A small boy knocked on my front door. “Dad, I’m your son. I traveled back seven years to warn you…” My first thought was to call 911—or maybe the closest psychiatric ward. The boy’s eyes welled up, and the tears fell. He tugged at the lapel of the bespoke tuxedo I hadn’t managed to change out of yet, the one still smelling of champagne and gardenia. “Dad, you absolutely cannot marry Mom.” His voice was a desperate, urgent whisper. “Getting close to her is getting close to disaster. In two weeks, you’ll be in a car crash. You’ll lose your ability to have children.” My hand froze midway to the phone. “She’ll marry you, but she’ll be cold. Distant. It’ll drive you into a severe depression, and eventually, you’ll take a bottle of sleeping pills and kill yourself.” He choked on the words. “The man she really loves is her executive assistant, Dominic Keller.” The name landed like a punch. “The reason she left the engagement party early today? Because Dominic’s dog got sick.” Owen’s small face was earnest. “If you don’t believe me, she’s at his place right now. Come with me. You’ll see the truth.” 1 Owen picked up a loose stone and hurled it hard against Dominic Keller’s door. I was hiding behind the thick shadow of an old oak tree, my spine pressed against the rough bark. My fingernails dug into the wood, splinters embedding themselves in my skin. I felt nothing. The moment the door opened, the blood in my veins solidified into ice. Seraphina Monroe. She was there, just as he said. She wore a silk robe, and her hair was still damp from a shower. Hours ago, she had received a phone call, said one word—crisis—and abandoned me mid-reception. She left me alone to field the pitying stares and the snide gossip of hundreds of guests. Two hours later, she texted to say she was handling an urgent, company-wide emergency. The “urgent emergency” was apparently standing in her assistant’s apartment, in a bathrobe, to nurse his sick dog. My heart seized up, a painful, spasming clench. Sera looked out, saw nothing, but noticed the stone on the ground. She frowned, annoyed. “Sera? Who is it?” Dominic’s voice called from inside, warm and intimate. “No one. Probably just some kid pulling a prank.” Dominic walked out, cradling a tiny, fluffy Maltese named Truffle. He was wearing low-slung drawstring sweatpants that exposed the waistband of his… designer briefs. I crumpled against the tree trunk. The sudden, intense cold of betrayal washed over me. I recognized those briefs. I had seen an identical pair in my own laundry machine at home. Sera had told me they were a gift for me. Now, the sickening reality hit: they were Dominic’s. She and he had been together, and he had forgotten them, leaving her to pawn them off on me. The visceral wave of nausea was so strong it stole my breath. I bent over, dry-heaving, nothing coming up but bile and pain. Tears and snot streamed down my face. A cold wind cut through me, making my jaw tremble uncontrollably. Dominic shivered, drawing his shoulders inward. Seraphina immediately wrapped her arms around him, her voice melting into a tenderness she had never offered me. “The wind’s picking up. Let’s go inside.” “Mmm.” Dominic’s sound was a low, needy purr. “Truffle’s appetite is gone, but he only wants the food you make.” Sera’s mouth curved into a soft, easy smile. “Okay.” My mind shattered. She can cook. Last month, when I was suffering through a brutal case of the flu, I had begged her, pleaded with her to just make me a simple bowl of homemade chicken soup. Her face had darkened. “I’m the CEO of the Monroe Group, Eli. I don’t belong in a kitchen. For a man? It would be a professional embarrassment.” Now I understood. Her food, her care—it was good enough for a dog. It was good enough for her lover. But it was never good enough for me. The door slammed shut. Bang. The world was silent. I was a huddled, broken mess in the black shadow of the tree. Owen wrapped his small arms tightly around my waist. “Don’t cry, Dad. She’s not worth it.” Seraphina didn’t come home that night. I didn’t sleep. Owen lay beside me in the bed, his small hand gripping mine like an anchor, even as he drifted off. I looked at his face, a heartbreaking fusion of Sera’s sharp cheekbones and my own softer features. The complexity of my emotions—grief, shock, fury, and a terrifying, sudden love for this stranger—was overwhelming. I sent Sera a simple breakup text. She didn’t reply. She didn’t appear. She vanished for a week. I finally drove to the Monroe Group offices to confront her. The receptionist informed me she was out of town. “On a business trip. With Mr. Keller. They travel together often,” she stressed, deliberately. Sera was a known workaholic, and these sudden disappearances were common. “Every time she vanishes, she’s with him, isn’t she?” I asked Owen, my voice ragged. His bright eyes dimmed, and he nodded. “I saw a photo album in Mom’s study,” he whispered. “It was full of pictures of her and Dominic traveling the world together…” A bitter laugh escaped me. I fought back the stinging burn behind my eyes. Sera had always hated it when I showed up at the office or disturbed her when she was “busy.” Over the years, we’d established a silent, cold agreement: when she disappeared, I would send no texts, make no calls, and send no one to check on her. But while I was worrying if she was eating or sleeping properly—she was off chasing the Northern Lights with Dominic, staring up at the vast, white sky, pretending to be on a journey toward forever. I had given her my trust. She had used that trust to forge the weapons she repeatedly plunged into my heart. I stumbled out of the office, my steps weak and unsteady. Behind me, I heard the disdainful whispers of a few employees. “Seriously? Thinks she’s the one, coming here to check up on the boss.” “Ms. Monroe and Mr. Keller are the real couple. He’s the home-wrecker, using his parents’ death to force her hand.” “He blackmailed her into marriage? Pathetic.” I froze. Everything felt ridiculously absurd. How could her employees—my employees, since the company was technically mine—believe I was the homewrecker? Unless Sera and Dominic had acted like a couple, flaunting their closeness, her silence about the “forced marriage” story had tacitly endorsed it. I packed every single one of Seraphina’s belongings and had them delivered directly to Dominic Keller’s apartment. That night, she finally returned. With Dominic. And his dog. “I’ve already fired those gossiping employees, Eli. Dominic and I were on an emergency trip. We worked for days straight, barely stopping.” She took my hand. “It’s my bad habit. I’ll change. I promise to text you, no matter how busy I am. Okay?” Her face was etched with fatigue, her eyes bloodshot. She looked genuinely exhausted, making me feel like the irrational one. I snatched my hand away, my voice flat and cold. “Don’t bother explaining. We’re over.” Sera sighed, an expression of weary annoyance. “Don’t say things you don’t mean. I know you’re just mad about the engagement party. I’ll overlook the ‘breakup’ text. I guarantee nothing like that will happen on the wedding day.” Watching her solemn promise, I felt a detached wave of disgust. Dominic chimed in, stepping closer. “Eli, Sera brought me here specifically to explain. It really was all work. She slept less than an hour a night just so she could rush back to you. Look, she’s lost weight.” As he spoke, a flash of silver around his neck caught my eye. I lunged forward, grabbed his collar, and yanked the chain out. It was a vintage silver locket. Seraphina’s mother’s last possession, meant for her future son-in-law. On the day of the engagement, I had asked her to let me wear it. She had kissed my forehead. “I want to put it on you myself, on our wedding day.” Now, it rested on Dominic Keller’s throat. Dominic went red, flustered and panicked. He dropped to his knees. “I lost my mind, Eli! I saw it on the table and just… picked it up.” A flimsy, transparent lie. Sera never took that locket off—not even to shower. Sera knew I wouldn’t believe it. The pretense dropped. The look she gave me was dangerously cold. “Eli. Why did you have to tear the curtain down?” she asked, her voice low. “Pretending not to know was easier for everyone. For you. For me. Wasn’t it?” “You don’t have to play these games of push and pull. I will marry you, regardless.” She pulled Dominic up. In front of me, she wiped the tears from his eyes, her gaze filled with heart-wrenching pity. The years of repressed pain and humiliation surged, overwhelming all reason. I stepped forward and slapped her, hard. Then I spun and hit Dominic with the back of my hand. Truffle yelped and leaped from Dominic’s arms, latching its teeth onto my calf. I sucked in a sharp breath, but the pain only fueled my rage. I kicked the dog away. Truffle let out a strangled, agonizing cry. “Truffle!” Dominic shrieked, his voice utterly broken. The next second, a hard, brutal impact struck my gut. Seraphina’s eyes were blazing with a hatred so intense I thought she might tear me apart. “Elias Maxwell, how could you be so cruel? It’s just a pet!” I stared back at her, biting down on my lip as cold sweat poured from my face. My stomach was on fire. Seraphina frowned. “Stop being dramatic. It was just a kick.” It was just a kick. But she was a national champion black belt. “Dad!” Owen burst from the bedroom, his eyes wide with fear. Seraphina’s focus snapped to him. She grabbed Owen’s collar, violently yanking him closer. “Who is this? Why is he calling you Dad?” I lunged at her, ignoring the throbbing agony in my abdomen, and sank my teeth into her arm. She cried out and released Owen. I pulled him into my arms. The sight seemed to pierce her. Her eyes turned scarlet, her teeth grinding. “Eli, you betrayed me?” Before she could press for answers, Dominic let out a piercing scream. “Sera! Truffle isn’t moving!” She spun instantly toward Dominic and the dog. Before she left, she shot me a look of pure menace. “If anything happens to Truffle, I swear, I will destroy you.” Watching her walk away—to a dog—I felt the last of my strength drain away. I collapsed onto the floor. Owen was sobbing hysterically. “Dad, don’t sleep! Don’t leave Owen again!” I tried to reach up and wipe his tears, but my arm wouldn’t move. Before I lost consciousness, I saw Owen pick up my phone, expertly dial 911, and rattle off the address. I woke up in a sterile hospital bed. After the doctor examined me, he handed me a document. It was a prenatal scan. Seraphina’s. She was pregnant. She’d been at the clinic two weeks ago and forgotten to take the results. The person who accompanied her was Dominic Keller. I, the biological father, was finding out about my child’s existence this way. I looked at the tiny shadow on the scan, an image that in a few months would become the adorable boy standing before me. Owen, however, was terrified. “Dad, you absolutely cannot marry Mom for my sake. I would rather disappear from this world than see you suffer again.” He buried his face in my chest, crying. “Please, Dad. Don’t keep me.” I held him, my own chest tight with grief and confusion. In the few days we’d been together, he had become a piece of me. I couldn’t let go. Suddenly, Seraphina’s private security detail burst into the room. They forcefully dragged Owen and me to a high-end pet clinic. Truffle lay stiffly on a metallic table. A bodyguard kicked the back of my knee, forcing me to fall to the cold floor. The sight of me sent Dominic into a frenzy. He lunged, clawing and slapping my face. “You killed Truffle!” “He was sick already, I could have had a few more days! You hastened his death! I’m going to kill you!” He yanked my hair, slapped me, and gouged my face with his nails. Seraphina watched, a flicker of pain in her eyes—for Dominic—but she did nothing to intervene. “Let Dom vent,” she said, cold and hard. “It’s your own doing.” Owen, furious, kicked his small legs. “Bad man! Don’t hurt my Dad!” “Dad?” Dominic grabbed Owen’s face, turning it from side to side. He let out a chilling, maniacal laugh. “Sera, look! He’s a spitting image of Elias. He must be that bastard child from eight years ago!” Seraphina and I both went pale. Eight years ago, on Sera’s birthday, was the darkest day of my life. I had nearly been assaulted. When I dragged my broken body home, the mansion was engulfed in flames. My parents, thinking I was trapped inside, rushed into the inferno. They saved Seraphina, but died themselves. Sera later nearly beat my attacker to death. I told her the lunatic hadn’t succeeded. She had said she believed me. But her reaction now proved she never had. My vision was red. I glared at Sera, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “He is not!” He looks exactly like you, too, Seraphina! Don’t you see it? Sera tightened her fists, taking a deep, ragged breath. “It doesn’t matter either way…” Then, she violently grabbed Owen by the collar, marched to a window, slid it open, and dangled him outside. I screamed, horrified. “Seraphina, what are you doing?” Her face was expressionless, vacant. “Truffle needs a proper burial. Your parents’ plot has the best Feng Shui. I’m going to put Truffle there.” “I’ll find a new, adequate plot for your parents. This is what you owe Truffle.” My breath hitched. I trembled with rage. “Seraphina, are you even human? My parents died because of you—!” “I know!” Sera snapped, cutting me off, her eyes hardening. “Stop reminding me. I agreed to marry you, and I haven’t celebrated a birthday in eight years. That’s enough penance!” She looked down at the boy in her grasp. “Now you choose. Him, or your parents’ peace.” She started counting down. “Three… Two…” “The child! I choose the child!” I shrieked, my heart tearing. Mom, Dad, your son is sorry! Sera pursed her lips, clearly dissatisfied with my choice. She threw Owen onto the floor like garbage. Then, she gently scooped the deceased Maltese into her arms. She cast one last cold glance at Owen and me before walking away, never looking back. Dominic stood over me, his lips curled into a smug, victorious smile. “That lunatic woman eight years ago? I set that up.” “You bastard!” I roared, struggling against the guards. Dominic leaned down, his sharp nail digging into my cheek. “And another secret… I was in the mansion the day of the fire.” My eyes were scarlet. “You caused it?” “Not me!” Dominic cackled, maniacally. “It was close. Your mother was unlucky, a cabinet fell on her. Your father could have escaped, but he insisted on going back for her.” He leaned in closer. “And Sera? She only wanted to save me. She told me, ‘Hurry, let them go, don’t worry about them…’” “The screams of your parents… So sad…” Each word was a razor-sharp blade, systematically dismantling me. I screamed, a guttural, agonizing sound of pure grief. A wrenching pain tore through my chest, and I violently spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. I woke up in the hospital again. Owen was there, his eyes swollen and red. He threw himself into my arms. “Dad, let’s not have Mom. Don’t have Mom!” I held him tight. “Okay. We won’t.” A few days later, Seraphina called. Her tone was a cold, non-negotiable notification. “Truffle is being buried tomorrow. Come and take your parents’ ashes.” My voice was ice. “Fine.” There was a silence on the line. After a long moment, her voice softened, laced with a plea. “After Truffle’s service is over, we’ll go pick out our wedding attire, okay?” I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound, and hung up. The next day, at the cemetery gates, my legs felt like lead. Owen held my hand. “Dad, tomorrow is the day of the car crash. Let’s leave here. Please?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes. We’ll take Grandma and Grandpa with us and leave.” But just then, a car swerved out of nowhere, not slowing, and charged straight for us. “No! The crash isn’t supposed to be today!” Owen screamed, his eyes wide with horror. He shoved me hard. “Dad!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386853”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was caught in a tight embrace with my cousin, who looked like a total heartthrob in his new haircut, and my husband’s colleague saw it. He didn’t just see it; he secretly took a photo and texted it straight to my husband. I knew absolutely none of this. A few days later, my cousin messaged me. Rory: Sis! Liam offered me a million dollars to leave you! Rory: Should I take it or tell him to add a zero? 1 “Where are you going?” Liam walked out of his study, impeccably dressed as always, just as I was slipping on my sneakers. “None of your business, Mr. Stone.” My tone was deliberately clipped. Liam and I were in the middle of a cold war. He just stood there, watching me head out the door without another word. See? The stubborn man had zero intention of ending this ridiculous standoff. Before we were married, I was completely obsessed with Liam’s “aloof intellectual” vibe—the kind of high-powered corporate lawyer who was always the calmest person in the room. It took me three months of practically haunting his law firm to get him to date me, and we were married a year later. But over time, the flaw in the “aloof intellectual” model became obvious. Liam is a lawyer, and he maintains absolute, clinical composure at all times—even when we’re arguing. The fight started late last night. I was padding barefoot into the pantry to grab a jumbo bowl of spicy Deep-Dish Pizza (with extra sausage and jalapeños, naturally), and I turned around to find Liam standing in the doorway of the master bedroom, holding my plush slippers. “The floor is cold, put these on. It’s too late for anything heavy or spicy. If you’re truly hungry, I can warm up some milk.” Who can refuse a loaded deep-dish pizza at midnight? I tried to charm my way out of it. “Babe, I just really have a craving for this one thing.” Liam was unmoved. He bent down to slip my slippers onto my feet while smoothly confiscating the pizza box from my hands. “No, Audrey. You’ll be up all night with heartburn and indigestion.” “I don’t mind staying up a little late! Please, just let me have this one small indulgence.” I’m an artist, used to a more free-spirited life, and while I knew Liam meant well, that occasional indulgence was a genuine comfort. “Absolutely not.” The perpetual refusal. My temper flared. “Liam Stone!” “Yes?” “I’m mad at you!” “I hear that.” “You’re sleeping in the study tonight!” “Fine. But the pizza is still off-limits.” “…” This is how every fight with Liam went. He never yelled, never argued, but he was relentlessly insistent on his principles. Once I cooled down, I’d usually say a few sweet words, and he’d act like nothing happened, and we’d be fine. If I hadn’t needed to leave today, we would have probably made up by lunch. But I really had plans. I’d promised my Uncle I would take my cousin for university orientation. 2 “Audrey! Over here!” I barely recognized Rory when I picked him up. The person standing in front of me had a sharp, short haircut, was dressed totally androgynously, and was nearly six feet tall. If the features hadn’t looked vaguely familiar, I never would have believed this was my soft, bubbly little cousin. “It’s been so long, Sis!” Rory gave me a strong hug, and that familiar, easy warmth finally clicked. “I haven’t seen you in three or four years! I barely recognized you. When did you get so tall?” Rory’s whole look had changed, and even his voice sounded deeper, more neutral. He chuckled. “I started taking on commissioned artwork for graphic novels over the breaks to earn money, so I started dressing the part. I’m already five-foot-ten, and these boots add another couple of inches.” “You into graphic novels? I can hook you up with some free art commissions, you know.” I shook my head. “That’s not my thing, but I’m glad you love it. Let’s get you checked in.” “Perfect. And, Sis, can you help me find a place near campus? It’s hard to do client work from the dorms on weekends. Don’t worry, I cleared it with Dad, he already agreed.” “Deal. Once we’re done with orientation, we’ll go look at apartments.” The school paperwork was easy, but finding an apartment was a headache. We were still looking when the sun went down. I took Rory out to eat. “Don’t stress about the apartment. I’ll take you out again tomorrow.” Rory agreed. “Sounds good. It’s been ages, right? I was in boarding school for most of high school, and I even missed your wedding. I still haven’t met Liam! Dad says he’s gorgeous.” The thought of Liam’s face—that chiseled, slightly severe look—made me involuntarily smile. “He is handsome. I’ll introduce you two soon.” Just as I was about to drop Rory back at his dorm, Liam called. “Still busy? When are you coming home for dinner?” Crap. I had forgotten to tell him I wouldn’t be home for dinner. “I already ate. You go ahead. I have a few things left to do, but I’ll be back soon.” Liam was silent for a moment before he simply said, “Okay.” After helping Rory get his bed set up in his tiny dorm room, I left the university around nine o’clock. My phone showed two missed calls from Liam. I was about to call him back when a text from him popped up. Liam: Be home. Those two short words felt strangely aggressive. Ominous, even. I’m probably overthinking it. Audrey: On my way. 3 It was ten o’clock when I walked in the door. Liam was still up, sitting on the sofa reading a leather-bound book. “I’m home.” I gave him a quick greeting and headed straight for the bedroom to take off my makeup. I should know better than to wear a full face while doing manual labor—between hunting for apartments and making a bed, my foundation was practically gone. I felt completely drained, so after a shower, I went straight for my enormous bed. Just as I was about to drift off, a soft knock came at the door. “Am I still sleeping in the study tonight?” My groggy brain took a moment to recall that we were technically still fighting. Honestly, I wasn’t mad anymore—just a little prideful. Forget it, I’ll deal with it tomorrow. “Sleep wherever you want.” I rolled over and pulled the duvet over my head. Just as I was about to enter a deep state of unconsciousness, the master bedroom door opened and then quietly closed. Liam was going to shower. If he’s sleeping here, that means we’re good. Relieved, I let myself fall into a profound sleep. I wasn’t asleep for long before I was awakened by a kiss. Liam’s mouth tasted like the fresh scent of his body wash. I reached up and tangled my fingers in his hair, finding it damp and slightly cool. Why hadn’t he blow-dried his hair? Liam tried to deepen the intimacy, but a sudden flash of exhaustion made me stop him, pressing my hand against his chest. “I’m so tired. Not tonight. I have plans early tomorrow.” Liam had a very specific rhythm in bed, and I usually couldn’t keep up. The next day, I’d feel completely wiped. I didn’t want to meet my cousin looking like I’d been “drained of life force.” Liam was usually very respectful on this front. As long as things hadn’t fully started, he’d stop the moment I asked. But tonight, he didn’t respond. He didn’t move. It wasn’t until I was just about to fall back asleep that he finally whispered, “Fine,” and sat up, turning away from me. That night, I slept soundly. Beside me, Liam lay awake, staring at his phone screen, his eyes dark and indecipherable. The photo on the screen showed me, Audrey Hale, locked in a familiar, intimate embrace with a short-haired young man. It was the photo his colleague, Dean Miller, had sent him. Dean Miller: Boss! Emergency! I just got back from my business trip, and I literally stepped out of the station to see your wife hugging some kid! Dean Miller: [Image.jpg] 4 When I woke up the next morning, Liam was already fully dressed. “You have work today?” Liam nodded. “Dean’s back from his trip. I need to go into the firm and review his case files.” “Breakfast is on the counter. I’ll try to be back before lunch.” I knew Dean Miller; he was Liam’s colleague and specialized in, ironically, high-profile, messy divorce settlements. I had planned to ask Liam to join me to meet Rory, but since he had real work, we’d postpone. “Don’t worry about lunch. I’m heading out too. Just focus on your work, don’t worry about me.” I figured we wouldn’t finish apartment hunting by noon, so there was no point in him rushing home to make me lunch. I thought I was being considerate. Liam’s face darkened slightly. “Audrey, is there… anything you want to tell me?” Yes, there was. I needed to find a time for them to meet my cousin. Liam was standing in the foyer in his perfectly tailored suit. A few beads of sweat were visible on his forehead, which was strange. He looked anxious. “Yes, there’s something, but it’s not urgent. You go deal with your work, and we can talk tonight.” Liam left. I ate breakfast and headed out. Rory and I spent most of the day looking at places and finally found a good one-bedroom apartment. The building had decent security, the price was reasonable, and it was close to campus. I called my Uncle to let him know Rory was settled. My Uncle thanked me profusely. “Thank you, Audrey. Knowing Snow is in the same city as you, I feel completely at ease.” “Oh, one more thing, dear. Your older cousin is getting divorced. The woman already sent him a divorce protocol. Could you ask your lawyer husband to take a look and see if there are any issues?” My older cousin had only been married a year. I was surprised they were already splitting up. They were family, so helping was a no-brainer. I took a quick look at the documents. The names of the parties were omitted, but it stated that the wife was willing to waive all claims to assets and accept a clean break because she was the one who was unfaithful. I initially thought about sending it straight to Liam, but I remembered he’d mentioned Dean Miller was back. Liam mostly handled criminal cases; Dean was the divorce expert. It made more sense to ask Dean for help. Audrey: Dean, can you do me a huge favor? Can you look over this divorce protocol from the husband’s perspective and see if there are any red flags? Dean replied almost instantly. Dean Miller: Audrey, can I show this to the Boss? Audrey: Why not? I was going to show it to him tonight anyway. He just prefers to read hard copies. I was planning to print it out to give to Liam. After I sent that last message, Dean stopped replying. I assumed he was busy reviewing the protocol. I hummed a tune and drove home. Meanwhile, in the law firm, Dean Miller respectfully placed his phone in front of Liam, barely daring to breathe. As Liam’s face grew darker and darker, Dean nervously tried to lighten the mood. “Boss, at least she’s being decent about it. Walking away with nothing is better than those cheaters who try to get half the man’s assets, right?” Liam handed the phone back to Dean, his voice returning to its usual, cool control. “If she’s walking away with nothing, it only means I offer her nothing she truly wants.” 5 Liam came home shortly after I did. “You’re home so early! I have something I need to talk to you about. Wait, let me just grab—” I was about to retrieve the printed divorce protocol when Liam grabbed my hand. “Audrey, let’s go shopping.” “Huh?” I was confused, but he was already pulling me toward the foyer to change shoes. “I finally have a free afternoon. Come with me. We can talk about whatever you have later, okay?” Normally, I was the one dragging Liam out to shop. This was the first time he had ever spontaneously invited me. “Okay, fine. We can eat out tonight.” He said we were going shopping, but Liam just kept buying me things. We started with clothes. I was having fun trying things on. “This set looks good, but that one was pretty too, Liam.” Liam: “Buy both.” After clothes, he dragged me to a high-end watch boutique. I was trying on a timepiece half-heartedly. “It’s nice, sure, but I don’t really wear watches.” I glanced at the price tag—five digits. I immediately tried to take it off, but Liam was already at the register. “It looks great on you. We’ll take this one.” I couldn’t even protest before his card was swiped. The next stop was a jewelry store. Given the current price of gold, I was reluctant to even look. Liam, however, was completely unruffled, calmly asking me to try on one bracelet and necklace after another. Then, as I watched in shock, he picked out two substantial pieces. “These two. Wrap them up.” “Wait, Liam! We can’t just buy these on a whim!” I tried to stop him. Liam: “I can afford it. Charge it.” When we got married, Liam transferred a significant portion of his savings into a shared account. After that, we mostly kept our finances separate. He topped up the joint account regularly, but I had no idea how much he actually made. Clearly, it was a lot. Liam finished the purchase and took my hand. “That car you drive is what you bought right out of college. Do you want to upgrade?” I was completely dumbfounded. “Did you win the lottery?” Liam smiled slightly. “I just closed a big case. Besides, this is simply the financial reality of a successful man. Choosing a partner isn’t just about looks, Audrey. You have to consider the total portfolio.” 6 If I was understanding him correctly, Liam was flexing his wealth on me. Why? He had always been the low-key, understated type. At my insistence, Liam postponed the plan to buy me a new car. That evening, I was lying in bed scrolling through photos of college guys for inspiration. My studio partner wanted me to paint a portrait of a handsome young man with an energetic, fresh vibe, so I was desperately seeking inspiration. When Liam came out of the bathroom after his shower, I couldn’t help but share. “Babe, there’s just a natural, vibrant energy that comes with being young, you know? Just looking at them makes me feel hopeful.” The words had barely left my mouth when Liam was on me, kissing me hard. “Mmm… wait… I have to…” Liam didn’t listen. His kiss was desperate, consuming. Tonight, he was especially rough, and I couldn’t get a coherent sentence out. When it was over, I was on the verge of collapsing into sleep, but Liam was still nibbling my ear. “Audrey,” his voice was husky. “My age is not an issue.” … I woke up the next morning sore and aching. Liam had already gone to work. I dragged myself to my studio, but after working for a while, I still lacked inspiration. I decided I needed to go somewhere lively to clear my head. A place full of youthful energy. A theme park, maybe. Liam: What are you doing? I hadn’t even left the house when he texted me. Audrey: Nothing much. Thinking about going out. Liam: Do you want me to join you? Audrey: Aren’t you busy? I can find someone else. Rory was probably free. Liam immediately replied: Liam: I’m coming home now to pick you up. On the way to the theme park, I made small talk with Liam. “I don’t think we’ve been to a theme park since we started dating. You don’t like this kind of place, do you? I always figured you preferred quiet bookstores and relaxed settings.” We stopped at a red light, and Liam turned to look at me. “No, I don’t dislike them. I’ll go anywhere you want to go.” “Audrey, maybe I’ve been too rigid or controlling in the past. I’ll change. Let’s make this right, okay?” Liam sounded so earnest and sincere. I was touched. If the seatbelt hadn’t been restraining me, I would have leaped across the console to kiss him. “Of course! Baby, I love you so much!” A visible, genuine smile finally spread across Liam’s face. 7 Liam went on every single high-octane ride with me, giving me a thrill I hadn’t felt in years. “Babe, that was amazing!” Liam bought me a soft-serve cone. “You clearly love these kinds of outings. Was our life together before too boring for you?” Liam lived a very disciplined life. Our dates were usually dinner, a movie, and maybe a quiet bookstore or boutique. “Not at all. I was perfectly happy with the dates you liked, too.” “Then let’s try more of the things you like going forward, okay?” “Definitely!” That ice cream was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted. Liam was true to his word. Whenever he had a spare moment, he took me out: skiing, skydiving, bungee jumping. All the extreme sports I’d only ever dreamed of trying. Thanks to the abundance of new stimuli, my painting was progressing smoothly. I was practically glued to Liam when I wasn’t working. He even stopped caring when I ate the loaded deep-dish pizza at midnight. He would simply watch me eat, then drag me back to the bedroom for a “workout,” claiming it was to work off the late-night indulgence. After a few times, I stopped eating the pizza, too. My life was so full and consuming that I hadn’t been able to visit Rory in a long time. He’d reached out a few times, but I always had to cancel, and eventually, the messages stopped. Unbeknownst to me, Liam and Dean Miller’s text thread was still active. Dean Miller: Boss, I think the Marriage Rescue Plan is working. Audrey hasn’t brought up the divorce protocol again. Liam: Yes. It’s been relatively smooth. That college kid has contacted her a few times, but she’s turned him down. Dean Miller: Oh, that reminds me! I saw that kid the other day. He was dressed to the nines, walking around the mall with another girl. Looks like he moved on. Liam: Whatever. As long as he stops harassing Audrey. Dean Miller: …Boss, I really admire your attitude. Not getting angry about any of this shows incredible character. Liam: Audrey is naive, easily influenced. It’s those outside elements corrupting her judgment. Dean Miller: …You’re the Boss. Whatever you say. 8 My life had been so perfect lately that I felt like I was forgetting something important. It wasn’t until my Uncle called me and gently brought up my cousin’s divorce that I remembered: I had completely forgotten about the divorce protocol. The file was in my handbag, which I’d hung up near the foyer. I’d told myself that if I saw it the next day, I’d remember. But… where was the file? Did it grow wings and fly away? Whatever. I’ll ask Liam about it later. First, let me check with Dean. Audrey: Dean, any word on that divorce protocol I sent you? Have you found any issues? Dean didn’t reply immediately. I figured he must be in a meeting. In reality, Dean sprinted straight into Liam’s office the moment he got the message. “Oh my God, Boss! What do we do? Audrey just asked me about the divorce protocol again! I thought you two had made up!” Liam’s eyebrow twitched. “Tell her you haven’t finished reviewing it yet. Stall her. I’m going home now.” “Got it.” … Dean Miller: Audrey, that divorce protocol is extremely complicated. I need a couple more days to look it over carefully. Don’t worry, I’m on it. Why? Dean was the best divorce lawyer in the city. Why did one simple protocol take half a month to review? I replied “Okay,” but I decided I should just ask Liam for help. My Uncle was waiting for an answer. But where in the world was that file? When Liam got home, I was squatting by the foyer closet, convinced the file had slipped behind a cabinet. “Oh! You’re home so early today?” Liam was sweating, clearly having rushed home. He didn’t answer my question. “What are you looking for?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386852”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The zipper snagged as Mom, Vivian, forced the last sweater into her travel bag. She tugged at it twice, hard, and when it wouldn’t budge, she simply let go of the pull-tab and sank onto the floor. I watched her from the crack in my bedroom door, afraid to make a sound. Dad, Ethan, was in the living room, his voice low and tight on the phone. “Where is she going to go? No money, barely any friends. Just let her be, she’ll come back when she’s cooled off.” He’s wrong. I whispered the protest in my mind. Mom wasn’t coming back. Her eyes had told me so. Vivian finally stood up, not looking again at the bulging, half-zipped bag. She walked to my doorway and crouched down, bringing her gaze level with mine. “Aubrey,” she called me, her voice a little rough, but gentle. “Mommy has to go on a trip.” 1 I stared at the tiny mole on the bridge of her nose. “How long?” She paused, then reached out to touch my cheek. Her fingertips were cool. “It might… be a long time. You have to be a good girl, Aubrey. Listen to Dad, and eat all your dinner, okay?” I nodded. I knew what a “long trip” meant. My friend Mandy’s mom upstairs went on a “long trip” and never returned. Mandy said her mom didn’t want her anymore. Would Mom not want me, either? The thought was a cold, slick snake that suddenly slithered into my heart and coiled there. She leaned closer and kissed my forehead. It was so light, like a feather landing. Then she stood up, grabbed the travel bag, and walked toward the front door without a backward glance. The zipper was still broken, gaping like a black, silent mockery. Dad hung up the phone and stood in the center of the living room, watching her. He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to stop her. His face was drawn and pale in the hallway light, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. The door clicked shut with a soft finality. The house fell into an enormous silence. It was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator compressor humming, and the frantic thump-thump-thump of my own heart, beating like a small drum. Dad stood there for a moment, then walked to the sofa and dropped onto it heavily, burying his face in his hands. My eyes fell on the coffee table. A single butterscotch candy lay there, wrapped in a pretty gold and orange foil. Mom had given it to me that morning. She’d said: When life gets bitter, you eat a piece of candy. I walked over, carefully peeled back the wrapper, and put the orange-yellow square in my mouth. It was sweet, cloyingly sweet. But the sweetness, once it reached my throat, morphed into a strange, inexplicable ache that made me want to cry. I smoothed out the wrinkled foil, holding it up to the lamp. The wrapper refracted the light into vibrant, tiny, fragile stars. Mom was gone. She left with a broken zipper and what I knew was a broken heart. My world, from that moment on, was fundamentally different. 2 Sierra arrived on the third day after Mom left. She carried a large bag of fresh groceries and put them in the refrigerator like she knew exactly where everything belonged. She moved like she already owned the place. “Goodness, look at this mess,” she muttered, frowning. Her eyes swept over Dad’s shirt tossed on the sofa and my uncollected blocks on the rug. “A grown man trying to raise a kid alone—it just doesn’t work.” Dad scratched his head awkwardly. “We’re making do.” Sierra didn’t respond. She tied on an apron and began straightening up. She was quick and efficient, and soon the living room looked immaculate. Then she disappeared into the kitchen, where the clatter of pots and pans began. I sat at the dining table, watching her back. Sierra was nothing like Mom. Vivian always cooked slowly, sometimes staring out the window and letting something scorch on the stove. Sierra wouldn’t; her every movement was precise and productive. When dinner was served—three dishes and a soup—it was colorful, fragrant, and perfectly presented. “Aubrey, eat up,” Sierra said, putting a generous slice of pot roast onto my plate with a bright smile. “You’re too skinny. Aunt Sierra will come make you good food all the time now, okay?” I didn’t answer, just kept my head down, picking at my rice. The pot roast was tender, practically melting in my mouth. It tasted objectively better than Mom’s cooking. But I still felt that something was missing. Dad was eating with gusto, praising her enthusiastically. “Sierra, your cooking is incredible. Vivian… sigh… she could never get it to taste like this.” Sierra gave him a playful, scolding look. “Vivian had bigger things on her mind. She had a whole world waiting for her, Ethan.” Dad just snorted and didn’t say anything else. My heart sank. A bigger world? Was it bigger than me and Dad? After dinner, Sierra went to do the dishes. Dad sat on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. I heard her light humming mixed in with the sound of the running water. She sounded… happy. When she finished, Sierra took off her apron and walked over to sit next to Dad. She sat so close, almost touching him. “Ethan, look at your beard. How many days since you shaved? You’re a mess.” She reached out, as if to lightly touch his chin. Dad instinctively leaned back a little. Sierra’s hand froze mid-air. Her smile flickered for a second, then she casually pulled her hand back. “By the way, my brother has a project—it sounds promising. You should take a look. Might be a good opportunity.” Dad’s interest perked up. “Oh? What kind of project?” They leaned in close, talking in hushed tones. Dad’s expression was focused. He only used to look that focused when he was looking at Mom. A heavy feeling settled in my chest, like a ball of wet cotton. I stood up, wanting to retreat to my room. As I walked past them, Sierra suddenly stopped me. “Aubrey, is your homework done? If not, go do it. Adults have business to discuss, and kids shouldn’t eavesdrop.” Her tone was natural, radiating a self-assured familiarity, as if she were already a permanent fixture with the right to organize my life. Dad looked up. “Listen to Sierra, go do your homework.” I looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, and held a strange expression I couldn’t decipher, something like relief. He didn’t look at me for long, quickly lowering his head to resume talking with Sierra. I silently turned and walked back to my room. I closed the door, shutting out the low murmuring from the living room. My homework lay open on the desk, but I couldn’t focus on a single word. I picked up the wrinkled candy wrapper from the afternoon and carefully smoothed it out, folding it into a tiny, eight-pointed star. The foil star glimmered faintly under the desk lamp. Mom, where are you right now? What is your world like? 3 Sierra started coming over more and more often. She even began doing Dad’s laundry. I saw her once, taking his pajamas off the clothesline, folding them neatly, and putting them into his dresser. When she saw me, she smiled. “Aubrey, home from school? Your dad is so careless about the house. He can’t manage without someone looking after him.” I didn’t say anything. I remembered Mom saying underwear should be hand-washed, never thrown into the washing machine with outerwear. Mom always hand-washed everything. Dad didn’t seem to notice or care. He actually seemed to be enjoying the attention. His shirts were crisp, his socks weren’t scattered everywhere, and there was a bit more laughter on his face. The kind of relaxed smile I hadn’t seen since Mom left. The house no longer smelled of burnt vegetables. The floors were always spotless, and the fridge was stocked with food. Everything, on the surface, was getting better. But I felt that our home was becoming more and more alien. The air was now thick with Sierra’s light jasmine perfume, masking the faint, warm, familiar scent Mom had left behind. Sierra took over my life, too. She checked my assignments, circling mistakes with a red pen. “Aubrey, this word is wrong.” “This problem needs a different approach. Let Aunt Sierra show you.” She bought me new clothes—pink, with lace—not the comfortable blue and athletic styles I preferred. “A girl should dress pretty, right?” She set time limits for my TV watching and rationed my snacks. “This is for your own good, Aubrey. You need to be sensible.” Dad always backed her up: “Listen to Sierra.” He grew increasingly reliant on her. He discussed work worries and daily annoyances with her. They spent more and more time together. Sometimes Sierra stayed late, in the study with Dad, “talking business.” The study door would be closed, and I could hear their low voices, occasionally punctuated by Sierra’s clear, bright laugh. I sat in the living room, hugging my knees, staring at that closed door. The cold snake in my heart began to wriggle again. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Passing the study, I heard Sierra’s voice, laced with a hint of petulance. “Her leaving, it really did clear the path for us, didn’t it, Ethan? Don’t you think this was fate?” Dad’s reply was mumbled. “Don’t say things like that… the kid is still here…” “Aubrey will have to accept it eventually. Are you still holding out hope that Vivian will come back?” Silence followed. My heart lodged itself in my throat. Then I heard Dad say, very softly, “She won’t.” The word was quiet, yet it landed on my chest like a boulder. She won’t come back. Mom won’t come back. And Dad… Dad didn’t want her back, either. I tiptoed back to my room, climbed into bed, and pulled the blanket over my head. In the dark, I found the candy wrapper star under my pillow and clenched it tightly in my fist, the sharp edges digging painfully into my palm. 4 That weekend, Sierra suggested a picnic. “Let’s take Aubrey out. It’s not good for her to be cooped up in the house all the time.” Dad agreed. We drove to a park on the city outskirts. The weather was beautiful, sunny and bright, and the lawns were dotted with families picnicking. Sierra spread out a nice checkered blanket and arranged homemade sandwiches, fruit, and pastries. She even brought a small kite. “Aubrey, look what Aunt Sierra brought! Want to fly a kite?” She held the kite up, her smile dazzling, and beckoned to me. I stood still. Dad nudged me. “Go on, Aubrey. Sierra’s talking to you.” I walked over slowly. Sierra put the string spool in my hand, showing me how to let out the line and how to run. Her palm was soft and smelled of hand lotion. The kite wobbled, then soared up into the sky. It was a colorful butterfly. “It’s flying! You’re so good, Aubrey!” Sierra clapped and cheered like a kid herself. Dad sat on the blanket, watching us, a relaxed smile on his face. The scene looked exactly like a happy, harmonious family. But the kite string was taut, tethering the butterfly that flew higher and higher, like it was ready to snap and disappear into the blue at any moment. Just like Mom. Tired from running, I went back to the blanket. Sierra handed me a bottle of juice, then picked up a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and handed it naturally to Dad. “Have some water.” Her movement was fluid and intimate. Dad took a drink. I watched them, and suddenly I spoke. “Dad, Mom always used to open your water bottles for you too.” Dad froze, the bottle mid-air. Sierra’s smile faded slightly. The atmosphere grew instantly awkward. “Did she?” Dad lowered the bottle, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t remember.” He did remember. Mom had small hands and sometimes struggled with the cap. She would pout and hand the bottle to him to help. Dad would laugh, call her his “little idiot,” and open it easily. Sometimes, he’d pretend he couldn’t open it either, just to watch her fret, then burst out laughing. Those moments were perfectly clear in my head. How could he forget? Sierra picked up a sandwich and offered it to me. “Aubrey, try Aunt Sierra’s tuna salad sandwich. Your dad says it’s delicious.” I looked at the sandwich but didn’t take it. “Mom said I can’t have tuna. I’m allergic,” I said softly. It was true. When I was little, I’d eaten tuna once and broken out in hives that were so itchy and painful I had to get shots for days. After that, Mom banned all tuna products from the house. Dad’s face shifted. He had clearly forgotten that too. Sierra’s hand stayed suspended in the air. Her smile finally vanished completely. She pulled her hand back, putting the sandwich on the plate. Her voice was flat. “Oh, really? Well, have something else then.” The rest of the picnic was subdued. The kite eventually got stuck high up in a tree, beyond reach. Sierra said it was fine, we’d just buy a new one next time. But I knew there wouldn’t be a next time. On the drive home, I sat in the back, watching the scenery rush by the window. Dad drove in focused silence. Sierra was in the passenger seat, looking down at her phone. They didn’t exchange a single word. I secretly pulled the candy wrapper star from my pocket. Sunlight streamed through the car window, illuminating the star with a faint, determined glow. Mom, I didn’t eat the tuna. I remember your words. I remember you, too. I never forgot. 5 My first birthday since Mom left arrived. Dad asked me how I wanted to celebrate. I said I wanted cake. I didn’t really crave cake. I just remembered that every year, Mom would buy me a beautiful buttercream cake with small candles. She would hold me as we blew out the candles, then tell me to make a wish. She said that a birthday wish doesn’t come true if you say it out loud, so you have to keep it in your heart. My wish had always been the same: I wish Mom, Dad, and I could be together forever. But that wish never came true. Dad bought a huge cake, piled high with fruit and chocolate. It was bigger and flashier than any Mom had ever bought. Sierra came over, too. She gave me a brand-new dress as a birthday gift. “Thank you, Sierra,” I said, taking the dress and offering a polite thank you. Dad seemed pleased by my “sensibility.” He lit the candles and turned off the lights. “Aubrey, make a wish!” he prompted. Sierra smiled, watching me. The candlelight flickered, reflecting in their faces. I closed my eyes. Mom, where are you? Do you remember it’s my birthday? I whispered the question silently in my heart, then blew out the candles. The lights came back on. Dad began to cut the cake. He cut me a huge slice with my favorite strawberries on top. I took my fork, dug out a small piece, and put it in my mouth. The frosting was too sweet, the strawberries too tart. The mixed flavors were strange. “Is it good?” Dad asked, looking expectant. I nodded. “It’s good.” Dad smiled, clearly relieved. He cut a slice for Sierra, too. She ate daintily, complimenting the flavor. The phone rang just then. Dad walked over to answer it. I saw his expression change the moment he looked at the caller ID. He walked onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. My heart started to race. I had a strange premonition. Sierra also noticed his unusual behavior. She put down her fork, watching the balcony with a slight crease in her brow. The sound from the balcony was muffled, but I caught a few words. “…No need… she’s fine… just take care of yourself…” Who was it? Was it Mom? The fork slipped from my hand and clattered onto the plate. Sierra turned to look at me, her expression complicated. A moment later, Dad came back in. His expression was back to normal, even carrying a hint of relief. “Telemarketer,” he said casually, sitting down and picking up his fork. He was lying. I knew it. That look, that tone—it was absolutely not the way someone reacts to a cold call. It was Mom. It had to be Mom. She remembered my birthday. She called. But Dad didn’t want me to know. He rejected Mom. He said, “No need.” No need for what? No need to see me? No need to send wishes? Or… no need to contact me ever again? The cake in my mouth suddenly turned unbearably bitter, impossible to swallow. My stomach twisted violently. I put down my fork. “Dad, I’m full.” “Already? You barely ate anything,” Dad said, surprised. “Yeah, I’m just not hungry.” I slid off the chair. “I think I’ll go rest in my room.” I walked into my room, closed the door, and slid down the wood, collapsing onto the floor. Tears sprang up without warning, falling in fat drops. I bit down hard on my lip to stop myself from sobbing out loud. In my pocket, I squeezed the candy wrapper star until it was nearly embedded in my skin. Mom. Mom. I called her name over and over in my head. 6 I noticed Dad started going into the office for “overtime” on weekends. He’d be wearing a crisp, pressed shirt, his hair neatly combed, smelling faintly of cologne. Before leaving, he’d instruct me, “Aubrey, Dad has to go into the office. You be a good girl at home alone. Do your homework, no more than an hour of screen time. Sierra will come over and make you lunch.” I’d nod obediently. But I knew he wasn’t going to work. One time, I secretly followed him. He didn’t go to the office tower. Instead, he went to a coffee shop downtown. Sierra was waiting for him there. They greeted each other with a natural, brief hug, then walked inside, holding hands. Another time, they went to the movies. Like a couple on a date, Sierra carried a huge bucket of popcorn, and Dad held two sodas. Sierra was beaming, and Dad looked at her with a soft tenderness I hadn’t seen in a long time. I didn’t follow them anymore. The snake in my heart was no longer wriggling; it just lay there, cold and rigid. I went back home and sat in the empty living room. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting dappled shadows on the floor. The air was silent, save for the ticking of the wall clock’s second hand. I took out a photo of Mom and gently traced her face with my finger. In the picture, she was smiling so beautifully, her eyes crinkling like crescent moons. But where was she now? Was she doing okay? Did she… miss me? When Dad came home that evening, he brought me a new pencil case. “Like it? I passed a store and thought you’d love it.” It was a beautiful pencil case, double-layered, with a combination lock and a popular cartoon print. If it had been before, I would have jumped up and down with joy. Now, I just took it and mumbled, “Thank you, Dad.” Dad patted my head. “Good girl, Aubrey.” A faint scent of cologne still lingered on his hand. That smell, mixed with the light jasmine from Sierra, created a strange, suffocating odor. I began to dream of Mom frequently. In the dreams, she was always crying. She was walking alone on unfamiliar streets, her back thin and lonely. I wanted to run and hug her, but my feet were pinned to the ground. I wanted to scream her name, but no sound would come out of my throat. I could only watch her walk farther and farther away until she disappeared into the mist. I would wake up, my face drenched in tears. My pillow was wet, and so was my heart. I grew quieter and quieter. At school, I stopped playing with the other kids, sitting at my desk and staring into space during recess. My teacher noticed and spoke to me several times, asking if something was wrong at home. I shook my head, saying nothing. Family business. How could I tell a stranger? Dad and Sierra were immersed in their “new” life and didn’t seem to notice my change. Or perhaps they did notice, but didn’t care. Dad thought I was just being “sensible,” not clingy like before. Sierra figured that kids just need time to adjust. Until that day, when I overheard their argument. I was already asleep that night when I was awakened by raised voices in the living room. It was Sierra’s voice, sharper than usual. “When is she leaving? It’s been long enough! Are we going to keep doing this forever?” Dad’s voice was soothing. “Lower your voice! Aubrey’s sleeping! Where is she going to go? She’s my daughter!” “Daughter? Does she even see me as a person? Haven’t I been good enough to her? Look at her face—she glowers all the time, like I owe her a million dollars! Ethan, I’ve given up so much for you! I didn’t get involved with you to be a free babysitter who has to put up with your daughter’s attitude!” “Sierra, don’t be like this… Aubrey’s just a kid, she needs time…” “Time, time! How much time are you going to give her? A year? Two years? Ten years? I can’t wait that long! Ethan, I’m laying it out now: it’s either her or me! One of us goes!” “You… you’re putting me on the spot!” “No, you are! Tell me, who are you choosing?” The argument ended abruptly. I lay in bed, chilled to the bone. My limbs felt soaked in ice water, unable to move. It’s either her or me. Sierra was forcing Dad to choose. Choose me, or choose her. Who would Dad choose? I couldn’t bring myself to think about it. Fear instantly overwhelmed me like a tidal wave. I curled into a ball, squeezing my eyes shut, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing. But the phrase repeated itself like a curse in my mind. It’s either her or me. 7 My midterms were a disaster. My grades plummeted. The teacher called Dad in for a conference. On the way home, Dad’s face was a stone mask. The moment we stepped inside, he threw my backpack onto the sofa and barked at me, “Aubrey Miller! What is wrong with you? Why are your grades so bad? What are you doing in class?” I kept my head down, staring at the tips of my shoes, saying nothing. “Answer me!” Dad’s voice rose by an octave. “Are you just playing games all day? Watching TV? On your phone? How many times have I told you to study? Are you even listening to a word I say?” I remained silent. My throat felt stuffed with cotton. “You…” Dad raised his hand, fueled by anger. I instinctively closed my eyes and flinched. The expected slap didn’t come. I opened my eyes and saw Dad’s hand frozen mid-air, his face a mixture of rage and profound disappointment. He eventually dropped his hand and sank onto the sofa in defeat. “Aubrey,” his voice was exhausted. “I’m busy with work, and I’m tired. Can you please… please just stop worrying me?” I looked at him. He looked genuinely drained, with heavy dark circles under his eyes and, I thought, a few more gray hairs at his temples. He was no longer the all-powerful Dad of my memory, the one who used to hoist me high onto his shoulders. But Dad, did you know that I was tired too? My heart was so tired. Sierra walked out of the kitchen then. She had been listening. “Ethan, don’t get upset. Kids mess up sometimes, it’s normal.” She came over, sat next to Dad, and gently rubbed his back, as if calming an agitated beast. Then she looked at me, her tone gentle but her eyes holding a critical gaze. “Aubrey, tell your father—is something bothering you? Is there something on your mind? You can talk to Sierra, I can help.” I looked at her, at the hand resting on Dad’s back, and at her confident “lady of the house” posture. The emotions that had been bottled up for too long, like a lit fuse, finally reached the end. I lifted my head, looked straight at Dad, and asked, one word at a time: “Dad, did you abandon Mom?” “Are you abandoning me too?” Dad froze. The smile instantly evaporated from Sierra’s face. The living room was plunged into absolute silence. Time seemed to stop. I could hear my own shallow, quick breaths and see the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Dad’s lips moved, as if he wanted to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide with shock. Sierra jumped up, her voice shrill. “Aubrey! What are you saying! Who put those words in your mouth?! It must be Vivian! She’s gone, but her ghost is still here! She’s coaching the child to hate us!” I did not let her distract me. My eyes stayed locked on Dad. “Dad,” my voice was trembling, but I tried to keep it steady. “The one who called that day—it was Mom, wasn’t it? Why wouldn’t you let me take the call? Did you tell Mom not to contact me again?” Dad’s face went instantly pale. “How did… how did you know?” “I heard you.” I said. “I also know you and Sierra weren’t working overtime. You were on dates. Going to the movies, getting coffee.” I turned my gaze to Sierra, watching her face drain of color. “Sierra, that cardigan you’re wearing is my mom’s. Those slippers on your feet are my mom’s. Your perfume is covering up my mom’s scent. You cook better food than my mom did. You take better care of Dad than my mom did.” I spoke in a rush, pouring out everything I had seen, heard, and felt over the past months. It was a dam breaking. “But this is my and Mom and Dad’s home. It’s not your home.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386851”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The company had a bizarre rule. The last person to leave at night had to shout: “I’m turning off the lights!” Then, they had to wait for ten minutes before they could actually flip the switch and go. If they didn’t, they would simply vanish. My sister, Skylar, had scoffed at the rule. Until one day, she worked until two in the morning, the only one left in the office. Anxious to get home, she flipped the switch and left immediately, skipping the ten-minute wait. She has been gone ever since. 1 My first day at DeepCode, Debbie from HR was leading me to the fingerprint scanner, her voice dropping to a serious, almost conspiratorial tone. “Listen up, Sloane. Your department burns the midnight oil a lot. You absolutely have to remember this: if you’re the last one out, you must shout, ‘I’m turning off the lights!’ Wait ten minutes, and only then turn them off and leave. Got it? Don’t, under any circumstances, just flip the switch and walk out. Never.” I placed my thumb on the screen, letting a slight, neutral smile touch my lips. “Why, Debbie? What is it, some kind of ghost or something?” Debbie froze. She stiffened as if a sudden shock had jolted her. She glanced around us with a complex expression, then leaned in, lowering her voice further. “Don’t ask. Just do it. Unless you want to disappear without a trace, follow the rules. I’m telling you this for your own good.” Most people would hear talk like that—supernatural nonsense—and just chuckle, dismissing it as office eccentricity. But I knew she was telling the truth. My sister, Skylar, had vanished two weeks ago. She’d mentioned the company’s strange rule in a text message, noting her firm position as a realist, a staunch materialist who didn’t believe in any of it. The night it happened, she texted me again. She was working late, the last one in the building. It was dark, she was exhausted, and she was desperate to go home. She didn’t want to wait the extra ten minutes. She flipped the switch. After that, the thread went silent. 2 My parents were practically incoherent with grief and fear over Sky. They called the police the next day. The surveillance footage was pulled immediately. The only problem? The feed from the moment Sky turned off the lights simply disappeared. No tampering, no corruption record—just a clean, unexplained gap. In the ten days since, the police had found zero trace of her life. No activity on her bank accounts, credit cards, or ID. Sky was gone, wiped clean, as if she had been erased from existence. My parents, broken and out of options, finally called me back to the States. I’m the older sister, the one they’d always viewed as the strange anomaly growing up, the one who was emotionally flat. This was the true measure of their desperation: accepting help from the child they never quite understood. I accepted. If the police couldn’t find a trace, the most logical step was to breach the system from the inside. I submitted my resume, aced the interviews, and smoothly entered the company, DeepCode. Since Debbie was clearly unwilling to talk, I decided to try others. Owen, a programmer in the Tech department, worked late every single day. For at least twenty nights a month, he was the one who turned off the lights last. He had to know something. As the new hire, I bought a round of coffees and pastries, casually settling down next to him. He was stiff and quiet, but polite. I slid a latte onto his desk, made a little small talk, then brought up the rule. “Hey, Owen. Debbie told me about the company’s ‘taboo.’ Is it real? I heard you’re the one who always closes up. Do you actually do the whole shout-and-wait thing? Every time?” Owen’s face instantly changed. His eyes fixed straight ahead, as if staring at something utterly terrifying. He mumbled, “I didn’t say anything, I didn’t say anything…” Suddenly, he started to tremble violently, clutching his left chest with his right hand, his knuckles white. His face turned ashen, a clammy sweat immediately beaded on his forehead. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but no sound came out. His body began to slide down the back of his chair, his eyes losing focus. Crap. He’s having a heart attack. I grabbed his shoulder and asked loudly, “Where’s your medicine? Your pills?” He was still desperately gripping his chest, but managed to shake his head. “It warned me. I can’t talk about it… absolutely can’t talk about it…” Before I could react further, Owen slipped into unconsciousness. The company called an ambulance and had him rushed to the hospital. That afternoon, Debbie brought the news: Owen was in bad shape and wouldn’t be returning to the office anytime soon. 3 Owen’s reaction was deeply unsettling. He definitely knew something. That weekend, I took some fruit to the hospital to visit him, but a nurse stopped me at the door. The patient needed complete rest and couldn’t be stimulated. I sat on a bench in the hallway, unsure of what to do next. “Sloane? Is that really you?” I looked up. It was Reid, a friend from my childhood. It turned out Reid was Owen’s attending physician. He told me Owen suffered from a congenital heart defect, a history of arterial switch surgery, and had an implanted cardioverter-defibrillator (ICD) installed. That’s why, despite the sudden arrhythmia, his heart had quickly returned to normal function. “Physically, all his vitals are fine,” Reid explained. “The strange thing is, he just won’t wake up.” I considered this. “Could it be a problem with his brain? Isn’t that what a persistent vegetative state is?” Reid shook his head. “It’s not quite like that. The head of Neurology ran high-resolution MRIs and EEGs. All brain functions are normal. But his neural activity is abnormally hyper-active. Further neuro-functional imaging shows a strong, functional neural inhibition in the key networks responsible for consciousness—especially between the Default Mode Network and the prefrontal cortex.” I stared at him, my expression blank. “English, please.” Reid paused, then gave an embarrassed laugh. “It means he can wake up. But his own brain is actively suppressing his wakefulness. Or, to put it another way, he is resisting consciousness.” I looked intently at Reid. What was Owen so afraid of that he refused to wake up? Before he collapsed, he’d whispered: “It warned me. I can’t talk about it…” What exactly was this “It”? Owen was terrified, terrified enough to trigger a near-fatal cardiac event. That meant he must have witnessed the consequences of breaking the rule. And if he witnessed the consequences, he must have made the same mistake as my sister. But why did my sister vanish completely, while Owen was still able to go back to work? What was the difference between them? 4 “Hey! Sloane? Hello?” Reid waved a hand in front of my face, noticing I was lost in thought. I focused on him. “Seriously, I can’t believe you’re back in the country, and that you ended up at DeepCode.” I tilted my head. “Why? You know the company?” Reid subtly raised an eyebrow. “Sort of. I know they have a really weird workplace taboo.” I nodded. “Yeah. My sister disappeared because of it. I’m investigating.” Reid’s eyes widened in shock. “What? Sky is missing?” I didn’t reply. He stared at me silently for a moment, then suddenly reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Sloane, something about this feels really off. I have a terrible gut feeling. You should stop looking into it.” I shook my head. “You know me. I’ve never been normal. I’m emotionally flat by nature; I didn’t fit in as a kid, and my parents barely tolerated me. Sky was the only one who was ever decent to me. I can’t just let her go.” I looked at Reid. “What is it? You’re a doctor. You’re not afraid of some cheesy urban legend, are you?” He froze for a moment. “What did you just say?” “I said you’re a doctor, why are you afraid of an urban legend? What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?” Reid’s brows knitted into a tight knot. He stood there, seemingly lost in his own head, until I finally tapped his shoulder, bringing him back to reality. “Sloane, I just remembered something. I have to go verify it. Wait for me. I promise I’ll bring Sky back.” My heart sank. “What did you find? I’m coming with you.” He gave me a strange look. “No. I have to go alone. Trust me.” Before I could protest, he stood up and walked away, pulling his hospital badge off his neck as he went. It was odd that Reid knew so much about my company. But seeing his determination, I didn’t stop him. What I didn’t expect was that the next day, when I called him, there was no answer. I rushed to Reid’s home. His mother looked confused. “He hasn’t been home. He must be pulling a shift at the hospital. He does that often.” I raced to the hospital, but still couldn’t find him. Reid was missing, too.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386850”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Veronica Albright was trying to game the system, and for three years, she’d been running her campaign on me, believing I was the designated male lead. She sent me wire transfers, cash, and even bought me a condo. I took it all with a poker face. Inside my head, I heard her frustration: [Seriously? Still stuck at zero? Maybe I’m not giving him enough.] I pretended I didn’t know a thing. So, the money kept coming. Until one day, she finally figured out she had the wrong man. 1 My childhood was the kind of poor that made me pray every night: “If only money would rain from the sky.” Then I met Veronica. And it actually did. 2 I started at Albright Global on the same day as another guy. His name was Jasper Evans. Mine was Rhys Easton. The names were close enough to be confusing on a filing cabinet. Jasper had bright eyes and a clean-cut, decent look. But he was energetic and aggressive, always volunteering for the toughest assignments. He was the perfect, hard-working, go-getter protagonist from a commercial fiction novel. 3 The last day of that month, the company CEO, Veronica Albright, suddenly called the new interns to her office. Jasper and I stood opposite each other, staring at the intimidating presence behind the obsidian desk. Veronica leaned back in her black leather chair, her gaze sharp, radiating an intense, suffocating pressure. Was this the face I saw plastered on Forbes and Fortune? Noble, ice-cold, and terrifyingly brilliant. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes flickered between us before finally resting on me. Just as I was preparing for the worst—a spectacular firing—I heard her inner monologue: [Shoot. I forgot the protagonist’s name. Something J.E.?] [Well, the one on the right is definitely hotter. That has to be the main character. And he’s described as being ridiculously poor, which checks all the boxes. Yes. It’s him.] I was the one on the right. On the last day of July, I was diagnosed as the male lead in a CEO romance story, purely because of my alarming lack of funds. 4 For a moment, I convinced myself I was hallucinating. But Veronica’s bizarre internal commentary kept getting louder and clearer. I clenched my jaw, reciting the periodic table in my mind, trying to anchor myself in reality. Fake. All fake. This is what happens when I skip lunch. Veronica’s intense aura softened, and she adopted a casual, effortless pose. “Only one of you is going to be kept on.” “Rhys Easton, the one on the right. You’re staying. The other can go process his termination papers.” I gaped at her. Her inner voice was edged with triumph: [That should definitely give him a great first impression of my power.] No, wait. If you kept both of us, I’d be impressed too! This just makes the company look cheap. I glanced over at Jasper. His eyes were wide with disbelief, glistening with frustrated tears. I hesitated, then decided to test the waters. “Jasper’s work is… as strong as mine, maybe stronger.” If the mind-reading was real, Jasper and I could both stay. If it was fake, I might as well quit anyway; my brain was clearly broken. Veronica’s delicate brows pinched together. My heart hitched. The next second, her expression relaxed. “Fine. You can both stay.” Holy hell. I think I just got the real-deal mind-reading power. 5 As we left Veronica’s office, Jasper bit out, his voice shaking, “Don’t you dare be smug, Rhys. I’ll make you pay for this favor someday.” Then he stormed off. That. That bizarre, dramatic exit. Case closed. Jasper was the real protagonist. And I was just a particularly impoverished, slightly-too-handsome side character. Damn it. 6 I had planned to wait until my contract was finalized before telling Veronica the truth. The severance package would be much more substantial then. The very next morning, Veronica called me back to her office to announce a raise. I opened my mouth to politely decline. She lowered her gaze, her eyes glinting. “Double your salary.” “Yes, thank you, Veronica,” I said immediately. I couldn’t even imagine the size of the severance check I was building toward. 7 To prove he was superior, Jasper threw himself into work, practically living at the office. I sighed at him. “Jasper, you’ve become everything I ever hated.” He took a savage bite of his bagel, his expression feral. “Just wait! I’ll make everyone see who the real talent is!” Wow. Such noble protagonist talk. He would never know the only reason he lost to me was that my childhood home was basically a dirt floor. Next time, buddy. I promise I’ll let you win. 8 Three days later, Veronica called me in again. Her dark eyes were heavy, fixed on me without speaking. Not this again… Her inner voice provided the commentary: [Why hasn’t the progress bar moved? I’ve seen him twice now. Falling in love with me should be as simple as breathing, shouldn’t it?] Ha. Unhinged. After a long pause, Veronica said smoothly, “Rhys, your aptitude is strong. My current Executive Assistant is stepping down; you will take over his duties.” Her inner thoughts, however, were entirely different: [The first two meetings were too brief; my impression wasn’t deep enough. Being my secretary—seeing me every day—how can he not fall madly in love?] Sister, dial it back. You sound unhinged. But I replied, “Absolutely, Ms. Albright. Thank you for the opportunity.” Hesitation is disrespecting the sanctity of an inflated severance package. The guy currently occupying the desk next to hers looked like his world had just ended. Poor guy. He looked like he hadn’t heard he was ‘stepping down.’ Don’t worry, buddy. You’ll get your corner office back when I cash out. 9 When Jasper learned I was the CEO’s new right-hand man, his world also collapsed. He pointed a trembling finger at me, then let out a primal scream and ran, sobbing. Did I just give the protagonist a mental breakdown? But it was fine. Once the truth came out, Jasper would be able to step on my neck and give me a good, satisfying telling-off. So dramatic. I can’t wait. 10 After becoming Veronica’s secretary, I was actually busy! So busy I barely had time to look up, let alone look at her. Ma’am, what kind of ridiculously convoluted, backwards strategy are you even running? I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Ms. Albright, how long until my probationary period is officially over?” Veronica looked up from a contract. “A month.” I groaned inwardly. That long? I have to be a corporate mule for a whole month more! But Veronica’s mind saw it differently: [He’s so eager to officially be my secretary!] I saw a subtle smile play on her lips, and my brain shriveled into a walnut. The next second, her expression turned dark: [Why is the progress bar still stuck at zero?!] She squinted at me. Heh. Beats me. 11 Two weeks later, staring at the immovable progress bar, Veronica fell into a deep contemplation. Then she asked, “What do you… like?” My mouth opened before my brain engaged. “Money.” The air in the office went solid. I’ve exposed myself as the greedy opportunist I was! The non-protagonist! Veronica’s inner voice was filled with a strange awe: [What a unique male lead! Not like the others who pretend to hate money!] Wait, that works? 12 Veronica wired me a substantial amount of money. I held up a trembling hand, trying to protest (but not really). Her brow furrowed: [As expected, the male lead can’t accept this kind of handout. He only values money he earns himself.] I quickly switched to a beatific smile. “Please make sure to officially mark it as a ‘Voluntary Gift’ in the ledger.” Veronica: “?” 13 Considering this money was acquired at Jasper’s expense, I decided to be generous and begrudgingly share a third of it with him. Jasper threw the check back in my face, his eyes flashing with righteous, furious tears. “Don’t you dare insult me with your dirty money!” “Keep your filthy money away from me!” Wow. That’s a classic line! That’s the perfect reaction of the real hero! A quick mental calculation: Veronica will give this money to the male lead, but the male lead will never take it. A moral obligation, really. To relieve the rich of their excess capital. My righteous mission had never felt stronger. Heh heh. Fleece the capitalist. It’s the least I can do. 14 After the transfer, Veronica’s scrutiny intensified: [Progress is still stalled. Was it too little?] [Or is the love of money just a front? Does he secretly despise the cash?] Ha. Keep guessing. You won’t get a word out of me. 15 The day my contract was finalized, I let out a deep breath. I was ready to knock on her door, tender my resignation, and spill the beans. I knocked. Veronica opened the door and handed me a gift box containing a lavish, elegant silver designer suit. “Put this on. You’re accompanying me to the Sterling Foundation Gala tonight.” No, I’m quitting! I’m leaving! I refuse to be complicit! I was about to deliver my grand, principled rejection when I caught the glint of the luxury Patek Philippe watch nestled in the satin lining. “Understood, Ms. Albright. I’ll change immediately.” Veronica: “…” [It was definitely too little last time.] 16 It was my first time attending such a high-society event. I immediately secured three glasses of wine and four desserts. I also managed to discreetly tuck five designer swag bags into the nine-dollar tote bag I’d bought on Etsy. I planned to post them all on eBay as soon as I got home. Heh heh. Financial victory. A few people around me offered polite, snide snickers. I ignored them. I’d probably never see them again, so why bother caring? Veronica finished a conversation and turned, her expression clouding over at the sight of me. Her eyebrows were higher than the surrounding mountains. I braced myself for the dressing-down—the lecture about disgracing her. Instead, she simply turned and acquired three desserts and a glass of wine for herself. She handed them to me, a hint of wry resignation in her voice. “You really like these, don’t you?” “Have a few more.” The snickers around us immediately ceased. The crisscrossing lights cast soft, fragmented beams on Veronica’s profile. For a moment, her fierce, cool features softened, becoming warm and gentle. I froze for a second, then quickly looked away. “I did. But I’m kind of sick of them now.” “You eat them.” 17 On the drive back, I tried again. “I really shouldn’t continue in this position.” Veronica, whose eyes were slightly flushed from the single glass of wine, glanced over. “Reason.” I opened my mouth, ready to tell her: I’m not the hero, I’m not the person you’re supposed to be targeting, and you need to fire me. No sound came out. Oh, no. I tried to type it on my phone and text it to her. The message never went through, and she didn’t seem to get anything. Damn the universe. I’m literally muzzled. Veronica tugged at the silk scarf around her neck. “Is the salary too low?” “I’ll double it again.” My phone chimed with a notification: Transfer received: One Million Dollars. “That’s this quarter’s bonus.” I stared at the balance on my screen. Protagonist? How could I possibly not be the protagonist? Today, if the literal King of the Universe said I wasn’t the male lead, I would tell him he was mistaken. I had transcended greed and achieved financial enlightenment. It’s not a matter of having no conscience. It’s that the money is just… too much. 18 I genuinely thought that as long as the progress bar stayed frozen, Veronica would eventually realize she was targeting the wrong person. But she was slow. So slow. Three years! Three whole years! She kept sending me money, buying me property, and promoting me. At this rate, I’d be sitting in her CEO chair before she realized her mistake. Yet, Veronica’s inner voice remained consistent: [Was it too little? Does he dislike this Patek? Is the penthouse in the wrong neighborhood?] It was impossible to imagine what kind of bottomless, materialistic monster she thought I was. It wasn’t until the annual company gala when Jasper, who was acting as the MC, stepped onto the stage. I heard the whispers around me: “Jasper really looks like the hero of a novel.” “He always spouts those classic lines, you know? And that earnest, driven energy.” “He even has the ‘perpetually struggling’ vibe.” “Too bad the CEO ignores him and spoils Rhys Easton instead. He has the hero’s setup but not the hero’s destiny.” Sitting next to me, Veronica suddenly went rigid. She looked at the stage, at Jasper’s determined, glittering eyes, then at me, slouching lazily beside her. Without a word, she crushed the delicate wine glass in her hand. Her voice was cold, lethal, and spaced out: “R-h-y-s. E-a-s-t-o-n.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386849”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My sister, Eliza, was gone. Shaking, I called my CEO wife’s executive assistant. I needed to pre-pay $800 from our family fund for Eliza’s cheapest, thin-pine coffin. On the other end, the assistant, Marcus, gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “Mr. Ethan, is this you again? We just approved fifty thousand last month. Are you trying to print money off the Foundation’s account?” “My sister, she—” Before I could finish, my wife’s voice cut in, cold and razor-sharp: “Ethan, your recklessness has to have a limit. I transferred over thirty million dollars total. That wasn’t enough for your sister’s medical bills?” The sudden thrum in my skull felt like an electric shock. Thirty million? The funds her male secretary approved for me—the maximum I ever received in a month was five hundred dollars. During the worst months, it was sometimes as low as forty cents. My heart went instantly numb, but I couldn’t find a single word left to explain. I dropped my cell phone onto the leather seat of the sleek, dark Maserati GranTurismo that had been waiting patiently outside my house for eight months. The woman inside, Anya, smiled gently at me. I found my courage and spoke. “You said if I signed the divorce papers, you’d give me an unlimited black card… was that true?” 1 Anya looked at me with tender eyes. “Of course it’s true, Ethan.” She handed me a pristine black card—no numbers, just a minimalist symbol. “The PIN is your birthday.” I took the card. The cold, smooth weight finally anchored my trembling fingers. “I need to… handle my sister’s funeral arrangements first.” “I’ll go with you.” She lightly squeezed my hand, her voice steady and certain. Twenty minutes later, I stood outside Victoria Ashworth’s executive office. The massive soundproof door couldn’t fully muffle the sound of gasping and heavy breathing that made my cheeks flush hot. I didn’t hesitate. I drew a deep breath and raised my hand to knock. “Enter.” Victoria’s voice was clipped, tainted with the annoyance of interruption. I pushed the door open. Though I’d steeled myself, the sight still stabbed my eyes. Her assistant, Marcus, was scrambling up from between her legs, zipping his trousers while frantically trying to smooth his wrinkled dress shirt. Victoria’s face was still flushed, and she was deliberately, slowly smoothing the fitted fabric of her pencil skirt over her thighs. She frowned when she saw it was me. Every anniversary, I used to throw a fit because she wouldn’t come home. This time, she likely assumed the same childish tantrum. I calmed my breathing and slid a document across her desk. “Sign this.” Victoria glanced at the cover, scoffed, and assumed it was another agreement for a handout. “How much do you want this time?” When I didn’t speak, didn’t beg her to come home like I used to, she uncharacteristically offered more. “It’s our anniversary today. Sorry, I forgot to buy you a gift. Take this card and go buy yourself something you like.” She tossed a subsidiary card—a corporate platinum—toward me. I didn’t reach for it. I just repeated: “Sign. It.” Finally, true impatience crossed her face. She picked up the file, flipped straight to the final page, and, without reading a single word of the contents, signed her full name with a flourish. “Victoria Ashworth.” Two words. They ended our ten-year marriage. Watching her sign, my heart felt simultaneously hollowed out and completely unburdened, as if I’d shed a suit of armor I hadn’t realized I was wearing. She remembered the anniversary. But she didn’t know that from this day forward, it was two anniversaries: the day our marriage ended, and the day my sister, Eliza, died. Marcus, who had been sneering at me, assuming I was there for money, caught sight of the words “Divorce Settlement Agreement” on the document. The contempt in his eyes instantly morphed into barely contained elation. I picked up the signed papers and turned to leave. “Allow me to see you out, Mr. Ethan.” Marcus rushed to follow. Outside the office, he yanked me into the privacy of a narrow corridor. His voice was a blend of gloating and insult. “Good riddance.” He pulled a thick, crumpled stack of bills from his pocket and threw them in my face with a sharp smack. “Take the money. Buy your dead sister a coffin. Consider it a tip from me.” Dead sister! What right did this son of a bitch have to invoke her? The fuse finally blew. I grabbed his collar and slammed my fist into the bridge of his nose. “My sister only needed two thousand dollars for the surgery!” “Two thousand! Your approval process took three months! Three months! Until the day she died, the money never came through!” “The final deposit was forty cents! Did you hear that? Forty cents!” I was a madman, pouring all my strength into every punch. He was the one who killed my sister. Desperate for that $2,000, I tried to work a delivery job to raise the funds. He did this. He claimed I was tarnishing Victoria’s image, and he used corporate security to have me held and questioned until the money was raised. When I was finally released, the only thing waiting for me was Eliza’s cold body. The doctor said she’d been calling for me, “Brother, Brother,” until her voice trailed off and she simply stopped breathing. Marcus let out a shrill, porcine shriek. His nosebleed splattered across my worn leather jacket. Hearing the noise, the office door was thrown open. It was Victoria. She saw us fighting and, with a frightening clarity of purpose, delivered a vicious kick to my lower back! She knew better than anyone that I suffered from severe lumbar strain from the years I spent testing her experimental drugs and equipment. The white-hot pain instantly drained my strength. I curled up on the cold floor. “Ethan, what the hell is wrong with you now?!” Victoria didn’t spare me a glance. She rushed past me, straight to Marcus, tenderly dabbing the blood from his face. “Are you alright? Does it hurt?” I touched my spine, now throbbing with soft pain, and felt a surge of self-mockery. The old Victoria would protect me if I so much as snagged a thread on my shirt. Now, she’d physically assaulted me for a man who hadn’t even scraped his skin. Seeing Marcus’s pathetic state, she spun back and delivered a sharp, echoing slap across my face. The world went white and fuzzy. My ears rang, and my mouth filled with the bitter taste of blood. Her eyes were filled with disappointment. “I gave you so many chances, and you wasted every one of them.” “Marcus, freeze all his funds. Change the codes to the house. As for you, Ethan… go to the Guest House. Take thirty lashes and kneel for three days and three nights. When you’ve come to your senses, you can come and apologize to Marcus.” With that, she supported the whimpering Marcus and walked away, never looking back. I lay on the icy marble floor and started to laugh. Funds? What funds did I have? The house? That mansion held nothing of mine except a few faded, worn-out shirts Victoria bought me in college. And the Guest House… It was merely a black-painted annex she used to discipline me. Stepping into her office unannounced earned me ten lashes. Failing to secure the perfect dress for a gala earned me ten. Even visiting my own sick sister was punished with ten lashes, because, as she claimed, “seeing other women makes me feel insecure.” I squeezed the warm, heavy black card in my pocket. Using every ounce of my will, I pulled myself off the floor. Dragging my nearly useless leg, I staggered, step by painful step, toward the Maserati still waiting below. I, Ethan, was rich now. And I was going to buy my sister the finest coffin in the world. Anya opened the car door. When she saw the handprint on my face and the blood on my jacket, her eyes immediately filled with tears. “You have me now. No one will ever touch you like that again.” Her voice was choked with emotion. I had come to believe that all women’s promises were lies. But then she reached into the glove box and pulled out a watch I’d lost in high school, and a faded, yellowed math notebook. “Remember? The girl hiding behind the bleachers because she failed the math final?” “You were the one who comforted me, gave me your notes, and made me believe I could pass. I found your watch in the cafeteria. I tried to return it, but you’d transferred schools and I never saw you again.” “Now, it’s back where it belongs.” I stared at the watch. My eyes burned. Someone, truly, had kept me in their heart for all these years. “As soon as I’ve seen to Eliza’s funeral,” I gripped her hand tightly, “we’re getting married.” Eliza’s funeral was simple but deeply solemn. With Anya’s money, I purchased the best plot and the finest silk-lined casket. Standing before the headstone, looking at the photo of Eliza’s bright, laughing face, my heart was shredded. My phone vibrated. A screenshot from a former colleague. It was Victoria’s social media. Marcus had his arm draped around her waist beneath a Maldivian sunset. Around her neck was the anniversary necklace I had bought her last year by saving every penny I had. The caption, written by Marcus: “The CEO deserves a break. I’ll take care of her from now on.” A second photo, buried in the feed, was a half-naked bed selfie—them under a thin sheet, the hotel bedsheets disheveled in the background. My heart had died the moment my sister did. Now, the final flicker of warmth was incinerated. Expressionless, I opened Victoria’s messaging app. I typed two words. “Victoria, we are done.” Then, I blocked and deleted all contact information for both her and Marcus. It was done. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in the Maldives. Victoria, mid-flirt with Marcus in the infinity pool, felt a sharp, unprovoked pang in her chest—an intense flicker of unease. She impatiently shoved Marcus away and, guided by a strange compulsion, opened my direct messages. She intended to send some demanding text, but the screen flashed a stark, red exclamation point. Victoria froze. Ethan had deleted her? Disbelieving, she called my number. “The number you have dialed is switched off.” A flicker of panic ignited. She tore through every social media platform—Twitter, Instagram, even the old account I hadn’t used in years. In every case, she was blocked. For the first time, this man, my shadow, had used a weapon of absolute finality to vanish from her world. Victoria’s face twisted into a mask of ugly shock. But quickly, she found a familiar, comfortable rationalization. “He’s sulking because I missed our anniversary. He’s trying the push-and-pull routine.” She muttered to herself, her eyes regaining that familiar look of high-altitude confidence. “Playing hard-to-get? Such childish manipulation.” She gave a small, scornful laugh, then expertly opened a luxury app. She bought a pile of items I’d once mentioned wanting but she’d never cared about. She also ordered a limited-edition supercar I’d dreamed of for years. “Book the next flight back,” she ordered Marcus, her tone edged with an unconscious irritability. She needed to return, to personally watch that man crawl back and beg for her forgiveness. While she was in the air, Anya and I walked into the local Registrar’s office. When the two official certificates were placed in our hands, I felt like a man who had been trapped in an ice cave for ten years and finally saw the sun. “Husband,” Anya whispered the word for the first time, a blush on her cheeks. “Let’s go home.” She drove me to her private garage. When the enormous alloy door slowly rose, I was stunned into silence. An entire basement floor, filled with over a hundred top-tier luxury vehicles. From a Rolls-Royce Ghost to a Bugatti Veyron, they shone under the recessed lighting with a cold, expensive luster. “Pick any one you like. It’s yours now.” Anya pressed a key fob into my hand. I looked at the Koenigsegg key in my palm, a burning sensation in my chest. This was the first time in my life I had been treated with such profound respect. “No… this is too much.” “When you go out to seal a business deal, you can’t be caught without a car that commands respect.” Anya lifted my face and looked me in the eyes, utterly serious. “Besides, you deserve the best things in this world.” Her sincerity and trust were a deep, moving tide. I was speechless. “You’re… you’re not what I thought.” She smiled, a flash of pure, wry intelligence. “The state’s top science and math scholar from a decade ago? Did you really think I had no ambition?” Anya’s words were a key, unlocking ten years of buried shame and resentment. She was right. The early, crucial technology that built the Ashworth Group into what it was—that was all me. Victoria used “love” and “insecurity” to tie me to the shadows. She convinced me to sign over all my equity and assets in her name, claiming she needed the security. I got nothing in return but the public title of a kept man. “Now, we are a team.” She took my hand and placed it over her heart. “My company, Global Bio-Tech, is yours. Half the shares are yours. Ethan, go do everything you were meant to do.” My eyes finally gave way. I nodded, a wetness on my cheeks. I knew it then. My new life had begun. Victoria, exhausted and laden with my “apology gifts,” returned to the cold mansion. When she didn’t find me taking my punishment in the Guest House, a flicker of outrage at my defiance rose in her, but she quickly suppressed it. She decided to be the bigger person—she had neglected him. They would just celebrate their anniversary now. However, she searched the entire estate—the master suite, the study, even the cramped storage room I sometimes used as an escape. “Ethan!” Her voice echoed through the vast, empty rooms. No answer. A cold, unfamiliar panic started to coil around her heart like a vine. “Where is he?” she demanded, grabbing the housekeeper. “Madam… Mr. Ethan… he…” the housekeeper stammered. Marcus, standing nearby, interjected with a smirk of schadenfreude: “V, he’s a piece of trash. He’s gone, who cares? You have me now.” “Snap!” Victoria’s hand whipped out, delivering another sharp slap that sent Marcus’s head spinning. “Did I give you permission to speak?! What right do you have to even utter his name?!” “And you,” she pointed at Marcus’s chest, her voice low and dangerous, “don’t mention divorce again! I didn’t agree to anything!” Marcus clutched his face, momentarily stunned. It took him a beat to realize what she’d said. He stammered: “V… but… but you did divorce him! The papers Mr. Ethan gave you to sign that day… that was the settlement agreement!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386848”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ten years ago, I lost everything. I was convicted of academic fraud, served two years in a federal prison, and was summarily expelled from The National Tech Guild—the organization I had co-founded. After my release, I changed my name and retreated to my quiet hometown, Willow Creek, opening a used bookstore called ‘The Quiet Corner.’ I was a ghost. Until I saw my ex-husband, Owen Miller, again. Behind his expensive, wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were still piercing, but his profile was infinitely sharper. He was now Amesport’s youngest tenured professor, controlling the most cutting-edge tech—a man with a limitless future. His assistant—a polished twenty-something—leaned in with a sympathetic smile. “Ms. Reed,” she murmured, “Professor Miller has been single for ten years. He never forgot you.” I laughed—a dry, strangled sound that felt like sandpaper in my throat. Forgot me? Ten years ago, Owen Miller had expertly fabricated evidence, sacrificed me to cover for his girlfriend, and personally guaranteed my spot in a federal cell. He didn’t forget me; he orchestrated me. 1 Owen Miller’s arrival at The Quiet Corner was less a visit and more a full-blown spectacle. “Evie! Look, it’s Professor Miller!” Mrs. Albright, one of my regulars, gripped my arm excitedly. “Quick, get a picture with him! It’ll be great for local publicity—you’ll be swimming in business!” I put down the book I was cataloging and raised my eyes. Flashing cameras illuminated his face—that cold, handsome mask. Ten years hadn’t fundamentally changed him, only sharpened the lines of ambition around his eyes. Before I could slip into the back room, the assistant spotted me. “Ms. Reed, you’ve been hiding out here,” she said, her voice carrying a performative concern. “You know, Professor Miller has been looking for you for years.” I stared at her, saying nothing, my internal warning system flashing red. Looking for me? The man who personally shredded my life was looking for the debris? I swallowed, grabbed the keys from the counter, and forced a ruthless dismissal. “I’m sorry, you have the wrong person. The shop is closed for the day. Everyone, please exit.” I fought to control the frantic drumbeat of my pulse, trying to project a calm efficiency that my trembling hands immediately betrayed. Smack. A book slipped from my grip. As I bent to retrieve it, a manicured hand reached past me. Owen picked it up, his voice a low, familiar rumble that instantly paralyzed my spine: “Evelyn Reed.” The regulars who had been encouraging me to take a photo froze, looking at me with shock and disbelief. His eyes lingered on my faded, pilled sweater—the uniform of a woman who didn’t care about appearances anymore. He opened his mouth, then closed it, the complex mess of whatever he was about to say condensing into three empty, patronizing words: “Well. Look at you.” I took the book from him, avoiding his gaze. “Thanks for the assist.” I turned my back on him, slotting the book onto the shelf, a clear and decisive end to the interaction. His next attempt at speech was cut short by a bright, saccharine voice. “Owen, darling! There you are!” Seraphina Ross—all high-end white designer dress and perfectly coiffed blonde hair—slipped her arm possessively through his. “We were supposed to be looking at vacation villas in Iceland, not this… middle-of-nowhere town.” She paused when she saw me, her perfect smile freezing for a beat before snapping back into place. “Oh, Professor Reed! Long time, no see.” The title was a deliberate barb. “Owen always says how terrible he felt about what happened. Honestly, I should be thanking you.” This was Seraphina “Sephy” Ross, the daughter of a major figure in the Atherton Institute. She was the one. Owen had sacrificed my career and my freedom to bury Seraphina’s blatant academic plagiarism. Owen didn’t push Seraphina’s hand away, but his brow furrowed. “Don’t be dramatic, Sephy.” She turned her gaze to me, her eyes glittering with possessiveness and jealousy. “Dramatic? Then why are you here, Owen? Why did you tell me you’d never forget her?” She raised her voice, and the lingering patrons put down their books, their disbelief morphing into open curiosity. Owen let out a heavy, rehearsed sigh. He pulled out a sleek, expensive fountain pen, scribbled a number on a stray receipt from the counter, and slid it toward me. “Call me, Evie. Please. I owe you so much.” The deep, sincere tone was identical to the one he’d used a decade ago, just before the judge’s gavel struck, when he’d whispered: “Two years, Evie. That’s all I ask. Sephy’s too young to have a stain on her record.” I shoved the scrap of paper carelessly into my jeans pocket and managed a brittle, fake smile. “Professor Miller, I appreciate the thought. But my little shop here is doing just fine. I have nothing to ask of you.” I didn’t wait for a reply, ruthlessly ushering everyone out and slamming the lock home. After that day, Owen didn’t reappear for a long time. Willow Creek was far from the whirlwind of Amesport, and his fleeting visit was soon forgotten. Life settled back into its monotonous calm. I truly thought that was the last I would see of him. Then, a month later, the phone rang. It was the factory. A cargo collapse. My father, George, was seriously injured and in surgery. I raced to the hospital, only to learn that the injury had triggered a cerebral infarction. The factory’s compensation wouldn’t cover the full treatment; we needed twenty thousand dollars more for the specialized care. In ten years, my bookshop had only just kept me afloat. All my savings combined totaled less than nine thousand. Just as I was sinking into a desperate plan to sell the bookstore, the hospital delivered stunning news: the country’s top neurological team was consulting on my father’s case. Furthermore, someone had paid the entire outstanding balance. My stomach clenched. After a moment of agonizing hesitation, I pulled out the scrap of paper and called Owen Miller. Before I could even speak, he answered. “The medical bills are taken care of. Consider it my compensation.” I had a hundred questions boiling in my throat. How did he know about my father? Was he having me watched? Why do this? But my father’s health was paramount. The money was a lifeline I couldn’t reject. All the accusations and pain condensed into a single word I didn’t mean, but had to say. “Thank you.” Then, I hung up in a panic. My father was receiving the best care, and thanks to Owen, the hospital staff treated me with newfound deference. But inside, I felt a crushing weight, a suffocating dread. I knew Owen too well. His heart was a meticulously calibrated instrument; every gift was precisely calculated for its cost. He had saved my father’s life. The price, I knew, was my continued entanglement in his. The familiar sound of Seraphina Ross’s voice cut through my thoughts as her number flashed on my screen. “Professor Reed.” Seraphina let out a light, brittle laugh, failing to mask the raw, possessive spite in her tone. “Oh, sorry. You’re not a Professor anymore, are you? Just a woman with a criminal record. That must be so hard.” “Owen hasn’t slept in days worrying about your father,” she went on, her voice rising in a calculated whine. “He even postponed our trip to the Maldives. Do us both a favor and don’t make him feel like he needs to do more. It interferes with our relationship.” Her words were meant to be a triumphant boast, yet I knew she wasn’t as secure as she pretended. If she and Owen were truly “fine,” she wouldn’t be making this call. I stayed silent, preparing to disconnect, but she rushed on. “Also, you should stay put in that pathetic little bookstore. Be grateful. Owen is looking into overturning your conviction to ‘clear your name’ as a way to compensate you.” My heart skipped a beat. Clear my name? He had engineered my descent into hell, and now he assumed he could engineer my return? By finding some other innocent person to ruin, washing away my ten years of suffering with a simple reversal, and expecting my gratitude? While I was still reeling, Seraphina abruptly hung up. Immediately, an email landed in my inbox. It was a photo of Owen in bed, asleep, with Seraphina nestled against him. The sheen of sweat and the flush on their cheeks left no doubt as to what had just transpired. [Ms. Reed, Owen is helping you, but you need to remember your place. If you harbor any foolish ideas, I have ways of ensuring your return trip to hell.] The wave of nausea was overwhelming. I rushed to the restroom and dry-heaved. How dare they? They had destroyed my life, and now they were using their arrogant ‘compensation’ to buy their own peace of mind. The day my father’s surgery was declared a success, Owen showed up at the hospital. He looked haggard, his exhaustion visible in the dark circles under his eyes—proof, perhaps, that he had genuinely exerted himself. He naturally took up the role of a devoted son-in-law, monitoring my father’s IV bag, talking to the nurses, and anxiously checking with the medical team. Once my father was asleep, he spoke. “What happened back then, Evie… I was wrong.” He lowered his gaze, carefully peeling an orange segment and offering it to me. “At the time, I only thought about how young Seraphina was. She couldn’t have a permanent stain on her record.” He paused. “Besides,” he added, the word heavy and flat, “her father could give me everything I wanted.” I accepted the orange segment. It was bitter and rotten, just like him. The truth was laid bare: he needed to climb higher, and I, my family, had merely been sacrificial pawns, the necessary offerings in his ascension ritual. I spat the ruined orange into the trash without looking at him. “Professor Miller, it’s over. Thank you for what you did for my father.” “Now, please don’t come back.” He frowned. “Evie, don’t be so stubborn. I told you, I will compensate you.” Just then, Seraphina pushed the door open, carrying a fancy takeout container. Trailing behind her were several reporters. “Professor Reed, we meet again.” She chirped. “I heard George is out of danger, so I brought some specialized restorative food.” She turned, flashing a perfect smile at the cameras. “Thank you for being so gracious and forgiving Owen and me. I truly hope no one else ever has to suffer such an injustice.” The flashbulbs erupted, practically blinding me. That night, the news was saturated. Owen Miller: The deeply remorseful, devoted man. Me: The gracious victim, standing in the light of his redemption. No one seemed to remember that he had been the one who presented the evidence and indignantly condemned me a decade ago. The next morning, Owen called. “Evie, this is the first step,” he said. “I will help you return to your former position.” He didn’t give me a chance to argue, shifting immediately to his usual manipulative tone. “I know you’re proud, but this isn’t the time for ‘saving face.’ Your father is getting older; he can’t stay at that factory. And your bookstore money won’t cover a serious illness.” His voice was gentle, yet utterly chilling. “I know you resent Seraphina. I will try to keep her away from you.” I understood. He was issuing a threat, reminding me that the well-being of my family was in his hands. He was putting on a show, and he intended to keep me tethered and controlled. Seraphina’s taunts finally moved from the shadows to the light. She ensured that every meeting was perfectly timed and always accompanied by reporters. In the glare of the flashes, she’d clasp my hand and play the benevolent figure. When the cameras were down, she’d lean in and whisper: “Professor Reed, don’t blame Owen for your father’s business failing.” “Blame your father for being in the way. He was going to stumble upon the truth eventually, and that would have ruined Owen’s prospects.” My father had run a small, successful company. Though it wasn’t publicly traded, we lived comfortably. My scandal had caused the stock to plummet, and the company was swiftly surrounded by corporate raiders. Within a month, it had collapsed. Under pressure from creditors, my mother, Eleanor, had taken her own life, and my father had spiraled into depression, eventually having to take the factory job. I had always believed they were collateral damage. Seraphina’s words were a clear confession: Owen was directly responsible for it all. I took the first bus to Amesport, connected with a flight, and was in the city the next morning. Ten years had passed, but I had no time for nostalgia. I headed straight for Owen’s high-rise office. It was the first time I had ever sought him out. He looked up, a flicker of surprise and—was that genuine pleasure?—in his eyes. “Evie! You finally came to me!” I tightly gripped the flash drive in my hand—evidence my former university colleagues had helped me compile. I stared straight at him. “What exactly happened to my father’s company?” “Did you know,” I asked, my voice dangerously low, “that my mother died because of that storm?” His composure fractured for a second, but he quickly masked it. “I don’t know, Evie. It must have been an unfortunate accident.” I threw the evidence across his pristine glass desk. Seeing the files, his pretense evaporated. He lunged, grabbing my sleeve. “Evie, let me explain!” I was shaking with a rage that eclipsed a decade of pain. “Explain? You killed my mother, you ruined my family, and you want to explain?” “Owen Miller, what else have you done? What other secrets are buried?” I was near hysterics. He looked at my distressed face, and a flash of what might have been genuine regret crossed his eyes. He looked almost like the boy who used to shield me from bullies back in college. It was nauseating that they were the same person. Just then, his assistant burst in, frantic. “Professor Miller! I’m sorry, but Ms. Ross fell. She’s at the clinic getting bandaged up.” Owen didn’t spare me a second glance. He bolted for the door. I watched him go, the fight draining out of me. The devastation of my family and my tortured accusations meant nothing compared to Seraphina’s scraped knee. Dazed, I returned to my father’s small-town hospital. As I reached his door, I heard a terrible groan. I rushed in. Seraphina was standing over my father, holding her phone up for him to see. “George,” she was saying, her voice sickeningly sweet, “it was Owen who sabotaged your company, and yes, he arranged the debt collectors. And yes, he personally sent your daughter to prison.” “But don’t blame him. He only did it because he loves me.” She was replaying the decade-old video, over and over, for him. On the screen, Owen’s tender, cold voice mixed with my father’s pained gasps: “Sephy, as soon as I get rid of this dead weight of a family, I’ll marry you. Just wait for me.” My father saw me in the doorway, his eyes wide. He tried to speak, but the heart monitor flatlined. He never got the chance. My mind went blank. Everything was a distant, loud buzz. Seraphina straightened up, walking toward me. She laughed softly. “These bottom-feeders are so fragile. A little video is all it takes.” “I had so many more surprises for him.” She looked at me, her smile wide and unhinged. “Oh, and by the way, I never even asked him to sacrifice you. Owen did it all on his own, just to prove his loyalty.” I snapped. I lunged, grabbing her throat and slamming her back against the bedside cabinet. Before I could connect, the door burst open. Owen and two security guards rushed in. The men brutally pulled me away, throwing me against the wall. The impact knocked the bedside ashtray to the floor; shards of glass sprayed up, slicing into my hands and shins. Seraphina huddled in Owen’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. “Owen, Professor Reed has lost it! She tried to kill me!” The look Owen gave me was pure, murderous contempt. “Evelyn Reed, you are insane!” I looked at him, at Seraphina in his embrace, and then at my father’s cold, lifeless body on the bed. Tears streamed down my face, but I started to laugh—a high, ragged sound. “Yes, I’m insane!” “You dogs drove me mad!” Owen glanced at my father on the bed, his expression faltering for a second. He didn’t say anything else, instead rushing out with Seraphina, fleeing the scene. My phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number. [Ms. Reed, I have been looking for you for ten years.] [I believe we share a common enemy. I now have the evidence to help you. Shall we cooperate?] The second victim in the academic scandal was the man Seraphina had plagiarized: Elias Croft. He had gone abroad shortly after the incident, too preoccupied to appear in court. Everyone had assumed he was gone for good. My fingertips felt icy. I slowly typed a response: [Cooperation. I want them to pay the ultimate price.] Owen Miller, your reckoning has just begun.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386847”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The snarky little post I’d made on The Sprawl—a private forum for rich, disgruntled wives—had exploded overnight. I had vented about finding yet another piece of lingerie that wasn’t mine. Now, I watched the comments roll in, but one private message stood out, a blue-check account I didn’t recognize: @UnattainableIdeal: He didn’t cheat. He just wants you to flirt with him, Avery. He wants you to stop being so buttoned-up and boring. I snapped a photo of the pale pink lace slip I’d just pulled from between the sofa cushions—a damning piece of evidence if ever there was one. @AveryThorne: Are you sure about that? The typing bubble appeared and vanished several times. A few seconds of silence stretched. @UnattainableIdeal: …He wants you to wear it. I was done with the whole ridiculous, degrading scavenger hunt. This was the tenth piece of intimate apparel I’d found in our Boston penthouse in as many months. I ignored the anonymous user and grabbed my phone to call my lawyer, Leo. “Did you finally draft those papers?” 1 Miles Thorne pushed the door open, his expression as cool and detached as the polished granite countertop in the kitchen. I was sitting on the Italian leather sofa, staring straight at him. Next to me, the pale pink lace slip was a glaring, obvious spot against the charcoal gray cushion. Miles glanced over. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, brushed past me, landed on the lingerie, and then moved on without a flicker of acknowledgment. He simply walked toward the stairs. The sheer dismissal was a slap in the face. Impotent rage—that’s what the feeling was. He was bringing women into our home, leaving their secrets scattered for me to find, and he couldn’t even bother to offer a lie. He treated me like a ghost in my own marriage mausoleum. I snatched up my phone and went back to my post on The Sprawl, typing furiously. @AveryThorne: My husband is cheating, fine. But does he have to keep leaving lace slips and silky camisoles everywhere? What is his goal? To provoke me? Can’t he keep his affairs out of the house?! The comments poured in. WTF, is he serious? You haven’t yelled at him? He’s definitely doing it on purpose. Why are you staying, girl? Do you like the drama? I replied with cold cynicism: Look, he might be a player, but the man has money. Serious money. The collective wisdom of the internet told me to swallow my pride and stop looking for the evidence. A trade-off, Avery. While I was wallowing in this melancholy, the private message popped up again. @UnattainableIdeal: He didn’t cheat. He just wants you to flirt with him, Avery. He wants you to stop being so buttoned-up and boring. I narrowed my eyes. How could you possibly know that? No reply. I scoffed, taking the picture of the slip again and sending it. You sure? If you don’t find this repulsive, you have my respect. (Followed by a strong-arm emoji). @UnattainableIdeal: …He wants you to wear it. I actually laughed. This person was a complete freak. I was genuinely tired of this. I hadn’t looked at the account again, dialing my lawyer, Leo. “Is the divorce agreement ready?” Last month, I’d found a satin bunny costume tucked deep under the master bed. That was the last straw. I’d called Leo that night. But Miles and I had been married for five years, and I’d grown very accustomed to the life his money afforded. There was also the residual, old feeling of affection. I had loved him—until his nonstop work, his constant absence, slowly chipped away at the foundation until there was nothing left but two strangers sharing a very expensive zip code. My hesitation had stalled the process. I kept thinking I needed the right time to talk to him. Now, I thought, maybe he’s been trying to talk to me all along. Maybe this whole lingerie scavenger hunt was his clumsy, silent plea for me to end it. Fine. I’ll give him what he wants. Leo replied, “It’s been ready for a week, Avery. But I’m out of the country. Do you want to come to the firm and pick it up, or should I have my assistant courier it to you?” “Courier it,” I sighed. “Your firm is practically in the next state. I’m too lazy for that drive…” A cold voice cut through the silence of the room. “Avery. Who are you talking to?” I instantly hung up, turning to face him, forcing a casual look. “I thought you were in your study.” Miles stood on the bottom step, his eyebrows low, his gaze locked onto me. “Who were you just on the phone with?” Was he interrogating me? The man who was currently having an affair? I glared back. “Mind your own business.” I yanked the lace slip fully out of the couch, marched toward him, and threw it right at his chest. “Why don’t you mind your own first.” 2 Back in the bedroom, a message from my friend, Liv, flashed on my screen. Liv: Avery, seriously, you need to watch Miles. I heard he’s getting way too cozy with his new executive assistant. She followed up with a photo. Miles was leaning over a document, his face obscured by shadow, while a pretty, slender woman stood right next to him, leaning in, their shoulders practically touching. It was an unnervingly intimate angle. I let out a cold laugh. When was this taken? Liv: Just yesterday. I’d been at my spa retreat yesterday. That explained the fresh piece of lace on the couch. My fingers tightened faintly around my phone. It was a strange feeling—not sharp pain, but a deep, numbing ache of betrayal. But we were on the verge of divorce, so those ambiguous feelings didn’t matter. I thanked Liv. I noticed the annoying user, @UnattainableIdeal, had messaged me one second ago. @UnattainableIdeal: Does this make you angry? That your husband is doing this? My eyes widened. I typed back furiously. Is it not obvious enough?! Does he even see me anymore?! @UnattainableIdeal: It sounds like you really care about him. I was speechless. What nerve. The person continued: You should try to be proactive. Go to him, try to flirt a little, and tell him you’re bothered. I stared at the last phrase: tell him you’re bothered. It wasn’t really jealousy, it was disgust, but I was too tired to explain. He’s cheating. You think that’ll work? @UnattainableIdeal: It will. The certainty in that one word was maddening. I clicked on their profile. Just a bunch of blurry photos of houseplants. Nothing useful. @UnattainableIdeal: Most men are like this. I snorted. I sent a dry: Oh. I just wanted this person to stop, so I added: Fine. I’ll try it later. The account went quiet. Thank God. In reality, I turned off my phone and yawned. My eyelids felt heavy. Sleep beckoned. The world was ending, but first, I needed a nap. 3 I woke up starving in the middle of the night. I stumbled downstairs, groggy, planning to snatch a yogurt from the fridge. A sudden, low voice startled me into wakefulness. “Avery.” I nearly dropped the carton, whipping my head around. Miles was on the sofa, his long legs crossed, staring into the dark room. By the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window, I could just make out the intense focus of his eyes on me. I stammered. “W-w-what are you doing sitting in the living room?” His voice was husky, a low grate. “I forgot. What were you doing in the room?” I gave him a baffled look. “Sleeping, Miles. I woke up from a deep sleep. It’s the middle of the night.” Was it my imagination, or did he visibly freeze for a second? I grabbed my yogurt and waved dismissively. “I’m going back to bed. You should too.” Miles stared at me, his lips parted as if he was about to speak, but he ultimately remained silent. I woke up the next day just before noon. The first message I saw was from Liv. Liv: You’re not going to the Thorne corporate event? The updated guest list for the big commercial gala listed Miles’s new executive assistant as his date. As his date, Avery. Did you two have a fight? I quietly read the lines. A faint, bitter smile touched my lips. We were getting divorced soon. I didn’t need to be upset about this. But still… It was true Miles and I lacked passion, but we had always maintained a kind of stiff, polite respect. Now, with the lingerie and the public date, it seemed clear: he had found someone he genuinely cared about and was deliberately pushing me out. I would grant him his wish. The annoying user popped up again. @UnattainableIdeal: Did you try my advice? Did it work? Persistent, I thought. I hadn’t had the slightest intention of going to Miles and confessing my feelings. I sent a cold laugh. No, it didn’t work. We’re getting divorced. 4 The reply was instantaneous. A bright red exclamation mark followed by a two-word message. @UnattainableIdeal: Don’t do it! I raised an eyebrow. He was more stressed than I was. Why not? he asked. I gave a dry chuckle, typing quickly. He’s taking another woman to the biggest corporate event of the year. What am I supposed to stay for? To cheer them on? Silence. A long five minutes passed before a reply came. @UnattainableIdeal: Maybe he just wants to make you jealous. He’s hoping you’ll demand to go with him. I stared at the screen and almost burst out laughing. This person’s reasoning was truly astonishing. To justify this much callous behavior. I was done debating. I ended the conversation. I’m not going. He can bring the whole staff if he wants. I don’t want to see his stone-cold face anyway. I exited the chat. Leo’s firm was efficient. The next afternoon, the assistant couriered the package. I tore it open and pulled out the divorce papers. Two copies, all the necessary information filled out. All it needed were Miles’s and my signatures. I picked up a pen and, with careful, deliberate strokes, signed my name on the line for the wife. A hollow feeling settled in my chest. Five years. Just like that. I placed the signed papers prominently on the living room coffee table, packed a small suitcase, and headed to my own place—a pre-nup loft I’d bought before the wedding. I needed a quiet place to contemplate how I would spend the rest of my life after taking half of Miles Thorne’s fortune. 5 I spent two days at the loft, sleeping and eating, catching up on the emotional exhaustion of the last few years. On the third day, my phone nearly melted from Liv’s frantic calls. Liv: Avery! Are you really not coming?! Your husband actually brought the little secretary! Holy hell, Chloe is wearing a custom couture gown! You need to get here! If the Queen doesn’t show up, the mistress takes the throne! I read Liv’s chain of messages and looked at the few candid photos she’d snapped. Miles was in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his expression utterly impassive. Next to him was the secretary, Chloe. Young, beautiful, and in a white mermaid-style dress that made her look like a pure, delicate flower. A knot formed in my stomach. It was a lie to say I wasn’t bothered. But then I reminded myself that I was divorcing him. Why should I care? I texted Liv back. I’m not coming. They can be happy together. I’m busy cashing out. Liv: …Are you serious? It’s Miles Thorne! Yes. It was Miles Thorne. The hardest man to catch at Harvard Business School, the one who’d pursued me for a full year before I finally agreed to marry him. The man who, despite his coldness after marriage, never once held back his wealth. My resolve wavered. Just then, the mysterious user popped up again. @UnattainableIdeal: Are you really not going to the event? Your husband looks incredible tonight. If you don’t go, he will be very disappointed. I stared at the messages, a surge of pure fury hitting me. Disappointed? He brought another woman as his date and he expected me to cheer him on? I typed, pressing down the rage. I don’t care. @UnattainableIdeal: If you went, he would be happy. He got you a gift. A gift? I gave a cold laugh. Was it another lace slip? Or something even more bizarre? I was about to block him when Liv’s call came through again, her voice vibrating with excitement. “Avery! Check the trending page!” I opened the social media app. #ThorneCEOandNewFlame was sitting at number one. I clicked in, and high-resolution photos and videos of the gala flooded the screen. Miles’s god-like handsome face was flawless under the lights. He and Chloe did, indeed, look like a perfect couple. The comments section was a battlefield. OMG! Who is that woman? Not his wife, Avery! Where have you been? They’ve been playing their own games for years. The secretary has serious game to land Miles Thorne. Am I the only one who thinks the CEO looks miserable? Like someone owes him ten million dollars. I couldn’t help but smile at the “miserable” comment. It was true; Miles in the photos looked like his jaw was set in concrete. As I was enjoying the schadenfreude, Liv shrieked into the phone. “Did you see it?! The necklace around her neck! The Heart of the Ocean! Miles bought it at auction last week for nine million dollars!” My heart plummeted. I had seen the news about that auction. I even joked with Liv that some woman was incredibly lucky. I just didn’t expect that woman to be his secretary. 6 He bought me a designer handbag for my birthday. The most expensive was maybe a few hundred thousand. It wasn’t that he was stingy. It was that he thought I wasn’t worth the grand gesture. A strange mix of bitterness and white-hot anger rushed through me. I took a deep breath. “Liv,” I said, my voice steady. “I need you to do me a favor.” “Anything!” “Send your emergency gown and your stylist to my loft. Now. Immediately.” Liv’s efficiency was startling. Within half an hour, my single-bedroom loft looked like a celebrity dressing room backstage. “Avery, you finally snapped? We’re crashing the party?” Liv asked, directing the stylist while practically bouncing with excitement. I sat in front of the mirror, looking at my slightly pale, tired face. My eyes, however, were blazing. “Crash it?” I smirked, letting the stylist pin up my hair. “I’m going to reclaim what’s mine.” I was still Miles Thorne’s wife. His date, publicly, had to be me. If a divorce was happening, I would be the one kicking him out, not the other way around. The stylist and makeup artist were world-class. In less than an hour, the mirror reflected a radiant, fiercely beautiful woman. A strapless gown of siren-red silk made my skin look porcelain. The high slit in the skirt gave fleeting glimpses of my long legs. My long, dark hair was swept up, a few loose curls framing a face defined by a powerful red lip. “Holy shit, Avery. If you dressed like this all the time, that secretary wouldn’t even exist!” Liv stared, slack-jawed. I smiled, a predatory curve of my lips, and grabbed a tiny clutch. “Let’s go. Time for the main event.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386846”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was scrolling through my phone before bed, deep in the digital rabbit hole, when I stumbled across a morbid Reddit post that immediately seized my attention. AITA for wanting to tell my neighbor she’s got a stranger hiding in her apartment? The headline alone had a potent, visceral punch. I couldn’t stop myself from reading on. He’s hiding under her bed tonight. The comments section was already a chaotic mess. Definitely farming karma. This is too wild. Are you posting this from under the bed yourself, bro? Writing out your dream plot points, are we? If this is real, you need to call the cops. Wait, why does he know this? Holy hell, is the girl being stalked? The Original Poster (OP) saw the flood of accusations. Look, y’all need to calm down. Her floor-to-ceiling windows don’t have the curtains closed. I live in the building opposite, and I saw it by accident. Someone challenged him for photo evidence, but before I could scroll to see the proof, my blood ran cold. A sudden, sharp memory. My sheer voile drapes. They were at the dry cleaner. I’d dropped them off this morning. And my apartment, with its entire south-facing wall, was essentially one giant sheet of glass. 1 Just then, a sound abruptly pierced the silence under my bed. I jumped out of my skin, my muscles tensing as if preparing to launch myself into the blankets for cover. Then I realized it was just the charging cord for my phone, snagging the box of tissues on my nightstand and sending it crashing to the floor with a soft thud. I leaned over and picked it up, my hand shaking slightly. I knew I shouldn’t have been reading those messed-up, sensationalist posts before bed. What were the chances? The whole thing was clearly manufactured to go viral. But then, the Reddit post updated. The OP had uploaded an image. It was a picture of an entire residential tower. I squinted at the screen, and a film of cold sweat broke out on my forehead. It was my building. Our community. Our developer used huge, floor-to-ceiling windows to maximize light in the smaller units. My entire living area, from the balcony to the main bedroom, was one continuous expanse of glass. Living alone, I’d chosen not to put a wall between the bedroom and the balcony, so the whole space was one sunny, open concept—which I loved. The photo sent the discussion into a frenzy. I told you that privacy was crap with those windows. No curtains and everything is on display. OP is a total fraud. He’s obviously not shooting from his own floor. Everyone scatter. Probably stole the pic from Zillow. The OP replied, defending himself. I’m not an idiot. I shot this from my place. How many floors up can you count from your vantage point, genius? The math wizards in here are on fire tonight. Fine. To prove I’m legit, here’s a close-up from my window. I’m only showing half. The next image was a blurry, zoomed-in shot of the opposite building. Most windows were covered, their curtains drawn tight. A few were dark. I nearly dropped my phone. I recognized the layout instantly. That was my exact tower. And one of those dark, uncovered windows was mine. I quickly tapped the OP’s profile and checked his IP location. My heart hammered against my ribs. I instinctively slid out of bed and retreated to the living room. The comments under the post had turned frantic. If this is true, you need to call the police, OP. The OP posted again. The neighbor looks like she’s up. She just went into the living room for water. I gripped my phone, trembling. The coincidence was too precise. I was in the living room, standing right next to the water filter. I dared not look at the windows. I couldn’t walk back to the bedroom. As I stood there, frozen, the thread updated again. The reason I posted for advice is that the guy hiding in her apartment doesn’t seem to have any hostile intentions. If I tell her, will he notice and come after me? Or will he just get worse? About three days ago, I first noticed a man pop out in her apartment after she left for work. I thought he was family at first. But they never appear at the same time. And I watch him climb under the bed every day right before she gets home. The comments exploded. This girl is being stalked by a psycho! Some sickos target single women, live in their place, and when they’re bored, they kill them. This is horrifying. Call the cops, OP! Call them now! But if he calls the cops, how long will the creep be locked up? Will he come back and retaliate against the girl? The OP replied. That’s exactly why I posted for help. I’m thinking about all that. Y’all are actually believing this peeping tom? A normal person doesn’t stalk their neighbor. He’s a creep too. That comment spurred an even more intense discussion. OMG, this girl is cursed. Two psychos at once! I’m never living alone again. The OP posted a final update. I’m putting up a poll now. Based on the votes, I’ll decide whether to knock on her door and tell her. A poll button appeared instantly. Knock on her door now Continue to observe I clutched my phone and backed into the bathroom. Please don’t come. He’s a creep, too. Thankfully, the majority of votes were for “Continue to observe.” OP, don’t provoke him. Unless you’re the size of The Rock, don’t risk escalating it. I still think OP is just trying to go viral. Look at all the new followers! The OP replied: Okay, I’ll listen to the consensus. Continue to observe, or maybe tell her during the day. She turned off the light. Maybe I should delete this thread. It feels weird now that everyone’s calling me a stalker. NO, OP! We need updates! You’re the good guy stalker protecting the single girl next door! The light from the phone screen washed over my face. In the reflection, I saw my own expression: perfectly blank. Exposing myself now would put me, a woman, at a severe disadvantage against the intruder. I turned off the phone, cleared my browser history, and walked casually back to bed. I pulled the covers up to my chin. I closed my eyes. Which floor, in the building across the street, was the other creep on? Was he still watching? 2 I woke up the next morning and went to work as normal, terrified of showing even the slightest sign of distress. I was sure the man hiding in the dark would burst out and kill me the second I slipped up. Only once I stepped out the front door did my heart rate begin to slow. On the subway ride to my yoga studio, I called the dry cleaner. They told me my curtains—the material was large and handmade—wouldn’t be ready until the day after tomorrow. I didn’t push them. I just told them to take their time and do a good job. Then, I checked the Reddit thread from last night. The OP had posted an update during the day. The guy under the bed is gone. He actually left the apartment today. The neighbor still hasn’t noticed anything. Should I still say something? The comments section was busy. Oh god, is he scouting his next victim? OP, you need to get evidence and call the police! What good will the police do? She hasn’t lost anything. What’s the charge? Disgusting. The thought of a stranger touching her clothes, smelling her sheets… makes me sick. The discussion didn’t last long. The OP abruptly deleted the entire thread. I frowned, biting my lip. Did he really leave? My subway stop had arrived. I put my phone away. That evening, coming home from work, I saw a young man near the lobby entrance. He was wearing a black hoodie, the hood pulled so low it obscured most of his face. My gut told me he was watching me. But he never approached. I walked into the building, breaking his gaze. After dinner, I did my usual ten minutes of yoga on the balcony. It was essential for my job. Given the lack of curtains, I kept it brief, mindful of the exposure. Before going to sleep, I searched for the deleted thread again. The OP had reposted a new update. He’s back. He’s back. He climbed under the bed again. He seems to be holding something in his hand this time. The neighbor is home. The comment section went into full panic mode. Call the police now! He’s going to make a move! This is like a horror movie! Why are you still posting, OP?! Oh my god, is this girl about to be murdered? I think OP is just fabricating the whole thing. A normal person would have called 911 by now. OP, you need to go check on her. The OP didn’t reply again. I opened the Notes app on my phone and started typing. Then, I quickly got up and went to the living room, settling onto the sofa. I refused to go back to the bedroom. Curled up on the couch, I picked up the thermos from the coffee table, took a sip of water, and felt a wave of crushing drowsiness wash over me. I must have fallen asleep instantly. Before I drifted off, I had one last thought. Please, please don’t let the poster come tonight.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386845”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My in-laws were in a horrific car accident. They were rushing them into surgery. I raced to the hospital like a man possessed, but the real shock wasn’t the sirens or the blood; it was seeing my wife, Savannah. My brilliant, celebrated surgeon wife stood at the observation window, arms casually folded, coaching her star intern, Troy. She was letting an intern perform my parents’ life-or-death surgery! I lunged toward her, demanding an explanation. She merely shrugged, her voice a flat line. “Troy needs to grow. People like your small-town parents should be honored to serve as his practice run.” Troy’s hand slipped. The monitor screamed. The aorta was nicked. They didn’t make it. When I sought justice, she cornered me in her office and slapped a divorce agreement onto the desk. “Ethan, I’m through with you. And I’m through with your poor, pathetic parents.” “Drop the complaint right now. Don’t ruin Troy’s future.” “Otherwise, you won’t get a single cent.” I looked at her face—beautiful, yet twisted with such pure, raw disgust—and felt a strange urge to laugh. Slowly, deliberately, I asked her the question. “Savannah, if it were your own parents lying on that table, treated like guinea pigs for your student, would you still say that?” She didn’t know the truth. To try and talk her out of a divorce, the two people who had driven five hundred miles overnight, only to be struck by a drunk driver and rushed into the ICU, were not my parents. They were hers. 1 By the time I frantically reached the Emergency Room, the corridor was already a maelstrom of fear and noise. Yet, I spotted Savannah instantly. She wasn’t in scrubs. She had her white coat draped loosely over her shoulders, hands jammed into her pockets, her expression utterly detached as two blood-soaked bodies were wheeled toward the operating theater. “Savannah!” I ran to her, grabbing her arm, my voice trembling uncontrollably. “How are Mom and Dad?” Her brow furrowed. She recoiled and sharply pulled her arm away, as if I’d contaminated her. “Multiple rib fractures, punctured lungs suspected, severe cranial bleeding. It’s bad.” Her tone was as flat and emotionless as a weather report. “I’ve already arranged it. Troy is leading the procedure. I’ll observe.” Troy was her hand-picked intern, her star apprentice, the one she constantly spoke about grooming as her successor. My mind went blank. I couldn’t process the words. “You’re letting Troy operate?” “Savannah, have you lost your mind?!” “These are two lives, not a goddamn training opportunity for your student!” “Ethan, stop shouting!” Savannah’s face instantly went cold, her eyes fixed on me with that familiar look of high-minded arrogance and contempt. “Troy has been with me for three years. He can handle a minor trauma case like this.” “What do you know about surgery, House Husband?” Her words stole my breath. My whole body seized up, and a dull ache started to throb in my chest. Yes, I was a stay-at-home husband now. But she had conveniently forgotten something. Seven years ago, I had stood beside her, a fellow surgical resident. My hands were steadier, my talent perhaps even greater than hers; I was the one our mentor had singled out. Yet, for love, I had deliberately put down the scalpel and picked up the kitchen knife instead. The light above the Operating Room door flickered red. That harsh glow stung my eyes. My throat constricted, choking off the air, making it impossible to breathe. I rushed to the observation window, staring desperately into the room. Troy was visibly nervous, his forehead slick with sweat, the hand holding the scalpel shaking ever so slightly. Savannah stood just behind him. She offered an occasional instruction but mostly remained motionless, arms crossed, the picture of a disinterested bystander. I watched Troy’s hand slip. He failed to accurately navigate around a major artery. In a flash, the heart rate on the monitor became a flat line. The piercing, relentless shriek of the alarm broke the silence, shredding my eardrums. Two agonizing hours later, the OR light went dark. Troy walked out, utterly distraught, his face a ghostly white. “Ethan… I’m so sorry… I couldn’t save them…” Savannah followed him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her voice was gentle, filled with reassurance. “It’s alright, Troy. It wasn’t your fault. Their injuries were too severe.” “It was just one mistake, sweetheart. Don’t dwell on it. Every doctor has to go through this.” She didn’t spare me a glance. All her sympathy, all her careful soothing, was reserved for the intern who had just destroyed my parents’ lives. I stood there, my hands and feet freezing cold. All sound around me faded into a distant hum. 2 The deaths of my in-laws were officially categorized as “Death due to failed resuscitation.” Savannah used every connection she had within the hospital to suppress the incident. The reports filed with the oversight committees were seamless and airtight. Troy’s surgical error was perfectly obscured by the severity of my in-laws’ existing injuries. I locked myself in the guest room for three days, refusing to eat or drink. On the fourth day, I finally emerged. I needed a conclusion. Savannah was sitting on the living room sofa, leisurely flipping through a medical journal while wearing a sheet mask. She showed no sign of grief. On the coffee table lay a divorce agreement, already signed by her. She didn’t even lift her eyelids when I entered. “Finally came to your senses?” “If you have, sign it. The house is yours, the car is yours, plus a five million settlement…” “Just don’t bother me again.” Her tone was that of someone swatting away a persistent, bothersome beggar. I ignored the agreement. Instead, I tossed a thick file onto the table in front of her. “I’m filing a lawsuit against Troy and the hospital for gross medical negligence.” Every word tore from my throat with a metallic, blood-raw edge. My voice was hoarse, but my resolve was absolute. My in-laws would not die in vain. Troy would pay the price. At that, Savannah finally looked up from her magazine. She glanced at the file’s title, then looked at me as if I were a particularly poor joke. “Ethan, have you gone completely insane?” She ripped the sheet mask off her face and casually flung the wet, cold thing onto the legal documents. She sprang to her feet, looming over me. “I told you, their death has nothing to do with Troy. They were too far gone to begin with!” “Why can’t you just listen?” “I saw it with my own eyes,” I said calmly, meeting her gaze. I was no longer the docile, eager-to-please husband she knew. “He lacerated the aorta. He missed the critical window.” “He needs to face consequences.” “And what good is your testimony? Do you have proof?” Savannah sneered, crossing her arms. “That entire OR team is my team. Who do you think is going to testify for you?” “I’m warning you, Ethan. Don’t be an idiot. Put this trash away!” Savannah snatched the file off the table and hurled it at my face. The sharp corner of the folder sliced my cheek, leaving a thin, burning red line. “I don’t need a witness,” I said, ignoring the sting. “I’ll subpoena the OR surveillance footage.” “The cameras were broken,” she replied without hesitation. In that moment, staring into her icy eyes, the last flickering candle of hope in my heart was extinguished. I looked at the woman I had loved for ten years and felt an utter, chilling foreignness. Her face was a mask of cold calculation and indifference. To protect her golden boy, she was willing to twist the truth and sacrifice human lives. “Savannah…” I looked at her, slowly articulating each word. “Those were two lives. They were our parents.” “So what?” Her impatience was clear, her voice laced with extreme contempt. “They were just useless small-town trash. It’s an honor for them to add a line to Troy’s resume!” Trash! Honor! Those two words struck me like a pair of bullets, piercing my skull. I was cold all over, from my head to my toes. In her eyes, my parents were nothing more than sacrificial dogs. I forced a smile. I slowly bent down, picked up the divorce agreement, and reached for the pen. A look of smug victory flashed across Savannah’s face. “That’s more like it.” “Ethan, you can’t win against me. Take the money and quietly go back to whatever hole you crawled out of…” 3 Hearing Savannah’s voice, my heart gave a painful, involuntary lurch. I paused the pen just above the signature line. “I can sign. But I have one condition.” “Spit it out.” She folded her arms, radiating an air of complete superiority. “I want you to personally go to the funeral home and prepare their bodies for burial.” I lifted my head, meeting her eyes, my chest heavy with complex emotions. “Let’s call it… the last thing you do for us, as my wife. See them off.” Savannah’s eyebrows knitted tightly together, her face a map of undisguised aversion and disgust. “Are you insane? I’m not going to that morbid, stinking, filthy place!” “It’s my only condition.” I pushed the blank agreement back toward her. “You agree, and I sign immediately. This divorce is finalized.” “You don’t agree, and we go to court. And even if I can’t convict you, I will make enough noise to ensure you and your precious student…” “Are completely ruined.” My voice was calm, but Savannah knew I wasn’t bluffing. She glared at me, her chest heaving, her lips trembling with suppressed rage. After a long silence, she let out a slow, strained breath and bit out two words through clenched teeth. “Fine. I’ll go.” “But once it’s done, you sign and get lost!” Savannah believed this was nothing more than my final, meaningless act of spite. She was wrong. This wasn’t the end. Everything was just beginning. The air in the funeral home hung thick with a sickly sweet mix of antiseptic and burnt incense. The moment Savannah stepped inside, she clapped a hand over her nose, her face contorted with revulsion. She was dressed in an expensive Chanel suit and ten-centimeter heels, profoundly out of place. “Ethan, what the hell is this supposed to achieve?” She hissed, her voice low and furious. “Dragging me to this awful place? Does it make you feel better?” I ignored her and walked directly toward the viewing room. A worker slid open two sterile metal drawers, pulling out two white-shrouded bodies. “Dr. Chen, you’re a physician. You can handle this, right?” I turned back to her, gesturing with my hand. “Get started. Mom and Dad are waiting for you.” Savannah’s face was chalk white, but she gritted her teeth and reluctantly approached the table. She snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and roughly pulled back the first sheet. When the face, horribly mangled by the crash, was exposed, she couldn’t help a small, gagging sound. She quickly averted her eyes. “Hurry up,” I urged. Fighting back the nausea, she grabbed a wet cloth and haphazardly wiped the face, treating the dead like a filthy kitchen counter. She repeated the perfunctory gesture for the second body, never once bothering to truly look at either face. “Done,” she announced, peeling off the gloves. She backed away as if fleeing a plague. “My part of the deal is complete. The divorce agreement—” “Not so fast,” I interrupted, pointing to a cardboard box nearby. “Their personal effects. You should inventory those too.” Savannah’s patience was clearly exhausted, but she managed to suppress her fury long enough to open the box. Inside was a collection of blood-soaked, torn clothing, a cracked old flip phone, and a severely scuffed leather wallet. She pawed through the items with the disdain of handling trash. Then, her hand froze. Why did this stuff look so familiar? 4 From the pile of tattered clothing, she picked up a half-finished sweater. It was a men’s sweater, grey, and an old-fashioned style, but the stitches were tiny and intricate, showing the effort and care of the knitter. “This sweater…” she mumbled, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. “My mother was knitting it,” I said calmly. “She said it was getting colder and she worried I’d be cold. Shame she didn’t get to finish it.” Savannah’s fingers tightened on the yarn, but she said nothing. She then picked up the worn leather wallet and opened it. Tucked into the plastic window was a faded, sepia-toned black and white photo. It showed a young couple, both beaming, holding a newborn baby. She didn’t recognize the couple. But the baby… the baby felt unsettlingly familiar. “Who is…?” “A picture of me when I was a baby,” I said flatly. Savannah’s brow furrowed deeper. She looked like she wanted to ask something, but in the end, she merely tossed the wallet back into the box. “Fine. I’ve seen everything.” She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her suit. “Ethan, our transaction is finished. We are done.” With that, she didn’t look back, click-clacking on her heels as she fled the place that had suffocated her. I watched her go, then slowly knelt down. I gently gathered the unfinished sweater and the black and white photo, tucking them away safely. Savannah… did you truly not recognize anything? Could you really not recognize the sweater your own mother spent half her life knitting for you? Could you not recognize your father’s twenty-year-old wallet? Did you not recognize the eyes of the baby in the photograph—the eyes you see every morning in the mirror?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “386844”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel