“$568.20.” The server handed me the leather folio, her smile tight, practiced, and entirely professional. I stared at the empty seat across from me. Five minutes ago, Preston had excused himself to use the restroom. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice steady. “But the gentleman…” “He’s gone, ma’am.” The server’s eyes shifted away, unable to hold my gaze. “Out the back exit.” I looked down at the itemized receipt. The Seafood Tower. The Dry-Aged Porterhouse. The bottle of Silver Oak Cabernet. All his choices. My phone buzzed against the white tablecloth. A text from Preston: [Thanks for the treat. It’s good for a woman to learn how to be generous for a change.] I let out a short, dry laugh. “Check, please.” The server blinked, confused. “Ma’am, this is the…” “I know,” I said, lifting my head to look her in the eye. “Run the card. But I need an itemized invoice. Make sure the recipient is listed as ‘Individual’ and the memo line reads: ‘Evidence for Fraud Investigation.’” 1 My name is Sloane, and I’m twenty-eight. I work as an in-house paralegal for a mid-sized tech firm in the city. I make decent money, have about fifteen grand in savings, and I haven’t been on a serious date in three years. This setup was my mother’s doing. “Preston is thirty-five, an investment banker, owns a condo in the Loop—he is a catch, Sloane!” My mother had chirped over the phone, sounding like she’d just won the Powerball. “He even asked for your photo and said you had ‘kind eyes.’” I didn’t take it too seriously. I’ve been on the dating apps long enough to see the carnival of horrors. I’ve had guys ask within the first five minutes if I’d sign a prenup waiving all rights to my own 401k. I’ve had men who wanted to know if I was okay with their mother living in the spare bedroom before we’d even ordered appetizers. So, when Preston suggested a high-end steakhouse, I actually thought it was a green flag. At least it wasn’t a dive bar or his car. I’d left work early that day, changed into a silk slip dress, and even put on the expensive perfume I save for holidays. When I arrived, he was already seated. Tailored navy suit, hair gelled back with military precision, a smile that showed exactly the right amount of teeth. He was the picture of corporate success. “Sloane, right? You look even better than your pictures.” The opener was a bit slick, grease on a polished surface, but I let it slide. “Preston?” “Sit, sit.” He pulled out my chair with performative chivalry. I sat. He pushed the heavy leather-bound menu toward me. “Order whatever you want. I’m easy.” I scanned the menu, my eyes automatically drifting to the mid-range entrees. “Maybe the roasted chicken, and a wedge salad—” “Hey, come on. First time meeting, let’s not be cheap.” He raised a hand, snapping his fingers for the waiter. “Hi, yeah. Do you have the Jumbo Seafood Tower? Let’s get one of those. And the Japanese A5 Wagyu ribeye? Make it two. Oh, and open a bottle of the ’98 Cab.” I froze. “Preston, we really don’t need all that.” “It’s fine, it’s fine. We rarely get to treat ourselves.” He grinned, expansive and confident. “My treat. Relax.” My stomach gave a small, warning lurch. But the order was in. I didn’t want to make a scene. As we ate, he was charming. Aggressively charming. He asked about my job, my family, my five-year plan. “Your parents retired? What’s their social security look like?” The question was sharp, invasive. “Enough to get by.” “That’s good. You help them out?” He nodded sagely. “I send my mom a few grand a month. A man provides, right?” I didn’t answer. He pressed on. “What kind of savings are you sitting on?” “…I don’t think that’s appropriate to discuss.” “No worries, no worries, just curious.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve got about half a million liquid, not counting the equity in the condo.” I thought, Well, if he’s sharing, maybe I’m being too guarded. “About fifteen thousand.” “Nice. Good start for a dowry.” My expression hardened. He caught it instantly. “Kidding! I’m kidding. A woman as independent as you? Who needs a dowry?” I stayed silent. The food arrived. The lobster was fresh, the Wagyu melted on the tongue, the wine was velvet. But as I ate, the knot in my stomach tightened. He was mining me for data. Income, savings, family assets, real estate ambitions. Whenever I asked about him, he deflected with a joke or a vague platitude. Halfway through the meal, he stood up. “Pardon me. Just need to hit the men’s room.” I nodded. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The unease bloomed into cold dread. I texted him. No reply. I called. Straight to voicemail. I flagged down the server. “Excuse me, the gentleman…” The server’s eyes did that tell-tale dart to the side. “He’s gone. Out the back.” I felt the blood rush to my head, a hot wave of humiliation. “Check, please.” The server handed it over. $568.20. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I asked for the itemized invoice. “Memo line: Evidence for Fraud Investigation.” The server paused, stunned. I opened my phone. Screenshot the texts. Screenshot the call log. Photographed the devastation of the half-eaten seafood tower. Then I sent a text to my mother: [The matchmaker. What’s her name? What’s her number?] 2 My mother was still in the dark. [What’s wrong? Did you two not click?] [Name. Number.] She sent a screenshot of a digital business card. Patty Gold. Elite Relationship Consultant. I saved it. No explanation given. The next morning, I took a half-day off work. First stop: The bank. I printed the transaction record—I’d put the meal on my Chase Sapphire, so the timestamp was precise. Second stop: The restaurant. “Hi. I need to review the transaction details from last night.” The hostess looked nervous. She pulled up the system. “These items—the Wagyu, the wine—the gentleman ordered these?” “Yes, ma’am. He stated he was hosting and asked for our specials.” I recorded the conversation on my phone. “Does he come here often?” The hostess hesitated. “…I’m not really supposed to say.” I nodded. Often. “Do you have security cameras?” “We do, but to access footage you’d need—” “I work in legal.” I flashed my ID badge. It wasn’t a badge, strictly speaking, just a corporate lanyard, but I moved with enough authority that it didn’t matter. “I am currently compiling evidence. If you cooperate, I will note that the restaurant was an unwitting party. If you don’t…” I let the silence hang heavy. “Then I have to wonder if the establishment is an accessory to fraud.” The hostess went pale. “Let me get the manager.” Ten minutes later, I had the file on a USB drive. Preston walking in, ordering like a king, eating, checking his watch, and slipping out the back fire exit. Clear as day. I uploaded it to the cloud and moved to step three. Patty Gold. Her “consultancy” was located in a converted garden apartment in a faded brick building in Queens. A plastic sign on the door read Gold Standard Matchmaking. I knocked. “Coming, coming!” The door swung open to reveal a woman in her late fifties with hair dyed a violent shade of auburn and lipstick that bled into the cracks around her mouth. “Oh, hello! You must be Sloane! Your mother wouldn’t stop raving about you. Pretty as a picture!” “Patty.” I didn’t smile. “Preston. You set us up.” “Yes! A total catch, isn’t he? How did it go? Sparks flying?” “He ran out on the check last night.” Patty froze for a beat, then forced a high-pitched laugh. “Oh, honey, young people these days. First dates can be awkward—” “He stuck me with a six-hundred-dollar tab.” Her smile calcified. But only for a second. “Surely it’s a misunderstanding! I’ve known Preston for years. He’s not that kind of man. Let me just give him a call—” “Don’t bother,” I cut her off. “I’m here for his file.” “Excuse me?” “Full legal name. Current address. Employer. You’re a legitimate business, you have records, right?” Patty’s eyes started darting around the room. “Well… we have strict privacy policies. I can’t just hand out client data.” “Fine.” I stood up. “I’m going to the precinct. I’ll let the police subpoena the records.” “Wait, wait, wait!” She grabbed my arm. “Let’s not be dramatic. It’s a few hundred bucks, right? I’ll cover it!” I stared at her hand on my sleeve until she let go. “You’ll cover it?” “Yes, absolutely. I’ve known him a long time, he probably just… forgot his wallet…” “What is your relationship with him?” “No relationship! Just… a loyal client.” “Loyal client?” I let out a cold laugh. “How many dates has he been on?” Patty’s face drained of color. Her mouth opened and closed. I pulled out my phone and hit record. “Patty, listen carefully. I deal with contracts and liability for a living. If you lie to me, I will make it my personal mission to dismantle this little operation. Talk.” She looked at the phone, sweat beading on her upper lip. “I… I didn’t know he was going to stiff you…” “What did you know?” Silence stretched for ten seconds. Then she crumbled. “He… he asks for introductions. Three or four a month.” “And?” “And he takes them to dinner. Expensive places.” “And leaves them with the bill?” She looked at the floor. I smiled, but there was no humor in it. “How much?” “What?” “What’s your kickback?” “I don’t—” “I have the security footage,” I bluffed, turning the screen toward her. “I can find out how many times you two have met.” Patty slumped against the doorframe. “Two hundred… two hundred a head.” I nodded and stepped back. “Thank you for your cooperation.” “W-what are you going to do?” I didn’t look back. “Get my money back. And put you both somewhere with bars on the windows.” 3 Back in my apartment, I organized the evidence on my dining table. Restaurant receipts. Video files. The recording of Patty. The text messages. The chain was clear: Preston uses the matchmaker to source victims, uses the date as a pretext to gorge on luxury food, flees, and then mocks the women to discourage pursuit. Patty takes a kickback. Willful ignorance at best, conspiracy at worst. It was fraud. But I wasn’t going to the police yet. Six hundred dollars? That’s barely a misdemeanor in this city. The cops would file a report and use it as a coaster. I needed volume. That night, I logged onto a local community forum and Reddit. [Has anyone in the city used “Gold Standard Matchmaking”? Or been set up with a finance guy named Preston who loves expensive wine?] I posted it and went to bed. When I woke up, my notifications were blowing up. [Me! Last month! Stuck me with a $400 tab!] [Omg, yes. Said he had to use the bathroom and never came back.] [I thought I was the only one. I felt so stupid.] [Wait, is he about 5’10, slicked back hair, asks about your savings account?] [YES. The savings question!] I scrolled through the comments, a chill running down my spine. Not three or four. Just in the comments, I counted seventeen women. The earliest was eight months ago. The highest tab was nearly eight hundred dollars. I created a private Signal group and sent out invites. “Ladies, I’m the OP. I work in law. I have an idea, but I need everyone on board.” [What’s the plan?] “Police report.” [Is it worth it? My friends told me to just let it go. The cops won’t care about a dinner bill.] “They won’t care about one bill. But seventeen?” The chat went silent. Then, a message popped up: [Count me in.] [Me too.] [Let’s get him.] I typed quickly. “Okay. Organize your evidence. Bank statements, screenshots, texts. Anything you have. I’ll draft the master affidavit.” [Sloane, you are a godsend.] “I’m not a godsend,” I typed. “I’m just pissed off.” That evening, my mother called. “Sloane, honey, how is it going with Preston? Did you exchange numbers?” “We did.” “And? Are you seeing him again?” “No.” “Why not? He’s so established—” “Mom.” I cut her off. “He’s a con artist.” Dead silence on the line. “What do you mean?” I told her everything. The bill. The escape. The other women. My mother was quiet for a long time. Then she said something that surprised me. “I’m going to kill Patty Gold.” “Mom—” “I paid her three hundred dollars for that introduction!” My mother’s voice trembled with rage. “She guaranteed a background check! Guaranteed! She scammed my daughter’s money and my money?” Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Patty wasn’t just taking kickbacks from Preston. She was charging the mothers a finder’s fee. Double dipping. “Mom, don’t go over there.” “Why not?” “Because I have a better idea.” 4 By day three, the Signal group had grown to twenty-three women. Some took off work. Some brought friends who were lawyers. We met in the back room of a quiet coffee shop. “I’m Sloane.” I stood at the head of the table. “Here’s where we stand.” I opened my laptop. Yes, I had made a PowerPoint. “Subject: Preston Reed. Real age 37, claims 35. Claims to be a banker, actually unemployed. Over the last eight months, he has utilized ‘Gold Standard Matchmaking’ to exploit at least 23 women.” “Modus Operandi is identical: High-end dining, excessive ordering, mid-meal exit via rear egress.” “Individual losses range from $300 to $800. The current total verified loss is…” I paused for effect. “$12,450.” Gasps rippled through the room. “Twelve thousand dollars?” “He ate twelve grand worth of steak?” I nodded. “It gets worse. Patty Gold takes a $200 kickback from him per date, plus she charges your families an intro fee. Based on our numbers, she has defrauded our families of at least another $7,000.” “Combined, Preston and Patty are looking at a fraud scheme totaling over twenty thousand dollars.” Someone slammed a hand on the table. “Police! Now!” “We will,” I said. “But first, I want to do one thing.” “What?” “Make him ready for his close-up.” I laid out the plan. Patty was still in business. She didn’t know we were organized. My friend Harper is two years younger than me, gorgeous, and—more importantly—an investigative reporter for a local news station. “We send Harper in. Wired.” “Will he recognize her?” someone asked. “No. He preys on women he thinks won’t fight back. He doesn’t watch the news. And greedy men get sloppy.” “What about Patty?” “As long as the check clears,” I said coldly, “Patty won’t ask questions.” That afternoon, I called Patty from a burner number. “Hi, Patty. My friend is looking for a match. I heard you’re the best.” She hesitated. “You sound familiar.” “I get that a lot. I have a generic voice.” “Right. Well, send her over. The fee is—” “Three hundred. I know. She’ll be there tomorrow.” I hung up and texted Harper. [Tomorrow, 3 PM. Gold Standard Matchmaking.] [Copy. Hidden cam is ready.] [Remember: You are Harper, 28, Marketing Exec, $20k in savings.] [Why mention the savings?] [He’ll ask.] [Seriously? On a first date?] [Just wait.] The next day. Harper went in. That night, she sent me the footage. Patty’s spiel was identical. I fast-forwarded through it. The gold was the dinner. The video was grainy, shot from a button-cam, but the audio was crystal clear. Preston sat there, suit immaculate, grinning like a shark. “Harper, right? The photo didn’t do you justice.” Word for word. Then the interrogation: Job, income, family assets. Harper played it perfectly. Shy, compliant. “Twenty thousand in savings? Smart girl. That’s a nice little nest egg.” He said it while scanning the wine list. He ordered. The Tower. The Wagyu. The expensive vintage. Identical. Halfway through the meal, he stood up. “Pardon me. Just need to use the little boys’ room.” Harper looked up at him, eyes wide. He smiled, turned, and walked toward the restrooms. But the camera angle caught him veering left. Down the service corridor. Pushing open the emergency exit. And— poof. Gone. Harper’s voice came over the video, a soft chuckle. “Gotcha.” I typed back: [Beautiful work. Let’s make him famous.]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387726”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

They called me The Glass Doll—a fragile girl with Osteogenesis Imperfecta, the brittle bone disease. And Noah Sterling, my boyfriend, was a pharmaceutical researcher. When he shoved me, sending me crashing to the floor, I grabbed desperately at his pant leg, begging him to get me to the ER. He kicked my hand away, annoyance etched into every line of his face, and scoffed. “Lily, you’ve been on my meds for months. You’re practically cured. Don’t pull this pathetic stunt with me. I have work to do, and I just need to talk to a colleague. Is this really necessary?” Sienna stood beside him, her arm looped through Noah’s, feigning a sweet, scolding voice. “Oh, Noah, honey, you shouldn’t treat your girlfriend like that!” I lay sprawled on the hardwood, registering the crunch of multiple fractures, realizing a splinter of bone had punctured my lung. My breath was catching in ragged gasps. With a trembling hand, I managed to dial 911. “Noah, sweetie, we have to go, or we’ll be late for the lab meeting. I have so many questions I need you to help me with.” Sienna hurried him away, already tugging him toward the door. I’d lost count of how many times Noah had dismissed me, citing his research. Time bled away. I felt warm, coppery blood welling up in my mouth. My vision swam. The 911 operator called back. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, the street is blocked by a private car. We are moving as fast as we can. Please, just hold on a little longer.” I wiped the tears from my eyes. With the last vestige of strength, I typed out a text. “Thank you for healing me. It’s time to pay back this life you gave me.” 1 I lay still on the floor. If it weren’t for the blood flecks on my chin, I would have looked peacefully asleep—serene and undisturbed. Because I rarely went outside, my skin was pale, perfectly white, like real porcelain. My lips were turning blue, but they held a faint smile. And on my cheeks, a trail of tears, a testament to my bitter, desperate regret for the future I wouldn’t see. I looked down at the silent, broken figure and finally understood: I was dead. A half-hour earlier, we’d had the argument. How many times had it happened? The pattern was always the same: we’d finally settle into a quiet, sweet moment, and his phone would buzz—always a colleague—and Noah would bolt, tireless and focused. This time, the colleague had shown up at our door. Noah was a pharmaceutical researcher, a brilliant mind dedicated to finding the cure for Osteogenesis Imperfecta. We’d known each other since we were kids. He knew that my disease meant I couldn’t fall, couldn’t be hit, or I’d suffer severe, multiple breaks. Thanks to him, I had stumbled and limped my way to the age of twenty-five. But today, he had simply shoved me away in frustration. In that instant, I’d heard the sickening, unmistakable sound of bones snapping inside my own body. Watching him ignore me, watching him prepare to leave, I panicked. I grabbed his pant leg, biting back a sob. “Noah, I’m broken. My bones. Please, just take me to the hospital.” He looked down at me, his eyes filled with contempt, and viciously kicked my hand away from his trousers. “Lily, you’ve been on my medication. You’re practically cured. Stop being dramatic. I have to go to work, and I’m just talking to a colleague. Why are you making a scene?” “You just fell. It’s not like you got hit by a car. I am sick of your constant jealousy. It’s exhausting.” I struggled to look up at him, offering a helpless, hollow smile, and called 911 myself. Noah watched my frantic movement, rolling his eyes in disgust. “Still faking.” Sienna wrapped her arms around Noah’s neck, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Noah, honey, let’s go now, or we’ll be late for the meeting. I have a million things I need your help with.” The front door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the house. I didn’t dare move. The only sound in the dead silence of the room was the regular tick-tock of the clock—the steady countdown of my life. The metallic taste of blood was thick in my mouth; I swallowed the warm fluid with effort. My vision blurred in and out. Breathing became a monumental struggle. The operator’s call only delivered more horror. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry. The street is completely blocked. We are trying to find an alternate route, but you need to hang on.” A wave of despair washed over me. I dialed Noah’s number again. If he turned around now, it might still be enough. The phone connected. Before I could even speak, his voice exploded in my ear, a torrent of abuse. “Are you kidding me? I’m working! If you’re hurt, call a goddamn Uber. You are not The Glass Doll anymore. Stop acting like you’re still a helpless baby!” I swallowed the mouthful of blood, my voice a weak whisper. “The ambulance is delayed. Can you just turn around and come back for me?” His reply was cold, devoid of all feeling. “So the ambulance is a little late, are you going to die? Do you have any idea how busy I am? I’m doing all this for you.” I tried to call again, but he wouldn’t pick up. “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable…” I gave a self-mocking laugh, and blood bubbled past my lips, pouring out uncontrollably. He used to panic instantly if I was hurt, rushing me to the hospital himself. “Lily, don’t be scared, it’s just a broken leg. When we get home, I’ll pad every surface with thick foam so you never hit anything again.” He had dedicated his life to this cure. The young Noah had promised me, earnest and determined: “Lily, once you’re all better, I can finally take you out. You’ll be able to run free, and we’ll see the world.” But he broke his promise. 2 I laughed and cried at the same time. We were happy back then. I truly believed that happiness would last forever. But as my condition seemed to improve, Noah’s attitude began to shift. He spent endless nights in the lab, and his time with me dwindled to nothing. I told myself it was a crucial phase of his research; I needed to be supportive. I waited up for him no matter the hour, warmed his mug of coffee, and tidied his side of the bed. I forced myself to ignore the faint smear of lipstick on his collar. I ignored the scent of a perfume that wasn’t mine clinging to his shirt. But the truth was a slow, agonizing realization that I was only lying to myself. That night, he was in the shower. A call came in. Thinking it was my phone, I answered. “Noah, babe, I can’t even sleep without you here tonight.” “Why even go home? Lily is so fragile, she won’t even let you touch her. I know a lot of ways to keep you busy. I can show you next time.” “Noah? Why aren’t you saying anything?” When I finally registered what I’d done, I hung up. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably. That voice. That was no colleague discussing work. They were flirting. They were intimate. It was likely that all those countless nights I spent alone in our quiet house, he was wrapped up in another woman’s arms. I’d called his mother a few times, trying to confide in her, but her words were a harsh slap of reality. “That’s just how men are, sweetie. You have to cut him some slack.” “If you two broke up, where would you go, Lily?” She was right. If I left him, where could I go? I had no apartment, no ability to work, no family, and no friends. I was exactly what she had called me—a fragile porcelain doll, requiring constant, expensive care. I had known he didn’t love me anymore, but I couldn’t leave. A month ago, I was doing some light housework and accidentally bruised my arm. I called him immediately, panicked, and he just told me to go to the clinic myself. I had been to the orthopedic department countless times. It had always been him—Noah—who held my hand, managed the paperwork, paid the bills, and gave me an overwhelming sense of security. This time, there wasn’t even a check-in call. When I returned from the clinic with a cast on my arm, he was sitting on the couch, happily texting someone. I stood silently in the doorway, staring at him. He offered a rushed, dismissive explanation. “I’m just talking about work with a colleague. Go lie down.” I retreated to the bedroom and quietly scrolled through his feed. “Work is exhausting, but thankfully I have you by my side.” The photo showed two people smiling into each other’s eyes. They were in love. I realized I didn’t think I’d ever taken a picture like that with Noah. A little later, he came to bed and lay down, wrapping his arm around me from behind. He saw I was looking at the post. He sounded completely unconcerned as he explained it. “Don’t get the wrong idea. She’s just a friend. I wouldn’t post it if I had anything to hide, right?” I nodded weakly. “I don’t misunderstand. I believe you.” I was calm. No, not calm. My heart had simply gone cold. But I still felt the compulsive need to comfort him. “You don’t have to work so hard. I wish you’d come home earlier.” “Maybe spend one less night…” He pulled his arm away before I could finish, cutting me off. “That’s enough. Work is stressful enough without coming home to a lecture. What can you actually do for me besides complain?” “Other men’s wives are supportive partners—they help run the house and earn a living. You? You injure yourself doing housework and just waste money all day.” I clamped my mouth shut, speechless, the insult stinging my eyes. The worst part was that he wasn’t wrong. Maybe he regretted ever taking me in. He seemed to realize his words were cruel, so he softened his voice. “I only work this hard for you, Lily. If I finish this project, the new drug for brittle bone disease will be fully developed.” A sharp, searing pain dragged me back to the present. The emergency dispatcher called again. “Ma’am, please remain calm and do not move. We are almost there. You must hold on.” Twenty minutes. And I still hadn’t heard a siren. I could feel my heartbeat slowing down. I was biting the inside of my lip, drawing blood, just to stay conscious. How much longer could I possibly last? Clutching the last shred of my sanity, I sent Noah that final, parting message. “Thank you for healing me. It’s time to pay back this life you gave me.” 3 As the text left my phone, I felt my spirit slowly lift from my body. The next thing I knew, I was standing right next to Noah. He was focused on writing a lab report when, suddenly, Sienna draped herself over his back, pouting playfully. “Noah, sweetie, I can’t write this part of the report. You have to help me!” He smiled gently, putting down his pen, and tapped her nose. “What don’t you get? I’ll walk you through it.” With that, he lifted her and sat her right down on his lap, leaning in close for a private tutoring session. Suddenly, a call from the hospital interrupted them. “Hello, are you family of Lily Sterling? We regret to inform you that our resuscitation efforts were unsuccessful. Please come to the hospital to handle the affairs.” Noah hung up without a word. “She’s unbelievable. Now she’s getting people to call and try to trick me. She’s too scared to leave the house, so this is her latest trick to get me to come home.” The phone rang again. Noah Tsked, hung up immediately, and blocked and deleted the number. He tossed his phone aside and returned to his intimate session with Sienna. A few colleagues nearby exchanged eye rolls, their disapproval obvious. Finally, a guy named Leo, who had clearly had enough, turned and muttered in disgust. “How did she even get hired? She doesn’t know anything. Just constantly using the lab as a place to canoodle. It’s sickening.” Noah heard him and stood up to retaliate. “Mind your own business, Leo. She’s not bothering you. Just do your own work.” Sienna shrank behind Noah, tugging his arm gently. “Noah, honey, don’t be mad. He’s not totally wrong. I’m sorry. Let’s take a break until you figure things out with Lily.” She wiped a tear and hurried out the lab door, covering her mouth with her hand. Noah gave Leo a nasty glare and then rushed out, chasing after her in a frantic panic. The remaining lab members started murmuring. “Man, I feel so bad for his fiancée. Twenty years with that jerk.” “Seriously. I wonder what he’s going to tell her.” I watched Noah’s furrowed brow, his expression of deep annoyance. I wanted to tell him: You don’t have to deal with me anymore. I’m gone. You are free. Noah held Sienna close, gently stroking her back. She sobbed into his chest, then looked up at him, teary-eyed and vulnerable. “Noah, you pushed Lily today. She must be hurt. She called you so many times.” Noah was completely nonchalant. “Don’t worry about her. A tiny little fall won’t do anything. She’s just jealous and trying to use her old, pathetic tricks to get attention.” Sienna relaxed, nestled closer into his arms. “If you say so, Noah, then I don’t have to feel guilty.” He wiped her tears and affectionately ruffled her hair. “Guilty about what? She’s not like you—responsible and capable. She just sits at home and moans about everything.” He thought for a moment, pulled out his phone, looked at my last text, and smirked. “Have you had enough fun with your little joke? Are you really hurt? Do you want me to come to the hospital?” Sienna peered over his shoulder at the text and put on a worried face. “Noah, sweetie, you should go check on Lily. You should.” She gently pushed him toward the parking lot. But they hadn’t walked far when Sienna let out a sharp cry. “Ah!” She immediately crouched down, clutching her ankle, fighting back tears. “Sienna, you twisted your ankle? Come sit here!” Noah instantly helped her to a nearby bench, gently took off her high-heeled shoe, and began softly massaging her ankle. Sienna tried to pull her foot away, pushing him. “Noah, no, you need to go to Lily. I’ll just rest here.” “No way. She can handle herself. You, however, can’t walk. Come on, I’ll carry you back.” He turned his back to her and hoisted Sienna onto his shoulders. Sienna hid her blushing face in his neck, but a look of undeniable triumph flashed in her eyes. When they returned to the lab, they walked right past a group of gossiping colleagues. “Did you hear? Some brittle bone patient died at the Central Hospital just now.” “I think… her name was Sterling, maybe?” Noah’s heart skipped a beat. He stopped walking and slowly let Sienna slide to the ground, listening intently.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387725”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the third year of Owen Maxwell’s affair, the long-dormant System reappeared, a forgotten voice promising that I could finally go home. For the final ten days, I stopped fighting. I stopped the tearing arguments, the desperate attempts to make him see reason. I let him spend the nights with his trophy girlfriend, Blakely, never once asking where he was. I let him give her the things I cherished. The day I left was my birthday. He burst in, Blakely clinging to his arm, and they knocked over my cake. He shoved me against the window, his fingers digging into my jaw. He demanded to know why I had hurt their child. “When did you become so vicious, Sierra?” I smiled, suddenly too tired to explain anything. “Yes,” I whispered. “I am that vicious.” “So, you and her? Go have your happy life.” Then, under his horrified gaze, I arched my back and vaulted out of the nineteenth-floor window. It was the only way to end everything in this world. 1 When the long-dormant System appeared and told me I could go home, I had just finished another explosive fight with Owen. He had walked in minutes earlier, fresh from an encounter with Blakely Cole, his kept woman. When he saw me lying in bed, he pressed himself against my back, his lips warm and tracing slow, possessive lines on my neck. I bolted upright and instinctively slapped him. “Owen. If you don’t find it disgusting, I certainly do.” He froze for a moment, then gave a short, bitter laugh, rubbing his cheek. Then, he yanked me off the bed, dragging me to the bathroom. He pinned me in front of the vanity mirror, one hand clamping my chin, his eyes toxic with contempt. “You’re disgusted with me? Sierra Reed, look at yourself! Do you see any trace of the woman I married?” I stared at the reflection. My hair was tangled, the strap of my silk slip was falling off my shoulder, and I looked like a distraught mess. The eyes that he used to call the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen were dull and lifeless. Fine lines had crept up around them, stealing the vibrant energy of my youth. In that instant, my mind flashed to Blakely’s face—her youthful, glowing skin, her sparkling eyes burning with naked ambition and a kind of triumphant provocation. “So, what, Owen? That’s your justification for cheating?” I scoffed, leaning against the cool tile, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. He slowly moved closer, his thumb gently wiping a tear that escaped my lash line. “I told you more than once. It’s just a fling. I’m just playing around. When I’m done with her, I’ll come home. Sierra, I’ve always loved you.” It was nauseating. Utterly, uncontrollably sickening. I screamed, a primal sound of pain, and grabbed a hand lotion bottle, smashing it into the mirror. It splintered into a thousand jagged pieces. “Get out! Just get out!” After he left, I stood barefoot on the icy marble floor, looking out the window at the enormous LED billboard across the street. Owen had paid to run a giant photo of Blakely, her face splashed across the skyline. I gave a bitter, dry laugh. This kind of bitter confrontation had become a nightly occurrence over the last year. It started with soul-crushing agony, but now, only an exhausted despair remained. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Eight years ago, I arrived in this world on a mission: to save a bitter, broken teenager named Owen Maxwell. His father had cheated, his family business had collapsed, his mother had committed suicide, and he was buried under massive debt. His eyes were utterly dead. I was the one who found him on a sunny morning and walked toward that desperate, miserable boy. I moved in with him, first in a basement apartment, then in a tiny shared room, slowly working to help him pay back every debt. He once asked me, confused, “Why are you so good to me?” I smiled, taking his hand. “Maybe it’s fate. Or maybe it’s the Universe’s instruction.” He lowered his head and murmured, “Then you must be the best gift the Universe has ever given me.” The day the mission was supposed to end, he seemed to sense I would leave. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he held me tightly from behind, staying awake all night. I caved. I wrapped my arms around him. “Owen, I’m not going home.” The System vanished entirely after that. For five full years, it was silent. And it was in those five years that Owen cheated. It was three years after our wedding. He found a younger, beautiful, ambitious model—Blakely Cole. 2 I still remember the day I found out. He came home drunk, hugging me, resting his head on my shoulder. Through the haze, he suddenly mumbled, “Sierra, why do you feel shorter?” I thought it was funny then. I’ve been five-foot-five my whole life; how could I suddenly be shorter? Later, I checked his phone. His Blakely was five-foot-ten, tall and strikingly sexy—the complete opposite of me. And the pet name he had slurred? Was it Sierra, or was it Blakely? … I don’t remember the specifics of that day. Only the thunderous roar in my head, the world tilting and falling into darkness. Owen knelt before me, crying and begging. He said it was a mistake, a momentary lapse, a temporary thrill. Three years of dating, three years of marriage, giving up my chance to go home—all for this ending. I was too stubborn and too hurt to let us go. So, we silently agreed to maintain the marriage. But a rotten love, a rose infested with beetles, is impossible to discard yet sickening to hold onto. His repeated betrayals led to an endless cycle of fights and resentment, until we were utterly exhausted and numb. It was like a dull blade sawing through the last remnants of our love, slowly, agonizingly. So, when the System finally woke from its long hibernation and spoke to me, I answered immediately. “System, I regret it. I want to go home.” 3 “Host, I did warn you that the events following the completion of your mission were unpredictable… including Owen’s change of heart.” “However, due to your past exceptional performance, I can grant you a special privilege and reopen the channel home. But you have only ten days remaining.” Tears streamed down my face. I nodded. “Understood. You have a final ten days left in this world. The departure countdown officially begins.” The System disappeared again. The house sank back into a deathly silence. I dried my eyes and began to pack. No, not pack. I needed to erase every trace of myself from this world. I gathered all my clothes and dropped the bags into the garbage chute. I took down the wedding photos from the wall, one by one, and pulled out the wedding ring he had given me. On our wedding day, Owen held that three-quarter carat cluster setting—a ring that cost him everything he had back then—and knelt, his voice thick with tears. “Sierra, you are the only light in my dark life. I will be faithful to no one but you, ever.” That small, sentimental diamond was the vessel of our most intense love, and I wore it for years. Until the day I saw Blakely on his arm, flashing a five-carat fancy pink diamond that glittered blindingly. After that, my ring stayed in the drawer. I used the diamond to violently smash the glass on our largest wedding portrait. It shattered instantly. Finally, I looked at the home, once saturated with eight years of our shared life, and felt a strange relief. I had been stuck in this sick, resentful marriage for five years. Now, finally leaving felt like the truest form of freedom. 4 The next morning, I went downstairs. The lights were dim. Owen was sitting on the sofa, smoking, his expression unreadable. “Where are the wedding pictures from the wall?” He spoke flatly, stopping me in the hall. His phone was buzzing constantly with notifications. I could see Blakely’s messages flashing across the screen—she was holding a dozen preserved, gold-dipped roses, her face radiant. [Such a tough night, baby, but this gift makes me feel so much better again ∼ ∼ ] He noticed me looking but didn’t bother to hide the screen. “I put them away,” I said, my voice empty, and walked past him to the kitchen for a glass of water. He extinguished his cigarette and smirked, rising to his feet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate Van Cleef & Arpels Alhambra pendant. He put it around my neck from behind. “Still mad?” “Here. A peace offering. It looks good on you, Sierra.” He leaned in close, his voice a low, toxic whisper in my ear. Like a snake tasting the air. “Sierra, you are the only Mrs. Maxwell. No one can ever replace you. Not even Blakely.” “Once I’m tired of her, we can try for a baby again. How does that sound?” I coldly pushed him away, then slowly smoothed down the lapel of his expensive shirt, brushing off the smear of another woman’s lipstick. I managed a brittle, scornful smile. Then, I turned and walked away. 5 Owen and I had a child once. I didn’t even know I was pregnant then. I was still obsessed with his fidelity, spending a whole night crying outside the hotel where he was staying with Blakely. In the morning, I watched him emerge, his arm around her, one hand resting possessively on her backside as he tucked her into the passenger seat. They started getting intimate in the car immediately. I gripped the steering wheel and screamed, a raw, wrenching sound, and slammed my car into theirs. That’s when I lost the baby. It was the fourth time I had found proof of his ongoing affair with her. Owen looked slightly confused now, but he didn’t detect my secret reference to the miscarriage. He merely nodded thoughtfully and left the house again. He didn’t come home for two days. I watched the news reports, the endless stream of gossip about him and Blakely. I was so calm, I didn’t send a single text or make a single call. Instead, I spent those two days liquidating everything: the real estate, the jewelry, the stocks I’d accumulated over the years. The System had confirmed I could convert the wealth I’d amassed in this world into currency in my home world. In the first two years of our marriage, Owen had rapidly built his fortune. It was the peak of our love, and he bought every property, putting the deeds squarely in my name. He used to say that I had pulled him out of the abyss and then suffered with him through the hard years, and he felt crippling guilt. Only giving me enough money could ease his conscience. In the end, he failed to give me enough love, but he gave me enough money—more than enough to live extravagantly for the rest of my life when I returned. With five days left on the countdown, I drove out to the suburbs. There was one last property deed I hadn’t sold yet: the lakeside villa. It was his anniversary gift to me after we got married. We spent all our holidays there when we were happy. It was also where I got pregnant with the child we lost. The villa held profound significance for us. I was going there now to retrieve the deed and sell it to a broker. I drove into the gated community. I hadn’t been back in two years, not since Owen’s cheating began. But everything looked pristine. The small courtyard outside the villa was filled with new rose bushes. Puzzled, I got out of the car and put my key in the lock. Just then, someone opened the door from the inside. “What’s wrong, baby? Just fed you and you’re hungry again?” It was Blakely. 6 She stood there in a long, red silk negligee, leaning lazily against the doorframe, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. But quickly, her moist, dark gaze raked over me, settling on a look of utter condescension and triumph. I understood everything in an instant. Owen had moved her in here. “This is my house. I’m giving you five minutes to get dressed and get out.” I pulled the door open, trying to step inside. Blakely blocked the entrance, meeting my eyes without a trace of fear. “But the truth is, Mrs. Maxwell, Owen gave me this house.” “Gave? When was the deed transferred? The owner of record would certainly know.” “You’re borrowing it for a few days. You’re squatting. Don’t confuse yourself with the mistress of the house.” Blakely’s face cycled from white to red. I didn’t waste any more breath on her and called Owen immediately. He needed to clean up his own toxic mess. On the other end of the line, Owen chuckled dismissively. “Sierra, it’s just a house. What’s the big deal if the girl stays there for a few days? Don’t go over there and start trouble, alright? It’s a pain in the ass to calm her down when she cries. Also…” I didn’t hear what else Owen said because Blakely suddenly grabbed my wrist, escalating her taunt. “Ms. Reed, I hear you and Mr. Maxwell dated for three years and got the ring. Well, I’ve been with him for three years, too. Do you think I’ll be the next Mrs. Maxwell this year?” She then patted her stomach lightly. “Oh, and I might have one more card to play: the baby in here.” On the phone, I heard the faint clicking of cards as Owen played poker. He spoke casually, distracted. “A vintage Cartier diamond/sapphire piece went up for auction the other day. I bought it for you. It’ll arrive a day or two before your birthday.” “I told you, Blakely is just a distraction, a pretty little bird to keep me amused. Look, if you’re really that upset, I’ll tell her to move out.” He was still rambling, placating me with careless lies. I let out a cold, shaky laugh. “Owen, did you hear that? Your little bird has a baby bird! Congratulations. You’re going to be a father. You’re finally getting what you’ve always wanted.” On the other end, Owen’s voice went instantly quiet. There was silence for a long moment. 7 Owen found me when I was leaving the memorial park. Now, only three days remained until my departure. Blakely’s words had brought the memory of my child rushing back. I had spent the last two days visiting my baby’s tiny plot, leaving behind my favorite candies. I hadn’t returned home, and I hadn’t answered Owen’s calls. It was like I had simply vanished. When Owen finally found me, he lunged forward, grabbing my arm and pulling me into his black SUV without a word. Inside the car, he gripped the steering wheel, looking deeply into my eyes. His voice was husky. “I’ll take care of Blakely. I’ll handle everything.” Owen once told me, “A child should only be born to the person you love most. I’ll only have children with you, Sierra.” Now, he had conceived a child with Blakely, yet he was sitting here, playing the role of the devoted husband. I found it utterly ridiculous. I folded my arms and stared out the window. “Why should I care? It’s not my baby, after all.” His gaze sharpened suddenly, but he laughed—a strange, humorless sound. He roughly grabbed my wrist, forcing me to turn and face him. “Sierra Reed, don’t you pretend you don’t care at all?” His eyes were bloodshot, fixated on me, as if afraid to miss the slightest change in my expression. “And where the hell have you been for the last two days? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” My face remained blank. I simply looked at him. I told him, my voice almost a whisper, “Owen. I’m going home.” The air in the car thickened into a suffocating silence. After a long pause, he sneered, as if I’d told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. His tone was arrogant. “Home?” “Where are you going to go? You have no family, no parents here, Sierra.” “Other than me, who do you have left in this world?!” 8 I looked at him calmly, a sad self-awareness settling in my eyes. So, this was the end of love: cruel mockery and verbal abuse. I took a deep breath, realizing there was nothing left to say to him, and stepped out of the car. Owen slammed his fist against the steering wheel and violently sped away. We parted ways in bitter failure, again. For the final three days, his behavior grew more egregious. He sometimes brought Blakely home to spend the night, their movements and sounds filling the house. I simply closed my bedroom door and didn’t ask a single question. The last day before my departure was my birthday. Owen left early in the morning without so much as a glance in my direction. I spent the entire day alone, burning every photograph of us together. Then, I waited quietly for midnight. That evening, I bought myself a small cake and stuck in the candles. I turned off the lights, closed my eyes, clasped my hands, and made a wish. I wished for a smooth return home, and I wished that Owen Maxwell and I would never cross paths again. But before I could blow out the candles, the front door rattled open. Owen strode in, his face dark with fury. Clinging to his arm was Blakely, her face tear-streaked and pitiful. Before I could process the shock, she slapped me across the cheek. “Mrs. Maxwell, I know you hate me. But my baby is innocent. What gives you the right to hurt him?!” I touched my stinging cheek, a detached, cynical laugh rising in my throat. Honestly, I had no idea what she was talking about. I hadn’t left the house all day. But Blakely’s audacity was a shield given to her by Owen. Owen stood beside her, a cigar clamped between his fingers, and sneered. “Sierra, was that really necessary? Because you couldn’t have a child, you paid someone to run over hers?” His words were sharp as glass, slicing open the old, festering wound of my miscarriage. But I didn’t have time for this drama. The System was reminding me that only a few minutes remained before my departure. I walked straight toward them, past Owen, and slapped Blakely. That slap was a return for her audacity and a reward for her three years as his mistress. If I didn’t hit her back today, I never would. Blakely was stunned. When she recovered, she collapsed into Owen’s arms, sobbing hysterically. He rubbed his temples, then slowly pulled the tablecloth off the dining table. CRASH! The sharp, piercing sound of shattering glass and ceramic echoed through the vast house. The cake and the dishes, like my five years of marriage, were smashed across the floor. He walked to me, pressed me against the window frame, and clamped his hand tightly around my chin. His high, proud brow was furrowed, and his eyes were utterly cold and unfeeling. “I told you I would handle this. Why did you have to provoke her?” “Sierra Reed, when did your tactics become so cheap, so vicious?” “Or is this just another pathetic performance to try and force me to come home?” Behind me, the window was wide open. The night air from the nineteenth floor rushed in around me. At that moment, the midnight clock chimed. The System’s voice was prompt. “Home Channel is now open. Host will return to the original world upon successfully completing the death requirement in the current world.” I smiled softly, pushing his hand away. My voice was gentle. “Yes, Owen. I am that vicious.” Owen frowned, confused. I pointed at Blakely and smiled at him. “So, I’m stepping aside. You and your Blakely—go have a wonderful life together.” Then, as Owen Maxwell watched, I turned, arched my back, and fell backward out of the nineteenth-floor window.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387724”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was Juniper’s ‘Sip and See’ party, and the air was thick with the scent of lilies and new money. Savannah Wells, the woman Rhys Caldwell always called his “associate” but who acted more like a sister-wife, leaned into him, her smile a predatory arc, and proposed a game. A high-stakes one. Rhys didn’t just indulge her; he looked at her with a careless, almost doting air. “How do you want to play, Sav?” Savannah’s gaze landed on me—a deliberate, challenging dart—then settled on the baby in my arms. “Let’s play with the dice. Best two out of three.” “If I lose,” she purred, “that prime waterfront lot, the Sinclair Development Property, is yours. If I win, this child—” she gestured to my daughter, my Juniper, “—she goes to my distant relatives out East. A goodwill adoption. A little charity case to boost my karma.” The room went silent. This was his blood. His daughter. Rhys, my husband, merely took a languid pull from his custom cigarette, then casually extinguished it. “Fine by me. She’s just a girl-child. If she makes you happy, take her.” My world fractured. Despair was a lead weight in my gut, right until a soft, milky voice sounded in my head: 【They think they can sell Baby? Cute. Clearly, they’ve never met a CEO’s goddaughter.】 【I’m the designated deity of the Underworld’s favorite. The Scroll of Fates? It’s currently tucked into my diaper. Right next to a fresh change.】 【Mom, don’t you dare fold! Agree to the terms! We’ll win her fortune, ditch this deadbeat daddy, and go full single-mom billionaire!】 I froze. My daughter said that? A strange, fierce calm washed over me. I stood, walked to the nearest high-stakes poker table, and sat down, cradling Juniper. “You’re on, Savannah,” I said, my voice cutting across the room’s stunned silence. “First one to cry uncle buys the whole table a round of Veuve Clicquot.” 1 The opulent party hall was instantly hushed. Every eye was on me, a mixture of shock, pity, and the intoxicating thrill of seeing a spectacle unfold. Rhys’s brow lifted, deepening the smirk already playing on his lips. “Ella Sinclair, you sure about this?” His voice was low, carrying just enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t go losing and then crying to me later.” Savannah, clinging to his arm, let out a delighted, artificial laugh. “Oh, Rhys, darling, look at her. She’s got spunk! I love it.” She looked at me, her eyes pinpricks of icy disdain. “Ella, the rules are simple: High-Low. Best two out of three. You’re the dealer. I’ll guess.” She pushed a document toward the center of the table—the Deed to the Sinclair Development Lot, a property valued at over three hundred million dollars. “I lose, it’s yours.” Her eyes dropped to my sleeping daughter, and her tongue flicked over her red lips. “You lose, the child is mine. We sign the papers. All these fine people are our witnesses.” The little life in my arms shifted, blew a tiny milk-bubble, and the soft, menacing voice returned to my mind: 【Mom, don’t worry. That one has fifty years left on her contract. Him, forty-eight. Tonight, Baby’s sending them both to the poor house. The Ledger says she’s completely toast. Just listen to me and roll.】 I took a deep breath. I carefully handed Juniper to the nearest nanny, instructing her to take the baby far away. I didn’t want this sordid display to soil my daughter’s eyes. “Agreed,” I said. I picked up the dice cup. The cool metal was grounding against my fingertips. “But if this is a wager, it needs to be fair.” I looked directly at Rhys. “You will be the notary. You examine the dice, and you announce the result.” Rhys paused, then laughed—a booming, arrogant sound. “Fine.” He took the cup and the dice, inspecting them under the glaring chandeliers, even weighing them in his palm. “Perfectly clean. Begin.” His look was patronizing, like watching a pet perform a trick. Savannah’s smile was triumphant. She was practically draped across Rhys, already celebrating her win. “Your move, Ella.” 2 I picked up the dice cup again. The three ivory cubes rattled with a crisp, clear sound. My hand was steady. Almost unnervingly so. 【Mom, don’t shake it. Just set it down. Now.】 Juni’s voice was languid, laced with a casual, born-to-rule authority. I followed her instruction, slamming the cup down on the polished mahogany. Thwack. The sound echoed in the sudden, deep silence. Savannah’s eyes widened slightly, clearly surprised by my decisiveness. She batted her eyelashes at Rhys. “Rhys, darling, what’s your guess? High or Low?” He lifted his glass, took a sip of single malt, and didn’t even glance at me. “Whatever you decide.” “Low, then,” Savannah said, tapping her fingernail on the expensive felt. Her red nail almost pierced the fabric. “I guess Low. One-two-three. Under six.” Rhys gestured to me with his chin. Open it. I didn’t move. I just looked at Savannah. “Savannah, sure you don’t want to reconsider?” Her smile hitched. “No. Low.” “Okay.” I slowly lifted the cup. Three dice lay there. Six. Six. Five. Seventeen. High. A collective, stifled gasp rippled through the guests. Savannah’s face drained of color. She stared at the dice as if trying to burn holes in them with her mind. “No! That’s impossible!” she shrieked, springing to her feet. “You cheated!” I didn’t say a word. I just looked toward Rhys. He frowned, picked up the dice again, and weighed them. He shook them, listening intently. After a long moment, he tossed them back on the table. “The dice are clean.” He finally looked at me, his gaze analytical, searching. Savannah was still furious, glaring at me. “Then your technique is rigged!” I smiled. “Savannah, you brought the dice cup, you chose the dice, and the notary is my husband, Rhys Caldwell. How exactly did I cheat?” I paused, then pulled the Deed to the Sinclair Development Lot toward my side of the table. “First game. I win.” Savannah’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She shot me a look of pure malice, then turned to Rhys, tears suddenly welling up. “Rhys…” His expression was dark, but he patted her hand reassuringly. “Relax. Two more games.” He looked at me, his eyes cold and dangerous. “Ella, know when to quit. Give Savannah back the deed. We’ll call this whole farce a night.” 【Hear that, Mom? What a pile of steaming garbage.】 The voice in my head was tired but fierce. 【Ignore him. Keep going. Next game, we take his watch, his shoes, and his dignity. Let him see what it’s like to really lose.】 I folded the deed carefully and placed it into my small evening bag. “Rhys, you said, ‘If she makes you happy, take her.’” “Well, I won. Are you going back on your word?” I met his gaze without flinching. “Or does the CEO of Caldwell Financial only stand by his promises when the terms suit him?” Rhys’s face hardened. The temperature in the room plummeted. “Fine. Excellent,” he spat out. “Keep going.” 3 The second round. Savannah was no longer smug; her focus was deadly. She tracked my hands, trying to catch every minute detail. My actions were identical: I picked up the cup, shook it, and slammed it down. 【Mom, don’t shake it hard. Just a quick rattle, then set it down. We need to end this now. Baby’s battery is running low. Fast finish.】 I complied. The moment the cup settled, Savannah practically screamed her guess. “High!” Her voice was sharp, desperate, fueled by the conviction of an absolute, make-or-break certainty. Rhys’s brow was furrowed, his eyes glued to the table. I flipped the cup. Two. Two. One. Five. Low. Savannah’s eyes flew open. The color in her face vanished entirely. She lost. Best two out of three. There was no coming back from this. “No! This can’t be!” she wailed, lunging to grab me. Rhys grabbed her, but his own face was a mask of shock and confusion. He looked at me as if I were a complete stranger. The guests buzzed with hushed whispers: “She cleaned her out.” “Didn’t see that coming.” Savannah heard the whispers. She tore her arm from Rhys, pointing a trembling, accusing finger at my face. “Ella Sinclair! You bitch! You cheated!” I stood, looking down at her. “Savannah, a bet is a bet.” I picked up the cup and held it out to her. “If you don’t believe me, check the dice yourself.” She swatted my hand away, and the cup clattered across the floor. “I don’t believe you! You used some kind of trick!” She turned to Rhys, tears streaming down her face. “Rhys, she’s attacking me! Look at her! She’s not the wife you married!” Rhys’s expression was terrifyingly cold. He ignored Savannah’s theatrical sobs and stared at me. “How did you do it?” I offered a slight smile. “Beginner’s luck.” “Luck?” He scoffed. He clearly wasn’t buying it. “Ella, I’m giving you one last chance. Give the deed back and apologize to Savannah.” I crossed my arms. “And if I don’t?” His eyes turned dangerous. “Then you find out.” He reached into his jacket pocket and threw something small and white onto the table. It was a piece of flawless mutton-fat jade—the pendant my mother had given me, the one I had given Rhys as a commitment token years ago. He had sworn to wear it always. Now, it landed on the table like a piece of trash. “That jade, plus the title to the Caldwell Heights Estate,” he announced, the name of our home ringing with finality. “That’s the wager for the third round.” Savannah instantly stopped crying, her eyes lighting up with savage expectation. My breath caught in my throat. My mother’s pendant. 【Mom, don’t get emotional. That hunk of junk is worth nothing. We’ll get a better one.】 Juni’s voice was muffled, as if she were chewing her hand, but it was brutal. 【Take it. Tonight, we make him lose everything but the underwear he’s standing in. Say yes.】 I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the last vestige of warmth was gone. “All right,” I said, sitting back down. “The stakes are set.” Rhys’s lips curled into a cruel, satisfied smile. “You win, the jade and the estate are yours.” He paused, his eyes flicking to the corner where the nanny held Juniper. “You lose, you will personally take your daughter and deliver her to Savannah.” 4 That sentence was a poisoned blade, plunged directly into my heart. The shocked murmurs from the guests were louder this time. A father betting his own child? Savannah was openly ecstatic, her eyes bright with the promise of victory. I ignored them both and focused on the cold jade pendant on the table. It was the only tangible link to my past, a piece of myself. 【Mom, stay in the game.】 【He’s not gambling with you. He’s gambling with the Underworld’s Goddaughter. This deadbeat is about to get served.】 【Final roll, Mom: Left wrist tilt, exactly three degrees. Shake exactly seven times, then slam.】 I followed Juniper’s bizarrely specific instructions, my motions sharp and precise. The cup hit the table. The voice in my head was now a tired whisper. 【Done… Mom… Baby needs… to sleep and recharge…】 This time, Savannah didn’t rush to guess. She exchanged a look of pure certainty with Rhys. They had me, they thought. “I guess… Low,” Savannah said, her voice smooth and seductive again. “I trust Rhys’s judgment.” Rhys tapped his finger on the table, a slow, methodical sound. “Open it.” My fingers touched the cool lip of the cup. The silence was absolute; I could hear the frantic pounding of my own heart. I lifted my eyes to meet Rhys’s. His face was devoid of tension, only cold indifference. In his mind, Juniper and I were just tools for his entertainment and Savannah’s pleasure. I offered him a terrible, humorless smile. Then, I snatched the cup off the table.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387723”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Mrs. Perez, who runs her life by the clock, was nearly thirty minutes late today. “Sienna, I am so sorry, dinner is not ready, please don’t be mad at me…” she stammered, wringing her hands. “But truly, there was nothing I could do. I waited downstairs for over half an hour, and no one would buzz me in. I called Mr. Grant, but he didn’t answer.” I paused while taking off my Italian leather pumps, a frown pulling at my brow. “Mrs. Perez, I explicitly told Rhys to give you the key fob, didn’t I?” Mrs. Perez looked completely bewildered. “The key fob? Mr. Grant never gave me a card, dear.” “Never gave it to you?” “No, ma’am.” She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, her voice cautious. “For the last month, I’ve been either sneaking in after another resident, or I’d call Mr. Grant and he’d unlock the door remotely.” “Today, he just wouldn’t answer the phone. I was desperate downstairs…” That was strange. I distinctly remembered checking the digital lock’s access log a few weeks ago and seeing regular swipe entries from that spare key fob. 1 The apartment—a sprawling, ultra-modern penthouse—was one I had purchased outright before the wedding. My job requires a brutal travel schedule, so I hired Mrs. Perez to manage dinner and cleaning. At the time, I handed the spare key fob directly to Rhys, my husband. “Mrs. Perez is coming for her trial run tomorrow,” I’d instructed him. “Give this to her so she has easy access.” He took the small, plastic card, his smile warm and attentive. “Relax, honey, I’ve got it. It’s handled.” But today, the card was not in Mrs. Perez’s possession. I logged into the apartment’s smart-lock app. The screen confirmed my initial thought: in the past month, the spare key fob had been used to enter the building seventeen times. Rhys and I both used the fingerprint scanner, which meant those seventeen entries were made by the person holding that card. Who was it? As I considered the digital trail, the front door opened. Rhys was home. “Honey, Mrs. Perez was late today because she said she couldn’t get in,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual. “Didn’t I ask you a month ago to give her the key fob?” Rhys, who was unknotting his tie, froze. His forced chuckle was immediate and grating. “Oh… that thing.” “I was so slammed at work, I must have completely forgotten. I probably just shoved it in a drawer somewhere. I’ll look for it, I promise.” “It’s fine if you can’t find it,” I said, setting down the magazine I wasn’t reading. My voice was calm, almost flat. “I’ll just call building management tomorrow to report it lost and get a replacement. It’s too inconvenient for Mrs. Perez.” “Don’t!” Rhys spun around, the word sharp and loud, his voice several decibels higher than normal. When he saw my puzzled expression, he immediately softened his posture, walking over to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “My point is, why waste the money on a replacement fee? It’s probably only a few hundred dollars, but still.” “It’s definitely in the apartment somewhere. I’ll go through everything this weekend, I’ll find it.” He gently turned me to face the living room. “You’re working so hard, Sienna. Don’t worry your beautiful head about something so small.” He paused, running a thumb over my cheekbone. “You look stressed, actually. You’re getting that anxious look again. You used to have such a soft, healthy glow.” “Really?” “Totally. You look so much better when you’re relaxed.” The slight flattery, combined with the mild distraction, was enough to make me drop the subject of the key fob. But the knot of unease remained, tight and low in my gut. That night, after he’d gone to shower, I picked up his phone. The password hadn’t changed: my birthday. His text messages were clean; no suspicious threads. Even his social media was set to the three-day viewing limit. I checked his Amazon orders, scrolling through a list of toiletries and household supplies. Everything looked normal. Until I clicked on the “Deleted Items” folder. Hidden among the recovered orders, I saw a purchase from a week ago: an emerald-cut tennis necklace. The shipping address was his office, and the recipient was listed as: Eliza Soto.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387722”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My job was office provisioning, specifically the daily afternoon pick-me-up. The budget? Five dollars per person. To maintain the company’s image of sophistication and generosity, I hunted down coupons, negotiated bulk discounts, and leveraged every deal I could find, somehow making that five dollars feel like fifty. Then, the bomb dropped. Veronica Jensen, the Director of Operations, sent a message to the company’s five-hundred-person Slack channel, tearing into the artisanal boba tea I’d purchased. She called it “unhealthy,” an “unauthorized, no-name brand,” and—the thinly veiled accusation that hit hardest—she publicly suggested I was taking kickbacks, ordering me to write a formal letter of self-criticism. The entire office’s gaze shifted, their expression curdling with suspicion. I laughed, but only in my head. You give me a Dollar Store budget and expect a Fifth Avenue experience? Fine. Don’t blame me when I give you the bulk-buy, bottom-shelf reality. 1 At three-fifteen that afternoon, the office was permeated with the sweet, creamy scent of tea. “Anya, this boba is incredible! Where did you even find this place?” “Seriously, the taro is so velvety. One hundred times better than those big chains!” I watched the satisfied smiles of my colleagues, and the tight knot in my stomach finally eased. I’d practically worn out the soles of my shoes tracking down this new, independent tea shop near the office. Its decor was small-batch and artisan, but the ingredients were premium. I’d charmed and haggled with the owner, securing a massive internal discount in exchange for guaranteed, large-volume, long-term business. Seeing everyone so happy made all the effort feel worthwhile. Amidst the chorus of praise, my phone screen flashed. The company-wide Slack channel. I clicked it open, still smiling. The next second, the blood drained from my face. The message was from Veronica Jensen. @Anya. Regarding the procurement for today’s afternoon perk, I have several serious concerns. First, the sugar content of this tea does not align with the company’s commitment to employee wellness. Second, why was an obscure, non-standard vendor chosen over established, hygienic, and brand-appropriate chains? The choice of vendors must reflect the professional image of this company. Anya, please prepare a detailed statement addressing these issues, including whether there were any unauthorized procurement processes or—most seriously—any misappropriation of company funds. I expect it on my desk by 9 AM tomorrow. Misappropriation of funds? The phrase echoed in the sudden, deafening silence of the office. My colleagues, who moments ago were raving about the creamy taro, were now hunched over their keyboards, fingers flying across the keys in a sudden, fake frenzy of work. Veronica’s words were a poison dart. She hadn’t said kickbacks directly, but “improper protocols” and “misappropriation” were enough to paint a vivid picture. She was publicly assassinating my character in front of five hundred people. The replies were already piling up beneath hers. Is that Anya from Admin? She always seemed so sweet, but wow… Over a few cups of coffee? Seriously? The whispers started immediately, coming from every corner of the cubicle farm. I couldn’t make out the specifics, but I felt the weight of their scrutiny—the suspicion, the judgment, and the subtle, cold contempt—pricking my back. I thought of the months of hustling. The endless energy spent trying to maintain a precarious balance: the company’s pathetic budget versus its lofty demands for “image.” The Five-Dollar Rule. For months, it had never changed. I chose that small artisanal vendor precisely because independent owners were more willing to negotiate outside of corporate price sheets. How else could I buy anything beyond a cheap soda at that price? Six months ago, when I inherited this ridiculous task, the outgoing HR rep handed me a ledger. The budget was highlighted in bold red: $5.00 per person/per day. Five dollars. For the first month, I spent every night running mental calculations on what five dollars could possibly buy. I sweet-talked the manager at the corner bakery, leveraging the promise of our large, stable corporate account for an “employee-only” discount. My phone was loaded with every delivery and coupon app imaginable, and I set a dozen different daily alarms for “Flash Sales” and “Limited-Time Bulk Offers.” I was constantly fronting money myself to meet minimum order requirements for discounts. I had been scrimping and hustling, turning a starvation budget into a genuine perk. All that effort, all the personal money I had fronted, the sheer, exhausting mental energy, had been reduced to three insults in one message: low quality, unhealthy, and corrupt. The same colleagues who had called me “Queen Anya” and praised the treats as “better than Google’s” were probably now in their private chats debating how much money I had managed to skim. Veronica’s personal message popped up. Anya, don’t forget to write the self-criticism. You’ll be delivering it to the entire staff at the morning meeting. I took a deep breath, pulled up my procurement logs for the day, and marched to her office. Veronica was lounging back in her leather chair, wearing a sheet mask and looking utterly relaxed. She didn’t even lift her chin when I knocked. “Is the statement written?” she asked, her voice muffled. “Director Jensen.” I laid the folder on her desk, trying to keep my voice even. “Regarding the concerns in the chat, I’d like to explain. This vendor has all the necessary health and operating permits, and the sugar levels are customizable.” “I chose them because they were the only vendor willing to supply us within the mandated budget. All the ‘established brands’ exceed the five-dollar limit by two or three times. I simply couldn’t negotiate them down.” I finished, my chest heaving slightly. She picked up the folder, flipped through a few pages, and tossed it back onto the desk. She leaned back, folding her hands over her stomach. “Anya, you’re missing the point.” “The company pays you to solve problems, not tell me how difficult they are. Everything you’ve just said is an excuse.” I raised my voice, unable to help it. “The budget is the problem! I’ve done everything I could within the constraint. All the records are here—” Veronica cut me off, her tone sharp with impatience. “That is your failure! Are you questioning the company budget?” I stood my ground. “I am stating a fact.” Her voice became thin and grating. “When the budget is insufficient, you find a solution, not lower the standard! As an Administrator, failing to secure resources is professional negligence!” “The entire company is talking about how Admin is buying low-grade junk food. Do you know the damage this causes to our reputation?” “Per policy, you will forfeit this month’s entire performance bonus, plus a fine of three hundred dollars.” My head buzzed. Three hundred dollars. I was planning to ask for an advance for my mother’s surgery next month. Veronica’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile. She leisurely picked up her water tumbler. “Of course, the company is not without compassion.” “You have two options. One: you present a deeply remorseful public apology at the morning meeting, admit your error, and the matter is closed. Two: you go to accounting and pay the fine immediately.” I looked at her face—smug, victorious—and my hands and feet went ice cold. I couldn’t speak a word. The next morning, I stood at the front of the conference room, clutching that single sheet of paper. Veronica stood beside me, arms crossed, radiating triumph. I took a breath and began to read. “To our leadership and esteemed colleagues, good morning.” “I am here to offer a deep apology for the serious oversight in my work concerning the recent afternoon perk procurement…” With every word I spoke, I felt the hundreds of eyes on me—some pitying, some judging, many simply enjoying the spectacle. As I walked down the aisle, I heard the murmurs. “See? I told you she was taking kickbacks. Why else apologize?” “It’s disgusting. For a few dollars, she ruined her reputation.” “She looked so put-together, you never know who these people really are.” The same people who had called me “Queen Anya” were now judging how much I’d stolen. Back at my desk, I opened my phone, my expression blank. I deleted every item from my saved carts—the artisan yogurts, the craft coffee pods, the specialty pastries. It was three o’clock. Time for the company’s reliable afternoon perk. I appeared right on schedule. My assistant and I wheeled in two flat carts. They were heavy, but the contents were stark. My colleagues looked up, a blend of curiosity and anticipation in their eyes. After yesterday’s drama, they were waiting to see what the newly shamed “kickback girl” would offer up. We opened the boxes and began distributing the items. In moments, every desk held the same exact items: a single bottle of plain bottled water and a small, sealed packet of store-brand chocolate chip cookies. The kind you could find at any gas station. The office plunged into a weird, tense silence. Everyone stared at the generic water and the cheap crackers. A young woman broke the silence, her voice hesitant. “Anya? Is… is this it for today?” I nodded, offering a perfect, professional smile. “Yes.” I gestured to the clear branding on the bottle and the packet. “Strictly adhering to Director Jensen’s directives. It’s purified water—zero sugar, zero calories, perfectly healthy.” “And it’s all major, reputable brands. Absolutely top-tier image. Fully compliant with the five-dollar budget.” After a beat of shock, the low, angry buzz began. The quiet murmurs quickly swelled into open complaining. “Seriously? This is insulting!” “We have a water cooler! Why would I want this?” “I’d rather have that ‘unhealthy’ boba tea again,” another colleague muttered, sounding genuinely upset. “I have no flavor in my mouth! How am I supposed to work all afternoon?” The complaints grew louder, losing all restraint. The noise quickly reached Veronica’s office. She burst out, her face a mask of thunder. She strode right up to my cubicle, pointing a furious finger at the water and cookies. “Anya! What is the meaning of this? Is this some kind of passive resistance?!” “The company tasked you with the afternoon perk, and this is what you call a perk?” I sat quietly at my desk. “Director Jensen, I am strictly executing your requirements.” I pointed to the two bulk boxes. “Each bottle of water cost $1.50. Each packet of cookies cost $3.50. Total: $5.00.” “The water is purified—perfectly healthy. The cookies are chocolate—energy boosting. Both are nationwide, known brands—very reputable.” I paused, emphasizing the final point. “Fully compliant with the budget.” Veronica choked on her anger, her face turning crimson because she knew every word was true. Her rage overwhelmed her logic. “This is childish! You’re throwing a temper tantrum!” “You’re deliberately making everyone miserable!” I didn’t argue. I just softly repeated my core truth. “I am simply following company policy.” Veronica’s accusation echoed through the office. But then, the murmurings shifted again. This time, they were not aimed at me. “Wait, $5.00?” “The budget is only five dollars?” Someone whispered, shocked. “No way. We were getting boba and specialty coffee before that.” “The artisanal snacks… was Anya footing the bill for all of that?” The murmuring colleagues fell silent. A complex mix of shame and dawning realization washed over their faces. Some were discreetly calculating the cost of their previous treats; others avoided my eyes. They were finally realizing the absurdity of a five-dollar-per-person budget. They realized the “employee benefit” they had enjoyed was not corporate generosity. They were finally connecting the dots between their beloved $30 lattes and my disgraced reputation. It turns out, I thought, a cold satisfaction settling in my gut, I was not the fool here.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387721”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I’ve always been a human lucky charm, a walking four-leaf clover. I once bought a soda bottle and won a new car. My company, Apex Solutions, depended on the bid numbers I calculated to secure a 100% win rate, pulling us back from the brink of bankruptcy to become the third-largest firm in the city. The trouble started when a lottery ticket I’d absentmindedly bought on a business trip won three thousand dollars. The new Head of Finance demanded I turn over the entire amount. I explained that I had purchased the ticket with my own money. She flew into a rage. “The employment contract stipulates that all financial gains created by an employee during working hours belong to the company!” “If you won three million dollars on your own time, that’s your business. But winning three dollars during your official business trip? That’s company property!” Too tired to argue, I called my fiancé, Owen Grant, the company CEO. But Owen actually sided with her. “Sasha has a point,” he said, his voice flat. “If the company hadn’t paid for your business trip, you wouldn’t have had the opportunity to win in the first place!” Sasha Bell, the new finance head, looked even more smug. “I’m docking the three thousand dollar prize from your paycheck,” she announced with chilling finality. “And I’m adding a thirty-thousand-dollar fine for attempted embezzlement of company funds! Let this be a lesson to you.” I clenched the ticket in my hand. I didn’t argue again. A week later, Apex Solutions was gearing up for the biggest annual bid—the Dyson Group contract. Every set of eyes in the office landed on me. I offered a small, cool smile. “My apologies,” I said, my voice cutting through the anticipation. “I’ve quit. I am no longer obligated to fill out the bid submission.” 1 “Did you hear what Owen said?” Sasha asked, her arms crossed tight over her chest. “He specifically put me in charge of rooting out corporate corruption. You still think you can pocket company money? Dream on!” I ignored her, turning to leave. But Sasha lunged forward, snatching my handbag off my arm. Jealousy flashed in her eyes. “Where do you think you’re going? There’s no way you can afford a bag this expensive! I bet this was another perk from a ‘win’ on a business trip. Everything gets confiscated!” I fought down the surge of anger. “This bag was a gift,” I stated clearly. “It has nothing to do with any prize money.” Sasha rolled her eyes. “A gift? Or the payout for sleeping with some old man on the road?” She clicked her tongue dismissively. “Tsk, you really put in the effort, didn’t you? I always wondered why you were flying all over the country. Turns out you just had business everywhere—selling yourself for a commission!” A buzz of low chatter erupted among the surrounding colleagues. “No wonder Anya always came back claiming to have ‘won’ something,” one whispered. “Now it makes sense. It wasn’t a prize; it was a payout for services rendered!” Sasha’s eyes narrowed with a cunning glint. “What is it, Anya? Was it a sleeping-with-a-sugar-daddy bonus? Or was it acquired during business hours on a company trip?” Sensing my fury, a colleague stepped in to mediate. “Anya, just admit it was a prize. It’s only a bag. It’s not worth ruining your reputation over.” “Yeah, come on! Just let it be confiscated. Watch yourself next time.” Rage boiled up inside me. I raised my hand and pointed a cold finger at the person who spoke. “Your shoes? Bought during the business trip to Phoenix in December.” I moved my gaze to another. “You bought a whole gaming console on your trip last month.” “And you,” I looked straight at a guy named Ken, who had been the loudest agitator. “You were bragging about it. Your wife got pregnant after visiting you on a trip. Congratulations! She ‘won’ a baby on company time!” “So, according to your logic, shouldn’t all these things be surrendered to the company as well?” The crowd fell silent, their faces flushed. I walked up to Sasha. “If they didn’t have to turn over their purchases, or their good fortune, what right do you have to demand mine?” Sasha, completely losing face, slammed my bag onto the floor. The strap immediately snapped. “Oops, Anya! Why didn’t you catch it?” I was past the point of tolerance. I reached for my phone, ready to call the police. But someone snatched it away and smashed it to the ground. “Enough! How long are you going to keep this up?!” Owen emerged from his office, his face dark, to stop the escalating scene. “Anya, I’m warning you, don’t push it. You’re threatening to call the police on a colleague now?!” “Right now, you will apologize to Sasha Bell!” Sasha, instantly shedding her bravado, put on a weepy face. “Anya, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to break it. I’ll pay for it, I promise.” Owen put a protective arm around Sasha, soothing her with quiet words. When he turned to me, his eyes held only disgust. “It’s just a handbag! Stop making such a huge deal out of nothing!” I took a deep breath, forcing the emotion back down. “It was an anniversary gift from my fiancé.” Owen finally registered the ruined designer bag on the floor and paused, a flicker of surprise in his expression. I managed a tight, bitter smile. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s just a bag. Who cares? Anyway, I’ve decided to break off the engagement.” 2 I picked up the mangled bag, tossed it into the nearest office trash can, and walked away. That evening, Owen called me countless times. I answered once and gave him the short, definitive version: We were over. He begged, he reasoned, all to no avail. Finally, he hung up with a chilling threat, telling me I’d regret this. The next morning, I arrived at my desk right on time. An algorithm-pushed video popped up on my phone. Sasha was giggling into the camera. “Hey, fam! Your corporate newbie here took down a corrupt, slick old-timer today who tried to pocket company funds!” “This jaded old hag thought she could hide three grand in public money just because I’m new in finance. I shut her down hard and gave her a much-needed education.” “Haha, she even tried to call the CEO to complain. Too bad the CEO has my back. She was so mad! He even called me later and praised me for doing the right thing, saying I’m getting a bonus!” The comments section exploded. “Get her, girl! These corporate lifers need to be kept in check! The company is lucky to have you!” “Three grand? If this blogger didn’t expose her, who knows how much she’s stolen before. Instant justice! My chest feels clear and my day is made.” Sasha’s completely twisted version of events garnered widespread cheers. Scrolling down, I saw familiar IDs among the likes—some of the same colleagues who had asked me to ‘bless’ their contracts just yesterday. I looked at the stack of contracts piled on my desk. I swept them aside with a single movement. Perfect. In the past, my colleagues never hesitated to ask me for help. I always said yes. They seemed to have forgotten that this was a favor between colleagues, not an official part of my job description. I smirked internally. They call me a slick old-timer? Fine. I will adhere to the labor contract so strictly that I will not work a single extra minute. The travel expenses? They can fight over those themselves. I composed myself. The minute the clock hit 5:00 PM, I packed up to leave. I hadn’t made it to the door before a chorus of voices called out. “Anya! Did you finish reviewing my contract? Why didn’t you bring it to me?” “Yeah, mine too! I need that right now!” Sasha rushed over, her voice rising to a shout. “All these people are working late, waiting for you to review their documents, and you’re trying to sneak out?!” “If you don’t want to work, just go ahead and resign!” Resigning was out of the question. I was the one who pulled this company back from collapse. The board rewarded me with 5% of the company’s Restricted Stock Units (RSUs), vesting over three years. I needed to last just two more weeks to claim them. There was no way I was quitting. And as long as I followed the rules, they couldn’t fire me without cause. The stock was valued at almost five million dollars. I’d collect that money and then walk. I turned back, pointed to the clock on the wall, and raised an eyebrow. “Sneaking out? No, I’m leaving precisely when my workday ends, just as you so sternly suggested I do.” Sasha’s face turned an ugly shade of green. “You won’t get away with that attitude! I’ll tell Owen!” I had nothing to fear. Everything I did was strictly by the book. “Go right ahead.” 3 I ignored Sasha’s shouting and walked out. The next morning, I arrived at my cubicle. My next-door colleague stared at me as if I were a ghost. “The meeting in Atlanta? The contract signing? Why aren’t you with the team?” I spoke calmly. “Why would I be? It’s not my account.” The colleague offered a weak smile. They’d grown too used to having their free, human lucky charm on speed-dial. It was time for them to try winning a contract based on their own actual merit. A moment later, Sasha slammed a file folder onto my desk. “Anya, are you insane?! Why didn’t you go to Atlanta?” “Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve caused the company?!” Seeing her reaction, I understood. They hadn’t closed the deal on their own. I replied without rushing. “Their flight was at 8 AM. My shift starts at 9 AM. I couldn’t make it.” Sasha gnashed her teeth in fury. “You couldn’t leave early?! That project in Atlanta has been a long-term partnership. You just ruined a high-value client relationship! This is gross dereliction of duty!” I looked at her with feigned surprise. “It wasn’t my working hours. Why would I go?” “I suggest you check the labor contract again. ‘Accompanying colleagues to contract negotiations’ is not listed under my job responsibilities.” “Besides,” I added, leaning in slightly, “closing deals depends on skill. I’m just someone who only manages to collect a few travel perks and win minor prizes. I’d only be in the way.” Sasha’s chest heaved. At that moment, someone rushed in and whispered in her ear. Sasha’s expression became complicated. She glared at me and issued a cold warning. “Reyes Dynamics is here to sign a contract, and they specifically asked for you!” “I’m telling you, this is your only chance to redeem yourself! You better be cooperative!” I nodded. “Relax. Everything will be done according to company policy.” If the company scheduled a task for me during working hours, I was certainly not going to decline. I entered the conference room. Everyone turned toward me, ready for my presentation. I placed the file on the table and spoke without preamble. “Everyone, please go home. The contract we previously negotiated is null and void.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387720”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was on a business trip when I spontaneously bought a scratch-off lottery ticket at a client event. I hit the second-tier prize: ten thousand dollars. The next day, back at the office, my boss demanded I hand over the winnings. “You were on company time, conducting company business. Every cent of your travel and lodging was reimbursed by the firm. That ten thousand dollars is, by definition, company property!” I was startled, but I pulled up the transaction record for the scratch-off. “On this trip, I negotiated a deal that will profit the firm by tens of millions. I won that money on my personal luck, after working hours. How is that company property?” Marcus Stone slammed his hand on the desk, his voice a roar. “Sienna White, are you completely insane? If the company hadn’t sent you on that trip, you wouldn’t have had the opportunity to win! You’re trying to pocket firm money! That kind of greed is repulsive!” “If Madison hadn’t told me you were trying to keep this a secret, I would have been completely in the dark!” “From now on, you are barred from all projects involving expense accounts! People like you—you’re a liability. Who knows how many kickbacks you’ve been taking behind my back?” “You will return the firm’s appropriated funds today, or I’ll call the police and have you arrested!” Through the glass of the office door, I inadvertently locked eyes with Madison. The chilling, knowing look she’d given me when I refused to split the prize with her the other day flashed into my mind. I didn’t utter a word. I simply looked down at the tiny sports camera still clipped to my collar. It was what I used to record the open contract negotiations. After all, as a corporate counsel… I knew exactly how to enforce my rights. 1 “Mr. Stone.” “You are stating that I must give the firm the ten thousand dollars I won on the scratch-off, correct?” “And if I don’t transfer it today, I’ll be fired?” “What else did you expect?” He let out a short, dismissive laugh, gazing at me with arrogant triumph. “You won’t just lose your job. What you’ve done is embezzlement. I’ll press charges, sue for damages, and watch you rot in jail for a decade or more!” I raised my head, ensuring Marcus’s obese figure was perfectly framed in the camera lens. I let out a slow, deliberate sigh. “You’re right. I can’t afford that consequence.” “I’ll transfer the ten thousand right now.” Marcus was momentarily stunned. He clearly hadn’t anticipated the ‘hard-ass’ lawyer would fold so quickly. A crisp, mechanical female voice announced the transaction confirmation. The confusion vanished from his face, replaced by a satisfied grin. He raised an eyebrow in approval. “That’s the right call. It’s not worth ruining your entire career over ten thousand dollars.” “The law and the Employee Handbook aren’t just suggestions, Sienna. I’m doing this for your own good. If this went to court, you’d have nowhere to turn.” “It’s good to step back when you’ve made a mistake. The company is, and always will be, your home.” I nodded. I turned and walked out of the office. As soon as I was out of Marcus’s line of sight, I quickly unclipped the sports camera and tucked it into my pocket. I made sure to screenshot the transfer confirmation. During the transaction, Marcus had specifically required me to include the memo: “Return of Company Funds.” Looking at those four words, a cold laugh echoed in my head. Marcus must have forgotten that I’d been the firm’s counsel for ten years. I personally drafted every labor contract and every single clause in the company’s policies and procedures. No one was more familiar with the rules than I was, and no one was better at leveraging them. If my boss was going to stoop to this level, then, starting now, I was going to show him. He was about to feel the crushing weight of the rules he built, used to drag him straight to hell. I returned to my desk, my face impassive. Madison, who sat opposite me, quickly lowered her head, then, when she thought I wasn’t looking, darted into Marcus’s office. Moments later, my phone vibrated. I saw the message and my heart sank. A wave of nausea hit me. [@ALL-STAFF: Emergency All-Hands meeting in the main conference room in three minutes to address Sienna White’s misappropriation of firm funds.] I hadn’t been wrong. Demanding the scratch-off prize was just the bait. Marcus’s real goal was to completely humiliate me, to tarnish my reputation so thoroughly I would never be able to hold my head up in the firm again. In the conference room, Marcus’s face was dark, his gaze intentionally lingering on me for an extended moment. “The firm has reached a decision regarding Sienna White’s violation of policy and private appropriation of firm funds.” “One: Her monthly salary will be reduced to three thousand dollars.” “Two: Her position will be changed from Legal Manager to Assistant.” “The vacant Legal Manager position will be temporarily filled by Madison.” The room was instantly filled with murmurs and whispers, every syllable drilling clearly into my ears. “Are you kidding? Traveling twenty days a month for a three-thousand-dollar paycheck? My intern salary is higher than that!” “Demoted from manager to assistant—I’d be too embarrassed to even show my face here…” “Embezzlement is basically being a thief. Why isn’t Marcus calling the cops?” I clenched my fists tight, remaining completely silent. Marcus had repeatedly and not-so-subtly hinted that my salary was too high and that I wasn’t as “committed” as Madison. The demotion and pay cut. He was trying to force me to quit voluntarily. Seeing my silence, Marcus slammed a document onto the table in front of me. “The company pays for your travel, your meals, your lodging—not so you can use business trips as an excuse to fleece the firm!” “I pay for your full, undivided commitment!” The collective stare of my colleagues was like a whip lashing across my face. I suppressed my rage and looked up. My gaze skimmed past Marcus. And landed on Madison’s smug, triumphant expression. “I accept the firm’s disciplinary actions. I am happy to yield the manager position to a more capable individual.” My peers in the industry made at least three times my salary. I’d had plenty of headhunters calling over the years. But I wasn’t motivated by money. Because I had been with Marcus since the startup days, I had never considered leaving. Besides working until midnight every day, I personally proofread and produced dozens of contracts daily. Madison, on the other hand, was completely incompetent, a placeholder. She didn’t even understand the basics of labor law. She had only been fast-tracked to a full-time position after this business trip. I was curious to see how she would hold onto that manager title. After the meeting, I completed the full handover of my duties in less than ten minutes. Then, in one clean sweep, I highlighted every backup file on my computer and hit the delete key. From this moment on, I was a mere assistant making $3,000 a month. Anything more than the bare minimum was a loss for me. At 5:30 PM, I shut down my computer on the dot. The instant my rear lifted off the chair, I heard Madison’s shrill, passive-aggressive voice. “Leaving already, Ten-K Thief?” “Are you too ashamed to stay, or are you rushing home to… well, whatever it is you do now?” “I suggest you stick around and put in some overtime. You’re thirty, you’re just an assistant now. Relying on stealing from the firm will land you in jail eventually!” I offered her a slight smile. “Manager Madison, I perform work commensurate with my pay. The Employee Handbook states that the workday ends at 5:30 PM. Since the firm doesn’t offer overtime pay, I can’t be expected to give away my labor for free.” “My tasks are complete. I wouldn’t want to drain the firm’s electricity.” I turned and walked straight into the elevator without looking back. Madison’s raging insults behind me nearly pierced my eardrums. Less than thirty seconds later, my phone blew up with over a hundred notifications. Madison was furiously messaging Marcus in the work group chat, complaining about my “early departure.” Marcus, enraged, started cursing me out in the chat. The other colleagues chimed in with their vile comments. The entire exchange was a cesspool. Sitting in my car with the heat on, I coldly recorded every single message. They didn’t know it, but every piece of filth they spewed in that chat… was a catalyst accelerating their own corporate demise. I played dead in the group. Marcus, utterly livid, vowed to teach this “disobedient animal” a lesson. So, the next morning. When I clocked in right at the last minute. My desk was gone. Following the gleeful, knowing glances of my colleagues, I spotted a large black trash bag next to the restroom. I strode over to it, only to find a few of my possessions. My lunch break blanket had been shredded. My tablet, used for signing electronic contracts, had been folded at a ninety-degree angle, the screen shattered. Several of my professional suit jackets were covered in muddy footprints. Madison tossed a plastic chair at me. She pointed to the security camera directly above my head. “Marcus said we have a thief, so we need extra vigilance. This is your new workstation. He feels safer with you sitting right here.” “Since we recovered the stolen firm property, maybe this will teach you a lesson! Don’t act like a petty thief again! If you even think about company funds or assets, I, the Legal Manager, will be the first to prosecute you!” I was beyond fury. I nearly laughed from the absurdity. The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Company property? Madison, are you insane? From my personal laptop and tablet down to my keyboard and blanket—not a single item belongs to the firm!” “What are you, a sewer rat? Only capable of doing despicable things behind people’s backs?” “My property here is easily worth six figures. Unless you return it to me in its original state, I’m calling the police right now!” Madison’s eyes widened. She raised her hand to strike me. “You little bitch! I’m the manager! How dare you speak to me like that?” “Six figures? The thief is making threats! I’ll shut your mouth for you!” The colleagues swarmed forward. They looked like they were trying to break up the fight. In reality, they used the chaos to shove me down, “accidentally” stepping on me as I fell. Madison shrieked, shoving her phone camera right into my face. “Everyone look! This is the thief who stole firm funds and appropriated company property! This gambler exposed her true colors on the business trip, buying lottery tickets right in front of the clients!” She grabbed a handful of my hair while I was struggling to stand, forcing my head back into a humiliating position. “I’m going to make you famous across the entire internet, Ten-K Thief!” The taste of blood filled my mouth. I held my phone tight against my chest. I glanced down, ensuring the recording was still active. I tried to reach the emergency alert button on my smartwatch with my right hand. Suddenly, a searing pain shot through my wrist. The watch was violently ripped off. It shattered on the floor. Marcus’s voice boomed from above me. “Sienna White, instigating a brawl! That’s a five hundred dollar deduction from your salary this month!” I looked up in shock. He glared down at me, letting out a cold snort. “You disagree? Fine. I’m canceling your annual bonus entirely!” I couldn’t believe my ears. Every contract I had handled maximized the firm’s profits. This year alone, I had generated at least fifty million in extra revenue. I calculated my bonus would be no less than $200,000. And he was canceling it with a single, throwaway sentence? On what grounds?! But before I could speak, Marcus and Madison turned and walked away. The colleagues made no effort to hide their smug, snickering faces, pointing fingers at me. I was the joke of the entire firm. Humiliation flooded my heart. I scrambled up, wiping the blood from my lip. I rushed into a restroom stall. Pulling my laptop from my bag, I swiftly logged into the firm’s security system. The movement was automatic, seamless. Madison had been too busy basking in her newfound authority these past two days. She hadn’t bothered to update the system’s permissions—so my access was still fully intact. These videos were my ultimate nuclear weapon. I watched coldly as the footage showed my colleagues’ coordinated ‘accidents.’ The hatred in my heart intensified. I pulled out my phone and called the hospital. “Hello, I need to schedule an injury evaluation. I require the documentation for a Level One Felony Assault.” When I returned to the office that afternoon. As expected, I had been cancelled online. Madison had posted the video of the assault to social media. In half an hour. The views had surpassed one hundred thousand. [Looks professional, but she’s a thief? Those designer clothes are probably stolen too!] [I guess women can be gamblers too. Did she get addicted somewhere seedy?] [Poor company! This woman has been doxxed. She was a high-paid legal manager, handling seven-figure projects daily. Think of the kickbacks she must have taken!] It took me zero seconds to guess that the doxxing was Marcus and Madison’s handiwork. I was about to go educate Madison on defamation law. The next second, a brand-new Employee Handbook was slapped down in front of me. I looked up and met Madison’s deeply unhappy expression. “Marcus is sending you on a business trip.” “There was a minor error in the Eastwood Dynamics contract—I wrote a decimal point in the wrong place. You go over there, talk to them about pretending they didn’t see it, and swap in this new version.” Her tone was casual, as if she were talking about a simple math mistake. I shook my head. “I won’t go. As an assistant, business travel is outside my job description.” She pointed at me, incensed. “Negotiation is your strength, isn’t it? Why refuse?” “Since when does an assistant refuse the manager’s orders?” “Haven’t you learned your lesson online yet? Fine, I’ll send that video to your parents, your family!” A triumphant smirk played on her lips. “Also, Marcus personally drafted the New Employee Handbook.” “If you refuse to go, you will be fined five thousand dollars and required to write a ten-thousand-word essay to be read out loud at the morning meeting for a full week!” My personnel file was in Madison’s office. She must have illegally copied my family’s contact information. My mother’s health was fragile. If Madison sent her that video… I had no choice but to agree. Seeing my silence, Madison scoffed. “Smart girl. Remember to adhere to this New Employee Handbook!” “Your cell phone must be reachable twenty-four hours a day while traveling. Three minutes of disconnection will be counted as a no-show.” “Hotel standard is fifty dollars, meal standard is twenty, client entertainment is fifty dollars, and travel will only reimburse for coach train tickets…” With every item she read, a gasp rippled through the surrounding colleagues. I remained completely silent, only looking at her with cold eyes.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387719”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I said yes to Declan’s proposal. After the wedding, I stopped interfering with any of his and Maisie’s boundary-crossing behavior. I could even manage a polite smile when Maisie fed him a bite of her appetizer at my birthday dinner. Facing the knowing glances and sly teasing from our friends, I responded with cool composure. “Oh, that? They’ve been attached at the hip since kindergarten, practically grew up in the same sandbox. I’m completely used to it.” But Declan’s face clouded over, and he slammed his chopsticks down. 1 Clatter— “Get out!” Declan’s jaw was tight, his face a furious mask. The entire private room fell into a stunned silence. The guests exchanged glances, then slowly began to rise. “Dec, no matter how upset you are that your wife is trying to passively-aggressively shame me, you can’t ruin her own birthday party—” “You too. Go.” Maisie hadn’t expected him to shout at her. She froze for a moment, her eyes instantly welling up, and then she bolted from the room. Once the door closed behind the last retreating figure, I let out a slow sigh. “What’s wrong? Did the scallops Maisie picked out for you not taste right?” Declan’s gaze was practically on fire, his chest heaving as he stared me down. “Savannah, do you have to be like this?” “Like what?” “You’re doing this deliberately! This whole act of faux-calm, this sickening indifference, this calculated show of being the ‘bigger person’—it’s all to torture me!” I turned my head away, my expression perfectly neutral, tinged with a delicate confusion. “But Declan, isn’t this exactly what you always wanted?” “You said I was too jealous and demanded that I stop interfering with you and Maisie. I did. I even did better than you asked. So what exactly are you unhappy about now?” He surged to his feet, leaning in, his presence suffocating. “You know that’s not what I meant!” “You’re seething inside right now, and you’re only pretending to be detached to deliberately piss me off. But do you have any idea how much you’re humiliating me in front of my friends?” “They’re all talking behind my back, saying you’re just pretending to be agreeable, that you have no real feeling for me. Isn’t that exactly what you wanted them to think?!” I couldn’t help but let a corner of my mouth curl up. Declan’s friends, at least, were proving to be smarter than him. “Think whatever you like. Every action and word that leaves my mouth is completely sincere. If you refuse to believe me, there’s truly nothing I can do.” I stood up, ready to leave. Declan grabbed my arm, pulling me roughly back against the wall. He buried his face in the curls near my neck, his voice softening, muffled and thick with an aggrieved plea. “Sav, I know I shouldn’t have brought her to your birthday dinner. I’m sorry. I know I screwed up. Please, stop being mad at me, okay?” I had a moment of pure disorientation. I’m three years older than Declan. The first time we met at a charity gala, he’d used that exact soft, boyish inflection. “I’m Declan Beaumont! You’re the most beautiful woman here, can I please have your number?” Back then, Declan was all golden, easy-going youth. Years later, he rarely used that pleading tone, but when he was in trouble, he still resorted to this sort of petulant supplication. “Fine.” Seeing me relent, he immediately brightened, the earlier unpleasantness forgotten. “Great! Let’s ditch this place and go somewhere else. We still have time for us, just the two of us, to celebrate before midnight—” His words were cut short by a frantic ringtone. He glanced at it, pressed ignore, but the screen immediately lit up again. Declan’s eyes narrowed. He swallowed his apology and spoke without hesitation. “The office. There’s a crisis with the new European project. I have to go back. You go home and wait for me, alright?” Then, without looking back, he was gone. My hand went up to the spot on my neck where his head had rested, my eyes fixed and unfocused on the closed door. A moment later, I reached into my bag, pulled out a wet wipe, and expressionlessly rubbed the skin clean. I won’t be waiting anymore, Declan. 2 I didn’t go home. I called a car service straight to the airport. I shut off my phone the moment I boarded, sleeping through the flight until we landed in London. The instant I powered on my phone, dozens of missed calls and frantic texts from Declan flooded the screen. [You’re not home? Why aren’t you answering?] [Why the hell are you flying to Europe in the middle of the night? Is this some pathetic runaway ploy again?] [You have sixty seconds to text me back! Or I swear, I’m filing for divorce!] Before I could finish reading the rest, his call came through. “Savannah, there’s a limit to how dramatic you can be! Just walking out without a word—were you trying to give me a heart attack?” I gathered the hair the stiff airport breeze had whipped across my face. “I told you last week, Declan. I had a business trip to the UK to close a multinational partnership deal.” The person on the other end paused, then stammered defensively. “D-did you? I don’t recall that at all.” “I did mention it. But you were busy texting Maisie, and you told me to ‘handle it yourself.’” A long, painful silence followed. After a full minute, all he could manage was a stiff: “I have to go. Talk later.” I ended the call and instinctively lit a cigarette. In the final two seconds before he hung up, I’d heard Maisie’s clear, high-pitched voice in the background. I smiled, completely unbothered. If this had happened before we were married, I probably would have already been buying a ticket back home to confront him. In the three years we dated, Maisie was a constant, ubiquitous ghost. She was even there when Declan successfully asked me out. We celebrated that evening as a trio. Maisie ran over from across the restaurant, instantly draping her arm over Declan’s shoulder. “Oh, don’t mind me, Sav! Dec and I have known each other since we were in diapers. It’s his big day, of course I had to crash it!” Declan frowned and shrugged her hand off his shoulder. “When are you going to stop throwing yourself at people every time you see them?” I felt a slight prickle of discomfort then, but honestly, I didn’t give it much thought. It was only later that similar instances piled up. Our dates were always a party of three. Even on special holidays like Valentine’s Day, or our anniversary, Declan would have a gift for her. “Maisie’s all alone, Sav. If I forget about her too, she’ll truly be left with no one.” That was Declan’s most frequent explanation. It was weak, but back then, I was still so infatuated that I tolerated it. 3 The moment I couldn’t tolerate it anymore was on Declan’s first birthday after we started dating. I leased an entire rooftop garden, spent a fortune on decor, and had custom sports car—the one he’d been obsessed with for months—shipped from Europe and displayed on a rotating platform in the center of the room. I invited all his friends. I was so excited, imagining his face when he saw the surprise, a genuine smile pulling at my lips at the thought. But that night, Declan never showed up. As the party was winding down, his friend Rhys came over to me. “Savannah, look, the truth is… Dec never spends his birthday with us.” I was stunned. “Then how does he spend it? Why didn’t any of you tell me when I invited you?” Rhys hesitated, finally sighing heavily. “Look, promise you won’t tell him I said this.” “He spends every single birthday alone with Maisie. They’re probably at her apartment right now. We didn’t tell you because… we all assumed you had worked something out with him this year. We didn’t realize…” That’s why every time I called them that day, their first reaction had been shock, followed by asking if Declan knew I was throwing him a party. In that instant, I realized I was the punchline of a very expensive joke. I drove straight to Maisie’s apartment complex. Declan’s luxury sedan was haphazardly parked outside. An hour after I arrived, the light in Maisie’s window finally flickered off. I got out of my car and waited for Declan to emerge. But for a full twenty minutes, no one came downstairs. I got back into my car, a self-deprecating laugh catching in my throat as tears slid down my cheeks. I chain-smoked until the first hint of morning light broke over the skyline. When Declan finally came down, he looked tired, hungover, but his expression held a certain unmistakable, deep-set contentment. He froze when he saw me, then immediately scowled. “Savannah? Why are you here?” “Was your birthday not satisfying enough for you?” I fought to keep my voice steady, but it was hoarse and cracking. “Don’t make a scene here. Let’s just go home and talk.” He reached for my hand, his expression unnatural, but I snatched mine away. “A scene? Declan, we’re done. I want a breakup.” I stared into his eyes, speaking slowly and deliberately. He instantly grew irritated. “Are you serious? Over something so minor? It’s always been a tradition that Maisie celebrates my birthday alone with me. Besides, you didn’t give me enough warning about your party!” “It is serious! I told you about this party a month ago! You didn’t care enough to remember, you ignored my calls and texts all day yesterday, and you spent the entire night with another woman! An entire night! And you call that minor?” It was the first time I’d ever screamed, completely losing my composure in front of Declan. “Savannah, can you stop being so completely irrational? Maisie and I are siblings, practically. There’s nothing going on between us. If there was, it would have happened ages ago. You’re blowing this up.” “She is nothing more than a little sister to me, the kid next door. Why do you constantly insist on competing with her?” Tears streamed down my face, uncontrolled, but he just stood there, watching me fall apart. My body was trembling with sobs, yet he remained completely untouched. “A brother, a sister, a best friend—what is she to you, really?” “No sister monopolizes her brother’s birthday! And no brother ditches his girlfriend for every little, insignificant thing his ‘sister’ asks of him!” That was our first real fight. It was loud, messy, and devastating. He accused me of lacking trust and overreacting. I accused him of perpetually prioritizing Maisie and completely disregarding my feelings. The end of the argument came when he pulled out a diamond ring and said: “Sav, I really, truly messed up. I promise I’ll change. Just forgive me, please.” I was weak. I forgave him, thinking the solemn promise of marriage would finally make him draw a line. I won’t deny that the moment he proposed, I was happy. I thought the commitment of marriage would finally force him to discipline himself. Instead, it only gave him the license to hurt me with even greater abandon. The cigarette butt burned my fingertip, the small, sharp pain dragging me back to the cold, gray reality of the British morning. I stubbed out the cigarette. The English sky was always so heavy and vast, lending the world an air of cold loneliness. 4 At the celebratory dinner for the deal I’d secured, Declan showed up, clutching a massive bouquet of garishly red roses. “Savannah, congratulations on landing the account.” He was dressed impeccably, and his timing was perfect. A smattering of polite, professional applause and congratulatory murmurs rose around us. I smiled gently, taking the roses. I feigned a soft reprimand. “You’re terrible, showing up all this way without a warning.” “Well, I wanted to surprise you, didn’t I?” He clearly approved of my composed reaction. He tried to take my hand, but another pair of hands reached past me and slipped firmly into the crook of his arm. I didn’t need to look to know who they belonged to. “This is rich! You two are out here wining and dining, and you didn’t invite me? Good thing I followed you all the way over here!” Maisie’s voice was bright and loud, carrying her signature, spoiled charm. She was wearing a pure white cocktail dress tonight, and standing next to Declan in his sharp suit, they looked, to the untrained eye, inexplicably perfect together. Declan stiffened, trying to gently extricate his arm, but she clung to him tighter. The ambient chatter in the room evaporated instantly. Everyone was subtly watching my reaction, some with undisguised schadenfreude. My smile never wavered. In fact, it grew softer as I looked at Maisie. “Goodness, Maisie, you should have traveled with your brother! It must have been so lonely and dangerous to fly here by yourself.” Maisie faltered, clearly thrown off by my total lack of anger. I turned back to Declan, pushing the roses into his chest. “Since Maisie is here, you can spend some time entertaining her. I need to go over a few final details with Mr. James, the channel partner.” “Maisie, the desserts here are exquisite, and I remember you love French pastries. Have Dec treat you to a few, okay?” With a nod to the surrounding guests, I left the couple, gliding naturally toward the main table. Mr. James, the head of the largest European distribution chain. The primary purpose of this celebration was to solidify our connection with him. I had been trying to figure out how to elegantly ditch Declan, but Maisie’s sudden appearance had, accidentally, done the work for me. “Sue, your husband and his… friend, they are most entertaining.” James offered a low-voiced, accented tease. I raised my champagne flute and tapped it lightly against his, utterly unruffled. “It’s a minor distraction, nothing important. Let’s focus on the important work. Regarding next quarter’s projected logistics…” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Declan trying to pull away from Maisie and follow me, but she had him completely trapped. 5 The look Maisie shot me was one of triumphant, smug defiance. I was entirely unmoved. My only concern was that they would make a scene and embarrass me, so I signaled my assistant to keep a discreet watch nearby. The partnership with James was too crucial to be jeopardized by those two children. The celebration wrapped up, and I made preparations to head straight back to the airport. “Savannah, I flew all this way to see you, and now you’ve said maybe five words to me, and you’re leaving me again?” Declan caught up to me at the hotel entrance, his voice thick with clear annoyance and a subtle, petulant whine. Maisie was still plastered to his side, gazing at me with a haughty, dismissive air. I stopped, my smile still perfectly polished. “Declan, the second I closed the deal, I booked the next flight home. I have an essential board meeting to chair. You know how it is. I have to deliver these results if I want to outmaneuver my useless brothers and earn my place at The Harrington Group.” “So just let me go home today, hmm? Be good.” That patronizing line was one Declan had used to placate me countless times. He faltered, his brow furrowing deeper. “How important can one meeting be? Is it more important than me? I’m already here. I checked the schedule and booked the same flight as you. Can’t you postpone by a day?” 6 “Your wife is a big shot now, Dec. Everyone knows she’s practically eclipsed her older brother at The Harrington Group.” Maisie tossed the comment out carelessly, though her eyes were sharp with mockery. “We’re just two rich kids playing around, Dec. We shouldn’t waste her time when she’s doing such important things.” I nodded approvingly. “Maisie, you’re becoming so much more mature. Declan, you really should take a few notes from her.” I reached into my handbag and produced a key card, slipping it into Declan’s hand. “By the way, this was the suite I booked. I don’t need it now. It’s a two-bedroom. You two can take it.” Declan stared blankly at the card, his voice a stiff croak. “You… you want me to share a room with another woman?” “Why not? It’s not like you haven’t before. You’re brother and sister, darling. Relax. I trust you both implicitly.” “I’m really out of time. I need to leave now. Maisie, thank you for taking care of your brother for me.” Before he could react, I turned, opened the car door, and drove away. In the rearview mirror, I watched Declan standing rooted to the pavement, the key card clutched in his hand, his face a pale, horrified mask as he stared at the retreating car. I rolled down the window and lit a cigarette, the faint minty tobacco scent filling the car. I put the choice in your hands, Declan. Let’s see what you do with it.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387718”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The new A-list actor, Asher Flynn, publicly called me out, slamming me for being shameless and chasing clout. The trending topics exploded for three days straight. My DMs were flooded with mock funeral wreaths sent by his fans. I was being cyberbullied to the point of wanting to delete all my accounts and quit the industry. I was just about to find my online boyfriend to cry to. But before I could even type, he sent me a screenshot, followed by a whiny, self-pitying voice note. “Babe, some D-list actress is trying to score points with me! I’m furious!” My hands trembled as I clicked on the screenshot. There, in stark white text, was Asher Flynn’s comment tearing me down: “@Rowan—stay in your lane. You’re sickening to look at.” Wait. No. The gentle, attentive online boyfriend who tucked me in every night… Was actually the A-list actor, Asher Flynn? This relationship just hit a dead end. 1 Asher’s messages kept flooding in. “Babe, why aren’t you answering me?” “Did you see that trending topic, too? Don’t believe it for a second. I have absolutely nothing to do with that Rowan girl.” “Her profile picture is clearly a rip-off of yours, a cheap knock-off. Ugly people always try too hard.” “If my manager hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve sent two more tweets to knock some sense into her.” My fingertips went numb looking at the relentless stream of messages. Ten minutes ago, I was sobbing hysterically because of Asher’s tweet. He said I was desperate for attention, that I was calculating, and that just seeing me made his stomach turn. The entire internet was laughing at me; his fans had cursed my ancestors. I had even drafted my retirement statement, planning to move back home and sell artisan coffee from a food truck. And now, the man who caused all this mess was using a pink-and-blue teddy bear couple’s avatar and texting me, begging for affection. “Babe?” He sent another voice note, his voice deep, gravelly, and laced with a pathetic neediness. “Don’t be mad, I only slammed her to prove my loyalty to you.” Proving his loyalty by tearing me to shreds? I took a deep breath, my fingers shaking as I typed: I’m not angry. Asher replied instantly: “Thank God! You scared me. I thought you misunderstood that I had something going on with that flop. That kind of woman? I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.” “…” I looked at my reflection in the mirror—eyes red, hair a mess. “Babe, I have to film a reality show tomorrow. It’s going to be busy, so I won’t be able to reply right away.” “And that Rowan girl is apparently going to be there, too. Seriously bad luck. Don’t worry, babe, I promise to stay miles away from her tomorrow. She won’t get a single drop of my limelight!” Asher sent another heads-up. But tomorrow? Wasn’t that the day we were both scheduled to be on The Ultimate Challenge? I had held onto a sliver of hope, thinking I might use the show as a chance to explain things to him, or maybe just apologize for the ‘clout-chasing’ accusation. Now, it looked like I was walking into a firing squad. If he ever found out that the ‘Babe’ he cooed to every night… was Rowan, the actress he publicly despised. The image was too awful to contemplate. He would likely feel betrayed, and his disgust for me would only intensify. Okay, you do your thing. I hit send, then flipped my phone face down on the table. My manager, Brenda, pushed the door open, her face etched with worry. “Rowan, are you still going to the set tomorrow? Asher Flynn’s team is putting out feelers—he doesn’t want any interaction with you. And the network will definitely play this up for ratings.” I gave a bitter laugh. “The contract breach fee is three hundred grand. Can I afford that?” Brenda sighed. “Right. Just keep a low profile tomorrow. Try to avoid him. Don’t give him any more ammunition.” I doubted I could avoid him. “Brenda,” I suddenly asked, “if… and I mean if… I wanted to quit, could I pay the termination fee in installments?” Brenda’s eyes widened. “Are you crazy? Because of this? Hey, being a villain is still being famous!” I didn’t answer. This wasn’t about being famous, even if it was infamous. This was about total, public humiliation. If my identity was revealed tomorrow, my career in Hollywood was over. Worse, Asher’s fans might actually tear me to shreds. I picked up my phone again and tapped on Asher’s profile. That pink-and-blue teddy bear avatar suddenly felt like a punch to the gut. I had to end it. But before the breakup, I needed to survive tomorrow’s show. I could not let him recognize me. As long as I denied everything, he would never know his ‘Babe’ was me. With a resolved mind, I locked down all my social media accounts and changed my profile picture to a solid black square. Asher sent a stream of question marks: “Babe, why the new picture?” I replied: I’m in a bad mood. I’ve gone dark. He sent a ‘big hug’ GIF: “Who upset you? Tell me, I’ll go rip them a new one!” I stared at the screen and forced a smile. It was you who upset me. Weren’t you cruel enough already? 2 On the set of the reality show. I huddled in a corner, trying to shrink into invisibility. Asher Flynn walked in, the center of attention. He looked impossibly handsome in a black outdoor jacket, the kind of man you couldn’t tear your eyes from. But the air pressure around him was freezing. His face clearly screamed, “Do not approach.” He walked right past me without stopping, not even sparing me a side-glance. Sierra, the current “It Girl” and another female guest—and, in Asher’s fans’ minds, the only acceptable girlfriend—smiled sweetly at the sight of him. “Asher, long time no see,” Sierra greeted him with a sugary voice, naturally shifting closer to him. Asher gave a noncommittal grunt. His attitude wasn’t exactly warm, but he didn’t push her away either. Sierra then turned to me, her face plastered with an impenetrable fake smile. “Oh, look, isn’t this Rowan? After yesterday’s blow-up, I honestly thought you’d be too embarrassed to show up today.” Her voice was just loud enough for everyone around to hear. All eyes instantly pivoted to me. I clenched the hem of my jacket. “I signed a contract. Of course, I’m here.” “Right. Well, this might be your last time on a high-profile show like this,” Sierra said, covering her mouth with a delicate laugh. “You have to seize the chance to get as much screen time as possible.” I didn’t take the bait. The less I said, the better. Asher suddenly spoke up. “What’s with the small talk? Can we be professional?” Sierra instantly nodded submissively. “Asher’s right. Let’s run through the notes.” She shot me a smug, victorious look. I looked down, pretending to read the script. But I couldn’t process a single word. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I sneakily pulled it out. A text from Asher. “Babe, I’m here. That Rowan girl is here too, of course. Annoying.” “She tried to talk to me just now, but I totally ignored her.” “You can’t give people like that an inch. They just take advantage.” I was speechless. Wait! When did I try to talk to him? He was the one who walked past me! Did this man have two separate personalities? High-and-mighty movie star in real life, petty, gossipy boyfriend in our texts? I took a deep, steadying breath and replied: Mhm, you did the right thing. Asher shot back instantly: “I know, right? I have to keep my virtue safe. Besides you, I don’t want anything to do with anyone else.” Reading that, my heart ached with a complicated mix of emotions. If you ignored the reality, he was truly the perfect boyfriend. But reality was staring me right in the face. The director yelled into a megaphone: “Places, everyone! We’re going live! The first segment is drawing lots for teams!” My heart dropped. Please, please, not with Asher Flynn. Please, no. But Murphy’s Law never fails. When I pulled a red ball from the box, Asher was holding a red ball, too. A dead silence fell over the stage. The live comments were probably in a frenzy. Sierra’s smile froze, quickly replaced by a pitying look directed at Asher. “Asher, looks like you got the short straw.” Asher stared at the red ball in his hand, his brows tightly knitted. He didn’t even look at me. He just raised his hand and asked the director, “Can we redraw?” The director awkwardly wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Mr. Flynn, we’re live… those are the rules.” Asher let out a cold laugh and tossed the red ball onto the table. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” I stood there, so mortified I didn’t know where to put my hands. Sierra sidled up to me and lowered her voice. “Rowan, if you had an ounce of self-respect, you’d ask to drop out. Don’t drag Asher down.” I looked up at her, my eyes filled with false hope. “Drop out? Will you cover the breach fee?” Sierra choked on her words, then glared at me fiercely. “Clingy.” The light in my eyes dimmed. Sigh. The teams were set; there was no changing it. Asher walked up to me, looking down. It was the first time he had truly looked me in the eye today. Those beautiful eyes were devoid of warmth, filled instead with pure aversion. “Rowan, right?” “Don’t even think about pulling any stunts in this team. I won’t fall for it.” “And, stay away from me.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me with only his cold back. I stood rooted, watching him go, the image of my “perfect boyfriend” shattering piece by piece. The phone in my pocket vibrated again. “Babe, I’m so angry! I’m teamed up with that disaster!” “I definitely didn’t check my horoscope today!” “I swear I’m not helping her in the game. I’m going to let her look like a fool on her own!” Reading those two texts, I suddenly felt too drained to reply. Asher Flynn. You’re truly something else. Since you hate me this much, I don’t need to hold onto any more fantasies about you. As soon as this show is over, we’re done. 3 The game was a “three-legged race” through an obstacle course. The game required extreme coordination and physical contact. The producers were clearly doing this on purpose. A staff member came over with a strap to tie one of my legs to one of Asher’s. Asher took a step back, a look of complete revulsion on his face. “Can’t we do something else?” “Mr. Flynn, these are the rules…” the staff member stammered. Asher frustratingly ran a hand through his hair but finally extended his leg. “Don’t tie it too tight,” he said sharply. The staff member’s hands were shaking, and he tied the strap loosely. I moved my leg close. Before I could even brush his pant leg, he flinched back as if he’d been electrocuted. “Don’t crowd me.” I stared at him. Dude, it’s a three-legged race. How are we supposed to run if we’re not close? The live chat was probably having a field day. LOL, the A-lister’s entire body is screaming NO. Can Rowan please back up? Don’t touch our king! Asher Flynn: Back the F* Off!** The race started. The other teams were calling out rhythms and charging forward smoothly. Sierra’s team was perfectly coordinated and already far ahead. Only our team was a total mess. Asher would step with his left foot, and I would step with my right. He walked too fast, and I couldn’t keep up. Before we’d gone two steps, I stumbled and nearly fell. I instinctively reached for his arm to catch my balance. The instant my hand touched his sleeve, he ruthlessly shrugged me off. “Don’t touch me.” With that jerk, I lost my center of gravity and went crashing to the ground. My knee smacked hard against the concrete. The pain shot through me. Due to the strap, Asher was pulled off balance momentarily, but he quickly steadied himself. He looked down at me. He didn’t offer a hand. Instead, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “Can you manage this or not? Don’t force it if you can’t.” His voice was dripping with contempt. I lay on the ground, my knee throbbing, tears stinging my eyes. The humiliation was overwhelming. The man who texted me, “Babe, if you scrape a tiny bit of skin I’d be heartbroken,” was standing right there, watching me fall, and his only concern was that I would slow him down. Sierra crossed the finish line, looked back, and dramatically shouted, “Oh my God, Rowan, why did you fall? Were you trying to get Asher to carry you?” A chorus of chuckles erupted around us. I gritted my teeth, pushed myself up, and stood without his help. The skin on my knee was broken. Asher glanced at the wound. His frown deepened, but he still didn’t move. “Can you still walk?” he asked. “Yes,” I snapped back. “Then hurry up. Don’t waste any more time.” The rest of the course was pure torture. He completely ignored my pace, only focusing on his own forward momentum. I was dragged, stumbling and nearly falling with every step. I felt like I was walking on broken glass. We finally crawled to the finish line. Unsurprisingly, we came in dead last. The moment the strap came off, Asher leaped two feet away from me. Then, in front of everyone, he pulled out an antiseptic wipe and meticulously, carefully, scrubbed the sleeve of his jacket where I had touched it. He then tossed the wipe into a nearby trash can. The gesture wasn’t physically harmful, but the insult was maximum. I stood there, staring at the trash can, my heart completely hollow. Sierra came over and handed Asher a water bottle. “Asher, that must have been rough. It’s hard carrying dead weight.” Asher took a long drink, said nothing, but his silence was confirmation enough. Sierra turned to me, her smile triumphant. “Rowan, don’t feel too bad. The gap in skill is obvious. It’s totally normal that Asher couldn’t carry you.” I ignored her and turned to find a staff member for a bandage. My phone vibrated again. I hid in the corner to check it. “Babe, we lost.” “That Rowan girl is as clumsy as a wild boar. She can’t walk straight, and she kept trying to pull on me.” “She almost made me fall. She’s a total jinx.” “But don’t worry, I didn’t touch her once the whole time. My loyalty is absolute!” Reading those words, a wave of nausea hit me. Sickening. It was truly sickening. I shoved the phone back into my pocket. I didn’t want to look at it again. The host walked onto the stage with a note card. “Alright, the results are in! The last-place team must now face the forfeit!” The crowd cheered. Everyone was waiting to see how Asher would humiliate me next. The host’s eyes bounced between Asher and me, finally landing on Asher. “Mr. Flynn, according to the rules, the losing team must play ‘Truth or Dare’.” Asher casually adjusted his cuff. “I’ll take the Dare.” The host grinned widely. “Wonderful! The Dare is…” “You must call the person you’ve contacted most recently in your phone book—of the opposite sex—on speaker, and say, ‘I love you!’”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387717”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel