“The company’s been dissolved.” Mark slid the divorce papers across the table to me. “What?” “We’ve been in the red for three years. We’re three hundred thousand in debt,” he sighed. “I’ve sold the house to cover it. We’ll split whatever’s left.” I just stared at him. Eight years. I was with him from a rented apartment startup to a company valued at over a million dollars. “Last month you told me you landed three huge contracts.” “They fell through.” He offered me a pen. “Just sign it, Leah. It’s better for everyone.” I didn’t take it. “Mark, when was the company dissolved?” “Last week.” I glanced at my phone. It was Monday, 3:00 PM. The state business registry showed the dissolution time: today, at 2:00 PM. An hour ago. 1 I turned my phone screen toward him. “You said last week?” Mark’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second before he regained his composure. “My mistake. I’ve been swamped lately.” “Busy dissolving the company?” “Leah, what are you getting at?” He frowned. “I didn’t want it to come to this. The business really couldn’t hold on any longer.” I didn’t say a word. Eight years of marriage had taught me everything I needed to know about him. When he lied, his left hand would instinctively twist the wedding band on his finger. Right now, his left hand was hidden under the table. “Where are the debt records?” I asked. “The accountant has them. I’ll have her send them to you.” “Don’t bother,” I said, standing up. “I’ll go get them myself.” “Leah!” He moved to block my way. “What is this? You don’t trust me?” I looked at him, at this face I had known for a decade, loved for eight years. The face of the man who, on one knee, had told me meeting me was the greatest fortune of his life. The man who said we would grow old and gray together. “We’ll see about trust once I’ve seen the books.” I stepped around him and headed for the door. “The company is dissolved! What’s the point of looking at them now?” I stopped. “You’re right.” I turned back. “Once it’s dissolved, the books are meaningless.” He let out a visible sigh of relief. “That’s why I want to see the records from before it was dissolved.” The color drained from his face. “What records?” “Those three big contracts you mentioned last month,” I said, my gaze locked on his. “The agreements, the payment records, the project timelines.” “They all fell through! There’s nothing to see.” “Even failed projects leave a paper trail.” “Leah, what the hell do you want?” he snapped, his voice rising. In all the years I’d known him, he had almost never raised his voice at me. This was a first. “I want the truth.” He froze for a second, then a bitter laugh escaped his lips. “Fine. You want to see them? You’ll see them.” He pulled out his phone and dialed. “Hey, it’s Mark. Could you send my wife the contract files from last month? … Yeah, all of them.” He hung up and looked at me, a smug expression on his face. “Happy now?” I remained silent. Ten minutes later, a file landed in my inbox. Three contracts, totaling over one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. All signed and stamped by the clients. But there was a note attached: Project suspended due to client-side cash flow issues. I looked up at him. He was leaning back in his chair, wearing an I-told-you-so smirk. “Convinced?” “Completely.” I slipped my phone into my purse. “I’m just going to use the restroom.” Inside the stall, I silenced my phone and pulled up the state’s online business database. I typed in the name of the first client company. The search result came back instantly. The company was dissolved three years ago. The second one? Dissolved two years ago. The third? No record of such a company ever existed. I leaned against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, taking a deep, shaky breath. Eight years. I thought I was his wife, his partner. It turns out I was never his wife. Just his piggy bank. 2 When I walked out of the restroom, my expression was a perfect mask of neutrality. Mark was still sitting there. “All good?” “All good.” “Then let’s get this signed.” He pushed the pen toward me again. “The sooner we’re done, the better.” I sat down and picked up the agreement. Four pages. I read through them one by one. The house would be sold by him to cover the debts. The car was his. Our savings would be divided based on whose name they were under. I would get custody of our son, Leo, and he would pay two hundred dollars a month in child support. “Two hundred dollars?” “I don’t have an income right now,” he said with a practiced sigh. “I’ll raise it once I’m back on my feet.” “How much do you have in your personal savings?” “Less than five thousand.” I met his gaze. “We’ve been married for eight years, and you only have five thousand dollars to your name?” “Company finances and personal finances are separate, Leah, you know that,” he said, his tone perfectly calm. “When the company went under, all the money went to pay off creditors.” I nodded slowly. “What about the house?” “There’s still a hundred and seventy thousand left on the mortgage. After we sell it and pay that off, there won’t be enough to cover the rest of the business debt.” “And the car?” “It’s a five-year-old sedan. It’s not worth much.” I set the papers down. “So, what you’re saying is, after eight years of marriage, I walk away with nothing?” “It’s not that you get nothing, Leah, it’s that there is nothing,” he said, his eyes pleading. “I hate this as much as you do, but this is our reality now.” I studied his face. He looked so sincere. So wounded. So utterly helpless. If I hadn’t known those contracts were fake, I might have actually believed him. “I need some time to think.” “Think about what?” he frowned. “Is this about not trusting me again?” “I need to see the complete financial records.” “They’re with the accountant! I told you, I can have her send them over.” “Not those,” I said, standing and grabbing my purse. “I want to see every single financial transaction from the day the company was founded until the day it was dissolved.” His expression hardened. “Leah, what is the meaning of this?” “It means nothing,” I said, walking toward the door. “I’ll sign the papers, but not before every penny is accounted for.” “The books are clean!” he shouted after me. I paused at the doorway. “Then what are you so afraid of?” He had no answer. I walked out of the room, hearing his voice call after me. “Leah, you better think carefully!” I didn’t turn back. “About what?” “About what kind of outcome you really want.” This time, I turned. His face was no longer a mask of wounded pride. It was cold, hard, and utterly unfamiliar. “The outcome I want,” I said, “is the truth.” He laughed, a short, ugly sound. “The truth?” “Yes. The truth.” “Leah,” he said, rising and walking toward me until he stood just inches away. “Some truths are more than you can handle.” I looked him straight in the eye. “You really don’t know me at all, do you?” Then I turned and left. As soon as the law firm’s doors closed behind me, my hands started to shake. It wasn’t fear. It was pure, unadulterated rage. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Chloe? Are you still at the office?” “Yeah, I am. What’s up?” “I need you to run a check on someone for me.” “Who?” “Mark.” There was a two-second pause on the other end. “Your Mark?” “Yes.” “Leah, what’s going on?” I took a deep breath, the city air feeling thin in my lungs. “He dissolved his company an hour before asking me for a divorce.” Chloe was silent. “I need to know where his money went for the past eight years.” “Okay,” Chloe’s voice turned sharp and professional. “Send me his social security number.” “And one more thing,” I added. “Check for any signs of hidden debts or asset transfers.” “You got it.” After hanging up, I stood on the sidewalk, watching the river of people flow past. Not a single person knew that in an office just above them, my marriage had just died. It was a quiet death. But I wasn’t going to let it be a mysterious one. 3 When I got home, our son Leo was building a tower of blocks in the living room. Mark’s mother was watching him from the sofa. “You’re back!” she said, standing up and taking my purse with a warm smile. “Have you eaten?” “I have.” “Well, have a glass of water. I just made some chamomile tea.” I looked at her. For the past few months, my mother-in-law had been unusually kind. She used to visit once a month, staying for a couple of days at most. But she’d been living with us for nearly two months now. She said she wanted to spend more time with her grandson. It seemed normal then. Now, it felt all wrong. “Mom, how has Mark’s company been doing lately?” Her hand paused mid-air. She recovered quickly. “Not too well, I don’t think. He doesn’t tell me much.” “So you didn’t know the company was dissolved?” She blinked. “Dissolved?” Her expression was one of perfect surprise. Her eyes, however, were not. “It was dissolved today,” I said, watching her closely. “He didn’t tell you?” “He… he didn’t say a word,” she sighed. “That boy, he never tells me anything.” I offered a thin smile and said nothing more. Leo ran over and hugged my leg. “Mommy, why are you home so early?” “Because Mommy missed you.” I scooped him into my arms. A five-year-old boy, so blissfully unaware. He had no idea that his own father was likely orchestrating a grand deception to strip his mother of everything she had. Mark didn’t come home that night. He sent a text: Out with friends tonight, don’t wait up. I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened my laptop and started piecing together the last eight years. My bank statements, my credit card bills, my transfer histories. My salary account had received just over $200,000 in eight years. I’d spent about $130,000 on household expenses: groceries, Leo’s formula and diapers, preschool tuition, gifts for both our parents. The remaining $70,000 was mostly in my savings account. Mark never touched the household finances. He always said he was in charge of making money, and I was in charge of spending it. I thought it was a sign of trust. Looking back, it was probably part of a much darker strategy. I opened the old profit-and-loss statements he’d shown me before. 2021: Profit $350,000. 2022: Profit $250,000. 2023: Profit $220,000. That was over $800,000 in profit in just three years. Where did it all go? My phone buzzed. A message from Chloe. Found a few things. Let’s meet tomorrow. Okay, I replied. Lying in bed that night, my eyes wide open in the dark, I couldn’t sleep. By the time the sun rose, one thing had become terrifyingly clear. This divorce wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was a carefully planned hunt. And I was the prey. 4 The next day, I met Chloe at a café. She pushed a file across the table. “Start with this.” It was a share transfer agreement. I opened it. The date was from six months ago. Mark had transferred 45% of his company shares to someone named Tina Miller, for the price of one dollar. “Who is Tina Miller?” “I checked her out. Her ID lists an address in Florida,” Chloe said, watching me. “But she owns a condo here. In the city.” “When did she buy it?” “Last August.” Last August. We hadn’t even been talking about divorce. “How much was the condo?” “Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Paid in cash.” I took a sharp breath. Chloe produced another sheet of paper. “And then there’s this.” It was a bank transfer record. Over the past two years, Mark’s company account had wired a total of $600,000 to a company called “Apex Trading.” The memo for each transfer was “Project Fees.” “Did you look into this company?” “I did,” Chloe said, her expression grim. “The legal representative is a man named George Miller. Tina Miller’s father.” I said nothing. Chloe continued. “Apex Trading is a shell corporation. It has no actual business operations. Most of the money it received was funneled directly into Tina Miller’s personal account.” My hand, wrapped around my coffee cup, began to tremble. Six hundred thousand dollars. In two years. Plus the four-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar condo. Over a million dollars. “There’s more,” Chloe said, sliding one last document toward me. “This one was harder to get. I had to call in a favor.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388147”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Everyone in Port City knew I had a wife to be envied. Isabelle was not only the daughter of a titan of industry but also a legend in the legal world—an untouchable ice queen. But with me, she transformed, becoming the gentlest, most adoring wife a man could ask for. My plan was simple. On our wedding anniversary, I would finally tell her the truth: that I was the heir to the Rhodes family, the unspoken royalty of Sterling City, and take her home to meet my family. But then came her birthday. By chance, I saw her. Pinned against her own car by her new assistant, a kiss forced on her lips, the shreds of her dress scattered on the pavement like fallen leaves. I saw red. I charged in, a man possessed. The assistant ended up in the ICU. I ended up in court. I never imagined that my own wife, acting as my defense attorney, would betray me on the stand. She painted me as a monster, a jealous husband guilty of malicious assault. Of the assistant’s attempted rape, she said nothing. Not a single word. I was sentenced to three years in prison. In the visiting room, I demanded answers, my voice raw, but her face was a mask of calm. “You’re my husband, Matthew. Even in prison, I’ll love you.” “But Leo is different,” she’d said, her voice soft but firm. “His family has nothing. If he’s branded a rapist, his life is over.” In that moment, something inside me died. Fine. If she didn’t want the title of Mrs. Rhodes, then I would take it back. The day I was released, Isabelle Vaughn was waiting for me outside the iron gates, dressed in a magnificent white wedding gown. The sight of her ignited a cold, hard knot of hatred in my gut. In three years, she hadn’t visited me once. What was this pathetic charade for? “What are you doing here?” Faced with my icy glare, Isabelle simply smiled, lifting the hem of her dress as she glided toward me. “Why, I’m here to pick you up, my darling husband.” She stopped in front of me, her fingers reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle on my collar. “Today is a very special day. I’m taking you home so we can celebrate together.” I was about to refuse when she raised a hand. Two men in black suits immediately stepped out of the car, flanking me. “Please, Matthew,” she said, her smile never wavering as she gestured toward the open car door. I knew I had no choice. Taking a deep breath, I got in. The entire ride, Isabelle stared at her phone, ignoring me completely. I was grateful for the silence, my mind racing with ways to file for divorce. But as we pulled up to the villa, I saw it. The lawn was covered in flowers and elaborate arches. And in front of the main entrance was a large welcome portrait. It was of Isabelle and her assistant, Leo. So this was her “special day.” Her wedding. To him. A firestorm of rage erupted in my chest, and I let the pure, undiluted hatred consume me. “Isabelle, what is the meaning of this?” She let out a derisive laugh, the warmth in her expression melting away to reveal pure mockery. “Matthew, you didn’t actually believe that a convict like you was worthy of being my husband, did you? The husband of a Vaughn?” The bodyguards dragged me from the car, and instantly, all eyes were on me. “Hey, isn’t that the jailbird? They actually let him out?” “Ugh, seeing trash like that on a day like this really ruins the mood.” Leo, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, strode toward me, his face alight with a smug, triumphant grin. “Well, well, Matthew. How very generous of you. Rushing straight from prison to attend my wedding to Izzy. We’re so honored.” Looking at that venomous face, I didn’t hesitate. I swung, my fist connecting with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. “Leo!” Isabelle shrieked. She shoved me hard before rushing to his side, cradling his face with a look of pure adoration. “Matthew, you listen to me! Leo is my husband now. If you lay another finger on him, I swear you’ll regret it!” “Husband?” I scoffed, shaking my head. “Need I remind you, Isabelle? I may have been in prison for three years, but we are not divorced!” My words didn’t faze her in the slightest. She just laughed. Waving a hand, an assistant scurried over with two small, red booklets. She threw them in my face. “Open your eyes and see the truth, you fool,” she sneered. “These are fakes.” Then, as if handling a holy relic, she took another set of certificates from Leo and held them up for me to see. “I wanted you to see what real ones look like. So you don’t get tricked by another woman in the future.” “Did you really think,” she continued, her voice dripping with contempt, “that I, a top partner at a Magic Circle firm, the eldest daughter of the Vaughn family, would ever marry a nobody? I married you because you had a pretty face. It was fun for a while. But a girl grows up. She learns that a pretty little puppy is no match for a real wolf.” She draped herself over Leo’s chest, the sight of them together like a spike of ice through my eyes. Leo wrapped an arm around her bare shoulders. “You know, I really have you to thank, Matthew. If you hadn’t attacked me three years ago, Izzy would have never realized her true feelings for me.” He paused, then handed me a business card. “But I’m a generous man. Since I took your wife, I’ll find you a replacement. The Elysian Club is full of beautiful women. Pick any one you like. I’ll buy her for you.” Veins bulged on my forehead. I lunged, my fist smashing into his face again. “You filthy animals…” The rage was uncontrollable. I wanted to tear them both limb from limb. But this was their territory. Bodyguards seized me from behind, wrenching my arms back. My eyes were bloodshot as I roared at Isabelle. “He tried to rape you! I saved you! Is this how you repay me?” Isabelle just laughed. She leaned in and kissed the blood from the corner of Leo’s mouth, then turned to face me, her hand intertwined with his. “Who said he was a rapist? What happened three years ago was mutual. We were just unlucky you stumbled upon us.” Her smile widened. “What was truly pathetic was how you charged in like a brainless hero, fighting him, refusing to let go no matter how I tried to stop you.” My heart felt like it was being crushed in a vice, the air squeezed from my lungs. But the memory of her terror was seared into my brain. “But you were screaming for help! You looked terrified! You were fighting him off!” Her laughter grew more manic. “Oh, Matthew. You really are a fool, aren’t you? It’s called role-playing. Ever heard of it?” My body went numb, my limbs heavy as lead. If not for the table behind me, I would have collapsed. But she wasn’t done humiliating me. “You must have felt like such a hero that day, protecting your precious wife. It must have been the proudest moment of your worthless life.” She leaned in closer. “A man as incompetent as you can only find his self-worth in moments like that, can’t he?” “So now you understand. I didn’t betray you on the stand. The only guilty party three years ago… was you.” She knew exactly where to stick the knife. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe, to find some semblance of calm. Finally, I gritted my teeth and asked, “Isabelle, are you truly going to marry him?” She and Leo exchanged a glance, and then they both burst out laughing. “Marry him? Or a convict like you? Don’t be so naive, Matthew.” “Fine,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “Don’t regret it.” I pulled out the phone someone had given me three days ago. I dialed the only number in it. “Young Master. You finally called.” “Tell him I’ll do it. I’ll come back and take my place. But I have one condition.” A cold autumn wind whipped around me. My eyes, like a viper’s, were fixed on Isabelle and Leo. “Before nightfall, I want the Vaughn family’s empire to be nothing but dust.” The moment the words left my mouth, Isabelle, Leo, and all their guests erupted in hysterical laughter. “What did he say? He wants the Vaughn empire gone by nightfall?” “Even if you’re broke, you shouldn’t drink cheap liquor. Listen to that nonsense.” Leo swaggered over. “Well, since it’s my wedding day, consider it a gift from me to you. I’ll give you a drink you won’t forget.” The bodyguards I’d shaken off swarmed me again. My jaw was forced open. Leo grabbed a wine bottle from a passing waiter, smashed the bottom against a table, and poured the entire contents—wine and jagged shards of glass—down my throat. Dark red liquid choked me, spilling from my nose, but Leo clamped a hand over my mouth and nostrils. “Izzy picked this vintage herself. You dare waste a single drop?” The wine flooded my windpipe. My face turned purple, the whites of my eyes swallowing my pupils. Just as I thought it was over, he let me go. He threw the shattered bottle to the ground and kicked me hard in the back, sending me to my knees on the bed of broken glass. Isabelle sat in a chair across from me, sipping her own wine. “This is for what you did three years ago,” she said coldly. “If Leo is unhappy, you suffer.” She suddenly noticed a drop of blood on Leo’s finger and rushed over, kissing it away. “Oh, Leo, you’re hurt!” She spun around and slapped me across the face. The stinging pain was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. “You bastard without a mother! How dare you hurt my Leo!” The internet was right. Never show your scars to anyone. I had never celebrated my birthday, and the first time I did was because of her. She had asked me why, and in my naivety, thinking she loved me, I had opened a wound I’d hidden for over twenty years. “My mother died giving birth to me,” I had told her. “I’ve always felt that if it weren’t for me, she would still be alive.” I never thought she would one day use those words as a weapon. The warmth of her palm still lingered on my cheek, but she didn’t spare me another glance, turning back to fuss over Leo. “Darling, don’t hurt yourself while you’re teaching him a lesson. You’ll worry me to death.” They flirted behind me, their laughter fueling the inferno of my hatred. I wanted to tear them apart. Finally, Isabelle sat back down. Leo spat on me, then squatted down, a wicked grin on his face. “You’ve had the wine. It’s only fair you get a taste of our sweet, sweet love.” The crowd cheered. “Leo knows how to have fun!” Before I could react, the guards hauled me to my feet. Leo picked up a heavy wooden chair and brought it down on my back with a sickening crack. I crumpled like a dying dog. But it wasn’t enough. He had them pull me up, and he smashed the chair against me again, and again, until I couldn’t straighten my back. Isabelle suddenly lit up, as if remembering something. “Oh my god, how could I forget?” she exclaimed, walking toward me. “You once swore to be with me for the rest of our lives. Even if I don’t love you anymore, you still love me, right?” I let out a bitter laugh. I had given her too much freedom, too much adoration. It had warped her into this narcissistic monster. She beckoned, and a servant brought over a pregnant dog. “Today is an auspicious day. You’re a lucky man,” she declared. “We’ve had this little lady since Leo and I first got together. Marrying our dog is an honor you could never earn in a hundred lifetimes.” They forced my head down. I fought, craning my neck back, but I was no match for them. My forehead was slammed into the ground three times, and the dog in the servant’s arms was forced to bow with me. Isabelle laughed like a madwoman. “There! Now she’s your wife. You’d better take good care of her and her puppies.” A wave of nausea washed over me, and I collapsed, vomiting onto the ground. At a glance from Isabelle, a guard punched me in the face. “A convict like you dares to be disgusted by my dog? Fine.” She commanded, “Beat him. Beat him until our dear Matthew is willing to call that bitch his wife.” I had always valued philosophy and the classics; my family instilled in me a deep respect for matters of the heart and mind. She was trying to break my spirit completely. The blows rained down. At first, I felt the sharp, cracking pain of bone splintering. But soon, my body, like my heart, grew numb. Leo grabbed my hair. “Are you going to say it or not?” I split my lips into a grin, trying to use the pain to overwhelm the numbness. “You might as well kill me now. Because if you don’t, I will make every single one of you suffer a thousand times more than this.” Leo’s smile became a grotesque sneer. “What was that? Did I hear him right, Izzy? Your ex-boyfriend is not only pathetic, he’s a pathological liar too.” Isabelle suddenly held up a hand, signaling them to stop. For a fleeting, foolish second, my dead heart flickered. Did she still have some shred of feeling for me? But in the next instant, I saw her true intention, and I wanted to travel back in time just to slap my pathetic self. “Oh, silly me,” she chirped. “A wedding isn’t a wedding without a cake!” She and Leo shared a look of pure, malicious satisfaction. The guards lifted me again. I was too broken to resist. A massive, multi-tiered wedding cake was rolled out, and I realized what they were planning a second before they threw me into it. Sickly-sweet frosting enveloped me, a cloying, sticky prison. The top tier of the cake collapsed, burying me completely. The heavy weight pressed down, covering my mouth and nose. The familiar feeling of suffocation returned, the oxygen slowly draining from my lungs. I closed my eyes, resigned. I regretted my youthful rebellion, leaving my family to make it on my own in Port City. But my deepest regret was meeting Isabelle Vaughn and falling so hopelessly in love with her. Perhaps my decision hadn’t been wrong. Perhaps she was wrong. She was a demon, and I had foolishly tried to turn her into an angel. My life flashed before my eyes, and the one memory I clung to was of being a child on the beach, building sandcastles with my father. A wave of regret washed over me. I had always dreamed of the day I would bring Isabelle to meet him, to proudly tell him, this is the woman I love. I never imagined I would be murdered by her. No. I couldn’t die. Not yet. Not before I made them pay. My mind cleared. I slowly moved my left hand, pushing the frosting away from my face. Fresh air flooded my lungs like a transfusion, my brain snapping into focus. The sounds of mockery and abuse filled my ears. The sky was darkening. It was almost time. Just a little longer. I had already lost once. I would not lose again. “Does Matthew even own a mirror? How dare he even dream of being with Isabelle. A toad lusting after a swan.” “Forget that he’s a convict now. Even three years ago, a useless pretty boy like him was never good enough for our Lady Vaughn.” “Our Izzy and Leo were always meant to be. He was just a toy to pass the time. He was the only one who didn’t know it.” How ridiculous. After all these years, I was the last to know. She had been with Leo all along. I had been blind. Leo saw my head emerge from the cake. He grabbed my collar, about to shove me back in. I caught his wrist. “You dare?” I hissed. “We live in a civilized world. If I die here, you’re not walking away from this.” “Is that so?” he mocked, looking at Isabelle. She shrugged with a smile. “Oh? Mr. Rhodes, fresh out of prison, attends his ex-girlfriend’s wedding and commits suicide out of heartbreak. What does that have to do with us?” She looked around at the guests. “Did anyone see Matthew Rhodes here today?” The crowd roared with laughter and denial. “Who?” “Never seen him in my life! After the wedding, we all partied at the Vaughns’ until dawn. Never saw anyone by that name.” Isabelle smirked. “You see? Three years ago, I could make the security footage from that garage disappear. Today, I can do the same with the footage from this villa. You’re just a convict. Who cares if you die?” The mad celebration continued. Suddenly, a symphony of sirens pierced the air, followed by the sound of car doors opening in perfect, disciplined unison. “All of you, stop!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388146”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The fifth spring since our divorce. Julian and I met again in a tattoo studio. He was there to touch up his lover’s name over his heart. I was there to cover the old scars on my wrist. Years had passed. We stared at each other, speechless. After a long silence, Julian opened his mouth to speak, but a small hand tugged at the hem of his shirt. “Daddy,” a little boy said, looking at me with curiosity. “Who is she?” 1 The island breeze stirred the wind chimes on the porch, shattering the prolonged quiet. “I’m a customer,” I said. “Just like your dad. Here for a tattoo.” The little boy tilted his head. “Do you know my daddy?” “Leo,” Julian’s voice was sharp. The boy pouted and fell silent. “No,” I answered him anyway. “We’re strangers.” Julian’s expression darkened. The owner tapped the counter, his gaze shifting between us. “Who’s first?” Julian, who had been leaning against the bar, stood up straight. He looked at me, his eyes fixed. “She is.” He was wearing a white linen shirt and silver-gray trousers, the top buttons undone, revealing a well-defined chest. On his left breast, an English name was tattooed, partially obscured. I couldn’t see it clearly, but I knew whose name it was. Even though, when we divorced, that name had yet to be etched over his heart. “First come, first served,” I said, my tone polite but distant. “You were here first, sir. Please, go ahead.” Before Julian could reply, his phone vibrated. I caught a glimpse of the screen. The caller ID read: “Wife.” He killed the screen and his first instinct was to look at me. I turned and walked to a quiet booth in the lounge area. Behind me, I heard the little boy’s excited voice. “Is that Mommy calling?” 2 Julian’s voice was naturally cool, but when he was coaxing someone, he’d lower it to a warm, deep murmur that blended with the cello music playing in the studio. I stared down, stirring my coffee, when a child’s voice piped up beside me. “Ma’am?” I turned. The little boy was leaning over the armrest, watching me. He was beautifully cherubic, with a refined, handsome air that was utterly charming. So charming that even knowing whose son he was, I couldn’t bring myself to feel any animosity toward him. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispered, as if sharing something profound. “You look just like my mommy. She’s a super famous movie star, you know.” “Then you must look a lot like her.” The boy’s eyes lit up. He seemed about to move closer, but a large hand gently pressed down on his head. Julian ruffled his hair. “Go wait in the car with Uncle Hanson.” I raised an eyebrow and saw the middle-aged man who had been Julian’s assistant for years standing behind him. Our eyes met. He looked shocked, with a hint of awkwardness. “…Miss Xu.” I gave a calm nod, my voice tinged with the wistful air of an old reunion. “Mr. Hanson.” Julian scooped the boy into his arms. As he stood, a flash of silver caught my eye. It was the watch on his wrist, a Patek Philippe—a style he never would have chosen back then. On his long, elegant ring finger was a simple, unadorned band of understated luxury. In the two years of our marriage, Julian had never worn a wedding ring. True love was true love, I thought, taking a sip of coffee. Even after all these years, the passion hadn’t faded. 3 Mr. Hanson led the boy away, but Julian remained standing by my booth. “Clara,” he said, his voice low. “How have you been?” I put down my half-empty cup. “Quite well, thank you for asking.” Silence stretched between us. Finally, the shadow over me was gone. Julian had followed the owner upstairs. The cello music faded, replaced by the soft, tranquil notes of a piano, mirroring the calm in my own heart. The studio’s owner was an internationally renowned tattoo artist. His custom designs were worth a fortune, and he only took two clients a day. It was just my luck that today was the day. My eyes drifted over the designs on the wall, then stopped, fixed on the piece displayed in the center. It was a photograph of a red lipstick tattoo on a man’s inner thigh. The man was sitting on the floor, one knee bent, a black silk robe falling open to reveal boxer briefs and, just below them, the pale pink lipstick print. The shape of the lips was exquisite, the lines clean, creating a simmering tension against the bronzed skin. It was a woman’s mark, claimed on a man’s territory. “Miss Xu,” the owner’s voice pulled me back. “This way, please.” I turned and saw Julian coming down the spiral staircase, the collar of his shirt now buttoned to the top. “So quick?” I asked. “He’s being neurotic. Decided not to get the touch-up after all,” the owner said. He was clearly familiar with Julian. “You can head on up.” Julian stopped at the bottom of the stairs, one hand in his trouser pocket, his face impassive. He looked down at me, his gaze heavy and dark. We stood there, locked in a silent standoff, and all I could think of was the last time we’d made love. After we kissed and fell into bed, I had seen it. The red lipstick tattoo on his inner thigh. 4 The wall clock chimed. I picked up my bag and walked toward the stairs. As I passed Julian, he grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, the metal of his watch digging into my skin, making me wince. “Clara,” his voice was a low rasp. “Do you have to pretend we’re strangers?” I didn’t struggle. My eyes, when they met his, were perfectly still. “The fact that I can still pretend we’re strangers is a kindness.” He froze. His grip loosened, and he rubbed his thumb over his fingers as if to wipe away the contact. “I know you still hate me.” Julian always had that ability—to control any situation, to never appear awkward. He had been exactly the same when the photos of him and Stella Vance kissing went viral. Except back then, I had been the one screaming, a hysterical madwoman next to my perfectly composed husband. “You’re overstating things,” I said, taking a few steps up the stairs, my voice deliberately detached. “Given our current relationship, ‘hate’ is too strong a word. It doesn’t apply.” He seemed about to say more, but I paid him no mind and continued up to the second floor. The studio had a distinct, post-modern style—spacious and quiet. The owner confirmed my design on his computer while an assistant prepped my skin. I unclasped the watch from my right wrist. It was a unique leather band that wrapped around three times. As it came off, the scar was revealed—a mangled, fleshy pink, angry against my skin. “The wrist is a painful spot,” the owner said, unfazed. “Brace yourself.” I smiled faintly. “It can’t be worse than when I cut them in the first place.” 5 Two scars, one deeper than the other. The numbing cream wore off. Just before he started, the owner confirmed the design with me one last time. A blue butterfly, wings spread in flight, clean and sharp. “This is a tricky area. It’ll probably need a touch-up later on,” he said, pulling on his mask. “But I can guarantee it will cover the scars perfectly.” “Do all tattoos need touch-ups?” “No. It’s because of Julian’s skin type,” the owner admitted freely. “Tattooing him is terrible for my reputation.” I didn’t say anything. After two years of marriage, I knew all about his peculiar skin. Back then, Julian hated it when I left any marks on him during our intimate moments. But now, he was willing to go through the hassle of frequent touch-ups just to keep Stella’s name on his chest. And to have her kiss tattooed on his inner thigh. The first touch of the needle sent a sharp sting through my wrist. I winced, and the owner spoke suddenly. “Tell me the story of your scars.” I paused, then laughed. “What, is that a hobby for tattoo artists?” In the public eye, Julian Croft was the man who had it all. His business empire was expanding, his career soaring. His love life was a fairy tale, a perfect marriage to a beautiful movie star, a happy family. “When I met Julian, he was already married to Stella,” the owner said. “And she looks remarkably like you.” I smiled and pulled a pack of cigarettes from my purse. “Do you mind?” He shook his head. I exhaled a plume of smoke, thought for a moment, and said softly, “I’m Julian’s ex-wife.” 6 Julian and I met in college. He was a senior in my program. When he started his own company, he recruited me. Today, NexusCore Technologies is an industry giant. But in the beginning, it was just the two of us. Julian’s standards were impossibly high. He was a campus legend, and countless students submitted their resumes. “But I was the only one he kept.” Through the haze of smoke, I narrowed my eyes. “The Julian back then was incredibly arrogant, looked down on everyone. I was the last person he interviewed.” Neither of us had any hope. I thought he was pretentious; he’d spent all day interviewing people and decided they were all idiots, myself included. “But we talked all night. As the sun came up, he held out his hand and said, ‘Let’s work together.’” “Our philosophies aligned, our goals were the same. Julian was fiercely ambitious.” I tapped the ash from my cigarette. “And as it happened, so was I.” For the first two years of NexusCore, Julian and I rented an apartment off-campus. We hustled for clients together, chased investors together. He was my mentor, teaching me everything he knew about business, networking, and our field, holding nothing back. On my twenty-second birthday, we pulled an all-nighter coding. As dawn broke, he leaned against the window and lit a cigarette. “He asked me,” I took a drag, “if I smoked.” I leaned in, curious, and was immediately choked by the smoke, my eyes tearing up. He started laughing, then pulled me against his chest and kissed me. When the kiss ended, he asked me another question. Do you want to marry me? The buzzing on my wrist paused for a second. The owner said, “That’s an interesting question. Shouldn’t it have been, ‘Do you want to be my girlfriend?’” I smiled too, feeling like I was telling someone else’s story, watching a play from a safe distance. “I said yes. And on that same day, we secured our first round of funding.” “Riding the AI wave, NexusCore took off. In just a year, we were a rising star in the industry.” “The day we established NexusCore’s core executive team, I was appointed CEO. And Julian took me home.” “That’s when I learned that his family name was Croft. As in, the Croft family, the shipping magnates of Port Sterling.” 7 The Croft family had built their fortune in shipping. Three generations of accumulated wealth made them one of Port Sterling’s most powerful dynasties. Naturally, our marriage faced opposition. But a man with the courage to strike out on his own wasn’t going to let his family dictate his choice of wife. “Julian fought them for two years. He was so stubborn that his grandfather beat him badly enough to land him in the hospital, but even then, he wouldn’t yield.” The ash from my cigarette fell silently. I stared at it for a moment before speaking softly. “After NexusCore’s first major financing round, we got married.” “The wedding was simple, on a small island. Julian later bought it and put it in my name. He called it Cove’s End.” The artist’s hand stopped moving completely. I nodded. “The very island we’re on right now.” “Before we married, Julian signed an agreement. Aside from my founder’s shares in NexusCore, he took all his liquid assets and established a trust for me.” “He said he wanted NexusCore to be my greatest strength.” “Everyone said he was madly in love with me, that he’d tied our interests so tightly together there was no room for divorce.” “I used to believe that too.” The cigarette had burned down. I crushed it in the ashtray. “Until our first year of marriage, when he personally selected Stella Vance to be the face of NexusCore.” I once asked him why he chose such an unknown actress. “Don’t you think,” Julian had said, pointing to her giant billboard, “that she looks a lot like you in college?” “About eighty percent of your spirit,” he chuckled before I could answer. “But completely empty-headed. An airhead.” “Stella’s rise was meteoric,” the artist’s voice pulled me from my memories. “If I remember correctly, she was a household name by nineteen.” “Yes,” I recalled. “Less than a year after becoming our spokesperson, she was famous everywhere.” “The night she won the ‘Best Newcomer’ award was Julian’s twenty-fifth birthday. We had plans for dinner.” “But I waited for two hours and he never came home. I couldn’t reach him, and Mr. Hanson wasn’t answering either.” “Then, at eight o’clock, a story blew up online: Stella Vance in a passionate embrace with a mystery man.” “I clicked on it,” I looked up at the artist and gave a small, bitter smile. “The mystery man was my husband.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388145”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 The day I woke up in the body of a mafia kingpin’s canary, I laid all my cards on the table. “If I help you find your true love,” I told him, “I can go back to my own world.” Damien listened, then threw his head back and roared with laughter. Just when I thought it was a lost cause, he yanked me into his arms. “Interesting,” he purred, his voice a low growl against my ear. “This one’s mine.” And just like that, I became his one and only canary. I tried to remind him every now and then, nudging him to look at other women, to search for his soulmate. But each attempt ended with me pinned to his bed, punished until I couldn’t walk for days. As he ripped another piece of my lingerie, he’d whisper teasingly, “Did your little system of yours tell you that once you’re my bird, you never fly away?” After a while, the thought of going home didn’t seem so urgent anymore. Until the day he brought her back—the sister of his sworn enemy. The girl, Heike, plunged a knife into his back, her eyes red with fury. “I’ll kill you one day,” she spat, “to avenge my brother.” He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he gritted his teeth through the pain and nodded. “I’ll be waiting.” In that moment, the mission progress bar, stuck at 0% for eight long years, quietly ticked up to 10. 2 That night, for the first time, Damien didn’t come to my room. I found him in the villa’s garden, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his brow furrowed in thought. His gaze kept drifting up to a single window on the second floor. I followed his line of sight. It was the room he had just arranged for Heike. It had to be her. She was the one. My mission was finally moving forward. I should have been thrilled. But for some reason, a bitter sting crept into my nose, my eyes burning. The night air was damp and heavy; I was probably just catching a cold. I quickly brewed a cup of hot ginger tea and brought it to him. He looked up, a faint smile touching his lips. He held out a credit card. My hand paused as I set down the mug. I didn’t take it. A flicker of confusion crossed Damien’s face. “What’s wrong? Isn’t this how it always is?” he asked, pushing the card closer. “Take it. Go buy a bag you like.” He was right. This was us. For eight years, I had played my part as the perfect canary. I took his money, never his love. Whenever I was especially attentive, it meant my funds were running low. And he never skimped on spoiling me. A cup of hot tea for a credit card. It was a fair trade. I forced a smile and took the card, my voice dripping with the practiced sweetness of a courtesan. “Thank you, Damien.” Ordinarily, this would be his cue to pull me into his arms and claim his prize right then and there. But he just nodded, his gaze already drifting back towards the house. The money was in my hand, yet for the first time, I felt a pang of disappointment. This was a bad sign. I couldn’t let myself get attached. As a task-runner, I was destined to leave. I spent the night drawing up a new plan. I had to speed things up between them. The next morning, I knocked on Heike’s door, all bright and bubbly. I grabbed her hand, insisting on taking her to the most expensive, Michelin-starred breakfast spot in the city. She violently shook me off. “You’re not afraid you’ll end up dead in a ditch, being a whore for a monster like that?” Her words struck me silent. You’ll see how good he is soon enough, I thought. Despite her reluctance, I dragged her to the restaurant. And there, she saw Damien, crouched in a back alley, gently feeding a stray cat. She saw him handing a warm parcel of food to a lonely old woman. “Hmph. Just for show,” she muttered, her tone as hard as ever. But I saw it—the flicker of softness in her eyes. 3 Heike was stubborn. She’d sworn to kill Damien, and she tried every single day, in a hundred different ways. When Damien went on a raid, she’d leak his location to a rival gang, getting him ambushed. When he had a negotiation, she’d tip off the cops, nearly getting him killed as a snitch. The most absurd was when Damien and I were trying to get a little adventurous with some roleplay in his car. She actually called the police and reported him for soliciting a prostitute. Furious, I confronted her. “Why did you have to drag me into it?” She looked at me with righteous indignation. “Have you no shame? How could you let yourself be with a monster like that!” In all my years with Damien, no one had ever dared to insult me like that. I raised my hand to strike her, but Damien caught my wrist. “She’s just a kid, Elara. Let it go.” “So I’m just supposed to let her call me a whore?!” To placate me, Damien replaced my supplementary card with a black card with no spending limit. No matter how many times she put his life in danger, he never got angry with her. It was as if he was enjoying this deadly game of cat and mouse. Slowly, a strange chemistry began to brew between them. It all came to a head on her 99th attempt on his life. As she crept into his room, ready to inject potassium chloride into his heart while he slept, he snapped awake, flipping her onto her back and pinning her beneath him. The spark that ignited between them was so intense a blind man could have felt it. I stood just outside the door, watching as Damien’s lips crashed down on hers. She didn’t resist. After a moment, she pushed him away, her face flushed a deep crimson. And then, they were kissing again, more fiercely this time. Shreds of clothing littered the floor. In that instant, my mission progress shot up by 40%. I knew Damien too well. I was the one who taught Heike all those assassination techniques. I was the one pulling the strings behind their little chase. Everything was going according to my plan. So why did my own heart ache with a dull, persistent throb? 4 From that day on, an unspoken understanding formed between them. In public, they were daggers drawn. In private, their stolen glances were electric. It culminated when Damien finally uncovered the truth about her brother Connor’s death. He presented her with proof, irrefutable evidence that he wasn’t the killer. He showed her that they could be together, openly, without the shadow of revenge hanging over them. The day the truth came out, Damien gave her a handmade ragdoll. “I had someone teach me how to make this,” he said softly. “Let him watch over you, in your brother’s place.” Heike clutched the doll and wept. Then she threw her arms around Damien and wept some more. The ice around her heart finally melted, revealing the vulnerable woman beneath. The scene was so perfect, so beautiful. But some devilish impulse made me walk over to them. I held out my hand to Damien. “I want one too.” Damien stared at me, confused. “Want what?” I pointed at the doll in Heike’s arms. “The one you made.” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Elara. You’ve only ever wanted jewelry and bags.” He pulled a thick wad of cash from his jacket and pressed it into my hand. “This is what you want.” I didn’t move, my hand still outstretched. For the first time in eight years, I let myself be difficult. I threw the cash on the floor. “No. I want the doll.” Damien’s expression turned to ice. “Know your place, Elara. Don’t ask for things that aren’t yours.” Heike glanced between us, looking uneasy. “Elara, this doll… it represents my brother. If you really like it, I can ask Damien to buy you another one, okay?” “‘Damien’?” I scoffed. “What happened to ‘that monster’?” A blush crept up Heike’s neck. “No, it’s not… Damien is…” “You don’t have to explain anything to her,” Damien cut in, pulling Heike behind him protectively. His voice was cold, distant. “She’s nothing to me.” I stared at him, my world tilting on its axis. He was right. What was I to him? I lowered my eyes, hiding the raw humiliation I felt. Seeing me retreat, he seemed to hesitate, letting out a soft sigh. “Alright, stop making a scene,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “I’ve already ordered you a new Hermès bag. Limited edition.” He took Heike’s hand and started to walk away. His touch was so gentle, nothing like the rough way he always grabbed me. “Are you coming to my room tonight?” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. He paused for a heartbeat. Then, without another word, he led Heike away. I stood frozen, staring at the scattered bills on the floor. A bitter, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. Elara, you’re just a canary. What were you thinking, wishing for love? 5 I could be obedient, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be defiant. I took the money Damien gave me and used it to hire twenty of the city’s finest male escorts. I was surrounded by a sea of chiseled abs and sculpted chests, my head swimming, when a man fully clothed strode into the room, sucking all the air out with him. “Who killed the mood? Get out!” I slurred. “Buzzkill!” Before another word could leave my lips, Damien had scooped me up into his arms. “Elara,” he growled, a dangerous current running through his voice, “you’re getting bold.” The palpable threat radiating from him sent my escorts scrambling for the door. I drunkenly poked him in the nose, my words thick. “Mr. Kingpin, even canaries get to clock out.” I held up a finger. “I haven’t had a single day off in eight years. I am officially informing you… that I… am going… on strike!” He let me jab at his face, his expression unreadable. “Fine, fine. You can go on strike. But you still have to come home, don’t you?” “Home?” I cackled. “I don’t have a home! That’s a birdcage! A gilded cage for your little canary! Hahaha…” The laughter morphed into sobs. The sight of my tears always made Damien helpless. He awkwardly pulled me into a hug, gently stroking my hair. “Okay, don’t cry. Let’s go home.” Suddenly, I felt like a lost child, all my hurt and frustration pouring out. I buried my face in his chest and wailed, clinging to him for dear life. I don’t know how long I cried. When I finally lifted my head, I realized there was a third person in the room. Heike was standing there, silent and still, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. I froze, then scrambled out of Damien’s arms. “You brought her with you?” I demanded, pointing at Heike. Damien nodded. “I couldn’t leave her at home alone. I was worried.” Heike wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and reached for my hand. “Elara, let’s go home.” This time, I was the one who snatched my hand away. I scrubbed the tears from my own face, erasing every trace of weakness and vulnerability. “You two go home. That’s your home.” I reached for another bottle on the table. “That’s enough! Stop drinking!” Damien tried to grab the bottle, but I held on tight. In the struggle, the bottle slipped from my grasp, sailing through the air. It shattered with a sickening crack. Right against Heike’s head. Glass and blood sprayed across the floor. I stood there, stunned. Damien went berserk. He swept Heike into his arms and bolted for the door. “Wait! I—” He turned back, and the indulgence I had always seen in his eyes was gone. In its place was an endless, chilling frost. His voice trembled with barely controlled rage. “If anything happens to Heike, I will never forgive you.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388144”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My girlfriend built an empire from scratch, becoming a top-tier tycoon. But she was ruthlessly impartial, refusing to hire me even though I’d poured my own blood, sweat, and tears into building the company with her. When my mom got sick and we were desperate for money, Ava wouldn’t budge. “A job, a handout… Have you considered my position, Ethan? How would I maintain respect?” So I stopped begging. I sold everything I had—the small condo, the car—to scrape together enough for my mother’s surgery. But when I arrived to pay, the nurse stopped me at the door. “I’m sorry, the donor kidney has already been purchased. You’ll have to wait for the next one.” The words hit me like a lightning strike. A second later, I saw Ava escorting her young protégé, Leo, into the operating room. The kidney I had been desperately waiting for, the one that was supposed to save my mother, had been casually bought by Ava and given to him. I tried to force my way in, desperate, but she just called the police. The twenty-four hours in a holding cell meant I missed my mother’s last moments. After the surgery, Ava lit up the entire city with fireworks to celebrate Leo’s recovery. I sat in the sterile silence of the morgue, crying until my tears ran dry. Her so-called impartiality wasn’t set in stone. It just never applied to me. … I moved through the motions of arranging my mother’s funeral, a hollowed-out shell. Outside, the sky continued to explode in a kaleidoscope of color. Just two days ago, she wouldn’t even lend me a thousand dollars. She had even berated me in front of the entire company. “Can you stop being so selfish? This is a massive corporation. Why should I bend the rules for you?” I had fled the office, burning with shame, tears streaming down my face. And just one day later, she pulled strings and threw money around to save her precious protégé. A million-dollar firework display just to celebrate his new lease on life. My whole body trembled. Every breath was a shard of glass in my lungs. My phone buzzed relentlessly, call after call, but I ignored them all. A moment later, I heard hurried footsteps behind me. Ava grabbed my arm. “Ethan, why aren’t you answering your phone? Do you have any idea how worried I—” Her words died in her throat when she saw my swollen, red-rimmed eyes. She froze, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. She couldn’t even meet my gaze. “I… I didn’t know your mother was that sick.” She was lying. After I was released, I had gone looking for her, fueled by a desperate need for answers. I found her outside Leo’s hospital room and heard their conversation through the door. “Ava,” Leo’s voice was soft, “Ethan’s mom passed away. You gave me the kidney… you think he’ll hate you for it?” There was a long silence before Ava’s voice, raspy with emotion, finally answered. “His mother was too far gone. Even with a new kidney, she wouldn’t have lasted long. Besides, he still has me. I’ll love him enough for the both of us.” But I didn’t want it. Her love felt like poison. My fingernails dug into my palms. “Stop lying,” I said, each word precise and cold. “We’re done.” Ava’s face went rigid. Her voice was laced with disbelief. “What are you talking about? We’re engaged. The venue is already booked.” “Then cancel it.” The words left my lips without a hint of hesitation. How could she possibly think I would still marry her? Even the wedding venue wasn’t my choice. Leo had picked out every last detail. I had had enough. “Ethan!” A weak, tearful voice shattered the tense air. Leo, clutching the area over his new kidney, slowly sank to his knees before me. “It’s all my fault. I was the one who begged Ava for the kidney. Don’t blame her. Blame me.” Ava’s heart went out to him instantly. She rushed to his side. “Get up, Leo.” “No, I won’t. I caused all this trouble. I’ll take the blame.” They went back and forth, a picture of selfless devotion, their eyes filled with a deep, protective affection for each other. It was as if I was the villain in their tragic love story. Just like that, Ava’s fleeting guilt vanished. She helped Leo to his feet, turning her back on me without a second glance. As she led him away, Leo wrapped his arm around her neck. Hidden from her view, he looked back at me and arched an eyebrow. He mouthed two words silently: Get lost. 2 I tore my eyes away, not even bothering to give him a reaction. For six days, I handled my mother’s funeral arrangements alone. Ava tried to contact me several times, but I just blocked her number. On the seventh day, the day of the service, she showed up with Leo. “Ethan, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Leo bowed his head, his face a mask of sorrow. Then, he made to kneel before my mother’s memorial table. I moved instantly to block him. “Don’t,” I said, my voice ice. His hypocrisy was nauseating. If it weren’t for him, my mother would still be alive. What’s more, when she was sick, Leo had gone out of his way to torment her, calling Ava away in the middle of our family dinners, interrupting us when we were trying to take one last family portrait. His petty games had worsened her condition. Letting him kneel here now would be a final, grotesque insult to her memory. The room was filled with friends, relatives, and some of my old colleagues from the company. Their whispers filled the air as Leo stood there, looking utterly humiliated. Tears welled in his eyes, and he put on a pitiful display of grief. Ava grabbed my wrist, her grip tightening. “That’s enough,” she hissed, her voice low and menacing. “How much more do you want to humiliate him? The office is already buzzing with rumors that he’s a manipulative monster. Are you trying to drive him to suicide?” A knife twisted in my gut. He sheds a few crocodile tears and she’s ready to defend him to the death. But my mother was gone, and to her, it was as if nothing had happened. Looking back, her favoritism had always been there, right under my nose. I remembered a time in college when the three of us went out for barbecue. Leo’s ex-girlfriend showed up and started a scene. Out of nowhere, Ava exploded. She grabbed a chair and just started swinging. She was like a feral animal. I was terrified she would kill someone, so I jumped in to stop her and got knocked to the ground for my trouble. But then Leo yelled, “That’s enough!” and Ava immediately stopped. In the end, they were both perfectly fine. I was the one who ended up with seven stitches in my forehead, looking like a clown. My heart felt like it was being churned by a slow, blunt blade. My eyes burned, but no more tears would come. Leo was still playing the victim. “Ethan,” he whimpered, “Ava is like a sister to me. It’s only right that I pay my respects to… her future mother-in-law. Please, don’t overthink this.” Ignoring me, he tried to kneel again. I couldn’t stand the thought of him tainting this space. I lunged forward and shoved him back. “Get out! Both of you, get out!” I hadn’t used much force, but he let out a theatrical scream. “Agh!” A roaring filled Ava’s ears. Her hand flew out, and my world tilted as her palm connected with my cheek. I stumbled backward, crashing into the memorial table. Plates of offerings shattered on the floor, the sound echoing the breaking of my own heart. My vision swam with red. A mournful cry echoed in my mind. It was all ruined. Everything was ruined. My mother had suffered so much in life, and now she couldn’t even rest in peace. Leo was still sobbing in Ava’s arms. Something inside me snapped. I grabbed a ceremonial knife from the table and lunged at them. “Die, you two! Just die!” Ava’s face paled, her eyes wide with disbelief. Before she could speak, Leo, genuinely terrified, dragged her out the door. My relatives swarmed me, holding me back, afraid I would actually commit murder. I didn’t sleep that night. The tears finally came again, an endless, silent stream. Ava sent a novel-length text message, a stream of apologies, but I couldn’t bring myself to read a single word. The next day, a video of me trying to attack them with the knife somehow made its way to Ava’s mother. She kicked my door open first thing in the morning. “Ethan, are you insane? Attacking people with a knife is a crime!” she shrieked. “Thank God Leo told me what happened. I will never let a psycho like you marry into my family!” Behind her, Leo chimed in, his brow furrowed with fake concern. “Ethan, please don’t be mad at me. I see Ava as family. I couldn’t just stand by and watch her walk into a fire.” I laughed, a cold, bitter sound. He didn’t see her as family. He saw her as his ticket. I remembered when we all went on a trip together. Ava and I had our own room, but Leo kept waking us up all night, complaining of chest pains or stomach cramps. He spent the entire trip glaring at me like I had murdered his father. When I pointed it out, Ava just laughed it off. “He’s just a kid, Ethan. Don’t be silly.” 3 The joke was, Ava was the only one who couldn’t see it. Her mother knew exactly what was going on and used Leo as a weapon against me all the time. “If you don’t behave, there are plenty of other young men who would love to be with our Ava.” “Ava doesn’t need you. A husband can be replaced. A mother can’t.” I had heard it all until I was sick of it. Now, it was finally time for it to end. “You don’t have to worry,” I said, my voice flat. “Ava and I already broke up.” Her mother blinked. “Impossible! Ava was just talking about wedding plans yesterday. You’re lying!” A wave of nausea washed over me. I was so utterly tired of this family. I opened the door wider. “Get out,” I said, my voice cold. “You’re not welcome here.” Her face turned a mottled shade of red and purple. She couldn’t believe that I, the always-placid Ethan, would dare speak to her like that. Leo, on the other hand, looked smugly satisfied. His mission to completely destroy my relationship with Ava’s family was a success. Just then, a car screeched to a halt outside. Ava jumped out. “Mom, what are you doing here?” Her mother’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “Look at the wonderful man you picked! He threw me out of his house! You need to break up with him right now!” Leo added his own dramatic flair. “She was being perfectly reasonable, but Ethan just started screaming at her.” They painted their own version of reality, a perfect duet of lies. I braced myself for Ava’s anger, but instead, she turned on them. “Didn’t I tell you I would handle my own affairs? What are you doing here?” Ignoring their stunned expressions, she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward her car. “Where are you taking me? Let me go!” Ava just slammed her foot on the gas. “I’m taking you to the office. Today, you start. From now on, you own half the company.” My mind went blank. I felt nothing. What was this? A slap in the face followed by a piece of candy? “I’m not your dog, Ava.” Her own temper flared. “I’m just trying to make it up to you! Ethan, don’t be so stubborn.” Stubborn? My mother’s death was just me being stubborn? My throat tightened, as if a hand were squeezing it shut. My chest felt like it was about to explode. 4 Ava tried to say something else, but I snapped. I lunged across the console, my hand striking her face again and again. The sound of the slaps was sharp and clear in the confined space of the car. She didn’t even try to stop me, just held the wheel, her jaw tight, refusing to let me go. When we got to the office, she disappeared into the restroom to deal with the red marks on her face. Everyone stared and whispered as I walked by. “What’s he doing here? I thought Leo replaced him for good.” “Probably here to beg. He knows he’s about to get dumped.” I couldn’t stand it. I walked straight to Ava’s office. Her laptop was open on the desk. I was going to look up some company files, but my hand brushed the trackpad. A video file popped open and started to play. There, on this very desk, were Ava and Leo. Tangled together, naked and writhing. Our framed photo was crushed beneath them. “Ava, I love you so much, Ava—” Bang. The door flew open. Ava stood there, her face a mask of panic. When she saw the calm expression on my face, the color drained from hers. She lunged forward and slammed the laptop shut. “Ethan, that night… I was drunk after a client meeting. I thought he was you—” “No need to explain.” My voice was eerily steady. “Just liquidate my share of the company stock. Then we’re even.” The last bit of color fled her face. For the first time in our entire relationship, she lowered her head to me. “It was one time, Ethan. Can’t you just forgive me this once?” Once a cheater, always a cheater. I turned and walked out. She scrambled after me, her voice desperate. Suddenly, her phone rang. She answered it impatiently, but as she listened, her expression transformed. Her eyes, when they met mine again, were like poisoned daggers. I instinctively took a step back. Before I could speak, her hand shot out and clamped around my neck. She screamed for security, and two guards grabbed my arms, pinning me. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Why would you do this?” she roared, her voice raw with fury. “I would have given you any compensation you wanted! Why would you do this?” I couldn’t breathe. My face was turning purple. “What… are you… talking about?” I choked out. She shoved her phone in my face. “See for yourself!” The video, the one I had just seen, was plastered all over the internet. The headlines screamed. Leo was having a complete mental breakdown, holding a knife to his own wrist. “Just let me die!” he was screaming in the accompanying news clip. “How can I face anyone now? The whole world knows I’m a homewrecker!” A few of Leo’s buddies from the office came running out. Without a word, one of them swung, his fist connecting hard with my jaw. “You bastard! You’ll rot in hell for this!” I tried to fight back, but it was three against one. They wrestled me to the ground. They exchanged glances, a mix of contempt and cruel excitement in their eyes. Then they started dragging me toward a dark corner of the parking garage like I was a stray dog. With my last ounce of strength, I reached out and grabbed Ava’s leg. “It wasn’t me!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Help me!” She looked down at me, her face a mask of profound disappointment. “You’re still lying. Even now. Why, Ethan? I wronged you, yes, but Leo is still just a student. You’ve ruined his life!” She coldly pried my fingers from her ankle and walked to her car. “I have to go to Leo. You made this mess. You can deal with the consequences.” With that, she got in her car and sped away. I curled into a ball on the cold concrete, my heart shattering into a million pieces. I fumbled for my phone to call the police, but the guy with the crew cut slapped it out of my hand. Another one of them spoke nervously. “Hey, let’s not go too far.” “Don’t worry about it!” the first one snapped. “Remember what Leo told us? We rough this guy up, make sure he’s too broken to ever bother Ava again.” That was all the encouragement they needed. They descended on me like a pack of wolves. Punches and kicks rained down on my body. I curled up tighter, screaming, but no one came to help. They just grew more frenzied, more excited by my pain. As consciousness began to slip away, I lunged forward and bit down hard on the crew-cut guy’s hand. I clamped my jaw shut, tasting blood, and tore away a piece of flesh. “Aaargh!” he howled, clutching his bleeding hand. “Kill him, Rick! Kill the son of a bitch!” The other two hesitated, a flicker of fear in their eyes. “What are you waiting for?” he screamed. “Leo’s going to be the new boss! You’ve got nothing to be afraid of!” That seemed to settle it. They closed in again, their heavy work boots slamming into my chest, my legs, my stomach. A final, blinding pain, and then my vision tunneled and went black. I heard their panicked voices from a great distance. “Is he… moving?” “This wasn’t us… we didn’t do this…” They scrambled away, their footsteps echoing in the empty garage, each one blaming the other. A few moments later, a passerby found me and called an ambulance. Ava was at the hospital, watching over a hysterical Leo. Her mother had finally managed to calm him down; his self-inflicted wounds were nothing more than superficial scratches. “Don’t you worry, Leo,” Ava’s mother cooed, stroking his hair. “After all this, I’ll make sure Ava marries you.” She was so engrossed in her promise that she didn’t notice the storm brewing on her daughter’s face. Ava, feeling suffocated, stepped out into the hallway for some air. The moment she pushed the door open, she saw me, my face as white as a sheet, being rushed on a gurney toward the emergency room.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388143”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 My novels made millions. But my wife, who was also my editor, funneled every last cent of my royalties to a new male author she was grooming. “You gave all the money to him? What about my sister? She’s been kidnapped! What if they kill her?” Faced with my frantic questions, she just shrugged. “Can’t you just call the police? Besides, I sent you ten dollars, didn’t I? And don’t you forget, this book is under contract in my name.” I stared at the finished manuscript on my screen, the perfect ending I had crafted. Then, my fingers found the keyboard, and I began to rewrite everyone’s fate. The movie deal with a famous director would soon be nothing but a source of massive penalties for breach of contract. … “Liam, what the hell is wrong with you?” Wendy hissed. “The press will be here any minute. You need to get yourself together and thank Cary for providing the inspiration for your novel.” I frowned. “The inspiration was all mine. That rookie author doesn’t even deserve to be at a showcase like this. Why on earth would I thank him?” Crack. A sharp slap echoed in the quiet room, my cheek stinging. “How do you think you got so popular?” she sneered. “I’ve seen Cary’s talent firsthand. If he hadn’t stepped aside for you, you wouldn’t be standing here right now.” Cary, who had been standing nearby, put on a hurt expression, though his eyes gleamed with triumph. “Liam, I know my work isn’t on your level, but Wendy was the one who gave me the money. If you really think I don’t deserve it, I can give it all back.” I didn’t say a word. Wendy, however, was filled with righteous indignation. “Liam, Cary put his own writing on hold to help promote your book! You’re off gallivanting around the world, having fun, while he does the hard work. And this is how you treat him?” I looked at Wendy’s impatient, scowling face and felt like I was seeing a stranger. My editor. My wife. She had never once noticed the days I went without food or sleep, lost in the world I was creating. She never saw the risks I took, visiting dangerous, remote locations just to capture the perfect, vivid scenery for my readers. She never saw the chronic pain, the lingering injuries I brought back from those trips. She thought writing a beloved, best-selling novel was easy. She thought slapping together a promotional campaign was the real work. Ping. A text message lit up my phone. It was a photo of my sister, Mia, tied up, her face pale with terror. Below it, a single line of text. I thought it might be some AI-generated prank, but then a video came through. “Liam, help me! I’m so scared…” Mia was blindfolded, but I could see the dark, wet stain of tears on the fabric. Her voice was choked with a primal fear that ripped through me. I called her number a dozen times. No answer. Panic seized me. I checked my bank account. A few thousand dollars. I turned to Wendy, my last hope. “My sister’s been kidnapped. They want a hundred thousand dollars. Please, can you transfer me some of the money?” She rolled her eyes. “Then call the police. I’m just an editor, where would I get that kind of money?” “What about my royalties? You took all of them! There should be millions in that account. How can you not have it?” Before Wendy could answer, Cary cut in smoothly. “Wendy, it looks like Liam is really in trouble. Even if he’s not telling the truth about his sister, why not just give him the money? Let him have his fun. It’s not a big deal.” Wendy didn’t hesitate. She took out her phone and sent the transfer. I felt the vibration in my pocket. A wave of emotions—relief, gratitude, and a bitter, coiling resentment—washed over me. In her eyes, my sister’s life was worth less than a casual word from Cary. And the money I was begging for was money I had earned with my own blood and sweat. I quickly opened my banking app to send the ransom. I entered the account number, the amount, and my password. Insufficient funds. Confused, I checked my transaction history. Wendy hadn’t sent me a hundred thousand dollars. She had sent me ten. My hand started to tremble, but I fought to keep my voice steady. I swallowed my pride. “Wendy,” I said, my voice low. “I think you made a mistake. I only got ten dollars.” “Who knows if you’re not just making this up to get money out of me?” she said, her voice dripping with annoyance. “Be grateful you got anything. Don’t go blowing it on booze and women behind my back.” She turned to leave, linking her arm with Cary’s. I was out of options. Every second that passed put Mia in more danger. “Wait!” I called out. “What do I have to do? Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Just give me the money.” She looked at me with disgust. “Have you no shame? In public?” She hated this groveling version of me, terrified someone might recognize me as her husband. She started to walk away again. But Cary’s eyes lit up with a cruel interest. “Liam, I can help you,” he said. “On one condition.” Thinking of Mia, her life hanging by a thread, I nodded without hesitation. A slow, malicious smile spread across Cary’s face. “Go up to the cameras, tell the reporters you’re a dog, and bark three times. Do that, and I’ll send you the money.” My jaw clenched. My fists were so tight my knuckles were white. The rage was a white-hot fire in my chest, but I couldn’t let it out. I couldn’t risk it. “Fine,” I bit out. “But you send me half first.” “Deal.” A moment later, fifty thousand dollars landed in my account. I walked over to the reporters, who were still broadcasting live. One of them saw me and raised his microphone. I cut him off. “I am a dog.” I looked straight into the camera lens and barked. “Woof. Woof. Woof.” Every sound was a shard of glass in my throat. A wave of humiliation washed over me. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Even the reporter looked stunned into silence. I ignored the stares, the hushed comments from the other authors, and walked back to Cary. He was grinning, a mocking light in his eyes, as he sent the remaining fifty thousand. 2 I transferred the full amount to the kidnapper’s account. Two seconds later, I heard a notification chime. From Cary’s phone. “Surprise!” he chirped, his voice sickeningly sweet. “Did you like my little present, Liam?” The world tilted on its axis. “Cary?” The name was a choked whisper. “Come on, Liam, don’t be mad,” he said, feigning innocence. “It was just a little joke.” “A joke?” My voice was dangerously low. “You think that was funny?” “Liam, stop making a scene.” Wendy had appeared at his side, her arm protectively around him. “It was just a prank. Get over it.” I gasped for air, black spots dancing in my vision. The room started to spin. The last thing I felt was the ground rushing up to meet me as I collapsed. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. I slowly sat up and saw a familiar figure slumped in the chair beside me. “Mia?” She lifted her head. When she saw I was awake, her eyes filled with tears. “Liam! You’re finally awake! You’ve been out for a whole day.” The tears streamed down her face, and she couldn’t stop them. My heart ached. I pulled her into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Mia. I’m so sorry I put you through this.” “Don’t be silly. As long as you’re okay… I tried calling Wendy, but… she told me to tell you to stop putting on a show for her…” Mia’s voice trembled, afraid her words would hurt me. I stroked her hair, a cold resolve settling in my chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” After our parents died, Mia and I only had each other. But for Wendy, I had neglected my sister. I had poured my entire soul into my work, into building a life for us. I was so afraid she’d feel insecure that I had signed away the rights to decades of my work, putting everything in her name. And now, she was using it as a weapon against me. I checked myself out of the hospital and went home. I opened my laptop. The final chapter of my novel was scheduled to post automatically. I opened the file and began to change it. I worked late into the night, methodically dismantling the plot, twisting the characters into unrecognizable versions of themselves, and shredding the story’s internal logic. When it was a complete and utter mess, I hit “submit.” The novel had been a massive success, with a constantly growing online readership. It had attracted the attention of several directors. The one I finally signed with was one of the biggest names in the country. He had only one condition: no major plot holes or character assassinations in the final act. The penalty for breach of contract was double the signing fee. An impossible sum, unless, of course, the breach was intentional. I had just finished packing a suitcase when I heard noises from the living room. “Liam’s still in the hospital. Aren’t you going to go see him?” It was Cary’s voice. “Why?” Wendy’s voice was dismissive. “It’s probably just another one of his little tricks to make me feel guilty.” My wife. She thought my collapse was a performance. A moment later, the sounds from the living room turned soft, intimate, unmistakable. Fighting back a wave of nausea, I opened the bedroom door. They were locked in a passionate kiss, their hands roaming over each other’s bodies. The sound of the door opening made them jump apart. When Wendy saw it was me, she shoved Cary away. There was no fear in her eyes, no shame at being caught. Only anger. “Why didn’t you say you were back? Are you trying to scare me?” “Is this how you react to getting caught cheating?” I asked, my voice flat. “We were just discussing work!” she shot back, her face a mask of indignation. “You’re the one with a dirty mind, so everything you see is dirty.” I was too tired to argue. “I’ll see you at the courthouse tomorrow. We’re getting a divorce.” “A divorce? Is this another pathetic attempt to get my attention? Just write your novels like a good boy. If you think I’ll take you back when you come crawling to me later, you’re dreaming.” “If you won’t agree, we’ll do it through the courts.” I didn’t wait for her reply. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out of that toxic, suffocating apartment. I ended up at a 24-hour convenience store. All I had was the ten dollars Wendy had sent me, enough for a meal that wouldn’t fill me up. Mia was a college student; she didn’t have much money either. I didn’t even know where my next meal was coming from. I thought of all the hours, the days, the years I had spent hunched over a keyboard, pouring my life into my work, all to make her happy. I thought of the chronic pain I lived with from sitting for so long. And in the end, I had nothing to show for it. It was all a bitter joke.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388142”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My family went bankrupt. Then my best friend’s brother decided to force my hand. My best friend was fighting for me. “Sebastian! How could you do this to my best friend?” Her brother’s expression was calm. “You have a crush on her brother, don’t you? I had him brought here for you.” My best friend’s face changed in an instant. “Oh! Well, in that case!” Me: ? My brother: ? 1 My family’s business collapsed. My younger brother, Liam, and I were handling it with a grim sort of calm. The one person who wasn’t calm was my best friend, Isabelle Thorne. She called me, practically screaming into the phone. “Chloe! Are you okay? Are there loan sharks camped out on your lawn? Did they splash red paint on your door or something?” “…” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’m fine, Izzy. And maybe you should watch a little less TV.” “Can you even afford to eat?” She had already pictured me begging on a street corner. “Quick, give me your bank details, I’ll wire you some money!” “It’s okay, really,” I reassured her. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.” After another ten minutes of dramatic wailing, she suddenly switched gears. “Chloe! I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come up with three possible solutions to save your family!” Thinking she was finally about to be serious, I sat up straighter. “I’m listening.” Isabelle declared, “Plan A! I’ll beg my brother to marry you!” “…” I knew I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. Before the bankruptcy, my family’s business had been successful. But compared to the Thorne family, we were small-time. Theirs was old money, an empire that had only grown more formidable in recent years. And that was all thanks to Sebastian Thorne. Liam, Izzy, and I were the creative types, none of us with an ounce of business sense or any desire to take over our family companies. Sebastian was the complete opposite. In the business world, he was ruthless, decisive, and terrifyingly brilliant—a true titan of industry. I’d only met him a few times, but each time, he was like a walking glacier—imposing, cold, and radiating a chill that dropped the room temperature by ten degrees. Even though Izzy was his sister, she’d been on the receiving end of his lectures more times than she could count for her wild antics. She would often come to me, crying. “Everyone else’s brother is so sweet and gentle! Why is mine so scary?” But for all his scolding, their bond was strong. When Izzy’s chatter got on his nerves, Sebastian’s go-to solution was to throw money at her until she went away. Izzy would instantly transform, snatching the cash with a grin. “Thanks, Seb! You’re the best brother in the world!” If even his own sister was a little intimidated by him, what chance did I have? Besides, despite his frosty demeanor, Sebastian was tall, devastatingly handsome, and had a line of admirers stretching from New York to Paris. Why would he ever choose me? I immediately vetoed her first plan. “What’s Plan B?” Izzy’s voice jumped an octave, clearly thrilled with her next idea. “Plan B is—” “I’ll marry your brother!” 2 I have a younger brother, Liam, who is two years my junior. Liam is a lot like me—quiet and reserved. He’s also incredibly good-looking, the classic cool, aloof campus heartthrob all through school. Girls were constantly asking me to pass love letters to him. Izzy and I met during our junior year of college. As we grew closer, we started visiting each other’s homes. The first time Izzy saw Liam, she fell for him. Hard. Her jaw dropped, her eyes lit up, and she grabbed my hand, her voice a dramatic whisper. “Chloe, I think I’ve just met my Prince Charming.” “…This is my brother, Liam,” I introduced them. “What!” She got even more excited. “This is perfect! It’s fate, Chloe! Fate!” Liam just gave her a weary look and walked away. I tried to gently warn her. “Izzy, are you sure? Liam is… a tough nut to crack.” I had seen him turn down more girls than I could count. But Izzy didn’t listen. She launched a full-scale, no-holds-barred campaign to win him over. So far, it hadn’t worked. But she was nothing if not persistent, her spirit commendable. I couldn’t stand it anymore and asked Liam myself, “Do you really not like Izzy? She’s amazing. She’s beautiful, and she’s so fun and cheerful.” Liam just handed me a freshly peeled apple. “Eat your apple, and stop asking questions.” So, I shut up and took a bite. Deep down, I really hoped they would get together. Liam might not be a man of many words, but he was the best brother anyone could ask for. When I first heard about the bankruptcy, I was terrified. Liam, an architect, was out of town for work, but he rushed back overnight. He found me sitting in a daze and put a steadying hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Chloe. I’m here.” Instantly, I felt a surge of confidence. “I know.” I could tell that while Liam hadn’t been interested in Izzy at first, she was slowly getting under his skin. The last time I’d casually mentioned that some guy was asking Izzy out, Liam had been in a foul mood for the rest of the day. But a crush was one thing. With our family’s current situation, he was under immense pressure. Marrying Izzy was out of the question. So, Plan B was a no-go. Izzy sighed dramatically. “Well, that only leaves Plan C,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe we should just elope!” 3 As ridiculous as it sounded, it somehow seemed more plausible than the first two options. But I still turned her down. “Why are all of your plans about one of us marrying one of you?” “To make us family, of course!” Izzy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Besides, my family is loaded. We could pay off all your debts in a heartbeat!” She had a point. Then she suddenly gasped. “Wait! Don’t you have a childhood fiancé or something?” She meant Noah. Our families had lived next door to each other when we were kids. Noah was my shadow, following me everywhere. Our parents used to joke that we should just have an arranged marriage when we grew up. It was just talk, of course, nothing official. I’d always thought of Noah as a good friend and never took it seriously. Until my family went bankrupt. Noah showed up at my door, looking frantic. “Chloe, I told my parents we have to honor our engagement, but they won’t agree!” “I’m still trying to convince them! Just wait for me!” “Don’t worry,” he declared, puffing out his chest. “I won’t break things off just because your family is broke!” I stared at him, completely baffled. Break things off? We weren’t even together. I tried to explain. “Noah, uh, I don’t think we ever had a real engagement…” “Of course we did! My dad said so himself when I was five! Our families were going to be joined!” He wouldn’t listen, his eyes wide with conviction. “Chloe, wait for me! You just have to wait for me!” He ran off, shouting “Wait for me!” over his shoulder, leaving me utterly confused. I kept meaning to sit him down and explain things properly, but after the bankruptcy, life was a whirlwind of paperwork and phone calls. Thankfully, most of it was sorted out now. After liquidating our assets, we were still in debt, but it was a manageable number, not an insurmountable mountain. Liam and I were both working overtime to pay it off, bit by bit. I was a freelance illustrator, and I had taken on a flood of private commissions. Liam was constantly working late or traveling for business. Seeing how exhausted I was, Izzy insisted on dragging me away from my endless pile of sketches for a weekend getaway. “Come on, please!” she begged. “It’s my brother’s new mountain villa! We can watch the sunset, it’s gorgeous, I promise!” I couldn’t say no. “Okay, fine.” So that weekend, we drove up to the villa. It was perched on a mountaintop, lavishly decorated, with a breathtaking view. “What do you think? Isn’t it amazing?” Izzy said, pulling me along excitedly. “I begged my brother to let me throw a party here, but he always said no. This time, when I told him I wanted to bring you here for a vacation, he had a rare moment of mercy and actually agreed!” On the second floor, there was a huge observation deck overlooking the lush, green mountains. Izzy and I lounged on recliners, and watching the scenery, I felt my stress begin to melt away. After a while, Izzy went downstairs to get the desserts she’d been baking. I was lying there alone when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned my head. And froze. Izzy hadn’t mentioned Sebastian would be here. I fumbled for a moment, not knowing what to call him, and just stared up at him dumbly as he approached. He stopped beside my chair and spoke first. “How have you been holding up?” His voice snapped me out of my trance. “I’m… I’m okay.” A breeze swept across the deck, making the trees sway like a green ocean. It was so beautiful, I let out a soft sigh of admiration. He caught it. “You like it here?” “I love it,” I nodded, then joked, “The view is so incredible, it’s completely cleared my head. If only I could live here forever.” I was just making a casual remark, but Sebastian replied without a hint of hesitation. “You can.” I didn’t understand. “What?” “You can live here forever.” He looked down at me, his usual intimidating aura softened by the serious look in his eyes. “All you have to do is marry me.” 4 For a second, I was sure I’d misheard him. After a few stunned blinks, I quickly waved my hands. “I was just kidding.” But his expression didn’t change. “I’m not.” Now I was completely lost. I remembered Izzy’s joke about getting her brother to marry me and wondered if she had actually asked him. But Sebastian wasn’t the type to do things just because his sister asked. “Marry me,” Sebastian repeated. “You can name your terms.” I started to stammer. “I-I don’t think so.” A frown creased his brow, a clear sign of his displeasure. He was about to say something else when Izzy came back up, carrying a plate of cake. “Seb?” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?” “Just passing through. I’m leaving soon.” He turned to go, then paused and looked back at me. “Think about it.” “Passing through what? The middle of nowhere?” Izzy watched him go, confused. “What were you guys talking about? I swear my brother looks even angrier than usual. His iceberg face is extra frosty.” I didn’t know what to say, so I asked her cautiously, “Did you, by any chance, ask your brother to marry me?” “Nope!” she said, shaking her head. “I was going to, but then I saw his face and chickened out. I was afraid he’d tell me to get lost, so I dropped it.” That only made me more confused, but I didn’t press the issue. After that, Izzy kept dragging me on “getaways,” sometimes to a resort her brother had invested in, other times to one of his properties. “I don’t know what’s gotten into my brother lately,” she’d say. “He’s suddenly being nice to me! He says yes to everywhere I want to go. I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth!” I tried to refuse, but she was relentless. I only agreed to go after making sure Sebastian wouldn’t be there. Our fourth trip was to a beach house he’d bought a year ago. Izzy said she’d only been allowed to stay there once since it was renovated. We ended up just curling up in the home theater to watch a movie. Halfway through, Izzy complained of a stomachache and ran to the bathroom. I paused the movie to wait for her. But she wasn’t the one who came back. It was Sebastian. Before I could even think of some polite small talk, he cut straight to the chase. “Have you made your decision?” I just stared at him blankly. “Huh?” “Marrying me,” he clarified. “I can pay off your family’s debt.” I didn’t answer right away. To be honest, I was tempted. But my hesitation must have looked like a refusal to him. His brow furrowed. “Why not? Is it because of that childhood fiancé of yours?” I was shocked. Izzy had even told him about Noah! “No, that’s not it,” I tried to explain. “That whole thing was…” He didn’t seem interested in my explanation. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” He produced a glass of milk from somewhere and handed it to me. “Drink.” “Oh, okay.” I took the glass obediently and took a sip. “Finish it,” he commanded. I dutifully drank the rest of it. “It tastes a little bitter,” I remarked. “Mm,” he said, taking the empty glass back. “Are you tired?” Now that he mentioned it, a wave of drowsiness washed over me. I rubbed my eyes. “Yeah, a little.” My thoughts suddenly felt fuzzy, and my eyelids grew heavy. In the last few seconds before I lost consciousness, I heard his voice, low and soft. “Go to sleep.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388141”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I hit the grand prize. $8.88 million. But the State Lottery Commission refused to pay out. “It’s a fake,” the clerk said, her voice flat. “The machine won’t scan it.” My mind went blank. “That’s impossible. I just bought it yesterday. I watched it print out of the machine with my own eyes. How could it be fake?” The clerk shot me a look of pure annoyance. “Are you still trying to pull this act? You know damn well it’s a fake. Trying to scam the Lottery Commission… you must be desperate for cash.” A cold dread washed over me, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs. “If you won’t cash it, then give it back to me.” She scoffed. “Give it back? So you can go try to scam someone else? Dream on. We’re confiscating this counterfeit ticket. Make any more trouble, and I’m calling the cops.” As she spoke, she motioned for a security guard to come and throw me out. My heart felt like it was about to explode, but a slow smile spread across my face. She didn’t know I have severe persecutory delusion disorder. A scenario I had already run through in my head three hundred times. 1 The security guard’s hand had barely brushed my shoulder before I let my body go limp, collapsing to the floor. The cold of the linoleum was a welcome shock, a perfect balm for my overheating brain. My name is Leo, and caution is practically coded into my DNA. Before leaving the house, I check the gas stove three times. When crossing the street, even on a green light, I look both ways four times, scanning for out-of-control trucks. The moment I confirmed the winning numbers last night, I locked myself in the bathroom and created a new file on my laptop: “Risk Assessment and Contingency Plan for an $8.88 Million Lottery Win.” Scenario 1: Relatives trying to “borrow” money and never paying it back. Scenario 2: Getting into a car crash on the way to claim the prize. Scenario 3: The Lottery Commission refusing to honor the ticket. Scenario 4: Being kidnapped and held for ransom. … Scenario 18: The ticket being confiscated on the spot. And right now, we were deep into Scenario 18. “Agh! He’s hitting me! Security is assaulting a customer!” I wailed from the floor, my voice a pitch-perfect symphony of pain and fear. The lobby was already dotted with people buying tickets or cashing in small wins. At the sound of the commotion, heads snapped in our direction, drawn by the irresistible pull of drama. The uniformed security guard, a big guy, stood frozen with his hand still hovering in mid-air, a look of complete bewilderment on his face. He’d barely touched me. I’d just folded. “What the hell? I didn’t even touch you!” he blurted out, panicked. The clerk behind the counter stood up, pointing a finger at me. “Don’t listen to him! This man brought in a fake ticket to try and scam us. Now that he’s been caught, he’s causing a scene! Scammers these days have no shame!” I clutched my chest, taking huge, gasping breaths. “I’m not a scammer… The ticket… I bought it yesterday… at the shop on Oak Street… I have the receipt… the transaction record…” I panted, fumbling for my phone with a hand that trembled like I had Parkinson’s. “If you won’t cash it, fine… just give me my ticket back… It’s mine…” Murmurs rippled through the crowd. “Even if it’s a fake, you can’t just shove a guy to the ground, can you?” “Yeah, just give him the ticket back. What’s this about confiscating it?” “The kid looks pretty harmless, doesn’t seem like a con artist.” “Is the Lottery Commission this shady now?” The clerk’s face soured. She hadn’t expected this. She probably thought I’d be some hothead who would scream at her, or a coward who would run at the first sign of security. She had severely underestimated the strategic mind of a paranoid man. To prevent being easily dismissed, I had deliberately worn a faded old t-shirt with a frayed collar and a pair of scuffed-up sneakers, crafting the perfect image of a downtrodden, honest man. “You… Stop playing dead!” the clerk stammered, a note of panic in her voice. “A fake ticket is a fake ticket! We have the right to confiscate it according to regulations!” “Which regulation?” I asked, my breathing suddenly even. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise. The clerk froze. “Which law states that a merchant can unilaterally declare a customer’s property fraudulent and confiscate it? Do you have forensic authentication credentials? Are you a law enforcement agency?” The words tumbled out, a script I had rehearsed all night. A few older men in the crowd, who clearly knew a thing or two, immediately chimed in. “He’s right. Even counterfeit money has to be turned over to a bank. Who are you to take his lottery ticket?” The tide had turned. The clerk bit her lip, glaring at me with venom in her eyes. She knew the security guard wasn’t getting rid of me now. “Fine. You want to stay?” She snatched the receiver of her desk phone. “I’m calling my manager. Let’s see how tough you are when he gets here. You won’t know what hit you.” 2 The manager was fast. In less than five minutes, a middle-aged man in a sharp suit, his hair slicked back, emerged from an inner office. His name was Davies. I’d looked up this lottery branch last night. While he wasn’t the legal owner, he’d been the manager here for five years, with a reputation for having connections on both sides of the law. “What’s going on out here? What’s all this shouting? This is a place of business!” Davies first snapped at the clerk, then turned to me with a placating smile, extending a hand to help me up. “Sir, the floor is cold. Why don’t you get up and we can talk this through? We’re a legitimate establishment; we would never mistreat a customer.” A master. A true silver-tongued devil. He started with courtesy, diffusing the crowd’s anger and positioning himself as the reasonable authority figure. I let him help me up, patting the dust off my pants. “You’re the manager?” “I am,” Davies said with a nod, his smile never wavering. “I understand you came to cash a ticket, but my colleague believes it might be a counterfeit?” “It’s not a counterfeit. It’s real,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “The grand prize. $8.88 million.” When I said “$8.88 million,” I saw a muscle in Davies’s jaw twitch. It was almost imperceptible. “Well, real or not isn’t something we can decide with words alone,” Davies sighed, adopting a professional, by-the-book tone. “Where’s the ticket? Let me have a look.” The clerk handed the ticket to him. Davies took it, held it up to the light, and ran his thumb over the paper. “Sir,” he began, placing the ticket on the counter and tapping it lightly with his finger. “There is, indeed, a problem with this ticket.” “What problem?” “The paper stock is wrong,” Davies said, his face a mask of sympathy. “This thermal paper… it’s not the same batch we use at the commission. And this security watermark, while it looks authentic at a glance, a professional can spot the flaws immediately. What’s more…” He paused, raising his voice just enough to capture the room. “What’s more, the serial number on this ticket does not exist in our system. Which means this ticket was never officially issued.” A gasp went through the crowd. “Not in the system? You mean it’s from an illegal lottery?” “Wow, the kid looked so honest. Turns out he’s a forger after all.” “He almost had me fooled. People like that are the worst!” The same people who had been on my side moments ago turned on me in an instant. That’s the nature of a mob. They follow whoever sounds the most authoritative, whoever speaks the loudest. Davies was clearly pleased with the effect. His eyes held a look of contempt, as if to say, You want to play games with me, kid? You’re out of your league. “Since it’s a counterfeit, we’ll have to handle it according to protocol,” Davies announced, casually tucking the $8.88 million ticket into his pocket. “Wait.” I spoke up. “You say it’s not in the system?” I pulled out my phone and played a video. “This is a recording I took when I bought the ticket yesterday. From the moment I paid to the machine printing it, to me taking it in my hand. It’s one continuous, unedited shot. The video even captures the time on the machine and the official number of this branch.” I held the phone screen up for Davies to see. The video clearly showed that very ticket spitting out of their machine. Davies’s smile froze on his face. He never expected I would have recorded it. What kind of normal person records themselves buying a lottery ticket? But he was a seasoned pro. The shock lasted only a second before he regained his composure. “Videos can be edited. It could be clever camera work,” Davies sneered. “With today’s AI deepfake technology, a fake video is nothing. Besides, how can you prove the ticket in that video is the same one you brought in today?” Shameless. Utterly, completely shameless. This is exactly why my paranoia exists. The wicked don’t need logic to do evil; they only need power, or in this case, a thick skin. “So what are you going to do?” I asked. “Nothing,” Davies shrugged. “To prevent you from attempting this scam elsewhere, we are required to destroy this counterfeit ticket.” “You wouldn’t dare!” I roared, lunging forward. The security guard immediately stepped in my way, shoving me back. “What are you doing? Trying to rob the place?” the clerk shrieked. The scene descended into chaos. 3 “I’m calling the police! I want to report this!” I yelled, stumbling backward as the guard pushed me. “No need. I already have,” Davies said, quicker on the draw. He held up his own phone. “This kind of fraudulent activity must be handled by the authorities!” The thief crying wolf. He wanted to strike first, using the authority of the police to definitively frame the situation. Once the police classified this as a dispute or attempted fraud and took me away, that $8.88 million would be gone forever. The people in the crowd were now looking at me like I was an idiot. From their perspective, the manager who willingly called the police must be in the right, while I, the one shouting and resisting, was clearly the one with something to hide. The wait for the police was agonizingly silent. I leaned against a corner wall, forcing myself to drink water from a bottle. My hands were still shaking, but I made myself count the tiles on the floor, anything to steady my breathing. Ten minutes later, two police officers walked in. “Who called 911?” “I did, Officer!” Davies transformed into a model citizen, rushing to greet them. “Officer, we have a man here attempting to commit fraud with a counterfeit lottery ticket. The amount is substantial, $8.88 million! When we discovered his scheme, he started causing a disturbance.” The lead officer was in his forties, with a square jaw and a calm demeanor. He looked at Davies, then at me, huddled in the corner. “Is that you?” the officer asked me. I stood up straight and presented the materials I had prepared. “Officer, I came here to claim my prize. This is my ID, this is the video of me purchasing the ticket, this is the digital receipt, and this is the audio recording of my conversation with the clerk…” Like a presenter at a conference, I laid out my evidence one by one. The officer took my phone and watched the video, his brow furrowing. The footage was crystal clear; it was undeniably this branch’s machine. “Sir, how do you explain this video?” the officer asked, showing the phone to Davies. Davies waved it away without a second glance. “Officer, that video is edited! You know what technology can do these days. And even if he did buy a ticket here, that doesn’t prove the one he brought in today is the real one. He could have bought a real one, then had an expert forger make a copy to cash in, keeping the original to claim the prize twice!” The logic was a perfect, insidious loop. As long as he insisted the ticket was “swapped” or a “high-quality forgery,” I was trapped. The physical ticket itself was the only proof. The officer seemed conflicted. This kind of dispute, especially one requiring technical verification, was difficult to resolve on the spot. “Alright, for now, give me the ticket. We’ll take it back to the station for forensic analysis,” the officer declared. “Of course, no problem. We are happy to cooperate with the police,” Davies said, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the ticket. But as he pulled it out, his wrist seemed to jerk. Sssshhh-rip! The ticket, worth $8.88 million, was torn in half in his hand. The entire room fell silent. Even the officers were stunned. “Oh, my goodness!” Davies exclaimed dramatically, letting the two pieces flutter to the floor. “So sorry, my hand slipped. This paper is so flimsy! See, Officer? These fakes have terrible quality. They just fall apart.” As he spoke, he made a show of trying to pick it up, his foot “accidentally” grinding one of the halves into the grimy floor. It was over. Utterly over. Even if the pieces could be reassembled, a ticket that damaged was completely void. “What do you think you’re doing!” the officer finally reacted, shoving Davies aside, but the damage was done. The ticket was now just a pile of worthless paper. Davies looked at the officer with an expression of pure innocence. “Officer, I truly didn’t mean to. Besides, it’s just a fake ticket. Tearing it up is probably for the best, keeps it from fooling anyone else.” A few whispers of pity and satisfaction rippled through the crowd. I just stood there, frozen. Anger? No. What I felt in that moment… was relief. It was as if the final boot I had been waiting for had finally dropped. They had actually done it. Exactly as I had predicted in my mental simulation, Scenario 18, Sub-protocol C: “Violent Destruction of Evidence.” A strange, exhilarating thrill coursed through my veins.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388140”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The Ninth. This was the ninth boy Catherine Pierce had brought me to “ghost sing” for. The new kid, Dylan, sauntered around the recording studio with a sneer. “You signed a ten-year contract with her, and she’s never released a single song of your own?” he mused. “We just met today, and she’s already asking if I want to be a superstar.” He paused, a smirk playing on his lips. “I was wondering how I was supposed to sing when I’m completely tone-deaf. Turns out, she has a ‘shadow’ like you.” He wasn’t wrong. Catherine Pierce was one of the country’s most renowned music producers. There was no one she couldn’t make famous, only those she didn’t deem worthy. Before Dylan, eight other boys had been handpicked by Catherine, given songs, launched into stardom, and became overnight sensations. All of them, of course, owed their success to me. Their shadow. I used to fight her, screaming until my throat was raw. “You only love this voice, don’t you? What if I destroyed it? Would you care then?” Her response was always a dismissive caress, a soft murmur. “Don’t be dramatic, Julian. You are my most perfect creation. Of course I love you.” That, and a bank card with an ever-increasing credit limit. So this time, I said nothing. I just silently went through the sound check, the calibrations, the recording, pretending Dylan’s taunts didn’t even register. My silence pleased Catherine. She reached out and patted my cheek affectionately. What she seemed to have forgotten was that our ten-year contract was set to expire in ten days. 1 “Stop, stop, stop!” Dylan strode over to the control console, wrapping an arm around Catherine’s waist. “Cat, I don’t like this song. It’s too sappy. Can we get something with a different vibe?” Catherine, seated at the mixing board, didn’t even look annoyed. “What kind of vibe are you looking for?” “Something explosive! A real banger!” Dylan declared. I lowered my head, adjusting the microphone. Last year, I’d tried adding an improvised riff to a song’s chorus. Her face had instantly turned to ice. “Julian, remember your place. Stick to the sheet music. Don’t get creative.” But now, she just ruffled Dylan’s hair. “Alright. If you want to change it, we’ll change it. My Dylan deserves something special.” I put my headphones back on. During a break, Dylan spotted a wooden guitar propped against the wall. “Whoa, this thing is beautiful!” he exclaimed, grabbing it. My stomach clenched. That was Catherine’s prized possession, a custom-made Italian acoustic. Three years ago, I’d accidentally bumped it while cleaning, and she’d flown into a rage. “Don’t touch it! That guitar is worth more than you’ll ever be.” Dylan strummed the strings haphazardly, producing a series of jarring, ugly sounds. Catherine walked over, wrapping her arms around him from behind. “You like it?” “It’s gorgeous! Just a little heavy.” He shoved the guitar into her arms. “It’s digging into my hand.” She took it, setting it aside carelessly as she massaged his fingers. “I’ll find you a lighter one next time.” I watched them, a knot of wet cotton forming in my stomach, a dull, persistent ache. The studio’s air conditioner hummed. I was in a short-sleeved shirt, but goosebumps prickled my arms. “It’s boiling in here, Cat. Can you turn the AC down?” Dylan whined, fanning himself with his collar. Catherine immediately set the thermostat to 65 degrees. A blast of cold air hit the back of my neck. “Thirsty?” she asked Dylan, her voice low. “What do you want to drink? I’ll go get it.” “Iced Americano!” he grinned. “And some of those fried street food skewers!” She grabbed her car keys and left without a second thought. I watched her go. In ten years, through countless sessions where I’d sung until my throat was raw, she had never once asked if I was thirsty. Catherine returned quickly, carrying coffee and a bag of takeout. “Dylan, take a break. Get something to eat.” She stuck a straw in the coffee and held it to his lips. Dylan sipped his drink and then pointed at me. “Hey, you. Shadow. Do that last part again. It didn’t feel right.” I took a deep breath and walked back into the recording booth. We kept changing the style, and by ten o’clock that night, the track still wasn’t right. Outside, a storm had broken, rain lashing against the windows. As I was packing up, Catherine suddenly spoke. “Julian, I’ll give you a ride.” I froze, looking up at her. In ten years, this was the first time she had ever offered to take me home. The dead embers of hope inside me flickered, a tiny wisp of smoke rising against all odds. 2 “We can’t have you catching a cold,” she added. “It would affect your performance for tomorrow’s session.” And just like that, the rain extinguished the smoke. I understood. She wasn’t worried about me. She was worried a cold would delay Dylan’s debut album. The heat in the car was blasting. “Aside from the fact he can’t sing, Dylan has the perfect look, the perfect charisma,” she said, as if to herself. “His debut has to be flawless.” I stared out the window at the rain streaming down the glass and said nothing. She pulled up to the entrance of my rundown apartment complex but didn’t drive in. “You can walk from here, right?” Catherine looked straight ahead. “It’s just a few steps. Dylan’s exhausted. I’m taking him back to my place to rest.” In the rearview mirror, I saw Dylan asleep in the back, covered with her jacket. It hit me like a punch to the gut. She was taking him back to her family home? The ancestral estate she’d once told me no outsider would ever set foot in. I didn’t say a word. I just opened the door and stepped out. Rain immediately soaked my shoulder. The car’s taillights vanished into the downpour. I stood there, drenched, watching the spot where they had disappeared. She really was different with him. My phone vibrated in my soaked pocket. “Chloe,” I croaked, my voice hoarse. “I want to come home.” My sister’s voice on the other end was a burst of surprised joy. “Julian? Really? You finally… I’m coming to get you right now!” “Wait ten more days,” I said softly, wiping the rain from my face. “Just ten more.” The long hours in the freezing studio finally did me in. I swallowed a few pills and collapsed into bed. My mind drifted back eight years. “Why can’t it be me?” I’d cried, clutching at her sleeve. “I can be the one on stage! I can learn to dance, I can learn anything.” “Can’t you… not find someone else? Can’t it just be me?” She pulled her arm away, looking me up and down. “You’re too fat. You’re not photogenic.” At the time, I was six feet tall and weighed 145 pounds. I didn’t eat for three days after that. On the fourth day, I blacked out during a recording session. When I woke up, I was in her family home. The one and only time I ever set foot in that place. She’d gently fed me porridge. “Stop torturing yourself. I’ll make many people famous, and I’ll have many lovers. But you will always be my best partner. And in the end, you’ll be the only one who matters.” My phone vibrating pulled me back to the present. A text from Catherine: Be there at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow. The next morning, Dylan was already in the studio when I arrived, eating pork buns. “You can’t eat in here.” It was one of Catherine’s strictest rules. Her love for music was so obsessive she considered food a contaminant. I’d once brought a sandwich in, and she’d smashed a glass on the floor. “If you ever do that again, I will throw you and your sandwich out on the street!” Dylan rolled his eyes. “Who asked you?” The door opened, and Catherine walked in with a paper bag. “Cat!” Dylan immediately ran to her. “He yelled at me!” I braced for her explosion. Instead, she just placed the bag on the console. “I brought you some pan-fried dumplings. Eat them while they’re hot.” I stood there, stunned. “No way,” Dylan pouted. “They’ll make me fat.” “A little pudge is good,” she said, pinching his cheek, her voice dripping with affection. “I like you with a little meat on your bones.” My stomach churned. I remembered her words: “You’re too fat. You’re not photogenic.” Dylan was easily fifteen pounds heavier than I was. “Let’s get to work,” Catherine said, clapping her hands. When we got to the chorus, Dylan suddenly stopped us. “Can we add a harmony here?” “If you want to, sure.” “I want you to sing it!” he whined, shaking her arm. “Just a small part.” Catherine was fiercely private. To avoid the media’s constant scrutiny of her personal life, she rarely made public appearances or spoke on the record. Last year, I had acute appendicitis and needed emergency surgery. The hospital required a family member’s consent. The nurse called her. On the phone, she refused to say a single word. My sister had to fly back from out of town to sign the papers. The doctor said another half hour and I would have been dead. But now, she actually nodded. “Okay. I’ll sing with you.” I stared down at the lyric sheet, my fingers crushing the paper into deep wrinkles. I never thought this would be how I’d get my first duet with Catherine. We finally finished at three in the afternoon. “The results are fantastic,” Catherine said, saving the project file. “Dylan, your on-camera presence is amazing. You’re going to be a huge star.” Dylan shot me a triumphant look. “I think so too. It’s like I’m really the one singing!” I quietly packed my things and left. My job was just to be the voice. Catherine would handle the rest. I got home, and the rain started again. Sometime after midnight, lost in a feverish sleep, my phone exploded with a call. It was Catherine’s assistant. “Mr. Vance, get to the studio! Now! Ms. Pierce is furious. You’d better be here in ten minutes!” 3 When I burst into the studio, Catherine was standing at the console, her back to me. Dylan was sitting in a swivel chair, his eyes red and puffy. “You finally show up,” Dylan leaped to his feet. “Did you do this?” I was still catching my breath. “Do what?” “Someone leaked that my new song is plagiarized!” He slammed a tablet down in front of me. “Did you leak this demo?” On the screen was the interface of an old, obscure music website. It was playing a song I wrote in high school, “Whispering Wind.” The upload date was a week ago. A few of the lyrics were identical to Dylan’s new song—the very same lines I had suggested we change. Catherine turned around, her face a thundercloud. “Explain.” “That’s a song I wrote in high school,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I’ve never published it. I’ve never even heard of this website!” “Stop playing innocent!” Dylan shrieked. “You’re just jealous! You’re trying to sabotage me! Who else could have posted your song?” Catherine’s eyes bored into me. “So this was your plan all along? This is how you get your revenge?” I was speechless. “What?” “First, you pretend to casually suggest some lyric changes. Then, right after Dylan’s song is released, you hire online trolls to expose it as plagiarism,” she sneered. “So calculating.” “You don’t just want to ruin Dylan. You want to ruin me.” It felt like a physical blow to my heart. “No, that’s not it, that song was—” “Was what? What lie are you going to spin now?” It was a song I wrote for you. The words died on my lips. It was the secret I’d kept hidden for years, the confession of a teenage boy who fell in love with you at the school talent show when you played the piano on stage. You were like a beacon of light. I became obsessed. I listened outside the practice rooms every day after school. I downloaded videos of all your performances. I even retook my senior year of high school just to get into the same university as you. After graduation, I worked relentlessly on my singing because you once said you liked guys who could sing. All just to get a little closer to you. But what was the point of saying any of that now? She wouldn’t care. Catherine picked up her phone. “PR team. Release a statement.” “Say that Julian Vance plagiarized Dylan’s unreleased work and maliciously uploaded it to the internet.” I was horrified. “How can you twist the truth like that?” “You’re not a public figure,” she said nonchalantly, twisting a strand of her hair. “No one will remember you. Dylan is different. He’s going to be a superstar.” The assistant hesitated. “Ms. Pierce, about Mr. Vance…” “I’m not interested in anything about him,” Catherine waved her hand dismissively. “Just do as I say.” “This is what he gets for being so clever.” Dylan smiled in triumph. Two hours later, thanks to a coordinated online smear campaign, my photos and personal information were everywhere. Calls started coming in from unknown numbers. DIE, YOU PLAGIARIZING SCUM! HOW DARE YOU MESS WITH DYLAN! DOX HIM! LET’S RUIN HIS LIFE! I curled up on the sofa, watching the venomous comments flood my screen. My phone lit up with a text from Catherine. Stay in line. Don’t cause any more trouble. Or I can’t guarantee what will happen next. The next day was Dylan’s new song release event. My voice was so raw that I couldn’t perform the live “ghost vocal,” so Catherine had to change it to an autograph session at the last minute, cutting the performance segment. I was in the middle of lunch when my apartment door was violently kicked open. It was two of Catherine’s assistants. One of them grabbed my arm. “You’re coming with us to the studio.” I was still running a fever, weak and dizzy, as they half-dragged, half-carried me out the door. A terrible feeling began to creep over me. 4 The recording studio was as cold as a meat locker; the AC was on full blast. An assistant made a video call. Catherine’s tired, furious face appeared on the screen. She was in a hospital room. Dylan was lying in the bed behind her, asleep. “Julian, you are truly ruthless,” Catherine’s voice was arctic. “I don’t understand.” “You don’t understand?” She laughed, a sound devoid of humor. “At Dylan’s signing today, someone pretending to be a fan handed him a bottle of water. He took one sip and completely lost his voice. He’s here now getting emergency treatment!” I was stunned. “What does that have to do with me? I’ve been home sleeping all day!” “Nothing to do with you?!” “Security caught the ‘fan’ immediately. He said you put him up to it. Said he was ‘protecting your original work’!” Catherine’s glare was like a knife. “Besides you, who else would have a reason to go after Dylan?” Just then, Dylan stirred. Catherine picked up a glass of water. “Shhh, it’s okay. Drink a little. Then go back to sleep.” She gently wet his lips with a cotton swab. After Dylan was settled, she turned back to the screen, her expression instantly freezing over. “Since you enjoy playing these little games, let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine.” At her command, an assistant produced a small, clear vial filled with a colorless liquid. “What is that?” “Something to shut you up.” Catherine’s voice came through the speaker. “You think you’re untouchable because of that voice, don’t you? You think I can’t live without you? Well, let’s just see what tricks you can pull when it’s gone.” My legs gave out, and I collapsed. “Catherine! It’s all I have left…” She scoffed. “And that’s precisely why I have to take it away.” “I’ll disappear forever! I’ll leave the city! I’ll never show my face to you again, just please, don’t do this to my voice!” “Do it.” The two assistants pinned me down, one on each side. They pried my jaw open and poured the liquid down my throat. It burned like acid. I thrashed wildly, the potion mixing with my tears, splashing all over me. “Lock him in,” Catherine said, before ending the call with a look of disgust. The studio door slammed shut and was locked from the outside. I scrambled to the door, pounding on it, but all I could manage were hoarse, rasping gasps. I couldn’t even scream for help. On the morning of the third day, Catherine was in the hospital, peeling an apple for Dylan. Her assistant burst into the room, panicked. “Ms. Pierce! He’s gone!” “Who’s gone?” she asked, not looking up from the apple. “Julian! He’s not in the studio! All we found was this!” The assistant handed her a sheet of paper and the empty vial. It was our ten-year contract. The expiration date was yesterday.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388139”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For a year after we were married, I used a burner account to harass my ice-cold husband every single day. Is that the same tie you wore last week, darling? I fantasize about pulling it tight. The way your fingers look when you adjust your glasses during a lecture… so elegant. I want to take them in my mouth. Professor Green, I’m always watching you. I can’t bear to look away. His reply was always instantaneous: I have told you this behavior is disgusting. Have some self-respect. Until one day, while he was away on a business trip, I slipped into his hotel room. I was holding the shirt he’d just taken off, greedily inhaling the crisp, cold scent of cedarwood, when the door suddenly swung open. My husband blocked his colleague, who was standing behind him, from seeing inside. He shut the door, locked it, and let out a cold, low laugh. “My little psycho,” he murmured. “Did you have fun?” 1 It was eleven o’clock at night. The only light in the bedroom was the dim, yellow glow of a single bedside lamp. I was huddled under the covers, the cold light of my phone screen making my face look pale and ghostly. On my burner account, nicknamed “Puppy,” the chat window was still open from twenty minutes ago. I had sent him a candid photo. It was just a hand, the knuckles distinct, the fingers long and pale, holding a fountain pen as it made notes on a lesson plan. My caption read: If that hand wasn’t holding a pen, I bet it would feel amazing wrapped around my throat. The silence on his end stretched on. Just when I thought he wouldn’t reply, my phone buzzed. Sebastian Green: Are you some kind of sewer rat? Sebastian Green: Hiding in the shadows, spying on people. You’re disgusting. Staring at the cold, hard words, I felt no sadness. Instead, a shiver of pure, ecstatic pleasure ran down my spine. That was Sebastian. My husband. The youngest professor at King’swood University Law School, and a renowned expert in criminal psychology. To the outside world, he was the untouchable ideal, the very definition of asceticism. Only I knew how utterly sexy he was when he was angry. I buried my face in the pillow to muffle the twisted laugh bubbling in my throat as my fingers flew across the keyboard. I want you to curse me out all night long, Professor. The moment I hit send, a red exclamation mark appeared. He’d blocked me again. This was the fifth burner account I’d registered this month. No matter. I had backup SIM cards. The bedroom door creaked open. I quickly shoved my phone under the pillow and squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. The footsteps were light, carrying the scent of his aftershave and the clean, damp air from his shower. The other side of the mattress dipped. Sebastian lay down beside me. We had been married for a year, but the chasm between us in the bed was wide enough for two more people. “Clara.” His voice, cool and flat, cut through the darkness. My heart leaped into my throat. I feigned waking up, rolling over with a sleepy murmur. “Hm? What is it, darling?” “I’m going to Seacliff City tomorrow for an academic conference. I’ll be gone for three days.” “Oh, okay. Is your luggage packed? Do you need any help?” I propped myself up, the picture of a dutiful, doting wife. By the moonlight filtering through the window, I greedily traced the sharp lines of his profile. The straight bridge of his nose, his thin lips, and his eyes, which looked severe even when closed. “No.” Sebastian turned over, his back to me. “Just behave yourself while I’m gone.” “I will,” I replied obediently. “Goodnight, darling.” Lying back down, I stared at his back, my eyes wide open. Three days. If I couldn’t see him, couldn’t smell him for three days, I would go insane. My particular illness started in high school. I was a nobody, completely invisible. He was the school genius, worshiped by everyone. I collected his used scratch paper, his empty water bottles. I even found a wristband he’d dropped during a basketball game. This pathological obsession reached its peak when I found out our families had arranged for us to be married. After the wedding, he was rarely home, and when he was, his politeness was a wall between us. Because he was an expert in criminal psychology, I had to be meticulously careful to hide my true nature. If he ever found out, I wouldn’t just lose my position as Mrs. Green; he would have me committed as a dangerous deviant. But I couldn’t control it. Listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, I slowly reached a hand toward the edge of his pillow. A single strand of his dark hair lay there. I pinched it between my fingers, carefully closing my palm around it as if it were a priceless jewel. Tomorrow. Seacliff City. I was going too. 2 The moment Sebastian walked out the door, I booked a flight to Seacliff City. To avoid being discovered, I deliberately chose a later flight. I was dressed for anonymity. A black baseball cap, a black face mask, a baggy gray hoodie. I could disappear into any crowd. By the time I arrived at The Grand Seacliff Hotel, it was already three in the afternoon. The conference was being held in the second-floor ballroom. Without a room key, I couldn’t use the elevators, so I sat in the lobby, waiting. My luck turned when a group of staff members with event badges headed for the elevators. I pulled my cap down low and blended in with them. There was security at the ballroom entrance. I slipped down a side corridor to the fire escape, where a service door had been propped open, likely for ventilation. Once inside, I hid behind a thick, heavy curtain at the very back of the room. On stage, Sebastian was speaking. The spotlight bathed him in a warm glow. He wore a tailored navy suit that made him look as tall and unyielding as an oak tree, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He held a laser pointer, gesturing toward a case study on the large screen behind him. His voice, amplified by the microphone, filled the room—cool, steady, and magnetic. “For this particular type of stalker psychology, we typically classify it as…” He was analyzing psychopaths. And here I was, in the audience, watching him like a true psychopath. The secret thrill of it sent shivers through my entire body. I pulled out my burner phone, turned off the flash, and took a dozen pictures of him on stage. Each one focused on his face, his hands, the long line of his legs encased in suit trousers. I selected the clearest shot. With practiced ease, I sent a friend request from my newly registered sixth burner account. The message read: You’re captivating on stage, Professor Green. As expected, he didn’t accept. So I sent the picture through a direct message instead. Darling, your tie is a little crooked. I’m dying to go up there and straighten it for you. You look like such a deliciously corrupt gentleman up there. After sending the barrage of messages, I fixed my eyes on him. He was at a critical point in his lecture when the phone he’d placed on the lectern lit up. He glanced at it. In that instant, I saw the hand holding the laser pointer pause for half a second. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly before smoothing out again. He didn’t stop his lecture. His rhythm didn’t even falter. His composure was flawless. Undeterred, I sent another message: I’m watching you. Can you guess where I am? This time, I got a reaction. He adjusted his glasses, and his gaze suddenly lifted from his notes. It swept past the front rows, locking onto the back of the room. It lingered on the exact spot where I was hiding. I knew the curtains were thick, that he couldn’t possibly see me. But I felt as if I had been stripped bare. He stared at my corner for a full five seconds before casually looking away. “That concludes my presentation for today.” He closed his laptop. His voice was a full octave colder than before. I didn’t dare stay any longer. As the crowd began to move, I pulled my cap down and slipped out, hugging the wall. Just outside the ballroom, I overheard two female students talking. “Professor Green is so handsome. It’s a shame he married so young.” “I heard his wife is some boring socialite. She doesn’t deserve him at all.” I tugged at the edge of my mask and smiled without a sound. I didn’t leave the hotel. I couldn’t find Sebastian’s room number at the front desk, but I knew how to find him. As a special guest, he would be on the executive floor. I hid in a restroom in the executive lounge until I saw Sebastian walk by with a male assistant. Room 1608. I memorized the number, then went to the front desk and booked room 1609. Right next door. Once inside, I pressed my ear against the shared wall. The soundproofing was too good; I couldn’t hear a thing. But it didn’t matter. Just knowing he was sleeping only a few inches away was enough to make my blood sing with an excitement that would keep me awake all night. 3 Eight o’clock. I ordered room service and picked at my food. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Sebastian’s real number. Are you asleep? My hand jerked, nearly dropping the phone into my soup. I quickly replied: Not yet, darling. Are you done with work for the night? Sebastian Green: Just finished. Is everything okay at home? Me: Yep, everything’s fine! Just watching a movie. Sebastian Green: Good. Get some rest. I put the phone down, letting out a long breath. Half an hour later, I heard the door next door open, followed by the sound of several people entering. It sounded like colleagues or students coming to discuss something with him. This was my chance. They wouldn’t stay long. When they left, Sebastian might walk them to the elevator or go downstairs for a drink. That would be my window of opportunity. I rummaged through my bag and pulled out a master key card. I’d bought it on the dark web for a small fortune, specifically for situations like this. I had no idea if it would work on a high-end hotel lock, but I had to try. About forty minutes later, the door next door opened again. “Professor Green, we’ll confirm tomorrow’s schedule, then.” “Okay. Thank you for your hard work.” Sebastian’s voice. Then, the sound of a group walking toward the elevators. I cracked my own door open. Sebastian hadn’t gone back into his room. He was walking with them. It was a sign from the heavens. My heart hammered against my ribs. I grabbed the key card and slipped out of my room like a ghost. Standing in front of room 1608, my palm was slick with sweat. Beep. Dammit. A red light. I took a deep breath and tried again, this time with a bit more finesse, wiggling the card slightly. Beep. A green light flashed. The lock made a soft, satisfying click. I slipped inside. The door clicked shut behind me. I moved as one seamless motion. The room was dark, lit only by the neon glow from the city outside. The air was thick with that familiar, cold scent of cedarwood. His scent. I didn’t turn on the lights. Using the faint glow from the window, I felt my way through the room. His suitcase stood against the wall. His laptop and some papers were on the desk. The bathroom was still steamy; he must have showered recently. I walked to the bed. A white dress shirt was tossed carelessly across the covers. It was the one he’d worn during his lecture. The collar was unbuttoned, the cuffs rolled up. It was still warm from his body. I lunged for it, grabbing the shirt and burying my face in the fabric. I inhaled deeply. The scent filled my lungs, a balm to the gnawing emptiness, the craving, the ache. “Sebastian…” I whispered his name, rubbing my face against the soft cotton. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. I curled up on the bed, clutching his shirt, imagining he was lying beside me, his cold hands stroking my neck. My body grew hot, my breathing ragged and shallow. I was lost in my own world, completely consumed. And that’s when I heard it. A soft beep from the door. It swung open. 4 I froze, still kneeling on the bed, clutching the shirt. My mind was a complete blank. How could he be back so soon? Hadn’t he gone downstairs? I heard voices at the door. “Professor Green, you forgot this file…” A young woman’s voice. A student? A teaching assistant? “Ah. Thank you.” Sebastian’s voice. Right there. He stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking most of the light, and more importantly, blocking the view of the person behind him. If he moved even an inch, they would see everything. They would see his demure, respectable wife, sprawled on his bed like a degenerate, getting off on the scent of his discarded clothes. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. It was over. It was completely and utterly over. Sebastian took the file but didn’t close the door. He just stood there, a silhouette against the hallway light. I couldn’t see his expression. Time seemed to freeze. I could hear the frantic drumming of my own heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was going to explode. “Professor? Is something wrong?” the woman outside asked, her voice laced with confusion. “Is it not a good time to come in?” She started to peer around him. I squeezed my eyes shut in despair. “Yes, actually, it’s not,” Sebastian said suddenly, his voice terrifyingly calm. “I just remembered the room is a bit of a mess.” He took a step to the side, completely blocking the doorway. “I have the file now. You should go get some rest.” “Okay, goodnight, Professor.” Her footsteps receded down the hall. The world fell silent again. Click. The deadbolt slid into place. The sound was deafening in the quiet room. Sebastian didn’t turn on the lights. He walked toward me, one slow step at a time. His leather shoes were muffled by the thick carpet. I remained in my pathetic pose, my knuckles white as I gripped the shirt. I tried to let go, but my fingers were frozen stiff. He stopped at the edge of the bed. He loomed over me. In the darkness, his eyes seemed to glow. “Clara.” He said my name, his tone utterly unreadable. I lifted my head, my body trembling as tears streamed down my face. “I…” I wanted to explain, but my throat was too dry to make a sound. And what could I say? I was caught red-handed. Sebastian slowly shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it onto a nearby armchair. Then he leaned over me, planting his hands on either side of my body, trapping me between him and the mattress. The cedarwood scent was overwhelming now, suffocating me. He reached out and tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him. The pads of his fingers were cool and rough against my trembling lips. “So, the little psycho was you all along.” His voice was a low whisper, tinged with something that sounded dangerously like amusement. “When you sent those messages… were you imagining me doing this to you?” My whole body was shaking, the tears flowing faster now. His gaze dropped to the crumpled shirt in my arms. “You like my scent that much?” He leaned closer, his warm breath ghosting across my neck, raising a million tiny goosebumps. “My little psycho,” he whispered, nipping my earlobe. “Did you have fun?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388138”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel