It started the way everything does these days: a trend I convinced myself was an act of genuine desire. I’d followed the whispers and bought a service merman online. The seller promised impeccable service, a deeply affectionate nature, and the romantic detail that, during special moments, mermen could cry tiny, precious pearls. Yet, the one I bought—Lysander—had been here for two weeks, and far from shedding pearls, he hid in the kelp bed during every single feeding, as if the sight of me was an assault. I messaged the seller, and customer service pinged back almost immediately: “Sweetheart, we are so sorry for the mix-up. How about we process an exchange right away?” I couldn’t help but ask, “What happens to the mermen you take back?” “Oh, honey, don’t you worry. Defective models are never resold. They are typically transferred to a specialized high-end culinary market,” the reply stated, its tone chillingly casual. It was still a life. I decided to give him a little more time. If things didn’t change, then I’d process the return. But that very evening, I saw the creature who wouldn’t even look at me, practically thrashing his tail off for someone else. It wasn’t that he wasn’t affectionate. He just wasn’t affectionate with me. If that was the case, an exchange it was. It was just a fish dying, after all. 1 As soon as I finished checking the seller’s messages, I crept back toward the luxurious custom-built tank that housed Lysander. He spotted me from a distance and immediately spun around, burying himself in the flowing, blue-green kelp. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, that perfect, sculpted form. The aqua algae trailed down his back and across his lower abdomen as the water shifted. No matter how much of a problem he was, he was undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful. He was exactly my type—which was why I had picked him out of the hundreds of profiles. His eye-rims were red, and the tips of his ears had a flush of color. As I moved closer, he bit down hard on his own arm before swimming further away, deeper into the dark. “The manual clearly states this is the onset of the mating cycle—he’s a fully mature merman. Why is he still avoiding contact?” I followed the instructions, raising my hand to gently stroke his cheek. He slapped my hand away without hesitation and took off, circling the furthest reaches of the tank. “I don’t like to be touched by humans.” The slap stung. I looked down at my hand; a thin scratch was already bleeding. He cautiously poked his head out of the kelp, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. I tossed the prepared meal onto the floor nearby and left the basement without another word, my face set in a rigid mask. “Your fish still won’t let you touch him?” My phone chimed. It was Sloane Hastings, my best friend, sending a text. I replied curtly, “Tell me about it. It’s been almost a month, and we’ve barely exchanged ten words.” Sloane: “OMG! Did you get a fake or a factory reject? How much was he?” … “Three million. From the store you recommended.” Sloane: “No way! That’s impossible. Mine was perfect! That place is legacy stock, top-tier reputation. Message them again. Seriously, swap him out.” “Fine. Got it.” I pulled up the store page and sent a concise summary of my ordeal. “The merman I bought from you is over two weeks in, and still refuses contact. Is this normal?” The customer service rep immediately fired back: “Dear, did you follow the unboxing instructions precisely? Deviations from the protocol can sometimes cause initial reluctance.” I was furious. “What kind of ridiculous answer is that? You think I’d spend three million dollars and not follow a basic user manual?” I was practically worshiping this creature. Sloane’s merman, Kai, wasn’t like this. Kai loved coming ashore, would clean himself up, use the specialized dryer on his tail until it became legs, and then warm her sheets. Sloane’s glowing reports were the only reason I’d spent that much on a fish in the first place. The customer service rep, professional and unnervingly polite, didn’t react to my anger. Instead, they offered the solution: “Dear, I am so sorry for this experience. How about we process an immediate exchange? We can ship the new model via Express Courier; it should arrive in three days.” The question I’d asked before slipped out again, driven by a strange, morbid curiosity: “How exactly do you process the returns? Do you ever resell them?” “Sweetheart, rest assured, we are a reputable, high-trust business. Mermen are never resold. The returned models are typically processed for harmless disposal. You can relax about that.” “Harmless disposal means…?” The reply was clinical: “Low-cost transfer to a premium sashimi market for high-grade carpaccio.” Sashimi… I looked back at Lysander in the tank. A pang of something close to pity hit me. He was just socially inept, not a capital criminal. He didn’t deserve to be chopped up for appetizers. It was a life, after all. I’ll give him a little more time. Maybe he would change. If not, then I’d swap him. I closed the app and looked over at Lysander a few more times. Still gorgeous. But I hadn’t bought him just for the aesthetic. Turning on my heel, I walked back to my room and lit a cigarette, the smoke doing little to calm the slow burn of my irritation. A text from home had been sitting on my lock screen for two hours, unanswered. “Rei, your sister is staying with you for a few days. Try to get along. Don’t throw another temper tantrum.” Temper tantrum? I wouldn’t give Tatum the chance to malign me. Tatum and I have always been oil and water. I had no idea what kind of manufactured drama possessed her to decide she wanted to stay at my house. Tatum is my parents’ adopted daughter. I was kidnapped at the age of three and sold off to a remote mountain village, where I lived for eleven brutal years. When I was fourteen, working the fields, my parents suddenly appeared. They said they were my biological mother and father. I returned to the house that had forgotten me with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. The first person I saw was a radiant, polished Tatum. She looked like a designer-clad princess, surrounded by brand names, which only emphasized how much I, the dirty, bewildered prodigal, looked like an interloper. I quickly learned that the year after they lost me, they adopted a girl the exact same age. I genuinely thought we might find common ground until the moment my parents left the room. Tatum leaned in and whispered in my ear: “I’ve been here longer than you. I am their daughter.” “Mom and Dad love me. Don’t think for a second that you can just waltz back in and change that! I won’t let you steal what’s mine!” She’d lived in my house long enough to truly believe it was her own. A few years ago, I might have craved my parents’ love. Now, I simply celebrate my escape from that backwater village and spend their money—lots of it. Tatum will never know that the night before my parents rescued me, I was agonizing over how to escape a dreadful, prearranged marriage. Perhaps sensing my desperation, my parents said nothing, simply handing me an unrestricted black card. As a newly rich pauper, I was still cautious. I bought a few decent outfits and opened a discreet personal account, transferring significant amounts into it every month. On my eighteenth birthday, realizing how uncomfortable I felt in the main house, my parents gifted me this standalone mansion—their compensation for the eleven lost years. Tatum didn’t get one. She was green with envy, but she was calculating enough never to show it to our parents. Her hypocrisy disgusted me. Unlike her, I was honest about my motives: I loved money, pure and simple. I think money is a good thing. And that’s why, despite his standoffishness, the expensive Lysander was what I spent the most on. His diet was exclusively the most expensive imported, air-freighted fare. His water was changed daily and regularly supplemented with a nutrient solution that cost three thousand dollars a vial. Even his tail scales were meticulously groomed by a specialized team. That’s why Sloane’s first comment upon seeing him was: “Rei, that three million? Money well spent. Keep him, and you’ll find out just how much fun he is.” I had bought Lysander entirely to keep up with Sloane. I had reached an age where I was starting to feel the primal urge, the hormonal push toward a deep, intimate connection. Compared to building a relationship with someone whose disposition I didn’t know, a purchased transaction seemed infinitely safer. Safe. Attentive. Eternally Obedient. That was the merman store’s slogan. It was currently proving to be a spectacular lie. Despite my objections, Tatum arrived, her luggage requiring two SUVs to haul. She was unusually quiet upon entering, not engaging in her typical verbal sparring. Instead, she darted her eyes around, taking in the house. What was she looking for? A hidden camera? I couldn’t be bothered with her games. In my own house? Cameras? Not a chance I wouldn’t have them. I had to assume Tatum was plotting something. I didn’t just install them; I made them invisible: in the flowerpots, the outlets, the stuffed animals. And so, it was no surprise when I watched Tatum creep around my house for ten minutes at midnight before finally heading down to the basement. “How could she do this? Keeping you in such a small tank? Don’t mermen have rights? You have thoughts, you feel pain. She’s so inhuman. If I were your owner, I would at least let you swim freely in a private lake.” The voice on the feed was pure, sickening syrup. And Lysander, who had only ever given me an ice-cold shoulder, looked genuinely touched. Half his body was leaning out of the water toward her. Tatum, however, probably didn’t know that lake water would make Lysander’s scales flake. A three-million-dollar merman is high-maintenance. Lysander also had no idea there was a camera in the basement. I had installed it originally for the medical staff who came to check his vitals. I had never paid attention to the feed until Tatum walked down there. And that’s how I discovered that Lysander possessed a tender side—and a talent for water ballet. With his long, chestnut hair flowing in the water, he thrashed his tail wildly for Tatum, his deep-set eyes wide and moist, fixed on her with intense devotion. Tatum’s face was flushed. Lysander obediently nudged his face toward her hand. He ate my food, lived in my house, gave me a condescending look of disdain, and then turned into a warm, devoted puppy for Tatum? I suddenly remembered: Lysander had been delivered directly to the house. I rarely shopped online, so the address was set to my home—the one Tatum still had access to. Tatum must have unpacked him. No wonder. I had coddled him, pampered him, and granted his every whim for over two weeks, yet I wasn’t even allowed to graze his earlobe. His attitude toward me had been consistently frigid. I actually started to think I was the problem—that I was so unlikable even a fish hated me. Looking at the intimate dance between the two of them on the monitor, I immediately messaged the merman shop. “The previous merman isn’t working out. I need an exchange.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387248”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ethan was dying. The only person who could save him, the only perfect match for a liver transplant, was his mother, Sienna Reed. I had begged her for twenty days. Finally, she agreed to return and donate. I sat outside the operating room all day, but she never showed. That same day, Sienna’s childhood friend, Garrett Shaw, posted photos on his social media of their South American Adventure. “Day 20 of our adventure. Dr. Reed sacrificed her fellowship to help my son realize his dream of traveling the world. ” That’s how I discovered that on the very first day I’d pleaded with Sienna to save our son, she was already gone—off traveling with Garrett and his kid. That night, Sienna called me. “Liam, Noah got a perfect score on his finals. His wish was for his mom and dad to travel the world with him.” “You know he doesn’t have a mother…” “I couldn’t let him down. We’ll be back in three days.” “I’ll donate my liver to Ethan shortly after.” Three days later, when Sienna finally arrived at the hospital, all she saw was Ethan’s death certificate. 1 I stood in the hospital morgue, looking down at Ethan’s still, small face. The pain was a physical weight, pressing the air from my lungs. My son had always been such an easy, sweet kid; I barely had to worry about him. Yet, when it mattered most, I couldn’t even guarantee his life. His acute liver failure had blindsided us. The only person who was a match was my wife, Sienna Reed. The day after the compatibility results came back, she left. She’d been accepted into an elite fellowship program overseas. On her first day away, I started begging her to come back and save him. She said the fellowship was a once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity, and she couldn’t sacrifice it. I pleaded for eighteen more days. She refused, cold and distant. On the nineteenth day, the doctor warned me Ethan’s condition was deteriorating rapidly. He needed the transplant immediately. I called her again. She said leaving mid-program would ruin her entire professional career. She told me to transfer Ethan to a better hospital and keep looking for other donors. But the specialty children’s hospital was full; they rejected us. We had no choice but to return to the city hospital. Ethan was pale, his skin translucent from the sickness. His eyes, wide and hopeful, fixed on me. “Daddy, why hasn’t Mommy come to see me?” “Did I do something naughty? Did I make her mad?” I couldn’t find the words. All I could think was that maybe I hadn’t made the severity of the situation clear enough to Sienna. Maybe she genuinely thought we had time. I called her one last time, pulling his primary physician onto the call. Together, we begged her to return. With the witness of a colleague, Sienna finally conceded. She agreed to take two days of leave and fly back for the surgery. But the day of the transplant, I waited outside the operating room from sun-up to sundown. I didn’t get Sienna. I got the crushing news that we were too late. I pulled out my phone, intending to ask her why. That’s when I saw the photo Garrett had sent me. Sienna, radiant, holding his son, Noah, nestled close to Garrett. My hand trembled as I opened Garrett’s public feed. The words were a knife in the heart. “Day 20 of our adventure. Dr. Reed sacrificed her fellowship to help my son realize his dream of traveling the world. ” If Garrett hadn’t posted that, I never would have known the wife my dying son and I had been waiting for was off making another man’s child’s fantasies come true. I grasped Ethan’s small, already cold hand. The world went black with the crushing pressure in my chest. The phone vibrated. It was Sienna. “Liam, Noah got a perfect score on his finals. His wish was for his mom and dad to travel the world with him.” “You know he doesn’t have a mother…” “I couldn’t let him down. We’ll be back in three days.” “I’ll donate my liver to Ethan shortly after.” My mind was a desolate wasteland. Twenty-four hours ago, that promise would have made me leap for joy. Now, I felt nothing but a deep, hollow nausea. My son’s life was less important to her than the fleeting wish of an outsider. Sienna must have sensed my silence. “Liam? Why aren’t you saying anything?” she asked, a thread of panic in her voice. I pulled myself together. “Sienna,” I asked, the words hollow. “Do you know how sick our son is?” She froze. She finally seemed to realize Ethan’s condition was beyond delays. “Liam, relax. I’m booking a flight right now.” Then, Noah’s innocent voice came across the line. “Mommy, the last stop is romantic Paris! Will you come with me?” Sienna hesitated. A second, two. Then she spoke to me. “Liam, my contact at the specialty hospital said Ethan isn’t a total emergency. Three more days won’t hurt. You can be the bigger person and wait for me to get back.” I should have known. Ever since Garrett got divorced and moved back, Sienna’s entire attention had been fixed on him and Noah. She canceled Ethan’s birthday party because Noah had a cold. She always had an excuse: Noah doesn’t have a mother. We need to be the bigger people, Liam. She gave Ethan’s favorite birthday present to Noah. Be big-hearted, Liam. She skipped our family holidays to take Noah to the amusement park. We need to be generous, Liam. She knew we would forgive her. She knew we would always be here, waiting. That’s why she felt entitled to ignore us, to hurt us, with impunity. But this time, I couldn’t be generous. Because my son didn’t have a future. And because my marriage to Sienna was finally, irrevocably over. I hung up and gently smoothed the hair from Ethan’s forehead. Before the scheduled surgery, he had looked at me, full of hope. “Daddy, when I wake up, will Mommy be here?” I had given him a firm answer. “Yes, buddy. You’ll wake up, and everything will be fine.” I let him down. His mother didn’t return, not even for a final look. Perhaps it was a psychic sense, but Sienna started flooding my phone with frantic messages asking about Ethan. I just watched the screen, not replying, not blocking her. The next morning, I arrived at the hospital early to handle Ethan’s final arrangements. I didn’t expect to see Sienna, but there she was. Garrett was rushing into the emergency entrance, clutching Noah. Sienna was running beside him, shouting at a nurse, “A quick line! He needs attention now!” People scrambled out of their way. I didn’t react fast enough, and she slammed right into me. She skidded to a stop. “Liam, Noah suddenly passed out. I need to get him checked out right now.” I simply nodded, taking two steps back to clear the path. Sienna stared at me, bewildered. She couldn’t understand my sudden, silent compliance. Usually, when she prioritized Noah, I would protest or complain. Now, I was just quietly stepping aside. “Liam, don’t be angry. I’m going to donate my liver to Ethan right after this.” She let go of Garrett and reached for my arm. Garrett caught up to her, his hand wrapping around hers. “Sienna, please don’t go.” He looked at me, his eyes full of feigned pain. “Liam, I know you resent Noah for taking Sienna’s attention, but he’s just a kid. Please, cut him some slack.” In the face of Garrett’s tearful plea, Sienna didn’t hesitate. She chose Garrett and walked away without a backward glance. A young nurse nearby patted Garrett’s arm. “Don’t worry, ‘Mr. Shaw.’ Dr. Reed is known for being totally obsessed with her guy. If you ask her, she’ll do anything.” “Not like some of those shameless side pieces who don’t know their place.” The onlookers, like sharks smelling blood, started to whisper. “Wait, he’s the side piece? An adult man being the mistress? And he’s not even discreet about it in front of the actual husband? The nerve.” “Yeah, earlier, when his son was admitted, he introduced himself as Dr. Reed’s husband and tried to get us to call in a retired specialist for the boy.” “What a joke. Serves the little bastard right if he died.” When Sienna and I first married, she insisted on keeping work and home life separate. She never brought me or Ethan to hospital events. She didn’t want colleagues to know about us. When Garrett returned, that changed. She said he was lonely and unfamiliar with the area. She brought him to every hospital function, proudly introducing him to everyone. When colleagues called him “Mr. Shaw,” she would just smile and let them assume. The entire hospital staff was convinced Garrett and Noah were her actual family. Ethan and I were the dirty little secret, the shameless gold-digger and his illegitimate son. Sienna reappeared and blocked my path in the hallway. She leaned in, about to kiss me. I stepped sideways, avoiding contact. “Sienna, this is your workplace.” Her hand froze mid-air. She pouted, a familiar, manipulative gesture. “Liam, stop being mad, okay? I’ll go donate my liver to Ethan right now.” I looked down, masking my emptiness. “It’s not necessary.” Because Ethan was gone. And a mother who broke her final promise didn’t deserve to see him. If Ethan knew his mother, the one he prayed for, had been globetrotting with another family, how broken would he be? Sienna sensed my genuine grief. She pulled out two small boxes from her designer bag. “These are gifts for you and Ethan.” The one for Ethan contained a limited-edition action figure. I stared at it, losing myself for a moment. Last year, on Ethan’s birthday, Sienna was away. Ethan had picked out that exact action figure on a video call. When she finally returned, Noah was already clutching it. Ethan cried for it, and Sienna had coldly chastised him for being selfish and fighting with his little brother over a toy. Now she’d bought the one he’d always wanted. But it was too late. Ethan was gone. Seeing my lack of response, Sienna grew agitated. She grabbed my hand, about to speak, when Garrett rushed back. “Sienna, the doctor says Noah has leukemia. He needs a kidney transplant now.” Sienna’s eyes immediately filled with a frantic panic. “Don’t worry,” she said, her voice shaking as she turned to Garrett. “I’ll get tested right away. I won’t let anything happen to him.” She dropped my hand and started to follow Garrett. “Sienna,” I called out, my voice flat. “Aren’t you going to see Ethan?” She stopped. “I…” Garrett quickly interjected, “Liam, please don’t try to make this a competition. Noah needs Sienna to save his life right now.” Sienna sighed, relief washing over her face. “Liam, don’t be upset. I’m a doctor. Saving lives is my duty.” “Wait for me. I’ll be back in a bit.” With that, she let Garrett pull her away. I watched them go. “Don’t bother, Sienna,” I whispered. Later, I overheard nurses gossiping. Sienna was a kidney match. She had already signed the donation papers and would need a week of recovery before the surgery. Though I already knew the outcome, the news was a sharp, painful stab. I had been running around all day. I found an empty office to rest. As I walked in, I saw Sienna and Garrett locked in a passionate embrace, kissing fiercely. Seeing me, Sienna immediately broke away. “Liam, Noah is sick. I was just comforting Garrett.” I couldn’t stop the bitter sarcasm. “Comforting? Does comfort require you to make out?” Sienna scrambled for an explanation, but Garrett pulled her closer, tears welling up in his eyes. “Liam, don’t blame Sienna. I was the one who kissed her first.” I offered a ruthless smirk. “You must be starving. You’ll eat anything.” I turned and walked out. Sienna followed me. “Liam, let me explain. I only think of Garrett as a brother.” From behind us, Garrett’s voice was shaky. “Sienna, the doctor says Noah’s situation is critical. We need to start the transplant immediately.” Sienna wrestled with the decision for a moment before turning back to me. “I need to donate my kidney to Noah first.” She left, again, without looking back. It was a cruel irony. When her own son needed a liver, she stayed away. When her childhood friend’s son needed a kidney, she committed immediately. Love and indifference were never so clear. If only I had seen it sooner, if only I hadn’t pinned all my hope on her, Ethan might still be alive. In that moment, I gave up completely. I drove home and started packing. All my and Ethan’s belongings. Since I was choosing to end it, I would cut all ties completely. I packed everything, printed the divorce papers, and watched as the first, faint light of dawn broke over the horizon. A new day. I stepped into that morning sun and walked out of the house I had shared with Sienna for ten years. As I hailed a cab, I turned on my phone. Sienna’s frantic messages poured in. “I’m donating my kidney to Noah tomorrow at 9 AM. Come early to take care of me.” “Noah can’t drink or eat after the surgery. Bring some cotton swabs to wet his mouth.” “Don’t worry. Once I recover, I’ll donate my liver to Ethan.” “When Ethan is better, let’s travel the world together. We can see the Northern Lights in Switzerland, ski the Alps, and see all the beautiful sights…” I turned off the notifications, a self-mocking laugh escaping me. Sienna, there is no “us” anymore. At 8 AM, I was taking Ethan’s remains to the funeral home. I turned a corner and ran right into Sienna. “Liam? What is this?” I looked at her, my expression blank. “Sienna, Ethan passed away. His cremation is at noon. Would you like to join me for his final journey?” Sienna stumbled back two steps. “No. That’s impossible. It can’t be.” Garrett steadied her. “Liam, why do you keep lying about Ethan? He’s fine.” Garrett’s deliberate provocation was the last straw. I slapped him, hard, across the face. Garrett licked the blood from his lip and smirked, his eyes challenging me. “Caught in your lie, Liam? Are you so broken you resort to violence?” “Enough!” Sienna screamed, and the chaotic environment fell silent. She took a step toward me, her eyes vicious. “Liam Caldwell, you’re trying to deceive me just because I wouldn’t donate my liver on your timeline? You’re going to this extreme?” She lunged forward and slammed her hand down, flipping the gurney carrying Ethan’s body. With a horrifying CLANG, Ethan’s small, fragile body dropped onto the cold floor between us.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387247”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I thought my dad was working too hard. That was the only reason. I turned off his alarm. Because of that small, misguided act of kindness, Dad missed a crucial early meeting. Rushing to the office, he was involved in a car accident and died instantly. My mother never forgave me. At the funeral, she clawed and hammered at my chest, sobbing that she wished it had been me instead of him. One New Year’s Eve, she locked me outside in the bitter snow, wearing only a thin nightgown. I had a raging fever of 104 degrees, and she stood on the other side of the frosted glass, asking coldly if Dad had been this cold before he died. The day my acceptance letter to Blackwood University arrived—the most prestigious school in the country—my older sister, Harper, murmured, “If Dad were still here, maybe I wouldn’t have choked on my first try at the entrance exams…” Mom didn’t hesitate. She snatched the heavy envelope and tore my future into confetti. In the middle of the night, I would often wake to the sound of her voice in the hall, begging a silent God to take me, the criminal, and give her Marcus back. Then, six years later, Dad returned. He had completed his secret mission. And when he learned that I was dead, they all went insane with regret. 1 It was the sixth year since Dad’s supposed death when the phone rang. His voice was exactly as I remembered it. “Sadie?” My mind went completely blank. For a horrifying second, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Tears burst from my eyes, and my throat felt clogged with cotton. I couldn’t form a single word. Hearing my ragged sobs, his voice softened, laced with a familiar, deep guilt. “I know I worried you, baby. I was under deep cover, a federal op. I had to fake my death. It was high-risk, a total black-out. I wasn’t trying to cut you out.” “The mission is over now. I’m coming home tomorrow. Sadie, did you miss your dad? How’s your mother? And Harper? Are they home?” “Never mind, I’ll be there soon enough. Tell them I love them. I have to go, Sadie. See you tomorrow.” I stood there, dazed, the dead phone still pressed to my ear. A tear splashed onto the half-taped Blackwood acceptance letter I’d been trying to piece back together. I wiped it away fiercely. I needed to call Mom. To call Harper. Tell them Dad was alive! He hadn’t died in a senseless crash; he had been a hero, fighting the good fight. I hadn’t killed my father. I wasn’t the curse. But as I finally tried to dial them, I realized. They had both blocked me on every platform. Every single one. It doesn’t matter. I know where Mom works. I ran out the door and soon found her on the corner of the busy avenue, her figure instantly recognizable. She was in her State Trooper uniform, standing ramrod straight beside her cruiser, talking to another officer. After Dad died, Mom had joined the Highway Patrol. It felt like a perverse, belated attempt to atone for, or perhaps, repair, the crash that took him. I stared, greedily taking in the slight smile that touched her lips during the conversation. I started to run towards her. “Mom!” For the first time in six years, I could call her name without bracing myself for the cold blade of her disgust. But before the sound could fully escape, a hand clamped brutally over my mouth, dragging me backwards. I was shoved violently into the back of a black sedan. The door slammed shut, rattling my teeth. The air in the cabin reeked of stale blood and desperation. The man who’d grabbed me only had one ear. He grabbed my hair, yanking my head back, his eyes dark, surging with pure, venomous hatred. “Do you know why I took you?” He slapped me hard across the face, then grabbed my head again, slamming it against the window in a fit of savage release. “It’s because of your goddamn father! That son of a bitch killed all my brothers! He’s a lowlife piece of trash! I want him to suffer! I want his whole family to suffer and die!” Tears streamed down my face from the pain, but I bit back, yelling: “No! You’re wrong! My father is a decorated federal agent!” The man let go of me, grabbing the steering wheel, his mouth twisting into a terrifying grin. “Agent! Hah! It’s because your ‘agent’ finally called you today that I was able to track you down, you little pest!” He slammed his foot on the gas, aiming the car straight for Mom’s position, his eyes bloodshot and feral. “To hell with your hero! To hell with your hero’s family! You’re all going down to pay for my crew!” My vision tunneled. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would shatter my ribs. Mom. My mom. I hadn’t told her Dad was coming back. Everything seemed to slow down. I twisted my body, sinking my teeth into the man’s remaining ear, and with my hands locked on the steering wheel, I wrenched it with every last ounce of strength I had. The black sedan veered violently off the intended path and slammed into a utility pole. The world went dark instantly. When I opened my eyes, I saw the smoking wreckage of the car and the blood on my own face inside the mangled vehicle. I looked down at my own body. It was transparent. Ah. I had died. It was such a pity. We were only one day away from being a real family again. Mom wouldn’t make me kneel at Dad’s grave anymore, begging for his forgiveness. Harper wouldn’t look through me, pretending I wasn’t her sister, treating me as a punching bag whenever her classmates made fun of her for having no father. I missed the warmth of her hand when she used to hold mine back when we were kids, and Mom and Dad were busy. I accepted my death quickly, though I didn’t understand why my soul had drifted out. “What the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of lunatic trying to cause mass casualties on a Tuesday?” “Thank God the street wasn’t packed, or this would have taken out a dozen people.” “I was almost hit! I’m never walking this way again!” The chattering crowd was quickly moved back, and Mom, along with a few other officers, approached the wreck. I drifted to Mom’s side, desperately hoping she would recognize one of the dead victims inside as her daughter. But she just glanced inside, wrinkled her nose, and moved her eyes away. It’s okay, I told myself. She just hates looking at accident scenes. A small, silver charm, the Seraph Charm, fell from my transparent neck and rolled to her feet. She bent down and picked it up. My eyes brightened. Now, Mom. She’ll know it’s me now, right? We had designed the charm on my eleventh birthday. My zodiac sign was the Sheep, but because of Dad’s secret work, the charm also housed a tiny GPS tracker, and my name was engraved on the back. When Mom put it on me, she had smiled. “This is your lucky charm, Sadie. Your guardian angel. With this, wherever you are, Daddy and I can always find you.” I watched her, holding my breath. But she simply handed the charm to a detective who had just arrived. “This probably belongs to one of the victims in the car,” she said flatly. “Make sure you log it in the evidence report.” Mom! You don’t even recognize my lucky charm? How are you ever going to find me now? Silent, I followed her as she efficiently managed the scene. A familiar officer, a former colleague of Dad’s who often ate dinner at our house, walked up to her. He offered a faint, strained smile. “Congratulations.” Mom frowned, confused and annoyed. “For what?” He paused. I heard him mutter under his breath, “You haven’t heard? Marcus is back. I just heard him on the phone with dispatch; he was calling home. Maybe the details haven’t been released yet…” The noise of the street was too loud; Mom hadn’t heard his whisper. She took a step closer. “Heard what?” He cleared his throat, changing the subject. “Oh, nothing. I just heard about Sadie getting into Blackwood. That’s huge news! Congratulations.” Hearing my name, Mom’s face instantly darkened. “Did that little curse tell you that?” The colleague quickly objected, shaking his head. “No, no.” He looked disapprovingly at Mom. “Laura, you’re still blaming Sadie? That was never her fault, not really…” Bound by protocol, he couldn’t say more. But that single, small defense of me triggered an intense, emotional meltdown in Mom. “Not her fault? Then whose fault was it? Who asked her to be a self-righteous little savior? Because of her, I didn’t even get to see Marcus one last time!” Her voice was a ragged scrape. The accident scene seemed to drag her back to that devastating day six years ago. “Do you know? Six years! I still dream of Marcus, a bloody, broken mess on the road, blaming me for not coming home faster, demanding to know why Sadie turned off his alarm!” Her voice was raw, squeezed from her throat. Her eyes were tragically bloodshot. “Why, why did she have to be my daughter! Why is the person who took him away the one who looks back at me every day!” If I hadn’t been her daughter, she could have torn apart the drunk driver who killed Dad in court, demanding he pay with his life. Instead, I had been her daily torment, a constant reminder of her pain. I reached out, wanting to wipe away the tear that escaped her eye, but my transparent hand passed right through her cheek. I wiped again, stubbornly. Mom. I wish I had died that morning too. But I’m glad I didn’t. Otherwise, who would have protected you today? I couldn’t let that happen. Dad’s colleague sighed, his expression complex. He patted her shoulder and pivoted the conversation. “This wreck is strange. We need to ID both bodies and figure out the cause. We’ll need to shut down this whole block.” Mom nodded, grabbing caution tape with the other officers. My soul followed her, pulled uncontrollably. I looked back one last time at my own corpse, feeling an inarticulate sadness and injustice. If only Mom could have recognized me. Then she wouldn’t have said those terrible things. The crash meant Mom was finished early, and she came straight home. The half-taped Blackwood acceptance letter still sat on the dining table. Mom walked past, picked it up, and tossed it into the trash can. A moment later, the phone rang. It was my high school teacher, Ms. Rodriguez. Her voice was tight with worry. “Hello, Sadie’s Mom? Can you reach Sadie? I’ve called her so many times today, but she won’t answer. Is she okay?” Mom answered dismissively. “Who knows.” There was a moment of charged silence on the other end. The teacher sounded like she was barely holding back rage. “I’ve wanted to say this for a long time: What kind of mother are you? Do you have any idea that Sadie paid for every semester with scholarships and part-time jobs? She was starving at school!” Ms. Rodriguez always looked out for me. She was close to Mom’s age and had a daughter my age. Once, I passed out from hypoglycemia in class, and she rushed me to the clinic. She called Mom repeatedly, but Mom never offered a single word of concern. After that, Ms. Rodriguez often brought me extra lunch, claiming her daughter had too much. The teacher’s voice caught. “She was too scared to even get sick. She studied until she broke. I remember every time she came in first place, she’d ask me so hopefully, ‘If I get a perfect score, Mom and Harper will be happy, won’t they?’…” But the next day, I would show up with the test taped back together, giving a shaky smile. “Mom and Harper were just having a bad day yesterday. I’ll try to score even higher next time.” Mom interrupted the teacher impatiently. “What does that have to do with me?” Her coldness pierced me like an ice pick. “She deserves it, you understand? She killed her father. She doesn’t deserve a good life. If her dad knew we were letting her thrive, how could he forgive us?” It took the teacher a long time to speak. She sounded utterly exhausted. “She is a good kid. She got into Blackwood. Please, be kinder to her.” Mom merely said, “She won’t go. She’s going to spend her life atoning for her father.” The teacher gasped in shock, but Mom hung up the phone. As soon as she did, Harper, back from whatever she’d been doing, walked in the front door. Mom’s impatience vanished, replaced by instant, overwhelming tenderness. “You’re back? What do you want for dinner? I’ll make it right now.” Watching the brilliant, loving smile Mom gave Harper, a creeping, unbearable ache started to eat at my heart. In Mom’s eyes, Harper was the last pure connection to Dad, the blood that flowed between them. She was showered with praise, tucked in gently when she had nightmares. I was also their daughter, but I had forfeited all right to her kindness. Harper sat on the sofa. “I don’t have much of an appetite. Just make whatever.” I sat next to Harper. Like I used to when we were small, I reached out and took her hand. This time, Harper didn’t yank it away. She didn’t slap me or snarl at me to get lost. I smiled, feeling a brief satisfaction. As I smiled, tears started to fall, silent and unseen. It was just then that I realized I couldn’t feel any warmth anymore. Harper was a year older than me. She had failed to get into her college of choice on her first try and had ended up repeating her senior year with me in the same high school. One day after school, I cut through an alley and saw her surrounded by a few lowlife townies who always lurked outside the school gates. They were pushing and shoving her. Harper said something, and a skinny guy with bleach-blond hair backhanded her across the face. His enraged scream echoed down the alley. “You little tramp! You listen to me. If you don’t come party with us right now, I’ll upload all those private pictures of yours for the whole world to see!” I ran up and stepped in front of Harper, shoving the blond guy away with all my might. “Get away from her!” The thugs weren’t intimidated. They checked me out, and the blond guy reached out, trying to grope me. “Well, well, look what we have here. A little sister wants to join the fun?” I slapped his hand away and then slapped his face, just as he had done to Harper. That was like throwing ice water onto a burning flame. Their rage exploded. “Damn it! You asked for this!” I crouched down, curling into a ball as countless fists rained down on me. In my peripheral vision, I saw Harper hiding in the dark corner, phone in hand, trembling, crying. It’s okay. Hit me. Just hit me. Harper was my family. I had to protect her. Dad was gone. If anything happened to Harper, Mom would be destroyed. I repeated it like a mantra, over and over, trying to block out the pain of the blows landing on my ribs and head. “Shit! Someone’s coming! The tramp called someone!” After what felt like forever, the punches stopped. The gang scattered. Mom appeared instantly, running, her eyes scanning the alley with desperate, panicked worry. She rushed past my bruised, curled body on the ground, flying straight to the corner where Harper was huddled. She held her, rocking her and whispering soothing words. I was so jealous. Mom’s embrace must be so warm. I stood up, stumbling toward her. I just wanted Mom to hug me, too. My body ached, but I knew if she just held me once, the pain would stop. I reached out and gently gripped the hem of her jacket. I looked up and met Harper’s eyes. They were wide and pleading. She pointed at me. “Mom… It was her idea. She brought me here…” Everything turned upside down. Mom whirled around, her eyes blazing with collapsing fury. A torrent of cruel, vile words poured from her mouth, crashing down on me. My ears were ringing, but I only remember the last sentence. “You curse! Killing your father wasn’t enough? You won’t be happy until you destroy us all!” She took Harper and walked away. I followed their retreating backs, but the thugs had returned and grabbed my wrist. Their touch felt sickening. Mom. Mom. I screamed her name as loud as I could. She never slowed down. She never looked back. It was nightfall when I finally limped home. The door was locked. I sat down outside, my back pressed against the cold wall. Sometime in the middle of the night, Harper opened the door. Her face was shrouded in shadow; I couldn’t see her expression. “Don’t tell Mom what happened today. Those private photos were taken by my ex, and I can handle it myself.” She threw a bottle of iodine at me. “Sadie, don’t think for a second that what you did today makes us even.” “You took Dad away. You let people laugh at me. You owe me.” She didn’t let me in. I sat in the darkness of the hallway, applying the antiseptic myself. Later, I must have fallen asleep because I was dreaming. I dreamt of that morning six years ago. Dad handed me his phone and told me to turn off his alarm. I asked him innocently, “Why? You said the meeting tomorrow was really important and you couldn’t be late.” Dad stroked my hair. “The plan changed. I have to do this.” “You have to turn the alarm off. I need to be late tomorrow. This is your mission.” “If anyone asks, you can’t tell them I asked you to. You have to say you did it because you thought your dad worked too hard. Do you understand?” I asked, “Can’t I tell anyone? Not Mom or Harper?” “No one. It’s important, Sadie. Otherwise, Mom, Harper, and I will all be in danger.” “You can do it, right? Our Sadie is the little hero who protects her family.” I nodded solemnly. “I promise, Dad.” I did well, Dad. Mom and Harper were eating dinner in silence. Neither of them mentioned me. Dad’s usual chair had his bowl on it, filled with rice. Mom and Harper followed their ritual, placing his favorite dishes into it, year after year. It was as if he might pull out the chair and sit down any second. No one spoke willingly. Since Dad left, it was like the life had been sucked out of the house. I felt a pang of anger and hurt. Why? I was gone all day. Why didn’t you even ask? They hadn’t even set out silverware for me. The tears fell, unstoppable. If you knew I was never coming back, would you finally put out my plate? Would you finally put my favorite food in my bowl? Mom’s phone rang. Due to her job, it was never on silent. She looked at the screen, hesitated, then answered. I drifted close, hearing the detached voice of a medical worker. “Hello? Is this Sadie’s mother? I’m calling from St. Jude’s Hospital. Your daughter’s remains have been placed in the morgue.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387246”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I took Leo for his annual physical, the nurse mentioned he was charting a little short and suggested we look into his growth development. I immediately booked an appointment at a pediatric growth clinic. When the results came back, the doctor looked at me, perplexed. “Are you absolutely sure Leo is six years old?” I blinked. “Yes. His birthday was just a few weeks ago.” The doctor pointed to the X-rays. “His bone age indicates he’s closer to five.” “I think I’d remember my own son’s birthday,” I snapped, grabbing Leo’s hand and walking out. I drove straight to the private hospital owned by my best friend, Marcus Bell. He pulled in the most respected pediatric specialist, who didn’t just re-shoot the bone age scan, but also ran a full workup, including a telomere length test. The specialist’s face was grave. “Both the bone age and telomere results are consistent with a five-year-old. If you are certain about his birth date… Mr. Sullivan, I recommend a paternity test.” The world went quiet. A dull roar filled my ears. Thirty minutes later, the nurse handed me the report. The words were black and white, utterly unambiguous: “Paternity Excluded.” I gripped the paper, my hands shaking uncontrollably. “Then where is my son? Where is my child?” 1 Marcus glanced at Leo, who was oblivious, playing with a toy car. “Dean,” he lowered his voice. “The kid… he really doesn’t look like you. But he’s the spitting image of Tia.” It hit me. Six years ago, I was pulled onto a top-secret mission. To insulate Tia and the baby from any risk, I’d lied, telling her I was launching a startup in Africa. I went dark for an entire year. When I returned with a commendation ribbon, a year later, Leo was tiny and thin, looking nothing like the robust infant I’d left behind. Tia had tearfully claimed she’d suffered terrible insomnia after I left, her milk dried up early, and that’s why the baby was so frail. My guilt had been immense. From that day on, I never questioned her, always trying to compensate for my absence. Just then, my phone rang. Tia’s furious voice hit me like a physical blow. “A simple physical exam and it took you this long? You can’t even manage that! God, you’re useless!” I mumbled some vague excuse and got off the line. My gut was screaming that this was the tip of an ugly iceberg, but I knew better than to tip my hand now. I hung up and drove Leo back to the car. He immediately started kicking the back of my seat. “Stop it,” I warned him over my shoulder. He suddenly raised his little fist and, before I could react, slammed it into my eye. My vision flashed white. I swerved, nearly hitting a parked tree. “My mom says you’re just a mooch who lives off her money. You don’t get to tell me what to do!” He wasn’t mine. That vicious, entitled streak was a clear sign. He was an ungrateful little viper. I’d poured my heart and soul into raising him for years, and it was worth less than feeding a stray dog. “Act up one more time,” I growled, “and I swear I’m pulling over and leaving you on the curb!” When we got to Tia’s office building, she was waiting outside, hands on her hips, instantly furious. “Three hours for a check-up? Three hours! Are you going to pay for Leo missing his classes?” The kid, seizing the moment, kicked me hard, spat a glob of saliva onto my shirt, and instantly hid behind Tia. I had to swallow the urge to grab him and shake him. Finding my real son was the priority now. I locked eyes with Tia. “We’ve been married for eight years. If you’ve done anything to betray me, I’m giving you a chance to be honest right now.” A flash of panic crossed her face, but she instantly regained her composure. “Are you losing it? You’re a grown man who can’t hold a decent job or handle one kid, and now you’re trying to gaslight me? Get a grip!” “Apologize to me right now! Or you can forget about your allowance this month!” People passing by stopped and stared, whispering and pointing. “Look, it’s the guy who lives off his wife…” I was about to say something, anything, when Marcus’s call came in. “Dean, I have a lead on the whole Leo situation. Get back here now.” I turned to leave, but Tia grabbed my arm. “You will apologize to me!” I shoved her hand away. She stared at my retreating back, utterly stunned. “How dare you…” I burst into Marcus’s office. He looked worried. “Dean, try to stay calm.” He slid a manila envelope across his desk and opened it. I thought I was prepared for anything, but what I saw obliterated me. Shortly after I’d deployed, Tia had reconnected with her high school sweetheart, Rex Kincaid. She’d gotten pregnant with his child. To ensure her bastard son got citizenship and access to the city’s resources, she had substituted him for my Owen. My real son, Owen, had been dumped on her aunt in a rural, run-down county, with only two hundred dollars a month for his upkeep. I shattered the glass on the desk. “That snake! That viper!” I spun toward the door, ready to drive to her hometown. Marcus grabbed me. “Wait. Owen isn’t there anymore. Every summer, her aunt would essentially rent him out to an old man in the village to take him out begging. They’re transients… they could be anywhere.” Begging. The word was a punch to the gut. I felt the office spin. I forced myself steady. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number I hadn’t touched in six years. “This is Dean Sullivan. Please… I need your help finding my son.” A deep, resonant voice answered immediately. “You are a national asset, Dr. Sullivan. Rest assured, we never abandon our own.” I hung up, my heart tearing apart. My Owen should have been enrolling in the city’s best prep school, not kneeling on a street corner, kowtowing for change. Thirty minutes later, the contact texted me an address. It was in a dilapidated, almost slum-like part of the city. I grabbed my keys and sprinted out. The address led me to a grimy, boarded-up rental room. Before I even reached the door, I heard a child’s panicked wailing. Then came an old man’s furious yell: “That’s all you brought back all day? I’ll beat you to death, you worthless brat!” I kicked the door in, lunged forward, and pulled the boy into my arms. I looked down at his face—a mirror image of my own. I didn’t need the DNA test. This was my Owen. The initial shock of relief gave way to horror. I saw a small space heater with a piece of metal—a branding iron—glowing on top. The boy’s thin legs bore two identical, circular scars. The wounds were festering, weeping pus, and the stench was sickening. “Are you even human?” I roared, kicking the old man square in the stomach. I carried Owen and burst into the ER. “Doctor, fast! My son needs help!” The doctor later told me that a few more hours, and they would have had to amputate. I sat by his bed, watching his pale, frail face, my heart aching with a physical pain. His lashes fluttered. When he saw me, he flinched and tried to shrink back into the covers, his wide eyes filled with pure terror. I gently held his cold little hand, my voice thick with emotion. “I am so sorry, Owen. Daddy was late. You shouldn’t have suffered.” “You’re… my dad?” he whispered, testing the words. I nodded hard. “Yes. And I’m going to take care of you, always.” CRASH! A heavy thermos slammed into the bedrail right beside Owen’s head. If it had hit him, the damage would have been catastrophic. A child’s laugh echoed from the doorway. “Fun! That was so much fun! I got a bulls-eye!” I looked at the thermos on the floor—it had a cute dinosaur print. I’d special-ordered it from Japan last year. For Leo. Tia stormed in, pointing a finger at my face. “Dean Sullivan, are you insane? How dare you have the police arrest my uncle! Go down to the precinct and get him released right now!” Only then did I realize: the old man who had brutalized my son was her uncle. That whole family, a nest of vipers. I gave a slow, cold smile. I stepped aside, revealing Owen, who was still flinching behind me. Tia’s jaw dropped. “L-Leo? What are you doing here?” Rex’s son, Leo, pointed at Owen. “Hey, isn’t that the nasty beggar from my great-aunt’s place?” The disgust in his eyes was palpable. Tia instantly shoved Leo behind her, her eyes scanning me with deep suspicion. Her gaze darted everywhere but mine. “What… what exactly do you know?” she asked, her voice a low trial balloon. “I know the ‘Leo’ you’ve been raising is Rex Kincaid’s bastard.” I smiled, but my eyes felt like chips of ice. She decided to abandon the pretense. Her voice shot up, hysterical. “And what right do you have to feel wronged? Everything you eat, everything you wear, is paid for by me!” She lunged half a step forward, flecks of spittle hitting my face. “You said you were starting a company in Africa. What happened? You came crawling back with nothing! If Rex hadn’t shown me how to run a business, I’d be sucking wind following you!” “And that justifies your cheating? That justifies dumping my son in the middle of nowhere so your bastard could steal his name and his life?” “Yes!” She jutted her chin out, screaming. “Rex knows how to give me the life I deserve! He’s a real man! And I’m happy to have his kid!” She pointed at me, spitting on the floor near my feet. “You are a spineless, worthless coward! And that’s why your son deserved to be a nobody in some trailer park!” She grabbed the glass sitting on the bedside table and threw it at me. I threw up my arm to deflect it, and a shard scraped a bloody line across my wrist. On the bed, Owen flinched violently. His voice was a thin sob. “I’ll be good. I’ll call you Aunt Tia now, I promise I won’t call you Mom. Please, don’t hit my daddy…” A crowd of onlookers had gathered. Murmurs began to rise. “How could a mother be so cruel to such a sweet child?” I stroked Owen’s hair, then pulled a folded document from my jacket pocket and slapped it onto the bedside table. “Divorce. And your bastard is giving my son his name back.” Cutting all ties with Tia was the immediate priority. I had to ensure this snake could never touch Owen again. Tia snatched the document, tore it into confetti, and threw the pieces in my face. “You want a divorce? It’ll be on my terms!” Barely five minutes later, the door flew open. Rex Kincaid stood there, flanked by over a dozen sharply dressed lawyers, a looming, black cloud of suits. Leo, the fake son, immediately darted forward and latched onto Rex’s leg. “Daddy! Dean Sullivan called me a bastard! Beat him up for me!” Rex’s eyes slid over to me, dripping with contempt. “Don’t worry, son. Daddy’s going to make him kneel and apologize.” One of his lawyers stepped forward and flicked a document into my chest. “Mr. Sullivan, take a look.” It was a post-nuptial agreement. When I’d returned from my mission, Tia had played the victim, claiming she felt insecure after my year-long absence. Drowning in guilt, I signed it without a second thought. The agreement stipulated that all assets acquired during our marriage belonged solely to her, and in the event of a divorce, I would walk away with nothing. Rex’s smile stretched ear to ear. “Kneel and beg my son for forgiveness, and I might let you keep that dump of a house. Otherwise, you and your little tramp can sleep under a bridge tonight.” Tia wrapped her arm around Rex, her face smug. “Even if you steal back your son’s name, so what? No house means no residency, and no elite schools!” “Keep the ‘dump.’ You earned it.” I picked up the pre-torn agreement, pulled out a pen, and signed my name on a clean corner. Tia bent down to Owen’s level. “Your daddy is broke. Empty pockets. He’s going to take you begging, honey. You two can hold hands and beg on the street corner. Ha ha ha!” Owen choked, grabbing my shirt. “Daddy, I don’t need to eat meat. I’m good at working hard. Please, don’t make me beg…” My throat tightened until I couldn’t speak. I pulled him into my chest. “I promise, Owen. You will never suffer like that again. I’m going to make you the happiest kid in the world.” “What a performance!” Rex scoffed, pulling out his phone and shoving a video in my face. “Take a look—you’ve officially been evicted.” The screen showed my living room. My personal assistant was tossing my belongings into massive trash bags. Then the camera panned to my study. My computer—the monitor smashed, the CPU tower shoved into a recycling bin. The hard drive held my most recent, classified research—work that, if successfully implemented, could completely eradicate the Ebola virus. I immediately dialed my secure contact number, summarizing the situation in three clipped sentences. A calm, grave voice responded: “Order received. Immediate action.” Less than three minutes later, the video on Rex’s phone suddenly shifted tone. A swarm of people in specialized tactical gear poured into my house. A man in sunglasses said something to the assistant, who instantly went slack-kneed and collapsed to the floor, terrified. Next, several agents carefully knelt by the recycling bin, retrieving the damaged PC parts. They handled the hard drive as if it were a priceless relic, placing it gently into a secure box. Rex’s face darkened instantly. “Dean Sullivan! You call in a few thugs and think you can scare me? You forget who’s backing me?” Tia puffed out her chest. “Rex and I land all those major contracts because he has a big-shot backer! The man’s name would make you faint! Apologize now, and we might still forgive you!” I gave them a look of pure contempt. “You mean the CEO of Aethel Biotech, right? The one who funneled ninety percent of their contracts your way these past few years? How else do you think a mediocre pair like you could run a company?” Rex and Tia stared, their shock undisguised. They hadn’t expected me to know the puppet master. Tia quickly recovered, raising her chin defiantly. “So you know! Good! Now kowtow to my son, or I’ll make sure you can’t get a job in this entire city!” The agent on the recovery team called back. “Dr. Sullivan, the drive is secure. Data intact.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Thank you. Please have the contents of my study delivered to my office…” I didn’t finish the sentence. Tia suddenly lunged and smacked the phone out of my hand. She stood, hands on her hips, screeching. “You want your things? Forget it! You’re not taking a single thing—not even a pin!” My patience snapped. I pulled the hospital phone off the wall and called security. “Inpatient Room 502. Send guards immediately. Clear out all non-essential personnel.” Rex glared at me, slamming his hand on the bedside table. “Hey! I’d like to see who in this city has the guts to challenge me!” He spun to his entourage of lawyers and muscle. “Take him out! Cripple Dean Sullivan! Double pay for everyone this month!” The thugs instantly surrounded us, fists aimed directly at my face. I tightened my grip on Owen, and slammed my elbow into the jaw of the guy who charged first. At the same moment, the hospital security guards burst in, joining the chaos. The room erupted into a brawl. IV poles crashed, and the bedside table overturned. My arms locked around Owen, shielding him. I spotted a gap toward the door, but Rex suddenly grabbed a shard of broken glass and lunged at my son’s body. “Die, you piece of trash!” I kicked him hard in the gut. He screamed, stumbling backward into the wall. Just then, another wave of men surged into the room—a team of black-suited security professionals. Rex’s eyes lit up when he saw the lead man. He rushed forward, a sickeningly ingratiating smile plastered on his face. “Mr. Rhodes! You’re here for me, right? Did the CEO of Aethel finally agree to that dinner? I’ve been waiting for days…” Mr. Rhodes walked right past him. He stopped directly in front of me, his voice deferential. “Dr. Sullivan. My apologies for the delay. I hope you and the young master haven’t suffered too much.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387245”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day I was released from prison and immediately went viral on every social media platform, Anya Prescott, my wife—no, my ex-wife—waited outside the federal penitentiary until deep into the night. Ten years ago, a student Anya had secretly sponsored used my architectural model to win a national competition. That’s when I learned they had a three-year-old child. Dean Miller had named my creation after the boy. I lost myself, struck out, and was locked away for a decade. Stepping out, I was no longer the brilliant, ambitious scientist I had been. I was a shell. I spotted a piece of discarded metal near a trash receptacle, picked it up, wiped it clean, and slipped it into my pocket. A nervous habit. A familiar, trembling voice came from behind me. “Gabe. I’ve been looking for you for days. Why didn’t you wait?” She grabbed my pale wrist, her touch jarring. “I never married anyone else, Gabriel. You have to believe me.” I gave a faint, detached smile and pulled my hand away. “Ms. Prescott, I’m flattered you’d joke. But your child must be starting middle school now, shouldn’t he?” Her pupils contracted, and her lips began to tremble. She was the key witness who had put me behind bars a decade ago. 1 Anya and I were photographed almost instantly. The headline GABE ASHTON STALKS ANYA PRESCOTT ON RELEASE immediately went to the top of the trending topics. The photo showed Anya’s back, making it look as though I had cornered her. The online community, who had been following the story of my release, erupted in outrage. He has no shame! First thing he does out of prison is harass Ms. Prescott! Terrifying. How is a psycho like this allowed back on the street? @DeanMiller protect yourself and your kid! I heard he only attacked him because she rejected his marriage proposal! Scientists going crazy are the worst. Absolute sociopath! Everyone began tagging Dean Miller. He responded quickly, posting a selfie from a lab with the caption: Everyone, rest assured. I am safe. I will protect the people who matter most to me. That little exchange earned him another wave of public sympathy. I logged off the feed. The next second, my phone rang. The number was unlisted, but I knew the sequence—it was once etched into my memory. I rejected the call without a second thought. Once, twice… I dragged the number directly into the blocked list. A text message immediately popped up from a new number. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would be like this. I’ll handle the media. I blocked that number too. I had just put the phone down when it rang again. I didn’t check the caller ID. I answered, ready to unleash a torrent of suppressed anger, but a familiar, gentle voice came through. “Gabe, dear, the best way to prove yourself is to live your life well. I don’t want those awful online words to touch you.” My old middle school teacher, Ms. Reed. She continued, “Our district is hosting a robotics and intelligent modeling competition, and we’re short on an experienced mentor. Do you have the courage to come?” My eyes instantly welled up. She was my junior high teacher, the woman who first lit the spark for me in physics. Tears caught in my throat, I nodded. “Ms. Reed, I will be there. Thank you.” The voice on the other end caught. “Oh, good boy. I knew you’d find a way to stand back up.” After hanging up, my heart pounded for a long time. It was true—my life had nothing to do with Anya Prescott anymore. I followed the time and address Ms. Reed gave me and arrived at the high school lab precisely on time. I paused at the doorway when I realized two students were arguing heatedly. I decided to listen first. “My thermal-dynamic coupling model is absolutely right! My dad told me so! My dad is Dean Miller—his theory won a national prize! Who the hell are you?” Finn Miller’s eyes were bloodshot as he glared at a skinny, nervous-looking boy. “I’m not saying the theory is wrong, but the value you used is too high. It will burn out the circuit…” 2 “Bullshit!” Finn suddenly grabbed a handful of project materials off the table, ready to throw them at the other student. I quickly stepped forward to intervene, accidentally knocking Finn off balance. He froze for a moment, then shouted, “Who are you? Why did you hit me? I’m calling the police!” I looked coldly at the boy—he had Anya’s sharp features, but the arrogance of Dean Miller was unmistakably etched in his bones. “You’re Finn Miller? Your father is Dean Miller, so everything he says is automatically right?” I felt the blood rising in my neck. “Did your father ever tell you that he stole someone else’s work?” I couldn’t help myself. Confronting that stain on my life, that name, broke the dam. The words were out before I could stop them, and immediately, I regretted it. But it was too late. The incident escalated, and before the evening was over, the police were involved. That night, I was trending again. Everyone claimed I was obsessed with Anya, and since I couldn’t have her, I was seeking revenge by attacking her son. My temporary rental apartment was quickly tracked down. The door was covered in vile graffiti and hateful curses. Someone had even left a suspicious package on the mat—a cardboard box doused in red paint with razor blades taped inside. The landlord demanded I vacate immediately. As I was carrying my clothes—which had been thrown onto the floor—down the stairs, I ran straight into Anya. “I’m so sorry…” She nervously rubbed the edge of her coat pocket, looking down, but stealing glances at my face to gauge my reaction. The movement instantly flashed me back to Anya in middle school. I closed my eyes, trying to clear those toxic images. “Ms. Prescott, I never want to see you again. I just want a quiet life. Don’t show up around me.” Her eyes reddened, and her expression was guarded and pained. “Gabe, I just wanted to apologize. It’s fine if you don’t forgive me. We’re still old friends, and I can actually help—” “The best way you can help me is to stay far away.” I met her gaze squarely. “Anya Prescott, if I had known that meeting you would bring this much disaster, I never would have…” She interrupted me frantically. “Gabe! Stop! Please, I’ll leave.” I had forgotten. The past we shared, the one we could never return to, contained not only my scars but hers as well. Even after all these years, we both still knew exactly how to twist the knife in the other person’s deepest wound. When I first met Anya, she was the school’s favorite target for bullies. One afternoon, a few older high school kids had her cornered in an alley, pelting her with empty water bottles. “Your grandma is a junk collector, right? We’re helping you! How are you going to thank us?” “Little trash brought up by old trash. You stink!” A rush of misguided empathy made me step in front of her. “Her grandmother works hard to put her through school. There’s no shame in that.” “If your parents knew you were harassing people, that’s what would be shameful!” After that, I started splitting the breakfast my mother prepared for me with her. I helped her with her homework and supervised her study. We even worked side jobs together. She became my shadow, my loyal knight, always looking after me. During our senior year of college, she used her part-time earnings to buy a cheap, simple wedding dress. She put it on and stood before me. “Gabriel Ashton, I only want to marry you in this life. I will only marry you. Will you… will you be with me?” I smiled, lifting the veil she wore. “Yes, Anya Prescott. I’ll marry you.” The night of our wedding, she wasn’t a good drinker, but she didn’t miss a single toast. She drank until her feet were unsteady and her mind was cloudy. Yet, she still stood before my parents and family, swearing her fidelity to the heavens. 3 “I, Anya Prescott, swear I will only ever marry Gabriel Ashton and only love Gabriel Ashton. If I break this oath, let the heavens strike me down, let me not find….” I stopped her foolish oath with a kiss. With the cheers and blessings of our families, I truly felt like the happiest man alive. She was an exemplary wife for the next few years. Even when her company grew busy, she always made time to surprise me. She took my parents on trips and helped my relatives’ children find jobs. She did everything she could to be good to me. And that’s exactly how she fooled everyone. Dean Miller was a student I had started sponsoring after college, a kid I personally introduced to Anya. In the first few years, when Anya’s company was just starting up, she worked nonstop. She would come home late at night, smelling heavily of smoke and alcohol. “Gabe, the men under me keep undermining me because I’m a woman…” As I massaged her temples, I thought of Dean Miller. He was smart, hardworking, and had a fierce, defiant persistence in his eyes. “Have Dean go help you. He’s bold and meticulous. He can be trusted.” That’s how Dean entered the company. Because I vouched for him, he gradually took over some confidential but tedious tasks. Anya had less to worry about and finally found some relief. She even started spending time with me in the lab. She would watch me tinker with different robotic models, then hold me from behind, her voice full of emotion. “When I was little, I always wished a Knight in Shining Armor would come save me and defeat all the bullies.” “I stopped wishing for that a long time ago.” I turned my head to ask why. “Because my Knight, my protector, came into my life when I was in eighth grade.” From that day on, in addition to my main research, I wanted to give her a surprise. I began to integrate the concept of protection into a model I was designing. It was meant to be my gift to her. Later, her career stabilized. Dean Miller became a regular fixture at our house. He often delivered documents or asked me for technical advice. I never held back any knowledge. Our relationship grew closer. He knew I loved tea and searched high and low for rare blends. He never missed a birthday. “Gabe, I wouldn’t be here without you. Ms. Prescott trusts me, and I can’t let either of you down.” My own research reached its most critical stage. I was the one spending all my time in the lab. Dean often took Anya’s place, bringing me dinner. I thought he was simply expressing gratitude. Until the day of the globally recognized model design competition. I saw my design—the one I’d poured my soul into—named after the boy, Finn. I saw Dean Miller’s signature as the sole author on the project summary. I wanted to ask Anya if she knew. Instead, I saw a small boy running back and forth outside her executive office. The woman I had spent fourteen years building a life with. She had a three-year-old child with another man. I stormed into her office. “Anya Prescott, is that child outside yours?” She merely looked up, detached. “Gabe, watch your tone and the setting.” “My tone? I am your legal husband! When did you get pregnant? How could I have—” My voice died in my throat, cut short by her cold expression. I suddenly remembered a time when I had traveled abroad for a seven-month seminar. The week before I was due back, she claimed she needed to expand the market, staying away from home for four months straight. I closed my eyes, unwilling to ask any more. 4 She leaned back in her leather executive chair. “Since you know, I won’t hide it. I’ve had the child. I can’t put him back. Your mother always complained I couldn’t bear children. The truth is, you’re the one who couldn’t.” I stared at the blatant cruelty on her face, seeing a woman I’d never known. She paused, then slid a stack of prepared documents across the desk. When I saw the word Divorce on the papers, I ripped them to shreds. I looked at the woman I had poured everything into supporting, utterly disbelieving. I refused to sign and, in a rage, went back to my parents’ house. My mother, furious, marched to Anya’s office and slapped her publicly. “You’re despicable! Without my son, you’d still be scavenging for food! You ungrateful snake!” Anya’s eyes were filled with scorn. “Fine. Let’s see who really needs who.” That very day, Anya withdrew her investment from my father’s manufacturing company. The news spread like wildfire. The next day, competitors deliberately undercut my father’s bids, causing the company’s cash flow to collapse. Partners abandoned him. She even forced my relatives’ children out of the company and blacklisted them across the industry. These were the same people who had gathered every penny they had to help Anya launch her company when she was short on startup capital. But in an instant, she had turned, ready to cut off everyone’s livelihood. My father suffered a stress-induced heart attack and was hospitalized. Anya eventually swallowed up the company for a fraction of its value. My mother, unable to bear the shock, fell gravely ill. Anya appeared again, tossing a new agreement in front of me. “Sign it. You walk away with nothing, but I’ll stop harassing your parents.” Looking at my father in the ICU, my hand trembled as I signed the papers. When I walked out of that house with my last few belongings, Dean Miller was waiting at the door. “Gabe, this is the right choice, isn’t it? If you’d just given up your spot sooner, would your parents have had to suffer like this?” He laughed triumphantly. All the anger and humiliation I’d stored up burst forth. I grabbed a utility knife from a nearby moving box and pointed it at him. “Get out of my house! Get out!” Instead of backing away, he lunged forward, grabbing my hand and plunging the blade deep into his own abdomen. Anya arrived just in time to rush him to the hospital. Under Anya’s manipulation, all the evidence pointed against me. No lawyer dared to take my case. She personally took the stand as a witness. “I saw Gabriel Ashton attack Dean with a knife out of jealousy. He is volatile and has repeatedly threatened Dean.” My hospitalized parents fought through their illnesses to run around, trying to save me. But Anya was resolute. She wanted me destroyed. On the day of the final verdict, my father coughed up a mouthful of blood on the courthouse steps. He didn’t make it. Not long after, my mother also passed away. I was convicted of aggravated assault and given the maximum sentence: ten years. Now, I watch her call a press conference, releasing surveillance footage from the high school lab. She went to extreme lengths to clear my name. “Gabriel Ashton did not target the child. I will pursue legal action against all false statements online. Regardless of the full truth of the past, I owe him. I will not allow anyone to defame him.” I don’t know how much time passed. A single tear hit the black screen of my phone. The screen reflected my face, etched with a bitter, hollow mockery. 5 Dean Miller tracked me down as I was eating a cheap, ten-dollar bowl of plain noodles at a greasy spoon in a rundown part of the city. He pulled up in a sports car, wearing a costly suit—a jarring contrast to the neighborhood. “Gabe, why are you eating in a place like this?” He placed his designer briefcase on the table, glanced with disdain at the mismatched, stained chair, and didn’t sit down. “Here’s a hundred thousand dollars. Leave the city. Don’t ever show your face to Anya again.” I kept my head down and continued eating my noodles, ignoring him. He wasn’t upset; instead, he leaned slightly forward and lowered his voice. “Ten years in prison didn’t teach you a lesson?” “Look at yourself—you’re a mess. How do you think you deserve her now?” I put down my chopsticks and looked up at him—at his designer labels, his desperate attempt to project success. His six-figure watch and thousand-dollar jacket couldn’t hide the scent of insecurity clinging to him. He hadn’t been doing well. “Dean, why the rush? What are you so afraid of?” His face twitched. “Afraid of you? Gabriel Ashton, look at yourself! Do you think I’m afraid of or jealous of an over-the-hill man who spent ten years in jail and has nothing to show for it?” “Then what’s the money for? In your mind, the successful Anya Prescott is only worth a hundred thousand dollars?” Dean seemed to realize his mistake. He clutched the briefcase, forcing a smile that was too wide, and raised his voice slightly. “You’re joking. I know you’re struggling right now, and I just wanted to help! But since you brought it up, if a hundred thousand isn’t enough, how much will it take for you to finally leave us alone?” His performance was nauseating. I stood up to walk away, but he grabbed a handful of my jacket near my waist. “Gabriel Ashton, Anya and I have a teenage son! Are you still going to cling to her? Are you really going to be the pathetic third party who won’t let go?” I pulled hard on my jacket. He held on stubbornly. In the struggle, my jacket was ripped down, exposing a section of my forearm—a winding, twisted burn scar. He stared blankly at it. I quickly snatched the jacket back, which knocked his briefcase onto the table. His phone slid out. That’s when I saw it. He had clipped a camera to the bag’s interior, running a live stream. OMG! He has so many injuries on his body! Must be prison beatings. Good! Serves him right! That looks terrible, but it doesn’t look like a beating. Could he be self-harming? That explains the obsession! Poor Dean Miller! Look how desperate he is! The comments section was instantly flooded with malicious speculation. I shut off the live stream, unwilling to let so many people pry into my life. The moment the stream cut out, Dean’s mask dropped. It was replaced by raw, frantic hatred. “Gabriel Ashton! How dare you come back? You’re a killer! You tried to kill me ten years ago, and you almost killed my son now!” “And now you’re stalking my wife, harassing her, and trying to ruin my family! If your parents knew how low you’ve become, they’d be turning in their graves!” His chest heaved, and spittle landed on my face. “Why are you staring at me? Am I wrong?” I swung a punch hard, the impact jarring my arm. Dean completely lost it, lunging at me to fight. Suddenly, a figure appeared, pulling me aside and stepping between Dean and me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387244”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I put down six hundred thousand dollars to start a business with the brother who was drowning in debt. When the place finally took off, he didn’t hesitate to kick me to the curb. “My wife and I did all the heavy lifting in that kitchen. You were barely around.” “You invested six hundred thousand, and I’m paying you six hundred thousand back.” “We’re square.” 1 Rick Flynn placed six hundred thousand dollars in cash on the table in front of me. I stared at the thick stacks, a hollow feeling spreading through my chest. I genuinely didn’t understand what he was trying to say. Rick slid the money toward me with a casual push. “That’s your original investment, Dean. Your principal. I’m handing it back.” I managed a tight smile. “What is this supposed to mean?” “Why the sudden urge to return my capital?” Rick’s face was dead serious. “The Millhouse Bistro is fine with just me and my wife running it now.” “I’m returning the six hundred thousand you put in.” “You won’t need to come in anymore.” The words hit me like a physical blow, and I froze. Rick and his wife were trying to push me out? To cut me off entirely? “I… won’t need to come in anymore.” “You’re telling me I’m being kicked out?” I pointed a finger at my own chest, asking the question again, needing to hear the absurdity confirmed. Rick didn’t flinch. He spoke without a trace of hesitation. “For the past year, my wife and I have been busting our asses keeping that Bistro running.” “You haven’t managed a thing.” “What claim do you even have on the place?” I had poured six hundred thousand dollars and over a year of my life into launching this “Millhouse Bistro.” We built it from zero to generating over thirty thousand dollars in monthly revenue. And just as we were about to hit the real money, Rick was telling me I had no claim, no stake, nothing. I honestly never thought Rick would do something like this. Rick and I were high school friends. After graduation, I went North for college. Rick chose to dive straight into the working world. We always kept in touch, meeting up for drinks and catching up every winter and summer break. He got married during my sophomore year. He took his wife’s family’s savings, their nest egg, and invested in a franchise that turned out to be a scam. He didn’t just lose the money; he racked up over two hundred thousand dollars in debt. To pay it off, Rick had to work a day job and run a late-night street taco stand after hours. His wife was out of work. They had two infants at home, burning through formula and diapers. His wife was threatening divorce daily. Over drinks, Rick confessed, tears streaming down his face, about the crushing pressure. He said every morning he woke up, all he saw was money—or the lack of it—suffocating him. He’d even considered driving his truck off the Starlight Bridge and ending it all. He was a friend of two decades. I couldn’t stand by and watch him do something reckless. I decided to pull him out of the hole. But I never, not in my wildest dreams, imagined that after I pulled him from the fire, he’d turn around and stab me in the back. “Rick, are you drunk? Or did you hit your head?” “Are you even listening to yourself?” “Who the hell invested in this Bistro in the first place?” I jabbed a finger toward him, my voice rising. Rick gave me a cold, dismissive glance. “You invested six hundred thousand. I’m giving you six hundred thousand back.” “I’m not stealing anything from you.” “I think you’re the one who needs his head checked.” 2 I actually laughed, the sound dry and humorless. The entire concept, the business model, and the initial capital for The Millhouse Bistro came from me. A year ago, when I was trying to figure out how to rescue Rick, I asked him what he knew how to do. He said all he knew was food service, and not much else. I didn’t hesitate. I called a college roommate whose family ran a successful restaurant chain with four locations in their city. I negotiated hard and eventually paid a hundred thousand dollars just for the rights to use their signature recipes. I took Rick up there, and we spent over a week learning everything—from the kitchen’s flow to the overall operational model. My roommate held nothing back. When we came back, we budgeted the cost for a similar farm-to-table concept: it came out to roughly six hundred thousand. Rick was broke. He offered to work for me, but I refused. The whole point of this venture was to get him back on his feet. Just being my employee wouldn’t solve his long-term crisis. “I’ll put up the money. You put in the labor.” “We split the profits fifty-fifty. If we lose money, it’s all on me.” Because I still had my family’s businesses to manage, I couldn’t dedicate my full attention to The Millhouse Bistro. The place needed a full-time, dedicated captain. So, Rick and I had a verbal agreement: I cover the capital, he covers the operations, and we split the returns evenly. 3 And now, barely a year into the operation, Rick and his wife were desperate to cut me out. “Rick!” “Who was it that dragged you out of foreclosure and debt?” “Do you have any conscience left at all?” I couldn’t help but yell at him. Rick looked up at me, a sneer twisting his lips. “We’re talking business here, Dean. Leave the emotional crap out of it.” “You keep going on about saving me. If you’re so charitable, why are you fighting me over this now?” “You put in six hundred thousand. I’m returning six hundred thousand.” “What’s the problem?” Rick was completely nonchalant, acting as if I was the one being unreasonable. He clearly thought I was fighting over a few petty dollars. The money wasn’t the issue. I had my own capital. The problem was the sudden, brutal, and unjust dismissal. Since Rick wanted to “talk business,” I decided to lay out the terms, down to the last penny. “I put six hundred thousand into this for a year, and you’re giving me six hundred thousand back a year later?” “Do you think we’re playing house here?” I lowered my voice, making it dangerously calm. My six hundred thousand would have at least earned some interest in a bank for a year. And right now, the Bistro was killing it—packed every night. The daily cash flow was consistently around ten thousand dollars. After factoring in all overheads, the net profit for the year should have been well over $1.4 million. Rick, meanwhile, was pretending the profit didn’t exist, simply returning the principal and having the nerve to claim I wasn’t losing anything. “Rick and I handle every single detail in that Bistro, big or small.” “You haven’t lifted a finger. You just wrote a check for six hundred thousand.” “We’re giving you back the six hundred thousand. What’s wrong with that?” Monica, Rick’s wife, chimed in, echoing his exact defense. Seeing the look of ungrateful arrogance on Monica’s face, a cold rage burned inside me. Just a year ago, both of them treated me like a godsend. Now that they were making money, they were baring their teeth. I managed to control my fury and spoke through clenched teeth. “If I hadn’t lifted a finger, how do you think this whole damn operation got off the ground?” Monica curled her lip and let out a cold laugh. “You mean all those times you brought your friends to eat and drink on the house, running up hundreds in tabs? Did you ever pay?” “You eat for free, fine. But anyone who dropped your name got a minimum twenty percent discount. Sometimes you comped the entire meal.” “That’s your ‘effort’! Anyone can freeload.” Rick and Monica, tag-teaming the attack, painted me as a greedy parasite who only showed up to eat free meals. 4 “Why do you think I was hosting those dinners?” “It was to bring in customers, to build a clientele!” “Tell me which of those people hasn’t become a regular, a big spender at The Millhouse Bistro?” When the Bistro first opened, business was dead. Rick was in debt, and everyone in his network avoided him like the plague. It was impossible for him to drum up business using his own contacts. I had to leverage my own network, hosting regular events to draw people in. In the restaurant business, you live and die by repeat customers and good will. Maintaining that requires favors and good-faith hospitality. But in Rick and Monica’s eyes, this was nothing but me taking advantage. “Stop trying to flatter yourself.” “They became customers because the Bistro’s food is good. The menu is great.” “If the taste was bad, who would keep coming back?” I nearly choked on my laughter. “The menu is great? The taste is good?” “Who do you think found the recipes and the people to teach you?” “If I hadn’t bent over backwards sourcing ingredients and recipes, where would your signature dishes be?” Every single profitable dish on that menu had been acquired and curated by me. The two signature dishes from my college roommate alone cost me a hundred thousand. To cater to the local American market, I spent another fifty thousand buying the rights to several regional specialty dishes. Sourcing these recipes was a nightmare. Unlike my college roommate, who lived states away, these local chefs were direct competitors. By learning their techniques, I was taking food off their tables. I had to spend heavily, trading in money and favors, practically begging to learn those techniques. That’s where their “great menu” came from. “Psh!” Monica exploded when I brought it up. She pointed a finger directly at my face and shrieked. “And you have the nerve to bring up sourcing the ingredients?” “How many kickbacks did you take in the process, huh?” “The chicken market rate is under five dollars a pound. The chicken you sourced cost us twenty-six dollars a pound!” “Five times the price!” “And the fish, the mushrooms, the produce—every single item was several times more expensive than the market rate!” At that point, I couldn’t be bothered to say another word. Genuine, pasture-raised, organic, heritage poultry—the kind we used—was in such high demand that people waited months for it. Rick and I had gone through hell to secure those contracts. They knew this. Now they were just picking fights. This was undeniable proof that Rick and Monica were absolutely determined to cut me out. Anything I said would be useless. “Fine. I’m out.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387243”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The year I was dubbed “the kid no one wanted,” I was returned to The St. Jude’s Home for Children three times in a row. My file said I was “unsuitable for adoption.” Because I’m not just oppositional; I’m aggressively mouthy. It wasn’t until the tenth couple walked in, dragging a little boy with them, that things got interesting. Suddenly, the world went fuzzy, and the familiar, invisible subtitles began to scroll across my vision: [ALERT: Villain Protagonist is spoiled rotten from years of fawning. He is a little tyrant, and any dissent will immediately lead to your family’s financial ruin.] [The parents are out of options. They want to adopt a compliant, quiet girl to subtly fix their son.] A compliant child? Yeah, that ship sailed a long time ago. I was mid-yawn, bored out of my mind, when a loud, entitled voice cut through the silence. “Mom, look,” the boy declared, pointing a pudgy finger. “The girl yawning over there is kind of fat.” My brow instinctively furrowed. My automatic response—my inherent genetic flaw—kicked in instantly. “Fat? You need to wipe the sleep-gunk out of your eyes, genius.” 1 The Villain Protagonist froze, staring at me. Ten seconds of pure, dead silence stretched out. Then, he let out a dramatic, soul-shattering wail. His face turned scarlet, but even through the tears, he managed to issue a command: “Mom! She dared to talk back! I want her family ruined!” I had to admit, he was gorgeous. Even blotchy and scarlet-faced from crying, his features were perfect. The other kids in the room, however, were too terrified to appreciate his aesthetics. They stood frozen, heads bowed, waiting for the ceiling to collapse. More subtitles began to cascade: [Wow, she looks cute, but her attack power is through the roof!] [She has no idea how terrifying he’ll be later. He’s just entitled now, but later, he’s unhinged.] [Because he can’t have the Heroine, he’ll lock her up and break the Hero’s legs, literally chaining him like a dog.] [Good thing this girl doesn’t fit their adoption criteria, or she’d be toast.] I felt a surge of calm relief. Toast? Not me. I was as far from compliant as you could get. As long as they didn’t adopt me, the Villain Protagonist could be someone else’s problem. The elegant woman, his mother, offered Ms. Evans, the director of the Home, a weary smile. “I’m afraid my mother-in-law coddled him, I’m helpless.” Ms. Evans, God bless her, was equally apologetic. “Honestly, Mrs. Harrington, Frankie is… well, Frankie. I’m helpless too.” Only I remained standing alone. I straightened my back and shook my head at the boy. “You can’t ruin my family, kid,” I said, my voice serious. “I don’t have one.” The crying stopped abruptly. He stared at me, hiccuping once. His little face flushed again, and he yelled, “That’s impossible! Don’t you have a mom and dad?” I tilted my head, genuinely baffled. “What’s wrong with your neck? Did you forget where we are, genius?” He looked around, realizing he was, in fact, in an orphanage. He huffed and puffed, completely speechless. His greatest weapon—threats—had proven totally useless against me. He was starting to panic. He spun around, grabbed his mother’s leg, and began pummeling her thigh with his tiny fists. Snot and tears mingled on his face. “Mom! Make her go away! I don’t like her! I don’t want to look at her!” His mother, Eleanor Harrington, let out a sigh of pure exhaustion. Ms. Evans immediately pulled me back. “Mrs. Harrington, I am so sorry. I’ll take Frankie back to her room immediately.” Eleanor started to object, but Ms. Evans gave me a stern look. “Frankie, you need to apologize to the young man. Then we’ll go.” Ms. Evans had always been kind to me, never blaming me for the three times I was returned. I didn’t want to get her into trouble. So, reluctantly, I walked back toward the little boy. He was clinging to his mother’s leg, eyes wide and wary. I stood straight, smoothed the fabric of my faded dress, and spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Rhys.” He lifted his chin, sniffing disdainfully, his arrogant expression returning. But my argumentative genes, deep in my bones, wouldn’t allow it. I tried to suppress it, I really did. I couldn’t. So I added, perfectly composed: “I’d like to know exactly which part of that upset you… so I can be sure to repeat it.” Rhys’s eyes widened, looking at me with total disbelief. The look on his face shifted immediately to pure, wounded betrayal. The next second, his eyebrows crumpled, his nose turned red, and he buried his head in his mother’s thigh, wailing louder than before. “Mom, she’s bullying me! Your little boy is being bullied!” I sighed, completely fed up. “I’m not bullying you. I’m just not being particularly nice.” He wailed even louder. The sound was so irritating, I clapped my hands over my ears and turned away. Ms. Evans grabbed my shoulder and pulled me aside, her eyes flashing with disappointment. “Can’t you just keep quiet for two seconds? Go to your room!” I shrugged and started to walk off. Suddenly, the father, who had been silent this whole time, stepped into my path. “Your name is Frankie, right? Hold on a moment.” He exchanged a look with Eleanor, then smiled at Ms. Evans. “Ms. Evans, we’ve decided. We’ll take her.” Rhys stopped crying mid-sob. He lifted his head, eyes wide with shock as he stared at his parents. Even Ms. Evans tried to dissuade them. “Are you sure you want to reconsider? Rhys doesn’t seem to care for Frankie…” Charles Harrington cut her off. “Given the circumstances, we think we need to try a wild card.” He crouched down in front of me and spoke quietly, conspiratorially. “Frankie, would you like to come live with us?” I absolutely did not want to live with a future psycho villain, and I was about to refuse. But then, the subtitles flashed again: [Wait, the Villain’s family was supposed to adopt the sweet Heroine?] [This girl, though cute, is not the Heroine! Rhys will get rid of her quickly!] [The Heroine is over there, scared speechless, among that group of children.] I glanced at the huddle of timid kids. Several girls younger than me were standing there, too frightened to make a sound. I didn’t know which one the subtitles meant, or I would have shoved her forward. The subtitles continued to scroll: [Although the Villain’s family has nothing but money, living near him means you get the cash, but you won’t live to spend it!] [Exactly! The Harrington’s family gives the adopted child a Billion-Dollar Trust Fund when they turn eighteen! But the kid has to survive until then!] Wait. That detail was important. Why hadn’t they mentioned it earlier? I immediately grabbed Charles Harrington’s hand with my soft, small one and nodded emphatically. “Yes, Dad. I’d love to.” Rhys shrieked, pointing at me. “Shut up! He’s my dad, not yours!” I didn’t care. Whoever coughed up the billion dollars was my dad. The sharp retort was already on my tongue, but I swallowed it, hard. Charles noticed my visible struggle and frowned slightly. “Frankie, we’re adopting you because we want you to be yourself, without worrying.” He gave me a gentle, encouraging look. Suddenly, I understood. Charles wanted me to fight fire with fire—to act as a counter-agent against Rhys. That was easy. Whoever paid the billion got to set the rules. I turned back to Rhys and stated, completely deadpan, “Not true, big brother. Your dad adopted me, so he is now, definitively, my dad.” Rhys’s face turned red again. He plopped onto the floor and began rolling, kicking, and screaming. “I don’t care what you say! I don’t want you in my house!” I stared at him with complete incomprehension. “Brother,” I asked, “are you sure you’re not the long-lost, less-evolved cousin of Socrates?” Rhys immediately went silent. He looked up at me with an expression of such crystal-clear confusion that I knew I had completely eclipsed him in terms of cultural literacy. I shook my head, genuinely disappointed. “It’s like God was handing out IQ points, and you brought an umbrella.” Rhys finally understood. His face went crimson. His lip wobbled, and he burst into another torrent of tears. “You… what do you mean by that?!” he choked out. I tugged on Charles’s sleeve. “Dad, maybe have him read a few books? We can’t have a functionally illiterate person in the family.” This, he also understood. His small face was the color of a tomato, and he wailed louder still. Charles Harrington sighed, the sound heavy with parental frustration. The subtitles zipped past: [Rhys is finally getting his comeuppance! It’s delicious!] [Wait until she licks her own lips and realizes she just poisoned herself.] [But if the Villain’s family didn’t adopt the Heroine, how will he fall in love with her later?] [This is better! No Villain interference! Daisy Bloom and the Hero can sail straight into their sweet ending!] Daisy Bloom? An image of a big-eyed, quiet girl from the huddle flashed through my mind. So she was the Heroine. But I was already sitting in the car, speeding away from the Home. My new parents ignored Rhys’s nonstop crying and took me that same day. Eleanor and I rode in a separate car to avoid immediate conflict. On the drive home, I learned the boy’s full name: Rhys Harrington. He was six, just a few months older than me, but his capacity for chaos was epic. He was the emperor of the house. Any servant or manager who dared to cross him or cause him the slightest displeasure would be fired and banished that very night. The entire staff lived in fear of offending him. The car pulled into a sprawling estate—lush greenery, water features—in an exclusive suburb. It looked exactly like a princess’s palace from a storybook. I pressed my face against the window, fascinated by the scenery. The car stopped in front of a golden-hued mansion. I followed Eleanor into the house, my jaw slack as I took in the palatial living room. Rhys had arrived before me. He saw me, gave a high-pitched snort of contempt, and turned his back. He then loudly demanded that the housekeeper prepare his horse. I stood there, eyes wide, waiting for an actual horse to appear. Instead, Adam, the tall, perfectly pressed household manager, scurried out, dropped to his hands and knees with a thump, and announced, “Master Rhys, your pony is ready.” Eleanor’s face hardened. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Rhys Harrington! You are too old for this! Stop making Adam play the pony!” Rhys immediately started his usual fit. “I don’t care! I want to play! I want to ride the pony up the main staircase!” Eleanor’s lips twitched, but she managed to maintain her composure. I could sense her rage boiling just beneath the surface. Adam, still on all fours, chuckled nervously. “It’s quite alright, ma’am. Master Rhys is just playing. I don’t mind a bit.” Eleanor sighed. “Adam, you’re spoiling him. You’re doing him a disservice.” Before Adam could reply, Rhys had climbed onto his back. “Run! Faster! Giddy-up!” Adam, forcing a bright smile, began crawling across the grand living room floor. As he passed me, Rhys looked down his nose and sneered. “Look at you, a charity case. I bet you’ve never ridden a pony. It’s so much fun!” My lips curled. My brain, the ultimate machine gun of insults, fired back automatically. “Doesn’t look that fun,” I declared. “The last time I saw a grown man on all fours like that was on that Game of Thrones prequel, and most of the people being ridden ended up dead.” Rhys immediately scrambled off Adam’s back. His face was a burning crimson, and he pointed a trembling finger at me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387242”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was the night before my wedding when my mother, Denise, walked into the private dining room, clutching a bundled infant. Her face was a mask of proud, wrinkled smiles. She declared it a wedding present from her and my fiancé, Owen. The surprise: a baby, conceived by my own first cousin, Willow, and carrying Owen’s blood. They claimed I was too focused on my career—too busy to conceive—so they’d decided to “help me out.” Willow, tears streaming down her face, hid behind a curtain of damp hair. “Sloan, I was only doing what was best for you…” Owen, my fiancé of ten years, stood stiffly, staring at his expensive leather shoes. He wouldn’t look at me. Denise was still showing off, a smug glow radiating from her. “Look at this darling boy! Doesn’t he look exactly like you and Owen?” The air in the high-end private room was thick with a nauseating, misguided celebration. Every person there seemed to be waiting for me to dissolve into tears of grateful joy. I smiled. As their expressions shifted from smugness to confusion, I picked up the near-full bottle of vintage Bordeaux from the table. I walked slowly toward my mother. 1 The deep red wine cascaded down my mother’s meticulously styled silver curls, washing over her stunned face and soaking into the butter-soft cashmere of her beige sweater. The room instantly plunged into dead silence. Owen’s head snapped up. His eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated shock. “Sloan! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy?” Denise finally reacted, letting out a sharp, ear-splitting shriek as she launched herself off her chair. “You ungrateful brat! How dare you do this to your own mother!” Willow, startled, retreated further behind Owen, her whimpers escalating into gut-wrenching sobs, as if she were the victim of a heinous crime. “Please, Sloan! Don’t blame Aunt Denise! It was all my fault…” I took in their three contorted faces—each more dramatic than the last. Ignoring their frantic noise, I slammed the empty bottle onto the lazy Susan, the resulting CRASH echoing like a gunshot. “Whose child?” I asked. My voice was unnervingly level, a stranger’s voice, even to me. Denise wiped the sticky wine from her cheek, jabbing a finger directly at my nose. “It’s yours and Owen’s, obviously! You heartless girl! I worried myself sick for you, and this is how you repay me? Throwing wine in my face?” I didn’t look at her. My gaze was a physical weight, pinned to Owen. He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting away. His lips worked, but it took him several attempts to force out a sentence. “S-Sloan, please just calm down. We… we truly thought this was for the best.” “‘For the best?’” I repeated the phrase, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat. “You thought finding another woman to bear my fiancé’s child behind my back was ‘for the best’?” “She’s not just ‘another woman’!” My mother shrilled, yanking Willow out from behind Owen. “This is your cousin! She’s family! We’re keeping the good stuff in the family!” Good stuff in the family. I looked at Willow, who was now clutching my mother’s arm, her face a pathetic, tear-soaked mess. A year ago, she’d shown up at my door with a battered suitcase, claiming her family was poor and she couldn’t afford college. She’d looked so small and lost, shyly asking if she could find a job in the city. Denise had insisted I help her. I was swamped, running a crucial project at my firm, but I pulled strings to get her a receptionist job at one of our partner companies. I even let her move into the condo Owen and I bought—our wedding condo—to save on rent, saying she could help with light housework. I thought I was extending kindness to a struggling relative. I had, in fact, invited the fox into the henhouse. “When did it start?” I pressed Owen, each syllable sounding squeezed through a filter of pure venom. His face cycled through shades of red and white. He stammered incoherently. Denise cut him off, eager to tell her side of the heroic tale. “Just six months ago! You were working late every single night! I saw Owen all alone, and my heart broke for him! You two are almost thirty—it’s now or never for a baby—and since you weren’t stepping up, I had to take control!” Her words felt like a surgical scalpel twisting in my gut. “I had Willow move in to ‘take care’ of Owen. They’re young! Things heat up! And boom—now we have a baby!” She finished with a self-satisfied shrug, as if I were the one who owed her an apology. Willow lifted her head, her watery eyes fixed on me, full of feigned remorse. “Sloan, I… I never wanted to hurt you or ruin your relationship. Aunt Denise said you were too tired from work and didn’t want children, but Owen loves kids so much… I… I just wanted to help you.” “Help me?” I scoffed. “Help me by having his child, then marrying my fiancé yourself, is that the plan?” Willow’s face went instantly white. She shook her head violently. “No! Sloan, no! I never asked for a title! The baby is yours! I’ll sign the papers and leave, right away!” “Leave? Where would you go?” Denise grabbed her, pulling her close like a protective shield. “Don’t you worry, Willow! You stay right here with me! You’ve delivered our first grandson! You are a hero to this family!” Our first grandson? My name is Sloan. My mother is Denise. Owen is Owen. Whose family was she talking about? Watching this obscene tableau, a profound, soul-deep chill settled over me. Twenty years of a difficult mother-daughter relationship, ten years of a shared history with the man I was supposed to marry—in this instant, it was all reduced to a pathetic punchline. I spun around and grabbed my designer tote bag. “Sloan! You stop right there!” Denise’s voice roared behind me. “If you walk out that door, you are no daughter of mine!” Owen rushed forward, grabbing my arm, panicked. “Sloan, don’t be impulsive! We need to sit down and talk this through. The baby is innocent…” I yanked my arm free with a violence that shocked him. “Don’t touch me.” I looked him in the eye, speaking with cold, deliberate clarity. “You make me sick.” Without a backward glance, I walked out of the banquet room. Behind me, the chaotic cacophony of my mother’s enraged cursing, Willow’s wounded sobs, and the infant’s piercing cries followed me. The baby’s cry was a sharp, final shard of glass in my heart. But I didn’t look back. I knew, in that precise moment, that I had lost my past, but I had gained my freedom. 2 I drove aimlessly through the city streets after leaving the restaurant. My phone vibrated constantly—a tag team of calls and texts from Denise and Owen. I ignored every one, finally powering the device down. I pulled over outside a brightly lit 24-hour convenience store, went in, and bought a pack of cheap cigarettes and a miniature bottle of the strongest whiskey I could find. I had never smoked. The first drag seared my lungs, sending tears streaming down my face. I coughed, but then I started to laugh, a broken, manic sound that made me feel like a stranger in my own skin. I sat in my car all night, watching the city breathe. At dawn, I started the engine and drove back to the place I still reflexively called “home.” I needed my personal documents and, more importantly, all the original drafts and portfolios from my design career. They were my professional life. I opened the front door. The living room looked like a war zone. Denise was slumped on the sofa, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. The second she saw me, she transformed into a raging mother bear and lunged. “You have the nerve to come back here, you demon child! I’ll beat the decency back into you!” She raised her hand to strike me, but Owen caught her arm just in time. “Mom, please. Stop.” Owen looked utterly exhausted, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. He turned to me, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Sloan. Let’s talk.” Willow stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, clutching the baby, peering out timidly. Her eyes were puffy and red, like bruised plums. I walked past all of them, ignoring the tension, and headed straight for my home office. The door was locked. I frowned, pulling out my key, but the keyhole was stuffed. I tried to clear it, but it was solid. “Aunt Denise said she was worried you might come back and… and take things, so she used super glue to clog the lock,” Willow whispered from the hallway, her voice carrying a faint, sickening trace of smug victory. I turned slowly and looked at her. She flinched, shrinking back behind Owen. Without a word, I walked to the utility closet and grabbed a claw hammer. “Sloan! What are you doing?!” Denise shrieked. I didn’t answer. I raised the hammer and brought it down hard on the deadbolt. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! After three furious, wrenching blows, the lock shattered and fell to the floor. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was a mess. My files had been rifled through. The architectural drafts I’d left on my desk were scattered across the floor, several bearing clear, muddy footprints. My most prized possession—a rare, limited-edition set of influential design volumes—had been ripped to shreds and were soaking in a bucket of murky mop water, with cigarette butts floating on the surface. The final, fatal blow: the ink-splattered wreckage of my Memorial series. This was the collection I had poured six months of my life into, a tribute to my late father. Now, the original designs were ruined, smeared beyond recognition with black ink. I crouched down, retrieving a sodden sheet of vellum. The sight of it felt like my skin was being flayed off, piece by piece. This work was everything. It was my life. It was my identity. “I… I didn’t mean to do it…” Willow’s voice was shaky, ringing with false remorse from the doorway. “I was just trying to clean up your office, and I guess…” “You guess?” I stood up slowly, the claw hammer still heavy in my hand. I started walking toward her. She stumbled backward, her face ashen. “Was it an accident, Willow? Or was it intentional?” I bore down on her. “I… I swear I didn’t mean to, Sloan. Please, s-sister…” “That’s enough!” Owen suddenly shoved himself between us, pushing me hard enough to make me stagger. “Sloan, are you done with this drama? She apologized! What do you want? They’re just a couple of junk papers!” “Junk papers?” I looked at him, standing there, shielding Willow. Rage clawed its way up my throat. “Say that again, Owen.” “Those ‘junk papers’ are the centerpiece of my next major bid! They are the collection I stayed up nights for to honor my father! They are destroyed! Now you ask me what I want?” “Your father has been dead for decades! Why mourn a dead man!” Denise hissed from the side, a cold, calculating edge to her voice. “You would be better off focusing on your fiancé and your child! Getting hysterical over a few pieces of paper is pathetic!” Her words were the spark that ignited the explosion. “Yes, in your eyes, my career, my ambition, and my dedication are all ‘junk paper’!” I screamed back. “Only the bastard you’re holding is precious!” “Don’t you dare call my grandson a bastard!” Denise roared, tearing herself free from Owen and lunging for my mouth, intent on ripping the words out of my throat. Owen struggled to restrain her. The scene descended into a blinding vortex of screams, curses, and the frantic wails of the infant. Then, my phone buzzed. A number I didn’t recognize. I answered, almost shouting into the receiver, “Who is this?” A moment of silence, followed by a man’s low, composed voice. “Is this Ms. Sloan Riley? I am Marcus King, the private attorney for Mr. James Riley, your father.” I froze. My father? My father died in a tragic accident when I was five years old. Where was this lawyer coming from?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387241”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The message popped up completely out of the blue: I’d been accidentally added to the St. Jude’s Prep Swap & Sell group chat. Then came the direct message from the admin, cold and to the point: 【Blake Donovan and Ethan Cole are betting on who can sleep with the new scholarship girl in under a month. Any intel that helps them win can be traded for cash in this group.】 A swarm of floating text—the system’s strange, persistent “bullet comments”—flashed across my vision, an unsettling reality overlay: “Six-sixty-six, the female villain got pulled into the group chat specifically designed to prank her.” “They have to avenge Cassidy Lane! She took the Queen Bee’s spot as class valedictorian as soon as she arrived.” “Heh. The country bumpkin thinks they actually like her. She’ll stop studying, let herself get ruined, they’ll dump her, and it’ll be epic.” They were talking about me. Eliza Reed. I took a deep breath, smiled a small, vicious smile, and typed a message into the group. 【Hey everyone. I’m that scholarship girl’s ex-boyfriend. I know every single one of her secrets. The more intimate the detail, the higher the price. Check my pinned post for the full menu. Happy to take your orders.】 My information was surgically accurate. One by one, they paid me for intel. Details ranged from her favorite comfort food to the day her cycle made her cramps the worst, from her most sensitive body parts to her preferred kissing style. In the end, I was drowning in cash, and they were green with frustrated jealousy. 【We’ve been practically worshiping her. Why doesn’t she like us?】 【Seriously, how the hell do you, a mere ex-boyfriend, know this much? Does she still like you?】 1 The chat went silent for a few seconds. Then, the rich kids exploded. 【Wait, you’re actually Eliza Reed’s ex?】 【And you know all her secrets?】 【Sounds like a scam.】 I sent back an easy smiley face: 【It’s real, gents. Genuine, honest-to-god goods.】 Blake Donovan, the school’s notorious jock/bully, snorted. 【We’ll see about that. Tell me where Eliza is right now. Two grand if you’re right.】 The bullet comments flared again: “Here we go. Blake Donovan is the resident psycho. Pure hatred. He worships Cassidy, and when the female villain stole her top spot, he went ballistic, calling Eliza a hillbilly and a gutter-rat.” Calling me names, huh? Fine. I’ll take his money. I typed immediately: 【At this time of day, Eliza should be in the library, third floor, fifth row by the window.】 【If you go now, it’ll look like a perfect coincidence.】 Ten minutes later. Blake Donovan was sitting directly across from me in the library, a loose, predatory smile playing on his lips. He messaged the group: 【She’s here. He was right.】 The group chat erupted. I laughed internally. 【Of course I was right. I am the person who understands her best in the world. You can call me The Ex-Files.】 Blake responded: 【Alright, Ex-Files. Pay up is pay up.】 He Venmo’d me two thousand dollars. My hands trembled with excitement. The sheer, intoxicating rush of it was better than any drug. How did I not see this business opportunity before? I looked up at Blake, who was now leaning back, toying with me. He was the only son of the Donovans, raised on a silver spoon. The school’s untouchable bad boy—hot, rugged, and completely unhinged. I immediately lowered my gaze, forcing a dull, disinterested mask. Blake messaged the group: 【Interesting. I’m a handsome guy, and she won’t even blush when I sit right in front of her.】 A rich kid in the chat piped up: 【I’ve seen her. She’s definitely got that innocent look.】 Blake: 【Ha. She looks innocent now. Who knows how wild she is in bed, though.】 【Hey, Ex-Files. Did you ever sleep with her?】 I typed back: 【Nope. We planned to break the rules on graduation night, but we broke up before that.】 【If you succeed, be sure to send me a bonus.】 Blake grinned. 【Done. You get a big bonus when I get her into my bed.】 【Now, how do I get her number?】 I replied: 【That’s strategic consulting. That’ll be four grand.】 Blake transferred the money instantly. I hit ‘Collect’ and typed back: 【She desperately needs money. She’s been trying to find a tutoring gig to pay for her living expenses. Use that.】 Blake scoffed: 【Didn’t she just get a twenty-thousand dollar scholarship for valedictorian? That’s not enough?】 【Typical. Poor kid with expensive tastes.】 I returned his cynicism with a cold truth: 【It’s complicated. Eliza’s family situation is grim. Dead mother, gambling father, and a sick grandmother.】 【Her grandmother is in the ICU. She sent the entire scholarship to the hospital. She needs tutoring money just to eat.】 Blake paused. 【She… she’s that hard up?】 【Fine. I’ll try the tutoring angle.】 The next second, my physics textbook was abruptly yanked away. I looked up to see Blake leaning against the table’s edge, speaking with a casual drawl. “You’re Eliza Reed, right?” “Heard you’re the best. You want to tutor me?” “I’ll pay you ten thousand a month.” I was internally ecstatic, but my face remained demure. “That’s too much. I can’t take it. Three or four thousand is plenty.” Blake raised an eyebrow, the entitled young lord. “Are you insulting me? That’s what I pay all my tutors.” I pursed my lips. “Understood. We can start next week.” Blake smiled. “Great. Let’s swap contact info.” A few minutes later, Blake was back in the chat: 【She agreed. Got her number.】 I quickly replied: 【Congrats!】 The other rich boys cheered: 【Damn, Ex-Files’ info is solid!】 【He got her number. Blake might actually be the first to bag her.】 2 The weekend arrived, and I was at Blake’s private study room, drilling him on physics. My tutoring sessions were intense. By the end, Blake’s eyes were practically crossing from the effort. During a much-needed break, Blake messaged the group, agitated: 【Seriously, this is just a damn tutoring session.】 【But, not gonna lie, she breaks down the concepts so clearly…】 【Ex-Files, I need to make a move. Which spot on her body is the most sensitive to touch?】 Just then, the chat alert announced: Ethan Cole has joined the group. Ethan Cole. The ridiculously popular student council president. Elegant, high-value, the quintessential Golden Boy—everything a perfect, unattainable crush should be. The group chat went wild: 【Whoa, the Golden Boy is here!】 【Didn’t you leave the group chat because you were ‘bored’?】 Ethan replied: 【I heard Eliza Reed’s ex was here, and it seems Blake is actually making progress. Thought I’d check it out.】 【If he can buy intel from this hustler, why can’t I?】 I sent a small wave: 【Happy to help. Everyone is welcome to buy my intel. Call me The Ex-Files.】 Blake tagged me: 【Stop flirting with him. Spit it out. What part of Eliza is the most sensitive?】 【Transferring 10,000.】 I quickly accepted the payment. The truth was, I had no idea what part of me was most sensitive. But it didn’t matter. I just needed to sell the fantasy. I replied: 【She has a mole on the back of her neck. Every time I kissed her there, she’d start to tremble.】 Blake laughed. 【Nice. I’ll try it.】 Ethan Cole sent a laughing emoji: 【Kissing her neck on the first tutoring session? Blake, they’re going to call you a creep.】 Blake reconsidered and transferred four more thousand: 【Any other, more subtle physical contact ideas?】 I replied: 【Let me think. Her ears are quite sensitive. A light brush and they turn crimson.】 【Want more sensitive spots? Keep the money coming.】 One of the rich kids grumbled: 【Wow, Ex-Files, you’re seriously trashy. Selling your ex-girlfriend’s secrets for cash.】 I shot back: 【Hey, every man for himself, right? We’re all just doing business here.】 Ethan chimed in: 【Stop insulting the hustler. We aren’t exactly saints either. We created this group to break Eliza Reed, make her fall in love with us, then destroy her reputation and her future, all to get back at her for Cassidy.】 【Cassidy was crying pitifully in the stairwell after Eliza stole her valedictorian spot. I felt bad for her.】 I followed up: 【Exactly. We’re all getting what we want. No shame in that.】 Putting down my phone, I looked at Blake. “Break’s over. Back to work.” Blake just oh’d, his eyes distant. Only a few minutes into the next session, he suddenly leaned in, his voice a low, confidential murmur. “Tutor, I still don’t get this problem.” I moved closer. “Which one?” “Right here.” I pointed to the equation, about to speak. He suddenly closed the gap and blew gently into my ear. I jumped, clutching my earlobe. I hadn’t expected that. My ear was actually… surprisingly sensitive. Blake froze, staring at my ear as it slowly turned bright red. His eyes drifted lower to the mole on my neck. He swallowed unconsciously, then leaned back, a low, playful smirk on his face. “Tutor, your ear is sensitive.” I hardened my expression. “Focus on the problem.” After the session, Blake was back in the chat: 【Her ear went red!】 【It’s super sensitive. I bet if I sneak a little lick of her lobe when she wasn’t looking, her whole face would flush. That would be fun.】 The group members poured in: 【Hahaha, Ex-Files must have tried it. Tell us!】 I replied: 【Hahaha, I did. During our honeymoon phase, I’d lick her earlobe while she was studying. She’d jump every time.】 【More stimulating sensitive spots? Next time, five times the price.】 【Anyone else want intel? I’ve got some really hot stuff left.】 Seeing me advertise again, Blake suddenly turned nasty. 【You’re awful. Seriously. Profiting off your ex-girlfriend. I can’t believe she ever liked you.】 The rich kids were confused: 【Woah, why the breakdown?】 【Dude, you’re eating the pot and then cursing the cook.】 【Did one tutoring session make you fall for her?】 【I guess Eliza does have that pure, sweet look. She seems like your type.】 Blake scoffed: 【No way. She’s nothing compared to Cassidy Lane. I’d never like her.】 【By the way, I noticed a clear burn scar on Eliza’s hand during the session. What’s the story?】 I replied: 【Pay first.】 Blake transferred two grand. I quickly accepted the payment and slowly replied: 【Oh, that’s from her father’s abuse. When she was little, he’d chain her up during the day. When he got drunk at night and was in a bad mood, he’d put out his cigarettes on her hand.】 【So she really hates drunk men.】 The chat went silent for a moment. Blake typed slowly: 【She… she had it that bad?】 Ethan Cole’s laughing emoji popped up: 【Speaking of which, Blake loves to drink. Looks like I win.】 Blake immediately retorted: 【Ha, don’t get ahead of yourself. I’ll quit.】 3 In just two days, I’d made over twenty thousand in side money. That was faster than any scholarship. Tonight, I splurged on a little luxury: a bottle of premium cold-brew coffee. Ethan Cole messaged me privately: 【I’m curious. How did Eliza fall for you?】 【Since you were her ex, you must have had a reason she liked you.】 【That idiot Blake asks the stupidest questions. This is the valuable intel.】 【Two hundred thousand, and I get priority on all effective information like this.】 The bullet comments were full of praise: “Ethan Cole is so smart. The Golden Boy is actually a Black-Slick-White villain.” “LOL, the female villain better not think he likes her. The real reason is that Cassidy bet them that whoever destroys Eliza gets Cassidy’s first kiss.” So that was the real prize. But two hundred thousand was two hundred thousand. I collected the money immediately: 【Deal. No problem.】 【I’ll start here: She likes the gentle type. I remembered every one of her preferences, right down to the day her period pain was worst, the exact spot on her back that felt best when massaged, and even her favorite lingerie color.】 【I can send you the full details if you want.】 A while later, Ethan was back in the main group, boasting: 【Just had a private session with The Ex-Files. He gave me some very valuable information.】 Blake was furious: 【Whatever. She’s tutoring me every day. We’re alone together. With my looks, it’s only a matter of time before things heat up.】 Ethan laughed: 【Why are you fighting me? Have you forgotten why we’re in this group? We want to ruin Eliza. Make her fall in love with one of us, cause her to self-destruct, destroy her future. Isn’t that the fun part?】 Blake was silent for a moment. 【…Damn it. I know.】 【Wait, will her ex-boyfriend hear all this and rat us out?】 I immediately jumped in: 【Don’t worry. I fully support you guys. I need your business, after all. I only care about money. I couldn’t care less about what happens to her.】 Blake: 【God, you’re a complete sociopath.】 I almost burst out laughing. Sociopath? These people, who built a betting pool to ruin a girl, had the nerve to call me a sociopath? 4 The next day after school, I was counting my cash, walking back to my rented apartment. In the hallway, a man reeking of stale alcohol blocked my path. He growled: “Looks like you’re doing well at the new school, you little bitch.” “I heard you got a twenty-grand scholarship. Hand it over, now. I need to pay off my debt.” I sneered. “It’s long gone.” He glared. “You slut! How dare you talk to me like that.” He raised his hand, ready to strike. I backed away and turned to run. I hid in the alley, pulling out my phone, ready to dial 911. Just then, a message from Ethan Cole popped up: 【Anything I can do to get closer to Eliza right now?】 I smirked. 【Breaking news. Want it for thirty thousand?】 【Spill it.】 【Hot tip: Her deadbeat father, the one who took out a loan shark debt, is at her apartment looking for trouble. Perfect timing for a heroic rescue.】 “There you are, you little pest.” My father’s sneering voice cut through the air. He grabbed my hair and dragged me out. I struggled violently. A few passersby noticed and tried to intervene. He screamed at the top of his lungs: “I’m hitting my own daughter! It’s my right!” “This bitch goes to a good school and disowns her own father! I raised her, but she’s just a gold-digger! Should have strangled her at birth!” The crowd grew, and confused onlookers started pointing their fingers at me. Suddenly, a figure slammed into my father. Ethan Cole had rushed in, kicking my father hard, sending him sprawling. His eyes were ice cold. “Borrowing from loan sharks and demanding your high school daughter pay for it? You’re pathetic.” My father’s eyes turned red with rage. He scrambled up, grabbed a brick from a nearby pile, and swung it at Ethan’s head. Ethan didn’t have time to dodge. That kind of blow could be fatal. I hadn’t planned for anyone to get killed. Acting purely on instinct, I threw myself forward, shielding Ethan with my body. The brick slammed heavily into my hand. A dull, searing pain shot through me like an electric current. I cried out. Ethan’s pupils contracted violently. He reacted with surprising speed, slamming my father against the ground. I knelt, clutching my hand in agony, tears streaming down my face. Half the tears were real—from the pain—and half were for the performance. Ethan completely panicked. He registered the subtle tremors of my body and pulled me into an awkward embrace. “Don’t be scared. It’s over, it’s over.” He gently patted my back, his voice low, soothing me like a frightened animal. “Just hold on, okay? I’m taking you to the hospital right now.” 5 At the hospital, Ethan was the perfect gentleman. He handled the registration, the X-rays—he wouldn’t let me lift a finger. He even crouched down in front of me, full of remorse. “If I’d gotten here sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.” His acting was magnificent. If I hadn’t had that group chat, I might actually believe he cared. While he was getting the prescriptions, Ethan messaged the group: 【Eliza just cried in my arms.】 【She even got hurt protecting me.】 【And when she was close, I noticed she has this incredible, distinct scent. Amazing.】 Blake was almost instantaneous: 【What? She’s hurt!】 【Ethan, you’re useless! You couldn’t even protect a girl.】 【If I’d been there, she wouldn’t have gotten hurt.】 Ethan was silent for a few seconds. 【Why are you so agitated? You’re just jealous my plan is working faster than yours.】 【I’ll bet she’s completely fallen for me now. From now on, the hustler is going to be selling me info about her favorite ways to confess, her kissing techniques, and where she likes to be touched.】 Blake went ballistic: 【You make me sick!】 【Why is that hustler so quiet today? Doesn’t he have anything to say?】 I carefully used my right hand to type—the one I hadn’t shielded him with. 【He’s right. Ethan was the hero today. He utterly humiliated Eliza’s scumbag father. Her opinion of him has definitely skyrocketed.】 【Remember, her biggest trauma is her dad. I won her over originally by protecting her.】 Blake was stunned, then frantic: 【Ex-Files! Why didn’t you give me priority on that intel?】 I answered with smug righteousness: 【Ethan paid me two hundred thousand. He gets first dibs.】 Blake immediately transferred three hundred thousand. 【Is this enough?】 Ethan sneered, and added two hundred thousand more. Blake countered with five hundred thousand. The other rich boys were speechless: 【Hold on, this turned into an auction!】 【They must really want Cassidy Lane’s first kiss!】 Watching the flood of transfer notifications, my heart was racing. I was so overwhelmed I almost forgot where I was. Just then, Ethan looked up nervously. “Eliza, why are you shaking? Are you in pain?” I instantly collected myself, putting the phone away. “No, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore.” I changed the subject. “Ethan, why did you help me today?” He paused, lowering his eyes, clearly scrambling for a convincing lie. I smiled, not waiting for his answer. “It doesn’t matter what the reason is. Thank you. You really are a good person.” This part was true. The best person in the world to me was, and always would be, me. Ethan stiffened, forcing a strained smile. “I’m not as good as you think.” I pressed on. “You are. Besides my ex-boyfriend, no one has ever been this kind to me.” Ethan froze, his expression turning deeply complex.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387240”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ten years into my marriage, my multi-millionaire husband became fixated on the new company assistant. She was nearly forty, less striking than I, and certainly not as meticulously maintained, yet in three short months, she had injected a fierce, brand-new emotional vitality into Rhys. He looked at me, exhaustion etched across his face, and said: “You can have the real estate and the shares if we separate. Audrey, can you please just let me go?” I raised my eyes and replied softly, “All right.” Then I tore a small square from a sticky note and drew a star on it. Divorce Countdown: 30 days. 1 I handed Rhys the divorce agreement a mere twenty-eight minutes after he confessed his affair and asked for a separation. As agreed, the mansion, the luxury cars, and our daughter would all be mine. He would pay me a one-time settlement and child support of $30 million. After that, neither I nor our daughter would contact him again. Rhys was in the middle of a video conference. He glanced up, his eyes catching the words “DIVORCE SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT,” and his lashes gave the faintest, almost imperceptible tremor. He lifted his chin, signaling that he understood. I slipped out of the study. To expedite his departure, I had packed all of Rhys’s personal belongings. Five massive suitcases in total. Concerned about forgetting anything, I even carefully tucked away the commendations he’d earned during his college years, stored deep in the utility room. My gaze finally rested on the framed wedding photo in the corner. In the picture, Rhys’s eyes were focused only on me, and my expression was one of shy devotion. We were clasped in a tight embrace beneath the canopy of an old oak tree. Back then, he would hold me and whisper sweet words: “Honey, I’ll always love you.” “The luckiest moment of my life was marrying you.” Rhys and I met in graduate school. He was a struggling student back then, wearing faded corduroy and threadbare sweaters. I had plenty of suitors, but I fell for Rhys instantly. He was brilliant, ambitious, and handsome. He possessed every virtue I could count. After graduation, we married seamlessly, and he and his partners founded their company. To support his endeavor, I stepped back from my own career. I dedicated myself to caring for Rhys and managing our home. As the business grew, Rhys’s travel and networking became increasingly frequent. I maintained my yoga and skincare routine between the grocery runs and the housework. And Rhys never truly slacked off. Even when exhausted, he would come home, help Willow with her homework, and sometimes even load the dishwasher, helping me navigate family and neighbor relations. To outsiders, we were a perfect couple, the model of a successful marriage. I can’t pinpoint when Rhys started scheduling his trips for the weekends. Sometimes he’d be gone for entire weeks, a continuous blur. My friend, Ava, would often joke, urging me to keep a closer watch, warning me about possible changes. I’d assure her I wasn’t worried, but my gut would tighten. I’d delivered documents to Rhys’s office a few times. Everything seemed normal. His team was busy working late, and the woman in question was busy at her desk. Her name was Sienna. Nearly forty, not stunning, and dressed plainly. She had soft, long, wavy hair and spoke with a gentle, almost Southern drawl. She politely offered me tea. I had imagined this scenario over the years. I thought it might be a sharp, powerful female director, a glamorous intern, or maybe a cool, high-profile client. I never once considered his assistant. I’d heard she was newly single after a long-term relationship ended due to infidelity. This was her first job back, and she was exceptionally dedicated. She volunteered for overtime, remembered everyone’s coffee order, and often brought in homemade gourmet cookies. Some colleagues, for convenience, even asked her to run errands for them. When I found out, I told Rhys she sounded hardworking and suggested he look out for her. Rhys was typically nonchalant. “The workplace isn’t about favors. I’ve already warned her not to engage in personal transactions.” Back then, I laughed, thinking my husband was just a stereotypical, rigid boss. Now, I realize he was likely protecting Sienna, worried about her having to run errands after working late. As for why Rhys chose today to confess? It was simply because, as was my routine, I had prepared him a light, late-night soup after a business function. He stared at the bowl, frowned slightly, gently pushed it away, and remained silent for a long time. He then looked up at me, his eyes drained of warmth, and asked if we could divorce. He admitted the affair had been going on for three months. He’d met her during his “travels.” My heart felt as if it had been pricked by a thousand needles, but I forced myself to maintain my composure. I asked who it was. When he said Sienna, I genuinely thought I had misheard. A dizzying sensation of numbness and sharp pain spread through my limbs. 2 By the time Rhys finished his meeting, I had completed my yoga routine, ironed a few items, and was sitting on the balcony arranging flowers. I looked as if nothing had happened. He went to change and, finding his closet empty, called out to me from the dressing room, out of habit. “Honey, where are my shirts?” I didn’t turn around. “They’re all packed in the suitcases. If you don’t mind, wear yesterday’s. It’s going to be thrown out soon anyway.” I was met with a long, heavy silence. When Rhys emerged, he saw the five large suitcases stacked by the entryway. He sat down beside me and tapped the divorce agreement with his fingertip. “I’ll transfer $20 million of the settlement now; the rest will be in installments…” I cut him off. “That won’t be necessary. Let’s finalize it all at once.” “I doubt she wants you to maintain any contact with me.” Rhys’s expression was one of confusion. “Our daughter isn’t yours alone. I have a responsibility to be involved in her life.” “I know I’m wrong, and I’m willing to compensate, but don’t use Willow as leverage.” I put down the pruning shears and looked Rhys squarely in the eye. “Cheating was your choice. Your compensation and support are a given. Considering your net worth, the house and cars are not a greedy request.” “Willow has always had me by her side. She is emotionally sensitive and needs attention. How much energy can you dedicate to her during your new relationship? Involvement isn’t just about money; it requires time and patience.” Rhys was rendered speechless. After a moment, he said, “In any case, I won’t buy out my relationship with my daughter for $30 million.” I reached out and flipped the agreement open. “$30 million is the settlement and support. If you have extra emotional needs, you can transfer money to her account; I will open one specifically for her.” Rhys suddenly scoffed. “Audrey, I never knew you cared so much about money. Everything you say is about money.” “What else? Is loving you proving useful?” Rhys was silenced. His face darkened, and he quickly signed the divorce agreement. He arranged for us to file the petition tomorrow. Then, he called a car service. I finished arranging the flowers and went to bed. He was gone when I woke up early. Willow burst out of her room and hugged me, excitedly telling me about her dream of going to Disneyland. As she spoke, I carefully told her that Daddy was busy with a project and might be traveling for a while. Unusually, she didn’t throw a fit. Instead, she video-called him and asked, “Daddy, when are you coming home?” “I’ll be busy for a while.” She simply mumbled, “Okay,” and pursed her lips. “It’s fine. Having Mommy with me is enough.” I crumbled immediately, tears welling up, and I used the excuse of tidying the kitchen to hide them. My agreement to the divorce stemmed from pain, but mostly from guilt toward my daughter—guilt over not being able to give her a complete home. Yet, I knew that this brokenness was not my fault. After dropping Willow off at school, Rhys and I went to file the application. The cooling-off period was 30 days, after which we could finalize the divorce. Back in the car, I drew a star on the sticky note, marking the day. Divorce Countdown: 30 days. 3 I hesitated about whether to tell my parents immediately. I grew up in this city, and all my family and friends are here. My parents are retired doctors, and I am their only child. They are open-minded, but my mother’s blood pressure hasn’t been stable lately. I planned to delay it, but two days later, Rhys called. He rarely called; usually, he texted because I always responded instantly, which he considered efficient. But I had deleted his number last night. I answered. Rhys’s tone was normal. “Audrey, your mother just called. She made soup and wants us to come over for dinner.” “Your mom’s blood pressure is high… maybe we should wait until she’s more stable to tell her about the divorce. What time works for you? Also, next Friday is her birthday. I should still go with you.” His words instantly resolved my hesitation. I decided to be blunt. I replied, “That won’t be necessary.” Rhys said, “Don’t pretend to be strong. Your parents’ health is important.” I said coolly, “If you truly cared, you wouldn’t have cheated and filed for divorce right now. My mother has high blood pressure, but she’s not confused. I doubt she wants me to maintain a broken marriage.” “Rhys.” “What is it?” “Don’t contact me again. Visits with Willow will be according to the agreement—twice a month.” At this, Rhys’s tone turned cold. “Audrey, I’m saying this one more time: Willow is my daughter. She is my family…” “But you were the one who broke her home, weren’t you?” I heard Rhys loudly slam down the phone. I hung up immediately, taking a moment to calm my churning emotions. I drove straight to a home furnishings store. I bought new curtains, new bedding, and replaced every decorative item Rhys preferred in the house. Everything had to be delivered the same day. After the house was scrubbed clean and transformed, I drove to my parents’ house. My father saw I was alone and assumed Rhys was busy. I was silent for a moment, then softly said, “Dad.” He noticed the abnormality instantly, putting down his newspaper and watching me quietly. He then gently patted my back. I didn’t say anything, but my father understood my suppressed pain and hurt. I narrated the story as calmly as I could. My father handed me a warm washcloth to wipe my face. His voice was gentle. “It’s okay. Divorce isn’t shameful now. He didn’t treasure you; he betrayed you. It’s better to leave sooner rather than later.” “Audrey, I only have one request.” His eyes were slightly red as he squeezed my hand. “Since you’ve decided to separate, never look back, no matter what.” I nodded, choking up. “I won’t.” After dinner, my parents talked in the study for a long time. When my mother emerged, she pressed a thick check into my hand. She said today was a new beginning and worth celebrating. “May my precious daughter find happiness and freedom from now on.” I cried for a long time in the car after leaving my parents’ house. Before coming, I was so afraid of disappointing them. They have been fiercely devoted to each other their entire lives. When everyone questioned my choice to marry Rhys, they said they trusted me. Now that Rhys was successful and praised by everyone, they calmly supported my decision to divorce. I wiped my tears and looked at the note. Divorce Countdown: 28 days. 4 When I picked up Willow from school, she said her grandmother had called and missed her, asking if she could stay for a few days. She asked me to take her over. I paused, then took her home to pack her small backpack. She was ecstatic, saying her grandmother promised to teach her how to knit a scarf. After dropping her off, my father walked me to the car. “Audrey, try to be happy. Go out and clear your head.” As I got into the car, my father stood there watching me, reluctant to go inside. I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw how haggard and somber I looked. I returned home, packed a suitcase, and traveled for a week, quickly moving through several cities, witnessing many stories along the way. I returned looking much better. I checked the note. Divorce Countdown: 21 days. 5 I returned just in time for my mother’s birthday. They held a small gathering for close family and friends at a hotel. Many people asked about Rhys. Thankfully, Willow had a dance class and wasn’t with me. My parents evaded the questions. Just before the meal began, my mother went up to the small stage to give a toast. That’s when Rhys arrived. He wore a custom suit, carrying several gift boxes and a thick envelope. Friends and family greeted him. He waited for my mother to step down and handed her the envelope. “Mom, happy birthday.” My mother glanced at it coolly. “Mr. Caldwell, that’s too kind. We won’t accept your money. After all, you and Audrey are divorced. We wouldn’t want you to spend unnecessarily.” Rhys’s expression froze instantly. A stunned silence fell over the guests, but they quickly resumed their low-level chatter. He whispered, “We’re still in the cooling-off period…” My mother waved her hand. “It makes no difference.” She then turned to usher everyone to the tables. Rhys stood rigid, clutching the gift bag. My father politely returned the other presents. Rhys didn’t stay; he turned and left. Once he was gone, the friends and family, with mutual understanding, never mentioned Rhys again. No one would ask me about him in the future. It was a good sign. My heart gradually calmed. I was adapting, processing, and shedding the title of Mrs. Caldwell. I was simply Audrey now. Even the security guards and property management at our building, somehow catching wind of the news, stopped calling me “Sister-in-law,” opting for “Ms. Audrey” instead. I quickly immersed myself in work, planning to open a floral design studio. A suitable storefront was available for lease—the décor and location were perfect—so I signed the contract immediately. I kept the existing staff but planned to adjust the floral style, refresh the window displays, and tentatively open for a soft launch. After a full day working on the design plans at the shop, I prepared to head home. I looked at the sticky note in my car. Divorce Countdown: 15 days. 6 Just as I arrived home, a young woman from Rhys’s company named Lexi messaged me. She was cheerful, friendly, and well-liked. She asked if I was busy, and when I confirmed I was free, she immediately complained, asking if the rumors about Rhys and me divorcing were true. I didn’t deny it. She asked if it was because of Sienna. I didn’t answer, sensing Rhys might have made the affair public. Seeing my silence, Lexi wailed. “Oh my gosh, Ms. Audrey, it is because of that woman! No wonder you haven’t brought in your amazing pastries lately!” “I miss them so much!” When Rhys and I were together, I brought in desserts almost every week as a thank you. Some colleagues even joked they’d stay at the company forever just for my baking. “Don’t worry. I’m about to open a flower shop. You come visit, and I’ll send you home with a custom bouquet.” Lexi cheered and immediately asked for the address. I told her I’d send it later. She agreed, then continued her rant. “You have no idea about Sienna. Since you stopped coming, she went straight from assistant to Administrative Lead, and her attitude toward everyone has completely changed.” “She used to smile at everyone; now she nitpicks everything. She can’t even hide how smug she is. And she bought the exact same designer dress and bag as you! Everyone can see what she’s doing. What is Rhys even thinking?” She concluded that if it weren’t for her car payment, she’d quit; she couldn’t stand being under Sienna’s thumb. I pulled into the driveway and, seeing Lexi was still chatting, offered a few words of comfort before she reluctantly hung up. By now, I had no desire to know the details of Sienna’s actions. It wasn’t like the night Rhys confessed, when I obsessively wanted to know what kind of magic she possessed. I pushed the front door open and was surprised to see Rhys’s sneakers by the door. He was playing with Willow, building Legos. Willow saw me and shouted excitedly, “Mommy, come here! Play with us! Let’s see who can build faster!” Before, Rhys would always lift Willow and spin her around, then pull me into a hug. The house would be filled with laughter. Now, Rhys just cleared his throat and patted Willow’s head. “Mommy’s been busy and is tired. Maybe next time, sweetie?” “Okay. Daddy, when will you stop traveling?” Rhys thought for a moment and said softly, “As soon as possible,” before ushering Willow to the bathroom to wash up. After a long day at the flower shop, I had no energy to deal with him. I simply reminded him to lock the door when he left. He said he had promised Willow he would stay and sleep in her room tonight. I didn’t argue. I closed my bedroom door. I heard Rhys’s phone ring in the living room. He answered, repeating a few simple responses. Finally, his voice dropped, laced with slight impatience. “I told you I’m just here for Willow. What are you worried about? We’ve already signed the agreement! How many times do I have to explain—we’re sleeping in separate rooms!” Then I heard Rhys hang up abruptly. He came and knocked on my door. “Audrey, an urgent matter came up at the office. I have to leave. I’ll make time to come back for Willow tomorrow.” I didn’t open the door. I simply called back, “Fine.” The volume was just loud enough for Rhys to hear outside the door. Before he even reached the main gate, I received a text notification: $8,000 had been deposited into Willow’s account. The memo read: For new dresses with Mommy. Ignoring the text, I opened my laptop to work on the flower shop plan. However, a message popped up from an unknown number. No text, just a single smiley face emoji. The profile picture was a blurry photo of a beach; the background was blank, and there was no content on their feed. I didn’t even remember when I added this person. Checking the chat history, the last message was two years ago. As I was trying to recall, she sent a single sentence. [You must be very pleased with yourself, aren’t you?] The realization was instantaneous. I guessed this was Sienna. But Sienna had only been at the company for half a year. Why did she have my number from two years ago? Could it be that this account has been silently watching my daily life for almost two years? I sucked in a sharp breath. I replied with a question mark. The other side typed quickly. [No matter what you do to hold onto him, I can make him come back to me instantly.] It was her. Sienna. Did this mean Rhys had known Sienna for two years? Perhaps even longer? Sienna sent a photograph. I opened it and saw Rhys, shirtless, asleep in a hotel bed, a woman’s hand draped over his waist. The date stamp in the lower right corner read: 2023.5.20. I stared at the picture. My stomach churned, and a wave of nausea rose in my throat. I gagged violently into the waste bin. May 20, 2023. That was the day my mother was in the hospital for her major check-up. Rhys had been incredibly busy all of May, constantly traveling for conferences. To rush back and be with me, he compressed his schedule. He spent the entire night on the phone, gently reassuring me, telling me not to be afraid. Because I was anxious and couldn’t sleep, Rhys stayed on the line all night. He finally made it back in the early hours of May 20th and waited outside the exam room with me. Yet, on that same day, in the midst of his ‘busyness,’ he found time to be with Sienna. How did he manage to return and face me with such an easy conscience? Seeing I hadn’t responded, Sienna became bolder. She sent several more photos, all marked with dates. Our wedding anniversary. Willow’s birthday. Every single time, he first spent time with Sienna, then rushed back to be with us. An intense wave of pure disgust washed over me, drowning out the pain. Yes. I had initially thought Rhys was just tired of us after three months. Tired of our simple, cozy life. Or maybe he’d found “true love” in middle age. It turned out he’d been rotten for much longer. I splashed cold water on my face in the bathroom. I returned to my computer and saved every piece of evidence. I knew Sienna dared to send these because the $30 million settlement hadn’t been fully paid yet. Rhys had transferred $12 million over the past two weeks, but $18 million was still pending, which he said he needed time to arrange. The properties and cars were already in my name, unencumbered; since he’d agreed, there was no dispute. If I created a scene now, it would damage Rhys’s business. He would be furious, and I would lose more than I gained. Our daughter would also lose her father. When Rhys asked for the divorce, he might have expected me to break down and fight. But given my focus on maintaining composure, he knew I wouldn’t cause a scene at his office. What Sienna didn’t anticipate was how readily I agreed. I didn’t fight, and I didn’t even confront Rhys. This was outside her expectation. She knew that whoever caused a scene first would lose. But one thing was odd. Sienna had managed to stay by Rhys’s side and remain hidden for so long, even successfully playing the role of the harmless new assistant for six months. Why was she suddenly so impatient? In just two more weeks, Rhys and I would be completely separated. Yet, she had a meltdown just because Rhys came home once to spend the night with his daughter. I checked the time. It wasn’t too late. I called Lexi. She was having a late dinner with department colleagues and gossiping about Rhys and Sienna. They were exchanging information. I learned a few new things. Last week, Rhys had too much to drink at a corporate event and was driven home by a beautiful female CEO from a partner company. Since then, the CEO had privately asked Rhys out a few times. Coupled with my two-week absence from the office with my pastries, everyone was guessing Rhys and I had fought. They suspected he would soon be single again. Once the rumor spread, several ambitious young women began openly showing interest in Rhys. That’s when Sienna lost her composure. “Ms. Audrey, you’re so kind; I hate to tell you this, and please don’t be sad, but while Rhys is great, he’s a total jerk.” “You’ll definitely meet someone better! Wait, scratch that. Who needs men? Ms. Audrey, you’re going to crush it with your business, your flower shop will boom, and then you can find a man! Haha.” Lexi’s honesty made my low mood lift. “Thank you. I’m working on it.” I hung up, noting the time. It was past midnight. The reminder on the sticky note was stark. Divorce Countdown: 14 days.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387239”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel