof, but inside, it was meticulously clean. On the worn wooden kitchen table, six steaming dishes were carefully laid out. A quiet, broad-shouldered man walked out of the kitchen carrying the final platter. His hands were thick with callouses, coal dust permanently embedded under his fingernails. When he saw me, his hands trembled, and he nearly dropped the dish. He set it down quickly, then wiped his palms on his stained apron over and over again. “Eat,” he muttered, his voice incredibly raspy. Just that one word. I glanced up. Above his head: [85]. Martha pulled me down onto a wooden chair, immediately piling food onto my plate. “We didn’t know what you liked,” she said, her eyes shining. “I made your dad buy everything we could find at the market. Try the trout—he caught it fresh from the creek this morning.” I took a bite of the fish. It was full of small bones, but it was incredibly sweet and fresh. “It’s delicious,” I whispered. Martha beamed, quickly standing up to ladle some soup for me. I lowered my head, and a hot tear slipped quietly into my bowl. That afternoon, Martha insisted on walking me down the town’s single main road. To every neighbor we passed, she proudly declared, “This is my daughter! My real girl!” Her smile was deep, carving lines into her face, far more radiant than my adoptive mother’s polished smile at the gala. Her number ticked up to [89]. Still rising. At dusk, she boiled a large pot of water on the stove and poured it into a plastic tub for me to soak my feet. “The mountain air gets cold at night,” she said softly. “Keep your feet warm so you don’t catch a chill.” I slipped my feet into the warm water, feeling the heat rise through my bones. At that moment, my phone buzzed. A single bar of signal had finally found its way through the valley. A deluge of notifications flooded my screen. Thirty-four missed calls from Catherine Westbrook. And right before my eyes, the number representing her love began to fluctuate wildly: [19]… [67]… [82]… still climbing.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “531005”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was sixteen when my father fell from a scaffolding on a construction site, shattering his spine. The hospital demanded fifty thousand dollars upfront for the surgery. After scraping the bottom of every drawer we owned, my family managed to gather exactly three hundred and eighty. I was standing near the high school gates, clutching my withdrawal slip, when Wright intercepted me. He was the quietest, most brilliant kid in our class, and he sat right behind me. That day, he pressed a faded savings passbook into my palm. “Get your dad the surgery,” he said. “I’ll cover it. Don’t you dare drop out.” I told him I could never pay it back. He only said, “I’m not asking you to. Just get into college.” After that, he sent me allowance money every single month. Each check came with a slip of paper containing just three words: “Don’t give up.” My father survived, and I made it to an Ivy League university. Wright never once mentioned the money. Ten years later, I owned three manufacturing firms, my net worth sitting comfortably in the nine figures. And Wright’s name popped up on a court-ordered public default registry. “Former tech startup founder, held liable for a joint-guarantee debt of $4.2 million, blacklisted as a delinquent debtor.” I put down my phone, opened my desk drawer, and pulled out the old savings passbook—the one I’d filled with millions long ago. This time, it was my turn to knock on his door. … 1 “Who the hell is knocking? Stop pounding!” The rusted screen door creaked open with a harsh, grating shriek. It wasn’t Wright. It was a woman in a faded tank top, a thin gold chain dipping into her collarbone, smelling heavily of cheap tobacco. I looked past her shoulder. The apartment was a disaster. Empty beer bottles littered the floor, the sofa cushions were ripped open, and the word “PAYUP” was spray-painted in angry red letters across the drywall. “What are you staring at? Who do you want?” She flicked ash onto the floor, her expression impatient. “Wright,” I said. “Who are you?” She sized me up, her eyes lingering on the Patek Philippe on my wrist. Her gaze sharpened. “A relative? Good. He owes our boss 1.2 million. You here to write the check?” I ignored her and glanced back at Diana. Diana had been my assistant for five years. She didn’t talk much, but she got things done. She stepped forward, shoved the woman aside, and walked right in. “Hey, what the f—” Before the woman could finish her curse, Diana grabbed her wrist, twisting it downward with a firm, practiced grip. The woman dropped to her knees on the scattered glass, hissing in pain. I stepped over the trash and pushed open the bedroom door. Empty. The closet doors hung open, bare of hangers. The mattress-less bedframe was coated in a thin layer of dust. He’d been gone for at least a week. “Where is he?” I turned back to the woman. “How should I know!” she spat, grimacing. “The bank foreclosed on this place. My boss broke the lock last week to use it as a temporary crew house. That kid ran off before we even got here.” I didn’t answer. A heavy, suffocating weight settled in my chest, like wet cotton. Four point two million. To me now, that was just two weeks of profit from a couple of assembly lines. But to an ordinary man, it was a mountain designed to crush a spine. A memory flashed in my mind. Winter of sophomore year. The city got hit by a massive blizzard. I couldn’t afford the dorm heating fee and had been locked out, hiding in a tiny maintenance shed under the bleachers of the school track. I had a raging fever that night. I was shivering so violently I couldn’t even stand. Then, the metal door creaked open. Wind and snow swirled in, framing Wright. He was wearing his oversized school jacket, his nose bright red from the cold, clutching a glass jar wrapped in a thick towel. He didn’t ask why I was sleeping there. He didn’t offer pity. He just walked over, pressed the piping-hot jar into my arms, and left two boxes of fever reducers and two warm ham-and-cheese biscuits beside me. “Eat,” he said, and turned back into the storm. I held that jar all night. It burned my chest red, but it kept me alive. I never forgot that heat. “Sir,” Diana said, releasing the woman and stepping closer. “Just checked the street cameras. Mr. Chester… went to the South Flats.” The South Flats. The city’s notorious underbelly. A maze of sweatshops, scrap yards, and homeless encampments. I slipped my hand into my coat pocket, my fingers brushing against the frayed edges of the old passbook. “Let’s go.” “Where?” Diana asked. I cast a cold glance at the shivering woman on the floor. “The South Flats. Tear the place apart if you have to, but find him.” 2 By the time we drove into the South Flats, night had fallen. The streetlights were mostly broken, and the air carried a heavy mix of grease from cheap diners and the damp stench of old storm drains. My Maybach felt ridiculously out of place parked here—like a tuxedo in a pigsty. But I didn’t care. Diana pointed toward a greasy-spoon diner with a flickering, grease-filmed neon sign. “Our contact says Mr. Chester has been washing dishes here for the past few days. Sixty dollars a day, meals included.” Sixty dollars a day. I closed my eyes, my jaw clenching. I pushed the door open and walked in. Before I could even take in the room, a sharp voice shrieked from the back. “Are you blind? This is a limited-edition dress!” The voice was painfully familiar, carrying that cloying, practiced sweetness I had always despised. Through the grime-smeared glass of the kitchen partition, I saw Wright. He was wearing a stiff, oversized gray waterproof apron. His hair was cropped short, his face pale and hollow, his collarbones sharp against his thin frame. He was kneeling on the sticky linoleum, clutching a rag. On the floor lay a spilled bowl of greasy chicken soup. Standing over him was a man in an expensive, tailored suit: Brody, Wright’s old college roommate and former employee. And sitting next to him was Margo, Wright’s ex-fiancée, wearing a faux-designer suit, her legs crossed. “Oh, Brody, babe, don’t be mad. I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” Margo said, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “I can’t help it, Margo,” Brody sneered, leaning into her. “It’s our company’s pre-IPO celebration dinner, and a dishwasher spills soup all over my pants? It’s bad luck.” He spat out the word ‘dishwasher’ like a curse. Margo patted his hand, looking down at Wright. “Wright, I don’t know what to say to you.” She sighed, her tone heavy with a nauseating sense of charity. “You insisted on taking on all that debt yourself. Look where it got you. You don’t even look like a college graduate anymore.” Wright didn’t look up. He just kept wiping the floor with mechanical, numbed movements, as if they were speaking to a ghost. Looking at his hunched shoulders, my mind dragged me back to high school. Senior year. Someone had stolen five hundred dollars from the class fund. Because I was the poorest, everyone pointed fingers at me. The principal called me in, demanding I empty my pockets. I refused, squeezing my hands into fists until my nails drew blood. Just when everyone was ready to brand me a thief, Wright walked in. He slammed a physics competition registration form on the desk. “He didn’t do it,” he said, pointing to the schedule. “From noon to one, he was helping the physics teacher calibrate lab equipment. Check the cameras.” Then he turned to the whispering crowd, his voice quiet but razor-sharp: “Being poor doesn’t make you a thief. Shut up if you don’t have proof.” After school, he stopped me by the track. No comfort, no pity. Just a look straight into my eyes: “Larry, never bow your head.” But now, the boy who told me never to bow his head was kneeling on a greasy floor, bowing his head to these parasites. “Where’s the manager? Get the manager out here!” Brody was still shouting. The sweating owner ran out, apologizing profusely. “If you employ people this clumsy, I’ll report you to the health department!” Brody threatened. The owner looked at Wright, embarrassed. “Wright, look… maybe you should just take your pay for today and head out.” 3 Wright finally stood up. He untied the apron, placing it on the table without a word of protest or plea. “Okay,” his voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. Diana whispered behind me, “Do you want me to clear them out, sir?” “Dig,” I said, my gaze locked on the couple inside. “Find out exactly how Margo saddled him with 4.2 million in debt.” Wright left through the back. I didn’t follow him immediately. I needed to know who drove him to the edge first. Diana worked fast. By the next morning, a thick folder sat on my desk. I flipped to the first page, my knuckles turning white. Three years ago, Wright and Margo co-founded a tech startup. Wright handled the core R&D; Margo handled public relations and finance. A year ago, Margo claimed they landed a massive project and needed a loan to expand. She brought him a personal guarantee document to sign. “What did she tell him?” I asked, staring at the photocopied signature. “According to the audio transcripts we recovered from their old office,” Diana replied, “she said, ‘Wright, I’m your fiancée. Would I ever hurt you? This project is a goldmine. Once we get through this, we’ll get married.’” I let out a harsh laugh. “And then?” “The moment the funds cleared, Margo transferred the money through various shell companies to a primary account.” Diana flipped the page. “The owner of that shell company was Brody.” I closed my eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. No wonder Brody was so arrogant at the diner. He was living off Wright’s sweat and blood, mocking him with his own money. “Once the funds were drained, Margo filed for bankruptcy liquidation,” Diana continued. “Because Wright had signed an unlimited personal guarantee, the entire $4.2 million debt crashed down on him alone.” Margo walked away clean, rebranding herself as a ‘senior partner’ in Brody’s new firm, while Wright was blacklisted, unable to even buy a train ticket, forced to work under the table in the shadows. “There’s one more thing,” Diana hesitated. “Speak.” “Mr. Chester’s mother. She’s in the late stages of renal failure. She’s at St. Jude’s Hospital.” Diana placed a hospital invoice on the desk. “If they don’t pay the twenty thousand dollars for dialysis by this afternoon, they’ll stop her treatments.” Twenty thousand. Again, twenty thousand. It felt like a sick, cruel loop. My freshman year of college, my father’s rehab bills were overdue. The hospital gave me a final notice: I was short eighteen hundred dollars. I was ready to sell my own blood. Then, a wire transfer of two thousand dollars hit my account. No name, just a memo: “Don’t give up.” I knew who it was. That month, I sneaked back to our hometown and saw Wright in the cafeteria. He ate nothing but plain instant ramen for thirty days. I leaned back in my leather chair, my heart aching as if pierced by a blade. Ten years ago, he went hungry so I wouldn’t have to. Ten years later, he was washing dishes in filth just to pay for his mother’s dialysis, letting himself be trampled. “Larry Michell,” I whispered to myself, “you’re a pathetic excuse of a man.” 4 Ten years. I had so many chances to come back and find him. But I was afraid of not being successful enough, of not being worthy to stand before him. I waited for success, and meanwhile, he fell into hell. “Get the car,” I stood up, grabbing my keys and the old passbook. “St. Jude’s Hospital.” In the hospital hallway, the sharp smell of antiseptic hung thick in the air. As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, I heard a mocking laugh. Near the billing window, Wright was leaning against the wall, clutching a payment slip. Margo and Brody stood opposite him. “Oh, Wright, why do you have to be so stubborn?” Margo sighed, her hands in her pockets, putting on a show of pity. “Your mother can’t wait. Just sign this waiver relinquishing all rights to the patents, admitting I was the sole developer.” She pulled out a stack of cash—about ten thousand dollars. “Think of this as a loan. You don’t have to pay it back. Call it a favor for old times’ sake.” Wright stared at the cash, his fingers trembling. “Margo,” his voice was barely a whisper, but it carried a deadly weight. “Those patents… you stole them from my computer while my mother was in the ICU. You drained the company, set me up to take the fall, and now you want to cut off my mother’s life support.” He looked up, his once-bright eyes bloodshot. “Aren’t you afraid of karma?” Margo flinched slightly, embarrassed by the public accusation, but quickly recovered her cold sneer. “Wright, watch your mouth. You signed the papers. You’re a blacklisted debtor now. Who’s going to believe you? If you don’t sign this waiver today, your mother gets evicted from her room tomorrow.” “Come on, Margo, why waste your breath?” Brody smirked, grabbing her arm. “I told you, Wright’s always been too proud for his own good.” He turned to Wright, mock-sympathetic. “Wright, don’t look at me like that. We’re doing you a favor. Margo pulled some strings to get this cash from the company account. Just take it and pay the bill before your mom runs out of time.” Wright didn’t look at him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them, they were dead. Empty. He slowly reached out his hand toward the cash. For his mother, he was going to bend the spine he had kept straight his entire life. Just as his fingers were about to touch the bills, a hand shot out from the side, grabbing his wrist. Wright froze, turning his head in shock. I looked at him—at his hollow cheeks, at the lingering despair in his eyes. The rage inside me exploded like a volcano. I pulled him firmly behind me, turning to face Margo. “The money,” I said, my voice low, carrying a dangerous, quiet malice. “I’m paying it.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “531004”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was famous for my cold, deadpan stare on “The Spark”. To me, everyone on that beach looked like a walking corpse, and speaking even a single word to them felt like a chore. The network wanted to prop up their favorite “sweetheart couple,” so they deliberately paired me with Ryder—a shameless player so greasy the internet was practically screaming to have him canceled. We were the designated trainwreck. Our director pointed a finger right at our noses. “One’s a brick wall, the other’s a sleazebag. You two make the perfect contrast to get the audience rage-watching.” Ryder ran his hands through his hair, putting on a cheap show of desperation, misery, and helplessness. But underneath the act, I caught the faint twitch of his lips curving upward. One of us was a peacock desperate for an audience, a textbook performer who lived off emotional validation. The other was an iceberg who refused to throw him a single lifeline. Individually, we were toxic reality TV rejects. But together? That was pure gold: “The Player Begging for Scraps, the Ice Queen Pulling the Strings.” The ultimate slow-burn romance. I kept my hands in my pockets, watching him put on his little show. When he realized I wasn’t giving him an ounce of feedback and awkwardly peeked at me to check my reaction, I said quietly, “Your acting is absolute trash. If you actually want to make it through this, from now on, you follow my lead.” … “Daisy’s group: five thousand dollars in starting cash and the oceanfront villa.” “Maeve’s group: fifty dollars and Cabin 3 on the shore.” The director’s voice boomed through the megaphone. I stood with my hands tucked in the pockets of my windbreaker, watching a crew member slap a crisp fifty-dollar bill onto the rickety wooden table. The sea breeze whistled through a gaping hole in the window. Daisy stepped over the threshold, wearing a designer sundress and sandals. Two cameras followed her every move, one practically pressed against my face. “Oh, Maeve… how are you guys even going to live here?” She pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her purse and held it out to me. “Don’t be mad at the director, Maeve. He’s just following the rules. Take this. Get yourselves a warm meal tonight. I’d hate for you to starve while we’re filming.” Her eyes welled with performative tears. I stared at the bill, unmoving. Ryder instantly slapped on his signature grin. “Daisy, you’re an absolute angel. Unlike some people who don’t know how to appreciate anything.” He reached for the money, his fingers lingering just a second too long as they brushed against the back of Daisy’s hand. “Smack.” I kicked the back of Ryder’s knee. He stumbled forward, his hands slamming hard onto the wooden table. “Ow—Jesus, Maeve! Are you insane?” he yelped, clutching his hand. I ignored him, stepped forward, and snatched the hundred-dollar bill from Daisy’s fingers. A tiny, triumphant smirk played on her lips. I flicked my wrist, tossing the bill right back into her chest. “Get out.” Daisy’s tears spilled over instantly. “I was only trying to help, Maeve! Why do you always have to humiliate me?” She turned, burying her face in her hands, and ran straight into the arms of Trent, her screen partner, who had just arrived at the door. Trent glared at the camera. “Seriously, Maeve? Don’t be ungrateful. Daisy was just trying to do something nice. Have some class.” Daisy sobbed against his chest as he ushered her away. The damp cabin fell quiet, leaving only me and Ryder. He stormed up to me, his finger practically brushing my nose. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you trying to prove? That was a hundred bucks! That’s two decent meals! You want to starve out here in the wind? Let me tell you something, Maeve. I was playing women before you even knew how to write your own name. Don’t try that dead-eyed routine on me!” When he finally stopped to catch his breath, I walked over to the corner, picked up a heavy splitting maul, and hefted it. Ryder took a sharp step back, his hands defensive. “Whoa, what are you doing? We’re live! Murder is a felony!” I walked out to the small dirt yard, propped a thick piece of driftwood onto the chopping block, gripped the handle with both hands, and brought it down with the full weight of my hips. “Crack.” The wood split cleanly down the middle, a stray splinter grazing Ryder’s cheek. I held the axe in one hand, turning my cold gaze toward him. “Get over here and carry the wood.” Ryder swallowed hard. His throat bobbed, and his loud mouth shut tight. He walked over, rolled up his linen sleeves, and began stacking the logs I had split. 8:00 PM. On the table sat two bowls of watery, plain oatmeal and a tiny dish of preserved pickles. Ryder stirred his bowl listlessly with his spoon. He looked up, winking at the cameraman stationed in the corner. “Come on, man. Look at how pathetic we are. Can’t you talk to the director? Throw us a bone, maybe a piece of chicken?” I reached out, grabbed the back of his head, and shoved his face straight down toward the table. “Ow!” His nose smacked against the rim of the bowl. I let go, reached into my pocket, and pulled out a small plastic bag containing half a cold, hard-boiled egg I had pocketed from the morning buffet. I tossed it into his bowl. “Eat. Then go patch the hole in the roof.” I pointed up at the gap where the night stars were visible. “If it’s not fixed, you’re sleeping on the beach.” Ryder looked at the half-egg in his oatmeal. He looked up at me, his eyes slightly raw, his cheeks flushing a sudden, deep red. He looked down quickly, scraping his bowl clean, eating every last bite of the oatmeal. Amid the ocean of hate comments on the live stream’s chat, a few strange remarks began to slip through: “Wait… why is the player suddenly acting so… submissive around the ice queen?” I picked up my bowl and took a slow, quiet sip. “Hurry up. The boards are outside.” The next morning, the top trending hashtag on X was: #MaeveAggressiveLove. Ryder climbed down from the roof with dark circles under his eyes, carrying a hammer. “You’re seriously looking at your phone right now? My reputation is completely shot because of you!” He threw the hammer aside. I locked my phone, ignoring him. “Attention, guests,” the director’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Today’s challenge is Island Treasure Hunt. Your points will directly determine the quality of your dinner tonight. Daisy’s group, head to the East Beach. Maeve’s group, head to the West Cliffs.” Ryder yelled at the camera, “Are you serious? The west side is nothing but jagged rocks and sheer cliffs! There isn’t even a path! You want us to die out there?” The director’s voice held a sickening amusement. “Ryder, you two are currently public enemy number one. Be glad you’re even getting airtime. If you don’t like it, pack your bags and pay the thirty-million-dollar breach of contract fee.” Ryder clenched his fists. I walked up to him and pulled a length of climbing rope from my backpack. “Stop whining. Give me your hand.” He hesitated, then held out his left arm. I tied the safety rope securely around his waist in a double knot, wrapping the other end tightly around my own wrist. “Stay close,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “If you fall, nobody is coming to save you.” The waves crashed violently against the moss-covered rocks. The ground was slick and treacherous. I led the way with steady, practiced steps, while Ryder slipped and stumbled behind me. “There’s literally nothing out here. What kind of treasure is hidden on a cliffside?” “Maeve, slow down! Is there a fire?” The cameraman struggled behind us, trying to find a stable angle from a distance. Ryder’s eyes flickered with an idea. As we reached a steep, muddy slope, he accelerated, catching up and stepping beside me. “Hey, Maeve, careful. It’s slippery. Let me help you.” His voice dropped to a low, husky register as he reached out to wrap an arm around my waist. I saw his hand out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t even turn my head. I simply dropped my shoulder, shifting my weight half a step to the left. Ryder’s hand grabbed empty air. His foot lost traction on the mud, and he went tumbling down the embankment. “Holy shit—!” He rolled down the slope, landing straight in a deep, stagnant pool of muddy seawater and silt. “Splash.” Mud flew everywhere. When he finally stopped moving, his designer windbreaker was covered in black slime, and his face was caked with muck. He sat there in the puddle, stunned. Ryder slowly lifted his head. I squatted at the edge of the slope, looking down at him. I pulled a bottle of water from the side pocket of my backpack, unscrewed the cap, and tossed it down. The bottle landed in his lap, splashing water over his chest. “Wash your face. You look hideous.” Ryder stared at me, his jaw clenched. He opened the bottle, poured water into his palms, and aggressively wiped his face. Muddy water dripped from his chin. When he looked up again, his eyes were bloodshot. “Maeve, do you actually have a heart?” His voice was raw. “Can’t you just give me a normal reaction? Even calling me an idiot would be better than this!” I looked at his reddened eyes. “Is this how you usually play the devoted gentleman? By staging dangers, forcing a display of chivalry, and then demanding gratitude?” Ryder froze. His mouth parted, but no words came out. He looked down, squeezing the empty plastic bottle until his knuckles turned white. “Wait… now that Ryder isn’t acting greasy, him sulking like that is actually… kind of hot?” “The tension is insane.” I stood up, tugging the safety rope on my wrist. “Once you’re clean, climb back up. Don’t waste my time.” That night, the crew set up a bonfire on the beach. The director stood with his megaphone, announcing the rules of the mid-season game. “Tonight, we’re playing Anonymous Vote. You will write down the name of the guest you believe performed the worst today. The person with the most votes faces the ultimate penalty: handing over their safety gear and spending the night alone in the deep woods of Devil’s Cove.” The guests whispered nervously. Devil’s Cove was a notorious thicket on the north shore—even local fishermen avoided it. Spending a night there with zero gear was a nightmare scenario. Daisy sat across the bonfire, the flames dancing across her face. During a camera transition, I saw her whispering to the other guests, her lips silently forming the name: “Maeve.” I looked down, adjusting the collar of my windbreaker. My finger brushed the power switch of a tiny, high-grade recording pin hidden on my lapel. A faint red light flashed once. Recording started. “Before we begin the anonymous vote, does anyone want to say anything?” the director asked. Daisy immediately raised her hand, her eyes glistening. She looked at the camera. “I think this rule is really harsh, but if I have to choose…” She bit her lip, turning her gaze to me. “I have to vote for Maeve. This afternoon, Ryder fell into that horrible mud pit, and Maeve just stood up there, watching him. She didn’t even offer a hand. I don’t think partners should be so heartless to each other.” The moment she finished, Trent chimed in. “Daisy’s right. People with zero team spirit are just dead weight.” Several other guests nodded in agreement. I sat on my folding stool, hands clasped over my knees, entirely silent. I turned to look at Ryder, who sat next to me with his head bowed. His body was rigid. I knew the director was screaming in his earpiece, ordering him to vote for me. Ryder gripped his voting pen, the veins on the back of his hand bulging. He looked up, scanning Daisy, then the other nodding guests, and finally me. I didn’t return his gaze; I just stared into the fire. Suddenly, Ryder stood up. “Slam!” He smashed his voting board onto the table, snapping it clean in two. Silence fell over the beach. Ryder pointed a finger directly at Daisy’s face, laughing coldly. “She didn’t pull me up because I tripped over my own damn feet! But are you people blind? Didn’t you see the safety rope tied to her wrist? If I had actually slipped down the cliff, she would’ve gone down with me!” He yanked his collar open, glaring at Daisy. “You play the fragile little flower day in and day out. Aren’t you tired of the act? Because watching it makes me want to throw up. I’m voting for Daisy. Anyone got a problem with that?” The bonfire crackled in the dead silence. Daisy’s tears froze on her eyelashes. The director’s voice boomed through the megaphone, furious. “Enough! Ryder, you are openly soliciting votes and verbally abusing another guest! That is a severe violation of the rules! Ryder’s vote is void! Maeve has the most votes, her penalty stands! And because Ryder broke the rules, you will both serve the penalty. You’re spending the night at Devil’s Cove together!” Staff members stepped forward to remove our safety ropes. I stood up, brushing the sand off my pants. Without a word, I walked toward the dark tree line. As I passed Ryder, I paused. “You actually acted like a man for once. Get ready to freeze tonight.” Ryder stood frozen for a second, then looked at my back and laughed. He jogged to catch up. “Hey, Maeve! Wait up!” The north shore housed an old, abandoned cannery. The glass roof was mostly shattered, the rafters creaking loudly in the wind. There were no lights, no heat, nothing. Tonight was the show’s “Heartbeat Live Connection Night.” All guests were forced to wear black heart-rate monitors, with their data synced in real-time to the live-stream screen. While Daisy and the others sat in the heated studio sipping hot cocoa, Ryder and I were locked inside this drafty, leaking ruin. “Boom—” A flash of lightning ripped through the sky as a sudden squall hit the island. Cold rain began pouring through the shattered roof. In the studio, the main screen displayed our split-screen feed. Daisy cradled her warm mug, pointing at Ryder’s heart rate on the screen, letting out a soft laugh. “Oh, where did Ryder’s legendary charm go? Alone in a dark room with Maeve, and his heart rate is flatlining at seventy? He looks practically dead. I guess the rumors are true—their chemistry is totally fake.” “Keep the cameras rolling!” the director hissed into his headset. “Don’t open those doors! I want to see them drenched, miserable, and tearing each other apart!” Rainwater quickly pooled on the concrete floor. Ryder was soaked, his lips turning blue from the cold. But he didn’t complain. He didn’t even look at the cameras. Instead, he gently pushed me toward a dry corner of the room. “Stay back there. Don’t get wet. There isn’t even a basic first-aid kit on this godforsaken island.” His voice trembled slightly from the cold. I leaned against the damp concrete wall, watching his broad shoulders block the wind for me. My heart monitor still read a steady seventy. “Crack—Crash!” A sudden gust of wind sheared off a heavy wooden support beam from the ceiling. A massive sheet of glass, along with half the timber, came hurtling straight down toward my head. I closed my eyes. But the impact never came. Ryder threw himself over me, shielding me with his body, his back taking the brunt of the falling debris. “Thud. Shiver.” Something warm and thick dripped onto my collarbone. The copper smell of blood cut through the salty rain. I opened my eyes and looked at Ryder. His face was contorted in pain, his jaw clenched so hard his muscles shook. In the studio, Daisy’s smile vanished. Her mug slipped from her hand, shattering on the floor. Every guest stood up in shock. On the screen, Ryder’s flatlining heart rate of seventy began to climb. …120… 140… It tore past 160. A flashing red warning light lit up the screen. Through the static-heavy audio feed, Ryder’s ragged, breathless voice cut through: “Cut the crap…” His warm, shaky breath brushed against my neck. “Maeve… are you okay?” The director screamed into his microphone: “Cut the feed! Cut the feed now!” The live stream went completely black.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “531003”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I drove all the way to the airport cargo terminal to pick up a crate of fresh peaches, shipped overnight from back home in the South. They were ripe, heavy, and smelled of the sweet, humid summers I’d left behind. My heart was light as I dialed Elliot’s number. Once. Twice. Nineteen times. No answer. My best friend, Daphne, picked up my FaceTime call on her second ring. She was flush-faced and breathless, clearly in the middle of a jog. “Still no answer?” Daphne panted, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Megan, for God’s sake, have some self-respect.” “He’s probably just in a meeting,” I defended weakly. “If a man isn’t there when you call nineteen times, he’s not worth the battery life. What if you were in a ditch somewhere? He wouldn’t even know.” I forced a laugh, trying to play it off with my usual easygoing optimism. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s just busy. Make sure you come over early tonight, okay? I’m making a feast.” She rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the camera. “You are utterly hopeless, Megan. A textbook romantic fool.” I ended the call and slipped my hand into my coat pocket, tracing the crisp edges of the positive pregnancy test. I wanted to surprise them both tonight—my husband and my best friend. But twenty minutes later, standing outside the door of the private VIP room at Elliot’s gym, my world fell apart. The door wasn’t fully closed. Through the narrow crack, a conversation drifted out, stripping the strength right out of my bones. “After today, we have to end this,” Daphne’s voice was a low, breathless murmur. “If Megan finds out, it will destroy her.” Elliot’s response was immediate, sharp, and dripping with an intensity he hadn’t shown me in years. “End it? You want to kill me, Daphne? Then we just don’t let her find out. We take it to our graves.” Seven years of freezing in this brutal northern city, trying so hard to adapt, to make this place a home. “Give up, Megan,” a cold, quiet voice inside me whispered. “Just give up.” … I stepped back into the shadows of the hallway. Ten minutes later, Elliot and Daphne walked out, one after the other. The moment Elliot saw me standing there, a flash of pure panic crossed his eyes before he quickly masked it, hurrying his pace. “Megan? What are you doing here?” He pulled out his phone, staring at the nineteen missed calls. “I’m so sorry, babe. I was in a meeting and had it on silent. Is everything okay?” The worry in his eyes looked so genuine, so real. But the faint scent of Daphne’s signature perfume clinging to his collar made me want to throw up. I flinched, stepping back to avoid his hand as he reached out to touch my forehead. “Megan, don’t let him off too easy,” Daphne chimed in, glaring playfully at Elliot before grabbing my hands. “Look at you, your hands are freezing.” Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing still slightly uneven. “Don’t be mad, sweetie. Once we get back, I’ll make sure he pays for keeping you waiting.” In her mouth, the word “pays” sounded heavy with a sickening intimacy. “Daphne,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I thought you were jogging outside.” Daphne’s expression stiffened for a fraction of a second. She forced a bright, easy smile. “Oh, it was way too noisy on the street. I ran into Elliot in the lobby, and he offered to show me some form adjustments in the private room.” She looped her arm through mine, leaning in. “What, are you auditing my gym sessions now? Afraid I’m going to steal your husband?” It was phrased as a joke, but her eyes held a sharp, calculating scrutiny. I looked down at her hand resting on my arm. Around her wrist was the delicate, hand-woven red friendship bracelet I had crafted for her birthday. Gently, but firmly, I pulled my arm away. “I was worried you’d be hungry. I got the peaches. They’re already in the car. I’m going to make dinner for us.” Elliot let out a subtle sigh of relief and stepped forward, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You’re the best, honey. Come on, let’s go home.” When we reached the SUV, I automatically reached for the front passenger door. But Elliot’s hand shot out, gently but firmly blocking the handle. “Megan, why don’t you take the back seat?” I froze, staring at him. He avoided my gaze, looking over at Daphne instead. “Daphne just had a crazy workout. She’s soaked in sweat, and the AC vents in the back blow directly on you. She’ll catch a cold.” Daphne waved her hands in mock protest, her tone sweet and dripping with false consideration. “Oh, no, really, I’m fine! Megan gets carsick so easily. She should definitely sit up front.” She made a show of refusing, yet her feet were already moving toward the open passenger door. Elliot glanced at my pale face. “Are you feeling sick again? Did you eat something bad? Just bear with it for a few minutes, honey. We’ll be home soon.” Without giving me a chance to reply, he opened the passenger door wider for Daphne. Daphne slid into the leather seat with an apologetic pout. “Well, I guess we’re putting our sweet Megan out a little bit.” I climbed into the back alone, pulling myself into the darkest corner of the seat. Up front, Elliot was adjusting the seat angle and the AC vents for her. His movements were so practiced, so completely natural. “Is this angle okay? Not too cold?” he asked, his voice softening to a register he rarely used with me anymore. Daphne gave a soft hum of approval. Leaning my head against the cold window, I watched their quiet, synchronized interactions. My mind drifted back to when I first moved up North. The brutal winter air, the dry heat indoors, and the foreign food had triggered a massive allergic reaction. I had been miserable, covered in hives, throwing up for weeks. Elliot had held me through the long, freezing nights, kissing the tears from my swollen eyes, whispering vows into my hair. “I swear to God, Megan, I will never let you suffer. I will spend the rest of my life making sure you’re protected.” “If I ever betray you, may I rot.” Seven years. The vows were still fresh in my memory, but the man holding them had already rotted from the inside out. I gently rested my hand against my flat stomach, letting my tears fall silently in the dark. Daphne leaned back, closing her eyes to rest. Every few seconds, Elliot’s eyes would drift from the road to steal a glance at her, his face filled with an aching tenderness he couldn’t hide. It was only when we pulled into our driveway that he finally remembered I was in the car. He caught my eye in the rearview mirror and asked casually, “So, what are we having for dinner?” I stared back at his reflection, holding his gaze. “Let’s have the peaches,” I said, my voice thick and slow. “One last time.” Elliot was busy draping his jacket over Daphne’s shoulders to keep her warm. He just nodded absently at my response, completely missing the raspy weight of my voice, or the finality in my words. Inside the house, Elliot stood by the kitchen island, slicing a peach for me. As the sticky sweet juice ran down his fingers, his brow furrowed, his movements tightening with a subtle irritation. “Megan, let’s stop buying these Southern peaches,” he said, tossing the knife into the sink. He pushed the plate of sliced peaches toward me and turned on the faucet to wash his hands. “We’ve been importing them for seven years. To be honest, I’m getting tired of them.” The knife in my hand slipped. The blade sliced clean into my index finger, and a bright bead of blood welled up instantly. “How are you still this careless?” Elliot sighed, grabbing my hand and pulling it under the cold running tap. I stared down at the crown of his head. My chest felt as if it were packed with frozen cotton wool. Every breath I took scratched the inside of my lungs. When I first arrived in this city, I couldn’t stomach the heavy, starchy foods. I lost fifteen pounds in the first two months. Elliot had been so worried that he spent his entire weekend driving around specialty organic markets, spending half his paycheck to order a crate of Southern peaches just to see me eat. When he peeled the first one and fed it to me, his smile had been so pure, so full of devotion. “As long as you love them, Megan, I’ll peel them for you for the rest of our lives.” The rest of our lives had only lasted seven years. I pulled my hand back gently, wrapping a paper towel around the cut. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.” Daphne leaned against the kitchen doorframe, chewing on a slice of peach. “Don’t mind him, Megan,” she murmured around the fruit, her voice dripping with casual familiarity. “As long as you like them. He’s just always hated sticky things.” Elliot didn’t deny it. Instead, he flicked a few drops of water from his hands onto her face, offering a mock scowl. “Keep your mouth shut.” Then, he naturally took the knife from my hand. “Let me finish up. Go sit down.” I forced a polite smile. “No, I’ve got it.” I turned back to the stove, sliding the chopped vegetables into the hot pan. The loud, crackling sizzle of the oil drowned out my quiet sigh. “You’re right,” I murmured. “I won’t buy them anymore.” Elliot seemed surprised by how easily I’d yielded. He cast a sideways glance at me, opening his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately picked up the bowl of peaches and walked into the dining room. From the dining room, Daphne’s voice drifted back, playful and teasing. “Come on, Elliot, peel another one! Nobody peels them as well as you do.” “Watch it, you’ll get a stomachache,” Elliot replied, his voice soft with indulgence. I brought out the last dish. Elliot was carefully pulling the bones out of a piece of fish, placing the clean meat onto Daphne’s plate. “Megan, Daphne’s stomach has been acting up lately,” he said without looking up. “Try not to make things so oily next time.” He added a piece of steamed fish to her bowl, then tossed a lonely stalk of broccoli onto my plate. “Thanks for cooking tonight.” Daphne took a bite of the fish. She chewed twice, and then her face went completely white. Suddenly, she clutched her throat, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. “Water… I need water…” Elliot scrambled to pour a glass, but when Daphne tried to drink, she choked and threw it back up. Bright red, angry hives began blooming across her neck and chest at a terrifying speed. “Elliot… I can’t… I can’t breathe…” Elliot’s face drained of color. He gathered her into his arms as she began to slump over, his voice cracking with pure terror. “Daphne! What is happening? Daphne!” She pointed a trembling finger at the plate of fish. “The glaze… there’s… peanut oil…” Elliot spun around, his eyes wild and bloodshot as he roared at me, “Megan! You know she has a severe peanut allergy! What the hell did you put in this?!” I froze, my hands shaking. “I didn’t… I only used the regular sesame glaze. I didn’t put any peanut oil in it!” “Stop lying!” Elliot shrieked. He lunged forward and shoved me out of his way. The force of his push caught me entirely off guard. I stumbled backward, my lower back crashing violently against the sharp edge of the wooden dining table. A sharp, white-hot pain flared through my abdomen. I doubled over, clutching my stomach, barely able to breathe. But Elliot didn’t even look back. He swept Daphne up into his arms and kicked the front door open, sprinting out into the night. I crumpled onto the hardwood floor, the cramping in my womb growing sharper, deeper, and heavier. Something warm and wet began to trickle slowly down the inside of my thigh. Staring at the empty, open doorway, I gathered every ounce of strength left in my body and screamed into the void: “Elliot, I’m pregnant!” But my voice only dissolved into the cold, empty air of the apartment. With shaking fingers, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911 myself. At the hospital, the doctor stood over my bed, his expression grim as he reviewed my charts. “You have signs of a threatened miscarriage,” he said softly. “We need to keep you for observation. Strict bed rest. No moving, do you understand?” I lay there, staring at the sterile ceiling, listening to the muffled chatter of two nurses changing the IV bags nearby. “ER was a madhouse tonight. They brought in a girl with anaphylactic shock. Almost didn’t make it.” “Yeah, her boyfriend was practically on his knees begging the doctors to save her. Talk about true love.” A cold chill ran down my spine. “Excuse me,” I croaked, my voice dry. “The patient in the ER… what was her name?” “I think it was Daphne,” one of the nurses offered gently. Despite everything, a lingering sense of worry made me crawl out of bed. I dragged my IV pole down to the second-floor observation ward. “Daphne,” I whispered, seeing her lying pale and fragile under the white blankets. The swelling in her face had subsided. I reached out to touch her hand. But Elliot’s hand shot out, shoving me away. “She just fell asleep. Don’t wake her.” He carefully tucked the blanket around her chin, then grabbed my wrist, pulling me roughly out of the room. “How is she?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Is she going to be okay?” “Megan!” Elliot snapped, releasing my wrist with a look of absolute disgust. “She is your best friend. How could you do this to her?” “I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!” My voice cracked, my fingers icy cold. “I didn’t touch anything with peanuts. I know how dangerous it is for her. Why would I ever want to hurt her?” Elliot let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You were the only one in that kitchen, Megan. Who else could have done it?” I held my aching abdomen, taking a step back. “Is that really who you think I am?” He turned his face away, refusing to meet my eyes. “Just go home. I’ll stay here with Daphne. We’ll talk when she wakes up.” I couldn’t bring myself to go back to my empty room. I waited in the far corner of the hallway, desperate to make sure Daphne was safe, desperate to make him believe me. Hours later, the ward doors opened. Elliot was gently supporting Daphne as they walked out. I took a step forward, but the words that came out of Daphne’s mouth froze me in my tracks. “Elliot, it’s been three years. I can’t keep doing this. I want to tell Megan.” “Tell her? Tell her what?” Daphne’s voice rose, trembling with a fragile hysteria. “Tell her that three years ago, when she was crying in a hospital bed waiting for her appendix surgery, we were hooked up in a hotel downtown?” “Tell her that I’ve been sleeping with her husband behind her back?” “We made a mistake, Elliot! We betrayed her!” “Don’t you dare say that!” Elliot’s voice was fiercely protective. I bit my lip so hard I tasted the warm, metallic tang of blood. “Three years ago.” I remembered that night. I had been rolling in agony on a hospital cot, calling Elliot over and over. He told me he was stuck at a last-minute corporate retreat. I had called Daphne, and she had cried on the phone, claiming she was stuck on a business trip out of state. I had actually spent my energy comforting “her”, telling her it was fine, that I would be okay. How could I have been so incredibly blind? “You almost died tonight, Daphne!” Elliot urged, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to be with you openly!” Daphne let out a broken sob, her voice softening. “I don’t blame her, Elliot… but think about how much this will destroy her. She moved all the way up North for you… seven years of her life…” She wept into his chest. Elliot cupped her face, tenderly wiping away her tears before pulling her into a desperate, passionate kiss. “I won’t let her hurt you again, Daphne. I promise. I’ll handle everything, okay?” Watching them hold each other in the dim light of the hospital corridor, something inside me clicked shut. I turned around, walked back to the doctor’s office, and scheduled the earliest appointment for a termination procedure. It was late afternoon by the time I returned to the apartment. Elliot was waiting in the living room. The moment I walked through the door, he rushed toward me, trying to grab my hands. “Megan, where the hell have you been? You look terrible. Do you have any idea how worried Daphne and I were?” I slipped my hands behind my back, avoiding his touch. “I stayed at a friend’s place.” Elliot’s hands hovered awkwardly in the air before slowly dropping to his sides. “Well… as long as you’re okay.” “Megan!” Daphne leaned against the doorframe of the guest room, her face still slightly washed out. “I’m so sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to keep Elliot away from you.” Seeing her, Elliot immediately rushed to her side, offering his arm. “You’re still weak. Why are you out of bed? Megan’s back now, you can rest easy.” Daphne looked at me, a tight smile on her face. “Megan, let’s just put last night behind us. Tomorrow is Elliot’s birthday. What secret gift did you plan for him?” She was desperate to steer the conversation away from the kitchen. “It’s a surprise,” I said quietly. I walked over to the coffee table, picked up my phone, and opened a forum link I had saved. “Daphne, I saw a thread online earlier. I thought it was pretty interesting and wanted to get your take on it.” I turned the screen toward her. The headline was bold: “I just found out my partner of seven years has been sleeping with my best friend for three. What should I do?” Daphne’s face drained of what little color she had left. She shot a panicked look at Elliot. Elliot froze, staring at the screen, his breathing suddenly heavy and ragged. “Why… why are you reading garbage like that?” Daphne forced a laugh, her voice trembling violently. “Just curious,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “If you were the girlfriend, what would you do?” Daphne bit her lip, her eyes darting around the room. “I… I’d dump him, obviously. Start over.” “Exactly,” I nodded. Elliot’s jaw clenched, his posture incredibly stiff. “Daphne and I need to go make reservations for tomorrow night before they fill up.” He grabbed his coat, pulled Daphne with him, and slammed the front door behind them. The moment the lock clicked, a massive wave of relief washed over me. I walked into the bedroom and packed my bags. I didn’t take a single thing Elliot had bought me over the last seven years. I only packed the worn-out clothes and personal keepsakes I had brought from the South. I slipped my engagement ring off my finger and placed it in the center of the kitchen island. Next to it, I laid my house key. I rolled my suitcase out of the building and hailed a cab straight to the airport. As the plane roared down the runway and lifted into the night sky, I looked out at the city lights shrinking below me, and finally let go. That night, Elliot and Daphne didn’t come back to the apartment. The following evening, Elliot’s birthday dinner was held at an upscale downtown restaurant. Friends were laughing, clinking glasses, and Daphne was tucked close to his side, radiant. “Where’s Megan?” one of their mutual friends asked. “Didn’t she say she had a surprise for you?” Elliot frowned, pulling out his phone. The last message from me was still from three days ago. Just then, a waiter approached their table carrying an elegant, beautifully wrapped box. “Pardon me, is one of you Mr. Elliot? A local courier just dropped this off from a Ms. Megan.” Elliot’s face relaxed into a smug smile. “I knew it. She might be stubborn, but she’d never miss my birthday.” He proudly opened the box in front of everyone. But the moment he saw what was inside, the blood completely drained from his face. “No… this can’t be…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “531002”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the eve of our wedding, my fiancé, Tyler, snuck off to the county clerk’s office and got a marriage license with my best friend, Cassie. She posted it on her private Instagram—a caption dripping with bittersweet regret. She had forgotten to exclude me from her Close Friends list. “Husband and wife, if only for a day. From now on, we walk our separate paths.” The second my finger tapped the heart icon, the post vanished. A heartbeat later, Tyler’s name flashed on my screen. He sounded breathless, stumbling over his words. “It was just a stupid game of Truth or Dare, Rebecca. Cassie lost, okay? She used my name and Photoshopped a marriage certificate. I already chewed her out for it. Please don’t overthink this.” “Our wedding is tomorrow, and you’re carrying our baby. You need to rest.” Before I could say a word, the line went dead. I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth and immediately called my OB-GYN’s clinic to schedule an abortion. There was no way I was walking down that aisle. But the moment I walked into the clinic, Tyler rushed in. He claimed he was from the past—the eighteen-year-old version of himself. His teenage eyes were soft, brimming with a desperate affection, asking over and over if we were married yet in this timeline. Before I could even process what was happening, translucent lines of text—like a live chat overlay—began to float right in front of my eyes. [God, the heroine is so pathetic. Surely she doesn’t believe his BS? He’s only pretending to be eighteen because the clinic staff tipped him off that she was here for an abortion.] [Honestly, she should just marry him. A few days after the wedding, that toxic best friend dies in a car crash while they’re hooking up. After that, he becomes completely devoted to her.] I stared at Tyler, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “Tomorrow is our wedding,” I said quietly. “I just came to pick up some prenatal vitamins and cold medicine.” … Tyler let out a massive sigh of relief. “That’s… that’s amazing,” he murmured, playing the part of a wide-eyed boy. “I can’t believe I get to see my future wedding.” I kept my face perfectly still, though my chest felt hollow. The real eighteen-year-old Tyler would have lost his mind if he thought I was sick. He would have badgered me with a thousand questions, wishing he could catch the cold for me. The man standing in front of me couldn’t even bother to put effort into his performance anymore. Tyler looked down, avoiding my eyes. “Rebecca, I only have a short time here in the future. I want to look around the city on my own for a bit. Can I come back to you tomorrow?” I squeezed my hands into fists. “Sure.” The floating chat feed flared up again. [She actually believed him? He’s using the “looking around” excuse to go hook up with Cassie again!] [He is trash. No wonder the groveling arc later is so brutal. My poor girl is being so blind right now.] [Right? Has she seriously not noticed Cassie’s entire social media is basically a shrine to him?] I pulled out my phone and scrolled through Cassie’s feed. She was a chronic poster, always chasing likes. In the past, I’d merely double-tapped out of habit, never looking closely. Now, the truth stared back at me in high definition. Her most recent post was a grid of nine photos. My eyes locked onto one of them—a shadow cast on the pavement. I knew the silhouette of Tyler’s shoulders anywhere. And there, glinting on the wrist, was the Omega watch I had bought him for our anniversary. I scrolled up. Nearly every post had a piece of Tyler hidden in plain sight. A hand on a coffee cup, a pair of legs stretching out on a patio chair, a set of keys. But never his face. If it hadn’t been for that accidental Close Friends post, I might have gone to my grave blind. I locked my phone and sat on a park bench for a long time, watching the autumn leaves drift across the concrete. The silence was deafening. While I sat there, my phone buzzed. Cassie had posted again. She was holding a massive bouquet of red roses, her arm looped through Tyler’s. His face was cropped out, but his physical presence was unmistakable. Her caption: [You are the love of my youth.] A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and heavy, blurring the screen. The chat overlay scrolled by: [Finally, she’s seeing it! He’s literally all over her right now. It’s disgusting. Why isn’t she catching them in the act?] [They’re literally hooking up in a car parked on the street nearby. If she just walks over, she’ll catch them red-handed.] I looked across the street. A familiar pink sedan was parked by the curb. Cassie’s car. The vehicle was rocking with rhythmic, unmistakable motion. I grabbed my purse, stood up, and walked over. As my shadow fell across the tinted windows, the motion abruptly stopped. Total silence. I knocked on the glass. No response. Instead of making a scene, I stood there, pulled out my phone, and called the local parking enforcement line to report an illegally parked vehicle blocking a fire hydrant. Panicked, the doors flew open. Cassie and Tyler scrambled out, their clothes desperately disheveled. Tyler’s button-down shirt was misaligned, his collar turned inside out. It was pathetic. He tried to look bewildered and innocent. “Rebecca! What’s wrong? Why didn’t you recognize Cassie’s car?” My eyes drifted to the faint red smudge on his neck. I hung up the phone. “What are you two doing here?” Cassie’s jaw was tight, but she shot a glance at Tyler, her eyes filled with a smug, defiant confidence. Tyler stammered, “I… I just ran into her. I asked her to show me around the neighborhood. You know, since I’m eighteen again, everything looks so different. I wanted to find you a perfect wedding gift.” I forced a polite smile. “Oh, I see. Then let me join you. A lot has changed in ten years. Let’s go together.” The chat feed went wild: [Is she seriously buying this? Look at their clothes! Cassie’s dress literally has stains on it!] [Keep watching, I can’t take this frustration.] Cassie’s face contorted. “Oh, sweetie, you’re the bride. You shouldn’t be running around exhausting yourself.” “I’m fine,” I replied. Reluctantly, they let me in. Cassie drove, Tyler sat in the passenger seat, and I sat in the back. Neither of them seemed to realize how absurd this was. From the back seat, I saw the lipstick mark on the back of Tyler’s neck. My throat tightened. “Cassie,” I said quietly. “Are you going to explain why you Photoshopped a marriage license with my fiancé?” She laughed, a high, forced sound. “It was just a joke, Becca. Don’t be so sensitive. You’re my best friend—what’s wrong with borrowing your husband for a laugh?” The chat overlay chimed in: [What is going on? She knows the truth, so why is she just asking questions? Don’t tell me she’s going to forgive them.] [Ugh, she’s so codependent. In the original timeline, she forgave him because Cassie died in the crash. She’s going to do it again, isn’t she?] I dug my nails into my palms until the pain cleared my head. “Pull over.” Tyler flinched, looking back at me with sudden panic. “What’s wrong?” “I said, pull over.” Cassie hit the brakes, pulling the car onto the shoulder of the busy road. My voice remained dead calm. “Tyler. Slap Cassie. Ten times. Hard.” Tyler gasped, turning around to glare at me. “Rebecca! Have you lost your mind? She’s your best friend!” My gaze was icy. “Tyler, when you were eighteen, you did whatever I told you. Back in high school, when those kids bullied me, you didn’t hesitate to throw a punch. Why is this any different? I don’t like other people touching my things. Even her.” Cassie started to cry. “Becca, please. It was just a stupid post.” “Do it, Tyler,” I commanded. They wanted to play games? Fine. Let’s play. The chat overlay lit up: [Oh my god, yes! She’s making them turn on each other!] [This is brilliant! Let them tear each other apart!] [He’s trapped. He claimed to be his younger, devoted self—he has to prove it now.] Tyler was sweating, his face tense with anxiety. He raised his hand, looking at Cassie with genuine pain in his eyes. Cassie stared back at him, her eyes wide with betrayal. She couldn’t believe he would actually do it. “Becca, we’ve been friends for ten years. You can’t do this to me,” she sobbed. Ten years of friendship, and she was sleeping with my fiancé. Tyler gritted his teeth and let his hand fall against Cassie’s cheek. It was a weak, soft slap. “Harder,” I whispered. “I’m not satisfied.” Tyler closed his eyes and delivered a stinging slap that left a red mark on her face. Cassie burst into tears, clutching her cheek. Seeing the agonizing sympathy in Tyler’s eyes made my stomach turn. He loved her. He loved her so much he didn’t even realize he was blowing his own cover. What did our ten years together mean to him? The sound of slaps echoed in the tight space of the car alongside Cassie’s quiet whimpering. No one spoke. Finally, Cassie couldn’t take it anymore. She threw open the driver’s side door and ran out into the street. Tyler instinctively reached out after her. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Does it hurt you to see her cry?” He snapped his hand back, his voice too high. “Of course not! I was just… I was thinking about you. You two have been friends forever. It’s a shame to ruin that over a misunderstanding.” “Is it? I thought you always hated her.” When Tyler was pursuing me in college, he complained constantly about Cassie taking up too much of my time. He’d written in his journal back then that he wished she would just disappear. I had scolded him for it. Tyler frozen. “I… I do hate her. I’m just worried you won’t have any friends left.” “I don’t need friends like her.” Tyler had no comeback. “Rebecca, what happened to you? You used to be so kind, so forgiving.” “People change,” I said simply. He looked deeply unsettled by that. On the drive back, Tyler’s phone buzzed incessantly. We both knew it was Cassie. He wanted to check it, but he couldn’t—not while playing the innocent eighteen-year-old. Once we reached our apartment, Tyler tried to sound domestic. “Get some rest, okay? My parents are so excited about the baby. We can’t let them down. I have to return Cassie’s car keys to her, so I’ll be back in a bit.” I leaned against the window frame. “Tyler, how did you know I was pregnant?” He blinked, his eyes darting away. “Oh… Cassie told me.” “Right. Go on, then. Just make sure you’re back tonight.” Relieved, he hurried out. I watched his car disappear down the street. Tyler had severe oligospermia—a low sperm count. The fertility specialists had told us even IVF might not work. We had accepted that we might never have a child. But then, against all odds, I had gotten pregnant naturally. His family had been ecstatic, rushing us to the altar. That baby was the only reason Tyler cared enough to lie to me now. I placed a hand over my stomach. “I’m sorry, little one,” I thought. “Find a happier home in your next life.” An hour later, Cassie posted another update. It was a direct provocation. [A woman with real power never fears losing her man.] The photo showed Tyler from behind, standing in her kitchen, making coffee. She was bold now; anyone who knew him would recognize his posture. I smiled and tapped the heart icon. The chat overlay floated up: [Look at this audacity! He’s back in her bed, promising her this is the “last time.”] [Oh my god, I can’t. Why is the heroine just sitting there? Do something!] [Is she really going to marry him? She didn’t even get the abortion.] Unbothered, I opened an app on my phone. It connected to a hidden security camera in Cassie’s living room. I had installed it for her years ago after her apartment was broken into. Now, it was going to serve a different purpose. I adjusted the camera angle remotely toward her velvet sofa. There they were, completely oblivious, tangled together. Cassie wrapped her arms around his neck. “You behaved well today. I suppose I can forgive you.” Tyler kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I can’t give you a ring. I can’t leave Rebecca.” “It’s fine. Once you’re married, we’ll pretend none of this ever happened.” Tyler’s eyes softened with guilt as he pulled her back down. I pressed the record button. The chat feed erupted: [I knew she had a plan! This video is going to destroy them!] [Oh, the wedding tomorrow is going to be spectacular!] [Let’s see him try to play the innocent eighteen-year-old after this.] I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, Tyler showed up at the venue just in time, holding a bouquet of white peonies. He didn’t offer any explanation for where he’d spent the night, assuming I’d forgotten his promise to return. I stood on the stage, looking down at Cassie sitting in the third row. The smile on my face widened. “The eighteen-year-old Tyler never broke a promise,” I whispered as he stood beside me. Tyler’s chest tightened. “Rebecca, what do you mean?” I reached up, gently adjusting his crooked tie. “When do you think you’ll go back to your own time?” He stammered, “Soon, I guess.” “Tyler, the boy I loved at eighteen wanted to be near me every second. He would never have left me alone on the eve of our wedding, and he certainly wouldn’t have spent the night at Cassie’s.” “You’ve got it wrong,” he whispered frantically. “I wasn’t with her.” “Stop acting. You’re terrible at it.” His eyes widened. A split second later, a collective gasp echoed through the chapel. The giant projection screen, which was supposed to show our romantic photo slideshow, began playing the high-definition footage of Tyler and Cassie on her living room sofa. I had spent the entire night editing it. From the crowd, Cassie let out a bloodcurdling shriek. “That’s not me! It’s a deepfake!” Tyler screamed at the tech booth, “Turn it off! Shut it down!” But the guests were already staring, whispering, recording with their phones. Under the intense stress and the judging eyes of everyone we knew, Cassie’s body stiffened. She fell to the floor, having a severe stress-induced seizure. Tyler froze, looking at her, then back at me. Panic overtook him. He rushed off the stage, lifting her into his arms. I picked up the microphone, my voice echoing through the speakers. “Tyler! If you walk out that door with her, this pregnancy is over.” Tyler paused, caught in a terrible, agonizing hesitation. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. And then he ran. The chat text scrolled by: [Let him go. He’ll find out the truth soon enough.]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “531001”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

We were huddled around a low marble table, a half-empty bottle of gin between us, trying to play matchmaker for my best friend and her crush. A few drinks in, the toy lie-detector was placed in front of my boyfriend, Garrett. Smiling, I leaned in and asked a question I thought was harmless: “If we ever have a baby, what would you want to name her?” Without a second of hesitation, Garrett blurted out, “Ellie.” My name is Brielle. To me, “Ellie” sounded like the sweetest, most tender diminutive he could have chosen for me—a soft play on the syllables of my own name. The green light flashed. It was the truth. A warm flush rushed to my cheeks. Our friends erupted into cheers, clinking their glasses and teasing us about domestic bliss. Even my best friend, Ella, draped her arm around my shoulders, her eyes shining with what looked like pure envy. “I was so against you two dating at first,” she whispered, her breath warm against my neck. “But look at you now. You’re so happy it almost makes me regret it.” At the time, I thought she was just being sentimental, watching her best friend settle into a stable, loving relationship. I didn’t think twice about the slight edge in her voice. Until Memorial Day weekend, the very day we were supposed to meet Garrett’s parents to discuss our wedding plans. I was in my apartment when my phone rang—a call from an unknown, heavily static-laced number. The voice on the other end was a little girl, sobbing, claiming to be my daughter from five years in the future. Heart hammering, caught between amusement and a strange, cold dread, I played along and asked her that same question. “Sweetie, is your name Ellie? Are Mommy and Daddy happy?” But the little girl didn’t giggle. Instead, her voice cracked, dissolving into a ragged, desperate sob. “No! We’re not happy at all!” “Mommy cries every single day. Daddy is always running off to take care of Aunt Ella’s daughter. I hate them so much!” … Hearing those words felt like a physical blow to my chest. Aunt Ella. Out of everyone in my life, there was only one person that could refer to. But the implication was too absurd, too devastating to contemplate. I dug my fingernails into my palms, my teeth chattering as I forced the next words out of my throat. “Sweetie… is the Aunt Ella you’re talking about… is she Ella Dawson?” It was the most horrifying question I could ask, yet I had to hear it. The little girl’s crying only intensified. “Yes, her! Daddy’s computer is full of files with Aunt Ella’s name on them. Mommy, please, can we just leave him? Please?” A sharp, high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My brain went entirely numb. Before I could press her for more, loud, violent shouting erupted in the background of the call. “Garrett, if you walk out that door to see Ella again today, I swear I will kill myself right in front of you!” The male voice that replied was cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of the warmth I had grown to love. It was a stranger’s voice. “Then go ahead and do it!” Garrett’s voice spat. “You’re so fucking hysterical all the time—no wonder your mother walked out on you. If I had known you’d turn into this nightmare, I never would have broken up with Ella in the first place!” The little girl’s quiet whimpering broke into a terrified wail. Then came the thunderous slam of a front door, followed by the agonizing shatter of glass, and my own voice—screaming from five years in the future. “Why? Why can’t I ever have your heart?” “Garrett! I hate you!” My breath caught. I couldn’t move. I expected the line to go dead, but the feed kept running. Then came a desperate, frantic plea from the child. “Mommy! Don’t take those pills! Please, Mommy, it’s my fault! Don’t die, please!” “If I knew, I’d rather never have been born!” The sound of a mother and daughter weeping, clinging to each other in absolute despair, echoed clearly through the speaker. A suffocating wave of pain washed over me. It wasn’t just Garrett’s betrayal; it was Ella’s, too. The line finally went dead. I slowly lowered my phone, staring blankly at the wall as hot, silent tears began to track down my face. Every word from that call felt like a scalpel carving into my chest. My throat felt tight, like someone was choking me. And then, my screen lit up with a text from Garrett. Babe, I got the Memorial Day gift baskets for your parents. They’re already in the trunk. I’m going to be a little late, though. I need to drop off Ella’s basket first. It’s on the way, so I figured I’d just pick her up and bring her to the restaurant with us. I stared at the message. I had been playing a supporting role in my own love story, sharing a crowded stage without even realizing it. If that was the case, I was choosing to step off the stage entirely. I didn’t reply to his text. Instead, I drafted an email to my landlord, requesting to terminate my lease early. I pulled my suitcase out from the closet and began packing my life away, piece by piece. Every framed photo, every card, every little trinket Garrett had ever bought me went straight into a heavy-duty trash bag, which I hauled down to the dumpster. When I walked back inside, the late May air felt biting and cruel. Or maybe it was just my heart freezing over. For the two years Garrett and I had been together, we were inseparable, completely wrapped up in each other. Everyone in our social circle talked about us as “endgame.” Everyone except Ella, who constantly whispered doubts in my ear, criticizing his flaws. I had always assumed they just didn’t get along. Yet, whenever Garrett and I planned a date night, Ella somehow always ended up tagging along. Garrett had complained about it at first, but gradually, he grew used to her presence. To the point where now, buying a holiday gift basket for my family automatically meant buying one for Ella, too. I used to think it was sweet. I felt relieved that my boyfriend and my best friend were finally putting aside their differences. But now, the harsh words from that future call echoed in my mind. My mother had run off with a wealthy man when I was only two years old. When I met Ella in high school, she took on a protective, almost maternal role in my life. I trusted her implicitly. I opened my message history with Garrett and began scrolling backward. The evidence was hiding in plain sight. June 1st: [Got you a necklace, and a bracelet for Ella. Happy June!] Now that I thought about it, Ella’s gift was a beautiful, sparkling Swarovski crystal bracelet. The necklace I was wearing felt cheap in comparison—almost like a free gift-with-purchase that came with her bracelet. February 14th: [Happy Valentine’s Day, babe. Booked the flights and hotel for the three of us. Make sure you set an alarm so we don’t miss our flight.] A Valentine’s Day trip. Ella hadn’t even asked to come, yet Garrett had automatically booked her a ticket without a second thought. I kept scrolling. Her name was woven into every plan, every conversation, every weekend. He was used to it, and I had been brainwashed into accepting it. I had been completely blind. A tear splashed onto the screen, blurring the text. I blinked it away and looked up, my gaze landing on the framed photo on my nightstand. It was from our Valentine’s trip to Savannah. In the photo, I was standing in the middle, smiling brightly at the camera. Ella and Garrett stood on either side of me. But looking closely now, a detail I had never noticed before jumped out at me. The puzzle pieces finally clicked together. They were both slightly angled toward the center. But if I blocked my own figure out with my thumb, it was obvious. They weren’t looking at the camera. Their eyes were locked on each other. I opened the shared digital album on my phone. The reality was almost comical. Out of the three hundred and one photos, nearly all of them featured the three of us. And at the very bottom of the album was a solo shot of Ella. In every group photo, I was the buffer in the middle. If you cropped me out of any of them, they looked like a couple in deep, silent conversation. A violent wave of nausea hit me. I stumbled out of bed, rushing to the bathroom, and collapsed over the toilet, dry-heaving. It was sick. It was so incredibly sick. In the middle of my panic, my phone began to buzz. Garrett’s caller ID flashed on the screen. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice, and answered. But it wasn’t Garrett on the line. It was Ella. “Brielle! We’re almost at your building. Get ready to come down! You have five minutes. Put on something gorgeous! Today is your big day.” Before I could say a word, she hung up. Right. If she hadn’t reminded me, I would have forgotten. Today was the formal dinner where my dad was supposed to meet Garrett’s parents. And even on a day as intimate and critical as this, Ella had positioned herself to attend as part of my “family.” I dragged myself up and stared at my reflection. My face was pale, but my features were still striking. I looked hollow. I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that the broken, screaming woman on the phone from five years in the future was actually me. I quickly splashed cold water on my face and put on minimal makeup. I unclasped the cheap necklace Garrett had given me and tossed it onto the vanity. Hearing a car horn honk outside, I grabbed my purse and went downstairs. The moment I got into the back seat, Ella turned around and began to lecture me. “Brielle, what is this? I told you to dress up! Why are you wearing something so plain?” As she spoke, she reached naturally into the glove compartment, pulling out a tube of lipstick and offering it to me. Garrett glanced over from the driver’s seat with a chuckle. “Ella, stop trying to corrupt my girlfriend. That shade is way too loud. It doesn’t suit Brielle.” My hand froze halfway to the tube. I kept my voice light, casual. “How do you know what shade she wears, Garrett?” Garrett didn’t even blink. His tone was perfectly easy. “I bought that lipstick, remember? I got you both one. You were the one who complained your shade didn’t suit you. Ella’s always been into those classic reds and plums.” My hands began to tremble again. This was a man who couldn’t even remember that I preferred tea over coffee, yet he had memorized Ella’s favorite lipstick shades. But I didn’t say anything. I simply withdrew my hand. “Never mind. It really doesn’t suit me. I’ll stick to my own.” I stared at the back of their heads. Only now did I notice that they were wearing matching vintage leather jackets—the exact same brand, the exact same shade of chestnut brown. They looked like a couple in a catalog. They had bought them while shopping together, and I had foolishly cheered them on, thinking nothing of it. Ella had even posted a picture of them on her Instagram. The more I recalled the past, the deeper my nails bit into my palms. It was only the sharp pinch of physical pain that brought me back to reality. The car pulled up to the restaurant—a cozy Italian bistro we frequented. Staring at the sign, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through Ella’s Instagram archive. She had posted a photo of this exact place a few months ago. The caption read: Obsessed with the truffle gnocchi here! If I could eat this every day, I’d die happy. While I was looking at my phone, Garrett had already hopped out and opened the passenger door for Ella. As she stepped out, he reached out with natural familiarity and touched her forehead. “How was the ride? You didn’t get carsick, did you?” Ella playfully swatted his hand away. She rolled her eyes, but her expression was soft, teasing. Ordinarily, I would have made a joke about them bickering like siblings, laughing along to keep the peace. But now, I saw Garrett’s reaction. He didn’t look annoyed at all. He just looked at her with pure, indulgent affection. They started walking toward the entrance before realizing I hadn’t even opened my door. Garrett looked back, frowning. “Brielle, you coming?” He was standing only a few feet away. But in our two years together, I had never felt so utterly distant from him. He didn’t make any move to walk back and open the door for me. I opened it myself and stepped out. I walked a step ahead of them. They fell into step behind me, whispering and laughing about some inside joke. The entire walk inside was filled with their playful banter. I didn’t say a single word. When we sat down at the table, Garrett naturally took the middle seat in the booth. He had always claimed he sat in the middle so he could easily pass dishes to both of us. Now I realized it was just a pathetic excuse to slide closer to Ella. Our parents hadn’t arrived yet. Garrett handed me the digital tablet menu. “Go ahead and order whatever you and your dad want. You two are always so picky.” I looked at the pre-selected items in the cart. Almost every single dish was something Ella loved. I didn’t argue. I just added a couple of side dishes. After all, I wasn’t the real lead in this play anymore. Garrett didn’t even look at what I added. He just tapped “confirm” and waved the waiter over. A few minutes later, Garrett’s parents arrived. We all stood up to greet them. But before I could even introduce myself, Garrett’s mother walked straight past me, wrapping her arms around Ella. “Ella! I knew it was you. Didn’t you tell me you and Garrett broke up? I knew you two couldn’t stay apart for long. Oh, sweetie, I’m so thrilled to see you!” An uncomfortable, suffocating silence fell over the table. Garrett and Ella’s faces went pale with embarrassment. I stood there, watching them quietly. His mother was still holding Ella’s hand, beaming. Even though I had always known they dated briefly in college, seeing his mother treat Ella as the default daughter-in-law was a different kind of pain. But as I stood there witnessing it, I realized I felt completely, utterly numb. Garrett didn’t try to clarify things for his mother. He just gently guided her to sit down across from us. Noticing the look on my face, he leaned in and whispered in my ear. “We’ll talk about this later. It’s not what you think.” I looked at him and smiled softly. “It’s fine. You don’t have to explain. I trust you.” Garrett stared at me, trying to read my expression. Relieved by my easy response, he let out a breath and sat back. The food arrived, filling the table. But my dad still hadn’t shown up. We sat in awkward silence for twenty minutes. Garrett’s parents were beginning to look annoyed. Only their fondness for Ella kept them from complaining out loud. Garrett leaned over, his voice tight. “Brielle, does your dad not like me? Is that why he’s blowing us off? If he has an issue, give me his number. I’ll call him myself. I worked so hard to set this up. Can you just get him here?” Even Ella chimed in, using that same patronizing, sisterly tone she always used with me. “Brielle, did your dad forget? Or did you forget to tell him? I told you to double-check with him. You’re always so disorganized.” I looked at the two of them, and a slow, empty smile spread across my face. “No. They’ll be here any minute. Just wait.” Right on cue, the heavy wooden door of the private dining room swung open. But the people who walked in made everyone at the table freeze in sheer shock. It was Ella’s parents. “Ella,” her mother said, looking around the room in confusion. “Why didn’t you tell us you were finalizing your wedding plans today? We had to hear it from Brielle!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “531000”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I lied about my age and spent three months in a purely digital, voice-only relationship with a man six years older than me. Over the phone, his voice was a masterclass in gentle restraint. But when the hours bled into the middle of the night, it would drop into a gravelly, resonant register, trembling just a fraction when he called me “baby”. But I lost my nerve. The day I decided to break it off, I blocked and deleted him across every platform. I didn’t even leave him a single word of explanation. Months later, the ancient radiator in my apartment practically exploded, turning my bedroom into a swamp. My roommate, Piper, took one look at the mess and told me to pack a bag—we were crashing at her older brother’s condo for a few days. The moment the front door swung open, I found myself staring into a pair of impossibly cold, dark eyes. He was leaning against the entryway wall, wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Long, architectural fingers loosely held an unlit cigarette. His face was striking. Pale skin, a sharp, aristocratic brow, and a jawline that looked like it could cut glass. He was too devastatingly handsome to feel real. And entirely, brutally cold. He dragged his gaze over me, didn’t say a single word, and turned to walk up the stairs. Piper leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Don’t mind him. My brother’s just like that.” “Ever since his ex dumped him out of nowhere, he looks at everyone like they’re a tax audit.” “Plus, he absolutely loathes women who throw themselves at him. Just keep your distance and you’ll be fine.” 1 I nodded. “What does it have to do with me anyway?” I thought. That was, until dinner. Piper took a call from their mother, and casually yelled over her shoulder— “Hey, Declan! Mom wants us home for dinner tomorrow.” The fork slipped through my fingers. It hit the edge of my ceramic plate with a sharp, echoing “clink”. Declan. I had heard that name a thousand times. In voice notes sent at two in the morning. In those low, breathy murmurs that used to make my face burn and my lungs forget how to work. It was the first thing he said every time he initiated a call: “It’s Declan. Tell me you missed me today.” I froze, completely paralyzed. Across the dining table, the man lifted his eyes at the sound of my dropped fork. Those dark eyes swept over me, utterly devoid of warmth. Like he was looking at a ghost. Or worse—a stranger. Beside me, Piper was still rambling. “Oh, by the way, Quinn, my brother’s full name is Declan Prescott. It’s just the two of us kids in the family, so just make sure you don’t mess up the names when you meet my parents.” My lips parted, but my throat refused to form a single, coherent syllable. Declan Prescott. My internet ex-boyfriend. The man I had mercilessly ghosted and blocked eight months ago. And he was currently sitting exactly six feet across from me, chewing his dinner with the blank expression of a sociopath. I was dead. Absolutely, unequivocally dead. 2 I couldn’t have written a worse script for my life if I tried. Accidentally dating my roommate’s older brother online was one level of hell. Having to move into his apartment eight months after I broke his heart was the basement of that hell. That night, I lay awake in the guest bedroom, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning until the sheets were a tangled mess. All I could see was Declan’s face. —And the memory of his voice. Truthfully, in those three months of talking, we hadn’t even exchanged photos. He had said there was no rush, that he would wait until I was ready to meet in person. But his voice had been an unfair advantage. Deep, crisp, with that slight, raspy edge at the end of his sentences. When he talked about his day, he sounded like a late-night radio host. When he whispered those… “other” things… I pulled the duvet over my head, groaning into the dark. “Stop thinking about it.” Back then, the username I used was “Clementine,” and I had deliberately pitched my voice a little lower, a little smoother. I told him I was twenty-two, freshly graduated, and working my first corporate job. In reality, I was nineteen. A college sophomore. I had built a house of cards, and when the wind finally picked up, I terrified myself so badly that I just ran. I tried to soothe my racing heart: “There’s no way he knows.” He only knew my fake, lowered voice. He didn’t know my face, my real name, or even what city I actually lived in. As long as I acted normal, I would survive this. Early the next morning, the jarring sound of the doorbell woke me. In the room next door, Piper was still snoring softly. Resigned, I dragged myself out of bed and padded downstairs to open the door. A delivery driver in a uniform stood on the porch, holding two massive brown paper bags from a high-end bakery. “Order for Mr. Prescott.” I took the bags, muttered a quick thank you, and shut the door. As I turned around, the sound of footsteps on the hardwood stairs made my breath hitch. Declan was walking down, wearing grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. His hair was slightly rumpled, and there was a heavy, sleep-tousled lethargy in his eyes. It made him look far less like the unapproachable ice king from last night and entirely too much like… “Stop. Don’t look at him.” “Your delivery.” I set the bags on the kitchen island and immediately pivoted to escape back upstairs. “Hold on.” His voice stopped me dead in my tracks. My spine locked. “The mugs are in the top cabinet. You’re too short. I’ll get them.” Declan walked right past me, the faint scent of cedarwood and clean laundry trailing behind him. He effortlessly swung open the high cabinet door, pulled down two ceramic mugs, and held one out to me. “Th… thanks.” He didn’t look at me again. He just sat down on a barstool and began unrolling the tops of the bakery bags. I stood there clutching the empty mug to my chest for an embarrassingly long time before I remembered I was supposed to be getting water. My heart was hammering against my ribs. It was the most mundane sentence in the world. But the moment the timbre of his voice hit the air, I couldn’t stop it from overlapping with those late-night whispers etched into my memory. —”Clementine, tell me you missed me today.” —”Be a good girl. Go to sleep. I’ll see you in your dreams.” I practically choked on a huge gulp of freezing water. This wouldn’t work. If this kept up, I was going to give myself away. 3 Piper finally dragged herself downstairs. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest, but her eyes lit up the second she saw the spread on the island. “Declan, what’s with the charity? You never order breakfast.” Declan was scrolling through his phone, not even bothering to look up. “Fridge was empty. Didn’t feel like cooking.” Piper rolled her eyes, pulled up a stool next to me, and started devouring a croissant. Halfway through, she paused and leaned into my space. “Quinn, why is your face so red?” “The heat’s up too high.” I ducked my head and aggressively stirred my oatmeal. Piper shrugged it off, her ADHD brain seamlessly pivoting to a new topic. “Oh, right. Mom said I have to bring you home for dinner this weekend. She’s been dying to meet you.” “She wants to personally thank you for tutoring me through finals every semester.” My spoon hit the bottom of the bowl. Back to the Prescott family home. Didn’t that mean even more forced proximity with Declan? “She really doesn’t have to do that…” “Don’t be silly, my mom is an incredible cook,” Piper said, hooking her arm through mine. “It’s a date.” Across the island, Declan set his phone face down on the marble. He looked at me, his expression as unreadable as ever. “What school do you go to?” The sudden question nearly made me inhale my oatmeal. “Uh, same as Piper. UChicago. English Lit.” “What year?” “Sophomore.” He gave a slow nod and didn’t press further. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the way he was looking at me had shifted. There was a sudden weight to his gaze. Maybe it was just the paranoia talking. After breakfast, Piper dragged me out to the city for some shopping. The moment we stepped out of the condo, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for hours. I was finally safe from the suffocating orbit of Declan Prescott. But halfway through the boutiques on Michigan Avenue, Piper casually dropped a bomb. “Did you know my brother actually had an online relationship once?” My knuckles turned white as I gripped the handles of a clothing rack. “Oh… really?” “Yeah, it was absolutely wild,” Piper said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve seen him. In real life, he’s basically a walking freezer.” “But when he was talking to this girl? He was obsessed. Clingy, even. He’d be on the phone with her until three or four in the morning.” “And then, one day, the bitch just vanished. Didn’t even leave a goodbye text.” Piper stopped walking and looked at me. “Take a guess how my brother reacted.” I didn’t want to guess. I couldn’t. “He looked for her. For two straight months. Scoured every single app, every forum, every platform.” “He found absolutely nothing.” “Ever since then, his temper has been garbage, and he barely has the patience to speak to anyone.” I fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. He had looked for me. For two whole months. While I had scorched the earth, deleted every account, and hidden myself away like a pathetic coward. “Why are you being so quiet?” Piper nudged my shoulder. “Nothing… just thinking your brother went through a lot.” “Yeah, it was brutal.” Piper sighed. “Sometimes I wish I could track that girl down and scream at her.” “If you’re going to dump someone, at least have the decency to give them a reason, you know?” I forced the corners of my mouth up, but it wasn’t a smile. 4 Saturday. The Prescott Estate. Mrs. Prescott—Elaine—was a force of nature. The moment I walked through the door, she grabbed both my hands and refused to let go. “So you’re the lovely Quinn who’s been saving Piper’s GPA? Look at you, you’re absolutely darling.” “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Prescott.” “Sit, sit! Make yourself at home, please.” Elaine practically pushed me onto the plush velvet sofa, hovering over me with tea and a barrage of warm questions. The living room was massive, decorated in moody, understated earth tones. I hadn’t been sitting for more than ten minutes when the sound of a key turning in the front door echoed through the foyer. Declan walked in. He was wearing a navy blue knit sweater and dark trousers. He looked immaculate, sharp, like he had just stepped out of a luxury editorial spread. “Declan, you’re back! Come here,” his mother waved him over. He swapped his shoes for house slippers and walked into the living room. When he saw me on the sofa, his steps faltered for a fraction of a second. Then, acting as if nothing was amiss, he sat down in the armchair directly across from me. “Mom.” “Yes, hi,” Elaine beamed, then turned to me. “Quinn, this is my son, Declan. I assume you two have crossed paths at the apartment?” “Yes.” I gave a tight nod. I was doing everything in my power to look normal. “Declan, Quinn has been a godsend to your sister. Be nice to her.” Declan looked at me. “Right.” One word. That was it. Elaine shook her head in fond exasperation and lowered her voice toward me. “My boy is brilliant at everything except talking. Don’t take it personally.” “Oh, I won’t.” Lunch was an extravagant affair. Elaine was an incredible cook. I focused entirely on my plate, using my food as an excuse to completely avoid eye contact with Declan. But halfway through the meal, Elaine casually steered the conversation into a minefield. “Declan, did you end up meeting with the St. James girl like I asked?” Declan didn’t even pause in slicing his steak. “I did.” “And?” “Felt nothing.” Elaine put her fork down. “Enlighten me, then. What exactly do you need to feel “something”?” “Mom. Let’s just eat.” “I am worrying about your future. You’re twenty-five. Your cousins are already buying houses and having babies, and you…” “Mom.” Declan’s voice dropped an octave, a quiet warning. “I’m waiting for someone.” The entire dining room went dead silent. Piper sat there with mashed potatoes in her mouth, her eyes practically bulging out of her skull. “Wait, you finally thawed out? Who is she?” Declan didn’t answer. He simply picked up his water glass and took a slow sip. His expression was as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather. “What do you mean you’re waiting for someone? Then bring her home so I can meet her!” Elaine demanded, not ready to yield. “It’s not the right time.” Five words, and he effectively shut his mother down completely. Under the table, Piper kicked my shin and shot me a look that clearly said: “See? Told you he was impossible.” I managed a strained smile, but inside, my stomach was in freefall. Waiting for someone. He said he was waiting for someone. He couldn’t possibly mean… he was still hung up on the girl who vanished into thin air? 5 After lunch. Elaine insisted on dragging Piper into the kitchen to help with the dishes, claiming it was “mother-daughter bonding time.” That left me and Declan alone in the living room. Separated by a single, glass coffee table. The silence was so heavy my palms began to sweat. I pulled out my phone and aggressively pretended to read my emails. I couldn’t comprehend a single word on the screen. In my peripheral vision, Declan was looking at his phone too. His thumb was sliding lazily across the screen. The suffocating quiet lasted for about three minutes. “Quinn.” He spoke suddenly. I snapped my head up. Declan wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were still fixed on his screen. “How old are you?” “Nineteen.” He paused. “Nineteen,” he repeated softly, as if verifying a piece of data. Then he set his phone down on the glass table and finally turned to look at me. I couldn’t read the emotion in those dark eyes. It wasn’t his usual coldness. Nor was it an interrogation. It felt more like… he was taking me apart to see how my pieces fit. “Why?” I asked, bracing myself. “Nothing.” He looked away. “You have a very distinct voice.” A loud ringing started in my ears. “What?” “It’s recognizable,” he said. He stood up, grabbing his empty water glass, and started walking toward the kitchen. As he passed the sofa, his footsteps slowed to a halt right beside me. I looked up at him. He looked down at me. He was close enough that I could smell the sharp, clean notes of cedarwood and bergamot on his skin. A few seconds ticked by. He didn’t say another word. He just kept walking. I sat frozen on the sofa, trying to remember how to breathe. My phone lit up. A text from Piper. “Did my brother terrorize you? I swear he was staring at the back of your head the entire time I was in the kitchen.” “No,” I typed back. “He’s probably just intimidated by how pretty you are lol. He says he’s waiting for someone, but his eyes were definitely wandering.” I flipped my phone face down on my lap. I was doomed. He said my voice was distinct. Did he… figure it out? “Impossible,” I told myself. When we talked, I had specifically pitched my voice lower and breathier. I didn’t sound like that when I talked normally. It was impossible. I tried to convince myself. “Probably.” 6 After that day, I made it my mission to eliminate any chance of being alone with Declan. Unfortunately, Piper possessed zero situational awareness. She constantly thrust me into his orbit. “Declan, Quinn doesn’t know how to format this citation, can you show her?” “Declan, Quinn needs to go to the library, drop her off on your way?” “Declan, it’s Quinn’s birthday today—” “Piper!” I slapped a hand over her mouth. “My birthday is in December!” Piper just giggled and pried my hand away. “Close enough.” Declan stepped out of his home office, giving us a flat look. “Loud,” he muttered. Then he shut the door in our faces. Piper stuck her tongue out at the closed wood. “Ignore him. He’s stressed about a merger.” I let out a shaky breath of relief. But later that night, when I snuck down to the kitchen for a glass of water, I ran straight into him. He was leaning against the marble counter, a lowball glass in his hand. The ambient light from the range hood cast deep shadows across his face, sharpening his cheekbones. He saw me, but he didn’t move. Bracing myself, I walked over to the fridge to use the water dispenser. There was less than a foot of space between us. “Are you afraid of me?” The water was running into my glass. I almost didn’t hear him. “What?” “Ever since the day you moved in, if I’m in a room, you walk the other way.” He turned his head to look at me. The dim light caught the edge of his eyelashes, casting a shadow over his cheek. “I’m asking you why you’re afraid of me.” My heart was beating so fast it physically hurt. I gripped my glass tight, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I’m not afraid of you.” “We just don’t know each other very well. I didn’t want to intrude on your space.” He stared at me for a few agonizing seconds. Then he let out a soft “Hmph.” But he didn’t break eye contact. “Well, starting now, you can stop hiding.” “I don’t bite.” With that, he picked up his glass and walked out of the kitchen. Leaving me standing there alone in the dark, the water dispenser overflowing over my hand before I finally remembered to pull my glass away. 7 Piper spent the entire following morning complaining to me. “Quinn, do you think I should set my brother up on a blind date?” “Didn’t he say he was waiting for someone?” “Yeah, but he’s not actually “doing” anything about it!” Piper groaned, resting her head on the kitchen island. “What if the girl he’s waiting for already forgot he exists?” That sentence felt like a knife to the stomach. “Maybe… maybe she had a good reason,” I offered weakly. “What kind of reason makes you drop off the face of the earth? Without even a text?” Piper scoffed. “She’s just toxic.” I didn’t have a defense. “But my brother is the weird one here. She’s been gone for nearly a year, and he’s still waiting.” “Did you know he kept all their chat logs?” My lungs seized. “What?” “I saw it once by accident. His notes app is full of voice memos that he used software to transcribe into text.” Piper leaned in, dropping her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “The craziest part is he made a dedicated, locked folder for them. What was it called…” She scrunched her nose, thinking. “It was just one word. “Clementine”.” The water in my glass sloshed over the rim, spilling across the counter. “Oh crap, are you okay?” Piper scrambled for some paper towels. “I’m fine. Slipped.” Clementine. He kept a folder named “Clementine”. That was the name I gave him. I closed my eyes. Something heavy and suffocating lodged itself in my chest. I couldn’t tell if it was crushing guilt or something else entirely. That afternoon. I sat alone on the balcony, staring blankly at the Chicago skyline. I pulled up the App Store and found the old voice app I had deleted. I stared at it for a long time, then hit download. When I tried to log in, a cold system prompt popped up: “This account has been permanently deleted and cannot be recovered.” Exactly as I expected. I had scrubbed every trace of myself from existence. And he had meticulously saved every word I ever said to him. At dinner, Declan came home. He seemed to be in a foul mood. He was radiating a distinct “do not approach” aura that even Piper had the sense to respect. She kept her mouth shut the entire meal. I didn’t even dare to look in his direction. But halfway through dinner— “Ahem.” Declan set his fork down. He spoke to Piper, but his eyes were fixed entirely on me. “I’m flying out to New York tomorrow for a week. You two take care of yourselves.” “Got it,” Piper mumbled. I let out an internal sigh of relief. A week away meant I had a seven-day grace period. Seven days of not feeling like I was walking on a tightrope. But as he pushed his chair back to leave the table, I could have sworn— As he walked past the back of my chair, his footsteps slowed for a fraction of a second. And then I heard it. A single word, spoken so quietly it was almost a breath. “Clem.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I whipped my head around. But there was no one behind me. Declan was already walking up the stairs. I must have imagined it. I had to have imagined it. 8 The week Declan was in New York. I lived like a sloth, completely free of psychological torment, eating and sleeping in his apartment without a care in the world. Piper was thrilled, too, dragging me into endless movie marathons and gaming sessions. But a tiny corner of my mind kept drifting back to that word he whispered before he left. “Clem.” Was it an auditory hallucination? Or did he really say it? If he said it— Did that mean he knew? But if he knew, why didn’t he just confront me? Given his personality, he wasn’t the type to swallow his anger and play games. On the fourth day. I was curled up on the sofa reading a textbook when my phone screen lit up. A text from an unsaved number. “Don’t forget to water the plants on the balcony.” I hesitated, then typed: “Who is this?” He replied instantly. “Declan. Got your number from Piper.” I stared at the screen for a full ten seconds. Why would he ask Piper for my number? And why was he texting me directly about the plants instead of his sister? I tentatively typed back: “Okay. I’ll do it now.” I threw the phone to the other end of the couch, assuming that was the end of it. Ten minutes later, the screen lit up again. “Did you eat?” Three words. The most agonizingly normal three words in the English language. But I couldn’t stop my mind from pulling me back to the past. When we were talking online, his first message to me every single day was always those three words: “Did you eat?” A coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. I typed back: “Yes.” Five minutes passed. “Good girl.” I slammed my phone face down on the cushions. My cheeks were burning so hot I felt like I was running a fever. “Good girl.” He used to call me that. Every time I obediently reported what I was doing or what I had for lunch, he would reply with “good girl”. And then follow it up with: “I missed you.” “Stop thinking about it.” I shoved my phone deep beneath the sofa cushions. After that day, Declan texted me exactly once a day. They were always brief. “It’s cold there today. Wear a coat.” “There are snacks in the pantry. Don’t starve.” “Go to sleep early.” None of them were longer than ten words. It felt like a very restrained, perfectly calibrated level of concern. If I didn’t know who he was… If I didn’t know that he and “that man” were the same person… I would just assume he was being a polite older brother checking in on his sister’s friend. But I knew. Which meant every single text made me feel like I was sitting on a bed of nails. The seventh day. The night before he was scheduled to fly back. His last text came through at 1:00 AM. “Flying back tomorrow.” I replied: “Okay.” A long time passed. About twenty minutes later. Another text. “There’s something I need to ask you in person.” My heart contracted painfully. I typed: “About what?” I sent it, and then I lay awake for the rest of the night. He never replied. 9 The morning Declan returned, I dawdled in my bedroom for hours. I was too terrified to go downstairs. Until Piper came upstairs and started banging on my door. “Quinn! My brother brought back a ton of food from New York, get down here and eat!” I took a deep, shuddering breath. Fine. It was just a conversation. It wasn’t like he could murder me in his living room. When I walked downstairs, the coffee table was covered in boxes. Declan was sitting on the sofa, pulling a small package out of a boutique shopping bag. At the sound of my footsteps, he looked up. His eyes locked onto me with pinpoint accuracy. The moment our eyes met, the corner of his mouth twitched just a fraction. “I’m back.” He said it to me. Not to Piper. “Yeah… welcome back,” I croaked, my voice painfully dry. I sat down next to Piper, intentionally leaving as much distance between him and me as possible. Piper was happily digging through the souvenirs. “Oh my god, these are so good! Quinn, you have to try this—” “That box is for her.” Declan interrupted smoothly. He pulled a small, elegant white box from the bottom of the bag and slid it across the glass coffee table toward me. I froze. Piper looked even more shocked than I did. “Declan? Since when do you buy gifts for my friends?” Declan didn’t even blink. “Saw it on the way to the airport. Grabbed it.” I stared down at the little white box. It had the gold-foil logo of an artisanal bakery in SoHo. “Clementine Tartlets.” My heart completely skipped a beat. Clementine tartlets. It was a completely random detail I had mentioned to him once—that my absolute favorite dessert in the world was my grandmother’s clementine tartlets. I only mentioned it once. Late one night, during a three-hour phone call. Just once. I slowly lifted my head and looked at Declan. He was looking back at me. His eyes were perfectly calm, but there was the faintest shadow of a smirk playing on his lips.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530999”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day I organized our graduation road trip to the lake, I saw the one girl my boyfriend supposedly despised sitting in our rental van. “Despised” wasn’t even a strong enough word. Weston had warned me to stay away from Chelsea more times than I could count. “She’s trouble, Lauren,” he’d told me, his eyes icy and resolute whenever her name came up. “Being around girls like her will only rub off on you in the worst way.” Yet there she was, wearing a denim micro-skirt and four-inch heels, sitting right next to Weston. In the passenger seat. My seat. Weston didn’t even look up. I assumed he was just too polite to ask her to move. But as I walked over, preparing to speak up, Weston suddenly said, “It’s hard for her to stand in those shoes. Go sit in the back, okay?” I froze. Before I could process it, one of our friends gently took my arm and pulled me toward the back of the shuttle. As I moved down the aisle, I saw Weston take off our matching couple’s jacket and drape it over Chelsea’s bare legs. “Keep it on,” he murmured, his voice a mix of exasperation and tenderness. “The AC is blasting. Don’t come crying to me when your legs are aching later.” My chest tightened. Suddenly, the entire trip felt hollow. … I turned to Phoebe, who was sitting next to me. “Phoebe, I thought this was just our inner circle. Why is Chelsea here?” Phoebe hesitated, looking at me with a flash of pity. “Weston invited her.” A dull ache settled behind my ribs. Looking forward, I saw Chelsea resting her head on Weston’s shoulder. Her bright red lipstick was smudged right onto his collar. My boyfriend—the boy who couldn’t stand a speck of dust, who washed his hands five times if he touched a public railing—didn’t flinch. He only reached up, gently adjusting the jacket so it wouldn’t slip off her shoulders. He looked just like Chelsea’s ex-boyfriend used to. Back then, Weston had watched them with nothing but pure disdain. “I don’t get girls like her,” he’d sneered. “Dressing like that… she’s obviously looking for attention.” He’d spoken with such disgust, yet his eyes had been glued to her. He’d gripped my hand so tightly it bruised, and when I cried out in pain, he’d blinked, looking like he’d just woken from a trance. I had been so naive. I thought he genuinely disliked her. Now I understood. That wasn’t disgust. It was jealousy. When the shuttle pulled into a rest stop, I got off. I’d only taken a few steps across the asphalt when a voice called out behind me. “Lauren.” I paused, a foolish spark of hope rising in my chest. I thought he’d noticed I was leaving. “Give me your motion sickness pills.” “What?” The small smile on my lips froze. “Chelsea is feeling sick. Give me your pills.” His voice was sharp, laced with an underlying impatience. He didn’t notice the heavy backpack on my shoulders. He didn’t ask how I was doing. He had only stopped me for another girl. My throat felt dry, like ashes. “I only brought one dose.” “Well, you look fine right now, don’t you?” I wasn’t fine. When my motion sickness hit, it was brutal—blinding headaches, nausea, sometimes even blacking out. The only reason I felt okay now was because I’d taken the first half of my medication before we left. I needed the rest for the long drive ahead. But before I could even explain, Weston reached into the outer pocket of my backpack and pulled the blister pack out himself. He let out a sigh of relief. Without another word to me, he turned around, tossed his ruined, vomit-stained couple’s jacket into a nearby trash can, and headed back to the bus. I walked slowly over to the trash can. There it lay, crumpled among the garbage. I stared at it for a long time, and then, slowly, a quiet laugh escaped my throat. When I turned away this time, the weight in my chest was gone. It felt incredibly light. On the train ride back to Chicago, I called my academic advisor. “Dr. Adler, I made a mistake rejecting the graduate fellowship at Columbia. Is it too late to get my spot back?” Dr. Adler sounded deeply relieved. “It’s not too late, Lauren. The final paperwork isn’t due for another two days. I’m so glad you changed your mind. One day you’ll realize that nothing is more important than your own future.” His words echoed in my ears long after we hung up. Three hours later, I was back in my apartment. I opened Instagram. Weston, who hadn’t posted a photo in years, had just uploaded a picture. It was a shot of him gently holding Chelsea’s hand, his expression a mix of helplessness and adoration. The caption read: “Who managed to get carsick, lose her wallet, and get stung by a bee all in one afternoon? This idiot.” Below it, one of his close friends had commented: “Look at you, sweating over her. She doesn’t even care, and you’re checking her hand every three minutes like she’s been bit by a cobra.” I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then calmly double-tapped to like the post. At that moment, I knew Dr. Adler was right. I packed my bags, took a hot shower, and made myself a quiet dinner. As I sat down to eat, my phone rang. It was Weston. His voice was filled with disbelief. “Lauren, you left?” I looked at the clock on the wall. It had been eight hours since I got off the bus. He was only just realizing I was gone. “Yeah.” “What happened? Are you sick?” He seemed to suddenly remember taking my medicine, his tone shifting into a hurried anxiety. A bitter ache swelled in my throat, but my voice remained steady. “Weston.” “Yeah?” “I thought you hated Chelsea.” The line went dead silent. After a long pause, he let out a heavy sigh. “People change, Lauren.” He hesitated, his voice softening into something resembling tenderness. “And honestly… I realized she’s actually really sweet. She’s lively, fun, spontaneous. You guys just don’t really know her.” He rambled on, lost in his own thoughts, before catching himself with a nervous cough. “Anyway, you guys should really get to know each other. I think you’d be great friends.” I didn’t say anything. Assuming I was just tired, he murmured a few empty reassurances and hung up. The harsh glare of the kitchen light made my head throb. I scraped my untouched dinner into the trash, went into my bedroom, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, a FaceTime call woke me. It was Phoebe. She held a finger to her lips, whispering, “Quiet,” before flipping the camera. She was standing at the end of a hallway. The camera zoomed in on two figures near the exit: Weston and our mutual friend, Jared. “Weston, what the hell is wrong with you?” Jared was saying, his voice low but furious. “What’s going on with you and Chelsea? Didn’t you see Lauren leave?” Weston was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice sounded heavy. “Jared, I regret it.” “Regret what?” “I always thought I wanted a good, stable girl like Lauren. But being with Chelsea… it made me realize what real passion feels like.” “Lauren is an incredible girl,” Jared snapped. “You’re treating her like garbage.” “I know she’s great,” Weston said, his voice dropping into a flat, exhausted tone. “But she’s like tap water, Jared. Bland. Safe. I know she’d make a perfect wife, a perfect mother. But she’s not a lover. I want to live a little before I settle down. Just for a few days, even if it ruins me.” “And what if Lauren finds out? She’ll leave you.” Weston let out a soft, confident chuckle. “She won’t. We’ve been together six years. I know her.” The video cut off. That night, I came down with a raging fever. In my delirium, my mind drifted back to the past. I remembered the dark days after my mother died, when my father remarried. After I graduated high school, my father tried to stop me from going to college, trying to arrange marriages for me with older men for a quick payout. It was Weston who had climbed through my window in the dead of night, taking my hand and running away with me to a city where we had nothing. We worked shifts, split cheap meals, and put ourselves through school. I remembered a night at my part-time job when a customer had groped me. Weston hadn’t hesitated—he’d beaten the man half to death. The manager, furious, had threatened to withhold our pay. Weston had grabbed the manager by his collar, his voice shaking with rage. “I don’t care if you offered me a million dollars. I’d do it again.” When I woke up, my pillow was soaked with tears. The fever didn’t break, even after taking medicine, so I dragged myself to the clinic for an IV drip. I spent three days getting fluids. By the time I came home, Weston was back. The moment I unlocked the front door, a wall of thumping bass and laughter hit me. Standing in the center of our living room was Chelsea. She was wearing a tiny camisole and denim shorts, her wild, curly hair tumbling over her shoulders like dark seaweed. She looked vibrant, radiant, and entirely alive. I, on the other hand, hadn’t washed my hair in three days. My face was pale and hollow from the fever, and my clothes hung loosely over my frame to accommodate the IV tape on my arm. The contrast was humiliating. Chelsea let out a soft chuckle. She didn’t say anything, but the mocking amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. I stared at the crowd of people packed into our small apartment. My head felt like it was splitting in two. “Lauren, Chelsea and her friends stopped by,” Weston said, stepping forward to explain as he handed out drinks. I looked at the crowd. Most of them were wearing heavy eyeliner, piercings, and clothes that smelled faintly of weed and cheap liquor. Someone was even dancing on our fabric sofa with their shoes on. The quiet, peaceful home I had spent years decorating was being torn apart piece by piece. “Are you okay? You look pale,” Weston murmured, noticing my silence. I stared at him, my mouth dry. I wanted to tell him we were over. I wanted to tell him I knew everything. I wanted to ask him if any of our history had ever been real. But with a dozen eyes watching us, I kept my mouth shut. “Oh, by the way, I got you something,” Weston said, handing me a small, velvet box. It was small enough to fit in my palm, but my heart stopped. In the quiet hours of the night, Weston used to whisper to me, “Lauren, the second we graduate, I’m proposing. I want to marry you and keep you safe from the world.” My fingers trembled as I clicked the latch open. Inside was a cheap silver brooch. A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the living room, hitting me like a physical slap across the face. “Do you like it?” Chelsea had slipped over to my side, a sweet, feline smile on her face. “I helped him pick it out. As a thank-you, he got me this.” She raised her left hand, letting the light catch a brilliant, flawless diamond ring. It was easily worth five thousand dollars. And I knew exactly where that money came from. Our joint savings account. From the age of eighteen to twenty-three, we had saved every penny together. I had worked through fevers, skipped meals, and taken the bus to save a few dollars. And all of it had been traded for a cheap silver brooch and a diamond ring for another woman. It was almost comical. “Weston,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise, cold as ice. “Did you ask me before you spent our money on another woman?” The living room fell dead silent. Weston’s face flushed. He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it bruised, and dragged me into the bedroom, slamming the door behind us. “When did you get so materialistic?” he hissed. “It’s just a ring!” A tear slipped down my cheek, but not because of his words. It was because of the sheer panic in his eyes. He wasn’t angry at me; he was terrified of Chelsea being embarrassed. “What kind of man buys a diamond ring for another woman?” Weston looked away, his jaw tight. “It was a thank-you gift. How many times do I have to tell you?” “Is that all it is, Weston? What about everything you said before? You told me to stay away from her. You said she was cheap, loose, shameless—” “Shut up!” he barked, his eyes flashing with disgust. “Don’t talk about her like that. She’s a good girl, Lauren. When did you get so bitter?” She’s a good girl. Even though she has a reputation, she’s a good girl. Even though she drops out of classes and insults people, she’s a good girl. Even though she bounces from guy to guy, she’s a good girl. The bedroom door creaked open, and Chelsea stepped in, looking fragile. “What’s going on? Are you guys fighting because of me?” “It’s not your fault,” Weston said quickly, his voice softening instantly as he tried to usher her back out. But Chelsea looked at me, her eyes welling with tears. “Lauren, Weston and I are just friends. You shouldn’t attack my character just because of how I dress.” Slowly, dramatically, she slid the ring off her finger, set it on the nightstand, and ran out of the apartment crying. Outside, a chorus of voices gasped, asking her what was wrong. Weston grabbed the ring and slammed it onto the dresser. “Are you happy now?” He threw open the door and ran out after her, leaving the front door wide open. The apartment was dead quiet, filled only with the lingering smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. I didn’t clean up. I didn’t play the dutiful, long-suffering partner. I simply walked over to the dresser, swallowed my fever medication with a sip of water, and began packing. Two hours later, Chelsea updated her Instagram. “Out with the old, in with the new.” In the photo, she was wearing a brand-new, even larger diamond ring. I checked our joint account on my phone. The balance was exactly zero. He had drained every last cent. But as I looked at the screen, I didn’t cry. Instead, a wave of profound relief washed over me. We were finally even. I owed him nothing. That evening, Weston didn’t come home. I was still weak from the fever, so Phoebe came over with groceries to cook for me. She stood at the stove, quietly washing vegetables, before turning to me. “Weston is going to regret this, Lauren. Within three months, he’s going to be the biggest joke in Chicago.” I paused, looking up from the counter. Phoebe wasn’t the type to say things like that. She dried her hands on a towel, a cold, sharp smile playing on her lips. “I was getting my nails done yesterday, and guess who was sitting right next to me? I recorded this.” She tapped her phone, and Chelsea’s voice filled the quiet kitchen. “Are you actually going to stay with Weston, Chelsea?” a friend asked. Chelsea let out a dry, dismissive laugh. “Of course not. It’s just hilarious watching him follow me around like a lost puppy. All I had to do was wiggle my finger and he came running.” She paused, chuckling. “You should have seen him. He actually screamed at his girlfriend for me. When he bought the ring, his eyes got all watery with guilt. He kept promising he’d buy me a bigger one soon because I ‘deserved’ it.” The recording ended. Phoebe locked her phone and looked at me, her eyes fierce. “Lauren, you are the one who deserves better. Let him play his little game. It won’t be long before he ruins himself.” I stared at the phone. “I know. Thank you, Phoebe.” Three days later, I was fully recovered. Weston still hadn’t come home. He sent occasional, curt text messages—pretending to still be angry to justify staying out with Chelsea, drowning himself in her world of high-end bars and endless parties. He thought I would do what I had always done: apologize, beg for forgiveness, and ask him to come home. But he was wrong. I packed my remaining bags, booked a one-way ticket, and boarded the train to New York. At that exact moment, Weston was being jolted awake by a frantic pounding on his door.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530998”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel