I told my best friend that her boyfriend already had five wives back in Africa. She sneered at me with pure disdain. “I know you’re just jealous of me. So what? Are any of them as brilliant or beautiful as I am?” The next thing I knew, she brought him along to corner and threaten me. Still, I couldn’t bear to see her life ruined, so I told her parents everything. Her parents couldn’t thank me enough. They immediately locked her in her room to save her from herself. It wasn’t until her boyfriend flew back to Africa with another girl that her parents finally let her out. But instead of taking responsibility, her parents wept and blamed me for everything, telling her it was all my doing. Consumed by a burning rage, she secretly poisoned my drink and murdered me. Then, she smeared my name across every social media platform, spreading disgusting, explicit rumors about me. My mother, consumed by grief and fury, rushed to her house to demand justice—only to be mocked and literally provoked to a fatal heart attack by her parents. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the exact day she was bragging about becoming a tribal queen. This time, without me standing in her way, I’m going to sit back and watch her claim her “royal” crown. Chapter 1 “Audrey! He proposed! He said if I go back to Africa with him, he’ll make me his tribal queen!” I opened my eyes. My best friend, Tiffany Vance, was rolling around on my dorm bed, ecstatically waving a photo of her boyfriend. “What do you think if I drop out of the Stanford Master’s track and just go with him? His family is insanely rich and powerful anyway.” In my past life, an upperclassman in my sorority had already warned me about this guy. He was a lazy, shiftless freeloader who already had five wives back home. So when Tiffany said she wanted to throw away her education to follow him, I did everything in my power to stop her. But she just sneered with utter contempt. “So what? Are any of them as brilliant or beautiful as I am?” I shook my head, pulled out my phone, and showed her a real, documented news report. I told her about an American girl years ago who was tricked into a remote village by a con artist, had her passport burned, and endured unspeakable torture. Tiffany let out a cold laugh, completely unbothered. “That’s just because she was incompetent and couldn’t hold onto a man’s heart. My babe is right—you’re just green with envy! “Ugh, I was actually planning to invite you over to enjoy the luxury life once I became queen. Now? You don’t deserve it.” With that, she blocked my number, unfriended me on Instagram, and stormed out without looking back. That evening, when I went out to grab takeout, Tiffany and her boyfriend cornered me on a quiet campus path. “Babe, she’s the one who said you’re a piece of trash. I had a massive fight with her for you, look, I even blocked her everywhere!” Her boyfriend gave her a satisfied kiss on the forehead, then turned to me, his face morphing into a terrifying, menacing scowl. In thick, heavily accented English, he growled: “I’m warning you, stay the hell away from my girl. If I catch you near her again, I’ll beat you to a pulp.” I stumbled backward in fear—not just because of his hideous, violent expression, but because a rancid, overpowering stench was radiating from him, making my eyes water. It smelled like he hadn’t showered in months. Tiffany was much shorter than him, her head barely reaching his armpit. Standing right there in the epicenter of that sour, putrid body odor… I couldn’t even begin to imagine the horror. After delivering their warning, they aggressively started making out right in front of me. The scene was too foul to witness. I bolted. Even though Tiffany cut ties with me, I still couldn’t bear to watch her jump into an abyss. I called her parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Vance, Tiffany is dating a guy at our school with a terrifying reputation. Please, you need to talk some sense into her!” Hearing this, her parents thanked me profusely. They drove to campus that very night, dragged Tiffany back home, and locked her securely in her room. During the weeks Tiffany was grounded, her boyfriend quickly found a new target, and the two of them happily jetted off to Africa together. When Tiffany was finally let out, she threatened to cut off her family completely. Terrified of losing her, her parents wept and pinned all the blame on me: “It was all your friend Audrey’s idea! She kept whispering in our ears that your boyfriend was a dangerous criminal, forcing us to lock you up. If you want to hate someone, hate her!” Nursing a murderous grudge, Tiffany returned to campus. The moment I wasn’t looking, she slipped poison into my water flask, killing me. After I died, she deepfaked my photos and leaked them across Reddit and GreekRank, fabricating disgusting, explicit lies about my personal life. My mother, broken-hearted and furious, stormed into their house to demand justice, but Tiffany’s parents relentlessly mocked and berated her until she suffered a fatal heart attack right on their doorstep. This time, without me standing in her way, I want to see if she can successfully wear that crown. Chapter 2 “Whatever you decide, babe, I’m backing you up a hundred percent. “Your boyfriend sounds like an absolute emperor over there. If you go, wouldn’t that make you the ultimate Queen?” I playfully bent my knee in a mock curtsy. “All hail Her Royal Highness!” This sent Tiffany’s vanity through the roof. She laughed triumphantly for a good minute before narrowing her eyes, scanning me up and down. “Audrey, why don’t you come with me? I can totally hook you up with one of his brothers. “I’ll be the Queen, and you can be a Princess. Deal?” Ah. I wondered why Tiffany, who usually kept secrets from me, suddenly ran over to ask for my opinion. Turns out she was terrified of going alone and wanted a sidekick to drag along. I intentionally snatched her boyfriend’s photo, putting on a face of absolute adoration. “Oh my god, can you share his contact info? I heard guys over there can marry multiple wives anyway. We’re sisters—it doesn’t matter which one of us gets to be the queen, right?” Tiffany’s face instantly dropped. She snatched the photo back, stuffing it into her pocket, and snapped, “Hands off your best friend’s man. Don’t you have any morals?” Suppressing my intense disgust, I linked my arm through hers and pouted playfully. “I just want to stay close to you! Once you’re a tribal queen, how am I supposed to see you whenever I want?” Tiffany bared her teeth in a smug, wide grin. “True. Fine, I won’t hold it against you!” Right on cue, her phone rang. It was her boyfriend, demanding she meet him at a motel. Hanging up, Tiffany leaned in mysteriously and whispered that before leaving for Africa, she needed to “create a powerful anchor” to lock her boyfriend down, ensuring her royal status was secure. Enduring the nauseating wave of her odor, I walked her to the campus gates and waved goodbye. If she didn’t leave right then, I was going to throw up my dinner from last night. Spending so much time with him had clearly ruined Tiffany’s own hygiene. From that day on, Tiffany completely stopped showing up to classes. Our academic advisor was furious and left dozens of voicemails for her parents. She was an only child, and her parents doted on her blindly. The moment the advisor hung up, they drove straight to campus and cornered me right at the entrance of my dorm building. Since I was Tiffany’s only real friend on campus, I was always their first point of contact for any emergency. In my past life, I was more than happy to help them. I never expected them to repay my kindness with cold-blooded betrayal. The moment Tiffany’s mother saw me, she dropped to her knees, grabbing my hands and weeping dramatically. “Audrey, please! Ask yourself, haven’t I always treated you like my own daughter? You can’t just stand by and watch our Tiffany ruin herself!” With that, she whipped out a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills from her purse and shoved them into my hands, sobbing. “You don’t even have to ask, I will gladly pay you. Just tell us where she is!” Students were constantly drifting past the dorm entrance. They were instantly fooled by her pathetic, weeping performance and began turning on me. “Wow, talk about a gold digger. Extorting her best friend’s grieving parents? Gross.” “Right? I heard she got a full ride for a Master’s track. Clearly, her morals are completely bankrupt. We should report this to the Dean tomorrow—maybe they’ll revoke her spot and open it up for someone else.” “Disgusting. I’m recording this and posting it on TikTok so everyone can see what a monster she is. Don’t let her ruin anyone else.” I rubbed my temples. Dealing with this family of manipulative grifters was exhausting. I dialed 911 right then and there, turned on the speakerphone, and handed it directly to Tiffany’s mother. “Mrs. Vance, I haven’t seen Tiffany in days either. For her safety, let’s let the police handle it immediately.” Her mother’s face stiffened awkwardly. She knew exactly what kind of trashy things her daughter was up to and desperately wanted to avoid getting law enforcement involved. Seeing her hesitate, the crowd of students chimed in to encourage her. “Don’t be scared, ma’am! We’ve got your back!” “Yeah, there are so many fake friends these days. Who knows if this girl did something to your daughter!” “Exactly, don’t waste time! Tell the dispatcher everything!” Chapter 3 Left with no choice, Tiffany’s mother stammered through an explanation of the situation to the dispatcher. Within a short while, the police traced her phone ping to a sketchy, hourly-rate motel down the highway. They dispersed the crowd to protect the “victim’s” privacy. But of course, some drama-obsessed students secretly followed them, opening a live broadcast on their phones. I made sure to stay far away. If Tiffany saw me there, she would find a way to blame me for the humiliation. Instead, I watched the livestream safely from my dorm room. As the viewer count exploded, it seemed like half the university was tuned in. On screen, Tiffany’s mother looked green. She was terrified of two possibilities: either her daughter was there voluntarily doing something shameful, or she was actually kidnapped. Either way, with this much publicity, her daughter’s reputation was going to be utterly trashed. She tried to call off the investigation and tell the officers to leave, but the police, fearing a dangerous suspect might be inside, insisted on verifying Tiffany’s safety before clearing the scene. Soon, the officers kicked the motel room door open, with Tiffany’s parents trailing right behind them. An absolutely grotesque, unspeakable scene filled the screen. The livestream chat went completely wild, comments flying at hyper-speed: [Ew, what the hell! I need bleach for my eyes!] [College kids these days are wilding out, omg!] Just as the chat was reaching a fever pitch, the stream was abruptly banned. Someone immediately created a burner account to restart the stream for clout. In the video, Tiffany’s parents’ faces drained of color, turning a ghostly white before flushing a deep, violent crimson. The police interrogated them repeatedly, but Tiffany kept screaming that everything was completely consensual, making her dad look like he wanted to slap her into next week. Once the police confirmed it was just a massive, trashy misunderstanding, they washed their hands of it and left. Then came the main event. Since her parents doted on their precious daughter too much to lay a finger on her, they directed a hundred percent of their fury toward her boyfriend. Tiffany’s dad let out a feral roar, raising a fist to smash it directly into the guy’s face. But before the fist could connect, her dad let out a pathetic shriek and went flying across the room, crashing into the wall. The boyfriend cracked his knuckles and snapped his fingers in a mocking, arrogant gesture. Instead of checking on her bruised father, Tiffany stood by the bed, clapping her hands and squealing with delight. “Babe, you are incredible! That was so alpha! God, I love you so much!” Fueled by her worship, the boyfriend grew even more arrogant, pounding his chest like a gorilla and flexing his muscles. Tiffany’s mother wanted to help her husband up, but one threatening glare from the boyfriend froze her in her tracks. She collapsed into a corner, slapping her own chest and wailing hysterically. “It’s all because of that miserable bitch, Audrey! I see it clearly now—she’s intentionally trying to tear our family apart! “Tiffany, you can’t let her blind you! Your father has a terrible heart condition! Go find that Audrey girl and beat her to death!” Hearing my name, Tiffany’s expression shifted drastically. Then, her eyes darted around as a twisted idea formed, and she dragged her boyfriend out the door. Shoot. They were coming for me. This family was more relentless than a curse. I quickly started throwing things into a bag, intending to go home and lay low. But then I stopped. Tiffany knew my home address. If she couldn’t find me at school, she would terrorize my mother. There was no running away from this. I walked out and found a highly public, heavily crowded quad on campus, sitting down calmly to await her arrival. Chapter 4 Tiffany marched up, dragging her boyfriend behind her. But to my utter surprise, she looked… thrilled? Baring her teeth in a massive grin, she slid into the seat right next to me, gripping my arm tightly. “Audrey, you are an absolute genius! I was so worried my parents would stand in our way, but look at them now! They won’t dare say a single word against us!” I forced a stiff, awkward smile. She leaned down, whispering directly into my ear, “Hehe, and this actually proved to my babe that my love for him is stronger than my bond with my own parents. He’s going to worship me even more now.” I was genuinely horrified by her psychological gymnastics, but I kept nodding in mock agreement. Two days later, Tiffany’s parents had the audacity to text me as if nothing had happened, asking me to help them trick Tiffany into coming home. I blocked their numbers instantly. They didn’t dare show their faces on campus anymore, utterly terrified of getting thrashed by her boyfriend again. In the weeks that followed, her parents went completely silent. Tiffany disappeared from campus for over two months; word was her parents had filed for an extended medical leave of absence for her. According to a sorority senior, the boyfriend couldn’t get ahold of Tiffany, so he simply moved on and found a new girl to hook up with. No wonder my left eyelid had been twitching lately. The timeline was realigning itself with my past life. I immediately tracked down the boyfriend’s new target. I laid out his entire history, telling her exactly how many girls he was juggling at once. Fortunately, this girl actually had a brain; she dumped him on the spot and even bought me a Starbucks drink to thank me. I couldn’t help but feel a wave of irony. The only one who treated that human garbage like a priceless treasure was Tiffany. After getting dumped, the boyfriend’s reputation on campus was entirely ruined. Desperate, he turned his sights back to his easiest mark: Tiffany. He somehow dug up her home address and began harassing her family, showing up at their house every single day to cause a scene. And just like that, Tiffany’s locked-down heart began to throb with wild romance once more. Her parents sneaked onto campus during a window when the boyfriend wasn’t around, cornering me right outside my dorm room again. With tears and snot streaming down her face, Tiffany’s mother dropped to her knees, attempting to guilt-trip me into submission. “Audrey, please! Tiffany is on a hunger strike at home! Her body is going to give out! You’re her best friend, you have to do something! If all else fails… why don’t you try to seduce that man away from her? “Honestly, this is your fault too. If you had stopped her aggressively from the very beginning, she wouldn’t be this deeply infatuated! You need to atone for what you did!” I snapped. I couldn’t swallow this garbage for one more second. “Are you insane, lady? Did I force them into that motel room? You can’t even control your own daughter, and you expect a total outsider to manage her life?” Ever since the motel livestream incident, most of the building knew about the Vance family drama. Several girls with a strong sense of justice immediately stepped up to back me up. “Seriously, fix your own trashy family instead of harassing other people. Get psychological help.” “Where is the resident advisor? Why do we keep letting these delusional strangers into our hall? It’s ruining the vibe.” Tiffany’s mother opened her mouth to screech back, but her husband quickly leaned down, whispering something urgent in her ear. Flustered, the two of them shuffled away like beaten dogs. I thought they had finally given up, but over the weekend, while walking down a quiet path on my way home, someone blindsided me from behind. Everything went black. When I regained consciousness, I found myself tied to a chair inside Tiffany’s house. She was currently throwing a tantrum, smashing decor against the walls. Seeing me wake up, her parents rushed over with oily smiles, untying my hands. “Audrey, sweetie, we know you’re a good girl. We were truly desperate, or we would never have resorted to this. Please, just talk some sense into Tiffany.” I recoiled, pulling my hands away. But then a thought struck me: if I defied them openly right now, there was no telling what desperate, violent things this unhinged family would do to me. I forced a compliant smile and nodded. Still paranoid, Tiffany’s mother confiscated my phone before unlocking the door to Tiffany’s bedroom, shoving me inside, and immediately locking it behind me. The moment Tiffany saw me, she dropped the expensive collectible figurine she was about to smash and threw her arms around me. “Audrey! What took you so long? Is my babe losing his mind out there? “My psycho parents took my phone, so I can’t text him. You have to message him for me! I’m terrified he’ll do something tragic if he thinks I abandoned him!” Suddenly, Tiffany cut herself off, doubling over and dry-heaving violently into a trash can. Though I had never witnessed it in person before, I had seen it enough on TV to know instantly—she was pregnant. Tiffany and I locked eyes, and I knew she realized that I knew. I knocked loudly on the bedroom door, calling out to her parents that Tiffany had finally calmed down and was craving the specialized wontons from the diner downtown. Her parents exchanged a thrilled look. Her dad whipped out a fifty-dollar bill, hesitated, and reluctantly handed it to me. “Audrey, thank you for the trouble. Keep whatever change is left as a tip!” The moment I left the house, I noticed her mother tailing me from a distance. I intentionally slipped through the back door of the busy diner, sprinted to a nearby pharmacy, bought a digital pregnancy test, and hid it securely inside my sports bra. When I returned, her parents patted me down thoroughly, even checking the plastic takeout bags multiple times. Once they were satisfied I hadn’t smuggled a phone, they let me back into the room. A few minutes later, I stared at the digital display in Tiffany’s hand showing a clear, undeniable PREGNANT. I fell into deep thought.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447901”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 In the third year of my marriage to Carter Sterling, he set up a young, pretty college girl in an apartment downtown. Her name was Chloe Jenkins. She had a sweet, innocent look—exactly Carter’s type. Carter had been keeping her around for over six months. Other than me, she was the woman who had stayed by his side the longest. My friends warned me to be careful. They all said that this time, Carter might actually be falling in love. The first time I met Chloe was on my birthday. My nose had been bleeding since the morning. I went to the hospital for a checkup, and the doctor told me I would probably only live until next spring. I nodded gently and whispered, “That’s okay.” I wasn’t afraid of dying, but I was a little afraid of the pain. I heard there was a very expensive experimental painkiller that could make my remaining days a bit more comfortable. The money in my bank account wasn’t enough, so I went to Carter’s company to find him. It just so happened that Chloe was there, too. She had just graduated and was working as Carter’s personal secretary. Carter was in a meeting, so I sat in the waiting area. Chloe kept staring at me, whispering to her colleagues nearby: “Is that the boss’s wife? She’s so ugly. She looks dried up, like she’s about to drop dead.” “Everyone says I look like her. How do I look like her? I’m way prettier.” The polished glass wall reflected my image. I wore no makeup and was swallowed up by a bulky, unflattering winter coat. It was true. I wasn’t pretty, and I was about to drop dead. A colleague pulled Chloe’s sleeve and whispered back, “She just isn’t dressed up. If she put on makeup, ten of you combined couldn’t compare to her.” “Also, don’t let the boss’s favoritism get to your head. Don’t provoke her.” “You don’t know how much the boss loves her. If you upset her, he will literally end you.” 2 Hearing that Carter loved me deeply, Chloe pouted in defiance and rolled her eyes at me. She brought me a cup of tea, asking in a sickly-sweet voice, “Emma, how could the boss bear to make you wait so long?” “It’s so weird. Usually, whenever I come to find him, no matter how busy he is, he drops everything to keep me company. He tells me I’m the most important person to him.” “I thought he was this considerate with all his women…” She smiled, her eyes curving into sweet crescents. When she smiled, she really did look like a younger me. I thought about it. Carter really did treat Chloe differently. He had countless mistresses. He used them as tools to spite me, bringing a different woman home every night, testing my reaction over and over again. But Carter never kept them around long. A day or two, maybe a couple of weeks at most, and he would get bored. Only Chloe. Carter kept her properly on the outside—taking her to dinners, shopping, the movies. They were like any ordinary, loving couple. Carter gave her money, and he gave her affection. I looked at Chloe and smiled softly, asking her in a gentle voice, “If you’re so important, how can Carter bear to keep you hidden away as a dirty little secret?” “You should talk some sense into him. Tell him to divorce me sooner so he can marry you.” Chloe’s face drained of color. Humiliated and furious, she lowered her voice and hissed, “The one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel! You are the one who doesn’t belong!” “You’re just riding on the fact that you met Mr. Sterling a few years before I did. But look at you now—you’re old and ugly. What do you have left to fight me with?” Her colleague, probably terrified that I would snap, hurried over to grab her arm and pull her away. Honestly, I didn’t mind. I had made a promise to myself a long time ago: I wouldn’t get angry over Carter, and I wouldn’t cry over him either. And I certainly wouldn’t lower myself to fight other women out of jealousy for him. He wasn’t worth it. 3 Chloe was yanked back, lost her footing, and crashed to the floor. The ceramic teacup shattered, slicing a deep gash into her palm. Blood spilled across the tiles. Through the glass walls of the conference room, Carter saw the injured Chloe. With everyone watching, he slammed his files down, pushed open the doors, and strode over, pulling Chloe into his arms. He snarled coldly, “Who the hell hurt her?” The well-meaning colleague stumbled backward, her face ashen with terror. I sneered. “I did it. And she deserved it.” Chloe glared at me through her tears, crying out, “Yes, I deserve it! It’s my fault for falling in love with a married man. It’s my fault people call me a homewrecker and a mistress!” “But Mr. Sterling, as long as you love me, I’ll stay by your side for the rest of my life. No one can tear us apart.” She cried so beautifully. Even spouting such ridiculous nonsense, she looked brave and resolute. Carter chuckled, his anger melting. He reached up to wipe her tears, coaxing her, “Be good. Look at you, crying like a little stray cat.” He truly treated her differently. I lowered my eyes, too tired to keep watching, and simply said to Carter, “For my birthday this year, I want fifty thousand dollars.” It was funny, really. We were husband and wife, but we didn’t even have each other saved in our phones. Unless I needed money, I never reached out to him. Before we got married, we had a deal: he wanted my body, and I wanted his money. Carter always hated me for being a gold digger. But in the past, whenever I asked, no matter the amount, he would give it to me—usually more than I requested. But this time, he looked at me and smiled. A freezing, cruel smile. He said slowly, “You can have the money.” “But, Emma. Lower your noble head and apologize to Chloe first.” Carter was using fifty grand to buy my dignity, all to buy Chloe an apology. It was the first time he had ever used his money to humiliate me for another woman. I slowly clenched my fists and gave a faint smile. Suppressing the sudden, agonizing pain flaring up in my chest, I turned and walked away. I didn’t want the money anymore. I suddenly felt very curious. Carter… If one day you found out that this money could have kept me alive just a little longer, if you knew how much pain I suffered before I died… What kind of face would you make? 4 I went home alone, curling up in agony under the covers, sweating through my clothes from the pain. I took some sleeping pills, lying to myself. If I fall asleep, it won’t hurt anymore. In a hazy delirium, I had a dream. I dreamt of the year I was twenty. Carter was dirt poor, but he loved me so, so much. It was my birthday. We walked past a bakery and saw a couple sitting by the glass window. The girl was holding a delicate slice of white velvet cake. It looked exquisite, delicious, and incredibly expensive. I remember it was snowing heavily. I scooped up a handful of snow, smiled at Carter, and asked, “Carter, look at this snow. Doesn’t it look like a slice of cake?” Carter clenched his jaw and pulled me into a tight hug, hiding his red, tear-filled eyes from me. Three days later, he appeared outside my dorm building holding a massive, entire white velvet cake. A whole cake cost fifty dollars. Standing on the freezing, wind-swept streets handing out three thousand flyers only earned him twenty. I looked at the frostbite on his fingers and burst into pathetic, ugly sobs. I tilted my head back and yelled at him, “Carter Sterling! Your hands are meant for reading books and writing papers! You can’t just ruin them just to make me smile!” I told him I wasn’t worthy of such an expensive cake… Carter frowned and instantly shut me down. He said, “Emma, you are the best girl in the world. You deserve every beautiful thing this world has to offer.” That day, I ate the entire cake through my tears. So much time has passed, I can’t even remember how it tasted anymore. All I know is that since that day, I’ve never had a cake that tasted better. I slept for a long time. Groggily, I heard my phone ringing. I answered it, and heard Carter’s voice calling my name: “Emma.” I smiled weakly, my voice sweet as I called back, “Carter, it’s snowing heavily. I want to eat cake.” Without waiting for his reply, I rolled over and sank back into a deep sleep. 5 I slept until the middle of the night before I woke up starving. I went to the living room to find food, only to realize Carter had actually come home. He had bought Chloe a massive penthouse. They lived there together. Chloe cooked for him, made him laugh, and waited for him to come home. Carter was living a great life. He hadn’t been back to this house in a very long time. He leaned lazily against the floor-to-ceiling window, a cigarette between his lips, staring fixedly at me. I kept my eyes down, walking past him, but he grabbed my arm. He frowned, his voice soft. “Why have you lost so much weight?” His tone was gentle. It almost sounded like he still loved me. I froze for a second, then violently yanked my arm away, snapping, “Carter, are you out of your mind?” He looked down at his empty palm, the warmth bleeding out of his face. When I reached the dining table, I saw a large cake resting on it, covered in unlit candles. Only then did I realize that the phone call hadn’t been a dream. I said I wanted cake, so Carter went out and bought one. What was this? A peace offering? But I was dying. I had stopped needing cake—and stopped needing Carter—a long time ago. I grabbed the cake and shoved it straight into the trash can. Carter ground his teeth, grabbed me, and slammed me against the wall. He cursed viciously, “Emma, are you fucking playing with me?” I smiled and admitted it. “Yes, Carter. I’m playing with you. So what?” “I say I want a cake, and you go run and buy a cake. Why are you still as pathetic as you used to be?” I deliberately drove the knife into his heart. I watched Carter’s expression freeze into absolute absolute ice. He crushed his cigarette out, dragged me into the bedroom, and threw me onto the bed. Carter was driven mad by anger. Like a beast losing control, he roughly tore at my nightgown. I was terrified. I balled my fists and hit him. “Carter, you bastard! Don’t touch me! You disgust me!” He pinned my legs down so I couldn’t struggle, lowered his head, and bit down hard on my neck. The pain brought tears to my eyes. He pressed his lips against my ear and growled, “Emma, would it kill you to just give in for once?” “Do you have any idea how many years I’ve waited for you to just be soft with me?” “Do you know how happy I was when you told me you wanted cake?” “And then you treat me like a fucking joke?” He lifted his head, staring at me with bloodshot eyes. I fought back my tears and glared right back. In the dimly lit room, neither of us spoke. Neither of us was willing to surrender. Carter leaned down, getting closer and closer. Just as his lips were about to brush mine, his phone suddenly rang. It was Chloe. Carter paused, but eventually picked it up. I could hear Chloe crying through the speaker. “Mr. Sterling, are you really abandoning me for Emma? You clearly told me you loved me.” “I’m at a bar right now. I drank too much, and some guy is harassing me…” “I’m so scared. Please come take me home, please?” Carter didn’t say a word to her. He just stared at me, a cold smile forming on his lips. He softly ordered me, “Emma. Beg me.” “Beg me to stay. Just ask, and I won’t leave.” He must have forgotten. A long time ago, I had thrown away my pride and begged him too. “Carter, can we just sit down and talk calmly?” “Can we stop fighting?” “Can we just love each other?” “Can you please just be good to me?” That day, Carter stared at me with cold indifference, smiled, and said, “Emma, you aren’t worth it.” Those words had been embedded in my heart ever since. Until today, when I finally got to return them. I grabbed his collar, looking him in the eye, and enunciated every word: “Carter. You aren’t worth it.” Carter went silent for a moment. Then, he let out a self-deprecating laugh. He brought the phone back to his ear and told Chloe, “Wait for me. I’m coming to get you.” Without looking at me again, he got up, slammed the door, and left. 6 The next day, photos of Carter getting into a physical brawl with another man over Chloe spread through the Manhattan elite circles. It was the first time his affairs with other women had caused such a public spectacle. Paparazzi swarmed the front of my house. When I tried to leave, they surrounded me, firing off questions. Carter’s company had grown exponentially over the years, giving him massive influence on Wall Street. Young, obscenely wealthy, and handsome, he was practically a celebrity online. A young female reporter shoved a recorder in my face. “Mrs. Sterling, do you have any comments regarding Mr. Sterling and Chloe Jenkins?” I kept walking, not even looking back as I countered, “One is a man committing adultery, and the other is a homewrecker who knows exactly what she’s doing. What exactly do you want me to say?” The girl chased after me. “But I heard that when Mr. Sterling was at his poorest, you dumped him for money!” “Then, when he made it big, you emotionally manipulated him and used underhanded tactics to force him to marry you…” “Now that Mr. Sterling has found true love, he and Chloe are a perfect match. You’re the one stubbornly clinging to the title of Mrs. Sterling and calling others homewreckers.” “Don’t you think you’re the one being a bully?” I stopped in my tracks, turned with a cold smile, and snatched the press badge hanging around her neck. She was an intern. Tucked behind her press pass was a student ID from Easton University. I looked at her calmly. “You’re Chloe’s friend, aren’t you?” “Back then, Carter used every ruthless tactic in the book to force me to marry him. Do you really think I wanted this?” “Everyone in our circle knows the truth. You really didn’t know? Or did you just come here to throw mud at me to help your little sorority sister climb the ranks?” Her expression faltered. Panicked, she snatched her badge back and defended herself self-righteously: “Yes, Chloe is my friend, but I’m a journalist! Everything I say is objective and fair.” “If you really didn’t want to marry Mr. Sterling, then why won’t you divorce him now that he loves someone else?” I smiled and opened my mouth to reply, but suddenly, my nose started bleeding again. I looked a mess. Someone in the crowd laughed. “Mrs. Sterling talks a big game about not caring and being forced into marriage, but she’s so stressed out she’s giving herself nosebleeds!” I reached up with a fingertip and wiped the blood from my lip. Calmly, I said, “I’m not stressed. I’m just sick. I’m dying, so I get nosebleeds a lot lately.” The crowd suddenly fell dead silent. Nobody was laughing anymore. Only that girl kept going. “Cut the act. You get a little nosebleed and suddenly you’re playing the terminal illness card for pity.” “I am so sick of women like you. Pulling the ‘I’m dying’ stunt just to fight over a man. You’re a disgrace to women everywhere.” She flipped her ponytail and marched off. Watching her back, I realized she was just as repulsive as Chloe.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447900”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 I, Chloe Sterling, was the internet’s most hated rising star. Right as my career was supposed to be taking off, I was booked on a massive celebrity reality-talk show alongside another Gen Z “It Girl” from my agency. During the segment, the topic shifted to industry connections. To manufacture some viral drama, the host challenged the guests to call a friend—in or out of the industry—and ask to borrow money on speakerphone. The amount? Exactly $100,000. In this economy, asking for a hundred grand out of the blue is an incredibly sensitive issue. Plus, the person on the other end wouldn’t know they were on live television. Anything could happen. We were all public figures. The producers were purely looking out for their own ratings, completely disregarding whether this might ruin a guest’s career. Just as I was hesitating, Harper Quinn flashed a sickly-sweet smile. “Chloe, you look a little pale. Do you not have anyone you can call?” She looked at me with undisguised contempt. Harper was, for all intents and purposes, my ultimate rival. We were signed by the agency around the same time, which meant we constantly competed for the same roles and brand deals. Because of her innocent, “girl-next-door” aesthetic, her first lead role blew up globally. Her status skyrocketed. Meanwhile, since my debut, I had only managed to land lukewarm supporting roles. I guess I partly blamed myself; I wasn’t hyper-ambitious and felt perfectly content with where I was. But I never expected that even after hitting the A-list, Harper still wouldn’t let me breathe. She had to fight me for everything. I glanced at Harper in her flashy, haute-couture gown. Her smile felt like daggers. “Don’t worry about me, Harper.” Choked by my immediate pushback, Harper didn’t get angry. Instead, she smirked, leaning in to whisper so only my mic would pick it up: “Keep faking it. Let’s see how long you can hold this front.” I lowered my eyes and stayed silent. 2 The livestream chat was already exploding. [Omg, Chloe is so arrogant. Harper was just checking on her!] [Harper is way more famous than her anyway. Why does Chloe always look so bitter?] [Our girl Harper is too nice. If it were me, I would’ve slapped her.] [No wonder she’s a D-list flop. People like Chloe are the poison of Hollywood.] Before the game began, the crew mirrored our phones onto the giant studio screen. Eager to watch me make a fool of myself, Harper volunteered to go first. I didn’t object. The host beamed. “Alright, let’s get started!” Looking incredibly smug, Harper pulled out her phone and opened her iMessage. Right at the top of her pinned chats was the name: Liam Sterling. Oh, wow. That was my older brother. The studio audience instantly lost their minds. [Wait, Liam Sterling?! Like, THE Liam Sterling?] [For anyone who lives under a rock: Liam Sterling is Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor. Insanely talented, literally won back-to-back Oscars for Best Actor.] [He is drop-dead gorgeous and so sweet in person! I met him at LAX once, totally breathtaking.] [How does Harper know Liam?! And he’s pinned in her texts? They must be super close!] [Are they secretly dating?!] [Twitter sleuths, get to work NOW!!] The studio atmosphere reached a fever pitch. Seeing that her stunt had worked perfectly, Harper feigned a shy, blushing smile. “Is it okay if I call Liam?” Liam? My mouth twitched as the studio audience screamed their approval. Having an A-lister of that magnitude featured on the show was a producer’s wet dream. The host eagerly urged her on. Amidst the deafening cheers, Harper dialed Liam’s number. It rang for a long time. Harper’s face tightened with nervous anticipation. Ring… Ring… Ring… And then, the call disconnected. Sent straight to voicemail. The studio went dead silent. Harper’s face darkened instantly, but she quickly forced a stiff smile. “Liam is probably on set right now. He must have missed it.” I smiled, looking completely innocent. “Really? Because that sounded exactly like you got sent to voicemail.” “You…” “Why would Liam ever decline my call?” she snapped defensively. I just chuckled, threw my hands up, and gave a helpless shrug. [Chloe is such a bitch. She literally cannot stand seeing other women win.] [Exactly. Liam is a busy man, missing a call is completely normal.] [Ignore her, she’s just jealous that Harper even has Liam’s number.] [I mean… it did ring three times and then abruptly stop. That literally means he declined it. Are you guys blind?] Occasionally, a viewer would drop some truth in the chat. But they were immediately drowned out by the flood of toxic stans. Everyone knew Harper’s fanbase was rabid and allergic to criticism. 3 Unable to let the embarrassment slide, Harper dialed Liam’s number again. This time, it was declined even faster. A second later, an iMessage from Liam popped up on the giant screen: [Harper, are you done?] [How much longer do you expect me to tolerate you?] The audience gasped. Harper’s face drained of all color. She frantically tried to do damage control. “No, wait, it’s not what it looks like. Liam might just be having a stressful day today! I know him so well—he hates being interrupted when he’s deeply in character on set. Let’s just be understanding and try someone else!” Clearly, the studio fans desperately wanted to believe her. Someone from the bleachers even yelled, “It’s okay, Harper! We understand!” I scoffed internally. If nothing else, Harper’s fans were blindly loyal. Looking deeply moved, Harper stared lovingly at her fans. Then, she backed out of her texts and dialed another number from her contacts. It didn’t have a saved name, but I recognized the digits instantly. That was… my dad’s private cell. Harper hit the call button, looking even more terrified than she had when calling my brother. Almost immediately, the automated carrier voice echoed through the studio: [We’re sorry, the number you have reached is unavailable…] Refusing to give up, she hung up and dialed again. Same automated voice. The audience began whispering. Harper was biting her lip so hard it was turning white. I knew my dad. His tech empire spanned the globe; he literally never missed an important call. The fact that it went straight to an automated message meant one thing: Harper’s number was blocked. The director looked completely panicked. He had assumed Harper’s segment would be a massive ratings booster. Nobody expected it to be this humiliating. But no matter how embarrassing it got, her delusional fanbase refused to turn on her. [It’s fine! The other person is probably just in a meeting.] [Don’t cry, Harper! You tried your best!] [Seeing her looking so sad breaks my heart.] [Lmao, look at Chloe’s face. She is eating this up. What a psycho.] [She literally has ‘mean girl’ written all over her face.] [It’s her turn next. Let’s see how badly she embarrasses herself.] The host forced a laugh to smooth things over and moved the segment along. Harper blinked at me, her eyes dripping with fake sympathy. “It’s okay if you can’t borrow the money, Chloe! Knowing your… reputation in the industry, we totally understand.” God, she was a piece of work. I opened my phone, pulled up my contacts, and dialed the contact saved as “Brother.” 4 Harper covered her mouth with a manicured hand and giggled. “‘Brother’? Is he actually related to you? I’ve seen this a million times. Girls like you meet a rich guy in the hills and suddenly start calling him ‘Brother’ or ‘Daddy.’ Who knows what kind of relationship you guys actually have behind closed doors.” I frowned, glaring at her. Among female celebrities, spreading implicit rumors about someone’s sex life was the lowest of the low. Harper was entirely dropping her innocent facade. [Holy shit, Harper went there.] [Industry insiders probably know the tea. Chloe is probably a high-end escort or something.] [Harper never speaks like this in public. Chloe must be genuinely vile behind the scenes.] I ignored the chat and waited for the call to connect. Within seconds, it was picked up. A deep, lazy, incredibly affectionate voice echoed through the studio speakers: “Hey, Chloe. What’s up?” In a split second, Harper’s face turned ghostly white. The live chat completely short-circuited: [Wait… tell me that isn’t Liam Sterling’s voice.] [Am I hallucinating?!] [Omg, I’ve been a hardcore Liam fan for five years. That is 100% his voice.] [AHHHHH! Liam picked up Chloe’s call?! AND HE CALLED HER CHLOE IN THAT TONE?!] [I’m shipping them so hard right now. This is wild.] I spoke directly into the phone: “Hey, can I borrow $100,000?” My brother let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “What’s wrong? Did my little troublemaker burn through her allowance again?” “Yup!” Even though he couldn’t see me, I nodded happily. His magnetic voice poured through the speakers again. “I just wired $200,000 to your account. Let me know if you need more. I can’t have my favorite girl going broke, can I?” The call ended. A second later, a notification dropped onto the giant screen: [Chase Bank Alert: Incoming Wire Transfer of $200,000.00 successful.] Harper looked like she was going to pass out. The chat was having an absolute meltdown: [HE CALLED HER ‘LITTLE TROUBLEMAKER’ AND ‘FAVORITE GIRL’!!!] [Are they actually siblings?! We need a DNA test immediately!] [My gossip radar is going crazy. Someone call TMZ!] [He is so charming. A man talking like that could ruin my life and I’d thank him.] I locked my phone, turned to Harper, and gave her a sharp, predatory smile. “Sorry about that. My brother Liam usually declines calls from people he doesn’t know.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447899”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was sick and hospitalized, and my boyfriend was running himself ragged taking care of me. The older woman in the neighboring hospital bed quietly asked me when the two of us were getting married. I just smiled, shook my head, and didn’t say a word. He had no idea that I saw his phone. I saw that he had linked his gaming account as an “in-game couple” with a girl saved as CeeCee. I saw it last night, right when he forgot to lock his screen before turning around to pour me a glass of water. 1 The day I was discharged from the hospital, the city was blanketed in its heaviest snowfall of the year. Caleb took off his scarf and wrapped it snugly around my neck, laughing and calling me a silly little goose. I opened my mouth to speak, but tears just welled up in my eyes. He crouched down, taking my hands in his, and looked up at me with those eyes full of stars, asking what was wrong. I stared back at him. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. How could someone cheat on me, yet still treat me with such incredible tenderness? 2 Caleb’s Instagram grid was completely filled with pictures of me. Because I had severe sinus allergies, he not only quit smoking cold turkey, but he also refused to let any of his frat brothers or coworkers light up around me. Whenever he came home late from grabbing drinks with the guys, he would wait out in the freezing apartment hallway for ten minutes just to air out, all because I couldn’t stand the smell of alcohol. He remembered every food I loved and every brand of skincare I used. He even tracked the dates of my period more accurately than I did. Last month, when I went on a ski trip to Aspen with my friends, he couldn’t make it because of a massive work deadline. He stayed on the phone with me for half an hour, nagging me to be safe on the slopes. My friends laughed, teasing that his eyes only had room for me, that Professor Vance was hopelessly obsessed with his girlfriend. But this exact same man was on a multiplayer game, paired up with a girl I didn’t even know. Their “couple status” was currently at 147 days. 3 I was craving a spicy Cajun seafood boil, spicy buffalo wings—anything with a massive kick of heat. Caleb coaxed and pleaded with me until I gave in, and he ended up making me a warm bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup instead. I sat at the kitchen island, watching his broad shoulders as he busied himself by the stove. Suddenly, I asked him. “Caleb, that game you’re always playing on your phone… can you teach me how to play?” He froze for just a fraction of a second, then turned around and smiled, ruffling my hair. “Sure thing, babe. Since when did you care about video games?” I really didn’t know the first thing about gaming. The complicated interface gave me a headache. But more importantly, I noticed Caleb had logged into a burner account to play with me. When we lost our first match, I tossed his phone onto the sofa. He wasn’t even mad. “Wanna do something else?” he asked. He had finished cleaning up the kitchen and wrapped his arms around me from behind on the couch. His breath brushed against my ear, his soft hair carrying the fresh scent of his body wash. But my body reacted on instinct, and I pushed him away. He raised an eyebrow in surprise, but still just gently rubbed my stomach and told me to get some rest. 4 The next morning, I didn’t wake Caleb up. I just got dressed and went straight to the office. He sent me two texts around noon. “You just got out of the hospital, don’t eat anything greasy. I ordered you some warm soup from Panera, be a good girl and eat it all.” “Were you in a bad mood yesterday? Let’s go catch a movie after you get off work.” “…” I locked my screen, a dull ache twisting in my stomach. Caleb finished his afternoon lectures right on time and drove to my office to pick me up. I didn’t say a word as he held my hand and led me into the theater. The movie was incredibly dull. Halfway through, Caleb’s phone kept buzzing in his pocket. Suddenly, he leaned over and whispered that there was an emergency at the university he had to deal with immediately. I nodded and said that was fine, I’d just catch an Uber home after the credits rolled. But he probably never expected that I would slip out of the theater right behind him. Luckily, he was on foot. If he had driven, I never would have been able to keep up. His destination was close by—a local urgent care clinic just two blocks down. Caleb was tall and striking, easy to spot even in a crowded waiting room. Because of that, I had a perfectly clear view when a young girl sprinted out of an exam room and threw her arms around his neck. Caleb let her hold him, his hands resting casually in his jacket pockets. He didn’t hug her back. But he didn’t push her away, either. 5 I got home much later than Caleb did. He was sitting at the dining table, tilting his head as he watched me walk in. I had no intention of explaining where I’d been. As I walked past him, he reached out and caught my wrist. “Why have you been so down these past few days, hmm?” He kissed the spot behind my ear, trailing down to my neck. But the moment I thought of how that girl had practically wrapped herself around him, a violent shudder ran through me, and I shoved his chest. “Go take a shower.” I avoided his gaze, and he didn’t seem too suspicious. Before grabbing his towel, he affectionately ruffled my hair. Caleb had always kept his guard down around me. Look, he didn’t even lock his phone. This time, I dug deeper into his apps. Yesterday, he had played games with me using his main social media login, but it was undeniably his alternate gaming account. After messing around with his settings, I found a hidden encrypted messaging app buried in a locked folder. Logged in on that app was a completely different persona. … The contact list was sparse. Just a few of his frat brothers. But pinned to the very top of his messages was a chat with someone named CeeCee. As I opened it, CeeCee happened to send a brand-new text. “My cramps hurt so bad, I feel awful. When are you finally going to break up with that woman?” “…” I scrolled up. They had talked so much. So much that it felt like they exchanged more words in a single day than Caleb and I did in an entire month. A month ago, when I was in Aspen with my friends, Caleb said he was swamped with grading papers and stayed on the phone with me to make sure I was safe. But that very same day was this CeeCee’s birthday. The two of them had gone to the exact same local animal rescue cafe that Caleb and I went to on our first anniversary. Someone had even taken a Polaroid of them. The girl was smiling radiantly, holding a golden retriever puppy, while Caleb looked down at her with pure, unadulterated affection. My hands and feet turned to ice. I kept reading. Caleb sent her paragraphs upon paragraphs. He would whine to her about how exhausting his department meetings were. He would play video games with her and affectionately mock her for being a “total noob.” He even took photos of the new succulent on his office desk just to share it with her. All those times he told me he was working late? They were almost all dates with this girl. As I stared at the screen, I slowly clutched my stomach and sank to the floor. I had just gotten surgery for severe gastric ulcers, and the intense stress made the searing pain flare up all over again. To make matters worse, I was so absorbed in the texts that I didn’t even notice the sound of the shower turning off. The bathroom door clicked open right behind me. … “What’s wrong? Does your stomach hurt again? Do we need to go to the ER?” The man swept me up from the floor from behind, the crisp scent of his body wash flooding my senses. His warm palm pressed firmly against my abdomen, and for a fleeting second, it actually seemed to soothe my pain. I lowered my eyes, staring at his phone, which I had flipped face-down onto the table in the nick of time. The very last message I saw was from Caleb to that girl: “I lost my feelings for her a long time ago. You’re the one I like now.” 6 Growing up, my mom loved showing affection through food. Because of that, I developed a habit of binge-eating whenever I felt overwhelmed. Especially during the high-pressure years of high school, my weight ballooned by over thirty pounds. Most teenage girls are hypersensitive about their appearance, and I was no exception. But the more anxious I got, the more I ate. The social circles for girls in my class were a weird mix of superficial harmony and brutal exclusion. I was constantly marginalized because of my size. I wore oversized hoodies, lagged behind in gym class, and never dared to wear a sundress. Nobody wanted to be friends with me, except… Caleb. I met him during our freshman orientation assembly. He was the golden boy speaking for the guys; I was the top-scoring nerd speaking for the girls. But compared to my one fleeting moment in the spotlight, he was as radiant as the summer sun. Top grades, insanely handsome, constantly surrounded by friends. Girls flocked to him like moths to a flame. But as fate would have it, we ended up in the same SAT prep classes, and our similarly high test scores meant the teachers were always comparing us. Over time, we just clicked. I knew exactly what the guys in our grade whispered about me behind my back. They called me fat, joked that no man would ever want me, and erupted into cruel, echoing laughter. They said the most disgusting things. But Caleb… he never once looked at me with that kind of revulsion in his eyes. When did I fall for him? It was probably a humid summer night after prep class. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, took the empty seat next to me, bringing the summer heat with him. His eyes crinkled, his smile incredibly bright and clean. “Just checked the practice scores. You beat me by one point again.” “You’re too smart. Mind lending me that brain of yours?” … Caleb never knew that I peeked at his college application list, spent hours calculating my odds, and made countless silent wishes. In the end, we got into the same prestigious university. At a graduation party, a wealthy, gorgeous girl confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. I sat in the back of the crowd, quietly listening to everyone cheer them on. I truly thought Caleb would date her. But he didn’t. He politely turned her down. … As the party wound down, I was sitting alone in the furthest corner of a booth. Years of isolation made me terrible at socializing; my default instinct was always to hide. But he could always find me. That night, Caleb sat next to me, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes slightly narrowed. I knew he was staring at me, but I was too terrified to meet his gaze. After a long silence, his voice—light and teasing—broke the quiet. “I like you.” “Wanna give us a try?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447898”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

A year ago, a violent car crash shattered my mind, wiping the slate of my life completely clean. In the quiet aftermath of that blankness, I fell in love. I became another man’s wife. I was at the clinic for a routine neurological follow-up when it happened. A little boy, no older than eight, suddenly stepped into my path, blocking the sidewalk. His brow was furrowed, his voice dripping with a cold, cynical edge that had no business belonging to a child. “My dad says you need to come home. Stop throwing a tantrum.” I couldn’t help but offer a soft smile, crouching down to be at eye level with him. I reached out, instinctively wanting to smooth his hair. “Hey there, sweetie. I think you might have the wrong person.” He flinched away with lightning speed, his lip curling into a sneer. “Stop faking it. If you just come back, I’ll even let you tuck me in at night.” A bizarre chill crept down my spine, but we were near a busy intersection. For the child’s safety, I couldn’t just leave him alone on the concrete. I gently guided him back the way he pointed, assuming a frantic parent was looking for him. We arrived at the wrought-iron gates of a sprawling, austere estate in the wealthiest zip code of the city. A man stood at the end of the driveway. He was tall, his shoulders broad in a custom suit, but his eyes were like chips of dirty ice. The moment his gaze locked onto mine, a flicker of something volatile crossed his face, quickly swallowed by a bitter smirk. “Margot. Are you done playing your little games? Finally decided to crawl back?” Before I could process the words, he lunged forward, his large hand clamping around my bicep like a vice, trying to drag me toward the sprawling brick house. Panic spiked in my chest. I violently wrenched my arm free and fumbled for my phone, hitting my husband’s speed dial with trembling fingers. “Greg! Greg, please, I’m outside the clinic and there are these strange people, I think they’re crazy—” 1 The call connected for a fraction of a second. Then, a heavy hand swiped the phone from my grip. It hit the cobblestone driveway with a sickening crack, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of dead glass. The man stared down at me, his jaw clenching with pure, unadulterated irritation. “Margot, drop the amnesia act. It’s pathetic.” He stepped closer, his shadow engulfing me. “So what if I made you take the fall for Cece and do those three years? It’s not like you suffered. You were taken care of. But you? You get out, jump out of a moving car, and vanish. Do you have any idea how guilty Cece has felt for the past year? You’re going to march in there and apologize to her.” A sudden, phantom pain pierced my chest—a sharp, breathless agony that came from absolutely nowhere. My fingers trembled as I knelt to gather the broken pieces of my phone. “You have the wrong person,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I don’t know who you are.” I spun around to run, but his hand shot out, his fingers digging bruisingly into my wrist. He yanked me back, pulling me so close I could smell the stale coffee and expensive cologne on his breath. The sheer impatience in his eyes was terrifying. “Did a few years in a cell make you completely stupid? There are no cameras here, Margot. Stop acting!” My heart felt like it was being ripped open. My lungs seized. A suffocating terror wrapped around my throat. I opened my mouth to scream, to call for help, but no sound came out. Then, the heavy oak front door opened. A woman stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing a silk slip dress, delicate and fragile-looking. She peeked out from behind the man’s broad shoulders, her eyes widening in exaggerated relief. “Margot! Oh my god, you’re back!” She hurried down the steps. “Where have you been for a whole year? How could you just abandon your husband and your son? Look, I know what happened back then wasn’t entirely fair, but I’ve already scolded Timothy for it…” Timothy. The name pinged in the hollow cavity of my skull. It felt familiar. Too familiar. But the harder I tried to grasp it, the more it slipped through my fingers like ash. “Don’t touch me!” I instinctively shoved the woman as she reached for me. She let out a high-pitched cry and collapsed onto the driveway, scraping her knees. “I don’t know you! I just want to go home, I want my—” A sharp, agonizing blow cracked against my temple. Warm liquid instantly began trailing down the side of my face. The little boy stood a few feet away, another jagged landscaping rock clenched in his fist. “Monster! Don’t you dare hurt my mom!” Timothy’s eyes darted to my bleeding forehead, a flash of something like panic tightening his jaw. But he didn’t reach for me. Instead, he dropped to his knees, carefully wrapping his arms around the fragile woman in the silk dress, helping her up as if she were made of spun glass. Cece, however, pushed him away gently. She looked at me, her eyes swimming with a sickeningly sweet sorrow. “Margot, please don’t be mad at Beckett. He’s been living with me for the past few years. I practically raised him. He’s just… forgotten that you’re his real mother.” She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly tight, and dragged me into the cavernous foyer of the house. She pushed me onto a velvet stool and fetched a first-aid kit, aggressively swabbing my forehead with iodine. “You really have no idea how hard Timothy looked for you…” she murmured, her voice a low hum of false sympathy. Realizing I was physically outmatched and trapped, I forced my body to go limp. I stopped fighting. Instead, I sat in silence, letting my eyes sweep the room. The walls were plastered with framed photographs. A beautiful, happy family. A man, a delicate woman, and a little boy. Apple picking in autumn, skiing in the winter, beaches in the summer. The timestamps on the photos ranged from January to December of last year. The year I was supposedly missing. I let out a dry, cracked laugh. I pointed a bloody finger at the little boy glaring at me from the hallway. “You just said I’m his mother. So who are you?” “I…” Cece flushed a deep, ugly red. Her eyes darted to Timothy. The man scowled, his voice a cold whip. “Cece is your sister-in-law. Why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?” He crossed his arms. “While you were locked away, Cece stepped up. She took care of me. She raised our son. You should be down on your knees thanking her.” A hysterical bubble of amusement rose in my throat. I stood up, ignoring the throbbing in my skull, and looked Timothy dead in the eye. “You say I’m your wife. Fine. Answer me this.” I took a step closer. “Why exactly did I go to prison for her?” He froze. His voice leaped an octave, defensive and sharp. “Cece has a weak constitution. She can’t handle a place like that. You can’t compare yourself to her.” I took another step forward. “Okay. What are my hobbies? What’s my favorite flower? What size dress do I wear?” Timothy took a step back. The color began to drain from his face, leaving him a sickening shade of gray. His lips parted, but no sound came out. I leaned in, delivering the final, quiet blow. “When is my birthday?” 2 Silence thickened the room. Timothy’s hands curled into tight fists at his sides. Suddenly, he snapped. “Enough! Stop this goddamn nonsense!” he roared. I didn’t flinch. I just smiled—a cold, empty smile—and raised my left hand, letting the hallway chandelier catch the blinding fire of my custom-cut diamond ring. “I’m sorry, Mr. Caldwell. I truly don’t know what kind of psychotic delusion you two are sharing, but I have never seen you before in my life.” I lowered my hand, my voice turning to steel. “And for the record, I am already married. My husband is waiting for me to come home. As for the kidnapping and the assault, my attorneys will be in touch.” The tube of antiseptic ointment slipped from Cece’s hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud. She stood up, her eyes wide with manufactured horror. “Margot… what did you just say? A husband?” She turned to Timothy, her voice trembling. “No wonder she refused to come home. She’s been out there sleeping around on you!” A dark, violent shadow fell over Timothy’s face. He lunged, his hand clamping down on my wrist again, squeezing until the bones ground together. “Margot. Who the hell is he?” His breath was hot, erratic. “Is that it? Is that why you’re putting on this amnesia act? For some bastard?” He lost his mind. He dragged me by the arm, my shoes slipping on the hardwood, hauling me up the grand staircase. He threw me through a set of double doors and slammed me onto a massive king-sized bed. “Let’s see it then,” he sneered, his hands going to his belt. “Let’s see if that bastard left his marks all over you.” “Get off me!” I fought like a wild animal. My palm connected with his cheek in a blistering slap. “If you touch me, my husband will kill you…” My words were smothered as he forced his mouth over mine. He pinned my wrists with one hand and tore at the neckline of my blouse with the other, his lips bruising my neck, his voice a ragged, ugly rasp. “You’ve grown some teeth, Margot. If you won’t let me touch you, who else is going to?” I braced myself for the worst, kicking and thrashing, but suddenly, the dead weight on top of me went perfectly still. His wandering hand had reached my collarbone, sliding down my shoulder. But instead of smooth, unblemished skin, his fingers traced the thick, jagged roadmap of raised silver scars that crisscrossed my flesh. Timothy’s hand began to shake. He scrambled backward, reaching wildly for the bedside lamp to turn it on. But before the room was flooded with light, frantic pounding rattled the bedroom door. Cece’s hysterical sobs bled through the heavy wood. “Timothy! Timothy, please! I had the nightmare again. I dreamt about your brother. He was hitting me again, he was dragging me down to hell!” Timothy instantly abandoned me. He bolted for the door, tearing it open and gathering Cece into his arms, hushing her with frantic, tender whispers. “Shh, my sweet Cece. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He stroked her hair. “It wasn’t your fault. If he hadn’t lost his mind and attacked you, you wouldn’t have had to defend yourself. It was an accident. I’m right here.” His gentle, soothing murmurs drifted back into the cold room. Trembling uncontrollably, I pulled the torn edges of my blouse together. When I reached up to push my messy hair out of my face, my fingers came away wet. I was crying. I hadn’t even realized it. I crawled to the door, slamming my palms against the wood. I screamed. I beat the door until my knuckles split and smeared blood on the white paint, but no one came. Eventually, I slumped into the darkest corner of the room, pulling my knees to my chest. In the crushing silence of the house, I whispered his name over and over like a prayer. Greg. Greg, please. How long until you find me? I sat awake in that suffocating darkness all night. It wasn’t until mid-morning that a housekeeper finally unlocked the door. I was marched downstairs. Timothy was sitting at the massive granite kitchen island, casually flipping through the Wall Street Journal. He didn’t look up when I entered. He just issued orders. “Cece wants some of that chicken soup you used to make. Get started on it.” He turned a page. “And Beckett’s milk needs to be room temperature. Once you’re done, iron my suits. The maids here are useless with silk.” The words hit my brain like a sleeper agent’s activation code. Deep within my muscle memory, a terrifying subservience flickered. My feet actually took a step toward the kitchen. But the moment my hand brushed the fabric of an apron hanging on a chair, the spell broke. A wave of absolute revulsion washed over me. I spun around, my entire body shaking with fury. “You are holding me hostage! I’m calling the police!” Timothy slowly lowered the newspaper, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips. “Margot. Are we really doing this again today?” I opened my mouth to scream back at him, but my eyes caught a glimpse of the front page of the newspaper resting on the marble counter. There, looking impossibly sharp and commanding in a charcoal tuxedo, was a photograph of Greg from a charity gala last week. A ragged gasp tore from my throat. I lunged forward, stabbing my finger at the photo. “Him! That’s him. He is my husband! If you don’t believe me, call him right now!” 3 Timothy’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth, likely to spit another insult, but a voice drifted down from the sweeping staircase. “Are you insane, Margot?” Cece descended the stairs, her gaze dripping with absolute disdain. “Everyone in New York knows Greg Wright doesn’t do relationships. The man is a machine. He barely keeps company, let alone a wife. Furthermore, Caldwell Enterprises is in the middle of a merger with the Wright Group. If the CEO had gotten married, we would know.” I clenched my fists, desperate to explain, but a sudden, violent throb pulsed behind my eyes. I glanced past them. The massive front doors were unguarded. No security. I didn’t think. I just ran. “Where do you think you’re going?!” Cece sprinted across the foyer, tackling me from behind, her manicured nails digging into my shoulders as we crashed onto the marble floor. Something feral snapped inside me. I twisted around, pure adrenaline flooding my veins, and slapped her hard across the face. I wanted to destroy her. She let out a blood-curdling shriek and collapsed, clutching her cheek, her entire body shaking in exaggerated agony. “Timothy! God, it hurts…” Timothy was there in a second. The look he gave her was pure, agonized devotion. The look he turned on me was pure, unfiltered murder. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” CRACK. His palm connected with my jaw with the force of a wrecking ball. Black spots exploded in my vision. A high-pitched ringing drowned out the sounds of the room. By the time I regained my bearings, Timothy had dragged me by the hair across the floor, throwing me at Cece’s feet. He kicked me hard in the back of the knees, forcing me down. “Get on your knees and apologize to her.” “I’ll kill you for hurting my mom!” Little Beckett charged at me, raising a heavy plastic action figure like a club. He brought it down repeatedly, savagely, against my skull. The wound from yesterday split wide open. Hot blood poured down my face, blinding my left eye. I choked on a mouthful of metallic blood, spitting it onto the marble. I planted my hands on the floor, trying to push myself up, trying to crawl away. Someone shoved me from behind. Hard. I pitched forward, the side of my head colliding violently with the sharp edge of the marble stair step. A blinding, white-hot agony tore through my skull. My vision swam. Through the haze, I saw my diamond wedding ring—it had slipped from my blood-slicked finger and bounced away, resting against the baseboard. I reached for it. My fingers stretched out, grasping at empty air, before the world tilted, darkened, and simply ceased to exist. When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh, sterile smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol burned my nostrils. Hushed, angry voices floated above me. “Amnesia? What the hell does that mean?” Timothy’s voice, tight with barely repressed rage. “Mr. Caldwell, clinically speaking, it’s dissociative amnesia,” a calm, weary male voice replied. “It is a severe psychological defense mechanism triggered by profound, sustained trauma.” “She was given a roof over her head and a life of luxury!” Timothy hissed. “How the hell does she get a disease from that?” The doctor let out a heavy sigh. “Mr. Caldwell, the patient’s body tells a very different story. She has deep-tissue scarring from sharp force trauma, poorly healed bone fractures, and deep bruising consistent with long-term, systematic physical abuse.” The doctor paused, letting the weight of the words settle. “Her body was subjected to a level of agony most people cannot comprehend. When her mind finally broke, it initiated a hard reset. It chose to erase her memory to protect her from the trauma of her own life.” There was a long, suffocating silence. When Timothy finally spoke, his voice was hollow, raspy. “I’ll look into it. I’ll find out what happened… But how do we fix her? How do I make her remember?” “There are… extreme methods,” the doctor said hesitantly. “But I must warn you, attempting to forcefully break a dissociative barrier can cause irreparable neurological damage. It could render her catatonic. A vegetable.” The voices began to fade into the background. Several nurses approached the bed, their faces impassive as they prepped an IV. I felt the cold slide of a needle slipping into my vein. I forced my heavy eyelids open. Terror gripped my chest. I tried to thrash, to fight, but my limbs felt like lead. Timothy was standing beside the bed. His eyes were red-rimmed, a twisted look of sorrow and determination on his face. With the last ounce of strength I had, I weakly reached out and grabbed the hem of his jacket. “No…” I breathed. He didn’t speak. He just reached down and gently placed his hand over my eyes, forcing them shut. The darkness pulled me under. When I woke up, the sterile hospital walls were gone. I was back in the Caldwell estate. But I wasn’t in a bedroom. I was strapped to a heavy metal chair in a windowless basement. A cold, thick leather strap bit into my forehead, holding some sort of mechanical device against my temples. “Well, look who’s finally awake.” Cece was crouching in front of me, a malicious, giddy smile stretching across her face. “I just had a very interesting chat with Timothy about your little memory problem,” she whispered. “But don’t worry, sweetie. We’re going to help you find yourself.” I stared blankly at the concrete wall, my throat too dry to form words. Timothy stepped out of the shadows. His eyes were bloodshot. He dropped to one knee, cupping my face, and gently kissed a tear that had slipped down my cheek. “I found a specialist. Off the books,” he murmured. “He said a few rounds of targeted electroconvulsive therapy will shatter the mental block. You’re going to remember me, Margot. And when you do, I swear to God, I will hunt down whoever did this to you.” 4 A violent tremor wracked my body. I shook my head as best I could against the leather restraints. “No. Please, God, no, I don’t know you, please…” “Do it.” Timothy stood up and turned his back. A switch flipped. The current didn’t just shock me; it felt like a thousand red-hot needles being driven directly into my skull, racing down my spine, and exploding inside my organs. It was an agony so absolute it felt like my skeleton was vibrating into dust. I screamed—a guttural, tearing sound that ripped my vocal cords raw. Blood began to trickle from the corner of my mouth where I’d bitten through my own tongue. The room went black, then white, then black again, leaving nothing but an endless, carnivorous sea of pain. And in that pain, the dam finally broke. Numb, silent tears poured down my face. My breath hitched in my ruined throat. “I remember…” I whispered into the dark. I remembered everything. Eight years of suffocating, soul-crushing agony. I remembered meeting Timothy Caldwell. I was nineteen, working nights as a jazz singer at a downtown lounge to pay for college. He saw me, became obsessed, and bought out the entire club. The roses he sent trailed from the lounge doors all the way to my dorm room. The relentless pursuit, the extravagant gifts. I knew we were from completely different worlds, so I kept my distance. Until my father—a man consumed by gambling debts—sold me out to a syndicate loan shark to save his own skin. It was Timothy who kicked down the door of that underground den. He took a knife to the ribs, bleeding out on the concrete just to drag me out of that hell. “You are my life, Margot,” he had choked out, clutching his bloody side. “If you die, I don’t want to live.” Because of those words, because of that blood, I bound my life to his. I became Mrs. Caldwell. Then, Cece returned from Europe with Timothy’s older brother. It took one drunken confession from one of Timothy’s groomsmen for me to learn the truth: Cece was his golden girl. The high school sweetheart he had never gotten over. The untouchable phantom on the pedestal. Everything changed overnight. His eyes, once filled with warmth for me, tracked only her. The jewelry, the attention, the devotion—all redirected. When Cece tearfully confessed she couldn’t bear to see another woman ruling the Caldwell estate, Timothy forced me to sign divorce papers. When Cece said she desperately wanted to experience motherhood, the son I had endured hell to conceive was taken from my arms and placed in hers. When I screamed, when I fought back, Timothy threatened the only thing I had left: the financial support for my terminally ill mother’s hospital care. To keep my mother breathing, I became Cece’s lapdog. I washed her feet. I endured her petty, cruel abuses. And then, one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I fought back. Just once. As punishment, my fragile mother was evicted from the hospital and left out in the freezing rain. She died of a massive heart attack on the pavement. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. My soul died that day. I packed a single bag, determined to take my son and disappear. But Timothy caught me. That was the night his brother turned up dead. Cece had killed him. Timothy dragged me to the police station. I knelt in the pouring rain, clutching his pant leg, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. “I can’t go to prison, Timothy, please! Who is going to take care of Beckett?!” But Timothy just held his umbrella firmly over Cece, shielding her delicate shoulders from the storm. His eyes were as dead as winter frost. “Cece is fragile. She’d break in a place like that. You’re tough, Margot. You’ve always been tough. When you get out, I’ll make it up to you.” 5 The memories flooded in, a sickening tide of horror. My first day in the penitentiary, someone held me down and squeezed industrial bleach into my eyes. The second day, I was “accidentally” shoved down a metal stairwell, shattering my wrist and ribs. The third day, they locked me in the boiler room with the heat cranked to maximum, leaving me to hallucinate from dehydration. For three years, I lived every single day begging for death. The day I was released, Timothy sent a car for me. Sitting in the front seat were the very men he had hired to “toughen me up” inside. My mind simply snapped. I unbuckled my seatbelt and threw myself out of the moving vehicle as we crossed the suspension bridge. I bounced off the hood of a semi-truck and plummeted into the icy river below. I blinked. My vision slowly cleared, the basement walls coming back into sharp focus. I looked at the man and woman standing before me. I didn’t feel terror anymore. I didn’t feel confusion. A quiet, glacial hatred seeped into my veins, chilling my blood to ice. Timothy rushed forward, his hands trembling as he unbuckled the leather straps. He pulled me into his chest, frantically wiping the blood from my chin. “Margot? Margot, talk to me. Are you back? Do you remember me?” I went rigid in his arms. I looked up, locking eyes with him, and spoke with terrifying clarity. “I remember.” I didn’t blink. “You are my enemy. You are the man who murdered my mother, framed me for murder, and threw me to the wolves.” Timothy’s face turned the color of ash. He stumbled backward, knocking over a tray of surgical tools. He looked wildly at the stairs. “What the hell is wrong with her brain?!” Cece stepped out from the shadows, her delicate face twisted into something grotesque. She was holding a long, terrifyingly thick medical syringe filled with a cloudy fluid. “I don’t think the treatment worked, Timothy. She’s still confused.” Her voice was a sick, saccharine whisper. “I have a contact down in the city. He said a direct injection into the brain stem clears up these little psychotic breaks permanently.” Timothy stared at the needle, a flicker of genuine hesitation crossing his face. Before he could speak, heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs. The housekeeper appeared at the landing, breathless. “Mr. Caldwell! Mr. Wright is upstairs. He’s demanding to see you.” “Greg Wright? What the hell is he doing here?” Cece smirked, twirling the syringe. “He’s probably here to salvage the merger. Go handle it, Timothy. I’ll stay down here and take care of Margot.” Timothy looked at her unwavering confidence, nodded grimly, and hurried up the stairs. The heavy metal door clicked shut. The facade instantly dropped from Cece’s face. She lunged forward, her free hand wrapping violently around my throat. “You miserable bitch,” she hissed, her eyes wild with deranged jealousy. “Why did you have to come back?” She raised the needle, aiming it directly at the side of my neck. “I will never let another woman threaten my place in this house. Rot in hell.” As she brought the needle down, adrenaline flooded my system. I kicked my leg out, my boot connecting squarely with her stomach. She gasped, doubling over, her grip on my throat slipping. I shoved her hard against the concrete wall and bolted up the stairs. I burst through the basement door, stumbling into the grand foyer. “Greg!” Across the marble floor, Greg stopped dead in his tracks. He turned. He saw me—my clothes torn, my face soaked in blood, running for my life. Before I could reach him, Cece grabbed my ankle from behind. I pitched forward, crashing through the glass of the French doors, and fell…

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447897”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Elaine’s name was tangled up with another stranger again. She always told me she was a “special case,” a broken thing, warning me not to fall too deep. But the more she pushed, the tighter the noose of my obsession grew. Those men circling her like vultures? They just craved the porcelain perfection of her skin. They didn’t understand the darkness beneath it. Only I knew the true nature of her touch-starvation, the way her skin practically screamed for contact, and only I held the cure. She would murmur sweet, soothing things while draped across my chest, all while her phone buzzed on the nightstand with thirsty notifications from men she kept on a lead. I knew exactly what those bastards wanted. After all, that’s exactly how I got close to her. “Elaine, it’s never your fault,” I’d whisper into her hair. “It’s them. The ones who try to take what’s mine.” What else could I do? Aside from pinning her to the silk sheets and reclaiming her body over and over until the world outside vanished, I had to take action. To keep her, I had to prune the weeds in her garden. I had to make sure anyone who tried to steal her simply… disappeared. … Elaine’s Instagram updated. In the photo, she was tucked away in a dimly lit corner of a boutique café with a man. They were close—shoulders brushing, a casual intimacy that made my blood boil. The caption read: Finally met a true connoisseur of the classics. A soulmate found too late. A true connoisseur? I stared at the words until they blurred, my grip tightening on my phone. She was saying I didn’t understand her world. And she was right. I couldn’t stand the obscure, pretentious French novels she translated; those tongue-twisting names and endless, flowery metaphors just gave me a migraine. I grabbed my keys. “Dr. Cross, you have a neurosurgery scheduled for two,” my assistant called out. “Reschedule it.” “But the patient is already—” “I said, reschedule it.” She went quiet. She’d been my head nurse for five years; she knew that tone meant the ice was thin. I dialed a number as I pulled out of the hospital parking lot. “Ben, I need a name.” I forwarded the photo. “Everything. Education, marital status, career, every skeleton in his closet. I want it by the time I park.” There was a beat of silence on the other end. “Dr. Cross… is this about your wife again?” “Don’t waste my time.” I hung up and swallowed a pill to steady my nerves. Elaine claimed she was the sick one, but I knew better. I’d always been wired wrong. When I was a kid, a boy tried to pet my dog. I bit his finger so hard I nearly took it off. In middle school, when a bully tried to take my lunch money, I broke his nose and didn’t stop swinging until they pulled me off. Later, when they jumped me behind the gym, leaving me gasping in the dirt, Elaine was the one who found me. She was so small then, her voice trembling, but she stood her ground. “I’ve already called the cops! Get lost or you’re all going to juvie!” From that moment on, she was the only light in my gray world. I told myself then: She’s mine. No one touches her. Ben’s text came through. A dossier on the “connoisseur.” As it turned out, he was just another hypocrite in a tweed jacket. I felt a cold smile spread across my face. I knew exactly how his mind worked. Three years ago, I used the same playbook to move in on her. Back then, her boyfriend was a guy named Derek. It took me exactly three months to show Elaine his “other side.” A few leaked records of unpaid wages to his staff, some grainy security footage of him flirting at a dive bar, and a handful of carefully curated chat logs with an ex. Half of it was real; the other half was my own handiwork. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she left him, and I caught her. Now, I wouldn’t let anyone else play the same game. When I reached the café, Elaine was gone. But the man was still there, sitting amid the ghost-scent of her perfume, two half-finished lattes between them. I sat down across from him. “Adrian Cross. Elaine’s husband.” His face went through a fascinating transformation: surprise, then panic, then the wretched embarrassment of a man caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Mr. Cross, Elaine and I were just… discussing her latest translation.” “Arthur Whitlock. Forty-two. Senior Editor at Hudson Press,” I interrupted, reading from the screen. “Married. Wife is a tenured professor. Separated for two years, currently embroiled in a nasty divorce. Last year, you were investigated for ‘professional misconduct’ involving a junior writer. The board hushed it up. Your son is fifteen, goes to St. Jude’s.” Whitlock’s face drained of color. “Those are… those are rumors.” “Doesn’t matter if they’re true,” I said, leaning back, watching him from a height he couldn’t reach. “What matters is whether Elaine would still call you a ‘soulmate’ once she sees the police reports. Or whether your wife’s lawyer would find this little afternoon tryst useful for the custody hearing.” His lips trembled. I watched him like a wolf watches a deer caught in a snare. “Do you block her number, or do I?” Whitlock let out a shaky breath, pulled out his phone, and blocked her right in front of me. I stood up and patted his shoulder. “Smart man.” That went well. No blood, just a clean excision. When I got home, Elaine was curled up on the sofa. She was wearing one of my white button-downs, lost in a French hardcover I couldn’t read. She looked devastatingly soft. I pulled her up and tucked her into my chest. “That Editor, Whitlock. You like him?” Her body stiffened for a microsecond before melting against me. “We just have a lot to talk about, Adrian. It’s not about ‘liking’ him.” I tightened my grip, burying my face in the crook of her neck. “I don’t understand literature.” She let out a soft, melodic giggle as my stubble tickled her. “You don’t need to understand books. You just need to understand me.” But what did I actually understand? I knew she had seven different smiles—three were real, four were performances. I knew she stayed up until 3 AM video chatting with “fans” and “colleagues.” I knew she never gave me her passcode, even though she volunteered her daily itinerary like a loyal soldier. The more I knew, the more she felt like a ghost I was trying to cage. “Adrian,” she whispered. “Did you go see him today?” My hand paused on her waist. “Before he blocked me, he sent a text. He said, ‘Your husband is a terrifying man.’ Did you threaten him?” I didn’t bother denying it. “You always do this. Every single time.” She poked my chest, her tone like a mother scolding a naughty child. “Do you honestly think every man in the world is a villain except for you?” “Aren’t they?” I caught her finger and kissed the tip of it. She laughed, though there was a sharp edge to it. “You’re going to drive away every friend I have, Adrian. Eventually, I won’t have anyone left to talk to.” “You have me. That’s enough.” She started to say something, then stopped. Her eyes softened with a look I couldn’t quite decode. “You know, you’re actually scary.” “Are you scared?” She smiled. “No. Because the scarier you are, the more it proves you love me.” I kissed her then. Deep, desperate, trying to bruise her soul with my own. I loved her—God, I loved her until it hurt. She responded, her fingers tangling in my hair, her breathing hitching. “I love you, Adrian.” Her skin-hunger was flaring up. I held her tighter, anchoring her to the earth. “I love you too.” Later that night, after she fell asleep, I sat up and watched her. Her brow was furrowed, chasing some nightmare. Her phone lit up on the nightstand. A message from her best friend, Jade: The illustrator you wanted to meet is coming to town next week. He’s excited to see you. I stared at the glowing screen. My pupils contracted. There was always someone else. I set the phone down and looked at Elaine. A sharp, familiar pain flared in my chest—the feeling of being stabbed in the back, only to realize the person holding the knife is the one you’re protecting. “Elaine,” I whispered. She didn’t wake. “What is it you really want?” There was no answer. A week later, she told me she had a business meeting. “I’m meeting an illustrator. For the new book cover.” She was smiling at her screen again, that distant, dreamy look I hated. “Man or woman?” She paused. “A man.” She looked up, sensing the shift in the room. “Adrian, please. Don’t go making trouble again.” “I’m just asking.” “That’s what you said last time, and then my editor vanished.” “He was a creep, Elaine. I checked.” Her expression flickered—a flash of frustration—before she sighed and cupped my face. “Can you please stop running background checks on everyone I breathe near? It feels like you don’t trust me.” I pulled her into my arms. “I trust you. I don’t trust them. I’m a man; I know how they think.” “And what am I thinking?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you know?” I looked into her eyes. They were like deep pools—clear on the surface, but with treacherous currents underneath. I wanted to say I knew her. I couldn’t. There was always a layer of frosted glass between us. When I didn’t answer, she smirked. “I’m thinking about when my big, tough husband is going to learn to stop being so jealous.” She tilted her head, running a hand through her hair—a nervous habit she had when she was lying. My heart tightened, but I let it go. This was our dance. After work, I drove to the restaurant to pick her up. Through the glass window, I saw her. She was talking to a younger man—Xavier, the illustrator. He had his hand on the small of her back. Elaine didn’t pull away. She was looking at him with an expression that was pure sunshine, her eyes crinkling in a way they only did when she was truly happy. I slammed my fist against the steering wheel and drove off. I knew if I stayed, I’d kill him right there in the street. Ten minutes of heavy breathing later, I called Ben. “I need another check.” “Again?” Ben sounded exhausted. “That’s four this month, boss.” “Xavier Vance. No—Xavier… whatever his name is. The ‘hot new illustrator’ who just moved back from London. Now.” I hung up. I closed my eyes and all I could see was her smiling at him. That wasn’t a “business” smile. That was the look of a woman who was hungry for something I wasn’t giving her. The file hit my inbox. Xavier Thorne—damn it, Xavier Sterling… no, Xavier Ward. Single. 26. Rising star. Award-winning. No criminal record. No scandals. Clean as a whistle. I gritted my teeth. Elaine texted: Are you coming to pick me up? I typed and deleted three responses before settling on: On my way. When I pulled up, they were standing under the streetlamp. He was saying something that made her duck her head and blush. I honked the horn—a sharp, jarring blast. Elaine waved. “My husband’s here,” she said, emphasizing the word husband like she was trying to remind herself. Xavier looked at the car, gave a polite but cold nod, and stepped back. I floored it as soon as she closed the door. She grabbed the handle as we lurched forward. “Adrian, slow down!” “Did you have a good time?” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “It was fine. Xavier is talented, I think the cover—” “He touched you. His hand was on your waist.” The car went silent. Elaine’s face shifted from shock to a weary kind of resignation. “He was helping me adjust my dress, Adrian. It’s a zipper issue.” She sighed. “Can you stop losing your mind every time a man comes within five feet of me?” Losing my mind. Yeah. I was. I pulled over into a dark alley and turned to her. “Elaine, is the way you smile at me the same way you smile at them?” She blinked, then a slow, playful grin spread across her lips. “Are you jealous again? You look so handsome when you’re jealous.” She reached out to touch my face, but I flinched away. “I’m asking you a serious question.” “And I’m giving you a serious answer.” She reached out again, her fingers tracing my throat, her eyes dark with a sudden, heavy desire. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her across the center console onto my lap. She straddled me, wrapping her arms around my neck. I gripped her waist, my voice hoarse. “Tell me you love me.” “I love you.” “Again.” “I love you.” “Again!” “I love you, Adrian. I love you.” She was panting, her eyes wet, her cheeks flushed—vulnerable and exquisite. I searched her face for a crack, a lie, a hint of the “performance.” But everything felt real. She was here. She was mine. I buried my face in her chest, breathing her in. The scent of roses, the warmth of her skin, and… a faint hint of something else. A man’s cologne. Xavier’s scent. That tiny, lingering trace of another man was like a needle driven into my heart. “You’re mine, Elaine.” She didn’t answer. She just tightened her arms around my back and held on. I didn’t want to go to the charity gala. It was just a room full of rich vultures congratulating themselves on their “social responsibility.” But Elaine was an invited author. If she went, I went. Our table was a mix of CEOs and socialites. Sitting next to Elaine was a man in his fifties named Maxwell. He was a bloated, oily man with a smile that made my skin crawl. “Elaine, such a pleasure,” he said, holding her hand a second too long. “I’m Maxwell from Apex Media. I’ve read your work. Exquisite. It would make a fantastic film.” Elaine gave him a polite, practiced smile and had to pull her hand away three times before he let go. “You’re too kind.” “Are you free tonight? I have a suite upstairs; we could discuss some… options.” “She’s busy,” I said, stepping up behind her chair. Maxwell looked me up and down, unimpressed. “And you are?” “Her husband.” He smirked and spent the rest of the night acting like I was invisible. He toasted Elaine directly, leaning in so close he was practically breathing her air. When I went to the restroom, I came back to see his hand resting heavily on her bare shoulder. Her skin. He was touching her skin. Blood rushed to my head, a deafening roar in my ears. But I saw Elaine look at me and shake her head slightly. Don’t. Maxwell kept talking. “Elaine, you’re far too beautiful to be working. If you were mine, I’d keep you tucked away in a mansion, pampered every single day…” “Maxwell,” I interrupted, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “Does your wife know how much you care about other people’s wives?” The table went quiet. “Or are you planning to ‘discuss options’ in that suite with the same professionalism you used during your last embezzlement scandal?” Maxwell’s face turned a violent shade of purple. “Who do you think you are?” “Head of Neurosurgery at Cross Medical. Heir to the Cross estate.” I stood up, looming over him. “You had a physical at my hospital last year. Fatty liver, high blood pressure, elevated uric acid. I suggest you stop drinking and stop talking before you have a stroke right here on the shrimp cocktail.” Maxwell lost it. He grabbed his wine glass and slammed it onto the table. Red wine sprayed everywhere, soaking the front of Elaine’s dress. “Ah!” she cried, stumbling back. The last thread of my control snapped. I grabbed a glass bottle from the table and shattered it against the side of Maxwell’s head. Red wine and blood mingled as they ran down his face. He screamed, clutching his head, but I didn’t stop. I lunged across the table, my fist connecting with his nose in a spray of gore. “Adrian, stop!” Elaine screamed. People were pulling at me, shouting, but I was in a tunnel. All I could hear was the sound of my own heart. He touched her. He ruined her dress. He wasn’t fit to breathe her air. I kept swinging until security finally tackled me. My knuckles were split, blood dripping onto the white tablecloth. “Adrian, you’ve lost it!” Elaine was pale, her eyes wide with something I couldn’t name. I looked at her and laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. “He touched you. He’s lucky he’s still breathing.” The police came. As I sat in the back of the cruiser, I looked through the window. Elaine was standing under the hotel awning, watching me go with an unreadable expression. I spent the night in a cell until the family lawyers arrived. The moment I walked out of the precinct, I checked my phone. Elaine had posted a new photo. It was her and Xavier. The caption: The best partner I could ask for. My vision blurred with tears of pure rage. I had gone to jail for her, and she was out taking selfies with another man? I drove home like a maniac. There was a pair of men’s shoes in the foyer. Not mine. I stormed into the house. The living room was empty. The bedroom door was ajar. The bed was a mess—sheets tangled, pillows tossed aside, deep creases in the fabric as if two people had been struggling, or… My blood turned to ice. She brought someone home. While I was in a cell. She slept with— I tore the room apart, looking for them. I checked the closets, the balcony, the bathroom. Nothing. Then, my eyes landed on Elaine’s nightstand. A locked diary. She’d never let me see it. I’d never tried. But today, I didn’t care about boundaries. I smashed the lock with a heavy book and flipped to the first page.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447896”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I woke up back in that room, facing the one person I had spent my entire previous life trying to please. My sister, Mary, sat across from me. Her eyes—usually bright and sharp with an effortless, predatory confidence—were currently clouded with a headache. she rubbed her temples, her gaze landing on me with a heavy, unmistakable flicker of annoyance. She slid a black credit card across the polished mahogany desk. Her voice was flat, Brookline-steeled, and utterly non-negotiable. “There’s five million in there. Consider it back pay for the years you spent… away.” Before I could speak, she added that she had already closed on a condo for me in the Seaport District. She wanted me moved out by sunset. “You know how Theo is,” she said, referring to the “fake” brother, the boy who had been swapped with me at birth and raised in the lap of luxury while I withered in the foster system. “He’s sensitive. Every time he sees you, his blood pressure spikes. He was back in the ER last night because of the ‘stress’ of your presence.” She paused, a rare shadow of discomfort flickering across her face, before she doubled down. “If there’s anything else you need—within reason—I’ll see to it. But after today, Julia… don’t come back here. This house isn’t your home.” In my first life, I had pushed that card back. I had begged for her love instead of her money, terrified that accepting the payout meant losing my only blood relative forever. I had spent the next three years working double shifts at a local bottling plant, saving every penny to buy her a birthday gift she didn’t want. I died on the way to deliver it, struck by a drunk driver while clutching a wrapped box of overpriced scarves. My ghost had lingered long enough to hear her reaction to my death. She hadn’t cried. She had sighed, a sound of profound relief, and said: “Finally, the debt is settled. I can actually breathe again.” The “family bond” I had nearly killed myself to preserve had been nothing more than a lead weight around her neck. This time, there was no lump in my throat. No stinging in my eyes. I reached out, my fingers steady as I tucked the card into my pocket. I looked her dead in the eye and spoke clearly. “Thank you.” Then, I leaned forward. “But let’s be real, Mary. My ‘presence’ is worth more than five million to you. Make it fifteen million, and I’ll sign a total severance agreement. You’ll never see my face, hear my voice, or deal with my existence ever again.” 1. “What did you just say?” Mary stared at me as if I had suddenly sprouted a second head. The polished, untouchable Mary Blake was actually reeling. I remained a statue of calm. “Ten million more. In exchange, I vanish. No more awkward holiday dinner invites you don’t want to send. No more Theo ending up in the hospital because he’s ‘intimidated’ by the rightful heir. Fifteen million to buy Theo a lifetime of peace and health. That’s a bargain, isn’t it?” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Mary searched my face for a joke, a tremor, a sign of the desperate boy I used to be. She found nothing. “A bargain?” she repeated, her voice dripping with sudden vitriol. “Are you really that shallow, Julia? You’d sell your birthright and your sister for a check? You’re willing to put a price tag on our blood?” I nodded. I was absolutely willing. In my last life, fifteen million wasn’t just a number; it was an impossibility. It was a sum I couldn’t have earned in ten lifetimes of breaking my back on a factory floor. In this life, I knew the truth: affection is fleeting, but capital is leverage. “Fifteen million,” I repeated. “And you get exactly what you want.” Mary’s chest heaved with a sharp, angry breath. I could see the disgust rolling off her in waves—disgust that someone with her DNA could be so transactional, so low. “Fine,” she spat. “Fifteen million. Sign the voluntary severance and the non-disclosure. The wire will hit your account before you hit the front door.” I took the pen. In a firm, practiced hand, I signed Julia Blake for the very last time. As I walked out of the estate, clutching the card that now held my freedom, I felt Mary’s gaze burning into my back from the second-story study window. “Mr. Blake,” the driver said, holding the door of the Lincoln open. “Ms. Blake instructed me to take you to your new residence.” In my previous life, I had seen these small gestures—the car, the condo—as signs of her secret blooming affection. I had been a moth to her flickering, polite flame. But I knew better now. This wasn’t love. It was just corporate manners. To her, Theo was her brother. I was just a PR disaster she was managing. I looked at the driver and gave him a polite, distant smile. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” I pulled out my phone and pulled up a ride-share app. If I was cutting ties, I was cutting them clean. I didn’t need her car, her driver, or her “consideration.” I didn’t need a single crumb from her table ever again. 2. Three days later, in a quiet, sun-drenched corner of a downtown cafe. “It’s official, Julia. The contracts are signed. You are now a significant shareholder in Ascendant Tech.” The fifteen million hadn’t stayed in the bank for long. I knew exactly where the world was going, and I knew who was going to lead it. I sat across from Leo Henderson, the CEO of what was currently a struggling startup. I now held a fifteen percent stake in his company. Leo shook my hand, his grip slightly Trembling with excitement. “I can’t thank you enough for the leap of faith. This capital… it’s going to change everything. We won’t let you down.” I nodded, knowing he was right. Ascendant Tech would eventually become the global leader in autonomous drone logistics—a Fortune 500 titan. My fifteen million was the seed that would grow into a forest worth billions. “I’d love to take you to dinner,” Leo suggested earnestly. “Walk you through our three-year roadmap in detail?” I shook my head. “I appreciate it, Leo, but no. I trust you. You’re the expert; I’m just the guy who saw the potential. My only job is to stay out of your way.” I paused, checking my watch. “Besides, I have a class to get to.” Leo blinked. “A class?” “Yeah. An executive finance intensive. Learning how to read the patterns, calculate the real risks.” I smiled, a genuine one this time. “I have a lot of lost time to make up for.” I left the cafe and headed straight to a glass-fronted office building a few blocks away. The seminar was on the twelfth floor. When I walked in, the room was already half-full. I scanned the rows for a seat, but my peripheral vision snagged on a face that made my pulse skip a beat. Theo. He was surrounded by a small clique of guys, all leaning in as he spoke, laughing at something he’d said. Just like before, he was the sun, and everyone else was a planet trapped in his orbit. I didn’t acknowledge him. I headed for the back row, but as I passed his desk, he looked up. Our eyes met. He froze for a second, then his lips curled into that familiar, condescending smirk. “Julia? What are you doing here?” He didn’t lower his voice. The guys around him went quiet, sensing blood in the water. “This isn’t exactly a cheap course. Mary gives you a little pocket change, and you go and blow it on a seat at the big kids’ table?” I didn’t answer. I kept moving. He scoffed, turning back to his friends. “It’s tragic, really. Some people think having a little cash suddenly gives them a pedigree. You can take the boy out of the warehouse, I guess…” He let out a short, sharp laugh. “But honestly, Julia, this is all theory. Without an empire to back you up, you’re just memorizing definitions. It’s not like me—Mary’s already given me a seat on the investment board at Blake Holdings. I’m just here for the certificate.” One of the sycophants chimed in. “Must be nice having a sister who actually trusts you with the family business.” “It is,” Theo said, his eyes flicking toward me to ensure the barb landed. “Trust is earned. And some people just aren’t worth the investment. Take that researcher who came to Mary last week—Dr. Keller, I think. She was practically begging for five million to save her project. She looked like a stray dog. Mary tore her proposal apart, and the woman just sat there and took it, smiling through the insults just for a chance at a check. Higher education doesn’t buy you dignity, apparently.” I stopped. I turned around slowly. Five million? Dr. Keller? Nadia Keller. It had to be. I remembered that name from my previous life. Mary had mentioned her years later with a rare, bitter regret. Nadia Keller had been the one who got away—the woman Mary had insulted and dismissed, who went on to revolutionize biotech and became someone Mary couldn’t even get an appointment with. Right now, she was looking for five million. In six years, that investment would be worth fifty billion. 3. Theo saw me staring and mistook my silence for defeat. He chuckled. “What’s the matter, Julia? Reality finally sinking in? You need more than a bank account to play this game. You need vision.” He closed his textbook, leaning back with an air of mock charity. “Tell you what. I know Mary bought you that condo. It’s too big for you anyway. Sell it to me for five million, and I’ll give you some real-world advice on what to do with the cash.” He was smiling, but his eyes were predatory. He didn’t want the condo; he just wanted to strip away every last tie I had to Mary. He wanted me back in the gutter where he felt I belonged. “Deal,” I said. Theo blinked, clearly caught off guard by how fast I’d folded. But then he grinned, triumphant. “Smart move. Send me your routing number.” My phone buzzed minutes later. Five million arrived. I looked at the confirmation screen. As I started to put my phone away, Theo burst out laughing. “You idiot!” he crowed to the room. “I told you he had no vision. Do you even know the zoning laws for that area, Julia? That property is going to appreciate by twenty percent by next year. It’ll be worth six million easy.” He shook his head, looking at his friends. “A twenty percent return on a guaranteed asset, and he just hands it over. This is why some people are born to be poor.” The room erupted in muffled snickers. I just looked at him, my expression unreadable. I knew the house would go up in value. I also knew that the real estate bubble in that specific sector was going to pop eighteen months from now, leaving those condos underwater for a decade. But more importantly, I had five million dollars in liquid cash. And I knew exactly where Nadia Keller was. The bell rang for the start of class. The room settled. A middle-aged man in a sharp suit walked in, flicking through a PowerPoint at breakneck speed. I tuned everything else out. I opened my notebook and began to write. I’ll admit, a lot of it was over my head. IRR, valuation modeling—it felt like a foreign language. But I recorded every word. I circled what I didn’t know. I didn’t look up once. When the two-hour session ended, I had six pages of dense notes. As I packed my bag, I saw her standing by the door. Nadia Keller. 4. “Theo, I was hoping for another five minutes regarding the proposal I sent to your sister.” She caught him as he was leaving, her voice respectful but tinged with a desperate edge. She looked exhausted, her coat a little frayed at the sleeves, clutching a folder of data. “The latest metrics are game-changing. If Mary could just see the revised projections—” Theo didn’t even look at the folder. He swiped it out of her hand, and the papers scattered across the floor, sliding under the feet of passing students. “Enough,” Theo snapped, brushing phantom dust off his sleeve. “My sister was very clear. Your project has zero market viability. Are you slow, or just stubborn?” Nadia froze, her hand still reaching for the empty air. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Theo looked her up and down with a sneer. “A PhD who can’t pay her rent shouldn’t be dreaming of empires. Go find a job in a lab somewhere and stop wasting our time.” He started to walk away, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. “And don’t come back. You’re depressing the room.” The people around him laughed. Nadia stood there, the light dying in her eyes as she looked at her scattered papers. I stepped forward, past the laughing crowd, and knelt down. I began picking up the pages. “Dr. Keller?” I said. She looked at me, her face a mask of weary confusion. “Yes?” “My name is Julia,” I said, standing up and handing her the folder. “I heard you’re looking for five million.” Nadia hesitated, her brow furrowing. She was used to being mocked; she was looking for the punchline. “I am. Why?” I pulled out the card Theo had just filled with five million dollars. I held it out to her. “I’ll give it to you. On one condition.” She didn’t take it. If anything, she looked more suspicious. “What condition?” “That I get right of first refusal on every project you develop for the next ten years.” I looked her in the eye. “I don’t understand the chemistry, Dr. Keller. But I understand people. And I believe in you.” Nadia was silent for a long time. She searched my face, looking for the catch, the cruelty. But she was a drowning woman, and I was the only one offering a hand. I suggested we grab a quick bite downstairs to discuss the paperwork. Over a cheap sandwich, I realized she was even more brilliant than the rumors suggested. Every word out of her mouth was a masterclass in logic. By the time we finished, the contract was drafted on a legal pad. I handed her the card. She held it as if it were made of glass. “Julia… I won’t make you regret this.” “I know you won’t.” I watched her walk away, her posture straighter than it had been an hour ago. I felt a profound sense of relief. I turned back toward the elevators to grab my bag from the classroom. And that’s when I saw Mary. She was standing in the hallway, her face pale with a cold, simmering fury. I wondered how long she’d been standing there. She marched toward me, her heels clicking like gunfire on the tile. Slap. The force of it cracked across my cheek, echoing in the quiet hallway.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447895”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After twenty years of marriage, my conversations with Helena had lost all heat. They were as sterile as the laboratories she lived in. Our text history, once a sprawling map of “I love you” and “I’m thinking of you,” had been reduced to a binary code of cold, blinking digits. Whenever I asked if she was staying late for an experiment, a “1” meant yes. When I pushed to ask if she was coming home for dinner, a “2” flashed on the screen like a steel door slamming in my face. I spent years feeding myself the same lie: she was a visionary, a world-class physicist, a woman whose mind belonged to the advancement of science and the glory of the nation. I told myself her silence was the price of her genius. Then came our twentieth anniversary. I ventured a text, a tentative hope that she might make it home for a quiet celebration. The response wasn’t a number this time. It was a sixty-second voice note. I hit play, expecting her clipped, melodic tone. Instead, a man’s voice—gruff, unfamiliar, and dripping with post-coital arrogance—filled my kitchen. “Hey, big brother. Once I’ve finished filling the Professor up, I’ll let her head home.” Then, a laugh that made my skin crawl, followed by words too graphic to be anything but a deliberate serrated blade to my throat. “Think of it as a partnership. You handle her nutrition; I handle her body. We’ve got a good system going, don’t we?” The phone nearly shattered against the floor. I didn’t reply. I didn’t scream. I walked out the door and drove straight to her university lab, my hands shaking so violently I could barely grip the wheel. I stood at the door, the silver nameplate Dr. Helena Moore mocking me. Through the slight crack in the heavy door, the world I had built for two decades disintegrated. Helena was draped over a man, her movements frantic, her composure—that legendary, icy poise—completely shattered. The room was thick with the sound of her breath, her moans, each one a jagged shard of glass burying itself in my ears. I stood there for a long time, watching my life burn, until the ringing in my ears faded into a dull, hollow thud. Only when I felt the cold mask of numbness settle over my features did I raise my hand and knock. … When Helena finally emerged, she was the picture of clinical detachment. There was no stutter in her step, no flush of shame on her throat. She looked at me with those luminous, deep-set eyes, paused for a beat, and spoke as if we were discussing a budget revision. “We’ll talk at home.” She reached out an elegant, ivory hand toward me. I didn’t move. For twenty years, it had always been this way. The dates, the confessions, the proposal—even our rare, mechanical moments of intimacy. She would stand still and reach out her hand. And I would go to her. I was always the one who moved. I was the one who bridge the gap she refused to cross. Why, even now, with the stench of another man still on her skin, was I expected to be the one to close the distance? “Adrian?” She used my name—a rarity—but her head was tilted, her gaze already drifting back toward the man she was shielding with her body. She was protecting him from me. My eyes stung. I forced a jagged, dry laugh. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” She finally looked at me, her expression flickering with a momentary, calculated plea. “Adrian, please. Let’s just go home.” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed my collar and shoved me aside with surprising strength. She turned back to the shadows of the lab, her voice softening into a protective murmur I hadn’t heard in years. “Go. Now.” The heavy click of dress shoes echoed down the hall, growing fainter. Helena watched that retreating back with such singular focus that she didn’t notice the jagged edge of a wall-mounted bracket had sliced a thin, bleeding line across my cheek when she shoved me. She wasn’t always this cold. Back in our college years, when her emotional detachment disorder seemed to be improving, she had tried. She would ask about my day, buy me small, thoughtful gifts, or bring me those overly sweet red bean lattes I loved. In the early years of our marriage, if I was doubled over with a stomach ache, she would cancel emergency faculty meetings just to sit with me, her warm palms pressed against my midsection. She even wrote me clumsy, earnest love letters to make up for the years she spent in silence. But all the warmth in my memory couldn’t stop the stinging on my face. A tear escaped, but I wiped it away before it could fall. I took a sharp breath and wrenched my hand out of her reach. “Stop staring. He’s gone.” Her body went rigid. She hesitated, seemingly afraid to look back at the empty hallway. This time, I didn’t wait. I walked to the car alone. We reached the house just before 11 PM. As I kicked off my shoes, I felt her hands on my shoulders, pushing me down onto the sofa. She brought the first-aid kit and knelt between my knees. The concern in her eyes looked hauntingly real. “I’m sorry…” she whispered. I didn’t answer. I sat there, paralyzed, as she meticulously cleaned the cut on my cheek, while the base of her own neck was littered with dark, angry hickeys. It was the same pose she’d taken when she’d promised to love me forever in front of our friends. The same kneeling posture. The same focused gaze. But the woman was a stranger. When the bloody cotton ball hit the trash, I held out my hand. “Phone.” She froze. The softness in her eyes vanished, replaced by a flickering, repressed spark of annoyance. “Don’t go looking for trouble, Adrian. I’ll end it with him. That’s enough.” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. So that was it. The kneeling, the “sorry,” the gentle touch—it was all a bribe. A plea to protect her precious lover from the mess she’d made. I didn’t listen. I lunged past her, grabbing her phone from the coffee table. The lock screen was a photo of a man—young, vibrant, smiling with an insufferable brightness. The password was still my birthday. But the pinned contact at the top of her messages wasn’t me. It was someone named Killian. The message thread was a literal novel. Every time he texted, she replied within seconds. Then I looked at our thread. It was a wasteland of white space. The last message was from two weeks ago. Are you coming home for dinner? I had asked. No reply. Not until the next day, when she sent a perfunctory: Busy. Forgot. I had spent those two weeks worrying about her “national project,” playing the supportive husband, spending hours in the kitchen preparing nutrient-dense meals to send to her lab via courier. I never imagined she was using that energy to screw someone else on a lab table. Your husband’s been out of town for two weeks. Coming home tonight? Killian had messaged. Bored of him, she had replied. Staying here. My hands began to shake so violently I almost dropped the device. Twenty years. I had given her my best years, my career, my entire identity, only to be summarized in three words: Bored of him. The words blurred behind a veil of tears. I bit my tongue until I tasted copper, forcing myself to read on. I saw the “clinical” woman I knew—the woman who talked about physics even in bed—discussing degrading roleplay and costumes for this man. I saw that she had taken him to the Nobel gala—the one she told me was “strictly for faculty”—and let him accept congratulations while pretending to be me. Then I saw the final blow. Killian had asked: Who do you like better? The husband or me? Her reply was instantaneous: He’s dull. He doesn’t compare to you. Six words. They didn’t just break my heart; they turned the last two decades of my life into a punchline. I handed the phone back to her, feeling a sense of revulsion so strong I thought I might be sick. “Adrian,” she said, her voice regaining that smooth, professorial calm. “I have needs. I have a right to pursue a connection that actually moves me. We were swept up in something neither of us could control. I need you to be rational. Don’t make a scene. Let this go.” Her words were gentle, but they twisted in my chest like a knife. I looked at the pinned avatar and found my voice, ragged and raw. “Of all the people in the world, Helena… why him? Why the man who killed your parents?” I surged forward, grabbing her by the lapels, my vision swimming in red. “Have you forgotten? They didn’t just die. He ran them over. Then he backed up and did it again until they were unrecognizable. You told me that. You cried into my chest for a year because of that monster!” Helena looked away, her face a mask of cold indifference. “He was young,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t intentional. And honestly, my parents shouldn’t have been out walking that late. They invited the risk.” I stared at her, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat. I was the fool. When her parents died, her relatives abandoned her. Killian’s family had used their influence to crush her, trying to drive her into a breakdown so she wouldn’t testify. They’d leaked private videos, bullied her, treated her like a dog. I had carried those memories for twenty years, guarding her, watching for any sign of that family returning to hurt her again. And here she was, not just forgiving the man who orphaned her, but opening her legs for him. She called it “love.” She called it “uncontrollable.” What did that make my twenty years of devotion? A hobby? A clerical error? Thunder rumbled outside, echoing the sudden ring of her phone. Helena didn’t even look at me before answering. “Helena… the data for the thesis just got flagged. If we don’t fix the set tonight, the whole grant is dead…” Killian’s voice was a pathetic, manipulative whine. But it worked. Helena’s face softened instantly. She moved toward the door, already reaching for her keys, ignoring me as if I were a piece of furniture. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m coming.” I blocked her path. “You are not going.” She frowned, a flash of genuine loathing appearing in her eyes. “Move, Adrian! This is Killian’s entire career on the line. He’s a brilliant mind—not a domestic failure like you. Get out of my way!” The word failure anchored me to the floor. She didn’t hesitate. She grabbed me by the collar and threw me aside. My side slammed into the sharp corner of the entryway cabinet. The pain was blinding. “Helena, I’m hurt…” I gasped, clutching my ribs. The only response was the deafening, final slam of the front door. I sat there on the floor, feeling something warm trickle down my face. I didn’t care. I crawled toward the kitchen and opened the meal prep containers I’d made for our anniversary dinner. I forced the food into my mouth, chewing and swallowing like a machine. But as I ate, I pictured those same containers sitting in her lab, witnesses to the filth on the floor. I sprinted to the bathroom and retched into the toilet until my throat burned. The doorbell rang. I wiped my face and answered. it was the Dean of the Research Institute, a long-time colleague of Helena’s. “Adrian? You need to get to General Hospital. Now. It’s Helena.” My heart hammered against my bruised ribs. “What happened? Is she okay?” Before he could answer, a voice drifted through the phone’s receiver—Killian’s voice, loud and dramatic in the background of the hospital room. “It’s my fault! She was trying to pull the corporate data for me and she let them push those drinks on her… she drank until her stomach lining gave out!” Then Helena’s weak, thinned voice: “Stop… just stay with me. Let Adrian handle the paperwork and the cleanup. He’s good at that.” “Is that… appropriate?” Killian asked, sounding fake-concerned. “Why wouldn’t it be? Taking care of people is the only thing Adrian is actually good at. Remember, Killian—your hands are meant for writing papers and winning awards. You shouldn’t be touched by the grease of a kitchen knife.” The words felt like a physical fire burning my eardrums. I looked at my reflection in the hallway mirror—the gaunt, hollowed-out face of a man who had withered away so his wife could bloom. To this “genius,” I was nothing more than a high-end maid. “Adrian? She’s lost a lot of blood. When will you be here?” the Dean asked awkwardly. I wiped the last of the tears from my eyes. “I won’t be. But tell her this: if there’s a public hearing about her conduct with a student, or a board meeting regarding her ‘extracurricular’ activities with her parents’ killer, she can call me then. I’ll have plenty to say.” I hung up. I walked into our bedroom, looking at the moon hanging over the city. I started to laugh—a low, broken sound. Helena had forgotten that I was the top of my class at the Ivy League, second only to her. She had been fast-tracked into the National Institute, and back then, she had ripped up her offer, crying, saying she wouldn’t go unless I was with her. “You’re insane!” I had told her then. “You can’t waste your gift!” She had knelt at my parents’ door, her eyes redder than blood, clutching that taped-together offer. “He is my life,” she had told them. “I would rather die than be without him.” I believed her. I thought her “forever” meant the same thing mine did. So I gave up my PhD. I became the support system. I let my own ambitions die so she could climb. And after twenty years, all I had earned was the title of “failure.” The irony was unbearable. I had gone to the lab tonight for a reason beyond our anniversary. I had a medical report in my pocket. After years of trying, we were finally going to be parents. The surprise I’d planned had turned into a death sentence. The next day, as I was returning from a consultation with a divorce lawyer, my parents called. Their voices were uncharacteristically sharp. “Adrian! Tell us the truth. Have you done something to hurt Helena?” I was stunned. I didn’t even know how to begin explaining the infidelity. “Mom, Dad, what are you talking about?” “A man named Killian came by,” my mother hissed, her breath hitching. “He said you’ve been living off her like a leech, and that you’ve been harassing his wife! He said you’re a degenerate who can’t handle Helena’s success, so you’ve been sleeping around while she works!” My father snatched the phone, his voice booming with shame. “The neighbors are staring, Adrian! They’re saying you’re a pathetic drunk who cheats while his wife serves the country. If you don’t fix this, we’re done with you. You’re a disgrace!” The line went dead. A soft, mocking chuckle drifted from my bedroom. The door pushed open. Killian was standing there. He looked younger than his photo, his features sharp and predatory. In his hand, he held the shredded remains of my positive pregnancy test and the ultrasound. “Do you like the gift I gave your parents?” he asked, his grin widening. I felt a cold shiver of dread. I reached for my phone to call the police. “How did you get in here?” He slapped the phone out of my hand. “Don’t be stupid. Your wife gave me the keys.” I stood there, vibrating with rage. “Can’t take it?” he taunted, tilting his head. “What if I told you I don’t just have the keys? I have the signing rights to her latest project. I have her salary accounts. I have everything.” I forced myself to breathe. “She’s pregnant with my child. She’s my legal wife. She won’t throw away her career for a dog like you.” He paused, then burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. “Are you sure about that?” He walked toward me, his voice dropping to a cruel crawl. “You think a baby can tie her down? You think twenty years means anything to a woman like her?” He pulled a document from his pocket and held it up with a magnifying glass, ensuring I could see every word of the lab result: Paternity Test: 0% Probability of Biological Relation to Adrian Moore. “It’s been a hundred days, Adrian. Helena said once this project is wrapped, she’s filing for divorce. She’s already cleared it with the department. If I were you, I’d hit the gym and try to find someone who likes ‘kept men’…” The world tilted. They had been in my house. In my bed. On my sofa. In the shower. In our sanctuary. The sound of the lab equipment clinking again filled my head. The rage finally broke the levee. I grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the table and hurled it at his face. He didn’t move fast enough. It caught him in the forehead, blood geysering instantly. Every second of repressed humiliation, every insult to my parents, every “1” and “2” on that phone screen fused into a tidal wave of violence. I tackled him, pinning him to the coffee table, slamming his head against the wood. “You piece of filth! You parasite! You killer!” I lost my mind. I struck him until my knuckles split. I kicked him until he stopped screaming and started gurgling. I saw the blood pooling around him and for a second, I felt a horrific, beautiful clarity. Then, a heavy blow to my chest sent me flying backward. The pain was a white-hot explosion. I felt something pierce through my side. In the entryway, Helena stood there, her face contorted in a scream of pure terror.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447894”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The smell of roasted pistachios filled the car—sweet, smoky, and warm. They were Nelson’s favorite, and our son’s, too. I sat in the passenger seat, my fingers stained dark as I peeled them one by one, a small, domestic ritual of love. Then, a voice drifted from the backseat. It was Parker, my twelve-year-old son. His voice was still high, still innocent, but the words he spoke were sharp enough to draw blood. “Mom, Dad and Auntie Chloe have been together for two years now. We gave you so many hints. How did you never notice?” My hands froze. I looked up, my eyes meeting Nelson’s in the rearview mirror. His expression was terrifyingly calm. There was no guilt, only a flicker of irritation—the kind you feel toward a persistent fly. “I didn’t want to be this blunt,” Nelson said, his voice as cold as a winter morning in Chicago. “But then you went and tried to set Chloe up on a date. Do you have any idea how hard she cried today?” He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “Honestly, Jocelyn? You’re pathetic.” The word felt like a poisoned needle driven straight into my heart. I sat there, paralyzed, the blood in my veins turning to ice. I forgot how to breathe. “Divorce or a legal separation,” he added casually, as if he were choosing between coffee blends. “Pick one.” I looked down at the peeled pistachio in my hand. The irony was a bitter taste in the back of my throat. … I stared at him, my eyes burning, my mind a fractured mess. Parker huffed from the back, his tone dripping with redirected anger. “Mom, say something! Dad gave you a choice. You’re not as young or as pretty as Chloe—are you dumber than her, too?” A sob caught in my throat, jagged and raw. It felt like my vocal cords were being shredded. “There you go again, crying,” Parker groaned. “You’re so weak. It’s embarrassing. I hate taking you anywhere.” He leaned forward, his face twisted in a sneer I didn’t recognize. “By the way, that Parent-Teacher conference last week? It wasn’t canceled. I just had Chloe go instead of you.” A dull roar started in my ears. I turned to look at him, unbelieving. Parker was in the seventh grade. In all those years, I had never missed a school event. I remembered that night—I had been so excited I couldn’t sleep. But that morning, I’d woken up with a violent allergic reaction. My face was swollen, my throat closing. I’d swallowed a handful of pills, desperate to get to the school on time. Parker had seen me struggling, seen how sick I was. He’d looked me in the eye and told me the meeting was postponed. I thought he was being a caring son. Now, I realized the timing was too perfect. Seeing my face go ghostly pale, Nelson decided to strip away the last of the lies. “You’re right to wonder,” Nelson said. “I slipped those allergens into your breakfast. Don’t blame the kid; he just followed my lead. It wasn’t enough to kill you, Jocelyn. Just enough to keep you in bed.” Not enough to kill me? I let out a shaky, hysterical laugh. They didn’t know. They didn’t know that by that evening, the “mild reaction” had turned into a nightmare. I’d been burning with fever, vomiting until I was dry-heaving blood, unable to even reach for my phone. If I hadn’t managed to crawl to the door and alert a neighbor before I blacked out, I’d be a memory by now. And while I was fighting for my life, my husband and son were at the pier, watching the Fourth of July fireworks with Chloe. The next morning, when they finally came home, Parker had just laughed at me. “Mom, you’re so frail. You’re only thirty-five, but you act like a grandma.” My heart felt like it was leaking lead. When we got home, Nelson sent Parker to his room. For a split second, I thought he might apologize. I thought I might see a spark of the man I married. Instead, he looked at my tear-streaked face with a complicated, weary gaze. “Look, we don’t have to divorce,” he said. “But once Chloe has the baby, you’ll have to help raise it. Treat it like your own.” The words hit me like a lightning strike, splitting me open from head to toe. “What?” I whispered. “Chloe is pregnant. Two months.” I did the math instantly. Two months ago. The week my mother died. Nelson looked past me, his voice airy, unburdened. “I know, I know. You were a mess back then. When you called me crying, I knew you needed me. But Chloe… she was so clingy, so sweet. I couldn’t bear to leave her side.” A scream tore from my lungs. I lunged forward and slapped him with everything I had left. “You monster!” Nelson took the hit. He slowly turned his face back to me, his dark eyes void of any warmth. “I’m a monster? Maybe. But you’re no saint, Jocelyn. Let’s not forget you’re the one who slept with another man while we were married.” Outside, a sudden crack of thunder shook the house, the flash of light illuminating my horrified face. It had been five years. I thought I had buried it. I thought I had survived it. But hearing him say it so casually, so cruelly, tore the wound wide open again. In the early days of Nelson’s startup, he was drowning. No investors, no connections, nothing but debt. One night, he came home wasted, crying, and begged me to deliver some “urgent documents” to a potential partner at a high-end hotel. I had a bad feeling. I didn’t want to go. But Nelson had snapped. He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed this year? Why are you being so selfish? It’s just a delivery! Don’t you want a future for Parker?” So, I went. And I walked into a living nightmare. I don’t remember leaving that hotel room. I just remember stumbling into the street, clutching my torn clothes, trying to find a police officer. But Nelson found me first. He threw his arms around me, sobbing, pleading. “Jocelyn, please. I’ll never look down on you. Please, don’t report it. The ‘compensation’ he gave is enough to save the company. It’ll pay for Parker’s private school. If you go to the police, we lose everything.” My screaming stopped then. In that moment of absolute agony and despair, I thought of our son. I thought of our future. I thought of everyone but myself. Nelson’s company succeeded. Parker got his elite education. And I broke. I spent two years spiraling, cutting my own skin just to see if I could still feel something other than shame. It took me years to stitch my soul back together, only for Nelson to decide I was “dirty.” I lunged at him again, grabbing his collar, my voice trembling with a decade of suppressed rage. “It was rape, Nelson! I did it for your company! You are the last person on this earth who gets to judge me!” Nelson’s eyes flickered. His lips parted as if he were about to say something—maybe a confession, maybe a plea. But then, his phone buzzed. It was Chloe. He answered instantly. Within seconds, he was grabbing his keys, heading for the door. I felt something inside me snap, piece by piece. I chased him, clawing at his coat. “You can’t leave! Are you even human? You’re my husband!” Nelson’s eyes were pitch black. He didn’t say a word. Suddenly, Parker rushed out of his room and shoved me. I hit the floor hard. “Mom’s having another episode!” Parker shouted, his face full of disgust. “Dad, let’s go! Auntie Chloe is waiting!” And just like that, they walked out. They didn’t look back. The neighbors, hearing the commotion, came over to “comfort” me. “He’s probably just busy,” one said, patting my hand with pitying eyes. “Men get stressed. They have lives we don’t understand.” Late that night, I stared at my phone like a zealot. Chloe had posted a story. A photo of a five-star hotel suite, a marble bathtub, and two hands—hers and Nelson’s—intertwined. The caption read: Thank you for always being there for me, no matter what. The taste of copper rose in my throat. My hands shaking, I dialed his number. I expected him to decline it. But he picked up. Through the receiver, I heard his voice, muffled and distant, talking to her. “You don’t understand… it’s so much pressure being with her,” Nelson was saying. “She was just a kid when she started following me. Then she had the baby, she got bullied because of me, she even took a knife for me… now, every time I look at her, I just feel exhausted. I wish she’d just left me years ago so I wouldn’t have to look at that face every day.” The phone slid from my hand, hitting the hardwood with a thud. A sharp pain radiated through my skull. I reached up, my fingers tracing the jagged, seven-centimeter scar hidden beneath my hair. The scar I got for him. We were in our early twenties. He had made money too fast and pissed off the wrong people. When the knife swung toward him, I didn’t think. I just threw myself in front of him. When I collapsed, Nelson went feral. He fought like a man possessed. He held me in a pool of blood, crying like a child. “Jocelyn, why are you so stupid? Why did you take it for me? Don’t you dare die. God, take me instead. Please, take me instead.” Maybe God was listening, or maybe I was just too stubborn to leave. I survived. But sitting on that floor now, I felt more dead than I did then. I sat there until the sun began to bleed through the curtains. I stood up, moved to the kitchen, and picked up a paring knife. I stared at the blue veins in my wrist, measuring the distance. The front door kicked open. Nelson walked in, his face dark with fury. He didn’t even notice the knife in my hand. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “Why? Why would you do it?” My brain was a fog of sleep deprivation and grief. “What are you talking about?” I rasped. Parker ran in behind him, his eyes red. He slammed into me. “Auntie Chloe’s house caught fire! If she hadn’t been with us last night, she would have burned to death!” I fell back onto the floor, stunned. But then Parker let out a piercing scream. I looked up, terrified, and saw blood dripping from Parker’s hand. In the chaos, he had landed right on the knife I was holding. My heart hammered against my ribs. I scrambled toward him, my vision blurred with tears. “Parker! Let me see, baby. I didn’t mean—it was an accident—” Nelson backhanded me so hard I spun across the floor. “You crazy bitch! You actually tried to hurt your own son? You’re a monster, Jocelyn! Get out! Get the hell out of my house!” Parker was sobbing, clutching his hand. “Get out! I hate you! You’re evil! I want Chloe!” I stood there, frozen, looking at the two people I had sacrificed my life for. They looked at me with such pure, unadulterated loathing that I started to laugh. It was a high, thin sound that didn’t feel like mine. “You want me to go?” I laughed harder. “Where am I supposed to go, Nelson? I gave you everything. I have nothing left.” Nelson’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine fear crossing his face. As I raised the knife toward my own throat, Nelson lunged. He caught the blade with his bare hand, blood blooming between his fingers. “You’re insane,” he hissed, his voice trembling. “You’ve finally lost it.” I shoved him away, my heart full of venom. “You want a divorce? Then let me die! Why are you stopping me?” He was afraid of me staying, yet terrified of me dying. “What are you afraid of, Nelson?” I sobbed. “Do you still love me? Or are you just afraid of the guilt?” Before he could answer, Chloe burst through the door. She rushed over, throwing herself in front of Nelson and Parker like she was protecting them from a wild animal. She looked at me with tear-filled eyes, playing the role of the martyr to perfection. “Jocelyn, it’s my fault. Beat me, hate me, do whatever you want—just please, don’t hurt them anymore.” I watched them. Nelson and Parker moved in unison, shielding her, guarding her against me. They were a family. I was the intruder. “It’s not your fault, Chloe,” Nelson said, his voice softening as he looked at her, then hardening as he turned back to me. “What do you want, Jocelyn? Money? A house? Just say it. I’ll give you anything.” He paused, his jaw set. “If you won’t sign the divorce papers, fine. But when the baby is born, I’m bringing it here. You will raise it.” He didn’t care. He knew my history. He knew how my own father had abandoned my mother for a mistress and a secret son. He knew we had spent nights huddled under a bridge, starving, while my mother worked three jobs and endured harassment just to keep us alive. When I told Nelson that story years ago, he had held me and wept. “I will never let you suffer again, Jocelyn. I swear. It’s just us. Forever.” Nelson walked away then, taking Parker and Chloe with him. He was the one who promised to protect me. And he was the one who destroyed me. I lost my mind for a while. I called him hundreds of times. When he blocked me, I sent thousands of texts—screaming, cursing, then apologizing, begging him to come home. I had spent fifteen years building my world around him. Without him, I was a ghost. “I’ll haunt you, Nelson. I hope you both die in a wreck. I hope you rot.” “Nelson, please… come back. I’ll accept the baby. I’ll pretend I don’t know. Just come home.” I spent three days in a daze, barely eating, drifting between mania and exhaustion. On the fourth day, I cleaned myself up. I needed to talk to him one last time. A calm conversation. A final plea for sanity. But as I got into my car, Nelson appeared out of nowhere. He ripped the door open and dragged me out by my hair. “Ah! What are you doing?” I screamed as I hit the pavement. Nelson’s face was a mask of primal rage. “Chloe is missing. You did it, didn’t you?” I stared at him, bewildered. “What? No, I’ve been—” His eyes darted to the backseat of my car. He lunged inside and pulled out a bundle of fabric. He threw it at my face. It was one of Chloe’s silk blouses. It was drenched in blood. “Why is Chloe’s clothes in your car? Why is there blood on them?” he roared. I stared at the bloody silk, my heart leaping into my throat. “I don’t know… I haven’t left the house in three days—” “Enough!” Nelson’s voice was thick with loathing. “I regret every second I spent being ‘soft’ on you. My mercy is what put Chloe in danger.” He grabbed my wrists and bound them tightly with a heavy nylon rope. I struggled, terrified, as he looped the other end around the trailer hitch of his SUV. “What are you doing? Nelson, stop! Call the police if you think I did something!” “The police are already looking!” he spat. “But she’s still gone. If you won’t talk, Jocelyn, let’s see how much skin you’re willing to lose before you tell me where she is.” He got into the driver’s seat and shifted into gear. The car started to move. I was forced to scramble to my feet, running to keep up. But I hadn’t eaten in days. Within a minute, my legs gave out. I hit the asphalt hard. “Stop! Nelson, please! Stop!” The coarse road tore through my clothes, through my skin. The pain was white-hot, a jagged line of fire along my side. I felt something warm and wet blooming between my thighs. Nelson didn’t stop. I stopped screaming. There was no air left. Just the rhythmic thump-thump of the tires and the sound of my body being erased by the road. Finally, the car came to a halt. Nelson sat there for a moment, then climbed out. “Stop faking it, Jocelyn. I was barely going ten miles an hour. You’re just trying to get—” He stopped dead. The trail of blood behind the car was bright, visceral red. And I was lying there, a broken doll in a pool of scarlet that was far too large.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447893”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Six months ago, Mark brought his paralyzed childhood sweetheart, Tess, into our home. From that moment on, I became a ghost in my own life. His entire world narrowed down to her—every thought, every gesture, every sacrifice centered around her needs. My feelings? They weren’t even a footnote. He pushed me further and further, eventually demanding I handle her most intimate hygiene, forcing me into the role of a glorified nurse for a woman who looked at me with nothing but cold triumph. Until today. I found a homeless boy on the side of the road. He was disabled, struggling with a makeshift crutch. I brought him home. I explained to Mark that the boy, Leo, wasn’t quite right in the head. He had no family, no one to look out for him. Leaving him on the streets was a death sentence, and I told Mark I simply couldn’t live with that on my conscience. Mark, the same man who had spent six months preaching to me about “grace” and “generosity,” reacted like I’d set the house on fire. “Grace, are you out of your mind?” he roared, his face turning a mottled purple. “You brought a strange man into our house? A mentally unstable one at that? Is this some kind of sick joke? Are you that desperate for attention?” … I looked at him, watching the vein throb in his temple. I didn’t blink. “Could you maybe put away the disgusting insinuations for five minutes? Where’s your empathy, Mark? Or does that only apply to people you’ve known since kindergarten? Are you really going to tell me to let a human being rot on the street?” Six months ago, Tess had been in a car accident. Mark didn’t just stay by her side in the hospital for a month; he insisted she move in. When I objected, he snapped at me. “Tess has no one else, Grace. I can’t just abandon her. Be a bigger person. Have some compassion. Stop making everything about your petty insecurities.” Now, I was simply following his lead. “That is not the same thing!” Mark shouted, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. “I’m going to the clinic to pick up Tess. When I get back, I want him gone. Do you understand me? Gone.” He slammed the door so hard the framed photos in the hallway rattled. He thought a temper tantrum would make me fold. He thought I was still the woman who would do anything to keep the peace. I turned to Leo and gave him a soft, reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Leo. Come on. Let’s get you a warm bath and some clean clothes.” “Thank you, Grace,” he whispered, nodding shyly. He leaned heavily on his crutch, his eyes wide and trusting. When he first arrived, he was covered in layers of city grime and grease. But once he was bathed and dressed in clean clothes, I saw him clearly for the first time. He was striking—delicate features, a gentle jawline. He was beautiful in a way that felt fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain that had been dropped and glued back together. He was far too thin, though. His limbs looked like brittle branches. I ordered a massive spread of takeout, determined to get some nutrients into him. That was the scene Mark walked into. He was pushing Tess’s wheelchair, his expression darkening the moment he saw Leo sitting on our leather sofa, eating. “Grace!” Mark’s voice was a low, dangerous hiss. “What the hell is this? Not only is he still here, but he’s wearing my sweatshirt? That’s disgusting. Do you have any idea how unsanitary that is?” He was overreacting, his skin crawling with a jealousy he couldn’t quite hide. “I’m sorry,” Leo said, his voice trembling as he tried to stand up. “Please don’t fight. I’ll take it off right now.” “Stay put,” I said, catching Leo by the wrist. I didn’t even look up at Mark. “It’s a sweatshirt, Mark. Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll wash it tomorrow, and I’ll buy Leo his own clothes in the morning.” I remembered when Tess first moved in. She had set her sights on my only designer gown—a vintage piece I saved for galas. Mark hadn’t even asked. He’d just let her wear it. Then, she’d had an “accident” while wearing it, ruining the silk beyond repair. I had been devastated. Mark had just shrugged. “Don’t be so materialistic, Grace. It’s just fabric. She didn’t do it on purpose. Just get it dry-cleaned or whatever.” The next day, he’d gone out and spent thousands on five new designer outfits for her. I had been so angry I couldn’t breathe. “Mark, please don’t be mad at Grace,” Tess chimed in, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness and feigned guilt. “It’s my fault. I’ve been a burden for too long, and I think Grace is just trying to hurt you because she’s unhappy with me. I’m the problem. I’ll leave tonight. You two shouldn’t be at each other’s throats because of me.” Her eyes welled up with tears. She started fumbling with the wheels of her chair, making a show of trying to head toward the door. I glanced at Mark, waiting for the performance I knew by heart. He didn’t disappoint. He rushed over, kneeling by her chair and grabbing her hands. “Tess, stop. You are not a burden. You are the most important person in my life.” Then, he shot me a look of pure venom. “You’re pathetic, Grace. Using a poor, broken kid just to try and manipulate me into kicking Tess out? It’s low, even for you.” Without another word, he pushed Tess into the master bedroom. That used to be our room. But Tess had claimed she had “claustrophobia” in the smaller guest room. So, Mark—without consulting me—had moved her in there. He’d set up a cot for himself next to the king-sized bed. He had even laid out a schedule: Monday through Saturday, he would stay in the master bedroom to “monitor” Tess. Sundays, he would sleep in the guest room with me. I had tried to talk to him. I had begged. I had screamed. But Mark always had an excuse, a way to make me feel like the villain in his tragic romance. ——– That night, after I’d settled Leo into the guest room, I went to the small home office to finish some work. Around midnight, the silence was shattered by Mark’s voice. “What the hell?! Grace! You’ve completely lost it!” Mark burst into the office. He was shirtless, smelling strongly of expensive cologne. I suddenly realized what day it was. It was after midnight. It was technically Sunday. “Grace, you gave the guest bedroom to that… that stranger?” Mark’s brow was furrowed in genuine disbelief. “Leo is vulnerable, Mark. You really expected me to make him sleep on the floor or in a chair in the office?” I didn’t turn my head; my eyes stayed fixed on the laptop screen. I was throwing his own words back at him. I could see the gears turning in his head. After a few seconds of stunned silence, he sighed heavily and walked over, wrapping his arms around my shoulders from behind. “Honey, come on. Stop this. Let’s just get that guy to a shelter tomorrow, okay?” he whispered into my hair. “Once Tess is a bit stronger, once her physical therapy is further along, I’ll find her a place of her own. I promise. Can we just go back to normal?” I’ll find her a place. He’d said that a dozen times over the last six months. It was a carrot he dangled to keep me from leaving, a lie he used to keep the peace until the next time he needed to prioritize her. When I didn’t respond, he nipped at my earlobe, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur. “Just say yes, Grace. It’s Sunday. It’s our time. Let’s not let outsiders ruin the mood.” For years, my love for Mark had been a physical ache. A touch like that used to make my heart race and my resolve melt. But after six months of being discarded, I felt… nothing. Not a spark. Just a cold, hard knot of revulsion in my stomach. Before I could push him away, a sharp, pained cry drifted down the hall from the master bedroom. “Mark! Mark, help me! Please!” Mark practically jumped out of his skin. He shoved me aside and bolted for the door before I could even draw breath. “Tess! I’m coming! Did you try to get to the bathroom on your own? God, look at you… you fell.” His voice was loud, frantic, brimming with a tenderness he hadn’t shown me in years. I remembered last month. I’d stepped out of the shower and slipped on a wet tile, my knee cracking against the porcelain. Blood had started soaking into the bath mat. I’d called for him three times. He never came. Later, when I limped into the living room, he’d just scoffed. “You’re a grown woman, Grace. If you can’t walk across a bathroom without falling, that’s just embarrassing.” Tess had been right there, adding fuel to the fire. “I’d never try to steal him from you, Grace. We’re just friends. You don’t have to hurt yourself just to get his attention.” Mark had looked at me then like I was a hysterical child, telling me I was “sick” and “immature.” I had cried myself to sleep that night, my heart breaking in the dark. A few minutes later, my phone buzzed on the desk. Mark: Tess fell. I’m worried she might have a concussion or a hairline fracture. I need to stay with her tonight to make sure she’s okay. It wasn’t the first time. Every Sunday, Tess suddenly developed a new symptom, a sudden pain, a bout of night terrors—anything to keep Mark by her side. And Mark always chose to stay. The next morning, I was in the kitchen making breakfast for myself and Leo. Mark walked out of the bedroom, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the table. “Where’s breakfast for me and Tess?” “The stove is right there. Figure it out,” I said calmly, not looking up from my coffee. “Excuse me?” Mark’s temper flared instantly. He slammed his hand on the table. “I see what’s happening. This little charity case has you under some kind of spell. You’re seriously going to ignore your own husband for some guy you found in the gutter?” Leo scrambled to his feet, his face pale. “I’m so sorry, Mark. Here, please, take mine.” He pushed his untouched plate of eggs toward Mark. “Get lost,” Mark snapped, swatting the plate away. “Ah!” Leo cried out. The plate shattered on the floor, and the steaming hot coffee next to it splashed all over Leo’s arm. The skin turned a bright, angry red instantly. “Mark, what the hell is wrong with you?” I stood up, my voice trembling with rage. “Leo was trying to be kind, and you’re acting like a violent child!” I grabbed a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and pressed it gently to Leo’s arm. Mark stood there, frozen, watching me tend to Leo with a look of pure, unadulterled shock. His face twisted with fury. “I’m telling you right now, Grace,” he bellowed. “It’s him or me. This house isn’t big enough for both of us. Make a choice.” I had reached that level of hysteria before. I had given him the same ultimatum months ago. But Mark, knowing how much I loved him, had just laughed. “Grow up, Grace. You think I’d die without you? Please.” Now, I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. Before I could speak, Tess rolled out of the bedroom. “Grace, Mark… are you fighting because of me again? If I’m the reason you two get a divorce, I’ll never forgive myself. Maybe I should just go.” She looked devastated, the picture of self-sacrifice. But I saw the glint in her eyes. She was pouring gasoline on the fire. “Tess, this isn’t about you. It’s about her being a cold-hearted bitch,” Mark said, turning his gaze back to me. “Tess just reminded me of something. If you want to play these games, fine. We’re done. I’ll have someone draft the papers today.” He pushed Tess toward the front door. “Come on, Tess. Let’s go out for a real breakfast. My treat.” “Mark, please,” Leo called out as they headed for the door. “It’s not what you think. Grace and I… there’s nothing going on.” Mark didn’t even turn around. Leo turned to me, his eyes brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry, Grace. I’ve ruined everything. Maybe you should just send me to a facility.” Mark paused at the door, his jaw tightening. “Manipulative little prick,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re not going anywhere, Leo,” I said firmly, loud enough for Mark to hear. “You finally got away from a life of misery. You’re staying right here. I won’t let anyone push you around.” Mark let out a disgusted snort and walked out, slamming the door behind him. I ignored the hollow feeling in my chest. After breakfast, I took Leo to the mall. He needed a whole new wardrobe, and I wanted him to feel human again. As we were walking past a high-end jewelry boutique, I spotted them. Mark and Tess were inside. Mark was holding a delicate diamond pendant, draping it around Tess’s neck. They were looking at each other with an intensity that made my stomach turn—a look of pure, unadulterated longing. I recognized that necklace. It was fifteen thousand dollars. I’d pointed it out to Mark months ago. He’d told me, “It’s just a shiny rock, Grace. Why waste money? We should be saving for our future children.” And yet, here he was, buying it for her. This was on top of the medical bills he’d been quietly paying for her for the last half-year. “Should we go say hi?” Leo whispered. “No,” I said, pulling him toward a clothing store across the hall. “Let’s just get your shoes.” Leo was trying on a pair of sneakers when Mark suddenly stormed into the store. “Grace! What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re actually spending my money on him?” I turned around slowly. Leo jumped up, looking terrified. “Mark, please don’t be mad. I’m keeping a log of every cent. I’ll work and pay her back, I promise—” “Shut up, you little parasite!” Mark snarled, raising his hand as if to strike Leo. I moved faster than I knew I could. I caught Mark’s wrist mid-air. “You… you’re taking his side? Against me?” His eyes were bulging. “You took Tess’s side a long time ago,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “That’s different!” Mark hissed. “Tess and I have a pure, lifelong bond. You and this… this stray? God knows what kind of sordid things you’re doing behind my back.” Tess rolled up behind him, her voice a soft, patronizing trill. “Grace, really, this is too much. You’ve gone too far this time.” Too far? I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “You’re living in my house, eating my food, and letting my husband pay your bills. You don’t get a vote in my life, Tess.” Tess’s face crumpled. Her eyes turned red instantly, and tears began to stream down her face like she was a wounded child. Smack. Mark’s hand connected with my cheek before I could blink. The force of it sent my head reeling. “Stop bullying her, Grace!” he screamed. “For once in your life, try to have a soul. You’re acting like a jealous, bitter hag. We’re over! I’m filing for divorce!” He turned and marched out. Tess looked back at me, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She had won. I touched my stinging cheek, the heat of the slap radiating through my skin. Mark, I thought, the last shred of my love for him evaporating into the air. That was the last time you’ll ever touch me. That evening, when Leo and I got back to the house, Mark and Tess were gone. On the coffee table sat a thick manila envelope. I opened it. It was a divorce settlement—with Mark’s signature already on the final page. My phone chimed. It was Mark. “Tess needs to get away for a few days to clear her head. I’m taking her on a trip. We’ll be gone for three days.” His voice was arrogant, dripping with the confidence of a man who thought he held all the cards. “Did you see the papers? You have three days. Either that kid is gone by the time I get back, or we’re finished. Your choice.” “Are you sure about this, Mark?” I asked. “Dead sure,” he chuckled. “If you’re scared, then do what I told you. And you better start thinking of how you’re going to make this up to me.” I didn’t say anything. In the background, I heard Tess’s voice, high and flirtatious. “Mark, my back is so itchy… can you come help me? I can’t reach it.” The line went dead. I looked at the papers, then picked up a pen. “Grace,” Leo whispered, his hand shaking as he reached for mine. “Are you really going to do it? You need to be calm. Don’t do this just because you’re angry.” “Leo,” I said, looking him in the eye. “I haven’t been this calm in years.” I gently moved his hand and signed my name in clear, steady strokes. I used to be terrified of a world without Mark. But love and patience aren’t infinite. They are like a bank account—and Mark had spent every last cent I had. I called a lawyer I’d researched weeks ago to handle the asset division. Then, I started packing. “Come on, Leo,” I said. “Let’s go on a trip of our own.” ——– That night, Mark was stepping out of the shower in a luxury hotel suite when his phone rang. “Hello? Mr. Norton?” “Speaking,” Mark said, rubbing a towel over his hair. “My name is Sarah Jenkins. I’m the attorney representing your wife, Grace. I’m calling to see when you’ll be available to discuss the finalization of the asset division and the property sale.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “447892”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel