I lied about my age and spent three months in a purely digital, voice-only relationship with a man six years older than me. Over the phone, his voice was a masterclass in gentle restraint. But when the hours bled into the middle of the night, it would drop into a gravelly, resonant register, trembling just a fraction when he called me “baby”. But I lost my nerve. The day I decided to break it off, I blocked and deleted him across every platform. I didn’t even leave him a single word of explanation. Months later, the ancient radiator in my apartment practically exploded, turning my bedroom into a swamp. My roommate, Piper, took one look at the mess and told me to pack a bag—we were crashing at her older brother’s condo for a few days. The moment the front door swung open, I found myself staring into a pair of impossibly cold, dark eyes. He was leaning against the entryway wall, wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Long, architectural fingers loosely held an unlit cigarette. His face was striking. Pale skin, a sharp, aristocratic brow, and a jawline that looked like it could cut glass. He was too devastatingly handsome to feel real. And entirely, brutally cold. He dragged his gaze over me, didn’t say a single word, and turned to walk up the stairs. Piper leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Don’t mind him. My brother’s just like that.” “Ever since his ex dumped him out of nowhere, he looks at everyone like they’re a tax audit.” “Plus, he absolutely loathes women who throw themselves at him. Just keep your distance and you’ll be fine.” 1 I nodded. “What does it have to do with me anyway?” I thought. That was, until dinner. Piper took a call from their mother, and casually yelled over her shoulder— “Hey, Declan! Mom wants us home for dinner tomorrow.” The fork slipped through my fingers. It hit the edge of my ceramic plate with a sharp, echoing “clink”. Declan. I had heard that name a thousand times. In voice notes sent at two in the morning. In those low, breathy murmurs that used to make my face burn and my lungs forget how to work. It was the first thing he said every time he initiated a call: “It’s Declan. Tell me you missed me today.” I froze, completely paralyzed. Across the dining table, the man lifted his eyes at the sound of my dropped fork. Those dark eyes swept over me, utterly devoid of warmth. Like he was looking at a ghost. Or worse—a stranger. Beside me, Piper was still rambling. “Oh, by the way, Quinn, my brother’s full name is Declan Prescott. It’s just the two of us kids in the family, so just make sure you don’t mess up the names when you meet my parents.” My lips parted, but my throat refused to form a single, coherent syllable. Declan Prescott. My internet ex-boyfriend. The man I had mercilessly ghosted and blocked eight months ago. And he was currently sitting exactly six feet across from me, chewing his dinner with the blank expression of a sociopath. I was dead. Absolutely, unequivocally dead. 2 I couldn’t have written a worse script for my life if I tried. Accidentally dating my roommate’s older brother online was one level of hell. Having to move into his apartment eight months after I broke his heart was the basement of that hell. That night, I lay awake in the guest bedroom, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning until the sheets were a tangled mess. All I could see was Declan’s face. —And the memory of his voice. Truthfully, in those three months of talking, we hadn’t even exchanged photos. He had said there was no rush, that he would wait until I was ready to meet in person. But his voice had been an unfair advantage. Deep, crisp, with that slight, raspy edge at the end of his sentences. When he talked about his day, he sounded like a late-night radio host. When he whispered those… “other” things… I pulled the duvet over my head, groaning into the dark. “Stop thinking about it.” Back then, the username I used was “Clementine,” and I had deliberately pitched my voice a little lower, a little smoother. I told him I was twenty-two, freshly graduated, and working my first corporate job. In reality, I was nineteen. A college sophomore. I had built a house of cards, and when the wind finally picked up, I terrified myself so badly that I just ran. I tried to soothe my racing heart: “There’s no way he knows.” He only knew my fake, lowered voice. He didn’t know my face, my real name, or even what city I actually lived in. As long as I acted normal, I would survive this. Early the next morning, the jarring sound of the doorbell woke me. In the room next door, Piper was still snoring softly. Resigned, I dragged myself out of bed and padded downstairs to open the door. A delivery driver in a uniform stood on the porch, holding two massive brown paper bags from a high-end bakery. “Order for Mr. Prescott.” I took the bags, muttered a quick thank you, and shut the door. As I turned around, the sound of footsteps on the hardwood stairs made my breath hitch. Declan was walking down, wearing grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. His hair was slightly rumpled, and there was a heavy, sleep-tousled lethargy in his eyes. It made him look far less like the unapproachable ice king from last night and entirely too much like… “Stop. Don’t look at him.” “Your delivery.” I set the bags on the kitchen island and immediately pivoted to escape back upstairs. “Hold on.” His voice stopped me dead in my tracks. My spine locked. “The mugs are in the top cabinet. You’re too short. I’ll get them.” Declan walked right past me, the faint scent of cedarwood and clean laundry trailing behind him. He effortlessly swung open the high cabinet door, pulled down two ceramic mugs, and held one out to me. “Th… thanks.” He didn’t look at me again. He just sat down on a barstool and began unrolling the tops of the bakery bags. I stood there clutching the empty mug to my chest for an embarrassingly long time before I remembered I was supposed to be getting water. My heart was hammering against my ribs. It was the most mundane sentence in the world. But the moment the timbre of his voice hit the air, I couldn’t stop it from overlapping with those late-night whispers etched into my memory. —”Clementine, tell me you missed me today.” —”Be a good girl. Go to sleep. I’ll see you in your dreams.” I practically choked on a huge gulp of freezing water. This wouldn’t work. If this kept up, I was going to give myself away. 3 Piper finally dragged herself downstairs. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest, but her eyes lit up the second she saw the spread on the island. “Declan, what’s with the charity? You never order breakfast.” Declan was scrolling through his phone, not even bothering to look up. “Fridge was empty. Didn’t feel like cooking.” Piper rolled her eyes, pulled up a stool next to me, and started devouring a croissant. Halfway through, she paused and leaned into my space. “Quinn, why is your face so red?” “The heat’s up too high.” I ducked my head and aggressively stirred my oatmeal. Piper shrugged it off, her ADHD brain seamlessly pivoting to a new topic. “Oh, right. Mom said I have to bring you home for dinner this weekend. She’s been dying to meet you.” “She wants to personally thank you for tutoring me through finals every semester.” My spoon hit the bottom of the bowl. Back to the Prescott family home. Didn’t that mean even more forced proximity with Declan? “She really doesn’t have to do that…” “Don’t be silly, my mom is an incredible cook,” Piper said, hooking her arm through mine. “It’s a date.” Across the island, Declan set his phone face down on the marble. He looked at me, his expression as unreadable as ever. “What school do you go to?” The sudden question nearly made me inhale my oatmeal. “Uh, same as Piper. UChicago. English Lit.” “What year?” “Sophomore.” He gave a slow nod and didn’t press further. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the way he was looking at me had shifted. There was a sudden weight to his gaze. Maybe it was just the paranoia talking. After breakfast, Piper dragged me out to the city for some shopping. The moment we stepped out of the condo, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for hours. I was finally safe from the suffocating orbit of Declan Prescott. But halfway through the boutiques on Michigan Avenue, Piper casually dropped a bomb. “Did you know my brother actually had an online relationship once?” My knuckles turned white as I gripped the handles of a clothing rack. “Oh… really?” “Yeah, it was absolutely wild,” Piper said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve seen him. In real life, he’s basically a walking freezer.” “But when he was talking to this girl? He was obsessed. Clingy, even. He’d be on the phone with her until three or four in the morning.” “And then, one day, the bitch just vanished. Didn’t even leave a goodbye text.” Piper stopped walking and looked at me. “Take a guess how my brother reacted.” I didn’t want to guess. I couldn’t. “He looked for her. For two straight months. Scoured every single app, every forum, every platform.” “He found absolutely nothing.” “Ever since then, his temper has been garbage, and he barely has the patience to speak to anyone.” I fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. He had looked for me. For two whole months. While I had scorched the earth, deleted every account, and hidden myself away like a pathetic coward. “Why are you being so quiet?” Piper nudged my shoulder. “Nothing… just thinking your brother went through a lot.” “Yeah, it was brutal.” Piper sighed. “Sometimes I wish I could track that girl down and scream at her.” “If you’re going to dump someone, at least have the decency to give them a reason, you know?” I forced the corners of my mouth up, but it wasn’t a smile. 4 Saturday. The Prescott Estate. Mrs. Prescott—Elaine—was a force of nature. The moment I walked through the door, she grabbed both my hands and refused to let go. “So you’re the lovely Quinn who’s been saving Piper’s GPA? Look at you, you’re absolutely darling.” “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Prescott.” “Sit, sit! Make yourself at home, please.” Elaine practically pushed me onto the plush velvet sofa, hovering over me with tea and a barrage of warm questions. The living room was massive, decorated in moody, understated earth tones. I hadn’t been sitting for more than ten minutes when the sound of a key turning in the front door echoed through the foyer. Declan walked in. He was wearing a navy blue knit sweater and dark trousers. He looked immaculate, sharp, like he had just stepped out of a luxury editorial spread. “Declan, you’re back! Come here,” his mother waved him over. He swapped his shoes for house slippers and walked into the living room. When he saw me on the sofa, his steps faltered for a fraction of a second. Then, acting as if nothing was amiss, he sat down in the armchair directly across from me. “Mom.” “Yes, hi,” Elaine beamed, then turned to me. “Quinn, this is my son, Declan. I assume you two have crossed paths at the apartment?” “Yes.” I gave a tight nod. I was doing everything in my power to look normal. “Declan, Quinn has been a godsend to your sister. Be nice to her.” Declan looked at me. “Right.” One word. That was it. Elaine shook her head in fond exasperation and lowered her voice toward me. “My boy is brilliant at everything except talking. Don’t take it personally.” “Oh, I won’t.” Lunch was an extravagant affair. Elaine was an incredible cook. I focused entirely on my plate, using my food as an excuse to completely avoid eye contact with Declan. But halfway through the meal, Elaine casually steered the conversation into a minefield. “Declan, did you end up meeting with the St. James girl like I asked?” Declan didn’t even pause in slicing his steak. “I did.” “And?” “Felt nothing.” Elaine put her fork down. “Enlighten me, then. What exactly do you need to feel “something”?” “Mom. Let’s just eat.” “I am worrying about your future. You’re twenty-five. Your cousins are already buying houses and having babies, and you…” “Mom.” Declan’s voice dropped an octave, a quiet warning. “I’m waiting for someone.” The entire dining room went dead silent. Piper sat there with mashed potatoes in her mouth, her eyes practically bulging out of her skull. “Wait, you finally thawed out? Who is she?” Declan didn’t answer. He simply picked up his water glass and took a slow sip. His expression was as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather. “What do you mean you’re waiting for someone? Then bring her home so I can meet her!” Elaine demanded, not ready to yield. “It’s not the right time.” Five words, and he effectively shut his mother down completely. Under the table, Piper kicked my shin and shot me a look that clearly said: “See? Told you he was impossible.” I managed a strained smile, but inside, my stomach was in freefall. Waiting for someone. He said he was waiting for someone. He couldn’t possibly mean… he was still hung up on the girl who vanished into thin air? 5 After lunch. Elaine insisted on dragging Piper into the kitchen to help with the dishes, claiming it was “mother-daughter bonding time.” That left me and Declan alone in the living room. Separated by a single, glass coffee table. The silence was so heavy my palms began to sweat. I pulled out my phone and aggressively pretended to read my emails. I couldn’t comprehend a single word on the screen. In my peripheral vision, Declan was looking at his phone too. His thumb was sliding lazily across the screen. The suffocating quiet lasted for about three minutes. “Quinn.” He spoke suddenly. I snapped my head up. Declan wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were still fixed on his screen. “How old are you?” “Nineteen.” He paused. “Nineteen,” he repeated softly, as if verifying a piece of data. Then he set his phone down on the glass table and finally turned to look at me. I couldn’t read the emotion in those dark eyes. It wasn’t his usual coldness. Nor was it an interrogation. It felt more like… he was taking me apart to see how my pieces fit. “Why?” I asked, bracing myself. “Nothing.” He looked away. “You have a very distinct voice.” A loud ringing started in my ears. “What?” “It’s recognizable,” he said. He stood up, grabbing his empty water glass, and started walking toward the kitchen. As he passed the sofa, his footsteps slowed to a halt right beside me. I looked up at him. He looked down at me. He was close enough that I could smell the sharp, clean notes of cedarwood and bergamot on his skin. A few seconds ticked by. He didn’t say another word. He just kept walking. I sat frozen on the sofa, trying to remember how to breathe. My phone lit up. A text from Piper. “Did my brother terrorize you? I swear he was staring at the back of your head the entire time I was in the kitchen.” “No,” I typed back. “He’s probably just intimidated by how pretty you are lol. He says he’s waiting for someone, but his eyes were definitely wandering.” I flipped my phone face down on my lap. I was doomed. He said my voice was distinct. Did he… figure it out? “Impossible,” I told myself. When we talked, I had specifically pitched my voice lower and breathier. I didn’t sound like that when I talked normally. It was impossible. I tried to convince myself. “Probably.” 6 After that day, I made it my mission to eliminate any chance of being alone with Declan. Unfortunately, Piper possessed zero situational awareness. She constantly thrust me into his orbit. “Declan, Quinn doesn’t know how to format this citation, can you show her?” “Declan, Quinn needs to go to the library, drop her off on your way?” “Declan, it’s Quinn’s birthday today—” “Piper!” I slapped a hand over her mouth. “My birthday is in December!” Piper just giggled and pried my hand away. “Close enough.” Declan stepped out of his home office, giving us a flat look. “Loud,” he muttered. Then he shut the door in our faces. Piper stuck her tongue out at the closed wood. “Ignore him. He’s stressed about a merger.” I let out a shaky breath of relief. But later that night, when I snuck down to the kitchen for a glass of water, I ran straight into him. He was leaning against the marble counter, a lowball glass in his hand. The ambient light from the range hood cast deep shadows across his face, sharpening his cheekbones. He saw me, but he didn’t move. Bracing myself, I walked over to the fridge to use the water dispenser. There was less than a foot of space between us. “Are you afraid of me?” The water was running into my glass. I almost didn’t hear him. “What?” “Ever since the day you moved in, if I’m in a room, you walk the other way.” He turned his head to look at me. The dim light caught the edge of his eyelashes, casting a shadow over his cheek. “I’m asking you why you’re afraid of me.” My heart was beating so fast it physically hurt. I gripped my glass tight, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I’m not afraid of you.” “We just don’t know each other very well. I didn’t want to intrude on your space.” He stared at me for a few agonizing seconds. Then he let out a soft “Hmph.” But he didn’t break eye contact. “Well, starting now, you can stop hiding.” “I don’t bite.” With that, he picked up his glass and walked out of the kitchen. Leaving me standing there alone in the dark, the water dispenser overflowing over my hand before I finally remembered to pull my glass away. 7 Piper spent the entire following morning complaining to me. “Quinn, do you think I should set my brother up on a blind date?” “Didn’t he say he was waiting for someone?” “Yeah, but he’s not actually “doing” anything about it!” Piper groaned, resting her head on the kitchen island. “What if the girl he’s waiting for already forgot he exists?” That sentence felt like a knife to the stomach. “Maybe… maybe she had a good reason,” I offered weakly. “What kind of reason makes you drop off the face of the earth? Without even a text?” Piper scoffed. “She’s just toxic.” I didn’t have a defense. “But my brother is the weird one here. She’s been gone for nearly a year, and he’s still waiting.” “Did you know he kept all their chat logs?” My lungs seized. “What?” “I saw it once by accident. His notes app is full of voice memos that he used software to transcribe into text.” Piper leaned in, dropping her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “The craziest part is he made a dedicated, locked folder for them. What was it called…” She scrunched her nose, thinking. “It was just one word. “Clementine”.” The water in my glass sloshed over the rim, spilling across the counter. “Oh crap, are you okay?” Piper scrambled for some paper towels. “I’m fine. Slipped.” Clementine. He kept a folder named “Clementine”. That was the name I gave him. I closed my eyes. Something heavy and suffocating lodged itself in my chest. I couldn’t tell if it was crushing guilt or something else entirely. That afternoon. I sat alone on the balcony, staring blankly at the Chicago skyline. I pulled up the App Store and found the old voice app I had deleted. I stared at it for a long time, then hit download. When I tried to log in, a cold system prompt popped up: “This account has been permanently deleted and cannot be recovered.” Exactly as I expected. I had scrubbed every trace of myself from existence. And he had meticulously saved every word I ever said to him. At dinner, Declan came home. He seemed to be in a foul mood. He was radiating a distinct “do not approach” aura that even Piper had the sense to respect. She kept her mouth shut the entire meal. I didn’t even dare to look in his direction. But halfway through dinner— “Ahem.” Declan set his fork down. He spoke to Piper, but his eyes were fixed entirely on me. “I’m flying out to New York tomorrow for a week. You two take care of yourselves.” “Got it,” Piper mumbled. I let out an internal sigh of relief. A week away meant I had a seven-day grace period. Seven days of not feeling like I was walking on a tightrope. But as he pushed his chair back to leave the table, I could have sworn— As he walked past the back of my chair, his footsteps slowed for a fraction of a second. And then I heard it. A single word, spoken so quietly it was almost a breath. “Clem.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I whipped my head around. But there was no one behind me. Declan was already walking up the stairs. I must have imagined it. I had to have imagined it. 8 The week Declan was in New York. I lived like a sloth, completely free of psychological torment, eating and sleeping in his apartment without a care in the world. Piper was thrilled, too, dragging me into endless movie marathons and gaming sessions. But a tiny corner of my mind kept drifting back to that word he whispered before he left. “Clem.” Was it an auditory hallucination? Or did he really say it? If he said it— Did that mean he knew? But if he knew, why didn’t he just confront me? Given his personality, he wasn’t the type to swallow his anger and play games. On the fourth day. I was curled up on the sofa reading a textbook when my phone screen lit up. A text from an unsaved number. “Don’t forget to water the plants on the balcony.” I hesitated, then typed: “Who is this?” He replied instantly. “Declan. Got your number from Piper.” I stared at the screen for a full ten seconds. Why would he ask Piper for my number? And why was he texting me directly about the plants instead of his sister? I tentatively typed back: “Okay. I’ll do it now.” I threw the phone to the other end of the couch, assuming that was the end of it. Ten minutes later, the screen lit up again. “Did you eat?” Three words. The most agonizingly normal three words in the English language. But I couldn’t stop my mind from pulling me back to the past. When we were talking online, his first message to me every single day was always those three words: “Did you eat?” A coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. I typed back: “Yes.” Five minutes passed. “Good girl.” I slammed my phone face down on the cushions. My cheeks were burning so hot I felt like I was running a fever. “Good girl.” He used to call me that. Every time I obediently reported what I was doing or what I had for lunch, he would reply with “good girl”. And then follow it up with: “I missed you.” “Stop thinking about it.” I shoved my phone deep beneath the sofa cushions. After that day, Declan texted me exactly once a day. They were always brief. “It’s cold there today. Wear a coat.” “There are snacks in the pantry. Don’t starve.” “Go to sleep early.” None of them were longer than ten words. It felt like a very restrained, perfectly calibrated level of concern. If I didn’t know who he was… If I didn’t know that he and “that man” were the same person… I would just assume he was being a polite older brother checking in on his sister’s friend. But I knew. Which meant every single text made me feel like I was sitting on a bed of nails. The seventh day. The night before he was scheduled to fly back. His last text came through at 1:00 AM. “Flying back tomorrow.” I replied: “Okay.” A long time passed. About twenty minutes later. Another text. “There’s something I need to ask you in person.” My heart contracted painfully. I typed: “About what?” I sent it, and then I lay awake for the rest of the night. He never replied. 9 The morning Declan returned, I dawdled in my bedroom for hours. I was too terrified to go downstairs. Until Piper came upstairs and started banging on my door. “Quinn! My brother brought back a ton of food from New York, get down here and eat!” I took a deep, shuddering breath. Fine. It was just a conversation. It wasn’t like he could murder me in his living room. When I walked downstairs, the coffee table was covered in boxes. Declan was sitting on the sofa, pulling a small package out of a boutique shopping bag. At the sound of my footsteps, he looked up. His eyes locked onto me with pinpoint accuracy. The moment our eyes met, the corner of his mouth twitched just a fraction. “I’m back.” He said it to me. Not to Piper. “Yeah… welcome back,” I croaked, my voice painfully dry. I sat down next to Piper, intentionally leaving as much distance between him and me as possible. Piper was happily digging through the souvenirs. “Oh my god, these are so good! Quinn, you have to try this—” “That box is for her.” Declan interrupted smoothly. He pulled a small, elegant white box from the bottom of the bag and slid it across the glass coffee table toward me. I froze. Piper looked even more shocked than I did. “Declan? Since when do you buy gifts for my friends?” Declan didn’t even blink. “Saw it on the way to the airport. Grabbed it.” I stared down at the little white box. It had the gold-foil logo of an artisanal bakery in SoHo. “Clementine Tartlets.” My heart completely skipped a beat. Clementine tartlets. It was a completely random detail I had mentioned to him once—that my absolute favorite dessert in the world was my grandmother’s clementine tartlets. I only mentioned it once. Late one night, during a three-hour phone call. Just once. I slowly lifted my head and looked at Declan. He was looking back at me. His eyes were perfectly calm, but there was the faintest shadow of a smirk playing on his lips.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530999”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day I organized our graduation road trip to the lake, I saw the one girl my boyfriend supposedly despised sitting in our rental van. “Despised” wasn’t even a strong enough word. Weston had warned me to stay away from Chelsea more times than I could count. “She’s trouble, Lauren,” he’d told me, his eyes icy and resolute whenever her name came up. “Being around girls like her will only rub off on you in the worst way.” Yet there she was, wearing a denim micro-skirt and four-inch heels, sitting right next to Weston. In the passenger seat. My seat. Weston didn’t even look up. I assumed he was just too polite to ask her to move. But as I walked over, preparing to speak up, Weston suddenly said, “It’s hard for her to stand in those shoes. Go sit in the back, okay?” I froze. Before I could process it, one of our friends gently took my arm and pulled me toward the back of the shuttle. As I moved down the aisle, I saw Weston take off our matching couple’s jacket and drape it over Chelsea’s bare legs. “Keep it on,” he murmured, his voice a mix of exasperation and tenderness. “The AC is blasting. Don’t come crying to me when your legs are aching later.” My chest tightened. Suddenly, the entire trip felt hollow. … I turned to Phoebe, who was sitting next to me. “Phoebe, I thought this was just our inner circle. Why is Chelsea here?” Phoebe hesitated, looking at me with a flash of pity. “Weston invited her.” A dull ache settled behind my ribs. Looking forward, I saw Chelsea resting her head on Weston’s shoulder. Her bright red lipstick was smudged right onto his collar. My boyfriend—the boy who couldn’t stand a speck of dust, who washed his hands five times if he touched a public railing—didn’t flinch. He only reached up, gently adjusting the jacket so it wouldn’t slip off her shoulders. He looked just like Chelsea’s ex-boyfriend used to. Back then, Weston had watched them with nothing but pure disdain. “I don’t get girls like her,” he’d sneered. “Dressing like that… she’s obviously looking for attention.” He’d spoken with such disgust, yet his eyes had been glued to her. He’d gripped my hand so tightly it bruised, and when I cried out in pain, he’d blinked, looking like he’d just woken from a trance. I had been so naive. I thought he genuinely disliked her. Now I understood. That wasn’t disgust. It was jealousy. When the shuttle pulled into a rest stop, I got off. I’d only taken a few steps across the asphalt when a voice called out behind me. “Lauren.” I paused, a foolish spark of hope rising in my chest. I thought he’d noticed I was leaving. “Give me your motion sickness pills.” “What?” The small smile on my lips froze. “Chelsea is feeling sick. Give me your pills.” His voice was sharp, laced with an underlying impatience. He didn’t notice the heavy backpack on my shoulders. He didn’t ask how I was doing. He had only stopped me for another girl. My throat felt dry, like ashes. “I only brought one dose.” “Well, you look fine right now, don’t you?” I wasn’t fine. When my motion sickness hit, it was brutal—blinding headaches, nausea, sometimes even blacking out. The only reason I felt okay now was because I’d taken the first half of my medication before we left. I needed the rest for the long drive ahead. But before I could even explain, Weston reached into the outer pocket of my backpack and pulled the blister pack out himself. He let out a sigh of relief. Without another word to me, he turned around, tossed his ruined, vomit-stained couple’s jacket into a nearby trash can, and headed back to the bus. I walked slowly over to the trash can. There it lay, crumpled among the garbage. I stared at it for a long time, and then, slowly, a quiet laugh escaped my throat. When I turned away this time, the weight in my chest was gone. It felt incredibly light. On the train ride back to Chicago, I called my academic advisor. “Dr. Adler, I made a mistake rejecting the graduate fellowship at Columbia. Is it too late to get my spot back?” Dr. Adler sounded deeply relieved. “It’s not too late, Lauren. The final paperwork isn’t due for another two days. I’m so glad you changed your mind. One day you’ll realize that nothing is more important than your own future.” His words echoed in my ears long after we hung up. Three hours later, I was back in my apartment. I opened Instagram. Weston, who hadn’t posted a photo in years, had just uploaded a picture. It was a shot of him gently holding Chelsea’s hand, his expression a mix of helplessness and adoration. The caption read: “Who managed to get carsick, lose her wallet, and get stung by a bee all in one afternoon? This idiot.” Below it, one of his close friends had commented: “Look at you, sweating over her. She doesn’t even care, and you’re checking her hand every three minutes like she’s been bit by a cobra.” I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then calmly double-tapped to like the post. At that moment, I knew Dr. Adler was right. I packed my bags, took a hot shower, and made myself a quiet dinner. As I sat down to eat, my phone rang. It was Weston. His voice was filled with disbelief. “Lauren, you left?” I looked at the clock on the wall. It had been eight hours since I got off the bus. He was only just realizing I was gone. “Yeah.” “What happened? Are you sick?” He seemed to suddenly remember taking my medicine, his tone shifting into a hurried anxiety. A bitter ache swelled in my throat, but my voice remained steady. “Weston.” “Yeah?” “I thought you hated Chelsea.” The line went dead silent. After a long pause, he let out a heavy sigh. “People change, Lauren.” He hesitated, his voice softening into something resembling tenderness. “And honestly… I realized she’s actually really sweet. She’s lively, fun, spontaneous. You guys just don’t really know her.” He rambled on, lost in his own thoughts, before catching himself with a nervous cough. “Anyway, you guys should really get to know each other. I think you’d be great friends.” I didn’t say anything. Assuming I was just tired, he murmured a few empty reassurances and hung up. The harsh glare of the kitchen light made my head throb. I scraped my untouched dinner into the trash, went into my bedroom, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, a FaceTime call woke me. It was Phoebe. She held a finger to her lips, whispering, “Quiet,” before flipping the camera. She was standing at the end of a hallway. The camera zoomed in on two figures near the exit: Weston and our mutual friend, Jared. “Weston, what the hell is wrong with you?” Jared was saying, his voice low but furious. “What’s going on with you and Chelsea? Didn’t you see Lauren leave?” Weston was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice sounded heavy. “Jared, I regret it.” “Regret what?” “I always thought I wanted a good, stable girl like Lauren. But being with Chelsea… it made me realize what real passion feels like.” “Lauren is an incredible girl,” Jared snapped. “You’re treating her like garbage.” “I know she’s great,” Weston said, his voice dropping into a flat, exhausted tone. “But she’s like tap water, Jared. Bland. Safe. I know she’d make a perfect wife, a perfect mother. But she’s not a lover. I want to live a little before I settle down. Just for a few days, even if it ruins me.” “And what if Lauren finds out? She’ll leave you.” Weston let out a soft, confident chuckle. “She won’t. We’ve been together six years. I know her.” The video cut off. That night, I came down with a raging fever. In my delirium, my mind drifted back to the past. I remembered the dark days after my mother died, when my father remarried. After I graduated high school, my father tried to stop me from going to college, trying to arrange marriages for me with older men for a quick payout. It was Weston who had climbed through my window in the dead of night, taking my hand and running away with me to a city where we had nothing. We worked shifts, split cheap meals, and put ourselves through school. I remembered a night at my part-time job when a customer had groped me. Weston hadn’t hesitated—he’d beaten the man half to death. The manager, furious, had threatened to withhold our pay. Weston had grabbed the manager by his collar, his voice shaking with rage. “I don’t care if you offered me a million dollars. I’d do it again.” When I woke up, my pillow was soaked with tears. The fever didn’t break, even after taking medicine, so I dragged myself to the clinic for an IV drip. I spent three days getting fluids. By the time I came home, Weston was back. The moment I unlocked the front door, a wall of thumping bass and laughter hit me. Standing in the center of our living room was Chelsea. She was wearing a tiny camisole and denim shorts, her wild, curly hair tumbling over her shoulders like dark seaweed. She looked vibrant, radiant, and entirely alive. I, on the other hand, hadn’t washed my hair in three days. My face was pale and hollow from the fever, and my clothes hung loosely over my frame to accommodate the IV tape on my arm. The contrast was humiliating. Chelsea let out a soft chuckle. She didn’t say anything, but the mocking amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. I stared at the crowd of people packed into our small apartment. My head felt like it was splitting in two. “Lauren, Chelsea and her friends stopped by,” Weston said, stepping forward to explain as he handed out drinks. I looked at the crowd. Most of them were wearing heavy eyeliner, piercings, and clothes that smelled faintly of weed and cheap liquor. Someone was even dancing on our fabric sofa with their shoes on. The quiet, peaceful home I had spent years decorating was being torn apart piece by piece. “Are you okay? You look pale,” Weston murmured, noticing my silence. I stared at him, my mouth dry. I wanted to tell him we were over. I wanted to tell him I knew everything. I wanted to ask him if any of our history had ever been real. But with a dozen eyes watching us, I kept my mouth shut. “Oh, by the way, I got you something,” Weston said, handing me a small, velvet box. It was small enough to fit in my palm, but my heart stopped. In the quiet hours of the night, Weston used to whisper to me, “Lauren, the second we graduate, I’m proposing. I want to marry you and keep you safe from the world.” My fingers trembled as I clicked the latch open. Inside was a cheap silver brooch. A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the living room, hitting me like a physical slap across the face. “Do you like it?” Chelsea had slipped over to my side, a sweet, feline smile on her face. “I helped him pick it out. As a thank-you, he got me this.” She raised her left hand, letting the light catch a brilliant, flawless diamond ring. It was easily worth five thousand dollars. And I knew exactly where that money came from. Our joint savings account. From the age of eighteen to twenty-three, we had saved every penny together. I had worked through fevers, skipped meals, and taken the bus to save a few dollars. And all of it had been traded for a cheap silver brooch and a diamond ring for another woman. It was almost comical. “Weston,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise, cold as ice. “Did you ask me before you spent our money on another woman?” The living room fell dead silent. Weston’s face flushed. He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it bruised, and dragged me into the bedroom, slamming the door behind us. “When did you get so materialistic?” he hissed. “It’s just a ring!” A tear slipped down my cheek, but not because of his words. It was because of the sheer panic in his eyes. He wasn’t angry at me; he was terrified of Chelsea being embarrassed. “What kind of man buys a diamond ring for another woman?” Weston looked away, his jaw tight. “It was a thank-you gift. How many times do I have to tell you?” “Is that all it is, Weston? What about everything you said before? You told me to stay away from her. You said she was cheap, loose, shameless—” “Shut up!” he barked, his eyes flashing with disgust. “Don’t talk about her like that. She’s a good girl, Lauren. When did you get so bitter?” She’s a good girl. Even though she has a reputation, she’s a good girl. Even though she drops out of classes and insults people, she’s a good girl. Even though she bounces from guy to guy, she’s a good girl. The bedroom door creaked open, and Chelsea stepped in, looking fragile. “What’s going on? Are you guys fighting because of me?” “It’s not your fault,” Weston said quickly, his voice softening instantly as he tried to usher her back out. But Chelsea looked at me, her eyes welling with tears. “Lauren, Weston and I are just friends. You shouldn’t attack my character just because of how I dress.” Slowly, dramatically, she slid the ring off her finger, set it on the nightstand, and ran out of the apartment crying. Outside, a chorus of voices gasped, asking her what was wrong. Weston grabbed the ring and slammed it onto the dresser. “Are you happy now?” He threw open the door and ran out after her, leaving the front door wide open. The apartment was dead quiet, filled only with the lingering smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. I didn’t clean up. I didn’t play the dutiful, long-suffering partner. I simply walked over to the dresser, swallowed my fever medication with a sip of water, and began packing. Two hours later, Chelsea updated her Instagram. “Out with the old, in with the new.” In the photo, she was wearing a brand-new, even larger diamond ring. I checked our joint account on my phone. The balance was exactly zero. He had drained every last cent. But as I looked at the screen, I didn’t cry. Instead, a wave of profound relief washed over me. We were finally even. I owed him nothing. That evening, Weston didn’t come home. I was still weak from the fever, so Phoebe came over with groceries to cook for me. She stood at the stove, quietly washing vegetables, before turning to me. “Weston is going to regret this, Lauren. Within three months, he’s going to be the biggest joke in Chicago.” I paused, looking up from the counter. Phoebe wasn’t the type to say things like that. She dried her hands on a towel, a cold, sharp smile playing on her lips. “I was getting my nails done yesterday, and guess who was sitting right next to me? I recorded this.” She tapped her phone, and Chelsea’s voice filled the quiet kitchen. “Are you actually going to stay with Weston, Chelsea?” a friend asked. Chelsea let out a dry, dismissive laugh. “Of course not. It’s just hilarious watching him follow me around like a lost puppy. All I had to do was wiggle my finger and he came running.” She paused, chuckling. “You should have seen him. He actually screamed at his girlfriend for me. When he bought the ring, his eyes got all watery with guilt. He kept promising he’d buy me a bigger one soon because I ‘deserved’ it.” The recording ended. Phoebe locked her phone and looked at me, her eyes fierce. “Lauren, you are the one who deserves better. Let him play his little game. It won’t be long before he ruins himself.” I stared at the phone. “I know. Thank you, Phoebe.” Three days later, I was fully recovered. Weston still hadn’t come home. He sent occasional, curt text messages—pretending to still be angry to justify staying out with Chelsea, drowning himself in her world of high-end bars and endless parties. He thought I would do what I had always done: apologize, beg for forgiveness, and ask him to come home. But he was wrong. I packed my remaining bags, booked a one-way ticket, and boarded the train to New York. At that exact moment, Weston was being jolted awake by a frantic pounding on his door.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530998”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My son had his eye on a car. We had negotiated everything down to the final penny, and the only thing left to do was pay. I had taken a day off from work specifically to accompany him to the dealership. But just as I was reaching into my purse to pull out my credit card, a voice note from his girlfriend, Amber, chimed on his phone. “Tell your mom to take an Uber back after she pays,” her voice drawled through the speaker. “This car is for the two of us. If she has any self-respect, she won’t even try to sit in it.” The words hung in the sterile, air-conditioned air of the showroom. I had worked myself to the bone to put my son through college, supporting him well into his twenties. Now, I was about to buy him a car in full, and there wasn’t even room for me in the passenger seat. Ignoring the quiet devastation in my eyes, my son, Zachary, merely sighed, looking at me as if I were the one being unreasonable. “Mom, I’m an adult now,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “You need to learn about boundaries. This car is going to be the dedicated ride for Amber’s and my little family. Just take an Uber home after the payment clears, okay?” I looked at him—really looked at him—for what felt like the first time in years. Then, I slowly zipped my purse, slung it over my shoulder, and turned toward the exit. As I walked, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick voice note to my account manager at the bank. “Lydia here. That fifty thousand dollars we talked about? Put it back into a high-yield CD. Do not authorize the transfer.” … Ignoring Zachary’s dumbfounded expression, I walked briskly toward the glass doors of the dealership. It took him a long moment to process what was happening before he finally scrambled after me, catching up to me near the entrance. He grabbed my arm, his grip tight and his face flushed with embarrassment and anger. “Mom! What the hell are you doing?” he hissed. “Why are you throwing a tantrum in public? We negotiated the price, the paperwork is ready. You’re doing this on purpose just to humiliate me!” I cold-shouldered him, prying his fingers off my sleeve. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to buy it anymore. It’s my money. If I don’t want to spend it, that’s my choice.” Zachary stepped in front of me, blocking my path, his chest heaving. “If you don’t buy this car, how am I supposed to explain this to Amber?” “That’s your problem,” I said quietly, stepping around him and walking toward the bus stop. The sales representative had followed us out, clutching his portable card reader like a lifeline. He was desperate to close the commission, and it showed in the tight, eager stretch of his smile. “Ma’am, your son’s fiancé isn’t entirely wrong,” the salesman chimed in, trying to sound reasonable. “In a healthy marriage, the spouse comes first. Your son is starting his own life now; he needs to cut the apron strings. If you keep inserting yourself into their lives, how is their relationship ever going to survive?” I looked at the salesman, then at the card reader, and let out a cold, humorless laugh. He clearly didn’t understand a very basic concept: the person holding the money makes the rules. Zachary, emboldened by the salesman’s words, glared at me with pure resentment. “No wonder you’ve been alone all these years,” he spat, the words cutting through the afternoon air. “Who could put up with your toxic, dramatic behavior? See? It’s not just Amber. Even a complete stranger can see how out of line you are.” Alone. The word echoed in my mind, leaving a bitter taste. For over two decades, I had been a single mother, raising him entirely on my own. I had delivered food in the freezing rain, worked double shifts at retail jobs, and run flea market stalls on weekends. I had taken on every dirty, grueling job imaginable to give him a life. We had finally bought a modest house, and for a few years, life felt stable. Then Amber entered the picture. On the very first day she visited our home, she made sure to pull me aside. “Just so we’re clear, Lydia,” she had said, looking around the living room, “this is going to be our marital home. It would be best if you started looking for an apartment of your own.” She went even further, laying down rules for when I could speak to my own son. “You are only allowed to call Zachary between 11 AM and 5 PM,” she instructed. “His evening hours belong entirely to me.” When I had looked at Zachary for support back then, he had only smiled subserviently at her. “Amber is right, Mom. We need to set healthy boundaries if we want this family to succeed.” And now, they wanted to drain my hard-earned retirement savings to buy a luxury car just to show off, all while declaring I wasn’t even allowed to sit in it. The realization settled deep into my bones, cold and heavy. Ignoring Zachary’s furious shouting behind me, I stepped onto the arriving bus without looking back. I had barely unlocked my front door and kicked off my shoes when my phone began to ring. It was my older sister, Martha. “Lydia, did you and Zachary get into a fight?” she asked, her voice laced with worry. Before I could answer, she sent over a screenshot of Zachary’s latest social media post. It was a picture of him and Amber, captioned: [Finally realized who my real family is. Blood doesn’t mean loyalty.] In the comments, Amber had added a jab of her own: [Some people try to use financial blackmail to control their kids, only to push them further away. Newsflash: we are independent women. Your little power trips don’t work on us.] My hands shook slightly as I opened my contacts and tried to message Zachary directly. The screen flashed with a red exclamation mark. He had blocked me. I let out a sharp, empty laugh. “Martha,” I said into the phone, “if he thinks I’m such a terrible mother, he doesn’t get to spend another dime of my hard-earned money. If they want to call it financial blackmail, fine. He is officially cut off.” I hung up, went into the laundry room, and quietly changed the cat litter, finding comfort in the simple, mindless routine of maintaining my home. But the peace didn’t last. The phone on the sofa began to ring incessantly. I let it ring out twice, but on the third attempt, I finally picked it up. Zachary’s voice came rushing through the receiver, loud and demanding. “Mom, Amber and I are at Best Buy. She found this gorgeous eighty-five-inch smart TV—it’s about three thousand dollars. It’s perfect for the living room. Get over here and pay for it, hurry.” “To pay?” I scoffed. “Zachary, let me make this incredibly clear. I don’t have any money for you, and even if I did, you wouldn’t get a single cent.” Amber’s shrill voice immediately shrieked in the background. “Who does she think she’s threatening? Zachary, are you seriously going to let your mother treat me like this?!” “Mom, stop throwing a tantrum!” Zachary pleaded, his tone sharp. “Just come over, buy the TV, and use this as an opportunity to patch things up with Amber.” “I am fifty-four years old,” I replied, my voice steady. “I don’t need to pay three thousand dollars just to be treated like an inconvenience.” Sensing I was about to hang up, Zachary quickly changed his tactic. “Amber wanted to buy you an outfit to make peace,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “She’s trying to bridge the gap. Don’t be so stubborn and ruin this.” The statement caught me off guard. I hesitated. He was still my son, and perhaps, in her own twisted way, Amber was trying to extend an olive branch because she knew she had gone too far. I decided to give them one last chance. I put on my coat and walked over to the mall. When I arrived at the department store, Amber was holding a fifteen-dollar designer iced coffee. She didn’t even look at me, let alone greet me. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked into a fast-fashion boutique, her chin held high. I swallowed my pride and followed them inside. Amber strolled lazily through the aisles, occasionally glancing at me with a critical eye. Finally, she turned to a sales associate. “Where is your clearance rack? The heavily discounted stuff?” Before I could speak, Amber turned to me with a sugary, patronizing smile. “Don’t take it the wrong way, Lydia. I just think at your age—and given your financial situation—you don’t need anything fancy. I’d hate for people to look at you and think you’re trying too hard to look young.” She gestured vaguely at my coat, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. Zachary stepped forward, entirely blind to the insult, and smiled. “See, Mom? Amber is actually looking out for you. She wants you to be comfortable.” Amber rolled her eyes, ignoring him, and pulled a plain, scratchy white t-shirt from the clearance bin. “We’ll take this one. Wrap it up.” Zachary eagerly ran to the register to pay. I glanced at the receipt—it was nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents. The shirt was a size extra-small; there was no physical way I could ever wear it. Before I could point this out, Zachary grabbed my arm and pulled me into the jewelry store next door. “Amber just bought you a shirt,” he said, his eyes scanning the sparkling display cases. “You should buy her a piece of jewelry to show your appreciation.” The sheer audacity of the demand made my head spin. I took the small paper bag containing the tiny white t-shirt and threw it against Zachary’s chest. “Here is twenty dollars for the shirt,” I said, pulling a bill from my wallet. “You two can buy whatever jewelry you want with your own money.” Amber’s face instantly darkened. “What is your mother’s problem?” Zachary immediately began playing the doting servant, waving a sales associate over and demanding to see the most expensive items in the case. The clerk brought out a massive, intricate white-gold bridal tiara encrusted with diamonds. I turned on my heel and began to walk away. “Lydia!” Amber shrieked behind me. “You see this, Zachary? I told you your mother is a toxic, passive-aggressive snake. She is doing this on purpose to humiliate me! If she’s going to act like this, our marriage is over! She is actively trying to ruin us!” Zachary chased after me, his face twisted in fury. “Mom! I need to buy Amber her wedding jewelry anyway. Why do you always have to be a stumbling block in our lives?” A stumbling block. When they wanted money, I was a mother. When I refused to let them walk all over me, I was a obstacle to their happiness. I turned around to face them, keeping my voice as calm and level as possible. “Amber, I have never tried to come between you and Zachary. The health of your relationship depends entirely on how the two of you treat each other. But I am Zachary’s mother, and that is a fact that will never change. If we want to move past this, let’s go upstairs, sit down, and have a quiet lunch together. We can talk like adults.” Amber let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, please! You think I don’t see right through you? You know damn well I hate eating with people I don’t like, so you’re trying to corner me. You’re just trying to manipulate your way out of buying the jewelry.” She stepped closer, her voice rising so that other shoppers began to turn and stare. “I am not a child, Lydia. Your little mind games don’t work on me!” “I am simply offering to buy you lunch so we can communicate,” I said, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. But she wasn’t listening. She wanted a spectacle. “I cannot deal with this manipulative, toxic mother-in-law routine anymore!” she cried out, tears suddenly welling in her eyes. It was a masterful performance. Zachary rushed to her side, gently wiping her tears, but she dramatically pushed him away. “If you didn’t force me to stay quiet, I would have said something sooner! The very first night I stayed at your house, your mother made us sleep in that tiny twin bed in your room. I told you that house is going to be ours—she should have given us the master bedroom! She’s lived for fifty years, there’s no way she didn’t understand what she was doing!” The crowd of onlookers grew, murmuring amongst themselves. “And that’s not all,” Amber sobbed, pointing a finger at me. “Why were you lingering outside our bedroom door in the middle of the night? What were you trying to listen to?!” A collective gasp went through the crowd. I stood frozen, entirely paralyzed by the sheer malice of her words. She was framing me as some kind of perverted, jealous intruder. The truth was simple: I was an aging woman who suffered from insomnia. I had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the restroom, which was down the hall past their room. I had paused for a brief second because my joints ached, and now she was twisting it into something disgusting. The whispers from the crowd grew louder, sharper. “Boy moms are always so toxic and enmeshed,” one woman whispered. “She probably treats her son like a surrogate husband. It’s sick.” “Run, girl. That kind of family dynamic is suffocating.” Amber saw the crowd’s reaction and decided to drive the knife in deeper. “You’ve been single and lonely for over twenty years, Lydia. I get it, you probably forgot what it’s like to have a partner. But projecting that onto your own son is disgusting! If you’re really that desperate, go find some lonely retired senior to hook up with instead of clinging to Zachary!” My hands began to shake violently. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every ounce of my dignity was being trampled on by a girl who had done nothing but take from me. “Is this how your parents raised you?” I whispered, my voice trembling with rage. “Apologize to me. Right now.” Instead of apologizing, Amber took a step forward, a cruel smirk dancing in her eyes. “Why? Are you going to demand to sleep between us on our wedding night? Do we need to ask your permission before we have sex?!” The crowd chuckled. Before I could think, my hand flew out. The sound of the slap echoed sharply through the crowded corridor. “Since your parents failed to teach you respect,” I breathed, “I will.” For a second, the entire mall seemed to go silent. Then, Amber let out a piercing shriek and lunged at me. I braced myself to step back, but before I could move, a heavy force struck the side of my leg. Zachary had kicked me, hard, right below the knee. The impact sent me crashing to the polished tile floor. I landed on my hands and knees right at Amber’s feet. I looked up at my son, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. I couldn’t believe what he had just done. “Apologize to Amber!” Zachary roared, his face contorted in a mix of embarrassment and fury. “You always have to ruin everything! Are you only happy when you’re making my life a living hell?” If I weren’t his mother, I think he would have struck my face himself. Amber held her cheek, sobbing hysterically as she pounded her fists against Zachary’s chest. “I don’t care! My own parents have never laid a hand on me! If you don’t handle this right now, we are done!” Zachary cursed under his breath, picked up the nineteen-dollar white t-shirt from the floor, and threw it violently at my face. “You never change, do you?” he spat, pointing a finger at me. “I can’t believe you’re my mother. You’re so incredibly selfish. You divorced Dad because you only cared about yourself, and now you’re trying to ruin the only good thing in my life! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who doesn’t care that I come from a broken home? Amber is sweet, she just speaks her mind. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?!” He took a deep breath, his eyes cold as ice. “I see it clearly now. I’ll never have a peaceful life as long as you’re in it. From this moment on, you are not my mother. I’m going to live with my dad.” I sat on the cold floor, and a strange, hollow laugh escaped my chest. I bit my lip to keep from sobbing, slowly pushing myself up off the ground. I walked up to him, looking at the boy I had poured my entire life into. Slap. “That,” I said, “is for your utter lack of respect.” Slap. “And that is for bleeding me dry for twenty-four years, only to treat me worse than a stray dog.” I raised my hand for a third slap, but Zachary caught my wrist, his grip bruising. He shoved me away with all his strength. I fell backward, my foot catching awkwardly on the edge of a display stand. A sharp, sickening crack echoed from my ankle, followed by a wave of blinding pain. I looked up at my son from the floor, but his face remained entirely indifferent. He didn’t care. If he wanted to go to his father, let him. His father was a deadbeat who would likely demand Zachary support him in his old age anyway. And Amber, as far as I could tell, was nothing but a parasite. My son had graduated college six years ago and hadn’t held a stable job for more than three months. Three selfish, foolish people deserved each other. I had wasted my life raising him, but it was time to cut my losses. With trembling fingers, I wiped the tears from my face, pulled out my phone, and called my lawyer. “This is Lydia,” I said, my voice dead and steady. “I want to legally sever all financial and familial ties with Zachary. Now.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530997”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The shipping depot received a package addressed to me. When I opened it, there was $470,000 in cash inside. That night, my phone buzzed with a text: “Do not open the package, or face the consequences!” I went straight to the bank, deposited the entire $470,000 into a three-year certificate of deposit, and then went right back to the shop to keep scanning packages. The next morning, a lawyer, a cop, and my landlord crowded into my tiny storefront, filling the room to capacity. Without even looking up, I said, “I have six customer pickups queued up. You’ll have to wait.” It wasn’t until the plainclothes detective slapped a shipping slip onto my counter that I finally looked up, my chest tightening. … Four hundred and seventy thousand dollars. I squatted on the floor of the depot’s back room, staring down at the cardboard box, and counted the money three times. Hundred-dollar bills, stacked in neat, brick-like bundles. Each bundle was wrapped in official bank bands, stamped and dated. They weren’t counterfeit. After running this shipping store for six years, your hands develop their own memory. The weight of the paper, the distinct, crisp scent of the ink—it was all real. Exactly four hundred and seventy thousand dollars. Not a single bill more, not a single bill less. I didn’t stand up, and I didn’t call out to anyone. First, I flipped the box over to inspect the bottom. It was just a standard, heavy-duty cardboard shipping box, completely devoid of any unique markings. The clear packing tape had been wrapped around it three times—the exact brand and style we kept on our own counter. Then I looked at the shipping label. Recipient: Shane Kelly. Address: The Parcel Hub, 127 Union Street, Westside. The phone number was mine, down to the very last digit. The sender field read: “Jared Pierce”. The return address was some place upstate I’d never heard of, and the phone number was ten digits long, but missing one digit in the middle. I pulled out my phone and dialed it anyway. “The number you have dialed is not in service.” I stared at the name on the label for a long ten seconds. Jared Pierce? I didn’t know any Jared Pierce. I ransacked my brain, running through every client, acquaintance, and old contact I’d ever had. No one by that name had ever crossed my path. Aside from the cash, the box was empty. No letter, no note, no explanation. Just forty-seven bundles of hundred-dollar bills, stacked like bricks in a dark cellar. I taped the box back up, slid it onto the lowest shelf in the back, and stacked half a dozen heavy Amazon returns on top of it. Then I went back to the front desk and kept scanning packages. My hands didn’t shake. It wasn’t that I was brave. It was just that I’d been poor for so long that when a massive sum of money suddenly dropped into my lap, my gut reaction wasn’t excitement. It was bone-deep dread. But dread or not, the package had been delivered to me. The shipping label stated it in black and white: “Shane Kelly”. Legally, that parcel was my responsibility. Whether it contained gold bullion or concrete bricks, that was the sender’s business. At two in the afternoon, during the post-lunch lull when the shop was empty, I took my old truck and drove over to the local bank. The young teller’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when I unzipped my duffel bag and let the cash spill onto the counter. “Sir, what is…?” “I want to open a certificate of deposit. A three-year term.” “Please hold on, for an amount this large, we require…” “Whatever forms you need, I’ll fill them out. Whatever ID you need, I have it. Just run the process.” I deposited every single dollar into the three-year CD. When it was done, I folded the receipt, slid it deep into the zippered inner pocket of my jacket, and drove back to the shop. At eight-thirty that night, as I was closing out the day’s inventory, my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. A text: “The package was sent to you by mistake. The contents do not belong to you. Return it intact within three days, or face the consequences.” I looked at it, didn’t reply, and went back to my spreadsheets. Two minutes later, a second text arrived: “Don’t be stupid.” Five minutes after that, the phone rang. I picked it up. The voice on the other end was slow, deliberate, with a faint, unhurried accent: “Mr. Kelly. I assume you received the package?” “Who is this?” “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that the contents of that box were not meant for you. I need you to return them, exactly as they were.” “The shipping label has my name on it.” “A mistake was made.” “Then take it up with the courier service. It’s out of my hands.” Silence stretched over the line for a couple of seconds. “Mr. Kelly, I strongly advise you not to make this difficult. That money isn’t yours to keep, and you won’t be able to spend it.” “I already deposited it in a three-year CD,” I said. “If you think the money is yours, call the police and file a claim. I’ll cooperate fully with the investigation.” Another silence. This one was longer, heavier. Finally, the man let out a soft, dry chuckle. “Alright. Have it your way.” He hung up. I set the phone down and realized my palm was slick with sweat. But I didn’t regret it. With the money sitting in a bank account, it could be frozen or seized, but that would require a court order. If we went through legal channels, no one could make this money disappear in the dark. But if I had simply handed the cash back over to some stranger, the trail of where it came from and where it was going would be wiped clean forever. I shut off the shop lights and pulled down the metal security gate. On my drive back to my apartment, as I pulled up to the intersection, I instinctively checked my rearview mirror. Under the dim orange glow of the streetlamp, a black sedan was idling. The headlights were switched off, but I could see the tiny, glowing orange ember of a cigarette inside the cabin. Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, watching. I kept my eyes on the road and accelerated. The next morning, I had barely pulled up the security gate and hadn’t even booted up my computer when three people blocked the entrance. Leading the group was a tall, lean man in his early forties, wearing a tailored grey suit and carrying a leather briefcase. He had “corporate attorney” written all over him. Behind him was a young patrol officer in a crisp uniform, maybe twenty-five, standing with a rigid, by-the-book posture. Bringing up the rear was Walt Morris, my landlord. He was in his late sixties, usually a warm, easygoing guy who’d drop by with leftovers during the holidays. Today, his face was drawn tight, a heavy ring of keys jangling in his hand as his eyes darted nervously around my shop. I glanced at the three of them, said nothing, and walked past them to turn on the computer. I plugged in the scanning gun and started sorting the packages that had arrived in the morning drop-off. The lawyer stepped inside, stopping right in front of my counter. He gave a polite, practiced cough. “Are you Shane Kelly?” “Yes.” “My name is Mr. Croft. I represent a client who…” “Hold on,” I interrupted. I picked up a package, scanned it with a loud “beep”, and tossed it onto the shelf behind me. “I have six customer pickups queued up. You’ll have to wait.” Mr. Croft’s jaw tightened. The young officer stepped forward. “Mr. Kelly, we’re here to ask you some questions regarding a high-value package you received yesterday…” “Officer,” I said, finally looking him in the eye. “This is a place of business. I have customers coming in. You can either wait until I’m finished, or you can take a seat on the bench outside.” The officer hesitated, glancing at the lawyer and then back at Walt. He didn’t press further. It took me twenty minutes to handle the pending pickups. Two regular customers came in during that time. I smiled, handed over their packages, scanned their confirmation codes, and wished them a good day, behaving exactly as I did every other morning. The three men stood off to the side, watching me work. None of them left. When the last customer walked out, I set the scanner on the counter and took a sip of water from my travel mug. “Alright. Let’s hear it.” Mr. Croft placed his briefcase on the counter, popped the latches, and laid out a document. “Mr. Kelly, a package containing $470,000 in cash was delivered to your address yesterday. This money belongs to my client. It was delivered here due to a clerical error by the courier service. We expect your full cooperation in returning the funds. My client is prepared to offer you a reasonable finder’s fee for your trouble.” “How much?” The lawyer blinked, clearly caught off guard by my bluntness. “Two thousand dollars.” I said nothing. “Three thousand.” I took another sip of water. “Five thousand. That is our final offer,” Mr. Croft said, his tone sharpening. “Mr. Kelly, I must remind you that keeping this money constitutes unjust enrichment under the law. If you refuse to return it, we will initiate immediate legal proceedings.” “Unjust enrichment?” I set my mug down. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Croft?” “Absolutely.” “Then let me ask you: what is the fundamental requirement for unjust enrichment?” The lawyer frowned. “Obtaining a financial benefit without a legal basis…” “Exactly. Without a legal basis,” I said, tapping the computer monitor. “But the shipping label on that package had my name, my address, and my phone number. Tell me, how is opening and signing for a package delivered directly to me a violation of the law?” Mr. Croft’s brow furrowed deep. The young cop chimed in. “Shane, even if your name was on the label, you know that money isn’t yours. Money doesn’t just fall from the sky.” “You’re right, Officer. It doesn’t,” I said, turning to him. “Which is why I’m incredibly curious. Who ships nearly half a million dollars in cash via standard ground delivery? Have you run a check on the sender yet?” The officer opened his mouth but found no words. “Let me help refresh your memory,” I said, pulling a photocopy of the shipping label from my desk drawer and sliding it across the counter. “The sender is listed as Jared Pierce, at an address that doesn’t exist. The phone number is missing a digit and goes straight to an inactive line. Does that sound like a normal delivery mistake to you?” The lawyer’s expression shifted. I continued, “Mr. Croft, you said you represent a client. Who is your client? Is it this Jared Pierce?” The lawyer looked down at his files, his lips thinning. “My client’s identity is protected by attorney-client privilege…” “So the package was sent by a Jared Pierce, but your client is someone else,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “One person ships a package, and a completely different person comes to claim the cash. What do you call that in your line of work?” The room went dead silent. Walt couldn’t handle the tension. He stepped forward, his voice strained. “Shane, stop playing word games! They brought a lawyer and the police. Just give the money back before this blows up and ruins my property’s reputation!” I looked at him. “Walt, are you here to collect rent, or are you working as Mr. Croft’s assistant today?” Walt froze. “You got a phone call last night, didn’t you?” I stared into his eyes. “Did they tell you to come down here and lean on me? Offered you a little kickback if I cooperated?” Walt’s face flushed a deep, bright red. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He turned his head away, unable to meet my gaze. The young officer’s expression changed. He looked at the lawyer, then back at Walt, his brow furrowing deeper. I stood up and pushed the photocopy of the shipping label closer to the officer. “Officer, let me ask you one more thing.” “Go ahead.” “Nearly half a million dollars in cash, sent through standard shipping. Uninsured, unregistered, with a fake sender name, fake address, and fake phone number. Do you think that money is clean?” The officer stared down at the label, silent for several seconds. “If the money were legitimate, would anyone ship it this way?” I asked. “If it were an honest mistake, they would have filed a claim with the courier and let the corporate security team handle it. But they didn’t. Their first instinct was to send me threatening texts, and their second was to show up with a lawyer the next morning. Officer, you’ve worked cases. Why would someone be this desperate to retrieve half a million dollars in absolute secrecy?” The young cop looked up, his gaze toward the lawyer turning distinctly cold. “Mr. Croft,” his voice had lost its earlier formality, replaced by a quiet authority. “I’m going to need you to provide your client’s full corporate and personal identification.” The lawyer went rigid. “That… as I said, involves client confidentiality…” “Cooperate with the investigation,” the officer said, his tone flat and unyielding. “If your client has nothing to hide, providing identification shouldn’t be an issue. But if you refuse…” He let the threat hang in the air. Mr. Croft’s fingers gripped the edge of his briefcase tightly. Finally, he reached inside, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and laid it on the counter. I leaned over to look. It was a corporate registration document for a company based in the state capital. I’d never heard of them. But the name of the registered agent made me freeze. It wasn’t Jared Pierce. It was a name I shouldn’t have known, but had seen just three days ago right here in this store. “Shane, are you saying this man was in your shop three days ago?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” “I’ve run this place for six years. I process hundreds of packages a day. I don’t always remember faces, but I never forget names.” I pointed to the computer screen. “Our pickup logs are backed up on the cloud. You can check them right now.” The officer walked behind the counter to look at the screen. A record popped up: Three days ago, at 4:17 PM. A signature for a small parcel shipped from the state capital. “That’s him,” I said. “Richard Cross.” “What was in the package he picked up?” “I don’t know. We don’t open customer mail.” The officer frowned, taking a photo of the screen with his phone. He leaned against the counter, tapping his arm, lost in thought. “Tell me,” he said suddenly, looking at me. “You run a small shipping storefront. You don’t make a fortune. Why not just return the money? What are you trying to accomplish here?” “Nothing.” “Really?” “Officer, let me ask you,” I said, pulling up a chair to face him. “Did your department assign you to come here today, or did the lawyer find you directly?” He hesitated, keeping silent. “If the department sent you, you’d have an active case number and an official notice, not just a lawyer escorting you,” I said. “So Mr. Croft went directly to your precinct, claimed someone was withholding his client’s property, and asked for an officer to accompany him. Am I right?” The young cop’s jaw tightened. “You’re law enforcement. You know how this looks better than I do,” I said, pointing to the photocopy of the label. “Fake sender details, half a million in un-declared cash shipped through standard ground parcel, addressed directly to me. And the very next day, a lawyer shows up with a cop to demand it back, but the client isn’t even the person who sent it.” I paused, letting the words sink in. “Officer, does this look like a civil dispute to you? Or does it look like a criminal operation?” He stared at me for a long moment, offering no answer. “Shane, let me be clear with you,” he said, lowering his voice. “If there really is something criminal going on here, that money will be seized and frozen. You won’t see a single dime of it.” “I know.” “You knew that, and you still locked it up in a three-year CD?” “That’s exactly why I did it,” I said. “The money is in the banking system now. There’s a paper trail. If they freeze it or audit it, everything is trackable. But if I had handed $470,000 in cash back to that lawyer, where would it go? Who would ever be able to trace it?” He fell silent. “I don’t care about the money,” I said. “But I know this cash is dirty, and I’m not going to let it vanish into the shadows.” The young officer took a deep breath, folded the corporate document, and slid it into his pocket. “Alright. I’m going to take this back to the precinct and file a report. Don’t leave the county for the next few days, and keep your phone on.” “I’m not going anywhere. I have a business to run.” At six in the evening, as dusk was settling over the street, I was preparing to shut down my computer when the front door chime rang. The young officer from this morning walked in. He was in plainclothes now, wearing a dark jacket, and carrying a black manila envelope. His expression was even heavier than it had been earlier. He walked up to the counter, didn’t sit down, and just stood there looking at me for a moment before pulling a document from the envelope and placing it firmly on the counter. It was a shipping label. It wasn’t the label from the box with the $470,000. It was a different one. Ship date: Two months ago. I didn’t recognize the recipient’s name. But when my eyes drifted to the sender’s field… my heart stopped. Sender: Shane Kelly. Address: The Parcel Hub, 127 Union Street. The phone number was mine, down to the last digit. But I had never shipped this package.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530996”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After a devastating breakup years ago, my sister Delia decided that every man on earth was fundamentally broken. The day I introduced her to Ted, she didn’t even try to hide her cynicism. Looking right past his polite smile, she said, “He’s no different from the rest of them. Eventually, Meg, he’ll break you.” I frantically tugged at the hem of her sweater under the table, my face burning with embarrassment. But Ted didn’t flinch. He didn’t get angry. He just looked Delia dead in the eye and said, sober and steady, “If I ever do anything to hurt Megan, I hope I lose everything I have.” Delia just let out a cold, sharp laugh. “We’ll see.” After that, the frost between them never thawed, leaving me trapped in the middle, trying desperately to play the peacemaker. Fast forward to three years later. I was sent away on a six-month corporate assignment to Chicago. The night before I was scheduled to fly home, I was lying in my hotel bed, mindlessly scrolling through an anonymous online confession forum. One title caught my eye, stopping my thumb mid-swipe: “I fell in love with my younger sister’s boyfriend. What do I do?” The comment section was already a bloodbath of judgment and rage. Then, I scrolled down to a reply from a burner account that made my chest tighten: “Please stop attacking her. It’s not her fault—I’m the one who pursued her.” “She acts so tough on the outside, but she’s incredibly fragile underneath. The harder she tries to hide it, the more it breaks my heart.” My breath caught in my throat. On pure instinct, I tapped on the user’s profile. There was only one post: a short video of a cat. I froze, a sudden, icy dread washing over me. My hands began to shake violently. The cat in the video was Milo. The cat Ted had given me. 1 I zoomed in on the video, replay after replay, searching for any detail to prove myself wrong. But there was no mistaking it. The unique white patch shaped like a lightning bolt on its chest. The slight nick on its left ear. It was Milo. Ted had brought him to my apartment in the middle of a blinding blizzard on my twenty-first birthday, knocking on my door right at midnight. He’d named him Milo—short for “milagro”, he said, because he wanted every day of my life to feel like a miracle. A wave of profound absurdity washed over me, crushing the air out of my lungs. I backed out of the profile and scrolled back to the very beginning of the original forum thread. It had been posted just an hour ago. “The first time we met, I hated him. I had been betrayed before, and I didn’t trust a single man alive. But he was so good to my little sister. She has chronic gastritis, so he kept a detailed list in his phone notes of everything she could and couldn’t eat. Whenever she worked late, he’d wait outside her office to drive her home, no matter the hour. He memorized every single one of her quirks. His profile pictures, his social media headers, his wallpapers—they were all photos of her…” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. Ted had been my sanctuary. He kept track of my cycles, always keeping Advil and heating pads in his glove compartment. Once, when I was crying from cramps in the middle of the night while visiting a friend out of state, he bought a ticket on the first flight out just to bring me my specific prescription. If I offhandedly mentioned a craving or a book I wanted to read, it would appear on my desk the next morning. He was a devout skeptic, yet he had walked into a cathedral with me once, lighting a candle and kneeling in silent prayer just because he knew it would comfort me. I had spent five years believing I was the luckiest woman in the world. My fingers trembled as I scrolled further down the screen. “Then my sister went out of town for her work assignment. She told me to call him if I ever needed anything, saying he was the most reliable person she knew. I told her I’d rather die first. But one night, a massive thunderstorm hit. The power lines went down, and a bulb exploded in my hallway. I’ve always been terrified of the dark, and maintenance wouldn’t pick up the phone. Desperate and shivering, I dug out the number my sister had left on the fridge and called him. Thirty minutes later, he was standing at my door, soaking wet from the rain. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “So, Delia, you actually do have things you’re afraid of.” In that exact moment, something shifted inside me. Something I couldn’t put into words.” I remembered that night. Ted called me every single evening, and he had mentioned it so casually during our FaceTime call. “Your sister acts like she’s made of steel, but she’s terrified of a little darkness,” he had said. He talked about Delia for a long time that night, laughing softly—a tender, familiar chuckle. I hadn’t thought twice about it. In fact, I’d scolded him, telling him he had to protect her because she was all the family I had left. “After that, whenever something broke in the apartment, my first instinct was to call him. We started seeing each other more. Gradually, the resentment faded. He began waiting for me outside my office, too, taking me to get groceries, sitting beside me in dark movie theaters. He even learned how to make my favorite dishes, starting a new list in his phone notes with all my likes and dislikes. I eventually told him, “Can you stop texting me with my sister’s face staring back at me?” and the very next day, he changed his profile picture. He picked a sunset photo that matched the aesthetic of mine. My feelings for him grew into a tangled, suffocating mess.” His old profile picture had been a candid photo of me laughing on our very first anniversary. I remembered teasing him back then, asking, “Aren’t you embarrassed to have my face plastered all over your work accounts?” He had pinched my cheek, radiating pride. “My girlfriend is gorgeous. Why wouldn’t I want the world to see her?” He kept that photo for five years, ignoring every comment from colleagues or clients. When he finally changed it a few weeks ago, I had asked him why. “Just keeping things professional for a new client,” he had replied. And I, like a fool, had believed him. It wasn’t a client. It was a single sentence from Delia. A hot tear slipped down my cheek, blurring the glowing screen. “Tonight, we went to the movies again. During the credits, he turned to look at me in the dim light and whispered, “Delia, do you have feelings for me?” My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it. Then he said, “I wish I had met you first.” I lost control. I leaned in and kissed him. And he didn’t pull away. I feel disgusted with myself. I can’t believe I did this to my own sister. But I can’t stop loving him. She flies back tomorrow, and I don’t know how I’m going to look her in the eye.” 2 A violent wave of nausea hit me, rising from the pit of my stomach. I threw myself over the edge of the bed, dry-heaving onto the carpet, but nothing came up. Just bile and a suffocating, hollow ache. When our parents died in that highway pileup, I was eight and Delia was thirteen. It was Delia who attended my parent-teacher conferences, Delia who learned how to French-braid my hair, Delia who sat on the bathroom floor with me when I got my first period, gently explaining what to do. While other kids called out for their mothers when they fell, I only ever called for Delia. When I introduced her to Ted, I had been practically shaking with the need for her approval, because to me, she wasn’t just my sister. She was my mother, my protector, my entire world. And now, the two people I loved most in this life had built a quiet, secret world of their own behind my back. It felt as though someone had reached into my chest and physically torn my heart in half. I curled into a tight ball on the hotel bed, unable to do anything but sob into the pillows. The online thread was gaining traction rapidly, the comment section descending into a frenzy of outrage. “This is repulsive. You seduced your own sister’s boyfriend and now you’re playing the victim? You’re sick.” “I feel so bad for the sister. Betrayed by her own blood and the man she loved. I can’t even imagine the pain.” “If you can’t control yourself, maybe you shouldn’t exist. And the guy is absolute trash.” Underneath almost every vicious comment, Ted’s burner account had replied. “She is in agony. She hates herself more than any of you ever could. You have no right to judge her.” “Call me trash if you want. I am. But even as trash, I will protect her.” “If I had met her first, she’s the one I would have chosen.” The original poster had updated the thread just a minute ago: “You’re all right. I’m disgusting. I’m vile. I’m going to cut him off. I can’t lose my sister.” The phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor. Just hours ago, I had been counting down the minutes until my flight, giddy with anticipation. Now, the thought of seeing them made me feel entirely paralyzed. Outside, the Chicago skyline blazed with indifferent lights. I didn’t sleep a single wink. After hours of silent torment, I finally dragged my suitcase to the airport. Right on cue, a text from Delia popped up: “Meg, I’m waiting for you at the arrivals gate.” A minute before boarding, Ted’s message arrived: “Safe flight, Meg. Can’t wait to see you.” It was his first text since our brief, strained call the previous afternoon. Normally, he would have called me thirty minutes before my alarm to make sure I was awake. He would have nagged me about my ID, my charger, and whether I’d eaten breakfast, flooding my phone with updates all the way to the gate. Now, just a single, hollow sentence. I didn’t reply. I switched off my phone and closed my eyes as the engines roared to life. When the plane touched down, I walked through the arrivals gate and saw them. They were standing about six feet apart, looking like polite strangers. Delia’s makeup was heavier than usual, concealing any trace of tears. That was her signature move—never letting anyone see her bleed, not even me. Ted didn’t rush forward to engulf me in a hug like he usually did. Instead, he forced a tight, practiced smile and pulled a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. “Welcome home, Megan.” But as he held them out, the air between us turned to ice. Both Delia and I froze. He was holding white roses. My sister’s favorite. 3 I clenched my jaw, fighting to keep my face completely blank. Delia only liked white roses—a detail I had shared with him years ago. I only liked baby’s breath, and in our five years together, he had never gotten it wrong. Not once. It took him a second to realize what he was holding. Panic flickered in his eyes, and he frantically tried to laugh it off. “Ah, I was in such a rush this morning. I didn’t even look at what the florist grabbed. I’ll get you a proper bouquet later, Meg, I promise.” His eyes instinctively flicked toward Delia. She didn’t look back. She stepped forward, ignoring him completely, and took the handle of my suitcase. “Come on,” she said, her voice tight but forcedly warm. “Let’s get you some real food.” Normally, the three of us would have gone straight to our favorite diner to celebrate my return. But those anonymous confessions kept screaming in my head. I forced the muscles in my face into the shape of a smile. “Actually, you guys go ahead. I have to head straight to the office.” Ted took a step toward me. “I can drive you.” “No!” The word shot out of my mouth before I could stop it. The sheer sharpness of my voice hung in the air. Both Ted and Delia frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing their faces. I quickly reached down and took the suitcase back from Delia’s hand, forcing my voice to drop to a calmer register. “I mean… my manager is expecting a debrief immediately. I’ll be late getting home.” Their brows smoothed over. Delia offered a soft smile. “Okay. I’ll make your favorite dinner tonight.” Ted smiled too, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Call me when you’re done, Meg. I’ll come pick you up.” I nodded blindly. I turned and practically ran out of the terminal, hailing a cab. As the taxi sped away, the familiar streets of the city I had lived in for twenty-five years blurred past the window. Every corner, every storefront held a ghost of the two of them. There was the ramen place on 4th Street, where Delia would always scold me for ordering spicy broth with my sensitive stomach, forcing me to eat plain rice instead. There was the boba shop on Lincoln Avenue, where Ted had once queued in the freezing rain for three hours just to get me a limited-edition cup. And the AMC theater downtown. The three of us used to love booking the late-night screenings, walking back to our apartments under the streetlights, whispering so we wouldn’t wake the neighborhood. We would dissect the films on those walks. Delia would inevitably take issue with Ted’s opinions, teasingly tearing his theories to shreds until he raised his hands in mock surrender, laughing, “Okay, okay, you win!” Then he’d lean down and whisper in my ear, “Your sister is terrifying.” We had been so happy. By the time I pulled myself out of the memories, tears were streaming down my face. The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Hey, kid. Whatever it is, you’ll get through it. You’ve got to keep moving forward.” I offered a sheepish smile and wiped my cheeks. “Thanks.” When we arrived at my office building, I paid the fare and got out. I stood on the pavement, looking up at the glass facade, and took a deep, steadying breath. My six-month trip had been a temporary assignment. Before I left, my division head had pulled me aside to offer me a spot on a highly confidential overseas expansion project. I had turned it down. I had turned it down because Ted had told me he wanted to get married. He’d promised that the day I got back, we would start house-hunting. Well. There would be no house-hunting now. But that overseas position? I wanted it. I walked into the office. My manager, Mr. Davies, was just coming out of a conference room with a stack of folders. He blinked in surprise. “Megan? I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.” “I caught an earlier flight,” I said, forcing a professional smile. “Mr. Davies, about the overseas placement we discussed… is the spot still open? I want to apply.” His eyes lit up. “Are you serious? I spent weeks trying to convince you before you left. What changed your mind?” Had I changed my mind? The truth was, part of me still couldn’t process the betrayal. But some things don’t require understanding. They just require acceptance. “I’m ready,” I said, nodding. Mr. Davies’ expression grew serious. “Megan, you know the terms of this project. It’s a highly secure, intensive three-year contract. You won’t be permitted to travel back home, and contact with family must be kept to an absolute minimum due to the NDA. Can you handle that?” “Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “I can leave tomorrow morning.” 4 I didn’t leave the office until ten that night. When I walked out, I saw Ted leaning against his car, smoking. A scattering of crushed filters lay at his feet. The glowing orange tip of the cigarette illuminated his sharp jaw and the deep crease between his brows. In our five years together, I had only seen him smoke twice. The first time was the summer we graduated, when his parents pressured him to move back to the West Coast to join the family business, while I refused to leave Delia behind. He had stood on my balcony back then, smoking one cigarette after another, before finally choosing me. What choice was he facing tonight? I couldn’t bring myself to wonder. The moment he saw me, he stubbed out his cigarette and hurried over, taking the suitcase from my hand. “First day back and they keep you until ten? That’s ridiculous, Meg.” “There was just a lot to hand over,” I mumbled. He opened the passenger door for me. I slid into the leather seat. Instantly, a faint, familiar scent hit my nose. A delicate blend of jasmine and cedarwood. It was Delia’s signature perfume. My gaze drifted down to the center console, landing on the gap between the seat and the handbrake. A small, cherry-flavored lip balm was nestled in the crevice. I had bought it for Delia right before I left. Ted climbed into the driver’s seat. He saw the lip balm in my hand and froze for a fraction of a second. The silence in the car became deafening. Then, he forced a casual chuckle. “Oh, your sister must have dropped that today. I gave her a lift earlier. We can give it back to her when we get home.” I stared at the plastic tube. “Has she been in the passenger seat a lot while I was gone?” His hand paused on the seatbelt buckle. He turned to look at me, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim streetlights. Then, he reached over and ruffled my hair, letting out a soft laugh. “What, are you getting jealous of your own sister now? Silly girl.” I didn’t laugh. His smile faded, replaced by a defensive sincerity. “Meg, you’re the one who always begged me to get along with her. I was just helping her out with some errands. That’s all.” He paused, studying my face. “But if it bothers you, I won’t drive her anymore.” I didn’t want to hear another word. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the cold glass of the window. “I’m just tired, Ted.” He stared at me for a long moment before starting the engine. “Did you… see anything on your phone last night? Before you went to sleep?” I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Like what?” He quieted, turning his gaze back to the road. “Nothing. You just seem off today. Your eyes are bloodshot.” I shut my eyes again. “I was just too excited to come home. Didn’t sleep much.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Still a kid at heart.” He reached over to adjust the climate control. I watched his fingers dial the temperature up two degrees higher than he ever kept it. Delia always insisted on keeping the car warm. She had poor circulation and hated the chill. 5 When we got back to the apartment, Delia was already waiting at the door. “You must be starving. Go wash your hands, dinner’s ready.” I walked in, trying to move with the ease of the girl who had left six months ago. The dining table was crowded with dishes—all my favorites. I sat in my usual spot. Delia sat on my left, Ted on my right. Simultaneously, they both placed food into my bowl. “Your favorite garlic-herb pork chops, Meg,” Delia said. “And the spicy garlic chicken,” Ted added. For a split second, a wave of nostalgia washed over me, begging me to believe that everything was fine. But reality was a cold weight in my chest. A thousand questions jammed in my throat. I wanted to scream that I had seen the forum. I wanted to ask them “how”. “Why”. But the words choked me. I couldn’t ask. Every bite tasted like ash. Finally, Delia picked up her wine glass and looked at me. “Megan, I want to make a toast. Three, actually.” She knocked back the first gulp. “First, welcome home.” “Second, to your promotion and your bright future.” She paused, her eyes flickering briefly toward Ted before settling on me. “And third… you and Ted have been together for five years. I know I was hard on him in the beginning, but I see how much he loves you now. I think it’s time you two set a date. Let’s get you married.” Ted froze, his glass hovering halfway to his mouth. After a strained silence, he set it down and tried to smile. “Where is this coming from?” “It’s not sudden,” Delia said, putting her glass down with a sharp click. “You’ve been together for five years. Meg is twenty-five. It’s time. Tomorrow, go look at rings. Book the venue.” Ted averted his eyes, placing another piece of chicken into my bowl. “My firm is in the middle of a massive audit right now. Let’s wait until things settle down.” “No. Tomorrow,” Delia insisted, her voice tight, almost desperate. Ted looked up, his expression a mask of tightly controlled pain. Delia stared back at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. I set my chopsticks down and stood up, the silence stretching too thin to bear. “Let’s talk about this later. I’m taking on a new project at work, so I’ll be incredibly busy too. I’m full. Excuse me.” I retreated to my bedroom, closing the door and sinking onto the edge of my bed. Outside, muffled, angry whispers drifted through the walls, followed shortly by the heavy thud of the front door closing. Then, absolute silence. My phone screen lit up in the dark. A message from Ted: “Meg, I didn’t mean to sound dismissive at dinner. Work really is crazy right now. Once this project wraps up, we’ll look at rings and start planning the wedding, I promise. Okay?” I stared at the text for a long time before typing a single word: “Okay.” I lay awake until 2:00 AM. In the quiet of the night, I heard the faint click of the front door opening and closing. I got out of bed, threw on a jacket, and quietly slipped outside. I followed the path down to the small park behind our building. In the shadow of the maple trees, their voices carried clearly through the cold night air. “There is no ‘us,’ Ted! You are going to propose to Megan tomorrow!” Delia’s voice was raw, trembling. “How can I marry her when my head is entirely filled with you?” Ted stepped closer, grabbing her arms. “I’ll tell her. I’ll take all the blame. If she hates me, if she never speaks to me again, I’ll bear it. But I can’t keep lying to her.” I clenched my fists in my pockets, my feet freezing to the pavement. I took a step forward, but before I could emerge from the shadows, Delia’s voice broke completely. “I fell for you because you were the first person in my entire life who actually looked after “me”,” she cried, her shoulders shaking. “When Mom and Dad died, Megan was only eight. I had to be the adult. I spent my whole life taking care of everyone else, carrying every burden alone, swallowing my own tears because I had to be the strong older sister! But I cannot do this to her. I swore to protect her. I cannot be the one who destroys her.” My breath hitched, my feet glued to the ground. The memories came rushing back with agonizing clarity. The year our parents died, our relatives had circled like vultures, trying to claim the insurance money under the guise of taking us in. It was thirteen-year-old Delia who had stood on our porch with a kitchen knife, tears streaming down her face, screaming at them to get off our property. When I cried myself to sleep at night, she would hold me, mimicking our mother’s soothing voice: “Don’t cry, Meg. Delia’s here. I’m never leaving you.” She learned to cook, to wash clothes, to survive. She would walk me to school every morning before running to her own classes. If anyone teased me, she was always there to defend me. She was just a child herself, but she had carved out a safe haven for me with her bare hands. The biting wind stung my cheeks, and I realized I was crying. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t step out and confront them. I couldn’t bear to see the shame in my sister’s eyes. I turned around and walked back to the apartment in silence. I packed my bags, took one last look at the only home I had ever known, and slipped out into the dawn. By sunrise, I was boarding a plane to London.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530995”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Our destination wedding in Maui was supposed to be a small, intimate affair. Months ago, Wayne and I had agreed that both of our families would fly out together. But on the morning of our departure, I sat at O’Hare International Airport, watching the clock tick away. When Wayne finally arrived, he wasn’t alone. Along with him was his lifelong friend, Phoebe, her parents, and a trailing entourage of nearly ten of her extended relatives. Each one of them held a first-class boarding pass. My parents were nowhere to be seen. I stood up, my chest tightening. “Wayne, where are my parents?” He was busy wheeling Phoebe’s mother’s designer suitcase, his head barely turning to meet my eyes. “There weren’t enough tickets left.” “I got them Amtrak coach tickets instead.” A thirty-plus-hour train ride. Followed by a Greyhound bus, and then a ferry. My father had just undergone major spinal surgery less than two months ago. My mother suffered from such severe motion sickness that even a twenty-minute car ride left her pale and vomiting. My voice trembled. “Then how does Phoebe’s entire extended family have first-class plane tickets?” Wayne frowned, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. “Phoebe’s parents are getting older, Iris. They can’t handle a stressful journey. Besides, her aunt and cousins were a last-minute addition. I couldn’t just tell them they couldn’t come after they went through the trouble of packing.” My phone buzzed in my hand. It was my mother. Her voice was soft, laced with a familiar, painful caution, as if she were terrified of becoming a burden to me. “Sweetheart, your father and I have never been on a plane anyway. We were worried we’d just embarrass you. The train is lovely. We’ll be there before you know it.” A lump formed in my throat. Before I could speak, I heard my father coughing in the background. It was a dry, raspy sound, and he quickly muffled it, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “Don’t tell her, Helen. It’s her wedding day. Don’t make her worry.” Standing in the bustling terminal, looking at Wayne surrounded by Phoebe’s laughing, vibrant family, a cold realization washed over me. This wedding didn’t need to happen. 1 Phoebe stepped forward, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “Iris, please don’t be mad at Wayne. If it makes you feel better, I can ask Aunt Carol to give up her ticket.” She paused, her voice dropping to a delicate whisper. “It’s just… Aunt Carol has never seen the ocean before. She’s been looking forward to this trip for months.” Wayne immediately reached out, patting the back of Phoebe’s hand reassuringly. “This has nothing to do with you, Phoebe. I made the travel arrangements.” He turned back to me, his tone clipped and impatient. “Phoebe’s family is already here at the airport, Iris. We can’t just turn them away.” Behind him, one of Phoebe’s cousins muttered with a small chuckle, “Honestly, small-town folks probably prefer the train anyway. Flying has so many rules and security checks. They’d probably just end up anxious.” Wayne clearly heard it. Yet, he only sighed. “They don’t mean any harm. It’s our wedding day, Iris. Don’t be so sensitive.” I stared at him, feeling a sudden, sharp distance between us. “My father just had spinal surgery, Wayne. My mother can barely ride in a car. And you expect them to travel across the country on a train to attend my wedding?” Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t dramatize this. Your parents are simple, old-fashioned people. They won’t mind the train. I already sent them the route. Once they get off, the bus and ferry transfers are very straightforward.” He spoke with such effortless ease. But all I could picture was my father’s stiff, unbending spine, and my mother’s face turning white at the mere smell of a bus cabin. My phone vibrated again. It was my mother. The background noise on her end was deafening—the mechanical clatter of tracks, the blare of a train station intercom. Her voice was still small, still soothing. “Iris, we’re on board. The seats are fine, really. Don’t worry about us.” My throat locked up. “Mom, get off the train. Right now. I’ll buy you plane tickets myself.” “No, no, don’t waste your money,” she said quickly, panic in her voice. “Your fiancé went to so much trouble to organize all of this. He did a wonderful job. I’ve never flown before, Iris. I was honestly terrified of ruining your special day.” Through the receiver, my father’s muffled cough cut through the static again. “Don’t tell her,” he urged my mother. “It’s her big day. Let her be happy.” My eyes stung fiercely. “Dad, does your back hurt?” He forced a laugh. “Not at all, sweetheart. I feel great. Don’t you worry about a thing.” In the next second, a harsh voice boomed near the phone. “Hey, old man! Move it! You’re blocking the aisle!” I heard my mother quickly apologizing, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. His back is bad, he’s just a little slow. We’re moving.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I could see them so clearly. My father, holding onto the headrests for support, unable to straighten his back. My mother, desperately shielding their cheap suitcases while bowing and apologizing to strangers. They had never flown in their lives. Before this trip, they had been as excited as children. Two weeks ago, I had gone back to our hometown to pick up some documents. I walked in to find my father standing in front of our cracked hallway mirror, trying on a navy suit. He had saved up for a month to buy it off the rack from a local department store, determined not to look out of place at his daughter’s destination wedding. The sleeves were slightly too long. The shoulders slouched. But he had turned to me, beaming. “Iris, do you think I look presentable? I won’t embarrass you in front of Wayne’s family, will I?” Meanwhile, my mother was busy packing Ziploc bags of homemade pecan brittle, home-cured venison jerky, and little bags of roasted peanuts. “It’s our first time meeting so many of his relatives,” she had said, her fingers carefully tying the ribbons. “We can’t show up empty-handed. Your fiancé is so good to you; we have to show proper manners.” At the time, I had laughed, telling them they were overthinking it. I told them, “Wayne has taken care of everything. Just follow us.” My mother’s eyes had lit up. The very next day, she told everyone she ran into: “My daughter is getting married in Maui. My son-in-law is flying us out.” But now. They weren’t on a plane. They didn’t even have a ticket with their names on it. On the phone, my mother was still trying to placate me. “Iris, don’t be angry with Wayne. He’s a busy man, and managing a wedding is stressful. We’re perfectly happy on the train. We’re saving you some money this way.” I closed my eyes, a tear escaping down my cheek. “Mom, get off the train,” I said, my voice dead and quiet. “I’m not getting married.” 2 My mother gasped, terrified. “Iris, don’t say such foolish things. Your father and I are perfectly fine on the train. Don’t ruin your own happiness over this.” I couldn’t listen anymore. I hung up, turned around, and began walking toward the exit of the terminal. Wayne grabbed my arm, his grip tight. “Where do you think you’re going?” “To get my parents.” His face darkened, his jaw tightening. “We’re boarding in twenty minutes. If you leave now, what happens to the wedding?” I looked at him, seeing the stranger behind the familiar face. “My parents aren’t going to be there, Wayne. What wedding is there to have?” Nearby, Phoebe’s mother cleared her throat with a delicate cough. Wayne’s grip on my arm instantly vanished. He turned around, sliding his designer jacket off his shoulders and draping it gently over Mrs. Ward’s shoulders. “Mrs. Ward, is the airport AC too cold for you?” His movements were practiced, tender, and deeply attentive. I stood there, watching him. I didn’t even feel like arguing anymore. He knew exactly how to care for older people. He knew what it meant to protect them from discomfort. It was just that his tenderness was a luxury my parents were never entitled to. Wayne turned back to me, his tone returning to that familiar, cold impatience. “Iris, stop making a scene. I already told you, your parents are being taken care of.” I pulled my arm back, out of his reach. A thirty-hour journey in coach. A grueling transfer route of buses and ferries. And my parents, swallowing their own pain and dignity just to save face for him. That was his version of taking care of them. Just as I reached the automatic doors of the airport, my phone rang again. It was my mother. This time, her voice was entirely stripped of its forced cheer. She sounded panicked, on the verge of tears. “Iris… we can’t take the train.” My heart dropped. “What do you mean you can’t take the train?” The background noise was chaotic, punctured by the loud, impatient voice of an Amtrak conductor. My mother lowered her voice, whispering as if she were committing a crime. “They said the tickets are wrong. They’re dated for yesterday. They won’t let us board. We’ve… we’ve been asked to leave the station.” My head went entirely numb. Wayne said he had arranged everything. His grand arrangement was buying my parents expired coach tickets. I clutched the phone. “Mom, where are you right now?” “Iris, please don’t be mad at Wayne,” she begged, her first instinct still to protect the man who had abandoned her. “He had so many people to coordinate. It was just a simple mistake. It’s completely normal.” My father’s raspy, suppressed cough echoed through the line. “We’ll just wait in the terminal for a bit. It’s fine. Don’t let this ruin your flight.” They had been kicked off a train. They were standing in a noisy, unfamiliar station, surrounded by luggage, and they were still trying to find excuses for Wayne. My eyes burned with hot, angry tears. I spun around and marched back to Wayne. “Did you buy my parents tickets for yesterday?” Wayne blinked, his expression shifting slightly. “What?” I shoved the phone toward his face. “They were kicked off the train. Is this what you call ‘taking care of things’?” Wayne finally frowned. For the first time, a flicker of genuine worry crossed his face, as if he realized this was turning into an actual inconvenience. “My assistant must have made a mistake when booking,” he murmured, pulling out his own phone. “Don’t panic. I’ll have my assistant go pick them up from the station. We won’t fly today. We’ll rebook for tomorrow and all go together.” He spoke quickly, his tone softening in an attempt to pacify me. To him, this was just a minor administrative error. But I looked at him and felt my heart turn to ash. If I hadn’t fought him on this, if my mother hadn’t called, my parents would have spent the night stranded at a cold, foreign train station, holding their bags, waiting for a train that would never carry them. 3 Phoebe walked over, her eyes red and downcast. “This is all my fault,” she whispered, her lip trembling. “If my family hadn’t joined at the last minute, your parents would have had their flights. But my parents have never traveled this far, and I was so worried about them being alone.” Wayne immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. “How is any of this your fault, Phoebe? Stop taking the blame for things out of your control.” I watched him defend her, and a laugh bubbled up in my throat—hollow and bitter. My parents were stranded at a station because of his negligence, and his first reaction was annoyance. Phoebe shed a single tear, and he looked as though his entire world was crumbling. An hour later, Wayne’s assistant brought my parents to the airport. The moment my mother saw me, she tried to hide a torn plastic bag behind her back. Inside was the homemade pecan brittle she had spent days making. The bag had snagged during the rush at the station, and the brittle was crushed, sticky fragments clinging to the plastic. My father was holding his lower back, his face dangerously pale. Yet, when he saw Wayne, his first words were, “Son, I’m so sorry for the trouble. We should have checked the date on the tickets ourselves.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Dad…” Wayne glanced at his watch. “Well, at least we didn’t lose too much time.” My mother timidly offered the torn bag, trying to smile. “Wayne, I made some pecan brittle. And there’s some cured venison in here too, for your parents. We wanted to bring something from home.” Wayne looked down at the bag, his eyebrows knitting together in immediate distaste. “Helen, the resort in Maui has fully catered meals. Things with such… strong odors really shouldn’t be brought onto the island. The wedding has a very specific, minimalist aesthetic. These don’t really fit.” My mother’s hand froze in midair. The hopeful smile on her face slowly withered away, though she tried desperately to keep her eyes bright. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t think of that.” She quickly pulled her hand back, tucking the bag behind her coat. “I won’t bring them then. I don’t want to cause any trouble.” My chest felt so tight I could barely draw breath. Across from us, Phoebe’s aunt let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Well, small-town folks get nervous when they travel. Bringing homemade snacks to a luxury beach wedding… it really is a bit much.” My mother heard her. She clutched the plastic bag tighter, her head dropping. “I’m sorry. We just don’t know any better.” Wayne didn’t even acknowledge the cruelty of the remark. He simply looked out toward the terminal exit. “Phoebe’s family has a lot of luggage. Iris, why don’t your parents ride in the shuttle van behind us?” I looked out the window. The shuttle van behind us was a cargo vehicle, packed to the ceiling with camera gear, luggage, and folding chairs. It was meant for the hired staff. My voice was ice. “My father’s spine is injured, and you want him to squeeze into a cargo van with the luggage?” Wayne’s patience snapped. “Iris, do you have to make everything so difficult? It’s just a short ride to the hotel. We’re flying out tomorrow anyway. Do you really have to pick a fight over this right now?” I stared at him. In that moment, I understood everything. Wayne hadn’t “forgotten” to show my parents respect. He simply didn’t believe they were worthy of it. My mother gently grabbed my hand. “Iris, please. It’s fine. We can sit anywhere. The wedding is what’s important.” Even now, they were terrified of ruining my wedding. I looked at my father’s pale, exhausted face, and then at my mother’s trembling hands holding the ruined bag of pecan brittle. The last dying ember of my love for Wayne flickered out. 4 I didn’t argue. Instead, I took my parents’ bags and led them to a quiet airport hotel nearby. The entire walk there, my father kept apologizing. “Iris, I’m really fine. Did I make things difficult between you and Wayne?” My mother kept looking at her plastic bag. “Maybe we should just leave these things here. I don’t want Wayne’s family laughing at you because of us.” Looking at their anxious, fragile faces, my heart broke. They had done absolutely nothing wrong, yet they walked like criminals awaiting sentencing. Once we got them settled in a room, I told them to rest. I sat in the hallway, pulled out my phone, and canceled our flights to Maui. Then, I booked three one-way tickets to Boston. Finally, I called our wedding coordinator. “Cancel the wedding.” The coordinator’s voice rose in shock. “Iris? The wedding is tomorrow. Are you sure?” I looked through the cracked door at my parents, who had already fallen into an exhausted, deep sleep on the hotel bed. “I am absolutely sure.” At ten that night, Wayne walked into the room. His face was set in a tight, annoyed grimace. The tension from the airport had clearly ruined his afternoon with Phoebe’s family. He stood by the door, glaring at me. “Iris, we all fly out tomorrow morning. I don’t want to see this attitude again.” He paused, exhaling slowly. “Phoebe cried for hours today. She feels entirely responsible for your parents missing the flight. When you see her tomorrow, you need to apologize to her.” I stared at him, genuinely stunned. Then, a dry laugh escaped my lips. “I need to apologize to “her”?” Wayne crossed his arms. “Her family was perfectly ready to board today. Because of your sudden tantrum, everyone had to rebook their flights. You put a dozen people through that inconvenience. Don’t you think you owe her an apology?” To him, my parents being humiliated and stranded didn’t count as a grievance. But Phoebe’s family having to wait a few hours was a tragedy that required my repentance. I looked at him, and the desire to explain myself completely evaporated. “Sure.” Wayne let out a breath, assuming he had won, and walked into the bathroom to shower. I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the three boarding passes to Boston on my phone. My mind was entirely, beautifully quiet. In the middle of the night, a soft rustling woke me. I heard Wayne’s hushed voice coming from the small living room. “Phoebe? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” I couldn’t hear the other side of the call, but his voice instantly softened into a tender, protective hush. “Don’t be scared. I’m coming over right now.” As the hotel door clicked shut, my mind drifted back to a night three years ago. I had been burning with a 104-degree fever, shivering violently. When I called him, he had told me he had an important presentation the next morning and told me to just take some Tylenol. Back then, I had made excuses for him. I told myself he was just driven, that his career was important. But he didn’t lack the capacity to rush to someone in the middle of the night. He just didn’t want to do it for me. The next morning, Wayne returned to the room. He hadn’t noticed the faint, pale pink smudge of lipstick on his collar. Phoebe stood just behind him, her eyes slightly red, her voice dripping with sweet regret. “Iris, I am so, so sorry about yesterday. I really didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.” I smiled faintly, offering no words. When we arrived at the airport, Phoebe’s family was already gathered around the first-class check-in counter. Wayne smoothly handed over their documents, handling the process with practiced ease. Phoebe’s parents, her aunt, her cousin—everyone was checked into first class. But when the gate agent scanned my parents’ documents, she paused. “Tom and Helen are ticketed for Coach.” My mother blinked, quickly waving her hands. “Oh, Coach is wonderful. Coach is perfect. We don’t mind at all.” Wayne stepped closer, whispering to me as if trying to head off another argument. “Rebooking on such short notice was difficult. There were only so many first-class seats left. It’s only a four-hour flight, Iris. They’ll be fine.” Four hours. Now he cared about the flight duration. Yet yesterday, he had been perfectly content to let them sit on a train for over thirty hours. Phoebe chimed in, her voice sweet and helpful. “Maybe I can trade seats with your mom?” Wayne immediately cut her off. “No. You didn’t sleep at all last night, Phoebe. Don’t push yourself.” I looked at the profound tenderness in his eyes when he looked at Phoebe, and then at my father, who was leaning heavily against a pillar to ease the pressure on his spine. The final thread holding me to him snapped. The boarding announcement chimed through the terminal. The priority boarding lane opened. Wayne walked forward, guiding Phoebe’s mother by the elbow while wheeling her carry-on. Just before he entered the tunnel, he turned back to me. “Iris, take your parents and queue up in the general line. I’ll see you when we land.” With that, he disappeared into the priority lane with Phoebe and her family. My mother gently nudged me. “Iris, sweetheart, we should get in line. We don’t want to miss the gate.” I took her hand and pulled her gently out of the queue. “Mom. Dad.” I looked at them, my voice steady and clear. “We aren’t going to Maui. I’m taking you somewhere else.” My mother’s eyes widened. “But… the wedding…” Over the loudspeaker, the final boarding call for Wayne’s flight echoed. I took one last look at the priority lane. Wayne likely assumed we would meet him on the white sands of Maui. He didn’t know that we would never see each other again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530994”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The third time I caught Chelsea in bed with Tyler, my voice simply stopped working. Out of some twisted sense of guilt, Chelsea spent the next month training me to communicate with a binary code. 1 meant yes. 2 meant no. It didn’t matter what she asked me, as long as it had to do with Tyler, I only ever gave her one answer. I tapped 1. When she said Tyler’s health was failing and asked to borrow the vintage gold St. Christopher medallion my mother had left me to ward off bad energy, I tapped 1 without a second thought. When she asked to postpone our wedding anniversary trip so she could throw Tyler a birthday party first, I tapped 1. And when she insisted on moving a convalescing Tyler into our house, I still tapped 1. I even packed my things and quietly moved into the guest room, leaving them the master suite. It went on like this until the afternoon I finally took our wedding portrait down from the living room wall. Chelsea’s eyes flared a sudden, violent red. She grabbed my wrist with a desperate, crushing grip. “Sean, you promised me. You said you’d never take this down unless we were getting a divorce. Are you trying to leave me?” Sensing that the number “1” was already on the tip of my tongue, she broke down. She shook me, her voice rising to a frantic shriek. “Damn it, Sean! Don’t you dare say 1! There’s nothing wrong with your vocal cords. You can talk! Say something!” Then, as if terrified she had pushed me too far, her voice instantly dropped to a soft, pleading whimper. “Sean… please. Just say 2. Okay? Just once.” I pulled my hand from her grasp, looking at her with a quiet, hollow confusion. Had she honestly forgotten? During the first year of our marriage—back when she still loved me with a fierce, possessive loyalty—she had insisted on signing a prenuptial agreement. She wanted to bind herself to me. She wrote in a clause that if she ever strayed, she would be allowed exactly two chances. If she crossed the line a third time, the divorce would automatically trigger, and the dissolution of our marriage would take effect immediately. That third strike had happened a month ago. The agreement was already in motion. … The heavy mahogany frame of our wedding portrait hit the floor with a deafening crash. Glass shattered into a thousand jagged diamonds, scattering across the floorboards between Chelsea’s designer heels and my bare feet. I calmly picked up the broom. I swept the broken glass, the splintered wood, and the glossy, smiling photograph into a black trash bag. I didn’t linger. I didn’t look twice. I just threw them into the bin. Seeing my indifference, Chelsea’s grief instantly hardened back into rage. She knew better than anyone how much I used to treasure that picture. I used to dust it every Sunday. Now, I treated it like common household waste. To hurt me, she grabbed Tyler’s hand, pulling him close to her side. “Fine! Since you don’t care about it anymore, Tyler and I will go get our own portraits taken. I’ll hang ours right where that one used to be!” I nodded placidly. I pulled out my phone and tapped: “1.” Tyler couldn’t quite mask the smug triumph in his eyes, though he quickly put on a show of anxious humility. “Chelsea, are you sure about this? I already feel terrible enough staying here, forcing Sean to sleep in the guest room. I don’t want to cause trouble.” Before his words even finished echoing in the foyer, I had already opened my phone, pulled up the website for the high-end photography studio we used for our wedding, and booked their premium portrait package. I forwarded the confirmation text straight to Chelsea’s phone. Chelsea’s gaze darkened, a complex storm of anger and confusion swirling in her eyes. Without another word, she dragged Tyler out the door. I didn’t care. I walked back into the guest room. A notification popped up on my screen: my flight to Boston was officially booked. I pulled my suitcase from the closet and began packing my life away, piece by piece, until a sharp chime broke the silence of the room. It was an Instagram notification. Tyler had posted a new photo grid, and he had deliberately tagged me. It was a layout of nine engagement-style photos. The aesthetic, the lighting, the poses—they were a carbon copy of the photos Chelsea and I had posted the day we got married. Except for one detail. Right in the center of the grid was a live photo. It captured them in a passionate, lingering embrace, their lips parted in a deep kiss that seemed to go on forever. I stared at the screen, my face entirely blank. Then, I tapped the heart icon to like the post, and left a simple, two-word comment: “Congratulations.” In the dead of night, Chelsea kicked my bedroom door open. She reeked of expensive gin and desperate anger as she stumbled toward my bed. “Sean, what do you want from me? What is it going to take for you to forgive me?” “Why aren’t you angry? I took Tyler to get those photos, and I waited for you all day. Why didn’t you come and stop me?” “You used to be so jealous. You used to care!” I looked at her, my eyes cool and distant. My mind wandered back to the ghost of who I used to be. She was right. I used to be an incredibly jealous man. The first time I caught them, I had marched straight into her corporate office and slapped Tyler across the face in front of her entire board of directors. Chelsea’s retaliation had been swift and brutal. She used her massive influence to frame me for academic plagiarism. Within a week, I was stripped of my tenure and fired from my position as a professor of constitutional law. The second time, I found them tangled in our marriage bed. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply took a photo and sent it to the firm’s primary investors. To teach me a lesson, Chelsea cut off the funding for my mother’s specialized cancer immunotherapy drugs. The only way she would reinstate the treatments—the only way to save my mother’s life—was for me to agree to a deeply humiliating livestreamed bachelor-party gig for her high-profile elite clients. After that scandal, my career in law was completely dead. Even the smallest boutique firms threw my resume in the trash. I had no income, but my mother’s medical bills were an endless, hungry beast. When Tyler casually complained one evening that the food at his office cafeteria was inedible, Chelsea had a brilliant solution. I went from lecturing in university halls to acting as Tyler’s private chef. My hands, which had spent a lifetime holding fountain pens and law journals, became covered in grease burns and blisters. Every single day, I submerged my hands in boiling dishwater until the skin wrinkled, cracked, and bled. They would scab over, only to be torn open again the next morning. All of it, just to secure my mother’s weekly medication from Chelsea. A vicious, endless cycle. Eventually, the calluses grew so thick that it took a deep, painful tear to make them bleed again. Just like my heart. Chelsea reached up, cupping my face with her trembling, alcohol-soaked hands. “Sean, I made him delete the post. I swear.” “He only got hurt because he protected me during that warehouse accident. Once his recovery is finished, I’ll send him away.” “Please, Sean. Stop punishing me.” My fingers stilled. I opened my phone. Tyler’s post was indeed gone. Even the matching profile pictures they had set earlier had been changed; Tyler’s icon was now a blank gray screen. Meanwhile, Chelsea’s profile picture had been changed to a candid photo of me. Her banner was a photo of us on our first trip to Maine. Her status read: “My one and only, Sean.” Her bio had been updated to: “Forever with Sean.” It was the exact public declaration of love I had begged her for throughout our entire relationship, a standard she had always claimed was “too juvenile” for a woman in her position. Yet, Tyler had received it within ten days of knowing her. Now that I finally had what I once craved, it felt like swallowing a swarm of flies hovering over a dumpster. Vile. Nauseating. Suddenly, Chelsea lost her balance and collapsed onto the floor by my feet, passing out cold. As she fell, her phone slipped from her pocket. The screen lit up with a notification from an unsaved number. “Tori, are we really using burner accounts to text now?” “This is so hot.” “I just learned a few new tricks. You’ll have to be careful next time, though—don’t leave a mark. Otherwise, I’ll have to keep staying in Sean’s bed so you can tend to my ‘wounds’ yourself.” “Besides, if Sean ever decides to beat me to death, who’s going to keep you satisfied?” My right hand began to shake. I pressed my trembling palm flat against my chest, slowly closing my eyes as I forced my breathing to steady. Thank god I was no longer the naive eighteen-year-old boy who had fallen for her. I would no longer let these pathetic, malicious games break me. That boy had wanted Chelsea to love him loudly and fiercely. But the twenty-eight-year-old man sitting here only wanted one thing: to get as far away from Chelsea as humanly possible. Permanently. Chelsea groaned, suddenly retching onto the hardwood floor. The physical discomfort seemed to shock her back into consciousness. She instinctively reached her hand upward, expecting a warm bowl of honey-ginger water to be placed in her palm, followed by my gentle, exasperated lecturing. On countless nights like this, I had stayed up to care for her, rubbing her back and softly scolding her for drinking so much. But this time, her hand met empty air. The heavy, comforting silence of the room was broken only by a single, typed response on my phone screen: “2.” The air in the room turned ice-cold. Making hangover water didn’t require vocal cords. But I didn’t move an inch. Looking at my completely vacant expression, Chelsea’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. She kicked the nightstand in frustration. “Sean, I already apologized for what happened to your mother! That last time with Tyler was a mistake, an accident!” “Tyler’s mother went to prison taking the fall for my company’s financial audit. She left him in my care. What was I supposed to do, throw him on the street?” “I slept with another man. That is all. Why is it so impossible for you to just get over it?” In the dim light of the bedroom, I nodded in quiet agreement. I tapped the screen, letting the digital voice assistant speak for me. “1.” Chelsea lunged forward, grabbing my upper arms with terrifying strength. “Sean, talk to me! Scream at me! Hit me!” She grabbed my hand and forced my palm against her cheek. “Hit me, damn it!” I pulled my hand back, shook my head, and tapped: “2.” Her arms fell to her sides, completely drained of energy. Then, as if nothing had happened, she climbed onto the bed and pressed her body against my back, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist. “Sean, let’s just sleep. I’m staying right here tonight. I’m not going anywhere.” I didn’t push her away. Experience had taught me that struggling was useless. Besides, she wouldn’t stay long. Sure enough, less than thirty minutes later, the butler knocked softly on the door. “Ma’am, Mr. Tyler is complaining of severe chest pains.” Chelsea bolted upright. She threw the covers off, rushing out of the room without a single backward glance. The hallway outside erupted into a chaotic flurry of footsteps and panicked voices. I walked into the bathroom, turned the shower to hot, and thoroughly scrubbed every inch of skin she had touched. I had just lain back down when Chelsea burst into the room again, her eyes frantic. “Sean, Tyler is throwing up blood. We need to go to the hospital, and I need you to—” Before she could finish, I tapped: “1.” She froze, suddenly catching the scent of my body wash. “You showered again?” Her voice trembled with a sudden, sharp hurt. “Do you really find my touch that disgusting?” This time, I didn’t even bother to look at her. The vulnerability in Chelsea’s eyes instantly vanished, replaced by a cold, malicious sneer. She grabbed my chin, forcing my face up to meet hers. “Since you want to act so incredibly generous, I’ll let you play the saint to your heart’s content.” She dragged me out of the house and threw me into the back of her SUV. “Tyler needs emergency surgery. You’re going to take care of him.” She glanced at me through the rearview mirror, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “After all, you have plenty of experience surviving a knife wound, don’t you?” My hands began to shake again. My fingers instinctively drifted to my abdomen, tracing the thick, jagged scar beneath my shirt. It was the scar I got when I jumped in front of a blade meant for Chelsea. It was our first year of marriage. Her business was skyrocketing, and she had made some dangerous enemies. A rival company had hired someone to end her life. I had taken the hit instead. In the ICU, Chelsea had wept like a broken child, holding my hand and swearing to God that she would spend the rest of her life making me happy. Now, she laughed and told me I was the perfect candidate because I had “experience” with surgical blades. My phone buzzed. It was a message from my old academic mentor, Dr. Catherine Reynolds. “Sean, your research fellowship at Harvard has been fully approved. Don’t worry about the logistics. I’m sending your senior colleague, Helena, to come collect you.” In that single moment, the frantic, terrified beating of my heart finally settled into a calm, steady rhythm. I felt anchored. I sat quietly as Chelsea blew through three red lights to reach the hospital. I didn’t resist when she dragged me into the donor clinic, screaming at the on-duty nurse, “He’s O-negative! He’s a match! Draw his blood now!” I remained entirely silent. But just as the nurse pressed the cold alcohol wipe against my skin, Chelsea suddenly grabbed the nurse’s arm, halting her. She knelt down in front of my chair, forcing me to look at her. “Sean, talk to me. Just say the word ‘no,’ and I’ll call this off. We won’t draw a single drop.” She knew how terrified I was of needles. She knew the mere sight of blood made me faint. Yet, she had brought me here anyway. I stared at the familiar lines of her face, trying to find the girl who had once saved me from a gang of debt collectors, running through the rain to pull me into an emergency room. The girl who had covered my eyes during my vaccinations, whispering in my ear, “Don’t look, sweetheart. It’ll be over in a second.” The girl who had emptied her entire childhood savings account to pay off my father’s gambling debts so I could finish my degree. I looked at her, and in my mind, I whispered: “Consider this the final payment for everything you did for me.” “From this moment on, we owe each other nothing.” I looked into her eyes, smiled gently, and tapped: “1.” Chelsea’s eyes fluttered shut, her chest heaving with sharp, ragged breaths. She stood up abruptly, her face twisting into a mask of pure fury. “Fine,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “You want to play the martyr? Let’s see how much you can take!” She turned to the doctor, her voice booming through the clinic. “Draw ten vials. Don’t stop until you have all ten.” The doctor looked at her in disbelief. “Ma’am, drawing that much from a patient with his vitals is dangerous—” “I said draw it!” Chelsea hissed. “My husband is a very generous man. I wouldn’t want to insult his charity.” The doctor hesitated, but I patted his hand gently, nodding to let him know it was okay to proceed. It was pointless to argue. This hospital was heavily funded by Chelsea’s conglomerate. If medical ethics had any power here, my mother would never have had her treatment withheld so easily. I closed my eyes, feeling my life force slowly drain out through the plastic tube. My lips grew cold and numb. The room began to spin. And then, from the recovery room right next door, separated only by a thin medical curtain, a series of soft, suggestive sounds drifted through the air. Tyler, who was supposed to be in critical condition, spoke in a loud, performative gasp. “Oh, Chelsea… slow down. Sean is literally in the next chair…” Her response was a low, breathless moan. “Let him watch.” With a sharp snap, the curtain was ripped aside. The two of them were tangled on the hospital bed, their clothes half-torn, flushed and breathing heavily. Chelsea glared at the terrified nurses and doctors still in the room. “Get the hell out. All of you.” Within seconds, the clinic was cleared, leaving only the three of us. Chelsea let out a cold, humorless laugh as her hands slowly traced down Tyler’s bare chest. “Look at me, Sean,” she demanded, her eyes locked onto mine. “Look at what you’re missing. You think your disgust matters to me? There are plenty of men begging to take your place.” “Don’t ever flatter yourself into thinking I need you.” She leaned down, pressing her mouth hard against Tyler’s. And to ensure I didn’t close my eyes, she had hung my mother’s gold St. Christopher medallion from the curtain rod directly above them. If I looked away, she would know instantly. When they were finished, Chelsea kicked the soiled top sheet off the bed, throwing it at my feet. “Wash it.” Tyler looked at me with a lazy, satisfied grin. “Oh, Chelsea, that’s so mean. There’s… well, there’s a lot of my mess on that sheet.” “How can we ask Sean to clean up after us?” He slowly slid out of the bed, walking over to where I sat, weak and dizzy from the blood loss. He reached up, plucked the St. Christopher medallion from the rod, and began tossing it lightly in his palm. “You know, Chelsea said this little charm was supposed to bring good luck and health. But my chest still hurts.” “I was going to give it back to you, Sean, but honestly… it’s probably covered in bad luck now.” “Let me help you get rid of it.” “No—” My voice didn’t work, but my mind screamed as Tyler casually tossed the solid gold medallion out the open third-story window. I rushed to the glass, watching the small gold glint plunge into the darkness below. A split second later, the heavy tire of a speeding city bus rolled over it, crushing it into the asphalt. My vision went completely red. A primal, uncontrollable rage surged through my veins. I lunged at Tyler, my hands clawing at his throat, a guttural, choked sound tearing from my chest. But Tyler easily slipped behind Chelsea, trembling and clutching his chest. “Chelsea, see? I told you!” Tyler whimpered, a triumphant smirk flashing on his face where she couldn’t see. “I knew if we pushed him hard enough, he’d start talking again!” Chelsea’s eyes narrowed, processing Tyler’s words. But when she saw me trying to claw my way toward him, her protective instincts kicked in. She shoved me back with brutal force. Severely depleted from the blood draw, my legs gave out. I crashed onto the cold tile floor, my body trembling so violently I couldn’t pull myself up. Chelsea took a step toward me, a flash of regret crossing her face, but Tyler suddenly let out a sharp cry, collapsing to his knees. “My chest… it hurts so bad!” “Chelsea, I was only trying to help him speak. I didn’t think he’d actually try to kill me… He knows my heart is weak. He wanted me dead.” “If I die, it’s fine… but my mother is still in prison. I won’t even get to say goodbye to her…” I stared at his pathetic, amateurish acting, desperately trying to formulate words to defend myself, but all that came out of my throat were broken, pathetic grunts. Chelsea’s expression hardened into pure disgust as she looked down at me. “Sean, you really are a monster, aren’t you? All this silence was just an act.” “You did all of this just to find a way to murder Tyler!” She called for the emergency team to wheel Tyler to the ICU. Before she left, she looked back at me, her voice cold as ice. “If anything happens to him, Sean, I will make sure you pay for it with your life.” I lay there, paralyzed on the floor. Not even thirty minutes later, my phone rang. It was the director of Oakridge Cemetery. “Mr. Hastings, we have an emergency. The plot where your mother was recently laid to rest has been flagged for immediate relocation due to an eminent domain order.” “You need to come down here immediately to oversee the excavation, or we cannot guarantee the integrity of the remains.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Without a single second of hesitation, I dragged myself out of the hospital, hailed a cab, and rushed to Oakridge. But by the time I arrived, the grave had already been dug halfway up. I threw myself in front of the workers’ shovels, my body acting as a shield. Tyler stood a few yards away, shivering inside Chelsea’s oversized trench coat. “Chelsea, the spiritual advisor was right. The energy from this grave is killing me. The moment we got here, my heart started acting up again.” I fell to my knees in front of Chelsea, shaking my head violently. My throat burned as I fought with every ounce of my remaining strength to force the words out. “Please… don’t…” Chelsea remained silent for a long moment, but ultimately, she waved her hand, signaling her private security guards to drag me away. “Sean, Tyler’s mother sacrificed everything for my family. I can’t risk his life over a piece of land.” “Don’t worry. I’ll buy your mother a much better plot in a premium cemetery.” I was pinned to the ground by two heavy guards, forced to watch as they hauled my mother’s casket out of the fresh earth. While the workers were busy, Tyler slipped away from Chelsea’s side, kneeling down next to me on the damp grass. He leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “You still don’t get it, do you, Sean? Your mother didn’t die from cancer.” “She died because she woke up and saw Chelsea and me having sex right there on her hospital bed. The shock gave her a massive stroke.” “Oh, and that night? Chelsea ignored your calls because she was busy helping me rewrite my corporate portfolio. Your mother died completely alone.” “Thank you for all your hard work, big brother.” “Ah!” A wild, animalistic strength surged through me. I broke free from the guards’ grip and lunged at Tyler, burying my fingers into his hair, tearing at his face. In the scuffle, a heavy boot slammed into my abdomen. The pain was blinding. I fell back, gasping for air. When I opened my eyes, Chelsea was standing over me, holding the small marble urn containing my mother’s ashes. I clutched my throat, forcing the words out through the blood in my mouth. “Give… me… my… mother.” Chelsea let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Look at that. You can speak just fine when you actually want to.” “If it takes a little trauma to make you talk, then let’s play.” With a casual, elegant flick of her wrist, she tossed the marble urn over the edge of the cliff. The urn shattered against the jagged rocks below. A cloud of fine, grey ash caught the wind, scattering into the empty air, disappearing over the valley. “Mom!” I screamed, a raw, agonizing sound that tore my throat open. I tried to throw myself over the edge after her, but the guards pinned me back down, grinding my face into the dirt. Chelsea turned her back to me, pushing Tyler’s wheelchair toward her car. “Keep him here,” she directed the guards. “Don’t let him leave until he can speak to me in full, coherent sentences.” She didn’t notice the low, rhythmic thumping echoing from the clouds. A sleek, private helicopter was descending rapidly toward the clearing. When the cabin door opened and I saw the woman stepping out onto the grass, tears finally broke through my defenses, blurring my vision. Chelsea returned home in a daze. Tyler called her name several times, but she didn’t seem to hear him. “Chelsea, we had to do that,” Tyler said softly, wrapping his arms around her neck. “It was the only way to shock Sean out of his selective mutism. He’ll understand eventually. He won’t hold a grudge.” Chelsea looked up, a deep, gnawing anxiety clawing at her chest. Just as she reached for her phone to tell the guards to release him and bring him home, the butler burst into the room, panting heavily. “Ma’am… someone just delivered these to the front gate.” He held out two small, navy blue booklets. They were official divorce certificates.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530993”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Shortly after we got engaged, we took our coworkers out for dinner to celebrate. Over drinks, someone suggested we play the “Newlywed Game” to test how well we knew each other. “Question one,” a coworker grinned, holding up their phone. “What’s the bride’s favorite flower?” Colin glanced across the table at Mia, his mentee, and hesitated for three long seconds. “Roses… right?” I love sunflowers. But the crystal vase on his kitchen island was always filled with long-stemmed red roses. I had always assumed it was just his preference in interior design. “Next! What is the bride’s biggest fear?” “Uh… thunderstorms?” I am terrified of the dark. Mia is the one who cowers at the sound of thunder. The table chuckled, oblivious to the tension, and moved to the third question. “What’s the bride’s go-to takeout order?” Colin blurted out instantly, “Pad See Ew. Mild.” I only eat Drunken Noodles, Thai-hot. Mia was the one who ordered the mild, sweet noodles every time our team worked late. Out of five questions, he got four wrong. The only thing he got right was my shoe size—a standard size six. Only because Mia wore the exact same size. Across the table, Mia looked down, stirring the straw in her cocktail with an impossibly innocent smile. “Don’t be mad, Joanna,” she said softly, batting her eyelashes. “Colin is just messing around with you.” A memory flashed in my mind. Last week, Colin had gifted Mia a birthday present. It was a delicate diamond pendant I had been eyeing for months. When I asked him about it, he’d shrugged and said it was just a random impulse buy for a subordinate. … “Did you really have to embarrass me like that?” Colin’s hands gripped the leather steering wheel, his tone dripping with irritation. I turned my head, watching the city lights blur past the passenger window. I didn’t say a word. “Everyone was just having fun. Did you have to sit there with a stone-cold face the entire night?” He tugged at his collar, his brow furrowed in deep annoyance. “Mia even stepped in to smooth things over for you, and you didn’t even have the decency to say thank you. What is everyone going to think of you?” I stared at his reflection in the dark glass. “What exactly should I be thanking her for?” my voice was quiet. “Thanking her for knowing my fiancé better than I do? Or thanking her for answering what my favorite food is?” Colin slammed his foot on the brake. The SUV jerked to a halt at a red light. He turned to me, his eyes filled with a heavy, patronizing exhaustion. “Joanna, here we go again.” He let out a harsh breath. “Mia is an intern. I trained her. We eat team lunches together all the time. Is it really a crime that I remembered her dietary restrictions? Can you please stop being so ridiculously sensitive?” I pulled my gaze away and looked down, tracing the lines on my palms. “Right. Not a crime.” My voice was flat, devoid of any inflection. Colin seemed satisfied with my submission. He eased his foot off the brake as the light turned green. “Exactly. We’re about to get married. You need to start acting like a mature adult.” He reached for his phone mounted on the dashboard, opened his messages, and held down the audio record button for his group chat. “Hey Kevin, sorry about the vibe tonight,” Colin said, his tone instantly shifting to a breezy, apologetic bro-cadence. “Joanna is just too practical. She doesn’t really get romance, doesn’t even like roses, so don’t sweat it. Drinks are on me next time.” I watched him drop the phone back into the cradle, his movements so casual it was as if he hadn’t just humiliated me to his friends. “Practical. Doesn’t get romance.” So, in his eyes, my love for sunflowers was a lack of romance. And the red roses permanently displayed in our home were the pinnacle of high-class affection. A hollow ache hollowed out my stomach. “I’m a little hungry,” I said. “I want to order something.” Colin kept his eyes on the road. “Your battery is dead, right? Just use my phone. Passcode hasn’t changed. It’s still your birthday.” I reached for his phone and punched in my birthday. The screen unlocked. I opened his DoorDash app, intending to look through his past orders to reorder from that Thai place I liked. But the moment the history loaded, my finger froze hovering over the screen. The order log was completely saturated with recent deliveries. Three times a week. Every single delivery address was to Mia’s studio apartment downtown. Every single order was a meal for two—always from the mild, sweet side of the menu. And in the special instructions box for every single order, he had typed the exact same sentence: “Please make sure there is absolutely no spice. Her stomach is very sensitive.” A slow, numbing frost crept from my fingertips, settling heavy in my chest. He couldn’t remember my favorite flower, but he could micromanage a takeout order down to the exact spice level for another woman. “Figure out what you want?” Colin’s voice broke the silence. “Get whatever. I’ll expense it.” I slowly closed the app and placed the phone back on the mount. “Never mind.” “Suddenly lost my appetite.” Colin glanced at me, completely unbothered. “Probably for the best. Eating heavy takeout this late is bad for your skin, anyway. You have to fit into that wedding dress next month.” There was a sickeningly sweet, almost patronizing generosity in his voice when he mentioned the dress. I pulled my own phone out of my purse. I opened my messages and scrolled down to the bridal party group chat. Just yesterday, my bridesmaids had been buzzing with excitement about the bachelorette trip. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I typed a few quick words. “I’m so sorry, guys. We don’t need to do the dress fittings.” I hit send. Then, I clicked on Becca’s contact—my wedding planner. “Becca, could you please pull up the mailing list for the eighty invitations we sent out? I need to prep a cancellation notice.” Just as the message went through, my screen went black. The battery had finally died. At the exact moment the screen faded to black, the SUV descended into the underground parking garage of our condo. Colin parked, killed the engine, and unbuckled his seatbelt. He turned to me, reaching out to affectionately ruffle my hair. “Saw you texting furiously over there. Sorting out the wedding favor details with the planner?” He smiled, the picture of a supportive partner. “I appreciate you handling all this. I’m terrible with the little details. Whatever you decide is perfect with me.” I looked at his practiced, seamless affection. I gave a small, barely perceptible nod. “Yeah.” “You don’t need to worry about it anymore.” The next morning, I woke up before the sun. Colin was still asleep. I sat alone on the living room sofa, wrapped in a blanket. On the kitchen island, the red roses stood tall in their crystal vase. He had just swapped them out for a fresh batch two days ago. After plugging my phone into the charger, I opened Instagram. The first thing on my feed was a post Mia had uploaded ten minutes ago. It was a close-up photo of a diamond pendant, catching the morning light and fracturing it into tiny rainbows against her collarbone. It was the exact necklace I had spent hours admiring at the boutique, the one I ultimately couldn’t justify buying because of the price tag. Swiping to the second slide, there was a handwritten card. I recognized Colin’s sharp, angular handwriting immediately. “Happy Birthday to my little ray of sunshine. May you never have to be afraid of the thunder.” The caption read: “There is no better feeling than being someone’s priority. Thank you to a certain someone for spoiling me~” There were zero mutual likes on the post. It was obvious she had manipulated the privacy settings so only I could see it. I stared at the screen. The girl who was afraid of thunder got the hand-delivered mild dinners, and she got the diamond necklace I had dreamed of. A notification dinged. A direct message from Mia. “Joanna! Did you see my post? I honestly didn’t want to accept it, it’s just way too expensive.” “But Colin insisted. He said if he bought it for you, you’d just complain about him wasting money, so he gave it to me instead.” “Please don’t be mad at him for spending so much! He was just trying to spare you the financial anxiety!” Reading the text bubbles, a bitter laugh caught in my throat. Colin always had a beautifully packaged excuse. He could take the one thing I desired, hand it to someone else, and somehow twist it into an act of profound consideration for “me”. I typed a reply. “I’m not mad at him. Glad you like it.” I hit send, stood up, and went to change my shoes. Colin had an early board meeting today, and he was dropping me off at my office on the way. I walked down to the subterranean garage and slipped into the passenger seat. Minutes later, Colin appeared. He was wearing a sharp, charcoal-grey suit, looking every bit the successful executive. “Waiting long?” he asked, clicking his seatbelt in. “No. Just got down here.” I reached toward the glove compartment to grab a tissue to wipe a smudge off my hands. As I popped it open, a crushed plastic box tumbled out and hit the floor mat by my feet. Inside were three bruised, dried-up sunflowers. Tucked next to them was a generic, mass-printed card from a cheap corner bodega. “Handpicked for you. Hope you like sunflowers.” I bent down and picked up the box. The yellow petals were crumbling into dust. It had clearly been shoved in this compartment for weeks. Colin glanced over, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. But he quickly recovered, flashing an easy smile. “Oh, right. That.” “I drove past a bodega a few days ago, saw they were on clearance, and grabbed them. Meant to bring them up, but it slipped my mind.” “Since you don’t really care for all the flashy, expensive romantic stuff, I figured it was perfect for you.” I looked down at the pathetic, crumbling stems. Mia got a carefully curated, five-thousand-dollar diamond necklace. I got the discount bodega flowers he couldn’t even be bothered to take out of the car. I slowly opened the plastic lid. “What’s wrong?” Colin asked, spinning the steering wheel as we navigated out of the garage. “They still look kind of nice, right?” I didn’t answer. Right in front of him, I grabbed the dried flowers and the generic card, crushing them all in my fist. As we pulled out onto the street, I rolled down the window and tossed the entire crumpled mess into a public trash can on the curb. Colin slammed on the brakes, throwing the car into park by the sidewalk. He whipped his head to face me, his brow heavily furrowed. “Joanna, what the hell are you doing? Are you having another episode?” I pulled a tissue from my purse and methodically wiped the dried yellow dust from my fingers. “The flowers were dead. They were covered in dust.” “I was just throwing away the trash.” Colin took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly trying to control his temper. “Are you seriously still pouting about the dinner last night?” “Or is this about Mia’s necklace?” He had finally decided to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “That necklace was a completely random purchase! It was Mia’s birthday. She reports directly to me—I couldn’t exactly show up empty-handed, could I?” “You literally refuse to even buy yourself a five-dollar latte most days! If I bought you a necklace that expensive, you’d just lecture me about budgeting for the mortgage!” “I am constantly bending over backwards to accommodate your practicalities, and this is the thanks I get? Why do you have to be so damn sensitive?” I looked at his flushed, indignant face. Whenever he got angry, the corners of his eyes would turn slightly red. In the past, that redness used to terrify me. The moment he frowned, I would immediately backtrack, apologize, and reflect on what I had done wrong. But today, I felt absolutely nothing. I had no desire to coddle him anymore. “You bend over backwards to accommodate me.” I repeated his words, my voice eerily calm. “Okay. Understood.” My total lack of resistance left Colin entirely unbalanced. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page,” he muttered, defensive. “Stop being so paranoid. The wedding is in a month. Just drop the drama.” That evening, I walked into our master bedroom and pulled my large hardshell suitcase from the very back of the walk-in closet. Opening it on the floor, I began methodically folding my clothes. We had picked out this condo together. Half the wardrobe belonged to me. But I only packed the essentials—my absolute favorite pieces. The rest, I didn’t even touch. Colin stepped out of the en-suite bathroom, a towel draped around his neck, vigorously drying his hair. As he walked past the bedroom door, he stopped. He leaned against the doorframe, watching me. “Why the sudden packing spree?” His tone was back to his usual smooth, affectionate cadence, as if our morning argument had never happened. He walked up behind me, wrapping his arms securely around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. “I knew you’d come to your senses. Once you cool off, you’re always the reasonable one.” “It’s going to be humid in the Caribbean. Pack a few extra sundresses.” I smoothed out the collar of a white linen shirt, folding it perfectly in half. “Okay.” A blinding flash of white light illuminated the bedroom, instantly followed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder right above our building. Every light in the condo died. A total blackout. The bedroom was swallowed in a suffocating, pitch-black darkness. I have suffered from severe nyctalopia—night blindness—since I was a child. Combined with a deep, instinctual phobia of the dark, my body immediately went rigid. My breathing grew shallow and frantic. My heart began to batter against my ribs like a trapped bird. Blindly, desperately, I reached out to grab Colin’s arm. But the moment my fingers brushed his sleeve, he was already pulling away. In the crushing dark, I heard the rustle of him patting his pockets. A harsh, blue glow illuminated the space between us as his phone screen flared to life, highlighting the sheer panic etched into his profile. He stared at a notification, and the color drained from his face. “The storm is hitting Mia’s neighborhood, too.” His words tumbled out fast, laced with a frantic, uncontainable anxiety. “She lives alone. She’s absolutely terrified of thunder. I have to go check on her.” I stood frozen in the middle of the dark room, my hand still suspended in the air, grasping at nothing. “I’m afraid of the dark.” My voice was a pathetic, trembling whisper. But Colin had already pivoted toward the hallway, his heavy footsteps rushing toward the front door as he snatched his keys from the console. “Just find a candle! Or use your phone flashlight!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Mia’s situation is different! She’ll have a panic attack!” “I’ll be back soon!” The heavy oak front door slammed shut. The rapid echo of his footsteps down the corridor faded away, until there was nothing left but the oppressive silence of the apartment. I stood in the pitch-black bedroom, slowly lowering my empty hand to my side. The LED beam from a phone flashlight could never warm the glacial chill settling into my bones. I sat on the edge of the bed, shrouded in the dark, and didn’t move for the rest of the night. It wasn’t until dawn, when the first pale rays of sunlight pierced through the storm clouds and the power grid flickered back to life, that I finally stood up. At 10:00 AM, the lock clicked. Colin walked in, carrying an insulated, designer takeout bag, flashing a sheepish, apologetic grin. “Jo, I’m so sorry about last night.” He set the bag on the kitchen island and popped the lid off the container inside. “I drove all the way to the south side to get your favorite breakfast from that artisan deli. Stood in line for an hour. Eat it while it’s hot.” A rich, heavy aroma of seafood wafted through the kitchen. It was crab bisque. I stared at the steaming bowl. I didn’t move a muscle. Colin and I had been together for three years. He knew. He knew I was severely allergic to shellfish. One bite, and my throat would swell up, my skin breaking out in agonizing hives. But Mia? Mia constantly raved about the crab bisque from the south side deli. Colin held out a silver spoon. “Why aren’t you eating? I told you, I waited an hour for this.” I took the spoon from his hand. I picked up the heavy ceramic bowl. And, maintaining unbroken eye contact with him, I walked over to the kitchen sink. I tipped my wrist. The entire bowl of premium crab bisque slid down the drain in a wet, heavy sludge. Colin followed me into the kitchen, his face instantly darkening with rage. “Joanna, you are crossing a line!” “I stayed up all night, I drove across the city to buy you breakfast to make it up to you, and even if you aren’t hungry, do you really have to throw it away right to my face?!” I turned on the faucet, letting the hot water wash the remnants of the soup down the garbage disposal. “I am allergic to shellfish.” Over the sound of the running water, my own voice sounded like it was coming from a thousand miles away. Colin froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. I shut off the tap, dried my hands on a towel, and walked past him without a second glance. Back in the living room, I grabbed a broom and started sweeping up the dust and debris from last night’s storm that we hadn’t had a chance to clean. As I swept under the edge of the sofa, a crumpled piece of thermal paper slid out. It was the boutique receipt for the diamond pendant. I bent down and picked it up. “$7,000.00.” I looked down at my left hand. On my ring finger sat my engagement ring—a modest, discounted style Colin had asked a buddy to buy duty-free during a trip abroad. It cost exactly $1,000. I remembered what he had told me when he slipped it on my finger: “Jo, we need to save for a house and a family. A ring is just a symbol. We have to be practical.” I stared at the seven-thousand-dollar receipt in my hand. Then, I tossed it into the dustpan with the rest of the dirt. That afternoon, Colin went back to the office. I sat in the study, booting up his old MacBook. My own laptop was in the shop, and I needed to handle the logistics of canceling the wedding vendors. When the screen lit up, his iMessage app automatically launched. A notification bubbled up in the corner. It was his college fraternity group chat. I normally wouldn’t snoop, but the preview text flashing across the screen caught my eye, sharp as a physical blow. Kevin: “Bro, you actually going through with the wedding next month? Does this mean you’re finally settling down?” Another guy replied with a smirking emoji. “No more pining after little Mia? Word on the street is you rushed out in a thunderstorm like a knight in shining armor last night.” Colin’s typing bubble appeared, followed by his text: “I’m marrying Jo. She’s domestic. A guy needs a stable woman to manage the house.” Kevin: “So what’s the deal with Mia? That necklace you bought her wasn’t exactly cheap.” The chat went dead for a few seconds. Then, Colin sent a long block of text. “I’ve been with Jo for so long, kissing her feels like clocking in for a shift. It’s purely administrative. Completely flavorless.” “But Mia? When I see Mia wearing that necklace, smiling up at me? My heart actually races.” “Getting married won’t change anything. Jo is reasonable. She won’t make a fuss.” I stared at the black text on the bright white screen. My heart didn’t race. I didn’t even feel the sting of betrayal. Instead, a profound, heavy exhaustion seeped out from my very marrow. I closed the messaging app. I opened my email, found the digital RSVP links Becca had set up, and hit “Deactivate”. As dusk fell, Colin returned home. He walked in carrying a beautifully wrapped shoebox, his face beaming with eager anticipation. “Jo! Your custom wedding shoes finally arrived. Come try them on, let’s see if they fit.” He set the box down on the plush living room rug and lifted the lid. Inside sat a pair of breathtaking stilettos, encrusted with hundreds of tiny Swarovski crystals. “I had my guy in Milan rush-order these for you. I know you’re going to love them.” I sat on the sofa, watching him pull the shoes from the tissue paper. Mia and I wore the exact same shoe size. Size six. It was the only question he had managed to answer correctly at that dinner. I slipped off my slippers and slid my bare feet into the heels. The fit was flawless. I stood up and took two steps across the rug. “Well? Gorgeous, right?” Colin asked, looking deeply proud of himself. I looked down. My gaze landed on the arch of the sole. Embedded into the leather of the arch, spelled out in miniature rhinestones, were two letters. “C & M.” Colin & Mia. I stared at those two letters for a long time. Colin followed my line of sight. For a fraction of a second, raw panic flashed across his face. But he buried it instantly. “Oh, those letters? It’s just… a signature rhinestone pattern the brand uses. I didn’t even notice.” “If it bothers you, I can take it to a cobbler to have it scraped off.” He stepped forward, reaching down to help me take them off, when his phone buzzed on the coffee table. The lock screen lit up with a message from Mia. “Colin, I just walked past the florist. I saw the mock-up for your wedding arch.” “Sunflowers everywhere. They’re so bright, it hurts to look at.” “I can’t go to your wedding. It’s going to break my heart.” Colin read the text, freezing mid-motion. He slowly stood back up, picked up his phone, and without a second of hesitation, dialed the florist. “Hey, Becca. We need to revise the floral arrangement for the ceremony.” “Cancel the sunflower arch. It’s too flashy. I don’t like it.” “Right. Not a single sunflower.” He hung up, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. “Jo, I just think we should keep the aesthetic more understated. Sunflowers are just… tacky.” A second later, his phone vibrated again. It was a flight confirmation email from Delta. Our romantic honeymoon to the Caribbean—the one I had spent months planning—had been entirely canceled. In its place were two first-class tickets to Aspen. I despise the cold. I have never skied a day in my life. But on Mia’s Pinterest board, her number-one bucket list dream was to see the snow in the Rockies. I looked at Colin. He didn’t even bother swiping away the airline notification. Because he was the one who had booked it. His phone buzzed again, and a soft, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Mia, obviously. “I need to step out for a bit,” he announced, already heading toward the door. I slowly bent down and slipped the C & M stilettos off my feet, stepping barefoot onto the wool rug. “Suit yourself,” I said softly. Colin seemed relieved. He walked back over and tried to pull me into a hug. I shifted my weight, turning my shoulder just enough to dodge his embrace. He stood awkwardly for a second, then just patted my head. “Be a good girl. I’ll be back later to keep you company.” With that, Colin hurried out the door. I reached down and twisted the discount diamond ring off my left ring finger. Then, I picked up the ring and the custom stilettos. I walked over to the kitchen island and dropped them directly into the crystal vase, right into the murky water beneath the long-stemmed red roses. The water rippled as the diamond sank to the bottom. I walked into the bedroom and grabbed the handle of my packed suitcase. By the time I opened the front door, the sky outside was pitch black. I pulled out my phone and sent one last text to Becca. “All eighty invitations canceled.” “The wedding is off.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530992”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was our wedding anniversary, and Jude finally had the time to take me to Kyoto to have the ceremony we had missed. But right before we boarded, he swiped his digital pass off his screen and spun around, already walking back toward the exit. “Miranda has a toothache,” he said, his voice tight with an urgency that belonged in an emergency room, not an airport terminal. “We’ll have to go next time.” My phone screen was still glowing with the PDF of our itinerary. I had spent six months planning every single detail of this trip. Phoebe’s texts were buzzing, lighting up my screen with rapid-fire excitement. “You’ve been dreaming about the Kyoto cherry blossoms since high school—literally over a decade. I guess Jude actually has a heart after all. Your dream is finally coming true!” “When you put on that wedding dress I designed for you, and the petals start falling, I am going to take the most gorgeous photos of you two!” But Jude had already stood me up for six years, always for the sake of the girl he insisted was just a sister. This year made seven. “She’s almost thirty,” I whispered, staring blankly at the boarding gate. “Can’t she go to the dentist by herself?” Jude frowned, looking at me as if I’d just said something incredibly cruel. “Willa, I’ve taken her to every doctor’s appointment since we were kids. If I’m not there, she panics.” I managed a small, hollow smile. “Then go.” I watched his back disappear into the airport crowd, then turned around and boarded the plane alone. The cherry blossoms in Kyoto would still fall, with or without him. … As the soft, pale petals drifted down into my open palm, Jude’s Instagram post popped up on my feed. “Shoutout to Miranda for being so brave today.” The photo showed Miranda in a dentist’s chair, her eyes watery, while Jude tightly held both of her hands. On his ring finger, the wedding band I designed glinted in the sterile fluorescent light. I stared at the photo for what felt like hours before finally hitting the ‘like’ button. Phoebe stood across from me, her eyes red and teary behind her camera lens as she snapped photos of me in my white gown. “A wedding for one? This is pathetic. What is so special about Miranda? She’s a grown woman who acts like a helpless toddler!” But Jude didn’t see her that way. The first year of our marriage, Miranda couldn’t figure out her GPS and got lost downtown. I suggested she call a cop, but Jude spent the entire night driving around looking for her, missing our flight. The second year, her water heater burst, flooding her apartment. I told him to call maintenance, but Jude claimed she was terrified of deep water, leaving his packed suitcases behind at the check-in counter. Year three, year four… all the way until now. Every single time, Jude broke his promises over Miranda’s trivial emergencies. Whenever I cried or begged him to stay, he would look at me with that patronizing, exhausted expression, like I was the unreasonable child. “Miranda’s always been fragile, Willa. She’s not strong and independent like you. That’s why I have to look out for her.” “Why can’t you just do things on your own? Why do you always have to be so needy?” Standing alone in a quiet, solemn chapel under the priest’s bewildered gaze, I recited my vows to empty air. I think, in that moment, I finally learned what Jude meant by “independent.” It wasn’t until the day before my flight back that Jude finally texted me. “You’re not home?” If he had bothered to look back for even a second at the airport, he would have known I boarded that flight to Kyoto. I forced a bitter smile, trying to swallow the dull ache in my chest. “Yeah, I’m out.” “Alright. Do you have the recipe for that creamy potato soup you used to make me? Miranda’s hungry.” My fingers hovered over the screen. I remembered the year Jude had an excruciating toothache. We were so broke we couldn’t even afford painkillers. I remembered walking down the street, touching my hair—which I’d spent four years growing out—and walking into a local salon to sell it. After his extraction, I fed him simple potato soup every single day. “I asked the doctor,” I had lied to him back then, “potato soup is the best for recovery.” I lied because potatoes were the cheapest thing at the grocery store; a five-pound bag could stretch for a week. He had touched my newly cropped, boyish hair, tears streaming down his face as he told me it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Now, I slowly typed out my reply. “Boil the potatoes. Mash them with water.” “That’s it? No cream or broth?” “No. Just that.” “Okay, cool.” I stared out the window at the falling cherry blossoms. “Aren’t you going to ask where I went?” “Oh. Where are you?” “I’m in—” “Actually, gotta go. Need to start cooking for Miranda.” I froze, then slowly deleted the letters I’d typed. In our three years of dating and seven years of marriage, Jude had never cooked a single meal for me. Outside, the wind died down, and the petals stopped falling. But even in their stillness, they were beautiful. I tapped the contact number Phoebe had sent me earlier. “Hello, who is this?” “Hi, is this Mr. Cleveland? I’d like to consult about a divorce.” When I got back from the airport, my key code wouldn’t unlock the front door. The passcode had always been my birthday, but after three failed attempts, the keypad locked me out. I sat huddled in the hallway corner, waiting for hours until Jude finally showed up, with Miranda hovering right behind him. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?” Jude asked, his tone entirely casual. He stepped up to the keypad and punched in a new sequence—Miranda’s birthday. “I was taking Miranda shopping. I didn’t see my phone. What did you text?” I dragged my suitcase inside, bone-tired. Jude immediately knelt down, naturally helping Miranda slide off her designer boots. “You changed the passcode?” “Miranda couldn’t remember the old one, so I updated it. Forgot to tell you.” I nodded slowly, not saying another word. Walking further into the house, I realized everything had changed. The couch was different, the indoor plants were gone, and when the TV turned on, it defaulted to a reality show I never watched. In our master bedroom, the sheets on the bed were rumpled, clearly slept in, and the closet was packed to the brim with Miranda’s clothes. I tore through the hangers, a hot, roaring anger building in my chest. “Jude! Jude!” I yelled until my throat burned, but no one answered. Out in the living room, Miranda was sprawled across the sofa. She casually pressed a little silver call bell on the coffee table, and Jude instantly dashed out of the kitchen. “What’s wrong, Miranda? You okay?” Only when she lazily muttered that she was fine did the tension leave his shoulders. I clenched my fists, my voice trembling as I confronted him. “Jude, where is the red wool scarf my mother made for you?” He blinked, shrug-shouldered and entirely unbothered. “Oh, Miranda said it smelled musty. I threw it out.” Tears spilled over my eyelashes instantly. “That was the last thing my mother ever made!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “How could you throw it away?” Miranda jumped off the sofa and shoved me back. “It’s just an old piece of yarn! Why are you screaming at Jude like that?” But as she pushed me, she winced and clutched her jaw, whining in pain. Jude’s face twisted in panic, and he immediately hovered over her, checking her mouth. I stood there, watching them, feeling like the bitter, hysterical villain in some cheap melodrama. I wiped my face, spun on my heel, and ran out into the pouring rain. For two hours, I dug through the dumpster behind our building and the nearby trash bins. Nothing. The rain soaked me to the bone, my fingernails were torn and bleeding, and the water dripping down my cheeks tasted like salt and dirt. When my mother was in the final stages of pancreatic cancer, Jude had casually mentioned how cold the winters got here. Despite her failing strength, she bought the finest wool she could find and spent her remaining days knitting. On her deathbed, she used her last ounce of strength to wrap that red scarf around his neck. “There, Jude. Now you won’t be cold. I know you’re a good boy… please, take care of my Willa.” Jude had fallen to his knees by her bedside, sobbing, swearing he would love and protect me for the rest of his life. And now, the physical proof of that promise was rotting in a landfill. I collapsed onto the wet pavement beside the trash bins, letting out a raw, broken sob. Suddenly, a sharp, white-hot pain bloomed in my abdomen. I looked down, and a dark, terrifying stain was spreading down my jeans. Shaking, I pulled out my phone and dialed Jude’s number. Once. Twice. Seven times. He never picked up. Finally, a text lit up the screen: “Stop calling, you’re going to wake Miranda up. Where did you even go? Get back here, it’s pouring.” My hands shook so hard I couldn’t even reply. The world spun, turned completely black, and I collapsed. I lost the baby. Eight weeks along. A silent arrival, a silent departure. The ER doctor told me softly that if I had been brought in just an hour earlier, they might have saved the pregnancy. I stared at the sterile white hospital ceiling, tears pooling in my ears. The old, jagged scar in my chest tore open all over again. A week before our wedding, seven years ago, I was seven months pregnant. Miranda had insisted on making me prenatal herbal soup but forgot to turn off the gas stove. That night, the apartment filled with carbon monoxide. I lost our baby girl in the ICU, and our wedding was canceled. Jude had knelt by my hospital bed, slapping his own face until his cheeks were bruised and swollen. “Willa, I’m so sorry. Miranda is just stupid—she was trying to do something nice and made a horrible mistake. I’m so sorry.” With bloodshot eyes, he held my limp hand and swore, “We’ll have another baby. I promise, I will protect you and our family next time.” I believed him. But this second baby—the one I had prayed for every single night—was gone, too. My phone buzzed. A PDF from Mr. Cleveland: a draft of the divorce petition. “If there is infidelity, we should gather as much evidence as possible. It will help our case immensely.” I stared at the word “infidelity” until it blurred. Finally, I typed: “Okay.” I ripped the IV needle out of my arm and stumbled out of the ward, clutching my hospital gown. But as I rounded the corner near the clinic’s exit, I froze. There was Jude, his arm wrapped protectively around Miranda’s shoulders as they waited in line at the hospital’s dental wing. My lower abdomen throbbed with a dull, sickening ache. I pulled out my phone and took a photo just as Miranda leaned up to press her lips against Jude’s cheek. Suddenly, Jude’s eyes drifted, catching mine. He froze, panic instantly flickering across his features. “Willa? What are you doing here?” He scrambled to distance himself from Miranda. “Willa, look, she was just saying thank you. It’s like a French cheek-kiss thing, you know? She lived abroad for a bit. She’s always been affectionate like that.” Such a pathetic, clumsy excuse. I looked at him, and for the first time, I didn’t feel angry. I just felt a deep, pitying amusement. “Right. Okay.” My absolute calm caught him off guard. In the past, if Miranda so much as brushed against him, I would have thrown a massive, jealous fit, screaming to assert my boundaries. His friends used to call me a “psycho” and a “controlling bitch” behind my back. But today, I just wanted to leave with some dignity. Jude’s face darkened, walking a thin line between irritation and confusion. “Willa, don’t start with the silent treatment. Because of your little tantrum earlier, Miranda tried to defend me and ended up tearing her dental stitches. Since you’re here, you need to apologize to her.” He grabbed my wrist, dragging me toward her. His grip was brutal, sending a jolt of pain through my arm that brought hot tears to my eyes. “Jude, let go of me! I’m not apologizing to her!” He stared at the tears slipping down my face, momentarily faltering, but his voice hardened again. “You got her so worked up she’s in pain, and you’re too proud to say sorry? Are you really that fragile?” Before I could pull away, a nurse came rushing down the hallway, shouting, “Willa! What are you doing? You just had a miscarriage, you can’t just rip out your IV and walk around!” Jude froze. Every ounce of color drained from his face. “You… miscarried?” His eyes slowly dropped to my abdomen. “When were you pregnant? Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked, rising in a desperate, frantic octave as his eyes brimmed with tears. I just looked at him, completely hollow, completely cold. The nurse stepped firmly between us, glaring at him. “Sir, she is extremely weak right now. Do not raise your voice at her!” She gently guided me back toward the recovery ward. Behind me, I heard Jude’s frantic footsteps trying to follow. “Willa, wait! You can’t be alone right now!” Just then, the clinic’s intercom chimed, calling out Miranda’s name for her follow-up. I didn’t look back. And he didn’t follow. “Was that your husband?” the nurse asked gently as she hooked up a fresh IV bag. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Not for much longer.” After the IV finished, I took an Uber home. My phone kept buzzing with texts from Jude. “Miranda can’t even speak right now. I couldn’t just leave her there.” “Willa, please just listen to the doctor. Wait for me.” I didn’t reply to a single one. I pulled my old suitcase out from the closet and started packing. There wasn’t much to pack. Most of my things had already been boxed up and shoved into the guest room anyway. The apartment we had shared for seven years had been completely overwritten by another woman’s presence in a matter of days. Once the suitcase was zipped, the physical exhaustion of the miscarriage hit me like a wave, and I collapsed onto the guest bed, drifting into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Sometime in the dead of night, I felt cold, trembling hands wrap around my waist. I opened my eyes to see Jude sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes bloodshot, looking utterly drained. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving the hospital,” he whispered. “I looked everywhere for you after I got Miranda settled. Willa… what happened? How did we lose the baby?” But all I could smell on him was Miranda’s sweet, cloying perfume. It made my stomach churn with violent nausea. I closed my eyes, coldly brushing his hands off my hips, and turned my back to him. Silence stretched between us before Jude let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “Willa, seriously? I am exhausted, I ran all the way back here to check on you, and you’re still giving me the cold shoulder? You know how desperately I wanted a family!” I bolted upright in bed, tears hot and angry on my cheeks. “You wanted a family?” I choked out, my voice raw. “If you hadn’t forced me to accept Miranda’s ‘kindness’ seven years ago, our daughter would be starting school right now! You literally risked my life and our baby’s life just to spare her feelings!” Jude’s face flushed a deep, angry red, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “That was years ago!” he yelled back. “Are you really bringing that up now just to hurt me? Neither Miranda nor I did that on purpose! Besides, that pregnancy was terrible timing anyway. You were barely out of college, begging me to marry you with a pregnant belly. Do you have any idea what people were saying behind your back? They said you trapped me!” His words hit me like a physical blow. I froze, the air leaving my lungs. I remembered the day we found out. I remembered how Jude’s eyes had lit up, how he had gently wiped away my tears and promised to give me the most beautiful life. I had nodded, trusting him completely. “You’re right,” I whispered, the fight completely draining out of me. “I was pathetic.” Jude turned his head away, unable to look at me, and stormed out, slamming the bedroom door so hard the walls rattled. I sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, staring at the floorboards until the sun came up. The next morning, I made breakfast. When Jude walked into the kitchen, rubbing his temples, he bypassed the eggs I’d cooked and grabbed a carton of oat milk from the fridge—the one Miranda had bought, still adorned with a little pink sticky note with a hand-drawn heart. He sat across from me, looking uncomfortable. “Look, about yesterday… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean them.” He took a sip of the milk. “Losing the baby… that’s on me, too. Willa, we can try again. We can have another one.” I took a bite of my toast and offered him a soft smile, cutting him off. “Jude, just eat with me.” This would be our last meal. He nodded, then glanced at the suitcase by the entryway. “Are you going somewhere? Your body is still recovering…” Suddenly, his phone screen lit up. The caller ID read: “Silly Miranda”. I looked down, slowly stirring my oatmeal. Jude grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, already moving toward the door. “I need to check on Miranda.” He couldn’t even finish a single meal with me. “Can’t it wait?” I asked quietly. He frowned, defensive. “Of course not. She’s in pain. She needs me right now.” I kept quiet. The apartment fell silent again, leaving me entirely alone. I finished my oatmeal, one slow bite at a time. Downstairs, Phoebe’s car was waiting for me. I walked into the living room, placed the signed divorce papers on the coffee table, and slipped off my wedding ring, placing it on top of a hand-written note: “Jude, let’s get a divorce.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530991”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I peeled her shrimp for three years. Then, in front of a whole table of people, she said, “He’s not my boyfriend. He just does it because he wants to.” I didn’t say a word. I just slid the plate of shrimp back to the center of the table and wiped my hands. My phone lit up. It was a text from my mother: “The new place is finally finished. When are you bringing her over to see it?” I turned the phone face down. After that night, she never again saw the car that used to wait for her after work every single day. 1 The steam from the seafood boil blurred the faces across from me. It was the third time Sophie had nudged the conversation back to me. “William, you drive Chelsea home from work every single day. What’s the real story with you two?” I was midway through peeling a shrimp, the shell cracking against my thumb. Two seats down, Chelsea was staring at her phone, her thumb scrolling through texts, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “He’s not my boyfriend.” She didn’t even look up. Her voice wasn’t loud, but all six people at the table heard it clearly. Sophie’s mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut as she glanced my way. Across the table, the clinking of glasses paused. Suddenly, the heavy bubbling of the shared pot in the center of the table seemed incredibly loud—”simmer, simmer”. I kept my head down, pulling the tender meat clean from the tail and placing it gently on the edge of her plate. That was the third one. Right then, her phone rang. She answered it and immediately headed for the door, her voice trailing off as she stepped outside: “Chase? Yeah, is your stomach acting up again? The medicine is…” The door swung shut. Sophie leaned in, lowering her voice. “William, what are you even doing?” I didn’t answer. I picked up my chopsticks, took the shrimp back off the edge of her plate, and dropped it into the serving dish in the center. The discarded shells on my plate still carried the warmth of my hands. I took a long drag of my beer. It was freezing cold, burning all the way down to my chest. My phone vibrated. It was a text from my mom, attached with a photo. A bright living room, a lush pothos plant sitting by a floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight spilling across the light oak floors. Underneath, she’d typed: “Sweetie, the renovations are done. Do you like the curtain color? Didn’t you say she loves pale purple? When are you going to bring her by to see it?” The curtains were a soft lavender. Last month, I had taken three days off work and made six separate trips to the design district just to find that exact shade. I flipped the phone face down on the wooden table. When Chelsea pushed the door open and sat back down, she was still smiling. “Chase has a stomach ache. I need to drop some meds off for him in a bit,” she said to Sophie, before turning her gaze to me. “William, can you drive me to the pharmacy in a minute?” In the past, my answer would have been an instant “sure”. In the past, I would have pre-cooled the car to sixty-eight degrees, made sure there was a cold bottle of her favorite sugar-free sparkling water in the cup holder, and pulled up right to the curb. But tonight, I just looked at her. Her eyes were bright, her lips curved into a smile, but it was the exact same smile I’d seen three minutes ago—the one meant for the name “Chase” lighting up her screen. “I’ve been drinking. Can’t drive.” I set my fork down against my plate. “You should call an Uber.” She paused. It was barely a flicker of hesitation. Then she shrugged and nodded. “Alright.” She bent her head back over her phone. When dinner wrapped up, I trailed behind the group. The phone in my pocket buzzed again. My mom: “Don’t forget the built-in shelves in the spare bedroom. You said she loves mystery novels, so I had the carpenter add two extra rows.” The September wind slipped down my collar, sending a chill down my spine. I stood beneath the streetlamp outside the restaurant, the drift of exhaust from a nearby street food cart stinging my eyes until they watered. I dialed her number. “Hey, Mom.” “Oh, sweetie! Did you see the photos?” “Yeah, I saw them.” “Is it nice? What do you think of—” “Let’s just leave the apartment empty for now.” Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. My mother didn’t push. She simply let out a quiet sigh and said, “Okay. Whatever you think is best.” I hung up and walked to the curb, watching the yellow cabs and ride-shares roll past one after another. No more sparkling water waiting in the passenger seat. I hailed a cab. I climbed in and gave the driver my own address. Not hers. For the first time. In three years, the very first time. 2 The next morning, my alarm woke me at six-thirty, right on schedule. My head felt heavy. I reached out to grab my phone off the nightstand—my routine had always been to text her first thing: “You awake?” My thumb hovered over the screen. Our chat history was frozen three days back: “I’ll pick you up after work tomorrow.” “K~” I set the phone back down. While brushing my teeth, white foam dripped down my chin. The face looking back at me from the mirror felt slightly unfamiliar, shadowed by dark circles under my eyes. I hadn’t slept well. Not out of heartbreak, exactly. But because of the sudden, staggering realization that every single habit I’d built over the last three years had revolved entirely around her. Waking up at six-thirty was solely to ensure I’d be parked downstairs by seven-twenty. The Greek yogurt that always stocked my fridge was there only because she liked to grab one on the rare occasions she stopped by. The soft throw blanket in my backseat was for when she complained about the autumn drafts. I opened the fridge. Three cups of Greek yogurt. Expiring tomorrow. I pulled one out and peeled back the foil. I took a bite. Too tart. I actually hated Greek yogurt. On my commute, my hands didn’t automatically turn the steering wheel at the usual intersection. I drove straight, crossed two traffic lights, and pulled directly into my office parking garage. It saved me forty minutes. The detour I used to take every day—the extra nine miles just to pass her apartment building, waiting for her to step out of the lobby, open the passenger door, slide in, and say, “Let’s go.” Three years. Every single workday. At least seven hundred times. I did the math. Seven hundred trips, nine extra miles each time. That was over six thousand miles. Enough to drive coast to coast across the country and back. At my desk, I booted up my computer. A calendar notification popped up in the bottom right corner: “Chelsea’s Company Anniversary—order flowers ahead.” I right-clicked. “Delete.” Claire walked past carrying two travel mugs and paused. “William, you’re early today.” “Yeah.” She set one of the mugs on my desk. “Black coffee. No sugar. I remember you saying you like it bitter.” “Thanks.” She took a couple of steps, then turned back. “Oh, by the way, the director looked over your quarterly proposal. Said it looked great. You’re presenting at the meeting next week.” I took a sip of the coffee. The bitterness coated my tongue, sharp and grounding. All day, my phone sat as quiet as a brick. At three-thirty in the afternoon, a text finally popped up. Chelsea: “Are you not coming today? Stuck in traffic?” I stared at it. I typed three words: “Busy with work.” After hitting send, I scrolled up. The entire thread was just me. “I’m here.” “I’m downstairs.” “Waiting outside.” “It’s raining, I brought an umbrella.” “Picked up your package for you.” Her replies were always monosyllabic. “K.” “Cool.” “Sure.” “K.” Three years of this. I scrolled up through five screens of chat history. There wasn’t a single “Thank you.” Not a single “I appreciate it.” I locked the phone, the screen turning black and reflecting my face back at me. Neutral. No anger. No lingering resentment. Just empty. At seven that evening, the phone buzzed again. Chelsea: “What about tomorrow?” I didn’t reply. I tossed the phone onto the sofa, turned on the TV, and picked a random channel. A commercial for laundry detergent came on, a woman smiling warmly at the camera. I turned the volume up two notches. Just enough to drown out any further vibrations. The next day, I didn’t go. Nor the day after that, or the day after that. A week went by. The Greek yogurts in the fridge expired. All three went down the kitchen sink. I folded the blanket from the backseat and shoved it into the bottom of a storage bin in the trunk. I reset my alarm to seven-fifteen. An extra forty-five minutes of sleep every single day. It felt surprisingly good. 3 On the eighth day, she called. It was ten-thirty at night. I had just stepped out of the shower, water dripping from my hair. Her name flashed on the screen three times before I slid to answer. “Hey.” “William, what have you been up to? You aren’t picking up my calls or answering my texts.” Her tone wasn’t frantic or worried. It sounded more like someone asking a plumber why he was late for a scheduled appointment. I rubbed the towel against the back of my neck, cold droplets sliding down under my collar. “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “A project at work.” The line went quiet for a beat. “Oh… well, can you pick me up tomorrow? Chase is taking me to a play this weekend, and I wanted to leave a change of shoes in your car.” My grip tightened on the towel until my knuckles went white. Her logic was always so flawless—I was the utility; Chase was the destination. In her mind, there was absolutely no contradiction there. “I have a meeting tomorrow,” I said. “You’ll have to take a cab.” “Oh.” She didn’t push. “Okay then. Good luck with work.” She hung up. Swift and clean. Like every phone call we’d had over the last three years—she never lingered a second longer than necessary. I sat on the sofa, the dampness from my hair slowly soaking through the back of my t-shirt. The phone rang again. For a split second, I thought she was calling back. But the caller ID wasn’t hers. It was my mom. “Sweetie, you’re still up?” “Yeah, just finished showering.” “So… Mom wanted to tell you something. Please don’t be upset.” “What is it?” “That apartment… those mystery novels on the shelves in the spare bedroom. I boxed them up and took them out today.” “Okay.” “I put them in your old room back home. Don’t think of me as an intrusive mother… I just felt like having all those brand-new books sitting there collecting dust was such a waste.” Her voice was tentative, cautious. She was walking on eggshells around me. “That’s fine, Mom.” “Really? You’re not upset?” “Not at all.” I looked down, watching the water droplets on the hardwood floor slowly spread. “Actually, if you know anyone who likes those kinds of books, just give them away.” My mom let out a soft breath, her relief palpable. “Okay, sweetie. I’ll do that.” The weekend came. A new post popped up on my feed. It was Chelsea—a neatly arranged photo grid: theater tickets, artful latte foam, and a man’s hand resting casually on a steering wheel, a sleek watch peeking from his cuff. The caption was just one word: “Weekend.” That wasn’t my hand. I have a faded scar on the side of my right middle finger—a souvenir from a rough basketball game back in high school that never quite went away. The hand in the photo was smooth, clean, with perfectly manicured nails. In the comments, someone screamed: “Omg who is he?!” Chelsea replied with a single blushing emoji. I scrolled right past it. Like scrolling past an ad. On Monday, Claire tapped the partition of my cubicle. “William, team dinner after work. You in?” “Sure.” She raised an eyebrow. “Wow, that was fast. Usually, you tell me you have plans.” Usually, I had to leave by five o’clock to fight traffic and be downstairs by six to pick up Chelsea. “I used to have things to take care of,” I said. “Not anymore.” Claire didn’t pry. She just smiled and walked back to her desk. We grabbed some drinks at dinner that night. Claire sat next to me, her voice soft under the ambient noise of the restaurant. “You look much better lately.” “Do I?” “Yeah. You used to always look like you were racing against a clock. You seem… lighter now.” I clinked my glass against hers. “Cheers to that.” On my way home, my phone buzzed in the console. Chelsea: “William, my laptop screen just went completely blue. Can you come over and take a look?” It was 11:40 PM. In the past, I would have replied “Give me twenty minutes”, thrown on a jacket, driven the nine miles, and worked on it until the early hours of the morning. Tonight, I typed four words: “Try restarting it.” I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. I didn’t wait for a reply. I got home, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed. My alarm was still set for seven-fifteen. The last image in my mind before I closed my eyes wasn’t her face. It was the photo my mother had sent.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530990”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel